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denimbex1986 · 1 year ago

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'Barbenheimer has taken cinema lovers by storm, with both movies capturing theater-goers’ attention with two polar opposite films wrapped up in a wonderfully diverse double billing.

Greta Gerwig‘s “Barbie” won the battle of the box office, claiming an outstanding $155 million in its opening weekend (“Oppenheimer” reaped around $80 million) while Christopher Nolan‘s “Oppenheimer” is slightly ahead on Rotten Tomatoes with 94% (“Barbie” is on 90%). Here at Gold Derby, however, we care only about one race. The, uh, gold derby (apologies). With that in mind, here’s a breakdown of both films by every Oscar category.* We’ll assess both movies’ chances of landing a nomination in said category to work, at this early stage, which one might amass more Academy Award nominations. Here goes.

*Both films will not compete in the following categories: Best Original Screenplay, Visual Effects, and all other “Best Picture” or “Best Short” categories.

Best Picture “Oppenheimer” seems almost locked in for a Best Picture bid. It sits in second place in our odds chart behind only Martin Scorsese‘s upcoming “Killers of the Flower Moon.” Nolan has a good track record with his movies in this category. “Inception” and “Dunkirk” were both nominated here while he surely came close with “The Dark Knight” and “Interstellar,” too.

Greta Gerwig‘s past two movies, “Lady Bird” and “Little Women,” were both nominated for Best Picture, so she’s looking to go three for three (it also helps that Noah Baumbach, who co-writes and produces, is involved here. “Marriage Story” was also nominated for Best Picture). “Barbie” is eighth in our odds chart so doesn’t seem as certain as “Oppenheimer” but voters are opting for more unique work (“The Shape of Water,” “Everything Everywhere All at Once”) so “Barbie” could benefit from that.

Best Director Nolan and Gerwig competed against one another in 2018 when they were both nominated for Best Director (for “Dunkirk” and “Lady Bird”). It could happen again here. Nolan is in second place in our odds chart (behind Scorsese again) while Gerwig — CRIMINALLY! — is outside of our predicted five nominees. Celine Song (“Past Lives”), Jonathan Glazer (“The Zone of Interest”), and Denis Villeneuve (“Dune: Part Two”) are all ahead of her. Gerwig is after her second Best Director bid. Curiously, Nolan is also after his second Best Director bid, despite helming the likes of “The Dark Knight,” “Inception,” and “Interstellar.”

Best Actor There are no options for “Barbie” in this category but Cillian Murphy is terrific in the lead role of Robert J. Oppenheimer. He is searching for his first-ever Oscar bid and we think he’ll get it — he’s second again in our odds chart (again, behind only that pesky Scorsese flick “Killers of the Flower Moon,” with Leonardo DiCaprio in first place) with Bradley Cooper (“Maestro”), Colman Domingo (“Rustin”), and Paul Giamatti (“The Holdovers”) behind him.

Best Actress It’s the reverse here. No “Oppenheimer” representatives but Margot Robbie is looking for her second Best Actress bid (her first came in 2018 with “I, Tonya”) and third nomination overall (her second came for Supporting Actress in 2020 for “Bombshell”). However, Robbie is outside of our predicted five nominees at the moment: Emma Stone (“Poor Things”), Natalie Portman (“May December”), Sandra Hüller (“Anatomy of a Fall”), Greta Lee (“Past Lives”), Fantasia Barrino (“The Color Purple”).

Best Supporting Actress Emily Blunt is a contender here, taking the cliched role of long-suffering wife and making the absolute most out of it. She’s looking for her first-ever Oscar bid after so many near misses (“The Devil Wears Prada,” “The Girl on the Train,” “A Quiet Place,” “Mary Poppins Returns”). She could be set for another near-miss, however, as she is just on the precipice behind our predicted five of Da’Vine Joy Randolph (“The Holdovers”), Julianne Moore (“May December”), Danielle Brooks and Taraji P. Henson (both “The Color Purple”), and Lily Gladstone (“Killers of the Flower Moon”). Meanwhile, “Barbie” has a couple of contenders. America Ferrera and Kate McKinnon are the two stand-outs here and both would be on for their first Oscar nominations. However, they do seem like long shots so we don’t expect this to happen.

Best Supporting Actor We expect there to be a battle in this category. Robert Downey Jr. and Ryan Gosling are both looking for their third Oscar nominations. Downey Jr. was previously nominated for Best Actor in 1993 for “Chaplin” and Best Supporting Actor in 2009 for “Tropic Thunder.” Gosling, meanwhile, landed a Best Actor bid in 2007 (“Half Nelson”) and 2017 (“La La Land”). They both deliver fantastic performances and, as such, we both think they will earn nominations in this category alongside Domingo (“The Color Purple”), John Magaro (“Past Lives”), and Robert De Niro (“Killers of the Flower Moon”).

Best Adapted Screenplay They will both be in this category, too. Nolan adapted the screenplay himself from Kai Bird and Martin J. Sherwin‘s non-fiction book “American Prometheus.” Meanwhile, Gerwig and Baumbach adapted “Barbie” from Mattel’s line of toys, so the film is technically based on a pre-existing work, as per the Academy’s rules. Both projects are predicted to earn a nomination here, alongside “Dune: Part Two,” “The Zone of Interest,” and “Killers of the Flower Moon.” All writers involved have a good Oscars track record, too. Nolan was nominated for Original Screenplay in 2002 for “Memento” (shared with his brother Jonathan Nolan) and again in 2011 for “Inception.” Baumbach also has two Original Screenplay bids to his name — in 2006 for “The Squid and the Whale” and in 2020 for “Marriage Story.” And Gerwig has two writing nominations, too — one for Original Screenplay (in 2018 for “Lady Bird”) and one for Adapted Screenplay (in 2020 for “Little Women”).

Best Cinematography This brings us to the categories that are not yet in our odds chart, but we can still judge whether or not these movies have a good shot at a nod for these of these categories. Here, they both have a good chance. Nolan’s films famously do very well in this category. Wally Pfister was nominated for “Batman Begins” in 2006, “The Prestige” in 2007, and “The Dark Knight” in 2009 while he won the award for “Inception” in 2011. Hoyte Van Hoytema was nominated for “Dunkirk” in 2018. It’s Van Hoytema who shoots this one, too. That “Dunkirk” bid is his only Oscar nomination so far, but he’s got a great chance at doubling that this Oscar season. Meanwhile, Rodrigo Prieto lenses “Barbie.” The versatile director of photography has three nominations to his name so far — for “Brokeback Mountain” in 2006, “Silence” in 2017, and “The Irishman” in 2020. He could actually land two bids this year — he also lensed “Killers of the Flower Moon.” “Oppenheimer” has a great chance of a bid here while “Barbie” is likely going to be on the precipice.

Best Film Editing Both films utilize editing well, too, with Nolan’s trademark narrative trickery on full display thanks to editor Jennifer Lame while Nick Houy brings to life a brisk, sharp, punchy world with “Barbie.” Both Lame and Houy are looking for their first-ever Oscar nominations. Nolan’s films tend to do well in all technical categories, so expect “Oppenheimer” to compete here. Again, “Barbie” could be on the precipice.

Best Costume Design This is where “Barbie” comes into its own. Not many movies will have more distinct costumes (or production design, more on that in a second) than “Barbie” thanks to the genius work from the legendary Jacqueline Durran. Durran has been nominated for eight Oscars, winning for “Anna Karenina” in 2013 and “Little Women,” in which she also worked with “Barbie” director Gerwig, in 2020. Expect her to be competing not only for the nomination but for the women. “Oppenheimer” has a decent chance of a bid, but it won’t be at the forefront of the nominations. The costuming was done by Ellen Mirojnick, who is looking for her first Oscar bid.

Best Production Design Again, we expect “Barbie” to excel here thanks to production designer Sarah Greenwood and set decorators Katie Spencer and Ashley Swanson. Longtime collaborators Greenwood and Spencer have both been nominated for six Oscars together: “Pride & Prejudice” in 2006, “Atonement” in 2008, “Sherlock Holmes” in 2010, “Anna Karenina” in 2013, and “Beauty and the Beast” and “Darkest Hour” in 2018. Swanson is hoping for her first Oscar bid. She should get it. “Oppenheimer” has a better chance here than in Costume Design, with the recreation of the Los Alamos town an impressive feat. Ruth De Jong is the production designer while Claire Kaufman, Olivia Peebles, and Adam Willis are the set decorators. They are all looking for their first bids.

Best Makeup and Hairstyling Both films could theoretically land nominations here. “Barbie” is full of great hairstyling (none more so than Ken’s beach bleach blonde hair) while “Oppenheimer” transforms Downey Jr. into Lewis Strauss with good makeup work. It’s unclear who exactly would be on the billing for both films, but we expect other movies to be more in contention for this category than these two.

Best Original Score Ludwig Göransson composed a terrific score for “Oppenheimer.” He won Best Original Score in 2019 for “Black Panther” while he was nominated in 2023 for that movie’s sequel for Best Original Song (for the tune “Lift Me Up,” alongside Tems, Rihanna, and Ryan Coogler). We fully expect Göransson to be in the mix here. “Barbie” is an odd one here. The music of the film is mostly made up of songs rather than score. However, Mark Ronson and Andrew Wyatt were in charge of the music here and they have good Oscars pedigree. They both won Best Original Song in 2019 for the song “Shallow” from “A Star is Born” alongside Lady Gaga and Anthony Rossomando. However, the focus for “Barbie” will be more on songs than score so don’t expect a nomination here.

Best Original Song Expect “Barbie” to land a bid here. The only question is — which song do they decide to campaign? The front runners would be Dua Lipa‘s “Dance the Night,” Billie Eilish‘s “What Was I Made For?”, and Gosling’s “I’m Just Ken.” I know which of those is my favorite (all about the Kenergy) but it’ll be interesting to see which one (or two or even three) the film chooses to back. Eilish’s ditty is the more serious, so that would make sense — plus, she has Oscars credentials. She won this award in 2022 with Finneas O’Connell for “No Time to Die” with the song of the same name. Ronson and Wyatt would be on the billing, too, and they have good awards histories as well, as explained above. There are no options for “Oppenheimer” in this category.

Best Sound In a previous year, “Oppenheimer” would have received two bids for the price of one with both Sound Mixing and Sound Editing. However, the categories have been combined now so it will have to settle for one. But we do fully expect it to be nominated here — Nolan’s films always do well here. And “Oppenheimer” features huge explosions and sound is very much a key part of the story. The sound designers and artists will appreciate this. It’s unclear who exactly would be on the billing for the nomination as of yet, however. Meanwhile, “Barbie” is a curious one. It might not seem like an obvious choice for this category, which is usually full of big, bombastic action movies. However, it’s also something of a musical and musicals do well here, too. “Elvis” (Best Sound in 2023), “West Side Story” (Best Sound in 2022), “Bohemian Rhapsody” (winner of both Mixing and Editing in 2019), “A Star is Born” (Best Sound Mixing in 2019), and “La La Land” (Mixing and Editing in 2017) have all been recent nominees in the sound category/categories. “Barbie” could feature.

So, with all that considered, here is a little total for each film. We think that “Oppenheimer” could earn anywhere between nine and 13 Oscar nominations. Meanwhile, we believe that “Barbie” could receive between six and nine Oscar nominations. These figures are, of course, a playful little exercise in this very early stage of awards season but it’s fun to see how both measure up. Things could change — other movies could emerge as stronger contenders in various categories or either of these films could solidify their chances in several areas. For now, however, “Oppenheimer” has won this very early exercise.'

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thanatoseyes · 2 years ago

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I've had only goddesses reach out to me about practicing magic.

#what up ladies were going to do great things together #freyja #persephone #hecate #and brigid contacted me but i think its more of a family fire and home sort of vibe but she might be willing to help me with magic #the guys are here to help me emotionally #or something idk ive got thanatos prometheus and hypnos and they are there as like my support system i venerate them they keep watch over m #its a thing but then i have dionysus and we vibe very hard i dont know where or what or why our relationship is but he is there present and #accounted for you know yeah #and then theres hermes and hades #hermes is helping me communicate better and i am learning greek in his honor #hades we havent really gotten to know eachother yet but i think we will and when we do we will be powerful #idk im just feeling really great about life right now #look i know i know i know #these tags a re a lot but i just had to get my thoughts out there #helpol #celtic paganism #norse religion

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inknopewetrust · 3 months ago

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𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐘𝐨𝐮

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐀𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐧𝐝—𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥 [𝐀𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐞 𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫] [𝐰𝐜: 3.5k]

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝟏𝟖+, 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐃𝐍𝐈, 𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐯, 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝐜𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤.

𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬: 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒

The band had long ceased playing.

As the strings of confetti laid scattered on the floor and the lingering drips of spilled champagne stained the linens, the new year had rung in with a start. London was electric; buzzing in the underground of the darkest shadows—there was nothing more thrilling.

For a deal had been struck as smiles beamed.

And Alfie Solomons had never felt so alive when the guests dispersed and he sat at a vacant table in the golden light. A cigar burning in his hand, the man leaned back on his chair in victory.

