#threats of violence tw

[lxmitlxss]

this call - @littlemissuicidex --➤ Zack

" Hey, listen. Okay?? How many times do I have to tell you not to go wandering off without me?? What if someone weird had showed up and tried to kidnap you again, huhh?? " He's irritated, he sounded irritated - but his posture told a different story. He wasn't worried, in fact he looked relaxed. If someone did try to grab her, he'd just slice them in half, end of story. " Whatever, just stay close, okay? "

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

Primetober Day 4: With Friends Like This…, with all bonus prompts (Fighting, verbal abuse, and destruction of property.)

Dragon AU. In an act of defiance, Tommy tries to damage other parts of the “hoard” Dream keeps him trapped in. Dream, coldly furious, makes Tommy regret it without even lifting a finger. Warnings for self harm, suicidal thoughts, kidnapping, abuse, torture, referenced mutilation, referenced child death, dehumanisation, infantilisation, possessive behaviour, and threats of violence.

ao3 link

—— Tommy’s knuckles bled.

Wood and bone and stranger material aside lay rend to nothing in the hoard of treasure, the magic inside them diffusing into the air. Shards of glass and crystal dug deep into his skin, leaving wounds Tommy could only hope would scar, marring his skin, breaking him too.

If he could not leave this gilded prison, he’d tear off the gold and refuse to play nice. He’d bite and scratch and scream and make himself no longer worthy of hoarding.

Prime knows how long he’d been in this cave. He couldn’t see the days change, and Dream’s sleeping schedule was erratic enough that he couldn’t rely on that either. He’d grown a little taller, and his hair was a lot longer, so it had to have been a while, yet the images of blood and fire and pain still felt like it was yesterday, waking him up with screaming fits the rare times he caught sleep.

He was sixteen when his home was destroyed. When the monster from the storybooks burnt everything to the ground, gutted soldiers effortlessly through their armour, tore kids hiding in the corner to shreds. Tommy was the only survivor, though trophy seemed the more appropriate word. 

If you were to ask Dream, he’d say it was because Tommy was the only person he’d met with the guys to stand against him without trying to hide behind iron shells and sharp sticks, with only his fists and a scared yet determined look in his eyes. Tommy got the impression it was more because being the great and terrible monster who destroyed villages for fun was a lonely life, and he was just the unlucky son of a bitch chosen to try and play therapist to a fucking dragon, but he knew better than to say it. He wanted at least one working arm, if nothing else.

He liked to imagine he was grown now. No longer a child under any stretch of the imagination, no matter how little Dream treated him like a “hatchling”, as he called it in his weird way of speaking. He was grown, and no one could call him a kid again without them being the childish one. He was mature now, like Tubbo was.

That thought felt like a flaw through the chest. Prime, he missed Tubbo. At least he never saw him die. He could delude himself into believing he escaped, somehow. It was a blatant lie to himself, and he knew that, but it served to cushion the blow, just a bit.

So did breaking things.

Priceless artefacts lay shattered, rare collectables and historic art pieces and ancient magic. Gone, destroyed, bloodied. They were a part of the same hoard Tommy had been trapped in, Dream seeming to view chasing him down, hurting him until he couldn’t move, and dragging him back to the literal gilded cage he spent most his time in as a game, and Tommy reckoned they’d been there longer than he’d been alive times, like, a billion. They weren’t doing anyone any good.

But even if they would, he didn’t care. He didn’t fucking care. He just wanted to hurt Dream. He wanted to show him he wasn’t a cute little pet human to coo over and torment, a jewel to keep locked up in a display case. No, he was Tommy, angry, violent, human. If Dream wanted to hold him captive, he had to know that Tommy would make it as difficult as possible.

And maybe, just maybe, Dream would kill him, and he could join Tubbo.

He breathed heavily, exhaustion overtaking him, and he dragged himself up the endless pile of useless stuff to the soft blankets and endless pillows at the top. Even if it meant locking himself back into a display, he didn’t mind. Maybe then Dream would see what he did. Maybe then Dream would fucking listen to him.

Halfway up, though, he felt a heavy tug on the back of his tunic, the only warning before claws dug into his back and he was dragged back to the ground. He landed with a thud, before something shifted and in a flash, he went from a paw holding him down to the weight of a person pinning him.

Opening his eyes, Tommy looked up at his own face.

That was one of the torturous things about Dream- his insistence on parading a parody of Tommy’s form around. Warped, a sickly pale green and with his monstrous features slapped atop, but still recognisably Tommy as of his capture, the same scratch wounds on his arms, the bruises on his face, and almost unscarred, unlike the mess of burns and cuts and injuries coating Tommy now. It was uncanny, and still, it made Tommy long for a time he’d never get back, when he felt whole in body, mind and soul, and not an empty shell.

“Tommy.”

Dreams’ voice was calm, eerily empty of any emotion. His face was blank, too, and that was scarier than anger. Dream loved being able to emote in his human form- grinning and giggling like an idiot whenever he was mildly happy, crying his eyes out when he was a little disappointed. Not even bothering with that told Tommy that whatever he felt, it was so far past bothering to even show. He wasn’t even sure if that thought made sense, but it was hard to make sense out of anything through the blind panic.

“I- I-“Tommy’s voice died in his throat.

“Quiet.”

Tommy shrunk, instinctively expecting a broken bone, another missing finger maybe, but Dream just stared down, expressionless. “I know what you’re trying to do, hatchling.” His tail wagged aggressively behind him, thumping loudly on the ground in contrast to how eerily calm he looked. “You’re trying to piss me off, so I decide you’re not worth keeping, and I’ll let you go or kill you, right?”

Tommy nodded his head, unable to speak.

“You’re not as smart as you think you are, little one.” Dream let out a barking laugh, one that lacked any humour. “I don’t care about how valuable something is for you humans. Gold, silver, gems, your sticks you use to access magic and scribble papers, they only matter because they interest me. And Tommy… you’re far more valuable than any other thing here. Unlike all my other trophies, you’re fun to play with.”

Dream smiled slowly, baring sharp teeth awkwardly stuck into a human mouth. The memories of such razor-sharp blades digging into his flesh sent phantom pain through the scars left by them, agonising enough that he couldn’t help but whimper. There was no ambiguity as to what he meant by that, and it sent a chill up Tommy’s spine. He wouldn’t even be allowed to die, not while the monster from his nightmares had fun torturing him like a cat would a mouse.

“But of course, I can’t let you just get away with that, can I? I have a reputation to upkeep.” There was a faint hint of what might have been sadness in that, barely peeking through his unreadable tone, but it disappeared as soon as it broke through. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. You’ve shown me that doesn’t work, haven’t you?”

He grinned again, and Tommy’s stomach dropped. “No, no. The second you step out of line again, Tommy, I’m going take you to show what happened to your little human lair, and I’m gonna destroy one more for each little mistake you make. And I’ll make sure you see every second of it. Maybe I’ll even bring some humans back to take my time playing with, before I get bored of them. Maybe I’ll make you hurt them too.”

Tommy felt sick. He couldn’t even bear to think about- about the outside, about his home. The image of it, picturesque and whole in his memories, still caused him to tear up, let alone the nightmares. The idea of seeing it now, ruined and shattered, seemed horrific, and even worse was the idea of anyone else going through the same thing, seeing their home burnt to the ground, dying horribly in the wreckage. Or being brought back to- to really, just be tortured, and then probably eaten once Dream got bored or hungry or whatever, without even the scattered, confused kindness Dream tried to show to him.

And the idea of doing what was done to him to others? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. No. No, he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t live with himself, knowing that agony.

Tommy tried his best to stay calm, to be a Big Man, but like a goddamn pussy he couldn’t help himself but burst into tears.

Absently, Dream ran a claw gently across his face, curiously tracing the path of the tears, eyes widening slightly in fascination. “Don’t worry. Just be the perfect treasure, and that won’t have to happen, ’kay?”

“H-how?” Tommy’s voice was strangled, terrified. It took all he had left to even say them. “How do I- do I stop that?”

“Just don’t try stupid shit again, alright? And talk to me. It’s interesting, hatchling. I’ve never had anyone to talk to before.” It was said so casually, but even in this state, Tommy was struck by how fucking sad that was. Dream really was doing this out of loneliness, wasn’t he? Maybe… maybe it wasn’t so bad to stay here, and be friends with Dream.

“Okay.” Tommy nodded, hating how weak he sounded. “J-just, please. Don’t hurt anyone else.”

“I can’t promise that.” Dream sounded sad again. “I- I exist for a reason, y’know, Tommy. Some things are made to ruin. They don’t have a choice. Do you think I want this? This pile of useless goods? This lonely existence? There needs to be a villain for every hero.” Dream sighed. “I don’t wanna talk about this. It’s- I’m not meant to; humans and hatchlings aren’t to know.”

The idea seemed strange. That Dream was as much a prisoner as Tommy… it didn’t make sense, yet Tommy found an odd sense of kinship in it. Maybe that’s why Dream seemed so oddly fascinated that he chose to fight him. Maybe he’d fought his role already. Maybe… he could find a way to make Dream only hurt him.

Or maybe it was a lie. But Tommy would let himself believe a comforting one, if only to give him the strength to stop Dream from doing what he did to him to anyone else.

