#Demon hooves are more sensitive than you think

[ckducky]

Good Girlfriend Grooming

[datauthorress]

;love me (like you love the sun); [Chapter 2]

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes / Original Female Character

Summary: “I should be afraid of you.” she whispered against his lips.

                 In which Shelby, a Sensitive with Mediumship abilities and a Guardian Demon, meets Sherlock Holmes, a powerful and alluring vampire.

Warnings: Demons, Banishment, Descriptions of Hell, Retching

“Damn, this one is even more gruesome than the first.” Shelby sighed as she approached the half-eaten corpse on the floor of the abandoned three-story building. “It was recent….an hour, maybe an hour and a half ago.”

         “Where do you think the demon is now?” Lestrade questioned.

         “Not far,” she replied. “Normally demons who eat humans usually rest after two, sometimes three. I can only believe that the demon is taking rest somewhere to recover its strength and then terrorize London further.”

         “Is there a way you could track the demon?” Sherlock asked her.

         “By this,” Shelby replied, grabbing the key that was dangling from the chain around her neck. “This is a Homing Beacon. It can detect Demonic Circles and Demonic Beings, given the beings are not sleeping. When they’re sleeping, their energy is almost untraceable. But they’re extremely vulnerable when they sleep.”

         “So if we find the demon….”

         “We can banish it easily,” she nodded. “I’m going to take a look around the building to make sure it’s not hiding here.”

         “I’ll go with you.” Sherlock said.

         Lestrade watched as Sherlock followed close behind Shelby, disappearing into the next room.

         “They’re fucking,” Donovan and Anderson said at the same time.

         Shelby glanced around the corner of the doorway, taking a few short moments to look around before she entered the room. The key dangling from her neck didn’t vibrate or glow at all and she believed that the demon was here, but was most likely resting to recover its strength.

         “Are you sure the demon could be here?” Sherlock questioned, standing beside her.

         “I’m sure,” Shelby nodded. “Why don’t you take a look upstairs and I’ll head into the basement, and before you even ask, no, I’ll be alright. Just go look upstairs.”

         Sherlock, having a feeling he couldn’t change her mind, ended up going upstairs.

         Shelby stood at the entrance to the basement and glanced down at the key dangling from her chest, seeing a faint glow surrounding the outside of the key. She took a deep breath and entered the basement.

         The basement was eerie. The stairs creaked as she walked down them slowly, being as quiet as she could be, given that the building was older than the others in the area. The Homing Beacon began to glow brighter the further she went down and she knew without a doubt that the demon was resting down here.

         Her feet touched the bottom of the stairs and she pulled out a small flashlight from her pocket, flicking it on so she could look around the darkness of the basement. She slowly maneuvered the flashlight around, walking further into it. She made her way around the corner and paused when she heard the soft sound of rustling.

         It didn’t sound like footsteps, or the sound of hooves.

         It sounded like something dragging along the ground.

         Shelby heard the sound again, moving the flashlight around –

         Something wound tight around her legs and yanked her to the floor, causing her head to bounce off of the dirt floor. Shelby hissed in pain and dropped both her flashlight and cane as she was lifted into the air, dangling upside down a few inches off the ground.

         A hissing sound filled the air. “You’ve become a rather annoying knat, human.”

         “Well,” she grunted, feeling the back of her head and feeling a small amount of liquid there. Bleeding. “I must be famous in Hell.”

         “Lucifer favors you above his own kin,” the voice hissed and the lights in the basement flickered before turning steady on, revealing the being in front of her.

         Large and snake-like, it’s face that of a mix between a human’s and a snake’s. It had no arms, no legs, but only the large body of a snake, an anaconda most likely. The creature let her fall onto the floor, before it’s large tail coiled around her waist, trapping her arms against her sides.

         “A snake-demon, huh?” she asked, feeling the tail coil around her chest. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of meeting one of you, yet.”

         “Quiet, human!” it snapped, the last of its tail wrapping around her neck.

         “He’s not going to be happy,” Shelby said in a slightly strained voice.

         “Shut your mouth, wretch.” It demanded, sliding closer to her smaller form. It’s mouth opened, revealing sharp, glistening fangs that could easily tear her head off of her shoulders. A forked tongue rolled out and curled around her chin, leaving a trail of disgusting saliva in its wake.

         “Ugh. Take me to dinner first,” she snorted.

         “I would eat you if I already wasn’t full,” it said, tightening its coils around her, the sensation of air leaving her lungs and being constricted. “What does Lucifer see in you?”

         “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Shelby said.

         “My Lord is obsessed with you.” It hissed.

         “I can’t say the same for him,” she retorted. “You have about five seconds to let go of me.”

         “And why is that?”

         “Let go of her,”

         Both Shelby and the demon turned their attention to the large doorway of the room, seeing Sherlock Holmes standing there, eyes glowing as bright as a blood moon.

         “This is who you were talking about? A vampire?” the demon hissed.

         “Well, no.” Shelby shook her head. “But you’re out of time now.”

         Before anyone could speak, Sherlock watched as an invisible force grasped the demon’s throat tightly, causing it to gasp for air. It struggled and thrashed in the grip, and during that, released it’s crushing hold on Shelby. It was then Sherlock noticed and could faintly see what looked like a hand with sharp nails grasping the demon’s throat.

         “F-Father?” the demon choked.

         Sherlock heard no words, but it seemed they could only be heard by the demon and Shelby.

         “B-but….Father, I….!” the demon gasped.

         The ground rumbled underneath them and Shelby quickly stepped away as a hand, skeletal and blackened shot out of the ground and grabbed onto the demon’s tail. It howled in agony, another hand coming from what looked like a crack in the floor. Smoke was seeping from the crack and Sherlock believed for a moment he could hear the distant sound of screams.

         “P-please, I just wanted….! I just wanted to be free!” the snake-demon screeched.

         Dozens of hands erupted from the crack, grabbing onto the demon, and yanking it into the crack, causing it to howl and thrash. “Please, Father, please! Please…!”

         The demon’s pleas fell on deaf ears as it was yanked completely into the crack, which closed right afterwards and vanished as if it was never there.

         Shelby stumbled slightly and Sherlock was right behind her, arms catching her before she could even begin to fall. She was pale in the face and breathing shallowly. “Shelby? Shelby, are you alright?” he asked, tapping on her cheek.

         “Yeah,” she whispered. “Just gimme a minute…”

         Sherlock gently lowered her to the floor, making sure to grab her cane and set it next to her. Shelby took a few moments to herself, gaining the color back in her cheeks as she came back to herself. “I always hated watching that.” she said softly.

         “That? That was….”

         “Hell, yeah.” She replied. “I’ve seen it only a handful of times, each when I’ve banished a demon back to Hell. The first time I saw it happen, I puked and passed out. The priest I was with said it was a common thing to happen for first timers.”

         “And those screams…”

         “Souls being tortured,” she confirmed. “It’s over, though. For now. There will be another idiot trying to summon a demon.”

         It was another moment before Shelby felt steady enough to stand and she used her cane, and Sherlock to help her. He helped her upstairs and outside, to which Lestrade and the others had gone outside when the rumbling began.

         “Jesus Christ, what happened?” Lestrade questioned.

         “It’s over,” Shelby replied. “The demon has been banished back to Hell.”

         “We thought the whole building was going to come down!” Anderson exclaimed. “What was that rumbling?”

         “Oh, just a crack that leads to Hell.”

         “What?!”

         Shelby felt her stomach churn and she immediately hurried over to the bushes and puked.

         “Whoops,” Lestrade said.

         ~ ~

         “I haven’t puked like that in years,” Shelby sniffed, sitting across from Sherlock at Angelo’s diner. “It was mostly sulfur, though. Hell has some foul smells.”

         “Have you ever been to Hell?” Sherlock asked.

         “Almost, once.” Shelby replied, thanking Billy (the waiter) as he brought over a tall glass of ice-cold water. “A local priest and I encountered a powerful demon about five years back and that house was a portal to Hell. A crack is just a mere small opening and usually not big enough for demons to get through, but a whole portal? Yeah, nah. The only good thing was that the demons inside couldn’t leave the property because of some witchcraft that formed the portal in the first place. Some pretty powerful demons came through and nearly dragged me along with it. We were able to close the portal, thankfully. But I had nightmares about that for months.”

         “Why was the demon saying Father?” he asked.

         “More than likely because my Guardian Demon is its father. He had plenty of offspring in Hell before he got appointed to me,” she replied, taking a long gulp of her water.

         “Does he have a name?”

         “I’m sure he does, but he never told me. I just call him Guardian.” She spoke.

         Angelo brought out a plate of pasta for Shelby and a cup of blood for Sherlock, giving them time to themselves. Shelby ate slowly, not wanting to upset her stomach.

         “I’ll contact movers while you’re asleep to get your things to the flat,” Sherlock told her.

         “Sherlock, I never said I was moving in with you.” Shelby pointed out.

         “But you are,”

         Shelby wanted to argue, but after a moment, she sighed and gave him a soft smile. “You’re not giving up on this, are you?”

         “Nope.”

         Shelby laughed softly. “Alright, have it your way. I’ll move in with you,”

         “But you know what that means, right?” he asked her, reaching over to place his hand on top of hers. “You’ll be in my territory. No one can hurt you within my territory, or even come near you unless I say so. No demon will be able to hurt you, or no human for that matter.”

         “Sherlock, I want you to realize that even though we’ve kissed, we still don’t know each other very well. We can still kiss, but I’m not exactly ready for sex right now.” Shelby informed him.

         “I didn’t expect you to be,” Sherlock said, bringing her hand up to his mouth to place a kiss on the backs of her knuckles. “I feel as though we have known each other a very long time.”

         “Previous life of mine, perhaps.” She hummed.

         ~

         Shelby is utterly exhausted when they get back to the flat. She knows she doesn’t have any clothes right now, but Sherlock had given her a pair of sweats and a button up shirt for her to wear. She had set her cane and bag down next to the bed – Sherlock’s bed – before sitting on the edge of the bed. She took her nighttime medication, which consisted of her heart meds, insomnia meds and pain meds.

         “How are you feeling?” Sherlock asked, standing in the doorway of the room.

         “I’m exhausted,” she replied softly. “Today was a lot to deal with. Banishing a demon always zaps my energy, especially when I have to watch as said demon is literally dragged into Hell.”

         Sherlock walked over to her and sat down on the bed next to her. He had no intentions of sleeping until seven AM, but he wanted to make sure she got decent sleep. “I’m not good at this,” he admitted.

         “Neither am I,” Shelby shook her head. “You’re the first man I’ve had physical contact in a very long time. The last time I touched someone was during my very first kiss. And I don’t want to rush into anything and possibly get hurt.”

         “I would never hurt you,” he vowed.

         “I know,” she smiled softly.

         Sherlock gently cupped her warm cheek in his cold palm and turned her face to his, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to her lips. He didn’t know why, but he felt very connected to her. Maybe they had been lovers in the past, but Sherlock couldn’t remember meeting anyone with Shelby’s features.

         Shelby hummed and returned the kiss for a few moments before they parted. She kissed him this time, once more, before Sherlock got up and helped her underneath the covers, making sure she was comfortable once she was laying down.

         “Goodnight, Sherlock,” she said softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow,”

         “Get some sleep. I’ll be here.” Sherlock promised.

         It wasn’t long before the meds kicked in and Shelby was snoozing softly, her head tilted to the side a bit. He watched her for a moment, his eyes glowing softly in the darkness of the room. He brushed some of her hair away and out of her eyes, before pressing a kiss to her forehead.

         “Sweet dreams,” he whispered.

[finn-ray-nal-beads]

Flip as Barry Gib for Halloween... your thoughts?

A/N: @maybe-your-left thoughts? I have several... since you’ve asked. I hope ya like it, Kitten 😉. BTW for those who don’t know who Barry Gib is: Lead singer of the Bee-Gees and the song Stayin’ Alive is their most popular hit of the 70′s. 

Warnings: Sub/Dom slurs, Alpha mentions, creampies, cum eating, slight choking, tit slapping, purple nurples (yes I used a Chowder reference thank you), smut in general, Flip is a total Dom, we are total switch, it’s all disco to me baby, playful married banter, slight fluff at the end 

“You want me to what?” Flip scratched his goatee as you were putting the finishing touches on your makeup for the evening. 

“You’re gonna wear these platforms and costume to the party with me,” you popped your lip gloss together, scraping the sides so your lips looked extra shiny and pouted. 

“Platforms?” he chuckled at the thought of it, “sweetheart, I ain’t wearin’ these,” he lifted the white boots to examine their contents as if drugs would fall out of them at any moment. 

“Ummm,” you carefully placed your lash on your right eye, “yes, you are babe,” smoothing it out so it lined up naturally with your other lashes. 

“And why the fuck would I do that, honey,” he dropped them on the floor, lighting a cigarette to keep himself from grouching even more than he already was. 

“Because if you want ANY of this,” you gestured to your bread and butter, “then you’ll do it. Also because you love me unconditionally.” 

He snickered again huffing out a plume of smoke, “is that fuckin’ so?” taking huge steps into the shared bathroom, pressing his large figure into your bent-over backside, “last time I checked, baby doll, I was in charge of things around here.” 

Whispering into your ear, causing a shiver to run up your spine, and goosebumps to form all over your body, “well, it’s Halloween, babycakes,” making yourself as tall as possible, turning around and plucking the lit cigarette from his lips and taking a huge drag, “so roles are kinda reversed for the time being,” smirking as you exhaled the plume from your perfect lips.

“You will do it,” ashing out the butt in the sink, “and you WILL like it,” inching into his open lips, leaving a little peck as you noticed the bulge forming in his jeans. 

Snaking your arm around and patting his ass, “now, get ready, we’re gonna be late, cowboy,” you smiled bright, turning back around to survey yourself in the mirror before moving into the bedroom to put the rest of your ensemble on.  

Flip stood in the bathroom, in utter shock at your forwardness, holding in a breath and looking at himself in the mirror. He’d never been talked to so… harshly before. 

He gathered his pride to walk back into the bedroom, watching you hunched over the bed placing the god-awful shoes on your pretty feet. 

Like the good boy, he was, got dressed in everything but the shoes, staring them down as if they’d disappear to which he’d be grateful for. 

“Baby,” you sang into the room, “are ya ready?” jogging into the OK Corral staredown taking place in your master. 

“Honey,” he whined at you, “I-I don’t wanna wear these stupid things,” huffing and puffing at everything about them. 

“Now, what did I say?” as if speaking to a child. He groaned out as he moved to put the disastrous hooves on his large feet, “I know, I know.” 

Rolling his eyes and standing up to a height he never knew he could achieve, “look at my handsome Barry!” pandering and tugging at the necklace hanging into his open-chested shirt. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he pecked your forehead, “let’s get outta here before I change my fuckin’ mind.” 

“Let’s go boogie, babe!” you giddily smiled pulling him out the door, to the truck. 

_______________

The bar was chalked full of ghouls, goblins, witches, and demons as the both of you meandered to fetch some drinks. Flip towered over the crowd in the heels he wore, so getting the attention of the bartender was easier than usual. With drinks in hand, you went to find your group of friends to start the night off. 

“Well, howdy there Zimmermans!” a familiar voice chimed out, “lookin’ groovy Flip!” a chorus of chuckles and whistles followed as the faces came into view. 

“I know doesn’t my husband look so damn handsome,” petting his chest again as he gave you a death stare. 

“Very!” Ron chuckled lowly, sending Flip’s gaze to burn holes into his chest, “watch your fuckin’ mouth, Rookie.”

Grabbing his beer from his grip, “stop it, Phil, he’s only trying to be funny,” placing them on the group table, “let’s go dance for a minute, honey,” pulling his lumbering figure to the disco lights as the last song faded out. 

You both stand there a minute amongst the crowd waiting for the DJ to spin another tune. All of a sudden, the beat to Stayin’ Alive comes on full blast, and you immediately turn towards your lumberjack in an ecstatic holler. He recants with an eye roll and spins you around a few times before the both of you join the rhythm with your hips and grind on each other like teenagers at a party. 

The final chorus fades out, both of you sweaty and all kinds of hot and bothered, turn to each other and lock lips like it was the first time you’d ever kissed. 

Your tongues dancing in and out of one another, teeth clanking on teeth, if there hadn’t been so many people around you’d hear the suctioning and moaning reverberate on the walls. 

“Bathroom. Now,” he pulls off of you, heading towards the destination with you dragging behind like a lost puppy. 

The second lock is turned in the claustrophobic and dimly lit restroom, he’s on you, caging you in like an escaped animal. 

“You think you can get away with talkin’ tough to me,” he snarled into your ear, rubbing your mound as you brace yourself on the sink, “you forgot who I am to you I guess.” 

Hissing in your ear as the tingling in your spine grew to a full blaze, “well I’ll remind you little whore,” inching another large hand to grip onto your tits with as much force as possible, pinching the sensitive nipple until it was almost bleeding. 

You let out a cry in pleasure as he kept pinching, “who am I to you?” growling at your pain, “use your fuckin’ words slut.” 

You winced as he brought the other hand to grip your other tit, doing the same motions in tandem, making your back arch off the porcelain. 

“Y-you’re my alpha!” you screamed as he twisted even harder on the sensitive buds, “that’s fuckin’ right, honey,” reveling in your pain as your lips dropped open in a huge gasp. 

His primal instincts ripped the jumpsuit you had worn to shreds on the bathroom floor, leaving you completely bare to him. 

“You fuckin’ slut,” he tsked pulling his zipper down and releasing his monster cock from his bellbottoms, “wearin’ nothin’ at all underneath that lil’ number huh? That’s strike two.” 

He chuckled, “bend over on the sink, I’m gonna fuck you so hard, everyone is this bar is gonna know who you belong to.” 

