Snappy

A tired yet dense female with an obsession

[snappydragon14]

Yet Again!!—

Doing another TOA!! I need to finish the scenarios in my head!!

Next page~

Previous page~

Days turned into weeks, and to Nath’s quiet disbelief, living with Angor Rot had somehow become… routine. Not normal—nothing about sharing a home with an ancient, spectral warrior could be called that—but strangely bearable. Angor was largely self-sufficient, a solitary creature who operated on his own schedule. He would vanish into the woods for stretches at a time, never announcing his departure, never offering explanations. Then, hours—or days—later, he’d reappear at the threshold like smoke on the wind.

He never came back empty-handed. Sometimes it was a sprig of unfamiliar herbs, pungent and earthy. Other times, a bottlecap, scuffed and gleaming like lost treasure. Once, inexplicably, a single domino tile with no others to match. These objects were deposited with no ceremony and even less conversation, his voice low and matter-of-fact: “A token of gratitude.”

Gratitude for what? Nath still wasn’t sure.

That evening, however, there was no token. No arrival. Just Nath, seated at their desk, forehead resting against one hand as they glared with quiet fury at the blank page before them. The sketchpad was open, accusing in its emptiness. They’d been at it for nearly an hour—doodling margins, erasing lines, flipping pages—only to end up right back where they started. Stuck. Agitated. Inspiration had packed its bags and left sometime around last Tuesday, and all they were left with was the quiet hum of frustration and the occasional urge to scream into the void.

They were mid-sigh, ready to throw the pencil like a dart across the room, when a soft knock startled them out of their thoughts.

It came again—a distinct tap tap tap, rhythmic and annoyingly polite.

Nath turned slowly, confusion furrowing their brow as they scanned the room.

The window.

Of course.

Dragging themselves up from the chair with the grace of a sleep-deprived bard, they shuffled to the window and yanked back the curtain.

There, crouched like some eldritch raccoon with zero respect for personal boundaries, was Angor Rot.

On the roof.

Again.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Nath muttered under their breath, unlatching the window with practiced irritation. The cool night air rushed in as they pushed it open. “Angor, it’s nine o’clock at night.”

“I am aware,” he said flatly, unbothered by the hour, the situation, or gravity in general. His glowing eye was steady, unreadable. “Let me in, Nath.”

They stared at him, exasperation blooming in their chest like a second heartbeat. “You said you’d be ‘wandering the night.’ That was thirty-five minutes ago. The moon hasn’t even fully risen.”

“I wandered,” Angor replied, utterly unfazed. “Now I have finished.”

“That’s not how wandering works.”

He tilted his head, as if considering that, then shrugged. “It is how I wander.”

“Right,” Nath said, rubbing their temple. “Of course it is.”

Angor remained perched outside, crouched on the edge of the window like a statue waiting for a cue. Nath stepped aside with a grumble, and the ancient assassin slipped inside with all the sound and elegance of a breeze moving through branches. He was already scanning the room, ignoring the desk, the sketchpad, the flickering candlelight—as if memorizing the space anew each time he returned.

Nath closed the window behind him and folded their arms. “You know,” they began, tone pointed, “you’re an assassin with centuries of experience, an ability to phase through shadows, and the literal power to haunt dreams—but you refuse to use the back door?”

Angor blinked slowly. The silence stretched.

“…There is no challenge in the back door,” he said at last, tone solemn.

They just stared at him.

He stared back.

A full ten seconds passed.

“Are you—are you serious right now?”

Angor didn’t answer. His arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable—but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he might have almost smiled. If Nath squinted.

They groaned, running both hands through their hair. “You are like a six-foot-tall murder cat. You disappear without warning, climb on the roof for no reason, and demand attention on your own schedule.”

“...you let me in,” Angor noted, dryly.

“I shouldn’t,” they snapped, already turning away. “But here we are. My windowsill is your throne now. Congratulations.”

From behind them, the faint clink of a new object being placed on the desk. Nath turned just in time to see a small, round object—shiny and silver—nestle next to the sketchpad.

A button. Old. Dented. With a star on it.

Another token.

Of gratitude, apparently.

“…You’re unbelievable,” they muttered, but there was no heat in it. Just a quiet resignation, and—if one listened carefully—a thread of reluctant amusement weaving through the words.

Angor said nothing. But he stayed. Watching. Silent as always.

And somehow, Nath didn’t mind.

.........................................................................................................................................................................

They trudged downstairs with all the enthusiasm of someone walking toward their own emotional ambush. Every step felt heavier, thoughts spiraling into a familiar loop of why is this my life? and is this some ancient trust exercise or is he just like this?

Angor Rot had always been cryptic. Occasionally, a walking threat display with a dramatic flair. But he wasn’t heartless. That much Nath had figured out—mostly from the scattered, reluctant memories he’d shared about Morgana.

He never told full stories. Just fragments.

But even those were enough to piece together what happened to him.

Something about the way his voice had gone quiet whenever her name was mentioned...It all pointed to a history of grief. And honestly? If this—whatever this chaotic, weird roommate dynamic was—helped him even a little, then maybe Nath could cut him some slack.

Still, that goodwill was beginning to chafe at the edges as they shifted uncomfortably in the kitchen, rubbing their arm and blinking through the leftover frustration of unfinished art. Their eyes wandered, half-lidded, toward the window by the back door.

And then they froze.

Something was outside.

Just beyond the glass. A shape, smallish and still.

Nath tilted their head, unsure. Curiosity and dread coiled like twin snakes in their gut.

Because, look—if they were already stupid enough to bring a troll into their home, their sense of “bad ideas” had clearly taken early retirement. So what was one more risk?

They opened the door slowly, the cool air brushing against their skin as the porch light flickered overhead.

And there it was.

Laid out neatly on the welcome mat like a cursed package: a fox.

Dead.

Its body was intact, no fur missing, no blood smeared across the concrete. Just one clean incision across the abdomen—surgical, almost reverent—and the rest of it untouched. No gnawed limbs. No broken bones. Its eyes were even closed.

Like it had been tucked in for a nap.

Nath’s stomach dropped.

“ANGOR!” they screeched, the name leaving their lungs like an air raid siren. “WHY IS THERE A CARCASS ON MY DOORSTEP?!”

They didn’t care if the whole of Arcadia heard them. Honestly, at this point, the neighbors were probably used to it.

The horror on their face remained frozen, features twisted between disbelief and revulsion. Their hands flailed in an uncoordinated gesture of pure why, as if that would somehow erase the dead fox from existence.

No answer came.

"It is my offering to you," Angor said calmly, his voice smooth and ancient, like stone crumbling under moonlight.

Nath didn’t need to look behind them to know he was there—they felt him before they saw him, each step down the stairs deliberate and somehow managing to radiate menace despite the context.

They turned anyway.

There he was, looming as usual, a living shadow in the hallway glow. His eyes—well, eye—burned faintly in the dim light, not hostile, but… expectant. Like he was waiting for praise. Or, at the very least, understanding.

Nath blinked at him, then looked back at the fox. Still laid out like some morbid centerpiece.

They opened their mouth, closed it, then sighed and ran a hand down their face. “Right. Of course it’s an offering.”

To his credit, Angor didn’t sound smug. Just… factual. Sincere. As if this was the most natural thing in the world to do.

“Okay,” Nath muttered, nodding slowly, still trapped in that strange fog between horror and begrudging affection. “This is fine. This is… fine. Instead of my friends going missing like in those creepy Yandere simulator games, I get animal sacrifices from my brooding roommate. Classic.”

Angor remained silent behind them.

It wasn’t even the worst thing he’d done, and for some reason that made it worse.

Nath rubbed the back of their neck and knelt beside the fox with a grimace, fingers curling under its stiff front legs. The body was colder than expected. Heavier, too. “Just… help me get the body inside, please,” they muttered, mostly to themselves, dragging the fox an inch before its hindquarters thudded stubbornly against the threshold.

It was like trying to pull a sandbag with limp spaghetti arms.

Nath gave a heroic grunt and yanked again, managing only to shift it maybe another inch and a half. “Oh, my god. Why is it built like a bowling ball?”

Behind them, Angor watched. Silent. Unmoving. Absolutely not helping.

Nath’s head whipped back toward him. “Don’t help me!” they huffed, red-faced, breath fogging the glass of the open door. “Seriously! Just stand there and judge me like a big haunted cat statue! I got this!”

Angor tilted his head, his expression unreadable, but the faint glint of amusement in his eye betrayed him. The way his clawed arms remained folded—entirely unbothered—was all the confirmation Nath needed.

“Right,” they grumbled, already regretting every life choice that led to this moment. “Guess I’m dragging a fox carcass into the pantry by myself like it’s a normal Wednesday.”