After all, no one but Tommy deserved it.

[areiacannaid]

Declination

What if Halt joined Morgarath instead of the Rangers? A small AU based off of this prompt/story idea from @nilswolf8.

Link to read on AO3

“I could use a man like you in my ranks.” Morgarath said, finally getting to the point behind the clandestine nighttime meeting he had summoned Halt to.

“I can’t say I care much for the idea of being used.” Halt replied, truth cutting through the sarcastic way he had phrased it. 

“Merely an expression,” Morgarath assured with a wave of his hand. “Regardless, I would value someone with talents like yours. And there’s much that I could offer you in return for your services.”

And, now that the offer was out in the open, Halt allowed himself to consider it.

When he had first come to Araluen, he’d had a vague idea of joining the Rangers. That was how he had been trained, and their high, influential, position in Araluen was no secret. He’d been interested in seeing what he could gain by working his way up to the top of such an organization. Although he had always preferred to work in the shadows, power promised a sense of control and protection in a way nothing else could manage. Halt had spotted his opportunity when he met, and saved, Crowely in that tavern. But the Rangers were not the seat of power they had once been and the tides of war were shifting.

Which left his choice between Crowley and Morgarath. He knew enough to guess that Crowley might be the safer person—but, in the end, it really wasn’t about people.

Halt had learned long ago there was no such thing as love or loyalty. People only ever used others for as long as they had something to gain, and then simply discarded them when that use had run its course. All that really mattered was how much one could extract from those connections before they invariably died.

The choice really came down to what could be attained in the end, and what path offered the greatest chance for survival.

Halt had no real sense of connection to the Rangers. That had ended the day his old life had, deep within the cool blackness of the river that had nearly claimed his life.

A sharp memory of pain caused him to reach a hand towards his chest. The passage of time had done nothing to temper his memory of that day, and he doubted it ever would. He’d been reborn from the water that had been intended as his grave. He’d clawed his way to the bank, gasping for breath, water stained red and pink with the blood his injuries dripping around him. His mouth had been seared with the ash of desperate but unheeded words—the last time he had ever called for mercy or help.

His fingers brushed against the twisted scar tissue beneath his clothes, but felt no sensation save for the numbness of severed nerve endings. It was a blank nothingness that matched the cavernous feeling that had settled deep inside his chest since that day. He didn’t know if he even remembered anymore what it truly felt like to feel.

Everyone he'd ever thought he’d loved had either tried to kill him, or had left him to die. So, connections and sentiment meant nothing to him.

In the end it really was an easy choice. Morgarath simply had more to offer than the Ranger’s ever could. He had the greater odds for victory and therefore promised a greater chance of survival and a greater chance of potential gain. It was the smarter, more logical option. And he’d be lying if he said he was unsympathetic to anyone daring to rebel against a vitiated King and bring an end to the corrupt nobility he so despised.

“Well, what do you say?” Morgarath’s sibilant voice broke the grip of his revelry.

“I’d say we should talk terms,” Halt said.

Morgarath smiled, eyes bright with a calculating light. “Let's hear them then.”

He listened as Halt stated his counter offers, reasonable terms for spoils and a higher more autonomous position on Morgarath’s ranks.

“Prove your worth to me and you will have all that you asked for,” Morgarath said, holding out his hand to signal his agreement.

Halt took the offered hand.

~x~X~x~

Halt stood in the wreckage of a burning village, the place where the last vestiges of the King’s army had fled after their crushing defeat at Hackham Heath. The King and several of his knights had escaped—but they had been the only ones to do so.

Halt’s strategy, combined with Morgarath’s Wargal army, had decimated the King’s forces. They had chased the last of them here to this village; a place they had tried, and failed, to find refuge and defensive footing.

The broken remnants of the King’s army had not been enough to defend this small village from the massive force of Wargals Morgarath had sent. That was clear enough from the carnage around him. The bodies of Wargals, soldiers, and villagers lay intermingled where they had fallen: the unavoidable price of war.

Halt inhaled the sharp smoke from the fires burning around him, his bow at full draw and leveled at the last standing soldier—if a child could really be called an enemy soldier.

The boy, no more than twelve years old at the most if Halt had to guess, stood defiantly, sword held defensively in front of him, eyes shining with wild determination. Before his feet sprawled the unmoving bodies of Wargals and even a few men that he had slain. Behind him, clinging desperately to his legs was a younger boy, probably no older than five if he had to guess, and very likely the last survivor of the villagers that had once called this place home. His large brown eyes were blown wide in pain and primal terror.

“Why haven’t you released your arrow?” Morgarath’s sneer came from behind him. “He is the enemy. One less of them breathing is all the better for us. Or is his age too much for your scruples, Halt?”

“It isn’t that,” Halt said blandly. “It’s that killing him would be a waste. I saw him before when I reconnoitered the King’s army camp. He’s the son of Sir David; the newly appointed Battlemaster to the King. I figured he'd be worth more to you alive as leverage.”

“Indeed?” A vicious gleam came to life in Morgarath’s eyes even as his lips curled in a cruel smile. “Then size him and kill the village boy.”

Halt saw the older boy’s eyes widen at that callous order, flashing for the first time with fear and, just as quickly, calculation hastily covered.

He brandished his sword as the soldier’s closed in.

“If I’m worth something to you alive then so is he,” he addressed Morgarath, indicating the younger boy with a tilt of his head. “He’s my brother. If it’s ransom you want, my father would pay for us both.”

“Your brother?” Morgarath challenged scathingly.

“Illegitimate, but yes. My father fell in love with his mother when he was last stationed near this village,” he explained hastily.

As Halt watched the boy, he found himself feeling an unexpected measure of interest towards him. He was skilled in combat, seemed more intelligent than the average knight, and was quick on his feet.

He was also a liar.

The young village boy was not any blood relation of his despite his story, Halt was certain. His tells were minor ones, but they were there. He was merely trying to protect the younger boy from death, though Halt couldn’t piece together a motive as to why—he couldn’t fathom what the boy possibly stood to gain from it.

Every word had been a falsehood. But the greed in Morgarath’s expression showed plainly that he hadn’t caught it. He seemed far more interested in the added leverage of a potential scandal. Halt, for his part, said nothing. It wasn't his responsibility to keep Morgarath from being manipulated by a child. That was something the Warlord should be able to do for himself.

“Take them both,” Morgarath ordered.

Halt shrugged. It didn’t matter much to him either way. 

~x~X~x~

“Perhaps you could tell me why it is that your father doesn’t value your life enough to agree to my demands?” Morgarath’s raging carried almost as loudly through the dungeon passages as the anguished sounds of screaming did.

It had been over a month since the capture of the two boys, since the Battle of Hackham Heath where King Duncan had escaped with his a few of his knights and commanders. The King had holed up in a fortress in the far north, with eighteen fiefs still under his command. Morgarath’s ploy to use Sir David’s son, or rather ‘sons’, as leverage had not met with the success he wanted.

Having received a less than favorable response to his ransom and blackmail demands, Morgarath had flown into a rage and decided to vent it on the object of his anger. Halt’s mouth turned down faintly at the uselessness of it all. Like all emotions, rage was ultimately pointless and would fix things as little as torturing a child for the decision of their parents. Which was to say, not at all.

Morgarath would have been better served to lower the conditions he set for the boys’ safe return. Halt had always known that no knight with the barest trace of loyalty or duty to his King would have agreed to such concessions—even if he did profess to love his son. The life of two boys weighed against the safety of what little remained of Duncan’s kingdom was a clear logical choice.

Halt rounded the corner, stepping past the guards there. They did nothing to stop him as he’d become a more than familiar figure.

“Were you just that much of a disappointment to him or does he just not care?” Morgarath demanded of the Battlemaster’s son.

Halt entered the cell silently, watching as Morgarath lunged at the helpless knight’s son, watched as the youngest boy strained against the chains holding him, tears streaming down his face as he screamed desperately, despite his obvious exhaustion, for Morgarath to stop. For his part, the knight’s son was far past the point of words, past even the point of screaming anymore. He did not answer the furious warlord. The lack of response only seemed to infuriate Morgarath more.

“Maybe my demand wasn’t taken seriously enough. Maybe I’ll start chopping off pieces to send to him. Maybe then he will listen! Maybe then he will start to care!”

As he said it, he drew and raised his sword, edge down for a cutting stroke at the boy beneath him. The boy’s eyes, though barely conscious and filled with pain, still glistened defiantly. Brave and defiant, just as the younger one was.

Halt felt something unidentifiable stirring in his chest at about the same time he felt the idea, which had been stirring in the back of his mind ever since he’d predicted the failure of Morgarath’s ransom scheme, solidify into clear purpose.

“Hold a moment, if you would, Lord Morgarath,” Halt said calmly, but loud enough to be heard as he stepped forwards.

“You had better have a good reason for interrupting me,” Morgarath hissed venomously, stopping his blade mid-swing by only the barest frenzied grip of his self-control. 

“I do. Before you damage him irreparably," Halt said, gesturing toward the downed boy with an inclination of his head. “I have a proposition. Why don’t you give both boys to me?”

“For what purpose?” Morgarath asked.

The rasp in his voice and the clenching of his fingers told Halt that he was only seconds away from losing his temper entirely. Halt knew he needed to be concise and quick if he wanted to be successful.

