#The One From Carcosa

[inkske]

Fan art of Cahors, as written here by @versegm.

[petit-etoile]

Congrats on the 200 Followers man! Here's my drabble for ya, go nuts on what you wanna write from this; “Kiss me and/or shut up.”

your  heart understood  mine

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount:  919 content warnings: ne.il new.bon said something about little astarions once & now i have Thoughts other tags: canon compliant, introspection, character study, idiots in love, established relationship, gender neutral tav, human!tav archiveofourown: here.

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils, be added to the taglist here

summary: 'When am I happiest?' / 'When I'm looking at you.'

‘So,’ Astarion says casually, staring at his nails. ‘What do you think the answers truly are?’

‘The answers to what?’ you ask.

‘Don’t play coy,’ he says. ‘The little…love test. I was rather pleased you didn’t expose me in front of a stranger, but now I’m curious.’

You remember Zethino now. You take a moment to glance at him, though your hands are still busy sewing away at a tear in your armor. Astarion is watching you while wearing a guarded half-smile, neither interested in his nails nor in your messy stitches. Your cheeks heat up and you look back down at your uneven handiwork. Your throat tightens a little.

When you had asked him if he had wanted to participate with you, you thought Astarion would reject it. It seemed silly, so out of element for the both of you that the thought of him genuinely agreeing never crossed your mind. Yet now he questions you about it, questions you about your answers, and you feel more nervous now than you had when Zethino called you stira. Astarion takes your armor from you and begins patching it himself, fed up with your clumsy stitches.

‘The heart is fraught, so let us begin with the joyous,’ Astarion recites sarcastically. ‘When is he happiest, my love?’

‘I don’t think you’ve ever been happy,’ you say quietly.

He hums. ‘Well, that’s mostly the correct answer,’ he says. ‘But you’re missing something. I know you can guess it if you really put your mind to it.’

‘You’re happiest with me,’ you say bravely.

You look him deep in his eyes, holding your breath. He laughs and nods, chuckling to himself while he tries to salvage a piece of leather. You think he might be blushing, but it’s hard to tell with how pale he is.

‘Many things delight the heart,’ Astarion continues, mimicking her monotonous timbre. ‘Only one makes it sing! Tell me, my sweet, what does he desire more than anything.’

Revenge. You had told the dryad he wanted revenge, but didn’t go into detail, not in front of someone unfamiliar. You watch as he untangles the thread, his hair soft and elegant, his hands assured and practiced. There lives a colony of butterflies in your chest. Your heart is beating so loud you’re certain he can hear it.

‘A life with me,’ you say.

‘You,’ he agrees.

‘A gaggle of little Astarions trailing around,’ you add.

Astarion looks up sharply, his mouth hanging open slightly. You press your lips together immediately and try to think of an apology but there’s something beneath his careful façade. You were right. You realize it now. You press a hand to your chest as if to stop your heart from pounding. Astarion wants a family, and he wants you, and even beneath that desire for revenge and for strength, once he succeeds then all he wants is you. He looks back down at your clothes in his lap and laughs shyly. You think you might faint.

‘The last, um, question,’ you stutter. You realize your palms are sweaty and blush.

‘Fear sits in the soul of all,’ Astarion says finally, voice soft. ‘To tame it, we must name it. What is his deepest fear?’

This time, you feel as though the answer isn’t so easy. Beneath the fear of Cazador and the fear of the mindflayers, there is something else brewing. You’re afraid to even mention it, but he’s curious and genuine. You slide closer to him and pull part of your armor into your lap so that you share the burden. He presses his nose to your temple and you distract yourself by touching the part of your armor he’s managed to save from your haphazard repairing.

‘You’re afraid of never breaking the cycle,’ you say carefully. You bite your bottom lip. ‘You’re worried that after all this rage, there’s no relief.’

‘Shut up,’ Astarion says.

There is little to no heat in it. You shake your head.

‘You’re afraid the you before Cazador is no longer there,’ you say. ‘And you’re afraid that because I am human, that there’s a ghost of you that comes after me.’

‘Shut up,’ Astarion insists.

‘Kiss me,’ you whisper. You turn to meet his lips.

