#maybe I should think about slime molds or something

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

Me trying to reason with myself: not every obscure question you have will have an easy to access answer

Me, snapping back at my reasonable take: how hard can it be to find something on how vertebrae jaws work for carnivores, which traits are favored, especially terrestrial ones! All I can find are papers on different families. One on mammals, some vague ones on dinosaurs, and when I look up reptiles all I get are comparisons! It’s all “the difference between reptiles and mammals” and “synapsid vs diapsid” all interesting topics but I’m trying to design a terrestrial carnivorous alien with a vaguely vertebrae style skeleton here! Sure, I’m making them a shape shifter, I’m not going for total realism, but I’m hung up on jaw anatomy! I don’t want to do the whole “make the face flat, bam! Alien” thing, no shade to people who do, but I’m trying to figure out if there is a reason most of their (the real animals) jaws are long-ish and if the mammal style dip between the brain part and the mouth and nose part that you see in Carnivora for example is just a mammal thing or is it advantageous in general?! I know all vertebrates evolved from a common ancestor, even more recently terrestrial ones, but I don’t care! I’m already borrowing enough, I just can’t design a skull! And dentition! I’ve made a few designs but I wasn’t happy with how they fit the rest of the character. And of course I had to make even more species of aliens! Tearing at my hair like an ace attorney witness.

The chill me again: who tf would have an article video or post on that specific thing and how would you phrase it? Nothing you’ve tried yet has gotten anything. Just accept that you might have to ask a subreddit yourself and see what happens. Dig through sci show first though

Frazzled me: but… what if they don’t have anything? I wanted a video or article. :( and what subreddit would I even ask? World building? Would they know what I mean? Is anyone else as autistic about skeletons AND making ocs?

[kinjedl]

A new migrant's perspective on how Tumblr works

So, basically, how Tumblr works is this:

We are all, all of us, in a series of caves. Some of the inhabitants of the caves have dug little holes or access routes to the surface, where strange things like blue tweeting birds dwell. Some of us have fled here from a site the alien rules, and a few of us are splitting our time between their weirdly bright and shining domes and our comfy moss-covered holes.

From within your cave, you can dig tunnels. Some people choose to dig tunnels up to the top of other peoples' caves just to observe. Occasionally they might sneak down and steal a choice morsel to drag back to their own hoard, sometimes they just observe. Some tunnels don't lead to the caves owned by other individuals, but instead to dumping grounds where people shove copies of things that they think are related to a single topic. There's no actual rules to that, per-se, it's just a sortve rule by collective consensus about what kinds of things should go in that cave. Sometimes things get shoved in there which don't really belong, but that's fine too.

Some people cultivate their caves to reflect their own specific sets of interest - maybe their hoard has a theme, a motif, a genre. Some people just grab whatever looks shiny and show it off to whoever comes by to look.

When you find something that's interesting, you can - and should - grab it and run back to your cave and put it on display. As everyone knows, piracy isn't stealing, since it makes a copy, so the original is left untouched. That's how things spread down here. There's no real pacing to it, so sometimes someone will make a thing, show it off, and no one will notice that it's there until later, at which point it might take off running through the caves as everyone grabs a copy. Sometimes it does that in fits and starts. Sometimes it hits a particularly nutrient rich patch of the caves and grows way out of control, far beyond its original creator's intentions. Like a slime mold that hit a big ol batch of protozoa. The slime mold thing is probably more accurate than it should be.

The point isn't the spread, though. Tumblr works opposite of how most other big content sites like Facebook and Reddit and Twitter work. In all of those, the point is to yell at the top of your lungs and get as many people to hear you. If you can't get enough people to hear you, you might spend billions to buy the platform and try to buy more of an audience that way, because the audience is the point.

On Tumblr, instead, the audience is irrelevant. The treasures you can bring back to your cave are the point. The point is to hoard and collect and grow your shinies. It's nice to show them off (because who doesn't like it when their hoard is admired?) but it's the having and the getting, not the giving.

it's more work than reddit or facebook or twitter, because no one is out here trying to tell you what should go in your hoard. Everyone everywhere else has strong feelings on what kind of kitsch and treasures and knickknacks you should have. Here, you have to dig. You'll find a lot of trash in the process, but you have the choice of where your tunnels lead, and which garbage pi... other people's hoards you're sifting through, so it's a friendly sort of grubbing in the dirt that feels comfy once you're used to the muck.

I like it here.

[fiddles-ifs]

[ID: A banner-style graphic featuring a coyote's open mouth on a dark black background. Orange all-caps text near the bottom of the image reads: "happy birthday Greenwarden." /end ID]

Happy birthday to my firstborn problem!! I'm trying really hard to not think about how long it's actually been, but to celebrate Greenwarden being mysteriously old I'm posting a former Patreon snippet! I'm also announcing that 1) I quit me day job, and 2) I'm going to be compiling a bunch of Greenwarden shorts that would have gone up on Patreon if I had kept it up. More on that to come when I get all my ducks in a line.

GRAVEROBBING AND NECROMANCY FOR DUMMIES

Marianna & Tracker. 16+. Grimdark Fantasy AU. Scofiddle Pepper Rating: Bell Pepper.

Content Warnings: Blood, minor wounds, implied mind-control, mentions of death.

Mausoleums always have a certain smell — mold, mildew, cracking damp stone. The decay of rock and mortar, but never flesh. The sarcophagi are tightly sealed with both wards and wax, partially to keep the smell at bay. No air, nor Light, nor hands will ever creep inside them. The Silent Mercies do their grim work and do it well, keeping them locked up tight. Then they leave — that's the extent of their dues to the dead.

They can count themselves lucky. Corpses don't exactly make great company. Particularly when some of them are itching to come back.

You can't help but feel like there are eyes on you, your torch cutting through the dark, damp guts of the tomb. An intrusion. Indigestion. The violent, flickering orange light makes the shadows greasy. You'd use a magelight, but you're already dancing on the razor-thin line between bravery and stupidity; you don't want to risk waking something. Someone. 

They were people once, allegedly, but you know what pride morphs people into.

Particularly powerful necromancers resist even the cleansing fire of holy Light, their sentience existing in each molecule of ash, slowly piecing themself back together with sheer will and hate. It may take hundreds — maybe thousands — of years, but eventually they will come back. So, the Temple does what it can. The liches are bound, still conscious, and placed in a sarcophagus. The sarcophagus is sealed — with prayer, with wax, with chains and locks both physical and magical — and a mausoleum built around it. The Silent Mercies make their rounds indefinitely, strengthening the wards and installing ever more complex locks. Hundreds of years turn into thousands.

The hopeful end result is a stark raving mad lich warlock that will, if all goes well, blissfully prefer the judgment of the Light before they suffer one more second of silent, unmoving, stagnant solitude. Time and again the methods of the Temple are proven effective. Terrifying, and effective. Most choose to vacate their own bodies than live in the dark for an undetermined amount of time. Unable to move. Unable to see. Slowly withering away, mummifying, rotting in your own skin. Whatever you’re going to find will not be human anymore – if it was ever human in the first place.

You cross the dusty, time-ravaged stone floor to the sarcophagus at the far end of the room. It's a short walk. Mausoleums are traditionally small, most especially the ones outside of temples, reserved for the vilest of the old guard, the lichkings who dared to try and defy death. Beings that rejected humanity, even rejected immolation, and should not under any circumstances be within spitting distance of a residential area.

Zoning laws: the bane of all undead tyrants. 

There's only one — which is nerve-wracking. It sits placidly on a raised dais set with small, half-melted candles, as if it’s waiting for you. A frozen slime trail of old wax meanders down the dais, caught in time. The thrum of magic tickles your fingertips. Brushing, like a cat would, up against your palms and skittering up your arms. Both a beckoning and a warning. Temptation.

It's wrong. A singular coffin is like finding a singular roach. Not wholly uncommon, but it sets your teeth on edge. 

It means one of two things: either the Temple managed to burn the master’s undead servants, even the stubborn ones. Or, worse – they’re afraid of what it might do with nearby corpses, even sealed away.

Your arms itch. You set your torch in a conveniently placed wall sconce and start working to get your mind off things.

The Temple of Light may not like to admit it, but what they do is magic. The prayers wielded by their paladins and clerics are incantations; the talismans created by their monks are charms, woven out of somewhat less mathematically inclined sigils. Magic. They hang and burn people for it in the streets, but it keeps their mausoleums tightly locked and their church in power.

Like any spell, a prayer can be broken with a little bit of reverse engineering. And you are very good at breaking things.

Maybe it's the uniqueness of your situation, or maybe you were just created with something special, but seeing the patterns in the weave and weft of magic comes second nature to you. Almost like a physical thing. A golden projection of arcane artistry.

It's a complicated spell; the Woodsman lived hundreds of years ago, long enough that even its very name was forgotten. The ward is centuries of layers, each one getting more and more complex as the Silent Mercies learned what incantations and motions were most effective at keeping the dead at bay. Trails of cold, melted wax dripping down time. A beautiful puzzle, just for you. You're always half-giddy, knowing that you may very well be the only one who can truly see the work, the history behind it, and that you might be the only one smart enough not just to break it to pieces, but coax it open.

Enough. You need to be fast.

Your forehead tenses, brows knit as you start reversing half a millennia of spellcraft. Delicately, slowly, you work out the motions, but in reverse. A twist of your hand, fingers curled, your arm moving in hypnotic diamonds and stars and spirals. Shapes designed to trap and contain. The fingers on your other hand open and close in the same fractal rhythm half a canto ahead, parsing out the right steps in the dance before you walk the dancefloor.  You're a conductor, ripping carefully crafted sheet music to shreds. The torch flickers.

There's no sound but your own short, elated huff of laughter when your hand slides into place at the ward's terminus. Deep in your hindbrain, a lock falls open with a satisfying click!

“Don't move.” 

Oh. That's a sword — you feel the tip of it caressing the nape of your neck. Slowly, carefully, you raise your hands to the sides of your head. You’re unarmed, and thankful you have gloves on.

“Turn around.” 

It’s not like you have room to argue.

You’re face-to-face with the tip of a shiny, well-polished blade. The silver coating makes your back teeth itch. You feel it vibrating, still coming down, hypersensitive to atomic changes in the air. You’re also face-to-chest with an extraordinarily tall cleric in their classic white and gold armor. An immediate, violent chill settles into your spine.

She’s hard-faced, hair cut bluntly short; she gives you the impression that her only expression is scowl. You prepare yourself to fire and run. It’ll set your research back months – maybe even a year – but you’ll live.

“Explain yourself.” You’re taken aback by that – you do a quick three-point look around the room and with your head and then spread your hands out a little further.

“I mean,” you say, “I think we both know I’m not supposed to be here.”

She doesn’t like that. Her hands choke a little tighter around her sword grip, leather squealing and platemail clicking as she shifts even deeper into a fighting stance. The sword gets a little closer to your face. A sweat breaks out between your shoulder blades.

“You’re a mage.”

“And you’re a cleric.” Impasse. Stand off. Stare down. Neither of you are willing to make the first move – maybe she’s hoping for a peaceful resolution. That you’ll go gracefully to the stake.

Fat chance, but something changes when she opens her mouth to reply.

You don’t like the look that falls over the cleric’s face – wide eyed, eyebrows to the hairline, mouth half-open. The blood leaving her face. The slight tremble in her steady hands. Fear.

Slowly, you twist your neck to look behind you.

The Woodsman’s coffin is open – a deep, yawning blackness slides out of it, liquid trapped inside thin film. On the coattails of the light-drinking sludge, a skeletal hand slides, damn near leisurely, out of the sarcophagus. What follows is a horror of ancient science. Half human, half… something else.

The antlers crown its head, but the head is canine, deep pinpoints of light inside empty sockets. Mummified skin knits across bone, thin as paper and patchy in places. Its teeth are bare to the world and yellowed with centuries. You watch the slick, black flesh form an amorphous mass beneath the skull, the arms nothing but bone haphazardly slapped onto an overgorged slug.

You were hoping it wasn’t in there – everything you’ve learned told you it had probably vacated its body years ago. There had been no activity for so long – no plague of nightmares, no major possessions, no strange activity in the flora and fauna  – and yet. The Woodsman slithers out of its unlocked tomb on a tide of melted void-flesh, rises on it until it has to bend, its shoulders scraping the ceiling of the mausoleum. It opens its mouth wide – skin and gristle clinging to its jaw in loose strings – and shrieks.

It’s shrill and piercing. You’re concussed, briefly, slapping your hands over your ears. You feel it – in your head. Scraping the inside of your skull, dark wordless whispers in your hindbrain. It knows you. It sees you. It’s in your head.

The cleric pushes you behind her, nearly to the door in the tiny mausoleum. You’re confused – still concussed. You don’t run.

“Go!” She shouts, swinging and hacking at the growing sea of rotting flesh. She swings too wide – the silver-steel scrapes against the walls of the mausoleum and sparks. The Woodsman just keeps growing. One by one, the candles and torch are swallowed whole. A deep, endless black. A tidal wave of nothing. 

You’re not about to argue. You turn tail and run out the door.

Two steps past the tomb, you stumble to a stop. A quick, hard-breathing glance behind you lets you know that the cleric already isn’t doing well. She’s fighting like an animal, punching what she can’t cut. Every slice is swallowed up by more reeling, lightless flesh. You still feel the Woodsman’s scritching little claws, furrows in your soft, pliant brain. Every iota of you recoils away from it. But that cleric – she let you go. 

You look down at your hands. The dark leather gloves, fingertips worn, the edges frayed.

Shaking, you slip them off your hands and leave them in the grass.

You grab the back of the cleric’s breastplate and yank her back into fresh air, swapping places in one smooth transition. You don’t know what she sees. If she notices the dark, blue-black corrupted skin of your hands or the bright runes squirming over your arms while you reach deep in yourself for something destructive. The bands around your wrists and throat mark you as a Thing – something broken loose. The Woodsman tugs at your tattered ghost leash with an interested spiritual hand, head cocked. Your programming demands you kneel for consumption, and your knees twitch before you get yourself back under control. You almost see a wink of recognition.

Little homunculus, the Woodsman whispers, curling around the base of your skull like a cat, so far from home.

“Shut up,” you say, and light up the room.

The Temple of Light has claimed the lichkings reject holy fire and immolation – they just haven’t tried something hot enough. Your fire is pure destruction, white with heat, blinding against the greasy black corruption sludge coating the walls. The Woodsman shrieks – pain, rage, confusion. Spikes of pain explode behind your eyes, and you burn them away too.

You wade through the muck, scorching it all to ash, beating the Woodsman back until it tries to seek refuge again in its sarcophagus, huddling in the pit. A child taking refuge in a cellar.  Curled at the back of a cell. Useless, useless.

You reach out with a flame-licked hand and clamp down hard on its muzzle.

“Shut up,” you hiss, and watch fire make cracks in its skull. It rakes your arms with bony claws, opening bloody gashes in your flesh. The blood sizzles and evaporates almost instantly. 

