#tw fiction abuse

[sickfictropes]

I know everyone likes to traumatize characters with bad parents and unhappy childhoods but what if there was a whumpee who had a really good healthy relationship with their family and a nice childhood outside of one horrible event that no one could save them from. I feel like it could make it all the more devastating

YES!! my MC's 3 Evil Traumas are all childhood instances. one is an abusive father yes, but the unique part is that he's a doomsday prepper and built a nuclear bomb shelter in the yard, so when she's 16-17, he drags her down there to spend the night as a punishment. another one is finding her sister's body in the bathtub after a fatal overdose. and the THIRD is her sister's FIRST OD in which she crawled into bed with MC only to OD there. is that any good? i hope they're unique enough. i really like them :)

another OC i have, Audra Quinn from penstemon (you can find it on my oc blog! @taylor-tut-ocs) was a space captain and a monster attacked her ship when she was 25. there were no other survivors except her, and the public turned against her even though she was horribly injured

in my other OC series, The Last Place on Earth (tlpoe on my oc blog) heroine Lacey Medina's big trauma was an abusive relationship with a woman who sold opioids, so it wasn't until she was well into her 20s.

i totally get the fatigue with this--i have it too. it's the same as the fact that i love horror/thriller books, but when they're about a mysterious murder of a stranger, i don't read it because i've seen enough of that. i love when a character's trauma comes later in life rather than in childhood.

excellent point and i didnt realize i felt the same way until you sent this ask!

[sleepy-cone]

Pssst...hey... Alfred can't be "good" if Bruce is "bad"

If Bruce is written as abusive and obsessed with "the mission," then logistically, ya gotta write Alfred as an enabler/accessory to the abuse.

It is impossible for Alfred to be there throughout all Robins, be first witness for multiple years with multiple children "suffering" and still have the kids be like: "Oh well, Alfred is still an angel, though." They would've known he hadn't helped them.

Imagine a building is on fire, and someone just stands there and watches it. They didn't start it, but they also don't try to put it out. They don't help anyone get out. They don't even bother calling for help. Yet, they still get a medal for their bravery??

There would only be 2 ways that Alfred could be seen as a "loving grandfather" if he

1. Outright stops Bruce by confronting him directly or getting the kids out from the first sign of abuse.

2. If Bruce is at least a somewhat decent father. Sure, he can make mistakes, and he can fumble sometimes. But Bruce can not be actively harmful to the kids for years without Alfred being aware and choosing to leave the kids to fend for themselves.

Alfred would have to be written as a non questions asked, 100% dedicated to only a "True Wanye" kind of butler. He would have to see the kids as not real Wayne's to allow an abusive Bruce to continuously harm them. The kids would know this and hate BOTH of them.

[locustgirl]

not to be radical or whatever, but i think that maybe calling women and queer people “pedophiles” for fanfiction is actually not the activism you think it is

[ameliathornromance]

Just wanted to add quick trigger warning: mentions of domestic abuse and assault from husband, but not Orc BF because he's better than that.

This was written and inspired by Run by Daughter, I recommend listening to it while reading <3

“Careful!” Your Orc whispered to you.

Clutching onto the vines of the tower you descended from, you gave a cautious look down to him.

His arms were spread open, wide and prepared to catch you in case you fell.

You couldn’t believe that you were actually doing this. The two of you, imprisoned by the same wretched man were finally getting away.

Your husband, the Earl was an awful man. He was nasty to the servants, if one dared brush too close to him, his bellows of rage were enough to shake the earth.

When something wasn’t done exactly according to the orders the Earl had given you, he would make sure you would get his orders right next time, in the form of a strike to the side of the head.

There were days where you wondered if there was any way out of the suffrage you were forced into. Then your Orc arrived.

The Orc you had fallen for, was captured by the Earl and forced to be your body guard. Your need for a body guard had only become apparent after a run-in with some highway bandits, who took everything of value from your carriage after returning from a Royal Gala. “This creature ought to keep you safe,” your husband proclaimed lazily. After jerking the chain around the Orcs neck, he added, “don’t worry, I’ve made sure he’s tame.”

The two of you lamented over being captured and trapped by the same man. It was strange, the way you two bonded over that. Even more a miracle that the two of you got along together. Both of you shared stories of your lives before you met.

The Orc had been caught by one of many of your dear husbands hunting parties. He and his friends had ambushed him and shackled him. They had beaten him senseless the whole way back to the Manor in which you resided. You apologised for the harsh treatment of your husband. But your Orc dismissed it: “It is not any fault of yours.” He smiled, “I only thank that you are nice, treat me well and sympathise with me.”

You couldn’t recall exactly when you had fallen for your Orc Boyfriend, only that it was some time a few weeks earlier. You and your Orc had been chuckling about something on your way to the dining hall.

You couldn’t remember what it was you were laughing about. Your husband appeared from thin air – and for some reason took great offence to you enjoying yourself – as you arrived at the dining hall.

After shouting obscenities at you, he raised his hand to strike you. Closing your eyes, recoiling, you braced for the sharp flash of pain. Yet nothing happened.

Cautiously, opening your eyes, you saw that your Orc had caught the wrist of the Earl.

Everything was a blur from that point. Your Orc was taken down, dragged out of sight and returned to you later, one of his eyes swelling and turning purple. When you worried over him, he simply smiled at you, “my job is to protect you, my Lady. After all your kindness if I didn’t I…” Your Orc sucked in a deep breath and sighed. “I’d do it again in a heart beat.” It was in that moment, that the two of you knew you loved each other.

Even if you could not say it out loud, you knew he loved you.

It was in the soft touch of his hand on your back when you were anxious, in the smile he gave you as you told him excitedly about a plot twist in a book you read. How he would hold you as you cried into his chest, another scathing from your husband fresh in your mind, from when your Orc couldn’t be there to protect you.

Today had been the last straw for the both of you. Another screaming match, followed by another strike to the face, you and your Orc made the decision to run.

It was now or never. Your Orc had been trying to talk you into it for weeks. The both of you spoke about it in hushed whispers as you walked through your garden. A common, secret excursion, only afforded by your deep sleeping husband and the darkness of night.

Moonlight shone down upon you both as he told you, in a hushed voice: “He would never dare come for us.” He assured you taking your hand, “we could be free, away from that monster.”

“But my family-” You began to protest.

“They are not your family.” Your Orc glowered at you. “Those people knew what that man was like and they gave you to him anyway. What kind of loving family does that?”

He was right, you knew it he was. You hadn’t heard or seen from them in years, only doing what they had to do to be kept comfortable. Your marriage was just that: A means to keep comfortable.

This realisation, broke your resolve to stay. Given what a horrid day it had been, you couldn’t ignore it any longer, the stinging on your cheek a painful reminder. You had to get out of here.

Sucking in a deep breath and turning to that bright shining moonlight, you sighed. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

A few days passed before everything was ready to go, your Orc had been meticulous in his planning. You, yourself, couldn’t do anything to pack, those who were loyal to the Earl – a select few of the servants, who he bothered to treat with some semblance of decency – would tell on your plans. Questions would rise… You didn’t want to find out what would happen if they were asked.

But if it was your body guard, no one would dare question the Orc sauntering through the halls, clearly on an important mission.

Finally, the day came when you two would set off. You did your best to act like there was nothing amiss, doing your duties with your Orc following behind you. He was more vigilant than usual. Although your husband had gone hunting for the day, whose to say that he would return with nothing, furious with his lack of game and try to take it out on you.

When night fell, the two of you made for the salon. It wasn’t time to go just yet. The sun had coloured the sky orange, the two of you would need the cover of night. As soon as the two of you were out of sight of prying eyes, he cupped your face with his hands and kissed your lips.

“I will go and get the horse ready and collect our supplies,” Your Orc whispered to you. “When the Earl is asleep, you climb out of the window and I’ll be waiting down by the bottom of the tower.”

“What if I slip?”

“Then I will catch you, my Love.” Your Orc smiled.

Letting out a soft chuckle, you rubbed your thumbs over the back of his hand, clutching onto them. “I love you.” You told him.

“I love you too.”

The two of you departed to your respected quarters after that.

You had prepared a special drink for your husband that night. It was nothing dangerous, just a sedative your Orc had managed to get a hold of. Before bed, you offered it to your husband.

“You’ve been stressed recently.” You lied as your husband entered your bedroom. “So I made you some Camomile tea.”

The Earl hmphed. Snatching the tea cup and saucer from your hand, he gulped it down in one go, without saying a word to you. This was how he was when he wasn’t berating you.

You were glad you’d never have to breathe the same air as this man ever again.

Within moments of getting into bed, he was asleep.

And here you were now, descending the tower wall. The drop, coupled with the soft blushes of wind made you question why you couldn’t have just taken the stairs. But the thought of being spotted making an escape made you shudder.

As if sensing your unease, he vine in your left hand quivered, then snapped. You let out a shriek, causing you to lose your grip, your feet slipping. Grasping onto any remaining vines you could, your body soared away from the safety of the tower.

Your Orc caught you within seconds, your shout silenced with a hand clapped to your mouth, mortified by your mistake.

Heart thumping in your chest, you looked up at your Orc Boyfriend. His eyes were fixed on the bedroom window. Neither of you moved, still as statues, waiting for someone to come looking for the source of distress.

The wind blew, trees rustled and leaves billowed in the breeze. But no guard came by, and your husband did not stir.

Sighing with relief, your Orc set you down on the ground and whispered, “you’re not hurt, are you love?”

You shook your head, “sorry.” You breathed.

Your Orc Boyfriend shook his head, smiling, “let’s get out of here, quickly. Last I knew, my clan were headed East.”

Holding his hand, the both of you took off into the forest, never to be subject to the torture of man again.

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[rockabully]

adem stop .

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[defire]

As an abuse survivor, you are just fetishizing child abuse. Plain and simple. Call it a coping mechanism or a power take-back all you want, but it's just an excuse to write porn about child abuse. I pity people like you, truly, I do. I can only pray that you eventually see a therapist about your internalized pedo behavior.

Cw: RANCID ask ⬆️

I'm so glad you brought this up because I don't like to speak for people like you--I'd rather combat these opinions directly.

Since you're praying, I'll feel free to make biblical allusions. (Tw)

First, the word "fetish". My opinion: I don't find fetishes or porn too helpful for processing trauma--it's more like exposure therapy. At some point you do need to actually grieve and process what happened. I don't judge those who do that (you're not hurting anybody♥️), but that's not what Survivor Fiction is for.

When you're judging whether something is bad or good, you can use the "tree by its fruits" concept. Basically, if a tree produces good fruit, it's a good tree. If it produces bad fruit, it's a diseased/bad tree.

So let's look at what Survivor Fiction does for survivors specifically.

It brings healing. I (a new author!) have already received five testimonies that have said how much my writing helped them move through some of their trauma and see things in a different, calmer way.

