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starry-bi-sky · 3 months

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I'm in A Mood™ (stressed) so im going back to my roots of melting two character together into one person. So bruce wayne!danny fenton. Danny Fenton who, for eight years, grew up in a beautiful gothic manor with his mom and dad under the name "Bruce Wayne". Playing piano with his mother, running around the manor with his father.

Then when he's eight it's ripped away from him. There's blood on his hands and pearls pooling at his feet, and both his parents are dead in front of him.

And he gets shipped off to distant relatives "the Fentons" shortly after, Alfred close on his heels because someone needs to take care of him, someone that knows him. Bruce goes to the Fentons for the safety of anonymity. Gotham's press wants to sink its teeth into him.

Danny misses his city even if it took everything from him. There are shadows in his eyes and he's pale as a sheet even beside his distant cousins, and they change his name to "Danny Fenton' because nobody should know that their newest child was illustrious orphan Bruce Wayne.

They call him Bruce behind closed doors. Danny prefers it that way, he clings onto the name -- the one his parents gave him -- like a lifeline. He makes friends with Sam and Tucker. Tucker takes one look at the willowy, morbid little boy standing in the corner like a shade, ghosts in his eyes, and drags him out into the sunlight, and takes him over to Sam.

When Danny is twelve, he's still not over it -- and he's a little obsessed with the Fentons' research, with the morbid. He has books upon books on death, murder, detective work. Anything he can get his hands on. And stars. He loves stars.

Alfred owns the apartment next to them and comes over regularly. Danny clings to him.

When Danny is twelve, he's still quiet, meek, a shy little thing prone to being bullied. Freaky little Fenton with the night in his eyes and too-cold skin even before he put one foot in the grave. in a sleepover in his room with Sam and Tucker, he tells them the truth. They're his friends, he trusts them.

"My name is Bruce." he murmurs, voice quiet as the breeze, always quiet. he's staring at his star-covered sheets.

"Like Bruce Wayne?" Tucker asks, a joking tone in his voice.

Danny smiles a little, lamb-like with insecurity. "I am Bruce Wayne." And he takes them down to the lab, disrupting Maddie and Jack, to prove it. Sam tells them of her own wealth then shortly after. They start calling Danny "Bruce" in private too -- its trust. Thats what it is. It's trust.

Sam goes to media functions and comes back with aching feet and complaints on her tongue -- and Danny soaks it up all like a sponge, splayed across a beanbag chair with Tucker in her room. He's not envious of her, he used to go to events with his parents and they kept him safe from the ugly of Gotham's Elite. For the most part. He's had comments made at him, he doesn't miss them.

Alfred returns to the manor semi-regularly, Danny goes with him. he wanders the hallways and helps Alfred clean, the last thing either of them want is for their home to fall into disrepair. He brings Jazz with him next time, then Tucker, then Sam. They all help him clean, and he shows them his room. The one across from his parents', it feels strange.

When Danny dies when he's fourteen, the first adult he tells is Alfred. He and Jazz go over to his house more often than they stay in the Fentonworks building. At least at Alfred's, the food doesn't come to life. Alfred sits at the kitchen table and weeps when Danny tells him, Jazz is upstairs, and its just the two of them.

Danny's ghost form wears pearls around his wrist and the gloves look stained with some kind of black substance. He looks like a child who died in a lab accident, but he also looks like a child who has shadows dripping off his shoulders, curling at his feet, hanging from his eyes.

because amorphous blob batman has my heart always and danny/bruce will not escape it even in death even if that IS the only reason im giving him Mild BatBlob Vibes...so far

when they go to the manor, alfred helps danny make a pile of stones between Martha and Thomas' graves, nobody but the two of them (and sam and tucker) will know what it means. (not even bruce's children later down the line, not for a long, long time)

danny dives into ghost fighting on shaky feet and not half as witty as he once was in one world. he's skittish, skittering between blasts from shadow to shadow and clumsily making his way through each battle. but helping people lights a fire in him. he still has shadows dripping off his feet but there's a purpose in his eyes.

and god help him, he's going to help people.

