#halo-above-the-void

[theomaru]

purple red blue

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part One

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: Medical inaccuracies, hospitals, medical procedures, medications, nurse!reader, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, Johnny is a flirt, Simon is a basketcase. You meet your new patient, and his ghost.

“Johnny.”

He blinks. 

There’s so much noise now, an overload of sensation ringing between his ears. Ripping and tearing, shouting, booming. The night lights with blue and green explosions, whistles of rockets singing through the sky. 

He blinks again. 

“Johnny, stay with me.” Simon’s calling to him, hands firm against his belly. “Eyes open, Sergeant.” There’s fear there, terror drenching each syllable. White-hot, mind-numbing pain radiates from where a palm presses against his wound, gaping hole torn through his stomach, river of blood spilling from his body. Pint by pint flows freely from him to the dirt. 

He’s never seen Simon like this before, the whites of his eye gleam like bone. Terrified. Frantic. 

It must be bad. He must be dying.

As he blinks, Simon slowly disappears, morphing into someone else, eyes and nose molding into another’s, Price’s face taking the place of his partner’s without preamble. Fire douses the air, red and purple explosions dancing above his head like a halo. Angelic light, falling from heaven to earth, just to take him away.  Fire and blood. Fitting end for a Catholic, he supposes.  Gaz yells something into a radio. A fruitless effort. 

“Si.” He tries to reach, tries to pull him close, but his arm is dead weight, along with the rest of him. “Ah love ye. Tell- tell her, Ah love-” 

“Stop.” The word is barked over another ricochet. “Lay still. You’ll tell him yourself.” 

“Simon.”

“No, Johnny. You don’t get to say goodbye. Not yet.” 

Hospitals are dreadful places.

For most people, hospitals hold the memories of the worst moments in their lives, loss of loved ones, loss of self, painful injuries, frightening medical procedures, or mistreatment by medical professionals. The sanitized, whitewashed walls and off-white linoleum even have a certain scent, a smell that people associate with fear, discomfort, pain. It's globally accepted that hospitals are not well liked. They're not popular or particularly enjoyable. No one wants to go to the hospital.

But to you, the hospital is everything.

It’s where you spend a large amount of your time awake, willingly choosing to be here over anywhere else. Picking up odd shifts on different units, offering to cover for coworkers, staying late or coming in early whenever it's needed. It's your place. Your only place. It's where you make connections, where you're good at something, where you can be seen but never noticed. It’s what you dedicate your life, your time to. It’s what you cling to. It’s where you find your own peace, your own solace. Where you can let go of everything at home and focus on what you’re good at, caring about your coworkers, honing your skills, taking care of your patients. It’s yours. A place where you’re sheltered, where you can be yourself and not have to look over your shoulder, or keep your voice down, or mince your words. Somewhere you know what to expect, where you can predict, most days, the outcome of most things. Where you can feel in control. Its consistent, solid. It’s your safety. Your sanctuary. Nothing can hurt you here.

It's everything to you.

The elevator dings, announcing its arrival, and you curl your hands around your coffee out of habit, warming your palms.

“Good morning?” The friendly face inside greets you, nodding towards your tall mug, steam wafting from the top, hot and fresh from the café. They're a rad tech, you're pretty sure. Day shift. Parker, maybe?  The elevator is always the same. Hellos, goodbyes, floor to floor. No one bemoans their outcomes or tallies their losses here. No one celebrates their successes or accomplishments either. It stays void, unfeeling, unknowing, except for the comings and goings. 

“Hey, yeah. Good morning. Good night?”

“Oh yeah, definitely.” They agree, and you bounce on your toes, stretching the front of your new sneakers, trying to get the bridge across the tops of your feet to loosen a little.

“Have a good rest of your day.” You give them a smile, and then hop off, ready to start your morning, as most of this side of the hemisphere gets ready for bed.

“You too.”

“And room two sixty-eight is stable, sedated, for now, but he bottomed out less than hour ago, so keep a close eye. I haven’t had a chance to orient him either, so give it a go, if you can.” Mal taps her passcode into the tablet with one eye closed, spine slowly relaxing downward with exhaustion. “Thank you again. For covering. I wasn’t about to be stuck on another long swing because Alexis decided not to grace us with her presence.” She rolls her eyes, and you incline your head in response, shrugging her off. Mal saved your ass six ways to Sunday when you were a new nurse here, and you’d do just about anything for her, and coming in when your coworker decides she wants to be a slag doesn't even count, considering you prefer to be here anyway. 

Shift change bustles down and up the floor, night shift coming on, days and others leaving. You make polite small talk with everyone, since you don’t know them as well. It’s their Friday. Tomorrow is your Monday; you’re just picking up. Everyone is thrilled to have you though, including the charge nurse, and you allow yourself to sink into the ups and downs of their conversation, back and forth about weekend plans, their kids, their relationships, their issues. 

In a group like this, you're seen. Not noticed. 

Just the way you like it. 

“Oh!” Mal calls out, breezing by the pit with her bag slung over her shoulder, watered down iced coffee in her grip.

“Go home.” You chide, and she sucks in a breath before opening her mouth again.

“I am, but one last thing-“

“Malaya. I got it.”

“I know, I know but this isn’t in the chart. Two sixty-eight, he’s military. There are three others here with him, two kind lurking in the hallway, and his partner is in his room, refusing to go home. He’s…weird. Got special permissions to bypass visiting hours.” She raises an eyebrow. “But they’re all quite fit. Caused a bit of a… stir.” Great. The last thing you needed in the ICU is a stir of any kind. You needed it calm. Peaceful.

“Okay, got it. Thanks. Now shoo.”

You check your email, skimming with speed, skipping over anything HR related, starring skills updates to look back at later, and casually replying to a request for a float to the PACU another day this week- Hi! I’d love to pick up a few hours if I can arrange it. What time are you needing? Before moving onto checks for your patients (too many, if anyone asked your opinion- which they wouldn’t, because why would administration want to ask a nurse their opinion on anything, right?) ensuring that everyone is in good shape, stable, relaxed, resting, or even better, fully sedated. Two of your patients are on vents, and you check in with the RT on shift before heading down the hall to your last, first stop of the day.

Two sixty-eight.

Two men are slumped over and asleep in the hallway chairs outside the room, arms folded, thighs spread wide, chins tucked to chest. One of them younger, probably closer to your age, chiseled jawline akin to Adonis, the type of rich beauty that would make anyone do a double take, and an older, albeit not by much, muscled, broad chested man with a distinguished moustache curling above his lip, eyes hidden beneath the rim of a hat.

These must be the guys causing the stir.

You stop outside the slider of two sixty-eight, drawing a deep breath before knocking and then pulling the slider, fogged glass parting to reveal your patient asleep, sedated, in the bed, and his partner, a hulking mass who sits at attention by his side. He’s broad, clad in black sweats, heavy arms and straight back showcasing his size- massive. The sweatshirt hides definition but judging by the appearance of the two in the hallway and your patient, you’d guess this guy was just as fit. He looks uncomfortable, body too big for the chair, brow creased with worry overtop the black cloth mask that covers his nose and mouth.

There’s something, in his eyes. Something devastated. Something you’ve seen before, in people who sit vigil like this, preparing for the worst, praying for the best, and something else, something that you recognize, but rarely see inside these walls. Something dark and severe, foreboding, even with part of a handsome face peeking out over the mask. 

He's already half lost to his grief.

He could be a ghost.

“Hi.” You whisper your name with a small smile and point to your identification tag. “I’m the overnight nurse.” You imbue the words with sweetness, kindness, but he doesn’t respond, just traces you from head to toe and gives a perfunctory nod. It’s not abnormal for a patient’s loved ones to be less than warm, especially to the graves nurse, the one who ends up interrupting their sleep at odd hours of the night, the one who’s usually here when the worst happens. You never take it personally. You’ve sat in that chair before. You’ve known the pain of this heartache, the way their hearts are cleaving in two, one half desperate to stay beating, the other begging to be lowered in a grave alongside their loved one.

You give the silent man an opportunity to speak when you step up to your patient’s monitor, and then motion to the man in the bed.

“This is John? Mr. MacTavish?”

John MacTavish. 

You’ve already read his chart back to front, memorizing his labs, his last vitals check, going over the scope of his procedure from this afternoon, and the tentative plan for the morning.

He’s a mess. Collapsed lung, hemothorax. Broken ribs, internal bleeding. Perforated liver. Broken wrist. Lacerations all over his body. Third degree burn on the entirety of his lower right quadrant. Shattered femur. Fractured hip. Triaged and treated in the field with less than stellar medical care. Came off the medevac and went right into surgery that lasted nearly ten hours long.  

Lucky to be alive. 

“Johnny.” He corrects, his Manchester accent sharp, rough. You type it into the chart, making a note that Johnny is the preferred name, over John, and duck down to check the bag that’s attached to his foley catheter. The man across from you tenses but doesn’t say anything, tracking your every movement like he’s nervous you might harm your patient.

“I’m just going to check this dressing. I would prefer not to wake him, so I’ll be as gentle as I can, okay?” You explain, motioning to the wrapped portion of his body. He doesn’t respond, just sits still as stone as your fingers nimbly move his gown to survey the would and it's dressing before putting everything back in place. You’re quick once you’re satisfied that it looks okay, tucking the blanket back in around him, careful not to jostle where his leg is immobilized, wrapped in gauze and elevated. “I know this has probably been a very frightening and difficult time for you.” You tell the man in the chair with a whisper. “If you need anything, have any questions, concerns, I’m here. For both of you. I’ll be here at least four, five nights a week as long as he’s on this floor, so we’ll get to know one another.” When he still doesn’t say anything, you try to fight the awkward feeling that’s vibrating up your spine. Okay, he clearly doesn’t want to talk to you. That’s fine. 

Your patient groans. His partner startles, body jolting, and then he’s on his feet, leaning over the bed, eyes searching, anticipating. He looks so… unsure. Worry etches across his face as he waits, and his hand hovers without purpose above the bed, flailing in the air like he doesn’t know what to do.

You stand back for a moment. Your patient, Johnny, will mostly likely be lucid for the first time in who knows how long, and you’d like a chance to orient him, let him realize his partner is here with him, tell him he’s going back in for surgery in the morning, before giving him some more pain medication.

The monitor beeps, signaling an increase in his heart rate, respiration, spiraling upwards until-

“Johnny?” The question is hopeful, nervous, and your patient grunts, tongue darting out to lick his lips before they crack open.

“Simon.” The name is a whisper, heavy with relief, and you make a mental note. Johnny and Simon. Room two-sixty-eight. “Whit happened?”

“You’re in the hospital.” Simon explains, anxiously glancing at you. “Can I… can I touch him?”

“Of course. Carefully.” He lowers his face to Johnny’s so slowly, so gently your heart skip a beat, tapping their foreheads together cautiously.

"Yer here." Johnny whispers, the fingers in his good hand barely lifting, reaching out to try to touch Simon, even though his body won't cooperate. "Thought Ah dreamed ye." You can see it, the heavy burden of love that lays between them, the thing that's brought them to this point, the thing that shines in Johnny's eyes as he tries to drink in the frame of Simon's face, tracing his features over and over, painting a picture to take with him... wherever he goes. 

What is it like, to be loved like that? To be known like that? To be held in someone's heart, cherished and protected? 

You had no idea, but these two did. Just one look, and you knew these two had something people all over the world would kill for. 

“I'm here. I'm right here." Something wet and desperate is caught in Simon's throat, and Johnny’s lips tug into a weak smile before it fades away with a grimace, his partner straightening with a wide hand tight on the bed railing, knuckles turning white with the strength of his grip. 

“Hi.” You tell Johnny your name quickly, eager to get the less important stuff out of the way and start working towards getting him some relief. “I’m your overnight nurse. How’s your pain?” He frowns in consideration before groaning.

“’s alright.”

“Don’t be brave.” Simon says, and you nod in agreement.

“I’d like to get you some relief now so you can sleep, if we can.” Pain management can be a delicate conversation with patients, and you never truly know how they’re going to respond until you get to this point for the first time. You smile down at him, and he gives you one back, sleepy and sweet, bright blue eyes peeking out beneath drooping lids.

“Bad.” He croaks, and Simon glances at you in expectation. You nod to reassure him, reassure them both.

“Alright. Let’s get you something, yeah?” You log his vitals with a few taps on the tablet. The order’s already in the chart, and you ready the dosage, turning your back to give them some privacy.

“Where’s-“

“At the Price’s.” Simon murmurs, voice low, it’s deep rumble vibrating around the room.

“Ach.” Johnny groans something out, but it’s lost to his discomfort, and you wince in sympathy, wiping the hub of his port with an alcohol swab.

