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mishapen-dear · 2 years

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There’s a little green something in the cracks of the road. Grian stares at it, and then he looks at Scar, who is humming cheerfully while he rummages in his bag, and then Grian looks back to the little plant.

Grian looks at Scar again. He takes a step closer to the plant. Scar, blissfully, does not notice.

Something fungal bubbles at the back of Grian’s throat.

He crouches, inconspicuous, next to the plant. He knows it isn’t grass, that it’s probably a weed, but he doesn’t know anything more. He doesn’t care to know anything more, really, and it won’t matter in a moment anyway. He reaches and-

A dull pain pings bright on his arm. He startles upright, wings flaring out, and Scar shoots him several more times with the Nerf gun. The little foam darts bounce harmlessly off of Grian’s chest.

“Bad Grian!” Scar scolds him cheerfully. “No plant killing! Bad!”

“But it’s a small one!” Grian protests immediately, startled and indignant at the embarrassment of being caught. Another foam dart hits him.

“Nuh-uh!”

“Ow- Scar, come on, it’s itsy bitsy,” Grian tries, wheedling now. “It won’t hurt anything.”

“Well, you know that’s not true. It’ll hurt the plant,” Scar answers reasonably. He waves his toy gun threateningly at Grian. “You know the deal, G. No pestulating in the Hoe-ly Spaces.” He uses his dramatic voice to say Hoe-ly Spaces. He always uses the dramatic voice to say Hoe-ly Spaces. Grian wants to punt Hoe-ly Spaces and all associated dramatisms into the sun.

“That’s not a word, Scar,” Grian says petulantly. He ruffles his wings and sits on the larger half of a broken concrete barrier. The vines that had been wrapped around the barrier writhe away from the spores that fall from his wings, so Grian vindictively shakes his wings more. This, at least, Scar does not scold him for.

“What? Sure it is.” Scar has gone back to rifling through his bag again. He keeps pulling out strangely shaped bottles of bright colours with baffling smells. Grian would be more alarmed, but he knows Scar has a weird thing with taking labels off of bottles. How the man ever remembers what goes where, though, he has no idea.

(He has some idea. Scar’s tongue is too many different colours, always, and he’s been almost poisoned thrice. By Grian’s count, the man should be dead.)

“Pestulate is not a word,” Grian says, doubling down.

“Then what is it?” Scar asks innocently. He pulls out a jug of blood and lugs it into the centre of the clearing.

“A nonsense.” Grian shakes his wings again. There’s now a full circle of empty asphalt and concrete around him, free of plant matter. His spores won’t root without living tissue, but he feels a little vindicated by every twitch of the green things moving away from him. “Are you done yet?”

“Grian, Grian, Grian, you can’t rush a good blood ritual” Scar exclaims. “Do you know what happened to the last guy to rush a blood ritual?”

“He di-”

“He died!” Scar presses a hand against his heart. “The plants swooped up and ate him! I found his bones, Grian! His bones!”

“We could just leave,” Grian suggests. “This is- what, the fifth blood ritual? We’re fine without them, Scar. I bet the Kingmaker doesn’t even notice.”

“Oh, pish-posh.” Scar holds out the jug and pours the blood straight down over the smallest unbloomed flower in the clearing. The jug makes awful noises as the blood chugs and glugs out of it, because Scar doesn’t care for any silly thing like fluid dynamics. The jug convulses like its gasping for air and it makes sounds that Grian thinks Scar would make if he were ever simultaneously choked and drowned. The red blood splashes across the green, seeps through the cracks in the asphalt, and gets all over Scar’s shoes. Grian draws his own feet up in distaste, but he’s far enough that no blood touches him. “You know that’s not his name.”

“He doesn’t get a name,” Grian says. “I’m mad at him.”

“Careful, Grian!” Scar says cheerfully. “That almost sounds like rebellion.”

Grian scoffs, loud, but he doesn’t say anything. Scar continues with his stupid blood ritual. Which is to say that Scar goes back to his bag, grabs a canteen, and returns to the plant. Without ceremony, Scar upends that jug over the plant too.

“Scar!” Grian squawks, scrabbling to his feet. “Scar, that’s all our water! Scar!”

“Oops!” Scar says cheerful.

“You only used a few drops for the other rituals!” Grian wails. “We just got that!”

“Oops!” Scar says again. He has no remorse. Grian snatches the nerf gun from where Scar had left it on the ground and shoots him with it. “Ow!”

“You’re the worst,” Grian says.

“Love you, too, G,” Scar says. He shakes the canteen to get the last few drops of water out. Grian watches them fall with despair. The water washes away the blood, dilutes it across the asphalt and towards the ring of vines and green things that surround them. Scar gives the little twice-baptised bloom a loving pat, and it opens in his palm. The petals are a different colour in each Hoe-ly Space, and the same holds true for here. These petals are unnaturally white, unsettlingly perfect, and-

“Is there another flower in there?” Grian demands.

Scar doesn’t lift his gaze. “Yeah,” he says. He touches a scarred hand gently to the second bloom, which shivers at the contact but doesn’t open. “Huh.”

“...Huh?” Grian echoes. “Scar?”

“It’s okay, G,” Scar says too fast. “Let’s just go shopping, yeah? All done here.” He steps back from the plant. He sees the look Grian is giving him and tries to give a bright smile in return. “Seriously, Grian, it’s fine.”

Grian has always had a knack for knowing when Scar is lying.

“...If you say so.” Grian watches Scar pack up his bag, holster the nerf gun, and throw the plant a two-fingered salute. He’s too quick. They haven’t been here for even twenty minutes, maybe, and normally Scar stretches the ritual to last an hour. Grian guesses that he’s not surprised that the blood-jug and the water are the only necessary components. The steps for the other rituals had been sporadically changed each time. “Ready to go?”

“Can we get ice cream on the way?” Scar asks, even though he knows that all the ice cream in the world has already melted.

“Sure,” Grian says, even though he knows that the corpses of the ice cream shop workers are ripe in their rot.

Scar steps up onto the concrete barrier, almost loses his balance then helps Grian up and almost sends them both toppling over. Grian doesn’t comment on it. Scar keeps casting glances to the weird plants, but stops when Grian opens his arms. Scar grabs onto him, tightly, and Grian holds tight in return. Grain’s wings start to flap (Scar sneezes at the spraying spores) and they step off the concrete barrier together. Soon, they’re in the air.

(Scar has cracked a Superman joke at least once every time Grian has flown him somewhere. This time he’s nothing but silent, and he keeps trying to peek back at the plant-filled bridge they’d left behind. Grian flies a little faster.)

