#hope this fandom isn't dead

[poorly-drawn-woh]

AND SO IT BEGINS Next

[advocaado]

Roughest of rough sketches today. It's been 90 years since I last arted but I've been in such a xiii mood. This is a quick sketch to accompany a story I've been working on called "But That was in Another World" which you can read here.

[justsumtransdude2000]

QuillKiller's Easy Beginnings

I know that a lot of people enjoy the internalized homophobia narrative in relation to relationships involving DE's and purebloods, and I often enjoy it too, when done correctly. However, QuillKiller is one of the instances where I think, characterization wise, it simply doesn't work. Specifically, I'm thinking when the internalized homophobia narrative is pushed onto Bellatrix.

Why? Well, what do we know about Bellatrix? She is dangerous, clinically insane, murderous and undyingly loyal to whatever she applies herself to, and canonically that thing is the dark lord, yes, but what else? She is self assured. When she battles people she taunts them because she is sure she'll beat them, when she argues she does it sardonically and with the very distinct air of I'm right, you're wrong, fuck off and die before I crucio you. Everything she does is with a sense of superiority and self respect. She knows who she is, and she wouldn't brush that off (especially in her teenage years, because Bellatrix as a teenager was a spitfire and a rebel in one way or another) to replace it with being who she needs to be.

So, when she realizes she's gay she doesn't think, she knows. She isn't afraid of it, or angry at it, guilt doesn't eat her alive about it, she doesn't dread not being the perfect daughter about it, because she's Bellatrix fucking Black, when has she ever been the perfect daughter, and when has trying to ever been fun? But this, her queerness and being able to weaponize it to piss off her family? That's fun. Bellatrix takes everything about herself and sharpens it until it's the perfect thing to ruin people with, especially when she is filled with teenage rebellion and hate.

Enter stage left Rita Skeeter, the openly lesbian trans girl (because fuck Terf-k Rowling, Rita deserves to be queer and trans and she is beautiful because of it) who is in everybody's business and runs a gossip column for Hogwarts. I imagine it starts 3rd year. Bellatrix has discovered this powerful, sharp thing about herself, and there is someone just as self actualized as her. Rita knows who she is, knows how to prove that to people. She runs smear campaigns against people who are transphobic towards her, and occasionally gets in trouble for hexing students who say nasty things, and she is a bit dangerous because of her abilities and Bellatrix loves it. She loves how being close with Rita is this game, loves how she walks a narrow tight rope of being loves and being smeared, loves the adrenaline rush it gives her (because she is so adrenaline junky coded).

And that love for all that Rita Skeeter is turns into love for her in 5th year.

And Rita Skeeter is intrigued by Bellatrix. By her ideology, the way she thinks and acts and is quick witted. The way she defends her so easily, the way curses flow from her wand with ease that Rita can tell is actually years of training and practicing (she ignores the thoughts about who she has had to practice on). And maybe it starts out as a story, but it turns into something else. It turns into this weird feeling in her hears, and sneaking into Bella's dorm, and learning what she likes to eat for breakfast, and wearing each other's ties on purpose and smearing transphobes together, and feelings.

And it's quite easy for them to fall in love.

[wolfprincesszola]

Reasons Not to Kiss Him

INSPIRED BY "REASONS NOT TO KISS HIM" BY NATALIEWEEPOETRY

ngl cringing over every single thing i write even if i know it's not bad. have some wrightworth/narumitsu rot. enjoy and remember that likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3 ——————– Summary: Miles Edgeworth debates whether or not to kiss Phoenix Wright when there are so many reasons against kissing him.

Trigger Warnings: Self-Hatred, Slight Mention of Suicide

Content Warnings: Swearing

<Masterlist> <Read it at ao3> ——————–

"Kiss me."

The words uttered were so quiet Miles couldn't even register it as a whisper. It was more of a muttering under a breath than something Miles could register as speaking. For a second, Miles would have thought that it was nothing. Waved it off as something Phoenix was mouthing with no real intention to act on it. A joke Phoenix wanted to say, but stopped himself from uttering. A voice that died in his throat.

But then, Miles saw the way Phoenix looked at him. He saw the way Phoenix swallowed nervously, his Adam's apple moving up and down with every second that Miles didn't speak. He saw the way Phoenix's eyes darted at every part of his face for any clue that Miles got his message. He saw the way Phoenix's lips wavered, debating whether or not to utter the fact that he was joking. Or maybe he should keep his mouth shut, pretend like he didn't say it, just as Miles was wondering whether or not to pretend not to hear it. Miles almost didn't.

Phoenix took the silence as Miles hearing the first statement and he expounded on his statement, "I'm not scared of you. Please. Kiss me?"

Phoenix meant what he said and that was what scared Miles. Miles loved the man. He sure did. It had been more than a decade of knowing him as a defense attorney and a long time coming that they had gotten together. It would be awful if Miles didn't love Phoenix with how long they had been together; he knew the man loved him the same way. Maybe even more than Miles. But the fact that Phoenix had wanted Miles to kiss him and that Miles didn't know if he could scared him. It scared him shitless.

There were thousands of things against their relationship. Against the idea of them kissing each other. He knew that, but that wasn't what he cared about. That wasn't what scared him. In fact, he couldn't care at all about the people that hated their relationship, about the things that were trying so hard to keep them apart. He could waive them off without a single thought.

It was his mind that scared him. Because he was listing every reason he shouldn't kiss Phoenix in his mind, trying to find a reason to say no. Ten came to mind that was stopping him.

One. Miles wasn't raised to love tender.

As much as he hated it, he was still Manfred von Karma's student and his mentor was not someone who loved tender. If he even loved at all. Miles still wasn't sure about that, but he was taught to hurt and lash out when he was attacked. To sting a bee before it could sting him. That meant that with love, he was expected to lash out before he could truly be loved and appreciated. That meant that being loved by Phoenix scared him so much because he didn't know how to stay with Phoenix when all Phoenix needed was a hug or to talk about his feelings. He was always taught tough love. Stand up and pick himself back up so he would know how to help others pick themselves up. He tried his best. He helped others with picking their broken pieces up and trying to help glue them back together, but it was different with Phoenix. Phoenix was delicate porcelain China and unbreakable plastic containers at the same time. Almost impossible to rip apart, but almost impossible to put back together again. Miles struggled when it came to helping him because the way Miles loved came from a place of hatred. It was filled with hiding the truth. It was filled with too much grief. It was filled with frustration. It was filled with staying quiet and listening. It never was speaking out and preventing him from making those mistakes. Phoenix himself knew that, but for some odd reason, he didn't seem to mind. He didn't seem to mind that Miles wasn't raised to love tender. Instead, he always lent a hand in helping Miles understand how to love him and he always tried to find a way to love Miles in the way Miles knew love to be. Phoenix compromised for Miles.

Two. When Phoenix was around, all Miles could do was tremble. When he was around, Miles wanted to get on his knees that were too weak to stand. Phoenix had so much power over him that it was dangerous.

Miles didn't like it when men had power over him. It was a sign of weakness and no one in the family that raised him was ever weak. Crying, speaking out about feelings, sadness, being too stubborn. All weaknesses that ran in the von Karma legacy. That was how it had always been, so it was suspicious how much power Phoenix had over him. How much power Phoenix chose not to use on him. Always with free will. Always with smiling at him. Phoenix never made Miles feel pressured to do anything, never exercised the power Phoenix had over Miles to make him do what he wanted. There was always a "only if you want to" and "would you mind helping me" hidden behind all of Phoenix's requests. He could have Miles at his every beck and call. Making him food, buying him presents, being there to satisfy his every need. Yet, he didn't. It was weird considering what Miles dealt with in his family. He was asked to do things that seemed more like demands. "Help your sister", "do these chores", "excel in your courses", "listen to me whenever I ask". That was how it was, especially as an eldest son. It was expected of him and it was fine. His family knew they had power and respect over him, and Manfred von Karma especially exercised that authority. Phoenix? He understood how much Miles was head-over-heels for him. He understood just how much Miles's heart pounded every time he approached the man, just how much he had Miles wrapped around his finger, just how much his smiles could make his day better in just a millisecond. Phoenix could easily have Miles serving him, but instead, Phoenix gave Miles all the power he had over him. Phoenix gave Miles the self-control to be who he wanted around him. Miles wasn't too sure how he liked that.

Three. Phoenix was too good at forgiving and Miles was too good at violence.

He never exercised it at Phoenix, but Phoenix had seen how angry he could get. Phoenix had seen just how much Miles loved him because he had gladly punched plenty of people who harassed him endlessly. A couple of school bullies, stalkerish fans, criminals, and more. Miles had seen them all around Phoenix and he had seen just how much Phoenix had been scratched or been pushed down by them. It boiled his blood hard enough to result in him seeing red and sometimes that red was blood. Blood from the persons. He was violent and angry all the time. That was the way he was, but Phoenix didn't mind. He just smiled at Miles and patched him up without a complaint. He held Miles' glasses so Miles wouldn't break them and protected Miles from getting hit. He had stepped in a few times and had even defended Miles for hitting them. It didn't make sense. How come Phoenix wasn't scared of him? How come he continued to forgive Miles? How come he never seemed to care that Miles was so good at violence? How come he could trust Miles so easily to know that Miles would never hit him? How could Miles trust himself to know that he wouldn't eventually hit, or more importantly hurt the people he loved? Especially Phoenix. That, he didn't have an answer to.

Four. Miles knew what society said about monsters, and most importantly, what happened to the men that loved them. Was he really going to do that to Phoenix?

He was a monster. He knew it himself. He hurt people when he didn't want to, lashing out at them either physically or verbally. Most likely verbally. He couldn't pick up on signals and sometimes, he would pick the wrong action that he knew was the wrong choice. When he should've been comforting, he gave tough love. When he was comforting, he tried to hide behind his uncomfortableness and instead tried to take a backseat stand. He didn't know how to deal with emotions. He never really learned how to deal with them. He was easy to snap and it terrified him down to every cell in his body what would happen if anyone truly made him angry. Angry enough to kill. He was sure he was close to it whenever someone hurt Phoenix. He knew that the men that loved monsters always got the worst of it. Monsters always shifted back, always killed the ones that loved them, or at least what was of those. Always hurt the men that loved them and changed the men until they were almost unrecognizable. Miles knew he had already done that with Phoenix. He had seen how Maya and Larry had mentioned how differently he acted. Even Trucy, who didn't really exist in a time where Miles was out of Phoenix's life completely. They said it was better that way. That Phoenix was a fraction of an eggshell before he managed to find his identity with Miles. Miles wasn't so sure about that. He wondered if it really was a good thing. If changing Phoenix was really something that everyone adored or if everyone would eventually turn on him, the way society always did on monsters. If they would realize that Phoenix changing was awful and if they would lock Phoenix up from protecting Miles from the harm society would lash at him. If they would treat Phoenix as if he was insane and if they would hurt Phoenix for loving a monster like he loved Miles. He didn't think it was worth the risk.

Five. Miles's hands didn't know how to be gentle. He thought about the last beautiful thing he held that shattered in his palms, the fresh rosebuds crumbling between his fingers like a bruise. A wolf-man and war machine like him wouldn't know how to hold something magic and not destroy it.

