#tw: implied/referenced murder

[halfagone]

The Ghosts of Phantasm's Past

The story goes: Andrea "Andi" Beaumont fell in love with Bruce Wayne, but before they could be wed, she returned the engagement to Bruce, and fled to another land. She would not return until many years later, when she would come to Gotham City under the guise of 'reorganizing family finances' by day, and donning the costume of 'Phantasm' by night. All this to avenge her father's murder at the hands of the Gotham mafia and mob bosses.

But. But in the margins, there's a note of little detail, that often goes unnoticed. Nearly two months after fleeing to Europe with her father, Andi (not Andrea, not Phantasm, Andi) finds out that she's pregnant with Bruce's child.

She is currently on the run from the mafia, with the chance she has to pick up everything at any given time to run for her life. And she is pregnant with her ex-fiancé's baby.

There are three things Andi can choose to do here. (Well, there is a fourth, but it had been no more a passing thought before it'd been dismissed with certainty.)

She can screw all sense and raise the child herself, no matter how dangerous it might be, no matter how solitary a life it would undoubtedly be for her baby to stay constantly alert and vigilant.

She can bring the child to their father, to be raised by the man she'd once given her whole heart to. But that runs the risk of someone finding out about her involvement, finding out that she's not as 'in the wind' as her hiding might imply. She can't afford to put Bruce and their baby in danger. That just negates the whole point. Or...

She can give the baby up for adoption, give them the better life they deserve because she knows, she knows, that she can't give it to them.

Andi chooses Option 3.

And for the longest time, it seems like she made the right decision. She choose not to be a part of her baby's (her son's) life, because if she thought she could get away with that, she wouldn't have given him up in the first place.

So she lives without regret, only vengeance and spite and grief. That is, until she returns to her first home, her old stomping grounds. She murders mob boss after mob boss in cold blood (the same way they'd killed her father), and for the first time in years, she feels alive. Her heart is pumping, there is a thrill to her hunt.

But then. But then, when she bursts into the Joker's base, she finds that the man had been planning on securing one more victim that night.

That night she comes face to face with her son for the first time since she'd given him up. He's bloody and broken and a step away from death, but she takes one look at him and knows: This is my son.

She does not take Joker prisoner that night. Instead, she puts a bullet between his eyes and takes her son away. Far, far away, and hopes, prays, that this time- this time he'll be safe.

Bruce doesn't agree with her idea of 'safe'.

[moriiartist]

(CALL THE) NUMBER OF THE BEAST

Masterlist

Taglist

PAIRING: Demon!Tangotek x GN!Reader

SUMMARY: You thought it was a joke. A goof. A funny ‘ha-ha’ story to tell to your friends later- how you tried to summon a demon. However, things haven’t exactly gone to plan, and now you’re stuck trying to send a resident to hell back to where he belongs. Too bad that he’s decided that’s wherever you are.

WARNINGS: Language, body horror, demonic imagery, blood and injury, self-mutilation/self-harm (as part of a ritual), fire, implied/referenced murder

A/N: Hey there demon(s), it’s me, ya boi. I lowkey may have stayed up past midnight to get this out on time, but we’re not going to talk about that!!! I had a lot of fun with this fic, and I really think it shows. Enjoy!

The chalk slid smoothly over the kitchen tile, the soft, rasping sound that it elicited filling your ears. Dust as black as pitch already coated your palms, the pads of your fingers, your skin- smeared shapes like the handprints of an absent-minded artist.

An intricate pattern of concentric circles, squares, and lines spread like flowering nightshade from where you were, kneeling in the center. They, too, were as dark as if they had been burnt into the ceramic; the loose powder surrounding the thick, confident marks looked like ashes.

Sitting back on your heels, you inspected your work with a critical eye. A hundred bucks was a hundred bucks, and if you didn’t at least try one of the spells in the old, creepy grimoire you’d found in the attic, you weren’t getting a cent.

Actually, in that case, you’d be getting negative cents. 

You’d like to think that you were a reasonable, well-adjusted person. You’d finished college and gotten your degree, you worked a six hour shift at the local bookstore, and you put in an effort to keep in touch with your friends.

Which is why summoning a demon was somewhat uncharacteristic for you.

Your college roommate had invited you to hang out at their house last weekend, and of course, you’d accepted. They, a couple of their buddies they’d brought along, and you started drinking. You got buzzed. Then, naturally, you all started talking about random shit.

Of course, that random shit included all the weird and probably-cursed cult paraphernalia that had been left behind in the house that you’d moved into.

Your roommate had dared you, words almost slurred beyond comprehension, to try out one of the spells you’d found. At this point, you were nearing the point where you were starting to black out; your brain was starting to shut down, but your body got all ‘eye of the tiger’ and soldiered on.

So, like a dumbass, you agreed.

And bet one hundred dollars on it.

(To be fair, you never said you were smart. Just reasonable.)

You honestly felt quite silly standing there in the middle of your kitchen, staring down at the dark symbols you’d copied with a painstaking hand. Although you’d fully committed to winning this stupid bet after five days of twiddling your thumbs, you’d underestimated the amount of time it’d taken to get through the ritual. You’d started at around seven thirty, and it was now almost one.  

In your defense, the book wasn’t easy to read. Most of it was in some strange, latin-like script that hurt your eyes if you stared at it too long; words slithered across the paper like rattlesnakes if your gaze unfocused for even a moment.

Luckily for you, however, you had ignored the ominous thoughts in the back of your head that begged you to stop now before it was too late and managed to reach the final step in your handy dandy ‘how-to-summon-a-demon-for-dummies’ guide. Hooray!

All that was left was the sacrifice.

Stepping back, careful not the smudge the chalk lines that were already starting to flake from the combined force of the AC system and the vibrations of your footfalls, you crossed over the salt circle that enclosed the whole shabang.

Tea candles- those little ones that you buy in bulk to put in Jack O’ Lanterns- flickered ominously, crackling and spitting not dissimilarly from oil in a pan. You had dimmed all sources of light beyond those candles and the nightlights plugged into the wall, so the flames cast eerie, dancing shadows all over the room.

You grimaced, regarding the kitchen knife placed on the counter next to you. The blade gleamed red and gold, flashing as you delicately picked it up.

The sight of blood wasn’t new to you, nor did it freak you out, but drawing it from yourself was an entirely different matter from the times you’d fallen and scraped your knees as a kid. It was different when you were doing it- when you were drawing blood from yourself intentionally. It made something underneath your skin writhe with discomfort.

Steadying your grip as much as you could, and ignoring the slight tremor in your hand, you pressed the point of the knife to the meat of your thigh. You’d read somewhere that the fattier parts of the body the better regarding pain- and you weren’t about to stab yourself in the ass.

You gritted your teeth as you drew the blade across your skin. A part of you wanted to shut your eyes and look away, but the more logical side commanded you to pay attention despite the sharp, stinging pain. 

Despite the shallowness of the cut, it was already bleeding profusely. Rivulets of thick, coppery liquid already ran down your leg, dripping down onto the flat of your bare foot. In the low light, your blood almost looked as black as the chalk still coating your palms. The air filled with the faint scent of metal and salt. 

Hastily, you set the knife down with a clatter. Pressing your fingers to the wound, you hissed at the sparks of pain that erupted from the contact. Blood mixed with the powder on your hands, coagulating into a sludgey mess that clung to your skin.

You flicked some of the mixture off of your hands and into the circle, pursing your lips to soften your disgust. The book had never specified how much of your blood should be used, and although you really wanted to win the bet, you weren’t about to sacrifice a pint to a ritual that might not even work.

A mix between a groan and a gag tore itself from your throat as you pressed a palm flat to your wound, watching more blood begin to drip from the gaps in between your fingers. With your other hand, you reached blindly for the tape and gauze that you’d set aside specifically for this moment, tearing a thick wad of the stuff off with your teeth and messily taping it to your thigh.

It wasn’t really sanitary, but then again, it wasn’t as if anything else you were doing was.

Fumbling with the book, you winced as you smeared chalky blood over the pages- staining the fragile paper with black-grey-red fingerprints. You flipped through the pages somewhat frantically, muttering curses to yourself as pain once again twinged through your leg. After a tense moment, you exclaimed softly to yourself.

You’d highlighted the incantation to summon the demon, and the garish yellow-green pigment now glared up at you from the page. The book must’ve been made with parchment or something, because the color was soft and fragmented at the edges unlike the clean, hard cut of highlighter on printer paper.

Clearing your throat, you ignored the way the letters slipped in and out of focus, mirage-like, and began to read.

“Primo ad nonum daemones,” you incanted, nearly choking as the syllables ran like water from your mouth, “vocationem meam audite et attendite.”

Immediately, the guttering tea candles stilled. Every dancing flame went straight and tall, burning white-hot. The dimmed lights buzzed, and an electrical hum seemed to fill the air. Your stomach swooped- the same sensation that one would beget standing at a precipice. 

“ Sanguis meus gratis inferis datus est, et mihi paciscor.”

When did it get so cold? Your skin was chilled and damp with sweat, breath stuttering in your lungs from the shiver that wracked your body. The low hum that filled the back of your mind seemed to intensify. Static was all you could hear.

The voices whispering in your ear shrieked soundlessly, then disappeared.

“Caro mea velamen tollit, ossa mea signaculum portant, et anima- et anima mea ligat.”

Each word that escaped from your mouth burned your tongue like a firebrand, each more painful than the last. You felt like you were choking on your own blood as you spat out the last syllable, shuddering uncontrollably.

At some point, you had dropped the book. It was burning, delicate paper and dark leather cover flaking into ashes.

You couldn’t move, could hardly breathe; With each passing moment the pressure inside your chest increased, like someone had gripped your heart and decided to squeeze. Distantly, you recognized that your limbs were trembling.

“Quod fit non recipi.”

The lights cut out, and, like a great exhale of breath, the candles extinguished.

Shit.