It was only when they tripped over the tail and nearly faceplanted that Angor finally moved.

Without a word, he stepped forward and scooped the carcass up in one arm with disturbing ease, as if it weighed nothing at all. He held it out like a servant presenting a roast boar, then turned slightly as if awaiting instructions.

“…Thanks,” Nath mumbled, arms crossed.

Angor said nothing. But he did nod. A slow, oddly dignified little gesture.

And then he carried the body inside.

By the time the fox was safely deposited onto the kitchen table—on top of several layers of hastily grabbed paper towels—Nath was too tired to be disgusted anymore.

They stood there, arms folded, head tilted, and stared at it.

Dead.

“…Y’know,” they began, voice quiet, “I could just bury it. That would be the normal thing to do. Say a little ‘thank you for your sacrifice’ or whatever, and toss it into the backyard like a responsible adult.”

They didn’t sound very convinced.

Angor Rot stood to the side, silent, unreadable again. Watching.

“But,” Nath continued, stepping closer, “this whole situation passed ‘normal’ like three offerings ago, so…”

They reached out, fingers hovering over the fox’s snout, then gently brushed the fur back. It was soft. Cleaner than they expected. “You brought me a gift. And in some twisted way, I think I get it. You don’t really do the whole ‘words’ thing. You’re all about meaning. Symbolism. Action. So if this is your version of a Hallmark card... I’m not gonna waste it.”

Angor tilted his head, the slow arc of it birdlike and razor-sharp.

Nath turned and met his gaze, eyes tired but curious. “Would it be… weird if I made a mask out of it?”

Silence.

But then, slowly, Angor stepped forward.

His eye glowed faintly, but not with judgment. Not even confusion.

Interest.

No—more than that. Approval.

“You would wear its face,” he said, voice low and contemplative, “to honor the offering?”

Nath blinked. “I was thinking more… artistic tribute than full ritual devotion, but… yeah. I guess.”

A beat. Then, almost reverently, Angor nodded. “Good. Let its death not be wasted.”

There was something in his tone. Something just a little deeper than pride. Almost… reverence. Maybe even hunger, though not the kind that ended in blood. It was the hunger of meaning—that primal drive to make sense of something through craft. Through creation.

It made Nath shiver.

Before they could stop themselves, they got to work. A mix of adrenaline, morbid curiosity, and some faint, unplaceable desire to get rid of the art block racking their brain.

The first cuts were slow, careful. Nath had to look up a few diagrams on their phone—thankfully, the search history was already cursed—Peeling back the skin with trembling hands. Cleaning the inside with paper towels and a surgical level of focus. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mostly due to late nights drawing away with nothing but mechanical pencils.

Angor watched the entire time, saying nothing, but every once in a while, he made small noises—barely there hums of what might’ve been approval. Or something else entirely.

By the time Nath stitched a lining inside the rough skin and held the crude mask up to the light, something had shifted in the room.

They turned slowly and slipped the mask over their face, the empty eyes of the fox meeting the single, blazing one of the assasin.

Angor’s breath hitched.

Just barely.

And then, like a storm rising behind his expressionless facade, he stepped forward—one step, then two—until they stood toe-to-toe.

His hand rose, claws poised just beside their jaw, not touching but trembling close. His voice dropped, almost reverent. “You wear death well.”

Nath didn’t know whether to laugh or blush—or run screaming into the night like a lunatic.

So, naturally, they said the dumbest thing possible.

“…You like it?”

Angor’s head tilted again, ever so slowly.

Then—quietly, dangerously—he replied:

“Yes.”

[snappydragon14]

Again!!—

That's right!! I'm pulling another TOA card!! So read away!! (P.S. this is just a pt 2 for 'WHAT THE FUUU-')

Next page~

Previous page~

They weren’t sure whether to scream or simply crawl back into bed and pretend the possible killing machine standing in the doorway wasn’t real. Their breath caught halfway up their throat, limbs frozen in an awkward half-sit as the figure loomed silently. A single thought echoed, sluggish in their sleep-deprived mind: I did this. I brought this thing into the house.

The creature didn’t move. Just stood there—tall, imposing, shadow-wrapped—head slightly cocked, as if observing them with the idle curiosity of a cat sizing up a bug.

Seconds stretched like hours.

They blinked. So did the creature.

Their head tilted slightly to the side.

The creature mimicked the motion perfectly.

Yep. Definitely a hallucination. Just a product of three sleepless nights, two expired energy drinks, and a regrettable internet purchase they were now positive had not been ethical.

With a shaky inhale and a pitiful attempt at dignity, they stood—limbs stiff, spine aching—and marched forward, eyes pointedly averted from the being as if that would make it disappear. “Nope. No. I’m not dealing with that. You’re not real.”

They shuffled past it like someone skirting a sleeping bear, rigid with the kind of politeness that bordered on desperation. For one, heart-stopping moment, they felt the faint chill of air shift beside them as the creature subtly leaned closer.

They didn’t look back.

They made it exactly halfway down the stairs before their brain apparently decided nope was the correct answer after all.

Their vision tunneled, knees buckled, and the world gave one final spin before dropping out beneath them. Their body flopped limp over the banister before toppling down the rest of the staircase like a ragdoll hurled by fate. Limbs knocked against the walls, one slipper flew dramatically off into the hallway, and they landed at the base with a thud that rattled the nearby umbrella stand.

A moment of silence.

Then, from the top of the stairs, soft but distinctly inhuman footsteps.

They lay crumpled on the floor, face-down and groaning, as a shadow stretched toward them across the tiles.

“…Okay,” they muttered faintly into the floorboards. “If you’re going to kill me, just… be quick about it. I’m too tired to scream.”

The figure paused at the base of the stairs, its heavy footfalls slowing as it approached the crumpled heap that was their barely-conscious body. A low hum escaped from its throat, something contemplative yet distinctly unimpressed. Then, with a slow narrowing of its single visible eye, the creature tilted its head again and raised a brow.

“You’re one strange human,” it muttered, voice low and gravelly—like someone gargling broken glass with a side of smoke.

Before they could even process that the hallucination had spoken, let alone insult them, a hand—strong and far too big—wrapped firmly around their ankle.

“W-wait—what—HEY!”

With no more ceremony than lifting a shopping bag, the creature hoisted them effortlessly into the air. Their arms dangled helplessly, hair hanging like a mop, and blood rushed to their head almost immediately. The world swam, ceiling spinning as they let out a disoriented whine. “No, no, no—I am not built for this—!”

He didn’t seem to care. Or rather, he did care, but only in the clinical, detached way a scientist might inspect a new bug species. The creature turned them slightly to the side, peering up at their limp form with quiet scrutiny. Then came the poking.

A clawed finger prodded at their arm.

Then their side.

Then their hip.

“Squishy,” he commented under his breath, as though noting the texture of an overripe fruit.

Their only response was a mix between a grunt and a wheeze, followed by a high-pitched "Stop—!" as his fingers dug near their ribs.

Pain flared like a struck match.

“Ow—! Okay! That’s bruised! That is a bruise! Don’t—nnn—poke it!” they hissed, wincing hard as their body involuntarily jerked in his grip. “I fell down the stairs, not into science class—!”

But he didn’t stop right away. Instead, he hummed again, thumb brushing over the edge of the bruise with surprising delicacy—as if curious what pain would do to a creature like them. The light touch still made them flinch. Tears prickled in their eyes, not from fear, but sheer overstimulation and exhaustion.

“Pain response normal,” he murmured.

“SO IS MY DESIRE TO SLEEP,” they croaked, voice muffled by gravity and their own hoodie, which was now slowly sliding down over their face.

He stared at them for another beat, his eye unreadable.

Then, with a grunt of what might’ve been satisfaction—or disappointment—he simply carried them off, still dangling upside-down like an irritable piñata.

The next thing they knew, they were in the kitchen—still upside down.

Apparently, the creature had zero understanding of how dignity or basic human circulation worked. The blood had long since flooded their skull, making everything feel cotton-thick and echoey. Their vision pulsed in time with their heartbeat, and their limbs hung limp, more from exhaustion than restraint.

So much for the dramatic interrogation fantasies they’d built from late-night mafia movies. They weren’t tied to a chair under a swinging lightbulb. No shadowy men in suits cracking knuckles behind them.

Nope. This was the “held by one ankle like a grocery bag” model of interrogation. Highly undignified. Zero stars.

The creature stood over them, hulking and unreadable. His massive frame nearly filled the kitchen doorway, casting shadows that swam across the tile floor. His free hand reached out occasionally to swat a hanging ladle or examine a mug with suspicious disdain.

Then he turned that single glowing eye back to them.

“Now,” the gravel-voiced interrogator rumbled, sounding like a broken diesel engine trying to whisper, “who are you? And where am I?”

