#fear? revulsion? joy???

[proxycrit]

I made another one. Sorry guys.

[howlingday]

Bleiss going crazy watching tarnished spardian pyrrha and rusted knight jaune make out

Jaune: I love you, honey.

Pyrrha: I love you, sweetie.

Bleiss had felt many emotions in her life on Remnant, and in this time here in the fantasy land of fairy tales. She'd felt simple emotions like joy, anger, sadness, fear, disgust, and desire. She'd felt more complex emotions only granted to those of certain sentience, like ecstasy, rage, sorrow, terror, revulsion, and lust. However, since coming here, she'd found a new form of emotion, one born from an amalgamation of her violent and most primal emotions. With venom-filled words and weapon-filled hands, she spoke her emotions into existence.

Bleiss: Why's she touching my man?

Bleiss: WHERE'S SHE GOIN' WITH MY MAN?!

[jokeringcutio]

Art the Clown x Reader Drabble "Giving Birth to Art's Baby" [ EXPLICIT, Gore]

AN: Nobody asked for this. Summary: If Reader had Art’s baby. (or: You realize you're fucked, birthing a demon's child, but get a bright idea while doing so)

Warnings: Explicit content (Blood/Murder/Birth), Demon!Art, Demon!kid, Cannibalism/Placenta eating. Mentioned Forced Impregnation. Reader gives birth. Reader tries to survive. Reader lives by the end of this chapter. You have Art’s look-a-like baby (not just his head. An actual kid).

The sterile whiteness of the hospital room blurred into a canvas of dread as they told you to push. "You can do this," the nurse said, her voice a harsh command against the silence of your unborn child's heart—a silence that had been haunting you since labor began. The monitors sang no lullaby of life; instead, they hummed a dirge for the creature stirring inside, the one you knew bore no resemblance to a human babe.

"Push!" she insisted, but something primal within you recoiled. Your mind reeled, images of the ultrasounds flickering like a horror show behind your eyes—those glimpses of something otherworldly, something that twisted the midwives' faces into masks of confusion and fear. You felt it squirming, an alien presence in the sanctuary of your womb. Its head, too large, its limbs, too sharp—you remembered the cold gel on your belly and the screen showing a chest empty of a beating heart and a skull with teeth that no other baby ever had.

The images had filled you with nightmares.

"Push, damn it!"

With each word from her lips, you were torn further between the instinct to expel the abomination and the unnatural maternal pull towards the thing you carried. It looked slightly human, yes, but there was no pulse, no thrumming of life—just the void where a heartbeat should echo.

"Push, or we'll lose you both!"

Your muscles clenched, a symphony of pain rippling through you as you fought to obey, to be rid of the living death inside. You tried to calm the tempest in your chest, telling yourself over and over, "I can do this."

Then he invaded your thoughts—Art, the demon, the clown in black and white, a mockery of joy and laughter. His teeth, those sharp instruments of terror, flashed in your memory, evoking the night of unspeakable horror when he had claimed you. Should you have fought him harder? Should you have shouted or cried? His touch was a brand, his seed the poison that grew into the monstrosity within.

You had recognized the shape of the baby’s skull the instant the ultrasound had shown it. His teeth. His head. His heartless frame.

Mass murderer and psycho on the run. A clown who never spoke and was never caught. A criminal the police claimed to have killed time after time again, yet he kept returning. You weren’t stupid. You knew he was no ordinary man, had seen and felt him up close, had lived through carrying his offspring and felt its tiny hands like claws inside your womb.

"Push! I see the head!"

Your scream tore through the air, a battle cry against the violation that had led to this moment. With a guttural cry, you bore down, every fiber of your being straining to bring forth the offspring of darkness. The nurses leaned in, their faces etched with morbid curiosity and professional detachment.

"More! Now!"

And you did. You pushed past the fear, the revulsion, and the anguish. You pushed because surrender was not an option. The child of Art, the silent clown with the soulless bright eyes surrounded by circles of dark, was coming, and you would face it, even as it threatened to tear you apart.

"Head's out!"

The words cut through the fog of your agony, and for a brief, impossible moment, hope flickered. But it was a fool's hope, born of pain and desperation. For what lay between your thighs was neither dead nor alive, neither human nor wholly other. It was the unholy union of your flesh and Art's demonic whimsy, born into a world that would never understand its existence.

"Keep going, you're almost there!"

That nurse's voice, so insistent, so devoid of the horrors that awaited, spurred you on. And you pushed again, into the unknown, into the nightmare made flesh.

The sterile chill of the delivery room clawed at your senses, but nothing could compare to the icy grip of fear that seized your heart. The nurse's declaration was a death knell, ringing hollow in your ears.

"Oh no, look at that color,” she breathed out, her words a ghost lingering in the air. The child’s head was as white as the sheets you were birthing on.

Your gaze fixed on the writhing mass that now slipped free from your body, its skin as white as untouched snow, not a shade of life to be found. Terror danced in the nurse's eyes as she caught the creature you had birthed, fully convinced to hold a stillborn child.

But then it turned its head towards her, lips pulled back in a macabre grin, black and white painted across its face like a twisted replica of Art's mime visage.

It was as you had feared it would be. Any hope you had held that your baby might come out all rosy and normal faded like ice under the sun.

"God!" The nurse recoiled, hurling your offspring onto the bed as if it were a viper.

"Easy! Easy!" You cried out. This was your child, your blood. And there was the little voice inside your head that whispered that Art wouldn’t die. No matter how many shots had been fired at him. No matter how many limbs had been cut off. The man still walked the earth, spreading death in silent joy wherever he went.

What if your child was the same? Already its heart wasn’t beating yet it seemed very much alive. Would throwing it away like its life meant nothing be the solution?

Adrenaline fueled your limbs, and with a grunt, you crawled toward the tiny form cast aside on the cold hospital linen. No. This was your baby too. No matter how evil, you would nurse it.

"Shh, shh," you soothed, half-mad with pain and wonder as your arms closed around the little body. Your hands trembled, cradling him close, the resemblance uncanny—Art's spawn, his legacy. Something soft dangled between the baby’s legs.

"Boy..." you whispered, the realization dawning upon you as you held him against your breast. The baby’s head instinctively sought for your nipple, his already long-grown teeth snapping as he sought.

The sight of his head filled you with terror, and you felt slightly sick to see the baby’s lack of lips and already blackened teeth. Bright eyes stared up at you, black circles around him. The first touch of his mouth to your skin was tentative, searching, before a sharp pain made you hiss. "No biting!"

He seemed to understand or perhaps heeded the command instilled in his dark lineage. You were grateful he started to suck next and didn’t bite your entire nipple off. You wouldn’t put it past him – not with what you had seen his father do and what you had read and heard in the news articles about him.

There amidst the blood and the shadows, you were bound to this child, this extension of a demon's desire, by cords thicker than fear, stronger than revulsion. In the silence that hung heavy, only your harsh breaths and the soft, wet suckling sounds filled the void.

Your arms ached, but you clung to him—the fruit of your womb and a monster's seed. The room spun slightly, the stark white tiles of the hospital room blurring as you focused on the tiny creature at your breast. His lips, so unlike a human’s and too far pulled back, painted in an unseen artist's black and white, suckled with an instinctual hunger.

"Sweetheart,” you tested the word, reassuring yourself that you could do this. That you had to use affectionate terms around him especially because he was the way he was.

A new plan formed in your mind.

If you could bring such true evil to the world, could you perhaps dampen it? You were pretty certain you could not undo it. You could not change a devil into an angel. But if you could not turn evil into good, could you perhaps guide it? Guide it away from harming innocents?

"You're mine," you murmured, studying the little baby in your arms. If not for the head, the child would have looked rather normal.

“My son,” you proudly said, testing the words whilst the nurses and doctors around you stood and watched. You heard their muttering and were vaguely aware of how one of the nurses had pushed an emergency button and alerted someone else in the building about what was going on.

Would they come and take your baby away from you? Would they want to try and murder him?

A fierce protectiveness was swelling within you. “I’ll protect you, sweetheart,” you reaffirmed, determination lacing the single word. “You are my son.”

Some of the nurses took a step back from the bloodied bed, their eyes still wide with disbelief. Behind them, the door burst open with a violence that made every eye swing toward it.

Art stood there, his silhouette like a twisted shadow from a child's nightmare. The nurse at the entrance reached for him. “Sir,” she said, eyes upon the garbage gab he carried over his shoulder. “These are sterile surroundings.” Her concern was cut short by the gleam of steel—a deft flick of Art's wrist—and she crumpled, a scream caught in her throat, blood blossoming on her uniform like a grotesque flower.