Phoenix was magic to him. He saved Miles in the worst time and kept him from being drowned. He stayed there with Miles during his toughest days and was often the result of Miles having life-long debts to him. Phoenix was gentle to Miles. Always delicately framing pieces of hair out of his face, always holding him closely as if he could break if Phoenix squeezed, always giving him the kindest and gentlest smiles to keep him going throughout the day. Miles wasn't like that. Just as he was his mentor's student, he was Franziska's older brother. Just as his sister was rough with the things she did, Miles was too. Miles learned from the reckless, crushing anything in his palms that could not be pushed around or bruised. Anything magic faded and anything beautiful lost its beauty when he held it too close to him, not wanting to share it with anyone in the world. With Phoenix, Miles never wanted to let him go, but he always did before it was too late. Before he crushed Phoenix to pieces and was left staring at a broken pile of what once was beautiful. What once was the amazing Phoenix Wright. Someone who had fought through a war every day of his life wouldn't know how to hold someone who had brought him everything. Someone who had to deal with destruction in his childhood wouldn't understand how to keep something close to him without destroying it before anyone else could find out.

Six. If Miles hurt Phoenix, it might kill him.

Knowing that it physically ached his heart and made him angry to even see Phoenix be slightly wounded at any remark that was told his way, Miles knew it might kill him if he knew he hurt Phoenix. If he kissed Phoenix, he would let Phoenix in and it meant the man could be hurt. Miles always hurt the people he loved, no matter how much he tried not to. It was the way everything went. He hated it. If Phoenix shed a tear because of him, Miles would never be able to forgive himself. Miles knew the damage he did on people who made Phoenix cry or on people who tried to break Phoenix. He wondered if he would die from a broken heart because he hurt the man he loved most in the world.

Seven. If Miles hurt Phoenix, he might kill himself.

Miles knew he'd hurt anyone that even made Phoenix annoyed. That came with his love. His heart was sometimes too big that it was hard to hold it inside of him. Too physically big for him to express that he needed to do it in other ways. One of those ways being hurting those that hurt Phoenix. He knew that if Phoenix even exhaled to keep his cool, Miles could be on his way to make sure that the person would never hurt Phoenix again. If dying from a broken heart didn't kill him, he was sure that he'd kill himself. After all, he loved Phoenix in that way and if he hurt Phoenix, he would do anything in his power to make sure that he could never hurt Phoenix again.

Eight. Miles was very bad at rehabilitation. This might be one addiction he'd fail to give up. Phoenix would ruin all other kisses and all other men and he would be stuck spending the rest of his life trying to forget his name.

Miles had a history of addiction that ran in his family. That's why he never got started on drinking alcohol. It was too risky, which mean that beer and wine were out of his life. He tried his best to get rid of any other addiction he would have. Steel Samurai collectibles? No. He would never stop collecting them and would spend the rest of his life trying to hide his hobby. Shopping? No. He was already trying to stop that addiction. Coffee? Absolutely not. He could even tell from a sip he had once that the burning sensation and the ability to stay awake would spiral him into an addiction. Poker? He couldn't think to gain a gambling addiction with his luck in winning. There were so many. He never stuck to one hobby too long, fearful that it would give him an addiction. With how smitten he was with Phoenix, he was scared that if he kissed Phoenix, he would never be able to go back. He couldn't break habits and he couldn't love someone the way he loved Phoenix. Phoenix was his first and only love. He was there with Miles through thick and thin, even when Miles was awful to him. Even when there seemed to be no reason for Phoenix to help. If he kissed Phoenix, he'd never be able to get rid of him when he tried to love another man. Tried to kiss another man. If they were to separate, he'd be forever searching for a way to erase the seared memories Phoenix implanted within him from the first moment they met. He just couldn't.

Nine. Miles still wasn't sure Phoenix wasn't just a dream.

Phoenix came at just the right time. He saved Miles from the lies Manfred von Karma gave him and solved the mystery behind his father's murder. From the deepest pits of hell and helped Miles pick the pieces back up that he tried to do himself with difficulty. Phoenix made it seem so easy to support Miles and he gave him the stepping stones to help Miles love himself. To know who he was as a person. It was no wonder that Miles fell in love with Phoenix after that. For that to be taken away from him at a moment's notice was heartbreaking by itself. He had tested it plenty of times. Pinched his cheeks, smacked his face, felt Phoenix's face. All to see whether or not the man was part of a great dream he was having. As if the man would disappear if he were to blink, and he would be thrown back into the real world where he was the Demon Attorney.

Ten. If Miles kissed Phoenix, he might wake up.

If Phoenix was truly just a dream, Miles knew that it would have to come to an end. If this was really his picture perfect movie, it had to end somewhere. And most of the time, it ended right at the kiss. If he kissed Phoenix, there was a chance he would wake up, alone in a bed that didn't have Phoenix in it. Alone in a life that Phoenix did not exist in or in a life where Phoenix did not exist in as his. That terrified him to even think about. Thousands of hours poured into loving a man that was just a dream. Thousands of hours poured into loving a man that would be gone in a blink of an eye. If he stayed in that moment, if he stalled the ending, it would be okay. He could stay with Phoenix for as long as he wanted.

But then, he looked at Phoenix, who was still waiting for his answer. Who was searching his face for any context clues about how he was feeling. Who had just whispered his name to try and get his attention back to the matter at hand.

"Miles."

Then, he began to search for the reasons to kiss him.

One. Because Phoenix was beautiful.

Even if beauty was in the eye of the beholder, Miles could agree that he loved everything about Phoenix. From the jaw he traced his fingers over every time he tried to memorize Phoenix's face to the raven hair that could only be described as the same color of obsidian to the blue eyes that reminded Miles of the salty waves in the ocean. The type of blue in the waves that could drown him if he was pulled in too deep. If he wasn't careful enough. All of Phoenix's appearance. And all of his personality. His kindness, his enthusiasm, his happiness, his bravery, his chaoticness, his consideration, his ability to love, his heart, his brain. All of it. Every part of him was beautiful to Miles and that was enough for Miles to understand that Phoenix Wright was the most beautiful thing he had ever come across. How could he reject such a beautiful thing?

Two. Because Phoenix asked.

There he was, so politely asking Miles to kiss him. To humor his wishes and to offer something that could so easily be shut down. It was brave what Phoenix did. Putting his heart out so easily just to ask for a simple brush of the lips. Miles couldn't fathom how Phoenix could so easily ask him just like that, as if it wasn't a make-it-or-break-it deal to their relationship. How could he say no to something so kindly asked for?

Three. Because Phoenix preceded "please" with, "I'm not afraid of you".

He had heard what Phoenix had asked. He knew Phoenix knew about his thoughts. He knew Phoenix knew Miles thought himself of a monster. He thought Phoenix feared him just as much as he feared himself, but that one sentence had changed his entire mind. In that moment, he realized that Phoenix had never been afraid of him because he knew Miles better than anyone. Knew Miles better than even he knew himself. His kindness, his heart, his anxiety, his worries. The inside and outside of him. Phoenix understood where Miles was coming from and what he was always thinking. It was always that. Phoenix somehow always knew and he knew that Miles feared himself. That he would one day mess up. That he would hurt Phoenix. And in that one sentence, Phoenix had proven that he didn't care what happened because he knew it would never happen. How could Miles not kiss Phoenix when he knew he could never hurt him?

"Yes." Miles swallowed his fears away and cupped Phoenix's face. Ignoring his pounding heart, he pulled Phoenix closer to himself. His hands shook the closer he approached the man, his lips hesitating when they were millimeters apart. Their lips brushed against each other and he could feel Phoenix's lips that were just a bit chapped from the cold of the air.

"You don't have to kiss me. It's okay." Phoenix whispered as if he knew about Miles's hesitation. "I'm not going to force you."

As Phoenix's lips moved, so did Miles's from the sheer distance. Even when Phoenix knew what he wanted and was this close to getting it, he still hesitated, wanting to know that Miles wanted it just the same as he did.

"Wright..."

"I'm serious, Edgeworth. I'm not going to force you." Phoenix grabbed Miles's face to pull himself away, but Miles couldn't allow for it. He wanted to kiss him so bad. Despite the 10 reasons he had convinced himself to not kiss Phoenix, there were still that three that were convincing him to just do it.

So he did.

He leaned in and connected their lips together, feeling as Phoenix melted in his arms.

Phoenix tasted of coffee grounds and matcha green tea. Probably from the boba drink he had just ordered. Angry Matcha or something. Matcha milk tea with an espresso shot mixed in. Miles remembered looking at the description, though he wasn't sure why that was important at the moment. Phoenix's lips weren't necessarily rough as Miles could still feel the chapstick he had put on only a few hours before, but they were rough enough for Miles to know that he had to reapply it soon.

As soon as Miles pulled himself away from Phoenix, he searched for any sign that Phoenix hadn't actually wanted Miles to kiss him, but all he found was a shit-eating grin on his face, one that he couldn't quite stop if he tried. As soon as they separated, Phoenix had pulled Miles back into his arms, pressing their lips together once more.

He was right for one thing. Phoenix was definitely an addiction that he would never want to get rid of to the point where he had forgotten a very vital part of living. At least until the two of them were practically having to push themselves off of each other to catch their breath.

Miles smiled as he stared at Phoenix, still there in front of him. So he didn't wake up. He leaned his forehead against Phoenix's, trying to hide the smile that was coming onto his face as well.

Phoenix reached over to Miles and pinched his cheek. A slight pain reached his face and he scrunched his face up just as Phoenix let go.

"What was that for?"

"Just so you know it wasn't a dream." Phoenix smiled. "I love you."

And as Miles stared into the eyes of the love of his life, he realized that it didn't matter how many reasons there were to not be with Phoenix if it meant that there was one that brought hope and kept their relationship going.

"I love you too."

[hymuk]

Reblog if you ship rivetra

It’s been a while since I’ve seen a post like this. Tb to @erurivetra‘s last post from a couple years ago. 

Doing the yearly roundup and wanted to get an updated count to see who’s still around

[aliferousdreamer]

mel from arcane for the ask game!!

mel medarda, my beautiful beloved 👑💎

x

thank you!! <3

[sweetlywistful]

be still my beating heart (gen fic)

I wound up getting blindsided by how much I loved this game, so here, have a 9.7k word condensed re-telling of the game. it's basically all the stuff I imagined going through P's head while I was playing on the true ending/max humanity path. also pls note that P and Carlo share a single identity here instead of them being two separate people!

Summary:

As Sophia placed her hand on his chest, he thought, Can you feel it? I have a heart that’s beating right now. It feels and pulses and hurts just like yours. I have a heart. I’m almost as human as you are. -OR- As a boy-puppet learns to live and breathe, this is what he will come to discover: humanity is what we make of it. The world begins and ends by what we grasp, even if it’s by the skin of our teeth.

Read on ao3

I

Waking up for the first time was something he had no name for. There was a flutter, sensation stretching across his limbs, and the voice that came like a beacon in the night.

It gave him a direction, and so he went. He walked. Attacked what attacked him, ‘reset’ at the nearest stargazer whenever he fell to a blow, then repeated the cycle until he stood before double doors and the voice was telling him to lie.

Lying was simple. The word “human” spilled easily out of his mouth. What was not so simple was the strange stir that skittered across his springs. Occasionally, his arm or an internal mechanism would twitch, but it was nothing so subtle, or fluttery. This sensation was different.

It felt, vaguely, like waking up.

II

There was blood on his hand. Blood, not oil. Blood. It was transfixing, the way it clung to his glove and glistened under the light of the streetlamp. It had gushed out of the man so easily, skin and bone so much softer than cold steel.

He thought there might have been a dull roar in his ears. He thought he might have heard the word son.

He looked up and met eyes with the man who would call him exactly that. There was a fondness when Geppetto addressed him that he couldn’t even hope to reciprocate. He was a puppet, after all. How could a puppet express such emotion?

The exchange—or lack thereof—gave him another strange feeling. This one reminded him of trying and failing to open a gate that only opened on the other side. It…wasn’t pleasant.

It clung to him like ichor, which was why it seemed so wrong to tell the woman that her baby was a puppet. He complimented it instead, another easy lie that somehow quivered his springs. She gave him a record for his effort. When he listened to it later, he felt it in his springs again. He decided the sensation couldn’t be a bad thing.