#dpxdc #dp x dc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc crossover #dpdc #dpxdc prompt #this is just me torturing danny for a little bit because im stressed and i cried for an hour while i was driving so im taking it out on B #thanks for being my little stress ball danny #aha my old middle school habit of frankensteining two characters together is resurfacing again :) yall should've seen my wattpad drafts #in middle school. i had 50 of them and most of them were me combining two characters together to make one person and putting them in one au #my most memorable being skydoesminecraft and harry potter. THAT was a fun worldbuilding experience #do i think that growing up with the fentons would fix bruce/danny completely?? hurm. no. dont kid yallselves jazz is not a licensed #therapist not even at like. nine when she meets danny. she's not helping him through his trauma in the slightest. she's nagging.#she's his sister or sister-like figure before she's his therapist. would he be #*entirely* like canon bruce tho?? no. dannybruce is a mix of the both of them. but this is still the first post of the au and is more so #just me doing the equivalent of popping a stress ball so nothing is smoothed over. mostly im just trying to keep bruce's trauma prominent i #danny's character because he IS Bruce. i dont want him to just be 'danny with bruce's backstory but without any of the ugly bits'.#danny and bruce is used interchangeably because they're the same person but sorry if his personality feels imbalanced i came up with this o #the spot. was going to type more but the stress has left me. for now. watch ur back danny 👀

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gilears · 6 months

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one time i was talking about sophomore year with a friend and we were talking about our favorite scenes from the forest. and i was like “oh my GOD that one scene where fabian has to—wait…” and had to stop and think. and it was not canon it was his scene from o&t. thought you’d like to know that lol.

HELLO. this is the best thing ive ever heard... i like knowing this so much.. o&t can be canon if you want it to be. take my hand.

#are we about to kiss fr rn #also the thing about fabian chap is that i understand brennans decision to make fabians trial on the sillier side #for pacing reasons and to not overload on the trauma for the entire episode #and also because fabian did a lot of emotional work on and following leviathan like it made Sense narratively #+ given the constraints of the live show #but did he consider that i had things to say about it?#did you think of that? you beautiful bastard with your beautiful eye freckles?#anyway. genuinely delighted beyond belief at this. thank you #ask #anonymous #o&t

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xamaxenta · 19 days

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Feeling absolutely horrible gut wrenching imposter syndrome in regards to being trans like

The fact i haven’t bothered to do anything about my dysphoria or anxiety about dealing with it means i dont want to transition when i do and idk what to do and its so hard in this country where its very conservativr snd gblsjfbf

Basically trans experience sucking rn i feel like a huge loser and really gross in my own skin

But idk im terrified of having to speak to a fucking doctor about this because i always feel like theyre not gonna believe me.

#like. why do i have to prove myself to anyone.#i also just. have so much trauma around telling people im trans #i hate it that i do #but its the reason im resisting because the rejection would be so insanely painful #thanks mom and dad for that. ive never loved or trusted you since.#its a lie everyone wants to love their parents.#im just overwhelmingly sad about this #im so lost im so fuckingnfjfh #fuck me i hate myself so much #i hate how i look i hate how i sound o hold absolutely no love inside me for me #im always so wistful when i see those self love posts on IG or Twitter like #these people are so happy #with being them and im like why cant i feel that?#also vaguely related but drawing that trans sabo really ignited a fucking longing in my heart and it just feels so far away

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magicdonuts-supreme · 2 years

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Your F/O would take a “No” from you and promptly back off the second that word falls from your lips.

Your F/O would make sure to check with you and ask for your consent before even trying to speak on your behalf.

Your F/O would listen, not speak over you or trample over your words to get to their own point.

Your F/O would never try to weasel out a different response from you or wear you down until you buckle at their every whim.

After all, you are the one they adore.

They don’t want to mold you into the neighbour down the street, the flawless person you wish you could be, nor the character you think they should pick over you. Nothing — no amount of “merciful” lies, acts, or people-pleasing — will ever be as magnificent in their eyes as you simply existing. Even if you can’t see it, their love-stricken words and/or yearning gaze are only for you.

And when your “home” finally grows tired of slipping hatred under your door? Your F/O will rest beside you. Perhaps the others in your life have done the exact opposite of the four statements I made at the start, but your beloved wants you to know that they would silence the whole world just to make your voice heard.

