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chipper-smol · 3 years

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Vanilla 1 Chain

Prompt: The Aftermath of Ghost banishing the Grimm Troupe from the Troupe’s perspective.

lAST ONE!

( https://twitter.com/BerryCannibal )

Grimm let out a hum as he danced with himself, going through yet another imaginary routine as he allowed his thoughts to drift. The tent was unusually quiet without Brumm around - he was still surprised that his worried conduit had offered to take up a torch and pass out some of the scarlet flame this time around, perhaps he was finally warming up to the ritual? - allowing the perfect space for him to practice his final audience with The Pale King’s vessel.

He chuckled to himself at the memory of that wyrm... Always so frazzled, with his thoughts scattered all about, never in one place. He never did get to teach that fool how to relax before he up and disappeared, leaving this kingdom to be ravaged by Her incurable sickness. What a shame...

He was just coming out of a twirl when he felt a sharp pain in his chest. His knees buckled. He fell. Where were the Grimmkin when he needed them?

Letting out a faint growl, he tried to get back onto his feet as he clutched his- His... He looked down to where his hand was supposed to be touching the smooth, red carapace of his chest, horrified at the sight that greeted him. An open wound, leaking with bright, scarlet flame where the heart of any normal bug was supposed to be located. It was only after that first moment of shock that the pain set in.

Collapsing to the ground once more, Grimm let out a roar of misery and shock and anguish and pure, unfiltered agony. It felt as if the fires that once kept him fed and warm as a child was now burning him up from the inside, taking every part of his body with them. Under his claws he felt his body coming apart, leaving less and less shell to grip on to as he was consumed by what once kept him alive. What was happening? This was not how the ritual went. This was not supposed to happen-

~ Curtains closed. Lights out. Our lead actor has disappeared. ~

Grimm jerked up into a sitting position, breath laboured and raspy as he clutched his chest. It was solid now. Ok. He wasn’t dead, at least. The legacy didn’t end with him as he had feared when... Wait.

He glanced around the room, feeling his metaphorical heart sink when he saw the stitched-together crimson and plum and wine-coloured fabrics that covered the floor, the ever-gently pulsing veins, the scarlet, firelit lanterns... He wasn’t in the physical realm anymore, he quickly realized.

Rolling over, he grabbed a small hand mirror from beside the bed, frantically checking his physical appearance. The ritual hadn’t failed, had it? No. It was still going if the coal colouring of his crescent-shaped horns was anything to go by. Then that must’ve meant...

Oh. Oh, that traitor.

Grimm could feel a growl bubbling up from his chest as he considered what might’ve happened. He must’ve tried to stop the ritual early, perhaps even tried to kill the troupe as a whole by banishing them back to the dream realm. He must’ve manipulated Grimms poor co-actor in this important play into following him, they seemed so glad to help out with the ritual, after all...

Wait. The ritual. The child. Where was the child? Why hadn’t it called out to him yet? Where was the child?

Frantically, and yet gently, he began searching through the satin sheets of the bed he had woken up in. If the child wasn’t dead, it had to be there somewhere, right? Right? Ri- Ah. There it was...

He carefully picked up the limp grimmchild, studying it for a moment. It worried him how he could only barely see it’s chest move, and it wasn’t chirping or making any other kind of noise at him like it usually would, even in its sleep. Not that one could truly sleep in the dream realm.

“My child...” He rasped, quietly, holding it close to his chest, still feeling the gentle pulse of fire inside it. It was still alive, that much was true, but it would not remain that way for long at this stage of the ritual. It would need more flame, and quickly, but finding it could be difficult without his grimmkin to scour the vast wastelands between kingdoms for something worthy of the presence of the troupe in its entirety. Sighing, he cradled his child close as he sat for a long moment in hopelessness, considering his options.

“Marintide...” A voice murmured in his mind, the rasp undoubtedly belonging to The Nightmare King himself.

Right. Of course. They had received another call while performing their ritual in Hallownest. The other kingdom was far geographically, but travelling large distances had never been

much of a problem for the troupe. But then again, the troupe hadn’t been in this situation for several centuries. Last time they were banished was way back in-

A soft cough and whine of complaint sounded from the starving child. Right. Best not to dwell on that with a starving grimmchild in his arms.

Slowly, Grimm laid back down on the satin bed, still holding the child close to his chest as he focused on the brief glimpses he had been given of the kingdom when they had received their call. He admittedly struggled a little with remembering the less interesting details, such as the dying corals and thick bramble forests, but he managed none the less.

Waking up on cold, hard stone was not a welcome experience, but it was the best way to tell that they had arrived. Huffing as he got up, Grimm took a moment to look around. Without the Grimmkin to go before him and set up a comfortably warm tent, he was immediately exposed to the cold breeze coming in from the ocean and the sight of the beautifully ruined architecture that once was this great kingdom.

The stone beneath his feet was a brilliant cobalt blue, and he could see the sunlight reflecting off something gold in the distance. Sunlight? Ah. An aboveground kingdom, then. Something that looked like a lighthouse of sorts was off in the distance as well, just barely visible if he squinted through the gleam of gold from fallen pillars and monuments. The sun was glinting off the sea as well, the water so reflective that he almost missed the large, pale form that smoothly broke the surface and went back under in the same movement. A seawyrm, perhaps. He had been told of these before, though he couldn’t recall much...

Shaking his head to clear his mind of thought and clutching the grimmchild closer still, he made his way through the ruins towards the woods he had seen. Extracting flame from living creatures was a painful process for both him and the second party, but in this case, it would have to be done. The Grimm lineage would not end with him.

Stepping into the woods, there was immediate rustling to his left. He barely had time to think before a large, hunter-esque creature had him pinned to the ground, teeth bared, ready to end him.

He remained calm, though, reaching up and firmly placing his open palm over its eyes as he focused, sending into a deep, nightmare-ridden sleep... Sighing, Grimm nudged the large creature off of him, finally untucking the grimmchild from his cape. His expression quickly dropped when he saw the state they were in, flopping over limply in his hands instead of flying up and readily feasting on the nightmares of the sleeping hunter.

This was bad. This was really bad.

Quickly, he crouched down by the sleeping hunter, carefully placing his child upon their head. “Sorry about this...” He murmured, though he knew his apology would never be heard, though he knew there was no forgiveness to be had for what he was about to do.

Then, he started chanting.

The words that spilt from his lips made the fire inside him roar back to life. It was painful, but he had to endure. For his child. For the troupe. He gritted his teeth together to keep himself from screaming, wanting so dearly not to distress his child...

“Ngahhh...”

Grimm glanced up at the noise, finally stopping his chanting, smiling when he saw his child just as lively as ever. But...

He brought his hand up, gently touching his left horn, quickly finding a large patch missing, replaced by openly roaring scarlet fire. He was weakening, he realized, tucking the child close once more. They would need to finish the ritual soon. He’d just need to find Brumm so-

Right. Brumm wasn’t part of the troupe anymore. That traitor.

He didn’t have a conduit now. And he didn’t have a helper either. As sure as he was that he could get the vessel to meet him outside Hallownest, the banishment ritual would not allow him within several miles of the place.

He’d have to wait.

Slowly wasting away into a fire ghost, he’d have to wait.

He’d be willing to make that sacrifice for his child, yes.

He’d keep them alive and safe until a proper ritual could be conducted again, or until he finally grew unable to help it and it’d have to starve.

He just hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

( donotgogently )

( @wasabi-arts )

Grimm pets the small creature in his arms, looking over Dirtmouth from the cliff. “What a shame for our little friend to abandon you in such a place,” he cooed, starting his descent down king’s pass, “ and a place so dangerous and cold. To think that vessel didn't even bring you back to our Trope.” The child purred in his arms, content with the situation despite the abandonment.

The trek back to the troupe wasn’t long, and Grimm made his way into the tent. “Good evening, Master.” Brumm said, already offering to take the torch from Grimm’s hands, surprised by the sight of the child, as well as Grimm’s damaged horn. “Master, why do you hold the child? And may I ask what happened to your right horn?” Grimm simply smiled at Brumm, dismissing Brumm’s second question while petting the child. “I hate to admit such a circumstance, but I do believe our little visitor has abandoned the child. Brumm was silent for a moment, looking at the child. He didn’t like the idea of Grimm dying for the sake of a ritual, and would much rather let the ritual die. At least for a bit longer, if it must continue.

“Why do you think they abandoned it?” Brumm asked, curious. “The traveler seems attached to it.” With a thoughtful nod from Grimm, he pet the child once more to hear it purr. “Maybe it has something to do with the roar heard earlier?”

“Roar?” Grimm asked, cocking his head with curiosity. “I heard no such thing.”

Brumm was surprised at this comment, stopping his music at the thought. “But Master, the roar was quite loud. It rattled the tents of our troupe and the homes of this here town. The bug near the bench described it as something akin to a cry.”

“I see...”

Grimm looked out of the tent in the direction of the crossroads. The abandoned Vessel of the Pale King himself had likely gone down below, Grimm thought. That was the location of the black egg that the king set up long ago to contain the infection. And since The Knight was a vessel themself, that is likely where they went.

“I don't think we’ll see them for a while, my dear Brumm.” The child snored in his arms. “May I ask why not?” “Well, do believe our small friend has gone to fight the creature inside the

crossroads.” “...”

Brumm looked back at Grimm’s shattered horn. “Master,”he asked,resuming his music,”May I ask what happened to your horn?”

Grimm turned away from the tent’s entrance to face Brumm.

“Ah, I almost forgot.” He stated, touching the broken spot with his hand.”I had gotten into a bit of a scuffle with the creatures up in the cliffs trying to obtain the child.” The spot hurt, yes, however Grimm paid it no mind. It was merely a minor injury, he was far more concerned about the child in his arms.

“Well, Brumm, we should take care of the child in the knight’s absence, hm?”

Brumm nodded in agreement. “I do think we should take care of your injury too, Master.”

( @ouliarts )

( @null-icon )

It is the dead of night and the big top is quiet with the whispers of a phantomly audience. Your Master had told you to keep watch before he had rushed out in a hurry - the fastest you’ve seen him move outside of performance - but it is still the same dark, dreary town at the base of the looming cliffs off to the left. Winds still whipped about and crept underneath the tent fabrics, the scarlet haze of an ethereal presence flickers with the chill, and with a rumbling sigh gathered from the depths of your chest, you reach behind you to pull out your trusty accordions and begin to play a slow melody from something beyond your time as a Troupe member. It’s a delicate number though sharp and stuttered even to your skilled hands, suggesting that the you of another lifetime had not gotten to learn it well, but you are alone with your thoughts and the mumble of an uncaring audience so you practice and improvise in hopes of making it something worth playing for someone beyond deserving.

The tent flaps flutter open long after you’ve sat down with your legs crossed and your instrument falls silent. The winds outside had gotten stronger, but it was hardly an observation relevant when shortly after the flaps are sealed you feel your fur near singing from the blast of furious heat. Where you previously would have no need to look up at the looming figure that storms past, you can’t help but to draw your gaze upon him. His stance is proud and he glides elegantly through the entrance chamber, nodding to you his curt greeting as he adjusts something under his thin cloak. You would have assumed nothing was off if he wasn’t radiating the hellish heat of his rage, and when he exited into the main ring, one of the heads of his curving black horns snapped clean off bleeding an otherworldly vermillion that trickled into his wiry fabrics.

Sometime when the sun should have broken over the peaks, you decide to pay your Master a visit, your curiosity and concern uncharacteristically getting the best of you. You don’t get much more than a few strides into his secluded part of the big top when the maroon walls shudder despite his quiet rasp, “I do not believe I summoned you, Brumm.”

“Mmmrr… So it may be. You are not well.”

“Is that so? What makes you question my state of being? What is it you find in the need to bother my rest?”

“The tent still simmers with your anger. My sight did not deceive me when I spotted your-” You are interrupted when the soft grizzle sounds, the pale pink of small irises blinking through where your Master is concealed. “... If that is all you dare approach me for, be on your way, Brumm. You have disturbed me, and now my child. Let us sleep.”

“Have you bandaged yourself, Master?” The hesitance you are greeted with tells you all you need to know, and you go digging in your fur for the roll of fabric you sew onto the shreds of your patchy sleeves. “Mmmh. Let me cover the wound, then I will leave.”

“I do not remember giving you permission.” “I do not require it for this.” Grimm uncovering himself enough for cat-like eyes to stare into your mask is simply affirmation to your statement. His horn had stopped oozing, now simply glowing dimly, but still you settle beside him to begin carefully swathing his horn in gray linen. “Did you fight, Master?” “Yes.”

“What for?” “My child. You must understand, the child is the future of this troupe. Of us.”

“Hrm. Why was the Grimmchild beyond the big top?”

“I do not know, Brumm, but it does not matter. Our caller approaches us soon, and the ritual will soon begin. That is what’s most important.” After the timbre of his voice falls out, you have nothing left to say and so you shift the rest of your energy into securing the wrap you have now made. “It will grow back, but thank you regardless, Brumm.” And when you turn to leave as promised, Grimm speaks up again.

“Will you play me a song, musician?”

( https://twitter.com/Heck_Yena )

( tfwhynot)

The troupe was always on the move. When the ritual wasn’t in the picture they, for the most part, had to travel the old fashion way. The tents could be instantly packed and unpacked with a snap of Grimm’s fingers, coming in and out of the Nightmare realm with ease. The Grimmkin were a similar story, though they themselves were in control of which realm they were in at any time. It was the more unique bugs that couldn’t though, Brumm, Divine, and the Grimmsteads were anchored to the waking realm.

Grimm led the caravan on a wagon all his own. It held everything he needed to plan, maps, lists of supplies they had or needed, and written plans for performances of future and past. Brumm followed in the wagon behind. It carried all the other things that didn’t originate from the nightmare heart; containing currencies from lands of all sorts. Things to trade away for other things they may need or want, rations of food and water, and nicknacks collected for sentimental purposes. In the very back, the strongest and most loyal steed followed, wheeling Divine’s wagon with them. Jars of the various substances she excreted were stashed, herbs, and remedies, each with their own uses.

Brumm’s music floated around the caravan, the familiar tunes of his accordion helping fight off complete boredom. Grimmkin popped in and out, joking and chatting among themselves. The newest of them excited to be on the road again, the long darkness to come not quite setting in on them yet.

The road they traveled slowly grew rough, the wagon wheels bouncing slightly on the rocks that were sprinkled across the road. Two mountains off in the distance came into view, a thin and winding path was carved through, old and uncared for; it was made a mess by time. It had been made by a kingdom long gone and forgotten.

He waved down a few Kin that was chatting above him, “Explore the hills we are to tread,” He rasped out, “Report any dangers or curiosities you come across.” They nodded and dashed off, nothing but a rapidly disappearing blaze of scarlet fire left behind.

Time passed as Grimm waited, the steed pulling his wagon huffed at them, silently asking to rest soon. The road was still uneven, each wagon still bouncing off the occasional rock, tilting to and fro at the uneven path.

