#colors from phantom mangle

[tyra-altavilla]

Phantom Lolbit (Head & "PLEASE STAND BY" Variants)

[mocharyc]

𝙰𝚣𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝙷𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚜

♡ Invincible variants x reader ♡

☆ WC: 8k+ [Build off] ☆ TW: fluff (kissing with Mohawk!!)

☆ Authors note: Hello!! This is the spin-off from my main series on Invincible Variants x reader. However, this can be read separately as well :)  The first two chapters are fluff(kissing), then it’ll get spicy with Mohawk and Omni Mark, and maybe a few other variants to your guy's suggestions⸜(˃ᵕ˂)⸝♡

This is mainly cutesy stuff and slow plot build :3

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The alien sun cast long, golden fingers of light across the valley as Y/N stood surrounded by the variants, each a different version of the same man, yet wholly unique in their own right. The fortress in the distance glimmered like a mirage, its spires and walls catching the last rays of sunlight in a display that seemed almost deliberately welcoming.

"Should we explore our new home before nightfall?" Y/N suggested, her voice carrying easily in the pristine air of this untouched world.

Lensless Mark bounced forward, practically vibrating with excitement. "Race you there!" he challenged, eyes bright with mischief. Before anyone could respond, he was off, a blur of motion streaking across the lush field, leaving a trail of flattened grass in his wake.

"Some things never change," Phantom Mark observed, the voice modulator in his mask unable to entirely mask the fondness in his tone. He turned to Y/N, head tilted slightly. "Shall we?"

"Not so fast," Omni Mark interrupted, his gaze fixed on the semi-conscious Angstrom still sprawled on the ground. "We need to decide what to do with him first."

Sinister sauntered over to Angstrom, crouching beside his prone form. The yellow and black of his suit seemed to absorb the golden sunlight, transforming the bright colors into something molten and dangerous. "I have several creative suggestions," he offered, running a finger along Angstrom's mangled jawline with deceptive gentleness.

"No more death," Y/N reminded him, stepping forward to place a restraining hand on Sinister's shoulder. "Not here. Not in our new beginning."

Sinister looked up at her, conflict evident in his eyes—the killer he had been battling with something softer, something that responded to her touch like a plant turning toward sunlight. After a moment, he rose to his feet with fluid grace, capturing her hand before it could fall away from his shoulder.

"As you wish, dove," he murmured, bringing her fingertips to his lips. The kiss was gentle, contradicting everything his reputation suggested. His eyes never left hers as his lips pressed against her skin, warm and surprisingly soft despite the constant smirk that usually occupied them. Before finally releasing her hand with a reductant sigh.

Viltrumite Mark stepped forward, his white suit pristine against the wild backdrop of their new world. His features had softened since the conflict just hours before, "The fortress may have suitable containment facilities," he suggested, voice deep and measured. "I've seen similar designs across many worlds.

"We should contain him," No-Mask Mark suggested, his unprotected face openly displaying his concern. "His powers are too dangerous to leave unchecked."

"The fortress might have something suitable," Omni Mark agreed, stooping to lift Angstrom with ease. "For now, I'll carry him."

They set off across the field, the tall grass brushing against their legs like a caress. The vegetation wasn't quite like Earth's—each blade seemed to shift between emerald and azure depending on how the light hit it, creating rippling waves of color as they moved through the field. Small creatures, resembling something between butterflies and hummingbirds, darted away from their approach, trailing iridescent particles that evaporated into the air like tiny fireworks.

Mohawk fell into step beside Y/N, close enough that their arms occasionally brushed. Each casual contact sent a subtle current through her skin, awareness blooming in unexpected ways. He seemed different here—less coiled with rage, as if the very air of this new world was already beginning to work subtle changes in him.

"You doing okay?" His mohawk caught the breeze, strands dancing slightly as he turned to study her face with unexpected intensity, the brown of his eyes softened with an emotion that made her breath catch.

Y/N nodded, surprised by the genuine peace beginning to settle over her. "Better than okay," she admitted. "I feel... free. Like I can finally breathe."

Mohawk's fingers found hers, tentatively at first, then more confidently when she didn't pull away. His hand engulfed hers, calloused palm warm against her skin, his touch a grounding presence in this strange new reality. "I never thought I'd feel that again," he confessed quietly, the usual harsh edge in his voice softened to something almost vulnerable. "After I lost her—after I lost control—I thought rage was all I had left."

Y/N squeezed his hand gently, letting her thumb trace small circles against his skin. The simple gesture seemed to affect him deeply; she watched as his throat worked with emotion. "And now?"

A smile touched his lips—not his usual feral grin but something genuine that transformed his entire face, erasing years of hardness in an instant, creating dimples she'd never noticed before. "Now I'm thinking maybe there's more to life than breaking shit," he replied, the crude language somehow endearing in its sincerity.

When they reached the base of the hill leading to the fortress, Lensless Mark was already waiting, sprawled dramatically on the ground with arms and legs spread wide as if making an angel in the strange blue-green grass.

"Took you slow-pokes long enough!" he called, jumping to his feet with boundless energy. His enthusiasm was infectious, bringing reluctant smiles even to the most serious faces among them.

The fortress itself was even more impressive up close—neither fully ancient nor modern, its architecture seeming to blend elements from across time and space into something uniquely harmonious. Massive stone blocks formed the foundation, transitioning seamlessly into graceful spires and arches that defied Earth physics. The entire structure gleamed with an inner light, as if the stone itself was somehow luminescent.

"It's beautiful," Y/N breathed as they approached the imposing entrance. Massive doors of some unknown material—not quite metal, not quite wood—stood closed before them, etched with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and change if watched too closely.

"How do we get in?" No-Mask Mark wondered, approaching the doors cautiously.

Before anyone could suggest a solution, the doors began to open inward, sliding silently despite their obvious weight. Light spilled out from within, warm and welcoming.

"It's responding to us," Phantom Mark observed, his masked face tilted in curiosity. "As if it was expecting us."

"Or built for us," Omni Mark added thoughtfully, adjusting his grip on the still-unconscious Angstrom.

They stepped through the massive doorway into a vast entrance hall. The ceiling soared overhead, supported by columns that resembled tree trunks, complete with intricate branch-like protrusions that intertwined to form natural arches. The floor beneath their feet was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the soft amber light that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves rather than any visible fixtures.

"This place is fucking amazing," Mohawk breathed, his usual profanity softened by genuine wonder. His wide eyes reflected the amber light, making them appear almost golden as he took in the majesty around them. His grip on Y/N's hand tightened slightly, as if needing to ground himself in the face of such beauty.

Viltrumite Mark ran his palm along one of the columns, his face softening with appreciation. "I've visited a thousand worlds," he murmured, "and never seen craftsmanship like this. Even the Imperial Palace on Viltrum pales in comparison to this architectural harmony."

Lensless Mark was already racing ahead, darting between columns with delight. His laughter echoed through the vast space, untainted by the darkness that had consumed them all for so long. "There are rooms everywhere!" he called back. "Bedrooms, kitchens, libraries—this place has everything!"

"Libraries?" No-Mask perked up, his academic interests immediately piqued.

"Kitchens?" Sinister echoed, raising an eyebrow. "Do we even need to eat here?"

"We should explore systematically," Omni Mark suggested. Despite his logical approach, there was an undercurrent of wonder in his tone, a softness in his eyes that hadn't been there during the war. "First, we need to secure Angstrom, then establish our basic needs."

Y/N stepped further into the hall, drawn by an inexplicable feeling of familiarity. "It's like it knows us," she murmured, running her fingers along one of the columns. The surface was warm beneath her touch, almost responsive, like skin rather than stone. "Like it was designed specifically for us."

"Maybe it was," Phantom Mark suggested, his voice distorted yet thoughtful through his mask. "The multiverse works in ways none of us fully understand."

They found a secure room deep within the fortress—one with walls of the same strange material as the entrance doors and no windows to offer escape. They placed Angstrom inside, still unconscious but breathing steadily, and sealed the door behind them.

"He'll be contained here until we decide what to do with him," Omni Mark stated with quiet authority.

As evening settled over their new world, they gathered in what appeared to be a central living space—a circular room with comfortable seating arranged around a central firepit where blue flames danced without consuming any visible fuel. The twin moons were visible through a domed skylight overhead, casting silvery light that mingled with the blue fire's glow.

Y/N sank onto one of the cushioned seats, suddenly aware of the bone-deep exhaustion that had been held at bay by adrenaline and necessity. The events of the past days—the war, the decisions, the dimensional travel—crashed over her in a wave of delayed reaction.

Omni Mark noticed immediately, settling beside her with quiet concern. His movements were careful, controlled, as if afraid she might shatter if handled too roughly. "You should rest," he murmured, his voice gentle. "It's been... a lot."

She nodded, too tired to argue, yet reluctant to leave this moment—their first peaceful gathering in their new home. "I will. Soon."

Mohawk dropped onto the floor in front of her seat, leaning back against her legs with casual possession that somehow didn't feel presumptuous. The weight of him against her was solid, grounding, his mohawk tickling her knees through the material of her flight suit. He tilted his head back to look up at her, the blue fire casting shadows across the planes of his face, softening his usually harsh features.

One by one, the others settled around the fire—Phantom claiming a high-backed chair that accommodated his rigid posture, No-Mask sprawling on a chaise longue with uncharacteristic relaxation, Lensless perching on the edge of a seat before jumping up again to explore the room's perimeter. Viltrumite Mark chose a seat with a commanding view of the entire room, his posture still regal despite the informal setting. Sinister remained standing for a time, silhouetted against the firelight like a predator assessing new territory, before finally claiming a seat directly across from Y/N, his eyes never leaving her face.

"So," No-Mask broke the comfortable silence, openly displaying his curiosity. "What do we call this place?"

 "Home," Mohawk answered immediately, tilting his head back to catch Y/N's gaze, seeking confirmation. The blue fire reflected in his eyes, transforming them into something ethereal. There was a raw vulnerability in the way he spoke the word, as if he'd never truly understood its meaning until now.

Y/N smiled, her hand dropping almost unconsciously to his shoulder. Her fingers traced small patterns there, feeling the tension in his muscles gradually release under her touch. "Home," she agreed softly.

"Azure Horizons," Viltrumite Mark suggested, his deep voice carrying easily across the circle. When the others looked at him questioningly, a faint smile touched his lips, softening the imperial bearing that had become second nature to him. "For the blue-green fields that stretch as far as the eye can see. For new beginnings that hold infinite possibilities."

The conversation flowed from there—tentative at first, then with increasing ease as they began to explore not just their surroundings but each other. For the first time, they weren't enemies or reluctant allies bound by circumstance, but potential friends—even family—by choice.

Lensless broke into periodic fits of laughter as he recounted his race up the hill, mimicking the surprise of the strange creatures he'd disturbed along the way. His animated gestures and expressive face had even Phantom's shoulders shaking with silent amusement.

"And then this thing—" Lensless mimed something with multiple legs and a fan-like tail, "—it just made this noise like 'PFFFFFT' and shot straight up about twenty feet!" He demonstrated by leaping from his seat, nearly hitting his head on a low-hanging light fixture.

"Careful, you idiot," Mohawk growled, though there was no real heat in the words. A reluctant grin tugged at his lips as he watched Lensless hop around the room, still mimicking the startled creature.

Y/N found herself drifting, the gentle cadence of their voices washing over her like a lullaby, the warmth of the fire and the solid presence of Mohawk against her legs lulling her toward sleep. She fought it for a time, not wanting to miss these precious moments of normalcy, but eventually her eyes grew too heavy to keep open.

She wasn't sure when she slipped from consciousness, only that she became vaguely aware of being lifted, strong arms cradling her against a warm chest. The scent of clean sweat and subtle cologne wrapped around her—Omni Mark, she realized without opening her eyes. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear as he carried her through the fortress corridors.

"I can walk," she mumbled, the words slurred with exhaustion.

"I know," he replied, his voice a gentle rumble she could feel through his chest. "But you don't have to."

He carried her into a room she hadn't seen before—spacious and elegant, dominated by a large bed with covers turned down invitingly. The walls here seemed to glow with a softer light than the main halls, creating an atmosphere of peaceful sanctuary.

Omni Mark set her down on the edge of the bed with extraordinary gentleness, crouching before her to remove her boots. Each movement was careful, respectful, his touch clinical yet somehow tender as he eased her feet free.

"You should probably change," he suggested, nodding toward what appeared to be a wardrobe across the room. "There seem to be clothes here. For all of us."

Y/N blinked, trying to process this information through the fog of fatigue. "How is that possible?"

Omni Mark shook his head, a small smile touching his lips. "I don't know. This place... it's like it was waiting for us. Everything we need seems to be here."

He rose to his feet, towering over her for a moment before stepping back to give her space. "Rest now," he said softly. "Tomorrow we can explore properly. Figure out what this place is, what it means."

As he turned to leave, Y/N reached out impulsively, catching his hand. "Stay?" she asked, the single word laden with vulnerability she would never have shown during the chaotic days of the war. "Just... until I fall asleep?"

Omni Mark's expression softened, the permanent crease between his brows easing slightly. Without a word, he settled onto the edge of the bed beside her, still holding her hand in his much larger one. His thumb traced gentle patterns across her knuckles, the simple contact conveying more comfort than words ever could.

Y/N leaned her head against his shoulder, breathing in the scent that had already become familiar, already begun to register as safety in her mind. "Thank you," she murmured.

"For what?" he asked, voice rumbling through her where their bodies connected.

"For suggesting this. For giving us all a chance at something new."

His free hand came up to stroke her hair, fingers threading through the strands with careful tenderness. "We all deserved it," he replied simply. "Especially you."

