Ace/?, She/They, MultiFandom, I just post whatever's on my mind
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Seriously, what the fuck
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Expectations and Those Who Exceed Them
Five times Remus and Janus did not solve their arguments by making out.
And one time… well.
Pairing: rival-to-lovers dukeceit
Word count: 4475
Warnings: they’re a bit snippy with each other in the beginning, many remus-esque metaphors in the narration and dialogue, discussion of the death penalty, discussion of culling invasive species including domesticated cats, climate change,
Notes: a prequel to an nsfs fic I wrote on my other blog a while ago, though it will definitely make sense without reading that first. A prompt from @i-cant-find-a-good-username over on my patreon
and an ENORMOUS thank you to @teacupfulofstarshine who both beta-read and helped me write this!
Keep reading
Tiny Prince, Crumpled Dreams
Prompts: Hi! I just wanted you to know that your Roman angst fics are amazing, they’re really painful and they’re lots of fun to read. I dunno if youre taking requests but if you are, could you do a fic where Roman traps himself in a unending nightmare as punishment for hurting Thomas and making the sides hate him, even though they dont. When the sides find Roman in bed upset and not waking up they have to manually wake him up themselves somehow. And then DLAMP hurt/comfort cuddles happen afterwards - transformationloveb
In case prompts are still open, would you maybe consider writing a roceit angst fic where after the events of POF, Roman doesn’t use Janus’ name and instead calls him Deceit because he thinks he doesn’t deserve to use his name (which Janus had given as a sign of trust), but Janus, who was feeling guilty about the whole situation thinks it’s a way of mocking and slighting him? Misunderstandings abound until Janus finally confronts Roman and then they start realizing what happened and it turns into sort of a hurt/comfort, with both of them comforting each other. Anyway, I love your fics and I think you’re an incredible writer! - residentfangirl2104
Idk if you’re taking prompts but I have one if you are! ehhehehe… Maybe there are some of Romans scenes that Thomas cut from the 5 year anniversary video. Because Roman freaked out on camera and later asked him to cut them out OR Thomas cut some that Roman liked out because he didnt like them but oh no, Roman’s feelings are now crushed… cue the other sides finding the cut scenes. Angst. HAVE AN AMAZING DAY AND DRINK SOME WATER *Throws a water bottle in your general direction* - anon
Hi! If you’re still taking prompts for Sanders Sides, I’d love to see your take on “feeling small” being uncomfortably literal, like shrinking-to-Borrower-size literal. I adore your writing, like, you’re up there with SoDoRoses of Love and Other Fairy Tales fame for my favorite Sanders Sides writer. Thank you for sharing your work with us.~ - amaranthinepaladin
your stories are always so good! could i possibly suggest one where roman keeps his dreams in a drawer to look at when he’s sad (I got this idea from peter pan but he does already have several things like it in your stories and you do love that roman angst) - impossiblysporadiccreation
First off… your work is absolutely incredible! I can’t tell you how many hours of sleep I’ve tossed aside to read it, every time you post a new fic it absolutely makes my day! Secondly, I have but one simple request, I need Roman to suffer, I simply cannot get enough angst and you do it so well, I mean I love him but at the same time… you know how it is - anon
Read on Ao3
Warnings: roman traps himself in a self-depricating nightmare, nothing explicit
Pairings: dlampr, can be platonic or romantic i don’t care
Word Count: 5205
Thomas has lots of dreams.
Roman’s job is to take care of those dreams, look after them, do everything he can to nurture them and make sure they grow up to come true one day. But the world isn’t kind to dreams, not when they struggle to exist outside of a piece of paper tucked into the drawer of a desk.
…nightmares, though. Nightmares are easy.
So when everything goes wrong and dreams seem impossibly out of reach, Roman reaches for a nightmare he won’t wake up from.
Keep reading
the oven, watching Thomas argue with the six gays that live in his head for an hour instead of learning to cook:
What if when we were born we were each assigned a Wikipedia page like a social security number would that be fucked up or what
*deep inhale*
crash motherfucka
Could we crash tumblr if we all posted the word "crash" on the 1st of april 2022, 12:35 EST?
