#;; BUTCHER ;; self ; visage.

[h-a-unted]

Mandatory Butchie gif because look at how Butcher stares at Hughie, I'm—! That man is down bad crying at the gym.

[brightblessed-aa]

relaxation for roi?

[orqheuss]

Stamped on these lifeless things

(Human!Alastor meets Demon!Alastor - A character study)

Summary:

Its lips curled, revealing gum in a daunting sneer. “How could I be anyone else?” Clenching Alastor’s hand again, it pulled him closer until they were nearly touching noses. Its breath smelled like carnage. He was helpless under its gaze, stuck staring into its eyes as they shifted into what looked like radio dials. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw its antlers growing again. “I’m you.” *** With his final moments quickly drawing near, something approaches Alastor that has him questioning everything.

Word count: 3.9k

Tags: Blood, Gore, Discussions of murder, Discussions of abuse (child and spousal), Mentions of cannibalism, Religious themes, Character death, Morally grey characters, (possible) hallucinations, Death by animal

A/N: Based on a TikTok I saw by @domdrawsanimation about Human Alastor meeting his demon self.

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley

The dogs were coming for him. 

He could hear their constant howls, snarling teeth nipping at the wind whistling through the trees and at the skin of his ankles as he ran faster than he had ever run before. Tree branches whipped against his face, neck, arms, any inch of skin they could reach, dripping his blood against the cold, unforgiving forest floor like he had done to so many before under his knife. The rush of the water to his right laughed at his panic, jovially wishing for his demise after all the horror it had seen. The willow trees mourned for the bodies that had been piled against their roots. It was only fair that he would die in the place where he felt that he truly lived, deep within the forest he deemed his personal hunting ground of all things living. A selfish creature in all aspects of his life, even in the choice of souls taken. Ridding the world of what he saw as filth was well and good until he found solace in the act of bloodshed. Until he felt the warmth of his first victim under his hands as he squeezed the life from another. Until he saw the face of his father in the eyes of his dead. Selflessness only went so far; it did not condone brutality in the name of righteousness. 

He believed himself something reverent before this night— untouchable by the unseen forces of the universe. Vermillion chested like a cardinal against the first snow of winter, and canines sharp like the ridges on his blade. Not a soul dared walk the streets at night, lest they fall victim to the Bayou Butcher. Little did the people of New Orleans know, the Butcher only hunted the most vile beasts— too hideous for even the wilds of nature to swallow. 

Monsters who hurt for money.

Monsters who hurt for power. 

Monsters who hurt for fun. 

It could be construed that he would fall under the latter category— the hunt was exhilarating, and the flesh between his teeth more bewitching than like anything before. He took joy in their pleas for mercy; pleas that they had heard many times before from the mouths of their loved ones. Loved ones who walked around town with makeup caked on their faces, hiding the evidence from the world like they should be ashamed of the behavior. Like they were at fault for all this wretched chaos. It was pleasure turning in his gut at night, the thought of warm ichor pouring from between his fingertips like a soothing balm— aloe against his scorched and blistered hand after his father held it over a burner. It was personal for him. Personal in all ways something could be deemed personal. 

He believed himself holy. Sacred. Divine. At his knife fell multitudes of souls, undeserving of mercy far past their last breath and deep into the putrid hereafter. They did not get a heaven. If it was up to him, they would not get a hell, either. They would float, stagnant, undeserving of pity, in the darkest pit of the metaphysical. 

Too devilish for heaven. 

Too cruel for hell. 

Too important for purgatory. 

A secret fourth thing of his own creation. 

His high horse carried him up and down the streets, its skeleton legs strutting against the cobblestone paths and puffs of hedonistic smoke cascading from its barren skull, for he was death incarnate. Holy sacraments overflowing with his name grew inside of his chest and bloomed out of his ribs like the thorny spires of a bramble bush, its bittersweet fruit growing in the cavity where his mother carved out his heart and took it to her grave. 

He didn’t need a heart anyway. What was love to a god? 

What was a god to a murderer?

What was a murderer to a man? 

What was a man to a god?

Now, that was the question under all of this— these lifeless things at his feet— the steps to his savage throne. 

What, truly, was the life of a man to the whim of a god? 

But, of course, he was no more a god than a raindrop was a flood. In the end, he was hardly even a man, just a soul with something to prove to no one else but himself, paving a path to his own downfall. The path had to end eventually. 

It ended in a clearing of trees. 

His feet left skid marks in the once untouched earth as he stopped, breaths panting heavily from his chest and hands resting on his knees. His lungs heaved for air, somehow gaining none of it even when surrounded by the purest form of oxygen. It was only a matter of time before the dogs caught up to him— the stench of blood heady and thick on his clothes. Where he once found a sick comfort in the copper was now nothing but regret. 

It was only fair that the tragic hero of this sick fairytale had his moment of revelation near the end of the story. 

In this moment of clarity, he chastised himself for being so careless. It was newly spring— a new hunting season for those who did not fear the bayou. Curse him for believing he would still be safe within the trees while staring directly at their flowering leaves. Of course there would be others in his woods; he did not truly own them, after all. Public ground attracts the public, and while the Bayou Butcher made his claim on the land, that did not stop the fearless from traversing the haunted landscape. He racked his brain for a solution, anything that would get him away from the metaphorical pit he was edging closer to and closer to the solace of his home. There was nothing in his brain besides the desire to flee, and the hope of survival. His breaths were shaky when he finally stood from his laurels, the coolness of the night nearly turning it to vapors before his eyes. If he could see it, that is. His glasses had long ago fallen from his face, leaving the world around him nothing but a hazy blur of greens and the blackness of true night. He couldn’t go back for them, even if there was a chance that they were still intact. It didn’t matter, anyway. He was trapped at the moment— nothing around him but empty air and the brush of trees. No sights to be seen before him. No warmth to be felt against his chilled skin. No weapon to his name. No way to defend himself against a force stronger than his will to live. 

And how he wanted to live. 

He was not a religious man, no matter how much he pretended he was for his mothers sake. But, for the first time in a while, he considered prayer. 

Alastor.

The wind whispered his name, the syllables like ice against the back of his neck. He whipped his head around, head nearly tumbling from his shoulders at the owlish-ness of the behavior, eyes wide and searching for the source of the voice. Finding nothing around, he focused again on thinking of a way out of the situation he placed himself in. 

“Alastor!” 

It was hissed this time— a snake in the tall grass of his backyard. This was not the wind, there was no mistaking it. Someone knew his name. Someone was speaking to him. Someone saw what he had done.

Fear clouded his better judgment, releasing his voice from the confines of where it had been lodged under his quaking jaw. “Who’s there?” 

A shiver inducing chuckle seemed to fill the space around him, drowning out any and all sounds other than the sickeningly malicious voice. “Take a guess.” 

Petrifying terror filled his veins like never before. Was it his time? Was this a divine intervention? “God?” 

The leaves shook for him as another laugh was released into the air. “Oh, no. He doesn’t make house calls.” The mysterious voice paused. Alastor could hear its smile everywhere. “Not for sinners like you, at least.” 

Anger festered in his gut at the teasing lilt. It was a struggle to not shout into the night. “What do you want from me?” 

The voice got louder now— closer. Radio static blended with each word, and the hairs on his neck stood at attention. “Everything,” it said. “And also nothing.” 

Alastor growled, hackles raised like an animal cornered. “What are you playing at? Why are you here?” 

“Ah, that’s the word. ‘Playing.’” It came from his right this time. He flung his neck in the direction, ignoring the sting it caused in his muscles. There was nothing but darkness among the thick trunks of the trees. 

Then, the voice came from his left. His neck cracked against the velocity of his movement. “Playing is often associated with games. Would you say we’re playing a game?” 

Alastor’s anger grew stronger, fire burning in his blind eyes. “No, this isn’t a game! Tell me who you are!” 

He could hear a quick swishing through the leaves as the mystery person ran through the thicket. They— it— moved at inhuman speeds. No dog could run that fast; no bird could fly at that speed. The smell of fear-drenched sweat permeated the copse. He remembered something that he had read in a book once, long before he decided to try his hand at hunting humans. Animals can smell fear. Even though this was definitely not an animal, it was worth every penny to try his damndest and seem strong— resolute. Nothing could truly frighten him. At least, that’s how he tried to look on the outside; there were other emotional tells than his body language. 

The thing seemed to go even faster now, laughing at the panic shimmering in Alastor’s eyes— mocking him for his desire to know who, or what, he was dealing with. Its terrible, scattered cackle was coming from all directions. This couldn’t be a human, there was no possible way. But, if it wasn’t human, then what was it? 

No, Alastor said to himself. This has to be human. There’s no other possible answer. 

Now was not the time to lose his sanity. 

He tried to hold onto logic for as long as it would allow, his nails digging into the solid base of fact and truth before it could be ripped away from his clutches.

But, there was no logical explanation for this. Logic was not his friend anymore. 

“No, I suppose there isn’t time for a game right now.” 

It sounded like it was coming from directly in front of him. Or behind him. Or to his left, or his right. It was everywhere. It was nowhere. It was somehow all of the above. 

“They’re close now, you know. It would be best to run.” 

Alastor didn’t need to be told twice. With all the strength left in his boneless legs, he bounded for the outskirts of the circle, intent on getting away from whatever the hell was with him. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t good. He was not one to believe in anything spiritual before, besides a small dabble into voodoo on occasion, but if he made it out of here alive tonight he would hold a new respect for everything of the sort. 

Too bad he wasn’t getting out of there alive. 

As soon as he crossed the treeline, an imaginary force pushed him back into the clearing. Alastor landed hard on his back, sending a new tremor of pain through his body. He hissed at the spasm that shocked up his spine. 

The voice laughed again, getting more deranged by the minute. 

Terror bubbled in his stomach when he realized that it was beginning to sound familiar. 

He stood from the ground, pushing all of his weight onto the fronts of his feet in case he got another moment to run. As of now, he was truly cornered. Something shimmered along his path of escape, the material giving the black night a starry quality. Whatever this being was, it had some form of magic, and it was toying with him. 

Alastor summoned every ounce of bravado he had left in his trembling body, determined to remain brave and undaunted until the very end. He was the Bayou Butcher. He didn’t get scared. Gods did not fear gods. 

But, something whispered in his mind. You are not a  g o d.

Shoulders squared, he shouted into the night. “Enough games! Tell me who you are before I gut you like a fish.” 

A screech of feedback assaulted his ears. He pressed his hands desperately to the sides of his head, gritting his teeth at the pain spiking through his brain. Wind whipped at his face, pushing his fringe into his already semi-blind eyes and stinging the cuts lining his cheeks. Before him, a shadow emerged from the darkness of the forest, its form nothing more than a trick of the light but still tall and imposing. It was taller than a redwood, the silhouette of a person taking shape before his very eyes. Antlers stretched from what Alastor assumed was its head, each piece of blackened ivory reminding him of the mangled tree branch outside his childhood bedroom window. Long claws grew from its hands, each sharp and pointed perfectly for slaughter. The most horrible thing was its mouth. Wide and stretched across its face in a smile, teeth bared and serrated— like taking damascus steel to a whetstone. Alarm bells rang frantically in his head. Horror cowered in his eyes. It loomed closer to Alastor, towering over his shaking form. 

This thing was a nightmare, and he was in its domain. 

Then, as if nothing more than an illusion, it shrunk. 

In front of Alastor now, instead of the colossus demon that once was there, was now a form quite close to his own height. Everything about it was the same besides the size. It still stood quite close to him— if they both reached out a hand they would touch fingertips. It was lanky in shape, thin arms and legs bracketed by a slim waist and wide shoulders. Its hands, if they could be called hands, were clasped behind his back, its spine straight and taut with tension. Somehow, the smile it was sporting was much more menacing at this size. 

It chuckled darkly, reaching a hand outwards and presenting it like a handshake. “Shake my hand, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.” 

It was a terrible decision— the farthest thing from wise than Alastor had been in quite some time. But, my God, he was scared. It was such an encompassing feeling, like spiders crawling across his skin, scratching at his scars until they reopened and biting at his skin until it was red and blistered. He could feel the cold touch of his father closing in on his neck, ready to squeeze the life from his tiny body before doing the same to his mother in the other room. He hadn’t been older than twelve when he committed his first murder. Memories flashed across his mind like a moving picture show, and if he had the strength to push them away he would do it in a heartbeat. 

His hand was clasped in the shadow’s before he realized what he had done. 

The thing squeezed tight to him, holding on like it was the last thing it would ever do before cackling once more into the night. Alastor struggled against its hold, but all of his efforts were futile. It was not budging. Color began to bleed through its form, starting from the large, red ears atop its head and moving downwards quickly. Everything about it was red and black. Red eyes with red pupils. Red and black hair. Red suit, not much unlike his own. Red nails digging into the skin of his hand and refusing to let go. Its voice began to take on a more static quality, the frequency buzzing in the air and filling Alastor’s ears to the point of flinching. It grated on all of his nerves. The more that was revealed of the thing before him, the more he realized that it was a man. The beings eyes were trained on his own, staring him down like a predator hunting the best possible game. The demon, because that’s what it was, he realized, drank in his obvious fear like the richest wine money can buy. 

Its voice was no longer warbled when it finally spoke, a transatlantic accent heavy in its words. “Hello, Alastor. Pleasure to be finally meeting you, quite the pleasure.” 

Alastor stared into the red abyss of its eyes, refusing to blink lest it bite off his head with its ravenous yellow teeth. “What are you? Who are you?” 

It tutted, squeezing his hand tighter in its vice grip. “Oh, come now, Alastor. Surely you’ve realized who I am by now! I remember being so much more observant at this age.” 

The air around him screeched to a halt. 

No. 

No. 

All of the blood in Alastor’s body fled from his head and pooled in his feet, the limbs feeling like lead had been injected directly into his bloodstream. His mouth had the distinct taste of bile and dread. He wanted to hurl himself to the ground, let the earth swallow him whole and never let him dig his way back to the surface. He wanted to hunch over and expel everything from his stomach until he was nothing but bone and skin and ligaments. He wanted to do anything to get his damn body to MOVE. Everything in him prayed to the Fates that what was hinted at wasn’t true. This couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be. 

Alas, the Fates had never been kind to him before; why would they start now?

Anguish clouded over his expression, a plea dripping from his lips like the moon bled across the night sky. “Please, no…” 

The demon stretched his smile ruefully, each point on its elongated teeth catching on what light remained above. “Yes.” 

Its lips curled, revealing gum in a daunting sneer. “How could I be anyone else?” 

Clenching Alastor’s hand again, it pulled him closer until they were nearly touching noses. Its breath smelled like carnage. He was helpless under its gaze, stuck staring into its eyes as they shifted into what looked like radio dials. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw its antlers growing again. 

“I’m you.” 

It finally released him, then, shoving him into the dirt and glaring down at him with malice in its eyes. Blood began to drip from the corner of its stretched lips. Alastor could do nothing but stare. 

“I’m only going to say this once, so listen carefully.” It said, wiping its hand against the front of its blazer before tucking both behind his back again. Its ears twitched atop its head. 

“I am you. You are me. This is what lives inside of you— what you will become quite soon—”

“No—”

“DO NOT—” It moved with that inhuman speed again, leaning down until it was eye level with him and grabbing his jaw in its claws. “Interrupt me.” It snarled— animalistic— feral. 

“I don’t remember being such a sniveling welp. Accept the truth, Alastor. I am as much of you as you are of you— we are two sides to the same, sadistic coin. The sooner you accept this fact, the sooner you can achieve your full potential in the afterlife.” His smile somehow became more ferocious. “And you will achieve it. I am the best you will ever be. Your puny murders on this plain are nothing compared to what I have done in the depths of hell. People will fear your name like never before, and you will relish in it.”

It released Alastor roughly, standing back to its full height and leering down at him. 

“I have come only to give you a taste for what’s to come. This was for my enjoyment, not as a warning. Do not get this twisted. My reasons are my own; you will come to realize that soon enough. Even still, this was quite enjoyable, I assure you.” 

Alastor attempted to find his voice again, his words leaking out feebly and choppy with fright. “You— you aren’t real. You can’t be real.” 

It chuckled to itself, looking down at him with something almost akin to pity. “Real or not real, you are seeing me now, you have seen me before, and you will see me again.” 

Flashes of red hair and yellowed teeth scream across his memory— things that his mother told him were just nightmares— things that hid in his closet or under his bed. He shivered. It has been with him for quite some time. 

A thin microphone appeared in the demon’s hand seemingly out of thin air, and with a swish of the stick green magic began to buzz around its form. It smiled down at him, one last time, and for the first time Alastor realized that its grin actually met its eyes for once. True, demented happiness buzzed in the air with its residual radio static. 

“That’s all the time I have, I’m afraid. I will be seeing you very soon, Alastor.” It paused, glee dancing in its eyes. “Or, more accurately, you’ll be seeing me.” 

With its final words, the demon vanished once again into a mass of shadow. Its form breathed through the air, bringing back the soft spring wind and the sound of cicadas chirping through the night. Even the trees seemed relieved to have the demon gone, like nature sighed with relief after being trapped for so long. Everything seemed to be back in balance at last. 

Alastor released the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

He could only revel in his own relief for a moment before the sound of a twig snapping drew his attention to something moving in front of him. Where the demon was once standing was now the hazy image of a prowling dog, haunches raised and ready to attack. An aching dread curled around his ribs at the sight. His heart leapt into his throat. The animal's teeth were bared at him, eyes narrowed and twitching with each step closer. The smallest pink hue could be seen against its teeth— flesh, as Alastor quickly came to realize. Fear squeezed at his throat once again, and his mind ran wild. 

Please no, it can’t end like this.

I’ll do better. I’ll be better. 

God don’t let me die like this. 

I don’t want to die.

Mama, help me.

I’m so scared, mama. 

And then the dog leaped.

Like what you read? Here's more!

[dojimakaichou]

@stingslikeabee continuation of x.

★. ―

Daigo sucked in a breath when Melissa reached for the hand he had respectfully withdrawn. It shook faintly as she brought it to her cheek. At first contact with the witch's skin, he drew it away slightly ― as if to suggest that he still didn't believe this wasn't a mistake or in anticipation that she would flinch away. Melissa remained steadfast, however, and inevitably Daigo's palm settled back. He admired the cool temperature of her flesh.

