👻💞Localghost thirsty for love👻💞

Hi! I'm a Multifandom blog that writes for Cuphead, Overwatch, DbD/Horror, and more! I like to do requests, but bigger works will generally be posted on my Ao3! 👻Rules👻: https://love-minor-poltergeist.tumblr.com/post/187657810294/character-list-and-rules 

[love-minor-poltergeist]

                   ♡👻 Welcome to the Graveyard!👻♡

Hello, all! I decided to write up a quick pinned post for newcomers or curious scrollers who stumble into my corner! 

♡👻Rules/Character List👻♡: https://love-minor-poltergeist.tumblr.com/post/187657810294/character-list-and-rules

♡👻Requests/Inbox👻♡ : OPEN!

♡👻Current Request Count👻♡: Pending!

♡👻 ALL NSFW AND SENSITIVE TOPICS WILL BE TAGGED! ♡👻

[love-minor-poltergeist]

Omg hi I thought about you the other day!

Hello, Dear Anon!

I'm glad to hear that you had me in your thoughts! Especially since I have an unfortunate habit of disappearing with little warning :S

I sincerely apologize for that, by the way! (シ_ _)シ

Creative burnout is something of a persistent phantom that haunts me. And paired with the lingering mare that's anxiety, it's a recipe for disaster! Still, it warms my heart to hear to be remembered!!! (*ˊᗜˋ*)

Thank you so much!

With Love,

MinorPoltergeist

[love-minor-poltergeist]

Hi, I've seen you write for Cuphead characters, but most in the list are from the game and DLC... would it still be ok to request for something involving a TheCuphead Show character? (like Henchman or Stickler)

I wouldn't be opposed to be receiving such requests! Only thing is that, admittedly, I've been late to watching The Cuphead Show. Rather shameful of me to admit, I know. (ﾉ_；)

I do believe that I've seen up to Season 1. However, I'd have to promptly pry to see if I could find my shared Netflix password with some family in order to access the show.

I'll quickly update the character list to add Henchman and Stickler, as I know the former is a darling to the fanbase (myself included)! Furthermore, since I know my personal interpretation of the game versions differs drastically from the show's portrayal, I'll most likely specify which version I'm leaning towards in the tags/header/etc.

As an additional note, I may or may not take a teeeeny bit longer to reply to Cuphead Show characters since, again, I have not seen the source material too much. Fear not, however! I will still happily write for them.

With Love,

MinorPoltergeist

[love-minor-poltergeist]

Hi Poltergeist! Firstly, I just want to say I love your writing. I know you're not really into Cuphead anymore/right now, but Sent From Above was something I adored reading, I remember being so excited to read it after school. Tbh I've reread it a good few times! Still lovingly and patiently anticipating the next installment! Now that I (finally) have a Tumblr, I was wondering if it'd be like,,, weird if I posted my own angel/Birdie that was heavily inspired by your fic? I'd tag you, of course! I would love to just show some love for something you've made!

Goodness Gracious,

I'm so sorry for taking a while to get to this message. Good Heavens, it wouldn't be weird at all to post a fic that was inspired by my own! I'd be more insulted if you deprived yourself of such a thing!! It's a huge honor!!!

I don't know if you'll ever see this reply, especially since I've been so neglectful of this blog, but, please, I'd love to be tagged in such a work if you ever decided to post it. It's the greatest compliment that I could ever receive!

Thank you so much for blessing me with this! (´꒳`)♡

With Love,

MinorPoltergeist

[love-minor-poltergeist]

A/N: Grandma and Grandpa join the fray.. It was a bit difficult to come up with a batch of hcs for the Kress twins since we don't have the greatest amount of content for them just yet. However! I had fun writing for them! I hope you guys enjoy!!

!Content Warning!: Canon-typical violence, Alcohol abuse, mentions of incest cause. well. it's the Kress twins.

"If god and science had not placed us back-to-back, I would drown in your beauty like Narcissus."

General Arora & Otto Kress Headcanons:

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Once upon a time, when the twins were young (maybe no older than three or four), Otto and Arora had yearned for the approval of their father. They weren’t blind to the fact that he feared them; disgusted at the misshapen spawn that clawed their way out of his late wife’s womb. Little Arora, the fairer of the two, was heartbroken that her father refused to look at them. Otto was the one to always pick up the pieces, always attuned to his sister’s mood the moment he felt her heart race long before the tears fell. 

The hired help had been the ones to raise them. Or, rather, they had provided the bare minimum. Live-in maids would deliver their meals throughout the day, heads bowed and voices curt; doing everything within their power to avoid looking at them. Tutors would come in throughout the day and conduct their lessons through an ornate room divider– for as negligent their father was, he at least made sure the twins had an education befitting their social status. 

Arora, fragile and bird-like in build, has an incredibly sensitive stomach. Paired with her severe overbite, there’s very little foods she can comfortably chew without some level of pain or discomfort. Jelly and jelly salads are her usual go-to method of nutrition. Otto, on the other hand, loathes them with a burning passion. Mostly because he almost ALWAYS ends up queasy after Arora’s had one. It’s gotten to the point where Otto can’t even look at a plate of gelatin without feeling sick. 

When the two retire for the night, Arora likes to lay and drape herself against Otto’s chest, content to hear their shared heart beat through the wide, soft plush flesh.

Clothes shopping was always a nightmare to deal with. Suits already had to be specially tailored for them– and undergarments? Well. Arora had long since given up on properly finding a set that fitted her. Otto, on the other hand, owned various sets of long johns and flannel drawers and tops when he was growing up. 

Of course, he tried to join his sister in…”free-balling” so to speak. Though that failed miserably when he realized how uncomfortable it was. 

The two absolutely sleep naked when they’re not wearing silk pajamas (custom tailored, of course).

Otto had bad acne growing up. Thank God for money, as he spent a pretty penny on plenty of special skin care treatments and floral soaps that felt like heaven on his skin. Not to mention that he’s gotten a custom grooming kit for his facial hair and lotions up his skin like no tomorrow. Beneath those leather gloves are the softest pair of hands you’ll find in Sinyala. 

