#Big Fucking Pit creature emerges from the waters with hair like the flames of the dying suns and eyes as red as blood

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 139

So. Dan has somehow found a small child. A practically newly born ghostling who had literally fallen right on top of him. A ghostling who had practically formed right above him, far away from nurseries and instead above him of all ghosts? 

Him, the Sunkiller? The Worldeater? Jordan Vladimir FentonNightingale-Foley-Manson? Son of Space and War? Bringer of the End?? Seriously, what the hell! Ghostlings shouldn’t even be able to form within other ghost’s Lairs, and he knew for a fact this wasn’t his own ghostling seeing as he wasn’t interested in such things. 

So here Dan is, feeling more confused than he ever has with a newborn ghostling clinging to him and sobbing in his arms about wanting his dad. What even is his unlife right now.

[peantutbutter]

69. “We are not going to steal someone’s dog.” with Michael, Gavin and Jeremy please!

 69. (nice) “We are not going to steal someone’s dog.”

Trigger Warning for brief mentions of animal abuse. Nothing is graphically explicit and everything turns out ok and the dog is rescued, but the thought of an injured animal is triggering or otherwise too emotionally distressing for you, go ahead and keep scrolling

The Mad Lad’s Animal Rescue Agency [ao3]

It’s odd.

As far as Michael knows, both Gavin and Jeremy are what he would consider cat people. Pets aren’t allowed in the penthouse, of course, but both get swept up in conversations about what they would name potential future cats, and both go out of their way to set out food and water for the strays of the city.

So when the two come to him cooing and gushing about a sweet looking pit bull they’ve met, Michael is a little astonished when they start telling him their plans for whisking her away in the dead of night.

“We’re not stealing someone’s dog,” he deadpans, and he can’t fucking believe that he has to say it.

“Awww, c’mon Michael, why not? Lookat her!” Gavin whines, shoving his phone in his face.

And, yeah, alright, she’s fucking cute — chocolate brown fur; a light pink tongue lolling out of her mouth; a tail that’s blurry because it’s wagging so fast; and large, shining brown eyes that are staring adoringly at Gavin in the selfie he’s taken — but Michael can’t just let his boys go off and steal a dog for no good reason. “Because it’ll shit all over the goddamn floor!” he argues. “Where are we gonna keep her, Gavin? We gonna make her ride an elevator every time she needs to take a piss?”

But the thing about Gavin is that once he gets something in his head, there’s really no stopping him. And with Jeremy involved, really, all Michael can do is hope to mitigate the inevitable collateral damage.

It’s ass o’clock in the morning when Michael pulls into what is possibly the most boring middle class neighborhood and parks across the street from a house that looks like the dozens of others surrounding it. He cuts the engine of their unmarked van and looks to Gavin and Jeremy making their last-minute preparations in the back. The entire vehicle smells like peanut butter and Gavin slaps Jeremy’s hand away from the bag of bacon he had fried up before leaving. “That’s not for you!” he hisses.

Jeremy pouts indignantly, but lets it be. They grab a pair of bolt cutters, while Gavin stuffs his pockets full of treats and clips various dog toys to his belt. A brightly colored rope dangles from his hips, and right beside it a squeaky chicken. He pauses for a minute, tennis ball in hand, and frowns thoughtfully, trying to figure out where to place it.

Ultimately, he sets it down, deciding that his skirt of toys is sufficient.

Jeremy pulls on a pair of gloves and grabs a leash dangling from a hook. They shoot Gavin an eager look, which he eagerly returns.

“You look like fucking idiots,” Michael says, because one: it’s true, and two: he apparently has a compulsive need to kill the mood if it’s stupid, like this one. Gavin and Jeremy just look at him, still smiling, mischief gleaming in their eyes. Michael rolls his eyes and waves his hand. “Go get the damn dog.”

The other two excitedly scramble out of the car and crouch-run their way across the street, like they’re on some sort of actual heist. Michael barely suppresses an eye roll. It’s not like the hazy moonlight or streetlamps are illuminating the street or anything. Idiots.

