#still and lightless beast

[autisticsupervillain]

The Dark Side of the Moon

A Magnus Archives/Five Nights at Freddy's Crossover

Chapter 1

Maxwell Rayner sighed as he looked himself over in the mirror. He was so very tired of growing old. The more dark and terrible his soul got, the more quickly his bodies seemed to age. The hair seemed to grey much quicker than it did back when he'd first started serving the Night. Back when people still knew him as Edmund Halley. Maybe it was the constant rush of American culture that aged him so poorly these days. It was always exhausting finding new bodies to wear. Suitable hosts for the Darkness were hard to find these days.

He supposed his insistence in taking the bodies of children didn't help. Though they lived longer than the bodies of adults, the Darkness of his soul wore away at them much quicker. Rotting them from the inside out. Perhaps Jonah had a point in only taking the bodies of full grown adults, but Rayner would never admit to taking advice from a slave of the wretched voyeuristic eye.

Turning his thoughts from his rival, Maxwell finally left the men's bathroom and stepped out into the garishly bright main lobby of the Pizzaplex. His pearly white eyes squinted even behind his shades. Maxwell had been thorough enough to wash the blood from his gloves and trenchcoat, and the Darkness in his shadow had been kind enough to leave no body left for the staff to find later. He'd fed the Night well tonight, the two men who'd taken the stalls next to his would never be seen again. It was why Rayner still visited this place, despite his hatred for all color and light it held. Plenty of guests to feed to the Night and a corrupt corporate establishment happy to cover up any disappearances he might cause during his stay. He appreciated how they put his needs as a customer first, but Maxwell didn't want to make the job any harder for them with such things as evidence and bodies.

He should go body shopping while he was here. He'd heard they'd installed a daycare not to far from here. It couldn't hurt to test just how afraid of the Dark its guests were. The body he was wearing would likely fit in well enough. He couldn't remember the name of the man it belonged to originally, but his long grey hair and black, wrinkled face would likely allow him to pass as some child's grandfather or relative if asked. Though, given Fazbear Entertainment's lax approach to safety measures, he doubted he'd need to worry.

~

The Daycare was every bit as defenseless, and as garishly bright, as Rayner had expected. The large doors of the entrance didn't so much as require he flash his guest pass before they let him in. Ne security measures, no locks, no anything. Rayner leaned against the unmanned security desk, humoring the idea that this might be a set up. Certainly, the light was bright enough to potentially destroy him should he ever be caught without his body in here, but so was every wretched room of this establishment it seemed. The blasted chattering of brats did nothing to prevent the growing migraine the place gave him, which turned his attention to what they were babbling at.

A loud, dancing jester animatronic wrestled the younglings down from high places where they might fall. A loud robot with a screeching voice themed after the blasted sun. It seemed perfectly designed to annoy him. A function which it may very well intentionally possess, as it spotted him and enthusiastically waved him over. The jester sun... thing ambled over to him with an inhuman speed and dexterity that would've suprised him had he been human, but instead he just pragmatically made a note of it and glared it down.

"He-lllooooooo, Mr... uh..." The robot paused, clearly trying to place him as some child's parent. Rayner half ignored it and scanned the room for an ideal host. "I'm sorry, there must be some mistake, I don't have you in our parents databank, sir!"

Rayner smiled. "Oh, there is no mistake I assure you. I am here to pick up my children. All of them."

And then the lights flickered off.

Rayner's shadow stepped out from behind him, no longer confined to his shape by the cursed light. The Still and Lightless Beast within it back handed the Daycare Attendant away before it could react, landing in a useless clump of cracked plastic and broken metal. Rayner's pearly whites pierced the darkness as he pondered what to do with the children. He could tell they were screaming, but the Darkness devoured their cries before they could reach his ears. There would be no one coming to save them.

He'd take all of them, Rayner decided. That would give him plenty of potential bodies to choose from and plenty of fear to feed the Night with. The leftovers would make good sacrifices if nothing else. He took a moment to drink in their fear. The fear of children often lacked the age and refined taste that the fear of adults had. It was why he much preferred the terror of their parents, salted by the grief of missing children that would likely never see the light of day again. The fear of children was like water, refreshing if he'd had nothing else that day, but ultimately tasteless. When Rayner pondered how the parents would react to finding their kids absent from the daycare, he could almost taste the resulting grief, despair, and unholy mixture of hope and fear that would inspire a delicious life long terror in their souls. Like a fine wine, nine years in the making. Or however long these brats had been alive.

Rayner locked eyes with one of the children, one of the few who'd resorted to mute, terrified staring rather than screaming and fleeing, and marched forward to grab him... when something grabbed a hold of his arm. Something metal and cold wrapped around just beneath the wrist, gripping tight enough to nearly form a bruise.

"Intruder.... Rulebreaker..." The machine hissed in his ear, before something steel smashed into his ribs. Rayner could feel them crack from the impact as the blow knocked him into the wall. The bruise he could feel forming on his back was another irritating reminder of how old this body had gotten. How tediously mortal each of his hosts were. But that was the least of his concerns right now. Maxwell glared back at the thing that had the gall to strike him, half expecting to spot the damned jester. He was partially right, but it looked different now. The garish golden hue the defined most of its clothes and body had been traded in for darker blues and silvers. The sun rays on its head had retracted and the attendant's once pale eyes now glowed red with malicious intent. Rayner had to wonder whether they were even the same animatronic, given the completely different paint job.

The attendant's giggling and learing was cut short as the Still and Lightless Beast blindsided it, slamming the Moon into the counter of the security desk. The Attendant growled and lunged back, wrestling with the hulking brute of shadow. Rayner watched with a pragmatic curiosity. It was well known that Fazbear Entertainment's animatronics were at least ten years ahead of the rest of the world, but this degree of functionality peaked his interest. Could this contraption be worth turning into an Avatar of the Dark?

There was some merit to the idea. It was certainly thematically appropriate given the thing's design. And as it was designed to watch over children all alone, there were plenty of opportunities for it to feed in the fear of unsuspecting children. It could do a lot to serve the Night in its position and, from Rayner's experience, the company that owned it would much rather cover up any incidents than scrap the source of the problem.

The Moon put up a good fight for a simple machine. Rayner couldn't recall that last time he'd seen the Beast covered in scratches and cuts, seem the liquid darkness it had for blood leak out onto the floor. But Maxwell was never concerned. The Beast had slaughtered Hunters before. The daycare animatronic was nothing. Metal creaked and plastic cracked as large clawed hands wrapped around the Daycare Attendant's throat. The machine hissed out another guttural "Rulebreaker...." through a sparking voice box before the Beast slammed it through the security desk with a loud crash.

Maxwell approached the sparking, whirring heap of parts the Moon had become, calling off the Beast with an offhand wave. He would not be using this name and face for much longer, so the fact that the Attendant had one to tie to this incident was nothing. The Night would appreciate how this encounter had thoroughly marked a new potential Avatar for it and would further appreciate the feasts of Fear that this creature would provide it. There was no point in trashing the animatronic beyond repair. Simply let the darkness take hold of its functions and let it serve the night as it may.

Neither the guests, nor the staff would see or hear the children leave as creatures of the Dark dragged them from the building. The blackout stunted their sight to a supernatural degree and the night would devour their cries. As far as the world knew, there was simply no way for all nine kids to have disappeared. There was only a blackout and then they were all gone, along with Maxwell Rayner.

~

Vanessa sighed after taking another puff her cigarette. The flame of it was one of the few things lighting the Parts and Services area right now. The blackout earlier had burst most of the lights in the building and the public areas right now took priority in the repairs. Her protests to management that she could hardly be expected to repair the Daycare Attendant in the dark went unheard, so all she had to work with was a lighter, a flashlight, and a smoking habit she really ought to drop if she wanted to keep her job. All the actually trained engineers were busy fixing lights and checking wiring and fuses around the building to determine what could've caused the blackout, so that left her the job of getting the Daycare Attendant in working order again.

Thankfully, they seemed to be just short of a Bonnie situation. Whatever had done this to Sun hadn't damaged anything vital. The AI's mainframe and operating systems were untouched, so that just left repairing the body and inserting a new voice box. Vanessa looked the old voice box over after pulling it free from the wiring. If she didn't know any better, she'd swear it had been crushed by hand. She considered asking Monty later, but she couldn't think of any motive he'd have to do this.

Sun sprang to life suddenly and grabbed her by the arm. "Lights on! Lights on!" He shouted, nearly sending Vanessa stumbling over in shock.

"Gah! Sun, what the hell! How are you even functioning?"

There were a lot of reasons Sun shouldn't be on right now. The pitch blackness of the room should've activated Moon for starters and he couldn't possibly be yelling at her without a voicebox. Even with Vanessa's flashlight, she could barely see his face. Darkness seemed to creep out of the corners of his smile.

"Keep the lights on! I don't want to see him again...."

That was all Sun could say before once again powering down.

-

(Yes, I know timeline wise this makes no sense. Just go with it. Rayner dies in 2017 and the Pizzaplex opens far after that. Just... go with it.)

[murderandcoffee]

dark avatars will see a pitch black so deep it erases even the memory of light and ask "is anyone else gonna worship at this sable altar?" and then not wait for an answer

[bigautomaton]

being well aware that blue light triggers migraines for me and still turning off every other light in the room and listening to third wave ska covers like that's not gonna hurt me while working on this 30-min cool down of -checking my sticky note- The Still And Lightless Beast

psa to not stare at the screen for a long time especially if that's straight up just Blue Light that shit hurts

[3y3-see-you]

did u know that in the magnus archives dating sim once u become an avatar u can fuck both The Piper and the Still and Lightless Beast… much 2 consider…

You can play it here: https://dashingdon.com/play/sazandorable/archives-sim/mygame/index.php

[beeapocalypse]

oh tma is nipping at my heels. i miss the extinction

[sparky-is-spiders]

Okay lets get some things straight:

- Somewhere out in the TMA world there’s a desolation avatar that’s just. A dragon. Like just a whole fire-breathing dragon.

- The Still and Lightless Beast has probably never been seen BUT it’s a big lizard. It has a long snout and shoulder spikes. And scutes. And is generally very Lizard. Legs like a dinosaur tho.

- There are multiple snake-themed avatars. For multiple fears. I know they’re never mentioned but I know that they Exist and are Canon

- That season 2 statement from a diver is about someone who saw a sea serpent specifically

- The main point is that reptiles are Very Important to the TMA fear landscape and I will die on this hill.

[fellpyrean]

Advent Statement 6 - Shadow Puppet

oh boy we goin’. The original halfway point! I believe this one is actually a couple ideas I ended up fusing into one since I felt like some of the nuggets I had before couldn’t quite stand on their own? 

No particular warnings on this one I don’t think; general canon-typical violence and I suppose possession of a sort? 

Ah, almost forgot: this one is on ao3! Click here if you’d prefer to read over there! 

___________________________________________________________

I didn’t know my grandfather. 

I never really thought about it before, but  I’ve. Had to realize some things very quickly, you know? Largely that the man I thought he was? Has nothing to do with who he actually was, or what kind of life he lived. I didn’t know, and I don’t think I want to look. Not sure I have a choice now, though.  