“The way I see it, if their father already refused the deal, it's unlikely there is anything you can do that would cause him to suddenly value his children more than his duty or position. But they can still be useful to us. The King still has many Rangers left at his disposal and they even now give him a greater advantage in this war. I figured that you could use a similar advantage. What if I could train for you, your own force of assassins with the skills of the Rangers? We could rival and surpass Duncan in every aspect. These two,” he indicated the boys, “could be the start to it. I see potential in them already.”

“And if you are wrong about them?” Morgarath asked, though Halt could see that he was already growing interested in the idea, the familiar hungry gleam was back in his gaze.

“Then,” Halt shrugged, “you can finish what you started.”

Morgarath seemed to think a moment before sheathing his sword.

“If you want them, take them,” he said dismissively, words languid. “They are no longer of any use to me.”

[untoldsoup]

This is Chapter Three part TWO! Please read chapters one, two and 3 (part one) FIRST!

Note: any derogatory comments about Mario being a little person will get deleted and you will be blocked.

PLEASE READ TAGS

Tags: tw:cartoon violence /tw:(mild) body horror/ tw:blood/ tw: injuries/ tw: minor character in danger/ tw: verbal abuse of a minor character/ tw: manipulation/ tw: major character death/ tw: minor character death/ tw:death threats

So happy I managed to get this update out on schedule. Thank you all for being patient waiting two months between updates, these pages take time! Anyway, this is the end of the flash back, we will be back to the present with the next chapter! And well, things are heating up, as you can see :)

I spent a lot of time on this, so if you like it, let me know! thank you all for reading :)

----------------------

Previous: chapter 3(part 1)

Next: chapter four part one

Start from the beginning Here!

This is a sequel, please read "Change" comic first!

[bailey-calinao]

“There is only one ass here and I am looking right at him,” she practically hissed as her eyes narrowed more towards her and her nostrils flaring up from her anger.  “Do you actively just go around to piss people off or am I just lucky?”  Bailey asked, curious about the other.

“Here, let’s get you some food and see what is faster, my blade or your food to the heart.”  The vampire offered as some kind of fun experiment the two could do with each other.  Bailey ran her pad of her thumb against her blade to test the sharpness and nicked herself, she brought it to her lips to taste before returning her sights on the man.  Why was she allowing some pesky human to bother her this much?  If they were not in Greywood, she would have ended this the moment he decided to open his mouth.

Within less than a second, she was right in front of him and her fangs on display.  “What’s wrong?”  She questioned with amusement on her features.  The vampire then licked her lips, “I can hear your heart beating faster.  Could it be that you're nervous?”  Bailey questioned.  “No, please do stay.  I have built up quite the appetite and,” her eyes ran along his body.  As he began to inch away along the wall, she remained in place.

“Come back, I’m not done playing.”

"Really? I couldn't tell," Jesse commented, tone still more light-hearted and smartass-y than what the woman obviously wanted to deal with. "You know what they say about assuming things, it makes an ass out of you and me." And there was a flash of his grin, because he thought he was oh so clever and funny.

"Actually, it's through his stomach-- meaning food," Jesse said, giving her an idle glance as she toyed around with a pocket knife that came out of seemingly nowhere. That wasn't necessarily anything that bothered him, mostly because he had experience with pocket knives himself, though last time he owned one was years ago. And, to be honest, he figured she was one of those all talk and no play types; a hardass that wanted to look like she would just cut out his heart but wouldn't actually...

That was, until he literally blinked and suddenly, the girl was in his face with a pair of fangs on full display. Jesse flinched backwards, shoulder-blades knocking back against the wall hard. "Jesus Christ," the male exhaled sharply with both hands raised protectively, that teasing jackassery from before having traded immediately for what was a very obvious display of fear and jump in heart rate-- he hadn't come here to get murdered by a fucking vampire. Clearly, she was seconds away from just full on snapping and as foolish as he could be, he wasn't always stupid. Christ, he'd only been joking around. "Right, whatever, have the fuckin' room, okay? I'll just go off and fuck myself, shit--" As he was saying all of this, Jesse eased along the wall to get out from being cornered by her, until he was free to simply ditch through the very door he just came from.

God, he fucking hated Greywood.

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I was taking an exam at school, except Chica from FNAF was there and if I made one wrong move she’d fucking kill me.

[punk-in-docs]

A song of brides and hounds: part III

— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)

— 4.3k words.

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV

Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW: for this chapter - mainly violence and some gore, also Caracalla being a nasty little bitch -- enjoy!

The servant girls’ hands are kind.

They undress you softly, and handle you with such reverence. Strip from you the ruined stola and tend your wounds.

They wash your feet, ply your cuts with a herbal paste of yarrow and uva ursi, wrap you in bandages. They rub new sweet smelling oil onto your unwounded skin.

Pick off your old jewellery and finery to be discarded. Slip you out your shoes. Lay you bare. Stood before them in naught but your skin as they tend you.

One is wetting, oiling and combing your netted hair to silky serenity again. Another is cleaning the wound on your elbow. All traces of dirt - and your previous life along with it - slowly removed.

Stood you in a shallow golden tub of warm water that laps at your ankles. Milky with oils and soaps. They put rose petals in the water. You watch them swim and dip.

You beg for one of the girls to keep the fibulae broaches that held your now damned dress to your shoulders. Your very last essence of home. Venus was enshrined in those very broaches. They gave you hope. Carrying a small kind piece of goddess with you. Laying your devotion to the majesty of the ocean on your simple shoulders.

They guided you to rooms draped in blue and gold. Stars moulded on the ceiling with the ornate marble that drips from every wall and corner. Giving the false illusion of a night sky. The flat ceiling between them clouded with bursts and puffs of dark blue that indicated churning night clouds. Boundless skies. Endless seas.

It felt like showing all the maps of the world to a caged bird.

Soft feminine blues befit these chambers. Statues and devotion to goddesses crown the walls and doorways. Urns of large stemmed white flowers. One wall holds a table lined with a huge offering of fruits, dried and fresh. Some bread and cured meats and oiled small fish. And an amphora of wine and goblet for after your bathing.

The air in here is scented all floral herb and clean. Too clean. No hint of sea salt or dried weed that tumbles on the shore to bake in the sun. It’s unfamiliar.

The huge slab of the cushioned bed is draped with silks and gauzy canopy curtains the colour of dove feathers. You don’t want to look at it. You dread thinking what will happen in it tonight.

A large maw of balcony gapes at another side of the room. This shows you the wall of rain outside. The violent tumble of thunder that must be shaking the very hills and peoples of Rome.

You feel as if the sea is raging because you’ve been stolen from it. Now it seeks vengeance on the land. Lashing and storming mercilessly until you’re found. Back where you belong.

Unlikely. It will have to rage on.

You stand, undressed, unseeing. Uncaring for the wealth of the room you’ve been pulled into.

The maid behind you, Oriana, a sweet and silent blonde, is scooping your hair back from your neck to comb and ply it with vanilla and orchid oil. Dark sweet musk.

Geta had specifically requested it.

Your head servant is a maid called Aeliana.

She has an accent you can’t place. It’s pretty, her tone husky. She had wonderful raven hair spilling silky and free over her shoulders, eyes dark as cassia bark, almond shaped. Long lashes. The epitome of tranquil beauty.

The colour of her dress is different to the rest of them. Indicating her higher status. Rusty red and it readily compliments the natural darkness of her skin. She wore golden bangles threaded on each wrist, and her touch is cloud soft.

She has a scar that intersects down from the middle of her forehead, across her left eye and cheek and ends there. Skin twisted and healed shiny. An old wound. It makes her striking to look at.

Worse still; She catches you staring.

Lowers her eyes as she tended you. Layering the sticky wet herbal treatment to your wounded elbow.

“Does my appearance displease you, my lady?” She lapses into silence for a moment or two.

“If you’d prefer I could send for another handmaiden to come tend you-“ She asks. Not harshly. There’s a hint of shame to her tone.

You look to her. Fearful of offence.

“I am not displeased. Forgive me. To stare so openly is rude.” You mutter. Eyes falling to your feet again. You watch rose petals sway on the water. You swallow thickly.

If she’s amused at your asking her, a servant, for forgiveness, she doesn’t show it. She calmly counters;

“You are Empress Salacia of Rome. You are allowed to stare at whomever you wish.” She tells you plainly.

Your eyes water. You bite inside your lower lip before you respond.

Not yet I’m not. And I don’t want to be.

“How came you by the scar?” You ask. Knowing full well you won’t like the answer. She gently washed your shoulder with a cloth.

“The Emperor.” She tells frankly.

At your doe eyed expression of horror she elucidates.

“Not Emperor Geta. His brother, Caracalla. Emperor Geta’s temper may be foul and quick to boil. But, Caracalla he is… far crueler.” She explains.

Your mouth purses into a thin line.

Oriana has finished oiling your hair. Now she was styling it into waves. Decorated with ornaments of netted gold. Geta requested it down as opposed to the normal bridal style. Emperors have what they want.

“What was the reason…” You sought. Fearing the answer.

“I was too slow in bringing his wine one night.” She offers. Plucking a vial of oil from the side table and coming back to rub it into your bare arms.