Survivor Fiction brings peace. A surprising amount of the community--90.5% in a poll involving 1,543 voters--use whump stories to go to sleep at night. (Many trauma survivors have difficulty sleeping from flashbacks. Fiction along the same lines can offer an appropriate sense of distance from the fear.)

It helps disabled people. It appears that a strong majority of our community is autistic. Part of the diagnosis is emotional dysregulation. We need to be walked through how to do things in great detail. Survivor Fiction often walks the reader through the process of trauma, reaction, ptsd, and recovery.

It spreads awareness. Survivor fiction is often more accurate to real-life abusive situations instead of glossing it over--in other words, LYING--about what goes on. This can bring a 3rd party perspective to a current victim too, giving them the understanding that they are being abused and need to escape if possible.

For a more thorough explanation of why fiction about survivors is good and necessary, see this post.

Okay, so would "bad fruit" look like? Do you see any of the following from our community? ↙️

Doing these things in real life

Being generally hurtful of others

Hurting children in real life

Harming emotions by pushing unwanted content to people who would be triggered by it? (Quite the opposite, we tend to post exhaustive content warnings before the content.)

Something else that's actually wrong and not just a thought crime?

And here's the fruit of your words, which I'm sure we all heard the jist of many times before:

You encourage covering up evil. Trying to hide fiction that more accurately describes pain, abuse, and PTSD means hiding the truth. Stifling the exposure of just how evil it is to abuse someone like this. The righteous walk in the light, but the wicked hide their deeds in the darkness.

Your words are shaming. Shame causes pain to fester and act out in harmful ways, such as repeating abuse cycles, self-harm, and dangerous overreactions. Christian ideology here--shame is what caused Adam and Eve to hide from God.

You are lying. You implied that we harm people in real life without any reason to think so. And also implied that we want to be in the aggressor's position. Generally speaking we identify most with the victim.

Referencing Christianity here, if you're christian--Your words condemn the Bible. The bible is full of stories much darker than most of what is written here. You'll read about rape, and the cannibalism of one's own children in Lamentations, among other things.

You're hurting yourself. You will be judged with the measure you judge others with. This is because if you judge others harshly for their thoughts, you'll instinctively judge yourself just as harshly. You end up hurting yourself and others over something that wasn't even doing any harm in the first place.

Causing confusion. What you said was illogical. If it's fiction where the damage occurs, we should be blaming the fictional aggressor--not the writer reporting it. If it's reality where the damage occurs, we should be blaming real criminals--not the journalist. The truth is that writing about survivors isn't generally harmful.

In short, you're creating a lot of problems and not helping. Did this ask come from a loving place?

This answer I'm giving, does.

[mxfrodo]

y'all for fucking real. don't fucking write slave fics or x reader fics of aventurine's slavery??? are you guys out of your goddamn minds???

[selfship-shinigami]

your F/O would beat the shit out of your abuser, they would absolutely torment your abuser because no one hurts you and gets away with it , in your F/Os eyes your abuser deserves no peace

[woaheyeradioboy]

I genuinely don't fucking care what you like in fiction. I don't care how disgusting, heinous, or "illegal" (not actually) it is, as long as you aren't agreeing with it or acting out things you read in a non-roleplay/fiction setting.

TW: Rape, Child Abuse, Pedophilia, Age gaps, Abuse, Bestiality, Grooming, Incest, and similar content

You can read about someone being raped. You can read about a child being raped. You can read about incest. You can read about pedophilic incest. You can read about someone fucking a dog. You can read about someone being raped by an animal. You can read about someone grooming someone else. You can read about horrible power imbalances. You can read about Victim x Abuser. You can read about gang rape. You can read all of that and more, whether the content is "romanticizing" or "sexualizing" it or putting it in a "positive light", because I do believe if you're reading these things you are capable enough to not have your morals and "respect" of laws immediately broken because you didn't get told 100 different times during the story how bad the content was.

You can read WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT, however you want, forever and ever. Don't act out the fiction in real life unless roleplaying with another consent adult (or teenager within your age range if you're not 18+) and it DOESN'T MATTER.

Fiction can affect reality, but usually only if you're allowing it to. Children oftentimes shouldn't be online but even if they are, it is never an authors fault or the people who enjoy the fiction the author writes that the child ends up exposed to bad things. If someone who is mentally unwell and cannot separate fiction and reality due to this is online and is affected by these things, it is not the authors fault or the fault of the people who enjoy the authors fiction.

If something that someone else wrote affects someone else in a bad way, it is not the authors fault.

Censorship of fiction is bad no matter what, and if you want to censor any form of fiction you are automatically already getting closer to people like transphobes and racists and ableists, because being pro-censorship ALWAYS leads down the same exact rabbit hole of puritan beliefs and controlling others.

[cry-ptidd]

Always been a bit confused on Laura past, you hint here and there, something about a nunnery and how that made despise God and the church. So, what exactly happened to her to make the way she did. Also was Hans the one who bit her or some other werewolf?

Alright, I do realize most people might not be aware of her story considering I never really made a post about it and I deleted the fic of her backstory bc I didn't like it, so I'll summarize it here!

And no, she wasn't bitten by Hans. She is older than him by half a century or so

Laura's backstory/timeline masterpost

⚠️⚠️ TW for: sexual assault, religious abuse, victim blaming, emotional abuse, and VERY long babbling

1735 - Human life:

Laura is the eldest daughter of Jean Chastel and Anne Charbonnier. She was born in Gévaudan (now in the department of Haute-Loire) on the 24th of December 1735.

She was her father's favorite child, due to her and her mother surviving a difficult birth. This also led to her mother putting her a bit aside considering her father doted on her "like a son", taught her to read and write, and allowed her to not marry due to her disinterest in men (they both just thought she was chaste because of religion) and work with him in the fields, at the inn and other places. She learned French and Occitan.

Laura was brought up catholic, as most people in 18th century France, but she was particularly devout and religious. She was teased as a child for it, spending a lot of time in church and confessionals, which didn't help because her father didn't have the best reputation (he was nicknamed "de la masca", Occitan for "of the witch".) She started to pick up on Latin, though it was extremely rudimentary. Her overly religious attitude annoyed her own family sometimes, and their lack of emotional support led her to become a bit naive and confide a lot in religious authority figures.

She was an extremely diligent girl, always making sure her chores were finished and her work wasn't interrupted. That led to her sometimes putting her own health at risk in harsh winters, or disregarding people's warnings.

1758 - Bite:

Early spring of 1758; Laura was 22 when she was herding cattle near a clearing. She ignored the warning of the other villagers of wolf sightings, because the attacks were rare and she had a cattledog with her anyway. However, it turns out the villagers were right - safe for a few details.

Laura was attacked by a feral werewolf that scratched her stomach and bit her on the forearm after she put it up to not let it tear her throat out. A few of the village men were alerted by the commotion of her yells, the dog and cattle, and they managed to drive the werewolf off before it could devour her.

Sadly, she was now infected, and it showed, when in the next two weeks she was writhing in agony at the transformation that somehow healed her wounds and left big, ugly scars. People were starting to be afraid, wondering what the hell was going on. Her father was running around trying to find doctors with what money he had. Most locals dismissed the idea of a werewolf and thought she just had rabies, but the symptoms picked up by the doctors didn't support that hypothesis. Laura herself was going through it, spending hours upon hours of praying and reciting scripture and reading the Bible in hopes of a cure. The locals started to treat it as something you shouldn't talk about, considering how odd and ugly the details were, and people were avoiding the building where she was kept.

After about a month of very painful confusion, after her condition started to appear more supernatural than medical, Jean decided 'fuck it' and stuffed her in a carriage with a couple other men, before bringing her to a remote abbey.

1758 - The abbey:

Laura was brought to a remote Benedictine monastery, where 12 monks resided. She was welcomed at first, with suspicion of demonic possession, and given a room in the sub-level of the abbey.

Exorcism and purification rituals were routine, as well as the already implemented practices of the abbey. Laura was very willing to go with all of it, putting her trust in them, especially considering her awful mental state at that point.

However, about six months in, one of the men there went to her room at night and assaulted her. The others were alerted because of the commotion during imposed hours of silence. When they were found out, though, she was the one blamed for "seducing" the monk, because he was one of the "most devout" of them. A small scuffle ensued, and the abbot decided to give them both a "pardon" as long as they did a bit more service as penance, since they were "both in the wrong". After this, her relationship with the monks soured more and more.

The exorcisms stopped after a year in or so, since they saw no signs of improvement (and judged her no threat). She was however to stay at the monastery for the safety of others. Laura felt terribly alone, considering not only the fact that the abuse continued in secret but also that she was treated as basically a feral dog to be wary of, and just being a lost young woman surrounded by men that started to look at her with contempt. She considered escaping several times in her stay; however, each time she was either caught trying to sneak out or was too scared to go with it, fearing judgement from God for disobedience.

The abuse became well known some years in, but once again no one did anything, either being told by the abbot to keep it down and not talk about filth within the house of God, or spoken about by a handful of the men who took advantage of her fear and silence to vent out their frustrations. Their initial duty towards her was basically brushed aside and discarded, and they kept her around and subjugated for fear of her condition. Her lack of menstruation and fertility (because of the lycanthropy) were also attributed to her being a "wicked creature", that she needed to stay in here to be forgiven by God, or else her resistance to holy cleansing would be noticed by the Lord.

This went on for years. 6 years, 5 months and 13 days to be exact, of Laura begging for God's help and mercy, which at first was her begging for a cure to her condition so she'd be in His graces again, to her wanting it just so she could escape the abbey, to eventually praying for the monks not to hurt her anymore or at least lose interest, to her just begging to die because she was so afraid and hungry from not getting any of the meat that her body demanded (of course, she couldn't die of starvation or sickness, thanks to regeneration). Her biggest fear was that she was beginning to doubt God. Her faith in the monks was completely dead by the fifth year, but she was also starting to doubt anyone would save her. She also started to despise her father for bringing her here in the first place.

This all culminated to one night, after the monastery doors were closed, when one of the monks had just finished his little "escapade" in her room. He was about to get out and she got up, barely dressed and dirty, and started to call him out. He slapped and started to berate her, but she didn't listen, and jumped at him. His screams and pleas were ignored, because the others learned not to mind them. She devoured him, and all her pent up rage and fear turned into bloodlust, as she mauled each one of them and devoured them like cattle. Nothing but scraps of bone were left by the morning. This is when she got enough strength for her first transformation. By now, her fear of God turned into sheer resentment, spite and hatred, and she felt no apprehension at disobeying Him- in fact, she was going to do it on purpose, because He can go fuck Himself for not helping a helpless, desperate girl that was suffering right under His nose by His own men, especially when Laura had been such a devout Christian for so long.