He died last year. Outlasted my grandmother, which was surprising. Kind of thought she’d keep going to 103 out of spite; some old ladies are like that, you know. But no. She went quietly in her sleep a few years back, which left my grandfather alone in that big, old house. We still talked. I’m not going to pretend I visited a lot, because I didn’t. Once I moved out from my parent’s house, I went west and they all stayed put. I really only saw them when I could afford to fly out every couple years, with a few phone calls in between for the holidays. 

But he seemed happy. 

It came as an honest shock when he died, too. He’d been trucking along cheerful as ever, excited about his grilling, his gun collection and trips to the shooting range until the day he left. And, shocking as that was, probably the bigger surprise came when I was told he’d left me his house. 

His son was still alive. My father. And I mean, they got on alright, so me taking the house felt a bit like getting involved in some family drama in the final act without a clue of the script that had come before, but, I mean. I still did it. Things weren’t really working out where I was, I did kind of miss everyone, and I won’t lie, it felt really good to screw my dad out of something for once. 

It took about a month before I managed to tie up the loose ends and fly back out and take stock on my freshly inherited house. It seemed a lot smaller than I remembered, though it wasn’t small by any means. Just that the last time I’d spent time in it, I’d been maybe seven or eight. The front door had two glass windows on either side, and a landing with a high, vaulted ceiling and a bright, dusty light that cast nice, crisp shadows onto the walls - and above that, an overlook from the second story. I remembered they used to keep plants up there, since the sunlight spilled through the windows in the afternoon and made the whole space feel warm, open and bright. Welcoming. 

It was just kind of dark then, of course. My flight hadn’t been early or on time. I ditched my bags by the front door and just went through the house, flicking on lights as I walked along, and paused here and there to admire the photos on the wall. He’d always liked to take pictures. I think if I’d asked he would have set up a dark room honestly; that was just how he was with me. He even got me a telescope once. He was always so eager to have me join him in his hobbies, but I was a kid, and poking around in the dark wasn’t as exciting as video games. 

The house was a bit of a cluttered mess, but it was nice. Seeing these relics of his, left behind. Almost felt like I’d turn the corner and he’d be waiting there in the kitchen with a cup of black coffee, but, no. That was dark and empty too, and the stairs to go up were even darker. I never liked those stairs as a kid. The switch to turn on their light was half way up, which meant either a mad dash into the dark or a mad dash out of it if I was the last one to go to bed at night, or if I’d snuck down for a drink. My grandfather eventually stuck nightlights at either end, but I would still always run like mad. 

I joked that it was so nothing would catch me. I was too fast for it, I’d say proudly, and my grandfather would always chuckle with a little too much cheer. I just thought he appreciated my bountiful wit.

The light wavered a little as I headed upstairs, but stayed on. It was honestly a little strange heading up. It was… so quiet, and the shadows so thick, clinging to the edges of the light. It looked a lot like a film effect; some high contrast trick, to make the lights look brighter and the shadows so, so much darker than they should be. 

I actually had a little fun with it when I got to the top of the stairs. It reminded me of when I was small. We’d lived here for a while, my parents and me, when we’d first moved and money was tight. It was a big house and my grandparents were happy to have us along. I was given a big room above the garage, and oh, did I love it. 

And I remembered, standing there at the top of the stairs, that I used to love turning on the flashlight in the dark and playing with shadow puppets across the ceiling. My grandfather taught me. 

I liked making dogs the best. 

I made one then, too. Just a simple thing. Thumb up, forefinger tucked. The rest formed its, hah, its fearsome maw. They were always so crisp here, I recalled. No matter what odd eagles or rabbits I cast flying or running across the spackled ceiling, they were special. Vivid. 

Even that simple dog I cast then, barking idly at the edges of the shadow, seemed livelier than normal. 

It put me in a nostalgic mood. I mean, I already was, given that, you know, this was my dearly departed and beloved grandfather’s house, but it made me feel young again. Small and smiling on just another normal night as I played with shadow puppets on the walls.

I headed to what had been my room, all those years ago. The hallway was utterly dark - each side of the hall dotted with closed doors, locked, and the switch busted - and barely a sliver of light came from beneath the door to my old room. It honestly wasn’t all that different from when I’d lived there; the bed was gone, but when I looked up at the ceiling, I saw the cheap, glow in the dark stars that I’d stuck there more than a decade before still stubbornly clinging to the paint, and the old couches I used to roll across were still here, too. 

That light worked. Which I was glad for, because, admittedly, I was feeling a little spooked. It felt like something was waiting in the dark. The moonlight was so thin; it only helped the tree branches to cast shadows like grasping claws across the room, chaotic and tangled and absolutely unnerving when the wind rustled through them. I always thought those shadows would be all too happy to catch me as a kid. But it was light now, and the house was aglow with every switch I’d left on in my wake. It was practically cozy. I mean, minus the hallway right outside my room. 

I let myself wander the room for a little bit, finding my old left-behind marks before I called it a night, fetched my bags, and decided to crash on the least destroyed of the old couches. There was a lot of work to be done, and I sure wasn’t doing it tonight. 

It was maybe something like five days before something happened.

Just long enough for me to spend some time in nostalgic reminiscence before moving on to the simple fact that the house needed cleaning out, and I realized I didn’t have any of the keys for the locked rooms. I had the front and back door keys, of course, but anything on the interior was just… gone. I had some suspicions about that. 

The house keys had been given, at first, to my aunt - my grandfather’s sister - who had a very good relationship with a certain childish, spiteful little man who had made no secret how irritated he was at being skipped over on something he’d already regarded as his own. It seemed like just the kind of thing he’d do; make sure the legal keys were handed over, and then sneer at the idea he’d do something as petty as taking the ones for all the interior doors. I didn’t doubt that he still had them, but I can be petty too, and I had no desire to call him up and plead or whatever he’d want from me. 

Sooo, I, uh. Pulled up a video and found some of my grandmother’s hair pins in a bathroom drawer and picked the locks. They were all old and I mean, I’d be replacing them anyway, so I maybe busted a couple. Which included the real kicker; the door to my grandfather’s gun room. It was a lot darker than I thought it’d be when I first stepped inside and fumbled at the wall, shocked at the absolute blackness - I knew it had a window in there, so it was not a place I expected to be that dark. 

Turned out, at some point, my grandfather had put blackout curtains over the window. Had stapled those curtains tight to the wall.  

The bigger surprise was that every single gun my grandfather owned was scattered on top of the wooden table tops that bordered the room. Now, this was weird. As far as I knew he hadn’t died while cleaning them and he’d always been a real stickler about gun safety. He always kept this room locked, for one, and those guns were always, always kept inside the safe. One of those enormous things; so big and heavy he’d had to have the floor reinforced to put it upstairs, and the front of it emblazoned around the massive combination lock in old font with warnings for gunpowder. He’d told me it was so nobody decided to try and blast the thing open. 

But now, each and every one was strewn around, like he’d pulled them all out in a hurry. 

And the safe was locked. 

I’m wasn’t sure if it was worse that it was locked or not, on first sight. I mean, if it had been open, that would have kind of fit with the idea that maybe he had died up there while admiring his collection. Admiring it in, uh. A haphazard mess. But it being locked implied that there was still something inside the safe. And I had… no idea what it would be. Logical brain said, very helpfully, that it was probably just more guns. Maybe he’d just gotten a lot more than would ever fit in the safe when he got older, and what with his wife gone and him being the only one in the house just. Threw safety to the winds and figured a single locked door was enough. 

So why were his guns, some of his favorite things, strewn around like garbage? No idea! It’s argument was, as you can see, pretty thin, but what else could have been in there? My world view still had a few minutes left in its lifespan after all. 

I headed over to the safe, wanting to give the handle a tug and check it out, when uh. When the safe growled. Low and throaty and deep, and oh, did it send a chill up my spine. And then something began scratching and clawing at the inside, again and again, with enough force that the safe shook. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said how big and heavy that thing was. You’d need serious professional movers to get the thing out with serious professional equipment, and there was something inside it snarling and scrabbling so furiously that it made the safe tremble and my blood run cold. 

I could hear its claws scraping through metal. I had the wildest, clearest thought that whatever was in there - evidently alive and well after being locked inside a safe for over a month - it could absolutely get out if it just kept it up. 

So why hadn’t it tried to get out before? 

The light flickered. 

And I backed up, reached out, and turned off the light. 

The growling stopped almost immediately. 

Well, as you may imagine, I handled this like any adult would. I shut the door, wedged a chair I dragged out of my old room under the regrettably busted handle, went downstairs and had a truly awful gin and tonic. 

I did not like gin and tonic and I still do not. I like it less now, actually. 

But a couple large gin and tonics in, I came up with a plan. 

I would ignore it. Ta da~ 

It would be someone else’s problem. I would get a very nice lock. I would take out the light. Hell, maybe I could just take out the door entirely and wall it up and make an incredibly cursed forgotten room. I rather liked that idea. I told it to the door when I went back upstairs I think. 

I need you to understand that I was… very, very drunk at that point. A drunk person is never a great measure of their own level of drunk, but from what I remember… yeah, I was smashed. 

I left the locked and makeshift barricaded door alone and staggered back to my room and slept it off and then continued on with my peerless plan of Just Ignore It™.

I never bothered to examine any implications of my grandfather leaving me a safe with some kind of creature locked inside it, because I had other things to do. There were some nights where I would pull out that gin and drink again, though. The room and the safe were both quiet as long as I didn’t turn on any lights in the hall, so I started… I mean, humans are very adaptable, so I started drinking outside that room. I sat in the chair, actually. 

As long as it was dark, it didn’t care, so it was fine. And when it growled, faint and rumbling, when I turned on a flashlight, I turned it into something of a game? 

It was fine with candlelight. It only grumbled at that. So, as you do, I sat there with my candle and my gin and rambled at it. At some point it occurred to me that the growling sounded like a very large dog, so I started… Talking to it in that baby voice you use with pets. Making shadow puppets at it. It would growl and I would laugh and make my little shadow puppet dog bark and growl back. 

I’m not saying this was a smart thing to do. Or maybe it was. As far as I knew, it was locked up nice and tight. It even stopped growling as much after a while. It sounded more… curious than anything? Confused why this drunk dumbass hadn’t left screaming yet? I’m pretty sure it would have actually stayed fine and my bricking it up plan was actually good, but, well. Some people can’t leave well enough alone. 

I went out one afternoon. I had things to take to the dump, which was a bit of a drive, and on the way back I decided to grab some Mexican food from this restaurant down the street, so I got back well after dark, only to see the front door hanging open and an awful lot of dark, splashing stains leading off through the gravel walk and up to the street. They were smeared. Like something had thrashed desperately in the grass as it fled. 

This was not what I had in mind when I got my bag of tamales to go.  

I was tired, cranky, and my house was probably a… A what? A murder scene? Attempted murder scene?   

I’d just about dialed 911 to share my now very bad night with someone else when I thought of… upstairs. Of the door I’d not bothered fixing the lock to, and all the guns I’d never bothered moving. Of the safe I didn’t have the key or the combination to, but someone else did. I went very still. 