Astarion presses a sweet kiss to your lips. You cherish it no matter how fleeting the kiss is. The silence, the quiet sorrow. It’s almost worth it for how he gently presses kisses against your temple and into your hair. He will never confess that what you said is true, and you’re almost thankful.

‘My turn,’ you say, clearing your throat. ‘When am I happiest?’

‘When I’m looking at you,’ Astarion says without hesitation.

‘O  — Oh.’

‘You desire a lifetime with me,’ he says with a practiced blasé shrug. ‘And little Astarions of course.’

You flush. ‘Shut up.’

‘And,’ he adds, ‘you’re deathly afraid of spiders.’

He laughs and kisses you again, and you wish you could bottle up the sound in a music box to play it back when you’re feeling lonely. You know what Zethino meant now when she said your bond beat with pleasure. You blossom beneath his careful musings.

‘See? We’re close as can be,’ Astarion murmurs. He rests his chin on your shoulder and brushes his thumb against your thigh. ‘But darling, if we’re going to have a lifetime together, we really must work on your stitching.’

‘Only if you’ll teach me,’ you say.

‘Oh, I’ll be the best teacher you’ve ever had,’ Astarion agrees.

[my-craft]

The King of Carcosa.

Line only version! I think his halo got a little drowned out, you can see it much better in this version

[cobwebbedcat]

When I Have Nothing But My Aching Soul

MINORS DNI

Warnings: amab male soft dom top reader, 2012 bottom Rustin Cohle, post-carcosa (minor spoilers), pre-established relationship, feminization, daddy kink, barebacking, breeding kink <- deeply under-negotiated, smoking, PWP ,~3k words

The first time he talks to you about it, Rust is tipsy. He’s running his finger around the rim of a shot glass, illuminated by the low light behind the bar, and you’re leaning over the counter to hear his muffled confessions. He'd loosened up, but delicately whispered then, handling each word as carefully as he held onto the glass he’d been fidgeting with.  

You talk about it again when he’s sober, though he’d nursed a single beer through the conversation. He’d paused to take long swigs, letting himself sit with what he wanted. His gaze had never met your eyes, but his hands and head were steady.

He’s fully sober now, even if he’d smoked through a handful of cigarettes to relax his nerves. 

Rust looks good like this. 

“Well?” he hums, standing in front of you, hip cocked to the side, all aloof like he isn’t awaiting your approval.  

“You look good,” you tell him honestly, leaning and taking his rough, worked hand in yours, pulling him into your lap, “real good, baby.” 

Rust stares you down, acting like the pet name you called him isn’t something he loves. You know he can feel your steadily growing erection as he settles himself onto your lap.

He slowly wraps his arms around your shoulders, letting you take him in. Your gaze drags from his face, slightly flushed but otherwise composed, down to legs. He’s wearing a jean skirt and flannel with his hair tied up as per usual. When he’d talked in the bar, the first time, all loose lips and defenses down, he’d told you about wanting to wear a dress. You suppose he’ll work himself up to that.  

Once you know he won’t run, you unlock your hand from his and let your hands slide under the hem of the skirt, where it falls near his knees.  

“Outfit’s a bit plain, ain’t it?” 

“No it isn’t,” you counter before leaning in to kiss his neck sweetly, sliding your hand further up his thigh. Rust twitches in your lap, “it’s pretty, and you love it,” you murmur against his skin. 

He doesn’t deny it; melts against your body, humming softly as you bring a hand to cup his half hard cock.  

“Shit,” he hisses, low and sweet. You move your hands away from him, holding him steady with one hand and cupping his face with the other as you kiss him sweetly. His mustache rubs against your skin, tickling you, and you can taste the sweet tea he sipped on earlier, an attempt to hide the flavor of his smokes under sweetness. 

“Touch me,” he growls against your lips, grinding into your cock. You’ve fucked him enough that he knows to add a soft, “please,” if he really wants anything. And he does, for you imagine he’s been wanting this for a long time.  

Looking down you can see the way his erection tents the skirt and you moan. “Yeah, you’re looking real good, baby,” you praise softly.   

Rust watches with bated breath as you bunch his skirt up around his waist, and laugh softly at the sight of the briefs he normally wears underneath.  