“Okay. So, this should go a long way with your pain.” you tell him, disconnecting his line to replace it with the flush. Simon tenses, again, practically flinching in the chair when you approach Johnny with the first syringe of saline. His eyes crease in concentration, watching your fingers, trying to keep up with your movements. “I’m flushing the line.” You explain gently. “Then I’ll push the medication, like this,” You’re quick with your hands, swapping the syringes and then slowing down to administer the medication at the correct push rate. Simon visibly relaxes, only a fraction, after the explanation, and once you’re done, you attach a new flush. “It’s saline. Compatible with the body, we use it to make sure that all the medication is moved through the tube.” He’s focused on your movements, and you reattach the fluids line before patting Johnny’s shoulder softly. “There, all done. He should be feeling much better here in a moment or two.”

“Cheers, bonnie.” Johnny slurs, and you huff a laugh.

“I’ll be back in a half hour for a vitals check, and then after than I’ll leave you be for a while. You do have another surgery scheduled for tomorrow morning, early-“ you glance at Simon, hoping that someone came by to already talk to him, and he nods. “So, I’ll see you before then too. I’m always a click away, if you need something.” You point to the button on the side of the bed. “If either of you need anything, I’m here. Okay?”

“Whit surgery?” Johnny grunts. Simon’s jaw flexes behind the mask, but he hesitates. It’s long enough that Johnny tries to rouse himself, and you rush to answer, to settle him.

“You have a broken hip, and your femur is shattered.” Nothing like ripping the band aid off. “Orthopedics will come by in the morning to talk about the plan, but they have to go back in to continue to work on the repair.” You don’t mention that his leg is still partially open, packed for reentry in six hours, that the damage to his lung and liver took priority when he came in, and by the end of that, the swelling in his leg was too severe to continue. You’re not the doctor, so it’s not your job to advise your patient or his family of his prognosis, really. You need to keep him calm, comfortable. Alive. Advocate for him, for both of them. That’s the job. Simon can tell him what he wishes, when he’s lucid.

Johnny’s lashes flutter, and he mumbles something, fingers curling in Simon’s grip. You take your cue, checking your watch. “I’ll let you get some rest.” You enter a quick vitals check, and then turn to leave.

“Thank you.” Simon murmurs to your back, and you pause half step, head turned over your shoulder.

“Of course.”

Six hours later, you’re slipping back into the room to say good morning to a groggy, but still somewhat alert patient.

“Good morning.” You whisper, and then frown a little at where Simon is still sitting in the same spot, upright with heavy eyelids and mussed hair peeking out from the black hood. He looks like he hasn’t slept for a single moment, blue black circles shining under his eyes, stiff and uncomfortable in the too small chair.

 Maybe we could get a recliner in here. 

A big recliner. 

“How’re we feeling this morning?”

“Alright.” Johnny grumbles.

“He’s in pain.” Simon snaps at you abruptly, insistent, and irritated, and your muscles tense instinctively before you forcibly relax them, un-bunching your shoulders from beneath your ears.

Deep breath. 

Simon’s head cocks, just slightly, and then his attention is back on Johnny, two hands cradling one another, fingers intertwined like they’re afraid to let go.

“Okay, let’s see if I can get you a little bit of medication.” You pull out your phone, flicking open your work app to message his doctor. “They’ll probably order a small dosage of dilaudid, have you ever had that before?”

“Na.”

“Might make you a bit loopy. I’ll have them give it to you when you get upstairs.” You glance at Simon. “Did you get down to the café, grab something for breakfast?” He shakes his head no, and you briefly considering encouraging him before realizing it will probably go over like a lead balloon. You smile at Johnny instead. “Your partner tells me you prefer to go by Johnny?”

“Does he?” He blinks, blue eyes alight behind sleepy lids, looking over to Simon like he’s caught a kid in a cookie jar. “Aye, ah jalouse ye kin ca' me Johnny, bonnie.”

“English, MacTavish.” Simon murmurs, stroking a soft semi-circle into his arm with his thumb.

“Ye can call me Johnny, pretty girl.” He speaks slowly, dragging his consonants and vowels until he gets to the last two words, an impish smile twisting his lips.

Pretty girl.

It’s suddenly incredibly warm in this room.

You roll your eyes on instinct as you’ve trained yourself to do whenever a patient lobs a compliment or a flirtatious quip at you, but it’s usually only ever old men. Or women.

Not beautiful, sculpted Scotsmen with sleepy smiles, stunning blue eyes, and mysteriously handsome, brooding partners.

You clear your throat, self-conscious, and startle just a bit when you hear the door opening, OR team sidling through to bring him upstairs.

“Alright, well. This team will take great care of you, and I’ll see you tonight when I’m back.” You pour positivity into your words, a practice you’ve maintained during your career, thinking good things for your patients, being positive for your patients. A good attitude can go a long way, especially for patients who may have a long road ahead of them, like Johnny.

Slipping out the door, you turn your head to where Simon listens to the surgeon intently, brows lowered, nodding occasionally, and splitting his attention between the (what you’re sure is) a one-sided conversation and where Johnny is half awake in bed, a nurse and two techs busy around him, prepping for the walk and elevator ride, their hands still clutched together. 

Johnny looks over, small sigh expanding across his chest, locking eyes with you for a moment. You freeze, taken aback by the clarity in his gaze, his face shifting from uncomfortable and pained into a small smile, lopsided and sweet.

You give him one back and disappear down the too-white corridor, new soles squeaking against the floor.

Badging out always twists your stomach with the same kind of dread. It's Tell-Tale Heart kind of dread, something that starts in your mind and spreads through your bones, a symptom of malignancy, sickness that ties you in knots, tips you over into dark waters with waves that break too close to the shore. It keeps you rolling your neck and shoulders over and over to release some of the tired tension that’s been building in your back, trying to relax and ease the anxiety that's building up inside you like a tea kettle.

You’re half sleepwalking, mind already wandering when your shoes squeak to a halt outside of two sixty-eight on your way to the elevator, in front of the door parted to reveal Simon sitting in the chair by Johnny’s empty bed, arms crossed, head tipped backwards.

Is he asleep? 

You purse your lips and tap against the glass with your knuckle.

“Hi.” You call to no response. Probably asleep. “Simon?” you whisper his name, and once he doesn’t respond, you turn the dimmer all the way down, satisfied that he’s getting some rest. You set your uneaten banana and protein bar on the little table by the bed before sneaking away, sliding the door shut with a satisfying click.

The weather this morning, this evening, is gorgeous. The sun is a golden orange orb peeking over the horizon, spraying a myriad of colors ranging from pinks to yellows across the rooftops of the city, dipping the morning commute in an effortless glow. It feels good on your face, the warmth, and you roll the long sleeve shirt that you wear under your scrubs up to your elbows to soak it in through your forearms too, stopping to stand still for a moment, for the first time in hours, in front of the back entrance to the hospital. 

In the sun, in the light, it's easy to close your eyes and pretend that you're something, somebody else. Easy to tilt your face to the light and let it wash over you, bathe you in fire, burn you clean like a witch on a pyre. 

Your watch beeps, dragging your focus to where it displays the time, a stark and devastating reminder that you have to get going, and you give the hospital one last look before beginning your trek to the train. 

See you tonight. 

[grunckle]

Void Worms as the Demiurge and Iterator Inverses (And also clearing up some things about the Qualia post)

So, I'm going to be going a bit more in depth on the Yaldaboath-Void Worm comparison I brought up in my previous post. Here's the post for anyone who didn't see it already:

I also just wanted to expand upon some things and maybe clear up some confusing parts that I didn't cover in the original post.

But first I'll give a quick explanation on what Yaldaboath (who I'll just be calling the Demiurge from now on) is before drawing the comparisons. The Demiurge is a being in Gnostic belief that created the material world. He is often identified as the god of the Old Testament, and is malicious and inferior to the True God called the Monad, who is above all else.

Of course this is very simplified and I'm leaving a lot out, but what you should take out of this is that he created the material world.

So back to void worms, they heavily resemble the Demiurge in a few ways. Visually, they both share a long, serpent-like body, and glowing "halos".

But beyond that, they indirectly share a few celestial motifs. The Demiurge gave birth to Archons who ruled over different, "celestial spheres." Celestial spheres are a concept in Rain World cosmology, as it's mentioned in the Deep Pink pearl.

"On regards of the (by spiritual splendor eternally graced) people of the Congregation of Never Dwindling Righteousness, we Wish to congratulate (o so thankfully) this Facility on its Loyal and Relished services, and to Offer our Hopes and Aspirations that the Fruitful and Mutually Satisfactory Cooperation may continue, for as long as the Stars stay fixed on their Celestial Spheres and/or the Cooperation continues to be Fruitful and Mutually Satisfactory."

But, even beyond that, they straight up appear visually in the depths through Guardian Halos.

And then Gnostic celestial spheres for comparison.

Void Worms are also described as "stars" within ancient dreams and our own.

Now, this is only a tangential relation to the Guardians who also reside in the Depths, but there is one more thing that I believe cement the Void Worm Demiurge theory that is much, much bigger in the context of Rain Worlds narrative.

Void Worms have a lot of iterator parallels, which lead me and others to believe that they act as a direct inverse to Iterators. Iterators usher beings to ascend past their mortal confines, and Void Worms trap beings in the material world like the Demiurge.

The first of which are just some design similarities between the two. They both have round heads with bug-like eyes, and they both have halos.

Next, the scenes in which we see iterators and the void sea are very reminiscent of each other. There are thousands of iterators above, and thousands of void worms below.

Void worms have 8 arms/tentacles, iterators cans have 8 legs.

But probably the most striking piece of evidence for this parallel is the music that plays atop the Wall and in the Void Sea. They share the same musical motif.

And, as a quick fun side note:

It's pretty common knowledge at this point that Void Worm skin is corn, but whats less common knowledge is that it's also made of fractal patterns and neurons.

Basically I think all this points to Void Worms being iterator inverses and working like the Demiurge, manifesting the material world and trapping beings within it.

Now, just to clear up some things about my previous post. I don't think the rot itself is made from the ancients' mutated brain matter, but rather the method in which both cabinet beasts and the rot are made are similar. They're both made by taking neural matter, (Five Pebbles's brain in the case of the rot and the Ancients' in the case of cabinet beasts) and mutating it into something else. Its more just a conceptual comparison than evidence the two are related.

Second is more about personal interpretation, but I don't really think that each Void Worm we see is manifesting it's own world. All together they act as the concept of the Demiurge, manifesting one universe. Perhaps they're not even conscious about it, and experience a divine realm similar to us while they swim around aimlessly in the Void Sea.

And finally, adding onto my last point, that's why I don't think the parallels give a lot of insight into how the cycles work, other than that by entrapping creatures in the physical world those creatures are also subjected to the cycle. I have my own cycle theory that I believe works a bit better that I might post later. But yeah I just wanted to clear that stuff up.

[hedoublehell]

BITE

Damien Haas x f!reader

You wake up from a dream about Damien, only to find out reality may be better than anything your imagination could come up with.

SMUT -- 18+ ONLY!!!

Warnings: p in v, oral (both male + female receiving), degradation kink (slut + whore is used a lot), praise kink, spanking, dom/sub, dom!Damien, sir/master kink

Note: this is my first fic in about 5 years, so it may be a little rusty. but i hope you all enjoy!!

Tags: @agnewbones, @pedropascallme

“You’re this wet for me already?” 

Cold sweat dripped down the middle of your back outlining the edges of your spine. Reality came back as the pitch black darkness engulfed your vision, replacing the blurs of skin, purple hair, and that one smile that seemingly haunts your every moment whether you’re asleep or awake.

Fuck. Another dream about Damien.

You shifted from underneath your duvet, cold air freezing the damp spot between your legs that was not there when you originally settled in for the night. While you loved living with Damien, your body could not handle the consistent proximity of your bodies. Whenever you wanted food, he was already in the kitchen preparing something that he was going to surprise you and your fellow roommates with. If you needed to shower first thing in the morning, you would come out of your room only to hear Damien’s singing over the monotonous rain of the water pressure. Even at work, you could not shake him, often going out for coffee runs together in between shoots. The only aspect of your life that he was void from was the one that your subconscious craved him in the most. 

A sigh escaped your lips as you slid up your silk sheets into a sitting position. A subtle blink of baby blue light emitted from the digital clock that rested just off to the right of your bed. 3:47 am. 

