#mayhem! malice! madness!

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

What happened to kindness? What happened to empathy? I'm going to gently, gently wrap your art in a soft blanket and give it some ice cream and snacks to eat while watching a movie. How about that?

instructions unclear, art has morphed into transcripts of slam poetry

#'what happened to-' we're Evil tonight! #mayhem! malice! madness! #taking a break to Sip Water! #rambles from the bog

[xcrust]

{His Regret}

Alastor X Reader

Important note!!

There is spoilers to the latest episode!!

also another note to have is that this is a little drabble with heavy angst. Like I may not be the best writer when it comes to emotions but trust on this.

This doesn't apply to my main story

at this point alastor just escaped adam so he doesn’t know that lucifer fought him.

Anyways To the Story!!

The rubble danced from the fight that was playing out. Well maybe it is more present tense. Hundreds dying for the sake of redemption? So beautiful but not if this is putting me back

“My power is fucking reduced to nothing, this just will not do”

The acrid stench of burning debris hangs thick in the air, assaulting the senses with a noxious cocktail of smoke, charred structures, and the metallic tang of spent ammunition. The once-vibrant cityscape now lies in ruins, the hotel reduced to skeletal frames adorned with tattered remnants of what were once homes and businesses.

Alastor strode through the corridors of his lair, What once was the powerhouse of his mayhem just dirt and disgust. A predatory smile that once adorned his face had transformed into a snarl of frustration.

His mind, a sanctuary of sadistic amusement, now simmered with a tempest of indignation. The audacity of this Adam, had struck a chord deep. If it weren't for this deal then he wouldnt of had to retreat from that poor excuse of a man. How could someone nearly unravel the intricacies of his power? It was an affront to his very essence, a challenge that gnawed at the edges of his sanity.

In his chamber, Alastor paced with a fevered intensity. His crimson eyes, usually filled with mirthful malice, now harbored a storm of malevolence. He replayed the confrontation in his mind, dissecting every move, every smirk, and every flicker of defiance that emanated from Adam.

"The nerve of that wretched creature," Alastor hissed to the shadows that clung to the corners of his lair.

His fingers drummed against the armrest of his grandiose throne, a rhythmic manifestation of the disarray within. The very thought of being challenged, of being outsmarted, clawed at the fragile veil of his composed madness.

The intruder slipped through the shattered remnants of buildings and overturned vehicles. The ground beneath their feet crunched softly with each step, the echoes a mere whisper against the eerie stillness of the war-torn ruins.

In an instant, Alastor closed the distance, pinning the intruder against the cold stone wall with a speed that defied the laws of the mundane. His hand wrapped around their throat, a deadly smile etched across his face.

He looked up and saw you. You, the one he's known the longest from the underground. The one he brought to become as powerful as you were. "Who would have thought it would come to this? Fate has a peculiar way of orchestrating its grand finale."

You, not only were the shackles that he was under but one that you held him in. He grew soft. Weak. You. Just an inconvenience. To get back his power. You needed to be gone.

The fear spread across your face met Alastor's gaze with a mix of confusion and dread. The demonic smile on the Radio Demon's face seemed to deepen as he traced a finger along the edge of your face.

"He almost had me," Alastor muttered, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. The realization, the admission of vulnerability, hung heavily in the air. It was an unfamiliar sensation, an unwelcome intrusion into the sanctum of his pride.

A mirror stood nearby, a relic that once reflected the sheer delight he took in others' suffering. Now, he stared into it, searching for the elusive answers to his newfound discontent. The image that met his gaze was one of a demon on the brink, grappling with an unsettling truth—he was not invincible.

"Ah, the memories we've shared," Alastor continued, almost wistfully. "You, stumbling into my narrative like a lamb to the slaughter. Do you remember all the hell we raised together?"

As Alastor spoke, he seemed to drift into a reverie, his mind retracing the twisted paths of their interactions. The reader, still struggling against their restraints, watched with a sense of surreal horror as the demon reminisced about the moments leading to this ominous juncture.

Laughter started to echo the room. Grainy insane laughter. “Great Alastor died for his friends?” he choked out.

“Alastor? What are talking about” you try to push out. All you got was him glimpsing at you with pure disdain.

“I work best when unencumbered by the weight of sentimentality." Alastor's fingers tapped a rhythmic beat on the wall behind your neck, the subtle cadence underscoring his words.

"Baggage," he scoffed, the disdain evident in his voice.

In a moment the body of his oldest friend was on the floor.

"Do you not sense it, my dear reader? The freedom that comes with unburdened malevolence," he mused, circling you laid out on the ground.

"To be truly free, one must shed the baggage of morality, of attachments, of all that ties the soul to the mundane," Alastor whispered, his voice shaking with mania, a haunting melody that lingered in the air.

The laughter that usually echoed through the corridors was replaced by a guttural growl. Alastor's shoulders tensed as he unleashed a surge of dark energy, shattering nearby objects scattered across the room. Well at least the ones that still held up.

"Adam," he seethed, the name a curse on his lips. "You will regret toying with me."

Dark energy crackled around Alastor, a volatile aura that mirrored the storm within. His manic laughter echoed off the walls, bouncing like malevolent whispers in the confined space.

"I will not allow it!" Alastor roared, the once-charming smile contorting into a snarl of madness. "My power is mine alone to wield, to savor, and no interloper, no matter how curious or audacious, shall stand in the way!"

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #alastor hartfelt #hazbin hotel episode 8 #hazbin alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin art #hazbin charlie #hellaverse #vizziepop #hazbin hotel season 1 #hazbin spoilers #hazbin hotel fanart #lillith morningstar #hazbin angel dust #hazbin hotel season finally #helluva boss #helluva boss x reader #hazbin hotel sneak peak #the radio demon #alastor in her bed #hazbin charlie morningstar

[belledjinn]

It's getting late, and I know you're tired from all the mayhem, madness, and unspeakable human malice transpiring today.

So here's a pillow 🖤

Reblog to take a nap 💜

Cum sub to bite her ꒰⁠⑅⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠꒱⁠˖⁠♡

#nsft #queer nsft #bi nsft #sapphic nsft #Belledjinn #nsft belledjinn #thighs #zettai ryouiki #thigh highs #thigh socks #absolute territory #belledjinn #biteable #friday the 13th

[narwhalandchill]

so happy to find someone as intense abt childe as i am. sending love mwah

THANK YOU!!! U TOO

(also i swear i wasnt intending for this to get so long sorry you provoked me HSJAKDKSIFI)

i havent known peace for so long i dont know what it is abt him but he just hacked my brain. its just... hes just a guy. hes everything. hes fucking unhinged hes going to torch celestia and ill kiss him on the mouth for it. hes a complete egomaniac taking massive pride in his own abilities yet somehow also so humble and amicable and easygoing most of the time that its jarring when juxtaposed with his status and ambition. hes a weapon and only finds thrill in the mayhem he sows and reaps. so supernaturally efficient at causing chaos everywhere the harbingers literally try to send him overseas just so he might be someone elses problem. hes so effective at his job its literally described as surgical precision but also working among schemers with no interest in scheming himself and sometimes that ends w him as the tricked one too despite him v much not being stupid. hes objectively a terrible person but with so little of that typical and boring villainous angst and malice to him. choosing violence everyday is simply what he does to stay on that crush and devour everything in his path speedrun any% sigma grindset. bro fishes. he watches and does public performances. he cooks he cleans he doesnt gaf about fitting the basic tropes ppl try to shove him into he has so many facets to himself and whats so wild is that none of them are lies. its all true to himself its all him he simply chooses to display those sides in different manners depending on the situation but its all genuine like Man. the bloodlust is no less authentic than his affection for his family (tho im sorry calling him a particularly good brother is... a stretch. his love for teucer is genuine but the way hes going abt it is incredibly selfish and unsustainable and highkey cruel like lil bro is getting trust issues for life. but selfish in a very human way that just makes him more interesting imo. but hes pretty shitty at it lets be real). theres so much to him its just. theres no one like him. he couldve been so tropey and basic but hes not hes everything. hes just a guy and thats the greatest fucking compliment i can give him hes just So Good.

like i had my big insanity era in 2021 the Initial phase so to speak then for like year n half ish got sorta alienated bc of the general pervasiveness and state of childes.... unsatisfactory fanon imo (still limits my interactions w most content like i Dont trust ppl to get him right and interesting and fun lmao) + lack of canon content + complicated irl reasons no need to elaborate but like the way i took him back Instantly once fontaine happened and its just been vindication after vindication and im so happy like. i was SAYING hed be a massive deal YEARS ago i called it i knew it i am being fed so fucking good. tho i do still worry a bit like Please do him justice. but like god im just so Happy to have this madness abt him infecting my brain again bc i was Genuinely feeling p conflicted and unsure abt stuff n whether hoyo was going anywhere w him and all. but like we are SO back oh my fucking god

anyway hoyo now release the abyssal alt. i Will go full send

#THANK YOU FOR VALIDATING MY MADNESS #made my day #asks #and uhhhhhhhhhh guess this. does count as #childeposting

[puttingtherotinerotica]

Trigger Warnings: Violence/gore, forced oral sex.

Darkness was falling outside a milky pane of glass with wire mesh running through it. The effect on the inside of the window was a gloom as sterile as the rest of its environs. Low tones, under breath, scratched in the silence.

"6298...6299..."

STONEBRIDGE STATE HOSPITAL

845 PM

A short, heavily built man accompanied a tiny slip of a woman down a long corridor, a solid slab of linoleum a pale, sickly, State-approved shade of green. Their steps echoed on the floor, pealed off the walls. The woman pushed a cart. Med pass.

"6833...6834..."

They had been working towards the far end of the corridor by unspoken agreement. They went back and forth between the cells across from each other, 001B to 002B. Ray touched the sensor pad with his keycard. The heavy solid door slid back into the wall with a uniform beep. Michelle chose the correct cup from the lines of prepared doses. Ray went first. She followed with the pills and a small cup of water.

"6921...6922..."

They had saved the easiest for last. The single cell nestled in the far wall of the dead-end corridor. Larger than the others. 025B.

"6511...6512..."

Despite his bloody past, the patient in 025B had passed eight years at this facility with no further incidents, save for a few violent actions in defense of himself. His treatment plan had therefore provided him with certain privileges. He had the biggest room. He had some privacy. He was allowed his favorite books, though the state had drawn a hard line at a few of his requests...Richard Laymon...Jack Ketchum...

"7043...7044..."

A mechanical beep and a rumble let Ray into the room. He stepped in and half-heartedly screened the room, speaking through a half-smile.

"We ain't gonna have no trouble outta you, are we, now?"

"Of course not, Mr. Ray."