I turned back to the grass and raised my phone. The flashlight blazed white-bright in the dark, making all-too-clear the dark, dark red on the grass. And the single, familiar pistol that gleamed, smeared in blood, dropped just off the gravel. Of bullet holes I spotted, peppering the old, wooden beams that framed the porch. 

Of a dark, ink-black stain without a single hint of red that oozed across the landing tiles. 

And a growl that rose in instant, murderous fury. 

The light on my phone died. Flicked out like a snuffed candle and everything went black. It shouldn’t have been that dark. The moon was out. The neighbor’s houses were only a yard away. But in that moment, it was all gone. All that was left was a sea of pitch-dark shadow, so dark your eyes start fooling you. Because there must have been something to see. 

I could hear it. 

The growing, low snarl. The click of claws on cement. The crunch of footsteps stalking across gravel. 

I know I didn’t see it, but my eyes… invented something for me to see. 

A hound. Long and lanky, with sharp, pricked ears. 

Like the ones I made puppets of on the wall. 

It… hurt to look at. Its shape blurred at the edges, impossibly blacker-black than the void around it, and I knew what I was seeing was useless, so I. Closed my eyes. 

Its heavy, panting growls came closer and closer. I was honestly terrified. I’d been shoving back how scared I was of this thing while I joked about sealing it up behind a little devil door or a brick wall through a haze of alcohol, and I hadn’t let myself consider what would happen if it did get out. 

I felt its cold, cold breath on my hands. Like ice. Like a. A pressure that wrapped around me as I stood there, my eyes shut tight against the dark. And then it. It burned. I couldn’t move, couldn’t pull away as my arm burst into absolute agony, like a million needles sinking into the flesh and burrowing beneath it. As that ice cold held me absolutely still, fixed in place as well as a bug with a pin, and sank horrid, frigid fangs into me, again and again, until it felt like every bone in my body was freezing inside me, until the pain rose so high that I couldn’t think of anything else.

A-And then it was gone. I crumpled to the ground, my breath frosty on my lips, and I just lay there, shivering. 

It took me a while to realize I could see again. To realize there were stars and a moon in the cloud-streaked summer sky above and neighboring porch lights and their wreaths of moths. That I should feel warmth coming back. But… it didn’t. It was all gone. And then I felt myself move. It wasn’t me moving. And it wasn’t like someone pulled any strings. It was like. Like I felt that cold touch on me, sliding over my skin, and my body moved with it. 

And as I stood, I happened to catch a glimpse of my shadow. 

It wasn’t mine anymore. 

My shadow had become that thing. And all I could do was watch as it puppeted me back inside, my steps in time with its own. 

Do you want to know the craziest thing about this? I mean, aside from the fact that my shadow is a monster now that takes my body on joyrides. That there’s a goddamn cult in my grandfather’s hometown, and they were so, so happy to see me when my shadow dragged me to meet them. 

That night? It took me inside. It brought me up to the chair in front of its room. The door was open, the safe yawning wide. Guns littered the stairs and bullet holes peppered the walls. 

It sat me in that chair and lit the candle, and made shadow puppets with my hands. 

Eagles, rabbits. And a pair of dogs. 

A small one and a big one. Running around until it brought them together, and they merged into one. 

[anonimusunnoaniswriting]

𝑺𝒖𝒌𝒖𝒏𝒂 𝑨𝒔𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆 𝑻𝒐 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝑺𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝑻𝒐 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝑮𝒊𝒓𝒍 𝑨𝒍𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒆 (𝑫𝑬𝑨𝑫 𝑫𝑶𝑽𝑬) MDNI 18+

In a world where curses rule and jujutsu sorcery is near dead, you caught the eye of Sukuna Ryomen. Everyone thought you would tame the beast, but boy were they wrong...

Warnings: rough, brutal, gore, blood, murder, curse sukuna, true form sukuna. Minors, blank and ageless blogs will be blocked.

Read the original here

His fingers dripped with the blood of the man who used to be your boss. Crimson droplets found their way down his hands, to his forearms, in pretty dark rivulets caressing the muscles that were straining under his skin.

Even in the darkness of the lightless office, the terror on the man's face was visible.

The same man who’d been chastising you for days now could only drop to his knees and beg for dear life.

“Please–please–I’ll never say a word to her again. Please I’ll leave, I won’t come back. I’ll—”

Sukuna cut him off with a swift kick to the head. There was a sickening crunch where his calf met the skull and the man’s already sorry figure slumped over on the floor.

“You’re right about that. You won’t be saying a single word to her ever again. And you won’t be coming back. I’ll make sure of that right here.” Sukuna reached out and lifted the man by his throat, crushing his windpipe like it was made of eggshell.

Blood squirted out, hitting Sukuna in the face, and dripped onto the floor – everywhere but he didn't flinch.

The Curse finished off the man in front of him by plunging a hand into his abdomen and ripping out organs, flesh, muscle — anything that dared to come in the rampage path of his fingers.

He let go, dropping the carcass into a heap on the floor.

The whole time Sukuna worked, you stared at him. He took care of the problem that had sent you home irritable and crying for the past month, made your anxiety spike several notches, and left you questioning your self-worth. You were incredibly aroused by him. Here, in the little office your boss kept reprimanding you in, he had finally got what he deserved, all thanks to the man in front of you.

Your legs moved on their own and you found yourself walking upto the man. A silent rage stormed just below the still facade he kept up for your sake. “He dared to hurt what is mine…” Sukuna’s voice rumbled like the low call of thunder.

“Ryo…” you called out softly.

A bloody hand shot out and grabbed you by the hair, pulling you into his tight embrace. “He dared hurt what is mine!” Sukuna roared.

Sukuna groped you from below, lifting you up to his face with ease. His fingers dug into the soft fat of your ass and he squeezed it territorially.

The fluorescent light of the street lamp outside lit a side of his face. Sukuna in his true form towered over you – a hulking figure that was as large as he was strong.

But the gentleness with which he kissed you was nothing like his visage. His free hands tangled in your hair, smearing blood all over you, but you didn't care. Nothing mattered right now but him.

Sukuna ripped your dress in half from the front, laying you bare in front of him. His mouth attacked the skin of your chest, sucking and nipping at your tits.

“You're – kiss – fucking – kiss – MINE!” His hands grabbed your breasts and he sucked and licked at your nipples. Below, the mouth on his stomach seemed to have woken, and his large tongue was pushing your panties aside and prodding at your weeping cunt.

The torn fabric fluttered about you when Sukuna lifted you onto your ex-boss’ desk. He cleared it with a sweep of his arms, the monitor and papers crashing into the floor in a messy heap.

Sukuna spat on your clit, and with two fingers rubbed against it hard. His two cocks were already at attention, and all he had to do was to part his robe to sink himself into you.

The pull was unbelievable. Your rim burnt struggling to take him. But Sukuna was merciless. He lowered his head with an animalistic growl and bit at your shoulder. You screamed in pain coupled with a confused pleasure. Something warm and thick trickled down your back, and you realised that Sukuna had broken skin. His tongue lapped at the blood dripping from you.

Sukuna’s second cock brushed against your clit with each thrust and you felt your pussy dripping with need.

No words were exchanged. Just a cry from you and Sukuna’s mouth found yours. He captured your lips in a heated kiss – all tongue and teeth.

His hands kneaded at your breasts, where a tongue encircled your nipple, working in tandem with his fingers to tease and tweak the soft fat.

“Ryo…” you tried again.

“Shh, let me take care of you.” He groaned into your mouth. “Such a good little pet. All for me. Gonna fill you up with my seed. Make you carry my heir.”

“Ryo please…” you begged. What for, you didn't know, but it pleased him.

He smiled and lifted you. Using your body like a toy, he slammed you onto his cock over and over. Your tits swung in his face and the sight made him feel his release was near. He slammed you back on the table and climbed on top on all fours, lifting your legs over his shoulders as he thrust into you with renewed vigour.

You heard a creak under you, and Sukuna lifted you into his arms, thrusting deep inside where his cock jerked, spilling his come in you. In between your two bodies, his second cock also squirted out a sticky white come that coated your tummies.

Despite being covered in his release and blood, and your clothes tattered, Sukuma lifted you in his arms and held you close.

“No man will ever hurt you again, my queen.”

He walked out, stepping on the remains of your ex-boss. The room was in shambles – table broken, papers scattered.

But you didn't need to bother. Your shitty boss wouldn't be telling you off for it after all...

AN: HI. THIS WAS SELF INDULGENT. BYE.

Big thanks to @ominouslywritinginmyhead for proofing and beta

[yanderenightmare]

would love to hear any thoughts you have of what you think sukuna was like with a darling 1000 years ago, in the past before he became a curse

Ryomen Sukuna

TW: noncon, death of reader, fluff to angst

fem reader

Back when you were both little, Sukuna was just a village clown – a little rascal old farmers would shout at after he’d set their farm animals loose, skipping down the dirt roads with a sun-swallowing grin as they chased him away with their cane in the air.

He was the one with the unruly hair, bruised hands, and scuffed knees who’d steal bread from the baker and set the temple on fire. The one everyone knew to suspect but who managed to slip away somehow, always scot-free.

And you were his little cheerleader. Always hiding your giggle behind two hands, knowing it wasn’t ladylike of you to encourage him.

But he’d pull shenanigans just to make you smile. Often acting scary, playing in the shadows before popping out with a roar, scaring all the other children around the campfire, and getting scolded by the teachers. He’d pout when put in a timeout, running away and pulling you by the wrist to keep him company while the whole village searched for the two of you long into the night.

He'd found a spot for just the two of you. A cavern behind a veil of green, with a crack in the ceiling that allowed the moon to spill in, just bright enough to still let Spiderlillies bloom. He'd make a small fire, and you’d play shadow puppets on the rock. You’d make pine people and play the villagers while he’d put bird skulls on his fingers and act as the village monster.

Your father didn’t approve of him. Especially as the two of you got older with marriage arrangements fast approaching. Like always, it was unladylike of you to run around with the boy who never seemed to grow up.

You’d always loved the same person, but it wasn’t up to you. And soon you’d been promised to someone else.

Sometimes, you wished Sukuna was just a bit different – or, at the least, that he’d act somewhat differently. Maybe then he’d been good enough for you in the eyes of others. In your heart of hearts, you can't help but think that he’s a little selfish for never having tried for your sake, but when he surprises you in the night with those devious eyes and that childish smirk upon his lips, you can never will yourself to say no – let alone keep yourself from smiling and leaping into his arms.

Even on your wedding day, you wondered if he’d come – if only to say one last goodbye. You even selfishly wondered if he’d apologize and tell you he’d wished he’d tried harder, fought, and insisted on being a man who truly deserved you – that he regrets he isn’t the one taking your hand.

But you were a fool.

Maybe it was best he hadn’t, you thought after sitting awhile – a silent tear rolling down your cheek. In your wedding robes with your heart breaking. The maids gush and think it’s just wedding jitters, and you allow them that understanding even though your wedding is the furthest thing from your mind.