The ache of need still pulsed in your core, even as real-life came creeping back in. It pounded against the inside of your thighs as the slickness of your excitement dribbled down your panties. Whatever Dream Damien did,  your body wanted more, and knowing that Real Damien was only two doors away made it even worse. Thankfully the room just before his was the bathroom. A cold shower was desperately needed, no matter the time.

You stumbled out of bed, your ragged graphic tee hitting just above your waist leaving your baby pink boy shorts exposed. Considering it was 4 am, you didn’t see a reason to bring a change of clothes, or even a pair of pants, to the bathroom. It was literally the next door down the hall, and no one else should be up.

The house was eerily still, something that you weren’t used to while living with half of the Smosh cast. That, along with the fact that you were always the first one asleep, quiet was never something that you were able to fully experience. The only thing that interrupted it was the soft padding of your bare feet against the wooden floor, the coldness of it sent shivers up your shins. This silence continued until you got closer to Damien’s room.

A faint mumble of voices emitted from the other side of the door. You tiptoed closer, trying to decipher which anime he had decided to throw on as background noise. However, as quickly as you heard it, it stopped. The stillness returned.

Damien’s door swung open. His purple hair was illuminated by the fluorescents behind him, which created a lavender halo around his head. All he had on was a ratty grey undershirt and a pair of thin black and white plaid pyjama bottoms. Your eyes immediately darted to his biceps, admiring the way they flexed as he held the frame. The muscle rippled against the taut skin that encased it. Hair trailed down to his armpit, leaving speckles of black on the underside. A moan threatened to spill out of your lips at the sight, but you held it in. 

“What are you doing up?” His 4 am voice was rasper than you anticipated. Genuine concern spread across his face, knotting his eyebrows. 

“I- I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I might have a shower to try to relax.” Which wasn’t a lie, but it sure as hell wasn’t the full truth. Dream Damien’s doing ghosted your memory, the stickiness of your desire still glued between the crook of your thighs.

His eyes wandered down your frame, stopping a second longer at the heam of your shirt before continuing onto your naked thighs. Shit. Heat spread across your bare skin as his eyes fluttered across the nudeness that defined your lower half. A similar warming sensation welcomed itself across your cheeks as he returned to your face. 

“I didn’t think anyone else would be up…” You trail off.

“I’m surprised you’re up,” he whispered, not daring to look away from you. “I was just watching Demon Slayer, I only got up ‘cause I had to pee. Do you want to join me before you go back to bed? Totally cool if not. I get how hard insomnia can be, though.” 

Before you could stop yourself you were nodding. You knew it was a terrible idea, going into his room right after waking up gasping for him, but you didn’t care. Damien slid out from the doorway, allowing you to tiptoe into his space. Behind you he shut the door, followed by the patter of his feet descending down the hall.

Alone in Damien’s room, you were able to notice more than you ever had. The muted light of his lamp in the far corner illuminated the grey walls which were littered with posters from various projects he had worked on over the years. A television was mounted directly across from you; it was still on Netflix, but it had resorted to playing a slideshow of upcoming titles while it waited for the show to be resumed. His sheets were softer than you remember, the fabric of his duvet caressed the back of your legs as you pushed yourself up against his headboard. His Snorlax plush leaned against your torso as it reacted to the new weight on the mattress. Everything smelt like him. Everything was him. 

Moments later a creak echoed throughout the space as Damien returned. Silently, he walked to his bed and let himself flop beside you. As soon as he hit the mattress, a visceral craving for skin contact twisted your gut. Whether it was from lingering lust or exhaustion, you didn’t know. However, you remained composed, your fingers interlacing with themselves in an attempt to prevent yourself from reaching out and running the tips of them along his exposed skin. As if he could hear your inner dilemma, he cleared his throat.

“Are you okay? Did you have a bad day, or a rough dream?”

Dream? Your cheeks flushed with warmth as the word came out of his mouth just above a whisper. Did he know? Your heart pounded at the thought of him hearing you moan his name in your sleep moments earlier. Flashes of Dream Damien created a mosaic of colour inside your mind as your pulse began to creep its way down to your core. Your eyes remain glued to the ceiling, afraid that if you looked at Damien it would undo you right then and there. He couldn’t know. 

“Yeah, you could say that.” You manage to choke out. 

Weight shifted on the mattress, Damien’s dip coming closer to yours. His hand ghosted the inside of your arm, goosebumps erecting in its wake. His fingertips stilled in the crook of your elbow, lingering for a second before Damien retracted them back and shoved them underneath his head, interlocking them with the other set. As the coldness returned to the skin, a subconscious exhale escaped your lips. 

You glanced over at the purple-haired man beside you. The dull light softened his features, blurring them with the wall behind him. A 5 o’clock shadow speckled across his jawline and his chin, which emphasized the natural pout in his lips. Both the top and the bottom were baby pink and seemed extra kissable with the rest of the world asleep. A piece of dead skin hung from the top, slightly sticking beyond the rest of the pink surface. Your hands found their way to your knees and gripped them tightly, knuckles turning white. No one would have to know, right? 

“Hey Damien?” You whispered.

“Yeah?” 

“Why are you awake?”

Silence spread across the room once again. You could hear his breathing- somehow deep, yet ragged. Hesitation lingered in the air as Damien shifted in his spot, readjusting the position of his arms behind his head.

“It’s stupid, but I can’t stop thinking about how many takes it took me to do the intro to the new video properly. I tried so hard to be funny, but it felt like it kept on falling flat. I don’t know, maybe I had an off-day.” Damien sighs, keeping his eyes on the roof. You could feel his body tense up in fear of what your next words might be. 

“If it’s any consolation, I think you’re the funniest person on Smosh. In fact, you’re probably the funniest person I know. It’s so fucking hard to not ruin takes when you’re around, but I wouldn’t want it any other way. I promise you your humour lands. It at least does with me.” You shift down his headboard to lie down, turning onto your right to fully face Damien. A wave of his cologne hits your nose while you do so, leaving traces of pine, cherry blossom, and something spicy that you can’t quite place. The whiff of the scent subconsciously causes you to lean closer into him, in search of more. Notes of aftershave joined the mix while wetness began to dampen your panties once again, but you fought to ignore it.

His face brightened at the creation of eye contact. A smile erupted on his lips as he let himself take you in for a second. You could feel the movement of his eyes across your bare face while he attempted to memorize every detail of you, from the way sleepiness smoothed your features to the pimple patch that covered an outbreak on your cheek. Very rarely did he get to see you like this, in your most authentic form, and the sparkle that flickered in his eye let you know that he wanted to absorb every moment.

“Thank you, it means a lot to hear you say that.” He chuckled, a blush settling onto his cheeks. You reached out your hand subconsciously, letting it rest on his bare forearm. The heat of his skin seeped into yours.

“Sounds like we’re just two overthinkers tonight. I was so worried that you would’ve somehow known that I woke up because I had a dream about you.” 

Panic sets in as soon as it slipped out of your lips, the hand that was resting on Damien’s arm immediately flying to cover your mouth. Fuck. Damien automatically pulled himself closer to you, his eyes darkening with an unfamiliar cloud. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. 

“What kind of dream?” He growled into your ear. 

Need shot to your cunt as Damien moved himself on top of you, one arm on each side of your frame. His knee inched between your legs, the fabric of his pyjama pants rubbing against the thin layer of cotton that covered your core. A groan fell out of your mouth. 

“I think you already know the answer to that, Damien.” You purred needily. Your pulse erupted at the thought of what was about to happen— whatever it was. 

“Are you okay with this?” He murmured. 

For the second time within 20 minutes, you were nodding before you could give it a second thought. Desire dizzied around your thoughts and coated the space between your thighs. All you knew was that Real Damien was here and that he wanted you. That’s all you could ever need.

However, he didn’t move. You were pinned between his two arms, his biceps brushing against yours, sending electricity down your spine. His eyes seemed to consume you as he took you in, letting himself fully linger on the tightness of the grey shirt around your breasts before lowering his gaze to your baby pink boy shorts. 

“Tell me about your dream. Please.” He whined, want dripping in each syllable of his ask. 

“Y-you and I were fucking, Damien,” you groaned, “you had me on a table, legs open and I was dripping. So wet. So wet for you. I needed- no- need, you. Please.”

Your legs wrapped around the knee that rested between them, attempting to gain any form of friction, any form of relief. Damien sat up, shooting his hands around your thighs to prevent you from getting any satisfaction. He shook his head, eyes darkening even further. 

“Not yet, needy girl. I need to know more. I want to know exactly how you imagined it. Don’t you want your dreams to come true?” He cooed, his mouth curled into a smirk. Your eyes widened as you became delirious with excitement at the fact that Damien was in front of you- that he wanted you just as bad as you’ve been craving him.

”I don’t remember a lot, but- but you were fingering me. God, they were so filling. I was naked, marks everywhere on my chest from your lips. I woke up needing you more than I have ever needed anything, please. Please, Damien.” You whined, jutting your lower lip out. Damien’s eyes remained locked with yours as he leaned in closer, his hands dragging up your thighs.

“Don’t you want to see a man up close?” He whispered, his breath dancing along the nape of your neck. 

All you managed to get out was a “please ki-,” before Damien’s lips were against yours, devouring every inch of your mouth. Hints of toothpaste and mouthwash lingered on your tastebuds with every swipe of his tongue. His hands moved from your thighs to your shoulders, gently pushing you to lay down while he remained on top of you. He shifted around, moving his knees on either side of your legs. The hardness of his growing cock grazed against your inner thigh, causing wetness to begin to re-dampen the spot that Dream Damien left. 

The new position allowed him to let his lips explore, a trail of kisses left along your neck in his wake. Once he hit your collarbone, he began to suck ever so slightly. His teeth nipped at your skin, leaving a light purple mark in the middle of the skin stretched around the bone. A breathy moan escaped your lips as he sucked a new spot at the crook of your neck. Your fingers laced into his purple locks, gently tugging at them. In response, he looked up, concern painted across his face.

“Are you okay, am I being too rough?” He said, frozen in place. You shook your head.

“I promise I’m fine,” you breathed, “I just- please. Please use me, Damien. I need you to fuck me, use me like a toy. Let me make you feel good.” 

Darkness returned to his eyes immediately at the sound of your begging. His hands shot to the hem of your shirt while you arched your back, helping him take it off of you. 

“Oh my poor little thing,” he cooed while bending down to lick a stripe between your tits. “You need my cock more than you want to admit, don’t you?” 

Want surged through your core at the sound of his raspy voice mentioning the thing you’ve been wanting. You nodded, shivering at the thought. Gently he raised your ass, letting you shimmy out of your underwear. Wetness coated the inside of your thighs, droplets hitting the mattress underneath you as the cold air hit your cunt. Damien’s fingers tiptoed down your stomach, landing right above the dip towards your pussy. His other hand grabbed hold of your chin, jerking it toward him. 

“Say please,” Damien barked. 

“Please. Pl—”

His middle and ring finger plunged into your cunt. You let out a yelp at the sudden fullness. Slowly, he rocked them back and forth, letting the tips of his fingers brush against the spongy spot at your core. Moans spilled out of you as your fingers dug into his shoulders. As fast as it had started, he pulled his digits out of you, leaving you stretched and wanting more. A frown knotted your eyebrows in frustration while Damien was on the other side of the emotional spectrum, excitement lighting his features as he inspected his two fingers. 

“You’re this wet for me already?” He groaned, bringing his ring finger into his mouth and twirling his tongue around it, attempting to get every speck of your sweetness onto his taste buds. 

You squirmed in response, your eyes stuck to his digits in his mouth. Hearing Real Damien say the only words you remember from your dream overwhelmed your senses– this was a dream coming true.

He hollowed his cheeks against them, moaning as the tanginess of your desire flooded his tongue. After thoroughly sucking on them, he slipped them out of his mouth, creating a V shape with them. Bringing them back to his lips, his tongue darted out, tasting the last bits of you between his fingers. A hum of satisfaction escaped his lips as he looked up mid-swipe, catching you stare, mouth agape. 

“You like what you see, baby? You like watching me suck your juices off of my fingers?” He smiled, a mischievous glint sparkling in his eyes. 

“Yes sir,” you whispered, unable to look away from the man in front of you. 

Nothing else seemed to matter but the way his every motion affected your heart rate. All you wanted was him, any and all of him that he gave to you. Damien leaned down again, pressing kisses to your mound. 

“You’re not the only one who dreamed of this,” he muttered between nibbles, “I’ve been dreaming about having you since you moved in. Finding you not only outside of my room at 4am, but half-naked outside of my room at 4am almost made me to cum on the spot, baby.” He pushed your thighs apart before he dropped to kiss the inside of each, gently sucking up the stickiness that lined them. “I’ll worship this pussy as long as you let me. God knows how badly I’ve been needing it.”