The tendrils of smoke swirled in the air; dancing around his face and into the room. It carved him as a Prometheus of men—Camden’s king that gave and protected those who needed it most.

He intrigued you, Alfie Solomons.

A ruggedly handsome man with the mouth of a foul sailor. He had eyed every person in the room before they could clock him but he was never difficult to miss, not after how much Tommy had talked him up.

It would be easy, he said, charming the socks of Alfie to warm a deal between the two sleuths.

Easy was an understated word when the night had worn thin and all you had done from your table of rich ladies and their scrawny men was stare at him. He’d caught your eye one too many times as you tried to gain his attention throughout the night—but he never made his way to you.

You knew there was no doubting he knew you worked with Tommy, that you were being used in a way to sweeten prospects with batting eyelashes and a dress that dipped a little too low in the front. Alfie had seen that before. The desperate nature of a con too important to lose.

It was why when the guests had left the building and the music had stopped he remained. You’d left to powder your nose, he’d heard your excuse to a woman at your table who happened to be the wife of an employee. He sent his snakes far too. Tommy wasn’t the only one who played for keeps.

When you re-entered the space, Alfie sat at the table with the smoke billowing around him in puffs. His cane slanted against the table while his legs spread wide, thick thighs resting themselves on the chair in welcome.

He teased absentmindedly. He was erotic when he tried not to be, more so as you looked upon him from your perch in the hall.

You thanked Tommy endlessly for sending you. This line of business wasn’t hard work when the goal was a specimen like Alfie was. You stood in the doorway with confidence faltering under the surface and leaned against the wall as seductively as you could imagine.

Yet Alfie said nothing.

He continued to smoke at his cigar with the knowledge of you standing there. You felt your heartbeat pick up.

You shifted on your feet, crossing them together and pulling your hands behind your back. It popped your hip out to the side and for a brief moment, you swore Alfie’s chest lifted in a scoff but he sat too far from you. You truly couldn’t tell.

He smoked for another eternity, a minute perhaps before inhaling dramatically and blowing it out again.

“And to what,” his messy drawl was thick, “do I owe the pleasure of your company, Miss—“

“I think you know why I’m here,” you answered in kind. He shrugged his shoulder casually.

“Perhaps. But Tommy ain’t exactly a friend,” his eyes narrowed a bit. “If you know what I mean?”

“He’s not asking to be your friend, Mr. Solomons. He wanted to ensure the deal was final.”

Alfie stuck the cigar between his lips. “I see he won’t be doin’ that ‘emself now?”

“No,” you smiled abashedly. It was cute, he thought, how you played so innocently at this larger game. “He knew your interests lie elsewhere.”

The smoke blew once more. He put out the cigar on a glass tray on the table before beckoning you with two fingers.

You might as well have floated against the wooden floors of the room as you approached. Hips swaying, shoes echoing in the room. You traversed the tinsel and confetti and spilled champagne to meet his table and rest in front of him. Alfie was shameless in the way he let his eyes wander. Slow and unforgiving, he could see everything if he wanted to and this was a kind of gift from Tommy—you.

You were close to the operations of the Shelby’s. He had heard about this woman, as beautiful as you, being as ruthless in Birmingham as the brothers. He knew your name, your family, your history even if he played it off as not. A childhood friend, Alfie supposed, brought on to pull strings in ways only women knew how.

He imagined you like Polly—cunning with a tongue and if you let the slit in your dress draw apart, maybe with other bits of you as well.

“The word from Thomas?” Alfie asked gruffly. You set your small bag down on the table beside you and rested a hand on your waist.

“Three boats from Camden Yard every morning for a month,” you reminded him. The details of the deal were boring, listed off like a grocery list of things to do or get and the most relief you felt that entire evening is when you finally stopped talking.

“How does he plan to have the payment delivered?”

“Through me.”

Alfie hummed. He looked around the room, mind already aware of the deal being sealed and delivered to Tommy by one of his own men in that very moment. He’d sent one of his finest to Birmingham on the off chance the one Tommy had sent was less than capable.

Alfie could admit he was wrong in such an assumption.

“You know,” Alfie shifted in his seat to widen his legs. The expanse of his stance, the seat directed towards you had your eyes trailing his torso, falling square to his crotch and back up to him. His arms rested at his thighs. Hands flat and rough. “This is our new beginning, here in Camden.”

“Shana Tovah, Mr. Solomons.”

“Did he ask you to study? He knew it was a holiday. The Shelby’s aren’t Jews.”

“I think you underestimate our worldly knowledge, Mr.—“

“Alfie,” he corrected.

“—Alfie,” you repeated. “Birmingham isn’t a shithole all the time. We are cultured people.”

Alfie smiled slightly, turning his head away to gaze at the entry way. “Eh,” he grunted. “It’s all shit if you really think ‘bout it.”

You looked down at him as he sat and he peered back at you. His eyes shadowed by his hat in the shimmer of the light.

“Why you still ‘ere?” He tested. “I can’t imagine you sneakin’ around for some challah when the cooks have gone on home.”

You adjusted your stance on your leg causing your dress to ripple. His eyes flickered in the dark.

“Tommy send you to seduce me, treacle?”

Treacle. You’d never heard someone use that word before. You ran your tongue over your lip as it jutted out to clear the dryness that manifested.

You weren’t nervous, per se. But Alfie was a strong, loud man who was more than capable of sending a message to his friends, or enemies, without remorse.

It enticed you—He enticed you greatly. The danger, the selfless anger that rested under his thick skin.

“No,” you answered honestly. “I fear I may be doing that myself.”

“There ain’t anyone here any more.” Alfie only looked at you. His eyes underneath the shadows swallowed you whole. They drew you in and spit you back out.

“Oh?” You feigned obliviousness. You knew everyone had left as well.

Alfie rubbed his hands over his thighs in warmth. His fingers danced along the tops of them.

“Step closer,” he ordered.

Without hesitation, you stepped closer and closer until you stood between his open legs and you could feel the heat radiating off of him. You could smell the cigar, his scent strong and burly.

“I’m sure you’ve heard what kind of man I am.”

“No more horrible than the rest.”

“What would Thomas say, eh?” He leaned his head backwards to look up at you. His fingertips twitched against his pants in want. “That his little friend is so willing.”

“I didn’t say I was willing.”

Alfie’s smile barely ghosted his face. Amused, he flicked down to your breasts and back up to your face.

“Your body says otherwise, love.”

He could see your nipples pert against he fabric of your dress. Your chest rose and fell erratically.

“Tommy sent me to ensure the deal was final, that is all, Alfie. I do not need to entertain you to see it through.”

“But you chose this beautiful dress,” he lifted a hand dramatically. It grazed the side of your body to feel the silken fabric that laid over the parts he wished to see further. “And these women,” he motioned to the empty room, “don’t dress like you.”

“Well they follow a different code than I.”

“And what else does that code allow?”

Alfie had yet to drop his hand. It played at the fabric that hung at your hip. He pinched it between his fingers and tugged gently.

“It depends on what the caller is asking of her,” you proposed and took his other hand into your own.

His hands were bigger than yours by a mile. Rough and calloused from his life, Alfie allowed you to overturn it and caress it in your touch. He watched your eyes, not your motions as you dragged his hand up toward your body, resting his hand not tightly gripping your dress on the space on your chest not covered by clothing.

Your skin was hot to the touch. It burned him as he felt the softness so different from his own.

“I do feel a bit cold, yeah?” He questioned and in an instant brought you down onto his lap and in a scramble of legs to straddle him.

Legs now on either side of his thick thighs, you sunk to rest your core where the zipper of his trousers began to bulge.

Alfie breathed you in deeply. His gripped turned bruising as you wrapped one arm around him and the other hand reseted on his chest.

“Why Mr. Solomons,” you snickered, “this is a bit forward.”

“Says you.” His hand slipped from you uncovered chest to one of your breasts and squeezed then soothed over the pebbling bud. “Don’t know the game your playin’, love. It’d be a dangerous one for a girl like you.”

You smiled at him. Tilting your head into his, you shuttered a breath as he slipped the dress from your shoulder and let the fabric fall to reveal you to him. You shifted your hips on top of his to feel his growing sensation.

“I know my game, Alfie,” your lips barely grazed his. He chased it, nipping your bottom lip and for a moment you thought yourself crazy for acting such a way with a man like him. “Do you know yours?”

Alfie responded by meeting his lips with yours abruptly. The hand on his chest cupped his face while his simply wandered along you. His beard was long and tickling your skin as he begged to dominate your mouth with his own. You tipped his hat off and laid it on the table before pulling away with a pop.

“My God, woman,” Alfie mumbled. You rolled your hips against his softly. He moved both of his hands to grasp the sides of you and encouraged you to grind against him. Your dress fell further down your chest and bore your luscious tits to him.

You entranced him with your movements. The roll of your body, the jiggle of your breasts as you moved. He grew hard under you and his palms wandered further to gather your dress at your waist.

“You were prepared, eh?” He commented lowly at the absence of your underwear.

“I took my chances.”

One of his thumbs met your core and found your clit quickly to rub circles at the pace of your thrusts. Your body jolted at the feeling. You were out of your mind, letting him pleasure you. Yet you didn’t say no. You couldn’t say no when you were so enraptured by his entire presence.

He was thick and heavy in his trousers which only stirred you further.

Alfie circled your clit ferociously. Meticulous and rapid, he wound up the coil within you to the point of no return. His thumb gathered the wetness greedily. You cupped his head, nearly swaying him as you lost yourself and inclined your head backward as your eyelids drooped.

“Alfie…” your voice was barely above a whisper as it hitched. He had found a good spot. One so tender and reactive. He grinned slyly.

You moved to undo the belt of his pants and slid it out from the loops the best you could. He hadn’t worn suspenders or an absurd amount of vests to add to the layers. Fingers deftly popping him open and carving the lines of his cock with your hand, you worked him out of the trousers and into your palm.

“You feel plenty warm to me,” you suggested with a purr.

Alfie sat up straighter. The advantage catching the back of your neck and drawing your lips to his again. You groaned into his mouth; savoring the feeling of your lips on his as his breath mingled with yours.

You stroked him lazily in your hand while he was more deliberate in pleasuring you.

Alfie’s mouth trailed along the sides of your neck. He left foul, bruising kissed on the column as he made his way down to your tits again and took a nipple inbetween his mouth. He pulled back, gently biting it between his teeth and letting go with a tug.

“You were right, Alfie,” you breathed in heavily. Rolling your hips against his hand, you had the sudden urge to have him inside of you. “I have heard the stories about the kind of man you are.”

“And? I don’t suppose you give a fuck about them now, love.”

“No,” you smiled shyly. “But I would be lying if I wasn’t interested in the things I’d heard.”

Your ran you thumb over the head of his cock to wipe at the cum that had leaked out of hum. Smoothing it over and down his shaft, he might as well have shivered at the sensation.

“I am more interested in the man I haven’t heard about. The one like this.”

Alfie quirked a brow and stopped his movements. He helped lift you slightly, taking control of his dick as his hand replaced yours and ran it along your slit.

“You wanna be my lover? A gy—“

You shushed him with a kiss. “I didn’t say that, Mr. Solomons. It’s not something anyone needs to know of.”

“Too dangerous, treacle.” He swiped his cock’s head along you clit and you could feel the blood rushing, the heartbeat that pulsed as hard as the one in your chest. “I’m not in the business of leading women as beautiful as you to an early grave.”

You shook your head gently. “I don’t believe you.”

Alfie hummed and with it, pushed the head of himself into your aching pussy that had been warmed by his previous ministrations and he was taken by the way your mouth fell agape. Shoulders relaxing and falling as you took him in as much as you could before pushing further; further and further until there was nothing more left to take of him and you took him fully.

“No,” Alfie said deeply. His chest rumbled with the word and echoed as far into the room as it could reach. He didn’t allow you to adjust yourself on his cock. Alfie held your hips down and made you sit there, still.

“I don’t believe myself either.”

He relished the way your cunt swallowed him. Alfie’s mind wondered if all of your holes could take him the same and in the times you’d come to Camden to collect the payments on behalf of Tommy, he’d be able to explore all the scenarios that plagued his mind as you clenched down on him and gripped him tightly. So warm and inviting, he could stay like that forever and if this was the feeling of your first meeting, he wasn’t romantic enough to consider how he’d feel after your tenth, twentieth, or more.

Alfie’s mind traveled to you kneeling under his desk and taking his cock in your mouth; feeling you spread out before him on a table in the distillery room and watching you gush around him. He could see himself under covers in the dark pleasuring you with his mouth and the taste of you on his tongue. In the tub with your back against his and the water splashing over the sides and if he was lucky, as the sun broke the horizon in Margate in his house by the sea.

As he let you sit on him and rake your fingers through his short hair, he caressed your sides and backs of your thighs as the muscles trembled.

“When you collect the money,” he whispered as much as a man like he could, “come straight to the bakery. Go to the office and if I am not there, do not let anyone in who knocks.”

