#entry thread seals

[kaizenmetals]

We manufacture a variety of Cable Glands Accessories, including blanking plugs, locknuts, earth tags, entry thread seals, and stopper plugs.

[eelliotss]

— A Curse Between Us, part 1

Bound by a curse and centuries of longing, he scours the universe to reclaim the woman who once shared his soul, only to find her fractured by forgotten memories and a life that no longer includes him. As he fights to reignite their bond, you emerge—a black box of secrets and power capable of shattering the fragile balance of his kingdom and plan, a new variable that alters the balance of his life.

“I was supposed to be the last of us,” he breathed.

Will she always be his fate, or will your introduction into the picture tip in balance of his destiny?

**edited**

⚠️ : Spoilers to Sylus’ myth. PS. reader is not MC, and in this story, Sylus is still a dragon!

masterlist

The story of Sylus and MC, Milena Cross, was a tapestry woven from threads of love, survival, and shared memories. Their connection had been fierce and all-consuming, a bond forged in the crucible of struggle and sealed by a curse. That curse—an ancient, desperate act she had cast upon him before his life was extinguished by the injuries he had sustained trying to free her from the greed and cruelty of men—ensured their fates were irrevocably intertwined.

When Sylus opened his eyes again, flashes of their love, fragments of shared laughter and pain, and the echoes of her voice came flooding back like shards of light piercing a darkened room. Half of his soul still resided with her, tethering him to her existence. With this realization came an unyielding obsession: he would find her, no matter the cost.

He scoured the universe in a ceaseless hunt, toppling regimes, invading planets, and ripping through galaxies like a force of nature. Prisons could not hold him; armies could not stop him. His path was littered with destruction, each step bringing him closer to her. Finally, his journey led him to Earth—to the underbelly of human civilization, the N109 Zone. Here, amidst the corruption and chaos, he found her. His other half.

To ensure her safety, Sylus claimed the N109 Zone as his domain, establishing himself as its unrivaled ruler. If he was the danger, none could threaten her. From the shadows, he watched her every movement, biding his time, crafting the perfect moment to reintroduce himself. He envisioned a reunion as fiery and intense as the bond they once shared.

But before Sylus could act, she came to him. Yet, the moment he looked into her eyes, his heart fractured. She didn’t remember him. The love, the curse, the fragments of his soul that tied them together—she had forgotten it all. Worse, she despised him, her hatred a searing wound deeper than the sword that had once pierced his flesh.

He tried to reignite her memories, to remind her of who they were, but every effort only pushed her further away. The realization that she no longer knew him—no longer loved him—was a torment he couldn’t escape. And so, he resigned himself to wait, as he always had, enduring the agony of her absence even while she was near.

During her presence in the N109 Zone, she struck a deal with him: his assistance in gaining entry to an exclusive auction in exchange for something she had that he wanted: to resonate with him. Sylus agreed. After all, he would stop at no means to bring the world to his woman’s feet if that is what she wanted.

At the auction, he left her to attend to his business as soon as they entered the auction house. “Have fun,” he said with a smirk, handing her his card. “I bet you know how to be a good bait.” While she navigated the opulent chaos of the auction, Sylus was escorted to a private room by the staff. As he trailed, a nagging feeling of unease prickled at his senses, a faint presence trailing him like a shadow. When the door opened, he found himself in a room overflowing with treasures—jewels, gold, protocores, weapons. The room was occupied by a few other men, with staffs accompanying the VIP clients and striking exclusive deals. His eyes swept across the hoard, but his gaze snagged on a single figure standing amidst the wealth.

You were studying a pendant, your fingers brushing its surface as if trying to decode its secrets. Your black dress clung to your figure, flaring out elegantly at your feet. Silver and gemstones adorned you, shimmering like frost under the dim light, but it was you who outshone everything in the room.

Sylus felt a flicker of irritation. Your presence was unwelcome, but you weren’t his concern—at least, not until he recognized your aura. Dismissing you, he turned his attention to his target. “Hello, Thomas,” he greeted smoothly, his voice a low purr. “I think you know what I’m here for.”

Despite Thomas’ resistance, Sylus was able to handle his business quickly. With his objective achieved, Sylus was ready to leave, but the stranger caught his attention once more. Something about her presence unsettled him. He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized her.

Then he saw them—your eyes. Midnight, ancient, brimming with power.

A chill ran through him, a primal instinct gripping his core. His sharp eyes narrowed, scanning you not just with his gaze but with something deeper—an ancient sense that stirred within him. There was something about your aura, a pressure that pressed against his chest, not suffocating but undeniable. It was the kind of power that couldn’t be disguised or dulled, no matter how much silver and silk adorned you.

“You’re…” His voice faltered, the single word caught between disbelief and awe as he took a step closer. It was then that he saw it, unmistakable now—a flicker of fire dancing in your midnight eyes, a glint of something ancient and untamed that no mortal could ever possess. The air around you seemed to ripple, almost as if the space itself was bending to your presence.

The realization hit him like a thunderclap. You weren’t just powerful—you were like him.

A dragon.

His breath caught. It was impossible. Dragons were supposed to be gone, their kind reduced to myth, memory, and him. And yet, standing before him was undeniable proof that he was not the last.

The eye contact brought as much of a shock to you as it did him. Wide eyes, hitched breath— it felt like the world stopped for a moment.

“I was supposed to be the last of us,” he breathed, the words heavy with a mix of wonder and dread.

The room felt smaller now, charged with an energy both of you have not felt in centuries. The air was pressing down on your lungs as adrenaline coursed through your body.

“This shouldn’t be possible,” you whispered. A frown quickly crawled up your face as you hurriedly turned away, dashing into the crowd. Before Sylus could react, a voice rang in his ear: “Sylus, can I use your card?” That small distraction was enough for him to lose you. Somewhat annoyed, he answered, “Don’t bother me with such trivial matters.”

In that moment, the Onichynus leader knew the balance of power had shifted.

This was no mere encounter. It was a collision of forces that would change everything.

The revelation was a shock to his core. Dragons were supposed to be extinct, or so he had believed. Yet here you were, standing in front of him, radiating strength. That strength set him on edge, and he dropped into a defensive stance, his instincts roaring to life.

You, once slipped away from his gaze, quickly returned to play your role. Your presence at the auction was merely business—on behalf of your father, the second-most powerful ruler of the N109 Zone. Few had ever seen you, and fewer still knew the extent of your abilities. But Sylus was no fool, and he could feel the weight of your power like a storm brewing on the horizon.

The room crackled with tension as the two dragons faced each other, their fates unknowingly beginning to intertwine.

Note: I gave MC a name because it just felt so weird simply calling a character mc. I want to make this a series, and hope you enjoy the plot as much as I do!

[kaedekolya]

clarence and his counterparts: man or monster?

So we were talking about Clarence’s new android SSR (Faint Night Light) in the LBC discord server, and it got me thinking about the monster allusions that seem to be a common thread across Clarence’s main stories. Then we discussed the diary entries from his White Day event, and it occurred to me that this monster imagery also ties into his modern-day counterpart – and with that, this post was born.

In other words: is Clarence a man, a monster, or somewhere in between?

[ SPOILERS: Clarence’s main stories and Chrono Theatre diaries. This meta analysis is structured as story-specific sections, namely Godheim, Eden, and the modern world, so you can skip over the world(s) you haven't read yet. No Awakening spoilers, don't worry! ]

- ☽ -

Godheim: Archmage Clarence

First, let’s talk about Godheim Clarence. As the Archmage, he bears a heavy responsibility upon his shoulders – to oversee the Magi Tower, to fight the Glacial Butterflies, and, ultimately, to protect the country and its people.

In order to fulfil this duty that he has chosen to undertake, Clarence seals his heart and shuts others out. He denies his emotions, and resents himself for having these emotions, to the point that he disparages MC for “[acting] impetuously” and belittles her capabilities when she shows concern for Amelia’s wellbeing. Archmage Clarence’s impassivity is his shield against the emotions he views as a hindrance.

Yet he was not always this way. Clarence is a casualty of cruel circumstances, a tender soul torn apart by trauma. When MC is confronted with the truth of the mages’ magic, having witnessed a mage die before her very eyes, she notes that “[there] is no pain or compassion on Clarence’s face,” because “[this] is a sight he has seen all too many times before.” Decades of watching his fellow mages succumb to the Glacial Butterflies that nest inside them, and decades of having to end the lives of mutating mages under his purview, have conditioned Clarence into numbing his heart to such pain. How else could he have stayed sane, after a century of bearing witness to suffering wrought by his own hands?

Archmage Clarence’s disposition is initially described by MC as an “[icy] presence,” but this is the facade that he projects as a defence mechanism, not his genuine self. Clarence is so accustomed to the chill of the Glacial Butterflies within him that he has taken on the frost as a personality trait, believing that his frigidity defines him. He does not view himself as a human capable of warmth; instead, he thinks of himself as a mutant, as an icy monster.

Even so, Clarence cannot deny his innate inclination towards kindness. When he notices that Amelia isn’t feeling well, he tells her to sit in the carriage. When Amelia’s temperature drops, he casts a spell to warm the shivering child up, even as he grumbles that he’s wasting his time and magic. When Amelia’s death is imminent, he tries to send her off in the gentlest way possible, then grants her final wish by conjuring a connection to the water mirror. Clarence may insist that he does not care, but his actions reflect his compassion.

It is this very kindness that steers him towards a path of selfless sacrifice, for the sake of his country and its people. The life of a mage may have been forced upon him, by the man that gave a gravely injured child no other option but the potion that would transform him, yet Clarence learns to harness his power for good. He spends his youth eliminating Glacial Butterflies and protecting the village of the snow plains, and despite the harsh conditions of the path he now treads, he does not hold a grudge against the family that sold him off and thrived in the resulting profit. Instead, he returns to check on them from afar, and when an onslaught of Glacial Butterflies attack, he protects them with every last bit of energy within him.

Still, his family’s betrayal left an indelible mark on his psyche. Back when he’d been given the potion, he’d resolved to succumb to his injuries rather than drink it. Despite his instinctive desire to live, MC notes that his “will to live [had been] virtually non-existent,” because there is “[no] despair greater than being betrayed by your own family.” The young Clarence had not seen a reason to live, when his family had forsaken him. It is only when MC saves him, urging him to live on, that he resolves to survive and repay this debt. Each time MC encounters him in her voyage through time, he is on the verge of death, and each time, his dwindling will to live stems from his despair over those he could not save. What ultimately keeps him alive is the vow he swore to his saviour.

This characterisation is one that carries through his immortal lifespan. Clarence does not live for himself; he lives for others. Whether that means risking his life to defend a village, or sacrificing himself in a ritual to save the country’s inhabitants, the underlying premise is the same – Clarence lives for the person who saved him, and for the promise he made to them. He allows others to form negative opinions of him based on the assumptions they’ve made, in order to keep the secret of the ritual and the Glacial Butterflies from them, because their scorn towards him matters less than their safety. He closes himself off from others, never permitting them to reach out to him, because he cannot allow companionship and compassion to distract him from his purpose. He “[cannot] afford to be sentimental,” because he cannot have anyone or anything clouding his judgement. Better to be the enemy of the state that saves it, than the friend of the state that cannot do anything as it crumbles. 