The Woodsman’s head explodes with a loud crack, bone shards ripping through the skin of your cheek. The rest of it goes limp in a heap. What’s left, you turn to coal dust, just in case. When you’re done, all that’s left of the Woodsman is a greasy soot stain coating the floor, walls, and ceiling. It’s a little gruesome. Reminds you uncomfortably of blood.

You coax the flames back in, lower and lower, wobbling with exhaustion, until a comfortable, warm dark swallows you. There’s light in it – ambient, soft reflections of the moon outside. The sarcophagus is a welcome resting spot, using its high lip to stay half-standing. Even then, you see little spots in your vision, the edges going blurry. A few drops of blood slide out of your nose and splatter on the ground. Your ears are ringing.

“You’ve got red on you.” You jump.

The cleric is standing there, wiping blood and slime off her face. One of her eyes is nearly glued shut, an open wound on her brow pouring red down her cheek and under her collar. You give her a once-over before you weakly tilt your chin up.

“So do you,” you say. She nods – holds out her hand.

“Marianna.”

Cautiously, you cross the floor on shaky legs to take it, and give her your name. The one you picked for yourself – it feels nice. To introduce yourself, for once. She almost crushes your hand. You’re comparatively weak.

“You saved my life, mage,” Marianna says. You grin with a mouthful of bloody teeth, an acknowledgement.

Then, your body finally gives up. You’re blissfully unconscious before you hit the ground.

[ghouljams]

I was just stalking your fae au and was reading the moose-creature-mimic posts, and I saw you mention that witch can feel when the mimic is trying to break her wards.

Whenever I hear about Fae, my mind immediately goes to the magic system from one of my favourite book series in which people who make wards have to develop wards for specific creatures, and if a creature that they haven’t warded against tries to enter, they can break through, if not break the rest of the wards.

Let’s say for a moment that something like that happens in the Fae AU, where some kind of unfamiliar creature from a foreign civilization comes a knocking on witches doorstep, and is able to break through her wards.

What do you think would happen? If Witch is connected to them, would Witch ‘break’ too? How would Price react to the pure panic and pain shooting through the tethers as an unfamiliar creature breaks through his darling’s wards?

I feel like she would be absolutely broken afterwards (if she survives that is-) Her wards are her safe space, she had never had that happen, she didn’t know what happened.

Would price still trust her to be safe in her own home?

Would SHE still trust her to be safe in her own home??

Just some thoughts 🫣

Oooooooooh. Ok yeah I can do some horror with this. Love the concept. So the Canon answer is that warding in this magic system can be as broad or as narrow as the caster wants. Wards can be weak and they can be broken, but it isn't going to harm the caster, maybe it'll give then a bad feeling but not any actual harm. Not a very good ward if it harms the wrong target IMHO.

For the Witch's home these are wards that are basically generations of people enforcing and reinforcing an all purpose boundary. It's an iron wall that nothing(save humans) is getting through without a permit, and it's tied to Witch both through her magic and her blood. She can feel when things mess with it, but it's like getting asmr, it isn't actually affecting her. She's mentioned before that her wards are threats, so anything that isn't stopped by a simple denial of entry is going to have those threats enacted upon it.

But let's say something broke her wards, let's throw some rocks through the windows and bust shit up. I am going on record to say, this isnt canon:

You feel something crack in the air before you feel it break. The splintering spiderweb of intangible bonds being pushed too far hits you between the ribs and you have to clutch the kitchen counter to stay standing. Something is deeply, desperately, wrong. You don't know how or why(or what) but something is working very hard to get in to your space.

It shouldn't be possible in the first place, you have known this house, these wards, your whole life and you've never felt it give way. You've felt it change, felt it ripple, felt it pop and fizz when it doesn't like what you've let in, but never this. Never the creaking pressure of it bowing inwards and splitting under its own tension. Your fingers wrap tight around your athame as you go to check your back garden, peaking through the curtains. There's nothing.

But you can feel it, you can feel it splintering like a pain in your chest. Tight and radiating out from your sternum. It tingles down your arm, makes your grip feel looser than you know it is. You grab your back door's handle, take a few breathes to give yourself strength, and open it to shoo away whatever is pressing your wards. And very suddenly the splinters give way, like a hole punched through a window.

It feels like all the air has been forced out of your lungs. A cool breeze blows through your door, wrong so very, very, wrong. The smell of moss invades your nose, burdened with the scent of decay. Slime mold oozing against your desperate breaths. You tug your shirt to cover your nose and mouth as the battering ram that had been beating your barrier steps through.

The horns of it scrape your ceiling, actually that bothers you more than it should, you're the one that has to fix it later. Velvet hangs from its antlers, freshly scraped and red, gory and divine. It stands on two clover hooves, and looks at you with malice. If you can even discern an expression from the thing. It's face is completely smooth save for its eyes, or it was smooth. A crack forms along the bottom of its smooth surface, splintering and chipping as it rips its mouth open and screams at you.

The sound is overpowering, dizzying, you feel your ears pop and then the noise is gone, replaced by a persistent dull ringing. You truly wonder when your life got so interesting. You hate interesting. You blame Price.

You cough, gag. You have to drop your makeshift mask to retch against the stench of rotten decay on this thing. It smells like death, weeks old bodies left to fester where no one will find them. You gag again, fingers curling around your throat as you try to keep you athame raised.

Your wards are silent, you home is silent, and you realize that you've never actually experienced true silence. Something is always buzzing or humming with magic, you always have music playing or bottles clinking, you're always surrounded by sound. Now it's all stopped. Even the ringing in your ears has settled into a cottony muffle. You can't feel any of your magic. Your numbed to it.

You drop your hand from your throat to your chest. You can't even feel the tethers there. Your fingers move over the fabric of your shirt without catching, there's not tightness to pull, not warmth to catch. You feel cavernous, empty past empty. What the fuck is that thing.

Whatever it is it seems to have finished its evaluation of you. Finished working whatever spell it was weaving. It takes a step towards you. You don't wait for it to take another before running. Scrambling away from the broken seal of the door towards whatever is heavy and throw-able.

You do your best not to let blind panic take over, to not just run wherever feels safe. You've always thought it was silly when people in horror movies don't do the smart thing, but you've never been in a horror movie before. You bolt towards your bedroom. It's the best guarded room in the house. Even if you can't feel your magic it should still be there. Right?

You feel the swip of the things claws through the air as it tries to grab you. You run straight past your front door without a second thought, sure you don't want whatever that is to be unleashed on the general public. It's claws dig deep gouges into the plaster of your wall, and you pray it doesn't do the same to your bedroom door. You know it will, but it can't hurt to pray. You're not in the mood to be picky with magic right now.

You get your bedroom door closed just in time to hear it splinter as the creature throws itself against it. You don't bother with chalk, digging your athame into the door and scratching sigils and circles as quickly as you can. When you tap them they sit absolutely dead. You smack your hand against your messy circle, willing the magic to respond. You smack it again as the creature throws itself against your door. The circle stays as it was, motionless, silent, still as a drawing.

You are suddenly much more comfortable allowing panic to overtake you. If you're powerless there's really no reason to keep your emotions in check. Your breath heaves, short and quick as you back away from your door and look towards your window. No magic swirls, no books rip themselves from your shelves, your panic heightens and nothing happens. How mundane.

One of the creatures claws punches a hole through the center of your circle, then another, and another. You back towards your window as it grips the wood of the door and attempts to pull it from its hinges. Your fingers push at your window, try to find the seams of it, try to get it open. It doesn't budge, it feels like it's been painted on. You bang your fist against the glass without so much as a crack. The wood behind you splinters. The crunch of it deafening over the silence.

"Price, Price, fuck I am not fucking around Price please," You beg pressing yourself back against the window as the creature drops pieces of the door onto your floor. Even if your magic doesn't work his still must. You've never hear of a fae not responding to their name. Granted you don't know the full thing, you don't know if that's really his name and not just a nickname. It might hold no power without the tethers between you. That doesn't stop you from saying it like a prayer, hoping if you speak him into existence enough times he might come and save you.

Your shoulders are grabbed by an invisible force as you are physically shaken. Your ribs shake, muscles tensed too tight to even take a breath.

There is a wet ache spreading over your stomach, you begin to tilt your head down to see what's wrong and Price catches you. His hand holds the back of your head, pulls it back up and shoves it against his shoulder. "Don't look," he tells you just as quickly as he'd stopped you. You nod against his shoulder.

He pulls something from you, rips the proverbial bandaid off, and you bite him at the pain. It feels like your heart has been knocked out of place, like your ribs have been played as a xylophone. Your stomach twists on itself. Suddenly you are back in your kitchen staring at the cabinets, the space where the creatures antlers had scraped the ceiling. The scratches are still there.

Then the shaking starts. Every muscle in your body starting to unspool in a violent shudder that must quake the very earth you stand on. It's loud. The house is so loud. The wards are practically screaming at you, you threshold wails and sobs where it has been brutalized. Your back door is still swung open to red and orange leaves, a lovely autumn day that leaks the smell of wet earth into your home. Price turns to follow your shaking gaze and kicks the door shut behind him.

"What-" You can't get anything more out around the aftershocks of panic. You're sure your house must look like a war zone.

"Probably some American invention," Price mumbles, "You weren't under long, deep breaths."

You suck in a breath, press your know into his shirt to smell the cool tobacco. It helps. Price keeps a firm grip on the back of your head, keeps you looking where he wants you to while his other hand does something. He touches you in a way you can't explain. It's almost metaphysical the way he zips you up, just on the right side of freezing. You can almost feel his fingers moving muscle and viscera out of the way as he does whatever he's doing. Fixing whatever just happened.

"Fucking hell your wards shredded that thing, surprised it even had the strength to touch you," There's something at the edge of Price's voice, fear your think. You're not sure what he's scared of, it isn't a comforting sound.

"How're you-" You try to focus on the important questions, like why Price hasn't been shredded.

"You lit up like a damn Christmas tree, thought I was gonna have my own attack with the panic you shot my way," He draws his hand away from your stomach, apparently finished with his fussing, "wards were too busy to notice me slip in."

Makes sense, even now they're too busy with repairs to pay attention to your regular.

"It broke my door," It's funny what you latch onto once shock starts to set in. "What did it want?"

"Same thing we all want," Price tells you, and you hate hearing him say it(we), because he doesn't mean it kindly, "you."

[concoctionboy]

So, that parasitic fungal hivemind that infested me and ended up running off with all the nearby copies of me except this one little tiny one has been going on and on to everyone about what an ideal host I am and how perfectly suited I am to be possessed by a fungal hivemind. And apparently the word's been getting around, because the last couple days all these other fungal hiveminds have been coming out of the woodwork (figuratively and sometimes literally) to ask me if I had any spare bodies they could possess. I didn't know there were so many sentient fungal hiveminds. Until a few weeks ago, I didn't actually know there were any sentient fungal hiveminds. But apparently there are a significant population of sentient fungal hiveminds around, and a significant number of them want to possess me, or a copy of me.

(Actually, I think some of them are slime molds, which I think aren't actually fungi? But I kind of think of them as fungus-adjacent.)

It's nice that they're asking instead of just taking me over, I guess, and honestly I'm not really opposed in principle to giving up a copy of me as a host. I can always split off more copies. The thing is, right now I haven't fully replenished since the original mold colony took all my other nearby bodies, and I don't have enough of me to go around. So I told all the fungal hiveminds that I'd think about it, and asked them to come back in a few weeks. Once I have enough of me to spare, I'm probably going to go ahead and give them each a small copy of me; I mean, why not? But I'm thinking if they want it so badly, maybe I should charge them something for it? Maybe this could be a money-making opportunity. Not that I really need money, but I mean, it might be nice to have some just in case. Although I'm not sure how much money fungal hiveminds have… but they've got to have something they can trade, right?

Actually, hearing that I'm so perfectly suited to serve as a host for a fungal hivemind is… kind of flattering? It's nice to know there's something I'm good at.

[gay-artificer]

Sorry if this is too out of nowhere but ive been thinking about how most of the normal slugcats arent really carnivorous outside of eating eggs and certain insects, exept for like gourmand (minimally) or saint (cannot digest any meat wether by design or evolution) and of course artificer and hunter. This makes me kinda theorize that yknow, slugcats arent normally carnivorous, and only gain the ability to eat meat through artificial means (exept for gourman they just do that i guess).

It also makes me theorize that maybe the reason why the two are able to do that is that they have some really corrosive acids/substances in their stomachs, for Arti those being in the form of garbage wastes microorganisms that make them explosive in general.

As for Hunter, well, maybe the reason they turn into the rot is because of the fact that they have the rot in their stomach if that makes sence? Like maybe they were made to have/grow some early stage rot growths in their intestines to be able to digest things they normally couldn't, or parts of their insides were given some rot genome, but wether intentionally or not, that system becomes unstable fast since it can become cancerous with the rot overtaking the body after some time.

My guess is that they're highly adaptable omnivores and lean towards various levels of severity based on environmental factors- It should be noted that insects and eggs are carnivorous food sources as much as meat is, its just a more accessible source. (And if you've ever seen the teeth on insectivores you would not doubt them. Look at the chompers on a shrew. A crickets worse nightmare) In fact if you look at the bulk of the basic slugcats diet pre-downpour its actually mostly small invertebrates- blue fruit is actually insect pupae, making the only vegetative parts of their diet bubble fruit, popcorn plants, slime molds. (Downpour added dandelion peaches, lilypucks, gooieduck (another mold), and glow weed. Its worth noting that many of these are added not just for world variety but to add items into the environment as tools- such as gooieducks not just being a substantial food source but providing a counter to wormgrass) (In this sense even saint can stomach some meat, as they can eat the blue fruit pupae and bug eggs) So thus the question is why pushes a slugcat to seek meat. It could be simply that its high energy payoff- most of the meat-eating slugcats get less energy (food pips) from eating small prey sources like batflies or blue fruit, so they turn to hunting larger prey. You have the higher energy cost of being an active hunter offset by payoff of actually being successful. It could also be that some slugcats simply lack the physiology (strong enough teeth, jaw strength) to tear into corpses and can only effective use small prey, even if they could eat meat successfully as scavengers. Tough hides can actually be a huge problem for scavenging animals if something else hasn't exposed the softer parts of the body, and this is why the first things lost on a corpse tends to be accessible and easy to take things like eyes, things like ravens need something with actual teeth to break the skin.

Buuuuut personally I think its a developmental shift- We see something like it in amphibian species. Its actually really neat stuff- basically, for a lot larval amphibians like tadpoles or salamanders they're naturally herbivorous and feed mostly on algae. However these young are generally limited in how much they can disperse until adults, which means competition for food can be very intense. As a result, in this developmental stage some will turn to predation- or to cannibalism. They grow larger then their vegetarian siblings, and in some species will grow larger jaws or new sets of teeth. They actually see this even behavior in species that are strict carnivores- some of the young are carnivorous but hunt unrelated prey, others specifically engage in cannibalism. Depending on what type of prey they target, the actually animal develops differently. Since we have the slugpups as a basis- who follow a diet pattern in line with Survivor and Monk, that can be assumed to be the 'basic' diet. But some individuals (likely ones in high stress, or low food environments) develop more intense predatory behaviors and physiology in adolescence. Genes can be environmentally flexible (polyphenism and epigenetics) and 'turn on and off' under certain cues, so for iterators it would probably be fairly easy to 'force' a specific type of slugcat.