—---

Scar lets Grian kill whatever he wants, most days. He doesn’t like mushrooms, or fungus, or mycelia-filled goo, but he doesn’t complain too much. It’s a good deal for both of them, Grian figures. Scar helps Grian with his whole ending-an-apocalypse-by-causing-a-different-apocalypse deal, and he’s good company in a world full of decomposing things that used to be people, and he lets Grian know when he’s getting too close to the rebellion line. The plants destroy anything that oppose them, and the last thing Grian wants is to openly oppose them.

Mushrooms are better. They’re kinder. Almost plant, almost animal, and there’s so much for them to eat. Much better than the violence of true plants.

Honestly? Grian shouldn’t even be alive. It’s pure luck that he found the mycelia before the plants could burrow into him, it’s luck that it Chose him, and it’s luck that it wants the world to end again.

(Sometimes, late at night, he wonders if he’d be happier if he’d been the first harbinger of end-times rather than the second. But, then again, mushrooms are components of decay. Scavengers rather than hunters- it makes sense, maybe, that the fungal spread occurs after the flora’s feast.)

Grian thinks he’s almost done. He used to be human, but now mushrooms sprout around him when he sleeps, and spores spread on the wind from his wings. He leaves large fields of fungus in his wake. Soon enough, he’ll have to actively hunt for the green and force it to recede. Soon enough, the old apocalypse will be ended, and the new ending can truly begin. That’s why Grian doesn’t mind carting Scar around to the last green places so much- Scar gets a free travelling companion, and Grian gets lead right to the green sources that Scar doesn’t want him to hurt. Grian doesn’t hurt them because then Scar will stop showing him where they are, and Grian is smart enough to bide his time. One day, maybe, Scar will die, and Grian will be free to kill as many green spaces as he wants.

(Grian shouldn’t have to kill him. The plants should have killed him. The fungus should have rotted him. Grian sometimes wonders what it means that he’s still alive. He licks poison and blood and shiny things that should give him tetanus, but he’s still alive.)

(Grian thinks about leaving, sometimes, but he never does. He’s always been too curious for his own good.)

“What’s that for?” Grian asks.

Scar freezes like a statue, weedkiller clutched tight in his hands. Slowly, as if Grian is a predator with poor eyesight, he hides it behind his back. Grian tries, unsuccessfully, to stifle his laughter.

“Scar. You know I can see you, don’t you?”

Scar deflates, shoulders slumping forwards as he pulls the weedkiller out again. “Okay, okay, you caught me, G,” he says. “I’m just… looking for a drink.”

“That’s weedkiller.”

“So?”

“...Okay, you’re not even trying now,” Grian says. “What’s with the weedkiller, Scar?”

Scar shuffles his feet and bites his lip, then huffs out a breath. “Are we alone?”

Grian, still smiling, raises his brows and looks around the store. Most of the shelves have been raided, several of them knocked over, and the only people in the vicinity haven’t been people in a long time.

“The plants, G,” Scar says impatiently.

“Oh, no, those are gone,” Grian says. “The mycelium works fast, you know that.”

“Right,” Scar says, and he goes quiet.

Grian eyes him, then gestures to a currently-indoor outdoor furniture set that doesn’t even have any blood on it. “Do you want to sit down?” he offers.

Scar makes a beeline for the furniture set, weedkiller still clutched tight in his grasp. Grian has barely figured out how to sit without crushing his wings when Scar blurts out, “The King’s called a meeting.”

Grian almost falls out of his seat. “What?”

“Yeah,” Scar says. “And I have to go, or, you know.” He jerks his head towards the nearest corpse. There are vines wrapped around its neck. “I was hoping you could give me a ride?”

Grian gapes at him. He feels his mental gears spinning frantically, completely tractionless. “Okay- wait.” He runs his hand through his hair and ignores the mushrooms that brush against his hand. “The King called a meeting- why? He hasn’t done that before- do you think he knows you’re working with me? This is probably a trap, Scar. You know this is probably a trap.”

Scar looks at the weedkiller on his lap. “Yeah.”

Grian stares. “Oh.”

Scar grimace-smiles. “I figured- you’ve been a good friend, Grian. I have… loyalty, to the crown, but I won’t let them kill you.”

“Oh.”

Scar shrugs a little self-consciously. “It’s the least I can do, you know?”

Grian doesn’t want to say it. He likes Scar, though, and he would feel guilty if he didn’t point out, “What’s stopping me from killing them, then? You know what my goals are.”

“Rebellion, Grian,” Scar says automatically. Grian winces and raises his hands in apology, and Scar continues. “I figured- well, maybe you won’t if I ask you really nicely?”

“That can’t be it.”

Scar shrugs. “You haven’t touched the spaces,” he explains. “And all I did there is ask you nicely.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Grian fumbles for a second. “That’s- it’s- like- chopping off a head will kill a body?” he tries. “Like- the spaces are the hands, and the King is the head, so that’s- yeah.”

“Are you going to chop his head off?”

Grian is quiet.

“Please, Grian, don’t kill him,” Scar says. He holds the weedkiller carefully, and his fingers keep nervously tapping at its sides. “Neither of them. None of them. Just- keep being your mushroomy, birdy self, okay? You don’t even have to talk to them if you don’t want to.”

Grian is silent.

“Please?”

Grian caves. Mournfully, he thinks of the Hoe-ly Spaces, and he thinks of the quiet rule he has to kill those whenever Scar dies. It feels wrong to delegate something like killing the King to that same rule, but- Scar is right. Beheading the King sounds like it comes too close to rebelling, anyway. “Okay.”

Scar lets out a breath, then gives Grian a winning smile. “Okay!” he says. “Okay, perfect! Hey, I think I saw some chocolate earlier, maybe it won’t be expired.”

“It’s definitely expired,” Grian says, but he stands and offers Scar a hand to help him up.

Scar takes the hand and pulls himself up to his feet. “It’s always good to have hope, G,” he says brightly, and they continue to ravage the store.

—---

The place Scar takes him to isn’t green at all. It’s white and red and brown, like old and new blood on white petals. Well, Grian shouldn’t be thinking in similes here- there is literally old and new blood staining old petals almost everywhere he looks.

The border of the Tree’s territory is made of wood, or whatever it is that roots are made of. They drip red onto the white flowers that make up the groundcover. It had been relatively easy to get past the border- it opened up when Scar approached, peacefully allowing him through. The roots shuddered furiously when Grian approached, but they didn’t kill him when he tucked his wings in and pretended to be demure, so he thinks that means he’s basically Scar’s unwelcomely welcomed plus one. He’s not sure if court people even get to have plus ones, but he’s not skewered by evil plant matter so he thinks that he gets to count as a plus one.