Your mother tells you that you’re beautiful, and it’s but a small salve to your aching – but enough to make the tears stop. She wishes you good luck and leaves you with the maids.

It’s only a short moment later that you hear screams. Blood-curdling, dying wails – worse than anything you’d heard in your life.

You follow quickly and find the ceremony in a bloodbath. So many lightless eyes stare blankly toward nothingness, their fine-dressed bodies piled on top of each other on the floor, blood-soaked and ripped limb from limb.

There’s only one thing left standing. Splattered in red blotches and black markings you don’t recognize. It breathes like a beast but stands atop the carnage as though the kills were all for sport.

But somehow… despite the second eyes, you knew that face.

“Sukuna…”

He turned, and you saw the other side of him, a deformed mockery of his once so pretty face. His eyes had gone red, glowing like a wolf in the wild – four of them, you counted now. They all blinked at the same time when looking at you.

You flinched, looking back at the slaughter of your village. Breath shivering. “What have you done?”

 “I’ve ensured no one's left to stand between us- no one to take you away from me- no one to tell me I’m not good enough-”

That isn’t his voice. Those aren’t his words. This isn’t the man you know – not the one you love. Sukuna isn’t a murderer. This was… this was a demon.

You ran. Slipping in your drapes as you pushed yourself forward, heart in your throat with lungs bursting your ribcage. You make it out into the moonlight before he has you pinned in the dewy midnight grass.

He growls something, but you can’t hear it. There’s too much blood rushing past your ears, hot and deafening, as you shake your head – eyes squeezed tight while you claw and kick at the thing that has you pinned.

“Get away- don’t touch me-”

Two of his arms grab your wrists and push them down flat by your head. The other two grab your face – not entirely softly, but much softer than what you’d expect from a monster. 

“Are you gonna tell me I’m not good enough for you too?” His words waft onto your face, warm with the breath that feels so familiar – a taste you’ve swallowed so many times before. 

But it just can’t be him, you deny. “I don’t know you- I don’t know who you are-”

It angers him. His hands strengthen their hold, and you wince as he leans in closer with a sneer. “Sure you do. I’m that village pest you waste your precious time on. The one you can’t be caught with during the day.”

You shake your head again with a cry. “You lie. Sukuna wouldn’t do this. He’s not cruel- he’d never hurt me-”

“You hurt me!” He argues with a roar, cutting you off sharply.

There's a heavy pause.

His lips ghost yours with teeth, making you whimper caught beneath him before he continues kissing you with his words. “Whispering you love me during the night, with your hands and legs wrapped around me like a brazen little whore, before you go and marry someone else in the same fortnight. Who’s the cruel one?”

“It wasn’t my choice-” You deny then, finally acknowledging it’s him but still not daring to open your eyes.

“Tch-” He scoffs callously, bitterly disappointed and judging you just as viciously. “Is that how you console yourself?”

The hands he’d held your face with slipped down your neck, stroking your skin with streaks of wet blood and hot tears, traveling down the dip of your attire with fingers curling around the fabric before tearing it off you.

“Maybe you can seek refuge in that now, as well.”

You killed yourself that same night after he’d had his way with you.

You’ve been dead a thousand years now.

Every year, on the day of your death, he plants a Spiderlilly by his shrine to honor you. Sometimes, he gets the urge to rip them all up, but he just ends up shouting instead.

He can barely remember your smell, your warmth, your face, the size of your hand in his. But still, not remembering the exact feel of you just makes missing you all the more painful.

[nethhiri]

Chapter 54: Saccharine

Warnings: references to violence, menstruation

While you didn’t remember falling asleep, you certainly must have at some point. The thing about being blind was that light couldn’t make it to your brain to tell you what time it was, nor could it regulate your circadian rhythm, so you fell asleep and woke up at random times while your body adjusted to it’s new lightless cycle. You couldn’t tell what time it was, but guessed it was sometime in the early hours of the morning. It was an educated guess based on the hulking beast essentially roaring in your ear with every breath. That and the fact that you were in Killer’s room and Killer wasn’t there. Feeling around the side of the bed opposite Kid, it was still slightly warm. Killer must have just woken up to start making food for the crew.

Usually you would have gone with him to watch the sunrise and share coffee. Thinking about how you would never be able to do that again, for even a split second, sent you back to all the depressing thoughts you were having the previous day. Worse, Killer didn’t bother to wake you, knowing that you couldn’t admire the dawn with him. You would have still wanted to have coffee in his company. You could still do that at the very least.

As you lay in bed, a wave of nausea came over you, followed by the beginnings of a headache. The nausea was easily attributed to the antibiotics you were taking, and the headache could be any number of things: fucked up sleep, dehydration, Kid’s obnoxious snoring. It wasn’t enough to bother you yet. The only thing bothering you at the moment was figuring out how to break free of Kid’s hold so you could go pee. Over the many mornings you had spent with Kid, you were only able to remove him yourself occasionally. More often, Killer would have to rescue you. You were actually a little bit surprised Kid stayed with you for however long you had been asleep. You could tell he still had his clothes on so he must have been there the entire time. 

Your hands searched out Kid’s face. One of them was over his mouth and the other pinched his nose. He twitched a few times and then thrashed to escape your grip for a breath. Instead of releasing you, as you thought he would, he only squeezed you tighter to him with a whine, making the healing wound on your chest twinge uncomfortably. You tried it again. This time, Kid’s own thrashing woke him up when he bucked his head back and hit it against the headboard.

“Ow fuck. What the fuck?” Kid’s groggy voice replaced his snoring. “Can’t ya wake me up in a more pleasant way? Like sittin on my face.”

“I could if you didn’t hold me in a vice grip . Let go of me. Gotta pee.”

When he lazily released you, you rolled on your stomach and scooted down the bed until you felt your feet touch the floor. As you stood up, you felt dizzy, but the feeling passed relatively quickly. You carefully shuffled your way to the bathroom, trying not to trip or run into anything.

As if suddenly realizing you were blind, Kid stumbled out of bed to help. “Shit. Lemme help ya.”

“I’m don’t need help. I’m fine.”

“Shut up and let me- OH shit yer bleeding!”

“Huh?” You felt the bandages on your chest. They were dry. “No I’m not.”

“Not there. Uh it’s- yer bleeding from-“ Kid pointed, again forgetting that you couldn't see.

“Oh.”

It was something that you hadn’t experienced in quite some time. And you would have been perfectly fine without experiencing it ever again. The familiar feeling of warm blood sliding out from your vagina to trickle down your leg. You might have noticed sooner if you had on panties. The cool wet feeling against your crotch was more noticeable than body temperature blood on skin.

“Are ya okay? Are ya hurt?!”

Kid broke out in a sweat when his eyes fell upon the dark red, clotty blood clinging to your inner thighs. He had pushed a lot of the bad thoughts about what had been done to you out of his mind, but they came flooding back in at the sight. His mind swam and he felt sick wondering if you had internal injuries. Although he had seen a fraction of your trauma firsthand, he knew whatever happened off camera was worse. And he felt sicker knowing that it was his fault. If he hadn’t opened his big mouth, maybe the worst of it wouldn’t have happened. Kid was about to run and fetch Killer for help, but you stopped him.

Putting the nausea, headache, and dizziness together, it all made sense. “No. I think… it’s my period?” 

It couldn't be internal lacerations or anything of that nature because you had healed all the injuries that weren't infected somewhat indiscriminately, including any tears you had in the perineal area and anal and vaginal canals. What you didn't understand was how you were bleeding. Ever since the injury that caused your uterus to put out of commission, you hadn't experienced menstruation. It must have been your healing. You had inadvertently healed the scarring in your uterus. The hormones you had been given in captivity had made whatever endometrium you had left thicken in preparation for an egg to implant. The absence of them had caused the lining to slough, and now that your uterus had a patent cavity, it was able to exit. The dull ache of a cramp solidified your theory. You didn't really remember how your periods used to be, but how bad could it have been if you couldn't remember?

"Didn't think ya got those anymore." Kid put his hand on your shoulder to steer you to the bathroom, thinking about the misunderstanding where he thought he had gotten you pregnant in the past. 

"I think I accidentally healed that old injury that kept it from happening." You cleaned up your thighs with some toilet paper. "Can you ask one of the girls for a tampon or pad or something?"

Kid shuffled his feet. "Uh... how?"

"With words." You didn't hear him move. "Well? Get moving." The sound of grumbling and reluctant footsteps faded off as Kid left. 

You wished you could blame your recent emotional distress on this, but you knew it was the trauma manifesting. His sure did take his time. You waited on the toilet for a while before deciding to give your healing another shot. Although you still didn't feel well, part of it could be attributed to your cycle. Focusing on your chest, you willed your power to pull the skin across the scabbed over wound. Your hands lay on your chest to map your progress by poking to see which areas still hurt. Only a small area remained. Even so, you didn't have the energy to finish the job. As you waited, the cramps got slightly more intense.

The door opened and you called, "Kid?" 

"And Killer." You heard the first-mate answer.

After taking care of your bleeding issue with whatever Kid could scrounge up, you let Killer change your bandages. You sat on the edge of Killer's bed, still in his shirt, now with some of his boxers on too. 

"You were able to heal more? It looks much better." 

You nodded with a pained expression, as another, stronger cramp took hold. 

"Here." Killer put something warm in your hands, curling them around a cup. 

You sniffed it. "You brought me coffee?"

"And I brought ya breakfast," Kid's voice interrupted.

Your stomach was rumbling in a bad way. "I think I better pass. But it was thoughtful of you to bring a plate."

"Eh Killer asked me to. But I brought yer pussy shit!"

You snorted. "Yes. Good boy. Thanks for bringing my 'pussy shit'." You made air quotes. It was clear that Kid wanted a little praise for helping. Though you would put money on it that Heat actually had to ask the girls for feminine products and Kid was too embarrassed.

"Can I eat this then?" Kid was not about to waste Killer's cooking. 

"Knock yourself out." 

"Sweet." Kid's feet headed toward the door. "I'm gonna be in the shop." He slowed down and trotted back toward you to press a kiss on your cheek. "Feel better, bunny." Kid practically skipped out of the room. 

Your cheeks were hot as he called you by the pet name he normally reserved for more intimate times. It was just Killer there, but still. You lifted the coffee he brought you to your mouth and blew on the surface so you wouldn't burn your tongue, scooting back on the bed so that you could lean against the headboard and have your legs out. The mug was nice and warm. After taking a few sips, you placed it right over your lower stomach to ease the cramps, which were rolling in more frequently and worse. You heard the drag of a mug from the side table and felt the bed dip. Then there was an arm around you, pulling you in to lean on Killer's side. You heard him take a drink.

"You didn't have your coffee yet?"

"I wanted to share it with you. Like we always do." 

"Minus the sunrise."

"Got it covered, darlin." There was the sound of paper unfolding. Killer cleared his throat. "Dark blue, purpley-pink, coral, bright orange, pale yellow, sky blue. Four fish jumps, two seagulls, one pelican, one mama whale and baby, and one sea king."