May or may not have playfully chastised Arora for borrowing said beauty products.

Arora has an almost obsessive drive for knowledge. She refuses to rest until she’s fully mastered it. Not only does she apply it to her love of chemistry, but to learning new languages. Japanese isn’t the only other language she could speak. Growing up, she learned French, European Spanish, and a little bit of Mandarin Chinese. 

“Do you ever wonder what life would be like if we were born separate?”

The twins were no older than ten. Otto had been in the middle of reading through a history textbook when Arora absentmindedly asked the question. It had surprised him. He never entertained the notion. Life without Arora attached to his side seemed…odd. Like a part of himself would be missing. Empty. He felt his sister’s pulse quicken and though he couldn’t see it, Otto felt the telltale tremble in her shoulder. 

“Is this about father?” Otto  asked.

Earlier that day, they had found their father sprawled out on the parlor couch. Half-empty bottle of whiskey in hand and an arm draped over his face. His body was still and stiff, like he had been taxidermied and posed. 

When Arora reached out to wake him, the man stirred and groaned. Once the older man had opened his eyes, his mood soured instantly. His nose wrinkled in disgust, his eyes, already red and bloodshot, grew misty. The man said little, his lips twitching as he took in an unsteady breath. 

“Go to your room.” 

Their father said nothing more as he rolled over, refusing to look at his children for any longer. 

“I try not to dwell on the opinions of drunkards, Otto. Yet I cannot help but wonder what it would be like to not have to hide…” 

Life would’ve no doubt dealt them a different hand had they been born normal. They most likely would’ve been the pride and joy of the Kress family. Mother would be still with them. Otto would’ve most likely been the one assigned as the heir to Kress Chemicals. Arora no doubt would be married off to another rich man–

The last thought alone was enough to stir unwanted emotions. At the time he didn’t think much of the incident, but that marked the moment Otto had an inkling that his feelings towards his sister extended far beyond fraternal love.

Would absolutely be the type of people to share gum with each other.

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

[love-minor-poltergeist]

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ From the Oujia Board: Polter's Rambles ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Note: Big ol' rambling post ahead. Just wanted to air out the emotional rollercoaster that is revisiting the fic that kind of pushed this blog into the spotlight. Not exactly a fic update, not completely, anyway, but I will let it be known that I am rereading the fic in its entirety to reacquaint myself with it! I'll try to keep everyone updated on that while hopefully working on other stuff in the meantime (requests, separate fic ideas, etc.).

With that said, I'll try to avoid clogging the dashboard by putting the grand majority of the journal entry underneath a read more.

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ 👻꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

Getting the chance to sit down and re-read Sent From Above for the first time in a while is certainly both a nostalgic and humbling experience. I often had to pause and think to myself 'this is what people followed me for?'

For those who are vaguely aware of the history of this blog and the aforementioned fic, I was quite young when I first began writing it. I can still remember starting in my final year of high school-- where, at the time, I've never had much experience writing much save for a few close friends. I was 17 then, if you could believe it.

Currently, I'm rereading the first few chapters (as of writing this, I'm on chapter 9, as I want to refamiliarize myself with the story). Looking over the first 7 chapters of the 13 currently available is an eye-opening experience. There's a lot of errors littered throughout; tenses, both past and present, mixed in an awkward fashion; an awkward repetition of a few words or phrases that make the sentence/paragraph feel awkward and unnecessarily portly. Not to mention certain details that I've, admittedly, hadn't paid too much mind to.

By all means, for the few people who paid attention in English class or have read seasoned fics, this was clearly amateurish work. A blip on the radar on the vast sea of content on the internet. However, whether it be through sheer luck on my end or the lack of /reader content for the Cuphead fandom at the time, people just kept reading it. Comments became my lifeblood-- I was just so happy that people liked my writing enough to give it a shot!

Chapter 8 is where I notice the improvement in quality of writing. I believe at the time I begun to wrangle a friend of mine into beta-reading and editing. Having a second pair of eyes to look through certainly helped!

I think this is where I began to develop some more confidence in my abilities, too. At the cost of what can only be described as a debuff being added on top of that, however: I begun to overthink things too much.

The more I reread, the more I begin to recall the pressure I put on myself to meet everyone's expectations. I wanted my fic to be good. I wanted it to be taken seriously. What had started out as just a fun little self-indulgent fic ended up becoming something to be hyper-critical over. I wasn't 17 anymore-- I had to be better.

I'm 24 now. Almost about to become 25 in October. Life had bled into my writing, and I had changed priorities. I had to be serious now. Finish school, get a job, earn a living wage. That's what the real world was like. That was just life.

Brain Surgeries took place, I graduated with a degree in Graphic Design but felt no artistic spark, I've entered a rut creatively and emotionally. I fell in love and in a relationship. I'm fully medicated for my depressive symptoms. I was tired because I had to take everything so seriously.

Yet, as I find myself rereading an old fic of mine, I found myself just having fun. I kind of forgot what it was like to just do something for the sake of it. Pessimistic, I know, but I sort of gotten burnt out on the fic because I felt like I had to make everyone happy. Looking back on it now, I shouldn't have let internet comments dictate how I write (well, not completely, anyway). I find myself finding the whimsy, the simple joy, that just came with creating something for the sake of creating.

While this isn't exactly an update that many people would be looking for, I'll say this one that I certainly welcome on my end.

With Love,

MinorPoltergeist

[love-minor-poltergeist]

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖ Incoming Message From the Ouija Board ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

(Or: A Quick Update)

Hello, All! ヾ(*'▽'*)

My sincerest apologies for the sudden radio silence. Life hasn't been going the way I had intended: Questioning if I'm happy with the career field I had initially picked, doubting my own artistic abilities (both drawing and writing wise), etc.

On top of this, a dear friend of mine reached out to me for a fic, to which it had ended up taking me FAR too long to finish. Bless them for having the patience of a saint, built I felt horrible for making them wait. So, in my head, it felt reasonable to fully commit to working on said fic and ONLY said fic since it was a higher priority.