They sat in comfortable silence, his hand continuing its gentle ministrations until Y/N's breathing deepened and slowed. Just before sleep claimed her completely, she felt him shift, easing her down onto the pillows with extraordinary care. The covers settled over her with whisper-soft weight, and then the ghost of lips pressed against her forehead—so gentle she might have imagined it.

"Sleep well, Y/N," Omni Mark whispered, the words following her down into dreams. "Tomorrow begins our real story."

Morning arrived with golden light filtering through windows Y/N hadn't noticed the night before—tall, arched openings that revealed a view of the valley below their fortress hill. She stretched languidly, surprised by how deeply she had slept, how refreshed she felt after just one night in this strange new world.

The wardrobe Omni Mark had mentioned stood open now, revealing clothing in various styles and colors—all seemingly her size. She selected simple attire—soft pants and a flowing top in a shade that matched the blue-green grass outside—before making her way back toward the central living area.

The fortress was even more beautiful in daylight, sunlight streaming through cleverly placed skylights and windows to illuminate the intricate architecture. As Y/N wandered the corridors, she noticed details missed in the previous evening's exhaustion—living plants integrated into the design, small fountains creating musical water features at unexpected intervals, artwork depicting landscapes both familiar and alien adorning walls of polished stone.

She found Phantom Mark in what appeared to be a training room—a vast space with weapons mounted on walls and a floor padded for combat practice. He moved through a complex kata with fluid grace, his masked face turned toward the ceiling as if in meditation despite the physical exertion.

He paused when he noticed her watching, body freezing mid-motion before relaxing into a more neutral stance. "Good morning," he greeted, voice slightly mechanical through his mask's filter.

"Morning," she replied, stepping into the room. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Some," he admitted, moving toward her with his characteristic grace. Even in this peaceful setting, there was something predatory about his movements—not threatening, but unmistakably powerful. "The mask makes it... complicated."

Y/N studied him, noting the tension in his shoulders despite his relaxed tone. "You know," she said carefully, "in this new world, you could take it off. If you wanted to."

His hand came up reflexively to touch the edge of his mask, fingers tracing the seam where it met his suit. "Perhaps," he acknowledged, voice softer now. "Someday. When I'm ready."

Without thinking, Y/N reached up to place her hand over his where it rested on his mask. "No rush," she assured him. "We have time now. All the time we need."

Even through his mask and his gloves, she felt the slight tremor that ran through him at her touch. His other hand came up to cover hers, sandwiching her fingers between his in a gentle hold.

"Thank you," he said simply, the words carrying weight beyond their simplicity.

They remained like that for a long moment—connected by touch, by understanding, by the unspoken bond forming between all of them in this strange new world. Then, with gentle precision, Phantom Mark raised her hand to the eye-level of his mask, examining her fingers with apparent fascination.

"So small," he murmured, almost to himself. "So fragile compared to us. Yet so strong in all the ways that truly matter."

Before Y/N could respond, he pressed the lower part of his mask to her knuckles—the closest approximation to a kiss the barrier would allow. The gesture was unexpectedly tender, sending a flutter of warmth through her chest. Despite the unyielding material between them, she could feel the warmth of his breath through the mask's ventilation, the careful pressure of his lips beneath the barrier.

"The others are gathering for breakfast," he said, releasing her hand with apparent reluctance. "Shall we join them?"

They found the rest of the group in a spacious kitchen that opened onto a terrace overlooking the valley. The scene that greeted them was so incongruously domestic that Y/N paused in the doorway, momentarily stunned by the sight.

Mohawk stood at a cooking surface, cursing cheerfully as he flipped something that resembled pancakes with more enthusiasm than skill. He'd abandoned his suit for loose pants and a fitted tank top that revealed the powerful muscles of his arms and shoulders, dotted with scars that told stories of countless battles. His mohawk was slightly disheveled from sleep, giving him an oddly endearing appearance.

"Flip, you little bastard!" he growled at a particularly stubborn pancake, brandishing the spatula like a weapon. His brow furrowed in concentration, the tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth as he focused with the same intensity he once reserved for combat. When he finally managed to turn it, revealing a perfectly golden-brown surface, his face lit up,. "Ha! See that? Perfection!"

No-Mask was arranging what appeared to be local fruits in a bowl, his precision suggesting the academic's approach to even the most mundane tasks. He'd exchanged his suit for simple earth-toned clothing that softened his appearance, making him look more like the college professor he might have been in another life. His expressive face revealed every thought—concentration, satisfaction, occasional frustration when a particularly stubborn piece of fruit wouldn't stay where he wanted it.

Viltrumite Mark sat at the head of the table, posture perfect even in this casual setting, peeling what looked like a star-shaped fruit with precise movements. His white suit had been replaced by more casual attire—a simple tunic and pants in pale colors that still managed to convey authority. The centuries of imperial bearing couldn't be completely erased, but there was a relaxed set to his shoulders that hadn't been there before. His brown hair was loose around his head rather than slicked back in its usual severe style.

"The composition of these fruits is fascinating," Viltrumite observed, examining a slice with interest. "The molecular structure must be quite different from Earth's flora to achieve these color-shifting properties."

Lensless bounced between the various food preparation areas, stealing tastes of everything with delight, earning half-hearted swats from Mohawk and exasperated sighs from No-Mask. He'd traded his suit for loose, colorful t-shirt and shorts that perfectly matched his exuberant personality. His hair stuck up at odd angles, giving him a perpetually surprised look that somehow suited him perfectly. His energy seemed boundless even in this peaceful setting, body in constant motion as if stillness was physically impossible for him.

"That's the third piece you've stolen!" No-Mask protested as Lensless snagged another piece of color-shifting fruit. "If you keep eating them all before breakfast, there won't be any left for the rest of us."

"Can't help it," Lensless mumbled through a full mouth, juice dribbling down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, leaving a shimmering streak across his skin that caught the morning light. "They're just so good! Like candy but also kind of minty? But also sort of citrusy?" He gestured wildly with the half-eaten fruit. "It's like a flavor explosion!"

Sinister lounged against a counter, observing the others with amusement while sipping from a steaming mug. Unlike the others, he hadn't fully abandoned his signature colors, wearing a black shirt with subtle yellow accents that emphasized his lean, powerful build. His hair was artfully tousled in a way that suggested careful styling rather than sleep, and his usual predatory grace remained intact even in this domestic setting. His eyes tracked Y/N the moment she entered, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Only Omni Mark was missing, likely still dealing with their prisoner somewhere in the fortress depths. 

"Well, look who finally decided to join us," Mohawk called, spotting Y/N in the doorway. His usual gruffness was tempered by obvious pleasure at seeing her, his entire face transforming when their eyes met. The crease between his brows smoothed momentarily, and that rare genuine smile—the one that created unexpected dimples in his stubbled cheeks—bloomed across his face. "Hope you're hungry. I'm making my famous galaxy-famous pancakes."

"Is that what those are supposed to be?" Sinister drawled, eyebrow arched in mock surprise. He set his mug down with deliberate grace, pushing himself off the counter in one fluid motion that reminded Y/N of a jungle cat stretching. His eyes— like dark chocolate in the morning light rather than their usual predatory gleam—never left her face as he moved, cataloging her expressions with the same intensity he once reserved for tracking prey. "I thought you were developing a new form of building material."

"Fuck off," Mohawk retorted without heat, flipping another pancake. A lopsided grin belied his harsh words, the camaraderie between them something entirely new and unexpected. He brandished the spatula like a weapon, flecks of blue batter splattering across the counter. "At least I'm contributing, pretty boy. What are you doing besides taking up space and looking decorative?"

"Quality control," Sinister replied smoothly, sauntering over to Y/N with predatory grace. His movements were deliberately unhurried, each step calculated to draw attention to the fluid power of his body.

"Good morning, dove," he murmured, leaning in to place a lingering kiss at the corner of her mouth. The subtle scent of him enveloped her—something spiced and dangerous that somehow belonged perfectly in this peaceful kitchen. His lips lingered at the corner of her mouth, warm and soft against her skin, leaving a ghost of sensation even after he pulled away.

Behind them, Mohawk's spatula clattered against the cooking surface with unnecessary force. "For fuck's sake, some of us are trying to cook here," he grumbled, though there was more resignation than genuine anger in his tone. His eyes, however, tracked Sinister's every movement with the wariness of a predator recognizing a rival.

"Sleep well?" Sinister asked, seemingly oblivious to the territorial display behind him.

Y/N felt heat rise to her cheeks at the public display, acutely aware of the others watching with varying degrees of interest. "Yes, thank you," she managed, stepping past him into the kitchen proper.

Viltrumite Mark cleared his throat softly, "Perhaps you might allow Y/N some space to breathe before laying claim as you already tried to do so, Sinister," he suggested, his tone courteous yet leaving no room for argument. His fingers, continued their methodical work with the star-shaped fruit, though his eyes—warm brown with flecks of gold remained fixed on Sinister with quiet warning.

Sinister stepped back with exaggerated deference, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Of course," he conceded.

Lensless immediately waltzs over, practically vibrating with excitement. His movements were so quick he nearly collided with the counter, stopping himself with a theatrical windmilling of arms that seemed designed to make Y/N smile, "Y/N! You have to try these!" he exclaimed, offering something that resembled a cross between a strawberry and a starfruit. His eyes were wide with delight, face animated in a way that was impossible to resist. "They taste like cinnamon and sunshine!"

His enthusiasm was so genuine, his joy so uncomplicated, that Y/N couldn't help but smile. She accepted the strange fruit, taking a tentative bite. Flavor burst across her tongue—sweet and spicy and utterly unlike anything from Earth, yet somehow reminiscent of childhood summers and holiday desserts.

"It's amazing," she agreed, delighted by the way his face lit up at her approval.

"I know, right?" he grinned, bouncing on his toes. "I've already had like seventeen of them. No-Mask says I'm going to make myself sick, but I feel great!"

"Nevertheless," No-Mask interjected, approaching with his artfully arranged fruit platter, "perhaps moderation might be advisable until we understand the full effects of the local food on our physiology." Despite his words, his eyes were kind, his tone gentle in a way that suggested he was growing accustomed to Lensless's exuberance.

"Boring," Lensless declared, though he tempered his bouncing slightly in deference to No-Mask's concern. He reached up to ruffle No-Mask's perfectly combed hair, darting away with a laugh before the other variant could react, "You worry too much, professor! We're practically gods here—what's a little alien fruit gonna do?"

No-Mask smoothed his hair with dignity, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward despite his attempt at severity. "The term 'practically' is doing considerable heavy lifting in that sentence," he observed dryly, though his eyes crinkled at the corners with unexpected humor.

"Oh guys! I found a lake about two miles east of here. Crystal clear water, pink sand beaches, these awesome floating lily-pad things big enough to sit on. We should all go swimming later!"

"Let's get through breakfast first," Phantom suggested, the dry humor in his tone evident despite his mask's filter. He had positioned himself slightly apart from the group, still uncomfortable with communal activities despite the growing ease between them all.

"A swimming expedition sounds delightful," Viltrumite Mark commented. 

He offered Y/N a slice of the star-shaped fruit he'd been peeling, the gesture courtly despite the informal setting. "The most exquisite of the local fruits, in my assessment," he explained, holding it out with elegant fingers stained slightly purple from the juices. "Its flavor profile changes depending on the ripeness—this one should be at perfect maturity." 

They settled around a large table on the terrace, the spread before them a strange mixture of familiar concepts executed with alien ingredients. Mohawk's "pancakes" were more blue than golden, the fruit No-Mask had arranged shifted colors depending on how the light hit them, and the beverages Sinister poured had a subtle luminescence that would have been concerning on Earth but somehow seemed natural here.

As Y/N reached for a serving utensil, Viltrumite Mark smoothly intercepted it, "Allow me," he murmured, serving her. His fingers brushed hers as he handed her the filled plate, the contact brief yet deliberate. His eyes—ancient yet somehow youthful in the morning light—held hers for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "I hope everything is to your satisfaction."

The moment was interrupted by Mohawk's gag. "Jesus Christ, your highness, it's breakfast, not a royal coronation," he muttered, though the annoyance in his voice couldn't quite mask the underlying insecurity—the fear that his rugged intensity might pale in comparison to Viltrumite's cultured elegance.

Viltrumite's lips curved into a smile. "Civility costs nothing, Mohawk," he replied smoothly. "Perhaps you might try it sometime."

Before Mohawk could retort, Sinister's low chuckle diffused the building tension. "Children, children," he admonished with mock severity. "Let's not fight at the table. It upsets Mother." he smiled as he glanced between them holding no genuine humor.

Omni Mark joined them moments later, slipping into an empty chair beside Y/N with quiet grace. He'd changed from his suit into simple clothing—a fitted gray shirt that emphasized his broad shoulders and dark pants that seemed designed for both comfort and mobility. His hair was slightly damp, curling at the temples in a way that softened his usually severe appearance, suggesting he'd found bathing facilities somewhere in the fortress.

Y/N couldn't help but notice the difference in how he looked without his mask from when she saw him days before without it, must've been the usual attire—more human somehow, the perpetual furrow between his brows less pronounced in the gentle morning light. Their eyes met as he settled beside her, and something warm and private passed between them—a connection forged in those quiet moments when he'd carried her to bed, when he'd sat beside her until she fell asleep, and how he's guided her through everything.

"Angstrom is secure and stable," he reported, reaching for what appeared to be a coffee equivalent. His fingers wrapped around the mug, "He'll need more permanent arrangements eventually, but for now, he's contained."

"We could always just throw him off the highest tower," Sinister suggested with casual menace, spearing a piece of color-shifting fruit with unnecessary precision.

