#[Ink spills from the sockets of the skull.]

[bloodiedrogue]

GUARD DOG (11)

SUMMARY: During the aftermath of your confession, you and Astarion navigate your feelings.

PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 3,982

WARNINGS: Spoilers for Act 2, canon typical violence, brief mentions of past abuse.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi, I made my Saturday schedule with a few hours to spare. :') Also, update: I'm going to be closing my tag list on Monday. I have a lot of people signed up and it's becoming a bit overwhelming to keep track of over time so if you've been thinking about joining do it while you still can!

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST / NEXT CHAPTER

-

You feel like a ghost, drifting from one experience to the next —your body moving as needed while your mind wanders, failing to grasp the fact that you’re already rooted inside of Moonrise Towers.

Blinking hard at such a realization, you find yourself scanning the secluded office you and the party suddenly occupy, feeling the fog of your mind slowly begin to lift, remembering why you’re here. Why Ketheric Thorm has somehow allowed you to explore the contents of his subject’s office. 

He needs you to get the relic. Not that you know exactly what that is. Considering he doesn’t trust you yet, all you know is that after you’ve gathered supplies you’re meant to go to the mausoleum to find it. Along with a man named Balthazar who’s gone missing. The same man whose office you now find yourself looting. 

Moving through the space as quietly as possible, you notice quickly that all around there are stacks of books, creating this sort of claustrophobic space you have to steady your breath against. Deep within your chest, you can feel the past anxiety of the day bubbling up within your throat as you take it all in, threatening to spill just as Wyll clears his throat, telling you to hurry up so that Z’rell doesn’t get suspicious.

At the mention of Ketheric’s disciple —an orc woman you met earlier— you swallow hard and nod, allowing the fog to resurface as you wander towards a nearby desk, exploring the contents of the tabletop with narrowed eyes. Across it, all the usual items sit: various notebooks, an ink bottle with a well-used quill, a couple of decorative knick knacks here and there. However, there’s also a skull that sits at the top right edge, piquing your interest enough to reach out and grab it, testing out the weight.

“Death enthusiast or necromancer?” 

As if on cue, Astarion slithers up to your side, pulling out various tools from his pocket before kneeling on the ground, turning his attention to the desk drawer. 

Almost immediately you reply with necromancer, but unlike him, there isn’t a flirtatious tone that coats your words. Instead, there’s just exhaustive sadness, prompting his eyes to flicker up momentarily as he pushes the hook into the keyhole. 

“Care to elaborate?”

You shrug and run your finger around the eye socket of the skull, tracing the edge with distraction —feeling your mind continue to distance itself from the task at hand as your gaze grows fuzzy.

It’s a sensation that suddenly makes you remember the events of earlier. The ones where you foolishly confessed your feelings only to receive no such reciprocation. A feeling that weighs you down without warning, covering you in a layer of anxious smog that sticks to your skin, reminding you that you’re mad at him. Frustrated and disappointed —a version of yourself that makes you wish you could be anywhere else so that you could process your feelings.

Because you haven’t had time to, yet. Thanks to Shadowheart’s interruption, all you’ve been left with is questions. Inquiries so intense that between fighting the convoy for the lantern and arriving at the steps of Moonrise, you’ve managed to drive yourself over the edge. 

Breathing in, you can feel how heavy it’s made you. How, as Astarion remains knelt beside you, trying his best to avoid your gaze but ultimately failing to do so, makes you want to plummet into the earth in a heap of tears.

“I’m going to take a look in the other room,” you tell him then, giving yourself a moment of reprieve as you place the skull back onto the desk and make your way to the door. Once there, you reach for the handle and freeze in place, releasing a shaky plume of air before you swallow hard and push it open, allowing it to close until Astarion’s hand shoots out to grab it. 

“I’ll give you a hand.”

Standing near the entrance, you open your mouth to respond but ultimately fail to come up with anything that isn’t mean-spirited, prompting you to instead frown and turn on your heel, moving towards the farthest bookcase you can find. Immediately after that, you attempt to tune out his presence completely, opting to sift through the catalogue of books before you, searching for some sort of clue. Perhaps a book on the Shadowlands themselves or something to do with the undead —anything to distract your mind from Astarion’s movements as he explores the room, eventually turning to face you. 

“I assume you want to talk about earlier.”

You do but not right now, so instead of responding you roll your eyes and grab the first book you see, opening it up to find a series of familiar-looking symbols gracing the page.

At first, they merely look like some sort of intricate design. The way each figure curls in odd ways, drawing your eye to the complicated graph in the centre. Then your mind clicks into place and you’re suddenly blinking back the fog, forcing your mind to focus on the translations written below each image, realizing what they are. 

They’re Infernal letters. The language of the Hells clearly displayed in front of you, reminding you of Astarion’s scars as you look up to scan him, watching him reach for a nearby book. 

“Listen, darling, I know you’re angry with me but—“

Without even thinking, you shush him loudly, moving towards his frame. “Take off your shirt.”

He drops his jaw open in shock, laughing in slight confusion. “I beg your pardon? Take off my shirt?” His eyes are wide as he continues to stare, quickly discovering that you’re serious as he tosses the aforementioned book aside. “You’re aware our compatriots are just beyond this door, correct? Or have you suddenly gone mad with lust and failed to remember?” 

You scrunch up your face, shaking your head. “Ew, Astarion. No, not like that.”

He shoots you a look of relief before quickly backtracking and narrowing his eyes. “I’m sorry —what d’you mean ew?” 

His sudden offence makes you scoff and motion to the open page in front of you, forcing him to notice the symbols. “These look like your scars, don’t they? The ones on your back.” 

There’s a moment of silence that stirs between you then. As Astarion reaches for the page, gently brushing his fingers over yours while leaning in, you swallow hard and try not to think of before. Of the unrequited statement that still lingers between you, ripping you apart while he somehow remains fine. 

Standing there, drinking in the great interest that befalls his face, you find it incredibly hard not to reach out and shake him in that moment. To grip him by the collar and demand answers despite knowing there are far more important things at hand. For example, the fact that, on top of the already complicated infiltration mission, you’re now required to go on this little treasure hunt. One that will most likely have dangerous consequences if you manage to fail. 

Meaning, the last thing you should be thinking about is how Astarion still hasn’t bothered to respond to your confession.

“Did that bastard seriously carve Infernal into my flesh?” He looks disgusted as he glances up at you, his brows knitted towards the centre of his face while you offer your sympathies. 

“I guess so.” 

Swearing under his breath, he takes a step back, immediately moving his hands to pop open the leathers of his armour, ignoring the way you press your lips together nervously. 

“You know he spent the entire night doing it,” he says then, moving his hands across the many fastenings, shaking his head at the memory. “For hours I laid bare beneath him, enduring the pain of his blasted knife —and for what? So he could further brand me as his own? Make even more claim to a helpless slave.” 

You frown at his words, hearing the ache of his voice crack inside your ears as you take a step forward, listening to him huff and toss his leathers onto the floor before taking off his undershirt.

“Wasn’t it enough to merely strip me of my rights? To starve me as I filled him up each night.” 

A part of you wants to tell him no. That nothing Cazador did to him would ever be enough. But then you hear the breath that escapes his chest —the tremors of its wake hitting your fingers as you tentatively grip his shoulder, feeling the strain of his muscles tense beneath your touch. 

“We don’t have to do this right now,” you tell him, forcing your thumb further into his flesh with careful precision, feeling him melt. “We can take the book and come back to it.”  

Immediately, he scoffs in response, craning his neck towards you just as the door creaks open, revealing a very shocked looking Gale who freezes at the doorway. 

“I uh… I recognize that I’m interrupting something. However, might I suggest the two of you perhaps don’t do this right now?”

Releasing Astarion from your grasp, you take a step back and close the book in your hand. “May I suggest knocking, maybe?” 

Gale snorts and raises his hands in innocence. “Perhaps you’re right. My apologies. I promise I’m not here to make a fuss. Just here to remind you that while you’re attempting to bed one another in quite literally the worst location we’ve experienced thus far, the rest of us are out here dealing with the constant reminder of our impending doom.” 

Smiling sarcastically, Gale then motions to Astarion who smiles back and reaches for his clothes. “And here I was thinking of inviting you to our little party.”

“Appreciate it. I’ll have to decline though on account of the fact that both of you frighten me and frankly, I’m not one for sharing.” 

“Hm. Too bad.” Astarion pouts, prompting you to sigh in embarrassment, pressing the book in your hands against your forehead.

“Yes, well, anyway. The rest of us are going to split up and take a look around. Feel free to join us?”

His last sentence is phrased as a question but you know deep down it’s more of a command, telling you to stop, so you do. Nodding your head in response, the two of you then watch him leave before turning to the other, releasing shared heavy breaths as Astarion continues to redress. 

“Stupid wizard.” 

Despite the grin that erupts across your face, you realize then that focusing on anything other than the task at hand is dangerous. That, even though you want the answers to all the questions floating inside your head, the only thing you should be focusing on is Ketheric Thorm and the hidden relic that Balthazar failed to collect.

You shouldn’t be thinking of yourselves. At least, not in the way your mind wants to. Instead of emotions, it should be focused on survival. On the steps needed to ensure your safety to get to all the parts you actually want.

“He’s right you know —about doing this another time.” You tap the cover of the book and see Astarion roll his eyes, moving his hands to readjust the top layer of his armour with a sigh. 

“I understand that but—“

Before he can finish, your hand finds his chest, pressing it softly. “We’ll figure it out, okay? I promise. Just give it time.”

Deep down you know it’s a difficult thing to ask. Considering Astarion’s spent the majority of his life waiting already, you’re well aware of the lack of patience he’s developed. How, his sliver of freedom thanks to the Illithid has granted him the ability to become easily irritated by time. 

Unsurprisingly, since you’ve known him, he’s always been prone to bouts of restlessness. Whenever he’s forced to wait there’s often a scowl that presents itself across his face, growing with each passing moment until he eventually explodes. Because of this, when you look at him with desperate eyes, watching the way he twitches and shifts, you’re more than anxious. You’re downright terrified. Lost to a grouping of thoughts that tell you he most likely hates you for asking. 

“I promise the moment we have time, I’ll spend every waking hour trying to translate this for you,” you tell him. Hoping and praying that just this once he’ll understand that waiting is the right thing to do and not a lie you tell him to gain his trust. 

“Can we even afford to wait, though?”

You look at him like you don’t know the answer, sliding your hand upwards to play with his collar. “At this rate, we might just have to take that chance. You heard so yourself, Gale and the others are already planning to depart. We can’t fall behind and further risk our chance of surviving this.” 

He knows you're right. You can tell by the way his jaw clenches and he looks away, trying to suppress the frustrations. 

“I know I already said it before but I do love you. Truly. I’d do anything to make you happy but right now keeping you safe is my number one priority and if that means delaying said happiness, so be it.” 

After that, there’s a moment of silence that hits. One that’s filled with avoided glances and heavy sighs —all of which come from Astarion as he struggles to accept your words. 

At first, it fills you with regret, realizing the way you phrased yourself probably sounds a bit insensitive. But then you see that familiar smirk begin to curl across his lips, pulling upwards with a scoff as he playfully shoves you away. 

“Fine. I’ll wait. But not because you told me to.”

“Of course.” 

“I’m serious. You’re not the boss of me. I can do whatever I please. You just happen to make an effective argument. Plus, you’re rather convincing when you’re professing your undying love for me.” 

“Shut up.” Pushing him back in annoyance, you shake your head and step through the doorway, moving through the office until you’re out in the hall again, glancing around as you pack away the book. “What supplies do we need anyway?”

“Potions, definitely. Perhaps some arrows or elixirs. I know Gale wanted some spell scrolls but after the stunt he pulled earlier I refuse to get him any.”

You fake pout in his direction as you both begin to walk with no destination in mind. “Aw, is somebody sad that the wizard didn’t accept his sexual invitation?”

“Hardly. That man wouldn’t know an orgasm from a sneeze.”

Suppressing the urge to laugh, you offer an unknowing shrug. “I don’t know. You don’t bed a goddess and not have the dexterity to please a woman.”

Scoffing, Astarion turns towards a random doorway, giving you a curious look before you nod your head, prompting him to open the door. “Please, the man pales in dexterous endeavours compared to me.” 

“Hm. Maybe. Perhaps I’ll ask him for a hand one day. Maybe do a little experimentation?”

As you smirk in his direction there’s a feeling of normalcy that hits. Slowly but surely it fills you up with that familiar warmth, reminding you of the reason you first fell for Astarion in the first place. Somehow he has this unwavering ability to make you grin through the darkness. To distract you from the hellish fear that nips at your feet each time you step into dangerous territory. 

Compared to everyone else he’s the closest thing you’ve had to a friend. And now that you’re joking back and forth, grinning as he stares at you in fake shock thanks to your statement, you begin to accept that his response no longer matters. That you’ve made your peace with it, knowing he’s still there, comforting you in all the ways you need as you walk further into the room, noticing a white-haired woman standing in the corner.  

Upon taking another step she turns from the worktable in front of her, raising a brow at the two of you before fully turning around with a grin. “Ah, the True Soul.” Moving forward, she then extends her hand towards you but fails to meet your gaze once she notices Astarion’s nose begin to turn up, causing you to frown. “I’m Araj Oblodra, trader in blood and the sanguineous arts.” 

Taking her hand, you feel an unwanted heat hit your palm, making you look down as you peel away, offering your name before motioning to Astarion. “This is—“

“A vampire spawn,” she interrupts with interest, leaning towards him with crossed arms and curious eyes. “What an absolute pleasure.”

Both of you share an awkward glance that doesn’t go unnoticed. Despite that though, she barely bats an eye as she offers her hand again, this time to Astarion who clears his throat and shakes his head. “Astarion… sorry I don’t… touch.”

At first, she seems a bit disappointed but then such feelings are quickly erased when she turns her attention back to you, revealing another grin as she drops her hand. “I assume you’re faring well around Moonrise?”

“If by fairing you mean struggling to find a decent potion seller then yes.” 

She clicks her tongue in understanding, turning towards the worktable behind her to grab a vial unprompted. “Perhaps I could be of service then? As long as you’re willing, of course.”

“Willing?” You raise your brow, watching her twist the vile between her fingers with a smirk. 

“I happen to trade in blood,” she explains. “And the potions that can be wrung from it. Obviously considering such details it’s ideal that I earn the consent of my customers. Otherwise who knows what kind of havoc might occur. Hence the willingness.”

“Hm, now nice of you to offer the bare minimum,” Astarion comments, making you narrow your eyes in confusion, wondering what’s suddenly got him so on edge.

“Yes well, if you’d humour me with a drop or two of your blood I could whip up something truly potent for the both of us.”

Immediately there’s a wariness that sets in at the mention of sharing. Overall, it feels as if there’s something off about her. Maybe it’s the way she carries herself or the instant distrust you sense from Astarion as he stands beside you, tensing up with every passing moment you spend talking to her. Either or, you take both as a sign of caution, taking a moment to collect your thoughts as you glance around to view her workspace, noticing various needles and vials, haphazardly filled with liquids you can only assume to be her customer’s blood. 

“Not sure I like the idea of weaponizing my blood, to be honest.” Offering her a polite smile, you see her kindness falter in response, replacing it with an air of curiosity. 

“I can assure you it’s safe,” she says. “Nothing more than a pinprick but obviously if you aren’t keen perhaps we can discuss other matters.” 

As she speaks her gaze focuses on Astarion once again, her lids half-closing in such a lusty way you find your chest brimming with something bordering between anger and jealousy —enveloping you in hatred.  

“Your spawn, for example.”

The way she says it feels like she’s insinuating a sense of ownership. As if Astarion’s your pet or something equally disgusting. Angrily, it makes you scrunch up your face and turn towards him, sharing a look of displeasure before ultimately turning back to scowl. “You’re aware he’s his own person, right?” 

She laughs dryly. “I’m sure he believes that.” 

“Yes, he does. Because it’s true.”

After that she’s silent for a moment, taking in your words. Allowing them to sift within the air as each of you stare at one another, trying to figure out how to proceed even though you know you’re already done. 

Unable to entertain the lack of sense, you move your hand to Astarion’s arm, feeling him tense beneath your grasp. Then you awaken your tadpole to contact his, feeling the creature shift against the corner of your eye. 

Can we leave, please?

Before he can make the effort to listen to your words, Araj is already speaking again, telling you stories of her childhood and how, even then, she wished to be bitten by a vampire, prompting the two of you to stop.

“I’m sorry. You want to be bitten?” Astarion says in disbelief, watching her nod and take a step closer, sharing her interest further. 

“To feel your life’s blood slipping away? To dance on the edge between life and death?

She looks at him longingly as she speaks, telling him then that she’d want nothing more than to feel the icy sting of his teeth against her flesh, making you scoff in disgust even though you know all too well what it feels like. How addictive it can be to let your mind drift away as you're sucked dry. 

“I’ll even compensate you if you like.”

“Compensate me?” Astarion laughs. “Darling, I’m sorry but my talents cannot be bought.”

“Not even for a potion of legendary power?” she muses. 

Immediately, he shakes his head. “Hm, afraid not.”

Her tone shifts then, frustrations filling her every pore as she looks towards you but motions to him. “You might want to talk some sense into your spawn, you know. I don’t offer such rarities lightly.”

You catch Astarion open his mouth to respond, but before he can you’re already stepping forward, inserting yourself into Araj’s space with such powerful aggression, pressing your knife to her throat. 

“Are you always this dense?”

Suddenly aware of the consequences of her actions, she lets out a shaky breath and eyes Astarion, her expression filling with desperation as you press the blade further into her flesh, using your other hand to force her to look at you. “You’re aware of the meaning, yes? Of the word no?”

Instead of answering she just groans at you, angling her head upwards to try and distance herself from the knife, forcing you to tighten your hold. “Oh, you don’t? Well, allow me to enlighten you then.” 

