#Charles is very confused but always loves hugs and physical affection

[only-1-a]

Monty chose Edwin as his target before he accidentally fell in love, but please imagine him meeting Charles with his shiny earring and necklace ("I want to put them in my mouth") and immediately switching tactics.

[ttuesday]

Your HCs are always so cute I love em!! How would the gang react with a very physically affectionate/touchy reader?

ahhhh I love this ask so much!!!

Arthur

When you first gave Arthur a kiss in the middle of camp, he got completely flustered. He couldn't believe that you felt comfortable doing that. Whether you just hold his hand or make out with him at the campfire, Arthur always gets flustered and starts blushing.

Although Arthur won't say it, he adores how affectionate you are. Every time you give him a quick kiss, it's a reminder that you love him. And it makes him feel confident in your relationship.

After a long day of doing jobs, there’s nothing Arthur loves more than being smothered by your kisses and cuddling with you as ye drift off to sleep.

Charles

Charles was surprised at how affectionate you are but it’s something he loves. Sometimes he can get paranoid about it in public but it’s just because he doesn’t want ye to stand out from the crowd too much.

Charles is laid back with his affection. He doesn’t initiate much affection around camp but if you give him a kiss or a hug, he doesn’t hesitate to kiss or hug you back.

As far as Charles is concerned, if you like giving a lot of affection then that’s cool with him and he’s completely fine with giving you as much affection as you need.

Dutch

Dutch adores how affectionate you are. It’s no secret that Dutch likes to flaunt their significant other around camp and put on a show with his PDA.

He has no problem matching the amount of affection you give him. If you give him a kiss, Dutch will slip his tongue into your mouth. If you hug him then Dutch will slowly guide his hand down towards your ass.

When he’s stressed trying to come up with a plan, he’s not as responsive to your affection but eventually he’ll sigh and open his arms for a hug. When times are tough, a hug from you helps him get through the day.

Micah

Micah has never had proper affection so this was all very new to him. He would never mention how affectionate you are to you, he’s too scared you’ll think he doesn’t like it and stop.

Of course Micah will act like he doesn’t need affection and that you’re the one that’s being needy but honestly whenever you touch him, it melts his heart.

Sometimes he’ll give you subtle hints that he wants affection and when he’s drunk he will practically cling to you. Also whenever you give him head scratches he falls asleep within 2 minutes. It’s his one true weakness. 

John

The first time you hugged him, he tensed up because of how unfamiliar he is with affection but slowly he got more and more used to it. Now he absolutely loves it.

John can’t help but smile when you give him affection. It immediately lifts his mood and makes all his worries go away.

But John can be shy with his affection. Normally he’ll nudge your shoulder or tap your foot with his. He can be awkward with stuff like this which is why he appreciates how open you are with affection.

Javier

Javier thinks it’s adorable how affectionate you are. When you rest your head on his shoulder while he plays the guitar or intertwine your fingers with his, Javier always leans over and gives you a kiss.

One time you came up behind Javier to give him a hug and you nearly scared the bejesus out of him. He was fine once he realized it was you though.

When you’re fast asleep and cuddled up beside him, Javier wonders how he got so lucky to get you. He finds immense comfort and fondness in your affection.

Bill

Bill has no idea what’s happening when you first show how affectionate you can be. He’s completely dumbfounded. Even a simple hug confuses him. Bill doesn’t understand why you’d want to give him affection.

Ye could be dating for over a year and Bill will still be baffled whenever you show him how much you care about him. In one way, he loves it and your affection makes him feel loved and secure but Bill doesn’t feel deserving of your love.

When Bill gets into an argument with some of the other gang members, the one thing that can always calm him down is one of your hugs as you tell him to take some deep breaths. 

Sean

Sean loves physical affection and he will be just as affectionate as you are. Sean needs you close to him so being cuddly and soft with one another is a big part of your relationship. 

Be warned, he will kiss you about 50 times a day and will come up with any excuse to kiss you. It’s morning so therefore it’s time for a kiss. Sean did a chore so now he needs a kiss. Woohoo, it’s 2pm, time for a kiss.

When you give him affection around camp, he’ll loudly swoon and make sure everyone knows how blessed he is to have you in his life.

Trelawny

Trelawny is a big fan of affection and takes every opportunity to show the world how much you mean to him. When he found out you’re just as affectionate as he is, it was fantastic news.

Trelawny will do magic tricks for you on a daily basis, making doves fly out of his hat and flowers appear from behind you ear. Is he doing it in the hopes you’ll give him a kiss? 100% yes.

Although it always distracts him, Trelawny loves it when you give him a quick kiss or a hug while you’re both out trying to con people. It makes his heart flutter.

[ohharthur]

Hi! I recently found your account and I absolutely love your headcanons, and saw your requests are open and I couldn't help myself. I'm a sucker for father x daughter reader anything, so if it's alright, would you mind making a headcanon about what it would be like if Arthur, John, and Charles had a daughter?(adopted or biological)

Feel free to add any other gang member!

okay first, thank you so much ;-; sorry for the wait, I made this gender neutral, hope you don't mind it

this thing didn't help with my daddy issues

Arthur, John & Charles with their child

Arthur

alright I'm already crying

I mean, he would be such a good dad

always sees if something is wrong, and the more you grow up the more he understands you just by looking at you

he hummed you lullabies when you were kid to make you fall asleep

and he encouraged you to draw and put down your emotions and ideas on paper

and whatever your passion is now, he is always there to support you

he tries to keep you as far away from gang business as possible

and the day you asked him to teach you how to shoot he almost had a stroke

he's the type of dad who thinks his child will always be a little princess/prince

so it's hard for him to see you become an adult

you know, the cliché of the father who meets the boyfriend/girlfriend with a rifle in his hand and lists them the things not to do before dating his child...