They groaned weakly, eyelids fluttering as another wave of dizziness hit. Their arms flopped upward for a moment, then dropped again like noodles. “Ughhh… I think I can see sounds now,” they mumbled, dazed.

The creature gave them a little shake, just enough to make their shirt slide even further up their ribs and send a sickly lurch through their stomach.

“Answer.”

“I’m—” they squinted, brain cells rallying. “I’m Nathaniel. Nath for short. And you’re in my house, okay? My house.”

A beat.

“I found you… unconscious. In my driveway. At like—” he blinked up at the upside-down clock, “—10 at night. You were just there like some kind of… sleeping statue.”

The creature’s brow twitched slightly, as if weighing that answer and not finding it entirely satisfactory. He muttered something low under his breath—either in another language or just a string of annoyed syllables—then adjusted his grip on Nath’s ankle.

“Your house,” he repeated, suspiciously.

“Yes!” Nath snapped, the upside-down blood rush making their voice shriller than intended. “That means I get the right to not be used like a decorative wind chime during Q&A, okay?!”

The creature stared at him, utterly unfazed.

After a pause, he finally shifted, turning to the kitchen table and—thankfully—lowered Nath down. Not gently, not with any sort of grace, but he at least let go in a way that didn’t involve dropping them on their head.

Nath crumpled into a seated heap on the cold tile floor, breathing hard and trying to straighten their shirt. They squinted up, cheeks flushed from the headrush.

The creature loomed still, silent. Watching.

Nath sat slumped against the base of a kitchen cabinet, legs sprawled out like a discarded marionette, arms draped limply over their lap. Their head was still spinning from being turned into a human pendulum, but they were no longer upside-down, and that alone felt like progress. They rubbed their temples and let out a sigh that was half-exhaustion, half what-is-my-life-right-now.

Across from them, the creature stood in stillness, He hadn’t moved since letting Nath down. Still, unmoving, patient. Watching.

“So…” Nath mumbled, breaking the silence, “I can’t keep labeling you as a ‘thing.’ That’s—uh—not great for roommate energy.”

The creature didn’t reply. He just let out a sound. A deep, vibrating hum from somewhere low in his throat, like metal resonating against stone. Not hostile. Just… acknowledging.

Nath exhaled through their nose, letting their head thunk lightly back against the cupboard behind them, “Look, if we’re doing this whole ‘you mysteriously show up unconscious in my driveway and then interrogate me upside-down in my kitchen’ thing, the least you could give me is a name. You’ve got one, right? You’re not, like, an eldritch tax write-off with amnesia?”

Another beat of silence passed.

Then, finally, the creature moved.

With deliberate care, he stepped forward. The floor creaked beneath his weight, tiles groaning slightly with each motion. He crouched—not fast, not aggressive, just lowering himself into a more level position with Nath. His presence was enormous even when still. Like a storm cloud crouching beside a matchstick.

“I am…” he began, his voice even rougher up close. It scraped through the air like a dry blade being drawn across stone. “Angor Rot.”

The words hung there. Heavy. Final. Like a name that had never belonged in a kitchen.

Nath blinked.

“…Right. Not ominous at all. Totally normal. That’s a… fun syllable combo you got there.”

Angor Rot’s eye narrowed slightly, though not in anger. More like amusement—or something ancient and unnameable mimicking it.

Nath raised both hands in a vague gesture of surrender. “Okay. Angor Rot. Cool. Great. So… are you gonna like, murder me, or just steal my cereal and glare at my appliances all night?”

A pause.

“I demand the tears of my enemies,” Angor Rot said flatly.

“…Cool. Guess the Lucky Charms are safe.”

There was another long silence.

Then, very slowly, Angor Rot shifted again—this time sitting cross-legged on the floor across from Nath with all the elegance of a ritualistic predator at rest. For a moment, they simply stared at each other—one blood-drained human and one ancient warrior whose presence still felt like it should be accompanied by thunder.

There was another long silence.

Then, very slowly, Angor Rot shifted again—this time sitting cross-legged on the floor across from Nath with all the elegance of a ritualistic predator at rest. For a moment, they simply stared at each other—one blood-drained human and one ancient warrior whose presence still felt like it should be accompanied by thunder.

“I don’t have a bottle of tears,” Nath muttered after a pause, voice dry as dust. “I do have tea, though.”

That seemed to catch Angor’s attention.

His head tilted again, but this time with a sharper, almost birdlike precision. Not mockery. Not confusion. Interest. That single glowing eye focused entirely on Nath now, as if the offer of tea held some esoteric significance he wasn’t quite prepared to parse.

“You offer… a brew of leaves?” Angor asked, slowly, as if saying the words made him question their meaning. “Steeped in boiling water. The ritual of the frail.”

“Wow,” Nath said, eyebrows climbing. “Way to make it sound like a cursed alchemy spell, but yeah. That’s… basically tea. Earth’s universal ‘I-don’t-know-how-to-handle-this-situation’ beverage.”

Angor Rot made a sound. Not a laugh, not quite—but something low and almost thoughtful, as if the concept amused some deep, ancient part of him. Like the memory of laughter worn smooth by centuries of silence.

Nath pulled themselves upright with a groan, using the counter for support as their knees cracked in protest. “Sit tight, I’m gonna introduce you to chamomile.”

Angor Rot watched them rise, unmoving but far from idle. There was something about his gaze—unblinking and heavy—that made even the act of filling a kettle feel like a sacred rite under scrutiny.

Nath, for their part, tried to ignore it. They reached for the electric kettle, fumbling with the cord as they rattled off to himself, more to fill the silence than anything else. “Tea. Okay. That’s a start. Maybe next, we move up to Pop-Tarts and bonding over morally grey life choices.”

They weren’t sure why, but this entire interaction—absurd, surreal, vaguely terrifying—had begun to shift in tone. Angor Rot hadn’t made a move to leave. Or to kill them. Or even to break anything. Just watched.

And now, apparently, he wanted tea.

Nath glanced over their shoulder as the water began to heat, then gestured lazily with the box of assorted tea bags. “Pick your poison, big guy. We’ve got sleepytime, orange spice, or… uh, something suspiciously labeled ‘detox blood cleanse.’”

Angor Rot reached forward with long, blackened claws and plucked a teabag from the box with surprising delicacy. His expression, if one could call it that, suggested deep contemplation.

“…Blood cleanse.”

Of course he’d pick that one.

“Yeah,” Nath muttered, rubbing the bridge of their nose. “Why does that not surprise me?”

[snappydragon14]

WHAT THE FUUU—

I was rewatching Trollhunters, and somehow, this Mf can't leave me alone!! Begone, you oversized murder troll! Get out of my head!!!— (so now I'm writing about it), P.S. They/Them pronouns will be used!

Next page~

That’s all it seemed to take.

They stood in the doorway of their home—half in the warmth of the kitchen light, half in the hush of the Arcadian dark—watching the heap of stone that had inexplicably appeared in the middle of their gravel driveway. It just sat there, as if someone had forgotten their landscaping project halfway through. But something about it… tugged at the edges of their instincts.

Arcadia had always been a strange town. Not in the flashy, urban legend kind of way, but in the quiet sort that stuck to your clothes and whispered behind your back. You’d get used to flickering streetlights and shadowy silhouettes just barely visible behind curtains. The neighbors didn’t talk about the oddities; they simply moved around them like you’d step over a sleeping dog.

Tonight was no exception.

Still gripping the old, dented baseball bat from earlier—a leftover from trying to scare off what might’ve been a possum but sounded more like giggling—their knuckles whitened. It wasn’t fear, exactly. It was the sort of hesitation one gets when the world feels off-kilter. They stepped outside anyway, because in Arcadia, you eventually stopped waiting for the normal to explain itself.

The summer night should’ve been warm, but a dry, crisp breeze curled through the tall, untamed grass on either side of their walkway, brushing against their oversized T-shirt and shorts. The clothes were perfect for chilling inside—not for tiptoeing toward the unknown—but they made do.

Their steps were cautious, padding through dew-laced blades of grass and crunching lightly against gravel. The bat dragged at their side, the tip knocking softly against their shin with each step.

The heap remained still. Unmoving.

It looked like a crumbled statue at first glance, all rugged stone and jagged outlines, like something chipped out of a forgotten cathedral and dumped without ceremony. Maybe it was a statue. After all, this town had more than its share of bizarre art projects—and reclusive sculptors.

But then they noticed.

A subtle rise. A slower fall.

Breathing.

They froze mid-step, pulse catching in their throat. It wasn’t just a sculpture. It was alive.

