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imagine-darksiders · 10 months ago

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Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 23 - Evading Sunrise.

Summary: Who better to know what a human needs than one who used to be human themselves?

[I'm still alive! Woo! Just overwrought! I'm playing in a sold-out show from Jan 16th and rehearsals have been 1900 to 2300 every night, bar the weekend, so my writing time is greatly diminished. I've also recently come into the family business, which isn't what I thought I'd be doing with my life, but hey-ho, I haven't got any other option, so I'm also bogged down with learning that whole setup. These little moments where I can write and read all your kind, encouraging comments are becoming more and more precious to me. xxx]

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There is a kindness that the Universe could easily grant you, were it so inclined. Just a small thing, effortless even, hardly a difficult feat for the Powers that be, if They had so much as a shred of empathy.

The Universe has taken much from you, and were it a little kinder, it would take one last thing.

… It would take your ability to dream.

Death knows all too well that for as long as humans have been unwitting players on the cosmic chess board, they’ve been left to stand utterly alone, un-helped and unacknowledged by an indifferent Creator.

Why should you be the exception?

Why should you be granted a tiny mercy by the very Being who gave you a mind to dream with in the first place?

It just seems an unnecessary cruelty, the Horseman supposes, that your own biology should stand in the way of your respite.

It’s been several, long hours since you rolled over and eloped into the un-waking world, and Death has only moved as far as the door, leaning his weight back against the bone-dry wood with an air of resignation that his journey is to be paused until sunrise, at the very earliest. No matter… There’s little sense facing the Chancellor’s dreaded ‘Champion’ in the dark, after all.

You might have smirked and called him paranoid about the rigid stance he’s taken in front of the room’s only entrance, but the soft yet not-so-silent footfalls that keep approaching the door reaffirm his decision.

He doesn’t know if it’s the Blademaster sniffing about or some other undead who has come to gawk at the living, breathing human in their midst, but there’s something undoubtedly amusing about feeling wood push against his spine for a few seconds before the presence on the other side meets the resistance of a Horseman’s immoveable body weight.

What follows is the distinct sound of those same footsteps hurrying off down the corridor, making every attempt to be stealthy, but failing miserably.

It would be less amusing if any of their attempts were to wake you up. In fact, the only reason Death hasn’t ripped the door open and threatened to skewer the nosy stranger is currently sound asleep just a few feet away from whatever ruckus that would cause.

Or you were sound asleep. At least until a few minutes ago.

Death’s forefingers tap aimlessly against his bicep as he frowns down at your face. You’ve scrunched your features up into a tight grimace, nose wrinkling and the corners of your mouth twisted south towards your chin.

You’re still asleep. Just not soundly.

The pitiable whimpers you’ve been uttering for a while now indicate a troubled mind, though the Horseman can’t say he’s surprised. It’s disappointing, to be sure. He’d have thought you’d be far too exhausted to be plagued by dreams tonight, yet evidently, you’re not that fortunate. Which is a crying shame, because while Death doesn’t believe in luck per-se, he thinks that if such a thing were to exist, you’re more than overdue.

“Hmm, mnn,” you murmur through closed lips, tossing your head to the right.

Above you on the headboard, Dust retrieves his beak from under an ebony wing and cocks a gaze at you, crooning out a soft, inquiring noise from his throat.

“Shhh,” Death breathes, earning a sleepy glare from the crow, though he does at least fall silent, contenting himself to simply watch as you throw a hand out to one side and clench your fist around an invisible force.

“….Mmn, eye…,” you mutter through slightly parted lips.

‘Eye?’ Death’s brow knots under his mask, yet he isn’t left wondering for long.

“… Eideard?” you suddenly croak, “… C’m’back!”

Ah… So that’s where your head is at.

Lowering his eyes to the ratty blanket, Death releases a sigh that’s been building in his chest for a few minutes now.

Your legs have been steadily working to kick the covers off the bed, never settling, as if you’re trying to run from something.

The clack of a beak draws the Horseman’s gaze once again to Dust, who now has a rather expectant look aimed his way.

Death can’t help but be reminded of that night in Tri Stone, when he’d remained stolidly outside on the bench whilst you stifled your sobs in the Makers’ Forge.

He recalls that Dust had been rather scathing about his inaction. The Horseman hadn’t cared for the bird’s judgement then, and he’s even less appreciative now.

What is he supposed to do? Wake you? At least if you’re dreaming, you’re getting some rest.

Sleep, he’s learned, is something that’s essential to a human’s sustained survival.

Not for the first time, he considers the benefits of having an empty chest, hardened and calcified through centuries of existing in an indifferent universe.

It means he has nothing to steel when you suddenly fling yourself over onto your side with your mouth hanging open, releasing a short, hitching sob that catches in your throat, and an arm that stretches out towards something unseen by the Horseman, your fingers spreading rigidly until they quake with the strain.

… The gentling of Death’s expression goes unnoticed, even by him.

He’s nearly shocked when his boot slides forwards ever so slightly, scraping across the floorboards as if to carry him away from the door and towards you.

Pausing, he cocks a brow down at his own leg, half expecting it to explain itself.

What he doesn’t expect – but perhaps should have – is the loud and jarring gasp that suddenly floods into the little human on the bed with the frantic desperation of one who’s been underwater for far too long, and you’ve only just managed to reach the surface to take a breath before your lungs collapse.

Death’s eyes flick towards you just in time to witness your silhouette lurching up off the mattress, a garbled shout tumbling from your lips as you clutch feverishly at your chest.

“Karn!?” you blurt out, whipping your head back and forth to search through the darkness of Draven’s quarters for a maker who isn’t there.

It would be easy for Death to remain still and silent, to wait until whatever grasp your nightmare still has on you to finally slip loose on its own… He needn’t step in.

It would be easy…

“…Hhh…” Grousing silently to himself, the Horseman pushes away from the door and takes a decisive step towards you before he can begin to overthink his actions.

“Y/n,” he mutters, not loud enough to be startling, but just loud enough to catch your attention.

Even still, you flinch, whirling your torso in his direction and letting your hazy eyes land on the pale, ghostly mask looming above you in the dark.

For several seconds, you merely stare up at Death, the hand on your chest crumpling your shirt as you gather the flimsy fabric into a tight fist.

Death doesn’t elect to break the silence again. After another moment or two of watching you gulp down another lungful of stale air, his patience pays off, and you swallow thickly, croaking, “Death?”

The Horseman’s chin dips down. “Yes.”

“Is… Karn here?” Your voice sounds so fragile, poisoned by a grain of hope.

Going very still, Death allows a beat to pass, giving himself time to think of an answer.

Perhaps… you think you’re still in a dream.

Quietly, he offers a concise response, one that hopefully doesn’t cause you any more distress whilst bringing you further out of the idea that this isn’t real. “Karn…” he begins, “…remained in the Forge Lands.”

He watches you physically deflate. Not from relief though. Relief doesn’t douse the sleepy kindling of hope that had momentarily lit the contours of your face.

Solemn, a little more awake, you slowly ask, “Is… Eideard…. Is he…?”

“… Gone,” is Death’s only reply.

A breath shudders out of you as you let your gaze drift down to your fingers, twining over themselves in twists and knots. “Oh…” you breathe, “I… thought I…” But your sentence trails off before you can finish it.

So, Death says it for you. “You thought you saw him,” he ventures, “In a dream.”

And with that, whatever strings have been holding you taut are promptly cut, sending you flopping back onto Draven’s mattress with a sorrowful ‘whump,’ still very much awake and positively quaking hard enough to cause the wooden bed frame to shudder in tandem.

That’s the thing about dreams, Death supposes, after a point, they’re the perfect nesting ground for ghosts.

His brother, Strife, would confide in him, many eons ago, that he could still see the faces of their fallen brethren behind his eyelids whenever he tried to rest. Death had only told him that it would pass, if given the time to. He hadn’t the gall to tell Strife that he too could see those same, hateful eyes and blood-filled mouths just as clearly.

Eideard isn’t the only person you’ve lost. He’s said it before, but it bears repeating; you’ve also lost your family, your friends and every other human on Earth.

Your dreams, much like Death’s, are full of ghosts.

Drawing your hands up towards your face, you press the heel of each palm to your eyelids and grind down hard until a kaleidoscope of colour sparks to life across your vision, not unlike fireworks blooming across a cold, November sky.

Shakily, you blow out a dry, unsteady whoosh of air and groan, “Fuck…”

Death purses his lips, privately concurring with your brief assessment of the situation.

Then, in a motion that’s steeped in tiredness, you drag your focus back over to the Horseman, rolling your head to the side and adding, “You’re still here…”

“Yes, I’m still here,” he utters, quiet as a breath, only to balk at the dulcet quality in his tone. Clearing his throat to rid it of the uninvited tenderness, he promptly tacks on, “I told you; someone has to keep an eye on Dust.”

Damp-cheeked, you crane your neck back to send an upside-down glance at the crow roosting on the headboard above you.

A single, glossy eyeball stares back.

You’re fairly confident that Dust hasn’t done a damn thing to warrant any of Death’s baseless assumptions.

With your gaze still locked on the bird, you sigh, “You two can go, if you want to…”

At that, the Horseman knows he’s going to refuse before he even gives you a verbal response.

This isn’t the first time you’ve offered him an ‘out,’ a convenient excuse for him to duck from the room and escape the burden of bearing witness to your downward spiral.

You’re asking, in as quiet a hint as you can manage, for the privacy to cry without an audience.

… If it weren’t for the mysterious footsteps padding about outside…

“It would be in your best interest for me to stay,” he offers, earning a weary sigh from your side of the room, as if you’ve by now figured it would never be that easy to get rid of him.

Already, his keen eyes have picked out the slightest gleam of tears gathering behind your lashes. The next breath you try to draw in sticks to the back of your throat, yet before your face can crumple completely, you roll yourself over onto your opposite side, facing the wall – deliberately angling your body away from the Horseman, who watches on in silence as you hike your shoulders up towards your ears.

Drawing his brows together underneath the mask, Death glides silently closer to your bed and peers down at the human-shaped lump quivering under the covers.

All is quiet for a time, until at last…

“… I’m sorry.” Your words seep out of you in a thick, watery whisper. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

‘You didn’t sign up for me,’ goes unspoken, but somehow the idea still hangs between you both like cold, falling snow.

It seems an odd thing to say, Death muses, considering that in a sense, he did sign up for this. Hell, he all but stamped his signature on that contract when he carried you through the portal to the Crowfather’s realm.

“Well… Neither did you…” he returns truthfully as he turns around and sinks onto the mattress at the foot of the bed, draping each forearm over a knee. The old wood doesn’t even creak as he settles down, nor does the straw bend beneath his illogical weight, much like the desert sand hadn’t swallowed him up to his calves as it had yours.

He hears the blanket rustle behind him as you twist your neck around to spare him a glance over your shoulder. If you’re at all shocked to find him suddenly sitting so close to you, you’re either too tired or too polite to say a word about it.

So, you turn back to the wall without comment, and although you attempt to bring a hand up to press a sweat-slicked palm across your mouth, such a meagre covering of skin isn’t enough to contain the grief that starts to pour out of you.

But just as you’d offered Death the unquestioned freedom to seek vicinity to you, the Horseman doesn’t try to interrupt or diminish this sombre moment with talk or awkward attempts at comfort.

It stirs a memory in him, of a much younger Nephilim, trudging through a silent, windswept battlefield alongside the only other three who had escaped the Battle for Eden. Not a word was said between them as they left the dead behind, but Death had offered them proximity as well. They said nothing of it, they hadn’t even accused him of hovering. There was an unspoken understanding, in that instant, one that passed silently between all four of them; Death would be there if they needed him.

