#Spectral Measurement

[erwinw]

What are Colorimeters? Function, How It Works, and Maintenance

In a world where colors can speak louder than words, the unsung hero of precise hue measurement is the humble colorimeter, a device that unveils the silent language of colors with remarkable accuracy and simplicity. What are Colorimeters? A colorimeter is an instrument that plays a crucial role in the field of colorimetry, which is the science of measuring and analyzing the color of light that…

[ask-sad-ghost-piett]

Today, a Scout Trooper used their stealth for insolent purposes and pilfered my favorite eyeliner. I cannot tell who is the thief due to the helmets. I do not understand the point of stealing eyeliner if one will be wearing a helmet anyway.

If any living soul would be kind enough to leave a replacement eyeliner (preferably black) at my symbolic grave, I would be very appreciative.

[labexpo254]

Spectral Colorimeter - Labexpo USA

Spectral colorimeter with high precision is adopted with spectral measurement working theory which greatly improves the accuracy of colorimeter. Equipped with superior leather design, helps in increasing the friction in case of fingers sliding. The spectral colorimeter comes with mass storage capacity and A, C, D65, D50 as light sources for colorimetric measurement.

[thaoworra]

The Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association recently released the poems that made it to the finalist stage for consideration for the 2024 Rhysling Awards for Short and Long Speculative Poems of the year. Congratulations to all of the nominees! This will be the 46th year these awards have been conferred!

Short Poems (50 finalists)

Attn: Prime Real Estate Opportunity!, Emily Ruth Verona, Under Her Eye: A Women in Horror Poetry Collection Volume II

The Beauty of Monsters, Angela Liu, Small Wonders 1

The Blight of Kezia, Patricia Gomes, HWA Poetry Showcase X

The Day We All Died, A Little, Lisa Timpf, Radon 5

Deadweight, Jack Cooper, Propel 7

Dear Mars, Susan L. Lin, The Sprawl Mag 1.2

Dispatches from the Dragon's Den, Mary Soon Lee, Star*Line 46.2

Dr. Jekyll, West Ambrose, Thin Veil Press December

First Eclipse: Chang-O and the Jade Hare, Emily Jiang, Uncanny 53

Five of Cups Considers Forgiveness, Ali Trotta, The Deadlands 31

Gods of the Garden, Steven Withrow, Spectral Realms 19

The Goth Girls' Gun Gang, Marisca Pichette, The Dread Machine 3.2

Guiding Star, Tim Jones, Remains to be Told: Dark Tales of Aotearoa, ed. Lee Murray (Clan Destine Press)

Hallucinations Gifted to Me by Heatstroke, Morgan L. Ventura, Banshee 15

hemiplegic migraine as willing human sacrifice, Ennis Rook Bashe, Eternal Haunted Summer Winter Solstice

Hi! I am your Cortical Update!, Mahaila Smith, Star*Line 46.3

How to Make the Animal Perfect?, Linda D. Addison, Weird Tales 100

I Dreamt They Cast a Trans Girl to Give Birth to the Demon, Jennessa Hester, HAD October

Invasive, Marcie Lynn Tentchoff, Polar Starlight 9

kan-da-ka, Nadaa Hussein, Apparition Lit 23

Language as a Form of Breath, Angel Leal, Apparition Lit October

The Lantern of September, Scott Couturier, Spectral Realms 19

Let Us Dream, Myna Chang, Small Wonders 3

The Magician's Foundling, Angel Leal, Heartlines Spec 2

The Man with the Stone Flute, Joshua St. Claire, Abyss & Apex 87

Mass-Market Affair, Casey Aimer, Star*Line 46.4

Mom's Surprise, Francis W. Alexander, Tales from the Moonlit Path June

A Murder of Crows, Alicia Hilton, Ice Queen 11

No One Now Remembers, Geoffrey Landis, Fantasy and Science Fiction Nov./Dec.

orion conquers the sky, Maria Zoccula, On Spec 33.2

Pines in the Wind, Karen Greenbaum-Maya, The Beautiful Leaves (Bamboo Dart Press)

The Poet Responds to an Invitation from the AI on the Moon, T.D. Walker, Radon Journal 5

A Prayer for the Surviving, Marisca Pichette, Haven Speculative 9

Pre-Nuptial, F. J. Bergmann, The Vampiricon (Mind's Eye Publications)

The Problem of Pain, Anna Cates, Eye on the Telescope 49

The Return of the Sauceress, F. J. Bergmann, The Flying Saucer Poetry Review February

Sea Change, David C. Kopaska-Merkel and Ann K. Schwader, Scifaikuest May

Seed of Power, Linda D. Addison, The Book of Witches ed. Jonathan Strahan (Harper Collins)

Sleeping Beauties, Carina Bissett, HWA Poetry Showcase X

Solar Punks, J. D. Harlock, The Dread Machine 3.1

Song of the Last Hour, Samuel A. Betiku, The Deadlands 22

Sphinx, Mary Soon Lee, Asimov's September/October

Storm Watchers (a drabbun), Terrie Leigh Relf, Space & Time

Sunflower Astronaut, Charlie Espinosa, Strange Horizons July

Three Hearts as One, G. O. Clark, Asimov's May/June

Troy, Carolyn Clink, Polar Starlight 12

Twenty-Fifth Wedding Anniversary, John Grey, Medusa's Kitchen September

Under World, Jacqueline West, Carmina Magazine September

Walking in the Starry World, John Philip Johnson, Orion's Belt May

Whispers in Ink, Angela Yuriko Smith, Whispers from Beyond (Crystal Lake Publishing)

Long Poems (25 finalists)

Archivist of a Lost World, Gerri Leen, Eccentric Orbits 4

As the witch burns, Marisca Pichette, Fantasy 87

Brigid the Poet, Adele Gardner, Eternal Haunted Summer Summer Solstice

Coding a Demi-griot (An Olivian Measure), Armoni “Monihymn” Boone, Fiyah 26

Cradling Fish, Laura Ma, Strange Horizons May

Dream Visions, Melissa Ridley Elmes, Eccentric Orbits 4

Eight Dwarfs on Planet X, Avra Margariti, Radon Journal 3

The Giants of Kandahar, Anna Cates, Abyss & Apex 88

How to Haunt a Northern Lake, Lora Gray, Uncanny 55

Impostor Syndrome, Robert Borski, Dreams and Nightmares 124

The Incessant Rain, Rhiannon Owens, Evermore 3

Interrogation About A Monster During Sleep Paralysis, Angela Liu, Strange Horizons November

Little Brown Changeling, Lauren Scharhag, Aphelion 283

A Mere Million Miles from Earth, John C. Mannone, Altered Reality April

Pilot, Akua Lezli Hope, Black Joy Unbound eds. Stephanie Andrea Allen & Lauren Cherelle (BLF Press)

Protocol, Jamie Simpher, Small Wonders 5

Sleep Dragon, Herb Kauderer, The Book of Sleep (Written Image Press)

Slow Dreaming, Herb Kauderer, The Book of Sleep (Written Image Press)

St. Sebastian Goes To Confession, West Ambrose, Mouthfeel 1

Value Measure, Joseph Halden and Rhonda Parrish, Dreams and Nightmares 125

A Weather of My Own Making, Nnadi Samuel, Silver Blade 56

Welcoming the New Girl, Beth Cato, Penumbric October

What You Find at the Center, Elizabeth R McClellan, Haven Spec Magazine 12

The Witch Makes Her To-Do List, Theodora Goss, Uncanny 50

The Year It Changed, David C. Kopaska-Merkel, Star*Line 46.4

Voting for the Rhysling Award begins July 1; a link to the ballot will be sent with the Rhysling Anthology, as well as with the July issue of Star*Line. More information on the Rhysling Award can be found here.

[gnocchibabie]

The Realm's Tragedy

Chapter 1 - The Porcelain Princess

aemond targaryen x fem!targaryen!oc

next chapter --- masterlist --- ao3

Summary: Maevys Targaryen is born into a kingdom overshadowed by calamity. With her mother Aemma Arryn gone, King Viserys consumed by grief, and Princess Rhaenyra adrift in sorrow, young Maevys finds herself at the heart of a fractured family. As she emerges from the shadows of tragedy, she must navigate the delicate balance between the remnants of a broken lineage and the impending storm of a new era.

As the dragons dance, the princess must learn to accept an unforgiving truth: All Must Choose.

Warnings: gore and blood, graphic descriptions of violence/traumatic childbirth

Wordcount: 1.2k

112 AC – King’s Landing

The piercing screams of Queen Aemma Arryn echo through the halls of the Red Keep, filling King Viserys I Targaryen with a sickening dread as he hastily rushes to her chamber. The cries are not those of labor but are more akin of an animal in its final moments. The merriment of the tourney presumes outside the castle walls, unknowing of the chaos that swarms within. 

When Viserys finally pushes open the door, the sight of his wife – disheveled and dripping with anguish – has him rushing to her side. 

Aemma had always had great difficulty bearing children – it was a wonder Rhaenyra had even been brought into this world – but this, this was different. All color had been drained from the Queen, leaving only a layer of cool sweat covering her pale form. Hair sticking to her face, breathing labored, and grip weak on her husband’s hand, the King felt his wife drift further and further away from him.

She looked more spectral than alive.

Aemma.

Viserys looks around to the handmaidens attending to his wife, though they skillfully avoid his gaze.

“Mellos.” The king breathes out, leaving his wife to speak with the maester. 

A grim look paints the face of his most skilled healer, “My King…during a difficult birth, it sometimes becomes necessary for the father to make an impossible choice.”

Viserys blinks incredulously at the man before him as his wife continues with her agony, “Well speak it!” His heart pounds.

“To sacrifice one…or to lose them both.” Mellos replies, voice measured despite the chaos surrounding them. Viserys listens to the man describe the technique taught at The Citadel – the barbaric ritual of cutting the babe from its mother, in hopes it may be saved. The King hears his words, but finds it hard to truly listen to them.