“Afraid of what your men will do to me?” You questioned and his grip tightened.

“They’d be fuckin’ idiots to try.”

You learned quickly that Alfie Solomons loved to kiss you. He enjoyed the feeling of your lips on his and the selfless way you let him take control of you. He pushed the boundaries of comfort and with his cock still inside of you hard and pulsing with want, it was hard to imagine letting another man touch you in the same way.

“You come straight to me. You take the money and I’ll leave you walkin’ funny till you return to those fuckin’ Shelby’s so they know who you belong to.”

You pulled Alfie in close around his shoulders. He loosened his grasp on your hips as you lifted yourself up. His cock coated in your slick slid along your walls and before you lost him completely, you sunk down on him again and he guided you with ease every bounce you made.

You barely squeaked as his dick filled you. Thick and long, he was exactly as you’d imagined him to be based on the man you’d heard so much about. His large thighs supported your weight and he complained not about any part of you that you’d deem less than perfect.

Letting Alfie maneuver you, you leaned back onto his thighs and your hands placed themselves on his knee caps and allowed the space between you to be viewed completely by the man. He watched you sink onto him. Watching as you took him with languid rolls and calculated moves that barely drew a sweat on your brow. He held onto you tightly and helped speed up the movements as he pulled you into him once twice and then repeatedly.

The sounds of your pleasure were lewd. For anyone could waltz in and see you both openly fucking in the dining hall of the beautiful building but they wouldn’t. The sun had long set, the doors long had been locked and all that was left was you and Alfie left to settle a score.

And it was building rapidly.

Too much. It was overstimulating—the force of his actions and the long drawl of his cock against your plush walls. You were soaked. Soaking him and his trousers that were barely pushed down enough to set him free. Your body trembled as the quick revelation of your orgasm approached. Gripping his knees so tightly your nails dug into the caps, you couldn’t help the yelps turned into weak, whimpering moans that spilled from your lips.

Alfie muttered words of mere nothing at the quake of your thighs. Your stomach’s muscles tightened and with a jolt, you lurched forward and clung onto his shoulders as your release reached its peak. Your pussy clenched down on his cock with all the strength it could in the moments between your tremors. Alfie sore disorienting profanities as your orgasm threatened his own.

He wanted to pull out. He didn’t need more on his plate than what he already had and certainly not any child that bound him to the Shelby LLC for eternity. Alfie huffed, breathing through his teeth as he lifted you up slightly and barely managed to empty himself onto your stomach and bits of your dress.

You watched as his release waded down your body and his hold loosened greatly at his finish.

“So,” Alfie spoke lowly. “Do I have your word?”

“Of what?” You responded breathlessly. He grinned at your fucked out face. The way you could barely hold yourself upright even if it wasn’t the most intense fuck either of you had ever had.

“You come straight to me, got it?”

And well, Mr. Alfie Solomons didn’t have to ask twice.

Happy almost end of Kinktober! I’m trying my best to get all the fics out that I’ve promised. I’ve never written for Alfie before but I love the character so much that I’d thought I’d give it a try. As always, it is so much appreciated that you leave a like, a comment OR a reblog (I like the last two the best!) thank you for reading and free to check out any of my other works.

#alfie solomons #alfred solomons #peaky blinders #alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons x you #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders smut #peaky blinder fanfic #alfie solomons smut #tom hardy #x reader #fanfic #x female reader #fanfiction #peaky blinders alfie solomons

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meggannn · 3 months ago

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list of nicknames for Mel so far

(Olympic Update)

Hecate: Melinoë/Witch

Dora: Mel

Odysseus: Goddess

Nemesis: Princess (sarcastic)

Moros: Princess (sincere)

Skelly: Young one

Charon: Arrrrrggghhhhhhh

Artemis: Sister (sincere)

Zeus: Young lady

Hera: My dear

Poseidon: Little Niece

Apollo: Cousin (initially)/Sunshine (later)

Hermes: M

Hephaestus: Witchie

Aphrodite: Gorgeous/Love (rarely)

Demeter: Flower

Chaos: Spawn of Hades

Selene: Little Star

Arachne: My friend

Narcissus: Laurel

Scylla: Lady

Echo: N/A

Hades: Daughter

Chronos: My girl/Granddaughter

Heracles: Sister (derogatory)

Medea: Sorceress

Polyphemus: Meat (among other things)

Circe: Little Miss

Icarus: Meli

Eris: Trouble/Babe

Athena: Cousin

Dionysus: Mel baby

Prometheus: Agent of Change

Personal predictions:

Ares: Soldier(?)

Zagreus: Kiddo when he’s messing around, Sis otherwise (it would be funny if there was acknowledgment that everyone else has taken the obvious nicknames and he’s stuck with “Sis” because even “Sister” is taken, twice)

Persephone: Sweetheart

Nyx: My child (I just think she’d call all her kids and “young” family some variant of this). ALTERNATIVELY “my sword,” based on how Selene calls Mel “Night’s sword”

Achilles: Lass

Meg: Kid

Thanatos: ????

Dusa: Miss/Ma’am

#hades 2 #hades 2 spoilers

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neysaadept · 1 month ago

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Masterlist

Currently writing for Emily Prentiss x Female Reader fics. Perhaps more in the future or if a request catches my fancy :)

Minors DNI

Prometheus

Emily Prentiss x Female CIA Reader

Summary: You are an old acquaintance of Rebecca Wilson. She calls in a favor to help the BAU out of a financial debacle. This also means that the current CIA employed Reader has to consult with the BAU to make this work, and not just on paper. This has to be official, which means working with a disgruntled Section Chief Emily Prentiss. A lot.

Chapter 1 - The Favor

Chapter 2 - Why Do I Even Bother?

Chapter 3 - Welcome to the BAU

Chapter 4 - Socially Blocked

Chapter 5 - What Now?

Chapter 6 - Restart

Chapter 7 - Excision Part One (Criminal Minds Case)

Chapter 8 - Excision Part Two (Criminal Minds Case)

Chapter 9 - Why Do You Keep Saying No?

Chapter 10 - Ladies' Night

Chapter 11 - Take a Chance and Crash

Chapter 12 - Let's Chat

Chapter 13 - Chasing After You

Chapter 14 - Hold Space

Fic Request

Please refer to this post in celebration of 175 followers! Requests closed for now but what I do is found here

It's Okay Not to Be Okay - Angsty but happy ending.

Take a Chance - Meet cute, First Christmas, Fluff and Angsty.

Self Surrender - Hurt/Comfort. Set after the events of Demonology.

Ectasy When I Fall - Band Member Reader in Established Relationship with Emily. Fluff.

#emily prentiss #criminal minds #criminal minds evolution #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x female reader #emily x reader #emily x you #prometheus #fic request #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x reader #emily prentiss fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction

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peggyao3 · 6 months ago

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Relic - Masterlist

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧ Dreams are messages from the deep ✧

A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: Third person POV, she/her AFAB FMC, explicit sexual content, smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, plans within plans, implied/referenced (child) abuse, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/ Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, murder, teaching the universe about feminism, female rage, Frank Herbert would frown, No actually he would kneel in front of me, putting the science and the porn in sci-fi, angst with a happy ending

WORD COUNT: 73k

A/N: The protagonist of this fic is on the edge between reader insert and OC. Her back story and skillset are defined, but her appearance for the most part isn't, though I can't help myself with the occasional mention of physical softness because it contrasts so nicely with all of Feyd's hard edges 🫶

Reposted from my Ao3 💕

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Chapter 1 - "Oh, Lady Dear"

Chapter 2 - "Eidolon"

Chapter 3 - "Dying of the Light"

Chapter 4 - "O God!"

Chapter 5 - "Prometheus"

Chapter 6 - "Hungry, all the Years"

Chapter 7 - "The Iceberg"

Chapter 8 - "Rowing in Eden"

Chapter 9 - "Bethlehem"

Chapter 10 - "Fettered Flesh"

Chapter 11 - "Palms of my Hands"

Chapter 12 - "Ouroboros"

Chapter 13 - "Come not with a Sword"

Chapter 14 - "A World in a Grain of Sand"

Chapter 15 - "Herr God, Beware"

Chapter 16 - "Destroyer of Worlds"

Chapter 17 - "Equinox"

Chapter 18 - "Universe"

SERIES COMPLETE

#peggysuave fanfics #peggysuave;relic #feyd rautha #feyd #feyd x reader #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x oc #feyd x oc #dune part 2

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see-arcane · 1 year ago

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Was Frankenstein Not the Monster? PILOT

A fire of too many colors swallows a manor in the countryside and descends into a pit.

An occult detective's prying leads to revelations far more volatile than the mere aftermath of a nightmare.

Men and monsters circle at the edge of a legend that should have died in the cold almost 100 years ago.

And in the dark beyond that edge, strange Creatures watch and work and wait.

…Such is the stage set for a new piece under the working title of Was Frankenstein Not the Monster? I make no promises—certainly none the size of Barking Harker—but at the moment, this project has been eating up much of the time I’ve spent while juggling the publication of The Vampyres. As it stands, I think I might be making another book.

If you’re interested, the preview is below the cut, but also available here and through a link in my website, here.

Was Frankenstein Not the Monster?

C.R. Kane

Every muscle palpitates, every nerve goes tense—then the body rises from the ground, not slowly, limb by limb, but thrown straight up from the earth all at once. He did not yet look alive, but like someone who was now dying. Still pale and stiff, he stands dumbstruck at being thrust back into the world. But no sound comes from his closed mouth; his voice and tongue are only allowed to answer.

—Scene of a necromantic conjuring by Erichtho, as depicted in Lucan’s Pharsalia.

“I see by your eagerness and the wonder and hope which your eyes express, my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with which I am acquainted; that cannot be; listen patiently until the end of my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon the subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to your destruction and infallible misery.”

—Victor Frankenstein, as penned by Capt. Robert Walton, edited and distributed by M. Wulstan, in the epistolatory document referred to alternately as The Legend of Frankenstein, ‘The Walton Letters,’ or, ‘Lament of the Modern Prometheus.’

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS! THE MANMADE WRETCH!

WHO IS THE MONSTER?

THE HORROR, THE HUBRIS, THE HAVOC!

ALL COME TO ELECTRIFYING LIFE IN…

THE NIGHTMARE OF DR. FRANKENSTEIN!

Based on the lauded literary terror penned by the late Robert Walton and brought to public light by M. Wulfstan, The Legend of Frankenstein.

The Apollo Crest Opera House presents the most harrowing take on the mad doctor and his marvel of creation to date.

Featuring up-to-date theatrical effects and the most stunning visuals ever seen on the stage, this is a show to whiten the locks and deliver endless shocks.

Come to GASP, to WEEP, to SWOON, and above all, ladies and gentlemen, to PONDER the century-old query beneath the fear in this tale of a creature crafted from the dead and the proud madman who dragged it into the world!

When the passerby corrects you, claiming the scientist is Frankenstein rather than the monster, remember to ask in turn:

WAS FRANKENSTEIN NOT THE MONSTER?

The Inferno of Erichtho

While Dyson’s was one of many heads turned by the events surrounding the housefire of Dr. Richard Geber, he was one of few interested parties who arranged a stay in Surrey’s countryside to ogle the site in person. The other who rode with him was, stunningly, Ambrose, one of his oldest friends and the staunchest recluse he had ever known. Dyson had suggested they try to wheedle Cotgrave, Phillips, and Salisbury all together for a full holiday, if only half in jest.

But where eager Cotgrave was anchored by familial obligations, Phillips and Salisbury were merely hesitant in matters of the uncanny. In truth, the latter pair had positively gawped at him. Their eyes asked wordlessly if the stamp of inhuman horror had magically been blotted out of his memory or if he’d simply abandoned sense altogether. Dyson laughed at the looks, especially Salisbury’s. He of the straight-lined life and the wincing insistence that Dyson keep all answers to himself when it came to the mystery of Dr. Black and the query of Q, only to come slinking curiously back with questions upon seeing Dyson’s haggard mien post-discovery.

As if reading the memory in him, Salisbury’s face flamed and turned away while Dyson continued, “My friends, I would no sooner part with the haunting of those experiences than a writer of penny horrors would relinquish the muse of his nightmares. Ambrose here will rightly call it perverse with you—he is the adept where I am the amateur—but he knows the worth of retaining the proofs of what he calls ‘sin’ and we politely deem merely the ‘weird’ or the ‘supernatural.’ Cotgrave, dear fellow, you at least have an open mind on the subject. If we can manage it, would you appreciate a souvenir of the strange ash for your desk?”

“Cotgrave,” Phillips had cut in with an aridity to dry the ocean, “has not been put into contact with anything more harrowing than some poor child’s grotesque diary. He and I,” he’d nodded to Salisbury who was muffling himself with the wineglass, “had the dubious fortune to play witness to the far end of your direct jabbing at the unknown, neither of which bore anything but blighted fruit. The sight of that miserable treasure hunter’s golden relic was more than enough for me. Salisbury, for his trouble, had enough poisonous proof poured in his ear as thirdhand storytelling to make him rightly uneasy, followed by wondering whether you had been struck by some ailment after prying too far.” He’d turned fully to Salisbury. “Has Dyson ever breathed a word of what it was that shocked that new white up his temple after chasing the scrap of a cipher and Dr. Black’s work?”

