#one could say that his desires became his very own prison

[vaultureculture]

Little mouse

[dcxdpdabbles]

Freelance Inventor Part 2

Dedicated to @jimmysorsprinkles Thank you for enjoying my random dabbles. I saw that you wanted more Dads, Danny/Bruce, who are unknowingly co-parenting, so here it is! (set during the first prompt through the years of Danny just being a dad whenever he's home)

"I just don't know what to do," Bruce admits, watching Dick stomp about in tiny angry circles, muttering in his native tongue under his breath. He's been out there for about a half hour, doing laps in the yard. Danny knows he deliberately chose to do so under the window leading to Bruce's office.

The kid definitely wanted his guardian to know he was mad at him .

It was the fact Dick was unconsciously hunching his shoulders, curling his fist, and even raising his knee slightly higher than he needed for his stomps that were a nod to Bruce whenever the man was upset.

It seemed like Dick had picked up habits from Bruce during his short time here. If anything, Danny thought it rather cute if it weren't for the fact Dick was so upset.

"What happened?" He asked, standing beside Bruce, overlooking the pre-teen throwing a fit.

Bruce's frown is sharp and hinted with just the edge of uncertainty that anyone who didn't know him well would have dismissed. "He was being reckless in one of our extreme sports, and when I rightfully scolded him for it, he took it as me not trusting him."

Danny tilts his head, considering. It's been over three years since he became acquainted with the Waynes, and in that time- between his travels, his inventing, and his general desire to learn all he could in any way he could- he noticed that Dick was very quick to anger as a defensive mechanism.

This clashed horribly with Bruce's own mechanism- which was shutting down or at least emotionally wise. While Dick sneered and raged against the world, Bruce tried his best to forget he was human and detached himself from the situation.

Which wouldn't be so bad if it didn't feed into Dick's insecurities or Bruce's anxiety when they both reacted to adverse situations.

He has spoken to Jazz about it, and his sister has given him some advice that has helped him smooth things over with the young boy. Empathizing and paraphrasing the boy's issues was a big step in letting him feel heard and his feelings acknowledged.

For Bruce, he treated him like a ghost who had never seen a human. Plenty of ghosts were never human, were born in the ghost zone, or had been there for so long that they had forgotten what humans were like. Danny took time to explain why someone reacted the way they did- at least, why he thought so- and never made Bruce feel less for needing the help.

It was fun, in a way, to see Bruce's eyes lighten up with understanding and get him to talk about his rooted issues, but having to do so on carefully balanced tones and word choice. Phantom had so much practice de-escalating ghosts that it was a walk in the park with Bruce.

"I'll talk to him," Danny promised, leaning over to rest his hand on Bruce's shoulder and not batting an eye when the taller man landed down to rest his forehead on Danny's shoulder.

Where Bruce couldn't say in words, he yelled in his actions. It reminded him a bit of Wulf.

Bruce took a deep breath before nodding. "Thank you."

Danny hummed, reaching up to pet Bruce's hair like he would soothe Wulf, on days the werewolf would twitch too much at the door slamming, and suddenly his friend was mentally back in Walker's prison. "No problem. But, I will also be speaking to you later, and you are going to listen to Dick's side of the story without interrupting at dinner."

"Yes, Danny"

Alfred threw him an approving smile as he marched outside to meet Dick's rage-filled eyes and nervous hand twitching. He could catch the ending bits of whatever rant the boy was muttering.

"You're right. Bruce is an idiot sometimes." He starts grinning as the boy's eyes narrow further.

"You don't speak Romani."

"I may not understand what you're saying, but trust me, I feel it." Danny chirps, watching Dick's shoulder relax a little. " What did he do this time?"

"You won't even believe it!" Dick snaps, and then he's off, Danny keeping pace with him step by step as the boy works himself into another frenzy.

Later that night, Dick explained that he hated how Bruce made him feel so belittled and unimportant, his voice tight with a itch to fight, and Bruce carefully- with significant prompting from Danny- explained how he didn't mean it that way. He was only worried that he was about to watch Dick die in front of him, and he couldn't live through losing his family again.

Dick looked shocked to be considered family, and Danny swore he helped the boy sneak into Bruce's office, which so happened to have the adoption papers Bruce was hiding. Alfred gave him a large sample of pudding for dessert.

______________________________________________

"Hey, kid," Danny whispered, watching Jason tense up momentarily. It's not overly noticeable, but Danny has grown used to seeing little ghost blobs show emotions by how they twisted and twirled over the years, so he could tell what the slight tightening of the fingers around the book meant.

Anxious.

It would be understandable if Jason had been present for another one of Dick's and Bruce's explosive arguments. He came from a household that had an older male figure beat him whenever Willis got in a mood, so while he knew that Bruce or Dick would never hit him, Jason still tried to make himself scarce.

Jazz was the one to point out Jason's usage of escapism in the form of books to comfort himself, and so Danny took whatever time he could manage to read the same books as Jason while on his travels.

"What?" The boy grunted, voice soft but weary.

Danny sits across from him, making sure to stay in Jason's eyesight at all times. He had realized in only his second visit after meeting Jason that the boy did not like having someone too close in his space.

He grew up on the streets where being weary of older men kept him alive- Danny would never fault him for what he had to do to survive.

Unlike Dick, who was always down to talk about why he was upset if only to rant, Jason preferred to have a distraction. So he offers him a smile that he hopes projects You're safe with me and pulls out a book from his bag.

Jason's eyes light up at the cover. "I had some theories on Mr. Darcy being in love with Mr.Bingley before he met Elizabeth, and Bruce won't agree with me. Help me find citations as proof?"

"It's so obvious that he was, how can the old man not see that!" Jason snorts, tilting his head in a cute habit that he picked up from Dick. He really looks up to his big brother no matter how tense things can get.

Danny is glad he's gotten Dick to explain to Jason that he didn't hate him, but he was going through a lot, and Jason as a street kid, understood on some level.

"The old just hate listening to other people's suggestions even when we're right!." Jason leans over to read the book Danny places between them, considering Jane Austin's work while Danny files away the real reason he's upset with Bruce.

Later, after Jason and he present a bemused Bruce with a report on why Mr.Darcy is bi and had feelings for his best friend before meeting his wife, he tells Bruce to explain why he didn't consider Jason's suggestion in their extreme sport.

Jason goes to bed that night with a better answer than "because I said so," and Danny forces Bruce to go up to his room and re-read Pride and Prejudice to connect with his youngest.

Alfred offers them extra blankets and pillows since the two get so caught up reading to each other that Danny just decides sleeping in Bruce's bed is easier than walking down two wings to the guest rooms.

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

"I'm not going to bed," Tim snapped when Danny knocked on his door. His fingers are flying over the keyboard of his computer, his little face glowing from the computer screen, and Danny is almost reminded of himself whenever he gets caught up in his work.

It may worry Bruce and Alfred, but Danny is a Fenton. He knows what it's like to have his brain run over time and sacrifice sleep or meals to get his ideas into the world.

His mother is the same, his father is the same, his sister is the same, and even Danny's clone is the same. It's fitting that the little boy he caught following Batmam around with a camera is the same since he all but forced Bruce to adopt him.

He hadn't meant to.

He had been testing an air purifier when he returned to Gotham since Bruce and the kids were out of state, and his ghost hearing picked up the sound of a camera click.

Imagine his surprise that when he turned to the roof opposite him, he found the tiny little face of an eleven-year-old staring back, holding a camera, and Batman swinging away in the distance. Danny became attached to Tim that night, even after he chased the boy down to ask if he was safe.

He did not like the implications of his parents always "working" while Tim ran amok in Gotham.

It took almost two weeks of following Tim around Gotham to help him with his photos before the boy allowed him to take him to Wayne Manor. It took three more before Bruce realized that Danny wouldn't allow Tim's parents to win him back, and together, they took the Drakes to court.

Danny has never been more grateful that Bruce was loaded with money and that his inventions gained him contacts in high places that wouldn't mind taking the Drakes down.

Tim was a lot like Bruce- where he shut down- but he needed people to be around him more. Sometimes just sitting in the same room- where Tim could glance up and see him- was enough for the boy to be at ease.

This was great for Bruce, who thought he didn't need to do much to make Tim happy- until Danny reminded him that Tim was a poor boy who was gutted for any form of parental approval.

He had to almost punch Bruce after overhearing him tell Tim he was proud of him, but there was room for improvement. Bruce meant it as helpful, constructive criticism, but Tim- whose parents all but drilled how useless he was- only heard criticism.

Only heard, he was not enough.

So now Tim was going, who knew how many hours without sleep, trying to fix whatever issue he thought he had caused. How a fourteen-year-old could have caused issues at his adoptive dad's multimillion-dollar company was beyond Danny, but it meant a lot to Tim, so he didn't need to understand it.

He just needed to respect it.

"Don't want you to," Danny grunts, throwing himself on Tim's queen-sized bed. "I just wanted to know if I could crash here. Bruce pissed me off."

Tim's fingers pause. "What did he do?"

"He tried to tell me how to handle my inventions' payment. I'm a freelancer! I know how to do that." Danny complains while twisting under the covers. Tim slowly turns around to look at him, but he acts like he doesn't notice. "I know he'll try to talk to me in the guest rooms, but he won't find me here. I just don't want to listen to another "I can do it better" lecture."

After a moment's pause, Tim admits. "He did the same to me and my team."

He means Cassie, Bart, and Conner. The little team of photography buddies Bruce introduced Tim back when they started homeschooling him. Dani suggested pulling Tim out of school is one of the best advice his clone ever gave him.

Tim took the pictures, Cassie and Conner modeled, and Bart made the clothes. Their work was slowly gaining traction online, and Tim seemed to glow whenever the Team was mentioned.

"Course he did." Danny sigh. He leans back into the pillow. "Know why he did it, too. Bruce doesn't want me to be taken advantage of, but it's hard not to hear him think I can't keep up, especially when my family is doing the same thing."

"Yeah," Tim's voice is soft. "It's frustrating that all your hard work is overshadowed or that everything you've done so far doesn't prove that you know you can."

Bingo. Danny discovered Tim's issue; now he just needs to bring it home.

"I know I'm great at what I do. You said so yourself- my past proves I am crazy good at work. I leave other people breathless in awe all the time. I can adapt and overcome so much faster than others. Bruce can see that, but he forgets to praise it." Danny huffs like he's trying not to be forgiving, and it causes a smile to unwillingly appear on Tim's face.

"I'll talk to him tomorrow but today I'm being petty and hiding. Thanks for letting me sleep here"

"You're welcome, Danny." Tim goes back to his typing, but only after a minute or two of Danny asking if he can turn off the light does the boy save his work and shut his computer down.

The room is plunged into darkness but Danny doesn't need the light to see how Tim sinks into his mattress. Tim is smart- crazy smart that every part of him that's Fenton crows with pride- and he can easily see through Danny.

"Thank you Danny" He doesn't say what for but he doesn't need to.

Danny reaches over, grabs the blankets, and makes sure they cover the small shoulder, tucking Tim in properly. "Any time kid"

The next morning, Bruce wakes them up with a powerpoint of all the things he thought were impressive about Tim and his team's last photo session. A powerpoint for Pete's sake.

But it makes Tim smile so much that Danny lets it slide. At least he listened when Danny chewed him out for forgetting to praise Tim.

Alfred offers Danny some of his private tea jars, which according to Dick, means Danny is in for life as Tim, Jason, and Bruce go over the PowerPoint again. Jason has begone to heal for his bitch of a mother's betrayal a few months ago.

Thankfully, Danny was in the area when he called and reminded the lady why she should not mess with Bruce's kids. Dani paying her a visit in her jail cell was just the Fentons' sending their regards.

(His dad gave Dani the ani-creep stick, and his mom hacked the cameras to loop. Jazz just watched hours of her to realize what made the woman scream and cry before sending the clone on her way. It was a good family bonding moment)

No one believed the woman claiming to be haunted that her son was Robin. Honestly, where on earth she got that idea Danny would never know.

His Jason, the sweet school-loving boy who graduated as valedictorian, running around punching criminals? Honestly, what was she going to claim next?

Bruce being Batman?!

Please.

[yandere-romanticaa]

The deep corners of the sea harbor many secrets. Be it countless lives which were claimed by the tides, ancient tales of a bygone era, or perhaps something even darker, something so great that the feeble human mind could not even think of comprehending.

The murky waters hid many things indeed. But for the Duke, his little secret was not so ancient, something not so important in the ultimate grand scheme of things.

It only mattered to him and only him.

He gazes fondly at his secret as he sips tea in the cafeteria, taking a break in a highly conspicuous area simply because he was the Duke and he could do as he wished.

He could have you at any moment he desired. The sentence was prolonged for absolutely no reason and searching for one was pointless. The Duke has his reasons, the staff would say. Run along now and go back to your duties. If you keep slacking off you'll starve.

Wriothesley liked to play favorites when it came to you.

That became evident to some of the staff very fast.

He had it arranged that your meals be of, at the very least, decent quality. No mystery meat for you or any rotten vegetables. If you consumed any of that your health would be in jeopardy. He could always just give you a proper meal or maybe even a downright good one but that would arise too much suspicion from the inmates and he was not in the mood to hear them complain. One day, the chef decided to be bold and serve you a wretched meal on purpose, just to test his hypothesis.

As expected, Wriothesley gave him an earful even if he never actually said anything about you. His bias was still evident and nothing could hide that.

Wriothesley liked to consider himself as an honest and a frank man. Like all people he had his secrets and his own cross to carry but if he could he wanted things to be done right in the open. No mysteries, no hesitance. If you were not a prisoner in the Fortress, Wriothesley would already have you on his arm. He was also aware of his imposing presence, the last thing he wanted to do was to scare you off. The power imbalance was simply too large between the two of you.

Therefore, like the predator that he was, he bid his time. He locked away his rawest feelings deep in his heart and hid the key, never wanting to throw it away.

He wanted you to come to him. He wanted you to seek him out.

Oh, to be loved, to be wanted by another human being. What a foreign yet pleasant thought. Wriothesley knew you did not see him in that light but damn it all if he does not try. All of the cards are in his hands and he has dealt you yours. The only option left is for you to play straight into his hand.

The thought of sharing a cup of tea with you made his heart soar. Patience was indeed a virtue. And fortunately for him, the Fortress of Meropide had taught him that skill a long time ago.

🖤 TAGS: @genshinarchives, @mod-kisa-blog, @juuuuuj101010, @kalopses-sonderes, @b10h4z4rd, @xiaopleasecomehome, @mayulli, @saturnalya, @alatusprinz, @lakxcpsta, @mewmeowmika, @ranposgirlboss, @ficsreblogs, @goldenglow149

[sleeplesssmoll]

Vertin's personality and traits based on in-game context.

Contains Spoilers.

Will update when I find more tidbits about our beloved Timekeeper.

Updated: March 15 2024

Vertin sucks at math.

Not much to say here. Although, this is another difference between her and Sonetto, who loves math. I hope they do something with this later because it'd be fun.

Vertin is 16 confirmed

While this isn't a personality trait, I did see some debate about her age since it wasn't officials stated until now and it was assumed through context. Prisoner in the Cave explicitly confirms her age. Vertin became Timekeeper when she was 12 and has been the the TK for the past 4 years.

Vertin is a pianist and a painter.

You can see a piano in the back of her office in the Suitcase by the window. It makes sense in regards to Vertin's musically inclined Arcanum. There's an easel and stool in her office too. She doesn't merely collect art, she creates it. Vertin also owns a camera (official artwork released) too and mentions her photography in the begining, so this isn't new but I thought I should add it.