"No more death," Y/N reminded him gently. She reached across the table impulsively, her fingers brushing the back of his hand—feeling the subtle tension there, "We agreed Sinister."

Sinister's eyes widened fractionally at her touch, something vulnerable flickering across his face before the familiar predatory smile slid back into place. He turned his hand beneath hers, capturing her fingers with delicate precision. Sinister's eyes met hers across the table, something dangerous and hungry in their depths. 

"So we did, dove," he conceded, lifting her hand to his lips without breaking eye contact. The press of his mouth against her skin was reverent despite the danger that clung to him like a second skin before he released her hand and brought the fruit to his lips with deliberate sensuality. "For now."

Beside her, Omni Mark went very still, the only indication of his reaction the subtle tightening of his fingers around his mug. The tension in the air was palpable for a heartbeat before Viltrumite Mark intervened.

"We could build a proper containment facility," Viltrumite Mark suggested, cutting through the tension with practiced diplomatic ease. "I've overseen such constructions before. With our combined strength and the resources this world seems to offer, it would be simple enough."

No-Mask leaned forward, scholarly interest sparking in his eyes. "If I might suggest, the southeastern tower seems to contain materials that might serve our purposes. I noticed what appears to be a form of ultra-dense mineral similar to the containment cells the Coalition used on Earth-219."

"I'll help design it," Phantom offered unexpectedly, his voice carrying clearly across the table. "Security systems were my specialty... before."

The meal progressed with surprising ease—conversation flowing naturally between them as they discussed their new world, the fortress, their plans for exploration. There were moments of tension, of course—old rivalries and resentments didn't disappear overnight—but these were tempered by a growing sense of shared purpose, of collective possibility.

Y/N found herself laughing at Lensless's animated retelling of his morning exploration, something warm blooming in her chest as she watched them all—these broken, dangerous men gradually rediscovering parts of themselves long buried beneath violence and trauma. The sunlight catching in Mohawk's wild hair as he gestured emphatically; the subtle softening around Phantom's masked face as he listened; the scholarly interest lighting No-Mask's eyes as he theorized about the local fauna; the quiet contentment in Omni Mark's profile as he watched her laugh; the calculated stillness of Sinister that couldn't quite hide how his eyes softened when they rested on her; the imperial bearing of Viltrumite Mark gentled by something approaching peace.

"You've got a little..." Omni Mark gestured toward Y/N's cheek, where a drop of the luminescent juice had splashed as he reached out, thumb gently wiping away the droplet. The pad of his thumb was surprisingly soft against her skin, tracing an arc that lingered along her cheekbone with exquisite care. The brief touch lingered longer than necessary, his eyes holding hers with unexpected warmth.

"Thank you," Y/N murmured, suddenly aware of the depth of emotion in his gaze—something beyond desire, beyond possession, a tenderness that made her breath catch. For a moment, the bustling breakfast and surrounding variants seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the connection between them—fragile and new yet somehow profound.

Mohawk cleared his throat pointedly from across the table, dragging a hand through his disheveled mohawk with barely concealed irritation, the black spikes standing even more erratically after his fingers disturbed them. "What is this, a romance novel?" he huffed, though his scowl held more amusement than genuine annoyance. "If you're done getting handsy with Y/N's face, Omni, pass the not-exactly-maple syrup."

Omni Mark's expression shifted seamlessly back to its usual composed neutrality, though something warm still lingered in his soft blue eyes as he passed the requested syrup. "Of course," he replied evenly, though Y/N didn't miss the subtle way his knee pressed against hers beneath the table.

Fragments of conversation drifted around her and through it all, she noticed the subtle ways they positioned themselves around her—Omni's protective presence at her side, Mohawk's intense gaze returning to her face between animated gestures, Sinister's calculated angles that always kept her in his sightline, Viltrumite's courtly attentiveness to her needs before she could express them.

"More juice?" Viltrumite offered, already reaching for the pitcher with practiced grace. When she nodded, his eyes warmed when she thanked him. "It is my pleasure," he murmured, voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. "Your happiness here is of paramount importance to all of us, Y/N."

After breakfast, they scattered to explore their new home—Lensless dragging No-Mask off to investigate the lake he'd discovered, Phantom returning to the training room to continue his morning exercises, Sinister disappearing on some mysterious errand of his own, Viltrumite Mark announcing his intention to map the surrounding territory from one of the higher towers.

"Would you care to join me for the aerial survey?" Viltrumite asked Y/N, his invitation formal yet hopeful. "The view from above is quite spectacular, and I would value your perspective on possible expansion areas." His eyes, held genuine interest rather than mere courtesy.

Before Y/N could respond, Mohawk stepped closer, his proximity a clear statement of intent. "She's helping me with dishes," he declared, the challenge in his voice unmistakable despite his casual tone. "Aren't you, Y/N?"

Viltrumite Mark's eyes flickered between them, "Another time, perhaps," he conceded with perfect grace, though something like disappointment briefly shadowed his features. He bowed slightly—a gesture that should have seemed ridiculous in kitchen attire but somehow retained its dignity. "Until later, Y/N."

Y/n sighed, a frown on her face as he turned back, finding Mohawk already at the sink. "You don't have to do that," Y/N told him, trying not to laugh as he managed to get more water on himself than the dishes. A particularly enthusiastic splash had dampened his mohawk, causing water to trickle down his temple in a way that made him look unexpectedly young and carefree.

"I want to," he insisted, vigorously scrubbing a plate with enough force to potentially crack it. His brow furrowed with concentration as if facing a deadly enemy rather than breakfast dishes. "Never had much of a chance for normal shit like this, you know? Before everything went to hell."

The unexpected vulnerability in his admission caught her off guard. Beyond his gruff exterior and violent tendencies, there was something achingly young about him in this moment—a glimpse of the boy he might have been before loss and rage transformed him.

She moved beside him at the sink, their arms brushing as she took over the rinsing. "Well, you have all the time in the world to practice now."

His hands stilled in the soapy water, his gaze fixing on her profile with unexpected intensity. Something shifted in his expression—the perpetual storm in his brown eyes calming momentarily, revealing depths of feeling he usually kept buried beneath anger and bravado. "Yeah," he agreed softly. "Guess I do."

When he leaned in, Y/N expected another of his impulsive, passionate kisses—the kind that had characterized their interactions during the war. Instead, there was a question in his eyes—a hesitation that seemed foreign to his typically impulsive nature. His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes, silently seeking permission in a way he'd never bothered with before.

Watching her nod softly his lips met hers with surprising gentleness. The kiss was delicate, a stark contrast to the desperate, claiming kisses he'd given her during the war when every moment might have been their last. This kiss held something new: patience, tenderness, the luxury of time. His hands remained in the sink, not reaching for her, giving her the space to pull away if she chose.

But she didn't choose to pull away. Instead, she leaned into the kiss, tasting the sweet-spicy flavor of alien fruit on his lips, feeling the slight scratch of stubble against her skin. She lifted one hand to his cheek, fingers tracing the sharp angle of his jawline, feeling the subtle tremble that ran through him at her touch. For all his bravado and violence, he responded to gentle affection like a starving man offered water—with disbelief and desperate gratitude.

When they parted, his eyes remained closed for a moment, as if savoring the sensation.

"That was nice," he murmured, with vulnerability in his voice she'd never heard before. His forehead rested against hers, breath mingling with her own in the small space between them. This close, she could see flecks of lighter brown in his irises, the softness of his lips still slightly parted. "Different."

"Different good?" she asked, reaching up to trace the strong line of his jaw with soapy fingers, leaving a trail of iridescent bubbles against his skin.

His eyes opened, meeting hers with startling clarity. The raw emotion there took her breath away—hope and fear and longing all tangled together, unfiltered and exposed in a way he'd never allowed before. 

"Different perfect," he corrected, turning his head slightly to press a kiss against her palm. "Like I don't have to rush. Like we might actually have a tomorrow." 

"We do have tomorrow," she whispered, brushing another gentle kiss against the corner of his mouth. "And all the days after that."

Something suspiciously like moisture gathered in his eyes before he blinked it away, replacing vulnerability with a crooked smile that couldn't quite hide the depth of his feeling. "Fuck, Y/N," he murmured, voice rougher than usual. "You're gonna make me go soft here."

She laughed softly, pressing her forehead against his again. "I won't tell anyone."

"Damn right you won't," he growled playfully, the familiar bravado settling back over him like armor—though thinner now, more transparent than before.

A throat cleared behind them, breaking the moment. They turned to find Omni Mark standing in the kitchen doorway, his expression carefully neutral despite the subtle tension in his jaw and the way his fingers flexed once before settling at his sides.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, gaze sliding away from their proximity with deliberate courtesy. Y/N didn't miss the flash of emotion in his eyes—not anger but something more complex, a mixture of resignation and longing carefully contained behind his usual composure. "I thought you might like to see the library we discovered on the east wing. There are texts there—some in languages I've never encountered before, but others perfectly readable. They might tell us more about this place, its history."

Y/N stepped back from Mohawk, feeling a slight flush rise to her cheeks though she wasn't sure why. There were no established boundaries here, no expectations except those they created themselves. "That sounds fascinating," she agreed, drying her hands on a nearby cloth.

Mohawk seemed about to protest, then visibly checked himself. His fists clenched briefly at his sides before relaxing, jaw working as he swallowed whatever instinctive challenge had risen to his lips. The self-restraint was so unlike his usual impulsive nature that Y/N found herself studying him with newfound appreciation.

"Go ahead," he said, gesturing magnanimously with soap-covered hands. "I'll finish up here." His gaze shifted to Omni Mark, something unspoken passing between them—not quite challenge, not quite acceptance, but perhaps the beginning of understanding. 

"Just because I'm trying this whole 'sharing' concept doesn't mean I like it, Omni," he added, the familiar aggression in his tone undermined by the grudging respect in his eyes. "Just don't keep her all day. Some of us want to show her the cool shit we've found too."

Omni Mark's posture relaxed fractionally, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Understandable," he replied, the simple acknowledgment carrying weight between them—recognition of feelings too complex for either to fully articulate.

As they left the kitchen, Y/N glanced back to see Mohawk return to the dishes with determined focus, his profile outlined against the morning light streaming through the windows. There was something achingly vulnerable in the set of his shoulders, the careful way he handled the dishes now—as if practicing gentleness was a skill he desperately wanted to master.

As Y/N followed Omni through the fortress corridors, she was struck by the surreal normality of what had just transpired—domestic chores, a sweet kiss, gentle teasing between potential rivals. After the chaos and violence that had defined their relationship until now, these simple human interactions felt almost miraculous in their ordinariness.

"Are you alright?" Omni asked quietly as they walked, his stride measured to match hers perfectly. His perceptive gaze studied her face with gentle concern. "This is... a lot to adjust to. For all of us, but especially for you."

Y/N considered the question thoughtfully. "I think I am," she admitted. "It's strange, but not in a bad way. Just... unexpected. Seeing all of you like this, without the constant threat of violence—it's like meeting you all for the first time."

Something soft crossed his features, a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show. "In some ways, perhaps you are," he murmured. "We're discovering pieces of ourselves long buried—who we might have been without the tragedies that shaped us." His hand brushed hers as they walked, fingers tangling briefly before releasing—a fleeting connection that somehow conveyed more than words could express.

The library, when they reached it, took her breath away. Vast and circular, its walls lined with shelves that stretched from floor to domed ceiling, accessible by a system of graceful spiral staircases and floating platforms that somehow remained stable without visible support. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows high above, casting rainbow patterns across the polished floor and illuminating countless volumes bound in materials both familiar and alien.

"It's incredible," Y/N breathed, turning slowly to take in the full grandeur of the space. "How many books do you think are here?"

"Thousands," Omni Mark replied, moving to a reading table where several volumes already lay open. His fingers traced reverently over the ancient bindings, scholarly fascination lighting his features in a way that made him look younger, unburdened. "Perhaps tens of thousands. And not just books—there are scrolls, tablets, data crystals that seem designed to interface with machinery we haven't fully explored yet."

Y/N approached the table, drawn by the obvious excitement in his usually composed voice. The open books displayed text and illustrations of breathtaking complexity—star charts of unfamiliar constellations, anatomical diagrams of creatures she'd never seen, mathematical equations that seemed to extend beyond the three dimensions she was familiar with.

"Can you read any of it?" she asked, tracing her finger along a line of elegant script that seemed to shimmer beneath her touch.

"Some," he admitted, moving to stand beside her. Unlike their breakfast proximity, which had been dictated by seating arrangements, this closeness was deliberate—chosen rather than circumstantial. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the clean scent that was uniquely his beneath the alien soap they'd all discovered. "Enough to understand that this fortress wasn't built by random chance. It was designed as a nexus point—a place where different realities could touch without collapsing into each other."

Y/N looked up at him sharply. "You mean like Angstrom's portals?"

"Similar principle, different execution," he explained, turning a page to reveal diagrams that reminded her of quantum field equations. His fingers moved over the complex illustrations with impressive dexterity, tracing patterns within patterns as he spoke. "His method tears reality. This place... it's more like a gentle fold, a place where the membrane between worlds is naturally thinner."

"So us being here—"

"Isn't coincidence," he confirmed, his expression softening with something like wonder, a rare unguarded moment that revealed the man beneath the leader—curious, brilliant, capable of genuine awe despite all he'd seen across realities. "Whether by design or cosmic chance, we were drawn to a place that could accommodate us—multiple versions of the same quantum signature existing simultaneously without causing universal collapse."

The implications were staggering. Y/N sank into a nearby chair, trying to process what this meant for them. "So we're not just lucky survivors," she murmured. "We're... meant to be here?"

