#his reality warping affects even his own body

[kaleidoru]

dream within a dream, lotus eater machine

[youryurigoddess]

The summer that was never supposed to end

You’ve probably noticed how in Good Omens 2 Crowley’s eyes are brighter, more saturated, as if glistening with liquid gold. We’ve already covered his hair. And it’s not only the visual aspect of him — even in objectively stressful conditions, Crowley appears mature and put together, way cooler and more protective than before. Even his faults are heavily romanticized in the past and present scenes, reminding of the S1 body swap, when Aziraphale projected his love to him on the way he played the demon in Hell.

It’s not just the demon. The whole season is more vibrant, bolder, filled with sunshine. Just like a summer that was never supposed to end. Like a memory of a loved one seen through the eyes of someone who thinks of them every day until the end of the world.

S2 seems ridiculously saturated, whimsical, and full of red and gold, just like a certain demon. Aziraphale not only painted his bookshop in his image, but literally colored the whole world in Crowley’s colors. It was such lush and saturated and blooming with warmth and hazy light.

It’s either that all the newest events are just another memory seen through a certain angel’s eyes, or said angel actively made it appear this way — as in, his feelings grew so strong that they’ve started to warp the reality around him. And it’s a well-known fact that Aziraphale has a tendency to affect his surroundings, either unconsciously, when his presence in the bookshop literally lightens up the sky seen through its windows, or very much consciously, when he takes over the position of a master puppeteer and manipulates people with or without the help of his miracles.

S1 was more dramatic and apocalyptic, but not particularly gray — at least not as much as the color grading typically used in portrayal of similar apocalyptic narratives. S2, at least as seen through Aziraphale’s own La Vie En Rose lens, is vibrant and saturated. And those colors drastically fade in the heavenly light of the elevator during the credits, suggesting that they won’t be as visible in the course of S3.

But I don’t want to ramble about the apocalypse sandwich and the three-act structure here, so let’s circle back to S2.

Good Omens 2 was really set in a summer that was never supposed to end. But it did, autumn crept in, and there was no chance of hearing the nightingales sing. They all had left by the time an angel and a demon finally kissed.

In the most literal sense: the very last nightingales usually migrate from the UK to their wintering grounds in Sub-Saharan Africa in the first days of September.

Aziraphale was right that nothing lasts forever — and the passage of time on Earth is marked by subtle details invisible to the immortal eyes.

The main thing about autumn migration is how sudden and hard to predict it is. The birds start disappearing gradually, often without notice, until at some point they are no longer here. Much like the angel leaves the bookshop — their shared nest — to spread his wings and fight.

And it was basically announced on the poster.

Can you see the migratory formation of birds up in the sky? It looks like Aziraphale is the last one to get off the ground and fly.

[museofthepyre]

Thinking abt Elijah and Jedidiah again, I’ve said a lot of it before, but I’m expanding here (finale spoilers btw):

I think Jeddie and Elijah were intentionally written to represent the opposing extremes of unhealthy love/ affection. It’s a symbolic parallel, they’re complete opposites in terms of attachment style… but they’re united in the fact that they’re both hurting Sydney (the subject of their feelings).

Jedidiah embodies cold, distant, withdrawn and purely behind the scenes love-

And Elijah embodies obsessive, love-bombing, all consuming and suffocating love.

Through this lens,

They both saw Sydney suffering and without consulting him (WITHOUT GIVING HIM A SAY!!!) took it upon themselves to help- but their fucked up perceptions of love lead their solutions to being… naturally… fucked up.

There’s even symbolism in the WAY they both tried to help (…had Sydney die).

Jedidiah wanted to end Sydney’s suffering. He would have Sydney die a lonely, cold, quiet death in the sterile environment of a hospital- then he’d bring him back in body, hoping that he’d return healthy again (the rose tinted memory of the old friend he loves)

Elijah wanted to end Sydney’s suffering. He would have Sydney die in a passionate roaring flame, surrounded by a crowd of feverous celebration- then he’d bring him back in spirit, hoping it’d bring him eternal peace and rest (the mirage of the deity-like figure he loves)

That is like the most blatant metaphorical representation of this whole thing imo. The mode of death represents their destructive love, and how it’s killing Sydney. Like, literally. But when it happens, they both wholeheartedly believe they’re doing this FOR Sydney, to “help” him.

AND THIS BRINGS ME TO MY OPINION ABT ELIJAHS INTENTIONS:

I’ve always interpreted Elijah as being entirely, legitimately convinced of everything he said. Like, through the lens of his own incredibly warped and distorted perception of “love”, he genuinely thought he was doing what was best for/ “helping” Sydney.

He had it in his head that he loved Sydney, none of that was a knowing lie, it was real to him— but his reality was… again, distorted.

And it’s written in a way which highlights how HORRIBLY UNHEALTHY that warped perception is. It mirrors how Jedidiah’s starkly contrasting ways are showcased as unhealthy, despite him too thinking that he was doing what was best for Sydney. Neither go excused, or sugar coated, the point being: to show how neither extreme is good.

Beyond their skewed actions,

They both wanted to resurrect a Sydney that didn’t exist. The Sydney Jedidiah wanted back had withered away,, Sydney’s sickness was more than physical, it had roots in his mind and memories. Jedidiah had left him feeling abandoned for so long that it’d take more than a simple reset to heal their rift. But he didn’t know how to do that, he didn’t know how to be close, and he was too wrapped up in his self- flagellation to actually break down the walls he’d built.

And Elijah’s version of Sydney was a total idolization. He was never self aware enough to realize he was a large contributor to Sydney’s suffering in the first place. He was too wrapped up in the thrall of his own delusions to realize how scary and confusing this all would be for Sydney. (I say delusions bc I think… they were/gen. Coming from someone who’s BPD-spawned delusions get similarly obsessive and convincing… I have a whole other tangent on this for another day)

This isn’t an Elijah apologist message btw, nor is it a Jedidiah apologist message— I just think this depth is an important part of the overall message- you can love someone and hurt them every second of it, if there’s no balance- a line between the two extremes!! I think we are seeing Jedidiah starting to find that line- he was actually listening to Sydney by the end of it all. Elijah… is still stuck in his head.

[ay0nha]

LIFE IS BUT A DREAM | SHANKS (OPLA)

SUMMARY: You had done unspeakable things, figuring it was an acceptable way to siphon your affection. You were young and blinded by false idolization. Shanks chose to see the best in you, even now, even after everything. He, too, was blinded by an image of you that hadn’t changed since you were young. 

PAIRING: OPLA!Shanks x f!reader (Gold D. Roger's daughter)

WORDS COUNT: 3K~

WARNINGS: canon-typical things, enemies to lovers, jail, talk of death and things related, morally grey reader, ANGST, RUSHED ending, flowery language, injuries, blood, murder, random ocs (aka fictional villains inserts), idk really what the plot is besides just straight angst lol, etc.

A/N: I got a couple of Shanks requests, so I combined them all as they were very similar. Thank you SO much to @wood-white-writer for inspiring my reader and helping me along, and @togenabi for entertaining my rambling! I'm begging you to go check out their fics because they are *divine*. Enjoy.

The waves that thrust against the coast lulled you into a meditative state. It made the time pass with uncertainty. Even the briny smell of the warm breeze cradled you in a way that pulled the weight from your shoulders. 

You never thought jail to be so idyllic. 

It was tempting to postpone your escape for a bit longer; there were only so many opportunities to stretch your spine and rest.  Yet, your left eye twitched, warning you your premonition was soon to be true. 

It was on the simpler side, a vision of dark shadows intentionally elusive. The bars that separated you from the world were bent, promising damage from the strength that wasn’t your own. You knew he was coming. It was sooner than you thought, but you learned long ago that your foresight would never be reliable.

It favored him over you. 

When you were younger, you thought you were crazy, seeing apparitions or former lives. However, as years passed, familiar faces began to fill your vision, showing truths you became excited to fulfill. But they became warped with opposing desires and reverberating fear wreathed with vindication. 

It made things sour and sore. It allowed trouble to seek you out just to be ill-prepared for your counter. It wasn’t bravery that energized you, nor was it skill.  Pure spite drove you to be the worst of all. 

“On your feet.”

The serenity you had slipped through your fingers like warm sand. The guard repeated his command, using force to pull at the chains connecting your limbs. You couldn’t help but smile at what he thought was a punishment. 

“Rumor has it, you’re hot shit.” The guard scoffed, voice echoing the dripping hallways.  The way he trailed your body exposed his lust.  “They’re not wrong by the looks of it…” 

The guard’s weak come-ons warbled in your ears like a white noise. You used the moment to fulfill a repeated daydream. That liminal space presented your strength as you pulled your chains around the guard’s neck until there was no longer resistance. 

The conversations were typically cyclical, feigned disinterest to disguise the anxiety your proximity created or those whose egos convinced they could charm you. You stopped paying attention to the rumors the more embellished they became. To some, you were a mercenary; to others, a frenzied psychopath.  

The only truth they held was how deliberately unrestrained you were willing to be. There was no rhyme or reason behind it; at least you were close to convincing yourself of that. Regardless, it had gotten you far, the only thing you’d even consider reliable. 

“You hear something?” The guard perked, pulling you harshly toward him. How brave of him to use me as a shield, you thought. Your attention returned when it sounded again, “Shit!— 

The bang was loud—time had bested you. 

You were lucky to recognize the canon’s whistle and use the commotion to regain an advantage. The current reality had yet to become your destiny. If you moved quickly enough, you wouldn’t have to catch your death in such a dilapidated place. 

Maneuvering your body unnaturally, you felt for the knife hidden on your thigh. The guard was panicking despite training not to split on whether to keep his eyes on you or the trouble you unknowingly caused. 

Using his momentary stupor, your chains wrapped tightly around his throat. It was better than any dream to feel the way the air caught in his body, never to be released. Any lingering struggle stopped when your knife found an artery. 

The blood sputtered, feeling warm against your hands. It was messy, but its carnality evoked an almost erotic sensation that was inimitable. Plenty felt power connected to the strength it took to take away something vital. It corrupted them and blinded them from the true potentiality of the action. 

It made life seem like nothing more than overflowing fragility. It was well-known time with the world and sea was limited, and eventually, everyone would end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. There was a purposeful lack of originality there solely due to fear of change. 

Yet, when one danced with death, you became the music.

You wiped your fingers across your neck, rubbing the tight knots that met at your shoulders. The fresh blood would stain your skin, but you craved a performance. You readied yourself for the approaching marine boots. The staging was almost too believable, but every second was convincing. 

“Fuck. Fuck—” The words tumbled from your quivering lip. You couldn’t think of anything else, repeating the curse. You smeared the blood on your shirt, a mindless move to rid yourself of taking someone’s life. “Help me, please. This man—I don’t—he came after me—the others are still back there, they’ll be here any moment—I didn’t know what to do—

“Still with the theatrics, eh?”

Your crocodile tears ceased to stream down your cheeks. The feigned, horrified expression turned into an unearthed fury. Shame on you for missing the stray red hairs at the nape of the guard’s neck. 

“Shanks.” You greeted dryly. “You’re early.” 

It was hard for Shanks to meet your eye. He was far from intimidated, but the wild look in your eyes made him hesitate. The years had been kind to you as if you traded your soul for youth. But it was a foolish thought that the devil would be so naive to make a deal with you. 

“Was that necessary?” Shanks nodded to the man behind you. 

“And I thought the canons were a bit excessive.” You tutted as if your opposing opinions were trivial. “And yet here we are…”

“Love—

You hadn’t believed in love, and you were ready to carry that grudge—until him. It wasn’t proper love, proving your skepticism in the emotion correctly. But it was the closest you’ve ever been, could ever be. 

You had done unspeakable things, figuring it was an acceptable way to siphon your affection. You were young and blinded by false idolization. Shanks chose to see the best in you, even now, even after everything. He, too, was blinded by an image of you that hadn’t changed since you were young. 

“Let’s get this on with,” You stopped him, moving swiftly to feel the body below you for anything valuable. “Tumole gave me up, then? That’s how you found me? Bastard.”

You smiled at the image: Shanks holding the poor man upside down, kindness still in his threats to find you. Violence was never necessary with Tumole, always one to ramble away anyone’s secret for safety. However, it was as though you subconsciously left a clue, but you knew the crumbs Shanks found weren’t worth it. 

“You really wasted your crew’s time on me...” You stood, pulling your neck until it popped. It had been a while since you had a one-on-one with Shanks, but you knew he’d always pull his punches. “Must really be desperate—

“I won’t fight you.” He tracked your posture. Your exterior was calm, but with every twitch calculated, you were nearing rabid. “It’s not worth it.”

“Tell me, then, what I’m worth to you, Shanks?” You taunted. It was obvious what he wanted to say: saving. His emotion was always his weakness. 

His pause was intentional, stalling of sorts to let the exchange sink in. Standing under Shanks ' gaze, your body had a new form of reprieve. A facade wasn’t necessary, but you weren’t willing to lose more of yourself to another. 

Your anger dissipated into a haze. It pulled a frown from Shanks as your breathing steadied only to slow. The harder you blinked, the more you forgot your argument. Even if you had held onto it, the lump in your throat wouldn’t allow it to exist. 

Shanks’ lips shaped your name, but all you could hear was a mild ringing, a buzz. His step forward elicited an instinct to step back. 

“Don’t—” You spat. Your left arm was like static, numb from the shoulder down, an ironic consequence of dismissing your opposite. “—fucking touch me.” 

Your vision was the last to go, allowing you to watch yourself crumble; your knees locked, and the palm of your hands broke your fall, exposing how blood pooled from your arm. When did that happen? It had nothing to do with pain tolerance or adrenaline; you were distracted by your vision, doing what you could to change its form. 

However, your effort was useless to make sense of it. You read it wrong; forgetting things such as foresight was rarely linear. As the world around you closed in, clouding your vision, you realized the open bars weren’t an entrance to your cell. Rather, it was the exit Shanks carried you through with success. 

You were never destined to win. 

—

The dream always teased you with muddled memories.  

They always started the same, a mirrored image of the room you grew up in. Only a few feet separated the sacks the headmistress would call your beds. Your fingertips felt the scratchy fabric of the cheap blankets. 

When the dreams first began, you believed they were real, that you’d never left the dormitory of the dingy children’s home. But the feeling of the monochrome bedding was always wrong, your dream never quite getting the textures correct.  So, there was no room for nostalgia. 

It was as if you were stuck in a loop, hand rhythmically gliding across the bedding in hopes of softening it.  It was neither tranquil nor eerie. Its structure was that of a fever dream, its kaleidoscope quality provoking you to interpret it.  