yeah this cliché is Arthur

John

this man would be so lost the first years

why are you crying? Why are you screaming? You just ate why you're still crying? Are you hurt somewhere?

you get it, a lot of questions during this period

when you were a baby he was very cautious with you, he was so afraid of hurting you while holding you

and I feel like he would get more confused as you grow up

unlike Arthur, he wouldn't hesitate to teach you how to shoot and defend yourself at a young age

because he knows that down there it's a cruel world and even more if you're a woman

he would probably be your number one fan

even if he doesn't show it

I think he wouldn't show his affection physically since he's not the best for hugs or physical affection

he would rather tell you how is proud of you

you know this type of father who starts to cry with pride when he sees his little girl/boy hitting a grown man in the face

it's him, he's this type of father

Charles

I feel like it would be a very close relationship

Charles would be very protective

and I insist on the word very

I think if he had a child they'll be really mature for their age

he would teach you to be kind, respectful and open-minded

but also he would let you learn from your own mistakes because he knows he won't always be with you

of course he teaches you to hunt when you are old enough

like Arthur, he would try to keep you away from the gang problems

and if you are still involved in a robbery he would always keep an eye on you

he's such a good listener

Charles would be so understanding during your teenage years because he would listen to your problems and help you understand your own emotions

alright I know I'm getting off topic but you see the relationship between Mufasa and Simba in The Lion King

yeah don't make me say it

I totally think Charles is Mufasa and you're Simba

[melanielocke]

Love will tie the Tourniquet

After some very valid criticism of the Sanctuary scene and the very limited canon Thomastair content I figured I’d write a scene where they talk it out and Thomas apologizes. I wrote this rather quickly and didn’t edit much so sorry for any mistakes.

Title is from “Tourniquet” by Breaking Benjamin which is definitely an Alastair song (although I find the lyrics difficult to interpret). I think it’s from the POV of someone who is struggling with something and realize love won’t fix them, but also believe nothing will. Love will tie the tourniquet and suffocate me. 

CW for period typical racism and homophobia, implied PTSD, mentions of bullying

Alastair was surprised to hear someone knock on the door. His mother was still on bedrest and wouldn’t be receiving any visitors and certainly no one would want to see him. He opened the door to see Thomas Lightwood in the door, hatless as always, snow had fallen in his hair. Even covered in snow Thomas was a beautiful sight to behold. Alastair tried to stop staring, but wasn’t quite sure how. Why was he here, after everything? Alastair had taken his time to think through what happened, but had arrived at the same conclusion, it was impossible. In retrospect, he wasn’t even sure Thomas liked him that much. Like Charles, he probably just saw someone who could fulfill his needs. After all, Thomas had seemed quite disappointed when Alastair had refused to take things any further than kissing in the Sanctuary.

‘Good afternoon,’ Thomas said awkwardly after a silence. ‘Can I come in? I… I thought we should talk.’

A bit hesitant, Alastair let him in and took his coat. He asked Risa to make them some tea, and brought Thomas into the parlor.

‘What did you want to talk about?’ Alastair asked.

‘I wanted to apologize,’ Thomas said.

Alastair frowned. ‘Why? You have nothing to apologize for.’

‘I do,’ Thomas said. ‘I was angry with you because of that rumor, but that gave me no right to publicly humiliate you. I treated you terribly, and you didn’t deserve that.’

Alastair wasn’t sure what to make of this. It had hurt, badly, the way Thomas had spoken to him, but he’d told himself over and over again that this what he deserved. 

‘Didn’t I?’ Alastair asked. ‘I was awful at school, perhaps less so to you, but still. I can’t imagine why you’d even want to be around me.’

‘Because I forgive you,’ Thomas said.

Alastair stared at him, eyes wide. He tried to hold back the tears, but wasn’t sure he could.

‘Why? Why would you forgive me? I thought you hated me.’

Thomas looked confused. ‘After the Sanctuary? After we kissed?’

Alastair sighed. ‘Charles kissed me many times, we did more than that, and he didn’t love me. He just thought I was convenient and I could fulfill his needs.’

It had been mostly about sex with Charles, and it had taken him so long to realize that it didn’t have to be like that. He’d given Charles everything he could, hoping that perhaps someday he’d receive love and affection back.  

Thomas’ mouth fell open. ‘You… you thought I would be like that? That I only wanted you for physical intimacy? Why would you think that?’

‘What else was I supposed to think?’ Alastair snapped, trying but failing to hold back the tears. ‘You wanted to kiss me only moments after you said I deserved to be hated. And because I wanted you, because I love you, I gave in. You wanted to keep me a secret, you were ashamed of liking me, so ashamed you couldn’t tell anyone, not even people who would not mind that you liked men. Just like Charles.’

I couldn’t have told them how I felt about you. Thomas’ words echoed in his head, and it was worse than Charles being ashamed of liking men. At least he understood Charles’ fears, even when it did not justify how badly Charles had treated him.

‘I never meant… I never wanted to hurt you. I’m sorry, and I said some stupid things. But I don’t want to keep you secret. There were so many things I should have said to you then, and I’m sorry I messed it up so badly. You do not deserve to be hated and I should never have said otherwise.’

Alastair wasn’t sure how much more he could take. He was desperate for affection, always had been, that was why he’d given so much to Charles, but how could he be sure Thomas wasn’t going to be the same?

‘Why not? Did I not cause you and your family terrible pain?’

Alastair was crying now and to his surprise Thomas came to sat down next to him, awkwardly putting his hands around him. Alastair pushed him away.