Swallowing hard, they stepped closer. The cautious kind of close, where you lean forward more than walk. From here, the features became clearer, the silhouette less abstract. Not quite human—no, definitely not. The creature had small tusks protruding from its lower jaw, curling slightly forward. Horns, massive like those of a mountain ram, framed the sides of its head. Its skin—stone-like, cracked, layered—gleamed faintly beneath the porch light, catching glimmers where old, rusted pieces of jewelry clung to wrists and chin in forgotten loops.

They knelt, breath held, and watched for a moment longer.

The creature's chest moved with difficulty, each inhale more shallow than the last. If you weren’t looking directly at it—if you didn’t know better—you’d think it was already dead.

They should’ve been terrified. This wasn’t just a creature; it was something else. Something they couldn’t categorize.

But fear wasn’t what took root in their chest.

It was curiosity.

Of all the strange things they’d seen in Arcadia—the raccoon-sized gremlins that treated their trash cans like treasure chests, the neighbor who always smelled like ozone and never blinked, the stranger with too many teeth who ran the bakery—this… this was new. And their brain, despite every rational protest, wanted to know.

Maybe they were just really stupid.

But the moment the thought crossed their mind, they moved.

The bat thudded to the ground behind them as they shifted, bracing their hands on the creature’s exposed arm. The skin—or rock, or whatever it was—was surprisingly warm beneath their touch. But not cold like you’d expect stone to be.

They gave it a tug.

Nothing.

A bit more effort—still nothing.

And then, with one stronger yank, their foot slipped. Grass gave way. Gravity won.

With a graceless yelp, they tumbled backward onto the damp lawn, landing flat on their back as the creature shifted no more than an inch. The bat rolled away somewhere into the dark.

They groaned.

This was going to take a while.

.........................................................................................................................................................................

Hauling the lump of stone into the house took up most of the night.

They didn’t realize just how big the creature was until they finally managed to wrestle it over the threshold. With every tug and grunt, it became clearer: this wasn’t some raccoon-sized cryptid or compact forest ghoul. No, if this thing stood at full height, it would tower—easily 6 and a half, maybe even 7 feet tall. In contrast, their own 5'1" frame felt laughably inadequate. It was like trying to drag a refrigerator that had decided it was also a dead elephant.

They’d scraped its stone-heavy limbs across the floor, apologized to the hardwood they’d probably never refinish, and wheezed as they angled the weighty body onto the couch. The thing creaked ominously under the burden. It was their favorite couch, too—thrifted from three owners ago but perfectly molded to their nap position. Now it bore the weight of a sleeping boulder-that could possibly tear them to shreds.

Just as they exhaled in triumph, standing to admire their terrible, beautiful mistake, gravity remembered them.

With a sudden, traitorous shift, the creature’s full weight slumped sideways—and straight onto them.

There wasn’t even time to scream. Just a high-pitched, startled squeak as they were engulfed by sheer mass. The body wasn’t limp exactly, more like… unwilling. As if even unconscious, the creature had no concept of lightness or mercy.

They went down like a paper doll under a rockslide, squashed between warm stone-skin and lumpy couch cushions.

“Mnff—!”

Panic nibbled at the edges of their thoughts as they squirmed beneath the collapsed figure, arms pinned, legs flailing weakly from under the beast’s bulk. This was not the heroic monster-rescue they had imagined. This was a living tombstone using them as a mattress topper.

They twisted just enough to crane their neck, cheek mashed against what might have once been the creature’s hipbone or possibly shoulder—who could tell with all the angles and jewelry. A rusted bracelet dug uncomfortably into their ribs.

And still, they couldn’t move.

Being an artist had never earned them much body strength—paint-stained fingers, sure; good grip for charcoal sticks, definitely. But upper body muscle? Ha! That was a luxury reserved for people who didn’t spend their free time drawing their favorite movie characters and hoarding sketchbooks.

They let out a defeated puff of air, shifting only enough to free one hand and slap weakly against the creature’s side. “You... weigh... too much,” they hissed.

No response.

Of course not.

This was going to be a long night. And maybe a trip to the chiropractor.

.........................................................................................................................................................................

Finally—finally—able to wriggle free from beneath the creature’s unyielding weight, they half-rolled, half-crawled out from the side of the couch, gasping like they’d just swum to shore. Their muscles trembled, arms jelly-like from exertion, and their hair clung to their face in damp strands.

No ceremony. Just a large blanket yanked from the back of the couch and draped over the creature in a slow, sluggish arc. It didn’t do much to disguise it—more like tucking a boulder in for a nap—but it gave them a psychological buffer, which, right now, was priceless.

They trudged toward the stairs like a survivor, one hand gripping the bannister for dear life. The other lifted their oversized shirt to peer at the fresh bruise forming on their ribs. A red, blotchy mark—just beneath the skin, already purpling where the creature’s jewelry had bitten into their side. It stung when they touched it. They hissed quietly but shrugged it off.

“Tomorrow,” they muttered, like a prayer.

The door to their room creaked shut behind them. Their sanctuary. If it wasn’t for the fact that it looked like a half-finished crime scene involving glitter and gouache, it might’ve been comforting. Piles of expensive art supplies were scattered between crumpled receipts and empty energy drink cans. Sketchbooks nested with tangled cords. A stack of unopened bills loomed like a financial horror movie on the desk.

Every inch of the room whispered debt in different fonts.

But it was home.

With a graceless collapse, they flopped into the hammock that cradled the corner of their room, swaying slightly with the force. They grabbed their nearby body pillow—paint-smudged but soft—and hugged it tight, trying to ignore the chaos around them.

They’d clean it all tomorrow. Absolutely tomorrow.

Sleep came in messy, shallow waves—like being pulled in and out of water by a lazy tide. Their brain kept lurching awake every few minutes just to make sure it was still suffering. They didn’t know how long they drifted like that, but the darkness outside seemed unchanged. At least they could salvage what little rest was left.

Until they checked the clock.

2:43 A.M.

The glowing numbers mocked them from the cluttered dresser. They groaned into the pillow, voice muffled and pitiful.

“I’m going to be brain-dead by sunrise.”

And then came the afterthought. The punchline. The real horror.

Bills. Were. Due.

Their eyes opened wide as they stared at the ceiling in full existential despair, before sighing so loudly it startled a cup off the desk. The sound of plastic hitting carpet echoed like judgment.

They tried to go back to sleep, adjusting slightly—but now the room felt different.

Colder.

It wasn’t a comfortable cold, like sheets fresh out of the wash. No—this was the unsettling chill of a house holding its breath. The kind of cold that creeps in quietly, curling into your socks and brushing over your spine.

Which made no sense. Upstairs in Arcadia usually meant oven-like conditions by midnight.

They turned slightly, unease pricking at their skin. And then… pause.

Why was the door open?

They remembered shutting it. They were certain they’d shut it.

The hammock groaned as they sat upright, tangled in their blanket like a sleep-deprived burrito, brow furrowed in confusion. Their heart gave a single, slow thump.

Standing in the doorway, half-shrouded in darkness, was the creature.

The blanket they’d left on it downstairs hung around one shoulder like a ragged cape, slipping off stone-plated skin with each subtle movement. It wasn’t walking so much as gliding, slow and heavy, every shift of its limbs accompanied by the low, whispery scrape of stone against stone. The sound prickled at the edges of their nerves.

But it wasn’t the sound that held them still.

It was the eye.

One—just one—glowing yellow eye peered from beneath a jut of its stony brow. The glow didn’t flicker like a firelight. It pulsed, slow and steady, like it was watching....

Their body locked up.

The haze of drowsiness was gone. Evaporated.

Now, there was only the quiet. The cold. And that single, unwavering eye staring at them from the threshold of their bedroom.

Not blinking.

Not moving.

Just there.

And the worst part?

They didn’t know if it was curious…

…or hungry.

[snappydragon14]

Pride month sheet

Happy pride month, everyone! Sorry if I was late! But here it is.

[snappydragon14]

Minor Spoilers!!

Finally, I figured out how to draw lightening!! Take that poor hand eye coordination!

[snappydragon14]

P.S. this is how I think Mictlan adopted Maya in another AU (Not mine!)

“What were you thinking?” The god of war hissed, his voice low and sharp as obsidian, echoing through the grand, blood-streaked chamber. He loomed over the child cradled in the arms of the death goddess. His jagged armor, formed of bone and gold, clinked with every twitch of anger as he towered above her, his shadow swallowing the temple floor. He had expected an heir—yes—but this?

“I made this for you, mi amor,” Lady Micte cooed, her voice dripping with a velvet sweetness that belied the chaos she had birthed. She held the baby in the cradle of her arms as though presenting a prize, her expression soft but unnervingly poised—like a serpent offering a kiss. Her skeletal jewelry clinked lightly as she tilted her head, eyes like twin voids reflecting nothing but the sun. Her calm smile didn't falter, but behind that stillness lurked something far older and darker than presentation.