The patient was a tall man, thin but still somehow powerful; he exuded it, a presence, an aura of *potential*. He had never given Ray any trouble, but that didn't stop Ray from feeling like he was looking at a failing attempt to keep a shadow in a shoebox. The patient's polite smile reeked with malice. In the shadow, sometimes Ray swore he saw the ghost of blood on his hands.

He ushered Michelle inside with her medicine cup and her water.

"7159...7160..."

"What?"

STONEBRIDGE STATE HOSPITAL

7:59 PM

A deafening buzzer preceeded the lights going out. Patient doors on all the wards slammed shut with a synchronized screech. There were screams, patient and staff both. One, in particular rose above the rest in pitch and timbre. One held confusion and agony to blood-curdling degree.

In the split second of the buzzer, The Patient had reacted. He had seized Ray's shoulders and shoved his head in the way of the heavy door. The door caught his skull in its clutches, and strained while Ray screamed, before he was silenced with a splatter. His body slumped and in the newfound silence that rose between him and Michelle's quivering form, a mechanical voice blared from a loudspeaker.

"Power outage detected...all staff report to supervisor for instruction...power outage detected...escape failsafe engaged..."

Michelle had never felt smaller in her life. She barely touched five feet and was daintily built, the thinness of her frame broken only by bumps middling small breasts and a slight flare hip. She was shaking where she stood, in the shadow of where The Patient loomed.

"Some...someone will be here soon..."

"No. They won't."

"Y-y-yes...they..."

"7300."

STONEBRIDGE STATE HOSPITAL

8:01 PM

Those same doors that slammed shut, whirred back open. The corridors were drenched in red light.

"Adverse event override...evacuate...adverse event overide...scan for adverse conditions and escort patients to safety"

The mad responded as they were wont to do...unleashing pure mayhem on both one another and those who tried their damndest to keep them from escaping...most unaware of the chosen few who would rather be nowhere else than here.

The door to 025B slid open just as The Patient stood from having knelt over Ray's corpse. Michelle watched him for a moment, eyes darting from motion to motion as he stood to his full height...she dove toward the open door.

The Patient caught her around her waist as easily as one might scoop up a dog trying to escape the house during an entry. He tossed her across the cell, and she crumbled to the floor.

The man slid his arm out the door, the keycard on his hand moved over the electronic pad outside the door. His arm snapped back inside just before the door slammed shut.

Michelle shook in the corner, knelt on her feet, her head covered, just as she was taught, blood from her nose splattering her turquoise scrubs. She had been fortunate that the cell was padded with impact foam, or she would be much worse off than a bloody nose and a sore elbow.

The Patient exhaled hard through his nose as he stepped to close the distance between them. Michelle whimpered, coming to terms with what she faced.

He was massive, looming even larger in the gloom and her fear. The powerlessness she felt was nauseating. He removed his shirt as he walked, confirming the unspoken nightmare of his intentions. He was muscular under the state gray scrub shirt he had been wearing, his frame obviously meticulously built over his years with little else to do. His face was clean shaven, but obscured by the hair his extra privileges allowed him to wear long.

He was there now, towering over her in the corner. She could smell him, a sterile animal scent that scarred her the moment she breathed it in the first time. He exhaled through his nose once again.

"Eight years, two-hundred and seven days, and four hours since I've touched a woman."

His words came slow and eloquent, a smooth bass-baritone. Simple words, not remotely threatening in any other circumstance, rattled around in Michelle's brain like a wasp, breaking her. She wailed, she cried, she clawed at the elastic waistband of his pants, not with violence but with desperation.

"Please..."

"Shhh."

She broke all over again. She had risen up to her knees, she looked up at him, and the eye contact they made, her wide brown eyes meeting orbs the blue green of sea ice, chilled her to her core.

"Just don't...don't...*hurt*...me."

This seemed to amuse him. He let out a gravled laugh and turned away from her cowering form. He began to pace.

"I certainly don't *have* to. ***Much.***"

She stifled another sob. She shifted uncomfortably on the floor before she stood, knowing better than to fight this hulking behemoth. She resolved to make it out of this alive. To do what she needed to, however terrible it may be. She went suddenly from the most defeated she had ever been to the most empowered.

She leveled her chin with something resembling defiance on her ruined eyeliner-streamed face. He *didn't* like that. His open hand, nearly the size of her face on its own, flew across the porcelain of her cheek and knocked her back against the wall. She screamed softly, but fear cut it off as he felt those massive hands close on the fabric V at the front of her scrub top. He rent it right in two, the rage on his face showing nothing resembling effort as he exposed the nude colored bra she wore beneath. He lifted her tiny from completely from the floor by the shredded scraps of fabric, his eyes burning down into hers for a moment that seemed like an eternity. He dropped her and she clambered to the floor. He took a step away and rounded on a bare heel.

"*You* finish."

She looked down so he couldn't see her black-stained tears as she let the tatters of her shirt fall to the floor. She crossed her arms to cover herself instinctively, but a pause in his pacing as she did so urged her on. She reached behind her and unclasped her B cup bra, and let it fall away from her body, the modest mounds of flesh bouncing free with another sob. Again, she crossed her arms over her breasts, rocking on the balls of her feet to lean dejectedly against the padded wall behind her, still looking down.

"Stand straight and look at me."

His voice was a low growl, and she was almost startled by how impulsively she obeyed. Her head shot up, her body snapped erect as though struck by lightning. She was breathing hard, quickly with an anticipatory dread unknown in her life before this moment. He stepped to her, his hands rose and he took both her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and pinched so hard she thought he might be trying to tear them off. She screamed, her tears renewed themselves, blinking them out of her eyes as she struggled to maintain eye contact with The Patient for fear of another brutal reprimand. He held her flesh hard and gazed down into her breaking eyes before finally releasing her. She realized at some point she had been holding her breath, and so struggled to reclaim it once his hands moved away.

"And the rest."

It was a statement, not a question. She had already hooked the waist of her pants and panties under her thumbs and bent most of the way over to remove them when she realized what she was doing. Something *else* was governing her movements now, something primal that just wanted to help her survive. She didn't want to give into it, but she wasn't sure how to stave it off. By the time she finished her line of thought, she was standing bare before him.

The low light in the room gave her pale skin a creamy glow. She kept her hands at her sides, keeping herself exposed to his gaze, a gaze that traveled from her smeared face, over her modest chest, and down to shadowed triangle between her legs. She felt his disappointed gaze there and a rush of terror came quickly along behind it, she altered her stance to let him see the neatly trimmed hair that crested her cunt. Unexpectedly, The Patient's face split with an alarming smile.

"*Good girl.*"

There was a release and a relief that came with those words that Michelle wasn't quite comfortable with. Something just above her brainstem thrummed with survival instinct as his approval washed over her like a physical sensation. She was still terrified, but she felt...safer somehow.

He closed the distance between them. His huge hand rose between her legs and pressed against the mound there, and the emission she meant as a scream came out as a whimper.

As those same hands steered her to her knees, her head craned to keep her eyes on his. There was a fear at what was coming, but more fear at what would happen to her if she didn't submit.

He was already hard when he pushed the waistband of his pants down and let the eight inches of his cock out over it. Her eyes were scanning it when her instinct brought her gaze back up to his. The same instinct let it into her mouth, and relaxed her as it drove into her throat. She gagged as she tried to gasp around it, splutterrd as The Patient held it there. When he pulled it out, she breathed, never more appreciative of oxygen in her life. He let the heft of it fall onto her face with a wet slap.

"***Good girl.*** We can work with you."

Again that flood of endorphins swept unbidden through her senses, but her relief hung on a word. *We?*

She had no time to dwell on it, before he filled her throat again, holding his cock there as a growl rumbled in his chest. When he moved it out the next time, though, it drove back in again. It withdrew partially once more and again, choked her with its girth.

His hips were moving now, but she dared not look anywhere but his eyes. She heaved and struggled against her gag reflex in an effort to take whatever she had to. Finally she could fight now more, and she felt her throat expel him. She gasped in a breath once he was free, but it was cut short by his throbbing length burying itself. His hands rose, took her auburn hair and held her firmly in place, a forward half step on his part placing the back of her head against the wall. His hips bucked as he used her, her throat making inhuman sounds as his massive cock plunged in and out of it, never fully retreating. She found a rhythm; learned to breathe when he wasn't in her throat, to take it down with little struggle.

With a hard thrust, he held her, pinioned against the back wall of the cell, streaming eyes turned up at his, her face a melted Mona Lisa, a masterpiece of suffering.

He pulled from her again, she felt the weight of his cock on her face, her labored breaths hampered by him pressing his balls against her lips. She let him in before she had a clear enough thought to stop herself, she sucked hard and he shuddered, his breath hitched.

There was something to that as well, it triggered something inside her, it made her feel safe, like his approval had. She embraced it even though it repulsed her and she felt a deep hatred rise in her quickly quelled by a disturbingly comfortable sense that she was doing what she needed to do.

He was in her mouth again, in her throat. His thrusts were manic at this point, hard and deep and fast. She throat was sore now, it spasmed around him, her brain juggling meeting his gaze with taking his cock exactly the way he wanted her to. What little left of her thoughts were thankful she was against a wall, or else the man might have broken her neck with rabid thrusts.

She still heaved and gagged, choked and spluttered, but it was getting easier and that terrified her. It was like she was outside herself looking in at all the ways this trauma was shaping her thoughts, her mind, her future.

Her eyes had drifted, a hard yank on her hair made her squeal around his intrusion and she brought her eyes back to his just in time to see them flutter, a growl radiating from him, as she felt the hot wave of his cum slip down her throat, with an ease she found alarming.

He held there a few long moments, pulled out of her, and turned towards the door. She slid into the floor, laying on her side, so much muddling in her head she didn't know where to start unpacking what had even happened. She closed her eyes, trying to *unfeel* the way his cock in her throat juxtaposed with the confusion of primal positivity she felt from his praise, from his growls. *From his cum.* She pushed her nude figure up onto her hands and knees, still gasping for breath.

"Can I...am I...are you through with me?"

He laughed. She sobbed.

"Please, *please*...I did what you wanted...you said I was ***good***...please..."

"Eight thousand...five hundred and thirty...*five*."

The cell door beeped and slid open. Michelle saw the salvation of the emergency flood lights for a split second before it was eclipsed by three, massive and masculine shadows.

**More to cum.-RR**

[reginrokkr]

‘  if you have nothing, you have nothing to lose.  ’ from otto !

■    ■    ■    Unbeknownst to Dáinsleif, there was once upon a time when he had lost everything from his identity to his memories and a place to call homeland prior to the discovery of a new life that gave him everything back in a different place: a kingdom to protect, status, recognition from the king and his people. All of that decimated to naught but ashes, twisted into a nightmare with no end. People he once protected were distorted into gruesome monsters, the most vicious of them repeating like a chant words like murderer and betrayer for not siding with their skewed ideals deeply effected by the root of malice that lingers in the Abyss.