‘Please… please don’t.’

Thomas backed away as if he’d been burnt.

‘Physical affection isn’t easy,’ Alastair tried to explain.

He wasn’t used to hugging or even being touched at all in a non sexual way. Cordelia tried often to show her affection physically and he was grateful, but it just didn’t always work for him. Sometimes a touch could burn, be so overwhelming he only got worse.

‘What do you need?’ Thomas asked. ‘How can I help?’

‘Just keep talking,’ Alastair said. ‘Please. Tell me how you really feel. Be honest with me. If you… If you don’t really love me, it’s alright. I just need to know. Because I don’t understand anymore. Do I deserve to be hated? To be loved? I don’t get it.’

Thomas hesitated. ‘I was wrong. I was grieving and I was pushing these feelings away and I took it all out on you. But that was no excuse. You do not deserve to be hated, not when you regret what you did so much, and you do not deserve to be treated the way we… the way I treated you. And I’m so sorry. I think I do love you, I just never knew what to do with those feelings so I hid them. But I’m not going to hide anymore. I’m not ashamed of loving you.’

Alastair wiped the tears from his eyes. ‘Are you serious?’

‘I told Christopher, and he took it well. Or, well, he said he already knew and was under the assumption everyone already knew and we just didn’t talk about it. And I told my parents and Eugenia.’

Alastair hesitated. ‘Did you tell them I like men?’

‘No,’ Thomas said quickly. ‘Just about me, and how I feel. And that I’d at least like to have you as a friend, even if you weren’t interested in more.’

‘And your family, they accepted you?’

‘They were very kind and supportive, although my mother did say I might be worse at this whole romance thing than my father.’

Alastair frowned. ‘What did your father do?’

Thomas laughed, and Alastair could only think how beautiful his laugh was, how it lit up his face. ‘As you know, my mother was a servant before she became a shadowhunter, and my father decided to regularly ask her for scones, which he doesn’t like, so he could see her when she brought them. He then hid them under his bed.’

Alastair burst out laughing. He knew he shouldn’t, he knew he had no right to laugh about the people he’d brought such shame to, but at the same time he couldn’t imagine this happening. If Gideon Lightwood disliked scones so much, why not ask for literally anything else?

‘He also accidently blurted out his intentions of marrying my mother in her presence before he even proposed,’ Thomas added. ‘I’m not sure which part is worse, but it does make for good stories.’  

‘I’d say the scones are worse,’ said Alastair, taking a sip from his tea.

‘You’re very beautiful,’ Thomas said suddenly. ‘When you laugh. Also when you don’t laugh, but I like seeing you laugh. You always seem so sad.’

Alastair looked Thomas in the eye. ‘Really? You think I’m beautiful?’

‘Of course I do, who wouldn’t? I love your hair now that you’ve dyed it back to black.’

Alastair felt the tears coming back, and Thomas looked startled. ‘Did I say something wrong?’

‘No, it’s just… No one has told me I’m beautiful. And no one has told me they like my hair. It wasn’t an easy decision to dye it back. I didn’t want to pretend to be something I’m not anymore, but I thought everyone preferred the blonde.’

‘I’ve always liked dark hair, and it suits you well. And I’m glad you’re more comfortable with it. I guess I have no idea what it’s like, to be judged for the color of your hair or your skin.’

‘That’s the second part of what happened at the academy, what I hadn’t told you yet,’ Alastair said sadly. ‘No one there looked like me. They latched onto the rumors about my father, of course but they also treated me differently for being Persian, made fun of my features, my language… I thought it would get better if I adapted more to what they wanted.’

‘Alastair, I’m so sorry,’ Thomas said, reaching out his hand as if to touch him, but retreating. He probably remembered Alastair’s warning, but right now he did want to be touched. Now he knew Thomas did care for him, even if he had an odd way of showing it sometimes.

So Alastair leaned into him, resting his head against Thomas’ chest. It was comforting to feel his chest rise and fall with his breath. Perhaps he did like to be touched sometimes, but only if the other person loved him. There were very few people who did, and Alastair wasn’t so certain if Cordelia loved him anymore.

‘Is this alright?’ Thomas asked, putting a hand around him.

‘It is. It’s actually nice. But Tom, how can we make this work, if your friends still hate me?’

‘Christopher doesn’t,’  Thomas said. ‘He is willing to give you a chance. All you have to do is help him out with his experiments, show some interest, and he’ll like you. Lucie is going to adore you, I’m sure of it. As for James and Matthew… I’m not sure, but they don’t get to decide who I like or don’t like. For so long I tried to hate you out of loyalty to Matthew, but ultimately that’s his issue and not mine.’

‘But what if you lose your friends because of me?’ Alastair asked. ‘I would never want you to lose people you love for me.’

Thomas put his hand in Alastair’s hair, and Alastair thought about how Thomas had said he loved his hair. He’d never considered someone might. Charles had certainly preferred his hair blonde. He had been the one to suggest dyeing it.

‘That would be their loss,’ Thomas said. ‘You deserve to be loved too, Alastair. I will tell James and Matthew when they get back, and if they decide not to accept it, then perhaps they’re not very good friends.’

Alastair was surprised to hear him say that. He’d thought the four boys were exceptionally close, the kind of friendship he longed for but never had.

‘That’s what my mother said,’ Thomas added.

Alastair frowned. ‘Do your parents know I spread that rumor? Surely they would not accept you pursuing me if they knew?’

‘I told them,’ Thomas said. ‘But my father said that when he was young, he’d done worse. He realized he was wrong and changed, uncle Gabriel too. He said it would be hypocritical to hold this against you.’

‘Really?’