Imagine your F/O gently yet sternly telling you that “Whatever you want” can’t always be your answer. While it might’ve been pleasing for others to hear, they’ll try their hardest to coax solid “Yes” or “No” answers from you, to get to know you as you are and never as what the others wanted you to be. You might not completely know yourself, but your F/O would never hesitate to look for your true colors beside you.

They want to familiarise themself with every thought and feeling that you are willing to share with them. Your F/O is simply honored that you want to sail the seven seas of your self-discovery with them. And when the fates inevitably send a storm your way? They’ll always be your anchor, your place to rest.

… Maybe the true home you were searching for is much closer than you previously thought.

#writing induced by sheer lack of self-preservation? more likely than you’d think jcjakncksknfkslm #I’m kinda surprised that people actually feel validated and comforted by these #but it was always the goal. so… thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy whatever else my brain can conjure in the future #imagine your comfort character #f/o x s/i #romantic f/o #familial f/o #queerplatonic f/o #platonic f/o #f/o imagines #imagine your f/o #f/o prompts #self shipping #just something about a caretaker trying to get you to unlearn behaviors that toxic people taught you 🥺🥹#people-pleaser selfshippers. got anything to say for yourselves?#tw past abuse #tw trauma #my writing

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kanalaure · 2 months

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✨ for the unusual headcanon?

✨ - Worldbuilding or background story elements.

the older an elf lives the more rarely they leave their elven community, or whatever place they've chosen as their own. not because they physically can't, but after...... mm, let's say roughly five thousand years of life other beings (men, dwarves, hobbits. i dont think this would bother the ents too much though) can start to feel that age in the air around them. it unnerves them to see someone walking around who looks between twenty-three and thirty years old but emanates the same feeling of incredible age you'd associate with the mountains or very old cities (or, more likely, the ruins of very old cities), and understandably the elves in question don't like being stared at by the entire local community, who are experiencing the uncanny valley effect en masse

galadriel and celeborn, both grown before the sun and moon were crafted, carry their years in their eyes and cast their accumulated wisdom around themselves like fine, delicately embroidered shawls

maglor, alone, wears his years like a net of stones set atop his shoulders. he is older than the cliff faces that border the sea he strides besides, and feels like it too

unusual headcanons ask game here

#thanks for the ask! i was hoping someone would send this one in #silmarillion #silm headcanons #sorry for the note this ended on #i dont think he stays alone forever but i did want to highlight the contrast between living in your trauma versus accepting it and moving o #because elves are so literally 'mind over matter' that it has a tangible effect on them #galadriel #celeborn #maglor #ask games

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jokerislandgirl32 · 5 months

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Just a quick question, when is Violet and Zach's wedding anniversary? 👀

Hi anon! Thank you so much for sending this ask! I absolutely love this question, and I’m so excited to answer it because I’ve never provided you guys with a concrete answer to this! *Happily grabs three of my fic notebooks to find the exact date*

For starters, Zach and Violet technically have two wedding anniversary dates. The first date is associated with their legal wedding which was only attended by a few close family members and included a small reception afterwards with the family and villains. The second date is for their “big, fancy” wedding ceremony, held in the same church Violet’s parents were married, in her hometown of Outer Banks, North Carolina.

Their legal wedding anniversary, then, is: April 12, 2014.

The wedding ceremony anniversary is: October 18th, 2014.

Due to trauma and heartbreak associated with their legal wedding (why they got married, loss, and their near divorce following the legal marriage), they chose to celebrate their wedding anniversary on the date of their wedding ceremony: October 18th 💜.

I hope this answers your question anon! Feel free to send anymore you have at any time! Thank you again this ask!

For anyone who is interested, more information about both weddings may be found in the following posts 😊:

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goldkirk · 1 year

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if i may recommend, the kitchen table cult podcast. hosts talk about growing up in conservative christian households and being homeschooled in that environment, and unpacking all of the bs they were taught.