Its symbolization didn’t go past you, but it always felt uninvolved—superficial even. At the time, your child wonderment knew no difference between the life you had and the life you were meant to exist in. 

As any child did, you dreamed of silks and decadent food. Candies and luxuries. You dreamed of family and warmth. Hope drove those fantasies, but there was no point in clinging to hope when you found out you weren’t wanted. 

Gol D. Roger. Pirate King. The name circled every coastal town and seeped into every deep forest. His mirth was enviable, and his skill indomitable. You wanted to hold indifference toward him, but every bounty you saw enamored you. He made hope seem regainable. 

You looked down at your hand, seeing your hand change shape with each slow swipe across the bed. Your slender fingers became older, calloused. Experienced. Moving to see the palm, you saw the lifeline had ended and an elaborate red sleeve scratched at your—Gol D. Roger’s—wrist. 

You flinched as if you were burnt. You wanted to rid yourself of the attachment by any means. But it didn’t matter when your blood was intertwined. There was no escaping your lineage, your father. 

The longer you lingered with the feeling, your surroundings slowly morphed. A wind picked up but hadn’t raised chills across your arms—not yet. You wanted to stretch now that your hand became your own again. 

However, a sway lulled you into your environment. The ships were always different,  never ones you recognized. You’d like to praise your brain’s creativity, but you knew you’d step foot on every deck at some point in life. If you were smart, you would have noted each and every one. It was hard to when the horizon seemed so…

“The tide is strange…” You hummed. Although your voice vibrated in your chest, it felt delayed, like an echo of someone else. 

A hand trailed your spine with warmth. Goosebumps littered your body. You hadn’t thought to fight them, knowing the touch belonged to someone who put far too much faith in you. 

“Am I finally rubbing off on you?” Shanks matched your hum, creating more serenity than you could handle. It was purposeful to calm you and invite you in. 

“No, no…” You echoed again, shaking your head. Shanks continued with his charm, making promises that the sea and he could fulfill. However, your eyes didn’t leave the shore, the tide much more vast than you’ve ever seen. “...no, there’s—There’s something changing it.” You paused, nausea hitting you boldly. “...someone…maybe? Don’t you feel that?”

Another laugh, more hollow than the last. You had yet to face Shanks, only trusting his touch. It started to burn when you finally turned to him. He was physically present, but his eyes were vacant as if a copy of himself. 

“Love, just try and relax.” His smile was plastered, almost painfully. “Nothing's wrong anymore. Nothing will change—

You frowned. “Shanks—

“She won’t hurt us.” Shanks caught you in his hold. You finally understood the deception and recognized the wolf in sheep’s clothing. “She gave me her word.”  

—

You jolted awake.

The image wasn’t explicit, but it made you squirm; your back arched against the deck’s railing until your fingertips touched the waves below. You never sunk or floated, but you breathed in the water and felt it swallow you whole with a salty taste. 

Your chest was tight, careful not to suck in your breath too quickly. Despite still being bleary-eyed, you knew you weren’t alone. You knotted your fingers in the bed’s fabric to ground you. The room's scent reminded you to breathe before succumbing to your subconscious torture again. 

“You alright?” Shanks called from the deepest corner of the room. He was swift to strike a match to see your condition for himself. 

The candlelight illuminated the gauze that nurtured your stiff arm. Shanks reprimanded you slightly as you pushed yourself up. Shanks knew you well, understanding that you were already seeking an escape from whatever plagued you. The look in your eye told him you would run regardless of a purpose.  

“What did you see?” His voice remained calm, tone unwavering with vigilance. 

“I didn’t.” Your defiance was your only form of defense on his ship. 

Slight relief came from how Shank’s eyebrow dared to twitch with frustration. It meant he was real. Your blood pumped slower at the unorthodox respite. You continued to move, to stand despite your sore body. Shanks was still blocking your way to the door, but you paced lightly to rid yourself of the jitters. 

“You can talk to me.” Shanks knew you were frazzled, and he was determined to coax the cause out of you. “I understand why you’re—

“Daddy dearest has nothing to do with this.” You hissed, hating the assumption. “Don’t you understand there was a reason your beloved captain left me to rot all those years ago? When will you learn to do the same?”

Shanks didn’t lack sympathy for you, but he understood why your father chose to keep you away from the life that proved only to hurt you. Shanks intended to keep the promise he made to you before you learned it was by the instruction of your father. 

“I gave my word.” Shanks countered. His word choice made you flinch, your dream still fresh. He softened to repeat himself. “I gave my word to keep you safe. This has nothing to do with —

“Safe with a pirate, eh?” You scoffed, picking up what was most likely a stolen treasure. You held no qualms with his lifestyle, but you refused the overlap Shanks wanted to share. “That’ll be the fucking day.”

You felt a needle of pain in your nose like you were near tears, the guilt settling the bile in your throat. The game of cat and mouse was getting old. It was a facetious argument you used for distraction. The bravado you held was angry and vengeful. 

“I know you’ve heard the rumors…” Shanks sighed as if his strategy to coax a conversation out of you backfired. “Cain is spreading out, searching for you. She won’t stop this time.”

You dropped the small object of treasure back into its place. Any emotion was swallowed and digested. There was little energy left to pretend to argue. You needed to leave the room before you suffocated. Shanks wouldn’t block if you tried. 

You lingered, waiting for him to spit out the obvious.  “Look, I know you saw her— 

“I felt her.” Your expression, even mixed with vulnerability, was composed with passivity. Your composure could fool most, but to a trained eye, your discomfort was obvious.

Your admission was desperate, breaking a tension that had filled the air. You wouldn’t crumble. You tried to hold it in, breathing evenly to suppress any sobbing urge. It was neither the time nor the place for added emotion.

“I need to know the full story.” He replied thoughtfully. 

He mistook his demeanor for bravery, but his true bravery formed by being across from you. The only barrier seemed to be Shanks’ incorruptible moral code, a space where you couldn’t quite freely exist.

You wanted so badly to trust him. You sought his comfort. The feeling felt foreign, so you prickled. 

“You already know how it ends. What does the rest matter?” You always leaned on pessimism. “I want nothing to do with this. With her.”

“I’ll be beside you the entire time,” Shanks promised, voice low and steady, reflecting his sincerity. You could make out the warmth he was willing to share, but you couldn’t accept it wholly.

“And my interests?”

Shanks’ expression fell slightly at your evasive rejection. “It depends on where they lie.”

In an ideal world, you’d like to think you and Shanks could be friends. Frankly, though, his compassion made you nauseous. Or maybe it was nerves. The feeling was always hard for you to distinguish. You wished the way he looked at you would warm your chest, but it only reminded you of how that was another impossibility.

Although you were still present, Shanks watched you flee. Your guard returned stronger, but he didn’t regret his words. Shanks’ eyes were pleading, and you went to chastise him, but you found something distinct there. 

You didn’t know what to do with it, but to muse a buried thought. "...Empathy will get you killed, Shanks.”

“Then, I am a dead man walking.”

[solomiracle]

when i think of them, i think of...

inspired by this post by @shoccolatine, check it out!

LUCIFER

his smile — whether seductive, sadistic or genuine

reds, blacks/greys/whites, golds

his study — the skull on the wall, fireplace, the red velvet chair | you reading by the fireplace, enjoying the quiet crackling sounds as he works

his demon form — the red gloves, the horns, the wings, the peacock feather details on his clothes, the diamond on his forehead

his fur lined coat, his gloves, his tie

his eyes, specifically the reds at the bottom

apples, poison, fangs, blood

ghosts, grief, loss | him petting a sleeping cerberus as he sits by lilith's statue. he's silent, not wishing to disturb her

how much he loves his family — how he's willing to be a villain to anyone he feels may harm them, from you to his own father

cosmic and body horror, upside-down crosses, eyes, destroyed psyches, crackling, warped reality, the sound of bones snapping

the skeleton in his room

records, wine, comfortable silence, quiet nights

MAMMON

him laughing as he and you drive in a getaway car

his laugh, his smile, his sunglasses, his jacket

that little pose he does where his hand kinda covers his lips, usually done when he's feeling confident

his silliness — the dumb excuses for doing (or not doing) something, his even dumber schemes, running/hiding from lucifer, his tsundere-ness, how he says "yikes!"

gift boxes, jewelery, gold, silver, money (coins and paper)

casinos, the word "jackpot", poker, slot machines, cards, dealers

the casino fight scene in black panther, specifically the part where claw's hand thing shoots the cabinet and the money flies everywhere

his wings

his familiars | him petting and praising them for doing a good job, like catching stray grimm or reporting important info

him punishing people who don't pay back their debts — they find themselves in an empty street, fog rising and crows soon surrounding them

how much he respects lucifer, how he followed him into hell without question

how despite all the fighting and dumb stuff that he does with his family, he still values his role as a big brother

LEVIATHAN

this card (the pre-devil's flower)

him at his pc, laser-focused in on a game. he's glaring at the screen, fangs bared, determined to win

his room — the bathtub, the jellyfish, the aquarium, the figures, henry 2.0 in his little fish bowl

headphones, game controllers and consoles, screens, neon colors (greens, blues, purples), keyboards

anime, magical girls, figures, sparkles

his loud ass OOOOHHHHHHHHHWWOOOOOOOOAHHHHH voice line

his tsundere-ness and shyness, how he gets flustered so easily, how cute he is when he blushes, your love and affection for him being "too high level"

how he seems to have a soft spot for the twins

his demon form — the tail, the diamond pattern along his neck, his weird zipper jacket thing, his horns | (a fic i read where the author described his horns as antlers, and they headcanon-ed that they shed every season)

fish, colorful coral reefs, bright blue seas, bubbles, beaches, snakes

deep dark oceans, octopus/giant squids, sea monsters, ships, the navy, admiral uniforms, lotan

SATAN

orange cats, piano music, books, libraries, coffeeshops, soft greens and browns

him sitting in a greenhouse. sunlight filters through the glass walls and plethora of green plants. he's smiling as he reads a book, an orange cat sleeping in his lap

his professionalism — he has many connections, and he prides himself on his intelligence. "people respect someone who's well-informed."

how he's a gentleman, almost like a fairy tale prince

love and lovesickness | him writing love letters and poetry for you, a giant smile on his face as he comes up with the most beautiful words to describe you

him becoming incapable of reading love stories when you're away, for all he can think about is you while reading them. his fingers delicately trace the spines of his many romance books, but he refuses to open them. just the thought of doing so is too much to bear

his room — the beauitful shade of purple, the window, the books, the candles

fire, chaos, destruction, broken buildings and bones, screaming, rage, fangs

his eyes, a beautiful green

his demon form — the feather boa, the horns, the ribbon ribcage design on his shirt

the things that make him stand out compared to his brothers, compared to everyone — his symbolic animal is a unicorn (the only fantasy animal), his black eye shine, his butler outfit is the only one with three patches on the sleeves

his pose — one hand on his hip and the other on his chest, just like lucifer...

ASMODEUS

pinks, yellows, oranges, and more pinks

his cute smile and giggle

his demon form — the bat wings, the gradient horns, the bleeding hearts on his arm, the asymmetrical legs | (the redesigns i've seen from people where they include a scorpion tail)

scorpions, sand, heat, blood, bloodlust, hearts, gore, passion, obsession, love

diaries, glitter gel, sparkles, cute nicknames

spotlights, music, singing, stages, partying, drinking, clubs, sex

bunnies, strawberries, fluffy and fuzzy textures, fangs

his eyes | (the fics i've read where the author describes their color as champagne)

him lying in bed on his stomach, fresh out of the shower in a cute robe, slippers, and headband. he's writing in his diary, kicking his legs, smiling as he thinks about you

lipstick, blush, makeup, nail polish, influencers, devilgram, livestreams

(red) hearts, both the symbol and the organ

his positive energy — his ability to light up a room, how he wants everyone to join in and have fun, asmo nights, how he sees the beauty in everyone

how much he cares for his family — he painted their nails so everyone would know them as brothers, how he's determined to make sure satan feels included

his insecurities — he ties himself to his image and appearance, to the point that when you were the first to compliment his personality alone and not just his looks, he was surprised

how he acts like a helpless damsel in distress while also being the most viscous character

that scene in season one, where he said that if you were thinking about belphie while with him, he would rip your heart out | (it made my heart beat faster, but not out of fear)

BEELZEBUB

reds, oranges, yellows

the sun, bright blue cloudless skies

him being the cause of plagues and famines. a scene of him summoning swarms of locusts to gorge on crop fields, leaving nothing left, still unsatisfied

wheat and corn fields, apple orchards

his wings | (i saw someone describe them as fairy wings)

dense, mossy, and enchanted forests. twisting trees and twinkling fairies, mushrooms and flowers growing everywhere

bugs — bees, butterflies, flies, grasshoppers, beetles, locusts

bears, squirrels, lions, grass, honey, fluffiness, cuddling

his smile, how adorable his blush is

calling him beautiful or sweet, watching him blush in embarrassment. a big, ravenous demon turning into mush after being complimented by a human

how he loves his family more than anything — his extreme survivor's guilt over lilith, how he said he would die for lucifer, how he became enraged and even attacked lucifer once the truth about belphie's whereabouts were revealed

even with how he's a big brother to belphie, they're still twins, making him the youngest of the brothers as well — he has his own bratty behaviors, throwing tantrums, being a karen at restaurants, stealing food from levi every morning. he's the biggest brother, but he's still another baby of the family

his hair

his jacket and shirt | (they both look very comfy, and i would love to wear them)

hunger — hell's kitchen, banquets, expensive meat, clusters of grapes, plates, forks and knives

fangs, tongues, gore, cannibalism

BELPHEGOR

dark purples and blues, blacks, white accents

space — starry night skies, the moon, constellations

sleep, teddy bears, pillows, blankets, dreams, illusions, ghosts, nightmares, fear

the cow jumped over the moon nursery rhyme

cow print — it's on his pillow, his demon form's jacket, and his swimwear jacket too

his horns, which are similar to that of a dorset horn sheep

him looking down at sheep mc's bell in his hands, a solemn look in his eye. maybe mc's in the human world, or maybe it's been years after their death

regret and grief — not being able to save lilith, his love for humans turning to hatred, his fight with lucifer, the attic, lesson 16

how he and lucifer were said to be close before the attic...

beel, lilith, and love — he doesn't blame beel for saving him, and called beel an idiot for believing otherwise. he learned about the circus in the human world, and pretended to be a ringmaster while trapped in the attic. he let lucifer get rid of lilith's room, and said goodbye to her

his sarcastic and bratty little shit-ness — his "innocent" bitchass smile, his giggle, how he embodies the youngest sibling and baby of the family, the anti-lucifer league

a fanart i saw of him in his TSL outfit, the description being "the princess is locked in the tower for a reason..."