Mello’s stern face wavers for a moment, “But the resulting blood loss-”

“Seven Hells, Mellos.” The King took a deep breath to keep his panic from setting in, from blurring his better judgment. 

The Gods punish me…They set an impossible decision before me. 

Viserys looks back at Aemma once more, seeing his wife has calmed, her pain momentarily subsiding. A handmaid dabs a damp rag to the queen’s pale forehead, and she almost looks serene. He thinks of his son, stirring within her, waiting to come out into this world. To be set forth into the realm he will one day rule. 

Expelling a shaky breath, Viserys turns his back to her, “You can save the child?”

“We must either act now, or leave it with the Gods.” Mellos replies.

It feels as though a piece of Viserys, some portion of his soul deep within, withers away at the choice before him.

All he can muster is a grim nod to his maester as he returns to his wife, one final time. 

Aemma, even despite her current torment, finds a faint smile at seeing her husband once more. Her mind is less clouded, her body less addled with pain as she properly greets her king.

“Viserys…” Her voice is faint and wispy, as though merely speaking was a herculean task. 

Tears cloud the vision of the king, though he hides them with a smile to his wife. His Aemma.

“They’re going to bring the babe out now.”

And so they did. 

Amidst the screams of his wife, a sharp steel scalpel pressed against her soft, swollen belly – blood soon pouring out from within the queen like a deep red sea, staining her linen underdress and the pristine sheets below her. Amidst her thrashing turned feeble attempts of escape. Amidst her moaning turned to fleeting breaths. 

The last thing Aemma Arryn experienced in this world was great pain, and great fear. 

A babe, quiet and still is pulled out from her at last.

“A boy, Your Grace.” Mellos replies, though any celebration from the revelation is soured. 

The infant is silent, and the room grows cold. The King holds the bloody, small thing in his arms and weeps for his wife and son.

“Maester Mellos!” a handmaiden voices, “There is another!”

The room blurs around Viserys as another babe is pulled from Aemma Arryn. With a few strong pats to the infant’s back, it’s bawling fills the room. A flicker of life is breathed into the somber scene.

“A girl, my King.” The maester announces. 

A daughter.

Viserys looks at the small, crying baby now being swaddled in soft linens. Muck and blood wiped from her as her crying continues. Tears blur his vision once more, barely able to see the small patch of white hair crested atop her head. 

For a moment, he is filled with the overwhelming desire to name his newest daughter, Aemma. After the mother she will never know in this life. Though, looking at the ghastly scene before him, he thinks better than to condemn the girl to such a fate. 

A name was a powerful thing, and Viserys was a man of many cryptic beliefs.

Aemma would not do.

“Maevys,” he breathes. A new name, a fresh start, a blank page. “Maevys…my daughter. My princess.”

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

To suddenly be an older sister was an odd thing, Rhaenyra Targaryen had thought.

To suddenly be a motherless child, an even odder one. 

The eldest princess looks down at the babe lying in her fine wooden cradle, swathed in soft cloths. Maevys had finally quieted, after hours of squawking and shrieking, as if her cries should make up for the one’s her brother never had the chance to utter. 

Her sister was small, too small for even an infant. Pale as well, as though all her strength had been drained from her from the mere attempt of being born. 

If you could call it such a thing. 

Rhaenyra was haunted by the news of what had become of her mother. Her mother, once so full of life and laughter and love – reduced to a broodmare of a woman. So much so, that it became her undoing. 

The image of her sister however, soothed the princess. Perhaps a piece of her mother still lay before her.

She had a little sister, a girl to love and cherish and tell stories of their mother to. A girl she and Alicent could parade around with and take under their wings. Is that what sisters did?

Rhaenyra leans closer to the cradle. Did I look like this once?

The infant has all the hallmark Targaryen features: silver-white hair and expressive purple eyes. Perhaps she even had the Arryn look about her, some remnants of their mother. Though, only time would tell.

Rhaenyra feared, though, that the girl would not live very long at all. The babe was a weak looking thing after all. She even heard hushed whispers amongst her mother’s handmaidens, that the maester did not expect the girl to live past a week. The nickname, “The Porcelain Princess” had already begun to circulate throughout the castle walls due to her sister’s delicate state. Though no one would dare utter the words in front of the girl’s father or older sister.

“Maevys,” Rhaenyra breathed and watched as the little girl stirred, as though she already recognized her name, “You must prove them wrong, Maevys. You must stay.” Her voice quivers at the end of her plea, a hand grasping the babe’s cradle so hard, Rhaenyra’s knuckles turn white. 

And so, Maevys did.

Author's Note: hello there! i hope you enjoyed this very depressing and grim first chapter (I promise they wont ALL be like this). this is the beginning of what will hopefully be a pretty lenghty fic, which will come to focus on the ~eventual~ relationship between maevys and aemond. this is my second aemond fic (i am not immune to his charm) and i will be updating this alongside another project that is currently ongoing. because of this, updates may be a little sporadic, but i am dedicated to both series :) i hope you all enjoy this story! i have many ideas for many characters that i cannot wait to put to page and share with you all. thank you so much for reading <3

[anonymouscapybara]

people say the worst SI unit is the mole. "ohhh but it's just a number it doesn't even have anything attached it doesn't deserve to be an official unit" BZZZ WRONG

the worst unit is the candela. the candela is stupid.

what's the candela, you ask? well, it measures the brightness of light

"oh that sounds reasonable" you say, "just measure the energy or power emitted!" nope. they would not do anything nearly so simple. a lightbulb emitting a watt of yellow light is more candelas than a lightbulb emitting a watt of red light.

"ok that's weird" you say, "but maybe they're adjusting for that somehow? maybe it measures number of photons?" again, that would be far too reasonable. a lightbulb emitting a fixed rate of yellow-light photons is more candelas than the same rate of purple-light photons.

but what are they even measuring then? what else is there to measure? clearly they ran out of ideas while making up units, because what they're actually measuring is the SUBJECTIVE BRIGHTNESS OF LIGHT TO THE HUMAN EYE. the candela is STUPID

a reasonable question to ask is: how would you even measure the brightness of light to the human eye? aren't a lot of human eyes different? don't different things look bright in different circumstances? aren't there colorblind people in the world?

surely the General Conference on Weights and Measures, which spent millions precisely calibrating magnetic quantum flux to avoid basing the kilogram on a random block in France, has a clever solution!

no. no they don't. the candela is stupid.

as far as I can tell, what you do is you first measure how much light of each wavelength comes in. Then you multiply each measurement by a "luminosity function", which measures brightness to the human eye:

you will notice that there are multiple functions shown in this diagram. the SI system has five of these, for different lighting conditions. do your lighting conditions not exactly follow one of the Five Official Standardized Lighting Conditions? guess you're out of luck then.

and whose eye are we using? why, the Official Standardized CIE Photometric Observer, of course: the "ideal observer having a relative spectral responsivity that conforms to a CIE-defined spectral luminous efficiency function for human vision"

(and no I can't show you this function because the fine people of the ISO put it BEHIND A PAYWALL. who puts measurements determining a fundamental SI unit BEHIND A PAYWALL. the candela is stupid)

all right, so we're measuring a fundamental unit using a (nonexistent) idealized observer in one of five random lighting conditions. how did they find the values for this? i'm...not entirely sure. but here's a glimpse, based on a few of the most recent studies I found used for this:

"...heterochromatic (minimum) flicker photometric data obtained from 40 observers (35 males, 5 females) of known genotype..."

"To obtain an estimate of the mean L-cone fundamental, we weighted [weird variables] according to the ratio of 0.56 L(S180) to 0.44 L(A180) found in the normal, male Caucasian population...and averaged them together"

that's right, our Official Objective Brightness Unit is probably sexist and racist. none of the other SI units have a chance to be sexist and racist. a meter is a meter in every country on Earth. 6.022*10^23 For Women is still 6.022*10^23. but the candela is-- probably-- the white man's candela, because you can absolutely bet that genetic drift around the world gives different values for this stuff.

in summary: my opinion, as you might have guessed, is that the candela is stupid. hopefully you agree with me after reading this that we need to completely eradicate it from the planet. failing that could we at not give it the same level of officialness as the meter or the kilogram?

[yuurei20]

Malleus Facts Part 19: Malleus and Rook

Rook says he finds the option to pursue either Malleus or Leona during Beanfest to be “an embarrassment of riches.”

While Rook invites both Housewardens to his birthday party, its seems that neither attended.

Rook, Leona and Malleus overlapped during a previous Beanfest when Malleus and Leona both began to pursue him while quarreling with one another.

Rook says that he took both on in an attempt to help Vil escape, and he was brought down before he could put up much resistance. Silver says he remembers Malleus remarking that it was the first time he’d gotten heated in a long while.

Rook says that Malleus usually completes the exercises that they are assigned in gym classes within seconds, and then rests beneath a tree.

Rook approaches Malleus with, “I have simply taken an interest in you,” and when he asks if he might pose a few questions about his lifestyle Malleus says he offers no guarantee that he will answer.

Rook asks about what animal it is that dragons resemble most, such as impala or crocodiles, and Malleus takes offense.

Rook says he has never hunted a dragon, annoying Malleus even further, but when Rook compares fae to monsters Malleus realizes that Rook is going out of his way to be infuriating on purpose.

Rook confesses that that was his aim: he had been trying to throw his prey off-balance and lure him into his territory, “a basic hunting technique.”

Malleus says that he has no interest wasting time on Rook’s obvious provocations, encouraging him to resist his impulses unless he wants his life cut short.

They interact civilly during Spectral Soiree, where Rook strikes up a conversation with Malleus about Idia’s costume.

Malleus says he did not expect Rook and Idia to know as much as they do about armor and Rook recommends the musical “King’s Road,” which Malleus already knows.

Malleus explains, “Both humans and fae share a longing to express what’s truly important through song and dance.”