He watches them stealth their way to a chain-link fence. On the other side, Michael can make out what appears to be a ramshackle doghouse, and a tiny figure curled up just outside it. He can’t hear it, but he assumes Gavin whistles or does something to get the dog’s attention, because the figure’s head pops up and it pushes itself onto it’s legs.

Or at least it tries.

Jeremy is clipping away at the fence when Michael notices how the poor thing’s back paws are dragging uselessly along the ground. Her tail wags furiously as she crawls over to Gavin, but she isn’t moving very fast.

Oh. That’s why they’d been so adamant about doing this.

His knuckles turn white, and the steering wheel creaks under his grip. That familiar burn courses through his body, licking flames up and down his arms and legs. The vein in his jaw throbs, and he forces himself to take a deep breath. Going in and beating the owner senseless is tempting — “How does it feel, huh? How does it fucking feel? — but running in blindly, fists flying, would be reckless and stupid. And while he has his moments, tonight he’s the sensible one.

Or at least that’s what he tells himself. But when a light flicks on in the house while Jeremy is in the middle of unhooking the dog’s chain and latching their own, all of Michael’s self restraint leaves him. There’s a shadow moving throughout the house, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He pulls the baseball bat from the passenger footwell and tears out of the van.

Gavin exclaims loudly as Michael rips past.

“Get the dog outta here, I’ll cover you!” Michael yells, and his lifetime of hopping fences pays off as he effortlessly scales the wire structure. His feet land on the ground with a soft thump and gets into position on the other side of the sliding glass door. He chokes up on the bat, ready to swing.

Jeremy finally manages to slip the hook of their leash through the loop on the dog’s collar just as the door slides open. The man inside is screaming angrily, but Michael doesn’t hear what he’s saying. He’s more focused on how he’s going to make this dickbag scream for another reason.

The guy steps outside, not seeing Michael where he hides just behind him, and he reaches for something tucked in his waistband. The second Michael realizes it’s a gun, he pounces, striking the guy in the back of the knees and bringing the bat down on the guy’s back with a satisfying crack.

He fucking whales on the guy, letting all that righteous anger course through him. Each strike shakes his bones, and he’s pleasantly reminded why this is his primary weapon of choice. There’s something so deliciously personal about taking a guy apart with a big stick. He keeps swinging until he’s sure Gavin and Jeremy have pulled the poor pup to safety. The bastard is curled into the fetal position, and his gun, which Michael had kicked away, lay just out of reach.

The horn of the van blares — one of his lads letting him know they’re clear — and Michael brings the bat down for a final strike. It makes a wet crunch against the back of the guy’s head. He’s not one hundred percent sure whether the guy is unconscious or actually dead. He doesn’t particularly care. He’s got no love for people who beat their animals, and, frankly, he’s killed for less.

His arms burn, and as he wipes blood from his face, he realizes that the lights in the surrounding houses are flicking on. The sound of an approaching siren kicks him into gear. He scrambles over the fence — a feat more difficult now that his limbs feel gooey with exertion — and books it across the street.

The engine revs as Jeremy puts the key in the ignition. Sirens are growing closer, and tired civilians are emerging from their homes to see what the fuss is about. The doors to the back are wide open, and Gavin, gently cradling the dog, yells at him to “Hurry up!”

Michael flings himself into the back of the van, and Jeremy takes off like a bullet, tires squealing against the asphalt, leaving behind the scent of burned rubber.

They fly out of the neighborhood, and Jeremy takes a few random turns, shaking any potential pursuers off their trail. All the while, Gavin is cooing at the creature in his arms. “Who’s a good girl? Who’s a good Bella?” he asks. “Who doesn’t have to worry about that mean old man ever again? Yes, it’s you!”

He pets Bella until she calms down, mindful of her legs, which rest gingerly on the seat. Slowly, her eyes drift shut, and she falls asleep under his touch. He smiles softly, and Michael can’t help but do the same at the scene before him.

Then Gavin turns to look at him. “Thank you, Michael,” he murmurs, barely audible over the hum of the engine.