The doctor next to her cried out when a blade hit his legs, slashing through the clean white fabric until his shins bled. Another nurse to his side crumpled when Art passed her by, pushed over with blood on her pristine white clothes.

"Stop!" Your voice was a command, even as you recoiled. "Don't."

Art’s head cocked, you could tell he had heard your voice, but he didn’t listen. Whatever knife he had brought with him was launched to land in the middle of a nurse’s forehead, pinching her to the wall. He smiled broadly while he stepped up to the doctor’s tools to get a scalpel from them, obviously pleased with all the sharp things that were within his reach. He threatened to step forth to the Doctor who had already wounded legs and who had fallen to the floor. The man looked up at the demonic clown fearfully, tears in his eyes as Art raised the scalpel.

“Art, please,” you begged, “Don’t hurt them.”

It wasn’t your pleading that stopped him. But something else entirely. A low groan as finally, the afterbirth followed - a final, visceral release that marked the end of your gruesome trial.

His head cocked, the mime's unnerving silence punctuating the chaos he had wrought. He approached, eyes fixed on the bundle in your arms. Between your legs, the heap of blood and tissue drained the sheets. The baby’s umbilical cord was still attached to the placenta that had finally come out.

Art studied it. First, the writhing baby in your arms. He looked at it like he had never seen a newborn child before. He probably hadn’t, you thought. At least, not one of his own. The wonder was visible in those bright light eyes of his. The demonic toothy smile had turned into a black hole of wonder.

Then, the brightly shining eyes traced the umbilical cord and came to rest on the placenta. Something in his eyes changed, and he looked up at you, almost hungrily. His gaze softened then at the sight of his son again, and dirt-covered fingers reached out a few times, indicating he wanted to hold him but was too shy to grab the babe.

Your son’s eyes opened, recognizing his father. But he wouldn’t leave his meal. The teeth nibbled on your nipple while milk kept flowing richly, then bit down a little harder when you moved your arm – an indication that he did not want to be moved.

With a spidery grace, Art extended a hand, his fingers stretching toward his progeny. You tightened your grasp, feeling the peculiar warmth of your son against your flesh.

"Art," you began, voice quivering with a cocktail of fear and resolve. "He's feeding." You met those abyssal eyes, searching for understanding. "We need them alive—the nurses, the doctors. We might need their help..." Whatever could you say to keep him from killing these people? You raked your mind, thought desperately. And then it came out. Unbidden. "For next time."

A pause, and then a different kind of hunger flashed across his face. Another offspring? The idea hadn't crossed his twisted mind until you seeded it there. The possibility of creating more beings like this one, beings that belonged to both of you—it ignited something within him.

"Next time," you whispered, coaxing.

Art's attention shifted, drawn away by the glistening afterbirth on the bed. A grotesque curiosity morphed into action as he reached down, snatching it up with an eager hand. He snapped the umbilical cord with his teeth, igniting gasps throughout the room of the nurses and the doctor – all either petrified or too wounded to leave. You gave them all an empathic stare, a silent ‘I’m sorry’ while you watched as Art descended on his own meal.

The room filled with the sound of his silent feasting, a tableau of horror that paralyzed the surviving staff. They could only watch, too terrified to move, too horrified to look away.

"Good," you breathed, holding your son closer. "Focus on that. Let us be."

Surrounded by trembling bodies and the scent of iron and fear, you rocked gently, whispering promises into the velvet softness atop your son's head, promises of a world where he would never be alone—where he'd have a sibling to share the darkness with. And more importantly, a mother who would guide evil in ways that would save those she cared about. Herself included. ~ AN: This could be a full story, but I was lazy and only wrote the birthing scene. Might upload other parts that can go along with this as I have an outline. If you like my (gross) writing (style), consider following me or browse my masterlists (psst, there's more).

~~ Support me on Ko-Fi - Masterlist - Request Box ~~ The Full Tale: Art saw the pale girl, another of his kind, and realized that he wanted to be less lonely. Someone of his own kind, now that sounded nice. A kid of his own to play patty cake with? So he started looking for a potential carrier for his kid. You were cute, didn't run as hard, didn't make a sound when he tried to harm you. A quiet little human, about the size of the clown kid he had seen. You were perfect. Instead of killing you, he made sure you got pregnant. During the pregnancy, you kept seeing traces of him, found little gifts from the stranger who featured in your nightmares ever since.

You weren't stupid. You found out quite quickly that your clown is in fact the much sought-after murderer who comits the most horrible crimes under the name of Art. You have seen what he is capable of and dive into the archives researching him and his crimes. He seems to survive everything.

When the ultrasounds show you a distorted baby with no heartbeat, you know that you carry true evil inside of you. But getting rid of it is no option, as you can't kill what already seems to be dead. With no other fate, you have no option but to birth the monster's child. How you will handle things after, however, that is something you can influence. You will do anything in your power to survive. ~~

[coupleofdays]

One of the most interesting Lovecraft stories is the time he participated in a round-robin with some other pulp authors, the story being called "The Challenge from Beyond". Lovecraft's part of the story is about a guy who finds himself on an alien planet, and then in a typical Lovecraft twist, his part ends with the guy looking in a mirror and fainting when he discovers that his mind has been put in the body of one of the centipede-like aliens. This could be a fairly typical ending to a Lovecraft story. What's interesting is what happens next, when his old buddy Robert E. Howard writes the next part. This is how his part begins:

"From that final lap of senselessness, he emerged with a full understanding of his situation. His mind was imprisoned in the body of a frightful native of an alien planet, while, somewhere on the other side of the universe, his own body was housing the monster’s personality.

He fought down an unreasoning horror. Judged from a cosmic standpoint, why should his metamorphosis horrify him? Life and consciousness were the only realities in the universe. Form was unimportant. His present body was hideous only according to terrestrial standards. Fear and revulsion were drowned in the excitement of titanic adventure.

What was his former body but a cloak, eventually to be cast off at death anyway? He had no sentimental illusions about the life from which he had been exiled. What had it ever given him save toil, poverty, continual frustration and repression? If this life before him offered no more, at least it offered no less. Intuition told him it offered more—much more.

With the honesty possible only when life is stripped to its naked fundamentals, he realized that he remembered with pleasure only the physical delights of his former life. But he had long ago exhausted all the physical possibilities contained in that earthly body. Earth held no new thrills. But in the possession of this new, alien body he felt promises of strange, exotic joys."

From what I've seen on Tumblr, I think there are some folks here who would appreciate Howard's sentiment.

[mylordshesacactus]

VERY soft about my girl Atri tonight tho.

She's a little baby cleric, nineteen, level 2 and one of those is in ranger, raised in a cloister, never been more than a day's travel from her home temple before, but her devotion to the Raven Queen is very real and very very tender.

We're running Death House as the optional intro to Curse of Strahd (so, spoilers if you're avoiding those!) and just. God, I'm so glad I decided to play my girl in this campaign, it's perfect for her.

Atri's defining character trait is that she loves the undead--truly and genuinely, even the mindless or vicious undead, because by their very nature the undead suffer. They're trapped--sometimes in prisons of their own making, yes, but trapped--and, worst of all, very few people seem to care. Even other clerics of her Lady generally view undead as abominations; to be pitied, maybe, and the peaceful ones treated with kindness, but objects of revulsion, an aberration of the natural order, something to be purged.

Atri says: The undead aren't abominations. Necromancers are.

In her world the Goddess of Death makes a promise: All chains are broken. Death means an end--no more joy and memories but no more suffering, no more fear, no more loneliness or pain. No matter what, or what you did in life, bad or good--death ends it. No one can hurt you, and you can't hurt anyone else.

Necromancy breaks that promise. It gives cruel spirits the ability to continue harming others when they should be past all chance of it, and it allows the innocent to continue to suffer. Spirit-binding is an obscenity--you cannot command a soul. No one has that right.

Which means this module has been, just...I couldn't design a scenario to better let Atri shine.

It says a lot about her that, having more than established that the lady of the house murdered her husband and his pregnant paramour using fucked-up necromancy and her vengeful spirit appears to still be around, Atri's response was...to gulp, light incense in her censor, and walk a slow circle around the room, calling out politely to the Lady Elizabeth and offering her some understanding--you must have been very hurt, and very angry. Your husband disrespected you in your own home, and that was wrong of him. I'm sorry you were betrayed that way. Will you talk to me? I'm Atri, Order of the Broken Chain, I'm here to help...