He’s maybe a little nervous.

The interior of the Tree’s territory doesn’t make him feel any more at ease, either. This, too, is a place that is blindingly white. The Tree itself sits in the very centre, painfully pale and looming. The King’s Spire sits to its right, a building of previously-white colours that has now been overgrown with green. Moss and vines, Grian thinks, but he can’t distinguish anything else. Beneath the Tree are several small figures that cause something fungal to gurgle in his throat when he looks at them too hard. Grian stays close to Scar and tries to turn his eyes to the ground.

It’s hard not to acknowledge the Tree, though. They approach it together, slowly engulfed by the leaf cover overhead and hidden from the sun. It’s almost dark. Grian feels very small. The last time he’d felt so small was when his human self had accepted the blessings of the mycelium. He’d been welcome, then, but there is no welcome for him here.

Scar, of course, seems unaffected.

“You’re late.” Grian chances a glance upwards to see a woman with dead eyes and red flowers sprouting from her hair. The fungal thing tries to crawl out of his mouth. He swallows hard and ducks his head. He’s suddenly questioning the might of Scar’s weedkiller against all of this. He understands a little, maybe, the might that would have been needed to bring the first apocalypse.

“I’m right on time,” Scar disagrees. “You’re just early.”

“Everyone else has gone.” The woman sounds unimpressed. “And who do you have with you? You know he wants these audiences to be one-on-one.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Scar dismisses. “Sym- synergy. We’re really synergetic. I couldn’t have gotten here at all without Grian.”

“Your funeral.”

“Ha,” Scar says. “As if.”

Grian is startled enough by this statement to look up at Scar, but Scar grabs him by the arm and ushers him towards the trunk of the Tree. “Hey, wait- what do you mean?” Grian hisses. It occurs to him for the first time that this could be a trap for him.

“Not now, G,” Scar mumbles to him. “Ask me later.”

Grian, ruffled, unruffles a little bit at that. After all, there wouldn’t be a “later” if Scar was going to kill him now, right? Grian is beginning to realize that Scar is wrapped up tighter in whatever- whatever this is a lot more than Grian had first assumed, and he does not like it. Not one bit. He hates this, actually, and he hates it more when Scar knocks on the trunk and the wood creaks as it twists and bends out of their way.

A voice from within calls, “Welcome, Goodtimes, to my most private of areas.” And Grian hates that most of all.

They enter the Tree. The Tree creaks and groans and it closes behind them. Trapping them inside. And Grian hates this so much.

He finds even more to hate as they delve deeper into the almost-room that’s waiting for them. The King sits on a throne in the centre, drooping like a wilted flower. He’s dead. Grian can tell that immediately- he wants to spread his wings and spread the spores, but Scar asked him not to, and-

Wait. What?

Grian looks again. The King continues to be dead. The crown sits golden on his head, shining and perfect. The King is undecayed, unblemished, but his eyes are flat, and he isn’t breathing, and Grian can almost hear the creaking as he scowls.

“What have you brought me?”

“Presents,” Scar promises. “Just as you’ve asked. They’re for you, too, Bdubs.”

Grian again begins to wonder if this is a trap. Before he can continue that train of thought, however, there’s more creaking as the Tree shudders around them. The walls shiver, and lichen sloughs downwards until there’s just a human-shaped lump of green left against the wall. The human lump turns around and looks right at Grian with its impossibly large eyes.

Grian almost bares his teeth. He knows that look. This is competition.

(Competiton for what? There’s so much to fight over, probably, if he really thinks hard about it.)

“Why is the bed made of dirt?” Grian asks.

Scar balks, the King pauses, and the lichen-man stares.

“I mean, not to ruffle any feathers,” Grian rushes, valiantly not ruffling any of his. “I guess I was just expecting…”

“What?” The dead King asks.

“More?” Grian says. “Pillows? Blankets? Uh. More gold, I guess, but I know people don’t really carry that around these days. Didn’t.”

“The crown is gold,” the lichen man says.

“Aye, but tis a tiny crown,” the King concedes.

“And the bed is made of dirt,” Grian says.

“It’s a plant apocalypse,” the lichen-man -Bdubs- says. “Of course the bed is made of dirt. It’s not like he actually needs any sleep.”

“I like to nap,” the dead King protests. “Royal naps are very important, Bdubs.”

“Of course, your highness, of course,” Bdubs says quickly. “But the dirt is fine, right?”

“I mean,” the King says. “A dirt nap is mighty thematic, all considering, but… You there, Goodtimes! Have you brought your king a pillow?”

“Uh- no, no.” Scar laughs a little, startled. “No, I didn’t.”

“Shame,” the King says. The Tree rumbles. “Then you have failed me. Goodbye, Goodtimes. You served me well.”

“Whuh-” Grian starts.

“Woahwoahwoa-” Scar babbles.

“WAIT!” Bdubs shouts.

The Tree stops rumbling.

“Yes?” the King asks.

Bdubs looks at the King, then he looks at Scar, then he looks to Grian, then he looks back to the King. “Scar - Goodtimes has displeased you mightily, my liege,” he hazards. The dead King nods wisely. “Right-right- but he has displayed his loyalty quite mightily, too! The blood sacrifices are always pleasing, aren’t they?”

“You would have me grant mercy?” The King sounds displeased. Grian shuffles. He wonders if it’s even possible to kill a dead guy. He wonders if his mushrooms can kill. He hasn’t had much practice spreading them on purpose, but maybe if he can get them in the eyes?

“No, no, no, no mercy,” Bdubs amends hastily. “Just- inconvenience.” He leans in and whispers loudly. “My lord, he has a friend with him. The oncoming rot? I’m just saying- two birds with one stone here.”

“Oh?” The King looks closer at Grian. Grian lifts his wings a little in a threat display. The King nods slowly. “I see, I see… Goodtimes, I offer you a choice.”

“I don’t want to make a choice,” Scar says, more weakly than Grian has ever heard him.

“Nonetheless you have it!” the King booms. “Goodtimes- you may spare your own life, or the life of the oncoming rot. You have-”

“To give you your gifts first,” Scar says loudly.

The King pauses. “You interrupt me?”

“For presents,” Scar says quickly. He pulls of his bag and rifles through it quickly. Bdubs shuffles over and Scar hands over several unlabelled bottles. Salvation. Hope rises within Grian until, alarmingly, he realizes that none of the jugs are the weedkiller.

“Scar,” Grian says quietly.

“It’s okay, G,” Scar replies quickly.

