#disunity au

Prompt: Every Whumpee's Needs

Characters: demon!Author, human!Host

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3

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Upon waking the second time, the Host had no memory of what happened to Bim. He supposed that was a good thing, considering all of the things he did remember.

There had been more killing. Some days, slow, torturous deaths done by his hand. On other occasions, it was a massacre. The Author would start and not stop, losing himself in a frenzy- too powerful for anyone to stop him, including the Host himself.

That was the fucked thing, the Host realized as he once again pushed himself out of bed. He hadn't wanted to stop him, even if he was able to. He ran a hand through his hair, thinking about the Author's thrill at hurting people- about how it had become his own in those moments, in place of his normal apathy towards the deed. He did what he had to do when he needed to, he had never done such things for fun.

Regardless, the Host diverted his attention back to the task at hand. He needed to rid himself of the Author. But even as he thought that, he realized how very awake the Author was in his head. He was being watched almost curiously by the demon possessing him, and he felt himself tense. It was akin to being an animal in a zoo, unable to escape but very aware of the eyes upon you. The Host waited a long moment, prepared to fight the Author if he was intent on taking back control. Still, the Author only watched.

"What is your end here, Author?" The Host asked aloud. In response he felt the Author's amusement- and then he felt the Author's urge to narrate, to bend reality with his words, as though the other was willing it on him. The power hadn't worked when he'd tried it last time, but the compulsion to try had him speaking the same words as before. "...The Host's vision returned to him." This time, the Author seemed to guide him, and he could feel the power in his words. There was a relief to using his power, though he wasn't sure if it was the Author's or his own. He wasn't sure if there was still a difference.

The Host also felt blood fall down his face like tears from his eyes as his vision did indeed return to him- though not in the traditional sense. It returned to him in brief images of the room as he narrated the scene around him. It confirmed his suspicions that the room was his own, but the images faded as his narration stopped, his voice choking up involuntarily.

Can't lose too much blood. The Author's voice in his head was quick to remind him of that in a singsong tone, as if the thought of it amused the demon. The Host growled lightly and stood from his bed, moving to his adjoining bathroom to clean his face of blood. The Author also guided him that way, able to see much better than the Host. But the Author only had so much patience for mundane things- that, the Host knew from experience- and as soon as he was done the Author was nudging at his mind. He didn't take control entirely, but it was clear what he wanted.

He wanted to kill. He wanted the Host to kill for him. ...And the Host wasn't sure where the Author's desire ended and where his began.

He knew subconsciously that he should be resisting, but he felt the Author's compulsion to kill as his own.

So he let the Author direct him.

The demon still wouldn't take control of him entirely, but the Host heard his whispering in his head telling him where to go, feeding him increasingly violent scenarios that only had the Host moving more desperately to follow.

He followed these whispers out of his home, able to see his surroundings via narration, which came more smoothly as time went on. He could hear the whispers in his head of the Author's narrations, keeping him from bleeding more with the use of the power. When the Host stopped, he found himself in a graveyard. The place was unfamiliar to him, but he moved expertly through it until he came to a hole in the ground.

Six feet deep. A coffin at the bottom. The panicked shouting of someone within, accompanied by the pounding of fists on hardwood. The Author had set up the perfect scene while the Host was a prisoner in his own body. And now, the Host was unchained.

He was unchained and the Author had shown him how to use his power. The Author wanted him to finish the job. It took only a moment of narration for gasoline to appear in his hand.

You know what to do. A wooden coffin burns nicely.

The whispers only got louder the longer he delayed, coupled with the shouting of the person in the coffin- though their voice was clearly growing hoarse.

Hurry. You want to hear them scream.

It took another moment to set the coffin ablaze.

And he did hear the scream. He heard the scream and then the coughing as his victim began to run out of air, and he heard it devolve into pained sobs. He felt the heat of the flames and the visceral satisfaction as his narration told him of the fruitless struggling from within. And his head was his own again, the Author's voice quiet- for the time being, anyways.

It wouldn't be long until the whispering started again, urging the Host to kill more and more. He chased the quiet it gave him, unaware that the voice in his head driving him to do so was none other than his own.

-----

Meanwhile, the Author lurked in the shadows, stalking the Host for a long time. He was no longer possessing him, like the Host seemed to think, but he didn't correct the man. In fact he moved on quickly, in search of a more permanent vessel.

Prompt: Dead on Your Feet

Characters: Demon!Author, Human!Host, Incubus!Bim Trimmer

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3

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The Host didn't know how long it had been when he finally found himself at the forefront of his own consciousness again. As he woke, he could only assume he was at his own home, but- ...he couldn't see.

Why couldn't he see? His head was killing him, and there were various aches and pains in the rest of his body, all of which he felt as he sat up despite the comfort of his mattress beneath him. Had he been attacked? Robbed? The Host's hand flew out to where his nightstand should have been, feeling around for his phone with intent to call someone. A goddamn ambulance, the police, anyone. Though, maybe the police weren't such a good idea, given his... hobbies.

He gave up his search for his phone, not finding it where it should have been, and wondered abruptly if it hasn't been a robbery after all, but rather had something to do with said hobbies. Had it been a deal gone awry? It wouldn't have been the first time something like that had happened, though the blindness was new.