After all, it came about after helping that woman, who would now get to spend her last days clinging to what she wanted most. She wouldn’t die wishing for everything she couldn’t have. She wouldn’t lay broken and bloody on a cobblestone street under the canopy of a bleak, uncaring night sky.

That was good, he decided.

III & IV

Venigni was…interesting. His ‘r’s rolled like the put-put of a motor, only more quickly, and the way he described his own intellect was confident and proud. Venigni had thrown himself into the thick of danger to help everyone by shutting down the factory. He was worried for someone—the puppet, Pulcinella—and wouldn’t leave until they were reunited.

Venigni cared. Venigni was kind. He supposed that was what was missing when the same pride was reflected in Alidoro, the Hound. Alidoro called himself a noble savior, but somehow, it didn’t feel like there was any substance behind the claim. Alidoro wasn’t using his talents to help anyone, like Eugénie and her tinkering with his weapons to make them stronger, or Antonia’s hospitality. The man wasn’t risking himself for others like Venigni in the factory. Alidoro the savior was hiding on the roof while Giangio and Sister Cecile were in the cathedral, terrified and alone.

So, when Alidoro asked him if he knew of anywhere safe to go, he didn’t direct him to the hotel. The lie felt deeper, somehow, down to the very Ergo that powered his joints. Even when he went to check on Alidoro later at Venigni’s workshop, upon giving the man another lie, his Ergo still stirred, like a whisper against an ear.

Sophia told him that lying would make him more human. That felt right. More than right, actually. Like it was already true. Something in him was already human, and the rest of him was merely catching up.

He didn’t know why he felt that way though. Maybe with more lying, he would find out.

V

He took the Red Fox and the Black Cat’s offer. Given the reception he got when he first made it to the Malum District, he figured a clash between himself and the Black Rabbit Brotherhood was inevitable. It made no difference to him whether he trekked through the district alone or accompanied by the pair. He caught their whispers about him, though: snickers and the suggestion that he was easy to take advantage of. It therefore came to him as no surprise when they bailed, even though Gemini was particularly incensed.

Perhaps it was strange, but he liked that their attempts at deception were so obvious. It made it easier to maneuver his interactions with them. And, he thought, if things had been different somehow, he might have enjoyed teasing the Cat over his supposed aches as well.

But as it stood, he was still a puppet with no frame of reference for what teasing was even supposed to look like. Maybe the thought had come from the same place that stirred when he lied.

The same place that quaked when he found himself before a painting that looked exactly like himself. Portrait of a Boy, it was called, and there seemed to be a deep revelation behind it, tied to the clothes Antonia had gifted him, tied to the way Geppetto’s tone caressed the word son. If his hands had been flesh and blood, they might have trembled when he took the portrait down.

Trembled the way Geppetto trembled, when he brought the portrait to his father, and the man laid eyes on it. With something like reverence, Geppetto hung it in the back wall of the office, in direct view from where the man typically sat at his desk.

Looking into the portrait, especially from its perch in the office, felt so…odd. Disconcerting, even. Like he was somehow staring into a mirror of his own soul. After it was hung, he retreated downstairs to the gramophone. He chose the latest record he had procured and played it.

Somehow, it made him feel warm. He hadn’t known he was cold, before.

VI

Something was different about the King of Puppets. Attack whatever attacked him; that had been his unwritten rule, so when the giant robot had tried to touch him, he swatted the hand away immediately. It then reared its head back and changed its face to an angry one, like he had offended it.

To project such a reaction was only further confirmation that it had an ego. While that wasn’t surprising, he had expected more hate. More…vitriol. Something that would have seemed capable of orchestrating the Frenzy, like the White Lady that hated puppets, but in reverse.

Adding to that the “play” it had almost certainly orchestrated, with the puppets that looked so much like himself and his father…it was painting a strange picture. Venigni had said that the King of Puppets communicated through Ergo, and in that space between blows, where he could momentarily rest or use a pulse cell, he could almost feel it in the air, softly buzzing like a record that was actually a recording of other recordings. Words put through a staticky filter a dozen times over.

In the end, it…almost sounded grateful…

When he took down the puppet that was inside the giant puppet’s shell, he didn’t feel like he’d won a battle. Instead, he felt perturbed. He didn’t think he could trade the puppet’s crystallized Ergo, like he had with the other Ergo crystals he had gotten. Not until he understood more. He placed it in his pack with the object that the King of Puppets had dropped. It had been near the puppet’s face, tucked close to its half-charred visage. Something about the item pulled him, almost like the portrait had, though he didn’t know why.

It was actually a relief to find Geppetto outside the opera house. Seeing his father’s face and experiencing the man’s concern felt grounding, after all the strangeness that had just taken place. It helped to refocus him as he made his way to the Lorenzini Arcade’s stargazer.

That relief evaporated when he transported himself back to the hotel. It was just supposed to be another part of the routine he shared with Sophia, where she strengthened him once he had accumulated enough Ergo from killing puppets and monsters. But then she mentioned the object the King had dropped—the necklace, the Monad Charity House.

To Romeo, your friend C, carefully engraved on the back of the necklace.

Romeo. The charity house. C. He knew those names. He knew those names, and something in him was breaking, bursting with a great and terrible clarity, taking shape right in the center of his chest, impossible and new.

Carlo, he heard, and the world shifted.

VII.I

He didn’t know what to make of himself. His hair was longer, and his body felt different. More human, like Sophia had said. But it couldn’t be possible. He was a puppet with creaking springs and metal bones. He couldn’t be human like Carlo, the boy in the portrait, the boy that Antonia remembered so fondly.

And yet the name Carlo had reverberated down to his heart of hearts—he had a heart now—and slotted into place like a puzzle piece he hadn’t known he was missing. Carlo, the boy that he looked like. Carlo, the one who wore Antonia’s clothes. Carlo, Romeo’s friend.

Carlo, the human turned puppet—

It was too much. He almost wished he could forget that the name Carlo existed. He went upstairs to see Geppetto like Sophia had suggested, looking for what, he didn’t know. Reassurance? An explanation?

Instead, his father was less than pleased. The man knew as much about what was going on as he did, which was close to nothing. To make matters worse, Geppetto had already been bothered, too, by what was happening with the portrait on the wall. When he caught a glance of it before leaving the office, he could see why.

D. Gray must have had a sense of humor. The portrait had grown a long, wooden nose.

For some reason, it reminded him of the novel of the wooden puppet that Gemini had told him about in the library downstairs. The puppet’s nose had grown longer with every lie it told. He didn’t know why he knew that, though; Gemini had never told him such details. Staring at the portrait a little longer, as if doing so would give him answers, yielded no results, so he left the office.

Just as he was out of the door, he overheard Geppetto muttering about how to proceed with these changes that had come unforeseen. Though he had been wondering the same thing, the way that his father had done so felt different. Almost clinical.

Unexpectedly, he found himself accosted by a foreign bitterness, like he was a wounded child that had reached for their parent’s comfort and had gotten rebuffed instead, for what felt like the thousandth time. The feeling was awful, making him want to go back into the office and do…something. He didn’t know. It wasn’t like his father could simply stop him from feeling things. All he could do, he supposed, was to force himself not to dwell on it.

Finding Polendina in the courtyard was a distraction he welcomed wholeheartedly.

VII.II

Sophia was somehow waiting for him at the Saintess Statue after he encountered Simon Manus. She told him the truth about Ergo, that it contained the lifespan and memories of people who died to the Petrification Disease. Ergo was once human, and she could Listen to it—Listen to him.

He…was once human…

The truth settled in him like a sigh.

He was the wooden puppet in the story from the library. He was Carlo, the dead son that made his father tremble. His Ergo had been trying to tell him all along, and the rest of him was finally starting to catch up.

After depositing a Gold Coin Fruit at the Saintess Statue, he went back to Sophia so that she could help him rearrange the strength that came from his Ergo. As Sophia placed her hand on his chest, he thought, Can you feel it? I have a heart that’s beating right now. It feels and pulses and hurts just like yours. I have a heart.

I’m almost as human as you are.

VIII

He still wasn’t sure whether or not he should call himself Carlo. He didn’t have all of Carlo’s memories (yet, a small part of him whispered). He was still part-puppet, with internal mechanisms that twitched, so it felt strange to own the identity of a full human. It was all too complicated to deal with now, with Krat still in need of saving, so he simply continued moving forward.

Venigni told him they needed Golden Ergo to reach the Isle of the Alchemists and directed him to the Barren Swamp to find it. Before he took off, though, he took care of some things in the hotel. He took a cure from Giangio for Antonia’s Petrification Disease at Polendina’s behest, and he convinced the puppet to give it to her, even though she could end up dying more quickly because of it.

He hated to admit it, but she was dying anyways. Just like with Adelina the singer, just like with the blind woman and her puppet baby, he found alleviating her suffering in the time she had left to be the best choice. And who knew—maybe the concoction would cure her completely, and he would get to enjoy her company a little longer.

He also stopped by Eugénie, and she handed him a gift to give to Alidoro on her behalf. She had been so earnest about it that he knew, if the gift had been meant for him, he would have been rather endeared by the gesture. Despite his initial reservations about Alidoro, he agreed to present it to him, and then he set off for the Barren Swamp.

On the way, he encountered the Red Fox and the Black Cat again. Once again, it didn’t matter to him whether or not they were trying to deceive him. He had plenty of Gold Coin Fruits in reserve, since he made sure never to trade them all at once with Giangio, and he checked the tree for its supply almost religiously. Parting with a single fruit wasn’t even close to a significant loss. He was pleasantly surprised by the sincere thanks he got in return, however, as well as the record that the Fox gave him.

The Cat surmised that the two of them could possibly become good friends, and he found himself silently agreeing.

His encounter with Alidoro, on the other hand, went in almost the complete opposite direction. Something in him flared indignantly on Eugénie’s behalf when the man treated her gift like it was worthless. He knew, already, he was going to have to lie to her later about Alidoro’s reaction to protect her feelings, and the thought made him feel sour.

Meeting Hugo later, after experiencing the earthquake that rattled even his metal bones, only put Alidoro’s inconsistencies in sharp relief. Eugénie had mentioned that Alidoro had lost a finger; pairing that knowledge with Hugo’s observations had him starting to suspect that the Alidoro he knew and the one they knew were entirely different people.

Worser still was the frustrating way Alidoro spoke to him after he took down the giant monster in the swamp. The man kept calling him the perfect bait.

He was not bait.

Out of consideration for Eugénie, he didn’t do anything, but that was the first time he felt like giving someone who hadn’t directly attacked him a good punch. He felt the need to cool off before checking out what happened in the Krat Central Station, so he went back to the hotel. After checking in with Sophia as usual, he then sought out Antonia, and her joy was such a sight for sore eyes.

She thanked him so profusely, even though all he did was get the cure from Giangio. At that moment, he found out what it meant to be bashful. Her adulation made him want to squirm.

Instead, he went to the piano. He wasn’t sure why he did. The last time he was in front of it, all he could do was pluck a few notes. But he supposed, with his increasing humanity came increasing muscle memory, and to both his and Antonia’s delight, he was able to play her a song.

What a sweet experience. He wanted to coat the memory of it in gold and preserve it forever.

IX

The devastation in Krat had become even more horrifying, somehow. He had gone from stepping around pools of blood and ravaged streets to wading through acidic decay, invasive corrosion that somehow birthed monsters, and collapsed streets that had literally split wide open.