‘So far they seem to like you,’ Thomas said. ‘And they are very grateful that you made sure to keep me safe. And… I am too. I never thanked you, but I should have. I am grateful that you put so much effort into protecting me. But please do not risk your life like that again. I would never forgive myself if you died trying to keep me safe.’

‘Only if you promise never to do something as reckless as those patrols again,’ Alastair said. ‘Someone had to keep you safe, and I certainly wasn’t going to let you die because of your own recklessness. Because I love you.’  

They sat like that for a while, Alastair taking in the sensation of being held. He didn’t remember ever receiving such affection, and wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

‘I’m not going to patrol alone again,’ Thomas said. ‘I promise.’

‘Then I won’t follow you as you patrol alone either,’ Alastair said. He paused. ‘I never expected you to come back for me. I never thought you could love me.’

‘I do. I loved you since Paris,’ Thomas said. ‘I mean, at school I liked you as well, but I thought you it was daring that you said whatever you wanted. I saw your sadness too, but not the real you. Not like in Paris.’

‘I certainly did not say whatever I wanted,’ Alastair said softly. ‘I said what I thought I had to so they wouldn’t hurt me.’

‘I can’t even imagine how badly they must have hurt you,’ Thomas said softly.

Soothing words eased some of the pain, but not all of it. Alastair wasn’t sure if it ever would. Love would tie the tourniquet. It might suffocate him. He would have to find another way to starve the pain within, if such a thing were possible.

‘You were treated badly as well, I’m sure you have some idea.’

‘Yes, but you were always nicer to me than to the others, and I think that shielded me from the others as well. Are you going to be alright, Alastair? I want to help you, but I’m not sure I know how.’

‘I have no idea,’ Alastair admitted. ‘But I’m going to try. You make me want to try. I have no idea how though.’

He knew he needed to get better, if he wanted this to work, to find a way to heal from everything that had happened to him. He knew he couldn’t depend on one person to heal him like he had with Charles, someone who had ultimately broken whatever was left of his heart.

‘Perhaps you could talk to uncle Jem,’ Thomas suggested. ‘If anyone can help with that, it’s him.’

Alastair hadn’t considered that. His cousin thought he hated him. He’d reached out once, back when Alastair had attended the Academy, and he’d pushed him away like he did everyone else. He wasn’t sure Jem would still be willing to help him after everything. But perhaps he could try. Perhaps it didn’t always have to be like this. 

[johntheirritatedgunslinger]

John question hc prompt

What do your character do when they are bored or procrastinating? Can be modern or canon. 

Canon: John will sleep, drink, or whittle when bored. He’ll also ride his horses or go fishing. If he’s procrastinating, he’ll even ask Uncle to do something with him.  He’ll also “pester” Jack and Amelia.  Modern AU likes video games and will convince  Abigail to watch something on Netflix with him. He doesn’t even care what it is. He’ll follow his daughter around and try to play with her until she tells him to go away so she can read. John has also been known to go over to Arthur’s house or visit Charles to get out of work..

Character as a child: I have a bio that I’m writing in parts to fill the gaps in his life. All of this is canon. Major points: * Mother was a prostitute, died giving birth to him. *Father a drunk and neglectful that seemed rather mentally ill.    *Father later blinded in a bar fight  * John cared for him until he died. John was eight. *Sent to the orphanage that seemed to really scar John mentally and physically. * Escaped multiple times *Lived on streets. *Appeared to have drowning incident of sorts? Not sure if it was an accident or if someone tried to kill him. Not for sure about this but it makes sense considering how he has panic attacks around water and seems to react severely enough to have people comment on it. * Killed the first man at 11/ 12 - 99% sure it was self-defense whether it was someone trying to punish him for stealing or...darker ideas. I’ll leave it at that. * Attempted lynching as a child - bad enough that he literally nearly died. He should have scars from the incident. I THOUGHT I saw something on one of his main story models.  John seems to imply this as well, but the model doesn’t show this. RDR 1 model made people think that’s why he wore the red scarf thingy.  Personality: Wild. Downright wild. Always in survival mode. I don’t see him trusting anyone. Ever - even in survival situations. If you save him or help him - it’s clearly because you have an ulterior motive. It sounds like John was taken into bars with his father so violence doesn’t really phase him. He’s used to physical abuse. He has zero softness in his life. I don’t even know how he made it past day one of his life.  He spits pure venom, snarling, and biting. People joke about him being a rabid raccoon? Accurate af in this situation. This is not to make fun of him. This is ONE way how abused children used to act, especially children that became outlaws in the past.

I don’t know if anyone tried to help him, but anyone who tried to help would have received shit because John doesn’t understand what’s going on or why.  Hosea, Dutch, and Arthur are the first ones to give him any type of stability and kindness. Arthur responded well to love and affection because his mother gave it to him. He knows what kindness is. John needed more time and I think that he struggled to show affection because of this. However, he’ll slowly warm up to you - kind of like an icicle melting. I think if you continue to show him love and not give up on him, he’d still be very confused and suspicious, but I can see him quickly becoming overly attached to you/someone. He’s the type to sneak you little things like an apple as a “thank you” but if you ask if he gave it to you, he’d get all defensive and angry. He’d also probably pester you - no doubt he did to Arthur. I think if you’re the type to give hugs/cuddles, he’d freeze but again, become addicted to it in his own sneaky way. Like scooching up next to you or sneaking into your tent with his mat.  Modern Au is the same personality-wise.  Not the most cheerful interpretation -  but I think it’s realistic.