You squeeze your eyes closed. Ignore the tickle of tears that threaten your scrunched eyelids.

This is the savage world you must inhabit now. Try to navigate with sharper hungrier teeth and deadlier instinct. You don’t feel ready. You must become lionhearted and fierce. Carry knives. Be ruthless.

You hear your mothers reverent voice in your head. Sweet sea child. You were not made that way.

“I am sorry for your pain. Aeliana. But I am grateful for your warning.” You decide.

She nods. “I thank the goddess’ for you. Empress.” She smiles at you.

Before going to the side to fetch your tunica recta, and the belt you’d wear on your waist in a knot of hercules. Which tradition dictated only Geta was allowed to undo.

Your husband.

You wince. Aueliana notices.

“Your majesty?” She seeks. Sensing your unease.

“I am nervous.” You tell her. You confide your worry in this woman with kind eyes and soft hands.

“It is expected of a bride to be nervous.” She awards you.

“I’m not a normal bride.” You confirm fearfully. She can see them shaking in your gaze. Threatening to breach your lash line.

She nods in understanding. You’re sure they all knew. The reason that placed you here. Spread like wildfire on dry plains through the servant halls.

“I know little of managing a husband. Of… starting a family.”

“If I may, your majesty. Your family is a noble one, yes?” She asks.

You nod. You lived in one of the richest houses in Corsica. You were never lacking in money or ribbons and new jewels. But at best you were a senators daughter. Not the ideal stock for an Emperors wife. Not the type to be governing one great nation.

“My grandmother is a well known seer in these parts. A healer. Purveyor of white magic. Many a time she has seen things that have yet to come to pass…” She explains as she wraps the belt around your waist. Speaking as she does.

“She foretold your arrival. Said the future of Rome would be written by rain and storm, when blood spills on the ancient serpent stone.”

Serpent. Synonymous with the Traitor. Two faced and shedding skin. Blood spilling, the death of your Brother. Rain on the rocks- this storm hammering down. You can’t believe it.

“What if Rome is your destiny?” She explains. Her voice kind and brave as the candles flicker and the storm rages on.

“Then I pray the goddess’ convey me the strength to survive it.”

“I will pray too.” She takes your hand. It feels like kinship.

They stepped you out of the tub and began to pat you dry with cloths and then dress you.

With each pass of their hands wiping the water from your skin, it removed you further and further from yourself.

Aeliana rubs a sweet balm like texture onto your pebbled nipples before she robes you. Said it was to increase your fertility. She also lines your eyes with burnt kohl.

They pulled your dress on around you. Let it fall into beautiful waves. You stood sedately and let them manoeuvre you.

Your skin positively draped with as much fragrant oil as it could take. Anointed with your new life as it drips off you in unbearable sweetness. Decorations not of your choosing put into your hair, on your ears, around your neck, on your arms. Strangled by someone else’s finery.

Slid fine golden sandals onto your feet. Aeliana brought a flame red veil and pinned it in place over your head. It floated down to your shoulders. Securing a crown of myrtle flowers over it.

It may have been gauzy fabric; rich and fine. But it felt like iron to you. Iron veil and a crown of thorns.

When they finish readying you, they bow and leave you alone to eat the fresh bread and fruits. Drink the sweet wine. Night closes in around you.

You didn’t ever picture the night before your wedding being like this. Alone and noiseless save for rain. You pictured the noise and gaiety of your sisters, dancing in their fine dresses. How they’d carry golden stalks of wheat to signify your prosperous marriage - how it would bear fruit. Be blessed by gods and fortune.

Your mother would bind your hands to the man you’d marry. To the man you’d love.

And you are here. Miserable in cold indifference. Clothed in perfumed oil and silence. With only your dour thoughts for company.

You pick at your offering of food. Feeling the milky eyes of those female deity marble statues watching you carefully. Judging. Maybe even disappointed.

When the doors next shudder open as the guards outside push them open, a divine older woman comes striding slowly, surely, into the room. Confidence woven into her steps like the very fine lavender purple cloth folded around her shoulders. A beautiful sage green palla. Her hair is dark and braided masterfully on her head. Shot through with bolts of silver.

You recognise her from coins. From statues. The Dowager Empress of Rome. Julia Domna.

She looks wise as Minerva. Goddess of education indeed. All of Rome had heard tale of not only her beauty, but her mind. Sharp as an arrowhead. A gentle mediator between her rabid sons.

Out of sheer politesse and nerves, you bolt out your seat and bow your head to her. Words shrivel on your tongue. Royalty is stood before you. Here you are plucked from the dungeons. You feel unworthy.

“Rise, my child.” She bids you. Holding out a hand laid with jewels on nearly every finger. Standing before you. Close enough to discern some of your beauty through the veil.

She examines you. Not unkindly. The way you’d expect a mother to examine the vessel that will carry her sons legacy. She’s discerning.

“Let me see my sons choice then…” she bids. Hands crossed in front of her, diplomatically, as she lets her deep set, serious eyes become acquainted with all of you.

Choice? Or chattel?

She walks around you. Eyes your hair. Your build. Your hips. The way you’ve been presented like a prized sacrificial swine before the crowds on Saturnalia.

And she doesn’t appear to find you lacking

“Goodness. You really are beautiful.” She says. It sounds mournful. Introspective. As if she didn’t intend on you hearing it.

“He’s made a fine choice.” She lauded

“Corsica, I hear you hail from?”

“Yes, Dowager.”

“I want to know one thing.” She says. Voice hard as newly forged steel. A shiver runs your spine. So she could be terrifying if she wishes.

“Are you a traitor against Rome?” She demands. “There are spies who would conspire to align themselves with this great house, under false guises, to murder my sons.” She speaks, crossly. Eyes aflame.

She has bite after all. Lions teeth and knows full well how to use them.

“I am no spy. I am not a murderer I have no guise. Like you. I only want to protect those whom I love.” You answer calmly. Placid easy waves. Gently now.

She smiles. Though something curious still lurks in her eyes.

“Then we are on the same page.” She awards slyly. You feel as if you’ve passed a test.

Her smile crooks on one side. Relieved.

She turns to the doors. The great sway of her earrings are big as chandeliers as she moves. Stunning gold. Bands of gold also cross her well formed upper arms. Every inch a woman of gentility and riches. She is perfumed with lavender. Oil made from dried plants fetched all the way from purple fields in Aquitania.

“My son grows impatient to see his bride. Come. Salacia. It is time.” She offers her arm to you.

Apparently your destiny lays in wait.

~

The wedding was a short and simple affair. The Dowager Empress led you to the grand rooms where they were to be held.

Grand, just like the rest of this humongous sprawling palace.

When you see Geta, he is clad in so much gold and armour. A blinding white cloak draped off his form. Armour golden. Carved with gods and victorious hero’s of battle. Golden laurel crown adorns his head. His smile at the sight of you makes you blush with attention.

You are suddenly grateful for the veil. It manages to hide you from every stranger in this room. You can make out Caracalla. Some other senators. Other guests you’ve no idea who.

The celebrant, a rather portly priest, ordered the evil spirits away. Asked for the fire spirits to bless you. He invoked Janus to watch over you from single people to a joined couple. New beginnings.

When it is time, he takes your hand and carefully threads an engagement ring on your finger. It is weighty, pure gold. An imitation of two dog heads joined together. A round sapphire cradled between their mouths. As if they’re fighting for it.

Remus and Romulus. It reminds you of him already.

You dare to meet his eyes as he does it. He looks ravenous. Umbra catching you where you stand. Swallows you whole. You don’t think you can get used to it yet.

“Wherever you go, there also go I, as your wife.” You speak.

The dowager Empress binds your hands together with blood red linen as the rest of the vows are read. The way his fingers turn and grip the inside of your forearm - firm pressing, hot like a brand - it makes you shiver.

Then comes the time for the marriage to be sealed with a kiss. Hands freed.

Your stomach is squirming unpleasantly as your stranger of a groom steps forwards to lift your veil. When he lifts the red gauze from your vision, you keep your eyes lowered until the last moment.

You feel the urging of his eyes. You could hear the fierce nature of his words as if he’d spoken.

Look at me. Salacia.

He looks entirely too boastful. His perfect little nymph. Caught and landed at last.

Hepulled you in by your waist. Locked his hand around your back. Gave you a kiss that was certainly gentler than before. Softness of his lips was maddening when the rest of him was all armour and metal. But you still felt the edge of his teeth on your lower lip. Bursting new pain from where it had split.

It was official. You had been dragged out a golden net cast in the sea. And now property of the Emperor of Rome.

You had no time to let your thoughts wander. There’s been quite the celebration planned for after. He walks beside you as congratulations ripple around you from nobles, senators, generals and high officials of the courts.

You ignore the way Caracalla sneers a particularly vile look your way when you pass him. Plotting.

You are lead to an opulent triclinium. Open to one huge side, guarded by pillars, which overlooked a garden where fountains trickled and plants bloom even in the storm that’s still brewing. Spitting rain on the landscape.

There are torches at the sides of the rooms, huge bowls boasting orange flames that lick at the walls, and freshly plucked flowers, still green branches and fronds sit in urns to the side. Filling the room with petals and heady nectar scent.