Gently, the creature's fingers explored the side of her face. His thumb briefly traced the edge of her nose and then ghosted down over her lips. Daigo slowly mapped out the details of Melissa's features, and he realized as he did that his initial greeting stood firm. She was indeed beautiful. The large, coarse hand set ever so lightly on the witch moved toward the base of her skull next, exploring her lengthy, silken hair. Its texture seemed to pique Daigo's curiosity : he ran several strands through his digits, marveling at how thick and lush it was. He could see that it was dark.

While Daigo learned about his strange visitor's appearance, his own face seemed to soften. The harsh lines in it eased, and he even took a half - step toward her. His ears picked up her breathing, which was notably calm in his presence ; the smell of her perfume came to his nose. He was fine to simply take her in for a moment, allow each of his senses to investigate her, and listen to what she said.

Daigo tiled his head thoughtfully at the mention of other humans and humans with gifts. He thought he saw them from time to time : when he plucked at the webs in the earth to find his bearings, occasionally a person's appearance would come back to him with almost forceful strength . . . and they were different. Like the butcher who was kind enough to sell him suspicious quantities of raw meat regularly, whose smile was full of too many teeth. Daigo discovered these last few years that this was another of his abilities ― that he could see beings on the earth for what they truly were even when no one else could. He taught himself not to react to it, but it was because of this that Melissa's insight didn't startle him as much as it once may have. Daigo wondered what the witch would look like to him, were they both to have their feet firmly planted on old and rich black soil.

( He possessed no way of knowing then, of course, that she would be the most beautiful thing he ever saw. )

Melissa's explanation, though, made Daigo freeze. His hand cupped her face, fingertips twined in her hair and the heel of his palm at the edge of her jaw. The creature could tell that Melissa believed what she said. Her conviction was plain, as was the depth of emotion behind every word. These statements were not paltry by any means ; they were real, defining truths that her very life was anchored to.

' I AM FAR FROM A MIRACLE, ' Daigo argued, stare downcast. ' AT BEST, I AM AN ABOMINATION. ONE OF THREE. I APPRECIATE YOUR VISIONS, MELISSA, BUT . . . I AM NOT WORTH IT. ' He repeated the same sentiment. That self - loathing was protective, and Daigo held to it firmly.

The creature pulled his hand away from her visage. Their conversation made him feel anxious and afraid, like an animal trapped in a corner. Daigo forgot that Melissa might be able to feel this with him, forgot that his other fingers were around hers. He had such a fearsome urge to itch. What he really was wanted to escape this body desperately. It churned up his insides and threatened to crawl out of his throat to the point that he raised his claws and dug them into the flesh of his neck. Without thinking about his audience, Daigo raked them downward with a whimper, hoping to peel away this ill - fitting body. The result was a ghastly mess. As the creature removed his sharp weaponry, his healing factor took over ; the torn ribbons of skin knitted itself back together. All that was left was the smear of fresh blood that he wiped onto the front of his garments.

With a last pang of resentment, Daigo completely separated from Melissa. He snaked a hand under the edge of his shirt to scratch fruitlessly, clicking softly. It was clear, no matter what he said, that he was not healthy : an overly - agitated spider with too little nourishment and no way to properly molt in an environment that didn't suit it. Couldn't suit it.

[joannasteez]

"𝙞𝙢 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪" - 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙣𝙚

eventual mother’s milk x reader

if this doesn’t get posted now, no one will probably ever see this… hopefully posting it will give me the push to continue, finish and maybe even add more to it than I already have…

‘The Reserve' is an illusion, a vanity shaped dream for the self proclaimed movers and shakers. For those who believe themselves to be more illustrious than their bathroom-in-kitchen apartments allow. But even a partial step into 'The Reserve' would clue in even the naivest of individuals of otherwise, that such claimed glory is really just some poor desperate bastards attempt at a pseudo heaven on earth. 'The Reserve' is ugly, its sunny gold pillars rusted to a seedy brown reeking of greed and low cunning.

And God…

…The walls, old lavish embroidery marred and greyed by nasty streaks of some indiscernible substance. The air is thick as well, but that shouldn't be a surprise, strengthened every minute it seemed by some nose curling pungency. Sweat, alcohol, and the dry crusted salty tears of some long ago killed ambition. The only thing 'The Reserve' is good for is its symbolism, sitting so uncomfortably at the edge of Downtown Brooklyn, it's weak and feeble visage living in the shadow of the city's sacred Vought Tower. Its an unwritten thing, wholly for the sake of sugarcoating ego, a communal experience even, for the drunk regulars and D to Z listing super-abled to stand together in a pathetic formation of reverence from their lowly place to watch The Homelander take to the skies.

You hate 'The Reserve' but you also work at 'The Reserve' because it pays well enough as a side hustle and mixing drinks is great tension relief from a nine to five that consist of talking through the life shattering trauma of being a collateral damage survivor with adolescent youth.

It's quite the shitty silver-lining, having to constantly entertain and serve, pouring into the anger and failure of dozens of overgrown children who lack all charm and the means to be even slightly personable. Who, in the eyes of all that is commercially holy and capitalistic, were just never profitable enough. They were not the proclaimed gods among men they were poisoned and promised to be. They just couldn't fucking hack it. But at least you made enough to cover a months worth of groceries in one night and a steadily growing record collection.

"A double of tha' cheap russian shite you lot water down so much yeah".

Its push and pull, the harsh tugging outward motion of an ocean current , a very visceral spine tingling nagging of something creepy and bitter like disgust or malcontent even. Before the inevitable, gentler pull in of intrigue. Billy Butcher is something of an unstoppable force, a train wreck of anger and charisma swaddled in a harsh cockney accent and even harsher words and deeds. Everything about him is war, all blood and destruction. The cracking of bones and the splitting of deep, and what you thought untouchable, nerve. He's horrible, but then again 'The Reserve' attracts all the ugliness of the city, even when that ugliness is owned by a not so ugly face.

"If it's so shit, why do you always drink it?"

He's smirking that smirk that makes your well crafted, personable, customer service nature quell, shrivel and nearly die. Nothing good ever came of smirks like those, lopsided and daring.  "I don't know, something about the little bird who serves it to me. She just makes it all the more delicious".

The most you can muster at the moment is an eye roll, opting to address the rest of the very dangerous bunch. A more genuine smile appearing, warm and delighted.

"Frenchie, always a pleasure, even when you're giving Travis Bickle".

He smiles, amused at the reference. "The pleasure is all mine mon amie".

And then with the excitement of a newly unsheltered child, a woman, cute as a button really, waves your way with dainty but red raw battered knuckles. 'A supe', instinct tells you, but as you smile, waving back with matching enthusiasm, you come to the conclusion that you may be wrong. That the light in her eyes, the unmitigated eagerness of the moment, is far too bright for any super abled person to have so intrinsically.

You'd must've forgotten how odd this bunch truly were, not having seen them for some time, especially now coming to rest a bit of a scrutinizing gaze on the next one.

He's tall and lanky with a forced relaxed disposition about him. He's used to this, places like this, like 'The Reserve', but still the tiniest inconvenience could make his own patience stretch beyond wear and snap. Split and break, and now he's back to where he hates to be, helpless. He reminds you of the kids in the support group, the older ones, still scarred and scared but trying desperately to show otherwise. God its the way he fidgets just the slightest, like he's in his own body but with new skin, trying hard to get comfortable.

"And you must be Butchers newest exploit, please blink twice if you need help", you say.

You're joking, really you are, but you're not. It's something like second nature to dote a bit over the younger ones.

"I- .... ", he's unsure of just how serious you may actually be and its no fault of his own, you've practiced quite the serious face, one of motherly concern that seems to make him repel more than anything. Interesting. "Oh, you're not joking- I", he tries again.

Butcher pats his back. "Thats alright Hughie.... she's just takin the piss is all".

Hughie sighs. Exhausted already, but it's only midnight, and knowing butcher, the night hasn't even started yet. "Can I just get a beer?", he asks, seeming resigned now to whatever will come from now till the end of the night.

"And something sweet for mon coeur please",  Frenchie adds.

You crack Hughie's beer open, sliding it to him before pouring out Butcher's double, but you're not so ready to give him his drink.  Wary of what even a little dose could do for his destructive nature. "No bullshit tonight, I mean it Butcher", and he's rolling his eyes, like he isn't responsible for generally wreaking havoc wherever he goes. "Last time you were here I had a patron get sent to the ER for head trauma".

His warm fingers slip over your unsure ones, taking hold of the slender glass to knock back the liquid with nothing short of delight. Sarcasm dripping cooly once he's done. "I'll behave mum, I swear".

You take his promise with a grain of salt, opting instead to ignore the beginnings of a new nagging feeling by mixing the sweet citrusy cocktail Frenchie had asked for. This creeping thing though, at the base of your nape felt less like mild disgust and more like an un-quelled curiosity. Eyes darting every so often to the lowly lit entrance before they scattered, with an eager quickness that was rather embarrassing, to the other corners of the establishment. If Butcher and Frenchie were present, and generally tamed from mischief, then he wasn't too far behind right? A balmy rush unfurled its way from your gut to the tips of your ears at the anticipation alone, and you'd be lying if you'd tried to convince yourself you didn't know why. He just had that way about him, and it forcefully lulled you in, a bit straight laced air to him but the sensibility was all there, and not to mention the man was fine as hell-

"He's outside taking a call".

Cleaning cocktail glasses has become a point of interest as you feel The Frenchman's sweet clever eyes nail you to where you stand.

"I don't know what you mean".

He scoffs. "Please, you're not the only one with eyes and good observation skills mon amie".

And he's right, it wouldn't take a genius to realize the very apparent attraction you have for a certain member of the infamous group, but whether he notices it or not is the real issue. You don't have much time to truly mull it over though because he's swaggering through the entrance and up to the bar to meet 'the boys' in a matter of seconds. Those seconds being the duration of time in which you short circuit before pulling it together and crafting the greatest nuanced expression possible. A little nonchalance, followed by well placed hints of allure did the trick in most cases. It made most men hesitate, and Marvin wasn't an exception.

You're cleaning the glasses still with a little less impatience and a little more fluidity. Grace. Eyes traveling up and down the distance of his physique, or of what you can see at least. "Can I get you anything?"

It's appropriate for the moment, but theirs a slight inflection to suggest otherwise.

He clears his throat feeling the burdening gaze of his friends, Butcher and Frenchie specifically, their looks of knowing, and squares away the beginning of a thrumming in his blood.

He looks to Hughie's bottle and gestures toward it. "I'll have what the kid is having".

It stings, and it takes a bit more than usual for him to shake it off. When you hand off the beer without another glance, slipping away to take care of another patron, something in his gut tightens. A bristling of bitter smoldering heat, and Marvin knows what it is, in the safety of his own quiet thoughts he's felt it more times than he can stand to admit. Like that one instance, a rare but vivid moment in his memory, Butcher had said something racy but your usual disgust wasn't there. You'd actually laughed and got all cheesy when Billy slapped on that shit eating grin. It was the same feeling now as it was then, and it was green and ugly, making his jaw tick but its there all the same.

Its only the seriousness of the mission that gets him out of it, that and the beer and he's back to thinking of other things.

Leave it to Frenchie though to reel him right back in.

"So", he starts, "When are you going to take that gigantic stick out of your ass and talk to her eh?"

"I don't know if you're too high off the ket to notice Frenchie but were on the job".

"Fuck you I'm sober". And he'd been sober for months, all the boys knew it, but what would his relationship with Marvin be if they didn't exchange some form of below the belt insult. Frenchie knew better than anyone what inner conflict felt like, how it wore so heavy on the shoulder, in the face of such evident but leery romance. "Mmmm, but play makes working all the more fun no? How long will she give u the eyes before you finally indulge her?"

"I don't know what you're talkin' about".

'Found a little love and thinks he's fucking cupid', Marvin thought. Stealing a swift glance at the bar, at you.

It's Butchers turn then to be annoying, to deliver that shit eating grin he loves so much, the one that irks Marvin to no end, but now more than usual because Butcher's just as quick and discerning as Frenchie. "Frenchies right M, come off it and shag the girl already before she starts givin' another bloke bedroom eyes".

Everyones just so damn rife with suggestions. MM turns to Hughie, whose babysitting his beer rather attentively, as if to avoid the conversation.

"Anything you wanna add? Since everyone thinks their Dr-fucking-Phil".

Hughie sputters a bit. "Uhh, no. What they said"

"Now", Butcher gathers them all, rightly satisfied with making MM uncomfortable. "Look alive boys, our targets are here".

[sonicasura]

Cursed Generator Links P1

First of three posts involving the 14 Links I pulled from the generator, 5 per post with the last having a custom Link. These are mainly headcanons with a few summaries to them. Key features in appearance, things they like and a bit of their abilities. Once I get a drawing done, I'll add a link to the corresponding one. Let's get started!

Hero of Stitch 'Patches'

Hyrule's chosen hero from the Downfall Timeline after Legend who dies before his battle against Ganon. Using a mix of magic and special thread called 'Ambisilk', Patches was brought back to life as a living patchwork chimera.

Mostly humanoid in appearance with a few out of place parts either belonging to monsters or different people. Ex: Goron stone hide, Lynel horn, and mismatched eyes.

Hates his hero title as he doesn't really think himself a 'great hero.' Prefers to be called Patches because he ain't Link. The hero died and his body was butchered to make him.

Likes shining objects, animals and collecting stuff. Moves similar to Miss Fortune from Skullgirls, meaning he can manipulate his body in unbelievable ways that are fatal for everyone else. Crafting materials like parts are needed for Patches to heal.

Hero of Blade 'Augus'

Hyrule's hero from Twilight's timeline albeit his placement is unknown. Originally a vessel for a demigod of Gluttony to takeover through a ritual using his beloved blade 'Wailing Dark'. It fails as the hero manages to escape with both sword and jumbled memories.

Hair turned snow white, red markings cover most of his body and half his arms are plated in a growing gold carapace due to the ritual. Split personalities: Link the shy dork that likes sewing and flower picking.

Augus, a lover of alcohol and fighting who will drink anyone under the table alongside tossing Gorons like stones in wrestling. If this personality is in control then his eyes will be pure white.

Can only be hurt if struck by magic and enchanted weapons as Blade's body is invulnerable to normal blows. Able to channel gluttony into pure energy for all sorts of mixed combat.

Hero of Stage 'Phantom'

A college theatre professor who became trapped in a forbidden script book called Necro of the Opera. Placed into the role of the Phantom Hero heavily altering his body so he could face the evil within each play world.

Face disfigured similar to DC's Jonah Hex because of his Phantom role. Wears a porcelain mask that looks eerily like the FD mask to cover said disfigurement. Wiry bulky frame thanks to his role than his normal skinny self.

Assassin type fighter with a knack for detective based work and can talk to the dead when needing information. Link is actually a nickname as his real name Shawn but he can't reveal it due to his role's restriction.

Collector especially if it involves books or any type of manuscript. Likes learning different languages and dabbles in fencing a few times. Hates prophecies.

Hero of Ink 'Ichor'

The star character of a modern era rubberhose children's cartoon akin to Kirby (without the eldritchness). Ichor was forcibly brought to life in an experiment called Project Lifelike, run by TriceCorp. Manages to escape the lab and seek an identity of his own.

Has two different form. One looks like a rubberhose version of Link's Awakening Remake and the other a twisted gnarly Fierce Deity/Ben Drowned visage. This is due to him being the first experiment with a 'human' design.

Happy to help those who really need him against the entire world philosophy. Will proudly give the middle finger to someone who shoves the 'Fate of the World' schtick on him like with the Chain. EX: You sure your so called Goddess doesn't want to show her precious toys off in every era?

Follows the Laws of Cartoon Physics, both it's strengths and weaknesses. Can hide himself in paper to even skin as long as the material can hold ink. Advanced Ink Manipulation in twisted form.

The Hero of Death 'Charon'

A game designer who becomes the heir to Death's seat by accident. This begins with him helping spirits find peace until forces very unhappy with this arrangement try to take his 'inheritance'.

Looks like a younger Time but his iris has become silver due to his magical inheritance. Can take any form that is a depiction of the Death God in some way, even media as his true form hasn't been awakened. Prefers Persona 3's Thanatos as his set appearance.

Actually has no issue helping the deceased even if some spirits' forms are heavily mangled. Just hates being forced to fight. Has a grandson-grandparent relationship with Death themselves especially since the god genuinely cares about his interests or concerns.

Can commune with the dead, traverse the Spirit World and ask for assistance from various spirits. Knows when someone is gonna die alongside being able to change that fate via a special method called "Death's Game". A challenge where the results are determined by different games of chance or skill.

That's it for now! Until next time folks, I'll see back in Hyrule. Before I go, have this Jonah Hex reference for Phantom and P3 Thanatos reference for Charon.

[brooklynislandgirl]

The puzzled look on Beth's face causes an incredulous smile to draw itself across Dr. Strange's chiseled features, driving deep grooves around his cheeks and eyes. Of any student he's ever had, only Beth would ask that.

"Because you're incredibly capable, of course. Borderline savant. Anybody would be proud to have you as their student, and probably Nic West, most of all. " He glances down at the document in his hand. "Now, granted, he doesn't like being upstaged, especially by a student, and he and I have what you could charitably describe as an... acrimonious relationship... aaaand it's just a cold hard fact that his last three mentees haven't exactly been success stories. But if I'm completely honest, the man's far more willing to attend the butcher shop we call an ER than I am. He's seen and dealt with issues I haven't. The more well-rounded your knowledge base is, the better off you'll be. Even I have to admit that much."

He lets the written inquiry fall to his desktop with a pursing of his lips, then flickers his gaze back up to her. She does a good job of trying to hide her displeasure; what he sees is a quick downcast of her own eyes towards her toes, a clasping of her hands together in front of her. She was almost too quick for him to catch it, but there'd been a fleeting instant there where he'd seen the stricken, doe-eyed expression.

He knows that look well by now. When half her face seems to be occupied by her eyes, like she can't open them widely enough to capture the world around her. It's a feature he understands perhaps a little too well, even if he hasn't lived her specific life. It's the gaze of a person of extraordinary privilege, whose experience with trauma are quiet, too convenient to notice, and might require the entirety of their largesse to compensate the army of therapists they would require.

Except the money could go to better things than the petty selfishness of self-rehabilitation.

Stephen saves his petty selfishness for other pursuits.

He drives those troughs into his visage again to offer her a smile of reassurance. "Okay, okay. That's obviously a no-go. I'll let him know you belong to me."

