#t: visage of the masks

[theunknownmasks]

Source

[theunknownmasks]

@sacredpyre

nothing like a good stretch for the first time in centuries

(Part 2 of this comic!)

[vendettavalor]

// LOOK AT HIM GOOOO!

[milkbobatyun]

the emperor's mistakes

pairing: michael kaiser x reader

genre: angstober, events

summary: he let his anger get the better of him again and once more you were the one he directed his anger towards

word count: 968

C O N T E N T W A R N I N G : injury, implied abuse

a/n: for you @nfekwefdskldm cus you're such a big kaiser simp smh

at the kitchen counter, a pile of steaming dishes in front of you as you sat, staring listlessly into the flickering flame, waiting for michael to come back. in the midst of the banquet sat a singular blue rose in its crystal vase—a flower michael had gotten you last week, to apologise for another fight the two of you had.

the old grandfather clock ticked away, steady like a heartbeat. it was almost 10, way past the time that michael normally came home. your hand itched to call him on your phone, but the memory of last time made your breath hitch in your throat. his fury echoed in your ears: “stop being such a busybody.”

he had come home after with fire burning in his eyes, screaming at you, his words blending into a blur of rage and hurtfulness. as if the verbal assault wasn’t enough to satisfy his anger, he had raised his hand against you. to this day, your cheek bore the scar where his ring had cut deeply into the flesh.

the flame flickered, throwing shadows that danced and taunted you across the walls. you couldn’t go to bed early, he expected you to greet him at the door after all. each second passed with a mix of fear and baited breath.

you were about to doze off, the quiet ambience lulling you to sleep, when you heard the jangling of keys at the front door. 

sliding down the bar stool, you padded to the door, quietly greeting kaiser as he entered. but just one glance from him and your words died in your throat. his face was thunderous, frustration emulating from his visage. the look sent a shiver of fear down your spine, as you bowed your head and averted your eyes, shrinking into yourself to make yourself unnoticeable.

it was best if you didn’t anger him further tonight, yet no matter what you did, it seemed to tick him off even further.

he stalked past you wordlessly, slamming the door as he entered his study.

under your breath, you counted silently to 3 before you heard the tell-tale sign of kaiser’s anger. the muffled thuds of books falling to the floor, intertwined with the tingle of pens created a symphony of fury, conducted by the egoist himself.

sighing, you sat down on the large couch, hoping he would calm down soon. on the kitchen table, the food slowly grew cold.

10 minutes, 20 minutes, half an hour passed before the house was finally silent again.

you gave yourself some time before taking in a deep breath and calming your jittering nerves. your worries were rational, no one knew what this wild beast would do in his fits of rage.

tentatively, you knocked on his door. once, twice, thrice. you called out his name, still no answer. you reached out a shaking hand, turning the cold doorknob, adrenaline coursing through your veins.

the chaos of scattered papers and pens, discarded paper weights and overturned chairs were strewn about the room, the remainder of a hurricane. in the eye of the storm, kaiser sat, slumped in his chair, his hands buried in his hair, quietly muttering words of german in anger.

hearing the door open, kaiser’s head shot up, frustration an ugly mask on his face.

“get out!” he roared, slamming his fist on the table. “get out! get out! get out!”

you were too slow for his liking, so he grabbed a nearby book, throwing it in your direction.

time seemed to slow, as you watched the heavy, bound book fly towards your face. pain exploded in bright hot bursts where the corner ripped through your skin, blood flowing freely down your temple.

surprise was etched on your face, as you reached out a trembling hand to your head, fingers staining with your blood. still in a state of white shock, you closed the door with a gentle click.

the door locked away the wrath of kaiser’s anger, but it still echoed in the silence. the sting of the book had turned into a dull throbbing, a ghostly trail of rusted blood on your face.

stumbling into the bathroom, you caught a glimpse of yourself. how had the bright-eyed, cheerful you, turned into this life-less, pathetic ghost of a shell?

gently, you disinfected your wound, hissing at the singing pain that ran through you.

back in the living room, you lowered yourself onto the couch, exhaustion weighing you down. you were tired, you wanted to sleep. to rest. forever seemed like a long enough time.

you were tired of this relationship. you wanted to be free, but your tender heart and lovesick brain believed you could change him for the better. how naïve.

when kaiser had calmed down from his fury, he began picking up the objects strewn around the room.

as he bent to pick down the book lying in front of the door, his fingers came away sticky and coated in blood. your blood.

guilt twisted and gnawed at his insides. once again, he had caused you pain. he was so weak-minded, every time anger consumed him like a flame, you were always the one to bear the brunt of his fury. the bitter taste of defeat was on his tongue.

 every time, he promised that he would do better, rein in the anger, but his temper always won. he was weak to anger, quick to give up. that was not the way an emperor should act.

it was also not the way an emperor should treat his empress, he thought bitterly. once again, his fury had caused you to be hurt. how could he make it up to you this time?

for once, he suspected that no matter how grand, how sincere his apologies were, it may never be enough.

taglist (open): @leehanscorydora, @pastelmitzuki, @nfekwefdskldm

∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳)  © curated with love by milkbobatyun 2024 / づ ♡

[theunknownmasks]

@immolatiism

🦊 Kurama🌹Different Outfits

(I do not own the photos.)

[ninibeingdelulu]

It’s raining ✧

Plot: Training under the pouring rain for an upcoming mission, Lt Ghost find you.

It was pouring down but you couldn't have cared less, not when this upcoming mission could be the biggest of your career. You'd trained relentlessly, determined to be in peak condition.

Even now, wearing only a thin white t-shirt and shorts, you pushed through the brutal regimen - squats, push-ups, sit-ups - the rain plastering your clothes to your body.

So focused on your routine that you didn't realize the way that soaked shirt was practically see-through, clinging shamelessly to the curves of your breasts with every movement.

Rivulets of water traced along your skin as you panted heavily. That's when a low, gruff voice cut through the rhythmic pounding of the rain.

"That's enough for today, soldier."

You spun around, eyes widening as you found Lieutenant Ghost observing you with that inscrutable stare through his skull patterned balaclava.

"Sir, I can keep going-" you argued, unable to read his expression besides those intense eyes drinking you in from behind the mask.

"Not in this downpour," he growled.

"Unless you're aiming to get sick before deployment." His tone made it clear this wasn't up for debate.

With a huff, you opened your mouth to protest again but any words dissipated as Ghost suddenly closed the distance between you both.

His gloved hand clamped firmly around your arm, hauling you under the cramped cover of a nearby supply tent. You stumbled against his solid frame, heartbeat picking up from the unexpected contact.

Now enclosed in the tiny dimly lit tent, you were acutely aware of Ghost's overwhelming presence as the two of you stood mere inches apart, rain drumming on the thin canopy overhead.

Your gaze lifted defiantly to meet that masked visage but you felt your breath catch in your throat. Just his close proximity and that piercing stare was enough to set your nerves buzzing with inexplicable tension.

Ghost's focus drifted lower, darkly intent, and you followed the path of his hungry roaming eyes as they raked shamelessly over the contours of your chest where the waterlogged white fabric left nothing to the imagination.

You could have sworn you felt the ghost of his touch searing over your breasts despite the distance between you.

Then, with a single lurching step forward that had you instinctively backpedaling until you hit the tent's rear wall, Ghost leaned in so close you could feel the heat of his body through the soaked layers separating you.

"That's an order," he rumbled in a dangerously low tone close to your ear, voice rough like gravel.

"Don't let me catch you training in conditions like that again, soldier. Not unless you want circumstances to become... unpleasant for you."

You could only give a mute, flustered nod of understanding, rendered speechless under the building intensity smoldering in the confines of that tiny tent.

Ghost held your wide-eyed stare a beat longer before stepping back abruptly.

"Get dried off."

He instructed gruffly, reaching past you to snag a discarded jacket draped over a crate.

He tossed the bundle at you without ceremony before turning on his heel and ducking back out into the downpour without a backwards glance.

Leaving you flushed and flustered, chest heaving with undeniable arousal and stark realization of how fraught with tension this op had just become.

[talonabraxas]

For mind is like a mirror; it gathers dust while it reflects. It needs the gentle breezes of Soul-wisdom to brush away the dust of our illusions. Seek, O Beginner, to blend thy Mind and Soul. - The Voice of the Silence

The Mirror That Divides 𓂀 𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℂ𝕦𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕠𝕣 𓂀 @psyhiris

"Last night I had a very strange dream, perhaps a dream within a dream. I found myself, I know not how, gliding down a long hallway. Mirrors lined its walls - or were they windows? - I am not sure, but it scarcely seemed to matter, for the effect was one of myriad moonlit corridors ramifying out, each as inviting yet baffling as the next. As I turned towards any one of them, I confronted a surprising variation of my own reflected image, as though each stood at the entrance of a gallery belonging to a different life. And yet I easily recognized them as myself and was strangely moved to see them facing me, reflecting forgotten masks or even visages yet to be. One after another of these I passed, silently moving along the hallway towards a door at its end that stood partially open. Or was it a reflection of a door, for surely there was a figure approaching me from its moonlit portal and surely that figure resembled me. Was it a reflection of the door through which I had entered the hall? Or was the door through which I had entered merely a reflection of the one ahead? Even as this possibility crossed my dreaming mind I shuddered, for the more urgent question of whether I myself had entered the hallway in a reflected form presented itself. Or was the form in which I found myself indeed the original, whose reflection now approached so precisely in step and rhythm with the movement I was making towards it? Was the I that observed all these forms, these corridors of mirrored vistas, aloof from all this coming and going, or was it too a reflection of something else?"

Seeming to have come to the end of his narrative, the speaker turned to examine its effect upon the face of his listener. While describing the dream, he had been gazing off intently in an abstracted way, almost oblivious to the presence of his comrade, but now he saw that the latter had listened well and followed him in his imagination along the haunting corridor of mirrors. The listener might have initially dismissed the dream, treating it like a sort of poetic funhouse excursion, where one is confronted with a series of distorted self-images and rooms with mirrored walls leading nowhere, but the serious manner in which his friend had conveyed its details to him caused him to pause. Still, he tried to tease him into a lighter mood, reminding him of the mirrored stagecraft practised by trick artists and carnival hucksters with their ghostly apparitions and magic cabinets. He spoke of the time they saw the half-woman, whose normal upper body ended abruptly at a waist resting upon a table, under whose thin unembellished top one could plainly see only four simple table legs, the carpet and the drape at the back of the stage. It had taken them a considerable length of time to figure out how the trick had been done entirely with mirrors. But the light-hearted reminiscence did not succeed in diverting the dreamer, and so his friend launched into an earnest discussion about the use of glaces à répétitions in architecture, hoping thereby to engage his intellectual curiosity. Perhaps an academic consideration of the wonderful mirrored halls at Versailles or the Amalienburg Pavilion in Munich would coax his mind away from the somehow disturbing images of his strange dream.

Launching into an enthusiastic description of mirrors opposite mirrors, creating oblique views of windows and doors leading the eye out along foliaged parkways or into rooms with other mirrors, the listener sought to capture the imagination of the dreamer. He tried to drag him out of the shadow realm into what he fancied to be waking reality, like a director leading the audience out of a play which takes place within a play. But he made the mistake of speaking of architectural decoys and disguises and of rounding off his point with an allusion to ghosts that haunt the hallways of mirrors, while far in the distance a true reflection looms of something real which is very close at hand. As soon as the words escaped his lips, he saw the shadow of abstraction eclipse the dreamer's face and was forced to admit defeat. Narcissus-like, his friend had become once again absorbed in the mirror of his dream. Something fundamental concerning the problem of individual identity and levels of reality had been touched in him, and the listener perceived at last that either he would have to withdraw altogether or join his friend in a meandering and probing reflection upon the subject of mirrors.