You felt guilty about earlier when you thought that he had done your thing by himself. You didn't expect this. This went beyond a nice gesture. This was loving. He watched the sunrise for the both of you and wrote everything down? You had to turn your face from him and say something snarky so you didn't tear up. "You're lying about the sea king." 

"I'm not. Swear on Kid's life." 

You humphed. "Not fair." They were always a sight to behold, no matter how many you had seen.

The two of you sat in silence for a while, just enjoying the time together. You sipped your coffee until there was nothing left. Killer made it exactly how you liked it. He took the empty mug from you and set it on the side table. Drinking coffee on an empty, mildly upset stomach was not the best thing to do, but it was the only thing you thought you could keep down for now. Killer rubbed your arm with his fingers in light circles. 

"Kid seems to be in an uncharacteristically good mood lately," you mused. He hadn't even stomped once since you had been better.

"He's relieved that you're alive." Killer paused. "No one was sure if we would get you back. I think we convinced ourselves that when, if, we found you, it would be too late. If we did that, then we couldn't be disappointed if that was exactly the case. Any outcome that ended with you being alive was more than we could have dared hope for. Everyone wanted to believe we would find you alive, but we were too scared that we would be let down." His arm tightened around you. "Sorry. I didn't mean to get heavy."

"I didn't think... everyone cared that much. I mean you and Kid... yeah, but everyone else?" 

"You are part of the crew. The crew is our family. You are our family." Killer paused. "If it were Quincy or Emma, wouldn't you feel the same?" 

"Yeah... but I haven't been a part of the crew for as long. I'm not as integrated."

"What are you talking about? You've healed every single person on this ship at some point. You've fought for every single person on this ship and risked your life more than once." In a more gentle tone, Killer added, "When are you going to accept that you are worthy of being loved? And I'm not only talking about Kid and I." He meant them, and Heat, Wire, all your friends in the crew, everyone. 

You knew Killer was right. There was something inside you that put up a barrier against fully feeling like part of the crew. It protected you in case one day they decided otherwise. Then you wouldn't feel as heartbroken. It had started to crumble not so long ago, but the deceptive words of Warthin had built part of it back up again. Something Killer said had caught your attention.

"Kid and you?" 

In the silence that followed, you wish you had your vision back. Killer was probably so red he was purple. 

"Uh, well." Killer paused in his discomfort. "Yeah. I was... gonna tell you. I wanted to tell you." 

You smiled softly. "You didn't have to say it. You show it with everything you do. But... It's still nice to hear." There was a long pause. "That's your cue to say it." You put a hand behind your ear playfully. 

"I guess I have no choice. I have to compete with your three other boyfriends." 

"Huh? Three?"

Killer chuckled. "That's what you said in your sleep, when I was taking care of you." 

"I wonder what I meant by that."

"Probably wishful thinking. I think Wire and Heat would find it very amusing," Killer teased.

"I don't need eyes to kick your ass, Massacre Soldier."

Killer leaned down and nuzzled his face into your neck. "I love you, little breadcrumb." He kissed your cheek. 

______________________________________________________________

Several hours later, you were writhing in pain. Kid took you to his cabin to keep you company while Killer attend to his own duties. They both thought it best not to leave you alone with your thoughts, and for that you were grateful. Kid sat at the desk in his room and was working on some schematics or maybe charting. You couldn't tell, but you could hear the sound of his pencil furiously working. During this, Kid kept asking if you were ok and you kept replying that you were fine, but your clipped tone suggested otherwise. There was no more pain medication, not even the weak stuff. It had been used on you when you were unconscious. Kid didn't like watching you toss and turn, switching from fetal position one direction to the other, trying to get comfortable. 

"Are you sure I can't get you-"

You half growled. "Get me heat and some fucking chocolate if it will make you shut up."

All the years that you had gone without menstruating seemed to catch up at once, hitting you with every missed cramp and migraine, plus interest. Between the cramping and your lower back aching, it felt like someone was spearing you through the middle. You could feel Kid's worry seeping into you from across the room and it annoyed you. This was nothing compared to what you had endured, and yet it knocked you flat on your back. You couldn't fight it with fists. If you had full use of your devil fruit, you could end it. Maybe tomorrow would be the day. You knew you shouldn't snap at Kid and you were guilty about it. The pain of the migraine you were now experiencing and the cramps squeezing the life out of you interfered with your ability to be nice. If Kid wanted to help so badly, then so be it. He could get you a warm pack and one of your cravings. 

A few minutes later, Kid returned. "Alright, lass. I brought Heat and I didn't know what kind of chocolate ya wanted, so I brought all of it."

"What do you mean you brought Heat? I meant like a warm compress or something."

"Oh. Heat, ya can lea-"

"No! He'll do." You rolled to make room on Kid's bed. "Come." You patted the vacancy.

Heat stiffly got in beside you, unsure of the situation. He hadn't seen much of you since you returned. In fact, the last he saw you, you were near-dead on a gurney in the infirmary. This was improvement. He still didn't want to hurt you by accident, or, more likely, get hurt by you. You were giving him such a mean look, especially for someone with no eyes.

"Hands." You demanded. When he didn't move fast enough, you repeated,"Hands!" 

Heat hurriedly gave you both of his hands. You slapped one on your lower back, and the other on your lower stomach, making a sandwich of yourself. Finally, his higher than normal body temperature started to soothe your pains. He had to lay on his side to keep his hands in place. You groaned as your aches grew duller. Normally, Heat would have been very into you ordering him around. He was too intimidated to have horny thoughts. Nor was it the right time to. When your breathing slowed and it seemed as if you were asleep. Heat thought about getting up. 

"Boss," Heat whispered, "I'm scared to move."

"You should be," you said, definitely not asleep.

Kid cackled from across the room.

"Keep it down! My fuckin head is killing me." 

Kid choked his laugh back. "My bad, doll." 

There was a subtle jiggle in his hands as Heat silently laughed at his captain getting scolded. You put your hands on top of his, pressing it harder into your gut. 

"Make them hotter," you told Heat.

"I can't control my body temperature." 

You grumbled your displeasure. 

Later, as you started feeling better, you dismissed Heat so he could go do his actual tasks for the day. Killer brought you lunch, which you weren't hungry for because you had been snacking on chocolate all day. Killer was displeased that Kid let you eat that much. In Kid's defense, he couldn't say no to you. You looked so cute curled up snuggled in his sheets and he liked that you were dependent on him. During breaks between sketching, Kid would sit next to you and rub your back or offer to get you something. Even Wire dropped by to "see if Kid needed anything", but really he wanted to see how you were doing with his own eyes now that he heard you were bouncing back.

In the evening, Killer brought dinner to Kid's cabin for the three of you. Killer did the same thing as he had before after cutting everything up into bite-size pieces. He helped you with the first bites so that you knew where everything was in space. Then, you could do it without his aid. Killer had thought about bringing you soup in a mug so you didn't have to fiddle with utensils, but he knew you wouldn't like getting something different than everyone else because of your disabilities. Plus, it was better that you got some hearty food in you instead of broth. By tomorrow, you could probably use your devil fruit to heal yourself if you had enough energy. 

After dinner, you asked if you could shower. You hadn't done anything to get dirty between the last one and now, but you thought the warm, moist heat would feel good. Your body and Mother Nature were still fighting you, but they had settled down to a tolerable level. Killer would not allow a shower, and certainly not an unsupervised one. They were being extreme in your opinion. It was sweet how much they cared though. And that was how you ended up in the bathtub with both Kid and Killer. The bath was safer since you had to sit, and both of them had to clean off, so it made sense to join you. When you were done cleaning yourself, you sat in front of Killer so he could braid your hair again. You liked how it stayed out of your face and you knew that Killer was a little bit of a perfectionist, so they definitely looked good. 

"So does this mean ya can get pregnant now?"

"Kid!" Killer scolded him. 

"What?! I'm jus curious." 

"My eyes would be rolling, if I had any. Just so you know." You sighed. "Yeah I guess so."

Kid made a noise of understanding. 

"What? Nothing else?"

Killer pulled you into his lap when he was finished braiding your hair. "We'll be more careful in the future. That's all."

"Actually..." You paused, unsure how to proceed. "I was going to use my devil fruit to reverse the healing I did. I don't want to deal with this every month and I'm sure you don't either. And the chance of having a baby..." You shook your head. There was a silence that you didn't know how to interpret without being able to see either of their faces. It was making you nervous. "Is that... okay? Or.... is that something you... might want?" You choked the words out, feeling awkward even saying them. Being a mother and having a family were never items on your radar. Yet, your thoughts on the matter might be swayed if that was something that either of them wanted. They had done a lot for you lately, more than you thought they ever would. 

"Doll, that's not for either of us ta decide." 

Killer wrapped his arms around you in agreement. 

"I can...always reverse that, too. If you change your mind." You shrugged.

"Stop yer worryin about what we want." Kid flicked water at you. 

"Do what you want," Killer added.  

The next day was pretty much the same. You felt like shit when you woke up, but as the day went on, you gradually felt better. And at the end of the day, you were able to fully heal the rest of your chest. You didn't know what would happen if you reverted your uterus to its scarred state before you were done with your period, so you left it alone for the time being. The entire day Kid and Killer periodically switched off checking on you, offering cuddles, idle chat, food, whatever you wanted. It was unlike anything you had experienced before and something you definitely hadn't expected from them, more so Kid. He really did have a soft side, if you were lucky enough to see it. 

That night you were sandwiched between the two of them, as you were most nights. You liked to tuck yourself under Kid's stump and lay on his chest while Killer spooned you. That was exactly how you were positioned now. The pillowy-ness of Kid's chest rivaled your own. Killer refused to answer whose chest he preferred to lay on because he knew whatever he said would start a fight. Killer's hand was draped over you, rubbing your lower stomach, which still had echoing cramps. Kid ran his hand over your braid and gave it a playful tug. 

"I like these." 

"Mhm," you replied sleepily. 

"I'm pretty close to figurin out how to replace yer eye." 

"Are you?"

"Ya might ferget how handsome I am if I don't finish it soon." 

Kid was only joking. How could he know that was a very real fear you had been struggling with? Tears formed at the corners of where your eyelids met and dripped down your face onto Kid. You tried to sniff them back before he could see, yet it only made you cry harder. 

"Hah!? What'd I say?! What's wrong?"

"What if I do forget?" You sniffed. "W-when he took my eye... he said he's the last thing I'll ever remember. And I don't want him to be right." 

"He won't be. Don't think that for a second." Kid's anger flared. The only thing stopping him from going to the brig and beating that man to death was the fact that you would be mad that you didn't get to do it yourself. 

"We're not going to let that happen," Killer spoke from behind you. Killer felt guilt prick at his mind. Maybe he should have told you about your eye. He felt like he was doing the right thing. Now, he wasn't so sure. 

Kid brushed the tears from your face. "Don't do that. Yer so ugly when ya cry." Kid said it on purpose. He knew it would make you laugh to say something mean instead of what a normal person might say. It was part of his charm.

"Kid!" Killer protested.