[justafrogandherumbrella]

Welcome to Nowhere: Disrespect the Dead

The sky is clear of any clouds, yet it is gloomy and gray. As far as you can tell, the sun remains hidden. Ash drifts down from the sky, littering the black soil on which you stand. The landscape on which hundreds upon hundreds of graves sit is completely flat and seemingly infinite. 

“Whoah,” Emerson says behind you. 

“Creepy looking, huh?” Gaia asks, clapping him on the shoulder. 

Creepy looking indeed. Not only has the landscape been seemingly scorched, but there isn’t a single sign of life here. There are no trees, bushes, or plants of any kind. Not even grass. There are no insects or birds, and it is far too silent for your liking. Even if this is a resting place for the dead, there should still be some kind of life. Furthermore…

“Where’s the monster?” you ask, turning to look at Gaia.

Gaia only shrugs in response, looking to Bea instead. 

Bea, who is panting now, stubbornly sits down. 

Gaia groans. “Really?” they say, throwing their hands in the air. “Now? Couldn’t you have done this after finding the monster?”

Bea, of course, does not respond. She tilts her head at Gaia quizzically, continuing to pant. She lays down, resting her head on her front two paws. Her body is long enough to curl around multiple gravestones, and you find yourself slightly disturbed. You’re not sure why. 

“What?” Emerson asks. “What is it?”

“She’s tired,” Gaia explains, pinching something on the surface of their planet. “She does this occasionally when she wants to lay around for a while. Can’t blame her… we’ve been in those tunnels for a long while without any rest. She’s very stubborn—heh, just like me—so we’re not likely to get her to resume her tracking.”

She is panting a lot… maybe she’s thirsty. It’s been a while since she drank anything. Wait… it has, hasn’t it? Have you ever seen her drink? You know she must have drank something somewhat recently. Maybe you should give her some water. Do you have any water? When was the last time you—

“Well, the monster’s around here somewhere,” Gaia says. “It must be hiding somewhere, but we can find it easily enough. It doesn’t look like there’s too many places to hide around here.” They lift their hand up to their head and survey the flat landscape that seems to stretch on for eternity. “Let’s try searching the graves first.”

“Uhm—when you say ‘searching the graves,’ you don’t mean… digging them up, do you?” Emerson asks, a slight tremor to his voice. You don’t think he likes being here. “I don’t really want to disrespect the dead.”

Dead. Something about that word seems wrong to you. Incorrect. But how could it be? You are standing in a graveyard, after all. Who else would be here except for the dead?

Gaia shrugs. “Not yet. For now let’s just have a look around.”

“Not… yet?” Emerson echoes as Gaia marches forward toward the nearest grave.

Sensing their discomfort, you take their slime-coated hand and give it a comforting squeeze.

He shakes his head, causing his antennae to wobble slightly. “We shouldn’t be here. This place isn't for us…” They stop trying to find a way to articulate their thoughts. “It’s… never mind.”

Gaia wanders off on their own, and Emerson stays relatively close to you as you walk past the rows of graves. Given how flat the landscape is, you would think the monster would be found easily. There’s nowhere to hide. You can’t see the horizon, so it could be too far off in the distance for you to see. That, or the monster is small and able to hide behind the graves. Or maybe it’s disguised?

As you walk, you feel your gaze being pulled toward not just the headstones, but what’s written on them. Most are illegible, covered in black mold and ooze. However, there’s something about the ones you can read that intrigue you. 

“Rosalind Alberry,” “João Borges,” “Piper Moore.”

As you read the names on each headstone, you can’t help but feel a looming sense of dread. You’re looking for a specific name, aren’t you? You’re worried you might find someone familiar. You can feel their name, their face, and their voice somewhere behind the wall in your mind, trying to get through. 

There’s something else about the graves too. Something is missing, you think. You pause, looking at the grave of someone named “Clara Lunn.” You strain your mind, trying to think of what it might be. Your only response is silence. Nothing. Are you imagining it? No, there’s something, you’re sure of it. There’s too much space left empty on the gravestones. There should be more than just names.

Dates. 

They’re missing dates. The year they were born and the year that they died should be there. 

“Emerson!” you shout, feeling excited by your realization. “Look! Did you notice it?”

They turn to look at you, confused. “Notice what?”

“The graves are missing dates! See?” You point to Clara’s headstone. “It only has her name engraved here. Not when she was born or when she died.”

A few wrinkles form on his face. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Before you can explain further, you hear Gaia’s voice calls from the distance. “Hey guys! You might wanna come take a look at this!”

You run toward the sound of Gaia’s voice, stomping over the graves.  Did they find the monster? No, if they did, they would want you to stay back. Did they find a clue to where the monster had gone? Did they notice the missing dates too?

You come to a stop when you find yourself standing at the edge of a large pit carved from the dirt—an open grave. Gaia stands still, peering down below. 

“What is it?” Emerson walks up slowly behind you, taking extra care to step around the graves. 

In response, Gaia points into the grave below. Inside is a coffin with its lid ajar. Bea, who must have finally chosen to resume the search, is eagerly sniffing at its sides. 

“Should we look inside?” you ask quietly. 

Gaia nods solemnly, but Emerson squirms at the suggestion. “I don’t think we should,” he says. “There could be someone inside. We don’t want to disturb their rest.”

“Yes, but there could also be a monster.” Gaia’s voice sounds almost hungry. “Let’s just have a look.”

You and Gaia climb down into the open grave while Emerson stays above, refusing to go any further. 

You look to Gaia, then back up to Emerson who slowly shakes their head at you. 

Sorry, you think before slowly lifting the lid of the coffin and placing it on the ground. Strange. You could have sworn it would have been heavier. 

Inside the coffin lies a corpse. She clutches a bouquet of dead flowers between her two hands. She’s dressed in a long, lacy, yellow sundress with sandals to match. Red dreadlocks have been twisted into two buns, one on each side of her head. Her most peculiar feature—or peculiar  to you, anyway—is her face. While her right side seems human, the left side of her face is entirely coated in wilted succulents, the largest of which takes the place of an eye. They spiral down from her face and continue down her neck and her left shoulder, growing against her dark skin. They twist down her arm and to her hand, curling around, ending with one final succulent on her palm. 

Gaia sighs in disappointment. “Not a monster then.”

“So… now what?” you ask. 

“I think we should bury her,” Emerson says from above. “That way she can properly rest.”

Gaia nods in silent agreement. “There’s a shovel just over there,” they say, nodding to the space behind the coffin. “There’s just one, but we can make it work.” They sigh, reaching for the shovel. “Well, let’s go. We can’t exactly fill the grave while we’re still inside it.”

“Just a second. We have to put the lid back on,” you say, lifting the lid back off of the ground. Just as you’re about to place it back over the coffin, a voice cries out:

“Wait! Wait!”

You pause. You don’t recognize that voice.

“I’m not dead!”

The corpse springs up from her coffin.

[shadowmaat]

Cmdr. Fox Week Day 3: Time Travel

For day 3 I decided to go with Time Travel. Give Fox a little payback. (Warnings for temp character death (Fox) and permadeath (Palps and his Apprentice)) @loving-fox-hours

The Hands of Time

Terror flooded his system as Lord Vader bore down on him. It had been such a stupid mistake. CC-1010 was a Commander, he should have been better than this!

"I... I didn't expect anything like this to happen, sir."

The wash of cold bit through his armor. Something told him this mistake would be his last.

"I just didn't think-"

SNAP

Fox jolted in place, his heart stuttering in his chest. He was still alive! And... at his desk. Horror and rage coursed through him as he realized what he'd done; what all his vode had done. Had it just been a nightmare? He'd like to believe that, but it had been far too detailed, too nuanced, and too real to be a product of his imagination. Though if it was real then he should be dead, not sitting at his desk with a cup of cooling caf.

He checked the chrono on his HUD and had to stifle an hysterical giggle. He was used to losing time, but now apparently he'd gained it. What was it Cody was always bitching about? Force osik. Though why the hells the Force would start screwing with him now...

Wait. Taungsday. It was Taungsday. The day everything went to hell. He lurched out of his chair, pulling off his helmet and vambraces as he slammed through his door into the squadroom, startling everyone.

"Lockdown starts now!" He said, stalking across the room. "Code Crimson-Crimson. Helmets off, comms off, anything that can transmit a signal goes off now!"

"Sir, but we just got notified that the High Generals are on their way to Pally's office. " Sergeant Hound was trying to mop caf off his armor.

"I issued an order, Sergent," Fox said. "Are you going to obey?"

Hound looked up, startled. "Yessir, but don't you think we should send someone-"

Fox locked eyes with him. "Unless you want to wind up shooting a Jedi cadet in the face, you'll do as I say. Now!"

Hound blanched. The room went deathly silent, followed by a chorus of clicks as those wearing helmets unsealed them and put them aside.

"I'd never..." Hound whimpered, but Fox could still see the image clearly. Swallowing bile, he continued on his way.

"We've been compromised. I want a total communications blackout. I don't care who the signal is from, don't acknowledge it, don't listen to it. Even if it's from me," he added, feeling queasy. "I'll handle the Jedi. When the threat's over I'll- I'll send one of them down to let you know."

Send one of them because whatever happened, he doubted he'd survive. Either the Jedi would live and check on the Guard, or they'd die and... Well, maybe he could delay things just a little bit. Just long enough to spare his troops from joining the march on the Temple.

He could feel a body-wide tremble threatening to start and stiffened himself. Not now. He couldn't afford to fall apart now. There was too much left to do.

Swerving to swipe a pair of earpops off a desk he continued out the door and into the hall, silence following in his wake. He jammed the earpops in his ears, activated them, and maxed the volume before taking off for the lifts at a dead run.

The screeching thumping beats of some Storms-cursed glimmik threatened to rupture his eardrums, but at least he couldn't hear anything; wouldn't be able to hear anything if that venomous slime-mold of a Sith Lord tried to order him to do something.

Fox punched in the priority override code to the lift and braced himself as it rocketed up to the Chancellor's Suite. His blasters were primed and ready and as the doors finally slid open he bolted through them, shoulder clipping the edge of one door.

He could feel a warm breeze on his face, which was wrong wrong wrong. The windows in the Senate couldn't open, not without compromising security. The draft smelled of aircar exhaust, but cutting through it were the sharper scents of ozone and charred flesh.

Finding an extra reserve of speed, Fox ran faster, and the scene before him coalesced. Palpatine on his back in the crook of the window- the missing window- as Windu held him at saber-point. And facing them, his back to Fox, was- was-

The frigid cold. The snap of his own neck. He fired both blasters at the dark figure, sure he could hear the rasp of Lord Vader's mechanized breath.

The figure dropped. Windu and Palpatine were staring at him. He could see they were both shouting at him, but the sound of tortured instruments and a thumping bass were all he could hear.

He didn't pause. His next shots were aimed at Palpatine, but they went wide and then suddenly he was struck by lightning. The earpops died with a burning screech and all his limbs locked. In the eternity of the moment, as the world flashed white, he knew he'd failed. The Force had chosen the wrong person. At least he wouldn't have to live through it again. And maybe the Guard could be spared...

As suddenly as it had begun, the electricity coursing through his body stopped, and he was able to see Windu complete his move as Palpatine's head went flying out into the sunset.

He dropped to his knees, whole body shaking uncontrollably. Windu was coming toward him and he tried to drop his blasters, tried to show he wasn't a threat, but his hands wouldn't obey. He kept them lowered, at least, and could feel something wet on his face.

"Commander, are you alright?"

The voice sounded tinny; distant.

"I'm n-not a g-good s-s-soldier," he said, and everything went black.

(Continued here)

[appleflavoredkitkats]

So you wanna rant about Fundy?

hello dot thank u for making me able to rely on you for always giving me the floor for fundy brainrot

tw: suicide, self-deprecation, death, nightmares

this is gonna be incoherent bc im about to sleep but here's a bulleted list of shit that's been running rampant in my head:

something about fundy being the only one to sign the las nevadas contract will always make me suspicious of how quackity views fundy. because if fundy's main asset is loyalty, he wouldn't have to worry about fundy being bound by las nevadas rules… unless he suspects that there's a risk of fundy betraying las nevadas which is honestly?? a good possibility

as much as we know wilbur and fundy, there's also like… so much we don't know. we've seen the negatives of their relationship a lot, but i feel like there's a bigger picture we're missing here. more backstory, more pre-l'manbergian revolutionary war stuff that can give more depth to their relationship, you know?

not fundy-centric but fundy-adjacent: GURL WHAT THE FUCK IS THE LAS NEVADAS TIMELINE? like, tommy dies, sam feels guilty, but when do the las nevadas members join? when are all the slime-related lore scenes set? when do the horsemen appear in this timeline? if the horsemen existed pre-las nevadas episode 3, THEN WHO ARE THESE ALLIES OF QUACKITY? *shakes quackity* GIVE ME ANSWERS DUCK MAN

(or maybe i'll rewatch the episodes and try piecing this together myself)

thinking about the “fundy lost a second canon life during doomsday preparations” theory because it makes SENSE. fundy's breakdown felt little sudden, right? well, if he went to the guardian farm and supposedly commit suicide, maybe he did it in a way to test how many people actually would search for him. and when there was none… that's when he gets mad. IT JUST MAKES SENSE AND GIVES MORE DEPTH TO FUNDY'S MOTIVATION OF “doing everything because he has nothing left to lose” YOU KNOW

fundy depends his self-worth on how much he doesn't fuck up a country (he's mentioned how he feels like l'manberg's downfall was his fault), so if… if las nevadas was potentially blown up by wilbur and ranboo, fundy could just. possibly end up worse because he would blame himself

if fundy's memory is genuinely bad, quackity invoking what memories fundy should remember might like. you know, be kind of dangerous because fundy could possibly be a blank slate rn, and all quackity is doing is molding fundy into the guy he wants him to be

BUT ALSO— quackity giving fundy all the time he needs to “find himself” will always be so interesting to me! balances out quackity prioritizing his personal goals AND his genuine care for others. like yes, quackity will take any opportunity he can with fundy—which is why he pushes—but there's something about how quackity still gives him so, so much time to decide on his decision that makes me just. be intrigued by quackity. and las nevadas in general!

haha anyway are we gonna talk about the endstone in fundy's first dream or what

i've also been thinking about schlatt? and the possibility that quackity is making deals with schlatt to do more supernatural deeds? like i feel like fundy's dreams HAVE to be caused by something. somewhat lowkey considering that quackity himself made it into fundy's dreams via schlatt's help, who knows! it'd make sense because if a future fundy was able to contact past fundy, he'd need the ability to, and it feels like this ability is moreso granted to people than just… spontaneous

when fundy and wilbur meet up, i expect it to go like this: wilbur will be genuinely proud of fundy achievement-wise. fundy joined las nevadas, a place that wilbur admires for its competitiveness and how its founded on philosophies he can relate to. fundy, on the other hand, will accept the compliments at first before realizing that wilbur is only appreciating him for what he's done, rather than appreciate him in general. i do think fundy would act more impulsively on this and lash out rather than communicate his actual needs, so then wilbur would part ways with him. i feel like this scenario wouldn't paint a clear victor which would then make both wilbur and fundy fans equally satisfied with it.

fundy deserves more streams paralleling the ocean, ocean wildlife, or any of the like. ik cc!fundy is afraid of the ocean but fundy's character feels so integated with fish symbolisms that i just. need it

so haha tubbo and fundy are both las nevadas workers, and they're both dreamon hunters. not saying dreamon hunters are gonna return, but it adds on to the idea that las nevadas is connected to the supernatural

if fundy died in the guardian farm during doomsday preparations, there's… a small chance that he got killed by slime/surrounded by slime, so do you think… charlie knows what actually happened that day?

speaking of charlie knowing, i do think charlie has the ability to spy on fundy now, which is a juicy bit of lore because it implies that there is a *need* for them to spy on fundy. for there to be a need to spy on fundy, fundy might have to either betray las nevadas, or maybe have a moment where he opens up about his dreams to someone. charlie would then relay this info to quackity

fundy's relationship with schlatt on the wiki is labelled “negative” when i wholeheartedly disagree and think that fundy still genuinely admires schlatt and views him more positively than he does with wilbur sooo

[the-sympathetic-villain]

U!patton and Remus for the Remus prompt. my friend and I had an idea where Patton forces Remus to wear a muzzle so he can’t talk

Okay, I don't know how to write short prompts so I went a little overboard on this. I also threw in some protective Janus just for fun. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it! <3

Pure Thoughts

Description: Remus makes his way over to the light side of the Mindscape to patch up his relationship with Virgil, but he doesn't quite make it to his friend.