Michael shrugs. “Don’t understand why you didn’t tell me why you wanted to steal this guy’s dog in the first place.”

“Ah, well…” Gavin pauses for a moment, trying to figure out what he wants to say. “Lil J and I kind of figured you riding out your rage would be the best cover in case we got caught. And that’s something that only really happens in the moment. So we needed you going in blind.”

Michael stares blankly for a moment, blinking slowly, trying to understand the reasoning. “You didn’t tell me,” he says slowly, “because you wanted me to be pissed off enough to attack a guy in case he caught you.”

Gavin presses his lips together and nods. “Yeah.”

Michael scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You two are fucking ridiculous,” he says. Then his gaze travels towards the peacefully sleeping dog. “What are you going to do with her?”

Gavin shrugs. “Gonna get our medic to take a look at her and see what he can do. After that…I dunno, try to find a nice place for her to live. Fredo’s been saying he wants a dog, so maybe he’ll be willing to take care of her.”

“So you never planned on her living in the penthouse, did you?” Michael asks.

“Of course not, Michael boy,” Gavin answers easily. His eyes sparkle with humor. “We’re not gonna make her ride the elevator every time she needs to take a leak.”

[doveziam]

My Name Is Legion - Chapter 1

By: doveziam Pairing: Zayn Malik/Liam Payne Rating: E Genre: Supernatural/Demon Fic Chapters: 1/10 (WIP) Summary:

As soon as he put his feet inside the club, a shiver ran through Zayn’s spine. Only selected people entered there, and those who entered knew to leave what happened in the club inside its walls. Gehenna wasn’t a place to anyone.

(Or Zayn needed a job desperately. So desperately he was willing to accept a job in a place that gave him chills. If Niall could handle it, he could too. Couldn’t he?)

Thanks to the lovely @somewhereisaplacethatziamknow for editing it. Love you, Toni!

Chapter 1 on AO3 or under the cut

2018

It was 31st of October, and the cliché made him cringe. His hands were trembling while he poured salt on the stone floor, making a circle around himself. You can back off anytime until you burn the sulfur. Once you burn it, you have two options. One, call the one you want; two, deal with anything they send to you. Jay’s words circled in his mind while he finished a perfect circle of salt around himself. He breathed deeply and looked around, confirming that the circle was completely closed.

His heart was hammering in his chest. The fear of what he was going to do, added to the fear of someone noticing he had broke into the dungeons of the castlewere mixing in his head and making him a bit dizzy. Or it was the shivers running down his spine that were responsible for his dizziness, he wasn't sure. The only thing he was sure was that he needed to go until the end.

He sat in the middle of the circle, picked up the two pieces of wood and the sulfur that were close to him. He wasn't looking at the pentagram with a pile of sulfur in the middle, drawn on the floor in front of him. He had the impression of some movement at the dark of the dungeon in his peripheral vision, but he tried to ignore it as best as he could, knowing that seeing those things was common in this kind of situation.

He held a big sulfur rock between his boots, put a flat piece of wood with holes on it over the sulfur, held a wooden stick between his hands, positioning it inside one of the holes, and started to rub his hands quickly, creating a fast friction. He was sure it hadn’t heated enough to set the sulfur on fire, but a bit of nasty smelling smoke started to drift from the friction point, heating up his hands.

“With this fire, I summon the messengers of Gehenna. I am in need and I bring an offering. With this fire I lay my offer,” his voice cracked, but he didn't stop the chanting, his melodious voice raising over the eerie quiet of the dungeon. He was swallowing hard, sweating profusely, concentrating on his movements and his chanting, repeating the invocation until he noticed that the wood had catched fire. He kept doing it until an orange glow was seen on the wood, and he discarded the stick to the side. He brought the smouldering wood close to his mouth and blew on it. He picked up a bunch of dry roots he had collected before and surrounded the amber, blowing some more to make them catch fire as well. Then, he touched the sulfur rock and yelped because it was too hot and burned his fingers.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, and almost put his finger in his mouth, but stopped himself. He didn't know if it would be dangerous or not.