Omni Mark's expression grew thoughtful as he settled into the chair beside hers. "I don't know if I'd go that far," he said carefully. "I've never been much for predetermined destiny. But there's a certain... elegance to how events unfolded. A pattern that suggests more than random chance."

He reached across the table, not for her hand but for a book bound in something that resembled leather but shifted colors like oil on water. "Look at this," he said, opening it to a marked page.

The illustration spread across both pages showed a circular structure remarkably similar to their fortress, surrounded by figures that, while stylized, clearly represented humanoid beings with extraordinary abilities. Above the scene, twin moons hung in a sky painted with pigments that still shimmered with lifelike luminescence despite their obvious age.

"It's us," Y/N whispered, fingers hovering over the image without quite touching the fragile page. "Or... people like us. Here, in this place."

"A prophecy? A historical record?" Omni Mark shrugged, the gesture surprisingly human coming from his usually controlled demeanor. The movement caused a lock of dark hair to fall across his forehead, softening his appearance further. Without thinking, Y/N reached up to brush it back, her fingers lingering against his temple. His breath caught audibly at the casual intimacy of the gesture, eyes widening slightly before his expression melted into something soft and vulnerable. "I can't translate enough to be certain. But it suggests we're not the first to find sanctuary here."

Y/N studied the illustration more closely, noting details she'd missed at first glance—the varied appearances of the figures, the peaceful integration with the environment around them, the sense of community evident in their positioning. "They look... happy," she observed. "At peace."

"Yes," Omni agreed softly, his gaze shifting from the book to her face. His hand moved to cover hers where it still rested near his temple, gently drawing it down to rest between them on the table, his thumb tracing small circles against her palm. He'd removed his dark lenses, revealing soft blue eyes that contained a depth of thoughtfulness uniquely his own. Without the barrier between them, his gaze was startlingly direct—intelligent, perceptive, and unexpectedly vulnerable.

"Do you think that's possible?" she asked quietly. "For us? After everything we've—everything you've all done?"

His hand moved across the table, not grabbing hers but settling palm-up between them—an invitation rather than a demand. His eyes never left hers, honest in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. "I think," he said carefully, each word chosen with deliberate precision, "that peace isn't something you find. It's something you build, choice by choice, day by day."

Y/N placed her hand in his, feeling the strength in his fingers as they closed gently around hers. The contrast was striking—hands capable of devastating destruction holding hers with such exquisite care, as if she were made of the most delicate glass; offering connection without overwhelming, support without possession.

"Then we'll build it," she decided, unexpected certainty blooming in her chest. "Together. All of us."

The smile that touched his lips transformed his usually serious face, lines of worry smoothing away to reveal glimpses of the man he might have been in another life—one untouched by the weight of impossible choices and devastating losses. The smile reached his eyes, crinkling the corners and lighting them from within.

"Together," he agreed, thumb tracing a gentle pattern across her knuckles. "One day at a time."

They remained like that for a long moment—connected by touch, by understanding, by the shared wonder of this strange new beginning they'd been granted. Then, with gentle reluctance, Omni released her hand and rose to his feet.

"Mohawk will be looking for you soon," he observed, a hint of dry humor in his tone. "And if I'm not mistaken, Lensless should be returning from the lake about now, bursting to show you his discoveries."

Y/N stood as well, touched by his consideration for the others' feelings despite whatever he might want for himself. "Will you come with me?" she asked impulsively. "To the lake? It might be nice to spend time together—all of us—without crisis driving every interaction."

Something soft and surprised flickered across his features before he nodded. "I'd like that," he admitted. "Though I should warn you—I haven't gone swimming purely for pleasure since... well, for longer than I care to remember."

"Then it's definitely time," she declared, taking his hand once more to tug him gently toward the door. "Consider it your first official lesson in rebuilding peace."

As they made their way through the sunlit corridors of their new home, Y/N felt something unfamiliar settling within her chest. For the first time since finding herself caught in the variants' chaotic orbit, Y/N felt truly hopeful about the future. Not because any single person had promised to protect her or cherish her, but because they were all choosing to build something new together—something that honored what they had lost without being defined by it.

They were broken, all of them. Damaged by loss, by violence, by choices they couldn't unmake. 

But here, in this strange new world that seemed designed precisely for them, perhaps they could finally heal—not by forgetting the past, but by building a future worthy of remembering. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Hope you guys liked it <3

One more fluff chap, then I'm writing the smut y'all been asking for🙏

Who do you guys want first for smut?

Omni mark

or

Mohawk Mark

PT 2!!

PT.3 (smut with Mohawk)

Main series (✩ ‧ ₊ ˚)

[cat-mentality]

Forget socializing what do you mean Jaiden has WINGS ?????? I'm frowning at the mouth about the implications of this to literally everything else.

Jaiden's wings are beautiful.

They shine in the sun, so very colorful, matching her new hair color in a way that is bizarrely fitting for her personality.

Everyone gasps when they see it for the first time. Eyes wide, mouths open in shock before they start gushing compliments, a few hands lift just a little before being pulled down- The instinct to touch is always there but the respect for her triumphs over it.

Her own smile is shy at first, eyes darting around to see everyone's reaction, to try to predict what they think, what they feel.

She keeps the wings tucked close at first, until the compliments wash away her worries and she lets them stretch further, revealing the way the colors blend together.

Her smile is as bright as the sun.

Jaiden feels free, for the first time in a very long time.

(Bobby was the only and last person who saw her wings.

Not even Roier had seen them.

Jaiden doesn't know why.

Doesn't understand the urge to keep them hidden, to keep them protected.

Doesn't understand the way she tenses when someone gets too close, how she holds her breath waiting for a touch that the logical side of her knows is not coming, that even if it does come it will be with her permission and with utmost care.

Nothing ever happened to her wings right?)

Philza freezes a smile on his face.

He compliments Jaiden as does everyone else but there is something off on his voice and he cannot bring himself to care, to change it.

(Philza is keeping too much hidden already, he doesn't know if he could deal with more without blowing up.)

He hopes they are too distracted by her to look too much into him. He doesn't want them to see his eyes, the way they shine with tears for a few moments before he pushes it down with familiarity.

He downplays his own feelings, his own reactions.

Philza doesn't elaborate on what "fucked by the Island" means. He can't.

He can't talk about how they hurt. How he knows they have been plucked without any sort of care but to cause harm and to take away their ability to fly, how there are empty spaces on his wings where no feathers have grown even if it's been months, how he can still feel the phantom sensation in them, how much it aches and burns in random moments.

How he can't bear to look at himself in the mirror with them in the open because he doesn't recognize the mangled mess the Federation made of them.

Philza hates how envy burns inside of him.

How something ugly twist in his chest and his first urge is to scream at Jaiden. Is to ask "why", why are her wings perfect, why is she allowed to fly, why didn't they mutilate her as well?

Somehow discovering that he was the only one to be punished like this stings in a raw way he cannot properly explain.

It's not fair.

It's not fucking fair.

How much can this cursed Island take from him until there is nothing left?

Baghera looks at Jaiden's wings and her first instinct is to flinch. Is to hide herself in a corner to fight the urge to hide inside of her own mind again, shaking from something she can't name.

Her whole body aches.

Her whole body hurts.

Her own wings, firmly and safely hidden behind layers of clothing, feel like they have been flayed.

(They had been, once.

Baghera is nauseous at how familiar the sensation is )

She can feel cold hands grabbing her feathers, she can taste her own blood as she once bitten her tongue because screaming always seemed to amuse It, she can feel the pain as the feathers are plucked with mechanical detached violence, she can almost see the raw spots left behind.

Baghera shakes and shakes and suddenly she is a little girl a misbehaving experiment all over again watching as others walk around with their perfect wings as she hunches in a corner with her bandaged body.

(Your fault.

Your fault.

Your fault.

Your fault.

A mechanical voice chants inside her head, half memory half not.

Why couldn't you be perfect like her?)

She can't look at Jaiden's wings.

Quackity looks at this strange with her colorful wings and he is hit with such familiarity it hurts.

He knows those wings.

His brain hurts every time he looks at her, like there is something pounding from the inside, some memory screaming to be remembered and as much as he tries he simply cannot bring it to the surface, just has this feeling like the answer is in the tip of his tongue but he has forgotten how to form words.

His own wings stir from their binding and he pushes down the urge to release them as well.

He can't.

He can't.

He can't.

He doesn't know why though, he doesn't understand the need to keep them to himself, to keep them safe where no one can see let alone touch them.

But he sees the scars on them when he dares to look into a mirror, sees the empty spaces where new feathers refuse to grow and he remembers very well the sensation of a cold hand holding into his feathers- Not a threat, a promise, a reminder.

Quackity dips his head into the cold water of his pool and wonders why he can't forget about the pain too.

(El Quackity watches in the cameras as the blue bird stretches her wings for the first time since they are kids and smiles to himself, amused by reasons none of the workers could hope to understand.

His own wings are visible as well, bright yellow and perfect as they can be.

He wonders if she has any idea of what she did to gain her's back.)

[ratinayellowbandana]

Hi!! I love your fics so much, and was hoping you could possibly do these prompts (or combine them!):

Hug

&

"You're safe here, I promise."

Thank you!! And no stress if you don't do this particular prompt, I'm just happy to read anything you write ❤️

ok so.. this ask if from September, but we're going to ignore that because I finally got around to filling it (with a slight variation). so thanks so much for your patience on that one. tossing my ep. 78 brainrot into the ring with everyone else's. here's a canon-divergent take on laudna bolting after the ziggurat and recounting old memories.

what if she retreated to the old laboratory instead of the woods?

cw: mentions of torture (canonical)