Rook begins to sing the musical’s main theme. Malleus says that Lilia used to sing it to him when telling him bedtime stories, and begins to accompany Rook’s singing on the pipe organ.

Malleus receives clothes from Rook for his birthday and has a voice line wondering about how it is that Rook learned his measurements.

[strong-with-the-sarcasm]

Part 20: I speak in tongues

"I'm not like you, I speak in tongues. It's a different language to those of us, who’ve faced the storm against all odds and found the truth inside." -can u see me in the dark? by Halestorm, I Prevail

Regent Masterlist Part 19 AO3 Mundane Macabre (Main)

When Ellie first began traveling, she’d (rightfully) assumed that she would never stop being surprised by humankind. Humans are curious creatures, capable of both kindness and cruelty in equal measure. 

(The Fentons were prime examples of cruelty)

(Cruel towards the living, dead and those who lie in between.) 

(Their children suffered, maybe even more than the ghosts they tried to hunt) 

With time, Ellie had decided to create her alter ego of Wraith, the quiet being of shadows that was just eerie enough to pass as something other regardless of what form she was in. Wraith was Ellie’s favorite mask to slip on, to hide from the living world as she tried to help where she could. 

Ellie Nightingale was a nomadic medium with a preference for punk rock, bleached hair and her leather jacket. 

Wraith was the opposite in ways that mattered, was created to help with the violence the halfa was witness to, fists bruised and weapons bloody. 

Ellie was not. 

Perhaps she’d broken herself into too many pieces, too many identities, for a solid visage to form. Cracked like a mirror, dirty and covered in old marker messages from friends long gone. Messages she’d carry with her no matter what name she went by, or style of hair, leather jacket or denim- halfa or not. 

That’s what made her unique. 

(Clone.) 

(Failure.)

(Danielle.)

(Ellie.) 

(Wraith.) 

Vlad had been her origin story, her beginning, but he was no longer her master. Slave to no one, daughter of nobody. 

But she was a sister to good people. 

Sometimes Ellie caught herself thinking ‘what would Danny do?’ when confronted with an extraordinary problem, trying to channel his brilliance despite their distance. He might not consider himself very intelligent, but Danny was the cleverest (and kindest) person she’d ever met. He loved her, his clone made as a violation of his bodily autonomy and by his fruitloop of a godfather. 

(Superman had not treated his clone the same.) 

(She understood his feelings of violation) 

(Kon was a living being and needed support too.) 

However, Jazz was her idol. 

Many people would’ve written off the woman as a know-it-all golden child, but those in the inner circle knew the truth. Jazz was the first child of the Fentons, who had nobody but herself to teach or to guide her. When Danny was born, Jasmine devoted everything to caring for him, to raising him as their parents should’ve. 

(His first words, his first steps)

Jasmine Fenton was a woman who loved fiercely and so, so very deeply that she’s willing to sacrifice her own wellbeing to ensure the happiness of the ones lucky enough to be given her love. 

With the rise to Regency and the subsequent downfall of her progenitors, Jasmine Fenton was left to rot in the basement with Danny’s grave, just like the yellow flowers she so fondly left in memorial. 

(Ellie would forever grieve the loss of Jasmine Fenton, the mother she so desperately wanted.) 

Yet, the Lady Nightingale arose from the grave, ash and blood staining her name, a ghost in an inhuman shell, ready to remake the world should she have to burn it down. 

(Jazz carried so few regrets, but they weighed her down like anchors.) 

(One day they might drown her in the dark depths.) 

(Her template’s younger visage admist the spectral mist spoke volumes.) 

(Maybe one day the faces of the elder Fentons would fade away.)

(Ellie could only hope.) 

The Regent, despite having staked her territory in the Ridge alongside Phantom, was unofficially claimed as one of the Crime Alley’s own. Defending the working girls, helping kids with homework or getting them away from ner-do-wells, the Regent had not hesitated to reach out a helping hand even after being targeted by those who would break her will. 

Black Mask, for instance, had put a bounty on the woman’s head with an eagerness that disgusted many others. People knew what a man like him would do with powerful woman, what enjoyment he’d receive breaking her. 

It was also no secret how much the Mask wanted to get his hands on the Red Hood. 

The helmeted vigilante had been a frequent pain in the ass ever since his debut some years ago, destroying his black market operations and getting the Big Bat involved. Sionis wanted little more than to rip off the fucker’s head- helmet and all. 

However, Sionis had tried his hand at subtly for once- he’d hired freelance to take out Hood’s second-in-command while the guy had his guard down with his girlfriend, a pretty red-haired civilian Sionis wouldn’t mind a turn with. The idea was to throw Hood’s gang leadership into chaos so Black Mask’s men could sweep in. Jason Todd was high in the ranks that his death would do just that. 

Figures the guy would survive. 

Jason had been seen with his girlfriend in the Ridge only days after the failed assassination attempt, no worse for the wear. Red Hood had come sniffing around his operations, with Regent stalking his men and the Phantom destroying his latest shipment of merchandise. Though, with the under-the-table job he’d hired out for, Hood found nothing linking him to the attempt on his second-in-command. 

It was time to change tactics. 

The Regent was confirmed to be in a romantic relationship with Hood, if the various Gothamite twitter posts and the sub-reddit r/RedHoodRegent dedicated to commemorating their obvious status, was to be believed. 

There wasn’t many problems with targeting the older sword-wielding vigilante; unlike Robin, Regent didn’t have the Big Bat for backup, but did have the Phantom. The ghost-like meta (or actual ghost, Sionis wasn’t sure how much he believed the rumors) was the biggest obstacle between him and Regent. If Mask could distract (or get rid of) Phantom, then his men could sweep in and eliminate Regent when the vigilante inevitably falls to his numbers. Sure, Sionis was sure he would  lose quite a few men, but it's Gotham. The numbers can always be recouped later. 

Perhaps when Red Hood tries to save his girlfriend, Mask could finally get his hands on him. 

Two birds, one stone. 

Oh yes, Sionis liked this plan. 

He had some calls to make.

A/N: I'm back! This was supposed to be posted on my birthday back in August, but I wasn't in the best headspace for writing or even being on any social media. I have several pieces waiting in the wings to be finished and edited, but I'm back and ready to write again! (Famous last words.)

(To those who guessed Black Mask had something to do with the bomb, kudos.)

Also, for those who might be uncomforable with Sionis' thoughts about Jazz, just remember- he's a bad guy, deranged and over all not the kind of morally upstanding person you want in charge of anything. Things get really dark where it concerns Sionis and what he plans for the future. Just a warning, because those who've read my other works know my penchant for angst.

[scribbledghost]

Vessel!Ghost part 3. Inspiration: Jaws by Sleep Token.

Sometimes Simon wonders who's truly in control of him.

He wonders if you speculate the same.

He still visits in your dreams (the Deity still refuses to allow him to reveal himself during your waking hours), half of the time speaking words that aren't his with a thousand voices mixed with his own. The Deity speaks poetry, flowing prose detailing its devotion to you, combining words Simon never would have thought to put together.

An ancient spectral creature worshipping a human.

Every so often, Simon develops a pit in his stomach. He wonders if Old Things like what resides in him can love. He wonders if the Deity is only flattering you in order to bring you under its spell, to bring more followers to its flock.

To gain another voice amongst its collection.

You feel the apprehension, too. He can tell. It's been months of dream visits and still, you eye him like a predator eyeing a hunter. But the Deity is patient. It's thousands of millenia old, after all. Years are nothing.

But sometimes, Simon is allowed to use his own words.

I won't hurt you.

He's lost count of how many times he's repeated it. He may not be sure if the Deity's devotion is true or if it's simply a manipulation tactic, but he is sure that if it tries to hurt you, Simon will tear himself apart keeping it at bay. Even if it's down to his molecules, he will destroy himself completely in order to keep you safe.

It's the least he can do - be a savior you never asked for.

The Deity knows it too. He wonders if this is why it hasn't taken more... direct measures, if its intent truly is malicious. Because it knows that to even attempt to harm an inch of your flesh would result in its expulsion.

Or, maybe all of the words it speaks from his mouth are true. Maybe you truly have caught the affections of something older than galaxies. Simon doesn't know.

There is so much he doesn't know about the Deity, and there is so much he doesn't know about you.

You fear him - or the thing masquerading as him. Even in your dreams, where nothing can harm you, you still bear so much apprehension, your very subconscious throwing up your emotional walls. Why?

He wants to know.

He wants to know why you bare your teeth so easily.

He wants to know what you've lost. Wants to know your wounds.

He wants to know you. And he wants you to know him in return.

The sting of pain he gets in his head when he thinks about such things worries him.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Dungeon: The Tithing House

For decades the gang of highwaymen known as the Gallerwood Outlaws were famed and feared for equal measure, melting out of the forest to rob merchants, nobles, even mages, before vanishing back into the trees. Even after their awful deaths at the hand of a bountyhunter some years ago folk still sing of their deeds, and of the secret hideaway in which they stored their ill gotten gains.

Adventure Hooks:

Folk have been saying that the ghosts of the Gallerwood outlaws have been stalking the roads near where their bodies were hanged, still looking for one last haul. The party are tasked with investigating rumours after a fearful carter was set upon by these spectres, losing something precious in the process. This provides the excellent framing for a first adventure as each member of the party can be invested in retrieving something different out of the carter's cargo giving them a reason to work in the same direction.

As they investigate, the party will discover that these ghosts are infact local toughs who have dressed up and painted themselves phosphorescent cave lichen in order to shake down passers by. After giving them a thrashing and a Scooby-Doo unmasking, the party can retrieve the stolen goods and return to the inn for celebratory drinking. In the dead of night one of the party awakens to a shadowy figure looming at the foot of their bed, spectral face illuminated by the ghoul-light that flickers in the bowl of their pipe. Evidently the story of the party's antics has spread, and it appears one of the real ghosts of the Gallerwood wants a word.