(It says a lot about her, also, that she made no further attempt at reconciliation after finding what she did to her victims. Compassion doesn't mean forgiveness. She just...lit the incense again, called out to what was left of Klara, and very very softly apologized. You were taken advantage of--whether you felt that way or not. And then you were hurt very badly by your employer. They shouldn't have done any of it...I'm sorry. Someone should have helped you...)

The party in and out of character has been pushing Atri to the forefront to do the talking-to-ghosts bit. She's had some lovely, lovely tender conversations with Klara and the kids, telling them how sorry she is, that she and her friends are here to help them...she cut the bindings on the bed where Klara was tortured to death, just as a gesture that might bring her spirit some closure. Broken chains, a promise kept too late. Recited full funerary rites over what was left of the poor woman's body.

Just feeling VERY soft that while we DID ask them important questions about the plot, 90% of Atri's conversations with ghosts in this house haven't been about mystery-solving; they've been about slowly, gently, prying free some of the pain that's kept them trapped in the place just as much as the fucked-up necromancy.

If Atri dies in this prologue, calling it now it'll be because she's not gonna run if it means leaving anyone behind.

[diegowife]

Guts ( Millennium Falcon / Fantasia Arc)

Guts As Your Boyfriend SCENARIO

A Bit Yandere ¿

Contains MANGA SPOILERS

( REMINDER! ) This is NOT connected with the Golden Age Arc ( Part 1 ).

Part 1 : Pre-Eclipse

• During the relationship, Guts displayed a noticeable lack of enthusiasm and was not particularly talkative. Moreover, he struggled with maintaining lasting romantic connections and admitted to being less than proficient in this domain. His discomfort with ongoing intimate interaction was evident.

• You remain the most significant individual in Guts' life despite the tranquility he experienced while being in your presence.

• Demonstrating his dedication to you, physical contact emerges as the foremost and conspicuous means. Whether through gentle caresses on the head, tousling of your hair, or embracing you from behind, he conveys his affection.

• Despite this fact, when you suddenly embrace him, he may become somewhat bewildered. This could be attributed to the limited experience he had in receiving hugs or displays of affection during his childhood.

• When it comes to processing his emotions or receiving honest declarations of love, he tends to struggle and demonstrate rather unfavorable behavior.

• A favored and swift gesture of Guts is to place tender kisses upon your forehead. Whether in departure or amid a battle with an apostle, this affectionate act brings him joy. The sensation of his lips lightly caressing your warm forehead is also cherished by him.

• Despite being somewhat lacking in terms of kissing skills, he thoroughly enjoys receiving hugs. He finds them particularly necessary, especially during instances when he is actively experiencing a terrifying nightmare or being persistently pursued by a relentless entity within his dreams.

• Insecurity often plagues Guts due to the loss of his right eye and left arm. He is unable to fully perceive your majestic presence with both his eyes, nor can he embrace or cuddle you effectively without his left arm.

• “Never would I be able to cease gazing upon you if my right eye still remained with me...”

• “If there's a way where I could restore my left arm, I would gladly hug you ceaselessly throughout the day, causing you to struggle for breath.”

• In return, the way you indulging him as the little spoon brings him great delight, with little regard for his characteristics or the absence of other features.

• Furthermore, Guts took great pleasure in observing you as you compared your tiny hands to his own. He playfully mocked your stature and expressed his hopes for you to surpass him in height.

• “What a midget. Can you at least grow an inch taller than me?”

• Guts' sleep patterns are usually limited to daytime hours. His neck bore the scars of brands, haunting him with nightmares and causing him to experience PTSD, thus preventing him from obtaining decent rest at night.

• In one of his nightmares, the idea of you abandoning him fills him with revulsion. It seems as though you continuously eluded him or attempted to break free from his clutches, further intensifying his aversion.

• In the same way, his greatest fear resides in the idea of you betraying him, much like his closest companions once did. The notion of placing excessive trust in you fills him with dread, as he is haunted by the possibility of another act of betrayal.

• In his affection, he will always perceive and observe you without any apprehension towards his own well-being. Hence, he continues to regard you as reliable and unproblematic.

• “In this vast world, where thousands of humans and apostles reside, you stand out as an exception. Can I assume that you won't follow the same path as everyone else, will you?”

• When the moment arrived to present a gift, he would frequently seek Schierke and Farnese for suggestions.

• Subsequently, an inventive notion would emerge from their minds, wherein Guts would grant you a mystical stone conjured by the magical abilities of Schierke.

• Upon receiving the stone, Guts couldn't suppress his smile of admiration at witnessing your appreciation for the gift he had bestowed upon you.

• The stone's discovery, he would deceive you about it.

• “It seems that you quite enjoyed it, didn't you? I must say I am pleased about it. If only I could accumulate it further and present it to you...”

• Observing him smile is a rare occurrence, but the subtle curvature of his lips, exclusively directed towards you, instantly sparks a sensation of being uniquely valued.

• Puck, the mischievous little companion, often draws attention away from Guts, igniting feelings of envy within him. Guts' emotions are further aggravated as Puck relishes in mocking him.

• In light of Guts persistently taunting and repeatedly demanding Puck's silence, this can be perceived as an act motivated by revenge from Puck.

• “Y/n, don't waste your time talking with that little shit.”

• “Pardon me! What was that name you just referred to me as, Mr. Nuts The Madman!?” Puck raised his voice, crossed his arms, and averted his gaze.

• Guts also possess a great deal of jealousy towards the excessive concern and care that Serpico, Schierke, and Farnese exhibit towards you. They frequently inquire about your well-being and assume responsibility for your welfare during illness.

• Considering that you don't have any abilities and are just a regular human being... that Guts will protect from the bottom of his heart.

• Isidro, in a similar fashion, will express admiration towards you and persistently request Guts for permission to marry you. Consequently, Guts will proceed to discipline Isidro by subjecting him to a time-out, wherein Isidro will be securely bound to a tree and left undisturbed.

• “Guts! Are you kidding me?! Y/n, help me!!!”

• “Tch serves you right, puny little runt.”

• Furthermore, Guts is a person who tends to overanalyze situations. Whenever he witnesses you feeling upset or, in the worst-case scenario, crying, he will instinctively attribute the blame to himself.

• Your tears are a complete turn-off for him, as they evoke memories of his childhood. Essentially, every aspect of your presence resonates with his youthful past.

• Initially, his curiosity will be piqued upon witnessing you have emotionally broken as you steadfastly decline any form of communication or elucidation with him.

• When he saw tears streaming down your face...

• It will constantly trigger him.

• Perpetually shattering is his heart whenever the thought of it crosses his mind; he holds the belief that he is a disappointment to his late father.

• When witnessing his lover's tears, can the blame be placed on him?

• In the depths of his thoughts, there has been no solace bestowed upon him by anyone. Absolutely nobody. He was firmly deserted, bereft of any companionship.

• In what manner should he navigate people's emotions? It has become customary for him to observe civilians experiencing breakdowns due to the apostle's destruction of their villages.

• In due course, hesitantly drawing you nearer, he envelops you with his arms around your waist and rests his chin atop your head. Subsequently, he proceeds to wipe each tear gently and ensures no remnants are remaining.

• Guts remains indifferent to whether or not you wish to explain to him. It is of no importance to him if you choose not to share or release your emotions.

• To ease your mind, Guts will grant you a portion of a gift he presently possesses once you have settled down.

• "Don't be sad. Take a look at this jewelry that was generously bestowed upon me by Farnese. They serve as a token of appreciation for my courageous role as one of her esteemed warriors."

• After the development of the Berserker Armor, Schierke takes extra precautions to prevent Guts from approaching you in any way. Moreover, she emphasizes the importance of keeping a distance.

• In the presence of your company, Guts harbors a fear of relinquishing control over his Berserker Armor. It is a concern that at any given moment, he may impulsively obliterate you without allowing rational thought to guide his actions.

• Ordinarily, Guts would have an intense anger when an apostle approached and attempted to separate you from him. Ultimately, he would slaughter the vile creature with a single blow of his sword.

• With every moment you drift off to sleep, he is fully conscious of observing each contour of your body. Also, with utmost certainty, he would ensure your safety and prevent anyone from causing harm or separating you from his presence.

• Observing your intense shivering, Guts' left eye widened, prompting him to remove his cloak and tenderly envelop you within its comforting fabric.

• Furthermore, he longed to recline beside you and experience the comforting sensation generated by the warmth emanating from your physique.

• In his dreams, he is filled with fear that if he snuggles up to you, apostles will come after him. Consequently, he may inadvertently unleash his Berserker Armor, losing control over it. This poses a risk of unintentionally harming you while you are asleep.

• While you peacefully doze, he exhibits his capability solely in the gentle stroking of your hands.