His words shot straight to your cunt right as he dove in, parting your lips to connect his tongue with your clit. He slowly began swirling it around the spot, sending shockwaves down your spine. Curses spilled from your lips as he picked up the pace, your hands resuming their grip on his purple hair. Two fingers nudged at your entrance, still damp from the combination of your want and Damien’s saliva. He easily slid them in before starting to pump them in and out, matching the pace of his mouth. His digits hit the spot that you desperately craved, destroying the last bit of self-preservation that you had within you. Your walls tightened around them, desperately trying to get every inch of satisfaction possible from his mouth and hands. Nonsensical strings of words tumbled out of the slight part of your lips as the familiar swirl of pleasure circled around your core. Tiny sparks began to electrocute your clit with each flick of Damien’s tongue, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. However, as soon as your orgasm was about to spill, his fingers and lips were gone.

“You don’t think I’m really going to let you cum this fast, do you baby?” He smirked. “I’m not even undressed yet, and here you are, whimpering for my touch like the whore you are.” 

Your hands moved from his hair, letting him stretch straight up from between your legs. Your fingers reached for the hem of his tanktop at once, trying to get the fabric off of his torso. Damien took the hint and tugged each strap of the shirt before yanking it over his head and throwing it behind him onto the wooden floor. Without thinking, a gasp exited you. You’d seen Damien shirtless many times, whether in the dressing room or while grabbing your morning coffee from the kitchen, but this was different. Specks of black hair sprinkled his chest, concentrating in the middle of his two pecs. Lust surged through your veins as you devoured the sight in front of you, taking in every inch of Damien. Never had you seen a man be so easily beautiful, and it nauseated you how badly your body ached for him. 

Without breaking eye contact, Damien shuffled to the end of the bed. His thumbs dipped underneath the waistband of his pyjama pants and pushed them down to the floor, taking his boxers with them. 

“Holy shit.” You mumbled, your eyes surging down to the new part of him exposed.

His cock stuck out from between his legs, the tip of it glistening with excitement. All you could think about was how to get it between your legs as fast as possible, and how its girth would fill you so perfectly. 

“Damien, I need it. Pl-please sir.” You whined, glancing back up at his face. 

He stumbled back onto the bed, reclaiming his spot between your thighs. However, this time he remained sitting. His shaft rested on your lower stomach, causing your mind to short circuit with how close it was to where you had dreamed of it being for months. Heart pounding, you reached out, letting the tip of your index finger brush against the head. He visibly shivered in response, goosebumps spreading down his arms as a tinge of pleasure shot down his shaft. 

“I know you can touch my cock better than that, baby girl. Don’t be afraid.” Damien grunted, his eyes slightly closed in anticipation. Without a second thought, you sat up and spit in your hands. Greedily you grabbed his cock, fisting it. Your hands glided over the smooth, taut skin in a steady motion, occasionally flicking the tip with your thumb. A melody of grunts dripped from Damien’s lips as his hips matched your rhythm. 

Slowly you leaned forward, lining up your mouth with his shaft. You darted your tongue out between your lips, gingerly flattening it against the tip. 

“Is this okay?” You whispered, pulling back.

“God, yes.” Damien interlaced his fingers in your hair, encouraging you to continue what you had started.

Eagerly you wrapped your mouth around his shaft, hollowing your cheeks around it after it hit the back of your throat. You pushed it back out with a pop, a strand of drool attaching his head to your bottom lip. A smile crept onto your lips momentarily. This was not a dream, this was real. Damien’s cock was twitching with desire for you, nobody else. He was muttering your name under his breath as you licked a line from the base of his shaft to the very tip. Paying extra attention to the sensitive strip of skin at the connection point between the base and the head, you traced every inch of his cock with your tongue before returning it to the inside of your mouth. 

“You’re doing so good, baby. What a good little whore you are.” He sighed, grinding his hips into your face. 

Lightheaded with happiness, you gulped up the salty pre-cum that was dripping out of Damien’s cock. Momentarily forgetting about your own pleasure, all you could fathom was the feeling of his erection in your mouth and how pornographic the slurps were as you took as much of him as you could with each of his thrusts. Your cunt leaked with heat while you glanced up at Damien to see him slack-jawed, his eyes stuck on how your tits bounced in sync with his pushes. If you could frame moments, this would be your first choice.

Damien pulled his cock out of your reach, rotating his hips away from your mouth. 

“I think your pussy deserves to be used properly now, do you?” He asked, putting his hands under your armpits and shoving you back onto the bed behind you. 

“Yes, sir! I promise I-I’ve been so good,” You begged, subconsciously spreading your legs as you settled into the far side of the bed. 

Damien reached out with his right hand, letting it caress your cheek. Tears welled up in your eyes while excitement, desire, and anticipation danced through your mind. Damien leaned over to your left, fidgeting through his nightstand to find a tinfoil packet. He held the corner with his teeth and used his index and thumb to rip it open. Returning to the bed, Damien kneeled directly in front of you, lining up the condom with his cock. Slowly, he began to roll it on, letting the latex surround his stiffened shaft.

“L-lemme help, sir. I can help.” Your hand reached out, brushing his knuckles with the tip of your middle finger. With his free hand, he swatted your attempt at help away. 

“I don’t think so, baby. Master can handle it himself,” he chuckled, finishing the job. 

Leisurely, he thrust the tip of his cock into your cunt. With every centimetre of him, your brain flooded with fog, nothing else seemed to matter but the way his cock fit so perfectly inside, as if you were made to please him. Each muscle in your abdomen adjusted to the welcomed fullness that came with Damien, the pressure of satisfaction immediately building as he situated himself in you. 

A deep groan erupted from Damien as he flicked his hips back, fully taking his shaft out. As soon as the tip exited, he slammed his cock back in, letting himself bottom out in your pussy. 

“Fuck- Damien!” You cried. A pleasurable pain rippled through your cervix, sending shockwaves to your clit. Damien’s right-hand shot to your mouth, cupping it over your lips.

“You have to be quiet, whore. We can’t wake up the whole house with the noises you make while I fuck you.” 

His words shot right to your core, your whimpers muffled by the palm of his hand. Saltiness flowed down your cheeks as Damien continued to push and pull himself fully in and out of your heat. His presence was simply overstimulating, and all you wanted was more. The way his chest heaved as he plowed you was memorizing, its rhythm matched his thrusts inside you. Your fingers found their way to his ass, squeezing it tightly as he plummeted into your pussy. His shaft pushed deeper in response to your movements, causing both of you to hiss in satisfaction. 

“Oh fuck, you feel so good, baby. Fit me so perfectly.” Damien growled, throwing his head back, eyes glazing over. 

The vibrations of his voice darted to your clit, increasing the speed of your demise. The stubble of his pubes rubbed against your sweet spot, hitting it at a perfect angle. Damien’s hands wandered to your tits, giving your nipples gentle squeezes with his middle and thumb before rolling them. Mumbles of his title repeatedly spilled from your lips as you arched your back, letting his cock reach the soft spot inside. Sparks flashed in your vision while you came crashing down. Your cunt pulsed around Damien’s cock, extracting every ounce of pleasure from his force. Simultaneously, nothingness spread throughout your mind as you rode out your orgasm– the only thing that grounded you were the whines of pleasure escaping the man fucking you into oblivion. 

As you came back to reality, the only thing that you managed to get out was “more.” 

Without letting his cock leave your dripping pussy Damien immediately grabbed your waist, flipping you onto your stomach. With one hand he shoved your face into his mattress, the other looping around your hips to arch your back. 

“Good girl, knowing we’ve only just started.” His breath tickled your cheek, causing you to tremble. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

Without warning, his cock nestled deeper into your aching heat before fucking you with fervour. The mattress underneath squeaked with each rapid thrust, harmonizing with the slapping of skin against skin. Loudness no longer seemed to be an issue as Damien slapped your ass, the noise echoing throughout his bedroom. He continued to rub the reddened spot, circling the rough skin with the pad of his thumb. Your brain shortcircuited with each jolt of his cock, the way it was still managing to stretch you was all you could focus on. 

“S-so good, sir. Know how to fuck me so good. Love your cock.” 

With another smack on your behind he bowed down, his head now behind yours. 

“I know, ” he kissed your hair before tangling his fingers in it, pulling your head to become parallel with his. “Needed it so bad you couldn’t go a night without dreaming about how well I’d feel, huh? You’re that much of a greedy slut?” 

A whine fell from your lips as you brought your eyes to his. Through your lashes, you could see a wild smile painted across his lips, happiness radiating from his dilated pupils. Never had you seen a man look so beautiful while doing something so inherently filthy, and your cunt throbbed at the realization of it all. 

“I can’t be-believe this is real. I’ve been wanting this so bad, Damien.” More tears dampened your cheeks, the familiar tightness in your core forming once again.

In response, Damien leaned down, sloppily pressing his lips to yours. A mixture of saliva, spit, and tears smeared across your chin as he deepened the kiss, his tongue rushing out to collect traces of the salty combination. Damien’s free hand wandered down to the front of you, pressing his index finger to your sweet spot. 

Sobs fell out of you between each breath while a woozy wave of lust swept over you. The rewarding drop of the pit in your stomach broke through the dizziness. Deepening the arch in your back, the swirling sensation in your clit hit its breaking point. Your hands gripped the sheets in front of you in a frenzy as gratification washed over you. The walls of your pussy clenched around Damien’s shaft, the pulse of his cock hitting your g-spot as your body convulsed. 

“You’re such a good slut for your master, baby. G-gonna make me cum.” 

As your orgasm fizzled out, Damien continued to haphazardly rock himself in and out of your aching heat. Overstimulation stung your core, but you pushed it aside. The only thing that would stop you from riding this out would be if the world ended. All that existed at this moment was Damien, who was behind you, smacking his hips into yours as he chased his high. His grunts filled the empty air between you. With one last nudge, a rush of warmth spread through your cunt as Damien cried out in relief. His head hit the middle of your back as he crumpled, letting his orgasm take over. 

“Jesus, that was amazing.” He whispered, pulling out of you. Your pussy ached with both fulfillment and emptiness as you adjusted to the lack of him. 

You rotated onto your back, craving the view of Damien’s post-O face. He looked hazy, a dopey grin plastered to his face as he gently pulled the condom off before tying it and placing it on his nightstand. Immediately he reached down to you, enveloping you in his arms as he lay beside you. His scent had slightly altered from when you first entered his room, the smell of sex and sweat now intertwining with the notes of his cologne. If you could bottle that, you would without hesitation. 

“Thank you so much, really,” you smiled. ��It wasn’t my intention to have this happen when I walked by your room, but I’m glad it did.” 

Damien placed a soft kiss on your lips. Unlike the previous ones you had shared, this one had a pureness to it. Your heart jumped a beat at the romantic undertones as the moment overtook you completely. Your head buzzed with contentment as the past 45 minutes settled in your brain.

“Me too, baby,” he mumbled against your lips. “I hope I made your dreams come true.” 

“You did, I promise,” you giggled, “but now I definitely need to shower.”

[sprout-fics]

Uhhhhhh hi, could I please have Simon saying he’s going to clean you up after a absolutely mind numbing rough session and just as your eyes are drifting closed waiting for him to come back with a wash cloth you feel his mouth latch onto your mess? And could I have that as the Thursday Thot please? Thank you!

“Easy, love.” He purrs as you come down from it, chest heaving and limbs shaking. The razor sharp, knife edged bite of too much lingers as pleasure sparks in the aftermath of desire. Your arms wrap around his neck as you shudder, head buried into his shoulder where a bite is forming against his pale skin. It’s sure to bruise, but when your teeth had seized the skin and tightened like some feral, untamed creature Ghost had just moaned. Like he was addicted to the pain, couldn’t breathe without the violence, needed you trembling with his name on your tongue, your claws in his spine, the force of you drawing the breath from his body like every exhale was his last. 

He lays you back against the mattress, massive form braced over you with a veiny, tattooed forearm above the halo of your hair. He’s still inside you, and the warmth of his spend fills your limbs, silky and somehow right. It feels like like he’s claimed you, marked you as his in all the best ways. 

Which is why you whine when he slips free of you, a little hiss escaping you as the girth of him pulls at your sensitive walls. Yet Ghost only chuckles, wipes at your sweaty brow with a still gloved hand, failing to discard all his clothes before he had pinned you to the mattress, had flayed you open with his fingers and mouth until you had begged him for it. Yet even after two orgasms he had still refused to fuck you, and you were beginning to think he never ould when he filled you with one broad, merciless thrust and that gloved hand had covered your mouth to keep your cry just for him.