length: 1431 words

also on ao3

~~~

“Laudna, sweetheart?”

Imogen’s voice is a distant echo, resounding off the stone walls that warp and twist her words. She cannot see Imogen, cannot let Imogen see her. The veil that creeps over her face flickers in and out of existence, the phantom pressure of the choker heavy around her throat. Laudna bites back a low whine in the darkness. Shadows congeal around her feet, cloaking her from Imogen’s searching eyes. 

“Are you in here?” The question fades into heavy silence. The broken bookshelves and shattered vials give her no reply. 

Imogen had known just where to look, her clever girl. Laudna’s feet, guided by Delilah’s sweet whispers, had returned her unbidden to the laboratory. The scent of dried blood lingers in the groutwork. The metal table lies on its side, overturned during their spat with the castle’s vengeful spirits, its shackles dangling loose.

Laudna curls against the furthest wall, her form lengthening, cracking, shifting into something more. The thrumming in her chest urges her to lash out with cruel talons and jagged teeth. To tear and shred and protect until no one would dare cross her again. To snarl and fight until she is left alone once more.  

Her mama always said she was too trusting. Too gullible. It would get her into trouble. Trusting the wrong people. Lady Briarwood had been welcoming, so accommodating in her beautiful castle. She had seen something special in the farmgirl from the outskirts of the Parchwood. Her invitation had been a gift from the gods. The promise of private tutelage lured a girl below the city.  

Flashes of memory, scattered as fallen leaves, reveal racks of knives beside the door. The bite of iron into famine-thinned wrists. A throat screamed raw. Lady Briarwood’s traitorous sneer. 

“Laudna?”

The tunnels promised safety. It was easy to lose herself among the twists and turns. Carving a nook for herself was simple enough. A few well-placed crates disguised a forgotten passageway. She snuck up to the castle kitchens for castaway scraps. Pupils grew accustomed to the dark. Discarded trash became the foundation of her odd collection of possessions. Chipped bottles and forgotten tokens decorated her first home. 

They searched below the city for any traces of the Briarwoods’ nefarious projects. Laudna was flushed out of hiding when an unsuspecting guard stumbled across her enclave. 

Laudna?

The sting of betrayal sits fresh on her tongue. 

The spell is workin’, so you gotta be close. 

Her fingers stretch and claw at her hair. The fear of waking up alone again. A bed of moss tucked into broad tree roots. 

She wants to bite and mangle and–

Everyone leaves. True colors will show; it’s only a matter of time. They’ll learn what she is. They always do. 

Please don’t run from me.

Purple light dances overhead, casting Imogen in a familiar glow. 

“Where are you?” 

Laudna hunches into herself, a growl bubbling in her chest. 

“Stay away,” she spits, hating the way the words fall at her feet.

Imogen turns in the direction of her voice, eyes flitting over the swath of shadow hiding Laudna’s quivering shape. 

“If you really want me to go, I’ll go,” she says simply, ignoring the high notes of fear in Laudna’s voice. 

“I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anybody.”

“You won’t.” 

“You can’t know that.” 

“But I know you.” Imogen sighs, says softly, “Will you let me see you?” 

“Her influence is stronger here,” Laudna rasps. 

Imogen stiffens. “That’s alright. We’ll fight her off together if we have to.” Laudna doesn’t miss the barely concealed rage hidden beneath a layer of steely nonchalance Laudna suspects isn’t solely for her benefit. 

“She wants me to kill him and take the shard.” 

“She can’t have it.” 

“She needs it,” Laudna whispers, “and I’m afraid of what she’ll do to get her way.” She drops the shroud of darkness. “She always gets her way.” A broken sob tears from her throat. 

Imogen rushes forward, stopping short two paces away. “Oh, honey, can I–” she reaches out her hand, and Laudna nods. Imogen collapses at her side, taking Laudna into her arms. Laudna clings to her, trembling in the warm glow of Imogen’s lights. 

“I hate it here,” Laudna rushes. “I hate this city, I hate this fucking castle, I hate the gods-damned moon.” It bursts out of her in a wave as Imogen caresses her hair with gentle, practiced hands. “I hate Ashton,” she confesses through a choked cry, “I hate them, Imogen. Why would he betray us?” 

“‘Cause he’s a dumbass,” Imogen replies. “A dumbass who doesn’t think about the consequences of their actions and hurts everyone around them ‘cause he thinks we don’t care.” 

“He hurt Fearne. And he hurt you, and he hurt me–”

“Yeah, they did. And I’m fuckin’ pissed at ‘em ‘cause of it, but I don’t hate him.” She sounds weary and world-worn. 

Silence falls between them, save the dripping of a distant pipe.

Laudna speaks quietly. “She– she tortured me here, you know?” She feels Imogen tense beneath her, her hand faltering its steady course through Laudna’s hair before recovering once more. “I don’t… I don’t remember most of it. Probably for the best, really. Awful business, torture. I’ve heard it’s terribly messy.” Imogen isn’t smiling, and Laudna drops her attempt at lightheartedness. “I’m sorry. I don’t– I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Being in this room, I suppose–”

“In this room?” Imogen realizes, horrified. Her head swivels, taking in the overturned table, the broken beakers, the discoloration of the floor. “I didn’t realize– gods, Laudna, you never… We should go–” She moves to stand, but Laudna stops her. “She wanted to remind me, I think, of what she’s capable of.”

“You’re safe now. I promise.” Imogen murmurs fiercely, pressing her lips to the crown of Laudna’s head. 

“My ears,” Laudna continues, because Imogen knows this story. “She promised me lessons. Said I would be able to hear her better with my ears just so.” A dry laugh escapes. “I suppose she was right.” 

There is something about being here, in the room of her nightmares, with another living person. With Imogen, who grips her tighter, holds her a little closer. Who does not flinch away, but extends herself as a comfort. 

“I don’t think you’d have liked me when I returned the first time.” Laudna swallows. “I was… lost, callous. I hurt people.”

“You did what you needed to survive.” 

Laudna shakes her head. “I was angry and bitter. I fought recklessly and killed without thinking. Not every shack I came across was abandoned, Imogen. And when Delilah began her meddling… I felt it was justice for the harm done to me.” 

Laudna sits up, leans away from Imogen and twists her fingers around themselves. 

“There was a little girl once. She was kind to me, the way young children are with their imaginary friends.” She smiles fondly at the memory. “I do love children… I loved her, I think. She snuck me kitchen scraps and apples, and we would play games into the twilight hours before she had to return home.” Laudna’s face falls. “One day, she brought her parents to meet her spooky friend in the barn. They were not so kind to me.” She rubs self-consciously at a spot on her hip. “They attacked me, and I–” She swallows thickly. “I killed them.” 

Another sob resurfaces. 

“I didn’t mean to, I swear it. They were shouting at me, and then I was shifting back into my body, and the little girl was crying. And I ran.” She exhales a shaky breath. “I betrayed her trust. I’m no better than Ashton or Delilah or–”

“You didn’t deserve that,” Imogen says softly. “Any of it. Then or now.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Imogen holds out her arms again, and Laudna falls into them. 

“You did what you needed to survive,” Imogen repeats. “We’ve all done things we can’t take back. All we can do is move forward and strive to be better.”

“I don’t hate Ashton,” Laudna whispers into the fabric of Imogen’s dress. 

“I know, Laud,” Imogen murmurs, “I don’t either.” 

They sit in the ransacked laboratory until the last of Laudna’s cries subside, and Imogen’s back is sore from leaning against the wall at an awkward angle.

“What do you say we go find the others?” Imogen asks gently.

Laudna nods and gets to her feet, dabbing ichor from her eyes. Imogen squeezes her hand. 

Together, they climb the stairs of the hidden passageway behind the bookcase and do not look back. 

[deputygonebye]

@divinityrisen || Continued from here.

Born from a breakfast of stale pizza, what was once frozen inside of a grocery fridge and then discovered within an abandoned homestead, barely warmed when left over muted flame, the vomit that Glenn spilled was unnatural. Diluted from the few sips of water he was able to drink - a communal container that was less than a gallon, not enough to go around the camp - a mangled mess of white and red, flecks of green and globs of brown. Drenched in sweat, little comfort was found in the cushion of grass beneath the knees, Glenn hunched over nearest the weeds, an empty stomach made more so. Shaking, skin turned to an odd shade of pale, eyes watered and dark. A vision that brought about thoughts so terrible; the phantom of death, the fight that couldn't be beaten. Modern medicine and miracles damned, stock was nothing more than the promise of Aspirin and burn cream, stashed in the only cabinet of Dale's RV not hung to the wall by hopes and used duct tape. Small relief, modest to the agony so felt by Glenn, last seen covered head to toe in spare blankets, his lawn chair before the firepit a mediocre throne, Shane couldn't stand it.

Blade and gun carried, favored pistol holstered to his hip, he went off in search. For the sake of Glenn and the others, the need of their stock to be replenished and the promise of having more than not. A supply run that would be done alone - a burden carried unattended, sacrifice from the soldier onto his people, the family and friends who depended upon him. An entire world and more placed on tired shoulders. Better to have he than they, the rest of the group who survived Atlanta considered safe. Sheltered from the misery, if only for the bit of daylight that remained, the Walkers at rest for their hunt. Lost in the sleep that didn't need for the eyes to shut; the slow limp from span of time into the next, the endless cycle that was life forever. Storms within their irises, colors once so bright now dull, only those that didn't travel in packs would be found. Lone wolves; corpses without their hordes, snapping and biting into the open air, the flies that buzzed about or the birds that fluttered too close, banished even in demise.

Familiar road walked along, Shane continued until he came to face the carcass of a once thriving town. A skeleton that stood unmoved - doors and glass windows caved in - wood splintered, concrete busted, flower pots turned over and the beautiful buds trampled, petals scattered and ripped. Where kinfolk used to abide, cuddled close beside the fireplace in the living room, the grocery store just around the corner or the library only a block away. Heart and soul nestled beyond the city lights, the glamour and the frills, before a small market did Shane end. Fliers still plastered to the front door - opening and closing hours, special deals and coupons - tarnished by the elements, the faint sign of hands and nails that fought to get inside, dried blood and grime stained. Fingers to the handle about to pull, the sound of a crash stopped Shane in an instant, made him noiseless, breath stalled from the nose and released in stiff stream. All senses attuned, voices overheard gave cause for the quickness of his feet. A dash toward a used car lot, across the street from the quaint and humble market, behind the bumper of an old Jeep Patriot, billet silver in the body, total black in the tires.

Pistol taken into hold, a blur of blonde hair and scared expression captured Shane's attention the second it passed him. Waves of gold that moved to the strength of the wind, the thump of feet onto pavement and desire to be unseen. Panicked, annoyance outlined in the lines of her features, young but made older due to circumstance, her own weapon grabbed for with intention so well understood. Unprepared to welcome final moments, stubborn to accept fate, the hand not stationed to his gun was raised by Shane. Palm brought up, to the skies and all the angels above, defensive and in the tone of surrender. A flag of white waved in the breeze. Under the oath of his own choosing, vow that was far from what was so screamed by others, men of elder and youth alike.

Shane whispered, pitched at the end, the silence so loud. "Am I right to assume you ain't with them?"

Startled from the echo of gunshots, the reverb of slugs, the grind of jagged shale underfoot, Shane steadied himself, propped his stance.

"Listen to me, I ain't gonna hurt you, okay? But if you wanna make it out alive, you're gonna have to trust me. Start comin' to me this way, real slow. Keep your weight even - don't run. Come to the other side of me and stay down until I say so. I'll cover you. Bastards, they must've flanked every exit of this damn lot!"

Shane encouraged, a command rather than something sweeter, tender but roughly shared, "hey! Come on. Get over here!"

[missmissypaperdolls]

things I'll never finish writing

The dull pounding pain eventually faded, not quite gone, lingered but bearable, pulsing around, a distant thumping reminder. Of what? I couldn’t quite place. My hand rested upon my chest, over the heart- there was something cold and hard there, in my chest, that should not be. wait… my mind buzzed, unclear, clouded- the fingers flexed… I recalled, I should not have this hand? Was it not torn off? Useless mangled? My eyes blink, vision slightly blurred without my glasses, but I see well enough. My mind began to wake- stir from the dreamless sleep, with too many questions. I stare long and hard at the hand, trying to understand how it is still there- no phantom limb but a physical thing I can feel. yes- I remember, I am a regenerator, so I can heal… yet it still felt- wrong. Not like before. Not mine? Most of my body felt- alien. The skin color is a slight pale sickly green tint, unnoticeable except I notice it anyway because I am looking for what is off. My other hand lines around searching for a wound, there is none of course- no patchwork where the arm had been torn off, no reminder of the visceral violence. No blood. No scar. Nothing. But smooth flesh and some new grown hair. Then I remember- more- of what happened- fighting the panic, the dread, the memories swirling more clearly, and my eyes drift down to my chest- to the heart.The nail was still there.At first I am unsure if I screamed or just imagined I should scream, at the sight. The protrusion of metal sticking out of one’s own heart should expect such a reaction. Around the wound, there was no blood, nor gore of raw torn flesh, but thorns and vines weaving around, inside. Pulsing and moving, just slightly so. Matching the beat of my heart. Is it even my heart? My instinct tells me to rip it out, to tear out the nail- sink my new fingers into the foul infestation of vines, to be rid of it, but I also know, somehow- that will be an impossible task. That it is part of me now, fused, and if I remove it- all the result will be death. And I ask myself, if death is not a worthy end? My thoughts seem circular, stuck in the moment of wanting to do such a thing and unable to move to do it.Why am I alive? Am I? I am not… the me I once was. I am not the same. I am not- human anymore. I don’t know how I know this. Or what I’ve become, what this nail is transforming me into- but there is no doubt that I am different, changed. Wrong? I wait for the anger, the unfair rage and wrath at this strange horrible fate, but none comes. For I was the one who pushed, drove the nail there, this was me. My fault. So all I can do was hate myself. And I am not anymore myself, that man is dead. Has died. And yet, I live.Who am I?What am I?Does it even matter?I wonder if I should pray. I never had to wonder before. I just did it. I just believed God would hear me. But now I am unsure, if He would. If any prayer this new being uttered would be heard by the highest power authority. Or be an insult to Him. So I do not. I wouldn’t know what to pray for. I feel I would not pray for myself. But all the loss… all those I’ve lost. I try to remind myself, His kingdom was their reward. Yet- I still… mourn. Grieve. Miss horribly. I want to pray for the children, the orphans. The young souls- that they… they live. And find joy and happiness. After all that has happened.What has happened?I should not remain sitting in this damn bed. Pondering and pity. I should rise. I should go out. I should…Fight What is there left to fight?The door to the room opens. At first I didn't really wish to be seen. To turn and see- whomever is there. Should I cover this shame- this … me. This new form? Was it too late already? For they have probably seen me just sitting there in bed staring at my hands like I didn’t know what hands were for. So I wait. Unsure. So unsure of what to do. How to be anymore. Who to be.