Vertin's still playful under all her composure.

We know baby Vertin was a little menace, but we can still see a spark of that mischief in her later years. For example, Vertin slapping a fake mustache on Regulus to avoid Sonetto really captures this. We can tell from other characters' voice lines that Vertin will most likely play along with their shenanigans. She'll chirp like a bird in response to Rabies talking about his bird friends (Wilderness interaction). She'll help Sonetto during hide and seek (Wilderness). She watches movies with Eternity and An An Lee. X asks her for help with his projects. Going through her crew's voice lines really paints a better picture of how she interacts with others. The voice lines point to someone playful and curious when she's not in work mode.

Vertin was a gremlin.

Vertin's love language is giving.

We know baby Vertin loved to give gifts to a reluctant Sonetto, but that part of her still exists. She tried to grant everyone's last wishes during the 1929 Storm. We also know she gives Lilya alcohol as a gift upon her return from 1929. She is also very direct. We see her ask people what they want or what can she do for them throughout the story. To expand further, you could say she likes fulfilling people's desires instead of limiting it to material gifts. We can see more of instances of this during the Green Lake event, especially in the way she protects Jessica from the Foundation. She also tried to get Regulus funding for a ship. I love the Suitcase Dad meme, but it's rooted in nuggets of truth.

She was a crappy student, yet she was also a resourceful gremiln. Vertin never liked the institution! Honor student? Top of the class? Never. Teachers are filled with that "Godamnit Vertin" energy toward her too. I hope we see more gremlin energy in the future.

One-sided childhood friends.

Vertin is a collector.

Sonetto and Vertin were desk mates but Sonetto couldn't stand Vertin when they were kids. She even tried to avoid Vertin at times but Vertin persisted with her gifts. We can see this in the hallway scene. Sonetto's about to change routes to avoid Vertin but Vertin called out to her to give her a frog she caught. Kinda funny how Sonetto can't stand Vertin but also can't resist her when they were kids. Vertin and Matilda were actually closer back then. Well, at least until the tear gas incident. Sonetto changed after Vertin was hurt and the rascal wasn't around to bother her. I feel like this tidbit says a lot about Vertin and her influence on people.

Baby Vertin collected rocks, bugs, and frogs. Adult Vertin collects painting and mementos of people she's lost. Things were simpler as a kid.

Vertin is stronger than she looks.

She was a wild child and she's still got it years later. Vertin can run for long periods of time, endure injuries, and climb obstacles. That, and she's still essentially a child solider. We see her hold her own when she needs to fight solo doing stuff like dodging bullets. Sonetto and Matilda also exhibit these freakishly athletic traits, especially Sonetto.

Vertin befriends people in every Era, despite knowing she'll lose them.

Compared to the other children raised by the Foundation, Vertin's traveled the world and witnessed loss in every Era. This opens doors to a whole new set of questions. How did she change over time? How do the Arcanists she recruited before the story treat her? Did she have crushes in previous Eras? Were the oranges just as bitter? Vertin seems to get close to people very easily and doesn't build walls around herself despite the trauma. You'd think someone who's lost so much would stop trying to get close to people, but she doesn't.

Vertin is optimistic.

Even as a child, she was full of hope. It's why she fights for the future and is a core part of her personality. She needs to fight for all those she lost and stop the Storm from taking more lives.

Vertin gets quiet when embarrassed/shy.

She'll blush and fall silent, but she doesn't stammer or go all tsundere. We can see this in voice lines. Sonetto's high praises make her cover her face with her hands. Eternity gets a reaction out of her when she holds her hand. She also blushed when she received surprise smooch and fell silent.

Vertin has a unique scar on her back.

Vertin is a tactile person.

Arcana mentions the scar after Vertin was shot multiple times in the back by Schneider. It's a big scar and new theories about the scar are ongoing and interesting!

In several voice line interactions, Vertin is patting people's heads or holding their hands. Not all her crew mates are on board with it, some seem confused, and others play along. We can also see examples in story like her handing Sonetto a frog while gently grasping her hand or her taking Regulus's hand to lead her into the Suitcase. Here is a post with the evidence to back this claim.

Vertin sucks at arcanum but her deep understanding of arcanum is uncanny.

The story mentions her weak arcanum skills throughout the story. They really want you to remember this. Also, her arcanum didn't manifest until sometime after the break away event but before the events in the prologue. During her stay in the guardhouse, she doubts if she's even an arcanist and mentions her arcanum has yet to manifest, which is wild. Smoltin is fighting with her tiny hands and wit in this chapter. However, in the prologue it's mentioned Vertin's understanding of arcanum and her perception makes her unique amongst arcanists. She's also considered more "rationale" than other arcanists. You can read more about this here.

Vertin is stealthy.

Smoltin sneaks around to play outside. She steals food for herself and the Ring from the Staff Canteen, which has better quality food than what the kids get. This tells me she's done this before. Adult Vertin also sneaks around the Walden to find Schneider. She makes maps, tracks guard routes, and avoids detection since whe was a kid.

Tooth Fairy was one of the few Foundation members who cared about Vertin.

Tooth Fairy is the one who gave Smoltin the toffees (chit chat voicelines). She also covered for Vertin on a few occasions to protect her from punishment. She remembers Vertin faking her illness to skip class, but her bruises and wounds were real. The Foundation does have a few kind hearts that genuinely care about the children. The causes of Vertin's injuries is up to speculation.

[cuubism]

Morphology | Dreamling | 4.6k words | Explicit | AO3

eldritch Dream, genderfluidity of a kind, lots of smut, nonhuman organs, angst, body dysphoria, undefined body forms and transformation, brief eldritch panic attack, they/them pronouns for Dream

Dream is not meant to stay in one form. But they must, for that is the form that Hob knows. That Hob loves. Or so they think.

this is based on @gabessquishytum and their anon's post located here, about Dream believing Hob won't want him in all his nonhuman shapes, only to discover Hob is very much a monsterfucker... and also loves him very much. I was going to append it to the post but then it got kind of very long. Hope you don't mind me playing around!

---

It was not for dreams to be only one thing.

In the Dreaming, they morphed and shifted, merging from one form to another. Smoke to wind to water, lava to sparks back to stone. In the minds of dreamers they took every unconceivable form, a thousand impossibilities as various as the limbs of Destiny’s forking tree. They were all of unreality. All that could not be, all that was hoped for, fleeting, forgotten, or held, for a time.

In the Waking, it was different. Dreams Dream bent and condensed into a singular form. They he knew well enough from his dreamers that while fluid changeability may be accepted in the illogical narratives of dreams, it was not so in the Waking. To interact with humans, he must appear as one, with the limited mutability that allowed.

Which was not to say that Dream disliked his Waking form. He chose what was pleasing to him. But sometimes it felt… stifling, for one used to being as expansive as the clouds.

Particularly after his imprisonment. Kept like an insect pinned to a board. Immovable. When he was meant to move. When he was Morpheus. Shaper of Forms.

Dream put that away from him.

Hob liked this form of his. Dream had come to understand the way Hob looked on him, and he liked that Hob wanted this form. But. He was not meant to stay in this form. Not always. It was. Chafing. It was. Hurting.

No matter. He could stay in this form that Hob wanted, because more than wanting to break from this skin Dream wanted Hob’s love. And his desire. He wanted to keep Hob’s gentle, heated touch.

This form of lean muscle and sharp bone. This solid body that had endured Roderick Burgess’s prison but also received Hob’s love… he could keep it. Yes. He could. He could.

~~~

I am wind that wishes to storm. Cloud that edges on rain. I am caterpillar’s dream of flight, I am words of disbelieving, I am the hopeful light of new stars, I am— I am water’s dance with the shore, and the sun’s kiss of the moon, and— and— no—

“Yo. Roiling mass of terror that I’m pretty sure is the boss. You good?”

Dream opened their eyes. They did not have eyes, but no matter. Dreams were often about seeing. Matthew was standing on the sand before them, head cocked.

“You alright?” he repeated. “I couldn’t tell if the shrieking was a bad thing or just like. One of your things.”

“One of my things,” Dream repeated.

“Can never know,” said Matthew. He hopped onto an arm that Dream’s form generated just for him to stand on.

“I was not,” said Dream, “shrieking.”

“You were definitely shrieking,” said Matthew. “It sounded like a laundry machine dying.”

Dream grumbled in offense.

Matthew nudged his head against one of Dream’s hands. “Do you… wanna talk about it?”

Dream considered. “Do you often ponder your own physical form, Matthew?”

“Well, since I became a bird,” said Matthew. “Kinda weird. It’s cool, though. Who doesn’t dream of flying, amirite?” He flapped his wings in demonstration, lifting off Dream’s arm, then settling down again.

“And when you were human?” Dream asked.

“Every human thinks about their body, dude.”

“Did you desire to change it?” Dream pressed.

“You mean like a weight loss program?” said Matthew. “Those never work.”

“No,” said Dream. Their form morphed around them, here legs, there tail, wings, teeth. They could not make it settle, not on a human shape or on anything else. They felt— agitated. They should return to their usual human form. Should. “That is not what I meant.”

“Ohhhhhh,” said Matthew, and smacked his face with his wing in realization. “It’s this whole deal. Well, you could change it if you want? I mean. You’re doing it.”

“I did not mean to,” said Dream, their form still writhing around them, never landing on any one shape. “I—” they were meant to go see Hob. They had been cloaked properly in their usual shape. And. Something had snapped.

They remembered, now, falling to their knees on the sand, the careful construct of their human self, a body once worn easily as one of many, shattering into a million shards.

They should. Change. They should change back. They wished to see Hob, and Hob, for all his adaptability, was only human, he would not be able to tolerate this, this thing that could not even give itself a face, or decide what it was, this thing that found physical stasis anathema after so long pressed in glass. Hob cared for the being that he knew. Not this one that, Dream thought, sometimes did not even know itself.

“Whatever you’re doing, I think you should probably stop,” Matthew warned.

“You dare to question me?” Dream bit. He was condensing back down under his human mask, he could do it, he could. He had loved this form once. Could again. As one of many.

Matthew nipped at his hand with his beak. And it was only this that made Dream realize he was clawing at his face so hard he was bleeding starlight.

Solidity spiraled away from Dream again, and they let out a hard breath. It was useless. Whatever meager control they had maintained since their escape was slipping from them. It was pointless to pretend otherwise any longer. Or to pretend that they could truly offer Hob the form he was accustomed to.

“Matthew,” Dream said, and Matthew hopped to attention. “I have some business I must attend to. Please leave me now.”

“Are you sure—?”

Dream waved a hand and sent him back to the palace.

If it was impossible for them to consistently return to their prior state, then at least they should be done with it now. Show Hob what he was truly dealing with. That Dream was not what he thought. Or wanted. Then, at least, they would spare themselves any greater heartbreak.

Wrapping the barest trappings of their usual form around them like an ill-fitting coat, Dream stepped into the Waking.

~~~

Dream emerged directly onto Hob’s bed as a formless shadow. It felt good, to be formless. Normally, they did like to take a form, but to choose recently had been taxing.

Hob was awake and reading. Dream had been meant to come for dinner, and was late. When Dream appeared in a sudden fall of darkness, Hob shrieked and flung his book at them on instinct. It simply passed through Dream with no effect.

“Dream?” said Hob, gasping, the spike in his adrenaline clear. “Is that you, love? Somehow? Or am I about to get eaten?”

Those do not preclude each other, Dream said. Though as they were still a shadow, their voice was more a low rumbling vibration than a true voice.

“Not sure how I understood that,” said Hob. He tilted his head, trying to make out features in the darkness but not, Dream thought, managing it. “Always kind of knew you were more than you seemed,” he added. “Didn’t quite picture this, though.”

It is but one form I am capable of holding, Dream said. Strictly speaking, it was not quite a form at all. As they said it, they shifted, unconsciously, until they were the beam of lamplight caressing Hob’s face—Hob’s hand chased them across his own cheek—and then the lulling hum of traffic, comforting night sounds. Hob kept reaching for them, not quite knowing where he was reaching. And Dream slipped into his daydreams, his vision for what Dream’s many forms might be.

Hob’s daydreams were a comfortable place to land. Warm. Welcoming. And when Dream emerged, they were a thing of Hob’s imagining, something dark and shadowed and multi-faceted but ultimately. Touchable.

That was what Hob desired of them?

“Okay,” said Hob, “what actually is going on here? Are you okay?”

Dream did not reply, stuck on Hob’s daydreams. He did not wish for Dream to force themselves back into their usual form. He merely molded what Dream brought him into a form that was comprehensible to him.

Relief crashed over Dream, magnitudes greater than the dread they had refused to acknowledge. They knew, now, that they had truly expected this to be the end. To scare Hob off. But Hob did not seem to be scared.

“Dream?” Hob reached a careful hand toward them. He pet down Dream’s flank. Fur that was soft because he was touching it. He huffed an incredulous laugh. “Wow. It really is… you.”

“In some fashion,” said Dream.

“In some fashion,” Hob repeated. “In what fashion, exactly?”

Instead of answering, Dream butted their head into Hob’s shoulder. Following the relief of his touch, so much softer and more detailed, now that they did not have the barrier of a stifling form in the way.

“Darling,” Hob said, petting Dream’s hair, “need words.”

“No,” Dream mumbled petulantly. And Hob allowed them their petulance. Dream let out a long breath. It blew warm over Hob’s throat, and Dream felt him shiver. They trailed fingertips up Hob’s ribcage, along bare skin, feeling the stacked solidity of his bones. Hob shivered again.

“It’s like that, is it?” he said.

Dream shifted closer, half slither, half crawl, until their form, incomprehensible even to themselves, was draped over Hob’s lap. Bliss, there, the warmth of him. “You are not repelled?”

“By the ten arms? I think I can cope.” He pressed his lips in close to Dream’s ear. “In fact. I had a dream about this the other night. Well.” He laughed. “I guess I’m having a Dream about it now, eh?”

“Did you?” said Dream, ears pricking up. Had their… moods slipped into Hob’s dreams?

“Can’t remember the details,” Hob said. “But I remember how it felt.” He trailed fingertips up the bony knobs of Dream’s spine. Unlike Dream at the moment, Hob only had two arms, but Dream felt every press of his fingers acutely.

“How did it feel?” they whispered.

“Like,” Hob murmured, lips to Dream’s jaw now, “you were everywhere. Like I got into your body and made love to you from the inside out.”

The thought made all of the strange and varied nerves of Dream’s shifting body stand on end. They wrapped legs around Hob’s waist, arms around his shoulders. Scraped sharp teeth over his pulse. “Really?”

Hob laughed. “Interested now, are you?”

“Yes,” Dream rumbled, their form flickering in excitement, to shadow then a falling rainbow of light, to a mass of vines that wound all around Hob’s body, and then into roots, as if they could grow into Hob, then branching veins pulsing and racing with Hob’s heartbeat, then back to a morass of half-body, half-shadow, because yes, they wanted to be held by Hob, they must remember that.

Hob was still for several moments, then laughed incredulously. “Okay. You’re so cool. I don’t know what to do with any of that, so I’m going to have to wing it.”

He traced a hand along the soft feathers of a wing that had grown with his words. Dream shuddered. A sensitive part of the body, indeed.

“You’re gorgeous,” Hob murmured. “My strange creature.”

Dream purred in pleasure, wrapping their wings around Hob’s back, mouth catching on the edge of his jaw, and, incredibly, felt Hob growing hard under them, as he would if Dream lounged in his lap and mouthed at his jaw as a human.