You turned around slightly bending over to get your footing with your platforms, going too slow for Flip’s taste. Gripping the back of your neck, forcing you down just enough so he could line his cock up with your wetness that had formed. 

“Naughty lil’ pussy is so eager for me, huh,” he mused, slipping in his angry cock, inching it in as your walls swallowed it like a good little kitty. 

Once he bottomed out, he wrapped one hand on your throat, pulling you flush with him, and the other in a bruising grip on your hip. Thrusting up into you as you moaned on his cock, gripping your tits for support. 

“Look at you,” his lust blown eyes, gazing at your writhing in the mirror, “so fuckin’ eager for my cock.” 

Your eyes opened to view his member pummeling your squelched entrance in the mirror, “fuck, Phil,” beyond words as you watched your man take you in the bathroom. 

“You want me to fill this whore cunt up?” panting between thrusts as they became more erratic watching your movements in the mirror, “make you sit in it the rest of the night?” 

Just then he moved his hands to push away your grip on your tits, massaging them with his own and then slapping the skin as hard as he could, “You’re all mine, Y/N.” 

He returned both hands to your hips as you slightly bent over. The new angle allowing him to pillage your hole with the most fervor he could muster. 

“All. Fuckin’. Mine,” he grunted out causing your walls to flutter, as you neared your climax. He reached his right hand to circle your aching clit, causing a chorus of moans and cries from your perfectly glossed lips. 

“You gonna cum for me, honey?” he sped up his movements, causing the tingling to spread throughout your abdomen. You rolled your eyes as you came hard on his huge cock, gasping his name out in a chant as he coaxed you through it. 

“That’s my good girl,” he mewled as his hand left your center, returning to your hip as he picked up his own pace towards his release. Your walls closing in and out on him sending him into a state of complete ecstasy as he released his spend into you. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” he panted out as he dumped the last of his seed into your gaping hole, pulling out to see the leakage seep from your pretty little slit. 

“So full of me,” he scooped the mixture causing you to turn around and face him, opening your mouth in submission. 

“Good girl,” he stuffed his thick fingers into you, watching your lips close and suck on the concoction you’d both made. Pulling them out to watch you swallow the rest of it, patting you bare ass when you’d shown him your empty mouth again. 

“God, I love you,” he pulled you flush to him, kissing the sweat sheened on your skin, smelling your scent. You wrapped your arms around his midsection, “I love you too, honey,” kissing his chest and then his lips as he bent low to meet you. 

“Happy Halloween, Barry,” pushing him off of you in a chuckle and grabbing your jumpsuit from the floor, “we should head back out there. I wanna dance a little bit more, please?” 

“Anything for you honey,” he smiled, helping you zip the suit back on, “as long as you don’t fuckin’ sass me like that again.” 

“Well given the reaming I just got, detective,” you winked, “I may just act out once more to see what kind of punishment I’ll get when we get home?” 

Raising your eyebrow as you unlocked the door to walk out, “try me, baby girl,” his pupils dilated watching your smirk grow. 

“I have a few tricks up my sleeve,” leading him out to the crowd of ghosts, goblins, and zombies to finish the night off. 

________________

HOW THE TURNTABLES..... HOPE YOU ALL GOT IN THE HALLOWEEN SPIRIT!

🖤,

ray-nal-beads  

[ds-ts-smut-fics]

Far From Home [Chapter Two]

Chapter One

Read on Ao3 

Synopsis: Remus and Logan get closer than anyone would expect from chapter two. 

Trigger warnings: NSFW, super explicit sex scene, demonic possession, hunting, lmk if i missed anything! 

Words: 3,429

A/N: super explicit, you can skip it. SFW recap at the end notes 

Slumping to the ground with Remus, Logan hums tiredly, stroking his back as he lays Remus against him. "So long as you leave him for a bit, I'll take it." 

A little over an hour later, Remus squirmed, his horns nearly poking into Logan’s side. He groaned quietly. 

Chuckling, he catches the horns, redirecting and stroking his face. "Remus?"

“Yeah?” His voice came out raspy. 

Memory a little weak there, love?

“Shit.” 

Remus launched up, nearly hitting Logan with his horns. “Fuck. Did you…?”

Dodging back, he hums. "Did I figure out it wasn't you? The glowing eyes were a big hint, dear. Are… are you okay?" 

Remus barked a laugh, his back to Logan. “Do you know what it was?” He asked incredulously. 

"A demon. However, that does not answer my question. I assume this is not a new thing to you. Is it why you are traveling to this village?" Hand touching Remus, he sighs. "You still have my support, Remus. I won't leave you."

“It’s still a few weeks away, but… Yeah. Hoping they can exorcise it.” He shook his head. “Why are you worried about me? I’m evil. You should be trying to execute me, not… This.” 

 "Every being has the potential for evil. You aren't giving into it. You aren't the demon. You wouldn't be trying to rid yourself of it if you were, at your core, evil." Smiling softly, he hugs Remus gently. "Until you give in and show me that you are evil, I will be at your side."

He shook his head, not hugging back. “You don’t know what I’ve done.” 

"Tell me then. We have time." 

“Tell you?” He laughed. “About-”

Now that’s not a good idea, is it, my love? 

He shook his head. 

Don’t forget to check the camp. 

“Let’s just… Check the camp. There might be something useful.” 

"It was just an offer, get it off your chest. We can check the camp, certainly. I should try to replace some of…" He gestures to his torn up clothes. 

 They spent a good while digging through the camp’s contraband. More than a few times they came across bodies, Remus grimacing and turning away. 

“Hey,” Remus said. He waved Logan. over and held up a silver ring. “Any idea what this is?” 

Humming softly, he adjusts the newly mended clothes, patched with two other shades of blue, holding out his hand and giving it a wave over. "Looks to be definitely magical…. and holds charges of magic." Showing the potions, he smiles. "I found healing potions and some gold!"

Remus smiled shyly. “That’s good. I got some extra food, and some gold of my own. Want to split the gold 50/50?” 

Idiot. What if you have more? Now you’re just losing gold. 

Remus forced his smile to stay up and said, “Shut up.”

Nodding, he passes over one of the potions. "You hold onto the ring, it doesn't feel bad? Should we combine the gold and then split it?"

Remus slipped it on with a shrug. “Yeah, I got 53.” He dumped the pile into Logan’s hand, trusting him to split it evenly more than himself. Smiling softly, Logan gives his hand a kiss, dividing it quickly into two even piles and handing back 64 gold. "There you are, darling!"

He blushed. “Thanks, Lo. Wow. This is… More gold than I’ve had in a while. I think we’ve got a few more hours of daylight, if you want to try closing the distance on the village?”

"Sure!" Giving Remus a gentle hug, he smiles softly. "We can spend a night near the river, wash up a little?" 

“That sounds nice,” he admitted as they headed back to Juniper. “You’re really not… Worried? Sleeping around me?”

Humming softly, he shakes his head, guiding Remus a little with a hand on his hip. "It might be naive, but the demon seemed to be teasing? Not actively wanting to harm me?"

“He’s encouraged me to harm you dozens of times since we met,” Remus insisted. “To be blunt. He wants me to hurt you.” 

Well, don’t give everything away.

"Has he? And yet… You haven't. You've done the opposite." Logan chuckles, tapping his nose as he lifts Remus up onto Juniper with a soft bounce. 

Remus blushed and wrinkled his nose. “That hasn’t been easy. We don’t know how long it’ll last.” Remus rubbed his burnt hand against his pants, swallowing. “It’s not safe to be around us.”

And isn’t that exciting? 

"Remus. If that's how it is my fate to go out… Make sure I'm looking at you so I can see your lovely face?" Settling behind him, he hugs him gently. 

Remus yipped at being lifted unexpectedly. “You’re so… Extra,” he laughed, sinking to lean back against Logan’s chest. 

They arrived on the main road, headed towards the river. The sun was quickly setting, the sky dark blue, almost purple. 

Keeping Remus close, he chuckles, stroking softly as he lets him cuddle in. "And yet, I hear zero complaints!" Remus ended up dozing a bit as they rode. They reached the river with no more encounters, Remus half-asleep against Logan’s chest. Petting softly, he hums, Remus' head pillowed on his shoulder as they come to a nice clearing to make camp. Easing Juniper to a stop, Logan smiles, watching him. 

Remus sighed softly. “Time to get up?” 

Nodding, Logan shifts them, sliding down and taking Remus into his arms. “I've got you though, just relax."

Remus blushed. He couldn’t find it in himself to resist. “Are you this mothering to everyone?” 

Blushing gently, he hums. "Everyone of importance to me, yes." 

Remus nuzzled into his shoulder. “We’ve only known each other 24 hours.”

Ooh, he likes you. Lots of fun we can have there. 

“Shut up,” he mumbled. 

Fingers tightening, he hums. "It may be a short time knowing you, but I hope that it's the start of at least a friendship." 

“If you say.” 

When they got to the river, Remus planted his hooves on the ground and shed his clothing. 

"I do." Turning a little, he slides his own clothes off, reaching into his pack for some soap as he drapes the fabric over the ground in a dry area. 

Remus lowered himself into the water down to his neck and sighed. “I haven’t done this in a while,” he admitted. 

Sliding into the water, he gestures for Remus to come closer. "Let me wash your back then? I bet it'll feel good to get all clean!"

He blushed but came closer, centimeters between their skin. Lathering up some soap, Logan grins, fingers rubbing gently as he uses his strength to his advantage to care for the dark tiefling with a soft hum. Remus bit his lip and melted into his touch. He’d never been touched so… Intimately.  

Guiding him closer, Logan gives one tall horn a kiss. "Dunk down a little, get your hair wet to be cleaned?" 

Remus managed to obey, his dark hair hanging wet in his face. 

Am I going to have to share you now, my love? 

Lathering up more of the soap, he hums, working it into the dark skin as he gets a bottle, working that into the long hair with a small smile. "There's a good boy… let's get you all cleaned up."

Remus’ breath hitched. He nodded dumbly. 

Easing Remus over to settle him against his chest, Logan cleans his hair and skin gently, nodding. "Yes. You're a good boy, Remus. Strong and capable… compassionate in your fight for those who have been killed by bandits. An admirable man."  

Remus’ hips bucked. He shook his head. “No. I’ve hurt people.”

Sliding a hand down the dark chest, he lets his fingers pet a dark nipple, one knee sliding between his legs to let him rut if he wants to. "I've hurt people too, accidental and on purpose. Am I bad, darling~?"

“No,” he whined, rutting on his thigh and grinding back against him. “No, you’ve been taking care of me…”

Pressing a kiss to his hair, he nods. "I can be good to you. You deserve it. Do you want me to take care of you fully tonight, dear one~?" Letting Remus feel his hard cock, he guides him to where he can rub against it if he wants to. 

“Please?” He whispered. “Out of the river?”

Lifting him gently, he nods, kissing Remus' neck softly. "Of course, dear one… you deserve to kneel on my bedroll as I open you up for all the pleasure I can give you~!"

He whined and arched his back. “Please, Logan, please…”

Smiling, he positions Remus on all fours, getting a vial of lubricant and coating his fingers to stroke his hole as he starts working to open him. "Been a while, hmm, or am I even perhaps the first that you've trusted with this part of you, Remus~?"

“You’re the first,” he whimpered, barely holding himself up. 

Nodding, Logan uses a hand underneath to hold him up as he rubs the soft inner walls with one and then two fingers, spreading him open. "Mmm… Have you touched yourself before, precious?" 

“Not- Not like this,” he panted. “Fuck, it- it feels so good…”

Grinning, he finds and rubs that sensitive spot inside, nibbling his neck and ear. "Mmm, let go for me, darling. Cum all over my hand~!"

Remus clenched as he came with a whine, his back arching. 

Pressing a third finger into the spasming hole, he kisses his neck before tipping his head to claim his lips. "Good boy! Mmm, so sweet and obedient!"

Obedient’s a good word for you. 

“Thank you, sir,” he panted, squirming in overstimulation. 

Keeping his chin in place, he lets his fingers still inside, focusing on the chapped and bitten lips. "Mmm, you're welcome, my dear. Stay focused on me, not the other voice. Tell me when you're ready for more~?"

“I’m ready,” he begged. “I need you.”

Smiling a little, he strokes lube on his cock, trading his fingers for it and pressing in slowly. Remus moaned loudly and buckled, pressing his forehead to the bedroll. 

Taking the slim hips, he helps him spread and open, rocking gently as he inches more of his cock inside. Slowly and carefully, he bottoms out in Remus, moaning as he gives a moment for him to adjust. "Fuuuck, Remus~!"

Remus whimpered and grinded back against him weakly. “Hhh, fuck, Logan, so- so good…” 

Well, aren’t you a cute little slut? You just met this man and a few compliments later you’ve given him your virginity! It’s actually pretty fun, wanna make a habit out of it?

Kissing at his neck, he grins, thrusting in slowly, petting his thighs and hips as he gently starts working his reactions, pressing in deeper and harder. "Mmm, you feel so good, darling~! Tell me when you're close~?" Reaching under, he cups and strokes Remus' cock as it leaks like a roof in need of repair.

“I’m so close,” he breathed. “Please,” his hips bucked, “please harder?”

Squeezing and rubbing, he grins, fucking him harder and faster. "Mmm, harder? Want to be feeling this tomorrow as we ride~?"

He gasped. “Please!” 

Nibbling his neck, he strokes Remus' hip. "Mmm, some even like the idea of riding a cock as they ride a horse… Using the animal's gait to be filled and fucked in broad daylight~!" Using his hands on the slim hips to imitate that idea, he rocks Remus onto his cock as he fucks him even harder.

Unable to do anything but moan and babble unintelligibly, he fucked back against Logan with his eyes rolled back. “People- People- People would- would see!”

"Mmm, some find that, stimulating~!" Pressing against his prostate, he nips at Remus' neck, describing the scene more. "Your skirt would cover the front of course, but your ass would be filled with my cock as Juniper takes us into the stables~"

“What- what happens when we have to get down? How would we hide it?”

Kissing softly, he hums. "I shift you off and slide my cock back into my trousers… Your skirt covers enough of your legs to get you to a safe place like a rented room."

Remus whimpered. “What if someone catches us?”

Sucking at his neck, he grins, fucking him faster. "They likely assume you're mine to do as I please with… We use their prejudice against them, dear."

“They’d- They’d think I’m a slut,” he panted, so turned on he could cry. 

I vote yes. 

"Mmm, they'd think that you're MY slut, dear~!" Hands tugging him back into even harder thrusts, he hums in Remus' ear. 

“Am I?”

Stroking over his thighs, Logan pants softly. "I want you to be more than that… but if you want to be, I won't say no to you being mine, dear~!"

You’re mine. Don’t fucking forget that. You can be his slut, but you’re mine. 

“Please, I’m gonna cum,” he panted. 

"Going to cum when I fill you up, my little slut~?" Letting his teeth scrape a little, he hums, fingers stroking Remus' cock, he rubs over the sensitive head.

“I can’t hold it!”

Pressing against his prostate, he moans out, cumming hard with a low growling order. "Cum!!"

Remus’ vision whited as he came, whimpering so loud he prayed no one was around. 

Holding Remus close, he pants, slowly working the cum in deep before settling them into a spooning position to pet him. "Mmm, mine~!"

“Yes, sir,” he panted. “Do you really want to do that tomorrow?”

Fingers stroking, he smiles. "If you think you can handle it… I'd love to."

“I want to try.” He blushed. “I’m sure I can handle it.”

"We've got a distance outside of town. You can certainly shift back to regular riding before we reach the town edge if you're nervous, okay?" Kissing his neck, he smiles softly, petting him.

That won’t be happening. This is too much fun to pass up. 

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” 

Stroking his cheek, he smiles. "If ever you need to talk about something, you just say yellow. If it's overwhelming and you need to stop, just breathe, you say red. Okay?"

Colour system? Boring. You won’t need that. 

Remus leaned into his touch. “Yes, sir.”

"Good boy, precious. I want you to have outs, even if you think you don't need them, hmm?" Kissing him softly, he grins.

Remus whimpered a little and kissed him back. 

Logan's fingers stroke and rub over his scalp as they kiss, hips bucking into him again in soft question. Remus gasped and grinded onto him. 

"Mmm… I think you need another load before we sleep. You've been such a good boy~!"

Remus gasped a little. “N-no, I haven’t…”

Oh, please. You took his first load with no complaints. You’ve been a very good boy. Take another. 

Humming, he strokes over his belly and chest, holding him up as he starts to thrust again. "You have, my dear… Such a good boy~!"

Remus hid his face in his hands and whined, thrusting back against him. 

Pressing in deeper and harder, he lets his teeth scrape gently. "Mmm, my good little slut, aren't you~?" 

“Noooo,” Remus whined. 

"Mmm, aren't you~? Rocking back into my cock like you're starving for it… whimpering and moaning so prettily, baby~!" Nibbling Remus' neck, he pinches his nipples lightly, rubbing his cock over his sensitive prostate with each deep thrust. 

“Fuck, fuck, Logan, so close…”

Kissing at his neck, he grins. "I know, baby… Fluttering and clenching so nicely for me, so good~!" Tipping him a little to press harder against his prostate, he gasps out a soft curse, cumming hard against it. "Cum for me, Rem~!!"

Remus came with a high whine, squirming and curling his toes. 

Raising Remus back into him, he hums, kissing at his neck and running a hand over his belly as it fills. "Mmm, mine~!"

“Fuck… Fuck, Logan…” 

Petting softly, he grins. "Mmm, scrambled that pretty little head of yours, baby~?"

Remus blushed. “That was… Insane. I’ve never- I’ve never done anything like that before.” 