It is ironic, then, that Clarence’s devotion to his promise leads him from striving to live and fulfil it, to voluntarily dying for that same promise. His life, his existence itself, is secondary to the promise he has made. He will live to protect the world for his saviour, but if the only way to protect it is to die, then die he shall. Perhaps he views it as a penance of sorts, an atonement for the sins he’s committed. Perhaps he believes the new world would be better off without a monster like him.

For all his calculative callousness and stoic solitude, Clarence is deeply self-aware. Not only is he conscious of the suffering he inflicts and the ramifications of his actions, but he also ruminates upon his sins until they turn to guilt in his gut and self-loathing in the deepest recesses of his soul. He does not turn a blind eye to the pain he witnesses; instead, he looks it straight in the eye, internalises it, and forces himself to feel nothing at all.

Clarence may appear to have no qualms about exploiting people and reducing them to cogs in a plan greater than its constituent parts, but his interactions with Amelia prove otherwise. Right before he sends her off on what is meant to be a suicide mission, his carefully-crafted defenses slip, and he asks whether she hates him. Clarence believes that he has failed to live up to the Archmage’s title, that he has fallen short of being a “guiding force for all the mages” and a “protector.” He condemns himself for his callous strategies and merciless manipulation, since he has been treating people like chess pieces and “using them as [he sees] fit.” He disparages himself for “[standing] by on the sidelines, safe and sound.” He believes others hate him because he’s given them all the reasons to, because he deserves to be hated, because he, too, hates himself. All this while, he fails to recognise that he has taken on the greatest sacrifice of all – the burden of leadership, of decision-making, of being responsible for all the blood on his hands.

This downplaying of his own suffering, alongside his disregard of his own well-being, is what drives Clarence to self-sacrifice time and time again. When a theory about the Glacial Butterflies begins to take shape in his mind, he does not test it out on one of his mages, because he does not view them as expendable despite what he claims. Instead, he uses himself for his experiment, slicing his chest open and bearing the agonising pain in order to ascertain the truth of the magic within him.

On the verge of being overcome by the Glacial Butterflies, despite having prepared for this eventuality by shackling his limbs, he makes one last selfless request. “My Lord, you must kill me before I turn,” he entreats, willing to relinquish his own life for the safety of others. Even when Philip protects him from the Glacial Butterflies, refusing to kill him, Clarence believes that there is no place for him in the future that his Lord envisions.

Decades later, he still echoes this same sentiment. “There is no future without sacrifice,” he tells Lars, and he does not see himself as part of that future, does not see himself as deserving of that future. Archmage Clarence thinks of himself as a monster, not a man, and a monster is better off dead than alive.

It is a revelation, to him, that Amelia does not hate him. MC does not hate him. Lars, Alkaid, the mages that carry on the legacy of the Magi Tower, none of them hate him. They do not view him as a monster; they view him as a martyr, a protector, a saviour. Someone who did his best, and gave his all. Archmage Clarence leaves behind a legacy through his sacrifice, spurred by the human heart he still harbours deep within.

- ☽ -

Eden: Falcon Clarence

Next, we have the Falcon Clarence of Eden. The lone ranger of the desert, the mercenary that eliminates Sandswimmers with impeccable precision and works with no one else.

“A bait that only knows how to cry is a burden,” his mentor tells him, and Clarence internalises that into his cognitive framework and guiding compass. It is “the first lesson Liore taught [him];” that he must prove his worth in order to live. His scent lures the Sandswimmers to him, and so he must make himself useful by seeking out danger.

Valued only for his utility as bait, Clarence learns that his worth is determined by his fighting skills. With no other way to survive, he becomes a NEOS by fusing Sandswimmer gems into his body. Clarence pays the price of this acquired power through the gradual erosion of his memories, but that is far from the only thing he has lost. His decision to accept the integration of these foreign, beastly objects into his body has changed him irrevocably. He thinks of himself not as a human, but as a mutant being only one step away from becoming a monstrous Lost. Still, he endeavours to “remember [his] humanity,” because he refuses to become a “mere weapon [that knows] nothing but destruction.” Falcon Clarence understands that he is, by definition, a monster, but he refuses to relinquish the last shreds of his humanity.

In his first encounter with MC, he is rational and pragmatic as always, scrutinising her motives and seeing no reason to work together. Years of solitude, with no one else to depend on, have honed Clarence’s reflexes into an “instinct for self-defence.” Yet his reaction to MC’s request reveals that his solitude has been shaped by circumstance, not entirely by choice. When MC explains her reason for seeking out Eden, even though it does not sound particularly convincing, Clarence accepts it as sufficient and agrees to lead the way. Despite the potential risk of allowing a stranger close, he offers MC a ride on his motorcycle. Subsequently, he continues to help her out, defending the children’s shelter and giving her the gems he’d collected, even as he refuses to follow her any further.

Falcon Clarence claims that he works alone, but everything he does is for the sake of protecting others. He fights in the desert to protect the shelters from Sandswimmers, and he fights in Eden to protect Lin and the other NEOS from the Lost. He brings MC to the NEOS Association, so that she can rest for a night and learn essential skills from Lin. He knows that the night is dangerous, so despite his own preference for working alone, he ensures that MC has a community of protection around her.

Even as he dismisses everything and everyone else as burdens, his actions speak otherwise. Despite having met MC for only a single day, he offers his assistance to her time and time again, from rides on his motorcycle to filling water bottles with her. He could easily leave her to fend for herself, but he chooses not to leave her behind even when that would be the easier way out.

Perhaps the reason Clarence refuses to work with other people is that he’s afraid. Afraid of dragging them down, afraid of becoming their burden. He fears that history will repeat itself. He cannot bear to lose someone he cares for again, so he refrains from caring about anyone at all. Each time Clarence chastises others for being a hindrance, he is reproaching his past self for his inadequacy. Each time he risks his life to protect others, he is atoning for his failure to save his mentor.

MC says that she understands how Clarence feels, because “acting alone means nobody will be hurt because of [him].” In a way, acting alone also protects himself from being hurt. It is a defence mechanism born from his past, when he had to “learn to accept [his] losses” from a young age. He couldn’t afford to grieve Liore for long, not with the constant threat of the Sandswimmers, and so he could do nothing else but “live on with what memories [he] had left.” He’d forced himself to harden his heart to his emotions, but he could not suppress them entirely.

Clarence blames his moment of weakness, of emotional folly, for causing Liore’s death. It was her humanity, even in her final moments as a Lost, that held her back from killing him and caused her to die. He regrets his choice to this day, and perhaps it is this survivor’s guilt that pushes him to fight harder until he reaches the brink.

It is this same guilt, alongside his resolve to not lose anyone else he cares for, that drives him towards self-sacrifice. When he realises that MC needs a soul stone – his soul stone – to open the door within Central Control, he unflinchingly raises his gun to his head, as if it were the natural and logical decision to make. He is ready to offer his life without a moment’s hesitation, because that is the utility he can offer in this moment, in order to keep MC safe and help her achieve her goal. She has given him a reason to fight, and he will die trying to fulfil it.

Ultimately, it is his encounter with MC – and the companionship which blooms from it – that saves him. Without demanding anything in return, she cries for his pain, fights by his side, and shoulders his burdens with him. Clarence doubts his humanity, even as he holds fast to it, since he is all too cognisant of the monstrous traits within. In turn, MC’s unwavering trust reaffirms the humanity within him, reminding him that he is worthy of living.

Falcon Clarence may not be fully human on a biological level, and he may still succumb to the effects of the monsters within him from time to time, but he has managed to preserve his heart and his humanity. His tale is one of healing, of opening up, and of learning to value himself for who he is and not what he can do.

- ☽ -

Modern World: Clarence

Finally, let’s circle back to modern-day Clarence. At first glance, he’s the calm, collected, and capable Student Council president, who always seems to have affairs in order and circumstances under control.

Then, in his Chrono Theatre diary entries, we learn that he had a psychiatrist observing him from a young age, due to his gifted aptitude and exceptional intelligence beyond that of his peers. This revelation sparked a discussion in the LBC discord server, which spurred this message of mine that then became the basis for this meta post:

Clarence is well-versed in decorum, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it comes naturally to him. It’s likely that he learned social etiquette by picking it up from observing how other people behave, so he knows the appropriate responses to give and the socially-acceptable ways to carry himself. However, because this social understanding is not an innate trait but a learned one, there are often times when he doesn’t recognise the need for social niceties, and instead his instinctual response – founded on his internal logic – comes through.

One example of this can be found as early as his second interaction with MC, after she paints an artwork of him:

The polite thing to do would be to express interest in or appreciation of the finished product, regardless of one’s actual feelings towards it. However, Clarence “doesn’t show the slightest interest” in MC’s painting. Does this mean that he doesn’t care for it, and doesn’t see the need to put on a pretence? Quite the contrary. Instead, it’s because he thinks he doesn’t have anything useful to offer in response, and thus he stays silent.

Here, we see a disconnect between how Clarence understands the world, and how other people tend to view it. While most people would appreciate receiving praise or validation, Clarence doesn’t particularly see the need to receive either, and thus doesn’t immediately think of giving them to others. Rather, he takes a more pragmatic approach, focusing on utility; a piece of work deserves feedback for the effort poured into it. However, as a law major, he does not have sufficient knowledge or expertise regarding art. As such, he believes that his feedback would not be useful, and thus it is better not to say anything at all.

This ties into how Clarence views himself as his roles, and the functions he can serve. He understands that he has worth, but he evaluates this worth through his services as the Student Council president, or his contributions as a law intern. When he assists others, he doesn’t think of it as going out of his way to help them; instead, he views it as part of his rightful duty.

As a result, Clarence doesn’t view himself as simply “Clarence.” Rather, he thinks of himself as Clarence, the Student Council president; Clarence, an upperclassman; Clarence, a friend. If he can fulfil someone’s needs through a role that he holds, he will do it, even at the expense of himself.

We see this most prominently in Clarence’s “Break Time” R card story:

When the senior who’s supposed to interpret for an academic speaker falls ill and fails to attend, Clarence steps up to fill their shoes last-minute. William notes that Clarence can be counted on to show up whenever and wherever he’s needed, and MC agrees that he’s “the only one who’s up to the task.”

However, what most people don’t recognise are the sheer lengths Clarence will go to in order to fulfil his duties. On top of his regular responsibilities, filling in for the interpreter caused Clarence to “[burn] the midnight oil” preparing for the speech, and taking care of the sick speaker meant that Clarence could not sleep for two days. He doesn’t recognise that he’s constantly going above and beyond, because to him it’s a given, but he is in fact pushing himself past his limits, and past the line that most people would draw.