Mictlan snarled, the sound vibrating through the pillars of the temple. His body rose slowly, his feet no longer touching the ground as he drifted closer, a monstrous presence of fury. His face, previously a single grim visage, split open—literally cleaving into two snarling, fang-lined maws, revealing the duality of war within him: conquest and carnage.

“Spawn of a human and the goddess of death,” he spat with barely contained fury, his voices overlapping in a demonic chorus. “The one thing that can actually hurt me.”

As his power surged, a gust of wind the color of smoke and ash roared through the chamber, shaking the stone walls. The temperature dropped, but the air felt flammable, electrified with divine tension. He hovered just above the child now, extending a blackened, obsidian-clawed hand toward her—intent not to cradle but to eliminate.

Micte didn’t move. Her smile widened, unshaken, like a blade being slowly drawn. She said nothing, simply watched, as though curious what he would choose: wrath or reason.

But before the war god could so much as graze the child’s skin, the newborn’s tiny hand shot up, fingers curling around one of his faces. Both of his heads jerked as if struck—not with force, but with confusion. Slowly, impossibly, the two snarling halves of Mictlan’s face began to fold back together. His growl choked off into silence. The chamber—once seething with divine rage—fell still.

The baby giggled.

She reached out with both hands now, one smacking gently at his nose, the other patting his cheek with the innocent rhythm of a child discovering the world. She didn’t cry. She didn’t flinch. She played with the god of war’s tusks like they were toys, her eyes wide and filled with wonder.

Mictlan stared.

No words. No rage. Just silence—and not the kind that comes before a storm. This was something else. A white, blank, stillness that pressed in like fog. His eyes fluttered closed as he inhaled slowly, deeply, tasting the moment like an ancient wine aged in chaos.

“We’re keeping her,” he whispered, so low the words barely escaped his lips.

Micte blinked, her posture freezing, the eternal curve of her smile faltering. “…What?” she asked, her voice unusually flat, unguarded.

Mictlan didn’t answer her. Instead, he pulled the baby from her arms, holding the infant in his colossal, clawed palm as if she were the rarest, most sacred of relics. She kicked her legs and laughed again, grabbing one of his tusks and pulling with the strength of a soap bubble.

“We’re. Keeping. Her,” he repeated, this time firmer, the words etched with certainty, as if they had always been truth and he had only just remembered. And for the first time in a thousand years, the Lady of Death was speechless.

[snappydragon14]

Another one!?

Poor quality, but I have to deal with it!

Took me the whole break! (Mostly because I was dragged off again!) But I'm back, and I'm ready to hop back on Tumblr.

[snappydragon14]

Late night work

Before:

After:

I'm really proud of this (despite poor shading)!

[snappydragon14]

WHY?!

Before:

After:

I'm honestly really proud of this. It took me a while, though!

[snappydragon14]

Snow special!

(It's actually snowing where I live, so here you go. P.S this is not Canon with the story line!)

Previous page~

Soar gazed at the snow beneath her hooves as Ike already dashed through the thin layer of snow. Rolling around the icey wonderland as Mictlan continued to shiver and scowl at the natural phenomenon. His arms crossed as his eyes stayed narrow, trailing behind Soar as his tongue proceeded to flick in and out of his mouth in a slow movement. Most scents around him were weak or dead - only leaving the scent of the angel in front of him and the rodent running around - even the annoying gargoyle trailing behind who seemed completely immune to the cold temperature.

Just as Ike lost balance in his footing and slipped down hill onto a frozen lake, trying to stand only to fall forward onto the ice. At least watching the rodent struggle would take Mictlan’s mind off the freezing cold air and the snow beneath his feet.

Soar stepped forward, her sharp eyes catching the way Ike’s small frame struggled to steady himself on the frozen lake. The angel sighed, shaking her head with a mix of fondness and exasperation. “Ike, you’re going to break something,” she called out, her voice carrying on the crisp winter air.

Ike pushed himself upright on shaky legs, his tail twitching for balance. “I’ve got this!” he chirped, just before his feet slid out from under him again, sending him sprawling onto his back. A loud laugh escaped him as he sprawled on the ice, making no effort to get back up.

Behind Soar, Mictlan continued to scowl, his forked tongue flicking as he grumbled. “Why anyone would find joy in this misery is beyond me,” he muttered, brushing snow off his bare arms with an irritated huff. He cast a glance at the gargoyle trailing them—a cocky carbon copy whose stone-like exterior showed no reaction to the biting cold.

Soar turned her head, her wings twitching slightly as she glanced at the crimson warlord. “If you’d stop sulking and try, maybe you’d see the fun in it,” she teased. Mictlan’s narrowed eyes shifted toward her, his expression souring further. “Fun? Sliding around like a fool until you fall on your face? I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself,” Soar said with a shrug, stepping onto the frozen lake with ease. Her hooves clicked against the ice as she moved gracefully, her wings subtly adjusting her balance. She bent slightly to extend a hand toward Ike, helping him to his feet.

Ike’s face lit up, his teeth chattering as he clung to her arm. “You make this look so easy. How do you do it?”

“Practice,” she said simply, guiding him with slow, deliberate steps. “And a little balance. Keep your knees loose.”

Mictlan watched from the edge, his gaze flicking between the two figures on the ice. He scoffed as the gargoyle—completely unbothered—lumbered past him and stepped onto the frozen surface. Unlike the others, the gargoyle moved with surprising fluidity, as though skating came naturally to him. Making sure to give Mictlan a cocky smirk before skating away, making the gods blood boil.

Mictlans eyes narrowed further, his pride pricked by the challenge. With a deep growl, he stepped forward, the snow crunching under his feet until he reached the edge of the ice. He hesitated, his forked tongue flicking out, but the triumphant smirk on the gargoyles face was enough to spur him forward.

The moment his feet met the slick surface, Mictlan’s balance wavered. He growled again, his arms flailing slightly as he tried to stay upright. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered.

Ike, still clinging to Soar, let out an encouraging cheer. “You’re doing it, Mictlan! Kind of!”

Mictlan shot him a glare but couldn’t deny the small spark of pride that crept in as he managed to take a shaky step forward. The frozen lake stretched out before them, an icy wonderland bathed in the pale glow of winter, and for the first time, Mictlan found himself almost—almost—distracted from the biting cold.

Mictlan’s next step, however, proved less fortunate. His foot slid out to the side, and his body twisted awkwardly as he struggled to regain balance. He let out a hiss of frustration, his claws scraping against the ice as he dropped to one knee.

“Graceful as ever,” Soar quipped, spinning lightly on her hooves as she glided closer to him. She extended a hand, the gargoyles smirk widening. “Need some help?”

Mictlan glared at her, his pride warring with practicality. Finally, with a resigned grunt, he reached out and clasped her hand. The icy cold of her touch made him flinch, but she pulled him to his feet with surprising strength.

“You’ll get it,” she said, her tone softer now, though still laced with amusement. “Just lean into the movement.” Mictlan grumbled, but he begrudgingly followed her lead as she guided him across the ice. Each step was tentative, his muscles coiled with tension, but with Soar’s steadying hand, he managed to stay upright.

Meanwhile, Ike had resumed his chaotic exploration of the lake, his movements more like a squirrel darting across branches than any coordinated effort to skate. The little demon spun in circles, his laughter ringing out across the frozen expanse until he inevitably lost his footing again and went sliding on his stomach.

The gargoyle, by contrast, moved with eerie precision. His heavy frame glided effortlessly across the ice, his stone wings shifting subtly for balance. He looped around the others, his expression as cocky and amused as ever.

“Thou makest us all appear ill-favored.” Itzquemitl called to him, shaking his head in mock exasperation. Mictlan let out a low growl, his competitive streak flaring. “We’ll see about that.” Ignoring his earlier struggles, he pushed off with more force, trying to replicate the gargoyle’s fluid movements. For a brief, glorious moment, he succeeded—gliding smoothly across the ice.

Then his overconfidence got the better of him. His foot caught a rough patch, and his momentum sent him spinning out of control. He crashed to the ice in a flurry of limbs and a loud, undignified yelp.

Ike was doubled over with laughter, clutching his sides as he pointed at Mictlan. “You almost had it!” he choked out between giggles. Mictlan shot him a deadly glare from where he lay sprawled on the ice. “Laugh it up, rodent,” he snarled.

Soar skated over, her expression a mix of sympathy and amusement. “You’re getting there,” she said, offering her hand once again. “Just maybe don’t try to show off until you’ve got the basics down.”

Mictlan grumbled under his breath but took her hand nonetheless, pulling himself upright once more. His pride might have taken a hit, but he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge—especially not one that involved showing up that smug gargoyle.