The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight to its own resemblance find; Yet it creates transcending these, For other worlds and other seas, Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. - Andrew Marvell

The mirror is the symbol par excellence of consciousness, of thought as an instrument of self-contemplation. In the mirror is reflected the formal reality of the visible world from which the imagination soars to mirror yet loftier possibilities in itself. In the mirror appearances find their champion, reflections of discontinuities, changes and substitutions, everything that is ephemeral and of the world. It is a reminder that all images and forms are mere reflections, contrivances of thought, effects of karma. Nature herself is an apparition, deceiving and charming and filling one with dreams of longing for the things of the senses. The deceptions can be very subtle and need not be limited to such things as the magic box trick or the wiles of Nature. Plato pointed out how the Sophists, with their use of reason, created 'semblances', like images in mirrors which duped people into deceptively false lines of reflected thought. For the mirror of the mind can be likened to the capacity to think, making it all important that one use noetic discrimination in selecting the ideas to be reflected upon. The mind reflects the ideas and images which are before it and which originate at many different levels within and without the individual, each level itself a reflection of something else. The dust gathered on the mirror of the mind dims the ability to discriminate and refracts further reflections that join the semblances and fragmented images gathered from outside, combining to create a collage of misleading impressions.

The physical mirror into which mankind routinely gazes is usually a shiny surface of flat glass with a metallic backing. The bright silvery backing is really the essence of the mirror, and the main function of the glass is simply to protect and stabilize it. Early mirrors did not possess this glass cover but were made of the highly polished metal itself, competing successfully in clarity of reflection with water mirrors. Beautiful hand-mirrors fashioned by the Etruscans were carved with the motifs of gods and goddesses and given as highly valued gifts at times marking major rites of passage. Metallic mirrors of ancient China were likewise coveted, their presumed ability to reflect the image of deities of all sorts causing them to be used in many magical practices as well as for toiletry. With the invention of Venetian glass, European mirrors became increasingly large. The simple mixture of sand, soda and lime was refined in a highly guarded secret process, enabling craftsmen to press large flat sheets upon mercury and silver backings. The Hall of Mirrors at Versailles was designed to accommodate three hundred such mirrors, setting a fashion which promoted the manufacturing of plate glass in 1687.

The stunning amplification of light and the opening up of reflected vistas by the use of mirrors led to remarkable architectural innovations which must have had a profound psychological effect upon people enjoying such surroundings. A whole language of mirrors came into being when individuals spoke to each other's image in mirrors and watched each other's as well as their own behaviour in reflecting panes, providing many simultaneous dimensions to every movement or gesture. The illusion of individuals meeting themselves walking into rooms, the déjà vu effect of things recapitulating themselves over and over again, of people coming when they are going, of walls seeming to be windows and doors - all this became part of a reflected reality accepted as normal and, somehow, real. Perhaps because Voltaire sensed the importance of this in terms of its effect upon the collective human experience, he considered the mirror (together with printing, the telescope, gunpowder and the compass) to be one of the truly great discoveries of mankind.

A regular or specific reflection such as one sees in a mirror requires a very smooth surface on which all irregularities have been rendered smaller than a wavelength of reflected light. The surface must be very bright in order to absorb as little and reflect as much light as possible. According to the laws of reflection, the incident ray from an object strikes the mirror and bounces off its surface at an equal angle in the opposite direction. Owing to the highly reflective nature of the surface, the reflected light-energy bouncing off it can be said to contain the same message as the incident ray. Nothing has been absorbed so as to 'restructure' the energy flow, and the observer sees the image of the original in precise detail, right down to the necessary 'reversal' that has taken place. The image of an object seen in a plane mirror is as far 'behind' the mirror as the object is in front of it. This behind-the-mirror image or virtual image is actually at a vanishing point, existing only as a theoretical vertex of the reflection angle. Whilst the plane mirror gives an image that is the reversal of an object, two plane mirrors at right angles can eliminate this reversal. With two such mirrors set at a ninety-degree angle to one another, three images are seen; set at a sixty-degree angle, five images present themselves. One can see that, whether in terms of conjuring tricks, architectural illusions or semblances of the mind, the ramifying possibilities represented by the physical and symbolic mirror are infinite.

Yet within that plane, the illusion of infinity can be contained. - Pamela Heyne

What might be called mirroring power is in essence the ability to make things appear similar on or within something which is quite dissimilar. Thus the mirror is an excellent symbol for analogies and the evocative poetry of correspondences. In the face of a great astronomical mirror one sees the heavenly bodies captured, as it were, their enormous light-energy reflected upon a few inches of glass. Thus observatory telescopes, like that containing the seventeen-foot concave disc at Mount Palomar, are not lenses but reflecting paraboloids which can bring the far-travelled light-rays of outer space into a single focus. Despite this awesome capability, however, the mirror, with its silvery backing, is symbolically associated with the moon, which receives light and passively reflects it. Having no image of its own, its ability to reflect depends upon the presence of an object to be reflected. There is no selective process involved nor does it seem to possess a power in and of itself. And yet the moon does exert an independent influence upon the earth, which is far from passive, and one may wonder if this capability might also in some mysterious way be true of the mirror. One may question whether its proverbial reputation for revealing truth or exposing evil is based only upon some material sense of reflected revelation, the observed glint in the eye or shadow across the face.

The Japanese kagami (mirror of accusation) is said to reveal both truth and evil, but the fact that it is also believed capable of being entered into by a deity would suggest that what was revealed was something more than just a physical phenomenon reflected in a glass. More fundamental to the question of whether the mirror is in itself powerful is the assumption made by magicians and conjurors of widely diverse cultures that the mirror serves to invoke apparitions, reflecting images which it has received in the past. The Etruscans considered that once a mirror had held an individual's double, it would be imprudent to leave it lying around after his death, and so it was entombed in the sarcophagus with the remains.

The implications of such an idea are vast and potentially alarming. If one believed that every act that one had engaged in before a mirror, even unwittingly, was permanently contained in it and capable of being invoked by some conjuror, no doubt one would become extremely self-conscious of everything one did and very careful to act in a manner creditable to oneself. Though few individuals are haunted with this concern in the modern world, it was not long ago that most people turned mirrors to the wall or covered them up when someone had died so that the soul of the deceased would not be drawn to and linger within the mirror. They were concerned to assist in a clean separation between the immortal being and the vestures left behind, and they also feared that their own well-being could be affected by a failure in this process. One may not care to believe that the mirror into which one gazes becomes permanently stamped with one's image or some aspect of one's inner being, but for the apprentice in spiritual alchemy the similarity between this and the great astral tablet of Nature is most striking. It might strike a thoughtful individual that the mirror, like the astral light, is not reflecting upon an image in an active or contemplative sense, but simply receiving it, containing it and reflecting it back. Thus mirrors 'entered' by gods are reflecting surfaces off which a reflected aspect of that being can reveal itself, the projector of the image remaining invisible. But mirrors from which 'stored' images are conjured 'contain' the subtle impresses of innumerable 'photo negatives' which are invisible to the physical eye but capable of being 'developed' with the assistance of the magician.

Oh Kitty, how nice it would be if we could only get through into the Looking Glass House! I'm sure it's got, oh! such beautiful things in it! Let's pretend there's a way of getting through into it, somehow, Kitty. Let's pretend the glass has got all soft like gauze, so we can get through. - Lewis Carroll

Some have seen the mirror as a symbol of a door through which the soul may free itself by 'passing' to the other side, whilst others have seen it as the gateway to the realm of inversion. The anticipated inversion can be accounted for much like the interpreters of dreams do when they say that left means right and black means white. The dream, like the mirror, is still important as a reflection of something which eludes the sense-oriented waking eye. Again, the mirror presents two aspects of itself: one leading through to another world, the other capturing and reflecting back. The ritual of interring mirrors with the dead as practised by the ancient Egyptians and Etruscans combines both of these ideas in a meaningful way, for they believed that the mirror could contain the soul and carry it to a new birth. Thus they thought that the mirror, during the life of an individual, could reflect the condition of the soul (exposing both truth and evil), and at death it could act as a sort of doorway through which the soul was liberated, while at the same time storing the impress of its residual elements. This idea easily lent itself to grosser interpretations and practices, but one can see in it a dim reflection of subtler metaphysical teachings regarding states of after-life and skandaic residues impressed on the timeless astral light,

Amidst quickly flashing mirrors and reflections, past, present and future collide and interpose themselves on one another. It is often said that time is the mirror of passing events, but it is also the progeny of the mirror of Nature itself. Thus Merlin, gazing into his mirror which reflected the whole world, could see into the past and future alike. A clairvoyant gazing into a mirror sees a smaller world, perhaps, but one which is still less grounded in sequential physical events and therefore capable of reflecting things that have happened in the past or are yet to be. Perhaps this is what the dreamer glimpsed when he saw visages of himself in different lives gazing at him along the mirrored hallway of his dream. He saw them out of the corner of his eye, as it were, which is how signs and visions in the astral light might present themselves. His dream had that oblique or indirect quality as though afforded by the angled mirrors of the mind that permit, for a flashing instant, a penetrating glimpse of a reflected truth. He was left with an afterglow, a haunting and dreamlike sense of having come into incontrovertible confrontation with some great, potentially all-embracing, revelation about himself and the selves of others.

God is the mirror in which thou seest thyself as thou art his mirror. - Ibn Al-'Arabi

The universe is the mirror of God. . . . Man is the mirror of the universe. - Ibn Al-Nasafi

Like Plato and the great poet-mystics of the Islamic tradition, many have seen the world in terms of a series of reflections of the ideal. In our time Vladimir Nabokov has characterized this in terms of a sort of 'thievery', wherein everything in the world had 'captured' its nature by mirroring something which existed on a less phenomenal plane. One of his characters speaks of himself as "the shadow of the waxwing slain by the false azure of the window pane". He is like the persona regarding the reflection of the persona in the mirror and somewhere suspecting that the persona itself is but a reflection of something else. If God is a mirror, as the Islamic poet says, then who is man, the thinker, to say that he is more than a reflection? And yet man can reflect upon God as a mirror and thus see himself as the mirror of God. If the whole of manifest existence is a hierarchy of reflections which man is capable of reflecting upon, then he is like the dreamer who enters a vast hall of mirrors and gazes along them, trying to see what is at the end of the hall. It is this Platonic notion of hierarchical reflections which lays the basis for all sympathetic magic and lends such a penetrating force to thought based upon analogy and correspondence and the consideration of symbols. In these terms the whole cosmos could be considered as a composite Narcissus in the act of contemplating its own reflection, and man, the microcosm, as truly capable of reflecting deeply upon the cosmic re-enactment.

The dreamer reflects upon a dream wherein a reflection of reflected aspects of reality is mirrored. The wholeness of his multi-level existence is broken into refracted images and yet wholeness is somehow suggested, insofar as a sequence of superimposed pictures can reflect a whole which has no limit or beginning or end. The reflector reflecting upon the reflection of himself does so in coadunition with matter suitable to such a detached and liberated state. Thus such insights are experienced in dreams or in visions wherein the mind is freed from identification with the body and its senses. Even so, the reflector must beware of the flattering or distorting mirrors of many such states. For in trances and psychic dreams reflections may be magnified, reduced or fragmented by dust gathered on the mind's mirror, which itself may be tarnished, clouded or cracked. Perseus may have been protected from the curse of Medusa by gazing at her only in a mirror, but mirrors can be very tricky, and instead of removing the danger by one notch, they may actually deceive the observer and lead him into endless corridors of delusion. One has to be calmly assured that the mind is continually cleansed with "the gentle breezes of Soul-wisdom" so that one will know if the reflection one sees reflects a deeper truth or merely deceives. As in the case of the physical mirror, one must take care that all irregularities are removed and a very fine and smooth surface maintained in order to produce a clear, specific reflection.