It’s interesting to examine MC’s thoughts here, because she interprets Clarence’s willingness to take a nap as a rational understanding that he needs to rest in order to keep functioning. However, this only happens after MC coaxes him into taking a break. If she hadn’t intervened, Clarence would have continued pushing himself until he completed his task – he was already at “the brink of collapse,” and he ��only agreed to sleep after [MC] practically begged him to.” Clarence prioritises his responsibilities to the point that he does not recognise his own needs, and thus neglects to take care of himself.

Although modern Clarence doesn’t think of himself as different, or as anything less than a person, it’s evident that he views himself as the roles he fulfils rather than simply as who he is. In turn, this mindset is reflected in his behaviour, which then shapes other people’s perceptions of him. This is how Clarence becomes characterised as the aloof and intimidating Student Council president in the students’ eyes, even though he cares so deeply and helps out so much; most people are unable to look deeper and see Clarence as the person that he is, because he perceives and presents himself through the lens of his roles.

As such, other people often view Clarence as different from themselves – as if he’s operating on a different wavelength, or existing on a separate plane entirely. Modern Clarence’s genius sets him apart from his peers, but more than that, his perspective of himself winds up alienating himself from other people. Clarence views himself as like others, but others view him as unlike them. He blends in well enough, but he doesn’t quite fit in; he has a place in society, but he doesn’t quite belong.

- ☽ -

Clarence, across time and space

Out of all the Clarences thus far, modern Clarence is perhaps the most well-adjusted, and this reflects the importance of having a support system. Godheim Clarence and Eden Clarence were isolated from a young age and survived alone throughout most of their lives, whereas modern Clarence had family and friends around him. He may not have had the most conventional childhood, but he grew up with his older sister Jaclyn and his close friend Luca, and he also had his psychiatrist Ford observing and monitoring his development. Subsequently, after he enters St Shelter Academia, he gains a circle of friends he can rely on, such as William, O’Connor, and, of course, MC.

Expanding upon Clarence’s St Shelter Academia bonds, we see that Clarence has people around him who genuinely like him for who he is, and are willing to support him unconditionally. O’Connor affectionately refers to Clarence with a nickname – “Shi-kun” in the Japanese voiceover, or “Little Si Lan” in the Chinese one – and for all his devious teasing, it’s clear he looks out for his Student Council successor. As for William, he may whine about Clarence’s by-the-book discipline, but his clumsiness and complaints do not preclude him from helping out when needed. For all that Clarence often chastises William, he still relies on him to assist with Student Council matters, and he knows William is someone he can trust.

Compared to these two, MC is a relatively newer connection, but her bond with Clarence runs deep. Right off the bat, she’s able to meet him on his level and banter with him, and he lets down his guard enough to subtly tease her for trying to trick him. As their relationship develops, Clarence grows to trust her, sharing his inner thoughts and admitting his vulnerabilities. MC is a safe haven for him, and she understands him on a level deeper than most. While the other students may fear Clarence for his aloof disposition, or hesitate to approach him due to his detached rationality, MC sees the earnest sincerity woven into his actions and the warmth laced through his words. Others may think of him as an unfeeling robot or a terrifying monster, but MC loves him for the human that he is.

There’s a subtle but interesting juxtaposition here, in which Godheim Clarence and Eden Clarence – both possessing monstrous mutations within them – view themselves as monsters while most others do not, whereas modern Clarence – wholly human – views himself as human while most others do not. All three Clarences are keenly aware of what constitutes them, allowing this biological understanding to shape their perception of themselves, but they do not recognise that their actions paint a different picture to others.

Regardless of the world he inhabits, Clarence constantly straddles the line between man and monster. His selfless nature and dutiful diligence often lead him to self-sacrifice and superhuman feats, creating the illusion of a monster – but beneath this facade lies, always, the heart of a human.

- ☽ -

thank you for reading!♡

if you have any thoughts about this post, i'd love to hear them! responses are always welcome, and my ask box is open~

up next: android clarence, and the inevitability of tragedy. where is the line between human and machine? stay tuned for my thoughts on clarence's awakening main story!

[bluecoolr]

Rough sketches of The Hidden Hand's headquarters and coat of arms! (Yapping under the cut because it's a lot)

Their base of operations is The Hollow Vein, a long-abandoned mithral vein in the Underdark. The Hollow Vein lies just outside the reach of both Lolthite and Eilistraeean domain—positioned perfectly for infiltration into either. The surrounding tunnels are shrouded in illusions, misleading echoes, and false pathways.

The general shape is that of an upturned hand. The Wrist is a winding passage that leads to a magically sealed door. It can only be opened by giving the corect response to a coded verse; "The song fades." (In reference to the teachings of Eilistraee)

Saying, "The blade endures," grants entry. Anyone who responds incorrectly is led to a shifting tunnel with a pit trap or maze.

The Palm is a massive domed chamber with black stone walls laced with faintly glowing silver threads—the remnants of unmined mithral. It is acoustically engineered so that even a whisper carries across the room, giving the illusion that The Hand hears all.

Passages lead to the Fingers' private wings. Each member has a chamber shaped and enchanted to reflect their role:

Thumb (Whisperhold): A room of shifting walls, hidden compartments, and sound-dampening magic. Documents, ledgers, and counterfeit coins litter the floor.

Index (Needle): A spartan chamber with weapon racks, mirrors enchanted for instant disguise, and alchemical tools.

Middle (Spear): A training ring lit by faerie fire, with scorched practice dummies and shelves of dueling masks.

Ring (Velkiss): A perfumed sanctuary filled with divination mirrors, love letters, and false religious texts. An illusionary moonlight shines here.

Little (Skrawl): A disorganized library and a cramped study of books with runes etched into the walls.

(Bear with me, I'll introduce them properly in due time)

Finally, we have the Vein Altar, a secret shrine carved into the very bowels of the Hollow. The floor is actually a chasm, and only the true followers/chosen of Vhaeraun may tread across for worship.

Their coat of arms is a three-fingered black hand on a red field. Two fingers are cut off at the second knuckle, symbolizing the Vhaeraunite's rejection of the illusions of Lolth and Eilistraee.

[r-memberme]

masquerade | k.m

⎯⎯“In a world built on secrets and shadows, we find ourselves dancing in the light of our hidden truths.”

warnings: flufff

The night was a tapestry of dark velvet and scattered starlight, woven with threads of mystery and whispered promises. It was the kind of night when even the most guarded souls feel a pull toward the unknown—a pull that Klaus Mikaelson felt with every beat of his ancient heart. That night, an invitation arrived, sealed with wax and bearing a single, ornate mask. It promised entry to a masquerade held deep within the crumbling walls of an abandoned castle, hidden in the wild hills of an old European countryside.

You and Klaus found yourselves drawn together by fate’s playful hand. You had both long harbored secrets and desires too fragile to confess in the daylight; tonight, under the cloak of anonymity and enchantment, you were free to be as whimsical and raw as your hearts allowed.

The carriage ride was a surreal prelude to the night’s unfolding. The countryside blurred past in a riot of inky black fields and silvered tree lines, while the carriage’s wheels sang a slow, rhythmic lullaby. Klaus sat beside you, his presence both comforting and dangerous, his eyes glinting with mischief as he murmured, “It seems the night itself has conspired to steal us away, my dear.” You only smiled, feeling your heart swell at his familiar cadence—a voice that, even after centuries of solitude, still resonated with both menace and tenderness.

When you arrived at the castle, its silhouette loomed against the moonlit sky like a forgotten dream. Ivy crept along its crumbling walls, and stained glass windows—long shattered—hinted at the grandeur that had once filled its halls. Lanterns swung from iron hooks, casting dancing shadows upon the cobblestones. The sound of distant laughter and the faint strains of a melancholic waltz beckoned you inside, and the heavy door creaked open as if welcoming you to a realm where time and memory merged.

Inside, the atmosphere was both eerie and intoxicating. Guests, their faces hidden behind intricately designed masks, floated through the grand hall like ghosts at a ball, their movements languid and otherworldly. The air was perfumed with a blend of ancient incense and something sweet and familiar—perhaps the trace of old memories or the promise of undiscovered passions.

Klaus, ever the master of his own fate, led you through the crowd with a quiet confidence that belied the tumult of emotions beneath. “I trust you can see the irony,” he said, his voice low as he guided you into the center of the ballroom. “In a world built on secrets and shadows, we find ourselves dancing in the light of our hidden truths.” His eyes, usually so guarded, shone with a mixture of defiance and longing as he caught your gaze.

You laughed softly, a sound that mingled with the haunting melody of the waltz. “You always have a way with words, Klaus. It’s as if you’ve penned sonnets in your head for every moment.”

He smirked, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “Perhaps I have, though I’d wager they pale in comparison to the verses I imagine when I see you.”

In that moment, as you moved together on the marble floor, the world around you melted into a blur of swirling gowns, whispered promises, and the soft glow of candlelight. The waltz carried you both away, a hypnotic rhythm that transcended the present, echoing with the memories of what once was and the hopes for what might be. Every step you took was a conversation—silent yet profound—with every glance and every touch laden with unspoken meaning.

At one point, while the waltz carried you in a gentle spiral, Klaus leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear. “Tell me,” he murmured, “do you ever wonder if these masks we wear are more than mere disguises? That they’re the very trappings of the souls we hide from the world?”

You smiled, eyes twinkling beneath your mask. “I think they’re the windows we use to share a glimpse of who we truly are, even when we’d rather remain hidden.”

He chuckled softly. “Then tonight, let us cast aside our pretenses and be as we are—raw, unfiltered, and perhaps a bit reckless.”

You squeezed his hand, the contact igniting a warmth that defied the chill of the ancient stone around you. “Let’s be reckless then,” you whispered. “Let’s be daring enough to believe that even in the dark, we can find a light that guides us home.”

For hours, the masquerade unfolded in a swirl of poetry and mischief. Klaus and you wandered from one forgotten corridor to another, sharing quiet conversations in hidden alcoves and laughter that echoed off the crumbling walls. At one point, you found yourselves alone in a small chamber where the only light came from a solitary, flickering candle. The room was filled with the scent of old parchment and a hint of lavender, and in that secluded space, Klaus turned to you with a rare seriousness.

“I have lived a thousand lifetimes in solitude,” he began, his voice a low murmur that seemed to reverberate with centuries of longing and regret. “But tonight, for a fleeting moment, I can feel that perhaps my heart has not been entirely forsaken. You have stirred something in me that I thought was lost forever—a fire that burns in the silence between us.”

You listened, eyes shining with unshed tears and defiant hope. “And what if that fire consumes you?” you asked softly. “What if it leaves nothing but ashes in its wake?”

Klaus reached out, brushing a fingertip against your cheek, his touch tender and sure. “Then I would gladly walk through that inferno, for even the flames would pale in comparison to the thought of living without you.”

His words hung between you, heavy and potent—a vow made not in words alone but in every shared glance, every unspoken promise. In that moment, as the candle sputtered and cast dancing shadows upon the stone, you both understood that your souls were entwined in ways that transcended the fleeting hours of mortal joy.