With a slow blink, the memory fades, and he’s left frowning gently at the dull, rotten wood of the wall adjacent to your bed.

You’re an intelligent human… He wonders if you’ll be able to infer what he’s doing by sitting at the edge of your bed. Death may be many things, but he is not cheerful by nature, and cannot thusly cause cheer in others. He can only sit. And wait. Listening, watching, offering freedom from interference, both from himself and others who would seek to disturb you now when you need to grieve.

Dust, predictably, affords your need for privacy about as much consideration as could be expected from a bird. That is, none whatsoever.

A sleepy caw is all the warning both you and Death receive before the crow hops down off the headboard and lands on your pillow with a soft rustle of feathers.

Of course, you flinch, but Dust – undeterred – simply invites himself into the space between you and the wall, strutting surefootedly over the rumpled blankets until he reaches your chest.

Exasperated, Death opens his mouth and is about to openly scold the crow when Dust turns himself about until the tip of his sharp, grey beak is pointed down at your sombre face.

If you’re at all worried about having it so close to your eyeballs, you don’t show it, though Death knows the corvid well enough to recognise that Dust would never hurt his new human friend who coddles and praises him like it’s going out of fashion.

Birds…

“H-hey,” you warble miserably, swiping at your eyes with the back of a wrist and trying to pluck up the willpower to give a tear-blurred Dust your most convincing smile, “Hey, boy. Sorry, did I wake you up?”

In response, the crow cocks his head at you, and follows up with a gentle croon that raises the small, downy feathers on his throat. Then, without bothering to give any sort of warning as to his intentions, Dust gives his beak a single clack and stretches out his neck, gathering up a few strands of hair around your forehead and dragging them through his beak as if to smooth them into place.

Death almost slaps a palm to his mask.

You can’t help yourself. A wet giggle blurts out of you, momentarily disrupting Dust’s ministrations. He croaks down at you flatly before returning to his task of taking your hair and grooming it with a gentle beak.

“Dust!” you blubber out another laugh, reaching up to try and dissuade the crow by pushing your hand into his feathered breast. For your trouble, he pulls away and administers a soft nip to your knuckle, barely strong enough for you to feel it.

Offering him a watery smile, you prop yourself up onto an elbow, and in one, smooth motion, you raise your free arm and scoop the bird against your chest, burying your nose into the ebony plumage right between his wings. He’s large, far larger than any crow you’ve ever seen on Earth, so it’s more akin to hugging a small dog than any kind of corvid….

Wow… You miss dogs…

As if he can sense your sudden spike of anguish for a species who was likely wiped out alongside your own, the crow nuzzles his head under your chin, tailfeathers flicking back and forth several times as he contents himself with his new position.

Death’s brows shoot up his forehead at the display, wondering how he could have missed the moment you and his crow forged this bond without him even noticing. Was it during the brief few hours when Absalom pulled him into the Tree of Life?

Or perhaps it was always there, and he just hasn’t been paying attention.

“Of all the crows I could have been saddled with,” he gripes under his breath, aiming a half-hearted scowl at the little he can see of Dust’s beak poking out over your shoulder, “It would be the one without a single ounce of pride.”

“Oh, leave him alone,” you sniff, your voice muffled by sleek, black feathers, “He’s trying to cheer me up.”

The Horseman grumbles something to himself, then raises his voice to huff, “He has to be good for something, I suppose.”

When you don’t reply beyond giving a click of your tongue, Death hesitates, his eyes roaming in every direction except for your face as he clears his throat and asks, “Is it… ah, working?”

There’s a speculative pause, interspersed with the odd sniffle as you take a moment to calm yourself down and recover from the embarrassment of once again crying in front of the sepulchral Death.

At last, you take in a deep, weary breath and pull your nose from Dust’s back, gazing warmly down at the crow. “Yeah,” you decide with a small nod as he pulls his beak from under your chin and peers back at you, “Yeah, it’s working.”

If only a little, but sometimes a little is just enough.

Dust’s head swings around to peer at Death over your shoulder, smugger than a bird has any business being.

The heartache of waking up to a world without Eideard in it is just as fresh as the heartache you feel when you open your eyes and remember your world is gone. That sort of grief, unquantifiable, is hard to shift by the efforts of one, friendly crow, no matter how noble his intentions.

But for Dust’s sake, you try to shoulder the sorrow a touch more easily, even going so far as to sit up properly, still holding the bird to your chest and giving him a gentle squeeze. It’s a word of thanks, silent but poignant. Slowly, you place the crow down on the mattress beside you.

This time it’s your turn to clear your throat. Scrubbing tiredly at your eyes, you untuck your legs from the scratchy blanket and roll them over the side of the bed, pulling yourself forwards until you’re sitting beside Death, hands clasped daintily in your lap.

Amber eyes flick sideways and find in the gloom that your cheeks are still damp and blotchy from shedding so many tears.

Behind you, Dust flutters back up onto the headboard, head held high and proud, pleased with himself for a job well-done, and feeling he’s absolutely deserved another nap.

You breathe a sigh, holding it in your lungs and then blowing it all out again, glad to hear that it’s devoid of further tremors. “So… I don’t suppose we can pretend you didn’t hear any of that?”

Death half turns his torso towards you and replies, “Any of what?”

Without thought, you smile appreciatively and lean across the bed, giving the Horseman’s thigh a companionable pat. “Good man.”

It seems as soon as you touch him, you’re pulling away again, the moment passing too quickly for you to feel the way his leg jumps underneath your palm.

Death’s eyes are wide beneath his mask and affixed to the spot on his thigh you’d just touched without ceremony, without a single remark, like it was an entirely normal thing to do.

Certainly, you’ve touched Death before, and he’s touched you out of necessity, mostly. But here, in this dingy room belonging to an undead, the Nephilim takes particular note of the casual gesture, and he’s once again reminded of who and what he is, and what an outlier you are to touch the Reaper without fear.

Is that all it takes? Pretending he hadn’t heard you pour your grief out onto a stranger’s pillow makes him a good man?

Is that… how you see him…?

No. It was just another throwaway comment, meant to lighten the solemn mood that had taken hold of the room.

For a distracted moment, Death wonders if he can really feel the warmth of your skin through the leather of his trousers, or if it’s just a figment of his imagination. Whatever it is, it robs him of any witty remarks that might slip out to disrupt this tender moment.

A good man…

“You should try going back to sleep,” he offers absently, tearing his eyes off his leg to look down at you. The imagined warmth in his thigh has travelled to his chest, which is odd, given that you didn’t lay your hand anywhere near it.

Heaving a sigh, you ask, “How long do you think until sunrise?”

“Mm, at least another several Earth hours,” he says, “Plenty of time still to rest.”

Your fingers clench into fists around the blanket beneath you. “Plenty of time to dream…”

The old Nephilim’s mask turns to face you properly, eyes of liquid gold and sunset orange illuminating the darkness of his sockets. “Dreams cannot hurt you,” he says with conviction, partly because he knows they can’t, and partly because nothing, not even a nightmare could hurt you with a Horseman keeping watch.

“But they can make you sad…” you point out.

Hesitating, he has to take a second to remember that sadness can be potent enough to hurt a human. “I suppose they can,” he concedes reluctantly.

“That hurts, sometimes,” you whisper, drawing your knees up onto the bed and folding your arms around them, clinging tightly, eyes downcast to the floor, “Waking up and realising the people in them aren’t here anymore.”

Shifting his weight to prop a hand on one knee, he leans forwards so that he can meet your faraway gaze. “That pain will fade, given time,” he offers, echoing a conversation eons past.

After a second, your eyes slide sideways and align with his, and he can’t deny the glimmer of triumph that raises his chin at the sight of your gentle smile.

“I hope you’re right, Death,” you reply, “I really do.”

“You’ll find I’m not often wrong twice in as many days.” He’s referring to his… miscalculation with the heart stones and the Guardian, of course.

Did that really only happen yesterday?

“Cocky,” you snort, swiping a finger under the still damp corner of your eye, “Nice to know great, big Horsemen can make mistakes too though.”

“Is it?” he scoffs. He’d have thought it’d be daunting that the Nephilim whose charge you find yourself under isn’t actually as infallible as he’d like to claim.

“Yeah,” you hum, giving him a thoughtful look, “I guess to err isn’t just human, after all.”

Death waits, bracing himself to balk, to feel a spike of offence run through his veins at being told he shares a – rather undesirable – quality with humans. He waits, and feels-

… Nothing. No contempt. No disdain or disappointment. Maybe just a touch of surprise.

“I’m gonna miss them,” you murmur, derailing the Horseman’s train of thought.

“The makers?”

“Everyone,” you stress, “The makers, Blackroot, Warden…”

Coughing lightly into a fist, Death has to peel his eyes away to avoid looking at you when he says, “I’m sure they’ll be…. of a similar mindset.” Honesty, vulnerability, words that have real significance don’t come so easily to the Horseman. If they did, he’d tell you that those makers are going to miss you more than you could possibly know.

Chewing on your lip, you idly kick an ankle against the side of the bed and ask, “Do you think I’ll ever see them again?”

In response, Death huffs out a short, soft laugh, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. “Do I think you’ll see them again?” he echoes, “Y/n, I’m almost certain of it.”

“… Wait. Seriously?”

“Don’t I seem serious?” he blinks languidly.

“Yeah, it’s just… that sounded like optimism. And coming from you, that’s… I mean…” Squinting through the dark at him, you fold your hands in your lap and ask, “Are you feeling all right?”

The Horseman’s lips quirk up, though his voice retains a gruff and unimpressed melody as his shoulders jump with a brusque harrumph. “You must be feeling better if you’re already poking fun,” he grouses, assessing the miniscule glow of humour tucked around the corners of your mouth.

“I am, actually,” you shrug, flicking a glance over his mask and tipping your head with a knowing smile, “Maybe Dust isn’t the only one who’s good at cheering me-“

Three, gentle knocks on a nearby surface of wood break through your sentence like hammer blows ringing off an anvil.

From one blink to the next, the Horseman is inexplicably on his feet, flinging a strong, sinewy arm out in front of you, all at once alert and suspicious, whilst behind him, you scramble off the bed with far less grace, fighting to find stability for a moment before you square your feet and send a wary glance over his appendage at the room’s entrance.

“Hello?” you call, swiping furiously at your cheeks to rid them of what little trace of tears might still cling to your skin.

Death doesn’t turn to face you, but you’d be hard-pressed to miss the disgruntled sigh that slips out from under his mask at your tactical blunder.

You’ve all but announced that you – a human, need you be reminded – are in here.

A voice from outside calls out, muffled behind the thick layer of wood. “… Lady - Ah, I mean, Y/n?”

The tension doesn’t seem to drain out of Death nearly as fast as it drains out of you.

Draven.

Before the Horseman can stop you, you’ve already ducked underneath his arm, reaching up to distractedly smooth down your bedhead as you call out, “Oh, Draven, uh, coming!”

You hear your name uttered in a growl behind you, but you wave off the ornery Nephilim with a flap of your hand, twisting about to face him as you make for the door, hissing, “It’s his room, Death. If he wants to come in here, he has every right to.”

Realising your hand is reaching to pull the door open, Death surges forward, intent on getting to it before you – ‘just in case,’ a voice at the back of his head whispers – but he doesn’t make it halfway to you when you grab the brass handle and tug the rotting wood towards you, letting dull, green light spill into the quarters and creep up the opposite wall.

A familiar silhouette looms in the doorway, framing the space with broad shoulders and a tattered shroud that’s been pulled low to half cover a skeletal, ghoulish face. From your angle, standing at least a foot and a half shorter than the figure, you can see up underneath his hood.