The King of Puppets had been holding back the Alchemists, and apparently, this was what happened when the Alchemists were allowed to run rampant. Even though he knew taking down the king had been logical to everyone at the time, he couldn’t help the thoughts that played in his head over and over as he made his way through a ruined Central Krat: This is my fault. I killed the King of Puppets. This is my fault…

He could only hope that somewhere, buried underneath the devastation, he would be able to discover something that would give him an edge over the Alchemists.

However, what he found instead was a horde of enemies and one of the most formidable creatures he had faced yet: a relentless monster that had somehow figured out how to use Ergo to duplicate itself. That, combined with the relatively confined space they were in, made for such a challenging fight that he had ‘reset’ well over a dozen times. When it was over, he felt he could collapse from relief alone.

He got into the nearby elevator, already making a mental checklist for what he would need to resupply and modify at the hotel, but then suddenly, halfway through the elevator’s descent, there was a crash. Wires snapped overhead, and the elevator fell rapidly, smashing into the floor so quickly that he stumbled and nearly face-planted into the wall.

And then came the heart-stopping message from Sophia.

The hotel was under attack.

From then, it was a desperate mad dash to the nearest stargazer. Simon Manus’ message along the way made him grit his teeth. What was the point of a “world of truth” if it caused this much death and destruction—if it meant losing everyone he ever cared about?

He got to the stargazer. It didn’t work. He would have cursed, if he had remembered any of those words from when he was human. That left running to the hotel on foot. Gemini’s panic about what awaited him there didn’t give him pause; if anything, it added more urgency. What if whatever was in front of the hotel decided to attack the hotel itself as well? He imagined the hotel splitting open, like the collapsed street, and the only home he ever knew caving in on itself.

It couldn’t happen. Not while he was alive to do something about it.

The enemy that awaited him was the same large robot that he had fought when he first got to the hotel, only corrupted by the dark infection that had spread through Krat thanks to the Alchemists. Perhaps because it had retained much of its old move set, or perhaps because he was still fueled by urgency, he was able to make quicker work than usual of an enemy of its size.

Finally, he could get to the hotel, unimpeded.

X.I

The first thing to greet him was a massive banner that read “HYPOCRITE.” The second was Sophia, to his great relief, who stood near the stargazer, safe and untouched by the disarray around her. After speaking with her, he immediately went upstairs to check in on everyone else, stepping over the broken mess of split furniture and tossed decorations that the Black Rabbit Brotherhood had made of the hotel.

The others were safe too…all except for his father, who had been kidnapped. When Antonia finished telling him how to get to the Alchemist’s base, he stood there for a moment, silent.

His father was gone. The pristine beauty of the hotel had been sullied. A sickly gray pallor had returned to Antonia’s complexion, while everyone else stood in the office, the remnants of terror still clinging to their faces.

Fury.

That was the emotion he felt surging through him, he realized. He wanted to yell, kick something. He wanted to pay back the Black Rabbit Brotherhood tenfold, smash in the face of each member one by one.

He wanted to make them pay.

X.II

His trek through the Relic of Trismegistus was an anger-filled haze, paused only for a moment, when he answered the phone call from the King of Riddles. It wasn’t long afterwards that he was ascending a flight of stairs to be met with the Brotherhood themselves.

“Accept your fate. Death has come for you,” they said.

How funny. They took the words right out of his mouth.

The fight between himself and the Brotherhood was brutal. They had laced their weapons with things they hadn’t used before. One chose searing fire, another chose electricity to try to short his mechanisms, and another chose acid so that every cut from their knives would burn. For his part, his slashes were heavier than before, fueled by a bristling energy he hadn’t known he was even capable of producing.

He made good on his resolve to cut them down one by one, even when they brought in their eldest sibling—somehow reanimated by the Alchemists into something more monster than human. With this newfound viciousness, even the eldest soon fell to his attacks.

And stay dead, he thought, as the man crumbled to a heap on the floor.

All four members of the Black Rabbit Brotherhood were now nothing more than corpses. It was sobering, then, to realize that he had just wiped out a family.

A family that had gone after his own. They got what they deserved, as far as he was concerned, though he couldn’t help remembering a broken and bloody body, abandoned on a cobblestone street.

X.III

He broke his unspoken rule.

Not only did Alidoro admit that he had betrayed the hotel by helping the Black Rabbit Brotherhood, but he wasn’t even the Alidoro that Eugénie so admired—the one that saved so many people after the Workshop collapsed. No, that Alidoro was killed and replaced by the one before him. Alidoro—or rather, his true moniker, the Parrot—cared about nothing but money and saving his own skin, consistently met Eugénie’s kindness with contempt, repaid Antonia’s hospitality with betrayal, and even implied he was going to kill Eugénie for her resemblance to the original Alidoro.

He was already fuming, hand clenched around the grip of his weapon, when the invisible noose around the Parrot’s neck was tightened by the Parrot himself.

The man goaded him yet again, this time reducing him to a mindless puppet bound by the Grand Covenant that couldn’t attack the Parrot even if he wanted to.

For the hotel. For Eugénie and Antonia.

He proved the man wrong with brutal efficiency, cutting him down in one fell swoop.

With that, nearly everyone responsible for the attack on the hotel was dead. He realized, then, that his rule hadn’t been truly broken. Somewhere along the way, without him knowing, it had become attack whatever attacked him or anyone he cared for.

X.IV

Back at the hotel, he made the usual rounds he did whenever he was about to venture into a new area. He resupplied, got Eugénie to strengthen his weapons, and went to Sophia.

Sophia spoke to him first before she helped him, and what she said had a knot of worry forming inside his chest. She told him that she was ready for him to see her “real self,” and soon afterward, she disappeared as if she had never been at the hotel at all. Perhaps she truly hadn’t been; in all his time at the hotel, had anyone other than himself ever interacted with Sophia?

Heeding her warning about the difficulty of the journey ahead, he made sure he didn’t leave any matters unresolved before taking off. He took a brief detour and transported himself to the Barren Swamp to teach the Broken Puppet some more emotions. Then he did the woman Belle a favor by finding her partner. The man was already thoroughly infected by the time he found him, however, skin blue and sloughing off, barely capable of speech.

When he got back to the hotel, he honored the man’s request to tell Belle that her lover had already died fighting, then watched her heart break in real time as she processed the words.

The record she gave him, titled “Why,” felt appropriate. He didn’t know the first thing about offering comfort to those in grief, but he played the record on the gramophone. He hoped it would help her.

His final stop before going to the Isle of Alchemists was Venigni; he needed Venigni to decode the cryptic vessel that the Parrot had dropped.

Venigni had already been quite giddy about something though, and before he could bring it up, Venigni was already talking. Apparently, the man had finally decoded the Ergo wavelengths the King of Puppets used to communicate.

When Venigni began playing the recording, though he didn’t know why, he braced himself.

“Carlo, I hope you can hear me,” he heard, and his heart dropped to the floor. So that was why. A part of him knew, but didn’t want to admit it, when he saw the words carved onto the back of the necklace.

Romeo, Carlo’s friend, was the King of Puppets.

And then came the worst revelation of all: Law 0 of the Grand Covenant. All puppets had to obey their Creator—all puppets had to obey Giuseppe Geppetto—

Giuseppe Geppetto was the one who ordered the Frenzy.

His father ordered the Frenzy that devastated Krat long before even the Alchemists had a chance to do so.

The walls were shaking, the whole world trembling and losing its color, as he stood there, shocked into a stupor. He was sick. He wanted to lay down and cry, even though he wasn’t capable of producing tears. A body was lying on a cobblestone street, broken and bloody—half his face charred to a crisp—killed because they knew they knew they knew—

Venigni asked him who ordered the Frenzy, and so dismayed was he that the truth slipped out before he could even consider a lie.

Afterwards, when Venigni handed him the recording, he went to the stargazer. He listened to it twice. There, under the banner that read HYPOCRITE, it dawned on him that the accusation held a modicum of truth.

When the King of Riddles had asked him if he was a killer, he had said no.

XI.I

Sophia was there to meet him when he arrived at the Isle of the Alchemists. She explained to him that her true self was trapped inside the base, but that she was able to meet him with Ergo projections. Sophia had also been the cause behind his ‘resets’—she could use Ergo to manipulate his time, so whenever he fell, whether to an enemy or to a hostile environment, she turned back his time so he could try again.

She also gave a roundabout apology, confessing that she initially hadn’t woken him to save Krat, but to save herself. She then asked him to save both herself and Krat all the same.

“Please, give me peace,” she said.

In truth, there was no need for her apology. She was the voice that woke him, after all. She was the savior who had kept him from dying countless times over, strengthening him at every significant turn until he could do it himself at a stargazer. Krat or no Krat, he would have strived to save her regardless.

Sophia sent him off with a final word of guidance: a warning that the Isle could produce echoes of the past through its high concentration of Ergo.

The warning turned out to be necessary. There, in the sand and mist beyond the edges of the surf, he rediscovered pieces of himself that he had lost.

His mother’s voice and his first friend. His bitterness at his father’s neglect. His boyhood dream and the way it had been crushed by his death. He was sick all over again, remembering how close he had been with Romeo, and then remembering his relief when Geppetto had met him after he had defeated the King of Puppets.

The way his father consistently asked him to be a “good boy” gained a new, harsher light.

He made his way into Arche Abbey, taking down a huge, hulking creature he had trouble believing was truly once a man, then used its keycard to infiltrate the base. Once through, he took down every mutation in his path as he progressed further and further upward, until he was in a large room, flooded with water that reached his ankles.

The Black Cat stood at the other end, warning him as he approached that the Cat didn’t want a fight but would attack if it meant protecting the Fox.

The Fox and the Cat had aided in the attack on the hotel. They had been the ones to drag his father through the Relic of Trismegistus to be held captive on this island. By all means, attack whatever attacked him or those he cared for should have long been springing him into action. But. But.

A body was lying on a cobblestone street. His best friend was half burnt and crumpled on the floor.

He held out a Gold Coin Fruit to the Cat instead.

With genuine surprise, the Cat took it from his hand and thanked him, and he could hear the smile in the Cat’s voice as he reiterated that they truly could be friends.

Perhaps one day, when Krat wasn’t a broken facsimile of a city, they could be.

He carried that with him as he continued up the Abbey—the promise of something better. A revived and restored Krat as recompense for their effort; a place he could live, not merely survive in, with all the people he knew. A city where Venigni, Eugénie, Sophia, Antonia, and even Polendina and Pulcinella could roam free; a city where he could fulfill the dream of a dying boy and become a true Stalker.

He wanted it, he realized, and not just because others had asked it of him. Much like it had for Sophia, it had evolved into a personal goal of his.

This was the unspoken vow he made to himself as he took on Laxasia, the Complete: I will save Krat. I will save Sophia. I will end this madness.

XI.II

Witnessing Sophia’s death was something he had no name for.

He had walked into the room after defeating Laxasia expecting to continue ascending. He hadn’t expected a pristine carpet and furniture and functioning lights; he hadn’t expected to find a room that seemed suspended in time and space, divorced from the ruin of the rest of the Abbey.

He hadn’t expected the utter horror that was Sophia’s body.

She was sat inside what almost looked like a human-sized butterfly cage, and her hands—her entire lower half—were a mass of viny, oozing ichor, of the same kind as the dark ichor that had spread the infection across Krat. Dozens of blue butterflies that came from her Ergo powers were dead and fused to her. She was pale and motionless, head bowed, with ichor-colored tear stains dried on her cheeks. What used to be her hands were suspended in the air with dark ichor-strings and wrapped around the cage where she sat, shackling her to her prison.

“Save me,” she said into his head, voice so much weaker and feebler than it had ever been before. “It hurts so much… I want to be free… Please…”

Sophia’s life was a night-terror made real.

“Oh God,” Gemini had said, appalled, upon seeing her.