Thankfully, within the hour of four am, I finally finished. Currently, I'm in the midst of reviewing and editing said fic. The original doc itself was 102 pages long, but I've been steadily communicating with both the friend who commed it, and a mutual friend who's been more than happy to help edit!

Once I'm done, I'll do my best to return to posting semi-regularly. However, I am starting a new job soon, so I have no clue how much this'll affect writing output to be completely honest! (シ_ _)シ

Regardless, I'm not completely dead just yet! Thank you for sticking around this little graveyard of a blog ( ╥ω╥ )

With Love,

MinorPoltergeist

[love-minor-poltergeist]

We’ll back to our regularly scheduled posts but I wanted to gush about hyperfixations for a sec thanks to the new update:

(Sincerest apologies for the low quality— I had to take them on my phone since for some reason it wouldn’t let me take screen shots on my comp)

Looks like Amelia finally broke free from her binds is potentially hiding somewhere.

And it looks like they’re teasing the new prime assets (assets?). For anyone familiar with the evidence files, that male silhouette may definitely bring some hope… Crossing my fingers that it’s Whitehorn…

[love-minor-poltergeist]

hullo!! ^^ not a request, just wanted to say that i love how you write, and i wish you good luck with future projects!! your work never fails to make me giggle and kick my feet lol! hope you're doing well! 💝

EEEEEE Thank you!! ☆*:.｡.o(≧▽≦)o.｡.:*☆

I remember that feeling of hyper giddiness seeing fics that I enjoyed updating or the user posting new stuff, so to have this sentiment repeated back to me is really gratifying! (*/▽＼*)

I just hope that I haven't gotten too rusty!

Thank you very much for the kind words!

With Love, Minor Poltergeist

[love-minor-poltergeist]

A/N: Here to contribute to (what I could already assume is) the massive amount of Eddie Gluskin content in this fanbase. These are mostly just for fun and to flesh out how I would like to portray our lovely Groom! I hope you all enjoy!

C/W: While I don't go into graphic detail, there are brief mentions of Childhood Abuse/CSA. Please proceed with caution!

General Eddie Gluskin Hcs:

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Touch is a delicate matter with Eddie. If he’s the one initiating he’s absolutely fine; he has no qualms against hurting others, after all. However, he absolutely abhors being on the receiving end of it. Though it’s been long since his father and uncle were incarcerated, their abuse left Eddie adverse to even casual touch. He can still feel the ghosts of their half-assed attempts at “comfort” after they were done with him. No amount of bathing or scrubbing can wash away the damage. 

It’s better to give the man his space. 

If he wasn’t in the vocational block toiling away at the sewing machines, Eddie could be found within the recreation area. He can’t go often thanks to the fact that the security guards have to watch him like a hawk, but he enjoys the fresh air. It also helps that the grounds come with weight-lifting equipment. A man must maintain a peak physical form. And Eddie is a vain main.

Granted, Eddie dislikes going into the courtyard for the same reasons. He’s solitary by nature, and a lot of the patients flock to the place; desperate to have some form of distraction. It’s difficult to maintain his friendly demeanor around so many people for so long. 

However, he does cross paths with Frank Manera from time to time in the recreation block. The scragglier man offered to spot him one day while Eddie was weight-training, and the two of them had gotten along ever since.

Frank, naturally calm and lethargic in his movements, never set him off. Even if the cannibal’s hygiene habits leave much to be desired. However, Eddie is willing to overlook it. Besides, the man is surprisingly opinionated when it comes to stageplay costume design, and it was nice that Eddie can finally share an interest with someone else.

In addition to sewing and tailoring, Eddie naturally has a knack for drawing and pastels. He’d like to have a try at painting one day, but Murkoff is a bit stingy when it comes to art supplies. 

Though, on the other side of the spectrum, the man is hopeless when it comes to digital media. Sure, he could learn if he truly wanted to, but… He truly doesn’t have the patience for it. Yes, sewing isn’t exactly the fastest, either, but it felt way better than just sitting in front of a computer screen trying to figure out how to make a website. He’ll get stir-crazy if he can’t occupy his hands. 

Usually will keep his needles and pins tucked within his teeth while he’s working. Whether or not he’s accidentally swallowed one, Eddie will never share. 

He absolutely has. His poor mother was in hysterics the first time it happened.

While he dreams of a white-picket fence with a wife and kids and a dog— he’s terribly allergic to dogs and cats. A fact he discovered the hard way with a neighbor’s schnauzer. Seven year old Eddie was crushed that day. 

Used to have longer hair when he was a child, but kept it cropped short thanks to his Father not wanting, in his words, “a queer for a son”

Stuck within the limbo of hating his mother and revering her. Mrs. Gluskin was a victim as well, and she did her best to provide her son with comfort; and if she invited him to tag along with her for errands, it meant he was safe for the day.

Yet all Eddie could focus on was how she cowered away and avoid looking into his eyes after his abusers were done with him; how she would turn up the TV when Eddie’s crying and shouts could be heard from the basement; how she refused to talk about what happened after his father and uncle were arrested. The years of resentment only grew worse thanks to Mr. Gluskin passing his misogyny onto Eddie. 

He may go on about how he wants to have a family, but Eddie is a little awkward around kids. He more so tends to treat them like little adults as opposed to children. It didn’t help that he never had many friends during childhood, so he has a tendency to stand there, frozen in place, while he watches a bunch of children run around. 

Doesn’t like having his picture taken. He hates having to force a smile for the camera, only to be met with how empty his eyes look in the end product.  

Do not ever take him clothes shopping unless you want to spend an entire day bickering with him. He’s quite critical over fabric quality and finding the “right” set of clothes that’ll flatter him. He’ll walk into the dressing rooms with a mountain of shirts and pants in one hand and end up leaving with only a single set of pants and a button up shirt. At least he neatly folds everything before placing it back on the return rack..

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

[love-minor-poltergeist]

There's a character in Cuphead I've been hyperfixated on and I wanna ask if you'd write for him because he isn't on your character list ☺️👉👈

Oh my! Which character is it, anon? If anything I may have forgotten to update the list since, admittedly, it's been quite a bit since I updated the character list!

If you're hesitant to answer in the anon inbox, you're also free to send me a direct message and I'll happily get back to you as soon as I can!