For a moment you pause, grinning wickedly at the fear within her eyes. Taking in the change of demeanour as you twist the edge of your blade away, huffing as you release her all at once, watching her gasp. 

“It means he doesn’t want to suck your fucking throat. Just as I don’t want to kill you… at least, not here.” 

Sensing the truth within your words, Araj gives you a careful nod and retreats, reaching to grip her tender neck as you put away your blade and scowl one final time. 

As you do Astarion looks at you with wide eyes, barely responding when you grab his arm and lead him back out of the room, swearing angrily under your breath when you slam the door behind you. 

“Well, that was an eventual moment.” 

You can’t help but laugh and lean forward once you realize you’re alone again, resting your forehead against his shoulder in slight embarrassment. “Sorry. I just…”

His hand loops around your shoulders before you can even think to pull away, forcing you into his chest as he laughs and kisses your head, granting you a moment of peace within his hold. “Don’t be. It’s quite enjoyable seeing you like that.”

“All deranged?” you mumble against his chest. 

“Protective,” he corrects. “In fact, I find it quite flattering seeing you puffed up, ready to kill for me.”

You snort and wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him even closer. “Like I said, it’s because I love you.” 

“Yes, well…” Pausing to clear his throat, you feel his hand stroke the top of your head, slowly moving down towards the back of your neck before repeating the process —doing it several times before he ultimately releases a heavy breath. “I love you too, darling. Thank you.”  

-

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[starsfic]

Chaos

Summary: Azure Lion and Lady Bone Demon are in the void. They aren’t alone.

Notes: The mention of a sparrow is a reference to this comic by @dr-chalk. There's not actually any spoilers, this is just working off a theory brought up by the new season, but better safe than sorry.

-_-

Death was boring.

At least, in Azure's case, it was. Nothing but white stretched as far as he could see, with no shadows, no noise, and no company...

Besides hers.

He had awoken to her hovering over him, her dark curls flowing down her back like spilled ink. Her face, although lovely even with her skin stretched taunt over her skull, had been void of expression. "So, he killed you too," she had said, with no explanation of who he was.

Azure already knew.

Supposedly, her name was Baigujing, although most had called her Lady Bone Demon at the end of her life. She had supposedly attempted to save the world as well by burning it to ashes. Azure had asked how that was considered saving the world, and the following words had shut his mouth.

(He would never think of sparrows the same way again.)

Azure hated her company but clung to it. There was nothing else in the void that stretched for what felt like miles, nothing but his own mind and memories. And with the nothing of the void, he had time to think over his life, his actions...his relationships...

He missed the warmth of Flower Fruit Mountain. He missed the joy of his brothers. He would've gladly never looked at Heaven again if it meant he was back there.

Baigujing never spoke much about her life as they sat together, backs pressing together. He figured that she too was stuck thinking about it, though.

He wasn't sure how long this dragged on. It could've been seconds. It could've been centuries.

Just, one day, there was a splat.

Azure brushed it off as being too deep in a memory of a silly food fight Bull and Wukong had once. Half a heartbeat passed before another splat made his ears twitch. He brushed it off again.

The third splat was followed by Baigujing sighing "What is that?" and him cracking an eye open.

There, right in front of him, was a small puddle of...something. It had a deep, dark color, almost like the ink of the memory scroll, but as he watched it, it shimmered to shimmer through the rainbow, from gold to white to red to lavender... Azure reached out and experimentally poked it, finding it to have the same texture as clay.

Before he could wonder, there was another splat as more of the strange stuff dripped down from the ceiling.

He craned his head back and felt himself go pale.

There was a massive crack in what he supposed must be the ceiling of the void, revealing stars and galaxies and ominous dark clouds. And, staring out, is a giant mass of clay, staring him down with empty sockets.

Without a word, Azure knew it was hungry. That it would consume whatever it could find.

And, right now, they were the closest thing.

"...Nope."

Without a second to think he jumped to his feet, grabbed Baigujing, and took off running. He heard a shriek from the creature behind and sped up.

He just had to stay away from it. They just had to stay away.

Hopefully, the thing would get bored...

Right?

[erikamariapell]

Daryl Dixon X OC Fanfiction

All I’ve Ever Known part 2

******************

They weren't there.

Her family wasn't there.

The highway had been abandoned and all that was left was a water soaked note and a pile of rotting food. Ellie had tried her damndest to read the writing on the piece of paper but the ink had run and the words were nothing more than black smudges and streaks. It had been weeks since Sophia had been on this very highway, a part of Ellie knew they wouldn't still be there but the tiniest bit of hope she still had was currently being squashed out by the inconsolable 10 year old girl tugging her knees to her chest and sobbing in the middle of the road.

"They left me.. they forgot about me. My mom said... she always said to come to where I got lost! I came back.. I came back!" Her tiny shoulders shook with each heartbreaking gasp the little girl took. Ellie squatted in front of her and pulled her to her chest, she couldn't find the words right now, they were stuck somewhere in a painful memory of her own past. This situation felt all too familiar.

Surprisingly enough it was Merle who spoke up

" they didn't forget about ya kid. I know my brother, Daryl's probably out there right now lookin' for ya. Your mama too. No one abandoned ya, we're gonna find em all.. just takes time is all." He stared down at the two girls huddled on the floor, Ellie quirked a brow at the uncharacteristic softness to his voice, Sophia sniffled as her breathing slowly went back to normal.

"You really think so?" Her eyes flicked from Merle to Ellie.

"Of Course Soph. I told you we ain't stoppin' until you're back in your mamas arms. We're doing good, we just gotta beat them to it."

"But what if they think I'm dead? what if they gave up because they thought I couldn't make it?" She whispered, standing up and wiping off the dirt from her jeans.

Ellie stayed seated propping her chin in her hands and resting her forearms over her bent knees, she grinned

"Well then imagine their surprise when they see you stroll back into that camp all smiling and in one piece."

Merle chuckled and reached down a hand to help her up.

"Got all the time in the world." He sassed playfully.

Ellie rolled her eyes and elbowed the much taller man before the sound of moaning and shuffling filled her ears. It was so sudden, they hadn't even heard them coming when all of a sudden a group of about thirty walkers rushed out of the woods headed directly towards them

"Son of a bitch!" Merle cursed, stumbling back as the scent overwhelmed them.

"Get Sophia up in that tree!" Ellie ordered, shoving a walker back and burying her knife in its skull. Merle was quick to scoop the shaking little girl up and deposit her on the highest, thickest limb he could find.

"Why didn't we hear them? Were they hidin'? How the hell is that possible?" Merle shouted over the hissing and snapping of the creatures jaws.

"I don't know! The eyes... the eyes are different!" Ellie threw one of her knives directly into the back of a walker that was pulling on Merle's jacket. And stomped on the head of another writhing on the ground.

Instead of the grey and sickly yellow eyes that the Walkers usually had these walkers had black and bloody eyes almost as if someone had spilled ink into their eye sockets.

"We got sick zombies now?!" Merle yelled.

Sophia was crying painfully up in the tree as she stared down at her friends fighting for their lives. Ellie glanced up just for a second to see the absolutely terrified look on the child's face.

"Hey soph!" The curly haired brunette shouted into the air as she lodged another knife into the temple of a walker "what's the capital of Kansas?"

Merle snapped his eyes over to Ellie, his "hand" covered in walker guts. He was looking at her like she was insane.

"I don't.. I don't know!" Sophia sobbed.

"Oh come on.. ooof." Ellie fell back into the hard surface of a tree, she could feel the bruises forming already "you know this one! It's easy.. the capital of Kansas Soph, what is it?"

Merle pulled out his gun, the silencer clicked on as he shot at the rest of the walkers in front of him.

"umm.. ummm." Sophie struggled, her eyes jottinf from Merle to Ellie, back and forth.

"Tick tock, tick tock. Times running out!" Ellie looked up to see Sophia's eye brow knit in concerned concentration.

The last walker, shifted pitifully towards Ellie, she lifted her knife above its head

"Topeka!" Sophia shouted.

Blood splattered across Ellie's face coating her cheeks and forehead in a slick sheet of sticky red.

"Ding ding ding." Ellie whispered, finally dropping her back to a tree and letting the knife slip from her hands onto the floor, a tired smile on her face as Merle grinned at her, finally understanding exactly what she was doing.

Distraction from the chaos.

It wasn't until they were setting up camp for the night that Merle cornered her by the flimsy fire they had built, his arms crossed as he smirked down at her.

"Can I help you?" Ellie quirked a brow.

"You're a teacher. At least ya were, s'why you're so good with the kid and why ya know all those random useless facts." He grinned proudly at his deductive reasoning skills.

Ellie chucked the rest of the fire wood onto the flame and wiped her hand on her knees as she stood before Merle with her arms mirroring his own.

"Oh yeah? Ya think so?"

"I know so." He shrugged cockily.

Ellie giggled

"Try again Dixon. I didn't even graduate Highschool."

She never thought she'd see a shocked and speechless Merle Dixon but when his jaw dropped and his eyes widened she couldn't help but laugh, she turned her back to him and walked off to drape a second blanket over Sophia who was sleeping comfortably by the fire. She heard Merle shuffle after her

"Why the hell didn't ya finish High School? yer the smartest little lady I ever saw." He questioned, adjusting his own position by the fire and patting the spot beside him for her to sit down.

Ellie plopped into the open space.

"Just didn't see a point, couldn't afford college anyhow and no one was giving the trailer trash orphan any scholarships. I was waitin' tables when the virus hit. Probably for the best, don't think a degree would do me any good in this mess." She laughed lightly.

Something flashed across Merle's eyes, something awfully close understanding with just the tiniest bit of sympathy.

"How do ya know all that shit then?"

Ellie turned towards him and tapped her temple.

"Photographic memory. I was born with it, I used to steal memorize the teachers lesson plans and hand in about two months worth of homework before it was even assigned. It used to drive em all crazy." She chuckled.

Merle smiled fondly at the tiny little woman to his right.

" I got a brother ya know. Real smart, sweet as hell too. He's gonna love you."

Ellie shook her head quickly

"I ain't stickin' around. I'm just helpin y'all find your family, after that I'm off on my own, I do better alone anyway."

Merle looked at the beautiful woman beside him and god she reminded him so much of his brother it almost hurt to watch her.

"Seem to be doin just fine with us." He offered.

Ellie looked up and nodded softly

"This is different." She whispered, eyes flicking to the sleeping little girl in the corner.

Merle nodded

"Don't matter anyway, Daryl'l find ya. People like you two. Ya always find each other in the end." He shrugged.

The light hearted playfulness was back in Ellie's eyes and she landed a punch to Merle's shoulder

"I ain't lookin for a boyfriend at the End Of The World." She teased.

Merle shoved her right back and grinned

"There ain't many good people left in this world, you and my brother are the best of em. Might be good for the End Of The World.. mate and make some sweet ass babies."

Ellie's eyes widened for a second and Merle couldn't keep the laughter down when he saw the look of pure terror on her face, she nearly knocked him off the seat with her next punch.

"You just want me to be your sister in law is all. I know your game," she teased.

Merle looked over at her big brown eyes and scarred cheeks. Daryl deserves someone like her and she deserved someone like him.

"Whatever sis." He winked "get some rest, we're goin husband huntin' tomorrow."

He ignored her grumbled curse and watched as she nestled into the ripped up blanket.

Daryl was gonna owe him big time for this one.

[immabethehero]

Encantober/Egotober - Tragedy/Ink

OK... so turns out when you mash hyperfixations together... you get- uh... interesting results.

Anyway @encantober-official, @tracobuttons

~~~~~~

CW: Moving snake skull, ink nearly suffocating two people, slight vomiting at the end and bones breaking

Everywhere Bruno Madrigal looks, ink spills and drips from the walls of the white void. He can’t entirely explain what’s happening, but he knows not to touch it. He jumps over the puddles, much like jumping over cracks. It’s not so hard. He’ll survive-

Squish! Bruno screams as his foot gets trapped in the sticky ink. He pulls and pulls at his leg to no avail. He stutters over prayers as he tries in vain to free himself.

Suddenly, a blast of warm magic- he can’t think of another word for what he sees- eviscerates the ink, and he looks up to see Jameson Jackson smiling back at him. The moustached gentleman, whom he met mere hours ago, seems to be adept at magic, albeit a different sort of magic. When they get out of whatever this is, he plans on asking him about how magic works in his world.

“Do you know where we are?!” Bruno yells. Jameson shakes his head and motions to him to keep running.

{Don’t think about that right now. Just find an exit!} Bruno can barely read the gentleman’s sign as Jameson leaps across puddles, blasting any ink that gets in his way.

Bruno tries to will a vision to come to him, but ultimately decides against it. He needs his own vision to avoid the puddles.

Bruno is quite literally ripped out of his thoughts as a tendril suddenly ensnares his arm. He tugs against its slimy yet strong grip, screaming as the ink begins to climb up his legs and wrap itself around his body. In the corner of his eye, he can see Jameson’s hands covered as ink envelops him. The tendrils lift the men off the ground. Bruno kicks and screams. Jameson snarls and yells as he attempts to break his hands free of the ink.

“So weak, yet you fight on,” a voice says. Bruno and Jameson gasp.

{Who’s there?! Show yourself, you dirty rascal!} Jameson growls.

“No need for insults…” The world begins to rumble. Jameson and Bruno gasp as an ivory skull emerges from the largest puddle of ink. The beast slowly rises out of the darkness, its slimy form towering over the men. It looks down, the intense stare of its eye sockets burning into the mages. Bruno takes the time to look over the beast’s body. It has no legs, just a large noodle, and that odd skull… It dawns on him.

Bruno swallows back a scream. He hates snakes. “W-what do you want with us?”

“You…” The ink-beast lowers its head so that’s eye level with the men. “You two fascinate me… Always left behind.. Always the weakest ones…”

The coils of ink stretch up their ears. Bruno slams his mouth shut as it gags him. Jameson shudders as the ink wraps around his throat.

The ink-beast turns to Jameson first. “One, abandoned by everyone he loves- family, friends, even mere acquaintances- sacrificed to the monster like a pig on a stick.”

Jameson can’t move. Jameson can’t move! The ink seems to be squeezing his limbs together, as if to crush him. He feels the black goop knock his hat off as it attempts to cover his eyes. He shakes his head violently to keep the ink from engulfing him entirely.

Across from him, Bruno has gone limp, his head lulling as the ink dangles his body in the air like a child’s plaything. The ink-beast nods towards him.

“You, thrown under the bus, left for dead, forgotten by all you love.” Another tendril slaps Bruno across the face, leaving a black spot.

“Your lives are one never-ending tragedy,” the beast says. “Why not let it end already?”

Jameson shakes off the ink covering his eyes as a blinding green light flashes at him. He gasps as Bruno’s eyes glow a bright green. Around him, the ink hovers in the air, caught up in Bruno’s strange trance.

Bruno begins to writhe against the ink as slowly, but surely, a green tablet begins to form from the hovering ink. Jameson watches in awe. The beast roars and steers its giant body towards the prophet.

The ink around Jameson begins to slack, allowing the gentleman to free one of his arms. He snaps his fingers at the tablet, breaking it into sharp pieces. With a wave of his hand, he tosses the broken pieces at the beast’s eye sockets and hits it dead on!

The beast howls in agony, the noise piercing the men’s ears. Their inky prisons go slack, and they slip out of them, falling into the puddles below. Bruno jolts back to life as his body slams against the ground, bones snapping.

The beast thrashes and writhes, roaring all the while. It slowly pulls its body back into the pond, the screams fading away.

Bruno and Jameson lie on the floor, choking on air. Bruno gags and rolls over, sobbing as a burning pain spreads through his legs and thighs. Jameson coughs, spitting out chunks of ink.

As his coughing fit dies down, Jameson smiles weakly at Bruno. {How about we get out here, hm?}

Bruno manages a light chuckle before pain takes over his senses and his world goes black.

~~~~~~~~~

:D

[dzpenumbra]

5/26/23

Oh geez, spaced out and lost track of time. It's 4:30 again.

Today I had therapy. I brought up all the shit I've been mulling over, and the panic moment I dealt with in last night's journal. He was happy to hear of my improvement in my ability to deal with those panic moments. They're definitely a lot harder to deal with when you're stoned... much more immersive and convincing... so at least I have that going for me in dealing with stupid trauma shit being set off by ghosts of my past popping back into my life.

I worked on the skull a bit today. A bit of a shift. I started to ink it, using tattoo ink. I'm hoping that was a good idea, that shit stains like a bastard. I was a little worried about it... not soaking into the bone. I have no idea if it will properly dye the bone or not. But I did it and I'm going to leave it overnight and see how it comes out. I just did some thick outlines around the eye sockets and lines connecting the eye sockets to the nasal cavity. Then I started doing pencil. I did a circle spot in the center top of the skull to leave blank, with about an 1/4" outline to it. Then... I was planning to do this organic bubble style abstract work, like what I've been doing in my sketchbook. So I decided to go with the design that drew attention to a specific spot the best - the one with small bubbles in the center that grow in size as they radiate out. That should create a pattern on the top of the skull that draws focus to the center, which I'll figure out when I get to it.

I was worried about the ink because I found some on the edge of my finger. And... if I smudge it? That's permanent. There's no "undoing" ink smudges. So yeah... I'm hoping I picked the right medium for this. Again... I guess we'll see tomorrow. But I'm definitely pretty committed here, because mixing different kinds of black ink rarely gives a good look, especially over time. There are lots of ways to make black ink, usually they're super dark blue, green or purple. You'll notice this when they fade, if you've ever gotten a tattoo, you know exactly what I'm talking about. So... mixing inks can give an unintended look over time.

However... it just occurred to me that... if this ink doesn't thoroughly stain... I might have a trick up my sleeve for removal. In the tattoo shop, we used to use isopropyl alcohol to remove tattoo ink from surfaces and to deal with spills and shit, and it actually worked pretty well. And I do have some sitting around. Good to have backup plans.

Since it's already late, I'm gonna take a pee break and then do tarot.