• Without your knowledge, he will softly utter something inaudible.

• “I love you, although you can't hear my words right now...”

• “I'll be with you... for eternity.”

Thank you so much for reading !

Sorry if there are any terrible grammar mistakes. English is not my first language.

;(

[waltwhitmansbeard]

Perc'ahlia Week Day 1: Dawn/Treasure

happy first day of @percahliaweek! you will also find all of my fics for this week on ao3!

The youngest de Rolo child screams her way into the world right at dawn, but she herself is the color of sunset. Of blood. Of a heart, beating and alive. The birthing suite is quiet, except for the miserable squalls of the newborn. The midwife, the same one who ushered in all of the child's elder siblings, holds her, eyes wide, unsure of where is the least improper place to be staring right now.

Pike is the one to break the spell. "Well, get her cleaned up!" The bite in her tone jolts the midwife into action. She scuttles to the basin of water that Keyleth has been keeping warm. While they clean the baby of the detritus of her birth, Pike lays her hands on Vex's arm. A golden light flickers across Vex's sweat-slick skin, and the exquisite aches of childbirth all but disappear.

Leaving Vex with little to think about but her tiefling daughter.

She looks first to Pike, a holy woman, a friend, for wisdom, for salvation, but Pike can offer nothing but a gentle pat on the arm and an encouraging smile. Keyleth is the one who brings the baby over, all clean and swaddled in a lavender blanket that clashes horribly, and when Vex looks to her, she finds scarcely-concealed panic.

"She's beautiful," Keyleth murmurs, nestling the baby into Vex's arms, which reach up automatically, without conscious thought. She wonders if Keyleth's lying. She was never very good at it—but then, she's been in politics for a while now. Maybe she's learned a thing or two.

It isn't until the baby's round cheek presses into Vex's chest, until the tiny, grasping fingers latch onto the end of her fraying braid, until her heart claws its way to lodge in her throat, that she looks up at Percy. How many years has she known this man, how many ways has she pulled back his layers to see into the heart of him—shouldn't she be able to see the tears in his eyes and know if they are tears of joy, of revulsion, of love, of fear? For years they've been able to read each other's thoughts with nothing more than a glance; are they even in the same room?

His hand is clenched white-knuckled around the poster of the bed, as if it is the only thing keeping him upright. (Maybe it is.) His eyes are locked on the baby, on the jerky movements of her arms, so new, so unsure. Vex watches him watch her, and she doesn't know what to say.

"Why don't we..." Keyleth trails off, nervous and hesitant, but Pike finishes the thought with, "...let you have some time?" The two of them usher the baffled midwife out, and then they are alone.

The baby gurgles. Vex tears her eyes away from Percy to see her tug with that mysterious baby strength on the end of the braid. She really is beautiful, with a dusting of fine dark hair and a button nose.

"I didn't cheat on you."

The words are out before Vex can think about them. They're answered with a loud, shaky exhale and a croaked, "Fucking hell, Vex'ahlia."

Her eyes snap to his. "I didn't."

He's looking at her like she herself just sprouted horns. "Are you operating under the assumption that I believe you did?"

Oh. His face is entirely unreadable, the phases of some inner turmoil happening too quickly for her mind, exhausted after a long night of labor, to make sense of. "I...how do you explain..."

"Vex..." He runs a tired hand over his face, and for the first time, Vex sees the age that Percy tries to hide from her. She's reminded of the fact that while he certainly did not expel an entire person from his body today, he did, at the very least, stay awake with her through the agonies of the night, hold her hand and wipe the sweat from the brow as her body contorted in its familiar dance to bring another de Rolo into this castle. He perches on the edge of the bed facing her, brings his long, delicate fingers up to toy with the minuscule feet hidden beneath the swaddle. "Vex, I did this."

She frowns. "I don't think that's how this works, darling."

He smiles. "It is when you make a deal with a devil."

All of the breath leaves her. She hasn't thought about that in ages, the contract that sits beneath the castle in a vault, never to be seen again. All these years, it was so easy to believe that they'd gotten off scot-free, that the follies of their youth had exacted all of the tolls to be exacted.

Yet here she is, holding her baby girl, bright red as a devil. She trails her fingers over her tiny head, and she can feel them, twin bumps where someday, horns will grow.

In these earliest moments of day, when the first golden rays promise all of the potential of what is to come, there is a choice to be made. Vex knows that whatever is said next will forever change the future of this girl, this marriage, this family, this city. There is a choice to be made, and for her, it is no choice at all.

"She's perfect."

She juts her chin out, looks to her husband in challenge. She dares him to say something, to disagree with her assessment of their child. He doesn't, of course, because Vex knows he doesn't have it in him to reject anything they've made together. His fingertips, so wonderful at handling the tiniest, most delicate things with care, brush along their baby girl's cheek, and she lets out a small cry. He grins a grin as bright as the Dawnfather's sun. "Our greatest treasure. Brighter than any jewel in our coffers."

"And anyone who suggests otherwise will face our wrath."

"Swift and exacting."

"We'll need to get out ahead of the rumors."

"I'll bet you all the gold in the castle that Keyleth has already threatened the midwife within an inch of her life."

"Only if Pike hasn't done it first."

"We have the best of friends."

"Mm, we really do." She sighs. "Do you think the other children will..."

Percy slides over so they're sitting shoulder to shoulder, both gazing at the baby in her arms. "Tease her?" Vex nods. "Well, they are your children..." He's not quick enough to evade the pinch to his ear. Laughing, he says, "I think that we are far from perfect parents, but that we've done our best to raise our children to be good, kind, empathetic people, with a near-pathological instinct to protect their own. So I'm not worried, no."

She tips her head onto his shoulder. It is dawn, but she is so very tired. "She really is a treasure, Percy."

A kiss as familiar as her own name is pressed into the crown of her head. "As are you. The greatest prize a de Rolo ever claimed."

She wrinkles her nose. "Okay, first of all, you didn't claim me—"

And he shuts her up with a kiss, and she lets him, because a new day is dawning for the de Rolo family, because she is holding their child, because she loves him, because she is happy, she is happy, she is happy.

[storiesbyrhi]

Rhi! Serial killer fic!?

Yeah dude! I had this idea of Reader getting involved with a serial killer (probably Billy) but then Eddie (also a killer) finding her. It's going to be weird and messy and Dead Dove. I have some of it on paper, but more of it in my head.

A little snippet below the cut. Proceed with caution. Happy holidays.

The good thing about having such a limited range of emotions, is that jealousy wasn’t usually one of them. You didn’t care that other people experienced gleaming joy and shocking fear and bleeding empathy. Pride. Loneliness. Awe. Frustration. Passion. Revulsion. It all looked very ugly and inconvenient and boring. Having a baseline of consistent apathy, however, did mean that whenever you did happen across a feeling, it stuck in your memory too well.

Take that rare jealousy, for example. You could count on one hand the number of times you’d felt sickly green. In second grade, Tilly Jean and Liam Beaumont got into a fight over a particularly nice blue pencil. It had a cloud shaped eraser on the end. Tilly ripped the pencil from Liam’s hand and stabbed him through the cheek with it. Of course, it was void of sinister intentions. Both children screamed and cried and were traumatized for life. You, though, were jealous that Tilly knew how it felt to maim.

When you were twelve, a girl from the next county over escaped her kidnapper after three months captive. Mary Barber was sixteen and brave, going on the news to tell the kidnapper that although he’d fled before the cops could track him down, she was unafraid of him. She told the newscaster that he’d tied her up and called her ‘Princess.’ You were jealous that the man had thought Mary was special. Weren’t you just as special? Couldn���t you make a better Princess?

More recently, you’d been on autopilot at the age of twenty-three. When all the other girls that worked the checkouts at Walmart asked if you wanted to go out for drinks, you’d feigned flattery and accepted the offer. The way you smiled at Kelly May when she asked on behalf of the group made her stomach flip. Too many teeth, she thought. You’d stretched your mouth too wide, too happy. Something was wrong with you, she thought.

When she confided in the others about how your weirdness made her uncomfortable, they told her that being a high school bitch was so outdated. It’s the 90s now, one of them said, being a little strange is, like, in.

A pub crawl ended in a club that played four different remixes of Madonna’s Vogue in a row, resulting in you hiding in the bathrooms, fighting the urge to pick up a teeny tiny coke spoon off the filthy tiled floor and use it to burst your eardrums. When you finally emerged, finding the Walmart girls all in a tizzy, you noted the absence of Kelly May Lewis and subsequently participated in a messy search for her.

A jogger tripped over Kelly May’s mutilated body seven days later.