-'

I refuse to let Alexander anderson die :<

[mrxcreepypastamadness]

Here's my official reveal of King Virtual, no it's not King Candy/Turbo from Wreck-It-Ralph, at all.

King Virtual

Inspired by: Mr. Virtual created by Stupendous Snart

Appearances:

• Candy Land (Original King Kandy)

• Friday Night Funkin': Sugar Rush Madness V2

• Jubileena's January Night Massacre (Upcoming)

• Vs. Sugar Hallow FNF Port V1 (Cancelled)

• Candy Land: The Great V1RTU4L Experience (Upcoming Candy Land Creepypasta)

• Curse of the Crimson King (Upcoming)

• Friendly Enmity (AU upcoming.)

Aliases:

• Mr. King Virtual (most commonly/Non-Canon name)

• King V

• King Vlad the V

• Vlad

• Vlad the Halocaust King

• The Crimson King

• Various Fake Identities

Affiliation:

• Torri Ferdinand (Police officer/Enemy)

• Sammy Henderson (victim)

Age:

• 63 (at time of death)

• 102

Species:

• Human (formerly)

• Poltergeist

Gender: Male

Height:

• 6'3 (Human)

• 14'5 (Current)

Weight: ???

Eye Color: Black

Date of Birth: 666 A.D.

Date of Death: October 13th (Day of his execution ordered by a new King that saved everyone from mass extermination.)

Place of birth: ???

Occupation:

• King/tyrant ruler of his crimson kingdom (Formerly)

• Serial Killer

Debut: Friday Night Funkin': Sugar Rush Madness

About:

King Virtual is a Virtual Boy oriented EXE inspired by Mr. Virtual. He is the antagonist of the upcoming horror series "Curse of the Crimson King" and "Candy Land: The V1RTU4L Experience".

Biography:

King Virtual was once a normal king and a tyrant simply under the name "Vlad the V", he lived a life of struggle and torment before one day he snaps, burning down his whole entire kingdom and watching the halocaust of those he knew die before his very own eyes, the screams of his subjects, servants and peasants caused him a sence of pure bloodlust and euphoria, and this down life of a sinful act, becoming a ruthless dictator and serial killer once again under the alias of "Vlad the V", his killings would involve him mutilating his victims in various ways, and carving a large satanic temple symbol on their chests before burying them in secret locations.

His killings caught attention to King Thomas Ferdinand the III, who immediately took action, started a war in hunting a psychopath, who, after months would eventually be caught in October 13th, the war would lead the king to Vlad into the dungeon where he can be current held for awile until his Judgement Day, where Vlad the V would be eventually executed, burning him on a stake he was tied to, and eventually Vlad the V would bring a curse upon everyone where he would be possessing a Virtual Boy console, where they would be showing of the latest "Virtual Boy" System.

Unknowing to Torri Ferdinand, Vlad the V's soul would become tethered to the system in death, transforming a red gangly and seemingly shapeless poltergeist.

Months after his death, Vlad the V takes the name "King V", a giant phantom which took a twisted form of King Kandy, having renounced his previous life to attain one singular goal, Kill Officer Torri Ferdinand. He wasn't yet aware of his abilities till an unsuspecting Sammy Henderson had played a very system he inhabited, this allowed Vlad the V to follow him, just as he did to his previous victims, which lead him to attempting his old halocaust ways, Sammy would experience months of nightmares and unexplained origins and paranoia, till one day, he was able to see him, then he struck, He mutilated not his physical form, but the very soul that inhabited his body, leaving it a mangled corpse of what once was "Sammy Henderson", in doing this, he was able to replace him and tether his form to the body of Sammy, using it as a vessel, the feeling of flesh, the smell of the air, it was all familiar, but completely foreign to him at the same time, he has returned to the physical plane, and he LOVED it...

But this feeling, this vessel, it would fall short, as only mere days after he attained his new body, it would begin to rot away, the skin peeling off, the face deteriorating into a grotesque smile which matched that of his new face, and then, without any warning, he was back in the headset, he had stayed tethered to the cursed object he had made a curse with, and he was no closer to achieving his goal, however, with a newfound knowledge of his abilities, he would just need to try again, and again, until one day, Ferdinand would die by his hands...

Voicelines:

Friday Night Funkin'; Sugar Rush Madness (Hellish Hollows):

• "Would you like to try again?

"HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!"

• "HMHMHMHOHOHOHAHAHAHA!"

• "Such a Bold Knight in shining armor, yet...such a frail mind...HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

• "Thank you for freeing me...

BOY..."

• "Now you can truly be with your Girlfriend...FOREVER..."

Gallery:

King Virtual (GF form)

[honey-makes-mogai]

[Image ID: A MOGAI flag with ten horizontal stripes. From top to bottom the colors in order are: red-black, dark red, dark olive green, olive green, white, light gray, olive green, dark olive green, dark red, red-black. The white and light gray stripes are thinner than the rest, which are all equally sized. In the middle of the flag is a symbol resembling a 5 pointed star, the lines making each point turn into a spiral as they reach the next point. The symbol is off white outlined in black with a semi transparent off white circle behind it. /End ID]

PhantomManglestelic -

[PT: PhantomManglestelic -]

A constelic term for those who stel Phantom Mangle from FNaF!

Tagging: @radiomogai @constelicflags

[Banner ID: A pastel yellow banner with a sunflower on either side. In brown text with a white outline, it says "- Please let me know if this has been coined before! -" /End ID.]

[DNI transcript: "-DNI- Basic criteria, anti-mogai, proshippers, ableists, aphobes, racists, zoophiles, rpf shippers, fandom discourse, under 13, transid/transx". /End transcript.]

[quirkthieves]

closed starter for @dynmghts

CONTENT WARNING: psychological horror, discussion of parasites, descriptions of gore.

“What an obnoxious villain.” Phantom Thief grumbles as they clamber up the apartment’s fire escape, still smarting from the nasty thwack on the nose he had so graciously been gifted by their foe– (and Bakugo had the nerve to laugh!)

He jumps in through the window with practiced ease, his partner close behind. The apartment itself is unremarkable, and the villain is clearly no longer present, so he strides across the carpeted floor to throw open the front door as he talks.

“Really, the audacity to lead us on such a ridiculous chase-” he begins, but his griping is cut short when the door swings open to reveal what was not the dingy little complex they had entered, but a long, brightly-lit hall, with the tell-tale chill and antiseptic smell of a hospital.

Already, he’s unnerved. He goes to take a step, but hesitates when a pinboard hanging on the wall catches his attention. The paper letters clearly had been intended to be colorful, but were so faded they almost looked grey.

Yokohama Hospital Children’s Ward

“Yokohama?” That was his hometown– but it wasn’t exactly small– so perhaps whoever was responsible for the strange construct was simply reminiscing. Bakugo pushes past him– so he scurries to catch up, the hair on the back of his neck beginning to stand on end.

Quickly, the sounds of hospital activity begin to surround them; as if they were there, but there’s not a person in sight. The first room they encounter is pushed open unceremoniously by his impatient companion, but Monoma’s blood runs cold at the name on the door.

3-F MONOMA

Indeed, the room inside is familiar to him, even beyond the standard hospital dressings; the small nightstand sits cluttered with stuffed toys and snack wrappers, a chair is pulled close with a deck of cards balancing precariously on the arm from where he and his brother would play their favorite game, a birthday cake sits untouched on the windowsill, with a card pitifully propped up next to it.

The bed is occupied. The blankets mound around a little body, although Monoma can’t see who it is.

Bakugo looks at him.

Monoma steels his nerves and approaches the bed. Gingerly lifting the blanket, he expects to see himself, frail and pallid, but…

Instead, in his place, the body of a mangled bird, the size of a child, greets him. It oozes blood from the wound in its stomach. It soaks through the disposable paper sheets, through the mattress: it fills the air with the smell of copper and rot, the sound of cicadas and children squealing–

Monoma lowers the blanket.

“How tacky.”

Now he’s the one pushing past Bakugo, and when he opens the door, instead of Yokohama Hospital, the hallway stretching in front of them is ornate; still dressed in white, but the slightly off-white cool tones of antique furniture and wall panels accentuated by the silver frames of mirrors and pictures. Home.

“Does he think he’s funny?” Monoma tch’s with annoyance, but that doesn’t change his heart racing in his chest. If Bakugo has anything to say, Monoma isn’t listening. He simply continues down the hall, their footsteps echoing in silence for a few moments, until the sound of a tutor’s voice begins to ring through the air.

“In the case of an unwanted pregnancy, cats will re-absorb the fetuses in order to save energy and resources. Identical twins are the result of a blastocyst splitting in utero. Cuckoos are brood parasites. They will lay their eggs in the nests of other birds and the other bird will be forced to raise a chick that consumes more time and resources than the bird’s own offspring.”

Monoma’s mouth falls into a grim line. Their footsteps are the only sound punctuating the droning lecture, reflections rippling below them across the surface of the polished tiles.

“This really is my personal hell. My old tutor is going to bore us to death with science facts.” He quips, although he’s not sure it’s as convincing as he’d like. If Bakugo noticed this, he doesn’t say it.

“In the case of twins, one is often smaller and less developed than the other fetus. The Emerald Jewel Wasp is known for their ruthless reproductive cycle, in which they lobotomize a cockroach to lay their eggs in, so that the cockroach will remain in the burrow the wasp has dug until the eggs hatch and eat the cockroach from the inside out. Twins are often born prematurely because of the strain they put on the body of the mother. Tapeworms are a parasite that hook onto the walls of the digestive system with their specialized mouthparts. They do not reproduce sexually. Instead, segments of their body detach and exit through the waste products of their host, becoming new tapeworms. Monozygotic twins have identical genotypes, but are not genetically identical.”

Each word weighs down the bags under his eyes, but Monoma refuses to drop his mask of bravado. His will sags in his ribs, and while Monoma’s a talented actor, he can’t bring himself to look back at Bakugo and put it to the test. He pauses in the hall, looking at the expanse of walls stretching out in both directions.

“We should have come across rooms by now. You’d think this moron would at least bother to get the floor plan right.” A flippant wave of his hand. They push on.

“Often, in animals that spend a lot of time raising their offspring, such as pandas, should a twin be born, it will be rejected by the mother and left to wither in order to guarantee the success of the other offspring. Monozygotic twins that split between days 4-8 of the pregnancy will share a placenta, but not the amnion. This occurs in 60% of monozygotic pregnancies. There is a high risk of twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome. Vampire bats must consume over half their weight in blood when feeding, as blood is poor in nutrients and has a high water content. If another member of their colony has been unable to find food, they will often regurgitate some of their own in order to feed them. Sometimes, one twin fetus will fail to develop completely and continue to cause problems for its twin. One fetus acts as a parasite towards the other. Sometimes the parasitic twin is an almost indistinguishable part of the other twin, and sometimes this needs to be treated medically. Behavioral issues observed in neglected animals often include confusion or drowsiness, aggression as a defense mechanism, and evasive behavior. A rare type of parasitic twinning occurs when one twin becomes “molar” to the viable twin, becoming a cancerous mass that overtakes the viable twin.”

A door appears between the panels of the wall. So unassuming that Monoma almost walks right past it. The lock is on the outside. He does not want to, but Monoma opens the door.

The family dining room opens in front of them, providing a welcome relief on the eyes with the warm, dimmed lights. The large, polished table stretches out horizontally, with a sole attendee, seated in the center for her own personal Last Supper.

The table is fully set. As expected for Monoma, the plates are impeccably placed for each course, the silverware polished, the napkins folded. Each plate and serving tray is a verifiable cornucopia; but instead of the expected array of vegetables and fruit, maybe roasted duck or onion soup, each dish is loaded with masses of fresh viscera. A glistening spectrum of reds, from the smooth pink membranes of the intestines to the deep red of slow-twitch muscles. The pale yellow of the pilling fat oozing out under pallid skin. The beautiful shimmer between green and purple of the stomach.

The individual at the table stares at them, utterly unamused. She sighs in exasperation, shaking her head, gloved hands picking up her fork and knife.

“You could’ve had a decent quirk, you know,” her knife sinks into the purplish-red mound on her plate. It squishes under the weight, and then gives way, spilling blood and amniotic fluid across the plate like an egg with a runny yolk. “Copy and Paste could’ve been the next All for One. Imagine how useful that’d be right about now.” She takes a bite from her fork and shrugs.

“Too bad you had to try and strike it on your own, huh? Lots of audacity for an unwanted tumor with an attitude.” She eyes them both with disdain. Stockinged feet swing under the table. Blonde hair curled into two low, drill-style pigtails threatens to dip into the mess. “Can’t be a hero like that. ‘Specially not when compared to that guy.” Her fork is leveled at Bakugo for a moment, and another shrug follows. She returns to her meal. “But you already know that.”

Monoma swallows. Monoma swallows as well.

“People liked us as an idol.” Arsene says. “But it drove us crazy. Some people just aren’t destined for good things.” She stares ahead in dull contemplation as she chews.

“People liked the idea of us as an idol.” Neito has found his voice to counter, albeit weakly. “Those are different things.”

“Not for us, it’s not. There’s nothing there underneath people’s ideas, is there? Don’t get uppity when playing a role so minor in the show.” Arsene wipes her face. “Yasuo’d pop you in the mouth for that.”

They stare at each other in silence for a bit.

“If you want out of here, you’ll have to win.”

“You don’t really pose much of a threat.”

“Is that your idea of a fantasy? Beating on a 14 year old girl?” Arsene sneers, brows arching in typical Monoma disdain. “It’s just like everything else. You have to beat the game.”

Neito runs his tongue over his teeth.

She takes the final bite of her meal.

The clock ticks on.

[butch-bride-of-trashcat]

25/09

23:56

I cannot sleep again. All of the power in the world doesn't help you fall asleep if you just plain forget to breathe once you do.

I pad my way to the kitchen in the dark. Anice weaves between my feet as I reach for the tea cupboard and a bottle of melatonin. She lets out an expectant 'mmmrrrrip' as the capsules rattle into my hand. I chuckle as I crouch to pet her charcoal colored sugar lump of a self. I really should remember to get some tuna treats for her tomorrow.

A quiet, unsteady tapping breaks the soft sounds of the night. She trots along as I slip on my grey robe. It can't be law enforcement, they sound more assertive. I have no friends. And my rent is caught up, and office hours are long over, so it certainly is not Stacy. I look through the peephole.

Brigit stands outside in the blank grungy whiteness of the hallway, except, it's not Brigit as I know her. I open the door.

"I-I didn't mean to wake you Grey." she barely slurs out, wobbling near drunkenly "The comic convention is in town. A couple tourists liked my uniform" she nervously chuckles before her legs buckle. I catch her, and she fights to move on her own, but this doesn't look like the first fight she's lost tonight. Bruises colored her neck and arms revolting shades of yellow, green and violet. Her left eye was swollen shut and split, blood trickling down to her lips, also split.