It was Dyson’s turn to look away. He had not told Salisbury about Travers’ shop. Certainly not about the opal and what it held. Nor would he ever. He knew even the most sublime prose would fail to do the spectacle or its horror justice. Salisbury would suffer for it, as most of his friends would, and so he burned his tongue with holding the story in. For the most part.

He’d broken enough to recite the event to Ambrose in tragically plain terms. Ambrose had nodded, recorded his statement in one of many journals kept for the purpose of notes and scrapbooking, and shelved it away with the rest of the flotsam that clogged the bookcases which stood in for his walls. The recluse gave his oath not to breathe a word of the case’s final act to another.

“At least not until you are too dead to speak on your own behalf,” Ambrose had added. Dyson found the terms satisfactory.

Yet the fact of his having an encounter so disturbing he’d not even shared it with his most sober of friends still managed to work against his invitation to the strange scene in Surrey. Even Cotgrave shook his head.

“No need of the ash, my friend. I will settle for a description of whatever you dredge up in those hills.” Dyson noted the sickish pallor that washed over him as he pronounced the last word. Phillips shifted uncomfortably in his own seat. Salisbury ran out of wine to nurse and set his glass aside.

“I will be curious of whatever account you bring back,” came his intonation, “if only to know whether you are treading on more tangible toes than some unseen wraith’s.” Salisbury had canted his gaze sharply at Dyson. “No, you have not told me what it was you did upon following the trail of breadcrumbs I mistakenly revealed to you. But I would be a fool not to assume you went and did something unwise regarding the business of those strangers in the note. Q and friends and whoever else. They are real people. Just as Dr. Steven Black was. Just as Phillips and the whole of London recalls the late Sir Thomas Vivian being quite real, and more immediately dangerous than any bogeyman lurking beyond our respective brushes with the so-called supernatural.”

“Sinful,” Ambrose corrected over the rim of his own glass.

“Indeed,” Salisbury sighed. Dyson did feel a trifle apologetic toward the man. He seemed to have aged a decade since he’d stepped back into his life. “But be they supernatural or sinful or just plain mad, human monsters are the more prolific villain of the world, and far easier to cross paths with. Dr. Richard Geber was a man of considerable notoriety with, I would wager, any number of watchful vultures in the branches of the family tree and as many serpents playing patron to his less savory works at the roots.” He’d leaned in, regarding Dyson and Ambrose in the same plea. “Do your sightseeing if you must, but be wary of what prying you do whilst playing occult detectives. A man seeing a nuisance is far more likely to take action against it than any monster.”

Dyson sadly lost his opportunity to assure Salisbury and the rest of his planned caution, as Salisbury had used the word ‘occult’ and set off a fresh avalanche from Ambrose. Talk plunged into proper distinctions of the extraordinary and the eerie, somehow managing to trip into a round of storytelling that marched through the suicide epidemic of certain well-off young men who he theorized had each encountered the same unearthly stimulus whose knowledge could not be lived with, around to an ugly room in a rented country house with a habit of seeding a mirrored insanity in wives and daughters who spent too long in the sight of its irregular damask walls, and all the way to the facts in the case of the pseudonymous M. Valdemar, that mesmeric scandal that might not have been half so sensationalized as cynics might declare…

Salisbury had put his head in his hands while Dyson, Cotgrave, and Phillips settled in for the monologue, feeding the orator only what flints of dialogue were needed to roll him further on. Were he onstage, Ambrose would have deserved a lozenge, a bouquet, and ten minutes’ applause.

That was then.

In the now, Dyson and Ambrose sat in their car, preemptively swaddled against the first drifting motes of snow. November seemed only to have warmth enough left with which to give Geber’s estate its theatrical sendoff with its roiling thunderheads and dancing lightning. With that performance done, the sky handed its reins off to winter’s sedate styling. The train drew itself along under a ceiling of gauze and into the broad country whose rumpled hills and evergreen treetops were already hiding themselves in caps of cold white. Not that such seasonal flurries would have been any more help to the roasted manor than the downpour of the incendiary night had been.

Dyson riffled out the sections of newsprint he had brought along for the trip.

Headlines bellowed across the earliest of them:

STORM-STRUCK IN SURREY!

SPARKS FLY OVER GEBER’S BLAZE!

BLINDING FIRE DEVOURS MANOR OVERNIGHT!

And so forth.

The sum of these pieces was a remarkable series of witness reports from the staff who’d escaped the building before they could burn with it. Miraculously, every member of staff had made it out with barely a scorch mark between them. Even the horses, hens, and hounds of the estate were unscathed. It was only Dr. Geber and, the staff declared, a number of colleagues who had remained inside. Corroboration from the nearest towns confirmed that Geber was indeed housing several ‘learned gentlemen’ under his expansive roof for the purpose of some private experiment being undertaken in his home laboratory.

All that saved the staff from especially sharp scrutiny was the likewise-confirmed evidence of just where that laboratory was located.

“Geber had it all built underground,” claimed more than one servant. “He up and abandoned the one he kept at the top of the house half a decade back. Had a whole little nest of catacombs hollowed out lower than the cellar, moved in all sorts of equipment and chemicals and such. We saw it all go through the big double doors he had set in the back of the house. Figured him and his fellows would come up by that way or the little stairwell indoors. Whoever wasn’t eaten up by the blast, at least.”

The blast which had not come from the heavens by way of the frantic lightning that night, but from right under the floorboards. One poor girl, Elsa Godwin, had gone down to fetch a jar of preserves and been the first to hear a series of what sounded like detonations rattling up from the ground. A distant crackle, a hair-prickling hum, a string of boom-boom-boom, all muffled by earth and concrete. That, and men screaming. There was barely time to hear as much before she also got to play first witness to the memorable fire; a blaze that begun at once to eat holes through the floor and western wall of the cellar.

“I thought I was dreaming at first,” to quote Miss Godwin. “It all felt too impossible to be happening while I was awake. The fire only made it seem less real. Real fire isn’t supposed to work that way, you see? Real fire, it meets a solid wall of dirt or rock and that’s as far as it goes. Singes it, maybe, but it can’t just go burning through everything like it’s a paper dollhouse. But that was just what it did. While it was eating its way up the stairs to the doctors’ laboratory, it punched on through to the cellar. And even that I may have accepted as real enough, but for the look of it.”

The look of that fire was described by her, by her coworkers, by those who rode up to gawk in person or make a feeble attempt at playing fire brigade, and even by a number of technical witnesses who could see the glimmer of it from their far-off windows, all in varying states of poetry or dumbstruck curtness.

The fire had not been orange.

The fire had been black. And white. And yellow. And red. All of these at once, every flame throwing its improbable light as if it fell through some nebulous crystal. Its palette might have been more enchanting if it weren’t for the fact that it was, as Miss Godwin and many more would claim, a fantastically voracious thing. So much so that Miss Godwin had scarcely made it back up the steps to shout the alarm before tongues of fire were poking up through the floor.

It truly was a miracle that everyone aboveground had fled in time. The second miracle had come from the fact that, even lightning-struck as the roof was, it remained mercifully solid while the multihued fire ate up the lower floors. So solid that Fate kindly used it as the hand to snuff the monstrous blaze. The walls turned out to be so quickly enfeebled by their change to ash that they could no longer support the heavy slants and shingles. So the roof had crushed the creeping flames under its lid, dousing the fire with sheer speed, weight, and luck. It was as unlikely a thing as a man crushing a viper’s head flat with his fist before it could bite.

Another bittersweet bout of good fortune came from the positioning of the laboratory itself. Whatever state the subterranean workings had been in post-explosion, they apparently made for an efficient ashpit. When the roof slammed down, it compacted everything below directly into the waiting pocket of hollowed earth. What could have been a conflagration was tucked tidily away almost as soon as the proverbial match was struck. Though it had doubtlessly come at the cause and cost of the very men who had sparked the fire with some experiment gone awry.

“Some manner of chemical flame, a catastrophic bungling of electrical tinkering, or both,” professed numerous experts hunted down in their own labs and campuses. Dyson imagined they were perhaps a bit put out that Geber had done them the simultaneous mercy and unspoken insult of not inviting them to join whatever it was he and his colleagues had been dabbling with. An experiment of such secrecy and apparent potency that the man had not only tunneled out a buried laboratory for it, not only erected new stone walls and double-locked iron gates around his home, not only scoured fields across the scientific spectrum to people its undertaking—for chemists, engineers, technologists, surgeons, and sundry in-betweens were numbered among the missing and/or immolated dead—but even hired on a number of ‘attendants’ that the surviving staff recalled as having staggering guardsman physiques.

All this to keep the experiment hermetically sealed and shielded.

All this, only for a number of ears at the nearest pubs and markets to catch wind of the thing’s name anyway: Project Erichtho.

A secret experiment named for the necromancing witch of legend could only be yet another spur to the public imagination, turning a noteworthy housefire into a potential hellish horror story. Requisite headlines included:

FRANKENSTEIN’S ACOLYTE, ERICHTHO’S ECHO—DR. GEBER’S UNHOLY HEROES!

PROJECT ERICHTHO’S PARANORMAL PYRE!

SORDID SECRETS AND A DOCTOR’S DEADLY DESIGN: THE KINDLING FOR THE INFERNO OF ERICHTHO?

“It could be he’s gone on to join his heroes in a sordid afterlife,” some would say in tones that alternately scorned or cooed. “Faustus and Frankenstein may have a place waiting for him in a deeper inferno. It’s the sort of thing one gets from prying too far into Nature’s business, after all.”

So on and so on. Dyson had clipped everything of interest and strung the whole thing into a sort of haphazard file in contrast to Ambrose’s tidier pasting. Ambrose was even polite enough to feign renewed interest in the piecemeal newsprint despite the information being doubtlessly memorized already.

“Not memorized,” Ambrose said over a headline declaring Geber had conjured the Devil in his cellar. He opened his coat as if displaying illicit wares, flashing the holster where he kept a waiting notepad and pen. His was an especially tailored overcoat with a number of buttoned and hidden pockets for all his necessities. One might think he hardly needed his luggage but for a change of clothes. “My cheats are simply copied out and kept close like a good pupil’s before an exam.” He patted the lapel back in place. “I am not a man made to leave his cave often, Dyson. Therefore I must wrap myself as much in my mobile cave as I can.”

“Would that not make it your shell?”

“I suppose it would. It is a difficult thing for a snail or tortoise to be robbed of his home. Unless the thief is some errant bird after the homeowner, of course. But for all that I have my faiths and proofs in the uncanny, your Salisbury was right. Men are the most common threat to a man. They rob one of goods and life at a moment’s notice far more than any aberration.”

“Ah, that begs a question I’ve meant to ask.” Dyson waved his helping of papers as a baton. “You know the reality of seemingly unreal things. What you call your sinful, wrong, not-meant-to-be sort of phenomena and entities. Were you to find yourself cornered in the proverbial dark alley with an ordinary mortal cutthroat at one end and an unearthly bogeyman at the other, which villain would you risk?”

Ambrose offered a sliver of a smile and turned his attention back to the snow flitting by the window. He passed his helping of newsprint back blindly.

“You have only listened to my rambles with half an ear,” he said. “It’s true that what you would dub the supernatural I would call sinful, but I have yet to declare such things innately villainous. Otherworldly, yes. Eldritch is a decent term. Unwelcome too, at least in what we deem sane and right by the laws of Nature or our manmade structures. Or, to satisfy the macabre itch, yes, I would deem the whole breadth of it horrific. And yet, for all that we have assembled a fair collection of events that ended in death or worse as a result of crossing bizarre influences—indeed, enough to condemn many in, say, the demoniac terms of evil—the fact remains that even a living horror is not guaranteed to be villainous. To that end, let us look at your scenario. If I knew for a fact the ordinary man at one end of my alley intended absolutely to kill me, knife ready for my throat whether or not I handed over my money, whereas the horror at the other end was a complete enigma? I would simply have no choice but to remain still.”

Dyson lost himself to a laugh and crowed, “That is no answer! The scenario was a choice. Who do you risk pushing past? The common murderer or the uncommon enigma?”

“The threat,” Ambrose pronounced carefully, “of a horror is in the uncertainty of what it is and what such a thing is capable of. The cutthroat means to kill me, yes. But the horror? It may mean to end me as well, but in a far more hideous way. In fact, it may intend to inflict something far more unthinkable than the mercy of mere execution, such that the cutthroat would be a blessing of euthanasia by comparison.”

“Ah,” Dyson jabbed his paper baton again, “so you would take the cutthroat for the certainty of him.”

“No. I would remain still.”

“Ambrose—,”

But Ambrose held up his hand.

