#code foretold

[acoldghostlypresence]

Anyone know where I can read Epithet Erased Code Foretold Co-op?

It's a fanfic told through Google slides like a visual novel I saw on here awhile ago, embarrassingly I've had it waiting in my tabs to read for ages only to just now realise I only have the link to the second part lol

[cradle-of-darkness]

recent doodles

[m0use-trapped]

[The woman returned to her room after therapy to find her child - clearly panicked - curled up on a chair with a blanket she hadn't seen. Edgar had his head on Theo's lap looking up at him.]

Hey... Theo...? Are okay?

[Mousetrap flinches, looking up and flipping their phone over almost reflexively.]

Y-yes. Fine, thank you.

[widowshill]

— I couldn't care less about your future. — Well, you'd better care, because you're part of it, and so is your wife.

r/v/b for @tortoisesshells.

[lone-starlight]

whatever you're thinking, think about it for longer

what's going on?

-🪤

I- Fuckijg SHOWFALL THAT'S WHAT! THEY'RE DOING ANOTHER FUXI8BG FAMILY SHOW WITJ ACTUAL FUCKIBF CHILDREN, LIKE HOLY FUCK

AND I CAN'T DO A DAMN THING ABOUT IT, BOT WHILE I'M ACORSS TJE FUCKING COUNTRY

Fucking "Childproof" my ass, they're getting that little baby killed

PT: I- Fucking SHOWFALL THAT'S WHAT! THEY'RE DOING ANOTHER FUCKING FAMILY SHOW WITH ACTUAL FUCKING CHILDREN, LIKE HOLY FUCK

AND I CAN'T DO A DAMN THING ABOUT IT, NOT WHILE I'M ACROSS THE FUCKING COUNTRY

[siribaes]

WHO’S BETTER THAN ME?

RIO x blackfem!reader (oc - Angel)

“After their breakup a decade ago, Rio reunites with high school sweetheart making up for lost time—”

PARING: Exes to Lovers / Past High School Sweethearts

SUGGESTED TUNES 💿: Tu Principe by Daddy Yankee, What You Want by Ma$e & Total, Throwback by Usher & Jadakiss, Thugman by Tweet & Missy Elliott, Only U by Ashanti

CONTENTS: 18+ MDNI, SMUT, or*l (fem receiving), f*ngering, praise k*nk, slight possessive k*nk, Rio being a bedroom bully lol, some light use of Spanish, makeup s*x, cursing, etc. (UNEDITED/ NOT PROOF READ) / GIF CREDIT: @blackisblackisblack

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this was supposed to be a drabble but turned into a full-blown fic, but anyway LOL. so i did a lil AU for rio, essentially he pulled a griselda blanco moved operations to Long Beach (Rio is so west coast coded to me) but yeah, the backstory of these two is that they were childhood friends turned high school sweethearts (class of 2005 in my AU lore of these two, hints at the music choices, etc.) before they went separate ways yada yada, the oc’s face claim is danielle brooks 💖 as always enjoy y'all

Makeup sex shouldn’t be this good. Like this was too good, like ultimate dream-fantasy level type of makeup sex. It felt unreal, except this was very real. Very, very, real.

Angel never imagined that her night would've ended up like this, in the arms of her high school sweet-heart, or rather sitting on top of a very expensive, entry way console, as her high school-sweetheart-turned-ex, used his nimble hands to fondle at her luscious curves, and pillowy-soft lips to suck on the sensitive part of her neck. From how hard Rio sucked and kissed on her neck it was surely going to leave a hickey, which might've been on purpose on Rio's part.

Since they were young, Rio always had a slight possessiveness towards Angel, nothing that was too domineering or chauvinistic, but still a possessiveness that was rooted in a love and a true appreciation of her. This of course was expressed in a way that only a sixteen-year-old Rio could, buying Angel's favorite snacks for school, littering her neck with hickeys during make-out sessions, and even saving what little he had to buy a gold necklace with an angel shaped pendant. It was the subtle ways Rio showed how he felt. That in addition to the verbal ways, in true young-Rio, braggadocious fashion. Even then Angel knew, deep, deep, down, that there would be no one who could measure up, or as Rio so accurately foretold the night of their break-up, "Who else is like me, hm? Who's better than me?"

Angel of course buried that fact deep into her subconscious, well, not deep enough, because in each of her relationships since, it managed to rear its ugly head every single time. Most recently, with her ex-fiancé, Nathan. Nathan was great at first, good conversation, amazing dates, lavish gifts, he treated her like princess. But slowly, over time, Nathan stopped trying, it especially became bad after their engagement. They rarely talked, unless it was about work, or wedding plans, he neglected her, especially in the bedroom. Angel soon realized that despite Nathan's neglectfulness, she made no effort to confront him about it. She didn't care, not a single bit. In the end, Angel had to accept that her heart belonged to someone else. That Rio was the only man for her.

Which brings her too tonight, Angel's high school class's reunion. It was a big one, celebrating 20 years, and Angel thought it would be the perfect remedy to cheer her up. She could let loose, reunite with some old classmates, and celebrate with her friends she's had since then. Something that could put her mind at ease, pull her focus away from the abysmal ending to her engagement.

She was having a good time, truly, cutting up on the dance floor to a killer set of music from 04' and 05', with her besties, Clarissa, Benny, Keke, and Dre. Angel was having the time of her life, dancing to Lose My Breath by Destiny's Child, when her friends froze, their eyes all staring at the bar of the ballroom. Clarissa leaned and whispered.

"Rio's, here."

Angel's mind and heart went to full overdrive, as memories of their relationship flooded her mind. Apparently, while Angel and her friends were having the time of their lives, Rio showed up and instantly became the talk of the town. He had a few breezy conversations with old classmates, charming them of course, and when asked about what does for a living, he smoothly responded that he was an entrepreneur, that he's always been good with numbers. Which wasn't a complete lie, but it wasn't the truth either. Of course, none of their classmates were aware of Rio's true dealings, only Angel and her close circle were privy to that info.

Despite the nerves that bubbled in her stomach, Angel, knew that she had to face Rio at some point. She marched over and sat at the bar next to him. After some awkward pretense, more on Angel's part than Rio's, and shot of whiskey later, they talked. The conversation flowed and soon before they knew, it was like old times. They caught up and laughed about old memories. More and more Angel felt her heart swell in her chest, her latent feelings for Rio were bubbling to surface. But Rio surprised her, after sharing a couple dances to slow jams, a proposition slipped freely from his lips.

"Come home with me?"

From a safe distance, her friends watched the exchange, seeing the chemistry they still had after all this time, and despite some reservations, they encouraged to follow her heart, or as Keke put it, her pussy. When they were parting ways, Clarissa hugged her tight and encouraged her, whispering in her ear, "Just go with him, girl. Have some fun, we both now you deserve it after the shit you've been through."

So, here she was, whimpering and writhing underneath Rio's touch, while simultaneously admiring the backyard view. An ink-colored sky served as a gorgeous back drop, for the glowy lit infinity pool, in the distance was twinkling lights from buildings near the coastal beach. It was truly a sight to see. Angel snapped back to reality when she felt a firm hand, cradle her chin.

"Where'd you go?" Rio asked. His Coca-Cola colored eyes stared back at her. His head tipped to side, long eye lashes fluttering against the tops of cheeks as he blinked.

His gaze was heavy was lust, completely unrelenting. Its intensity caused Angel to squirm in her seated position. A warmth bloomed underneath her skin as she rubbed at the part of her neck Rio just was. It was still wet from his kisses.

"N-nowhere, baby," Angel stammered.

Slowly, Rio lips curled into a half smile.

"Good," Rio nodded his head as his gaze traveled down to Angel's chest, zeroing in on the exposed skin the peeked through her top, "now take this shit off. I wanna see them titties, Nena."

Completely under his spell, Angel quickly took of her top, leaving her in a lacy, cerulean colored bra, her mini skirt, and a pair of thoroughly soaked panties. Immediately Rio, hand's palmed at Angel's breasts, rubbing and squeezing them. A soft moan escaped her lips, as Rio's lips latched onto one of nipples.

"Yes, baby," Angel sighed, her hands cradled Rio's head close to her. His tongue alternated between soft flicks and harsh sucks at her left nipple. He released her nipple with a pop and went to the right nipple, repeating the same thing, "Fuck, baby, just like that. Shit!"

Angel could feel the wetness pool inside of her panties, as her clit began to throb. She needed Rio, real bad.

"Damn," Rio breathed out. He pulled away from Angel's chest, while his large hands rubbed at her ample thighs. His lips curled into a wicked smile as he admired his handywork. Angel's boobs glistened with sweat, as her hardened nipples stood at full attention, with spit dripping from them, "I missed them titties, girl. Fuck, I need to that pussy too. Lift up for me."

Angel obliged. Rio supported her with one hand, while with the other, slipping off her mini skirt and panties. He tossed the skirt to the floor, while he pocketed her panties. A storm swirled in his eyes, a thick haze of lust, as he admired Angel's, wet, glistening, pussy.

"I dunno if I can wait, mama," Rio rasped. He brought a finger to Angel's core, swiping at her wetness, and brought it back to his lips, sucking on it, "You taste good, mama. All this shit for me?"

Angel nodded. "Yes, it's all for you baby,"

Wordlessly, Rio plunged his fingers inside of Angel, who let out a yelp in response. He quickly fell back into old habits, fucking Angel with his fingers, just the way she liked it.

"Yeaaahhh, just like that," Rio rasped, he bent down and licked at her lips, "Be a good girl and fuck my fingers back," Angel whined loudly, following his instructions, lifting her hips slight and fucked his thick, fingers.

"Fuck! I'm close baby!"

"I gotchu, mama. Fuck, I feel you on my fingers. You gonna let me take care of you, huh? I'll give you anything you want mama, fuck, you being so good for me. Cum for me, darlin',"

And she did. Angel's eyes squeezed shut as she gushed over his fingers. A string of curses and pleases slipped from Angel's lips as Rio continued to fuck her through her orgasm. She could feel the cum slipping down her thighs.

"Mi alma, you look so good cummin' for me," Rio praised her. He captured her lips and kissed her sweetly. His tongue swirled around in her mouth as mimicking the move with his fingers. Angel pulled away from him, mewling.

"Riooooo, fuck, slow down baby,"

Rio landed a firm smack on Angel's ass. He cradled Angel's chin bringing her eyes towards him. His eyes hardened a bit, still holding its lustful haze, now a bit possessiveness broke through. Rio crooked his fingers, slowing down his pace just a tad, but driving into Angel's pussy much harsher and deeper.