The Grimmkin still hadn’t returned as the wagons began to pull through the mountains. The walls of rock were high on each side, holes were mirrored on each side. A few old corpses could barely be seen, legs and arms of bugs both wild and sentient lay idle, their chests gaping open, innards long eaten by what lived here. He placed a hand on the child’s back where they were curled by his side in worry. They murmured in their sleep, still so small and weak. It’d be a while till the next ritual.

The walls were close together, they only just let the wagons pass without the worry of scraping the sides. There was no way to turn around once the caravan walked past the entrance, let alone run the other way if something happened.

“The path through should be short,” Grimm thought, “We’ll stop for rest and food on the other side,” he waved down more kin, a dozen more than last time, “If something happens we can deal with it,” He instructed them to carry torches and light the path, and most importantly, report back if they saw something, “We’ll always make it through.”

Music seeped through the artificial canon, echoing through the caves along each side. The old familiar tune felt uneasy, the vague feeling of nervousness permeating through the troupe enough to effect Brumm. The steeds began to slow, the sounds of their marching quieting as they pushed through the fatigue encasing their shells.

A puff of red smoke and a small novice was sitting beside Grimm. Their shrill and panicked voice woke the child, their words were spoken quickly, half slurred together, and hard to understand.

A sharp scree cut through all the noise, leaving a deafening quiet in its wake.

The Grimmkin immediately started to panic, “That’s the noise! Tha-”

A kin was slammed against the wall with a loud crack, their shell breaking on impact as a creature dug into them, shredding their garments as they fell, the Grimmkin wailing.

Jumping up Grimm tossed the reins to a nightmare kin. As he got on top of the wagon another scree rang out; the grimkin this time successfully dodging. Brumm’s wagon shook as the creature collided with it, the steed leading it letting out a panicked whimper.

The creature hissed on the ground, mandibles and legs flailing as for a moment before righting itself. It crouched down, ready to strike again when the wheels of Divine’s cart rolled over, only pinning it at first, the steed struggling to pull over the living speedbump. A squeak and a squelch and their rigid shell shattered, Divine letting out a startled yelp as the wheel suddenly dropped back to ground level.

Another screech, Grim immediately aimed to intercept it when yet another rang out.

It was like a domino effect, one after another after another screaming before leaping at the caravan. Grimm dashed, intercepting as many as he could before they hit, the air was just as full of fire as it was the creature as the kin attempted to help kill their attackers.

Still more kept coming, “Take them through as fast as possible,” Grimm barked at the nightmare leading them.

“Master?” Brumm called out, worry lacing his voice as much as panic.

“I’ll meet up with you on the other side, just go!”

They didn’t need to be told twice, the steeds immediately attempting to move as fast as their tired legs could carry them.

Flinging himself into the air Grim puffed up with a loud scream, doing his best to draw all of their attention. Fire flung from around him, lighting the small canyon with fire.

It worked, the beasts focusing on the largest threat. The wagons now having to deal with fewer things under their wheels could actually hurry, fear coursing through the steeds giving them new energy. The sound of Grimm’s fight growing more and more distant till it was nothing but an echo on the other side.

Once out the steeds couldn’t go any further if they tried. Their shells heaved as they drew breath, legs shaking as they unhitched themselves, collapsing on the ground with exhaustion. They huffed at the kin who immediately checked on them, shaking any attempts to get them to stand up, just wanting to be left alone.

With a grunt Brumm hopped out of the cart, afraid of what he might see.

It looked like the fuckers had attempted to burrow through the wagons. Shallow divots in the repurposed shells that made the walls and ceilings were spread across all the wagons.

He made his way to the front, seeing the nightmare doing their best to comfort Grimmchild as they cried.

“Mrmmm. Is the child hurt?”

They shook their head no, rubbing their back as they clung to the kin, “scared and worried for their father, but completely unharmed,” they rumbled.

Brumm nodded as he looked to the other kin. A few quickly busied themselves but most were unsure, not knowing what to do without instruction from the master. No one could properly hunker down for the night without him and there wasn’t really a second in command for situations like this.

“Try and get some to start repairs on the wagons,” Brumm told the nightmare. He shifted in place trying to figure out what to do, he wasn’t a leader, he hated giving directions to others. There was a reason he was the only musician, as the sole bug who composed the music he just could never direct others to play something right.

Walking back to Divine he could hear her talking, her airy voice louder and sharper than usual.

“Aaaah! Where’s the master? He said he’d meet us! I can’t smell him here! Where is he?” The kin outside her wagon shrugged.

“Mrmmm. How are you fairing Divine?” Brumm asked, already knowing the answer.

“Aaaahhhhh! Just terribly! What are we supposed to do? The master said he’d be here!”

“All we can do is wait. Master will come with time.”

Divine hissed in worry, she shifted and wiggled as much as she could, “But couldn’t he just puff back in any second? Why isn’t he here!” Her face was in a deep frown, something no one saw often, it made her smiling mask half look out of place and strange.

“Mrmmm. He may still be trying to buy time, he can’t see how far we are.”

“Aaahhhhh! But what if! What if…” She trailed off, not wanting to say what she thought. If she said it, what if it came true?

“Impossible, it’s never happened before. He’ll return. Master may come back hurt, but he will come back.” Brumm reassured.

Divine still wasn’t sure about that but dropped it, “What are we supposed to do till he comes back?”

“Mrmm,” Brumm had to think for a moment, “I don’t know. I’ll start getting food ready I guess. Keep medical supplies at the ready when he returns.”

“Ahh… But what am I supposed to do? I’ll worry myself into knots if I don’t do something!”

“You can watch the child. The nightmare caring for them now has more important things they can do. Just make sure they’re calm, try to get them to sleep.” Divine nodded at Brumm and he set off to try and put things together.

As time passed though Brumm couldn’t stop worry from clouding his head. He kept a bag of medical supplies on him while he cooked while doing his best to focus on the task at hand, making a basic soup from what they had. Though the spot they were at wasn't the best, the kin were able to find a river, grabbing buckets to add to the cauldron and give to the steeds. There wasn’t any promise of something that tasted amazing but everyone would appreciate having something in their stomachs for now.

There was little conversation as food was passed around. Not even the novices, often cheerful and mischievous, found it in them to crack jokes. Brumm at least took the chance to fully get what damages were. The wheels would need to be replaced, many cracks and deformations from the blasted things would make it risky to set off too soon, they’d need some material to make some final repairs but the wagons were still okay enough that there wasn’t worry of them falling apart or rain seeping through, the steeds were tired and a bit scratched up but would be okay with rest, and while a few Grimmkin had been lost the majority were okay, shaken up, but okay.

The tents appeared in a flash, faster and more sudden than Brumm had seen in a long time. It was almost dizzying, everyone having to be moved and placed within different rooms.

“Master!” Brumm realized. He had to find him, figure out what happened, make sure he was okay.

Where was he even? A quick turn around and he was in the main stage with a few other confused kin, a few mourning over dropping their meal in their daze.

Master’s room, Grimm had to be there. He was quick to shuffle as best as he could in the darkened stage.

“Master?” Brumm called.

“Come in Brumm.”

Brumm tentatively moved the curtain, peering in. His mast was sprawled out on a fainting couch.

“Master! Your horn-”

“I know Brumm, it looks worse than it feels.”

Brumm couldn’t believe that. One of Grimm’s horns had been torn off, the thick shell left was jagged and cracked around it. The soft flesh within weeping blood now that it was exposed.

Grimm had been injured before but this… This had never happened. Maybe a crack or scratch, but even during the ritual Brumm had never seen a piece of Grimm torn off.

“You-You need to get that cleaned immediately!” Brumm moved closer, trying his best to see if there was anything else.

Grimm chuckled, “I haven’t heard you order someone around in a long time.”

That made Brumm freeze, “I… Mrmm. I’m sorry master that wasn’t my intent.”

Finally, Grimm turned to face him, “There is no need to apologize, my friend, I was only teasing.”

Grimm had a tired smile, blood slowly winding its way down the side of his face. There were a few other scratches and cuts, small tears in his cloak, but nothing nearly as bad as his horn.

“I’m just glad everyone is okay,” He turned back looking down to what Brumm could now see was the Grimmchild. They rested their head on their father's arm, purring softly as Grimm’s other hand lightly scratched their head.

“Please master, let me dress your wounds. Even if it’s not as bad as you say it still needs to be taken care of soon rather than later.”

Grimm looked back at Brumm, seeing him fidget with worry, “Very well.”

He shifted into a better position, sitting upright with his cloak completely out of the way, much to the complaint of Grimmchild. Grimm shushed them as Brumm moved in front of him. Even sitting on a couch this low to the ground Grim was still at eye level with Brumm.

Brumm had to take a deep breath to calm his nerves as he pulled out supplies to clean his master, “Mrmm. This is probably going to sting,” he warned.

He poured a cleaning acid on a clean towel, it wasn’t strong enough to do much more than sting, but it still cleaned. He carefully dabbed at the wound, waiting to see if there was any reaction. Grimm’s eye twitched slightly but he kept calm as Brumm thoroughly cleaned his head.

Placing the used rag aside, pulling a large pair of tweezers out. Grimm bowed his head slightly, allowing Brumm easier access. Carefully Brumm pulled bits of shell that had embedded themself in the wound. Grimm huffing as a large piece, roughly the size of a piece of geo, was taken out.

After cleaning it again Brumm placed a layer of protective shell over it, a large circular disk of shell cleaned and cut to help cover a wound till it healed so nothing got in. It was a bit big but it did the job. With some adhesive strips, it was secured.

Brumm stepped back, “It’s done, master. Mrmm.”

That same tired smile from before appeared again, “Thank you for caring for me, my friend. Tell me, was the rest of the troupe okay?”

“Yes, a few kin were lost but given some time to rest everyone will be okay. The wagons will likely need to be replaced soon though.”

Grimm nodded, “Rest, that certainly sounds nice. Would the troupe be okay if I rested for now?”

“Mrm. I believe so, though it would be a good idea to talk to everyone and address what happened.”

“Of course, of course,” Grim, let out a slow sigh, looking down as the child got comfortable again. “Could you leave me to rest then?”

Brumm nodded silently and left. As he lifted the curtain he turned again, taking one final look at his master. He was too tired to hang as he usually slept, instead opting to curl around the child on the fainting couch.

“Rest well master.”

( @kiwikoala )

( @vibeseeker )

Crimson flames slowly licked up the draping curtains, draining away all color except the ocean of red that surrounded the young king and the visage of the ever beating Nightmare Heart. The ever present silence within the realm was only pierced by the steady thump of the constantly beating object, joined soon by the child's own pulse.

That is until a sharp crack echoed through the red hued abyss, quickly following the noise the growing troupe master had been blinded by a bright light. He quickly beat his wings in an adrenaline fueled struggle to wipe away the blazing heat that seared into his retinas, only to be met by a new presence that felt somewhat familiar. However the very energy called out to him, drawing him to cautiously approach.

"So I see the mewling cub shows its strength, choosing to find me within my own realm," The figure slightly turned and with a snap set their hand alight with a crimson flame, unveiling the form of the Nightmare King "It's almost cute, though that won't prove you as a worthy enough vessel alone."

"I... I just... I wasn't trying too..." Grimmchild nervously spoke as he pushed off the larger beings baited words, fanning out his wings and drifting to the floor below "my... my father, he... where is he? I... I was just with him..." panic started to grip at the small things words, as his eyes darted around and finally took in the lack of a landscape around the pair "...where am I? Who are you? What did you do?"

"Hah, poor thing, did your father never tell you of your purpose?" The Nightmare spoke with a chuckle and slowly bent down to be a little closer to the child's level, the pinkish red of his eyes burning deep within "a shame then, a kin not properly warned will make the process far more difficult than it should be..."

"...kin? My... my purpose? Wh..what do you mean?" Grimmchild asked with a slight hitch to his voice, pulling his wings back as worry tugged at the edges of his mind "I... I really want to go home... where is home?" He asked again, not expecting a real answer but hoping that the strange 'kin' would take pity upon him.

The larger figure let off a deep sigh as it drew back up to its full height, looking away with an almost bored expression adorning their face.

"Fine, perhaps you were simply dragged here out of pure luck then, as I doubt a weakling could get here of skill alone..." The Nightmare King then lifted one of his hands before giving a simple snap that caused the child to burst into crimson flames, almost immediately cooking them inside and out as their skin was charred and reduced to ash.

Grimmchild awoke with a start, jolting up upon the soft sheets of a fine bed deep within the maze of tents that was the troupe. His breathing was laboured and irregular, and a tear was starting to build up on the edge of his eyes, that is until a black wing gently pulled him back into a kind embrace.

"Is everything alright little one?" Grimm spoke out with a softer tone, moving himself a little closer in order to better comfort his son.

"A... a nightmare... it... it felt s..so..." the child stuttered for a while, struggling to form words until Grimm tightened the hug a little further and carefully wrapped his wing around them. Laying the both of them back into the bed.

"Its okay little one, nightmares are just that, nightmares. Just try and get back to sleep, alright?"

"A..alright..."

( @doodle-chris )

#and that's all of them!#hollowknight #hollow knight #otherart #otherfic #fanart #giftcorner #telephoneknight #long post #also bolded names are people who im still trying to get accounts to link to #stand by for thems

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vangoghmusings · 4 years

Text

𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘

pairing: demon!tendou satori x fem!reader

rating: 18+

word count: 4.1k

warnings: child abuse, religious trauma, mentions of blood, seizure, religious taboo, degradation, public sex (?), oral (receiving), fingering, unprotected intercourse

a/n: ahh here’s the first one shot of my 1k halloween event!! this story is VERY NSFW so please do not read if you are a minor. this also have mentions of child abuse and religious trauma and is VERY taboo. each story is partically inspired by a song, this one is “under your skin” by jukebox the ghost, which i have linked below. otherwise, i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i’ve enjoyed writing it!!

https://open.spotify.com/track/5oiZiF3fBLHqgTDaH0Pj7M?si=RBkk9ddxS7OMO_ZDhT85Dw

✁ ✂ ✃ 𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖘𝖐𝖎𝖓 ✁ ✂ ✃

Growing up in a small town had its pros and cons. The cons were plentiful. Limited things to do, small minded people, and the conservative mindset of the looming church steeple that shadowed over the town. The pro, however, was Tendou Satori.

You had met Satori when you moved to this godforsaken small town at the age of 8. Your parents moved there for work but insisted on sending you to a private school to ensure a “morally correct” upbringing. It was an ancient Christian school made of brown brick stacked up like a castle. Inside you would meet the son of the pastor, Satori himself. You were the same age, but he looked younger, paler and more shriveled, with cuts and bruises adorning his legs, some covered up by his uniform knee socks. It was common knowledge that Pastor Tendou beat his son, but it was his right after all, it always appeared to him that his son acted out with the persuasion of the devil. You feared your new surroundings and Satori feared the home he lived in. You had found solace in each other quickly.