Hey, thank you so much for this rec!!!! I just pulled them up and I’m going to listen this weekend, I can’t wait

#this looks P R O M I S I N G #THANK YOU #anonymous #katie answers asks #deconstruction #religious trauma #trauma recovery #resources #cult escapee

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west-tokyo-incidents · 1 year

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The Facility; Frozen Needles

CW; heavy gore, trauma, extreme injury to a minor, nightmares, and manipulation

I don't have a good summary for this story. But it's fun.

---

Cold.

So fucking cold.

Fusataro groaned and curled tighter under her covers. It’s too damn cold in her room. She blindly reaches for her phone on the bedside table to look at the time, but it won’t turn on. Shit, must’ve forgotten to plug it in for the night.

She swings her legs off her bed and reluctantly gets up. Did Rage turn the thermostat down or something? Or maybe it just got colder tonight than expected. She pulls on some pants and a shirt just so she’s not freezing. She even considers putting on her shoes, hardwood floors are not kind to cold bare feet, but it’ll only be for a minute. She yawns and shakes her head just a bit to wake up more and turns to the door.

She doesn’t notice that she can see her own breath in the air until she opens the door and is nearly blinded by white.

Snow.

She stares for a moment after her eyes adjust.

She’s dreaming. Okay. Never been one to lucid dream, what the fuck was in her cigarette.

The landscape doesn’t change. She slowly closes the door. She tries to focus on her different senses, but everything seems to be in working order. She pinched herself, counted down… but she didn’t wake up. Great. Okay, fine, she’s stuck dreaming.

She’s putting her damn shoes on, though. At least the dream was courteous enough not to make her walk barefoot in the snow.

She couldn’t find her jacket, though–wait, no, she remembered where it was. In the living room after she’d thrown it on the couch.

Well why does that matter to this stupid fucking dream? It could at least give her that.

…

But the world remained unresponsive to her angry thoughts. Cold and stone silent.

She shivered.

Okay, well, at least it’s consistent. She looks at the door. Why does she even need to go out there, anyways? It’s cold and bright and all around just a bad time. She could just curl back up in her bed.

But something was nagging at her. The white light spilling into the room from under and around the door felt… strange. Slowly, she walks closer to the door and opens it again, to look. At the threshold, she looks out over the snow. It’s not just snow, there’s trees. Pine trees, she thinks. Sparse bushes devoid of their leaves for the winter. Rocks that jut out of the snow. It looks like imagery off a nature documentary. But she’s never been anywhere like this. Why dream about this…?

She steps out, and the snow crunches under her feet. It isn’t that deep. Maybe an inch deep at most. Probably because of the canopy of the trees. She takes another step, her hand falling off the doorknob. It’s silent except for her footsteps and her slow, soft breathing. A glance behind her confirms her suspicion. Her room is gone now. She wraps her arms around her and shivers. At least she’s not in any real danger.

Nothing in a dream can really hurt her.

She looks around for anything interesting.

Crack! Thump!

She jumps and whips around, eyes wildly searching. She sees snow settling around a branch sticking out of the ground. She looks up, and sees the splintered end of a branch on the tree above. It must’ve broken under the weight of the snow. Shaking off her nerves, she goes over to look at the fallen branch.

Her steps stutter as she sees something red.

Slowly her steps stop. She can barely see over the edge of the little crater. Something is there that isn’t branch or snow. She can see one loop of a rope around the branch. The snow around is scattered with drops of red.

She doesn’t know if she can’t smell anything because it’s a dream or if it’s because of the cold, but she’s thankful for it. Slowly, she backs away. Against her own wishes, she looks back up. And really looks. Her heart drops to her gut. There are more bodies hanging from the branches above, slowly swaying in the wind. She steps back slowly.

Back and away from the body on the ground, but her eyes don’t come down from looking above.

She isn’t paying attention to where she’s going.

Her back hits something.

With an undignified noise, she jumps and spins around.

It’s a tree.

A fucking. Tree.

She lets out something between an angry huff and a trembling sigh of relief. It’s just a tree.

She lets her eyes close for a second and she leans against the bark, trying to catch herself.

What a fucked up dream. At least she knows she’ll wake up at some point. Hopefully sooner rather than later. After a second of recovering, she opens her eyes again.