[drfate]

Dr. Fate: In the Dungeon of the Damned

An old school Dr. Fate novel by Rex F Dorgan

Chapter 1 – Salem Tower

The tall blond man stepped from the train onto the platform at Salem Station. It was only 5 p.m., but the sun had already moved behind the train-and-bus depot building, leaving the platform and track in shade. He glanced down the track at the tunnel from which he had just emerged, and then began the climb up the stairs, to street level, with the mob of commuters and tourists departing the train with him. It occurred to him that much of his life had been spent on journeys through various underworlds followed by ascents back into the light. He smiled and laughed quietly at himself; he really needed to curb his habit of finding portentous metaphors in every little activity.

He normally used much faster modes of transport, but today he felt like taking things at a slower, more human pace, especially after all the inhuman things he had witnessed recently while working on site in Iraq. He was returning home now, having stopped first to deliver a guest lecture about this expedition in the city of his birth – Cambridge, where he had spoken before a packed room at the Peabody Museum of Archaeology at Harvard. He now began the final, happiest part of his journey, back among the familiar vistas of his adopted hometown of many years, Salem, Massachusetts.

“Witch-haunted” Salem, as it was so often called, an epithet confirmed commercially, and somewhat comically, as he strolled down Washington Street on his way home. In every direction, the town was overrun with reminders of its claim to infamy. To his right was the Witch Dungeon Museum on Lynde Street and to his left the Salem Witch Museum off Church Street. There was the Witch House and the Gallows Hill Museum, the Witch Village and the Salem Wax Museum. There was even the Bewitched Sculpture in Lappin Park, depicting television’s favourite housewife-witch, which he spotted as he passed Essex Street.

But then he came to Front Street, which led to Charles Street and the Witch Trials Memorial, and the true, sombre reality of the town’s supernatural past asserted itself. If they only knew, the man thought to himself with morbid amusement as he glanced back toward the ridiculous Bewitched statue, if they only knew. Salem had in fact truly been haunted by dark witchcraft in its colonial past (and since), but it was not the work of the young women who had been accused, tried, and executed at the Witch Trials, but by some of the very men who had sat in judgment of them. Isn’t it always the case, the man thought to himself, that great evil resorts to even greater evil – the greatest evil – when it sacrifices innocents to bear the blame, and suffer the consequences, of its own dark deeds?

His grim reverie was broken by someone shouting at him.

“Kent Nelson!” A very old man teetered on a walker directly in front of the tall blond man, pointing at him and accosting him loudly.

“Yes?” the tall blond man asked, a little confused. The old man seemed vaguely familiar.

“You’re the spitting image! Of him. Kent Nelson, that is. Except for the beard, of course. Kent Nelson was a clean-cut man, he was. A gentleman.”

Kent Nelson understood now.

“My grandfather. I believe you’re thinking of my grandfather. ‘Kent Nelson’ is my name as well. I’m named for him, as was my father. Dad just never went by ‘Junior,’ and I don’t go by ‘the Third.’”

“Why, it’s like looking back in time when I look at you Mr Nelson! Or is it Dr Nelson, like him?”

Kent Nelson smiled. “Well, technically, I’m a doctor, too – but only a simple Ph.D. in Archaeology. Not a medical doctor like him. Although he had a Ph.D. in Archaeology, as well – and Physics, too!”

“Oh, I recall all about the archaeology! He was like Indiana Jones, he was! Better! The real McCoy. He was always in that bomber jacket and those khaki desert pants when we saw him walking these streets, and then later after the war always so smartly dressed, being a doctor and all, in his dark blue suit. Like the one you’re wearing now. And with a gold tie. Like yours. And his wife, what a beauty! We were all so smitten, you know, all us boys. What a face! And what a body!”

Kent Nelson smiled more broadly. ��Yes, she was quite a looker, ol’ grandma. People tell me she was as pretty as Maureen O’Hara – and twice as feisty!” He and the old man shared a laugh.

“And you still do the digs? Like your gramps? Looking for pyramids and the like?”

“Yes. In fact, I’ve only just returned to the states on a mission in Northern Iraq, evaluating the damage done to the Ezida Temple – the Temple of Nabu – and the Nergal Gate – by ISIS. And trying to help the National Museum recover precious antiquities that were stolen in the wars from whatever black marketeers and crooked billionaires they made their way to.”

“Iraq? Worse than ever, I reckon?” the old man asked, arching an eyebrow in a manner that indicated a kind of general scepticism toward every story he’d heard about the place for the last two decades.

“Yes, in some ways worse than ever, sadly. The birthplace of Western civilization, and we’ve lost so much so quickly. The destruction of the Northwest Temple, the ‘mermen’ statues, much of Nimrud in fact…”

“No doubt, no doubt,” the old man grumbled.

“I flew into Logan and stayed in Boston for the night, and gave a talk at Harvard this afternoon to please my benefactors. A TED Talk, very au courant, I’m told. You’ve heard of them?”

The old man shrugged. Nelson chuckled. “Yeah, I hadn’t either before this one. My publicist,” he said, as if that explained everything. And it apparently did; the old man nodded knowingly. “But now I’m finally heading home – and I can’t wait to get there. It’s been too long!”

“Well I won’t keep you, then,” the old man said, shifting his walker to clear a path forward for the doctor. “No doubt you got a pretty wife of your own to run home to. It was a pleasure to meet you, young Mr – Dr – Nelson.”

“And it was a pleasure to meet you too, Mr...?”

“Moore. J.D. Moore.”

“A pleasure, Mr Moore.” Kent nodded his head in a slight bow toward the man and continued on his way. He remembered Mr Moore, all right. Or Little Jimmy Moore, as he had been called back then.