“You like this,” Dream said, unable to keep the surprise from their voice.

Hob chuckled. “Didn’t you know I fell for you the second I saw the spark of the otherworldly in your eyes? Just didn’t know the whole of what I was looking at. Not then.”

The spark of the otherworldly. “You are in love with dreams.”

“Figured it out by now, yeah.”

“You are. In love. With this,” Dream said, voice echoing from more than one throat, choked up.

“With this? You mean with you?”

“I do not know quite what I am, now,” Dream admitted.

“Well,” said Hob, slipping a hand between them. Dream gasped in pleasure, wings fluttering involuntarily. “You want to find out?”

Squirming against his hand, Dream said, “Do you even know what it is you are touching?”

“Haven’t a clue,” Hob said cheerfully. “Made you go all shivery, though.”

It had. It was. Dream writhed in his lap as Hob experimented, moaned in startled pleasure, toes curling. Body shifting to hurtle towards that arousal. Hob startled as his hand was suddenly enveloped in heat, something he could press into, and Dream whined, so full all at once with no prelude, body twisting out of control without their explicit direction. But it was good.

Hob gripped them by one wing—these had stayed even as Dream’s form continued to spin—and Dream quivered as Hob pulled them closer, pressing his hand deeper into slick heat. He was grinning against Dream’s throat, scraped light teeth over his pulse, sucked a bruise there. Dream’s form rode the wave of his daydreams, provided a wet mouth for him to bite and kiss as soon as he thought of it. Dream tangled long fingers in his hair, claws digging in.

“Can I fuck you like this?” Hob breathed against his lips.

“If you can cope with me changing on you,” Dream said. “I am not. Entirely in control. At the moment.”

A shameful admission, but Hob groaned as if it was the hottest thing he could think of. “I get to have you multiple ways at once? Oh, how will I manage?”

Dream laughed. It may have been a bit teary. Their many hearts were racing, lungs stuttering for air. Wings shivered, feathers fluttering. A long, furred tail wound its way up Hob’s back to wrap lightly around his throat, possessive. Dream would not let this man go now. Could not.

“Budge up, let’s see what we’re dealing with,” Hob said, probing deeper under Dream’s form with his hand, the other still firm on Dream’s wing, which he seemed to have understood was very sensitive, and intended to press that advantage as much as he could.

The touch of Hob’s hand, in Dream, on them, around them, was bliss. Dream wished to be full of him again. To, as Hob had dreamt, be made love to from the inside out.

Riding that hope, their body shaped another hole for his questing fingers. Hob obligingly pressed his fingers in, but said, “Regrettably, darling, I’ve only got one cock, and I had other plans for my hands.”

“Regrettable, indeed,” said Dream, and Hob laughed. Then, “Plans?”

“Oh, yes. I expect some other interesting things may crop up, eh? Need hands free.” He leaned in close to Dream’s ear, which flicked toward him to listen. “I’m going to find every erogenous zone on this body and make it scream.”

Goosebumps broke out all over Dream’s body. They clung to Hob with every limb they could find. Hob grinned wickedly at this reaction. It was a look Dream knew well, one that always boded very well for them indeed.

Hob worked Dream open on two fingers—though he need not, Dream was already wet and gaping for him—then maneuvered his sleep shorts off, took his cock in hand and stroked it twice, hand slick with Dream’s fluids. Then he lifted Dream bodily and sank them back down on his cock.

Dream whined, careening up several registers, as they were filled so suddenly, as they took Hob to the base. Hob groaned at the feeling of their body. Dream tried to adjust to him but couldn’t, Hob’s cock pressed on sensitive spots deep within them, and any time they thought they’d gotten used to the feeling their body produced a new place to torment.

They clawed at Hob’s back, leaving red lines with sharp fingers. Hob gave an experimental thrust, shifting Dream in his lap, and Dream bit down on a scream as their body lit up, chasing the feeling, loving it, magnitudes more affected than in their usual, limited form.

“Wow,” Hob said, fond laughter in his voice, and heat too, as Dream panted wetly in his ear, “this is going to be fun. Have you been all worked up, my darling? Just needed someone to give you what you really need?”

“Needed you,” Dream murmured. They clenched around Hob, tried to steady themselves, but it only made things worse. Everywhere deep inside them was searing flame, their skin-feathers-fur prickly with static, they feared and needed Hob’s touch in equal measure. To soothe. To set alight.

Hob slipped a hand into the other space Dream had left to tempt him, probing deep. Dream bit down on his ear, drawing spots of blood. Hob drew his hand back, met one of Dream’s many eyes. Licked Dream’s fluids from his hand.

Dream lunged forward to kiss him, whimpering into Hob’s mouth as that drove them impossibly deeper onto Hob’s cock. Hob pulled them close, kissed them hard, caught a fistful of Dream’s hair and pulled. Dream’s body decided that it liked that very much, indeed. They whined at the grip, clawing at Hob’s skin with many hands.

Hob brought them close with a firm hand, bounced Dream in his lap, moving them on and off his cock. Dream wailed, overstimulated by all the angles of his touch, torn between pulling away and diving closer as Hob swept his tongue into their mouth, over sharp teeth and soft palate.

“There’s a love,” Hob breathed. “Does that feel good, darling?”

Dream couldn’t offer a reply, and Hob didn’t wait for one. He dug his fingers into the tight feathering of Dream’s wing and tugged. Dream shrieked, wings flapping wildly, sets of them bursting along their back, more, more, less, more. Hob didn’t let up, stroking his fingers through the feathers, dragging over soft skin, sucking on Dream’s throat all the while.

Dream saw white, their body seized up, and the nebulous hole Hob was using to fuck them morphed into a mouth.

Hob yelped to suddenly feel his cock grazing over shielded teeth. Then he laughed. “Don’t you dare bite my dick off, you menace. It’s horrible to regrow it.”

Dream would have asked how he knew that, except Hob’s cock was down their throat. They choked, swallowing around him. Dream did not need to breathe, and so the pressure was exquisite. Their long tongue wrapped around Hob to the base, caressed his balls. Explored further, along his perineum, to probe at his entrance, and then press in.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck—” Hob’s voice was a strangled shout. “Dream what the actual fuck are you doing?” It didn’t sound like a complaint.

I am fucking you with my tongue, Dream said, a hum directly from their form to Hob’s.

“I can bloody well tell, Jesus Mary and—”

Dream purred and rumbled in pleasure, the satisfaction of taking and being taken at once, of being inside their beloved and having Hob inside them in turn. As Hob had dreamt.

Hob’s fingers pressed into Dream. Dream’s form gave and made places for him to press into. Hob’s fingers tickled deep within them, starlight and heat tracking their path. Dream swirled in an indefinite vortex of shape, a hundred things at once, their body prickling all over with the pleasure of Hob’s touch.

Hob twisted against them, clenching down on their tongue, shouted “Dream!” and came down Dream’s throat. Dream swallowed him down in pleasure, retracted their tongue from Hob’s body, eliciting a long moan. They let Hob pull out, and licked the final taste of Hob from their lips before letting that mouth disappear into their form, the traces of Hob consumed.

And then Hob flipped them, somehow manhandled Dream’s indefinite form down to the mattress, pressed down immovably on legs and arms and wings so that the softest parts of Dream’s body were bared to him. Dream reached for him, always they reached for him, cock hard and straining, cunt aching, the slashes of their being weeping for Hob to come inside. Always weeping. They cried out, every inch of them trembling for Hob’s touch.

“You gorgeous nightmare,” Hob said. “You brilliant daydream. Oh, my darling, I love you so much. I’d do anything for you. Anything. But mostly I want to do this.”

He pressed his mouth to where Dream’s body strained for him.

Hob had a very talented and generous mouth, which Dream had blessedly been on the receiving end of many times. This was different: Dream’s form echoed out Hob’s touch, replicated it a hundred times over so every crevice of their body could feel the flat swipe of his tongue, how he drank Dream’s fluids down, the drag of his stubble over lips and folds and the soft skin of thighs. Dream’s many limbs trembled, bent, reformed themselves in ecstasy, they dragged at Hob’s hair, pressing his face deeper so Dream could grind against him, which only made Hob grin.

Hob pressed two fingers into Dream’s mouth and Dream greedily sucked on them, grounding themselves. Taking Hob in more than one way at once… yes. That was what they wanted. They closed their many eyes and gave themselves over to sensation. Hob’s mouth and tongue, the taste of him, the weight of his body as he bent Dream on the bed, his scent, musk and the woodsmoke that seemed to cling to him all these years later—or perhaps that was only in dreams.

They were a dream of completion. They were a dream of ecstasy. Of flight. Hob’s hand tangled in their fragile feathers. Hob’s mouth and fingers inside them. Then Hob plunged three fingers hard, deep within them, as he sucked on Dream’s clit, and with a piercing noise like glass shattering Dream came.

They were. Fragments. The individual colors splayed wide by a prism. Red, yellow, blue. Hob’s fingers trailed through them, blending the colors like paint in water. For several moments Dream drifted, more thought than being. Distantly aware of Hob’s weight on them. It felt… like kindness. Then they floated back to the present, light as the first flight of unfurled moth wings.

Hob was lying on them, looking at them, head tilted. A twinkle in his eyes. He skated his hands up Dream’s sides. Flowers bloomed in the wake of his touch, their soft petals shivering with sensitivity. Hob plucked one of the flower buds and, holding Dream’s gaze, ate it. Swallowed it. Dream watched the movement of his throat.

Inside out, he thought.

“Broke you into pieces,” Hob said then, with satisfaction. “Think I might have seen God for a sec there. Can do better, though.”

“Better?” Dream echoed, voice hoarse. Their form shifted, still, but slowly, languidly. No longer restless. A dark wing draped over Hob’s back. A tail played with his hair. He didn’t seem to mind.

“There’s so much we can do with this,” he said. He gazed at Dream, fond, terribly knowing. “Only getting started, love. I love—” he kissed Dream’s belly, a light, ghosting touch, and tickled Dream’s side with his fingertips— “how sensitive you are like this.”

“I—” Dream started. Absent the writhing need, now they just felt… stripped. Vulnerable. “I expected that you would. Not. Like this. It is not. Human.”

“Neither are you,” Hob pointed out.

“I appear so,” Dream said.

Hob snorted. “No, you don’t.”

Dream stared at him, unable to decide whether or not to be offended.

“I wear the guise of a human,” they insisted, and, to prove it, morphed back into the form that Hob would know as his lover. It was an easier coat to wear, now that they knew they could take it off.

“No, keep the wings,” Hob complained. “Those are cool.”

Dream obligingly returned wings to their form.

“I appear human, to you,” they insisted again.

“Dream, I say this with all the love in my heart, which is quite a lot because I do. Love you.” He leaned on his hand, looking at Dream with sparkling eyes. “You look about as human as a kid wearing a bedsheet looks like a ghost.”

Dream stared at him, mouth agape.

“Don’t worry, it’s a gorgeous costume,” Hob said. “Love it. Really, really do. But I could always tell that wasn’t the whole truth of the matter. Especially once I got close.” With this, he winked.

“A part of me is human,” Dream said. Had Hob truly always seen through them? Paid so close attention as to perceive the translucence of the mask? “For I am the dreams of humanity.”

“And a part of you isn’t,” said Hob. “For—” he mimicked the cadence of Dream’s speech, though not in a mocking way— “you are also the dreams of birds, and shadows, and stars.”

Dream nodded. “These and more.”

“Brilliant,” said Hob.

Brilliant, Dream thought.

Then Hob tilted his head, thinking back. “You expected me not to like that?”

“Recently,” said Dream slowly, “I found I could not maintain this form without pain. And so my hand was forced.” It hurt still, to think of. “I had no choice but to make my true form—or rather, my true formlessness—known to you if I wished to be here at all.”

Hob pushed himself up from where he was lying on Dream’s chest, and instead straddled his hips so he could take Dream’s face between his hands. “It hurts?” he demanded.

“At times,” said Dream. “More so. Since.” They didn’t finish the sentence.

“Why are you doing it now, then?”

“It does not hurt so much now,” Dream said. “It is simply that when I stay static, it begins to. Ache.”

“Ache,” Hob repeated, looking stricken. “Dream, if it hurts, then change back. Be a chimera or whatever the hell you were doing before.”

“That is how you interpreted it?”

“To be honest, I don’t think my brain was really interpreting it at all. You were just kind of… everything.” He stroked a fingertip along the fine bone of Dream’s wing, which was folded against their back now. “Did like the wings, though.”

“I’d noticed that.”

“Cheeky.” Hob shook himself. “Getting distracted. The point is, don’t hurt yourself. I don’t want to see you hurt yourself.” He tipped his head against Dream’s, lips to their skin. “Much rather see you how were today.”

“How?”

“Letting go. Enjoying yourself.” He smirked, Dream felt it against their temple. “Making all kind of lovely noises. Squealing. Shrieking—”

“I was not shrieking.”

“You were shrieking.”

Hob tickled his fingers through Dream’s feathers, and Dream made an embarrassing squeak. They smacked Hob in the face with that wing, and Hob burst out laughing, even though he had to pull a feather out of his teeth.

“I love you,” he said. “Don’t hurt yourself. Be... the indefinably strange creature that you are. And just trust me to keep up.”

Hob kissed them lightly on the lips. Dream leaned into him, made still for a moment by the depth of Hob’s care for them, how Hob caught all of their longing and swallowed it, kept it warm. How he loved Dream. And dreams.

Hob drew them both down to the bed, and the covers over them, and Dream let their other forms creep out, hesitant, but hungry for Hob’s affection. And a creature that was the sky’s dream of nightfall and the poetry of rain upon a still lake, that was the individual patterns of snowflakes and the sculptures built of their drifts, that was ambitious owl and frightened vole, quiet soil and its thoughtful worms, shape and narrative and human, too, of course, laid down its many heads, and curled its much-loved wings over its lover, and rested in his dreams.

[aita-blorbos]

(Spoilers for Magnus Archives)

AITA for burning my childhood house down

Hello, Jon.

Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.

I’m assuming you’re alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private. (slightly strained) I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.

Now, shall we turn the page and try again?

WIBTA for starting the apocalypse

I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence, but I have worked so very hard for this moment, a culmination of two centuries of work. It’s rare that you get the chance to monologue through another, and you can’t tell me you’re not curious.

Why does a man seek to destroy the world?

It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.

It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, Jon, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.

I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die.

I believe there are far more people in this world that would take that bargain than you would ever guess. And I have beaten all of them.

Of course, this desire did not manifest overnight. When RS (87, M) first gathered our little band – L, S, and the rest – to discuss and hypothesize on the nature of the things he had learned from R, I felt what I believe we all felt: curiosity, and fear.

But as he compiled his taxonomy and codified his theories on the grand rituals, I began to develop a very specific concern. RS was so obsessed with his ideas on balance, even as our fellows began to experiment and fall to the service of our patrons.

I began to worry that if one of them successfully attempted their ritual, then I would be as much a victim as any, trapped in the nightmare landscape of a twisted world.

At first, I attempted prevention, but the cause seemed hopeless. The only way to ensure I did not suffer the tribulations of what I believed to be an inevitable transformation was to bring it about myself. So what began as an experiment soon became a race.

Beyond that, I was getting older, and mortality began to weigh more heavily on my mind. How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?

I convinced RS to work on Millbank, leading him to design it as a temple to all the Fears in equilibrium, such that my own modifications to the design of the Panopticon went… unremarked.