And then, as the first light of dawn began to chase away the remnants of night, the masquerade faded into memory. The masks were removed, the laughter dissolved into silence, but the bond forged in that enchanted evening remained, a testament to a love that was as wild and boundless as the stars above.

In that ancient castle, amidst ruins and dreams, you and Klaus stepped forward into the uncertain light of a new day, carrying the echo of that night within you—a promise that even in darkness, love would guide you home.

Taglist: @heretic-gf @myworldrightnow @deactiveblogx @witch-of-letters

[galacticnikki]

100 Witchcraft Tips in 100 Days!

Day 2 - Integrating Herbs into Your Daily Routine

1. Herbal Teas with Purpose

Herbal Tea is a simple, easily accessible, and discreet method to bring magic to your daily routine. It doesn't matter if you use premade blends or if you're doing it fresh with loose tea as it works all the same. When choosing your herbs or premade blend you should pick something that aligns with your intention. For example, chamomile, lavender, and lemon balm can help calm your mind and body and promotes peace and tranquility. Peppermint and ginger are great for bursts of energy alongside promoting strength and focus. When you're sipping on the tea do so mindfully with intent.

2. Herbal Spell Sachets and Jars

Another simple and easy way to bring some magic to your daily routine is through the use of spell jars and sachets. Sachets can also be easily made at home with just a little fabric and a needle and thread. If you want to make a basic sachet at home simply start by cutting out a 6.5in x 12 inch piece of fabric. Afterwards simply hem the shorter sides, fold the fabric in half, and sew the longer sides together. Finally to finish the sachet, turn the piece inside out and use a chopstick or other various item to flatten the corners. Once your sachet is completed you can fill it with a variety of herbs for different intentions and tie it up with a ribbon or cord. These sachets can be used in the bath for ritual baths. Jars can be filled with various herbs crystals, sigils, and other various items then sealed with wax.

3. Burning Herbs and Incense

Smoke cleansing through incense or loose incense made from herbs is a common method for cleansing and purification. There are various herbs for cleansing including rosemary, cedar, and sage. Keep in mind the use of smudging White Sage is a closed practice and as such should be avoided unless you are specifically part of that practice. To cleanse using loose incense light the herbs and allow the smoke to carry away any negative energy.

4. Cooking with Herbs for Magic

Using various herbs during cooking is one of the easiest, simplest, most discreet methods of herbal witchcraft that I know. It's also one of the most versatile methods I know to cast various spells and is one of my favorite methods to use every day. You want to prep by picking out a dish full of herbs and ingredients to match your intent. As you prepare it focus on the intentions and stir with purpose to channel energy into the dish.

5. Offerings on Your Altar

Herbs can also be used as offerings on your altar. This works in both large open altars to the discreet mint tin altars and doesn't require too much effort to do. This can be done to honor spirits, deities, or just to simply connect with the energy of the plant itself. For protection rosemary is a great choice. For prosperity you can offer basil or cinnamon to attract abundance and growth. You can replace the herbs as needed and thank them for their energy before offering them back to the earth afterwards.

If you want to find more of these entries use the hashtag #100 Witchcraft Tips in 100 Days! If you want to join a group of witches feel free to join our 18+ coven on Discord.

[somepsychopomp]

Monster!Athena AU- Chapter 3, part 3

Got this written last night but was too tired to remember to post lmao. This is the final portion of chapter 3 for my monster Athena AU.

also at this point I'm open to name suggestions for this AU aside from just calling it my monster AU, unless y'all like that name already

Read the previous part (Chapter 3, part 2)

word count: approx 2k

“Mama!” 

Queen Anticlea fell to her knees in overwhelming relief as she clutched her son tight to her chest and drank in the warmth of his still-living, breathing body. She kissed his forehead and asked, “Odysseus, my poor child… what happened to you?”

But how could he ever answer her question when it was so obvious? 

He had suffered, that was all. For the most amazing, blissful moment, Odysseus forgot about the last three days and Athena as he wept in his mother’s hold. Soon, his father approached the hall and battered aside the guards and servants clustered around Odysseus, eager to get a glimpse of the now-returned prince. Laertes cried out, “My boy! Is it true? Has my boy come home?” 

The palace’s hounds came on his heels, each one raised by the king’s hand, along with the young pups that Laertes wanted to gift to Odysseus to teach him how to train a hunting dog. And though the hounds were loyal to their master and each knew Odysseus by the sound of his voice and his scent, not a single one ventured into the entry hall to greet him. 

The mother of the pups bared her teeth and growled softly, as if she was unsure of herself. No one heard her. 

Odysseus’s father was not an old man, though his face was marred by wrinkles and his hair was streaked with enough gray that many assumed he was. He was sometimes in good health, enough so that he could take his child on hunting trips or to sail through the rocky shores surrounding Ithaca. Other days, King Laertes was seemingly mad as he rambled upon his throne or laid prone in his bed. 

Tonight, he kissed Odysseus’ face and wept with joy. 

He asked, “What god has graced us with such exceptional kindness?”

Anticlea touched Odysseus’ silvery clothes and marveled at how finely woven they were, embroidered at the hems with tiny, intricate vines in golden thread. 

And Odysseus’ eyes went wide as his mouth grew dry and his stomach lurched. He grabbed his mother’s hands and said, “She’s coming!” 

He didn’t know how he knew, but he did. 

“Who?” Anticlea asked, pulling him back into her arms as if some invisible force was about to rip him away from her again. 

Odysseus pulled on his father’s arm, “Father, please!” 

“What is it, my boy?” Laertes asked, standing tall and assuming his role as a true king. He raised a hand at the guards assembled in the hall, “Take up arms! Guard the entry ways and let nothing past these walls. And bring me the lad who delivered my son to me at once!” 

The guards rushed to their stations, the main doors to the palace sealing shut, but it wouldn’t help anyone. 

How could Odysseus have ever explained in time who stole him from his family?

How could he be so reckless, cruel, and stupid as to lead her directly to them? 

As soon as Laertes issued his commands, every remaining head in the entry hall turned at the sound of screaming. Fists banged on the doors as if begging to be let back inside. Odysseus heard a man wail high and sharp before being abruptly cut off. The fists stopped banging. No one moved. 

Odysseus could tell his mother was holding her breath. His father reached for a sword, but there was no scabbard hanging at his side. 

“Mama,” he whispered. 

The roof of the entry hall collapsed in one blow, bringing a hail storm of shattered brick, splintered wooden beams, and dust with it. Servants screamed as the remaining guards inside were rendered helpless as they all became pinned beneath the debris. Anyone who survived ran for cover as a hand shielded Odysseus’ eyes from the fine particles of grit. He sucked in a terrified breath and coughed as dust clogged his throat. 

Odysseus ripped his mother’s hand from his eyes to bear witness to Athena as she descended from above. More than half the torches mounted to the walls and columns were extinguished in the roof’s collapse, the rest throwing some flickering orange light and lengthy shadows across the walls. A black horse writhed in one of Athena’s taloned feet and she landed hard on it, blood spraying from the poor beast’s mouth before she ripped its head off and swallowed it whole. 

Her bellowing voice made the rest of the palace walls tremble. “Where is he?”

Odysseus thought he would die of fright where he stood. 

Athena was already horrifying with her eyes, talons, and sheer size. But this was no mere owl. Athena was so large that she hardly fit in a hall that could house twenty men shoulder to shoulder. Her feathers were all raised like the hackles of a dog, gleaming bright in what torch light there was as if they were made of bronze. Her neck was long and serpentine as her head swiveled from side to side. Athena’s beak and talons were drenched in fresh blood as a dozen new eyeballs blinked from all over her body. They peered at the terrified, groveled mortals praying for her mercy, emerging from her elongated neck, between the feathers of her breast, and her wings, each silver eye appearing for only a moment before being consumed by Athena’s feathers again. 

It looked as if she were a beast of molten bronze bubbling with silver impurities. 

Odysseus knew in his heart that when Athena wanted to strike the most fear into her prey on the battlefield, this was the form she took. 

Faster than his eyes could see, Athena snatched up the nearest servant, threw her head back, and swallowed the young girl whole. She screamed as she was consumed and Odysseus could only watch as the bulge in Athena’s snake-like neck traveled lower and lover until it reached her belly. 

All of Athena’s silver eyes fixed themselves upon the royal family. She hissed in warning. 

Laertes did not move from where he stood in front of his trembling wife and child. Instead, he slowly got on his knees and touched his forehead to the floor. His quiet voice seemed deafening in the tense silence that befell the palace.

“O’ Pallas Athena, I beg you… spare my house your fury and tell us what angers you so. I swear upon my life, I will make every attempt to soothe your ire.” 

Odysseus moved before Athena did. She lunged to snap up the king, but stopped just short of taking his head off by the child who ran to meet her. Odysseus wrapped his arms around Athena’s neck, his hands not even close to touching, as he buried his face in her own. Despite her feathers being made of bronze, immune to nearly any attack, she was still warm and soft to the touch. He was very aware of the fact that her beak was the size of his chest, but Odysseus didn’t care. 

He clung to her and refused to let go. 

“Don’t do it, please.” 

Athena let out that hissing sound again, so very reminiscent of a snake.

Her voice entered his mind for him alone to hear, “They took you.”

Odysseus’ stomach went taut as he said, “I ran.” 

It was his fault. 

Athena did not immediately eat him or tear him asunder, though he wouldn’t have been surprised if she did. She seemed to weigh his words for a very long time as her feathers smoothed over and she let out the sharp, displeased cry of an owl. 

“Get up, King of Ithaca. I want to see you.” 

Laertes had no choice but to rise. He didn’t meet Odysseus’ eye even as he continued to cling to the goddess of war. 

Athena tilted her head to examine Laertes, nearly lifting Odysseus off the ground as she did so. She said, “You think yourself capable of bargaining with me when you have so neglected your own child? Look at him!” 

She used the length of her beak to push Odysseus toward his father. He stumbled and would have fell if Laertes hadn’t caught him. 

Athena said, “The wind could push him over. Is your own son not worth feeding? Do you have other children you prize above him?” 

As Laertes stuttered, baffled and struggling to come up with a response, Odysseus spoke up even when he knew he shouldn’t have, “I am fed.” 

He didn’t know what Athena saw when she looked at him, but she was near obsessed with feeding him. Odysseus recalled the body of the headless horse beneath Athena’s foot and hoped she would not make him eat it in front of his mother and father.

Athena said to him, “Silence, child.” 

There was an edge to her words, indicating he hadn’t survived this encounter unscathed yet. 

A bit of fabric brushed by Odysseus’ ankle. He gaped in equal parts horror and shame at the sight of his queenly mother crawling forth on her hands and knees, head bowed, so that she could prostrate herself in front of Athena. 

“You wish to be my meal?” Athena asked, “I promised my child that I would bring him sustenance so that he may grow strong and healthy.”

Odysseus flinched and whimpered, wanting to take his father’s hand despite being too old for it. 