There’s something blue against the white and black and brown and cold greens. She leans up off the tree and squints, trying to see what it is. It’s a few yards away, behind another tree…

It moves, just barely.

As if she wasn’t already cold, ice flushes through her body.

It’s an eye. The white shape it’s attached to is the skull of some animal. Her heart flies from her stomach into her throat. Her knuckles turn white, gripping the tree.

It steps out from behind the tree, slowly. A great black limb swings forward from its hiding place, and sinks into the snow with the faintest noise to indicate it. It looks like one of Rage’s gauntlets, though broken. Pieces of it like broken glass barely clinging on. Some little shards even fall into the snow.

The great skull-head swings out, eyes still trained on her and solely her. The skull is a bull’s. White hair in a tangled, matted mess, spill out from behind the skull. Yellowed and in terrible shape. Ruined. The mouth opens and a wet, yellow-red sick spills from the maw like infected pus from an abscess.

She stumbles back, its eyes follow her.

It gurgles. Bubbles fall out in the oozing fluids as it does. Its other front limb swings forward, and she can see the bruises that cover the skin of this… rage-thing’s shoulder.

It’s pitiful. An abused, broken thing. With teeth as long as her forearm. The mouth falls open more, and with another gurgle, it roars at her.

You shouldn’t run from a predator. Especially not one that you know is much faster than you. You’ll only activate its chase response. It’ll only end badly.

Fusataro runs.

She barely notices that she steps on the body in her flight. The world is nothing but white and cold and tree branches. Black trunks of pine trees seem to twist like claws trying to grab her and feed her to the beast that’s chasing her.

Its galloping feet echo her heartbeat, heavy in her ears. Painfully in her ears. She can’t see anything but the white. It hurts. A flash of black becomes too obvious, too sudden, she can’t move out of the way in time. Her shoulder collides, full bodied, into the tree. She’s falling. Further than she should have. Through the snow she hits a rock. Or the ground. Both are equally hard as she rolls. It’s a ditch. Something flashes across her vision…

And she’s alive. The chasing galloping is retreating. She’s alive. She shudders and stares blankly up at the branches above. The running steps she can still hear seem to skid to a stop. Panic floods her ears and she’s scrambling to get up. It’s coming back for her.

Something grabs her arm. Something strong and with needle-sharp edges. She screams and yanks against it, tearing her sleeve and skin.

“Shut up!!”

Her own voice.

She hadn’t spoken.

In her shock, she freezes, and the grasp on her shoulder is dragging her down the ditch-path. She’s thrown against one side after a few steps, “Stay fucking still.”

She does as she’s told, not even breathing.

Heavy, gurgling pants come from where she just was. The wet plop-splat of gore on rock and root. She can picture the beast standing over the ditch, looking down into it.

A hissing sound. Not like a cat, but like hot metal on cold skin. A burning hiss. Water dripped onto a red-hot stove-top. She can’t picture what that is.

A low, rolling growl. A grumble, even. Footsteps retreating. Can she breathe now? She doesn’t dare to. How long has it been? Doesn’t really matter. She isn’t really seeing the world in front of her.

Something pokes her shoulder. Her whole body jerks in a flinch and her head snaps up to… what, growl at what had poked her?

“You okay?”

It takes a moment for her to process what she’s looking at. A face. Her face.

Well, kind of. Her eyes are sunken, deep bags hang under them, her eyes fogged over, eyelids crusted with ice. The right side of her jaw and cheek are all gore, jaw muscles exposed and blackening from frostbite. Her teeth, on the other hand, are gold, bright, even, as they move. Sharp. Like a predator’s. A cat’s. Something’s being said. She’s talking.

Rapidly she blinks and tries to make eye contact and focus on what’s being said.

“S-Sorry, what did you say?”

The… other her sighed in exasperation.

“I was asking if you broke anything.”

Oh. Right. Herself. She reached up and rubbed at the shoulder that hit the tree. Pain returned to her world all in a rush and she whimpered. But it’s… not as bad as she thought. She shakes her head.

“Good.” A hand reaches up and sets down on her arm. A shudder runs up Fusataro’s spine as she stares at her limb. It’s all bone, as gold as her teeth… and it’s not human. The ends of her fingers are backwards, wicked claws folded back. Cat bones.