This had to have taken forever
i just said “my brother in christ” at work and if i’m not careful with my spoken memes, some people are gonna start thinking i’m christian
Actually, out of curiosity:
Reblog and say who your fave character(s) and your fave ship(s) from sanders sides are in the tags
been thinking about these three anjkadnsalfndsl
audio is linked in youtube description :))
for a brief but not insignificant period of time in elementary school, i conflated the word ’avocado’ with ’bravado’. specifically this happened when i learned the term ‘false bravado’. in conclusion, 8-year-old me spent months vaguely assuming there existed a mass conspiracy surrounding the counterfeiting of avocados, and that this was somehow a huge problem the adult world was aware of and struggling to deal with.
for a brief but not insignificant period of time in elementary school, i conflated the word ’avocado’ with ’bravado’. specifically this happened when i learned the term ‘false bravado’. in conclusion, 8-year-old me spent months vaguely assuming there existed a mass conspiracy surrounding the counterfeiting of avocados, and that this was somehow a huge problem the adult world was aware of and struggling to deal with.
somehow this came out as some sort of...a coven vibe art
strike me down (i won't fall forever) 1
Summary: After a brutal encounter with Wrath, an injured Janus makes a desperate bid for safety and finds himself in what might just be an even worse situation.
Relationships: None
Warnings: Hunger, physical assault and implied past/recurring physical abuse, head trauma, threat of murder (no actual murder); unsympathetic Wrath
Word count: 3723
Notes: Set sometime after Accepting Anxiety. There are no graphic depictions of violence but please mind the warnings and stay safe, y'all. LMK if anything else should be tagged/warned for.
Read on Ao3 Masterpost
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Part 1 (you're here) | Part 2 | Part 3
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Janus shouldn’t have ever left his room.
He knew that, he knew he should have just stayed inside the safety of his own four walls until things had settled in the rest of the Dark Side, until Wrath and his cronies had calmed slightly from whatever had happened to set them off this time.
But he’d run out of his emergency supply of food days ago after rationing what little he had left, his stash already depleted from helping Remus a few weeks ago. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should have made time to restock, snuck out in the middle of the night, bribed one of the lesser sides to bring him supplies, done something – anything – possible to make sure he didn’t run out of food.
But he had.
Some embodiment of self-preservation he was.
He’d waited as long as he could, at least, until he was so hungry he felt empty and aching and hollow, as if he had withered into nothing more than a husk of a person, someone who could be blown over in a cool summer breeze. Even then, with his stomach cramping and his head pounding, he’d waited some more, until the constant background of muffled thuds and shrieks that underpinned life on the Dark Side had quieted somewhat and the dark of night had tipped over into dawn, when Wrath would hopefully be headed to bed.
Of course, hopefully had been the operative word, and never once in his life had fate decided to place Janus on the favorable side of hopefully.
He didn’t know how Wrath had known he’d emerged to scrounge for food. Maybe Janus had been too loud in accidentally brushing a hand against a bag of chips, or maybe one of the other sides had reported his location back to Wrath, or maybe it had been just plain dumb bad luck that the vengeful side had happened to pass by and catch a glimpse of him.
What Janus did know was that he hadn’t stood a chance against Wrath. He’d tried, of course, because he wasn’t about to go down without a fight, but Wrath had just laughed as he’d swatted Janus’ staff away, the wood clattering to the tile well out of Janus’ reach, his eyes glinting with savage excitement at the prospect of an easy victim.
Janus had known from that look alone that nothing pleasant could follow, and he’d been right. The beating had been vicious, like it always was, Wrath taking advantage of Janus’ shorter stature and underweight condition to throw him into appliances and counters and the table indiscriminately until Janus had finally crumpled to the floor, the room spinning around him as he’d tried to curl into the most protective ball possible and weather the blows raining down upon him.
Like he said, he should have just stayed in his damn room.
And then, just as suddenly as they had started, the blows stop. Janus dares to crack an eye open and peer out from underneath his arm to find Wrath looming over him, foot drawn back for another kick to Janus’ ribs, but the rageful side has his head cocked towards the hallway, as if his attention has been caught by some noise Janus has missed.
“Who’s there?” he calls, and even in his current state Janus has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Honestly. As if whoever it was is going to announce themself and come prancing out to join Janus in being beaten half to death.
Silence for a long moment, and Janus is bracing himself for Wrath to resume his assault when there’s a small thump and a skittering sound from the hall.
“Stay here, you lying freak,” Wrath growls at Janus, pressing his boot hard on the side of Janus’ head for emphasis, smashing Janus’ cheek into the cold tile, and then he’s gone, disappearing down the shadows of the hallway in search of another plaything.
Janus takes a moment to take stock of the situation, forcing his brain to try and follow a logical line of thought despite the dizzying rush of pain and adrenaline overwhelming his synapses. Or maybe that was just the head trauma. Probably both, actually, given how everything has gone slightly blurry. Remus would be able to tell him which it was. He had become surprisingly – heartbreakingly, really – adept at triaging injuries over the years of their alliance.
No, he has to focus. There’ll be time for evaluating the severity of his injuries later if he can get himself somewhere halfway safe.