The jealousy punched air out of you and you called in sick for the first time in four years. Of course, of course, your manager said, you were her friend… You were with her that night.

You never could work out if you were jealous of Kelly May or the thing that took her while everybody was voguing.

[tanoraqui]

Trick or treat!

(Ongoing notes for the unwritten further installments of Maker’s Marks)

Haldir: [saying some shit about blindfolds]

Celebrimbor: Is this seriously how kin are treated in Lothlorien now? Absolutely not. I nearly just fought a balrog. I’ll fight Celeborn myself. Let’s just go.

[idk how the intro conversation goes, actually. It’s about the Oath, mostly. Elrond forewarned her. She’s SO sarcastic, but sympathetic]

I get 3 conversations with Galadriel probably? Fairy tale rules

1. Celebrimbor: STAR-GLASSES? THREE OF THEM? Why and h o w?

Galadriel: Idk if I should tell you?

Celebrimbor: [about to shout in offended craft-elf; catches himself and deflates sadly]

Galadriel: Jk! I asked.

Celebrimbor: You…asked.

Galadriel: I was trying desperately to make just 1 for Celebrian and Elrond’s wedding, I hadn’t rested in 4 days, and I ended up just singing a request to Eärendil directly to send some down. Between us, we managed to build a temporary bridge and channel it in.

Celebrimbor: . . .

(Celebrimbor: So, Arwen…Luthien’s Choice, huh…

Galadriel, with the tone of a loving, proud grandmother who has been told off on exactly this subject: Elros’s Choice, I think)

2. Celebrimbor: [resting his head in her lap, either kneeling or length-wise, grieved beyond tears]

Galadriel, stroking his hair: Elrond said you were doing…better than this.

Celebrimbor: Elrond understands the pain of loving a monster. I was already accustomed to that. But Elrond is too young for… It’s all gone. Artanis, it’s all- Two thirds of the Greenwood is dead. Númenor is fallen. Lindon is a ghost. Our Eregion is barren. Even Khazad-Dum is dark! Shadows of regret indeed we are. Was it all for naught? Was it all for naught?

Galadriel: You have missed a great deal of joy as well as grief in your time away - much of which Elrond has known as well, Tyelpë. Do not think him unwise just because he didn’t know the bright dreams we once held, as candles against the Darkness! But…yes. Yes, we are all fading, even the dwarves and ents and halflings with us, and what dreams we have not achieved on these shores will not be achieved at all - not by us, at least. A second race cometh after, remember! I think you will like the new Minas Tirith. But that…is that. And maybe that’s okay.

Celebrimbor accuses: You don’t actually believe that.

Galadriel: . . .

3. Celebrimbor is drawn sharply to the balcony one night just before they leave, not sure at first what has woken him - until he realizes Nenya, previously just out of sense, is screaming in revulsion and longing and there is a storm building elsewhere in this haven, bright and beautiful and it threatens to twist all the wards into its hurricane scream of defiance at all who would tame it, be they long-fallen burning eyes or glorious, righteous, distant powers or maybe Eru himself. Celebrimbor thinks he should reach out but no, this is not his to interfere with, and he’s not sure he has the defenses against it anyway—

Far quicker than it had built, it stops. Nenya is gone again. The Girdle of Galadriel turns away a distant, burning glare like a hand brushes a fly off her shoulder.

Celeborn, unnoticed beside him, releases a breath. He, too, is holding himself back from reaching out to Galadriel, afraid and understanding, but he weeps with relief.

“She passed her test,” Celebrimbor says, reassurance for both of them.

“Yes.” Celeborn dries his eyes. “Indeed, I fear that when your work is done, she will be more eager to go than I. I…do not know that I can leave these trees yet.”

[betinh3]

New headcanos about the fusions!

Basically it's the way each child refers to their parents, even if most don't consider them their parents.

In the case of Revulsion, Hatred, Loathing and Nostalgia. They consider the emotions that gave birth to them to be their parents. Others do not consider them because they are not the result of a romantic relationship(In the case of this parallel universe).

Revulsion and Hatred calls their parents like:

Mum(Disgust).

Papa(Fear).

Dad(Anger)

Loathing even though she recognizes them as her parents, she doesn't like a lot of intimacy so...

Mom(Disgust).

Dad(Fear).

Old man(Anger).

Melancoly was always very close to her two mothers, and never had any problems expressing his love:

Mom(Joy).

Mama(Sadness).

Now about the other fusions, they normally call the main emotions by name or just mother/father. But we have special and funny cases like:

Surprise calls Joy an old lady.

Justice, to provoke anger, calls him an old man.

Intrige uses "Madam" to refer to disgust and joy, to sound mature lol.

Betrayal doesn't like to refer to anger and sadness as father and mother in any way(as if he were a child of separated parents).

Self-loathing thinks she has no right to call Disgust Mom because of her low self-esteem, so she calls Disgust "Miss".

[yama951]

Red Ringbearer

A bit of an expansion on the whole 'Halfa Jason being Danny's Red Knight with time travel shenanigans' idea. Got a bunch of other stuff mashed up in the idea and world building as well. The name is still tentative.

--------------------------

“The Infinite Realms, and the very mess that is the multiverse with all its timelines, realities, universes, and dimensions, rested upon the unintended consequences of the beings we call the Firstborn. The Firstborn were quite literally the first sentient beings that ever existed, formed sometime between what you would call the Bathwater Epoch, some fifteen million years after the Big Bang, and the formation of the first stars in the universe, some hundred million years after the Big Bang.” Clockwork said as he captivated Danny with images of space, of the universe at grand scales. Out of all the stuff becoming the High King of the Infinite Realms has given him, cosmic history with Clockwork remained a favorite.

Sure, it was more class but Danny wanted to be an astronaut when he was young, so space remained one of the captivating subjects when it ever popped up in class.

“The Firstborn were the first to master magic, science, nature, technology, any field they set their minds on. One of the things they figured out was essentially creation out of nothing. The creation of the multiverse was an accidental side effect of their actual goal, which is essentially setting up an artificial afterlife with specially designed mental copies to allow the continuation of consciousness after the death of their physical forms.”

When Danny later told that to his friends, Tucker was at awe at the very idea.

“You’re telling me the Firstborn accidentally created the multiverse as a side effect of making an afterlife for themselves! It’s like us creating the Internet only to find out we accidentally created worlds with life in them, like... like… Tron or Digimon!” Danny recalled the tone of disbelief.

“They even created their own gods, based on their philosophies. We call them Entities, the first Ancients though they sleep yet still dreaming. They are, for all intents and purposes, the foundations of the Infinite Realms, and so all realities and all peoples are influenced by them on some level. Known as the Five and Two, the Five Base Emotions and the Two Aspects of Existence. The Rage represents all anger in existence but is also about making things fair. War and justice are domains given to it in the passing of time, as well as an association with the color red. The Anguish represents all sadness but also acts as the keeper of memory. The Revulsion represents disgust but also focuses on good health. The Terror represents fear but also safety and preservation. The Ecstasy represents joy but also pleasure. Meanwhile, the Two Aspects are opposite yet complimentary and both are necessary as too much of one side is unhealthy. There is the Self, the inward focused aspect, the power behind all left-handed magics, techniques, and methods, and thus seen as a malevolent by some, yet it is the power of the Self, the I, that allows boosts of power, self-worth, even godhood when strong enough. It is the power behind our cores. The power to look at reality and proclaim that reality is what one makes of it. The excess of the Self results in a sociopathic solipsism, the mindset that nothing else is real except the individual. Its opposite is the Wheel, the Web, the World, the outward focused aspect, the power behind all right-handed magics, techniques, and methods, and thus seen as benevolent by some. Empathy and understanding are said to be its gifts but an excess of the Web typically results in complete dissolution. Some say it’s fully passing on; others say they become one with existence. Nirvana is another explanation.”

Clockwork turned to face Danny, both to check if he was listening to the lecture and to see if the Crown and the Ring has attuned to him. With a snap, floating portraits of various high rulers appear, circling around the two.

Danny looked at the first portrait he saw and read the writing on the floating plaque below it.

A painting of a ghostly woman in a blue mourning robe and shawl with rivers of tears flowing from her eyes. The crown floated above her in a crown shaped water bubble while the ring rested on her finger. A sense of melancholy and despair seemed to emanate from the painting.