There is within A glass, they say, that has strange qualities in it; That shall resolve me. I will into see, Whether or no I man or monster be. - Thomas Randolph

One may come to learn to what extent the outer body may reflect the soul within. An animal which sees its image in a mirror thinks that it is looking at another animal. Man, looking at his own image, knows that it is a reflection of himself but cannot necessarily tell if his reflection faithfully mirrors his inner condition. The experiments of John Dee showed that any evil intent would reveal itself in mirrors. Many human beings brush shoulders with evil daily and even look into its face but do not always sense that there is something amiss. It is not surprising then that many look into the mirror and fail to perceive the true inward condition of their incarnated soul. Socrates taught that it was an excellent practice to regard oneself regularly in a looking-glass in order to gain self-knowledge. Parents can often be startled by penetrating glimpses of their own inner nature when looking at the mirror of self represented by their children. Sometimes these revelations may happen in the most unexpected and fleeting ways. One may be walking down a busy street and suddenly catch one's own image amidst the crowd as it is reflected in a shop mirror. This can be a strangely moving experience, jolting one into seeing one's own form as merely typical of the human condition: one small human being cast by karma into the vast sea of humanity at a particular time and place. One thus experiences afresh a vividly distinctive glimpse of the collective psychological effect wrought by mirrors.

I'll read enough, When I do see the very book indeed Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself. Give me the glass, and therein will I read. - William Shakespeare

Unlike Richard II, who was dismayed to find that he could not discover a congruence between his inner and outer condition, one can gradually learn to identify clues revealed by one's eyes reflected back in a mirror. Eyes which are said to be the windows of the soul are also its mirrors. Just as people contemplate themselves reflected in the mirror of another's eyes, so the individual seeks to find what lies behind the reflected light by considering the mirror image of these mirrors. If this is done each day, one may come to notice subtle changes in the quality of light emitted by the eyes as well as in the colour and clarity of focus. Checking this with one's state of thoughts, emotional and physical condition and the quality of meditative efforts will slowly reveal a portrait of an inner condition. Just as another's folly can act as a mirroring of one's own, so too one's own reflected stance, one's image caught unawares or the eyes studied over a period of time can teach volumes about one's condition and what one should do to modify it.

All too often individuals act from the basis of a grossly limiting idea of Nature and the Self. On such a basis they conclude that they are great, good, bad, happy, miserable, beautiful, etc. The truth is that they are actually none of these but simply involved in combinations of qualities that take on certain appearances. These appearances involve the effects of the three gunas impressed variously upon elementals, which then become living mirrors in which man views and experiences himself on levels below the plane of the fourth principle. Peering into the mirror of the tamasic world, an individual perceives an image of himself which is dark and sluggish. That of the rajasic realm reflects back myriad desires and urges to action which he will assuredly identify as springing from the innermost core of his being. So native to his inner self will these urgent desires seem that he will deem it unnatural and soul-killing to deny their fulfilment. So also, upon gazing into the mirror of sattvic elementals, ordinary men or women will see themselves as happy, content and blissfully wise. They will be filled with a glowing satisfaction with themselves and with things as they are, until the wind shifts and the tamasic or rajasic mirror rises uppermost into view. As has rightly been pointed out, "the ordinary man is so negative and passive in his attitude that the mere vicissitudes of circumstances, or the praise and blame of others, is sufficient to change his polarity in relation to any given state and totally alter his idea of self".

To overcome this slavish condition, one needs to develop the positive mirroring power which exists within the mind. In the development of an inner dialectic process, one can sift through experiences and thoughts, the thesis reflected in one mirror, re-reflected as antithesis in another, and transcended as synthesis at a higher level of self-reflection. A Master of Wisdom once said that one has to acquire Paramartha - true Self-consciousness -if one is to understand the origin of delusion. Paramartha is Svasatnvedana, "the reflection which analyses itself". In the Stanzas of Dzyan the pre-manifest state when the Alaya of the universe was in Paramartha is spoken of. Paramartha is enigmatically described as Absolute Being and Consciousness, which are Absolute Non-Being and Unconsciousness. But if one examines the etymology of the term (parama meaning 'above everything' and artha meaning 'comprehension'), together with the meaning of its synonym, Svasamvedana, one can begin to perceive the outlines of an archetypal mirroring process. Alaya which was "in Paramartha" is the "Soul of the World". It is identical with Akasha in its mystical sense and with Mulaprakriti in its essence. Eternal and changeless in its pre-manifested essence, Alaya alters during manifestation with respect to the lower planes, where it reflects itself in every object of Nature. Thus it is not Nirvana but the condition nearest to it. It is both the universal Soul and the Self of a progressed Adept. According to the Yogacharya school, Paramartha is reflective and therefore dependent upon that which is noumenal to it. It is not Parinishpanna, which is emptiness, but that which reflects and analyses its own reflection. Parinishpanna without Paramartha is described as extinction for seven eternities, implying that Paramartha is the first expression of the self-conscious potential, the glimmering reflection of the mirror of mind at the dawn of manifestation. Alaya is merely the upadhi of this self-analyzing capability, the lofty universally present Soul which will contain the flashing spark of the reflected light of pure Spirit.

The journey of one who would reach the threshold of spiritual self-knowledge may begin with a dream of mirrored hallways. In waking life such an aspirant can gradually come to see every experience as a mirror in which something critical about his own inner nature is reflected. Slowly he can establish a distance between himself as a spectator and the reflected aspects of his thinking processes, his personality and other outward expressions. Wisely he comes to understand that the great astral tablet of Nature has surrounded him continually along his journey with its reflections of impressed photo negatives, and he has learnt to discriminate between them and the reflections of the highest truth which analyses only itself. Knowing that the mirror of his mind must be blended with the soul of Truth, he ever keeps before his gaze the loftiest reflected idea of the Master within. Walking down the hallway of mirrors, gathering oblique glimpses of his history as a soul and of his future potential, the aspirant approaches the image walking towards him which is himself. Not by any external characteristic does he know this, nor by likeness to his own form, but by a recognition of the Master who has guided him in secret and who now reaches out to him and merges with his own Higher Self. The concave mirror of his own heart focusses clearly the dazzling light of that solar Serf and he becomes a perfect mediator of Divine Will, his mind and heart reflecting the cosmic harmony of its design.

Amidst flashing glass The soul is glimpsed, And mirrors its Discovered Joy.

[omenfailure]

I need to spread more Volcano Manor propaganda, especially of Rykard and Tanith. I enjoy their dynamic and I believe they're the only couple that is actually, romantically, in love.

We know that Rykard met Tanith during an expedition in a "foreign land" and Tanith was initially a dancer.

"Long ago, when Rykard first set eyes on Tanith, she was working as a dancer in a foreign land. Soon, he made her his consort. She was the only human to remain by his side when he became the serpent of blasphemy. In that moment, Tanith was truly charmed by him."

Consort's Mask

In the Shadow of the Erdtree, they introduce the Ranah dancers. Not much is known about them, aside from their fiery passion and dedication.

"Bright-red hood of the Ranah dancers. Enhances the power of dancing attacks. The dance of Ranah is one of burning passion, and the most passionate dancers never allow their fiery dance to end, losing even their names as they dance on. To see the passion fade is to see the dancer's flame extinguished."

Dancer's Hood

After the Shattering, Rykard fed himself and his Golden Rune to the blasphemous serpent, becoming one. Tanith was offered the Tonic of Forgetfulness to purge herself of her memories of Rykard. She declined, claiming there was no greater distress than to forget him.

"Tonic in a small brass vial. Banishes distress and bitter memories. A gift bestowed by Rykard, sworn to blasphemy, to Lady Tanith, who unfortunately had no use for it. "My Lord, there could be no greater distress than to forget you.""

Tonic of Forgetfulness

Even upon Rykard's death, she stayed by his side, consuming him and wishing to host him once more.

Speaking to Tanith in Rykard's chamber.

"Dear Rykard, please find purchase within me," "I wish to be your serpent; your family." "One day, let us devour the gods together."

Tanith upon death.

"Oh, Rykard…" "Let me be your serpent…"

She ruled alongside Rykard during all of this, led the Recusants and took on a motherly role for Zorayas, who received an illusory human form to continue living as a human, unbeknownst to being a man-serpent.

Daedicar is presumably Rya's birth mother, as Rya drops Daedicar's Woe after Rykard has been slain.

"Disturbing likeness of a woman whose skin was flayed. She smiles with a serene tenderness. Increases damage taken. It is said that this woman, named Daedicar, indulged in every form of adultery and wicked pleasure imaginable, giving birth to a myriad of grotesque children."

Daedicar's Woe

A key item, Serpent's Amnion which is part of Rya's questline is found on the Temple of Eiglay. (Eglė the Queen of Serpents is a Lithuanian folk tale, as well.)

"Amnion from the mother's womb which cradled the poor unwanted offspring of a repellant birthing ritual. It will never dry out, remaining damp indefinitely."

Serpent's Amnion

I'm not gonna go over Rya's entire questline, but here's some key dialogue touching on Tanith and Rya.

Discovering Zorayas.

"Lady Tanith is my mother." "I am told I was born by the grace of a glorious king." "That my mother cherishes this form I inhabit." "I am proud of what I am." [...]

If talked to again.

"My serpentine form, and the name Zorayas," "were secrets known only to Lady Tanith and I." "Now I share the secrets with you, as well."

Asking Tanith about Zorayas.

Did you see her? The girl, Rya…with her true face. ... Well, if she confided in you the name Zorayas, then perhaps it is not my place to speak. But as her adoptive mother, I ask of you. Please, be kind to her. Look after young Zorayas. Her true visage belies the purity of her heart.… Honestly, I hardly deserve the sweet child.

When you give Rya the Serpent's Amnion near the end of the questline, she says as follows:

"I remember this scent, distinctly" "...." "Funny, isn't it." "I am certain of it. " "I was born inside this." "It's a part of my birth mother." "You have my gratitude." "Thanks to you, I am no longer afraid." "I want to know. How I was born, and met Lady Tanith." "One day, I hope to call her mother once again, this time from the bottom of my heart."

Rya sees Tanith as her mother, despite having her truth be shrouded for her entire life. When Rya seeks the truth of her origin and Volcano Manor, Tanith offers the Tonic of Forgetfulness to the Tarnished, the one thing she refused herself for so long. A last resort.

"May I ask your aid?" "Not as the Manor's proprietress, but as Zorayas' mother." "If she discovers the answer to her question," and it causes distress, have her drink this potion." "To purge that which would cause her pain."

Speaking to her after taking it.

"Yes, I know." "My wish is a grave disrespect to her." "No different than the Erdtree's imposition." "But I've no choice..." "It must be done."

After giving Rya the Tonic of Forgetfulness.

"Thank you, for allowing me this." "I will never be a good mother. " "My heart is too frail." "Our Lord must have known this all along." "My meekness is all too clear..." "Sweet Zorayas, have I earned your scorn?"

At the end of Rya's questline, if you let her life and abstain from giving her to Tonic of Forgetfulness, she leaves the Daedicar's Woe and Zorayas Letter, which reads:

Farewell letter written in an inexpert hand. "I wish to set out on a journey. So that one day, I can carry on Mother's work. Be the proud daughter of Tanith of Volcano Manor. Farewell. You've always been so kind. So uncompromising. My champion."

I don't have a lot to say aside from the fact I love the contrast of Tanith in Volcano Manor, being a human at the end of the day. She's a mother, she nurses Rya and cares for her as if she's her own. She loves her Lord. She knows she is loved, too.

She's not perfect, but I find her very real and very underrated. I adore her relationship to Rya and the level of respect they have for each other, yet acknowledging their own flaws and navigating the difficulties set upon them by Rykard's choice of blasphemy.

I likely missed some stuff and someday maybe I'll write something more in depth, but I wanted to explore what we already had readily available in the game.