Frauds and phantoms aside,  entirely possible for the party to stumble across the dungeon while exploring the surrounding swampland, only realizing it served as a bandit hideout after stumbling into the remnants of their camp. 

Setup: The ghost introduces himself as the late Cullen Carver, once founding and now final member of the Gallerwood outlaws. Cullen has an offer for the party, and is willing to guide them to the cache kept by his fellow bandits if they will perform for him a last request. As Cullen explains it, neither he nor the other outlaw spirits will be able to rest so long as there is no end to their tale, and there can be no end so long as the mystery of their hidden treasure remains unsolved in the common imagination.

Cullen is in high spirits despite being dead, so the party should expect some gallows humour as the hanged man leads them through the swamp's hazards, eventually arriving at the outlaw's secret base: The Tithing House, a long abandoned temple of Erathis concealed within the depths of the wilderness that's become infested with all sorts of mire creatures since the thieves met their end.

Challenges & Complications:

The Outlaws kept their treasure in the temple's crypts, and to access these the part are going to need to venture through the gauntlet of dark chambers and traps the bandits set up to keep eachother's hands out of the cookie jar. Cullen can help with some of these, but the whole point of the traps was to keep his fellow thieves honest. The only other way into the vault is through a heavily reinforced door, the key to which is currently in the possession of the bountyhunter who hung the Gallerwoods from trees in the firstplace.

While the party has the pick of spoils, Cullen points out a particular chest kept apart from the rest and calls upon them to fulfill their end of the bargain. This chest was Cullen's nestegg, put aside from numerous heists and robberies to be delivered to his wife and children in the event of his death. With no surviving highwaymen to carry out the promise Cullen's REAL unfinished business comes to light. The party can keep their word, or they can snipe the treasure for themselves, earning the spectre's undying enmity and curse to boot.

To get out of the the Tithing House the party will need to face off with a demon of avarice.. but not in the traditional form of bossfight. He'll approach just as they're leaving the dungeon, taking the form of a plump old man with a grandfatherly smile who wears the spotless robes of an Erathian friar despite the flooded cemetery in which they stand. He is all calm words and politeness, congratulating them on making off with such a fine haul and urging them to never mind that silly old ghost and his wishes, banishing Cullen beneath a nearby grave so that they can talk cordially. The Smiling Friar explains that he had a deal with the highwaymen; feeding off the greed of their crimes in exchange for concealing their hideaway and passage through the forest. There's no reason the party couldn't renew the deal, become the new band of legendary thieves, save that they'll have to forsake their ghostly guide and his last act of charity. Should they turn him down the Smiling Friar will call up the dead of the cemetery to slaughter them, clearing the way for the next band of ambitious treasurehunters.

Art 1 Art 2

[lesbicosmos]

day 1 of @painlandweek !!

day 1 prompt: language of love / sickfic

summary: charles gets hit by a witch's spell that was originally intended for edwin. edwin takes care of him in the aftermath.

notes: title from unknown/nth by hozier <33

also on ao3!!

i could break beneath the weight of the goodness, love, i still carry for you

Ghosts couldn’t get ill – at least, not in the traditional sense. They had no immune system to be affected, so they never had anything to worry about in terms of typical human diseases. It was possible, however, for a ghost’s physical form to be altered by supernatural intervention: curses, enchantments, hexes, and the like; and the side effects of these could resemble what a ghost would recognise as sickness or injury.

Running a detective agency for troubled ghosts meant Charles and Edwin had dealt with their fair share of paranormal maladies. Luckily for them, Edwin’s extensive collection of medical tomes and the many spells he had learned over the years were usually just the thing they required to help the soul in need. It was usually a client; it was very rare that the soul in need was either of the two of them – and it never happened on any of their ‘typical’ cases.

Their current case was not a typical one.

They had thought they were done with witches after the pandemonium with Esther Finch back in Port Townsend, but they could not have been more wrong. They were currently fighting another one, who was ironically also trying to trap ghosts – not to hook them up to her spectral energy super-battery, but to use them as test subjects for the potions and spells she invented. They were ‘free guinea pigs’, she had claimed. ‘An abundant supply.’ Of course, the Dead Boy Detectives Agency couldn’t have that. When they had a young woman who had died sometime in the 1960s come by the office to tell them about her 18th century girlfriend who had been kidnapped, they immediately took the case.

So, several days of researching and keeping watch on the witch later, the four detectives had arrived at her house, prepared for anything. They had distracted her for long enough for Charles to sneak down into her cellar and rescue the ghosts trapped down there in iron cages, including their client’s partner. Now all they had to do was get rid of this witch once and for all, or at least come to an agreement. They didn’t enjoy having to take drastic measures against those who wronged their clients, but sometimes they were necessary.

The four of them were outside in the garden facing the witch, who didn’t look alarmed in the slightest. She wasn’t amused, though. She hadn’t got that manic grin on her face that Esther had when she was torturing souls. No, this witch clearly just wanted the four of them out of her way. And evidently she was more than willing to use force. As Crystal gripped her arm, slipping into her mind, Edwin prepared a spell. He was focusing intently, desperately trying to ensure it was ready for when Crystal let the witch go. Unfortunately for him, the witch also had psychic abilities, and was much more efficient at fighting back against Crystal than they had anticipated. She broke free of her grasp, Crystal falling backwards into Niko, and the witch turned to Edwin.

He was still crouched on the floor, swirling a blue liquid in a vial and muttering something in Latin, and hadn’t had the chance to move or attack before the witch made her move, muttering something in an ancient tongue and throwing her hand forwards in front of her.

Edwin shut his eyes tightly out of instinct, preparing for whatever this witch had cooked up for him in her mind.

“Edwin!” he heard Charles scream.

He heard footsteps quickly approaching, presumably the witch drawing closer to increase the strength of her attack. A green light shot forwards, so bright Edwin could almost see it through his eyelids. A strangled gasp echoed around the walls of the garden as ghostly body collided with concrete patio.

Edwin’s eyes burst open at the gasp that was most pointedly not his own.

Directly in front of him, Charles lay on the ground unmoving, his cricket bat thrown aside. A green glow gently faded from his chest, where the spell had clearly hit him square-on.

“Charles!” Crystal shouted, moving to run to him, then retreating when the witch turned instead to her, her hand still pulsing with the magical light.

The witch simply laughed. Edwin fell to his knees beside Charles, who still hadn’t moved a muscle since he collapsed.

“Charles!” Edwin gasped, out of breath and panicked. “Charles, can you hear me?”

Edwin gently shook Charles’s shoulders, and his eyes slowly opened, looking up. Then, his eyes moved downward, and Edwin followed his line of sight until he reached his hand, where Charles was weakly giving a thumbs up.

Fundamentally, Charles was fine. He couldn’t feel any pain, aside from the dull ache of where the spell had hit him directly. It wasn’t that he couldn’t move, only that it suddenly felt as though he weighed several dozen times more than he did before. Even lifting his hand to signal to Edwin had made him feel as though he was trying to deadlift an elephant. It was strange, feeling this sensation of exhaustion, something he had not physically felt in so long. He’d felt it mentally, emotionally; there had been many times he’d gone to sleep – or, at least, the closest a ghost could get to a state of rest – but he’d never felt the tiredness so viscerally, never ached all over just to move.

“Can you talk?”

He tried. It didn’t work. Not only was it too much to open his mouth, but he came to realise he couldn’t even breathe. When he tried, it was even worse than lifting his hand, this time as though he had the weight of a building sitting on top of his chest. It wasn’t that he needed to breathe. He hadn’t actually absorbed oxygen into his lungs since that cold night in the attic, but it was their strange ghostly equivalent to breathing that allowed him to speak, and right now he couldn’t.

Charles’s head moved ever so slightly from side to side. That was just manageable.

“Not full paralysis, okay…” Edwin muttered under his breath, looking Charles up and down. “You’re going to be okay,” he said, this time looking him in the eyes.

Edwin didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t leave Charles in this state, but there was still a ghost-napping witch to deal with. But if he didn’t know the specifics of the spell Charles was hit with, he couldn’t know what the full effects would be. He could be off trying to deal with the witch while Charles ‘s spectral form faded away for all he knew, unnoticed in the silence. He began to panic. He needed books, but all the volumes he could think of that would help were back at the office. He looked up to Crystal and Niko, who were still facing the witch.

All of a sudden she dashed off, through a gap in the hedges at the edge of the garden.

“Get him back to the office,” Crystal told Edwin. “We’ll deal with her.”

“Are you sure?”

“We’ve got this, you go and help him!"

Edwin hurled the vial he had finished concocting to Niko, who caught it in one hand.

“Throw that at her. Make sure it smashes, and make sure you do it on the property. It should trap her here for now, we’ll figure out what to do with her another time.”

The girls nodded, turning and following the path the witch took out of the garden and out of sight. Edwin turned back to Charles.

“I’m going to lift you up now,” he said.

Charles didn’t do anything to argue – not that he physically could – so Edwin got his footing before sliding one arm under Charles’s shoulders and the other under his knees, lifting him up.

Something in Charles’s mind had expected that Edwin wouldn’t be able to lift him. He was far too heavy, too weighed down; Edwin was strong, but he wasn’t that strong. He had been wrong, of course. The spell hadn’t actually turned Charles to lead; it only felt like it had. His limbs fell straight downwards as Edwin carried him through the witch’s house to the huge mirror on the wall in the entranceway.

He stepped through it, and they were in their office within a second. Edwin hurriedly but gently lowered Charles down onto the small sofa.

Charles really didn’t like that he couldn’t breathe. He knew he didn’t need to, knew he hadn’t really breathed in years, but that didn’t stop the habit. He was panicking, and that only made him feel the need more. Soon, he was gasping, desperately trying to inhale but being unable to as his chest wouldn’t rise an inch.