“I would remain still until one or the other proved himself the lesser evil. For the horror at the other end of the alley may have no ill design whatsoever. Being frightening does not immediately qualify the monster in question as a villain. After all, how many legendary monsters of old have we revealed as mere animals? How many unfortunate souls are there in the world, born with off-putting ailments or disfigured by circumstance, who possess the purest of Good Samaritan character? By the same measure, how many are there with the faces of Venus and Adonis who scatter only petty cruelties in their wake? Even creatures as humble as the common spider will terrorize some of the hardiest men as much or more than their wives. Yet the spider is there to help, tidying flying pests from the home just as the pretty housecat unsheathes her teeth and claws only to bloody her keeper’s hand.

“In short, a horror will horrify, naturally. A horror is capable of far worse things than any human effort. But a horror is not inherently a villain. I am happy to keep things in the hypothetical until I am faced with the awful choice in person, but should I choose to wait, to remain still and force one or the other to make his move, I am certain the motives of the inhuman party would be made clear. It would strike, or retreat, or…”

“Or what?”

“Or it would do as the first horrors of Creation did and be as an angel. Fallen or otherwise.” The topic clipped there as the station came into view.

Fighting the frost and the numb-faced arrival at their rented lodgings sponged up the rest of the day’s energy between the two of them. A hasty dusk and a heavy supper knocked both men back in their chairs and soon the ruddy comforts of the inn dragged them down into an early night.

Ambrose, Dyson was unsurprised to see, had turned into an insomniac so far from his preferred den. He was at the window puffing at the little ember in the clay bowl and staring out at the dark when Dyson finally surrendered to his bed midnight. Come morning, Dyson found he remained at his perch, puffing still.

“I did sleep,” Ambrose assured before the other could speak. “On and off. My dry eyes played traitor and made me lose watch for a few hours at a time.”

Dyson stilled in the effort of lacing his boots. He saw that the faint pouches that had been under his friend’s eyes last night had only deepened. The ashtray set on the windowsill was full.

“Geber’s housefire notwithstanding, I can’t imagine there’s anything worth spying on in these parts. Especially not on a moonless night.”

“It wasn’t moonless,” Ambrose said as he rubbed crust from either eye. His head gradually creaked away from the window to face Dyson. “I saw it come out in cracked clouds here and there. It helped somewhat, but I could still make out a little of the show either way.”

“What show was that?”

“I’m not certain. Some kind of domestic dispute? It involved either a very mad or a very sad individual on a rooftop.”

“What?”

“He got down alright. A giant came to gather him up and bring him indoors.”

“…How much did you have to drink after I went to bed?”

“Not a drop. The whole of it took place with that little house out toward the east there. You see?” Dyson followed where Ambrose pointed. There were numerous petite houses sprinkled along the crest of a far cluster of hills. He was about to point out the issue when his gaze caught on one that stood out from its siblings. Ambrose defined it at the same time, “It has its fresh cap of snow all ruined by their footprints. The man’s little pinpricks and the giant’s awl marks, so to speak. It happened that as I was woolgathering, a yellow light came on in the upper window. The shape of a man blotted it for a moment before the window swung open and the fellow climbed out.

“It wasn’t a pleasant sight even at a distance. He didn’t move like any climber I ever saw. More like,” Ambrose made a face, “I don’t know. An animal? An insect? Something like that. Whatever he was, he made it up there. So I assumed by how the darkness erased him when he skittered up. The first crack in the clouds helped me here, for it dropped a yellow beam on the house and showed the man standing on the very top of the roof. This he did while wearing no more than a pair of trousers and a coat that hung on him like drapes. A lone stick figure balanced on the ridge. Then a moment later, the giant came.”

“Not bounding over the hills, I take it?”

“No. He blocked the entirety of the lit window before he contorted himself out and climbed up after the man. His motion was a far more fluid thing, if likewise strange in how he placed his limbs. Were my eyes a little poorer, I might have mistaken him for some massive panther scaling a mountainside. But he was human enough seen from my seat. Just outlandish in his size and proportions. A hulking figure, yet corded and angled in a way you seldom see with men we might take for a contemporary Goliath.”

“I see. And what happened when he reached David?”

“The moon ducked out of sight for the first moment. It took a minute before it peeked through again to offer a silhouette of the meeting. Man and giant were facing each other with the giant seeming the most animated of the two. He gesticulated first with frantic violence, then as if he were beckoning the man like a stray from a gutter, and ultimately coaxed his frailer counterpart to extend a twig of an arm. The giant clamped onto it and seemed prepared to yank the man from his perch. But the man pointed with his free hand at the moon. This made the giant pause. The boulder of a head turned up. They stared together at the great ivory ball. But sense eventually overruled wonder and the giant maneuvered them both back in the window. The curtains were drawn. I figured that was the end of it.”

Dyson had by now fully dressed and packed for the day. He paused to raise a brow.

“Was it not?”

“No. Some while later, a light glowed in a lower window. David and Goliath walked outside. At least I assume it was David with Goliath. The spindly figure was erased in a massive clot of coats and blankets, it seemed, and so almost passed for a full-bodied individual. The giant shadowed him and forced a cup on him that I imagined must be steaming as it rose and fell from the man’s face. The moon was polite enough to show itself a few more times through the filmier clouds. Even the stars made some appearances. By dawn much of the clouds had broken up so that they skimmed across a half-clean sky. I saw the Morning Star hover in the horizon. The man pointed to this or the molten sunrise. The giant nodded and looked with him, patient as anything. Then David was herded back inside and I saw no more.”

Dyson hummed at all this and eyed the little house again. It really was a fair space away.

“Are you certain you saw a man and a giant? At this distance could it not have been some fevered child and his father?”

“If I were using my eyes alone, I might concede the possibility. Except.” Dyson watched him dig in his coat and produce a collapsed spyglass. “I have brought the full accoutrement of the hermit along, my friend. Its details were few, but far crisper than our sight alone.” A specter of mingled thrill and discomfort twitched along his lips. The former won just enough to pin the mouth up at one corner. “Though I wonder if that was a mistake.”

“Afraid they spied your spying? The threadbare David sounds like a stargazer. Perhaps he swung his lens around to find you in the dark.” Dyson spoke only to rib him. Instead he seemed to strike Ambrose like a lead weight. A greyish tinge passed in and out of his face as his gaze flicked back to the window. “Come now, there was no light on in here. Even if the pair had an astronomer’s lens between them, they’d never know you’d spotted their nocturnal theatre.”

“They had no lens at all,” Ambrose said. His lips still held in the unhappy upward curl. “Yet they did turn to look at this window. David first. Then Goliath. I cannot say whether they saw me, but…” Ambrose rolled the spyglass in his hand before replacing it in its pocket. “I saw a hint of their faces. Just the eyes. I may have imagined it. Some illusion of moonlight or sunrise. But the illusion was very crisp.”

“The illusion being what?”

“They were yellow, Dyson,” he almost chuckled. “Like the stare of animals caught in firelight. Bright as the lamps. And they did not turn from their staring in this direction until after I set the spyglass down.” Ambrose looked up at him. The whites of the man’s own eyes had gone rose-pink. “We’ve not yet set foot on Geber’s ash pile and already I have something for my notes.”

“Perhaps,” Dyson nodded carefully. “Perhaps you do. Or else a late night played on your conscience and sharpened your subjects into things that could chide you at a distance for spying. I have no such conscience on that subject and so might have missed their flashing eyes. Still, it is something for the diary. But only after breakfast.”

Dead, Buried

Breakfast came, breakfast went. Ambrose’s state barely loosened from its troubled knot. By the time they set out to poke around the week-old ruin under a dusting of snow, Dyson noted only a half-return to the man’s usual ease. He thought to remind him of the unhappy adventure involving the cruelly departed Agnes Black, to commiserate over the difference between the aftermath of the strange compared to meeting eyes with it, but swallowed it all down. Such talk would only rip up the scab, not plaster it.

In this mood, they took their way to the housefire’s wreckage with thin conversation. It only thickened again as the coach let them out at the site’s gates. They had been locked over again by the authorities and yesterday’s powder had made the surprisingly tidy mound and its rooftop cap into an anonymous lump of debris. Hardly worth the trip. But the sight of the ruin was only a fraction of their purpose there.

Dyson instructed the coachman to return in an hour to the same spot to retrieve them. The coachman eyed the two warily. He’d no doubt seen more than his fair helping of journalists and policemen in the past seven days than any soul ought to deal with. But pay was pay and he seemed content to reappear in roughly an hour’s time, sirs, give or take another customer’s route. Dyson and Ambrose waited until the horse-drawn speck was almost out of sight before they began their march around the the high stone wall that passed for the ex-manor’s fence. Their breath trailed after them in white streams.

“He really had the place made up like a fortress, didn’t he?” Dyson observed. “Look here. Even the ornaments along the top are like spires. No one could go hopping in or out without undoing the seams of his skin in the attempt.”

“Project Erichtho was a thing to covet as much as conjure.” Ambrose dug again in his coat, this time bringing out his notepad. He thumbed to one close-scribbled page. “Do you know, this manor was his for less than a decade? He took the place seven years ago and left behind a far more metropolitan estate. A handsome spot, but not half so private or titanic as this.” Ambrose knocked his knuckles against the stonework.

Dyson knocked his shoulder in turn, “I see you go a-haunting places other than your home while our backs are turned. You are a fraud of a recluse.”

“On special occasions, yes.”

“And the timeline of Geber’s road to the freakish blaze meets your standards.”

“Very much so. You see, he had his career in the city, for all its lauded highs and scandalous lows. And his one trip out of that area was also his first and last trip out of the country. I was told he took a holiday up to Switzerland.”

“Told by who?”

“Former staff. All the ones in the manor were local hands. The original workers say he returned home from his holiday with a wild new passion—,” Ambrose paused to catch Dyson’s eye, “—and a souvenir. One that they never saw removed from its massive box. The nearest guess anyone could make was that it must be one of those majestic Swiss clocks or perhaps some statue bought on a whim. None would it put it past him to purchase a likeness of his spiritual muse, or maybe a rendering of the latter’s infamous creation. But no one ever saw the contents in person. He had this thing moved into his upstairs laboratory, locked the door, and neither butler nor maid was permitted to set foot in the room for the rest of the year.”

“Mysterious enough,” Dyson agreed while shaking a snow clump off his boot. “Though I can hardly picture Switzerland as possessing any equivalent to Pandora’s Box.”

“Nor could the staff. But they never did wring an answer from Geber. No more than they ever confirmed what all his latest experiments were in that locked room. Whatever they were, the staff thought there must have been some noise to muffle. Geber started playing his phonograph whenever he set foot inside, letting the opera warble over whatever din went on in his work.” Ambrose tucked the notepad away and tugged at his glove. “When it came time for his sudden exodus to the far-off manor, the movers discovered the box was nailed shut again, offering no one even a parting peek at the treasure.”

“And what is the import of this crate, exactly?” Dyson asked, even as he guessed. It was hard to avoid, keeping his steps aligned with Ambrose’s as they circled to the rear of the estate. The trees loomed with their snowy crowns sawing against the blue-white sky. They were close to where the acreage sloped into woodlands.

“None of the new staff mentioned its arrival or its being toted down with the rest of Project Erichtho’s flotsam. In fairness, the interviewed parties likely had far more on their minds than the exact nature of their employer’s bric-a-brac. Especially when the project appears to have begun in earnest four years ago.”

“But,” Dyson intercepted, “the staff in the city dwelling remembered his fixation with the thing seven years prior. And if the manor’s fresher workers could remember that his other scientific oddments were loaded underground, surely they’d recall him fussing about the box.”

“Such is my guess,” nodded Ambrose. He stopped them both short as the exact back end of the stone wall came into view. “Geber likely would’ve clung like a shadow to the movers whether they brought it by the inner stairs or through the back entry. Yet there was no mention of it in their accounts. Almost as if he couldn’t bear to have more eyes upon it than absolutely necessary. And, naturally, there is the issue no other paper or ponderer has mentioned regarding the novelty of a subterranean workplace.” Here, at last, Ambrose began to grin. “One that even the miner or a digger of catacombs needn’t bother themselves over.”

“Because the men in the mines and catacombs don’t have to work within a hermetic seal,” Dyson concluded, beaming back. “They have a way constantly open to the air. The staff claim that the entryways into the laboratory were always shut and guarded by a boredly vigilant set of guards. A tricky area to provide ventilation for with no opening. Unless there was a third threshold somewhere that Geber neglected to mention to the house staff. Say,” he waved a glove at the waiting woods, “hidden in some convenient cover of wilderness.”

“It’s where I would hide a second backdoor in his position,” Ambrose agreed as he ogled the rear of the stone wall and the adjacent trees. “If the back of the manor was here,” he marched with measured steps to the back gate, likewise locked, and regarded the ashes beyond the iron, “then the broader outdoor entrance was likely slotted there with it. A tunnel connected to the underground work area would not be situated far off. So…” He turned and traced an invisible line from the ashes to the woods and away to the west. “A straight route from here on is likely to bear fruit.”