For a few heartbeats, the only sound was your ragged breathing. Then, something shuffled in front of you. Something hard and sharp slid across the tile, sounding an awful lot like the knife still resting on the countertop. 

Freezing, you felt your heart began to beat faster, hammering at your ribcage. Even your chest stilled, and you swallowed thickly to suppress a whimper. It smelled like a nauseating mix of sulfur and your own blood.

“Well,” a masculine voice murmured, tone colored with a mixture of surprise and amusement. “It’s certainly been a long time since someone’s had the guts to summon me.”

In a blink, the lights were reignited. However, instead of the warm, yellow hues that you’d been familiar with your entire life, they were blue. The tall, still flames that rose from the candlewick looked like they’d been carved out of luminous blue ice, hardly seeming to move.

You’d be more awed by it if you weren’t distracted by the dark figure standing in the center of the ritual circle.

It wasn’t very big- only a few inches taller than you, if you had to guess, and shaped like a person; two legs, two arms, and a head attached to a torso. However, everything about it was off. 

It’s arms were too long, fingers tipped with glossy claws brushing the sides of its knees. It’s legs were longer at the ankle, forcing it to balance on its toes. It’s proportions were too different- like a poorly made puppet.

Every movement, from the tilt of its head to the roll of its shoulders was too smooth, too easy. Like there was no muscles, no internal structure to add resistance. You couldn’t contain your gasp as it’s neck made a horrendous, wet crack, spinning well past the limits of the human body to survey the room.

A long, black tail snaked out from behind it, pooling to the floor. Shards of what looked like volcanic glass were embedded in its forehead in the mockery of a crown, dripping with black and red blood. Similar pieces were buried in its spine and shoulders, bristling like spines.

“Shit,” you murmured.

With another snap, its head spun back around.

The demon’s face was pale, almost bloodless, and you could see the spiderweb of blue-black veins that ran below the surface. Pitch black holes were nested where its eyes should be, white, cat-like pupils narrowed in on your trembling figure. It grinned as you made eye contact, running a blue tongue over- what the hell, how many teeth does this guy have?!

If you squinted, it would almost look human. A spiky, aggressively emo human- but a human nonetheless. However, since you had somewhat of a sense of self-preservation, you weren’t doing that. No- you were wide-eyed and gaping, glued to the floor as you stared at the monstrosity before you.

“Excuse me,” it chirped, looking far too smug for its friendly tone to be genuine. “You summoned me, didn’t you?”

You blinked down at what remained of the grimoire. “... I guess.”

It grinned brilliantly, still with too many needle-like teeth. “Excellent!”

Then, it stepped over the salt circle. You hardly had time to squawk before it had seized your chin in its hands, turning your face this way and that as it inspected you. You would’ve pulled away, but the brush of the demon’s talons against the delicate skin of your throat was enough to have you falling still.

Every piece of media about demons you’d ever seen were different, but one thing seemed to largely hold the same: they couldn’t cross salt circles. It was one of the only effective ways to trap them, besides silver mirrors and maybe not summoning them in the first place- at least, according to what you’ve seen.

And then this asshole goes and dropkicks that knowledge into the fucking sun.

“Oooh,” it hummed, gaze calculating. “You’re a looker, aren’t you.”

It glanced down towards the hasty bandage job you’d done, a sly smile playing on its lips. It reached down, either oblivious to or ambivalent to your protests, and ran a finger through the still-drying blood.

Licking its hand clean, it’s pupils flared, growing to the size of nickels. “Tasty, too.”

Regaining your nerve, you shoved it away, stumbling back. It watched you go with an almost disappointed (?) expression, folding its arms across its chest. You finally stopped when your back hit a wall, refusing to take your gaze off the creature in front of you.

“... What the hell,” you managed to croak out. Was this shock? Were you going into shock?

The demon smirked. You were really starting to hate it when it did that.

“Indeed.”

Picking up the knife you’d set on the counter, it toyed with blade, whetting it against its talons. It paused, looking at it contemplatively, before rolling its eyes back to you.

“You’re new to this, aren’t you?”

It wasn’t a question.

Hesitantly, you nodded. While you were seriously regretting your decision to summon a demon of all things instead of, like, one of the easier spells, you didn’t see a point in lying to it about that. As far as you knew, magic wasn’t real up until two minutes ago.

The demon sighed. “Alrighty then. I thought you would be- it makes more sense.

“So, this is how this thing works. You ask for something- I don’t know, you want some guy who crossed you to mysteriously disappear, endless riches, fame and beauty- and I make it happen!”

It’s eyes gleamed red. “For a price, of course.”

Despite your fear, you deadpanned. The last thing you were doing was signing a deal with the devil. “No, thank you.”

“You don’t have a choice,” it countered. “You summoned me. I can’t return back to my realm until our, ah… business is complete.”

You threw your hands up. “Well, I’m not selling my soul or whatever else a creature of darkness would want!”

The demon pouted, looking almost offended for a moment. You didn’t trust it. “Hey- rude. Depending on the boon, I would only ask for, like, your childhood memories. Maybe your firstborn?”

“This is not helping your argument,” you sighed, glaring at it hollowly. It stared at you, grin melting until its expression was blank and unreadable. It’s tail lashed, slashing bluntly at the floor.

“If you don’t make a deal, I’m stuck here with you,” it cautioned once more.

You bared your teeth at it. “Fuck. You.”

It blinked, and for a moment you thought that this was it, you were going to die. Your last moments would be spent with a creature that wanted your soul for nefarious purposes, you would never get those hundred dollars-

The demon laughed, nearly doubling in on itself from the force. After a few seconds it looked back up at you, wiping a tear from its eye that sizzed as it hit the floor. In a blink, it was in front of you, staring at you with blown pupils. 

“You’re delightful,” it whispered, sounding awfully delighted itself. “This is going to be so much fun.”

You blanched as it took your hands in its own, flipping over one to press a sharp kiss to your inner wrist. The demon grinned up at you, sly.

“Good luck getting rid of me now, angel. I’ll have your soul whether you want me two or not.”

It stood up, lengthening the spine until it towered over you. Its pupils burned in the shadows cast across its face, exactly the same as the flames at its back.

“The name’s Tango, sweetheart. You won’t forget it.”

There’s no turning back now for you- you were his. Tango would make sure of it.

@blufr0st​ @itsonlydana​ @amearla​ @bapthadapper​ @redactedsouls​ @sina-the-idiot @icarusthefoolish @blockyshieldmaiden  

[aftgficrec]

Hi! I wanted to rec a fic writer. I’m currently obsessed with kairospy on ao3. They’ve written 4 fics for AFTG and every single one is a work of art. I want to make a special shout-out to their latest fic it takes two (but you and i are one) which is a brilliant Nathaniel (not Neil) character study. I literally haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since I read it. Happy reading!

Thanks for the rec, @moondal514, this was definitely an interesting read.  Hopefully this writer will find many more supporters like you! - S

it takes two (but you and i are one) by kairospy [Rated M, 13640 words, complete, 2022]

Sometimes, not often — not enough for it to be concerning — he felt too much like him.

Andrew noticed the very moment Nathaniel walked into the locker room.

:*:*:

Nathaniel Wesninski had been dormant for too long.

tw: violence, tw: blood, tw: ptsd, tw: implied/referenced dissociation, tw: implied/referenced murder

[freak-fortress]

first blood.

// gun , blood

[phantom-of-the-ruckus]

Final part of my long Analysis of the Hello Puppets midnight show trailer!

I copy and paste from the 2nd part because I'm very tired and I still need to add the tags, but also this is important info

First and foremost, please check the prior parts for congruency and seeing other interesting details and stupid jokes I added to this:

Part 1

Part 2

Here's a quick important note that you need to read first before diving into this long messy post:

TW: Scary imagery, demonic character, blood, saws, bear traps, gore

If you see this TW this will signify a trigger warning. I'll try to give some space to avoid individuals who do not which to see it time to skip it. SAFE means that you can read this part ^^

SPOILERS!!! is a new addition to those who do not want to be spoiled over certain puzzles presented in the BETA. END!!! means they are done

Majority of pictures are from the trailer, others will be credited to the sources along with a link)

Heavily suggest that you watch the trailer first because we're gonna get spoilers

Without further ado let's continue!

Nick....why you look as if you ate at Taco Bell?!/j

I actually told this joke to @official-crucified-mortimer (I'm just tagging my friends because I love them)

Also.

A very creeping painting of your puppet staring at you?

Put a spiderweb on it :D

Ok, jokes aside. I speculate that this is a strategy to deal with the puppets. Put party string on the posters so they cannot jump and attack you. I actually never thought it could be used that way.

Also, it looks like this is a new poster type. Looks pretty darn weird but Daisy has a similar pose

I also forgot party string would be an item in this game so....

yeah

I also noticed that in the trailer (spiderweb string thingy moment) we are carrying a poster for the game. I can't tell if it's the Mountain episode or Mike Masters. Maybe is a new one, but I find it curious that we have to carry one. Maybe it's for a puzzle in Nick's level or something.

Here's a far glance of Riley's map

I wonder if we're going to a different part of the studio or a floor. I never really got how the studio was built. Also, what is up with the blue and red light?

Stop it and got it by accident. I love it

also

HE HAS A SAW

TW: For saws and bear trap

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Two things I want to mention.

I think we got to see this on the BETA (not sure) it is in fact a Riley's level

The task we got

So this room actually gives me anxiety because it looks like the closing walls type of puzzle. I actually wonder how the hell did Riley got so many saws

but more importantly this:

It looks like we are going to have to solve dangerous puzzles to unlock secret rooms. This is quite cool tbh

Quick side joke!

I honestly love how pretty darn weird Daisy's traps are.

Also the fact that she placed a cupcake-

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SAFE!

@sarilolla did mention, if I remember correctly, that perhaps we could get some audio logs

I found this icon while checking for things I missed

This is going to be interesting!

TW: Gore, Scary imagery, demonic looking character, implied murder

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I did see it on the trailer, and this was actually the first thing I stopped to look at see at.