With Love, MinorPoltergeist

[love-minor-poltergeist]

Queue Complete!

Howdy Y'all!

After a long of time of chipping away at the request queue, I finally finished the ones I promised myself that I would! Not sure if there's a whole of people interested still, but I'm happy to announce that requests are back open!

I'll also be working on other projects in the background while I deal with requests, so expect more from me in the future!

With Love,

MinorPoltergeist

[love-minor-poltergeist]

"Let's give it a minute before we admit that we're through" - Hard Feelings by Lorde

If I may request an angst for Dice and reader (neutral pronouns) in a situation: The silence after the war between the two. A sense of numbness and mutual understanding, final confessions of not wanting to let go, but have to in order to save themselves from the future destruction. A bittersweet smile and walk away, leaving everything behind as it flashes within their minds. Whether it'll be in headcanons or anything, or it ends happily/bitter, it's up to you!

Thank you so much, and I'm so sorry if it's too long!!

A/N: Oh your MIND. Don’t apologize for including lots of detail. In fact, I’m heavily appreciative towards requests like these since it paints an incredibly clear picture!

Now, I gotta address the giant elephant in the room: I am SO sorry for taking so long to get this. I know that a very long time has passed since you submitted this request, dear, and it just wouldn’t sit right with me if I didn’t get this done. Especially since you put so much love into this message!

I’m not sure if you’ll ever get the chance to see this, but I hope that you’ll enjoy what I wrote, and please be sure to message me if you want me to change this! 

This batch came out heftier and leaning much more to the hurt/angsty side of things. Please let me know what you think!

—------

┍━━━━━♥♠♣♦━━━━━┑

Good things never last. You took those words as gospel. So you harden your heart, taking each tumble and anguish in stride until stone, firm yet polished to a mirror finish, takes its place. 

Some call it pessimism; You view it as realism. That wasn’t to say that you allowed melancholy to rule over you with her iron fist. No, far from it. It’s just easier to grin and bear it.

Fate was fickle in her ways. Luck loves to pull the rug from underneath you. Both forces combined to endow you with the worst kind of luck when it came to romance.

You were either overlooked for better options. Or, in the rare instances where you caught someone’s eye, it either ends in one of two ways: it ends up being an elaborate, cruel joke, or you were simply too busy to even consider it. 

So when fate put you in the path of King Dice, you chalked it up to a hopeless pipe-dream; something only possible in the realm of fantasy. Men like him weren’t meant to be tied down. The most you’ll ever be is another notch on his bedpost; forgotten in a long line of lovers– if he hadn’t already seduced you into gambling away your soul, that is. Or your life’s savings. 

Yet, by the grace of whatever deity was out there, you fell into the lap of the King. It didn’t matter how, why, and when it happened. All you knew was that somehow you earned his love. 

It didn’t matter how many fans cried his name or how much they declared their undying love for him— you alone coaxed the warmth from his jaded, conniving heart. 

He knew how to lie. He knew how to perform; to sing; to dance; to demand the attention of the crowd. He didn’t need to do any of that around you. You didn’t yearn for more, you were happy with him; raw and unfettered. An act devoid of sense. There were many ugly sides to him— too many of them. 

The thought tucked itself in the back of his mind. Even when you had embraced his faults, showed no signs of interfering with his work, it haunted him. 

Nevertheless, life went on. He allowed himself to warm your bed at night. Let himself fall into tranquil domesticity with you; like he had belonged there in the first place. All the while precariously balancing all the nastiness of soul and debt collecting, casino management, and the Devil’s temperament. 

There were times where the die came to you in the dead of night, a mottle of purple and blue bruises blooming across his pale flesh. Poorly hidden by chalk-white powder. King Dice allows you to fuss over his injuries; silently basking in butterfly-light touches while you tend to him. You never liked the violence of his job; Dice was just happy that it never reached you. 

The people of Inkwell were afraid of the Devil. Fear had kept them docile; for they knew well what happened to anyone foolhardy enough to try to stand up to him. Years of torment steadily bubble into resentment, then to outrage. Furious whispers began to circulate; eager to get back at the Casino in any way they could. 

Your relationship was supposed to be a secret. No one was supposed to find out. Yet, somehow, word got out. Maybe someone caught on to how frequently you visited Inkwell Hell; perhaps a stranger noticed how relaxed you were around the Devil’s Right-Hand Man; or maybe King Dice hadn’t swept the area enough before he took you out on a late night date. 

Whatever the case was, people noticed. They were quick to change their tune. Suddenly, your friends began to speak to you less and less; their previously warm demeanor growing cold as they began to exclude you from gatherings. Complete strangers shot you dirty looks and muttered to themselves whenever you passed by. It had gotten to the point where you stopped leaving the house after dark. 

King Dice was already the cautious sort. Now that you’ve caught the eye of the angry mob, he’s on high alert. Gone are the days of playful dates that left you laughing like children in the night. Instead, your new normal became Imps supervising your day-to-day activities under Dice’s orders.

Your lover made himself scarce from your life. Even more so than before. The phone calls and letters he sent appeared less and less; he’s become a phantom within your life. He thought that if he kept his distance, if he let the air cool before his return, things would slowly return to normal.

It didn’t.

You’re followed one late night by a group of drunkards. One of them had apparently seen you leave a bar with King Dice, and certainly didn’t take too kindly to it.  You had tried to ignore them, gaze glued to the sidewalk. Then one of them had gotten bold. A rough hand clapped itself onto your shoulder, practically jabbing their fingers into your flesh. 

You yelped. In an instant, the world melts into chaos. Dark blobs dart out from the corner of your eyes as the forms of imps, numerous and small like locusts, swarmed your assailants. The air broke into a chorus of shouts and curses, the frantic beat of your heart filling your ears. You didn’t hesitate– you ran away with your tail tucked between your legs. 

There wasn’t any urge to venture outside afterward. King Dice, the man who often lavished you in comfort, was nowhere to be seen. There were no letters. No phone calls. But there is an uptick in your security. Even the imps meant to babysit you grimaced at your plight. 