As the group continued their icy escapades, the cold and snow seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the shared laughter and occasional mishaps of their winter adventure. Even Mictlan, for all his grumbling, couldn’t entirely hide the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

As the hours passed, the frozen lake became a stage for their trial and error. Mictlan was determined to master the ice, his competitive nature driving him forward despite the constant tumbles and slips. Each fall only seemed to fuel his resolve, though the occasional grumble of frustration slipped through his clenched teeth. Ike, meanwhile, had found his stride—or rather, his chaotic version of it. Instead of attempting graceful skating, he embraced his own brand of movement: skidding, spinning, and tumbling across the ice with endless energy. His laughter was contagious, filling the winter air and drawing a reluctant chuckle from even the stoic gargoyle.

"Watch this!" Ike called out, crouching low and pushing off with a burst of speed. He zipped across the lake, his tail whipping behind him for balance. For a moment, it seemed like he might actually succeed in pulling off a proper glide. But as always, his enthusiasm outpaced his skill. His feet slipped out from under him, and he landed face-first in a heap, sliding to a stop near the edge of the lake.

Soar clapped slowly, her wings fluttering as she glided toward him. "Impressive," she said, smirking down at the sprawled-out rodent. "You're getting better at making it look intentional."

Ike grinned up at her, unfazed by his latest wipeout. "I know, right?" He rolled onto his back and waved his arms and legs, carving out a snow angel on the thin layer of frost that had formed on the ice.

The gargoyle passed them with the steady grace of a veteran skater, his scrawny stone hooves barely making a sound on the ice. "Amateurs."

"Oh, we’re Amateurs all right," Soar quipped, her sharp gaze flicking to Mictlan, who was carefully attempting to mirror the gargoyle’s movements. His steps were stiff and deliberate, the feathers on his crown whipping back and forth as he struggled to stay upright.

Mictlan growled low in his throat, his pride refusing to let him give up. He pushed off once more, this time managing a shaky glide that carried him halfway across the lake. He stumbled slightly but caught himself, his feet scraping the ice as he steadied his footing.

“There!” he barked triumphantly, his blue eyes blazing with determination. “I told you I’d get it.”

Ike clapped enthusiastically from his position on the ground. “You’re a natural, Mictlan! Well, sort of.”

“Keep it up, and you might even pass for coordinated,” Soar teased, though her tone was genuinely encouraging.

Encouraged by his small victory, Mictlan pushed himself harder, his movements growing more fluid with each attempt. The ice groaned softly beneath his feet, a reminder of its fragile nature, but he paid it no mind. For once, the cold and discomfort seemed secondary to the strange sense of satisfaction he felt with each successful step. This was definitely a wish within the underworld he would never get to experience again.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the icy landscape in hues of gold and orange, the group finally slowed their pace. Soar perched on the edge of the lake, her wings tucked neatly behind her as she watched Ike and the gargoyle engage in a clumsy race across the ice. Mictlan stood nearby, his breath visible in the chilly air as he observed the scene with an expression that bordered on contentment.

“Not so bad, huh?” Soar said, glancing at him with a knowing smile.

Mictlan huffed, his tongue flicking out briefly. “It’s tolerable,” he admitted grudgingly. “But don’t expect me to enjoy it.”

Soar chuckled, her eyes sparkling in the fading light. “I’ll take that as a win.” And as the last rays of sunlight glinted off the frozen lake, even Mictlan had to admit—if only to himself—that this icy wonderland wasn’t so bad after all.

As the group continued their escapades, Mictlan felt emboldened by his small victories. His strides grew longer, his glides more confident. The ice groaned faintly under his feet, but he dismissed it, focused entirely on proving his newfound skill to Itzquemitl.

Soar, ever observant, noticed the subtle shift in the ice’s texture where Mictlan skated. Her sharp eyes narrowed, and she called out, “Mictlan, watch your footing. That ice looks thinner over there.” He scoffed, brushing off her warning with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m fine,” he snapped. “I’m not some fumbling mortal. I—”

Before he could finish, a loud crack echoed across the lake. His eyes widened, and his movements froze, though not in time to stop the inevitable. The ice beneath him gave way with a sharp, splintering sound, and he was plunged into the freezing water below.

For a moment, there was only the deafening silence of shock. Then the surface erupted as Mictlan clawed his way back up, gasping and snarling as the icy water sapped the heat from his body. His red skin glistened with frost as he grabbed at the jagged edges of the hole, his claws struggling to find purchase on the slippery surface.

“Mictlan!” Soar shouted, already dashing toward him. Her wings flared wide as she glided to the edge of the broken ice, her movements precise and controlled. Behind her, Ike and the gargoyle froze mid-motion, their eyes locked on the unfolding scene.

The gargoyle was the first to react, plopping himself in a nearby snowbank with a large giddy grin of amusement while Ike only let out a shriek and fell backward yet again “I’m fine!” Mictlan growled through chattering teeth, his voice rough with anger and embarrassment. “Don’t—gah—don’t help me!” Ignoring his protests, Soar knelt near the edge, her hand extended toward him. “Stop struggling and grab on!” she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Mictlan hesitated, his pride warring with his survival instincts, but the bitter cold quickly made the decision for him. He reached out, his claws wrapping tightly around her forearm. With a grunt of effort, Soar leaned back, using her wings for leverage as she hauled him upward.

The ice groaned ominously under her hooves, but she didn’t falter. “Come on,” she muttered through gritted teeth, her muscles straining as she pulled him free. Getting him out of the freezing cold water and onto the unbroken ice.

As soon as he was out, Mictlan collapsed onto the frozen surface, his body trembling violently. His skin was coated in a thin layer of frost, his breaths came in ragged gasps, and the usual rich colors were now pale and dull. “Stupid... ice,” he spat, his voice weak but still laced with irritation. He took it all back. This icey wonderland was a nightmare.

Soar knelt beside him, her expression a mix of worry and exasperation. “Stupid god,” she shot back, draping a wing over his back . “Were you not listening?"

“I’m fine,” Mictlan growled again, though his chattering teeth betrayed him. And his limbs refused to stop trembling.

“Fine, my tail,” Soar snapped, helping him to his feet. She slung one of his arms over her shoulders, her wings bristling as she supported his weight. “Let’s go before you turn into a snake-sicle.”

Ike scurried over, with wide-eyed concern. “Mictlan, are you okay?”

Mictlan glared at him, though the fire in his gaze was dimmed by his exhaustion. “If you... say one word about this later... I’ll—”

“Save your breath,” Soar interrupted, shaking her head. “Let’s get you warmed up first.”

As the group made their way off the lake, Mictlan’s stubborn pride kept him upright despite the bone-deep chill that had seeped into him. For all his complaints and grumbles, though, he couldn’t deny the grudging gratitude he felt toward the angel—not that he’d ever admit it aloud.

[snappydragon14]

Nocturnix's nightmare.

Video, not mine, I only edited it to my context.

[snappydragon14]

SHE AINT INTO YOU-!

[snappydragon14]

Merry Christmas!!

Next page~

Previous page~

Alright, I know I haven't posted in a while so here you go.

..............................................................................................

POV: When Maya met Zatz.

*Maya at the beginning of the series*

"Ew! He looks like a hobo!"

*Maya at the end of the series*

"A hot hobo!"

..............................................................................................

POV: When Zatz asked for his Father in Law's blessing.

King Teca: You are not good enough for my daughter, and I don't want you anywhere near her. End. Of. Story.

Zatz: *singing* so why don't you give me one more-

King Teca: *Slams the door in his face.*

..............................................................................................

[snappydragon14]

Ha! I know Mictlan is a snake person but I just can't stop the image of Mictlan being an oversized spoiled cat! Just casually pushing cups off the counter.

[snappydragon14]

Nocturnix art. Took me several hours!!!

[snappydragon14]

I'm sorry if I haven't been posting! My wifi got shut off but here you go. Written lore!

------Centuries ago------

By the time Soar made it back to the gates of heaven, all she could think about was Aspire. Aspire captured and taken and all alone with the Overlords of hell. The two of them tried to escape and Soar would have stayed with her brother, she would have, she wasn't a coward- But Aspire begged her to leave, reasoned with Soar, with her more stronger wings and greater stamina could escape and bring back help. So as she passed those golden gates Soars' wings were beating to the mantra 'get help, get help, get help.' it took her far too long to make someone listen to her, to force herself to reel in the panic and draw herself back up into the calm competence the great Seraphim were supposed to behave themselves with.

Well, as calm as she could make herself- to her shame, Soars' panick and terror for her brother made it near impossible to act as a proper Seraphim would. Her family would be ashamed; Soar couldn't find the energy to care. She explained the situation to her- Oh so loving parents, explained that they needed to move quickly, assemble a team, go save her brother... Soar couldn't identify the exact moment she realized. Maybe when her parents' expressions barely shifted at the awful news one of thier children had been captured by Overlord's. Or perhaps it was in the rigid, unhurried tilt to thier wings as they allowed her to continued speaking. Maybe it was just the sinking feeling in her stomach the longer and longer she tried to explain. They refused to save Aspire. Her parents flatly denied any and all of her ideas on the subject.