It’s possible that Wrath leaving is some kind of trick, a ruse to see if Janus will try and make a break for it, a setup to use Janus’ disobedience as an excuse to subject him to something far worse than a garden-variety beating.
But, really, Janus doubts whether Wrath is that smart when his solution to any given problem was to hit it until it stopped being a problem. And even if it isn’t a trick and Janus follows Wrath’s instructions to stay where he is, he knows from unfortunate experience that the other side isn’t going to show him any mercy for obeying instructions. So if his options are to try and make a break for it and potentially get caught and punished or to stay where he is and certainly endure the rest of Wrath’s beating until he gets bored, he’s going to opt for the choice that gives him a chance to get away with minimal additional injury.
Keeping his gaze glued to the hallway in case Wrath comes back from investigating the source of the noise, Janus rolls onto his hands and knees and uses a nearby chair to heave himself upright on unsteady legs, stifling a hiss of pain and grimacing at the sticky residue coating the piece of furniture. The world spins dangerously and he has to close his eyes for a moment to keep the bile in his stomach where it belongs, clutching onto the chair so hard his nails bite slightly into the wood.
He needs to get himself together. He has to go now if he wants any chance of making an escape. He’ll be okay if he can just make it to his room, he tells himself, ignoring the way his own lie makes the sharp taste of bitter citrus burst across his tongue. He just needs to make it back to his domain and his body will start to heal, blue-bruised skin blending back into flesh-tones and broken bones knitting themselves back together and damaged brain cells reverting back into functioning ones. His injuries surely aren’t bad enough that he won’t be able to recover and he’ll have to go through the excruciating process of recorporating cell by cell. Nope. Definitely not.
He ignores, too, the fact nagging in the back of his mind that he’s failed what he set out to accomplish in the first place, that he hasn’t managed to collect any food and that even if he does make it back to his room he could very well starve to death before he’s strong enough to emerge to try and raid the kitchen again.
That was a problem for future Janus. Present Janus needed to get his ass moving before Wrath came back and tore him apart.
He takes a lurching step towards the hall at the other end of the kitchen, then another, and another. The world spins around him, everything cast in double for a moment, and the ground seems to be moving under his feet like he’s on a boat, but it gets easier once he has a little bit of momentum to carry him forward. As long as he doesn’t stop, he might be okay.
He stumbles up the dim hallway until it rounds the corner to become a long corridor of rooms, forcing himself to ignore the pain radiating through his whole body and go faster even as he staggers into the wall, surely adding another bruise to the ones already beginning to bloom across his skin. Fear is howling at him now, begging to take over completely lest Wrath find him – he’ll be so angry, so blindingly furious that Janus has disobeyed him, he’ll take Janus somewhere he can’t escape and put on those brass knuckles and hit and hit and hit until Janus is bruised and bloody and broken – and he stubbornly shoves it down. What a perfect time for fear to cloud his thoughts. Really, not inconvenient or counterproductive at all.
He makes his way on past the boarded-up door, the one bound with padlocks and chains, the one sinking into the wall. Sides he’s locked away permanently, those who would drive Thomas to madness just so they could exert some of their influence. His room isn’t much farther, then, should be just beyond the shadows up ahead, and yes, he can just make out a sliver of gold paint–
A cold laugh draws Janus up short, heart lurching into his throat, and almost against his will his gaze jerks up to find a figure at the far end of the hall, sinuous shadows coiling around his ankles.
Wrath.
For a moment, they just stare at each other, Janus not even breathing as the fear begins to squeeze around his ribs and into his lungs, choking off his oxygen. Then Wrath glances at Janus’ door between them and a cold grin spreads across his face, and Janus can only surmise they’ve come to the same conclusion: Janus won’t be able to make it to his door and the safety of his room before Wrath does.
Fuck.
A stronger side might try and take Wrath on. A braver side might make a final stand there in the hallways. A more respectable side might accept his fate and go out with a shred of dignity.
But Janus was Self-Preservation and self-preservation made him a coward and that’s all there was to it.
He turns tail and bolts.
Wrath screeches with delight behind him, the thud of his steel-toed boots echoing down the hallway after Janus as the other side gives chase. Janus forces himself to think as he hurtles away from the safety of his room. He’s too weak to sink out to his quarters or else he would already be there. He might be able to summon the energy to sink out to one of the common spaces like the kitchen or the living room, but there's no telling what other sides are currently lurking around there or whose side they’ll take, and besides, those will be the first places Wrath will check.