You started to half-laugh half-cry. Kid was so stupid. But it was comforting in a way that only you would understand. How did you deserve to have not one, but two people that cared for you so deeply? They had helped you so much over the past few days, not to mention the effort they put in to rescue you.  Somehow, the past two days meant more to you. Any captain worth anything would rescue one of his crew. Only a captain that loved you would run and jump to hug you when he saw that you were awake, or bring you his own officer as a personal heating pad. And Killer, how two days in a row he brought you coffee and described the sunrise for you, so you could still participate in your special routine, one that you thought would be over forever. You started crying again. 

"What now!? I didn't say anything!"

"No one.. has ever been... this kind to me." You said between sobs. 

"Ya don't have to be a crybaby about it." 

"You can be a crybaby with me," Killer rolled on his back and patted his chest.

You started to roll to lay on him instead, but Kid trapped you against him.

"No, no. Stay. I like yer ugly crybaby face." 

Killer returned to his place spooning you and kissed behind your ear. "That's what people do when they love you." 

"Get used to it, princess. Can't have ya bawling yer eyes out every time we do somethin nice."

NEXT

Tag List: @bbnbhm @nocturnalrorobin

[house-of-mirrors]

This is what I got with my main from the Museum of Souls in Burrow, having your soul examined. Thinking about the soul flaws from skies and I just learned from the wiki the text is variable based on your quirks:

First, for comparison, the text from skies for when your soul is pleasing: "The devils of Carillon claim to be experts in the assessment and improvement of the soul. They would describe yours as tantalisingly opaque, and rich with personality."

Now, onto my interpretations with the delightful flaws. (I refuse to be appetizing!)

High Melancholy: Flickering: "Soul-light is unpersistent, incurious, lacking. [...] intermittently tantalising with an aftertaste of disappointment."

"Here the Devils treat flatterers, the excessively malleable, and those who don't know themselves at all. [...] Maybe you've found yourself lying as a matter of course. Maybe you've forgotten a few inconvenient aspects of yourself."

High Heartless: Cold: "The soul is icy to the touch. Dispassionate, clinical, removed. [...] still, pale and chilly to the palate."

"Indifference to love can be corrected. But not easily."

High Austere: Lightless: Here, things get a little complex. The echo uses "flavourless" which corresponds neatly to "[...] distressingly bland, inoffensive and liable to dissatisfaction." However, Lightless is also described as "Slothful, viceful, willful abandonment of talent and interest," which does not fit Austere. More of the text does, though.

"Vision, imagination, the ability to see beyond the nearest convention: that's what the Devils are trying to evoke here. [...] Perhaps you have fallen into habits. Perhaps you haven't stretched your imagination lately."

Not a perfect match, but alas.

Low subtle: Clear: "Soul is fully transparent. No swirls, no clouding, no personality."

"Disregard of death is a serious flaw. It displeases the Blue Kingdom; it makes the Devils tut."

(Sticking my tongue out at the Sapphir'd King.)

Conclusion: I can't find any obvious comparisons for the ruthless or hedonist quirks. I'm going to remark upon the soul flaws that don't present parallels here.

A fermented soul is "pungent of odour and indifferent to taboo." What I did in skies to get it was commingle with a rubbery man and accept an eye tattoo from the Halved. Good times. If I had to guess, I might connect this one with the Daring quirk. Fermented foods may be described with a "sharp" flavor but that's a stretch; I really don't see a connection to ruthless.

A curdled soul is "Overly willing to please, envious, obsequious." I can't think of any obvious quirks this would correlate to.

Finally, a stained soul: We know what terrible things this means in FL. One gets it by being a seeker, asking what shouldn't be asked. From skies: "Soul appears damaged, scorched. Reckless, dangerous and fatally curious. [...] over-rich, cindered and irrevocably damaged."

"Perhaps you've looked into topics you should not have. Perhaps your soul has been consumed and spat out again by an unspeakable beast."

("The starveling cat! The starveling cat! Soiled your soul! Grew glossy and fat!")

Now go forth and consider your characters' souls. Be unappetizing!

[cephalofrog]

so. the greater will huh

the real elden ring experience is hours-long journeys of attempting to create a giant overarching lore theory just so that you have an answer to questions like "so what's with those extra snakes messmer summons anyway"

I think that the DLC pretty much confirms there is a clear distinction between what the greater will wants and what the golden order believes in - those two things aren't necessarily the same, and how much they align is impossible to determine. if you assume that the GW has abandoned metyr, and therefore the fingers, ever since the beginning, that implies that a huge chunk of the beliefs of the GO are just metyr communicating to marika what she thinks her absent parent would actually want.

I don't think we'll ever have a 100% solid answer on which parts of the GO's guiding principles are metyr and which are marika, but frankly I think that's more fun to be left up to interpretation. like we can guess omens being shunned is pretty much 100% marika but something like confining destined death? maybe that's metyr taking a shot in the dark? unfortunate that it probably required marika to fight her own kid (melina lore mentioned oaauauhgh) if that's the case huh?

another interesting thing is what the GW's abandonment of its most direct children - the elden beast and metyr - says about the GW itself. the principles of the GW and the GO are vaguely aligned around the concept of "order", but I personally interpret the who GW abandoning the entire lands between thing as meaning that whatever the GW wants, it's either so incomprehensible or so unreasonable that even with direct contact to the GW metyr and the elden beast were still just left grasping at straws until it gave up and abandoned them, leaving them just trying whatever they can think of that might bring it back. marika's "betrayal" of the GW, her shattering of the elden ring, is met by the elden beast imprisoning her in the erdtree - maybe it thinks if it shows a suitable willingness to punish this god who dares defy its parent it'll stop being left on read?

this game really is just shitty parents all the way down.

anyway I guess that's what I believe about why marika shattered the elden ring. she found out that it was, from the start, based upon a lie - the greater will had no part in it, so why not shatter it, allowing her to rebuild it however she could want? (maybe that would allow her to bring back godwyn, or else grant him a true death?) unfortunately for her, the answer to that question turned out to be "because there's a giant space worm that will imprison and torment you if you do that".

also I initially started this train of thought after noticing ymir mentions humans? sentient lifeforms? as also being children of the GW ("we, too, are children of the greater will") but there's not much to say about that - they were abandoned along with the rest of its children, and ymir's plan is basically just entirely based on this, with him getting you to kill/get rid of metyr in hopes that this would make the GW notice him as a new favourite child and give him the powers to become the new mother of fingers. seems it doesn't work.

(as for messmer's snakes, due to the GW being mentioned to involve a "lightless abyss", I interpret them as being like... formed from the inverse of the GW itself (similarly to the scadutree being the inverse of the erdtree) and originating from the same abyss where it resides, meaning that they're technically on the same level as the elden beast and metyr in terms of direct connection to the GW but don't really seem to care much about it, aside from eiglay who I interpret as being an abyssal serpent who somehow left the abyss and so I guess became a regular serpent. messmer himself is both human and also an abyssal serpent, with his body able to serve as a conduit to that abyss once the seal is removed, allowing both himself (as an abyssal serpent) and other abyssal serpents through.)

[maybeelse]

It is said that devils hunger for souls, and many a wayward maiden—and dispossessed gentleman—quakes with fear at the prospect of what might befall them if they misjudge the stranger who so kindly offers them a warm bed, a hearty meal, a heavy purse ...

For, oh! So easily may an immortal soul be lost! Eternity hangs in the balance at every moment, so vulnerable, so delectable. Each moment of life teeters in the balance between paradise and damnation, and the light of tender grace will never penetrate the darkness beyond that too-sharp smile.

Many things are said of the lightless ones. It is easy to fill your voice with certainty when you condemn monsters, when you offer so much for just a little faith, for the tiniest proof of devotion. Questions beget condemnation; what poisons have dripped into the ears of your flock! Truly, a devil must have been among them—but you know how to root out the collaborators, don't you? How to find the traitors, the witches, those poor souls who turned their back on the light. Misled or willfully rebellious, the remedy is the same—what matters a moment of suffering when eternity hangs in the balance?

It is said that devils and Fae both are chained by language, that words and bargains bind them as surely as gravity does the merely human, that they—and their creatures—can twist and stretch meaning but never lie. They were absent at the burning of Babel, or so they say, and its poisoned light never came into them and stole away the mother tongue. For this reason also their bodies are immortal, their nature is incorruptible, and their minds are repulsed by the light of burning books and the touch of branding irons.

Stories are still told in village taverns—but not in their sooty urban cousins, for in the city history moves too fast to be remembered—of when last the duke's hunt caught a devil. Nigh forty years ago, and yet the storytellers remember it more clearly than yesterday—the stink of the beast, the way it struggled and cursed and then convulsed madly at the touch of the duke's iron! They paraded it through the villages, proof of their triumph; the hunters gleaming in silk and chain, the duke glowering down from his sedan, smiling only when they cracked its head against the hard cobblestones! Such glory, such triumph!

There are awkward questions that one might ask. There always are. It's an opportunity for children to be taught a lesson, and for willful adults to be quietly noticed. It always pays to know who might have found—and be found in—infernal company.

It is said that devils court the virtuous with wealth and power and secret knowledge, and that no clever tinkerer or shrewd merchant ascends beyond their station without a whiff of sulfur. Mostly this is said by those who are already wealthy and powerful; no one likes competition.

It is said that a devil taught old Aubergine Throat the secrets of blood and sin, back before she became all that she is. Even the fiercest hag was once an innocent girl, though you may find that hard to believe, and few stories start in the furnace's fire. That is the surest proof of the danger of devils—that their clever tongues and licentious weapons can tempt even the most virtuous off the righteous path!

This is humanity's virtue and its vice: that each and every human is gifted the potential to change, for good or for ill. Even the most sinful among us can be induced to genuine repentance—unless, unless! Unless a devil has stolen their soul away, and left in its place a lightless facsimile capable only of pretending! A false copy, walking through life upon whichever path best fulfills its basest urges, no more capable of restraining itself than a wyrm can withhold its flame or a stud horse his seed.

For that is what devils do: they prune away the choice.

So many things are said of devils. Surely some of them are true.

[rotworld]

23: Breathless

(previous)

quiet moments and stillness leave you feeling uneasy and afraid. jamie and malachi help you relax.

->sexually explicit. contains body horror, parasites, threesome.

.

.

.

“There is death in you,” the thing in the dark whispers. You are handled gently, like a broken bird in cautious fingers. Alien appendages, rippling frills and soft, flexible tendrils, graze against you. An eyelid, thin and translucent gray, flicks across the enormous, moon-like eye. “Slow, creeping death. Perhaps it can be healed.”

This is a dream like all the others. You can’t breathe or speak. Knowing that you could once, that you managed to dispel the crushing pressure and force air through your constricted throat, frustrates you but also gives you hope. There is a way. You just have to remember. 

Your eyes never fully adjust to this sort of darkness, but your other senses sharpen. You hear faraway voices; whispers and song, deep and mournful. You feel the movement of beasts that could swallow you whole, their mere passing knocking you aside. Stars trickle like falling snow. There is light if you know where to look, how to recognize it. Ribbons of it, fluttering like sails in the breeze. You struggle to understand how this could be home—how this could be Anchor. Was it hidden somehow? Cut away like Aliquando Island for its incurable strangeness? Somehow, somewhere, it still exists. You want to see it with your own eyes.