At Norman Street he turned right to head south to Margin Street, which led to Jefferson Avenue and the more prosaic part of his journey. Off the beaten tourist path, with architecture less enduring and much less quaint, he now entered a part of town that grew increasingly quotidian the farther south he travelled. He passed the Post Office, which sported a “ye olde” colonial brick façade on its otherwise prefab form, and then the police station, the red brick of which was even more utilitarian and bland. He passed parking lots and auto parts stores, and a nest of large, boxy buildings constructed primarily of sheet aluminium, which gave the impression of being the office-building equivalent of a mobile home park. He proceeded into an area where Jefferson Avenue was lined with old homes, some of which had businesses operating out of them. He stopped at one of these, a quaint little flower shop with the name “Rose Red and Snow Lily” hand-painted in a flowing script on a wooden sign above the porch.

He had known the shop’s proprietress, Eliza Grey, since the time he had first arrived in Salem, which seemed as if it were only yesterday – while at the same time, it seemed as if their acquaintance had spanned centuries. He supposed both impressions were true; he knew that for Lady Grey, as he called her with an odd mix of irony and respect and affection, it had seemed forever. Time, and the perception of it, was as personally relative as it was fleetingly elusive, even for him.

No sooner had the little bell atop the door jingled upon his entrance than he was greeted by a voice that was at once shrill and melodious, upper-crust British mixed with the sharp, flat edges acquired from too many years in Boston, “Kent Nelson! What a plez-zhah!” The old woman rushed over to him and hugged him, her head only reaching his belly. She released him and looked up, smiling. “And how is that lovely wife of yours?” she asked.

“When last we spoke, she was doing very well, thank you. But that was last night on a sketchy WhatsApp connection and we haven’t seen each other in weeks. I’m on my way back home now. In fact, she’s why I stopped in.”

“Well of course she is, dear! Who else would you ever be buying flowers for?”

“Oh, the occasional funeral – maybe my own if I don’t get moving a little faster,” Nelson quipped.

“Well, then – the usual?”

“You say that like I order them every day.”

“Every time I see you.”

“But what is that – every five years?”

“Three, four – but who’s counting?”

“Yes, two dozen of the Rosa Richardii.”

“The Rosa Sancta – the Holy Rose of Abyssinia?”

“The Holy Rose of the ancient Egyptians, too.”

“Oh, yes, that’s where you two met, isn’t it? Alexandria?”

Nelson smiled. “As well you know, Lady Grey.”

“And you only want two dozen? I hear that when you first met her, you bought out a vendor’s entire market stall and had her hotel room stuffed so full of them she couldn’t move without knocking over a bouquet. You might have asphyxiated her with perfume blooms.”

“I have no idea where you might have heard such a ridiculous slander, Lady Grey,” Nelson laughed.

“Oh, I heard it from the most trusted source, Dr Nelson, the beautiful woman herself.”

“Yes, only two dozen. I learned my lesson not to overdo my displays of affection. With flowers, anyway.”

The old woman laughed and pelted him in the chest with a large delphinium she had been holding. “You are ever a character, Dr Nelson,” she said as she assembled a pile of flowers from two different refrigerated cases.

“As are you, Lady Grey.”

The old woman placed the flowers on the counter, pecked daintily at her register, and announced a price that was clearly too low for the rare flowers that Nelson had picked up and organized into a bundle appropriate for carrying another mile or so.

He tossed a $100 bill on the counter and said, as he headed toward the door, “Thanks, Lady Grey. Wonderful seeing you again.”

“Stop by any time, Dr Nelson,” she said. “Always a plez-zhah dealing with a gentleman. And such a wicked handsome gentleman,” she added with an exaggerated South Boston accent, accompanied by a playful wink.

He laughed and turned to leave the store and saw his face reflected in the glass window of the shop door. He’d allowed crow’s feet to form at the corners of his deep blue eyes, and, mixed in with the gold that the desert sun had spun in his straw-coloured hair, there were here and there strands of silver, but he realized he had hardly changed in all the time Lady Grey had known him. Not bad for a man of 112, he thought to himself.

  Before long, he had come to a collection of four gambrel-roofed houses, two red, one blue, and one white, that struck him as a playful bit of coincidental Americana, and which served as a sign that the last leg of his journey lay before him. He turned onto Willson Street and followed it until it led to the entrance to the Highland Park golf course – or, as the purposely anachronistic green and gold wooden sign referred to it, “Olde Salem Greens.” This park was part of the larger green space known as Salem Woods, where his home was located.

As the sun started to set, he crossed the parking lot to a little asphalt trail that led into the park, then crossed the golf course until it ended and the trees began, where he picked up a narrow dirt hiking trail that continued on into the woods. As he walked through the remaining forest of an area once sacred to Native Americans, he passed what he had long known to be three sites of intense spiritual energy. Powerful guardians still watched over this patch of woodland from the higher planes, and they bowed, and the birch trees that sensed their presence likewise bowed, as be passed.

At last he came to the base of Monument Hill, the tallest point in the woods. From the top of this hill you could reliably see the smokestacks of the power plant in Salem to the northeast, but on a clear day looking due east you could see over Swampscott all the way to the Atlantic Ocean.

At the top of the hill there had once been an observation tower that had belonged to the Forestry Service and then to the local Boy Scouts. The tower had been mostly demolished by 1933, at which point a new owner had purchased the hill, and the land around it, from the town and built a large, two-tiered granite tower that one local wag had likened to a rook from God’s chess board. The tower had no windows and no doors; its builder, one Kent Nelson, had declared that it was not to be inhabited but was instead merely a monument to the town and to luminaries such as Emerson, Hawthorne, and Thoreau, who had all reputedly derived spiritual sustenance, at one time or other in their lives, from visits to these woods. The town was perfectly fine with this construction, since the remains of the Boy Scout tower had been an eyesore, and this seemed to be a perfectly satisfactory memorial, along the lines of the obelisks that city fathers were forever erecting in plazas and traffic circles, but with a Northern European flavour that had greater appeal for the WASP city fathers of that era.