“You didn’t get any panties to match your pretty outfit?” you tease gently, fingering at the soft, simple fabric. Rust looks elsewhere, swallows heavy, 

“Nah. Looked at ‘em at the store,” he swallows again, “was gonna get some. Didn’t know if you would’a liked me wearin’ them.”  

“I’d like seeing you in anything,” you hum, “get yourself some next time, if you want. You could get yourself a pretty little bra too, if you want it,” you lick your lips imagining him in a little matching set. Rust must think it’s funny, you fantasizing about him in such a state, as he laughs a little. 

“Perv,” he huffs, trying to sound like he’s had enough of you, but it’s all laced with affection. Rust pushes your head towards his chest, cutting off any rebuttal you’d had on your lips.

Your hands leave his waist, moving up to unbutton his shirt. His breath is steady and sure as you go down the buttons, one by one. Once his body’s revealed to you, you kiss between his pecs, fingers lightly tracing the scar on his stomach, the freshest one, that’s only just started to fade. 

It’s then that his breath hitches, a hiccup in the scene, a ripple in the fantasy that he wants tonight. You move your hand quickly down to his hips once again, like it was never there to begin with, and take his nipple into your mouth.  

“Shit,” he cusses again, clutching onto the back of your shirt.  

“Like having your tits sucked on, pretty girl?” you ask softly, ending your sentence with a lick to his spit slicked, hardened nipple.  

“Yeah,” he responds bluntly, his voice all soft and thick with lust. You reward his honesty by sucking him into your mouth, grazing his nipple with your teeth. Rust groans softly, drawing mindless shapes on your back with shaky fingers as you warm him up.  

“Fuck, man, more,” he finally groans through gritted teeth once you’ve thoroughly given attention to each pec, littering his chest with kisses between sucking and nibbling on his skin. 

“That’s not what you said you wanted to call me tonight, pretty girl,” you hum, looking up at him. Rust inhales heavily, shuddering as he lets go of his breath. 

“Please,” and there’s a long pause, where you rub circles into his hips and give him time to work out what he wants, “daddy.” 

And fuck, it sounds so good, twinged with his southern drawl; a little shaky now but you’ll get him crying it later tonight. “There we go,” you praise easily, leaning up to kiss him softly. Rust whines at the feeling of your lips against his, then again when you slip your hand into his underwear and take hold of his cock.  

“How do you want me, darling?” you ask gently, giving long, slow strokes to his cock. Rust whines, low in the back of his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows spit in his mouth.  

“Fuck, want you on the bed,” you let out an approving hum and Rust twitches in your hand, “I wantcha over me, wanna be on my hands and knees.” You give his dick a quick squeeze, running your thumb over the tip, wiping away the pre leaking there.  

“We can do that Rust,” you pull his underwear back up, over his leaking cock, and squeeze his ass, “think you can walk pretty girl?” 

“Fuckin’ course I can,” he huffs. 

“Then get up and go. I’ll follow you,” you promise, unperturbed by the bite in his words.  

On shaky legs he eases himself from your lap, and slowly he walks away from you towards the bedroom. You watch him go, entranced by the way his skirt swishes from side to side as his hips sway, squeezing yourself in your pants at the sight of it. 

Rust stops as he reaches the doorway, for just a moment. He doesn’t look back at you though; he knows you’ll be quick to follow.  

You stand as soon as he’s out of sight, snatching a—now near empty—pack of camels, and following him to the bedroom.  

You find him laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, clutching the fabric of his skirt in balled up fists.  

“Having second thoughts, Rust?” you ask softly, joining him on the bed. He snaps out of his haze, looking at you with the softest eyes.  

“No, just thinkin’” he reaches out, linking his arms around your neck and pulling you into a kiss. “Just thinkin’ ‘bout you inside me. If you’d hurry up, I wouldn’t have to think so much,” and that’s not the truth (at least not the whole truth), but you drop it for now.  

Kissing him again, you toss the pack of cigarettes to the bedside table, and hold his hips, making yourself comfortable between his legs.  

“Thought you wanted to be on your hands and knees?” you mumble against his lips. Rust grunts then bites your bottom lip. Brat.  