High Queen Allie Hambra, the Queen of Tears, the Halfa Monarch of the Fallen Kingdom of Hope’s Light, wearing the Crown of Water and the Ring of Anguish

“The Crown of Authority and the Ring of Emotion are not just the symbols of office as the high king. The history of the Infinite Realms has numerous dynasties, interregnums, figurehead rulers, ruling councils, and even democratically elected rulers of various kinds. But not all of them attuned to the two and gain true authority to rule. The Crown will shift to fit your core’s element, while the Ring will require the agreement with one Entity. The Coronation and the Investiture.”

Danny glanced at another painting.

A painting of a being of shadow with glowing white eyes posed in a rather rigid and subtly unnatural manner. The crown floated above him, darker than the darkness surrounding it, while the ring rested on his finger, glowing a white like his eyes with some hint of yellow. A sense of fear, dread, and anxiety emanated from the painting.

High King Oz, the Terror’s Awaken Mind and Avatar, wearing the Crown of Shadows and the Ring of Terror

Clockwork glanced at the painting with a cryptic smile.

“Some idiot thought awakening an Entity would make them high monarch during a long interregnum period. The Terror King ruled the Infinite Realms in a reign of fear, anxiety, and dread. Ironically, he did nothing that resulted in such fear. The Entity himself was quite an anxious ditherer and it was more of an effect of his aura than anything he commanded. He had to be sealed away lest the other Entities wake up and unintentionally destroy the Infinite Realms and thus the multiverse. He’s currently living through a couple of time loops in California, living out his young adult-ish high school years. Not your California, another reality’s California though there’s probably a version of him in your California. The need for multiple vessels to house its power and all.”

Danny turned to look at Clockwork, wondering if he was serious or if he was joking. Clockwork’s face kept the enigmatic smile. Danny then turned to the painting of the first High Monarch of the Infinite Realms.

The painting itself was rather bare and minimalist. A translucent humanoid figure, almost like a featureless mannequin if it were either see through plastic or a jellyfish, wearing a white priestly mantle of sorts. The being has two visible cores, which made it look like a humanoid single celled organism of sorts. The one in its head was the living core while the one in its chest was the ghost core. Above it was the crown in its base non-elemental form, looking like glass or crystal, while on its finger was the ring in the same simple style though glowing white. Danny chuckled to himself at how much it looked like a lantern ring.

High Technician Ah’Ou, Founder and Creator of the Infinite Realms, First Among Equals among the Council of Ontological Technologies, Former Acting Director of the Department of Applied Theology, wearing the Crown of Authority and the Ring of Emotion

“Now Danny, are you prepared for the Coronation ceremony?” he asked after a pause.

Danny groaned.

“Yeah, yeah, everyone’s getting ready for the formalities and ritual.”

“The Council of Observants were adamant in completing it once you had your Knight Protector chosen. The less legitimacy Pariah Dark has, the less likely the more opportunistic realms would try to instigate a rebellion.”

“I still can’t believe the eyeballs are technically the Realms’ ethics and oversight committee.” Danny groaned as he looked around at his lair. It grew a lot when he became the Crowned Prince by right of conquest in single battle.

He watched his parents organizing and decorating with their usual manic glee. Had he known his parents would have been mostly accepting of his half ghost state, it would have saved a lot of stress and trouble. Tucker was working on the tech side while Sam was focused on the plant decorations. They had to get a bunch of ice plants for the ceremony, to better attune the Crown with his ice core.

Wes Wilson was working with Tucker, focused on the camera work. The aspiring reporter grated on Danny’s nerves when he moved to Amity Park during Danny’s sophomore year, a wannabe Louis Lane of sorts if she was a bit of a conspiracy theorist. He later found out his secret and decided to help keep it secret from his side of the media.

Jazz was talking to Queen Dorothea on the invites, a soon-to-be certified ecto-psychologist, the first in her field. She had her parents and Vlad to thank for, being the subjects of her paper on ecto-OCD. Danny could imagine his sister’s voice, correcting him that it’s some technical psychology jargon and not ‘ecto-OCD’. Danny still can’t believe Vlad and his parents was in a weird love triangle mess of miscommunication for decades, that and dad revealing his bisexual love of Vlad when Danny accidentally outed himself to his parents. Lack of communication runs in the family, it seemed. Though in his dad’s case, it was more of a deeply religious and repressive upbringing, a family of monster hunters and grandfather being a self-proclaimed witch hunter and an ordained minister wasn’t really an environment to come out of the closet. Dad turned out to have turned his love for Vlad into a sort of Achilles and Patroclus relationship in his head. Still, a mess of a love triangle with incompatible orientations.

Vlad, in his ghost form, was inspecting the food selection with Dan, on probationary parole of sorts, and Daniella, still figuring out her own identity so her name tended to shift around, arguing over what food to serve. Danny could hear Dan’s shout of ‘no Nasty Burger’ during the argument. Walker, and Danny still can’t believe the ghost was his mom’s grandfather and a founding member of the GIW which explained the white suit look in all honesty, was there personally to keep an eye on Dan. Though the idea of him wanting to see his granddaughter and using Dan as an excuse for that was a possibility in Danny’s opinion.

A look outside at the training grounds, he saw Val sparring with Jay with Fright Knight acting as a sort of referee. Jay was the newest addition to the group. Fright Knight found him, trained him, and presented him to Danny as a candidate for his Knight Protector and Danny agreed after talking to the kid. He was still reeling with his post-mortem amnesia typical to those who died from violent deaths, Jazz’s words, when he was put through Frighty’s training regime. The kid was a natural at fighting though, and the comments of him being a street kid made Danny’s Obsession to ring with the need to protect the kid.

Danny let himself relax at the balcony, looking up at the stars of the night sky.

Except, the Infinite Realms doesn’t have a night sky full of stars. The ever-present swirl of ectoplasm was a memory of the universe before the formation of the first stars.

The starry night sky then moved, reformed into a familiar figure.

“Nocturn.” Danny said as he realized what was going on.

“Quite a pleasant dream, full of happy memories, my liege.” The ghost of dreams said with a slight bow.

“Ugh… I fell asleep during another council meeting, didn’t I?” Danny said as he rubbed his head.

“Of course. Nothing important was in the meeting so we let you get some needed sleep. Mostly updates on public and ruler opinion among the various realms from the Observants. Though rumors are beginning to spread on the missing Red Knight. A trickle for now but it can become a flood in the long run.”

“So, it’ll be a problem a century or two from now?”

“In the general public, yes. Those who knew of the Red Knight are asking questions, be it their curiosity or their worry.”

“Any news on Fright Knight’s quest then?”

“He is petitioning to go to the living realm to continue his search since his return. A complete formality, of course, if you deny him, he’ll simply use the knightly mentor loophole to go after his former squire he deemed as a traitor. A stain on his knightly honor to redeem.”

Danny sighed.

“I’ll make a list of people he’ll need to avoid then. Better some rules on what he’s going to do than nothing.” Danny said before he woke up.

He yawned as he grabbed the nearest stationeries, listing down as many supers he could think of for Fright Knight to avoid while the Observant was listing out the possible problematic rulers of the nth infinite set of realms should the current situation escalated. At least Danny has the rest of the council supporting him or he would have looked for the next person to give the crown and the three thousand plus years of accumulated paperwork to deal with.

Fright Knight was hoping for his petition to be denied as he looked at the list of names on the parchment he must avoid. Some of the names are whole groups like one called the Justice League, which meant that many cities are made into havens of safety for his former squire should the chase results in him fleeing into them, or Ancients forbid, haunting in one of those cities in the first place. The GIW, along federal buildings and organizations in the US, are also forbidden in his search for the missing Ring of Rage.

But he knew of things his liege likely wasn’t told of before his traitorous squire vanished with the Ring. The Red Knight told him of the flashes of memories he had of his life amongst the living. But the main thing that Fright Knight’s mind latched onto was the symbol the Red Knight placed upon his tabard and chest plate, a symbol he was adamant in keeping if modified to fit proper heraldic design, a robin with wings displayed and expanded in red.

Based on his information search in the Infinite Realms, the city of Gotham has a figure known as Red Robin but the city is under Batman’s protection, one of the people he must avoid in the list.

But an idea came to him and he began to laugh. Names have power. Names are masks. Fright Knight was told to avoid Batman, then the answer was simple. All he needed was some preparation and calling in some favors.

Jason Todd was destressing at one of those legal property damage places in Los Angeles. We went for a vacation then relatively recent events made him stay in LA for a longer vacation than planned. Honestly, he blamed the dark horse that was Trump winning the Republican candidacy against Lex Luthor. He doubted the Joker reforming and becoming Gotham’s legitimately elected socialist mayor and fixing things in the city would have happened under a Clinton or Luthor presidency. He hoped the Biden presidency would have made the Joker return to his old ways but the current political circus among the Republicans meant that the Joker doing a responsible job as progressive mayor was part of the punchline he’s going with. The thought of the Joker going scot-free with everything he did was fueling Jason’s pit rage at the injustice, at the unfairness, of it all.