You regret your haste to open the door, simply because you aren’t at all ready to witness the grim and ghastly visage of the Blademaster this early in the morning, but you stamp down on the temptation to reel back, and instead school your expression into a friendly smile. “Hi, uh, again.”

Draven’s luminous, blue eyes flare brightly as soon as they land on your face. There’s something held between each of his hands, though you hardly spare them a glance because, ever the gentleman, he’s already halfway into a low, sweeping bow when he suddenly stops short, bent so that he’s staring you directly in the eye.

It’s decidedly unnerving to have so much scrutiny on you, especially when the undead’s jaw suddenly locks up tight and his browbone snaps together as if you’ve offended him somehow without even saying a word.

“Uh-“ you start to say, only to find yourself interrupted when Draven rises to his full height again, unfolding at the waist and aiming a frigid glare over the top of your head. Coincidentally, an icy presence appears at your spine, pressing in close enough that you notice the hairs on the back of your neck start to prickle.

A growl rolls out through the gaps in the undead’s hollow cheeks. “Y/n,” he addresses you, his voice hard as stone, “Has this devil done you a discourtesy?”

“W…What?” you blurt.

Ferocity bleeds from his lipless mouth as he glares at the Horseman who drapes you in shadow, pale blue eyes aiming to douse the liquid fire hanging ominously in the darkness behind you.

“Her eyes are scarlet with salt,” he accuses.

Raising a hand to your face, you prod tenderly at the raw skin beneath your eyes and realise with a sinking sense of shame that you must still look like even more of a mess than you did when the Blademaster first saw you. “Oh, no. No, Draven, it’s fine,” you sigh, dragging a hand down your face, “Just… Look, it’s just been a rough night.”

The undead’s glower lifts the moment he rips his eyes off Death and returns it to you, his forehead puckering with concern. “But, you’re-“

“- I’m all right,” you reiterate, crooking one corner of your lips into a tight smile that all but pleads for him to drop the matter. You’re mortified enough.

The look on your face must be adequately pitiable, for Draven’s stance relaxes by a fraction, and as his arms slump from their guarded poise, you hear something clunk woodenly by his waist, rousing your curiosity and tempting you to lower your gaze to his hands.

If you thought you weren’t ready to see the Blademaster at your door, you’re doubly unprepared to see what he’s carrying.

Clearing your throat, you bob your chin at his hands and ask, “What’ve you got there?”

“Hmm?” Begrudgingly peeling away from the Horseman, Draven follows your line of sight, blinking down at a little wooden bowl and cup he’s clutching in each hand. Suddenly very sheepish, the undead ducks further into his green hood, “Forgive me, I was going to leave these by the door, but… then I heard voices.”

“And what were you doing skulking about so close to the door that you could hear us talk?” Death asks, hardly bothering to hide his accusatory tone.

You turn to give him a quick, pointed glare over your shoulder, one that he ignores.

“Just as I said, Horseman,” Draven retorts, “I thought the lady might be hungry, so…” He offers out the cup and bowl for you to see, giving you an apologetic look. “I’d have left it outside for you to find when you emerged, I… didn’t want to disturb you while you slept.”

Before you can reply, a voice at your back pipes up.

“You were going to leave it outside?” Death scoffs, “Where anyone could have tampered with it?”

Ignoring the Horseman, you peer down into the proffered crockery, your stomach gurgling eagerly as a waft of steam drifts from the bowl and rises into your nostrils. Never before would you have thought you’d be so excited about something so beige.

A simple, brown stew is balanced on one of Draven’s large palms, lumps of what you presume is meat bob about near the surface, and a single slice of fluffy, white bread floats at the centre, drawing a rather embarrassing flood of saliva to the front of your mouth. In his other hand, the small wooden cup is clasped like a chalice of ambrosia, though the only thing that wets its interior is crisp, clear water.

In your eyes, he may as well be holding out a gourmet dish that only the wealthiest of men would deign to touch.

“Draven,” you breathe in awe, reluctantly dragging your gaze off the food and peering up into the undead’s hollow face, “What’s all this for?”

Puzzled, he tilts his head at you, as thought the answer should be entirely obvious.

“It’s… for you,” he says, pressing the bowl and cup closer to your wringing hands, “I assumed you’d want to eat when you awoke. It’s not much, just some pottage I scrounged up.”

You begin to reach out, unfurling your fingers to take the unexpected gift when all of a sudden, chilly fingers wrap around your wrist, and before you can utter a sound, Death tugs you tidily back into the room, taking your place in the doorway, and peering down at the undead. “Where did you get it?” he asks, ignoring the disgruntled huff you aim at the back of his head, “Is this safe for human consumption?”

Draven’s lipless mouth pulls into a sneer. “Do you think me a fool?” he accuses.

“I think you an undead who we’ve only just met,” the Horseman replies coolly.

The Blademaster leans back on a heel, appraising Death with an expression that borders on impressed. “A fair point,” he concedes. Seconds later, Draven yields a nod. “It’s safe, Death. Believe it or not, the King entertains more than just the dead in his court, some of whom still rely on sustenance to get them through the day. Supplies are not as scarce as they would seem at first glance, and I may be far-removed from humanity, but I still remember my way around a cooking pot.”

Then, wordlessly, he holds the bowl and cup out towards the Horseman, tipping his head to one side with an expectant gleam in his fearsome, blue eyes.

Death’s attention flits between Draven and his handful several times, squinting dubiously at the dull, brown slop. For a few uncomfortable seconds, the Horseman subjects your potential meal to a good, long glare, and then at last, to your relief, you watch him raise his hands and grasp the edge of the bowl between his thumb and forefinger, doing the same with the cup.

He doesn’t take them immediately, too busy giving the undead a threatening growl. “If she eats this and something happens-“

“-I’ll be meeting the business end of your scythe?” Draven guesses, quirking a brow bone as he relinquishes the crockery and drops his arms to his sides again.

Death’s eyes narrow to thin lines of fire, prompting the undead to let out a chuckle and raise his hands up in mock defeat. “I understand, Horseman, I understand. I’d be overprotective as well if I had a lady like her under my care.”

Half hidden behind the Nephilim, you suck a breath in through your teeth as your grim companion bristles like a cornered cat, almost doubling in size with the amount of indignation that swells his shoulders. You’ve only known him a week or so, but in that time, you’ve already learned that being accused of caring is pretty low on the list of Things Death likes to Hear.

And sure enough…

“I am not overprotective,” the Horseman seethes, but with such an air of petulance that whatever threat his tone might have been trying to imply is completely undermined. Not to mention there’s something curiously un-threatening about the sight of him clutching a bowl of stew that - not thirty seconds ago - he was giving the stink-eye.

Even Draven doesn’t seem all that worried as he casts a knowing look at you around Death’s shoulder, his ghoulish features scrunching into a wink.

“No?” he asks, cocking his head to one side and sliding his gaze back to the wall of Nephilim standing before him, “Well, in that case, when the sun rises, I’m sure you won’t mind if I treat the lady to that tour I offered her.”

He’s chancing his arm, and he damn well knows it. And because he knows it, he’s already watching for the precise moment when Death recognises that he’s just stepped right into a verbal trap.

Unseen by the human in their midst, Death’s narrow eyes are now almost indiscernible within the congealing darkness of his sockets, and it’s only thanks to their preternatural, fiery glow that Draven can tell they’re open at all. They float inside the pitch-black pits that have been carved out of an ivory mask, unnatural and eerie, like two strips of flame streaking through the night sky.

If someone were to strike a match in the air between he and Death, Draven is almost certain the spark would set off an explosion that could blow the Eternal Throne clear through the stratosphere.

Two options lay out before the ancient Nephilim: Allow yo u to go with Draven in the morning, proving the smug undead wrong in his judgement of Death’s character. Or refuse the offer on your behalf and prove him right.

Begrudgingly, Death concedes that the undead’s tactics have successfully tripped him up. Rare as it is, it’s somewhat refreshing to be kept on his toes. Not that he’s in any way pleased to be cornered like this… Not least because he has a reputation he’d like to keep intact.

“She’ll consider it,” he says shortly.

There. It’s neither a yes or a no, and vague enough that Draven’s expectant gaze darkens with disappointment. Death is tempted to smirk triumphantly. Just because he stepped into the trap doesn’t mean he won’t know how to get out of it. He’s almost offended that the undead thought it would be so easy.

But the acquiescing look on Draven’s face doesn’t linger for more than a blink before it’s gone.

“I hope she does,” he hums, leaning sideways once more so that he can send you another secretive smile around the Horseman’s bulk, a smile that you find yourself readily reflecting. It feels like there’s a connection there somehow, between you and Draven. Human and ex-human. It’s something that Death isn’t privy to because he isn’t and never was human.

You wonder… Hell, you dare to hope that Draven might just… get you. There’s common ground in your humanity. The soul that sits lonely in your heart reaches out for the tiniest promise of companionship, softening you to the undead in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Right now, as you share amusement at the Grim Reaper’s expense, you find Draven just that bit more bearable to look at. Even the swords and broken blades that jut from his person like morbid adornments don’t seem so gruesome.

“I will consider it,” you promise, prompting Death to heave a disgruntled sigh whilst you breeze over his complaint, “Thank you, Draven. Really. This…” This act of immense kindness, though it might have seemed so mundane if it happened on Earth, has done wonders to warm your heart after feeling your very soul freeze over after your nightmare. But how could you possibly put into words the comfort he’s brought you? Rather than overthink it, you merely give your head a tiny shake of disbelief and let out a soft laugh, “This means… so much to me.”

Laying a hand across his concave chest, the undead dips his torso into a shallow bow and replies, “For you, it was no trouble at all.”

To your own surprise, the chivalrous little display turns you shy, and you start to fiddle with the hem of your shirt absentmindedly, avoiding his searching eyes as you smile down at the floor near Death’s boots.

Clicking his tongue, the Horseman shifts to stand sideways in the entrance, sweeping an unimpressed glance between you and Draven.

You may have averted your gaze, but the undead certainly hasn’t.

From head to toe, you’re all but poured over like a scroll of parchment in an angel’s library. Shameless in his observation, Draven’s cadaverous eyes carve tracks across your face and roam down the length of your body, whilst Death goes mostly ignored.

The Horseman is no fool. Though the very notions of romance and attraction have forever eluded him, he’s old and worldly enough to have at least encountered both in some way, shape or form. Besides, even a dunce would have to be trying exceptionally hard to miss what’s right in front of his nose.

You’ve caught the Blademaster’s eye.

And there’s the rub. Demons, he can put his scythe to, corrupted constructs and bloodthirsty bugs can be slain to keep you out of their gullets. Even Karn and his, at times, glaring attachment to you were innocent enough, as if the youngling was more starved for meaningful friendship than companionship. But an amorous undead? Death doesn’t have any protocol for manoeuvring around that particular minefield.

Once again, if there is such a thing as luck, the Horseman would be cursing his own. Isn’t it just typical that in such a vast and limitless Universe, his path would somehow carry you right to the Blademaster – the only other sod in Creation who shares your origins? Musing on that, Death can’t help but wonder if there truly is some unseen, omniscient hand guiding you along your journey.

Whoever the puppet master is, they’ve got a sick sense of humour.

Draven was Human – famously unpredictable species, a stereotype you continue to substantiate – but more to the point, he’s an unknown, and Death doesn’t especially like dealing with unknowns.

“Well then,” he announces abruptly, causing you to jump and reminding him that he’s allowed the undead to linger for a few moments too long, “If there’s nothing else…”

The skin around Draven’s jaw stretches as he opens it until the holes in his cheeks are thin and long, but before he can utter a word, Death says, “Wonderful,” and with a deft swing of his elbow, he bumps the door closed, giving the bottom of the wood a kick on its way to make sure it slams firmly shut. The room is once more plunged into that grimy, too-green gloom.