As you grew older and closer, some things never changed. Satori often came to you crying, a new injury on his skin from his father present and so you spent the night nursing him back to health. Other weekends were spent helping him clean the tombstones of the graveyard behind the church. Once you two would finish scrubbing the moss and dirt from the stones, you’d have a picnic in the cemetery. It was oddly peaceful, laying upon the ground with each other laughing and ignoring the corpses beneath you. Picnics in the graveyard were calm, but not when your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest. Satori had a habit placing his head on your lap as he ate whatever was in the basket for that day. He’d look up at you with wide eyes, passionately talking about whatever was plaguing his mind that day. It was normal for his face to be bruised or cut. And you often kissed them after treating them, but when he looking up at you with such a bright smile, squinting at the sun above just enough for the cuts to break and bleed once again, you wanted to kiss them again, but differently. It felt different, you were different.

This had to be a sin.

It felt like you were being eaten alive by the thoughts that ran amok in your head. Satori was this beautifully pained angel with no escape from the constant terror that was his father. Pastor or not, he believed that Satori was filled with hellish intentions of the devil himself. And what father could be proud of a son who was the devil incarnate? Yet here you were, falling slowly, madly, deeply in love with your best friend. While his sole mission was to survive until graduation, yours had become to be able to kiss more than just his cuts and bruises.

This was definitely a sin.

You were halfway through your senior year when it happened. When you lost Satori. Every Thursday, the school held liturgy. You and Satori were the altar servers alongside Pastor Tendou. It was surprising how quickly you two could form such serious faces the moment you put on the white garments. You sat in the cushioned chairs beside Satori as his father gave a sermon. Tendou listened attentively, taking in any clue to take as an advantage to possibly get his father to love him. To prove he wasn’t a mistake or a demon.

“Now a days... the devil presents himself in many ways. From that damned technology to that blasted music...”

Pastor Tendou was known for hateful sermons. Yet, in such a small town as this, it was normal. He was so adamant about the devil in our everyday lives that felt that there was more hatred and death than the possibility of mercy.

“And the devil is within us too! We must be willing to cut off his clawed hands from us, and crush his soulless entity that hovers within-”

A throat ripping gasp cut off Pastor Tendou as his son lurched from his chair and collapsed onto the floor. You jumped back in your chair, watching as his back arched so high it didn’t seem physically possibly; a blood curdling scream filling the church coming from him. The church froze, watching in fear as the pastor’s son began to convulse. You watched in horror as his body slammed back onto the floor and he began to shake viciously. Frothing at the mouth, his eyes rolled back, and it look like his veins were about to rip through his flesh. You looked to Pastor Tendou for any sign of instruction of what to do. He was dying, you were watching him die.

Before you could shout for help, Pastor Tendou took the glass of Holy Water that was stashed in the tabernacle and poured it on Satori. The water caused his skin to sear, smoke rising from his skin like he was burning alive. More screams fell from his lips, his face only readable as pure pain. You looked away as tears streamed down your own face at seeing him in such agony.

Pastor Tendou looked down at him with narrowed eyes as his son soon stopped shaking. And then his body went utterly limp, his chest no longer rising and falling with breath. You wanted to scream, he was dead, he had to be dead. You were about to reach out for his body when his eyes shot wide open. He gasped and sat up right, looking around frantically around the church and down at his hands. His face broke into a smile as he looked at his father.

“H-he left! I’m free!”

Satori jumped up, hugging his father tightly as they both rejoiced that the devil had finally left him. It was true, that after years of never-ending abuse Satori believed that he indeed had a devil inside of him.

Pastor Tendou cupped his son’s face and kissed his head in pure joy. He let go and turned to his laypeople who watched from the pews in shock.

“REJOICE! MY SON HAS CRUSHED THE CLAWED HANDS OF SATAN!”

The people stood up and cheered, shouting amens and hallelujahs, kneeling and bowing. Satori had finally been saved. You couldn’t believe your eyes. This fake demon that was beaten into belief had suddenly up and left? And Satori needed to go to a hospital, he just had a seizure after all.

“Sato, we should get you to a hospital-”

He turned to you, swiftly taking your hands in his. It appeared that all of the cuts on his knuckles had magically disappeared. Before you could process the thought, he kissed your hands and smiled at you.

“God has saved me Y/N. I don’t need a hospital.”

You gaped at him. You knew Satori was religious because there was no escape from it in his life, but he never made outright claims about it in front of you. And now he spoke as if he was indeed possessed and was exercised.

Mass eventually ended. When Satori’s mother had gotten the news, she also leapt for joy, however, with the thought of her son having a seizure ingrained in her mind, she insisted that he go to a hospital. Once you got the okay to visit him, you took your parents car and sped over. You were frantic, worried beyond belief of what could be wrong with Satori, enough for him to proclaim freedom from a demon.

You walked into the hospital room. It had only been a day since the incident, but the room was filled to the brim with bouquets. The whole town had come to learn of Satori’s freedom. You looked at the red-haired boy sleeping soundly on the hospital bed. It was odd. HIs skin was free of his previous bruises and cuts. He was free, but maybe of physical pain, not a demon.

You sighed and moved a vase of flowers from the chair beside his bed and onto the floor, taking a seat and reaching for his hand.

“Sato,” you hummed, hoping to gently wake him up. He didn’t.

You frowned and took in his features. He looked peaceful but, paler than usual. He had always been pale, but now he simply looked sickly. The veins in his face were apparent, he looked almost translucent. Almost as if, if you tried to look hard enough, you would see the blood moving in veins. Before you could reach out to touch his cheek, his eyes fluttered open, a smile spreading across his face as he saw you.

“Y/N,” He said softly. His eyes were bright, happy to see you. Yet, his brown eyes almost had a red gleam.

“Sato!” You beamed, standing up to hug him tightly. He hummed in your embrace and held you. You sighed lightly, just glad that he was okay. “You really scared me.”

He let go and gave you a frown.

“I didn’t intend to. I’m sorry.”

“It's okay,” you mumbled, ruffling his hair. He chuckled softly and leaned into your touch. Was his voice deeper too?

“It seems that you’ve gotten quite popular Sato,” you said referencing to the room filled with flowers. He grinned and looked up at you.

“I guess people like you more when you’ve seen God.”

You froze and pulled your hand out of his hair.

“What?”

He nodded and looked at you blankly. He was very serious.

“Yes. I saw him. He-” Tendou paused, carefully deciding his words, “he’s inside of me.”

“God...God is inside of you?”

“Yes.”

You scoffed and stood up.

“Sato you sound insane.”

He glared at you.

“Don’t speak to me like that.”

You looked at him incredulously. He was so stern, brows furrowed with anger.

“I-”

“Listen to me,” He said getting up from the hospital bed. He stepped towards you, placing a firm grip on your neck with his cold hand thin hand, trapping you between the wall and his grip. You gasped; your face filled with shock. You watched as a smirk spread across his face, as he pressed his nails into your neck. You whimpered in pain, they were sharp, pointed almost.

“Y/N... God is in me, and I am God.”

You froze, watching as his eyes were undeniably crimson now.

“T-this isn’t you Sato-”

“Shut up,” He snarled.

You were right, he was paler. You could indeed see the veins in his flesh pulsing, but they were not red. They were a deep inky black.

You winced as he dug his nails further into your neck, tears prickling your eyes. Under the dim yellow lights of the hospital room, you had shrunken, like trapped mouse beneath the claw of a lion. Satori saw your tears and quickly let go.

“I-I’m so sorry Y/N...I didn’t mean to!” He cried, falling to his knees and clinging to your thigh. He sobbed into your leg and shook hard. You blinked, looking down at your best friend who had just choked you against a wall and was now sobbing against you.

“Sato get up, please...” You mumbled, afraid of what his next action would be. This was so unlike him. He was usually so bright and goofy and now he looked like something was eating him from the inside out.

He looked up at you with tear stained cheeks, trembling. You sighed and helped bring him to his feet.

“Get dressed, I brought you clothes, and I have a basket with food in the car.”

He gave a weak smile.

“Picnic?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. You pulled the clothes from his bag, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a flannel from the many times he had stayed over at your house after his father beat the pulp out of him. You set them on the bed and turned to leave. A firm grip on your arm stopped you from walking out.

“Don’t leave me,” He whispered. His voice sounded fearful and broken, like the many times he cried as you cleaned his cuts.

You bit your lip, unsure of what to do. He wanted you to stay as he changed out of his clothes. That had to be a sin. Didn’t he know that? Didn’t he know that you were burning with desire for him? It was all too much. You pulled your arm from you grip.

“I’ll just be in the hall Sato,” you said with a weak smile. His face fell and he nodded as you turned back to walk out the door.

You waited patiently in the hall, your feet tapping as you tried to collect your thoughts. In the past 24 hours, Satori had apparently had a seizure, claimed to be freed from a demon, now claimed to be God, and physically hurt you. It didn’t make any sense.

You turned your head at the sound of the door opening to see Satori, relishing in the warmth of the flannel around him.

“Picnic?” He asked with excitement.

You chuckled and nodded, walking out to your car with him.

You eventually arrived at the cemetery, your usual spot you both had found comfort in. Any stranger would call them crazy, eating among the dead. But to them, this was pure peace. They were among those who were at rest, simply waiting for their own time. You pulled into your usual parking spot, the 6th on in from the right. You grabbed the basket and walked alongside Satori to the spot in the cemetery that was open lush grass. The day was gray, but it was rare that the sun came out in your town. The spot was surrounded by 6 statues of crying Virgins. It was eerie, but to you it was a simple normality of your graveyard picnics.

Satori helped lay the blanket as you set down the picnic basket. Today you brought sandwiches and cut fruit. He gave you a bright smile and followed your cue to sit down on the blanket and get comfortable. You handed him a sandwich and he thanked you, taking a large bite. You froze, looking at his teeth and how they gnashed through the bread. They were sharp, pointed like an animal. You swallowed your bite and wiped your mouth. You had known Satori since you were 8 years old, had you truly never noticed his red eyes, sharp nails and pointed teeth? HIs paleness and inky black veins? His sudden strength and rage?

“How many people do you think could fit under your skin?”

You blinked, being brought out of your daze by your friend’s sudden question.

“What-”

“I think I could fit at least two people under my skin. Physically. However, emotionally, plenty of people get under my skin realistically.”

“Sato...what are you talking about?”

It was sudden and unexpected, the way he jumped on top of you. He knocked the wind out of you with how forceful the impact was of your back slamming against the ground. You coughed and looked at him in terror. This was not the meek and gentle Satori you had grown up with and this surely wasn’t God either.

Satori pinned your wrists to the ground and used his own legs to keep yours down. You didn’t bother struggling, he was too strong. And the sinful part of your mind had envisioned this position one too many times for you to fight back.

“I said, how many people do you think you could fit under your skin?”

“I-I don’t know,” You whimpered in fear. This fear felt wrong though, this fear caused your legs to try and pinch together. Sinful.

“You’re pitiful,” Satori growled, his eyes gleaming a deep red. The frown quickly turned into a smirk as he watched you begin to squirm under his weight. “Do you think I’m stupid, Y/N?”

“N-No, Sato-”

He narrowed his eyes and licked his lips.

“Are you sure? Cause you’re a terrible liar.”

You froze, fear crippling you in your spot. Satori’s smirk stayed in its spot as he let go of one of your wrists, only to grab a firm grip of your thigh. You yelped and looked at him with wide eyes.

“You’re a sinner Y/N. That’s why we need to cleanse your soul.”

“Cleanse my soul?”

Satori nodded; clear he was being completely serious.

“Oh,” you mumbled, unsure what ‘cleansing your soul’ would entail. He gave you a gently smile and let go of your thigh to softly stroke your cheek.

“I can save you.”

He smiled brightly, it looked like it was supposed to be caring but, with how he had pinned your body to the ground, you couldn’t be sure. But apparently you did, since the next words that came out of your mouth were,

“Save me.”

The way Satori handled you would lead you to believe that he had done this a billion times. You knew he hadn’t, he couldn’t have.

“You need to show yourself to God in your purest form.”

You shivered as his cold fingertips touched your skin as he helped undress you, the weeping Virgins were the only ones watching your nervous form besides Satori himself. Besides God himself.

Shortly after he undressed you, He took his own clothes off, his translucent skin and inky black veins more prominent in the grey sunlight. You had never seen him so exposed, and the same went for you. You curled up shyly, remembering that you sat naked in front of him.

“Stop,” He said gently, placing a cold hand on your knee, pulling your limbs away from hiding your body. “You’re perfect,” He breathed out softly. You felt heat rush through your body at his comment. “Such a perfect vessel,” He mumbled, continuing to eye you up and down.

“V-vessel?” You prompted, only to be cut off by the sensation of Satori sucking down and kissing your neck. You gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders as he towered over you, nipping at your skin and sucking harshly. You cried out softly, embarrassed at the wetness pooling in between your legs. You were brought out of your distraction when you felt Satori’s sharp teeth dig into the flesh of your neck. You whimpered and tried to pull away, the new sensation too much to bare. He pulled away to look at you, his lips swollen from kissing your neck and his eyes looked like ruby’s, mesmerizing gems.

“Sato,” you whispered. He looked ravenous and wild. HIs cheekbones looked sharper, the blank veins pulsing rapidly under his skin. He grinned madly, and now you were certain. You had lost Satori. The monster in front of you was a demon. You had fallen in love with demon.

“Hush,” He purred, placing a icy finger against your lips to silence you.

You stared, horrified at his next move, what this demon would do to you, with such heavy lust overtaking your vision. You really were a sinner. With unexpected force, he pushed you back down against the ground, the fluff of the blanket cushioning your fall. With iron-clad strength, he opened your legs and buried his head between them. You gasped, Satori’s mouth instantly latching around your clit without warning. You shook under him and he reached up and grabbed your throat, gripping it tightly to quiet you. You whimpered, unable to handle the strength he was sucking at. Your breath hitched feeling his cold finger slide inside you, curling rapidly. It was too much too fast, your vision blurring as you felt tightness coil in your tummy.

“S-Sato, please; it's too much!”

You cried, fearing the heat bubbling up in your core. You felt Satori roll his eyes against you as his tongue darted inside of you, sucking and leeching your folds as he slipped a second finger inside. You’d never felt like this, flush and needy and desperate for his touch. He let go of your neck and your arms launched forward, pulling at his hair and attempting to get some form of leverage as you bucked your hips against this mouth. You were so close-

“Pathetic,” He growled sitting up, his pale face covered in your slick. It was lewd and sinful and quite possibly the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. “You were going to cum just from my mouth? You’re too easy.”

You frowned, embarrassed that he was right. He chuckled and gently placed a kiss on your lips. You blinked.

There it was the moment you had been longing for for so long. He had finally kissed you. It took a demonic possession but at last, he finally kissed you. It was just a peck, so he began to pull away. You wouldn’t let that be, you couldn’t. No no no, your mind screamed as you grabbed his face and pulled him back to you. You kissed him hard, every lingering touch filled with needy. You gasped softly when he bit your bottom lip, he pointed teeth puncturing gently. You pulled away, completely aware of what you were going to ask and to what you were asking. There was no longer who inside of Satori’s body, but a what, a demon.