There’s a huge swarm of lectus’ in the centre of the room. Bronze laid with cushions. All pointing towards a huge table were bread and wine goblets awaited. You’re not used to how the room echoes. Unused to the sheer amount of people and formality that fills it.

The wine is poured freely by silent servants who sweep in and out. Some of them carrying plates as huge as carriage wheels. A whole roasted boar with grapes spilling out its mouth is brought in. Trays upon trays of cooked moray eels, cod and oiled anchovies. A whole platter of stewed nightingale birds, arranged around stalks of herbs and plums.

There’s fruit and bread the like of which you’ve not seen before. White bowls filled with cut purple figs and waxy oranges. Apples and yellow golden pears on tiered stands. Grapes and dried apricots heaped in dishes. It’s dazzling. So much wealth thrust before you.

You have a cup of sweet honey wine and take some of the unleavened bread. Watching as others around you gorge and toast with their goblets. Drinking strong wine and telling jokes and bawdy stories.

You feel disjointed from it all. You feel the Emperors eyes pass over you. The dowagers too. You are a source of mystery and intrigue.

Plucked from misfortune and placed here at the feet of gods.

You do feel when your new husband slides some pieces of fruit, or fresh breads onto your plate. A small bunch of sweet red grapes. His head may be cocked to conversation in this room. But his attention remains somewhat on you.

“Eat. Wife. I do not wish to force you.” He commands you. Prodding food and more wine in your direction.

Nursing his own cup and barking at the servants when he wanted more. You know his tongue must be stained with the taste by now. Sour purple. You wonder if you’ll taste it later in another of his animalistic kisses.

It feels like there is a boulder in your stomach. You swallow. You sip. You try to breathe. It all feels too restricted.

“Refill my wife’s cup.” Geta demands of the nearest servant. You flinch at his cutting commands.

You meet the servants eyes for a second and flicker them a smile. They look to the ground as they fill your cup. Their poor hands shake. You thank them. They don’t respond.

You’ve a feeling his plying you with wine has more than one ulterior motive. To make you loosen. Make you pliant. Make you slip down easier in his crushing grip.

“I have no appetite.” You admit weakly.

You can’t stomach the way the fat on the meat before you glistens. These poor stewed birds with clipped wings. The gutted boar. Glistening fat and dead meat. Same as the way of those poor flayed men in the coliseum.

Butchered animals. One and the same. The way blood sprayed out on the biscuit brown dirt under the sun. The way viscera glistened bright when spilled free from once living flesh. How these animals looked served on a platter. There’s no difference.

You take some grapes. Pick them from the vine. Bite into some apricots. The fruit rots on your palate. Fine sugary flesh and it bursts on your tongue like ripe putrefaction. You place it gently back on your plate.

“Do they not have fruit in Corsica?” He asks. It’s vaguely mocking.

“We had lemon trees in the gardens. An olive tree in the courtyard. Over 200 years old.” You state quietly. Not taking your eyes off the plate in front of you. You picked and prodded at it.

“You have more now. You are Empress. You have anything you want.” He impressed on you.

“I miss the ocean. The sun on the shoreline. My sisters.” You mutter.

“Don’t risk sounding ungrateful.” He threatens.

Geta followed the path of your reluctant hand with his eyes. He then scans across all of his guests. People of the senate. Rich merchants. Fellow royalty.

They come to snipe and drink wine and watch this new wedded spectacle.

“They are all dull.” Geta decided.

You wonder if the only source of amusement he could delight at was seeing people being beaten to black and blue paste in the coliseum. To have to see the spray of blood to feel something.

“They are intrigued. Their Emperor has placed a traitor in his marriage bed.” You comment.

Geta turned to you. “That sounds like treason to my ears.” A warning.

“Perhaps.” You answered. Boldly.

“But is it inaccurate? It is what they are all thinking.” You add. “You’ve wedded yourself to someone disloyal. Someone who is not their kind. They are curious.”

Geta scans his eyes over everyone again. Their laughter. The flow of wine. The way they stab and cut into food and fruit like they’re half starved. None of them quite meet your eyes.

Perhaps they don’t wish too.

His hand finds the meat of your thigh. Flesh firm and warm.

“They will believe what I tell them too. Wife. You only need worry about your loyal duty to me. Nothing else.” He makes clear.

You go back to pushing bits of fruit around your plate. Taking no more sustenance.

“No doubt you are unused to such finery.” Caracalla pipes up. Seeing you toy with your food. “I wonder what they eat in Corsica. Peasants sea food?”

You meet Caracalla’s eyes across the tables and mountains of rich food.

Getas eyes were dark. Fired by lust for you. That’s what you saw in them when he looked at you.

The same could not be said for Caracalla.

You saw nothing. Just darkness and his love of cruelty. Geta unnerved you. But it was Caracalla who scared you most. It was like gazing into a tomb. A bare skull eye socket. You’re certain nothing but darkness refracted back. Splintered twisted darkness. The purest distilled form of malice.

“Perhaps you are jealous, brother. The fact that I will have heirs meant for the future of the empire. And you will… not.” He snaps. Petulant.

“If she makes it that far.” Caracalla sneers. Daggering a smile right at you. A sneer that make you feel cold. He’s twirling a dagger in his other hand. Eyeing you with sick lustful interest.

He wants your goodness too. He wants it so he can spoil you for himself and ruin Getas legitimacy. By whatever means necessary. Geta has cruelly inserted you into this feud.

“And who’s to say the heir will be yours… who knows where her eyes will stray.” He jabs. Eyes widening as he leers.

Geta stabs into his food. Glaring at his smaller twin all the while. Eyes dark as shadow cloaked black jewels.

When some servants near you move from pouring wine, the sight of the persons impeded by them, slowed your world to a halt, ringing gongs in your ears when you caught sight of someone you recognized.

Macrinus.

The food in your mouth turns to ash which you can hardly stomach swallowing. Your gaze locked on the man as he lays content at your wedding feast. Drinking wine and roaring laughter with Caracalla. Garbed in robes of rich Aquarian blue trimmed with gold pattern.

Exactly the gracious easy way he had been when he dined with you and your father in his home.

His smile remains as he locks eyes with you. And raises his glass in a toast in your direction. You hear him drink to your new name with a blazing smirk aimed your way. “Empress.”

You mumble a pithy excuse. You don’t know if anyone hears you or if they’ll even look up from their plates when you get up and rush to leave.

Caracalla snorts as you race from the room on the verge of tears.

“She’s a flighty one. Your Empress. So full of tears.” Caracalla comments loudly. Cruelly. Turning his head to meet the acid stare of his brother - and the Dowager Empress as she lowers her goblet from her lips. Eyes cool as metal.

“Maybe if you shoved your cock into your broodmare, brother, as you doubtless plan to do this night. Maybe that would settle her down? Or maybe a good beating from the guards will see her right, make her see her place… maybe let a few of the guards bend her over a lectus and see to her first? Loosen her up a little for your uses.”

“Caracalla. Enough.” The dowager snaps. Lightning power in her voice. Tone fashioned from a fury storms could envy. Her dark eyes glow with it.

She turns to Geta and lays a gentle pacifying hand to his arm. “See to your bride, dear. She looked unwell.”

Geta sighs a snarl. Glaring at his brother as he does as mother suggested.

She watches him leave. Turns to her other son with barely concealed ire.

Caracalla snorts into his wine with the other guests. Making sneering, high handed remarks.

“Such marital bliss.” He mocks to the guests. Twirling his favourite silver dagger in his other hand. Laughing as he played with the dead meats on his plate with a sneer. His tooth winked golden in the light.

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--

@ceriseheaven @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @gvtosbith @munsonswhoresposts2 @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

[lexirosewrites]

“just the tip” but the tip is of eddie’s knife because he gets off on murder. he can’t bring himself to go all the way with his steve because he loves him too much and steve is just his sweet and willing victim along for the ride🥰

[serickswrites]

Or Else

Warnings: restraints, captivity, torture, slap, physical violence, threat of violence, defiant whumpee

"You're going to give me exactly what I want, Whumpee. And I want to know all of Organization's plans." Whumper said as they loomed over Whumpee whom they had bound tightly to the chair.

Whumpee smirked, looking as nonchalant as possible while roped to a folding chair. "Well we both know I'm not going to do that."

"You're going to tell me! Or else!" Whumper said through gritted teeth, their eyes narrowed.

"Or else what? You're going to spend more time with me? That's all you've got, Whumper."

"You'll be sorry," Whumper warned.

Whumpee rolled their eyes. "Give me a break. There's nothing you can do that will make me talk."

Without warning, Whumper backhanded Whumpee hard across the face. Whumpee's head rocked to the side with the force. Fortunately, the chair stayed in place as Whumper had bolted it to the floor hours before. They hadn't wanted Whumpee trying to escape.

Whumpee pouted. "That was uncalled for, Whumper."

Whumper raised a clenched fist. "TELL ME!"

"Make me," Whumpee's eyes glinted with defiance. "There is nothing you can do, Whumper. I will never, ever tell you."

[obae-me]

could we get some hcs of the bros being protective? like i'm imagining a scenario where you're walking with them down the street and someone starts being a creep to you so they step in to scare them off :> also hi i'm glad you're back!!!

Absolutely you can! I love protective headcanons, they bring me life. Also, thank you! I'm glad to be back!