“Oh, that’s real nice, Death,” you snap, “The poor guy gives me a meal and lets me sleep in his bed, and you slam his own door shut in his face.”

“… That’s it,” he grumbles, turning to face you and pressing the bowl and cup into your hands, careful not to spill its contents as you splutter out a weak protest and fumble awkwardly with the woodware, “Tomorrow, you’re coming with me to the Champion’s arena. Not-!” he quickly snaps when you open your mouth to speak, “- to fight. You’re to watch from the sidelines.”

Looking down at you through the dark, he can tell you’re torn between continuing to berate him and diving into your newly acquired meal. Your eyes flit back and forth between him, the bowl, and the door, through which you can already hear the fading footfalls of your gracious host.

You’ve bulled yourself up at Draven’s expense, lips twisting into an unhappy frown, but it isn’t to last. Not with how desperate you are to fill your belly with something warm and cooked. Venting out a huff, you begrudgingly expel all the hot air from your lungs and lower yourself down onto the edge of the bed, lifting the stew to your lips to blow at the steam that drifts from it. “How do you know I’m not considering Draven’s tour?” you challenge.

It’s a good thing you’re pointedly ignoring the Horseman in favour of tipping back the bowl, because the look he shoots you is venomous enough that it would have stung had you caught it head-on.

“Just... Just eat the damn stew,” is all he bites out.

Well… You’re only too happy to oblige to that request.

You try not to wolf down the whole thing in one go, but as soon as the thin, watery gravy touches your lips and washes onto your tongue, you’re almost bowled over by the sheer influx of taste. At this point, after surviving on little else but water and the strange jerky Thane gave you, you could have eaten a rice cracker and called it filet mignon. Several bursts of flavour warm the inside of your cheeks and seep over and under your tongue. A piece of meat slides between your teeth as you slurp it up and you bite down on it hard, finding the strip tough and chewy, but oh so mouth-watering.

You spare the briefest of thoughts to its creature of origin, though the moment soon passes when you swallow, letting out a groan that might have been embarrassing if you weren’t so sure you’re justified in making such a sound. Privately, you make a mental note to thank Draven profusely in the morning, though whether that’s before or after you apologise to him for Death’s behaviour, you haven’t yet decided.

“Holy-“ Pausing, you lower the bowl and sweep a finger over the corners of your mouth, delicately removing the gravy gathered there, “-Shit, this is good.”

He almost asks if it tastes strange or off in any way, but with the Blademaster's words still ringing in his ears, Death stuffs them down with the rest of his wounded ego and begins to grumble nonsensically to himself. In fact, he's so busy muttering under his breath and glowering at the door that he doesn’t even pause to throw a withering glare at Dust when the crow hops onto the bed again and struts up to you with the confidence of a bird who knows you’re a pushover.

Only too happy to reinforce that confidence, you deftly scoop a chunk of meat into your palm and offer it out for the bird to peck at.

“Overprotective…” Death scoffs heatedly, “The nerve of that…” His mask abruptly whips around towards you, giving you pause with your cheeks full of stew. “Do you feel I’ve been overprotective?”

Putting aside the fact that you’ve never seen Death get this riled about a jibe before…

Swallowing thickly, you draw out an unconvincing, “No?”

The strange glow of his irises flicker for a second – a twitch of an eyelid? “Well, if I seem that way, it’s only because you’re so damnably adept at getting yourself into trouble,” he complains, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall with a decisive thump, “And frankly, I’d rather avoid having an angry group of makers hunt me to the ends of the Universe if something were to happen to you under my watch.”

It’s not just a lie meant to preserve his pride. Not entirely…

“They wouldn’t do that,” you tut, bemused, tilting the bowl and taking another, long slurp of the stew, manners be damned. You never thought you’d eat a cooked meal again.

His chest rumbles moodily. “They would.”

A wordless peace lingers in the air between you then, disturbed only by the sound of you chewing through toughened meat and the gentle sloshing of stew as your fingers chase the pieces around their bowl. You pretend not to notice the quick, attentive glances being sent your way.

Dust throws his feathered head up towards the ceiling, his beak wide open around the hunk of meat you offered him. In a rather unappetising display, the crow gulps it down with a few bobs of his neck.

“Nice,” you grunt, pulling a face.

You don’t put your bowl down until every last piece of the stew is gone, and even then you have to fight back an urge to lick the interior clean, mindful that present company might find that habit a bit too uncivilised not to comment on. Even with the Earth and its civilisation far behind you, you can’t let go of table-manners. It would be laughable if the reminder of your lonely humanness didn’t carry so many undertones of despair.

Breathing a soft, satisfied sigh, you bend down and drop the bowl on the floor with a clunk, instantly exchanging it for the cup of water before you sit up again to watch Death glower at the doorway as though he hopes it’ll burst into flames.

There’s a rigidity to him that doesn’t suit the late hour and the warmth in your belly.

Casting your mind about for a way to free him from whatever monologue he must have rattling away in that enigmatic head of his, you take a swig of the water, regarding the Horseman ponderously over the rim of the cup.

“So,” you say, smacking your lips as the lukewarm liquid slides down your throat, “What do you think the chances are that Vulgrim’s delivered my message?”

Luminous eyes blink slowly, roving from the door to land on your face.

He visibly hesitates, then asks, “What would help you go back to sleep faster?”

Your deadpan stare is ruined by an unseemly snort and flutter of your lips. “Just humour me, wise guy.”

“Very well…” Death grunts, “Chances are slim.”

“… Don’t know why I bother.”

Despite your tone, you’re secretly pleased when his broad shoulders slacken as he chuckles, unfolding his arms and resting each hand casually on his hips instead. “Given how often you’ve surprised me so far,” he sighs with an air of begrudging acceptance, “I suppose it wouldn’t be so shocking to learn you’ve actually convinced the demon to go through with your favour.”

“I surprise you?” you smile.

“At every turn.”

“Aw~”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“Oh.”

It is. It absolutely is. But he’ll be damned if he lets you know what a luxury surprises are for a being who was confident the Universe had nothing new to throw at him. He’s already far too soft on you as it is. Paying you compliments paves a slippery slope towards irrefutable fondness.

Dust would be insufferable.

“Now then,” he coughs gruffly, more to disrupt his own thoughts than to get your attention, “You should… try and get some more rest. I’ll wake you at sunrise.”

All at once, what little levity had been draped around your shoulders sloughs away. He’s right. You should try and sleep a little longer. Moments like these, moments where you can stop to catch your breath, could well be few and far between in the coming days.

“Death? Will you…?” Your voice catches and you don’t finish your sentence aloud, working your jaw up and down wordlessly as a sudden but subtle wave of shame washes over you like an ebbing tide. ‘Stay’ is on the tip of your tongue. But you realise it’s a silly question to ask, even if a very small, very vulnerable part of you desperately wants to seek reassurance from the dour Horseman sharing this space with you. Death has given no indication that he plans to stray far from your side.

Bottom line? You’re afraid to fall asleep again, much as your overwrought mind craves a few more hours of unconscious bliss, and your arms feel heavy as lead when you lower the cup to the floor, setting it down beside the bowl.

If you sleep, you might dream, after all.

And your dreams are full of ghosts.

Fingers twist searchingly into the blanket you’re sitting on, squeezing and clenching until they ache. It grounds you, at least a bit.

You don’t really notice that Death’s mask is tilted to one side, watching your hands closely until he shifts, easing himself through the gloom until he’s only a step away from the bed. It’s sometimes convenient to forget what he is, when your heart misses home so badly that it wants to find humanity in everything around you, including Death. It’s easy to forget that he’s older than you could probably comprehend, that he’s wise enough to hear a human’s unfinished plea and be able to predict how it ends.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he assures you.

Relief unwinds your hands from the fists you’ve curled them into, like roses blooming from the bud.

Soon, you’ll be awake, and the tragedies of yesterday will be saddled to your back alongside all the rest, but you’ll carry them with you as best you can. You don’t have a choice, after all. You followed Death to the Land of the Dead.

When the sun rises, you’ll rise with it and face the consequences of your choice.

#I live #Darksiders #fluff #soft Death #jealousy #Draven x Reader #attraction #GOD it's late #But it feels good to post this #I'm still here

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cheralith · 1 year ago

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hi i went on a boat today after rewatching atsv for the third time and all i could think abt was hobie and his canal boat instead of enjoying the view of the city 🧍

like just constant thoughts of him mindlessly steering the thing around the hudson river and just finding the contrast between his very decorated, very outlandish boat and the sleek and modern ones rather amusing considering it harbors rather some attention—both good and bad.

also the consistent thought of him showing it off to you like the coolswagmaster69 he is, and you marveling at all its details just fuels his ego. i’d imagine he’d let you add on your own graffiti onto the hull of it or essentially anywhere that it can be seen—just somewhere that shows off your special place in his life.

“you can use the tires as floaties,” he’d say and gesture to the two massive tires just hanging lazily on the side of it. “all i ask o’ ya is that you don’t use ‘em on the hudson, yeah? don’t want your pretty l’il head gettin’ toxic shock and allat junk. pretty sure i saw a dead body floatin’ there the other day.”

it never stays in one place for too long, much like himself. hobie often switches from place to place to give himself good environment changes so he doesn’t grow bored, though his favorite spot is in the bogs of the bronx river because of how soothing it gets at night.

he threatened to throw you overboard one time because you jokingly call it the “hoboat” in the same manner you tease him about being “spider-punk,” both titles making him wrinkle his nose in evident disgust because of their corniness.

what he won’t tell you though is that to others, he’ll secretly reference his abode as the “hoboat” as an homage to you huhu

#spider man: across the spider verse #atsv #hobie brown #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x you #hobie x reader #hobie brown fluff #hobie brown headcanons #hobie brown drabble #miles morales #gwen stacy #pavitr prabhakar #miguel o’hara

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that-house · 4 months ago

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Hey so what are the magical girls like in your setting? Are their powers radiation based? What's their aesthetic?

this gets a little into spoiler territory but it's impossible to adequately describe the full extent of their deal without doing so, so:

magical girls get their power from their godhead shards, pieces of a dead goddess (the first magical girl) that are grafted onto their souls

the main benefit this confers is ontological invincibility: while in combat they automatically and unconsciously eliminate timelines in which their primary goal isn't achieved. the catch is that it can only do one thing at once: like, they can guarantee an attack will hit, guarantee their own safety, or protect bystanders with this power, but not all three at the same time. (i could go into more detail about this but i don't want to get bogged down in the metaphysics involved because there's still more to talk about)

they usually don't need to focus on staying safe, because they're almost entirely immortal. they don't age and can regenerate from damn near anything. for a magical girl, being atomized is at most an annoyance. they do, however, feel pain, which is their primary weakness: when winnowing away timelines with that ontological invincibility, the "path of least resistance" is whatever hurts them the most

the only real threat to a magical girl are other magical girls (given that the magical girls as an organization keep splintering off into opposing groups, that comes up decently often). besides that, a lot of the series is just concerned with how our protagonists cope with the horrors of suffering in humanity's stead (9 times out of 10 the answer is toxic lesbian sex dynamics)

the Generic Magical Girl Powers are strength, speed, durability, regeneration, and flight, but each one also gets their own Soul Weapon which grants a unique power. for example:

Heather's huge fucking ōdachi, Unyielding Dawn, lets her create invulnerable force fields

Lucy ends up with Perfect Serpent, a set of throwing knives that she hates, because the only thing they do is let her turn invisible and she wanted a fucking beam attack

meanwhile Lena, the leader of the Maniac Girls (one of those hostile splinter groups) has a mace called Death Halo that lets her control fire, turn into fire, and teleport between any two flames

VENUS II CAELESTIS: THE EVERFLAME (one of the Venus Bodies, more on them later some time) wields Fusion Chrysalis which summons a "small" and "dim" sun that warps space and gets bigger and brighter the closer you get to it, until it's just a real-ass copy of Earth's sun within 100 feet and then you die

aesthetically speaking, their magical girl outfits and Soul Weapons are made of the bones of that dead goddess projecting themselves into reality. the outfits have all those tropey frills and such that you'd expect but in a bleached monochrome.

the magical girls of Viscera Star are locked into a nightmare war that never ends, and for all their power they're still deeply and horribly human, with all that that entails.