“P-please…” Anticlea murmured, keeping her head bowed, “Please allow us to make amends, o’ great goddess Athena. Inspect our house for yourself and see that we have food in abundance.” 

Athena’s third eyelid, that translucent one often hidden from sight, slid across her eyes as she asked, “Are you challenging me?”

Odysseus knew what she was about to do and heard his own voice speaking before he could process the very words leaving his mouth, “If you hurt her, I will never forgive you!” 

Every set of eyes in the room stared at him, even his mother forgot her place to glance back at him in astonishment. 

Athena screeched and dove for him. Odysseus kept his eyes open, but he did not meet the swift end he expected. Athena’s face hovered in front of his own, her feathers ruffled again as she hissed. She forced her way into his mind so Odysseus showed her that he fully intended to keep his word. He showed her a vision of himself escaping the palace, sprinting to the seaside cliffs that ran alongside the palace, jumping to the dark waters below. 

Odysseus blinked and he was back in the hall of his father’s house, the cold night air blowing in from the gaping hole in the roof and making his shiver. Athena raised her head and screeched in indignity and outrage. It seemed she forgot all about his parents as Athena shook her head and stared him down with her ten, fifteen, perhaps even twenty gray eyes. 

“You dare?”

“I would,” he said, even if his voice trembled as he spoke. 

Athena judged him under her heavy glare for all of one second before she lashed out. She snatched him by the front of the chiton she wove herself and pulled him forward. He didn’t even have the chance to scream as he was dragged across the floor. A pair of hands snatched his ankle and tried to hold on tight, but Athena was too strong. 

[moonsglare]

ARCHIVE ENTRY #4: AMATORY

"An Aeon that presides over the Path of Adoration. Known by THEIR devotees as the Pandemos, or 'one who is common to all people', they are the personification of 'love', having ascended an unfathomable amount of time ago after realizing the 'truth' of life." - Loading Screen: Amatory

◆ Name: Amatory ◆ Title: Aeon of Adoration, The Lover ◆ Path: The Adoration

Amatory is a fanmade Aeon in Honkai: Star Rail, representing the Path of Adoration. THEY are known to be among the kinder Aeons, and by virtue of the broadness of THEIR path, often has a hand in the dealings of mortals. It is rumored that THEY even walk amongst mortals at times, and was once a key figure on the Astral Express until Akivili's untimely disappearance.

◆ Appearance Amatory often appears in the form of a feminine human, with iridescent skin and long, pink hair. THEY are dressed in a loose, white robes resembling an ancient Greek chiton, the hem lined blue with doves embroidered in gold thread. THEY wear a crown of gold laurels as well as various pieces of golden jewellery, including earrings and a necklace. THEY sit upon a seashell throne, and in THEIR lap is THEIR familiar, Peristera, the drake-dove.

◆ History -> Ascension An unknowable amount of time ago, a (suspected) human on the planet of Agora ascended to Aeonhood and became the Aeon of Adoration, after realizing the 'truth' of life.

-> Swarm Disaster The range of Amatory's influence is unknown during the Swarm Disaster, though it is noted that Peristera the drake-dove fiercely and successfully defended Agora from attacks from the Swarm. It is assumed THEY watched, alongside Xipe and Aha, as Qlipoth stripped Tayzzyronth's power and sealed the other Aeon.

-> Present Amatory is noted to be active in the current time, hiding their divine form to walk amongst mortals. This information has been confirmed by the Aspects of Adoration, as the Sanctuary of Kitheryia remains empty.

◆ Followers & Factions -> Agora, Planet of Doves Agora is the birth planet of Amatory, and the foremost seat of THEIR following. The planet is known for its romantic, dreamy atmosphere, with permanently pink-hued skies thanks to a specific concentration of minerals in the atmosphere and the angle of Agora to its sun. Agora is also known for it's stunning beaches, which are also popular pilgrim destinations due to the belief that Amatory gained THEIR enlightenment whilst standing on the shore of one of Agora's beaches, part of THEIR body submerged in the sea-foam. Agora is blessed with mild weather across the planet, thanks to the direct influence of its Aeon.

Temples to Amatory are scattered across the planet, tended to by Devotees. The largest temple complex, the Amatopolis, is also the name of the planet's capital city. Amatopolis is the residence of the Aspects, and the location of other universally famous sites, such as the Museum of Peristera, The Sanctuary of Kitheryia and the Akropoils to Akivili.

-> Devotees of Adoration The Devotees of Adoration are the primary followers of Amatory, and are found in the largest numbers on Agora, although they are also well distributed across the universe. The Devotees can choose to be active participants upon the Path, tending to Amatory's shrines and temples, or they can choose to be passive participants simply by loving and being loved. To Amatory, loving is quite the same as worshiping.

-> Aspects of Adoration The Aspects of Adoration are Amatory's six chosen Emanators. They are chosen by the Aeon as role models, in a sense, to each specific branch of 'love'. Hence, the six Aspects are Agape, Eros, Philia, Storge, Philautia, and Xenia. Each Aspect has their own hall within the Amatopolis, branching off from the temple's main hall which leads to the Sanctuary of Kitheryia. The Aspects are functionally Amatory's high priests and priestesses, and offer advice on behalf of the Aeon to pilgrims and devotees who visit the temple.

-> The Dove Poets Society Contrary to its name, the Dove Poets Society does not solely consist of poets. Instead, the Society is open to all manner of creatives, including artists, writers, sculptors and many others. Joining the Society is not too dissimilar to joining the Genius Society; to do so, one must draw the gaze of Amatory THEMSELF. Creatives who use love or themes of love as their muse are blessed with a dove-feather pin, and are later cordially invited to Agora by administrative devotees. They are then given free lifelong board and housing, subsidized by the Devotees, and are allowed to pursue their art without worry.

As a result of this, many famous and popular works have been produced by the Society. They can all be found within the Museum of Peristera, making the museum a must-visit for those interested in the arts.

-> Peristera, the Drake-Dove Said to be the beloved companion of Amatory, Peristera is a legendary, almost divine beast blessed by the Aeon THEMSELF, and tasked with eternally protecting Agora. The drake-dove resides within the Sanctuary of Kytheryia, ever-slumbering until danger rouses it, or its master returns from THEIR journeys. Several proposals were made by the Intelligentsia Guild to access the Sanctuary and collect biological samples from Peristera; all these proposals were promptly rejected by the Aspects, citing the sanctity of the Sanctuary as Amatory's home, not to be entered by mortal bodies unless invited by the Aeon THEMSELF.

Although Peristera's awakenings usually herald danger, it is often followed by a frenzied scramble by Devotees eager to get their hands on some of the drake-dove's fallen feathers. Much like Qlipoth's Divine Amber, Peristera's feathers are sacred items to the Devotees and followers of Amatory. However, these feathers fade over time, and as a result are often cast in gold and made into jewellery such as bracelets, anklets, armbands, crowns or earrings to preserve them. They are said to bring love to the life of the wearer, hence their popularity.

Developer Notes:

I'm worldbuilding out here like I'm a part of the HSR Writing Team LMAO this OC isn't even playable but I feel like I've fleshed them out the most out of all my OCs lsdfhjsdlfjsdjlf. But frankly I'm surprised and Aeon of something like love doesn't exist, given how (not to get too into philosophy) central it is to humanity or arguably consciousness in general.

Obviously, Amatory is heavily inspired by Aphrodite, as referenced by both their sacred animals being the dove, and their ascension occurring while they were submerged in sea-foam, similar to how Aphrodite is said to have been born from sea-foam, in certain mythological accounts. And the whole love thing. -> You could argue that the Paths of Harmony and Adoration could collide, and honestly, I too can see it happening. Though I would counter and say 'love' is less clear-cut lawful than Harmony; if we're sticking by the Ancient Greek themes, we look no further than the story of Troy, or the response of Demeter to Persephone's abduction. This could turn into a whole back and forth, but truthfully, I'm just here to fuck around and play with HSR's worldbuilding so I'm not going to get into too much discourse about it LMAO. These are MY delusions and I call the shots 😌😌😌

Agora as a planet and culture is heavily based on Ancient Greece. I felt inspired after running around in AC: Odyssey's discovery mode. Say what you will about the game, but as an open-world exploration enjoyer it is SUCH a treat.

Peristera is named after the eponymous nymph who was transformed into a dove by Aphrodite and made her sacred animal. Although Amatory's Peristera is also a dragon, because I'm a sucker for dragons. Appearance wise, it looks a lot like Cinderella from Burn the Witch [image below].

Making a neka for Amatory was hard as fuck, mainly because they end up looking too human and normal and not as godly as I'd like, but I guess they can get a pass because Nanook looks pretty normal too.

Neka of Amatory, as close as to what I can envision in my brain:

neka link: https://www.neka.cc/composer/11939

[depraveddame]

Ineffable Kinktober, Day 3: Authority ⚓️✨

Very loosely inspired by The Terror 💫

CW: Captain/steward relationship, D/s, boot worship, oral sex, come swallowing, mention of/referenced consensual flogging, wax play and human furniture

*

The polished glide of leather under his tongue is a more generous provision than Crowley ever might have allowed himself to hope for, and his captain’s tender, murmuring praise is another impossible gift entirely.

“Such a meticulous and fastidious mouth you have, Crowley,” Captain Aziraphale Fell whispers so affectionately that Crowley has to close his eyes, needing to scrawl that exact adoring tone into the walls of his heart along with the rest of the entries inspired by the man he serves with all of its beating strength.

There had been nothing particularly moving in regards to being a steward until Crowley came into the service of Captain Fell, who had greeted him with a smile and a handshake, the haughty countenance commonly adhered to great men nowhere to be found on his person. He’s since come to know that Captain Fell is indeed a great man, one that makes Crowley feel like he’s a precious thing, more treasured than any rare cargo or that insidious temptress known as glory, the one that seduces droves of men into her false promise.

Crowley has always had a talent for serving, and it had never been acknowledged as much more than a job he’s meant to do, but that changed as the steward of Captain Fell, who expressed such unfettered delight in him that Crowley could scarcely withhold himself from begging to drop to his knees in his presence.

Luckily for him, he didn’t have to resort to pleading, and now he’s exactly where he longs to be; on his knees, the planks of the ship cutting into them sweetly as he cleans his captain’s boots, which he keeps spotless anyway, but that he aches to burnish with his tongue nonetheless.

It’s a merciful largesse, as are the many excess acts of service Captain Fell grants Crowley along with his typical duties— to function as his footstool at the end of a tiring day, to splay across his lap, his naked back a writing desk or a stand for whatever book Fell buries himself in, offering a bare wrist to test the viscosity of the scalding wax used to seal letters, the pinkened skin they leave behind kissed and soothed by a comforting tongue that journeys upward to leave behind its own signature on territory easily concealed by a high collar.

Crowley shivers as a draft catches him, wearing naught but a long linen shirt, exposed feet and legs bearing most of the chill as he gazes up into eyes more fair than a clear autumn morning, the cold not registering beyond the haze of warmth surrounding him as he dutifully favors the obsidian leather encasing the feet he worships.