His only other option is this physical chase around the mindscape with the desperate hope that he can gain enough ground in this game of cat-and-mouse to find a place to hide until he’s strong enough to sink back into his room, and judging from how his ribs are already sending stabbing pain through his chest and black spots have begun to dance in front of his vision, he doesn’t bet that’s a game he’ll be able to win.
Wait. No, not his only other option. He has one thing Wrath doesn’t, one favor he can call in and deal with the repercussions later.
Swearing viciously under his breath, he veers sharply into one of the many branches off the main corridor into a narrower hallway, the doors lining it mostly half-formed or glitching in and out of existence in a way that isn’t doing Janus’ already-compromised vision any favors. It’s a dead end, and Wrath whoops behind him, undoubtedly thinking that Janus has made a mistake and accidentally cornered himself. Janus careens down it to the very end, to a neon green door carved with all manner of curse words and rude anatomy and various other inappropriate graffiti.
“Remus,” he tries to shout as he stumbles to a halt and bangs on the door with his fist, but his voice comes out a hoarse wheeze, his lungs feeling like they’re about to split clean open.
“Remus!” he tries again, and this time it comes out as an unintelligible tangle of sounds, the letters all mushing together in his mouth and garbled by an underlying hiss.
He dares a glance over his shoulder to find Wrath approaching, his pace slowed to a leisurely stalk, anticipation glinting in his eyes as he summons a baseball bat into one hand. Janus doesn’t try shouting again but this time closes his eyes and reaches out mentally to the room in front of him, to the very essence of Remus, to creativity and chaos and cleverness, and pulls in a wordless summons, shouting please and help and you owe me down the invisible connection, hoping it’ll somehow be enough–
White-hot pain explodes through Janus’ head, overpowering and all-encompassing, and he can’t tell how much of it is from the failed summons and how much is from the bat Wrath has just cracked into his skull. It doesn’t matter. Either way, he crumples like a rag doll, falling sideways into a puddle of some dark, viscous liquid creeping out from under Remus’ door, and Janus knows with a horrible, sinking certainty that he’s lost.
Dead-end hallway, Remus either too weak or too smart to respond to Janus’ summons, no way out except through whatever torture Wrath is about to inflict upon him. All Janus has left is his silver tongue, and he’s well aware that he doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of talking or lying his way out of this one.
He braces himself for more blows, but Wrath is laughing, the sound as delighted as a child on Christmas morning, and when Janus glances up through the myriad of black and white and red spots dancing in his vision, he finds the other side stepping back, tossing the bat in his hand. Every time it meets his palm it shifts into a new weapon – a Bowie knife, a tire iron, brass knuckles, a garrote.
“Come on, Deceit. Don’t you want to play? I think it’s the least you can do since you’re a little bitch who doesn’t know how to obey orders. Maybe if you put up a good enough fight I’ll let you go this time.”
A lie, so obvious that Janus doesn’t even need to taste burnt lemons on the back of his tongue to know it. Wrath never voluntarily lets any of his victims go, no matter how hard they fight back or how desperately they plead for mercy.
Still, Janus refuses to go down without a fight, even if that fight is him taking a single swing at Wrath before the other side takes him apart piece by piece. He plants a hand beneath him and shoves himself upright on shaking legs as Wrath’s expression turns ferally gleeful at the prospect of imminent violence.
“Fuck you,” Janus rasps, drawing himself up as straight as possible even as the movement pulls sharply at his likely-broken ribs and bruised organs. The black spots are returning in force, his body protesting vehemently at the sudden change in position, and he wavers on his feet, blindly clutching Remus’ doorknob for support.
A doorknob that turns easily under his hand, the door swinging open with a soft click.
For a single, suspended moment, both Wrath and Janus simply stare at the neon green wood, apparently equally taken aback by this unexpected development, and then adrenaline is surging through Janus’ veins to move hide get away find safety and he’s lunging through the door, barely managing to get himself inside before he’s whirling and slamming it shut, shaking fingers twisting the lock into place.
He turns, expecting to find Remus waiting for him on the other side of the threshold, and something jerks harshly around his neck. Panic screams through him at the thought that he wasn’t fast enough, that Wrath has made it inside as well and is choking him to death, but when his fingers scrabble at his throat they find soft fabric, not a human arm or the cold, hard line of a garrote wire. His cape, he realizes after a moment; it’s gotten caught in the door in his rush to get inside and he is effectively choking himself as he tries to pull away.
A scream of unfiltered rage splits the air entirely too close to Janus’ ear and he flinches as something slams into the door, his fingers fumbling on the knot of his cape.
“You think you can hide from me, you lying piece of shit?” Wrath roars. All the amusement is gone from his voice, leaving nothing but pure, unadulterated fury. “You think that disgusting excuse for Creativity will protect you?” Another thud too close for comfort. “I’ll fucking kill both of you.”