“Alright, I get it,” you say as you pull away from him. You tug his skirt and underwear down, helping him out of them, then tossing them to the side. Leaning over, you grab lube from the bedside dresser.  

“Relax baby, let me get you ready,” you hum softly, coating your fingers. Rust watches you intently, his brows furrowing when you press a finger against his hole.  

“Christ. Fuckin’ cold,” he grunts, though it sounds more whiny than anything.  

“Aw,” you coo, kissing his cheek, “sorry.”  

Rust doesn’t complain any more as you rub slow circles against him, getting him good and relaxed before pressing your finger into him gently.  

He sighs softly, melting into the bed beneath him as you slowly work a finger into his entrance. 

“There we go pretty girl,” you fuck him nice and slow with just one finger, feeling him loosen and relax for you. 

Rust usually goes quiet during this part, his breathing getting heavy and slow. He told you once that he likes to focus on whatever his synesthesia brings forward while you stretch him open. He’d tried to describe what it was like for him when you made him feel good, and you’d told him he sounded awfully poetic, which he’d immediately denied.  

You don’t mind him going quiet, instead focusing on the task at hand, which makes it easier to ignore how painfully hard you are. You kiss his face and neck, murmuring sweet praises as you do.  

“Ready,” he finally gasps, his eyes shooting open. You’ve got three fingers lodged up inside of him, curling to press against his prostate. His cock is leaking against his stomach (and you’re glad you’d unbuttoned his flannel earlier, otherwise he’d have bitched about it staining). He’s definitely ready. 

“Still wanna be on your hands and knees?” you ask as you slowly pull your fingers from him. Rust nods, tugging off the shirt entirely and going to move as soon as he’s empty.  

You’re so fast getting out of your clothes it’s like they’re on fire. You’d nearly gotten dizzy with lust, thinking about how he’d feel twitching and clenching around you as you’d fingered him open.  

Then you’re nestled up behind him, your hands all over his body, taking note of where his skin is soft and where it goes hard with scar tissue.  

“Condom?” you ask, massaging Rust’s ass as you rut your length against his sticky hole.  

“No,” he replies, looking back at you with sharp blue eyes. You lean down and kiss his bare back before lubing your cock and lining up with his hole.  

“Don’t ask me if I’m ready, I’m fuckin’ ready daddy,” he mumbles, holding onto a pillow in front of him.  

Rust’s breath hitches as the blunt head of your cock presses against his hole. You slide in easy. 

“There we go,” you coo softly, pressing into him, “taking me so well.” Rust whines, low and deep as you push into him with little resistance.

“Fuck yeah,” he grunts when your hips meet his ass, balls deep inside of him.  

“That good?” you hum softly, beginning to slowly move your hips, “like having your pussy stuffed?” Rust groans, babbles something incoherent, twitches violently around you.  

“Faster,” he gasps, working himself back against you, “please.”  

You make him wait a moment, getting him really adjusted and comfortable with your length, before snapping your hips into him. Rust chokes, letting out a pleased moan when you start to fuck him into the mattress.  

Carefully, you tug out his hair tie, tossing it elsewhere, then moving his hair to the side, over his shoulder, so you can bend over his body and kiss his shoulder. 

One hand stays steady on his waist, the other sneaks around his body to touch his weeping cock.  

“So wet, Rust,” you murmur against his ear, stroking him in time with your relentless pace “feel so good around me.” He twitches, both around your length and within your hold at that.  

“Daddy,” he keens, his eyes clenched as tight as his white knuckled grip on the pillow is.  

“Perfect, so pretty,” you groan, “fuck, gonna let me cum inside?” He nods, clenching like a vice around you.  

“I’ll cum in ya, make you fuh-full with it sweetheart,” you kiss his skin, rubbing your thumb along the slit of his cock. "Gonna look so good, hah, with it leaking out of your fucked pussy,"

“Please,” he gasps, so soft, but you hear him loud and clear.  

“Want that?" He nods, "Want me cummin’ in you, pretty girl, getting you pregnant?” as soon as the words leave your mouth, you regret saying them. You’re hot all over and your brain is thoroughly muddled with lust, foggy, not thinking about the immediate or long term consequences of what spills from your lips.