You can back off anytime until you burn the sulfur.

I won't back off.

He took a deep breath and picked the hot sulfur up again. He grit his teeth, held it over the flame, and an acrid smell filled the air as a blue flame erupted from the sulfur. He got up and, without leaving the circle, threw the burning sulfur over the pile on the pentagram. A small explosion engulfed the rocks, and he stepped back, almost leaving the protection of the circle. His eyes started to water because of the smoke, and he blinked repeatedly.

A strange vibration was buzzing from the stone floor. He’d never experienced an earthquake, but he guessed it was just like this and, not for the first time, he feared for his life. He wiped his face and licked his lips, concentrating on the fire.

“I'm searching for a messenger to take my word and make it real. I need the one that crawls through the light and the dark, the beloved Basaleel, to deliver my message,” he said and raised his hand, picking a strand of his hair and pulling roughly to rip it off his head. “Basaleel, I call you. Here's my offer.” He noticed that the strand came with blood.

He threw the strand of hair over the sulfur fire, and it hissed, popping loudly and burning up in a flash, turning the blue fire in an orange liquid flame like lava, spreading the smoke through the place. It burned from the middle in an orange rage consuming the burning sulfur in the pentagram.

It was like a single movement that left him paralyzed: as the orange wave of fire destroyed the sulfur, leaving a dust of ashes, a sharp, grey claw attached to a greyish leather limb emerged from the ashes, clamping on the floor; a second claw emerged in quick succession, clamping on the floor as well, and then two heavily tattooed hands covered in ashes emerged, the four limbs pulling something from the pits of hell.

“Fuck,” he breathed, unable to move, and even if he was able, he probably was safer inside the circle. “Fucking hell!” He jumped when what was coming jumped off the ashes, landing in a crouching position on the floor. Its right hand was on the ashes, the left was balled into a fist on its knee, it was wearing a dark grey hoodie covering its head and a pair of long, grey bat wings stretched from its back.

The creature raised its head and looked at him dead in the eyes. It had its face covered with a muzzle, the mark of its legion. An orange flame flickered in its dark eyes, a flame only few would notice.

“Basaleel?” he asked, insecure. The demon, because that was what it was, stood up and put his hands in his pockets. He fluttered his wings and ashes rained on the floor, spreading beyond the pentagram and through the stone cold place. Only then was it possible to notice that his wings were in fact white, almost translucent, with hard muscle and sinewy veins through them. “You-- you have wings,” the man stuttered, shocked beyond himself, trembling inside the salt circle.

The demon looked at him, unbothered by his words. His dark eyes took the man in front of him in a unfriendly manner, his stance businesslike, and he said, in a throaty, deep voice, “Who do I have to kill?”

2017

As soon as he put his feet inside the club, a shiver ran through Zayn’s spine. He felt like he was entering a Harry Potter movie, because the inside of the club was big and luxurious, completely different from the outside. The front of the club wasn’t exactly seedy but it was far from this. From the outside, it looked more like a pub than a club. Maybe it’s for privacy, Zayn thought, knowing that it was a high class place. Only selected people entered there, and those who entered, knew to leave what happened in the pub inside its walls.

There was a spacious dance floor with a stage in the form of a T, very much like a catwalk, ending in the middle of the dance floor. It had three poles, one on each edge of the T. The place was filled by patrons drinking and dancing to the sound of a pounding dance song. Zayn noticed that all of them were women in different stages of inebriation, laughing and having fun.

He looked around and saw a mezzanine to his left, clearly the VIP section, and a long bar counter to his right. There was some doors that lead to other places in the building, but he didn’t knew where to.

He was there to talk to the manager, and he walked to the crowded bar trying to locate Niall. His Irish friend was at the other side of the counter working on some colourful drinks for his clientele.

Zayn leaned on the counter, gaining some appreciative looks from the women around him, but ignored them. Niall noticed him and came closer, a big smile on his face.

“You came! I’m glad. Andy is waiting for you,” Niall said, shouting over the loud sound of the music.