It. Took. Years. for the dread of the prisoners to fully suffuse the place, and I was an old man before I made my first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown, sat in the center of that colossal eye, the great ring of cells encircling me like a coronet.

It was… flawed, of course, as all RS’s rituals were, and none of the inmates survived as the power I attempted to harness shook the building almost to pieces, and the murky swamp upon which the prison was built consumed it.

But it left me a gift: For sat in that watchtower, I could see everything I turned my mind to.

It was a dizzying power, and one I discovered I maintained even as I found vessels to extend my life. Of course, I had to make sure the location was kept under my control while I worked on revising my plans, and so I moved the organization I had founded to assist in my research down to London, and the Institute as you know it was born.

I’ll not bore you with details of my bodies and failures through those intervening years. Suffice to say I kept busy, both planning my own next attempt, and doing my best to stymie those others who tried versions of their own.

Surely my interpretation of the Watcher’s Crown had been incomplete; there had been some element of the ritual I had overlooked.

It was not until I met G (70, F) that things began to really come into focus.

You see, the role of Archivist has been part of the Beholding for as far back as my research can go. This isn’t uncommon for the Powers; most of the beliefs around them are guesswork and fallible human interpretation, but there are certain throughlines and consistencies that can be spotted, regardless of the trappings.

But G was unlike any other Archivist. She simply did not care about compiling experiences or collecting the fears of others. She was driven to stop those who served the Powers.

More than once I thought she must secretly be of the Hunt – but there was never that sick joy in her, that thrill of predator and prey. She had simply decided that this was her position in life, and went about it with a practicality that even I found disconcerting at times.

I once asked her what drove her, what had started her down that path. She told me the Desolation had killed her cat.

I don’t know if she was joking, and, to be honest, I could never bring myself to look into her mind and find out for sure.

In any case, G’s ruthless efficiency in derailing and collapsing rituals threw into stark relief a question that had been bothering me for almost a hundred and fifty years: In the whole span of humanity, why had nobody ever succeeded?

Perhaps there were a long line of G throughout history, but I found that hard to credit. Could it be, then, that there was something in the very concept of the rituals that meant they couldn’t succeed?

She was clearly having similar thoughts in that last year, all of which culminated with the People’s Church.

When I saw that she was making no preparations whatsoever to stop it, I realized she was putting into practice a theory, and one she couldn’t afford to be wrong. She was going to wait, and see if the unopposed ritual succeeded, or if it collapsed under its own strain as mine had all those years ago.

Knowing G, I’m sure she had a backup plan if she had miscalculated – but she had not. The ritual failed. And all at once, I realized what had to be done.

You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?

Even those that seem to exist in direct opposition rely on each other for their definition as much as up relies on down.

To try and create a world with only the Buried makes as much sense as trying to conceive a world with only down.

Every ritual tied itself so closely to a single power as to render itself impossible. They could bring their patron close, but never sever it from the others, and eventually it would be violently pulled back into the place next to reality where they dwell.

The solution, then, is simple: A new ritual must be devised which will bring through all the Powers at once. All fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge. All under the Eye’s auspices, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots.

And there was only one being that could possibly serve as a lynchpin for this new ritual: The Archivist. A position that had so recently become vacant, thanks to G’s ill-timed retirement plans.

Because the thing about the Archivist is that – well, it’s a bit of a misnomer.

It might, perhaps, be better named: The Archive.

Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, Jon. You are a record of fear, both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you.

You are a living chronicle of terror.

Perhaps, then, if I could find an Archivist and have each Power mark them, have them confront each one and each in turn instill in them a powerful and acute fear for their life, they could be turned into a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom.

Do you see where I’m going, Jon?

It does tickle me, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck.

I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was.

Of course, I had to bide my time, get a measure of you before I began to push, learn how you worked – So I decided I would wait until something came for you, and see how you reacted. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during G’s tenure, and, while she was always prepared, I made sure you would not be.

I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when JP attacked, I watched eagerly, one hand on the gas release from the start.

You acquitted yourself well enough, so I decided to see how far you would get, though I waited until the worms were in you before I pulled the lever. I needed to make sure you felt that fear all the way to your bones.

The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus. Even if that sliver of paranoia, that vague wrongness you couldn’t quite place wouldn’t count as a mark, it was only a matter of time before it confronted you in a far more direct and affecting matter.

Admittedly, given the advent of the Unknowing, I needn’t have bothered. But what’s the old saying about hindsight?

More important to me was Sasha’s encounter with the Distortion. If it had taken an interest, then I very much wanted it to cross your path.

So I found one of its current victims and convinced her to make a statement.

Poor H (~20, F). I actually had to put her in a taxi myself, she was getting so lost in those narrow London side streets.

It worked, though.

Between the stabbing and at least two desperate flights into its doors – you’re marked very deeply by the Spiral.

JL (~70, M) was a surprise, of course, and I was forced to improvise. I had no idea how much G would have told him, and he could very easily have derailed everything if you learned too much too fast.

I justified it to myself saying I was going to have to send you out into the world anyway, if you were to encounter more of the Powers, but I can’t honestly pretend it wasn’t a… rather rash move.

Still. I’d requested Detective T (~25, F) be assigned to the case when they found G’s body in the hope that having a Hunter in the mix would eventually lead to a confrontation, and setting you up as a killer certainly hastened that.

Then it was just a matter of feeding you statements to lead you to a few Avatars I thought were likely to harm you – but probably would stop short of actually killing you.

J (27, F) served her purpose exactly as I had hoped, as did our dearly departed Mr. C, marking you for the Desolation and the Vast.

Honestly, I had – nothing to do with M (23, F) and her Slaughter adventure, but when I saw the situation, I made sure to trap her here, so when her rage bubbled over you would be right there, a ready target.

I didn’t foresee the mark coming from surgery gone wrong, but it was a very pleasant surprise.

The Unknowing was a distraction, but not an unwelcome one. For this to work, you needed more than just the marks; you needed power. And that was something the Unknowing served to test, though it posed no actual danger in the grand scheme of things.

And it did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been very worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just die. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand why.

As it was, it was just right, and once again, you came through with flying colors.

By this point, your abilities were coming along in leaps and bounds, and I was concerned that meeting face-to-face might end up with you – (sigh) – Knowing something you shouldn’t.

I had initially planned to go into hiding, but when your colleagues surprised me with the police, well. It was simple enough to cut a deal.

All that remained, then, were the Dark, the Flesh, the Buried, and the Lonely.

I was a little put out when that idiot JH (???, M) misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him.

I couldn’t see what happened in there, of course, but given how you came out, I’m very sure it counts as a mark.

I suspected the coffin might turn up again, and once it did, it was simply a matter of getting any, uh… restraining factors you might have had flying off on a wild goose chase, and waiting.

Honestly, Detective T has been proving invaluable through this process. I’d been racking my brains for months about what I could use to lure you in.

And, of course, I knew the Dark Sun was just sitting there waiting. So when it came time, I just whipped up another apocalypse and sent you on your merry way.

Then all that remained was the Lonely.

Poor P (~50, M). He really should have left well enough alone. Or just done what I’d asked in the first place.

Ah well. He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about M (same age as you, Jon, M).

Of course, he had no way of knowing that, in addition to setting you up for the final mark, he was giving you all the tools you needed to escape from it.

How is M, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that.

And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date. I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.

You are prepared. You are ready. You are marked. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here.

Don’t worry, Jon. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.

Now. Repeat after me.

You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right.

Come to us in your wholeness.

Come to us in your perfection.

Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!

Come to us.

I – OPEN – THE DOOR!

[spiral-man]

Hey dudes,

Just wanted to wish everyone a happy-

Hello Jon,

Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.

I’m assuming you’re alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private. (slightly strained) I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.

Now, shall we turn the page and try again?

Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence, but I have worked so very hard for this moment, a culmination of two centuries of work. It’s rare that you get the chance to monologue through another, and you can’t tell me you’re not curious.

Why does a man seek to destroy the world?

It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.

It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, John, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.

I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die.

I believe there are far more people in this world that would take that bargain than you would ever guess. And I have beaten all of them.

Of course, this desire did not manifest overnight. When Smirke first gathered our little band – Lukas, Scott, and the rest – to discuss and hypothesize on the nature of the things he had learned from Rayner, I felt what I believe we all felt: curiosity, and fear.

But as he compiled his taxonomy and codified his theories on the grand rituals, I began to develop a very specific concern. Smirke was so obsessed with his ideas on balance, even as our fellows began to experiment and fall to the service of our patrons.

I began to worry that if one of them successfully attempted their ritual, then I would be as much a victim as any, trapped in the nightmare landscape of a twisted world.

At first, I attempted prevention, but the cause seemed hopeless. The only way to ensure I did not suffer the tribulations of what I believed to be an inevitable transformation was to bring it about myself. So what began as an experiment soon became a race.

Beyond that, I was getting older, and mortality began to weigh more heavily on my mind. How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?

I convinced Smirke to work on Millbank, leading him to design it as a temple to all the Fears in equilibrium, such that my own modifications to the design of the Panopticon went… unremarked.

It. Took. Years, for the dread of the prisoners to fully suffuse the place, and I was an old man before I made my first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown, sat in the center of that colossal eye, the great ring of cells encircling me like a coronet.

It was… flawed, of course, as all Smirke’s rituals were, and none of the inmates survived as the power I attempted to harness shook the building almost to pieces, and the murky swamp upon which the prison was built consumed it.

But it left me a gift: For sat in that watchtower, I could see everything I turned my mind to.

It was a dizzying power, and one I discovered I maintained even as I found vessels to extend my life. Of course, I had to make sure the location was kept under my control while I worked on revising my plans, and so I moved the organization I had founded to assist in my research down to London, and the Institute as you know it was born.

I’ll not bore you with details of my bodies and failures through those intervening years. Suffice to say I kept busy, both planning my own next attempt, and doing my best to stymie those others who tried versions of their own.

Surely my interpretation of the Watcher’s Crown had been incomplete; there had been some element of the ritual I had overlooked.

It was not until I met Gertrude Robinson that things began to really come into focus.

You see, the role of Archivist has been part of the Beholding for as far back as my research can go. This isn’t uncommon for the Powers; most of the beliefs around them are guesswork and fallible human interpretation, but there are certain throughlines and consistencies that can be spotted, regardless of the trappings.

But Gertrude was unlike any other Archivist. She simply did not care about compiling experiences or collecting the fears of others. She was driven to stop those who served the Powers.

More than once I thought she must secretly be of the Hunt – but there was never that sick joy in her, that thrill of predator and prey. She had simply decided that this was her position in life, and went about it with a practicality that even I found disconcerting at times.

I once asked her what drove her, what had started her down that path. She told me the Desolation had killed her cat.

I don’t know if she was joking, and, to be honest, I could never bring myself to look into her mind and find out for sure.

In any case, Gertrude’s ruthless efficiency in derailing and collapsing rituals threw into stark relief a question that had been bothering me for almost a hundred and fifty years: In the whole span of humanity, why had nobody ever succeeded?

Perhaps there were a long line of Gertrude Robinsons throughout history, but I found that hard to credit. Could it be, then, that there was something in the very concept of the rituals that meant they couldn’t succeed?

She was clearly having similar thoughts in that last year, all of which culminated with the People’s Church.

When I saw that she was making no preparations whatsoever to stop it, I realized she was putting into practice a theory, and one she couldn’t afford to be wrong. She was going to wait, and see if the unopposed ritual succeeded, or if it collapsed under its own strain as mine had all those years ago.

Knowing Gertrude, I’m sure she had a backup plan if she had miscalculated – but she had not. The ritual failed. And all at once, I realized what had to be done.

You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?

Even those that seem to exist in direct opposition rely on each other for their definition as much as up relies on down.

To try and create a world with only the Buried makes as much sense as trying to conceive a world with only down.

Every ritual tied itself so closely to a single power as to render itself impossible. They could bring their patron close, but never sever it from the others, and eventually it would be violently pulled back into the place next to reality where they dwell.

The solution, then, is simple: A new ritual must be devised which will bring through all the Powers at once. All fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge. All under the Eye’s auspices, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots.

And there was only one being that could possibly serve as a lynchpin for this new ritual: The Archivist. A position that had so recently become vacant, thanks to Gertrude’s ill-timed retirement plans.

Because the thing about the Archivist is that – well, it’s a bit of a misnomer.-

It might, perhaps, be better named: The Archive.

Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, John. You are a record of fear, both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you.

You are a living chronicle of terror.

Perhaps, then, if I could find an Archivist and have each Power mark them, have them confront each one and each in turn instill in them a powerful and acute fear for their life, they could be turned into a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom.

Do you see where I’m going, John?

It does tickle me, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck.

I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was.

Of course, I had to bide my time, get a measure of you before I began to push, learn how you worked – So I decided I would wait until something came for you, and see how you reacted. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during Gertrude’s tenure, and, while she was always prepared, I made sure you would not be.

I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when Jane Prentiss attacked, I watched eagerly, one hand on the gas release from the start.

You acquitted yourself well enough, so I decided to see how far you would get, though I waited until the worms were in you before I pulled the lever. I needed to make sure you felt that fear all the way to your bones.

The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus. Even if that sliver of paranoia, that vague wrongness you couldn’t quite place wouldn’t count as a mark, it was only a matter of time before it confronted you in a far more direct and affecting matter.

Admittedly, given the advent of the Unknowing, I needn’t have bothered. But what’s the old saying about hindsight?

More important to me was Sasha’s encounter with the Distortion. If it had taken an interest, then I very much wanted it to cross your path.

So I found one of its current victims and convinced her to make a statement.

Poor Helen. I actually had to put her in a taxi myself, she was getting so lost in those narrow London side streets.

It worked, though.

Between the stabbing and at least two desperate flights into its doors – you’re marked very deeply by the Spiral.

Jurgen Leitner was a surprise, of course, and I was forced to improvise. I had no idea how much Gertrude would have told him, and he could very easily have derailed everything if you learned too much too fast.

I… justified it to myself saying I was going to have to send you out into the world anyway, if you were to encounter more of the Powers, but I can’t honestly pretend it wasn’t a… rather rash move.

Still. I’d requested Detective Tonner be assigned to the case when they found Gertrude’s body in the hope that having a Hunter in the mix would eventually lead to a confrontation, and setting you up as a killer certainly hastened that.

Then it was just a matter of feeding you statements to lead you to a few Avatars I thought were likely to harm you – but probably would stop short of actually killing you.

Jude served her purpose exactly as I had hoped, as did our dearly departed Mr. Crew, marking you for the Desolation and the Vast.

Honestly, I had – nothing to do with Melanie and her Slaughter adventure, but when I saw the situation, I made sure to trap her here, so when her rage bubbled over you would be right there, a ready target.

I didn’t foresee the mark coming from surgery gone wrong, but it was a very pleasant surprise.

The Unknowing was a distraction, but not an unwelcome one. For this to work, you needed more than just the marks; you needed power. And that was something the Unknowing served to test, though it posed no actual danger in the grand scheme of things.

And it did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been very worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just die. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand why.

As it was, it was just right, and once again, you came through with flying colors.

By this point, your abilities were coming along in leaps and bounds, and I was concerned that meeting face-to-face might end up with you – (sigh) – Knowing something you shouldn’t.

I had initially planned to go into hiding, but when your colleagues surprised me with the police, well. It was simple enough to cut a deal.

All that remained, then, were the Dark, the Flesh, the Buried, and the Lonely.