Characters: Remus, Patton, Janus, Virgil and Logan Mentioned Pairings: Platonic Dukeciet Word Count: 3256 Warnings: Remus-Type Content (Sexual Innuendo, Somewhat Graphic Descriptions, Etc), Threats, Attempted Erasing of a Side, Swearing, Death mention, Angst with a happy ending, Hurt/Comfort, Unsympathetic Patton (Let me know if I missed anything!)

---

Remus poked his head into the dim, empty corridor of the mindscape, pausing to check for the other sides before tiptoeing around the corner. Any other night, he'd be making his way down the hall with cymbals on the feet and a kazoo in his mouth, but tonight was the night to be covert. For once, he was actually trying not to be noticed, and notably, he was succeeding. Which was as perfectly satisfying as his pet eldritch demon's tentacle slime, because the last time he'd made one of his more spectacular entrances in their shared spaces, the Microsoft Nerd™ had nearly blown a gasket.

He'd lectured Remus for nearly forty-five minutes about ‘optimal sleep schedules’ and ‘the importance of brushing your teeth’ or whatever the dork had been saying. Quite frankly, Remus hadn't been listening. Learning from his mistakes wasn't exactly his jam, and if nerdy Wolverine’s brain was too full of Crofter’s to have realized that, that seemed like a him problem.

Besides, that was the past. Right now, the future seemed so much juicer. His fabulously favorite emo had eased up on his prickly sarcasm enough to give him a chance to talk things out, and as ambivalent as he may pretend to be, he wasn’t going to pass on the opportunity to make amends with his old friend. He wanted to salvage any small piece of their damaged relationship, so here he was, sneaking into the light sides' half of the mindscape to duke it out with his anxious nightmare.

The only challenge left was passing the other light sides’ rooms. Virgil's room of course had of course moved to the farthest corner of their space, making it the most difficult to reach without being noticed. Of course, he could make it easy if he cut across the common room. That way,  he'd miss Roman’s room entirely and the only one he'd have to worry about was—

“Hey, kiddo.”

Remus head spun on his shoulder to the sound of Patton’s voice. The usually friendly father figure's familiar voice filled the room with a soft kind of seriousness that sent shivers down Remus' spine. The chill in Patton's voice was new and unsettling, but still, Remus cracked a cocky grin as he stared into the shadows and waited for Patton's lecture. After a moment, the lamp on the far side of the room clicked on to reveal a seriously scary looking frown on Patton’s face. Remus straightened upright as a tingling of fear crept up his arms. The creep factor of the amber lighting alone would have put Remus' own efforts to shame, but this was Patton.

Pun-loving, puppy cuddling Patton.

Patty boy’s harmless.

Right?

Remus swallowed nervously before summoning up his usual carefree front and staggering across the soft carpet. “Hey, Padre. Sorry, if you were looking for a late night suck, but I'm actually in a bit of a hurry. Maybe later—”

“Language, Remus.”

Remus stalled at the coldness in Patton’s tone. He licked his lips. The hostility in the air was nearly palpable as Remus stared across the room, trying to get a gauge on this new side Patton. It wasn't often one of the other sides left Remus speechless, but he was unsure of how to react to such an open display of hostility, especially from the side whose entire being was rigged toward being nurturing. Oh, well. There wasn't much else for him to do and he was on a schedule tonight. Remus let out a breath, falling back on familiar habits as an attempt to cover his exit. “Don't get your panties in a bunch, Patty daddy. I know you’re not the type blow and go without a sticky emotional mess, but you don’t have to worry—”

“You’re not going, Remus.”

Remus’ grin faltered at the finality in Patton’s voice, biting his lip as he eyed the direction of Virgil's room. “Um, what?”

“Virgil’s been doing so good.” Patton growled as he rose to his feet. Remus' feet felt like lead holding him in place while Patton moved to block his way. “I finally got my kiddo realizing how toxic you are to him and I’m not going to let you play with him anymore.”

Remus' mustache twitched with displeasure at the insinuation, though a part of him wasn't denying Patton's brusque statement. “Listen, Pattycake. As well as you play the daddy dom role, Virgil asked for me to come and I don’t see where this is your business, so I'll just be—"

“Virgil needs help knowing what's good for him.” Patton continued as a deep hatred started to burn in his eyes. “and that isn't you, Remus.”

Remus brushed him off, starting towards the door. He'd only made it a few steps before Patton waved his hand the door disappeared. Defensiveness turned to frustration as he reeled on Patton. “You can't just—”

“Go back to the whole where you belong before force you into your place.”

Remus froze as Patton's stomp connected with the ground, sending a shiver across his skin as the particles of his body destabilized. A choking breath caught in his throat and his hands shot to his chest in a manic frenzy as his body solidified again. He glanced up at the dangerous sparkle in Patton's eye. Remus was alive for now, but he got the feeling Patton wasn’t done with him yet.

“Hold on, Pat. Let's talk about this—” A bead of sweat dripped down Remus temple as he began stepping away from the door. His hands lingered in the air as he tried to reason with Patton. “—I thought we were good. The human pocket protector told you it was best to play nice with me. I get you don't like me, and it don’t have to be an orgy or nothing, but you can't just piss all over the nerd's hypoth—”

“Shut up.”

Remus sucked in a sharp breath as a black, leather muzzle appeared over his face. The leather molded to his skin as his hands shot to his face in a sudden manic moment of fear. Desperately, he pulled at the leather with all the force he could muster as the glowing rage in Patton’s eyes slowly backed him into a corner.

“I'm sick of you bullying Logan and dragging Virgil down.” The lights in the room flickered as Patton cried out and shoved Remus to the ground. “I don't care what Thomas says or Logan thinks. You don’t deserve to stay. Thomas is better off without you."

Remus hesitated. His hands lingered on the muzzle as his eyes flitted the door back to his own room. He knew he could retreat to his own room, but the idea of letting Virgil think he’d stood him up gave him pause. The choice was made for him a moment later when  Patton’s power vibrated in the air and Remus let out a muffled cry as he felt his being wavering. The particles of his body began to weaken and fade as his resistance crumbled. He was unable to push back or even speak as Patton started to force him into the subconscious.

“Virgil will be disappointed when he realizes you forgot about him,” Patton whispered as Remus tipped his head up to meet the horrifying smile spread across Patton's face. “but he'll understand once you’re gone. I'll make sure he knows how bad you really are.”

Panic shot to Remus’ heart as he clutched at his fading body, choking as the muzzle as it grew tighter on his lips.

“I should have put that muzzle on you years ago." Patton’s laugh cracked in his ear. “Your silence is music to my ears. Finally, we can be good. Thomas can be good without you hear to ruin—"

“Is everything okay in here?”

Remus let out a heaving breath as his body hit the ground. He clutched his hands to his body, feeling around to make sure he was still fully there as Patton's grip loosened on him.

“Mind your own business, Janus.”

“Remus is my business. You made it clear years ago that he is my responsibility.” A flicker of worry flashed over Janus' eyes as Remus glanced up to him, but his gaze remained cold and distant as he maintained eye contact with Patton. “In fact, I think I'll be taking him now.”

Remus fingers raised to his lips as Patton’s muzzle fell away at Janus’ snap. His body was numb as Janus moved between him and Patton, extending a hand down to him. Remus swayed, staring at the fury in Patton's eyes as Janus pulled him to his feet.

“You have no right—”

“I think you'll find that I'm quite within my rights to do as I please.” Janus muttered as he absently brushed the dust from Remus’ shirt and shot a deathly glare at Patton. "but if you want to test that theory, I have no problem getting Thomas involved.”

Patton growled his discontent as Janus stepped forward to shield Remus from Patton's gaze. The silence hung over them, weighing heavy on Remus' shaking body, until the air shifted and Patton took a step back. “Keep him away from Virgil or I may not be so forgiving next time.”

“Don’t worry. You've won this battle, Morality, but I hope you know that Virgil will start to question your iron grip on him eventually. I taught him better than to simply follow others.” Janus muttered bitterly. His head bowed in reluctant acceptance of Patton's good grace, though his voice remained rebellious as their eyes remained locked together. “ He will not accept your word on blind faith.”

“Virgil will learn not to question me when he realizes how toxic you are to him. He can be molded into something better, unlike the cretin you're using so much of your dwindling energy to protect.” Patton spat as he turned to the door. “Now, go back to your hole before I change my mind."

“Remus, go.” Janus shoved him to the door.

“But—”

“For once in your life, don’t argue with me.” Janus muttered as he guided the shell-shocked Remus back to the dark sides' hallway. His voice dropped after a few steps and he glanced down at Remus. “Not a single word until he can't hear us. Got it?”

Remus nodded, still numb as Janus dragged him toward his own room. He could hear Janus’ breathing become heavy as he guided Remus through the narrowing hallways with an unnatural speed, not stopping until they reached Remus' black door at the end of the hallway.

“Jan—”

“Not yet, Re.” Janus whispered as he cast one last suspicious glance down the empty hallway before shoving Remus inside the narrow door frame.

“Janus, what the h—”

Remus' diatribe was knocked out of him as Janus' body slammed into his chest. He froze as Janus' arms curled around him, unsure of how to process the man's tight grip. He tensed, ready to struggle when he realized Janus was actually hugging him.

“Are you hurt?”

“What? No—” Remus whispered. His body went limp as released him enough to look him up and down. “I'm—I'm fine, Jan.”

“I'm going kill that self-righteous bastard.” Janus seethed. His grip on Remus' shoulders tightened as he stared past Remus to the closed door. “How dare he threaten you—”

“Janus—”

“—and especially when you were actually working to make things right with Virgil—"

“I don’t—” Remus blinked as Janus' words registered in his mind. "Wait, how did you know that's what I was—"

“I mean, where does he even get off thinking he can control Virgil's life without his input anyway?" Janus growled, gesturing abruptly to the door. "Virgil isn’t some helpless child. He’s able to make his own decisions—"

“Am I on fucking mute or something?”

“—and you!” Janus spat, gesturing towards the Remus. Remus immediately flinched at Janus' anger, though he wasn’t sure what he'd done to deserve the lying side's ire. “He could have killed you—”

"What?" Remus flailed as Janus grabbed the collar of his shirt like a disobedient child. “Hey, that's not fair! I didn’t know that Pattoncake was secretly a sadist—”

“You should have been more careful—"

Remus' head reeled as Janus spun him around, but he managed to stifle his nausea long enough to shout at Janus. “Jan—For fuck's sake, either fuck me or take my head off your fucking chopping block—”

Janus blinked, finally taking in Remus' red face as he swayed uneasily in Janus' grip. “What?”

"Listen, I like it rough and all but if I knew that you could manhandle me like that—" Remus blinked blearily as Janus loosened his grip. "Fuck the possibilities are endless, but—"

"Remus, I'm really not in the mood for your games tonight—"

“I'm not playing—Just ignore all of that. I needed to get your attention because you wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise. ” Remus muttered, waving his hands as he found his bearings. “Jan, you—you frickin' saved me.”

"Now is the time you decide to censor yourself?"

"I'm trying to give you a compliment, Janus." Remus cut him off with a wave of his arms. "Hello, I wasn't expecting to become a damsel in distress but you make a hell of a knight in shining armor to have actually stepped in to save me.

“Of course, I saved you." Janus muttered after a moment, dipping his head in embarrassment. "I felt Patton’s emotions start to well up. I knew he was going to cause trouble and I wasn't about to leave you to his mercy.”

“What so you mean you felt him?” Remus mouth dropped in confusion.

Janus shrugged as his gaze dropped to the ground, still agitated. “I feel a lot of things Patton does.”

“But why?” Remus growled angrily as Janus clammed up. "Just spit it out already, Jan—"

“Because he's Thomas’ biggest lie.” Janus blurted out without thinking, gesturing to the door.

“What?” Remus whispered as he watched Janus begin to pace the room.

“The source of Thomas’ morality is corrupt.” Janus yelled, though he was quickly losing steam. “Not Thomas himself. God, not Thomas. But his insistence on clinging to his purity complex and thinking he can please everyone if he just tries hard enough—It's the most insidious evil that's ever taken root in him.

Remus went quiet as Janus explained and everything suddenly began to click into place.

“Thomas can't just turn his attention away from every reality he doesn't like.” Janus shrugged as he looked up at Remus. “Trying to eliminate anything uncomfortable or unpleasant in his life is a slippery slope to much more dangerous ideas.”

“Okay,sure, but this is still happy pappy, sunshine-coming-out-of-his-ass Patton. You sure you don't got a screw loose in that big brain of yours?” Remus managed to blurt out in exasperation. The scene had just played out before his own eyes,  but he couldn't help that his brain turned to fuzz every time he attempted to process it. “Ya know? Maybe, we’re in a some sort of shared delusion.  I mean, I know he's cute and all but now's not the time to think with your other head—”

"Remus," Janus let out an exasperated sigh as he glared at Remus. “I know you can’t help it but I would strongly prefer you think before you speak, like a normal person—”

“But, Jan. Come on—"

“His perceived innocence is part of the ruse, Remus. Why do you think Thomas' Logic is blind to his actions?” Janus muttered as his voice became nearly manic. "Why do you think his Creativity fawns over him and his Anxiety is soothed by him?"