“Brave little thing. Yes, I want to see you, too. To feel you beyond the dream.” You are brought higher, lifted before the great eye. It is silver rimmed with prickling obsidian, a lightless void of dilated pupil stretched across the center. “I will hold you,” it says, auroras waving in the wake of a slow, upward movement, the moon rising and distant. “And I will never let you go.”

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: GHOST BY NOVAH FEAT. AMANDA MAIR]

You’re woken in the middle of the night. By what, you can’t say for certain. The house is quiet, but you do hear muffled, terse chatter drifting up from downstairs and music softly playing. The shift is vivid through the skylight window. You settle against the pillows and watch reality grow soft and shimmery like the surface of a bubble and other worlds swim by. You think about what Jamie told you about Higgs’ flukes, creatures who send their young beyond the boundaries of the only world they’ve ever known. Do they know what they’re doing? Do they ever wonder what becomes of their children, rocked to sleep in the cradle of their small, fragile eggs by the glistening churn of a shift? 

You wonder if they yearn for home, too. If there is a place in the Drift for every fluke, a strange patch of a grass or a quiet pond where this world intersected with another and birthed a miracle. 

Time passes and your thoughts are too busy to fall back asleep. You get out of bed groggily, passing the bookshelf on your way to the stairs. The photo of Malachi and the God of Nelton sits atop the shelf now, perched on a lace-edged doily and flanked by fresh cut, fragrant roses. The hallway at the bottom of the stairs is dark but the shift illuminates your way in quivering, luminous color. You’re reminded of your dreams—auroras in the dark. Has the place you come from ever passed by without you noticing, the void moving across the sky like a dark ghost ship? 

“I sent out warning letters earlier this evening, but I’m not sure how much good it’ll do,” you hear. Malachi’s voice, deliberately hushed. “I struggle to imagine a scenario where a municipal government would willingly shut off its own anchorware, no matter the risks.” 

You hear Jamie hum thoughtfully; the clatter of a teacup on a saucer. “It’s worth trying. I’m more skeptical the letters will reach their intended destinations in the first place.” 

“A Verlindan volunteered to deliver them. They have their own roads most places. A bit more reliable than ours.”

“Most, you said. No way to Anchor through the Verlindan backroads, then?” 

“Unfortunately, no. They’ve been cut off for a long time now. Makes me wonder how long they’ve been working towards this.”

They’re sitting in the living room, lights off, curtains open to let the alien glow of the shift through. You see Malachi out of his cassock for the first time, dressed in a soft, long-sleeved shirt and blue plaid pajama bottoms. He’s hunched forward in an armchair, leaning over the coffee table with a mug of steaming herbal tea in one hand. Jamie sits across from him on an olive-colored sofa, one bony shoulder exposed by their lopsided, oversized University shirt. They sip from a floral teacup while flipping through a pile of loose papers strewn across the table. There’s a radio sitting on the windowsill, crackling peacefully. 

Your footsteps draw a squeaking creak from the floorboards. Jamie and Malachi look up at the same time, their eyes drawn to your shape in the dark. “I’m so sorry. Did we wake you?” Malachi asks. 

You shake your head. “Can’t sleep. What’re you guys doing?” 

Jamie scoots over to make room for you on the couch. The papers they’re looking over are an assortment of official Nelton documents; anchorware installation paperwork and maintenance reports. “Grasping at straws,” Jamie admits. “Looking for any clue we can find. Getting to Anchor’s just the first hurdle. Everything’s going to be locked down tight.”

The most recent document is from your first visit to Nelton, the time you ran into Bachman. He was here, allegedly, to double-check the installation of new anchorware around the meat processing plant. He signed and dated the paperwork to verify everything was satisfactory. “What about this repairman?” you ask. “Does he seem strange to you? I can never quite remember what he looks like.” 

“That’s standard for anchorware technicians,” Malachi says. “They wear advanced shielding tech to stabilize themselves and protect against any sort of anchorware troubles.”

Jamie frowns. “His shielding is cranked up unusually high. We get a lot of repair techs at the University and they’re a little blurry at worst. He might be wearing more than usual, just in case he gets caught up in the malfunctions he’s causing. Then again, you said he hasn’t been here in a while. If you’re going to cause such a catastrophic reaction, it seems safer to do it remotely.”

They take another long gulp of tea and then set their cup down again, just a sliver of dark liquid lingering in the bottom. Malachi plucks the cup and saucer from the table and rises out of his seat gracefully. “Courier, would you like something to eat or drink? There’s lemon balm tea on the stove now. Jamie says you like eggs. I could make a frittata, if you’d like.”

You’re about to decline but Jamie nudges against your shoulder. “Just say yes. He won’t leave it alone,” they mutter, exasperated. “He wouldn’t sit down until I let him bring out half a bakery’s worth of scones and muffins.” 

“There were two of each, Jamie, and I seem to recall you ate them without complaint,” Malachi calls from the kitchen. You hear pots and pans clanging around, the sink running, a knife chopping swiftly across a cutting board. 

“You don’t have to go to all that trouble,” you say. 

The noises pause and Malachi leans out of the kitchen, smiling gently. “It’s no trouble, courier,” he says. “It’s our way here in Nelton. He didn’t want that to change, and neither do I.” 

The sounds of a busy kitchen resume; the crisp shredding of vegetables, the crack of egg after egg and the rhythmic hiss of whisking. Malachi starts humming a church hymn. “I’m surprised you’re getting along so well,” you say quietly. “I figured, after the last time we were here…”

Jamie rolls their eyes. “I’m not exactly thrilled about what happened, but I’d be a hypocrite if I held it against him, wouldn’t I? We have bigger problems and he’s willing to help. And he makes acceptable tea.” 

“I think you said it was incredible, actually. Some of the best you’d ever had,” Malachi calls. You can hear the smile in his voice. “You asked me for the recipe.” 

“I said it was fine.”

You can’t help but smile a little. It’s nice to have a quiet, peaceful moment, after everything that’s happened. But your thoughts return to darker places before you fully relax. You’re staring down what feels like countless unsolvable problems. Thumbing through the papers on the table, you’re reminded of Anchor’s reach, their stranglehold on the Drift. “How are we going to get in?” you ask.

Jamie gestures towards the kitchen. “They want to come with us; everyone who survived the fire. Malachi thinks they have a good shot of getting past the front gate that way. Anchor probably knew what was going on here, and I’m sure they know they got what they wanted. If all of Nelton turns up on their doorstep seeking asylum, they’ll let them in. It’s an irresistible research opportunity.” They sigh. “That’s assuming we can get there in the first place, of course.” 

You nod numbly. You don’t feel reassured. How many places are like Nelton now, ravaged by disaster? How many places are unreachable, adrift in time and space like Aliquando Island? You think of all the places you’ve been, the people who have shown you kindness. What will be left of them—of the Drift—when this is over? 

“Hey,” Jamie says softly. They reach over, wiping away your tears with their thumb. “It’s alright. We’ll figure it out. We’re not alone in this.” 

“I don’t want to think about it,” you admit. It’s all running through your head now; Glenn and Halvard and their family, and the virus ravaging Verlinda. A deliberate choice, you think, because the Verlindans use so little anchorware. Iridesce, who insisted that you be repaid for your work, who trusted you with the most precious cargo. The girl and the Singer and Compass Hill—is it still standing? Is everyone okay? Does it burn while you sit here? Is it collapsing, dragged into oblivion by a catastrophic failure of reality and physics? 

“Come here,” Jamie murmurs. “Let’s not think for a while.” They tug you gently closer, a hand brushing against your cheek as they lean in and press their lips against yours. You kiss back frantically, wanting to forget. The Road Ripper. The querrow. The fire in Nelton. An island of artists who can never go home again. You’ve stopped moving and now everything that’s happened has managed to catch up, claws of worry sinking in your heart.

Jamie demands your attention by pushing you down gently and crawling on top of you, setting a slow, sensual pace for the kiss. They nip at you, coaxing out your tongue with their own. Their hips grind down on yours, languid rocking motions that make you gasp into their mouth. “Jamie, we’re—” Your words cut off with a moan when their hands slip beneath your shirt and tease your nipples, thumbs flicking, rolling the buds between their fingers. “We’re on Malachi’s couch, he’s in the next room—”

“Then don’t make too much noise,” they whisper. Your shirt gets bunched up around your neck and their mouth is kissing down your chest, dragging their tongue over any spot that makes you squirm. You have to bite back a gasp when their mouth closes around one of your nipples and you feel not only their tongue but the fluke’s firm, flexible body flick against it. Both soft appendages toy with your sensitive flesh, tonguing and suckling, bullying it into hardness. Jamie watches you through their lashes, peering up at you with a heated look in their eyes. 

When they grind on you, you feel something twitch between their legs. A slender, snaking shape throbs against your core. 

“I love how sensitive you are. You just melt under me.” Jamie’s hand slides down and palms your sex through your clothes, rubbing and stroking until you push back against their fingers, panting. “I’ve been fantasizing about all the things we could do together. Dreaming about it, sometimes. I’ve never been with someone who knows about me—all of me. I want to hold you down and make you cry. I want you to eat me out and I want to fuck your throat. You have no idea how long a Higgs’ fluke can get once it’s fully grown, do you? It could be inside both of us at the same time.” 

Their hand slides into your pants and stroke up and down your sex, agonizingly slowly. The pressure is barely there and not enough, and then they’re moving on again, circling your entrance. They kiss your ear, sucking at the lobe. Their soft, pleased sigh tickles your skin. “C-can you…” You hesitate, embarrassed. 

“Can I…?” 

“Can you touch…my neck?” 

Jamie nuzzles against the side of your face, blowing softly into your ear. “You’re so cute.” One of their hands stays on your sex. The other rises, cupping around your neck. Jamie leans back so they can see what they’re doing, stroking the tender spots beneath your skin. “You want it? Want me to squeeze right here?” 

“Please,” you beg. You’re ashamed of how needy you sound already, how hot you feel. 

“Like that, baby?” They push down on both sides, thumb and fingers pinching both sides of your neck. The sudden pressure sends a bolt of pleasure down your spine and you shiver, a moan slipping out before you can stop it. Jamie pauses for just a moment. You see their eyes narrowing, a smile snaking across their face. They dig their fingers in harder, rhythmic, massaging squeezes that have you arching your back. The hand between your legs starts moving again, hard, merciless strokes that have you grinding shamelessly into their palm. 

You’re going to cum like this, still half-dressed and pushing your hips into Jamie’s playful touch. You feel yourself being driven right to the edge by the friction, Jamie’s dexterous fingers and their legs bracketing your body, the heated, husky whispers and tongue grazing your ear.

And then Jamie glances over the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded, smirking. “Are you just going to stand there, Malachi?” 

Heat rushes to your face. Of course he heard you. You want to get up and apologize but Jamie shoves you back down and keeps you there with a hand on your neck—playful, not choking, just enough force that you can feel it. You can’t see over the back of the couch but you can hear tense silence, the creak of floorboards beneath nervous shifting. 