Hesitantly, the Host reached a hand up to his own face, running his fingers over the area from his eyebrows downwards. His touch was light, but there was still a jolt of pain as he closed his eyelids and felt the start of scabbing there.

With the jolt of pain came a memory, fleeting like a that of a dream, like a word on the tip of his tongue.

A circle. Shaking hands. Sharp, unexpected pain and then darkness.

A demon, made up of black and gold aura. His own fingernails digging into his eyes.

The deal.

The Host shoved himself off of his bed, but stopped short when a wave of nausea hit him. The memories were slowly but surely coming back to him, the pieces of the puzzle fitting together. He had been tricked- made to assume that he'd assist the demon in finding a vessel, when in reality the vessel would be him. In hindsight, he should have known better.

As these memories returned to him, so too did some... other ones. He saw flashes in his mind of hurting people, but not for his rituals. The memories came after he'd lost his sight, so mostly he recalled the visceral feeling of it. ...Satisfaction and enjoyment which were not all his, but which he felt all the same while his mind had been melded with the demon's.

Some of which still remained.

He heard himself speaking, somehow with the intrinsic knowledge that reality was bending to his will. And with these memories alongside the gnawing urge to continue the demon's work, he felt something within him stir.

The demon had never left.

The demon- the Author, as he recalled- now rested within him, and though the Host didn't know why that was so, he knew that wasn't what he should be dwelling on.

A sense of urgency washed over the Host anew with the realization that he was a ticking time bomb. There was nothing that would stop the Author from regaining control, and the Host didn't have much time to figure out how to remove him from the equation. But how could he, when he couldn't default to his books as he normally would? They were no good to a blind man, after all.

Then again, the Host had made the deal as a means to gain the Author's abilities. Whether or not the Author was controlling his body, he should be able to use the power.

"The Host-" He paused for a moment, afraid that somehow his voice breaking the silence of the room would wake the Author. But the Author had already stirred, and the Host could feel the second consciousness within him waiting. Watching. He had to continue. "...The Host's vision returned to him." Then he waited. He expected instant change, but nothing seemed to be happening. His words didn't feel any different than they ever had. They lacked the power that was present when the Author spoke through him, and he felt the Author's cruel amusement at his attempts.

The Host didn't know if he had been screwed over more than he originally thought or if he simply didn't understand how to use the power, but after a few more attempts he deemed it a waste of time. He needed to move, before the Author bored of watching him fumble. He sensed that was the only reason he hadn't pushed to regain control of the Host yet.

Although the Host couldn't use the Author's power, he wasn't out of options. He had made many deals over the years, and some still owed him favors. The question of the matter was who would be able to help him? And beyond that, who would be willing? If he called on his favors they would have no choice, but the wrong move would put the Host on their bad side- and demons were known to hold grudges. Still, he didn't have the luxury of searching for the best option. The Author didn't want him to call another demon there- that, he could feel.

He did know one demon that was rather whimsical. One who was as likely to help as to hinder him, but who could be easily swayed. And the Host had swayed him indeed, landing him a favor from an incubus named Bim which he had yet to call in. One which he intended to make use of now, which was what had him speaking the demon's name.

"I'm a busy man you know," came the voice, which the Host promptly turned to face. He couldn't see him of course, but the Host would recognize his voice anywhere, and he could picture the demon's pristine suit and hair.

"Yet here you are," was the Host's retort, accompanied by a half-hearted smirk. He could feel the Author's displeasure. ...He could feel that the Author wanted to kill Bim, and he felt his fingers twitch. No.

"Yet here I am," he agreed, and the Host could hear the grin in his voice. "What can I do for you?" There was a moment of pause. "...What happened to your face? And why do you have aura? You're human."

"I need help, Bim," the Host said, his smirk faltering into a grimace as he fought the Author's influence. It was an unspoken rule not to admit your desperation or need for anything to any demon, but he couldn't care. "I fucked up, got myself possessed, I'm- fighting for control and I don't think I can continue for long. I can explain later if you desire, just- help me."

Another wave of nausea hit him, and he could feel his consciousness beginning to slip away from him. Still he fought it, his hand reaching out for- anything to steady himself. His hand first found his wall, then Bim's arm, which guided him back to his bed. He sat down, but he tensed as he still fought, gritting his teeth. He couldn't fall asleep. He couldn't let the Author continue to puppeteer his body. He couldn't, but he seemed to be getting less and less of a choice as time went on.

"What the Hell have you gotten yourself into, Host?" Bim asked, though he didn't give time for a response. "I need to know this thing's true name if I'm going to get it out of you. You summoned it, right? Got any idea?"

It was formatted as a question only for formality. As a demon himself, Bim knew that he needed a demon's true name to summon it most of the time. And the Host did know it, but when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out. He tried again, but rather than the words he wanted to speak, a laugh escaped his lips- dangerous and wrong.

"It isn't me you ought to be worried about, incubus." The words came out of the Host's mouth without his consent, and he felt dread settle in the pit of his stomach. Dread which was quickly being replaced with excitement as the thought of killing Bim crossed him once again.

The Host was losing this battle and he could feel it. A slow smile spread across his lips.

Bim must have known it too. The Host heard him swear, could hear him moving away. Run, the Host tried to say. Leave. ...Help me.