He murmurs to you wordlessly as you slump against the bed, trying to connect the constellations behind your eyes. You make a sound of protest when he moves from you but he only traces a hand over the curve of your hip and it’s enough to settle you into stillness. 

You aren’t sure how long he’s gone, if it’s only a few moment or long minutes that stretch into the void of his absence. There’s water running, and you know he’s getting a cloth for you. When your limbs grow heavy and warm with satisfaction you roll onto your back, toss an arm over your still burning face with a heaving sigh that rises your chest and makes your nipples pebble against the chilled air of his bedroom. 

In the stillness that follows, you begin to feel the weight of fatigue begin to grip at you, drag you down into the sweet ensconce of sleep. You don’t notice him at the foot of the bed, standing, staring at the open mess between your thighs.

So you’re surprised then when a vibranium grip hauls a calf up into the air and over one massive, scarred shoulder. You make a noise that sounds like a question, but it’s broken by a strangled keen when Ghost fixes his mouth right over your clit and sucks. 

Instantly, you arch of the bed, reach for the fabric of his mask as an anchor as pleasure flares abruptly to life once more in your core. Yet Ghost’s hands find your instead, gripping at your wrist, halting your interference and he growls at you, animalistic, a warning. 

“Fuck me, pet.” He groans like he’s drunk on the taste of you, and his throat sounds like it’s choked with graveyard dust. You whimper then when he licks a broad stripe over your entrance still coated in you both. It’s filthy, it makes your ears burn, and you hide your face automatically. 

“Eyes on me.” Ghost tells you, deep, rumbling, a thunderstorm of imminent destruction. You lift your arm, see his coal-dark stare gazing from between your thighs, the mask bunched on the bridge of his nose to reveal the scar snaking up his jaw. 

“Good girl.” He purrs, and that makes you shudder, the way it sets your soul to ruin with the force of him.

“Keep those fucking eyes on me.” He growls, and then nips at the inside of your thigh- sharp enough to make you arch up into him. “Don’t you dare think of looking away until I’ve had my fill.”

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - The Void - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Jinx, what did you do now?

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

tw: jumpscares, horror

Snippet:

"Faster," Silco says to Sevika

His profile is turned to the window. In the green-tinged reflection, his skin holds a jaundiced pallor. The bruises are blooming full-flower across his cheekbone. The cut, on his temple, is the exact color and shape of a rusted fishhook. The blood has clotted into a dark smear, same as the mess gluing Vi's hair to her brow.

Same as Vi, he’d refused Sevika's offer to tend to the injuries.

"We're going top speed, sir," Sevika says evenly. "Unless you want us to tip the whole thing on its side."

"Do what you must. Just get us there."

"Yes, sir."

The crawler slaloms a corner. The interior sways on its axles. But whatever else, Sevika is an efficient driver.  She takes the next bend like a knife slicing through butter. Zaun's tunnels, an intricate network of intersections, branch-offs, and switchbacks, seem as straightforward to her as a flat plain.

As the crawler speeds toward Entresol, the cityscape unrolls: the craggy outcroppings of cliffs and a ramshackle gridwork of industrial complexes.  There are narrow swathes of Zaun still luminous with neon. Others show dark patches, where the power has fritzed out. Smoke rises in a dozen spots, curling like ghost-fingers toward the sky. 

A diffuse blue haze floats like a halo above the rooftops. Here and there, Vi sees what Sevika was referring to: clusters of translucent blue specks dappling the gloom. Some as tiny as bubbles in a champagne glass, others the size of balloons. They float in midair, bobbing on an invisible current. Their edges shimmer like the afterglow of a flame.

Ghosts, Vi thinks again.

A childish terror squeezes the ventricles of her heart. Her eyes cannot peel away. They follow them, those little blue shapes, as they pirouette and pinwheel. She has the strangest sense that they can feel her scrutiny. That they are... teasing her.

Daring her to unroll the window, and reach out for them.

As she watches, a small clutch of them shape themselves into a playful O, rolling side to side like a pair of eyes. Then, in a flurry of winking sparks, they coalesce into two straight rows at intersecting angles: X marks the spot. The shapes become a disorienting repetition—XOXOXO—until Vi's head churns with vertigo.

She's seen that symbol before.

Scribbled in the margins of Jinx's journal. Notched on the maps scattered around the Aerie. Embroidered at the edges of Silco's handkerchief.

Slitting her eyes, Vi catches a sense of silhouettes at the granular margins of the light-show. The faintest impression of human dimensions: familiar, and yet alien, like a memory that isn't her own. Old friends from lives unlived. Lovers she's never met. Strangers whose faces are her own.

Vander.

Stunned, Vi blinks.

He is a hulking shape in the middle of the road, his outline diffused by the glow of headlamps. It is a Vander whom Vi has never known: brown as a bear from a lifetime of sun and soil, and broad as a mountain slope from decades of farm-fed decadence. His hair, the same dark mane, is clustered light-over-dark into the signature wolf-cut. Dressed in well-patched brown trousers and a threadbare cotton tunic, heavy-soled boots shod at his feet, he could be a farmer fresh off the Ionian wheat-fields.

But his face, the warm complexity of lines etched into a grin, is the same from Vi's memory.

The twin circles of the crawler's headlamps coalesce into a spotlight. Vander moves forward. There is no mistaking his gait. The same purposeful stride, shoulders rolling and fists cocked. The same head-tilted swagger of a man accustomed to toeing the scratch, and owning what's on either side. Vi sees his lips stir: words of welcome spoken like an incantation.

Violet.

Blut.

I’m here where you are.

Vi reaches, in a blind fugue, for the door handle.

In the rearview mirror, Silco's eyes snap to hers.

"Don't," he orders.

Vi freezes.

The phantom of Vander is suddenly eclipsed by the glare of the headlamps. His delineations flicker and fade, and in their place is a swirling angry blue, so bright it burns everything it touches: skin, eyes, teeth. Reflexively, Vi throws up an arm, the brightness solidifying into a pair of fists whooshing toward her at phenomenal speed—

Nothing.

The infernal phosphorescence is gone.

Only the crawler. The headlamps. The bare stretch of the empty street.

A hot wetness films Vi's eyes.

"Fuck," she breathes.

Sevika glances sidelong, from Vi to Silco. Twin coals of confusion—and low-key concern—are burning in her dark eyes.

"What?" she asks. "'Don't', what? What'd she do?"

 Vi drags in a spooked breath. "Didn't—didn't you see him?"

"See who?"

"Vander." She makes a frantic stab toward the windshield. "He was right there. He was standing there, just a second ago!"

Sevika's eyes flick back to the road, then reorient on Vi.

"I didn't see jack shit," she says flatly.

"Neither did I," the guard on Vi's left says.

"Me neither," grunts the one on her right.

Quietly, Silco says, "There's nothing to see."

Vi whirls on him. "Bullshit! You saw it, too! He was—"

"He wasn't." Silco half-turns to face her. His good eye is a chip of frozen sea-glass. "It's only a figment. An echo."

"An echo of what?"

"The Void."

The single word sucks the oxygen from the crawler: a deep peristaltic flex, like the darkness itself has gulped.

[interludered]

Guilt between lovers, her name is reunited.

Gojo Satoru x Geto Suguru

The last of Us au

not proof read

t/w death, descriptions of maggots, rotting flesh, other zombie things word count 2.3k

a/n hi, this is actually a "happy ending" if you read all the way through. it is a reply i wrote a long time ago and i just thought it was super pretty! Suguru luvs Satoru very much here, and vice versa. please lemme know what you think.

When sleep confronts Suguru again, his prayers for peace seem to be answered. It’s subtle, but it will do. He isn’t sure when his body and mind began to be kind to him, but he happily is taking in the relief, the comfort that swaddles him carefully like how his mother used to, it blooms through his chest and seeps into each limb. The blue color that saturates his laugh is not metaphorical sadness in its physical display but instead a sense of peace that colors him. His red cheeks turn purple in the hue that decorates his being, and when he is throwing his head back, Gojo stands above him, bright smile shining as he becomes the sun, the halo of light that adorns his head makes him look ethereal. The glow makes Satoru nearly silhouetted, but Suguru won’t miss the way he looks at him. The ends of his hair gleam and shimmer, colors him flush with red. His cheeks round, childlike wonder still decorates his eyes. Suguru’s pupils dilate in response, eventually being hauled upwards to stand. When their hands meet, purple blends the two with ease. Another laugh painted into the sunny sky, sand falling off his clothes and back where it belongs on the beach that surrounds them.

He’s being dragged to the edge of the water, ocean eagerly lapping at his ankles. The ocean always seems to excited to greet the two. When Gojo looks back at him, tugging him into the water, the reflection in the dark rims of his glasses tells him they’re in their teens again, his youth haven’t yet slipped away. And when Suguru is too lost in his fantasy, daydreams consume him whole, fully, Satoru is splashing him. The water gets directly into his ear. Suguru is laughing, though his scolding the other doesn’t stop, letting go of his hand to wipe his face. His words hold no weight, instead, splashing the other back. Although when he looks down, the violet that once flowered is now disappearing, it skips over blue and becomes a void of color, black painted the top of each finger as he absorbed all of what was offered, though Satoru becomes all pink and red again. Yet, Satoru stands out against the waves that consume Suguru, fading deeper into the sea as he only seems to devour it’s color, sun beginning to fade. Though, that doesn’t stop his best friend, no, he’s pulling him closer instead. He always seemed to control the ocean, blue eyes contort each wave to his body, letting it caress the skin that protects him, teaching Suguru to do the same. The voice that sings out is Satoru’s, uncontrolled laugh, carefree exhibition. He doesn’t notice the way the salt in each wave scratches Suguru’s skin uncomfortably, wincing in the painful pursuit to be with his best friend.

He ignores every burn and slash, blue leaking out into the waves as it carries his color to shore, makes him greed for the fill he once had. It leaves him empty, engrossed in his feeling of vacancy. Instead of acknowledging how each pain receptor screams, a beg from his flesh that leaks its hue, he ignores every cry. The ocean shows no relent in its chase. It’s just as greedy as him, just as unforgiving. Each wave is pulling him under, mirroring his actions. Each time he swims up for air, another wave pulls him down. He isn’t sure when the riptide began but Satoru remained aloof as Suguru was pulled under. The oxygen from his lungs coursed out with each tug. He isn’t sure when his eyes fluttered shut, breath stolen with each passing second, but he does remember how he felt cold. His chest no longer blue with contentment but instead hallow and reflective white held its place instead. He only opens his eyes when a fist is being connected to his cheek, sending him backwards and onto his back.

The ocean beckons him again, the abrasive surface of sand lays under him, fingers digging deep until he is blinking. Above him, once again, is Satoru. But this time, the moon makes him glow. He’s older now. His mauve and pink cast deepening to one of carnivorous red, anger finding its home inside of him. The waves crash louder onto the land beside him. He can’t make out what he’s saying, though if he focuses, the muffled sound of resentment surround him. It’s like a bell goes off inside his brain, making him wince once again, Satoru’s words ringing loud and clear: 

Of course I wouldn’t believe you! 

You think you can mock me? 

You think you can just waltz back into my life after all this time? 

You left me, not the other way around!

Suguru’s eyebrows pulled together in a tight knot, his head shaking. His body seemed to argue with him as he willed himself to move. To speak. To do anything. But the emotions from the other pin him down, hold him tightly to seek out vengeance for his pain. The pain that Suguru caused him. The fangs sink deeply into his flesh, releasing the venom to infect his bloodstream. It burns hot, a blade dipped into molten lava and scorching his skin with each pass. It filets him wide open, and lets maggots infect his bones. It sears him and cauterizes the blood vessels. And when every nerve ending feels like it’s on fire, he finally gains the freedom to breathe, sitting up quickly.

The change in scenery has him reeling backward. Confusion fogs his brain as he looks around, a field of follows and a bright sunny day adorns his vision now, birds sing in the air as he pats himself down. His school uniform feels too tight on his body, hugging every curve and muscle snuggly. The field glows with variety, yellows, purples, oranges, and pinks. They smear together like Claude Monet and turn into small dots in the distance. The insects that visit and gather what they need flutter with grace. When Suguru moves to stand again, he blinks and the scenery changes again. When he reaches his full height, he is looking Satoru in the face.

Though, it’s not him anymore. His eyes glazed over and bloodshot. Blue eyes that once controlled and contorted the ocean were lost. It’s a hazy green iris now, something that looks so foreign on Satoru's face. The fungi that create harsh veins under his skin send a shiver down his spine, the colors they turned his skin no longer radiate romantically but something that he finds repugnant. Infection oozed thickly out of the cracks in his skin, fungi nesting in odd places. The creature he once called his best friend, his one and only, lurches forward to capture Suguru, all teeth to puncture the soft flesh. It sends them both crashing into the ground.