I was a little put out when that idiot Jared Hopworth misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him.

I couldn’t see what happened in there, of course, but given how you came out, I’m very sure it counts as a mark.

I suspected the coffin might turn up again, and once it did, it was simply a matter of getting any, uh… restraining factors you might have had flying off on a wild goose chase, and waiting.

Honestly, Detective Tonner has been proving invaluable through this process. I’d been racking my brains for months about what I could use to lure you in.

And, of course, I knew the Dark Sun was just sitting there waiting. So when it came time, I just whipped up another apocalypse and sent you on your merry way.

Then all that remained was the Lonely.

Poor Peter. He really should have left well enough alone. (cruel laugh) Or just done what I’d asked in the first place.

Ah well. He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about Martin.

Of course, he had no way of knowing that, in addition to setting you up for the final mark, he was giving you all the tools you needed to escape from it.

How is Martin, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that.

And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date. I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.

You are prepared. You are ready. You are marked. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here.

Don’t worry, John. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.

Now. (cruel, cruel laugh) Repeat after me.

You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right.

Come to us in your wholeness.

Come to us in your perfection.

Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!

Come to us.

I – OPEN – THE DOOR!

[bkd-b3ans]

A Shared Memory

Contents

>Ship: younger Sunday x GN!reader

>Rating: Fully SFW

>Contents: Before Sunday got dragged to forever remain within the Dreamscape, you two share one last night together.

>Extra info: Reader is halovian and not associated with the Family. Sunday might be slightly OOC, never wrote abt him before, just drew him half naked. It's just a short story I wanted to get out of my system while I design my oc for him. I refuse to read what I write, and that's not something I will change, you might find some mistakes but very small (?) anyway, enjoy.

Sunday sighed, feeling his patience run dry.

"Can you stop poking at my wings?"

A full day with no break again, running up and down to lessons and hearings and lectures and... Bleugh... It was too much sometimes even for young Sunday. But at least there was one single respite he could have, walking amongst the gardens of the Families estate. It was beautiful in a dream, but even prettier in reality, something the young master could not get over yet. Even if they were the gardens he had found that little helpless bird with his sister, that inaverdedly pushed him towards a harsh lesson, there was still a pull to them that he could not shake off.

He enjoyed walking amongst them at night, staring at the sky, dreaming of the stars still, finding a small clearing amongst the hedges to rest on top of a blanket, after all, he couldn't get his clothes dirty, father dearest would not allow for such a thing. He would rest there, in complete silence, contemplating over the long gone day. Or at least, that was his excuse, when the reality was so much more different.

It was almost like a forbidden ritual, going as far away as possible from prying eyes just to wait for the only person that could make his heart skip a beat everytime they smiled at him, the way his wings would flutter and halo glow whenever he locked eyes with them, how suddenly he became so aware of all of his clothes and that they might not sit right on him in their presence. It was dreadful, yet he felt real in those moments, like he was his own person. So he would wait patiently for as long as it would take just for another chance encounter. Even if they didn't happen often, tonight was going to be a lucky one.

A single wing poked from the well trimmed bushes, flapping in annoyance as you dragged yourself out of it, stumbling on the ground on your back, legs up in the air, while gripping at a package. The leaf uncomfortably resting on your nose made you sneeze, your wings ruffling up. Sunday just watched almost confused as you dragged your halo from the branches and let it float gently above your head.

"Always one to make the weirdest entrances..."

"Oh please, I didn't have a choice, there's guards everywhere! This feels more like a prison than a house sometimes." you shook your head, placing the package down and dusting yourself off.

You noticed Sunday looking at the package, his inwings slightly risen up while he tilted his head. You barely contained a chuckle at the image before you.

" Don't worry, I didn't bring anything bad this time. It's just some sweets. I remembered you saying you wanted some."

"You know you shouldn't have. Not only that, but those are simply childish desires. I have no need for them anymore."

"Mhm, sure, then you can just watch me eat them~ come on, scooch a bit to the side so I can sit down too."

He moved to his right, letting you sit down as you took off the packaging, pulling out a small box. Your wings played flat on your shoulders as you saw the two strawberry shortcakes mushed together from your fall.

"... " you just sighed "Well, they're still edible at least. They really need to make better packaging"

You weren't that picky to begin with. You just grabbed the little plastic spoon the bakery gave you and started eating... But you couldn't help but feel like something was just staring holes through your skull. You furrowed your eyebrows, trying to focus on eating, your wings fluttering around in annoyance, but it was getting too much, you turned your sight to your side and almost choked on the cake.

"You don't have to be so close! You almost gave me a heart attack" your exclaimed, seeing Sunday stare at you, his halo slightly glowing and his eyes shining in the moon light. You just pushed the box in his hands.

"Come on, I know you want some, you can just tell me and not hide behind false pretexes, ok? After all we've known each other for long enough for you to know that you can relax here."

Sunday took the box and the other spoon, looking at it a bit unsure. There was a small battle going on inside his mind. He spent so much resisting his urges, yet here he was, put in front of one of the hardest battle so far in his life. Even broken and squished, the cake still looked so apetizing to him. He just gave up, his wings covering his face as he took a few bites, his halo shining a bit brighter. You could swear you almost saw him smile even behind those beautiful feathers.

You couldn't help but poke at his wings, feeling just how silky smooth they were under your fingertips, you head resting in the palm of your hand as you couldn't help but somewhat admire the man you've known for so long. But even the most patient person would get annoyed at the constant poking.

Sunday sighed, feeling his own patience run dry, moving his wing away to look at you.

"Can you stop poking at my feathers? You've already won once, you don't need to further push your luck."

"I love your wings"

He froze in place for a moment, covering his face again. You couldn't help but smile, moving yourself closer to him until your bodies touched, leaning your head on his shoulder.

"I missed you. It's been rather hard to get a hold of you lately, with all these preparations for you to go into the dreamscape... Will we ever see each other again?"

"..." he let his own head rest on top of yours "I am afraid that I am unable to answer that. The Dreammasters plans are also a mistery to me, but I am sure I could still be let out. Robin can at least, so I don't see why not."

"Hm... You sound unsure. That usually is a bad sign."

"It is simply just something out of my control. But it is something I have to do, for harmony to exist in this world."

You looked at the ground. By then even Sunday placed down the small box, both cakes half eaten. You placed your hand on top of his, squeezing it gently, comforting. He didn't say anything in return, but simply returned the gesture interlocking your fingers with his. You couldn't hell but blush at the gesture.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Sunday leaned back in his chair, looking over the dreamscape as the small dreambubble floated up and down slowly, the image of that night burned into it by now. It has been several years now since he felt your hand rest into his, your warmth and your melodious voice. So long that he almost forgot your face were it not for these memories stuck in a loop, but even they were getting fuzzy, eroded by time. Nothing is permanent, not even in the dreamscape it seems.

The dreambubble floated alone on top of his desk, unnatended, left to rot as it merely contained the memories of a past long gone, as the Dreammaster put it. No reason dwelling on them for too long when the end is so near.

[beevean]

A more fleshed out idea of how I would have ended the Lenector story in the most balanced way I can think of.

Lenore is Hector's prisoner, as per canon. He still treats her as nothing happened, like a good friend, but Lenore is sulking and angry and not even bothering to keep up the façade like Hector used to do in her position. It's unfair, after she treated him as her only confidant, and she couldn't care less, that's what the traitor gets. Hector thinks he should be happy, to have reversed the roles on her... but he isn't. Unlike Lenore, power over another person doesn't satisfy him. He can't help but see her as a depressed animal in a cage... much like he used to be.

He wanted to protect her, he really did, but only now he's seeing how much hurt he caused her. Much like she said she meant to do with the ring, although to this day he doesn't know if it was a lie or the truth. There is no joy in inflicting her the same fate she inflicted upon him, even if it comes from a place of well-meaning and not selfishness. He has seen what that kind of "eye for an eye" mentality brings to the world, and he wants none of it.

So, he finally takes a decision for himself, and repays the one debt he has with her. He helps her flee from the castle. He is, for the first time, showing empathy to a person and not an animal.

(I don't even think Isaac needs to be kept in the dark. Lenore on her own is harmless, nothing like Carmilla who became a danger to the world. Hector and Lenore are dangerous tools in the wrong hands, but they lack the ambition that makes them solid threats, as they are mostly concerned with feeling safe. If Isaac truly wants to do good to everyone, he has no reason to keep Lenore as a prisoner, not even to force her to work for him. Same for Hector, since the two might have "forgiven" each other, but they have no relationship whatsoever. Perhaps him heeding Hector's request could show more how compassionate he has truly grown.)

Lenore is confused as to why, and Hector more or less explains that he couldn't bear watching her drinking herself into a stupor. Lenore snaps, and yells at him that he has no right to feeling sorry for her after what he has done, after going behind her back, after ruining her life... and is promptly shot down by Hector flashing his mutilated hand. Every ounce of ire Lenore directs at Hector is actually directed at herself, and they both know it. She is deeply regretting everything she did for the sake of people that didn't even respect her, she is just too proud to apologize. And her pride, her insecurity, her need to be the one in control, was what prevented her from truly being the good person she wanted to be. The very reason Hector wasn't happy with her despite her best efforts, and destroyed her life.

She really thought something so paltry as a slave ring would tame the human spirit. She really thought humans, like vampires, would care more about safety than freedom. For a diplomat who set herself to bridge humankind and vampirekind, she let her basic instincts get the better of her.

"Why didn't you just kill me back then?" she yells, attacks, it feels so good to blame Hector rather than herself. "At least I wouldn't have known how little I matter to you!"

"I'm no longer that child," Hector responds. "I'm no longer the boy who believes to have the right to punish others. Besides, shouldn't you know the desire to spare someone's life no matter what?"

They had never breached that subject again, not after Lenore dismissed it in a fit of denial. It still weighs on her. He can no longer care.

"All this time," Hector says at last, "I expected an apology, but I think I don't need it anymore. As much as I don't need you anymore. I'm grateful for your efforts to protect me from your sisters' ire, so now I'll use them to live for myself. I'm sorry it had to be this way."

He holds no grudges anymore, and he has genuinely come to appreciate the real Lenore behind her masks and the way she took care of him during the previous six weeks, when the world would have chewed him and spit him out; but at the same time, he can't bear staying with her. She makes him too sad. It reminds him of how low he allowed himself to be brought for the sake of some scraps of love. She reminds him too much of a version of him he doesn't want to be. There are too many conflicting feelings in him. He can't help but think that, in another life, the two could have been genuine friends, if not more... but not this one. Too much baggage, too much shared misery. He is done with it. No more will he seek safety and love in other people, as if he wasn't strong enough. He deserves better.

Lenore doesn't know what to think anymore. She wants to die so badly, she is almost tempted to not hide herself from the sun: she can't concieve her existence as nothing more than a black hole, unworthy of living. She is nothing more than a disgusting monster doomed to spread misery to the world, she thinks, and she should die like one. She has nothing left, no allies, no home, and the one person she fell in love with is pulling away from her, and she can't bear being abandoned, and she completely understands why he's doing so. At the same time, however... Hector too has nothing left, and yet he wants to live. After everything he went through, after himself desiring death at Isaac's hand, he wants to experience real life, not survival like he has done since he was born. Lenore pretended to praise his strength when she was manipulating him, but now she has come to genuinely admire that trait. Can she, a vampire used to nothing but comfort, be as strong as a human being?

She wants to ask Hector if he thinks she's a good person. A glance at his mutilated hand answers her more than any word could. Lenore, all this time, had no idea what being "good" meant, she was only good at putting up a façade of gentleness, and she thought it was enough. All this time, she behaved like a vampire pretending to be human... so now, she will learn from the best human she has ever met. The best person. The only one who saw her as a person as well, behind her masks, behind her usefulness.

Even if Hector is now walking towards the dawn, with nothing but his resolution. For the first time, he will live for him, for himself.

They will never meet again, but in a twisted way, they gave each other what they needed to grow.

[hand-written-dreams]

CRIMSON SHADE

Chapter 03

Trapped in a Castle

Trigger Warning

Ever heard of Helen of Troy, the face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?

The Godfathers of the Triad took that idea too literally and took it a notch higher. They believed one whisper from a beautiful siren could do the same, that Helen did to Troy, unravel alliances and raze the underworld to ashes.

So they made rules to protect their 'Parises' from the devastating allure of the beauty of the 'Helens.'

Never touch another brother's woman,

Don't marry outside the society,

Don't break marriage alliances

And keep the heir's betrothed chaste and untouched until her wedding day.

The heir.

In this world, the title is more than just a word—it’s a legacy. The heir is someone who would one day wield all the power, control the empire, and lead the family’s dark dynasty. It’s a birthright, an unbreakable bond tied to blood. Only a blood relative can claim it. No outsider, no matter their loyalty or prowess, can ever rise to that level. This is the unspoken rule, the law carved into the very foundation of the mafia family.

And the heir needed to be legitimate. That’s why extensive measures are taken to keep the bloodline pure, untainted by scandal or deceit. Arranged marriages, strict alliances, and constant surveillance—everything is orchestrated to maintain the family’s control over their lineage.

And, of course, all the responsibility falls on the shoulders of the women. Khushi rolled her eyes thinking about that.

And the only responsibility for the heir was 'fuck anyone you like but don't fall in love.' It didn't exactly say that, but it didn't say any less. Love was a weakness, a dangerous indulgence that could unravel even the strongest of men. Love made men do crazy shit, they said.

So clearly one could see how extremely terrific life a female in the mafia world led!! Mind-blowingly terrific.

Within the society, if a woman wasn't romantically linked to someone, she was vulnerable, a fair game. Anyone within the mafia's territory could kidnap her, claiming her as his wife or mistress with the boss's permission. Protection was a privilege that only came with a strategic connection.

Outside the society, the dangers were even more ruthless. Marriage, children, none of it mattered if a powerful man set his sights on her. Her beauty became her greatest enemy, a curse that made her a target in a world where desire outweighed morality and power silenced justice.

'If you can break them, you can keep them.'

And broken as they became, their cage felt like heaven to them. With their wings clipped and their spirit shattered, freedom became a distant memory. They forgot what it meant to fly, to live beyond the bars. The cage, once their prison, now felt like home.

Wasn't it the root of the conflict between The Serpents and The Eagles? Senior Jha's younger brother was supposed to marry Senior Rathore's younger sister, a union meant to solidify their families’ power. However, the brother had fallen in love with someone else, and since Senior Jha loved his brother so much, he, with the help of Khushi's father, had helped him escape on the wedding day.

It was a complete violation of the rules, but no one could outright prove that Senior Jha and her father were directly involved.

Only that the groom had vanished.

And the bride had committed suicide.

Too bad the Godfathers didn't make any rules to protect their 'Helens.'

Oops, she forgot, in their eyes, women are only good for fucking, breeding, and rearing children.

Khushi didn't feel so bad about Miss Rathore. Shouldn't she be happy that she got away from the clutches of a heinous man? Despite cheering for her freedom, she decided to end her life.

But she would never be free, right? Handed from one heinous hand to another in the name of alliances and power.

And there was another who was kidnapped and raped, and by the end of the day had taken her own life after her captor's demise.

The famous Ratna Singh Raizada.

What's in The Eagles' water that their women are so prone to suicide? And from where do they find this amount of love for these hideous men? Khushi sighed.

Ratna Malik was not part of the society. Blessed with incredible beauty, which Khushi could attest to by looking at her son, she had been working as a dance teacher for small children. One day, Senior Raizada had seen her outside her dance school and decided to take her home to make beautiful babies. How romantic!