Edwin had been carefully arranging his limbs on the sofa, desperate to make him as comfortable as possible. That helped calm him down, but it didn’t stop the attempts. He had to breathe. He needed to breathe. Not being able to reminded him of being under that lake, hiding beneath the surface for as long as he physically could to shield himself from the oncoming attacks from the boys he had once considered his closest friends. He so desperately wanted to reach out, to grab onto Edwin’s arm, but the most he could do was wriggle his fingers around.

Clearly noticing his distress, Edwin grabbed his hand and squeezed.

“Charles, you don’t need to breathe my dear. You’re okay. Just try and relax, I know it’s uncomfortable.”

Edwin’s voice grounded Charles, and he closed his eyes, focusing on the sound and the feeling of Edwin’s hand in his. He wished he could squeeze back, thank him for being there as always.

“Are you alright?” he asked once Charles was no longer trying to gasp for air.

Charles barely managed a nod. Edwin placed a gentle kiss on the top of his head before standing up, letting go of Charles’s hand and pacing over to his shelves. He thought for a moment before reaching out and grabbing a book, an old one with yellowing pages and a dark purple cover. He flicked through, his eyes darting back and forth across the pages until he found what he was looking for.

“I think it was a paralysis hex gone somewhat wrong,” he explained, moving back over to Charles and sitting on the sofa beside him, the book open on his lap. “It’s a specific type of witchcraft, a spell which the caster has to specifically cater it to the intended victim. Since she forged the spell for me, it’s having a milder effect on you.”

This is mild? Charles thought. He would have groaned in annoyance if he physically could.

“It should wear off on its own, but I’m afraid it’s going to be several hours.”

Charles closed his eyes once more, rolling them as he did so. Edwin turned to place the book on the arm of the sofa, giving him another free hand to comfort Charles with. He placed it gently on his chest.

“Can I do anything to help?” he asked.

Charles’s hand twitched next to Edwin’s thigh, moving ever so slowly towards him. Edwin looked at Charles’s eyes, and could tell by the soft pleading look he found there what he was reaching for. Edwin took his gloves off, reaching out to take Charles’s hand back into his own. He knew he would need the direct contact, the softness of skin-on-skin, the only true feeling he could have in his afterlife. Edwin gently stroked circles on the back of his hand in the repeating pattern he knew always calmed him down.

Edwin hated seeing Charles like this. He was always so energetic, constantly moving around wherever he was, barely ever stopping to relax. It felt wrong seeing him stuck so still, unable to move and unable to talk. It should have been me on the other end of that spell, Edwin thought. Charles’s endearing yet frustrating need to protect him had ended in suffering for him once again.

He was shaken out of his thoughts when he felt Charles squeeze his hand, just weakly. He turned to look at him at once, worried.

“What’s wrong?”

Charles managed to shake his head. Nothing was wrong, he was just trying to tell Edwin something. Holding his hand was perfect, just what he needed to ground him and ensure him he was still there, this ailment was temporary. But there was one other thing that would help even more; one thing that had helped Charles calm down and relax so many times since they had met, even if it had taken quite a few years for him to ask for it. He moved his eyes back and forth, hoping Edwin would notice, looking at him and then at the desk behind him, over and over until Edwin got the message.

Edwin turned his head to the desk. The only things on it were a stack of books, the ones Edwin was currently part-way through reading.

“The books?”

Charles nodded. Moving his head and face was becoming more bearable by now, so he managed to open his mouth just slightly - even though he still couldn’t talk, he managed to mouth something, and Edwing could easily make out what he was saying.

“Read to me,” he said soundlessly.

“Of course,” Edwin smiled.

It was strange, how much Edwin reading to him comforted Charles. It wasn’t even the book itself, not usually. What really meant so much to him was simply hearing Edwin’s voice, so gentle and only for him. He’d always thought he shouldn’t like it. It should remind him of the night he died, the night his life slipped away from him as this strange ghost boy read his favourite detective comic aloud. And it did remind him of that night, but that night wasn’t a bad memory for Charles, not really. The hours before the attic, the months of abuse from his father that led up to it…they were the bad memories, the ones Charles wishes he could forget. But the trauma of his death itself had been diminished by the presence of that kind boy, the boy who had become Charles’s everything. So yes, Edwin reading to him did remind him of his death, but it reminded him of the kindness of a stranger, of just why he had chosen this boy over heaven itself in the first place, of why he loved him. Edwin’s voice made him feel at home, more than the house he grew up in ever did.

Edwin stood up to pick up the book from the desk, but as he turned around he found Charles seemingly trying to shuffle around on the sofa.

“Charles, what are you doing?” he asked worriedly. “You’ll exhaust yourself.”

Charles’s eyes flicked to the space on the sofa beside him, his deep brown eyes looking into Edwin’s, asking a question.

“Ah,” Edwin realised. “Let me help.”

He placed the book on the floor in front of the sofa, kneeling down.

“Are you alright with me moving you?”

Charles nodded. Edwin repeated the movements he’d done at the witch’s house before: one arm under Charles’s knees; the other under his shoulders, and he lifted him just enough to move him further towards the back of the sofa, leaving space for Edwin to climb next to him.

That was just what Edwin did, sitting beside him and manoeuvring them so that Charles’s head rested on his chest, the way he would have been if he could have moved himself. His movement did seem to be improving gradually, and he shifted his own legs to tangle with Edwin’s. Edwin supposed it was because his legs were furthest from his chest, so didn’t suffer the effects of the hex as drastically.

Edwin intertwined his fingers with Charles’s, picking up the book with the other hand. He pressed another gentle kiss to the top of his head before beginning to read.

In addition to not suffering from normal illnesses, another thing ghosts didn’t do was sleep. Similar to the supernatural intervention however, they had their own complicated equivalent to restore their energy when required.

Neither of the two of them required it, though. And ghosts didn’t get sore throats from reading aloud for too long either, so Edwin read Charles the entire book. By the time they finished, the sun had already half-risen, a pinkish orange glow illuminating the office.

“How are you doing?” Edwin asked, after the first few minutes of silence in several hours.

“Brills,” Charles replied, his voice back, and as confident as always.

He snuggled impossibly closer to Edwin, burying his face in his chest.

“Wait,” Edwin said, pausing the gentle strokes of his hand up and down Charles’s arm. “When did the hex wear off?”

“About an hour ago,” Charles admitted, his voice slightly muffled against Edwin.

“Why did you not say something?” Edwin chuckled. “Or start breathing again?”

“Didn’t wanna interrupt you. I like your voice.”

Charles lifted his head slightly, rolling further onto his front to look up at Edwin, smiling.

Edwin laughed softly, smiling back.

“Thank you,” Charles said. “For doing that.”

“Of course, Charles,” Edwin held him somehow even closer. “You know I am always here for whatever you need.”

“I’m always here for you too,” Charles assured.

“Yes, well…it was very reckless of you to jump in front of that hex for me.”

“What was I supposed to do? You said it yourself, it had a weakened effect on me. It would’ve been worse on you.”

“Well, yes I suppose, but my point still stands.”

“Sorry love but there’s nothing you can do to stop me. I’ll always jump in front of witches’ curses for you,” Charles kissed the tip of Edwin’s nose softly.

Edwin sighed. He knew there was no arguing with Charles, ever-protective as he was.

“Well, did you enjoy the book?” he asked, changing the subject before he thought too much about the extent of Charles’s devotion to him and started to feel like crying over how much he loved the charming impulsive boy he got to call his boyfriend.

“Oh. Uhh…” Charles trailed off.

“Did you pay attention to the plot at all?” Edwin laughed.

“Your voice is very relaxing.”

Charles didn’t know how else to answer. It was the truth – what was being read wasn’t important, only that it was Edwin reading it. Edwin shook his head slightly, the smile never leaving his face.

“I suppose I’ll just have to read it to you again, then,” Edwin faked disappointment.

“Oh no,” said Charles, dramatically leaning backwards to put his hand over his heart in faux shock before leaning in to kiss Edwin.

Just as their lips brushed, the front door to the office burst open. Both of them sat up on the sofa to see Crystal and Niko running in.

“Oh, thank god you’re okay,” Crystal sighed, rushing forward to hug him.

Charles hugged back with his free arm, the other still wrapped around Edwin’s waist, and Crystal squeezed next to them on the sofa. Niko knelt on the floor in front of them.

“’Course I am,” he said proudly. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, and I had Edwin to look after me.”

Charles turned to face Edwin, his signature smile plastered across his face. Edwin could only grin back.

“The hex faded on its own, Charles,” he said. “I did nothing.”

“You read to me! That helped.”

“Aww,” Niko smiled.

“How did you two get on last night then?” Charles asked the girls.

“We were done in like an hour,” Niko explained.

“Yeah, that potion you made worked its magic and she couldn’t leave.”

“I’m glad.”

“We went back to Crystal’s after. We figured Charles would want some time to get better before we came barging in here.”

“Thanks Niko,” said Charles.

“We’re just glad you’re alright,” Crystal squeezed his arm.

“I’m aces, don’t worry.”

Charles leaned his head on Edwin’s shoulder, holding both him and Crystal close. The case wasn’t fully closed yet – they still had a witch trapped in her own house with all her equipment she could easily use to figure out a way to escape to deal with – but for now…yeah, for now they were aces.

[rosiesthehat]

nothing's gonna hurt you, baby.

Pairing: Rose the Hat X Reader

Word Count: 4k

Tags: smut, oral (r. recieving), blood kink, reader has magic!

Summary: A distant voice fills your mind, you go and find it.

Author’s Note: I read somewhere that book!Rose has a deep fascination with blood, I tried to add it a bit here! This is also on my AO3!

“You’re a special little thing, aren’t you?”

The voice comes from all around you. The teasing words swim through your brain, creating a mist between your ears that you can’t shake. It may be the whiskey that’s making your vision go blurry, but seeing as you haven’t even finished half of your share, you’re close to believing that you’ve become drunk on that voice.