Soar tried to rationalize and understand it, tried to reason with herself that it would be unfair to risk an entire squadron of Exorcists to rescue...another loyal angel. But then they refused to allow Soar to try anything, claiming she was 'Too Important' to heaven. But she knew it was all lies. That was when she lost her composure, shouting that if she was so 'important' why wasn't Aspire??

After that outburst, they dismissed her... dismissed Soar, dismissed the problem, dismissed thier son. They demoted her from court geographer, a first ranking job, to gate keeper, lowest of the low. A month ago- she would have cared- a month ago, she'd been comfortable in her life, confident that her elders where wise and just. That the ranking reflected the aptitude of the next generation; that was a way to keep them on track. Now, Soar couldn't bring herself to care. There was no shame, at least not because of where her name was carved into a wall of stone. The shame of leaving her brother...it tore at her. Gripping her in icy talons that refused to let go. Soar clung to the hope that her parents would be overruled.

The other Seraphim heard about Aspires' disappearance; thier training masters heard; the winner's who were so anxious to have Soar swear at them heard; And yet, none of these angel's, who Soar had so long held in the highest esteem, none of them seemed to even care. Soar wondered what they would think if it were her who'd been captured, not her equally-less popular older brother. She realized that the angel's she spent her whole life idolizing were cowards, and hypocrites, and liars.

They claimed that angel's were glorious, and noble, and loyal. But what were they loyal to? A palace? A paradise? Clearly, not to each other. Much to her parents' dissapointment, Soar put little effort in restoring her status admidst the ranks. It all seemed hollow, when she realized that thier system rested on an empty sort of pompous selfishness. Soar wanted to protect her fellow angel's, wanted to serve her life to every angel. Not back down in fear, not leave an angel behind. Even...even if she'd don't it once. It had been a horrible mistake, and she'd never do it again.

The guilt clawed at her. Soar missed Aspire, ached to think what he might be going through while Soar lived safely within thier peaceful paradise. Well, if the rest of the angels wanted to give up thier morals, give up thier honor, Soar couldn't stop them. And she wouldn't. Soar would go save her brother. Even if it meant losing her life.

It wasn't long after that Soar found herself sneaking through dark, smooth corridors of her home. Hooves scraping gently as she made her way for the outside, she was nearly out, within sight of the courtyard she'd fly out of when a soft voice stopped her. "Your leaving." Soar whirled- it was Sky, her much younger kid brother who wasn't quite ready for the world heaven proposed it was. He was only 109 with Soar only being roughly 5 years older. And his tone wasn't questioning.

"Yes," she said softly, with mutiny in her voice. "I..." Her voice trailed off. "I'm going to find Aspire," She whispered fervently. To her surprise, Sky nodded. "Good, somebody has to. I...I miss him. How long will you be gone?"

"I don't know, but I'm not coming back until I find him."

Before Sky could object, she turned away before anyone else saw her. Sky was a good kid, she reflected, as she steadily flew south. It was good to know that there would be someone like him waiting for them, if- no, when they came back.

The next few months seemed to blur all together. Hell itself wasn't the prettiest place. She started off with the Pride ring and covering up as much as possible to hide her radiant white feathers that seemed to shine even in the light of the blood red sky, every piece of coverage helped. She worked her way into Overlord territory, following rumors of Angelic prisoners but would always find nothing. If Aspire hadn't dragged her down into hell just to study demon behavior then none of this would have happened. But she couldn't dwell on that now, she was too deep into the belly of the beast now....and she most certainly wasn't leaving without her brother.

[snappydragon14]

Surprise!

Got bored, P.S not canon with the story line!!

Next page~

Previous page~

Ike paced back and forth in the dimly lit room, his mind racing as he tried to figure out the best way to plan something special for Soar. He remembered how distant and indifferent she had always been about her birthday. It wasn’t that she didn’t care—perhaps, it was that no one had ever made it matter. This year, though, Ike wanted to change that. She deserved to be treated, especially with everything she had been through. He’d seen the weight she carried, the way she kept her walls up, especially with Mictlan always lurking nearby.

Mictlan—just thinking about him made Ike’s stomach turn. The dark figure had a way of ruining anything that even resembled happiness or peace. He knew Mictlan wouldn't take kindly to any celebrations or joy, especially if it involved Soar. That’s why Ike had to be careful. He couldn’t let anything slip. Everything had to be quiet, subtle, a surprise that even Soar wouldn’t see coming.

But how?

He stopped pacing, his eyes narrowing as a plan started to form in his mind. First, he’d have to find a way to keep Mictlan distracted—something to occupy his attention long enough for Ike to give Soar the one day she deserved. Ike didn’t know much about Mictlan’s weaknesses, but there were rumors, whispers of ancient stories. Perhaps he could find someone who knew more.

Second, the celebration itself. Ike knew Soar wasn’t one for grand gestures, but she did appreciate the little things. A quiet evening, perhaps a small meal with her favorite things, and maybe a gift—something meaningful but not too obvious.

Ike nodded to himself, determination settling in. He’d have to work fast and quietly, but if he could pull it off, it might just be the first real smile he saw on Soar’s face in years.

Mictlan sensed the shift almost immediately. There was something different in the air, something that gnawed at his instincts. He had always been attuned to the smallest ripples in the undercurrents around him—secrets, lies, whispers. They couldn’t escape him. It wasn’t long before he caught wind of Ike’s subtle attempts to keep something hidden.

Mictlan’s pale eyes narrowed as he watched Ike from a distance, skulking in the shadows of the crumbling hall. Ike had become careless. His actions, while cautious, betrayed a nervous energy, as though he was trying to cover something up. Something important.

So, Ike had foolishly thought he could plan something, something secret. A celebration? For her? The idea sent a dark chuckle bubbling up in Mictlan’s throat, low and menacing. He wouldn't allow it. Not only would he stop Ike, but he would twist it into something far worse than what Ike could have imagined.

He stepped out of the shadows, his large, crimson figure merging with the darkened hallway as he moved closer to Ike’s quarters. There was a chill in the air that followed him, an unmistakable sign of his presence.

Ike, unaware of Mictlan's approach, was hunched over a worn piece of parchment, scribbling something furiously. He was planning—plotting how to make the day perfect for Soar. He thought he was safe, thought he was still in control of the narrative.

Mictlan smiled coldly. That illusion of safety was about to shatter.

“Rodent,” Mictlan’s voice slithered through the air, causing Ike to freeze.

Ike’s hand tightened around the quill as he slowly turned to face the tall, dark figure standing at the entrance. The cold, creeping sensation of dread settled in his stomach. Mictlan’s eyes gleamed with malevolence, his lips curling into a grin that never touched his eyes.

“What is it you’re planning?” Mictlan asked, his tone light but dripping with malice. "Something... for Soar, perhaps?"

Ike swallowed hard, his mind scrambling for a lie, for anything that might deflect Mictlan’s suspicion, but he knew it was already too late. Mictlan always knew.

Mictlan moved closer, his voice lowering. “You thought you could hide it from me? Whatever foolish game you’re playing, it ends immediately.” The way he said it, as though it were poison, made Ike’s skin crawl.

“I wasn’t…” Ike stammered, but Mictlan raised a hand to silence him.

“Enough. You want to celebrate her Cumpleaños? Fine. Let’s celebrate,” Mictlan said, his grin widening into something cruel. “But it will be my way.”

A sinking feeling settled in Ike’s chest. Whatever Mictlan was planning now, it wasn’t going to end well. And worse, Soar would be the one to suffer for it.

..............................................................................................

Mictlan surveyed the ballroom from his perch atop the grand staircase, the colors of deep red and gold casting a regal, yet foreboding atmosphere around him. The heavy curtains draped against the stone walls of the dark tower swayed lightly as if whispering secrets of long-forgotten souls. Candles flickered in candelabras crafted from bone, their flames dancing in time with the slow, haunting melody that filled the room. The décor was meticulously curated to reflect his dark vision, a perfect tribute to his realm—a hellish scene masked behind elegance and grandeur.

Ike, the great annoyance, had been given a simple task: bring Soar, to the ballroom. Mictlan smiled to himself, the corners of his lips curling with a sinister satisfaction. He knew Ike would succeed. After all, he had ensured that the invitation was irresistible, even to one as cautious as Soar. The angel, always too forgiving, so patient, would never suspect the depths of the trap awaiting her.