"Fuck, I say about that shit," He growled.

"Shit! Baby, I-I'm s-sorry," Angel whimpered. Her mind flickered back to them making out in the car, he only to wanted to her his name, his real one, "Christopher, 's too much,"

A look of pure satisfaction bloomed across Rio's face. Got her.

"Just one more, mama. Be a good girl for me," Rio sunk down to knees, he slowly placed small kisses at Angel's inner thighs. He worshiped the plushness of her thighs, while Angel writhed and whined. He inched closer, spreading Angel's thighs further apart. He admired how she dripped around his fingers. "Fuck, mama I want you to cum on my tongue, 'k?"

Rio kept his eyes on Angel as he licked at her entrance, swirling his tongue around his fingers, continuing on until he reached her clit. Rio pressed a soft kiss to Angel's clit.

"Christopher!" Angel shouted.

Rio worked in tandem, his long fingers plunged in and out of Angel's, while his tongue swirled around her clit, flicking at the sensitive bud. Angel's hands rubbed at the soft hair of Rio's buzzcut, while the familiar thrumming of her orgasm quickly approached.

"Christopher, fuck, I'm soooo close,"

Rio pulled back, "Say it again,"

"Christopher,”

“Again,”

“Christopher, Christopher, Christopherrrrr, keep fuckin’ me, I’m so close,”

Rio grinned as he returned to her pussy. He latched onto her clit, sucking so harshly, Angel for sure believe that it was going to be bruised. His fingers fucked her even faster, as she clenched around them, as Rio French-kissed her pussy. He was completely relentless, wanting to see her cum, again, again, and again. With one last, harsh suck at her clit, Angel, exploded. She screamed in pleasure as she rode out her orgasm. Rio rose up, slowly pumping his fingers, before pulling out.

"Did so good for me," He mumbled against her cheek, holding her close as Angel rode out the aftershocks.

“I love you so much, baby,” Angel whispered in his ear.

Rio captured her lips again, kissing Angel. He licked at her mouth, allowing Angel to taste herself. Rio arms snaked around Angel's torso, and with ease, managed to throw her over his shoulder. Angel giggled and kicked her feet and Rio moved to the stairs.

"Baby! What are you doing?"

"It's time for the real show to start, Nena," Rio teased, he playfully smacked her ass, "You ready for me?"

"Always."

[spitefulsatanfics]

𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒

> “You can stop right there, Señorita. I’m gonna get you out of here. Trust me.” — Luis

PAIRING: Luis Serra x Female Reader (She/Her)

TONE: Enemies to lovers, coworker love, slow burn, canon-typical horror, apocalyptic romance, hurt/comfort, protector!Luis

WRITTEN BY: Little Devil <3

RATING: Mature (17+ for language, canonical violence, blood/injury, kissing/intimacy, horror themes)

WORD COUNT: ~7,000

BASED ON: Resident Evil 4: Remake

SYNOPSIS:

You and Luis Serra were once co-workers—begrudging, brilliant minds working for Umbrella Europe, watching the Las Plagas parasite unravel like a plague foretold. He flirted. You rolled your eyes. And when the outbreak came, you both ran. But the deeper into this infected nightmare you fall, the harder it is to deny that somewhere between hell and survival, your hearts started beating in unison.

I. THE CALM BEFORE THE CURSE

Umbrella Europe Lab | Sierra Verde, Spain | One Month Before Outbreak

The lab always smelled like bleach, regret, and ambition.

You sat hunched over your workstation, eyes glued to the microscope. Las Plagas Variant A00. Early stage. The cells twisted under the lens, spiraling into violent growth patterns. Aggressive. Unstable. Beautiful in the way venomous things often were.

“Careful, cariño. You keep glaring like that, and the microscope might just quit.”

You didn’t look up. “Luis, do you practice being this annoying or is it instinctual?”

A smooth chuckle drifted from behind. “It’s a gift. Like my bone structure.”

Luis Serra. Professional pain in your ass. He leaned beside you, lab coat flared open, shirt barely buttoned—because, apparently, dress codes were beneath him. His smile was casual, but the exhaustion behind it wasn’t.

“Still tracking the accelerant response?”

“You mean cleaning up the mess you made with your ‘experimental cocktail’? Yeah.”

He winced theatrically. “Ah, mi culpa.”

Your glare softened, almost fond. Almost.

He tapped the glass of your culture slide. “You know what they’re really making here, don’t you?”

You stilled.

“I know,” you said. Quiet. Heavy. “And I know you’re not just flirting your way through the apocalypse for fun.”

His smirk faltered. “You think I don’t lose sleep over it?”

You didn’t answer. But you saw it. The truth in his posture. The guilt under his bravado.

And a part of you—the part you swore you’d buried—wanted to believe he was more than he pretended to be.

---

II. GROUND ZERO

Two Weeks Later | Sierra Verde Facility Collapse

The screams came before the sirens.

You ran through blood-slicked corridors, lab alarms howling in deafening pitches. Las Plagas had breached containment. People you knew—colleagues, mentors, friends—were gone. What was left behind wasn’t human.

A snarl echoed down the hallway.

Your boots skidded. One of them—an infected researcher—lunged at you, mouth split too wide, black veins bursting beneath translucent skin.

You couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move.

Then a hand yanked you backward.

“Run!”

It was Luis.

Blood on his shirt. Eyes wild. He raised his pistol and fired twice—clean, practiced. The thing dropped.

You stared at him, breath ragged. “You came back?”

His fingers tightened around yours. “I’m not leaving without you.”

You didn’t argue. Couldn’t. You just ran.

He led you through a side hatch you never knew existed, down into the guts of the facility—past generators, water lines, and memories that already felt ancient.

And when the hatch sealed behind you, Luis leaned against the wall, catching his breath.

“You okay?” he asked.

You hated that your chest ached at the sound of that stupid pet name again. You hated more that you were glad he was there.

---

III. CLOSE QUARTERS

Subterranean Maintenance Tunnels | Night One

There was no exit. No plan. Just dark, recycled air and the sound of dripping pipes.

You curled against the cold floor, wrapped in a discarded thermal blanket. Luis paced like a caged lion. The silence was thick, broken only by your shaking breaths.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, kneeling beside you. “You’re bleeding.”

You looked down. A gash on your arm—shallow but angry.

He tore a strip from his already-ruined shirt and wrapped your wound, hands surprisingly gentle.

“You’re good at this,” you murmured.

“Field medicine or flirting?”

You opened your mouth to fire back.

But he was close. Closer than he’d ever been. His eyes, usually lit with mischief, were tired. Focused. Real.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said.

You didn’t answer. But for the first time since the outbreak, you slept. And when you woke up to find his hand resting near yours… you didn’t pull away.

---

IV. THE VILLAGE OF SHADOWS

Present Day | Village Outskirts

Rain sluiced down in sheets. The safehouse—a hollowed barn—reeked of mildew and rot.

Luis sat by the window, pistol on his thigh, wet hair clinging to his brow. You watched him silently, cradling your stitched arm.

“We move at dawn,” he said. “Too many of them out there tonight.”

You nodded, though the weight in your chest said otherwise.

“I should’ve done something sooner,” you whispered. “I knew what they were making.”

“So did I,” he said. “I thought I could sabotage it from the inside. Buy us time.”

You turned to him. “You really tried?”

He nodded, barely. “And I failed. But I won’t stop now.”

You saw it then—the wear in his bones, the cracks in his armor. And suddenly, you didn’t hate him. Not anymore.

---

V. FRAYED EDGES

Village Perimeter | Dusk

It happened fast.

You were scouting the edge of the treeline when three infected villagers broke from the brush. You fired, but one of them got too close—his blade nicked your side, shallow but stinging.

Luis was there in a heartbeat, dragging you back behind a rusted tractor. The moment the threat was down, he was at your side.

“Hold still,” he muttered, voice tighter than usual.

You hissed as he peeled your shirt aside, cleaning the wound with water from his canteen.

His hands didn’t tremble.

He didn’t crack a joke.

Not this time.

“This was my fault,” he said.

“You didn’t send them after me.”

“I still brought you into this.”

His jaw clenched. You saw it—the same guilt from the lab, now weathered by blood and fire. But behind it, something softer. Protective. Fierce.

You reached up and brushed his knuckles. Just once.

“I’d rather be here with you than safe and alone.”

He blinked. And for the first time, Luis Serra had no smooth line to offer.

---

VI. IN THE CROSSHAIRS

Minutes Later | Forest Edge

You were almost back to shelter when it happened.

A noise—too fast, too low. One of them had tracked your scent. The infected villager lunged from the trees, machete raised.

Luis turned too slow.

“Luis!”

You didn’t think. You moved.

The gun kicked back in your hands—once, twice. You tackled the thing off him, dirt and blood splattering your arms. You pinned it, drove your knife down, the scream rattling through your bones.

Then silence.

Luis sat against a tree, wind knocked from his chest.

You were already at his side. “Hey. Hey, breathe. Are you hurt?”

He groaned, coughing. “Mostly my pride.”

You helped him up, hands trembling. “You scared the hell out of me.”

He winced, leaning on you. “Didn’t know you cared so much, corazón.”

“I don’t,” you lied, breathless. “You’re just useful.”

“Liar,” he whispered.

---

VII. THE FIRE BETWEEN

Abandoned Cabin | Later That Night

Luis sat shirtless on the floor, wrapping a new bandage around his ribs. You hovered nearby, heart still galloping.

He looked up. “You saved me.”

You shrugged, trying to look unaffected. “Figured I owed you.”

He smiled. Not cocky—just grateful.

“Gracias,” he said. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

That made something flicker in his eyes.

“You’re not the man I knew in that lab,” you added. “You’re… better.”

He chuckled. “Low bar.”

You knelt beside him. “Still true.”

There was a long pause. Then, without thinking, you reached out and brushed his cheek. His hand covered yours.

“I like this side of you,” you said.

“I like being someone you’d want to see.”

And for once, you didn’t run from the silence between your heartbeats.

You leaned in.

And kissed him.

Not out of fear. Not because it might be your last night.

But because you wanted to.

Because you meant it.

---

VIII. RECKONING

Village Edge | Rescue Point

The dawn sky bled orange and smoke.

You and Luis stood side by side, weapons ready. The chopper was coming—just a few more minutes. You could hear the engines, faint above the treetops.