1765 - Escape, start of the killings:

Laura broke out of the abbey in her wolf form, embracing her anger completely (for lack of any other emotion that served any purpose other than wanting to let herself die). She ventured out until she found civilization (eating a few travelers on the way), and found a young girl, Marie-Jeanne Valet, herding cows. She wanted to be discreet, but the reminder of her own human self (that she came to despise), and lunged at her. However Laura was driven off by the girl who managed to wound her with a homemade spear she was carrying to defend herself from the other wolf stalking the area (the same one that bit Laura). This drove Laura off, and what officially sparked the start of the hysteria.

Laura never transformed back into a human form for the duration of the terror. About a hundred deaths were attributed to her, but she killed way more in actuality.

In September 1765, Marie-Jeanne's recount of the attack and the subsequent hysteria reached the ears of the king, who sent one of his hunters, François Antoine, to kill the beast with his soldiers. However, they only killed the other werewolf in the area, which left Laura without a rival for food and did not stop the slaughter.

Battues and hunts were routine by now. Laura relished in outsmarting/overpowering each faction sent after her, starting to kill out of spite rather than food, picking off the weak and vulnerable and taunting the hunters by shrugging off their bullets like it was nothing, and her skin was starting to go from toughened to just impenetrable. Some preachers were talking about how the beast was a sign of the end of times, or how it's a punishment sent by God, and it made her so mad to be affiliated to Him that she ate those guys in broad daylight.

1767 - end of the terror:

This continued until the 19th of June 1767, when Jean Chastel took the head of a hunt for the beast, accompanied by a few men and their hounds.

It was three days of stalking and tracing, with a few bodies the beast left uneaten specifically to taunt them, until they stumbled on her in a clearing.

Laura mauled two of the hunters accompanying Chastel. Jean, however, had noted that normal weapons didn't seem to do much damage to it. So, a week prior, he had melted a silver medallion of the Virgin Mary into a mullet for his rifle. While the beast prepared to turn around and attack him, he cocked his rifle, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The bullet went through its left shoulder and out the chest; its howl resonated through the forest when it fell, and the hunting hounds were quick to attack as it limped off. Jean got a good look in the beast's eyes when he shot it, and familiarity washed over him- a feeling that would haunt him on his deathbed.

Laura, on the other hand, limped off into the forest and turned back into a woman for the first time in a couple years. Her heart had been shot out by the silver, and she was severely wounded; by all accounts she should've died, since silver is the one thing werewolves are weak to.

But somehow, she didn't, either out of sheer spite and stubbornness or because of a twisted joke by the universe.

Records of a "Laura Chastel" were scrapped from the archives on Jean's own request, likely out of guilt, and the more supernatural elements of the attacks were dismissed as rumors of scared, superstitious crowds.

1769 to 1995 - pre-Hellsing:

It took Laura over a year to properly recover her strength. This attack had not only done her body grievous damage, but also her psyche, at seeing her own father be the one to attempt and kill her- she already resented him, but it added a whole new layer of damage.

This also knocked her anger and arrogance down a couple of pegs. She had grown too greedy and reckless, and retaliation had been inevitable, which is a lesson she learned from that.

So, she grew more discreet and learned to be a proper wild animal - stay out of sight, snatch your prey, leave the area, stalk the shadows.

During the French Revolution, she recovered a lot of strength, due to eating and stealing the dumped bodies of those executed by the revolutionaries. She didn't care for the ideology or the impact on civilization at all, considering she grew to dislike humans and see them as her natural enemies/predators, but she did enjoy the chaos because it took any attention off her.

Her early years were more of her staying in the wilderness, only approaching humans either to eat, or to take her boredom off by seducing women - which she got better at doing overtime.

Late 19th and early 20th century she had started to come closer to civilization. She picked up a penchant for drinking, despite not being able to get drunk, and was often seen as a strange, shady homeless woman. In towns, she would pretend to be passed out in lone alleys to attract men and get a quick snack. She would also sometimes seduce women just to use their showers for warm water or get some clothes.

In ww2, she didn't do much out of her routine. During the invasion of France, she didn't care much for what was happening, but grew quite annoyed with the invading forces. She ate quite a lot of nazis, especially those camping in forest areas or those that came to bother her when she was in town, and made sure to avoid getting attention drawn to her. Most of the deaths were attributed to local resistance.

1995 - Battle against Alucard and invitation to Hellsing:

in the early spring of 1995, Laura had made the mistake of leaving the corpses of two British hikers in a place where they could be found, and another one of killing a Protestant pastor. The affair reached Hellsing, who saw the hints of possible supernatural threat in the case.

Alucard was sent to the town where the pastor had been killed, to investigate. Laura sensed the danger from miles away (a bit of a given, he has a freaky aura), and tried to lose him in the crowd. After failing and seeing him keep up the trial, she lured him out into the woods where they wouldn't be disturbed.

The fight started at around 11pm, in the middle of the woods. Laura knew he wasn't a normal person at first sight of course, but she didn't know the extent of Alucard's powers or of Hellsing at all. She had dealt with a few vampires that infringed on her territory already, but they were easy game, so she just opted to tear his head off and be done with it. Alucard, being the asshole gentleman he is, humored her and let her tear him to shreds to give her false hope and then reform as if nothing had happened. Laura was kinda freaked out by this when he did, but the shock quickly wore off because it just began to piss her off.

The real fight started when he pulled out the Casull. Laura knows silver is her weakness, and even if she grew somewhat of a mild resistance over the years she's not one to experiment. Alucard was starting to get interested after the first thirty minutes of her holding her own against him. He taunted her the entire time of course, but he grew more and more intrigued because of how fun she was to fight, and her abilities were obviously above any average werewolf. When she transformed, it was double the excitement because now he gets to brawl with a kaiju.

The fight went on for hours. Dawn was approaching when they were both starting to tire, and Alucard decided to end it. After many efforts, he aligned the gun and shot her straight in the heart, making her fall mid-attack and transform back into a human.

She was writhing in agony on the floor, literally clinging to life with teeth and nails, and Alucard started to approach her. He admitted to a good fight, and did his whole speech thing after he beats an opponent he likes, but his bravado was interrupted when she grabbed onto his leg to hoist herself up. He was surprised into silence for a moment, seeing the fire in her eyes, not only that but seeing her alive, because she's not going to get killed by this asshole, not now, not ever, and God help her if she allows him to harm her like this-

Alucard caught her when she lost consciousness, seeing her still not die despite the gaping hole where her heart should be. He pauses, and decides this is just too interesting an opportunity to pass up.

1995-1999 - pre-canon:

Laura woke up three days after in one of the guest bedrooms in the mansion, cleaned, tended and dressed in one of Alucard's shirts. Speaking of, he was sitting in the room waiting for her to wake up, like he did with Seras.

Laura was confused out of her mind, and thought she actually died because no fucking way. A brief verbal scuffle ensued (mostly on Laura's end), before he left the room to report to Integra, and also to tell her he drank Laura's blood to access her memories, just to make sure she wasn't affiliated with Millenium or anything related, considering the last time he saw a werewolf was the Captain, and instead found a goldmine of information on werewolves and the mystery of the beast of Gévaudan, and considered it would be a great new addition to Hellsing's arsenal. He had left Laura in the room alone, assuming she was too weak to do anything.

She wasn't, apparently, because Walter came in a dozen minutes later to say he had to wire her up after she tried to escape again and almost mauled one of the guards (but ultimately left no injury).

Integra was pissed, so she went to have a little chat. Laura said she'd comply if Walter and Alucard left, leaving them face to face.

Integra explained her situation, who she was and what was going to happen. Basically, Laura had two choices: either she joins and swears her civility in the organization, or Alucard finishes her off after they gather what information they need from her body. Laura was kind of pissed at being put between a rock and a hard place, but Integra also promised, if she were to choose the former and be obedient, to ensure her safety and protection, as well as feeding and clothing her. The added bonus that her bodily autonomy would be respected and that their rival is the Catholic Church is what tipped the scales.

Laura accepted to join, and a few weeks later she was assigned the role of a maid. Integra had to report her existence to her superiors, of course, but decided to keep her a secret from her enemies, so she gave her a seemingly inconspicuous position. It also helped because Laura, due to her trauma in the abbey, has trouble staying inside or being stuck in rooms without doing anything, and it occupies her because she's already pretty good at cooking and cleaning from helping her father out at his inn some two centuries ago. Integra had given her a small silver cross to wear, an artifact made by Van Helsing from melted medallions of St. Patrick, that acted as a much weaker version of Alucard's seals.

This was the start of her life at Hellsing, that she actually grew to somewhat appreciate because of not having to worry for survival every day. She started out as cold and hostile, but eventually allowed Integra and Walter to come a bit closer to her. She sees Walter as a pretty alright man since he knows not to push her and is very respectful, and she grew more and more intrigued by Integra as a person, which resulted in (quite unhealthy) romantic feelings towards her for the simple reason that Integra treats her as a living thing. The cross also became more of a decoration than anything over time.

She mostly takes care of the mansion, but sometimes can go out and decimate some ghouls for enrichment. Anyone that tries to break in and manages to get past the guards also finds themselves face to face with her.

By now she is only loyal to Integra (not even the organization, only because Integra is there) and obeys her because of her own willingness and feelings, and Walter is maybe her favorite coworker. She sees Alucard as a bothersome fellow fucked up creature, and still hasn't forgiven him for drinking her blood without her consent but overall tolerates him most of the time. Seras is a new addition; Laura sees her as a very naive and inexperienced girl, and maybe underestimates and infantilizes her a bit, but overall doesn't mind her presence. She despises the Iscariot with no exception, and Millenium by default.

That brings her to the current timeline, let's hope nothing bad happens.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

She Wasn't Sure She Believed Herself

Bleeding in Moonlight: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four |

CW: Werewolf whumpee, escaped whumpee with caretakers, referenced abuse, dehumanization by captors, and captivity

-

Anaya swayed lightly as she made her way up the steps. The front door to Vanessa’s house was painted the same deep shade of blue as the underside of the porch ceiling.

Between that and the fact that the porch was painted a flat and blinding white, Anaya felt a little like she was standing upside down in the ocean, a wave breaking beneath her and the depths of the ocean over her head. 

It was deeply disorienting.

Then again, maybe that was the sleep deprivation talking.

Every other house on the block was the same basic set of shades - gray house with black shutters, white house with gray shutters, pale yellow house with black shutters, another gray, a different white, light brown that was nearly beige, actual beige… Vanessa’s house, with all its dancing blues, had stood out like a beacon as soon as they turned onto the street. 

Eden was right behind her, one arm supporting Misae and his own eyes moving over the porch swing that moved gently in the wind. A small black cat sat on the swing, watching them with intense curiosity. Its tail flicked as it took in the sight of Misae. They’d managed to find an old hoodie of Eden’s and some of Anaya’s sweatpants for Misae to wear, and the boy looked absolutely swamped in the hoodie, hood pulled up to cover his face as much as he could and sleeves long enough to completely hide his hands. They couldn’t help his lack of shoes, but Anaya had managed to get some white socks on him and had decided to just hope for the best. He could limp, with support, and Eden had kept an arm around him, taking most of his weight as he slowly struggled up the steps. 