[theunknownmasks]

MUSE BODY LANGUAGE

DEFENSIVENESS : arms crossed on chest // crossing legs // fist-like gestures // pointing index finger // karate chops // stiffening of shoulders // tense posture // curling of lip // baring of teeth

REFLECTIVE: hand-to-face gestures // head tilted // stroking chin // peering over glasses // taking glasses off — cleaning // putting earpiece of glasses in mouth // pipe smoker gestures // putting hand to the bridge of the nose // pursed lips // knitted brows

SUSPICION: arms crossed // sideways glance // touching or rubbing nose // rubbing eyes // hands resting on weapon // brows raising // lips pressing into a thin line // strict, unwavering eye contact // wrinkling of nose

OPENNESS & COOPERATION : open hands // upper body in sprinters position // leaning in closely // sitting on the edge of a chair // hand-to-face gestures // unbuttoned coat // tilted head // slacked shoulders // droopy/relaxed posture // feet pointed outward // palms flat and facing outward

CONFIDENCE : hands behind back // hands on lapels of coat // steepled hands // baring teeth in a grin // rolling shoulders // tipping head back but maintaining eye contact // chest puffed up // shoulders back // arms folded just above navel

INSECURITY & ANXIETY : chewing pen or pencil // rubbing thumb over opposite thumb // biting fingernails // hands in pockets // elbow bent // closed gestures // clearing throat // “ whew ” sound // picking or pinching flesh // fidgeting in chair // hand covering mouth whilst speaking // poor eye contact // tugging at pants whilst seated // jingling money in pockets // tugging at ear // perspiring hands // playing with hair // swaying // playing with pointer / marker // smacking lips // sighing // rocking on balls of feet // flexing fingers sporadically

FRUSTRATION: short breaths // “ tsk ” sounds // tightly-clenched hands // fist-like gestures // pointing index finger // running hand through hair // rubbing back of neck // snarling // revealing teeth / grimacing // sharp-eyed glowers with notable tension in the brows // shoulders back, head up - defensive posturing // clenching of jaw / grinding teeth // nostrils flaring // heavy exhales

tagged: @immolatiism

tagging: anyone who wants to steal!

[gremlinmodetweeker]

Lights Go Out I Wake Up

König is my sweet little baby and I love him dearly. Enjoy some more Phantom of the Opera!König as he watches reader. He's a bit creepy, but he's also my little creepy baby. Also, this story has a very different interpretation of Carlotta. I thought it might be nice to have women supporting women this time. Or well, one woman being a support. Anna, who you have yet to meet, is not so nice at all.

Also, König learns he has competition! He's not too happy about that.

Anyways,

No Content Warnings

Wordcount: 2.4k

Art from This Post

Story below the cut

Lights Go Out I Wake Up

You looked up in the balconies of the opera house expectantly. You tried to see if he was there. Maybe, if you were lucky, you might see a flap of his cape or a glimpse of the crimson ribbons of his mask. You desperately searched but, as always, it was to no avail.

You turned back to the stage where the primadonna was on center stage. She flicked her long blond tresses over her shoulder as she reached out to the audience, serenading them with her warbling soprano voice. You were drawn into the siren’s song, listening to each staccato note followed by a sweeping drop, each rise and fall of her tone as she sang out the tune to The Magic Flute. She attacked, she defended, she swooped and she swelled with the song as she traversed across the stage.

You smiled softly. You would never be like Carlotta, not in a thousand years. She was leagues above anyone in the house, hands down. Men traveled halfway across the world to bear witness to her voice and her visage. By the final notes of the song, the stage had been outlined with a row of roses, each bouquet from a different suitor fighting for her hand. Carlotta’s voice masterfully lulled each one of them into an enchanted hypnotic state. You followed her movements, trying your best to memorize each and every single flick of her fingers or swoop of her wine red dress as she sang out to the crowds. In that moment, Carlotta had placed the dagger in your hands and sang to you of rage, hatred, scorn. You, Pamina, watched as your mother told you her plans and urged you to slay the sorcerer. You watched her, her passion and beauty overwhelming as she came to a crescendo of the song, the make-or-break of the piece, the part that broke many a singer’s voice before.

Carlotta’s face was clear and relaxed as she hit the high notes, a beautiful crystal clear attack, receding briefly only to sharply hit it again and again before swaying onwards. One of the most brilliantly technical pieces of opera written for a soprano, and yet Carlotta seemed to be floating as she swept across the stage. She was above it all as she magically twisted the song to her delight.

As always, you were floored.

Carlotta was the greatest opera singer to ever come from the British Isles. At least, that was your opinion. The true beauty of Carlotta though was not her voice, nor was it her impeccable diamond-cut beauty. The beauty of Carlotta was her loving eye. She looked into the crowd and you could see her love for them in every smile she gave them. She was the queen of the stage and you would never dare to steal her title. As always, she looked at home here, presented for thousands to admire. She was the songbird of the Vienna State Opera, but this building was her cage.

When she had finished, she left the stage with tears in her eyes. You immediately took her in her arms and hushed her.

“I don’t want it to be over,” she sniffed as she held you tight.

“We’ll still keep in touch,” you assured her.

“We both know it’s not the same,” she held you tightly, then released you back to the darkness of the workshop.

“We can message each other online,” you tried to explain but she wasn’t having it.

“I won’t be able to teach you anymore,” she bemoaned, “and you won’t have anyone to help you with Anna.”

“I don’t need help with Anna,” you huffed.

Carlotta gave you a look, “Darling, we both know that’s a lie.”

You frowned, but followed her back to the dressing rooms. You flipped on a single light, keeping the room only barely lit enough to be able to see yourself in the mirror. Meanwhile, Carlotta sat at her vanity and flicked on the lights to get a better look at her own beauty. You watched her slowly wipe off the theatre makeup while she sat at her vanity. She drummed her fingers on her cheeks in a light massage as she cooled down from the performance.

“So, do you know what you’ll do when you get home?” you leaned on the wall beside the vanity.

“Go to my parents probably,” Carlotta said as she put a dab of skin lotion on her fingers, “they’ve missed me. I’ve missed this little cafe in London that makes the best butter tarts. I just hope they’re still open…”

“If they make the best butter tarts, why wouldn’t they be?” you asked.

“Everything goes too fast in London. One day you see a new hat shop, the next day it’s a tourist trap. There’s never a dry day in London!” Carlotta gave you a quick grin before dabbing at her temples again, “and I miss it. Vienna is nice, but it’s not home.”

“I thought you said Madrid was your home,” you pointed out.

“I was born in Madrid but I was raised in London,” Carlotta explained, “I moved there when I was eight. I only visited Spain when going to see my family, but other than that I was at home in London.”

“You know, you’re the only English woman I’ve ever heard be nostalgic about London,” you mused, “everybody else calls it a tar pit.”

“Oh it’s a tar pit alright,” Carlotta laughed, “but it’s my tar pit.”

You smiled as she went through the rest of her routine, unwinding her hair from its high knot and gently sloughing the great billowing red dress to change into a sleek pair of leggings and a turtleneck. She tossed her blond hair over her shoulders, casting you a sad look as she watched you take off your own clothes.

“I don’t have much longer to teach you,” she sighed.

“Well, it’s not like I need the teaching,” you pointed out, “I’m not your protege. I’m just a backup singer.”

“But you have the voice for a lead,” Carlotta countered, “you have it! Oh stop laughing, I’m serious! You can do it! Anna can do it, but she’s not a natural. You are.”

“I can’t handle that much pressure,” you sighed.

“But you can!” Carlotta sighed, “I just… I wish I could take you home with me. I could train you, give you a position at the RBO, we could do it! You could be a star!”

You shook your head sadly, “I’m not a star though. I’m lucky I even got my parts here.”

Carlotta clenched her lily-white fists in her lap. Her big wide eyes narrowed into feline slits. She looked angry, frustrated, but most of all, disappointed as she whispered, “You don’t know what you’re throwing away, do you?”

“I just think it's best if I stick to my own lane,” you sighed.

Carlotta’s eyes never left you as she pursed her cherry red lips. In the dim light, she looked like a perfect angel, much like the ones painted above. She clenched her hands together, then let them relax with a sigh.

“You’ll keep up your lessons with me?” she asked hopefully.

You nodded and sat on a nearby stool, “Of course. I love your lessons.”

Carlotta smiled thinly, “I love them too.”

You watched as she slipped her necklace back over her swan neck. The bright glint of ruby reminded you of the stage curtains she wrapped herself in. You couldn’t imagine Carlotta as anything other than a singer. She was born for the stage, after all. Her entire childhood had been preparing her for the opera house, following in the footsteps of her mother and her mother before her.

How you wished you could follow in her footsteps.

“I’m gonna miss you, you know,” you sighed.

“I’m going to miss my best student,” Carlotta gave you a sombre smile.

“We’ll keep in touch, right?”

Carlotta flashed her award-winning smile, “I have all your socials; I’m not letting you get away from me that easily!”

You chuckled as you walked around the room, searching for a small brown box.

Carlotta got up to peek over your shoulder to admire the empty wrappers tucked under your shawl.

“Well,” she crowed, “looks like tubby got his treat after all!”

“Tubby?” you scoffed, “the phantom isn’t fat!”

“Well that’s what everybody else says,” Carlotta pointed out,” and if he’s eating candies and chocolates all day long then he’s bound to be… Well, you know… Tubby.”

“I’m telling you,” you rolled your eyes, “when I saw him he was skinny as a rake.”

“As a rake?” Carlotta raised a perfect eyebrow, “not a tractor mower?”

“No he’s skinny! Honestly, I should probably put out something a bit more substantial for him…” you muttered.

“Oh you’re going to go and make the phantom home cooked meals now, are you?” Carlotta smirked.

You huffed as a blush crossed your cheeks, “Well, maybe it would be nice.”

Carlotta hummed as she watched you go dispose of the wrappers. When you sat back down, she gave you a sagely nod.

“Well, if you get this phantom on a diet maybe he won’t be so afraid to show himself,” Carlotta shrugged, “who knows, maybe you could introduce us. You do seem to be his favourite.”

“Me?” you twittered awkwardly, “I don’t know about that…”

“Oh I know!” Carlotta laughed, “whenever you’re on stage the reviews are all five stars! I think the reason you’re being cast so often is that the managers are noticing how well we do when you’re on stage!”

You huffed, “You’re saying it’s not my skills as a performer drawing in the reviews?”

Carlotta bristled, “No I’m not saying that!” she relaxed as she took your hand in hers, “I’m saying that the phantom has a liking for you. I love you, but one particularly good background singer isn’t going to turn the tides of an entire production. You don’t ensure that lights magically keep working. Hell, one lead girl, Hannah I think (but you’d have to check), her mic went out halfway through a performance. Not a single person noticed until they were doing audio checks after the performance! It was incredible!”

“Wait, you’re talking about the time we did Faust, right?” you asked.

“Yes that’s the one!” Carlotta grinned, “I’m telling you that something’s special about you when you’re on stage. Everybody else says you’re a lucky charm, but I think that a certain someone is watching over you.”

You looked away to try and hide your flushed face, “Well, maybe. But if he really liked me, wouldn’t he maybe introduce himself? I only saw him once…”

“I’m telling you,” Carlotta said primly, “he’s afraid you’ll think he’s fat! Either that or he’s an actual ghost, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

“I thought Henry was the ghost hunter around here?” you elbowed her lightly.

“What I said stays between us!” Carlotta warned you.

“Sure,” you smirked, “whatever you say.”

“You know, you should show more respect for your teacher,” Carlotta sniffed.

“I thought you were Anna’s teacher?” you pointed out.

Carlotta groaned and rubbed her temples irritably, “Well she’s no star either. If it weren’t part of my contract here I would’ve dropped her ages ago. She’s…”

“She’s something else,” you supplied.

“Oh she sure is…” Carlotta grumbled as she leaned her elbows onto the vanity, “at least I get one decent student out of this contract.”

You smiled, “I try to be.”

Carlotta turned to face you again with a ghost of a smile, “You are.”

You chatted easily in the dressing room, swapping stories of theatre hijinks and arguing over the stature of the phantom of the opera late into the night. As you left for the night, you wondered once again if you had actually seen the phantom so long ago. Was it really true? Did you actually see the phantom, or was that just another performer? You suspected you’d never know for sure. You just hoped that you’d actually seen the whole event. You’d started to wonder if you were hallucinating the entire time.

You shut the door and locked it as you left.