“Would it not be simpler to circle around?” Dyson asked this of the waiting trees as much as his friend. “If Geber’s precious crate was also moved in by this hidden corridor, surely it would be someplace near the edge of this tangled patch. It’s no narrow copse, but I’d rather amble around it rather than risk the trudge inside.”

“Normally I would agree. However.” Ambrose stomped purposefully along the slope, leaving clear tracks as he went. “If we want better odds against our own amateur detective work being spied on, we must take advantage of what little cover we can. Salisbury would tell you so.”

“Salisbury would be down with a skull-cracking headache over the prospect from any angle,” Dyson countered. But they went through the woods just the same. The snow had come in lightly through the coniferous canopy and it traded their softer snow-plush tracks for a brittle thudding along frozen earth. A quarter of an hour’s search and a number of brambles later they came upon a clearing cluttered with large stones. Dyson felt Ambrose bristle at his side. Not from the cold.

He had read the precious and painful little green book Ambrose regarded as one of his truest treasures. The book that contained the child-ramblings of a lost girl, of strange white figures, of stones carved and twisting with ancient unholy influence. Mercifully, the mystique was soon spoiled.

The clearing had let in a little more of the snow through the gap in the canopy and when the powder was brushed aside it revealed nothing but moss and bird droppings on every rock. Another glance showed a number of stunted logs also strewn about. A makeshift sitting area. Ambrose took a spot on one of the logs and set to picking burrs from his trousers. Dyson thought he looked a little ruddier for having seen the rocks were plain.

“Well, convenience dictates that a secret entrance would be around here.” He pointed to what would be a few minutes’ walk to where the open light of a meadow waited. “Any closer to the edge and it wouldn’t be hidden at all.”

“True, true,” Ambrose nodded, removing his hat to shake off the frost and pine needles. “But even if we were on top of the thing, there’d be the second trouble of spotting it while it’s disguised. There was likely one or more guards on duty. On the off-chance that some wanderer came by they’d need to have some way to mask the opening.”

Dyson thought as much too and had been scrutinizing the ground. He’d found a good stick to claw up the dirt with. So far, no convenient trapdoor presented itself. As he prodded, he caught himself mulling over the hypothetical guards themselves. Surely they couldn’t have been caught in the blaze. Even if they’d been struck by a heroic urge, there wouldn’t have been time to rush to the manor and attempt a rescue. Yet he recalled no interview with any such person in the aftermath of the pyre, only those domestic staff who minded the house itself. So where had they gone?

The answer was hidden under a rock.

Specifically, the largest of the rocks in the clearing. Dyson’s stick came to a stop in its shadow as the branch suddenly dipped an inch into the ground where he’d dragged it. The snowfall masked it, but not well enough.

“Ambrose.” He patted the broad rock. “This stone isn’t supposed to be here.”

“What?”

“Look here.” He dragged his stick back and forth over the hidden groove beneath the powder. “It was moved out of place.”

Dyson and Ambrose eyed this only a moment before taking position on the stone’s opposite side. Together, after many a shove and as many curses, the rock budged. Not all at once, but in bursts. Between lurches they agreed that it had to have been put in place by far stouter strongmen than themselves. Their thoughts broke away at the same time when their next push dropped a leg from each of them down into the earth. There was much floundering and flopping aside to save themselves from slipping entirely into the hollow. When they’d recovered themselves, they peered down into the new opening. A wisp of daylight revealed hints of the interior. Shards of wood. The angles of a short staircase. And there, laying at the foot of the steps—

“Oh,” Dyson breathed. “Oh, God.”

“I fear He isn’t involved here,” Ambrose murmured back.

They lurched the stone the rest of the way, moving with caution until the entire hole was revealed. A square of earth had been cut away for the tunnel’s mouth. A set of heavy mangled hinges showed where a crude but sturdy door had been bolted into place. The door itself was the source of the wood shards, the largest of them showing they’d had a covering of dirt, leaves, twigs, and pebbles all pasted on to mask it. To judge by the frame, the door was meant to be pulled up rather than pushed in. As the stone was flat on the bottom, it could only be surmised that someone had smashed the timber in rather than bother with the lock.

Perhaps that was why the guards had died. They hadn’t been quick enough to offer a key.

Two men of powerful build were left crumpled at the bottom of the steps like ragdolls. One had his head wrenched entirely around on his shoulders. The other had his head crushed in like an eggshell. Whoever had done the work, they’d also seen fit to strip the broken-necked man of all but his underclothes, even down to his shoes. The man with the pulped skull had lost only a coat.

“I believe this is where our investigative ghost story hits a snag,” Dyson said, if only because someone needed to speak. The words did little to settle the chill now twining up his back. “We need to have the police up here.”

“We will,” Ambrose said, digging in his coat. Out came his matches. “But first.” He struck a light. “Recall that we are not here in search of ghosts. Ghosts are vapor. Their only weight is given to them by the storytelling.” He flicked the match into the tunnel so that it soared over the corpses. Dyson followed its glow with wide eyes. “Whereas the party responsible here exists with or without fireside theatre.” Dyson was already inclined to believe him. The sight revealed by the match merely forged faith into knowledge.

On the night of the fire there had been a positive torrent to go with the thunder and lightning. Once the guards and door were brutalized out of commission and left broken on the tunnel steps, a river of mud had dribbled in after the intruder. In the carpet of now-dried muck were smeared remnants of footprints. Most were colossal and led two ways, going forward and back. Whoever had made them was large enough to dwarf the dead men. A second set of footprints tramped back with these first massive soles, the barefoot steps looking far closer to human dimensions.

Beyond these smeared prints and just out of reach of the match’s light was the outline of a wide cart.

“Spare another?” Ambrose passed Dyson the matches. Dyson descended and made a rush to the cart. A match struck and showed the contents was discarded linen tarps all mottled with stains dark as rust. In the very center of the rumpled sheets, pointing to him, was a single rotten human finger.

The match went out.

Dyson raced back up to the daylit earth and rattled off the find to Ambrose.

“It does line up. An experiment named after Erichtho could hardly earn the title without doing something unwholesome with corpses.” Ambrose inclined his head at the tunnel. “It’s certainly not the kind of material Geber would want the house staff spying on its way down to the lab.”

“I wonder about that.” Dyson righted himself and squinted up at the sun behind a veil of new clouds. “Who’s to say that the finger was already rotten when it lost its owner? Surely the towns would have something in the news about graverobbers pillaging their cemeteries for convenient goods.”

“True.” The word was small. Dyson looked to Ambrose as the man paused in jotting something in his notes. His gaze was suddenly very far, hooked on some unknown point in the trees. “Quite true. After all,” he slowly closed the notepad and tucked it away with gloves that trembled, “it’s only worthy of newsprint if the dead go missing. The living disappear every day.” Dyson watch his throat work strangely behind his scarf. His breath came in very brisk puffs. “Such is hardly worth a blink these days. What’s the time, Dyson?” Dyson checked his watch. They’d eaten up most of an hour and he said so. “Then we’d best head down to meet our coach. Now.”

“Should we replace the stone? What if some animal gets in and—,”

Ambrose seized his shoulder. His head still hadn’t turned away from the trees. His voice came out so low there was almost no breath to whiten.

“Dyson. Now. Quick, but—but do not run.” His Adam’s apple seemed about to leap up through his mouth. “Now.” Dyson tried to follow Ambrose’s line of sight, but his friend was already dragging him like an errant sheep. Rather than take their original route, Ambrose shepherded them towards the nearest edge of the woodlands, out to the open snow.

“What happened to discretion?” Dyson asked in his own low pitch. Ambrose shook his head without fully taking his gaze away from the abruptly-fascinating patch of trees.

“We’ll be bringing authorities around here anyway. It hardly matters. Go. Just go. Once we get out in the open, we should—,” Behind them, a heavy branch snapped. To Dyson’s ears it sounded loud as breaking bone. Ambrose’s clutching hand became a vise. “Run.”

They did.

The gloom behind them snapped and rustled in a straight line after their heels. More, the ground itself twitched with the bounding of some unthinkable weight. Dyson thought ludicrously of bears or lions somehow migrating their way to this mild crumb of Surrey’s landscape. Yet he heard no animal snarl. Only the unimpeded breaking of the trees’ quiet as something titanic loped after its quarries.

Ambrose and Dyson broke out into the open meadow after a minute that felt like half an hour. They raced across the slope and around toward the fenced-in ruin of the manor at a frantic pace. Relief barely flickered in them as they saw the coach trotting up to the front gates. Their own tread was too wild to register if their pursuer was still galloping after them, but Dyson now felt the presence of eyes on him as surely as he’d feel the trundling of beetles along his neck.

The dead men flashed in his mind. Twisted and mashed and tossed in a pit. There was plenty of room to spare down there. New tenants welcome. And the coachman was so far, so far—

He stepped on one of his own bootlaces and went sprawling. When he moved to catch himself on his hands, his palm landed on something slicker than the snow, fumbling him so that he landed with elbow and cheek in the frost. It really was a pitiful layer of powder, he noted as his arm and face throbbed against the stiff ground. Ambrose skidded to a halt with him, almost falling as he scrambled on the frost. He might have shouted Dyson’s name. Dyson couldn’t be sure as he was peeling up the thing his hand had slid with. A leatherbound book with its cover lacquered in congealed mud.

“Dyson,” he heard Ambrose puff again. His breath was labored, but no longer a shout. “Dyson, can you stand?” Dyson looked up to see Ambrose’s attention was split between him and the trees. Nothing else was behind them. Dyson fixed his laces and regained his feet without releasing the book. “I think we can go at an easier pace now.”

“Yes. Possibly.”

Their new gait was not a sprint, but still a fair way ahead of anything leisurely. The driver looked at them oddly as they jogged over, at least until they gave him pay and directions for a trip to the nearest police station. Then his caterpillar brows shot up.

“Come across some trouble up there?”

“The human trouble has been and gone,” Dyson told him. “But they may want hunting rifles at hand for whatever creatures are roaming around in there.” The driver snorted at that.

“What creatures are those? Worst we’ve got in these parts are the damned foxes and a few snakes. Biggest thing I’ve seen was a buck that ran around last year. Had antlers two men wide.”

“It was no deer,” Ambrose assured him even as he craned his head again to face the trees. Dyson saw him fondling the part of his coat that held the spyglass. “In any case, it is a matter that would be helped by having a marksman ready.” The driver got no more from them as Dyson and Ambrose bundled themselves inside the coach. Ambrose hastily fumbled out the spyglass and watched the woods through his window until the treetops were out of sight.

“Not a deer, you say,” Dyson spoke as much to his mud-crusted souvenir as to the back of Ambrose’s head. “What then? I had no time to catch a glimpse.” Ambrose let out a breath as he collapsed the spyglass, fidgeting with the cylinder rather than tucking it away.

“Speaking frankly, I didn’t either. All I could spot in the gloom was the flash of bright eyes.” His throat twitched. “A gleam of yellow.” Dyson paused in his picking at the shell of hardened mud.

“Last night’s Goliath?”

“I don’t know. I cannot say with certainty whether the eyes belonged to a human shape or a creature on its haunches. Only that it was still as a statue in the gloom back there. Staring at us.” Ambrose shivered either from memory or cold and tucked the spyglass away in favor of his notes. He sketched rather than wrote. Scrawled across a clean page was the impression of two huge coins floating in a scribbled ink-shadow. The eyes featured pupils of a distinctly non-human make. “I am no artist, but this is roughly the look I caught watching us. They turned in the dark when we started for the trees’ edge. Then the eyes came forward.” He clapped the notes shut. “I found I was far more eager to be out of reach than to wait and see the eyes’ owner.” Ambrose gave him a tired smile. “I feel I’m halfway to a hypocrite after this. True, there was no alley and no waiting cutthroat, but I did run from the unknown when it came running.”

“Nonsense,” Dyson huffed. “Those eyes no doubt belonged to some exotic beast that escaped its pen in a zoo or some fool’s private menagerie. Nice open country like this is just the place you’ll find people with deep coffers and shallow sense hoarding pretty predators as though they were collecting pedigree hounds and cats. You wait, we’ll see something in the papers about somebody’s missing leopard or tiger prowling around the hills. Now, if that beast had cleared its throat in the dark and shouted at us in plain English to get out of its woods, there might be grounds to point and go a-ha! But as it had nothing to say and neither of us was polite enough to stand still and get mauled, the matter remains unsettled. Say, have you got a handkerchief you don’t mind ruining?”

Ambrose handed him one, his face finally regaining some tint as he puzzled over Dyson’s prize.

“It would be an opportune thing to be in a ghost story,” he sighed while Dyson scraped at the mud. “If we are, that will turn out to be a conveniently abandoned diary illustrating every move Geber made leading up to the fire, replete with his devilish experiments and all the lost spirits it conjured up. At the very least it will contain the chemical formula that led to such a unique blaze.”

Dyson scoured away most of the muck and frowned.

“Not a diary. Not even a tome of unholy scripture.”