Remus giggled as the human side of Janus' face became a brilliant shade of red. "Couldn't just be that he's just more personable than you, Janus?"

"Remus, I swear I'll strangle you myself—"

“Ya know, it's not often I'm the one fighting to talk over you.” Remus interrupted as he giggled and leaned into Janus' fury with a crooked grin. “If I knew you'd get all hot and bothered by Patty getting rough with me, I would’ve shoved my—"

“If you value your life, you will not finish that thought.” Janus muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “This is serious, Remus. You—You could have died.”

“Everything’s always serious, Jan-Jan. You should give yourself a break.” Remus grinned, gesturing up and down at himself. "Do I look dead to you?"

“I know, but—”

Remus' grin widened as he rambled. “I mean, I've got a plan for when the heart attack kills you and all, but I'm not like dying to use it.”

“That's not the—Wait, you do?”

“Well, yeah. I wouldn't let you go out without a bang." Remus' grin widened as Janus turned up him curiously. "Figured I'd have some fun with it and put your head under someone’s covers. It’s very Godfather-esque.”

“Huh—" Janus leaned back, suddenly contemplative to Remus' proposal. "To whom would you do this?”

“Well, not Pattycake anymore.” Remus laughed, patting Janus on the back. “Maybe, Roman though. He needs good jolt every once in a while.”

“He certainly could stand to come down a few notches on his ego.” Janus sighed, rolling his eyes. He paused, finally taking a breath as he stared at Remus unfaltering smile. “I have no idea how you're managing to stay calm after what just happened."

“Well, that's easy." Remus purred with cocky smile as he leaned into Janus. “I got my big, bad protector here with me.”

"I got lucky, Remus." Janus huffed. “If I hadn't have been paying attention to Patton's power flaring up,  you would've—”

“Whatever, you felt that Patty boy was about to turn me to dust and you showed up.” Remus brushed off Janus' excuses. “That means something, Jan—Means a lot to me actually.”

Janus blinked as he looked up to the suddenly serious expression on Remus' face.

“The deadly dad freaked me out and I have to admit he had me kinda buying the story that I'm not that great of an influence on Virgil—” Remus sighed as he let his grin dropped away. “— or Thomas even, but I figure if you saved me, I can’t actually be all bad.”

“You’re not bad, Remus.”

“Yeah, well, even I need a reminder of that every once in a while.” Remus smiled. He shifted on his feet as he looked up at Janus. “So, thanks.”

“Anytime, Re.” Janus smirked at Remus' sincere smile. "I've always got your back."

“I know you do.” Remus breathed with a worried glance back at his door. “Saving me might have been the easy part though, Jan. Patton didn't seem like he was gonna let our Stormy Nightmare go.”

“Virgil will see through his lies,” Janus breathed as tasted the air. “The power's shifting and he can't hold me back forever. We aren't going down without a fight, and once Thomas sees his true nature, the game's over for Morality.”

“Well, better get cracking then,” Remus grinned. “before Patton finishes brainwashing 'em all.”

Janus nodded with a glance at the wall as a sudden chill ran up his spine. He could feel someone watching, but he supposed it didn’t matter. There was no turning back now. “Yes, Remus. I think it’s time to start pushing back.”

---

@justanotherhumanstuff @im-an-anxious-wreck @shadowyplaidpurseegg

[sammysdewysensitiveeyes]

"Ten out of ten for originality. Zero for any chance of success."

“There’s no reason for it not to work, Father!” Shinobi protested. “It makes a perfect loop, see?” He gestured at the two TVs, duct-taped together with the screens facing each other in a bizarre kind of electronic kiss.

“She’ll crawl out of one screen and right into the next one. It’s impossible to escape!” Shinobi continued.

“Well, I admit you’re probably the first to try that particular tactic, no one else could possibly be so stupid.”

“Wouldn’t make more sense to avoid any kind of technology?” asked Maddie. “Get them in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, with no phones, no laptops, no TV screens to be found.”

“Fraid not,” Pyro interjected. “Previous victims did try that, but the ghost managed to get them anyway. One was on a motorcycle, a couple of others were parked in a car by the side of the road. Maybe she comes out of any reflective surface? We certainly could have learned more if someonehad been willing to do a little more translating of Japanese newspaper articles.”

“Ugh, you can’t expect me to do research.” Shinobi rolled his eyes. “So boring.”

“Perhaps there’s no escape, then, and you two morons will just drop dead,” Sebastian mused.

“Kindly stop smirking, Father.”

“Am I?”

“I wish you’d let me separate them,” Claudine said, frowning. “We could have Shinobi try his….idea….here-“ The pause was almost diplomatic. “-and I could take Pyro off to that remote cabin and observe the results.”

“No!” Haven insisted. “We’re going to face this together, whatever happens.”

“Even if these two were the only ones dumb enough to knowingly watch a cursed video tape,” Sebastian said. “There’s a very basic lesson here about curiosity and cats that they seem to have forgotten.”

“I’m telling you, we should have gone to Japan,” Pyro cut in. “I’ve been digging into the history of this poor girl…..seems like she had psychic powers or something, and then she disappeared under mysterious circumstances. I’ll bet we could lay her to rest properly if we uncover the whole story. Maybe she’d be willing to talk tonight, even!” He was remarkably chipper for someone under a death curse, and Sebastian could practically see the stars in his overly-excited eyes.

“Yes, Allerdyce, she’s killed everyone else who fell under this curse, but I’m sure she’ll talk to you, and then you’ll get a lucrative book deal.”

“I just want to help her find peace,” Pyro said unconvincingly. The notepad and tape recorder he was clutching to his chest didn’t really help matters.

“Maybe she’s not really a ghost. Maybe she’s a mutant who doesn’t understand her powers,” Haven suggested.

“That possibility does seem more likely than a ghost,” Sebastian said. “Admittedly, I’ve seen many strange things over years, but the very idea of ghosts is so…..juvenile.”

“Well, we know demons exist,” Maddie put in, with a grim smile.

“Whatever she is, she needs our help! I’m sure she doesn’t mean to harm anyone!” Haven said. “If Pyro’s research is correct, she’s probably hurt and traumatized. If we can get through to her, we can break the cycle.”

“It’s starting!” Claudine exclaimed, pointing at the double TVs. One of them was glowing with an eerie light, and as the group watched, dark water began dripping out of the bottom of the screen and pooling on the floor.

“Yeah, just try climbing out of that, you –“ Shinobi began, and was interrupted as the second TV was flung across the room and shattered against the far wall.

As the group watched in horrified amazement, a corpse-white hand, with blackened wounds where fingernails ought to be, reached out of the TV screen. It was followed by another, then a tangled mass of dark hair, and a stained, ragged dress that had once been white. The thing crawled along the floor with jerky, unnatural movements, almost insect-like, leaving a trail of water that smelled like mold and old stone and decay.

“Shinobi, try to talk to her!” Pyro exclaimed eagerly, holding out a tape recorder.

Shinobi was backing away, looking pale. “Uh…you guys can handle this, right? I’ll just stay out of the way. Good luck, Pyro!” And with that, Shinobi fled, intangible, though the wall.

“Come back here, test subject!” Claudine called after him. “At least wear a body cam so I can see how she kills you!”

“Damn, maybe Maddie can translate,” Pyro said, as the creature shambled it’s way to it’s feet. “You can use telepathy to understand Japanese, right? How do you say, ‘Tell me your story, I promise we’ll give you justice and a generous cut of the profits on book sales and any future movie deals.’”

But Maddie was also starring at the creature with horror, her face contorted.

“She’s not…..not a person,” Madelyne whispered. “There’s no mind in there to reach. Just….pure hate.”

“No!” Haven exclaimed. “There must be something in there that we can save. We’re going to save her!” Haven strode forward, her arms spread wide.

“It’s alright, you’re safe now,” she said. “We’ll help you.” The creature reached for Haven, and under the matted, dripping hair, Sebastian could see a mouth twisting open in malicious glee.

Sebastian could see how the next moments would play out very clearly. Haven, in her unbelievable foolishness, would attempt to hug this creature – mutant, demon or “ghost.” The creature would rip out Haven’s very human, non-ressurrectable heart, and then Sebastian would have to explain matters to the Quiet Council, and probably get “punished” with some crap assignment counting inventory or greeting new arrivals on Krakoa.

Sebastian leaped into action. He bodily shoved Haven across the room – a tad hard, perhaps, but away from danger, and towards the safety of Maddie and Claudine. With his other hand, he punched the “ghost” square in the face. There was a nasty squelch, and he found himself shaking slime off his fist. The thing lay in a dazed pile on the floor. It started to move again, and Sebastian simply picked it up, a clammy ball of skeletal limbs and filthy water and hair, and stuffed it back through the TV screen. After a moment’s thought, he grabbed the cursed tape that had started this whole mess, crushed it with one hand, and tossed it in as well. With a flick of his fingers, the screen shattered and went dark, and everything was quiet again.

Off to one side, Maddie and Pyro were helping Haven to her feet. She looked at the shattered TV screen, then looked at Sebastian. It was a familiar expression of wide-eyed, innocent surprise and self-righteous reproach, like an offended kitten.

“It’s okay, Haven,” Maddie was saying. “I’m not sure that….thing was really her anymore. I couldn’t find a sentient mind, just constant anger and hate. Like a curse brought to life. But not really alive.”

“A self-replicating curse,” Claudine mused. “Like a virus!”

Eventually, Haven would come to him with tea, and they would have a long discussion about the nature of life, and humanity, and redemption, and whether it was possible to truly save everyone. But at the moment, Sebastian just wanted a shower and a drink. He calmly wiped his brackish hands on Pyro’s uniform, and headed off to his cabin.

(Once again, I took your idea, namely Sebastian fighting the Ring ghost, in the stupidest direction possible. I guess the Ring movie/books don't exist in AU Marauders. Sadako's story is actually very sympathetic, I think Haven and Maddie would both probably be on her side, but Sebastian doesn't care, he's just gonna punch the ghost in the face.)

[mamabear-elinor]

THE FORGING OF BITTER BONDS

V. Five Times Sorcha Flirted with Elinor...and one time Elinor flirted back. January 1993-June 1993

[cw -- some vomiting (from illness) that’s it for this one tho woo!]

→ → → January → → → “I got you something!” Sorcha’s arm appeared in front of Elinor’s nose, her bangles jangling loudly in the library, as she wiggled the little bag with colorful tissue paper sticking out of it. She moved into Elinor’s line of sight the next moment, plopping into the chair next to her.

“We’re in a library,” Elinor protested, but she took the bag from her. Sorcha just shrugged and lounged in the seat as if she was in her living room. She had a way of looking comfortable wherever she was. Elinor was jealous of it, considering she had spent the last few months of school not wanting to get comfortable anywhere. And, besides that, didn’t know how to be comfortable. Sometimes, she felt as if she was either five years older than her peers or had somehow grown up in a different universe. Their behaviors alien, their laughter loud, their words crass. Of course, Marigold took to it like a fish to water. Elinor had always felt stiff and awkward, like there was a tattoo on her forehead that branded her as a fish out of water. 

“How did you know it was my birthday?” Elinor asked suspiciously, keeping her voice low. It was the middle of the day, so there weren’t many people around. She liked to squirrel away in the darkest parts of the library, where no one could find her. A habit leftover from childhood, she suspected. 

“I asked Marigold, of course. I needed to know that I was right?” Sorcha replied with a smile, her voice the same volume it always was: loud.

“Right about what?”

“Your birth chart. And I was, by the way. You’re such a Capricorn.” She flicked a page of Elinor’s book, which earned her a scowl. 

“I don’t know what that means,” Elinor sniffed primly, pulling her book into her lap where it would be safe from further abuse. 

“I’m a Pisces, so don’t worry. We will get along.” 

Elinor didn’t know what to say to that. She blushed slightly and grabbed the bag, just for something to do. Pulling out the tissue paper, she reached in and grabbed something small, smooth. It was a keychain of a golden sun, its rays stretching outwards. The metal work was lovely and carefully crafted. Elinor knew how delicate such work would be. 

“Thank you,” Elinor told her, realizing that she had not received many gifts for her birthday. A new dress from her father and mother (though, Elinor had a feeling someone else had picked it out. Considering her mother could hardly look at her.) A set of hair pins from her sister. Wool for knitting from a few of the staff at the castle. Marigold had gotten the book for her that Elinor had mentioned she wanted, but that was as personalized as gifts got. “It’s lovely.” 

→ → → February → → → The weather was cold and damp. One of the worst months of the year, in Elinor’s opinion.

Of course, Sorcha did not think so. As they walked back from class, Elinor hurried along, only to notice that Sorcha was no longer next to her on the way back to the dorms. When she looked over her shoulder, she found her standing in the middle of the field, her hat off, snowflakes caught in the tight curls of her dark hair. 

“Sorcha!” Elinor hissed, backtracking and stomping toward her friend through the snow. 

“Let’s make snowmen!” She flopped back into the snow. 

“You’re going to catch your death,” Elinor told her matter-of-factly as she came up to her and peered down at her. 

“And what a glorious way to die!” Her hand, which had been moving back and forth to create her wings, reached out and grabbed Elinor’s ankle and swept it out from under her. 

Elinor yelped and lifted her foot up, trying to shake Sorcha off, but she just gave a tug, knocking Elinor off balance and sending her sprawling to the ground next to Sorcha. “Hey!” Elinor gasped as the cold snow started seeping into her trousers. She shivered but she reached behind her, grabbing a handful of snow and throwing it right into Sorcha’s face. 

“Eghad! She fights back!” Sorcha laughed after her moment of shock wore off. She sat up so that they were facing each other, their hips nearly touching. Perhaps it was just because it was cold, but Elinor could feel the warmth of Sorcha’s body, even through her thick coat.

“Of course I do,” Elinor sniffed and couldn’t help but remember the Winter’s Ball. Of course I did. Something curled in her stomach, a tug that made her look away from Sorcha’s dark eyes, dancing with mirth. She swallowed, then stood up, brushing the snow from her clothes and holding out her gloved hand for Sorcha--whose hands were bare, because she was a bloody idiot. Sorcha let Elinor pull her to her feet, but then stayed, clutching to her hand, even as Elinor began to walk off.

When she stopped again, glancing down at their hands in confusion, Sorcha shrugged in that way she did. As if she wasn’t confined by gravity and barely staying on earth. That simple movement was an acknowledgement of how her body wanted to leave this earth. “My hands are cold.” 

They walked back to the dorm hand in hand, not talking. 

→ → → March → → → It’s Sorcha’s birthday this time.

“I want to spend the day with you,” Sorcha told Elinor as she laid, sprawled on Marigold and Elinor’s couch. She was looking at Elinor in that way that made her feel as if Sorcha could see exactly what Elinor was feeling.

Elinor’s arms crossed over her chest and she bit down on the inside of her cheek. Her heart felt as if it was going to beat out of her chest. The feeling made her even more nervous than Sorcha’s declaration. She wondered if she should, perhaps, stop seeing Sorcha so much. Something about her burned. After all, she was brightness incarnate, if names were to be believed. 