It would be so easy for him to give in and let the corruption of his body be the leading way, that’s what he believed when everything was too fresh and it hurt so— it still is, it still does. Centuries passed and the Twilight Sword believed himself to have grown past mortal desire and whim, that nothing could matter anymore to a frozen heart. Alas, that’s what it all is: a frozen heart forced to cryostasis every time it deigned to thaw and bleed with the weight of hundreds of sorrows that refuse to forsake him as he already was once.

❝From an individualist perspective, that is true.❞ But little relief does that offer when long ago he had abandoned himself, his existence’s importance reduced to nothing. He could’ve very well live a secluded life somewhere in the Dark Sea, away from the mayhem that imposter gods cause wherever they lay their eyes upon. Nevertheless... how could he upon being touched by an endless source of information only for the Anima Mundi to possess lest those whom dare to wonder further than what the Heavenly Disciples dictate as safe to their ruling until is supposes a thread to them? Add to the mix a man that cannot suffer greater punishment any than he already has and a sense of chivalry that never passed and what you see is a keeper of this world’s heart.

Icy sapphires peel off the man to regard the holy, white tree behind him and reach out to touch softly its bark. After all the hardship Dáinsleif has faced, the one whom never abandoned him was Irminsul. ❝Were you blessed with the possibility to have limitless access to all the information recorded of this world, would you not desire to put it to use in order to help mankind prosper in the face of unfair adversities?❞ Many would have fallen to madness at the closest opportunity to grasp this information— the Abyss Order did. Even if they may have reliable methods, their twisted minds with malice makes it lose all credibility. Many others would be unable to live with it, knowing that they may not live enough to see a change out of this unjust reign.

His hand caresses the surface of the Axis Mundi and thus he lean forward to press his forehead, eyes fluttering close for a fraction. ❝Under such circumstances, any event that causes a drawback to humanity becomes a loss to yourself too. Even if you may not be one anymore.❞ A long sigh abandons roseate lips thereafter and he turns on his heels to meet the man’s gaze anew. ❝What other option you have when you’ve been forbidden from following the natural course of life to begin with? Preventing others from finding the same fate and the doom of this world... there is nothing else I could conceive.❞ When death is no longer an option, no matter how much more desirable of an outcome it would be for someone like him.

@taiixuan ✦

#taiixuan #◟༺✦༻◞ What use has the veil of falsehood? ┊Ask.┊ #◟༺✦༻◞ Sapphire flames in their wake ┊IC.┊ #thank you for sending in! #I don't know much about Honkai but #I've spotted quite a few relevant parallels #between Dain and Otto #and this made me have feels ngl 😔

[magickmuses]

LORD MALEFOR INFO

GENERAL INFORMATION

NAME: Korlath

AKA: Malefor, The Dark Master, The Dark Lord, The Undead Dragon King, The Exiled One, Wannabe Lucifer, Devil of Mulak, Jerk, Very Dangerous Dragon, Something Far Worse, Boogeyman, Purple Terror, The High King, The Eternal One, Monster, Bane of the Dragons, Emperor of Darkness, Crystal Maker, The Sorcerer, The Chaos Lord, Master of Chaos, God of Destruction, Ruinous One, The Dread Seeker, The Dark Titan, Lord of Terror, Prince of Ruin, The Worldbreaker, Destroyer of Worlds, Bringer of Doom, Prince of Darkness, Lord of Mayhem, Lord of Despair, Demon of Disorder, Lord of Malice, Evil incarnate (by Captain America), Devil Made Manifest (by Superman), King of Ruin (by Harry Potter), Godless Abomination (by Wonder Woman), Mad God (by Thor), Bringer of Darkness (by Professor Dumbledore)

GENDER: Cisgender Male

PRONOUNS: He/Him

AGE: 3000

RACE/SPECIES: Undead Dragon/Dracolich

PLACE OF BIRTH: Warfang, Skylands, Earth-13034

DATE OF BIRTH: October 8th, 1000 BCE

DATE OF DEATH: TBA

ASTROLOGICAL STAR SIGN: Scorpio

CURRENT RESIDENCE: Baator / Hell

OCCUPATIONS: Warlord, Founder and leader of the Obsidian Devourers

AFFILIATIONS: The Hellish Hordes, the Obsidian Devourers

SPOKEN LANGUAGES: Draconic (native tongue), Common (fleuent), Infernal, Abyssal, Black Speech

PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES

HEIGHT: 20'6"

WEIGHT: TBA

HAIR/CREST COLOR: Purple

EYE COLOR: Red with yellow irises

SKIN/FUR/SCALE COLOR: Purple

BODY TYPE: TBA

SCARS: TBA

TATTOOS: N/A

JEWELRY/ACCESSORIES: TBA

OTHER PROMINENT FEATURES: TBA

PERSONALITY

D&D ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Evil

ASSETS: Intelligent

FLAWS: Cruel, Merciless, Sadistic, Violent, Tyrannical, Power-hungry, Overconfident, Selfish, Self-righteous, Self-confident, Cunning, Manipulative

LIKES / HOBBIES: Stirring up trouble, Disrupting the peace, Creating chaos and havoc, Scheming, Gaining power, Inflicting suffering on others, Manipulating the mortal races, Stealing souls

DISLIKES: Being thwarted or stopped, Being ordered around, Being forced to work with others, Having to negotiate or form alliances, His rivals, Order, Good things in general, Failure, Heroes

FEARS / PHOBIAS: Being imprisoned by the other gods, Being outwitted or bested by a hero, Being defeated by his own creations

RELIGIOUS BELIEFS: Does not believe in any organized religion or deity

POLITICAL BELIEFS: Does not believe in any form of government or organized authority

MENTAL DISABILITIES: Narcissistic personality disorder, Machiavellianism, Sociopathy

GOALS: To spread death and destruction, To take souls for his own use and pleasure, To corrupt the minds and souls of the mortal races, To ascend to godhood and surpass his rivals

POWERS & ABILITIES

Superhuman Physical Characteristics, Dracolich Physiology, Flight (Can fly), Undead Magic, Enhanced Senses, Natural Weaponry (via Horns, Teeth, Claws and Wings), Shapeshifting, Immortality (Types 1 and 7), Regeneration (Low-Godly), Self-Sustenance (Type 2, has no need to eat or drink), Poison and Fear Manipulation, Illusion Creation, Invulnerability, Corruption, Necromancy, Resurrection, Avatar Creation, Willpower Manipulation (a person's will is power there and enables them to do a multitude of things the stronger their will), Reactive Power Level (the greater someone's will, the greater their power), Dimensional Travel (Characters can open Torsions, rifts in space-time to travel various dimensions)

RELATIONSHIPS

FAMILY OF ORIGIN: Faldred (father), Maeldra (mother), Elsie (younger sister)

SUPERIOR (IN NAME): Ted Price

HERALDS: Pox, Gaul

FRIENDS/ALLIES (TOOLS TO HIS SCHEMES): Tiamat, Lolth, Vecna, Mephistopheles, Pazuzu, Juiblex, Demogorgon, Gruumsh, Mephiles the Dark, Arthas Menethil, Deathwing, Asmodeus, Morgoth, The Joker, Voldemort, Sauron, Ultron, Emperor Palpatine, Darkseid, Magneto, Dracula/Vlad the Impaler, Lex Luthor

RIVALS: Alduin, Nico Bolas, Ephi, Tekra

ODD FRIENDSHIP: TBA

TEETH-CLENCHED TEAMWORK WITH: Ripto

ENEMIES: Spyro, Cynder, Hex, Superman, Harry Potter and his allies in the wizarding world, The Fellowship and their allies, the X-Men, Asteria

RESPECTS: Kefka Palazzo, Bill Cipher, Thanos

OPPOSES: Captain America, Buffy Summers

OPPOSED BY: TBA

PITIES: TBA

CONFLICTING OPINION ON:

WORRIED ABOUT: TBA

#about the muse #the undead dragon (malefor)

[i-love-transylvania]

A letter that Dead sent to a fan in 1990... (I assume the fan is Hungarian?)

Hi Mike, I'm Dead and I'm the singer of Mayhem. Euro has for the moment really much mail to answer and he's hundreds of letters after so this time I wrote you and I hope you don't mind that. I enclose here the demo Deathcrush (the 2nd released one) + some shit we had from a gig in the 3rd January '90 that was really a mess musically but it was our most Evil show. I did cut up my left arm with something that looked like a sacrificial knife from India at Necrolust. Later at Chainsaw Gutsfuck I slashed up my right arm with a crushed bottle and I did the cuts then a bit deeper than expected...the crowd ahead of me seemed to enjoy when I bled over them. We've had 3 gigs so far and all of them were in this self-condemned year '90. After Deathcrush we had a lineup change (in case you didn't know, I don't know of what Euro has told you...) I begun in spring '88 as the vocalist and before that I was the vox in the Swedish band Morbid. 'Bout a month later Hellhammer joined as our drummer. Now to the main point of this fucked up letter- I wanna ask you if you have any contacts in Romania - ?! and especially of Transylvania then 'cos I have to get contacts over there but I know nothing of if there is any scene at all there -- there shall be many Hungarians living in Transylvania so I thought to ask you of that. I'm POSSESSED by mysterious Transylvania and I have to know everything about that Evil place!

I will visit the Carpathian Castles for sure. It’s heaps of castles in the Carpathian Transalpines, almost every single one with an own Dark, Evil, Vicious, Grim, Brutal, Malice, Satanic, Woeful, Bloodstained and willful past history...I’m mad of ancient legends! You see we over here in the West don’t get much of these (true) stories from East…Not much comes out from East and we know almost…nothing of the East at all- especially about Transylvania. I would be so grateful for any kind of info you hopefully can tell me. I really am morbidly into Transylvania, and that reason I suppose, is cos of my possession of horror, that I’ve been obsessed of as long as I can remember…My mind has been disturbed of the idea of visit Transylvania for many years and I’ve now planned to do that this autumn (the time when everything falls rotten and dyes) along with some other sick Black metalheads, but I’ll probably go alone first and that’ll probably be at an interrail in this summer (and then I can also visit Hungary). There was once a United Kingdom Hungary. Austria and Transylvania was a part in it if I’m not complete wrong…? I think it all sounds like a really grim story and I have to know everything of it…!!! Do you have some books (in English) or if you can give me some titles or if you can xerox/copy I would appreciate it really much! If it’ll cost you anything then tell me of it and I’ll cover the expenses. From the Hungarian. Austrian Kingdom I suppose there was/is a flag of it… do you know of that or if Transylvania had/has a flag…? AAARGH I’m dying for Transylvania…Now I gotta go. I run out of time. I hope you’ll reply soon.