Same as last time, blind reading, 3-card spread, Past/Present/Future.

First Position - Past - Seven of Swords (Hidden dishonor, guilt, deception, manipulation.) Second Position - Present - Nine of Wands (Defense, guarding yourself. Suspicion, self-protection.  Need rest and recovery.) Third Position - Future - Ace of Cups (A new relationship and the accompanying surge of emotions.  Getting in touch with your feelings.  Matters of the heart.  A deepening bond.)

Alright, this one is interesting. Two cards I've never gotten before. Seven of Swords is a spooky one. But I think I get it. It's actually something that, despite how much I share on here, I'm not going to share. We all have our limits, I guess. And maybe I'll get to sharing it someday... So... the Past thread is... something from my past that I regret, that I'm ashamed of. And that thread has led to my Present state... being the Wounded Soldier... tired and beaten, guarded, defensive, suspicious, needing to heal. Super accurate. And where that thread is likely to lead? A likely future? A new connection, a new relationship, social and emotional growth. Which, I have to say... has already happened in a lot of ways.

I see the linear connection between all three, but what I am struggling with is... how? How do I go from the Nine of Wands to the Ace of Cups? What catalyzes it? What is my role in that? Maybe it's as simple as... resolving the Nine of Wands? Healing? Recovering? Growing past that state?

That's an interesting thought. Like... can I heal and stop being the wounded lonely suspicious hermit... without others?

That's what's catching me here... the Ace of Cups is a social card, right? I mean... not entirely, but like... it seems mostly symbolic of the massive burst of emotions you get from a new relationship, most of the cups are about emotions and relationship stuff. And relationships require other people... (duh) So it feels like I'm waiting on another person to break me free of this. But... is it possible that the Ace of Cups is sorta... my burst of emotions when I free myself from the prison I'm in? When I heal enough to be vulnerable with the world, and submit myself to its judgement?

And... Ace of Cups does not guarantee a happy ending, rather... it's crucially a beginning card. Ten of Cups is more of the happy ending card. So... it doesn't really indicate that the big emotion surge is going to go well, in a lot of ways it indicates that it's happening in the context of inexperience. But hey, that's not all doom and gloom. What's more memorable than a first date? The first time you have your significant other for dinner at your house for your first official date, and you kiss on the futon for the first time. 2009 and I remember it like it was yesterday. Inexperience means new and exciting. I really need to allow myself to be open to that.

So... the part I'm skipping over here, that's related through the common thread... is the Seven of Swords. The regret and guilt and shame. And that's really the key. The Seven of Swords is the reason I'm stuck in Nine of Wands... and being able to move forward from that can likely bring me to Ace of Cups. That's what I'm getting from this. And that would imply that the way to evolve forward is by finding peace with the Seven of Swords stuff. Being able to live with it, without it being a Dr. House limp, attitude and pill bottle.

Alright, that all makes sense. And... the sun's up. So... I'm off to bed.

[angelxxreaper]

Uh- one of these!

-the crow sets down a cornflower- do you want one?

-star anon

…..

….. [sniffle.]

[inhuman-obey-me]

Knowledge is Wrath

Word Count: 1.8k Description: The Avatar of Wrath had mastered the art of pleasantries and placid smiles, a mask he wears nearly perfectly -- but if you try and take advantage of him, he won't hesitate to let it fall. Part of the A Demon's Nature series. Hereeeeee's Satan and his glorious wrath!! Note: Cabariel is a high-ranking demon named in the Ars Theurgia who has fifty dukes attend to him in the day, and another fifty dukes attend to him at night. Thalbus is one of the named night dukes, who are said to be deceitful and disobedient. Can also be found on AO3 here. content warning: gore gore gore, blood, body mutilation/horror

The Avatar of Wrath had mastered the art of pleasantries and placid smiles, burying the rage that always burned under his skin deep within the darkest parts of his soul. He would be more than wrath, more than the fury that everyone expected of him. At least, that is what he would constantly tell himself, knowing that many still found themselves on edge in his presence. It’s all an act, some who had witnessed his true self would say, others merely repeating it for his title and position alone.

There was a place where those whispers would fade away, however. The company of high-society, where he had gathered an array of acquaintances with whom he could discuss a variety of subjects, sharing his extensive knowledge and exchanging it for theirs. These connections only ran so deep, most never crossing the line into friendship -- but friendship is not what Satan sought. He wanted status, a curated image that placed him firmly in the echelons of the wise and out of the shadows of rage incarnate, out of the shadow of pride.

“Thank you again, Lord Satan. I can’t believe I’ll actually be able to see this scroll for myself!” A lesser demon eagerly walked alongside the Avatar of Wrath, accompanying him through the gates of the Demon Lord’s Castle.

“It’s my pleasure, Thalbus.” Satan gave the other his ever-polite smile. “Cabariel had mentioned multiple times that you were anxious to get a look at it, so I’m glad I can be of assistance.” Here he was, leading one such acquaintance to the Royal Archives housed at the castle. It was a privilege few had, one that Satan treasured greatly. He had been allowed by Lord Diavolo centuries ago to visit the archives as much as he pleased, and he did not let the offer go to waste.

They descend now, traversing through the grand passages of the castle -- both imposing and eerie, some corridors shrouded in darkness while others are aglow with flames. Portraits watched them pass by, whispered -- ‘a new visitor, how quaint’. Upon reaching the door that housed the array of treasured documents and scrolls, Satan whispers an incantation he knows well, the last of the words leaving his lips and turning into a spark of light that traces the intricate pattern carved in stone. With a click, the door opens, and the two walk in -- the door then heavily shutting behind them.

“Here we are.” Satan gestures to the main archive room, lined with towering shelves that nearly reached the domed ceiling. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

“It is, it is!” Thalbus gives him a grin, ever-so-slightly crooked. Clasping his hands together, his eyes scan the magnificent annals of the Devildom. “So … where is that scroll?”

“Impatient, aren’t we?” Satan merely smiles, though he feels the way his jaw wants to clench. “Come, it’s in one of the back rooms.”

Down a few aisles, through an archway, and they now are before a vitrine with a scroll neatly rolled out in full display, the parchment delicate from its age but its fibers intact due to restorative magic. It’s much smaller than one would expect, and thick ink is scrawled across it in ancient demonic tongue -- “The Word of the Regent”.

“Wow,” Thalbus gasps in awe, scuttling closer to the glass to get a good look at the prized artifact. “So it really does exist … “

“That it does.” Ah, what a smug look it was that now graced the Avatar’s features. “It really is fascinating, apparently written by one of the first kings. Many are still trying to decipher it’s more complicated and muddled passages, as it seems to speak of a series of powerful rituals that would grant whoever is able to perform it a great amount of power and wealth. Or, so say the urban legends, the actual validity is still debated and -- “

Satan continues to speak, showing off every bit of knowledge he has on the subject as Thalbus continues to admire the scroll. He gets a few ‘hmms’ and various other one-word acknowledgments in response, which is all he needs to continue his confident rambling. To be in the presence of another demon who understood the splendor of such a relic was refreshing, even if for only selfish reasons in that the Greater Demon could bestow an interested party in all his wisdom.

“Thank you once again, Lord Satan.” Thalbus gestures in great respect, hiding a rather satisfied smile as they both eventually leave the archive chamber. “I am incredibly lucky to have been able to be introduced to you, and to see the scroll for myself! Ah, what a dream come true!”

“Again, you are very welcome.” Picture-perfect smile, a steady gaze. They round a few corners, go down a flight of steps -- the portraits whisper again, “oh my, oh my”. They enter one of the dim passages, steps lost to shadows.

“Um, Lord Satan … forgive me, but is this the way back out?” Thalbus warily speaks up, eyes darting around the dark.

“Oh, no. No, it isn’t.” Satan laughs, shaking his head as a large smile stays plastered on his lips. A fool, the Avatar thinks to himself, he truly takes ME for a fool! How ridiculous, preposterous, outrageous. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice, Thalbus?”

“Pardon me?”

“Adorable, how you think you can feign innocence.” He laughs again, though malice bleeds through his voice this time. With a wave of his hand, the shriek of metal scraping against stone is heard -- a gate closes, and Thalbus now realizes he is trapped in a room with no escape. “So, why don’t you hand it over?”

“Oh … you mean, this?” The lesser demon produces a thin tube from his jacket, cocky grin splitting his lips. “I suppose you’re sharper than I realized. Didn’t think you would pay attention while you kept yapping and yapping.” How courageous, for him to act as if he wasn’t moments away from wrathful consequences, Thalbus would have one think. How utterly foolish, is what Satan knows.

Imperturbable smile still present, the Greater Demon steps closer and moves to snatch the contained scroll from the thief, but Thalbus has decided he’d much rather opt for more severe torment as he moves to hide it again. Were all demons of deceit this imprudent? The flames of wrath begin to grow within -- hotter, deadlier.

“How about we make a deal?” Thalbus tries. “You let me borrow the scroll, and I’ll grant you something in return.”

“Oh?” Satan’s smile widens, but his teeth grow sharper. “A deal you say? Truly, Thalbus, you continue to impress!” He begins to laugh, that laugh that sounded so melodic and cheerful and yet just a hint deranged. Satan tilts his head to the side, his eyes glowing a fierce green in the darkness. “You think that you of all demons can entice me with a deal? Just what could you possibly have to offer ME?” His laughter continues, growing more maniacal as his body continues to shift and distort. His claws grow longer, his tail thrashing about as flesh gives way at parts to bone, green flames tracing up his spine to match the searing verdant flames that now emit from his hollow eye sockets. “Have you forgotten who I am?”

Thalbus does not have time to respond, though the terror now present on every crevice of his being is answer enough. In an instant, claws are at his throat as he is held up against the wall, the sound of metal hitting the stone floor ringing out as the scroll slips from his grasp and rolls into the far corner of the room.

“Ah, looks like you’ve lost your bargaining chip!” There is a distortion to Satan’s voice, a grating echo. “That’s too bad.” His tail goes to flick at Thalbus’ cheek before roughly moving against his flesh, its sharp edges peeling away at his skin to reveal what lay underneath. The lesser demon tries to shriek, only to find no sound leaves him. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

Satan laughs again, before the claws of his other hand immediately go to grip Thalbus’ jaw, wrenching it open and piercing a claw through his aforementioned muscle. “Oh, guess it’s actually me.” As the lesser demon struggles, Satan can make out a garbled “Please!” as he sees tears leave the other’s eyes.

Please?

PLEASE?

What could this pathetic excuse of a demon, this wretch, this absolute shitstain be thinking that begging “please” would help get him out of this? This situation that he only had himself to blame, for daring to think that he could outwit Satan. The flames that danced atop wrath’s form grew brighter, hotter, larger -- and he unhooks his claw from the demon's tongue to instead grab hold of his jaw once more and rip it clean off his skull. Blood gurgles up and spills from the deceitful demon’s open cavity of a throat, muffling his continued screams which only sounded like music to Wrath’s ears.

Rage overflowed through every fiber of Satan’s being, his mind now clouded and his vision blurred among the inferno. His blood boils as he descends into madness, a flurry of demonic curses escaping through grotesque fangs until words become unintelligible screams that shake the stone walls in his fury.

Idiot, idiot, idiot, IDIOT!

The sharp bony horn that now protrudes from Wrath’s forehead is lowered to skewer an eye, then the other. Piece by piece, Thalbus is torn apart -- claws ripping apart limbs, teeth tearing out his organs, horn impaling muscle, tail grinding bone -- all while the smell of burnt flesh fills the room as flames lick at the remains. The sickening sounds of the lesser demon’s body being completely obliterated fill the otherwise empty chamber, a song of violence.

He is long dead before Satan is finished with him, painting the walls and floor with ichor and tissue and ashes of whatever else comprised the once corporeal form of Cabariel’s duke.

Ah, right. Cabariel …

Deep breath, count to ten … and Satan feels his form shift again, sharp edges folding away as his more human form comes into place. The haze in his mind is gone, the flames put out, the wrath forcibly buried back down as rage subsides. He is himself again, he thinks, for obviously this was who he was and not that beast that had just reared its head.

Yes. Himself.

He walks over to the corner of the room, deftly picking up the nearly stolen artifact. Rage begins to unfurl within him once more, but he must keep it at bay. This problem had been taken care of, disaster avoided. Cabariel would not be pleased to know that he was short a duke, but that was the least of Satan’s worries -- after all, Cabariel should be glad that it wasn’t his throat Satan came for next.

Another look around the room, and a tired sigh leaves the Avatar’s lips. He had purposely lured Thalbus away from the Royal Archives, but still ...

… Barbatos was not going to be pleased.

[develation]

🌹Titan AU

From the third installment to the Titan AU

Ink whined long and loud from his spot on Nightmares couch. He wanted to roll around and rub his spires against the fabric to stop the itch, but if he did that then he'd rip the fabric. And then have to listen to another lecture.

Post was arguably the worst part of this mess. They were just mutating back into their original forms, which would be a relief, but for Ink, it only meant one thing.

Shedding.

The spires and boney plates along his spine and tail were made out of solid bone, so it would be easier for the body to get rid of them by shedding pieces in small patches.

It wasn't painful (unless he forced it) but it was extremely itchy in ways that Ink couldn't even explain.

So he just laid there, sometimes feeling flakes and shards of bone fall onto his spine. Moving just made the itch worst, he was too sore anyway.

"What... are you... doin'?"

Ink only groaned. This was the first time they had decided to recover inside the castle walls. Error and Nightmare not wanting the gang to know about the titan situation. But after everything that had gone down.

All of them just wanted to feel safe. So to the castle it was.

Error had locked himself in his room immediately, most likely going through a similar process to Ink right now. As the other was technically an insect, which meant he needed to molt all of that carapace off somehow.

After an explanation to his boys, Nightmare had holed himself up in one of the bathrooms, soaking in warm water. Ink found it slightly unfair that all Nightmare had to do was sit in water for a while and bam! Good as new. He was maybe a bit bitter. Just a little bit.

Either way, that left Ink somewhat handling the crew. Which he would do, whenever it didn't hurt to move.

He could feel Horror's eyelight scan over him, and the way the goliath's weight leaned onto the back of the couch. A single claw taped one of his spires, and Ink flinched.

"You're... losin' pieces... little blot." There was a steady pause before he stoke again. "Does it... hurt?"

"Nah," Ink's voice was still rough, even tho the ordeal had gone down 2 days ago. "Just itchy. Real bad. I can't reach cus' it's mostly in between."

No response. Ink didn't try to angle his skull to see, just closed his eyes to try and focus on anything else.

Then the claw returned to his dorsal side. Ink blinked his sockets open, starting at the arm of the couch in front of him, nervous. Horror's finger-tip didn't move from where it ghosted the tender root of one of Ink's spires, waiting for protest. When there was none, the claw pressed down carefully, before delivering a gentle scratch.

Ink felt his eyelights dilate and his ribcage stutter. The strokes were light enough to not force it, but firm enough to pry any loose pieces off.

The other fingers joined, and then another hand, scratching with the same precision and gentleness.

The relief was so mind-reeling that it forced the tears already prebuilt from earlier frustration to spill over. Horror stoped at Ink's lack of emotional control, but quickly started up again when he felt Ink's spine arch up towards his hands.

"Feel... okay?" Okay was barely even the word to describe how he felt. Ink wanted to spew full paragraphs of thanks but all he managed was a slight "mhm".

If he started purring, then Horror didn't mention it.

[fluffyfranny]

So hey! Might as well start posting! 

Starting off with an oldie in my past writing archives when I was at my peak in the Markiplier fandom. Still love his content dearly, but I don’t think I’ll write for his egos anytime soon.

Posting this with a lil motivation from @yaysof11037 who has become such a great mutual earlier on this week! (If ya haven’t checked out their works you totally should btw). In return for the lovely angst they provided for me, angst is what you shall receive in turn >:3

Hope y’all enjoy this piece I conjured WAY back in April :0

TW for descriptive gore, past and present character death and overall angst in general under the cut >:3

~Gone Too Soon~

Paranoia.

That was one of the primary emotions Eric felt all the time. The poor boy had been through a lot. He had lost a majority of his family, including his mother and the rest of his brothers, in a tragic accident, and he considered himself an “omen” of bad luck, of sorts, since things seemed to die around him.

Unfortunately, that was about to come true, once again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It all started one brisk night, when Eric was having trouble sleeping for what seemed like the fifth time this week. He tossed and turned underneath the sheets, clutching his worn-down, yellow handkerchief with an iron grip in one of his fists. This lasted for about an hour.

The primary cause for this state of unrest, however, was not only his ever present state of anxiousness, but the fact that a nightmare unlike any he had ever dreamt was roiling through his mind.

He had dreamt that the rest of the Ipliers currently living in the manor, including his father, had mysteriously disappeared. Eric had been wandering the halls, calling out for them, his cries becoming squeaky as tears threatened to spill over...

Before he found his family and the states that they were in...

But then, he shot bolt upright in his bed. His breaths were rapid and his forehead was layered with a fine sheen of nervous sweat. He pinched his hand to make sure that it was all a dream, and fortunately, it was.

Eric tried to stabilize his breathing then and there, attempting to calm down. “It w-was all j-just a bad d-dream,” he kept repeating to himself. “None of t-that was r-real.”

With a sharp exhale of air, he dragged himself out of bed and left his room. He figured a walk around the vast, ever-expanding halls of the manor would calm his nerves, along with a glass of water.

The weight of his prosthetics made the stairs creak, but the other Ipliers knew better than to interrogate whoever was making such a ruckus. When they heard the familiar metallic clunk against the steps, they knew it was Eric, and they either left him be or awoke to provide him assistance, if needed.

As he made his way down the stairs and into one of the bigger hallways, he sensed that something was off. The air felt thicker, as if some invisible force was adding weight to the environment without anything actually being there.

In addition, he thought he caught a whiff of something along the lines of smoke. He shivered slightly at all of this, but shook his head in denial, brushing these factors off as remaining slivers of his nightmare that still plagued his mind.