“Sato, I-I know I’m a sinner and I know this is wrong, but,” You sat on your knees, begging him, taking his icy hand and placing it on your bare chest. “If you can save me, do it now.”

Satori’s red eye’s sparkled, clearly hearing words he liked.

“What a beautiful perfect little sinner you are.”

You sat on your knees, continuously begging for him to do more than just look down on you, until pushed you back, knocking you down onto your back. It seemed this domineering position was his favorite. You watched with wide eyes as Satori positioned his length at your entrance.

“Beg for my cock.”

“W-What? Sato that’s so vulgar-”

“I SAID BEG,” He growled threateningly, there was no softness in his voice, just utter lust and malice.

“P-please, Satori, I need your cock! Please, I need it so bad-” You cried out when he forcefully shoved his entire length inside of you.

Your head fell back, your vision blurring from the tears of pain and pleasure. Moans fell from your lips at the sins that were happening before you. Not only were you fucking the pastor’s son, you were fucking the pastor’s son who was possessed by a demon in a graveyard. You blinked several times, the tears rolling down your cheeks as you were able to focus your vision. Staring back down at you, was one of the weeping Virgin statues, crying just as you were.

You were brought back to focus on Satori when he thrusted harshly into you, hitting your cervix. You groaned, the pleasure becoming too much to handle, the heat bubbling up inside of you once more. Satori grunted with every violent thrust, growling and sounding absolutely animalistic, your legs now sitting on his shoulders to go deeper into you. The moans bounced and echoed against the tombstones in the yard the Virgins watched the scene in front of them.

“I’m close Sato,” You whimpered, digging your nails into his back, scratching hard as to cling onto him. He moaned, and you knew you were drawing blood. You pulled your hands away, only to see that it wasn’t blood, but the same black ink that ran through his veins. You gasped, unable to deny now that Satori was a demon. You cried out, an unexpected thrust hitting your g-spot directly.

“Praise your God and I’ll let you cum,” Satori hissed, his pupils slitted like a snake.

You had realized now that you are Eve. Bewitched by the serpent, Satan, in the garden by the fruit.

“P-Please o-oh God! I want to cum, please!” You wailed, begging for him to fill you with the same ink that now adorned your fingers.

“What a good little sinner,” He purred, quickening his pace and bottoming out in you. You arched your back, crying out as you unraveled underneath him. He growled lowly in your ear as he came inside of you with you. He slowed his pace, letting you both ride out your highs. You panted, looking up at him, as the pulsing veins that trailed his cheekbones faded back into his flesh.

“Sato...” You attempted to catch your breath as you weakly sat up. “I-I love you,” you blurted, praying that somewhere inside, the true Satori could hear you under the weight of the demon that consumed him.

“I know,” He smiled softly and cupped your chin in his hand and pressing a gentle kiss on your forehead. “And now I own you.”

taglist: @mixfi @melanimed @batwrangler @kac-chowsballs (taglist for event is still open)

#hellish intentions 1k event #vangoghmusings #satori #tendou #tendo #tendo satori #satori tendou #satori tendō #satori tendo x reader #tendou x y/n #tendo x y/n #tendo x reader #tendou x reader #tendou x you #tendou satori x reader #tendou smut #tendo smut

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dcvotion · 3 years

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❀ || Here’s your warning now !! If you don’t know what Fatal Frame is, it’s a survival horror game in which you photograph ghosts who have suffered in many awful ways. If death, horror, and all of those things aren’t your thing, don’t read! Some things mentioned in the drabble below are dismemberment, eye horror, body horror, stalking, and sickness, so please read at your own risk (even if I didn’t write anything too vicious or heavily described).

This is all from @codebestowed and mine’s Fatal Frame AU ♡ Read Sora’s side of things here !!

If there was one thing Riku would never get used to, it was the sheer amount of pure, unfiltered energy that made up malicious ghosts, the reminder coming to him in the form of slender fingers wrapping themselves viciously around his bicep with a force that made him feel as though his arm had been touched by live wire. Elongated, scarlet nails that were quite obviously not painted on, curled around soft flesh and muscle, a shrill voice reverberating around the room in a near deafening rising cacophony the more venom she spat.

‘Don’t look at me! Don’t look at me !! How dare you judge me!’

He should have sensed the Mistress’s presence long before she manifested, her aura near suffocating with malice. There was little time to feel foolish over his mistake, not when the camera obscura trembled so insistently at his side as the spirit confined within grew equally as angered as she. Sora’s form was at his side in an instant, the phantom’s arm shooting out quicker than Riku could properly unravel the camera’s aperture as his friend moved in to defend him. Arm still seized in under the Mistress’s firm grip, the camera’s strap trapped beneath crimson claw, Riku struggled to lend aid in the form of being the camera’s user, but the angle was all wrong.

Suddenly, the photojournalist was thrown effortlessly across the room, Sora’s concerned voice breaking through the piercing, angered screams of the Mistress.

The burning against his side tore a hiss from the silveret’s lips, elbow gracelessly colliding with the floor in an effort to break his fall, only for the rest of his form to come tumbling after. It was in abject horror that Riku watched as the camera obscura slipped from his hold, old and rotting tatami flooring providing little as a means of stability and grip as it skated across the surface.

Down the gaping hole that had been worn into the floor, exposed beams and foundation support being the only safety between them and the drop from their place in the manor atop the cliff. The camera’s neck strap, now torn and damaged, was caught precariously on a protruding beam.

‘Riku ?’

It was as if Sora’s whisper toppled over the first domino that strung together the next chain reaction, the brunet’s ghostly form suddenly flickering by the room’s entrance only to be jostled across the room with a pained cry, forced to remain within the camera’s permitted range.

One which was currently threatening to slip off the beam and down into the village’s ground level below.

‘You think I’m hideous!’ Continued the Mistress’s wails, razor nails clawing down marred and misshapen features. ‘You think me a monster!’ She pressed on with the accusations, and it took all of Riku’s focus and sheer will to balance equal amounts of attention onto her and the wide-eyed stare of Sora below. ‘I’ll show you... !!’ The last bit of her statement was growled in a low, venomous whisper, as if without warning, her voice had gone hoarse from mistreatment.

Eerily calm, slender form draped in the finest of silks, she moved forward in her advance, spurring Riku on to make his decision.

“Sora!” He twisted around, shuffling towards the edge of the hole in the ground and reaching forth to grab hold of the camera’s strap. With every shift, every inch taken into the dangerous gaping maw and onto the rotting beams, the wood began to groan and splinter beneath his weight.

No... no, he had to...! He had to save Sora! He couldn’t do this alone, not without him! They made a promise to see things through to the end together !!

Another groan, but his chosen perch remained unbroken, and actively did the photojournalist ignore the Mistress’s twisted laughter as she did nothing but whisper sweetly of all the mutilation he would suffer at her hand that he, too, would be made ugly and malformed, just as the tainted water did to her. It mattered not the promises she made, they were built on sinking ground at best, Riku’s own driving him forth to reach Sora, who’s own hand reached for his.

How strange it was to see: Fear, panic, hope, and longing, all reflected back at him through a dead person’s eyes; How alive Sora appeared to be, as lifeless dark carmines seemed to swim with life within their unblinking gaze.

Fingertips nearly grazed before the camera’s strap snapped and sent the camera obscura plunging into the quiet village below.

Riku didn’t know who screamed, himself, Sora, or the Mistress approaching from above.

Perhaps it was all three.

“SORA !!” Panic, palatable and colder than any winter, it settled into his being as though it stemmed from his very soul, vision blurring in a mixture of anxiety and building tears. Something inside of him broke, hands unable to stop in their tremor, a feeling that only transferred straight through into his shoulders. His entire body was trembling, breath coming in short, quick pants hyperventilating as he watched the camera, and Sora’s comforting presence, vanish over the cliffside.

I... I have to go get him... I have to-- ‘I’LL MAKE RIBBONS OUT OF YOU!’

Bloodied fingers reached for silver tresses, jostling Riku out of his daze. Heart hammering firmly within his chest, he clamored across the beam in an effort to crawl beneath the house’s foundation, a cramped space which provided just enough room to shuffle his body through with panicked motions. The Mistress remained wailing from her spot above, an endless stream of curses and terrible promises, vividly describing the desecration of Riku’s living body in awful glee.

‘String you up! Such a pretty pretty ribbon you’ll be~’ Dirt clumped against his chest, burrowing under his nails and slipping into his shoes as he breathed heavily in his escape. ‘Will you make me beautiful again? Your skin will make a fine gown!’ His lungs felt on fire, but he knew the labored breath wasn’t due to him being out of shape. Vision blurring once more, he felt the beginnings of another internal threat waiting to throw his senses into overdrive.

A panic attack. He hadn’t had one of those since he was a kid in the homes, openly weeping to the matrons of awful twisted apparitions and a sky that wouldn’t stop raining red.

‘I’ll cut you to pieces! You don’t deserve to look beautiful! I do! I do! I ’

Silence, deafening and sharper than any knife, causing Riku to pause in his escape. It was only then that he noticed the newly acquired lightning scar to mar the skin against his arm, right where the Mistress had held him in her vise grip, but he didn’t linger on the matter too long.

Why is it so damn quiet...?

A shuddered breath, the exhale he let out being cut short each and every time he tried. He should be glad there was no more screaming, but dead silence never meant well when it came to this cursed village. If Riku had learned anything during his time here, it was that silence meant you crossed into another’s domain, the boundary belonging to each ghost varying. The Mistress was bound to her manor, tall and proud beams displaying every luxurious expense with nothing spare. Was beneath such a grandiose display not a part of that domain?

No, of course not, his mind supplied, allowing himself to calm the slightest in knowing he was safe. She thinks herself too high and mighty to even think of lowering herself this far into the dirt, in living or in death.

Eyes slipped shut, yearning for the safety of the blindfold Sora had found for and gifted him.

More than that, he wanted nothing more than to get Sora back, safe and sound, where he knew they could both watch each other’s backs and keep one another safe.

Lashes fluttered open in a moment’s determination. ‘She put me down here... she is cruel...’ Only for a pale face to greet him in twisted, mangled agony, the spirit’s limbs obviously broken in such a way that came from careless shoving and forcing into a space that was not meant to be filled. She reminded Riku of a spider, elbows and knees bent upwards as joints were pressed firmly into the beams above his head, her neck craned and dangling with the gentlest of sways.

‘The Mistress... even when beautiful... was always an ugly monster...’

And then she had vanished, fading into nothingness as her words provided another blanket of silence. His heart drummed within his chest relentlessly, mercilessly beating against his ribs with such force, Riku swore he could feel the dirt beneath him shift as if being subjected to an earthquake. No matter how many spirits he encountered, each and every one was frightening in their own right, be it by how large of a threat they were, or how terrible a fate they had suffered.

There would be many more ghosts to stand in his way on his journey to find Sora, and even as Riku pulled himself through the crawlspace, and finally, out to freedom, it was difficult to think he could make it through unscathed and without being afraid.

‘Don’t be afraid’, he recalled Sora telling him, fingers gingerly digging out the semi-transparent cloth from his pocket, ‘This will keep you safe.’

He stood there for a moment, body aching with more than just a few bruises and burns, but with a fear and primal need to ensure his ghostly companion was safe to ensure that his friend was safe. Cameras were fragile things, especially one of the obscura’s particular make. It could have been damaged from the fall, even if the camera hadn’t been folded out when it had fallen. Riku only hoped the sturdy casing kept it protected during the tumble.

With shaking hands, cloth met his eyes and shrouded his vision in a layer of darkness, embroidery of cherry blossoms and branches stitched into the fabric in just as black a thread as the rest. It was a subtle design, despite its intricacy, but the fabric or design itself wasn’t what made it so special.

Eyes were the windows to the soul, so the saying went. It was easier to go unnoticed by the phantoms when your eyes were kept hidden, but most of all, it made it easier to remain hidden from

No... no, he couldn’t think of that nightmare of a spirit, a cold chill being sent tumbling down his spine. Riku felt safe underneath the guise of the cloth, and that’s what had mattered.

Sora had told him he was safe wearing it, after all, and he trusted the camera’s spirit with all he had.

“S-sora... please be safe...” He murmured quietly, brows drawn together in a moment’s concern before he drew in a deep breath and took the first step forward.

The pathway from the manor down back into the village was lined with unlit stone lanterns and Japanese maples, bright and fiery leaves rustling gently in the light breeze. It was harder to see with the blindfold over his eyes, despite how translucent the fabric was, not with how the moon overhead grew shrouded behind passing clouds. Riku found comfort in the constant chirping of crickets amidst the otherwise silent night, their music drowning out each and every shaken breath he took as boots took care with each step down the sloping pathway. It was cold, but Riku couldn’t determine whether that was due to the actual temperature of the night, or because of the lingering spirits to inhabit the village.

A sob, one that had the silveret holding his breath and freeze in his descent, going so far as to lifting his hands to his mouth in an effort to keep his breathing to a minimal. Its source came from the mockery of a torii gate just at the end of the pathway, the shape mimicking the sacred gate commonly found on sacred grounds or before shinto shrines. The Mistress was so full of herself in life, it seemed, that she had the thing built to signify the entrance to her manor. A sacrilege among the village, no doubt, if the wrinkle in Sora’s nose told Riku anything the first time they had crossed the grounds.

Sora...

If he wanted to find Sora, he needed to brave the village on his own. With every cautious step taken forward, Riku saw more and more of the phantom stationed behind the gate, a young man knelt in prayer who paid the only living soul there no mind.

‘Heavens help us,’ he mourned unmoving, ‘the sickness is spreading...’

And then he was gone, just as the last spirit had done, vanishing from sight and leaving Riku alone in the dark once again.

I can do this... Sora, I’ll be right there. Just please... please be okay..!

Humble homes stretched out before him, old and forgotten banners and signs swinging lightly in the breeze, the ocassional rusty creak weaving itself upon the wind’s breath. The young photojournalist pressed onward, feeling eyes on him from all angles. On instinct, Riku’s hand flew to his side, wanting nothing more than to feel the reassuring presence and warmth of the camera at his side.

But hand met nothing but his jeans, the space empty where his comfort once was. His opposite hand flew to his chest, fingers curling around a strap that no longer pressed against there, and instead, found himself clutching at the fabric of his shirt instead.

Riku couldn’t lie.

He was terrified, a fear fueled by his own regard for his safety, and the fear that something terrible had happened to Sora and it had been his own, careless fault.

There was screaming suddenly in the distance, loud and piercing, sending Riku near stumbling down stone steps. Heart lodged within his throat, sea green eyes widening behind the veil, he listened intently for the source, hearing the gentle rustling from a house nearby and the falling of something ceramic in another. The spirits were sensing him, smelling his fear and seeking him out to their locale, enticing that sense of curiosity and concern that any living person would pursue in order to ensure the inhabitant from within was okay.