“Aw, I think that’s so cute!” Marigold says from her spot curled up in the arm chair. “I would totally come with you but it’s the women’s rugby match and I can’t let the team down.” 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come?” Elinor asked Marigold, turning desperately to her friend. “I’ve never missed a match.” 

“And we’ve never won one!” Marigold laughed brightly. “Besides, Thomas is coming up from Oxford and we’re going to be spending the weekend together anyway. He will be my new lucky charm, so don’t worry about me.” 

That made the clawing in Elinor’s stomach worse. “Fine. I mean--yes. I’ll go.” 

“Oh, you’re the best, Ells.” 

Elinor wrinkled her nose. “Don’t call me that.”

“Alright, sunshine.” 

Don’t call me that either. Elinor blushed. 

→ → → April → → → “You don’t look so good, sunshine,” Sorcha appeared in the mirror of the bathroom behind Elinor. She hadn’t even heard the door open, or a knock. 

“Ugh, get out,” Elinor mumbled from where her face was in the toilet. 

“You’re not pregnant are you?” Sorcha asked as she came and sat on the lip of the tub, leaning her elbows on her knees. Her brow was furrowed with uncharacteristic concern. 

“What? No!” Elinor used the rest of her energy to shout in alarm. Just the idea of something like that. Hilarious. Laughable. Her mother would kill her. “I must’ve eaten--” her words were cut off by another bout of sickness. She heard the water running in the sink and the next moment, there was a cool cloth on the back of her neck. Her eyes fluttered closed as she laid her cheek on the disgusting toilet seat and reached up to flush. 

It had been a long time since someone had taken care of her while she was sick. Her mother had never had the stomach for it and as soon as she’d outgrown her nanny, it was up to her. Thankfully, she did not get sick often. Which she credited to her great love of the outdoors. 

“Go away,” she croaked.

“And leave you to drown in chunder and toilet water? I don’t think so,” Sorcha chuckled. “Don’t worry. If I catch whatever you have, you can put a cool cloth on my neck whilst I vomit.” 

“Why are you doing this?”

There was a long pause. So long that Elinor thought maybe she’d imagined saying it. 

“You’re my friend.” 

“Marigold and she went to stay somewhere else so she didn’t catch it.” 

Sorcha didn’t say anything, she just got up from where she was sitting. “I’m going to go make you some ginger tea and then maybe we can move you to the couch and get you a pail. Maybe watch a movie.”

“Do not,” Elinor feebly protested.

“You’re lucky you look so helpless and cute right now,” Sorcha laughed at her before disappearing. 

→ → → May → → → “This is so cool,” Marigold giggled as they made their way down into the basement of the art history building, dragging Elinor by her sleeve. It was dark and cold and damp. The building was old, but it was not a castle. It had been built specifically as a university and not one that was supposed to have stood for four hundred years. Which meant that the basement leaked. It smelt of mold and the cold. 

They found the door that they had been directed to and stepped inside. There was not a single light except for candles that flickered off the wet walls of the little storage room. Elinor and Marigold crammed into the room, Elinor doing her best not to brush against the walls, unless she get some sort of slime on her fine wool sweater. A shiver ran down her spine and while she knew nothing nefarious had ever happened in these catacombs, she really also hoped that she wasn’t about to be part of one.

“Do you think Sorcha tricked us down here for a ritual sacrifice?”

Marigold barked a laugh, making several people turn and look at them. She did not get a chance to respond, however, for the next moment Sorcha appeared on the stage as if by magic. Her dark skin seemed to absorb the light from the candle around her, making it a warm brown, reminding Elinor of summertime, not a damp, dingy basement with grey walls and unnameable sludge. 

There was a smattering of clapping, Elinor followed along, not sure what the protocol is. (If you don’t know the etiquette, follow others. Always follow. Never lead.) It wasn’t until the sound of her own clapping, loud and harsh, reached her ears that she realized everyone else had been snapping gently. 

Elinor blushed, just as Sorcha’s eyes found her in the near darkness. “This poem is for my friend, who inspired it.” 

Another round of snapping. Elinor did not join in. Instead, her heart was clenched in her chest. 

Elinor had read all the greats of poetry, of course. Dickinson. Wordsworth. Yeats. Keats. Blake. She had, also indulged a bit in Maya Angelou. Hughes. Plath. Elinor loved poetry. She loved the stories that the lyrical words could tell. 

She did not know how she felt about this poem about dark, straight hair like a river at night or pale, rosy cheeks. Noses in books. Heads in toilets. Brightness. Illumination.

When Sorcha’s poem finished, Elinor turned on her heel and fled. 

→ → → June → → → Elinor was drunk.

Elinor never got drunk. Usually, at uni parties, she trailed behind Marigold to make sure she didn’t get in a fight or fall down a flight of stairs and break her neck. But Marigold was in London, visiting Thomas. Her exams had finished before Elinor’s and--Elinor didn’t want to go home. She didn’t have a sweet, handsome boyfriend to visit. 

All she had was her cold castle and her cold mother to return to. Her disappointed father and her judgemental sister. The only person she missed was Dawn. And Dawn, as her mother often reminded her, was not a person. 

“Hey there, sunshine.” It was Sorcha, having found her sitting on the back steps of whatever house this party was at. Elinor couldn’t remember.

“Of course you’d be here,” Elinor scoffed, gesturing at Sorcha. 

Sorcha just chuckled and shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint.” She sat down on the steps next to Elinor.

Elinor scowled. “You aren’t disappointing me with your--” Elinor gestured again. 

“My--?” Sorcha’s eyebrows were lifted now. 

“Yes, your--the way you--how do you do that?” 

“Er, not sure I’m following there, sweetness.” 

“Do that thing where you make it seem like nothing bothers you.” 

“Nothing does bother me.” 

“How is that possible, how can it not bother you? Don’t you worry? Don’t you care?” 

Sorcha just glanced out into the dark. “Sure, I care. That’s not the same thing as being bothered.” 

It was to Elinor. She was bothered by everything, because she cared so much. She was bothered by the roundness of Sorcha’s shoulder, like a stone. She was bothered that she wanted to touch it. Feel Sorcha’s warm skin under her fingers. That Sorcha made her feel this way. Made her feel seen, understood. Elinor didn’t even understand herself half of the time, but Sorcha just seemed to know. What she needed. When she needed it. 

She turned to look at Elinor now, her chin resting on her bicep from where she’d wrapped her arms around her knees. She smiled. It was a soft smile. An inviting smile. Her lips looked smooth and inviting as they curled in the corners. Her eyes were two warm, dark pools like the lochs that Elinor had been warned about as a child. The ones she used to dip her toes in anyway, just to feel that shiver of daring. 

Before she could think about it, she dove in--pressing her lips against Sorcha’s. 

They were chillier than she expected and it made her draw back after just a moment, though she didn’t fully pull away. Sorcha’s breath ghosted over her lips and that was warm and tasted like honey, despite the cheap beer they’d been drinking. It was Sorcha who nudged her chin forward the second time and kissed Elinor. Her hand snaked around Elinor’s neck and drew her in. 

And Elinor was right: Sorcha was warm. She warmed Elinor. All the way down to her toes as their kiss deepened. Her own fingers curled against Sorcha’s bicep as if she needed to hold on, as if Sorcha had sucked the gravity out of Elinor and made her feel weightless.

When the kiss broke, Elinor felt like rain on a window pane, like falling snow. 

“I do care,” Sorcha repeated softly. “I care about you.” 

[brandstifter-sys]

Molting

Word Count: 2479           (Ao3)

Rating: T+

Characters: Virgil, Remus, all other sides as of PoF mentioned

Pairing: Dukexiety (platonic but could be not platonic if you want)

Warnings: Body Horror, Spider!Virgil, knife, sex mention, grossness, Gore, swearing, physical strain, exhaustion

Virgil is a spider boy, and spiders need to molt. It’s not a pretty sight and it’s an ordeal Virgil hates. Lucky him, he has a best friend who is willing and able to help, even if it drives him nuts.

-----

"Hey Princey, where's Virge?—Whoa are you okay, you look like you need to sit down, kiddo!"

"Patton, Virgil won't be joining us for a few days, surely his eating habits and sudden baldness have been a sign of the time of year for him." Logan commented from his seat on the couch. Roman was curled up and shaking, pallid and horrified.

"You mean?" Patton squeaked and shuddered. 

"Yes. I will be joining Janus and Remus during the clean up. I suggest you try to avoid his room for the next few days. Molting is a delicate process." 

-------

Virgil felt like jello, trapped in a hard shell. He was on his back spread and nude, unable to move without the sickening feeling that came with it. His chelicerae and extra limbs were out and just as rigid, making his position more awkward. He couldn’t breathe and he desperately tried to force his gelatinous form to shift and expand where his head was. He was dizzy, just trying to crack the eggshell-thin casing like a chick about to hatch, only without anything solid to chip at the barrier.

Pop!

The casing around his head split in half, with a sickening crack, leaving him gasping for air. Oh that sweet, sweet oxygen was tainted by the taste of his own skin-flavored goo falling into his open mouth. His eyes were sealed shut, but not out of fear for what he would see, since they didn't do a great job at blocking the light. No they were closed until he was sure none of his shell got in his eyes, trapped in the gelatinous muck that would cause his eyelids to tear if he dared open them.

"I thought I might have to cut you out of there if you took much longer," someone, Janus he assumed based on the tone, hummed softly nearby, "Time to cut off the area around your shoulders. Do try and wiggle out of it once it's done. And yes, you have to get yourself out." 

Virgil tried to calm his breathing, waiting for one of the worst parts. He was too fragile and squishy to be nicked by a blade, let alone a full cut. But he trusted Janus more than the others, except maybe Remus, especially with his mouth wide open.

Virgil could feel the vibrations through the floor. The steady gait and heavier footfalls were different from what he expected, but he could chalk it up to Janus being tired, he and Remus did carry him here and set up when his outer layer went rigid and his bones melted into this disgusting jelly.

He heard the blade gliding over his shell just above his shoulders with such a slight amount of pressure. It was far too smooth to be Janus's work, and Remus wasn't there, so it had to be Janus, but something about the stiff meticulous nature was throwing him off. 

"Now you have to go up towards the ears on both sides and then to the crown. Once that's done you can carefully lift those pieces away." Janus said to the person cutting his head free. Virgil's heart pounded in his ears, at least his soft organs were still intact, as intact as the situation allowed. He struggled to keep his breathing even, unsure where the blade was. 

"Would it be more efficient to cut along the fault?" That was Logan. That was okay, he was not easily disturbed. His suggestion, however, was not okay.

"Do you want to risk slitting his throat?" Janus asked with an edge to his voice, "He is vulnerable and having that scalpel near his throat will make his anxiety worse."

"I understand. In that case—" Logan trailed off and continued his task. Janus hissed under his breath, in a way that only Virgil would understand, but he didn’t, which was concerning. For the smart side, Logan had his stupid moments and this Janus was regretting bringing him in so soon.

"And to be clear, I am not supposed to peel the exoskeleton." 

"Correct. And once you remove the upper half, will you have a suitable specimen?" this Janus responded curtly. He was done sharing this vulnerable moment with the nerd. 

"Yes," Logan said as the tips of his fingers brush Virgil's new skin, making him wince, "Remus has already called 'dib'—is that the correct phrase?" 

"Yes." 

"He has already called dib on the lower half."

Virgil winced as cool air hit his tender form. He could feel the slime stretching and pulling away from him with a soft, sickening snap, with the tendrils falling back into the near liquid of his body. Logan was quick to set that piece aside and remove the other with as much dexterity and grace as before. 

"Shall I tell Remus his presence is requested at this time?" Logan asked as he gathered his samples.

"No. I suggest you sink out to your room before he bursts in like the unhinged maniac he becomes when told to sit still and wait." this Janus droned. Logan nodded and sank out. And not a moment too soon. But it felt like the other presence changed rapidly.

"Virgil, I’m the only one here with you. I'm going to clear your nose before I wipe your eyes," Remus hummed, after dropping his disguise, and knelt down beside him on the old sheet he was laying on. The bulb syringe entering his nostril was a strange sensation when his nose was basically formless, as was the goo exiting his nose, but it was a relief. 

"Stay focused on breathing, Virgil, 3/4 time—that's it. One more time." 

The second his nose was cleared, Virgil closed his mouth. Remus giggled and conjured a clean rag. 

"Whatsamatter, Soft-skull? Don't like the taste of your own mucus? It's like a giant loogie!" Remus cackled and carefully wiped down his face. 

"I thought you said you weren't gonna pull that stunt," Virgil wheezed. 

"Nerd wanted samples more than I want my dick sucked. I had to pretend to be Jan to keep things calm in here—you think the nerd would listen to me? Besides, Janus isn't good at anything but the first cuts. He thinks it's nasty!" Remus laughed, "It is but that's not the real issue—it's the mess that you leave behind that's the problem!"

Virgil rolled his eyes and focused on wiggling out of his shell instead of the duke's rant. It was the same one every season. Whether it was Janus's scales or the molting, Remus would bitch about the mess.

"... and I know what you're thinking—what everyone thinks! 'Why are you so bent out of shape? You like grossness and garbage and mess!'" Remus rambled, "There's a difference between a messy aesthetic and a mess! Organized chaos, Harlot's Web, I know exactly where everything is and where it's supposed to be even if it looks like shit! It's mine to manipulate! Your body cast is not in the design plan!" 

"Talk cryptids, dammit!" Virgil hissed as he tried to squeeze his way out of his exoskeleton, weakly curling his toes, or attempting to, "I hate this shit too!" 

"Cryptids and cursed objects?" Remus cooed. 

"Fine!" Virgil grunted, feeling the goo on his skin shifting and stretching with the slightest movement, peeling him away from his old skin slowly. He was going to take hours to get out.

"Okay so I know you don't usually watch the videos of Dybbuk box openings and you should, gets the blood pumping, but you know those are fake, right? They're all a sham!" Remus started ranting. His rage was actually quite helpful as a motivator to move. 

"...and don't get me started on the bullshit wax! It's so hard to clean! You know I have a design aesthetic and wax is not a part of it! Especially when there's no restless spook involved! It's a lot of crap with no real payout! If I wanted to have a creepy old box covered in wax I could make one myself!" 

“Fill it with spider exoskeleton,” Virgil huffed and wheezed at the exertion, “It’ll make a good snack!”

“Just like you!” Remus giggled, “But seriously, those things don’t hold any angry ghosties, and they seem problematic in other ways too, which usually isn’t a problem for me, but no spooks? That’s crossing a line! I could create better cursed objects!” Remus paused as a wicked grin split his face. Oh no.

“Get me out of here and you can see something really cursed!” Virgil spat, venom shooting from his mouth, literally, and landing on the sheet under him. He broke into a fit of coughing, his form sloshing and molding in the shape of his exoskeleton. 

"Easy there, Swamp Thing!" Remus jeered, "If no one helps Bolt, Nimby, Cirrus, Cyoomy, Hansel, or Gretel when they molt, you don't get much more help either." 