First things first, I love the drawing! Wonder who the artist is and I wonder if we are going to get more pictures like this from the other characters

Secondly, if you look up you will see that the battery task is also here

I have a small speculation about this:

I believe that the battery task may be for the final levels of each of the characters. My best guess is that each time we play the gallery, we are going to see the handeemen look more and more demonic as the game becomes harder.

This actually scared me a bit and it is well done!

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SAFE!

My best guess, is that this is going to be a scene short for the game. Based on the pose and the fact that we can see the puppet's doors. I can assume this may be a jumpscare

Aperantly someone broke the collectable we got! I blame Owen >:[

Also, we get back the Mort-in-the-box for the first game! Cool reuse of assets and it's a bit weird seeing Mortimer's later design in the prequel game

Also

The good boi

Quick glimpse of a very important escene

I am not sure if this is a glance at the final level of the game (my speculation you maybe play against all the puppets (including Mortimer) or Mortimer is the final boss or this was teaching you the mechanics of the game

I also just wanted to show how one of the items suppose to work

Poor Daisy :[

The safety ABC!

Always

Be

Careful

This is quite hilarious. I applaud them.

Another cutscene revealed in the Trailer it's just Mortimer with the girl as his hosts.

There is nothing particularly scary about this place

Plz visit any time soon :D

Alright, those were all the details I could find in the trailer. Jokes aside, I'm going to be a lil serious in this ending conclusion.

I thought it would be great to address a quick cool observation I found when listening to the dialogue of the game. I like how there's a hit of a demonic voice when the characters are upset (excluding Mortimer)

I just thought it was a nice simple detail added

I do find curious Daisy and Nick's lines in the trailer.

Daisy demanding Owen to hug her seems strange to me, but also makes me think that perhaps she is one of the least evil characters. She is still the sweetest towards you as well as Nick. Makes me wonder if they actually do have a conscience or reflect their "in-show personality"

Regarding, Nick Nack's lines, outside the jokes of Daddy Issues

I do find interesting his desperation to get his father love. He appears alongside Mortimer to call Owen their father, it is a very curious fact about why Daisy doesn't

Riley is quite proud to admit Owen, out all people, is her father.

We did see a glimpse of Nick fighting over his instincts of hurting Owen in the game over scenes of the demo, so we do know that he appears to be the most emotional and the lesser evil of the four.

However, I found that his line

"LOOK AT ME, FATHER! LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!"

It appears that Nick doesn't receive too much attention or wishes to be seen more. He did sound like a little toddler during that scene, but it did make me wondered why would he want that attention and why did the devs chose that line over.

I went back and decided to listen to each introduction Mortimer gave to each of the Handeemen, just curious to see if he happened to hint favoritism. I noticed this.

Out of the three, the longest time Mortimer talks about a Handeemen appears to be Riley's introduction, and she was the first

The shortest time he takes to introduce one of the members appears to be Nick, and he was the last.

His descriptions go to a bit detailed to just a basic overview.

Riley is the only one that Mortimer mentions what she can actually do. He just mentions that you can help Daisy bake a pie, and that Nick is a Thespian and an artist

He describes Nick in the vaguest way possible. He doesn't really mention his personality (although Mortimer says Daisy is the sweetest and harmless)

My best guess, this is either just a coincidence or another clue to get to know how Mortimer may have some preference over the Handeemen.

It appears that Riley is the favorite, my best guess is that she's the most cruel and evil in comparison to Nick and Daisy

Since Nick appears to be the lesser evil, Mortimer may favor him the least.

I also wanted to add a small speculation regarding Owen's character. Wondering more about some of the stuff he has seen on the trailer, I was thinking he's more of a morally gray character .He has done both good and bad but appears to be acting more for selfish reasons rather than heroic which I find interesting to see.

Overall, I'm eager to see how the midnight show will be and what facts will be given

Hope you all enjoy this long analysis ^^

Feel free to add to this.

[into-the-michaelverse]

bonus!

[runelocked]

❝ you passed out, i carried you here. ❞ — vanessa @hazardess , but she’s bitter about it

FEVERISH  MUTTERING  HAD  HAUNTED  HIM  ALL NIGHT,  ALL DAY,  AND  THE  LAST  MEMORY  HE  HAS  IS  LEAVING  THE  PIZZERIA,  still  shivering  uncontrollably  in  the  heat  of  the  sticky  summer  sun.  Head  aching,  angrily  waving  off  his  daughter’s  questions:  I’m  fine,  he  remembers  snapping,  more  of  a  groan  than  anything  else,  I  just  need  air.  Don’t  you  even think about. . .  

The  rest  is  a  sliding,  slippery  blur.  Despite  everything  he’s  done  and  the  lengths  he’s  gone  to,  it  seems  he’s  still  just  as  human  as  ever.

That’s  the  really  terrifying  part.

He  can  barely  even  face  lifting  his  head  from  the  makeshift  pillow  Vanessa  has  propped  under  him,  the  whole  world  tilting  precariously  on  an  axis  of  its  own  bearing.  But  he  does:  persists  in  rising,  his  pale  face  ghostly  and  off - color.  Even  trying  to  keep  his  daughter  in  focus  hurts.  She  blurs  in  front  of  him,  fades  in  and  out  between  the  little  girl  he’d  initially  doted  on  and  the  young  woman  he  knows  logically  that  she  is.  Is  this  his  fever - addled  brain  trying  to  offer  him  a  reprieve  from  the  disappointment  he  feels  his  daughter  has  become ?  –  Clumsily  reaches  out  for  her,  words  heavy  and  absent.

“ ‘S  a  good  girl,  Ness.  Always  so  helpful. ”  Her  father’s  right  hand  man,  through  and  through.  Remembers  getting  her  to  hold  his  tools  as  he’d  painstakingly  built  that  old  Spring - Bonnie  suit,  his  pride  and  joy;  remembers  more  recently  handing  her  his  knife  to  wash.  Clean  that  up  for  me.  We’ve  done  well  today.  Both  killers.  Nobody  suspects  him,  of  course  they  don’t.  Confident  words  and  faux  charming  smile  keeping  him  out  of  public  scrutiny,  the  loss  of  his  own  son  only  years  before  at  the  hands  of  his  daughter.  

He  smiles  that  same  smile  now,  but  it’s  pathetic.  Laden  with  the  sudden  realization  he  feels  helpless  for  the  first  time  in  a  long  time.  If  she’d  wanted  to  kill  him,  she  could  have.  Ended  it  all.  He  wouldn’t  have  even  known.  Maybe  that’s  why  he  addresses  her  now,  in  an  exhausted  facsimile  of  love  he’d  once  shown  her  as  a  young  child.  “ Help  me  stand.  [...]  How  long ‘s  it  been ? ”   How  long  has  he  been  lying  there,  human,  vulnerable ?  How  long  has  she  been  watching  over  him;  how  long  has  she  served  her  duty  to  him  loyally  today ?

[riahlynn101]

Whumptober: Day Five - Alternative Prompt: "Broken."

Trigger warnings: implied/referenced kidnapping.

I just want to say, this story fought me. It's fairly short and I apologize if it doesn't make much sense. I might publish another story today just to make up for the low word count.

--

They say misery loves company.

Vanessa can’t disprove that. Not when she finds solace in Mike’s suffering. 

It reminds Vanessa so much of her own. 

The anguish of losing a sibling. 

That burning, fiery feeling of self-loathing. 

And the constant thought of, it’s all my fault. 

Of course, logically, it wasn’t. Neither of them couldn’t have done anything differently. They were both kids. 

Vanessa had been eleven at the time, and bedridden that particular day. Her brother was invited to a party. Technically, both of them were invited, but she had contracted a nasty stomach bug. So, her parents made Vanessa stay home. 

The boy that invited them, Gabriel, also went missing. 

Sometimes she thinks about how close she had been to sharing their fates. The what-ifs making her dizzy. 

What if I didn’t get sick. 

What if I went to the party?

What if Cassidy was the one that stayed home?

What if we both went missing?

What if…what if….what if….

Mike hasn’t shared much about his brother, or that day in general. It’s obvious even now, a decade-and-a-half later, it haunts him. 

“That day….we went to a park. I can’t remember why…” Mike trails off, as if actually trying to recall ‘why’ his family went there. 

“Mike,” Vanessa murmurs, trying to keep him on track. They don’t have a lot of time together. She got here late tonight, and her shift starts in an hour. 

“Uh….sorry…um….we went to the park. Me and Garrett were so excited.” Mike smiles softly at the table, a faraway look in his big brown eyes. “We played pirates on the playscape, tag, and….”

“And?” Vanessa presses, quirking a brow. 

Mike blinks, shifting in the chair. “And I was ‘it.’” 

Vanessa listens patiently. Taking in his shuddering breaths and wet eyes. 

“I…I was supposed to- supposed to find him, but I ... .uh ... .couldn't. I ran all the way to the parking lot. I thought maybe he hid under our car. He wasn’t allowed to, but since when do kids listen?” Mike chuckles a little at that, but his eyes remain fixated on the tabletop. “But when I got there I saw him in the backseat of someone else’s car, and they were driving away. I remember trying to chase after them, but I tripped. I think, maybe, I screamed. But I can’t remember very clearly after I tripped.”

Vanessa watches him closely. The words, ‘it’s not your fault,’ sit heavy on her tongue. But she knows from experience that he won’t believe her. Years of being told the same by therapists and counselors and every other adult didn’t make a dent in her self-blame. 

“My brother,” she starts, watching Mike perk up at the change of topic, “and I were close. I told you once that I used to come to this place as a kid.”

He nods. 

“Well, I came here a lot with my brother. Our parents couldn’t afford daycare and didn’t trust us enough to stay home alone, so they would just give us a few bucks and send us here.”

“Huh, very responsible of them.”

Vanessa makes a show of craning her neck to where Abby’s sleeping, curled up in the little fort Mike made. 