Bdubs opens each jug and sniffs it in turn, then brings them to the King and pours them at the base of the throne. With each bottle the King’s body twitches, making noises like an ancient rocking chair, and- it takes Grian a moment to notice, but each bottle emptied at his feet brings life back to the King’s features. He grins, wide and sharp-toothed, and Grian wonders if he’s lost his chance to escape.

“Now, the choice,” the King begins.

“No,” Grian says, and he lets loose.

He’s on the ground three seconds later.

Lichen fills his mouth, vines around his wrist and wings, bark already growing quickly over his legs to trap him in place. Bdubs wipes a stray mushroom off of his sleeve in disgust, and Scar stares with wide, despairing eyes.

Do something! Grian tries to yell back with his own eyes. Scar doesn’t do anything except let out a breath, and then start to smile.

Scar says, “Phew! That took you forever, Bdubs.”

“Huh?” Bdubs says.

“I started thinking you weren’t going to stop him at all,” Scar remarks, and Grian’s heart drops into his stomach.

“OH,” Bdubs says loudly. His eyes sparkle. “Oh, so this- oh, phew! You got me worried there, Scar! Really worried! ‘Why is he hanging out with the oncoming rot,’ I said.”

“I said that,” the King argues.

“Of course, of course,” Bdubs says quickly. “Anyway, I said ‘wow, I wonder why Scar is hanging out with the oncoming rot!’ But you just needed a bit of help with this one, didn’t you?”

Scar smiles widely. He rummages through his bag again. “Right on, Bdubs,” he says. “Can’t kill a fungus surrounded by fungus, right? It’ll just grow right back!” The two of them chortle together and Scar brings another jug out of his backpack.

In fragile hope, Grian’s heart begins to beat again because he recognizes that jug. It’s the weedkiller. Label torn off. Scar opens it, takes a sip, and doesn’t flinch.

Grian feels several emotions all at once.

Scar hands the weedkiller over to Bdubs just as the King says, “What are you waiting for, Goodtimes?”

“You still have my bow, King,” Scar says.

“I thought we gave that back…?” The King looks questioningly to Bdubs.

“You took it away again after Scar failed to provide appropriate subservience, my lord.”

“Oh, well have it back, then, Goodtimes.” The King waves his hand and more of the tree creaks and moans. A real and true bow and quiver are revealed when the floor pulls back. Grian wriggles frantically, fear spiking again. Scar still hasn’t wavered. Grian is starting to doubt the contents of the weedkiller jug. He tries to flap his wings but the bark has grown over the edges. He tries to let the fungus out but his throat is clogged by lichen. The wood around him dies and tries to rot but it’s just grown over and living again in less than a second.

Scar strides over, playing with the quiver. He kneels next to Grian, then pulls out an arrow. Grian stares up at him, making his eyes as wide and pleading as he can. Scar doesn’t look at him. “Long live the King,” Scar says, raising his arrow. Bdubs raises the jug to him, but doesn’t drink.

Consternation flashes over Scar’s face, and Grian feels another rush of emotion he doesn’t know how to parse. Then Scar’s expression hardens and he brings the arrow down.

It hurts. Grian yells against the lichen in his mouth. There isn’t any blood- Grian isn’t human anymore. Of course there isn’t blood. There is an arrow in him and there isn’t any blood and Scar raises his fist with a cheer, and the King raises both arms with a cheer, and Bdubs drinks the weedkiller.

The Tree shudders.

The King collapses like a puppet with its strings cut.

Bdubs shrieks. The weedkiller drops. It sprays over the floor. The Tree screams. Grian thinks he’s also screaming. Scar isn’t screaming. Scar is frozen, false smile plastered across his face, and Grian realizes with dizzying clarity that he has no fucking clue when Scar is or isn’t lying. That’s a weird thing to realize in the worst moment of Grian’s after-apocalypse life and it’s so silly he just starts to laugh. He stops laughing when a branch spears through Scar’s chest.

“Traitor!” Bdubs yells. Three more branches strike Scar through. He gasps at each one, but he doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t try to get away. He doesn’t stop smiling. He doesn’t start bleeding. “The King trusted you!”

“The King is dead, Bdubs,” Scar says. “And your apocalypse has been ending. The oncoming rot hasn’t been oncoming for a long time- it’s been here-” he gestures wildly to Grian, who has yet another flurry of unregistered emotions “-the whole time, and you’ve let it!”

“The plants-”

“Kill those who oppose,” Scar says. “But your court has been opposing you since the moment you raised them. You failed your own apocalypse.”

Grian feels dizzy. He isn’t bleeding, but he is dying.

Why isn’t Scar bleeding?

“...What are you?” Bdubs asks. He’s breathing heavily. Grian’s vision is swimming, but he thinks Bdubs has sunk down to the floor. “Why-“ another branch spears Scar through “- aren’t-” another “-you-” another “-dead?”

“I’unno,” Scar says. “It never sticks.” The Tree rumbles overhead. Grain can feel it through the floor. “How about you? Are you dead yet, Bdubs?”

There’s silence. “Bdubs?”

The Tree stops rumbling.

“I don’t think poision is supposed to work like that,” Scar says. Or he says something like it. Grian isn’t sure. He’s really tired.

There’s something warm pressed against his face. “I didn’t lie to you,” Scar says quietly. Grian makes a little noise. “I didn’t. I said I wouldn’t let them kill you. I didn’t say anything about me. Doesn’t that mean something, G?” Grian doesn’t answer. “Yeah, yeah…”

Grian breathes out, slow, through his nose.

“You’d hate it the other way around,” Scar promises quietly. “But you did it, Grian. Bdubs wouldn’t have drank that without you. That was you, alright? You did it, you won. New apocalypse, new you. That’s the way it goes. The King died, and now it’s you, and- and it won’t be like this. It’ll be better. I don’t like mushrooms, but I’ll learn to like them when they’re you, okay?”

Grian can’t reply.

“I’ll see you soon, Grian,” Scar mumbles, and he sounds so far away.

And Grian goes to sleep.

And Mother Spore wakes up.

---

written for the @pinchhitsfromthevoid event and for the @ghastspidergwen person! this got. wildly out of hand basically the second i started to write it. unfortunately i suffer from "cannot write a normal apocalypse au" disease but eyyy that just means its a two-apocalypse package deal, which was really fun to write. hopefully it's just as fun to read!