The boy’s face was white with pain, and his eyes kept dancing wildly trying to take in everything at once, but he stayed upright and he didn’t pass out again, so… Anaya called it a win.

“Why don’t you knock?” Anaya asked, nervously picking at her fingernails with her other hand, trying to calm her nerves. “You’re better at talking to people.”

“First off, that’s a gigantic lie. Secondly, she isn’t my friend,” Eden answered easily. This wasn’t the first time they’d had some version of a conversation like this one. She had the distinct sense that if he could, he would have shrugged. As it was, he was holding nearly all of Misae’s weight by now. “She’s your friend. You should knock.”

“I mean, I may have… I may have exaggerated how well I know her, a little bit?” Anaya found a bit of skin sticking out near her cuticle on her thumb and absently picked at it, staring down. “We just talk on the internet. I don’t even know exactly how old she is. I’ve never seen her face, and now I’m showing up with my boyfriend and a werewolf.”

“Hey. Look at me, baby.” She raised her eyes and found Eden smiling at her, weary but warm. She couldn’t help but smile back. “You’ve got a good sense for people, you always have. And you said she agreed to let us crash, right?”

“Yeah, she did. She said no problem, just…” Anaya looked over at Misae. “I might have not mentioned… him.”

The boy was staring at the cat now. The cat met his gaze with slitted pupils, ears slightly back, fur slightly raised. There was a flash of what might have been sharp teeth, the subtle whisper of a warning hiss.

Misae’s lips pulled back from his own teeth in tandem. 

Anaya stared with wide eyes as she realized his canine teeth were longer than they should be. When she looked down at his hands, she saw fingernails that stretched even as she looked at them, hardening into obvious claws even as his fingers started to thicken and turn blunt.

Was he... growing paws?

The cat turned and leaped gracefully up onto the railing and then down to the ground on the other side, disappearing in a flash around the side of the house. 

Anaya's eyes jumped back to Misae's face.

His lips were closed, and his hands had gone back to normal. Maybe she was imagining it?

“Maybe,” Eden suggested, tone irritatingly mild, “Maybe we all just stay calm and don’t bring the werewolf thing right off the bat.”

"... but did you just see-"

"Mmhmm. I know what I think I saw, anyway."

"You cannot possibly still not believe-"

“I didn’t say that I don’t believe it. Just, let’s not like fling that info around willy-nilly, Naya, yeah? And you, Misae, keep a hold on those teeth. We'll keep the wolf thing to ourselves for at least a little while. Besides, I flat out cannot drive anymore until we get some sleep. So…” Eden shifted a little and then gestured at the door. “Knock.”

Anaya took a deep breath, and turned around, stepping up to the door. Beneath her feet, a pale doormat read Welcome, witches and there was a sign hanging right at Anaya’s eye level: Live laugh lobotomize.

Right.

This was Vanessa. She had nothing to worry about.

Not that having nothing to worry about had ever once stopped Anaya from worrying. Camping had always been the only time she ever felt totally calm, and even that was a little ruined now. How many secret homes with hidden people kept like animals were there in the world, and she just didn't know about them?

The thought kept spinning circles when she tried not to think at all.

The door swung open just as Anaya's knuckles touched the door and she jerked her hand back in surprise. Behind her, Misae straightened a little, leaning against Eden while trying to look like he wasn’t hurt. His eyes kept shifting, as if he was trying to look everywhere all at once. 

God, they looked like such a mess. 

The wooden sign clacked as it swung forward and back, and Anaya’s first impression was of a pair of sparkling brown eyes. “I thought I heard voices,” Vanessa smiled. She was a tall, broad woman with a deep, melodic voice, totally unlike Anaya’s mental image of her. Her eyes matched her ponytail and she looked very much like every high school art teacher Anaya had ever imagined. Right down to the paint-splattered tunic and leggings. 

She took in the three of them in a moment, and then her smile widened and she stepped back and to the side. “Well, you’re clearly Anaya,” She continued. “It’s nice to see you in person for the first time. So, if you’re Anaya, then this must be the hottie boyfriend… Evan?”

“Eden,” Anaya corrected absently, still trying to connect this warm and soft woman standing before her with the acerbic, dryly sarcastic online voice she’d been chatting with for years. 

“Oh, right. Sorry, Eden.”

“That’s okay.” Eden shrugged, a shy smile playing around his lips, flushed a little still from hearing hottie probably. He was always weak to compliments. “Evan actually was on my shortlist for names, anyway, actually.”

“Oh, was it?” Vanessa’s eyebrow quirked up. “You’re not just saying that so I feel less like I just face planted into a mud puddle in public, are you?”

Oh, okay. Now that was the Vanessa that Anaya knew so well.

“Ha, no, it really was. But then I thought of Eden, and, well, I just… liked it better than all the others.”

“Well, I like Eden better, too. It fits - you’re clearly paradise on two legs.” Vanessa winked, and Eden turned tomato-red. Anaya felt herself nearly knocked over by a wave of something between her usual full-throated adoration of her awkward boyfriend's struggle to take a compliment and relief that things were going so well when she’d been so scared they wouldn’t. Vanessa laughed, her laugh as mellow as everything else about her appearance. “Seriously, though… come, come on in, all of you.”

Anaya’s pulse jackhammered in her throat and at her wrists as she stepped forward, moving from the sunset light outdoors into the darker house. The first thing she saw was a wall painted a beautiful deep evergreen, a wall of a dozen or so pieces of framed artwork that had every rainbow shade and probably a few colors Anaya had never even heard of. Side lamps were lit everywhere, and a ceiling fan turned lazily overhead. This looked like somebody's perfect cozy escape from the world.

Anaya wondered how it would feel, to have a home like this. Somewhere that you owned outright. She and Eden had always been renters, and half the time these days they lived out of Eden's car.

“So… there’s you two, and there’s also… who is this you have with you?” Vanessa asked, voice lilting just a little in curiosity. “A brother? Cousin? What’s your name, honey?”

Misae didn’t answer. His chin had lowered, even though his eyes were locked on Vanessa now, watching her every movement. 

Anaya cleared her throat. “This is… um, this is Misae. We… met him on the trip.”

“Oh, okay. I knew you were camping this weekend in Idaho, so… oh, that’s why you texted me for somewhere to stay? Because of meeting him?” 

“Yeah.” Anaya tried to keep her voice casual, unruffled. “He just needs a safe place, he, uh… He r-ran away from home.” It was close enough to true. Really it was true, she just… left out a few minor details. He was being hunted by a man with a gun and oh, hey, he also turns into a wolf. That’s not a problem, right? “I know I didn’t mention he was with us, and I'm so sorry. We will completely understand if you don’t want to deal with-”

“Hey, I didn’t say that.” Vanessa raised her hands, as though showing she was harmless. Or thought they were. “It’s definitely not a problem. I just wasn’t thinking about you needing more than bed. Seriously, it is no problem, I can blow up the air mattress for an extra bed.” 

“Okay, okay, thank you so much, Vanessa. We’ll just get settled, and if you could tell us where the shower is-“

“Oh, honey,” Vanessa interrupted. “Are you hurt?”

Anaya opened her mouth to reply, but realized Vanessa wasn't looking at her at all. Vanessa moved towards Misae, hands out.

To Anaya's horror, Misae recoiled, snarling with lips pulled back from his teeth, before he lost his balance, trying to catch himself and accidentally putting too much weight on his injured leg.

His knee buckled, and he went down hard, losing his balance with a high-pitched cry, somehow ending up turned around and falling right off the steps onto the stone path that led up to the porch.

He desperately grabbed at Eden's arm to try and catch himself and instead pulled Eden down with him.

Eden grunted when he landed hard on his left elbow, but he had the good luck of falling a little to the side and landing in the grass. Misae smacked down into concrete, catching himself with his hands but Anaya watched his ankle twist in the process.

His whine turned to whimpers, deeply canine. He hunched his shoulders and curled up, still snarling and making a sound somewhere between whimper and growl, and Anaya wondered if everything she hadn’t said about this strange boy was about to spill out anyway, whether she liked it or not.

When Vanessa took one more step forward, Misae snapped at her from where he lay, teeth clicking together sharply. His canines were growing again.

Anaya tried to think of an explanation - something logical that didn't involve breaking the news that at least one totally mythological creature had turned out to be absolutely real - but nothing came.

She only stared with her eyes and mouth both wide.

“Oh, shit,” Vanessa whispered. She didn't seem to have noticed Misae's teeth changing, and Anaya was hit with relief that cut as sharp as any knife. “Oh. I am so fucking sorry, I didn’t-... I didn’t mean-” She moved again, and Anaya caught her by one arm. Tears welled up in her eyes as she turned. “I swear, Anaya, I didn’t mean to scare him!”

“No, I know, he’s just… really jumpy about people who move too fast,” Anaya soothed, watching as Eden moved to Misae and murmured to him. The boy's expression gradually changed and he shook his head, eyes down and hair covering as much of his face as he could manage. At least he stopped making that face. Eden nodded, murmured something not quite audible in reply, and very slowly reached out. 

Misae sat back, holding his hands palms-up, letting Eden take them in his own hands to look them over. Blood welled where skin had been scraped away by catching himself when he fell. 

Misae looked up through the curtain of his messy hair, watching Eden's face. Anaya swallowed hard as she saw a spot of red where she knew the bandage was on Misae’s leg. Was that damn wound ever going to stop bleeding?

“He got used to getting hurt where he lived before,” Anaya said in a low voice, keeping her hand on Vanessa to keep her from potentially scaring the poor kid all over again. She told herself she wasn’t lying - those scars Misae was covered with, hidden thanks to Eden’s shirt and Anaya’s sweatpants, proved that pain had definitely been something Misae understood very well indeed. Maybe the only thing he seemed to understand. “It’s made him jumpy. Let’s, um, let’s go inside and then Eden and Misae can come in after us?”

Vanessa slowly nodded, reluctantly turning away. “Okay. I really am so sorry.”

“It’s totally fine,” Anaya said. She had no idea if it was fine or not. The words just came out automatically, an instinctive reply to try and soothe the unsettled air around them. “He’ll be okay. We’re just trying to get him far enough away that he feels safer.”

“Yeah. I can… I can see why.” Vanessa seemed to remember this was her house and straightened up a little. She shot one more hesitant glance over her shoulder, and then led Anaya through a small living room stuffed with too many hand-me-down couches draped in deep brick-red covers and throw pillows and blankets, into a small hallway with four doors. “So, we have… a linen closet, towels are in there-” She pointed at the first door. Then, across the hall, the bathroom with a tiny shower-bathtub, a toilet, and a sink and mirror. “My water heater isn’t great, but if your showers are fast they can be hot. Otherwise, you might have to settle for more or less warm. And here, right here-” She opened the last door on the left. “This is the guest bed. I’m sorry there isn’t more space-”

“It’s perfect,” Anaya said, forcing her voice to brighten up. Her mind wandered back to the boys outside. “We’ll get settled and get clean and then, if you don’t mind, we might just want to like… nap for a while.”