Eric was just about to step foot into the living room when one of his prosthetic legs slipped in something wet, nearly sending him careening to the tile floor. Fortunately, he grabbed onto the railing on the side of the wall with a less than elusive yelp to stabilize himself.

He caught his breath and, with fear laced in his vision, glanced down slowly towards the ground. He nearly started having another panic attack when he saw a smear of red coat the tile and flow around the bend. The red coloration was so deep, it nearly appeared black as ink.

With even shakier steps, Eric clambered around the corner to locate the source of the stain…

Only to be met with the pale, lifeless stare of his father, lying in a pool of his own blood.

This time, Eric’s screech could be heard across the entirety of the mansion, had it been any louder. He immediately knelt down and began inspecting Derek’s clothes with quivering hands. His red, white and blue polo shirt was now dyed with an even darker crimson due to the blood seeping out of a massive hole in his chest.

“D-dad?” Eric whimpered, his handkerchief slightly speckled with Derek’s blood after placing it next to him. “W-what h-happened? Pl-please get up!”

He began shaking his parent’s shoulders rather forcefully, causing his head to loll to the side rather limply, then softly thumping back down onto the floor once Eric had ceased his actions.

Before he could let loose a scream of his own, several more heart-stopping yells proceeded to echo throughout the living room and the halls surrounding it, followed by the crashing of bodies. Eric’s head snapped up and glanced in all directions to locate who was screaming. However, despite the noises sounding like they were coming from right around him, there was nobody else with him. Aside from his father.

Then, that’s when he heard them.

“Why, hello there, Eric.”

His head whipped to his left to meet the gaze of a man talked about throughout the household, but none too kindly. Said man stood before him in a red tailcoat and black dress pants, both of which had gashes torn in them, and from these gashes seeped both red and black. Various other cuts also covered his bare hands and face. The red was definitely blood, Eric assumed, but why was this man bleeding black as well?

Either way, it didn’t matter as the man strode in Eric’s direction and placed the blunt end of the cane he clutched on the area where his heart would be before giving the area a gentle tap and stepping back again, smiling wickedly all the while.

“Wh-what have y-you done with m-my friends?” Eric stammered, trying to lace some confidence into his voice. “M-Mark?”

“Oh, poor, sweet Eric,” Mark tutted, shaking his head and scattering loose flecks of blood and pitch-black ichor. “I’ve been waiting a while now to exact my revenge against your...family here.”

“R-r-revenge?” Eric questioned with wide eyes and a more noticeable quiver in his voice. “B-but the others a-are so sweet t-to me. They’d n-never do-”

“Oh, but my friend,” Mark interrupted with a wave of his hand. “You’ve just missed out on all the horrendous things they have done to others. Even to me.”

“T-that’s a l-lie!” Eric tried to shout. “They’d never d-do anything b-bad to others! You’re just t-trying to c-convince me o-otherwise!”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Mark began to raise his voice, inky-black ichor seeping out of the corners of his mouth. “You’re just too naive to see it! The others are evil…”

“No, t-that’s y-you!” Eric finally found the courage to retort back semi-confidently. “Y-you’re the e-evil one!”

At this, Mark’s eyes widened, and he turned his head slowly towards him, a pissed look in his eyes and on his face. He snarled, his lips quirking up to bare his teeth back at the boy.

“You insufferable brat!” Mark said, ever angrier. “Just for all that you’ve said and done, I’ll show you what has been made of your “family” and be on my way.”

Before Mark disappeared in an explosion of smoky black mist, he gave Eric one final glare and remark:

“Don’t be surprised if you end up being next.”

And with that, he was gone.

However, once he vanished, the air around the room began to shimmer before the environment revealed a truly horrendous sight from behind Mark’s illusion.

Blood and gore everywhere.

Eric felt like he was going to be sick at the sight of his friends plastered around the house, laying in their own life essence. He hesitantly gazed around and, one by one, took note of what happened to each of them.

First, he spotted Wilford in the kitchen, draped over the countertop with the broken end of a wine bottle stuck in his head, the jagged ring of glass biting into his scalp and sticking there, all the while drawing blood that flowed off of Wil’s head like tiny rivers.

Then, he saw Bim hanging from a taxidermy deer skull in the living room, the antlers emerging from above his eye sockets to make it look like he had sprouted the appendages.

As Eric shook his head in both fear and denial, he practically bolted out of the conjoining rooms and down the hall he came from. There, he saw both Google and Bing’s dismembered parts scattered across the floor, with a few limbs laying on the stairwell and a head posted atop it. Whoever’s head it was was barely recognizable, for the artificial skin was peeled away to reveal the mechanical insides.

Eric, surprisingly, only started to cry harder now, tears rapidly streaming down his cheeks as he realized that this was not just a dream.

It was a nightmare come true.

He then came across Dr Iplier, whose corpse was laying halfway inside a closet and covered with crudely stitched gashes that still leaked blood, which, to Eric’s horror, was a mixture of the red and black that Mark was coated in.

As he rounded the corner, avoiding going upstairs again, he nearly tripped over Host, whose blindfold was ripped clean off to expose his empty, bloody eye sockets. In addition, he was also missing the skin on one side of his jaw, exposing the teeth and bone beneath to give him a zombified look.

This drew a gag from Eric at the sight of Host’s mangled face, and he quickly fled deeper down the hall.

At this point, he had exhausted himself, so he simply let his back hit the wall and slide down to the floor, where he held his head between his knees. He then began to let loose gut-wrenching sobs that would make anyone else cry, as well.

He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and began to fidget with it, nearly tearing it in half with the force he was using on it.

Just as he was about to fling the cloth away, he felt the air around him drop in temperature, which caused him to look up. There stood Dark, his hair disheveled as if he were running his fingers through it all day. His jacket and shirt were both wrinkled, and his tie was missing.

At the sight of Eric curled up in a sobbing mess, Dark got on both knees in front of him and patted one of his own. He looked up to see the pale man smiling at him sadly.

“I’m terribly sorry, Eric,” Dark spoke at a low volume. “We couldn’t save them.”

Eric choked out another sob as he gazed up at Dark with watery eyes. “Th-they’re all dead! Even m-my d-dad is g-gone. My whole f-family is g-gone!”

He put his head between his legs again so Dark wouldn’t see him cry anymore. He felt a heavy hand rest atop his head and ruffle his hair, a seemingly kind gesture amidst these depressing times.

“Look here, Eric,” Dark said as he gently pressed a fingertip underneath Eric’s chin and raising his head to look back at him. “You still have me. We can be our own little family.”

“B-but what if M-Mark comes back f-for you?” Eric whined. “Th-then I’ll b-be all a-alone!”

“Trust me as you have in the past,” Dark drawled out, moving the hand away from his chin and dropping it back to his side. “He won’t be back.”

“P-promise?” Eric questioned, voice shaking harder than it ever had.

Dark merely responded with a nod and one word:

“Promise.”

Before he could get up and take Eric away with him, he let out a grunt and got back on his knees. Eric could only stare in horror as a spot on Dark’s dress shirt became soaked in black. The spot only grew bigger, as if he were hit with a bullet, and the blood was spreading further out.

Dark gently prodded at the fresh hoel in his gut before looking back up at Eric and uttering two words that would be the last he’d ever hear.

“I’m sorry.”

After uttering those final words, Dark collapsed right into Eric’s lap, his head landing in his cupped hands. He let out a shocked gasp and lifted Dark’s head up to look into his eyes and wave his hand in front of them.

“Oh...oh n-no, D-Dark, please d-don’t!” He began to babble uncontrollably, tears falling faster than ever, with a few landing onto Dark’s cheeks to make it seem as if he were crying. They ran down his face, which seemed to be getting paler by the second, even though it seemed impossible for him to pale any further.

“P-please don’t l-leave me,” Eric sobbed, cradling Dark’s head as he felt his blood soak into his own polo shirt, staining it black. “N-not alone in th-this place.”

Dark could only let out a faint wheeze that sounded like a chuckle before he took one final deep breath and let it out. His obsidian eyes seemed to dim as this last breath fled from between his lips.

Eric gasped as he heard this and, not wanting to lose the last friend he had left, clutched onto Dark’s body and held him close, his head lolling over and landing limply onto Eric’s shoulder.

He sat there, clinging to Dark’s body amidst the massacre of his family that had taken place just mere moments ago, and cried for hours on end.

This was truly a nightmare that Eric would never wake up from.

[shatterflowerdemon]

I found

Words: 1,517

Reader & UT Sans & UT Paps & Error & Ink & Gaster

Notes:

This came to me as I was cleaning. Please note that I am not very familiar with Error and Ink. I just see pretty designs and write. I haven't abandoned my other reader inserts, but the big wheel in my brain has been landing on 'oneshot' for days. I also post on mobile so I can't chop this.

"Oh fuck. Am I dead? I knew I shouldn't have had that pasta!" Everything that surrounds you is white. "Holy shit? Did I make it to heaven? Unexpected."

"Ahem."

You scream and jerk, managing to scuttle back where you rest on the...floor? It's hard to tell in all this one shade of white. Then you look up. "Oh my fucking god, I am in heaven!" you yell before slapping yourself on the mouth. A skeleton that looks a lot like Ink- from that one AU on Tumblr- looks at you like you've grown a second head.

"Right, okay, back you go," he says, bringing his paintbrush down as if to strike you.

"What the fuck?" you roll out of the way. "Uh, watch where you point that thing!" He sighs and twirls it in this direction.

"Don't make this difficult."

You decide that you would prefer to, not liking the idea of the easy route. Hitting your elbow on the floor hurt. Isn't heaven supposed to be fun and painless? You can feel your heart thumping from adrenaline, too. Regardless of whether or not you're having a fever dream, you are very alive.

Ink attempts to slather or catch you in what looks like his namesake. You scramble and dodge, but the routine is tiring you out quickly. Then, right as you're cornered (in an invisible corner, of fucking course,) a hole opens.

"Dude, you left your- Uh." Error looks between you and Ink, clearly not understanding. "Scarf..."

Ink swings his paintbrush (Broom? Roomie? You forgot) down to rest at his side. "Oh, thanks! I didn't even notice. Just lay it somewhere. Gotta fix this first." You avoid another splatter, feeling like you're on the other end of mickey in that one Wii game with the paintbrush.

"Why's it so empty?" Error asks, glancing around.

"Just did a mass wipe. Decided a fresh canvas was in order."

"Oh. Okay."

You groan, dodging another splatter. "Why the fuck am I even in the doodle sphere?!"

Ink frowns. Error whistles, low and long. "Wow, you accidentally drug a creator here?"

"Shut up." Ink shoots again but misses widely.

Error snickers. "Let me handle this, squid." You watch his hands raise and remember what Error does for a living.

"Fuck no!" You scream, flailing and losing your balance. One minute, you're standing in a white room, and the next, you're nowhere.

It feels like you're falling for eternity. Darkness swims in your vision, making your brain try to fill in the gaps by tricking you with false images. If you scream, you sure can't hear it. Numbness creeps in.

A white oval emerges. Then it stays. Its not a false image? A form takes shape as if your eyes had to adjust. Half circle eyes, two cracks, and a thin smile. The body of spilled ink.

"Gaster." He makes a series of strange noises. Wingdings? "I'm sorry, I can't understand. I- I'm in the void, aren't I?" He nods, and two ghostly hands form before your very eyes. He holds them out to you. "Do you know the way out of here?" Another nod. You take his hands. His figure appears as if it's dissolving, then when you look down, you look the same, like a ghost. The hot iron of fear strikes you. "Wai-"

Your sound is cut out. Once again, for the umpteenth time today, your mind blanks out. An uncomfortable trend.

The first thing you register is cold. It's on your back, arms, head, everywhere. The next is something wet. You groan and shift. Why can't you be left to sleep in peace? WAIT A FUCKING MINUTE. You sit up quickly, disturbing the snow that had been blanketing you before. Something white and fluffy yelps. Your vision clears. Oh! It's a dog.

"Hey there, little guy. Thanks for the wake-up call." The dog barks cutely. You pet it, encouraged by the furious wagging of its tail.

A figure emerges in the distance, but it's hard to see through the snowfall. Whoever they are, they must be tall. Maybe someone on a rescue team? That'd explain the dog. You must have been drugged or passed out somewhere. It couldn't have been a long time since you're still alive in this weather. All your limbs have circulation, and you can't smell rotting flesh.

"DOG! UGH, I KNEW THE RED LEASH WAS SUPERIOR!" An odd sentence for someone on a rescue team, but you let it slide. Any help is better than no help. "OH. A HUMAN." Well, what else would you be? A bear?

"Hello? Do you know where this is? I think I hit my head or something." That would explain the hallucination.

"OH NO! A HURT HUMAN!"

It's like your heart stops and speeds up all at once. Papyrus is tall and a little foreboding at this angle. His scarf flaps in the wind that is currently picking up. He makes quick work of helping you up. The dog stays close by, tail wagging furiously.

"THIS IS NO SORT OF WEATHER FOR A HURT HUMAN! I'LL TAKE YOU HOME AND FEED YOU. MY SPAGHETTI IS WORLD-CLASS."

There's no other option than to agree. If this is a hallucination, you won't fight it. Maybe you're lucid dreaming? Intense focus does nothing to change your situation. Not a lucid dream, then. Papyrus carries you and the dog through the storm, who happily snuggles close to you. At least Papyrus blocks the wind blowing towards the two of you. He chatters the entire way to his house. Instead of the familiar house you were expecting, he brings you to a different one. It's a large log cabin with no porch. It looks like they bought more string lights.

"REST HERE, AND I'LL MAKE YOU SOME WARM FOOD." Papyrus sets you down on a kitchen chair, swiping a quilt and tossing it over you. The dog (presumably annoying dog) settles on your lap as if he owns it. You say nothing. Papyrus returns with a plate of steaming spaghetti and water. "I MUST APOLOGIZE. THE FOOD IS REHEATED SINCE I DIDN'T EXPECT YOU. PLEASE DO NOT MAKE IT A HABIT TO NAP IN SNOW POFFS." The spaghetti is great.

"Thank you, this is great. Uhm, weird question, but where are we?"

"MY HOUSE, OF COURSE!" he replies with a warm smile.

"I think they meant geographic location, paps."

And as if Tumblr hadn't already whooped your ass, here arrives Sans Undertale. Where's a dramatic cue of Megalovania à la trumpet when you need it? Honestly, the very last skeleton you wanted to see. It's like your Sans phase is coming to haunt you. Maybe today is just 'the attack of 2010's fandom.' The switch port could not have possibly done less to prepare you for this.

"Uhm, hi," you say. Sans plops himself down across from you at the kitchen table.

"hey. what's up?"

You make an awkward face. "I have no idea where I'm at or how I got here."

Sans takes it all in stride, pulling up your location on google maps and letting you take it all in. It's a country you've never heard of in your life. You rub your hands over your face and feel like crying. Papyrus, out of the goodness of his heart, offers you their couch for the night.

"hey, paps, why don't you get the human some bed stuff?"

"GASP. YOU'RE RIGHT, BROTHER." Aaaaand Papyrus is gone, taking the stairs two at a time.

"so, I couldn't help but notice you had a lot on your mind. penny for your thoughts?" He holds up said coinage, and it earns him a chuckle from you. Sans laughs himself and sets it on the coffee table.

"I promise I'm not insane, but I'm not from here, and I have no memory of this country. At all." Sans' expression betrays nothing. He closes an eye socket.

"eeh, figured that was the case." He sees your startled expression and shrugs. "I'm good at reading people. what do ya remember?" You close your eyes. The memories roll through, starting with a field of white.

"Black. A lot of it. Something...white?" You gasp, and the name flies between your lips before you can stop it. "Gaster."

Sans jerks, and your eyes fly open. He stares at you like he's seen a ghost. Sweat rolls down his skull. "how-" You can feel the frustration from your day boil over, forming tears that roll down your cheeks in thick globs. You sob into your hands, trying to hide it.

"there there," Sans says, patting you on the back. You finish crying quicker than you expected.

"Sorry. It's been a day." Sans nods and drops his hand. It lays limply at his side. "Guess I gotta fess up now. There's no easy way to say this, but I think you of anyone in this universe would understand." Sans watches with bated breath, apprehension bleeding through his sole eye light.

"I'm not from this universe."

"sheesh. and here I was thinking you were a mage or something. what a relief."

[bloodiedrogue]

chapter eleven preivew hehe

You feel like a ghost, drifting from one experience to the next —your body moving as needed while your mind wanders, failing to grasp the fact that you’re already rooted inside of Moonrise Towers.

Blinking hard at such a realization, you find yourself scanning the secluded office you and the party suddenly occupy, feeling the fog of your mind slowly begin to lift, remembering why you’re here. Why Ketheric Thorm has somehow allowed you to explore the contents of his subject’s office. 

He needs you to get the relic. Not that you know exactly what that is. Considering he doesn’t trust you yet, all you know is that after you’ve gathered supplies you’re meant to go to the mausoleum to find it. Along with a man named Balthazar who’s gone missing. The same man whose office you now find yourself looting. 

Moving through the space as quietly as possible, you notice quickly that all around there are stacks of books, creating this sort of claustrophobic space you have to steady your breath against. Deep within your chest, you can feel the past anxiety of the day bubbling up within your throat as you take everything in, threatening to spill just as Wyll clears his throat, telling you to hurry up so that Z’rell doesn’t get suspicious.

At the mention of Ketheric’s disciple —an orc woman you met just moments ago— you swallow hard and nod, allowing the fog to resurface as you wander towards a nearby desk, exploring the contents of the tabletop with narrowed eyes. Across it, all the usual items sit, various notebooks, an ink bottle with a well-used quill, a couple of decorative knickknacks here and there. However, there’s also a skull that sits at the top right edge, piquing your interest enough to reach out and grab it, testing out the weight.

“Death enthusiast or necromancer?” 

As if on cue, Astarion slithers up to your side, pulling out various tools from his pocket before kneeling on the ground, turning his attention to the desk drawer. 