(also on ao3)

#i wrote this in like four or five hours and posted On the deadline #this is almost pure stream of consciousness babeyyyyy #mishapen words #grian #goodtimeswithscar #hermitcraft fic #<- lemme know if i need to add any more trigger tags #hello tag readers. i want you all to know how genuinely little i planned this fic going into it #i do not understand how there's several moments of foreshadowing #i cannot comprehend the fact that the consistencies outnumber the inconsistencies #this fic wrote itself and i was merely its possessed vessel for four-five-however-many-hours #anyway spoilers in the next few tags you have been Warned #look away now #have you looked away #it's okay i read ahead when i shouldn't too #these are the trigger tags for filtering purposes theyve got to be spoilery sorry about that #death tw #blood tw #body horror tw #<- im not sure the body horror really Applies but there you have it anyway #lemme know if i missed any

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carlatsukinamistolemyhamsandwich · 2 years

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The Demon Prince - Demon!Shin Tsukinami x Reader Part 1 of 3

Part 1 of my monster of a fic is finally here! This is set in the same universe as the short drabble I wrote where Carla is a classic fantasy Demon Lord, although you don’t need to read that for this to make sense. If you would prefer to read this fic on AO3 then you can find it here. An enormous thank you to my wonderful friend @akumacaron for betaing.

Trigger warnings include heavy descriptions of gore and body horror. This, and the subsequent chapters, are definitely some of the darker things I’ve written for this blog so please take care.

Part 1: The Deal

Even growing up in a village far from the shadows of the towering Obsidian Citadel—home of the infamous Demon Lord and those dedicated to his service—you still heard the stories of him and his kind. Some were meant to serve as moral tales or warnings, like those that described the peasants and rich lords who were foolish and greedy enough to make a deal with a demon, only to lose their souls when they were inevitably tricked or cheated—doomed to spend the rest of eternity having the core of their existence eaten away and burned in the acid of a demon’s stomach—the worst fate anyone could meet.

Those ones, you suspected, were more than a little fantastical, something to teach children and fools not to make silly deals with the very real crooks that could be found scattered about the land. The other stories however—the ones about demons bringing violence and death wherever they went—were numerous enough that you were sure there was some semblance of truth in them. Not that you had ever really taken any of it too seriously; your village was miles from any city with nothing particularly special or remarkable about it that might draw attention from the Demon Lord and his ilk. No, no matter how gruesome the stories you and other village children liked to regale each other with growing up—all some variation of one heard from a traveller stopping by the market or the inn, or so you all used to say—you never truly feared the monsters that roamed the rest of the continent, not when there was nothing to bring them to your door.

That was based, however, on the assumption that demons followed things like human logic and reason. You were an adult by the time you finally realized that might not be the case.

The sky suddenly turned dark at midday and the usual melody of birdsong that filled the air went quiet, along with all of the other wild things. You stood there, nearly at the edge of the boundaries of the village, on your way to pick some of the herbs that grew by the meadow before you returned home, a small basket already full of produce from the market on your arm.

The air was entirely too still, to the point you were certain you’d be able to hear the beat of an insect’s wing—if the insects hadn’t already vanished, like they’d been snatched clean from the air. Was a storm about to start perhaps? It seemed a little early in the year for it, but you couldn’t think of another reason for everything to go to ground.

Then you heard the screaming.

You dropped your basket, leaving it forgotten in the dirt as you ran towards the pitched cries—something in you urging you to help whoever was in trouble, even as every animal instinct you possessed shrieked at you to run and hide and not look back.

The scene you stumbled onto was one you knew would remain burned into you as soon as you laid eyes upon it. The ground was dark, so much so you might have thought it covered in a puddle of spilled ink, were it not for the faint red gleam picked out by the yellowing flame of a fallen torch. That, and the fact it was littered with bodies.

The lucky ones were clean cut, a neat slash across the throat, a dark stain on the fabric of their tunics right where their hearts should be. You could recognise some of them—the farmer who tended to the flocks out this way, along with his wife and children; the old weaver who, many years ago, had let you try your hand at her loom even though you had no talent for it—all left staring at the dark sky with glassy eyes and sallow skin.

But it was the other bodies that had bile forcing its way up your throat—the ones that looked like they’d been ripped apart by a wild beast, organs you only recognised from trips past the butchers put on grim display.

You would have collapsed to your knees had it not been for the figure standing in the centre of the macabre scene—the one who’s presence alone had you sure that if you made the slightest movement to draw his attention, then you’d join the bodies littering the ground.

He was not especially tall or muscled, you noted, as your eyes travelled up, from the ragged tips of his cloak, over trousers made of dark fabric—a sharp contrast to the wicked looking silver blades belted around his hips—up to a pale, blood-splattered face. But there was no way you could mistake him for anything other than a full-blooded demon, not with the dark horns rising from his forehead, like an onyx crown decorating his cropped red blonde hair. The tips of too long canines were just visible beneath his lips as he grinned at the carnage surrounding him.

He used his thumb to wipe some of the blood from his cheek, giving you a glimpse of the black, claw-like nails on the ends of his fingers, some decorated with strange, sharp silver rings. One of his eyes was obscured by a black leather eyepatch, symbols that screamed demonic scrawled across it. The other was a brilliant gold, so bright against the dark sky it almost appeared to glow.

And it was looking straight at you.

“Hah,” the demon sighed, forked tongue licking some of the blood from his lips. “How dull. I thought if I came all the way out here I might finally find a human who could put up some sort of a challenge, but—” he stepped on the head of the body lying directly in front of him—a young man around your own age who you recognised as the weaver’s grandson—and the skull gave away with a sickening crack accompanied by a loud squelch ”—it seems you’re nothing but a bunch of weak old farmers. What a bust.”

A movement at his side drew your attention and you finally took notice of the sword in his right hand. It was an awful looking thing—much larger than any of the weapons you’d seen perched at the hips of the knights and mercenaries who’d sometimes pass through the village—the dark metal of the blade covered in jagged edges that looked more fit for shredding one's opponents than anything else.

The demon lifted the sword as he fully turned towards you. “Ah well, I guess I might as well make the most of it now that I’m here. It’s not like my brother will complain if I wipe some human village in the middle of nowhere off the map.”

He took a single step towards you and images of your life meeting its end on that terrible sword flashed before your eyes. It was only your fear of a gruesome death that gave you the courage to cry out.

“Wait!”

The demon did not wait, but he did speak as he took another step towards you.

“If you think a lone human with nothing to offer can talk me into sparing this village, then you’re dead wrong.” Another step, you felt your throat start to close up. “Although I guess if you beg and cry hard enough—” he took one more step forward, lifting the blade in his hand so it rested against the base of your chin, the tip just brushing your neck “—then maybe I’ll consider sparing you. Maybe that is.” He let out a cruel laugh and it was an effort not to shake as you felt the cool metal of the sword press into your skin.

One wrong word and you were quite certain he’d kill you.