“The special ones always taste the best.”

You lift your nose from the glass you’ve been nursing for far too long, now uninterested in the drink entirely but too shameful to return it to the bartender. Drinks come rarely, dangerously, now, yet are completely necessary to keep your mind, your power, at bay.

“Come and find me.”

She’s going to make you work for it.

You haven’t done the workin quite some time. You’re lucky enough to not remember the last time it happened. You’re not entirely sure how it happens. All you can hope is that your longing to put a face to this mystery voice will jumpstart your brain into action.

You shut your eyes, focusing on the smooth jazz humming from the quartet in the far corner of the speakeasy. Their faces begin to fill in behind their instruments, blue eyes and suit jackets blurry, yet still enough to form a picture in your mind’s eye. Then come the bodies of slow dancers, a few women clad in fringe dresses clinging to mustachioed men who cling to their drinks.

Your spectral being guides out the room, through the secret bookshelf entrance and back into the hobby of the hotel where the speakeasy hides. You glance around, bodies forming from lumps of fuzz as you move through the room, trying to focus on any discerning features, any mischievous smirks or knowing glances. You pay no attention to the men, of course, but you do take the time to note a few of them with particularly expensive watches that you stow in your mind for later. None of the women sitting in the hotel lobby seem at all evil enough to match the sultry voice still lingering between your ears, so you move on, weaving through hallways and, eventually, up the master staircase.

There’s no chance that you’re going to spend hours searching through every last room that the hotel has. You were desperate to meet this mystery woman, but not that desperate. She’d leave her room soon enough. You’re ready to give up her search, let her come to you if she wants, but—

“You’re getting closer…” The voice teases again, her voice mockingly low, a hint of a moan behind her tongue. You focus harder, trying to pick up on anything that might lead you in her direction. Then, you grab it. Cars honking in the distance, voices of people, But the voices are too muffled, she isn’t on the street.

Your eyebrows furrow, you grip the glass between your hands so hard you fear it may shatter. It’s been too long since you’ve let your astral body subtract from your own like this, and the minute amount of alcohol flowing through you is rendering you a bit wobbly.

The voice disappears.

You think, for far too long, so much so that you fear you look utterly ridiculous, sitting at a bar with your eyes shut, gripping your glass like a mad woman.

Then, it hits you.

The roof.

Your ghost snaps back into action, ascending the many floors of the hotel in a heartbeat’s time. To use a heart’s beating as a measurement of time is fruitless, as your own is beating so quick that it’s impossible to count them. You feel the flutter in your chest as you fly through the door, and there the owner of the voice sits.

She flicks her head around, surely feeling your presence, and you only see the shockingly beautiful face before your soul returns to your restless body. You rise from your chair in a start, racing out of the bar and into the hotel with the speed of a rabbit. Your desperation to find this woman has been satisfied, but now you’re overcome by an insatiable need to truly stand in her presence. You don’t think your eyes have ever graced a woman so alluring, with such wild hair and the piercing eyes of an owl, which, if you recall, had the littlest shimmer of a glow to them.

By the time you’ve made it up the stairs, knees weak and chest heaving, you feel a sudden block standing in your way. You take a moment to let your breath catch up to the rest of you, fiddling anxiously with your skirt as you consider all of the ways that the woman behind this door could be dangerous. She was certainly just as powerful as, if not more than, you, if she was able to get inside your mind, the mind so built up with fortitude and yet so deeply dilapidated by your own drinking habits, that you were barely able to gain control of yourself.

You didn’t even know there was anyone else like you in this world. You always knew there was something special about you, since the time when you were quite young and found yourself able to spy on the entire neighborhood from the comfort of your little pink canopy bed. The skill raised a mischievous little girl, and an entirely heartbroken young woman.

Your delicate brain was now wracked with prescient visions of your own death, but that subconscious need to wrap your arms around this mystery woman, to know all of her stories and to count the trinkets in her hair, took control of your hands and opened the door onto the roof of the building.

“Well, hi there.”  She grins, her eyes hungry, but the rest of her face as sweet and caring as a mother’s.

You shakily take a few steps forward out of the shadows and into the moon’s cool glow, the small porch light on the roof flickering a few times before diminishing. You can’t help but wonder if it’s something that she’s done, if she’s read your mind and felt your discomfort in the flashing, put it out for you.

“Don’t worry. Nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby.” She coos, outstretching a hand. She’s definitely sensed your discomfort in her presence, but anyone with a trained eye would mark your fidgeting hands and shaky breath floating in the cool night air.

You swallow hard before taking a shy step closer, then another, until you’re sitting by her side before you can think to even do such a thing. She sits on the ledge of the roof, legs dangling over, threatening to spill out onto the alleyway that’s at least fifteen stories down. You force your eyes not to look down as you take a similar seat, but keep your legs on the concrete of the building’s roof.

“Don’t be frightened.” She hums, her lithe fingers raising to twirl in your hair. Her breath is warm against your cheek, marred by the smell of starvation and cheap wine, but it’s far from a scent you’d turn away from. You find yourself leaning ever closer to the woman, entranced by the woman’s soft voice and divinely pointed nose. You’re so very close to her, yet the words that you’re begging to say, the questions you yearn for answers to, refuse to leave your throat. It feels as though she’s wrapped a sly finger around your vocal cords, allowing only a few needy whimpers to pass your lips.

“My name is Rose.” She purrs, her fingers gliding against your jaw, tilting your head each way so that she may see the fullness of your cheeks under the rising moon. You try to do the same to her, to take in each feature of her face, but you’re so entranced by her glowing eyes, that you can’t seem to pull yourself out of them. “And you, little one… You sure are something.”

You can only blink back at her, body feeling weak below your heavy shoulders. You try to conjure up words of your own, try to introduce yourself, but you can’t. And you’re sure she’s already been through each ridge and valley of your mind, so introductions won’t be necessary.

Rose practically has full control of you now, and before you can fight back, she has you pinned to the ledge, back flat against cold stone, her muscled arm positioned by your head so that you can’t fight against her. You can only wiggle, but the hand that lays flat against your stomach keeps you still, allowing no more movement from your body. You feel tears prick your eyes, try to fight them down. You’re not so much scared of the woman above you as you are terrified of your possible fall from this roof, but your previous prescience hadn’t outlined such a death, so your tears subside.

“Don’t cry, sweet thing…” She purrs, lifting a hand to the flat-brimmed hat taming her wonderful curls, producing a thin needle from its body. “This won’t hurt a bit. Well, it will, but you won’t be alive long enough to feel the pain.” Her voice is impossibly calming, and it tricks your brain into trusting her, into falling victim to her body’s heat and her lulling tone, sending you into a meditative state, your body going limp below her.

“Get off…” You’re able to force out, though it’s just above a whisper, and she’s either not heard you or chooses to ignore you, because Rose’s hand is unshaken as she points the needle to your eye, daring to press it in further. But she’s taking her sweet time, feeding off of the fear in your eyes, enjoying the sight of your flushed cheeks and hooded lids, the way you’re completely subservient to her every move.

“I said, get off!” you yell, and the power of your voice is enough to fling the predator off of you, sending her straight back into the brick wall behind her. You scurry off of the ledge, finding safety on the floor of the roof, curling into yourself as you gaze upon what you’ve done. Nothing like this has every happened before. The astral projection, the visions of the future, those were all frequent experiences. You’d never so much as moved something an inch with your mind, so to throw a grown woman a couple meters into the air… it brought a new shake to your fingers.

She lay against the brick wall, blood dripping from her nose, eyes shut as though unconscious, but you could still hear her breathing, still feel a life force beating through her.

“I’m…” You stutter, standing to check her wounds. Though the woman was about to kill you, you felt a sympathy for her tug at your heart, so though you keep your distance, you still hope she wasn’t too badly hurt. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know I would… That anything like that would happen…” Your voice is breathy, stuttering over your words, and the fear returns when she stirs, sits up, stares at you.

But it’s not fear, and she can feel it. You’re not scared of Rose. Not in the typical meaning of the word. You feel an invisible string tying you to her, a deep-rooted need for her that dares you to step closer, and you do.

“I was right. You’re powerful, aren’t you…” There’s a smirk on her lips when you bend to kneel by her side, her hands returning to your face, forefinger swiping at the blood pooling on your cheek, from her long needle swiping your flesh. She grins at the glossy liquid, slides her own finger against her tongue, accepting your blood against her tastebuds, eliciting a sigh from the flavor she’d so dearly missed. “You’re not scared of me, are you, little bunny?” Her smile is downright starving, as she shifts to sit on her knees, towering over you once again.

You think for a moment, pensively chewing on your lower lip, but ultimately shake your head in response. She must be aware that despite your rushed blood flow and dilated pupils, it’s not in fear that your body reacts. It’s in intense attraction. An attraction that Rose feels, that she reciprocates, that she acts on. She wraps her arm around your neck, not squeezing, only stabilizing, holding you steady as she peppers a few rushed, sloppy kisses to your cheek, greedy for the taste of your blood, greedy to feel the warmth of your cheeks against her undead lips.

“Rose…” You groan, your hands finally tangling in the hair that you so desperately wanted to grip into since first laying eyes on the woman. “I have a room, downstairs…” Your voice is replaced by moans when the woman moves her attacking kisses from your cheeks to your jaw, her teeth grating against the sharp bone there, surely leaving redness in her wake.

“Take me there, special girl.” She grunts in return, allowing herself a few more kisses to your skin before standing, pulling you up on weak legs forcing you in the direction of the door. But you don’t make it far before you’ve thrown yourself onto her once again, placing a few hungry kisses of your own to her lips, tasting your own blood on her tongue, gripping her waist so hard that you nearly leave the ground. She laughs into you, picking you up so that you may reach her height more appropriately, pressing you hard against the exit door, laying you flat against the cold metal of the door.