“I’m…so sorry,” Malachi says hoarsely. “I didn’t—I shouldn’t have—”

“Are you just going to stand there?” Jamie asks. “Or are you going to come over here, and make your angel feel good?” 

You squirm again, trying to sit up, desperate to see Malachi and know what he’s thinking, if this is all too far and you’ve overstayed your welcome. But Jamie caresses your neck again and it takes everything you have not to make an embarrassing sound. 

You hear a shaky inhale. “Is that…what my angel wants?” 

Jamie glances down at you, their hands stilling long enough for you to get your thoughts in order. “What do you think, courier?” they ask softly. “Do you want us to help you stop thinking so hard?” 

You swallow hard. “Is Malachi okay with that?” 

You hear movement. Slow footsteps. Malachi comes into the living room and crouches beside the couch, bringing your hand to his lips and kissing it reverently. You want him. You want them both. Jamie and Malachi share a brief glance and some shared understanding passes between them. “My bed would be more comfortable for the three of us,” he says, his voice lower than before. 

Malachi’s room is just down the hall. You have little time to appreciate the decor beyond the soft rug beneath your feet. They don’t give you time to stop, doubt and worry. Malachi leads you to the bed and eases you down slowly while Jamie sits above your head. You’re kissed breathless, the two of them working together to have you bare and writhing beneath them. Malachi undresses you like he’s unwrapping a priceless gift and Jamie’s hands smooth over your skin, sliding up and down your sides, caressing your hips, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blades when your shirt comes off and then laying you gently back down.

You can feel Jamie staring. Not at you, but at Malachi, everywhere he touches, everything he does to you. They chuckle. “Awfully bold for a man of the cloth.”

Malachi is between your legs, one hand massaging your inner thigh while the other digs through the bedside table. You hear a bottle click open. His fingers come back cool and slick. “Flesh is holy. Pleasure isn’t a sin,” he says. “I offer this sort of comfort to anyone in the congregation who asks. If you face me while you take pleasure from their mouth, I can show you.” 

“I guess overconfidence isn’t a sin either, huh?” 

Malachi smiles. He’s gentle and patient, sinking one finger into you and stretching you slowly. “I’ve been with you all this time, in a sense. As long as he was there, so was I. I saw what he saw, felt what he felt. I fell in love, just as quickly. So let me take care of you tonight, my angels.”

You relax under Malachi’s touch. He’s thorough, easily able to multitask. One hand moves in a slow, sensual slide over your chest and abdomen, his palm warm and his featherlight touch stirring unexpected pleasure across your skin. The other hand opens you up further, two fingers crooked and massaging your inner walls. Above the slick sound of Malachi’s lubricated fingers, you hear Jamie let out a soft, pleased sigh.

Nobody speaks, but they both move at the same time. Malachi withdraws his fingers and nudges your knees apart. He’s half-hard and stroking himself the rest of the way, biting his lip at nothing more than the sight of you splayed before him. He pulls your hips into his lap, your lower body slightly elevated and poised right against his twitching length. Jamie swings a leg over your head and settles on top of you, hovering just above your face. 

“Hands up here, courier,” they murmur, patting their thighs. “Two taps if you need to stop.” You take their advice. Jamie sinks slightly lower, resting most of their weight on their knees. The position is slightly awkward; with them facing Malachi, you don’t think you can reach their clit very easily. 

This isn’t a problem, as it turns out. Just as your hands settle into place, resting gently on their thighs, Jamie stiffens and moans. The fluke’s lower body protrudes from their entrance, its grasping limbs and tendrils nestling against Jamie’s clit and vibrating rapidly. 

“How is it when the two of you are involved?” Malachi asks curiously. He has a hand around his length and the other on your hips, guiding his tip inside of you. The first thrusts are slow, gentle, rocking motions that gradually sink deeper into your welcoming heat. 

“Indescribable,” Jamie says. “It’s like—like I feel everything twice. Everything is so sensitive.” You slide your tongue against Jamie’s folds and they sigh, encouraging you deeper with a slow grind. At the same time, the fluke pricks your lips. You give it an experimental lick and Jamie shivers. 

“You’re gorgeous together,” Malachi says softly. He holds onto your hips, keeping you firmly seated in his lap as he thrusts a little harder, a little faster. It’s not long before you’ve taken all of him and he savors the sensation, sinking in to the hilt and holding you there, his cock twitching against your inner walls. 

There’s a pause, one of his hands leaving your body. You hear skin stroking skin; his hand on Jamie’s cheek. It’s hard to believe they don’t still have some sort of connection. Nothing is said again, but after a moment of silence and stillness, you hear them kiss. It’s sloppy, tongue and teeth and swallowed moans, and you know the moment Malachi feels the fluke atop Jamie’s tongue because he flinches, startled—and then kisses them even more feverishly. Maybe no connection is needed. Maybe they’re just more alike than you thought, because they both starts to fuck you at the same time. 

Malachi’s hips slam into you and the fluke is opportunistic, slithering past your lips when you gasp. It doesn’t choke you or cram itself down your throat, but you feel that it wants to, the impatient slither of it against your tongue. It’s there, taking its pleasure while you please Jamie with your mouth. It thrusts in and out and you feel it pulsate, the segmentation along its body a strange but appealing texture against your tongue. It’s thicker than the part of itself that comes through Jamie’s mouth, less chitinous, more worm-like. You give it a gentle suck and Jamie rips away from Malachi just to praise you, whimpering, “Don’t stop, don’t stop!”

“Beautiful. Both of you, so beautiful,” Malachi says, sounding enraptured and breathless. He rolls his hips and rarely pulls out of you more than halfway, his deep, grinding pace hitting all the right spots. “If only you could stay, I would worship you like this every night.” You can hear yourself, the slap of Malachi’s hips against yours, the muffled moans you make around the fluke as it ravages your mouth. 

Your only warning that Jamie is about to cum is sudden tension in their thighs, more of their weight settling against your face. The fluke fills your mouth and your throat spasms gagging around it. Jamie nearly sobs, riding out their orgasm with harsh thrusts that drive the fluke deeper, and there’s a moment where you are completely, utterly full. 

“Fuck, that was amazing,” Jamie mutters. They collapse into bed beside you, smiling lazily as they wipe their juices from your cheeks. “Your turn, baby. Let me see you cum.” 

You’re close and you know Malachi’s not far behind. He’s losing his composure and careful gentleness, slamming into you harder. With your mouth unoccupied, he feels emboldened to surge forward and bend you nearly in half, hard, missionary style fucking with your legs wrapped around his waist. He mumbles incoherently and you catch only snippets, slurred worship and keening whispers of, “angel, my precious angel,” as he pounds you into the mattress. 

“Are you gonna cum, priest?” Jamie teases. Malachi answers with a groan. He’s losing his rhythm, thrusting mindlessly. His hips snap against yours and all you can hear is his ragged breathing, the slap of your bodies meeting. “Go on. Cum in your angel. Fill them up, give them everything.” 

Malachi crushes your lips with his, one last, desperate cry of “Angel!” muffled in the kiss, and you reach the edge. He fucks you through it mercilessly and you’re sobbing, toes curling, your nails raking his back. You don’t know how long he goes after that but it feels like you’re perched on the boundary between pleasure and pain for hours. Malachi trails his lips along your jaw and sucks on the side of your neck, and you think you cum again.

By the time your pulse has slowed and you’re aware of yourself again, no longer tingling and weightless, you’re surrounded by pillows. Jamie is curled up against your side and there’s a warm washcloth dabbing between your legs, soaking up some of the dried cum that trickled out and stained your thighs. You have to get up—have to get back to the guest room, you think—but Malachi chuckles and kisses your inner thigh.

“Get some rest, angel,” he whispers. For the first time in a while, you slide easily and willingly into a deep, restful sleep.

(next)

[abyssal-cryptid]

MAG 52 Exceptional risk is my absolute single favorite episode of The Magnus Archives. Im a Dark freak nowadays and this is the best episode in the show. I love it. The Still And Lightless Beast (is that what its named? According to the wiki yes) is my favorite fucked up non-human monster. The People's Church of the Divine Host is my favorite cult. I'd like to inject this episode into my veins. Happiness is listening to this episode.

[hirazuki]

Me, harmlessly doing fic research: :)

Tolkien Wiki: Eol had "servants similar to himself."

Me: ......................... okay, I know this almost certainly means similar in demeanor (published Silm says "silent and secret as their master") but I'm a slut for the former thrall version of Eol's backstory, so what if we take it to mean that they were other escaped thralls of Angband?

•────────────────────⋅☾ ☽⋅────────────────────•

What if, whether through genuine escape (a rare occurrence) or by Melkor intentionally letting them "escape" to sow distrust and discontent among their kind with their mere presence, even if they do not prove to be his spies, they find their way back to their original lands and homes, only to be shunned and persecuted, just as Melkor had forethought?

(^ which is canon, the text actually goes into it but for the life of me I can't remember where, right now).

What if, through endless wandering thereafter, trying to find a place where they can reside, their footsteps lead a few of them past Nan Elmoth?

What if the primordial night of the world that was, which still resides in this isolated stretch of woods, nestled in safety and secrecy among the roots of ancient trees hidden away from the sun, calls out to them, offering refuge from the sunlight to them, too?

What if Eol, travelling back from the deep mansions of the dwarves in the Blue Mountains, chances upon them: lost in the forest, tangled in the enchantment that had been laid on it in the twilight of Middle Earth when all was young, and that lingers still?

What if, in looking upon them, he immediately recognizes the marks of thralldom -- the scarring, the burning, the bowed backs; misshapen or missing limbs; hollow stares and cracking skin, of a degree more severe than his own, that cannot conveniently be explained away as a result of smithwork, that make it impossible to eke out an existence in even the mildest of conventional society -- and decides to take them in?

What if, quietly, word somehow spreads -- borne by beast or trickling stream or on the chill of northern wind -- that there is a place for the survivors of Angband in the sunless woods, and more start to appear; sometimes in twos, rarely in threes, but mostly alone, ragged and haunted and fever-eyed?

What if Eol, who had been ill at ease within the Girdle and fled from it -- choking, strangling thing that it is -- right into the hungry, snatching all too inviting embrace of this lightless forest, a recluse and his forge, nothing more than a fading echo of the twilit world, suddenly finds he has near-silent footsteps in his hall and low voices in his kitchen and the space that seemed superfluous for a single occupant is now, altogether, not enough?

What if, with every expansion of his abode, his anger at the Noldor for what they brought upon this land -- initially a dim, philosophical thing, that snarled when prodded but, all in all, rather easily fell back into slumber -- also magnifies, until it produces fangs and claws that won't retract, and, in growing large, grows sleepless, too?

What if, with every arrival seeking a position in his service -- Avari, skin shining with sweat, hunted from within and without; Sindar, who can no longer recall the play of starlight upon leaves; even a Noldo, whose shattered eyes render them more alike than not -- his fury grows blacker, unchecked in his isolation from all else, until it matches the shadows that swallow the forest floor?

What if, with every soul he saves from the ravages of daylight, he forfeits a piece of his own?

WHAT IF