Oh God, he mirrored in his head. What had Simon Manus done to her?

And more importantly, how could he save Sophia with her body so far gone?

He couldn’t, he realized. The revelation felt like bile. Even if he cut her away from the cage, she would still be suffering. She wouldn’t have the peace she had begged him to give her. It was a horrifying situation with no good choice before him, but a decision had to be made, nonetheless.

Sophia asked him to take her Ergo, and so, he obliged.

There was a tremendous weight in each step he took as he neared her, the world falling away as it became just him and the girl who woke him. Just as she had for him countless times, he placed his hand on her chest. He should be crying, he thought, as something in him pulled, and her Ergo flowed into him. He should be crying, he thought again, as he stepped back and her body began to disappear.

His heart was pounding so hard it was a wonder it hadn’t split in half.

That was two of his friends, now, that were dead by his hand.

XI.III

His body had changed again. His hair was gray, and he hardly even felt his mechanisms anymore. He breathed properly now, too. He took notice when he rolled to dodge a blow, and the impact had his breath leaving him with a sharp oof. He hardly cared, though, for what worth was his transformation if it came at so high a cost? He simply continued his fight against the Alchemist-made abominations in his way.

Each hit from his weapon was punctuated with a name: Romeo, Sophia, Antonia, Polendina.

He had gone back to the hotel after Sophia died, both to resupply and to seek out Antonia. He had wanted to check on her health, but he also felt that hearing a warm, sympathetic voice at the moment would have done him well. Instead, his situation was made all the worse by Polendina’s announcement: Antonia was dead, and the puppet couldn’t handle the weight of the grief and was going to delete his personality.

Numbly, he walked upstairs to see with his own eyes, and it was true. Antonia was gone, her Petrification Disease already having finished the process of converting her body into Ergo. She had left him a letter; at the end of it, she said that the time she spent with him was like pure light.

He should have been crying.

On his way out of the office, he had noticed that the nose on his portrait had grown to an absurd length, glowing faintly with a golden light. Intuitively, he knew that some sort of process had been completed, the same way he had known that he was connected to the portrait. He had taken ahold of the nose and pulled, and as he had, it broadened and lengthened until what he held in his hands was a weapon.

It was a polearm made of deep brown wood and glittering gold, with golden leaves and coins at the ends that looked strangely as though they had been taken from the Gold Coin Tree. It was embedded with the name Golden Lie, and when he swung it experimentally, it felt as though he were wielding an extension of himself.

It was this weapon that he used now, mourning even as he fought, every strike a name of someone he had lost.

A curious thing started happening the more he used the weapon: he began to remember. He remembered in bits and flashes the book that had been read over and over until the edges of the pages were frayed. He remembered a young boy who had clutched a Gold Coin Fruit and wished fervently upon a star that he could be like the wooden puppet—that he might have a father who loved him, too.

A mother on her deathbed had given her boy a book about an old fairy tale, and the book became the boy’s sanctuary and lifeline.

He should be crying, he thought again, as he climbed a set of dusty stone stairs. Part of him was so furious that he wasn’t.

The Red Fox met him in the hall that followed, and his exchange with her went in much the same way as it had with the Black Cat: instead of attacking, he gave her a Gold Coin Fruit as well.

She surprised him again with her earnest apology. “You’re the only one who’s ever been kind to us,” the Fox said remorsefully, and it stuck with him.

He hadn’t been considering kindness at all as he acted; he had only been doing what felt right to him. He supposed that meant he was kind, if saving people and avoiding fights when possible were what felt right.

He wished his father had shared some of that kindness. Perhaps then, the man wouldn’t have ordered all the puppets in Krat to kill so many people.

He found Geppetto’s cell and unlocked it, a complex wave of emotions passing through him when his father was so overtly relieved to see him. Geppetto warned him about Simon Manus and urged him to go and stop the man from completing his mad plan, unaware that he would have done so regardless of whether or not Geppetto had asked.

He had a vow to fulfill, after all, and it was the urgency behind its completion that held him back from confronting Geppetto then and there about the Frenzy. After Simon Manus was dealt with and everything was over, he was going to have a long conversation with his father.

Before sending him off, Geppetto asked him if he had been a trustworthy father.

The question was startling, not least because the answer came to him quickly and easily, even though he had never considered it before.

“No,” he said, because his father had asked him to say the truth, and beyond freeing Geppetto from his cell, he didn’t want to afford any more kindness to the man who orchestrated the Frenzy and sent him to kill the puppet with his best friend’s Ergo.

Even more startling was Geppetto’s genuine remorse upon hearing his answer. “I wasn’t a very good father to you,” Geppetto said, somber and low. “I gave you more loneliness than love.

“Son, you’re all I have.”

What right had this man, to only now say what a young boy with a wish had wanted so ardently to hear, after the boy was already dead and remade into a shell of his former self? What right had this man to look at him so vulnerably and promise to be better, when it was already so late, and so many horrible things had happened?

He left, hating, hating with everything that he had, that he could not cry.

XI.IV

The sun was setting on the horizon. Crisp, salty air, heavy-laden with Ergo, whipped at his cheeks. The Golden Lie was steady in his hand, ready to make its mark.

There, at the very top of the Abbey, was Simon Manus: the madman with a plan to become a god. Earlier, he had gone back to the room where Sophia was kept to glean more of Simon Manus’ motivation, only to discover the man’s nauseating fascination with Sophia, as well as a complete disregard for her agency. Simon Manus, discontented with the amount of Ergo already contained within the Isle and the Relic of Trismegistus, had built a machine—that cage—to siphon her power, which resulted in the eventual degradation of her body.

This man had helped to destroy Krat on nearly every possible level, was the direct cause of Sophia’s suffering, and was the originator behind the plague that infected nearly everyone who wasn’t killed by puppets, all in the name of a perverse idea of evolution.

He advanced forward, his vow playing through his head like a broken record.

Grotesquely misshapen though Simon Manus had become, the man’s attacks still hit crushingly hard. He made sure to return what he received in kind, though, the Golden Lie swinging quickly and viciously at the man’s bulbous flank whenever possible.

Then, shaken and nearly beaten, Simon Manus split himself open, and a new, inhuman torso reached for the sky—

And a flood of Ergo answered, taking the shape of a giant hand.

He witnessed, then, the birth of an Ergo-stuffed monster that thought itself a god. Simon Manus’ attacks went from hard to near overwhelming, until suddenly overwhelming wasn’t just near anymore, and he had to reset.

And reset again. And again.

He should have found it frustrating, having to restart the fight so many times, but instead, he only thought of Sophia.

Though she was only a mass of Ergo now, her power still persisted—her intent to be with him until the end still persisted. The force behind every swing wasn’t only his own, nor the intuition that told him when to dodge and when to advance. He could feel it, like a sweet, low thrum: her Ergo inside his Ergo, her heart inside his heart, closer even than the air he breathed.

Sophia wasn’t fully gone, and with each reset, he found himself more and more determined.

I will save Krat. I will save Sophia. I will end this madness.

At a certain point, even Simon Manus took notice of Sophia’s intervention, saying, “Aw, our blue fairy adores you so. Pathetic.”

Simon Manus didn’t know how taunting him in such a manner would help contribute to the man’s own downfall.

Sophia had been willing to transcend even her own death in order to stop a maniac who caused untold amounts of pain and killed hundreds of people for his own gain. To hear her effort minimized in such a manner incensed him, to the point that there now was a near reckless level of aggression in his attacks that hadn’t been there before. Soon enough, the added aggression proved to be the eventual key to his victory.

A savage flurry of hits struck well and true, and Simon Manus fell.

Good. He hoped that each blow hit hard enough that it would still be smarting in the afterlife.

With life steadily trickling out of the man’s body, there was only moments left until the leader of the Alchemists was dead. To his muted surprise and to Simon Manus’ credit, that time wasn’t spent in anger or cursing him for having thwarted the man’s plans. Instead, those moments were spent speaking about Sophia.

When Simon Manus asked him what he had done with Sophia, he answered truthfully.

He gave her what Simon Manus never could: peace.

And then Simon Manus disappeared, not with a lamentation, not with regret, but with a warning for his sake, the one whom the blue fairy chose. “Watch out for Geppetto, puppet.”

It was time to go meet his father. He couldn’t withhold a surge of dread within him.

XI.V

He treaded slowly, carefully, towards his father, each step on dusty white stone resounding to his ears with the same sobering significance as the strike of a judge’s gavel.

There was a mad elation to Geppetto’s countenance as the man received him, talking about every “ingredient” being in place. The man talked about resurrecting him—resurrecting Carlo—as a human.

But I’m already alive, he thought, but didn’t say.

The man talked about using the item Simon Manus had used to transform himself, the Arm of God, in combination with the mountainous amount of Ergo still saturating the air.

Simon Manus turned into a monster. You want to turn me into a monster.

And then it came, the merciless deathblow to any goodwill he might have had left for his father.

With an outstretched hand, Geppetto said, “Give me your heart, son.”

His father wanted to rip his heart, still beating, out of his chest, and all he could think of was Sophia’s heart in his heart, her Ergo in his Ergo, still waiting to be saved.

“No,” he said, with resolute finality.

Later, he would look back and realize that this was the impetus for the ultimate tragedy behind what would ensue: he was both Carlo and the wooden puppet, created by Geppetto twice over, and in neither life did his father ever take him or his sentiments seriously.

“I believed you were a good boy…but you insist on breaking my heart,” Geppetto said, his visage morphing into something ugly and angry.

He listened to his father scold him like he was a misbehaving child, and then reduce him to a mere “puppet that would bring his son back to life,” as if Carlo hadn’t risen to his consciousness from the depths of his own heart, as if the little boy who had held a Gold Coin Fruit and wished for a better father had been a stranger.

Perhaps his father was at least partially right, he realized, brandishing the Golden Lie as he readied himself to fight: he might not have had all his memories as Carlo, but he certainly had a far better grasp on his personality.

He was going to make his father see that he was his own person, even if he had to fight his own reanimated corpse to do it.

The fight that ensued between himself and the corpse-puppet controlled by his father was difficult, but manageable, though he had to grit his teeth through the demeaning reprimands his father tossed at him. It wasn’t long until he was familiar with the corpse-puppet’s patterns of attack, and he was actively able to create openings for himself by briefly stunning it out of Geppetto’s control with the Golden Lie, and then rapidly switching to a blade that had been reinforced to its maximum strength by Eugénie.

With a heavy attack fueled by his own righteous anger and determination, he swiped through the corpse-puppet’s head, and the top of its skull fell clean off, the rest of it surely soon to follow.

Or so he assumed.

Something was wrong. He felt it even in his bones, when the corpse-puppet clutched its head in a silent scream, and with a wild burst of Ergo, it took over the strings that Geppetto had been using to control it. Its very Ergo had made the air around it tremor, distorted by something that felt heavy and oppressive.

He realized what it was when the puppet proceeded to overwhelm him less than a minute later. It was hatred.

Geppetto had to have been utterly blind to everything except what he wanted to see. There was no way that putting his heart in that would result in anything other than a Carlo-shaped monster.

He brandished the Golden Lie and steeled himself to try again. Though he made it farther this time, this fight went much like the last, and he was forced to reset. And then do it again and again.

Over and over, he tried to beat the corpse-puppet, tried to discern its attack patterns, tried to pretend that it didn’t sting to hear his father say time and again, “You’re just a puppet, nothing more!” All to no avail. The corpse-puppet was faster than him, hit harder than him, and he wondered if this was the nigh-poetic end he was meant to meet: defeated by his own damned corpse, the embodiment of a past he could not overcome.

In a moment of weakness after nearing two dozen resets, he briefly contemplated giving up and allowing Geppetto to take his heart. It would have been so easy. All he had to do was call out to Geppetto and tell him he’d changed his mind.