“No?”

Dyson held the book up for him to see. Ambrose frowned back at him.

“No.”

The book was a leatherbound copy of The Legend of Frankenstein. What had been a luxurious volume had apparently been mangled by elements, animals, or else someone with a distinct loathing of the tale. Dyson had wondered at the lightness of the book and found that much of the pages were either shredded or torn out entirely. The inner cover alone had been spared attack, though it still boasted a minor bit of vandalism within:

There are not words enough to voice proper gratitude to the Muse, the Master, the Miracle. For lifetimes to come, even the finest poets of the world shall struggle to meet the task. Here and now, the most that can be said is thank you. Thank you for all that you have done, all that you are, all that is yet to come. A toast to the teachings of Prometheus, to Prima Materia, to the Magnum Opus realized!

—R.G.

Below this, a single line:

Mortui vivos docent.

“The dead teach the living. Interesting choice of postscript.”

“That isn’t all of it.” Ambrose took back the handkerchief and chipped further at a smear of muck still gripping the cover. It crumbled away to show words that had been stained into the board with a different pen. Almost carved.

Prometheus had nothing to teach. He stole the lightning for Man’s fire. The only worthwhile lesson of his myth was taught by the Eagle.

Erichtho might have had teachings to spare. The gods were wise enough to harken to her and know to quail. Yet mortal men care only for the dead’s secrets and the boons they might grant. These you will have. May the knowledge serve you as well as it has me.

No initial or signature was jotted with it, though some rough symbol was gouged below. A thing that curved and went straight at once, vaguely serpentine and somehow unpleasant in both its shape and the depth of its coarse engraving. As though the artist had been both incapable of finesse and insistent on carving the image regardless. Dyson and Ambrose each had a good squint at it and decided it was something related to a caduceus, the sign of medicine.

“The alchemic variant seems just as likely, if we’re to chase Geber’s words to their logical end,” Ambrose said in a tone that heartened as much as frustrated Dyson to hear. It meant the man’s nerves were settling, but also that his mind was now wandering down avenues several leagues away from the present, no doubt combing an internal library of references. Dyson flattered himself to know that he too had some scraps of intel to turn over. He recognized the Magnum Opus as referring to a ‘Great Work’ just as prima materia was a term for a sort of primal matter from which life and the universe was meant to be concocted. But no more than that. He’d need to dust off some old books or wait for Ambrose’s own ramble before he could scrounge up any deeper details.

As it turned out, Ambrose had sealed himself up in his head for the moment.

A moment which lasted long enough to get within talking distance of the police. They described the tunnel and what was in it. There was scarcely time to stretch their legs before they were riding along with the uniformed men, each thankfully armed. Sunset was almost racing them to the horizon by the time they trudged back to the clearing with lanterns in hand. Both men froze upon discovering it. When asked why:

“We didn’t leave it like this,” Dyson heard himself croak.

“How so?”

“The stone. We left it pushed aside when we left. The tunnel was still uncovered.”

Now the boulder was planted right back where it had been.

A hasty examination was made for tell-tale shoe prints, to little avail. New snow was fluttering down and filling things in with an accomplice’s speed. Giving it up, the group of them carefully shouldered the rock aside. Their caution’s reward was a column of acrid smoke that wafted up and plugged every unfortunate nose in reach. The last embers of a fire were dying down inside the tunnel.

The two corpses were roasted. The cart was a cinder. The tunnel’s floor had been glazed with oil and set alight until the whole bottom of the chute was a long black stream at least halfway to the underground entry point of the manor. Investigation to that farthest end revealed a pair of melted metal doors with burst windows. Beyond them there was only packed-in ash.

Dyson made no more mention of his hypothetical escaped animal.

Ambrose was not only silent about the Goliath seen from the window, but went so far as to draw his curtains before bed.

#Was Frankenstein Not the Monster?#frankenstein #mary shelley #arthur machen #the inmost light #the red hand #my writing #horror #hope you guys dig it #my art

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lilac-whump · 2 years ago

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Nightmare's Shadow Part 5- One Good Thing

I'm on a roll and refuse to abide by a posting schedule. I post as parts get written so no promises about how long this streak will go. Heres a chapter with more whump in it!

Cw: torture, branding, shame, lady whump, fantasy whump

Previous / Masterlist

One Good Thing

Three Years Previous

Nevaeh was the only good thing that existed in the world.

Inrissa clung to the image of her smile, the memory of her soft touch, gripping it in her mind as pain radiated through her body. She closed her eyes so there was only pain and memory. The Silence emanating from the collar around her neck was impenetrable, no sound entered and no sound escaped. Even Inrissa’s own screams didn’t reach her ears. Like her screams didn’t exist. Because her pain only existed in her own mind and body.

A gauntleted fist slammed into Inrissa’s stomach, pushing all the air from her lungs and yanking her wrists against their chains. Pain. Everything was pain. This pain meant something, she knew that. They didn’t want her to close her eyes. They didn’t want to give her that escape.

Inrissa didn’t give them that satisfaction. She was used to pain. It was just a backdrop to her life, she didn’t have to give it the starring role. It didn’t have to be the most important thing. That spot was held for Nevaeh instead. Inrissa focused on the image of the human girl's long red hair, braided down her back, her freckles, her nose scrunched in a laugh. It didn’t matter if all of her kindness was confined to stolen moments amongst the oversight of Inrissa’s masters.

Even stolen breaths of joy and kindness could be treasured.

White hot pain exploded on Inrissa’s back, concentrated between her shoulder blades. A scream ripped out of her, as silent as ever, but painfully tearing at her throat and lungs. Her eyes flew open, stinging with tears. The image of Nevaeh’s face blurred against the agony.

Even in the suffocating silence, Inrissa could feel her skin sizzle and bubble under the heat she slowly recognized. It wasn’t as if this was the first time she had encountered a branding iron.

The brands on the soles of her feet had scarred over long ago, leaving the skin rough and numb. The numbness had taken years, years where walking had been agony, and the slightest irritation would send bolts of pain up her leg. At least she didn’t have to walk on her back. This brand wasn’t to keep her from running, it wasn’t to keep her docile and trainable.

So what was it for?

Inrissa blinked, trying to clear her vision. She couldn’t find the branding iron, it must still be behind her. Were they keeping it from her on purpose?

Shayla stood across from Inrissa, a smirk on the tall woman’s lips. Taunting her. Inrissa snarled at her, baring her teeth. It was futile, it would only earn her punishment, but she hated that woman. She always brought pain and mockery, drawing it out with her razorblades, tracing out scars like a twisted art form.

Branding wasn’t her usual style. What was going on?

Shayla snapped her fingers and sound rushed in around Inrissa, nearly deafening in its suddenness. Inrissa gasped and flinched, then scowled at Shayla once again.

“What…what did you..” Inrissa wanted to demand answers, she wanted to put anger behind her words, but her voice was so hoarse from screaming, and her muscles trembled from fatigue and a deep, instinctual fear of Shayla that it was all she could do to stammer out the question.

Shayla cocked a high arched eyebrow, cruel amusement glittering in her golden eyes.

“You know, I wondered if you would recognize it from feel alone,” she said, her voice dripping with toxic honey. “I guess that’s a no.”

Inrissa clenched her jaw and broke eye contact, looking away. Mostly to hide the grimace she couldn’t contain as the pain of the burn rolled through her in waves.

“Well, maybe you’ll get lucky,” Shayla said, walking close to Inrissa. “Maybe there will be someone kind enough to tell you. If you ask.”

Shayla turned and walked out of the room with that, her heels clicking on the stone floor. Inrissa watched her go, her heart frozen in her chest.

Shayla’s words sank into her like a knife. Shayla knew. They knew. They knew about Nevaeh, that she was kind to Inrissa. That there was someone who treated Inrissa like a person.

If Inrissa wanted to know what had been branded onto her back, she would have to ask the one person who gave her even a scrap of respect.

Shame curled through Inrissa like thick smoke. She wished she could curl up on the floor and bury her head in her arms, but she couldn’t move against the chains that still held her.

She understood now. Why she was being punished. Why she was branded with an unknown marking. Because her masters had realized someone was treating her with kindness. Someone had offered Inrissa a glimpse at happiness.

Naturally, she had to be reminded of what she really was. Not deserving of this kindness. Nowhere near an equal to the servant girl.

Inrissa was nothing.

—---------

Present

The city of Reklum unfolded around Inrissa as she tried to drink it all in. The buildings were almost all from chiseled stone, with a dragon motif present in almost all the decor. She supposed that was to be expected, the symbol of the Reklum Empire was a golden three headed dragon, and this was their capital city. So, they really loved dragons here.

And then there were the people. So many people. Just like the Elite Guard themselves, the people came in a dizzying array of variety. Humans, half elves, scaled dragonborns, aloof full elves, stout dwarves, tiny gnomes, and varieties Inrissa couldn’t put a name to. She scanned the crowds for anyone like her, the horns, the tail, the pupil-less mono color eyes, but found the crowds devoid of other tieflings. Her heart squeezed in her chest.

“My father will be expecting us,” Natala said, taking the lead of the group from Absalom. She caught Inrissa’s eye and nodded subtly.

“I’ll catch up with you after,” Inrissa said, slipping away from the group before anyone could object. Natala had given her one of the group's enchanted communication stones last night, so they could contact her to meet up when they were done.

It had taken them three days to travel from the Aren Glade to the expansive capital city, and Inrissa could breathe easier separating from the group. They had agreed to let her travel with and work alongside them, and Natala had offered a comforting kind of kinship to her, but Inrissa couldn’t relax as long as she was with them. Aside from the princess, none of them really trusted her. They allowed her presence as a courtesy, taking Absalom’s fathers word, but they were all waiting. All watching.

Especially Prometheus Firstforged. She bristled just at the thought, weaving through the crowds of Reklum. Her illusory appearance gave her comfort, anonymity wrapped around her like a security blanket. One thing it couldn’t hide, however, was her hatred for Prometheus and everything he had ever created.

Of course, his delicate ego couldn’t take that. He had spent the last three days making poorly guised attempts to get Inrissa to praise him or his work. Pointing out the fine craftsmanship of his weapons and armor, and the equipment he had crafted for his friends. It had taken all of her self control not to scream at him or stab him.

But the most important part of a hunt was the wait. She had to make her reveal at the correct moment. Not out on the road where there were few other people around, and where Prometheus lacked access to his forge. When she revealed herself to him, it would be with immediate access to the resources needed to remove the collar.

Once they had made their report to the Emperor, it would be a matter of hours. She could get him at his forge and finally find out who he was underneath the public mask. Would he willingly help her, or would she have to force the aid out of him? She was only marginally sure his friends had no idea about his involvement with the Society, if that were true, what would they think? Natala was her most likely ally, and she held a lot of power.

Inrissa shook her head and pulled her focus back to her surroundings. She had been crafting her strategy for weeks, another few hours wouldn’t change anything. Unless during those few hours she screwed up by not paying attention to where she was walking.

Tracking her path through the city, Inrissa tried to imagine herself living there. After all, the whole point of all of this was to, someday, just be able to live her life. Have a home where she felt safe enough to sleep deeply. Maybe even have friends. To never have to be reminded of her pain again.

The people around her looked so happy, so content. There were mothers holding children’s hands, crafters and merchants haggled over prices. The city was like a living being, and all of the people like drops of blood pumping through the massive veins. Existing. Living. Belonging. Next to them, Inrissa felt like a virus.

A flash of red hair caught Inrissa’s eye and habit pulled her gaze in a double take. She was already scolding herself- Nevaeh was dead, she had to stop looking for her around every corner- but she froze, staring at the back of the woman weaving through the crowd. She had caught only a glimpse of her face but it was the same face Inrissa saw in the mirror with her disguise. The same face she had worn since her escape, the first face that had ever shown her kindness.

Was it?

Was Inrissa just caught up in the hopefulness of the city?

Her feet pulled her forward after the woman. She had to know. She couldn’t live with herself if she walked away wondering. She picked up speed, her heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted to escape. Inrissa reached out, nearly within arms length of the other woman.

“Nevaeh?” she called out. The other woman spun and Inrissa choked on her breath.

Familiar green eyes narrowed in her direction, full of surprise, confusion, and suspicion. It was her. Alive. Right here in Reklum. How?

Before Inrissa could get any questions out, Nevaeh- it had to be her, right?- turned on her heel and darted into a side alley. Inrissa slipped in behind her, hope and terror warring in her veins.

Around another corner, Nevaeh spun to face Inrissa and drew a wicked knife. No one else was around, now. They were alone.

“Who are you?” she hissed. Her voice confirmed any doubt Inrissa might have had. “And what do you want?”

Inrissa stared at her. She wanted to ask her how she was alive, how had she gotten here, and a million other things. Elation swelled up in her chest. They had both escaped. They had both made it to the utopia that Nevaeh had first dreamed about. And against all odds they had found each other again.

Inrissa flicked her wrist and dropped the illusion. Let Nevaeh’s face fall away from her own and watched as shock and recognition washed over the face of her oldest friend.