He coughs. “Yeah, yeah, okay.”

“Anyways, so we spent a lot of time here.” It’s Vanessa’s turn to stare at the table. Memories rush back to her. The smell of pizza. Children cheering as the animatronics sang the same five songs over and over and over again. “Well, one day, my brother went to the pizzeria alone. It was a weekend, and we normally didn’t go on weekends. But my brother and I were invited to a birthday party. I….got sick. A stomach bug or the flu, I can’t remember now. So, I couldn’t go. My brother did though…” She bites her bottom lip to keep from crying. It had been years, almost as long as Mike’s brother’s been missing, and still, she can’t keep it together. 

Mike lays a gentle hand on top of her’s. He doesn’t say a word, but the concerned look in his eyes says it all. 

For once, Vanessa feels seen. 

Misery loves the company of broken people. And Vanessa, the most broken of them all, staring at the only other person she’s ever met that could rival that, would be a fool to deny that. 

[proudfreakmetarusonniku]

"There's no shame in asking for help." for the whump prompts!!

You get the old Owl House AU, enjoy. There isn’t really anything SUPER dark in this, it’s all in the implications babey!

TW: Forced family dynamics, abuse, referenced murder, internalised ableism, implied physical harm to a young child, manipulation

——

“Papa?”

The word still felt wrong on Luz's tongue to say about the Emperor, but after two-and-a-half years she'd learnt better than to ask questions. And, after all, Belos had taken her in through the kindness of his own heart, hadn't he? It was only fair to play along, even if she missed her real Mom and Dad. It’s not like there was some magic portal back home- no, this was her home now, and she should accept that.

(Besides, Luz was a big girl now. She was very nearly nine, even, and she knew of the Emperor's brutality towards any dissidents. She'd seen it, hiding in the little-known corners of the castle and watching when no one knew she was around, and it played in her memories like a video on loop. She'd seen Hunter die, she’d seen the blood, and even if she hadn’t, she knew something was up when her cool magic big kid friend who was so grown up and mature was suddenly replaced with a boy barely older than she was bearing the same name and face. Who's to say next wouldn’t be her?)

Belos smiled, dull blue eyes lacking any spark settling down on her. Around him, Luz always felt so small, even if she was a big girl and she was learning how to fight the bad guys. “Yes, Luz?”

“I was reading about the history of the Isles, like you asked,” Luz babbled, pulling on the too-long ends of her curls and her dress, ”and I know this is probably stupid, and I shouldn’t take time out of your day to ask, but-“

Belos chuckled, no malice in his tone. Still, it set Luz on edge a bit, even though she knew he was the good guy. He had to be brutal, but he was the good guy. He had to be. “There's no shame in asking for help, Luz. You know, I took you in for a reason. The Titan wouldn’t have brought you here without one, you know, and who am I to deny what it provides?”

Luz grinned ear to ear. “You mean… I'm special?” The idea of being anything but plain old Luz, seeming so out of sorts both on Earth and stuck in the castle… it would explain why anyone ever cared. She must have some important job to do.

Belos only smiled wider. “What part were you struggling with?”

“Oh! Oh, yeah.” Luz laughed nervously. Forgetting things usually got her in trouble, and Belos could be… harsh. “Well, uh, I was reading about the Savage Ages, and… I don't understand exactly the differences between wild magic and, uh, the non wild magic, I guess? It’s just- I'm not trying to defend it, of course, but-“

“You're not in trouble for not understanding something, Luz. You've seen my curse, haven’t you?”

Luz absently touched the cut on her cheek. “Yes, papa.”

“That’s something that can’t happen in the covens, now. I don’t want anyone to go through what I did.” Belos sighed. “Now, would you like me to go over the passages with you? I wouldn’t mind.”

Luz excitedly bounced on her toes. “Yesyesyesyesyes! Uh, I mean, yes please.” Whenever someone actually explained things to her, she always understood it a lot more, and if there was anything she wanted here it was understanding. It felt like she was being intentionally left in the dark far too much, and it bugged her, even though she knew it must be for a reason. Everything had to be for a reason.

Right?

[moriiartist]

LIKE INK IN WATER

Masterlist

Taglist

PAIRING: Ghost!Eret x GN!Reader

SUMMARY: Get a job as a tour guide at the local historic castle!’, they said. ‘It’ll be fun!’, they said. Well, now a specter of the last monarch to be crowned in its old halls has decided you’re the best thing since sliced bread, and you have to live with it.

WARNINGS: Mild language, implied/referenced death, implied/referenced murder, body horror, fainting mention

A/N: Okay- I know the warnings look bad, but in my opinion the fic is a lot lighter than it may first appear. Don’t judge a book by its cover, or... something. Anyways, enjoy, and remember to take care of yourselves y’all!

When you stepped into the darkened, cavernous expanse of the great hall from the brightness of the front lawns, you had only two things on your mind: a fresh cup of coffee and your need for a new jacket.

The squeaking of your sneakers echoed off the high stone walls and reverberated throughout the room, no doubt audible throughout the empty building. It was difficult for sound to permeate the castle’s infrastructure; the birdsong, the wind, all of it was muffled. You could almost forget that there was a world outside of the site’s sprawling grounds, that you hadn’t been transported back into the dark ages.

The emptiness was unnerving, especially during your first few days on the job, but you’d quickly grown to love it while it lasted. The serenity wouldn’t last long- not when, in about an hour, the castle would be swarming with tourists and their ankle biters.

“‘Morning Sam,” you murmured blearily as you dumped your bag onto the security kiosk’s counter, rifling through it for your employee ID. 

“Guess again,” a cheery voice greeted you, and you paused. Blinking up at the person behind the glass, you felt your eyebrows shoot up so fast that it almost hurt. The grin that spread across your face was painful in its own right, wide and broad.

“Tubbo! I didn’t know you were working today,” you beamed, sleepiness forgotten as you greeted the teen. His grin, coupled with a bright gleam in his eye, was even brighter than your own.

Tubbo shrugged, a mirthful gleam in his eye as he took your offered ID and scanned it into the security system with deft fingers. The bright glow of the computer screen illuminated his youthful features and compact, soft face, turning his skin a ghostly shade of pale blue. Catching your eye, he grinned mischievously.

No doubt about it. If Tubbo died and somehow came back, he’d be a poltergeist.

Although he was only eighteen, he’d been working at the site for three years; much longer than you, barely a month in. Security, site maintenance, guiding tours- he’d done them all. The two of you had grown close, what with all the time you’d spent around each other, and although you would be hard-pressed to admit it, you had begun to think of the kid as a little brother.

“Sam was sick today, and couldn’t come in.”

You nodded sagely. “Ponk?”

“Ponk,” he agreed.

Despite the fact that you could count the number of times you’d met Ponk on two hands, it’d been enough for you and the rest of your coworkers to develop a healthy fear of her. She was perfectly nice, if a bit of a prankster, but when it came to Sam’s workaholic tendencies…?

You winced. He definitely needed the rest, but you did not want to know what atrocities Ponk had committed in getting him to stay home for the day.

The computer beeped, and Tubbo slid your ID back through the slot in the glass with a grin. “I heard you’re chaperoning some ghost hunters this weekend.”

Rolling your eyes, you chuckled. “Yeah. It’s kind of stupid, but I’m getting paid overtime for it, so.”

“Really?” he hummed, tipping his head to the side and cupping his chin in his palm. “Sounds like someone’s a skeptic.”

You hesitated.

“I don’t… know,” you said, drawing the words out. “As far as I’m concerned, the spookiest thing in this castle the lack of air conditioning. I’ll mind my own business, and so can the ghosts- spirits, or whatever.”

“Fair,” Tubbo snickered, his grin widening into something with entirely too many teeth. “You’ll have to tell me what show came by. I want to watch the footage when the episode releases.”

“Yeah, yeah. See you later, Tubs,” you sighed, ignoring his blatant attempt to psyche you out.

“Good luck!”

Kentillie Hold was many things to many different people. To you, it was the place where you spent your working hours, spouting scripts to visitors and their bored children. To historians, it was the crowning jewel of an ancient kingdom to rival Britain’s own, and the setting for one of the most brutal executions in history. To tourists… it was pretty and a good place to pose for Instagram pictures.

And it was, apparently, one of the most haunted places in England. At least, according to all the ghost hunters and paranormal enthusiasts that swamped the place, it was.

If you had been asked if you believed any of those claims a month ago, you would’ve called bullshit. Since your childhood, ghosts had always been a scare tactic that’d been used against you to, whether it be just to elicit some sort of reaction, or coerce you into doing something out of fear.

Years had passed, and you’d long since come to the realization that ghosts weren’t something to be afraid of- because they weren’t real. It was kind of ridiculous, the idea that the spirits of the dead had returned to the world of the living to just… hang out?

However, since your time spent at Kentillie, you were beginning to reconsider your stance on the subject.

It was easy to imagine that a place like the Hold was filled to the brim with ghosts. It was old- very, very old. Though there’d been no written record of when it was built, it had been estimated to be around 1040- almost twenty years earlier than Berkhamsted Castle. The stone walls and portcullis were crumbled and grey with age, with vines of ivy and climbing roses continually threatening to overtake the structure entirely.

Entire sections of the castle were forbidden for both staff and visitors to enter because of the rot that had done away with the castle for years before its restoration. One of the maintenance men actually had to quit because, while taking a shortcut through the restricted rooms, he had fallen through the floors and into the dungeons.

The Hold needed a lot of maintenance, too. It seemed like every other week something needed to be repaired or replaced. In fact, you’d heard that over the weekend the mirrors in the King’s Chambers had needed to be deep-cleaned. Something about the metal backing rusting and causing red fluid to start leaking out of the glass?

You had only held your job for a brief time, but that was more than long enough for you to begin to notice the… odd happenings within the site’s halls. Stuff- yours and your coworker’s- consistently disappeared and reappeared in spots they definitely weren’t in before. Guests mentioned hearing disembodied voices near closing hours, footsteps that followed them down the hall; movement out of the corner of their eyes that, when they turned to investigate, revealed nothing there.