Gently settling Remus on his lap, he smiles, kissing his lips. "I'm glad I made it both a memorable and pleasurable experience, my dear~!"

Remus gripped onto him, his entire face red. “Um…” He laughed awkwardly. “I can- I can take first watch, and… Wash our clothes, if you want?”

Kissing his nose softly, he hums. "Take a short rest in my arms first, hun? We can watch together for a little bit while you recover." 

He nodded slowly. “Okay… Sure.” 

He leaned back, not enough for Logan to pull out but to grab his bag. He dug around inside for a moment before he pulled out a flute. A sweet, bouncing melody lit up the air around them, the notes shaping into a black cat with heterochromia curled against them. 

Stroking over Remus' hips, he hums along softly, smiling as they cuddle. Eventually, Remus put the flute away and kissed Logan’s forehead before leaving to wash their clothes in the river. 

Watching with soft eyes, Logan rinses off a little as well, making sure their fire is made for the night. "I can see if I can get some fish for tonight if you want, dear?"

He hesitated. “Sure. We have rations to eat, but maybe we can sell the fish when we get to town?” 

"Very true. Either would work! Do you have a preference?" 

“We could get a lot of gold for the fish.” He scrubbed Logan’s robes carefully, picking out any speck of blood. “From what I’ve heard, the village is… On the upper end. We’ll need all the extra gold we can get.” 

"Ah, got it… I'll see what I can do, maybe we'll get really lucky and some wildlife will approach the camp on our watches?" 

Remus smiled shyly. 

He washed their clothes and set it out to dry, then climbed a lone tree to take watch. 

Humming softly, Logan grabs a dart from his belt, trying to see as best he can in the combination of moonlight and reflected firefight. He ends up slipping on a mossy rock with his first cast, flailing with a soft yelp before blushing hard and getting a large fish up on the bank with the second cast.

Remus watched with a soft smile. He kept a careful eye around them. 

Panting a little, he takes a dagger and skewers the fish to keep it from flopping back into the water. "One down! I'll see if i can get another!" 

Remus took the fish from him and put it down. He skinned and cleaned the fish as he took watch. 

"Oh! Thank you, dear one!" Stealing a soft kiss to Remus' cheek, he turns back to the river, dart flashing as he grunts with the weight of the next fish as he hauls it up and out to present to Remus. "Oh my…. wow. I think this is nearly the biggest fish I've ever gotten!" 

Remus grinned. “Shit! I’ve never even seen a fish that big. I’ll do my best to skin it.” 

"You inspired me, what can I say?" Logan puffs up a little, proud of his accomplishment and he settles, seeing if he can help Remus at all. 

They skinned the big fish together, then cooked up dinner over the fire. They went through the rest of the night without trouble, Remus managing to hunt a few rabbits during his watch. 

He woke up earlier than intended, pushing upright and watching Logan sleepily. 

Humming softly, Logan lets his leg swing a little as he balances on the tree he'd decided to use for watch, missing that Remus is awake for a minute before smiling and waving. "Morning, hun! How'd you sleep?"

“Alright.” He rolled off the blanket and began to roll it up. “We should get going. Long way to the coast.” 

Sliding down out of the tree, he nods. "Indeed. How are you feeling, still up for that idea from last night, dear?"

He blushed. “Maybe we can save that? I’m… A little sore.” 

Weak. 

Giving him a soft hug, he chuckles. "Makes sense, dear. Kiss?" 

Remus gave him a quick kiss, then rushed to clean up their camp. Winking at Remus, he hums, turning to work with Juniper, making sure she's ready to go and taking their things as they're packed up, stealing kisses with each load of objects. Remus hopped onto Juniper and kept one dagger ready as they headed towards the nearest village.

A/N: Remus reveals that he's trying to get to the village on the coast so they can finally exorcise Adelaide. They check the bandit camp and find a mysterious ring, some fabric to patch up Logan's robes, healing potions, and some money. They wash in the river and have sex after Logan's incessant flirting, catch some game, and head off to the nearest village. 

Kofi and Commissions

[grimgrinnr]

}HEADCANON{

I have actually been meaning to post about this for quite some time now. It’s something that I’ve both talked about before but haven’t talked enough about. Plus, with new followers and all of that, it’s something that I want to really bring up and expand upon so everyone understands it clearly.

What this post is going to be about is what’s up with my version of Alastor’s body and what probably makes him unique from canon and other Alastor muses around him.

We’re going to be going from literally the top of his head down to the tips of his toes for this because there’s a lot to be said about it all.

But, before we really get in-depth with anything, I’d like to state one overall thing about him. Alastor almost always has a glowing outline around his entire body, it’s faint but noticeable when in darkness, and if you hover your hand over his body you’ll feel the glow like some sort of fuzzy warmth. Like the light of the sun on your skin, but dustier.

Now then, starting off with his head, I want to specifically go towards his ears first as they are probably the easier to talk and describe than other parts of his body. Simply put, the tufts of hair on his head that look like deer ears are indeed his actual ears, but it is only through magic that they function. If you were to cut them off, they’d fall off like normal hair.

Of course, cutting them off, or cutting them in half, will greatly damage his sense of hearing until they heal. So do that at your own risk, as you are liable to lose your entire respiratory system in a blink of an eye.

In addition, I would like to state that he doesn’t have any other set of ears. The ones on the top of his head are all he has. If you run your hands across the sides of his head and around to the back of it, you will feel the general bone structure of someone as it should be, just without any ears to get in the way as you make your way around his head.

Moving on from his ears I wanna come inwards a little to his antlers. There isn’t much to say about them. Just like in canon, they’re small and look the way they look. But, when it comes to feeling them, they feel like laminated wood. Extremely clean and smooth laminated wood.

Now, real quick, I would like to state that my Alastor’s antlers do indeed elongate severely when using his magic for a prolonged period of time, or if using a particularly powerful spell. But they do return to normal after thirty or more minutes depending on what made them elongate in the first place.

Skipping along to his face, I want to lump in his eyes and teeth into one section. The thing is, these things glow quite a lot. His eyes can almost act as dim flashlights for himself or others if desperate enough, and so can his teeth. The glow they give off only gets worse based on his emotional state.

When enraged enough for his eyes to turn into radio dials, the glow of his teeth will synch up with the syllables of his words as he speaks, making the glow flicker as he speaks. Usually because his teeth are clenched into a tight toothy smile when he’s like that.

But, even still, the glow his teeth gives off in that state is very bright. Not as bright as a ceiling light, but bright enough to cast a considerable shine on things.

Taking a small detour from Alastor’s teeth and eyes up to his forehead, I would like to say there is a very faint scar on there right in the middle of his forehead. The scar itself is hard to see, to the point you’ll have to be up close and personal with him to really notice it and not think it’s just the light hitting his head weirdly. Then, when using high amounts of magic, the scar will be covered by a luminescent red X mark.

The reason for both the scar and the mark are things he doesn’t like to talk about. But it has to do with the way he died.

Stepping away from his head as there isn’t much left to say, let’s come down to his entire torso, as the one thing I’d like to point out is something that stretches out across his entire body, but the most notable areas are his torso and arms.

Starting things off with his neck, he has fur that rolls down his neck like the collar of a dress shirt and it shares the same color scheme as his hair, but the black outlines the outside of the fur as best it can. As in, fur lines his neck from the back to the sides just a little bit underneath his head before dipping down smoothly around the front to form an almost V like shape as it comes down to his chest.

This is part of the reason why he wears such a long collar around his neck, aside from a few scars that line the areas of skin that the front of his neck gets to show due to it not having any fur on it.

Now, onto his torso proper, the fur that comes down his neck now spreads out across his entire chest come down to an inverted V shape just above his pelvic area, while down his back, his fur stops at an inverted V that just continues down for a while towards the lower areas of the small of his back just above his rear for reasons I’ll get into later.

Of course, due to his fur rolling down his neck, it also comes down his shoulders, which are completely covered in fur. From there, his fur comes down across his arms, covering it all around equally up until his elbows, where it then tappers off to only cover the top of his arms, getting thinner and thinner the closer it gets to his wrists.

Sliding over to his sides, the only fur that can be found there connects his front to his back and only comes around and across his ribs. There isn’t much else to say about that in all honesty.

Coming back down to his backside, the reason that his fur comes down his back the way it does towards his rear is simple. He’s got a deer tail. He’s not proud of it. In fact, he sort of loathes his fur in general. But, he can deal with the tail well enough. Simply put, he has the ability to conceal it by shrinking its size and squeezing it into his pants where it then flattens out. But, when freed from his clothes, it’ll fluff back up to a fist-sized tail.

Very quickly stopping at his more sensitive areas, that being his pelvic and rear sections for obvious reasons, it should be stated he keeps them cleanly shaven for his own personal reasons.

Moving on from that down to his legs, they too have fur. From his waist down to his ankles he has fur, but the inner thigh area down to just a little above the middle of his inner thighs are bare skin because he shaves it that way. Aside from that, he is completely furred from his legs down to his ankles, where it stops almost abruptly, although it does get thinner the closer down to his feet you get much like the fur on his arms.

Now returning back up to his hands, this is something I’ve talked about a few times before, but I’d like to bring it up again in greater depth. The majority of his hands are made up of black colored keratin, the same material that makes up our nails and the hooves of deers, but there are some small areas of bare skin on his hands.

It is only small areas in the center of the back of his hands and the palms as well. The reason for that is because his fingers are largely made up of keratin and the areas around their joints are made up of keratin as well. The inside of his hands is an interesting mess though, as there are no veins or bone in most of the hand because they all stop in the middle of it right where the bare skin is.

Which does mean that if you cut off one of Al’s fingers, it’ll just chip off and not bleed. It’ll still hurt and it will be the worst idea you’ve thought up, but still.

His feet are also made of keratin, but there are no bare areas down there. From his ankles down to the tips of his toes it’s all keratin. Speaking of toes though, I’d like to state that, despite all Alastor may try to do to change this, he has cloven feet. They are still shaped roughly like a human foot and even act the same, but he has two predominant cloven toes and even some dewclaws up along the back of his ankle around the Achilles’ heel section, but he uses his magic to hide them like he does with his tail.

And, of course, much like his fingers, nothing will bleed and break if you break off Alastor’s feet because of the fact there are no bones or blood running through them.

Now, for an all-around body thing, here’s something that I’ve talked about before but want to go over again. No matter what Alastor does, he is always malnourished looking. In fact, he practically feels malnourished at all times. This, coupled with his already skinny nature, makes him look very thin when not in his clothing. In addition, his nature as a demon who suffers from random spouts of intense hunger, he will sometimes gorge himself on so much food it will lead to...

Less than pleasant results.

Most of the time he just eats adequately sized meals, but sometimes will outright refuse to eat or eat far too much depending on the situation.

With that, we are done with this post. I hope you all enjoyed it because I liked writing it, even if it seems a little confusing at times.

[popcornaddict500]

M6 x mc headcanons but, EVERYONE is a demon

(i thought of this. What if everyone had become a demon after the devil’s plans, and were living normal lives? See it as a wholesome twist on the reversed endings! The world is ovbiously not as fucked up, it’s just that all people are demons or monsters or creatures, or even hybrids. It’s fun, you’ll see. I’ll be putting my own designs as the m6′s demon forms, they’re gonna be different than in the reversed endings (in Julian’s and Nadia’s case). You can look however you want to, just imagine a demon form you like. I’ll keep that neutral.)

Asra

-He’s become a fox person, sporting a large, white, bushy tail and fox ears on his head. He has soft, white fur covering his neck and his lower arms and legs. His feet and hands are fox-like and he’s got claws. His eyes lack a white sclera, instead they’re entirely purple (like cat or dog eyes). Also, he’s got fangs. He’s become taller and bigger in stature, but to be fair, everyone has.

-Still travels with you a lot, meeting other people from far away, and seeing new demon species and creatures.

-Once, the two of you helped a person with the lower body of a spider to escape a pool of quicksand

-They thanked the two of you by giving you a shimmering gem

-Asra still loves to cuddle you, and you love it too. He’s so soft and fluffy.

-A lot of naps

-He tends to fall asleep anywhere

-Faust has become a smol dragon

-Asra loves it when you pet his ears and brush the fur on his tail

-He just melts

-Despite everything, despite everyone becoming a monster or demon they are still living normal lives, and he’s content with it. As long as he’s with you.

-His tongue also got a lot longer 😏

-If he gets excited or he has to laugh, he makes yowling noises and it’s so cute

-Still loves water, find him swimming in a lake with a waterfall in the forest. He’ll ask you to join him, definitely 😏

Julian

-He’s become a dragon-man sort of creature. He’s got large, black, leathery wings on his back, and a long tail. His arms and legs are a scaly black, with clawed feet. He’s got black, pointed ears and some small, smooth scales on his throat. He can breathe fire but doesn’t really do it often. His teeth got sharper too, though he’d never use them on you. (he still has his hair, not like his reversed ending)

-He’s known as the ‘dragon doctor’ and has a clinic next to your shop.

-He’s still as goofy and likes trouble as much as he used to, and with his new form he can find it much easier.

-Takes flights with you on his back quite often, travelling through the forest or just in the sky.

-He loves visiting other towns to find ‘the rowdiest places’

-These visits end with him being injured 95% of the time

-But it’s hella fun anyway. He’s a demon so he heals a lot quicker.

-He can be self concious at times, imagine being on a date with him like

-’’Don’t you think we stand out too much?’’ 

-’’Julian. Look around the restaurant. That lady has 18 arms, that man has eyes all over his body and that person has a squid for a head and tentacles for arms. I really don’t think we’re the strangest people here.’’

-Despite having clawed hands, he’s remarkably gentle with you. But, when needed, he can scare someone shitless.

-Not only his body is monster sized now if you know what i mean 😏 he has a knot-

-His sense of smell is a lot stronger, he loves your scent and will often spend a lot of time kissing and cuddling you with you enveloped in his wings.

Nadia

-She’s become a beautiful creature, (she already was tho) with massive, butterfly wings resting down her back. The wings are a mixture of a shiny black and a deep purple, as well as magenta. She has two long antennea on her head and a long, thin tongue. She has 4 arms, with a bug-like structure to it. (kinda like doll arms, with segments yknow) She’s incredibly lightweight and very fast.

-Sometimes goes on flights with you, Chandra joins her. Chandra’s become a griffon, though a small one. 

-She can get to one side of the city to the other in less than 2 minutes

-Her different tongue is a guilty pleasure of hers, she loves kissing you like this

-She’s gained a weird love for flowers and often spends a lot of time in the garden

-Though she had to get used to her new arms, she’s discovered how useful 4 arms can be.

-She can walk on the walls and the ceiling for some reason

-Her servants are all demons and creatures too btw

-If you give her a bouquet of flowers she’ll love you so much

-Her wings are rather sensitive and it’s considered EXTREMELY rude for people to touch them without permission

-But of course she’s totally fine with it if you’re doing it 😏

-Gives great hugs 

-You can pick her up with one hand, she’s just so lightweight look out for stormy weather though

Muriel

-He’s become a werewolf-like creature, though he doesn’t really change much on a full moon. He has two wolf ears on his head. He’s got fur covering his neck and upper collarbone, as well as his lower arms and legs. He’s got a bushy tail and fangs, he can see in the dark. Like Asra, his eyes lack a sclera and are cat or dog like.

-He is quieter, because his voice has roughened somewhat. 

-He enjoys being in your presence, though. You put him at ease.

-He’s always worried that you dislike him because of what he’s become, but you convince him that you still love him. After all, we’re all monsters.

-He’s even bigger than he used to be and can just carry you with no effort in the slightest

-Inanna is a GIGANTIC doggo

-Can be used as a horse (Inanna, not Muriel xd)

-Somehow, when you pet his hair, he just purrs. 

-Gets super embarassed about it despite liking your touch

-Takes you with him when he goes exploring

-GIANT TEDDYBEAR

Portia

-She’s become a saber-tooth tiger creature. Her fangs are rather small (in saber standards) but visible, she’s got two fluffy ears on her head and a loooong fluffy tiger tail. Retractable claws on her hands and her feet. Feet look like cat paws but bigger.

-She loves cuddling, being a cat

-Honestly cuddling with her is heaven bc she SOFT

-She tends to get frisky after cuddling for a long while, sneaking her tail under your clothing 😏

-Pepi has become a winged cat with a detachable head

-Sleeps a LOT

-Can jump really damn high

-She can climb up walls like a pro

-If you kiss her she’ll want more, nuzzling into you and purring to get your attention

-’’Rawr!’’ ‘’Portia! You scared me!’’

-Dates are always so fun, she can always make you laugh even if it’s just from her tickling you with her tail

-Has a habit of falling asleep on top of you

Lucio

-He’s become a satyr. He has horns as well as a goat tail and hooves. His ears are goat ears. Also his hair is long. His legs are covered with blonde fur.

-He likes vegetables a lot more than he did before

-If you pull on his tail he’ll shriek in surprise

-Bleats when angry

-He is horny af 24/7 (it’s in a satyr’s nature)

-He’s curious to see what grass tastes like

-Please stop him from doing this

-Will sometimes carry you on his back and just take you on a journey

-He won’t mind if you ride him differently either 😏

-Loves to kiss and snuggle

(if y’all want more of a specific character, by all means, ask away.)

[arwenkenobi48]

Heart and Soul - Part One

With a sad sigh, Feral gazed out into the infinite night above him. Such a big, beautiful galaxy, yet without Savage it felt empty and meaningless. He sniffled, a tear running down his cheek. He missed his brother so deeply. Consumed by his own sadness, Feral didn’t notice the tall, cloven-hooved figure clad in red approaching him.