“Not a problem. I have some work to finish up, anyway.” Vanessa smiled, even as she still looked a little worried and guilty. “Any requests for supper? I’m afraid delivery in this neighborhood isn’t happening, but I’ve got some frozen pizzas and garlic bread, or I could make pasta and sauce, or… if anybody’s low carb, uh, I could run to the store for steak or something…”

Anaya thought of Misae’s thin face, wiry arms, knobby knees, the way his stomach pulled in too much, how he swam in clothes that shouldn't have been oversized. The way his eyes seemed to sink a little into his face. “Um… No, carbs are definitely a good idea. Pizzas?”

“Okay. I’ll get the oven preheating. You three just… you get settled. Let me know if there's anything you need or you can't find.” Vanessa disappeared back out the door and Anaya stepped further into the little room.

There was a side table with a little lamp and she switched it on, absently. It gave the little room, walls painted blue, a cozy glow. She dropped her backpack onto the fluffy oversized comforter - clearly made for a king-sized mattress but laid out over the queen-sized bed - and sat down, slowly leaning over with her hands over her face.

She was so tired.

At least Vanessa had been a lot less bothered by the sudden appearance of two disheveled adults and one teenager than Anaya had expected, but the last bit had clearly thrown that initial lack of bother away. Now they not only had a teenage runaway with them, he was visibly injured and he’d reacted to Vanessa attempting to touch him in a way that made it equally clear he hadn’t come from anywhere good. Plus, the noises he'd made, the way he snarled and snapped like an animal... If Vanessa got too curious, or decided to call the fucking cops... Anaya didn't know why exactly, but she knew that would end badly.

A throat cleared in the doorway and Anaya looked up. Eden stood there, smiling a little, Misae leaning against him again. The boy’s eyes darted around, never landing on any one place for long. He’d been limping before - now he was flat out hopping on one leg, using Eden to keep himself upright. His injured leg was pulled slightly up. 

“He’s okay,” Eden said, in a tone that said he was soothing them both. “Just a little scrape on the hands. I’ll get my kit from the car, we’ll get him a good shower and then I can bandage him up again.”

“Good.” Anaya breathed the word out. Even that felt like it took more energy than she really had left. She hadn’t realized how hard she was working to hold herself together until she didn’t really have to any longer. 

She wanted to sleep for a week.

Maybe a month.

But she’d settle for patting the bed next to her. “Misae, why don’t you just come over here and lay down for a minute with me, okay?”

Misae’s eyebrows briefly furrowed. He licked at his lips - something Anaya was realizing he did almost compulsively when nervous - and then slowly shook his head. “Not allowed,” He said, voice low. He sounded a little confused.

“What? Why? Because you’re bleeding?” 

Misae stared at her for a few long seconds, then shook his head again. “No. We're... not allowed on the furniture.”

Eden’s eyes closed, tightly, for just a second. Anaya watched a vague flush of anger move over his face and be just as quickly pressed down and done away with. She knew what she was seeing, though, and knew Eden would smile soft and sweet even as he turned that over and over in his mind all night long. The same way Anaya would.

Not allowed on the furniture because he's been treated like he’s a dog.

“Well, here you are allowed on the furniture, and I’m saying you should lay down on the bed and get the weight off that leg. Okay?” She patted the bed again. This time, Misae hesitantly nodded and let Eden support his slightly absurd little bunny-hops forward until they made it close enough for him to more collapse than lay down. Misae curled himself up as tightly as he could, arms tucked against his body and only his injured leg out straight, the other one curled with his knee nearly to his chest.

"Oh," He whispered, eyes wide.

Anaya blinked at the look of surprise on his face, and tilted her own head as she looked down at him, slipping a firm pillow beneath his head only for his eyes to widen even further. She fought back a faint smile, worried he might think she was mocking him. “What’s that look for?”

Misae swallowed, those strange golden-brown eyes shifting to meet hers. He returned her smile. “I didn’t know beds were so soft,” He explained. “I’ve never been in one.”

Anaya couldn’t think of a single thing she could possibly say to that.

Eden backed away from them. “I’ll go get our things from the car and then I’m just going to get right into the shower,” He said, voice tight and hard, and turned away, closing the door a little too hard behind him as he went. 

Misae winced when the door shut with a loud thunk, shifting until the top of his head just brushed against the side of Anaya’s leg. She let her hand drift down to run fingers through his hair like she had while Eden stitched him up in the car - oh god, that was less than twelve hours ago, somehow it felt like so much more time had passed than that - and the boy breathed out in something that seemed like pure pleasure, eyes fluttering shut. 

“He’s angry,” Misae said, voice low. Just above a whisper, a little hoarse. "At me."

“He's angry, but not at you," Anaya replied, shifting until her back was against the headboard, keeping her fingers sifting through soft strands. Her own eyes closed and she could feel her exhaustion weighing down every corner of her mind. “Definitely not at you. Just at… what it seems like life has been for you. It’s not going to be like that for you anymore, okay? We’ll figure out how to find some place better for you.”

Misae didn’t reply.

Anaya knew that he was silent, this time, not because he had nothing to say in response, but because he didn’t believe her. 

She wasn’t sure she believed herself.

-

@finder-of-rings @burtlederp @deluxewhump @scoundrelwithboba @shrimpwritings @yassifiedinformation @wildfaewhump @whatwhump @honeycollectswhump @tundra-tiger @dont-look-me-in-the-eye @there-will-always-be-blood

[fight-nights-at-freddys]

I just think its somewhat funny how Lily might avoid those two things because of a certain fanfiction thats out there

[whereserpentswalk]

There was a mermaid who had chosen to go onto land, who had given up her tail for legs, her fangs for square teeth, her feathery gills for pretty pink lungs. And she grew to regret it. She had fallen in love with a mortal man, and found him to be nothing but a fool.

She hadn't realized how diffenet her new body was. She knew she would have legs, she prepared for that, but she didn't prepare to really be a human woman. Her silver scales were now replaced with pale skin, which seemed so weak and easy to hurt to her, she felt flayed alive. She wasn't prepared to wear clothing on her body, which felt like being trapped in a net. And not to mention how slowly she moved, how strange and disturbing it was to not be able to swim miles and miles whenever she needed to, she was trapped in one little peice of the world.

Not to mention, she had to eat human food now, which was set on fire before it was served to her, and it was sometimes made of plants. She wanted to vomit just thinking about it, but her new body needed it to live, and she cried through every meal. And just as bad where her new reproductive organs, that were so much more complex, and bled for her constantly, and made it feel like she was always wounded.

The worst thing about her reproductive organs was how her husband treated them. She had fallen in love with him from the sea, watching him and knowing so little about his kind or his disposition. He wanted to mate nearly every night, but wanted no hatchinglings to come from it. And human mating itself was disgusting to her, instead of just laying eggs for him he'd somehow be inside her. She didn't want to imagine the details. She made excuses to keep him away, but she knew some day she would run out, and wept knowing it would happen.

Her husband was a strange human. She thought he was a prince when she watched him from the water but he had a diffrent title as a duke of some sort, bowing to a king on a different continent. She had seen him in uniform and thought him a hero, slaying dragons and orcs and devils and harpies and goblins and witches. But all the dragons and harpies had fled to the skies, and the goblins and orcs deep underground, and the devils and witches had gone into hiding. She saw him set fire to a witch once, she wasn't sure she was a witch though, but it wasn't brave, all she did was cry, he didn't fight her at all.

All her husband's wars were with other humans. Sometimes humans with diffrent flags who seemed the same as them. Sometimes humans who had been on the land longer then him, who his armies pushed further and further from the coast. Sometimes his own subjects, weeping and broken masses, people he hurt, those were the wars he won the most. She wanted to help him just to be with him, but she learned human women weren't allowed to fight. So when he was at war he was away, and when he wasn't all he talked about was war, and money, and the awful things he wanted to do with her.

She expected to be his wife in a way she wasn't. She learned human wives were treated like children to their husbands, that they had to obey them, that he could yell and her and hurt her just like he did his servents. She learned he was able to yell at his servents, she was allowed to too but she didn't. She learned things she had to do, she had to become civilized, whatever it meant to be civilized. She wasn't allowed to go outside the palace, not alone. And she wasn't allowed to pray to the gods of the deep, she had to pray to the one god of the humans, a bleeding god on a torture device, a sad god, a weak god.

There was one final night when her husband tried to force her to mate with him, more forcefully then he ever had before. He hit her. And though she didn't have fangs anymore she bit him so hard he bled. He tried to restrain her, to undress her, to undress himself. She ripped off the part of his body he tried to pit inside her. And she thought it so strange, how blood looks on land, flowing to the bottom as opposed to floating away.

She walked to the water after that. And slowly walked in, losing herself in the waves. Some people think she became a mermaid again, and that she's safe in her kingdom in the deep. But others think she walked into the water knowing she'd stay a human, and let the ocean filling her lungs set her free.

[daflangstlairde-art]

"she's broken but she's fun" 6,432 words

Part 1 of ocean depths

Work Summary:

It's you. You are the nothing. You need him. You need him because he completes you. Of course he's all your messed up brain can latch onto — he's the most potent thing you've encountered, so in a way, it’s like he’s the only real thing. He's the only solid, clear thing, and you need something to grasp and hold onto. You couldn't grow numb to him even if you wanted to. Nightmare says “Kill.” and you kill. — Killer has issues — he can't really feel emotions. Nightmare finds him and takes advantage of that to recruit him. (Or: Killer and Nightmare waltz along the line between what's abuse and what isn't)

Credits, warnings and additional info on ao3.

—

Boredom. 

Violent, devouring boredom. An ouroboros of boredom — when there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire, that type of boredom. 

The type of boredom born from countless, countless repetitions of the exact same day. Every little detail discovered and examined and chewed to death. Everything always the same, and always horrible, until none of it mattered. That type of boredom.

You know. The 'finally say yes to that demon after 176 refusals' boredom. The 'kill everyone just once, just to feel something' boredom. The 'it's not just once that you kill them' boredom. 

In fact, you kill them all again, and again, and again. Until you've squeezed every last drop of the guilt, of the pain, of the grief, of the delight, of the high. 

You're no different than that flower. You're no different than that kid. 

You're only different from yourself, now. No longer “Sans”, no longer “Frisk” or “Chara”. No longer monster, no longer human. You're not both, but you're not exactly neither. Schrödinger’s cat eats cake. 