“...Don’t worry, once you wake up hopefully you’ll forget most of this.”

“So… this is a dream.” She hugs her arms around herself, “I am dreaming.”

“...yeah, but it’s not yours. Ours. Whatever. It’s his.”

“...his?”

“Paresse. My Paresse.” The other her stands up and offers one of her limbs out. The bones disappear up into the shredded and charred fabric at her elbow, but the bloodstains just above her elbow belay enough to tell her where they truly attach. She swallows, but reluctantly takes it.

“... Yours?”

“Yeah… It’s… hard to explain. Multi-universe theory is correct, at least…!” A half hearted laugh as she pulls her hand quickly away from the gaudy bones. The claws flex outward and then fold back again. The other… ‘her’ looks away.

“I don’t know if yours is, but mine took over Vice’s place as Ultimate Evil. I don’t know how or why, but he killed Vice. He started infecting our dreams. Dragging us into his. This place.” She motions around.

“Was that…”

“That was Rage, yeah. And most of us are… like this…” She holds up her… paw? And stares at it. Then she sighs and drops it down. “Everyone’s here. This is where we go when we sleep.”

“... And now he’s. Taken me.”

“Yeah.” She sighs, “And you need to get out of here.”

A numb nod. She couldn’t agree more. But she stares at the other. Can she really trust this?

“How?”

“... There’s a place. At the base of the mountain. Akira thinks it’s the way Paresse left the mountains after Michel died. There’s a lake there. When Paresse is done with us, he takes us there and… drowns us. Then we wake up.”

Fusataro shivers at the thought.

“...We can’t let Paresse find you. Rage has probably already gone to tell him you’re here. We have to move.”

The dream-Fussa stands up and moves. A tail drags behind her, sparse black fur stuck in places like rot on dying flesh. Bone is exposed, torn muscles barely holding it in place. It’s as pitiful of a sight as the dream-Rage. Fusataro twists to push herself up, feeling dirt falling from her hair and her clothes.

It’s all so real… too real. She can taste the blood in her mouth from where she must’ve bitten her own tongue in the run or in the fall. She can feel the bits of dirt in her shoes and the cold sting of the snow melting against her skin. She can smell the blood in her nose. She can hear the crunch of gravel and snow under their feet. She can see what’s right before her eyes.

A fucked up half-feline half-corpse version of herself half limping down a gore-caked, rocky ditch. She follows numbly. The other pauses. Looks back at her.

“If you get separated from me, go down the mountain. From here, it’s all downhill. Understand?”

She blinks, then nods. She wishes she’d brought her sweater. Her nose is starting to run and her fingers are hurting from the cold. She doesn’t imagine it’ll be long before she can’t feel them at all.

They keep walking. There’s a sickening crunch-splat. It jerks her to attention. An icy patch of water, running. The ditch is starting to turn into a stream.

“We can’t stay in here for forever.” The dream-her looked up at the edge of the ditch, her tail twitches and lifts off the ground before she crouches and jumps up above with inhuman grace. She looks around with those fogged eyes, then turns around and offers one of her claw-hands down.

She takes it, but the other her pauses.

“Please remember, whatever you see here, you’ll forget it soon, okay?” There’s a small crack of remorse in her voice. Fusataro swallows, but nods.

And she’s lifted up.

She snow here is very nearly only slush. Caked with gore in shades brown and black and red. Bones jut from corpses, bodies she both recognizes and some she isn’t sure even cops could identify. Douji, master, all in a disgusting sepia gradient painting the pine forest. Even her dream-self’s golden parts seem to mesh with their surroundings.

Something crunches. Out of the corner of her eye she sees a hulking beast, and turns to look. She can make out a bright orange mane, and a lion-head gnawing on a corpse. It stares blankly in their direction, but not at them, but beyond. Saliva and blood drool out of his maw from the lazy roll of his jaw through bone and fat and organ.

Claws on her arm, gently pulling her, “Come on, he’s occupied.” There’s an undertone of urgency to her voice. She turns to follow, shivering and quickly. A deep part of her doesn’t want to trust her. This horrible version of herself leading her deeper and deeper into this nightmare. But what else could she do? Run? Where? Down hill to where she was already going? Back to where her own douji was hunting her like a rabbit?