Riku wouldn’t be lured by their tricks, picking up the pace as his heart hammered within his chest, every beat sending spots into his vision. He had his goal, his mind set and determined to find Sora. There would be nothing that could get in the way of his goal, not even

‘I found you...’ That familiar voice hit him like a wave, crashing over him with a force that drew a startled, strangled sound from his lips. Riku hated how his senses seemed to shut down at the sound, hands clamped over his mouth once again as he felt the beginnings of panic settle over him all over. ‘You have my eyes... Give me back my eyes...!’

He saw the Eyeless Akinari’s fingers curl from around the corner of an alley, long digits digging into the wood as though using it for support, before the rest of his form came rounding about. Nose pointed high in the air, he sniffed and smelled for the living, breathing presence to walk among the dead, neck craning a moment before he directly faced Riku’s form.

Thoroughly caught, it spurred the silveret on, feet digging into the ground below as he broke into a sprint. Long limbs reached for him, the air charged with static from the energies Eyeless Akinari radiated, so much so, Riku felt the hairs on his arms stand on end as he twisted away from the ghost’s reach.

‘Don’t be greedy! Share your eyes with me!’

“Get ” His voice cut out, a particularly harsh beat of his heart shaking his very being as he scrambled for balance and bolted down the village steps, hands shooting out to push himself off buildings as he practically ricocheted back and forth clumsily with each dodge. “ your own!”

Riku climbed over stone fencing, leaping over modest gardens that had long lost their fruit and flora, before vaulting over into the roads behind. All the while, Eyeless Akinari followed like a bloodhound chasing its target without mercy, begging and pleading that Riku comply with his requests (demands). Breath heavy on his lips, he descended further and further into the village, ignoring mournful cries and wailing pleas, even when hands sought a banister for stability, ghostly counterparts rising to grasp at them in an effort to further seek his aid.

They were disembodied arms, but the voice to echo in sharp gasps in his ears was particularly feminine.

‘Help me! Please, help me! It hurts! It hurts!’ “I-I’m sorry, I can’t !”

‘Give me back my eyes! You stole them! It’s not fair! It’s not fair!’

Riku tore his hand from the partial apparition, continuing on his race to find his friend. If he could somehow lose the Eyeless Akinari

The cherry blossoms... Eyes widened at the sight of them, that particular part of the village having been long abandoned over the fear of the tainted waters. The ghosts avoided the pastel trees out of fear for their afterlives, for reasons Riku couldn’t entirely understand, not just yet. Sora had spoken very briefly over the matter, but the point remained the same: Cherry blossom trees meant safety.

Sparing no time, Riku bolted for the trees, narrowly missing another swipe from the Eyeless Akinari. The spirit let out an angered scream, making Riku’s blood run cold as the sound startled him and sent him sprawling onto the ground.

Lungs cried for him to stop, to rest and catch his breath, but Riku forced himself upright anyhow, hands reaching forward to clutch at the ground and pull him forward if he had to. The ghost was just above him, but fingers met soft fallen petals with that single reach. Fists clenched, the silveret twisted on the ground and threw a handful of petals at Eyeless Akinari in a last minute’s effort to fight back.

The scream was deafening, but Riku registered the pained sound not to be his own terror fueled, determined one.

Eyes that he hadn’t realized he squeezed shut slowly fluttered open behind the blindfold, catching sight of Eyeless Akinari’s flailing form behind embroidered fabric.

Riku took the moment to scramble back onto his feet, sprinting down the path despite the newly acquired ache he felt in his knee. The road through the cherry blossoms would only slow the phantom down, and surely, Riku would encounter the awful spirit someplace deeper into the village, near the mill the silveret knew resided just below the manor, and where likely, Sora resided in wait.

His chest burned, lungs on fire, but Riku refused to give pause.

Not until he found Sora and knew he was safe.

#VERSE ✬ FATAL FRAME AU #//Do I have enough warnings??? gjhskda who knows but wowie-- I wrote this a while ago c': again... THE BRAIN ROT IS REAL GDHJSK #I love this AU to bits ugh!! Super self-indulgent drabble~ I love the boys//#eye horror tw;#body horror tw;#stalking tw;#blood mention tw;#horror tw;#death mention tw;#ghosts tw;#✮ || ᵀʰᵉ ʳᵒᵃᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵈᵃʷⁿ (QUEUE)

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project-ohagi · 4 years

Text

Soramitsu Tabe x Reader

Buy me a coffee!! <3

Even with the will of the entire world, you just couldn't tame his emotions. Frustration swelled within you, because you were exhausted from having to constantly mind him. Your relationship usually allowed proximity and romance, without him lashing out and attempting to eat away at your flesh. Genuine adoration was shielded behind that mask, but the thought of expressing too much of it was terrifying to him. Given his societal status, he had never before known such a pure and authentic love. This wasn't something he wished to ruin, and yet the venomous ticking in his head, the whispered voices...they were perpetually hunting for creative, new ways to tarnish his remaining chances with you. It wasn't a controllable force, but it could be temporarily subdued, by the melody of your voice.

Every lyric that rolled off your tongue was Heaven (or as close as he could access), softening the abyss of his mind. It was ephemeral, however, and every second that ghosted past in your absence felt like Hell. The demons who shackled and repressed any traces of optimism that might creep into his system, appeared adoring towards you, and so provided a little leeway in your company. When you abandoned him, even for a mere moment, they returned, their taunts more aggressive than before. They informed him of his dependency on you, and how very tired you were becoming, as a result.

But...how could he function, with a degree of normalcy, without you? Although, yet another matter niggled the back of his brain: your relation to the young head of the Hassaikai, Overhaul. The connection hadn't been completely fleshed out, so he wasn't sure if you were siblings, cousins or something else, but he could concede that it frightened him, ever-so-slightly.

What would transpire once the news surfaced? A simple, yet violent argument? A fatal fight? For as much as he was deemed insane and incapable of empathy or affection, he truly craved your kindness, your divine presence. It was that which bestowed upon him a sense of security, of home. He never wished to be the cause of your demise, or your split from the organisation. An alien love had settled within his core, and instead of consuming it, he had nurtured it. If you ended up suffering injuries because of him, whether they be physical, emotional, psychological or anything in-between, the grief would devour his heart. Behind his burlap sack mask, beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, as his nerves illuminated. His hands started to tremble. The fear, the demons, they were invading his head again. Overhaul had rescued Soramitsu, yes, but that was inconsequential.

Such a powerful figure commanded the utmost respect from his inferiors, not this. To Overhaul, it could manifest as scorn, as a 'trash-is-dating-your-relation-in-an-attempt-to-usurp-your-post'.

Surely, he wouldn't even consider his pleading, his insistence that the truth was far more benevolent! If honesty permeated him, Soramitsu didn't see why you had chosen him. Often, only a singular word attained liberation from his lips, and it wasn't something worthy of adoration. Why? Why did you claim to love him, so very dearly? Why did you gaze upon him, as an awe-struck child, learning to interpret the stars? And...why hadn't he refused your advances?

Ah...perhaps it was the introduction of love into his otherwise worthless existence, that had so mellowed his heart. It was something which he hadn't fully realised, and which his mind agonised over, for many moons. Feelings of neglect bubbled away in the pit of his stomach, as time trickled by. You were still nowhere in his immediate sight, and that was filling him with worry. His mind and mood dropped further into their depressive cavern, as he imagined what tortures Overhaul could be subjecting you to. You possessed a mental strength far superior to his, but it was generally nigh-impossible not to break under such agony. His knees wobbled with the anxiety, forcing him into a crouching position on the ground. What was presenting such an issue, that you would break your promise to him?

You never betrayed his trust.

Yet, maybe an hour had passed since the time that you had suggested. The panic was eating him alive. Had you encountered someone with foul intentions, or had you simply fallen out of love? Were you really busy, or simply in hiding? Soramitsu just couldn't be certain, and the desperation was killing him, slowly. How would he ever hope to function without your help, without your guidance? Even his illustrated emotions were unsure of themselves - should crystalline tears be falling, to signify his sorrow? Should screams tear apart his lungs, because of an unrelenting anger? Or...should he retain his silence, as a testament to his emptiness? All three were competing for validation, but he didn't know which to grant an audience.

As he brooded, these feelings only developed in ferocity. Almost like a relapse, food was once more on the brain. It happened suddenly, eclipsing the final few scraps of rationality, which had lingered since your previous visit. Despite the relatively short period in which you had disappeared, his heart thundered with malice, misery and rejection. This relationship was still fresh, still brimming with bashful side-glances and awkward half-smiles, yet he sincerely cherished it with all his faculties. Had your numerous, supposedly affectionate encounters simply been a nicety? Were those ever-burning embers of love real, or a façade? Did you pity him, or did you revel in his hopeless confusion?

Eloquence aside, would his deepest, innermost emotions - the ones that caused his nerves to explode with an unfamiliar comfort - ever reveal themselves to you? The very worst circumstance, he fretted, would be for you to turn tail and flee, the moment his lips parted. But...but surely that sort of cowardice, of discourtesy was unachievable for someone as wonderful as you...right? Soramitsu placed a hand on either side of his burlap sack mask, desperately searching within his soul, for a sign of reassurance. It might be mentally and physically draining, attending to him around the clock, or ensuring his lack of rampage, but it didn't automatically predetermine that you would just walk out of his life...right? His overactive mind needed an answer - one to ground it again.

"Sora! Oh my gods..." Those heavenly echoes sliced straight through his thoughts of desolation and self-contempt, as a knife to the flesh.

The tepidity of your embrace was something for which he had long yearned. He understood himself to be wholly undeserving of such a loving gesture, yet his quivering hands failed to shove you aside. He couldn't! He refused to impart even the most minor injury on to your delicate skin. You caressed him with a tenderness that should have been reserved for someone else - someone who carried an air of stability, of maturity. You didn't require his filthy love, and you never did. His deplorable appearance was that which should be scrubbed from your life. He didn't wish to taint your grace any further.

He didn't even deserve to touch you.

But...wasn't it above his station, to spurn your courtship?

"Soramitsu? What's going on, sweetie? Did someone hurt you?" The concern penetrated your heart, and this was reflected in your voice.

This whole ordeal was painful - agonising! His vocal chords strained with the effort, but he was determined to respond.

"Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-You...I - It w-w-was y-you..."

"Me...? How did I - what...? Did you...did you really mean that?" The quiet cracks which fractured your words were ungodly; why was he cursed with such inarticulacy?

The abnormal dejection crossing your features, the sniffling, the near-waterfalls of your eyes...No! Anything but this! He couldn't bear your current expression. If only his words could be repealed...If only he had been more careful! What had he set in motion? Could his crime ever be absolved? Shaking his head over and over, desiring the phrases which would inevitably dispel all this negative energy, Soramitsu started to choke on his own sharp breaths. Tears threatened his heart with thousands of red-hot pokers. Your form was convulsing in its sorrow, but you hadn't moved away, not even by an inch. Soramitsu relinquished his voice - words couldn't possibly aid him now. Rather, despite his unwavering anxieties, he rested a hand on your shoulder. The connection was feather-light, as though you might shatter, or gain an intense disgust for his touch.

Neither of those harrowing ideas occurred in reality, to which he thanked every god and goddess in the universe.

[Word Count: 1414]

#tabe soramitsu #boku no hero x reader #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #oneshot #soramitsu tabe #eight precepts of death

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beerecordings · 5 years

Text

Those We Have Lost

Part 9 of My Brother’s Keeper. (Part 1 l Previous l Next)

My taglist is a separate post. This chapter and probably the next one or two will be really fast-paced and heavy, so I’m sorry about that. Hopefully they’re still enjoyable. There’s a lot of story I want to tell in just a couple chapters.

This is the first time I’ve really stressed about a chapter. I’m glad it’s done, I’m glad I’m happy with it, and I just hope you like it and that I’ve set up everything I need to set up so that I can tell this big dumb story.

Also... I’m sorry about this... lol

Here we are. We meet, we fight. My brothers know blood and battle and they always have. Jackie, I’ve missed you, Chase, do you know him?

They move up the stairs of the skeleton building together, with Chase behind Jackie.

“Chase,” says Jackie. “You've never actually met Anti, have you?”

Chase swallows. “No,” he says.

He's only ever been there in the aftermath, in blood and in grief.

“I know, though,” he says. “I know that he's dangerous. I get that.”

Jackie turns to him for a moment, with sorrowful eyes. “Okay,” he murmurs. “I really hope you do. I love you, okay?”

“I love you too, Jackie.”

“And we're going to be really careful because... is that him?”

They've stepped onto the third floor and there's a body at the end of the open room.

Chase grips at Jackie's shoulder.

Something giggles from the boards over the windows.

“There's Schneep,” Jackie whispers, staring at the body collapsed across the room. “You go get him. I've got your back.”

“Okay,” Chase whispers back, and curses his voice for shaking. He steps towards his fallen brother, and Anti strikes like a snake.

Jackie takes his first blow, a burst of electricity, right to the chest, and hisses through his teeth. He whips out his wood knuckles and strikes out at the glitching manifestation of his nemesis.

“It's been too long,” Anti hisses, and his image appears on Jackie's every side, crouching as though about to strike and holding a knife longer than his forearm. “I've missed you, Jackieboy!”

“Back off, Anti,” says Jackie, and slashes forward again, but Anti is already gone, standing on the stairs.

“Come on, Jackie, let's play tag!” he calls, laughing from all around him. “Or are the stairs too painful for you since I shattered your body into pieces and stab wounds?”

To be fair, yeah, the stairs will hurt like hell. But Chase hasn't wavered. He's sprinting towards Henrik, laid out on the other side of the room, and Jackie knows that the more time he can buy them and the farther away he can chase Anti, the more likely they are to escape. Nothing else matters.

He pushes his pain away, sucks in a deep breath, and takes off after Anti.

Howling with laughter, Anti glitches up the stairs, up the stairs, sitting on the railway, playing with his knife, reappearing, reappearing, reappearing. He's showing off and Jackie knows it. One of them is far more powerful than the other tonight, and Anti won't let him forget it.

“Come on!” he crows, spinning his knife about in one hand. “Come on, you false little hero! When was the last time the street-wise criminals and Londontown drug lords saw you? I'm so glad you've finally come out of hiding, big brother! I think you need a warm-up. Look out!”

His blade comes slamming through the air towards him and Jackie barely manages to throw himself out of the way instead of it shattering his collarbone. “Fucker,” he yells, and retaliates with a blast of his power – pure bright light.

Anti laughs manically as light burns painful at his eyes and tears into his impure and chaotic energy, falling back and reeling from the pain. He glitches again, retreating to the next floor, and summons a second knife as he waits for Jackie to join him.

“Now you're just being a dick,” Jackie snaps, panting at the top of the stairs.

“That really does hurt you, doesn't it?” purrs Anti, watching him try to straighten up. “The old wounds. I hope it's as humiliating as it is painful.”

“Yeah? I'd watch your mouth, cause I'm about to make you pay for it.”

Anti laughs and lets Jackie throw a pair of light beams, avoiding both with a quick glitch. “Oh, Jackie, I have missed you. I'm so tempted to dance with you the same way we did last time – to defeat you, destroy you, and then go after your darling baby brother.”