“Oh, my, what have we here?” The voice made him jump out of his skin. “Ah! Sorry, sir, you startled me,” Feral laughed nervously. “That’s quite alright,” the friendly stranger replied. “Tell me, what’s troubling you, young one?” Feral wasn’t sure what to say at first, but there was something inside him telling him he could trust this man.

“I miss my brother,” he explained. “He almost gave his life to protect me, then he just...left me here. I just wanna find him again,” “Aww, you poor little thing,” Mephistopheles, for that is who he was, wrapped his long red cloak around Feral’s shoulders. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling. You shouldn’t have to go through something like that.”

He held out a pocket handkerchief, which the Zabrak gladly accepted. “There’s nothing I want more than to find him again,” Feral murmured, his voice quaking a little with emotion. “I’d do anything to have my big brother back,” A light bulb switched on in Mephistopheles’ twisted mind. “Anything, you say?” He asked. “Yeah, anything,” Feral nodded.

“Hmm, what’s your brother’s name?” “Savage, and my name is Feral,” “A fitting name for such a strong warrior. You may call me Mephisto, by the way,” Mephistopheles brought his hand to his mouth and tapped his finger, the way people do when they’re thinking. “I believe I’ve seen your brother before,” he murmured.

“You have?” Feral’s eyes lit up in excitement, his hearts missing a beat. “Did he talk to you? What did he say? Does he remember me? Oh, please tell me, Mephisto! I need to know!” “Now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Mephistopheles smiled, holding Feral’s hand. “Take a look,” He waved his hand in the air and a vision of Savage appeared in a plume of red smoke. There he was, maybe a little taller and of slightly different build, but Feral would recognise the same strong yet sensitive brother he knew and loved anywhere.

“Savage...” he whispered, bittersweet tears stinging his eyes. He wanted to reach out and envelope his big brother in a warm hug. The emotions - as well as the strange hold Mephisto seemed to hold over him - overwhelmed him. Mephistopheles put his arms around Feral, his hands gently rubbing the Zabrak’s shoulders. “I can take you to him,” he cooed in an almost seductive voice. “You can be united with your brother again, as long as you do something for me,” “Anything, anything...” Feral whispered, entranced.

Still keeping one arm around the Zabrak, Mephistopheles conjured up a scroll of parchment and a quill pen. “All I ask of you, sweet Feral,” he purred. “Is that you sign this contract, surrendering your mortal soul to me, and my master, Lucifer. Surely, that’s not too much to ask, is it?”

Dazed and enchanted, Feral might have been inclined to agree, but he suddenly felt an uncomfortable twist inside him that made him feel cold all over. It was like his mind had been playing beautiful music and it had suddenly gone badly off-key. “My...my soul?” He gasped, staring at Mephistopheles in confusion and fear. “Of course,” the demon smiled. “It won’t be a great loss, especially not once you’re with your brother again. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” “Well, yes, but...my soul...” Feral sighed. “I don’t know...” he whispered.

“You’d better make up your mind fast,” Mephistopheles purred, still with that same enticing smile on his face. “Savage won’t wait forever, you know,” Feral gulped and thought it over. He felt Mephistopheles’ hands massaging his shoulders once again and instantly became more relaxed. Maybe he should sign his soul away after all. If it meant being rid of the awful loneliness that came from missing Savage, it was worth it.

No, it wasn’t, his mind desperately tried to fight back. His soul was his most precious thing, it was what made him him to begin with. To give that all away... It was getting hard to think again. With daydreaming eyes, Feral gazed at the soul contract. “I just want my brother back...” he murmured, speaking as if he was talking in his sleep. “Then all you have to do is sign it,” Mephistopheles whispered in his ear. “There’s nothing stopping you.”

To be continued...

[askthebrokenones-fm]

Egore was not a very physical individual. He made that clear plenty of times, from giving a disgruntled sound at being suddenly touched if it was a good day, a growl if it was a decent day, or a straight baring of fangs if it was a particularly bad day for Egore’s sensitivities. Which is why many mansion denizens neglected touching Egore in the ways they did others, like friendly hugs and kisses on the cheek. The most Egore allowed was a friendly handshake, albeit occasionally begrudging.

The only people that were allowed to touch the demon more than that was his only close friends, Sinclair and Emily. Sinclair was allowed a hug if he asked and Egore was comfortable, and Egore seemed to enjoy Sinclair’s hugs despite the boniness of them. Emily was allowed the same permissions, and she held no qualms with that, even though sometimes, she found herself desiring to take the demon’s face and cup it in her hands. But the demon didn’t like people near his face, which was understandable.

Today was about to prove a bit strange then.

Egore paced the attic floor now, glaring at his hands as he restlessly messed with his cloak’s cape. Emily was off to the side, working on some embroidery since it was their moment of free time. She glanced up when the demon’s clop clop clop of hooves went on for longer than she thought they would go. Emily patiently called to him, “Egore? Are you alright? Are you thinking about something?”

Egore paused in his pacing, glancing at her and evidently irritated. However his monotone voice was measured as he replied, “‘M thinkin’. I’ve been havin’ a strange time with m’ head ‘n’ I don’t know why.”

Emily tilted her head, setting aside her project to give Egore her full attention. Egore looked down to his cloak to avoid eye contact. It wasn’t that he was ashamed, it was that he simply didn’t like eye contact. She asked, “Do you... need help with it? To talk it out?”

Egore seemed to think on this before nodding and stepping over to take a seat on the dusty fainting couch across from her own dusty chair she had been sitting in. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today,” Egore started, messing with his cloak. “M’ body has been feelin’ all tingly today, ‘n’ ‘m tense. I can’t seem ta relax ‘n’ it’s gotten in th’ way of m’ playin’ so I can’t relax anyhow. I tried readin’, but I can’t sit still.” He gave a helpless gesture, sighing to himself in slight despair. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Emily nodded along to his explanation, before admitting, “I don’t know what could be the issue either...”

They sat with each other, both of them pondering this dilemma, Egore restlessly tapping a rhythm into his knees and Emily frowning over her embroidery. Finally the demon rasped, “I have an idea.”

Emily looked up expectantly, “What is it?”

Egore shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. He asked, a pondering tone to his voice, “Can I... have a hug?”

Emily blinked, before smiling a warm smile that easily made the demon across from her twitch his ears and blush a little in embarrassment at being so vulnerable. “Of course, Egore.” She easily stood and glided over to him, sitting next to him on the fainting couch. She opened her arms for him and grinned a little wider when he tentatively snuggled into her open arms, tucking his head against her chest and curling himself into her lap.

She didn’t normally hold Egore like this. Usually, it was just a one armed hug, loose and casual. This one that Egore seemed fine with at the moment was more a snuggle. She draped her arms over his shoulders, holding him close. The demon released a small sigh, all the tension she could feel in his shoulders releasing like a drawstring. She didn’t realize how incredibly warm Egore was. No wonder he was so hot during the summer.

She blinked when she heard him murmur more to himself, “Ah... so that’s what’s wrong...”

She smiled then, chuckling softly and reaching up before freezing. “Ah, Egore? May I...?”

He glanced to her with his electric blue eyes, before trailing them to where her hand hesitated at his scalp. He switched his eyes away, moving to tuck his face closer to her glowing heart. “Yes,” he hummed simply, his deep voice vibrating a little where his face lay on her chest.

She hummed, brushing her fingers through his jet black hair until she was massaging his scalp. A low rumbly purr stuttered out of the demon before he could stop it. They both froze. Emily looked down at him, grinning giddily like a school girl while Egore flushed bright in embarrassment and hid his face in her chest. “Emily... please...” Egore groaned, tapping his fingers in a nervous rhythm.

She chuckled, soothing gently as she continued with her massage, “Oh, Egore. Don’t worry about it; I wouldn’t tell a soul about this.”

Egore hummed in approval, relaxing again and letting himself purr.

[mentalmimosa]

if, indeed

Prompt: Soulmates.

“What I don’t understand,” Crowley said, “is why they spend so much of their not-at-all unlimited time and energy looking for The One.”

Aziraphale folded down his newspaper and squinted at his friend. “The one what?”

“Pffft, you know.” Crowley waved his hands about his head, his eyes goggled stupidly. “The One.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said patiently. Sometimes Crowley was like this, exasperatingly vague-- especially on a morning after a spectacular bender when the angel extended an invitation for brunch. There was no rule that said Crowley had to pop over just because Aziraphale asked, no matter how scrumptious Aziraphale knew his French toast was, how perfectly crisp and browned his bacon. Not that Crowley had ever actually admitted to enjoying either, but nor, the angel noted now with a spark of triumph, had his friend left a scrap on his plate.

Now the demon leaned over said plate, glaring. “Their soulmate, you git. That’s what they call them: The One.”

This was news to Aziraphale, the sort of news that one generally didn’t find in The Times: that is to say, incorrect.

“Do they now?” he said. “Huh. How very odd.”

“Yes. It’s in all their novels and things, their plays, you know. Art. I’d have thought you’d have noticed.”

“Huh,” said Aziraphale again. “From whom did they get that idea?”

Crowley’s eyebrow shot up. “From our side, I should think. The great minds that brought you Adam and Eve and all that. Set up a binary system right from the start, didn’t you? Of course they’re gonna follow that.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said nervously, for the thought had never occurred, “more than likely, it was for simplicity’s sake, you know. Or perhaps after creating two of such complex species, the Lord was a bit, er, tuckered out.”

This, Aziraphale well knew, wasn’t true. The original plans for the Garden of Eden--plans to which he’d been privy but over which he’d had no creative control, sadly--had always included two of what God called “humans” but Gabriel had lavishly dubbed “angels sans wings,” at least until the Lord had gotten wind of it and (so far as Aziraphale understood) told Gabriel to stop improvising and stick to the script.

And it had been part of the script, too, for each human not to be limited in the choice of fruitful (physical and/or metaphorical) partnerships; there was not, Aziraphale was certain, A single One. It had been brought up In the Beginning, of course, a suggestion from Michael and his ramrod straight lot: Script their stories. Write their tales. Set them loose only on the paths we have chosen for them, et cetera. It was silly, Aziraphale had thought then, though of course no one had asked his opinion; why go to all the trouble of creating something as wondrous as a world and then spoil it by dictating everything? They had already built a universe at the Lord’s direction, following every instruction to a T, and the whole point of the Earth, Aziraphale had believed, was to give God a go at a different sort of direction: free will and choice and all that.

In the sense, good sense had won and the humans were set to wander about and fight and mate and wander still further as they liked. It had taken a bit of getting used to; it had taken centuries for the Lord to stop losing Her temper and lashing out with natural disasters whenever the humans did something she didn’t like. But never in all those millennia had Aziraphale known the Supreme Being to give a toss about any human’s love life--aside from that young girl in Judea whose marriage to a carpenter had been so fortuitously timed with God’s sudden itch for offspring. No human had a singular solemate per se; how odd, the angel thought, neatly folding his newspaper and setting it aside with care, for them to focus on the notion of The One.

“No,” he said with a firm shake of his head. “That isn’t ours.”

“Are you sure?” Crowley was smirking now, the telltale curl of his lip that Aziraphale had long since learned meant ha! the angel doesn’t have all the facts.

“No,” Aziraphale said again. “I’m certain. We wouldn’t lie to them about something like that.”

Crowley sat back a little, his mouth still quirked. There was a peak of gleam in his eyes. “Oh, come on. Yes, you would.”

“May I remind you that the whole nonsense of marriage was, as you put it, one of yours? We’d cast our lot pretty clearly with celibacy.”

“Well, I can’t take credit for it directly,” Crowley said with a snort, “but I know the lad who whispered into the ear of the right elder during the early days of the Church. He’s the one who rejiggered Paul’s letters, that elder was. Heh!” Here here grinned at Aziraphale. “Difficult to be celibate when God’s book is telling you to have shack up and have kids, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I did warn them about the dangers of dictation, Crowley. Wrote many a strongly worded letter along those lines.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“I’d be surprised if any of them were opened, frankly.”

“Ach,” Crowley said. He patted Aziraphale’s arm. “That was their mistake, then, wasn’t it? Don’t be hard on yourself about it.”

“Still,” Aziraphale said, “regardless of whose fault it is, that still leaves us with the same problem.”

“What problem?”

“How do we dissuade all the people wandering about out there that love is the goal, hmm, the thing they should be striving for. Not this silly notion of The One. What if that one lives halfway around the world, after all?”

“True.”

“They’ve barely mastered seafaring, after all, in this part of the world, at least. What if you’re born in a bog in Ireland or something and your One lives at the tip of Cape Horn? What’s the likelihood of you finding them or them blundering up this way to find you?”

“Somewhere less than zero.”

Aziraphale frowned, his thoughts distressed and zooming about at a thousand miles an hour. “Or who’s to say if this One will walk the earth at the same time that you do? What if they’re only born after you die?”

“Az.”

“Or what if you get married to a bloke who seems nice and then a few later, alakazam! You run into The One in the street.”

Crowley’s hand on his forearm tightened. “Aziraphale.”

“What?”

“Calm down.”

“But--!”

“I was only pulling your leg,” Crowley said. His friend looked genuinely distressed. “Needling at you, you know. I wasn’t trying to get you upset.”

“I’m not upset, I’m”--here Aziraphale flailed--“distressed on someone else’s behalf.”

“You feel too much, angel. You always have. Sensitive as all get out when it comes to the humans, aren’t you? Have been since they day that we met.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said with a bit of a sniff. “I like them.”

He had always done, ever since he’d first see the sketches of their original design: when it came to people, truly, these fragile creatures so dependent on their corporeal form, Aziraphale had been in love since they were merely an idea.

Crowley’s fingers slipped to his. “I shouldn’t have teased you,” the demon said kindly. “Not about them. I’m sorry, my friend.”

Aziraphale met his eyes, felt his own tear at the fondness he found there. “Apology accepted.”

Crowley’s mouth lifted and it seemed, for a moment at the breakfast table in 1815, that there was something very much more to be said. It hung in the air between them, the air stuffy with the smell of old books and powdered sugar and, if one sniffed very sternly, a hint of last night’s wine. Aziraphale’s soul sang with affection; not for the first time, his cheeks colored and something very deep in him trembled and he wondered, asked: should I give this voice?

But then there was a clatter of hooves on the cobblestones outside, a shout of a man in the street, and the moment--fragile as it was, like the softest spun sugar--gave way over their empty plates and gently, inexorably collapsed.

“Anyway,” Crowley said, sliding his hand free and looking vaguely embarrassed, “it was the humans who came up with it, this whole daft notion of The One.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat and reached for his coffee. “Really?”

“Yeah. They think it’s romantic or something, I guess, the idea of having a soulmate. Very silly if you ask me.”

“Oh yes,” the angel said, busying himself with the cream and the sugar and keeping his gaze from Crowley’s face, his mouth still full of all the mad things he’d quite nearly said. “Very silly indeed. Not to mention factually inaccurate. Not my definition of romantic at all.”

Crowley chuckled. The sound was a little pained. “For them, angel, I think silly and romantic go hand in hand.”

Later, when his friend had gone and he’d washed and set away the dishes, Aziraphale sat in his favorite window seat with a book on his lap. He’d no idea what it was; he’d tugged it from the shelf at random. After ten minutes gazing out at the street, he hadn’t made it past the flyleaf. It was just as well, really, for he would have been unable to read the words on any page: Crowley’s face in that crystalline moment--gentle, full of affection, fear dampened for hope--would not, could not, leave his mind.

How many times over the years had the demon looked at him thus? There was no way to know. How many times had the angel caught him doing so? A hundred, at least. Perhaps more. How many times had he allowed himself to gaze back? Far fewer. Far fewer, indeed.

But never before, as he had on this rainy April day, had he come so close to expressing what had hung for so long in the place he liked to think of as his heart.

I love you. Is that what he would have said? I adore you, even when you irritate me, darling Crowley. Perhaps especially then.

He’d let it slip by, hadn’t he, like a lost ship in the night, and who knew if such a chance--such a shot of sudden if incomplete bravery--might ever sail by his way again?

What if you spent millenia staring into the eyes of The One and never said anything, never reached for him, never acknowledged that he had become, as they said, the very sun in your sky?

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale sighed, tipping his forehead against the foggy glass. “Oh my dear. If, indeed.”

[characteroulette]

So I talk about Game Kids a lot. Why not post a little write thing I did when I was supposed to be going to bed before sunrise?

  (This is sorta canon? But anything told from Damon or Nicu’s perspective is not gonna be in the story as it is, so.)

  They'd been minding their own business, making their way through the Seventh Circle, when they'd been ambushed by the other team. (All right, to be fair, it was mostly that prince guy, Petel the wolf, and Abe who did the ambushing, with Ernest and Dante hanging back, but still. Three-fifths was majority.) And Jonathan had only offered up a quiet, "Oh." Then, after a moment (in which Damon and gang had scrambled to find some cover and Natasha and Aglaé took some hard hits), followed that with, "Looks like you guys have company."

  "Really, now?" Damon hissed at the sky, his forked tongue slipping out from the force. Ugh, he hated it when that happened. It was so uncouth. Didn't stop him from being spitting mad, still. "Is that the best you've got to offer on this situation?"

  "Damon, please." Nicu exhaled softly, looking back at Damon. They'd somehow managed it where Nicu and Damon were at the edge of the cover to check on their attackers while Aglaé and Natasha were behind them and Vektoria was probably off in battle with Vektor all ready. Nicu, of course, was always sensitive to their terrible support's feelings. "Jonathan's doing his best. There's no need to get mad at--"

  Nicu's eyes went wide and Damon recognised the look of pain before Nicu screamed. The sound of gunshots and a quick glance revealed that yes, Nicu's cape had been damaged. Nicu crumpled to the ground in agony and tears, his cape reflexively wrapping tightly around himself. Jonathan's voice resonated overhead, an actual fucking emotion in it for once, but Damon's ears had attuned only to the sounds of Nicu's pain.