Janus finally rips the knot free and steps forward, letting the garment flutter down behind him and ignoring the little stab of grief that makes it through the adrenaline at the thought of losing the cape, as close to a comfort item as he would allow himself, its small, purple plaid patches on the inner lining a constant reminder of the side who’d managed to leave the Dark Side – and Janus – behind for good.
Suck it up, he snarls to himself. You can make another cape. You can’t make another skull if you open the door to get the cape and Wrath bashes your brains in with a crowbar.
He scans the room, searching for Remus’ familiar black and green costume, for the other side lying on the floor or sprawled on the bed or collapsed in the ensuite’s bathtub, too weak to answer Janus’ summons or the door, but there’s nothing. The room is entirely empty and eerily quiet in a way Dark Creativity’s domain should never be. He frowns and takes a step forward, raking his gaze across the space again as though he may have missed the gangly side, because surely if Janus has been allowed into Remus’ room then Remus himself has to be here somewhere, but still he spies no trace of the Duke.
Another thud from the door, accompanied by more of Wrath’s ranting, and Janus tries to tune it out and wrangle his erratic breathing under control. Wrath can’t get into another side’s room when it’s locked, he reasons with himself; Janus is safe here, even if Remus is nowhere to be found.
He’s no sooner thought it then the air is rent with the sickening sound of splintering wood behind him. He whirls, shot nerves ratcheting back up to high alert, and is met with the sight of the head of a hatchet buried in Remus’ door. As he watches, horror creeping slow and steady up his spine, a sharp contrast to the dizzying rush of even more adrenaline flooding his veins, the weapon is wrenched free, and there’s a single moment of silence before it’s crashing back down again, wood fragmenting enough for Janus to catch a glimpse of Wrath’s twisted face.
No.
No no no, this shouldn’t be happening. This can’t be happening. He’s in Remus’ room and the door is locked. Wrath shouldn’t be able to get inside no matter how hard he tries. Janus is safe, he’s supposed to be safe, how– what–
What little control Janus has gained over himself in the minute since he’s entered Remus’ room evaporates as all-consuming, mind-numbing panic comes roaring back, brain shutting down to all but its most basic instinct of survive. He stumbles back, scanning the room wildly for some kind of weapon (it is Remus’ room, after all; weapons should be a dime a dozen), anything to defend himself with when Wrath inevitably breaks the door down.
The hatchet crashes down again, the top of the door beginning to splinter apart in earnest now, and just as Janus’ fingers close around the hilt of a sword abandoned atop the dresser, another door flickers to life in the corner, sleek and black with Remus’ insignia glowing bright green in the center of the wood, a red symbol barely visible underneath it.
The door to the Imagination.
He has neither the time nor the higher thinking skills at the moment to question why it has appeared or whether it has anything to do with him intruding on Remus’ space. One final blow to the bedroom door and it shatters, wood shards flying out like so much shrapnel, and Janus has only a fraction of a second to meet Wrath’s bloodthirsty gaze before he’s lunging towards the black door, his only possible escape, not giving a single shit what awaits him on the other side as long as it gets him away from the lethal fate that he’s sure to suffer at Wrath’s hands.
He feels a rush of air across the side of his face as something silver blurs past, entirely too close, and the earsplitting shattering of glass a heartbeat later informs him that Wrath has thrown his hatchet at Janus’ skull and just barely missed. It’s only a momentary reprieve at best, but if the other side is stupid enough to leave himself even temporarily without a weapon, Janus isn’t about to complain at a little near-death experience.
Wrath howls in rage at his failure as Janus barrels through the black door, pivoting on his heel and scrabbling at the wood to get it closed before Wrath can follow him, nothing but panic and adrenaline and acrid fear whiting out his mind as he stumbles over his own feet in retreat, raising the sword in a trembling hand as he prepares to defend himself.
A dull thud from the other side and the door shudders, knob beginning to twist, and this is it, Wrath is going to burst through the door with a weapon in his hand and murder in his eyes and he’s going to overpower Janus, sword or no, and finish what he started–
And then just as it had appeared, the door winks neatly out of existence, leaving nothing but a faint halo image of where it had been. Even that fades after a few seconds, taking with it any evidence there had ever been anything there at all, and then it’s gone entirely, leaving Janus shaking, injured, and alone on the dark side of the Imagination.
Smoll
I know there are some deeper meanings in the whole apple scene but I'm a bit obsessed with the thought of him enjoying the apple
Everyone is trying to get Soren a boyfriend when the gay emo cousin is right. There.