Lost Sparks || Accepting

A quiet conversation held in an office in the aery reaches of the hospital, though he has a much smaller, much more cramped one on the university campus as well. The walls are honey-combed with book shelves: some contain tomes of the latest techniques ~not the least of which were ones that he pioneered, invented whilst held in the embrace of his own brilliance~ and others held wisdom passed down more than decades, ages past. Some hold awards and certificates. His desk takes up a good portion of one quarter of the room and its top is littered with files, envelopes, charts, a sleek laptop, a desk phone. There's chairs she could have easily sat in. A small couch that is sometimes the only bed he sleeps in for days and even then only a couple hours at a time. Some people might dismiss him as some playboy-hot shot Doctor, the kinds that they portray on steamy night time dramas but those people don't know the real Stephen Strange. He bleeds himself dry to preform every day miracles. There isn't any other medical doctor who has even half his skill, the Admiral included. And no other man's opinion holds as much sway with her as his does. She's spent months now trying to prove that her dedication is absolute. That she is willing to learn and adapt and be moulded to suit any real or imagined need he might have so that she could continue to learn under him. He'd never given any indication that she'd displeased him, that she'd let him down or failed something he'd asked or assigned to her so catastrophically that there was no chance to make it right. Anyone in her place could understand then why she'd spent all of the day before in searing shock, unable to process the simple language typed onto the page indicating that she would be stripped away from his mentoring and be placed under the tutelage of Nicodemus West. She could blame the tears which refused to slide down her cheeks blurring the words together. She could tell her roomate that Haole isn't her native language. She could make up any number of excuses for why she'd received the letter. Instead, she'd come here first thing in the morning. Hadn't bothered with office hours. Hadn't made an appointment. Barged in like Horatio Nelson at the Battle of Trafalgar, and set the letter and a perfectly made cup of coffee: quad espresso, single origin, pour-over, 200-degree temperature, steamed milk, one pump hazelnut, two pumps vanilla, cinnamon sprinkle. So softly she might have been drownt out by the beating of her heart and the tick of his watch telling time, she'd demanded to know why he was sending her away. She'd not expected the answer she got. But neither had she ever forgotten. Perhaps especially now when Stephen stands on the opposite side of the barrier she'd cast only moments before; a thick blister of raw magick shot through threads of spiritual mana which provides a double-lock against the demon hovering over her. It isn't that the Sorcerer Supreme can't fight his own battles. Quite the opposite, in some ways he can out fight her on many fronts. But this creature has particular wants and Beth cannot say for certain that Stephen would have walked away from this unscathed. The demon has courted the Sanctum night after night. Infiltrated dreams with false promises and bargains requiring only desire existing. Those very tender young souls and a couple of the yearning elder ones were easy to collect as leverage. It turns and leers at Stephen, mocking laughter rattling around inside of her head and likely his too. It wants him to watch. It wants to sup on his anger and misery, savouring the anticipation. Thick, noxious saliva drips down its fangs as it swings its head back toward her. It bathes her in foul breath and Beth looks literally a little green around the gills. "You should go now, Stephen. I got dis."

[rodeo-boots]

Hello hello!!💖💖😊 hope you're doing alright and your day's going fine and smoothly over there, dear!😊🌺💐🌻🌹🌺💐🌻🌹

For writing requests, can I request a morbell story??☺ at the first of chapter 2 when gang is going to live in horseshoe overlook, Dutch sends Micah with Lenny to Strawberry and then something happens which ends with Micah in jail. But I want it to be 'Dutch sends Arthur with Micah to Strawberry' so! Just imagine what will happen😆👀. Boys probably end up in jail anyway but I think..maybe with Arthur, Micah would act different..?

Fluff is always welcome and I don't mind smut too at all! And I'm ok with any tags too like blood/gore, angst, different kinks or..

Love you and thank you soo soo much!💜💗💜

I'm sorry this took a hundred years, but I still hope you'll enjoy this!! I hope you've had some wonderful days yourself, Merry <33

Rating: T

Words: 2221

Warnings: one instance of a homophobic slur, off-screen murder

AO3

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Dutch and his plans. His great plans that had gotten them in this entire mess to begin with. Arthur couldn't believe him these days, could only watch in bafflement as his mentor spoke one ridiculous idea after the other; but this one took the cake.

Why have a safe operation for once, right? Why send Arthur and Lenny to scout ahead and make sure West Elizabeth wasn't all swarmed by Pinkertons when you could have Micah, the very man who had gotten them in this situation to begin with. The man who's judgement had led them astray and towards the butchered ferry job in Blackwater, who's fantastic information had killed several of their people – with no telling if Mac and Sean were still out there, somewhere.

Obviously, Arthur had objected the instant he's heard what he was supposed to do. He had tried to talk to Dutch, to explain that Micah would find a way to turn even the easiest scouting mission into a bloodbath. Really, he had tried everything to convince him otherwise, to send him alone, for Goodness sake, but to no avail. Dutch's mind was made, and so he let his two best men ride out, in pursuit of information or fortune or anything, Arthur hadn't cared to ask.

–

"Oh, don't soil your britches, princess," Micah held onto Baylock's reins with a loose grip, his grin lopsided where he glanced at Arthur from the corners of his eyes. Of course had he caught onto his less than ideal mood, ever the observant type as he was. "We'll be havin' fun at the end of the day, I promise." His voice was syrupy sweet, almost sickeningly so, though Arthur had stopped listening to him a long time ago either way, staring ahead and onto the road in an attempt to accept his current fate.

He answered the man with a grunt, not overly eager to amuse himself. If it was up to him, they'd be in and out of the settlement within an hour, would take a look around and go, without being noticed in the best of cases. Those seemed rare these days, though.

"Lighten up." Arthur flinched when the man tossed him a bottle, barely catching it in his hands, an irritated gaze meeting Micah's smirking visage. The booze in Arthur's hands certainly wasn't the best, moonshine with a questionable label, glinting copper under the sunlight. His eyebrows furrowed, but he kept the bottle either way.

Maybe it was just what he needed now, a welcome distraction from the day Micah had planned for them to enjoy. Arthur was certain he'd enjoy it all the more if he witnessed as little of it as possible.

He uncapped the bottle, squeezing his eyes shut as the liquor burned down his throat, tipping it back further before tossing it aside. The glass shattered at the side of the road, Micah's own likely joining the shards where they lay, the man already reaching for another drink from his bottomless saddlebags. "See? Much better already." And this time, Arthur couldn't help but return his grin.

Arthur had been unable to keep track of time, with Micah's unrelenting talk, the bottles he passed him along the way. Strawberry was drawing closer by the moment and he knew it, traffic higher with every further step. It seemed to be a busy town, workers passing them by without a glance, whistling as they did the tasks of the day. Oh, how Arthur wished he could lead a life like theirs at times.

"You up for a meal, Morgan?" Micah clambered off his horse, shooting him another bright expression, his lids appearing heavier by the liquor he had consumed already.

"Dying of starvation," Arthur mumbled, a little heavier and slower as he dismounted his mare, holding onto the saddle to keep himself from falling gracelessly. He seriously had to overthink his approach to the drink some time, not as used to booze as he had been in his better days, wiping at his brow now before trailing after Micah and towards the hotel.

Even though they were new in the area, Micah seemed to know his way around, greeting the man behind the counter like an old friend before ordering their meals. Arthur didn't understand how he was standing straight after drinking all the way here, he himself barely holding onto the back of a chair. Hopefully with something in his stomach, his head would stop spinning again.

"Now, Mr. Morgan–" Micah waved his arm around in a great gesture of chivalry, pulling a chair out for Arthur to take. "Will you take this seat, and sit down with me?"

He grunted, plopping down onto the hard wood. Maybe if he followed along without complaint, Micah would take mercy on him and spare him more of his bluster. A single look at his self-satisfied smirk was enough for him to tell that that wouldn't be the case, however.

Their plates had emptied at a rapid pace, Arthur scarfing his food down eagerly, enlivened by the taste and the sensation of something in his stomach – something more agreeable than the liquor. He was chewing his second to last bite by now, glancing over and towards Micah and his plate with a furrowed brow. "Y'ain't hungry?" He asked, swallowing before he rubbed at the corner of his mouth. "S'real good–"

Micah had his eyes set on something else already, waving at him to be quiet before turning with a secretive stare. "You up for a game?" He asked, his drunkenness slowly manifesting in the drag of his voice, though the glint in his eyes was prominent as always.

Arthur shrugged, placing the fork in his hands aside, his gaze following the other man's. Upon seeing what he was seeing, however, his cheeks heated up in a cherry red, Arthur averting his eyes all at once. "The hell you on about?" He grumbled in irritation, not looking back at the woman Micah had focused on. Or rather, her cleavage.

"I bet'chu, I can hit her right in between those beauties." The corners of his mouth quirked up further, Micah taking his own fork in hand to prepare it as a makeshift catapult.

"You finally lost it now?" But Arthur couldn't help watching, not moving to stop the man as he took aim, his tongue peeking out between pursed lips. One second the fork was still loaded with mashed potato, the next, Micah tossed his head back with a shattering laugh, a scandalized gasp from the other table indicating that he had hit his target dead on.

The woman stood all at once, forcefully enough to make her chair tumble to the ground, not letting herself be stopped by the man at her side as she marched out of the building. Her face had been colored by embarrassment, by disgust, and while Arthur had every intention to feel bad for her, he couldn't. Instead, he found himself laughing along with Micah, giggling like the drunken fool he was, having to hold onto the wooden table as to not keel over.

–

Micah was a man of many ideas; few of them good. He seemed keen on seeing how far they could go before being kicked out of the establishment, doing the most in making those around him uncomfortable to elicit a response, Arthur rising to the challenge by doing just the same.

"Y'know what I could do?" Micah whispered, leaning closer to him as though his words were confidential, the lopsided nature of his smirk indicating that they were truly meant for all to hear. "Could lay you out on this table." His hand wandered up Arthur's thigh from where it had formerly rested upon his knee. He hadn't even noticed that. "I could fuck you silly for all these fine folks to see," he smiled, satisfied with the blush spreading over Arthur's cheeks and the tips of his ears.

He pushed the hand off his leg, keeping hold of the other man's wrist. "If that's what you want, I might just lay you out instead," he grumbled, though the threat within his words was lost in the slur of his voice. "Punch you out, s'what I mean."

They stared at one another for a tense few moments, Arthur's grip remaining firm around Micah's wrist.

With a sputtering laugh, he had to let go, however, shaking his head and reaching up to rub his eyes. Micah was quick to follow along, cackling like a maniac in his own right, even if his own words hadn't been all empty.

"C'mon, let's get outta here." Micah pat his knee in encouragement, grunting when he pushed himself to his legs. "I'm bored," he added, his eyes glinting mischievously. Arthur didn't care for his oncoming plans now, either way, keen on leaving the hotel to spare himself of further embarrassment, uncertain as to what he might've done already.

The past minutes, or hours, weren't as prominent in his brain as he would've liked, the influence of the drink undeniable in his every action. He didn't pass the bar-man another look, following after Micah as he ducked through the door, squinting when his eyes were met with darkness instead of the sun he had expected.

"How late's it?" He slurred, glancing at Micah in uncertainty, not at all remembering when or if Dutch would expect them back at camp.

Micah tugged him down the stairs, the grip he had on his sleeve almost desperately hard. "Don't worry your pretty little head," he cooed, glancing back at Arthur with an almost alluring gaze, pulling him closer to offer him some more stability. "We got all the time we need." But Micah's eyes were no longer trained to his. Instead, he had focused on his lips, licking his own almost nervously.

"I always meant to tell you, Arthur–" his hold started to feel a lot more like an embrace, Arthur swallowing lightly as he watched the emotions pass over the other man's face. He was much too drunk to make sense of them, releasing a tense chuckle when Micah didn't continue.

"Meant to tell me what?" He eventually asked, his own arms slowly smoothing around the other man's frame. From this angle, he almost looked good, less crazed than what Arthur usually saw of him, more like the person he kept hidden from plain view in front of everyone else.

He didn't receive an answer, blinking in bafflement when Micah leaned in to press his lips against his own.

Arthur stood frozen for a couple moments, unsure if this was yet another game of his, another attempt to make the people around them uneasy like they had succeeded in doing before.

Micah didn't pull away with a smirk at his lips, however, in fact, he didn't pull away at all, deepening the kiss instead. He tilted his head, moving his lips so uncharacteristically sweet against Arthur's own that he had no choice but to melt.

His hands pulled the man closer, their bodies flush, chests pressing against one another. It was like a lover's embrace, like the last thing Arthur had ever expected to share, least of all with Micah Bell. Here and now, it felt more than just right, though.

He pulled away with a soft exhale, brushing a strand of hair out of the other man's eyes, his motions gentle. "What was that all about?" He asked, though his tone wasn't teasing. If anything, he wanted to know if he understood correctly, wanted to be certain that Micah had enjoyed this kiss for more reasons than his drunkenness; the question of a possible repetition already sitting on the tip of his tongue.

Before he could formulate any of his thoughts, however, another voice broke the tranquility around them.

"If that ain't van der Linde's very special queens," the man slurred himself, the Irish accent still clear in his tone of voice. "This is O'Driscoll territory, we ain't wanna see the likes of you perverts 'round here." Arthur had heard worse in his life, not expecting anything better from the likes of Colm's boys. But a look into Micah's eyes was enough to tell, that he wasn't about to let this slide.

He loosened his hold on Arthur, turning to the man slowly, his stare narrowed at the O'Driscoll. "Run that by me one more time?" His voice was low, the shyness from before wiped clear away now that he was facing the person who had seemingly ruined their moment.

Without Micah's assistance in standing, Arthur plopped down to the muddy ground, staring at the man's back until the spinning of his head became too much. He laid back, letting Micah handle this on his own, smiling dumbly at the distant thought of him protecting his honor.

The shots were faint, just like the voices drawing closer once they had pierced the silence, once they likely had pierced the O'Driscoll's skull just as much.

Arthur felt Micah's presence by his side again, the man dropping down next to him, tossing his weapons aside mindlessly. "Guess that marks the end'a our night," he chimed, his voice drowning out the calls of the sheriff, the law cautiously surrounding them. "I told you we'd have fun, though," Micah spoke up again, chuckling at this small success of the day.

[wreckofawriter]

Kid

Pairing: Oliver Wood x Reader

Word Count: 3,600

Warnings: None, swearing

Summary: Being the kid of Puddlemore United means that all the team mates see you as one, and in Oliver's case that means the girl he fell in love with does too

A/n: Ok in love this idea, but I'm pretty sure I butchered it. Any way reader is like 22, Oliver is 19 and reader moved from America to play for Puddlemore.

Oliver could feel his heart racing far too fast for comfort. His face was flushed with excitement and nerves. He could see his breath in the air and feel the chilled wind fill his lungs as he puffed in and out. 

And then he could see her. The quaffle was stuck under her arm as she ducked around a streak of blue. She was going to make it to him. 

His senses heightened a stern look of concentration finding a home on his features. She was close now. But he knew what was going to happen. She had done it twice already. She was much better at shooting right than left. She would make to shoot left, lastsecond changing her course.

So he did the same, jerking left before racing towards the other hoop. He could see you out of the corner of his eye awaiting for his pass. 

She did just as predicted. Oliver moved left before speeding to the right hoop hitting the quaffle with his broom towards you. You caught it easily sending him a grateful smile before darting the other way. 

Oliver watched you go in amazement, a small smile finding his lips as he watched you dodge the other team with ease. A slight sigh escaped his lips the world around you falling away. 

"Wood!" Willams shouted bringing the boys attention back. "Keep your head in the game! We can't afford to lose." 

You didn't.

Puddlemore United was now in the Britsh and Irish league finals. Oliver had reached the ground before you and you had flown straight into him tackling him to the ground with a hug. 

"Yes Oli!" You shouted as the crowd around you cheered, "You're amazing!" 

Oliver's face was set aflame by your touch, his heart beating so quickly he though it might fall from his chest. 

"Amazing Kid!" You laughed before standing to go congratulate the others. 

The nickname you used stabbed through him like a shard of glass and he felt his heart sink in attempts to avoid it.

He stood up brushing off his uniform and grabbing his broom as he watched you jump on to the back of Benjy with a sharp pain of envy. 

"At least their the same age." He mumbled to himself their win suddenly meaning nothing as the overwhelming reality of his desperate love life became obvious. 

"You know your only three years apart." 

Oliver jumped turning beside him to see Jocelid Wadcock, their seeker, beside him. 

The boy scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably attempting to avoid her persistent eye contact, "I'm sorry who are you talking about?"

Jocelid rolled her eyes smiling, "We all know you have a thing for y/l/n." 

Oliver felt his face heat up again, "W-what?" He swallowed harshly. 

"Please Wood, it's so obvious that the fans even picked up on it, and their denser than bricks." 

Oliver dropped his act in sudden fear "Does she know?!" Panic edged from his voice in an uncomfortable wave as the pair slowly made their way back to the changing room. 

"No, no, of course not." Jocelid laughed, "Y/n may be one of the smartest girls I've ever known, but she's even more dense than the fans, especially with feelings." 

"Thank Merlin." The Keeper breathed out in relief.

"Just tell her soon, she wouldn't believe any of us." 

"Ok- wait. What?!" 

Jocelid laughed before speeding up and  leaving Oliver behind. 

"I'm telling you this is a great idea." You huffed, "it's been so long since we've had a break." 

"Y/n you know if you go anywhere there are going to be fanboys following you around like lost puppies." Your manager Deverill explained. 

"What if we go to a muggle bar?" You questioned hopefully.

The manager sighed. You had been pestering him about a celebration since before you had even won, and you were very prisitant. 

"Please?" You widen your eyes, pouting your lips and raising your eyebrows. 

Oliver who had been behind Deverill choked on his water at the adorable pout that had taken you visage. 

Deverill sighed, "Fine." 

You squealed loudly leaping into a hug. 

"But." 

Your excitement stopped just as quickly as it started. 

"Oliver can't drink." 

"What?! We could just pretend he's 21, a simple flick of the wand an-" 

"Uh-uh." Deverill shook his head, "I can not have the golden boy of our team getting caught drinking under age." 

"But-" 

"Its okay y/n." Oliver cut in, "I don't need to drink anyway, I've got you to entertain me." 

"You sure Oli?" You asked.

"I'm sure." He grinned back encouragingly.

"You're the best Kid." You smiled standing on your toes and ruffling his hair. 

Oliver felt his heart clench at the everlasting nickname, casting his eyes downward to avoid your gaze. 

You didn't seem to notice, bouncing away to spread the good news.

Oliver was the third to arrive. He didn't know why, but an overwhelming sense of nerves flowed through him like a river through its bed. 

The truth was you had never really hung out outside of quidditch related events. No one on the team had. So the idea of just going to a bar with you seemed nerve wracking. 