#mayhem #black metal #true norwegian black metal #per ohlin #dead #dead mayhem #de mysteriis dom sathanas

[tmabigbang]

Masterpost of TMA Big Bang 2020 Fics

To prevent clogging up anyone’s dash, we have put all of these fics under a read more since there are 28 wonderful fics created for this bang, which makes for a bit of a long post! Below the cut are links and summaries to all the fics created for this bang! 

In addition to this post, you can also check out our fic page (which you can find here)! The fic page includes links to all the fics, art, and the team members that helped create them! You can also use some basic filters for rating and oneshot/multichapter to find fics.

Thank you again to all our participants, and we will see you next year!

Your Job’s A Joke (You’re Broke) by @bisexualoftheblade and @desert-lily

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27590578

Summary: Working at the Magnus Institute was stressful by default. With monsters, mayhem, and potential primordial entities, it has very little expectations for being a comfortable job. However, everyone is allowed to have a little fun sometimes - even an archivist, their assistants, and their really creepy boss. Fueled by spite and a rampant lack of heterosexuality, they all try to balance their work life with a bit of fun and a healthy dose of bullying twelve-times divorced Elias Bouchard.

I Know The End by @williammatagot

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27947966

Summary: Except, for all that beautiful poetry, Eliot was wrong, because the world doesn’t end with a bang, sure, but it doesn’t end with a whimper, either. It ends with the distant-yet-deafening voice of the man Martin loves shouting through a ragged, wild throat--I open the door. (The world ends, Jon shatters, and Martin tries to fix it. The house tries, too, in its own way.)

From the Depth of the Spiral by @trickstergod14

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27842941

Summary: Michael had no idea what was going on. He suddenly woke up in the tunnels under the Magnus Institute with no memories of the past seven years after that fateful trip to Sannikov Land. Watch as he slowly spirals into madness, regaining his memories while strengthening his bond with the Distortion along the way. Can he hide all this from the other Archival Assistants? What will happen when Jon wakes up from his coma? And what does the newly crowned Distortion Avatar, Helen, have to do with all this?

Every Word I Say is Kindling (But The Smoke Clears When You’re Around) by @ohnoimdeathing

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27956897

Summary: The unknowing left Jon stirring in the nightmares of others, watching their torment and suffering and making everything worse. He wanted to wake up, to go back to Martin, Tim, Basira, even Daisy. But he didn’t know how to. Until a voice told him to choose Though, to be honest, he doesn’t remember actually making the choice to stay a monster and live rather than be human and die. The only injury the doctors will talk about is his missing eyes, and why are all the doctors Scottish? At least Martin is here.

Spinning ‘Round (like two sides of a coin) by @awayofunderstandingit

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27835756

Summary: Time is a construct. What we know as past, present, and future all exist at the same time, ad infinitum. • Guided not by time but a spoken word poem, follow along the lives of two intertwined souls, Timothy Stoker and Sasha James. The story of their friendship from the time they meet, through growing apart, to when they fall back together, and through their time working at the Magnus Institute. Witness slices of their lives—not memories, memories would suggest the past—as they exist, ad infinitum, even at The End.

retrouvailles by @jet-siquliak

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27818092

Summary: The Magnus Institute burns. The archivist, for all intents and purposes, burned with it. In a dingy hospital room lies what remains - Jonathan sims. weak, powerless, and insignificant. On Jon’s last day in the hospital, Martin awakes from a coma, unscathed. Melanie King kicks the dirt that once housed the institute. Tim stoker wakes up in the middle of nowhere. Elias Bouchard is dead. No one knows where to go from there. Or: the destruction of one home and the making of another.

Still, I’ll Always Keep the Memory by @revolutionnaire-e

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27932125

Summary: [MARTIN turns, stepping out of the shadows towards him. It is blood, not tears. His left eye is not his own. His eyes never shone that blinding green, never shone with such malice or self-satisfied pride.] MARTIN BLACKWOOD Pleasure to see you again, Archivist.

Making Home by @cuddlytogas

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27664805

Summary: After the events in the Panopticon, Jon and Martin rush to leave London. But making their home in an idyllic safe house isn't that easy: between the layer of dust, and Forsaken still clinging to Martin's heels, it could be some time before they reach an understanding.

called your name ‘til the fever broke by @corpsesoldier

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27845161

Summary: Basira made a promise to her partner. At the end of the world, a monster comes and demands she keep it.

assorted family photos by @lesbianbirds

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27903979

Summary: When setting off on a research trip, it is advised that you prepare yourself for certain oddities that may greet you. or; key moments in a world where the entities are weaker and everyone got a bit more therapy

Timothy Stoker’s Guide to Dating by @pezilla

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27841267

Summary: Timothy Stoker has a lot of advice when it comes to matters of the heart, online agony aunt, gossip monger and general love guru. He has a list and he sticks to it. Or he did. That was before he took a job at the Magnus Institute and before he met three of the most fascinating and frustrating people to ever come into his life. Rule #7 under no circumstances fall for a co-worker. Yeah, that rule was starting to become a problem.

Running the Institute by @drowsy-salamander

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27878306

Summary: Caroline Ferguson, the entirety of the Magnus Institute's legal department, is furiously ignoring any weirdness that could be going on in her workplace, from the tech issues to the vanishing colleagues to the everything about Artefact Storage, Caroline will turn a very deliberate blind eye. They're are not her problem. Now if only those murders could also stop.

kindred spirits (not so scarce as I used to think) by @pollylittlehigher-littlelower

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27914821

Summary: An Anne of Green Gables inspired AU, set in modern day England. Jon and Georgie are childhood best friends, but the two stop talking after a falling out. Even doing their best to avoid each other, Georgie struggles to escape him, even while dealing with her own mental health issues and a blossoming romance with her housemate, Melanie. Is Jon truly the kindred spirit she once considered him? Or will the two eventually part ways for good?

Friends of Empty Graves by @artswaps

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27974807

Summary: After the coffin, she cuts her hair. Who is Alice Tonner? People are searching for her in the space she left behind, in the person she was. Daisy looks elsewhere, and tries not to choke.

just let the feeling grow by @ajkal2

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27838447

Summary: Jon is a musician. He plays songs for a living. Except love songs. He doesn't do love songs, and he makes this quite clear with anyone interested in working with him. Except his manager has booked him for a wedding. Without asking. With days before the festivities start, Jon needs help. Desperately. He won't get it from his hosts, the Lukas family. He certainly won't get it from his manager. However, there's a certain amateur poet on the Lukas' staff who has a talent for making love sound genuine.

World Cold and Hard, Moth Boy Warm and Soft by @lcjenkinswriting

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27827491

Summary: Jon, a young moth fairy, leaves the nest in search of a place that feels like home

tapes winding forward by @ghostbustermelanieking

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27858721

Summary: Martin ignores him, stops him mid-sentence to say, "Jon, what have you heard about time travel?" --- Martin and Jon wake up two years in the future. It goes about as well as can be expected.

MAG 26.5: Beach Episode by @ebenrosetaylor

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27882746

Summary: Sasha is aware of the rising tensions in the archives after Martin was stalked by Prentiss and after she had her own encounter with Michael. In an attempt to boost morale and bring them closer together, Tim suggests that they all visit the beach to unwind and get their minds off of all things paranormal. Sasha takes it upon herself to make sure that everyone has fun and relaxes, but she forgets to give herself that luxury.

Rewrite The Rulebook by @radiosandrecordings

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27823774

Summary: "Panic! Bloody panic! I've been out since I was fifteen and never once actually brought someone home. I think I just wanted to seem like I had my life together, y’know? Mainly I just... I think I just wanted someone to be there with me, so I wasn't just alone with her the entire time. A bit of comfort.” There was pause as Martin let out a dramatic sigh, seemingly relieved to ramble out his thoughts. "... I could go with you. If you want."

A Test In Patience by @talking4the1

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27917749

Summary: Elias is going about his day as the new head of the Magnus Institute in 1995. Some spreadsheets to do, meetings to attend mundane and supernatural. Nothing seems out of place until The Eye calls him to Bournemouth.

Of Mothers and Memory by @loverdontleave

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27856585

Summary:  There is a story to be told, of two people, a mother and a son. Of their history together, and the sacrifices they made for each other. Perhaps they loved each other once, but that thread of connection has weakened on one end, fraying away. And it is so, so cold.

Would That I Were Golden Dust by @that-one-girl-behind-you

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27734197

Summary: The world is a lot more dangerous with your soul walking by your side, and Entities aren’t shy about feeding on golden Dust.

Till Death, Parted by @bigowlenergy

Ao3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27749680

Summary: Jon gets caught after ripping out Gerry’s page by Trevor & Julia, and through a comedy of errors ends up engaged as an excuse. Somehow, Jon gets out alive, Gerry is freed, and they have the two hunters accompanying them as bodyguards - and as best man and best woman - without a fight. Living alone in Gerry’s London safe house afterwards will be totally fine. Jon is fine. He knows what coping is and everything! Totally fine.

The Spoken Word by @drumkonwords

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27802708/chapters/68066326

Summary: Jon wants. Their pinky twitches — stretching and curling to the tune of something musical. The song of wanting, with its motifs of long, low notes. Starting quiet and mumbling up into Jon’s chest until the strings of their heart vibrate like the strings of a double bass and all they can do is wonder who’s tune they’re matching. But they know.

First Aid by @platypik

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27948284

Summary: Jon is certain Martin has been acting strangely all morning. When Martin offhandedly mentions he took a bad tumble off the tube to work, Jon suddenly Knows that the fall had given Martin a nasty fracture. Despite his desperate pleading, Martin stubbornly refuses to let Jon drive him to the hospital. In fact, it seems he would much rather take care of it himself than have Jon worry and fuss over him. Jon would disagree.

Burning Bright, In the Forests of the Night by @triffidsandcuckoos

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27915400

Summary: The safehouse bursts into flames at their backs. You can choose to change the path. Just be ready for what else you might change.

i’ve been static for too long by @furryjefferson

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27887878

Summary: Jonathan Sims ends up with a stranger’s phone on the way home from work. All signs point to the Magnus Institute, and all roads lead to its mysterious archivist: Martin Blackwood.

through the clouds like a moonbeam by @digital-waterfall 

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/tmabb20/works/27877402

Summary: After passing through the Vast’s domain, Jon is left with an unexpected surprise-- a pair of wings. Unsurprisingly, Martin finds them beautiful. Also unsurprisingly, Jon does not.

#tma big bang 2020 #fic masterpost #the magnus archives #tma

[infinite-xerath]

Runeterra Retcons 9: Shaco

The time has come to discuss League’s resident killer clown… Or killer jester, I suppose. There is a difference, not that it really matters because even the lore doesn’t ACTUALLY know what Shaco is. To be frank, Shaco is a weird character because he’s NEVER had a proper place in the story, even from his conception.