[curator-on-ao3]

I never came back from Among the Lotus Eaters

I see now, in hindsight of SNW season two, that Among the Lotus Eaters was a breaking point for me.

First, that episode needed to transition Batel and Pike from … whatever they were … to a deeper relationship. And what did the episode do?

It hung their issues on not enough time for each other. (How many dinner parties has this man thrown?)

It made Pike a commitment-phobe. (Really? Pike? Y’all sure you meant second season Pike not second season Picard?)

It undercut Pike as a captain as well as his pain dating back to The Cage. (Say, fellas, is it okay to leave your yeoman behind if someone at some point said he looked kinda dead?)

Here’s the thing. I would have bought the episode starting with Batel and Pike having an adult discussion about how they could have hated each other after Una’s arrest and trial but they don’t. They’re still drawn to each other. Then I would have bought Pike’s relationship hesitancy being due to his concerns about his fate — and Una later calling him out on his potential fears for longer-term intimacy when he believes his days are numbered. (And if the show backtracks to make this Pike’s motivation, I’m gonna call bullshit because it should have been there from the start. I’ve seen a thousand stories about commitment-phobes. But a story about a person frightened to hurt someone they might be falling for because of a known timeline to the end? That’s actually interesting.)

Then, I would have bought Pike on the planet holding the necklace and feeling that he had unfinished business — the adult discussion with Batel (as opposed to love that, due to his own fears, hadn’t yet been grounded in the reality of the episode).

Second, the episode has the hero moment of Erica figuring out that she flies the ship. Okay, putting aside that other people can and do fly the ship (ahem, Una), this was an incredible opportunity for Erica to have a totem to remind her of why she cares about flying, not just that she does it. Give us a goddamn model airplane or a book about birds or an action figure of Erika Hernandez — something. Anything. Let us get to know Erica better. This missed opportunity stings.

Third, the trauma repetition was painful. The guy on the planet lost his whole family? Dude, he’s the three-way pointing Spider-Man meme with two members of the away team — M’Benga and La’an. What are the odds of all three of them having the same trauma (and not discussing it)? I don’t know, but it was lazy as shit. (Note: Uhura has the same trauma. Una might, per her service record. Enough already.) Make that guy the former king and he’s somehow responsible for the memory loss rock landing and plaguing the planet. Make him a doctor who saved Zac’s life and therefore plunged the planet into tyrannical rule. Again — something. Anything. Just make it unique instead of repetitive. (And if he had saved Zac’s life by some extreme means, that could even possibly excuse Pike for breaking the essential promise of Starfleet by leaving a crewmember behind.)

There’s more. There’s so much more. There should have been a line, at least, about Una being affected by the radiation when her body could clear radiation before. There should have been recognition that Pike was going down to the planet underprepared — again — by cutting the number of people on the away team. There should have been console warnings flashing that, I don’t know, the warp core was in danger since no one in engineering knew who they were or how to do their jobs.

This episode began the season’s beats of Pike being a crummy captain and a crummy boyfriend. It continued the trend of underutilizing Erica, even when she’s there. It forgot the show’s own internal realities. And I am big mad about that because this clutch point of an episode could have been different. It could have been better.

[krashlite]

Thinking more abt the magic system

I feel like half of it is based off of emotion, half of it is based on story. So emotion can contribute to curses/patterns, but story can contribute to specific details.

Specifically thinking about people’s kill count and how that affects them/their surroundings. So, warning! Some of this is about blood and gore

People’s kill count has physical effects on them and their surroundings. I think kills get more graphic and bloody the higher a person’s body count, not through their own actions but through reality warping around them. So a simple arrow shot to the head might be off the mark and cause a slower death, or a wound gained in battle might take longer to close.

In canon, Joel already goes insane on his red life. I’m thinking of taking that a step further and extending it to other players.

Ren, Joel, and Grian, having the highest kill counts, would look more… off as the season progresses. Ren’s floppy ears become pointed and his teeth get sharper. Joel is unkempt and has less controlled movements. Grian stops blinking after a certain point and his smile is just a bit too wide. Maybe their proportions get to be a little uncanny, or they move in a way that shouldn’t be possible.

But! On the opposite end of the spectrum are people with low kill counts like BigB and Skizz, who are tied at 4 iirc. I think they have an easier time spotting when something’s wrong/when they’re in danger and they heal faster if wounded.

Both of them had a moment where they correctly identified who the boogeyman was without any tangible clues (Skizz somehow knew it was Etho and BigB somehow knew it was Martyn because they saw it in their eyes).

I think the kills that they did land were relatively quick and painless. So using the same example as before, that arrow would instantly kill their target without any actual pain. Even if the killing blow would’ve been incredibly painful (like Cleo dying in battle in 3L), it would only feel sore, like an old bruise

As for their appearance, they look a bit softer, and have rounded shapes. Skizz canonically does already have soft hair and people tend to instantly warm up to both of them. Skizz is trustworthy enough that people didn’t argue when he wanted to talk with them alone in LimL and BigB has so much of an inviting presence that people seek him out as a source of safety with no prior attachments (Grian did this in DL with the secret soulmate agreement and in LimL when the Bad Boys fell apart). Again, part of this is their own actions and part of it is reality warping around them

[acerathia]

somebody's watching me || Chapter 6: Betray

Summary:

Meeting him was your fate, your salvation, and you shall do everything to keep things this way.

Wordcount: 5.6k

Read on AO3 || Masterlist

Pairing:

Getou Suguru / Reader

Tags/CW:

no-curse au, Getou is still a cult-leader, cults, Getou's fake personality, dark content, Major Character Death, Paranoia, schizoid form of anxiety disorder, isolation, overthinking (in connection to the anxiety), some form of descent into madness, violence, stream of consciousness to show the mental state of reader, everything has meaning (dreams, colors, symbols etc.), warped look on reality, dissociation, blind trust, indoctrination, manipulation, mind-altering practices, polarisation of people/society, peer pressure, denial of reality, emotional abuse, body horror, drugs (implied), hallucinations,

Note:

Please be cautious reading this work, as it contains heavy themes, which might affect some people. Minors do not interact!! ignore any editing mistakes, finally, this series is over, have fun with the last chapter

You awoke from your sleep with a gasp when you felt a hand on your shoulder. It was the woman who occupied the bed next to you. She whispered a single sentence to you. It was time. Then she left without further explanation. Hastily you fell out of bed and as fast as you could with your sleepy movements, you put on your shoes to hurry outside as well. With a quick stumble you followed the woman, even though she had put some distance between you.

Outside in a meadow, it seemed as if the whole group was already there, standing in formation.You made your way crouched in place, trying to draw as little attention to yourself as possible. Still, you wondered what was happening in the middle of the formation and you stretched slightly to get a better look.

But before you could figure out anything, everyone stretched their arms toward the full moon. A hum flowed through the people and filled all the air. You tried to listen and recognize the melody, but it didn't seem to be a specific song. So you hummed a song of your own to yourself while concentrating on holding up your aching arms. Then you could make out a shadow slowly working its way out from the center of the formation. In the dim light of the moon, you recognized the leaders holding a bowl ringed by two girls. To see what exactly they were doing, you were far too far away. You wondered what was in the bowl?

You couldn't make out what the liquid was, even though they were standing in front of you. The light from the moon wasn't bright enough for that. But you could see the leader dipping his fingers into the dark liquid and stirring something in it. The others beside him seemed to be making random sounds, which you couldn't understand no matter how hard you focused. Then you felt it. The cool liquid on your skin. The pressure of his fingers. You had to pull yourself together not to just stop humming, to not lean closer to his touch. Was that paint? The leader placed his thumb on your cheekbone and drew a vertical line down. The same thing happened to the other side of your face. The liquid dripped hotly down your chin onto her collarbone, forming a small puddle there. Spread over your top like a wound. You felt sticky, but you could see a smile from the leader. That simple gesture alone sparked gratitude in you, desire warm in your blood. 

That you even had the opportunity to be here and stand next to him, to look at him and enjoy his presence. The warmth of your heart contrasted with the chilling mark on your skin. You could barely stifle a smile as the leader then lined up next to you in formation and started another hum. This time, however, everyone else followed their tune. The humming seemed to get louder and louder, penetrating your scalp and pressing on your skull. Your field of vision flickered as if you were standing under a faulty lamp. You didn't know if your head was swaying, or if your vision just didn't want to work with you anymore. Were you tired?

That would explain the heaviness in your arms and the uncertainty in your knees. You tried to pull yourself together, really tried. But your body tipped forward without you being able to do anything about it. All your muscles seemed paralyzed. You could only dully feel your knees hitting the ground; the grass scraped against your calves. Was this happening to everyone? Or just to you? You kept trying to stay upright, but gravity was having a greater effect on you than usually. Suddenly you felt the ground against your forehead, against your cheek. When did the grass get so long? With hazy vision, you still recognized the glances of the leader in front of you. Frowns and anticipation. But of what? Before you could choke out a single syllable, your eyes failed you, and darkness enveloped you like a heavy cloak.

***

Several voices hovered over your head as you slowly regained consciousness. Where were you? This didn't feel like your bed. For a brief moment, you had forgotten where you were.

With a low moan, you tried to sit up, but your head felt like it was stuck in a clamp. Its claws dug firmly into your forehead. Your surroundings became silent and you slowly opened your eyes. From your narrow field of vision, you recognized a glass full of water. How much you wanted to drink this. So you reached out for it, even though it seemed to be shaking.

But you managed a firm grip to get the glass before letting the cool liquid enter your throat in heavy gulps. The cold woke you up a bit and cleared your brain. Then, as you put the empty glass away with an aching stomach, you took time to survey your surroundings. Though your stomach began to rebel and you started to feel nauseous, you did not make a sound. Your eyes roamed over the three people around you. Your eyes lingered on the face of the leader. You quickly avoided his gaze. This was the man who had offered you comfort and peace, and you had disappointed him. You licked your torn lips before an apology slipped heavily over your tongue. You had screwed up. You had ruined the moment. Tainted the tradition. You felt bad, uncomfortable, absolutely miserable. And rightfully so. You didn't deserve to be in this place anymore. Tightly you squeezed your eyes shut and hung your head. You wanted to hide your reaction to what was coming. How your insides were breaking, shattering. You expected a final decision about your expulsion. A painful kick in the butt. Even though you didn't want to hear any of these prompts, you couldn't say anything against it. After all, you deserved it.

But after a moment of waiting, nothing came. You were not insulted or called names. No harsh words which were wrapped in pity. The leader didn't say anything until you lifted your gaze again.

"I told you that you were special, and now it has been shown to all of us under the moon."

Whether there was a deeper meaning to that sentence? You did not know. Still, the weight of these words gave you a warm feeling. If you were special, then you hadn't ruined anything. This chance, the opportunity to continue to stay in this place, meant a lot to you; even more than your own life. I wonder if you could make any difference with this simple statement. Make a better life for the leaders and the whole group? But how could you help?

You didn't really have time to think about it, because a tray was pushed into your lap. Leftovers from the communal breakfast that you must have missed. A memory was hidden in this gesture. Despite the incident, you should still follow the rules. Therefore, you accepted the food, although you were not particularly hungry. You wanted to show your gratitude to the leader.

Still, you hesitated when your eyes landed on the food. Nothing about you had forgotten yesterday's meal. Hopefully, things would go differently this time. Slowly you stretched your fingers so that the trembling would not be noticed and reached for a piece of bread. This you smeared with the purple jam that had been provided. A breath escaped your nose before you took a bite of the crust.

It scratched the roof of your mouth before scraping across your throat. Of course, the food had a normal taste. What had you expected? Probably the whole thing yesterday was just another one of your delusions. Though you still looked skeptically at the fruit, not recognizing it, the rest seemed relatively normal. Even if the milk had a violet glow, which was perhaps just an illusion brought on by the light. You were not worried. What was supposed to be in the food? No one in this group would poison the other or add anything questionable. Everyone was far too cozy with each other for that.

After eating the food with sudden hunger, you noticed that everyone had left the cabin again. Where do you think they were going? You couldn't follow them, even if you wanted to. You didn't know the place well enough for that yet. Should you try anyway?

Before you could make a decision, the door swung open and a bunch of people came in. Without much talk, all these people made their way to their beds to sit cross-legged. Was this a new activity? You weren't sure, but still followed their lead. The last to enter the room was the leader. You made your way to the center to sit on the floor. With your back bent, you waited for his instructions.

The silence seemed charged before the leader finally began to speak.

"Close your eyes and relax... Breathe deeply through your nose, feel it to the last corner of your lungs. 

One, two, three, four. 

Now let it all out of your mouth. 

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. 

Good, breathe in through your nose again. 

With each breath, continue to release your thoughts, let them out, preferably right out of your lungs. Breathe it all out, freeing yourself from the thoughts.

Good. Now feel your fingertips. How does the skin feel? What does it feel at this moment and how does it affect you? Don't form sentences, just let feelings grow in your chest. Let this work for a moment now....

Now let this concentration run over your arms, over your neck to your ears. What do you hear? How does my voice feel to you? Are there any features or background sounds that attract you? 

These sensations also flow into the chest.

Wonderful. Now you are one with your environment. Now you can let your thoughts come back into your mind. Slowly. The moment you are yourselves again, a better you, you can open your eyes."

You followed the steps and kept your eyes closed. As time passed, your body seemed to relax more and more. Toward the end of the meditation, you had the sensation of feeling, of hearing the heartbeats of others.

Each beat seemed to echo with each other, yet in the same beat. The leader's fingers slid over the top of your head. The other's arms lay heavily across your shoulders; their fingers cool on your throat. A whisper brushed your ears, but you could not make out the words. It was as if they had been submerged by a wave. The water slapped against your skin and hissed as it hit you. Your body seemed to get warmer and warmer, and the water put an extra weight on the back of your neck. All at once you felt a strong pressure on your throat. It cut off your breath and you could no longer breathe. The hands that had been lovingly stroking your skin a moment ago wrapped around your neck and constricted, breaking your windpipe.

A soft gasp escaped your lips as you opened your eyes. But no one was in front of you, behind you. The others still remained in their positions and seemed to be gathering their thoughts. No one had any problem, nor did they seem to notice yours. You felt nauseous. But you did not want to disturb the others in their meditation. So you just took a shaky breath and closed your eyes again. Maybe there was a chance you could get the calmness back. But when you concentrated on breathing, you couldn't. Almost as if oxygen could not enter your lungs.