He sat down at a booth already occupied by Willams and Jocelid. He made small talk mostly talking about past matches or upcoming ones. Soon others arrived and Oliver occupied himself by glancing nervously at the door. 

Jocelid who was seated beside him glanced at his bouncing leg and bit back a smirk. "You okay Wood?" 

"Um what? Oh yeah I'm fine." He lied eyes turning quickly towards the doors as he heard them open. 

"Ahhh." Jocelid sighed, "I understand now. Your nervous to see y/n." 

"What- I'm- No-" He tried to formulate a sentence, but the words wouldn't fall into place as they normally would. He bit his tongue angrily, pausing before taking a breath and attempting to cool his cheeks which seemed to have been light aflame. "Why does she call me Kid?" He finally managed.

Just then the door swung open and your giggle graced his ears. 

Jocelid smiled, "Because you let her." And with that she stood to greet you. 

Oliver huffed turning to face you. His breath caught in his throat when his eyes locked with your deep y/e/c eyes. 

You were adorned in a simple peach dress who's loose skirt fell just above your knees, a denim jacket on your shoulders as you stood an extra 3 inches off the ground because of your matching wedges. 

"Hey Kid!" You yelled across the small room bouncing just as easily over to him in your heeled shoes as you would in sneakers. 

Jocelid glanced at him silently begging him to say something. 

"H-hey." He stumbled lightly over his words, blushing as you ruffled his hair. 

"Look!" You exclaimed, "I don't have to stand on my toes to do this anymore, I should wear these all the time."

Oliver was sure, if you touched his cheeks you would have burnt your finger. His heart was erratic and he couldn't breathe properly. It was like your intoxicating scent had caused him an allergic response.

"Wow Oli, your hair is so soft." You mumbled quietly, completely intrigued by the smooth texture of his brown locks. 

Oliver almost fainted, he attempted to open his mouth to thank you but found his lips had been glued shut by some unknown force. 

Your eyes dropped from his head to his to his soft brown eyes. Your piercing gaze froze the poor boy and he gasped quietly as if the air had been sucked from his lungs. 

Y/e/c started into brown for just a moment too long and Oliver fought the incredible urge to glance down at your lips. He lost. His eyes flicked downwards, a peach lipstick stained your lips, which bore a small smile, they looked so smooth, so soft, so kissable. His mind clouded with thoughts of how they would feel, on his own, how they would feel grazing his skin. 

He tore his eyes back upward to meet your own, which seemed to hold a new emotion he was much less accustomed to. He flushed brightly still unable to tear his gaze from yours. 

"Partner up people they've got a pool table!" Benjy bellowed from the other room and you both suddenly realized you weren't alone in the world. 

You squealed one excitement, suddenly back to your usual hyperactive self. "Awesome! Oli, you can be my partner." 

"What the hell is a pool doing in a bar?" He asked, attempting to move on from the moment you had shared as easily as you had seemed to.

"No silly, a pool table." You giggled snatching Oliver's hand and dragging towards a second warmly lit room. "Its a game, you'll like it." 

"Oh." He mumbled feeling quite stupid. 

Oliver was unsurprisingly amazing at pool. He had never even touch a pool cue before yet once you showed him how to do it. He was unstoppable. 

"What the hell Oliver." Adams huffed half impressed half aggravated as the keeper sunk his fourth ball in a row. 

You on the other hand, who had worked through three martinez and was working on a fourth, screeched with joy. Jumping from the table you were seated on stumbling. 

Oliver cursed dropping his cue and rushing towards you catching you before you hit the ground. 

You were unfazed by the close call and instead wrapped your arms around his neck snuggling in as close to him as possible. "Your amazing Kid!" You yelled into his chest. 

"This tournament is a bust" Adam's complained, "Wood and America are unstoppable, even when one of them is piss drunk." 

"I am not piss drunk!" You exclaimed pushing Oliver away from you as if to prove it. Unfortunately you tripped again swearing, "I'll just take off my shoes." You slurred bending down to do so. 

A series of whistles and calls came from the bar as you did so. Oliver gave the men who sat there a confused glance before tracing their eyes which now lay on your half exposed ass. 

"Fuck y/n!" He cursed scrambling over to you and turning you around, "How about you sit down on the booth and I'll take off your shoes?" He offered turning his head to glare at the men sitting at the bar. 

Some just rolled their eyes, one flipped him off. Oliver's anger strengthened, he lead you over to the booth. 

"I can do it Kid." You mumbled. 

Oliver felt his hair stand on end as you let the nickname he hated so much slip past your lips. Jocelids words echoed in his head. Because you let her. It's not like he handed youhis nickname along with his heart, they just seemed to go hand and hand, "Its fine it's faster if I do it." He sighed as he slipped off your wedges. 

"That's what she said." You giggled.

Oliver smiled softly helping you back to your feet. "You good?" He asked. 

"Great." You laughed, bouncing away from him. 

"Hey!" Willams yelled excitedly, "What if we had America and Kid play each other?" 

There was a chorus of agreements throughout the small room. 

"Don't call me that" Oliver huffed. 

"Why not U.S over their gets to?" He smirked. 

"You see he's not in love with you though." Adams cut in. 

"I am not-" he sighed deeply, "Whatever, it's not very fair, y/n's smashed." 

"So she's kicking our asses." Jocelid chimed. 

"Yeah your not scared of me are you Oli?" You questioned suddenly appearing beside him. 

"Alright fine, just don't get mad when it's a short game." He shrugged. Grabbing his cue from the ground and heading to the table. 

"I do intend it to be short." You smirked. 

"Alright love birds let's stop with the pathetic attempt of trash talk and get to the game." Benjy cut in handing you your cue as Oliver reset the table. 

Behind you you could hear arrangement of bets being made, "I need a coffee." You murmured. 

"On it." Jocelid spoke, "I've got 20 gallons on you y/n/n I don't intend to lose." 

"Twenty!" Oliver shouted from across the table. 

"Oh yeah Kid. You haven't seen this girl play yet, she's gonna wipe the floor with you." 

"Don't call me-" 

"Yeah, yeah I know." She scoffed before darting out the door. 

"You wanna break?" You offered attempting to clear your head. 

"Sure." Oliver shrugged again. He bent over the table and you almost choked as a strange realization hit you. Oliver was hot. You had always known he was cute, but now as his blue button up shirt stretched over his muscular shoulders you began to take in the reality of his physical form. 

Of course being pretty drunk you didn't keep this to yourself, "Damn Kid when'd you get hot?" 

Your words processed through Oliver's brain just as he shot and he was in such shook his grip slipped and the break couldn't even qualify as such. 

Oliver couldn't have cared less about the game anymore, "W-what did you just say?" 

"Nothin' your just hot." 

Flames erupted onto the boys cheeks as you shrugged. 

"My turn!" You gasped excitedly moving on completely from your conversation.  

Oliver stayed where he stood staring at the spot which you had occupied moments before, trying to calm his heart which was racing uncontrollably.

"Don't let the girl get in your head!" Willams shouted from the booth. 

Oliver snapped back to reality shaking his head lightly and switching his gaze back to you. 

You bent over the table carefully closing one eye and setting up your shot. Oliver tried not to be distracted by the way the tip of your tongue poked from between your lips, or the way the short dress you were wearing revealed your upper thighs as you bent to align your shot.

The clink of the cue hitting the other balls brought him back and he watched as two stripes fell onto their place. 

You sat back up smirking. "That's how it's done." 

Oliver smiled looking down, "It's your shot again." He chuckled.

"Oh right!" You exclaimed before walking back around the table. 

It went back and forth for a while, you still ahead two balls, Oliver caught up quick but once you go some coffee in you you managed to keep a lead. 

You still weren't yourself though. You found yourself watching Oliver with a close interest. You found yourself wondering what he looks like without that button up on. It didn't help when you passed closely by him and you suddenly caught a whiff of his cologne. Alcohol was nothing next to the intoxicating scent he emitted. You suddenly found yourself edging towards him. You shook your head as another crude thoughts filled your brain. 

"I have got to stop drinking." You mumbled.

The game ended as intense as pool gets. Both of you were down to nothing but the eight ball. You had lost your lead when Oliver had "fallen" (pushed by Willams) onto you right before the shot. You were given another one but you couldn't seem to focus. 

You swore watching where the cue landed, it was a ridiculous shot and you growled in frustration. You contemplated your best move before sighing and muttering a defeated, "Fuck it." Under your breath. 

You lined up your shot, biting your lip and shooting. The 8 bounced off of the felt across from it and thunked lightly into the bottom right corner. 

You cheered Jocelid laughed running and hugging you as Willams cursed. You pulled from your hug and turned towards Oliver. 

He suddenly looked so different, not like a kid, but a man. He was smiling slightly. "Good game y/n." He spoke sticking out his hand. 

"Good game Kid." You responded, taking his hand in yours. 

You almost jumped at the electricity that seemed to transfer from the touch. Oliver looked unfazed.

You expected the strange feeling to wear off, they would be gone and a hangover would replace them, but that wasn't the case. You had gone to practice that day with a headache and a fluttering feeling in your stomach. Practice helped clear your mind as you focused on nothing but the quaffle. 

After practice was a different story. You landed easily on the ground, a breath of air releasing you as your feet came in contact with the ground. You had decided to take an extra hour to work on maneuvers, considering your last game you had had some pretty close calls with bludgers. 

You walked into the locker rooms expecting it to be empty, but your eyes went wide when you say it wasn't. 

Your broom clattered to the floor, a hot rush climbing to your cheeks. Your heart thumped loudly rattling your ribcage as wings took flight in your stomach, making you want to vomit. 

Oliver stood in front of you bright red, his hair dripping as a white towel was wrapped around his waist. You traced his chest, slamming your eyes shut once you realised what you were doing. 

"Oh Merlin, I-Im so sorry, I was just, and I thought it was empty, so sorry again Kid." The nickname left your lips feeling funny, like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit.

Oliver's expression of embarrassment seemed to be captured lightly by frustration. 

"Why do you call me that?" He asked.

You tilted your head in confusion attempting to keep your eyes at his own.

"Kid. Why do you call me Kid?" He repeated.

"Umm I," you paused unsure of your answer, "You're younger than me, it's just a nickname." 

"I'm only three years younger than you." He had taken a step towards you and now it was becoming far more difficult to keep your eyes above his neck. "I'm not just some kid." 

"I know Oli," You blushed eyes flicking down then up quickly.

Oliver groaned through his teeth, "I don't think that you have ever called me by name either." Frustration had oberwhenemed his embarrassment and it was as if he had forgotten the emotion entirely. How come you couldn't just see him as a person? Why were you so insistent that he was a kid?  Was he truly that juvenile?

You weren't sure what to say, Oliver had now come closer to you and you quickly realized that his infatuaing scent was not cologne but his shampoo. And now his hair damp freshly washed, he smelled of it so strongly your head spun. You stumbled for a sentence, but you seemed to choke miserably on your own hot embarrassment. Finally you scenes, "I didn't m-mean to make you seem weak or childish in front of the team, it was just a nickname." 

Oliver chuckled biting his lower lip, "I don't care what they think." He explained 

"Then?-" 

"Because I care what you think." He whispered. 

You resisted the urge to shudder, your stomach was doing flips and you weren't sure if you wanted to run straight at the keeper or far away from him. 

"What is it going to take to change the way you think of me? He asked, his voice was deep and husky. He was now so close you could have reached out and touched him. Your heart was either beating so fast, its beats were inaudible or had stopped completely.

"What's it going to take?" 

Apparently that was all it took. You couldn't handle it anymore, whether he meant to or not he was driving you completely insane. You were sure your mind would have melted if you had been held under that tension for even a moment longer. You took as step forward grabbing the nape of his neck and slamming his lips onto yours. 

Fireworks didn't explode, fire didn't rage, sparks didn't fly. Quite the opposite happened. All of that tension and frustration was suddenly released and the world went still. 

Nothing existed but you and him, your hands tracing down his bare chest as you bit lightly on his lip. He moaned and you took it as an opportunity to slide your tongue between his lips. His taste was overwhelming, mint and sweat mixed making you crave more. His hands closed around your waist tightly, his heart finally beating at a normal speed as you stood in his arms. 

You pulled apart gasping for air, your lips swollen. A light blush took your features and Oliver couldn't help but feel his heart soar at the sight.

Now as frustration drained from his body as blood would from a wound, embarrassment found its place. He suddenly became very aware of his lack of clothing, and you hand which still rested lightly on his chest felt white hot. 

His own cheeks flushed brightly taking a step back and scratching the back of his neck, "I ummm, uhh, I'm sorry, I didn't-" His search for a sentence was cut short as you lightly placed your hand on his arm. 

"You know your kinda stupid right?" You giggled. 

Oliver felt a fresh wave of red coat his cheek in a wave of heat. 

"I kissed you dumbass, what do you have to apologize for?" 

"Umm, I just-" Oliver suddenly felt trapped, you had kissed him? Why couldn't he seem to process that? 

"Well are you gonna kiss me this time or  do I have to do it again?" You smirked. 

Oliver couldn't help the small smile that crept onto his face as he leaned forward and reconnected your lips. 

Taglist:

@accio-rogers

@roslea

@k3nz-doodl3

Masterlist

[h-a-unted]

What if I roll the stone away? They're gonna crucify me anyway

[random-fic-bits]

“Grey”

Hiya! I’m trying something new, so bear with me!

Wiritng Blurb #1

Characters: Cap America, OC or Y/N

Setting: Stark Tower Lab or SHIELD Lab, Homecoming-ish time period

Word count: 470

Context: Reader is a 15-17 year old “witch” (I’ll leave the definition up to you, but they can read minds) and Tony has known her since she was 8 as he was friends with her parents too. Tony has come to her for help yet again ( and uses Peter to convince her) and she reluctantly goes. She’s been through a lot (her parents are dead and she’s helped/worked with SHIELD in the field before so... yeah... she has seen some stuff). Because of her experiences she is wary of “blindly following orders” and has a problem with Cap’s solid ideals and stubbornness in his morals.

I hope I explained that okay! This is highly self-indulgent as this is kind of how I see Cap so even though I tried to write him well, I can tell he’s a bit OOC. This is part of a larger Peter Parker x Reader fic idea (hence the Peter x Reader tags) I have but not sure if I should continue writing or not (‘cause I don’t want to butcher my idea) or if I should keep going if people might like it :)

Feedback and criticism is much appreciated, please keep in mind this is literally my very first time writing something- like literally anything- and putting it out there... so... yeah... any help is super :)

Warnings: None (Lemme know if I missed something I haven’t done this before)

“Let’s play a little game Mr. Rogers, I guess, and you tell.” You sidle up next to the worktable, a subtle sneer resting on your face. You cross your arms and lean your hip on the edge.

“Lemme guess… he was shot, wasn’t he? Right before your eyes,” Steve’s eyes widened just a bit,” A father figure probably, especially since yours had died rather recently befor-“

“How do you know that? How could you possibly know that?” His stoic visage breaking little by little.

“As I was saying,” you slightly purse your lips, gaze intent on him as you push yourself off the bench and start to circle Steve, “He probably said something rather profound to you as his last words or- oh … no… it was a gesture wasn’t it? He must have pointed to your heart. Your oh so good heart.” You narrowed your eyes at “good”. “No doubt you held onto that little piece of reassurance and made it your sole purpose- to be good. That’s all you ever wanted to be. Good. Hell, I don’t even blame you for that”.

“I’m not going to let a child use her mind magic to get into my brain and- “you burst out laughing, not from glee, but incredulousness and mockery.

“Oh, please Steve. It’s not magic, it’s science. It’s called psychoanalyzing. I can read people, and you, my lawful good, are an open book.” You roll your eyes and continue, “I’ve always had a problem with people like you. Because what if I told you that what you thought was good, wasn’t all it was chalked up to be? What if I told you that there is more than one version of ‘good’? The world is not black and white Steve. For someone so high-minded I thought you’d know that.”

“Look! I’m not going to sit here and argue with, again- a child, while all I came in here to do was ask for some assistance!”

“No, you look,” You step on your tips toes and stop inches from his face and press a pointed finger to his chest, “I am not a child. I don’t work for you. Hell, I don’t even work with you! I work with Tony, my services are employed by him and maybe SHIELD, but most certainly not you. You have no right to order me around. So, excuse me Captain High and Mighty, but all this disrespect and pointless arguing is making me hungry.” You turn on your heel and walk towards the lab door, leaving a wide-eyed Steve, but you don’t leave before glance back and say:

“Everyone has a tragic past Steve; you’re not special in that sense. The only difference between you and the rest of us? We’ve all come to terms with how gray the world actually is.”

[mister-maiden]

Outlast 1: Oh dear

Rating: 8/10                    Genre: Adventure/Horror                  Difficulty: Medium

TIME SPENT COMPLETING: 4-5 hours

Dark clouds signal your arrival at the iron, rusted gates of what appears to be a psychiatric hospital. You check your precious camera and battery supply before reviewing the file that led you here. You slowly move out of your vehicle…and as you peer towards the towering windows above, you could swear you are being watched. Several abandoned cars lay in the lot, webs and rust collecting on the exteriors. With the eerie sound of wind accompanying you as you make your way inside through an open window, you can’t help but think you may have made a dire mistake. This is Outlast. Developed by Red Barrels and released in 2013.

You are Miles Upshur, an investigative journalist who received a lead from an anonymous source about experiments on patients and violence occurring within Mount Massive Asylum. Armed with only a camera, batteries, and a few bandages, you make your way inside to find the story of a lifetime, only to come face to face with the evil inside all men. You’ll make your way past some of the worst of humanity mankind has to offer. People burned to the muscle, nearly skinned men walking around, torture, sacrifice, and more. Full of mental instability rather than healing, Mount Massive Asylum holds the most unstable people imaginable, and the surroundings to match. Chunks of building have fallen from a lack of care. Blood and other bodily fluids smear the walls and ceiling with religious signs. In contrast to its purpose of healing, it has become a festering blister that’s ready to pop.

Outlast’s soundtrack is a thing of beauty. Rather than focusing on loud, sudden jump scare sounds, they choose the violin and fiddle as a way to slowly play the character into a false sense of security. In some cases the player may feel himself ease up to a simple, empty hallway due to the near religious harmony of the music’s instruments. Then in other cases the player will find their hearts pump out of their chest as the music becomes a blitz of fear and panic. It forces the player to never feel safe while inside the asylum. Making the player feel sane and safe before shoving him into an unsafe situation with clashing, fast paced instruments and horrifying events is what Outlast is all about.