Shaco’s original lore paints him as a complete and utter mystery. Nobody knows who or what he is, where he came from, or what he really wants. All anyone has ever known is that Shaco loves killing people because he thinks it’s funny. He could be a demon, a rogue weapon, or just a homicidal madman who’s really good at what he loves. That’s where his character begins and ends, so there’s really not much to actually analyze here. Shaco’s second lore attempts to give us a little more detail but all it really does is say the exact same thing with more words added in.

Of course, Shaco’s first two lores were written at a time with the Institute of War and Summoners were still canon, so after the retcon back in 2015 Riot opted to give him a new backstory to make him fit in with the new world of Runeterra. That backstory, as we can see, is ultimately little more than a placeholder. I mean, his extended bio doesn’t even match the blurb on his Champion page!

In summation: Shaco is a haunted doll who belonged to an unknown prince of an unknown kingdom and was transformed by unknown magics for unknown reasons. This backstory now feels especially redundant with the introduction of Gwen into the game, a living doll with a similar backstory albeit far less evil. To be frank: there’d be room to have some interest thematic parallels between Gwen and Shaco if Riot had written these two in such a way that they were creations of the same person or belonged to the same kid but wound up becoming wholly opposite of one-another.

For example: perhaps in an alternate version of the lore, Gwen comes to embody the childlike innocence and hope of her maker/owner and seeks to spread joy and cheer while Shaco is a corrupt and perverted manifestation of those desires who seeks only to amuse himself in the suffering of others. This, I think, would have been a fantastic way to go about it, but given that Gwen is already so heavily tied to the Shadow Isles plotline and Viego is set up to be her primary enemy, I feel like it would be kind of difficult to work Shaco into that dynamic at this point.

Besides, it’s clear that Riot DOES have plans for Shaco: namely, that they aim to retcon him into being a demon. This is somewhat evident by his champion title, the Demon Jester, as well as his relationships are listed as being Nocturne and Fiddlesticks, the demons of nightmares and fear, respectively. There’s also that branch on the demon family tree labeled “Delirium” which would fit a murderous jokester pretty well.

To be honest, I was initially hesitant to even bother doing an episode for Shaco given that Riot clearly has at least some vague idea of what to do with him, but since reworks are coming out a lot slower now and Shaco’s not even on Riot’s priority list as far as we’re aware, it’ll probably be a WHILE before we actually see them do anything with this particular concept.

So, given what we know about Riot’s current plans, the general direction of this rewrite is simple: make Shaco a demon. Admittedly, though, that’s a little easier said than done. Demons in League are creatures who feed on mortal pain and suffering, but each of them has a different way of going about it. Fiddlesticks mainly uses paranoia and trauma to drive his victims mad while Nocturne takes a more Freddy Krueger approach of just invading dreams and turning them into nightmares. Tahm Kench likes to make Faustian Bargains by giving you everything you want and then tearing it all away from you, while Evelynn lures you in with seduction and then proceeds to tear you apart piece by piece.

Every demon takes a different form and has different ways of going about things, but all of them share a core concept: they feed on suffering and misery, be it physical or emotional. That said, there’s a bit more to demons in Runeterra than just that. See, back when Fiddlesticks was released, Riot went and released what the community has dubbed the “Demon Family Tree,” which appears to be a chart displaying the hierarchy of demons and different emotions that different kinds of demons can prey on.

Now, admittedly, there’s a LOT about this chart that we don’t currently understand, and frankly I wouldn’t be surprised if Riot doesn’t either. There’s a key that resembles the one around Zoe’s neck in the top-left, a bunch of circles in the top right we don’t know the meaning of, and a whole bunch of text written in what I think is supposed to be Old Noxian that we can’t currently decipher. There have been theories and discussions about this already, so I’m not going to get too deep into it, but the main takeaway, I think, would be the words on the chart that we CAN read: Fear, Delirium, Nightmares, Secrets, Bliss, Frenzy, and Obsession. There’s also the term “Azakana” at the bottom, though we know thanks to Yone that this basically just refers to a demon that hasn’t fully matured yet.

Tying the chart back to the demonic Champions in the game, it’s easy to piece together the connections that they each have: Fiddlesticks is fear, Nocturne is Nightmares, Raum (the demon bound to Swain) is Secrets, Evelynn is commonly believed to be Bliss, and Tahm Kench is most likely Obsession. That leaves Delirium and Frenzy untouched, which leaves us with two spots to fit Shaco into.

Now comes the hard part: the decision. Delirium refers to a state of mind in which one’s awareness of their actions or environment is significantly reduced, whereas frenzy is a sudden burst of frantic, uncontrolled emotion, typically rage or aggression. Either one of these could work well for a killer jester, but I personally think that delirium would suit Shaco better in terms of how his personality is portrayed in game. So, with that said, let’s dive deep into the realm of demonic and see what can be done to turn this cursed puppet into a proper Demon of Delirium.

It is often said that misery and comedy are but two sides of the same coin. Laughter often comes at the expense of others, and one person’s despair may be another’s delight. Most entertainers would tell you that walking the line between humor and malice is key, but to Shaco, such distinctions are a joke for which he himself is the final punchline.

The demon known as Shaco has stalked Runeterra for ages, spreading his twisted influence far and wide. There’s nothing Shaco loves more than to bring joy to those who need it most, often appearing to mortals who have experienced great loss or tragedy. Those coping with grief or misfortune may find themselves unexpectedly visited by a grinning jester, who assures that his only desire is to take away their pain with the power of laughter.

At first, Shaco’s antics are innocent enough. Some cheesy jokes to lighten the mood, some harmless pranks to lift the spirits of the downtrodden, all with an unyielding smile that one cannot help but start to imitate. Soon, those enthralled with Shaco’s antics are invited to play games with the jester to help distract from their worldly worries. Those who accept are whisked away to partake in a day of fun and merriment, playing all manner of pranks on friends, family, and even innocent bystanders.

When the games end, Shaco leaves his playmates cackling insanely in the aftermath, often surrounded by bodies and covered in blood. None laugh louder than Shaco, however, who delights in watching his playmates slowly regain their sanity and come to realize all the atrocities committed at his side. Some cry out in despair, while others break down laughing or crying harder than before. Some go mad, others are executed for their crimes, and some even opt to take their own lives. All outcomes are equally hilarious to Shaco, who soon sets out in pursuit of his next playmate.

Stories of the Mad Trickster exist all across Runeterra, often told as children’s tales to teach valuable lessons: don’t trust strangers, never give in to sadness or despair, and always be mindful to never take a joke too far. Few truly believe in Shaco’s existence, but those who fail to heed such warnings may find themselves to be his next playmate, as well as the butt of his joke…

So, this one was a bit shorter than normal, but I think it serves to get the point across. As the embodiment of delirium, I wanted to give Shaco a set-up sort of similar to Tahm Kench: he appears to offer help to those in need, only to end up ruining their lives in the long run. The difference, of course, is that Shaco lures people in to help them forget their troubles with fun and games, only to escalate to full-blown murder and mayhem.

In essence, Shaco drives others to delirium, making them believe the carnage is all just fun and games until his spell is broken and reality sets in. I’d like to think he particularly likes preying on the downtrodden because those who are suffering mental anguish already are easier for him to cast his spell on.

This is just my take on Shaco, though. Who can really say what Riot will do with him in the future? Who knows, his rework might end up even better than what I have here, but of course, anything is bound to be better than his current, non-existent lore.

#Runeterra Retcons #Shaco #League of Legends

[davids-cartoon-corkboard]

Back when “Repairin’ the Baron” first aired, I was like “I'm worried about Mikey being alone with Draxum and this “giant reptilian monster” imagery, Draxum’s going to play them all for fools by faking his redemption and then he'll mutate Mikey as part of a scheme or just out of spite.”

But now I have an idea that’s so much worse. :)

Let’s say Draxum truly does grow fond of Mikey and begins to feel parental towards him. After all, who doesn’t love Mikey? He’s such a sweetheart, so small and cute and helpful and naive...

And Draxum gets worried. This beautiful idiot child is going to get himself killed, trying to befriend every villain he comes across! He called Foot Recruit “frenemy” even after she tried to smash his shell into powder! He’s approached a cannibalistic mutant multiple times because he wanted to learn how to make pork risotto! He got an apartment for the guy who nearly wiped out humanity!

If only Mikey was better able to defend himself... if only he wasn’t quite so friendly, or so small... if only he was a bit faster, stronger, tougher...

So Draxum stages a little “accident” with an oozesquito, not out of malice, but out of a misguided attempt to keep Mikey safe.

The scene is staged so we think we’ll get a repeat of the monster!Don situation from 2k3, but... it actually works! Mikey gets an upgrade, and he’s still himself!

He’s a little taller than Leo, Donnie, and April now, and has a grand old time teasing them about it. His family doesn’t baby him when they spar anymore! It’s a lot easier to thrash villains now!

It is so much easier to thrash villains now...

Mikey’s “Doctor Delicate Touch” moments start to get more frequent, and more severe. He’s full of restless energy at all hours of the day and night. The flames of his kusari-fundo burn brighter and hotter, it’s laugh sounds more sinister. Sometimes it screams with rage, instead.

And then he goes too far. Maybe he gets pissy that Donnie insists on running more tests even though he’s fine, he feels great, Donnie’s just mad because he doesn’t like his little brother being stronger than him, FUCK OFF-

Donnie gets burned. Mikey runs to Draxum. Maybe he figured out the oozesquito accident wasn’t really an accident, maybe he didn’t, but right now he desperately needs someone else to blame. Scared and ashamed, the tears and snot sizzling right off his face, he grabs Draxum by the shoulders and shakes him, screaming “I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PLEASE FIX ME.”

This would be the worst possible time for the Hidden City police to track Draxum down, so of course they choose right then to kick in the door and attack.

Mikey retaliates. It doesn’t matter that they’ve brought a small army this time, or that they're the yokai equivalent of a SWAT team, or that they’ve got every possible exit surrounded. There’s nothing they can do against him. Mikey is a blur of flame and fury, mowing them down and leaving ash in his wake. The room, and then the building, and then the block lights up and New York starts to burn around him as he laughs and laughs and laughs.

Draxum can only stare at his perfect, ultimate creation. It took centuries of research and experimentation and setbacks, but he finally did it! He made a soldier capable of tearing through foes like the cheap paper those Foot idiots use! An agile, graceful killing machine, whirling and dancing like the devil against a backdrop of hellfire.

And he is sickened with himself, because how could he do that to his son?