“But you hate going in circles, don't you?”

“Yes, precisely. And why settle? I've been planning something even better than my last triumph. Come on, Jackie, calm down for a moment. There's some things I think you should know.”

Jackie breathes hard, watching Anti with narrow eyes. They know each other well.

“Fine,” he says, his hands relaxing around his wood knuckles. “What?”

It's a cool night, and at this height, the crickets fade into a distant symphony. Cars pass occasionally and their light cuts through the boarded windows like water spraying up at the end of the ocean.

“I just want you to be here when Chase Brody dies,” says Anti.

Jackie grits his teeth hard. “Fuck you,” he says. “Fuck you. Forget my chest and my neck and my stupid fucking heart. If you try to go near Chase, I'll kill you one way or another, little brother.”

Anti laughs so hard his chest glitches into nothing but color. “Oh, darling, that is the fun part. I'm not going to kill Chase. I left my dog with him downstairs.”

“Your... what?”

“Sorry. I meant my brother.”

Jackie's heart misses a beat.

“You're lying. You haven't had enough time with Schneep to make him yours.”

Anti glitches, and for just a second, he is a black dog with barred teeth, and then he is Jack again. “Oh, Jackie, I'm not talking about Schneep.”

It can't be. It can't fucking be. His heart shivers.

“Marvin?” he whispers, though he can barely form the word.

For just a second, Anti shows his surprise.

“Marvin?” he repeats. “You still think...”

The wind chills Jackie's blood and bones.

“You still think Marvin's alive?”

He'd give the world to make Anti unsay those words.

“Oh, now, that is too funny.” He laughs like a hyena and it echoes and magnifies as he draws closer, flicking his knife from hand to hand. “You still think Marvin's alive! You still hope! You still wait for him!”

Jackie yells and darts forward, throwing punch after punch at Anti's face. Anti is quicker and more violent, but Jackie's always had the strength advantage, and he shoves Anti back until he glitches away and reappears on the other side of the room, his teeth bared.

“Poor Jackieboy,” he snarls, letting blood run out of his mouth and his eyes glaze black. “You've always been so fucking deluded. But don't worry, my darling. I'll tell you what happened that night, when Jack slept, and Henrik was mine, and Marvin died alone.”

Jackie's breathing is choking him up. He's just going to ignore him. He's just going to ignore him, put his hands up, and fucking swing.

Hit, miss, miss, Anti catches his wrists and drives him back, his knife catching on Jackie's knuckles. Jackie burns him blind with light, but Anti just closes his eyes and swings forward, unfearing and careless. Pain means little to him and violence is his world, and Jackie is forced back, only managing one more good blow before they catch each other's wrists. Together they stumble back, two great forces locked together, but the moon is high and the sun is missing, and Jackie trips up first.

“You've been wondering for so long,” says Anti, slamming Jackie's head against the wall again, and again, until he screams for the pain and slumps in the demon's arms. “Let me tell you, big brother, what happened that wonderful night. I defeated you, destroyed you, left you splayed on the ground like a rabbit dropped from the mouth of a vulture, your pathetic body shattered into different layers of agony and bone dust. You failed to protect him. He should have known then that the fight was lost, but he always did take after you when it comes to stupidity. I came for Jack. Marvin was there. He cried for you, but you didn't come.”

“You son of a bitch!” Jackie screams, shoving at Anti's glitching arms. He summons light to make Anti burn, but the demon just tightens his grip on his throat and continues, his eyes blazing blue and green and his wicked teeth curved in a smile full of hatred and euphoria.

“He tried so hard to put up a good fight! He threw all the magic he'd been granted at me and moved between dimensions like a mouse moves through the walls of your house. Tiny, skittering little pest! But I caught him by the hair and dragged him down, and he wept for you, and promised me that you would kill me, that Jack would never be mine, that I would never win. And then, Jackieboy, oh, then... you wouldn't believe, couldn't understand how wonderful...”

Anti leans in close and sighs. Jackie shivers and waits, held tight by his terror, by his desperation, by a long year of wondering, wondering, wondering.

“Oh!” says Anti. “To taste the thick flesh of his pulsing heart!”

Jackie screams so loud his throat tears.

He is a sun given humanity and he thrashes in Anti's arms, kicking, striking, struggling, though his back burns and his whole body wails its protest. He howls like an animal shot, like a dog trapped in a fighting ring. Marvin could be a ghost beside him – he can swear he feels the blue haze of his little brother's magic, sees the curve of his cool, loving smile, hears his dancing laughter become a cry of terror, of fear, a cry for Jackie to save him –

“No! Marvin! No!”

“Does that hurt? Is it bad? Come on, Jackie, get up. Where's your fight gone, big brother? Where's your fight gone? Fuck, you're so weak. I should have made you watch as I killed him and left his corpse splayed over you as you bled. And now my little Jameson is going to slaughter your Chaser and give me his heart. Will you grieve, Jackie? Or will you just die?”

Jameson?

The world stills. Tears weep down his cheeks.

And instead of blue magic, Jackie sees the uncolored flicker of an old movie screen, feels brass in his hands, hears the steady ticking of a clock, watches the little one's warm eyes smile up at him, smiles back at him, feels his heart beat calm beneath his hands –

That is when a gunshot sounds.

Anti howls his triumph, filling the whole room up with glitches and wild ferocious energy. Jackie screams fear. And Chase, staring in horror at Jameson Jackson stood before him, clutches at the bullet lodged deeply in his chest, and crumples, soundless, to the ground.

Terror, grief, and love all burning together make Jackie powerful. Beneath Anti's hands, he glows and struggles, his body filling up with heat and light.

“So you do have some power left,” Anti smiles, pressing down hard on his throat and letting his fingers burn. “Maybe even enough to send me away. But, mo deartháir, it won't be enough to save him. It's never been enough to save any of them.”

Jackie screams.

Lashes out.

For a moment, it is like his whole body has vanished from the earth, and he is only light, white and ethereal, floating painless above the earth. Jackie senses the beating hearts of his brothers, the raw hatred that makes Anti whole, and, downstairs, another little soul he does not know, one full of pain, fury, confusion, and a regret so deep his heart threatens to shatter.

The room fills up with light, and Anti shatters into pixels. Jackie watches as he heaves up a mouthful of blood, laughs for joy and for agony, and disappears as though he never existed.

“I didn't mean to,” says Jameson Jackson.

His hands are full of blood. Chase Brody does not move.

“I didn't mean to,” says Jameson, but the damage is done.

#okay im deleting some of my tags on this cause i think they might be the reason this isn't showing up in tag #antisepticeye #chase brody #jackieboyman #bee writes #my brother's keeper #jameson jackson

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nancybyeers · 6 years

Text

i feel you're closer every time i call you // a wondertrev secret santa gift

title: i feel you’re closer every time i call you pairing: wondertrev wc: 1994 words notes: it’s my secret santa gift for @poetic-pathetic ! hope you will sob ao3

Wonder Woman was a name code, an alter-ego but most of the time, it was a ghost.

(A ghost from the World War One, from the World War II, from the Viet War and from the Cold War. Wonder Woman was the blurred shadow of the human wars, but more than that, it was the ghost of an immortal oasis. Themyscira. After all these decades of crawling in the black streets of the mortal world, the name on her tongue was foreign. Crashing like waves, burning like sunburns, aching like only home can be but –)

And Diana Prince was a woman with voices screaming inside her head, bruises and scratches on her heart rather than on her almost bulletproof skin, pencil skirt and golden jewelry (she loved being this kind of woman who was powerful in every outfit because it was her mind that was praised by the gods when her body was only begged for by the mortal foolish men.)

She was an old woman with too many inches of hard skin, indestructible bones, and tired glim in the eyes.

But being a ghost was not what made her feel like the world was slowing down in the course of time, giving her the odd impression that she was aging when she was clearly not.

It was Steve’s ghost who made every decade without him feel like another coat on her shoulders. A painful and true and dead ghost.

It was the ghost of his lips, his smile, his golden hair, his era.

His world. (After him, Etta was gone followed by Charlie then Sameer. One by one, buried.)

Humans stayed humans, and when Diana had saved them, she had sworn to protect them, to love them. But sometimes, it was harder.

When she had to watch their bodies going down into the ground, without songs for helping them to find the next world or without any escape for their soul but a roof of soil. Rooting, their chest filled with dust. Forgotten.

She outlived them all.

“Diana? There is someone on the phone for you.”

Working in Paris is easier for her. It was a neutral ground. It was not the painful memories of Belgium or the shimmering-veil feeling of England. They had not left marks where she walked, slaloming between the glass pyramids of the Louvre, or in the air she breathed.

(A time had come where she preferred to breathe pollution of cars and factories than feelings, and somehow, they kept considering her as wise…)

She rose up from the chair where she was sitting since this morning as her assistant, a young so young lady with red hair and pinkish cheeks, made her way to her.

Her name was Helene and she was a really pretty girl. Sometimes, Diana thinks about getting a coffee with her one day, just talking and laughing, but then she can clearly see this juvenal face overwhelmed by wrinkles and by the inevitable burden that is age.

She had to love them, humans. It was her duty. When her smile trembled, she convinced herself that it was because of emotion (love made people do incredible and crazy things, she knew that as much as mortals.) but, deep in her chest, she knew.

Oh, how strong she was, demigoddess, fearing of attaching herself to these foolish weak and lovely creatures.

She watched her assistant leave the office, the phone in her hand, cold and soulless.

She wondered if she would go to Helene’s funeral. Would she weep tears from her face? Put a bouquet of flowers on her tombstone, in memory of her dedicated assistant?

Compensating by hunting down criminals and monsters of flesh and bones at night. The blast of her aura burning the pure idea of grief, every strike of lasso burying deeper her own feelings.

For the greater good, for the human’s race.

And sometimes she wondered about him: how his voice could have sound on the phone? Would he have loved sports and online newspapers?

She picked up, lost in her thoughts, and for a second, she expected to hear his breathing.

“Diana Prince?”

“It’s me.”

“We found it. We found him.”

And, deep in her chest, she knew that she had no expectations. She could not have any.

Him. It must have been Clark Kent or Bruce Wayne or Hades or a dangerous and veracious secret ready to destroy her world.

Steve Trevor was dead. And she did not know exactly who is on the other side of the line, a scientist, a powerful man without any doubt but not a god.

Only a god can bring back a mortal (even a heroic one) from the realm of death.

She laughed hard and harder. She did not know that she had this kind of laugh in her: bitter.

She wanted to take it back. But she could not.

“Have you listened to a single word that I have said, Diana Prince?”

No, she did not. Wonder Woman hated liars. She fought for the truth.

“Yes. I did.”

Yet, there she was, telling the biggest one, lying to herself. It’s better that he was dead.

Not able to see the damages of the WWII and the radioactive blast of the bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, not able to be a hero and to die as a hero a second or a third time.

Selfishly, she thought that it was better. She had not had to bury him after a lifetime spent together, counting grey strikes in his hair while they brushed their tooth every morning.

“The plane was in the ocean. The explosion occurred in two phases, one in the sky, the second once he entered into the ocean.”

She remembered everything: the heatwave, her own scream sounding like the agony of a stranger, and the pain. But the most horrifically accurate image in her mind was the vibrant color of the fire, the cruelty of the flames while they were licking the metallic bones of the planes and the fresh flesh of her lover.

A fire was so different from the cool water around Themyscira and yet, if ocean failed to let drown Steve Trevor, flames took his life away.

Was it a possibility that fire had failed too to end this soldier, this pilot, this lover’s life?

“The deflagration created a submarine earthquake, destroying the plane almost immediately because of the force of pressure and of the intensity of the explosion. Marine rift is a common reaction in this kind of case, you know, Diana. Aspiring everything in a perimeter of a hundred miles. Essentially water, most of the times, but if there was a body deriving….”

“He could have been alive” she whispers.

There is a silence, only filled by fear and terror.

(agape.)

“He could have been alive” she repeated, her voice more stable. “However, it’s been a hundred years. Even if he had survived to the explosion. Humans – we – cannot win against time”

“We haven’t found his body, Diana. Even if Steve Trevor was in this cavity for a time, he could not have survived.”

“But…”

She was no longer rationalizing.

“Diana, I agreed, me and my unity, to look after this veteran because you have connections with Wayne and that you are quite persuasive…but no matter what Steve Trevor represents for you, you need to let him go.”

Her breath was harsh and for a second, she thought about protesting, denying.

(The story began like this: Bruce Wayne owed her a favor and a photography. The plane where Steve was in when he died had never been found and they had to watch and cry over an empty casket, decorated with ribbons of liberty’s color. She wanted him back. She wanted him to be where he belonged, with his ornaments. In a cemetery where modern heroes belonged to, just like gods belonged to the pantheon.)

But the scientist – she did not remember his name. It was more than five years since Wayne had contacted him and they had never spoken before – was right. Steve Trevor was dead.

Ocean had swallowed him.

“I let go.” She said with an empty voice, her hand contracted on the phone, so strong that she could have taken it to pieces so easily (so so easily. As easily as the world had reduced to nothing the presence of Steve Trevor.)

This night, Wonder Woman was too tired to fight. This night she decided that criminals could run a bit longer, could spread their evilness a bit further like tentacles. She could always catch them again the next night or the next, the next after that and the next and –

She had eternity to catch them again.

This night, Diana Prince was too tired to fight, so she slept instead.

She dreamt of her first meeting with Steve Trevor.

She dreamt of home. Sand turning into ashes, laughs and swords smashing turning into screams, rushing sound of bullets.

Dream turning into a nightmare.

She woke up before the sun, with the lingering confidence that she would only find closure with waves licking her heels.

Confronted to the sea that had destroyed the only hero that war was not strong enough to take.

She booked a one-way ticket for the coast, she painted her nails white and put on her darkest suit.

The golden lasso is in her suitcase, her tiara hidden behind her bold locks of dark hair, she entered in the airport like if she was underwater.

The coast was savage. She fell on her knee, hands jointed, lips sealed.

Staring at the sea with a thunderous look.

In her mind, the last word of the scientist in lieu of a goodbye ringing like bells: “the only thing you can do is praying, miss Prince.”

It was what she did. Praying her mother, Hippolyta, and the spirit of Antiope to let her pass.

To let her come home.

She dove into the water, swam and swam and swam. Fever in her bones, hope in her mind.

(Finally, Themyscira was more beautiful than in her memory and the embrace of her mother was warmer than expected.

“You are so human, Diana. I can smell their odors on your skin. Pollution, lies, hypocrisy.”

But her speech was as cold as the breeze was the night she left. With him.)

She was a weapon. The destroyer of Gods. Her words bounced on her immortal skin.

She held her mother tighter.

“I love you, mother. Only the force of my faith, my grief and my love made me come back to you.”

Diana closed her eyes, inhaling slowly the earthy perfume of her godly mother, ignoring the deep gaze of the immortal woman on her. Hippolyta was a gold digger looking the secrets of mortal world in her long-absent daughter’s heart.

Diana went to the shore.

Diana went to the shore where Antiope died.