The game’s game play takes a note from Amnesia by having your character unable to fight back against the denizens of the asylum. Not every person wishes to harm you which makes it worse when someone you walk by suddenly wishes to shove a knife into your back. As the lead said, most, if not all of the men inside of the hospital have been experimented on. Be it losing their eyes, their limbs, or their sanity. There is no defense against your attackers. The only defense you have is using your camera’s night-vision function, lose them within the darkness, and pray they won’t find your hiding spot. You’ll need to be crafty and have a sharp eye to find batteries laying around so your camera doesn’t die, or you will be the one traversing in the abyss without a light, (and it is not a fun experience having someone’s face pop onto the screen because you were walking forward without a light). Some rooms are entirely black and relies on the night-vision in your camera to traverse which becomes horrendous when the battery is low. Remember to search every area, otherwise you may find yourself in a dire situation.

It seems Outlast took another piece of game play from Amnesia and had much of its lore placed in notes around the asylum. You can choose to hunt and find these notes to discover the full extent of evil doings happening within Mount Massive, or you can focus on finding a way out. It’s your choice. Nothing will really change of course as you will still need to find a way to escape to publish your findings.

Rating: 8/10 Mental Asylums. Every character was memorable, every chase is a horror in its own, and the surroundings was just a wonderful place to have the game set in. Mental asylums are often thought of for the crazies and most unstable of minds. Outlast took advantage of this and played on the strings of horror to bring a nail biting escape through the hell that is Mount Massive Asylum. If it would have introduced some sort of different game mechanic rather than just sprinting down hallways and turning valves and finding keys, this could have been perfect; however, with too similar mechanics to Amnesia, I feel as though it can’t be a perfect score. It tried too hard to mimic the mechanics of a game that was successful in the past. Granted it brought new mechanics of a camera and made the horror more fast paced rather than slow, it still felt almost too similar.

----------------------------------SPOILERS----------------------------------

My experience with the game + Discussion

When I want to play a horror game, I obviously want to be scared. When Outlast came out, I was overly excited to try it and boy was I impressed.

To begin, the introduction to the asylum was absolutely beautiful. It was the best way to introduce a game’s setting to the character I have seen in a while without becoming ridiculously difficult to remember every detail. All the player knows is that you’re an investigative journalist looking into a story suggested to you. It’s best to leave much ambiguity to the game’s context to the player rather than telling them outright, “Oh, this game is about this and this.” Throughout your stay in the asylum, there is always this sense of the supernatural due to religious symbols being placed around and strange events happening; however, if you read all the notes found strewn around the hospital, you will find that everything can be explained and pointed down to scientists performing horrible experiments, and their new invention. The Walrider.

The Walrider is the primary antagonist of the story. It’s body is made entirely of small nano machines invisible to the human eye unless they are grouped together. All of the random movements, killings, and religious worship can be brought down to this single antagonist as it has spread its influence among the denizens as an experiment gone wrong. Mount Massive Asylum is just a front for a secret laboratory hidden deep within the earth, experimenting on the tormented minds of patients in order to find someone to become a host for this swarm of nano machines. Only someone who has seen or been through so much horrendous trauma can be strong enough to control it, and who would be a more perfect host than someone suffering from mental instability?

I thought this antagonist was an amazing twist to a villain because everyone expects horror these days to be all about the supernatural or some shape of demon, but instead it is a contrast and it is completely man made. In the beginning of the game, running away from an insane doctor and butcher twins, you never get the sense of the horrors of the asylum being man made and something supernatural must be occurring. I was absolutely shocked at the conclusion of the antagonist being made of thousands of tiny machines that have been desecrating the asylum from within and it took me ages to really twist my mind around the idea. In fact, the game is filled with characters I just can’t forget because of what they did to my character. For instance, the twins.

The twins are two characters who seem to appear at the worst of times, naked, with machetes. Their theme was all about silent killing which was horrifying because no other enemy in the game would walk silently and not talk at all. This completely changed the game once these characters were introduced. It went from constantly having to flee in a panic, opening doors quickly and sprinting inside, to planning what doors to open, sneaking about and hoping the other twin wasn’t at your throat already. They were patients gone mad at the hands of the Walrider and experimentation, with temptations of wanting to eat your tongue and liver. They are very loyal to Father Martin, the self proclaimed priest of the asylum who worships the Walrider like a god.

There are several other characters that are worth mentioning. Chris Walker, the giant man who simply wishes to kill you. Rudolf Wernicke who is one of the primary researchers behind the Walrider experiments. If you look deeply into the notes and find hints around the asylum, you will find that the true evil is a corporation called the Murkoff Corporation. All of this death and destruction is simply for their gain to learn more about the human mind. I thought this was a brilliant idea to have an entire corporation behind the evil rather than this being just one big accident from experimentation done within the Asylum because not only does it give the REAL antagonists a face and mysterious chain of command, it also helps make a story for the newer addition to the Outlast series, Outlast 2, which is set in the swamps...but that’s for another review.

The chase events in this game made my heart pound, some more than others. For instance, one chase I vividly remember had me drop out of a vent and into a room with a man strapped to a chair who suddenly begins to scream. The calm sound of air now changed to an adrenaline rush of violin and drums as the insane make their move and begin to try to destroy the wooden doors separating me from them. It was so sudden that I began to panic and look around before staring directly at an iron plate blocking a door. As soon as I moved it, the doors burst open and several men with bloodthirsty visages shuffled on inside. Once I locked the door behind me, I had to sprint into several new rooms, each having more revolting images than the next with no time to process what I was seeing. The adrenaline rushed while I continuously closed the doors behind me to slow my pursuers, trying to find any means of escape I could before crawling into vents, windows, all with the same music pounding in my ears and the sound of my character’s heavy breathing constantly on my mind. Every exit began to scream danger as the sounds of fists against the doors filled the hallways. The pursuers constantly screamed to get after me as I made my escape through a mini elevator helpfully provided by a rather friendly voice on the end of an intercom. With no time to react and judge whether this was a good idea or not, I had to choose to enter the elevator, only to find myself face to face with a man with wires in his arms, a surgical apron around his waist, and the same friendly voice saying “You made the right choice here, buddy” before suddenly being punched into submission and falling onto the floor.

If the developers wished to make a game that forces you to panic and make dumb decisions based on the information and time given to you, they damn well succeeded. I was horrified every second of my play through and would recommend this game for anyone to try. It often goes on sale with its counterpart Outlast 2 and is a fantastic example of a quicker paced, modern horror game.

VERDICT: I’d recommend getting this game on sale. It is worth the full price, but this game goes on sale alongside its sequel, Outlast 2 far too often to not be taken advantage of. Have fun you guys c;

[thatboomerkid]

Twisting Amongst Mages

Twisting Amongst Mages

Pathfinder Fiction by Clinton J. Boomer

Brought to you absolutely free to enjoy, to test & to share – as always – by the fine folks of my Patreon.

The Old Wishtwister Shadibriri was having himself a simply damn fine evening.

Walking through the warm, early-spring fog of sunset, the Wishtwister smiled idly to himself at the complex work ahead of him. Feeling the vast port city change from bustling to coy, in mood and attire, with the coming of nightfall, a jaunty skip fell into his step. Yes, tonight he had a sizable bet to win, and a suitable con to pull, and -- best of all -- hours of raw entertainment to violently choke from the mortal world.

There was no need for him to stifle a wry chuckle as he sniffed at the changing breeze off the sparkling and wine-dark bay, taking in the soft salty tang of the cool sea.

The immense city around him glittered and shined.

The ageless demon was looking, this night, for a mind as sharp and solid as a forge-worked blade of adamantine, as taut yet flexible as a bow of oiled darkwood, as precise and slick as a wet-cut sliver of polished obsidian ... and, above all those things, as black and brutal as a burning river of pitch.

He was in Nex, in the port of Quantium. It wouldn't take long.

Shadibriri had a point to prove to his long-time partner-in-crime, Yaenit-Ku, and rubbing his inevitable success in the treacherous old dog’s face would be nearly as rewarding as the wager’s prize: sticking his fellow fiend to the completion of a foolishly made contract regarding a dark-elven demon summoner with more ambition than sense.

The Wishtwister only needed to connive a mortal mage into bargaining for -- and choosing -- his own death and damnation within the next thirteen hours.

Relatively simple, as such things go. And it would be fun, as well.

Tonight, the old demon intended to use the ancient "Foolish Sorceress and the Offended Genie" gambit - it was a classic. Like nearly all successful confidence scams, it relied on telling the mark exactly what he already wanted to believe, making him feel smart and lucky and very special, and then playing to his own particular vanity and greed.

The twist on this, though, was that the con was best pulled on studious, self-obsessed geniuses.

That made it tricky.

Which only made the endeavor still more delightful.

The Wishtwister barely stopped himself from skipping and doing cartwheels with the sheer glee of his anticipation.

Coming quite arbitrarily to an abrupt halt, the old demon settled into a disused alleyway not far from the waterfront and wrapped his form in shadow; he popped his knuckles, licked his wolfish fangs, and began to prepare his glamer.

He had to get into character.

That required the right costume.

If any citizen of Quantium had been around to see, they might have noted that the false man-form the demon wore seemed to shift then, from one singularly bluish hue to another, his hair cascading from white to blonde to sea-gray to storm-wracked green; and his features began to run like wind over swift water, flickering from kindly and doddering to wildly foolish and back again twice as fast.

He kept an appraising eye out for young, ambitious men.

Although, in fairness, ambitious middle-aged men were fine as well.

And ambitious old men were hardly any worse.

The pride was the thing, much more than age.

As the veils of his glamers were rearranged, and the Wishtwister tried on one duplicitous identity after another, the he mused to himself over his tactics.

He had found, over the many years he had walked the worlds, that most men did not particularly like women.

Oh, they liked looking at women, certainly, especially if the women were young and healthy. Men often enjoyed spending great deals of money on such women, and laying with them, and lying to them, and collecting them, parading and keeping them like caged animals, displaying them like collected dolls.

A few men, the old Wishtwister had found -- if the woman was quiet enough and clever enough to keep her smarts and ambitions hidden -- even enjoyed the occasional casual company of a woman.

But most men didn't really like them very much.

The Wishtwister thought that was quite funny.

Tonight, he was going to catch an ambitious man, with the bait of a wish, and hook him into immortal damnation, and filet him alive -- but, more concretely, the rod and reel of this trap would be that man’s distaste for women who did not know their proper place.

It was worth noting, perhaps, that this was a risky gambit indeed.

Old Shadibriri was, he felt, more than equal to the task.

Grinning, the ageless demon crouched in his dark hiding spot, and thumbed idly at the mental task of making his disguise as perfect as possible. The watching and the waiting would be worth it.

***

Many people walked by the alley as the sun set: soldiers and sailors, tinkers and tailors, bookbinders and bookmakers, butchers and bakers, and chandlers as well. Whores and whoremongers, pimps and tricks, some few young ruffians out for cheap laughs, some early-evening drunks, and even a strolling couple or two; all passed by the alleyway, and all were left be.

The city, more so than most, began to glow.

It was very pretty.

Singers and songwriters came and went, and actors and actresses on their way to work, along with bar-wenches and doormen, seers and soothsayers, fortune-tellers and funeral-makers, and a fat woman on a palanquin draped in gold.

The Wishtwister saw a skinny, sad young man, cradling a one-eyed cat, and it made him giggle.

He spotted an assassin, marking a target, and cheered quietly; he watched policemen upon their rounds, and jeered just as soundlessly.

He observed a man getting mugged, and laughed heartily to himself.

He beheld fools: some in motley, some in rags, and many more in the clothes of nobles.

The Wishtwister considered, after a time, the deeper and rarer delights to be seen only in Quantium: few cities in the world held the sort of hidden marvels that really rewarded the divinatory sight which Shadibriri possessed.

As the shadows grew long, his arcane-tuned eyes beheld a handful of lovely, secret things: imps and quasits, shades and phantasms, and shape-changed stalkers; a mage-lord flanked by a dozen invisible bodyguards; a scuttling succubus in the form of a street urchin; and a grim-faced swordsman with a cackling babau riding deep, frothing and buzzing, in the back of his mind.

To each of these he smiled and bowed his head in quiet, fraternal respect.

He watched patiently over wives and cooks, thieves and lovers, tramps and ladies, brigands and bullyboys, and the whole cross-sectioned cornucopia of such a cosmopolitan city as they wandered and waited, preyed and paraded before him.

The demon lurked, and grinned to himself.

***

In due time, before the sky had darkened entirely to jet, while the full twinkling of the sparkles above was held yet at bay by the lush light of the city and the lowering of the sun, the demon spotted his mark.

He was perfect.

The fellow was draped in the silks of a wealthy common-man, but wore the robe of a mystic scholar, the sleeves of his garb stained ever so slightly with chalk-dust and the smells of wood-oil, ink and coffee. His hair, black with strips of gray, receded from an over-sharp widow’s peak at his brow, and his beard was close-cropped into a thin goatee. A slight paunch went before him, but his posture was poised and proud, and his face betrayed a stern expression of idle seriousness on a countenance accustomed overmuch to scowling. His gait was leisurely, but solidly focused: here was a man without any appointment to keep, yet not one in the habit of dallying in bars while on the march to his eventual destination.

The man’s eyes were pale, and hidden behind smallish half-moon spectacles suitable for reading; his hair had not been cut in some time, which suggested the absence of a paramour in his life untroubled by a need to impress businessmen; and the leather bag slung over his shoulder was well-worn from its use -- doubtless the carrying of vast amounts of parchment and ink -- and had not been cleaned or repaired in some number of years.

He carried a finely wrought walking cane with elaborate scroll-work etched upon it, but did not seem to need it; it was an affectation and sign of station, only.

Shadibriri would have guessed him in his mid-thirties to early-forties, of mixed Garundi or Qadiran blood with perhaps a touch of Taldan, and respected -- if not particularly well-liked -- by his colleagues. The mark looked, in short, like an unmarried, tenured academic strutting home from the classroom, library or hall of study where he worked, in a wealthy metropolitan port-city proud of its history, arcane learning, and intellectual achievement.

The Wishtwister smiled to himself.

By a pitiful cough, and a rattle of false chains, the demon made himself known.

Turning in the alley, he caught the eye of the scholar and then cringed away ineffectually, half into the dark, to hide. His buffoonish visage, along with bright blue skin, a curling blonde moustache and a fetching turban in the Keleshite style, was enough to set the man’s curiosity to flight.

“What? Who is there?”

The demon wept and wailed, trying to keep the smile from his voice. “Oh, no, no, you have seen me! And I -- poor me! -- I am compelled to answer your question truthfully, and with neither prevarication nor hesitation! I am a genie, bound into this world until sun-up, and the third wish be granted!”

This, quite rightly, piqued the curiosity of the mage. With a wave of his hand, a globe of light appeared and hovered high above the cobblestones; with another pass of his palm and a few words, he cast a divination to see the warp and weft of the arcane. “A genie, you say? Come out, that I may see you.”

The demon suppressed a wry cackle, and did as he was bidden. “Very well, my lord; I suppose that I have little other option.”

Hanging his head, the demon stepped into the thin light of the street. He was a sight: his short but muscular form was garbed in the thinnest white cotton, cut in the most flamboyant of styles, his chest bare and smooth; his skin shone an electric-blue brighter than a dawn horizon upon the high Obari Ocean, and his eyes were expressive pools of clear water brimming with tears. The toes of his white leather shoes curled into cunning spirals, and broken chains dangled from electrum shackles locked around his wrists and throat.

In the vision of the mage’s divination, for the briefest instant the demon appeared as a singular pillar of bright, multicolored fire reaching some twenty feet in the air.

The mage composed himself swiftly and dismissed the effect: in elegant Quantium, xenophobia has been known as the very height of barbarism for over five thousand years; staring is considered quite rude; and non-consensual spell-use upon others is punishable by death. “Ah. You speak truthfully, good genie.”

The demon shrugged, wearing a façade of deepest misery. “Both fully as well as truthfully, I fear -- and much to my own dismay, sire. I am bound to do so; I would gladly lie, were I allowed. Or escape, had I the means.”

The mage cast a nervous gaze up and down the deserted street. “Can you not, ahh -- take some more mundane form, friend genie?”

The demon pretended to fight back tears. “I suppose. For what it is worth, I might garb myself in the mantle of men, like so ,”—his clothing and skin-tone changed in a wink to match the local style—“but my pupil-less eyes will always betray my true form. You see?”

The mage nodded, gazing into the colorless pools the demon presented, and chucked nervously. “I did not know that. Such a fact about your kind, I mean.”

“Hmm. You must not have met very many genies.”

The mage shrugged, waving off the observation, and smiled slightly. “It is true; I have not. So, can you not take the form of pure air, or water? Can you not step sideways to your home plane, amongst the elemental realms?”

The demon sighed. “Neither. I was bound by a most foolish sorceress, indeed, but amongst her many shortcoming and failures, sadly, was not to be found an inability to greatly inhibit my methods of travel. I am, in short, trapped.”

A long silence settled across the pair.

The Old Wishtwister had tried this trick many times before; long ago, he had occasionally substituted out the ‘foolish sorceress’ for an aged and infirm wizard. The problem, he had found, was that young mages tended to hold their elders in very high regard indeed, and oft became suspicious; the best trick he had come upon to mitigate that was to play on racism of some kind, and to use a greasy Varisian hedge-mage or a mad, backwoods Kellid mushroom addict in the role of the confounded summoner.

But his card was played now; his die cast.

The demon waited, and let the bait dangle.

He hoped the man before him was a divorcee, or perhaps had loved once - very intensely - in his youth, and been rebuked.

The Wishtwister sighed loudly, with intense weariness, and shrugged himself into a still-deeper slump.

Night had fallen upon the city.

“If you would, friend genie, tell me,” said the mage at last, “... what was the name of this sorceress?”

The demon sighed once more, quite deeply, to keep himself from spinning in a circle and clapping loudly with joy. “That, I cannot tell you. My tongue is bound against it, or I would speak her name with greatest glee, and tell you moreover what the harlot’s first two wishes were -- and what became of her in the process.”

The mage tried to hide his smile. “And you are bound here, then, until sunrise?”

“And the granting of a third wish, which is the heaviest and fastest of all bindings. My temper got the better of me, I am afraid, and thus my summoner lies trapped, blind and insensate. Now, I must find a mortal arcanist onto whom I might grant a wish, or I will be stuck here forever, cursed, a shadow of myself.”

Rubbing his chin, the mage nodded. “I see.”