One day, you receive a bouquet of marigolds and peonies. Attached to the posie is a small note etched in familiar cursive: “We need to talk.” A time and place is transcribed on the other side. Your gut sank when it dawned on you that it was the same hole-in-the-wall snack bar King Dice took you on your first date. 

By the time you get there, Dice was already seated at a booth all the way in the back. The lights dimmed to a point where it was easy to miss him. A half-empty glass of brandy is tightly held within his gloved hand as he sat hunched over the table; his free hand clutched at his temples. He glanced up and your eyes met, and your stomach fell at just how utterly sad his normally bright eyes looked. 

He’s quiet as you fell into the booth seat across from him, the most he could muster is a quiet “Hey, doll,” and a tight-lipped smile. The die offered to treat you to anything on the menu, and grew crestfallen when you rejected it. 

It took a long time for either of you to speak. The air was thick with a somber foreboding aura. Each of you snuck glances at the other, silently pleading with the other to take the first step. You felt your vision grow cloudy, and you silently dabbed away unshed tears with a napkin. 

Dice took a swig of his brandy before he finally spoke. “I’m.. Doll, I-” he floundered. It was the first time you ever saw him at a loss for words. You bit harshly at your lip. “Doll. I am so, so sorry.” He finally mustered. 

He reached his hand out to entwine his fingers with yours. That alone was enough to break the dam. Tears flowed freely down your cheeks as you tried to reassure him. A string of desperate reassurances tumbled from your mouth, your words slurred and nonsensical through your grief. 

You didn’t want to let go. This was the first time you felt so happy with a man like him. Yet as you were shushed and had your tears gently blotted your tears with a gloved thumb, you knew it was inevitable. 

Neither of you were certain how much time had passed. It felt like just hours of Dice gently shushing you, doing anything he can to comfort you. The staff shot your table concerned looks and a few withering glares, but Dice shooed them off. 

Once you finally managed to even out your breathing, King Dice spoke once again. 

“Baby, we can’t live like this,” he said. “ I tried to be selfish. I wanted to stay away just so those idiots would leave you alone and stay with you. But...”

He trailed off. Your heart pangs worsened. Of course he was just as miserable over the distance. 

Silently, you nodded. 

“I don’t want this. I wish things could be better,” your voice trembled. 

King Dice leaned forward to rest his head on your hand, mindful of the edges of his face. His eyes shined underneath the dying yellow light of the bar. Numb and mute, all he could do was stare up at you. 

“I know, baby. I know. But I’d be a downright fool to let you wallow cause I can’t let go.”

The rest of the night passed agonizingly slow. The two of you sat huddled in that booth. Silently clinging to the other. Closing time rolled around, Dice tipped heavily for the trouble, and the two of you stood outside. 

He offered to escort you home, but you rejected it. Awkwardly, all you could offer him was a tight-lipped smile and a good-bye before making your way home. The last thing you saw of him was his form illuminated by the street-lights.

┕━━━━━♥♠♣♦━━━━━┙

[love-minor-poltergeist]

He's so silly!

[love-minor-poltergeist]

Hey could I get a fic with The Devil where the reader can Shapeshift and enjoys taking The Devil by surpise and just messing with him?

A/N: Hough, another old request that took me forever to get to! I’m so sorry that you had to wait so long! (ﾒ﹏ﾒ)

I was hit with a massive stroke of inspiration for what I could write for this request, though I will say that, unfortunately, reader ended up not being as present like they should've been. Furthermore, this fic ended up featuring a lot more DevilDice and less reader/Devil interactions. I'm super sorry! (m;_ _)m

Also, grammarly decided to be difficult with me and paywall any edits I wanted to make past the allowed amount. And since I wanted to experiment with shorter, punchier lines, I'm a lot less confident!

Please don't be afraid to message me if you'd like me to ever rewrite this if you're unhappy!

Dead Ringer Disaster Word Count: 2.8k

┍━━━━━♥♠♣♦━━━━━┑

Something wasn’t right. 

The Devil couldn’t quite place it. 

One moment, the day had been progressing like normal. He’d woken up. He had an imp prepare his morning bath while another read off the mile-long list of duties for the day. He’d briefly skimmed through the mountain of paperwork that greeted him in his office. Lit a cigar. Then called King Dice to hand him his share of the work (a considerably smaller portion) before the demon shooed him off. 

Then, for the next few hours, the Devil carefully read through various contracts and paperwork— both business and soul-related. He thoroughly combed through loopholes, legal jargon and crunched the numbers; approving of few and burning most of the rejects.  It was awfully dry, but it was a necessary evil within his daily routine. 

Nothing off about that part of his day.

By the time he finished, it was around three in the afternoon. It was about time he’d taken a break, and so the Devil left his office. He made a beeline towards his usual haunt— towards the balcony seat that oversaw the main lobby of the casino floor. The demon paid little mind to the imps that scuttled about by his feet with trays of food and drink; only pausing to purloin another cigar from one of the little servers that passed by. 

A familiar burn filled his lungs as he lit and raised the tobacco to his lips; a pleased groan tumbled from his mouth as he closed his eyes. Shit, he really needed it then. 

Once the Devil made it to his destination, he let out a purr at the sight of his chair. The smooth, velveteen cushions called out to him, beckoning the demon forth, and heed their call he did. 

The demon sat down with little fanfare, reclining against the back of his chair with a low groan. He could already feel the aching muscles cry out in relief, his shoulders visibly sagged, and he puffed at the cigar tucked beneath his teeth, 

Everything felt fine. Hell, better than fine, even. 

Then, as the Devil inhaled another lungful of smoke and closed his eyes, finally allowing his body and mind to melt into the soft fabric.

Just as he felt the back of his head graze against cloud-like cushioning, it had struck. 

A sudden wave of dread washed over his being. The fur along his collar raised, his cigar promptly forgotten as he snuffed it in a nearby ashtray; he looked behind him, towards the curtains of the balcony seat entrance– the only thing that offered a sense of privacy. 

They were currently drawn back, neatly held up by a golden rope. There was nary a stray hair or dust particle on them; perfectly untouched since he’s gotten here. The hall beyond was unoccupied; casino staff knew to make themselves scarce when it came to the Devil’s favorite haunt. 