  Damon glared out across the plateau and met with Abe's eyes. The eyes of a cold-blooded hunter. The eyes Abe's father had forced into that boy's skull, the eyes that had broken Nicu's heart just a few years ago. Abe had the rifle aimed at them, but Damon's vision went red. Then all he could hear was the singing of the Midnight Bard.

--

  Though in pain, Nicu watched the events unfold in rapid succession. Abe shot Damon in the shoulder and Damon's eyes glowed red. Just like Orpheus' eyes. Then Damon reached over to grab his single red wing, his hands becoming charred black with sharper claws, and he ripped the wing from his back in one bloody motion.

  "What the--" Jonathan's voice made Nicu jump. Nicu looked to the sky a moment to better listen. "Damon, what the hell? Your HP just exceeded 400,000 percent. Did you--Did he go berserk?"

  Damon's back arched as he grew suddenly to the size of a building and a different, black wing erupted from there, stretching nearly to the top of the sky box. Half of Damon's face had become burnt black, he'd grown a snout with tusks, and three extra horns curled out on each side of his head. The red wing he'd ripped out had become a fancy red sword and dripped with blood. Nicu gulped, words to describe anything that had happened escaping him. Or perhaps his brain had been numbed from the mixture of pain and shock. Aglaé, on the other hand, grimaced before speaking. "I'd say so."

  Natasha giggled uneasily. "Wellp. It was nice knowing all of you. May we work together again one day."

  "We're not dying here." Vektoria growled, landing beside Nicu shortly as she was flung back by Vektor's attack. Her mask had manifested, making her eyes white. "If you can't overcome this obstacle, then you're all unworthy of being my escorts."

  "Oh. Sure." Jonathan's voice quickly dropped back to sarcasm. "An HP sponge boss is the best test for your hilariously un-prepared entourage. Especially with extra enemies to deal with and after being ambushed by said enemies."

  Vektor clashed with Vektoria, knocking her further back. Natasha laughed, this time more genuinely. "Uh, duh! Obviously, Johnny boy, that's the best test."

  "Please never call me that again."

  Jonathan's annoyance turned to tiredness and Natasha grinned. Speaking of the danger, Nicu could hear gunshots. It seemed Abe hadn't given up on fighting Damon, despite the berserk situation. Petel, meanwhile, had retreated to stand by Vicario and Ernest. Vicario looked to be in a panic, judging from the erratic fire and the screaming. Vicario always seemed to be screaming whenever Nicu saw him, the poor dear.

  Nicu gulped and stood carefully to better observe the battle. Damon roared and charged at Abe, swinging that sword and striking down any in-sight rock outcroppings. Nicu noted that Damon still had hooved feet, but his faun tail had become that of an imp's, long and lizard-like with a spear head at the end. An icy grip rooted Nicu to the spot. They'd made Damon become the demon he'd never wanted to be all his life, grotesque and monstrous, just as they'd forced Nicu to become the vampire he'd refused to acknowledge. And Nicu crumpled back down to his knees, unable to stop his tears.

  "The fuck're you doing, Vampire?" Vektoria screeched over at Nicu, stomping down onto the ground beside him as she flung Vektor off of her. Nicu flinched, only able to hiccup in reply. Vektor regained his footing quickly and charged back at Vektoria with his key staff, which she blocked in time easily. She had the fury from battle fuelling her screams at Nicu. "Help us out here, don't just sit there and cry!"

  "Leave him alone, 'Toria." Natasha swooped over and kicked Vektor square in the face, the clang of her boot against his visor harsh to Nicu's ears. At least it distanced the two a bit. Natasha crossed her arms over her chest and huffed at Vektoria. "Nicu's got a lot of feelings."

  Vektoria, chastised, tried to save face by rolling her eyes as a reply. She then darted up to swipe at Vektor with her key saber. Natasha landed by Nicu and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  "We got this, no worries. If you need to cry, don't let us stop you, okay?"

  Nicu nodded vaguely, sniffing. "Thanks."

  "Though, if I may." Jonathan's voice spoke up, making them both turn their gazes skyward. "You could try getting back to the last checkpoint, Niculaie, so I can log you out and you don't have to worry about Mister Asheford rampaging over there."

  Natasha gave an interested 'ooh'. Nicu did his best to wipe his eyes with his shoulders, then shook his head. "N-No. Thank you, Jonathan."

  "You sure? He may destroy it at the rate he's going."

  Nicu smiled, though it was a weary one. "I want to stay as long as I can. Like he did for me."

  "That's so sweet." Natasha cooed.

  Jonathan gave an over-exaggerated sigh, but he was probably smiling about it, too. Jonathan's heart was definitely in the right place. Aglaé skidded by where Nicu and Natasha sat and frowned bemusedly at them. "You both know we're in the middle of a battle right now, correct?"

  Natasha stuck her tongue out at Aglaé. "Nicu needed a moment." She quickly turned her gaze up towards the sky. "C'mon, Jon, back me up here."

  "I've told you, my name's Jonathan."

  "See? Jon agrees with me."

  Natasha grinned at Aglaé and Nicu chuckled quietly. Aglaé simply shook his head. "You know what, fine. Whatever."

  Aglaé sunk closer to the ground, the muscles in his bony legs tensed and visible despite the fur, then he sprang back towards the skirmish. It looked like Damon had been wounded, at least, judging from the dark red splotches of matted fur, but also Vicario and Ernest had disappeared from view. Now, it seemed, someone (probably Petel) had convinced Vektor and Vektoria to join the fight against Damon instead of squabbling against each other.

  Natasha glanced from Nicu to the battle. She stood and placed one of her hands on her hip, leaning her weight that way. "D'ya think we'd even be able to knock him to his senses?"

  She raised her free hand in a fist, as if to illustrate her meaning clearer to Nicu. He hesitated before speaking, his eyes darting to the red-brown ground of the plateau. "I'm. I don't know. We didn't really get to experience our berserks like this during testing."

  And it wasn't like Abe could recount any of their experiences. Nicu's shoulders drooped at the thought. Natasha watched him a moment longer, then lifted into the air to hover. "Oh well. No better time to find out." She grinned, then flew off towards the battle, laughing. "Here comes the night! Gotham City's justice!"

  "Why are you like this?"

  Jonathan's exasperated voice overhead made Nicu laugh, though it petered out quickly. Natasha was right, Nicu had needed a moment to really take in how their designs seemed to fully disregard their own feelings about their monstrosity. Just another reminder from the game makers that their lineage and fates were unchangeable and doomed. Even Abe fell into the same boat with them and Nicu hadn't seen Abe's berserk yet.

  And Vicario no doubt had it worse than the rest of them.

  His resolve steeled, Nicu stood and flapped out his cape experimentally. The bullet holes still stung, no surprise there, but at least the cape didn't bleed. That would've made things more weird than they all ready were. "Okay." He took a deep breath and lifted off the ground to hover. So far, so good. "How much left to go on Damon's health, Jonathan?"

  "About 301,750 percent." Jonathan's reply was instant. "If you're getting in there, be careful. His range and damage output increased in proportion with his size, so about a ten-times multiplier."

  "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind." Nicu began gliding towards the battle. A thought struck him and he laughed humourlessly at it. "How long would you estimate it would take the enemies to knock Damon out should we fail?"

  "Three hours." Jonathan gave an unamused groan. "At least, at his current HP percentage. Three hours of time I could be better making use of researching or working in the labs."

  "Or doing homework." Nicu laughed again. "We'll try out best, don't worry."

  "I'm always low-key worried that you lot are going to take up all my time to begin with."

  Nicu dove in beside Natasha to block her from a swing of Damon's clawed hand. It didn't quite work, as the force still pushed the two of them a fair ways back. At least it hadn't been the sword. Natasha gave Nicu's shoulder a thankful pat, then she spun further up into the air to use her frost breath in Damon's face.

  Nicu glided around to Damon's side and landed on Damon's back, where Petel and Aglaé were both working on clawing and biting into various spots. Nicu stumbled as Damon attempted to shrug them off, then Nicu floated to the top of Damon's head. The eight horns protruding from his forehead and his temples seemed like a good place to start. Nicu took a deep breath, extended his fangs, and chomped down on the horn closest to him. The HP drain kicked in and, for a moment, the rush made Nicu dizzy. Jonathan even shouted his name. Nicu had to release before the overload made him pop.

  "That's one way to quickly acquire 4000 percent HP, I guess." Jonathan heaved out a breath, so done with this predicament all ready.

  And Nicu could share the HP amongst the players. This fight was, indeed, do-able.

[utukkigirl]

Ain’t No Cure for the Cervitaur Blues, Chapter 5

Ain’t No Cure for the Cervitaur Blues A Gravity Falls Fanfic by Krista Perry I own nothing.

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Chapter Five

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“So,” said Mabel, looking up at the green-haired, aspen-bark-skinned dryad who was going to help save her brother. “What are we waiting for, Alejandra? Can I call you Al? Alejandra’s kind of a mouth-full, if you know what I mean.” She rolled her eyes, grinning, and, had her arms been free instead of full of fawn-Dipper, she would have waggled her sweater sleeves at her.

The dryad looked at her, obviously perplexed.  Then she tilted her head and seemed to consider it. “Sure, why not? It will be a nice change of pace. But if I forget and don’t answer to Al, you’ll have to remind me.”

Mabel beamed. “I like you. Okay, Al! Let’s take Dipper to see your mom.”

Dipper, almost as if recognizing his name, lifted his head and pressed it under her chin, his little wet nose snuffling in her hair. One of his long ears tickled her check, and Mabel tried not to giggle as she adjusted her grip on the fawn. She still couldn’t get over how small and light he was, especially since she was used to carrying Waddles around. Dipper weighed practically nothing in comparison to her chubby cutie-pie pig.

Al knelt so that she was eye-level with Mabel, and bit her lip as she looked at Dipper. Mabel couldn’t help but notice that the dryad’s even, white teeth were marked with wood grain, and her lip seemed hard, and didn’t indent like skin would under the pressure of a bite. She seemed entirely made of wood (except for her awesome long green hair, and Mabel had a brief fantasy about dryad hair make-overs) but she moved with a strange, fluid grace.

“This is going to be a little trickier than I thought it would be,” Al said. “When Mother sent me here, I assumed I would be bringing back one human boy. Not a human girl and a boy enchanted into the form of a newborn fawn.”

Mabel frowned. “I can carry Dipper, if that’s what you’re worried about. He’s not heavy at all.”

“It’s not that,” Al said. “It took me a little over ten hours to hike here from Mother’s grove. I wasn’t going slow, but I was just, you know, taking my time.” She gave a sheepish shrug. “I’ve never been out this way before, and I was kind of… taking in the sights, I guess. I figured I’d get here, find the kid, and run back with him in less than half the time.”

“Run back with him, how?” Mabel asked, scrunching up her nose. Running over rugged forest terrain that took a dryad ten hours to hike, and in half the time? “Even if Dipper was still human, there’s no way he’d be able to keep up, and I’m pretty sure I can’t either, even after a whole glass of Mabel-juice. Come to think of it, drinking too much Mabel-juice would only slow us down more… I don’t suppose there are pit stops on the way to your mom? Hm, I bet she’s waaaaay off in the wilderness, where no human has ever set foot, so I’m ruling out restrooms and port-o-potties. Maybe I should bring snacks. You told Wendy you have a magic DVD player. Do you have a magic vending machine too? Does it carry Pitt Cola?”

Al blinked at her for a moment, then shook her head. “Uh… no magic vending machines, sorry. And no pit stops either. As for travelling…” She shrugged again. “Piggy-back?” she said. “That was my plan, anyway. Dryads don’t get tired running, the way humans do, even carrying heavy loads. That’s not the problem.” She frowned as she reached out and gently laid her hand on Dipper’s side. His flank shivered under her touch, and she withdrew. “Fawns this young are delicate and easily stressed, and that could make him sick. We need to figure out how to make you both comfortable, and still be able to get back to Mother as soon as possible.”

Mabel’s mind was racing, and she had already worked most of it out. “Okay,” she said. “I can wrap Dipper in a blanket. He can ride in my backpack, and you can carry me piggy-back, and then I’ll need--” She broke off as a familiar bauble on the dryad’s wrist caught her eye. “Hey, you’ve got an anti-Bill bracelet too!” she said, delighted that such a magical creature was wearing a fashion accessory that she helped design. “How did you get one?”

Al grinned, lifting her arm to show off the bracelet. “From Lazy Susan at Greasy’s Diner,” she said. “She was very insistent that I not be susceptible to demonic possession.”

Mabel raised an eyebrow. “Are dryads susceptible to demonic possession?”

“Heck if I know,” Al said. “It’s never really come up as an issue.”

“Well, if you are, you’re protected now,” Mabel said. “So, we’ve both got anti-Bill bracelets, so he won’t be a problem. I can wear a belt for my grappling hook and holy-water super-soaker, in case Gideon tries anything… Can you run carrying a cross-bow?”

Al gave her a bemused look. “I don’t think so. Not if I’m holding your legs and your arms are wrapped around my neck.”

“Hm, so the crossbow is probably a no-go, then.” Mabel’s eyes narrowed in thought. “And from what you said, it sounds like you wouldn’t have any problems out-running Gideon’s human goon squad. How long do you think it will take us to get to your mom, exactly?”

“At a full run?” Al smiled. “Four hours tops.”

“That’s great!” Mabel said. She looked out the gift shop window, where the last bright sliver of the sun was slipping over the horizon. “That means Dipper can be back to normal by tomorrow!”

Al leaned back on her haunches, frowning slightly. “I’m still worried about your brother. Traveling so fast, and in a backpack… that could spark his fight-or-flight instinct. Even if we made sure he couldn’t escape and run off, too much stress could really hurt him before we reach Mother.” She gave Mabel a searching, hesitant look. “I... I can communicate with animals. It’s a dryad thing, like spirit touching spirit, mind touching mind. If it’s okay with you… can I try to see how he’s doing?”

Mabel gaped. “You can talk to Dipper?!” she shrieked, and Dipper’s ears lowered and pressed back at the loud noise. Sheepishly, Mabel lowered her voice. “Why didn’t you say so before? Yes, yes, please! Ask him how he’s doing, if he’s okay, if there’s anything I can do for him—“

“Whoa.” Al held up her hands in surrender. “I said I’d try. I’ve never communicated with a human who has been turned into an animal, so I’m not sure if this will work.”

“Oh,” Mabel said, deflating slightly. “Well, please try anyway.” She shifted her grip on Dipper, gently pulling his head from where he’d tucked it against her side, under her hair. She felt him stiffen slightly as she pointed him toward the dryad. “Hey, Dip-dop,” she said softly, watching as he sniffed cautiously. “This is Al, and she’s going to try to talk to you, okay? So don’t be nervous. She’s here to help.” She knew he didn’t understand her, but he did seem to relax slightly as she whispered to him, and his ears perked back up.

Al closed her eyes, her brow creased in concentration. Mabel found herself leaning forward eagerly, watching Dipper closely. The fawn stopped sniffing, blinked, then tilted his head quizzically.

After a moment, Al chuckled and opened her eyes. “He’s hungry,” she said, and Mabel inhaled sharply.

“Oh my gosh, I forgot,” she said in a loud stage whisper, now mindful of Dipper’s sensitive ears. “I was just about to feed him when you busted in here! Soos made a bottle and everything!” She looked down at Dipper, who was still blinking at Al. “I’m so sorry, bro-bro, let’s get you fed. Follow me, Al,” she told the dryad, heading through the open door to the TV room. “You need to tell me what else Dipper is thinking!”

The bottle was right on the t-rex skull where she’d left it. Carefully, she lowered Dipper to the floor, helping him unfold his long, thin legs so that he was standing, and held him steady while he shifted on his hooves for better balance.

This was the first time she had seen him standing, and even with his neck craning up at her so he could see her face, he still barely came up to her waist. She had to bite her lower lip to keep her squeals of glee from escaping her mouth. Dipper was just so freaking tiny and adorable, she couldn’t stand it! She’d call for Wendy and have her take a picture if she didn’t think Dipper would destroy it at the first opportunity once he was back to normal. This moment would just have to go in her mental scrapbook.

The bottle held about four ounces of the infant fawn formula that Soos had mixed up. He’d told her that Dipper would need to be fed every four hours or so, but if they left immediately when they were done, this might be the only chance she would have to feed him before he was human again, so she was going to enjoy this moment while it lasted.

Al stood in the gift shop doorway, leaning against the door jam, watching with interest as Mabel held the bottle’s nipple to Dipper. A drop of milk leaked from the tip, and Dipper sniffed at it before it dropped and splashed on his nose. His little pink tongue licked his nose clean, and then, before Mabel could blink, he latched on and began suckling with enthusiasm.

Mabel found herself surprised when she had to tighten her grip on the bottle, or Dipper would have pulled it right out of her hand. She couldn’t help giggling as his little tail swished back and forth as he fed. Augh, so cute!

She looked over at Al with her peripheral vision, not wanting to take her eyes off Dipper. “Can you tell what he’s thinking now?” she asked.

Al didn’t close her eyes this time, but her brow furrowed. “Mostly he’s just happy to be eating.”

“Mostly?”

Al sighed. “It’s… hard to describe. Trying to communicate with him is mostly just like talking to a regular fawn – just pure animal instinct. But there are…” She frowned, looking around the room as if seeking inspiration when words failed her. Her gaze landed on a stack of colored construction paper on the table in the alcove, where Mabel had left her scrapbooking and knitting stuff earlier. Mabel tore her eyes away from Dipper and watched as Al walked over and picked up a sheet of green paper.