Her green spandex was tattered and stained in blood and-- her golden belt hung off her hip in disrepair. Her Steven Universe boxers--Steven Universe boxers, really??--were shredded and stained underneath. As a bachelor, it was a stain I recognized well from one-handed exercises, but, it didn't belong on her, and it didn't belong with blood. Sapphire and Ruby were both mangled and red. My blood boils.

I clear off my sofa, and gently lay her down. Her emerald eyes hold the haunting distant gaze only trauma knows. Her voice grackles again. "I'm sorry, I didn't know where else to go. The police didn't listen. They just-they didn't care" she gives a raspy, absent laugh.

"Easy Bri-- Mary. Easy Mary. Try not to talk too much, okay? And I'll go fix you a cup of tea-"

"NO!!" she shrieks, nearly climbing over the back of the couch before I could turn around. Anice rubs against her boot like always.

"Ok, ok!" I sat back down in the chair next to her. I slowly hold her hands. Her clammy skin trembles in my hands. "But I do need some things from you. Is that ok? I'm going to need your blood and underwear for testing. And fingernail scrapings..." I try to keep the monotony of my voice soothing, but not hypnotic. She's had enough mind tampering it sounds like.

I felt horrible asking for so much. She's always beat me in battle, but she'd always heal the wounds and burns she made. Even took care of my apnea for a week once. But her powers are only ever useful on others, not that she'd even consider doing anything easily. But strength ... she shouldn't be able to remember this. She shouldn't even have been awake.

But she nods blankly.

"I didn't know where else to go Francis. I'm sorry. I didn't know.." she tugs her suit down her crotch.

"It's ok. What'd he look like Mary dear?"

I get my supplies and get the..evidence. She looks around, dazed and confused. "Who?" she asks, shaking her head.

"The bad guy tonight Brigit. The villain who did this one to you.Was he skinny, or fat like me?"

"Oh...." she mumbles"Black and White. Like the Phantom of the Opera, if the Phantom had a scary smile and twisty stache. There was brown hair, and he was tall and thin."

Oh god, one of those kinds of ass wipes. "Where did you get him? Did you get him?" I asked, because her nails were a mess of skin and bloody gunk.

Another nod. "I scratched his throat. I got the fuc--"

She begins to retch. The kitchen wastebasket hits my body in telekinesis flavored panic. I've always hoped she'd stay the night here, but not like this. I hand it to her just as she begins to puke violently. Anice runs away. I mean, it's either that or be catapulted. Heh, Mary would have appreciated the pun but--focus!! She's slowing down!!

"Mary, I'm going to get you a cup of clear, unflavored water, and some pills for your belly." Oh god, she's in rags. It's not right to have her half naked here like this. "-and PJs. They might be a bit big, but they'll have to do for tonight. We'll get through this together, ok?"

Thumbs up.

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

BLACKBROOKE CHRONICLER

26th September, 2015

GRAYSCALE STRIKES AGAIN

Local Villain, Grayscale, publicly tortured 29 year old tourist, Kyle Roman, by levitating him, inflicting several ailments, stripping him seemingly, and inflicting injuries to orifices as well as blunt force trauma.

Nearby police were alerted to the cries for help, and attempted to apprehend the perpetrator before being hypnotized to walk away and forget the assault of the victim.

He then eased the victim down, and placed a paper bag into the victim's hand. Victim was last seen handing the bag to dazed officers before being driven to police station.

When asked, Chief of Police, Jules Jefferson says only that "officers are looking into Mr. Roman's case, but no new leads can be made due to lack of hard evidence."

You, a supervillain, answer a knock at your door, only to find your superhero nemesis shivering, bleeding, scared, and slightly dazed (as if drugged). They appear to have been assaulted. The hero mumbles “…didn’t know where else to go…” before collapsing into your arms.

[therealandtruewilliamafton]

Last until I decide to rate bb and puppet

Rating Mangles

The Mangle

10/10 beautiful perfect pretty wonderful

Phantom Mangle

4/10

What the fuck happened to you

Nightmare Mangle 10/10

Scariest Nightmare

The charms went from cute to terrifying

Magician Mangle

5/10

A cute idea love the endo head has rabbit ears

Serpent Mangle mmmmmmm 6/10

Cute colors and all but design doesn’t have enough spice to bump that up

[fantasy-fields-bitty-center]

Stage Sets

Common Stage: A common stage! simple and rectangular(think fnaf 1 stage!),   only low(no lights) and mid(lights)

Bitties: All but Withereds, nightmares, phantoms, and frights,

-

Pirate stage: A sizeable room with a stage shaped like the front of a boat!  only low(no lights) and mid(lights)

Bitties: Foxy’s

-

Kid’s cove set: A medium sized room(about 4 rooms big) with a stage that can fit two animatronics with purple curtains with white stairs, tables, chairs, and a small ball pit, Low(no lights) and Mid(lights)

Bitties: Toy Foxy and Mangle

-

Pirate cove set: A medium sized room(about 4 rooms big) with a stage that can fit one animatronic with purple curtains with white stairs, tables, and chairs, Low(no lights) and Mid(lights)

Bitties: Foxy types,

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Funtime cove set: A medium sized room with a stage thats big enough for 3 animatronics and tables and chairs, with a large built on room for scavenger hunts! The room is themed around a sandstone cave and pirates! High only

Bitties: Foxys, Mangles, Fixed Mangles,

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Rock Concert Stage: A high-tech stage with working spotlights, an instrument rack, and speaker props. (Low/Decorative), (Mid/Lights), (High/Functional with sound effects)

Bitties: Rockstars, Lefty,

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Carnival Stage set:

This stage is designed to capture the vibrant and playful atmosphere of a classic carnival. It features colorful striped circus tent drapes hanging from above, twinkling string lights that add a festive glow, and a small carousel backdrop that can spin gently during performances. The Low version offers simple decor without lights, Mid includes animated string lights for extra charm, and High adds dynamic carnival music and moving carousel props to immerse the audience fully. This stage is perfect for lively, energetic performances that want to bring out the joy and excitement of a fairground.

Functionality: Low (Decorative), Mid (Animated lights), High (Music and moving props)

Bitties: Daycare attendants, Funtimes, Carnies,

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[staghunters]

Melinoe lore that can possibly be in Hades II

A lot of you (like me) are very excited about Hades II. Melinoe is a bit (understatement) of an obscure deity, only appearing in the Orphic hymns once. This is the same collection we got Zagreus from, but he is a much more central figure in Orphism.

The main information thus comes from hymn 71 of the Orphic hymns which I'll outline below for those who may want to know a little more (potential) background for the character. There's no guarantee that everything will be in the game, but Supergiant paid a lot of close attention in the first game.

Here we go!

I call upon Melinoe, saffron-cloaked nymph of the earth,

From the first trailer, we can already see that saffron-cloaked is incorporated into the game. It is an orange-yellow color from the saffron herb.

to whom august Persephone gave birth by the mouth of the Kokytos,

Given the design is similar to Zagreus but with a different parental foundation, Persephone definitely seems to be the mom. The river Kokytos is one of the rivers in the Underworld (not featured in the first game). Some of the dungeon screenshots do show a body of water along with a number of shades (both hostile and non-hostile). I think this may be the Kokytos as this one is frequently called the "river of wailing".

upon the sacred bed of Kronian Zeus.

This is a tricky one because Kronian means "son of Kronos" which applies to the three brothers. Zeus in these times was used more generally for "bigger" gods.

He lied to Plouton and through treachery mated with Persephone,

This line, however, does suggest Zeus is the father (once more). I believe one common interpretation is that he shifted into the form of Hades. More canonically, Zeus is also the father of Zagreus. But I think (also given the changes they made to Persephone's parentage) that they will keep Hades for Melinoe as well to avoid the incest connotation.

Whose skin when she was pregnant he mangled in anger

I doubt this will make it in.

She drives mortals to madness with her airy phantoms,

Could be a boon/power thing in the game, but the hymn does specify just mortals. We do see more interaction between shades and Melinoe than between them and Zagreus.

as she appears in strange shapes and forms, now plain to the eye, now shadowy, now shining in the darkness, and all this in hostile encounters in the gloom of night

Also potential boon/power. Specifically, "shining in the darkness" is an epithet used primarily for moon goddesses (Selene, Artemis, Hecate, f.e.). There are some moon motifs in Melinoe's design that refer to those of Nyx and Artemis in the first game.

But goddess and queen of those below, I beseech you to banish the soul's frenzy to the ends of the earth and show a kindly and holy face to the initiates

I think I saw from some screenshots that a lot of the enemies are seemingly corrupted shades. Look for the white-cloaked figures and you'll see some speared by weapons f.e. This could very well be "banish the soul's frenzy to the ends of the earth".

General Note: In academic circles, there is the interpretation that Melinoe is simply a different name/aspect of Hecate. Supergiant definitely did not go in this direction (and neither do I, personally). Hecate so far seems to be more of a mentor figure, similar to Achilles in the first game.

All in all, I'm very excited!! Melinoe has been a long figure of interest of mine, so I'm glad she'll be brought to a wider public with this. As mentioned before, the "canonical" text we have for Melinoe is very very little, basically what you can read above. I fully trust Supergiant in fleshing this out into a great character and a great game in general.

[enduringdevotion]

Nicholas isn't sure if it's the rain or just how exhausted he truly was, but the jolting and moving doesn't quite rouse him from complete rest. It just activates instinct to gently pet the other's back, mumbling under his breath something about everything being alright.

Brows slowly furrow as the movement continues before stilling once more as the warm touch soothes whatever upset his mind had conjured. He nuzzled into his own arm, hooked under his head to be out of the way and prop it up, having somehow instinctively wiggled the pillow to best support Xuanyu.

Ever the caretaker, even in his deepest respite.

Even though he was a warrior, a violent fighter and a soldier, it seemed he felt no danger from Xuanyu, thus slept through whatever the man was doing.

However, when fingers grazed a hairline scar on his throat, brows snapped down. Not in rage, but fear. Still, he bared teeth, revealing sharp canines not unlike Astarion's own, the faintest sound in his throat before shifting his head away to almost pout like a kicked dog. It was hard to tell his emotions, especially when his hand still sluggishly tried to offer comfort.

"'S nothin'." His voice is slurred, barely even words crawling past his lips.

Being this close, curious eyes would notice the broad spans of warm skin was marred with intricate lines, scarring all over his frame. Some clearly surgical, but others... Others along his ribs were twisted, mangled things, curled lines chased dark holes, as if it were all made with burning hot metal, made to be unseen.

A branding of sorts, how far it went was hard to tell, what little could be seen was brutal all the same.

How he survived was a wonder in itself.

Despite the brutality of them, however, even they were subtle, barely raised and the color itself hardly changed. Like something in his body, or consumed by him, had healed these exact wounds a thousand times, leaving them barely there phantoms of a past unknown. Seen only in the closeness the two men shared in that moment.

A branding for a specific person. Ownership over the soldier.

Dreams are ever an unpleasant thing, sending one back into the places they feel most trapped, intertwining memory, reality, and fears together. Even in the most deep, exhausted slumbers they'll find you, and Mo Xuanyu hasn't been asleep for long before his brow knits, faint whimper escaping between breaths.

He's still a little unwell, too... has yet to fully banish the cold brought on by rains that weren't silver and bell-toned.

Unconsciously, he seeks out offered warmth, companionship, a gentle touch so unlike that which he's used to, head curling to rest up against chest, the rhythmic heartbeat beneath his ear smoothing and evening out the chaos and terrors of the dreamscape, gradually stilling his own anxious, fluttering heart to something a bit calmer. A bit more even, natural-- restful, even.

Comfort is something he knows little of, and yet seeks out when it presents itself.

He sleeps for a good long while. Long enough for the rain outside to come to a stop, the perpetual twilight returning to its default state, the silver puddles gradually turning bronze.

Then, when he does wake, he takes his time coming to awareness. Slowly, softly, blinking his eyes and stretching out his legs and arms-- and it's then that he becomes aware of the fact that he's not alone.

A moment of fear first, naturally, a small jolt, gaze flicks up to have a look-- and he remembers, gradually, the events of the previous day, which now seem so distant and detached from the present yet still, somehow, viscerally true.

He doesn't, however, remember falling asleep in Nico's arms.

Everything around that is a bit of a blur, emotions having run too high to fully process it.

His breath freezes in his lungs. Then, warmth blossoms in his face, in his chest...

And intensifies.

He ignores it. If he ignores it hard enough, maybe the feeling will go away.

Instead, he lifts his head up, just a little, giving himself a good look at Nicholas' sleeping face. Dark eyes blink softly, and though his features are slightly flushed and there's a feeling in his gut that he's not going to pay any attention to, he's much calmer now than he was before. Calm enough to actually take a moment to study those features.

He's good-looking, that's for sure. It's not just his attitude. Of course, Mo Xuanyu already knew that, but... now he's actually able to think a little more clearly. Appreciate it better.

You're really thinking about things like that now? You think he'll go for a freak like you?

It's Xue-shixiong's voice now, ironically, and if Mo Xuanyu glances out of the corner of his eye, he can see the lanky young man lounging on the other end of his bed, stick of tanghulu in hand.

It's another phantom-- and he can think clearly about it this time, both because of Astarion and Nicholas' influence, but also because Xue-shixiong isn't someone he wants to run and hide from on first sight, even if he still makes Mo Xuanyu nervous.

Hm. If I'm a freak, what does that make you? He thinks, frowning a bit as he averts his gaze. Then, very slowly, carefully, he reaches out to trail his fingertip over Nicholas' jawline.

[dysphanic-redshift]

@nerdydowntherabbithole fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you /pos

So remember that ask I sent in abt possible Pebbles nightmare. brain screamed at me until I actually wrote it. It’s. Oh boy. I didn’t even know I had that ability of describing horror.

To anyone else finding this: DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVE NOT READ THE LATEST TLAI CHAPTER. Similarly this mini-work contains graphic descriptions of body horror, mentions of (fake) character death, and general terror/horror/angst. And as a final message: Fuck you Nerdy I love your writing

Pebbles woke up, slow as ever, to find himself decidedly not inside the shelter. Instead he was somewhere in that dreaded swamp with the Rot-lookalikes and murderous fireflies. He stayed still on the ground for a long moment, antenna twitching and swiveling towards any hint of noise. But there was nothing.

Belatedly, he realized his connection with his Overseers was severed. He tried to reach for the link, flinching as he was met with nothing. Not even a phantom feeling. Just like when he was severed from his can. Pebbles shuddered- He wasn't sure what happened. Why was he out here again, why were his Overseers gone?

The Iterator stood up, brushing off his pants from the dirt and shaking his head lightly. Glancing around the swamp, it was... darker. No longer did distant yellow light flit through the trees. Bioluminescent spots that dotted the terrain and creatures was absent. Not a single lizard. Not an idling bug. Nothing. Even more silent than it was beforehand.