"Swamp Thing? More like the Blob!" Virgil retorted bitterly. Remus clapped his hands and grinned.

"You are so right!" he cheered, "That's a better nickname when you're like this! Like an alien creeping out of a meteor all gelatinous and prone to leaving slime trails! Emo Jello! How you still have lungs is a mystery to me! You don't even have a digestive tract!" 

"Great reminder, jackass!" 

"It is! All your fluids and organs are blended up—except for your heart, blood, brain, and lungs!"

Virgil tried to ignore the glee in his voice and focused on moving. He didn't feel like telling him that his blood was traveling through his body through osmosis, always finding a way back to the heart and lungs, he would see it eventually. The rubbery slick kept him stuck to his exoskeleton, bending and stretching, but always pulling him back. 

"You look like a jaundiced Hellboy cosplayer in a deflated Paleman blow-up suit who's gonna eat a crap ton when he gets back to normal! And then there's the whole hair growth thing! Like throwing straw on a potato sack filled with rotten meat! Do you even have eyelashes now?"

"You. Tell. Me." Virgil grunted and grit his teeth, which were far too soft to actually bite anything or grind. Remus squatted next to him and leaned in close. 

"They're coming in!" Remus grinned and stood up. Virgil groaned and flexed his chelicerae. Some movement was better than none. He was trapped, like swimming in tar, and he had to fight to escape his full-body restraint. 

"Do you want some music? I can do a striptease!" Remus asked and wiggled his eyebrows. 

"Does this get you hot and bothered, sicko?" Virgil scoffed and tried to focus on curling his fingers with what energy and strength he had. Remus pouted and wiggled his mustache in thought. 

"No, not really. But just standing here is boring! Besides, it's just incentive for you to burst out of your shell!" 

"Not. Interested." 

"You and I both know you would do anything to stop me from getting naked for no reason!" Remus teased. He was right of course, but it was still irksome.

"Shut up," Virgil hissed, still not getting anywhere, "Put on some music and keep your fucking pants on!" 

"Fine!" Remus groaned and rolled his eyes. He snapped his fingers, filling the room with some sick emo jams. At least they made Virgil more at ease! 

Two Days Later…

"Remus, c'mon!" Virgil panted as he fruitlessly clawed at the soft carpet trying to remove himself from his exoskeleton, smearing goo all over. He was weak and exhausted from the endless strain. His body was still akin to a gummy bear with a dark cherry filling, but at least his bangs were back. 

"Nope! I already cut out your—" 

"Please! I'm not even stuck!" Virgil cried, "Pull me out of here!" He was so close to bursting into tears. Two days straight of wiggling just to get back to normal took its toll on him. Two days straight of moving two inches forward and one inch back with no food or water left him weak. There was no time for sleep and no time to rest. Remus didn't sleep the entire time either and it showed. 

"I could tear you in half, and then your guts'll spill all over the floor and there'd be a huge stain and you'd be pissed off while you bleed out!" he said with a bright grin that bordered on maniacal.

"It's just my legs! Please!" he begged, "I don't have the strength!" He was actually crying at that point. Remus ceded and carefully looped his arms under Virgil's. The goo stuck to his shirt as he carefully pulled the emo from his old skin and scooped him up into his arms. 

"Easy there, Raggedy Anx, you're free to crawl on the ceiling and scare those losers like some fleshy horror movie creature bent on devouring them, starting with the eyes," Remus said and stood up. He could have easily snapped Virgil's spine over his knee, watched him writhe in agony and scream until he couldn't manage it anymore. He could watch his fluids pool under his translucent skin and ooze out of the puncture wound from the snapped vertebrae. 

He did the smart thing and placed the fragile blob of emo on the bed and stepped back. Molting meant growing and that meant he needed space as everything took shape again. Remus could already see what changes happened under that shell as Virge gasped, forcing air in to help his expansion. 

"Stress workouts?" Remus asked and stretched his arms above his head. 

"Mostly." 

"You fixed your—" 

"Yeah and that was your fault!" 

"No no no, I didn't mess up the piercing—you let it get infected and tried to rip it off!" 

"I'll rip yours off if you don't shut up!"

"I can regrow it, without going all rigor mortis alien!" Remus laughed, "But I can't make it any bigger, so you have me beat!" 

"Go to bed," Virgil huffed, "You're losing it." He kept up his hyperventilating style of breathing and closed his eyes. Just a few more hours of this and he could finally get some rest. 

"But you're not sleeping!" Remus argued, "And I vowed to watch over you while you're weak and nasty!" 

"You sound like Roman," Virgil scoffed. 

"You take that back!" 

"'I vowed' c'mon that's a Princey line!" Virgil huffed, “You need to get out of this room. Come after you get some rest and food. You did your part.” Remus pouted and snapped his fingers. The exoskeleton and sheet on the floor vanished. That was the last thing he had to do before Janus could take over. 

“Fine, but I’ll be back and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!” Remus laughed and sank out. Virgil rolled his eyes, like he could ever stop Remus from doing anything! This time he didn’t want to.

Reblogs > Likes

[glorious-spoon]

into a deep dark wood [Shadowhunters]

Title: into a deep dark wood Fandom: Shadowhunters Pairing: Malec Rating: Teen Warnings: None Other tags: Creepy, Monsters

For Meghan, who donated in the Equality Auction.

ON AO3

*

He only loses track of Magnus for a moment.

They’re in the tunnels below the subway on the track of a disruption in the ley lines—or rather, Magnus is. Alec is there because, despite what Magnus says, he does occasionally need someone to watch his back while he’s working complicated magic in a potentially dangerous situation, and as Alec isn’t a warlock, he won’t disrupt the flow overmuch.

That, and it’s been a hell of a week, and he wants to hang out with his husband, even if it is a work-date.

“You’re so romantic,” Magnus says dryly when Alec tells him this, but he’s smiling. Alec opens his mouth to say something, there’s a rattling, clicking noise, and an instant later a pair of Shax demons burst out of an unseen tunnel toward them.

Magic flares from Magnus’s fingers, and Alec’s bow is in his hands an instant later. Together they move into the fray.

The battle is brutal but quick. A few minutes later Alec is stooping to pull his arrows from the dead demon’s head, kicking over the one that Magnus dispatched to make sure that it’s actually dead, and it’s only when he straightens up and looks around that he realizes Magnus is nowhere to be found.

“Magnus?” Alec calls. His voice echoes in the stone tunnels, but less than it should. There’s a heavy, shrouded quality to the air that seems to swallow sound. Alec spins, and, finding nothing but darkness, activates his vision rune, blinking as the darkened corridor seems to brighten. There’s a thin mist rising off the floor that he doesn’t remember being there a moment before, and Magnus is nowhere to be seen.

It was just a pair of Shax demons, Alec thinks, but his heart is speeding like he’s been sprinting. It was just Shax demons, and they killed them both, so Magnus is fine. Must be fine.

A moment later, there’s a clatter up ahead. Light shifts, soft glowing globes of illumination rising up to drift in the darkness up ahead. The mist seems thicker now, but a moment later Alec hears Magnus call, “Up here.”

He breathes out hard and lets his grip on his bow relax. “I was calling for you, didn’t you hear me? Did you find something?”

“Here,” Magnus replies. It takes several strides for Alec to catch up enough to see him, a broad-shouldered shadow in the rising mist. The glow has faded again, but with his rune active Alec can still see perfectly well. Magnus seems unhurt; he’s moving fast, his boots splashing on the wet floor. Alec lengthens his stride again, but he can’t seem to catch up. The water is becoming deeper, becoming thick and muddy, although there’s no sign of a current to account for it. It’s like wading through a swamp. Smells like one, too.

Magnus still isn’t slowing. There’s a faint light coming from up ahead of him, but it’s not the familiar blue of his magic, so they must be getting close to the disrupted ley line. That pallid glow seems unnatural, disturbed. Alec unholsters his bow again, an unease he can’t explain thrumming through him.

“Magnus, wait up.”

Magnus slows briefly. He turns back toward Alec, his smile sharp, his eyes and jewelry flashing golden a moment before the mist swallows him up again.

“Magnus?” Alec calls. There’s something cold unspooling inside him, an uneasy tension that has nothing to do with the alertness of a dangerous patrol. This is icy and unsettling, the squirming horror of a child waking to see monsters crouching in the shadows of his room.

Alec has been dealing with monsters for his whole life, and there’s nothing here to be afraid of that he can see, but the feeling still remains.

“Magnus?” he calls again. This time, there’s an answer.

“Come on, Alexander. This way.”

Magnus’s voice has a faintly echoing quality to it, but Alec is too busy fighting his way through the sucking mud, which is close to ankle-deep by now, to think much of it. He can see Magnus up ahead, a dark shadow wavering through the silvery mist, and the cold thing inside him settles a little. He lengthens his stride to follow, glad that his boots are waterproof.

A few minutes later, it doesn’t matter. They’re actively wading now, the mud thinned out to a soupy swamp that soaks his jeans and seeps in over the tops of his boots.

It reeks, but not in the way that Alec would expect the sludge in a New York City sewer to reek; this is a green and rotting stink that belongs in a deep still forest, and he can feel weeds growing beneath the water (out of the concrete? he wonders with that unease that he can’t fully explain to himself). They tangle around his boots as he moves, threatening to trip him up.

“Magnus,” he pants, squinting at the dark shape moving up ahead. “Magnus, wait. Slow down.”

Magnus’s voice drifts back to him. “Hurry up.”

“I’m hurrying, I just—”

He takes a step, only to find that there’s no ground beneath his foot, just endless icy water. Alec sinks down and down and down, dark water closing over his head and flooding his mouth and lungs. He kicks hard, tangles of weeds twisting over his legs and hands and face like strong, fibrous fingers trying to pull him down.

He finally breaks the surface, coughing and trying to drag air back into his abused lungs.

“Magnus,” he gasps. “Magnus.”

There are no quick footsteps, no warm hands to grasp at him, no prickle of blue magic or worried voice. There’s only silence and the slosh of water, and Alec realizes with a low deep chill that nothing around him looks familiar. The concrete walls of the subway tunnel are gone; the broken lights in the sconces, the pale scribbles of graffiti. Around him is a dark forest lit only by the thin sliver of a moon overhead. Towering trees lean over the water, choked with hanging vines, and there’s an eerie drone of insects in the air.

The puddle that he stumbled into a moment ago is a broad pond, stagnant and choked with weeds. Clearly, he’s fallen through a portal of some sort, although nothing here looks familiar, and there’s an unsettling quality to the place that he can’t put his finger on, one that makes him suspect that he hasn’t slipped into another part of the mortal plane. This seems… older. Hungrier.

A shiver goes through Alec, but he shrugs it off. The first order of business is getting to shore, and finding Magnus. He can worry about the rest of it later.

It isn’t easy to swim in boots, and his stele, when he grapples for it, seems to have vanished from its holder. That doesn’t make Alec feel any better about his circumstances, especially since he’s pretty sure he just felt something slither past his legs. Nothing sinks its teeth into him, though, and nothing grabs at him other than the weeds, which he is seriously starting to suspect of sentience. He’s in sight of the low, sloping shoreline when there’s a splash somewhere to his left. A heavy splash, like something human-sized just hit the water. Alec spins clumsily, but there’s nothing there. Ripples are moving out from the center of the pond, though, splashing him in the face with cold, muddy water. He spits the taste of slime from his lips and peers around. “Who’s there?”

There’s another splash, from his other side this time. A soft thud, like something heavy has just landed on the bank. A rustle of wet grass, and a warm, familiar spill of laughter. It should be comforting, but it has the opposite effect. The cold thing twisting in the pit of Alec’s stomach grows teeth, because that—

That sounded like Magnus.

“Magnus,” he gasps, spinning toward it. There’s no one there on the bank, but the weeds are high and tangled. A tall man—a man of Magnus’s height—could crouch down and hide in them. If he were so inclined.

“Magnus,” Alec says again, splashing toward the shore. He feels soft, sucking mud beneath his boots, but it won’t take his weight. Like the weeds, it seems to be pulling at him. He goes under again, then splashes up out of the water, swiping at his eyes. “Who’s there? Show yourself.”

“Who’s there?” echoes the voice that isn’t, that cannot be Magnus. It sounds like him. It sounds exactly like him. But there’s just no way, not here, not in this moment, not with that cold, gleeful, mocking tone. Even at his cruelest, Magnus has never sounded like that. “Who’s there? Show yourself.”

Shivering balls of light rise out of the weeds, glowing pale and illuminating not much more than the moon, as Alec drags himself up the bank. He grasps for his seraph blade, then lets it go. This place is evil, but he doesn’t think it’s demonic evil. It’s something else, something green and growing that reminds him of the Seelie Court, with it’s dark forests and wandering paths that lead unwary travelers astray.

There’s a blade of cold iron in his boot, shielded by silk. He doesn’t reach for it yet, but he crouches down so that it’s near at hand as the weeds finally part and—something—steps out onto the bank.

Alec recoils so hard that he nearly falls on his ass in the water. Weeds pull at him, and the mud beneath him sinks, and he is falling then, struggling and helpless as the creature approaches and squats down to contemplate him.

It wasn’t Magnus that he was following, Alec thinks numbly. Not since the Shax demons, maybe not since the start of all this.

The thing crouching over him is black-haired and golden-eyed, but its face, its face—

It looks like it was molded out of soft clay by someone with only a rudimentary idea of what faces should look like. The jaw is a blob, the nose a featureless bump. The mouth is lipless, and as Alec watches in frozen horror, it splits open into a grin that spreads and spreads until he thinks that it means to unzip its entire jaw and swallow him whole. Rows upon rows of silver teeth gleam like needles set in bloody gums.

It reaches out toward him with one long, misshapen hand, and Alec sees that a familiar ring gleams on its third finger. Something terrible punches through him, and he finds that he has a voice after all. “Who are you? What are you? What did you do with Magnus?”

At that, a rattling hiss escapes the creature. It takes Alec a moment to identify it as laughter, and when he does he renews his struggles, to no avail. The weeds have bound his feet as firmly as iron chains, and the cold sinks into his skin. It’s all he can do to keep his head above water.

He twists, then takes a deep breath and lets himself sink below the water. From above, he can hear a splash, and cold fingers grasp at him. He doesn’t try to break their hold. Instead, he pulls the blade of cold iron from his boot and slashes at the weeds, which wither and shrink away. He strikes at the icy fingers digging into his arm, and there’s a bubbling scream from above, and then he’s free.

Alec kicks hard for the surface, scrambles up the bank, dripping wet and gripping the knife with all his might. The grass withers where the metal touches it, and nothing emerges to drag him back down into the water.

He drags himself up until he’s far enough away from the edge of the water that it’ll be a struggle to drag him back in, then collapses hard on the cold ground. He’s still breathing hard, but his head feels clearer with the blade in his hand. If he has tumbled into one of the Seelie realms—and he must have—an iron blade is about the only defense he’s likely to have against anything here that tries to kill him.