You needed a plan—something, anything, to keep him from plunging that blade through your neck and severing your head from your shoulders. An idea prickled in the back of your mind. It was a terrible idea, perhaps the worst you'd ever had—based on those stories that up until now you’d been happy to write off as more fiction than fact—but it might be the only shot you had at not joining the bodies on the ground.

“Y-You’re right. This is a quiet village and there isn’t anyone here who can put up any real sort of fight against you. But, what if there was a way to make it more interesting?” you said, mouth dry.

The demon tilted his head and narrowed his lone eye as he examined you, as though taking a moment to debate whether he should bother listening to you. After a tense pause, he finally spoke, “Go on, although if you come out with something boring, I’ll rip your tongue out before slitting your throat, understand?”

You swallowed, the action letting you feel more of the blade pressed against your neck. It was a gamble, what you were about to do, a gamble that nearly every story you’d ever been told had tried to warn you against—but you were apparently far more foolish than any peasant or rich lord.

“There’s no way I could beat you in a fight, but what if I made a deal with you—one that involved some sort of game that at least let me stand something of a chance, and if I lose—” you steeled yourself and took a breath “—you don’t just get my life, but my soul.”

For a moment the demon didn’t move, and you cursed yourself for ever believing something as ridiculous as the idea of creatures eating souls, but then you felt his grip on the sword slacken slightly and a look of hunger passed over his face. And you knew, that no matter how foolish of an idea it might have been, you at least had his attention.

He smirked at you, the corner of his lips twisting upwards, revealing the points of his canines. “You know, I’m not sure if you’re brave or just really stupid. Do you know what happens if a demon gets their hands on your soul? Or are you so isolated in this backwater that you don’t even understand what it is you’re offering?”

“I know,” you told him. “They say that if a demon eats your soul, then you’re left to rot in their stomach and experience the worst pain imaginable as long as that demon continues to walk the earth.”

The demon chuckled at that. “Oh it’s far worse than anything you could imagine, in fact listening to a human’s cries as they finally realise what they were dumb enough to agree to is the best bit.”

You forced yourself to make a brave face, even as your fingers trembled at your side. “Then I guess that means you don’t find people who are willing to make deals with you very often.”

“Oh you’d be surprised to know just how foolish some of your kind can be,” he replied, twisting his blade so the sharp edge was touching your chin, a hair’s breadth from slicing it open. “Although I’ll admit it’s been a while since I’ve had a good meal myself.”

“So you’ll agree to it then,” you said, a little too hurriedly, partly out of the fear he’d lose interest and partly because you didn’t know how long you had before some of the other villagers made their way here. If they interfered or distracted him, then all your courage would have been for nought.

“Heh, are you really that keen to get devoured by me? Well, I guess it’s not everyday you meet a full-blooded demon. Alright then human, tell me exactly what it is you think you have a chance of besting me at?”

“It’s simple,” you said, praying your suggestion was one he’d agree to—if it wasn’t you were as good as dead. “I want to have a contest in the woods that lie to the east of the village. We’ll enter the woods from opposite sides and if I can successfully evade you from midnight to when the first rays of dawn are visible on the horizon, then I win. If you catch me before the contest is over, then you get my soul and can do whatever you want with the rest of the village, but you can’t harm anyone until then.”

He stared at you for a moment before tipping his head back and letting out a loud laugh—one that sounded like the cackling of crows come to feast on carrion. “And there I was thinking other humans were foolish, hah! If you seriously think I’ll even need that long to hunt you down then you must be taking me incredibly lightly, if you weren’t offering me such an easy meal—” he dragged the blade across the base of your chin and you winced at the sting of it “—I’d shred you to pieces for insulting me. Alright, I’ll agree to your stupid idea of a deal, but in order for it to work, even if there’s no way it’ll happen, you have to tell me what you want out of it if you win.”

You thought for a moment. All you really wanted was for your friends and family to be safe from the monster before you, but it felt like a foolish thing to gamble your soul on—especially when in the few stories where the human did win, the demon had normally used some sort of wordplay to trick them so they’d ended up with some horribly warped version of the reward they were owed.

Apparently you took too long mulling it over, as the demon lowered his sword and stepped towards you, roughly taking hold of your chin with claw-tipped fingers, his skin horribly cold against your own.

“Don’t tell me you hadn’t even thought it over properly? You know, I’m starting to wonder if you’re even quite right in the head. I don’t have any patience for pathetic humans who can’t make up their minds, so say it quickly. What do you want? For me to spare your sorry excuse for a village, or—are you hesitating because you’d rather have money and riches instead? I don’t care either way as it’s not like you’re actually going to get it, so just hurry up and pick already.”

It would seem that having a demon that close was enough to fry your brain, because even you were surprised by the demand that left your lips.

“Your soul.”

“What?” he replied, his hold on you loosening slightly as his single eye went wide—apparently you’d surprised him too.

“Your soul,” you repeated with more confidence than you actually felt. You had no idea what would happen if a demon were to lose their soul, it wasn’t something that came up in any of the stories. All you did know was that when humans lost their souls, their bodies were meant to fade from the mortal plane—and if that were to happen to the demon in front of you, then not only would your friends and family be safe from him, but so would every other human on the continent.

“If you win, you get my soul. If I win, I get yours,” you said.

“Well, at least you’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.” The demon dropped your chin and sheathed his sword by his side. “I can’t believe I’m even considering agreeing to something so outrageous, but like I said, there’s no way you’ll actually win so I guess there’s no real harm in it—although your soul better taste pretty damn good. Alright,” he held out a blood-stained hand, “I’ll accept your deal human, you just have to say when the game will take place—and don’t try to get smart with me and say something like when the sun and the moon are both bright in the sky or some bullshit. Either it happens in the next week or I slaughter everyone in this village, starting with you.”

You quickly ran some numbers through your head. “In three days time,” you replied, taking his hand and trying not to wince at the feeling of cold flesh or the sensation of another person’s blood on your hands. “And you can’t set any traps in the woods beforehand, either using your own hands or somebody—or something—else’s”

“Likewise." The demon took hold of your hand and gripped it tightly. A hot breeze caressed your cheek, carrying with it the faint scent of sulfur, and while the demon’s eye had seemed as though it were glowing before, now it was positively luminous, like you were looking through a window bordering the fires of hell.

“When the night reaches its peak in three days' time, you and I will enter the wood from opposite sides. If I catch you before the first light of dawn, then your soul is mine to devour, although—” he eyed you up and down in a way that made you feel utterly naked before giving you a feral grin “—not before I’ve taken my time savouring parts of your body as well. And if you win, then you get my soul. Deal?” The magic in the air warped the sound as he spoke the final word, so instead of just one voice, you heard a thousand of them twisted together.