#viscera star

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squad-724 · 5 months ago

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Vampire au? Hello 👀👀

The call was a surprise. Commander Rex just began his one week leave on Coruscant with the rest of 501st, planning on catching up on sleep and food. The last siege took everything out of Torrent, leading to total exhaustion of all the troopers. Frozen bog was now in the top three of Rex’s worst terrains he fought on. It took three water shower rations to get the mud out of every crook of his body, many troopers refusing to even try and get it out of their hair and just shaving it. Unfortunately, the planet's day and night cycle made the latter last over four weeks, making 501st the best battalion to take the mission. Now, finally able to sleep for more that four hours, Rex had to open his puffed up eyes to look who the kark was calling him three in the morning on his first leave day in over three months. “C’mmnd’r Fox” he greeted, not even bothering to open his eyes. He did not care that the leader of Coruscant Guard was looking at his bare chest, three layers of blankets and a black Jedi robe used as a pillow. “Wut can I do for ye?” Fox was never close to him, even if he was from the same batch as his ori’vod Cody. They naver talked after the war started, any information they had of eachother coming from Cody. Being honest, most of Coruscant Guard rarely contacted their brothers, saying they were too busy or just forgot. “I’m sorry about the time of this call, but could I ask you for a private meeting as soon as possible?” There was a weird urgency in the commander's voice. “If Hardcase blew up anything in the city then he can spend the night in your custody, I'm not leaving my bunk tonight” Rex was already reaching out to end the call. “It's about your general!” Fox blurted out, making Rex immediately sober up, opening his eyes and rising up from his bed “He didn't die saving the chancellor!” °°°° It took Rex less than five minutes to run out of the barracks, only throwing a jacket on his sleeping attire, bare feet shoved into the armor boots. Fox sent him a quick ping in lower levels of Coruscant, saying he couldn't share any more information in case their equipment was bugged. None of the passerbys cared about the clone rushing through the streets as if the death itself was chasing him. Anakin was alive! He reached the meeting point in just ten minutes, the clone in red armor already waiting. Fox was acting skittishly, looking over his shoulder, one hand constantly hovering over his blaster. He didn't have time to register Rex's face before he was shoved into the wall, the blonde clone wrapping his hands on the blacks of his neck to raise him in the air slightly. “You better start talking what you know, and it better be true!” He growled. Fox seemed dazed for a second before raising his hands to take his bucket off. He looked awful, dark circles under his eyes, cheeks sticking from hollow cheeks and dried skin. “It is! It is true, I swear! I was ordered not to say anything, and it was eating me alive! I'll will show you everything if you just let me down for a second” Rex searched in the other clone’s eyes any sign of lie, but those were wide open. Scared but determined. “Show me.”

Part two

#ask game #rexwalker #snippet

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deadbydangit · 1 year ago

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Dead by Daylight: Adventures in Texting

I wrote this a while back because I thought it was funny. I hope someone enjoys it.

[The Entity] has started a group: Killers

The Entity: I’ve given you all a phone. We can all keep in contact with each other.

Nightmare: The Hell is this shit?!?

Legion (Frank): looks like a chat room old man

[Legion (Frank)] has changed their name to [Frankie]

Nightmare: Hold up.

[Nightmare] has changed their name to [Freddy]

Freddy: Better.

Trapper: No, we aren’t doing this again.

Nurse: Bloody Hell, again?

Ghostface: Again?

Wraith: We’ve done this before, a long time ago.

Legion (Susie): why did it stop???

[Legion (Susie)] has changed their name to [Sus]

[Ghostface] has changed their name to [BIGDENERGY]

[Trapper]: That answer your question?

Legion (Julie): oh FUCK yeah, this looks fun

[Legion (Julie)] has changed their name to [Jules]

Legion (Joey): wait so, if Danny wasn’t there when the first group chat started, who made it stop them?

[Legion (Joey)] changed their name to [Joey]

Wraith: Herman.

Nurse: He kept trying to experiment on us by sending private messages from other’s phones. He wanted to see us all fight.

Doctor: It worked, didn’t it?

[Doctor] changed their name to [Herman]

Pig: And you wonder why no one likes you

[Pig] has changed their name to [Amanda]

Herman: That’s not what you said last night.

BDENERGY: WHAT?!?!

Amanda: He’s lying.

Freddy: Is Herman a troll?

Frankie: you’re a troll lol

Cannibal: don’t want this…

Trapper: If we’re stuck doing this.

[Trapper] has changed their name to [Evan]

[Nurse] has changed their name to [Sally]

[Wraith] has changed their name to [Philip]

BIGDENERGY: I THOUGHT YOU DIDN’T WANT TO DO THIS! HA, POSERS!

Spirit: I already have a bad feeling about this.

[Spirit] has changed their name to [Rin]

Oni: Rin, what is this contraption?

Plague: Why is it beeping incessantly?

Deathslinger: And how can I make the damned thing stop?

Blight: This device is known as a phone. This instrument allows for communication of voice via electromagnetic radio waves from one end point, being a single beings phone, to another, the other individuals phone. Radio waves are used because they cause significantly less damaging to the body than gamma or X-rays.

[Trickster] has changed their name to [Ji-Woon]

Ji-Woon: Wow! Way to ruin phones freak.

Shape:…

Clown: Is he going to say anything?

Artist: It’s Michael. Probably not.

Pyramid Head: I cannn comuunnicate noww.

Sally: His hands are too big for the buttons. And he probably can’t see what he’s writing.

[Shape] has changed their name to [Michael]

Michael:…

Pyramid Head: Butt Iii can taallllk noow

Twins: Frère and I will be sharing this device. If anyone needs anything from Victor, you have to contact this.

Deathslinger: Is no one gonna tell me how ta’ turn this off?

Hag: You can’t Entity made it so you can’t. I already tried throwing it in the bog.

[Hag] has changed their name to [Lisa]

Lisa: Maybe it will work this time?

Philip: I want to say yes, but I know that isn’t the case.

Rin: Oh, I was messaged by the Entity. Sadako’s phone keeps shorting out, so we’re sharing.

Evan: That makes sense.

Nemesis: mmmyy hands aarree tooo biiigg toooo.

[Hillbilly] has changed their name to [Max]

Max: its back the fun thing is back

Huntress: what happens if the face of this thing gets cracked? i threw it at Dwight.

Sus: OMG you broke it already?!?

Max: why anna why break phone

Oni: What does this OMG mean?

Jules: oh my god

Plague: Do not take the name of the Gods in vain!

Joey: no, that’s what OMG means

Frankie: ugghh old people

[Cenobite] has changed their name to [Pinhead]

Pinhead: I opened the box and found this phone inside. Why and how can I rid myself of it?

Huntress: have i broken this thing?

Pinhead: No Anna, it will still function. You’ll just have a difficult time seeing it.

Joey: Wait, how do you know about phones?

Pinhead: I’m a God, I know all.

Dredge: Speaking of God. Hello everyone. 😉

BIGDENERGY: Did it just use an emoji?

Artist: It knows human language?

Clown: It has hands?

Dredge: No silly. I can type using my powers 😊

Sally: I guess Demogorgon can’t have a phone either. Seems he ate it.

Twins: Did the Entity think it wouldn’t?

The Entity: I do not think it would eat the phone, no.

Max: aww puppy sick?

BIGDENERGY: That isn’t a dog.

Pinhead: In your world maybe.

Sus: WTF do dogs look like in your world!!!

Oni: What does this WTF mean?

Evan: Oh my God.

Oni: Isn’t that OMG?

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starry-night-author · 1 year ago

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*pathetically crawls out of a bog or something covered in muck* hi hello I'm an idiot and accidentally deleted a whole finished prompt -_- so here we go again rewriting it :) I'm so mad :)

Anyway an anon asked for something like a poly hero x supervillain x villain story where the villains won forever ago but kept Hero around as a captive, and eventually grew fond of them and they're together now. Which 👀 I have to say that's a fantastically interesting idea 👀

Prompt #24

A bishop was slid across the board. "Aaaaand checkmate!"

Hero groaned, falling forward until their forehead rested on the table. "Of course it is. Your third one today."

"Mm-hm." On the other side of the table, Superhero made a big show of knocking Hero's king off the board.

"This is truly my lowest point," Hero sighed. "Beaten every time we've played today."

"Every time we've played this week," Superhero reminded them with a smug smile. They were teasing, they knew Hero didn't really care if they won or not. "Want to go again?"

Hero let out another loud groan, and Superhero laughed.

They moved to pick up the pieces for another game, always wanting Hero to stay longer. They'd even let them win a few times if it meant they didn't have to go.

A ding echoed throughout the mostly empty room, and Hero immediately sat up, pulling out their phone. "Sorry, hold on one second."

The cheery playful mood in was quick to fade as Superhero watched Hero's face, Superhero's own grin slipping from their features as Hero's smile grew. The hero began typing, thumbs flying across the keyboard as they chuckled at something on the screen.

This happened every time.

Hero got distracted, forgot all about Superhero in a snap.

They wouldn't be playing another round.

"Sorry, just a second, Supervillain's asking about dinner plans and stuff."

"Hm." Superhero picked up Hero's king that they'd knocked off the board, gazing at it for a moment. Then they set it down and began picking up the rest of the pieces, putting them away rather than setting them up for another game. There was no point.

"I don't know if I can do another game," Hero said distractedly, still not looking up at them. They hadn't seen that Superhero was already putting it all away. "Villain just got done for today, they said they're coming to pick me up."

"Hm." It really didn't matter what Superhero said to that, they could've told Hero they were pregnant and that Hero was the other parent and Hero wouldn't have reacted. They'd almost entirely forgotten Superhero already.

Despite this, oddly enough, the first sign that things had changed had started when Hero started visiting Superhero more and more often. Superhero had been confused as to why they'd been allowed to, before things had finally clicked when Hero's prison outfit had disappeared in favor of more expensive clothes. It was finally when the electric manacles that Superhero wore on their wrists and ankles had disappeared from Hero's body that Superhero finally realized what was going on.

"Yeah, because things are getting settled in more they get to work less hours! Supervillain still has to work for the rest of the day, though."

"Shame." Superhero really didn't care.

Hero weren't a prisoner anymore. Somehow, Hero was free.

They'd never told Superhero this, but it'd been obvious months ago. By now, Superhero would've been delusional if they thought Hero was still meant to be in a cell like them.

As that shift happened they began to drift apart from Superhero, visiting them not quite as often and never actually focusing on them. They were there, but they didn't really see Superhero, never really heard them. Only paying attention when they were trying not to lose at chess, only ever talking about how great their partners were.

Hero was free, and they were comfortable. They weren't going to throw that all away to try and help out Superhero and the countless other heroes imprisoned in cells similar to theirs.

Superhero watched as Hero chuckled at something one of their partners had probably texted them, their fingers moving quickly to respond. Their smile sent a pang through Superhero's heart.