But whether because of or in spite of this tower’s vague function, the locals set about immediately creating legends about the tower and its alleged inhabitants. Ghosts, witches, the ghosts of witches, Mothman, aliens, vampires - even Bigfoot - had all allegedly been seen coming and going from this tower, which apparently could only be accessed by beings capable of passing through its walls as if they were mist.

Kent Nelson grinned and let out a quiet, satisfied sigh of excitement at seeing his home, then bounded up the hill until he stood by the tower wall that faced north, hidden from the view of the condos to the south and west of the woods. He raised his hand and touched the cool granite blocks of the tower wall, the tower he had built with his own hands, with his own craft. And then he walked right through the wall as if it were nothing more than mist.

  The world inside Salem Tower was not a place the untrained human mind could easily apprehend, much less comprehend. Here the laws of physics did not strictly apply. As in Faerie, the four dimensions of spacetime, and the rules governing it, were violated here in ways that could be literally maddening. But unlike Faerie, which grew more disturbing the longer one lingered there, the interior of Salem Tower was ordered, logical even, something a mere human could adjust to, given time (or a magical facsimile thereof) and an easy-going imagination. While its bowels were vast, covering an area that seemed enormous at first glance and never-ending to one attempting to traverse it, and while its many staircases and rooms were set at Escehrian odds with one another in defiance of gravity and three-dimensional causality, it still had a lived-in humanity about it that made it, over time, knowable and even comfortable to those who dwelt there. Bookcases filled with ancient volumes, odd but beautiful artworks and artifacts stood in hallways or sat on tabletops, Persian rugs of great size and greater value (but none of them – any longer – capable of flight) covered floors of ancient hand-hewn oak, maple, and ash, and stone archways and hallways were so captivatingly constructed that one could walk through them for hours and never feel fatigued, or see the same place twice. This fantastical homescape was where Kent Nelson and his beloved wife Inza Cramer had lived the better part of their lives.

But entering Salem Tower now, this is not what Kent Nelson saw.

He saw, instead, a scene that reminded him of the Coventry Blitz: splintered walls, broken staircases, carpets ripped to shreds and stained with something resembling viscous bloody ink that seemed to be spreading even now before his eyes, the loose leaves of books scattered everywhere, their gutted hardcover carcasses lying spread apart like dead soldiers on a field of slaughter. Statuettes and ancient musical instruments lay in pieces on the tables they had rested on, or on the floors they had fallen on.

And in his right hand, two dozen roses drooped, withered, shrivelled, turned a sickening ashen grey, and then flaked into dust before his eyes.

But while all this registered, none of it mattered. Only one concern came to mind.

“Inza!”

He rushed from room to room with inhuman speed. “Inza!” Up and down broken staircases. In and out of crumbling archways. In every room, it was the same. Devastation. Desolation. And no Inza. He knew without a doubt that whatever had come here, whatever had worked its evil will here, had made her a captive pawn in its deadly game.

He fell to one knee, head in one hand. He felt the closest thing to panic he had felt in years. It was not that his many years labouring in the supernatural had rendered him any less a natural being, or that his many journeys among the superhuman, the inhuman, the dead, the demonic, the angelic, and even the godly had left him in some way less capable of emotion. Or that his own superhuman powers rendered him any less human at his core. It was simply that his many years of training had taught him discipline and calm in the face of adversity, and his experience and triumphs had given him confidence facing the most powerful of foes. But being attacked like this in his own home, in his heretofore impregnable fortress, and to have had the one most dear to him apparently abducted, held hostage, or, the unthinkable, dead – this shook him as nothing in many years had. And… there was something else. A dark grey shadowy pall hung over everything – less substantial than mist, almost as if a kind of veil had been cast over his vision, or a scentless smoke were choking the very light. It seemed to instil in him – even in him! He considered, amazed – a kind of irrational fear. It reminded him of what the ancient Sumerians had called puluhtu, an almost physical dread of the divine, the twisted opposite of ni, the awe one experienced in the presence of melammu, the aura or garment making manifest the glory of a god.

“No! It can’t be!” he said to himself, but the thought caused him to spring up and race to his watchtower room, from which twelve “windows” – mystical mirrors, in fact - looked out onto various planes of existence from the windowless tower. As he expected, these were all cracked and filled with a hideous grey film. In the centre of the room, in a pile of shattered glass below the wrought-iron stand where it had nested in its centuries-old circular oak frame, was the remains of the Eye of Merlin, an orb that had been the scrying glass of the famous magician, given as a gift to his friend and peer after the two had defeated the chthonic demon trio of Abnegazar, Rath, and Ghast. What power on Earth was great enough to destroy this supremely potent magical engine? He gestured to the pile of broken glass and willed an unspoken command at the glistening shards. A flash of golden light, a radiance halfway between a blast of lightning and the glow of a saint’s halo, flew from his fingertips to the pile of glittery rubble. The light subsided; the pile of rubble remained.

Once again, he made the mystic healing gesture, but more forcefully this time, exerting himself with such grim determination that every muscle in his body tensed and strained. The pieces of glass slowly, ever so slowly, began to rise and reassemble into the shape of a crystal globe, but he could see black fracture lines where the shards joined, and realized that these dark lines represented a destructive force repelling the shards from each other, preventing an undoing of the globe’s destruction. He struggled with this force for several minutes, contesting with it, his raw will against this nameless, mindless force. At last the black lines faded and the orb seemed to settle into a restoration of its whole, intact state. Nelson let out a long sigh of relief. But no sooner had he done so than the black lines swiftly reappeared, seemed to quickly expand, and the globe shattered into a pile of shiny debris once more.