I will save Krat. I will save Sophia. I will end this madness.

The reminder of his vow immediately shamed him into shutting that line of thinking down. He had to live, for both Sophia’s and his own sake.

He went out to fight again for the umpteenth time, but the vow had raised in him renewed purpose and vigor. This was what he told himself, as he summoned the strength to start anew: he wasn’t going to let his father win. He wasn’t going to let the man decide that he wasn’t human, or that he didn’t have a say over what happened to his own heart. His humanity was his alone to make of it, even if no one else ever saw him as anything more than a puppet, even if he had to grasp it by the skin of his teeth.

He was going to fight this corpse until there was nothing left of him.

The fight this time was different. Perhaps it was a trick of his mind, or perhaps it was simply his own Ergo whispering to him, but he could swear he could hear the words of people he had met echoing in his ears as he fought.

Eugénie’s first time meeting him. Antonia’s warm voice, reminiscing. Venigni calling him someone who didn’t give up. Romeo’s parting words, drudged up from the depths of his consciousness. Simon Manus declaring a world of truth—a place where he wouldn’t have to lie to prove he was human. And finally, Sophia, who had promised to do everything she could to help him, and then kept that promise.

He would reset a million times, if that was what it took to preserve the life he had built after he awoke that fateful night.

The corpse-puppet was still too strong, but the knowledge and experience he gained from each attempt was finally catching up. This fight had gone on the longest so far, and he had managed to whittle down the corpse-puppet’s constitution more than with any other attempt.

The reverse was also true, though—the longer the fight went on, the more the corpse-puppet seemed to aim for his heart. As if through the cloud of hatred it operated under, the puppet could perceive that it was the source of his ability to defy death.

He narrowly avoided a sharp jab aimed right at the center of his chest, and he thought, somewhere, he might have heard a gasp.

Just a little more. Just a little further, and the corpse-puppet would fall, and he could prove to his father that he was more than what the man thought he was. He stunned the puppet once more with the Golden Lie. This had to be it, his chance for the decisive blow—

The stun was a feint.

Too quickly for him to react, the corpse-puppet split its weapon in two and swiped at him, its superior strength sending him flying backward. Now he was the one who was stunned, all the wind knocked out of him as he landed on his back, perfectly vulnerable for the coup de grâce that was sure to come.

But when it came, he was stunned again, for all the wrong reasons.

His father stood there before him, sword stuck straight through the man’s torso.

There was a horrible wet cough, words he could hardly hear through the heavy rush of his own heartbeat roaring in his ears: “Were you…going to destroy…Carlo’s heart?”

And then his body was moving. With a searing energy ripped from a place inside himself he didn’t know he had, he rammed his mechanical arm into the puppet’s chest.

His hand came clean through the other side, wrapped around the puppet’s p-organ. He yanked his arm back, allowing the puppet to fall, and then collected energy into his arm until the mechanical heart was pulverized in his hand.

Something in him was restored as the corpse-puppet’s Ergo flowed into him. He couldn’t pay it any mind, because suddenly, behind him there was a thud.

No.

His father was on the floor. Everything was off-balance, off-kilter, nothing making sense as he fell to his knees next to Geppetto. His father wasn’t supposed to love him like this. His father wasn’t supposed to be willing to die for him.

Slowly, so slowly he felt as though he himself might break, he lifted his father’s head to see the man’s face more clearly. Geppetto coughed, and blood splattered from his mouth.

No, no, no.

Now, finally, was when the tears began to flow from his eyes.

Geppetto’s gaze fixed on his face—fixed on the tears that fell—and something like realization passed through the man’s face.

With the last bit of strength Geppetto had, he said, “I’m sorry, son.”

And then Giuseppe Geppetto breathed his last.

i

A dam within him had been smashed to pieces. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, head bowed low over his father’s corpse, sobs shaking out of him. It was irrational, but he begged Sophia to turn back his time. He begged to be allowed to save his father.

Nothing happened, of course, because the resets had never worked that way. He had never been able to restart a fight he had already finished.

And besides, what reason would Sophia have had to help him save the man who started the Frenzy, who knew his son so little that he was willing to destroy his son to “resurrect” him?

It didn’t make sense for him to care so much about Geppetto, he knew. Memories he didn’t have before flashed through his mind: his father never having time to be home, missing his graduation, sending birthday gifts through the mail instead of bestowing them in person. He should have hated Geppetto for all that the man did and didn’t do, should have spat on his corpse and walked away, like Romeo would have.

But he couldn’t.

He was forever Carlo, the boy who wanted his father to love him, and he was the wooden puppet, the one who realized that his father loved him far too late.

Something began to shift underneath his trembling hands. He watched, transfixed, as Geppetto, just like Sophia, disappeared into a glittering trail of Ergo. He wouldn’t even get to bury his father with his mother, then. Bitterly, he surmised that taking his father was fate’s cruel manner of reminding him that he couldn’t stay there forever. The fulfillment of his vow was still incomplete.

Though the grief was still there, burrowed into his heart, and he felt as though a part of him would remain crying forever, now was not the time to be rendered useless by his emotions. There would be time to mourn later. Now that Krat was saved, and the madness was over, he needed to save Sophia.

ii

It was hard, scouring Arche Abbey for a way to bring Sophia back. Not because the place itself was almost labyrinthine, nor because he didn’t have any leads—he found that within an hour or so in the area where Sophia had been kept—but because of his own body.

His head was pounding. He felt as though each limb were being weighed down by anvils. He was tired.

Whatever happened to himself being powered by Ergo? He didn’t feel a single mechanism within him anymore, nor did he have a clue whether, if he were to be cut open, what would be found inside his body would be cold steel or flesh and bone. Would he have to sleep, or eat, or use the latrine? Could he even call himself a puppet anymore?

What could he call himself?

The answer wouldn’t come to him until later, when he returned to the uppermost portion of the Abbey. He was treated to a full view of the sun coming up over Krat’s skyline, its morning light sweeping a bright, shimmering trail over the ocean. A different kind of dawn arose within him as he held his hand over his eyes, shielding his face from wind and too-bright sun so that he could take in the view in its fullness.

He knew who he was now.

The wooden puppet had become a real boy.

The revelation played through his mind, curled around his heart as he came across a hidden path in the upper levels of the Abbey that led to an area outside. Finally, he found it: the puppet body that Simon Manus had commissioned in the perfect likeness of Sophia, but had wound up discarding, dissatisfied with how doll-like the body was. The man had likely kept Geppetto alive so that his father could make another one that was a near perfect copy.

As he beheld the puppet, he knew that it would suffice. It had her face, her hair, even the gentle manner with which she carried herself in its demure posture. This was the girl who had woken the wooden puppet, and then helped the puppet become real.

He was Carlo Geppetto, son of Giuseppe Geppetto, and he was alive thanks to her.

Just as she had for him countless times, he placed his hand on her chest. Something in him pushed, and all that was Sophia flowed from himself into the puppet.

And then everything caught up to him at once, and Carlo fainted.

iii

Waking up in this body was something Carlo still had no name for. He was back in the hotel, and when he didn’t see Sophia there, he nearly panicked. He checked around, first downstairs, and then upstairs in his father’s study, withstanding the sharp pang he felt at its emptiness.

On his father’s desk was something that hadn’t been there before. It was a letter from Sophia. Carlo took it, fingers brushing the delicately woven ribbon that bound it, and then smiled at its kindred familiarity.

Thank you for giving me a new life, it began.

[llycaons]

my distaste for rpf doesn't actually extend to the beatles because half of them are dead and idrc about the other two. like I definitely judge people for it and think its cringe to be obsessed w them but I generally dont object to rpf abt older historical or most political figures but that's a really case by case basis

[catboydan]

tag list so you can mute my ass during the good omens s2 release period

#good omens <- everything related incl. s1

#gos2 <- season 2 specific things, including teasers etc

#gos2spoilers <- what it says on the tin. i'll tag actual spoilers with this, but NOT stuff we've been shown in teasers. will be in use primarily AFTER release, once we can watch, for obvious reasons

(it'll get tagged with all relevant, so a post about s1 will get #good omens, a post about s2 teasers will get #good omens and #gos2, and an actual spoiler will get those two plus #gos2spoilers. if u don't wanna see any GO stuff, just filtering #good omens will be enough)

[yourplaceinaugust]

what are some songs/artists you associate with the core four losers? like either the four all together or for the individual characters

[domi091]

I've never liked the way FMA author drew Al when he first got out of the gate,it kinda bothered me I how his eyes were too close to each other in that even tho his right eye is covered with his hair it's still clear his other eye is misplaced, I wanted to see what he'd look like if I fixed it so this happened.. thought I'd share it here

[mayplantstarrwaters]

person who have never entered any fandom spaces in their life : Why aren't artists making beautiful art anymore?

[emi-writings]

More DSMP fans need to be obsessed with C!Niki because while her story wasn't handled perfectly, her character and story explores some really interesting themes.

The first thing she did after joining the server was declare loyalty to Wilbur and L'manburg. The second thing she did was befriend Eret when everyone told her not to trust them. She was the last one take off her L'manburg uniform, long after the founders had stopped wearing theirs.

She was the loudest voice of rebellion against Schlatt, the most violent protester against his reign. She was treated as nothing more than a minor annoyance for this rebellion.

She saw the tnt Wilbur had placed beneath L'manburg, she saw it and kept it quiet because she trusted and believed that Wilbur wouldn't use it without good reason. After he pressed that button, after he died, she went and found one of his old coats and wore it, despite the pain of betrayal.

Wilbur, Dream, Techno and Phil all tried to destroy L'manburg, but failed. They failed to stop people from fighting for L'manburg. Niki didn't. Niki, L'manburg's most loyal and devoted, killed L'mabburg when she burnt down the L'mantree. L'manburg didn't die until Niki declared it dead.

Ghostbur only showed up once for Niki, despite her being one of the few people he remembered, even after all that time.

"We've been overlooked for far too long."

She's been hurt, and her pain is silenced. When she was suffering for her defiance against Schlatt and Manberg, Pogtopia told her to wait, that they had no room for her. When Wilbur died, no one thought to comfort her for her grief, despite that he was the one she was loyal to, that she joined L'manburg for. No matter how loud she screamed and cried, no one heard her, no one cared.

It's about fire and rage and pain and healing. Her pain and suffering went ignored, and she needed at an outlet, a scapegoat. And she tried to do that, tried to hurt others the way she had been hurt, in a blind attempt to fix things in a messed up way.

Then she heals. She heals with those who she joined because of that anger and pain and wrath. She heals and finds peace and makes amends.

Niki's story isn't perfect, but it's so wonderfully complicated and full of beautiful contradictions. Loyalty and Defiance. Hope and Despair. Forgiveness and Revenge. Blind Faith and Paranoia.

I just think this fandom really sleeps on her a lot.

[thewinchestah]

"PREY" - Alastor x reader fic

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Tags: One-Shot, 18+, Smut, NSFW, edging, begging, overstimulation, Alastor does what he wants, there's plot if you squint really hard, alastor in heat, breeding kink, degradation kink, praise kink,

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Word Count: i lost count. it's big.

  | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

A/N: Helloooooo!!! I write a lot but i never publish it! My lovely friend and also biggest inspiration for this fic @smallershorteranduncut ordered me to post this and i'm nothing but her loyal servent! I hope you guys enjoy the fruits of me writing 10 google docs pages today while i was enraged. Also english isn't my first language, no beta we die like men here yadayayfayada! enjoy &lt;;3 (UPDATE!) Part 2 is now up!