Senior Raizada had two children with her. A boy and a girl. Some said she was pregnant with their third child when she died.

Weren't her children enough for her? Why did she decide to end her life leaving her children alone in the world?

Senior Raizada had actually married her instead of keeping her as his mistress, integrating her into the mafia society. As a consigliere, not directly challenging the heir's position, he was exempt from the strict rule against marrying outsiders. This rule was more rigorously enforced for the heir, designed to protect the purity of the bloodline and maintain the family's power.

As soon as a girl was born high up in the society, the Godfathers would decide which one would be the princess to kiss their frog prince and be marked as the heir's bride. They would also give her a chastity belt and lock up her panties to ensure that the next heir's bloodline was not questioned. If anyone didn’t get it, it was metaphorical. Khushi sometimes hated her mind for drawing all kinds of metaphorical analogies to situations.

So, yeah, even if a girl was born high up in the hirchiary, she was only good for forming an alliance and breeding of pureblooded heir, by remaining a virgin till the date of her marriage.

Khushi loathed that rule with the power of a thousand suns. The amount of heartbreak and trauma she had to endure because of it was insurmountable.

Khushi had never liked talking about her mother, mainly because her mother had despised her. As a young child, she could never seem to do anything right. Even her appearance, and how she wasn’t as beautiful as her mother, had begun to irritate her mother. Finally, when Khushi was just ten, her mother decided to leave her and her father behind. And as her father loved her mother so much, he had let her go. To this day, her father blamed Khushi for her mother’s departure.

If only she could blame anyone.

Despite all of these, despite his hate toward her, despite his absentee-father-attitude, her father had provided her with a fairly sheltered life. She had the liberty to do almost anything as long as she stayed out of his hair. A freedom with condition. A freedom, except to love.

She was sixteen when she had her first crush. Such a beautiful and gentle human being. He was in her chemistry class. They used to sneak out to the back of their school to steal kisses. Until one day, he broke her heart. She was informed that he moved to another city with his family. He just cut all ties with her. No phone calls, no emails, his Facebook account was deactivated as well. She had thought they were in love. Too bad, he wasn’t as in love as she was.

She had been very depressed for a long time, but she wasn’t someone to drown in self-pity. So, when she was eighteen, she tried to move on from him with the hottest guy in her class.

And he knew how to make her feel tingles with his smile, teenage hormones and all. It was mostly hot kissing and heavy groping in between classes with him. But before she could let him under her clothes, her father gifted her a picture of his head. His severely decapitated head.

And that was also the day she learned who she was. She was the heir's bride.

She hadn’t, even to this day, fully processed whether to mourn the lives that had been cut short because of her or to grieve over her future, bound to a sleazy man like Shyam Manohar Jha, with no choice of her own.

And he was a sleazy man, alright. He was eight years older than her and had been managing The Serpent after his father's death since he was just twelve, with the help of her father. She had met him only on a couple of occasions and hadn't given much thought to his creepy, unsettling stares. But when they were officially introduced as each other's betrothed, he had revealed his true nature.

That man had groped her under the dining table in front of his father, who had merely averted his eyes. Mr. Jha had been so obsessed with her untouched self that he had kept murmuring in her ear that whole night about how excited he was to be inside her one day and make her bleed. She felt nauseated. She had excused herself from the dining room. Enraged, she had rebelled in the only way she could.

She had brought a dildo from the black market and done the honour herself to claim her virginity.

Go fuck yourself, Mr. Jha!!

She hadn't regretted it at all. Her only regret was that she hadn't prepared herself or used any lubrication for the process. She had been too angry to think about any formalities. The device had actually traumatized her. She couldn’t bring herself to use it a second time. Perhaps if she could, she might have alleviated some of the rage and the humiliation of defeat that lingered in her after that horrible encounter with Mr. Raizada Seven days ago.

Seven days of seething in rage and drowning in self-pity. Now that she had nowhere to go, nothing to do.

Ugh, it's hopeless.

What frustrated Khushi the most about this life was not the mafia way of living. No, she had been living this lifestyle since birth. It was not having the freedom to choose whom to love.

Despite being born into a heartless, hard life, she remained a hopeless romantic at heart. When life became unbearable, she would lose herself in the solace of her fantasy books. Sometimes, she still dared to hope for someone to love, someone who could make living a little more bearable. It was the only way she could keep going.

So many beautiful and brilliant minds had captivated her attention in college, minds that made them instantly attractive to her physically as well. Yet, she had been shackled by these god-awful traditions and rules where no one cared about her intellect, her skills, or how brilliant she was with computers. No one would celebrate when she cracked an incredible code and danced with joy. All they saw was the benefit her father’s alliance could bring them, her seemingly untouchable body and the likelihood of her producing a firstborn male heir.

She had actually tried to flee the country once when she was in her Second year at University. Very few in the Serpents knew about it including her father. Using her hacking skills, she had faked a passport and a plane ticket. But her father had caught her at the airport, brought her home, and locked her in a room for a week. He had even threatened to marry her off immediately, sealing her fate before she could break free.

She had groveled and cried, begging him to wait until her graduation, but there was no budging from her father. In the end, with her promise never to try to escape again, he had agreed to let her complete her degree.

A promise she had made the hard way, paid for in blood. Literal blood. A life was sacrificed in exchange for two lives and her education. Her certificates were written in blood too, weren't they?

2 years ago

"Khushi, come on, it's almost noon. Don't punish yourself. Eat something," Madhumati Ji, whom she called Buaji, urged. Buaji had been her caretaker since childhood. She opened the curtains of Khushi's room, flooding it with sunlight. Khushi had been sulking in her room ever since her father brought her home from the airport a few days ago and made a deal with her. She had refused to eat anything since. At least her father got everything he wanted.

"Mr. Gupta asked you to see him in his study. He asked you to get ready. He wants to take you somewhere," Buaji said solemnly, sympathy shining in her black eyes.

Panic and irritation bubbled up in her chest. 'Please God don't let him bring me to meet Mr. Jha. I am not in the mood to tolerate his crap today.'

''It will be alright, bitiya."

After her mother left her, Buaji made Khushi her only priority. Khushi wasn’t the easiest person to be around. Some days were harder than others, but Buaji remained patient, holding her through the unbearable pain that consumed both her body and soul. Buaji had become the closest thing to a mother she had, and for that, she was deeply grateful.

The wrinkles around Buaji’s eyes seemed deeper today, and Khushi's heart twisted with guilt. She could see the fatigue weighing on her, the tension and anxiety she was causing slowly wearing her down.

She decided to take a bath before going to meet her father. In the bathroom, she stripped off her clothes and stepped into the warmth of the shower. As she shaved her legs, the impending meeting with her father lingered in her thoughts. What more could he possibly want from me? she wondered. Call it intuition or gut feeling, something about the meeting filled her with unease.

A sharp sting pulled her out of her thoughts. She glanced down to see blood trickling from her leg, painting the water in thin red streams as it swirled around the shower drain. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat loud in her ears as her breath caught. Grabbing the slick tile wall with trembling hands, Khushi fought to steady herself before her knees gave out.

At twenty, anyone would assume her fear of blood would have faded, but it only seemed to worsen with time. The edges of her vision darkened, threatening to pull her under. Panic rose, and in a shaky voice, she called for the one person who could help.

“Buaji…”

Within seconds, the glass shower door slid open, and Buaji appeared, her face tight with worry as she took in the sight before her. The cut on Khushi’s leg was still bleeding.

“You cut yourself, Nandkishore,” Buaji sighed, quickly shutting off the water.

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Khushi managed a weak laugh. If anyone else had seen her like this, she would’ve been mortified, but with Buaji, it felt natural. "It’s stupid. I should have learned to overcome my fear of blood by now. You can't take care of me forever," she whispered brokenly.

Buaji cleaned and bandaged the wound with practised care. Then, wrapping Khushi in a soft towel, she cupped her face gently. Tears shimmered in both of their eyes as she whispered, “If I don’t take care of you, who will?”

Uneasiness formed in the pit of her stomach as she came face to face with her father. His expression was cold and calculated today, though it wasn’t much different from his usual demeanor. He was never loving toward her. No, never, she couldn’t remember a time when he had been. Buaji always said his affection was shown in his strictness. Bullshit.

"Good morning, Khushi," he said, his voice as emotionless as ever.

'What’s the need for this small talk?' Her uneasiness morphed into irritation as she met his cold gaze. She hated the empty pleasantries, knowing they always preceded something far worse.

But she didn’t voice that. Instead, she mustered the most neutral expression she could manage and replied, ''Good morning, baba."

"Go sit in the car. I'll join you in a few minutes."

She decided to wear a simple pair of jeans and a yellow top. Yellow was her favorite color, and she hoped it might brighten her mood a little.

The drive to wherever he intended to take her was quiet, the tension between them thickening with each passing minute. Khushi sat stiffly, her fingers nervously gripping the edge of her seat as the silence pressed down on her.

She cast a fleeting glance at her father. His stern face was unreadable. His gaze was fixed ahead. Khushi swallowed the lump forming in her throat and turned her gaze out of the window. She longed for him to show some interest, some sign that he still cared, but the distance between them had grown wider than ever.

It was almost evening when they arrived at what appeared to be an abandoned dockyard. Some of his men stepped forward to greet him.

"What are we doing here?" she couldn't hold back her curiosity any longer.

When no answer came, that’s when she heard it, a muffled sound coming from somewhere deeper within the dockyard, faint but unmistakable, like someone struggling to speak.

Her heart sank.

“Who’s there?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

"You will see in a minutes.."

His calm demeanor only fueled her fear making her skin crawl. When his hand tightened around her elbow, pulling her further, she knew escape was not an option.

The muffled sounds grew louder as they approached. She saw a man tied to a chair with ropes, his mouth gagged with a piece of dirty cloth, his muffled cries barely audible, a desperate sound that pierced the eerie silence.

Disgust surged through her as she struggled against his hold. "Why do I have to watch you kill him?" she spat.

An amused chuckle escaped his lips. "So much sympathy for someone you don't even know. Besides I'm not killing him".

Relief washed over her and she took deep breath until the next two words hit her like a blow.

"You are".

A wave of nausea swept over her and her mouth went dry. She backed away. Her vision blurred with unshed tears. "What?? How?? Why?? I'm not. I won't."

She turned to run, but three men blocked her way. The first tear fell from her eye.

A heavy hand landed on her shoulder. "This is for your own good, Khushi. You need to complete your studies, don’t you? And I want my insurance that you won’t pull any stupid stunts ever again," he said, his voice dripping with disdain.

He wanted to shatter her, her morals, her heart, her dreams, everything, she held dear.

She fought to steady her breathing and faced him. "I am glad that Ma had left you, you are such a piece of shit. You didn't even spare your own daughter,'' she seethed through gritted teeth.

The sting of her words was met with the sharp slap of his hand across her cheek sending her sprawling to the ground. Groaning, she pressed her palm against her cheek to relieve the pain in her face. The metallic taste of blood coated her tongue, a sign that her lip had split open.

A gun was placed on the ground beside her by one of his goons.

"Pick it up," he commanded.

When she didn’t show any intention of moving, he tried another tactic.

“Pick it up or Madhumati will pay the price.”

The weight of his threat settled heavily on her, pressing down like a leaden burden.

"Or what's his name, oh... right...NK." A surprised expression crossed her face. "What, did you think I don't know about this best buddy of yours?"

Khushi felt like picking up the gun and shooting herself in the head. But she was a coward. Taking a shaky breath, she picked up the gun.

A life for a life, right?

A life for two lives.

Her legs trembled as she fought to stay upright. The resentment she felt for her father grew sharper with each step, and the small remnants of love she had left for him seemed to wither away.

The sight of the tied man in front of her made her stomach churn. His forehead was slick with sweat, and his eyes were rimmed with red from crying. She couldn’t bear to look at him directly as she pointed the gun at him with shaking hands.

“Look at him, Khushi, don't be a coward,” her father’s voice cut through the air.

Tears streamed uncontrollably down her face as she forced herself to look at the man again. She noticed that the front of his pants was stained dark, a sign that he had lost control. Catching his fearful gaze, she whispered, "I’m sorry."

Her heart pounded so loudly that it drowned out his pitiful groans as she pulled the trigger.

Bang!

Someone from behind her took the gun from her trembling hands before it slipped on the ground. The ringing in her ears numbed her senses.

The man’s body slumped forward, blood collecting in a pool around him.

She looked down at herself. Nothing had changed. Her yellow top was flawless, not a single spot of crimson in it.

But her hands are tinted in vivid crimson.

The nausea rolling in her stomach finally surged to the surface and she lurched forward, retching.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Khushi, you were doing so well,” her father's disappointment was clear in his voice. “I’ve videotaped the whole thing. If you try any funny stunts ever again, that video will reach the CBI, Interpol, everywhere. They’ll hunt you down to the farthest corners of the world. And you know why? "

"Because you just killed the Additional DCP of Delhi," he added casually.

"I should thank you for eliminating my enemy for me, Khushi. That bastard was a pain in my ass, " he snickered at the body lying at their feet.

Present Day

Her heart pounded in her chest with the reemergence of the memory, her breath caught between disbelief and dread. She could still feel the weight of the gun in her hand, the echo of the shot ringing in her ears. It wasn't supposed to go this way. She had a plan, meticulously crafted to free herself from the chains of her father's empire. Yet, here she stood, blood on her hands. A man whose life she had taken on her father's command, further entangling herself in the never-ending web.

That's why she had planned to take down her father first before trying to escape again. Everything was going so well until all her efforts were wasted by a certain Mr. Raizada forcefully thrusting himself into her life.

'Of all the things you could buy with your millions, why did you have to buy my freedom, Mr. Raizada?' Khushi clutched her hair, feeling the onset of a headache.

The ringing of her phone pulled her out of her thoughts. An unknown number flashed on the screen.

She swiped to answer, "Hello?"

"Is this Khushi Sen Gupta?" a hushed voice responded from the other side.

"Yes, who is this?"

"You don’t know me, but I have the information you need."

Her brow furrowed. "What information?"

"You’ve been asking around campus about NK. Do you still want to know about him?"

"Yes."

"Then meet me at the location I text you. And, Miss Gupta, bring 50 thousand in cash." The line abruptly cut off.

What the hell?!

Khushi stared at the phone, her mind spinning. Fifty thousand? For information on NK? Her heart pounded as anxiety crept into her chest. What was this? A scam? A trap?

She clenched the phone tighter, a bitter taste forming in her mouth. Whoever this was, they clearly knew she was desperate.

Her mind raced as she paced the room, her thoughts colliding with each other. Should she even go? Could she trust this faceless voice?

The anger that had been simmering beneath the surface boiled over. She wasn’t going to be played like this. But at the same time, she needed answers. What if NK wasn’t an Eagle spy, as she had suspected? What if he was in trouble because of his association with her or worse, what if his life was in danger? This could be her only opportunity to uncover the truth and potentially save him.

Khushi tossed the phone onto the bed and ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. She was caught between fear and determination, but one thing was clear. She wasn’t going to sit idle.

The message came through a few moments later, a location in a part of town she barely knew. Her stomach twisted, but she had already made up her mind.

Author's Note: Thank you for reading! I hope you found this story enjoyable. Share your thoughts in the comments. Was the trigger too much?

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@featheredclover @arshifiesta @phuljari @msbhagirathi @titaliya @chutkiandchotte @jalebi-weds-bluetooth

[evil-flesh-eating-ai]

top 13 deaths in the magnus archives

SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Hello, John. Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.