When Suguru hits the soil, it collapses beneath the weight of his body, letting him sink further into the ocean's welcoming waves. He opens his eyes underwater, the shine of the moonlight above him beckons him forward. And when he breaks the surface, the hard ground does nothing to break the fall onto his knees. He is soaked, the scent of salt water lingers as it drips from his clothes. His mother comes to his side, holding him as he coughs up the remainder of the liquid that finds its way into his lungs. She takes the lead in lifting him to his feet, arms wrapped around her much smaller frame. He misses her. She’s whispering something into his ear, though through the sounds of him choking, he can’t make it out.

He’s pulling back to rub at his eyes, only to have a bouquet of flowers pushed into his chest. When his own bloodshot eyes open, regardless of the stinging from salt water, his mother is smiling up at him. His arms go to wrap around her but by the time he steps forward, she has already turned to liquid, sinking deeply into the ground below him. The colorful field once enriched with variety now becoming a sea of red. It starts at his feet, purple irises spinning to show dainty, spindly leaves, each a rich red. They are thin in nature, and poisonous no matter the animal. When consumed, death only follows. As his vision rises, he watches each plant transform. The lily plagues the once beautiful field into something that feels more reminiscent of a blood bath.

Suguru kicks something in his attempts to step forward. The bouquet that only moves a few inches lays at his feet, tightly bound with red lace around the green stems. Suguru swallows as he leans over to pick it up, and when he stands, he’s once again met with blue eyes—ones that hold the ocean, childlike wonder and curiosity picking at the white-haired man so cleverly.

Only this time, Satoru’s glasses lay cracked on the ground. The sun has long set.

The moon now embellished his pale features. Suguru goes to speak but words refuse to emerge, Satoru’s eyes drop to the flowers in his hand. He seems inquisitive, but sadness makes the air thick, hand wrapped tightly against the raven-haired man's throat to suffocate on every syllable that tried to escape. The sand beneath them crunches, Suguru stands still as he watches Satorus's blue eyes gloss over, tears introducing themselves as they cascade down his cheeks, eroding the surface as each hits the sandy beach. Suguru watches as he backs away from him, frozen, the ocean beckoning him back. When he is trying to step forward, he discovers his own feet tied with weights that hold him still. He shakes against them, in attempt to break the grasp, but when he looks up again, Satoru is gone.

The red spider lilies in his hand seem to be rooting under his skin creating a permanent hold into the stems, rope burn digging deep wounds into each ankle. All Suguru can do is stare, eyes desperately searching for the other in the ever-expanding abyss. Yet, the only thing he feels is the ocean lapping excitedly at his ankles once again. Suguru! It’s a dull voice in the distance, a happy purr in cat-like tendencies the other holds. It’s a warmth that radiates deep into him, piercing down on his chest. It’s morning! You can’t stay asleep forever!

Oh, but he could. However, It’s sunshine that filters through the window and onto bare skin, kissing his shoulder, freckles living happily there. They only seem to peak when the sun greets them, the dirt king gone from his skin and allows them to meet without barriers. Come on wake up! It’s the weight of his best friend in the morning as he lays on top of him, causing Suguru to groan in annoyance as he tries to escape the grasp of the other. It’s his voice that lulls him out of his anguish, a smile teasing his lips as he wraps his arm around the body of the other, pulling him down beside him. He’s never been so happy to be annoyed so early. In fact, Sugurus never been a morning person. In the early morning of their teenage years, he would’ve cussed, his only bargain being the scent of coffee he was greeted with. But now, if it meant having the comforting body of his other half wake him up, pulling him from the dreams that haunt his head well into the day, he might tolerate his mornings without it.

When Sugurus arm is fully secure around the torso of Satoru, he flips them, pinning the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed man beneath his body weight, the blanket successfully trapping Satoru's arms to his side as Suguru now lays on top of the other. He almost feels bad for laying his dead weight on the other, left to struggle beneath him. Almost. But, instead, he yawns tiredly as he finds a spot of comfort with his head on Satoru's chest, arms securing Satoru’s under the blanket. The cool morning air hits the bare skin of Sugurus back and he can’t help but shiver. “A few more minutes,” he mumbles, his eyes still shut, a small smile danced across his lips, hidden from even his best friend. Sleep clogged his brain, voice gruff from the fatigue that lingered. He listened to the steady beat of the other heart, each pump causing his anxiety from the night to dissipate and a new emotion to replace it:

Tranquility, he thinks. The peace that washes away each bitter ending. The sun that rises every morning, is a reminder that it’s a new day. The riptide has disappeared and the storm passed, and the ocean returns to singing a sweet melody. The same one he has long familiarized himself with since meeting the other. He relishes in the steady breathing, his own breaths matching the one he lays on. The heat that permeates through the comforter that bound them together, his own legs twisted and trapping him happily.

“I haven’t slept in a real bed in 6 years, Satoru, I think I deserve a few more minutes.” Suguru continues on, still muffled as he twitches his nose, hair still knotted at the base of his scalp from the night prior. He hopes to find a brush today, perhaps one of the many people who call the shelter a home will have a spare, and he won’t have to kill another clicker with his own. He has a feeling a trim wouldn’t hurt, and Satoru would strangle him if he cut it short, so he will settle for the knots for now. Maybe Satoru would help him. Hell, he knows he will. It widens his smile a little more. His own personal secret is hidden on the chest of his one and only. It’s hard to believe he only just got him back. It feels like, somehow, he’s been there all along. The picture he holds secret, water-damaged and wrinkled, doesn’t seem to weigh down his bag anymore.

[yournaothings]

Shattered

((Ahem. A short story of human being saved by what they assumed was an angel; only to witness that this so called "angel" was anything but that. *No warnings, I don't think. Talk about Oc's universe/home being destroyed. Hopelessness, feeling of loss, comfort, then betrayal.

I did my best for Shattered Dream, like I had said in a previous post, I don't know much about him. I read the fandom wiki's to kind of help me out. So, possible OOC for him. Probably ooc for him. heh...

The story was inspired by lyrics from "Unbecoming" by Starset.

You found me drifted out to sea

It's automatic

It's telepathic, you always knew me

And you laugh as I search for a harbor

As you point where your halo had been

But the light in your eyes has been squandered

There's no angel in you in the end

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Enjoy the fic!

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"I hope you find your room to your liking. Good night, my starlight."

The room? It was more than I had expected. The large bed was comfortable, covered with silk sheets and a cozy warm comforter. The amount of pillows outnumbered the ones I had on my own bed at home. The rest of the room was very spacious, lined with a wardrobe, a vanity, a body length mirror, a bench that sat at the end of my bed, and in the wall in the middle of the room was a fireplace with a fire burning bright and warm. 

The castle was cold and dark when Dream led me to my room. The only light was from the burning torches that sat high up on their holders on the walls. The light from the flames gave the environment a gothic and almost creepy feel to the halls. The fireplace in my room was a comfort for sure. The light from the flames of my fireplace was perfect, as well as the candle lights that sat all around the room. Even the connected bathroom had candle lights burning. 

Being here made me feel like royalty. A better feeling than what had had only hours ago when I found myself without a home-

That's right. I no longer have a home. What did Dream say? My universe was destroyed and somehow, miraculously I survived and was thrown into the anti-void? The dull room? Plains? Whatever you want to call the boring, blinding place that is the "anti-void."  

I was lost. Walking for hours, I think? I couldn't keep track of time. I didn't even know if it was day or night! My body was exhausted by the time Dream found me. I was lost, and so worn down that I had thought he was a hallucination. But then, he came to me as if he were an angel sent from above! Even though he was a skeleton.

His gloved hand held out while he gave me a brilliant, calming smile. His eyes are pretty gold, as was the circlet he wears on his head. His clothing made him look like an angel of sorts, though they didn't billow like you would see in the movies. But, the yellows were so vibrant, and the green or turquoise bordered the tunic he wore.  The black under armor? Or maybe it was compression wear? Whatever it was, it was the perfect look for his outfit, making him look so regal. 

I hadn't realized I was on my knees when he found me, dried tears caked to my face. When did I start to cry? It had to have been while I was aimlessly walking about the empty void. With hesitation, I took his hand and he pulled me to my feet, and oh, his voice was so majestic, so imposing. 

"There, there. No more crying." 

He settled my nerves, my sadness, my anxiety. He told me how he watched me break free from the destruction of my home and fell here. 

"I'm sorry it took me so long to find you. Now that I have you, will you allow me to help you?" 

I couldn't say no. Not when I had nowhere to go and no home to go back to. Going with him was the safest for me, the only way for me to get out of here. 

"My name is Dream." 

"Are you a guardian angel?" 

He laughed softly at my question, his free hand gently covering his teeth, as if to hide his laughter. His pretty gold eyes shifted to look at me.  

"Is that what you think I am?" 

I nodded; of course I thought he was an angel! He saved me! His only response was a soft pleased hum as he guided me through a strange portal. 

I slept so soundly throughout the night. 

I felt so safe. Not even my nightmares could get to me. It was like Dream was protecting me physically and mentally. I knew I could stay here forever, or for as long as Dream allows me to stay. Somehow, I had to repay him for his kindness.

If only I had thought better of the situation when I had met Dream.

The next few days (at least I think it's been days) went by without a hitch. Dream continued to help me out. He conjured up new clothes for me- he must have gone out and bought them! Another thing on my list of things I needed to repay Dream for. The food was very delicious, and his company was soothing. We talked. (I talked to him, Dream listened.)  We got to know each other! (Dream got to know my personality, my likes, my dislikes. My comforts and my fears.)  Everything seemed to be going well, and I was so happy about it! 

"How would you like to live with me?" 

Dream finally asked, his elbows were propped up on the dining table and with his fists clenched, his chin rested on top of them. His grin was lazy, relaxed. His eyes were unreadable, but I didn't notice. I perked up and I could feel my lips widening into a grin.  

"I would love to! I really like it here!" 

Dream chuckled and leaned back in his seat. "Wonderful. I must throw a welcome party for you." 

I raised an eyebrow as I finished my breakfast. "A party? You don't have to do that." 

"Oh, but of course!" Dream said with enthusiasm! He stood from his seat and started to walk towards the doorway leading out of the dining room and into the kitchen. I grabbed my now empty dishes and followed after him. It would be rather rude to just leave them on the table! As I walk into the kitchen, fully intending on washing my own dishes, I paused and my grin faltered. 

Dream walked over to three skeletons who looked oddly similar to Dream. I paused as I looked at each of them and frowned. 

"What's going on?" 

Dream turned to face me as he stood in between the grinning skeletons. His hands slipped behind his back and hooked together as he stood in a perfect, regal stance. His friendly grin was gone and was replaced with something more sinister looking. As my own grin fell, the skeletons' grins widened. 

"We're going to throw a party for you, remember?" 

I glanced at each skeleton, then at Dream. 

"These are your friends?"

"you sure did pick a stupid one, shattered!"  The one skeleton with what looked like a wriggling target on his front spoke with a snarky tone. 

Dream hummed with amusement as he seemed to take great joy in my discomfort. 

"A naive human, yes. But, they are perfect for what I have planned." 

As he spoke, Dream's body shifted into something more grotesque, terrifying so. His body leaked with what resembled black tar that continuously dripped from his body. His left eye socket was covered by his goopy tar, and the right socket remained the pretty gold color I grew to love. I choked on a gasp when from his back four tendrils protruded out and hovered and wiggled behind him. 

He pointed to his head, a sickening amused grin widening as his one good eye socket widened in mirth.  

"Still think I'm an angel? There was never a halo, pet." 

His once majestic voice was gone and replaced with something so dark and frightening. He was a nightmare. 

"You tricked me. Into doing what exactly?" 

I was hurt, betrayed. I thought he was my friend. I thought he was my savior. 

"Anything that I desire of you."

"But, why?" 

"Why do you think, pet? A lost soul in the anti-void? You should consider yourself lucky that I found you and not Error." 

"I don't know who that is." I shook my head. It was then I felt myself trembling in fear. The dishes were still held tightly in my hands. 

"Oh, you'll meet him eventually; and when you do, you can thank him for destroying your home." 

My eyes slowly widened as he said this. 

"H-He's one of your friends?" Dream's laugh was my answer.  "Dream- why?" 

"hehe! they're still calling you by that name?" 

"his name... is shattered." 

"you should be thankful he saved you." 

"Heh. I suppose I should give introductions. These will be your friends. Killer, Dust, and Horror." 