Luis looked at you, bruised and smiling. “So, coffee after this?”

You laughed. “Depends. Still planning on poisoning it?”

He smirked. “Only if you’re into that kind of thing.”

And then, softly: “You really saved me back there.”

You met his gaze. “We save each other. That’s what we do now.”

The chopper crested the hill.

You didn’t look back.

You reached for his hand.

And held on tight.

---

END: CHEMICAL HEARTS

Written in blood and survival by Little Devil <3

[risky-witchy]

CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR DELTARUNE CHAPTERS 3 and 4

Long ass post using the Deltarune OST and motifs as a basis for theories, specifically about Dess, her relationship with Kris, and the implications of what it all means

This might be all over the place but I have to get all of this out somewhere. This is a working theory and includes the theory that Dess is the Knight, however I do not go in depth into that part of the theory

Thinking about the Deltarune OST, specifically Raise Your Bat. This is the song that you play with Susie and Ralsei in the Lightners Live band minigame. In the segment directly before you play this minigame, Tenna brings up December and calls her a ‘musical prodigy’, and even jokes about bringing her back. There are very few times Dess gets name dropped in all of Deltarune, and I don’t think that it’s a coincidence that she gets mentioned right before you play a song called Raise Your Bat, given that elsewhere in the game you can find a picture with December in it, holding a bat and that the Knight has what looks like a bat as a weapon. My theory is that Tenna brings up Dess before this song plays because Dess is the one who wrote the song. There’s a specific lyric ‘and your futures lost its rights’ that could be referencing Dess and her potential role as the Knight, and the whole Prophecy Has Been Foretold, No Escape type thing.

I had to go back and look at the lyrics because every time I play the minigame I get too focused on doing good lol BUT for the most part, Ralsei changes the lyrics after remarking that they might be ‘inappropriate’, which is another reason why I think Dess wrote the song. However, there is a specific set of lyrics that don’t get changed:

‘Come follow me into the dark, with your heart as the ark which shall shine you the way // Because I’m with you in the dark with your heart as my mark which shall guide you the way, through the waves’

We have heard some of these lyrics before, in Don’t Forget, the song that plays in the end credits of chapter one, and the last song on chapter one’s OST. ‘I’m with you in the dark’ is used in both songs and interestingly enough, the melody that is sung with these lyrics are from the melody of Lost Girl, from chapter 2. What’s even MORE interesting is that the specific section of Lost Girl that is sampled is the section that contains Gasters Theme.

If my theory about Dess writing Raise Your Bat is correct, then this would draw a connection from Dess to Don’t Forget, potentially with Dess being the one who sings it. Musical prodigy, after all. I feel like this has basis because Don’t Forget isn’t in the play through of the game, but the end credits. It feels akin to the unused text you can find in the code of the game, there but overlooked. Dess is trying to communicate in whatever way she can, but she’s lost in the game itself. I think further evidence of this is the appearance of Gasters theme in Raise Your Bat, as he is also ‘lost’ in the game, a character who once existed but has disappeared from some tragedy.

Now, here’s where things get very theory heavy, and rely based on my own ideas of how things fit together. Hear me out. The full lyrics of Don’t Forget are as follows:

‘When the light is running low, and the shadows start to grow, and the places that you know seem like fantasy // there’s a light inside your soul that’s still shining in the cold with the truth, the promise in our hearts. Don’t forget, I’m with you in the dark.’

Now, may I call your attention to the end of chapter 4, if you aren’t doing the weird route:

Based on both of these lines being paralleled beautifully to Don’t Forget, if Dess truly is the singer in Don’t Forget, then this implies that Dess is the Knight. It also implies that Dess and Kris made a promise to each other, and I think it revolves around Noelle and the prophecy. That would also mean that Dess and Kris knew about the Dark World before the events of Deltarune chapter one occur.

We the player do not know the whole prophecy. Ralsei knows it all, Susie knows the end, and we might assume that Kris does not know the end because we the player do not get to see it. However I think Kris knows much more than they are letting on. Chapter 4 implies that Kris could have a preexisting relationship with the Knight and may be actively working with them, based on us overhearing the phone call in the Holiday’s kitchen, as well as the scene when fighting the Knight, if it’s a no hit run, Kris will cough, the Knight turns, and the fight ends. This all falls into place if the Knight really is Dess. Kris and Dess have made some kind of promise, and are working together to do… something.

I have seen a few people talk about the prophecy in light of everything revealed in chapter 4, and how they believe that Susie is not the intended hero of the prophecy but rather Noelle. the silhouette we see of ‘the girl’ the prophecy mentions has been noted to also fit a silhouette of Noelle, and the description we see could easily apply to her. Noelle is clearly very important to the story and it’s highly likely she is the intended lightener, along with Kris, in the prophecy.

I think the promise Dess and Kris made was to protect Noelle from whatever terrible ending Susie saw and Ralsei knows. I think that they are working together to create a different ending, and Kris either can’t or doesn’t want to get anyone else involved, so they keep it to themselves, despite genuinely caring for both other members of their party. I think this is a reason why Kris gets so upset when we the player force them to go through with Snowgrave, because Kris knows what happens at the end, if Noelle is involved.

[maidenofsophia]

The Wheel of The Magdalene

Inspired by the Avalonion tradition and their teachings shared with me by @ihearhercalling , I decided to make my own wheel of the year based on the archetypes of Mary Magdalene. This is a work in progress but this is what I have so far.

Imbolc - The Rose Child

Mary Magdalene is seen by many as part of the Rose Lineage, along with figures like Mother Mary, Inanna, Hathor and Venus. There is scarcely any legend regarding her birth or childhood, save for an oral tradition by Sophian Gnostics, who believe her birth was as foretold and celebrated by the mystics of the time, and that she showed great wisdom and compassion from her early years, that would lead to her Calling in the priesthood. It is theorised by many that she was born into a wealthy family, or was given special education and means to provide for herself. But money nor privilege did not corrupt her heart.

Spring Equinox - The Christ-Sophia (Anointer of Wisdom)

The Magdalene is central to the Easter story that takes place around Spring. While Yeshua is the anointed (Christos), it is She who anoints him, he cannot go forward with his sacrifice without her blessing. In my path I do not believe Yeshua thought himself God incarnate, but he was seen as the King and leader for his people, and Magdalene plays the role of the bestowing his Sovereignty. She has earned this right through her own training and redemption that has earned Her the title of Christ-Sophia. Just as Persephone rises to be reunited with her mother and rejuvenates the land, the Magdalene has ridden herself of seven demons that tried to bind her soul, with the help and love of her dearest friend and partner.

Beltane - The Sacred Bride

A title I have mixed feelings on but am learning to appreciate in the context of understanding the Sovereign Goddess archetype. Whether or not the Magdalene and Yeshua were officially married, they carry the Lovers or Union symbolism, that echoes throughout time and into stories like Simon Magus and Helen, Arthur and Guinivere, Robin Hood and Maid Marian, and so on. The Holy Bride is the Goddess within that our own soul seeks in union. Yeshua loved Mary more than all of his disciples, She was the first to receive the vision of his soul existing beyond death, She was the torch that lead him out from the tomb.

Christianity and some other faiths interpret the Bride as fallen humanity, a damsel in distress, awaiting completion in divine marriage, when in truth it is the Bride who is Co-Savior and Redeemer.

Midsummer - The Tower

Arguably the Magdalene's most renowned archetype. People remain split on whether her name Magdalene was simply to denote her being from the town of Magdala, or a title in itself similar to Messiah. After Yeshua's death and parting from this world, it is the Magdalene who is the first to stand among the distressed disciples. She becomes the tower of faith and wisdom to whom Yeshua wished for his church and the kingdom of Heaven to be built from. In Tarot, the Tower fittingly represents upheaval and change. No doubt this one change in particular was seen as too radical to accept for many of the early Christians, as is reflected in The Gospel of Mary when Peter and Andrew try to dismiss her. But Levi chastises them and reminds them of her importance and how Yeshus saw her worthy, who were they to question Her?

Lammas - The Holy Mother

There are a handful of legends where Mary Magdalene becomes a mother herself. The first that I was aware of was from a group of Gnostics in France who believe she had a daughter called Tamar. The more commonly known one popularised by the Da Vinci Code is that Saint Sarah is the daughter of her and Yeshua who arrived on a boat with her mother and Joseph of Arimathea. The Sophian Gnostics led by Tau Malachi believe she had a son, Michael. I personally go with the Saint Sarah legend, but honestly we may never know for certain, and it's possible that she may not have born children at all. But I do still believe she became a Mother in some way, even if it was in her role as teacher and leader of those who did believe Yeshua left his ministry to her. I believe there was a deep connection and relationship between her and Mother Mary, who is also a reflection of Heavenly Mother Sophia. The image of Mary Magdalene as a mother holding her own daughter is symbolic of the Rose Lineage continuing.

Autumn Equinox - The High Priestess

Having lived and been reborn through many experiences, Magdalene sits as High Priestess, leading but also serving her flock, imparting the wisdom she has gained through her years and her connection with the Lady Sophia. As the darkness of the year approaches, She encourages us to gather and harvest all that we have learned to prepare us for the unknown. The teachings of Yeshua live on through her, while also imparting her own teachings of introspection and shadow work. She encourages all of us to find the Rose Child within ourselves, our own Christ Consciousness. That which is hidden, She reveals.

Samhain - The Queen In Exile

While the disciples met rather gruesome deaths, Magdalene's story fades with a whimper as opposed to a bang. Facing persecution, even from those who once called her 'sister', she flees Palestine and is said to have travelled to France. There are other legends that say she went as far as Britain, to Glastonbury itself. The Magdalene is rejected and her legend and role in her male companion's story diminished. She becomes Christianity's own Woman In The Attic. They call her a prostitute and a sinner, merely another soul needing to be saved. But even in this scorned image, she remains at the forefront of Christian art and an inspiration of many who feel they are outcasts or deemed unworthy. While Mother Mary appeared in visions of beautiful white light and singing angels, the Magdalene came to those lost in shadow. She is Lilith and Eve reunited as one. She is Zoe Sophia, living wisdom, the snake whispering at our ear to consume the fruit of knowledge and regain our power.

