Disclaimers: Gender Neutral and racially ambiguous Lampbearer - Lampbearer is fatally wounded - burning skin - cauterization - Lightreaper is mean - bit of headcanoning going on - PROOF READING IS FOR THE WEAK - Idk how to em dash </3
So I've been replaying LoTF in anticipation for the second game (which I believe is coming out this year YIPPPEEE) and omg, the way this asshole stalks the Lampbearers teehee
Idk why I like his fugly ass so much... I have like a bucket load of requests I need to prioritise (AND I PROMISE 2 WILL BE RELEASED SUPER SOON), I just needed this out my system </3
Lmk if I'm not the only one simping for the abomination
AND ALSO!!! Shoutout to @uzmacchiato for the incredible dividers—you're a legend.
;>
IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18 PLEASE DNI
The cold, creeping dread of the Umbral realm is already licking at the edges of your vision.
You drag yourself into the hollowed-out shell of what seems to be an abandoned shrine, leaving a thick, dark trail of blood across the ash-choked flagstones.
Your breath rattles in your chest.
A lesser fiend—a nameless, insignificant scavenger—had gotten lucky, slipping past your guard and tearing a brutal gash across your side.
Now, you are bleeding out in the dark, your fingers numb, your mana depleted. The veil between realms is thinning. The moths are gathering.
Then, the air pressure drops. Then the temperature spikes so violently that the frost on the stone instantly turns to steam.
Outside the ruined archway, the sky curdles into a sickly, bruised crimson. A deafening, guttural roar from a winged beast rattles the remaining stained glass in its frames.
He found you.
Adrenaline, sharp and desperate, floods your system as you refuse to die on your knees.
With a ragged gasp, you force yourself upright, leaning heavily against a cracked pillar. Your trembling fingers wrap around the hilt of your weapon, hoisting it into a defensive guard.
Every muscle protests, screaming in agony, but you lock your eyes on the doorway. You expect the relentless flurry of his twin blades. You expect the inferno.
Heavy, armored footsteps crunch against the stone.
The Lightreaper steps through the archway, ducking slightly to clear the frame. To your surprise, he doesn't immediately charge when he sees you. His blades remain lowered. Instead, his ribbed helm tilts as he takes in the sight of you—battered, trembling, and leaking life onto the dirt.
A low, gravelly vibration starts in his chest, echoing out into a dark, grating chuckle. It sounds like grinding tectonic plates.
"Look at you," his voice rasps, thick with heavy, mocking disdain. "The elusive little moth. Bested by rot and vermin."
"Draw your blades," you spit back, the words tasting like copper. You adjust your stance, fighting the sway of your own vertigo. "I'm not done."
"You are barely standing," he rumbles, taking a slow, deliberate step into the sanctuary. The oppressive heat radiating from his armor makes it hard to breathe. "How insulting. To think I have chased you across this cursed earth, only to find my prize half-eaten by bottom-feeders."
"Then finish it," you challenge, lunging forward with whatever strength you have left.
It is a pitiful effort.
He doesn't even use his swords.
With terrifying, fluid speed, one of his secondary arms lashes out. A massive, gauntleted hand clamps around your wrist with the force of a vice, effortlessly arresting your strike.
The impact jolts up your arm, forcing a gasp from your lungs as your weapon clatters uselessly to the floor.
Before you can pull away, his primary hand snaps forward, wrapping around your throat. He doesn't squeeze to kill, but the sheer, overwhelming force of it lifts you off your feet and slams you back against the stone pillar.
You thrash instinctively, but you are entirely pinned. His secondary arms secure your struggling limbs, rendering you completely immobile against the cold stone.
He crowds into your space, his massive frame trapping you in a cage of jagged metal and searing heat. The inferno burning in his chest is so close it threatens to singe your armour.
His grip tightens, pulling you flush against the molten furnace of his chest. "I decide when your light goes out," he rasps, the sheer friction of his voice vibrating against your collarbone. "To surrender it to the dirt is an insult. You are my prize to break, and I do not share."
Panic finally spikes through your exhaustion as he shifts his grip. One of his massive, armored hands moves down your side, his burning fingers tracing the edge of your open wound. He is deliberately rough, ensuring you feel the weight of your own vulnerability.
"Don't—" you choke out, thrashing helplessly against his grip.
"Quiet," he commands, his voice a low, gravelly purr of pure sadism. "Try to endure this without weeping."
His palm ignites and he presses his glowing gauntlet directly against your torn flesh.
A raw, ragged scream tears from your throat, echoing off the ruined walls as the smell of burnt blood and ozone fills the air.
You writhe violently, your nails digging uselessly into the unyielding iron of his forearms, but his grip is absolute. He holds you steady through the torture, his body pressing intimately flush against yours to absorb your frantic struggling.
He forces you to endure it, letting the searing heat of the Rhogar flame melt the flesh shut, violently sealing the wound.
When he finally pulls his hand away, you collapse forward. The only thing keeping you from hitting the floor is his hand still wrapped firmly around your chest plate, holding your dead weight.
You are gasping for air, trembling violently, but the bleeding has stopped. A jagged, blackened scar now burns where the wound had been, radiating a dull, thumping heat.
The gray chill of the Umbral realm has vanished entirely, burned away by his sheer proximity.
He releases you in a single, dismissive motion, letting you slump unceremoniously to the ash-covered floor. He towers over your trembling form, staring down with that same infuriating, unreadable stillness.
"Pathetic," he mocks softly, though the gravelly edge of his voice lingers with a strange, dark satisfaction. "Find your vestige, my moth. Catch your breath. Scurry back into the light."
He turns his back on you, the tattered chains of his cloak dragging heavily across the stone as he walks back out into the crimson storm.
"Because when I return," his voice carries over the rising wind, low and entirely possessive, "I expect you to be worth killing."
The Lightreaper x the Dark Crusader Isaac with the gameplot mostly unchanged but make it a
"I accidentally killed my favourite boy toy in our twisted form of foreplay and now I need to steal his stupid lantern from some guy to bring him back"
Can't help but respect what an incredible dick move it was for Lords of the Fallen to have a late game boss drop in on you in an early game area just to kill you once and then dip. This is like if the Pursuer from ds2 was really into ragebaiting