-

Everything about the Radio Demon seemed to be designed to make you desire him, want him. Many times in ways you weren’t even ready to admit to yourself. You haven’t been in Hell long, that’s true. But ever since you manifested here you felt like someone had picked your brain open to make Alastor the perfect bait to lure you into even more sinful, sinister paths. 

He had an inexplicable magnetism around him, a piercing presence that made your eyes stuck on him when he worked a room. He had you bewitched and you hadn’t share more than polite pleasantries with each other since you became a guest at the hotel.

Today, again, you were transfixed in his gaze. Sitting in the corner of the hotel lobby, trying to make your embarrassing attraction to him go unnoticed while Alastor waltzed across the room explaining more of his wicked plans to Charlie. God, how you wish he had his wicked way with you. 

He seemed more… on edge today. His red eyes  glowed a little brighter, his nostrils flared a bit more, static filling the room more often, he was smiling with almost barred teeth, and everyone seemed to be avoiding him. Even Charlie was trying to politely dismiss him, the general feeling of uneasiness inside the hotel  just growing larger when Angel stationed himself near your little corner of the room. 

“Don’t go near that creepy motherfucker today, he’s about to lose it.”  Angel alerted, almost whispering, a pair of his hands making the “crazy sign” near his head 

“Isn’t he always creepy and about to lose it?” Husk added, staring at the exchange between the radio demon and Charlie.

“I’m telling you toots, I know that guy definitely isn't normal, but today he is borderline a mass extinction event. I swear, he’s just waiting for someone to give him the excuse” Angel replied, confirming your suspicions. Something was off.

“Uh. Well, about that, I think it’s time we rescue Charlie” 

As if on cue Charlie turned to the corner of the room, gesticulating really hard to be taken away from the small commotion her conversation with Alastor was becoming. 

“Hey Charlie, do you remember that thing with the hotel’s… personalized stationery you asked me to help you today? Let’s do it!” Said angel gently guiding Charlie away from the Radio Demon.

“Guess that’s my cue Alastor! Greaaaaat chat! As always! Have a nice day!! Byeee!” Charlie’s overly chirpy tone giving away her uneasiness. 

Suddenly it felt like all the air was taken out of the room. Alastor’s neck turned into an ungodly angle, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. Static grew around the group, almost suffocating. As your vision went blurry from the sheer power that was being evoked, you contemplated if there was another afterlife. Preferably one where you didn’t inherit a death wish from your previous ones.

And as quick as it started, it was over. 

Alastor just said a creepy “hm” turned on his hell, and walked away. 

It almost felt like it was all in your head, but your friends standing perfectly still and dead silent next to you gave the reality of the situation away: everyone just had a near death-death experience. Maybe it would be a good topic for Charlie’s bonding exercises, who knows with this place. 

“I told ya’ll. Mass. Extinction. Event. Stay out the psycho’s way”

Angel’s voice became background noise in your head, your eyes focusing on the spot where Alastor just threatened everybody’s life without saying a word. As the voices dissipated around you and normalcy slowly returned to the hotel, your mind sank deeper and deeper into the mystery that was the Radio Demon. 

-

They were so oblivious, so naive. Thinking he wasn’t listening what they said about him behind his back. Thinking he was unaware of him being the topic of the discussion when he wasn’t looking. He could bathe in the smell of their fear, and he was relishing it. 

Alastor stared at the new pretty little thing that arrived at the hotel. Oh how pathetically sweet and innocent she was, thinking she was being subtle about her infatuation with him. Thinking she could hide her interest in him, when she was nothing but a doe caught in the headlights of his eyes. Oh, she was just the perfect prey for him, wrapped in this lovely red bow she wore on her hair. 

Angel was right, he was just waiting for an excuse, and she just offered him one on a silver platter. And alastor was everything but a coward. 

-

You cursed a little bit louder than you intended when you saw the blood dripping from your finger. “Stop. making. a. spectacle. of. yourself” you mentally screamed. You still could not figure Charlie’s “special stationary stapler” out, so stapling your finger was bound to happen. 

Even though it was not much, the silly little cut was stinging like a bitch, and your best efforts to stop the bleeding were futile, considering the mess on the hem of your skirt. Still high on the adrenaline from earlier, your shaking hands searched for something, anything to put on your finger so you could continue your work without anyone noticing. Everyone already had enough for one day, it was fine. 

“My dear, did you just hurt yourself?” Alastor’s voice invaded your ears. Oh, fuck. That’s it, he was going to murder you for being so incompetent with the damned stapler.

Turning to face him, you meet his piercing gaze, not sure if you should run and scream for help. “Oh no worries alastor, it’s just a small cut, i can manage!” you give him your most confident smile. 

Alastor’s head tilts, eyes burning red as he watches the small droplets of your blood make their way down your index finger.  

“Nonsense, I can't have my staff running around with injuries and bloodied clothes. We are in hell, but we are not savages, dear” He seems transfixed by the blood, and you are too scared to move, too scared to anything other than hold the weight of his gaze and hope for the best. Your lizard brain is screaming for you to run, ask for help. Maybe Charlie isn’t too far away, could you make a run for it? Somehow your survival instincts override your brain, maybe all those hours watching true crime back on earth weren’t in vain, and you decide against running. Let him initiate first. 

He catches your wrist, trapping it inside his deadly claws. His face, towering over you, comes all the way down to inspect the offending finger. You can feel his breathing on your skin. 

Your breathing stops. You swallow an imaginary lump. He’s gonna bite off your fing-

“Would you be a doll and let me take care of it? Blood being unnecessary wasted truly abhors me” 

You must have said yes at some point, you don’t really remember, now you are holding the red handkerchief he handed  you, answering his request to “please follow him”. Trailing behind the Radio Demon, both of you walk through the large corridors. 

This might be the time to scream for help. the voices inside your head warn. With every step of his feet you hear his microphone going tsk tsk tsk where it touches the ground. You are walking the death row, the paintings on the wall chanting “dead woman walking, dead woman walking”. 

“Keep pressuring the wound darling, we are almost there” he gently commands you, too gently… it feels almost… soft, pleading. The way Alastor goes from 0 to 100 is giving you whiplash. 

He slows down, reaching for the door knob of an unknown room. Ever the gentleman, he gestures for you to enter first.

the door locks behind you.

 if i’m being murdered, at least i’m being murdered with class. 

“Don’t be silly, I’m not going to murder you” Alastor says, almost singing the last part of the sentence. 

“Oh fuck, i said that out loud, didn’t I?” you blurted out 

“Yes you did. And yes, I also noticed your lovely doe eyes on me every time i’m in the room” 

Your brain short circuits. That 's it. You are dead. He’s not going to murder you (apparently), but you are going to die of embarrassment. It will feel like murder. He knows, fuck, he knows. He knows about your crush (?) and he’s going to drag you for it. You are going to be so dragged the angels will pity you and bring you to heaven. A creative way to be redeemed, Charlie should know about this. Your thoughts are going downhill as a big snowball, there are too many of them and you can’t follow a single coherent train of thought. You don’t even want to know how you look in the middle of this. You must look pathetic, truly like a doe caught in headlights. And then you hear your name once.

Twice now, in a sing-song voice.

Your eyes fly open towards the sound, breaking from the anxiety induced spell as you realize the Radio Demon had just called you, by name. He knows your name???

“Ah hahah! You’re back.” Alastor says, as he starts to circle you like a predator. Your eyes, as always, follow his across the room.

 “I don’t like to repeat myself, little doe. You heard what I asked?” 

Again, you don’t really remember answering, your brain is going AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA as you watch him pace around you, eyes burning red, demanding your attention. Teeth slightly barred, voice on the edge of something. Was that “X” on his forehead always there?

“I asked if you know what you are doing to me” static fills the room as he finishes speaking. Alastor’s clawed hand trapped your bloodied finger dangerously close to his grinning lips. Your brain is doing flips as he stares deep into your soul, and when your thoughts land you make the connection. Alastor is horny. Alastor is horny for y-

“You see, little doe, I know what your eyes hide when you desperately lower them everytime I come near you. I know how you feel you can hide in plain sight if you stay quiet enough. But I can taste it. Your fear. Your lust. In the air. In your blood.” He has a white knuckled grip on your wrist now, same with his microphone. You lower your guard, eyes going from startled to lustful. “Good thing right now there’s nothing more i want in this godforsaken pit than your lust, pet”

You want this. There’s no point in lying to yourself. You want Alastor to fuck you. You’ve fantasized about the Radio Demon taking you more times than you can count. More times than you would like to admit to yourself. This feels deeply wrong, but you crave it. 

Fuck it, you are in hell, there’s nothing to lose. Alastor is still watching you, impatiently. For the first time today you realize you actually forgot to say something. He’s waiting. Alastor is waiting for your permission. 

“Take my breath away, Alastor” 

Your permission might have been really loud, it felt like you were screaming the words. But you can’t be sure, it might have been a whisper. Either way he didn’t miss it, what happens next is fast, angry and delicious. 

Alastor pounces and licks the blood on your finger, something clicks inside him as he tastes the red liquid, because he lets go of his microphone instantly and his arms grab your waist aggressively, so forceful you wouldn’t be surprised if it breaks skin. You shouldn’t be so turned on by this, by the sight of a psychopathic demon drinking your blood. But you are, and there’s no going back. 

“Strip” he orders. You want to say to him that you can’t take your clothes off your person with him holding you like this. He must have realized the conundrum: if he wants you naked, he has to let go of you. To Alastor, letting go of you right now is simply unthinkable. So he doesn’t: you feel his claws cut the bodice of your dress open, sending the most delicious shivers down your spine. Another claw rips your skirt apart, and you are almost fully naked in the Radio Demon’s arms, pressing your body hard on his still impeccable dressed body.

It’s humiliating, it’s dangerous, it’s hot, it is delicious, to be at his complete mercy, just how you always wanted.

Somehow both of you made your way close to the enormous bed in the middle of the room. Alastor cornered you, so the only way you could escape was walking backwards towards the bed. The brilliant bastard. 

You feel your calves hitting the edge of the bed, and Alastor breaks away.

 Pity, your mind complains. Get him back to touching you again. right. now,.

“Now now, we should establish some rules for this, pet” Alastor’s hands might have stopped touching you, but his piercing eyes never did. He knocks you on top of the bed, you lay there sprawled open just for him. His hands move up to do a quick work of his bowtie

“Rule one: you will take what I give you. Nothing more, nothing less. What I give you is enough. You might feel like you can’t take anymore, but you can. You will take it, I will make you take it” He takes his tailcoat off, his frame towering over you, even with your body completely flat on the mattress and his in front of it. 

“ Rule two: every ounce of your pleasure is mine and mine only. Mine to give, mine to take. And you will give me everything. I want to hear every sound, to feel every touch, to know every nasty thought that runs inside that pretty little head of yours. You will not suppress anything, I wanna hear your moans when you make a mess of yourself as I take everything I desire from your delicious body. I will relish on your desperate screams of pleasure.Nothing outside these walls matter” He is climbing on the bed now. You hold the weight of his gaze, underneath your demonic lover’s eyes your skin burns.

“Rule three: don’t you dare cum without my permission, good girls earn their orgasms and you will be a good girl. Or else…” static starts to pick up around the room, you are seeing the blackest black that ever was, his shadows enveloping you both. Nothing outside these walls matter. “Understood?” Alastor says as he pins your hands on top of your head, against the fancy headboard. His hand cups one of your boobs and he is worrying your nipple between his sharp claws. finally finally, your mind sings. You feel a surge of magic binding your wrists in green chains, attached to the headboard. It’s overbearing, it’s ridiculous. His magic feels like him, another part of him for you to take.

He pinches your nipple particularly hard and you moan softly, pleasure and pain consuming any other sensation. You forgot to answer him, you realize. You’ve barely started and you are already being bad. “yes alastor, yes.. but please don’t stop” the soft whimper leaves your lips.