Midwinter - The Hermit

The most common legend of Mary Magdalene's ending is that she spent the last years of her life secluded in a cave in Southern France. There, many continued to seek her out for her wisdom and blessings. This very cave continues to be a sacred site and place of pilgrimage for those whose hearts call to the Magdalene. The egg is a sacred symbol of the Magdalene, for legend said that she presented one to the Emporer of Rome and made it turn red as proof of Yeshua's resurrection. The cave of eggs is undoubtedly as much a symbol of rebirth as it is for the Magdalene's death. For she knew full well death was not the end. In the Sophian oral tradition, it's said that she called to God the Mother to take her back into Her cosmic womb, and rather than ascend like Yeshua and Mother Mary, the Magdalene instead chose to be reincarnated on Earth to always be present with us, until the time of the Second Coming.

[diveintoserena]

𝐓𝐎𝐀𝐘𝐃 | 𝟎𝟏 my therapist thinks i'm just anxious (she's wrong)

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐎𝐃

Mikey Madison as Lyra Jean Henderson

Luke Castellan x DaughterofHecate!Oc

I WISH I COULD SPIN some dramatic tale of a destiny foretold, a grand awakening of power. That I ever bought into the whole "you're special" spiel. Truth is, for years, I was just a ghost in hand-me-down clothes, armed with a sharp tongue and an even sharper instinct for survival – which mostly involved getting the hell out of dodge.

So, no epic origin story here.

Instead, you'd usually find me in some brightly lit, sterile room, enduring the pitying gaze of another well-meaning but clueless adult. This particular afternoon involved Dr. Reyes patiently explaining the various ways my brain apparently malfunctioned, while I mentally cataloged the exits and wondered if the faint scent of cheap lavender was supposed to be calming or just irritating.

─━━━━━━⊱۞⊰━━━━━━─

Dr. Reyes' office was a sensory assault I'd come to expect from anyone claiming to help me navigate my "complex inner landscape"—and trust me, my inner landscape looked less like a serene garden and more like a monster truck rally. The air hung thick with the cloying sweetness of artificial lavender, battling a stale undercurrent of institutional coffee and the faint, lingering scent of unspoken judgment. It was the aroma of good intentions gone wrong, a perfume designed to soothe but only making my skin crawl with the urge to escape.

The beige walls were a testament to bland conformity, the framed diplomas screamed "I know better than you," and the motivational posters? Pure, unadulterated torture. ("Hang in there!" featuring a kitten clinging to a branch? Seriously? Had they met my life?)

This worn, slightly sticky chair had been my reluctant throne in countless iterations of this same charade. Different faces across the desk, different diplomas on the wall, but the underlying script – fix the broken thing – remained stubbornly the same. And the smell... always that same suffocating blend of coffee, synthetic calm, and disappointment.

Dr. Miller had whispered like I was made of spun glass, convinced one wrong word would send me shattering into a million inconvenient pieces. Dr. Nguyen had offered stress balls like they could somehow absorb the chaos churning inside me, never actually hearing the whispers that sometimes seemed to bleed from the very walls. 

And Dr. Howard? Bless his oblivious heart, he'd once achieved peak therapeutic stillness by falling asleep mid-sentence. I'd considered drawing a mustache on his face with a stray pen.

Then there was Dr. Reyes. Efficient. Clinical. And just as convinced she held the instruction manual to "Lyra-Jean, Problem Child, Model 7.3."

I knew that look in her eyes. I'd seen it reflected in the weary gazes of social workers who shuffled my file like a losing hand, the forced smiles of foster parents who saw me as another temporary paycheck, the concerned frowns of teachers who just wanted me to be normal.

A project. A case. A broken code to be rewritten.

Maybe they were right. Maybe I was a walking glitch in the system.

But no one ever bothered to ask if the glitch wanted to be fixed. Maybe the errors were the only things that felt real.

They just slapped on labels, offered generic solutions, and moved on to the next malfunctioning unit. And the sheer, bone-deep weariness of being someone else's puzzle was a constant companion.

My fingers worried at a loose thread on the purloined purple jacket – a comforting texture in this sterile environment. The clock's ticking was a relentless drumbeat, each second a reminder of the time I was wasting. The fluorescent lights hummed, a discordant soundtrack to my forced compliance.

Underneath the carefully constructed apathy, the familiar itch started. The primal urge to bolt, to disappear into the anonymity of the streets, where at least the dangers were honest.

But running wasn't the immediate plan. Not today. Survival sometimes meant playing the game, even if the game was rigged.

So, I sat there, my grip tightening on the chair's worn arms, a silent promise to myself that I wouldn't break, wouldn't shatter, at least not in this beige box of forced serenity.

Dr. Reyes flashed her professional empathy smile – the one that translated to 'I get paid for this, but also, my hot yoga class starts in twenty minutes.'

"So, Lyra," she began, leaning back like she was about to deliver a profound revelation instead of just repeating the same questions, "you mentioned 'experiencing things' again this week?"

'Experiencing things.' That was her sanitized way of describing the creeping shadows that danced at the edge of my vision, the whispers that slithered through the air when no one else was around, and the general feeling that reality was a badly rendered video game, glitching every other Tuesday.

I focused on the maze of scratches etched into the faux leather chair across from me, tracing their patterns like they were ancient runes holding the secrets to escaping this beige-walled purgatory, instead of proof that past inmates had also endured this particular brand of psychological torture.

I shrugged, a carefully calibrated display of apathy. "Not exactly seeing. More like...feeling the universe vibrate on a frequency only I can hear."

Dr. Reyes tilted her head, the human equivalent of a confused cat. "Can you elaborate?"

Oh, I could elaborate. I could describe how the air sometimes shimmered like a heatwave in the middle of a polar vortex. I could explain how shadows stretched and twisted into impossible shapes, like they had their own agenda. I could detail how, when I focused too hard, people's words would just...cut out, like their brains had suddenly gone on strike.

But that would earn me a one-way ticket to the psych ward, and I wasn't in the mood for padded walls and mystery meat.

"It's like..." I paused, carefully editing my internal monologue for public consumption. "Like something's just...out of sync. Like it's there, just beyond the edge of my senses, but if I try to grab it, it vanishes."

Dr. Reyes sighed the heavy sigh of someone who'd already pre-diagnosed me with a terminal case of 'being a difficult kid.' "Lyra, we've discussed this. These are classic symptoms of anxiety, often exacerbated by past trauma. There's no evidence of any...underlying condition."

My jaw tightened. Trauma. The word itself was a barbed wire fence, sending a shiver of angry energy through my veins.

I knew what she meant. The night. The thing I'd buried so deep, it was practically fossilized. The flashes of fire and screams that still haunted the edges of my dreams.

But this wasn't just about that.

The whispers, the shadows, the ever-present feeling of being watched – they weren't just figments of a damaged psyche. They were real. I felt them in my bones.

Dr. Reyes studied me, waiting for the inevitable argument, the rebellion she expected. When I didn't rise to the bait, she took it as a personal victory and plowed ahead.

"Have you been practicing the breathing exercises we discussed?" she asked, her tone suggesting I'd probably been using them to hyperventilate into a paper bag.

I gave a curt nod, a blatant lie. Deep breathing had never stopped a shadow from crawling across my bedroom wall.

"What about meditation? Have you found a quiet space to center yourself?"

Another nod. Another lie. My "quiet space" usually involved a crowded bus and a pair of noise-canceling headphones.

"Perhaps we should consider a slight adjustment to your medication?"

Absolutely not. The last time I'd let them tinker with my brain chemistry, I'd spent a week convinced I could communicate with houseplants.

"No more meds," I stated, my voice leaving no room for negotiation. "They make me feel like a zombie who's allergic to sunlight."

Dr. Reyes sighed again, the sound of professional patience wearing thin, and scribbled something onto her notepad. It probably translated to: Patient remains stubbornly delusional, possibly possessed. Recommend exorcism.

"Lyra," she said, her voice slow and deliberate, like she was explaining why one plus one equals two to a particularly dense toddler. "I can't exactly wave a magic wand and make the bad things go away if you keep hiding them under a rock."

My throat felt like it had swallowed a handful of gravel. She wasn't wrong. A small, logical part of my eleven-year-old brain acknowledged that. But the bigger, louder part screamed danger. 

Opening up meant peeling back the layers of carefully constructed indifference, showing the messy, broken bits underneath. And that usually led to labels, endless tests with stupid questions, and the dreaded phone call that meant packing my few belongings into another garbage bag and being shuffled off to another house that didn't really want a silent, twitchy kid with weird stories.

So, instead of the truth, I offered a carefully crafted imitation of cooperation. I forced a tight, insincere smile that didn't reach my eyes and mumbled, "Yeah. Okay. I'll... try." The word felt like a betrayal the moment it left my lips.

Dr. Reyes mirrored my expression with a smile of her own – thin and brittle, like a cheap plastic toy that might snap if you bent it too far. It was the kind of smile adults gave you when they knew you were lying but were too tired or too jaded to call you on it.

"That's all I ask, Lyra," she said, her voice laced with a weary resignation that echoed my own. "Sometimes, just saying the words out loud, even the scary ones, can make them lose a little of their power."

She wrapped up the session with the usual motions: a brief, impersonal handshake that felt like two strangers accidentally brushing fingers, a prescription for pills that would inevitably end up gathering dust in whatever forgotten corner I was currently inhabiting, and the standard fortune cookie wisdom about 'confronting my fears head-on' – which, in my short but eventful life, had only ever resulted in more things to run from.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

I wish I could pretend that stepping out of Dr. Reyes' office felt like shedding a heavy skin. That her carefully chosen words had somehow rearranged the tangled mess inside my head. That I actually bought into the whole 'your troubled past is manifesting as spooky hallucinations' lecture.

But the truth was a bitter pill I'd swallowed long ago: she was missing the point entirely.

The shadows weren't just tricks my mind was playing. The air didn't just feel wrong; it was wrong, humming with an energy that prickled my senses. And no amount of well-meaning platitudes, forced breathing, or those aggressively scented candles was going to scrub away the weirdness that clung to the edges of my reality.

Unfortunately, my internal debate about the fundamental flaws of modern psychology was cut short the moment I stepped into the waiting room.

Because perched on one of the uncomfortable, floral-patterned chairs was her.

Mrs. Patel.

And just like that, the faint glimmer of hope I hadn't even realized I was clinging to evaporated, replaced by the familiar, sinking feeling that my already messed-up day had just taken a nosedive into the Mariana Trench.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Mrs. Patel. My assigned shepherd in this bureaucratic wilderness. She was a force of nature contained in a petite frame, an Indian woman whose default expression could curdle milk and whose unimpressed gaze held the weight of a thousand bureaucratic forms. Her dark hair was a severe, gravity-defying bun, her blazer looked starched with pure disapproval, and her clipboard was practically a permanent fixture, a shield against the chaos of kids like me.