Almost immediately you reply with necromancer, but unlike him, there isn’t a flirtatious tone that coats your words. Instead, there’s just exhaustive sadness, prompting his eyes to flicker up in confusion as he pushes the hook into the keyhole. 

“Care to elaborate why?”

You shrug and run your finger around the eye socket of the skull, tracing the edge with distraction —feeling your mind continue to distance itself from the task at hand as your gaze grows fuzzy. 

[horrorslashergirl]

Chromeskull blackmailing the reader after he sees her kill her abusive father. Her father use to let Jesse use his funeral parlor and such so now the reader has to as well It's tense at first but Jesse ends up gaining feelings for and readers unsure what she feels about him until he saves her life from home invader. Sorry for the word vomit. 😊

Not exactly what you wanted, but I hope it turned out right at last 50%

Chromeskull x Reader- Farewell Job

There were a few things that Jesse Cromeans disliked, down from having his car scratched to a wrinkled suit, the most were when someone was in debt to him and the fucker had the audacity to play dumb and not answer his texts, especially the threatening ones. Normally, he would let his co-workers deal with such insignificant concerns, but none ignored Jesse Chromeskull Cromeans and got away without at last a broken wrist.

That's why he was driving at midnight full-on speed down the road to the funeral house where the old geezer was doing his business, and where Jesse sometimes decapitated his piggies. He couldn't wait to sink his knife into the man's back, maybe skin his legs off? He will have time to think about it once he has him bound to a chair begging for his life.

After one hour of speeding down and ignoring red lights, he managed to get to the said funeral house, parking the Bentley as the engine's sound died down into the silence of the night. Getting out of the car, he put on the chromed skull mask, smirking at the familiar coldness of it. He took the silver suitcase and waltzed to the front entrance which was surprisingly open.

No wonder...The disgusting bastard had a habit of drinking and always forgot to lock it. Not the first time.

Jesse expected to see the old scumbag passed down on a chair or better yet on the floor, blackout drunk, but imagine the surprised behind the silver mask when he saw the man on the floor with his head bashed in, brains spilling out.

Well, that is surely unexpected.

The old and rusty skin close by with pieces of the brain was probably the primary weapon.

Someone got here first.

Jesse took one step towards the corpse and he heard a door open and felt something sharp slash the black material of his coat along with a slightly deep wound of his biceps.

Brown eye locked on a feral face twisted into a deadly scowl that promised murder. The culprit was a female, young, and was ready to aim another hit, but Jesse was quicker and he knocked what looked like a scalpel from the tiny hand. His hand fisted her shirt and slammed her against the wall, pinning her there.

Despite the position she was in, no fear was in her eyes that were bloodshot, probably from lack of sleep. She was still snarling like she wanted to bite his head off.

"Let me go or I will cut your balls off!" You screamed at him, nails digging into the sleeves of his coat, trying to inflict some type of pain.

Jesse waisted little no time and after some struggling and an almost painful hit to his manhood, he had you bound to a chair, glaring at him with acidic eyes.

For someone so small you sure were a feisty one. He smirked behind the mask at your immobilized form. He couldn't recall the last time he was faced with such a dangerous piggy.

His usual piggies were always begging, pleading for their lives, or just running away, but fighting back was a low occurrence. To say the least, he was impressed, not many had hurt him and you did it so well, the stinging in his biceps hurt like a bitch, but Jesse was used to being stabbed and shot, all the tattoos of covering up his scars were proof to that.

He was looming over you, debating what he should do. He was so tempted to rip your jaw off, but that wasn't the primary reason why he was here. He needed some information because the fucker that was in debt to him was dead.

Jesse pulled out his phone and quickly typed in.

'Who are you, piggy?'

You arched an eyebrow at the tall man.

"Why should I answer you?"

WITTY PIGGY.

'Because I can do worse than what happened to that corpse over there.'

"The fucker had it coming." You found yourself muttering under your breath.

That piqued Jesse's interest. You seemed to speak with venom when mentioned about the old male.

'Related?'

"Father....But why the fuck do you even care?!" Your aggressive demeanor quickly came back and Jesse had to admit the way your brows were furrowing and eyes blazing with fury were kind of cute.

'Because your DEAR father owns me a lot of money.'

"Not my fucking problem." You snarled and in the dim light, Jesse could see the old purple bruises around your left eye, along with deep fingerprints on your neck.

Not done by him. It didn't take a genius to figure out what your father did to you. No wonder you were like a tiger that came out of a circus cage, ready to destroy everything in your path.

'I must admit, you put on a good show. I'm impressed.'

"Flattery won't get you anywhere, jerk." You snorted.

Jesse licked his lips behind the mask, so tempted to use that mouth of yours for other things that cursing him out.

Yes, killing you won't get him any benefice, although he was tempted to cut your tongue off.

'You own me.'

You spat on his silver mask, making his chest rumble like he was ready to pounce you, but Jesse composed himself.

"I don't own you shit." You muttered in a murderous tone and if Jesse could talk he sure would laugh.

'You have no idea in what deepness you are, little girl.'

You internally groaned at the use of his words, always been treated like you were some hopeless child that couldn't stand up for themselves.

Well, tonight you proved everyone wrong by your masterpiece a few feet away from you two.

"Care to enlighten me why?" you asked, curious about what he was implying.

The skull masked man's broad shoulders moved up and down, silently chuckling at your blind eyes of what was happening. He began to type, this time taking a little longer.

'Tell me if I am wrong, but you just killed someone and you will most likely go to jail, despite that you will say that it was in pure defense. Judges these days aren't so merciful, doll. You wouldn't want to rot between four walls of concrete, would you now?'

You swallowed down at the electronic voice, nibbling on your lower lip in thought. As much as you hated it, he was right and by your expression, his body language spoke of satisfaction.

Egocentric jerk.

Here goes the typing again.

'But I am willing to make you a sweet deal that will assure you freedom. Your father owned me cash that you couldn't make even if you sucked on old men cocks all your life.'

You felt disgusted and if your hands were free you would have shown that phone down the man's throat.

"You're saying that...."

'Work for me and you will be safe.'

"Doesn't sound like freedom to me."

'Better than jail, no?'

Winning asshole.

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

Your opinion on Jesse Cromeans was that he was a man which you would love go gauge his remaining brown eye out, that was the first month, but in time you learned to live with him being your 'boss'.

Nothing screamed dream job than cleaning the mess after the killings of your boss.

If you looked that over you could say that your life was at last perfect. He always made sure you had everything you needed and you couldn't be happier; down from expensive clothing to delicious rich food, you were spoiled, so different from your past life.

You were currently scrubbing down the tiles of a bathroom after a 'piggy' as your boss liked to call them had her guts spilled out. You whipped the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, then you heard footsteps approach.

When you turned around you were meet with the scarred face of Jesse, the black eyepatch covering the empty socket of his eye, the remaining brown one observing your work.

'You get better and better.' he signed.

The first thing that Jesse did when you agreed to work for him was to take you to ASL lessons because typing over again on his phone was irritating.

"I take that was a compliment." you muttered, throwing the rags into a black bag to be burned.

'Are you free tonight?' he signed.

"Another murder scene that needs to be cleaned?" you asked, disposing of your gloves.

Jesse chuckled silently and stepped to your form, taking your chin between his fingers, your eyes moving from his face to his full inked forearms. His hand left your chin to sign.

'No. Dinner tonight. I've got you a nice dress and shoes.' he signed, making you look at him dumbfounded.

"B-But you're my boss and-" you tried to reason, but a finger pressed to your lips.

You wanted to yell at him that this was forbidden, not to mention the age gap between the two of you.

'Taboo? You know I am notorious for being a nonconformist.' he signed with a smug smirk.

You rolled your eyes and stepped away from him, exiting the warehouse and walking outside.

"You are contemptible." you mused and Jesse followed after you.

'So? Tonight? At 7?' he insisted, ignoring your insults.

You couldn't deny that it was tempting. He wasn't like any other man, always sybaritic, fast-living, and exorbitant luxurious vibes.

You could swear that he was the perfect incarnation of pride, not that you minded, because it was attractive, just like the forbidden fruit. You knew how poisonous he was, but the sweetest taste was mind-blowing.

"Do I have to wear heels?" you asked, making him grin, his arms wrapping around your waist, a squeak leaving your lips at the sudden touch.

His expression spoke more: 'What do you think?'

You groaned, resting your forehead against his chest.

"You own me big time for this."

[border-spam]

Leech Lord - Decorations and damages

Tyreen

Public:

Covered in piercings.

Loves them, holy shit. She loves them?? She can take them out, have the piercing close instantly, and swap around new patterns and layouts for new aesthetic ideas whenever she wants.

Was absolutely terrified of getting her first one - Troy did it for her when they were 22, and she can distinctly remember the terror as she smushed her face into her hands and begged him to just get it over with God, Troy, PLEASE, just go? GO! While he belly laughed and tried to explain that she wasn't even going to feel it.

He was right, like always. He'd been overly prepared in typical Troy fashion, and the needle had been so quick and well practiced for that she barely even managed a slight sting before completely healing. The wound was so tiny that The Leech sealed it before it got a chance to throb even once.

Loved it after. Realised she could just do it any time she wanted and not even have to flinch from how minor the pain was, and regularly does all her own body piercing now.

Changes her facial piercings so often that people assume they are clip-ons, they aren't, she's just an expert at this point and has become a genuine trendsetter for a lot of body decoration fans on Pandora.

Private:

Her left hand scarring is something she keeps hidden in general, as is the large separation scar running from under her breasts to her navel.

She's actually super proud of the stomach one, thinks it looks fuckin' badass, but she knows flaunting it would cause a negative ripple through her perceived persona and keeps herself covered. Shameless about it in private. Actually shows it off quite a lot to anyone she's close enough with.

Doesn't like talking about the hand.

Please just don't bring it up. Her shift between faux casual happiness to actual hurt is a rare one, and it's not pleasant to witness... or safe to.

Troy

Public:

Troy uh... doesn't have a lot physically that a huge amount of people haven't had direct experience with, so most of his mod work and decoration is well known.

He's got plenty of piercings, mods, tats, but not exactly many of them could be considered private anymore.

Dude is shockingly body confident (considering what he does hide) and is one of those men who needs to be asked to please, please put on clothes and not just be in his underwear if people are going to be visiting his Sanctum. Almost shameless. Won't think twice about only wearing loose pants and fuck all else while friends are around.

His facial markings do extend far into his hairline and around his ear before fading above his nape, but he's not exactly hiding that, his hair's just too dummy thicc to see it through.

Tat wise, his arm and back work is something that's rarely really seen and he finds that a bit of shame.

He did the chest-piece himself, something he is very proud of even if he doesn't talk about it, but the shoulder/arm and back work are beautifully detailed and almost entirely lost to his siren markings and implant now.

He had them done early COV when the Holy City was starting to take root. Heard fantastic things about an artist who'd recently setup shop in the middle district, and liked the guy's work almost as much as he appreciated his silence.

It wasn't just the metal jaw keeping his mouth shut, he had a good head and enough common sense to know broadcasting about Inking the God King would be a bad idea.

Troy still loves the work even if it's rarely seen now, and often drops Vic's shop name and location as a recommendation when his tats are fawned over by drooling fans.. or friends.

When it comes to privacy, there are only really 2 aspects of his appearance he does hide.

The self inflicted damage under his bracer is beyond private. As time goes on he becomes more comfortable with removing the bracer itself and revealing the pressure padding underneath, but before the padding? 

Before Sei had demanded that he start taking care of himself as she sobbed into his chest, he wouldn't show anyone.

That's one of his greatest losses of control, and it went on for far too long. Years of open wounds and scratch marks on skin that could barely heal in the first place. He get's better about showing it, but never uncovered. Feeling safe enough to show it without the bracer is improvement enough.

Troy has some hidden tattoos, red ink, the same dull as his markings when not glowing, running up the heart line of his forearm underneath the loops and whorls of his stripes.

It was just one name for a long time, shakily inked with a hand far too big and cumbersome to do it neatly, but it meant the world to him regardless. Someone he missed desperately and could never meet again, etched in permanent memory within his markings.

He added a second name when he dropped to his worst, after another loss he thought was forever.

They remain private for years till he starts getting smaller initials added hidden within the existing tattoos on his shoulder and arm, tiny letters alongside the lines, inside the eye of a skull socket, little reminders of friends he'll always carry.

He shows her on the first peaceful night, when the dust has settled and no more blood needs to be spilled. Presses down on his forearm and breaths deep, willing the now brilliant glow to fade as dull as it can, revealing the names in deep red.

Always been a fool for grand gestures.

Seifa

Public:

No tattoos till late COV, couple of months after things feel right again. Always loved the idea of them but could never settle on one. Nothing in her life ever really felt stable enough to etch into her skin, and she'd only want one with meaning...

Get's a small, delicately pale full moon on her inner left wrist. Both a promise of permanence, and a reminder of a soul that hasn't been lost. She'd not explain it to anyone she wasn't intensely close with, it's not her past to discuss. If you know, you know.

Other than that, she's p vanilla as Pandora goes. Plenty of ear piercings, the labret, septum, eyebrow, has some more but you'd have to earn seeing those.

Private:

Her right eye is wrecked. She doesn't talk about this publicly, at all. In fact, she doesn't talk about it to anyone. She lost depth perception and some focus in it when the E-Dev she'd been trying to strip for components as a teen blew in her face and left her with the mild scarring.

The eye itself has no visually obvious damage, but it's there behind the cornea and Sei can miss door handles sometimes. Extend a hand to catch something that sails by. Has a larger magnifier overlay on her right welding lens than the left.

She will play it all off as nothing, but people close enough to her to pay attention will eventually pick it up.

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, cloudburst-ink!

For @cloudburst-ink <3

Read On AO3

*****

Shards Of Winter

The high croon of whipping winds and the frosty chill of the night air signal the beginning of winter on a normally quiet Thursday evening for Alec Lightwood.

Sat by the window, warm forehead pressed to the contrast of cold glass that spreads a delightful tremble down his spine, Alec watches the night descend with the twinkle of stars in the sky and flutters of snowflakes on their way from high above. It’s a sight he cherishes every year, a new snowfall, a new story, a new adventure.

A new chance to find his soulmate.

Faded, but still there on his wrist lies his soulmark, a pale white snowflake with a blush of blue on the branches. Someone out there, perfectly complementary in all the way he hopes, in all the ways he imitates late in the evening when the desires for touch and the longing of love overcome him. The press of fingers against his skin, the chilling voice that whispers ice against his ears and wracks his body with tremors, the almost forgotten flash of glowing green that still lingers in the back of his mind. It calls to him on nights like this, the first snowfall, and Alec knows they’re connected.

It has to be magic that pulls him in. Magic, in all it’s raw and delightful glory, slithers in tendrils around each finger, digit by digit until it’s grasping at his wrist and pulling him out into the night.

And this is no different, because where the warmth of his body heat had pressed against him and soothed the cold now swishes frosty air in the emptiness as he stands out in the falling snow, beckoned by the call of hope.

Hope, the kind to summon light from the darkest of days, the same one that fuels every action and choice. The same hope that he holds close to his heart that he’ll find his soulmate soon, that they’re closer this year than the last. The same kind of hope that so many people in his small town have lost for him because of the way his mark fades against the white of his skin more and more every year.

But their thoughts don’t matter to Alec, and instead of dwelling on the worries of others that have already been matched, he sets his eyes up to the sky and lets the vision of snowflakes calm the physical manifestations of the cold from his body.

Out here he feels free. Encased in the silent affection of what’s meant to be, surrounded by the delicate winter that presses the first cold kiss to his cheek. A droplet slides down the side of his face as it dissolves into wetness, and then another against his nose. Eyes fall shut, the flutter of lashes as a snowflake descends gently onto it, a succession of loving pecks along his greedy skin that soaks it all up.

A whistle then, a trilling melody that the snowfall sings to him, and a hum as Alec sings along.

This feels right, this feels fated. It feels magical.

Eyes flutter open, hazel to absorb the blinding white that drifts closer and closer still. 

Time seems to halt in the presence of magic, slowing to a blur. The snow trickles down, covers his vision until he feels it pierce his sight, feels it spread through his being and invade deep into his core. Magic, darker than the flash of snow, darker and heavier than the hope that spills out of him every morning and evening.

It doesn’t hurt, not until the confusion dissipates and leaves Alec feeling hollow and frozen. Only then does his eye twitch, and only then does he fall to his knees onto the damp grass before him with a cry of anguish and a hand to soothe the ache in his skull. 

But it doesn’t work. 

No matter how hard he digs blunt fingertips into his socket, or how tightly he curls his fist around the blades below him, the pain continues to pulse and gnaw.

It isn’t until his sister is calling his name and guiding him back into the house blindly that he starts to feel some relief, that the cold sunk deep in his bones seems to thaw with the heat of the fireplace.

---

When Alec awakes in the morning, it’s with a thudding migraine and aching joints that are only exacerbated by the scratchy sheets of his blanket. Water seems to fill his head, sloshing and drowning his thoughts until all he wants to do is paint the windows black so the harsh sunlight can’t sneak through the cracks and blind him further. 

His name, whispered softly from the opening of the door is still too loud, and his sister’s face greets him with worry. “Are you feeling any better?”

“No,” he manages, barely a croak. “I feel like shit.”

“What happened last night?”

A question he has no answer for, because if he’s being honest (and Alec is never anything but), he has no idea. “I’m not sure,” he shrugs, “the snow fell in my eyes.”

Izzy steps closer and tilts his chin up with uncertain fingers, examining any damage she may believe him to have suffered. Under any other circumstance, Alec would have let her. Usually his sister’s care for him makes his chest bloom with fondness, even if it borders on fussy and unnecessary. But this - this just feels wrong. Her fingers on his skin feel too warm and uncomfortable, the scrutiny in her gaze feels malicious and her gentle touches too rough. 