His tail whipped against his chair leg, and he slowly– taking care to still glance behind him periodically– turned back towards his front. He craned his head up and scanned the floor beneath him. 

The air was filled with the familiar din of slot machines whirring, patron chattering, glasses clinking, and dice clattering against casino tables. Imps and other staff members walked the floors, resolutely tending to their duties or periodically entering the smoke lounge for their breaks. 

No one paid the demon any mind. Not even a glance his way. As far as they knew, the demon didn’t exist. 

This did nothing to quell the ever-growing apprehension that gnawed at his belly. 

With a huff, the Devil arised from his seat, and moved towards the entrance of his balcony. He peeked into the hallway, hand seamlessly tugging at the curtain’s binds. There wasn’t anyone to be seen. The disquieting feeling in his gut only grew worse as he drew the curtains closed. 

It couldn’t have been the tobacco that made him paranoid. He had only about two cigars. Centuries of building up a tolerance wouldn’t have allowed for it, either. Did he possibly forget about something? A crucial task or call that needed to be done? No, no— he wasn’t scatterbrained. 

King Dice would’ve already found out and been on top of him for that. Even now, the Devil could hear the man’s exasperated tirade in his head; muttering to himself and rubbing the smooth panes of his temples. 

The demon’s tail flicked against the floor. Pointed ears twitched as he dug a claw into his armrest. 

Did he lose something recently? No, the Devil hardly cared about such a thing. And highly unlikely. His imps knew well to immediately return anything misplaced— even if it was something minute as a pen. 

Better to ensure their own safety if they minimize any annoyance that could push him over the brink. 

Plush velvet-lined cushioning ripped and split open with a quiet creak. Soft, spongey yellowed innards emerged and fell to the floor in chunks, leaving behind the black skeletal arm of his chair. A growl, low and rough like the rumblings of a motor, slipped from his throat. 

What the hell was off about today?

He tapped his finger against the now exposed wood of his chair’s armrest; falling into a tempered rhythm as the Devil closed his eyes. He sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, the faint beginnings of a headache buzz about in his skull. 

Had he not been so taken with this sudden paranoia, he would’ve noticed the steady clicks of dress shoes grow closer with each passing second. Had the dull ache that wracked his temples allowed it, he would have sensed the curtains ease apart. He would have turned to see the gloved hand gently peel back the drapes to reveal a rich purple suit. 

King Dice, a small silver tray in tow, slowly made his way past the curtains. The Devil, still nursing his blooming headache, was none the wiser. 

Tentatively, oh so slowly, the other man placed the tray down on a small table beside the Devil’s chair. It clinked as it sat down, the sound easily drowned out by the din of slot machines and raucous laughter. 

Yet it felt deafening in the solitary little balcony.

Instantly, the die felt eyes on him; sharp, bemused slits that glared witheringly at him. 

A lesser man would have backed away. They would have dismissed themselves. King Dice, on the other hand, merely offered a small, half-smile; hands tossed up in a mock-surrender. Hardly an ounce of fear was present in his bones; his dark eyes alight with a jovial shine. 

Eyes narrowed, the Devil sniffed; tail once again thwacking against the marbled floor. 

Suspicion creeped its treacherous tendrils into the back of his mind. 

He’s known Dice for a long time. Too long of a time to know that he was never this cheerful. If anything, the slimy bastard always looked vaguely annoyed at the world around him. Like he had hated every second of breathing the same air as the poor idiots who let themselves gamble away their life’s savings. Of course, he made sure to never clue any clientele in on his true nature; every smile flashed, every melodic laugh, and seductive gaze were the fruits of years of careful cultivation. 

This wasn’t normal. 

“Easy, Boss.” This jolly die soothed. “Just thought I’d present a gift.”

Strike two. Dice may have worked his keister off to get the job done, he may have been quick to sniff out any rats that dared to undermine the Casino’s power— but he never did this. King Dice was no suck up. 

The Devil planted his chin on the back of his hand. He’ll hold his tongue for now. Even as his hackles raised and ears jerked the longer he stared at the man. He’ll let this impostor prattle on. Even if it made his claws dig further into the naked arm of his chair. 

“Oh?” the Devil remarked. “Awfully generous of you.”

Faux Dice huffed as they turned back to face the demon, fake offense tinted their face in a dusty pink. They raised a hand to their chest, eyes closed.

“How very dare you,” they scoffed. “I have my moments.”

“Truely.” The demon muttered under his breath. 

The longer he stared at this phony, the more imperfections he found. 

Their eyelids were devoid of any purple, leaving them a chalky white. Dice was a vain dandy. He invested far too much time into his looks– so much so that the demon never saw him barren of makeup; the die often insisting that he could knock the more susceptible sinners to his charms dead with a single look. Hence why he often colored his lids with a smokey purple. Sometimes a subtle silver, if Dice didn’t have time to preen. 

Secondly was the smell. 

Demonfolk were more sensitive to smells– bestial nature and whatnot. He himself was no exception. 

King Dice constantly wore this cologne; stated that it was a weapon within his arsenal of seduction (the Devil fought against the urge to roll his eyes at the recollection). Caron Pour un Homme, a scent just as flowery as its name. It reeked of lavender. 

The minute this phony stepped in, the Devil smelled spice and wood, with a hint of sweetness. A smell his right-hand knew damn well that rubbed his boss the wrong way. Too reminiscent of incense burned during church service. 

That alone was enough to darken his already dour mood. 

Then there was…this. The way they acted. Like they were completely unafraid of him. Well, King Dice wasn’t afraid of him either. However, he wasn’t so…Casual. Dice doesn’t do that. He acted calm and unabashedly voiced his thoughts toward his boss, but he never was this playful… 

At least not to coworkers. That was saved for a special type of company. They were saved for the lucky little ladies and gents that caught his eye for the evening; ones that’ll keep his bed warm for the evening. Conquests get those honeyed words. Never for him. Not the Devil. 

A pain throbbed in his chest. Like someone had taken his soul into their palm and squeezed as hard as they could. The Devil ignored it. 