Meanwhile, Itzquemitl was begrudgingly gathering the necessary materials for the cage—a masterpiece of craftsmanship, woven with ancient spells meant to imprison an angel of her caliber. Mictlan was well aware of Itzquemitl's reluctance; the Gargoyle had protested the plan from the beginning, claiming that it was too foolish and a waste of time. But Mictlan had silenced him with a single, piercing glare. This night would unfold exactly as he envisioned, and Itzquemitl, despite his reservations, would play his part.

At that moment, Mictlan’s gaze fell upon the entrance to the ballroom, where Soar appeared, accompanied by the ever-present nuisance—her companion, the rodent-like demon who scurried at her side. A grin spread across Mictlan's face as he watched them step into the room. He couldn't help but imagine what it would feel like to have the demon's fur draped across his shoulders, or perhaps even his skull mounted on the wall as a trophy of the night. But such distractions could wait. For now, the focus was on the angel.

The plan was simple, flawless in its execution. Soar would be too entranced by the festivities to notice his presence, her celestial senses dulled by the intoxicating charm of the evening. Then, when the dancing commenced, she would be led to the center of the room—right where the enchantment would take hold. Itzquemitl’s cage, an ethereal prison of woven light and shadow, would spring to life around her, trapping her in place before she had any chance to react. Once ensnared, the cage would descend, relocating her to the tower’s dungeon.

Mictlan's eyes gleamed with anticipation as he watched the scene below unfold. The pieces were moving exactly as planned. The orchestra swelled, signaling the beginning of the first dance. Now, all that was left was to see how Soar would respond—and how quickly she would fall into his perfectly laid trap.

Mictlan's sharp eyes followed Soar’s every movement, hidden from view behind the velvet drapes that framed his vantage point. Despite the angel's graceful presence in the ballroom, he could see the faintest furrow of her brow as she glanced around, searching, no doubt, for the missing God of War. Mictlan stifled a chuckle. Soar was perceptive, perhaps more so than he had given her credit for, but her wariness would do little to save her tonight.

Below, Ike led Soar in a hesitant dance, his considerably shorter frame making the movements somewhat awkward. Yet, Soar, only shook her head, declining the dance and standing alone next to the long table of candles. Though her eyes never stopped scanning the room. She was looking for a threat, but not the one she should have been concerned about.

The moment was approaching. Mictlan’s heart quickened with dark excitement. His hand hovered over the mechanism hidden within the wall—an innocuous lever that, when pulled, would trigger the cage above. It was poised to drop like a predator’s snare, the enchanted bars already humming with faint light as they readied to close around the angel’s form.

But just as his fingers brushed the lever, Mictlan hesitated.

For a brief moment, a shadow of doubt crossed his mind. Soar was no ordinary celestial being. She was different—more aware, perhaps even more dangerous than he had calculated. A voice deep within him whispered of the risks. What if the cage couldn’t hold her? What if she fought back? His plan was intricate, yes. Would he be ready to handle the consequences if she turned the tables on him?

Mictlan’s fingers froze. His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Soar once again. The plan, though elegant in its design, now seemed to carry the weight of uncertainty. He could proceed, cut the rope, and set the trap in motion—but something in the air gave him pause. What was it about her tonight? That quiet confidence, that silent strength beneath her outward calm—it unsettled him.

For the first time in years, Mictlan questioned his own certainty. He glanced down at the ballroom, watching the angel sway slightly with Ike. Soar’s steps were slow and measured, as if she knew something no one else did. Was she truly unaware, or had she already anticipated this entire setup?

His grip tightened around the lever. One pull, and there would be no turning back. Yet, the hesitation grew stronger. Was there another way to play this? To exploit her without the direct confrontation that might follow?

He released the lever and took a step back, his mind racing. Mictlan was many things, but he was not foolish. Perhaps tonight called for a different kind of trap, one less obvious but equally devastating.

He grinned to himself. Yes, perhaps a new plan was in order—one that Soar would never see coming.

Mictlan’s gaze remained fixed on Soar as he descended the grand staircase with deliberate, measured steps.

Soar, despite her celestial poise, could not ignore the palpable shift in the atmosphere. Her eyes met his, and the recognition was immediate. The God of War had arrived, his presence as imposing as ever. Mictlan's gaze was unwavering, a mixture of dark amusement and calculated intent. It was clear that he had been watching her all along.

With a fluid grace that belied his size, Mictlan approached Soar and Ike. He gave Ike a dismissive nod, acknowledging the demon's presence but clearly signaling that he was not the focus of his attention. Ike, sensing the change, awkwardly stepped aside, leaving Soar alone with the powerful deity.

“Good evening, Soar,” Mictlan’s voice was smooth, each word carefully measured. “I trust you’re enjoying the festivities?”

Soar regarded him with a mix of curiosity and caution. “Mictlan,” she replied, her voice even. “I was beginning to wonder if you would make an appearance.”

“Indeed,” Mictlan said, his lips curling into a faint, enigmatic smile. “Tonight is a special occasion, after all. And I couldn’t let it pass without making my presence known.”

He extended a hand towards her, his dark eyes locked onto hers. “May I have the honor of this dance?”

Soar’s initial reaction was one of surprise, but shook her head.

Mictlan's expression shifted from one of calculated charm to a steely resolve. As Soar continued to evade his attempts to draw her into the dance, his patience began to wear thin. Her resistance was becoming a significant complication to his meticulously laid plans. He could see her trying to distance herself, crossing her arms defensively as she firmly reiterated her refusal.

“No, I don’t dance,” she repeated, her tone unwavering. Her eyes remained locked on his, a mixture of defiance and frustration. “I’ve never danced.”

Mictlan’s brow furrowed slightly at her insistence. His gaze hardened, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. This was not the response he had anticipated. The dance was an integral part of his plan, a necessary step to set his trap into motion. If she refused to participate, it could jeopardize everything he had orchestrated.

Without a word, Mictlan’s patience snapped. He reached out with a swift, determined motion, his hand closing around the ethereal halo that acted like horns on Soar’s head. His grip was firm but not harsh, a calculated move to exert control and bring her closer. The halo, a symbol of her celestial grace, was now in his grasp, and he used it to tug her gently but insistently towards him.

Soar’s eyes widened in surprise and a touch of indignation as she was pulled closer. She tried to resist, but Mictlan’s strength was overwhelming. She found herself drawn into his personal space, their proximity now unavoidable. The ballroom around them seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them locked in this tense, close encounter.

Mictlan, his gaze fixed intently on Soar, leaned in slightly. His voice, though smooth, carried an edge of frustration. “If you could teach me how to read those lights in the sky,” he said, his tone implying that she had knowledge he desired, “then I can teach you how to dance.”

Soar’s expression was a mix of surprise and irritation. The offer, if it could be called that, seemed less like a genuine request and more like a challenge—a way to maneuver her into compliance. She could feel the weight of his grip on her halo, a reminder of his power and his unwillingness to take no for an answer.

She remained silent for a moment, her gaze steady. Despite her discomfort, she recognized the strategic nature of Mictlan’s actions. The dance was not merely a social engagement but a crucial part of his plan, and her refusal was evidently an obstacle he was determined to overcome.

Reluctantly, Soar allowed herself to be guided into position. Her arms, still crossed, remained a barrier, but her body language softened slightly as she accepted the inevitability of the situation. Mictlan, satisfied with her acquiescence, took her hand with a firm but respectful grip, guiding her into the dance.

The music resumed its haunting melody, and as they began to move, Mictlan maintained a careful, deliberate pace, his steps calculated to keep Soar engaged without overwhelming her. His touch was commanding yet controlled, a reminder of the power he wielded and the extent to which he was willing to go to ensure his plan succeeded.

Soar, though initially tense, gradually found a rhythm, her movements becoming less resistant as she followed his lead. The dance, though strained, began to flow, each step a testament to the complex interplay of control and cooperation between them. The ballroom, once a grand stage for deceit, now became a setting for a delicate negotiation, with Mictlan using every moment to his advantage, ensuring that the dance played out precisely as he had intended.

But soon, noticing the golden light against the fallen angel's cream and white feathers. It almost seemed like time had frozen between the two, what was even happening? How could time just stop in a moment like this?! This was all part of his plan, wasn't it?

He met her blue gaze, seeing the glimmer of divinity within the colors of gold and blue almost like the sunsetting sun against the beaches of the mortal realm. The way her feathers swayed with every movement of her large wings and the music seemed to match such a golden moment like this. She may have been a fallen angel, but she still had the divine energy of a powerful deity.

With Micte...he never saw this beauty. Whenever the goddess entered the throne room he only felt sparks of dominance and power, but with this angel dancing with him now....It was more like....a flicker of life- feeling his heart thump and echo within his head as it almost seemed to scream at him that this was both a curse, and a blessing.

What was happening to him?

Sep: 17.

Happy B-day Soar!