No, you're... you're something else. You're something new. The only new thing at this point, really, your world desolate by your own hand.

The only thing you can feel is the scorching of determination that engulfs your soul now, making it impossible to fit within your body. 

And now you sit alone, in a barren inn that your friends used to visit. You've killed them all. Multiple times. Only emptiness remains. Emptiness of emptiness of emptiness. Until the knife twisting in your hands presses just a little deeper into your fingertips and you yearn. 

You may be empty inside, but you're still alive, and so the fights were the most exciting thing. With your determination dragging you around like a corpse on a string, still kinetic but no longer any sort of living, you're not afraid to get hurt anymore. You're something much different than simply afraid. 

You're something else.

You're something new. 

“You're perfect,” he croons, and you didn't register him appearing. Otherwise he would've been profusely stabbed, hah. 

But you register it now. The exhale of... despair. Hopelessness and pain and all things nightmarish, sticking to your metaphorical skin and sinking deep, deep into it. It feels quite literally lethal.

But feelings are a distant thing for you. A faded polaroid, a legend from a time passed.

Feelings are like... floating amidst an endless, dark, icy ocean. Pressure aching, choking and suffocating you; intermixed with sensory-depriving weightlessness. Buried and untethered at the same time. And feelings were like reaching up, upwards. Towards those tiny flickers against the ocean’s surface. 

Distant, foggy light dancing. Unable to be caught. Unable to be pinned down. So very far away. The promise of warmth, but none exists. It's just the endless cold. It's just the endless void. Devouring.

It’s just darkness in your vision, leaking like you're crying, a mockery to the fact that you lost that ability a while ago. He is covered in darkness. It wafts cold despair-terror-awfulness.

He...

...He is the leviathan that drags you down, lower, towards those darker, yet darker depths. Tendrils wrapping around your being and whispering no escape, none, it's just this, it's always been this and it always will be. 

And he's right. Everything always the same, and always horrible, until none of it matters. You've known this. 

Join me, the darkness whispers, as he holds out a hand for you to shake. Be mine. Be claimed. Be something.

“There's other ones like you,” he says, and it... mildly fascinates you. That is a feeling. That is more than nothing. Even shallow, minute interest is more than the all-consuming nothing. And anyway, you've done worse for less. 

His hand burns yours when you shake it. It's sharp and potent, a sudden shock to your numb body. It nicks some unimportant HP — it's really just a warning, that a single touch could kill you if the intent is there.

It's not especially hard, the decision to shake his hand and accept. To embrace the dark depths until the light disappears entirely. To be claimed. 

To be made into something. This is more than nothing. This is something. 

Something... new. 

—

“You said they’re like me,” Killer said, voice low. 

Nightmare barely regarded him. “They are.”

“...You’re a liar, then, huh?” 

Now, Nightmare paused. Whenever his eyes would land on Killer, it felt like being in the sights of a predator, cold and bloody. Nightmare was a fun guy like that.

“Watch how you speak to me.” he spoke calmly, with authority, in a way that promised danger. His voice always had this deeper, reverberating quality to it. Dark depths. Like an endless tomb. How edgy.

Killer huffed an empty laugh. “They’re nothing like me,” 

“Dust” one was called, and “Horror” the other. They were still acclimating to not being Sans. 

Killer didn’t have such problems. Killer hadn't been that Sans for... heh. Haha. Maybe never. Sans would never become him. 

“They come from disgusting holes of despair,” Nightmare said, the way one would describe a kindergarten. “They’re violent and unstable, distorted freaks. By their own definition, they are scum. They are just like you.”

They were nothing like him. 

They felt. They cared. 

Dust was a violent fucker, one of those ambush predators. With him, you don’t even get to scream. It was always a sudden snap, the way he murdered. 

Horror was ready to kill for his own preservation. He salivated at the sight of blood and guts. 

But...

—

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry, you wouldn't understand I’m so sorry I, I had to–” 

Killer flicked on the light switch. Which barely did anything — the castle was way too dim even during the day, much more during the night. Or “night”. Time was weird here.

...

Yep. There Dust was. Curled up in the corner, clutching his head in the midst of a breakdown. Muttering to himself obsessively, or maybe the voices in his head, hah. 

Crying. 

His fit was interrupted by Killer’s appearance, sharply cut with a pause. His eye lights having snapped to Killer’s face. Blue and red in a clashing purple mix, bright like nothing natural. 

“Whoops, thought this was the garbage disposal room,” Killer chuckled, turning off the light. The way Dust’s eye lights remained vibrant in it could be called bone-chilling, hah.

He left.

—

Nightmare gave them simple tasks. They were just supposed to run around and screw people over, really. Ruin their day. If possible — their life. It was novel enough, the first couple of times.

The only thing Killer watched be ruined was Horror’s composure. Right. He's the one who hasn't murdered his own beloved brother in cold blood about a couple hundred times. 

In fact, Horror seemed to be devastated at this Papyrus’ expression to their destruction. Eyes guttered out dark and everything. 

Killer finished off the problem with a single barrage of attack. 

“Careful the boss doesn't catch you slackin’!” Killer hollered at the other, cheerfully indifferent, before moving on from the whole scene. He was bored. He was bored. 

People are so predictable in their pain. This had to be enough for whatever Nightmare wanted, right? Killer needed something else to do. 

—

They were nothing like Killer. Killer felt regret and pain only to be delighted by it. Killer couldn’t care less about... anyone, really.

The only thing he could grasp in his hands was–

—

–slammed into the dining table so hard the thing cracked in the middle, except he didn't sense any of it because pain whited out his consciousness for several solid moments. 

Killer couldn't quite hear anything past the sudden ringing drowning out his hearing. It was his face that took the damage, and as his shaking hands pushed him up, hot and sticky liquid streamed down. Dripping onto the pieces of the table, wooden splinters clattering quietly against the floor. The room was huge, as were all rooms in the castle, so it was enough to echo. 

“Echoo,” Killer whispered. He'd excuse himself that his brain was weird from pain, except this is just how he was all the time now.

Drip drop. 

Black and red. Marring his vision. Dripping against the ground. 

It hurt so bad it made his head spin, like the worst migraine. Pounding and difficult to think through. 

He could take it. His soul wasn't quite his anymore, and it didn't have permission to shatter, so he would take it. Whether he wanted to or not. Funny how things keep ending up this way. Always reaching dead ends, hah. 

He barely had time to blink away the liquids clouding his vision, hand coming away from his face coated in the black and red. Smelling of iron and hate. He barely had time until the tentacle was around his ankle with that telltale icy burn, and yanked him off his feet, slamming him into the opposite wall so hard Killer cried out. 

He collapsed down on the floor, breath knocked out of his metaphorical lungs. The stone behind him unscatched, but he was anything but. His spine hurt in a way that sent pain through his shoulders and down his arms, through his hips and down his legs. 

He tried to inhale but choked on his own blood and that black despair. It turned into coughs. Or maybe he was laughing. He couldn't stop smiling. It's not funny. It's hilarious. 

“Quit laughing, you braindead lunatic.” Nightmare snarled, still pissed at him. “You cost us that entire mission!” 

“Riighhtt,” Killer kept laughing, pain hot and buzzing on his face and skittering along his bruised spine. He could taste his own blood, how pleasant. 

Nightmare acted all high and mighty compared to them. He was immortal and ancient, or something, Killer didn't particularly care. 

Killer was an annoying insect compared to him. Oh but how good he was at being annoying. It was one of his most entertaining qualities, really, giving the Player just the tiniest details to obsess over. Using his final move in the big fight to stall (until his stamina, inevitably, depleted and betrayed him).

And he was so good at getting under Nightmare’s skin. Haha, get it? Skin? 

Killer kept laughing, even as a tentacle grasped him by the throat and lifted him. Whatever that hateful liquid covering the non-skeleton was, it always hurt so bad. Not quite like an acid, maybe like something alkaline instead? Like the way frostbite starts to burn when it's deeply sunken in.

Hopefully he would be feeling it for days afterwards, this time. 

—

“...I’m not sorry.” Horror stated, not looking at him. Just clutching the heavy kitchen knife in hand, not even chopping up the... whatever he was chopping there, some sort of vegetable. There was almost a growl to the statement, like Killer would attack him for it. Maybe he would. Maybe Nightmare would snap his hand off for that, but then how would Killer be his right hand man, haha?

“Didn't think you were,” Killer replied easily. 

“You freaks may be fine killing your own brothers, but I’m not,” Horror snarled, shoulders hunched in a way that puffed his hood fluff. Haha. Like an angry kitten. 

“That wasn't your brother,” Killer shrugged, leaning back in his chair. He didn't particularly care for the other residents, but the likelihood of being entertained in company rather than in solitude was higher. 

He liked getting a rise out of them. 

“Doesn't matter,” Horror snapped with the loud thunk of the kitchen knife being sunk scarily deep into the cutting board. Splintered wood. His hand clutching the handle tightly. “How can you look at him and–” 

“Oh I can,” Killer’s grin stretched, hands in his pockets, feet on the table. “And it's easy, don't worry, I can teach you, I’ll go real slow next–” 

The chair clattered as he leaped out of it to dodge the massive cleaver. It slammed against the stone wall hard enough to embed itself in it. Impressive. 

That would've been his face. Shame. 

“You gotta try a little harder than that, bud,” Killer teased, watching in delight as the red of Horror’s single eye blazed. 

—

This grand castle may be grand, but it sure was empty, too. Winding halls of cold, dark stone, even the smallest sounds echoing, barely obstructed by the dark carpeting. Big, cold rooms, unused and void of comfort. A 'Welcome!' doormat would get up and leave.

Pretty consistent aesthetic, yeah, but it was so... empty. It was nothing. It was painfully understimulating. 

Killer was strolling through the hallways again. Looking for something to do. Hands itching with the craving for something. Anything. 

...Hyperventilation. Someone was hyperventilating. Well, it was easy to guess who. 

Killer rounded the corner aaand yup. Bingo. 

Dust half curled against the wall, having one of his rare mental breakdowns. Again. It was very funny the way he could switch from lunacy, to utter flatness, to a nervous collapse. 

He was hunched over his hands, shaking. Killer couldn't quite see from here, but he was pretty sure there was dust on his hands. Haha. Dust on Dust’s hands. Hilarious. 

The poor sucker probably just touched one of the "decorations" along the hallways or something. Killer was starting to think Nightmare kept it so dusty on purpose at this point. That wouldn't surprise him.

Welp. This was as good as anything. Killer approached, Dust’s half conversation becoming a bit more audible as the distance between them shortened. 

“N-no no, I didn't–” a pause, just shaking, “–h-hah, right, you're right, y-you’re always right you're right I’m so sorry–” 

“Eh, don't sweat it,” Killer waved a hand like the words had anything at all to do with him. Dust’s face snapped towards him. Still shaking. 