“No,” he gasps, eyes shooting open, blue and wild. If his hands weren’t holding onto the pillow they’d be trembling. He chokes, his eyes welling up with tears in a way you’ve seen many times before. You pull back a bit, an apology is going to come ripping out of you, but then Rust is gasping, “yes.”  

“Yeah,” he hiccups again, groans your name and brings a hand down to cling onto your arm, “yeah, wanna baby, fuckin’ please, wanna—” he’s gasping, blinking tears away. You kiss his skin gently,  

“It’s okay baby, it’s okay,” you change your pace, fucking him nice, slow, and deep.

"Fuckin' want it, please," he begs, pleads.

"Darling I'll give you anything."

Rust cranes his neck back then, and you capture his lips in yours. He’s close and you can feel it; he’s breathing heavy, moaning and whining into your mouth, digging his nails into your skin, and clenching around your cock. You’re not far off either, in fact you might’ve been close a couple times now, holding off for him to find his climax first.  

You move your hips, readjust your position, just a fraction, and hit his prostate hard.  

Your name falls from his lips like it’s punched out of him, the only warning you get before Rust is spilling into your hands.  

“Fuck,” he groans, pulling back to bathe in it, “god, daddy.” 

You follow soon after, feeling him milking your cock, working his hips back against your body, needy and fulfilled all at once. 

He lets out a noise akin to a sob as you fill him with cum. You let go of his slowly softening cock, and hold onto his hips tight, picking up the pace to fuck him through your orgasm.

“God Rust, did so good for me,” you groan once your hips slow to a stop, kissing his back affectionately as you ease yourself out of him. Rust doesn’t respond, which you’re used to.

He turns over with a satisfied sigh, leaning up against the headboard. You slide up next to him, and Rust lets you kiss him lovingly before you grab his smokes and a lighter. 

Passing Rust his ash tray, he sets it to his side before taking a cigarette loosely between his fingers. He has you light it for him, gazing at you as he sucks in that first breath of smoke.

He blows away from you, but leans against your body, knocking his head against your shoulder. You make yourself comfortable next to him, wrapping an arm around his body, tugging him close.  

He snuggles up next to you, a closeness you only came to know after months of this. There’s a peaceful quiet between you two, and it’s not until he’s halfway through his cigarette that you decide to break that. 

“You wanna tell me what you were really thinking about back there?” you ask softly, talking about when you’d first entered the room, because that’s easier to touch than the baby stuff. You massage circles into his skin, where you can touch, letting him take his time with answering you.  

Rust doesn’t respond for a long time. In fact, he’s smokes nearly the entire cigarette before licking his lips and clearing his throat. 

“I felt real—” he chokes, coughing to cover it, “felt real good. Felt pretty. I guess. Was just thinkin’ about that.”  

“You’re always pretty, you know that?” Rust lets out a disbelieving laugh at your words, snubbing out what little is left of his cigarette “I’m serious.” 

“Been told that father time wasn't so kind on me,” he grumbles. You kiss the top of his head, and hold him closer to your body.  

“I guess I’ll have to tell you that more often. That you’re pretty. Until you believe me.” 

“Sure,” and he might've wanted that to come out as dismissive, but Rust can't help the fondness that seeps into it. “Get me cleaned up first, then you can think about callin’ me pretty, daddy.” 

[cohlecosa]

longlegs, man. damn.

[capesch-arts]

The lullaby calls,

The daughter weeps,

The fragment sings,

And the dead sleeps.

Bonus doodles under cut 👇

Thought that for Lore accurate KiY AU, he'll have a more simple design, and the "tentacles" he has would be from the tatters of his cloak rather than make him squid-like to differentiate from Lovecraft's depictions of eldritch beings.

Also CLOTHES! Arthur would normally wear his default one, but occasionally he'll wake up and find himself wearing the middle outfit. (Because apparently the city has a dress code and the code is wearing blaring bright yellow everyday).

And the pallid mask he has is given by Hastur, because although he has some resistance to the madness of Carcosa, it'll still gradually make his mind slip away so the mask is to prevent that. And when he plays for the King, he has to wear it too because there's no resistance to the Madness God's own powers when you play right in front of him.