Draxum sighs and grits his teeth. This is going to hurt, but it has to be done. Summoning every tendril he has, he wraps them around Mikey’s limbs and mouth and pulls him away from the fight. They smoke and shrivel as they touch Mikey's glowing body, wiring hot agony back into Draxum's nervous system. But Draxum does not cry out. He can’t risk the Hidden City’s remaining forces hearing him.

Just for a moment, Mikey is too surprised to fight back. And that’s all Draxum needs to pull him into the sewers. Steam billows up before Mikey even hits the water, choking and blinding them. But it cools him down enough to realize what he’s done, and he doesn’t protest when Draxum hoists him onto his back and starts trekking towards the lair.

Donnie is a genius, nobody doubts that, but he’s a programmer and engineer, not a biologist. His lab just doesn’t have the equipment Draxum needs to start working on a retromutagen. The only place in the world that does is Draxum’s lab, which was confiscated by the Hidden City police.

Draxum doesn’t hesitate. He appears before the Council of Heads to strike a deal. Give him access to his lab long enough to remedy the wrong he has done, and he will surrender. The Council agrees.

Some days later, Mayhem appears in the lair with a little pink vial tied around his neck, as well as a handwritten note. It simply says:

Here is the cure. Don’t forgive me. -Draxum

#rottmnt #rottmnt theory #baron draxum #rottmnt mikey #mikey plus #<- that's what i'm calling this idea #if someone wants to adopt this idea for a fic then be my guest #ask to tag

[mwolf0epsilon]

Prompt Time: The Projectionist free-roaming Malice Angel's domain. Level 14 barely has any stimulating things, so wouldn't it be nice if he got to visit Heavenly Toys and got to feel all the nice soft plushies?

Summary: "The worst nightmare is the nightmare that continues even when you wake up." --Mehmet Murat ildan

Warning for character death, blood and mild!

[[MORE]]

---

No matter how much the hulking beast that was the Projectionist walked (or how far its warped mind perceived that it went), the one thing that it could be truly certain of was the neverending pain that permeated its skin and old bones, that followed every step with a diligent sort of precision.

A truly terrible and wretched notion indeed, as walking was all it knew to do anymore…

With a gaze lost to the expanse of the soundless halls ahead, and its thoughts long since seized from a lack of…Something...

A stimulus? A purpose perhaps? It had to be one of those, but it couldn't really recall which was correct.

It didn't know if it had ever known the answer to its plight at all.

But walking? Walking came easily!

Not that it wasn't a harduos task, mind you, just not so easy for the semi-mechanical abomination to forget.

One limb after the other, the creak of old joints and the sting of stiff muscles.

The dull ache at the base of its hips that sharpened as it climbed all the way to the base of its strained neck.

The painful throb of something squishy-but-not-quite encased in metal, and driven by the soundless clicking and blinking of things it could fix but not put a name to.

Walking was both easy and hard, but necessary.

If it could walk, it would be safe. If it could walk, it could keep an eye on its many projectors. If it could walk, it could defend itself and its many, many, responsibilities…

So walk it did, no matter how much the burden of it all hurt its patchwork body.

To anyone with a somewhat intact sanity, traversing the halls was a tedious and mind numbing act. Not that there was much that the Projectionist thought about anyway. It's mind was… Buzzing, but not with any musings of a past life. It was numb in a way its body could never replicate.

Fragmented after going so long missing a vital piece of itself. A soul stagnated from the splintering of its essence, as well as the nonsensically repetitive motions of a lethargic routine.

Long ago this creature was once told that madness was the act of repeating an action hoping to achieve different results. If that was so, then this wretched being was the maddest of them all.

Lost to a looping cycle of its own, doing things that it should no longer care for.

Because why tend to the projectors? Why hunt for intruders? Why search for a part that was floors above, well beyond its reach?

Yes, the Projectionist must be mad. So mad that it no longer could do much more than act out the same motions over and over again.

Couldn't do more than walk the halls and redo its tasks… A looping reel.

Following tired feet with a blazing light and aching muscles that never rested.

How tragically ironic.

An infinite paradox within another.

Until one day it got a breath of fresh air.

The lift was a tool of the horned angel. A contraption that it had once used, as the man it no longer recalled having been. To the Projectionist however, it was merely a source of annoyance.

A means for intruders to trespass in its corner of the studio. An heinous apparatus of mayhem and frustration.

It caused it to feel things that swelled in its empty chest cavity, until they became nothing more than a senseless rage.

The kind that made its hackles raise with territorial trepidation, which quickly became the distinct urge to fight over flight.

The Projectionist could not recall being a man, but it could instinctively recall being an animal.

A one of a kind apex predator that stalked the halls with reckless abandon. And anything that stepped foot in its pooling maze was fair game.

The things, miserable creatures that they were, tended to come from that hellish metal box.

It made the ink in its pool vibrate with such force that it flooded its senses in a most confusing way.

Overwhelming and unpleasant all on its own, but with the added dilemma of some half-baked critter crawling right in to seek out its most coveted treasure: Its many hearts.

The Projectionist loathed all who thought they could steal its heart twice.

Added theirs to the expanding collection dotted all around its many inky roosts.

Thus the lift was deemed an enemy spawning ground, one that the hulking semi-mechanical beast did not trust in the slightest, but one that it kept an eye on nonetheless… If just to have some peace of mind. As shattered as it may be.

Imagine then, how jarring it was, for a creature that did little else than roam, maim, and maintain, to find such a vile blight baring it's gaping maw at it in broad studio light.

For the first time in years, its routine was completely broken, with the Projectionist standing there just staring at the open lift with a stalling empty mind.

It did not know what to do. What to expect.

In a situation like this, what was there really to do? The distrust it felt of the lift coupled with its sudden and unexpected behavior was certainly quite troubling for a creature of the Projectionist's caliber.

So terribly dulled from its stagnant pattern that it needed time to even realize such an event was abnormal to begin with.

Once it clicked that, yes, the lift should not be in its domain and showcasing its hungry maw so pridefully, it did the only thing it knew to do to anything that offended it.

It shrieked aggressively and rushed it.

Now, once upon a time, a man by the name Norman Polk would have stared at this scene and bellowed with disbelieving laughter.

To see such a frightfully powerful beast struggle with something so mundane as an empty elevator… It would have tickled him positively funny.

Perhaps reminding him of this big old bully of a gator that used to sun itself near the drinking hole his old pops used to plant some of the best sugarcane in all of Louisiana (or so he boasted). Big and strong, enough so that it could snap a man's arm clean in half with just one bite, yet dumber than half a box of marbles.

That lump of gigantic muscle had gotten it's jaws stuck in so many crawdad traps that it was a miracle it had grown so big and strong at all. Lucky bastard that brute… the same could be said for the Projectionist.

If good old Norman could have witnessed this hulking horror struggle in the lift like it was fighting some battle of titanic proportions, he would have wondered how it hadn't gotten itself killed yet.

Sadly Norman could never question such things, as he himself was the abominable creature he would have likely found so humorous.

The mind was a fragile thing indeed.

One so incomplete as his, made the Projectionist truly seem like a dumb animal at best…

As the object-headed bruiser calmed down after its initial fruitless assault (in which it had toppled over and only further distressed itself), it began to attempt to right itself. Looking so pathetic like a turtle stuck on its back, until flailing limbs caught the bars of its source of frustration, and pulled with all it's might.

The thudding of heavy feet against the lift flooring sent vibrations that jolted its wires uncomfortably, making it screech at nothing as it turned to look for whatever was setting it off now.

Upon finding nothing it simply stood there, winded from the exertion of having to pull itself back onto its clumsy feet.

Not an easy task when one's head weighted so much.

Now that the few senses the Projectionist still had were not under any stress, the rage began to dissipate. The soothing silence pulled at its frayed sanity, both comforting and familiar in a world that had become so alien to its past self.

Boredom was sinking in quickly, beckoning it to move on back into its usual flow.

It lifted one leg, ready to begin the endless trek of the maze all over again, only to freeze when the lift door closed with it still inside.

The seconds trickled as it slowly processed the newest development to this earth-shattering event.

It was stuck. Trapped. Caged.

Another unholy screech left its ruined speaker as it began to thrash violently, trying to get out of this tight little coffin that tormented it so cruelly.

Calling out for freedom it thought it had.

A loud hum made the cage vibrate, and its shrieks only increased in intensity as it tried to protect its sensitive body from the droning it couldn't even hear.

Then the mobile prison began to ascend.

The Projectionist was no stranger to the levels above and below of its own. Sometimes it wandered up and down the stairs to check up on the myriad of hearts it had stored in multiple other places it had rested in, after chasing particularly persistent prey that didn't get the hint. Often it tracked ink that facilitated its navigation across these alien floors, as the vibrations of this substance helped it track down it's assailants (the footprints they left behind also helped).

It had frequent encounters with the doggish wolves it had seen strapped to tables. Most gutted before it could claim their precious insides itself, although some he found fresh and ready to put a meaty fist through.

There were also times where it had encounters with the thief that wore the grinning devil mask, often finding it near peculiar objects the fiend seemed to covet.

Tall necky things with sharp strings that hurt its fingers, round flat things that made a strange hum when it hit them with a closed fist, and big square things that had loose teeth that also made alluring vibrations.

The thief liked these strange objects, so the Projectionist made sure to track it through locating them whenever it could remember… If it could remember.

Thinking was much too hard when it had so much time just to roam and live inside its own empty head.

How strange was that?

As the tiny cage continued its ascension the burly beast fell to its knees and hugged them tightly to its chest.

It whined uneasily as it watched familiarity fade with each level that it passed, trying to ignore the hum that occasionally assaulted its sensitive cables and chords.

It whimpered louder when it felt like it should know what these distinct pauses against its inky flesh should mean.

Then, finally, the lift came to a pause and the doors opened up wide, showcasing its captive passenger for the world to see. Not that the Projectionist gave the world much time anyway…

As soon as it sensed an opportunity to be free, it lunged itself forward. The uneven weight of its patchwork form, causing it to trip up and tumble down onto the wooden floors.

It rolled a few feet, hurting its knees and cutting up it's right arm against a few steps of what appeared to be… A very wide space.

It had no clue what this place was, and the beady eyes staring down at it made the Projectionist right itself immediately and shriek in monstrous defiance of whatever harm the creature possessing them may wish it… only to stop and stare as nothing moved.

The strange thing that was staring at him was just a doll. A very large doll in the shape of the not-gutted-wolves it had previously encountered.

It cocked its head to the side ever so slightly, so as to not tip over, and grunted in acknowledgement that this was no threat to its existence.

Sure enough, gazing around, all the eyes that it could see were more of the drawings like the ones that its projectors played. A few of the flat devils that were strewn around, and a big devil doll to keep the wolf some company.