They'll Always Protect You

TW: Threats and a bit of violence. More in just the fist-fighting kind of way but more violence is implied. Demons gonna demon. As always, read safely!

______________________________

Finally. School exams were over, there was no busy holiday approaching, no big event to be planned. At last, you felt as if you could stand back and take a deep breath. At least for a day or two. So, taking the opportunity while it was presented to you, you asked one of the brothers to hang out for the day. Nothing super special, just some time to spend away from the others, away from the House and RAD. No magical shenanigans, no curses, poltergeists, potion mishaps, just you and him.

Luckily, it turned out exactly like you wanted it to...at the start anyway. After having lunch together, you two were simply walking down the Devildom streets, having casual conversations about upcoming plans, recent moods, that one weird server at lunch, just whatever the two of you could come up with, enjoying each other’s company. Then a phone call interrupted you both. It was his phone.

Not a call he could skip apparently. After all, they all are very busy demons. Being Demon Lords came with many responsibilities. You allowed him to take it as long as he wouldn't take too long. This was supposed to be your day with him after all. So, picking up the call, your choice of brother stepped into a nearby alley to have whatever bit of privacy he could have.

Not moving too far away, you simply took a few steps down the sidewalk to look into a storefront window display. You didn't have long before some random demon decided to lean against the glass, a little too far into your personal space. "What'cha looking at?" They asked, clearly just getting you to talk, not interested in your answer in the slightest. The way they hovered rubbed you the wrong way, and whether or not they did it intentionally, they got in between you and the alley where the bother you brought with you was.

"Can I help you with something?" You finally asked, not intending to actually assist them, just wanting them to scram.

"Whoa, no need to sound so accusatory!" They got a little closer, eyeing you strangely. "Just having friendly conversation." Their hand raised and settled on your shoulder, their grasp moving you closer to them. 

Lucifer

All at once, the street gets coated in shadow, all the lights flickering before dying completely. There’s this heavy looming presence that takes the attention of everyone in the immediate vicinity. The demon who had the gall to touch you seemed to know their fate without needing to turn around. 

Lucifer is furious. Every part of his body is stiff with that cold and silent burning rage. He doesn’t have to say anything, only staring down at the demon, his eyes glowing a fiery red with his chin slightly raised. 

The other demon scrambles, losing their footing and crawling over the Devildom ground as they flee with their lives while they still have the fortune of keeping it. 

Lucifer waits, making sure that his presence is known, letting everyone know that he is with you. 

The street goes silent in respect, everyone moving along quickly and quietly. They all scatter, avoiding Lucifer’s wrath, leaving you two practically alone.

After a moment, the light returns to the lamps, Lucifer’s wings tucking against his back. He hadn’t been in demon form before he took the phone call. He takes his gloved hands and dusts off your shoulder, implying the demon had left it dirty just by touching it. 

“These mongrels can’t control themselves and let you have any sort of peace, can they?” He scoffed, his shoulders still tense with irritation. 

Still a bit stunned and embarrassed that such a scene was made on your behalf, you looked away from him. “You didn’t have to go that far. Nothing happened.” Not yet anyway, and you knew as much, you just...didn’t know what to say in that moment. Not when someone just emptied an entire street for you with just a glance. 

“Enough happened.” There was the smallest waver to his voice. “Their intention alone warranted my actions, and that was me being merciful. You are far too important to be treated in such a manner.” His voice sped up, almost running on one of his regular lectures, with you being the subject matter. “Exchange student or not, you should be able to walk down a simple street without having to worry about being bothered by some miscreant with an agenda. If I have to enact such a performance like this again, I will do it without hesitation over and over again till I am ensured that every crooked soul down here will know better than to harass you.” He finally took a breath. With a little glance, he raised one of his eyebrows, his voice softening. “You do not agree?” 

“I...don’t know. I don’t disagree, I just...” You’ve never been protected like this before. Not on such an extravagant scale. 

He picked up your implications, toning everything down to a more casual level. “I see.” He took a step to stand right by your side. “Come,” he offered his hand to you should you want to take it. “Let us not allow such trash to ruin such a fine day. Such beings like that aren’t deserving of another thought, you understand?” You nodded and he reacted with a peaceful smile. “Good.” 

Mammon

“Oi.” That single word was said in a deathly serious tone. 

Stupider than anyone gave them credit for, the demon turned around to see who was trying to talk to them. Much to their surprise, they came face to face with Mammon, his head tilted so far to the side, his ear almost touched his shoulder. 

There was a look in the demon’s eyes that flickered between a bit of fear and a little bit of amusement. “Listen, man, I’m just talking to our buddy here.” With a movement to their pockets, the demon pulled out a bag of Grimm. A big one, coins threatening to spill through the bottom of the bag purely from the weight. “How about I give you this and you just let me-” 

The next split second was a complete blur. All you were able to see was a flash of white and gold before the demon that had their hold on you was suddenly gone. 

Mammon stood right by your side now, looking down the sidewalk as the demon who had tried to bribe him was face down on the ground several feet behind you. They had severely underestimated him, either completely unconscious or painfully unable to move. 

Not wanting to stick around, Mammon gently grabbed the fabric of the sleeve around your wrist, leading you away from the scene with swift steps. You silently tried to keep up with him, stunned with the way he was presenting himself. 

After turning onto a different street, he finally turned around to look at you, that frighteningly serious expression still there. “They didn’t do anything to ya, did they?” He was examining you for any wounds or signs of distress. 

“Uh, no...not really.” They probably would’ve if...You took a deep breath. “I’m alright,” you assured him, hoping he would go back to acting like he usually did. 

“I’m not stupid.” 

“I didn’t say you were,” you blinked, still thrown off by the whole thing. 

“Then don’t lie to me and say you’re alright,” he frowned. 

You gave him an awkward chuckle, feeling a bit of guilt that you did the same thing that other demon had done and underestimated his true feelings. Mammon always understood more than anyone gave him credit for, you know that. Why did you assume this was any different? He knew you weren’t alright. Looking at your feet, you took a deep breath. “I’m a bit shaken up.” 

He was silent for a while, his grasp on your sleeve tightening, acting like it would be a sin if he let you go. Then he raised his head, looking at you intensely. “I’ll always be there for you. I’m your First, got it? And any demon who tries doing something like that again will get more than just a fist to the face. So...just know I’ll keep you safe. Nothing will get in the way of that, you hear me?” 

You managed to smile at him genuinely feeling safe just being around him. 

He beamed back, a little bit of mischief flashing over his face. In his other hand he held out the bag of Grimm the demon had tried to offer. Mammon must’ve taken it during the scuffle. “Anything you want today, anything at all, we’re getting it for ya.” 

Levi

A stuttering voice suddenly called your name, Levi stepping out from the shadows with his arm coming up to cover the bottom of his face. His eyes couldn’t stop fluttering between the two of you. “W-what’s going on?” 

“Just catching up with my friend!” The demon beside you proclaimed. They tugged you closer, putting their arm around the back of you. The movement sent goosebumps over your arms. 

“I’m not-” You tried to explain, but the demon gave you a sudden squeeze. Their way of telling you to shut it. You shot Levi a look, pleading to help you out of the situation. 

“Friend?” Levi’s eyes went dark. “You know nothing about them. You don’t get to call them your friend.” His tail unfurled behind him as his demon form came into full view. “That’s something I’ll never understand about normies like you. You think you can just call anyone you meet at random a friend. Do you know the time I’ve taken to get to know them? The effort it takes to feel comfortable with someone?” All the stuttering and nervousness that usually excluded itself in him was fully gone. 

The demon next to you looked a little confused, but their grasp on you was loosening as they considered whether or not messing with you was worth it.

“If you really are their friend, answer this for me,” Levi continued, relying on his trivia knowledge, only, you weren’t used to yourself being the topic at hand. “What is their favorite movie?” 

It was at this moment, the demon knew they were in far too deep. They had just planned to toy with you, maybe take your soul while they were at it, and now they were being quizzed by one of the Seven Sins, one who was clearly very dangerously close to summoning Lotan. Moisture began to cling to the air around you all. However despite this, the demon decided to give a half-hearted answer, perhaps in a last ditch effort to remain unscathed. 

“You’re wrong,” Levi scoffed. With a dramatic snapping of his fingers, a void opened behind him, water bursting forth from it, inches close from washing you away. Before that could happen, Levi’s tail wrapped around your waist and brought you to him, watching as the demon that had failed was consumed by the torrent. Once the water stopped, the demon was nowhere to be seen, droplets of water dripping off of store roofs and making the sidewalk shimmer. 

All at once, Levi’s temporary confidence dropped, his tail unraveling from you quickly. “I-I’m sorry, I just got so caught up in-in everything. I didn’t mean to grab you, I just...” 

“Thank you for saving me...” You took a moment to breathe and let the stress try to flow away. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.” 

As everything began to sunk in, Levi shouted. “Ahhhh, a quiz? That was the lamest thing I could’ve done! All my other brothers probably would’ve just beat them up and-and been done with it!” He clutched his head in embarrassment. 

“I can’t believe you even remembered something like that,” you assured him. You thought you had only mentioned that fact once. 