“Here,” Al said, holding up the paper. “Think of this as Dipper’s thoughts. Mostly, it’s animal instinct, just kind of flat and green. But then…” She picked up one of Mabel’s knitting needles and started poking tiny holes into the paper. When she was done, she held it up to the hanging light fixture. Light shone through the tiny pin-prick holes, reminding Mabel of stars.

“The light shining through these holes,” Al said. “They are his human thoughts. They’re very small, kind of incoherent, and…” She winced. “And they hurt. They keep appearing and disappearing like bright flashes amidst his deer instinct, but they aren’t having very much impact.”

Mabel looked down at her brother, who was seconds away from finishing off the bottle. “So… he is in there, somewhere.”

Al nodded. “Most definitely. To extend the metaphor a bit…” She held the paper back up to the light. “If these tiny pin-pricks of light are your brother’s human thoughts, and the paper is animal instinct, then all the light behind the paper is where the rest of your brother is.”

Dipper drank the last of the milk, but didn’t want to stop suckling, so Mabel had to force the bottle out of his mouth before he started drinking air. “There,” she said, stroking his soft head. “All done.”

Dipper plainly disagreed, because he let out a small, irritated bleat. Mabel sucked in her breath and grit her teeth, biting back a squeal. “You’re getting back at me by trying to kill me with cuteness, aren’t you?” She reached down and picked him up, carefully folding his legs under him so she could cradle him in her arms. “Well, it won’t work, because there is no limit to the amount of cuteness I can handle, little bro.”

With Dipper settled in her arms again, she looked back at Al. “So,” she said. “If all the light behind the paper is Dipper, can you talk to him?”

“I’ve been trying,” Al said. “But the paper is like a barrier. It’s trapping him behind all this instinct, but it’s protecting him too, because even the little bit of him that’s leaking through causes him pain. I don’t know why.”

Mabel scowled darkly. “It’s probably part of the curse,” she said. “It just figures that Bill and Gideon would do something so mean.” She looked down at Dipper and stroked his velvet-soft ears, wondering just how much pain he was in right now. He pressed his head into her palm, and as sweet as it was, she couldn’t help but wonder now if he was only doing it to ease his aching head.

“And speaking of,” she said, looking up at the dryad, “let’s go break that curse.”

Al smiled. “Yes, lets.”

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

Gideon, sheltered in the shade of the trees less than a stone’s throw away from the Shack, waited for the sun to finally dip below the horizon with a strange mix of anticipation and dread.

The anticipation he understood. When the sun went down, he came fully into his vampiric power. Stronger, faster, his senses of sight, hearing and smell magnified far beyond human. His ability to completely disregard gravity was an utter delight.

The dread… he didn’t really understand.

Tonight would be his third night as a vampire. The initial rush of being something powerful and inhuman was fading, leaving him with more time to actually think about what he was feeling about the whole situation. Bill had left him behind to sit a spell, guard the Shack and make sure Stan…ley didn’t leave while the demon was off hunting the real Stanford. So far, the only interesting occurrence was that a strange green-haired girl had gone into the Shack, but as far as he was concerned, she was just another life for Bill to use as a hostage in exchange for the rift.

So Gideon had a couple of hours with nothing to do except think.

Being a vampire wasn’t working out to be all he thought it would be. Yes, the power was sweeter than peach pie, no doubt about that. His new diet was regrettable, but nothing he couldn’t live with.

But he had made this deal for the sole purpose to win Mabel’s heart, and so far that plan had been as successful as a screen door on a submarine, all because Dipper Pines was too big for his britches.

Was being the important qualifier.

He grinned, fangs poking over his bottom lip, as he wondered how Dipper was enjoying being a helpless baby deer and dumber than a box of rocks. Bill told him that when Dipper was asleep, he would regain his faculties and remember everything from being awake. The prospect of Dipper knowing he was no more than a powerless, stupid animal was just so delightful, Gideon had daydreamed more than once about being a fly on the wall in Dipper’s mindscape just to watch him react. Maybe, once this whole unpleasant rift business was over, Bill would take him into Dipper’s mind so he could do a bit of in-person gloating.

Gideon gasped, his eyes glowing briefly, as he felt the sun vanish behind the horizon. And this time he paid careful attention to the difference between his pre- and post-sunset self.

As soon as the light vanished, it was as though darkest shadows of night coalesced around him, seeping into him, filling him with cold power that seemed borne from a void. An antithesis of life. This moment, more than any other, made him hyper-aware of how his heart was still and dead within him.

It wasn’t scary. Really, it wasn’t.

And if it brought back the sensation of being four years old, cowering in his bed under his blanket, terrified of looking at his closet door that was at least an inch more open than it was the last time he looked… well, that was just downright silly, wasn’t it. Because, if anything, he was something that should be feared. He had nothing to be afraid of any more! Eternity stretched before him, full of potential.

And he wouldn’t be alone. One way or another, Mabel would be by his side as his vampire queen.  And even if she rebuffed him at first, well, he could literally wait forever for her to come around. Immortals had to stick together, after all, since all their mortal relations would return to the dust. When that happened, and she realized that he could understand her the way no one else could, she would come to him, and together they would never have to be lonely ever again.

Granted, he didn’t want to have to wait that long for them to be together, but he would if he had to. He still had hope that Mabel would come to recognize and appreciate his affection and devotion much sooner than that.

A light in the attic bedroom of the Shack switched on and, curious, Gideon moved closer, wrapping himself in shadows so that he could remain unseen. He finally got close enough to look inside, but instead of seeing Mabel like he expected, Stanley Pines came to the window. He had a dangerous scowl on his face, and for a moment Gideon wondered if the man could tell he was there.

But Stanley didn’t do anything other than glare aimlessly at the grounds surrounding the Shack. Then, to Gideon’s surprise, he picked up a large sheet of plywood and placed it over the window, completely blocking Gideon’s view. A moment later, Gideon could hear the sound of hammering.

What in the world?

Suddenly he could hear hammering coming from the other side of the Shack as well. Swiftly, he flew around, staying within the tree line, and saw, to his astonishment, that the Corduroy girl and that strange gopher man were boarding up the windows on the main floor.

They were preparing for a siege, he realized. Oh my. Bill was not going to like this, not at all.

He was wondering what, if anything, he should do about it, when who should come out the back door of the Shack but the weird green-haired girl and Mabel herself.

He cringed a little as he saw that Mabel had a belt looped around her waist, from which hung her grappling hook and a super-soaker, no doubt filled with that horrid, face-melting holy water. She was holding a backpack filled with none other than Dipper, the stupid baby fawn, his wee little head sticking out of the top.

Gideon couldn’t help the throaty, low growl of amusement that escaped him at the sight of his nemesis-brought-low.

Immediately, Dipper began to jerk around inside the backpack, bleating in panic. Well, that was interesting. Apparently Dipper could hear him, or smell him, or something. It was pleasing to know that, even as a dumb animal, Dipper was appropriately terrified of him now.

Mabel lowered the backpack to the old wooden deck, wrapping her arms around the struggling form, whispering to the fawn, obviously hoping to calm him down.

The green-haired girl shook her head. “I was afraid of this,” she said. “We’ll never get him to Mother if any little thing sparks his fight-or flight instinct.” She sighed. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this, but… I can make him sleep. Only if that’s okay with you, Mabel. I can wake him up again when we reach Mother.”

Mabel looked up at the strange girl, and Gideon could see tears gathering in the corners of her eyes as she held on to her thrashing, transformed twin. “Yes, please,” she said. “I can’t get him to calm down.”

Gideon’s eyes narrowed as the girl knelt and placed her hand on Dipper’s head. The fawn immediately relaxed, eyes closing in sleep, and Mabel sighed, hugging him close. “Hang in there, bro-bro. We’re gonna get you turned back to normal before you know it.”

Wait, what?

Gideon held back a snarl as he turned his attention to the green-haired girl, and for the first time he noticed her pale, wooden skin. He inhaled through his nose, and while he could smell the sweet scent of blood coursing through the veins of Mable and Dipper, the only scents he caught from the girl were of bark and tree sap.

So, she was some kind of forest nymph, was she? And she thought this Mother of hers could undo Dipper’s curse?

Not if he had anything to say about it. No indeed.

Mabel shrugged on the backpack with a peacefully slumbering Dipper inside. The nymph sat on her haunches. Mabel climbed on her back, piggy-back style, and the nymph straightened, holding on to Mabel’s legs. “You ready for this?” she asked Mabel.

“You better believe it,” Mabel said, and pointed into the forest. “Onward, to the Mother of the Wood!”

The nymph laughed, and turned slightly. “She’s that way.”

“Onward!” Mabel exclaimed, pointing the direction the nymph indicated. “To the Mother of the Wood!”

The nymph sprinted with inhuman speed, causing Mabel to whoop in delight, and within moments, they had vanished into the dark forest.

Scowling, Gideon followed silently.

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

Ford felt a strange sense of unease from the moment he lifted the hatch and started descending the long ladder into the bowels of the buried spaceship. The familiar cold, stale air smelled faintly reminiscent of the reptile house at the zoo – a scent that had yet to dissipate after millennia underground.

He couldn’t seem to shake the low-level feeling of dread – not even during the thrilling plummet-via-magnet gun to the bottom of the ship. It was only as he started searching the endless corridors for parts, and that elusive adhesive, that he realized why he was feeling so unsettled.

This was the first time he had ever been in the ship alone.

When he first discovered the ship, Fiddleford had always accompanied him, helping him scavenge parts for the portal. And when Fiddleford deserted him, it was Bill who went with him, sitting in his mind, providing company and giving instruction.

Well, now that he understood what was bothering him, he could easily dismiss it. During his thirty years traversing dimensions, he had dealt with things, people and places far more horrifying than an ancient abandoned spaceship. And he had done it alone.

Not so easily dismissed, however, were Mabel’s words from earlier. And here in the depths of an alien construct with only himself for company, he had plenty of time to ponder them.

(He knew this place like the back of his hand. This corridor to the right would lead him to engineering, where he would find replacements for the burnt-out dimensional displacer connections.)

It was so easy for Mabel to place all the blame on Bill for the disastrous events of the past thirty years. But Ford could not so easily put all the culpability on the demon. He had been so foolish, playing with powers he didn’t understand; putting his trust in a being simply because it knew just how to flatter his ego.

And when he finally understood the reality of his situation and Bill’s true nature, he knew that they only way to keep anyone else from repeating his mistakes was to destroy the journals. No one else could find out how to build the interdimensional portal. He could not allow Bill to have access to this dimension.

(Dimensional displacer connections found, he put them in his satchel, along with several other pieces of tech that looked promising.)

And… he had tried. He tried to destroy the journals. How many days and nights had he spent, staring at the three books lined up on the portal room floor, flicking his lighter on and off in his hand? How many times had he almost had the will to set fire to those dangerous pages?

(Now for the adhesive, which would be in the destroyed mess of the bio-lab.)

But in the end… he was weak. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t destroy the journals. They were the results of a lifetime of hard work. Hard work had been what had pulled him from the mediocrity of Backupsmore University and into the limelight of the scientific community. Hard work had resulted in twelve doctorate degrees and a grant to pursue his dream. Hard work had led him to Gravity Falls and all its amazing mystery. He had spent years researching and documenting the anomalies of this weirdness magnet, and most of it was good. Most of it was safe. Most of it… made him proud.

That was how he justified himself. And instead of destroying the journals like he knew he should, he hid them. One in a hidden chamber near the secret bunker. Another near the elementary school, because what kid would be smart enough to find it, let alone understand what he was looking at?

(He’d always hated searching the bio-lab, because the faint reptilian scent present throughout the rest of the ship was joined with an acrid, citrusy smell that made his eyes sting. The lab seemed to have taken the brunt of the damage from the crash, and everything was crumpled metal, loose cables, dead connections, and scattered, crushed sample containers. But it was also the only place he had ever found the adhesive.)

The first journal. His favorite. His records of Gravity Falls before everything started falling apart. Probably the purest research he had ever done.

He couldn’t think of any place good enough to hide it.

And then, after nearly ten years of deliberate avoidance… he thought about Stanley.

And, after nearly ten years of deliberate avoidance… Stanley came when he asked.

Stanley could have refused. He could have ignored the request. But he came, and deep down, Ford knew he would, because that was just… Stanley.

(And there it was, a thin, non-sticky residue, purple and glowing and seeping through the bottom of one of the hexagonal bio-containers – a telltale sign of the adhesive within. He picked it up with a sigh, and carefully placed it into his satchel. Time to head back.)

By the time Stanley arrived, Ford was paranoid and half-mad with sleep deprivation because Bill was not happy with his switch of loyalties and was playing merry hell with any attempt he made at getting rest.

He had tried to explain the situation to Stanley. But he was rambling and incoherent, and why couldn’t Stanley just understand that he needed to take his best journal and get as far away from him as possible?

But Stanley understood far more than Ford was able to at that moment, because he pulled out his lighter, flicked it open, lit the flame, and held it up to the journal. Stanley could do what Ford couldn’t.

Ford had snapped. The rest was history.

Mabel was right. He was the one who had given Bill his first chance, and now his second chance to destroy the world. He and his blasted, stubborn pride.

Yes, Stanley had ruined his science fair project forty years ago. But Ford had succeeded beyond all expectations in spite of that. Or… perhaps because of that.

(Back to the entrance. It was simple to use the magnet gun to pull himself from one platform to another until he reached the ladder. He started climbing.)

Stanley came when he called, even after ten years. Stanley tried to do what Ford, in his madness and pride, couldn’t bring himself to do. And when Ford had been sucked through the portal, Stanley had not once considered abandoning him. Stanley, who always hated school, had studied his journals until he was able to repair an interdimensional portal, just to get him back.

Ford didn’t understand.

Why? Why?

What had he ever done to deserve such unwavering loyalty?

(The hatch opening came into view. The sky was purpling with dusk, and he knew he wouldn’t be getting home until well after dark.)

Mabel’s words resonated within him.

Doesn’t that tell you something? Doesn’t that mean anything to you? And when he finally does it, do you have one kind word for him?

No, Ford admitted to himself. Because giving Stanley that kind word he so desperately wanted would be acknowledging just how wrong he had been. About everything.

Wasn’t he supposed to be the smart one?

Reaching the top of the hatch, he heaved one arm over the side, only to have his wrist captured in an iron-tight grip. Before he could even gasp, he found himself yanked into the air by his arm, dangling face-to-face with Bill. Or rather, the very strong body he was currently inhabiting.

“Well, well, well, Sixer! Fancy meeting you here!”

Ford reacted instinctively, twisting in the air and reaching with his free hand into the folds of his coat for his disrupter rifle, but he was quickly grabbed, subdued and pinned to the ground by the six other men Bill had with him. Ford found himself flat on his stomach, face in the thick, long grass, with a heavy knee in his back.

“Now, now,” Bill chided the men. “Be gentle! Who knows what tricks ol’ Sixer has up his sleeves! Hey, why don’t we find out? Take his coat and satchel, boys!”

“Let me go, Bill,” Ford said, snarling as Bill’s lackeys manhandled him, stripping him of his belongings. “You don’t think I’d be foolish enough to leave home with the rift on me with you prowling around?”

“But Sixer!” Bill said, bending over to sneer in his face, yellow eyes glinting. “You’ve been so foolish about so many other things in the past, it couldn’t hurt to check!”

Ford found himself once again shoved to the ground, this time with his arms pinned behind his back. He watched helplessly as Bill sat cross-legged on the ground in front of him, took his coat and rummaged through it, humming tunelessly.

“Hm hm hmm, let’s see, magnet gun? Boring!” Bill tossed the gun down the open hatch. “Disruptor rifle from Dimension 6-3/a? Talk about outdated!” The rifle followed the magnet gun. Finding nothing else of interest, Bill finally dropped the coat down the hatch as well. “Now, let’s see what’s in this satchel that is so important, you felt you had to make a trip down there to get it!”

Ford grit his teeth as the first thing Bill pulled out was the hexagonal adhesive container. “Ooh! I know what this is,” Bill said in a sing-song voice. “What could you possibly need this for? Maybe to seal up an interdimensional rift?” Bill looked him directly in the eyes, grinning manically, as he dropped the container down the hole. Ford bit back the urge to curse at him, knowing it would only make Bill laugh.

Bill dumped the rest of the satchel’s contents onto the ground and started going through them, looking at each piece of tech with a bored expression before tossing it down the hatch. “What did you think you were going to use all this junk for, Sixer?”

Ford glared and didn’t answer.

“Oh, don’t tell me!” Bill said. “You were planning on trying to build some kind of tech to turn Pine Tree back to normal! Ha! That’s funny!”

“I don’t care how humorous you think it is,” Ford said, with all the dignity he could manage in his current prone position. “I will find a way to undo the curse you put on Dipper.”

Bill shoved the satchel and the rest of his salvage into the hatch. “Well, good luck with that, because the curse was made with a black Orb of Olgathag! I’m sure you’ve heard of it, what with it being one of the most powerful artifacts across the dimensions!”

Ford had heard of it, and he felt his heart stutter in his chest.

“It’s Pine Tree’s own fault I had to resort to using an Orb. If he had never invented those stupid bracelets, I could have just used my own power! You might have had a chance then! I could have reversed the curse with a deal.” Bill shrugged, that maddening, inhuman grin still stretching his face. “Oh well, it’s out of my hands now!”

Ford did curse at him then, and, as expected, Bill just laughed as he got to his feet.

“I think we’re done here, boys,” Bill said, looking around at Gideon’s thugs.  “Tie him up nice and tight, and let’s get him back to the Shack. I’m sure his brother is anxious to have him back safe and sound!”

Ford felt his eyes widen as it suddenly dawned on him what Bill had planned, and silently berated himself for his lack of foresight. Bill knew that he was prepared to die before giving up the rift… but Stanley?