Nelson let out an angry epithet, then cast a summoning spell. His form was quickly enveloped in golden light until it became a blinding blur. When the light slowly faded, in Nelson’s place stood a form clothed in a golden cloak, gauntlets, boots; a blue body suit covering his body from his torso to his legs; a golden amulet on his chest, and on his head a golden helmet. This quiet, private man now stood revealed as a figure known around the world – and on many other worlds, as well – as the master mage and supreme sorcerer, Doctor Fate.

Something had declared war on him, and likely had also declared war on the entire world. Doctor Fate would answer it.

He gestured toward the broken globe again, but this time with his left hand; his right hand pressed the golden jewel set in the centre of the golden metallic disk on his chest: the Amulet of Anutu. The power of the greatest of the ancient gods, Anu, the Creator of All, the Lord of Heaven, transmitted through the sigil of his scion, Utu, god of the sun. He rarely used the amulet’s power; it was too great, too unwieldy for anything but the most extreme situation. But he knew such an occasion was upon him now. Power flowed into him from the wellsprings of creation itself, until he knew he could barely contain it. Dropping his right hand to his side, he expelled the tremendous force from himself through his outstretched left arm.

The tower shook and for a split second all the familiar reality of it seemed to blink into something else entirely; for a split second, time and space, even such as they were in the Salem Tower, were rendered entirely irrelevant. Everything was something entirely other. But then reality reasserted itself, as did the Eye of Merlin, for when Kent Nelson – Doctor Fate – had recovered his sense of reality, the globe was fully restored. Holding his breath for a few seconds, he let out a sigh of relief. The restoration spell held; the dark force had been completely expelled.

But at such a cost. Despite possessing superhuman strength and stamina, he was exhausted. But there was no time to rest. Inza’s life was at stake. Certainly, he knew that some unknown enemy was setting a trap, that he was the prey and she was the bait. But that hardly mattered. He would rescue Inza or, immortal or not, perish trying.

Taking a deep breath and concentrating, he muttered an invocation to the spirit of the Annunaki and a supplication to Anu, to Enlil and Enki, and to his former mentor, Nabu. Give me strength, and more, give me wisdom, he spoke in the ancient, forgotten, forbidden tongue of the original Ubaidian sorcerers. He then laid his palm over the Eye of Merlin and exerted his will upon the orb, directing it to locate Inza.

The globe seemed to come alive with a golden light that radiated from it as if it were a warm electric bulb, but this glow dimmed and lost its lustre until it was a smoggy yellow-grey, and inside the scrying glass grey mists swirled and grew darker, until they appeared to form a grim shape.

The shape became the shadow of a misshapen head, and then in an instant it resolved into a hideous face, one that clearly had once been human long ago, but had become so corrupted as to appear demonic. It was completed bald, and its pale, bluish-grey skin appeared to be ravaged by some disease that had left it pocked and mottled with dark pits and patches. Its ears were of differing sizes; one seemed to have been partially eaten. Its teeth were long and yellowish and appeared to have been purposely filed to points; its tongue was long and appeared to have been similarly altered by surgical means: it was forked, like that of a snake.

But the most disturbing aspect of this creature’s face was its eyes: the whites were a cirrhotic snot-yellow, the irises a chthonic fiery red.

It couldn’t be, Fate muttered to himself. The demonic face laughed as if to answer, But it is!

“Nergal!” Fate exclaimed. The word sounded half curse, half question. The creature laughed again.

“What have you done with Inza?” the distraught sorcerer demanded.

The face grinned widely, exposing all the pointed yellow spikes in its hideous mouth., then turned and gestured to the form of a woman, floating in the middle of the great hall of a stone temple. The image grew closer to him until he could see that it was Inza, stiff as a board, pale white, and dressed in sombre sheer black silks with a grey rose and a grey viper perched on her breast – in the manner of ritual sacrifice to a dark god.

“NO!” Fate shouted. But then the face appeared again. Its mocking laughter filled the orb, and evil emanated from it like the wicked gravity of a black hole, depleting all heavenly light in its vicinity. The black veins again appeared in the orb, and it threatened to shatter, but it held firm. A look of surprise appeared briefly on the hideous face, but then it just smiled again, and pointed again to the floating form of Inza. Then the view inside the globe seemed to scan the room, so that Fate would be certain where his beloved was being held captive. But he had known that room from the first second the face had ceased to fill up the entire orb. It had once been home to him, after all.

Then the face vanished completely, the darkness drained from the globe, and it was once again no more than a large crystal ball.

Fate shuddered. He was shaken by unreasoning fear, as if under the spell of the fear-inducing Mask of Medusa. He had faced some of the most powerful beings in the cosmos – Darkseid, the Anti-Monitor, Mordru, even the Spectre – and never felt fear like this. He knew it must be the primal power of the creature’s aura, powerful enough to induce extreme puluhtu, even in him. And for the first time in his life, Nelson – Fate – experienced the sensation of his life flashing before his eyes, his life compressed into an infinitely faceted, self-reflective crystal. Under pressure like the grip of a collapsing star, he saw his life reduced to an atom of time upon staring into the face of the god of death.

[anonymouscheeseball]

You guys half the fun's in the tags, please do read them there's real genius here.

Monty chose Edwin as his target before he accidentally fell in love, but please imagine him meeting Charles with his shiny earring and necklace ("I want to put them in my mouth") and immediately switching tactics.