“Deal," you said. As soon as the word left your mouth, you could feel the magic start to bind you together. The demon’s skin grew hot against yours until it felt as though you were holding onto a metal poker you’d stuck in the fire. You tried to let go but the demon tightened his grip, crushing your hand as his claws pierced you, blood welling up over the dark tips and running down your palm.

Thick black smoke started to pour from where your hands were pressed together, tendrils of it winding and curling around both your and the demon’s wrists. Where the smoke brushed over your skin, it left black markings behind in a language you couldn’t read but instinctively knew was bad—and if you were to even so much as try to read it, you were sure you’d invoke something terrible.

Just when you thought you couldn’t take any more of the pain in your hand, the smoke dissipated and the heat finally started to lessen. The second the demon’s hold on you slackened, you yanked your hand away, inspecting it for any signs of the burns you swore you could feel blistering your palm. You found none, but the demon noticeably gave his hand a shake before drawing it back to his side, as though he too had felt the sear of phantom flames.

“I should hope that I wouldn’t have to explain it to you, but if you try to go back on your word now, then I’ll get your soul by default, so I wouldn’t try to flee or anything. Actually on second thought, it would just mean I get to eat earlier, so do whatever you want.”

You’d sort of figured that might be the case, but fortunately your plan was based on following through with your deal. And so, in spite of the lingering pain and the blood still running down your hand, you did your best to stand tall.

“And if you try to harm any of the villagers in the next three days, then I get your soul by default.”

The demon waved his hand at you. “Yeah, yeah, as if I’d do anything stupid enough to hand you the win. Although now I have to find something to do to kill time over the next three days. Well, I guess you didn’t say anything about harming anyone from another village.” He tapped his claws against the grip of his sword and you silently apologized to anyone who was unfortunate enough to live in the surrounding area for not being more careful with your wording. Still, while you might be bold enough to strike a deal with a demon, your courage for the day was spent, and even if it weren’t, you doubted anything good would come from trying to bargain with him any further.

“I’ll meet you at the edge of the woods by the meadow before the contest starts,” you told him, “so we can make sure we enter from opposite ends.”

“I’ll be there,” he replied, adjusting his cloak around his shoulders as he turned to walk away. “Enjoy the last three days of your life human. I’ll look forward to what I’m going to do to you the next time we meet.”

You didn’t bother saying anything as he stalked away, ragged cloak fluttering in the breeze. All you could do was look miserably at the bodies lying at your feet and pray you hadn’t just signed up for a fate worse than theirs.

The demon had vanished from view by the time some of the other villagers made their way onto the gruesome scene. You weren’t sure what they must have made of it, the sight of you standing alone surrounded by bodies, blood dripping from your hand. Truth be told, you didn’t know what to make of the whole thing either, the more you thought about what you’d just done and the more time you spent with blood-soaked air filling your lungs, the more you felt like you were about to lose the contents of your stomach.

You made the mistake of looking at the head of the weaver’s grandson, grim shards of bone splattered in blood and lumps of something wet and pink. By the time one of your fellow villagers tried to pull you away from it, your ears were ringing and your vision was rimmed with black fog.

It was a bit of a blur from there, sounds of screams as the friends and family of those slaughtered finally caught sight of the carnage mixed with soft but insistent voices asking what happened, what could have done this. For some reason, you didn’t tell them about the demon, using the last semblance of sense you had left to hide the black markings on your hand with your sleeve.

Perhaps it was because you didn’t think there was any point in scaring them any more than the incident already had. Either you’d win your bargain with the demon or they’d all be slaughtered in little over three days time—you were sure that even if you told them to flee the village now, it wouldn’t be enough to spare them if you lost. Or maybe the reason you didn’t tell them was because you didn’t want to hear them berate you for making such a stupid bargain, for betting their lives on a plan spun up in a couple of heartbeats that was based on old travellers’ tales.

Regardless of what drove the lies spilling from your tongue, you told them the dead were the victims of a great wolf that must have wandered too far south. You’d seen it sniffing at the corpses when you’d arrived and then hidden behind the old, run down barn for fear of being eaten. After finding the prey not to its liking, the wolf had left and you’d finally emerged to see if there was any hope of saving the victims.

From the looks the villagers exchanged with each other in your presence, you suspected they didn’t entirely believe you, but they had no better explanation, not one that would make a lick of sense anyway. You seemed to be in a state of shock so they didn’t bother questioning you any further, sending you home with an escort who set you up with a warm cup of soup and a blanket before going on their way.

It took a long time to register the soup had gone cold in your hands, any warmth it once held gone with the daylight. Guilt picked at you for letting another person’s kindness go to waste, but no matter how good the broth smelt, you couldn’t make yourself take so much as a sip. Not when the small silvers of pale root vegetable reminded you of the bones you’d seen sticking out of the bodies on the blood-splattered grass. And the brown chunks of meat made you think of the lifeless corpses still out there, of how if they were not burned quickly, then the crows would pick over them just like someone pulled apart an animal to fill your bowl.

The soup went out your backdoor under the cover of night and you retired to bed on a stomach full of nothing but herb tea.

In your dreams you found yourself stranded on a small, jagged platform made of dark stone, a thick, bubbling, viscous yellow liquid surrounding it, spread out as far as you could see. The air was thick with fumes that irritated the inside of your mouth to the point you could taste the potent tang of blood on your tongue.

A particularly large bubble burst against the edge of the platform, splattering your legs and you screamed. It burned and burned as it ate right through your thin nightclothes and went to work on your flesh. Hurriedly, you tore off a portion of your nightshirt and wrapped it around your hand before trying to scrape the corrosive substance off your skin. If anything it just made the pain worse, and before long the acid had eaten through your shirt and the skin of your fingers started to burn.

You fell to your knees just as another bubble burst nearby, coating your bare arms with droplets of the poison surrounding you. It was agony, pure and simple—and there was no escape from it, nothing you could do to stop your skin melting from your limbs.

A glance down at your arm revealed pink flesh surrounded by a bloody froth, a faint pale gleam shining from the deepest point of the wound. You whimpered, begging for someone, anyone to make it stop.

Suddenly a hand surged into your field of view, coming just short of actually touching you. It was covered in the same awful yellow liquid that surrounded you, and where it dripped onto the rock, you could hear a faint hiss. You looked back along the arm, trying to find the thing it belonged to, but when you did, all you could do was let out a choked scream.