Something rustles in the forest behind him, a crackling of sticks and a cold gust of wind. Alec jerks his head back to look at it—he’s not thrilled about having the forest at his back, either, although unlike the pond nothing in there has actually tried to kill him yet—and when he looks back, Magnus is emerging from the shallows not five yards away from him.

Alec’s heart kicks hard in his chest as he scrambles to his feet. It’s not Magnus, of course. Now that he knows, it’s easy to tell. The cold tilt to the smile, the sheen to his skin, as though it’s made out of fine scales. The pupils of his eyes are slitted the wrong way, like a goat’s rather than a cat’s.

This isn’t Magnus. It isn’t. But it looks so much like him that Alec has to swallow down bile.

He grips the hilt of the knife hard, but the creature doesn’t come closer. It stops in the shallows, then tilts its head up at him with a contemplative look. Its knuckles are bleeding from where Alec slashed them, which should feel satisfying but just makes him feel sick.

“You’re a púca,” he says slowly. The floating lights, the shapeshifting. He should have seen it sooner. Should have realized before he followed this thing down into the tunnels and through to the Seelie realms, but it’s too late for that. “Aren’t you.”

Again the creature smiles, stretching Magnus’s lips into a grin that’s too wide and too sharp, showing needle-pointed teeth. Alec doesn’t allow himself to shudder.

“Was it ever Magnus with me tonight?”

“Was it ever Magnus? Was it ever Magnus?” the creature echoes, still grinning that horrible grin. “You didn’t care earlier. Do you follow every pretty thing you see down into the darkness, Alexander Lightwood?”

“I don’t have time for riddles,” Alec snaps. It was Magnus at the loft, he knows that. It was. The thing he followed after they fought the Shax demons might not have been, but Magnus was there with him when they went down into the tunnels. “What did you do with him?”

“You think you’re the only one we can fool with a pretty picture?” the púca asks, and then it’s shifting and stretching, its hair shortening, its form lengthening, until Alec is staring at his own face mirrored back at him, grinning with needle-sharp teeth. “He’s followed his own will o’ the wisp to where we want him to go. He won’t come looking for you, now or ever.”

It begins to shift again, shedding Alec’s face for something massive and inhuman, shaggy and dark: a swayback horse, dripping water, its eyes gleaming like cold moons and sharp rows of teeth crowding its mouth. Alec shifts his stance, gripping the knife like there’s any way he could fight the púca off like this, but it doesn’t charge him. Instead, it makes a noise unsettlingly like Magnus’s warm laugh, then spins and gallops away across the surface of the water to vanish into the gathering dark, leaving Alec alone.

He’s trapped somewhere in the Seelie realm, with no more weapon than a small knife, and he’s all alone.

Or rather, he wishes he were. He can hear the trees rustling, scattered laughter, high and eerie. Somewhere in the far distance there’s the wild, unsteady sound of a fiddle playing a dance reel.

Alec damn well knows better than to go near an Unseelie dancing ring, and that’s all that could be. And that’s assuming he can find his way through the dark woods without something ripping his throat out; even with a blade of cold iron, there’s no guarantee of that.

But if Magnus is there, he’s in just as much trouble as Alec. More, maybe, if he was the one they were really after in the first place, which seems to be the case.

Alec shifts his grip on the knife, kicks away from the weeds that try to grasp at his ankles, and starts walking.

[sebastianshaw]

Shaw & Skadi for the kid meme!

Name: Sigvid Skadisson Shaw. I know it should be Shawson BUT FUCK THE RULES. “Sig” is a pretty standard prefix for a lot of Norse names from the word “sigr” meaning “victory” and “vid” from the Old Germanic “widu” for forest. Gender: Masc and male-presenting but beyond that I’m not sure? Trans man? AMAB non-binary? Look, he uses he/him (maybe they too) and people THINK ‘man’ when they look at him, that’s all I know General Appearance: Tall and beefy, he couldn’t NOT be. Medium pale skin that gets even paler in winter but tans easily in summer. Black hair, or so dark brown it might as well be black, and very dark eyes. His hair, unlike both parents and most of his Asgardian brethren, is actually kept short, and while he has a beard, it’s not the big one. The reason for this is functional; short hair is better if you’re spending a lot of time in the wild. Stuff gets stuck in long hair, it can get tangled in branches at the worst times, it’s hot in the summer, and it can literally freeze in the winter if it gets wet. His attire is very much out of a Viking fantasy, but less on the “heavy armor” end of things and more on the “wearing lots of furs and skins” side. He doesn’t look like someone you want to fuck with, but he also doesn’t look like he’s going to war. He carefully avoids any kind of dangling amulets, charms, or other jewelry that could get caught on anything, but he’s got a sort of leather toolbelt containing various survival tools made from wood, bone, etc. Personality: Sigvid, as you might guess from his attire and the reasons for it, is an outdoorsman. Not as a hobby, not as a lifestyle, but an EXISTENCE. He thrives in the natural world as Sebastian does in the business world, finding ways to survive in even the most adverse of situation. Whatever Mother Nature is doing around him, he can not only make it through it, he can work it to his advantage. His closeness to the natural world, his close observation of it, means that he sees both the facts and errors in his father’s mentality. He sees that the strongest predators will pick off the weakest prey, that the winter will take those who do not prepare, that mother animals will neglect and even devour their young if they’re sick or runty. He also sees that prey are more aggressive than predators, how some creatures will adopt and nourish infants that are not their own or even their own species, how some will share their kill with no benefit to themselves, and how even the smallest and most humble animals can make it through things that the larger, so-called stronger ones did not. Sigvid is very pragmatic, like his father, very practical, very self-preservationist. He has to be. But he’s also very spiritual, not in a way that connects to some distant god, but the world around him, to earth and nature. Not some idealized hippie-dippie conception of nature as a loving mother that is always in balance, but an acceptance that it is a greater power that he cannot control, he can only hope to survive at best. It keeps him humble. It also gives him a much wider, more relative perspective on things that is not human-centric, or Asgardian-centric for that matter. My Shaw often says that he admires human accomplishments above all else, that no other animal has built cities, computers, cars, and so on. And he is correct in this. But Sigvid always points out, how many termite mounds has man built? How many times do humans migrate thousands of miles using an innate sense of the Earth’s magnetic fields? How many fish have we hunted by literally sensing the electricity in their bodies? Yes, humans are “the best” if we judge them by standards HUMANS MADE. Judge us by the base standard of any other species, and we flop. Same for judging any species by the standards of any other. Nothing is “more” or “less” evolved than anything else, more complex does not mean better, and nor does being bigger, stronger, meaner, or even smarter mean a species is “better” or “more evolved” either. Survival of the fittest is not about that, nor about individuals; it’s about how well a species fits its environment and niche. A slime mold is just as evolved as a person. Sigvid is very passionate about this, though he’s not the type to speak up most of the time; he’s stoic and saturnine, used to keeping his mouth closed and his thoughts to himself, because most of the time there’s no one to talk to. And that also means he’s learned to exist without the validation and approval of others---ironically, something that is much like his father, learned in a completely different environment.

A lot of this, obviously, comes from Skadi. He was at side her since infancy learning to hunt and track, learning the difference between wood sorrel and white clover, how to tell when a moose is about to charge, and what it means when the woods go quiet. This connects deeply to Skadi’s Jotunn side in particular, which in Norse lore are thought to have symbolized the inherently chaotic and uncontrollable nature of, well, nature! Though Sigvid would not, nature it’s chaotic, it’s actually very ordered, people just don’t bother to understand what’s inconvenient to them. But where he differs from Skadi is that he’s not a Disney princess. Animals don’t hang out with him. He doesn’t nurse injured creatures back to health. He doesn’t keep pets. He does not see them as friends. They are not less than him, but they are not allies, they are beings he co-exists with, avoids, or eats. At least, until a thylacine started hanging out with him. Yeah, a thylacine. The extinct Tasmanian tiger. Who knows where it came from or why he’s attached itself to him, but he’s very adamant she’s not a pet and he hasn’t named her, but she is THERE. Sometimes. She isn't at his side like a dog, it's more she's following him from a distance and she pokes her head out from the trees somewhere. She's not a pet. She's more a parasite. But unlike Shaw, Sigvid doesn't use that term in a bad way, and he's fine with her presence. He's just curious where the hell an extinct Australian animal came from? Obviously, Sigvid is not interacting with people a lot, but when he does, he’s far less awkward or boisterous than people expect. He doesn’t have the overt weirdness people expect from a hermit, nor the bombastic warrior cliché of an Asgardian, or the vicious stereotype of a Jotunn. He has a quiet but overwhelming elegance, not like an aristocrat but like a great stag emerging from the forest. He chooses his words carefully, and can say much with just a few. He walks the middle ground between judging by individuals and judging by species; he does a little of both. He has preconceptions and generalities that he believes in about each group, but also believes in room for exception. After all, he’s not what a lot of people expect, is he? Despite this, he’s frequently misread as disliking people, but he doesn’t. He is utterly neutral on them, he just prefers his own way of life. Likewise, he tends to be very neutral towards individuals, and this also is often misread as dislike. One thing he does dislike though, is when people try to endear themselves to him by talking about how they agree animals are better than people, or say stuff like you know only man kills for pleasure. . . .this actually just annoys him. Firstly, a lot of animals do kill for pleasure. Secondly, when people say animals/nature is better than people. . . .they’re forgetting that people---humans, Asgardians, Jotunn---are animals too. This is just another way people, of any sort, try to insist they’re something special and different, whether in a negative or positive way. It doesn’t impress him. What impresses him tends to be how well people work within their niche, whatever niche that is. Like Shaw, he doesn’t really judge in terms of conventional morality, but a person’s success----Sigvid’s definition of success is just much wider. Like, maybe you dive for a living---are you a good diver? A great cafeteria worker? The best toilet cleaner in the tri-state area? He admires that and he commends you. When he is angered, he stays quiet, and his response is swift and physical; he either leaves or strikes physically and then leaves. When he feels sufficiently bonded with someone. . . he is still quiet. He appreciates a person who doesn't need to be filling the silences between them to feel comfortable and kinship. And kinship for him is rare, but he's not lonely----just also not adverse to it, as many assume he is. People assume a lot about Sigvid, and most of it is wrong, but he's also very chill with it. Sigvid is a very chill guy.

Special Talents: Besides the obviously mentioned talents for hunting, tracking, foraging, survivalism, and nature knowledge? Many people think he’s some kind of seer because he’s good at predicting storms and such, but actually he’s just very good at reading the signs most people aren’t attuned to. He also presumably has the attributes of Asgardians and Jotuns (super strength, etc) but if he has a mutant power, it has yet to manifest. Also cannot assume a Frost Giant form. Who they like better: Skadi, though eventually he does respect his father for performing so well at what he does

Who they take after more: I think both equally in different ways Personal Head canon: -He really likes amethyst geodes. -He finds a lot of manufactured foods, like chips or snack cakes, to be WAAAAY too strongly salty or sweet for him to stomach, is allergic to Red Dye #40, and he finds the taste of domesticated animals to be weird. - Not much of a dairy person, but ghee is good -Dislikes when people stereotype hillbillies as stupid; as in like, people who are genuinely living in the hills and mountains of the American Southeast, they're an interesting people with their own unique culture like any other group that lives off the land in isolation---which he respects---and not interchangeable with typical rednecks. -He doesn't typically carry anything with him that's not a necessity, if he knows he's going to be seeing people soon, he will pick up knick-knacks he finds in abandoned places and distribute them like a weird Santa Claus. Who, he's met, by the way, and according to him, Father Christmas is something of a badass. - He will always buy your homemade soaps, and I have no idea what he's doing with them. Yes, maybe he's using them in the normal intended way but IM NOT SURE?? - Pops up in art museums. People never expect him to be here, in these cathedrals dedicated to human creation, but he is. I think he views art a bit differently than the average person, but he's there all the same. - He's an Aquarius but there is a LOT of Saturn in his chart - The first Midgard movie he saw was Forrest Gump. He was expecting it to be about something else because of the title, but he enjoyed it and LEARNED THIS DANCE Face Claim: n/a

[justafrogandherumbrella]

Welcome to Nowhere: Graveyard

The sky is a gloomy grey and the air is filled with ash, blocking out the sun. You're surrounded by a flat landscape, covered in headstones. You're standing in a graveyard.

"Whoah." Emerson says behind you.

"Creepy looking, huh?" Gia responds.

Creepy looking indeed. The land around you has been burned. Rather than green grass or flowers, the ground is completely charred, and only a few burnt trees remain by the fence. There isn't a single sign of any kind of life. No insects, no birds, no plants. Yet, you can't shake the feeling that you're being watched. Not just that but...

"Where's the monster?" You ask. The three of you had been underground in the tunnels when you realized the monster was above you, but now that you are above ground there's nothing here.

"It must be hiding." Gia says. "Try searching the graves. Maybe there's something to help us find-"

"Uhm-" Emerson interjects. "Sorry to interrupt but, when you say 'try searching the graves' you don't mean for us to... dig them up do you?"

"Not yet. For now just look at what's written on the headstones. This is the monster's domain, there's probably going to be some kind of information on it around here somewhere. I'll take the upper right corner, you two stick together okay?"

"..Not... yet?" Emerson echoes as Gia walks away.

Sensing his discomfort, you take their hand and give it a comforting squeeze. "Don't worry, like Gia said, we'll probably find something written on the headstones."

"...right." They don't seem convinced.

The two of you walk past various headstones, trying to read the words engraved on them. Most are completely illegible, covered in black mold and slime. The ones you can read are nothing special. Except...

"Rosalind Thatcher", "Emmet Williams", "Marryanne Miller".

"Emerson, doesn't it seem like something's missing?" You ask while looking at the headstone for "Valentina Pérez".

"No... I don't think so." He responds. "Is there?"

You strain your mind, trying to think of what it could be. Your mind responds with silence. Nothing. Were you just imagining it? No, no. There was definitely something. There's something more that goes on headstones than just names. Right? You're sure there is, but what is it? You can't remember.

You answer, "...I don't know." You're sure there's something, but if you can't remember what it is, and Emerson doesn't notice anything odd, then it can't be too important. You look at the next grave, hoping to find anything else out of the ordinary. There's a small indentation towards the top of the stone. You press your thumb to it, and it moves. The round piece of stone rolls back, revealing an eye. It blinks at you.

"Uh... hi?" You say. An eye seemed like it might be out of the ordinary, but you didn't see how it connected to finding the monster. After all, there are eyes everywhere. Even in strange places sometimes.

Your eyes flicker to the rest of the headstone, where the words should be, but this grave is completely blank. That's when it hits you.

"Dates."

Emerson turns to look at you, confused. "Huh?"

"That's what the headstones are missing. Dates. Most of them have names, but none of them have the date of birth or death."

"What are you talking about?" He asks, still confused.

"Well, you know, a gravestone usually has the day someone was born and the day they died engraved as well. All the graves here just have names. "

"I don't understand. Are you okay?"

"What do you-"

"HEY GUYS?" Gia's voice calls out from the distance. "YOU MIGHT WANNA COME LOOK AT THIS!"