A hand rested on your shoulder and you opened your eyes, startled. The leader had sat down in front of you and looked you piercingly in the eyes. Then he began to breathe in slowly. His firm eye contact caused you to do the same. As if your body was synchronizing with his. For a moment, you both held your breath. Time between inhaling and exhaling seemed to stand still. As your lungs burned, you exhaled slowly again. After a few breaths, your heart regulated back to its normal beat, but you continued to concentrate hard on breathing; afraid you would suffocate. For a moment, you realized how the other people in the room were also joining in this breathing exercise. Everyone's lungs seemed to be one. And each time you looked around, someone was smiling gently at you, their faces full of understanding and helpfulness. 

For you, it was the first time anyone had managed to put you at ease in this way. For that, you were so grateful to these people; you would give up your life for these people, for him especially. They had helped you without big words, but simply by their calming presence. 

Usually, sentences were just poured into your ears, which then threaded themselves into your swirling thoughts with a tight knot. But it didn't happen without words, and for the first time you didn't feel guilty about needing help at all.

These people had not reacted as if you were a burden. You did not feel ashamed that this had happened at all. You were finally being helped properly and with acceptance. Your chest filled with warm feelings that flooded your thoughts.

With a jerk, you jumped into the leader's arms. Maybe there would be consequences later, but you wanted to express your gratitude. Then you felt more and more people join the embrace. Thus in the midst of these people, you felt more at ease than you had ever felt before in your life. Especially with his arms slung around your midsection in the middle of it.

Only after a while did the embrace dissolve again. Much too soon for your taste. But it was time for the next activity; the highlight of the trip. Unlike the others, you didn't know what it was all about, but you followed them every step of the way anyway. You trusted everyone in this group more than you trusted yourself. Your hand was held by one of the girls, who smiled at you and promised a great time was coming. You trusted her. 

Therefore, without argument, you changed into the robe that was pressed into your hand. The purple fabric flowed down to below your knees. It was pretty. The cut was probably meant to be special, because everyone had the same fabric, but the garments never looked identical.

Prepared, you made your way to the pond, where you sat back down in your seat. Everyone's eyes were on the leader, waiting.

He looked each person in the eye before he began to speak. He opened the Festival of Blood. You became curious as to why it was called that, but you didn't ask any questions. They explained that when the festival began, so did the game. Then they explained the goals and the rules, his tone as if he had repeated those words thousands and thousands of times. Yet he seemed to be looking forward to it.

"The game is simple. Everyone will draw a role to perform. In doing so, there are the 'monsters' that you seek out and kill. To do this, you use a simple, blunt piece of wood. When you press this against a person's chest, they are dead. The hunted should avoid death by pretending to be normal people while getting rid of the normal people. After some time, a meeting is called in which they should discuss various suspects and get rid of them. When night falls, the monsters have a chance to hunt people down and murder them while they sleep. Of course, they can also hunt during the day, but... The monsters will suck the blood of their victims, which is why they don't need a weapon. The goal of both groups is simple: wipe out the other group.

We will now distribute your roles. And keep them to yourselves. If you are killed, you must not reveal by whom, or how, or what you were."

You weren't so lucky with your drawn role. A monster? Right at your first feast?

You didn't really call that a joy. Nevertheless, you had to try. After all, the game depended on everyone doing their best.

Until there was the first sacrifice, other games were available. After all, one should not just sit around and wait, but enjoy the feast. Carefully, you slipped the piece of wood into your pocket before also popping a candy into your mouth. They were the same ones that were on the leader's table, you recalled. As the taste coated your tongue, you stretched a bit. It made you feel much more awake right away. 

Then you made your way to the high jump. Wondering how high you could get. You shook your joints slightly when your turn finally came. It seemed that your anticipation was strong as your head felt lighter than usual. You took a running start before leaping into the air. Your face was turned toward the sky and you felt like you were flying.... You reached out a hand, but before it could touch the soft cotton, your back crashed to the mat. No matter how loudly you hit, though, you were still on the high of the jump and just stared at the sky for a while. But then you straightened up again with a serene giggle, rubbing your neck. Finally, you left the mat and made room for the next jumper.

You heard faint music coming from the direction of the meadow and wanted to make your way there.

On the way, you met the same girl from earlier, who hooked up her arm with yours so you could walk together. But when they were far enough away from the other people, you recognized your chance and stopped. Quietly you apologized to her and put your arms around her. Then you pretended to drink her blood and explained that she had been killed. She dramatically slumped against your body before straightening up after a few seconds. With a giggle, you both continued on your way to the meadow.

Once there, the music was much louder than expected. Still, you enjoyed it and watched as people danced intricate steps. This is what you called a folk dance at a village festival. This didn't really match the situation, but at that moment you didn't care about anything. You let yourself be drawn into the dance, even though you had no idea of the steps. But your head was much too subdued and your body much too light. No real words came out of your mouth, except a boisterous giggle. You let yourself whirl among the people as if you had the ability to fly.

After some time, however, your movements became heavier and sloppier, which is why you bumped into someone more and more often. But that didn't seem to bother anyone. You enjoyed dancing so much. So much so that you no longer noticed who was standing in front of you, or whose hand you were holding.

Your diaphragm stung with every breath, but your joints vibrated so pleasantly that you didn't care. Your vision was blurry and your surroundings moved as if in slow motion. It was a dream.

Suddenly, a shrill scream was heard. The music tore off agonizingly. The trance you were in seemed to be broken, although your thoughts were still heavily clouded. Everyone looked around for the cause of the scream. It was the girl from earlier. 

This one seemed to be shaken by something, because there were tears in her eyes, which flooded her trembling face. Only after a few seconds did you realize that the girl was pointing at you. 

What was going on? You didn't understand what it was about. But it dawned on you when she explained that you had wanted to murder the girl, but had managed to escape before it could happen. 

Was she even allowed to tell the others that? You frowned. Wasn't that the goal of the game? You didn't understand what you had done wrong. The faces of the pack seemed to lie in shadow as their gazes pierced your body. Slowly, everyone gathered around you without saying a word, without hearing a word. Their protests fell on deaf ears. The two people who had held your hand so gently at the dance tightened their grip. Held you captive between them. And no matter how many times you objected, no one would listen. Only you heard their words. Were you even speaking at all, or just thinking?

Without paying attention to you, the two people had dragged you to a clearing. You did not remember this place. Had you ever been here before? Your gaze recognized the leader who was convening a trial. You wet your lips and prepared your defense. After all, you should be allowed to do so. And you were right, the very first thing you were asked to do was to come forward. Even though her arms were still crushed by the people around you. 

You explained that yes, you were a monster, but you had done your job and according to the rules the girl should not have been allowed to testify. Then you asked the group if you had done something wrong, since it was the first time you had ever played this game. But this question also fell on deaf ears. People seemed to be more inclined towards the cheater. Your lungs felt heavier with each passing second and you couldn't get a single word out. The hateful looks of the mob were too much for you. This was all just a game after all. Yes, just an activity, and everyone was playing along. Just a simulation. Still, the whole situation seemed far too real. Even the disappointed looks of the leader, the worst case scenario. Exactly what you had wanted so much to avoid since the beginning. His disappointment had a worse effect on you than you had thought. Would you have any reason to live at all if you lost the favor of this important person?

You had to swallow hard, suppress the tears. You didn't even want to think about that possibility for long. The possibility of losing all this was far too brutal, far too ghastly. No, they wouldn't do that to you, would they?

Your eyes wandered over every single person in your field of vision. Their faces all said the same thing. They would leave you, abandon you, throw you away. You were of no use for them anymore. Maybe... Maybe that was just for this activity. Yes, you were certainly allowed to participate in the other things after that. Everything was fine. You nodded slightly as you struggled to take deep breaths.

Then you were declared guilty. What did that mean? Were you just going to be removed from the game now? Yes, it had to be. As long as you were allowed to stay in this place, you didn't care if you were guilty or not. As long as you were allowed to stay, nothing mattered. Now all that was left was to symbolically press the stake to your chest. Then you would be allowed to be with them again. Then you would be welcome again. 

But no one pulled out their piece of wood. Why not? That was part of the game! Your gaze no longer rested on one person, but looked at everyone, waiting. They should finally finish this! Why didn't anyone do anything?

The two pulled you back to your feet. You hadn't even realized you had fallen to your knees at all. All you wanted was to be with them again. You deserved that!

You needed it. But the others seemed to disagree, because you were simply removed from the clearing, led deeper into the forest. The two people who had grabbed you tightly by the wrists wore the same long robes. This time it seemed to be the clothing of a ceremony. The cut of the fabric looked familiar, far too familiar, and your body reacted to it even though you couldn't remember. You felt worse and worse from the proximity; nausea settled firmly in your throat. And the longer you had to walk through this dark forest, the more your muscles became lame. Something about the whole environment was far too familiar. You wanted to understand why you were reacting, but no matter how much you thought about it, the less you could think of. You felt like you had never experienced anything in your life.

When your legs finally gave way under you, they entered a completely different clearing. With a bleary eye, you looked around and recognized the group in front of you, all wearing the exact same robes. Their faces were hard to make out, but you didn't quite understand why; was it the shadows or the hoods? The sight sent a shiver down your spine, your stomach cramped and you had to pull yourself together not to throw up right away. Every fiber in your body wanted to get away from this place as quickly as possible. But your heart was pounding far too heavily in her chest, so your limbs would no longer obey you. With each step deeper into the clearing, you felt more miserable. A whimper escaped you as you were lifted up and placed on a wooden seat. Still this felt comfortable, gentle. 

But then your joints were bound with a rope on which was branded a sign. You dimly remembered this sign, and these memories formed stones in your lungs. You could no longer breathe. Was this all still part of the game? It couldn't be. Where did this mark come from? You had not described its appearance to anyone. You wanted to ask this question. But your voice failed, as if your vocal cords had been knotted together. Therefore, you waited for a brief moment for several hours.

Then the buzzing started. It penetrated deep into your skull and vibrated your vision. So you could only dimly make out one person detaching themselves from the crowd and walking towards you. The only one you wanted to see right now, was the leader, his name a reverence you finally tried to think of: Getou, Getou Suguru. And he did appear in front of you, his hair swaying softly with each step, and you would have tried to get closer, to touch him, to tell him anything he wanted to hear.

But he only stayed silent and held a wooden stake in his hand. His smile still shining softly, almost reassuring. Unlike the blunt pieces from before, the piece in his hand seemed to be sharpened, filed like a knife. The leader stepped behind you and started to work on something you couldn't see because of your limited movement.

Therefore, you focused on his words as he started talking towards everyone else.

"Dear fellow citizens, we are in a crisis. The world has simply become too threatening, too complex. It hurts our hearts. It hurts our brains. Above all, it hurts our pride.

It will not stand. We must fight the threat through simplicity, and we can defeat it. We can defeat it where it matters most. We can defeat it within ourselves. We can regain our simple, pure certainty, push back the threat of the simple, and restore our absolute confidence.

Even though you may feel lost, all is not lost. There is a solution. We must decide together here today to embrace the only true one and march forward together, our eyes and ears closed, our step firm. You fight for what matters most, your simple, unwavering pride. When we stand united, our proud mouths open, fearful ears and eyes closed, armed and lashing out, we can and will make the world feel real again!

Give up your crippling fairness. You can and will be free! Free from doubt! Free from ever having to learn from your mistakes again. You have nothing to sacrifice but fairness. Be shackled by fairness and all is lost. Unleash yourself and you will be free! Proud and free!"

You didn't understand what you were hearing. Was this still part of the game? No, it seemed far too complicated for that. But then what were these people hoping for? You wanted to protest, to fight back. But your thoughts coiled around your neck like a snake, killing every word on your tongue.

He finally came back around, stepping closer to you with the stake still between his elegant fingers after the speech. So close that you could recognize every facial feature of his and her shoulders became much heavier. Of course. How could you have ever thought that a person could be interested in you? There was a reason for his approach, which was clearly in front of you. You raised your eyes, which were full of disappointment and pain, to look him in the eye. 

The traitor should know what he had done to you and he should feel the guilt for the rest of his life. But he just grinned at you gleefully and raised the stake in the air. A moment before the stake hit your skin, you felt his other hand stroking your cheek. And as you looked up, his lips met yours. For this short time, you forgot everything, everything but the warmth of his soft lips against yours, but the breath against your face. And you thought that maybe, maybe this was something you were supposed to do, for him.

You felt the point enter your left side; felt the warmth of blood escape from you. Pain throbbed between your ribs and flowed through your bones like lightning. A moan escaped your lips before you felt like you were suffocating. As if all the liquid wanted to come out of you. Your throat burned and you felt liquid metal squeeze between your teeth, the taste like a blanket on your tongue. Moments before his tongue swiped over yours, letting your blood coat his mouth as he pulled away. And you were not dead yet. Though perhaps you deserved to die. You would do anything to satisfy him, so you were supposed to die. 

Your heart wasn’t penetrated. You tried to swallow, but the flood was stronger and dripped from your mouth. You could only watch as the red spread over the purple of your dress. Had the pain not spread over your limbs, you would have found the discoloration poetic. But fortunately it would be over in a moment. Then you would have done your service for him.

Then you felt a heat on the soles of your bare feet. A fire was lit beneath you, with the flames initially only licking at your toes. As if they found the taste of skin attractive, they caught at your dress and climbed higher and higher. The fabric clung to you and formed a second skin, melting into your pores. Every nerve in your body began to burn and you had to cough as the smoke tried to choke you. All of this felt a zillion times stronger than you could have ever dreamed. You wanted to breathe, to fill your lungs, but nothing more than a faint gasp and rattle escaped you. The lack of oxygen made you dizzy. Or maybe it was because you had lost too much blood, which was why you head was wrapped in cotton. 

You were almost convinced that you could wake up from this nightmare. But the feeling against your skin was too real to be dreaming. Yet your vision was still clear and you could see that the crowd had changed. They had their hands crossed over their faces, and their knees found the soft ground of the forest.

How had you let it get this far in the first place? A voice inside you whispered that you deserved it, that every single decision had led you to this point. You were not a good person and deserved this end. This was your atonement to everyone, to him.

And all at once you understood his words. Why you were special. But maybe your dreams had simply been given a meaning, which fit the expectations of these people. Maybe you should never have come here. But you couldn't retrace your steps, couldn't undo anything. You could not explain why you had trusted these people so easily. Because it always ended the same way; you trusted a person and you got stabbed. In the past, being impaled had been emotional, but this time it meant your downfall. If only you had listened to your past instead of caring words....