He took in another deep breath. Drummed his fingers against his chair at a faster tempo. All the while Faux Dice hummed as they poured over the tray they brought along. Humming a tune as silverware clinked and clattered against their shiny platform. 

Sweetness; Rich and decadent with a note of bitterness and a splash of coffee. The scent of chocolate hit his nose like a battering ram. 

Cat-like pupils expand and pooled out like ink splattered on paper. A purr ripped free from his throat before he could stop it. 

Faux Dice turned from their tray. In their hand sat a plate, small and hand-painted with flowering pansies, which held a slice of cake. Thickly frosted with a generous amount of dark chocolate. Topped with the tiniest dollops of white milk cream. 

“Devil’s Food Cake?” The Devil arched his brow. “Bit cliché don’t you think?” 

It didn’t stop the rumbling of his stomach. How it flip-flopped about in its cage as the Faux Dice chuckled. 

“Quite. You don’t look too mad about it.”

The purrs escaped again. Slipped out from his throat like slimy fish in a stream. The fake’s smile widened, eyes glinting with a coy shine. 

The Devil shoved away the traitorous butterflies that wreaked havoc in his stomach. 

“Can’t say I am. They put my name on it for a reason.” 

Faux Dice chuckled again. The corners of their eyes crinkled up, showing off their round dimples and pink-dusted cheeks. 

“I can imagine why.” 

They reached beside them, back towards the tray and picked up a fork. Dainty and engraved with floral finishings, polished to a fine shine. Gingerly, they dug into the moist pastry, scenting the air with its sugary perfume. 

Before the demon had the chance to open his mouth, it was raised towards his mouth. Pearly white frosting smeared against his lips and his chin; dotting the onyx flesh like stars at night. 

All the Devil could do was sit there. Dumbstruck. Heat filled his body; his stomach hot and heavy with a molten weight. His entire body grew slack. Numb. He couldn’t feel his arms or legs; like a marionette with severed strings. 

This shouldn’t happen. 

What he ought to do was put an end to this nonsense. Stop this half-baked mockery from going further. Anything to cease the treacherous butterflies from flying and digging their freakish proboscises into his heart and draining the life out of him.

But he doesn’t. 

Instead, the Devil sat there. Slumped and mute as Faux Dice tutted as if they caught a child with their hand in the cookie jar. The world slowed as they leaned towards him. Their breaths fanned across his chin; white lips inches away from ebony. They smiled, eyes illuminated like green marbles in the sun. 

A gloved thumb teased against the corners of his lips; ghosts of warmth burned in their wake. Cream covered their thumb and the very air the demon breathes is bombarded with sugar; invading his lungs and teasing at his tongue. 

“Didn’t take you for a messy eater, boss~”

Faux Dice, slowly, agonizingly so, raised their thumb to their lips. Never once breaking eye contact as they licked the frosting off. They groaned, eyes fluttering shut, and shivered; their body completely enraptured in utter bliss. 

His head felt hot. Like someone had forced his face into a pot of boiling water; every sound outside the bubble of the balcony muffled and distorted. He could make out a rumbling noise faintly, and it dawned on him that he was purring up a storm. Was his tail wagging? 

“Boss?” 

A familiar voice interrupted them. The illusion is shattered in an instant. 

The Devil ripped himself away from the fake King Dice. He flew off of his seat, rising to his full height as his favorite chair fell back and crashed against the floor. He turned his head and was met with the sight of his real right hand. Who looked utterly baffled as he stared slack-jawed at his doppelganger. 

Horror dawned on the demon and drenched him in ice-cold water. He felt his mouth flop open and closed, yet all that emerged was silence. 

His pupils shattered and crumbled into a thousand little pieces, sinking to the bottom of his eyes, leaving behind an emptied pool of yellow. His head slumped back as steam poured out of his ears. 

King Dice, the true one, moved to speak, but laughter— shrill and high like a magpie’s cry— cuts him off.

The Devil snapped out of his stupor, and both men turned to the doppelganger. 

Faux Dice, eyes wide and wild, cackled as their features melted and drooped down their face. Chunks of gooey, viscous flesh hit the floor with wet slaps. Pink, stringy muscles peeled themselves back, revealing yellowed bone tissue and sharpened fangs; thin and numerous like the mouth of a piranha.

They removed their suit jacket with a flourish and spun; purple suede swallowed up their form to reveal an all too familiar thorn in the Devil’s side. 

“You.” The Devil hissed.

Mortification gave way to anger as the demon turned ruby red. 

“Me!”

A shit-eating grin was plastered onto your face as you stared at him, radiating that oh-so smug aura that never failed to infuriate him. 

“You know, Scratch,” The Devil’s eye twitched at the nickname. “You took your sweet time this turn around!”

King Dice, befuddled and at a loss for words, turned to the demon. 

“Boss…What did I walk in on?”

“Can it.” The Devil hissed.

“If I had known any better, you were really into my latest disguise! Made you wish for the real thing, didn’t I?” 

Your voice trembled as you fought back laughter. Eager hands clapped against your lips as the Devil summoned his trident; plumes of dark smoke billowed from his form as he narrowed his eyes at you. Slit-like pupils shifted, twitched and morphed into twin skulls and crossbones.  He’s marked you for death, he’s decided. 

King Dice’s already-white face paled even further. Oh no. No, no, no– he already knew where this was headed. He just gotten most of the lobby repaired since the last time you’ve broken into the casino. The die reached out towards his boss—

Only his hands captured thin air. 

The Devil launched himself at you. Curved prongs crashed into solid marble as you hopped up. The balcony half-wall exploded into a cloud of crushed rock and splintered wood. Debris fell and crashed into the floor below. A loud metallic CRUNCH followed soon after– no doubt the sound of several machines being crushed. 

Panic erupted as customers cried out in horror and scattered throughout the building. Imps hooted and hollered at the chaos, many of them immediately joining as they swooped and pounced on patron and demonic coworker alike. 

Throughout all of the din, however, King Dice made out your laughter and the angered roars of his employer the clearest. He cupped his head into his hands. 

He was nowhere near paid enough for this. 