The thing’s trunk was made of pitted pink flesh covered with a faint yellow sheen, a multitude of limbs—all of which were mangled in one way or another—extended out of it in every direction. But it was not those details that truly horrified you, no, it was the multitude of eyes scattered over the monster’s skin, a variety of shapes and colours, but all staring at you with the same keen awareness and desperate silent plea. There were mouths too, full of half-burned away tongues and teeth, all of them screaming—many in languages you couldn’t understand—but the ones you could were begging for death.

Whatever this thing was now, you were quite certain that at one point, it had been a person—people.

You scrabbled back from where the thing loomed over the rock but it did not take long for you to reach the lip of the platform, the jagged edge of it slicing through the thin skin of your palm as your hand slipped over the edge. The pain barely registered compared to the burn of the acid.

The creature pulled itself forwards on its many limbs in a disjointed, painful fashion, making slow progress towards you. It didn’t matter how slow it was though, not when you had nowhere to go except down, into the bubbling acid below—but maybe even that was better than whatever fate you’d meet if the monster reached you. You contemplated it, trying to think around the awful pain and burning fumes and your own mindless terror. It took too long.

Your ankle was set ablaze as one the creature’s hands grabbed hold of it and a scream was ripped from you. No matter how misshapen the fingers gripping you were, they were strong, easily dragging you back across the platform as the thing started to retreat the way it had come, lowering itself back into the acid—now pulling you with it. Your blunt fingertips scraped uselessly against the cool black stone as your leg was hauled over the side of the platform, and you could do nothing but watch helplessly as the creature fully submerged itself once more—its many screaming voices muffled by the thick fluid—your ankle pulled in with it. And as your foot touched the acid, you heard the hiss of flesh being eaten away and then—

You woke violently, panicked and drenched in sweat. For a few foggy moments you were convinced the droplets you felt running down your face left the burn of acid in their wake and you swiped desperately at your skin, a cry still trapped in your throat. The feeling faded as the shape of your room finally came into focus around you, your frantic movements slowing before stopping altogether as you registered where you were.

This was your home and it was just a nightmare and you were safe. You loosed a single sob of relief into your palms while you took a moment to calm down, but as you drew your hands away from your face you caught sight of the black scrawl crawling down from the base of your fingers and up your wrist, just visible in the first few rays of the morning sun peeking through a gap in your curtains. Fuck, why couldn’t all of it have just been a dream?

You wouldn’t normally have risen so early at this point in the summer but the thought of falling back onto your mattress—and back into the hellscape you’d just escaped from—had you shooting from your bed, hurriedly pulling off your nightclothes to get changed into something more practical. There was no way you could just sit there, not when in three days time you could be plunged into some version of your nightmare for real—only this time with no way out. Shit, your stupid plan had better work, because if not—

If not—

No, it had to work, you told yourself as you tugged on a pair of well worn brown boots and a light jacket, ignoring the way your fingers trembled as you did so. If not for your own sake, then just the thought of the rest of your fellow villagers—people you called your friends—getting brutally torn apart like those bodies the demon had left in his wake, had you hastily heading out of your door and beelining straight for the woods.

It would be idiotic to try to lay a trap for the demon when it went directly against the terms of your deal—you might as well just hand him your soul on a platter along with the heads of the villagers—and that was without mentioning the fact that the likelihood of a full-blooded demon being contained by whatever trap or rudimentary snare you could reasonably set up was about that of a great wolf being ensnared by the web of a pixie spider.

Fortunately however, the demon hadn’t made any adjustments to your wording to include any stipulations against using something that already lay in the woods—and that was what you were counting on, all you had to do was hope it was still there.

It was early enough that barely anyone was around as you marched towards the woods—the few people you did see offering you a sympathetic glance as you passed by. Evidently word had spread that you’d been the one to discover the corpses yesterday; in fact it wouldn’t surprise you if a couple of villagers dropped by your home at an hour that was deemed more reasonable—both to offer comfort and to see if a night of rest had calmed you enough to gleam any more details about what happened. You could worry about that later, you thought, as you reached the treeline and stepped through without pause, you had no intentions of telling the truth so they would have to settle for your explanation. At least your nightmare had you rattled enough that they’d likely be convinced any holes in your story were due to trauma rather than deliberate falsehoods.

It had been years since you’d last delved deep into the wood and it took you some time to find the familiar but overgrown path among the winding brambles and luscious green moss coating the ground. Your body felt tight with tension as you wove between the dark trunks and branches of the trees. It looked beautiful in the morning, the soft light falling through small gaps in the leafy canopy, catching on the colourful petals of the flowers dotted amongst the moss—bunches of tiny pink orchids and bell-shaped white flowers that were often woven in a bride’s hair at weddings.

But none of that changed the fact that in several days' time, you were to be hunted among these very trees—and no matter how peaceful the wood seemed now, you had no doubt it would feel far less tranquil with a demon stalking through it. Apprehension had you moving quickly, the thorns on the brambles scratching at your clothes as you passed. Please let it still be there you thought, nails digging into your palms, please, please let it still be there .

Deeper and deeper you went into the wood and fear clutched at you as you still found no signs of what you were looking for. You had no illusions that you’d be able to elude the demon without it—hell you doubted you’d even last an hour. Oh gods please let it still be here.

Then, finally, a small gap in the trees—a clearing—and at its centre—

Dead man’s roses.

You nearly collapsed with relief when you saw them, the mass of thick vines coated in velvet black leaves and big, blood red thorns, large flower buds dotted at the tips. The scene looked almost exactly as you remembered it, nearly untouched by the many years that had passed since you were last here.

The tangle of vines and their flower buds hardly guaranteed your safety but at least now that you knew it was still here, you had something of a chance—and judging by the size of the buds, you hadn’t messed up on the timing either.

With a small amount of your anxiety lifted, you felt exhaustion start to creep in on you, the product of a restless night and an early start. You were half tempted to stay here for a bit, to sit beside the vines and run the velvety leaves through your fingers, but you didn’t. Now that you knew they were still here, you were wary of staying in the wood too long, of doing anything that the demonic magic wrapped around your wrist might interpret as a breach of the rules of the deal. There wasn’t anything more you could do—not here, not in the village—except rest and wait. And pray to gods you weren't entirely sure you believed in that there was at least some truth in the stories you’d heard about demons.

Link to Part 2: The Game

Thank you so much for reading everyone! If you liked this chapter I would really appreciate it if you let me know in the form of a comment. A lot of work has gone into this fic and even just a thumbs up to let me know you’re enjoying the story thus far would mean the world to me.

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#my writing #Shin Tsukinami #Shin Tsukinami x reader #demon AU #diabolik lovers #for once I'm putting my writing in the main tag #if anyone needs me to add any more trigger warnings then please let me know!

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