The first feeling was of the utter sadness of being left out. Even if they still came to visit them, Hero had an entire life outside of them, outside of the white walls and bright lights that were all Superhero had known for the last two years. They got to go home to their partners and a fancy dinner, while Superhero was stuck here, forgotten.

They weren't sure why Hero kept visiting them, even when they made it so obvious that they didn't care about them. They'd engage for a little bit, but then Superhero could actually watch the moment Hero stopped paying attention.

Part of them wondered if Hero wasn't really coming back for them, but rather just trying to cling onto something from their old life.

Superhero wasn't quite sure how they felt about that.

The second feeling was one of anger. Hero was just fine with walking out of here, leaving Superhero and all the other heroes behind and going home. They'd done nothing so far to try and help Superhero out of here, not wanting to disrupt their new life. They walked free, free of the manacles, free of guilt. And Superhero didn't understand how.

The third realization was that even though Hero was here, Superhero had lost them.

Somehow that feeling was worse than the first two.

There came a loud blaring horn that blasted throughout the room, Hero jumped and nearly dropped their phone. Superhero, who was used to the sound, raised an eyebrow at them.

"Sorry," they smiled apologetically. "Not used to that."

Which was only a further sign that Hero was no longer a prisoner.

The sound indicated the opening of the outer cell door, and sure enough, Superhero looked up to see the huge vault-like door sliding smoothly open.

Villain stepped inside, dark clothes buffeting out behind them, the heels of their shoes clicking loudly on the white tiled floor.

Hero jumped up. "Villain!" They exclaimed, rushing over to their partner. "I didn't know you were here already- and I didn't think you'd come all the way in here!"

"Yeah, well, I wanted to walk you out." Villain slid a hand around Hero's waist, kissing their cheek before looking around the cell. "Besides, I haven't been here in a while, I thought I'd check in on the security of the cells."

"It's working fine, like usual," Superhero grumbled.

They sat on the other side of a wall of laser bars, the bars had previously split in front of them to allow the table that they'd been using to play chess to fit between them. Now that the cell door had been open the bars had slid closed, and Superhero was more closed off from the two of them. Another sign that they weren't really a part of Hero's new life.

Villain glowered at them, but otherwise didn't respond. They made sure Superhero knew their attention was now entirely focused on Hero. "We should probably get back now, Supervillain volunteered for me to make dinner and I want to have it finished by the time we get home."

"Yes!" Hero pumped their fist. "Your cooking is always the best!"

Villain smiled, already pulling them out of the cell.

While it was obvious that the way Hero immediately forgot about them was genuine, Villain was purposefully trying their hardest to show to Superhero that they weren't important here.

Superhero wasn't standing for that. "See you later, Hero!"

Hero blinked, glancing back as if they were just remembering Superhero was still there. Perhaps they were. "Oh, yeah, see you!"

In that moment, Superhero had never been able to empathize more with a discarded used tissue.

There came another blaring horn as Villain opened the cell door again, and the next thing Superhero knew Hero was completely out of sight.

Superhero was alone now in the bright white empty room.

The sound of the door closing seemed to echo a thousand time.

Hero stared at the door for a long while, taking deep breaths. They were not going to cry over someone who wouldn't have even spared them a second thought.

Letting out one more sigh they stood, moving over to their small bed in the corner of the cell.

They knew it would only be a matter of time before Hero stopped visiting them completely, before Hero's partners managed to completely drag them away from Superhero.

And they knew that their feeling of being forgotten now would be nothing in comparison to what it would feel like when they were left behind for good.

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evolutionsvoid · 5 months ago

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I think a thing that needs to be said about ecosystems is that no matter how pretty they are, they are still the wilds. I know this sounds painfully obvious, but I feel like it is something that is still widely ignored. When it comes to dark jungles or eerie bogs, sure, people worry about dangerous monsters and hidden perils. But if it were some picturesque mesa or lush meadow, where the scenery is absolutely captivating, I feel people kind of get lost in the majesty of it all. They think themselves in some magical land, or a painting come to life! They cease to be aware of the fact that they are still in the wilds, and that the same rules apply. People will stand there dumbfounded, or blindly walk across dangerous terrain, or just ignore the fact that wild animals are afoot. Why do I bring this up? Because some of you people are way too casual about coastal areas! Particularly the places one would call "beaches!" You see a sunny sandy beach next to a gentle ocean and just throw all cares away! Start acting like you're on a resort, where there are fancy drinks and hunky lifeguards a plenty! Riptide? What's that? Say, what are these colorful birds with the weird club arms? How pretty! It never ceases to baffle me how quickly one's guard drops the second they see a nice stretch of beach far from civilization. Just rip off all your clothes and throw yourself into the waters without a second thought! One good thought to have would be "hey, does anything live there?!" That might be good to figure out before you dive headfirst into the water, or throw a towel down onto the sand, or just start grabbing random shells with your bare hands are you serious!? Sorry if I am getting a little ranty here, but oh how it drives me mad! Not only are you spoiling a good spot to do some wildlife watching, but you are also throwing yourself blindly into danger!

I bring this all up because it was meant to be a short little lead in to the species I wanted to talk about, but look where that got us. What I was meaning to do was say that I have seen this behavior all over the world, the sheer stupidity that befalls people when they see a sunny beach. And while in most cases things end up being just fine, there are a few times where fools wind up getting bitten. Literally. In one region, there is a telltale sign of when someone succumbs to this spell. When they come stumbling back into town with a nasty bloody bite on an arm or leg, you know full well someone tried to have a beach day on Nure-onna territory.

The Nure-onna are a species of reptile that is found out on the coast in subtropical regions. I know sharp eyed readers may note my vague description of calling it "a reptile." Why do I say that? Shouldn't I just say it is a snake? I mean, just look at it! Well, the reason why I chose "reptile" is because we aren't fully sure yet what the Nure-onna is, be it snake or lizard. Yes, it has a long serpentine body that it slithers with, but there are species of legless lizards out there. Sure, it has very small forearms, which would rule out snakes, but does it really? And then some people cite the prominent fangs as a snake feature, while others point out the strong muscly jaws as something more lizard-like. I find it hard to say, because I get swayed back and forth whenever people start piling on arguments, but currently I feel the Nure-onna is some kind of primitive snake. Perhaps a relic of when ancient snakes started losing their limbs, but the Nure-onna hung onto theirs.

Regardless if it be a legless lizard or a faintly legged snake, the Nure-onna is a reptilian creature with a greatly elongated body, bright splotchy patterns and a pretty distinct look. Their serpentine bodies have bright red patches of color over top white scales, making them pretty eye-catching! They possess tiny, nearly atrophied forearms, which still have claws, but they do very little. At times, they can help give traction over smooth stone, and some say that males use them during mating to better grip the females. Going to the head is where things get more interesting, as they possess very strong, brutish jaws, and a surprising shock of hair! In truth, this black mane of "hair" is actually made up of long, thin scales, which cascade off the body and bunch up together to create this illusion. Some folk compare them to very crude feathers, as if the Nure-onna tried to make feathers but gave up nearly instantly into the process. So what is the reason for having this odd collection of scales? Well, it appears that it helps them soak up the heat of the sun more, on days where simple basking isn't enough. They can be seen curled up beneath this mane during colder days, helping trap in what little heat they have, while also using the black scales to better absorb sunlight. Some also think this curling up helps disguise them from prey and predators, hiding in the shadow of rocks with this tactic. It should be pointed out that this hair is also useful for creating the illusion that makes them so infamous. Because Nure-onna have a particular shape to their heads, and curious markings too! Add in this hair, and their threatening pose of holding their upper bodies high, and the snake (or lizard) suddenly becomes a human woman!

Okay, well, not entirely a human woman, but you can see where the mistake can be made at a glance. Scary stories like to say that this is meant to lure in human prey, or disarm them with their seductive feminine appearance, but in truth, it seems more like a coincidence. People seeing similarities in certain patterns. One of the reasons I say this is because these facial markings vary slightly between individuals, and greatly between regional species. Some have patterns that are strikingly human, while others look like they were trying to apply makeup during an earthquake. So this variation suggests that this is not a particularly important appearance that they must uphold exactly. Nature doesn't seem to think it is worth anything, but that doesn't mean there wasn't some kind of selection to be had here! Some theories claim that locals long ago selectively bred certain populations to get that distinct face look to their patterns. Certain nobles and warlords liked having these human mimicking serpents around, and kept them as pets. To be clear, there was no domestication to be had here, more so having a serpent that looks like it has a face but also one that is down for taking a chunk out of intruders and people you don't like.

With a toothy maw like that, the Nure-onna is obviously a predator. They scour the beaches for prey, hunting the sands, shallows and rocky areas. They use their long bodies to slip into tight spaces and burrows, while also using quick bursts of speed to chase down prey. Their strong jaws are good for grabbing on and never letting go. They are also pretty decent at cracking open shells of crabs and other coastal invertebrates, and if their teeth don't do the trick, bashing them against rocks also helps. Nure-onna use the tactic of "bite down hard and don't let go til it stops moving." They coil around prey and chomp down, waiting to the fight drains out of their meal. If prey is larger or more feisty, they may twist and thrash their bodies around while latched on to do some real damage and maybe tear off a chunk of meat. If they can't down their food, at least they get a free mouthful!

While their typical menu is usually crustaceans, fish, small reptiles and the occasional washed up carcass, Nure-onna are known for attacking larger things. More so, they are known for being very aggressive and territorial. They are an ill-tempered lot, always perceiving others around them as potential threats or competition. While other critters may flee at the sight of a human, the Nure-onna would stand its ground til they got too close, and then the fight is on. Their way of dealing with predators is to essentially be so aggressive and bitey that they give up and find something that doesn't fight so much. Due to this nature of theirs, Nure-onna territory is marked and avoided, as people trespassing on a day the Nure-onna are out and about results in getting chased down and bitten. Obviously, not everyone listens to these warnings. They will see an isolated beach with no one else around and think they found paradise, only to find serpents pouring from the rocks and racing across the sand with teeth bared. This aggression results in the Nure-onna being labeled a "maneater," with the belief that they happily hunt and consume humans. But it actually is more that they chomp onto oblivious tourists and then consume the corpse if they succumb to the squeezing and biting. They don't specifically target people, but they won't say no to a human carcass after they have bitten their throat out.

Though Nure-onna are feared and avoided due to their strong bite and anger issues, people do hunt them from time to time. Typically, if someone wants to settle upon a coastal stretch of land, the Nure-onna are going to have to go, as you can't make a beach town with these things around. And even for villages that are already established, lone Nure-onna may travel here and try to setup shop, which thus leads to culling. Their meat is said to be quite good (though very bony) and their hides and hairs enjoyed in fashion and ceremonial garb. As mentioned before, some folk a long time ago tried keeping Nure-onna as pets, or more so punishment for others. They weren't exactly lap dogs, more so creatures that knew who fed them and who didn't have food. You would keep them in pools or moats, and let them chew on intruders who tried to sneak in. Thus, this is why it is believed these face patterns appeared, as owners selectively bred them before the trend was given up on and they were released into the wilds. In stories, people like to play up the feminine appearance of Nure-onna, pretending that they can perfectly mimic woman. They also like to use this species as minions for evil-doers and sorcerers, who unleash these faced serpents upon foes. One story claims a sorcerer used some Nure-onna to kill and rob people who walked the beach. He would cast a curse on a pretty looking stone and then leave it in the sand, so someone would see it and pick it up. Once touched, the cursed rock would bind them to the spot, weighing down on them as if it was a boulder. The serpents would emerge from their hiding place and devour the poor soul, and the evil fellow would gather what coin and jewels were left on the shredded carcass. Neat tactic, though a bit convoluted for simple banditry. I guess points for creativity?