Like this, the silence felt as if it was trying to consume him. Pebbles shuddered again. He wanted out, and quickly. He wanted his friends back.

He began walking, slow and careful, stepping over the brush and avoiding the trees and puddles as much as he could, ducking away from looming branches.

Pebbles was remarkably careful, flinching whenever he even thought there was a noise, only to discover nothing in it's place than his own body brushing against some stray leaves or stepping on a flimsy twig. And when something did happen, it was the last thing he wanted.

He found himself tripping over an outstretched tendril of that Rot-lookalike. As quick as he could, Pebbles stamped his foot onto it, causing the thing to fall limp as he backed away, antenna quivering as he stared at it, eyes wide.

Gone was the knotted branch-like thing mottled with green. No, instead it was more bulbous than normal, squirming and squelching, bright blue X marks across it's cysts popping and glowing.

In an instant, the entire swamp lit up. Bright blue and glowing, tendrils of Rot extending from the trees and roots and leaves, reaching for him, grasping at his hands and legs and antenna, it was coming from the water and the sky and the ground it was everywhere.

If Pebbles had the ability to throw up, he was sure he would've. As it were, a sort of robotic gagging noise forced itself from his voice box as he ripped himself away from the disgusting texture and backed away, a high pitched buzz accompanying his stress.

And as if it couldn't get worse, a long tendril of Rot wrapped around his arm and torso, pulling him to the ground with a thump. The dirt under his hands and feet felt like it was corroding, crumbling under every touch, squishy and moist. A glance down confirmed his strangled thought- It too was marked with various X's of all kinds.

Pebbles watched with shaking limbs as a form approached from the shadows, illuminated in blue and pink, the stench of burning and melting flesh meeting him. Peach lay coated in cysts, one of their back legs deformed and mangled, outstretched beyond it's abilities, lifting the large creature up as their tail swayed, black scales parting and cracking under the strain of tumors ever shifting within their body. Their head was dimmed of color, not a single noise or hiss or growl escaping their throat.

And their eyes. Lizard eyes were typically black in color barring a few species, but this? This blackness was dead. He could tell, with just a glance that grew far too prolonged, that they were dead. Dead dead dead, his mind chanted, just like he would be.

Following came Clover, lumbering on all fours, jaw twisted and broken, every joint and bone popping and cracking with movement. Black acidic liquid dripped from their mouth, gurgling and steaming, as the soft shamrock color that typically emitted from Clover's head faded, as did any light behind their eyes.

The buzzing in his voice box grew to a wail as in came Cherry, her normally spikey fur was matted and rippling as cysts shifted underneath, breaking out and leaking pure darkness from her one good eye, staining the white coloring. Her scarred eye had a tumor growing right over where it once was, bright red X's marring her fur. Three tendrils held her up, one having been her tail, now popping and spluttering every few seconds with weak sparks, the smell of gunpowder far from comforting.

Following just behind the red slugcat came Angel and the pups, Angel reverted to the form the group had found her in, albeit more... consumed. The Rot had progressed, sprouting two new tendrils, her scar bubbling with acid. And the pups- One walked nearly the same as they had before, with one leg twisted and broken, dragging behind them, their mouth open in a silent scream. The other was turned over, large pulsating tumors erupted from their chest, right where their heart would've been.

Cream and Sugar, then, just as mangled as the rest. Sugar looked half-mauled on top of the cysts clinging to its side, one ear gone and an arm reduced to nothing but decayed bone. Cream’s head was completely overtaken, not even his dead eyes visible.

Pebbles began struggling, sparking like a tesla coil, thrashing against the Rot that held him down, but it prevailed it didn't burn, why wasn't it dying- Everything felt like it stopped at once. Pebbles looked up, meeting someone's eyes.

Moon. Moon was there, she was there, he began shouting her name, voice so overlayed with static that he wasn't even sure if he was saying the right thing. But she was there, she could save him-

His voice gave out into strangled cries as he realized.

Not Moon. Not alive. Dead, dead, she's dead, she's gone, she's dead, she's not coming back she's not here to save you youkilledheritsyourfault-

He woke with a high-pitched shriek, body still sparking. He looked around hurriedly, reaching for the ties to his Overseers-

Everyone was fine. Cherry, Angel, and Cream were right where they had been before. Clover and Peach were curled up in an odd little lizard ball. The pups were sleeping on Cherry's tail, tiny breaths shifting her fur.

There was no Rot. They were all okay. Moon was probably waiting for Sugar as the rain cycle passed.

It was just a dream.

Pebbles let out a soft sigh, trying to ignore the electronic whining his voice box still insisted on producing as he curled up in the corner, pulling his knees to his forehead.

Just a dream.

[memurfevur-archive]

Faithless Creations

Character(s): Zillyhoo, Wesker Werecrow

About: A deity reserved through the annals of time investigates a creature that quickly teaches him what it is like to feel fear and becomes something bigger than himself.

CW: violence and gore, body horror

Google Doc Link

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The throne grows cold as the prayers to feed it grow silent. There were not as many worshippers as there were the night before, or the night before that. Remaining tongues cry of fear, a flavor I most dislike. Their prayers reek of desperation, and they plead for protection and knowledge against an enemy most unknown and unfamiliar. It is not disbelief that is beginning to starve me, but the swift and sharp knife of death that had come too soon.

At first, I thought it must be my brothers and sisters; other Messiahs selfishly trying to claim more domain. It’s within our nature, of course– endlessly do we squabble over the food we play with. Why, it is how I achieved my power so long ago before the quakes of war rumbled our kingdom. Me and my hammer carving a name for ourselves through the blood of gods and mortals alike, until at last the name would be drawn from their lips, drowned in the emotions I crave: Zillyhoo. Only fools have tried to usurp me to take my power and my land, my food and my name. This city of Hoohahn stands strong, and as long as I remain these golden marble pillars will never bend. And thus I looked for evidence for who might have tampered with my flock, evidence for which petty and zealous sibling must I crush beneath my hammer, and yet I found none. 

I saw before me fields of blood and bone. A black substance coated the leaves of our harvests. Cadavers hung from wooden posts, mangled yet stitched together like cloth dolls. Expressions of fear and anguish were preserved in the stitching, though their rotting flesh emitted a smell so foul that it threatened to tear me from my mortal host. Skin sunk into hollows and tightly hugged the bone, the faces were hardly recognizable from when they were living. These were the demons my prey feared, but they were hardly more than lifeless apparitions and phantoms from nightmares.

There was one abomination that was most unlike the others.

Like most of these soiled victims, this had clearly been a Purpleblood, but this was more intricately stitched than all the others. Its limbs were strange and non-Trollian, more digitigrade and canine; it even sported a tail, long-furred and just as greasy and matted as the hair on its head. Such a head hung limp, like every other, and its eyes were lifeless yet strained. Black webbing laced its intricate patterns beneath its skin, and where there were tears from the threading, it spilled out like ichor between each piece of straw. Blood of many colors coated its arms and farmer’s clothes. An interesting design for a scarecrow, if any, and yet I had the nagging feeling that this was no victim nor a wasteful piece of cloth and wood. 

Inhaling its putrid scents through senses no mortal Troll could hope to have, I could pick up faint traces of the breed of living that I despised. Sterile labs and linen coats, and the air of something overly sanitized. This scarecrow had the mark of man all over it. But how could this be? What scarecrow could kill so many of my followers without my noticing? What scarecrow could kill at all? How could Trolls make a scarecrow move? It is this that angers me about those who mess within laboratories, trying their hand at creation like half-baked gods. I miss the days where superstition ran rampant; the sheep were easier to herd then.

While I had no proof that this scarecrow was the root of my problems, I chose to act on my instinct and remove the wretched thing from its post to destroy it. It felt childish of me to be ripping apart a scarecrow. Straw and ichor flew everywhere, and I grimaced as my hands sunk wrist-deep into the mysterious black substance inside. Viscera clung to me as I retreated my arms. It felt pointless and disgusting, yet soon I had reduced this devil-spawn scarecrow to its raw materials, and in which it no longer held a form. With a scowl I turned to head home, eager to be rid of this host so that I would no longer have this disgusting material on my body.

Not long after, the night grew brighter. Clouds dissipated from the bicolored moons above and donned the fields with a mixed light-brown glow, revealing more of the ichor on the leaves of the crops and upon my body. My scowl grew, but I stopped in my tracks when I felt a sharp burning on my arms. I watched in shock as the ichor peeled away on its own towards the direction of the mangled scarecrow behind me. I turned, my eyes wide with curiosity.

The black ichor from within the scarecrow was now standing like a man, becoming a mountainous mass of slick gurgles and growls. Quickly, arm-like formations sprouted and bones grew out of its surface. Its form was not like that of the shell that still lay at its feet. Instead fuzzy black tendrils whipped from its body, limbs of all sorts spiraling from the mass, teeth and fangs where nails and claws should be. Its own flesh dripped and folded over upon itself, both solid yet liquid like tar. As multiple eyes sprouted and landed their gazes upon me, I knew then that it was not a scarecrow those faithless men had made, but a shadow of their very own wickedness.

One of its arms shot towards me, inky flesh uncoiling and stretching thin like a slinky. Bony protrusions sliced across my chest, but I was quick to pull my warhammer from the blood of my host. My fingers found the familiar grooves in the gold and azure handle, the pink orb on the back of my beauty’s head sporting an ever cheerful smile ready to joyfully taunt this monster, as it had countless lives before it. I ran a finger over the engraved Z on the block of gold on its head, and felt the power of my homeworld tremble through it. Metals unknown to this realm, forged in the fire by the smiths of Pipplemop, commissioned by my brother the Sage Lord of the Wozzingjay Fiefdom from within the Realm of the Snargly Fruzmigbubbins. I was confident that this would not take long.

I raised my hammer over my head and slammed it to the ground in front of me. The ground tore asunder, rocks and earth rising as bladed mounds snaked towards the ungodly creation. It knocked the creature back and penetrated its body, but it seemed unfazed. It screeched and slithered over and around the stones and cracks on the ground, and once again unfurled itself with bones flying. I raised my hammer, using it as a temporary shield. The claws slid right off, leaving not a scratch.

Stepping backwards, I pushed my energy into my weapon, concentrating my very soul into the hammer’s atoms. As expected, as practiced, for years longer than this planet’s birth, the wind whipped around my opponent and I. I swung once more, conducting the winds forth at a speed so fast that the currents became visible white razors. The winds severed the limbs of the monster, who seemed to feel no pain even as its cut bones fell to the ground. It staggered towards me still, growing new arms. With a snarl I pointed my weapon at it, forcing the winds to spiral and put some distance between us. This thankfully worked, as the monster stumbled backward and was unable to move against the current.

Or at least, that is how it had appeared, until the creature built upon itself to rise above the wind. Two arm-like extensions soared towards me then, and I lifted my hammer to shield myself as I had before. To my surprise, the monster learned quickly; claws wrapped around the face of the warhammer, dislodging it from my grasp and throwing it far behind. The other set of claws raked across me once more, sending me backwards until I stumbled enough to fall.

How could this be? How could a wretched, Troll-made beast overcome the powers of which the creators themselves could never understand? Was it pure luck, or had this been planned? In all of my years since time primordial, I felt something new stir within me. Something foreign. Something unfamiliar. Something mortal. It burned my throat, and made it feel as if iron hands gripped my… stomach? No. My host’s. This must be fear, a fear so deep and resonating that it escaped the containment of my host. A fear so palpable it leaked into my own soul….

For the first time in my history, I knew I couldn’t win.

The creature wrapped its ichor around my body and pulled me up, lifting me high above the ground. I tried to focus on myself, still my breathing so that I may detach myself from this body and go back to my realm, but the bone-like spikes dug hard into me, making me cry out. Pain? Had fear created a doorway for pain? The longer this went on, the more I found it to be true; the more fear I felt, the more I felt pain, and the more that pain robbed me of my body, the more fear consumed me. I could feel the threads that would have brought me home snap; I could not un-possess this body. I could not go home to my brothers and sisters. I was trapped, feeling mortal emotions– for once I understood what it was that I had been feeding on all this time, and the thought of prey became pitiful and guilty.

I felt my host’s body tremble, though from my fear or from the creature tearing open the flesh, I did not truly know. I watched in horror, powerless, as the whites of my soul mingled with the gurgling ink of the creature. I heard a noise so common on this planet, a screaming ripping from desperate throats. It was unreal; it was hard to fathom that it came from me. I was both experiencing death and watching it from the outside as my essence continued to mingle in the blackness.

I was everywhere, and yet I was nowhere all at once. Memories flooded to me; this creature’s name had once been Wesker. This once-been Wesker had no thought, not even vestigial; it had no consciousness or emotion. Empty. It was empty, spurred only by the godless programming of new-age science. Wesker no longer existed, but it was a name, and I clung to it. And as my essence left the mortal body of my host, I began to cling to the ink and bone. I clung to the traces of organs and viscera left over from those previous and new victims. I clung to everything but the vile godless programming. 

Or, perhaps, it mustn’t be so vile afterall; in their wicked shadows they had created a vessel, one void of thought and will, and emotion and sense of self– one which created the perfect nest for a parasite such as my kind. An operating room, protected by this… this…

Mold. Such a perfect name, for now I mold myself to it.

The body of my former host fell to the ground; limp, crushed, and torn apart. I watched as instinct told me to do what I must do: to sew this man back together, to infect him with my spores and my sludge. To create a lesser instance of… of a Werecrow? Is this my identity? Our identity? I could hear the voices in the crops and the voices in the corpses that hung on wooden poles. These were a part of me now, whispers I could control, extensions of myself. To spread. To feed. To make more. Never ending. I watched as my fang needle wove in and out of flesh, connected by the same ichor that oozed from me. I put this man back together. He is perfect now. I hang him on the pole that I once occupied. A mindless angel, ready to be commanded by its god.

I am its god.

I am a god. I am like no other. A fusion of old world and modern. I will make. I will spread. This territory, this army, are mine. I am complete, within a vessel.

I am a god, and I am hungry.