“Oh...of course I did,” he blinked. “I...uh...try to remember all the details of yourself you tell me. I guess...I couldn’t help but try to prove myself since I’m not used to...wanting to protect someone like that before...” Then all the sudden, his stance turned into one of determination. “But don’t worry, I’ll do it again! A hundred times if I have to! Because...that’s what it means to care about someone.” 

Satan

A shudder could be felt through the ground beneath you. The air suddenly filled with a thick tension. 

Satan came out of the alley, walking with calm steps, a smile on his face. “MC? Who’s this?” 

Recognizing who he was, the demon with their hand on you froze, but seemed a bit confused at the friendliness they were being greeted with. “Oh, I’m just one of their friends from class. Just thought I’d chat with them a bit.” 

“Oh, I see.” Satan outstretched a hand, holding it out for a casual handshake. “Nice to meet you. I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” He seemed to beam when the demon put their palm against his. They both gave a single shake...but when the other demon went to release their hand, Satan still clung on. The demon tugged their arm...but to no avail. Panic flared in their eyes as Satan’s hold tightened. 

“Say,” Satan started, voice still curiously peaceful. “Do you like riddles? I’ve been rather fond of solving some as of late. Do you want to hear one?” Not allowing the other demon to answer, he continued, the green hue of Satan’s aura flaring up under his feet. “As morning’s free I’m filled with glee, all four limbs attached to me. By nightfall’s end I’m filled with dread. Nothing left besides my head. What am I?” 

The demon trapped by Wrath began to hyperventilate, sweat running down their forehead as fearful tears filled their eyes. They nearly fell to their knees. “I...I...” They stuttered. 

“Correct.” Satan grinned. “I’m glad you’re smart enough to solve that at least.” Then all the sudden he let them go, timing it perfectly with the struggle so the demon fell backwards with their own strength. “You should run off now,” Satan suggested. 

The demon fled with a lightning fast speed, with a strong likelihood of never seeing you face-to-face again. 

The thickness of hostility still clung to the atmosphere. When you looked to Satan, his hands were shaking, struggling to wrestle his intense anger, probably working to keep it together for your behalf. 

“Thank you,” you whispered, swallowing your own anger, trying not to get stuck in that twisted loop of questioning people’s atrocities. Slowly, you stepped closer to him, holding one of his hands in yours. Just the touch seemed to help calm him a bit. 

He took a deep breath, holding his head a bit. “I’m just glad you’re alright. If something else would’ve happened, I might’ve...” 

He could burn the Devildom down for you. 

He straightened his back, gathering his thoughts back together. “Thank you too,” he finally shared. “I don’t feel guilty when I’m angry for you...it feels like my wrath has a purpose...it’s not meaningless...if that makes any sort of sense.” He hardly was ever hesitant about his words, but he struggled with them now, perhaps a bit self-conscious at his sudden vulnerability. “Anyways, I think a calmer activity is what we need. How about we head to the library? And don’t worry, I won’t leave your side again.” 

Asmo

“Oh, well hello there.” Asmo sauntered out of the darkened alley, leaning against the shop wall to look at the demon with their hand on you. There was a flirtatious melody to Asmo’s voice, but his eyes hinted at a deeper feeling. “Who’s your friend here?” 

“I-” You tried to speak but were cut off. 

The demon shrugged their shoulders innocently but kept their claws on your shoulder. “Just getting to know them a bit, no harm in that is there?” 

“Of course not!” Asmo exclaimed, moving away from the wall coming up right to the demon. He suddenly curled a hand around their chin. “In that case, I want to know all about you.” Surprised, the demon took a step back, unsure of what was happening. Asmo moved his hands down to the demon’s shoulders, rubbing them. “Aw, what’s wrong?” He asked, a fake pout to his lips. “I thought you liked this sort of thing; putting hands on strangers.” He got in close, lips close to their ear. “Not so fun when it happens to you, isn’t it?” 

As the demon stuttered, Asmo quickly stomped his heel down onto the demon’s foot. The demon gasped in pain, moving backwards, but before they could escape too far away, there was a brisk slap as Asmo’s palm contacted the side of their cheek. The force of the impact was strong enough to have the demon spin, falling back onto the ground. 

Asmo looked at his fingernails to make sure they were fine before flicking his wrist in a motion to shoo the demon away. “Get your ugly face out of our sights. Oh, but before that...” He pulled out his D.D.D. making sure to snap a picture of the demon in such a pathetic sight. Shamed and bruised, the demon rushed off. Asmo tucked his device away before approaching you promptly. “Are you alright, dear?” 

“N-not really,” you answered honestly. 

That response made Asmo glance down where the demon had fled, eyes filled with malice. But with a sigh, he turned his soft gaze towards you. “Are you good with a hug?” He waited till you nodded before he wrapped his arms around you, swaying you back and forth a little. One of his hands protectively curved around the back of your head. “How dare anyone treat you like that. Not pretty behavior at all!” He pulled back and cupped your face in his hands, making sure you seemed alright with the touch. “With a face as lovely as yours, they should’ve known you were totally out of their league!” Flattery aside, his voice went serious. “If you’re ever in trouble like that, call on me as soon as you can. I don’t want anything bad ever happening to you. Not even a single tear.” He let his hands fall from your touch. He then playfully winked. “It doesn’t matter how far I am, I’ll always make it to you. I can run perfectly in heels you know.” 

“Thank you,” you managed to smile at him, your mood a bit lightened. 

“Oh, don’t thank me for something so simple, dear. Just keep me by your side and in your mind, and know you are loved and protected.” 

Beel

Beel scratched the back of his head as he stuffed his D.D.D back in one of his pockets. He paused at the spot where he remembered leaving you at, looking around for you. As soon as he spotted you, his eyebrows furrowed. He came over casually, head tilted a bit to the side. 

Beel was apparently not the person the demon had expected to see. They were visibly nervous. And for good reason too. However, despite the fact that Beel was considerably larger and stronger, the demon still tried to worm their way out of trouble by lying. “Hey,” they pretended to ask you, resuming the conversation that the two of you never had. “Is this who you were talking abo-” 

“Is this demon giving you trouble?” Beel questioned bluntly, skipping needless assuming and wasteful back and forth. He got to the meat of the matter in a few seconds. 

All you had to do was nod. 

Beel’s eyes narrowed, demon form revealing itself in a flash. Reaching his hand out to the side, Beel yanked out the nearest streetlamp from the ground with a movement so simple he might has well pulled a petal off a flower. He turned with it, his arm reeling back before he realized the demon was completely gone. They had fled the instant the lamp was touched. Beel’s face returned to it’s neutral expression, placing the streetlamp where it should’ve been. Only the light didn’t turn back on...and it was crooked...and there was a suspicious Beel-shaped hand indent in the metal pole. 

“Oh, I broke it.” A little bit of guilt formed on his face. “Lucifer won’t be too happy.” He turned, coming up to you. “You okay?”��

“Uh...” Still a little rattled at the whole thing, you responded honestly. “I’ll be okay in a little bit.” 

Old memories probably came to his mind, ones where he arrived and acted a little too late. “I’m sorry,” he frowned, looking downcast. 

“No, don’t be, it wasn’t your fault at all...Thank you for protecting me. You kept me safe,” you assured him. 

He seemed to brighten at that. “Of course...It’s what I do. You and my brothers, I’ll protect all of you always.” With a gentle gesture, he gave you a little hug, making you feel like you were protected by a warm and comforting shield.  He pulled away after a moment, looking down the street behind you. "Do you want something to eat? That always makes me feel better. I'll carry you there if you want. That way, no one can mess with you again."

Belphie

(This segment contains Mild Spoilers if you haven’t finished the first portion of the game) 

“Say, did you want to go somewhere?” The demon asked, trying to lead you further down the street. Your mind started to race with all the self-defense lessons and spells you had been taught to use in situations like these. 

"No." You stated, taking a step back. "Leave me alone."

"Well..." The demon suddenly didn't look so 'friendly' anymore. "That's pretty rude, don't you think?"

You scowled, eyes flickering to where Belphie was supposed to be. There was no sign of him. “I have someone with me, you should leave now.” 

“Oh?” The demon laughed a little. “Yeah, I saw. Belphegor, right? The one everyone knows hates humans?” The demon squinted, giving you a shove in the opposite direction. “You picked the wrong demon to put your trust in.” Those words settled into your chest with a cold pain. “I bet he’s already run off or found somewhere to take a nap rather than keep an eye on you.” You continued to back up, but the demon just kept following you. You considered trying to run for it. “Just face it,” the demon smirked. “Don’t fight it. After all, there’s no one here to protect you.” 

All the sudden, a chin rested on your shoulder. You flinched, but felt a surge of relief when a familiar yawn rang through the air. How did he get behind you? You hadn’t even noticed him moving around. According to the look on the other demon’s face, apparently they hadn’t noticed him till now either. 

“Can we go home now?” Belphie asked you, acting as if the other demon wasn’t even there in the first place. “I’m tired of being out here.” 

“H-hey!” That whole dramatic speech was suddenly losing it’s merit, the demon floundering a little at the lack of attention. 

“Sure,” you responded, feeling like that was probably a good idea. You suddenly had your fill of public spaces. Being safe at home sounded like a dream. 

Belphie straightened, taking your hand and leading you away, intending not to pay any mind to the demon at all. 

Even more infuriated by being ignored, the demon lunged, attempting to pull you back by the back of your clothing. 