She also possessed an uncanny, almost supernatural ability to sniff out my attempts at freedom, like a bloodhound with a nose for truancy. No matter how cleverly I slipped through the cracks of the system, Mrs. Patel always seemed to materialize, her presence a tangible manifestation of my failure to disappear.

And the way she was currently laser-focusing on me over the top of her half-moon glasses promised an imminent Mrs. Patel Lecture™, capital letters and all. Her gaze felt less like observation and more like an X-ray, peering directly into the rebellious core of my being.

"Lyra," she stated, her voice a low, weary drone that suggested she'd had this exact conversation approximately one million times. "Sit." It wasn't a request.

I sat. Not out of any sense of obedience, but because even at eleven, I recognized certain immutable forces in the universe. Mrs. Patel was one of them. Arguing with her was like arguing with gravity – ultimately pointless and likely to result in a headache.

She shuffled the papers on her clipboard, the crisp snap of the pages echoing in the sterile waiting room. She landed on the document detailing my latest act of unscheduled departure.

"This is the third time this year, Lyra." Her tone implied this was a personal affront.

I offered a nonchalant shrug, my gaze fixed on the peeling corner of a "Hang In There" poster featuring a disturbingly cheerful sloth. "Are you sure it's only three? Feels... more comprehensive than that."

Mrs. Patel remained unmoved. Her expression didn't even flicker.

"You cannot continue to abscond from your designated placements." Her vocabulary always sounded like it belonged in a legal textbook.

"Why not?" I countered, a flicker of defiance sparking within me. "I'm getting really efficient at it. Almost... professional."

A sigh escaped her nostrils, a sound that spoke volumes of her dwindling reserves of patience. It was the universal language of 'I am dealing with a level of stubbornness that defies logic.'

"You are eleven years old, Lyra. You are not supposed to be proficient in independent survival."

I didn't respond. What was the point? Laying out the stark reality of my existence – the alleyways, the dumpster diving, the constant fear of being dragged back to places where I was an unwanted burden – wouldn't elicit sympathy. It would just earn me more lectures and thicker files.

Mrs. Patel's sharp gaze pinned me to the uncomfortable chair, making me feel like a particularly uninteresting insect under a microscope. Her slow exhale wasn't the huff of a frustrated bureaucrat; it was the weary sigh of someone carrying a weight I couldn't comprehend, rubbing the bridge of her nose as if trying to erase a persistent ache.

"You know," she said, her voice surprisingly devoid of its usual crispness, "you're not the first kid I've seen walking this particular tightrope."

My sarcasm was my shield, always at the ready. "Wow. Groundbreaking. Turns out, I'm not a unique snowflake. Color me astonished."

But Mrs. Patel's gaze didn't waver. "You think you're operating outside the predictable, Lyra, but you're not. I've seen this script play out countless times."

A knot tightened in my stomach. There was a weariness in her tone that felt... different.

"Kids who run. They all wear that same defiant mask. They believe they're smarter, tougher, that they can outrun the things that scare them. That maybe, if they just put enough distance between themselves and the bad stuff, it'll eventually stop chasing them."

She leaned forward, her gaze intense. "Do you know the ending of most of those stories, Lyra?"

The silence hung heavy in the air. I didn't want to know. My carefully constructed wall of denial bricked itself higher.

Mrs. Patel sighed, a soft, defeated sound. "You remind me of my son."

I blinked, thrown completely off balance.

"He was stubborn, too," she continued, her voice barely a whisper now, the professional facade crumbling. "Thought he didn't need anyone. Thought asking for help was a sign of weakness. And one day... he decided he didn't have to listen anymore."

A frown creased my forehead. "What happened to him?" The question felt too loud in the sudden quiet.

She hesitated, her gaze drifting somewhere beyond the beige walls. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken grief.

Then, her voice flat and distant, she murmured, "I buried him when he was seventeen."

The fluorescent lights buzzed, suddenly amplified. The stale air felt heavy, suffocating.

Something sharp and icy snaked its way down my spine. A cold premonition.

I didn't want to ask. The answer hung in the air, a suffocating weight. But the morbid curiosity, the dark understanding that sometimes bloomed in the shadows of my own life, forced the words out. "How?"

Mrs. Patel's knuckles were white as her fingers tightened on the edge of her clipboard. Her gaze remained unfocused.

"He ran one time too many."

My breath hitched. The lump in my throat felt impossibly large.

"You're eleven, Lyra. You have time. A sliver of it, maybe. But one day, if you keep sprinting away from everything, you'll wake up and realize you've run out of road. And I don't want to be the one standing over your grave, wondering if I could have... if I should have done something different."

For a fleeting, fragile moment, the carefully constructed walls around my heart cracked. I almost spilled it all. The whispers that clawed at my sanity in the dead of night. The way shadows danced with a life of their own. The chilling certainty that something ancient and malevolent had been tracking me since that terrible night when I was eight.

But the moment passed, as quickly as it had come. The ingrained instinct for self-preservation slammed the doors shut.

"I'm fine," I lied, the words tasting like ash on my tongue.

Mrs. Patel's gaze returned to mine, sharp and searching, trying to pierce the carefully constructed mask. She saw nothing but a defiant eleven-year-old staring back.

She sighed again, the sound heavier this time, the sound of a battle already lost. "You are not fine, Lyra." Her voice was softer now, tinged with a weary resignation that mirrored the exhaustion in her eyes. Too many broken kids, too little time.

She looked down at her clipboard, the papers rustling softly. Another sigh, almost to herself. "God help me, kid."

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

I knew the unspoken question hanging in the stale office air, thick and heavy between us: Why, Lyra? Why do you keep tearing yourself away?

My gaze locked onto Mrs. Patel's, a silent standoff. My fingers, small and tight, gripped the worn arms of the chair as if they were the only anchors in a storm.

Why did I keep running? The question echoed in the hollow spaces inside me, a constant, nagging hum beneath the surface bravado.

She wanted an explanation, a neat little box of reasons she could tick off on her endless forms.

She wasn't going to get it. Not today. Not ever, probably.

Because how could I articulate the moment the word "home" had become a cruel joke? How could I explain the endless cycle of cold, unfamiliar rooms, the saccharine smiles that never quite reached their eyes, the thinly veiled resentment of people who saw me as nothing more than an inconvenience, a drain on their already stretched resources?

And then there were the others. The ones where the coldness wasn't just in the walls. The ones where the smiles hid something darker, something that made the shadows in my head seem almost welcoming by comparison.

Those places... those were the real reasons I ran. The unspeakable ones that clawed at the edges of my memory, the ones that made the whispers in the dark sound like lullabies. But those were secrets buried too deep, festering wounds I wouldn't expose to anyone, least of all a system that had repeatedly failed to protect me.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Foster Home #6: THE KESSLERS.

A picture-postcard of suburban serenity. Manicured lawns drank greedily from sprinklers, and neighbors exchanged saccharine waves that felt as genuine as the plastic flamingos adorning their flowerbeds.

It screamed "safe."

It lied.

Mrs. Kessler greeted me with a smile stretched so wide it looked painful, her hands fluttering nervously as she smoothed the fabric of her pastel skirt. Mr. Kessler stood a menacing shadow behind her, his hand clamped firmly on her shoulder, a silent declaration of ownership.

She was the sugar-sweet facade.

He was the fist beneath the velvet glove.

"You'll be safe here, sweetheart," Mrs. Kessler chirped, her grip on my hand just a fraction too tight, her eyes darting nervously towards her husband. The word "safe" felt like a hollow promise the moment it left her lips.

For the first two weeks, they were...performative. Overly attentive, their sweetness cloying, their eyes constantly tracking my movements. They bought me clothes that felt alien against my skin (always practical, never anything I would choose). They served me elaborate dinners (that politeness demanded I choke down). They peppered me with questions (that I deflected with practiced silence).

At night, the thin walls carried their hushed whispers.

She's so quiet.

Good. Less trouble.

I learned the rules of this new cage quickly.

Smile on cue. Consume the offered food without complaint. Become invisible.

Predictably, the charade didn't last. It never did. The cracks always appeared.

One evening, the exhaustion clinging to me like a second skin, I left my empty dinner plate in the sink instead of immediately scrubbing it clean.

A momentary lapse in vigilance. A mistake.

Mr. Kessler didn't tolerate mistakes. Especially not from burdens like me.

His voice, low and sharp, sliced through the quiet kitchen as he loomed over me, his bulk eclipsing the cheerful yellow glow of the overhead light.

"Don't you dare be insolent," he growled, the accusation hanging in the air like a threat. "You should be grateful."

I hadn't even spoken. My silence was apparently its own form of rebellion.

It was just one slap.

A swift, brutal strike across my cheek that sent a jolt of pain and shock through my small body, knocking me off balance against the cold, unforgiving metal of the refrigerator.

A warning shot.

He hadn't needed to repeat the lesson. The message, sharp and clear, resonated in the sudden ringing in my ear.

I perfected the art of silent movement, of shrinking into the corners, of becoming a shadow in their perfectly ordered home. I learned to tune out the muffled sobs that sometimes escaped Mrs. Kessler's room late at night, the sound swallowed by her pillow. 

I didn't tell anyone. Why bother?

The other ghosts in the system understood. They always did. We recognized the unspoken language of fear and neglect. 

We just didn't talk about it. What was the point of voicing the obvious?

The system wasn't designed to catch us when we fell. It was a conveyor belt, moving us from one temporary stop to the next, each placement a brief, forgettable chapter in a story that no one truly cared to read.

I stayed at the Kesslers' for what felt like an eternity, each day a carefully navigated minefield of unspoken rules and simmering tension. Months bled into each other, marked only by the changing seasons glimpsed through the sterile windows and the growing knot of fear in my stomach.

Until one day, I simply... wasn't there anymore.

The rain was coming down in sheets that night, a cold, relentless curtain obscuring the manicured lawns and fake smiles of the neighborhood.

I remember the smell of it – wet asphalt and damp earth rising up to meet me as I ran, my threadbare backpack a clumsy weight banging against my spine. The sound of my own ragged breathing was lost in the drumming of the rain.

I remember the back door, usually locked with a precision that bordered on paranoia, standing slightly ajar. A silent invitation. A crack in their carefully constructed facade.