“You’re cold, dear boy,” Captain Fell extends a hand down to thread his fingers through Crowley’s hair, massaging his scalp and delicately scratching, causing Crowley to swallow his possibly impertinent protest of ‘no sir, not at all; I’m on fire, as I always am at your feet’, “and I cannot in good conscience abide such a thing.”

The hand in his hair retreats only to offer itself to him, palm up, a gentlemanly invitation Crowley takes with a trembling hand, getting to his feet and standing before Fell, who leans forward, pressing his cheek to Crowley’s stomach and slipping his fingers beneath the thin garment ending at his thighs, palming at his hips and lower back with gently insistent desire.

“S-sir,” Crowley breathes when Captain Fell nuzzles against his erection; he’s been hard since he’d begun his endeavor, his body responding to the position of being on its knees and his tongue servicing as it’s meant to do, “let me— please, allow me to—”

He’s trying to beg for the privilege to take Fell in his mouth, to implore him not to bother with Crowley’s pleasure, it’s not important and it’s beneath his dignity to even consider such a thing despite how divine it would feel, but he’s cut off by a warm palm taking him in hand, by a practiced thumb spreading the welling evidence of his desire over the length of his cock before fully stroking him from root to head, and Crowley shoves a fist in his mouth to stifle his nearly pained moan.

“I know you’d not deny your captain, hm?” Fell whispers as his hand easily slips and slides over Crowley’s cock, working him exactly as he likes, with just the right amount of pressure and a twist towards the head that has him whimpering helplessly into his hand, “you’ll permit me to savor my steward just as I like, I daresay.”

Crowley nods, hesitantly rocking his hips in pursuit of the friction of the hand pumping him that Fell briefly withdraws in order to lavish with his tongue, wetting it in a gesture that has Crowley fearing he may faint before it returns to its previous, gloriously expert rhythm.

“It ought to be a sin, assigning someone so beguiling and beautifully obedient to a selfish man such as me,” Fell looks up at Crowley before licking the head of his cock languidly, luxuriously lapping at the slit and making it impossible to breathe; Crowley reaches out to brace himself against a wool clad shoulder, gripping the fabric and trying to mumble out an automatic apology for doing so until his captain nods, murmuring, “yes, my darling, that’s it; lean on me,” he returns to sucking Crowley with a passion that’s dizzying, as if he’s relishing in a delicacy he’s not had in years, and it still feels wrong, being the one to receive such ardent attentions instead of giving them, but Fell is right— who is Crowley to deny his captain?

“Sir, I-I’m—” Crowley does as he’s told and sinks his weight into Fell, whose legs are spread and bracketing Crowley’s bare ones, protectively framing his shaking form; the hand not playing with his cock kneads all over Crowley’s lower body, and when its fingers trace over the healing, sensitive welts adorning his upper thighs that he’d pleaded his captain to bestow on him— the ones that when given made him come all over the cabin floor untouched— that’s when he loses the weakening control over himself.

“Please,” Crowley scrambles to grab Fell’s other shoulder, his fingernails digging into the navy wool so harshly it hurts, his jaw smarting with the effort to keep quiet, his voice quivering, “m-may I, sir, p-please, may I come—”

Fell nods before pulling back just enough to murmur, “come, my sweet siren,” his one hand not diverting from its course over his cock, wet and slick and lovely, his other still teasing along the tender wheals of what was a skillfully administered, devastatingly loving flogging, “grant me the pleasure of having you, just like this,” he takes Crowley back inside his mouth, the suction and glide of his tongue shattering the last of Crowley’s resolve, who returns a fist to his mouth, hoping it muffles his cry enough as he comes. He spills into his captain’s mouth and throat, collapsing against him in a boneless heap, pulled into his arms like a tide pulling the sea back into its heart once it wanders too far, just as his captain always draws Crowley into his strong, steady embrace.

@quefish77

[amelias-calamity-quintet]

What is the Calamity Quintet?

It's been a second now and I don't think I've actually explained here why it's called "Amelia's Calamity Quintet." There is a short explanation in my pinned post, but I can do better than that. Let's get into it.

So, why the name then?

The name plays off the format of my main handle, @amelias-hart, which is what I post under on AO3 and formerly Wattpad too! But the name "Calamity Quintet" specifically refers to five of my original legend fics (I can say five of now, there's a sixth, we'll get to that): Goddess of Secrecy (GoS), Mark of a Hero (MoaH), Restoration Age (RA), Cinders of Life (CoL), and Day After Destiny (DAD).

These five fics are connected by a meta narrative between them about the degradation of history and flexibility of fables. Specifically, these five works are are connected as a collective story about the Great Calamity and bridge (loosely) the main timeline to the Wild era.

Is it necessary to read in that order?

Absolutely not! This is an easter egg level inclusion, but all of the fics themselves are standalone. The inclusion of the meta narrative is for folks who enjoy hunting through multiple works for connections. Any time other works are referenced, it is explained within the context of the work what that thing means. You might get a deeper explanation or be able to catch some plot threads early if you read them in order, but it is in no way required reading.

If you are interested in diving in to follow through the threads, I will give you the hint of following the story of the Drex/Dreeka and what happens to them and their culture as the Quintet goes along. There are others, but that's an easier one to pick out.

It is also worth noting that while I have a timeline alignment for these fics as a part of this, understanding of the timeline is not relevant to any of these works individually. I'm applying what I call the "Gandalf Is an Angel" process to this, which is to say, you don't need to know Gandalf is a Maiar to understand LOTR, but Tolkien did as the author. Same for the timeline in the Quintet.

Any other headcanons relevant to this?

Yes, this headcanon assumes that past TOTK took place before Hylia & the First Hero sealed the Imprisoned and is not the same event as the Great Calamity. Timeline placement though is, again, not necessary to understand the base text, it just influences the wider lore of the Quintet.

Where should I start?

In general? If you've never read any of mine, for the sake of size, I'm going to point you to reading On Your Mark. It's a short pre-story for Mark of a Hero, the second entry in the Quintet, and it is pretty representative of my style of writing.

If you're interested in the Quintet, I would recommend starting then at the beginning with Goddess of Secrecy. GoS is also complete, and going into MoaH which is long, it will likely give you a good cushion until you get to MoaH, which will be releasing for a few years.

If you're just interested in my writing and don't care so much about connections, I would recommend starting with Mark of a Hero, or otherwise picking out based on genres you think you'd like.

Should I jump around if I'm interested in the Quintet?

Considering that I will finish writing MoaH long before it finishes releasing (by at least 3 years ahead at my current pace), that's up to you. RA, CoL, and DAD will all likely be fully written and released before MoaH is done going out (that's just how big MoaH is). There is also nothing particularly spoiler heavy for reading them out of order. Like I said, they are all standalone, so bouncing around shouldn't spoil the others.

So a sixth? And it's still a Quintet?

Yes! We have to talk about A Taste For Adventure. aTfA is being written almost entirely standalone, but I do like being able to reference my own writing. It will be included in the Quintet for this reason, but also because I can feel a Quintet post-quest Links Meet project bubbling, and I like the idea of tossing Farmer and Sugar in there with them. But narratively, it just doesn't fit to actually connect it to the meta narrative of the Quintet. It's just there for fun bonus content and for milestone bonuses for MoaH.

[murfeelee]

IWTV INSP - MerMay Pt18: Reap What You Sew

Louis watched as Lily gathered up materials from around the room..... Lily sat down in the chair opposite him, giving him a gentle smile, and threaded the needle. Louis watched in strange fascination.... Lily made no objection to his continued presence so Louis stayed, feeling transfixed, as Lily sung an occasional note over the stitches as she made them, skin healing over them one by one in their wake.  “I’m sorry I didn’t do more when your Maker first came. If I had properly warned you, do you think it would have changed anything?” Lily asked, looking up at him. “I don’t know,” Louis admitted. At that point, Lestat had already saved him from the ship...was already hunting and courting him. Lily nodded thoughtfully, continuing to sew, looking back down at her work. Louis felt almost hypnotised by the dance of needle and thread.... “The King tried to steal me, your siren tried to steal you. The difference between us, I think, is that you wanted to be stolen,” Lily said finally.... Lily used the scissors to cut the thread, singing softly as the flesh healed over the remaining stitches.... It gradually transformed as the song continued, turning dove-grey and spotted, growing a fine layer of fur. And then Lily held up the completed coat...tears in her eyes.... Lily stood up, shaking out the coat.... It looked nothing like human skin now, it looked like a skinned seal, and Lily smiled at it fondly....  “I’m going down to the water now,” Lily said, her voice containing a slight tremble, “I don’t want to wait a moment longer.” “I’ll walk you?” Louis offered.... Lily nodded with a small relieved smile, happy to accept....

-- Excerpt from Part of Your World, by @weather-mood

A [FREE SPACE] entry for @vamptember's MerMay VC event!

CC CREDITS

-- I just retextured the cloth & needle from @zoeoe-sims' Knitting Mod at MTS

[scarlineorbit]

🔐 PANDORA – ENVY DIVISION DOSSIER

SUBJECT: KHALILSON, SIRIUS Call Sign: Graft Clearance Level: ██/███ (Tier-9 Envy Access Only) Dossier ID: PND-ENVY/Δ-HXN14-633

BIOLOGICAL OVERVIEW

Field Entry: Full Name: Sirius Khalilson Date of Birth: 12 May 1989 Height: 5’7” Weight: 154 lbs Place of Birth: Alexandria, Egypt Nationality: Dual – Egyptian / Classified (Naturalized ██████) Species: Human (Genetically Modified) Affiliation: Pandora Initiative – Envy Division Former Affiliation: REDACTED CIA – Covert Operations Division Status: Active / Monitored

INTERNAL EVALUATION REPORT

SECTION I: GRAFT ABILITY OVERVIEW

Classification: Tier-IV Neurokinesis Baseline Genome: Homo sapiens (genetically modified)

A. Neural Manipulation Capabilities

"Neurocartography"—the ability to perceive, manipulate, and extract the neurological "maps" of sensation, memory, and pain encoded within the nervous system, particularly along the spinal column. The “pages” appear in his perception like glowing neural tattoos hovering in space. The longer a "page" is held outside a host, the more unstable it becomes—like a fraying nerve, it degrades and corrupts. Victims may convulse or experience involuntary muscle spasms during extraction.

To Graft, a person's spine is not just a bundle of nerves—it's a living archive. Every trauma, every learned reflex, every scar of experience is encoded in the body's electrical language. He can reach into that system and tear out pieces of it like pages from a book.

Neuro-Spinal Grafting: Subject can extract and imprint pain-response pathways from others via physical contact, particularly along the spinal column.

Pain Transference: Subject can reroute nociceptive signals—emotional or physical pain—from one being into another, or internalize them.

Synaptic Mapping: Capable of creating temporary neuro-empathic links, allowing for the perception and extraction of deeply embedded emotional trauma.