Diana went to the shore where she met Steve Trevor.

But she did find neither the blood of her general on the sand, probably washed over and over by the sea since a century, nor the clear and bright voice of her lover calling for an angel, thinking he had found heaven.

She buried her feet in the sand like roots of the island, and screamed.

(For a whole week, she did not move, she did not lower her voice, her rage. She was

a god.

She claimed

her prize, her birthright. Even if for it, she needed to be Atlas for a whole week.)

With the dawn, came a body. Uniform soaked and eaten by the salt, blue cold lips and swollen face. A corpse.

She noticed she had lost her voice when she tried to pronounce his name.

“Steve”

SteveSteveSteveSteveSteve –

She reached for the sky, blue and endless.

SteveSteveSteveSteveSteve –

He opened his eyes. Blue like the sea.

“Hey, angel.”

Without taking her eyes off his weak smile, she addressed a strange prayer to higher deities.

“thanks gods.”

#poetic-pathetic #wondertrev #wonder woman #dcu #mine #my writing #wondertrevsecretsanta

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crimsonrevolt · 7 years

Photo

Congratulations Lana you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Walburga Black!

↳ please refer to our character checklist

I can’t even begin to list a favorite part of this beautiful application since there were countless ones, but I think that what truly impressed me was how much empathy and love you gave a character who is so complex and terrible in her beliefs and made me truly appreciate her for how many intriguing dimensions she has! Your para sample made me feel for her and the loss she still is trying to suppress at losing members of her family, and I’m so excited to see how you make her fit into the rp and the characters and plots already going on! She’ll add a truly interesting perspective and I’m looking forward to seeing her on the dash!

application beneath the cut

OUT OF CHARACTER

INTRODUCTION

Hello, I’m Lana, twenty-three, EST. I prefer she/her pronouns.

ACTIVITY

Other than full-time work, I am free most of the time. I imagine that I’ll be active almost every day and the times I’m not I’ll have a queue to keep up on replies, etc.

TRIGGERS

*removed for privacy

HOW DID YOU FIND US?

I originally found this group through the tags but I’ve been lurking for a while. It was hard to wait but I’m glad I did because now I have a lot of time to dedicate to this.

WHAT HARRY POTTER CHARACTER DO YOU IDENTIFY WITH MOST?

Remus Lupin. I’m not a hundred percent sure why I identify with him but I do. He has always been my favorite character in the books and being around a lot of roleplays has just given me a deeper love for him and the multiple characterizations I’ve seen. He is such a quiet, low-key person with this hidden strength and intelligence that I feel he barely trusts. Then there’s the werewolf piece of his identity that he tries to hide and overcome - I just adore him. That’s not much about me so I’m sorry, but I do identify most with Remus!

ANYTHING ELSE?

Nope!

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER

Walburga Black

FACE CLAIM

Charlize Theron

REASON FOR CHOSEN CHARACTER

I could speak a thousand words about Walburga Black and it still would not be enough. The entirety of the Black family, in my opinion, are highly underrated (I could write a novel just on why they deserve more attention for the sake of background on their children). So let me talk about mother ice queen for a moment and hope that my wording conveys just how much I love this horrifying character without making anyone reading this believe that I myself am also an extremist with terrible beliefs.

Walburga Black is a character with very little redeeming quality, I will start off by admitting that. Her ideals closely resemble those of a true psychopath yet she does a better job of keeping them hidden than her younger brother, Cygnus. In fact, she believes that her caution is to be admired and chides her husband often and extensively for his lack of it. It is no secret that the Black family name is spoken as an insult and the knowledge crawls under her skin and leeches at her blood. For decades her family had been noble and pure, but the sight of it now draws her to her wits end. It is her largest desire to rid of the rumors of incest and insanity that have filtered through the country, making her a laughing stock.

She despises the men of her family who have loomed above her to pluck the crown from her golden hair. It has been a relentless fight to gain power and composure against her brothers, but she believes she is the strongest of them all. Intelligence that knows no bounds, beauty above all, and a cold facade that could have grown men slinking away - those are the traits of an heir and a queen. But instead of holding a bounty of wealth and inheriting her family home, she was married off to complete her only goal as a woman, child birth. It was against everything she believed, but she did her duty while whispering in the ears of the pureblooded men and women who would listen. Fear her, love her, hate her, it never mattered to Walburga.

There is still humanity underneath the perfectly crafted creature she has spun to walk the Earth, and she showed it only when her first born son abandoned them. She had always known he would leave so that came as no surprise, but the ache in her heart did. There was a hole ripped out of soft flesh that never seemed to heal, no matter how many years had passed. It had taken days of screaming agony and threatening curses before Walburga had allowed herself to put her mask on again. The memory felt weak, like cowardice. She never wanted to feel like a woman or a mother because that wasn’t how you gained respect in a world of sexism.

I could go on for days about her past and what led her to the moments that created such a silently heartbroken creature. It’s mostly speculation on my end but I love to talk about it and I hope I get the chance to portray her for the first time!

PREFERRED SHIPS // CHARACTER SEXUALITY // GENDER & PRONOUNS

Walburga identifies as female with she/her pronouns.

Orion/Walburga.

I don’t want to write much on my opinion of their relationship because I know that there is an active Orion player in this group, but I have a lot of feelings on the matter. In a weird way I do ship them because I feel that their marriage has gone beyond duty and has touched on something close to love, or solace and comfort, whichever is the easiest for them to admit. I believe that Walburga would do anything to protect her husband and expects the same from him. There’s much more I’d love to explore, too!

Her sexuality is closest to straight, I suppose, yet I do feel that she would fall into bed with many after a particularly gruesome fight (Chemistry/Walburga). She loves the adrenaline and the fear, it makes her feel alive when she has been surrounded by dull affairs and parties while acting as a socialite. Still, she would never label herself as anything but straight and would keep her sexual intentions behind closed doors for fear that it would make her family name any less noble.

CREATE ONE (OR MORE!) OF THE FOLLOWING FOR YOUR CHARACTER:

Here is the mock blog. xxxxx

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

♔ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it:

“And why would I waste my time on tinkering with ingredients or waving my wand uselessly when I could press a galleon into the hand of a poorer man to do it for me?” Walburga remains still as ice save for the twitch of her index finger against the silk of her dress. “Still, the question isn’t utterly foolish.” She weighs the answer and the consequences before deciding that this conversation will lead to little other than conversation. Boring, really. “They could make me the true heir of father’s inheritance, or they could kill the men who doubt me. The women, too. I can’t decide. Perhaps I’d do both.”

♔ You have to venture deep into the Forbidden Forest one night. Pick one other character and one object (muggle or magical), besides your wand, that you’d want with you:

“The Forbidden Forest is filled to the brim with filth, I’ve found. It should be burned to the ground along with the creatures inside. Alas, if I must go, I would bring my dear husband. He can get eaten while I walk away unharmed.” The thought seems to amuse her but the words are false and she lets the corners of her lips fall in an instant. “An object other than my wand? I suppose the necklace mother left me before she died. It has always brought me strength.”

♔ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make?

Walburga laughs and the sound is almost as cruel as the coldness in her eyes. “I have no difficulty making decisions. Everything comes easily to me. How could it not? I’m a Black by blood and by birth. The women are queens and the men are pretenders, so we of the ‘gentler sex’ are left to make the real decisions. I whisper in my husbands ear just as I did father’s, and I’ll continue until I have what I want. Does it sound like I’m having difficulty?” But even though her words ring true, she cannot help but think that her weakness is hard to overcome.

♔ What is one thing you would never want said about you?

“People speak of me every day and their words are envious. I don’t care to listen to what those peasants choose to utter nor would I do a thing to stop them. I care only for my family name and what they choose to say of me is nothing in comparison to the filthy way they speak of my brother.” She shudders at the thought of him. “I am a queen and I deserve just what respect my father had. The thing I would not stand for is those filthy demons calling me weak. I could kill them in an instant yet they think we, as the noble house of Black, are jokes. Every day I will prove that that is not true.”

WRITING SAMPLE

It felt like ice slithering up her larynx with the threat of suffocation. Pale and gaunt she stood and stared at the emerald green tapestry that hung across the walls of a room she had not thought to enter in some time. They sat like ghosts stitched in time, woven in silk, and colored with fading dye. But she held their fate in the palm of her hand with the magic that stretched and flexed between the core of her wand. It had become a simple pleasure to view those faces and read the cursive letters she had memorized as just a little girl. There was Pollux Black, her father, and Irma Crabbe, her mother. They sat under the elder Cygnus II with an air of nobility, and further below were Alphard, Cygnus, and herself.

Her fingers were light as they traced the tiny lines of her own face and read the words that followed. Walburga Black. The name meant little beside the brothers who held their fortune and inheritance close to their chests. As a woman she would never be allowed the luxury of claiming her proper title, nor would she be absolved of her duty to a husband who often cast a shadow, but this day was a step forward. After years of waiting for her brothers to fall from high grace, she had finally gotten her wish. And how joyous the occasion was.

Alphard Black would be removed.

The image of his face stitched into a tapestry so regal had her stomach boiling with internal rage yet her composure remained frozen in disinterest. A long, curved nail came up to tear at the thin fabric with intentionally slow movements. Soon half of his white, left cheek was swallowed up into a mess of string and material. Still, it did little to quell the disgust. She took a step away and pointed her wand though the spell didn’t form immediately. How could he have done that to them when he knew how much Sirius had hurt her?

The parchment conjured in her memory and she sucked a breath inward. Her eldest brother had left his entire fortune to a traitor despite her clear warnings. Sirius was to be left in the dark with the scum he called friends, yet Alphard had not heeded her threats. As she hadn’t expected him to. While it came as a relief to find her smarter brother fail so quickly, it also hurt. She had cared deeply for him whereas her younger brother she had come close to despising.

Finally the flames came, flickering and alive as they ate away at the lasting image of his face. Two times in the past few months that she had come to view the tapestry and remove another traitor and both had hurt just as much. A dull ache began in her chest and pounded upwards until there was a lump in her throat too big to swallow. She wouldn’t let the sob rise, however, no matter how much it tried. “Not this time.” She whispered, and her eyes moved to stare at the black hole that had once been her son. “I’ll never let you filthy traitors make me show weakness again.“

#accepted app

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terrasanguine · 7 years

Text

Part 3 - Insight

Icy rain drizzled through the fog, crackling endlessly against the trail of broken stone. Shambled buildings stood crooked against one another, like children huddling for warmth. The splash of naked feet against muddy water echoed throughout the streets, accompanied by frantic panting and screaming in the distance. This was nothing new, you'd grown quite used to these sounds long ago.

You're wandering down the precinct of the slum, passing a broken corpse by the side. You don't even care to give it a glance. Mud licks your boots with each step, as you walk by one of the many ruined houses. Something catches your eye as you stroll by. Stepping inside the half-charred ruins, you see a little thing resting against the soggy, splintered floor. A filthy piece of paper rests atop debris. You pinch the least smudged edge as you pick it up. Upon inspection, you're just about able to make out the shaky writing.

Muutos I'm still alive. I don't know how many of these you've found yet, but I won't stop until I find you. I'm sorry I couldn't wait here. I can't stop moving. I'm sure you're thinking the same. I think it's been half a moon but I'm not sure. All I know is that the fog still hasn't let up. The pain hasn’t stopped either, but I’m managing, don’t worry. I'm going to head to the wall again, I hope it's I n..ed to m....e I lov.. y....

The last sentence seems hastily written. You shake the letter a few times before you fold it, neatly wrapping it within a white piece of cloth, placing it into the front pocket of your pants. You dust yourself off, walking back out with your head turning towards the great wall in the distance. A smile paints your lips. You start making your way through the broken streets, vanishing from sight as you become one with the mist and rain.

Boney hands dig their way through the sloppy, wet earth. Shivering where she kneels, a woman mutters to herself as she clutches the mud once again. Her frail words are drowned out by the thundering rain. You try to hurry past as you check your pocket watch, but her foul stench burns through your nostrils. It makes your very stomach turn. She doesn't notice as you walk by. None of them ever do, you won't let them.

As you pass the next corner, you pick up an unusual scent that breaks the mold. An old book? You feel a jolt of enthusiasm, it's been ages since you last got your hands on one of those! Following the broken gate by your side, you track through mud until you come across a note. It rests against iron, hidden within a dark lantern hanging by the end of the gate. You grab the paper and bring it before you.

Muutos There still doesn't seem to be a way out of this city. That wall stretches around this entire place, I think we're trapped within. It's hard to tell because of the fog, but I might have run in circles a few times. A couple. Maybe. A lot of times. If When you read this, know that I'm gonna scale that wall Try to find me by looking for the ring. I may also be limping but don't worry it's just a fleshwound I'm going to find you, wherever you are.

-Quinn

You study the words thoroughly before you fold the letter. Pinching your nails on the paper, you swiftly drag them across to close it completely, placing it in your jacket's pocket shortly after. Gaze shifting towards the nearest building, you try to find anything that’s sturdy enough to climb. Nothing seems safe, so you settle on a spot that looks less ruined than it’s surroundings. With care, you try to climb without getting a splinter. A few careful movements as you make your way up, seems to have secured you this time. You rush the final motion and think yourself lucky, before you feel an unpleasant prickling on the inside of your glove. You gracefully remove it before pinching out the splinter. How many have you gotten now, half a dozen? Half a dozen indeed. What a way to keep yourself entertained. You take a moment to look upon the city. Fog fills the streets, rain obscures the view. Visibility is poor from the unsteady roof, but you think you can spot some movement closer to the wall. You slide the glove back onto your hand. Time to investigate.

The wind is howling through the streets behind you. You're on the outskirts of the town, walking alongside the wall. You look up, far above, and then a little further. Towering before you is the massive structure. Placing a naked palm on the slippery stone, you feel streams of running water flow through the cracks. The sound of bare feet splashing through mud breaks the moment of serenity. Someone runs by before they leap onto the wall, clinging to the stones with all the force they can muster. But that frail body can't hold on for long. They slip and fall, a firm crack sounds as their back clashes against stone. You walk over to check on them. It seems to be a woman of sorts, she lays still on the watery stone. Her heart beats, albeit barely. Looking elsewhere, your gaze falls to her hands. There's no ring in sight. You tear your eyes away from the scene and rise up to keep on walking, before you notice a piece of paper sticking out between two stones on the wall. With care, you lift pick it up. Water damage is apparent on the sheet, but you can just about make out the words.

M..u..os I tried to c..mb again b.. ..f ..ourse I fe..... If th.. ..ain wo..d stop ....r one damned seco... I c..uld have b...n able to cli..... ..p I'm still ...guised and avoid.... a....one I want t.. ..sk if it's you but I ....n't risk it Every...... in ....is town .... insa....

-Q....nn

You look back down at the beautiful body that will eventually rot away, like everything else in this wretched city. You put the note into the empty inner pocket of your jacket before you turn away, shifting your gaze upwards. Arms unfolding, you let the rain wash over you. Water always helps you calm down. But, you don’t have time to keep dallying about, you need to keep scouting. You march onwards, set on finding out more about this.