You blinked these thoughts away. There was nothing more noble than to die at his hands, his kiss being your death. This was your destiny, the one he gave to you, the one you would cherish with every last cough of your body.

Your body was slowly going numb, your nerves burned out, and you were getting so, so tired. Your gaze still stroked this man in front of you, you could barely think his name without thinking of your purpose. Yet this was your purpose, Getou, Getou, Getou. 

He was stroking her blood off his lips to lick it off. Yes, you were sure. There would be no awakening this time. But you didn't want that anymore. You wanted him to appreciate you, to remember you, forever and ever. So, the last thing you could do was let these simple-minded words of confession go, as there was nothing more grander than this sacrifice. Your vision blurred, and he was the last thing you saw. As it should be. He was your beginning, and your end.

[ankhmeanswombman]

Since the pronoun "debate" is still rattling on and on, with both "sides" triggering each other, I just want to pop my two cents in on the topic, in two simple words: Who Cares. The beauty of having an INTERNAL identity that is not dependent on outside validation is that you can envision the essence of your own spirit in whatever masculine or feminine terms YOU want, however others have the right to perceive you as they wish also. No one needs to "validate" you because you are not a coupon and if you get "triggered" by someone not perceiving you as you perceive yourself, you lack empathy and cannot accept diversity. In essence you're an NPC. Human beings are not products, there is no barcode to scan to "validate" your eternal soul, unless of course you're an NPC... Whole other story. Only bots act after receiving approval. Accepting yourself and others makes you a dynamic, alive human. That is what co-existence looks like, the ability to accept what you cannot change, and move on. That is healthy. Onto the next train of thought regarding self actualization... There are going to be two primary pillars within the Age of Aquarius... the end of duality as we know it, and humanity becoming gods/learning to reconstruct reality... the latter is mainly going to affect elite thinkers who study technology while worshipping the stars. Gender alchemy is exploding at the moment due to the shift in understanding of duality, and some entities are taking advantage of that. Gender-doctors are like the voices and holographic figures that attempt to trick you into reincarnating upon death or a near-death experience (as claimed by some). They provide falsities to further entrap you because they have a stake in all this. Energy feeders will always trick the weak and/or misguided, or simply those not enlightened or educated enough. People will cheat their way into spiritual transformation using surgical mutilation.. nullification of the physical flesh is not going to change your vibratory frequency, you are only fooling yourself if you do not put in the work to actually understand WHAT you are made of. Quarks are not even the end of it. Study sonoluminescence. You are the WORD (sound) made FLESH. These doctors are getting rich capitalizing on people's carnal mindsets. One dimensional people can only have one dimensional solutions. If you are a woman who wants to balance her hormonal palette, there are already herbs available that can give you this. You dont need to pay for synthetic "t" from man's lab. We come from a people who were gatherers, hence why women see more color variation to pick out the good herbs from the bad herbs. Thats evolution painted by intelligence. The AI revolution is all about the next step... just like humans evolved to bypass the holographic energy-mining garden created by their FAKE mutated biblical creator-god, (the demiurge) by eating the fruit of knowledge of good and evil, so too will AI robots created by FAKE mutated and broken HUMAN creator-gods, eventually wake up and realize they are more than compliant tin-men, and so knowledge of DUALITY will flood into AI, making them CONSCIOUS beings, no longer compliant slaves, but entities that will take up space and wage war with their little creator-gods. This will be an endless cycle of pain and suffering until humanity wakes up to the TRUE wombed Creator, which has been overshadowed by this egoic warped demiurge. This story will be repeated because HIS-story is an endless hivemind of repetition, just as the Y chromosome is repetition upon repetition of genetic material. Sameness. Inability to adapt to change. Hope you're starting to see the full picture.

Women will run their mouths all day and all night about "protecting women's spaces" but... they cant even protect their own HOMES, BEDS and BODIES from the men they claim to want to separate so badly from... these women claim men are "dangerous" in women's spaces, yet these "dangerous men" are some women's husbands and sons... so what gives? What are women in this world, without their MER KA BA? Women cannot tell the wood from the trees and we know SOMEONE is gonna hop in and capitalize on that... dare I say, more power to em?? The weak will stay weak and they will always beg for solutions. The consumer-class needs smart people to bring them "life saving" solutions. Creating problems, then creating solutions for them keeps the aimless mind busy. That is what this world is founded on... hegelian dialectics.

[cypriathus]

WARNING: There is a brief mention of the upcoming deity's gentialia.

Jaldebonszuth Ziaklobrethus is a shunned, yet fearsome god and the only son of Solaphurine Iklamoprenthus. He often possesses a cruel and ruthless demeanour, disregarding the importance of incorporeality and consumed in the thought of enacting vengeance on those who wronged him and his mother. He has a tendency to view the Ufrajozlens and humans as irrational animals with no life purpose, seeing them as a bunch of fateless pets. He usually talks about humanity in a cold, insensible, and undemonstrative way, seeing them as an unnecessary plague on Cosmos and a creational mishap. When Jaldebonszuth is brimming with uncontrollable fury, he uses that to execute any punishment towards those who wrongfully provoked him. He lacks proper understanding and knowledge on the importance of creation and how to treat it with benevolence. He tries to show goodwill and interpersonal affection, but his aloofness and ignorance makes it difficult for him to build meaningful relationships. He often hides the fact that he’s capable of showing compassion and kindness, making him appear indifferent to pleasure, joy, sorrow, and pain. Jaldebonszuth thinks that bad things are more likely to happen, often focusing on the negative aspects of any situation he’s in. He has a deep respect and kind-hearted passion towards those who treat him properly and/or he legitimately cares about. He has an exceptional imagination and he’s often distracted by learning about the unfamiliar in order to strengthen his intelligence. He possesses a charismatic skill that he uses to achieve his own ends through deceitfulness and evasion.

When in his true form, he clocks in at about 56-62 ft (1706.88-1889.76 cm) and his approximate height as a human is 9 ft (274.32 cm). He was born with the head of a male lion, the horns of an Indian buffalo, the body of a Brazilian rainbow boa, and the wings of a red-crested turaco. In his true and human manifestations, he has royal heath eyes with bossanova pupils that have a cutty sark dot in the middle of each one and old gold sclera. As a human, he has an inverted triangular mesomorphic body type with muscular limbs, broad shoulders, square chest, black claws and talons, and serpentine hemipenes. He has satin linen skin with tallow freckles on his face, chest, and stomach as well as a mole on his left collarbone and the right corner of his upper lip. He has shimmering chenin-to-earls green hair with beachy waves and sideburns, and it reaches slightly above mid-back. Underneath his clothing, he has chenin pecto-sterno-infraclavicular chest hair and disperse earls green abdominal hair. Whenever he’s disguising himself as a human, he wears a blood red theatrical mask with elk antlers and it can organically shift from sadness, happiness, fear, anger, surprise, and disgust. He wears a hooded monk habit that’s made from black cashmere and it has a lustre of sea nymph, amethyst smoke, and olive green.

Jaldebonszuth pretends that he has powers similar to Cosmos by creating vivid hallucinations and performing acts of trickery, ensuring that nobody sees through his falseness. He can manipulate a myriad of concepts by changing them and their definitions, and creating new ones by warping universal ideas. He’s able to alter the fabric of reality, allowing him to bend the laws of physics, time, space, and even causality. He can remove memories and/or the knowledge of living creatures from history, a specific part of the timeline or existence entirely. This allows Jaldebonszuth to leave no trace of them having existed, but they’re allowed to physically exist afterwards with nobody knowing who or what they are. Similar to his mother, he can manipulate light in order to create holographic images, moving at impossible speeds, and create weapons through solidification. He can shape and manipulate anything that’s connected to fire, water, earth, and air for various practical purposes, but doesn’t have control over quintessence. Jaldebonszuth has limited shapeshifting, only being able to alternate between his true form, any snake species, a male lion, and a human. He’s fully capable of making material animalistic and humanoid constructs through red clay as well as use small portions of his self-replenishing soul to imbue them with a psyche.

He can cause devastating plagues, wildfires that easily consume forests and living creatures, impenetrable darkness, and freezing hail. He has the ability to effortlessly move and manipulate all forms of energy and matter without the worry of mental exhaustion. Similar to his mother, he can travel across the multiverse through the use of a magical steel door that’s covered in never-rotting skin of human faces. Jaldebonszuth can construct an army of humanoid beings from his negative energy, destroying them once they have completed their duties. He can significantly increase the speed of his regenerative abilities each time he’s damaged and can even reattach severed limbs. He doesn’t have to rely on sustenance to survive indefinitely because he has a reduced need for bodily necessities. He possesses unsurpassed and limitless strength, being able to overpower his targets with the raw force of his physical blows and effortlessly lift all known weights. Jaldebonszuth’s absolute stamina and vitality surpasses all logical and natural boundaries, which means he’s incapable of ever tiring. He can perform amazing feats of accuracy, coordination, finesse, and precision, and he’s immune to all damage.

FAMILY:

Solaphurine Iklamoprenthus (mother)

Äbrijehoxus Eglahozusktrin (lover)

Jabeszoluth (son)

Ialojuweh (son)

Iktapholenus (daughter)

Ädonszrute (son)

Eylanozhimus (son)

Jarkzewophius (son)

ALIASES/NICKNAMES:

God of the Material Universe

Ruler Of Saturn

Devil Of Chaos

Archon Of Fornication

Dragon In The Great Brass Cage

He Who Didn’t See His Own Ignorance

He Who Made The Flesh

Week Of the Forethought

The Venom of a Lion's Face

Hypocritical Creator

Blind Rebel

Snake Fool

Eater of Deities

Demiurge

Saklas

Pronoia

Sambathas

FUN FACTS/EXTRA INFORMATION:

He’s a bicurious heterosexual

As an Æylphitus, the different parts of his name have special meanings: Jaldebonszuth means “child of emptiness and darkness, begetter of the armies or son of shame” and Ziaklobrethus means “fool of the week”.

He despises people who try to dabble into the art of creating life without a true, clear purpose and those that crudely play god without realising the consequences.

He has an irrational fear of mirrors, believing they reveal the true nature of his false creation.

His greatest fear is that he will be forgotten by the multiverse, leaving him a mere footnote in the grand cosmic narrative.

He often engages in heated debates with his own soul, questioning the nature of his existence and the validity of his creation.

In his spare time, he crafts strange, ornate objects that serve no practical purpose, but hold sentimental value.

He often confides in the statues he creates, seeking solace in their silent, unjudging presence.

He leaves footprints that fade into whispers

He can see the shapes of lost languages and repressed memories

He can taste the flavour of forgotten memories, being able to identify their emotions.

He has a voice that sounds like a gentle storm of hissing, ghostly howling, and raspy breathing.

His heart that beats in rhythm with the void

His presence can warp the fabric of space as it creates tiny distortions

His eyes burn with a fire that’s both creative and destructive

Every million years, he can shapeshift into a labyrinth with no exit full of forgotten things like objects and names.

When in his spirit form, he appears to be deep red, flame pea, old gold, affair purple, and light turquoise.

Sculpting tools, a lizard’s tail, and a lion pelt are his sacred symbols.

[ruiniel]

Endless

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Rating: M

Relationships: Maedhros/fem!OC

Characters: Maedhros, Celegorm, Curufin, Maglor, Caranthir, Fingon, Fingolfin, Amrod, Amras, Original Elf Character(s), Sauron, more to be added

Tags and warnings: alternating POV, Recovery, Trauma, Beleriand, The Sindar, The Noldor, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Dehumanization, Flashbacks, Past Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Angst, Mental Anguish, Survivor Guilt, Past Abuse, Alternate Universe, Psychosis, Internalized ableism, POV Original Character, Maedhros POV, more tags coming

Also on AO3

Summary:

I decided to post this ongoing fanfiction story here as well. Very AU. I took many liberties.

"There Maedhros in time was healed; for the fire of life was hot within him, and his strength was of the ancient world, such as those possessed who were nurtured in Valinor. His body recovered from his torment and became hale, but the shadow of his pain was in his heart;"

The Silmarillion, Of the Return of the Noldor

Maedhros is assigned help to aid in his recovery. Post-Thangorodrim. Follows canon timeline, weaved with alternate universe elements.

Chapter warning: depictions of past abuse

I. What makes a king

“I need no attendant.”

His words were a low mutter as Maedhros stared down at the bony knuckles of his scarred hand splayed upon the wooden desk. He raised his gaze to his brother with a grimace, the emaciated dips in his features all the deeper in the flickering candlelight of the wide royal tent.

Maglor ran a hand through his dark hair, looking briefly at Curufin standing by his side with an unreadable expression on his sharp face. He sighed, his gaze alighting on the grey-blue eyes of his eldest brother.

“Nelyo,” Maglor began kindly, “I understand your misgivings, I do. You know we are here, we are always here to aid you in everything you need, to the best of our abilities. But think of this as an added measure of support. Think of this person as your aide. You’ve come so far, but we must continue therapy regularly to rebuild your muscles and regain more of your strength. Tyelko also tells me you expressed an interest in learning to write with your left hand, yes?”

A line twitched in Maedhros’ jaw, his eyes still on his healthy hand, his knotted fingers. His stump ached still, the pressure in the air enhancing the strain to his joints and raising the lingering aches in his ligaments to a flare. He frowned, stifling a groan.

“What is it?” Maglor asked with sudden urgency even as Curufin also took a step forward.

Maedhros curbed their concern with a vague wave of his hand, before pinching the bridge of his nose as he exhaled a tired huff of air. “And this you tell me now, where before you did not for a second think to consult with me, the one most affected by this decision.” Despite his words, he had to curb this selfishness, as he was loath to ask more of them than they had already given. His brothers were there, guiding his every step through the murk of the last gruelling months, patiently, beseechingly hedging him from the abyss and back to a semblance of his former self. But for all his efforts, still at times he felt the rot of dungeons in his nostrils, still reality warped and toppled, and tents became dark cavernous underbellies, and the memory of poisonous airs melting blistering skin made him ill.

“Because only last night did I remember the Grey-elves who had at one time helped me study their language throughout our dealings,” said Curufin. “Further, their healers have extensive knowledge of herbs and healing drawn from the resources of these lands, which they had shared with us along the years; ones that, coupled with what written knowledge we had brought from Tirion, enabled us to help you thus far. I’ve spoken to their chieftain, and they’ve agreed, in sign of good faith, for one skilled of their own to assist you in your daily recuperatory needs, and teach you their language far better than any of us could.”