The earnestness with which they recounted these events was enough to make even the most hard-core skeptic waver in their beliefs. Unnerving to say the least- especially when you were a witness of some of these encounters yourself.

You did your best to put it out of your mind, but more often than not you felt watched. The sensation of intangible eyes boring holes into you during your work shifts was a familiar one. Random chills, goosebumps, and running into inexplicably cold patches of air, even more so.

Acknowledging it only invited childhood fear back, so you didn’t. At least, not consciously.

More importantly than the Hold’s age or the toll that time had taken on it in reinforcing the mythology of paranormal happenings was the history held within its hallowed halls; the long, winding tale of one of the most powerful (and obscure) royal lineages to ever exist, and of a betrayal that rivaled the drama of the Ides of March.

“Do any of you know who the last reigning monarch of Kentillie Hold was?” you asked politely, gaze sweeping over the faces of the tour group you were leading. They stared at you, faces blank and uncomprehending. Someone coughed.

After checking in with Tubbo, you’d been launched into the routine that dictated your day-to-day work life: you stowed your stuff away in the staff room (which was really just a repurposed part of the cellar), changed into your uniform, and prepped for the tours that you were slated to corral. It was well past noon and you were leading your fourth- and most boring- group of your shift.

Despite the difficulty, you kept your smile staunchly plastered across your face. It wasn’t very often that you met someone who knew, given how deep the Herobrines were in the British monarchy’s shadow. However, having to explain the same thing over and over again to people who rarely cared was… tiring, to say the least.

Since it was a weekday, there were fewer people visiting. The ballroom was quiet, the hushed voices of guests barely audible against the rush of wind outside the small, port-like windows. Your voice was the loudest by far, all those Drama lessons you’d taken helping you project your voice to every corner of the space.

Before you could continue, resigned to your fate, a tiny hand shot up into the air. “Eret Herobrine!”

Your eyebrows flickered up as you gazed down at the little girl who’d answered your question, a determined gleam to her eye as her gaze met yours. Softening, you graced her with the most genuine smile you’d given throughout the duration of the tour.

“Very good!” you enthused. “They were the seventh and last reigning monarch of Herobrine.”

Stepping to the side, you gestured to the painting that’d been hung directly behind you. At your cue, the light coming through a nearby window strengthened, setting the bold colors that comprised the work alight with a fiery vibrance. “This portrait here depicts him at the height of his rule, right around the time of his coronation.”

The tourists ooo’d and ahhh’d, some of the more industrious taking out their cell phones or cameras to snap a pic. You couldn’t blame them for their enraptured reactions- you’d felt much the same the first time you’d seen it.

That painting- ‘Winter After The Coronation’- was one of the many mysteries of the Hold. It was ancient, but somehow throughout the years, it had managed to remain as pristine as the day it was framed. Whether it was because it was found stored within the walls of the castle, far away from the elements, or through some method of sealing or making paint that made it immune to weathering, the artistry was pristine.

And oh, was it breathtaking.

Brought to life on the canvas was the likeness of a tall, aristocratic figure, clothed in a furred red cape and dripping with gold. They were standing in a garden, snow falling in thick flakes and tangling in their long, curly dark hair; catching in their eyelashes and clinging to the branches of holly and yew that framed their face like a thorny crown.

Somehow, the painter had managed to capture the texture and feel of the expensive fabrics draped across his form, the play of light across his face, and the cool flush that the biting wind brought to his face. Eret’s eyes were dark and warm, his brows arched and expression serene. The suggestion of a smile lingered around the lines of his mouth- like he knew a secret that you didn’t.

“As you all can see, she’s not wearing a crown,” you extrapolated after allowing the visitors to admire the work for a few moments, drawing their attention back to you. “This is just one of the many mysteries surrounding Eret and her reign. Paintings were extremely expensive to commission, and so most royals in the Herobrine line only had their portraits taken once or twice in their lifetime.

“So, why would Eret choose not to appear in their crown, as so many of their predecessors did? Why would they remove their most defining mark of status, one of the only things that could’ve been used to identify them once they’d passed on?”

The little girl who had spoken up frowned. “Maybe he thought it was ugly.”

You laughed, turning your head to look at the canvas once more. The painted eyes almost seemed to stare back, hidden truths swirling within their depths.

“I guess we’ll never know. It’s not like we can call her up and ask her,” you joked, earning a few smiles from the peanut gallery. It was muscle memory to glance away from your tour group while they chattered amongst one another and make a sweep of the room, checking for any guests that might’ve wandered away. 

Movement from the corner of your eye drew your gaze.

Squinting, you hazarded a step closer to the source of your distraction, one of the many mirrors that dotted the walls. Some insane interior designer had gone absolutely crazy with mirrors- almost every vertical surface was covered with them, and they were large. We’re talking floor-to-ceiling, non-stop reflective action.

Now that you were looking at it, nothing seemed amiss… but you could’ve sworn you saw something. You were confident enough in your suspicion to draw even nearer, close enough to touch the glass surface if you reached out.

There- at the very edge of the mirror, you barely caught the flutter of a cape sliding out of view.

You blinked once, twice, three times, feeling your heart pick up in pace. You glanced behind you. Nobody was wearing anything resembling what you’d seen- except, perhaps, the elegant old woman in the red trench coat that was perusing the floor, arm delicately linked with her husband’s.

Leaning back, you smoothed your hands down the shirt of your uniform, taking slow, measured breaths. Nothing else appeared in the mirror, and you felt yourself begin to calm down. You even managed to force out a breathy chuckle.

Oh, you would be having words with Tubbo later. The dude must’ve been more effective at freaking you out than he really was.

You pointedly ignored the prickling sensation as every hair on your body stood on end.

Ushering the group along, you led them through the dark hallways that wound throughout the interior of the Hold. Your path was lit only by the flickering beeswax candles that dotted the walls every ten paces or so; you pointed them out to your tour group, remarking how, back in the day, they used tallow candles made from animal fat instead.

Only one place was left for you to visit before this particular tour was over, and that was the Hold’s most famous room: the Royal Suite.

Located on the uppermost floor, the sprawling chambers took up almost the entire level- with only a little bit of space for the receiving room, where guests could sit and have tea. 

Unlike the rest of the castle grounds, the Royal Suite and the adjacent areas were completely forbidden for guests to enter by themselves. Only tour groups were allowed to access them, so the delighted gasps and assorted sounds of awe that arose as you pushed open the heavy cherrywood door were… pretty par for the course, actually.

If you had to pick which part of Kentillie grounds was your favorite, you’d be a dirty liar if you didn’t at least mention the opulent rooms that awaited you beyond the open doorway.

When the castle was restored, the most work and effort was put into the Royal Suite. According to what records were available, this was where the Herobrine family’s reigning monarchs ate, slept, and lived; it was a testament to the wealth they’d gathered throughout their long stewardship of the British Isles.

You watched with keen eyes as the guests spread out, gaping at the craftsmanship that had gone into every inch of the connected chambers.

Detailed paintings of wildlife covered the walls, depicting everything from gnarled forest trees to different kinds of birds, foxes, and weasels. The floors were polished to a mirror glaze, made of some type of dark red granite. Overhead, porcelain chandeliers that burned with a thousand little candles cast rainbow-colored light throughout the room.

Plush carpets, woven thick enough that your feet hardly made a sound as you walked across them, padded the center of the space. Right on top of it was the canopy bed- one of the biggest beds, in fact, that you think you’ve ever seen.

Were you to lay down upon it lengthwise, you would have at least another half-meter or so of space on either end. The mattress was overflowing with pillows- the expensive horsehair kind that looked so overstuffed they might explode at any moment; each richly colored and embroidered with delicate furls of ferns.

To the right, you could see the short hallway that led to the cordoned-off bath chamber. Although it was forbidden to enter- something about structural integrity- you could still make out the play of light against the multicolored ceramic tiles that dotted the floor.

If your memory served you correctly, the majority of the space inside was taken up by a gargantuan claw-footed bath that the royalty would use to immerse themselves in perfumed water and flower petals. It was actually quite a flex in the olden times to have a room solely delegated to bathing, seeing as most people couldn’t afford to take them too often. Heating up the water, having servants haul it upstairs, and then only using it once before it was drained… 

Yeah.

To your left was the study, which also had a barrier to prevent any tourists from wandering in and breaking something. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, bracketing a lone desk covered with papers. One of the most interesting things about the Herobrine family was their value of literature and literacy; You think that Eret even wrote a book before she died.

You smirked. Right, you were just getting to that.

There were a few more rooms beyond that, used to hold meetings with local knights and lords- but you weren’t interested in those. No, you were much more focused on the room you were standing in. The one where they were murdered.

Clearing your throat, you gathered your audience before you, herding them into position at the foot of the bed. You spread your arms wide, and with the same amount of drama as an actor about to perform a soliloquy.

“This was His Royal Highnesses chambers,” you exclaimed, allowing your smirk to grow. You winked at the little girl from before, peeking out from behind her mother’s back. “Though some of you might’ve already known that.”

Earning a few chuckles from your audience, you allowed your arms to fall back into a neutral state. “This was where Eret Herobrine at the height of her rule ate, slept, bathed, and occasionally held court. One could say that is was the primary backdrop for her life.

“It was the backdrop for the end of her life as well.”

Stepping to the side, you circled the canopy frame, stopping right beside the headboard. Reaching behind it, you heard your tour group collectively inhale as you drew a long, wicked-looking dagger from out behind it.

“Only two years after their coronation,” you went on, spinning the blade between your fingers, “Eret was slaughtered in cold blood.”

Someone gasped as you stabbed the dagger into the pillow, just about where someone’s head would be if they were laying down. You laughed wickedly, enjoying their momentary shock. It had to be the most emotion you’d elicited from the group yet.