I’m assuming you’re alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private. I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.

Now, shall we turn the page and try again?

Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

[A SLAP ON THE TABLE – OR A CRACK? SPOOKY.]

I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence, but I have worked so very hard for this moment, a culmination of two centuries of work. It’s rare that you get the chance to monologue through another, and you can’t tell me you’re not curious.

Why does a man seek to destroy the world?

It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.

It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, John, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.

I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die.

I believe there are far more people in this world that would take that bargain than you would ever guess. And I have beaten all of them.

Of course, this desire did not manifest overnight. When Smirke first gathered our little band – Lukas, Scott, and the rest – to discuss and hypothesize on the nature of the things he had learned from Rayner, I felt what I believe we all felt: curiosity, and fear.

But as he compiled his taxonomy and codified his theories on the grand rituals, I began to develop a very specific concern. Smirke was so obsessed with his ideas on balance, even as our fellows began to experiment and fall to the service of our patrons.

I began to worry that if one of them successfully attempted their ritual, then I would be as much a victim as any, trapped in the nightmare landscape of a twisted world.

At first, I attempted prevention, but the cause seemed hopeless. The only way to ensure I did not suffer the tribulations of what I believed to be an inevitable transformation was to bring it about myself. So what began as an experiment soon became a race.

Beyond that, I was getting older, and mortality began to weigh more heavily on my mind. How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?

I convinced Smirke to work on Millbank, leading him to design it as a temple to all the Fears in equilibrium, such that my own modifications to the design of the Panopticon went… unremarked.

It. Took. Years, for the dread of the prisoners to fully suffuse the place, and I was an old man before I made my first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown, sat in the center of that colossal eye, the great ring of cells encircling me like a coronet.

It was… flawed, of course, as all Smirke’s rituals were, and none of the inmates survived as the power I attempted to harness shook the building almost to pieces, and the murky swamp upon which the prison was built consumed it.

But it left me a gift: For sat in that watchtower, I could see everything I turned my mind to.

It was a dizzying power, and one I discovered I maintained even as I found vessels to extend my life. Of course, I had to make sure the location was kept under my control while I worked on revising my plans, and so I moved the organization I had founded to assist in my research down to London, and the Institute as you know it was born.

I’ll not bore you with details of my bodies and failures through those intervening years. Suffice to say I kept busy, both planning my own next attempt, and doing my best to stymie those others who tried versions of their own.

Surely my interpretation of the Watcher’s Crown had been incomplete; there had been some element of the ritual I had overlooked.

It was not until I met Gertrude Robinson that things began to really come into focus.

You see, the role of Archivist has been part of the Beholding for as far back as my research can go. This isn’t uncommon for the Powers; most of the beliefs around them are guesswork and fallible human interpretation, but there are certain throughlines and consistencies that can be spotted, regardless of the trappings.

But Gertrude was unlike any other Archivist. She simply did not care about compiling experiences or collecting the fears of others. She was driven to stop those who served the Powers.

More than once I thought she must secretly be of the Hunt – but there was never that sick joy in her, that thrill of predator and prey. She had simply decided that this was her position in life, and went about it with a practicality that even I found disconcerting at times.

I once asked her what drove her, what had started her down that path. She told me the Desolation had killed her cat.

I don’t know if she was joking, and, to be honest, I could never bring myself to look into her mind and find out for sure.

In any case, Gertrude’s ruthless efficiency in derailing and collapsing rituals threw into stark relief a question that had been bothering me for almost a hundred and fifty years: In the whole span of humanity, why had nobody ever succeeded?

Perhaps there were a long line of Gertrude Robinsons throughout history, but I found that hard to credit. Could it be, then, that there was something in the very concept of the rituals that meant they couldn’t succeed?

She was clearly having similar thoughts in that last year, all of which culminated with the People’s Church.

When I saw that she was making no preparations whatsoever to stop it, I realized she was putting into practice a theory, and one she couldn’t afford to be wrong. She was going to wait, and see if the unopposed ritual succeeded, or if it collapsed under its own strain as mine had all those years ago.

Knowing Gertrude, I’m sure she had a backup plan if she had miscalculated – but she had not. The ritual failed. And all at once, I realized what had to be done.

You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?

Even those that seem to exist in direct opposition rely on each other for their definition as much as up relies on down.

To try and create a world with only the Buried makes as much sense as trying to conceive a world with only down.

Every ritual tied itself so closely to a single power as to render itself impossible. They could bring their patron close, but never sever it from the others, and eventually it would be violently pulled back into the place next to reality where they dwell.

The solution, then, is simple: A new ritual must be devised which will bring through all the Powers at once. All fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge. All under the Eye’s auspices, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots.

And there was only one being that could possibly serve as a lynchpin for this new ritual: The Archivist. A position that had so recently become vacant, thanks to Gertrude’s ill-timed retirement plans.

Because the thing about the Archivist is that – well, it’s a bit of a misnomer.

It might, perhaps, be better named: The Archive.

Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, John. You are a record of fear, both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you.

You are a living chronicle of terror.

Perhaps, then, if I could find an Archivist and have each Power mark them, have them confront each one and each in turn instill in them a powerful and acute fear for their life, they could be turned into a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom.

Do you see where I’m going, John?

It does tickle me, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck.

[THUNDERCLAPS.]

I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was.

Of course, I had to bide my time, get a measure of you before I began to push, learn how you worked – So I decided I would wait until something came for you, and see how you reacted. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during Gertrude’s tenure, and, while she was always prepared, I made sure you would not be.

I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when Jane Prentiss attacked, I watched eagerly, one hand on the gas release from the start.

You acquitted yourself well enough, so I decided to see how far you would get, though I waited until the worms were in you before I pulled the lever. I needed to make sure you felt that fear all the way to your bones.

The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus. Even if that sliver of paranoia, that vague wrongness you couldn’t quite place wouldn’t count as a mark, it was only a matter of time before it confronted you in a far more direct and affecting matter.

Admittedly, given the advent of the Unknowing, I needn’t have bothered. But what’s the old saying about hindsight?

More important to me was Sasha’s encounter with the Distortion. If it had taken an interest, then I very much wanted it to cross your path.

[THUNDER CONTINUES AS HE GOES ON.]

So I found one of its current victims and convinced her to make a statement.

Poor Helen. I actually had to put her in a taxi myself, she was getting so lost in those narrow London side streets.

It worked, though.

[SOMETHING CREAKS. ANOTHER LOUD SNAP/CRACKLE.]

Between the stabbing and at least two desperate flights into its doors – you’re marked very deeply by the Spiral.

Jurgen Leitner was a surprise, of course, and I was forced to improvise. I had no idea how much Gertrude would have told him, and he could very easily have derailed everything if you learned too much too fast.

I… justified it to myself saying I was going to have to send you out into the world anyway, if you were to encounter more of the Powers, but I can’t honestly pretend it wasn’t a… rather rash move.

Still. I’d requested Detective Tonner be assigned to the case when they found Gertrude’s body in the hope that having a Hunter in the mix would eventually lead to a confrontation, and setting you up as a killer certainly hastened that.

Then it was just a matter of feeding you statements to lead you to a few Avatars I thought were likely to harm you – but probably would stop short of actually killing you.

Jude served her purpose exactly as I had hoped, as did our dearly departed Mr. Crew, marking you for the Desolation and the Vast.

Honestly, I had – nothing to do with Melanie and her Slaughter adventure, but when I saw the situation, I made sure to trap her here, so when her rage bubbled over you would be right there, a ready target.

I didn’t foresee the mark coming from surgery gone wrong, but it was a very pleasant surprise.

The Unknowing was a distraction, but not an unwelcome one. For this to work, you needed more than just the marks; you needed power. And that was something the Unknowing served to test, though it posed no actual danger in the grand scheme of things.

And it did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been very worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just die. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand why.

As it was, it was just right, and once again, you came through with flying colors.

By this point, your abilities were coming along in leaps and bounds, and I was concerned that meeting face-to-face might end up with you – (sigh) – Knowing something you shouldn’t.

I had initially planned to go into hiding, but when your colleagues surprised me with the police, well. It was simple enough to cut a deal.

All that remained, then, were the Dark, the Flesh, the Buried, and the Lonely.

I was a little put out when that idiot Jared Hopworth misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him.

I couldn’t see what happened in there, of course, but given how you came out, I’m very sure it counts as a mark.

I suspected the coffin might turn up again, and once it did, it was simply a matter of getting any, uh… restraining factors you might have had flying off on a wild goose chase, and waiting.

Honestly, Detective Tonner has been proving invaluable through this process. I’d been racking my brains for months about what I could use to lure you in.

And, of course, I knew the Dark Sun was just sitting there waiting. So when it came time, I just whipped up another apocalypse and sent you on your merry way.

Then all that remained was the Lonely.

Poor Peter. He really should have left well enough alone. (cruel laugh) Or just done what I’d asked in the first place.

Ah well. He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about Martin.

Of course, he had no way of knowing that, in addition to setting you up for the final mark, he was giving you all the tools you needed to escape from it.

How is Martin, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that.

And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date. I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.

You are prepared. You are ready. You are marked. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here.

Don’t worry, John. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.

Now. (cruel, cruel laugh) Repeat after me.

[WHEN THE ARCHIVIST BEGINS TO READ THE INCANTATION, A HEAVY, DENSE STATIC RETURNS AND BEGINS TO BUILD, ADDING IN HIGHER PITCHES AS IT DOES SO.]

You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right.

Come to us in your wholeness.

Come to us in your perfection.

Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!

Come to us.

I – OPEN – THE DOOR!

[danielhicks0808]

Claude Frollo fic

18+warning! including : teasing, fingering, begging, and--of couse--sex.

"If it's sin, then let it be. I'll be mad if I stop!"Frollo was pacing in front of the bars that held Esmeralda. He seemed completely lost, and farly beyond loosing his mind. "The deepest sin will make the madest happiness." The shouting suddenly turned into a low whisper. "A priest and a witch can be together in the corner of hell, and I'll be the happiest--"

"BANG!" The door of the dungeon was kicked open, hard. A man walked in. He wasn't storming, but his face was cold. Frollo seemed to recognize the man because he stood frozen at the spot. His eyes were cold, too, but not with power but fear.

Keys clanged as the prison door swung, "You may leave now, mademoiselle. I apologize for everything you experienced. You're free to go. All charges dismissed." The girl's eyes sparkled with unbelieveble joy, then ran out quickly.

"Now, what shall I do with you?" The mysterious man turned around and faced Frollo. What's that burning in his eyes? Anger? or desire? or......both?

"Bishop." Frollo managed to say, voice trembling. "I--"

"Take your priest clothes off." Romulus--Yes, that's his name--rested his gaze between Frollo's neck and chest. The top button of Frollo's black robe wasn't doing it's job, so Romulus had to swallow to comfort himself. "I said TAKE IT OFF!" He raised his voice when seeing Frollo still hesitating.

He obeyed. The white chest revealed as Frollo started to unbutton. It looked even purer white compared to the black clothing. Romulus studied closely. Frollo wasn't the muscular kind since his passion was reading and learning. That also explained the color of his skin. Romulus sighed rather quietly while Frollo's hood was removed--His hair already turned grey, and didn't leave much to turn white, making almost everyone asuming he was around 55, but only a few people remember Frollo was only in his 30s. Romulus was one of them. He selected Frollo as archdeacon himself. There was no doubt that Frollo deserved the place, but most of all, Romulus wanted to keep him closer.

Similar to the young man, Romulus' parents decided to let him become a priest as a kid. He went to the same school as Frollo. They even became priest at the same age:19 years old. But there was a difference, that changed Frollo as it changed Romulus now. Unlike Frollo who had to hide his desire of women strictly, Romulus didn't have to. He was gay. And what made it simpler? He was only into one man--Claude Frollo.

Soon, the only piece of cloth left on Frollo was his brief, also white, so the red marks on his chest were clearly visible. It was plain that hi had slashed himself atleast four times, and it was still bloody. "So you're willing to do this for Miss Esmeralda, ay?" Romulus stepped forward and put out a finger, caressing the wounds.

Frollo hung his head, asuming this was part of the punishment. Until Romulus' lips pressed on his own. "Mmm...mmmm......hmm...mmm......" The two fingers that lifted his jaw moved to his nipples and started the rubbing and pinching. "Ah!" Romulus gave Frollo a beat to gasp, then sucked bits on his bottom lip. He licked the saliva which leaked out with moaning. Frollo couldn't help himself. With his whole life in the church, Romulus could let him collapse with the worst skill. Not to mention he was good.

Barely standing, Frollo's legs were quivering. The only reason he didn't topple was a strong hand on his back. He had no idea how to react to everything, especially his own reactions. He felt his warm liquid soak his brief. Blood flushed on his cheeks as his cock grew solid, dribbling more.

Apparently, Romulus noticed his changes, too. He brought his left hand to Frollo's hip and gave it a hard spank. Frollo yelped but sounded more like a whimper. "Why are your panties wet?" Romulus asked casually, pretending to be curious. "I...I......" Now, Frollo was very red. Romulus moved his fingers to the gap and rubbed outside the fabric. "Let me tell you why." He then began prying on the edge of Frollo's brief, little by little. "Don't help. I want to take it slow. Tell you what, I LOVE surprises." He went on murmuring, "I can't wait to know how enjoyed you are......"

Inside was a mess. Romulus sniggered at the sight. When he pulled the brief enough to see Frollo's cock, he knelt down and made Frollo lie between his knees. The right hand pulled away from his back, and turned to rest on the sensitive area beneath his cock. Frollo groaned as a finger went inside. His face whitened. But when the second finger was put in, he was whining, and trying not to look too comfortable, but his reaction gave in.

"Looks like you're enjoying, hmm?" Romulus grasped on the head. The other hand still letting two fingers in and out. Frollo's both hands were holding Romulus' shoulders, moaning. "Never had so much fun, so excited, ay? Me too."

Suddenly, Romulus stopped all moves and stood up. Frollo remain lying on the cold, hard floor. The fire that Romulus set in his body was blown out by no other than Romulus himself. "Why, why'd you stop?" he whimpered softly, confused and ashamed for feeling unsatisfied. He shivered as water on the stone floor damped his back. "Please......I...I want you, Bishop Chaleil." He fixed pleading eyes on Romulus, his cheeks flushing more than ever before.

"You want me......" Romulus knelt back down, and rest his palm on Frollo's left cheek, not surprised to find it hot. He just had this huge disire wanting to hear Frollo beg, but he hadn't expected this. Frollo trembled and closed his eyes at Romulus' touch, probably too shy to face what he just admitted. "For all these years, Claude......" Romulus felt Frollo's heart beating wildly, and smiled. Then, his collar tightened. Romulus quickly looked down, and saw Frollo opened his eyes, trying to unbutton Romulus' robe. When he saw Romulus watching, Frollo immediately lowered his arms, but got caught on the wrist. "Just rip it off next time." Romulus said, looking playful for the first time.

He straightened and ripped it off, exposing his body. Unlike the man under him, Romulus Chaleil was muscular, with his six-pack and all. Obviously, he didn't spend all his time on preying or on the court. He was also solid. After every piece of cloth away, Romulus lifted Frollo and rolled on his back, then slid in. Frollo's walls were already wet, so the cock fit in perfectly, but he still clenched his teeth when Romulus pressed him closer to go deeper. "If it hurts," Romulus whispered at his ear, "tell me."