Drea- Shattered gestured to each skeleton. Killer was the one with the wiggling target, the black tears streamed down  his cheekbones and stained his bones. Dust was the one with the mismatched eyes. Blue was what made up the middle, while the red bordered it. I could barely make out his grin. He wore a torn scarf around his neck. And finally, Horror was the big guy with a huge crater on top of his skull. A massive head wound and just below that was one large, nightmarish eye light. His clothing, much like the other two's clothing choice, was torn and bloodied. Horror was the perfect name for him. 

I moved without thinking. My dishes fell from my grasp as I turned to run. Where the hell was I going to go? I never left the castle. I didn't even know where this castle was! But, the safest place I knew of at that moment was my bedroom. 

"want me to chase after them?" Killer grinned as he summoned his knife.

"i can chop... off their feet." Horror snickered. 

Dust grunted in disgust. No way was he running after that human, unless Shattered asked for him to do so.

"No. Let them run. There's nowhere to go. I will always know where they are from now on." 

Shattered's laughter echoed through the halls, reaching the ears of the panicked human who was now a prisoner to Shattered Dream and his team of Bad Sanses. 

[darkdemeter]

— TEASER — "SOLDAT'S REPRISE"

Winter Soldier x Female Reader

Teaser for an upcoming one-shot that takes a more horror movie, survival/filth with plot approach because I'm definitely procrastinating writing a Ghostface piece. This teaser implies stalker themes and overall, the whole piece will be an 18+ fic.

@mostlymarvelgirl @hollyseb @sebastianstansqueen @openup-yourmind @kandis-mom @calwitch @cjand10 @identity2212 @ashdoctor @missmarvelophilic @boobsbeesbongos

────────────────┘

‘11:32pm’, the time in the screen’s corner reads. At this rate, you could pull an all-nighter. Tiredness to drag you to sleep evades you still without the aid of some medication that you’ve been trying to slowly wean yourself off. 

Maybe another cup, a bit of TV and reading and then bed.

Seems pretty fair, pretty logical. The deadline wasn’t until the week’s end anyway, you could let yourself sleep in a little tomorrow. Signing off your laptop, you ignore the notification ping that pops from the corner, figuring it's a random email you’ll have to unsubscribe from, another chore to knock off the list tomorrow. 

The hem of your woollen shirt pulls up as you stretch your arms over your head with a grumble hearing a few pops and cracks. 

Another cup won’t hurt, you remind yourself as you snatch up your empty mug and exit your study. You catch movement in the corner of your eye and swiftly, your head follows, your heart feeling as though it's dropped a hundred yards into the abyss of your stomach. 

Nothing. 

It’s just your mind crafting illusions out of nothing. A trick of the light, you think you see the outline of a human being and paranoia does the rest at unsettling you. 

Venturing back to the kitchen, you place the ceramic cup down with a gentle thud and reboil the kettle, once again surrounded by that deathly void of silence that only fades out of existence at the comfort of boiling water. 

You make quick work to fill the portions of your drink before you realise that you have neglected your phone for some time now. Rounding that same wall out of your kitchen, you head for the coffee table, peering over the long stretching couch to see your phone’s black screen reflecting the bouncing halo of light above. 

“Ah, exactly where I left it,” you hum to yourself and reach for it only to pause. Your hand hovers over your phone before it moves over the TV’s remote. “I swear I threw you over here...”

You look to the couch with a hardened crease falling over your brow, your mind working to retrace your steps but it all feels like some giant haze that leaves you questioning what is what. With a shrug, albeit still sceptical, you brush it off and grab your phone. 

‘Security system 4 detection at 10:59pm.’

Your study. Eyes widening, you flick the notification box up. 

10+ security notifications. All dated from today. Your mind is on auto-pilot of panic, that creeping chill runs up your spine like a sprint as you open the security app. You have a ton of notifications, why haven’t you noticed a single fucking one of them?

He’s here…

[some-bunniii]

ᯓᡣ𐭩 A crown for a princess

[by helloruirui on tumblr, colored by me]

Just my OC Kokabiel and her daughter making some pretty crowns.

I’ve had this scene written in my drafts about these two for a bit now, so I commissioned this nice piece as a visualization for it. Read more under the snippet!

Spring is the season when nature finally begins to breathe again. The animals awaken from their deep slumber, and the wildflowers begin anew and rise from the soil like a phoenix from the ashes.

Nestled deep into the mountains, far from the bustling human civilizations, was a lush forest not too far from a small, homey village.

Large swathes of open meadows snaked across the lush woodland, which was dappled with sunlight that managed to squeeze through the thick canopy of leaves.

Bright yellow flowers dotted the warmly lit grassy expanse. They danced along with the gentle breeze that whistled a natural tune as it blew through the clearing.

Small fingers wrapped around the stem of a dandelion, pulling it from the ground and lifting it towards a small girl’s nose.

She looked no older than seven, dressed in a dark blue tunic. Her rich, brown skin stood out from the greenery around her, and those tight, white braids that bounced across her shoulders were equally perplexing.

After inhaling the flora’s scent, the young child lifted another object into view. Stems of weeds and other wildflowers, intricately braided together to create a wreath-like adornment.

With careful fingers, she wove the dandelion into the braided stems, its yellow flower joining the array of colors of other blooming plants in her grasp.

She inspected the object in her hands, testing it for weakness. After feeling satisfied with her work, she turned towards the middle of the clearing and rushed off.

“Mama, Mama! Look!” The girl called, running toward a young woman sunbathing against a stump, her eyes closed and head upturned towards the sky as she drank in the warmth of the afternoon.

Her appearance was almost identical to the child’s, with the same deep, brown skin and long, white hair. Her hair was braided into thick locs that flowed down her back and reached the grass beneath her bare feet.

Freckles of white were sprinkled across her cheeks like starlight, hardly visible against the suns bright rays. Her eyes void of color, black like the sky during a new moon. A stark contrast to the woman’s ghostly white pupils, like twin moons shining from her gaze.

The golden halo that levitated just above her forehead shimmered in a warm, ethereal light.

An angel, sent down to take disguise and watch over the human’s constantly expanding population. A watcher, her superiors called it.

Kokabiel had been assigned a small village in the mountains, far from the bustling communities and away from watchful, angelic eyes that tracked her fellow watcher’s every moment.

She had kept her identity a secret, carefully crafted to hide her otherworldly appearance.

That didn’t stop the young girl from telling the village children that her mother came from the stars, but they never believed her.

Kokabiel’s eyelids fluttered open, her gaze shifting to follow her daughter’s approach as she straightened against the stump of an ancient, forgotten oak.

She shifted to sit on her knees as her daughter reached the flattened clearing of grass, the braided wreath tight in her little hands as she came to sit beside her mother.

“Look! I made a halo, just like yours!” She hovered the wreath just above her head, as if it was floating in midair, “Now, I can come along when you go back to Heaven.”

A soft chuckle escaped the angel’s lips, as she tilted her head at the display.

The child was too innocent to know, too naive to understand that the heavenly light above shined with such malevolence toward her existence.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, my love,” She shook her head with a smile.

The young girl visibly deflated, a frown etching onto her features as she sighed. The wildflower arrangement began to lower to the ground, before another set of hands reached out and gently grasped around the wreath.

“But, I think…” Kokabiel started, lifting it delicately above the girl’s head, before lowering it snug around her forehead, “You’d look much better as a princess, anyway.”

The soft settles tickled the girl’s forehead, and she giggled softly at sensation as gentle hands continued to adjust the crown.

“There, doesn’t that look much nicer?” Kokabiel nodded approvingly, lowering her hand from the crown to stroke her daughter’s cheek lovingly.

That smile brightened on the girl’s face, who then fell slowly against the grass. She stared up at the clouds that passed above the large forest, and Kokabiel settled against the stump once more.

“Will you take me flying tonight?” The girl spoke after a few moments, placing her palms together in a praying motion, as she pleaded through her gaze.

“I don’t see why not,” her mother shrugged in response.

That earned gleeful noises from her daughter, who pivoted to lay on her stomach and rest her chin against her hands.

“Oh, I wish I had wings like yours. That way, I could fly with you wherever you go, even back up there!”

“Oh, my little star,” the woman purred, lifting a hand to wipe away a small smudge of dirt from the child’s face, “You won’t ever need wings, because i’ll always be down here, with you.”

“You mean like forever?” The girl whispered with building glee, leaning in closer with a small smile, “You promise?”

“Of course! A century would pass and I would still be here to sing you to sleep,” Kokabiel nodded with a large smile, before her fingers wrapped around her daughter’s forearms and pulled her flush into the warmth of her chest.

“Mama, my crown!” The little girl gasped, pushing away from the woman to adjust the lopsided weave of stems back snugly onto her head.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” The angel moaned dramatically, clutching her chest, before a wicked grin graced her features, “I only wanted to… tickle the princess’s feet!”

Gripping her daughter’s ankle, Kokabiel lifted it into the air. Her nails skimmed across the sensitive skin at the bottom of the girl’s foot, who convulsed with laughter as she tried to playfully fight off her mother’s attack.

Deep in the meadow, the two would spend hours of bliss in each other’s company, unaware of the face hidden among the tall branches of the surrounding tree line.

Their halo shimmered against the darkness of the woods, and after a few moments, a pair of large, white wings extended across the canopy. It only took a few moments for them to lift into the air, and shoot off into the sky to report back to their heavenly superiors.

Oh, if only they could have known how easily a century on Earth could turn into an eternity in Hell.

Do you think, if the two have sworn through pinkies, that their promise could have outlived Heaven’s wrath?

*‘deep in the meadow’ starts to play*

Angelic kokabiel reveal, who still holds the same grace but lacks the snakes.

i’ve been working on more lore for koko, and developing some original concepts regarding heaven/hell/biblical stuff.

I think her daughters name is going to be Calliope, it’s a name that sticks in my brain for some reason but i’ve been trying to name along with the theme of stars/space, but can’t find anything that I like.

she is also a nephilim (mix of human and angel) and that’s a big no no to Heaven

i’ve got more little snippets + some more art of these guys hidden in my drafts that i may share down the road. but take another sketch of her pre-fallen!

[by hachii_ro on twt]

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Can I please ask for a Yandere Hades with kianna komori

But in this scenario she dies but she gets Resurrected as an angel but she has her memories and still loves Hades

-The day he lost you, the day that you were taken from him, in more ways than one, broke Hades, he wept over your body as you had taken your last breath.

-Hades was inconsolable, nobody could do anything to help him, only you could help him, you were the light in his dark world, his reason for living, you were his heart! And you were gone.

-He buried himself in his work, trying to ignore the pain in his heart, trying to ignore the void in his life, as you left him feeling empty and lost.

-It was Zues who managed to get his eldest brother out of his office after weeks of hiding there, burying himself in his work, telling him that there was a surprise waiting for him.

-The only thing that would make him happy is you…wait… why were- how were you there?!

-You were sitting on the edge of a fountain, wearing a flowy white gown, a pair of sparkling white wings on your back and a halo above your head, you were an angel.

-Hades froze, not wanting to believe that it was you, you couldn’t be there- you couldn’t- tears quickly welled in his eyes, a sob stuck in his chest as you spotted him.

-You came over, a soft smile on your lips as you lifted your hands to his cheeks, he could feel you- this wasn’t just another hallucination, he could feel you!

-His hands lifted to your hands over his cheeks as the sob finally wrenched free as he fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into his arms.

-You squeaked softly in surprise, just like always as he sagged, letting his relief out, as he held onto you tightly, never wanting you to leave him again.

-Zeus explained that when you had died, you had been brought back as an angel, but since the process takes a while, to become an angel, and since you had died, it had taken longer than normal, as you had to get used to your new body.

-You still looked like you, but this was a new body, and your memories and personality were still intact, you were still his Y/N.

-Hades wasn’t going to let anything happen to you again, even if he had to always keep you by his side. You weren’t leaving him again.

[michael-the-morningstar]

HEAVY TW: mentions of SH, suicide attempts, blood, mentions of drowning, mentions of walking off a cliff (😭), self loathing.

Tell me if I need to add any other trigger warnings.

500 years ago, The Void Room

All he could see was black. Well, except his own spear-tipped tail, that glinted from the light of his halo. His halo. His fucking halo. The thing that marked him to be above others, above his own twin brother. Oh how many times he tried to break it, yet only ended up cutting his hands. Not like that bothered him, he already had plenty of scars from other cuts all over his wrists.

The tip of his tail was so sharp.. The thought seemed suddenly appealing.

It’s not like he hadn’t tried before.