Though the attempts at keeping Nure-onna as pets has fallen away for humans, I will say another species has formed a bond with these savage serpents, seeing that they indeed make good guards! But that is a story for another entry!

Chlora Myron

Dryad Natural Historian

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

"Nure-onna"

May of went too face-like for this thing, but ah well.

#snake #serpent #nure-onna #monster #creature #art #drawing

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saltsicklover · 1 year ago

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Open Windows - BRB - Broken House

Title: Open Windows

Series: Broken House

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2500+

Rating: R

Warnings: Drinking, Alcohol, Swearing, Low key bad talk of Navy men, Insecurity, job interviews.

The breeze blowing in through the open windows is almost cold. No one has ever said that California is cold. Sure, the nickname The Golden State comes from the gold rush and not the rays of sun that beat down heavily on the state, but it's California.

The O Club is dingier than Honey remembers, full of ancient Officers and their wives who still enjoy smoking inside and beer from lines that haven't been cleaned in so long that Honey actually grimaces when she thinks about it.

The floor is sticky. So is the chair she is sitting in. The tabletop is covered in peanut shells and damn, this place is gross. Honey puts on her best smile for the manager as she slides her resume though the peanut shells. The paper absorbs a droplet of undetermined liquid when it reaches his side of the table. Honey fights back a shudder.

The man who sits across from her seems completely disinterested in not only Honey, but his job in general. The only thing that seems to hold his attention at all is the baseball game on the television behind the bar. His eyes are trained just over Honey's shoulder. She watches as his eyes glide over the screen, taking in the way he almost mouths, his lips stopping himself halfway through his lack luster word of encouragement for the team up to bat. His tongue snakes out of his lips before he flicks it around to wet the chapped skin. Honey grits her teeth.

"Mr. Spencer," Honey leans over right into his line of sight, a kind but annoyed smile on her face, "Thank you for taking the time to see me. Please hold onto my resume and give me a call once you've looked it over. I need to head to my next appointment. Thank you again for your time."

The man waves a hand and gives her a noncommittal grunt as she stands up. She manages a tight lipped smile before heading for the front door. It's not worth it, she reminds herself as she pushes out into the chilled evening air.

The dejected feeling she has been pushing down for the last three weeks seems to engross her, bogging her down like wet boots. It should weigh heavy on her shoulders but the only thing she can seem to feel is a broody sense of determination. The O Club is the fourth place she has been since nine am, and her luck doesn't seem to be improving. She is slowly exhausting all the locations that came up on her navigation app under the "BAR" tab. She scrolls back up to the top of the list, clicking on the first hit to come up. The Hard Deck. It is just a bit too close to the Air Base, but desperate times and all that. So, she throws her car into drive and heads towards base, and unknowingly towards her future.

---

The warmth that overtakes Honey as she walks into the Hard Deck makes her skin tingle. The cold evaporates from her skin, her goosebumps easing with each step she takes towards the bar top.

The Hard Deck is busy, bodies bumping bodies as they make their way through the crowd. Honey pulls her blazer from her shoulders, letting the fabric slide down her arms as she scootches herself around a large man in a Marines uniform. He mutters an apology to her as his forearm grazes against her shoulder, the beer in his hand sloshing around in the glass. She offers a tight lipped smile.

The folks behind the bar are busy, a flurry of hands and glasses, liquor and tap. They each have sweat droplets peppered across their brows, their forearms coming up to dry them off. The effort is fruitless as the sweat returns.

Honey slides herself up onto an open bar seat between a woman who is unsuccessfully flirting with a man who has a tragically overgrown undercut and a man who is engrosses in the baseball game that is playing from his phone. Honey throws her blazer across the back of her chair, hanging her purse up along with it.

The dejected feeling begins to crawl back in.

"You're a little overdressed, aren't you, Babe?" The woman on the other side of the bar notes as she shakes a shaker near her ear. Her voice is a tad louder than necessary but her words are kind, so Honey manages a smile, genuinely.

"Can't seem to win today it seems," Honey shoots back with a shrug of her shoulders, "Not a damn bar in this city is hiring,"

"What's your name, Babe?" The woman asks, brushing her bright red bangs from her eyes with one hand as she pours a drink with the other.

"Y/N, but everyone calls me Honey," The bartender nods back, sending a drink down the bar.

"Penny! We've got a live one!" The redhead calls down the bar before nodding back towards Honey. An older woman glances towards the redhead before her eyes land on Honey.

"You're looking for a job? Bartender?" The woman, Penny, asks, pulling down on the Budweiser tap. The honey liquid flows into the glass, foamy and cold.

"Sure am!" Her voice is slightly too giddy for the expression on her face. She pulls a folded up resume from her pocket, the paper now crinkled and less than presentable. Honey slides it across the bar with one manicured hand. It slides across the clean bar top with ease. The redhead takes a look at it before giving Penny a quick thumbs up just below the bar near her hip. She thinks Honey doesn't see it, but she catches it.

Penny shuffles over and trades places with the redhead. She places a bottle of house vodka and an empty glass in front of Honey with a small smirk on her face.

"Alright then, Honey Girl, can you pour me two ounces of this, no jigger?" Penny asks sweetly, before she is back to pouring another glass of beer on tap.

Honey stands up on the bar of the stool, allowing herself to lean over the edge of the bar to grab a rag that has been abandoned on the other side. She steals a pump of hand sanitizer from next to the register before she wipes the bottle down with the towel. Then, Honey moves to the floor, pushing the stool back behind her. She takes the house vodka by the neck of the bottle, label facing Penny. Turning it over, Honey counts out two ounces. She then places the bottle on the rubber mat on the serving side of the bar, offering the double shot in the whiskey glass to Penny.

Penny takes it and pours the contents into a jigger, measuring out the liquid. It comes out right at two ounces and Penny tries her best to hide the smile that is beginning to stretch across her lips. She isn't ready to give Honey the job just yet...

"Can you tell me what is in a Tequila Sunrise?" Penny quirks an eyebrow before throwing back the Vodka that Honey poured just moments before.

"Two ounces tequila, four ounces fresh orange juice, a quarter ounce grenadine, garnishes with an orange slice and a cherry," Honey raddles off the recipe, counting the ingredients out on her fingers. The counting makes Penny chuckles a bit, and Honey just smirks at her, "Hard to do it without actually pouring the drink. It's basically muscle memory,"

The women behind the bar share a devious smile. Penny shoots Honey a look laced with scheme.

"Come on back here and make me a Cosmopolitan, would you Honey Girl?"

Honey places her hands on the bar, leaning forward to turn her head right then left, surveying the drinks in everyone's hands with furrowed brows. Then, she turns around, standing up on her tiptoes, looking around the room. She turns back to Penny with a smirk.

"Do these military folks even drink stuff like that?" There is a glimmer in her eye, one that Penny can't help but love already.

"Nope," She pops the 'P'.

"Okay Penny, I'll make you your drink," Honey winks before winding though the crowd to make her way behind the bar. She rolls the sleeves of her crisp white button up all the way up above her elbows before making a pitstop at the sink to scrub her hands. Then, Honey gets to pouring. First the juices, then the liquors, shaking then straining, the drink coming out pretty pink in a martini glass.

Honey steps back, revealing the drink to Penny like a magician might reveal a woman sawed in half. There is a flick of the wrist and a dramatic bow that makes Penny laugh out loud. The older woman steps forward and takes a drink of the pretty pink cocktail, an instant smile on her lips the moment the drink hits her tongue.

"Are you Military officiated?" Honey shakes her head no, a slight purse to her lips. She knows it isn't quite true, but she doesn't need to air her dirty laundry in the middle of this makeshift job interview.

Her hands are clasped in front of her as she rocks on her feet. Heel toe, heel toe. Honey wants nothing more than to spill her guts to the seemingly friendly staff at the Hard Deck. She wants to tell about her father, and what a shitty man he is for abandoning her and her mother. She wants to explain how she ended up in this little bar anyway, and everything she has left behind over the years, chasing his ghost. But most of all, Honey wants to talk about Bradley. She wants to talk about the storm in his eyes and the way he spoke so angrily to her. She wants to lament to these women in the way she couldn't with Bradley. She wants nothing more than to speak of the life she left behind, but she doesn't. Instead, she bounces on her feet. Heel toe, heel toe.

"Are you dating anyone in the Military?" There is a bit of humor to her voice but Honey can't help the drop her stomach takes- it falls so far she feel for a moment that she might never see it again, but then the nausea hits.

Honey can still hear the door slamming. She can still feel the way her fingertips used to gently adjust the frame next to the door. She can still see Bradley coming in drunk, over the shoulder of one of his friends. Bradley, Jake Seresin, and Natasha Trace all got sent to Pensacola and their little trio could drink that town dry if they really wanted to, and they did just that a time or two.

The photograph of Nick and Bradley has faded to the back of her mind now, but she swears she can still see Nick's eyes when she closes her eyes. She can hear the words Bradley screamed at her, and the tightness of his throat as he did. Her own words haunt her harder, deeper, like they are melting away her insides.

Bradley Bradshaw is the furthest thing from Pete Mitchell in her mind. He would never abandon his family, that much she knows. Honey has seen him with Jake and Natasha, knows how he cares for them, and how much love he has for not only them but his team. She has watched him pour from his cup more times than anyone else, making sur that those he cares for are loved and that they know it.

Maybe that's why it hurt so much; having thing end the way that they did leaves Honey feeling the furthest thing from okay.

"No," Honey answers simply.

"Good on you, Honey Girl," Penny sends her a wink, "I can't say the same for me, but I have seen so many relationships between these guys and their significant other's go sideways-"

Honey stops listening to Penny, too focused on the glinting diamond on her left hand. The diamond is large, and absolutely sparkling even under the amber lights of the bar. Honey blinks back tears as she looks at it, memories of Bradley flashing through her mind.

Honey wants to ask Penny if she had ever had a fight quite so bad with her own husband. If being with a Navy man is always so hard or if Bradley just decided to make it that way. Is it all circumstance or does it come with time in? Maybe the it's issued to them with their gear, but it doesn't quite matter how it got there, the matter of the fact is that it's there.

Somehow, Honey thinks maybe Penny knows exactly what she is feeling, and though Honey was the one to walk out the door, it feels like Bradley was the one to walk away.

When her eyes make their way back up to Penny, she is standing there expectantly, eyebrows raised.

"I'm sorry Penny, what was that?"

"I said, the job is yours if you want it! We have a big welcome back party scheduled for a week from Friday, and I want you here and ready for it. My husband's team is getting recalled and they are going to be very excited to see each other. Can you start tomorrow?"

Penny has already begun digging through a cupboard below the bar, her hands working just as fast as her lips.

"I'll be here, Penny, thank you so much!" Honey's gratitude is met with a balled up shirt straight to the chest. She catches it before it drops to the floor, and Penny chuckles at the rapid movement.

"Great, then I will see you tomorrow, now get on the other side of my bar!" She shoos the younger woman with her hands, offering her a smile, "And Honey Girl, welcome to the team,"

Honey leaves the bar with a sense of accomplishment she didn't know she could feel. The wet boot feeling in her soul is gone, now relaced with a sense of excitement for what's to come. There is still a part of her brain replaying all of the times the door slammed and the way Bradley would stumble into her arms. Nestled next to those memories is the image of Pete Mitchell with his arm wrapped tightly around Bradley, and Honey blames the nausea that swims deep within her body on that memory.

There is so much going on in Honey's mind that she walks straight to her vehicle, not bothering to spare a glance away from her path. Once she climbs inside her car she takes a look at the t-shirt in her hand, the Hard Deck logo on the left chest, the word, "Bartender" is printed across the shoulders. Honey smiles, so distracted from the joy and excitement that she doesn't even notice the familiar blue Bronco parked just a few spaces away.