“Their very own personal advisor, a former knight by the name of Dream, snuck up into their chambers late at night and killed them. His plan was to put a new ruler into power: his lover, a lord by the name of George.”

You shook your head, sighing internally at the sheer audacity.

“Of course, he didn’t succeed. Both Dream and George were executed, while those who were accused of aiding them fled the land.

“Ultimately, though, Eret’s death was too much for the kingdom to take, and it crumbled into obscurity not long after. The remains of Kentillie Hold are all that remain of the proud Herobrine legacy, so thank you for booking a tour with us.”

The visitors all clapped politely, and you bowed.

“If you’d like to donate money, please deposit it in the boxes on the first floor.”

As the group dispersed, their hour long tour finally finished, you surreptitiously checked the blankets covered the bed. Although the blade you’d used was obviously plastic, you would still get in trouble if you damaged anything- and you could not afford the hundreds of dollars it would take to fix it if it got torn.

You jolted as something brushed your shoulder lightly, head snapping up to stare suspiciously at the empty space that surrounded you. Before you could begin to question it too much, however, you were distracted by a tug on your pants.

“Can I help you?” you asked, staring down at the little girl whose hands were securely fisted in the fabric of your clothes. Her parents rushed up behind her; the mother pulling the girl away and into her embrace.

“Sorry, she’s still learning about personal space,” the father said sheepishly. He turned back towards his daughter, face softening. “Didn’t you have something to give the nice tour guide, sweetie?”

Shyly, she extracted her arms from her mother’s hold, holding out a crisp twenty dollar bill for you to take.

“Oh!” you said, your previously bemused expression shifting into a gentle smile. “Thank you!”

You shivered as you crouched to take it from here, the temperature of the room seeming to have gone down by a few degrees. Rubbing at your arms, you offered her one last grin before her parents swept her away to the safety of the sunny outdoors.

Or- not so sunny. Shit.

How late was it?

Pulling out your phone, you blanched at the time that blinked up at you from the screen: 6:00 PM. It was well past the point you should’ve been making your way back to the staff room to get changed and drive home, and if you waited any longer you wouldn’t be getting back ot the house until at least midnight.

“Damn it,” you cursed. Luckily, no one else was around to scold you except yourself, the rest of the visitors having long since exited the room.

Starting the long trek to the first floor, you couldn’t dispel the goosebumps that had surfaced all over your body. Normally they would only last so long before they inevitably relaxed- but it was somehow different this time. Like you were reacting to something much different than what you normally dealt with.

The last of your tour group were exiting the building when you finally made it all the way down, breaths heaving and shaky as you momentarily braced yourself against one of the cold stone walls. You frowned down at your wobbly legs, bemoaning your lack of athleticism.

Most of the staff had already left. The majority of the work done in the Hold was either in the mornings or on the weekends, so on days like this the only people left at this hour were you and the security guards that patrolled the grounds. Tubbo was going to pack up soon, probably in about thirty minutes, so you had to be fast.

Maybe that was why you didn’t notice the electricity in the air when you barged down into the cellar-turned-staff room, complaining about the freezing air temperature as you slipped into the changing room.

Maybe that was why you didn’t notice the droplets of blood dotting the floor as you padded to your locker, checking the time once more with a harried expression. The soles of your feet were stained red, leaving sticky, bright footprints like a breadcrumb trail behind you.

Maybe that was why you didn’t notice the figure floating behind you until it was too late- until your hind-brain was screaming at you to run, to hide, to do anything but stay here. 

You could ignore a lot of things, but not your instincts when they were this insistent. Which is why, when the air behind you chilled in an upside-down facsimile of body heat, you finally recognized the storm brewing.

Your body went as still as the grave when you made eye contact with it in the reflection of your phone, breathing shallow. Your heart felt like a bird bludgeoning itself against the cage of your ribs, broken and bloody, and you whimpered softly when it blinked.

Turning slowly around, your breath halted completely when you came face-to-face with that of a corpse. There was no way that the thing standing- floating- behind you was human, although it took the shape of one. 

It’s skin was grey and lifeless, flickering with an inner light. It’s eyes were a pupil-less, pure white that glowed in the room’s shadows. It’s clothes, a loose ruffle shirt and thick woolen pants, were tattered and torn. The shredded edges swirled around it as if buoyed by an invisible wind.

For some reason, it seemed oddly familiar.

But most importantly- most horrifyingly- was the dagger sunk deep within its chest, covering the entire front of its shirt with crimson, viscous blood. As you watched, frozen with a mixture of shock and terror, small drops of it dripped onto the floor and landed with a spatter.

It inhaled, the sound rattling in its ruined lungs, before speaking. If you had to liken what its voice was, it was like the whistling of wind through the Hold’s ruined towers; the sound of the tree leaves rustling, the sound of the beeswax candles guttering.

“Hello.”

You shrieked.

The ghost, because that’s what it was, a goddamn ghost- winced, drifting slightly further away. “Ah. That is… not ideal.”

Half-convinced you were about to pass out, you braced yourself on your locker door, curling up like you were considering shoving yourself inside to escape this entire situation. You actually might, if it got any closer.

It raised its bloodstained hands out in front of itself placatingly, grimacing. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You looked at it, caught in the middle of taking another shuddering breath to scream for help. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

The ghost sighed, which was weird now that you thought about it because it didn’t need to breathe. It smiled awkwardly, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was nervous. “... Hopefully?”

“You’re doing a terrible job at convincing me!” you laughed hysterically. You were kind of starting to hyperventilate at this point, and if you didn’t stop you were going to pass out. The ghost seemed to agree.

“You need to calm down.”

You glared at it. “Thanks.”

It hesitated for a moment. “This is… not how I wanted this to go.”

“How else could this have gone?!”

Pausing, it seemed to be thinking for a moment. You took the time to begin to edge out from your spot, angling for the door. If you moved quickly enough, you might be able to make it out of the building with your life intact.

“You have a point,” the ghost mused. Before you could blink, it was right in front of you again, pale lips curving into a grin. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

Oh.

You froze, heart leaping into your throat. You realized why it had seemed so familiar, why its appearance had niggled at the back of your brain. The ghost’s visage was a haunting echo of that shown in the same painting you’d seen over and over again for the past few weeks.

The sharpness of its smile, the secretive cast to its face, the way in which it dressed- down to the last detail, you realized. Ghosts are the spirits of the dead, back to walk the earth once more.

“Hello,” Eret Herobrine said, taking your hand in her own. The sensation was weird, to say the least. It was similar to when you would stick your hand out of the car window and feel the wind pushing at it like a physical barrier.

This was like that, but in the shape of a hand.

You shivered as they pressed a chilled kiss to your skin, feeling the curve of their grin like a physical brand.

“Eret,” He murmured, pallid eyes locked on your own. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

@blufr0st​ @itsonlydana​ @amearla​ @bapthadapper​ @redactedsouls​ @sina-the-idiot @icarusthefoolish @blockyshieldmaiden

[freak-fortress]

tw blood eye contact

one taste of flesh is never enough

[secret-gallavich]

Shameless Whumptober Masterlist

just a list of all the shameless whump fics i wrote in october

Safety Net

tw suicidal thoughts

Mickey has always been there for Ian, even when he's in Mexico and Ian wants to jump off a bridge.

Solitary Confinement

tw mistreatment of mental illness

Ian’s meds were bound to get out of whack at some point in their prison stay.

Made To Watch

tw implied/referenced rape/non-con, implied/referenced child abuse

Ian and Mickey go to a couple’s therapist once a month.

Outnumbered

tw implied/referenced rape/non-con , implied/referenced underage sex , child abuse

Laura Milkovich is 19 years old when she gives birth to her third baby, Mikhailo. It’s the 10th of August in 1994, her husband is in jail and she’s a mother once again

You Said You'd Never Leave

tw suicidal thoughts

Ian comes home from the hospital and Mickey isn't there.

Insomnia

Mickey thought he was just having trouble adjusting to the new surroundings of living in the Westside. He’s not used to the quietness, he’s feeling homesick or the moon is too fucking bright.

Infection

Mickey’s never felt…normal when it comes to Ian. Ian makes him weird and do things he’d never normally do. Like get a tattoo of his name on his chest in prison.

Makeshift Bandages

Mickey hides an injury from Ian while working at the Kash 'N' Grab

Leave Me Alone

tw horror, mistreatment of mental illness, murder, dead dove: do not eat, paranormal, major character death

Ian's convinced something is haunting their apartment. Mickey realises he's telling the truth when it's too late.

Drugging

tw drugged, date rape drug

Mickey’s started going to the club with Ian just to make sure no one takes advantage of him. He lets Ian do his thing, give out lapdances, sweet talk them for some extra cash but he’s always stepping in when they go too far.

Floral Bouquet

tw major character death

Ian passes by a flower shop every day on his morning runs but can't bring himself to go inside.

You Will Regret Touching Them

tw implied/referenced child abuse

S03E06 but it goes differently.

Mickey feels like he’s going to throw up at any second.

He’s got a boy spending the night with him. Not just any boy, Ian. Ian is staying the night and he’s trying to play it casual but he can’t stop glancing over at the red head just to make sure he’s really there.

Don't Move

Mickey is allergic to bees and fucking hates spring

Who's There?

tw thriller, horror

Mickey is home alone and starts hearing noises outside the house.

Storm

tw implied/referenced rape, child abuse, internalised homophobia

Mickey's feeling post S03E06.

The hooker is still here, looking just as scared as he is and putting her purple dress back on under Terry’s watchful eyes. He throws her a bag of coke and she fumbles to catch it. Terry won’t stop glaring at her and Mickey takes it as his chance to look at Ian’s empty spot. He’d taken his clothes, wasn’t sure if Ian was allowed to get changed here or if he left in his boxers.

You Look Awful

tw gay bashing, hatecrime

Ian laughs next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and tugging him close and Mickey laughs back and turns his body into Ian’s. Adrenaline is running through his body and he feels so fucking good right now, it’s the best high he’s ever had.