The demon’s voice jumped, suddenly, as if he were startled. “My lord, surely, you are a learned spell-caster; might ... might you take this wish? Can you answer the riddle?”

The mage frowned. “And what ... ah, what of this riddle?”

“The sorceress who conjured and bound me, she did not desire that I might give away my wishes freely to others, and restrained me mightily against it. She impressed upon me, magically, a most cunning riddle: solve it, though, and I will grant you your heart’s desire, and then be on my way!”

Here, thought the demon, was the drawing of the reel.

The mage’s eyes were alight. “And if I cannot solve it?”

Shadibriri sighed again, with deepest sorrow. “Ah, well. Then I would have to find another mage, I suppose. If you could direct me to one, I should be ever so grateful ...”

“Hmm. Perhaps ... let me take a crack at it, first.”

And right here, thought the demon, was the trickiest part.

What he needed, in all truthfulness, was the right riddle for the right mark: one that seemed quite difficult to answer, yet that came accompanied with a frighteningly huge number of relatively easy possible solutions. He needed the mage to suddenly be caught up in the idea of being very, very damned clever.

The demon knew hundreds of such riddles.

So: which lock would fit this key?

Over the years the Wishtwister had tried offering three full attempts at solving the riddle, but he had found it problematic in several regards. Many ambitious young fellows became nervous, and overthought the problem, psyching themselves out in a vain attempt to strategize the system. In addition, some became wary when their first answer was correct: it seemed too easy, then ... The trick was to make it seem all-but impossible, and yet surmounted by a genius on his one and only attempt.

If a mortal mage buggered it too badly on his first effort, there was always the option of solemnly intoning, with as much authority as the demon could muster, that the mage now had two guesses remaining.

He looked over the man before him, and tried to guess at the fellow’s areas of passion and expertise. His fantasies, focuses and foibles. A mage from a seaport city, with a passion for books and the solitary life of an academic ... hmm.

Did he live alone? Had he any close family members? Any hobbies or delights, beyond the obvious guesses of ‘self-referential writing, self-sufficient pets, sedentary games requiring a little skill, and some small appreciation of legal inebriants and stimulants?’

Well, it couldn’t hurt to go with an old standard.

The demon took a deep breath. “Very well, sir. The riddle: I am dark, but not empty; liquid, but never flowing; I contain all mysteries and treasures, but am silent, and without a tongue. What am I?”

He watched the mage before him begin to frown, and to puzzle.

The demon held his breath.

What reply would his challenger provide? He was ready to accept any of the following answers:

ink, dried on a page, telling tales and scribing spells;

the depths of the ocean, which hold the still corpses of wrecked ships;

a chalkboard, freshly-washed and ready to be filled with new lessons;

the inside of an old and broken bell;

an onyx scrying pool;

a miser’s treasure-vault;

a dragon’s horde in a sodden cave;

any specific example from a great list of famous and more-mysterious wells or pits;

or even ‘the mind’ -- usually the dim mind of a child, or a madman, or a slave or a woman.

He was also willing to accept a number of other responses.

The Wishtwister wasn’t particularly picky.

One of the very few answers the demon could not, in all good conscience, allow would be ‘a raven’ -- although, he the mused, the day he found a wizard dumb enough to guess that, it would be a very interesting day indeed.

It would be quite a bit of fun to see what such an idiot wished for.

A hush fell along the city street, and demon wondered for a moment if he could accept ‘a city street at night’ as a response.

It would be a bit ... on the nose, tragically. Not a particularly good fit, either.

The mage frowned further, and the demon breathed as slowly as possible, holding in his anticipation.

Actually, the demon considered for a moment, he might be able to accept ‘breath’ as an answer. He might have to fudge it, though; breath could hardly be called ‘silent,’ and it would technically be ‘flowing, but never liquid.’

He might have to change the wording next time.

An electricity filled the air.

The mage, at last, surprised him. “The sky full of stars, and the Dark Tapestry beyond, and the many worlds hanging in it.”

The demon, quick as a wink, rattled the riddle back to himself, and double-checked the response: I am dark, but not empty; liquid, but never flowing; I contain all mysteries and treasures, but am silent, and without a tongue. What am I?”

It fit.

He grinned, then, from ear to ear. “Indeed ... master.”

Old as he might ever get, Shadibriri would never tire of seeing such a look of glee on a mortal’s face ... tinged with such hunger, avarice, and paranoia. He took it upon himself to savor the moment.

The demon bowed. “Yes, truly, I had my hopes pinned upon you. So, then ... what is your wish, my master?”

The mage took a moment to compose himself. “I have my wish?”

“No.”

The look of crestfallen confusion on the mage’s face was even more delightful than his look of glee a moment before, if that was possible.

The demon continued, after letting the pause hang for a moment out of sheer bloody-minded cruelty. “No, no my master -- you have the sorceress’ wish; it is bargained, bought and paid for by the bitch you boldly bested. I am now at your command.”

Glancing away, the mage visibly struggled with his emotions. “Any wish, then, is mine.”

“Yes.”

“Mine to make as I see fit.”

The demon smiled. “Oh, indeed. Most certainly and truly, master.”

“Any ... any wish at all?”

Shadibriri shrugged. “Within ... ah, limited guidelines. Barring a wish for more wishes, there is little of which I am not capable. As I have said before, to other men in other places: I can call forth any spell, I can resurrect the dead, I can rewrite time and space. I can create from nothing, and make you wealthy beyond your wildest dreams; I can open doors to other worlds, and cast you across the infinite pleasures of the planes as you desire. I can turn lead to gold, pig-farmers to pigs, and day to night. With but a word, I can unmake mountains, reshape flesh and topple kings ...”

“Very well.”

The demon smirked. “I was not done, master, and am still bound to speak the truth. The whole truth. I can also rewire your brain so that you think you’re a hummingbird, or set your bones on fire, or turn you into a pillar of salt and throw you into the ocean to dissolve, as a certain nameless sorceress once discovered. My abilities are not much limited; you drink from the very waterfall of creation’s torrent when you unleash my gifts. Be careful, I suppose they say, what you wish for.”

“It is to you, then, to interpret the meaning of my wish?”

The demon shrugged again. “My powers are great, and call on majesties older that your species can fathom; even I do not truly comprehend the full scope of what I do, any more than you understand the mysteries of digesting a glass of warm milk and turning it into blood and flesh, nor how it is that you fall asleep, and dream, and then wake again. I would be careful, were I you, to know exactly what you want, and to make it clear to me what you want, and to phrase what you want as precisely as possible. Barring that, you should also hope that I’m in a good mood, and that my values coincide rather perfectly with your own.”

The mage swallowed, hard. He then allowed himself a thin smile, but it was wry, and without much humor. “Heh. Yes. Amongst my colleagues, there exists something of a joke. About situations much similar to this -- a warning.”

“Ah! Does there, truly?”

“Yes. It seems that a foolish magician once wished of a captured genie that he should be made, and I quote, ‘the greatest of mages’. The genie acquiesced ... and ballooned him to a mass of over twenty-thousand pounds in weight -- heavier again, by thirty-fold, than even the largest cyclops-enchanters of the time before Starfall.”

“Ah,” the demon said. “You know, my people tell the same story.”

The mortal hemmed and hawed for a moment at that, swallowing again, once, then finally spoke. “So, let me clarify: I will not get the results of this wish until I specifically say the words ‘I wish,’ quote-end-quote, and then follow through with a specific request, is that correct?”

Shadibriri nodded. “Most assuredly. Why is it that you ask?”

“Just ... ah. Thinking it through. As they say, ‘It is the mark of an educated man that he might hold in his mind a possible course of action without necessarily choosing it.’ I’m simply ... weighing my options.”

“Yes, yes,” the demon agreed. “As my own people say, ‘You don’t have to believe everything you think.’ And so it is. You do seem a clever enough sort. For a mortal, anyway.”

“Well, I am a wizard.”

“Good point. You seem a clever enough sort, for a mortal wizard. Master.”

The mage frowned at that, and thought deeply -- his eyes squinted with mistrust -- and he stroked his bearded chin.

After a minute of this, just as the mage was getting into truly heavy thinking, Shadibriri cleared his throat. “Master?”

“Uh? Yes?”

“May we walk?”

The mage seemed startled. “What?”

“Well, your city is legendary for its beauty; I might like to see some of the sights of the place before I go. You have shrines and statues, hanging gardens and such, yes? Artificial waterfalls of the most cunning design, filling heated pools so that beauties may bathe even in winter; glass tubes of colored smoke, lit by captured lightning to illuminate the streets of alabaster, with ziggurats and terraces and mosaics galore?”

“Indeed,” the mage allowed. “Mostly, yes. So?”

“Well, it would be nice to have a look at them,” the demon said. Giggling to himself, he began to tap his foot and to feign that his patience was nearing an end. “Briefly. And then I rather would like to go home, you know.”

“Ah. Yes, of that, I am aware. Let us walk.”

The strange pair began a slow stroll through the city, one of them wracked with a torment of indecision and the other lapping it up.

The city had her most resplendent treasures on display as they walked, keeping to their privacy.

As they crossed a broad thoroughfare, the demon interrupted yet again. “So, look - you’ve done the hard part. With the riddle and all. What is the hold-up? You do want to make a wish, right?”

“I am ... thinking.”

The demon, relishing every succulent moment of the mage’s discomfort, prodded. “About?”

“About many things.”

Shadibriri did not hide his predatory grin. “Ah. I know what this is about.”

The mage balked. “Do you, now?”

“Of course! You are not the first mortal I have ever met, Master! No, I think I may understand how you feel: you are beset with too many options. You are like a gourmet seated before a feast; where the starving man digs in, and the glutton simply feeds, you are no fool: you are simply not certain where first to make a cut in the fine meal before you. Am I right?”

The mage frowned. “Perhaps.”

“Yes. Any one wish you make would be a wish against all the other things you could otherwise have,” the demon said, as he gestured to the city streets around them, and the throngs of evening life. “You could have any of this. Her, or him, or them, or those, or that and all that comes with it. Or all of it. Or none of it, if you are imprecise with your wording or don’t really know what you really want. Yes ... the first thing everyone wants, once they have a single wish, is that they had many more. And that is quite unpleasant, surely.”

“Yes,” the mage allowed.

The demon smiled his most disarming smile as he began to walk once more. “A shame, then. For you have only the one wish, after all.”

The mage’s scowl sent a shiver of joy up the Wishtwister’s spine as he caught up to the demon. After a few more blocks, he spoke. “And also, I wonder at my luck.”

“Oh, I see! Or, no -- no, I do not. What luck is that?”

The man’s frown deepened. “My own. I wonder at it, and meditate upon it, and hesitate to press it.”

“How so?”

The frown deepened yet further as they strolled. “I was lucky to meet you, that is clear. There are some three-thousand-score inhabitants of this city; half of them or more are arrayed around you. I am but one man. Probability was plainly not on my side in this regard, yet here I am with you; fewer than, I would guess, a third of those sixty thousand could have solved the sorceress’s riddle, yet I did so ... I am very fortunate indeed.”

Chuckling to himself, the demon nodded. “You sell yourself short, master; I would wager that far fewer than one in ten could solve it. Maybe less than one in a hundred, or even a thousand. Think upon it this way, if it please you: statistically, no one ever meets a genie and gets a wish granted. No one passes the Test of the Starstone, either. But it happens anyway. You’re living proof, as are Cayden Cailean and Iomedae the Inheritor, and doubtless a few more in the centuries to come. In a world with more than a billion inhabitants, after all, million-to-one odds must happen a thousand times a day. And further, would you not agree that you are - as I, myself, noted - exceptional?”

The mage began to shake his head. “I suppose.”

Shadibriri grinned. “So, you have been lucky! That is good, not bad! But better yet, you are smart -- as my people say, while it is certainly better to be lucky than to be smart, it is probably easier to be smart several times in a row than lucky the same number of times.”

“Hm. Do they really say that?”

“They must. I’m under a compulsion of truth, after all. Look, this is simple. Wish for something.”

They turned a corner and began across a bridge. The mage did not look happy. “Like what?”

“A fine question, master! Some people take a liking to fame. Or fortune, I’ve found,” the demon began to count on his fingers. “Strength of arm, or glory in battle, or a title of noble station. A gift for witty jokes, or a cunning tongue. Immortality. Sexual prowess.”

“Immortality, you say?”

“Indeed! Very popular!”

The wizard’s glower darkened further still. The pair came to a stop before a ball-court of some kind. “That seems ... problematic.”

The demon frowned, as well. “Hmm. In what way, master?”

“Well, life is fragile; eternity is long. The mortal form is susceptible to all number of maladies, from old age to disease to wounds in battle. Of all the problems that can beset a man, death is -- nine times of ten -- the commonest result of harm taken to its most logical conclusion. I should not like to suffer all the ills of life while nimbly dodging only final release, nor should I like to be flippant with what type of immortality for which I might be wishing; eternal existence as an unkillable tree or regenerating sea-slug, for example, would hardly be my preference.”

“I see.”

The mage continued, gesturing to the hoops and lines of the game-field beyond. “There is a ritual we perform at my college, and the company in which I work: each of us, when positioning for promotion, must create a game. A simple game of chance and skill, of strategy and risk, often with dice and cards and chits. Ways to win, to wager, and to lose.”

Shadibriri smiled. “I see.”

“We must present these games and their rules to our seniors; our rivals are then given the chance to break them, and find ways to cheat.”

“Hmm,” the demon mused. “I quite like the idea of this ritual.”

The mage nodded. “So, if I am cautious, it is because I have learned to be.”

“Plainly so, master!”

“So, indeed: if I were to wish that my own human flesh could never die, that I might remain young and vital and ever free of disease or harm, I might yet find myself transported magically to Hell -- or, less dramatically, trapped on a desert island without food or reading material, or alone with my arm caught beneath a boulder on the side of some mountain -- yet be unable to perish. That would hardly be ideal.”

The demon grinned. “There is that.”

“And never mind old age: what of an unexpected attack upon my life? Would any so-called ‘immortality’ you might see fit to grant me prove perfect protection against mundane sword-blows, or the axes and spears of starving peasants? If so, should my skin be altered into steel, that it could turn aside blades, yet still retain its tactile senses ... yet, what of poison? Or would I just be trapped in a furnace, or frozen in an iceberg, or sunk in a chest to the bottom of the sea, or any of another ten-thousand terrible ways to die -- or, in my case, live?

The demon began to walk again, heading towards an alleyway between an art museum, a street vendor, and a monument of some kind. “Good questions, master.”

The mage followed. “Yes. The easiest way to achieve for me this immortality might be to kill me -- for if the soul is truly deathless, I would then pass on to immortality.”

The demon suppressed a grin. “There is that, as well. It would certainly suit Pharasma’s liking, at the very least.”

The mage shuddered and made a sign of reverence, spiraling his right hand over his heart for a moment, yet went on. “You might instead grant me access to Sun-Orchid Elixirs -- and with it, all the enemies that access would supply. You might skip me ahead, one century a second, until the sun burns out in a few thousand-thousand years. Or, perhaps, you might fit me with a magic ring that sustains my life processes, and then shut me in a perfectly spherical adamantine prison floating invisibly in the sky, a hundred miles up.”

Old Shadibriri nodded sagely. “Yes. Yes, I might. You forgot that I might transfigure you into a painting or a sculpture ... for art is, truly, immortal.”

The mage frowned. “No. No immortality, I think. Not today -- an eternity is long; it wouldn’t do to pick the wrong one. This is a problem requiring more study than I’ve yet given it. Wishes are fickle things.”

The demon shrugged. “As you say -- you’ve certainly given this subject a lot of thought.”

“Mortal wizards spend a lot of time thinking about immortality.”

He chuckled. “I’ve noticed. So then: wealth is, admittedly, also very popular.”

“Wealth. Interesting. I might, then ... what? Request infinite gold?”

Shadibriri smiled as they stepped into the shadowed darkness of a park. “That would do, certainly.”

“Bah. You might teleport me to a demi-plane of nothing but gold, without food or water, or even air to breathe. You might drown me in a flood of coins, or even crush me to death with them as they rained from transmuted clouds. Perhaps you would grant me a single gold piece a week, appearing one at a time in my pocket as I lay crippled forever in a cave, afflicted with a wasting sort of immortality devoid of agelessness, until the stars burn out.”

The Wishtwister was startled. “Egad! That’s actually quite remarkable in its cruelty.”

“It never hurts to be too careful when it comes to wishes.”

The demon smiled and nodded. “I agree, master. Then, perhaps, wish for the thing you might have hoped to buy with this aforementioned limitless gold -- a castle, and land. An army. A boat, a yacht, a very fleet of pleasure cruisers, and an island paradise upon which to dock! Or, perhaps, ask for what money cannot buy: the adoration of a beautiful young woman, maybe.”

The mage slowly shook his head. “Ah! But she would have to be one who truly loves me, and who shares both my intellect and appetites, and who was pleasing to me in all ways, and yet also bettered me by her very presence; otherwise, she would be only a terrible curse, and my undoing. Yet, if I truly loved her, and she was my boon companion in all ways -- why, I would be deeply saddened when she died, or she would be distraught when I did. As cruel as anything else you might do, that would be.”

“Hmm, you forget that I might also make her barren. Unable to grant you heirs, you and she might grow to hate one another despite your love,” the demon said. “Or perhaps I could twist her blood, so that she might birth you only monsters. If I were feeling truly spiteful, I might grant you two wives, one each with half of what you desire, and set them at each other’s throats. Such things have been done.”

“Yes. There is that.”

The demon mused. “So. What about power?”

The mage shook his head more emphatically. “No. No good. I am an apprentice still, for all my knowledge ... and my master is, in his way, merely a student as well, to even more senior masters -- the chains of scholarship and allegiance here are complex. To grant me ‘power’ in such a way would be cheating, much the same as plagiarism, and I would be cast out. And from whence would this ‘power’ come? A spell book? A stolen staff? The tutelage of a demon?”

Shadibriri grinned. “Fame, then?”

“Fame isn’t everything.”

That sounded practiced. The demon shrugged and stepped over a broken bottle. “Only to those who don’t know what to do with their celebrity, I suspect.”

“Oh, I know exactly what I would do. I would be appointed by popular demand to a position on the Nine very quickly, and then I would be murdered overnight by either Master Phade or by Gen Hendrikan.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. I would be subsumed, rapidly, into the fold of the one -- on pain of death -- and then swiftly murdered by the other. Although I suppose I might be slain by someone else, come to think of it.”