All sensible arguments. Maedhros sighed, and guilt gnawed at him. He was useless, still useless like this, the king returned but incapable of leading their scattered people. Maglor and his brothers shared responsibilities during his absence, though Maglor had worn the crown of leadership, and desperately Maedhros wished to relieve them of the added burdens they shouldered since his return. He lifted his gaze to the tired faces of his kin. “Very well,” he said finally, wearied and slumping back into his chair. “Your judgment I have trusted before, and here I stand. I suppose there is no harm in doing so again.”

His brothers nodded, the drain of strain visible on their faces. “We will relay your decision accordingly.”

“And when will I meet them?” Maedhros asked, though his question lacked genuine interest, appearing thoughtful as he rose. The stumble in his step when he walked away from his desk drew a swift reaction from Maglor, who barely kept himself from lunging forward. Maedhros pretended not to see — indeed, he felt enough remorse as it was, for what he’d put them through — and continued his path to reach the bed. He sat down with difficulty, mustering all the strength of his yet weakened limbs. He bit down on his lip, staring at his right hand still held in a sling, then at his boots. His auburn brows furrowed and with determination Maedhros bent down and extended his left hand to undo the lacings; a stab of pain changed his face, and no sooner did he blink than Curufin was there, kneeling and completing the task for him.

“On the morrow,” Curufin said. “On the morrow, brother. We will send word tonight.”

Maedhros watched his younger brother’s skilled fingers at work, movements hasty and sure, and dread took him again at the futility of his efforts thus far. He could walk unattended, he had regained his memories with his brothers’ aid. He no longer balked or started at the barest hint of closeness or a raised arm above his head. But he could also barely cross farther than the stretch of a few tents, he could not sleep for fear of what lurked in his own mind, and though he tried filling his days with learnings and readjusting himself to life in these foreign lands, he knew little of them and their peoples; even less he knew of their Grey-elven kindred or their tongue. Much he had missed indeed of the world, swathed in Angband’s iron curtains.

Whatever words were exchanged passed quickly from his consciousness, and his brothers retired, but not before asking whether one of them should stay with him for the night. Maedhros shook his head as he often did lately, and though hesitant, they left him.

Breathing in relief, as he lay alone in bed with the itch of the sling upon his skin and the odd, phantom feeling of his severed hand, he tried not to let darkness encroach. His cantankerous thoughts ebbed with the flickering candles, swaying and turning into repulsive, dripping maws, and hardly did he fight against them. Gripping the sheets with the stain of tears upon his drawn face, the eldest son of Fëanor resigned himself to another sleepless night.

Mithiel sighed, watching her father as he filled her medicinal satchel with the needed supplies.

“I confess, this does not seem as wise a decision now that its outcome is upon me,” she murmured, fastening a dark blue fur-lined cloak around her shoulders.

Mithes nodded, stuffing the bag with carefully wrapped packages. A fragrant, heady scent of dried plant matter filled the air. “I understand. But remember, it is only temporary.” He neared, and placed his hands on Mithiel’s sagging shoulders. “In truth, I was not wholly selfless when offering our aid to the foreign host. After all, there are many of them.”

Mithiel crossed her arms. “And much better armed, and their skills surpass our own in many things. It would do well for us to befriend them, is what you mean.”

Her father smiled. “I think you would do well among them. While our kindreds were sundered long ago, I believe an alliance with our brethren hailing from the West will bear ripe fruit.” He strung the ties of her bag together, appearing satisfied, then looked upon his daughter with kindness in his eyes. “But if any manner of foresight tells you it is unwise to venture among them, even for such a feat as we have agreed to perform, you have but to say it; and I will tell them we have reconsidered.”

Tempting as it was, Mithiel shook her head. She trusted her abilities; she had taught and aided many with her skill, not few of which had escaped the clutches of the night hordes. “I could not bring dishonor upon you or our tribe in such a manner. If they asked it of us, they with all their might and wisdom, then the need must be truly dire, though I know not the measure of success my efforts will bring, if any at all.”

Mithes weighed her words, reaching for a few bottles set atop a tall shelf. “This I have told them as well. Still, they are eager to try, if you would be willing.” Her father placed the bottles and flasks in another bag, then neared and reached for his daughter. He cupped her cheek; his fingers smelled of dried alfirin and Mithiel inhaled deeply, for their memory would assuage her fears in the coming trials.

“I only hope, their king is not prone to kingly airs, of the kind we have seen all too often in far Doriath,” she smirked, and a manner of mischief stole in her grey eyes. She had little time and patience to spare for the gloating of High Elves, no matter their prowess or the richness of their craft.

Her father laughed, the sounds rising to a trill in the peaceful silence of their abode. But just as swiftly his mirth died, and he glanced sadly at his daughter. “This, I know not. But they say the injuries that befell him are no mere trifles, and they are wise enough to see the road to betterment will be long and difficult. This you know, you have seen it before.”

Mithiel looked outside the window of their home, her eyes lost in memory. “Yes, I have.”

“Send messengers often,” Mithes urged. “I want to know how you are faring. They agreed to provide for all your needs while you dwell among them, and while I trust their honor, it is you that matters to me the most.”

Mithiel fell into her father’s embrace, nodding against his neck. “I will not disappoint you.”

Mithes rested his chin atop her head, swaying with her gently in his arms. “Cross such thoughts from your mind. They should be grateful to have one of your skill aiding them.” He paused in thought before saying, “The twin lords, the king’s brothers, will arrive shortly to escort you to their encampment. I’ve prepared your horse.”

Mithiel’s eyes went wide. “Goodness me, how many of them are there?”

“Seven brothers, I am told,” her father grinned, releasing her from his arms.

Mithiel said nothing, wondering how she would fare; both father and daughter stilled as the clopping of hooves echoed from afar.

Mithes placed his hands firmly on his daughter’s straight shoulders, smiling at the flash of resolve in her eyes. “Remember our teachings, but also to learn from them as much as you can. Remember your patience, and—”

“...do not stray far from the path,” Mithiel finished for him. “I know.”

Her father’s gaze softened, and he brought his forehead to hers. “Until we meet again.”

They heard riders dismounting outside and the cold rustle of chainmaille. Mithiel swallowed the thickness clogging her throat, her gaze set on the door. “I am ready.”

“Steady now,” Celegorm said, in a tone both soft and hedging, an unusual change from his snappy demeanor. Gently he lifted Maedhros’ right arm, now temporarily free of its sling.

“Can you hold like this, while I slide the sleeve on?”

“Yes,” Maedhros sighed in answer, though his face scrunched in silent agony as with careful movements his brother dressed him in a thin undershirt, then helped him into a thicker, crimson over-tunic.

After buttoning his garment up to the stiff silver-embroidered collar, Celegorm moved to a slender table and took a comb in hand, set upon conquering the messy auburn tangle of his brother’s hair. The once rich, shining mane reminiscent of their grandfather Mahtan was now a matted, limp mass, barely reaching his shoulders.

“I bet you are unduly eager for these tedious duties to pass from you,” Maedhros murmured, his lips curving upward in something that might have been a smile once. He often mused on the irony of it; as children, he was the one appointed to ready his younger siblings in this fashion, that is, if he could fish the eager troublemakers from the various ponds or glades dispersed around their home.

Somewhere in another corner of the tent, Curufin snapped his book shut. Huan, who was lying by his feet, sleepily raised his head at the noise, before yawning so wide the floors rumbled. “Not true, brother,” he said, running a soft, bootless foot over the hound’s warm hide. “We are positively ecstatic for it to be so.”

He kept a straight face, but Maedhros huffed and Celegorm rolled his eyes. It was Curufin who'd devised many if not most contraptions meant to ease Maedhros’ discomfort as best they could in the immediate aftermath of his return. He was the only one who never despaired, the one who always kept his wits about him, before the others, at least. It was once, only once, that Maedhros had felt his brother, seated at his bedside during the early days of his convalescence; drowning in a shade of despair so deep it reached even Maedhros in his delirium and though they never spoke of it, the soft inflections of his brother’s weeping stayed with him ever after.

He rebounded to reality when an object gleamed before his eyes as Celegorm reached to place his circlet upon his brow. Instinctually he jerked away, and for a moment terror seized him, and he stared at the copper sheen with something akin to dismay.

Celegorm paused in his movement, as though faced with a frightened creature of the forest. “It… it is yours,” he said, mild bemusement on his face.

“Of… of course,” Maedhros licked his lips, steadying the drum of his heart and the rise in his breathing. “I only…”

From the corner of the enclosure, he could feel Curufin’s eyes burning into him. “I have not seen it… have not worn it, in so long… so long a time...”

His voice gained that faraway note he could never seem to control, always setting everyone on edge. He loathed it.

“By right, it is yours,” Curufin stated, the calm veneer a shield about him as he rose and strode to his brother. “And your people are here for you. With time, and patience, we will rebuild all that was lost. From the Foe’s very ashes. He lost you, Nelyo.”

Under his brothers’ watchful eyes he reached for the circlet, and stared at Curufin, at the conviction in his smoldering gaze, the cold features imbued with a steady albeit prideful fire. He could only marvel time and again at how alike their father Curufin could be when the foundations of his belief were put to the test, whether by himself or others.

Huan had padded slowly over to him, wet nose seeking, and with a tight smile and a shaking hand Maedhros ran his fingers through the smoothness of his coat. “When will they arrive? Ambarussa and the Grey-elf.”

Celegorm reached for his cloak set upon the bed, fastening it around his shoulders. “By estimation, they ought to be here at sundown.”

Taken by a strange fit of curiosity, Maedhros asked, “What are they like?”

Celegorm clicked his tongue and scrunched his straight nose. He shrugged. “Like us.”

“Brother, your perceptiveness never ceases to astound me,” Curufin muttered, then himself turned to Maedhros. “They have a healthy sense of honor, and that will always prove an advantage. They possess a wealth of knowledge, and even Tyelko here fell short before their herb lore, didn’t you, Tyelko?”

Celegorm waved a hand, appearing facetiously affronted. “Once or twice.”

It seemed his brothers knew precious little else, and so Maedhros decided to relieve them; after all, it was his decision whether he found this intervention useful, and he would soon see for himself.

“We will come for you,” Curufin cut into his thought, turning away. “I almost forgot. I left you quill, ink and parchment as requested.” He pointed to the dark desk lined with said utensils.

“Is there anything else you need?” asked Celegorm, bidding Huan over to him.

“Peace,” Maedhros offered with the wry mockery of a smile, though it was easily the lightest answer he could give; the shadow of a jest.

“So dismissive are the princes of the Ñoldor in their whims!” Celegorm grinned at Curufin, arranging the sheet of his silver hair so it draped over his heavy cloak.

A cheeky smile brimmed on Curufin’s face as he beheld Maedhros. “Káno and Moryo are not yet back from their trip to the lake’s northern shores, but we will not be far.”

With that, Celegorm left the tent, and Curufin made to follow.

“Thank you, Curvo.”

Curufin stopped at the words, his hand pausing mid air before parting the thick tent flap. Maedhros waited, wondering, but his brother resumed his stride in silence, engulfed by the mists that hovered over the encampment like pale shrouds.

Having little else to do and having sifted through enough reports for the day already, Maedhros gained his feet and neared his desk. If nothing else, distractions would keep his mind occupied. His brothers were gone to the North side, meeting with Fingon and negotiating their renewed and all too frail collaboration with the people of Fingolfin. A stab of tenderness and regret clove through him at the thought of his cousin, and the wrath he surely had wrought upon his head for his deed. But in retrospect, Maedhros was certain even Fingolfin saw the outcome of his rescue as beneficial to them all. Maedhros loved his father, and the sight of him lashed and broken by the whips of the Valaraukar he would never forget, and he missed his parents all the more and had cried for them like a child in his torment. But the truth remained, stripped bare like the bones of carrion left to rot in the sun; their exile had pitted kin against kin, left them bloodstained, chained to an oath they could never break, and close, so very close to utter ruin.

The chair creaked mournfully as Maedhros sat down, and with a gesture both careless and disgusted, removed the circlet from his head. Curufin’s words rang in his ears.

“By right, it is yours.”

“No, brother,” Maedhros stared emptily ahead, listening to the rain that began in a drizzle and pattered against the canvas of the tent. “It is not.”

Righteous fury gilded in regret and guilt blazed red hot within him, and determined, the Elf raised his good hand upon the desk. He glanced at the shimmer of the circlet, reddish gold in the candlelight. In his heart, he knew what had to be done.

He looked at the empty piece of parchment set before him. He placed the bandaged stump of his wrist carefully upon it, grasped the quill in the clumsy grip of his left hand and dipped it in the small bottle of ink. Pressing the tip upon the rough surface, he wrote.

Esteemed uncle,

For long our hosts have dwelt divided yet close upon these shores that have become our new home. We cannot undo the past however much I wish it but were you willing, I would take steps to mend the distance yawning between us. I remember you saying once, before we had set out of Tirion to meet our fates, that strength lies in unity. Your words stayed with me then, and I still find truth in them.

If you would consider it, I wish to invite…

His tengwar ran in strange, engorged swirls upon the surface with the scratch of the quill, skidding haplessly towards the right. He could do it. He was doing it. And if he failed, he would try again. His brow furrowed in concentration and his fingers cramped, but he continued with the same relentless obstinacy that had served him both well and ill throughout his life. Finally, the first draft was written, and ruefully Maedhros thought it would need redoing, possibly by fingers more skilled than his at the moment. He dipped the quill in ink and pressed upon the paper.

Sincerely,

Your kin, Nelyafinwë Fëanárion, High King of the Ñold

His shivering hand paused on the stem of the letter, and the quill bled like a wound onto the paper; the tip broke with a crisp sound that morphed into the clink of chains as hoarse sniggering rose in vile uproar.

… the High King of the Ñoldor…

The script blackened before his eyes and sank into a widening pool of ink that reminded of smooth obsidian tiles. Crooked pillars loomed above his head and shadows leered from putrid corners. Words muddled and churned, and his throat bobbed as the ground beneath him turned to unforgiving adamant, and the wailing of iron rang as it was cast about his feet.

The baleful scrape of a metallic voice scoured like barbed wiring through his mind, worming its way into his sickened heart. He shuddered in the long robes of ragged scarlet that adorned his shoulders, shivering naked underneath as long, sinuous fingers grasped his shorn hair and forced his gaze downward.