Letting out another grunt and a huff as it shook its head, the Projectionist turned to glance at the churning fountain of ink separating the two dolls, and promptly growled at it. Warning any of the vermin that enjoyed such things to keep well aways from it, if they did not wish a painful death to befall them.

The gross ink slugs were squishy, and hard to get out from beneath its nails. They stuck to its feet and made it feel icky and gross.

When nothing reared its ugly head out from within the fountain, the Projectionist marched on through this new strange place… Momentarily wondering if it would find more hearts for its collection.

The stimulation was doing wonders it seemed, if it could ponder such things.

Environmental awareness wasn't really a thing that it often considered while aimlessly wandering the halls. Its feet just took it wherever they pleased, gaze focused on nothing in particular, the patchwork bruiser just ticking by like a broken clock.

This newly discovered location was different, and brought with it new rules. The Projectionist was suddenly hyper aware and hyper focused on everything surrounding it.

The spacious expanse of this floor was interesting all around, truly a place where it could wander and get lost and just experience new things it couldn't in its maze.

Speaking of clocks, it whirred curiously as it noted all of the paraphernalia that was just everywhere. From limb swinging devil-clocks, to devil and wolf dolls of various sizes. At some point it found a bowl containing a squishy blob that jumped and changed shapes when it poked it out of curiosity.

The sudden movement had made the large brute shriek and crush the bowl with a powerful strike from its hand, but the blob had prevailed despite being surrounded by shards of ceramic that had cut into the large ink beast's hand.

Once established that it wasn't attacking him (and that the stinging pain was its own doing) the Projectionist let the bouncy mass be, and continued to just wander and take in all the three dimensional creatures that it was accustomed to see flat on the walls.

The room full of clocks and dolls was especially alluring.

There was a very big wolf plush like the one before in the spacy room with the fountain. The Projectionist fixated on it and approached, reaching out to pat the inanimate pooch's ears, and then reach up to pat its own round prongs in curious comparison. The toy was not taller than it, but certainly felt squishy where it was more solid.

It reached out to touch again, fingers sinking into pillowy fabric while it's palm ran over the new texture.

A strange little word crept up into its splintered mind: Comfy.

So soft it was to the touch… Would it feel good to lay on top of it?

Surely doing something of the sort would be against every survival instinct it still had keeping it going, right?

Walking was important!

Walking was surviving!

But resting… How its aching body craved to finally rest!

And look at just how inviting the plush's soft body was… it couldn't hurt to stop for a few minutes, right?

Against all odds, the Projectionist braced itself to a position where it would be less likely to hit its clunky head, then lunged forward. Practically purring as it felt itself sink into the comforting embrace of the false wolf.

Slumber, it would finally meet with it at last!

Without second thought, the Projectionist's light shut off as consciousness slipped away into the welcoming darkness.

-

Norman startled awake in bed, fumbling blindly as he tried to make sense of where he was at the moment, while kicking up his legs which were trapped under a mass of weighted blankets.

It was so dark! Why couldn't he see? He could always see in the dark halls, the light of the projector lens illuminating even the shadiest corners of the studio… He…

No. No he couldn't see in the dark?

And this place… He knew this place!

This was his and his wife's room back at their apartment.

A rush of confused thoughts flooded his frazzled brain, as Norman glanced around. His hand subconsciously reaching out to click on the bedside lamp, and it soothed him slightly when the darkness melted away under the soft yellow light that cast over the familiar scene.

He was home. But… how?

His bad eye darted about, refusing to focus as usual, while his good eye carefully surveilled his surroundings.

It landed on his bedside table, above the silly novel he'd recently picked up from the bookstore. There was a note there, waiting to be read by his curious eyes.

With a shaky hand, one much smaller than the brutish claw of the Projectionist, he took hold of the unassuming piece of paper.

"Went to the store to get a few things before dinner. Told the kids to behave so you could rest. Please don't overwork yourself ever again, you had a 102° fever dear. Love Maggie <3"

He read the words once, twice and then trice, heart hammering away in his chest as it all slowly sunk in.

Had it… Had it all been a terrible nightmare? Had he, in his feverish state, dreamt up all the horrors that he thought had really occurred at Joey Drew Studios?

Had he really conjured up all of the madness and pain in those hostile halls? Pictured his own gruesome transition into a mindless abomination that couldn't even remember it was a person? A monster that was too afraid to let others attack it first?

A dry and slightly choked up laugh forced its way out of his constricted chest as relief washed over him.

He was home…

He was home and he could think, and it didn't hurt to move his neck or limbs, and he was himself.

What a terrible nightmare his fever had gifted him, one that felt so real that he expected to find a monster when he slowly kicked the blankets off and rose up from the bed.

His bedroom mirror told a different story to what he'd thought he'd find reflected back. There he was, strong features, big round nose and lips, tired eyes (one moving about, never to meet the other's focus point since birth) and dark curly hair that was starting to gray.

He felt the stubble on his face and hummed softly to himself. He needed a shave, lest he end up looking like the photos of his Poppop Polk…

But first he desperately needed a glass of water. He usually had one resting beside his book, but Maggie had likely taken it back to the kitchen once he'd drained it throughout the night.

Not an issue. A leisurely walk around their home was a welcomed thing after he'd been so sure he'd be stuck staring at inky sepia toned (and slightly rotted), wooden panels for the rest of his miserable and dreadfully quiet life.

So that's what he did.

He put on some slippers and shrugged on his robe, and strolled out of the room at a very calm and deliberately slow pace.

It was honestly a little ridiculous how long it took him to reach the kitchen. He'd really had a grand old time of just listening to the background noises of the city, and admiring the house decor.

That really ugly vase his mama sent them as a wedding gift, where they kept a half dried up fern (he was terrible with plants and so was Maggie). The equally ugly rug his pops had found in a flea market and sent to them in the mail (ugly enough that his wife had begged him to burn it, so how could he not set it down so he could watch her purposefully scratch it up with her high heels, due to her pure and unadulterated hatred of the garish horror of checkers and polkadots?), the collection of child's drawings he and Maggie had taken to taping to the wall in proud display, as well as Aaron's many pictures (the kid really took the whole photography thing seriously since he'd bought him his own camera for his birthday).

Pictures… Oh how he'd admired the family photos so lovingly… Every portrait, every baby photo, every holiday he'd managed to document with his old battered camera that he hoped to fix one day.

That terrible nightmare had shook him up so bad that Norman genuinely thought he was never going to see those smiling faces ever again.

He passed by his children's rooms but thought better than to disturb them. They had classes tomorrow, and the clock told him that at this hour they'd be doing their homework, like he and their mother had stipulated early on.

They could do whatever with their time, but 18pm was schoolwork time.

Instead Norman carried on into the kitchen and breathed in the smells. A hint of freshly baked bread coming from the breadbasket they kept near the oven, as well as veggie soup that was cooling in the pot that was currently resting on the stove.

Fuck, he'd missed vegetable soup, and he hated eating his greens! How could a series of vivid images feel like such a lifetime when they were merely hours?

The mind sure was a mysterious thing, one much harder to understand than the projectors he maintained at the studio.

Shrugging to himself while taking a glass from one of the cupboards, the tired projectionist moved over to the sink and opened the tap without a second thought… It took a second for him to realize it wasn't water coming out.

The glass shattered upon being dropped by a retreating Norman, who stumbled back and away from the distressing sight as if he'd been burnt.

From the tap was coming out thick oily ink that smelled just as toxic as the deathly scent of the warped studio in his dreams.

No, this… this couldn't be.

It had been a dream! Hadn't it?

He was home! He was safe!

Except the ink pouring out of the sink contradicted this. So thick it was, like sticky tar, clotting in the drain and filling up the sink. It took far little time to begin overflowing and overtaking all it touched.

The color draining from everything the black substance came into contact with. Stretching out over the floor, crawling towards him, with liquid reaching fingers. Wanting to claim him.

Fearfully, Norman fled from the kitchen and down the hall. Not wanting to be pulled back by that demonic stuff.

The chemical smell was driving him nuts, burning his eyes and nose so terribly they were beginning to run.

He fled until his legs ached. But his tired stinging eyes found something quite concerning.

Norman hadn't moved an inch since getting to the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

It was as if he'd been slipping in oil the entire time. No traction to propel him forward, just a useless struggle against an unseen force.

And then a new smell hit him.

One that made his heart turn to ice in his chest. A coppery smell that hit the back of his throat, and made his mouth taste like loose pennies.

His hands felt warm and sticky and hurt to move.

Sheer terror of the familiarity of this whole scene made him feel absolutely nauseous. He knew he shouldn't look, knew what expected him once he did so, but he couldn't help himself.

Curiosity (morbid as it may be) was his mistress after all.

Norman looked to his left, where the doors to his four children's rooms greeted him, wide open. Inviting.

God...There was so much blood...

The mortified projectionist fell to his knees as he stared down in pure horror at what remained of his and his wife's beautiful children. His babies… all dead, torn apart by some heartless butcher.

The terrified look immortalized in their young and lifeless features making him sob openly. He shakily reached out to hold them close to himself, screaming in fright when his eldest son's hand shot out to grasp his blood covered hands.

Empty eyes that were once warm with love and childlike wonder, bore holes into Norman's own mismatched gaze.

"Why did you kill us daddy? Why did you take our hearts?"

The projectionist shook his head, tears and snot running down his face as he tried to deny it. Deny the atrocity the ghost of his son accused him of committing against his own kin. But no matter how much he tried, Norman couldn't speak over the lump in his throat.

Everything hurt, and everything was warm and sticky, his little ones' hearts still beat in his monstrous hands that had slain them without thought.

And then the click of the house key made his blood run cold all over again.

"Honey? Are you up?"

No… no no no no! Maggie! It wasn't safe! He wasn't safe! She'd die! He'd kill her too!

He tried calling out, to beg for her to run, but all that came out was the primal and blood-curdling screech of the Projectionist, as it turned and trampled over the corpses of its previous victims, rushing to claim another heart for it's collection.

Norman's very soul screamed upon seeing his wife's confused and then terrified face under the beast's burning gaze.

-

The Projectionist screamed. It screamed in terror and anguish as it kicked away from the comfy wolf it had decided to rest upon on a whim.

It screamed as it tried to force itself away from a person that was not physically there, thus safe from its violence.

It screamed, as Norman Polk was still very presently in charge of his mental faculties, after having had his "brain" so stimulated and overworked for the first time in years.

He screamed until the speaker lodged in his torso gave out, spluttering weakly as it temporarily short-circuited. The internal mess of organic and non-organic materials needing time to mend themselves once more into a semi-functional state.

Once finding himself incapable of producing sound, the Projectionist sat there, shaking and completely disoriented. Trying to make sense of reality and dreams that were cruelly senseless.

And then the weight of it all crashed down… He could remember.