The sound of a scream catches your attention. Careful not to let the click of your boots give you away, you sneak around the corner to get a glimpse of the event that transpires. Two people are fighting over some basket. They both look sickly, tired and starved. Even from a distance you're able to smell the food lying inside the creel. It's moldy, muddy, like everything else in this ghost town, but it's food. The larger of the two screams out something about how it was her food. She seems to boil with rage, ready to snap at any moment. The smaller one tries to pull the basket towards themselves, refusing to let go. The poor thing tugs and pulls, eventually managing to rip the basket out of the woman's hands before dashing away. A screech of pure rage bursts out as she takes pursuit. You quietly decide to tag along.

The two of them rush away, through tight spaces, sudden turns, narrow exits, but you have no trouble keeping up. By the time the chase temporarily seizes, the duo have found themselves in some rundown blacksmith's residence. Of course, it's as corroded as anything else. The smaller one starts backing towards the wall, shaking and clinging to the basket. The woman continues yelling out at the top of her lungs, before shooting a quick glance around the room. You move from one window to the next in order to get a better view.

As you step to the next window, you look inside just in time to see the woman slice at the arms of the little thief with a rusty knife. A scream of pain cries out before the little one steps back, narrowly avoiding yet another slash. The thief drops the basket and starts skittering backwards with shaking, bloody hands. However, the woman follows suit. A knife stabs into the wall as the thief dodges at the last possible second. Heaving in pain, the little thing launches towards the closest tool - a scythe hanging on the wall. As the woman is busy putting all her weakened force into prying out the knife, the thief tugs and pulls in an attempt to rip the weapon free. With a final, rough heave, the thief manages to tear it off and turns around to face the woman in the nick of time. Just as they raise the scythe horizontally, the thief scarcely repels another slice. As the three of you get a moment to let the scene sink in, you feel yourself silently nod in approval.

The thief pushes the woman off in order to get some distance between the two, before speaking up.

''BACK OFF!'' You can hear the shaking voice crack. ''GET AWAY!''

The little thing is trembling where it stands. It almost makes you want to step in and help out, but you decide to let fate be the judge of this battle. The woman raises her knife, her eyes seem red with anger.

''You rotten, snivelling little demon! Don't think I didn't see you before! Your legs they..they changed as you ran!''

She points her knife straight at the thief.

''I've seen you- I've seen them! Walking about in the shadows! You're one of them! You're the one I've seen!''

You decide to take a silent step further back.

The thief looks puzzled and confused.

''Wh- Who? Shadows? What are you talking about? Do you know something about the ones who-''

The woman slices the air.

''DON'T PLAY COY WITH ME, TRICKSTER! YOU CAN'T FOOL ME!'' Tears of anger swell in her eyes. ''WHY HAVE YOU PUT US HERE? WHY ARE WE DYING HERE?!''

With a rough swing, the thief knocks the knife out of her hands with the head of the scythe.

''I DON'T KNOW! I'M JUST LIKE YOU! PLEASE, I ALSO HAVE THE MARKS, THE PAINS! TRY TO THINK, WE CAN WORK TOGETHER TO SOLVE THIS IF-''

The woman punches the wall, splinters flying as she dents the wood.

''SHUT UP! I WON'T LISTEN TO YOUR LIES!''

She rushes to pick up the knife before launching herself at the thief.

You watch in wonder as the thief swings the scythe in a rush of panic, jabbing it straight into the woman's side. She jolts and halts, letting out a moan of pain before tumbling to the ground, the scythe still stuck in her side. She writhes in agony where she lies. A shaking hand clutches the blade, forcing it out. The woman stares up at the thief with dark eyes and through her dying breath she utters something. However, the wall, rain and distance muffles the words. The light vanishes from her eyes as the body is left in a pool of its own blood.

The little thief falls to the ground and hugs it's knees, trembling frantically.

''I didn't...I'm not..no..I'm...Monster..? Demon..? I'm..no..I didn't..I'm..please..I'm sorry..I..-''

You chuckle in relief. One less problem to worry about, one step closer to the end of this.

After a good long while of standing still in the rain, listening to the fragile creature sob for what seemed like an eternity, it finally moves. With a shaking hand it leans over to the woman, utters an apology, before ripping two strips off the linen wrap she's wearing. The creature carefully ties each piece over the cuts on its forearms, and as it tightens the fabric, you notice the ring on its finger. So this is, indeed, Quinn the shapeshifter? How...fascinating. The creature wipes its tears before picking up the basket and running away from the scene of the crime. A piece of paper tumbles out of the creel without the creature's knowledge. You stay behind and pick up what the little thing dropped, relief washes over you as there is barely any dirt on the sheet.

Muutos There is no way out I keep looking but no matter what There's nothing but the wall It's keeping all of us trapped here I've tried again and again but I keep slipping. This place, the smells It’s all so intense I'm so tired, so hungry, the pain won't stop. I need to eat soon but it's never enough I can never find enough I'm going to risk it. I need to risk it. I need food. I nee I miss you And I hope I see you again soon. -Quinn

You wrap the paper within a white piece of cloth and slide the letter into the front pocket of your pants. Pulling up the hood of your cloak, you gaze onwards. This Quinn seems interesting, but there's no need to pursue the shapeshifter just yet. You'll run into it again, sooner or later.

Day in and day out it's always the same. Everything is exactly the same. The rain, the the pain, the endless strain, it's all the same. You wander around the same streets, in the same clothes, in the same weather that you've been walking in for gods know how long. Don't tell me you're getting tired of this? You look around. Whatever isn't dead is dying. Whatever isn't rotten is rotting. Whatever isn't gone, soon will be. Maybe I am tired. You think. Maybe I, too, want to get out of here. You sigh as you step over a linen clothed body. Whether it died of disease or starvation is impossible to tell.

I would kill to see another change of clothing, to be at a nice party; to see something else beyond this damned town. Please let me see something else besides this wretched, inbred town! A little voice in the back of your head tells you that you're not gonna be able to leave anytime soon. Figures.

You continue making your way down the broken lane. Someone seems to have barricaded themselves inside the ruins of a house. Either the structure will give in and crush you, or you'll starve to death. Amature! You're so dejected that you nearly shout the words in frustration, but manage keep it in.

Rain continues endlessly drizzling down on your nose, until you decide to reposition your hat. It gives you a slight break from all that pesky water. A soft thud sounds as you sit down on a log while you wait for something- anything to happen. A piercing scream sounds from not too far away. You pick up a rock to ease the boredom.

How did it come to this. How did I fall so far. I was promised riches, comforts, to forever be- Your train of thought is interrupted as you get up and start walking around. It's time to look for something, you need to find something interesting. And luckily for you, you do find something! You sigh at the sight. Yet another damn letter. Your feet moves you closer to it before you pick it up.

The pain It hurts it hurts .... hu....s Something please make it stop I can't sleep I can't think ..t w..n't he..l .. d….t kn…. how ..uc.. more I ..an take

There’s more, but you don’t care to read it all. Instead, you carelessly shove it into the back-pocket of your pants, adding it to the collection. How does this Quinn keep finding all this paper anyways?

Buildings are worn out and torn, each structure more broken than the last. Wherever one may look, each block, every square had long since seen better days. Many memories lay buried with this city, all long since lost to time. Nowadays, most parts of the city reeked of mold, rust, corroded wood and blood. Narrow alleys where too many shadows appear to fall, spots where whispers seem to rest, spaces that circumnavigated out of habit. This decaying city of ghosts had not been inhabited for many a year. With the exception of the new guests.

You'd watch them from time to other, waddling around in their own filth, trying to grasp at straws in an attempt to figure out why oh why they had ended up in this place. There was one guest in particular who seemed to have garnered attention. You're watching the writer from a rooftop, currently under the false belief that its alone. Of course, you know better. No one is ever alone in this city.

The writer is currently shaking and wiping the cold sweat from its forehead, huddling within trash and mud in an increasingly failing effort to keep itself from freezing to death. It keeps on trembling, tirelessly jolting and clutching at its neck. Before long, it falls onto the ground, stuck in a loop of violent muscle spasms that go on and on. You bring out your pocket watch to keep track of the time. About three minutes pass before the uncontrollable trembling seizes. The writer is left unconscious on the ground.

After some time, it blinks and sluggishly looks about with pale eyes, contrasted by black lids. First a finger moves, then two, then the hand. Eventually, it slowly gets up. Bringing a hand to its mouth, the writer wipes away blood with its pale palm. After sitting still for a few seconds, the little thing moans in pain and rubs the back of its neck. As it brushes the long, filth smudged hair away from its face, you notice dark, bulging veins stretching out, all connected to a single mark on the side of its neck. A convex scar at the very back of the neck also draws your eye. You rub your own neck, before looking back down. The writer shivers and strokes its hand, before suddenly, roughly clutching it. Groaning in pain through gritted teeth, it hastily pulls something off its finger. A silver ring tumbles into the mud. The poor thing rushes down on its hands and knees, frantically grasping about, trying to relocate it. Eventually, it lifts a cupped hand and a glimmer of silver shines through the mud. The other quivering hand attempts to pinch the ring, but after a moment’s touch, it yanks back before shaking off the stinging pain.

After a prolonged moment of silence, the writer looks down at the rope tying the linen wrap around its waist. Carefully hoisting the tip of the rope upwards, the writer eventually - after many a failed attempt due to the shaky hold, manages to slide the ring onto the thin rope. Once it’s abut, a few firm knots are tied to keep the ring safely secured.

The writer lets out a sigh of relief, before fishing something out of the burlap wrap that drapes around it’s body. A leather-bound old journal is opened up before the writer rips out an empty page. Breaking a piece of charred wood off the nearest building, the writer brings a shaking hand to the paper as it constructs a new letter.

While it scribbles, you notice that more often than not, it'll suddenly stop. Either to frantically look over its shoulder, whimper in distress or randomly hush at the air. After some time passes by, the writer suddenly jolts and falls to the ground yet again. While shaking violently and uncontrollably, it’s body randomly morphs. The skin changes colour, features of a number of races develop and vanish within seconds. It’s both fascinating and nauseating to behold. You take another look over at your pocket watch and puzzle over the short span between the seizures. Already? Looks like it won't be long now. What a pity. You try to shake the thought as you put the pocket watch back. Looking down at the writer, you notice that it has passed out. Seeing this as an opportunity, you finally make your decent.

As you walk over to the unconscious writer, you get a closer look at the book. You want to pick it up, but something tells you that you'd better just leave it alone. Instead, you shift your focus to the letter in the writer's limp hand. Squatting down, you reach for the paper, simultaneously shooting a quick gaze over to the book. Something about the look of it seems odd. The leather bindings, the state of the paper, none of it looks as old as everything else in this town. There's a symbol etched into the leather of the book, the insignia looks familiar. Disobeying that little warning could be dangerous. You quickly look away and grab the piece of paper, rising up before turning away from the writer.

Upon closer inspection, it becomes apparent that this is more than just a single sheet of paper. There are several dirt smudged paper sheets, more or less stuck together. The front page is caked in mud, whatever the writer just scribbled down is utterly incomprehensive. You shuffle through the rest of the sheets and notice something written with coal on the very back of the final sheet. Words are randomly scribbled all over.

I'.... d....e s....ething ..'m ....rry hor......le ..'.. s....r.. I ha.. to ..o..ry sh.. ..ou..d h..ve I'm ..o s......y ..ill me ..'.. ..........!

It's hard to make out most of it, but you think you can understand what it's all about. You look away from the letter and a part of you wants to just throw it away, but you end up sliding a nail across it, folding it shut before shoving it into your jacket's pocket with the other one. May this end soon. You turn your gaze away from the scene, before vanishing from plain sight.

All this death, agony, misery. And for what? You raise your hands and look upwards, letting the rain drip down onto your naked palms and wash over your face. The cold touch and the soothing, drizzling sounds helps you calm down. The rainfall has been rapidly increasing as of late, this seems to be the pinnacle of the storm.

You keep on tracking through the mud and blood and shredded body parts. You've been following tracks for hours, all leading to dead ends. A loud snarl sounds as you march onwards. Everything about this place is getting on your last nerve. But soon, it would all be over. All you have to do, is to just track down this one person. Once that's done, you will finally acquire what you've sought after all this time.

You decide to search within some ruins. The look of the debris signals that this house might have collapsed most recently. Digging away stone and wood, you eventually come across something. By the floor of the ruins rests a peculiar piece of wood, covered partially by washed-out mud and chunks of flesh. Driving your hands into the blood-soaked dirt, you pry the wood out of the soil. A broken staircase leads down into a hidden room beneath the ground.

Silently stepping down into a damp basement, the echo of a feeble whimper draws your attention. Looking towards the ground, you see a fragile little thing, shaking and whimpering in the corner of this floor of dirt. It's sickly thin, covered in filth, with just the torn remains of a burlap sack wrapped around it. A sliver of rope is tied around its wrist, a pale ring knotted into it. The near-frozen body trembles ever so slightly where it lies, clutching an empty, leather bound book. Scraps of torn paper lies scattered all about.

Quinn. So this is where you've been hiding all along. You kneel down and feel your hand move to brush away its hair. Dark, bulging veins covers its face, continuing down the entirety of the broken body. You can feel the poor thing burning up with fever. Soon dear, it will all be over. Your gaze is drawn to the scraps of paper on the floor. Most of them are too smudged, but you eventually come across a couple of pieces that seem to be in a readable enough condition. One by one you pick them up.

I c..n't ri..k writ....g T.... mu.... n..ise so col.. .. ....ss y..u

You look down at the shapeshifter, before returning to the next letter.

R..nning out of pa..er I ca.. ..arely wa.... I t..ink ..'m too br..ke.. .. lo.... ..ou so muc..

You see a final piece of paper under it's hand. Still weakly clutching the coal it used to write with, the shapeshifter seem to have passed out shortly after it was finished. You carefully lift the hand away and slide out the letter.

I ....ke it all b..ck I hop.. you'r.. ..ot h..re I ..ope ..ou nev…. ar..i..ed in th..s hel.. I h..p.. ..ou're s..fe and ....ppy I'.. ....rry I'm s....r.. I'v.. b..en wri....ng all ....is in vai.. W..oev..r f....ds me ....ease ki.... m..

You look down at it once more, and know what you must do. You put the letters into your inner jacket pocket, with the other. Leaning close to the little one, you pick it up. Carrying it is no strain, the poor thing barely weighs anything.

You carry the shapeshifter out of the basement, out of the ruins, out of the slums of the city. You carry it all the way until you arrive at an open spot. There, you put the body down, before you turn around and begin walking away. Looking up, you see the clouds apparent as always. The rain, however, is falling at an unusual pace. Reaching out your hand, you let the droplets fall onto your palm. They’re cold, soft, white. You study the frozen rain, each little flake unique from the other. It all stays frozen, resting against your deathly cold skin.

You wish to die, Quinn. But be careful what you wish for, because once it's granted...

Your life will finally be complete. You'll wish you'd never been born.

End of Part 3

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