“lovely.” he replies, and with that his mouth is on your nipple, sucking it while he administers his wicked ministrations to your other one. His sharp teeth prickling on the edge of breaking skin, and you already feel like you won’t be able to take all of him. 

His hand trails down to aggressively grip your thighs, his tongue sucking the neglected nipple his fingers left. Your moans become frequent and messy, if he’s already making you go insane with the beginnings of foreplay... You might pass out and die when he starts fucking you, but you don’t care. Let him show you the true meaning of la petite mort.

“My my, what do we have here” his hand leaves your thigh to trace the wetness of your panties. A clawed finger rips it apart, the last barrier between you and total consumption by the Radio Demon. He takes the finger between your glistening lips, not entering, just teasing 

“I don’t think i will get enough of this pretty little body of ours anytime soon, pet” he says as his finger finally enters your sex, He moves his digit with an expertise you didn’t really know he had in him,  making you whimper his name, ooohs and aaaahs, your hips start threshing from the pleasure. If you continue at this pace, you will be  begging for permission to cum too soon. Pathetic. you think to yourself. Because you know how hard this building orgasm will be,you don’t know if he will grant you more than one orgasm. And will you murder you yourself if you don’t feel his cock inside you tonight. You take a deep breath in between your moans and will your hips to stay in place, your nerves to calm down. 

Alastor adds another finger, and it takes all of your willpower not to become a puddle of wetness right there. You bite your lip so hard you taste blood. 

“you do make a mess of yourself, don’t you? you just can’t help it” he says as he curls his digits inside you. Your hips start thrashing hard again, and you sink them deeper into the bed. The chains on your wrists shake with the effort to hold back. As if alastor wasn’t going to notice. “no no no what did I say?” he snaps angrily, he’s eyes flash red at you and he takes his fingers out with a wet “pop”, you feel like crying at the emptiness. “please please alastor, don’t stop” you plead. His hands leave you entirely, you are left with just his piercing gaze, the one that makes your skin burn. “did I say you could hold back? don’t pretend like you aren’t a common whore for me, that you love how pathetic it feels that you are creaming yourself and we haven’t even really started” 

his condescending tone just makes everything even more sublime. It’s so wrong how good being told you are nothing more than a common whore by the Radio Demon feels. But you never felt anything close to this. “please Alastor” you beg again, nothing but a small whisper

“I would love to taste this pussy, so red already for me, but since you broke one of the rules… i’m afraid I will make you understand that are nothing but my pretty cockslut the hard way” 

Punishment? His punishment sounds ever better than his praise right now. You moan at his voice. He laughs. 

His knees cage you, as he lifts his upper body from you and starts undoing his zipper. He is taking his cock out. Oh fuck, he’s gonna fuck you without anymore foreplay. And he’s not going to be gentle about it either. You shiver. 

Alastor pumps himself a few times, his cock is big, thick, and an angry red shade, flush red like that, because of you, just for you. He’s gonna make you pay: pay for holding back from him, pay for making him feel like an animal and almost losing his hard constructed control. 

The look on his face says it all, he’s gonna take it out on you and you can’t do nothing about it.

You don’t have much time to think about the repercussions, in one swift motion his tip is already inside you, stretching you deliciously. Your brain short circuits again, the feeling of his cock inside you is everything you imagine and more. Depraved, heavenly, delicious. You struggle in your binds again, you want desperately to touch him. To feel his skin beneath your finger, to scratch him, mark him. But oh well, he’s the Radio Demon, he’s the one in charge and you are his prey.

Alastor starts to slowly enter you, he’s trying his best to hold back. He knows if he does this too fast it will hurt in a way he doesn’t want you to feel. And by the look on his face going slow is as torturous for him as it is for you. tantalizing inch after tantalizing inch he spreads the walls of your cunt apart. You understand now why this is punishment, it hurts in a perfect way, it hurts even more that he is doing it slowly, and not just thrusting like you imagined  he would, if he had more time to work on you. 

You become a mess of moans and incoherent words. His cock is halfway inside you now “HoLY FUCK ALASTOR” you scream. It’s already too much. 

“There’s nothing holy about this my dear. I’m going to breed you. I’m going to break you” and with that he buries himself to the hilt inside you. Now you truly scream in pleasure and pain “you won’t be able to walk straight for days, you will feel me in every step, and you will thank me for it”. His thrusts pick up at breakneck speed, the bed shakes from the sheer force that Alastor is using to fuck you. Every snap of his hips you moan more and more. 

The sound you make when he takes everything out and enters you at once is so obscene that it would make Angel Dust blush. He’s growling now, his antlers growing bigger as he fucks you like his life dependend on it. As he fucks you like he hates you. 

Alastor pushes your hips higher, and suddenly he’s even deeper. His other hand holding your waist in a bruising grip. The strain on your pinned hands will bruise too. His lips graze the skin of your collarbone, he looks so feral you are scared he will maul, the thrill of not knowing adding to your fucked up sense of pleasure. 

He seems to pick up on your fear, and bites down on your collarbone, hauling as he tastes your blood and buries himself inside you again and again. Moans turned into screams, and the only thing coming out of your lips is his name, spoken like a profane prayer. You would give everything you have to Alastor, and he doesn’t even have to ask.

Your orgasm has been building for a while now, the coil on your belly becoming tighter and tighter, like a supernova about to be born. “Alastor, please please let me come” you beg. His unfocused eyes stare down at you, as he takes a moment from feasting on your sweet blood to address your desperate, sweet pleas.

“Don’t. You. Dare” he says, punctuating every word with a sharp thrust. As much as you want, you are not sure you will be able to hold any longer. “I beg you alastor, please let me cum, i will let you do anything you want. but i need it so badly, please please”

You sounded so desperate when you begged, so beautiful.

“Don’t strike deals you don’t know you can fulfill, pet” his voice is low, a warning. You ignore it. “I promise Alastor, anything”. Alastor laughs.

 his finger touches your clit as he finally allows your sweet relief “you may come now, sweet doe” and that’s it, you are off, you are dead. You see stars, you see the entire universe as you scream out and climax. Walls tightening around Alastor’s monster cock, eyes rowling, his name a scream on your lips. You ride out your wave slowly, but Alastor is not slowing down.

Instead he is picking up his pace, maneuvering your hips even higher, your chains are stretched to the limit. You can feel them start piercing your skin. Thrust after thrust the sensation becomes too much, you are too overstimulated to go through all of this again.

“i can’t take it, i can’t take it!”

Alastor doesn’t care. “I told you not to make deals if you can’t hold them, didn’t I?” You don’t answer, you can’t. you can’t to anything but let him fuck you as hard and as much as he want. “but you are such a little cockslut for me that you can’t help it. What a shame” 

He is gripping your hips so hard it breaks skin, tiny trails of blood on his claws. “you will take it. You better take it, or I will make you take it” static picks up as he threatens the last words. You know you are spent, you know how bad it hurts, you know how bad his words sound, but the lines between pleasure and pain are so blurred that you can’t think coherently. Even this  pain of being broken feels good. 

Still, tears fill your eyes and you start crying, from pleasure, from pain, you don’t know anymore. What Alastor is doing to you has no precedent. No one can do this like he does. He knows torture too well, and he is tortouring you in the most decadent, delicious ways possible. “alastor i want to, i want to so bad but i just can’t” the tears sting your eyes and stain your face. 

Alastor sees it. He slows down just a bit, his voice softening “oh my dear doe, but you can. Just this once more, just for me. One more” his voice is so maddening soft it acts like fuel to your tears. Your skin tingles and you feel giddy, somehow your throbbing hot, wet cunt seems to find the right amount of relief, and you can feel only pleasure again.

Alastor continues to fuck you, your moans returning to normal, you are being so loud now, making a mess of yourself, just like he said, and a big hand comes to cover your mouth. 

“Oh we can’t have you being this loud can we?” his voice goes to that delicious mocking tone. His thrusts are slower now, but as deep as they can go. “what would you friends say if they found out that you moan like a common whore for their feared radio demon.. hum,.?”

You start to feel the pit of your belly tightening again, and alastor doesn’t stop humiliating you. The degradation feels just the right amount of perfection. You are exactly what he says you are. A common whore when it comes to him. “weren’t you ashamed just a few moments ago? trying to hold back the sinful sounds you make when I touch you? I already gave you one orgasm. I’ve been way too generous for my liking. I should stop right now since you feel so conscious about this”  Alator’s breathing is becoming erratic, his thrusts sharp, hard, and out of the breakneck rhythm he was torturing you before.You start moaning even louder through his hand. “ungrateful little pet. You are just so greedy for one more orgasm, you don’t even care that everyone downstairs can hear you hm??”

You can’t think straight. you feel on the edge of glory, this orgasm threatening to be harder than your previous one, as if it is possible. “alastor i’m so sorry, i know i don’t deserve it” you muffle behind his hand, he hears you speaking and takes if off “but can you please let me cum? just this once? just for you. Please Al” his thrusts are truly erratic now. He’s close too, even though you are too wrapped up on your own sensations to notice 

“please” you beg, nothing more than a whisper. Already making peace with the fact that you are going to come without his permission and he will probably never fuck you again

“Good girl, you can come now”

instantly as you are granted his permissions your world explodes, blinding hot pleasure takes over your body, the waves of pleasure making your heart beat so fast you feel like it’s going to stop. The petit mort is coming, and her sweet embrace envelops you, specially now that you feel Alastor’s cock twitching and spilling his seed inside you. You scream his name. Maybe you hear him screaming yours too. You don’t know anymore, your nerves are singing from pleasure unheard of back  when you were alive. Pleasure so great it could only be found in hell. The most heavily, depraved way of torture. 

You come down from your high, still dizzy, your body going limp. You are not dead, but you are positively spent. You give in into the warm and fuzziness of sleep. 

The last thing you remember is the softness of a blanket, a gentle kiss on your cheek.

“Oh my dear, I knew you had one more on you,spending yourself this way just for me! What a truly precious thing, doe”

You might be dreaming now.

-

You weren’t dreaming. Alastor praises you, knowing his words will be the last thing you hear before a night of peaceful, deep dreamless slumber. He makes sure to put the softest velvet blanket he owns on your body, not to make the damage you gladly allowed your body to take for him an inconvenience. Tomorrow you will wake up to fancy letters of praise and sweet chocolate covered strawberries. And no one will know how Alastor found the perfect doe to breed as he pleases during the height of his mating season.

[neil-gaiman]

Hi Neil! Hoping you can help spread the word. When people tag for Dead Boy Detective Agency, it's best to use either the full name or #DBDA.

DBD is already used by Dead By Daylight fans. It can get messy when two fandoms use the same tag. For one, it isn't fair to Dead By Daylight fans. Also on the flip side, if you're looking for Dead Boy Detective Agency content, you probably don't want to see Dead By Daylight stuff either. That, coupled with the fact that Dead By Daylight will have booms when new content/leagues happen, which will just make it more complicated.

Anyway, #DBDA and #DBDshow were both floated as options. Thanks, and hope this ask finds you well!

Consider the word spread.

[alltimefail]

Again, in case you need encouragement to fight:

Jayden Revri retweeted this.

They're in on this movement, they're keeping up with our progress, they are seeing everything we're doing for this story and they're probably fighting like hell (in the ways they can) behind the scnenes, too.

There is hope. Do not let ANYONE tell you otherwise. I've been in fandoms for years and I've never seen this much outright support from a cast and crew of a canceled show. They want this just as much as we do.

Keep streaming, keep hyping this show up, keep promoting it. Tell everyone you know to watch it (even if they just put it on in the background if it isn't their thing).