Honey drives back to her shitty new rental with the windows of her car down. The chilled breeze blows in, messing her hair, causing gooseflesh to break out over her skin. No one ever said that California is cold, but it's about as far away from Bradley Bradshaw that Honey can get, so she shivers and enjoys it.

#bradley bradshaw fic #bradley rooster bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster x you #rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw angst #bradley rooster bradshaw angst #broken house #top gun maverick imagine

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xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 2 years ago

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i love opening your blog every few days like i’m unboxing really good packages that were just delivered, absolutely love all of your works. if you’re not too bogged down with life could we have more circus!reader? take care of yourself ❤️

When Dick bolted through the crowd, weaving through adults deftly, only to stop and practically pounce on a girl about his age, throwing his arms around her and lifting her off her feet. Ignoring looks and the fact that she was just a little taller, Bruce followed.

More curious than concerned. The body language of the lanky guy next to the girl went from combative to relaxed when he realized the shouts he heard were children playing and not danger.

He stepped closer and the guy glanced up from where it was now apparently his turn to hug Dick, "I-uh-"

"This is Bruce," Dick blurted out, running his fingers through his hair.

"Finn," the guy said holding out a hand.

"Nice to meet you-"

"They work in a different circus," Dick said, breaking in. "Y/N does tricks-"

"There was a kind of co-op for the kids to do school," Finn explained, "So they got to be pretty good friends."

Bruce nodded, smiling a little. The girl looked clean and cared for. Healthy. Bright eyes and dewy complexion. Maybe a little dehydrated but- He broke off and ruffled Dick's hair. "Are you in town long?"

"There's a show tonight in Bludhaven," Finn explained, "We actually came to look for Dick. Y/N has been worried."

"I knew you liked me," Dick gloated.

"Like you better when you're not talking," you shoot back. The bravado not quite covering the relief in your face that he was safe.

#Dick Grayson #Dick Grayson x reader #circus!reader #ask answered #minors dni

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mdhwrites · 10 months ago

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Going back through TOH's episodes, it strikes me how boring they are. Part of the problem seems to be how criminally unfunny the show is, generally speaking. I can count how many times I've laughed on one hand. In fact I can list them:

There was the "It's been my dream since I was a boy" guy pushing kids off cliffs (Moving Hassle), Luz's "He'll be fine" after throwing Hunter overboard - and then his subsequent re-entry (Hunting Palismen) - and lastly Luz tumbling offscreen in front of Amity after a spider crawls on her face (Grom). That's 3 scenes, 4 jokes if we're being charitable. And sure, maybe my sense of humour is just incompatible with TOH's and I'm being harsh.

But I can't deny that I just feel like there's no rewatch value in TOH? Like it's just... the jokes are so bad to the point it's not fun, it's not entertaining, it's a slog, I see no value in retreading the same ground. And I am a SERIAL rewatcher! This is coming from someone who spends maybe 85% of their time experiencing the same stories! I love seeing well-done media all over again, because even if I know what's going to happen or what they will say, a well-structured joke or a skillfully delivered line is still gonna engage me.

I can't even recommend the show to anyone because I HAVE in the past... and what ends up happening is they watch the first couple episodes, get bored, go "I recognize that you like this, but it's not my thing" and drop it. And I CAN'T BLAME THAT! Because that's how I reacted too when I got into the show! I only stuck with it because it seemed like it was going really interesting places. And it tried to, I think, and failed.

I'm also a very fandom-heavy person so TOH's boring episodes have made it increasingly harder for me to stay within it. Because I'm not rewatching anything, I can see myself in real time as I forget more and more of the plotlines, and even a lot of the characters. It's just... kind of disappointing. It's like I just had a gradual fizzling out of interest. I don't even hate the show, which might be better in some ways - instead I just can't muster enough shits to feel any type of way towards it.

I rambled a bit but I guess my ultimate ask here was: what are your thoughts on whether or not TOH manages to entertain new/old viewers?

So I like S1. I think the characters are what carry it and that they are at their most interesting, EASILY, in S1.

The vast majority of S1, in terms of concepts and executions for plots, is OKAY AT BEST.

This actually just comes down to a simple tonal decision of TOH and also just the fact that a boring world with boring magic creates little to do with bog standard plots and TOH actually has a LOT of bog standard plotting. It is a pretty classic story structurally and takes genuinely very few risks in the structure... Which is okay in theory.

There is nothing wrong with not reinventing the wheel and TOH talks a big game about subverting tropes but no. As a fantasy fan, I can tell you this is EXCEPTIONALLY normal. Like... Insultingly from how much it talks a big game. Especially because if you're going to do classic, you have three options: Shoot the moon, lean into the unique elements of your concept or do it VERY. VERY. WELL.

And remember: They did a body swap episode and it is one of the most hated episodes of the entire show. That's not a good sign.

But this touches on the second problem I brought up: This is a boring world with boring magic. Because TOH's fantasy world is so basic, has little magic and little flair with its magic, it inherently limits what it can do. Now, it doesn't have to be this way but the show made it this way with how little we see of it, how limited it is (like how plant magic is 99% vines), and how often it just blatantly makes one to one comparisons between it and our world with effectively NOTHING altered like how the covens are just jobs, right down to them being introduced through a job fair and a boring one at that.

So when we look at a classic episode concept like the body swap episode, the three plots are... Easily replicated elsewhere. One person gets in trouble in the swap's job because they don't know what they're doing (with the most unique twist of this actually landing them in prison), a classic animal plot where they're taken in by a place that seems cozy and then isn't with literally no changes, and finally... Teenager pisses off bullies and agrees to jump DEAD MAN'S GORGE! But instead of skateboards and people really building it up, its rat beasts.

None of these plots are actually bad, they're go tos for a reason, but... No one is bringing anything special to this. Luz is entirely ignored so her character may as well not matter, Eda is doing NOTHING to add to her plot and King... King is fun for about two minutes leading the bullies and otherwise is just any other character in this situation. It's not bad, I personally enjoy parts of the episode... But it's nothing special. From the second the thing that X character is going to do is revealed, you can guess every step of the plot and they don't even really throw in good jokes in the process. A couple jokes but nothing memorable because everything is weirdly subdued compared to how other shows would be, even in an episode that is definitely trying to be more over the top.

And this runs into the inherent tonal issue of TOH: It doesn't want to be an adventure comedy. Those are genres that are commonly really over the top. They hear jump the shark and go "How about a shark jumping ten other sharks in order to finish making a can of tuna for their fire giant overlord?" And the face of this fact, in that the genres it pitches itself as for the first two episodes!

TOH flatly refuses to be silly and over the top. It's characters are very... 'realistic'. I don't mean real, just that they're meant to feel more mature by being more in control. They don't let them interrupt each other for a joke, they don't let a character be potentially OOC for a one off gag like Hop Pop screaming "EAT THE RICH!" or Sprig asking "Have you ever killed a a man, Hop Pop," and I can only think of one time Luz got mad for the sake of a joke and honestly, yelling about the Rusty Smidge barely comes across as a joke because of how genuine the anger feels after a point. Otherwise, stuff that would normally get exaggerated frustration or the like to at least let you laugh at the reaction just... doesn't get one, like how Luz yells about Luzura being killed off but then... Just walks off and is passive aggressive mostly instead of even exasperated. For a drama or romance, this is not a bad approach but for even just an adventure kid's show... It's not great to put it mildly because people meet odd situations with weird levels of nonchalance. Not quite irony poisoned levels but getting there.

It's why TOH is mostly remembered for the romance and drama episodes. Not only do they allow some of the romance scenes to actually include melodrama, they also just fit how the characters act better. It's why Amity has some of the biggest emotions of the series and why Lumity have such great lines between each other because they're actually willing to lean into the sort of genre fiction that they're doing. This is also why S2 works better than S1 because a lot of the pretense of being a comedy adventure gets dropped but like... There's still plenty of boring in S2 with stuff like how Elsewhere Elsewhen takes time travel and includes a couple jokes at the beginning and then is just... horribly bland and barely qualifies as an adventure.

This lack of allowing people to be emotional and jokey also leads to the reliance on comic relief characters. People like Gus, King or Hooty, or S2 Lilith, who the characters can mock in someway, including the writers. Characters who can be the punchline even if it means a lot of people come off a lot meaner than they should, i.e. Luz absolutely rejecting Hooty for the vast majority of the series despite supposedly liking the weird and rejected. That also means that most of the time they're not on screen, either the scene starts getting pretty dry or you have a character suddenly warp to be comic relief, like how Eda gets in some S2 episodes like Elsewhere Elsewhen or Eclipse Lake where suddenly she's MUCH more of a joke than she normally is and also REALLY bad at it too and seeming potentially brain dead for it. Thanks to Them even does this to Amity even though she is probably the last person in the cast to make sense as a sudden clutz.

All of this stuff makes it so that if you go in wanting a kid's show, a fantasy show, ANYTHING that is pitched in the first episode... S1 is going to be just okay to you. I enjoyed it... But I also fell off when I first watched it. I thought the characters were good but none of it stuck with me as actually memorable and I watched until I think Adventure in the Elements. I never was never compelled to come back until Lumity animations (literally THE Little Miss Perfect animatic that is nowadays probably hard to find actually) made me go "I remember this show being neat." And Lumity was what kept me, not because I was generally laughing or calling these episodes something special. In fact, that sense of unsatisfaction is probably why I watched through it faster than Amphibia. No one episode of TOH is really great to watch on its own because... It's just kind of boring, or like half of it is boring because the B plots across the board are SO BLAND. S1 or 2 for that matter since Lumity starts getting boring B plots like with the archives or finding out the author of Azura. Both concepts btw that could have been really interesting setups and instead... If you're not into blushing Amity, get FUUUUUCKED.

That's without getting into REPETITION. Repetition kills comedy so King having one joke for S1 and also taking up like half of the B plots for the first ten episodes means you are going to be in agony eventually anytime someone talks to him because you know where it's going and you have DEFINITELY heard this joke before. And you know, he also gets three repetitive B plots which just hurts the joke even more, even as they try to make twists on it, and hurts the feeling that the show is doing... Anything..

It's just not good. Which is probably why once the characters and the 'subversive/unique' elements of the show both weakened, more and more people left because... Why would you keep watching this then? Those elements are what made up for boring plots with boring execution in a world that didn't allow for more interesting storytelling because it had few ideas and expanded on NONE OF THEM. So of course people pitch it using the elements that say "this isn't like other kids shows/fantasy shows" because if you pitch it to people who like those... They'll just be disappointed eventually and bored quickly. Like i think a lot of people did to be quite honest.

And a lack of creativity, and a lack of genre understanding, isn't something time could have ever fixed.

======+++++======

The short version of proving this point btw is going "Compare Bumi's introductory episode, which is a character giving three trials to prove another's worth, versus when the Bat Queen challenges Luz. One is exceptionally funny, interesting and has genuinely interesting twists while the other is... There. So very there. Painfully just... there. Not even bad, just... There.

Also, yes, comedy is extremely subjective which is why I tried to talk more about how a lot of these premises are boring because that can be a bit more objective.

I have a public Discord for any and all who want to join!

I also have an Amazon page for all of my original works in various forms of character focused romances from cute, teenage romance to erotica series of my past.

I have an Ao3 for my fanfiction projects as well if that catches your fancy instead.

If you want to hang out with me, I stream from time to time and love to chat with chat.

A Twitter you can follow too

And a Kofi if you like what I do and want to help out with the fact that disability doesn’t pay much.

#the owl house criticism #toh critical #toh #the owl house

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