┕━━━━━♥♠♣♦━━━━━┙

[love-minor-poltergeist]

A/N: Back on my bullshit after a long-ass hiatus! I ended up getting too eager to share this since I'm returning a to a hyperfixation, so please enjoy this surprise in the meantime!

Outlast Trials has wiggled it's place back into my brain, and since poor Gooseberry was left out of my general Prime Asset Hcs a while back, I decided to make her my muse for the occasion! ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡

!Content Warning!: Mentions of drug abuse and verbal abuse from Dr. Futterman, general Outlast-level violence!

"Don't you worry, Mother has her ways!"

General Mother Gooseberry Headcanons:

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

Though it has been a great sum of years since Phyllis had practiced the occupation, Dr. Futterman’s passion for dental hygiene had followed her well into adulthood. Her skin may be torn and scarred beyond repair, her mind broken and scattered, but you won’t find better teeth anywhere else in Sinyala. 

Amidst the broken doll parts, forgotten books and their dog-eared pages, and Futterland memorabilia within her cell, many guards have noted the various oral products she has sitting on her sink:

Three boxes of dental floss (because what if she finishes one up, or like Dr. Daddy says “her stupid, klutzy self loses it after he bought a perfectly good box just a day ago”), a bottle of mouthwash with another safely stashed away in her bedside table (Dr. Daddy always did love his liquor. And since he doesn’t have access to Gin, he had to go with the next best thing), an oral irrigator (for those nasty little bits of food that loved to hide from mother), and a steady supply of toothbrushes. 

It was also worth noting that a few guards have caught the occasional porcelain jar full of sugar, so to speak, on her dresser within her cell during instances where they needed to sedate and escort her into trials. She developed quite the cocaine habit before Sinyala; especially during her time as the hostess to Futterland. Between the stress of stardom, the letters and phone calls she made to Daddy, and the constant need to make sure that the children are happy– it’s no wonder that she needed a little pick-me-up just to get through the day. The habit followed her until the day of her arrest. While Murkoff is willing to enable her cravings, they severely limit her intake. 

Of course, she never takes it orally. It’s bad for teeth, after all.

Children loved seeing Phyllis during their visits (even if most of them hated the dentist). The younger patients in particular loved it when she brought out her puppets– some of them even begging to see them even when they weren’t due for surgery. She received many drawings and hand-woven friendship bracelets as gifts, and treasured every single one of them. 

Though they never actually practiced the faith, nor was religion well-liked in the house, Phyllis and Dr. Futterman are Jewish. Dr. Futterman wasn’t exactly the kind of man to attend Synagogues often and the only Torah present in the household rested in her father’s personal desk. They at least got latkes and kugel from the bakery and made brisket and knishes for Hanukkah (Phyllis was in charge of handling them if her father wasn’t in the mood for it– which was often). 

Poor dear struggled with weight problems since she was little. It had felt like no matter what she did, her body stubbornly held onto the extra fat of her stomach and thighs, and it didn’t help that her father was quick to attack her appearance whenever he was angry (or just in general). It wasn’t until she briefly left her childhood home, away from daddy, to focus on Futterland that she managed to slim down dramatically. Granted, a lot of it stemmed from her drug abuse and skipping meals. It was only after she had lost her father that she rapidly gained it all the back. 

Fell in love with taxidermy thanks to an unconventional gift from a patient of her father’s: a perfectly preserved dove. It was a small, unassuming little thing, and yet Phyllis couldn’t help but marvel at the craftsmanship. There wasn’t a single feather or stray lump to be found, the pure white of its plumage a stark contrast to the grey and peeling wallpaper of their home. Had she not known, she would have thought that it was alive and still with them.. 

This fascination may or may not have led to little Phyllis experimenting with any of the poor strays or birds that died nearby– carefully utilizing a little sewing kit she had underneath her bed to stitch together any loose flesh and marbles to replace rotting, gelatinous eyes.

If she wasn’t at the office helping her father or at school, Phyllis was usually left alone at home to her own devices. Though she didn’t have the luxury of a break. She was expected to do the cooking, cleaning, and repair their clothes. Once Dr. Futterman was home, Phyllis then had to tend to his needs; usually by fixing him a glass of gin and massaging his sore feet and shoulders. It always left her tired, but the moment Dr. Daddy gave her a gruff, mutter of “Good girl, Phyllis” she was over the moon. 

Gooseberry had Murkoff commission a little doll’s bed for her Dr. Futterman puppet. She even sewed him a special little nightcap to match the sleeping gown she made!

Never really had gotten the chance to try any candy since it was forbidden in the house, but she would’ve loved turtle candies or Queen Anne Cordial Cherries. I could also see her being quite charmed by Australian Frog Cakes!

Gooseberry often has to…borrow new faces to replace the decaying mask she wears. Any unlucky reagent that’s been chosen either ends up dead or joining the ranks of the ex-population. She’s as happy as a clam, on the other hand. It’s not all uncommon to see Gooseberry celebrating the occasion with facials and massaging cold cream into her new skin.

╚═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╝

[celestialwrites]

flirty or threatening? dialogue prompts

@celestialwrites for more!!

“good god, you are a pain.” “then why are you even here?” “maybe i’m a masochist.”

“say that again i dare you.” “what are you going to do about it if i do?”

“your existence unnerves me.” “aw, i’m flattered.”

“hi honey.” “don’t honey me, you just threw a book at me!”

“huh, you know when you’re not scowling at me your eyes look a little more blue than green.”

“what if one day you wandered off a cliff?” “would you join me?”

“sometimes i feel like you want to get hit.” “by you? most certainly.”

“miss me?” “i had wondered where my headache went.”

“you are certainly interesting.” “is that a compliment or are you making fun of me?” “yes.”

“i’m not docile by any means.” “i’ve noticed, i notice everything about you.”

“i need help to bury a body.” “and you thought of me? aw.” “actually, i’m the only one that would miss you if you went to prison.” “you’d miss me?”

“i hate you!” “as long as you feel something towards me.”

“watch it!” “it’s cute how easy i can rile you up.”

“do you truly hate me?” “i wish that was possible.”

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