He jumped into a river, keeping his head underwater till he saw dark and woke up on the bank three hours later, with no damage whatsoever done.

He walked off a cliff, freefalling till he hit the ground. He broke a leg and most of his wings, having to limp to Raphael for healing. Thankfully his brother asked no questions.

But maybe.. just maybe… it would work this time.

Maybe he could rid this world of a monster. A mosnter that nearly killed and banished his own brother.

Lucifer…

Oh how he loathed himself for that.

And surely, the others hated him too.

“I’m sorry…”

He pressed his tailtip against his chest. He could feel the sharp edge through his shirt. He always kept it sharp. Just in case.

The air seemed to thicken in anticipation.

Then he drove the speartip deep into his flesh.

—————

Uriel found him sobbing, about to pass out, on the floor. He woke up the next day to see all of his remaining siblings gathered around his bed.

“Why?”

[clowncalledjay]

Okay, ignoring for a moment the canon ~falling infinitely through the void after every life series to feed the Watchers~

What if everyone had their own little void/space they returned to so they could rest and heal before the next game, and the winners shared the same one.

The lyrics to Honey, I'm Home, by Ghost and Pals FIT SO WELL TO MARTYN'S ARIVAL ARGH (as someone looking at the song at face value. I don't know the lore behind it.)

So with advise of the dead- The ghosts that swarmed Martyn before he was /killed.

And a halo over my head- An indicator that he won? CC!Martyn likes to let us go wild with fan-art and theories, sometimes making them canon. I've seen many artists draw the winners with halos/crowns. It's just cool to think about.

At last, honey, I'm home!- Martyn finally gets to his void, finally gets a chance to recover. He doesn't know the others are there.

Three voices come, all alone- The Sun, The Stars, and The Moon. The winners. Martyn remembers he's won.

A visitation of me- Mars (yes I will be pushing my Mars propaganda /j)

Done by god for all to SEE- The Watchers are, well, watching. This is almost more entertaining than the death games themselves. And, gods above, it was delicious.

Say, "Hello, honey, I'm home!"- Martyn greets the former winners with a lightheartedness about him.

Three voices come, all alone: Grian, Scott, and Pearl.

The silence that comes after that feels like dread. These winners were all people he made enemies with in Limited Life. And Scott... No, Martyn didn't want to see Scott. Martyn would rather anything but confront Scott directly after winning.

I might write something about this.

[esotericallyaesthetic]

i dont look in mirrors

There's a floor length mirror sitting in the corner of my room. I forget its there and honestly it doesn't need to be. It's cracked, the frame all busted, would probably leave crystal cuts of glitter all over my floor if i were to ever try to move the damn thing. But I won't because I can't-even see my reflection in it most days, my own accusing stares hidden above and to the left of bad angles and worse lighting.

Once in a nonreflective and dingy basement, my friend and I were discussing if we could fight our mirror selves, shooting a breeze we could not feel six feet below the earth. I told her she would fight her reflective counterpart and not just survive, but thrive, thrumming with victory, matte blood flooding out or rushing over any trace of something shiny. But not even the cool damp earth could hold the entirety of the encounter, the void everpresent noticeable even over the beating of the drums, the victory, her existence tinged with a loss any onlooker could not help but feel and subsequently be numbed by, just a bit worse off for taking the time to view such a sad story.

For myself, i was told i would not end up fighting my mirror self. That my warped counterpart would come out swinging and i would try to play the game only to be overcome, the lights haloing and the fractals dazzling. I would only be able to sit down and commiserate, until neither of us could kill or be killed. I cannot stand to look in mirrors but i cannot throw the mirror in the corner away.

[mayamidnightmelody]

In the vast expanse of the cosmos, where stars twinkle like distant diamonds and the void of space is a canvas of infinite possibilities, a lone rocket ship glides silently. Its sleek, silver hull reflects the glow of a nearby moon, casting an ethereal light over an alien landscape below. This is a place where adventure thrives and danger lurks in every shadow.

Captain Jack Daniels, a seasoned astronaut, crouched behind a cluster of alien mushrooms, his ray gun aimed steadily at a formidable foe. His space suit, a pristine white accented with dark straps and equipment, clung to his muscular frame, designed for both protection and mobility. The suit’s material, stretched taut across his body, emphasized his athletic build. Through the transparent visor of his helmet, his eyes, sharp and focused, tracked the movements of the reptilian behemoth before him.

The creature was a sight to behold: a towering, dinosaur-like alien with blue, spotted skin that shimmered under the moonlight. Its red eyes glowed with a menacing intelligence, and its maw opened to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth. Draped in a regal red robe adorned with golden accessories, the alien exuded an air of barbaric nobility, a king in its own right.

In one of its massive, clawed hands, it held Lieutenant Sarah Blake, a fellow astronaut. Her own white space suit was dirtied from the struggle, but her spirit remained unbroken. She kicked and struggled, her eyes filled with defiance, even as the alien aimed its own ray gun at Captain Daniels. Her suit, too, was impossibly tight, outlining every curve of her body and highlighting her strength and determination.

Lying prone in the foreground, another figure added to the drama. Clad in a golden bikini and skirt that sparkled against her tan skin, the woman appeared to be a captive or perhaps a recent victim of the alien’s wrath. Her long, red hair spread out like a halo around her head, and her expressive eyes flicked between the battling forces, hope mingled with fear. Her near-nudity, a stark contrast to the high-tech gear of the astronauts, added a layer of sensuality and vulnerability to the scene.

“Hold on, Sarah!” Captain Daniels shouted, his voice steady despite the tension. He adjusted his grip on the ray gun, taking careful aim at the alien’s weapon.

The alien hissed, its eyes narrowing as it shifted its gaze between its captives and the determined astronaut. It bared its teeth in a grimace, revealing more of its terrifying fangs, and tightened its grip on Sarah. The tension was palpable, a high-stakes standoff in an alien jungle filled with towering, pink-flowered trees and bioluminescent fungi.

Above them, the sky was a tapestry of celestial wonders. A massive moon, pockmarked with craters, dominated the horizon, while countless stars dotted the blackness. Among them, strange, colorful planets hung like ornaments, adding to the surreal beauty of the scene.

A silver rocket ship, sleek and futuristic, hovered in the distance, tethered to one of the pink-flowering trees. It was a beacon of hope and a reminder of the technological marvels that had brought the astronauts to this alien world.

In a sudden burst of movement, Captain Daniels fired his ray gun. The beam of energy sizzled through the air, striking the alien’s weapon with pinpoint accuracy. Sparks flew, and the creature roared in pain and fury, dropping its gun and loosening its grip on Sarah.

Seizing the moment, Sarah wrenched herself free and landed a swift kick to the alien’s midsection. She somersaulted away, rolling to safety beside Captain Daniels. Together, they trained their weapons on the now weaponless alien, ready for whatever came next.

“Nice shot,” Sarah panted, her breath coming in quick bursts. Captain Daniels flashed a brief, tense smile.

“Let’s get back to the ship,” he replied, keeping his eyes on the alien, which was now retreating, nursing its wounded pride and weapon. “We’ve got what we came for.”

The two astronauts moved quickly, helping the woman in the golden bikini to her feet. She was shaky but unharmed, and she clung to Sarah as they made their way toward the waiting rocket ship.

As they hurried through the alien jungle, Sarah noticed the woman’s delicate condition. Her attire, or lack thereof, was not suitable for the harsh environment. Without hesitation, Sarah offered her own jacket, providing some modesty and protection.

Al Williamson and the Raypunk Genre This tale, filled with daring heroes, menacing aliens, and exotic worlds, is the essence of raypunk—a subgenre of science fiction that captures the retro-futuristic visions of the mid-20th century. Raypunk stories are characterized by their imaginative and often whimsical depictions of advanced technology, space travel, and alien encounters, all infused with a nostalgic charm. Raypunk and planetary romance frequently feature tropes such as daring rescues of damsels in distress, sensuous elements, and the ever-present danger and excitement of alien worlds. The aesthetic is heavily influenced by the pulp magazines and early comic books of the time, with an emphasis on vibrant colors, dramatic action, and exotic settings. Al Williamson, the artist behind the scene described above, was a master of this genre. Known for his detailed and expressive illustrations, Williamson’s work often blended realism with the fantastical, making him a perfect fit for raypunk. His dynamic compositions, meticulous attention to detail, and strong sense of storytelling brought these otherworldly adventures to life. Williamson’s art was heavily influenced by the pulp magazines, early comic books, and serial films of his time. His illustrations defined the visual language of raypunk, influencing not only comic books but also films and television. Through his work, Williamson captured the excitement and wonder of space exploration, the thrill of encountering the unknown, and the timeless appeal of heroic adventure. In conclusion, Al Williamson’s raypunk artwork is a vivid reminder of a genre that continues to inspire and captivate. His illustrations are more than just pictures—they are stories that transport us to distant worlds, invite us to join daring adventures, and remind us of the boundless possibilities of the imagination. The sensuality, the peril, and the tight suits are all part of a tapestry that celebrates both the human form and the extraordinary potential of futuristic storytelling.

[legobiwan]

Cut Scenes #2: The Destruction of the Sammer Kingdom

I couldn't justify including this section in the latest update to Expiate, as it would have slowed down the narrative unnecessarily. So enjoy, if one can use such a word for this scene, my take on traumatizing Mario and co. with the end of the world.

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

“What number was that?”

“Twenty-seven, I think!” 

Mario lets loose a vicious oath. 

There’s not enough time. 

They reach the next set of doors, panting. On the unspoken count of three they push, Mario using his own beleaguered body as a battering ram, slamming his throbbing shoulder into hard-grained wood. 

“Twenty…eight…” Bowser heaves, folding over, clasping his knees with shaking hands. 

Mario grunts, racing around to Bowser’s rear, pushing at his shell with what little strength he has remaining. “Get moving, Koopa,” he grits, sweat stinging at the corners of his eyes. “We can’t rest, not now.”

The Void belches with a gargantuan roar, spewing an ashen plume of iridescent nothingness which cascades through the sky, specks of obliteration flittering to the ground.

“I know, I know,” Bowser wheezes, one large hand grabbing onto Mario’s bad shoulder for support.

Above them, the Void grumbles.

Mario nods, and a moment later, they’re off again, dashing up and over the podium where another one of Sammer’s men remains steadfast, kneeling in doomed obeisance. Mario wonders what happened to the real Sammer leader, if he’s already dead. It would be kinder, he thinks, than this.

They sprint upwards, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, the world losing hue with each ascension, shadows with no object slithering from the sky. They crash through to the thirty-third level, scraped and bleeding, Peach’s skirt tearing on broken wood, angry splinters gouging into raw fingers and swollen palms as they push another set of doors open. 

“Thirty-four,” Peach announces as the ground rumbles, then lets out a calamitous roar, the world phasing in multicolored duality. Bowser is thrown forward, stumbling towards the raised stage before them, perspiration dripping in wild zigzag patterns from his shell. Mario grabs for the nearest stanchion, the vertigo of a near-undone reality knocking him to his knees. He barks out a ragged cough, dirty phlegm rocketing from his lungs. 

The taste is necrotic.

One of Sammer’s men stands on the far end of the platform, crimson hat melting around his head, a bright-red trail of sanguine decay creeping from his temple to inner ear. He brandishes a tarnished, silver pike in his right hand, swinging the weapon to a horizontal bar across his body. 

“We are doomed!” he proclaims, eyes frenzied and bloodshot, jaw unhinged in an open smile that nearly bisects his face. He yells to the open, bleeding sky, shaking his pike to the falling heavens. “It cannot be stopped!”

“IT CANNOT BE STOPPED!” the guard barks with hysterical laughter, throwing his head back, blood splattering across the broken stage. 

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

They need to leave, need to run, they -

Mario freezes. Something’s wrong with his shadow. 

He looks up. The sun is fading into the outline of a bright halo, what’s left of the sky now fallen into a deep indigo. The tectonic convulsions of the earth peter out, undulating land gently seesawing back to a nervous equilibrium.

Mario grabs Peach’s hand. 

Something very, very bad is about to happen.

All at once, static pushes up through the earth in high-pitched, curling squeals. Mario stares, slack-jawed, as the sonic leviathan rises from the ends of the universe, mountains fracturing into shards of bone, forest pummeled into flat, dripping entrails. He thinks he hears Bowser calling for his children, thinks he hears himself shouting for his lost brother, but the Void’s hunger is as loud as it is insatiable, slurping at rivers, needlepoint teeth tearing into the belly of the sky with a satisfied growl that shakes the world. There’s nothing left, nothing but Peach’s hand in his and all Mario can think is please forgive me as the last of existence unspools with a serrated shriek and -