"No, no...Don't, don't stop!" Frollo said, afraid Romulus would leave him hanging again. He responded with a kiss.

When they finally parted, Romulus said, cock in its place, "You've been torturing me every day, Claude. I...I can't believe we're doing this. Maybe it's my turn--" "To torture me." Frollo finished, "I will ruin you. I'm already ruined, so I don't care, but you...you don't, have to......" His voice traced away, sounding both guilty and worried.

"But I want to, Claude." Romulus cut in gently.

"I love it when you call me by my name." Frollo wriggled and whined. "I, I still don't know yours...yet. I just know you as Bishop Chaleil."

"Well, you know me more than that." Romulus chuckled then said, "It's Romulus. Romulus Chaleil, nice to meet you." Their bodies touched, close together, sharing breathe and heartbeat. Frollo hot, and Romulus warm.

"Romulus." Frollo repeated in a low voice. "I never thought I would fancy a man." he admitted, "I mean, Jesus......"

"Yeah, I know." Romulus hugged him tighter. "But I've loved you for more than 20 years. I know it's sin, but......let it be. I don't care. We'll go somewhere, far away, together." He waited for Frollo to answer.

Whether yes or no, Romulus thought, he will be mine.

[ask-the-royal-absol]

Oops, all legends AU. What legendary Pokémon would our dashing Prime be?

(This one definitely made me think lol

We've got to assume that none of the current legendaries exist and it'll only be the main cast that are legendaries. I'm also counting mythicals as legendaries too.

1. So, after considering every single legendary Pokémon, I'd have to say they'd probably be a hoopa. Bound version (unbound would be a nightmare). Travelling around tormenting other legendary Pokémon. They would be a chaotic bastard. I just feel it'd be fitting of them. I could have said chien-pao to fit with the typing and colour scheme but a chaotic Hoopa running around insulting legendaries because they can hoop their way to them sounds more fun. Sounds very Destino.

2. Felix is Yveltal. With his close relation to death, it'd make sense for him. A chilled, laid back Yveltal that tries to stop his best friend from pissing off every legendary possible. Also hilarious because the both of them would swap types lol I'd imagine Hope being an Urshifu. Undecided on which one.

3. Would there be a prophecy? Possibly. Though it would potentially be 6 different Pokémon and Destino has been tasked with bringing them all together. Destino hates this. They want to be a part of the prophecy instead. They try to do everything they can to weave their way into the prophecy. Felix definitely helps to stop this from happening.

4. Destino's powers were sealed away because they were just too strong. Unbound Destino almost brought the world to ruin. They believed they were the strongest Pokémon and could take what they want. An ego on a hoopa is just too strong. It was only when some legendary Pokémon came together (including Yveltal!Felix) to seal their powers away. Felix actually has the prison bottle locked safe away. Felix kinda wants to make them a better Pokémon before trusting them with that power again. Hoopa!Destino originally became friends with Felix to get the prison bottle but now just likes him.

5. There would probably be a point where Destino is able to get the prison bottle and restore their powers. It'd then lead to a toss up between them using their powers for their own selfish desires or whether to use them for others.)

[aho-dapa]

rewrite lore crumbs time: amarantha’s curse on spring

tw: slight gore and horror elements / long post

so, the current idea is this: 

When Amarantha cursed Tamlin, she also cursed his whole court along with him. I took inspiration from the original Ballad of Tam Lin and decided that Amarantha actually got this idea from Tamlin himself because he can naturally shapeshift (which isn’t a natural gift to the High Lords of Spring and one that is not only very difficult to learn and maintain, but its also viewed as a grotesque one)

In the larger of view of Prythian itself, shapeshifting is frowned upon for how self mutilating it appears to be. That’s simply because shapeshifting isn’t a glamor to change one’s appearance but an ability that changes your anatomy itself. The Fae as a whole consider gore as a regular part of life. Violence is done to others, not to yourself. After all, to them, survival and self preservation is a natural instinct to have. (Side note. this is why culturally to the Fae, suicide is considered dishonorable and unnatural.)

Of course, like most fears, this comes from ignorance. Tamlin's shapeshifting ability is one that’s genetic to him (gods I wish I could get into how magic is both genetic and not in this rewrite but that’s for a whole other post). But unlike glamor, which can be dispelled, shifting to one form will remain permanent. That’s also why shifting is perceived as dangerous. 

Shifting into another form also requires understanding its anatomy and how it functions. That’s why Tamlin only ever shifts into animals he’s studied before. To shift into a person would require the understanding of human/fae anatomy. I’m currently thinking of making humans/high fae have some biological differences (due to more lore) and have that also play into how the Fae study themselves as a species and how that plays into lesser fae/high fae dynamics. 

(side note, as a result of the growing desire to understand themselves and prove themselves superior to other species, the Fae do have institutions (some that also double as prisons) that focus on studying the body. There have also been a few High Lords post mortem volunteering their own bodies to be studied due to how connected to magic they are.) which is... more other post lore on why the high lords have such powers as they’ve had the same political structure in Prythian for longer than they can date back to. Right now, the olden High Kings of Prythian are fables and legends that are told to also help keep High Lords in power. 

side side note, the Fae also have this sudden interest due to the spike of Hybernian politics and philosophy before Amarantha became High Queen. After Jurian’s rebellion (which is also tied to witchcraft and Illyrians and dragons in this rewrite, please, someone help me), there was also a rising fear of humans and how they used magic. (which is also... another whole other post)

Okay, this is all all to say, 

shapeshifting is unnatural to the Fae, (due to stigma and because it’s one of the only types of magic that can hurt the one who uses it, basically think werewolf shifting pains) but glamor is not 

unlike other types of magic, shapeshifting cannot be dispelled and is difficult to spot 

while glamor does work as a type of shifting, it can also easily be dispelled and doesn’t have the same requirements to learn it 

the shifting the other high lords use is based off of glamor, but is a more powerful form closer to transformation magic (it works the same as glamor and can be dispelled) some high lords’ children also go through a coming of age ceremony to determine their animal based transformation (cough, lucien is a fox) 

also other than high fae nobles and the families of high lords, knowing magic is strictly knowledge based. While some types of fae do have natural abilities (like flight, or even a lesser type of glamor), it cannot be compared to what the high fae do. 

This ties more into the power dynamics of magic as well between the high fae and the lesser fae. And also about the Day Court and it’s Houses of Enlightenment which are inspired by the Greek Socratic method with my own twists on it. (I’ll get into my courts lore some other time) I keep on saying this fr

okay back to my original point

Given that sjm pulled the dread trove out of her ass in ACOSF, I’m actually bringing this back to the beginning and having Amarantha discover the Crown UTM and use it to control Prythian. She’s also currently working work Hybern to find the Harp and the Mask. Amarantha made a deal that she would do anything for his cause (including taking over Prythian) if she can have the Mask to revive her sister, Clythia. 

I REALLY WANNA GET INTO THE DEATH LORE BUT I CAN’T I NEED TO FOCUS

Amarantha canon typically wants to have Tamlin as a Consort, and in his constant refusals, she curses his people knowing that it will hurt him most. She curses them by using the Crown to compel the the people of the spring court to shapeshift every full moon (because that’s when she and Tamlin first met, isn’t that romantic??) into random animals. 

In this universe, magic is like atoms, it’s a natural part of existence in every living thing, but not everyone uses it the same and are not taught how to use it safely. That’s how curses and bargains work in Prythian as it’s less about using magic on someone and more about influencing someone else very being. Now, because Tamlin’s people aren’t well versed in shapeshifting magic, every full moon, it can kill people or even leave them stranded as animals (or even deformed). To further her cruelty, on every full moon, Amarantha begins the Hunt. The Hunt allows for her subjects UTM to participate in the hunting of the Spring Court citizens as they are now ‘animals’. 

Tamlin eventually gives into her for his people, choosing a life of suffering by her side. But she refuses him out of spite. She tells him he must endure her curse upon his people for how he has slighted her. Feigning pity, she does give him a way out. Ever bitter about Jurian’s betrayal of her sister, she tells Tamlin this: 

He can stop the suffering of his people by falling in love. But it must be with a human and they must confess their love in return. He can never tell that human or anyone else that she had made this deal with him. To accept this deal, he also asks to be able to take on the shifting of the children of his court as the shift would be too painful to survive. She allows him this and tells him that there will be another cost (one she was always planning on giving him anyway). If that human does confess their love for him, the moment they do, he will turn into multiple different beasts and hunt them down to eat their heart out of their chest. 

Despite this horrible deal, Tamlin agrees, assuring himself that one life is nothing compared to the whole of the Spring Court. 

(Lucien also knows about this deal because he was there with Tamlin when it happened)

I really wanted to explore the possible horror aspects of the Fae and Amarantha in how she curses Tamlin. I also really wanted her to be someone that is genuinely feared by all in Prythian. I think that is adds a layer of tragedy to Tamlin’s character that brings in both Beauty and the Beast and the Ballad of Tam Lin into one. 

[ghelgheli]

At the end of the third week [of Ali's solitary confinement] a little relief came with the arrival of several new prisoners, who, even when separated, were so closely familiar to each other that they could have conversations just by speaking one word each in a stage whisper through their cell doors or windows. On their very first night one of them became tired of stealthful whispering and began to half sing, half recite a passage from the Iranian national epic about the successful revolt of Kaveh the blacksmith against Zahhak, a tyrant who ruled ancient Iran:

When Kaveh went out from the court of the king The crowd in the market came flocking around. Still loudly he cried and called out for their help, He summoned the whole world to justice’s aid. A long leather apron such as blacksmiths wear To guard at the forge against hammerblows Kaveh stuck solidly to the point of his lance. Then throughout the bazaar dust of movement arose. Crying out he paraded with the lance in his hand: “Illustrious men! True worshippers of God! Haste! For this ruler is Satan, father of lies.”

Here the word for Satan was “Ahriman,” the god of evil in Zoroastrianism, the religion of Iran in the pre-Islamic period that formed the subject of the epic. As everyone within earshot knew, the humble flag of Kaveh the blacksmith’s apron on a lance became the flag of Iran [derafsh kaviani], carried into battle by the just kings of Iran after Zahhak’s overthrow and death. The reciter was calling for revolution and regicide. Another voice began reciting a passage in which Rostam, the great hero of the national epic [the Shahnameh], “the great-bodied,” “the elephant-statured,” “the paladin” par excellence of the ancient Iranian tradition, is angry at the shah, Ka’us, for rebuking him unjustly:

The hero Rostam was amazed at the king: “Do not nurse such fires in the depths of your heart! Each one of your acts is as bad as the next: You are clearly not worthy of true sovereignty.” He went out in a rage and mounted his steed. “I am the killer of lions, the giver of crowns. When I am angry, then who is this shah Ka’us? Why does he reach for me? Who is his henchman Toos? The earth below is my servant, and my steed, my throne; The mace is my signet, and the helmet my crown. I light the dark night with the thrust of my blade; I scatter men’s heads on the fields of battle. The point of the spear and the blade are my friends; These two arms and this heart I own as my king. Why does he harass me? I am not his slave. I am the slave of the one Creator alone.”

One of the prisoners had begun to beat the marching, warlike rhythm of Ferdowsi’s lines on the frame of his cot, the way drums are beaten while Ferdowsi is recited in “houses of strength” [zurkhaneh] where wrestlers exercise. Suddenly they heard a guard coming up a staircase toward their corridor, and for a second they were silent. Then, against the sound of advancing footsteps, a strong, steady voice recited the gentler rhythm of a poem by Mowlana:

Like Jacob I am uttering cries of grief, I desire the fair face of Joseph of Canaan. By God, without You the city is a prison to me; Over mountain and desert I desire to wander. In one hand the wine cup, in the other, the tresses of the Beloved, Such a dance in the marketplace is my desire. My heart is weary of these weak-spirited traveling companions; I desire the Lion of God and Rostam, the son of Zal.

It was the voice of Parviz, [Ali's childhood friend]. The guard started to pound a stick on an iron railing and shouted, “Keep quiet, keep quiet!” Ali suddenly didn’t care what the man was saying; he knew that whatever happened, he would recite two more lines of this poem:

The bread and water of destiny is like a treacherous flood; I am a great fish and the sea of Oman is my desire. My soul has grown weary of Pharaoh and his tyranny; The light of the countenance of Moses, son of Imran, is my desire—

The guard now slammed his stick on the door of Ali’s cell and yelled, “What kind of fool are you? I told you—keep quiet!” and he hit the door a few times for emphasis. Ali kept quiet, but inside him there was a kind of humming and vibration of life...

One 1971 night in a prison of Pahlavi Iran, as described in The Mantle of the Prophet, Roy Mottahedeh

[vipaeris]

            When you light a candle, you also cast a shadow [ ... ] Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it. [ ... ] And I was in the darkness so darkness I became.

      (  @sageson  )  𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐝 : "do you care about me?"

      there it was. it had taken him a while to build up the courage to ask. many a nightly chat with rogu too. this never leaving feeling in his chest that despite all the scientific aid in keeping his clone child alive, there a sense of avoidance in him to fully embrace his existence. the longer mitsuki spent time with boruto the more it dawned on him just how different his family was from his friend's.

      "you say you love me. but you avoid me." it was a strong accusation that the child was aware of. he worded it like that on purpose. boruto once said that to get an emotional reaction out of someone, accusing them of something false could do it. but it included the risk of further rejection. mitsuki didn't really care either way. he wanted to see just how emotional orochimaru could be.

      As much as he'd like to say it was a surprising question, it was not. Orochimaru had an inkling that some sort of existential storm was slowly brewing inside his youngest, and it would be only a matter of time before the rainfall began. It seemed that the time had come, such an accusation posed so sweetly from the voice of the child that held half of Orochimaru's sanity by simply existing. ❛  Of course I care about you,  ❜  he responded, turning around to look at his child, inky black hair billowing around him, gracefully following his every movement.

      ❛  You're my child, my precious son. Of course I care about you and love you dearly.  ❜  As he had cared for and loved every child he had ever raised, though Orochimaru understood where the child's doubts came from, it had been much the same with many people who lived long enough to be around him. They did not understand him well enough to understand his love for them. And while Orochimaru wasn't often one to explain himself, Mitsuki was one of the few who got to see this side of him. The side willing to expose his own ways and weaknesses. ❛  Love however, comes in many forms, Mitsuki.  ❜

      Orochimaru's voice was soft, warm in its whispery tones as he spoke to the boy he had created. A little moon to grace the land that he himself had made.  ❛  What you call avoidance, is simply my way of allowing you freedom to come and go and do as you please.  ❜  Orochimaru had no desire to keep his child locked up, shackled to him like a prisoner despite how much he missed him when he was away.  He wanted Mitsuki to be free, to know the world around him through his own eyes, and not what Orochimaru thought right or wrong. Though perhaps that wasn't what the boy wanted, and Orochcimaru had to admit he failed to account for that.

      ❛  Despite my wishes of having you here by my side, I know you've grown very fond of your teammates,  ❜  Orochimaru walked to the nearest chair and sat down, utmost grace to every move. ❛  I was under the impression that you'd rather be with them than to be here with me. That is why I've always made our meetings and interactions very brief.  ❜   

      Orochimaru's golden eyes gazed at the young boy, a small smile taking hold of his delicate features as it dawned on him just how much his little boy had grown up. ❛  Then again, this is the first time you've reached out to me, Mitsuki,  ❜ the snake sage lifted a well groomed brow, and the gentle smiled turned into a teasing smirk. ❛  Would it be fair of me to accuse you of avoidance as well?  ❜