Belphegor turned, an emotionless look on his face as he grabbed the demon’s wrist with a firm hand. “I said we were going home,” he emphasized. 

Eye twitching, plans ruined, the other demon growled. “You were supposed to not care!” 

“...” There was a long pause, and for a moment, you wondered if Belphie had even heard the demon’s words. Then Sloth’s eyes narrowed. “If there’s one thing I hate more than anything, it’s when people try to assume things for me. What I like or don’t like, what’s best for me, what I’m feeling, nobody gets to decide that. And nobody gets to attempt to hurt this human and get away with it.” With a flick of his arm, he threw them back, sending them rolling across the ground. Belphie took up your hand again and continued on his way back towards the House without even looking back. 

You remained silent. 

Typically, Belphie would enjoy the silence with you, but he seemed uncomfortable and finally spoke up. “I know.” When you looked at him questioningly, he elaborated. “I know I’m a hypocrite.” His jaw tightened, his words soft. “I know nothing I say or do will ever make up for it...You can hate me, you can curse me, you can never want to see me again and that’s okay...but that won’t stop me from making sure you’re safe.” His bangs hid his eyes, and his hold on your hand loosened should you want to tug yourself free. “You’ve suffered enough. The very least I can do is make sure it wont happen again. That’s my pact. My promise.” 

[untoldsoup]

This is a sequel!! Please read "Change" first!

Cover art

Chapters One and Two: you are here.

Chapter Three: here

------

This took a long time to make and I put my heart and soul into it so let me know what you think!! I'm hoping to have chapter three out by March but its a really big chapter so it will take some time :)

Anyways, this is the start of the comic! I jump right into things so hopefully it isn't to confusing. Also this is pretty much the last time you see Bowser's human form, it's mostly koopa from here on out. This comic will be pretty long so its going to take a long time to finish but I hope everyone will enjoy it! I will have content warnings for the next chapter as things start to get crazy moving forward.

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I was being chased by Michael Myers and eventually got him to stop by telling him if he didn't, I'd turn him into Scythian Leather. Don't Google that.

[heyheydidjaknow]

I haven’t played this stupid game in 6 months. This is a sequel to Prospects, this time featuring Bailey.

Agreement

The envelope shook in your hand. “This should suffice.”

Bailey took it from you, not bothering to meet your eyes as she slit the top and took the slip inside. Whitney, dressed for the ride ahead— or fight; whatever came first— in his sweats and t-shirt, stood with his back to the door. Despite your assurance, he had insisted on sitting in on this final transaction as if the mountain of cash you had worked yourself ragged to obtain would not be enough to settle the score, as if your being there were not dependent solely on your value as a worker, as if Bailey— who now looked up at you over the check between her fingers and her half-rimmed glasses— would care beyond that if you were gone.

The ground swayed beneath your feet.

Bailey leaned back in her chair, gesturing to Whitney with the check. “This was your idea?”

You could not bring yourself to look back at him, but you could imagine his expression. It was the same as when you had when you had met Briar and Avery a few days before; cool, unflinching, as though you were an item at a pawn shop he was trying to get a good price on. You supposed you were, in a sense. “Yes.”

Bailey nodded slowly, taking in your figure, your stance. You squirmed under her gaze. “And the child’s yours, I take it?”

“Yes.”

She considered as much. “You know,” she mused, “your… what would the word be? Fucktoy?”

He scoffed. “For our purposes, property.”

“Oh, hardly.” She leaned her elbows on the desk, fingers lacing together under her chin. “Not officially at least, not until our terms are settled.”

“What terms are there to settle?” You picked at your cuticles, heart pounding in your throat. “Is that not how much—“

“That’s how much my best earner was worth before.” Her smile was sweet like cough syrup, sharp like whiskey. “I’m a businesswoman you understand; it would hardly make much sense for me to part with my greatest revenue stream for its raw material costs.”

You looked back at Whitney. He kept his eyes trained on the woman in front of you. “And how much would it take for you to part ways with your charge?”

She sighed in mock contemplation. “Oh, I don’t know.” She sucked her teeth. “Another fifty percent ought to do it.”

The words echoed in your ears. You swallowed back panic as you went back to staring at the floor.

“Fifty?” His sneer was audible. “The fuck you take me for?”

“Someone desperate.” She gestured to you. “Someone willing to take when they can get and leave.”

“A bitch, you mean.”

“So long as we’re being frank.”

“You—“

“Do you know how much that child is worth?” You shut your eyes as you felt her own take you in. “Do you know what sort of market you could appeal to with a matching set?”

You heard a rustling of cloth behind you. Whitney’s voice was as cheerful and bright as you had ever heard it. “So long as we’re considering the lives of people that matter,” he smiled, “I’m curious; how much is your life worth?”

There was a pause, a laugh from Bailey. “That bitch,” she sighed. “First that file—“

“This actually isn’t Laundry’s, surprisingly enough.” You heard the clinking of metal parts as he gestured to you. “Friend of a friend who lives in the country; I promised him the deed to this shithole if your position found itself empty.”

Despite yourself, you turned to face him. He held the pistol in his hand with the confidence of a man unfazed by its weight. In the back of your mind, you wondered if he would be tried if he went through with it, whether the cops would come or care or whether they would write it off as the result of one of Bailey’s “ungrateful brats”. You could not for the life of you decide which would be preferable.

“So,” he continued, finger twitching, eyes shining, “I think it best if we tried renegotiating terms.” He gestured to you. “Either you take the money and I take your cash cow off your hands—“ He steadied his aim, “— or I redecorate your office with your insides and you get to find out whether the contents of that envelope are worth shit in hell.”

You cast your gaze back towards her. Bailey looked between the two of you, lips pursed. “You’re more desperate than I thought.” She pushed her glasses up her nose and reached into her shirt pocket. “Let me give you some advice, kid.”

You shut your eyes again at the click of the safety. “Hands where I can see ‘em.”

She pulled out a carton of cigarettes, tapping one out and sticking it between her lips. “He isn’t a better person than I am, you know.” She took a lighter off her desk. “He’s not going to take better care of you than I am, isn’t going to wish you off to some fairy tale land where you’ll never know hardship; if anything, he’s going to fuck you over harder than I do.” She lit it, took a drag, smiled, exhaled.

“You fucking—“

“And you.” She pointed the cigarette at him. “Whitney, yeah? You think your life’s going to get better by being a father?” She leaned her head on her free hand. “I’ve been stuck with this job for thirty years now; the only thing that thing—“ she waved the cigarette in your belly’s general direction, “— is good for is an accessory to the walking ATM it’s stuck in.”

You could hear his voice shake; with what, you could not tell. “So help me God if you say one more thing about my fucking kid—“

“Let me say my piece.” She stood up, taking another drag and blowing it in your face. “If I were you,” she sighed, “I’d see if Harper couldn’t make an exception to get that thing out of you while it’s not breathing. Short of that, I’d ship it here.” She leaned forward, resting her hand on the surface of her desk. “But if I ever find your brat at my doorstep,” she promised, voice lowering, “if I ever see you or that thing here again, I’ll make your time here look like a stay at the Ritz-fucking-Carlton.” She stuck the cigarette back between her teeth, tilting your head up to look her in the eye. The resemblance between her and Whitney was apparent; you wondered if that was just what the eyes of monsters looked like. “I will make your child pay for however much you would have made me twofold, and I will sell their body— whole or piecemeal— to any dumb fuck who asks for what I’m sure will be a pretty young thing like them. Do you understand me?”

You could not breathe.

Her grip on your jaw tightened. “Are you deaf?” She brought you closer, and you whimpered at the sensation. “I asked you a question. Do you understand me or don’t you?”

You shut your eyes as her nails dug into your skin. You dug your own into your palm as you forced yourself to nod.

She kept you there a moment— for what, you did not know— before pressing a kiss to your forehead. Your eyes shot open, and you swallowed back tears— of relief, of sadness, of panic— as she released you, collapsing to your knees and gasping for air. “Good.” She took the check, slipping it into her pocket before sitting back down. “Leave before I change my mind.”

You pulled yourself to your feet, practically tripping over yourself to cling to Whitney. He glanced down at you, letting you bury your face into his shoulder as he took one last look at your former guardian. Wordlessly, he pulled the two of you out into the hallway, past the children gathered by the door, past the garden and Robin and the stairs and the threshold and finally, with a smile of untempered relief and satisfaction, across the street, into the truck parked there, and away from that miserable town, and as you watched the buildings you had come to know as parts of your home flew past, as you watched people you recognized from school rush into the forest and students— like you, you registered vaguely, desperate for money, for purpose, for anything— lean against street corners, you wondered if this would be any better, if this was more desirable, if this was emancipation or a different, crueler kind of ownership.

You mumbled a goodbye to the bus stop as it passed. Only then did the tears really start.

[disabled-dragoon]

Anyone involved in or supporting the far-right riots currently going on in this country are not welcome on this blog. I think it's disgusting and I'm not going to argue with you because you're wrong.

On another note, I'm glad to see the people turning up to help clean up and counter the violence. It never should have happened in the first place, the fact it is ongoing is absolutely disgraceful, but it's relieving to see that not everyone in the local area is so willing to be taken in by far-right thugs.

Stay safe everyone <3