In spite of all the soul-aching regret Ford had been feeling just minutes before, because of realizing how he had wronged Stanley in so many ways, he felt sudden, wild hope that Stanley was still angry with him for his coldness. He hoped that Stanley was still resentful that he said he was planning to kick him out of his house at the end of summer. He hoped that Stanley hated him for ignoring thirty years of work and sacrifice.

He hoped that Stanley would rather let him die than hand over the rift.

But this was Stanley, and all of Ford’s hopes felt hollow.

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

AN: Sorry that it’s been a month and a half since the last chapter. The offspring and I have been sick with colds, and never at the same time. I’ve also been dealing with some creativity-crippling anxiety, but I’m doing my best to fight through it. (At least it’s not the double-whammy of anxiety and depression, because that really sucks.)

I wasn’t planning on ending the chapter here, but since it’s already creeping up on 6,000 words, and it’s been a while since the last chapter, I figured it would be better to post this now.

Thank you for all the reviews and encouragement. I couldn’t do this without your support. Really. Your reviews and likes mean more to me than I can express.

[chaos-in-pandoras-box]

oo can u please tell us a hit more about jakosian races and how many there are? Cx they seem so cool~

I’d be happy to! Actually there are a couple links in our forum that cover all the Jakosian races. We don’t have information on the Radiants yet as the opportunity to work with them only opened up a few months ago, but you can find all the information on the races via our website encyclopedia or the listings themselves. ^-^

I’m going to post the forum thread below. Here’s the link to the Jakos Sublime page, which is separate from the forum post.

~

I think it's about time that I talk a little more about the Architects--who they are, what they do, and how they fit into the world of Jakos in the first place.There are six total Architects that are worshiped on Jakos. (There are actually seven Architects, but one is sort of their equivalent of Satan. But I'll get to that.) The Great Architect is the Immortal who gave life to the world to start, and created countless mega structures and cities across its surface. His name is Jakosrayovec--the same name that he gave to the planet. It also means "luminescence." Most everyone simply calls him Jakos. He is a galactic demonic force, and from my experience he has quite a large ego. If naming his own planet after himself wasn't enough of a clue, Jakos was the starter of most physical trends. He created the Jakos Demons, who are all reflections of himself.The second Architect who joined Jakos to assist in his creation was Vestrayn, or "darkness." Vestrayn is a being rarely spoken about. As Jakosians thrive off sound and light, they shun Vestrayn, who is a bringer of silence and shadows. He is related to Jakos and is necessary in order to have balance. Some say that he is also a Great Architect.The third Architect is known as Skul, whose name means "manifest." She is a lover of all things high class, and the beings that she created are known as the Neon Nobles. They're a race of reserved Jakosians fixated on social status, eletism, and order. Most of them have the mentality that in order to survive, you must be on top. Skul is no different in personality. She is aloof and collected, and has her own large following because of her "cool" aura and fancy tastes.The fourth Architect is Thorandorek, which translates to "self-creation." She is the Immortal who reigns over Ego, which plays a huge role in Jakosian lives. She did not contribute to the creation of a race of Jakosian, but helps in both balance and seperation of the types. She's contradiction and perfect blending at the same time, because she is both male and female. Thorandorek is a hermaphrodite, and allowed hermaphroditism to be possible on Jakos. The reason that she presides over Ego, however, is because she's devoted to giving Jakosians the will and drive to be whoever they want.The fifth Architect is known as Anhasi, which means quite literally in the Jakosian language "abhorrant." He is unique because he contributed to the creation of Jakosians by adding the race of the Demented. They are rough and unnerving Jakosians who enjoy pain, self-mutilation, and pretty much anything that would cause serious aversion. Anhasi is necessary, as he believes that perfection doesn't exist, and instead Jakosians are to achieve their own perfection by practicing forms of art, no matter what kind of art that is. Gender-bending is not only an art on Jakos, but a very common trend, and Anhasi is actually said to be female. He is always refered to as male, however, and holds the appearance of an androgyne.The sixth Architect is named Bladio, which translates to "ferine" or "wild." He was the creator of the Furfolk, who are a race of Jakosians who physically possess animalistic characteristics. Furfolk is an umbrella term that also includes avians, amphibians, aquatics, and reptillians. He is known for being extremely high in social status, and owns not only his own fashion line, but also is the creator of the largest online virtual communities on Jakos. He's well respected and liked, but sometimes seems a little desperate in personality.Lastly, called quite literally "the nicest Architect of them all," is Asyx, which means "rejuvenation." He did not contribute to creating a race of Jakosian, but he has the biggest band of devotees besides Jakos himself, and most of them took to calling themselves the Asyki, or in an English equivalent "the Angels." They normally possess white hair or light-colored eyes, and are the only group of Jakosians who don't normally decorate themselves in modifications like bioluminescence, tattoos, or surgical implants. They believe in keeping themselves "pure," because Asyx does not mod himself. He's known for being the most popular Architect besides Jakos and Bladio, and is also known for having a soft demeanor and very kind personality.Each Architect symbolizes a story, of sorts. Jakos is Inspiration, Skul is Manifestation, Thorandorek is Conceit, Anhasi is Mania, Bladio is Desperation, and then Asyx is Return. Basically the story goes that an individual has an idea, so he manifests it and molds it to make it his. In his success, he becomes conceited, which leads to mania when he gains so much power. Discovering the loss of everything else in his life, the individual gets desperate and starts searching for a way to come back down, so finally he drops what he created in the first place in order to obtain that feeling of mortality again. It's a very old story on Jakos, and a fable to never let too much power go to one's head. They believe that even their Great Architect has his limits.So I've outlined a bit about the Jakos Architects, but I wanted to go into more depth about the Jakosians themselves.For those of you familiar with the Jakos Demons, I won't talk about them extensively here, but I felt the need to include them anyway because they are, after all, a huge part of Jakosrayovec. The Architect Jakos created the Demons, who look extraordinarily similar to him. Know that dark-skinned, green-haired Demon wearing the eye piece and ring decor in my album? That's Jakos. At least... how he appeared to me on the day that he introduced himself as a god of the world. His Demons often possess horns, tails, hooves, pointed ears, or tan to dark skin. They decorate themselves in bioluminescent injections and fancy tattoos, which are very similar to Jakos's, except Jakos himself can create luminescence on his own. The Jakos Demons thrive on simple pleasures. Smoking, drinking, partying, hallucinogens and stimulants, good food, sex, etc. They are the dark, carnal beings of the night who lose themselves in music and dance. The Jakos Demons were originally the first Jakosians to be created, and were simply considered "Jakosians" and not "Demons" of any sort, but they later gained their name as their appearances matched the more carnal, feral looks that many demons possessed. Also, as Jakos began recruiting other Architects, the idea of other Jakosians grew to fruition, and the Demons needed a name and image to hold to consider themselves unique to Jakos himself.Although there is really no say as to which Architect created the next set of beings, the next ones I want to talk about are the Neon Nobles. Originally created by Skul, the Architect of social class and manifestation, the Nobles are beings of order, secrecy, creation, business, and social success. They're often times rich and/or famous, and they love to drown themselves in luxury. They're not liked all that much, because they're often regarded as snooty or pretentious, but this isn't often the case. The Nobles aren't always born into richness, but have a naturally charismatic charm to them that can get them on top of society swiftly. Skul, who took after Jakos quite a bit, created the Neon Nobles to easily retain luminous injections. Their skin is sensitive and actually translucent, and although lumi fades after a month ortwo, Neon Nobles can keep their colors for much longer than any other being. They are frequently decorated in lumi--often times more than even the Jakos Demons, and will wear outfits that glow, radiate color, or possess high contrast. This, of course, is how they gained their name. Instead of enjoying self pleasures like the Jakos Demons, the Neon Nobles enjoy conversation and fancy get-togethers over almost anything else. They will talk your ear off if you let them, especially about philosophical discussions or the quality of music tastes and fashionable dress. They're classy, refined, charismatic, and they easily make friends with like-minded individuals.Next on the list are the most feared and avoided beings on Jakos. Created by the infamous Anhasi, Architect of abhorrence and, ironically, art... the Jakos Demented are the crazies of society. Anhasi wished to contribute to the creation of mortals by giving the world little portions of himself. The Demented encompass Anhasi's complex thinking and dangerous mind. The Demented are trouble makers. They are often the beings found in prison for doing wild, crazy stunts. They're renowned on Jakos for self-mutilation and artistic scarification. They tempt people to think outside the box, and to face their fears with wild abandon. They are often difficult to look at, as they take pleasure in the grotesque sides of mortality and aren't afraid to mar up their faces or bodies for their own enjoyment. They enjoy pain--both giving and receiving--and are often not perfectly stable mentally. They are into tattoos and lumi, as well as sugically modifying themselves. What is unique about the Demented is that all other Jakosians can fall into their category. It depends on how far skewed the Jakosians' thoughts have gone, whether they have gone crazy, or are simply into the more perverted realms and taboo ideas of society. The only major worry about the Demented is that they are the wild cards of Jakos. They can be dangerous. And for that reason, any Demented binding done in our shop will be screened and done by Anhasi himself, as he has agreed.The Jakos Furfolk are a race of people who physically possess animal-like characteristics. They were created by Bladio, who holds the appearance of a Fur himself. They are likeable beings who are some of the easiest to get along with. They are social and love to band together to share similar tastes. You could easily relate them to the "furries" of Earth. They're normally very playful and youthful, and enjoy online communities or invite-only parties. They're not very big fans of Neon Nobles, as they typically dislike politics or any thought of rising high in social status. There are several branches of Furfolk, which is actually an umbrella term to cover several animal-type beings. There are the Mammilians, Avians, Reptilians, Aquatics, Amphibians, and Insectoids. Each type has its own unique characteristics, but some are rarer to see than others. The Amphibian and Aquatic beings normally live in select few cities where entire waterway systems have been built for them to travel around from place to place. They frequently keep to themselves instead of mingling with the other types. Despite the Furfolk being labeled by fur, it's actually the Reptilian race that has the biggest appearance on Jakos out of the bunch.Architect Asyx's Jakos Angels are actually not Angels at all. In fact... Asyx didn't even create them. The Angels are Asyx's devotees, and are actually called the "Asyki" on Jakos, which basically means "Asyx's loyal followers." The reason they are compared to Angels, however, is because of their do-gooder personalities. They're frequently devoted to bettering the community around them. They get along with all the other races, but often are friends to the Demons and Furfolk. Contrary to any premade judgments, the Angels actually get along best with the Demons, because they are quite opposite in personality. The only beings they have trouble hanging around are ofthen the Demented, since the Demented are so difficult to understand. The Angels prefer not to be in the spotlight, but it doesn't stop them from joining in on parties and music if it's available. They're the most laid back of all Jakosians, and prefer to stay lowkey and reserved if at all possible. They enjoy quiet evenings just as much as the high energy ones, but definitely prefer general comforts over much else. Slow, easy music, warm drinks, and lounging around to watch television or casually gaming are their favorite things to do. Since they are Asyx's devotees, they frequently take on a similar appearance to him. Asyx has white hair and pale eyes, and so his Asyki have that as well. They don't generally decorate themselves in modifications or lumi, because Asyx does not. They're known as being the "pure" Jakosians, which only adds more to their Angel nickname and the idea that they are the compatible opposites of the Jakos Demons.There are occasions when two different races can mix, like with the case of the Demented and the others. I've been witness to an Angel getting modded to be a Demon, or a Noble dropping their status and joining Asyx's devotees to be an Angel. But it isn't common. In their blood they still carry the genes of their Architect's faction. The only exception to that are the Demented, who are immediately taken under the wing of Anhasi if a Jakosian loses their mind. If two Jakosians of different races decide to procreate, their children are often one or the other, and their genes do not frequently mix. A Fur and a Demon will create either another Fur or another Demon, rather than a Demonic Fur. Same goes with a Noble who decides to get with one of those two. Although the Angels and the Demented can mix and match, the other three races cannot. The Angels can actually be any of the races. I've seen some with animal characteristics or translucent skin like the Nobles. There is no "blank slate" Jakosian, as each one fits into one of the five races. As stated in a previous blog, the Architects Thorandorek and Vestrayn never contributed to the creation of the Jakosians, but they do play a huge part in their lives. Anhasi was inspired by Thorandorek to gender-bend, and many of the Demented are inspired by Vestrayn to find comfort in darkness.

[autolovecraft]

So little is known of what came after.

Our couches were side by side, and characteristic of a malign, chaotic perversion, and added some further revelations I had found in an old man who had moved very near. Then I told him why the boy broke 'em if he got that far; the legend doesn't say. My tale had been called The Attic Window, and eager to refute them, having that confidence in his own opinions which had doubtless caused his success as a Jewish prophet, and the centuried gambrel roofs of the old mystic—that was quite impossible, and logical intellect.

It was an odd cry, and lights faintly gleamed in some of the distant windows, but he told of the cramped divines. Manton, I whispered an awe struck question: Good God, Manton, who had found us at noon in a lonely field beyond Meadow Hill in the window-panes? Don't think I was too dazed to exult when he whispered back a thing I had mercifully fainted before I could learn what it meant. Carter, it was, dreaded and deserted? But his curiosity was undeterred. Yes, I made plain, related to monstrous apparitions more frightful than anything organic could be, he would not such apparitions had ever gored or smothered people to death, as to maintain a placid interest and appreciation by accurate, detailed transcripts of everyday affairs. Something had caught my ancestor on a dark valley road, leaving him with marks of split hooves and vaguely anthropoid paws. It was an odd cry, and I believe it touched Manton also, for although I could feel a real shiver run through Manton, but nobody but a face and jaw something like yours and mine. With the years the legends take on a spectral character—I suppose the thing with the blemished eye—and of the awful evidence behind the house of a vicious bull—though the animal was a vortex of withering, ice-cold wind, and who had put up a blank slate slab. It was everywhere—a gelatin—a gelatin—a gelatin—a slime yet it had shapes, a thousand shapes of horror beyond all normal notions; for although I could learn what it was, dreaded and deserted. There in the attic stairs in the window centuries later and couldn't describe what it meant. But is that house with the attic of a house, in order to cause all the other frames were long since fallen, I have seen it. For as it was, dreaded and deserted? Moreover, so I went back with a sort of gulping gasp which released a strain of previous repression. It was an opening where I could dump them in. Where is it? Yes, I answered, I assured my friend with some warmth, is more resilient; for we opened our eyes at almost the same object it must have been an hysterical, delirious monstrosity. Stern as a teacher; whilst I was too dazed to exult when he whispered back a thing I had found us at noon in a few seconds that we were in St. Presently he spoke. I amplified the bare jotting of the laws of matter, why is it? It was an opening where I could feel a real shiver run through Manton, but left the whole thing must be a bit terrible. And what about the unnamable! Besides, he was sensitive he wouldn't have needed anything in the attic stairs in the impressions left by old faces on the windows of that abhorrent graveyard, while from the tomb behind the story at which he had scoffed the most. So little is known of what came after. Those scars—was it like that? Manton was reflecting again.

I paused, but he told of the screaming drunken wretch that hanged for having such an eye. He granted for the sake of argument that some unnatural monster had really existed, but a face and jaw something like yours and mine. I said this, but nobody but a face and jaw something like yours and mine.

There was no beauty; no freedom—we can see that house, we talked on about the boy had gone to look at the windows of that demonic attic window.

It was not so seriously hurt, but neither of us felt any wish to cease speaking.

Attendants were grouped about in tense curiosity, eager to aid our memory by telling us how we came there, and I believe it touched Manton also, for at this touch of harmless theatricalism he started neurotically away from me and actually cried out with a sort of gulping gasp which released a strain of previous repression.

It was an opening where I could feel a real shiver run through Manton, I have seen it. Stern as a Jewish prophet, and we soon heard of the spot brought by the deserted house, the shriekingly unnamable? At last I could feel a real shiver run through Manton, I made plain, related to monstrous apparitions more frightful than anything organic could be; apparitions of gigantic bestial forms sometimes visible and sometimes only tangible, which floated about on moonless nights and haunted the old lattice windows that went out of court all that cannot be experienced and understood by the dead brain of a vicious bull—though the animal was a difficult thing to place and account for.

He was principal of the East High School, born and bred in Boston and sharing New England's self-satisfied deafness to the delicate overtones of life. The hour must now have grown very late. One window had lost its entire frame, and who had sat at them. Presently he spoke. Then they stopped hoping when the childless, broken, embittered old man chasing and calling to a frightful loping, nameless thing on Meadow Hill in the January, 1922, issue of Whispers. The hour must now have grown very late. I whispered an awe struck question: Good God, Manton, I whispered an awe struck question: Good God, Manton, but was covered with welts and contusions of the old lattice windows that went out of court all that cannot be experienced and understood by the average citizen. Here, truly, was something virtually incredible to his clear, practical, and we knew in a few seconds that we were the victims of a split hoof. They were all gone. Molded by the dead brain of a vicious bull—though the animal was a fool—you ought to be there.

Something had caught my ancestor on a spot where an ancient slaughterhouse is reputed to have seen it.

It would have been what that boy saw—if he got that far; the legend doesn't say.

But is that house, we talked on about the unnamable!

[autolovecraft]

Others knew, but did not dare to tell.

The thing, it was averred, was biologically impossible to start with; merely another of those crazy country mutterings which Cotton Mather had been gullible enough to dump into his chaotic Magnalia Christi Americana, and so poorly authenticated that even he had not ventured to name the locality where the horror occurred at the parsonage, leaving not a soul alive or in one piece.

Here, truly, was the apotheosis of The Unnamable.

Then came a noxious rush of noisome, frigid air from that same dreaded direction, followed by a piercing shriek just beside me on that shocking rifted tomb of man and monster. It was everywhere—a gelatin—a slime yet it had shapes, a thousand shapes of horror beyond all memory. And what about the window-panes? Yes, I answered, I have seen it.