Inside the room, König drifted from the corner of the dark room to your vanity. He heard voices coming from the alley behind him. Carefully, he used a nail he’d stolen earlier to tack a small letter to the corner of your mirror before ducking behind a panel in the wall. He noted that the gap was terribly small, far too small for a ‘tubby’ man to fit through. If that Carlotta wasn’t such a good teacher, well… König shook his head of the thoughts. As long as Carlotta was good to you, he’d be sure to watch over her too. His personal offence could wait another day if it meant ensuring you’d be safe in the opera house. He could be the ‘enormously fat rat’ as long as he could continue to watch your performances.

He hid behind the wall as the next group of singers swanned through the door. He listened to them titter about, laughing and giggling after such a successful showing. He heard a small gasp, and listened close.

“Look at that!” a girl said aloud.

“Look at what?” another asked.

“On the Songbird’s vanity! There’s a note!”

“Should we take a look?”

König bristled.

“No, no we shouldn’t. Let’s just ask her about it later.”

“Do you think it’s a lover?”

A scoff.

“I don’t think so. She’s not exactly a lovable sort.”

König rolled his eyes.

“Well, maybe. There’s that one guy who’s always asking about her.”

“Oh, that Makarov guy?”

That got König’s attention.

“Yeah, the russian guy. He’s always watching Songbird, you know? I’ve heard he only gets tickets when Songbird’ll be on stage.”

“You think he got backstage to pin a note for her?”

“Maybe, or he might’ve given it to a stagehand to do it for him. Either way, it’s so romantic!”

“Well, if it’s really Makarov behind that, Songbird’s got another thing coming for her.”

“You think so?”

“Oh I know so! Makarov… Well, he’s not a good man. Let’s just hope it’s anybody but Makarov.”

König glanced around in the dark. Makarov? Who was this Makarov? Why was he interested in his little Songbird?

He didn’t bother to hide his footsteps as he crawled away, too focused on the new man to notice how the girls went silent as he left.

“Was that the phantom?” someone asked.

“Maybe. What’re your thoughts he wrote the letter?”

“A ghost writing a letter? Now I know you’re making things up.”

“Who knows, maybe he did. Can you imagine it? A phantom falling in love with our little Songbird?”

Someone hummed carefully, “Something tells me that’s not too far off the truth.”

König dump

Alternate Universes

[literallys-illiteracy]

Viktor in Arcane Season 2, Design and characterisation, an essay:

I do not like the Viktor redesign, nor his character within the show Arcane.

This is a thematic analysis of his design and depiction within the show which elaborates in moderacy why.

First and foremost, the design itself, before the character: Viktor, alongside his glorious arcane evolution in the show, is shown through an extremely organic, completely sleek design for his drones, and a membranal, coloured pattern for its corruption.

In both cases, I feel as if their design is stuck in the realm of purgatory in which it is not fully committed to either biomechanical replicants, eg. Androids, nor brutalistic utilitarian augments, eg. Adeptus Mechanicus.

As it stands, the droids in particular demonstrate this combination of themes, being almost entirely human in their appearance, showing no outward mechanical nor magical aspects in favour of a purely white, polished, mannequin-esque design.

In discussion of the droids, I want to note that for their themes of Viktor’s singularity and removal of humanity, this design does in fact work in their favour. This is particularly clear within the scenes presenting them in combat, and the moments in future when they are stalking Jayce through the world; In the final episode particularly, they are shown working in whole unison, scaling the towers and chasing people in a manner reminiscent of World War Z zombies, however in a more unified, hive mind-like manner, due to their purposeful manoeuvring acting as structure for another to get further.

These drone’s primary feature is their mask, being a visage vaguely akin to a humans, though unmoving and clearly artificial, which of course shows the inhumanity of this horde and Viktor’s rejection of human emotions – The lack of a face is an aspect that is used quite directly, most notably in Viktor’s bargaining with Mel and Jayce, alongside the skittering, almost insectoid movement that the droid features to avoid destruction.

While this singular theme of cohesion and inhumanity is in favour of these mannequin drone designs, there is more to Viktor’s characterisation than removing humanity as a blanket thought; Rather than removal for the sake of removal, rather than disdain for humanity in large, Viktor should be seeking to move to a state beyond humanity, which is shown in his own personal design.

The concept of moving beyond humanity is one that Viktor shares with Singed in this regard, being a vague dichotomy between the synthetic evolution and the biological evolution, punctuated by their respective epilogue scenes within act one particularly, however I feel as if these contrasting thoughts were intentional narrative choices, then the somewhat organic nature of the arcane evolution works against the contrast.

Before moving to Viktor’s personal design I want to share my own personal view of Viktor as a character.

I want to preface by saying that I am in no way a veteran of League itself, however I have been interested in the lore long before Arcane’s release, and Viktor’s characterisation since I learned of his character.

Viktor as a character was not always the most consistent, varying between benevolent and something near the utilitarianist machine lord we see in Arcane, his primary consistent trait was that of synthetic evolution and moving beyond humanity’s flaws, improving the human form with mechanical augmentations.

There are many routes that one may take this story path, in essence Viktor’s main consistent trait was his relation to an archetypal visionary, similar to Swain, but in the nature of humanity rather than Noxus; In all incarnations of Viktor, he should remain as this same archetypal character, in any shape or form, which all incarnations so far have successfully done.

I want to note something, there is the concept of characters who “Are created to embody an archetype not challenge it”, specifically, at least from what i've seen, popularised by TBskyen. I want to clarify that I am referring to archetypes in the psychological or unconscious storytelling sense, rather than the conscious character archetypes such as the “Nordic Viking” character archetype that Olaf embodies.

 I may write in depth at a later date relating the concept of archetypal characters to storytelling, moreso as templates from which character bases emerge, rather than the typical observation of a character itself, but I wanted to note this as writing about League made me remember Skyen’s phrase and I thought to clarify my meanings.

As i’m sure i have made abundantly clear, my personal preferred interpretation of Viktor’s character is that of the synthetic, syncretic and unifying ascension beyond humanity; Once again there are many pathways that this interpretation may lead to, notably, a utilitarian rejection of humanity is best based on one of two pathways, physiological imperfections or improvements, akin to the mechanicus, which is my preferred focus, which is akin to the Mechanicus in Warhammer, or the removal of unnecessary emotions for the sake of pure efficiency and cohesion, which reflects a character similar to HAL from a Space Odyssey – Neither of these interpretations of an inhuman herald is malicious, nor an incorrect interpretation, however i feel as if the new incarnation of Viktor leans too heavily into the purely unifying cause, when the synthetic evolution acts equally as important to the character in past and in theme.

While there is an element incorporated in the drones that Viktor creates, being faster and stronger than a human, there is a key trait of ascension beyond human limitations that these designs do not accomplish, as they are almost entirely human in design.

This improvement can be seen in the most crucial difference between Viktor and his drone’s designs, Viktor is not part of this unification, Viktor possesses differences, his walking stick, his differing mask, and his third arm, each of which marks him as separate from the surrounding evolution.

Viktor’s transformation seen in the final episodes of season 2 features many traits that I dislike for Viktor’s characterisation, especially when he takes the route of humanity’s emotions and differences being its downfall.

As mentioned above, Viktor hisself is not uniform in the same way that the drones are, being a wholly different colour, wearing a different mask, and featuring different kinds of synthetics to the rest of his flock.

Viktor’s departure from humanity is meant to be symbolised through his mask, being akin to those possessed by his drones, however having a large split, from which comes forth a decidedly inhuman remainder; the concept of his mask is one that was featured in the first act of the season notably, his suspension in the hexcore leaving nothing but his face, and his eyes glowing in the scene which he blessed the first sinn- healed the first wounded.

I feel as if, though conceptually this design is valid, the existence of his drone’s renders his divergence from the unity as antithetical to his own ideals; Though his motif if that of ascending beyond humanity, uncaring to human emotions and morals for the sake of evolution, he acts as the only synthetic which retains its humanity to any extent, while bearing the mask with the largest departure.

His gaining of this mask was a moment foreshadowed for a long time, being the only part of him that was uncorrupted by the arcane, being the only part of him visible properly during the astral sequences with Skye, and being the only part of him that is newly concealed after he abandons Skye once more; the leaving of Skye acts as his abandonment of humanity, his internal compass and anima, which is then followed by his later ascension, however as stated before, for someone who is meant to ascend beyond human individuality or emotion, he still remains as the only source of human individuality in the legion of synthetics.

I cannot stress enough this divergence, the fact that despite this incarnation of Viktor acting as an amoral, inhuman, “driven assimilator”, wanting to bring all others into the same fold, he is the only one who does not follow this tennant.

We can see this even further with the details of his colouration, his reborn body, and his augmentations; Viktor takes directly after the Hex core, being a greyish purple in colouration, with golden accents, which match in colour but not location to his drones.

Viktor’s body itself diverges from the standard drone we see, being extremely human in its design, appearing even biological, coated in metal, rather than a true biomechanical form due to its textured design, not present on his followers.

This leads to the primary problem that I have with this incarnation of Viktor, he is simply put, not the “machine herald”, and is hardly the ascensionist that defined the character for so long.

While I understand the choices made, the directions that Viktor was taken, I cannot help but think that he is simply lacking, in story and development; in thematics; and in what should be the singular unifier of these two aspects, his design.

His goal in this latest incarnation is more directly to remove weakness, rather than to build on existing strength, which both act as the plausible goals of an ascensionist herald such as Viktor, this is in large why his drones lack these same overtly mechanical, almost brutalistic design traits that are present in designs such as his Legend of Runeterra followers, yet at the same time, his own personal design features augments, rather than this same unifying design, with the third arm on his back.

While his archetypal story of ascension towards a vision remains in tact, seeking singularly to remove the human weakness of emotions and individuality, I cannot help but feel that his design does not share this trait, being the only individual in the world is not the removal of individuals, it is just the suppression.

-

Lore.

Though lore was somewhat discussed in the prior section, it was more so characterisation that was used argumentatively before this; My view of Viktor is one that I have made abundantly clear: “An ascensionist, visionary, who seeks to herald machines or augments”. 

I have no inherent problems with the incorporation of the arcane, with his mystical presentation, nor his outward depiction as a villain, in fact, i believe that this utilitarian bargaining and carelessness acts in his favour, being one of my favourite character tropes in fiction, “Doing the wrong things for the right reasons” (Oh, worm).

My problem comes twofold, in his depiction through the show both before and after ascension, and his rejection of this sought ideal.

To summarise the first point, while Viktor acts in a cold logical manner for the scenes immediately before his rebirth, these scenes exist as the primary example of his inhumanity, placing him in the body of his drone – This bargaining scene is another that i feel could have been improved on, most notably, the spliced scenes in which we see Viktor’s face in the astral plane or something(?), severing the dissociation that would have serviced this scene and the following act perfectly. Imagine if Viktor’s face, for the entirety of act 3 prior to the finale, in which Ekko fractures the mask, was hidden; The face acts as the gateway to the soul, being the primary feature used to punctuate a creatures humanity, if Viktor’s bargaining to Mel and Jayce were without this depiction, the rejection of humanity would work far more effectively, and would have helped to enforce his separation of emotions.

Following the ascension, which occurs immediately after this bargaining, Viktor’s design is revealed, which i have already addressed my stylistic problems with, however, in his interactions following this moment, he acts in a more human manner than during the prior scenes, still holding a hope to show Jayce this beauty that he has discovered, yet still waiting until he arrived at the roof to do so?.

Viktor’s motivation is never allowed to develop in whole for the same reason that i dislike this incarnation, he refuses to act in either archetypal role of a visionary or a humanist, while seemingly attempting to remain as both.

While he claims to have become more than he ever was, more than human, his design and characterisation fail to show this at almost every turn, with almost every scene bar two (the aforementioned conversation in the council room and the moment when Ekko throws the Z drive at him) showing him as equally human from before the transformation.

While he claims to want to remove human suffering, he acts only to remove humanity in whole, not improve any aspect of it, or build off of its design, only mimic its appearance.

Viktor’s realisation of humanities weaknesses was not one that was unforeseen, and there is a theoretical merit to the concept of one who wishes to remove humanities imperfections in a communal, hive minded nature, the abject removal of all humanities aside from his own is simply a flawed execution.