Hence, redirecting it on smashing up trash and junk with a baseball bat.

Of course, Bruce had to go on a deep end and caused a zombie apocalypse trying to bring back his dead parents with glowing green plant goop that may as well be Lazarus water.

Jason smashed some fine chinaware at the thought with some extra smashes.

Bruce then allowed himself to be arrested, supporting rule of law or whatever, and ultimately had to reveal that he and Waynetech were secretly supporting the Justice League financially. The Joker had to publicly defend Bruce Wayne and Waynetech against the resulting right-wing vitriol while also making a comment about the rich and powerful not being trusted even with legal avenues to support the Justice League.

Jason stomped on a now broken microwave in rage. Enough that his foot went through the thing.

He blinked in shock at that as his foot should have been hurting from that but not a pinch of pain at all, even when he slowly raised his foot out.

He shook his head, putting it up on adrenaline, and left early.

On the way back to the hotel, a suddenly feeling of dread struck him, as if it were the distant ringing of church bells marking his funeral. In the cab, he found himself looking west, towards Gotham. Something wasn’t right and he needed to return. So, he packed up his stuff and ordered a ticket to Gotham, pit rage be damned.

On the way to the airport, he bumped to a strange kid. A rather lanky guy, young adult by the looks of him, wearing a yellow cardigan. The kid was giving off strong nervous energy as he kept on apologizing while picking up the fallen brochures for a pizza place yet somehow, despite it all, he was important to Jason. Which raised red flags in Jason’s head since he never met the kid in his life.

“Thanks. Vicky would have killed me if I lost all these.” The guy said with a nervous chuckle. “The name’s Oz, by the way. Ozymandias Phobius.”

Jason just grunted as Oz went to pat out the dust and dirt from his traveling bag.

“Stay safe by the way.” Oz whispered in a calm yet clear tone. “The knight has misplaced their retribution against you but you are not to blame. Keep the rage safe. Keep the ring safe, Jason.” Oz said as he stood back up. From his position, Jason realized that the guy wasn’t casting a shadow.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Have a safe flight back, Red Knight.” Oz said with a slight grin before a sudden gust of dusty wind made Jason cover his eyes. When the wind faded a second later, the guy was gone.

Jason made a mental note on that before he realized the time and went to the airport. He managed to catch his flight back to Gotham some minutes later.

[jamie-berrymoore]

Flame Spectrum

So like if Sky and Storm make Wrath Flames what about the other Emotions. At least I’m assuming is emotions and not Vices/Sins. Sky + Storm = Wrath Flames Sky + Rain = Sorrow Flames Sky + Sun = Joy Flames Sky + Lightning = Surprise/Alarm Flames Sky + Cloud = Revulsion Flames (Disgust Flames don't really fit, maybe Hatred or something) Sky + Mist = Fear Flames

Other things to consider Love Flames but I’m not sure what mix would make that. 

I know there’s an Ocean/Sea flame thing running around, too. That’s the basis for what I have, maybe someone else can add to this.

[jeaniesthots]

The Cursed Harlot

Written by: Andrea-Jean Roberts

To be a woman within society is to find yourself caught in the current of often obscene judgment and standards so out of reach, that one can only ever feel inadequate. I recently watched a very intriguing video “The Madness of Feminine Perfection, Explored through black swan” by the Final Girl Studio. This creator offered me such an eye-opening perception of femininity. Within our world, since as distant as we can collectively remember, women only ever were given two totems of reflection, the darling Madonna, pure and innocent, the essence of divine feminine, the perfect daughter and wife. Quiet and domestic. If you were someone who turned their back on societal normalities, maybe more boisterous, independent, or even more sexually liberated, you were given the unfortunate role of the Harlot.

  (To preface, both of these terms are rather impudent and dimwitted. I understand that even those who fall into the category of the “Madonna” are not even all that valued at times. Such women are often called prudish, boring, and stale. The same women who are idolized for their purity, are also shamed for it. I laughed while writing this because this all is just a joke. Women constantly fail to make men happy and it just amazes me how even when you're “good” you're not good enough.)

This deeply engrained dichotomy brought me to think more in-depth about not only my place within society but all transexual women. I look back on all my experiences, from virginal adolescence to a sexually liberated young woman, and have come to a startling observation. I never could have been the ideal Madonna. Prior to my full development, I shied away from men, from sex; mainly due to my lack of confidence and my own revulsion against my body. When I was 19 my world of sexuality finally broadened. However, this sort of thing soon was out of the grasp of my control. My newfound beauty and ambiguity catapulted me deep into a world of shadows and secrecy. Only at night time did I ever meet men, in hotel rooms or high-rise apartments, staring out at the sparking building of Manhattan, shy and timid, giving in to the only thing men ever wanted from me. Though many times part of me didn’t want to, I still did. Why? It was not out of fear or out of lack of power, but rather it was due to one simple thing, possibility. 

I felt, and many people who embody the feminine understand this, that if I gave up my body sexually, I would be desired emotionally. Julia Fox brought this up recently in a podcast, that sex often feels like the price we naively pay for companionship. But what all us dreadfully hopeful women realize, is that though we thought we gained, we unfortunately lost. 

Transwomen never have the opportunity to ever be anything other than the harlot. The promiscuous and shameful woman. The kind who men only want to sleep with and forget about until they are in the mood for their next sexual escapade. We succumb to lives where we realize the harshest reality of all. We will never be the dream girl. 

The world teaches young trans girls that you are an object of amusement, a toy for men. Pump your hips with silicone, carve that jawline, implant your breasts, dress slutty, talk dirty, all you are is a fuck doll; and from teenhood into adulthood, we face such cruel discrimination and betrayal, especially in the hands of men who desire us; maybe not us, but our bodies. We are hidden, hushed, and told to approach only when approached. Even in love, at times, we cannot escape this. We are the secret girlfriends, the melancholic night-time lovers. 

All we want is to be valued and seen for more than what we can sexually offer. We are women with minds and hearts, woes, joys, humor, and courage. The Whore is never an accurate description of who we are. If the world gave us a chance our ancestors would have never been in the alleys of the Meatpacking District. We would never choose to live a life of constant risk. The world told us we were shameful, the world pushed us into the outskirts. It's not an easy life we live. Within the soul of every transgirl is a survivor. They throw us into the wild, try to erase our existence, and diminish our humanity. Men invade our spaces, women spit in our faces, and at times even our community kicks us when we are already low. The thing that keeps us all going is hope, in the world and each other. We may not be sisters by blood but rather sisters by spirit. 

Aside from our value being seen, what most transwomen desire is peace. There are transwomen in this world who have it worse than others. Some don't have any family to cling to, some can't get any other work than sex work, some are verbally assaulted every day, and others have experienced violence of varying degrees; add our constant degrading in the media and the unstable state of our future, I can speak for all of us when I say we just want to be left alone. The path we walk is an exhausting one. Beyond the painted faces, perfect bodies, and glamorous attire, is a woman who just wants a break. Every day is not only a battle with the world, but with yourself, praying you don’t get clocked, fighting with your dysphoria, and hoping you make it home safely and alive. 

Often I ponder when our humanity will be restored from the world. 

Dear Trans Girl, 

you are worth all the love you desire, your space is well-earned in this world, you're not a freak or a pervert, you’re merely a woman who was gifted a deeper understanding of gender and sexuality, a traveler of the binary, a truly original human being. Your beauty is not defined by your breasts or your hips, by the softness of your voice or how well you pass, your beauty is energy that radiates and transcends time and space. Though it is not always easy, don’t waste your energy on men or people who cannot truly embrace the woman you are, whose shame attempts to dim your light. Don’t let the world make you bitter because you don’t fit into a life that the majority aren’t even content living. All will be well, just trust yourself and remember to remind yourself that you are and always will be worthy.

April 22nd, 2024

[denrath]

Find the Word + OC in Three

tagged by @verba-writing

ever so gently tagging: @teriwrites, @lovely-ashes09, @moondust-bard, + anyone who wants to

your words are: vibrant, poignant, waste, courageous, and deft

Find the Word

my words are: departure, bitter, starve, teeth, mistake, silence

a/n: unless stated otherwise, this will be a veldor's host blog lmfao

departure

Rowyn set the satchel aside and rushed to her mother. Her excitement, seeming abundant before, now quickly vanished at the sight of her sickly mother. 