He pulls away in a rush and tries not to catch her frown in his peripheral. “Let me be, Izzy.”

“But Alec - “

“Go away!”

She doesn’t have to speak for him to feel the hurt that radiates off of her, and he doesn’t have to see her face to know it’s furrowed in confusion. But the part that triggers a spark of worry in the recesses of his mind is the lack of shame he feels in letting her leave the room like that. The lack of anything but callous indifference and low-burning annoyance.

---

The days that pass grow darker in Alec’s vision, days that once held a purpose and thoughts of a brighter future, a different future with the search of his soulmate, now hold stifling monotony.

He doesn’t want every day to be the same, he doesn’t want to sit around and wait for his soulmate to show up and whisk him away. He’s stronger than that. This small town filled with people’s pity and whispered gossip grate on him like the bright light of the sun that stings his eyes and he can no longer control the snap of snark from his lips when he comes across it.

Days are lonelier with Izzy keeping her distance, his only companion while Jace and Max are still visiting their parents. Even Lydia, his calm rock and pleasant tide of positivity in his day-to-day routine has kept him at an arm's length. Alec can’t blame her, it had only taken a half hour in her presence for him to realize the blind optimism and strict work ethic was bullshit and she was clearly trying to cover her own insecurity from losing a soulmate at such a young age. 

The world has changed for him, and if nobody else can see all the bad that really surrounds them, then is that really his fault? Just because people don’t want to open their eyes to the true nuisance that haunts them all in the form of ‘soulmates’, if they refuse to accept that dark magic is what weighs above them and promises true love… Is Alec the bad guy for seeing it all so clearly?

No, he won’t be ostracized for being the only one to see, the only one to really look.

---

Outside of his small home, the wind shrieks foreboding, boiling water in a kettle high and warning. But Alec won’t listen, because as the sole of his boot sinks into the crunch of white snow beneath him, he remembers the sparks of green from visions before. The hint of a voice he knows calling him out into the dark of night, out into the flurry of white that offers comfort from the life he thought he wanted. 

The winter, his favorite time of the year, the time that crooned hope into his dreams, that gave him visions of a future expected and believed, it pulls him close in its embrace. It wraps him up in freezing arms, a stoney embrace of what he knows and what he wants. The love he needs is here, following this path, and all Alec has to do is walk forward.

But something is pulling him back, something is planting his foot into the lush ground beneath.

Izzy.

A grip on his wrist, rough and tight against his skin where the sleeve of his glove and the hem of his jacket expose his soulmark. His sister tugs and tugs, but she makes no progress as Alec twists his arm from her grasp. 

“Alec, we’re in the middle of a blizzard, what are you doing?!”

“I don’t belong here,” he calls out, but Izzy either doesn’t hear his words, or she chooses to ignore them.

“You need to come back inside, you’re going to get hurt!”

Another step, another cry from his sister. He can hear her scrabbling behind him, can hear her hurried footsteps as she rushes to keep up with him. The woods are close now, another step and he’s breaching the top of the hill with his sister still fumbling in the cold behind him. He wonders if he remembers what it feels like to have worry or care, if he can pretend to feel these things for her now. 

But he doesn’t, not anymore. The only thing that fills the cavern of his heart is the cold winter, the helplessness of his destiny being lost on him, magic pulsing into his arteries and feigning life.

The further he goes into the woods, the louder the magic rushes through his ears. Izzy’s voice is no longer a distant wail in the background, now only the whizzing of snow pelting him sounds around him, and it’s almost too much.

Alec grips the bark of a tree, hard and snagging on the material of his gloves, but the support gives his shaky knees some relief. Just a little longer, just a little further. Keep going.

“Are you sure that’s really what you want to do?”

The twinkle of a voice chimes in the night, a mimicry of the snow in his visions. Alec turns left, then right, and then his eyes catch on shimmering green behind him. 

Is this… a dream? Is he asleep? Has he fallen into the snow and this is his last thought before he becomes frozen in the woods?

Elegant shimmering iridescence of a crystalline crown and swirling gold-green eyes contrasting the backdrop of night meet him first. Time seems to refuse passing in this presence, akin to the night Alec caught snow, and as much as he wants to drag his eyes away, to take in any other sort of threat or danger besides the freezing ice around him, he can’t.

“You’ll die out here if you keep on that path,” the presence calls out, and without a sound and unaffected by the blizzard around them, they step closer.

“I don’t care,” Alec murmurs, wondering if his voice gets lost in the howl of the wind. It must not, because as the figure steps close enough for Alec to make out any features, he’s rewarded with a beautiful face marred by a small frown tugging down on plump lips. 

And oh, what a change this is to feel anything other than emptiness inside of him. How different it is to feel a twist of attraction, to note that something in this world is beautiful, is deserving of his praise. Even if it is a stranger in the middle of a blizzard.

“You may not care, Alexander,” the man begins, traveling closer still until he’s standing in front of Alec. As tall as he wants to stand, as much as he’s used to towering over people he finds his weight shifting instinctively, he feels himself sinking into the slush beneath him. It’s cold and he feels the seeping chill in his bones, feels his teeth chattering of their own free will as he peers up at the glow of beauty before him. “But I do,” he whispers, bending down to press a single soft kiss to Alec’s welcoming lips. 

Warmth floods him, maybe not actual warmth, but the cold pulls from the deepest parts of him and fades away, releases itself through his pores and out of existence. Alec, chin tilted upwards and lips parted, opens the eyes he hadn’t even realized he had closed. 

Those eyes smile down at him, a hypnotic swirl Alec longs to get lost in. Maybe he does, he’s not sure how long he’s on the ground for, he doesn’t even feel the throb in his knees from extended use. But there’s a fluttering in his hair now, cold fingers that press against his scalp and twirl around strands, and Alec can’t help but lean into the touch, so starved from weeks of anger and animosity towards anyone who would ever come near him.

“Who are you?”

The fingers in his hair don’t stop, but trail lower to brace the delicate point of his chin and tilt his head to the side. A gentle puff of air brushes against the side of his face and Alec struggles to contain the shivers that tremble down his body. 

“Magnus.”

Alec tastes the word on his tongue, feels the tingle as he says it aloud with reverence. Magnus, he wants to say again. Magnus, please.

A rush travels through him, blood working in overtime to keep him warm, to keep him alive, and it overcomes his mind. “Close your eyes,” Magnus hums above him, and Alec listens. “Let’s take you home.”

Alec wants to protest, but when he opens his lips he’s silenced with a calming finger. Sleep descends on him then in the cold night, and the last thing he feels is the press of Magnus’ long white winter coat soft against his skin, sheltering him from the frostbite that threatens to take him.

---

Sleep doesn’t come easy for Alec.

It’s not that the plush luxuriousness of the bed he finds himself in is uncomfortable. On the contrary, it’s far superior than the bed he left back home. What nips at him in the dark midnight is the fact that he left his only sister struggling in the cold, and he still feels nothing.

Confusion hits him, for where there remains a hole in his heart for compassion and guilt, it’s simultaneously filled with overwhelming growing attraction to Magnus, burning brighter and stronger than anything he’s ever felt before. 

But in his mind he knows how he should feel, he knows that he should think fondly of his sister and home, of his little town that he’s helped cultivate memories and a life. 

And yet… nothing.

---

Tomorrow comes and goes for Alec in the blink of an eye.

It’s a palace he finds himself in when he finally wanders out of his room to seek out Magnus, and to appease Alec’s curious eyes, Magnus takes him around the grounds. 

High ceilings and columns of glass fill his view, chandeliers made of ice, and windows stained with a myriad of blues, pinks and purples. Archways extend, stairs trail higher above and down below, and the view from the balcony is breathtaking when they make their way into the frosty air. It doesn’t feel real, it doesn’t look real, but somehow it is. Somehow this fantasy exists, and Alec would be remiss if he didn’t pinch himself for reassurance that this isn’t just an elaborate dream.

Even Magnus looks ethereal, with the crystal crown high on his head, pale blue eyeshadow around sparkling eyes and long muscled limbs that Alec can make out through the thin white he wears around the palace. Outside on the balcony however, he dons the same white winter coat Alec remembers the night before in the forest, lined with puffed white and a thin layer of shimmer that catches twinkling light when he moves. He looks regal.

“Where are we?” Alec hears himself asking as he leans against the railing overlooking hills and mountains covered in snow. 

“We’re in a realm that doesn’t exist to common folk, through a break in the mountains that magic keeps hidden. Sometimes those with the sight wander in, but for the most part only magic folk tend to traverse these parts.”

It’s all said matter-of-fact, with a wave of nonchalance that Alec wonders what he’s stumbled into.

“And who are you in all of this?”

Magnus turns to him with a disapproving frown. “Forgotten my name already, have you?”

Alec rolls his eyes and motions to the palace behind them with a wide gesture. “I mean in all of this, who are you?”

The frown doesn’t falter, instead stays firmly planted on Magnus’ face as he turns around to face the grandeur of his own palace. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard the stories of the Snow Queen,” Magnus starts, pausing only to wait for a nod of agreement from Alec. It’s been years, but he remembers the stories. “Her name was Lilith, this used to be hers until she was banished several hundred years ago. She ruled over the winters, she controlled the season and consequently became hungry with power. She would steal people in the blizzards, in the night when nobody would notice. But people eventually did notice. My father, particularly. He came to conquer her authority, and in the end he won.”

Magnus trails off for a moment, as if remembering. “Lilith, at the end of it all, was corrupted. She couldn’t see the good in what she had created anymore, couldn’t see anything that was just and fair. She only saw the dark, only saw what was ‘rightfully hers’, and didn’t care about maintaining secrecy. With her last breath in this realm she shattered her crystal staff and descended her darkness on those who she deemed vulnerable. Every year, the first snowfall leads to darkness for some, something only light magic can cure.”

The pain in Magnus’ voice feels tangible, and Alec has to clench his fists to stop himself from reaching out. “Is that what happened to me?”

A hum, soft and distant as though Magnus is in another place, and then a nod. “Yes,” he admits. “You fell prey to Lilith’s dark magic, despite my attempts to warn you.”

“Warn - warn me?” Alec stutters.

Magnus turns to face him fully then, eyes piercing and narrowed. “Was it not a warning every winter for you to stay away from the first snowfall?”

Like a sputtering fish, Alec’s lips fall open and shut, once, then twice. “So it was you?”

“Who else would it be?”

“I-I’m not… sure,” Alec shrinks into himself, shoulders hunched and eyes cast downward towards the snow below them. “I thought - I hoped it was you calling to me, trying to reach out and find me… my soulmate.”

Silence wraps around them, slow and gentle, prodding hope from where it sprouts back into life inside of Alec. Carefully, Magnus reaches over to run silver polished nails along Alec’s hand until he’s extending his palm face up.

“You’re right,” Magnus says softly, fingers tracing the pattern of the faded snowflake on Alec’s wrist. “I was trying to reach you, but I needed to keep you safe, Alexander. I wanted to warn you before it was too late, but I failed anyway. I wasn’t able to help you afterall.”

Alec frowns and turns to face Magnus, whose hands continue to trace his skin, entirely too distracting. “But you did. I felt the darkness, I lost hope, I - I stopped - “

Magnus silences him with a look. “I didn’t protect you like I wanted to, not fully. I messed up, and I’m paying the price for it now.”

“What price?”

A smile, so sad and full of answers fills Magnus’ features, and Alec wishes he could decipher it all, wishes he could ease the sorrow so prominent. “To see you, to have you so close, and know that this can never be. Not as long as I’m here.”

The desire to reach out and touch Magnus, to sink before him and beg him to let this be, to let Alec stay so they can be together is so strong that Alec has to forcibly grip the banister of the balcony to keep his hands in place. Magnus notices, of course he does, but he doesn’t comment on it. 

“Alexander,” he trails, glancing at the scene before them, the beautiful snow pristine and untouched on mountaintops no higher than the top of the palace. “As long as my father is still banished with Lilith to keep her at bay, I must stay here and watch over the winter.”

“Then I’ll stay with you,” Alec shrugs as if he’s solved the problem. “You’re my soulmate.”

Magnus sighs. “I can’t be, not anymore. Haven’t you noticed how faded your mark has become? It’ll disappear eventually, as long as I’m required. And no, you can’t stay here with me.”

“Why not?” Alec huffs, indignant.

“You have a family,” Magnus explains. “Your sister needs you.”

The guilt he knows should be there never manifests, the gnawing pulse of regret at leaving her behind, none of it forms inside of him. He had just left her, had just run away like a child angry at the world for not giving him what he wanted, angry for being vulnerable enough to fall victim whether he knew it or not. He wonders if he should voice these thoughts aloud, but he chooses not to.

“I need you,” he murmurs, pathetic even by his own standards.

Lightly, Magnus steps closer, offering a small hint of a smile through the stern look on his face. “You have me,” he says into the small space between them as he lifts a hand to Alec’s chest, pressing insistent fingers to the spot where his heart beats rapidly. “Right here, Alexander. Always.”

He wonders if it’s enough to keep Magnus in his heart, the soulmate he’s been waiting for, the other half of him he didn’t know he needed this much until now. He wonders if he can survive without him, without even knowing him more than the flimsy hours around the palace and on the balcony.

At the very least, he needs more time.

---

Magnus allows Alec a few days' time before he has to return home, and Alec soaks it all up in time spent at Magnus’ side. 

They talk about everything. Magnus explains light magic and dark magic, glosses over the bits he deems boring, and from there they develop different theories on how to free Asmodeus from Lilith’s banishment. Her dark shards from the snowfall still hold her power, and Magnus has theorized that destroying one of them would negate enough of her magic that Asmodeus may be able to escape her clutches. Without a way to test it, however, it remains just wishful thinking. 

So they turn to displays of magic, and Magnus delights in showing Alec small tricks with the flick of his wrist and flecks of glitter that fall to the ground when he snaps his fingers. Magnus, by all regards, is the most magical being Alec has ever seen in his life.

The only one, really, but that’s beside the fact. 

Magnus is… incredible. Perfect, even. Magnus tells him tales of witches and warlocks, tells him stories of the past and famous figures that Alec never knew existed, but can tell of their importance from just Magnus’ recounting. He finds himself hanging off of every word Magnus says, mooning after each sway of his hips in the thin material of his pants, and eyes stuck when his shirt falls open to reveal a sliver of the chest beneath.

Alec wants him, he realizes quickly. More than he’s wanted anyone or anything before. There’s a pull between them, undeniable when they stand close, and excruciating when they’re far apart in separate rooms. It’s unwise to think Magnus doesn’t feel it too, because if the wistful looks Magnus shoots his direction are anything to go by, he’s struggling to stay away just as much as Alec is. 

It’s on the last night Magnus has allowed them that Alec finds himself dropping to his knees in front of Magnus who sits before him on his throne of ice, a plea on his brow and a whimper on his lips. 

“Magnus, please,” he whispers, bowing his head.

“Please what, Alexander?”

The force and strength in Magnus’ voice sends a thrill down Alec’s spine, and he presses his palms into his knees to steady himself. “I need you,” he breathes. “I need more than this.”

The halls around them seem too quiet, an impossible hush befalling the empty palace with the sound of the hammering in his chest being the only noise in Alec’s ears. Finally, after several powerful seconds, Magnus stands before him. “Look at me.”

Immediately, Alec’s focus snaps up to Magnus above him, intoxicatingly beautiful. 

“Alexander,” Magnus says, the glowing pierce of his gold-green eyes penetrating Alec’s stare.

“Y-Yes,” he responds, breathless. 

“Stand up.”

Perplexed, Alec does as he’s told and rises  to his feet quickly. Magnus levels him with a stare that Alec can read clear as day in front of him. Confusion, anger, sadness, longing… All of it so apparent, so openly shown to him, and yet Magnus is resisting.

“You’re going home soon,” Magnus states.

Brow furrowed, Alec shakes his head. “I want to stay here with you.”

“Alexander,” Magnus sighs his name, exasperated in nature but still said in a way that makes Alec’s legs tremble. “You can’t. You belong back at home, you belong in the real world.”

“I belong with you,” Alec snaps, balling his fists at his side. “You’re my world.”

Stunned wide eyes peer back at him, and if Alec could feel anything other than this desperate longing for Magnus, he knows he’d feel embarrassed at his outburst. But he means it, he feels it. This is what he wants, what he needs, just Magnus. 

“Just,” he chokes on the word. “At least kiss me. Just once.”

At that, Magnus casts his gaze aside and frowns. “I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?”

A shake of his head, perfectly crafted strands of black and blue swaying with the motion, and then Magnus is stepping away from Alec. “I kissed you once, in the blizzard,” Magnus explains. “Twice would remove your memories of your old life, free to fill with whatever I desire or command. And a third would kill you.”

The words hang between them, the implications heavy and the appeal entirely too enticing to Alec at the prospect of Magnus practically handing them their chance together on a silver platter. “Then kiss me, make me forget.”

Magnus laughs, loud and sarcastic and unbefitting the magical entity presents himself as in that moment. 

“I will not. You deserve your free will, you deserve a chance to live, I will not take that from you, and I will not let you waste away at my every beck and call.” Before Alec can protest, Magnus silences him with a raised finger. “We have company.”

The click of heels along glass, the sound of them scraping the ice below in a wincing grind irks Alec's nerves, makes him grimace and turn to face the intruder.

Long black locks and deep brown eyes greet him when he turns to see his sister’s face, and the annoyance that swells within him rises to the surface.

“Izzy, what are you doing here?”

“I’m here to save you,” she manages through gasps of air, the adrenaline seeming to fade with every lungful. “I’m bringing you home.”

“How did you - “

“I gave her the sight,” Magnus interrupts. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t choose to leave on your own, so I called in reinforcements, so to speak.”

Alec scoffs, anger striking hot the fire inside of him that sparks to life. “I finally found my soulmate after all these years, and even he doesn’t want me.”

Izzy’s confused lilt of “Soulmate?” is drowned out by the rush of Magnus rounding on Alec in his own rise of anger, looming over him in a way that Alec tries not to find exciting.