And I remember Mrs. Kessler's voice, a faint whisper carried on the wind as I slipped into the darkness. It wasn't the saccharine sweetness she usually employed. It was low, urgent, laced with a desperation I hadn't heard before. "Run, sweetheart. Please. Don't look back."

And for once, I listened. I didn't hesitate. I didn't question. I just ran, the rain washing away the last vestiges of that too-perfect house, the whispered warning echoing in my ears. I didn't dare glance over my shoulder, didn't want to see the regret or the fear that might have prompted her unexpected act of defiance. I just ran, into the storm, into the unknown, because anything felt safer than staying.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

I blinked, the memory of rain and a whispered plea fading like a half-remembered dream. Shaking it off, a reflex honed by years of trying to outrun the past.

It was irrelevant now. Ancient history.

Mrs. Patel, with her well-meaning pronouncements and her endless forms, couldn't rewind the clock. Couldn't erase the echoes of slammed doors and forced smiles. Nothing could.

But every time she offered the same tired reassurance – "This new home will be different, Lyra" – it wasn't her voice I heard. It was Mr. Kessler's low, menacing growl, a constant undercurrent to every promise: "You should be grateful."

The real reasons for my flight were a tangled mess I wasn't ready to untangle, not even for myself. I could have listed them, a litany of disappointment and distrust:

1. Because the sterile, temporary spaces they called "home" felt less like refuge and more like holding cells.

2. Because I was the square peg in their carefully rounded holes, always out of sync, always the outsider.

3. Because the endless cycle of packing and unpacking, of forced smiles and hollow greetings, had worn down any fragile hope I might have once possessed. Because the government checks they received felt more real than any genuine affection.

4. Because the gnawing loneliness of being truly alone felt preferable to the hollow pretense of belonging.

But voicing those truths would make them solid, undeniable. And I wasn't ready to admit that the idea of a real home, a place where I truly belonged, had withered and died a long time ago.

So, I offered the standard deflection, the mantra of the self-sufficient runaway. "I take care of myself just fine." The words felt brittle and unconvincing even to my own ears.

The revolving door of foster families had taught me a harsh lesson: I was an obligation, not an addition. Some ignored my presence, treating me like a piece of unwanted furniture. Some tolerated me with thinly veiled impatience. And some... some just looked at me with a mixture of pity and suspicion, like I was a defective product they'd reluctantly agreed to house.

Like Mrs. Adams, whose initial kindness evaporated the moment she ushered me down the creaking basement stairs, "your own space" translating to a damp, spider-infested dungeon. 

Or the Petersons, whose attempts at salvation involved dragging me to a church where hushed whispers about my "rebellious nature" echoed during the sermons. Or the Jacksons, whose smiles for Mrs. Patel vanished behind closed doors, replaced by muttered resentments and the constant feeling of being watched.

Somewhere between the second and third house, the futility of it all had sunk in. I stopped bothering to unpack my bags. What was the point of settling in when I knew, with a chilling certainty, that I wouldn't be staying?

Mrs. Patel's sigh was heavy this time, the sound of a weary warrior facing another unwinnable battle. She flipped through the pages of my file, the rustling paper a stark counterpoint to the silence between us. "Lyra," she asked, her voice softer now, tinged with a genuine, if belated, concern, "do you even grasp the destination of this path you're so determined to walk?"

My gaze remained fixed on my hands, my small fingers twisting together, tracing invisible patterns.

Of course I understood. The world wasn't some Disney movie where lost kids magically found loving homes. I wasn't naive.

Kids like me – the runners, the ones deemed "unstable" and "unplaceable" – we weren't destined for heartwarming adoption stories. 

Happy endings were for other people's narratives. We aged out. We hit eighteen with a garbage bag of belongings and a system that was finally done with us. And then... we just faded away. Became another statistic, another cautionary tale.

But at least disappearing then would be on my own terms. A final act of control in a life where I'd had none. A choice, even if it was the choice of oblivion.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Mrs. Patel's hand slid a slim, manila folder across the worn table that separated us. The sound was soft, almost hesitant, yet it landed with the weight of a life sentence.

"There's a new placement for you, Lyra."

My muscles instinctively tensed. This was the ritual I dreaded most. The forced optimism in her voice, the flimsy hope that always crumbled to dust, the inevitable introduction to another set of strangers who would eventually look at me with that same weary resignation.

"I don't need another home," I mumbled, the words laced with a bitterness that even I could hear.

"You need something, Lyra," she countered, her gaze steady. "This... this pattern you've established? It can't continue."

My eyes narrowed, fixed on the innocuous-looking folder. It represented a new cage, a new set of expectations I would inevitably fail to meet. New faces, new routines, new ways to be reminded that I was a temporary fixture, a burden they were obligated to bear.

But as my fingers unconsciously dug into the faded denim of my jeans, a flicker of a memory surfaced, unbidden. A fleeting image, buried deep beneath layers of cynicism and distrust. A memory I hadn't allowed myself to revisit in years.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Foster Home #4: THE BENNETS

A small, slightly dilapidated house nestled on the fringes of Philadelphia. The wallpaper was peeling in places, and the "lawn" was a testament to nature's resilience over suburban aspirations, a chaotic tapestry of green. But the air inside had been thick with the comforting aroma of cinnamon and the musty scent of well-loved books.

Stepping across their threshold for the first time had been almost overwhelming. The sheer warmth of the place had felt suffocating after years of sterile, temporary spaces. Not just the heat radiating from the ancient fireplace in the living room, but the very atmosphere – too many voices overlapping in laughter, too much vibrant, messy life spilling out of every corner.

Mrs. Bennett was a whirlwind of flyaway auburn curls and a voice as smooth and comforting as warm honey. She called me 'sweetheart' with a genuine tenderness that made my guarded heart flutter for the first time in what felt like forever. Mr. Bennett was a quieter presence, a large, gentle man who moved with a lumbering grace and always carried the faint, comforting scent of sawdust clinging to his flannel shirts.

And then there was Hannah.

Just ten, a year older than me, with fingers perpetually stained with ink and a precarious tower of dog-eared fantasy novels perpetually teetering in her arms.

For the first time since... well, since before the shadows and the running started, I almost felt... ordinary.

I had a room. Not a damp basement, not a lumpy couch, not a forgotten storage space. An actual room, with a window that looked out onto a wild, overgrown backyard, a bed piled high with blankets that smelled faintly of fabric softener, and a bookshelf that Hannah, with a conspiratorial grin, helped me fill with pilfered treasures from the local library.

She patiently taught me how to braid the tangled mess of my hair, her fingers surprisingly gentle. I, in turn, initiated her into the cutthroat world of five-card draw, teaching her the subtle art of the poker face. We'd huddle under the covers at night, a shared flashlight beam illuminating dog-eared pages and whispered secrets, weaving ridiculous tales until sleep finally claimed us.

For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, a fragile tendril of hope unfurled in my chest. Maybe, I'd dared to think in the quiet darkness, maybe this one might actually stick.

Maybe, just maybe, I had found a place.

Maybe... maybe I had a sister.

Then, four months later, the fragile bubble of normalcy burst. Hannah got adopted.

And I didn't.

I remember standing on the porch that crisp autumn day, my hands jammed deep into the pockets of my oversized hoodie, a silent, awkward sentinel watching as Hannah, her face a mixture of excitement and a hesitant sadness, climbed into the unfamiliar car with her new parents.

Her hug had been fierce, a desperate squeeze that momentarily stole my breath. She'd whispered promises – to write, to call, to somehow bridge the chasm that was opening between us.

She stopped.

Maybe it wasn't her fault. Maybe the whirlwind of a new family swallowed her whole. Maybe her new parents thought it best to sever ties with the past. Or maybe, deep down, she realized that starting over meant leaving everything, and everyone, behind. But the day her carefully drawn letters, filled with childish drawings and misspelled words, stopped arriving, something inside me hardened. The fragile seed of hope that had dared to sprout withered and died. I stopped believing in almost-homes, in almost-families, in almost-sisters.

Two weeks later, when Mrs. Patel's familiar, unimpressed face appeared at the Bennetts' door, I didn't even offer a token resistance. The fight had gone out of me. What was the point of clinging to a place that was never truly mine?

I simply retrieved my meager belongings, shoved them into my worn backpack, and followed Mrs. Patel out the door, leaving the scent of cinnamon and old books behind like a fading dream.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

I blinked, the warmth of the Bennett house, the ghost of Hannah's laughter, abruptly vanishing. The memory dissolved, the vibrant colors bleeding out like ink spilled into water, leaving behind the stark reality of the waiting room.

My gaze drifted back to the manila folder on the table, a symbol of yet another temporary stop on a journey I never asked to take.

I could hear Mrs. Patel's voice, a low murmur of words I couldn't quite grasp, the sound blurring into meaningless background noise against the sudden, insistent thrumming behind my eyes.

The phantom ache of loss, the hollow echo of the Bennetts' fleeting warmth, lingered like a cold hand pressed against my ribs. My stomach twisted with a familiar, bitter resentment.

It wasn't fair. The unfairness of it all, the constant cycle of hope and abandonment, clawed at the fragile edges of my composure. Why was I always the leftover? Why did others get their neat, happy conclusions while I was perpetually stuck in this endless loop of running?

A sharp, cold coil tightened in my chest, a heavy weight pressing down, stealing my breath. My hands clenched into fists, the sharp bite of my own fingernails digging into my palms a small, grounding pain.

And then—

The room flickered.

Not the harsh fluorescent lights above.

Not the air, shimmering with unseen currents.

The entire room.

For a fraction of a heartbeat, it was as if two realities had momentarily overlapped, a glitch in the fabric of existence.

There was the office – the sterile beige walls, the precarious stack of manila files on Dr. Reyes' desk, the weary receptionist tapping away at her keyboard in the corner. And superimposed over it, something else.

Something underneath.

The shadows clinging to the corners of the room stretched at impossible angles, elongated and distorted. The fluorescent lights seemed to bend inward, their harsh glow wavering as if being pulled into some unseen vortex. The very air felt like it was shuddering, the solid walls subtly warping and twisting, as if I had inadvertently glimpsed a layer of reality just beneath this mundane one – a world not meant for my eyes.

It was fleeting, less than a breath.

Then it was gone.

As if it had never been. The office settled back into its dull, predictable reality, leaving me with a cold certainty that the world wasn't always what it seemed. And neither was I.

A sharp, involuntary gasp escaped my lips. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the sudden surge of adrenaline. The blood roared in my ears, drowning out the mundane sounds of the office.

Mrs. Patel didn't even blink.