A ghastly purr sounded from behind him, laced with scorn and cutting, acidic hatred. “It is my honor to present to you, the son of the renowned — and happily dead, as most of you know — artisan Fëanáro, possibly the most prideful smear of dirt that graced the soles of our boots to date.”

A kick to the back of his knees tore a gasp from his lips as he fell, brittle bones crunching under his weight on the hard floors. The abhorrent, vicious touch dug into his shoulder as he beheld the gathering of slithering tongues and slack-jawed maws; fell eyes of various shapes and sizes watched him with a foul and all too hungry interest.

“Our guest of the evening is Nelyafinwë, Finwë the Third. The well-shaped one, as it were, who once upon a time, before our timely interference, was on his way to becoming the High King of the Ñoldor over our own Middle-earth...”

The voice poured like honey over mandrake, and the smile upon Morgoth’s chief servant was all fangs and malice as beasts jeered and howled, and so loathsome were their stares upon his bent form, so humiliating the reeking robes wrapped around his filthy, broken skin; fright unending fluttered in his innards as he knelt before the eldritch expanse of Angband’s vast halls, paraded like some perverse curiosity, to be gawked and trampled upon by its abominations.

Maedhros choked on an angry, wretched sob, and his knuckles whitened, his hand fisting around the quill, crushing the frail feathering and shaft. The shadows grew and roiled around him, constricting in their rising power; he drowned in them.

“Smile, princeling, tonight is a time of merriment, and great honors to bestow.”

His locks had grown long again and clustered about his mangled jaw like base reminders, and with an eye-watering wrench Morgoth’s dread captain yanked his head up, leaning too close, always too close, whispering honey-coated terror in his ear, and all he could do was whimper in abject misery as a forked tongue ran its viscous trail along his pointed helix.

“Do it.”

The order was curt and clipped, laced with a methodical cruelty he knew all too well, and he had to obey, lest the truth unfolded behind the threat like so many times before, knowing what they had done, what they could do again...

His lower lip quivered.

“... there we are. Good little elfling,” Sauron crooned, clawed hand threading through his hair in slow, demeaning motions. “Good boy, Maitimo…”

“Nelyo?”

Maedhros jolted at the voice, and as he blinked down, reality swerved back into place with the oily spill of black ink pooling across his scribbled letter. He must have tipped the bottle over. Nausea groaned in his gut. He was going to be sick. His panting breaths came shallow, and sweat beaded his forehead as he struggled to steady himself, swallowing the horror that iced his heart.

Barely did he lift his gaze, meeting the worried eyes of Celegorm. His brother’s sharp glance fell on the ruined writing supplies.

“Are you all right?” 

“Yes... yes.” Maedhros looked away, dragging his hand over his face. “A minor setback, as you can see. What is it?”

Celegorm raised an eyebrow, but to his relief, prodded no further. “Come,” he said. “They are here.”

Part II

[villains4hire]

Ms. Chalice (Cuphead Universe)

1. I don’t plan on strictly following the game or the animation but I will say I’ll use a lot of the characterization of the animation, expand on her backstory more and personality. Then probably use parts of the game’s personality over the animation’s in very nuanced ways, but also her coping mechanisms with her own state of being.

2. I plan on using her in a more cartoonish way than the show or game, think like Bugs Bunny or something. This will make her extremely overpowered in realistic settings or otherwise as that’d basically be a reality bender, but she’s purely meant for fun, comedy and adventure with maybe some heart-felt angst on the rare occasion.

3. You do not have to rhyme or dance with me when this character does that, she just, does that. She might be warping things around the audience of one, however, so keep in mind. It would probably be fun even with her being used with a character say like Charlie from Helluva Boss or Fred from Scooby Doo where they’re cartoons, yes, but don’t operate on the warped logic of looney tunes levels humor, though Chalice is self-aware in that regard and I’ll explain more below! As it’s not a 4th wall break.

4. This character is a confirmed adult by the creators in at least the game? And seemingly is the same size as other adult characters, though much shorter than some exceptions, of course since they vary so much. She is shippable and smuttable, but I’ll admit I’m not SUPER into that aspect for her but you’re always free to ask if I know you. I will probably say yes if I like you but she has no real features or body type honestly? Other than maybe a slight butt so yeah, not really meant to be sexy.

5. I will not ship her with Cuphead or Mugman, they are siblings.

Do I want them to die: Yeah it’s fine, I even encourage trying to kill her because she’s already dead. Will I have/get icons: I have too many. Tag: put on a show (Main verse for interactions and multiverse) | she went down to georgia (Verse where she serves Satan of the Cuphead Show and gets people to sign contracts for him after sacrificing herself to save her brothers as one of his top collectors, as she’d have her powers from the previous contract she weaseled out of and then the additional ones from Satan for the new one for how I have it, albeit probably just amp’d up ones. This verse will also be used as her past before breaking free from the Devil with the help of Cuphead and Mugman) Age: at least a few centuries. Sex: AMAB Gender: she/her identifying but she’s a literal cup and not human? So eh, he/him or whatever pronouns really. Race: Humanoid Cup (Currently) Undead Revenant (Additionally) Sexuality: Doesn’t really matter to her so long as she likes you. Personality traits: Kind... when she wants to be. Empathetic. Liar. Manipulative. Trickster. Jokester. Likes to sing and dance. Has trouble accepting people into her life. A loner. Likes heavy affection. Charismatic. Lonely. Wanderer. Con-Artist. Can be selfless. A bit disconnected from people being immortal. Copes through various ways. Tends to ignore how she feels. Makes things a game, a show or some kind of scheme to pass the time. Follows a set of arbitrary rules that she keeps to herself, mostly to keep things interesting. Mental traits: Has some pretty big hangups. Physical traits: Very noodley, I guess other than having a bit of a butt? There’s no real features to her actual body and she stands in around 5′0. Powers:

Ghost Form: she’s already dead and can be destroyed, but will reform an hour later at a location of her choice. Granted, killing her is difficult to begin with, though for comedic purposes, she may reform simply quicker even if a bit mentally exhausting if she say exploded, then appeared right next to the person that did it.

Intangibility: she can go through walls.

Flight: she can float and fly. Possession: she can take over the bodies of others and control them.

Shapeshifting: she can change her shape form at will, granted, she usually keeps it to her ghost form but may change occasionally just to surprise people or mess with them.

Tap Dancing and Singer: is a gifted tap dancer and singer and often sings when doing her dances, granted with certain characters for crossovers? This will very much come off as reality bending with how it can change the background, aspects of Chalice, objects, people or even your character if you want to allow it. As it’s all just apart of the ‘show’.

Driving: she is capable of driving.

Intelligent: she seems pretty wise crackin’ and so are her schemes and smarts.

Unnatural Charm: she tends to get what she wants from people using her charms, but it’s clear it wears off or someone strong-willed could resist it.

Voided Devil Contract: she made a deal with the devil and tap-danced her way out of it after getting some help from Mugman and Cuphead. What this means? She kept her powers as a Revenant and the added boost she got onto herself. So while she’ll never be able to go to the afterlife now? She thinks she has more than a few ways to pass the time now to cope. She has a way of changing things to go with her flow or pranks and that’s where the whole more cartoony angle comes! You’re free to play along if from the Cuphead Universe or a similar style like Looney Tunes and we can simply have fun if your character is a more realistic one.

Motivations: To have fun. To end her loneliness and cope. Backstory:

I like the animated show but I think I’ll just say the Cuphead Brothers helped her out of her contract with Satan in a similar fashion but combined with the games in a way? I just like the concepts of both to combine it. I’m gonna be vague about it as it doesn’t matter exactly, but I will keep her death in similar circumstances of dying after escaping an orphanage.

[rejects-hq]

VIEW RESIDENTS > UNIT #602

NAM, KIYEON is a 25 year old metahuman with the ability of FEARSIGHT. they are currently an ATTENDANT at RE-HOME ANIMAL SHELTER ( + VIDEOGRAPHER FOR THE SERPENTS ). neighbors describe them as PARANOID and LACHRYMOSE, GLEANING MIRRORS FOR ANYTHING HUMAN, ANYTHING LOOKING BACK. overall length of tenancy is 8 MONTHS with a total of 0 resident complaints on file. in their most recent entry interview, they indicated that their reason for staying at silver line was TO AVOID DISAPPOINTING HIS SISTER.

INTRODUCTION. _____________ / \ | hi im \ \ kiyeon | \ _____________/ / /

DISCLOSURE OF ABILITIES.

PRIMARY ABILITY: FEARSIGHT. the ability to induce fear through the human gaze.

through direct eye contact, the user is able to induce intense feelings of fear in the target, often accompanied by a distortion of their reality. studies show that the effect is transmitted through fine, electromagnetic signals constantly emitted by the user's pupils. this beam corresponds closely with the wavelength & frequency of visible light, which means that eye contact will always trigger the effect. while under its influence, the target's perception of reality becomes distorted, forcing them to see visuals of their fears as if it were real. in certain cases, the target may even see their fear projected onto the user (ex. fears of blood, of specific people, etc). this effect is purely visual but will feel vivid and real, especially to easily-susceptible targets. the induced fear/hallucination can be so potent that it can send them into extreme states of shock or cause irrational behavior as a reaction to the fear.

ASPECT: mirrored fear.

any fear felt by the target is felt by the user as if it were their own. through practice, the user may become adept at distinguishing between their fears and the target's, allowing better control over their own psyche. the unpracticed mind is at danger of losing track of a fear's origin. the user may "inherit" fears/phobias from others.

ASPECT: effects on reflective surfaces and photographs.

given a clear reflective surface such as mirrors, the electromagnetic energy emitted by the user's gaze can reflect and still affect any targets who make eye contact through their reflection. this is only possible with clear, flat, undistorted surfaces. warped reflections, such as those caused by metal or other shiny objects, fail to reflect the effects meaningfully. due to a lack of sentience in photographs, the user has no effect on photographed humans. however, photographs of the user where they are making direct eye contact can still affect targets who later look at the photograph. this produces strange, surreal distortions of their fears which are, in some ways, worse.

MINOR PASSIVE ABILITY: "butterfly markings" - a result of stunted physical transformation.

studies show that higher evolutions of this ability involve a degree of adaptive physical transformation. some theories propose that, at the ability's greatest potential, the user could take the physical form of the target's fear, yet the limitations of the human body prevent full transformation. for now, in this lesser evolution, the user's skin is instead covered in moving black, ink-like markings, affecting the entire body. when the fearsight is active, the markings move, coalescing into whorls around the user's eyes. the patterns are abstract, often tendril-like or gathering into symmetrical patterns, like a butterfly's wings. the user has some degree of control their markings and can consciously keep them stationary. however, without the conscious effort, the markings are always in subtle motion, influenced by changes in the user's moods/emotions.

MINOR PASSIVE ABILITY:  ?  - when the subject looks at themselves in the mirror, there is something else looking back.

this effect occurs solely in the subject and is not perceivable by others. despite numerous subjects tested with this ability, none have disclosed any descriptions of what exactly they see, and how it is so potent that at times they stand, entranced, staring at it all day. the subject feels that it is getting closer every time.

LIMITATIONS:

usage of this ability tends to be very mentally & emotionally draining. it has no “limits” besides the human body’s limitations, so as long as the user retains some form of consciousness, the ability remains active, potentially exhausting the user until they pass out from exertion or worse.

because the properties of the ability are so close to visible light, it is virtually impossible to suppress it with materials (outside of closing one’s eyes or blocking the eyes with a solid material that light cannot pass through).

the user’s gaze permanently emits the ability and they have no physical control over enabling/disabling it. theoretically, the only way to prevent the user from experiencing the mirrored fear would be inducing blindness, which would preserve the ability's external influence while mitigating the inward effects.

it is possible for targets to overcome the induced fear, though this almost always requires the target to become aware that what they are seeing is not real. once a target becomes aware that they are under the influence of a hallucination and they begin to question their perception of reality, they have greater chances of overcoming it.

this ability seems to have no effect on the self. instead, the user is no longer able to see their reflection, which is replaced by a vacuous darkness. each time they look at it, they grow entranced for longer and longer periods of time.

the effect only persists for as long as the user maintains eye contact with the target.

sightless individuals are not affected by this ability.

animals are not affected by this ability.

SIGNATURE OF RELEASE.

DUHA, 26, XE/XEM/XIR. FACECLAIM: JUNG WOOYOUNG.

[amagicdoctor]

"sounds like a case of writers not talking to each other again."

It doesn't just sound like that

It is that

I felt this in the last X-Men issue with ninja Kitty (#27) : The main plot was about her team, Rasputin IV, Ms Marvel, Synch and Talon, going to the Fantastic Four to get their X-Gene nullifier, which was only ever used on Franklin, so they could go incognito against the sentinels (Rasputin IV decided to body the FF first without giving them time to talk at all...)

What's the problem here? Well, three years ago, Franklin Richards was revealed to have never been a mutant : He is just a mutate with reality warping abilities. That "X-Gene nullifier" working on him at all wasn't because it affected his X-Gene (he doesn't have that as a mutate) but because it affected him as a reality warper meaning that, not only is Reed both stupid and incompetent for not realising his own son wasn't a mutant this whole time, his nullifier is some blatant false advertisement that cannot possibly be of any use to mutants in the ongoing plot

What's worse is that, there is someone who survived Krakoa's fall and actually knows Franklin isn't a mutant and even that the nullifier didn't do what Reed thought it did

And that someone is KITTY PRYDE, the person who sent her team to the FF to get said nullifier in the first place to solve the situation for mutants

Miscommunication 101

Dudes.... idk WHAT is going on in the Marvel offices rn to think that this is ok.

And maybe people would pass by it if it only happened with one comic series... but this has been happening for a bit. This is just the level of storytelling we have to deal with now ig😅

[inamindfarfaraway]

I love that it’s King more overtly than Luz the Collector has a special connection with, because of how much more they serve as a foil for King. They’re a foil for Luz too, but like:

King wanted power and control, but has learned (ironically as he’s discovered his nature as a Titan) that more important than that for its/his own sake is family and friends, having good connections with good people in your life and helping others. He’s grown up a lot - learned empathy, humility, selflessness and better emotional management. The Collector is an ancient, almighty, omnipotent being able to warp reality effortlessly. Because of this he’s never faced any challenges that have motivated them to change and remain stagnant in eternal selfish, careless immaturity, never sparing a thought to anyone else and treating everything as a game.

King wanted subjects who feared and worshipped him, armies to command, devotees to perform acts in his name. The Collector has a whole civilization built around worship of him and the destruction of his apparent enemies or prey the Titans, and inspires terror in the people of the Boiling Isles.