“Do not ever accuse me of not wanting you, Alexander,” Magnus growls, leaning so close Alec can feel the harsh breaths on his face. “I fear I want you too much, and I may do something stupid if I’m not incredibly careful with you. But this cannot be as long as my father is trapped with Lilith, please believe me.”

This close, Alec almost caves, almost gives into the temptation to kiss Magnus. This close, he can smell the trickle of winter that radiates off of Magnus. The snow, the trees in the forest, he can smell the blizzard that first night. All of it fills his senses, calms the rage that bellows to take what’s his, what fate has decided he is worthy of. But Magnus’ eyes, surrounded by the same glitter that sparked from his fingertips the nights before when they had sat side by side enjoying each others’ presence, hold a pained resignation that quells the hurt and injustice Alec wants to cry out against.

Slowly, so slowly it almost hurts, Alec takes a step back, and then another. A hand wraps around his wrist, grips the spot that holds his faded soulmark, and tugs gently until he’s walking back out of the throne room with his sister leaving Magnus, a fading vision before him like so many dreams come and gone.

---

The trek back home is filled with silence, so much that the wind hardly swirls around them. It’s calm, serene, full of regret that Alec wishes he could feel but only paves the way for the urge of defiance he has to forcibly tamp down on. 

He wonders if Magnus made the trip back easy for them, if he commanded the winds to cease and the snow to stop midair, only to descend once they’ve passed. Izzy says very little, asks questions only when a misstep causes an interaction between them, but even then Alec’s responses are quick and unmotivated.

It isn’t until they reach their home, exhausted and wet from melted snow, that his sister finally cracks.

“That was Magnus,” she begins, hesitant, “and he’s your soulmate?”

Alec nods, not able to manage much more than that when the images of glowing green fill his memories.”Yeah,” he croaks, throat burning from more than the cold air outside. 

“He wasn’t some crazy evil guy that stole you away and turned you horrible?”

Taking the moment to try and stifle down the anger and aggravation that starts to kindle itself with its own fire, Alec shakes his head and takes the small living room in as though he has never seen it before. It’s adequate enough. Still too small, too worn, too lived-in. But this is what he’s being forced to choose, and leaving doesn’t seem like such a viable option anymore when the results of that first attempt led him straight back here. 

There are arms around him then, soft and comforting and warm. Izzy.

“I’m so sorry, Alec,” she mumbles into his back where her face is pressed and pooling tears onto his clothes. The irritation is swift to draw forth, and he’s about to push her away when the sobs wracking her body stop him short. “I was so scared I had lost you.”

Confliction forms inside of his heart and mind at her words. The darkened part of his mind wants to shove her aside, wants to tell her to stay away from him, that she cost him Magnus. But the part deep in the crevices of his heart where light begins to shine, where he once held so much love and adoration for his sister wants to pull her into his arms and comfort her, to ease her worries for his safety. A battle begins to stir, rages into a storm and whirls around until it becomes a culmination of excruciating pain that builds behind his eyes. Every throb, every sting, every burn, all of it draws a cry of agony from him until he’s sagging to the floor with his sister crying out his name behind him in a familiar display.

The pain seems to last forever, a relentless tide that Alec can’t seem to surface from, and he wonders if this is what he gets for entertaining the thought of staying with Magnus when he didn’t deserve to. He wonders if Magnus can see this, if Magnus knows what’s happening, if Magnus knew this would happen.

The torturous slew of pain continues to rise, more and more, higher still, until finally - finally - it peaks and clatters a small crystal onto the floorboards beneath them. Confused, Izzy moves to pick it up, holding it high to the light to examine what it could be.

“Glass?”

Alec blinks the remnants of the ache from his eyes slowly, breathing labored and Izzy’s hand on his shoulder no longer aggravating the disgust that slowly dissipates from his heart. He turns to his sister, watching her wide-eyed and guilty. 

“Izzy,” he gasps, rushing to pull her into a tight hug. “Izzy I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

There are more tears that fall onto his shoulder as they continue to hold each other, Izzy’s watery explanation of the past few weeks, her worries, all the confusion pours out into muffled words against his chest. He soothes the hurt, soothes the pain as best as he can, and hopes that any damage he’s done can be repaired over time. 

As freeing as it was to feel no remorse, no regret or sorrow, it’s even more freeing to give into the emotions, to give into basic human decency and begin to patch things back up. 

---

They talk for hours, wrapped up in blankets by the fireplace once the tears have subsided, and Alec explains everything that happened after he left her in the blizzard. He speaks of Magnus, of magic and ice palaces. They laugh about some of the tricks Magnus showed him, and sober up at the story of Lilith and Asmodeus. 

When Alec talks of their theories, Izzy’s eyes brighten and she retrieves the small shard of glass from the floor. 

“Do you think…” She trails off, watching him carefully.

Realization hits Alec, and with an eager nod he gives Izzy the honors of what he hopes to be the right decision.

With a grin on her face, she stomps the small shard between the ground and the heel of her shoe, snuffing out any remnants of dark magic left inside.

---

The good thing about small-town life, Alec tells himself, is that it’s easy to get back into. 

After reconciling with his sister, apologies to anyone he wronged when he was infected with dark magic was next on his to-do list. Lydia had welcomed him back with a genuine smile and a warm hug. Maia had punched his arm rather harshly and let him know if he ever acted like that again she wouldn’t hesitate to leave a mark. Simon claimed to notice no difference, but accepted the apology as an extension of friendship that Alec quickly had to retract.

All in all, things were looking up. The next months pass easily enough for the Lightwoods, but sometimes in the dark of night Alec finds himself still waiting by the window, cheek pressed to the cold glass that he wishes was stained blue, wondering if anyone will show. But nobody ever does, and even his dreams leave no possibility of hope. Where Magnus once called to him, once offered the touch of his affection, now he receives nothing.

The mark on his wrist still fades a little more each day. It melts into his skin like a real snowflake, and though Alec longs to feel the touch of the snowfall on his skin in the early mornings, that, too, has ceased. Snowfall comes only at night when Alec is asleep, something he’s rationalized as intentional on Magnus’ part.

Where hope once buried itself, now remains content patience. He knows the truth about his soulmate now, he knows why Magnus made the choices for them that he did, and he only regrets the way he left. Despite the process of events, and the bridges that he almost burned, Alec wouldn't change knowing Magnus for anything. For as long as he’s allowed his memories, he’ll remember the longing glances exchanged across the room, each and every subtle touch when they would brush past each other in the halls of the palace, and  the heat from Magnus’ body when they would sit beside each other and talk for hours.

A knock at the door brings him out of his thoughts, and though Alec isn’t expecting guests, he hurries to pull it open. 

Magnus - beautiful, incredible, wonderful Magnus - greets him on the other side. Warm white coat, silver flecks of glitter around his eyes, and a hesitant, hopeful smile. 

“Magnus,” Alec hitches, breath catching in his throat at the sight. 

“Alexander,” Magnus responds warmly. “Can I come in?”

“O-Of course!”

Alec steps aside to let him in, affording himself the few moments of silence as Magnus walks in to appreciate the sight of him in his small, cozy home. Magnus doesn’t belong here, Alec knows that he doesn’t quite fit in, in all his grand splendor, but Alec can’t deny how good he looks here. 

They’re on the couch by the fireplace when the errant worry that maybe the fire is too hot for the Ice Prince sneaks into Alec’s mind. Before he can ask, however, Magnus speaks. “You did it, you know. I wanted to thank you personally.”

“It worked?”

Magnus nods. “It took some time, but as soon as I felt the change, I knew what had happened, and I knew it was successful.”

“So your father was able to keep Lilith banished?”

“Yes,” Magnus smiles, shifting closer and making Alec’s heart race. “When my father returned he gave me a choice. I could stay and watch over winter, as I had been for years. I could stay and remain a fairy tale that people who have the sight will go back to tell their families. Or I could leave and be free.”

Alec swallows, glancing down at the space still separating them on the couch, scrutinizing every thread he can make out in the over-used cushion. “What did you choose?”

Fingers tread closer to his, dance across the couch and along Alec’s thigh until they’re clasping through his own and slowly, he lifts his head to Magnus’ eager smile. 

“I chose happiness, Alexander. I chose you.”

Relief rushes through rapidly, bubbles a laugh from Alec’s throat, and Magnus pulls him into a tight embrace that they hold for longer than either of them care to put a number to. 

They take solace in each other now, sitting comfortable and warm, with bodies pressed together and Magnus’ fingers treading through the thick locks of Alec’s hair. It feels... Amazing. It feels unreal, unbelievable to be sitting in the arms of his soulmate, to feel Magnus’ even breathing beneath his weight, to know he’s actually here, and that they can truly be together. That he has finally found his soulmate.

“Magnus,” Alec hums lightly after what feels like hours tangled in each other. Magnus offers a small noise of content in response, but refuses much more than that. “Hypothetically, if you were to kiss me… would I still lose my memories?”

When Magnus laughs, it doesn’t sound out of place like it did in the palace. It sounds natural and free, a full blossoming spring of affection. “Why don’t we find out?”

Alec wrinkles his nose, “I would rather like to keep my -”

Lips against his own cut Alec off, a warm pressure so different than their first time in the blizzard. A moment, just a moment of hesitation, and then Alec is leaning into the kiss. It’s slow and soft like the delicate snowfall they shared for so many years, until the storm rises and it soon becomes a flurry of pecks, a quick succession of kisses greedy for more, hungry for what was refused for so long. 

Suddenly, Magnus pulls back.

“I think it’s safe to say you remember everything, so no need to keep going.”

Alec rolls his eyes, the grin on his lips betraying the annoyance he feigns as he pulls Magnus back to him by the front of his still worn coat.

They’ll have to explain what happened when Izzy returns and figure out what Magnus is going to do now that he’s not locked up in an ice palace for all of eternity. But for now, wrapped up and kissing lazily in the warm cocoon of new love, the only thing that matters is that they have each other, at last. Two souls connected, two hearts matched forever, and they have all of that time to figure out what the future holds for them, together.

[yokelish]

Memento mori.

Oldy but goodie. I finally got the guts to do to Death what I wanted to do from the beginning without making it ambiguous. 

✏ Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs ✏ Characters: Oda Sakunosuke  ✏ Word count: 4.022 ✏ Warnings: death, smoking, mentions of violence. 

 Memento mori.

He didn’t remember how he got here or why. Loss of time after something stressful wasn’t unheard of. Emotions, adrenaline, and shock. It must have been that what made him lose time and reason. But something told him it wasn’t the case. Not with him and not now. He went after Mimic all by his lonesome and survived. But why this place? What would make him come here once again? The bridge he met the strange fellow that, somehow, knew what a reckless thing Oda was planning on doing. A thing Oda couldn’t come back from. Yet, here he was, on the same bridge again without a scratch. Oda Sakunosuke was good but not that good. No human would be able to walk away from a band of armed mercenaries without a single…

Then he spotted someone. Someone he knew instinctively was there for him. It wasn’t any sort of familiarity to connect them, just the aura coming off was that of an experienced killer. Speaking of fisherman and fellow fisherman. Dressed in all black, with a white bandage around their head, moving towards him. The person in black was approaching him with a dangerous grace in soundless steps.

Speaking of sound, he didn’t hear anything at all. And failed to notice it up until now. It was only him here, not a stray soul to pass by. With everything terribly still, quiet, and unsettlingly peaceful. Not a lost sound to disturb the silent peace. Not even a single dot of a distracting, loud colour. Everything tranquil, frozen, and in greyscale. The person, no, that being dressed in black came closer. Regular face, thought, a bit pale, especially in contrast to dark hair and black closing.

“Oda Sakunosuke?” the stranger asked as a matter-of-factly. A strange feeling of familiarity and danger wrapped around them like cigarette smoke. “Oda Sakunosuke. Not like there are many ways to mistake you for someone else.” The corner of their lips was upturn in subtle mockery. Oda clenched his fist, nodding in agreement. His eyes carefully scanned the being before him, but nothingness talked back. A perfect nobody.

“Oda Sakunosuke,” he confirmed, hesitantly, lost in the beholding. The feeling of wanting to touch their hand, to ask questions he didn’t know he had. All because of one being appearing before his eyes.

They bowed down, “I am here for you.” There was something twisted about such phrasing, danger glimmering in one visible dark eye while the other hidden behind a white bandage. And there was a sharp smile like a glimmering blade, yet alluring and charming, even. It made sense then. In that single moment Oda understood everything. The place, the timing, the unknown entity before him.

“You aren’t from Port Mafia,” Oda spoke calmly. The realization softly wrapped itself around his mind. Comprehending the feeling of danger and familiarity, the questions spilling into his head. The man remembered why and when this feeling was coming from. It wasn’t at all about this being; its dark and twisted origin was his past self. Nothing shocking about remembering that. It came as no revelation. He had known all along. Accepting his own death, incidentally, on this very bridge. The location and the timing putting together a perfect picture of an ending that came as expected, as deserved. Oda Sakunosuke died. He was dead. And this, this was death.

“What’s that?” Death asked without any curiosity. Mockery softly resounding in its voice, sweet and welcoming. A pack of cigarettes appearing in its hand. Oda counted in total to be five cigarettes. With one between its bony fingers, the ember light started to burn on it own. Peacefully smoldering, smoke wandering and weaving shapes.

“Want some?” the Stranger asked, offering a pack. Somehow, Sakunosuke believed it knew the answer before the question. He denied, figuring that a cigarette would be tasteless in the afterlife. Everything else was. No true colours, no sounds. A cigarette would be a cheap consolation, and it wasn’t to say he needed one.

“You are Death,” Sakunosuke stated confidently. In that moment, the mockery from the stranger’s eyes dissipated and turned into something akin to glee. He was wrong, however. While there were no sounds, the colours weren’t in greyscale. They were slowly fading out. Like the ink was being sucked out from the world, leaving it lifeless. Only the blackness that was Death remained untouched and constant, untainted.

“I guess I am,” it nodded along, huffing out smoke. “If you prefer formalities, you can think of me as Death.”

Oda couldn’t see it, just happened to know so. Like a gut feeling, a sixth sense. There was nothing that told him the being standing before him was the Grim Reaper. If Death could be described as person, it was more on a bony side and with an ageless face. However, nothing about it spoke of death. Nothing frightening about them, no empty eye sockets or skull imagery. Nothing repulsive. Nothing to make him reject it.

“You must have accepted your fate,” Death said, measuring him up and down. “Makes it easier. I prefer those who accepted me. The chasing around gets boring quickly.”

“Chasing around?” he raised a brow in question.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” it grinned.

“Happy to oblige then,” Sakunosuke said, bowing down in respect. Mortality was a constant to living, a persistent threat, one could say. But he didn’t fear the prospect. Not now, not when he was alive.

“Oh no, it makes it easier for you,” Death laughed. It sounded like a normal laugh. He would have expected it to sound like empty skulls battered together. “It’s all the same to me.”

Puffs of smoke coming at his face. Could almost feel it, could almost remember what cigarette smoke smelled and tasted like. But it was fading, it was all fading just like the colours around him. The memories turning to greyscale, to black-and-white, and he knew soon they will become nothing. Only Death remained unchanged. Its eye observing and clever, the voice — sweet, lulling even, but still laughing.

“Come with me,” the Stranger said, shaking off the ash. It never landed anywhere. “Let’s have a walk, shall we? Your last one.”

Oda shrugged. It was phrased as a question, but the answer was never required. After all,

what choice does a dead person have? Wordlessly, he followed the Reaper. There is no arguing with death.

“You look…ordinary,” Sakunosuke said to fill in the silence of everything around. His steps weightless and soundless just like everything about him. Death moving soundlessly just a step ahead. Tall and lean figure hidden in a massive black cloak. Dark cloth was floating as if in the air, as if there was any wind whatsoever.

Oda couldn’t even touch his own face. It was less than air, less than nothing. And worse, he couldn’t remember much of his own appearance. But he remembered some things still. He could recall places, objects, people. He remembered—

“People are ordinary,” Death answered, “but they expect their death to be something out of the ordinary. Strange that, I must say. So many talk about scythe or wings, skull faces or shapeless spirits, as if mortal minds could comprehend such ideas.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m saying, I am decided by you. Even seeing me is your decision.”

The dead man nodded, accepting the answer. Perhaps it was his doing. “Where are we going?” Oda asked, perplexed. The scenery slowly came to nothing but a smudge of greys and shadows. He still felt as solid as a dead person could. No face, no weight behind his steps, but something held him together from being sucked into that surrounding nothingness. Only the figure of Death was unchanging, boldly standing against the smears and stains. It was a bold ink stain signifying the end of the sentence. Everything else, however, was warping, changing, until reaching a state of disorienting void. There was no up or down anymore.

“You are quick to change subjects,” Death noted, begrudgingly. “You should see for yourself. It would ruin the surprise.”

“The surprise?”

“What? Many find their own deaths surprising,” the Stranger laughed, dropping the cigarette. It disappeared midair. “Have some fun, it is your last.”

“Hm, I guess,” he said, unsure of the meaning behind the words. Death spoke them, and Sakunosuke wasn’t a fool to think there was any room for bargaining. It was, undoubtedly, his last walk and yet why should he have a gift of knowing? Death reminded Oda of someone; someone he knew when alive. He remembered the face in a blur, the voice sounding too far away. But the name was escaping each time. Unable to grasp and hold that memory of someone, it was like catching fish barehand in a stream of memories that were passing.

Finally, the scenery started to take shape. The walls built up like a house of cards, the dull colours poured in, and the details filled in the blanks. Oda knew this place, the books scattered around the floor. Unlike the last time he was in here, the place didn’t smell of blood and death. Leaving it a perfect blank memory of a place with no attachment as to why the memory was formed. This was where Oda Sakunosuke killed for the last time, where he picked up that old book knowing nothing about. Nothing special about it but a weathered cover. One book was all it took to change a life.