Her head remained bent over her notes, her brow furrowed in concentration as she flipped through the pages, utterly oblivious to the fact that for a fleeting, terrifying instant, the very fabric of reality had seemed to... unravel. Glitch. Shatter and reform.

Had I imagined it? A trick of the light? A desperate fabrication of a mind teetering on the edge?

No.

No, I had felt it. A tangible shift in the air, a prickling sensation on my skin that had nothing to do with anxiety.

Like the charged stillness before a violent thunderstorm, like the crackle of static electricity just before a shock, something fundamental had shifted. The world had stuttered.

And a chilling certainty settled in my gut: I had been the catalyst.

I swallowed hard, forcing a deep, steadying breath. My hands, trembling uncontrollably moments before, slowly relaxed their white-knuckled grip. The pounding in my ears began to recede, replaced by the dull hum of the fluorescent lights.

Mrs. Patel's gaze finally lifted from her notes, her brow arching slightly, a flicker of something that might have been concern crossing her usually impassive features. "You alright, Lyra? You look a little... pale."

I forced a small, unconvincing nod.

"Yeah," I mumbled, the lie feeling thick and clumsy on my tongue. "Fine. Just... tired."

Mrs. Patel's expression softened, the sharp edges momentarily blurring. "This placement," she said, her voice taking on that familiar, hopeful tone, the one she used before delivering yet another disappointment, "this one... it might be different."

They always say that, a cynical voice echoed in my head. Different shades of the same old cage.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly feeling like sandpaper. The air in the waiting room felt thick and charged, the lingering echo of the room's brief distortion still vibrating beneath my skin.

Because deep down, a cold certainty had taken root. I already knew something she didn't. This wasn't just about another foster home, another temporary placement. Something had shifted within me, a door had creaked open to a reality she couldn't even imagine. And whatever waited on the other side... that was the real reason nothing would ever be the same again.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The bus stop. Two blocks east. A familiar landmark on the map of my escape routes.

My mind was already charting the course, a well-worn path etched into my memory. The blind spots in the security cameras lining Main Street, the narrow alleyways that offered temporary sanctuary, the faces of store owners trained to ignore the transient figures that drifted through their periphery.

If I timed it right – left this sterile office right now, while Mrs. Patel was still lost in the labyrinth of her paperwork – I could be swallowed by the anonymity of the city before she even finished dictating her next weary report.

My hand instinctively adjusted the strap of my backpack, testing the meager weight of its contents. The bare necessities for survival: a worn hoodie for the coming night, a stash of pilfered granola bars to stave off the hunger pangs, my dad's tarnished pocket knife – a small, tangible link to a life that was gone – and the smooth, intricately carved wooden raven I always kept close. Not much. But enough to vanish.

My body was already responding to the silent command, a subtle shift in weight, knees flexing, muscles coiled and ready to spring. I could slip out of this waiting room, a ghost in the afternoon light, before anyone registered my departure. Mrs. Patel, burdened by her endless caseload, might not even bother with the cops this time. Just another sigh, another file marked "uncooperative," another lost cause fading into the system's vast, uncaring maw. And she would move on, because that's what the system did. It moved on, with or without you.

A jolt of adrenaline surged through me, and I almost pushed myself to my feet. Almost made a break for it.

Then—

The fluorescent lights above didn't just flicker. They convulsed.

Not the familiar, momentary blink of a failing bulb, the kind that made you squint and wonder if your eyes were playing tricks on you. This was different. Ominous.

They shuddered, the harsh overhead glow stuttering in slow, uneven pulses, like a ragged breath caught in a dying throat. The light itself seemed to weaken, the room dimming not gradually, but abruptly, as if some unseen hand had reached down and twisted a celestial dimmer switch. It wasn't just the lights; it was the air itself, the very atmosphere of the room growing heavy, thick with a palpable sense of dread. The hairs on my arms rose, and a metallic tang filled my mouth.

My fingers instinctively curled around the worn strap of my backpack, my knuckles whitening. A primal chill, ancient and bone-deep, slithered down my spine, a sensation that had nothing to do with the office's inadequate heating.

Then, the intrusion.

It wasn't a voice in the traditional sense, carried on sound waves. It was something far more invasive, far more unsettling. It slid into the deepest recesses of my mind, bypassing my ears entirely, a viscous presence that seeped into my thoughts like black oil spreading on water. It wasn't heard; it was known.

"Not yet, little spark."

The intrusion resonated in my skull, a vibration that felt less like an auditory experience and more like a half-formed memory dredged from the darkest depths of my subconscious. It was a knowing that defied logic, a recognition that sparked not from hearing, but from something far more instinctual. Like the phantom weight on my chest when I woke screaming from a nightmare, the lingering unease without a source, the chilling certainty that I was being watched even in an empty room.

No. No, I shouldn't know that... presence. It was impossible.

But I did.

A fractured echo from a time long buried.

Eight years old.

A different room, bathed in the lurid glow of emergency lights. A different, terrifying silence punctuated by the crackle of flames. The acrid scent of something burning, something precious, something irretrievably lost.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my head throbbing, desperately trying to shove the fragmented memory back into its sealed tomb. My pulse hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum against the encroaching darkness. No. That wasn't real. None of that was real. That night... that trauma was locked away, fragmented and scattered in the inaccessible spaces between then and now, in the shadowed corners of my mind where I refused to venture.

I clung to the flimsy shield of denial, desperately trying to convince myself that it had been a hallucination, an stress-induced phantom.

But deep down, something ancient and malevolent stirred, a cold, sharp whisper that resonated with a terrible certainty: You didn't imagine it, little one. He remembers you, and he is coming.

My breath caught in my throat, a strangled gasp. My fingers clenched around the rough canvas straps of my backpack, their familiar texture a desperate anchor to the tangible world, a grounding force against the encroaching unreality. I wasn't eight anymore. I wasn't that helpless, terrified kid.

I whipped my head around, the movement so abrupt and violent that the room swam and tilted around me.

The receptionist's desk, moments before occupied, stood empty, abandoned. The door to Dr. Reyes' office was firmly shut, the frosted glass obscuring any sign of life. The uncomfortable, floral-patterned chairs lining the far wall sat in rigid formation, devoid of occupants, sterile and lifeless as forgotten museum exhibits.

No one else was visibly present.

But the oppressive wrongness remained.

I could feel it, a suffocating weight pressing down on my senses. The air itself had thickened, becoming viscous and resistant, like trying to breathe underwater. The hum of the fluorescent lights, once a mundane drone, had mutated into a strange, discordant buzzing, a grating vibration that resonated deep within my bones, like an ancient radio struggling to pull in a signal from a station that existed outside the normal spectrum.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the rising tide of unease.

Then, at the very periphery of my vision—movement.

The shadows pooled along the floor, normally static and obedient, began to writhe and stretch.

Not dramatically. Not yet. Just subtle elongations, the edges blurring and shifting, as if they were testing the boundaries of their confinement. An inch. Maybe less. But undeniably, irrevocably, they had moved.

They weren't supposed to move. Shadows were passive things, reflections of solidity. They didn't possess agency.

I froze, every muscle in my body coiled tight, my grip on the backpack straps tightening until my knuckles turned white. I forced myself to draw shallow, even breaths, desperately trying to project an air of nonchalant indifference, to pretend I hadn't registered the impossible.

But they had.

The shadows, the oppressive weight in the air, the unseen presence that radiated a chilling awareness.

They knew I had perceived them.

They had been lying in wait.

The lights above convulsed again, their buzzing intensifying into a sharp, piercing whine that drilled into my skull, a sound so high-pitched it vibrated the very fillings in my teeth.

The shadows clinging to the walls didn't merely stretch this time. They pulsed.

An organic, rhythmic undulation, like a grotesque heartbeat.

Like something vast and unseen breathing.

The very air itself underwent a violent transformation, the change not gradual, but instantaneous and suffocating. First, a wave of preternatural cold washed over me, a biting, invasive chill that penetrated skin and bone, sinking into the marrow and extinguishing any vestige of warmth. I gasped, my breath catching in my throat, and shivered violently, my breath condensing into a visible fog as if the office had been plunged into the heart of winter.

Then—an equally abrupt wave of oppressive heat slammed into me with the force of a physical blow, so intense it made my stomach churn and twist. It was a suffocating, heavy heat, thick and viscous, like being trapped in a furnace. It felt like an invisible weight pressing down on me from all sides, crushing the air from my lungs.

I was paralyzed, trapped in a vortex of conflicting sensations.

I couldn't move.

I couldn't breathe.

An invisible weight coiled around my ribs, constricting, crushing, stealing the air from my lungs. My ears began to ring, a high-pitched whine that intensified into a deafening roar, the kind of disorienting silence that follows an explosion, the eerie aftermath of something violent and unseen tearing through the fabric of reality.

"Not yet, little spark."

The intrusion came again, not as a disembodied voice, but as a tangible presence, a psychic violation.

Phantom fingers, icy and insubstantial, brushed against my wrist, sending a jolt of unnatural cold through my veins. They weren't real, not flesh and bone, but they were undeniably there, a chilling mockery of physical contact.

I clenched my fists with all my might, the sharp edges of my nails biting into the soft flesh of my palms, a desperate attempt to anchor myself in physical sensation, to prove I was still in control.

"Soon." The word resonated in my mind, a promise and a threat intertwined, a vibration that seemed to emanate not from the air, but from the very core of my being.

The shadows clinging to the walls didn't just pulse now; they twitched and writhed, as if something sentient was trapped inside them, struggling to break free, crawling just beneath the surface of the mundane world.

The grating buzz in my ears escalated into a painful shriek. My vision began to fracture, the edges of the room blurring and distorting, reality itself stuttering and skipping like a damaged record.

My stomach churned violently. My bones felt alien, too heavy, too dense, as if they were solidifying into something other than bone.

For one terrifying, disorienting second, I was gripped by the impossible, nauseating certainty that I was no longer sitting in that worn, uncomfortable chair.

That I had been displaced, transported to some other place, some other time.

That something ancient and powerful had taken root inside me, its presence warping my perception of the world, twisting my very essence.

I gasped, sucking in a shuddering breath of air that felt thin and insufficient.

The lights flickered again, a final, desperate spasm – once, twice – and then, with an almost audible click, snapped back to their normal, unwavering state.

The oppressive weight lifted, the unnatural cold and suffocating heat vanishing as abruptly as they had arrived. 

The room was still once more, bathed in the mundane glow of the fluorescent tubes.