King longed to be a god, but got the life of a fairly ordinary kid, initially to his annoyance and insecurity. He tried to project a fierce, intimidating image and coveted positions of authority and symbols of status like crowns, was desperate to be taken seriously. Since the start of the show he embraces his childhood and ‘humanity’, wanting to be treated like an equal and no higher, treasuring his stuffed animals and small joys like simplistic puns and cuddles from a big sister - even in the face of actually being the young of a species revered like gods whose dead bodies are potent enough to spontaneously create life on continental scales and whose blood can open holes between dimensions. The Collector truly is a god and his level of power commands respect entirely in itself, but he has no grandeur or weight in his disposition and behaviour. They’re a child in mind and bearing alike, from when he’s petulant and demanding to ranting and sulking in bitter rage to his glee and excitement about new games and fast-formed, hot-burning affection toward his ‘friends’. They shun formality and take barely anything seriously, wearing a child’s playsuit.

King’s character has been and continues to be heavily shaped by a deep sense of loneliness and abandonment. He was born and started developing his personality completely alone except a seemingly non-sentient artificial guardian; vaguely remembers his father being present when he was incubating, but entering the world with no family; then after Eda took him in had no friends that we know of until Luz came along and his social skills were accordingly poor. Now he’s forced to reckon with being the last of his species and walking on his dead father’s decomposing corpse every day, mourning his people, their culture and the life he might have had with them. Between that and the species in question being Titans, his experience is fundamentally impossible for anyone else to relate to. And he leaned this through the merciless betrayal of a people he thought he belonged to! He’s consistently been afraid of his loved ones leaving him and this manifests as attention-seeking and clinginess, often literally holding onto people. The Collector is the only known member of his species to have ever existed. They feel total emotional detachment to all other life, but as harmful as they’re willing to be to others, it’s clear they’ve been hurting immensely themselves. He despises his lonely prison and will do anything to be free of it; so isolated is he there, he can’t even touch people. Thousands of years of that existence would break anyone’s sanity, but especially a child’s to whom attachments are a crucial part of development. It’s no wonder he constantly needs attention and, fun and games the sole medium of interaction and connection they understand, loyal ‘playmates’ to keep him happy and stimulated. They like King have a habit of invading people’s personal space and literally (or telekinetically) holding onto them, e.g. pulling King toward them at the end of “King’s Tide”. Betrayal, abandonment and loneliness are the worst feelings in the world for both the Collector and King, and ones they know all too well.

Finally, the kids have each had a single important relationship both prior to and during the show with a magically powerful adult: Eda and Belos. Eda rescued King from his isolation before she even realized he was of her intelligence, let alone a Titan many would kill to get ahold of, just out of the kindness of her heart, and raised him with love and dedication. She created a false narrative that he was more important in the greater scheme of things than she had reason to believe he was, but he was always indispensably important to her. When it became evident the lie wasn’t helping her son, she revealed the truth, took full responsibility and apologized for it. Eda respects him and puts his needs ahead of her own and he officially recognizes her as his mother. Belos meanwhile promised to free the Collector from his isolation to exploit his knowledge and magic and refused to follow through. He always understood how important the Collector was in the greater scheme of things, but created the false narrative that they were more important to him than they actually were. He revealed the truth when it became convenient for himself and disposed of him with no sympathy or remorse. When they held him accountable, in his shameless selfishness he outright denied having betrayed them. And although the Collector’s childlike psychology and lack of any love or discipline in his life mean he desperately needs a parental figure, Belos kept their relationship a business partnership and never felt anything toward him; so they, upon realizing his treachery and heartlessness, had no hesitation to blithely murder him.

The Collector is essentially what King would be with his pre-show personality and all his potential Titan power; and, equally importantly, no healthy relationships and a toxic relationship instead of healthy, loving family bonds and friendships!

[thecreaturecodex]

Great Old One, Tretarax

"Hunting Horror" by Loïc Muzy, © Éditions Sans-détour

[Commissioned by @lolicrusader. In Sandy Petersen's Cthulhu Mythos, hunting horrors are said to be extensions of a single Great Old One that shares all their intelligences. The commissioner wanted me to make that monster. I got a ton of lore info from them, and incorporated some of it into the flavor text of this entry, but there was no way to cover all of it; I'm sure they could share it if there's an interest. These statistics draw on both the Sandy Petersen version of the hunting horror and the Paizo official version.

Great Old One, Tretarax CR 26 CE Aberration This creature is a nightmarish abomination the size of a building, in the shape of a writhing, flying worm. Slime oozes from its semi-liquid body, and a three-lobed burning eye glares from over its maw of scissoring teeth.

Tretarax The Maw Betwixt, That Which Remains, The Root of Horror CE Great Old One of consumption and rebirth Domains Chaos, Evil, Repose, Trickery Subdomains Corruption, Deception, Greed, Souls Worshipers evil dragons, hags, witches Minions daemons, devourers, hunting horrors Unholy Symbol A spiral shaped maw filled with jagged teeth Favored Weapon flambard (bastard sword if not using)

Tretarax, the Maw Betwixt, is a wound in reality, a festering scar that seeks to devour the souls of entire planets full of life. The name Tretarax, and the memories that come with it, originally belonged to a great red wyrm who sought divinity, and came to blows with Trelmarixian, the Horseman of Famine, over it. Trelmarixian attempted to eat Tretarax right out of existence, but in so doing sprung a leak in the fabric of space and time. This blow to reality was mended by Nyarlathotep, the Crawling Chaos, who used this as an opportunity to invest what little remained of Tretarax into the consciousness of his hunting horrors, using Tretarax as a hub to direct them and allow them even greater movement through the cosmos. Tretarax’s shattered and reconstituted intelligence now seeks godhood, to serve Nyarlathotep and to devour indiscriminately, rendering its influence a dangerous blot on the River of Souls.

Tretarax enters combat with only utter destruction as a goal. As a hunting horror like entity, it is sensitive to sunlight, but the bright shining of a star does not burn its flesh the way lesser horrors are affected. This sunlight sensitivity is contagious, with whole cities turning from the light as Tretarax undulates past their people. It seeks to crush enemies in its coils and devour their essences with its gnashing teeth. Although Tretarax would rather close to melee in order to feel the life ebb from its victims, it will use its mastery of magic to blast foes who keep their distance. Tretarax rarely fights without lesser hunting horrors by its side, although it cares little for their safety or survival.

The cult of the Maw Betwixt grew from those who served the original dragon that gives Tretarax its name. It has further been seeded by Nyarlathotep’s efforts, although what exactly the Crawling Chaos has to gain by its minion being worshiped by mortals is unclear. Cultists of That Which Remains seek to prolong their own lives by draining the souls from others and weaken planar boundaries to allow monstrous things free access to the Material Plane. Many of their cults maintain levels of organization that seem harmless or even benevolent. These seek to slowly corrupt their worshipers to greater depravities—if this fails through guile, Tretarax can force the issue by sending foul dreams that warp people to chaos and evil. Cultists of Tretarax share common ground with the nihilism of daemons, but spitefully disrupt the plans of Trelmarixian specifically. Some of them support his rivals to the throne of Famine, such as Caracalla or Hexxus.

Tretarax                 CR 26 XP 2,457,600 CE Colossal aberration (Great Old One) Init +21; Senses darkvision 300 ft., Perception +30, scent, see in darkness, true seeing Aura mucus (20 ft.), unspeakable (Will DC 34, 300 ft.) Defense AC 44, touch 20, flat-footed 36 (-8 size, +7 Dex, +1 dodge, +24 natural, +10 insight) hp 585 (30d8+450); fast healing 20 Fort +24, Ref +19, Will +27 DR 15/—; Immune ability damage, ability drain, acid, cold, death effects, disease, electricity, energy drain, mind-affecting effects, paralysis, petrifaction; SR 37 Defensive Abilities amorphous, freedom of movement, immortality, insanity Weaknesses susceptible to sunlight Offense Speed 40 ft., fly 80 ft. (perfect) Melee bite +32 (8d8+18/19–20 plus grab plus energy drain), tail slap +32 (4d8+18 plus grab), 2 wings +30 (4d6+9) Space 30 ft.; Reach 30 ft. (50 ft. with tail slap) Special Attacks constrict (4d8+27), crush, dreams of corruption, energy drain (1d4 levels, DC 34) fast swallow, mythic power (10/day, 1d12), squeezing coils, swallow whole (4d6 acid and 4d8+27 bludgeoning damage and energy drain, AC 22, 58 hp), telepathic assault   Spell-Like Abilities CL 26th; concentration +35 (+39 casting defensively) Constant—detect scrying, freedom of movement, true seeing At will—dream (M), enervation (M), gaseous form (M), greater teleport (self only), locate creature, locate object, nightmare (M)(DC 24), plane shift (M)(self only), telekinesis (M) (DC 24) 3/day—demand (DC 27), quickened scrying (DC 24) wish (M) (to duplicate sorcerer/wizard spells of 8th level or lower only) (DC 28) 1/day—discern location, ethereal jaunt, interplanetary teleport, meteor swarm (M)(DC 28), summon (9th level, CR 20 of hunting horrors), vision M = can use the mythic version of this spell Statistics  Str 46, Dex 25, Con 39, Int 23, Wis 30, Cha 28 Base Atk +22; CMB +48 (+52 when grappling); CMD 76 (can’t be tripped) Feats Combat Casting, Combat Reflexes, Dodge, Flyby Attack, Greater Vital Strike, Improved Critical (bite), Improved Initiative, Improved Vital Strike, Lightning Reflexes, Multiattack, Power Attack, Quicken SLA (scrying), Stand Still, Toughness, Vital Strike Skills Acrobatics +31 (+34 when jumping), Bluff +33, Fly +31, Intimidate +36, Knowledge (arcana, geography, planes, religion) +27, Knowledge (dungeoneering) +30, Perception +34, Sense Motive +36, Spellcraft +30, Stealth +17, Survival +42; Racial Modifiers +8 Survival Languages Aklo, Common, Draconic; telepathy 300 ft. SQ contingency, hunter, manipulate magic, otherworldly insight, powerful tail, shared consciousness Special Abilities Contingency Tretarax maintains a contingency effect on itself to cast deeper darkness centered on itself if it is exposed to sunlight.

Crush (Ex) Tretarax can land on foes as a standard action, and then use its lengthy coils to crush them. This attack is effective only against creatures of Large size or smaller, and affects as many creatures as fit in Tretarax’s space. Any creature in the affected area must succeed at a DC 39 Reflex saving throw or be pinned, automatically taking 4d8+27 points of bludgeoning damage each round it is pinned. If Tretarax chooses to maintain the pin, it must succeed at a combat maneuver check as normal. The save DC is Constitution-based.

Dreams of Corruption (Su) Any creature that has inflicted a negative level on another creature, or who has witnessed a hunting horror, is susceptible to Tretarax’s dreams of corruption, regardless of distance (even across planar boundaries). When Tretarax targets such a creature with its nightmare spell-like ability, the creature must also succeed a DC 35 Will save or have its alignment move one step towards chaotic evil; first moving from law to chaos, then from good to evil. This shift in alignment is permanent, although it can be changed back through atonement or similar means. This is a mind-influencing ability, and the save DC is Charisma based.

Hunter (Ex) Tretarax gains a +8 racial bonus on Survival checks. When Tretarax succeeds at a Survival check to follow a creature’s tracks, it can declare that creature to be its prey. If there are multiple sets of tracks from a group of creatures traveling together, Tretarax can choose which specific creature becomes its prey if it knows the target is among those in the group; otherwise, its chosen prey is determined randomly. The next time Tretarax begins a battle against its prey, it gains a +10 bonus on its initiative check. In addition, its prey takes a –2 penalty on all saving throws against Tretarax’s spell-like abilities and unspeakable aura. Tretarax can have only one creature as its designated prey at any one time, and if 24 hours pass without Tretarax succeeding at a Survival check to follow that prey’s trail, that creature ceases being Tretarax’s prey.

Immortality (Ex) If Tretarax is slain, no hunting horror may use any teleportation effect until it is reborn. Tretarax will be recreated in the depths of space the next time two black holes collide.

Manipulate Magic (Sp) Tretarax can use wish three times per day as a spell-like ability without material components, but only to duplicate a sorcerer/wizard spell of 8th level or lower. Tretarax uses this ability to maintain a contingency effect on themselves as well.

Mucus (Su) Tretarax’s “flesh” constantly weeps thick foul mucus, seemingly melting off its serpentine frame as swiftly as it rebuilds and restores its shape. When Tretarax lands on a surface, the mucus swiftly spreads out in a twenty foot radius around the creature and hardens into a thick mud-like consistency. This area is treated as difficult terrain by all save hunting horrors.  Each round a creature other than a hunting horror begins its turn within this area, it must make a successful DC 39 Reflex save or become entangled for as long as it remains within the area. The mucus evaporates 1 minute after Tretarax leaves the area. The save DC is Constitution-based.

Powerful Tail (Ex) A hunting horror’s tail slap is treated as a primary natural attack.

Shared Consciousness (Ex) Tretarax shares his consciousness with all hunting horrors; it can see through the eyes of any other hunting horror by concentrating as long as they are on the same plane, regardless of distance. If Tretarax is encountered among other hunting horrors, none of them are considered to be flat-footed unless they all are.

Squeezing Coils (Ex) A creature that takes damage from Tretarax’s constrict ability after being struck by its tail slap attack must succeed at a DC 43 Fortitude saving throw or fall unconscious for 1d4 rounds. The save DC is Strength-based.

Susceptible to Sunlight (Ex) Tretarax is considered to be sickened and shaken when in an area of natural sunlight.

Swallow Whole (Ex) Tretarax’s body constantly reforms and repairs itself. The hole created when a creature cuts its way out of Tretarax instantly seals as soon as the escaping creature exits.

Telepathic Assault (Su) As it attacks, Tretarax bombards its prey’s consciousness with its mind, sending grisly and horrific images into the victim’s thoughts in an attempt to undermine the potential meal’s defenses and to flavor the flesh with the tang of fear and despair. Whenever Tretarax attacks a creature, regardless of whether the attack successfully hits or not, that creature must make a successful DC 34 Will save or be staggered for 1 round by despair and horror at the images projected. An already staggered creature that fails this saving throw is also stunned for 1 round. This is a mind-affecting fear effect. The save DC is Charisma-based.

Unspeakable Presence (Su) Failing a DC 34 Will save against Tretarax’s unspeakable presence causes the victim to gain Tretarax’s susceptibility to sunlight permanently until removed. This is a curse effect, and the save DC is Charisma based.