Viktor, even after his transformation, clings to his flaws and to his humanity, separating him once again, even further, from his vaunted perfection: Viktor’s irregular textured body compared to other synthetics, his ostentatious mask, his seeming care for outward design, and most damningly, his walking stick, all of which far from necessary in his new perfect form.

If Viktor were to wholly choose, either ascension or unity for humanity, then I would be more than fine with his incarnation, if he had been firmly humanist or inhuman for his goals, then I would have liked his character.

If Viktor were to truly reject humanity, then why not show it first with the removal of his own flaws, his own separation of humanity, from which follows his realisation about human emotions, why have Skye representative of his humanity, of his nature in all of its flaws, when he clings still to his walking stick that represented them from the start.

The Finale.

In the finale of the show, Viktor embraces his humanity, Ekko having shattered his mask and revealed his face, following which he sees Viktor in the future having come to realise his flaws.

I dislike this ending for one primary reason.

It was never our Viktor who learned this lesson. *OUR* Viktor was robbed of this realisation, and even a flawed conclusion it may be, we have still lost a pivotal development in Viktor’s character.

There is no prize to perfection, only an end to pursuit.

And herein lies my biggest dislike of this characterisation.

Viktor’s future statement is one that has sat wrong with me since I heard it, and it is one that is a consequence directly of Viktor’s mischaracterized ascension discussed earlier.

Viktor’s sentiment is his desire to bring an end to suffering, hence that all suffering is derived from emotions, and from humanity.

And even in the end, Viktor describes this as “Perfection”. Viktor does not lament the loss of individuation, rather the loss of pursuit, that he had already completed his life’s goal.

And from this future revelation, Viktor chooses to abandon all his notions of improvement, in his future realisation borne of stagnancy, from the loss of a dream, he willingly abandons all notions of this dream.

This final speech of the future Viktor is one that almost in itself motivated me to write this discussion; should Viktor have simply lamented the loss of humanity, of minds to think, even of unpredictability, rather than the simple monotony of perfection; Should Viktor have understood the drive borne of emotions, from which progress is unattainable; Should Viktor have wished more outwardly to improve human flaws, to grow beyond human, in any way other than removing the “Human” aspect, then I would not dislike this character as much as i do.

Viktor’s design and mischaracterisation, in my opinion, are derived from a countless number of minor missteps and choices, wholly intertwined faucets of character which sought to represent discordant images of a person, souring both aspects in whole.

I do not hate Arcane, I loved it, and that is why I wish for its improvement, for its evolution beyond what it is, to improve its flaws and retain the core integrity of the show, to see it become what it could have been.

Also as a final message, having Jayce and Viktor kiss in the finale would have been infinitely better in the concept of humanity and the necessity for emotions, especially if it was preluded by a realisation of Viktor's actions and biases towards Jayce even following the transformation.

Let the men kiss riot.

Authors note: I am so sorry this is so much fucking longer than i thought it would be I didn't mean to ramble on for so long about him

[catmansquad]

Comfort

Incubus!Miguel x M!Reader

A lonely Reader, and what goes bonk in the night.

‘Hey, you’re safe now.’ You had been falling through the skies, until you weren’t. Until you were caught in a strong arm and pulled against a strong chest. Then you were back in your home, and he was here; Spider-Man was here in all his fantastical, futuristic glory. The Spider-Man of the future. His huge hand was warm on your shoulder, he towered over you, broad and heavy with sheer muscle revealed by the skintight suit. ‘S-Spider-Man…?’ At your expression of disbelief, the hand squeezed your shoulder gently, the masked visage narrowed on one side in a mimic of a wink. ‘T-thanks! For saving m-my life…’ You swallowed, silently cursing for how you stumbled over your words, your voice cracking. This was getting embarrassing. Your hero, your favourite incarnation of Spider-Man was right here, in front of you, and he was impressive indeed. ‘Hey, no problem, I’m just doing my job…’ The hand left your shoulder as he widened his stance, hands resting on hips. Your eyes trailed his impressive physique, watching muscles ripple. The Superhero’s legs were impressive; thighs that could probably crush a watermelon- or a man’s head- with impossible ease. You didn’t realise just how long you’d been ogling him until you heard his husky chuckle. ‘… Seen something you like?’ He folded his massive arms, and you forced your gaze back to his masked face, even the expressive slits looked smug. Yeah, he knew the effect he was having on you. You forced your gaze to the floor, swallowing thickly. You could feel your cheeks burning, heart pounding. Then felt his hand return to your shoulder, he leaned in, voice a whisper by your ear. ‘You know… if you wanted to do more than just saying thanks…’ His other hand took one of yours and guided it to rest, palm flat, against the sheer wall of muscle that was his broad chest, so warm through the material of the suit. ‘… We could another way for you to express your gratitude, hmm…?’ He guided your hand down his chest, letting your fingers ghost across his hard abs. You swallowed again, suddenly well aware of just how far this could possibly go. ‘U-uh… Spider-Man… Surely you’ve…You’ve got other people who need your h-help?’ You managed to pull your hand away and he stepped even closer, hand moving to cup the side of your face. ‘Shh, shh…. Shh… Right now, you look like you need my help…’ You leaned into his touch as his thumb caressed your cheek.

The huge hand was on your chest, fingers splayed his touch like fire and ice as the gentle pressure encouraged you to lay down on your bed. The mattress creaked beneath his weight as he sat beside you. ‘Stay there…’ His hand left your chest, and he slowly began to peel the gloves from his hands, slick material falling away to reveal the caramel brown skin beneath. ‘I’ve got one rule; the mask stays on. Other than that…’ His discarded gloves landed on your bedside table, knocking the lamp into life. He shifted to show his broad back to you, one hand lingering on his shoulder as his finger crooked, beckoning you towards the zipper along the spine. ‘… Mhmm… Lend a hand and you can touch me all you like… How does that sound…?’

His broad body pinned you in, your hands flat against his chest, surrounded by his mass, his warmth, his heady sweet scent. He even smelled delicious. Perhaps seeing your flustered expression, his breathy chuckle made you nearly melt straight into the bed. ‘Such a good boy for me, aren’t you…? We’re going to have such fun together, you and me… If you ask, I will take you to the very heights of pleasure… Or you can spend all night with me, just like this…’ His masked forehead rested against yours, nose nuzzling gently. ‘Just tell me what you want… I’ll make it all come true for you…’ ‘I… I… Want…’ You couldn’t find your voice, it was just too much; like there was fire boiling inside you. His hands ghosted down your sides, nails tickling across your thighs and shifting to grasp your backside and your back arched up into him as he squeezed. ‘P-please…!’ ‘Please, what…?’ He was completely in control, the smirk clear in his tone. You were putty in his hands and trembled against him as he pulled you even closer. Your eyes went wide at the feeling and realization of how he was so very… proportional. ‘… Go on… Say it…’ Your heart was a pounding drum in a thunderstorm, like it wanted to beat out of your chest. You wanted to cling to him, to feel nothing but his strength, his warmth, his power in motion. You were an utter mess and he was only teasing you. You wanted him badly enough to cling to those strong arms, unyielding at your touch, even as his mask was narrowed in smug joy. Even as the walls started to melt and the room began to fade away- What? No. No, it couldn’t be. You didn’t want to-

The dream fell away, and you woke up. Your chest was tight, as if the supported weight of Spider-Man were still pressing down upon you, the air was chill, and when you blinked you eyes open, you met a pair of deep crimson inches from your own, looking right back at you. They widened in surprise or fear, then scrunched up, accompanied by the deep, sultry groan of pleasure. You blinked, the presence was gone, only the sight of your ceiling greeted you. The air was still frigid, the covers had found their way to be pooled around your ankles. Yet the strange heat, sweet scent, and aching longing of pleasure not yet reached remained. ‘Urgh…’ You rubbed a hand down your face, sweating before finally you dragged yourself from the covers. It was the early hours and you very much needed to relieve some pent-up stress. You hesitated, sparing a brief glance at the huge poster on the wall, illuminated in the dull moonlight that trickled through the gap in the close curtains; of Spider-Man 2099, leaping through the air with the city behind him. ‘Yeah…. No more comics before bed…’ You assured yourself. The memories of the dream, the heat and touch that lingered could be put to better use in helping you to unwind completely. Unseen, the shadowy presence flattened itself deeper into the corner of your room. The great, dark wings of a bat folded tight around his body and red eyes taking in your form. You were gorgeous even when flustered.

Reflecting on it now, you found the logic of the dream laughable; in how you had been falling straight out of the sky, how quickly Spider-Man had brought you home, how quickly he had you in your bed. The scattered, disjointed moments that only a sleeping mind could ignore. You tucked yourself back under the covers, the feeling of a delighted high slowly fading away, and spared the poster of the futuristic Spider-Man one final glance. ‘… Just as it was getting good… Fuck, I nearly got some from Miguel O’Hara…’ Grumbling in disappointment at the interrupted dream, you settled back down into the covers. Sleep finding you soon after, you dreamed of grey skies and storms as rain began to patter against the window.

Two nights later, you were drifting off again. You had made very sure to steer clear of the comics before bedtime, and the issues of 2099 stayed stacked atop a lone shelf. You were halfway into dreams as a floorboard creaked, either wood settling or a neighbour moving around in the night. The covers tucked around you were tugged softly, lower. You stirred, mumbling nonsense in your sleep. The covers moved again, sliding down across your body to rest at your knees. You shivered softly in the chill air, the mattress creaked. If you had been awake, you might have noticed the huge handprint in the mattress beside you. A huge hand resting on your back, a hot breath on your neck- You sat up with a sharp gasp, looking around in a panic. ‘W-who’s there?!’ You scrambled to pull the covers back up, tight around you, eyes straining against the darkness around you. Nothing. The air was still, heavy and chilly enough for your breath to steam up. Despite your senses confirming nothing was amiss, the hairs on the back of your neck still stood on end, goosebumps prickled up your arms. You felt like you were being watched, like you weren’t truly alone in the room. ‘Hello…?’ You swallowed your fear, eyes searching the gloom for any hint of movement. ‘Y-you can come out… I promise I won’t scream…. Much… Please, give me a sign…?’ The darkness did not stir. You swallowed again, throat feeling dry. Pulling back the covers, you stepped softly through your bedroom, out to the kitchen, desperately needing at least a glass of water.

You yelped as you returned to your bedroom, pausing at the sight you were seeing, then pawed twice at the light switch before managing to flick it on. You winced, eyes squinting and watering at the bright light, and missed the brief glimpse of then shadowy figure caught in a panic, darting and flowing into whatever shadow it could find. You wouldn’t see the red eyes glinting at you from under your bed. Your eyes were too busy being focused on what was on top of the bed; your Spider-Man 2099 comics had all be displaced from their shelf, not scattered in a heap, but neatly arranged in a pattern that made letters. “HI” ‘What the fuck…? What the fuck…?!’ Your heart was thrumming in panic. You had asked, and now you had received. Trembling, you scrabbled across the bedsheets, grabbing the comics into a bundle and struggling to put them back onto their proper place on the shelf. They were entirely out of order, some were upside-down, but they could wait until the morning. You had your answer that you were very much not alone. You didn’t turn the bedroom light off until you had calmed, and the lamp on the bedside table kept you illuminated in its own glow. The covers were pulled up tight to you neck, unable to sleep. Of course, you didn’t see the horned, winged silhouette clawing its way straight up the wall behind your headboard. No, your eyes were focused straight ahead, on the poster of your favourite Spider. ‘… Really wish you were real, Miguel… You could protect me from this. You could protect me from anything…’ The silhouette loomed over you, wings spread, clawed hands reaching out- and it gave pause sharply. Just simply listening to your desperate, sleep-deprived murmurs. The chill in the air dissipated into warmth, a sense of pitying sadness lingered that was not your own. No-one could escape the realm of sleep and dreams forever.