He was a person, not a something, a someone.

A father… He was a father who could forget these things all over again, and hurt his loved ones. A father who couldn't protect his beloved and his children as long as he was this… Heinous monstrosity.

A monster who'd sooner dismember anything it came across than think twice about their identity. A menace to society.

With that knowledge Norman did the only thing he could think to do while he still had awareness.

He lashed out, letting the anguish and hatred of his situation demolish all that met with his brutish body.

Shelves broke, dolls were torn to shreds, the wolf plush was gutted, and the Bendy clocks shattered. All the while he screamed silently as he let the floodgates wide open to pour out all the torment.

Then, when there was nothing left to destroy, he cried.

Sobbing without a mouth or eyes to clear, hiding a lens into hands that could do cruel and devastating things.

Trembling inconsolably on his knees, in the darkness of a cold and dreary studio full of monsters just as odious as he.

Mourning what he'd become, until the memories faded back into obscurity. Letting himself fade back into nothing but an afterthought.

Above and well beyond out of sight, Susie Campbell wept as Alice whispered comfortingly to her in their shared mind.

The poor dear had only wanted her old friend to have a chance to be comfortable and rest. That, it seemed, had been a horrible mistake on her part.

There just wasn't anything in this cold and brutal world of theirs that could alleviate such misery as the one that burdened the Projectionist.

#eps writes: #bendy and the ink machine #batim #norman polk #the projectionist #susie campbell #alice angel

[hello-im-not-a-possum]

Do you have any extra weretoon Buddy Headcannons?

This time it’s the studio mayhem edition

-He’s somewhat thankful to be the ‘most human’ person in the studio, even if he’s also guilty about being the only one who can look in a mirror without being sad/disgusted/scared by what he sees in it.

-Can speak with/trade with the Lost ones and searchers in any form he wants to. They’re not hostile to him unless provoked, and most of them even pity him as they see his fate as something similar to their own but longer and more painful from their perspective. And what’s worse is that he still remembers the family he had in the outside world!

-He can’t go to the music department or the lost village unless it’s a full moon, Sammy mistakes him for a normal human otherwise and would sacrifice him as such. As a toon though, the mad maestro makes a good ally and friend to an extent.

-Similarly, he can never let Malice find out about the weretoon thing because she’s not interested in killing off some poor former gofer for human parts, he’s much more useful to her as someone who can do her errands and talk to without envy or a grudge holding her back. But his other form might be just what she needs...

-Is sick to death of that damned bacon soup and if he ever sees it again post escape, it’ll be too soon.

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #Buddy Lewek #weretoon au

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

Pairings: Implied Romantic Anxceitmus (Virgil/Deceit/Remus), Implied Romantic Logincality (Logan/Roman/Patton), Implied Romantic Pinkange (Pink/Orange (OCs)

Word Count: 447 Words

Summary: Virgil learns something and Remus attempts murder yet again.

Warnings: Sympathetic Deceit/Morally Grey Deceit, Mention Sibling/Twin Bonds, Panic Attack, Abusive Relationship Mention, Physical Abuse Mention, let me know if I should add anything else.

Note: Anything like ‘this’ is an thoughts. Anything like ‘this’ is ASL. Bold like this is a lie. Andrews animal features are from a moth, specifically a luna moth, and Virgil’s are from a fruit bat.

Oh, Yeah, I Have A Twin: Chapter 2

It was near dinner time when Virgil saw Andrew again and, like his twin had promised, he carried a finished weighted blanket. Virgil was sat on the couch of the Mind Palace common room on his phone. The older twin practically threw the blanket over the anxious side and then he flopped on top of him as well for extra effect.

"Why hello there, cuddle monster." Virgil greeted.

"I'm a moth, thank you." Andrew mumbles.

"Okay, fuzzy cuddle monster." Virgil pet through his hair, seeing a red mark blooming slowly on his twin's face.

"What's that?" He picked up Andrew's face and examined the red handprint left there.

"Andy, what happened?" Virgil was softer speaking this time.

"N-Nothing. Nothing happened! It's fine!" Even though the depressed side pulled away from him, tears on his face and refusing to look at Virgil.

"Drew, something happened. Are you okay?" Andrew seemed to deflate and glared at him with no malice behind it, like he was too tired to be mad.

"Pink hit me." Depression admitted.

"Oh Drew..." Virgil wanted to pull him in and let him cry.

"He hit me, Vee. He hit me. And he said I'm disgusting and that I put you before him and I'm useless and ugly and Virgil, I can't do it anymore and-"

"Breathe." He interrupted, hands holding his twin's arms even as the depressive side burst into tears and hysterics and panic. "Breathe deep with me, I'm here." Virgil assured him, pressing Andrew's hand against his chest so he could mimic his breathing through touch. Slowly, Andrew calmed down and he clung to his twin.

"There you go. Keep breathing deep. You're doing great, Drew." He pulled his twin in and buried him under the weighted blanket too.

"Virgil, am I a bad person to hate him?" The depressed side whispered after a bit.

"I think you're the best kind of person you can be just by being yourself. And Pink doesn't matter anymore, I won't let him around you ever again without trying to kill him." Orange looked up at him and gave the biggest smile ever.

"You're the best little brother!" He hugged him tightly.

"I'm your only brother."

"Still the best." And, soon enough, they'd both settled into the couch with the weighted blanket in the same position they'd been created in the Mindscape in, arms tangled together over each other and Andrew's head tucked into Virgil's chin.

Deceit got several photos of the cute twins asleep on the couch and, at the point, Remus saw them, saw the bruise forming on Orry's face, and promptly summoned his morningstar and began to stalk over to the dark sides in attempted murder. Deceit didn't even try to stop him.

Taglist: @just-another-rainbowblog @nonasficcollection @hiddendreamer67 @avocados26 @cryptidcherrry @sparkleformenow2 @minecraftpunk @theskytheskytheskythesky @bihighandgivinghighfives @theradicalrainbow @nonbinaryroyaltylove @getjinxed01 @music-magic-mayhem @nonbinary-snake-writes @yeet-ceit @askthesnakesides @only-dark-prince @bookwyrminspiration @fadingglowcloud @starbucks-remy @theabsolutemessthatisjakey @logans-doodles @youre-not-alive @thepastelweirdo @wolf87lover @tinylightthingtrash @ravenwashere1776 @hiimcanadia @bookworm85blr @much-thank @verysarcasticwitch @lordofkaos @twilight-glow @itsmossie @withspaces @vicdehart @a-chaotic-being @grayson-22 @korsaromantic66 @sandersstuffsblog @withspaces @vicdehart @theorizing-puppet @wolf87lover

#sanders sides #sympathetic deceit #morally grey deceit #virgil sanders #orange sanders #depression sanders #pink sanders #deceit sanders #remus sanders #panic attack #tw abuse mention #tw physical violence mention #romantic anxceitmus #anxceitmus #romantic logincality #logincality #snoweywrites #oh yeah i have a twin au

[thecreaturecodex]

Malboro

Concept art from Final Fantasy X © Square Enix. Accessed at the Final Fantasy Wiki here

[Commissioned by @coldbloodassassin, who requested the Final Fantasy X version of the malboro specifically. I’m surprised that I’ve been doing commissions for almost a year now and this is the first Final Fantasy monster I’ve been commissioned for. I should do a theme week or something.]

Malboro This plant-like creature is composed of a central bulb split open into a needle-toothed maw, surrounded by dozens of short stalks, some of which end in cups and others in spheres. It drags itself along the ground on a dozen mobile vines. The thing reeks like rotting flesh.

A malboro is a plant created by fiendish influence, its body a toxic stew. They drag themselves over land on a carpet of fleshy tendrils, looking for prey. Although they are not stealthy, their stench resembles the smell of rotting meat, bringing scavengers close to investigate, and they are tireless in their pursuit of fleeing creatures. They are faintly intelligent, but this intelligence is focused solely on malice and mayhem. The only other beings they approach with anything other than violence are other malboros and mandragoras, which may cling to them like remoras and feed on the scraps they leave behind.

Malboros open combat with their foul acidic breath, and use this attack as frequently as possible. This morass not only burns the flesh but leaves behind a number of crippling ailments, severely weakening enemies, driving them temporarily mad, or stripping them of their senses. Against these now debilitated foes, the malboro concentrates its snapping jaws and muscular tendrils, beating opponents to a pulp and consuming the remains.

The average malboro is twelve feet in diameter and weighs about five tons. Larger forms are known, with even Colossal malboros not unheard of. Variant malboros may spread different ailments with their bad breath attack, such as diseases, stunning or negative levels.

Malboro               CR 13 XP 25,600 CE Huge plant Init +4; Senses blindsight 30 ft., darkvision 60 ft., Perception +24, tremorsense 60 ft. Aura stench (30 ft., DC 25) Defense AC 26, touch 8, flat-footed 26 (-2 size, +18 natural) hp 189 (18d8+108); regeneration 5 (electricity, fire) Fort +15, Ref +6, Will +11 DR 15/magic; Immune acid, cold, plant traits; SR 24 Offense Speed 40 ft., climb 10 ft.Melee bite +20 (4d6+9/19-20), 4 tentacles +18 (1d8+4) Space 15 ft.; Reach 10 ft. Special Attacks bad breath Statistics Str 29, Dex 11, Con 23, Int 6, Wis 16, Cha 8 Base Atk +13; CMB +24 (+26 bull rush); CMD 34 (36 vs. bull rush, 54 vs. trip) Feats Awesome Blow, Improved Bull Rush, Improved Critical (bite), Improved Initiative, Iron Will, Multiattack, Power Attack,  Step Up, Vital Strike Skills Climb +17, Perception +24 Languages Abyssal Ecology Environment warm and temperate plains Organization solitary, pair or grove (3-6) Treasure incidental Special Abilities Bad Breath (Su) As a standard action once every 1d4 rounds, a malboro can regurgitate a cloud of magically-infused acid. All creatures in a 40 ft. cone take 10d10 acid damage (Reflex DC 25 halves) and must succeed a DC 25 Fortitude save or be inflicted with one or more of the following effects, as indicated on the table below (roll 1d8):

blinded 1d4+1 rounds

confused 1 minute

deafened permanently

exhausted

nauseated 1d4+1 rounds

poison (as the spell)

rage (as the spell) 1 minute

roll twice and apply both (ignoring future rerolls of 8)

This is an acid, poison effect and the save DC is Constitution based.

#malboro #final fantasy #final fantasy x #commissions #pathfinder rpg

[plounce]

i’m the misery meister master of the mean i’m a mad old miserable MALICE machine. melancholy mayhem i don’t mind! but merriment and mirth are much maligned. you meddling morons and your mangy old mutt will be made into MINCEMEAT, that’s what

#chirps