“It’s me.”

#dun dun duuuuun #a fun reveal!#dont worry this does not lead to any kind of easy resolution or simple happy ending for Inrissa #just a friend assumed dead whos actually alive #what could possibly go wrong #sorry part of this is a bit rambly #just didnt want it to look like she wasnt acting on finding Prometheus for no reason #nightmare's shadow #cw slavery #whump #fantasy whump #lady whump #cw torture #cw branding

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ravensuperr · 20 days ago

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Gotham Baby Switch Mystery (DCXDP) - Part 2

Inside the Infinite Realms, Clockwork was furiously sifting through timelines. An emergency meeting had been called, not just with the most powerful ghosts, but also with immortal demons and anyone else with the authority to intervene. There had been a monumental error in this timeline, and Clockwork had just discovered who was responsible. Worse, there was no way to undo the damage. The misstep had been made, and now they had no choice but to move forward and manage the consequences.

As the ancient beings gathered, the Head Observer turned to Clockwork, his voice filled with urgency.

Head Observer: "Clockwork, have you figured out how this error happened? We were all in agreement with Lady Gotham’s plan for this timeline. Even the ancient ghosts—we all agreed. How did this happen? And more importantly, how did Lady Gotham not realize what went wrong before it was too late? Our chosen warrior has already received their powers."

Clockwork: (sighing deeply) "There’s only one being who could cause this chaos and see the oversight. And with this realization, I now know who’s behind it." (Clockwork’s voice turned cold) "It’s Eris."

Head Observer: "Eris? No. Even she knows better than to step out of line with the Infinite Realms’ balance. Why would she do this? No—don’t answer that. I already know the answer."

Clockwork: "Exactly. Something else is at play here. Because of Eris’s meddling, we are now in full damage control mode. We must use every artifact, every being, every Neverborn, and every demon—everyone must pitch in. Not just to appease Lady Gotham, but to prevent the end of the world."

Head Observer: "Clockwork, do you know how this will unfold? Do you know what events will lead to the coming disaster?"

Clockwork: (pauses, his expression grim) "I haven’t figured out the exact events yet. However, I do know it involves an artifact—the Reality Gauntlet. That’s all I can say for now. Eris’s interference has clouded the timeline, making it difficult for me to see the full picture. It might take days—or even weeks—to understand how everything fits together. For now, we focus on damage control."

Just as Clockwork finished speaking, Deadman appeared within the Infinite Realms, specifically in Clockwork’s domain, and he came with an urgent message.

Deadman: "Ancient ones, I bring news from the Justice League Dark. The supernatural community has sensed something amiss. Even members of the Justice League—those tied to the Green Lantern Corps, the Amazons, the Atlanteans, and other extraterrestrial beings—are feeling the growing dread. It’s as if the beginning of the end has already started. I come to ask for clarification. You see, John Constantine—"

Head Observer: "John Constantine? You mean the mortal who sells his soul every chance he gets, using his silver tongue to get out of his deals? He’s heard of the prophecy."

Deadman: (responding) "Yes, he has."

Clockwork: (dryly) "Constantine. Of course, he has. What is it this time?"

Deadman: (seriously) "It’s a prophecy about a warrior—not from the land of the living, nor from the Infinite Realms—who will defeat Pariah Dark, the Ghost King, in single combat. This prophecy is one we all agreed upon when Prometheus shared his last prophecy before his core was shattered by Pariah Dark. But Constantine was also told of another prophecy, one that mentions the Wrath of Lady Gotham."

Clockwork: (narrowing his eyes) "That prophecy about the warrior defeating Pariah Dark is true. It happens in every timeline. It’s an event we can’t change. The warrior will always defeat Pariah Dark in single combat and become the new ruler of the ghosts of the Infinite Realms. That is set. However, the mention of Lady Gotham is the deviation—the change that none of us expected. That is the new variable we need to deal with. That prophecy was never part of the original plan."

Deadman: (pausing) "So what does that mean for us? For this timeline?"

Clockwork: (gravely) "It means that the interference of Gotham—specifically Lady Gotham and her warriors—has set off a chain of events that we cannot fully comprehend yet. I need you to deliver this message to Constantine. Word for word. Let him know that the prophecy about the warrior defeating Pariah Dark is true, but the role of Lady Gotham in this timeline is the wildcard. He must understand that this is not just about a warrior’s victory; it’s about the fate of all realms, and Gotham’s wrath may become the catalyst for destruction."

Deadman: (nodding) "Understood. I’ll make sure Constantine knows exactly what’s at stake."

Clockwork’s tone softened slightly, but the weight of what he was about to say still hung heavily in the air.

Clockwork: "The original plan, when we first discovered that the warrior was from Gotham and had ties to Lady Gotham’s warriors—specifically to The Dark Knight—was to let the timeline unfold as intended. Yes, the baby swap happened. The child, originally presumed dead, was found again. But when Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul discovered their daughter—living a happy, normal life—they chose not to bring her into their world. A world of assassinations, vigilante work, and endless violence. They decided their daughter would live a peaceful life, away from all of that."

Head Observer: "But that’s not how things happened, is it?"

Clockwork: "No. It isn’t. Their daughter, Danny, went on to live a normal life. The strain between Bruce and Talia has mended, but it’s always been there, lingering. It wasn’t until Damian, their second child, discovered that he had an older sister that the pieces started to fall into place. He wanted to meet her. On the same day that Danny began her transformation into something more—becoming Schrödinger's cat, a being who is both alive and dead, with all the advantages and disadvantages of those two worlds."

Deadman: (frowning) "So Danny’s ghost powers were triggered at the same time?"

Clockwork: "Yes. And this is where things went off course. Danny is now discovering her ghost powers. And with the knowledge that her biological family is essentially going to undo everything, we face our only chance of defeating Pariah Dark when he awakens from his eternal slumber. But now, everything is in jeopardy. We are managing this situation, but time is running out."

Head Observer: (concerned) "You said something about a man-made portal. What does that have to do with all of this?"

Clockwork: (pauses, his eyes narrowing) "A man-made portal has been opened somewhere near the Americas. But I cannot tell you the exact location yet. What I can tell you is that the Americas are facing a blackout, which stretches across several states. The power grid failure is caused by a faulty electrical wire, but we cannot rule out the possibility that it is connected to the man-made portal. The location of the portal coincides with the area where Danny lives. However, no one knows for certain if the power outage is caused by the portal or by the US power grid failure."

Deadman: (grimly) "So the situation is even more complicated than we thought. What do we do now?"

Clockwork: (pauses, then speaks more quietly) "We are sending someone to protect Danny. A spirit guide, a mentor, someone to safeguard her as she navigates these dangerous waters. You must tell Constantine that the ancient beings are intervening, and we will not let her face this alone. Gotham must be appeased. And we must ensure that Danny does not fall victim to the chaos unfolding."

Deadman: (nodding) "I’ll make sure Constantine knows everything. And I’ll make sure he understands how critical this is for the entire multiverse."

Clockwork nodded, his expression hardening.

Clockwork: "Then go. We have no time to waste."

After Deadman had left, the Head Observer turned toward Clockwork, his expression stern, a growing tension in his voice.

Head Observer: "Clockwork, now that Deadman is gone, I must ask you—why were you so vague about the location of our Chosen One? I understand not disclosing the exact city where they live, but why only mention the Americas, specifically the United States? What have you seen so far?"

Clockwork: (pauses, eyes narrowing thoughtfully) "I’ve seen enough to know that there’s a potential that Bruce Wayne might take his daughter back to Gotham. In my heart, I believe that this would be the right choice for her—after all, Gotham is where she belongs. But for the good of the realms, it is not. Not anymore."

The ancient ghost's voice dropped in weight, and he glanced briefly at the dimly lit realms around him, lost in thought.

Clockwork: "I’ve chosen the Neverborn Ghost of Hope—she’s connected to the Blue Lantern Corps. She has the ability to travel through the Multiverse with ease and can bring in heroes from any timeline, any world, any media, or literature. She will help protect our Chosen One."

Head Observer: (nodding slowly) "I see. And what else have you seen? Do you truly believe that following this Chosen One prophecy is the right path, even though we both know that this child—our Chosen One—doesn’t deserve this life, nor did they want it?"

Clockwork: (his gaze hardens, a flash of sadness behind his eyes) "I’ve seen countless timelines of Danny Phantom. And in each one, he/she has risen to the occasion—always standing as a protector of the people, whether from the city or the citizens of the Infinite Realms. Phantom would make a great ruler of the Infinite Realms—one of the best. That doesn’t mean this child won’t face hardship. But each lesson learned, each challenge overcome, brings them closer to understanding what it means to rule."

Clockwork: (continuing) "In fact, it’s because of this child’s growth that we’ve avoided entire wars from breaking out. Wars that would have torn the Infinite Realms apart—wars between us and the United States, possibly Canada as well. I’ve seen timelines where, if Danny hadn’t stepped in, the realms would have been at war with Earth."

The Head Observer absorbed the weight of Clockwork’s words before replying.

Head Observer: "So, what now? Will the events of previous timelines, the ones where Danny becomes Phantom, still unfold? Or will there be new changes?"

Clockwork: "There will be changes. Danny will fight with more intensity than ever before. What I have seen so far is that at some point, she will realize that the man-made portal—the one opening into the Infinite Realms—is, in a twisted way, her grave."

Head Observer: (eyes narrowing in realization) "Ah, yes. I know the custom well. Us Ghosts do not take kindly to those who desecrate or vandalize our own graves."

Clockwork: (nodding slowly) "Exactly. And you know, ghost customs are sacred. We don’t speak of how one dies, even among ourselves. But this revelation will hit Danny hard. She will understand, eventually, that her grave is the portal. And all the ghosts that come through said portal are subconsciously violating one of the sacred rules. It may take some time, but when the right antagonist faces her, she will realize the truth."

Head Observer: (slightly frustrated) "And do you know which antagonist will bring this truth to light?"

Clockwork: "There are a few possible ghosts who might lead her to this understanding. But because of Eris’s meddling, the timeline is still blurry. I won’t know for certain until things calm down."

Head Observer: "So, is our Chosen One in the hospital now?"

Clockwork: "Yes. She’s currently recovering. The Ghost of Medicine is tending to her. As we speak, she’s being cared for by a healer unlike any we've ever seen."

The Head Observer raised an eyebrow, slightly amused.

Head Observer: "Is it… Lady Tsunade? Why does the Ghost of Medicine and Healing look like Lady Tsunade from the world of Naruto? And furthermore, why that form? Why not any regular human form disguise?"

Clockwork: (chuckling lightly) "It seems so. The Ghost of Hope, with her ability to travel across the Multiverse, brought in various images of healers from different timelines. It appears the Ghost of Healing is quite taken with Lady Tsunade’s appearance. At least she's wearing the proper medical attire."

Head Observer: (chuckling as well) "I see. A fitting choice, then."

Clockwork: (grinning faintly) "Indeed."

Head Observer: "So, are we calling the Ghost of Hope by her name or her preferred alias? Since she does seem to enjoy using names from the living world, I assume this is her choice?"

Clockwork: (with a sigh) "Yes, it was her choice. The issue with names is that Neverborn ghosts, who are born from humans concept for example the concept of time, dreams, sleep, anger, hope… we have all been given multiple names throughout the world, and in different religions, our names change as well. It is often that ghosts choose our own names, or because we have multiple names, we just automatically choose the one that we prefer at a given moment. Take me, for example. I've been known as many things, including Kronos, but I’ve never liked that name. I prefer being called Clockwork, though I don’t get to choose what the living world calls me. As for Hope, she’s chosen a name from a universe she’s particularly fond of. And yes, she’s using it as her alias. She’s taken to calling herself Serenity—or Sera, as her nickname."

Head Observer: (chuckling lightly) "Ah, Serenity. I wonder how she’ll manage this responsibility. Or perhaps, how Sera will…"

Clockwork: (smiling softly) "Only time will tell."

Note: Here’s Part 2—I hope you like it! I’m not great with names, so if you have any suggestions for what to call the Head Observer, feel free to share them. If a particular name gets a lot of likes or agreement, I’ll consider changing it in the near future. I also want to clarify that Danny still gets her powers the same way as in the original timeline; what I’m exploring here is the aftermath of that event within the Infinite Realms

Part 3 will build up to Danny getting her powers, and it will also include Bruce and the others meeting Jazz and exploring the Fenton works. It’s possible that Part 3 or Part 4 will feature an interaction with the hospital. Toward the end of Part 3 or the beginning of Part 4, we will see how the Infinite Realms react to the man-made portal being activated in the Fenton works and what the effects are inside the Infinite Realms.

I’ve seen a few prompts and fanfictions that describe what it’s like inside the Infinite Realms when something like this happens, and how they react when they learn that a man-made ghost portal has opened. I really like seeing multiple points of view, so you’ll probably get that in Part 3 or the beginning of Part 4.

#dp x dc #danny phantom #deadman #justice league dark #lady tsunade #clockwork

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