There’s nowhere for her to go if she ran.

Orghullo isn’t the only one. A terrible visage that might’ve been the small body of Hana dragging her entails behind her as she fought with a douji she was pretty sure was Jealousy. All of them had ice and rot and fresh wounds. The bodies littered the woods. Reminders, she was told, of all the last times they failed. Of all the times they died in these dreams. The bodies were left behind. The only thing to eat in this wasteland. And if they didn’t, they were kept here until they starved and died that way… and woke up again in the dream. Until Paresse let them wake up in the lake.

Fusataro remembers Mizho one time bragging about surviving on the mountains as Michel.

She wonders if this is some twisted projection of those horrors, the starving and freezing, exacerbated by the fact it was a dream.

Something snarls.

She runs into her companion’s back and looks up. Up into the… shockingly clear eyes of Desir, staring at her in disbelief. His body is one of the worst for wear, his hair mere clumps on his head, visors broken down to little slivers floating by his face. His face, half of which is just shattered and twisted metal and wood. His gauntlets are twisted into horrible claws and his legs just taper into the spikes of his lower legs, feet gone and his chest cracked open, his sphere bared and cracked in a hundred places.

The other her is tense, sparse fur on end and claws extended.

The Desir’s eyes slowly turn to the other.

“What have you done?” He whispers harshly.

“Fuck off, bunny boy!” The hiss that comes from her is like a brand hitting flesh. The gold of her teeth and claws begin to steam, “This isn’t any of your business!”

Desir takes a step back then his eyes snap back to her, face twisting into something akin to fury, mouth opening to speak, but he’s drowned out by the roar-hiss that comes from his companion.

“Run!!”

And she does, taking off down hill as the two collide. Running again. This time, though, there’s nothing chasing her. Not yet. But she feels eyes in her back and she swears she sees eyes out of the corners of her vision among the trees. The ground is cold and wet and slippery and she struggles to maintain footing until the trees suddenly open and she’s on a path.

She skids to a stop and frantically looks around. The stones here are coated with blood in dragging streaks, signs of many bodies being taken through this way.

She hears a hiss. Not like a cat. Not like something wet touching something hot.

She hears a hiss like the scales of a snake rubbing against themselves. The wet flick of a tongue.

She takes off down the path, all sense lost. The lake is her way out, that’s all it can be. That’s all she can think of. The bright reflection of the sun off a great, reflective surface rewards her and she can’t help but feel grateful. It’s almost over. She can forget about all of this, everything she’s seen. She’ll warn the others of her own timeline. She’ll…

She’ll slip in something soft and fall into sharp rocks. Something will crack, and pain shoots through her face. Her blood joins the rest. She chokes, shocked and the wind knocked out of her. She’s certain she just broke her jaw. With a groan she tries to make her muscles move. She struggles to stand up, all too aware of how badly her shoulder aches, how little she can feel her limbs, and the sheer pain in her body. She can see the lake, just barely, through tears that threaten to freeze her eyes shut. She whimpers. It’ll be over soon. All she has to do is get into the lake. Drown herself… Won't be hard, she thinks bitterly, she can barely imagine being able to swim like this. She stumbles towards the frozen edge.

“Well, well… Aren’t you resilient?” She ignores the hiss of Paresse’s voice behind her. The footsteps lazily following her down the gravely shore, “I chose my first in this timeline well. She’ll make a good host, won’t she?”

“I told you so.”

That voice. That voice shocks her. Her own voice. She turns to look. She doesn’t see Paresse, only the shape next to him, Desir’s corpse in her claws. She wishes she could be shocked at the betrayal. Instead she gives a pathetic little laugh. It’s echoed by the mad giggle of her mirror self.

“It’s really sad, you almost got away, too!” She waved one of her claws dismissively towards Paresse. Wait… what did she mean? She was never safe. First Rage, then following her, then now… She turns and sees the rage-thing in the twisted green claws of Paresse. Its blue eyes stare at her, tears running down his skull-face. His eyes are clear.