Mickey's feelings post coming out

Bloody Knife

Ian wasn’t expecting their little trip back to the Southside to end up like this.

‘This’ being the emergency room because Mickey somehow got himself stabbed.

Borrowed Clothes

tw suicidal thoughts, psych ward

The first 24 hours are the hardest.

It’s full of regret on his own behalf, self-loathing and running thoughts of ‘what if’. What if he had been paying more attention, what if he wasn’t so focused on work, what if Mickey had been a good husband?

Body Modifications

tw implied/referenced child abuse

Mickey's always had a love hate relationship with his knuckle tattoos

[ikolaiigh]

Tainted Graveyard

•𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀...As a geek in high school, you were in the pit of the school's hierarchy - That stays like that until you gain the Decay of Angels- the most popular trio in Yokohama's High, attention. Everything was supposed to be simple until an unstable boy stumbles into your life, What was supposed to be a joyous Senior year, turned out to be the most daunting, death-ridden year, and him being the reason for it.

•𝑮𝑬𝑵𝑹𝑬...angst, hurt/comfort, Dark content, Heathers AU, a little bit of fluff if you squint

•𝑻𝑾/𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺...Gaslighting, trauma, murder, gore,Dazai is extremely unhinged and fucked up, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, violence,smut, Mentions of abuse, sexual assault, Suicide, forged Suicide, Gun violence, bullying, Mental Breakdown, bomb threats, blood and injury, abuse, physical abuse, violent thoughts, death threats, suicidal thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Mental Health Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Unhealthy Relationships, Alcohol, Drugs & Smoking, Every chapter when release will have its own warning.

•𝑷𝑳𝑨𝒀𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻...

𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑴𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍

𝐓𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞 (𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐝𝐨 𝐢𝐭)

•𝘈/𝘕..Hey guys! First series and fic ever that I am posting, Probably due to school it will be difficult to finish it but oh well. This is a Bsd Heathers AU, Each chapter will have its proper trigger warnings (since Heathers + bsd is a whole tw bomb) and for the sake of the fun, Reader even though is going to be Veronica in this, they're gonna have some questionable morals, also you'll probably gonna see drawings abt this AU.

•𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑷𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺...

𝘚𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 1𝘴𝘵 1989, 𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘺- (Coming Soon)

𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘊𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘺 𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘦-

𝘚𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦?-

̶...𝘛𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥

𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻...

@yuugen-benni

𝗔𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱 © 2023 𝗩𝘀𝗸𝗸𝗼𝗹𝘆𝗮𝗮. 𝗣𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆, 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁, 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲, 𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗼𝗱𝗶𝗳𝘆 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺.

[thewhumperinwhite]

WKW: Spine

Masterpost // Previous

@annablogsposts @whump-cravings @whumpitywhumpwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @favwhumpstuff @the-monarch-whumperfly @iboopsstuff (also: i finally added a taglist to my main wkw doc, so please send me a message if you wanna be on that list)

TW for: back injury; burns; Magical Injury/painful healing; guilt; Injury To The Degree That It Is Kind Of Body Horror; potential/partial paralysis; referenced past abuse/murder; referenced noncon; nonsexual nudity (brief/implied).

----

Night has barely fallen when they bring the dying Prince to Feira’s salon. By the time she has stitched him together enough to leave him sleeping on her table, his face shadowed and aura flickering but death no longer crouching on his chest, the sun is streaming through the salon’s single window and directly into Feira’s eyes. She collapses back into the single chair that sits opposite her table, wiping sweat and stray strands of grey hair from her forehead with the least bloody part of her sleeve.

It should not have taken this long.

Spines are delicate things, and the care with which she knits one back together will mean the difference between a Prince who someday walks again and one who doesn’t; but she has studied the inner workings of the spine extensively, ever since she put the Prince’s back together from whole cloth after his botched execution. This was never going to be easy, but it should certainly be possible.

It takes her twenty long, harrowing minutes to identify the problem, as she has never encountered anything quite like it before. The iron manacle, clamped to the stump of the Prince’s wrist, is drinking in her magic. Sucking it up like a rag in a puddle. By the end of that first twenty minutes, she is sweating with effort, the Prince is still writhing with the effort of each breath, and when she happens to brush the manacle with the back of her hand, she draws back with a hiss. The metal is hot enough to burn her skin.

Feira is familiar with iron as an insulator against magical energy, of course. Magic-resistant armor is always made of iron; one of the earliest ways to recognize magical aptitude in a child is a rash-like reaction to the touch of iron. But she’s never seen anything like this before. She takes hold of the Prince’s wrist to examine the manacle—seeing, now, the way his skin is already reddening from the heat—and sees the unfamiliar rune welded into the metal. It can be no accident: it must be an intentional damper on the Prince’s magic.

There are—implications, there. About the fall of Fourshield House; about claims that the White Crane has made. None of which Feira has time to think about now, while the Prince is dying on her table, and she does not have the key to his cursed shackle.

It is—not an insurmountable obstacle. But it does mean that Feira must dig deeper into her Patron’s magical reserves than she ever has before, must strain her own aura to the point of pain and dig deeper into the Prince’s soul than she would ever have done given the choice—and must close her eyes to how the skin of his arm reddens and then blisters. The Prince slips in and out of awareness throughout the night; sometimes he is even awake enough to beg for mercy, though he never seems coherent enough to know who his torturer is, and Feira is shamefully grateful for that.

In the end, he still—has an arm, however useless it is without a hand attached. It is a horrible sun-scorched red up to the elbow; the place where the manacle once touched skin has burned down deep into the flesh beneath; in between the skin has bubbled and blistered in ways that make Feira have to stop in the middle and waste seconds she doesn't have gulping air and trying not to be sick. And even then—a spine is a finnicky thing. She may have twisted his arm beyond repair without even returning the use of his legs. She doesn’t know. Certainly he will be well within his rights to hate her to the end of his days, for these hours of torture if not for the years of neglect that preceded them.

But he does not die.

----

Thorne does not expect to fall asleep, not even when he gives up on pacing the hallway and sits down outside the Healer’s door with his forehead pressed to his knees and his eyes squeezed shut. Andry is not screaming as much, by then. Thorne doesn’t know if that means the pain has lessened, or the Prince’s throat has simply given out.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps; he doesn’t even know it's happened until he hears his Master’s voice—he knows it immediately, even in sleep, and is halfway to his feet before he is fully awake or his Master has finished the sentence—say, “What are you doing here?”

Thorne snaps to attention, though he has to grab the wall to keep from falling over while his vision clears. Morden is looking at him with blank surprise but no anger, thank the gods. Morden looks like he hasn't slept, either, and for some reason there is a smudge of blood near one corner of his jaw, like he has tried to wipe it away and not quite succeeded.

“Master,” Thorne says, his mind blessedly blank with relief. “I was—” Part of him knows he is not being careful enough, that he is too tired and wrung out to pay attention to what he says, that he must no better, by now, than to speak to his Master without thinking first.“Someone—I wanted to—they almost killed him, Master,” he blurts out. He sounds like a child to his own ears; high pitched and near tears.

Morden blinks at Thorne. Thorne cannot read his Master's face. That sends an immediate spike of panic into Thorne's guts that brings him halfway back into his body, thankfully. He pulls himself together, with a mighty effort, and bows his head properly, like he is giving an ordinary report, and his voice is almost steady, this time.

“There was an attempt on the Summer Prince’s life, Master,” Thorne says, without lifting his head. “I was—absent from my quarters at the time. I apologize for not taking more care with your gift.”

He should say more. He should tell Morden about the guards. Even if... they were enlisted men, not officers, but Morden might still notice their absence. Thorne didn’t even think to look around the Healer’s room' their bodies might be right inside the door for all he knows. He should tell Morden.

(The word "gift" shouldn't make his mouth fill up with bile, like he's going to gag on what his Master has given him. He should be anticipating his Masters needs and striving to meet them. He shouldn't be thinking about his Master's needs and feeling—feeling—)

(Morden, for his part, is afflicted with a strong desire to laugh. Thorne, his head still bowed, does not see this. Morden schools his features carefully before Thorne meets his eyes.)

“…I see,” Morden says. “And was that attempt successful?”

Thorne shakes his head.

“No, Master,” he says. “No, he—he’s alive. But—I—they—” The words do not want to come. But his Master is watching, so he makes them. “His back is broken, I think,” he says, though it comes out thin and whispery and wrong.

Morden raises his eyebrows. Thorne looks at the blood on his Master’s jaw. His Masters next words are muffled by the sudden buzzing in Thorne’s ears.

“I imagine he'll be fine,” Morden says, and brushes past him to open the Healer’s door.

----

Andry knows the ceiling of the Healer’s room as soon as he opens his eyes. It is decorated with vines and fruit and beehives, sculpted out of white plaster, cracked a little with age.

He feels cracked that way himself. He doesn’t try to move his arm, but even in stillness it feels

(like it is filled with crawling insects who are eating it from the inside like old wood like it is in a sleeve of struck matches like it has swollen so far that the skin has split like rotten meat left in the sun)

bad.

The door of the Healer’s room opens. Andry does not see who has entered, at first; he only sees Lady Feira, the old Court Healer, leap to her feet, placing herself bodily between him and the intruder.

“No,” Lady Feira says, in thickly-accented Leisevan. “No visitors. Get out.”

“Now is a bad time to be in my way, Madam Healer,” the Winter King says in a soft, gentle voice. His Craetan is very good, as always.

Andry feels his heart stutter painfully in his chest, but it has been a long, long night, and he is too tired to feel properly afraid.

Lady Feira is shaking her head. “No. It is enough. You have done enough, you will do no more, I will not—”

Andry takes hold of the Healer’s wrist with his good hand. She stills, though he can feel that she is trembling slightly.

“It’s alright, Feira,” he rasps.

Lady Feira turns to look down at him, over her shoulder. She looks—stricken in a way he has never seen her look before, even when his fever came back a few weeks after his back had begun to heal. He might feel sorry for her, in a few hours. He is too tired for it, just at the moment.