The air felt lighter, breathable again. The shadows lay obediently still, confined to their assigned places.

The sound of my own ragged, uneven breathing filled the unnatural silence, each inhale and exhale a frantic attempt to reassure myself that I was still anchored in reality. My heart continued its frantic pounding against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate for escape.

I squeezed my eyes shut, swallowing hard against the rising tide of panic, forcing the terror down, burying it deep where no one, least of all Mrs. Patel, could detect its presence.

This wasn't real. It couldn't be real.

My logical mind screamed for a rational explanation, a dismissal of the impossible.

But the cold, primal certainty in my gut whispered the undeniable truth: It was real.

And I knew, with a chilling clarity that transcended reason, that even if I ran, even if I disappeared into the furthest corners of the city, it would follow me.

It didn't matter if this new foster home was marginally better or infinitely worse than the ones that came before.

It didn't matter if I stayed and played the game, or if I fled into the familiar embrace of the streets.

Because something ancient and powerful was stirring. 

Something was coming, its presence a growing shadow on the edge of my awareness.

And whatever it was, whatever he was, it was actively seeking me out, its relentless pursuit driven by a purpose I couldn't comprehend, a hunger I could only sense. And it wouldn't stop. It wouldn't rest.

Not until it found what it was searching for.

Until it found me.

(And gods help me—the most terrifying part was the sickening, traitorous pull, the almost imperceptible whisper within my own soul that, for a fleeting, horrifying moment, almost...welcomed it.)

Don’t forget to like and comment if you want to be on the taglist!!!

[cradle-of-darkness]

I've been vaguely mentioning a thingy I'm making in a couple posts and well!! this is part of it!!!!

I'm working on a little fanfic told through a make shift visual novel (in the form of google slides). the story follows the museum trio and some of my ocs visiting an arcade and getting into some shenanigans and tomfoolery (and also discovering a secret oooo)

it'll be finished probably some time in september, so in the meantime here's some of the art I've made for it that I can share! :)

[m0use-trapped]

[A text is sent to your phone]

<Hey, you're at the park, right?

-💫

[A response, shortly after.]

<yes. I am on a bench, Edgar is with me. I remembered you will not know who you are looking for, and figured he may be more noticeable.

[articwolfclawartist]

Analysis of Wakfu and Yugo’s character:

Honestly, had it been given a more cohesive platform, Wakfu could’ve fucking slapped

Due to the whole story needing to be consumed via show, comics, webtoons, games and OVAs, a lot of it gets jumbled or rushed, making the story inconsistent with its quality and themes and leaving a lot of consumers in the dark due to not knowing critical context. But the actual concept? Absolutely amazing

A boy who’s sent on a journey of finding his real family, discovering he comes from dragons and gods. And not just any dragons or gods: the creators of the goddamn UNIVERSE. (A fact I consider to be incredibly underutilized honestly)

And as he comes into his powers the challenges and the trials become more and more dangerous and more and more and complex, he follows his moral code, despite the nuance of the situation. He’s incapable of changing who he is and what he must do. And it leads to him playing god, an act with consequences that are repeatedly foretold to destroy the world. But it didn’t matter how many times people warned him, he NEEDED to save his friend from Ogrest, he NEEDED to keep the Dofus, he NEEDED to stay to fight the Necromes, he NEEDED to share the Mechasm heart’s power. All these actions may have consequences that are devastating but not to take said actions would have been a betrayal of his character, a fundamental change in who he is. He can’t see the bigger picture like Echo, he can’t fully grasp the consequences like Toross, he can’t detach himself like Adamaï. He can only act in the moment to do what he thinks is right, and now the world is going to flood and thousands will die.

Absolutely incredible

[lone-starlight]

we... spoke of attempting to keep each other grounded, yes?

-🪤

What's going on, MT?

[viktorpartner]

✨ THE DAN AND PHIL LORE pt. 3✨

CHECK OUT PART 2: https://www.tumblr.com/ashleyeveerson/760707933651746816?source=share

Phil ALSO comes out! (yeah no i'm not crying what? not them feeling comfortable enough to be themselves yeah). 2019 also brings us the adoption of a fish named Norman (a cutie) AND they also post pictures about their recent trip to Japan [the photo of Phil looking up to Dan behind the camera? yeah i am so normal about it, i swear]. There is hope in the horizon still for a Dan and Phil comeback...

BAM! A certain virus runs wild and forces everyone to stay at home. Phil continues to upload solo videos which distracted so many of us during these dark times. Dan, however is AWOL and the only pic we have of him is a shitty screenshot of him in glasses and a mask helping Phil rescue an injured pigeon (lockdown was WILD).

Also, my boy Dan post a cryptic tweet that leads to the announcement of a self-help book named YOU WILL GET THROUGH THIS NIGHT (because you will <3). Nah but I can't count how many times I've sobbed reading it, just him trying to help out others who have also struggled with mental health... istg i love this man

Hey so THEY BUY THEIR FOREVER PHOUSE TOGETHER they're gonna kill me one day istg. "Dan and Phil just decided to pay a mortgage together", top 10 sentences that would kill a 2016 phan. They are slaying, they are glowing... also rip Norman the fish you will not be forgotten

So during 2014 the fates (aka a random youtuber) foretold that Dan and Phil would be married in 2022. Since that clearly didn't happen the meme PHIVORCE united the phandom once more. ALSO Dan is out there shitting on youtube (as he should) and going on his solo tour WE'RE ALL DOOMED! Which i love with all my heart and also Phil being there for him every step of the way... AHHHHHHHH

Anyways a certain video called Dan and Phil finally tell the truth hits the internet and let's just say GOD DAMN. This also starts a wonderful trend amongst Dan and Phil in which they make fun of their audience (we deserve it ngl) and absolutley SHOCK US with new information about bonkers shit from their past [apparently they were offered a threesome MULTIPLE TIMES???]

It's the end. They've decided to give up their channel "Dan and Phil Games" forever... let's take a moment and silent and mourn with a compilation of Heart eyes Howell

...

SIKE! We're back baby and we're better than ever!!! The goodbye video turned out the be an ANNOUNCEMENT of their comeback. They are back, Dil Howlter is here and Phil confesses to having dyed everything green in the house when Dan went on tour bc he missed him (OH GOD). Also, the Halloween baking video introduced us to the icon that is.... *drumroll please*

SISTER DANIEL, the queen of making everyone reconsider their sexuality... she is the moment, she is an icon and she is serving astronomical levels of cunt at all time [jokes aside, Dan being comfortable enough to do drag in public, fuck they've come so far i'm so proud of them <3].

And here we are in the future, it's present day and they are queerer and happier than ever. THE PICTURES I CAN'T ISTG. Also Dan's Birthday stream is beyond iconic. First of all my unproblematic kings make it a charity stream to donate to the Palestinian Children's Relief Fund (using their public influence for good hell yeah)... And how did they raise the money you ask? WELL BY HITTING IS WHERE WE'RE WEAKEST. Sister Daniel makes a spectacular comeback, FATHER PHIL is introduced and Dan even dyes his hair red to be more Good Omens coded... which timeline are we living in again? like how is any of this real?

Also them drawing the PINOF whiskers on their faces again... they're literally growing old together I'm gonna go sob in a corner. Also the fake apology video bc they have no fashion sense in the Sims 4 is hilarious as fuck. HOW CAN THEY POSSIBLY BE SO MUCH HOTTER ON THEIR THIRTIES EXPLAIN??

anyways the phandom is still speculating wether they're erasing "i love you's" at the end of their text when they show them on videos... guess some things never change. Nah but the vibes are COMPLETELY DIFFERENT NOW, they are more open than they've ever been and participate on the phan culture FULLY to the point that they're the ones terrorizing us now.

QUICK DETOUR TO TALK ABOUT PHIL'S FAMOUS BAD LUCK (and then they wonder why he's always dying in the fanfics). Nah but my poor man has had his fair share of medical problems, the most recent being...

OH GOD WHY WOULD YOU ANNOUNCE SOMETHING LIKE THAT THIS WAY?? nah like using humor as a coping mechanism and all but do they wanna gives a heart attack?! iconic i fear however

So yeah the video where they talk about it is WILD (funniest shit about the whole ordeal is that a nurse mistook Dan as Phil's son). Also I saw a tweet speculating about Phil having a hickey like... first of all what is it? 2009? Second of all IT'S MOST LIKELY A POPPED VESSEL FROM LOSING ALL THAT BLOOD YOU KNOW

They still were able to go on their vacation (aka the rodent boy summer) which gifted us with this iconic pics... ALSO they dropped a new Dan and Phil beats for summer go check out the names of the tracks istg they wanna kill their fans.

Nothing is sacred anymore, they've infiltrated twtphan, they're actively reposting memes and writing fanfiction about themselves. It's the wild west, everytime you get a notification is like playing Russian Rulet. Cringe is dead and Dan and Phil ARE COMING NEAR YOUR CITY on a tour named "Terrible Influence" where Phil's spent 300€ on silicone. It's a wonderful time to be a phan.

OKAY SO here's some stuff that didn't make the cut but that i find too hilarious to not mention. In no apparent order: DAN DRESSING UP AS A CATBOY, Dan and Phil playing technicians 1 and 2 on Big Hero 6 and two brothers on the Lion King (wtf was that also they gave the gorilas matching fringes), Dan dressing up as a golden pig (my boy has RANGE) and finally Dan being too embarassed to admit he stalked Phil and telling a reporter he was only asking for "editing tips" if you know what i mean

Also a short compilation of Dan and Phil losing the idgaf war against eachother THEY ARE SO THOUGHTFUL ABOUT EVERYTHING. Special mention to Daniel's 🧡 when Phil praised "We're all doomed!" and Dan's ranch metaphor to describe their relationship (just go watch the mukkbang video OH LORD)

SO, in conclusion... Dan and Phil's refusal to belittle their past and instead embrace it as part of their story while actively moving into the future alongside the phandom YEAH THAT SHIT MEANS SOMETHING. They're simultaneously healing our inner child while embracing us as the adults we've become i have many feelings about them

So what are they?

They're just Dan and Phil.

[thesillypolice]

Dude the poem When We Two Parted by George Byron is so jegulus coded

the Marauders brainrot is real we were reading this in English class and jegulus was all I could think abt

When we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning

Sunk chill on my brow—

It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.

Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame;

I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me—

Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well—

Long, long shall I rue thee,

Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—

In silence I grieve,

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?—

With silence and tears.