“Very well. Ambitious as you are, you want for little here as a scholar in Quantium. You lack neither food nor water, nor pleasant diversions or luxuries. In all truth, you might as well ask only for happiness. Pure happiness.”

Enough happiness, thought the Wishtwister, to make stabbing orphans in a basement abattoir as delightful as a summer waltz; to make your heart detonate in your chest as you dance in the blood of violated grandmothers and bite off your own eyebrows.

The mage considered, his brow furrowing yet further.

The demon was enjoying himself.

They continued to walk; now past brightly-lit fountains set behind a most-cunning gate of shifting, serpentine iron.

“Some people wish for unicorns,” the demon said after a time.

“Hmm?”

“Well, they do. I couldn’t tell you why, or what they could possibly want with the creatures, but some people do wish for them.”

“I ... unicorns, you say?”

“Indeed, master. I’ll be the first to admit that it’s odd - but it couldn’t hurt to consider it. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”

The mage nodded, and a joyless smirk creased his lips. “Yes. What, precisely.”

“Eh?”

“What is the worst that could happen?”

“Master?”

The mage’s expression took on a fierce look, and he adjusted his spectacles. “I command you, genie: tell me what the worst that could happen would be.”

“Ah! Of course, my master; a fine desire! So, do you ... how best to phrase this? Do you ... wish to know, exactly, the worst that could happen?”

Pale, sick worry crossed the mage’s face in a wave of panic. “No!”

“Ah,” said the demon, hiding his dejection. “So, then instead you only ask me to tell you the worst wish I know, for a fact, to have been granted?”

“Yes,” the mage intoned breathlessly.

“Of course. I only check, so as to know your desire. It pays to be precise, master.”

Coming to a stop between a church and a large statue, the mage collected himself. “I ask you, genie, to tell me the tale - one you know to be true - of the worst wish ever granted.”

The demon fought back a grin, and thought for a moment quite fondly of his old partner, Yaenit-Ku. “Very well. Our tale concerns two very naughty genies, who decided to play a funny game in a scummy little town.”

“Where?”

The old Wishtwister stifled a giggle. He liked telling half-truths. “No place of particular importance; I think that it was in what is now called the Riverlands— in those days it was still part of Sarkoris —far to the north of here, in the thickest of black woods. The two genies, it seems, came to a cold and wretched village wracked by war and poverty, and each adopted one of two brothers. Orphan boys, young and starving, alone and frightened, without friend or family; one the age of three winters, the other only five.”

“Interesting.”

“I thought so. The genies took the forms of travelers to the region - one a warrior who swift became a sheriff, and the other a wealthy antiquarian and merchant of art, specifically - and to each of these boys, they then gave every treasure and desire, granting each wish that the children made, once a month, for a time of seven years.”

The mage frowned. “That sounds quite ... dangerous.”

“It was! The children grew up strong, tall and handsome, arrogant and greedy, and the world greatly suffered in their wakes. After seven years, the city and its citizens and environs had become warped by the dozens of miracles afforded each child, so the creatures changed their game. Once the boys reached ten and twelve, respectively, the two genies required that they compete: each month, one boy would be granted a pair of wishes, and the other would be granted nothing at all.”

“Hmm. And how ... how was the victor decided?”

The demon smiled. “A variety of ways, master. In some instances, the two wrestled, or held their breath underwater, or competed to bring trophies, or were asked to tell tales of bravery, or cunning, ... or cruelty. Whatever most-amused the two wicked genies, in simple truth. In some cases, they would require each boy to state what he would wish for; whichever desire was the more interesting would be granted twice-over.”

The mage fidgeted and harrumphed. “Devious.”

“Yes. At the end of another seven years, as the boys entered adulthood, the two genies changed the game yet again: each boy was guaranteed his due of magic, but could only grant this wish to another, who had sworn blood-fealty to him. And so the two began to build armies, with which to oppose one another, and their many creations, and all the world.”

The mage grimaced. “And at the end of that seven years?”

“Oh, the games never made it to that point, I’m afraid. They were dead within a few months,” said the demon, simply. “Them, and everyone for miles around, and most of the land scoured clean of life. What little that was left wasn’t human, or sane, or really even sentient.”

The mage did not look amused. “And you know this tale to be true, you say?”

“Indeed,” said the Wishtwister, brightly. “On my honor.”

“And ... what is the point? How is that the tale of the most terrible wish?”

“Oh, yes! Of course, master! It is simply my assumption,” explained the Wishtwister, “that of the 300-some wishes granted in that time, the very worst one of all was probably in the mix there somewhere. It might have been one of the ones about werewolves. Or for mastery of fire and wind, or for big funguses or the secrets of the grave ... or the poison-sword, admittedly.”

“Hmm. Interesting. Yes. ,” said the mage, sighing. “Do you know… I think I’m ready to make my wish.”

The demon brightened. “Yes?”

“Yes,” said the mage. “Friend genie, I would wish ... only that you might return to your home, forever unable to be summoned again to this world.”

The Wishtwister blinked.

And blinked again.

“Eh?”

The mage smiled. “Is that wish not to your liking?”

“Well, no ... it’s ...”

“Oh, because I might have thought that you would enjoy that. I suppose that instead I might wish that you could never again be asked to grant a wish ...”

“Ah, no, I think perhaps ...”

“No? Why ever not? Would you prefer instead that I wished you permanently transformed into a dretch?”

“I’m not granting that.”

The mortal magician had quite a smile upon his face. Not one of charity, either - no, this was a look that the Wishtwister recognized as one of his own favorite expressions.

“Just as an aside, do you know where we are?”

The demon blinked once more. “No. Look. Ah, if you don’t ... if you don’t mind me asking, master ... what is it that you do? For a living, I mean?”

The mage grinned. “I’m an actuarial consultant for a legal firm, specializing in the transport of rare books.”

Shadibriri frowned. “Which means ... ?”

“An investigative accountant for lawyers, who work to defend legally nebulous smugglers who buy, sell and ship forbidden tomes, basically. I specialize in keeping the Pathfinder Society honest when they trade with the dark library of Scrivenbough, since the folk from Absalom seem to have a tendency to claim that things are lost-in-transit.”

The Wishtwister frowned.

The mage went on, his smile suggestive of a cat. “I’m also a former student of Scrivenbough, of course. And to answer the question you did not ask, this place is the courtyard of a monastery; we are about fifty yards from the inner sanctum of one of the more-major temples of Irori on this continent. The monument behind you commemorates Nex’s gifting of the island of Jalmeray to the maharajah Khiben-Sald. Three different fighting-styles were invented here over the last four thousand years, seven more were perfected, and you should know that a single whisper of your true nature will bring forth approximately two hundred of the most vicious hand-to-hand combatants who have ever been born, all of them aching for a test.”

The demon shrugged, feigning disinterest. “Then ... perhaps I will leave after all, come to think of it.”

“Hmm. Well, I should hope,” said the mage, “that we need not part company on such terrible terms.”

The two of them stared at one another, and the ocean wind swept across the immaculate flagstones of the courtyard.

Finally, the mage spoke. “To answer the other question you did not ask, I suspected from the very first; I have some great knowledge of genie-kind, and knew you to be something else entirely. No djinn or marid are you, no. Thus, I sought confirmation of your true nature, which you provided in abundance; although your mind is quick and your illusions quite beyond my skill to pierce, it was the slip of one-wish-a-month that did you in, at the last.”

“Eh. Yes, I suppose that would do it,” said Shadibriri.

“Indeed. I name you ... glabrezu, if my schooling does not fail me.”

“Ah, well. You got me. I had you going for a bit, though, didn’t I?”

The mage’s grin did not dissipate. “Sure. So I’ll take my prize, if you are still offering; if not, I might suggest that we simply go our separate ways. I might wish for some measure of power, after all. Perhaps a ring that makes me invisible.”

“Ah. Well, at that ... here’s the sticking point, master,” the demon spat, with as venomous a sarcasm as he could muster. “Let’s clear the air. You see, I have a bet to win. The terms of that bet are that you, a mortal mage, must wish for something that will (a) damn your soul to the Abyss, and (b) get you killed, and relatively quickly.”

“Hmm. No, I don’t like that at all.”

The Wishtwister nodded. “I can see why. Unfortunately, I’m on something of a schedule; tonight time is, I’m afraid, quite a bit of the essence, as they say.”

“Well. Then, I suppose,” said the mage, “that if it’s up to me, you are going to lose your bet.”

The demon nodded, and turned to go. “Ah, yes. That was my assessment as well. The night is young, of course ... but the dawn comes all too quickly. Another mage to track down, then, I suppose. Nothing for it, and no time to waste. Which, interestingly enough, reminds me of an old saying amongst my people.”

The mage smiled, spreading his arms wide to encompass the vast city. “Ah, yes. Something about there being, what -- always plenty of wizards, amongst all the many worlds? Or how there is never enough time, even in immortality?”

Shadibriri smiled. “Oh, no, no -- nothing like that. The saying goes: ‘I’m going to rip your arms off’.”

“...”

The demon shrugged. “My people are actually pretty simple.”

“I see.”

Old Shadibriri turned back to face the mage, and flexed himself to his full height. “Anyway ... I’m going to. Rip your arms off, that is. Just for fun.”

The mage glared at him warily. “In case you’ve forgotten, there exists a literal army of fiend-hating martial-artists, located quite surprisingly close to us. And there are alarms and wards all around this place that sense magic. If either of us invokes the least use of a spell --”

“The alarms will go off, yes, and a horde of holy killers will emerge with swiftness to smash us to broken, bloody jelly. My glamers aren’t technically spells, but what you cast against me surely will be; doubtless, you know of my immunity to fire and acid, and will choose to blast me with a bolt of lightning ...”

“Really?” the mage asked, disapprovingly raising an eyebrow.

“Eh, it was worth a try. Well, anyway, I’m betting that I can kill you first.”

The mage nodded, his hands moving into position to cast. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Or, perhaps, it would be useful to you to have a lawyer in your pocket.”

“You think?”

“Yes. And I can get you a rival of mine, in less time than you might expect.”

The demon stopped. “Is that so?”

“It is. We can go to him presently; I’ll vouch for your authenticity as one of the nobler efreet, and explain that I could not solve your cunning riddle. We’ll work together to get him to wish for something stupid -- damning and lethal -- and then we’ll both be on our way with something we want.”

“Hmm,” mused the demon. “And why would this rival trust you?”

The mage smiled. “Very few of the people I hate have any idea how much I hate them. So, have we a deal?”

“I think,” said the demon with a smile, “that we have ourselves exactly a deal.”

“A pleasure doing business with you, then.”

And thus, it was with great joy that the old Wishtwister won a bet, and made a friend in the city of Quantium, in the nation of Nex.

—

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[enambris]

Story Night - The Little Princess and the Old Crone

The transcript of Enambris’ uplifting tale to end a crowded story night, a reminder that we will all Triumph against the Faceless. @the-faceless-ffxiv

“For tonight's final tale, I will be telling another old story from long ago. One I grew up with, that can be traced back to Old Coerthas and the hundred clans." As she speaks, the lights in the room once more dim, flickering lights borne from her sternum bursting into falling starstuff and settling around the room, the image flickering to that of a deep forest filled with faerie-lights flickering between distant trees, the lounge transformed into a meadow clearing deep in the dark woods.

As she speaks, a musical humming under-currents her tone, motes of aether used to paint the room as a backdrop to the fantastical tale. In the clearing, like a pop-up storybook, a little cottage blooms covered in thick ivy, little honeycombs clinging to its flora-flush walls, and a waterwheel pulled to rotate by a lovely, crystal brook that weaves through the forest.

"Once, a very long time ago, there was a dark forest that bordered the edge of a little kingdom. In that forest, there was a cottage, and in that cottage lived an old crone, who all knew to be very wise, and very powerful. The people of the little kingdom knew her to be true, when her words told tale of prophecy, and so those strong and brave enough to venture into the dark woods would seek her wisdom and council."

The forest, around the little cottage, flickers with little red lights, eyes that peer into the clearing through the gloom. Time appears to shift, summer hues giving way to painted autumn leaves, which fall to make way for blankets of pure white snow.

"The little kingdom had enemies, and so they built their walls high. The king and his wife were getting on in years, and he had no heir. The king knew that if no heir came to claim the throne, the witch who made her home in the deadlands to the south would try to ruin the little kingdom."

Walls spring up around the distant kingdom as the scene slowly shifts, the sun high above the tallest tower.

"One day, the king decided to seek out the witch. He beseeched the old crone help he and his wife have a child. The witch agreed - on the condition that once the child saw their first winter, they would be raised instead by the Witch until the child came of age. The king was heart-broken, but seeing no alternative, conceded."

Imagery shifts, the streets and buildings inside the little kingdom coming into view. High walls and spires decorated in beautiful colors, trumpets sounding and criers on every street corner, proclaiming the birth of an heir.

"Within one year, the queen gave birth to a beautiful little girl, as radiant as the sun and as gentle as the moon. 'An heir! An heir has been born!' shouted the criers. The bells rang! The kingdom celebrated! Singing and joy ruled the land. But the joyous occasion would not be joyous long, as two days later, the Queen succumbed to her labor, and for her the kingdom mourned."

The wind shifts, catching the flags and banners, and as they turn over upon themselves their colors fade into black. Angry black clouds cover the sky, and rains wash over the kingdom.

"When the child saw her first nameday, the king once more mourned, as the old crone came to take her away. 'Your word, good king, will save your kingdom,' she told him. With no other choice, the king conceded, and the little princess was taken to live with the old crone in the woods."

The scenery shifts in a prismatic whirl of color, the kingdom shrinking and expanding into the little cottage as though ink had bled from page to page. The seasons play out in vibrant light, spring blooms replaced by warm summer sunshine, which gives way to crisp autumn leaves and snow. The cycle repeats once, twice, thrice, ever changing. When it finally settles, crisp autumn reigns.

"The old crone cared for the little princess as if she was her own, but she was strict, and her lessons to the girl were long and difficult. She taught her much about the world, she taught her to be unafraid of the animals, and how to live in harmony with the land. She guided her to make her body strong as iron, and said to her every day, 'If your heart is always true, you will weather any storm'. And so, in secret, the little princess grew up."

"The years passed, and before long, the king became lonely. He searched long and hard to find a companion to share his time and love with, and finally, he found her. The king remarried, the fairest woman in the land, but she was vain, cruel to his servants, and cold to his people. But the king was blinded by his love, and so was blinded to her wickedness. His people protested, but the king could not hear them, deafened by her sweet voice."The visage of a woman shimmers into view beside a forlorn king, her beauty illuminating the room with lovely silks and gemtones. The clouds leer closer to the little kingdom, and the rain falls ever harder.

"And so, under the council of the new Queen, the little kingdom slowly declined, for she was greedy and unkind, and with it, so too did the poor king's health. He became old, and sickly. His shoulders hunched, and his hands shook. He began to forget, and a mist settled over his eyes. They called the king Mad, for he raved of seeing butterflies where there were none, and sang lyrics to songs that he could not recall how he came to know them."

The king's form slowly shrivels. His hair grays, the colors drain from his eyes and his skin. He hobbles to his throne, as if a puppet on a marionette. "Finally, the new queen, lovely and wicked as she was, declared that the king was too unwell to lead his people."

The Queen slides the poor king from focus, and he becomes but dust and motes of light that flutter to reshape the room. It fills slowly with people, the common folk of the little kingdom, butchers and bakers and candlestick makers. They watch the queen with terrified rapture.

"She proclaimed that, should no heir come within three days, the throne would then fall to her. On the first day, no one came forward. Nor the second day. Finally, on the third day, as the queen sat within her throne room, the old crone came, and with her, the king's daughter who had been whisked away so long ago. Appalled, the Queen denied the old crone. 'This cannot be the king's daughter', she said. 'What proof have you that she may rule this land?'"

"The old crone smiled. 'She will prove herself to the people,' she said. 'Assign her three labors, and if they are completed, the crown is hers.' The queen knew of the old crone, and knew to refuse her would be unwise, for the old crone was powerful, and so the queen agreed. 'She must dwell seven days within the dark forest without food nor water,' she commanded."

Before the audience, the little princess stands, her visage as radiant as the sun, and gentle as the moon. She stands tall, proud, undaunted.

"At that, the old crone smiled. 'It will be done,' she said, and so the little princess turned and left. She was escorted deep into the forest, and blindfolded so she could not remember which way was home, for the Queen did not want her to return. The queen's men traveled to the deepest and darkest place they could find, and left the little princess alone in the dark woods, among the monsters and beasts."

Images of the forest overtake the room in a whirl of shadow, thick, pale mist blanketing the floor.

"Each day passed, and the people of the small kingdom lost a little more hope each day, but the old crone only smiled, telling any who asked, 'Wait and see'. Then, on the seventh day, the little princess returned amidst a flock of songbirds, alive and unharmed. The queen was outraged, but she could say naught, and so instead she issued the next labor. 'She must face the Great Wolf, and end its bloody campaign in the farmlands within seven days,' she commanded."

"Again, the old crone smiled. 'It will be done,' she said, and so the little princess turned and left. She was escorted to the mouth of the Great Wolf's cave, and left there with only a knife to defend herself, for the Queen wished the Wolf to devour her."

"Each day passed, and again the people of the small kingdom lost a little more hope each day, but the old crone only smiled, telling any who asked, 'Wait and see'. Then, on the seventh day, the little princess returned astride the tamed Wolf's back, alive and unharmed. The queen was incensed, but still she could say naught, and so instead she issued the final labor. 'She must pull forth the blessed sword from the tomb of the Fell Drake within seven days,' she commanded."

"For the third and final time, the old crone smiled. 'It will be done,' she said, and so the little princess turned and left. This time, the Queen was sure she had won. The Fell Drake was a wicked creature, corrupted by the hate of men and the shadows between the bones of the earth. She was escorted to the Fell Drake's lair without a weapon, and left her alone to face the Drake."

"Each day passed, and once more the people of the small kingdom lost a little more hope each day, but the old crone only smiled, telling any who asked, 'Wait and see'. This time, the Queen knew she had won, for on the dawn of the seventh day, the little princess had not returned. She stood from her throne, and pointed in glee at the old crone. 'Your princess has failed!' she declared, and before all she revealed her true self."

Before their eyes, the queen transforms. She grows taller, her muscles expand, her eyes gleam. Gnashing teeth form a pale white crescent cheshire smile through clouds of thick black smoke.