Zayn only nodded, looking around, not quite comfortable there.

“You go through that door right there.” Niall pointed to a red door to the left of the counter, hidden by darkness, that Zayn hadn’t noticed before.

“Thanks, bro,” Zayn said, and went there.

He knocked on the door and waited. A few moments later a tall man opened the door. He had long dirty blond hair, and a trimmed beard on his face. He was handsome, in a objective way, but Zayn didn’t felt comfortable when close to him either.

“You must be Zayn,” the man said. “I’m Andy. Nice to meet you.” He stretched his hand out and Zayn shook it.

“Nice to meet you too,” Zayn said, out of politeness.

“Come in,” Andy said and guided him into a luxurious office, decorated in red and black, full of leather and sleek furniture. When he closed the door, all the sound from outside disappeared. Andy sat at the desk and gestured to a chair in front of it. “Sit.”

Zayn sat in a plush chair, probably made to be comfortable, but that only increased his wariness. “Hm.” He cleared his throat. “Thanks for receiving me.”

“No problem. A friend of Niall is a friend of mine,” Andy said, with a smile. “So, you sing.”

“Yep, I do sing,” Zayn said, squirming on the chair. “R’n’B mostly, but I can do pop, rock, reggae and any other rhythms the house requires.”

“Good, good. I would like a private show before we agree to anything,” Andy said, and he looked like he was proposing exactly what he said which calmed Zayn a bit.

“How would that go down?” Zayn asked, cautious anyway.

“Oh, we can schedule for, let’s say, tomorrow at 3 o’clock, and you’ll perform a set of six songs to a small audience,” Andy suggested.

“Okay.” Zayn nodded. He could do that. “Would you like any specific set?”

“Not really. Surprise me.” Andy winked.

“I’ll try,” Zayn said, smiling politely.

“Great!” Andy got up with a huge smile on his face. “Now, how about you stay in the place to know a bit about how we work?”

“Sounds good to me,” Zayn said, getting up as well.

“Any doubts you can talk to Niall. He knows this place better than I do,” Andy said good naturedly.

“Cool,” Zayn said, and Andy guided him to the door. When he opened it, Zayn almost jumped because of the noise from the club.

“Yeah, it’s a shock how loud it is after we spend some minutes locked in here,” Andy said, laughing. “See you tomorrow, Zayn.”

“See you,” Zayn said while Andy shook his hand again.

Andy closed the door and Zayn turned to the bar.

“How was it?” Niall asked as soon as he leaned on the counter.

“It was okay, I guess. He wants a private performance tomorrow,” he answered.

“You’re gonna do great,” Niall said, his happy go lucky attitude making Zayn smile and believe it. “Here, on the house.” Niall gave him a beer. “Go wander a bit, know the place. It’s straight lady’s night, so you’re gonna enjoy the show.” He laughed and Zayn rolled his eyes, but went to wander a bit.

He got tired and went back to the bar, finding a comfy looking stool and sat observing the place between sips of beer. It was a bit later when a dark skinned man came onto the stage to greet the audience.

“Ladies, welcome to Gehenna!” the audience shouted and cheered, and Zayn turned to the stage to watch the show. “I have two bits of news, one good and one bad. Which do you prefer first?” Some uncoordinated screams sounded around the dance floor, and the man continued, “The bad first, okay. One of our boys, our sweet Callum, couldn’t make it tonight,” he said affecting a sad face. Instead of cooing or booing, the audience screeched like a bunch of banshees. Zayn frowned and looked at Niall.

“They are regulars,” was Niall’s explanation.

Zayn didn’t understand what it had to do with anything, and looked back at the host.

“Yeah, yeah. Sad, isn’t it?” The women keep screeching like it was the best news of the year. “This brings me to the good news. Someone had to take Callum’s place.” The noise of the audience went deafening, and Zayn made a face. “Yes! You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?” The screeches increased in volume, which Zayn didn’t think was possible. “Are you feeling it? Are you feeling the pain?” the host said and the women went crazier.