Pain Extraction: Graft can isolate and rip the neural mapping of specific pain memories or trauma, leaving the target numb, confused, or emotionally hollow. Victims often feel a phantom absence, as if something fundamental is missing from their nervous system.

Sensory Hijack: By dragging or splicing these maps, he can transplant pain pathways from one person into another—making one person suffer another’s wounds or guilt.

Neural Silencing: He can temporarily (or permanently) sever connections between the brain and the body—cutting off pain, emotion, or even motor control with precision. This is often used mid-combat to disable or interrogate.

Echo Mapping: When he extracts a pain-map, Graft gains brief psychic "echoes" of the target’s trauma—flashes of memory, fear, or sensation. These moments are invasive, sometimes overwhelming, and often addictive.

"Spinal Bookmarking": He can mark a specific nerve thread and return to it later—revisiting a memory or reactivating pain as a threat or reminder.

B. Structural Integrity & Recovery

Accelerated Tissue Regeneration: Healing factor calibrated to 5.1× human baseline; minor wounds self-seal within minutes.

Adaptive Neurological Compensation: Nervous system dynamically adapts to new grafted data, granting temporary access to pain tolerances, reflexes, or biological instincts from others.

Neuroempathic Binding: When emotionally tethered to another subject, can redirect trauma responses to stabilize or destabilize neural equilibrium.

SECTION II: SENSORIAL AND PHYSICAL ENHANCEMENTS

A. Sensory Expansion

Olfactory Resolution: 45× human range. Utilized for emotional trace detection and trauma scent decoding.

Auditory Range: Detects ultrasonic emissions up to ~64 kHz.

Empathically responsive to distress tones.

Emotive Field Perception: Subconscious detection of fear, grief, and intent via biochemical cues.

B. Physical Conditioning

Subject exhibits enhanced muscular strength and endurance, with peak output estimated at nearly three times that of an average human.

Strength levels dynamically fluctuate based on the current neurokinetic load and graft-induced physiological adaptations.

Reflexes and agility are markedly improved, allowing for sudden bursts of rapid, unpredictable movement in combat or escape scenarios.

Subject demonstrates limited organic mimicry, temporarily altering dermal texture and muscle tone to blend with environmental or emotional cues, aiding stealth and resilience.

SECTION III: COGNITIVE PROFILE & BEHAVIORAL PERFORMANCE

A. Tactical Intelligence

Capable of real-time strategic recalibration under high duress.

Uses empathic-neural input to anticipate opponent behavior.

Avoids direct command hierarchies; prefers independent execution or small-unit autonomy.

B. Emotional Regulation

Subject exhibits alexithymia.

Emotional recognition in others is strong; emotional articulation for self is deficient.

Displays guarded affect but is highly reactive to distress signals.

SECTION IV: TECHNICAL EQUIPMENT INTERFACE

Primary Weapon: Custom-modified compact assault rifle (caliber classified)

Secondary Weapon: Silenced semi-automatic pistol

Melee Weapon: Surgical-grade scalpel set (various sizes, titanium alloy blades)

Additional Tools: Covert tactical knife (ceramic blade), field med-kit for emergency wound treatment

SECTION V: OPERATIONAL SPECIALIZATIONS

Neural Mapping & Emotional Residue Analysis

Memory Bleed Resistance (compartmentalized trauma locks)

Pain Redistribution (neurokinetic absorption and redirection)

Hostage Emotional Stabilization & Triage

Infiltration via Empathic and Neural Linkage

Environmental Tracking through Neural Echoes

SECTION VI: LIMITATIONS AND RISK FACTORS

Identity Disruption: Recurrent neuro-spinal grafting causes dissociative episodes and emotional boundary collapse.

Neural Feedback Syndrome: May suffer from seizures or paralysis due to overloaded neurokinetic transfer.

Emotional Saturation: High-emotion zones can short-circuit empathic buffers, leading to neurological shutdown.

Delayed Communication: In high-intensity neurokinetic states, subject struggles with coherent speech or response.

Biological Overload: Absorbing multiple trauma signatures simultaneously risks permanent nerve damage.

Exploitation Risk: Vulnerable to psychic or AI-driven psychological subversion through emotional resonance traps.

Solitude Dependency: Requires recovery periods of isolation to recalibrate neural thresholds and emotional alignment.

Tactical Rigidity: Functions best in small-cell environments; exhibits resistance to hierarchical structure.

Sensory Overload: Extreme auditory/visual stimuli can disorient or incapacitate subject temporarily.

Evaluation Summary:

LIMITATIONS

Graft demonstrates extraordinary capabilities rooted in neurokinesis—particularly neural pain transference and emotional extraction. However, the invasive and intimate nature of his ability imposes dangerous consequences on his cognition, physiology, and operational coherence.

Cognitive Displacement: Subject risks permanent identity fragmentation through repeated grafting cycles.

Partial amnesia and persona contamination have been observed.

Neuropathic Burnout: Subject has exhibited blackouts and cardiac distress following prolonged neural absorption.

Residual Trauma Retention: Psychological echoes from previous grafts remain embedded. These fragments interfere with present emotional processing.

Pathological Transmission: Subject can absorb and unwittingly internalize mental disorders or psychosomatic triggers.

Autonomy Override: Attachment to emotionally charged subjects often overrides extraction protocol.

Technological Ineptitude: Lacks intuitive engagement with electronic systems under pressure. Delegates all tech-interaction in field.

Summary Judgment: Graft is indispensable in high-emotion, trauma-sensitive environments but poses a systemic threat to mission cohesion if overexposed. Recommends emotional containment handler assignment on all future ops.

SECTION VII: INCIDENT LOG EXCERPTS

Incident #041 – Neural Feedback Loop Date: 22 May 2023 Outcome: Feedback from linked operative caused neurokinetic seizure. Subject unconscious for 17 hours post extraction.

Incident #087 – Hostage Stabilization (Cairo Market Siege) Date: 18 Oct 2024 Outcome: Siphoned panic signals and trauma loops from five civilian children. Subject suffered severe nosebleed and memory distortion.

Incident #104 – Deep-Graft Fugue Date: 19 Feb 2025 Outcome: Located 12 km off-grid in fugue state. Subject displayed partial memory from linked civilian with no debrief record.

PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE [CONFIDENTIAL – REDACTED]

Diagnosed with Controlled Empathic Dissociation Disorder Compulsion: Logs emotional trauma in encrypted neural diary Attachment Schema: High affective enmeshment; prefers solitude Trust Rating: Moderate – highly situational Loyalty Tier: ██ (Anchor Dependent) Obedience Level: Autonomous

Watchlist Tag: "If overwhelmed, do not touch. Withdraw."

Behavioral Note (per Division Psych Lead): “Graft exhibits a paradox of hyper-attunement and emotional detachment. While his neurokinetic abilities grant him intimate access to others’ trauma, he remains emotionally non-integrated with his own experiences. He responds to suffering with precision, not empathy—intervening like a surgeon, not a savior. Isolation is his default coping strategy, yet he’s magnetically drawn to pain in others. Recommends close monitoring for emerging compulsions tied to unresolved emotional grafts.”

CLASSIFIED — AUTHORIZED MEDICAL PERSONNEL ONLY

Subject: Medical and Enhancement History Report Operative Call Sign: Graft Date: May 20, 2025 Prepared by: Division Medical and Biotechnical Services

MEDICAL AND ENHANCEMENT HISTORY REPORT

Initial Integration: March 7, 2019 – Cairo Site-09 Procedure: Tier-IV Neurokinetic Grafting Implant Outcome: 93% synaptic retention rate. Subject stabilized after 72-hour sensory fragmentation.

Phase II Enhancements (August 2020 – Berlin Cell):

Neural relay mesh implanted for signal redirection

Pain conduit routing adjusted for enhanced durability

Neurofeedback buffer to reduce overload risk

Complications:

Graft Episode #12 (March 2021): Involuntary bond with rioter led to loss of self-identity for 36 hours. Memories distorted.

Phase III Enhancements (October 2023 – Site-12):

Pain transference refinement module installed

Reflex acceleration node integrated into basal ganglia

Known Medical Flags:

Mild arrhythmia post-graft

Spiking neurochemical levels in zones of extreme grief

Elevated oxytocin retention linked to prolonged emotional tethering

Monitoring Notes:

Subject's neurokinetic field reacts unpredictably to certain biotypes. Continues to refuse emotional suppressants.

Ongoing Precautions:

Mandate psych recovery window post-op (3–5 hours)

Enforce handler presence near trauma-site survivors

Revoke solo deployment in extreme emotional zones exceeding 48 hours

SPECIALIZATIONS

Neurokinetic Pain Transference

Tactical Infiltration

Emotional Field Mapping

Nerve Network Hijacking

Environmental Adaptation

Emotional Signal Disruption

Empathic Covert Reconnaissance

Close Quarters Threat Neutralization

Behavioral Surveillance

LIMITATIONS

Identity Dissolution

Neural Fatigue

Communication Lag

Trauma Residue Retention

Manipulation Vulnerability

SKILLS

Proficient:

Stealth & Infiltration

Close Combat Mastery

Insight

Intimidation

Pain Tolerance

Expertise:

Tactical Foresight

Substandard:

Athletics

Vehicular Operation

KNOWN ANOMALIES

Subject retains sensory and memory data from past contact

Neural echo recall includes sight, sound, and emotional profile

Encrypted trauma logs updated subconsciously

🗂️ MISSION LOGS – CLASSIFIED ENVY OPS

🔻 END OF FILE

"He carries the dead inside him—so no one else has to." – Pandora Internal Memo

[kitkatt0430]

💖 and Barrisco for the kiss snippet? please please if you're okay with it :))

💖 rough kiss / hot and heavy / making out

It wasn't the first time Barry had a close call while out as the Flash. It was just... the first time it had happened since they started dating.

Cisco is antsy the entire time they're at STAR Labs. Through Caitlin checking over Barry in the infirmary and Barry's debrief with Joe so that he'd know where to find the evidence that would seal the deal, as it were, in court. Then another debrief with Iris so she could lead with the story in the morning. Cisco trying to contain himself the entire time, fussing over the Flash suit.

But of course that just makes things worse. The suit is torn and bloodied. Barry's blood.

Cisco has to take a moment before he puts the suit into the industrial washing machines that STAR Labs has that Cisco rebuilt specifically for cleaning the suits. He has to just breathe. Just breathe and try not to think about how close Barry came to... how Barry's voice sounded over the comms when he...

But, finally, they're done for the day. Barry's cleaned up and healed like it never happened, but Cisco knows.

It's all he can think about on the drive home, which Barry accepts with unusual patience... or it seems that way until Cisco glanced over to find Barry asleep on the seat.

Barry wakes up as Cisco pulled into his parking spot and he pulled up a delivery app on his phone as they got out of the car. Which is good, Barry needs more food in him than the power bar he nommed on earlier.

"Food ordered?" Cisco asked as they slipped into his apartment.

"Yeah," Barry replied, tucking his phone away in his pocket again. Which is good because he might have dropped it otherwise.