"Her hair become snowy, and her eyes great and yellow. Her skin like the night sky, her feet cloven and her crown horned: the witch of the deadlands, with black veils and fingers of writhing snakes. 'This kingdom is mine!' she declared. As the people began to wail in protest and in fear, the doors of the throne room threw open and a voice rose above the chorus. 'Hold! For no errand was failed!' said the old crone, and all turned to see the little princess, standing in the doorway."

The door flies open, and in spills brilliant sunlight, and from it the witch shies away. "In her left hand, a blade, as fierce and hot as the sun, as luminous and swift as the moon. In her right, the Fell Drake's head, and she threw it at the witch's feet. 'Leave my kingdom,' the little princess said, her voice carrying the power of the sun, the grace of the moon. 'Or it shall be your head upon the floor.' The witch laughed."

"Without another word, the little princess charged at the witch, her blessed sword in-hand. The people cried out in fear as they watched on, unable to move for the power of every blow. 'Help her!' they cried out. But still, the old crone only smiled, telling them only, 'Wait and see.'"

Bursts of brilliant light flash and crackle, reds and blues and golds flickering and fading, the throne room filling with black smoke and white light.

"Then, with a final mighty swing, the little princess struck down the witch, sundering her in the middle of the throne room. The witch wailed, her screams pierced the skies, and she was gone. The little princess turned to face her people, and for her they cheered." Bursts of color flare into the air, fireworks and sparklers and streamers.

The image fades to pale silver, the little princess standing before the people and taking her throne. "The next day she was crowned Queen, and she became the wisest, and the noblest queen ever to bless the kingdom."

"The end."

[evolutionsvoid]

Tales tell of a twisted band of abominations that roam the land, spreading their vile songs to infest towns and corrupt souls. Wherever this horrid group strikes, death and destruction are soon to follow. Though they are monstrous creatures now, the members of this foul band were actually once human. The stories say that they were a traveling band that went from town to town in order to perform and entertain. In truth, though, they were nothing more than talented thieves, using their performances to distract the people while they robbed them blind. Their tricks and charm were legendary, as they fooled entire crowds into believing them as nothing more than simple musicians, even as their infamy grew with each heist. For years they looted and robbed, gaining both treasure and enemies with each passing day. Many wondered if their spree would ever stop, if they would finally call it quits or if the gallows would bring an end to their careers. No one could have predicted the true fate of this infamous band. During a heist on a wealthy collector, the band of thieves happened to snag a rather strange music box in their haul. They knew not what it was, only that it looked expensive and that it would fetch a fair price. Little did they know that it was a Cantatio Daemonum, a vessel for the infernal Voices. They only realized this when they returned to camp, and one of the members opened the box. Brought forth by the screeching tune of the device, the Voices came forth and offered the gathered musicians a single wish. Still celebrating from their recent victory, the band did not realize the danger of this offer and plunged ahead recklessly. Since they enjoyed their life of music and trickery, they wished that they could live this life forever, and the Voices began to sing. At first the musicians believed the song would give them immortality, but it unfortunately brought much more with it. The music began to warp their flesh and tear at their minds. Their bodies were mangled and twisted as the song altered their sheer existence. In the end, the members emerged as horrid abominations, their human bodies and minds forever lost. Infused with infernal powers, they could indeed now live the life of music and thievery forever, but not in the way they had imagined. They would not be stealing gold and jewels from the gullible, but instead blood and souls from the living. Miserel is a member of the demonic band, and he loves every second of it. By far the most energetic and enthusiastic musician of the bunch, he can be found dancing wildly about as the group performs. Every moment is a show for him, and he never seems to stop prancing about and cracking terrible jokes. He seems to take on the role of a minstrel or jester, trying to spread joy and fun through dance and comedy. He performs this duty with a smile, even as he hunts down victims and drains them of life. No matter the situation, or how terrified his prey is, he dances and jests as if he was in front of a cheering crowd of children. His "acts" often have him telling lame jokes, unscrewing and removing some of limbs, physical "comedy," feverish dances with unwilling participants and the occasional juggling act with bizarre eyeballs produced from his organic hat. To pretty much anyone, his shows are far from entertaining, but he has a way to fix those who would dampen his fun. When faced with a crowd that clearly isn't enjoying the entertainment, he will pull open his mask and reveal his true face. His hidden visage has a stupefying effect on those who gaze into it, temporarily turning them into mindless, drooling fools. Those struck by this are put into a dazed, child-like state, where they can only watch and clap along to Miserel's goofs and gags. The terrible humor and self-mutilation will be better received by these victims, leaving them with stupid grins on their drowsy faces. Even when Miserel pulls them into his act and begins to cheerfully mangle them, they will smile and chuckle without a care in the world. While he enjoys using this ability to make his victims more compliant with his shows, it is also useful for making prey more vulnerable to the effects of the other musicians. With no mental strength, these poor souls cannot hope to resist the powers of the other band members, dooming them to a horrid fate. Funny enough, the only thing that may temporarily save them is Miserel himself, as he is reluctant to let his companions harvest his audience before he has had his fun.     

  While Miserel enjoys dancing and pulling gags, this act is not the seat of his power. Even the perfectly normal lute he carries around is not the source of his strength. Rather, it is his voice that fuels his infernal abilities, and he quite enjoys the effects it has. Miserel's singing causes those he targets to experience extremely realistic hallucinations, being so perfect that victims are unable to even tell that they are under his spell. With song, he can make someone believe they are a completely different person and trap them in a completely fictional world. This effect can be spread to a crowd, but he prefers to single out one person for his fun. His favorite thing to do is pull out the ol' lute and start belting out a ballad. He will ensnare his victim and begin to sing about how they are a noble, heroic knight, and he will go on and on about their great deeds and victories. Trapped in his false reality, the target will 100% believe that they are indeed this great warrior, and they will go forth to slay monsters and demons just like it says in the song. In truth, Miserel's victim will simply just grab a weapon and go after anyone around them, believing that they are actually beasts in need of slaughter. Miserel will dance alongside this valiant "hero," going into detail about how they will murder their opponents and grisly finish them off. After his puppet has finished butchering their friends and family, Miserel will finish the song and go about his merry way. All that will be left is a very confused individual who will wonder why no one is cheering for them, and why they are suddenly surrounded by bloody corpses. Though this power comes solely from his voice, he is insistent that he has his lute with him to perform. Many aren't even sure where he got the plain instrument from, or where he keeps getting new ones. The only time someone has seen him acquire his lute is when he pulled it out of his chest, which just leaves more questions then answers.   It is quite obvious that Miserel is a cheery individual, often to the annoyance of his fellow band mates. Only Agored seems to be full on board with his behavior, and the two enjoy going off and toying with random victims. Malstro puts up with him as professionally as he can, while Writhem does little to hide his contempt for the rambunctious fellow. Skreed does seem to enjoy performing with him sometimes, but often his energetic ways makes her even more anxious and nervous. No matter who he encounters, he will act like they are good friends and will whip out every joke and quip he knows. Every person is met with a smile, even when foes may be beating the snot out of him. These brawls don't seem to do much to dampen his spirits, as he is just as hardy as the other band members. The only thing you will get out of him is some wise crack about "critics."

[im-abanana]

-The Demon and The Angel- ch.3

I was inspired, I dunno, don’t even mind me and my author block. Here’s another Fluff/Domestic Bendy x Alice One-Shot.

Summary: If you’re a dancer, pulling a muscle can be the worst thing ever.

AO3 link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12736851/chapters/29507064

-Muscle-

“What? Com’on! It was just an innocent accident Joey, for God’s sake!” Charley kept saying for an entire hour in front of his angry boss, the cartoon’s deep and irritated voice echoing in the empty corridors as his old fellows Barley and Edgar nodded silently without saying a word, to prove their leader’s point. “We didn’t mean to push Bendy against the corner of that chair, but he started the fight! It happens, the fault isn’t ours this time.”. “It’s not true, you did that on purpose! Liars! Mobsters!” Bendy yelled back with a cracked and pissed voice, holding his aching spine with both hands and dropping heavily on his sofa, a sad and desperate pout painted on his round face. “My poor back… assholes.” he concluded, groaning. “Wanker.” the three antagonists replied spitefully, frowning deeply and cracking their knuckles, aggressive. “You want some more, sissy?”. “Stop it, I’ve had enough!” Joey snapped all of the sudden and punched the study table to shut them up, evidently tired of all that screaming and bickering between those four, taking his final decision and huffing. His creations jumped in fear and closed their mouths as they heard the unexpected thud, sitting down and listening to their dad’s scold closely. “Alright guys, first of all I don't care who started the fight, or why it happened in the first place. You all are guilty, and this means that you all are grounded for two weeks.”. At that exact moment, hearing the previous noise and the complaints that followed Joey’s last phrase, the wooden door behind the group’s shoulders swung open and a very confused Alice peeked through it. “What’s happening here? Henry just told me that- oh.” she mumbled and then smirked, spotting The Butcher Gang standing next to Bendy, the little demon pathetically laid on the reddish couch with a contorted expression. “Henry wasn’t lying then, it’s true. You idiots seriously injured each other before an important performance that, I’d like to point that out, takes place in three days. My sincerest compliments, boys.”. “Great, gang: first the demon bitch, now the wingless cunt. Where’s the pussy wolf, uh?” Barley rolled his pitch black orbs and crossed his muscular arms to his hairy chest, clearly not happy to see the fallen angel or pay attention to her sarcastic comments. “Don’t you have anything else to do, Angel? Like, I dunno, go fuck yourself for example?”. “Says the one who’s in trouble. And not really, I’d rather stay here and quietly enjoy the little show you put up for me, especially the part when Joey shames you all.” the beautiful singer of the band lifted an eyebrow with a satisfied motion, calmly sitting down next to her dancing partner and making herself comfortable. “Oh, please Joey, don’t stop reminding them how stupid and irresponsible they are just because I’m here. Don’t mind me, I beg you.”.

“Alice, not you too, please. This is not a joke, and I need your help.” their annoyed creator sank his head between his fingers, groaning out his frustration and explaining his worst worries to the tall girl, to his only beloved daughter, who was definitely the most mature of the toons: “Bendy probably twisted a muscle in his back, and if he can’t dance or even stand in three days max, we’ll be ruined. We should give the money for the tickets back and apologize to the parents, and I don’t want to do that; I know it’s late and you’re tired, I know that you two don’t get along so well, but I’m kindly asking you to prepare him some herb tea and send him to bed. I’ll deal with those three in the meantime.” the man angrily declared, shooting an icy glare to The Butcher Gang. “I hope you understand.”. “I do understand, don’t worry. I can’t say I’m happy about this job, but I’ll do it anyway.” Alice immediately obeyed to her boss’ orders, sighed out and took Bendy in her thin but strong arms, ignoring his enraged protests and trying not to drop him as the demon squirmed wildly. Oh, she wished she could indeed drop and trample over him… “Goodnight, Joey. Fuck you, Charley, Barley and Edgar. See you all tomorrow morning at dawn.” she said before walking outside the busy room and closing the door behind her, heading for Bendy’s private room. “Ehy, hands off, Angel Cake! Let me go! I’m not a kid anymore, and I can walk by myself.” the short devil screamed and kicked the air like a mad horse, offended and in a bad mood because of the stinging pain. “I don’t want some stupid tea, and I won’t go to bed just because you’re ordering me to do so.”. “Honestly Bendy, I couldn’t care less about what you want or not. You don’t want my herb tea? I’ll simply shove it down your fucking throat when it’s still boiling, at least you’ll shut up and won't wake the others that way.” the fallen angel shrugged it off and placed the dancer on his own bed, making sure not to hurt him more despite the intimidating threats. “And if you don’t want to sleep, I’ll just hit your skull with my horns and knock you out for the next… let’s say twenty-four/forty-eight hours. How does it sound, my dear?”. “… on second thought babe, tea and nap sound nice. But I prefer lemon tea.”. “That can be arranged.” Alice happily agreed to those terms with a sly grin, satisfied and proud of herself, as she opened the thick door before her.

“Ehy toots, back off this second!” Bendy cried out in pure terror as his elegant jacket was quickly removed and tossed away by force, detail that made him feel terribly exposed as his naked chest brushed against the greenish blankets that covered the comfortable mattress. He tried to jump off the bed and run away despite the ache, but found that option unattainable when Alice gently sat down on his spine, her greater weight blocking the thin cartoon. “No! Don’t touch my back, you’re gonna make it worse!”. “Trust me Bendy, I know what I’m doing. I might not be a dancer like you or a doctor, but I sprained a lot of back muscles as we moved into the new studio.” Alice patiently explained and pinned the boy down without any effort, her smaller thumbs energetically pressing against his dark skin and working around and on the knot, trying to loose it and ease the pain at the same time. She also kept a close eye on the water on the stove as she eased his pain: the most incredible thing about their rooms was that they looked like small houses, provided with a bathroom, a small kitchen and even a sort of living room. Being a star surely had its advantages. “And I never complained about it, not even once. I guess I’m stronger.”. Feeling the young woman’s fingertips massaging the sore spot with such care and self-assurance forced the small demon to let out a quiet and relaxed moan, and his blurred mind barely registered what the black haired girl just said. The tension and irritation disappeared all of the sudden, and every single fiber of his previously tense body fell limp under her lovely touch. The boy asked in hilarious submission: “W-what do you mean with that, toots? Joey and Henry did all the work when we moved here… right?”. “Wrong. Do you really think they could transport and place all the boxes, stuff and furniture around all by themselves? No, not at all. Without me and Boris the process would have been much more complicated and long. We worked as a team, as the family that we are.” the horned angel explained in composed silence, putting more strength in her precise and careful movements and pressing deeper, earning another content yelp from her calm partner. That sound made her smile a little, but the slight frown carved on her slim visage showed how concentrated she internally was: Alice knew that a single imprecise touch could damage the musculature even more, so attention and composure were the key words. “You and The Butcher Gang are the lazy ones here, that’s for sure. You don’t like working or helping the creators and the crew, I get that, but at least try not to cause any trouble or get into those violent fights ever again. Now you have a sprained muscle, and that’s bad enough for a dancer, but next time you could find yourself with a broken bone or worse, a concussion.” the stunning cartoon sadly sighed out and deeply stared into his guilty eyes, severe, sweet but assertive, almost like a maternal figure. “Don’t make things more difficult for Joey and me. It’s tough enough as it is, we don’t need other problems because of your egoism.”. The last and cold sentence hit and slaughtered Bendy’s soul to its very core, forcing the demon to look away and rest his face against the soft pillows, in pure defeat and inner humiliation. “Who am I kidding? It’s true, everything she said is true.”, deep inside the star of the show knew there was a ring of truth in those words, and that hurt. It hurt like Hell. “Alice is right. We always say that we’re independent adults, but at the end we behave like brats.”.

A respectful silence filled the room as a thousand thoughts and faults invaded the devil’s mind, the only sound the fallen angel could clearly hear was the wall clock ticking, gradual and inexorable. “Are you ok, Bendy?” Alice questioned when she counted at least five hundred ticks, tilting her neck and watching her co-worker with puzzled eyes; that kind of behavior wasn’t like him, she knew that cartoon too well to fall for it. “You’re oddly silent tonight.”. The black demon snapped out of that state of trance and shook his big head with vigor, struggling to hide his worries and speak up: “I’m just… thinking.”. “About what?”. “About stuff.”. “Could you be a little more specific, pray tell?” the raven-haired girl groaned a bit and crossed her arms, interrupting the relaxing massage and waiting for him to open up and confess what was evidently torturing his conscience. “There’s something wrong with you, you wouldn’t just shut up for entire minutes. Not that I’m complaining, but you know… I’m here to listen.”. “Oh, for Satan’s sake Alice, stop it! Leave me alone!” Bendy literally boomed at that point, feeling enraged and defensive, a visible grey blush covering his cheeks as the inky blood pumped in his veins. “Why do you care so much?”. Blinking a couple of times in confusion and disorientation, Alice replied to that nasty question with spontaneity and slight rage, standing up and yelling her answer right in his face: “Because I care about you!”. Boom, crash and burn. “Well, I do not… I…” the little demon opened his mouth and pointed an accusing finger at Alice, ready to shout back without even thinking, to insult the singer or at least preserve his dignity, but he immediately perceived his own artificial heart sink deeply in the middle of his chest and his throat dry up, like a river during a hot summer day. But worst, he felt shit about himself; everytime something went horribly wrong, someone scolded him for something he did, or even when he fucked things up, Bendy always found a way to blame someone else for his mistakes. The Butcher Gang? No, the pride was probably his worst enemy. “I’m sorry, Alice. I was unfair to you while you only wanted to help me.” Bendy whispered sadly as he realized how much of a dick he had been, staring at his knees and nervously playing with his moving and pointy tail, avoiding eye contact. “I’ll try to do better.”. “No, don’t try to do better.” the fallen angel wisely declared and forcefully grabbed both sides of his round head, turning it and literally forcing her amazed co-worker to stare into her serious pitch black irises. “You have to do better. You can do better than this, than fighting all day and cause trouble. You’re the protagonist, our leader, and we all look up to you.” she forced a tiny smile and gently caressed his left cheek as her delicate traits appeared sweeter, more sympathetic. “We all count on you, Bendy. Don’t let us down, please. I believe in you.”. We count on you, Bendy. Don’t let us down, please. I believe in you.

“Well… it’s pretty late, here’s the lemon tea you requested, big baby. Drink it before it gets too cold.” Alice smirked smugly and offered a white, piping cup to the demon, helping him up and covering his tired form with scented sheets and thick blankets, making sure he was warm and comfortable enough for the entire night. “Try to get some rest and don’t move around too much, your muscles need a break. A long break.” the fallen angel laughed mercilessly and ignored his still reflecting expression, scratching her nape and stirring as she was done preparing her injured partner’s refined bed. “If you need something or if you’re simply bored, just punch the wall beside you or talk to yourself for a while. Your voice is so damn annoying that I will surely hear it from my room.”. Despite her sincere words were still echoing in the short demon’s mind, and they’d probably keep doing it during the whole night, he managed to take the joke and grin. “Very funny, toots! You know, you surprise me, teasing your own boss, who’s even suffering, is a risky move indeed.” Bendy snickered back in front of the young woman’s audacity, admiring the brazen singer as he was admiring the most beautiful and breathtaking masterpiece inside an art museum. “Sometimes I forget who’s the devil and who’s the angel, here.”. “Look again, Bendy. Maybe I’m both, and maybe I’m not as generous or kind as I look.” Alice promptly stood up and winked endearingly, pointing at her curved horns and shiny halo with a tapered finger. “Don’t ever forget it.”. “Oh, I wouldn’t, toots.” Bendy shrugged it off, playful and grateful. “I wouldn’t.”.