Just like Desir’s. Her eyes snap to her mirror-self’s. Foggy, icey. Just like Orghullo, like Hana, like Jealousy. Then back to Rage.

“You were trying to save me…” She could only think it, not say it through her slowly swelling jaw. His blue eyes seem to soften for a moment… before they pop out of his skull as it’s crushed by those claws. A whimper left her as his body is dropped to the ground, joining the countless others.

“Thank you…” The tired, lazy hiss-drawl of Paresse’s voice is suffocating, “...for running all this way. It’s so exhausting having to drag everyone out here…” She finally looks up at him.

He’s almost pristine, it’s another kind of horrifying. His body free of gore, even from the mangled corpse in his hand. His mask twisted and strange, a mouth like an oni’s in the shape of a snake’s. Tusks jutting out, with a gap in the front for the thick wet fork of his tongue to slide out and flick. His hair longer, neck longer, limbs longer, too long to be mistaken for natural.

She takes a step back and her foot breaks through the ice, soaking through her shoe and into her skin.

“Now… let’s stop playing with our food, shall we?”

His hand is suddenly around her head, pressing against her broken jaw. She screams and claws at it, as if that would make it stop, as if there’s anything she can do. The next thing she knows is cold. Cold and pain and muffled noises. Underwater.

Cold.

So fucking cold.

—

Dubois skims over the report from his wife, eyes slowly blinking, “Why is it always instances of you and me, love?”

Songbird laughs softly, and shakes her head, “I don’t know. But what I do know is that Boon’s been itching for a mission with you in charge ever since we got back, and this one seems like a good one for the whole Bloodline crew back together.”

Dubois leans back in his chair, “You gonna join us, tweetheart?”

“Call me that again and I’ll rip your head off.”

“Depends, where will you put it?”

“Oh, fuck off and go get to work, you pervert!” She playfully throws a pen at him and he laughs, turning his chair to get up. The paperwork still in his hand, he skims the details a third time. They wouldn’t be any easy feat to tackle on their own turf, but the perpetrators are bunkered up astonishingly tight. Any who go into their timeline are fucked once they try and sleep, and now they know the Facility exists via the dreams and memories of those who’ve died there.

He closes his eyes as he walks.

There’s no amount of equipment or modification that can be taken into your dreams. They have to find that bunker or nest or whatever it is. And there’s no telling how strong they are in the real world. The good douji of their timeline are all dead, so are their masters, so there’s no getting information out of them. But the time line they’re latched onto…

He wonders if Torment wants another toy.

—

Fusataro wakes with a start, her lungs warm and wet and her stomach rolling. She practically bolts out of bed, stumbling and clawing her way into her bathroom. She leans over her sink and retches harshly. Her dinner comes up with a vengeance not even her douji could muster. She gags and whines at the taste. At the smell. But it’s not blood. It’s not ice water. Her room is nice and warm and calm and clean… well, except for her sink now. But she isn’t focused on that, she’s staring at her hands. Her knuckles. Her skin. A soft laugh leaves her. She’s out of there.

A knock on her door.

“You okay, ‘taro?”

A sigh, “Yeah… Yeah, I’m okay. Just a nightmare.”

She’s more than okay. She looks up into the mirror.

Like an after-image, gold fangs smile back at her over her reflection as she grins.

#karakuridouji ultimo #The Facility #fussa fusataro #dream eater au #<- in case I ever wanna write this w/o the facility because golden fang Fussa is giving me worms #thanks millhaven #cw gore #cw trauma #the facility: frozen needles

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cosbeans · 1 year

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!! oc time-

!!!oc time!!!! :oD

*opens my wallet and drops 3045934 images of my most recent el wiwi, woosung*

i made him in collaboration with some friends, so i cant disclose too much information, but i can say hes the one in the group who has the Most Issues and also accidentally slipped into the role of main antagonist in the narrative, but i love him for that so <3 his only crime is occupying my thoughts 24/7

#puts more fun facts in the tags #he has a High Body Count #also a product of generational trauma except he uses murder as his coping mechanism #he does ballet on the side though! so its all fine :o]#an ask #cosme screams #ocs #woosung #trucbiduleschouettes #hehe thank u for indulging me

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