“Liam! Liam! Liam!” the women started to chant, and Zayn looked at Niall again. Niall just nodded, gesturing to the stage.

“Are you ready for him?” the host inflamed some more, and the women started to stomp on the floor along with the chanting. “Louder!” And the women grew even louder. “Yes! Here he is, for you: Liam Payne!” he said and jumped off the stage.

The women screamed and jumped in a kind of hysterics Zayn had only seen before in teenage girls. The lights of the club died down and a rush crossed the audience, lacing the club in silence and darkness. Then, a light flashed on the stage illuminating a man standing in the middle of it. He was wearing a white vest and black pants, with his head bowed, hiding his face in shadows. He wasn’t too big, but, even from the distance, Zayn could see he was built, and his stance screamed confidence. It was like his presence took the energy of the women around the place, silencing them in something that could be called reverence.

Then, the first chord of Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High?, by Arctic Monkeys floated through the place and the man, Liam, raised his head. Zayn understood immediately why the women were like this. The man was mesmerizing. He had a sharp jaw and cheekbones, beautiful eyes and incredible lips. His face was set in a closed off expression, like he was angry and ready to kill someone.

Zayn felt a jolt of fear mixed with excitement, and blinked confused by his reactions. Liam started to walk, going to the part of the stage where it advanced over the dance floor, each step was like he owned the place. Zayn guessed he did own it or, at least, he owned the undivided attention of his audience.

He stopped walking when “The mirror’s image” echoed in the club, swivelling his hips in an enticing manner that snapped the women from their trance. They started to scream again, pilling close to the stage. He moved like sin, dancing in a way that made Zayn feel breathless. He touched his chest, his belly, pulling the edge of his vest up and exposing his chiseled abs.

Damn, Zayn thought, so enthralled in the show that he didn’t feel jealous ― something he always felt when he saw a man that could dance.

Liam fisted his vest in his hand as “Left you multiple missed calls and to my message you reply.” sounded from the speakers. The women around the stage gasped, and Zayn moved  to the edge of the stool he was sat on. And then, Liam ripped of his vest on the “Why’d you only call me when you’re high?” line. The noise in the club rose to deafening levels again and ― fuck. Zayn understood them one hundred percent. He felt his cock twitch and he squirmed, trying to control himself.

The women started to throw money at Liam, and he ignored it, letting it fall on and off the stage, walking in a sensuous way to the pole. “Somewhere darker,” he held the pole with a hand. “Talking the same shite,” he stood with the pole between his legs. “I need a partner,” he thrusted his hips like he was fucking the pole. “Well, are you out tonight?” he looked straight at Zayn.

Zayn’s breath suspended. He looked back at Liam while he moved his hips like a sex god. Zayn noticed something change in his eyes, like he was going to smile ― but he didn’t.

Still holding the pole with one hand, Liam turned his face away. “Why’d you only call me when you’re high?” he pulled himself up on the pole with only one hand, circling it like it was the easiest thing. He knew exactly when and how to move to make his audience delirious, covering the stage with money. He jumped down and started to unbutton his pants, exposing white boxer briefs. He held the pole again and swiveled his hips, rubbing his crotch on it. He let it go and ripped his pants off ― they were common pants, not stripper pants ―, and he ripped them like they were made of paper. Fuck.

His legs were slender, but made of hard, chiseled muscle. For every step he took, a different set of muscles clenched. Liam played with the pole like he weighed nothing, holding himself up with a strength that made Zayn wish he could feel it used on his body, manhandling him.

A woman threw an expensive watch on the stage and Liam leaned down sensuously to pick it up. He twirled it between his fingers, the only thing he took, when the final refrain of “Why’d you only call me when you’re high?” sounded. He started to walk back to where he appeared on the stage, looking at the women on both sides with a smouldering look. Even his walking was in the rhythm of the song, every step coordinated with the tempo.

He stopped at the point he appeared in the exact instant the lights went off, and Zayn noticed two things: first, he was completely hard in his pants; and second, Liam’s show made him forget his uneasiness about the place.