‘Hey…’ A warm hand, gloved in red and deepest blue brushed against your face, and you snuggled closer into the strong body that lay beside you. ‘… Heard that you needed protecting? So, here I am. Your Superhero’s here to keep you safe…’ You hummed in delight, nuzzling into that broad chest as strong arms moved to embrace you. ‘Thank you… My hero. I... There’s something in the house with me. I’m scared.’ ‘Shh, shh, shh… I’ve got you.’ Those immensely strong arms squeezed you gently, letting his warmth seep into your body. This was entirely different; this wasn’t the bleeding edge, hungry carnality, this was warmth and comfort. A delightful sensation you had not felt in far too long; another warm body in your own bed. ‘You were always my favourite… My favourite Spider… I love you. I love you, Miguel…’ You heard the Superhero inhale sharply, going tense. ‘…. Y-you…? Again. Please.’ ‘Huh?’ You heard him swallow; he was almost trembling as he held you against him. ‘S-say my name again. Say that you love me… Please…’ Lucidity stirred across your thoughts, the sudden change from the stoic, flirtatious Superhero left the higher parts of your mind clicking into gear. ‘… Miguel, I love you…’ As soon as the words left your mouth, the broad body squeezed you close and- He was purring. Spider-Man 2099, Miguel O’Hara was in your bed, hugging you tightly, and he was purring. ‘You're buffer than in your comics…’ ‘Shh… Let me just enjoy this moment….’ You felt warm lips press themselves to your forehead, Miguel was purring louder, pulling you closer against him like he wanted to fuse into one being with you. ‘… Woah, big guy, you’re turning into a big, needy cat- and it’s getting a bit hard to breathe now…’ Those crushing arms eased up slightly, the purring softened before stopping completely. ‘… Please don’t leave me- not just yet. Let’s just stay like this.’ Your mind was picking up speed now; putting the pieces together. Beyond the window, there was no city, only the starry skies, this Miguel was larger and more muscular than his comic counterpart, and his entire attitude had shifted sharply as soon as he had heard a subconscious declaration of love. Was it alright to harbour a secret crush on a fictional character? You were dreaming again, and wanted to wake up. ‘Please… Please don’t…’  

You blinked awake, tucked under the bedsheets and very much not alone. You were being held, hugged in strong arms, a rugged face that was creased with worry and red eyes that were wide. The being in your bed gulped, crimson eyes frantically looking you over. ‘… Please don’t scream.’ The being pleaded in a soft voice, and you were left staring back open-mouthed. ‘… Please? I don’t want to hurt you. I never did.’ ‘S-scream? There’s a big, strange man in my bed with horns and red eyes- a-and you have fangs… Who are-? What are you?!’ You could feel something slithering across your waist, and tried not to squirm, was it a tail?! ‘R-right… Uh… Dios mio… Uh… I’m- Ok…’ The entity was flustered, stammering through his words before shutting his eyes and exhaling softly. ‘Ok… My name is Miguel. I am an Incubus- there, I said it! Now, please can you go back to sleep? Please?’ He fixed you with a charming, nervous grin. He was handsome, you wouldn’t deny, and the look of desperate, pleading innocence made him look cute. ‘You’re Miguel? I mean, you’re literally… Called Miguel... and you’ve been invading my dreams as… Miguel… Oh my god, you’re a sex pest. There’s a Demonic sex pest in my room, in my bed... You’re quite handsome, though.’   ‘Yeah… That’s um… A really weird coincidence? I’m so much better and less traumatized than him-‘ The Incubus nodded in the direction of the poster, then paused as his mind caught up. ‘… Wait! You think I’m handsome? ¡Si, estoy guapo! ¡Muchas Gracias!’ You were left stunned as the Incubus cuddled up to you, purring in delight again. You felt his tail moving, the tip patting into the mattress, just before your hand. Curious, you reached down and felt along the leathery, spaded tip. Almost in response, the tail moved like a serpent and spiraled straight up your wrist, the tip patting happily against your forearm. ‘Mmm… Hey, leave my tail alone...’ Miguel’s smile was playful, then it faded as if his mind had caught up. ‘I-I’m not a Demon, though! We’re entirely different beings. Just think of me as a being of passion. So!’ You felt the tail uncoil from your wrist, the Incubus tossed back the covers and leapt to his feet, resting one foot on the bedding as he stood, tall, proud and triumphant, hands on hips, bathed in the light of the bedside lamp; messy dark brown hair, long dark horns that curled straight back across his head, fingers that ended in sharp black claws, a long tail that ended in a spaded tip, and completely, utterly naked. The sight of his sculpted body brought a furious blush to your face. It didn’t go unmissed by his crimson eyes, an almost arrogant smirk growing on his face, his tail began to swish behind him with delight. ‘… So… Tell me, my little human; what fantasies can I make come true…?’  

(I will probably write more of this, but it's gone midnight and I was flagging...) (Incubi are both sweet things and utter dolts who just want to be loved. This one especially.)

[lucigoo]

Weekly Roundup: 17th March - 23rd March

Welp, I only wrote 1 fic this week and it istnt very long ... so we are at 966 words of my 15,000 weekly goal and I am at 19,270 of my 60,000 monthly goal, (😭)

So, fic recs first!

Feathers and Favors - amethystviolist - The Hobbit - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own] (Bilbo/Thorin and WINGS, I was honoured to recieve this gif,t thank you @amethystviolist)

Summary: Truly, it was unfair that such a handsome, heroic king had stepped into Bilbo’s life as though right out of a storybook, only to then open his mouth and ruin the whole image. Thorin was obviously capable, bold, and intelligent - and also such an obnoxious, irritating, wholly unattainable wanker.

Bilbo needs his wings groomed, and Thorin needs his hair braided. A favor for a favor should be simple enough - right?

12 years I have missed you. - Ammarettu - Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own] (Aiden/Lambert, Witcher feels, Modern Au,)

Summary: After 12 years of being no-contact, Vesemir’s youngest son comes home, husband and daughter in tow.

[Lambert comes home for the holidays after Aiden is in a car accident that leaves him half-blind and physically impaired. Realizing how precious family is, he makes the decision to bring his husband and their three-year-old daughter back to the ranch.]

The Masked knight - ThedemonCat - Multifandom [Archive of Our Own] (Geralt/Jaskier, Arranged marriage au,)

Summary: Jaskier, originally born as Lady Julianna Pankratz but identifying as a trans man, fled from his home when he realized his parents would never accept his true identity as a boy. After years of pursuing a life as a travelling Bard, Jaskier's freedom comes to an end when his parent's guards capture him and return him to the grand estate of Lettenhove. In this opulent mansion, Jaskier is forcibly transformed into Julianna once more, compelled to play the role of a proper lady and constantly surrounded by vigilant guards that make escape impossible.

One fateful morning, Jaskier receives news from his mother that his parents have decided to organize a competition to determine who will have the honour of marrying their daughter. Most suitors vying for his hand in marriage leave Jaskier less than thrilled, except for one mysterious contender who remains enigmatic, concealed beneath a veil of quietness and a hidden visage.

one day (you'll find your way back to the start) - HawksEyes - Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own] (Geralt/Jaskier, Witcher family feels, Modern au,)

Summary: Jaskier falls in love with his new, brooding mechanic. Somehow, the mechanic falls in love with him too. They're happy, but Jaskier knows they could be happier, if only Geralt would speak to his family again.

In Medio stat Virtus - Lacertae - Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling [Archive of Our Own] (Gen fics, Weasley Family Fic)

Summary: One of Fred and George's pranks goes a bit too far, and they're forced to confront some harsh truths they'd have preferred not to think about.

How to Take Care of Your Husband (and Son. And Godson. And Other Godson) - SaltedPapercuts - Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling [Archive of Our Own] (Sirius/Remus, Raising Harry, Raising Neville, Raising Teddy)

Summary: Sirius and Remus take custody of Harry and Neville after their parents are lost. It’s time to welcome a new member of the family, but what if he’s not exactly human?

And now my one little fic, it was a late entry to @flashfictionfridayofficial

Toss a Coin to Your witcher (Because the world is loud and accomodations are expensive) (geralt/Jaskier, FFF- #297 - Like a Weed)

Summary: Geralt is suffering from overstimulation due to his potions. Jaskier is not helping, until he does with accomodations Geralt would never have know about, let alone used.

[1-800marvelqueen]

The Door At The End Of The Hall

Marc Spector x fem!reader, Steven Grant x fem!reader

Part Two

WC : 1.7K

SW : No usage of "Y/N," physical appearance and details are left completely ambiguous and are up to interpretation. Mention of guns, violence, fighting, death, blood, etc.

If there's any more warnings to be added let me know!

This is a re-post, all of my old accounts were deleted.

No no no. 

He couldn’t go back there, he couldn’t relive that moment. He couldn’t sit there and watch as you-

But Steven was already running towards you. Towards the memory of you.

Marc had already gone back through his childhood, through the death of his brother, through his mothers abuse, through his death and rebirth as Khonshu’s avatar. Wasn’t it enough? Wasn’t all that he’d shown Steven enough to balance the scales? Why would fate be as cruel as to force him to relive this moment again?

He could hear you yelling in the distance, the very sound of your voice hurts his chest, it rings in his head. He really doesn’t need to follow Steven into the temple, he remembers every single detail of this moment, this memory.

That’s all you were now. A memory.

He remembers it down to the smallest sounds and smells, down to the specks of dust and sand in the air. But this isn’t something Steven should witness on his own. As much as Marc doesn’t want to enter, Steven needs him. 

It was a mission gone wrong. Khonshu had ordered him to go against some pretty dangerous people, a cult of sorts. He knew it was extremely dangerous, that there was a chance Khonshu’s ability to heal wouldn’t save him. That’s why he hadn’t told you about it. 

You were an avatar. You served Sekhmet; the destroyer of the enemies of the Sun God Ra, the Egyptian goddess of war, plague, and chaos. Marc knows that you were the perfect fit to be her Avatar, your embodiment of all that Sekhmet stood for was so accurate, so precise, that if anyone had ever told him you were the Goddess herself disguised as a human, he wouldn’t second-guess it. 

But just like your Goddess, you were hot-headed and stubborn. Once an idea had gotten into your head, it was hard to get it out of there. He hadn’t told you about the mission, he wanted you safe and far-far away from any danger he may partake in, he always did. But Khonshu, being the sneaky bird bastard he is, told Sekhmet. And therefore Sekhmet sent you to aid him. 

How could you ever turn down the chance to protect your loved one?

He enters the cave to the sound of fire whooshing, Marc ducks just in time as a man engulfed in flames stumbles past him, trying desperately to put himself out. If he wasn’t so emotionally drained, he could almost laugh at the sight. When you had first met him, you’d told him you had a fiery personality. He thought you were just saying it in the cheesy way that everyone else did. 

But then you had proved him wrong by lighting the sleeve of his shirt on fire without so much as lifting a finger. 

He thinks he had fallen in love with you at that very moment. 

His attention is pulled to the scene in front of him. He’s on top of some dangerous scaffolding, the planks under his feet looking like they could collapse at any moment. You’re down below, fighting bravely. He can’t make out the features of your face with the mask of your avatar garb covering it. But Marc doesn’t need to see your face to remember what it looked like. He’d spent so many nights laying with you, nights that were fruitless when it came to sleep, he’d trace the features of your visage while you slept. Memorising every scar, blemish, the way your nose would crinkle as he would brush a sensitive spot, the flutter of your eyes under your lids as you entered the deepest part of your sleep, while he remained awake. 

He looks at you as you fight, the spear of Sekhmet is in your hand as you battle it out with a man who wields a large knife. Steven watches on a few feet in front of him, confusion written all over his face.

“Marc, who is she?” hand lightly gesturing towards you as he casts a few glances over his shoulder, not wanting to take his eyes off of whatever was going on. When he doesn’t get a reply Steven turns to look at him, he grows concerned at the fact that Marc’s attention isn’t on him, nor is it even on you, it’s on the man who walks the scaffolding. Someone Marc had tossed to the side to deal with another in front of him. He wonders, if he hadn’t thrown the man to the side, if he’d just taken him out immediately, would you still be here? 