“You know why I am here?” the Stranger asked, sounding unusually curious. One eye looking at him. The man couldn’t help but feel laughed at. Not in a malicious manner, no, it was akin to friendly joke at his expense.

“No,” Oda shook his head, eyes roaming around the room. He was searching for that book. It was the most important part of this memory. Finding it, he was the last to reach the book as Death snatched it.

“You must know,” it said. “You accepted me.”

It didn’t make finding the answer any easier. Sakunosuke simply didn’t know. A shot in the dark it was. “Are you here to judge me?”

“I am not a mortal, so I can’t do that,” Death shrugged. “It wouldn’t be fair or just for me to judge anyone. I never lived myself. What I am here for is to make you laugh at your own mortality. Or maybe I am here to be a magnificent jerk to you if you think you deserve punishment. Mortals make me a being and give me a face to understand me, to cope with me, to accept me. They give me character and appearance, sense of duty, or wickedness, even simply a job title. You make me a being, so you may not be alone and greet me as a friend.”

“I wasn’t alone when I died. There was—”

Death opened the book at a random page, somewhere in the middle of the story. “People live to save themselves.” Pale fingers quickly and soundlessly were turning the pages forward. Oddly, the Reaper took great care of handling the book. As if precious and fragile. As if a real thing.

“Don’t be surprised,” the Stranger smiled at him. “I am as much a part of you as you are a part of me. You were born, it was inevitable that you would die. I am not an opposition to life; I am but a part of a whole.” It knew what he thought or felt, how he would react. Of course, it knew. It had to. This was just a projection of his own expectations.

“I’m kidding,” Death said. “I can’t read.” It closed the book and offered it. Oda took it with great deal of caution. The feel of the cover, the smell of the paper, and the weight of it, he could swear it was real yet knew better than that. A memory quickly fading. Strange it was how the first thing he forgot was himself. Opening the book felt like remembering a dream long forgotten, gathering it piece by piece, detail by detail. He remembered the name of a story about a man who chose to stop killing because—

Oda didn’t see as the Death circled him. To be precise, he was too occupied to notice the soundless movements of the black figure. He couldn’t avoid the push of its hand against his chest. The force sent him down to the floor as the book disappeared in the air. Sakunosuke looked up. The Stranger standing above with one dark and unforgiving eye measuring him. Its sharp smile turned into an angry frown. He was wrong. It wasn’t the aura of a killer he recognized, but of someone who hated killers. He waited. Being already dead there was no harming him. But Death just stood there, looking down on him, as its expression slowly shifted to that of neutrality.

“I am no god’s middleman,” the Stranger said, offering a hand. Oda hesitated to accept help but, ultimately, what did he have to lose? He gave it up and accepted the loss when he was alive on that bridge. The touch wasn’t there, only action. The pale palm offering help, stunning in its whiteness against the black dress. And no feeling of touch. What warmth or coldness could Death offer? He got up from the floor as the scene started to fall apart bit by bit. The layers of the memory creating the memory pilling off. Nought but cherry blossoms lost in the wind. Then, came the previous void and absence of anything around. No up, no down.

“But you are Death,” the dead man stated calmly. Sakunosuke could stand to face the dark eye of Death staring back at him. It was soulless, true, but not dead. It wasn’t brimming with kindness. It wasn’t cruel either.

“I am,” it nodded in passive agreement. “But if there is god, it wasn’t born and isn’t alive. Not the way people are. There is no way for us to meet, no way for me to know. I don’t know what comes after me, if at all.”

Oda was wrong. The sense of familiarity didn’t come from recognizing a fellow killer or from the distaste it had for killers, he merely knew it all along. He had experienced it so closely, so often, he came to know it by subtle touch alone. Death was with him since the moment he was born: a silent companion, shadow of a friend. He knew it all along because he was once an assassin. He, too, was death. The thought pained him. Strange as he thought nothing could pain in the afterlife.

Death turned around and started to walk away again. There was once again a faint cigarette smoke trailing behind the black figure. The dead man followed, unhurried. Death couldn’t run away from him just as he couldn’t run away from it. The cigarette was thrown into the air, falling but never landing. As before, the scene started to form without any warning. The blank white papers flying together, coming together to bind together pages of a memory. It was aching to observe his life now. Not because he lost it but because he couldn’t truly relieve it. Just bound to re-watch it.

The café, the book, and him reading it. The man whose figure was shrouded, leaving only a silhouette for him to guess at. The man claimed to be the author. That was the man who told him to write a novel. Oda never got to do it. He couldn’t answer why either. One of the first things he forgot was himself.

“I like this memory,” Death said. “Sad to lose it.”

“Do you know who that man was?” Sakunosuke asked. The man who had changed a killer into a man who was only interested in living. He wanted to remember the name even for a second, but it refused to reveal itself.

“I do and I don’t,” the Stranger spoke softly, lamenting. “It will do nothing for you to know it now, truthfully.”

“Is this what is called ‘life flashing before my eyes’?”

“A life review, yes. Unfortunately, posthumous.”

The memory started to fall apart into a million paper scraps and offered nothing to soothe its passing. The papers flying chaotically around as if caught in a whirlwind. Oda could imagine the sound. But it was only his imagination, he knew. The Stranger was smiling fondly, silently watching it being torn into nothingness. The papers flying, flying away, disappearing. One of the million of scraps of the broken and fading memory landed in the Reaper’s hand.

“Yes, I am one and the same,” Death spoke, offering a scrap to him. “And, yes, I’ve met all of them. Or, to be precise, they’ve met me. Way too soon, too. But you already know that.”

“Were they—”

“I was as kind and as gentle as I could be.”

He accepted the words and the piece of paper. It was strange to be relieved by the words spoken by Death, more so to believe it wholeheartedly. The scrap contained an important paragraph from the book, explaining the reason why the assassin stopped killing. It made sense. It all made sense. And Sakunosuke remembered.

“We should go there first,” the Stranger said with certain melancholy. Soft and gentle, kind even — a perfect stranger.

The curry shop unfolded like a children’s pop-up book. Oda could almost smell the aroma of the curry and hear the children upstairs. He swore he could hear the steps on the second floor. But the Reaper placed its hand on his shoulder. “They are not really there, Odasaku,” it said. “You know that.”

The man nodded in understanding. Those were all his memories. Nothing else but his memories. An empty world of his own crumbling, fleeting memories. The faces he could still remember were turning blurry; the voices remembered were getting quieter and more distant. Fading, withering, wilting, dying. He was forgetting, he would forget. This was an end for him. And the names of the orphans were already forgotten. Their faces and voices he could still remember and vividly so. But those details wouldn’t last long. He was dead. And those memories will die with him. Oda Sakunosuke left nothing of value behind in the end. Or—

“Let’s go,” someone said. Oda heard but failed to recognize his own voice. The hand was till resting on his shoulder. It almost had weight to it, an important thing to ground him. It was him who wanted to leave the place he couldn’t go back to it. Once it held something precious, but it was taken away, stolen, ripped away. There was no returning, nothing to go back to. Not after what had happened, not after his own passing. The only thing left was the knowledge he had avenged them.

“As you wish,” the Stranger easily gave in. This change was unlike the previous ones. The scene didn’t fall apart or got erased. Like watercolour mixed, it sank in and transformed into something different. The mahogany wood, the bar stools, the stairway upwards. A replica of his past. Another place to never go back to. Where three people gathered, had drinks and talked about nonsense. Their silhouettes present for a moment. But only the one belonging to Oda Sakunosuke he could recognize.

Accepting his own death was easier than it should have been. It wasn’t something foreign and frightening. Death could never intimidate an assassin,  didn’t scare him. But with it came immense loss, he knew. And he wasn’t sure the loss would be his. He could swear he wasn’t dying alone, his—

“I don’t think we should go to the last place,” Death said, forlorn. There was no hint of a smile on its lips. Its dark eye looking into the cigarette pack. Oda counted one left inside. Perhaps he could not name the last place, nonetheless, there was a keen feeling about it. A memory too painful, too fresh, too deep. It was still bleeding and throbbing, but the mechanism of the injury slowly forgotten. Just pain, dulled pain, forgotten pain….

Instead he came to sit on the bar stool. The situation too familiar, recalled to its fullest. A drink came to rest against his fingers on it own. He didn’t believe he could drink it. It had ice in it but never felt cold to touch. There was no sensation to it. 

“You said you were but a face I gave you,” the man said, looking at half-full glass. “I am surprised you don’t look like me.”

The Reaper jumped on the bar counter. It started to look at its hands as if noticing them for the first time. It touched the pale face, the bandage hiding its other eye, hands sliding down the dark hair. It looked marvelled by its own appearance it could never know of. There was no recognition in those motions. Death didn’t have a face unless given. It couldn’t pretend to be something else unless prompted to. Death’s masks were decided by the dead, remaining forever in their servitude. If the dead were haunted by their lost lives, Death must be haunted by the living.

“Do I look interesting then?” the Stranger asked, sounding strangely delighted. It continued to be amazed by the prospect of having its appearance explained. “Who do I look like? Oh, you probably don’t recall much anymore. But do I look like someone you knew?”

Sakunosuke thought for a moment. Yes, it made perfect sense. He may not be able to recall the name, the face, the voice. But held no doubts about the nature of that person. One of the shrouded figures, without a doubt, belonged to that young man with a bandage around his eye.

“Yes, you look like a friend,” Oda said with a nod and relaxed sigh. The feeling he knew wasn’t a mistake. The feeling he knew Death already was aware of. The sense of a journey coming to an end. The glass and the drink disappeared in a time lapse of an old photograph losing its colour. Fading like an old photograph, with colours seeping out of it and shapes losing their sharpness. From barely recognizable to unfathomable, to blank, to nothing. Swiftly wiped, gone. It was nothing more than a warm breath on glass.

“What now?” Oda asked when the scene of the bar was eliminated. Death closed its eyes and made a few steps towards him.

“Strange one you are,” it said, showing teeth.

No, he thought. He wasn’t the strange one. There was someone he knew who was a true eccentric. Someone who was perplexing, and complex, and very wounded. Someone who reminded him of a child about to burst into tears. That someone was there, and he was—

“You didn’t believe in the kindness of the world,” Death continued, “but you were. You were kind.”

There was nothing he could say to that. Oda Sakunosuke was an ex-assassin and Port Mafia’s handyman. Kindness wasn’t a prevalent thing in the Mafia or assassination business. And the way he died — the way he chose to die — wasn’t about kindness either. It was about brutality and rage and grief. It was about vengeance; it was about giving up.

“There’s nothing more I can offer,” the Stranger said. “Nothing more to show you,” it reached out its arm, pale palm open for him to accept. “But…I can offer you my hand, believing in your grief.”

Oda shrugged again, accepting what little death could offer. Ah, finally he was able to finish the fleeting and interrupted thought. Oda Sakunosuke didn’t die alone, he had a friend. His friend was the very same odd young man. The man who gave Death his appearance, the man who looked like a child about to burst into tears at gunpoint. Sakunosuke said goodbye to his friend. Oda reached out to touch Death’s offered hand. The touch, perhaps, never happened.

When Death opened its eyes again, Oda Sakunosuke was gone. It threw away the last cigarette left continued on its way.

[loftyexecutor]

like looking into a mirror

WC: 1380

Rating: T

Characters: Error, Template, Blueberror

Summary; error meets up with blue, who is in the antivoid, where he shouldnt be. and hes not the same as he should be.

part 2 of Multiverse #379

AO3 mirror | Ko-fi

“Template?”

BB stepped through his portal, looking around what the glitch liked to call an ‘abode’. Though he supposed it was one for him, as well. He was in more than out, most of the time. He couldn’t find him in the large white space, no matter how hard he looked.

“Template!” he called again, much to the same outcome. 

Maybe he was outside, playing a game of cat-and-mouse with Pale again? It didn’t feel like the Anti-void was empty, though. Sure, there was nothing to be seen for miles, but it was big. He knew firsthand just how far it stretched.

The air was filled with faint, static-y sounds, like an annoying buzz of an insect. BB cocked his head to the side, straining his ear canals for the direction where they were coming from. Once pinpointed, he started his journey of shotcutting through the white space, using the sounds as a guide.

Nothing came up for long minutes, just more white. The sounds were, however, getting louder and, admittedly, more annoying. Clearer, too. They started to resemble something he’d expect of a dial-up router trying its best to crawl its way back from the brink of a technological meltdown.

And then he was standing by a figure crumpled on the ground.

“Template?” he called out. His only response was a garbled, high-pitched noise, but his guess wasn’t surprising. The figure on the ground, from what he could see, was black! There was a blue scarf spilled on the ground, but the rest was obscured by a sea of glitches.

“Buddy, what’s wrong?” He dropped down into a squat and rolled the figure over.

Where he’d expected Template’s glasses covering his eyes was instead half a dozen of blue magic lines, the black hoodie not tied around the waist but instead worn properly. The sleeves seemed stitched on (more than once, from the frayed edges) and, honestly? It looked more like a coat than a hoodie.

“You’re not Template, are you?” he asked, knowing well that he wouldn’t get a response. The skeleton was glitching badly, sockets wide and unseeing. There was a puddle of half-dried blue marrow underneath them, and when touched, it flashed with white, glitched error messages. There was also a bar above the skeleton’s head, slowly climbing its way to the right, proudly displaying the message, ‘Rebooting: 84% complete.’

BB sat back and waited. The sounds coming from the other ranged in intensity as he did, at one point dying down to almost nothing only to come back, more warped than before. Idly, he wondered if he ever sounded like that. Template did, sometimes, but only when he was badly hurt.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but he didn’t really want to leave the other alone. He’d never seen anyone like this, so maybe they were new? The Anti-void could be scary if you didn’t know where you were, or couldn’t get out on your own.

The progress bar climbed its way to 100% and faded away, along with the worst of the dial-up noises. The skeleton stirred, raising a head to their head, which was still glitching. A couple error messages refused to leave their body.

BB sat up straight, eyelights sparkling. “Hi! I don’t think we’ve ever met before?”

“Ugh,” the skeleton groaned, blinking a couple times before their head turned to BB and they squinted at him. “What the fuck happened…? Blue?”

“Oh, you’ve heard of me? That’s great! Where are you from? What AU? I haven’t seen a new glitch in so long!”

“...huh?” The glitched surrounding the other became a swarm of angry bees for a second, and then the other squinted even harder, looking BB up and down. The red sockets went wide. “What the—”

The skeleton jumped up to their feet, backing away from BB like they’d been scorched. 

“Blue?! What the fuck happened to you?! I— no, that’s impossible! I haven’t left you in the Anti-void that long! How—?”

“Oh! Um…” BB stood up as well, watching with no small amount of concern as the other started pacing back and forth, muttering to themself. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about? I’m Blueberror! But you can call me BB… haha, everyone does.”

The other skeleton’s eyelights — so similar to BB’s own, wow! — snapped to him, switching between squinting at him and widening in disbelief, like they couldn’t believe what they were looking at. Sure, BB knew he was nothing to write home about, but he’d gotten used to his new form! It wasn’t that bad!

“Bl— BB,” the skeleton stated, like they were trying how the name rolled off their metaphorical tongue. Their panic seemed to be gone, and their face set into a tense frown.

BB watched, confused, as they reached up to their face and… ripped the blue magic off their skull? He didn’t have the time to react before it turned into long, thin strings between the other’s fingers, and then he was wrapped up in them, arms pinned to his sides and his ankles bound together, which sent him to the ground in a messy tangle.

“Oof,” he exhaled, doing his best to wiggle out of the restraints. “What’re you doing?”

“Who are you?” the stranger asked, circling their fingers so the strings tying BB tightened to the point of being painful. Their voice was deep and filled with so much static they sounded like Template that one time BB had caught him unaware in a hug and got an earful that taught him nothing because he did not have ears.

“I told you! I’m Blueberror!”

“That’s impossible!” The strings tightened again and BB’s body glitched, flickering in and out for a moment, but that was enough for him to phase through them and catch his breath. 

“Oh gosh,” he muttered, rubbing at where the string had dug into his humerus. “That wasn’t very nice of you.”

“Tell me the fucking truth, shrimp! How did you glitch out?! There’s no way— we were just fighting! You couldn’t’ve been here that long!”

“Fighting? Haha, I haven’t even met you until now! I’m not sure what… maybe you’re confused?”

And that was exactly the time Template decided to make his appearance, stumbling through a glitched-out portal, trailing black ink. He was covered almost head to toe. BB took one look at him and burst out laughing.

Template shot him a look that would’ve been a deadpan, if he wasn’t pouting. “It was a tie! I swear!” he cried, but then he seemed to realize BB wasn’t the only one around to see him.

The new skeleton was standing deathly still, staring at Template as if he’d grown not one, but two extra heads, and then decided to shop them off.

“Who’s your new friend, BB? I’ve never seen them, are they from a new AU? Ooh, hiya, I’m Template, the mighty protector of all AUs and the whole multiverse!” He struck a pose, jabbing his pen into the ground in a way that had BB stifling a laugh again.

The new skeleton didn’t say a word. The buzzing intensified again, though nowhere near as loud as it had been when they were… rebooting, maybe? That was what the message said.

“Uh…” Template’s arms dropped to his sides when he didn’t receive any reaction to his introduction. “Who are you...?” They looked eerily similar to him; it was like looking into a mirror, except the mirror came from a mirror house at a carnival.

The skeleton seemed to share the sentiment. “Error,” he said finally. “I’m Error.”

“Great to meet you! Oh, just wait until Pale finds out we have one more of us!”

Template bounded forward and wrapped Error into a hug, his pen squishing into their sides. Error let out a cut-off cry, pushing against him before the glitches all around him flared up, coating his whole body.

The dial-up noises were back, and he fell limp against Template. Who, graciously looking a little sheepish, lowered him onto the ground.

The progress bar was back above Error’s head, but this time it seemed to be going significantly faster, already at 23%.

“Haha, oops?” Template chuckled, looking at BB. BB just shook his head.

“Great introduction. Couldn’t have gone better.”