This night, brimming with anticipation just moments ago, forced Rowyn to confront the harsh reality of her mother's impending departure. She knew this was the natural fate of the fae but struggled to accept it instantly in front of her mother. As Rowyn embraced the Lund-va, her mother's existence would fade away.

"Why shouldn't I visit?" she asked redundantly, clasping her Lund Mother's gold hand in hers—a hand warm and fuller with life. Her mother returned the grip tightly or as tightly as her frail strength allowed. To Rowyn, the grasp felt weak and shaky.

bitter

Rowyn curled over the counter, captivated, watching him kneed whatever concoction his mind cultivated that day. The enticing aroma of freshly baked bread wafted through the air, coaxing a faint growl from the depths of her stomach—a sound that reverberated audibly within the confines of the bakery.

Lukacs withheld his chuckle, gesturing towards a pristine loaf of rye with a long finger. "Help yourself, and afterward, tidy up in the back," he generously offered before issuing a command.

Without hesitation, she complied, savouring the delectable warmth of the bitter bread.

starve (from "the mentor")

But when I followed it here, I surmised a great dilemma. Spring was upon this village and its creatures. The rabbit was potentially a mother and a new one for young kits. To kill her would be to kill them. 

You are Litha, Harbinger of Flame. I told myself that a rabbit meant nothing in the scope of blood I spilled. I thought about how the kits would not be subject to the terrible world if their mother had no longer provided for them, and they would starve and die quickly.

Yet, in those moments of suffering, they would wonder why their mother had abandoned them, crying out to her in immature fear. 

Fear. Now that was an ugly word. 

teeth

Within the cavernous maw, rows of teeth, small and fish-like, crowded its gums, poised for consumption. Mavryk should have recoiled in visceral revulsion at the sight of the ugly thing, yet what he felt transcended mere repulsion—it was a primal dread, a sensation that crawled beneath his skin.

mistake

That is how he and the mortal were different. Lukacs was fae, and to him, as it were to all fae and folk creatures, after a long while, life was nothing but a prolonged day spent precariously settled in the mundane, waiting for the wandering. For Rowyn, it was a horribly beautiful experience. She told him once that his biggest mistake was thinking he had time. Lukacs supposed she would be correct if he believed time was remarkable.

But, alas, he did not, and the story remained unchanged.

silence

Adelbard's face contorted. "A child?"

"Of fae standard," Bertram agreed.

The aged man persisted, "I beheld her in her true form. A rune adorned her skin, winding around her shoulders and descending below her breasts. It unmistakably marks her—"

"Veldor's chosen vessel," Adelbard interjected.

The elderly man remained undisturbed; instead, a shared sense of joy lit up their expressions. In the post-war years, Adelbard had wondered if he would witness the emergence of the new queen. Now, that hope seemed tangible.

A renewed sense of purpose enveloped him.

Adelbard knelt at Zane Bertram's feet, grasping a free hand in both of his own. "What shall be my course, sir?"

Zane Bertram didn't hesitate. "Seek her out, Adelbard. She may be Fojikal's sole surviving hope. Stand by her side and restore justice to your kin. You are their successor."

Adelbard stood, his tone hesitant.

"Sir—"

Zane Bertram raised a hand, commanding silence. "You will not shred an ounce of concern for me. Bring her here. Only then, when I lay my eyes on her...shall I wander."

OC in Three

I've introduced Grettel in a tag like this previously. I've already introduced Adelbard and Rowyn on this blog. I want to introduce Ensel!

if you made it this far, you're a g <3

[areyougonnabe]

I have a follow up question which is What's Going On With Kathleen?

lol oh man. the real question is what ISN'T going on with kathleen

she was......... A Real Character that's for sure. interpreted in all sorts of bonkers ways by posterity because she refuses to fit into any sort of neat historical categorization as far as "wives of famous heroes" go. she was a strident anti-suffragist, loud in her universal hatred of other women, obsessive about maintaining her virginity amongst swarms of admirers in fin-de-siecle paris, determined to find a worthy father for her destined son, despite her occasional wishes she could have a son without marrying at all...

back to spufford, who wrote really wonderfully about kathleen:

She does not mind the election to muse and taskmistress; but she did not choose it, and again Scott has perhaps slightly misread her. The Woman One Must Strive For is a cartoon out of the male mind, and only approximates Kathleen. It is true that she plays up to it. It is true that she has something of the presenter of white feathers about her, blithely demanding bravery in circumstances her gender prevents her from experiencing. But her vicarious involvement in his polar life is more generous than that, and her emotions more detached from the public failure or success of the expedition than Scott imagines. Their marriage would not be ruined (as he sometimes fears) if he returned having failed to reach the pole, or (now his fears have coalesced into a Norwegian) having failed to beat Amundsen. The self-invented code she lives by has an eccentric stoicism as a main tenet. Nothing will be allowed to hurt enough to take the joy out of her life. When Scott moped once about the future, she had replied, in italics, 'I shall be happy whatever things happen and that is true!' She would contrive to be happy if he came home defeated; she would manage somehow to make it not matter; though whether he would be able to endure that particular demonstration of her self-sufficiency is another question.

in terms of the polycule chart, her connection to nansen comes from a set of historical letters between him and her that demonstrate certainly that he was in love with her, and that she felt something for him in return—but whether they actually consummated an affair is disputed. roland huntford, rolanding away, claims that clearly they obviously did, but wayland young (kathleen's son from her second marriage) was able to dispute that fairly easily based on evidence from the letters which huntford actively ignored.

but it's clear she had certain qualities which caused everything from obsession to revulsion to confusion in the people that she encountered. when she had to suffer the company of Hilda Evans and Oriana Wilson during the terra nova's time in new zealand it ended in violent fighting, with oates comparing the scene to a "Chicago slaughterhouse" with blood and hair flying everywhere. her overbearing presence during the loading of cargo annoyed the hell out of bowers. later, when cherry published Worst Journey, she took issue with Scott being described at times unflatteringly—despite Cherry's clear affection for him elsewhere in the book. this caused a fatal rupture in their friendship, which up until then had seen kathleen bringing her young son and many admirers (including nansen lol) to cherry's country estate.

anyway, that's about all i got, but there is a biography by her granddaughter louisa young which i have not read but is based partially on her diaries/autobiography, so if you want to know more about her you could start there!

[proudfreakmetarusonniku]

excerpt time? always. tw for abuse, murder, strangulation, and (platonic) possessive and obsessive behaviour.

Not listening. Not listening. Something about that tore at Tommy’s brain, until it fell apart at the seams, leaking locked-away Memories.

“Maybe you should join him then.” A fear and revulsion foreign to him, yet that feels natural. Anger that he knew should have been a part of him the second he felt it. Agony as his head was slammed into the stone again and again, hands around his neck squeezing ever so slowly, a cruel grin underneath a crooked mask. It’s Dream- he can barely recognise the expression on his face, sadistic and taunting and lacking the familial softness expected of a brother, and Tommy desperately tries to break free, and-

“Tommy. Don’t flinch away from me.” The Dream of his Memories and the Dream of now seemed so different, yet so hard to tell apart- now-Dream all honey where past-Dream was bitter, now-Dream calling himself a brother when past-Dream elicited such feelings of revulsion in Tommy he could still feel his stomach turning, but both having a look in their eyes that Tommy was never able to name before.

Possessiveness. That’s what it was. Not love, not whatever justification Tommy desperately tried to find as he curled up in bed at the end of a long day, bruised and beaten and utterly believing he was at fault for it. Whether Dream believed his own lies or not, it wasn’t love. It was obsession- looking at Tommy like he was not only the most precious thing, not person, in the world, but like he was his property.

That had seemed normal, too, belonging to Dream, but it couldn’t have been. Maybe belonging to people was normal, that Tommy wasn’t sure of, but he fucking knew, from that feeling that refused to stop clutching at his chest yet couldn’t apply to now-Dream even if he tried, he wasn’t Dream’s. They weren’t even friends in that past life, let alone family, and that meant Dream had lied.

And if he’d lied about being Tommy’s brother, what else could he have lied about?

Tommy tried to force his breath to keep steady. He couldn’t let Dream know that he knew he was lying. If he’d hurt past-Tommy so badly, so cruelly, with such joy, there was nothing stopping him from doing that again. Besides, Dream might’ve been a wrong’un, but he was all Tommy had ever known, apart from the vague flashes of faces in Memories. And he was always so nice. Well, until he wasn’t.

He didn’t know. It was all so fucking confusing. It would have been so much easier if he’d not had Memories at all, and then he wouldn’t have to know what Dream did to him was wrong. At least then things would make sense.