Lady Feira removes her spectacles and rubs her eyes, letting her shoulders sag and not looking at either Andry or Morden.

“Fine,” she says, after a moment, in Craetan. “Fine. Speak, Winter King; but do no more or you will waste the hours I have just spent keeping the Prince alive.”

Andry can see just enough of Morden over the Healer’s shoulder to see him cross his arms and raise his eyebrows at her expectantly. The Healer swears under her breath. She turns back to Andry.

“Don’t try to move,” she says curtly. Her expression seems more under control, though her eyes are still tight with misery. “I won’t go far.”

It’s—kind enough, as a sentiment. Andry knows she can do less than nothing against Morden, any more than he can. It’s nice that she's—thinking of him, he supposes.

Morden watches her leave. When she has closed the door behind her, he turns to look down at Andry, narrowing his black eyes.

Morden pulls up the Healer’s chair and sits down beside the sickbed. The Healer has draped a blanket across Andry's chest; it is the only thing between him and the Winter King. Andry tucks his ruined arm underneath it.

“Alright, Summer Prince," Morden says. "You've got my attention. Tell me about your sister.”

[serickswrites]

Heroes and Villains Series

Man’s Heart-- status complete. 4 parts. TW: blood, blade, wounds, temporary character death, mcd

Professional--status complete. 4 parts. TW: attempted murder, blood, stabbing, wounds, mcd. 

My Darling--status complete. 6 parts. TW: drugging, captivity, restraints, noncon, escape, yandere villain

Crooked Halos--status complete. 6 parts. TW: blood, wounds, threat of death, secret relationships, mcd. 

Round and Round--status complete. 6 parts. TW: blood, arrows, wounds, caretaker and whumpee

Drink--status complete. 6 parts. TW: blood, head injury, electrocution, hurt/comfort, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, caretaker and whumpee. 

Go Now--status complete. 5 parts. TW: blood, threat of death. 

On Ice and Fire--status complete. 6 parts. TW: stabbing, blood, injury, wounds, hospital, hurt/aftermath, hurt/comfort, hurt/recovery

The Night--status complete. 5 parts. TW: blood, injury, wounds, grave injury, near death, magic

Oh Baby, Baby--status complete. 4 parts. Hero and Villain as co-parents. Absolutely no TW necessary as this is light and fluffy

Secret Kindness--status complete. 6 parts. TW: delirium, head injury, restraints, hurt/comfort, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery. 

Just Exist--status complete. 6 parts. TW: abandonment, rejection, physical violence

Oh--status complete. 8 parts. TW: wounds, blood, scars, referenced/implied torture, blade, weapons, mcd. 

To Hurt and To End--status complete. 6 parts. TW: injury, blood, bruises, unconsciousness, restraints, gag, noncon, stabbing, knives, yandere whumper

Bring

Prisoners--status complete. 6 parts. TW: captivity, torture, restraints, unconsciousness, hurt/comfort, hurt/recovery, hurt/aftermath

Strong Word--status complete. 6 parts. TW: captivity, restraints, torture, blood, wounds, drowning, mcd, cpr, hurt/no comfort. 

Get Up

Far Better

Come With Me

Ache

Vengeful One--status complete. 3 parts. Origin of Villain as the vengeful one

Together

Set Up

Wrath--status complete. 2 parts. TW: violence, choking

Branded

Who's the Dumb One Now?

Powers

Dreaming of

Don't Run

Anything Wrong

[insoukokuhell-434]

Angst & Fluff - skk fics

The format I’m using is:

Title - writer (ao3 link)

Angst related to ( )

Fic length Time period (teen/mafia skk, 22! Skk, all ages) Additional tags (Tags in bold added by me for extra info) TW

Some fics have parts of the summary/ comments added for additional info

Willful Neglect - timeisdancing

Chuuya Dies (temporarily), Chuuya in Emotional & Physical Pain, Dazai's Grief and Guilt

27.9k 22 SKK Angst with a Happy Ending, Time Travel, Not a death fic - It starts off as a death fic but it does not stay that way Dazai Being An Idiot , Dazai Being An Asshole , But he learns his lessons and comes around. Dazai also starts off distant and then goes full simp, Clingy Dazai Dazai needs a hug, Chuuya needs a hug, Mutual Pining, Cuddling & Snuggling, Soft skk, Chuuya Uses Corruption, Dazai Takes Care of Chuuya Grief/Mourning, Self-Hatred, Guilt, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Gaslighting, Manipulation By Mori, Mori Ougai Being An Asshole

hide the truth - writingfromtheshadows

Chuuya's Amnesia, Soukoku in Emotional pain, Soukoku Fight, Dazai's Defection, Dazai's Suicidal ideation

24.6 k 22 SKK Amnesia, Canon Divergence, Unreliable Narrator, Developing Relationship, Pining,  Implied Sexual Content, Post-Dead Apple TW- Canon-Typical Violence, Dazai-Typical Suicide Mentions

Stay - the_most_happy

Dazai feels guilt, Soukoku Fight, Soukoku in Emotional & Physical Pain

23.6k 22 SKK AU - Canon Divergence Deaf Chuuya, sign language, Chuuya is so done, Dazai tries his best Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Chuuya in Denial, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Kiss Kiss Fall in Love, Idiots in Love, Love confessions in the rain because SKK are dramatic, Getting Together, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Skk's Unconventional Mating Rituals, Developing Relationship, Relationship Study, Soft skk Hurt/Comfort, Literal Sleeping Together, Domestic Fluff, Canon Compliant, Sweet

Around We Go (And Back Again)- by zombiemarker

Soukoku Fight, Soukoku in Emotional Pain

24.2k 22 SKK ADA Chuuya, Angst and Humor, Fluff, Dazai Osamu is Bad at Feelings, Nakahara Chuuya Is So Done, Nakahara Chuuya Needs a Break, Hurt/Comfort, ADA Ensemble, Minor Shin Soukoku TW- Attempted Murder

What doesn't kill me (makes me want you more) - the_most_happy

Soukoku Fight

5.5k 22 SKK (Post-Canon, Post-109) Character Study, Established Relationship, Enemies and Lovers, Love Confessions, Possessive Dazai, Caring Chuuya, Resolved Sexual Tension, non-Graphic Smut, Pillow Talk, Sleepy Kisses, Soft skk, skk’s Unconventional Mating Rituals, Canon Compliant

hey look, the sky's falling apart - saffroncassis    

Child Abuse, Dazai's Depression & Self harm

24.8k TEEN SKK (16/17) AU - Canon Divergence Hurt/Comfort, Protective Nakahara Chuuya, Developing Relationship Found Family (the Akutagawa siblings, Oda's kids, Kyouka, Oda, Ango) TW- Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse and discussions of both these

Summary - "At age 16, Chuuya defects from the Port Mafia and drags his partner with him not so much kicking and screaming as silently begrudging, and the rest follow suit in time."

For the Record - zombiemarker

Soukoku Fight, Dazai & Chuuya in Emotional/Physical Pain, Childhood Trauma

19.1k TEEN SKK  AU- Spies & Secret Agents Emotional & Physical Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Childhood Trauma, they get all dressed up and go to a gala, Implied Sexual Content, Literal sleeping together, Getting together, First kiss, Developing Relationship TW - Blood and Violence, Childhood Trauma

From tags: "Chuuya's a government experiment, Dazai's been with Mori for years, they've both got trauma now"

Love is not a victory march - osamuchuu

Dazai's Depression, Suicide Attempts and Drug Addiction

8.7k 22 SKK Soukoku taking care of each other, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Mental Illness, Depression, Drug Addiction, Blood and Injury, Healing, Recovery, Soukoku Tenderness, Light Angst TW -  Dazai-Typical Suicide References and Attempts, Addiction, Drug Use

Grown on me - Jules_tea

Chuuya in Physical and Emotional Pain

16.9k 22 SKK Alternate Universe - Post-Canon Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining, Possessive Chuuya, Jealous Dazai, Caring Dazai, Chuuya Uses Corruption, a new mission but at what cost, Love Confessions, Getting Together TW- Dazai-Typical Suicide Mentions

From Summary - "Or, a story in which Nakahara Chuuya and Dazai Osamu come to accept their feelings, one way or another… and Dazai helps Chuuya finally accept himself."

They Were Different - nillakit

Chuuya in Emotional Pain, Soukoku Fight

11.9k 22 SKK Getting Together, Angst with a Happy Ending, They actually talk about shit

Lighter Angst

escalators to the moon - boyfangs

Soukoku Fight, Chuuya in Emotional Pain

20.6 k TEEN SKK AU - No abilities Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Emotional Constipation, First Kiss, Getting Together, Bickering, they’re both gay & petty, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort Found Family (Chuuya, Rimbaud, Verlaine)

Learning experiences by BlowingYourMind

Chuuya's PTSD

13k MAFIA SKK Light Angst, Fluff and Humor, missed childhoods, let them be children for once please and thank you, Chuuya-centric,  Chuuya Is So Done, Panic Attacks, Flashbacks, Dazai is a Mess, Chuuya Takes Care of Dazai, Dazai Takes Care of Chuuya, Dazai Needs a Hug, Chuuya Needs a Hug, they both get hugs Chuuya Uses Corruption, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Sharing a Bed, Cuddling & Snuggling, Soft skk, Mori Being An Asshole

From Summary: "Chuuya can't read. Dazai can't ride a bike. They both can't swim for one reason or another. All learning experiences they missed out on in their early childhood, though it seemed that they would need to make up for lost time."

Bitter/Sweet - Badwolf36

Chuuya in Physical Pain

4.1k Post-Corruption (Post-Dead Apple) Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Caring Dazai, Soft Dazai, Chuuya Needs a Hug, Angst, Stabbing, First Aid, Denial of Feelings, denial, pain

Please like/reblog if this helped u find a fic, I'd be delighted to know <33

Angst with a Happy Ending fics

Soukoku Fic Rec Masterlist