You pull away, hands playing with the small metal trinkets braided into her hair, tugging her head back as well. “Not here.” You whisper, voice small but still carrying the resolve needed. You couldn’t risk being seen, even though it was nearing the middle of the night, and you were on one of the highest buildings in the city, that fear of being caught still nipped at you.

Rose relented, pressing a kiss to your forehead before placing you back on the ground, allowing you to lead her back to your hotel room. The walk is short, but you find it prolonged by the aching between your legs, by the way Rose walks a few paces behind you as to not raise suspicion. Though you’re sure you’ve raised enough suspicion just from your appearances, you with your hair a mess and your eye makeup running, Rose with the marks of red lipstick smudged around her mouth. But you don’t care, you like the feeling of being so scandalous.

It's a matter of milliseconds from your entrance in your hotel room to your body hitting the bed, Rose holding herself up over you, your hands gripping the patterned tie that dangles from her neck. You’d at first missed the look of her menswear, the dark of the roof turning her into a blob of darkness below the shoulders, but in the light, you appreciate her clothing choices. She looks impossibly dapper, wearing the suit better than any man you’d ever met. You use the tie to bring her down over you, to connect your lips once more, enjoying the feeling of Rose’s warm tongue collecting your blood once again. Her fascination with blood is a spectacle to you, such an strange thing that’s not unbecoming of her, that, if anything, matches her odd spirit, her magical eyes. You find it incredibly attractive.

Rose drags her kisses down your neck once again, moving so that you may remove the drop-waist dress, throw it into pile on the floor. She sits back, looms over you, loosens the tie and unbuttons a few of the top buttons of her shirt before throwing her jacket to the same fate as your dress. Though she’s pinned you down, her hips over yours, keeping you flat against the mattress, you still wiggle below her, hands reaching up to grab at her belt, undoing it as best you can with shaking hands.

Her smirk is ever resting on her face, tongue swiping over her lower cheek when you lift your hips to rock into her own, her hand once again lowering so that you cease your movement.

“How pretty.” She purrs lowly, her voice still as low and seductive as it had been in your mind. Her lithe fingers toy with the lace of your underwear, tugging at it gently, enjoying the hitch in your breath as she does so. She enjoys your excitement so much so, that she leaves your underwear on, and instead returns to your top half to tease your already red skin. Rose does allow the removal of your matching bra, however, undoing the clasp with ease before discarding it to an unknown location, her eyes only focused on the curve of your breasts. She chews on her lip, as though trying to hold herself back, to remind herself that you’re a delicate little thing, that she must be gentle. A very difficult thing for a beast such as herself to remember.

When you’ve groaned her name enough times, tugged at her pants hard enough, Rose finally lets herself at you, fervently wrapping her lips around your nipple, her mouth’s moisture dripping onto you, rough hands roaming your body, eventually finding your other breast to tease the nipple there. Her hips buck against your thigh, and you rise it so that she may straddle it fully, and you moan when the feeling of wet cloth presses against your bare skin. She rubs against you as if in heat, as if the taste of your blood has sent her into a daze.

Your hands rest atop her hat, the vintage velvet material impossibly soft against your fingers, yet those fingers yearn to feel her hair, so you lift the hat an inch or so to remove to from her head entirely.  Rose’s head snaps up, her eyes shining a bright, nearly blinding, white light, her brows furrowed.

“Don’t.” is all she says before returning to her work at your chest, and though you huff a little at the order, you accept it. She has so much more experience in this world than you, so even though you’re upset by the inability to muss her hair, you accept her demand.

Her kisses soon move down your stomach, her indulgent smile all too pleased when she finally reaches your thighs, and you toss your legs over her shoulders, allowing her to stake claim over your heat. Rose nudges her head against the soft skin of your thigh before sucking at your skin, leaving her signature red marks there. You’re growing impatient, and you know that the pool in your underwear has grown incredibly large.

Rose confirms your suspicions when she pushes the lace material to the side, a low laugh erupting from her before her tongue swipes a long line through your wetness, collecting all of your taste into her starving mouth, eyes glowing impossibly brighter from the taste. She lets out a series of curses, but you don’t hear them, for a moan of your own has encapsulated the room, you voice louder than it has ever been in your life.

“You taste of whiskey.” She purrs against your skin, her voice sending a vibration though you that sends your head flying back into the thin pillow beneath you.

Rose takes another moment to enjoy the sight of you from this angle, and as much as you enjoy her overindulgent personality, the beautifully awe-filled expression on her sweet face, you’re growing impatient, even more wet, with each moment that passes. You squeeze your legs around her neck, tugging her down so that she may finally do what you’re both begging for.

The older woman drops her head, her lips attaching to your clit, smooth, rhythmic movements to the bundle of nerves forcing your back off the bed, your hands returning to lay on her hat, desperate to tug on the hair there. She must hear your mind’s desperation, must have changed her mind in the high of your taste, for she removes the hat, careful to place it beside you on the bed, not daring to let it touch the ground. You want to thank her, but when you finally do sink your fingers into her incredible curls, one of Rose’s own skilled fingers slides into you, curling so that another series of moans flies from your lips.

“Rose—” Your voice is strained as you rock your hips against her mouth, fingers tugging on her hair, hard enough that you should be able to pull her off of you entirely, but she is so focused on her tongue’s movement that not even the hand of God could pull her off of you. You try to praise her, to tell her how good she’s making you feel, but all that comes out are a series of curses, and judging by the way she’s already read your mind so many times this evening, you don’t need spoken words to communicate with your lover. She knows exactly what you need before you even register your need for it, and slips a second finger into your cunt, dipping her fingers in and out of your warm body with quick motions.

You groan her name many more times, your hands flying out of her hair and over your face when the tightness forms in your stomach.

Rose, ever clairvoyant about your own emotions, picks up her pace.

“Come on my tongue, my darling.” She says without speaking, her voice filling your mind once again, creating that brain fog that had so drawn you to her in the first place.

You do as you’re told right away, your muscles tensing up before falling weak against the cheap hotel mattress. You still hide your face beneath your hands, fingers able to feel your heartbeat through the flushed skin of your cheeks. Rose is gentle, yet entirely selfish with her next movements, her tongue swiping up all of your wetness, making sure that she’s stolen all of your taste, licked you clean, before she moves to lay next to you on the bed. She forces your hands away from your face, caressing your cheek gently, lightly laughing at how red you are. Rose thoroughly enjoys the sight, as the warmth of your cheeks is a dear reminder of how much life you possess, a stark contrast from her own flesh, which, though it is still tan and freckled from time spent in the sun, is growing sad from the lack of nutrients, from her centuries spent walking the earth.

You crawl on top of her, pressing a kiss to her lips, reversing your role and pinning her down with your own hips this time.

“You are so special.” She whispers as you gently unbutton her shirt, your body fueled by a craving to see just how low her freckles trail. You gaze up to her when she speaks, fingers ceasing their movements when she lifts a hand to cradle your chin. “Such a special girl deserves to live long.” She purrs, drawing you back down for another longing kiss. When you rise from it, head tilting to the side in curiosity, she simply shakes her head, pulls you back down so that your head rests on her shoulder, where you lay calmly, ears searching for a heartbeat that never arrives. “I have a plan for you, sweet girl. You’ll need to rest.” Her voice is heavy when it enters your eyes, your eyelids drooping almost immediately. You don’t notice the way Rose places her hat back on her head, only fall into a deep slumber, only relying on the rise and fall of her chest.

[theinnerunderrain]

Warnings: yandere themes, dark content, brief dismemberment and decapitation, slightly! suggestive themes, this is a bit more disturbing than the usual drabbles.

+

Even after having its head cut off, a cockroach can still live for weeks.

In the realm of human experience, such possibilities remain elusive, don't they? Accounts exist of severed heads briefly retaining a semblance of awareness post-decapitation, but these moments are fleeting. Anne Boleyn, in her tragic fate, reportedly endeavored to utter words even after the final severance of her head.

In the solemn mantle of 'doctor,' he grapples with a profound shame, unable to fulfill the modest duty of cradling your weary head with steadfast care. In a fleeting moment, your severed head retains a semblance of near-perfection, its skin delicately unmarred and faintly plump—a ghostly echo of the vitality that once defined you. Yet, in the present, that very skin has turned sallow and yielding, a muted shade of grey with a disquieting ooze that begins to seep from the surface, a macabre testament to the irreversible transformation. Your eyes and nose, once animated, now undergo a withering contraction with each relentless passage of time.

The remnants of your being began a slow decay, a process accelerated by his unwarranted handling of your lifeless form. Perhaps an innate urge, sparked by the longing to cradle you, led him to explore a more intimate and unsettling communion with your departed vessel—an admission he shrouds in reluctance and shame. In the cadence of decay, the scent grew more pronounced, prompting the necessity to relocate your form from the bedside to the somber embrace of the basement. Yet, amid the unsettling fragrance, his commitment to tending to your well-being remains unwavering.

In his disappointment and a touch of trepidation, he grappled with the intricate nature of preserving such a complex essence. Fear crept in, a spectral whisper, as he dreaded the possibility of further diminishing you, afraid that your form might dissolve or be marred into an unrecognizable semblance.

But it's really too bad.

If only he could have prolonged your existence by a mere few weeks, perhaps then he might have unraveled the intricacies at a more measured pace, rather than frantically attempting to mend everything in haste. Alas, you are but human, and once the tether between your consciousness and corporeal form is severed, the finality is swift and absolute.

Perhaps, nestled in a frigid embrace, your form could languish within an ice-filled vessel, a bid to arrest the relentless march of time. Alternatively, delicate sutures might weave a tapestry, seeking to reunite the disparate fragments of your being. Could amalgamating borrowed limbs lend stability to your fragile existence? Or perhaps, in surrender to irretrievable loss, salvage could be found in repurposing the remnants of your skin and organs, reserving a tender preservation solely for the sanctuary of your heart and mind.