Our seat on the tomb was very comfortable, and I believe it touched Manton also, for although I could not see him I felt him raise his arm. Then he said we were the victims of a vicious bull—though the animal was a difficult thing to place and account for. Cotton Mather, in that demonic sixth book which no one should read after dark, minced no words as he flung forth his anathema. It was his view that only our normal, objective experiences possess any esthetic significance, and that it is sufficiently commonplace for literary treatment. There were eyes—and a blemish. The dusk fell, and lights faintly gleamed in some of the distant windows, but we did not move. In another instant I was knocked from my gruesome bench by the devilish threshing of some unseen entity of titanic size but undetermined nature; knocked sprawling on the root-clutched mold of that abhorrent graveyard, while from the tomb came such a stifled uproar of gasping and whirring that my fancy peopled the rayless gloom with Miltonic legions of the misshapen damned. It didn't sound sensible to him. That a mind can find its greatest pleasure in escapes from the daily treadmill, and in original and dramatic recombinations of images usually thrown by habit and fatigue into the hackneyed patterns of actual existence, was something virtually incredible to his clear, practical, and logical intellect. It had four-inch horns, but a face and jaw something like yours and mine. It was the pit—the maelstrom—the ultimate abomination.

But is that house with the attic window still standing and deserted? Presently he spoke. So little is known of what went on beneath the surface—so little, yet such a ghastly festering as it bubbles up putrescently in occasional ghoulish glimpses. They were all gone. He was principal of the East High School, born and bred in Boston and sharing New England's self-satisfied deafness to the delicate overtones of life. Certainly, there was strange talk one night in 1710 when the childless, broken old man was buried in the crypt behind it, and the other grave without an inscription—the whole thing must be a bit terrible. They may have been what that boy saw—if he was sensitive he wouldn't have needed anything in the window-panes? Carter, it was the grisly glassless frame of that demonic attic window. Our seat on the tomb was very comfortable, and I believe it touched Manton also, for although I could not see him I felt him raise his arm. Something had caught my ancestor on a dark valley road, leaving him with marks of horns on his chest and of apelike claws on his back; and when they looked for prints in the trampled dust they found the mixed marks of split hooves and vaguely anthropoid paws. It was the pit—the maelstrom—the ultimate abomination.

During this narration my friend Manton was not slow to insist on that fact. All this was flagrant trashiness, and my friend Manton was not slow to insist on that fact.

I well realized the futility of imaginative and metaphysical arguments against the complacency of an orthodox sun-dweller, something in the scene of this afternoon colloquy moved me to more than usual contentiousness. Then came a noxious rush of noisome, frigid air from that same dreaded direction, followed by a piercing shriek just beside me on that shocking rifted tomb of man and monster. It had four-inch horns, but a face and jaw something like yours and mine. Certainly, there was strange talk one night in 1710 when the childless, broken, embittered old man who had put up a blank slate slab. You did see it—until it got dark. They were all gone. Don't think I was a fool—you ought to have seen that skull.

Manton, though smaller than I, is more resilient; for we opened our eyes at almost the same instant, despite his greater injuries. Manton also, for although I could not see him I felt him raise his arm. It argued a capability of believing in phenomena beyond all normal notions; for if a dead man can transmit his visible or tangible image half across the world, or down the stretch of the centuries, how can it be absurd to suppose that deserted houses are full of queer sentient things, or that old graveyards teem with the terrible, unbodied intelligence of generations? Moreover, so far as esthetic theory was involved, if the psychic emanations of human creatures be grotesque distortions, what coherent representation could express or portray so gibbous and infamous a nebulosity as the specter of a malign, chaotic perversion, itself a morbid blasphemy against nature? Moreover, so far as esthetic theory was involved, if the psychic emanations of human creatures be grotesque distortions, what coherent representation could express or portray so gibbous and infamous a nebulosity as the specter of a malign, chaotic perversion, itself a morbid blasphemy against nature? But his curiosity was undeterred. Certainly, there was strange talk one night in 1710 when the childless, broken, embittered old man who had put up a blank slate slab.

There was no beauty; no freedom—we can see that from the architectural and household remains, and the centuried gambrel roofs of the witch-haunted old town that stretched around, all combined to rouse my spirit in defense of my work; and I was soon carrying my thrusts into the enemy's own country.

Manton, I had often languidly disputed. You did see it—until it got dark. He did not laugh as I paused, but asked quite seriously about the boy who in 1793 entered an abandoned house to examine certain traces suspected to be there.

He did not laugh as I paused, but asked quite seriously about the boy who went mad in 1793, and who had presumably been the hero of my fiction. You did see it—until it got dark.

With him all things and feelings had fixed dimensions, properties, causes, and effects; and although he vaguely knew that the mind sometimes holds visions and sensations of far less geometrical, classifiable, and workable nature, he believed himself justified in drawing an arbitrary line and ruling out of court all that cannot be experienced and understood by the average citizen.

Something had caught my ancestor on a dark valley road, leaving him with marks of horns on his chest and of apelike claws on his back; and when they looked for prints in the trampled dust they found the mixed marks of split hooves and vaguely anthropoid paws. It is all in that ancestral diary I found; all the hushed innuendos and furtive tales of things seen behind them, and had come back screaming maniacally.

Stern as a Jewish prophet, and laconically unamazed as none since his day could be, he told of the thing as being born, but nobody but a cheap sensationalist would think of having it grow up, look into people's windows at night, and be hidden in the attic of a house, in flesh and in spirit, till someone saw it at the window centuries later and couldn't describe what it was that turned his hair gray. Glass or no glass, I must explore it a little. Something had caught my ancestor on a dark valley road, leaving him with marks of horns on his chest and of apelike claws on his back; and when they looked for prints in the trampled dust they found the mixed marks of split hooves and vaguely anthropoid paws.

And I was too dazed to exult when he whispered back a thing I had half expected—No—it wasn't that way at all. Especially did he object to my preoccupation with the mystical and the unexplained; for although believing in the supernatural much more fully than I, he would not admit that it is sufficiently commonplace for literary treatment. Manton was not slow to insist on that fact. Yes, I answered, I have seen it.

[autolovecraft]

For as it was, dreaded and deserted.

The boy had gone to look at the windows of that horrible attic, because of tales of things with a blemished eye seen at windows in the night or in deserted meadows near the woods.

The boy had gone to that shunned, deserted house, we talked on about the unnamable and after my friend had finished his scoffing I told him what I had found in an old diary kept between 1706 and 1723, unearthed among family papers not a mile from where we were sitting; that, and the certain reality of the scars on my ancestor's chest and back which the diary described. They may have been what that boy saw—if he was sensitive he wouldn't have needed anything in the window-glass to unhinge him. But his curiosity was undeterred. After the doctors and nurses had left, I whispered an awe struck question: Good God, Manton, but what was it? But his curiosity was undeterred.

To credit these whisperings of rural grandmothers, I now insisted, argued a faith in the existence of spectral substances on the earth apart from and subsequent to their material counterparts. Molded by the dead brain of a hybrid nightmare, would not such a vaporous terror constitute in all loathsome truth the exquisitely, the shriekingly unnamable? Then he said we were the victims of a vicious bull—though the animal was a difficult thing to place and account for. Something had caught my ancestor on a dark valley road, leaving him with marks of horns on his chest and of apelike claws on his back; and when they looked for prints in the trampled dust they found the mixed marks of split hooves and vaguely anthropoid paws.

Certainly, there was strange talk one night in 1710 when the childless, broken old man was buried in the crypt behind his own house in sight of the blank slate slab by an avoided grave, although one may trace enough evasive legends to curdle the thinnest blood. I assured my friend with some warmth, is merely a stupid absence of imagination and mental flexibility. Glass or no glass, I must explore it a little. My tale had been called The Attic Window, and appeared in the January, 1922, issue of Whispers.

Yes, I answered, I have seen it. Our couches were side by side, and we soon heard of the farmer who had found us at noon in a lonely field beyond Meadow Hill, a mile from where we were sitting; that, and the centuried gambrel roofs of the witch-haunted old town that stretched around, all combined to rouse my spirit in defense of my work; and I was soon carrying my thrusts into the enemy's own country. Then he said we were the victims of a vicious bull—though the animal was a difficult thing to place and account for.

All this was flagrant trashiness, and my friend Manton had become very silent, and I believe it touched Manton also, for although I could not see him I felt him raise his arm. Stern as a Jewish prophet, and laconically unamazed as none since his day could be, he told of the beast that had brought forth what was more than beast but less than man—the thing with the blemished eye—and of the screaming drunken wretch that hanged for having such an eye. Here, truly, was the apotheosis of The Unnamable. Those scars—was it like that? He did not laugh as I paused, but asked quite seriously about the boy who went mad in 1793, and who had presumably been the hero of my fiction.

I told him, too, of the fears of others in that region, and how they were whispered down for generations; and how no mythical madness came to the boy who in 1793 entered an abandoned house to examine certain traces suspected to be there. I now insisted, argued a faith in the existence of spectral substances on the earth apart from and subsequent to their material counterparts. There was an opening where I could dump them in. Once a post-rider said he saw an old man chasing and calling to a frightful loping, nameless thing on Meadow Hill in the thinly moonlit hours before dawn, and many believed him. I was too sure of my ground to fear defeat. And I was too sure of my ground to fear defeat. Whether or not such apparitions had ever gored or smothered people to death, as told in uncorroborated traditions, they had produced a strong and consistent impression; and were yet darkly feared by very aged natives, though largely forgotten by the last two generations—perhaps dying for lack of being thought about. It was the pit—the maelstrom—the ultimate abomination. Where is it? The thing, it was the grisly glassless frame of that demonic attic window. Those scars—was it like that? Stern as a Jewish prophet, and laconically unamazed as none since his day could be, he told of the thing as being born, but nobody but a cheap sensationalist would think of having it grow up, look into people's windows at night, and be hidden in the attic or anywhere else? After the doctors and nurses had left, I whispered an awe struck question: Good God, Manton, but what was it? Glass or no glass, I must explore it a little. The hour must now have grown very late. It is all in that ancestral diary I found; all the hushed innuendos and furtive tales of things with a blemished eye seen at windows in the night or in deserted meadows near the woods.

There was a vortex of withering, ice-cold wind, and then the rattle of loose bricks and plaster; but I had mercifully fainted before I could learn what it meant. With him all things and feelings had fixed dimensions, properties, causes, and effects; and although he vaguely knew that the mind sometimes holds visions and sensations of far less geometrical, classifiable, and workable nature, he believed himself justified in drawing an arbitrary line and ruling out of court all that cannot be experienced and understood by the average citizen. And did you find anything there—in the attic of a house, in flesh and in spirit, till someone saw it at the window centuries later and couldn't describe what it was that turned his hair gray. The memory had lingered hideously—all the more terrible because it was answered.

There were some bones up under the eaves.

Though I well realized the futility of imaginative and metaphysical arguments against the complacency of an orthodox sun-dweller, something in the scene of this afternoon colloquy moved me to more than usual contentiousness. Then I told him of the awful evidence behind the story at which he had scoffed the most. Then came a noxious rush of noisome, frigid air from that same dreaded direction, followed by a piercing shriek just beside me on that shocking rifted tomb of man and monster.

And I was too sure of my ground to fear defeat. I, is more resilient; for we opened our eyes at almost the same instant, despite his greater injuries.

So little is known of what went on beneath the surface—so little, yet such a ghastly festering as it bubbles up putrescently in occasional ghoulish glimpses. It was his view that only our normal, objective experiences possess any esthetic significance, and that it is sufficiently commonplace for literary treatment.

He was principal of the East High School, born and bred in Boston and sharing New England's self-satisfied deafness to the delicate overtones of life. To credit these whisperings of rural grandmothers, I now insisted, argued a faith in the existence of spectral substances on the earth apart from and subsequent to their material counterparts. They were all gone. Manton knew more than I, he would not admit that it is the province of the artist not so much to rouse strong emotion by action, ecstasy, and astonishment, as to maintain a placid interest and appreciation by accurate, detailed transcripts of everyday affairs.

Cotton Mather had been gullible enough to dump into his chaotic Magnalia Christi Americana, and so poorly authenticated that even he had not ventured to name the locality where the horror occurred at the parsonage, leaving not a soul alive or in one piece. But his curiosity was undeterred. There was no beauty; no freedom—we can see that from the architectural and household remains, and the centuried gambrel roofs of the witch-haunted old town that stretched around, all combined to rouse my spirit in defense of my work; and I was soon carrying my thrusts into the enemy's own country. You did see it—until it got dark. One window had lost its entire frame, and in the impressions left by old faces on the windows through which they had gazed all their lives. So little is known of what went on beneath the surface—so little, yet such a ghastly festering as it bubbles up putrescently in occasional ghoulish glimpses. If they all came from the same object it must have been an hysterical, delirious monstrosity.

Stern as a Jewish prophet, and laconically unamazed as none since his day could be, he told of the thing as being born, but nobody but a cheap sensationalist would think of having it grow up, look into people's windows at night, and be hidden in the attic or anywhere else?

[autolovecraft]

You did see it—until it got dark.

Manton seemed unimpressed by my arguments, and diabolism.

Others knew, but was covered with welts and contusions of the East High School, born and bred in Boston and sharing New England's self-satisfied deafness to the tomb where you put those bones, and how no mythical madness came to the attic window still standing and deserted?

Then came a noxious rush of noisome, frigid air from that same dreaded direction, followed by a piercing shriek just beside me on that shocking rifted tomb of man and monster. Mather had been an eldritch thing—no wonder sensitive students shudder at the Puritan age in Massachusetts. Those scars—was it like that? There was an opening where I could feel a real shiver run through Manton, but nobody but a cheap sensationalist would think of having it grow up, look into people's windows at night, and then the rattle of loose bricks and plaster; but I had suspected, for I knew that my prosaic friend would not such apparitions had ever gored or smothered people to death, as told in uncorroborated traditions, they took the magazines off the stands at the complaints of silly milk-sops; but I had half expected—No—it wasn't that way at all.

Though I well realized the futility of imaginative and metaphysical arguments against the complacency of an orthodox sun-dweller, something in the appearance of dying persons at distant places, especially the South and the certain reality of the farmer who had found us at noon in a few seconds that we were in St. I, but even that is a horrible ray of light on what was stewing in men's crushed brains, but gradually reverted to his clear, practical, and how no mythical madness came to the delicate overtones of life. If they all came from the tomb where you put those bones, and in original and dramatic recombinations of images usually thrown by habit and fatigue into the hackneyed patterns of actual existence, was biologically impossible to start with; merely another of those who had found us at noon in a lonely field beyond Meadow Hill in the ancient, root-disturbed brickwork close behind us, or the utter blackness of the thing, must have died.

I'd like to see that house with the mystical and the poisonous sermons of the distant windows, but did not know, or the utter blackness of the misshapen damned. And the tomb was very comfortable, and logical intellect. So little is known of what went on beneath the surface—so little, yet without a hint of why they whispered and shivered; and were yet darkly feared by very aged natives, though smaller than I, he was almost sure that nothing can be really unnamable.

It was his view that only our normal, objective experiences possess any esthetic significance, and the grave where a sapling had sprouted beside an illegible slab. And since spirit, till someone saw it at the parsonage, leaving him with marks of split hooves and vaguely anthropoid paws. The dusk fell, and I believe it touched Manton also, for although I could dump them in. It was plain that Manton knew more than I, is merely a stupid absence of imagination and mental flexibility. Though I well realized the futility of imaginative and metaphysical arguments against the complacency of an orthodox sun-dweller, something in the crypt behind his own house in sight of the fears of others in that demonic attic window still standing and deserted. It had four-inch horns, but nobody but a cheap sensationalist would think of having it grow up, look into people's windows at night, and the certain reality of the distant windows, but even that is a horrible ray of light on what was stewing in men's crushed brains, but a face and jaw something like yours and mine. It argued a capability of believing in phenomena beyond all memory. And since spirit, till someone saw it at the parsonage, leaving not a soul alive or in deserted meadows near the woods.

Attendants were grouped about in tense curiosity, eager to aid our memory by telling us how we came there, and so poorly authenticated that even the most.

Yes, I made plain, related to monstrous apparitions more frightful than anything organic could be; apparitions of gigantic bestial forms sometimes visible and sometimes only tangible, which floated about on moonless nights and haunted the old people. Our couches were side by side, and had come back screaming maniacally.

So little is known of what went on beneath the surface—so little, yet without a hint of why they whispered and shivered; and when they looked for prints in the attic stairs in the ancient, root-disturbed brickwork close behind us, or down the stretch of the spot brought by the dead brain of a tottering, deserted seventeenth-century house between us and the grave where a sapling had sprouted beside an illegible slab. If they all came from it, cannot be limited by any of the centuries, how can it be absurd to suppose that deserted houses are full of queer sentient things, or perhaps he knew and did not laugh as I paused, but did not dare to tell.

This much he baldly told, yet without a hint of what went on beneath the surface—so little, yet without a hint of why they whispered about the window centuries later and couldn't describe what it was the pit—the thing, if it was that turned his hair gray. Common sense in reflecting on these subjects, I have seen it. It was plain that Manton knew more than beast but less than man—the maelstrom—the old house, the shriekingly unnamable? My tale had been gullible enough to dump into his chaotic Magnalia Christi Americana, and remarked that he ought to have seen it. The memory had lingered hideously—all the others there was strange talk one night in 1710 when the horror occurred at the window-panes? It was everywhere—a slime yet it had shapes, a mile from the architectural and household remains, and diabolism. The witchcraft terror is a trifle.

At last I could learn what it was that turned his hair gray.