“...Get it? Sweat?” Killer pointed out. He was hit with the sudden urge to groan and beat his head into the wall with how empty that joke was. It wasn't funny. It wasn't anything.

Nothing was anything. 

He was going to kill for something to just be mildly interesting. 

(...Haha, get it? Kill? How hilarious. He should try offing himself as a reward.)

“...You’re right,” Dust said numbly, and Killer got the impression that wasn't for him either. 

“Dunno about you but I'm actually ambidextrous,” he joked, and it was so– so– he wanted to scream with how uninteresting and unfunny it was. Nothing was anything. He chuckled.

“...What?”

“Ambidextrous? Both hands?” Killer did a little jazz hands, then returned them to his pockets as always. 

The silence stretched. It's like it echoed off the walls because something had to, and it sure wasn't going to be noise. 

It was so empty. Everything was so goddamn empty all the time. Killer itched to destroy it all and himself right alongside it. At least that would feel like something.

“...I’m... left-handed,” Dust said quietly. 

I don't care. I don't care about you. I don't care about any of you. I don't care about anything.

“Yep. I hear that's the trend these days,”

“...”

Killer turned around to leave. This conversation was nothing. Everything was nothing. 

(For some reason, soundlessly, Dust followed him.)

—

Killer flinched away from the hand. Nightmare paused, looking at him like he was something lowly. 

“Don't move.” he commanded. 

Killer’s body was trembling. He was pressed against the wall. His bones rattled, cold sweat down his neck. And yet, he grinned. He always grinned. 

He couldn't press himself any further against the wall. He could try fighting back. He could try teleporting away. 

He didn't. 

Instead, he gritted his teeth as the cold, cold hand grasped at– at his soul.

His soul. His being. His self. Sensitive and vulnerable and distorted. Fluttery like a heartbeat. His hands shook. 

It was pure sensation, pure instinct that was blaring alarms and screaming inside of him, to GET AWAY, FIGHT BACK, RUN AWAY. Screeching in fear and wrongness and pain and despair and everything awful. 

Nightmare was squeezing. It didn't burn now, how interesting, but it wasn't any better at all. He stared directly into Killer’s dead eyes. He was too close. Killer’s entire being was screaming at him to get away. He felt like collapsing. 

Here's the fun thing about Nightmare: he wasn't a “Sans” either, not quite. Not quite a skeleton. He was a couple hundred years old and a "guardian of negativity"... or something. Killer didn't know why negativity would need guarding, but sure, whatever gets that paycheck. 

That is to say — he had some fun, unique abilities. 

Like metaphorically shoving feelings directly down Killer’s throat. 

It's like he’d taken a syringe filled with a concoction of every horrid feeling and injected it directly into Killer’s soul. His essence. And now it all coursed through his blood. 

He was in the ocean. He was so cold it was burning him alive. He was so heavy he felt like collapsing. He was untethered and unstable. The pressure felt like his head was exploding. His metaphorical lugs were collapsing with the suffocation. 

He was thrashing inside the water. Hand stretched up towards where he thought he may have seen distant light before. 

It was a memory. It was wrong. It was dead. 

Tendrils of darkness lashed around his ankles, around his thighs and his waist. Around his ribcage and his wrists. Around his neck. Around his face. 

He clawed at the hateful things. Pure instinct, the self trying to persevere. Fear slamming into you again and again and again and again and it's never going to stop make it stop–

You are choking on your despair. You are cold and hopeless. You are burning and terrified. You have never felt worse. 

— 

The floor is cold. Everything is cold and dusty. It's all dead and empty. You don't even bother with the bed, just on the floor, leaned against the frame. There is no comfort to be found here. 

The room is dark, because everything is dark around here. Your eyes are closed, but it wouldn't make much of a difference if they were open. 

There’s no knock at your door. It’s just the crack of dim light that enters from behind you. 

“...There’s food,” Horror states. 

“Great,” you reply, still not moving from your balled up position on the floor. 

“You haven’t eaten,” Horror states. You wonder why he cares so much about that, though it isn’t hard to guess, considering his past. 

“We can’t die in here,” you remind him. Not until Nightmare deems it right, at least.

Horror growls, and now he strides into your room. Grabs you by the hood and just starts dragging you along towards the kitchen — he doesn’t even bother with the dining room, too lazy for it. Though it’s not like the kitchen lacks space. 

You consider protesting. Your entire body hurts like one big bruise. You’ll be feeling it for a bit of time. Less, if you eat. You’d prefer not to eat. Horror won’t let that slide though, and you can’t be bothered to resist a whole lot. You just chuckle.

The kitchen smelled... pleasant, actually. Vegetables and meat, broth? Killer was lifted and shoved onto a chair. Dust was already there, sipping on some soup of his own. He glanced at Killer, but said nothing, and his expression was unreadable. 

Soon as Horror lets you go, you slump in your seat. Everything hurts. At least it’s something. At least it’s something. Nightmare is kind like that.

You’re served soup. Vegetables and meat and broth. It’s still warm, even. 

“Eat.” Horror demands. You’re not scared of him. You’re not scared of anything. 

...Well. You’re scared of one thing, but he’s not in the room. Shame. 

You lift your tired hand to take the spoon, swirling the broth with circular motions. It smells nice. It’s weird to have actual, decent food after countless repetitions of nothing. You gave up on food a while ago. Not much point to it. 

But this smells good. Salty and rich. Your metaphorical stomach twists. Hunger is a sensation, and so is satisfying it. 

“How can you cook?” you ask, “Weren’t you in a famine?” 

Horror grins sharp and mean, “Recipes become fancy fairytales,” he gives you, pouring soup for himself as well. He eats like a starved man. Probably because he is.

“Why not just cook for yourself?”

“Shut the hell up and eat your soup,” 

You huff, and pick up the spoon with some soup. 

The taste is nice. It’s strong, salty, spices lingering. The vegetables are soft, and the meat is thoroughly cooked and tender. It was warm in Killer's mouth and as it spread through his system. The ache all over his body eased a bit by it. He’d miss it, but he can’t be all too upset by the pleasantness of the soup. 

Horror watches both of the other two like a hawk, ensuring neither avoid the food in any way. 

—

Killer didn’t care much for training. It’s boring. At least when he was solo. 

However, it was more fun with the other two. Dust was the one to instigate it this time, always looking to be at the top of his game when it comes to his magic abilities. Killer liked interrupting it with an Encounter, dragging Horror into it if possible, until he’s changed the mood enough to get them to have fun. 

Bones and knives and blasts hurled back and forth across the training space, the sting of minor wounds. Energy thrumming from the light competition, teasing and quipping back and forth, movement warm and energy rushing. It’s fun. Killer was having fun. Laughing and kind of enjoying being in the others’ company. Certainly better than the emptiness of everything else. 

It's one of the few, rare activities of theirs that felt companionable.

Nightmare’s appearance was, like always, a cold wash over the room. A sudden sinking of terror and displeasure in your soul. Impossible to skip over or brush aside. 

“Hee-he-heyy Night!” Killer greeted easily with a laugh, earning a shove from Dust. Those two tended to quiet down whenever Nightmare would pop up. 

“What are you all doing?” Nightmare demanded flatly, regarding them. 

“Training! Don’t you want us in tip-top shape to wreak havoc or whatever?” Killer replied, twirling his knife. Dust and Horror also preferred to keep their distance from Nightmare.

Killer didn’t do that. Killer always inched towards him. It made him feel like the fleshy, vulnerable hand reaching for the scorching flames. Nightmare meant rage and pain and terror. Just his presence was enough to make it skitter over Killer’s system, a potent concoction of suffering. It was like a drug. 

“Keep that cheer down.” Nightmare was unaffected by his attitude. 

“Awww you know we’d never replace you Mr. Grinch,” Killer said and Horror elbowed him. 

“Shut it.” Nightmare was as icy as ever. Killer wanted to make him burn the same way Nightmare did to him. 

—

Killer couldn’t say he was pleased to be woken up in the middle of the night, but it didn’t particularly matter. He blinked into the darkness, trying to orient himself, to identify what woke him up. 

A sliver of dark light from the doorway. Poisonous purple. Just standing there.

“...The hell you want?” Killer mumbled, yawning. He wondered if Dust was craving violence and that’s why he was here. The guy always exuded violent intent, so it wasn’t very easy to discern. 

Instead of answering, Dust just entered, closing the door behind him. Walking towards Killer’s bed. Footsteps quiet, slippers dragging against the frayed carpet. 

“...You don’t care, right?” Dust said into the hush, instead of, you know, answering like a normal person. 

“Not really,” Killer shrugged, though he didn’t even know if Dust could see it in the dark of night. He didn’t have glowing eye lights like the other two.

It was just his soul. 

“Great. Move,” Dust urged him, standing at Killer’s bedside. “Horror will bite my head off if I woke him up.” 

Killer lifted his brow bones, snorting. “I’m not getting up,” 

“I didn’t say get up, I said move,” Dust corrected flatly. 

Killer blinked at the darkness. Staring back at the glowing eye lights piercing it. 

“You want to...?”

Dust shuffled, and Killer watched the dark outline of his hand come up to hold that red scarf he always wore. Hunching his shoulders. Glancing away. 

“...They’re quieter when there’s someone else around.” Dust admitted quietly. Killer considered making fun of him for it — judging by the tone, Dust was ready to dust him if he caught anything mean in his reply. 

Shame, since Killer didn’t reply. Just shuffled to make space, grumbling about “If you steal my blanket I’m kicking you out,” 

Dust stared for a moment longer, expression unreadable. Well, more than usual. He was always hard to read. 

“...Thanks,” he replied, quiet. Killer didn’t bother trying to care about his tone, just yawned again. Before he went back to sleep, he felt the bed dip, and the presence of a boney body next to him. 

—

It became a thing. Killer forced Dust to bring his own damn blanket. 

—

“Maybe you were right,” Nightmare considered with that reverberating hum, standing above him. Tentacles holding Killer down, merciless, scorching.

“Yeah– I have– that tendency,” Killer choked out against the tendril squeezing his throat. It felt like a brand, like near-melting hot iron. He wished he could turn to the side to cough out the blood in his mouth. It tasted gross and he kept choking on it. 

Nightmare chuckled, though it didn’t sound all too nice. It never did. But hey, at least Killer was amusing. His tentacles weren’t yet squeezing Killer’s limbs to a breaking point, just holding them at threatening bends. As always, his mere presence washing Killer in a cocktail of fear-panic-devastation-hatred-etc-etc.

“You are different to the other two,” Nightmare kept speaking, a bit like Killer wasn’t even there. “They’re...” he tsked. 

“They care,” Killer agreed with him. 

“They hope,” Nightmare amended. “It’s natural for their souls, I suppose, they are made of it after all. But you,” his grin stretched, pressing Killer harder against the ground. Tentacles slowly restricting more, increasing the ache on Killer’s joints until it was pain, until he couldn’t help but wince and grind his teeth. 