[yuri-is-online]

After reading a translation by Yuu Rei on twitter, I’ve been thinking about Book 7 and how this could potentially end. I know there’s been a lot of discussion of how this may need to be ended with a peaceful resolution since Malleus is so powerful and/or Idia’s plan is looking too much like Henrik’s very successful take down of Maleanor. Personally, I actually want to see Idia’s plan succeed to a degree and think it would be fun to defend why.

I’ll link it for reference here if you want to read the thread too: https://x.com/yuurei20/status/1672514883215331328?s=46

1. I personally would find it narratively fitting. History repeats itself when no one learns from it, and it was a previously mentioned lore tidbit that fae history is not well known among humans. And let’s be honest, anything that does exist on the human side for history would not be completely truthful on what happened with Maleanor if her fate is even mentioned. There has also been a lot of buildup with how overblots are dangerous to the health/wellbeing of the overblotter, and using Malleus to pay it off would both parallel Maleanor’s fate and nerf him for Book 8. A necessary action in order for the plot to not be immediately solved by Malleus’s ridiculous might.

2. I think it works with Malleus’s portrayal so far. He does have his good moments and traits, but I haven’t forgotten his tendencies to steamroll the opinions and perspectives of others. Take the Spectral Soirée for example, when Malleus decides to freeze time and kidnap a significant part of the student body simply because he sees himself in the lonely ghosts. No concern whatsoever for harm to his classmates or how it would look for an entire chunk of the student body to suddenly go missing. Or his dorm uniform vignette, where Malleus remains stubbornly insistent that it is the fault of the other housewardens or circumstance that he does not attend the meetings despite very reasonable measures to remind him having already been taken. Followed by a complete disregard for what’s polite/acceptable by summoning the other housewardens using magic reserved for objects because he doesn’t want to miss another meeting. The point I’m making here is that a massive rebellion like Idia gathering up his peers may be what it takes to get through to Malleus that what he is doing is not acceptable behavior just because he was afraid of Lilia leaving and didn’t want to be alone.

3. The last two books set a precedent for the shift from teaming up with solely the current and previous dorm to defeat an overblot to joining forces with students across various dorms. Combining that with the opportunity to build characters further by showing the NRC boys being capable of working together it would make sense for the big overblot battle to involve the other cast members like Idia’s plan intends to.

But I’m also kind of Malleus hater so take it all with a grain of salt. - 🦐

I am also kind of a Mallues hater and think his relationship with Yuu kind of gets overplayed by the fandom to an annoying extent at the cost of the character development and friendship of all other characters in the game by the English speaking fandom. In fic anyway, in game I appreciate him for what he is specifically for reasons like this, he's an interesting character.

I sort of disagree about Idia's plan looking too much like Henrik's take down of Maleanor. It might look like that on the surface to a fae who was there at the time but there is a big difference between Maleanor defending her territory and her child and the temper tantrum Malleus is throwing. To compare the two is disingenuous at best, which is why it is so narratively fitting that they might go down the same way.

I sort of get the sense that what happened is lost history because the fae eventually destroyed the human kingdom/ the kingdom destroyed itself. There is a reason Silver is an orphan and the fae keep to themselves. In a way Briar Valley seems sort of bad at history education? Which makes sense in a weird way, if you don't reproduce often and everyone lives for an age you sort of just expect to remember things and you don't always think to explain important stuff to kids. The point about needing to nerf Malleus for Book 8 is such a good fucking take I would be so surprised if the health complications angle didn't come up. I wonder if the consequences are worse for fae due to them being made of magic?

Malleus does seem to understand that his power is great and that it is meant to be used to bring people happiness... he just does not seem to see other people as. Well. People nor does he seem to understand the concept of dreams. In a way the ideals of someone like Azul are completely foreign to him because he's never had to work to be good at anything he's needed to do. Sure he might like learning to do mundane things like use a washer and dryer, but he doesn't need to do it and that's the only reason why he likes it. If he had to do it every day he would find that exhausting so yes, this plan does seem like the only way to get through to Malleus. He needs to realize he is treating people not like his subjects but his toys, just because Sebek is ok with that doesn't mean everyone else is.

Agree. I feel like the real threat in Twisted Wonderland, whatever it is, will need every student to work together in order to face it and not just a handful of students from one or two dorms. We still need to find out what's up with Grim and Crowley... and RSA if we're lucky!

[beautifulmars]

HiPOD: A Window into the Past

The layered sedimentary deposits inside the giant canyons of Mars have puzzled scientists for decades. These light toned deposits have fine, horizontal laminations that are unlike the rugged rim rock of the Valles Marineris.

Various ideas for the origin of the layered sediments have suggested lake deposits, wind blown dust and sand, or volcanic materials that erupted after the canyon was formed, and possibly filled with water.

One particular layered deposit, called Ceti Mensa, attracted attention because its deep red color in images collected by the Viking Orbiter mission during the 1970s. Located in west Candor Chasma in the north of the Valles Marineris, Ceti Mensa is an undulating plateau that rises 3 kilometers above the canyon floor and is bounded by steep scarps up to 1.5 kilometers in height. Deep red hues are on the west-facing scarp in particular. The red tint may be due to the presence of crystalline ferric oxide, suggesting that the material may have been exposed to heat or water, or both.

Spectral measurements by the Mars Express OMEGA and MRO CRISM instruments confirm the presence of hydrated sulfate salts, such as gypsum and kieserite . These minerals are important for two reasons. On Earth, they typically form in wet environments, suggesting that the deposits in Ceti Mensa may have formed under water. On Mars, these deposits could be valuable to future Martian colonists as fertilizer for growing crops.

In a view of the colorful west-facing scarp of Ceti Mensa, we see the interior layers of the deposit, giving us a window into the past history of the sediments as they accumulated over time. We also see layers that were previously too small to view, and a surface that is thoroughly fractured, eroded into knobs, and partially covered by young dark sand dunes. (Enhanced color cutout is less than 1 km across.

ID: ESP_051841_1750 date: 17 August 2017 altitude: 265 km

NASA/JPL-Caltech/UArizona

[mathanlin]

// being knocked out, panic attacks

Ghosthunting AU where fear makes ghosts stronger — and Tommy’s far too prone to panic.

Usually, it’s fine. He has SBI, all brave & incredibly competent. It’s hard to be afraid with their comforting presences. 

And then they leave him behind in a ghost-infested house.

It’s an accident. Or rather, Tommy’s praying it is. 

It’s chaos — smashing glass, hallucinations clouding Tommy’s vision despite his frantic salt circle. SBI had barely escaped the spectral frenzy.

And Tommy, the latest hire (not quite part of their *family*) was left behind.

“Phil,” he screams, back slamming against the wall, panic clawing up his throat.

Only the ghosts scream back. The salt circle starts to crumble, and Tommy sobs in fear, desperately trying to reinforce it.

But it won’t last for long.

And his terror’s just making it worse.

“Wil? Techno?” 

Nothing but the sound of shattering glass, shards slicing into Tommy’s skin. He screams again, almost whiting out from fear.

And a quiet part of him mutters, *Coward. This is why they left you behind.*

But they *didn’t.*

Because Techno returns to save him.

It’s like seeing a fucking angel.

But Techno’s still fighting for dear life, throwing salt-and-iron bombs & frantically fending off specters with a silver sword. 

And… screaming at Tommy.

“*Calm down.*”

Tommy sobs, arms over his head. 

Deep breaths? That’s what Phil had recommended. But Tommy can’t breathe. So… repeating mantras, like Wil? But he can’t even think, let alone speak—

Techno’s hands land on his shoulders.

“Tommy, you need to calm down *now.*”

*I’m trying,* Tommy tries to say. “I— I can’t—”

“*Now,*” Techno shouts, letting him go to slice his sword through a terrifying apparition. “Tommy, you’re making them stronger, *control yourself.*”

But he can’t. 

And they both know it.

Techno whips out his pistol, sending a silver bullet through the nearest ghost. 

It barely even stuns them, wild with power from Tommy’s terror. His fault. And now Techno will die because of it.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy sobs, as Techno turns back to him. “I’m trying, I—”

He cuts off.

There’s… realization in Techno’s expression.

Like he knows what he has to do. Like he can *save* them, like they’re going to live, they’re going to be okay—

The pistol slams across Tommy’s forehead, knocking him out cold.

(It’s a desperate measure.

And it works.

Techno tumbles out of the infested house with an unconscious Tommy in his arms, the ghosts withering without their source of fear.

But the action has consequences.

Only SBI’s comfort had held Tommy together. The promise they’d keep him safe.

And now he’s *constantly* terrified around them. Apologizing, wincing when they move towards him, only panicking further when they try to calm him, begging not to be hurt.

He’s useless.)

.

.

.

“You can’t be anywhere near us.”

It's Wilbur, scowling as he clambers into the van. Tommy flinches, research papers & newly filled salt bombs surrounding him. Attempts to be useful.

Apparently, not useful enough.

"You have to leave."

"What?"

Wilbur grabs a rifle from the wall, head jerking towards the haunted area. "They're getting powerful out there. They can feel your fear all the way from here."

That's all Wilbur has to say. *They're hard to fight. We could get hurt.*

And when he leaves, Tommy follows.

He knows himself.

He knows he can't stop being terrified. Not when SBI's in danger. When they look at him with barely veiled irritation. When he's still aching & dizzy from Techno's hit.

And he knows he's SBI's last priority. Their liability.

So he runs away.

(But none of them anticipated the consequences.

When SBI return to the van & find it empty, it's not anger they feel. Or relief, at losing their burden.

It's terror. For Tommy, homeless, jobless, and injured, running away half-dead from a concussion.

And it ruins them.

They can't hunt ghosts like this, wracked with worry.

But they can track down Tommy, dedicating every resource to bringing him back. Back *home.*

And praying that when they find the kid, he's not one of the ghosts they're used to hunting.)