The man bends down to grab the gun Marc had wrenched out of the hand of the man he was currently fighting, the one he had tossed over his shoulder. 

Big mistake.

Steven speaks once more when he sees the man bend down to pick up the gun, aiming it towards Marc. “Marc what is going on,” eyes wide as he turns towards the shell-shocked man, who now had tears welling in his eyes. He places his hands on Marc's shoulders, giving him a few rough shakes. “Marc, answer me! What is going on?” 

At the sound of an exclamation of pain he turns back, thinking it was Marc that had just been shot. But no, Steven watches as the man above turns his aim from Marc to you as you spear through one of his companions. He shouts out while Marc drops to his knees next to him. The man pulls the trigger and the bullet goes flying through the air. It pierces you in your thigh, you stumble. He fires again, it lodges in your stomach. He shoots a third time and Steven watches as it goes straight through the right side of your chest. 

The man goes to shoot for a fourth time but is stopped by Marc. He’s stabbed and thrown off the scaffolding. Marc quickly dispatches the rest of the people in the room. 

He rushes to your side.

Steven can hear the utterances, the string of “No” that is repeated over and over again by Marc as he scoops your upper-half into his arms, cradling your torso against his. He whispers your name, mixing it into the plethora of ‘no’s’. Steven briefly thinks that it’s one of the prettiest names he’s ever heard. He watches as Marc frantically begins pressing his hands into your wounds, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. 

The mask covering your face slips away and Steven can’t help but think you’re one of the prettiest people he’s ever laid his eyes on. He watches as the hand that was pressed against your stomach comes up to smooth your hair away, blood smearing on your forehead with the motion. 

Steven gets the answer to his previous question of who you are when Marc's hand slowly caresses down your face to hold at the bottom of your jaw, and a gentle kiss is placed upon you, between your brows. 

“No,” Steven whispers. Voice wavering as the realisation hits him like a ton of bricks. Watching the way that past-Marc is desperately trying to hold you together with his hands, to heal you with his touch, and the way present-Marc crumbles next to him, the tears that spill down his face, his hands clenching at his sides, his shoulders shaking with the attempt to hold in his sobs. 

This was some of the most emotion he’d ever seen in Marc. 

He watches as you place your hand overtop the one that presses into your chest, your hand trying hard to envelop Marcs’, squeezing with all the strength that’s left in your body. 

Steven thinks he can almost feel the pressure of your hold on his own hand. 

Marc knows he himself definitely feels it. 

“Marc,” kneeling down next to his broken counterpart, “You loved her didn’t you?” Steven receives no words, only a curt nod, he watches as Marc looks away, his eyes clenched shut tightly. “I’m so sorry Marc, I-I would’ve never brought us here if…” 

Steven looks back to see your hand lift to gently touch against Marcs’ cheek, a soft look in your eyes as you attempt to embrace him one last time, face nuzzling into his chest, a gentle kiss placed where his heart would be. 

“Steven I don’t want to be here anymore.” 

Marcs’ voice is quiet, he sounds so different than he normally does. Gone is the confident, self-assured man, the one who never lets anything ever bother him. The man who’s hunched over next to Steven is hollow, and it’s at this point Stevens’ understanding of why he was created in the first place is truly solidified in his mind.  

He can’t find it in himself to argue with Marc, uttering a quiet ‘Lets go’. Placing an arm around Marc's backside, Steven hoists him up, carrying him back towards the door. He casts a glance over his shoulder just in time to see your head flop backwards, neck no longer supporting its weight as you finally give in, all signs of life gone. 

He can hear Marc pleading, to whomever he can think of first. Sekhmet, Khonshu, anybody.  He’s pleading for you to come back, to open your eyes, to not leave him.

 The cries and begs slowly get louder and louder. Steven can feel tears in his eyes, a lump forming in his throat. It’s only when Steven and Marc reach the plain white door does he hear a heartbreaking, gut-wrenching scream echo from the mouth of the cave. 

The guilt overwhelms Steven, curse him and his curious mind. He regrets coming in here, dragging Marc after him no matter how much he begged to not enter the room. The tears fall as they reach the stark white hallway, and it’s at this point Steven wished he had never gone in. That he had never even thought about going near the door at the end of the hall. 

~

Originally posted June 2nd, 2022.

[angel-of-the-moons]

OH MY GOD I LOVE YOUR PAVI FUCSS SO LIKE I DECIDED TO TELL YOU MY IDEA WHERE BASSICALY,

Pairing - Younger sibling of Hobie!Reader

- Basically, reader is Hobies younger sibling and both of them were basically accidentally bitten by the same spider and so they both got recruited and since Hobie made friends with Pavi, he decides to introduce reader to Pavi and when they both meet, it was basically love at first sight!!

Omfg Nonnie you genius (a cliche as old as time)!

You Were A Punk, He Did Ballet

Pavitr Prabhakar x Spider Person!Reader (Hobie's Sibling)

TW/CW: None. Fluff as fluffy as Pavitr!

🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷

It was weird. Not expected, like, at all.

Everyone knew it was weird, because Miguel friggin' O'Hara admitted it was weird.

Two people getting bit by the same radioactive spider?

Two Spider-People at the same time?

Two Spider-Punks?

Miguel could barely handle the one.

But, he figured it would be better to have you included in the Spider Society than have you in the dark, especially when your older brother Hobie was already pretty involved.

And so, your brother's tour of HQ started, prattling on about how Miguel would probably pull out all the stops on how you two typically kicked back and had unwound after your "hero crap."

Basically meaning "no spray paint, no loud obnoxious music, no fun".

But, you distracted yourself from the confining rules of your new "job" by saying hi to the people your brother introduced you to.

To say you were shocked was an understatement.

The pregnant Spider-Woman and the guy with a baby strapped to his chest? You could handle that.

But a freakin' T-Rex, a car, a cat... a popsicle?!

Miguel was worried about two punks?!

You adjusted one of your studded bracelets, sighing.

Your mask was off, revealing the heavy eyeliner and facial piercings you had. Yours weren't as basic as your brother's, you had some rhinestone studs to add a bit of "sparkle" to your visage. The chains and safety pins in your ears however were pretty on the bar.

"'Ey! There he is!" Hobie shouted, waving his arm in the air frantically to get the attention of another Spider-Man.

"Pavitr! Get yer arse over here and meet somebody!" He laughed.

The guy looked like he was about your age, might be older. But with the fact you're gonna be working with a sentient popsicle?

Easy peasy.

🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷

Pavitr's heart did a funny flip-flop in his chest when he laid eyes on you.

You were breathtaking.

Probably literally, to people you were angry or fighting with...

Your heavy, smudged eye makeup, studded appearance, and punkish appearance for some reason hit him like a ton of bricks.

You were on the same level of fashion as Hobie, but something about you made butterflies fly around in his tummy and sweat break out on his palms.

Oh, god, you had a lip ring, too?

He swallowed and nervously patted his sides as Hobie practically shoved him to you and introduced you to him, and you watched as they did their typical play-fighting.

"This is my work bro, Pavitr. He's from another universe, too." Hobie grinned at you, leaning over to drape his arm over Pavitr's shoulder as the latter stared at you, wide eyes and blankly blinking.

"Sup. Hobie's told me a bit about you?" You say, tossing him a lopsided smirk that made his pulse skyrocket.

He felt like his knees were gonna give out when you grabbed his hand and shook it, giving a fist bump as you pulled away, carefully minding him with your spiked knuckles.

"Uh, it's, uh hi. Yeah." Pavitr fumbled, making you chuckle.

Oh, god, your laugh. It was perfect. Like a nice cold glass of water after a hot run.

And he suddenly found himself very thirsty.

Gwen came up and smirked at you, grabbing your hand to pull you away to show you something.

"C'mon, I gotta show you the cafeteria." She says.

You give Hobie and Pavitr a wink and a wave as you let the girl pull you away.

Hobie stared at Pavitr with the most frustratingly shit-eating smirk he's ever had.

"Cat got ya tongue, Pav?" He teased.

"No, I'm just--just tired! And I didn't know you had a sibling!" He sputtered, trying to shake him off.

"Oi, don't tell me you gotta crush on my sib already, Pav?!" Hobie grinned like a pierced shark.

"No!" Pavitr denied, his voice cracking and squeaking a bit with how hard he was denying it.

But, Hobie noticed the way Pavitr stared after you as you left with Gwen.

And again, he grinned.

[nevermindtheweights]

Kirumi's eyes glanced at Celestia's fingers as their tips pelted the wood. Her leg swung underneath her, lifting her torso upward as she thrust her neck upward and ejected a puff from her nostrils. They then turned toward the folders that rested on it, her cheeks gently fuming as one of her heels raised itself a few inches from the red, satin carpet before it was nudged into its follicles. Red rings continued to flare into Kirumi's eyes, resting on the edge of her vision until the utterance of her voice jolted her head toward them, fixating their position to the center of it.

Multiple breaths slipped into her nostrils for a few seconds before her lips drew over her teeth and a few beads slunk from her brows onto her ridge. Kirumi curled her front bang and flicked it to her left before she stroked her fingertips onto her ridge and swept her hand to the side. She grasped her throat and sputtered a single grunt before she clutched her hands and stamped them onto her dress, billowing its fabric for a moment as her heels swerved toward their ankles.

"You're right. My accusations of you devouring your maids were unfounded. You don't do so to sate your appetite, amuse yourself, exert your power… You've never eaten anyone you have hired. To do so would result in the nullification of the reason you hired them: to assist you in completing various tasks you might struggle to or don't wish to complete. To deduce the validity of the rumor I've decided to believe, I've inquired many maids and butlers regarding your treatment of your staff. None of them have claimed that you overexert them beyond their physical and mental abilities. They're never chastised unnecessarily as well. A few of them were even refused to speak to me after I told them about the rumor of you consuming your maids.

They instead focused on how they're always adequately compensated for the tasks that are delegated unto them. They're always given sufficient supplies to complete their abundant tasks. The quarters you provide for them are spacious and comfortable, containing every amenity that's required for them to maintain their health along with allowing them to retain the possessions they wish to stow in them. The only people who have had their employment with you terminated are those who have been underperforming enough to have their negligence impact your life. These statements along with an abundant amount of miscellaneous compliments have made me believe what should've been evident when I learned of your frequent employment of external assistance: You're a benevolent employer who doesn't allow your stern personality to interfere with the health of those you hire.

I have returned simply to inform you that I now believe you when you say you don't devour your maids, as I have forgotten to do so the last time we conversed with each other."

Kirumi maneuvered her palms to the front of her thighs before tilted her body toward Celestia, exposing the straps on her back and directing her visage toward the carpet before they reclined away from her. Her edges of her lips remained still. Her eyes, with perpendicular brows, continued to stare at Celestia's, their pale, green irises slightly glimmering underneath their glare. Her palms rested on her thighs, occasionally stroking the creases of her dress with the tips of her index fingers.

"Admittedly, I've more to say but I believe it would be more beneficial to await a response from you, Ms. Ludenberg."

The immense goth let the woman speak. She listened to her words, letting each sentence of the women's lecture proceed without interruption. It was... woefully boring to listen too, admittedly. So much a ramble and wordy, lacking the concise impact that Celeste would of wanted. She blamed the women's nerves for that, she supposed. The mask had dropped and Kirumi was speaking as herself, not a respected and together maid.

It seemed however, Kirumi had gotten her answer. The answer that Celeste wanted her to have, at the very least. The Queen of Lies was content enough with that, her deep red eyes fixated on the maid.

"And what would you expect my response to be, hm?"

The lardy lady leaned back in her chair. It creaked beneath her immensity, as most things did.

"I have already forgiven your transgressions though my own benevolent mercy. I have nothing more to give in response to a situation I have already excused. Are you just here to ramble out your findings to absolve yourself of your own doubts and shame? Selfish but I wouldn't exactly fault you for that either, Kirumi."

Pudgy fingers tented together, eyes remaining on the maid.

"What exactly are you wanting from me and from this exchange?"