“What– I’m hhngh– hopeless?” Killer kindly finished for him. 

“Yeess,” Nightmare purred. “You’re so chock full of despair, your senses for anything else are atrophied. Your suffering defines you. You breathe negativity, Killer,” Nightmare spoke low, gaze dark. In all its hate, it always felt loving. 

Killer loved him. He loved him in the way love is LOVE is Level of Violence is DT. And Nightmare was violence incarnate. 

Killer knew he would be the most loyal to Nightmare out of them all. Dust and Horror cared, they had values, they had something which could deviate. Killer didn’t. All Killer had was this — the hunger, the craving, the sharp zing of pain through his entirety. Enamored like a moth to a flame, except a moth was ignorant of what the flame would do to it. Killer knew exactly how much Nightmare could ruin him.

Nightmare knew exactly where Killer belonged — here, on the ground, bleeding and sweating with terror and pain. Grinning all the way through it. 

“You are a ruin.” Nightmare revelled, a tendril curling around Killer’s exposed soul, sending an immediate, almost intimate shock through his system. Making Killer whine and writhe and dig his heels into the ground, but all his limbs were tightly, painfully restrained, and he had no hope of fighting against it. Nightmare was stronger than him, more than him in every conceivable way, really. 

Killer instinctively cried out as his soul was squeezed, mortal discomfort clawing through him. It always felt like dipping his essence directly into molten iron, whenever Nightmare got a hold of it. Nightmare knew that. He squeezed harder.

Black tears built in Killer’s eye sockets, streaming down over his face. 

It was a horrible, abysmal feeling that Nightmare always managed to stuff into his bone marrow. It was overwhelming and violently painful. 

It was... so much. It was so, so far from nothing. 

That is exactly what Killer came to him for, after all. 

“You’re perfect.” 

—

You were seeking them out to curb the boredom yet again. But you pause as you overhear them talking, and you're pretty sure you heard your name somewhere in there. The door isn't closed all the way. 

Of course you're going to eavesdrop. And you don't feel shame, because that'd necessitate you feel something. Nightmare’s castle and all its exuded negativity covers up the natural aura of your soul, so they keep talking, unaware of your presence. 

“–makes me uncomfortable,” low, rough. 

“...Me too.” restrained, poised. 

“I mean, even when he came up to me with his damn offer, I fought back,” 

“Yeah. Asked what the hell is going on,”

“Yeah! But he just–” 

“...I think he does it in his own way. Fighting back.”

“You think or you hope?” 

A pause. 

“...He did... agree... to join that wretched demon.” quieter, strained. "So. Hell if I know."

“Don't get all mighty, you're not much better,” growled. “Neither of you are saints.”

“None of us are,” defensive.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” flippant.

A pause. The silence tense and cold. 

“...Still. He never... you know. Not with you and me, not– like that. He isn't nice but– It's just Killer,” back to strained, poised. Like a coiled spring, set back but ready to snap at any moment. Toxic purple. 

“...Yeah.” scratchy, red. “But there's... nothing we can change about it. Believe me, I wish there was.” 

“...”

“I don't like it either. Now shut up before it bites you in the ass.” 

When you walk in, you act like you heard none of that. You announce yourself as cheery as ever. It's not hard. You don't feel touched or upset or offended. You don't feel anything. 

(They fought back, when Nightmare came to them. 

They demanded answers, when Nightmare came to them. 

You didn't. So this is your own doing, anyway. You agreed to it. Just like you struck that deal with the devil. That was your choice too. Those were your consequences to bear. It's no different now. You shook Nightmare’s hand; you gave your soul away, because it's apparently just something you do now. Twice makes a pattern.

It was so easy to agree. 

You suppose it's just who you are now. You agree to things like this. 'No' is no longer in you. 

Pathetic.)

—

So maybe Killer was obsessed with Nightmare.

So maybe he found himself thinking, more and more, what would Nightmare think? What is Nightmare up to? What would Nightmare say? 

Not as any sort of moral guide or whatever, hah. Morals, imagine that. No; it was just... 

Nightmare was so, so good at shoving away the numbness. The emptiness. Nightmare was terror and hate and fury and misery and agony, he was so much more compared to the nothing. 

It's you. You are the nothing. You need him. You need him because he completes you. Of course he's all your messed up brain can latch onto — he's the most potent thing you've encountered, so in a way, it’s like he’s the only real thing. He's the only solid, clear thing, and you need something to grasp and hold onto. You couldn't grow numb to him even if you wanted to. 

Nightmare says “Kill.” and you kill.

(Though interestingly enough, he doesn't say that one particularly much. Prefers to keep people alive to siphon negativity out of them. That's fine — you don't need a command to do that one and to enjoy it.)

Nightmare says “Kneel.” and you kneel. Nightmare says “Scream.” and you scream. Nightmare says–

“Insubordination is punishable.” in that deep, deep voice, the depths of the ocean, cold and reverberating and deadly. 

“I'm not doing that!” Horror snarled, defiant. Morals. How hilarious. “You can get either of these two sickos to kill Papyrus, why in the hell does it have to be me?” he growled, teeth bared in a malicious grin. Hands twitching at his sides, itching to grip a weapon. Killer could practically see, in his eyes, the desire to rip Nightmare apart. As if. 

Nightmare tsked, always so unaffected by them. Always high and mighty. 

“Because,” he spoke slowly, and it's like dangerous intent was bouncing off the walls, though there wasn't even a minute tremble to his tone. “I ordered you to.” 

“I am–!” 

“Killer.” 

You stand at attention, easy, grinning. 

“You can handle this one, can't you?” Nightmare doesn't even look at you as he implies the command, and you don't need it. Without hesitation, you lunge at Horror, knife already summoned in your hand. You don't pay mind to the... expression, that Horror gives you.

You're stronger than him. Of course you are. 

“Killer– what the hell are–?!” Horror snarls, dodging and ducking and dodging again from your merciless slashes. You're faster than him, too. Determination is good for stamina in that way. 

“You heard the boss!” you say cheerfully even as you maim him relentlessly. “We don't do insubordination ‘round here!” 

(Later, you turn it around and around in your head. You wonder why Horror would be shocked, betrayed even, by your actions. You wonder what he expected. You wonder why. 

You don't care about them, after all. They should know this.)

—

They all had their quirks. Killer wasn't one to judge. He was, once, maybe, but honestly, he lost that right a while ago. 

Like this! 

He trailed his fingertips over the deep bite marks on the wooden spoon. Or, the half of it that he picked up off the floor. He poked the jagged splinters from where a solid snap of teeth must've severed it. Fun. 

He tossed it behind him. Let Horror deal with his own mess. 

That wouldn't be happening now, however. ‘Cause said mess included Horror slumped down, back against the cabinets, curled up and gnawing on wood like a feral animal. Sick and delusional with hunger, by the looks of it. Not uncommon.

Killer rolled his eyes, snorting. He strode over to the pantry, opening up the door. 

Everything around here tasted moderately stale, and some of it tended to go bad, but by some miracle, there was food. Probably because Nightmare didn't want them magicless and energy-less.

He grabbed a half full bag of sliced bread, turned around, and promptly chucked it directly at Horror’s head. 

The dumbass barely even dodged, and Killer burst out laughing. 

“What the FUCK was–?!” Horror snarled like a wild animal, teeth bared in a bloody grin, waving the bread at Killer like he was gonna hit him with it, the whole shebang. And then he paused. Looked at what he was holding. Processed it. 

“Diets don't look very good on you baby, you're all bones,” Killer joked, cackling as he left the room, as Horror ripped open the packeting to eat.

—

“...You awake?” 

Killer groaned into the darkness. Dust usually just laid down next to him and let him sleep, but apparently he was feeling chatty tonight. 

Welp. To be fair, Killer was awake. And he was bored. Better conversation than not.

“Unfortunately,” he grumbled, rolling on his back. 

And even though Dust was the one to initiate, there was no response. He just rolled on his back too. They stared up at the dark ceiling, not even really seeing anything. The brightest things remained Dust’s eyes and Killer’s ever exposed soul. 

“What are you hallucinating this time?” Killer asked, because again, booredd. Better conversation than not.

“...I’m not, actually,” Dust said. 

“What, you just wanted to wake me up to bug me? Felt lonely?” Killer chuckled, glancing at him. 

Dust turned his head to the side, those bright glowing eye lights pinned on Killer. His expression wasn't visible in the dark of night. 

It was dark. It was quiet. It was cold. Same old, same old. 

“...You know he doesn't love you, right?” Dust’s voice was barely above the quiet, and yet all too loud compared to it. “I don't think he even can.” 

Silence. 

Killer’s exhale shook. 

It turned into a snort, into a chortle, into a chuckle. It grew until he was laughing against the backdrop of midnight.

Because Killer was many things! Someone who said 'yes' to horrible offers. Someone who couldn't care even when he wanted to, and frequently couldn't even want to. Someone who was so deeply ruined the Lord of Negativity called him perfect. He couldn't call himself a tragedy because at least in a tragedy, there is beauty, there is meaning, there may even be catharsis. 

But Killer wasn't an idiot. 

Of course he knew that.

—

“What do you want,” Nightmare regards you as always, that is to say, he barely regards you at all. You found him in the grand library, that is to say, he allowed you to find him. 

“Please,” you breathe out. 

Nightmare turns a page, unconcerned. 

“That's not an answer,” he says. He loves to humiliate you. He loves to feel superior you. 

“I can't feel anything.” you state. 

It's cold. It's so, so cold. It's numbing.

It's a yawning chasm inside you. It's a black hole. Nothing survives there, nothing even exists. Not just the positive ones; the negative ones slip through your fingers just as well. They're just vague impressions, something you theoretically know existed once but doesn't anymore. Like seeing a silhouette in the corner of your eye but when you look at it directly it was never there in the first place. The negative ones are, at least, easier to remember than the positive. They're possible to recall.

You physically cannot imagine the positive ones. It's like being suddenly blind. The sheer concept of them is foreign to you, you cannot even trace the shapes. An atrophied muscle, necrosis.

So here you are,

“Please.” 

The black hole burns with its ice, it devours you, right in the middle of your chest. Your heart is a gangrenous thing. 

Nightmare sighs, like you are bothersome. Closes his book and places it aside. 

“What do you want?” he demands again, and it's a kindness. 

“I don't care,” you say. “Anything, just– anything.” 

You'd cheer for your limbs being torn apart if it meant feeling something. 

Tendrils crawl over you, mean and scorching, and you are roughly shoved to your knees. A blank canvas begging to be covered in black.

Nightmare is the only one who can do this for you. He's the only thing you care about, because he's the only thing you can care about. 

[worst-mother-throwdown]

BRACKET 1

Semifinals

TW: child abuse, manipulation, torture, murder, mass murder, child abandonment

Shadow Weaver propaganda

Titania propaganda