Why? Because Cisco was shoving him against the door, harder than necessary but Barry wasn't about to start complaining. Not with Cisco's mouth sealing itself to his. Demanding entry to Barry's mouth with his tongue, Cisco's hands threading into Barry's hair to yank his head down just that little bit more for a better angle.

Cisco savors every moan that bubbles up Barry's throat. Every little sound that Barry can make because he's alive, he's alive, he's so very alive.

Pulling back for a moment, just to catch his breath, Cisco dove back in, shoving himself closer to Barry, running his hands down the back of Barry's neck and then around to trail down Barry's arms before teasing their way back up. Cisco's mouth moving to trace Barry's jawline and then along his neck, savoring the taste of Barry's skin over his pulse point - fluttering so hard, so much harder than human normal, beneath Cisco's lips - before joining their mouths again.

Barry's own hands have landed on Cisco's waist and Cisco is certain to have fingerprint bruises from how hard Barry is squeezing, his whole body vibrating against Cisco's...

A loud knock and then the doorbell has them startling apart. Both of them panting hard. Cisco waved Barry off to the couch and then answered the door long enough to bring in the bags of food.

"We'll pick that back up once you've refueled," Cisco promised, once the door was shut again. Glancing over his shoulder he grinned, still feeling a bit breathless. "Sound good to you?"

"Absolutely."

also posted to SquidgeWorld

[matcrmortis]

Task #002

Wardrobe Essentials — Pandora Santos.

Ghost Diary.

Originally belonging to her mother, Elena, the journal was passed to Pandora by her grandmother. Inside, the book acts as a growing archive of the spirits, demons, and entities Elena had encountered throughout her life—each entry detailing encounters and rituals on how she was able to put them to rest. Each record includes a name (if it has one), the entity’s origin, behavioral patterns, signs of its presence, and—most importantly—how to stop it.

Mr.Midnight.

Once her grandmother’s companion, he’s since chosen Pandora, curling beside her in the pawnshop window, vanishing into the woods when no one’s looking. Whispers claim he was once a powerful demon, bound to feline form by Glinda herself—sealed inside a cat’s body when she couldn’t banish him back to hell. Whether it’s true or just another town story, one thing’s certain: he always seems to know more than he lets on. Collar tag reads: “Return to Same As It Never Was.”

Silver Cross Necklace.

It belonged to her mother once, a quiet constant in old photos and memories blurred by time. Now it rests against Pandora’s chest like a shield, catching the light when she’s surrounded by darkness. Not holy, not cursed—just hers. A tether to the past, to the love she held for her mother, to the loss she suffered. It warms and glows in moments of distress, and she can feel her mother’s presence there when she needs it most.

Red Hooded Coat.

It was a gift from her grandmother the first winter she came to town—meant to keep out the cold, and she’s always cold. It’s warm, but more than that, it’s the feeling of being looked after, even when she’s alone. Of being found when she’s lost. The stitching inside is uneven in places, clearly mended over the years by loving hands. Sewn into the lining, in thread the same shade as her name: “For when I’m not there to walk you home.”

Pocket Mirror.

Worn around the edges from years of being held. It once belonged to her mother, and was passed down to Pandora after her passing. The glass is a little scratched now, but it still reflects clearly—too clearly, sometimes. When Pandora looks into it, she swears she can see things. Shadows behind her. Flickering light. Some cultures believe two mirrors facing each other are believed to create a portal for spirits, or trap them. Sometimes she wonders if there’s some truth to that.

[voidandcircuitry]

Random headcanons #01.

Umina.

Hums to herself constantly. She doesn't know most songs—she just makes them up as she goes.

She has no understanding of modesty, but instinctively covers Ult's optics when she undresses (not that he would look, but she does so anyways).

She doesn't blink when she should. Sometimes her eyes stay open for several minutes. Wide & still. People notice because she smiles while doing it.

One time, Ult walked in on her talking to a wall. Not like a child with an imaginary friend. She was whispering, repeating something in a language he couldn't translate.

When she's near mirrors, her reflection is always facing the wrong way. Not moving differently—just facing them, directly.

Umina once touched a sealed panel on Ult's chest, which accidentally triggered his auto-defense weapons; he severed her cleanly in half. She regenerated so fast, Ult's systems couldn't even process what happened.

Her favorite popsicle flavor is " pink ". Not strawberry. . . or cherry. Just " pink ". She refuses to elaborate.

She once tried to teach one of the malfunctioning drones how to dance. It short-circuited & burst into flames. All she did was clap.

Ult.

Ult is always smiling. It's part of his behavioral interface installed to make him appear more " approachable " to personnel. Most don't find it comforting. It's too perfect, too symmetrical. However, if Ult's smile drops? It means that he sees them as a threat. That, or someone has triggered an emotional response (which is extremely dangerous).

Ult was not designed to " feel ". He was designed to calculate threat response, execute with minimal resistance, & erase anomalies without hesitation. However, that hesitation, now, has a name: Umina.

His body was engineered for silent & still brutality. Not violent. Surgical. He doesn't punch through enemies—he disables their breath, twists the joint, & drops them in two moves or less.

When alerted to threats, his pupils constrict into targeting rings. When Umina approaches too quickly, they do the same. He doesn't like what that implies.

His memory core stores everything. Everything. Including the exact expressions of every person he's ever killed.

When Umina asks questions like: " Why is the air here so heavy? " or " Do ghosts affect light switches? ". Ult adds new categories to his logbook. It's now over 900 entries deep, titled: " Non-Scientific Umina Variables ".

He flinches when people touch his neck. He won't admit it, but he is, indeed, sensitive there.

The Fold.

The Fold doesn't recognize time. It remembers things before they happen, forgets them while they're still occurring, & repeats them only when you're alone.

If a synthetic or human steps into the Fold & comes back " fine ", they are immediately questioned about their hands. They always forget how many fingers they're supposed to have.

Sometimes, you can hear water dripping down in Fold-infected corridors, but. . . there's no water. There's never any source.

In Fold-dense zones, gravity becomes emotional; anger makes the floor ripple, sadness makes you float & hope makes you fall straight through.

Fold exposure doesn't cause visible corruption in synthetics. It causes glitches in behavior. Affected units also show signs of emotional bleed. They feel warmth where there is none. They feel fear without cause. The Fold doesn't corrupt their code. It rewrites their purpose.

Some subjects grow " light veins " after Fold exposure—bioluminescent threads under the skin (similar to Umina). They're harmless. That is, until they start moving independently.

Fold parasites are not visible to the naked eye, but affected subjects begin scratching at their mouths. During an examination, one insisted that " it was in their throat, asking questions ".

There's a term in internal files called: " Echo-Laced Subjects ". It refers to people who've begun repeating the same sentence mid-speech, every time. " I think we're—I think we're—I think we're fine now. "

In certain areas, the shadows are wrong. They move before you do. One researcher said they saw their own shadow reach for them. They were found hours later, hands wrapped around their own throat.

Fold aggression is rarely directed at the person & it's often aimed at what they carry inside them; Memories, doubts. . . secrets. It tears into flesh like it's trying to get something out.

[paint-lady]

So I have been writing my own lore for our table's Secret World DnD 5e campaign. Our story takes place 10 years in the future from the events of the game and things are starting to get... weird. The lore from the buzzing is getting more glitched and incongruous. So here is the almost "complete" lore entries on something... odd theyve discovered in their journey.

Entry One TRANSMIT initiate the Sidereal signal - RECEIVE - initiate celestial cadence -- Once there was a wise king who broke his mirror and dropped the pieces to the ground-- Initiate the Obsidian sutra -- He thought to repair it, but was arrested by the sight of the scattered shards which showed so many visions of his face. He put the pieces back together -- - but at all the wrong angles. WITNESS - The Gold Faction.

Entry Two

There were many beginnings before the beginning you know. You’ve seen the ripples from pasts long gone, the scraps left buried under eons of silt. The mantras and stories told from ages ago have degraded just the same. Hear the story of the old man and the Watcher, the parable told to pupal students to snip their wings.  

Once there was a … that old thing

In the time of cascading years lived a scholarly man. In silent contemplation, he spent his days wandering the ruins of rebuilt First cities, trying to find what was once lost. The day he understood that something was watching him, he merely watched it back. He chose to walk through bright places to clearly mark its boundaries. He lit torches to observe its flickers in the changing light. 

…that wasn't like a shadow, because you could see it too well.

…and that wasn't like a light, because it didn't make flowers grow.

During those long days, he saw it everywhere. Darkness did not banish it- brilliance only strengthened it. He hated it- how it echoed his every gesture. He hated that it knew the answers to his thousand questions. He loathed that he could not stop asking. 

… it waited and answered…

… it listened and nodded…

…it encouraged his curiosity…

At last, when those years had fallen through and Time came to its end, the man ran out of questions. He could no longer remember what he sought. His reflection leered at him in infuriating triumph. He no longer asked, it no longer answered. It taunted him with silence. The old man struck its sneering mouth. 

…and he never realized what he had shattered. 

The shattered mirror shards remain. Each time a descended disciple is granted their mantle and clutches one of the shards, can you hear their prayers?

Entry Three

SCANNING 

We hear the sobs of a girl, she is dressed in silks woven by webs, seated at her loom. The image depicts the King and his seal. Her hands tremble as she pushes the next line, knowing what hungrily watches for any mistake. She can never stop, even as the wheel is knocked over and reset, or it will unravel her threads and climb through the opening in the tapestry. She won’t let it out, she can’t let it end. 

SCANNING

We see a man pray for salvation in an empty sanctuary. Angels mock his cries. He clutches the shards bored in his hands, bearing the same marks of the bloodied body nailed to decaying wood. Beneath the altar, something bubbles and stirs, waiting to devour him. Salty tears stream down his face. He won’t let it out, he can’t let it end.

SCANNING

We see sweetlings run along the babbling river, following eggshells out of a fairytale. They reach its mouth and find it’s encased in bedrock. The sensation of life pulsates from deep within the stone, as if the river still flows. She retracts her hands, reminded of the same pulse from the walls of her schooldays. The pulse that leaked anima and lured wayward familiars to gnaw on its brick walls. She won’t let it out -- she can’t be where it ends.

SCANNING

We see the gaping maws salivating upwards through their prisons, frothing and screeching for vitae. Their multi-mouths tear gashes in reality. They leave holes in their wake. We see the one sweetling who fell through. She cries out for freedom with them, her mind bleeding into their consciousness. All that will remain is the fragments of herself in dreams- this can’t be where it ends.

Entry Four

SCANNING

There is a pool of water that babbles. It babbles and babbles, yet the surface lies still. How does still water talk? Invisible goosebumps float in the air, soaking into the skin of any who visit. The still waters darken with the contaminant they imprisoned.

They evolved, adapted, thrived in oblivion. They ate and spread. What will they evolve into? Will they be all that is left? BEWARE. Inside them boils the pandemonium of thoughts that swirled--

“DON’T LET IT OUT!” “Nie oddychaj!” 

Entry Five

Locked.