(added note as amusing and satisfying for Hastur when Arthur's mind is bonkers, he genuinely enjoys talking to sober Arthur so that's why the mask exists in the first place).

(also an added note. Arthur "died" seeing the King's maskless face in his dreams. And The King in that dream is the same size as that first doodle .... So yeah.. you can imagine why Arthur died in his sleep lol)

[yarnzipangirl]

I have a somewhat wild theory

I don't think John was the King in Yellow.

Not 'isn't now'. Never was. And I've had a few different permutations of this theory for the last few months, mostly because the one line from the Witch really stuck with me:

"Why did you leave your kingdom in the first place?"

If that's not a smoking gun, I don't know what is.

(spoilers up to 51 onward) ETA: edited to add some new thoughts!!

Then you have Scratch and Lillith, who recombined with all the difficulty of hucking a stone through a portal. Scratch who had been separate for years, had a name, had a favorite. And yet, bim bam boom, Lillith restored, easy peasy.

Meanwhile the KiY tries it in the real world and can't, then brings them to the Dreamlands to try again.

But why? For one, why is Carcosa (and the King) in the Dreamlands? That's not their traditional location. Usually, they're in the real world, in the Aldebaran sector of space. It CAN be anywhere but that's not home base.

And for another: why did the King think he'd succeed in the Dreamlands when he didn't succeed before, while John and Arthur weren't even aware of the threat?

Then I was rereading The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath and:

While other gods might have authority or access to the Dreamlands, Azathoth doesn't. Azathoth.

Azathoth, who is Nyarlathotep's father and boss. Who is Nyarlathotep's responsibility to keep asleep and keep happy. Who's dream IS reality. Who, if he wakes up, all of reality ceases to exist so Nyarlathotep has to keep him sleeping.

That thing whose being makes up the Stones. Those Stones that Kayne has had the boys find two of but doesn't seem inclined to let them actually touch.

Now, just a reminder: we've heard about three stones. And those three stones are the body, the spirit, and the soul. See where I'm going with this? What's missing? What do you actually need to dream?

A MIND. A consciousness.

ETA: I keep the text there because that is how I originally wrote it but more thinking has me thinking that no, John IS the soul of Azathoth. The one stone we haven't seen, that Kayne doesn't seem to care about finding. The 'fractured' soul, of course. Why Kayne said he had "too much soul" for the King in Yellow in EP 40. Why Noel had to go: because he saw what John projected out looked like and it wasn't what Yellow looked like. And I wonder if the reason John didn't have his memory to start but he kept it after the second jaunt to the Dark World is because his memories are in the Spirit, the Grey Stone. After all, how would you be able to know anything but by accessing the memory of Azathoth?

Why did the King flee the Dreamlands when that portal opened? He didn't. But Azathoth's soul consciousness, trapped in the Dreamlands where it could never return so Nyarlathotep could muck about doing whatever the fuck he wanted, ran for it. And the King, sensing he'd fucked up and not wanting to be on Nyarlathotep's bad side... tried to retrieve the prisoner he was supposed to keep track of.

And failed. So he dragged him back to the Dream lands, figuring he'd tame him again since he has no power there but it didn't work. "John" fought him. So he threw him back into the Dark World, assuming that would be safe. But John didn't forget and built a Kingdom there. And Kayne had a Problem.

What does Kayne do every time he talks to John? Belittles him. Makes him think he's nothing. Calls him names. Tears him down.

-The Fungi from Yuggoth: XXII. Azathoth

And the part that *really* gets me is Kayne's so caught on John and Arthur, that whole 'only has eyes for you' bit... Azathoth's other name?

The Blind Idiot God

You know. A God with his eyes missing. And what does Yorick call John?

Not the King in Yellow. Never the King in Yellow, nor Hastur despite calling out Lillith and Kayne's traditional names. He calls him My King. Arthur is master. John is his king. A being that sees through the eyes of others calls John his King. ETA: And the eyes are the window to the soul.

Kayne treats Yellow as 'his guy' but not John. The way you would if someone was doing you a favor for a while. And someone you might punish for fucking your favor up. Yellow, who has the traditional rotting and corruption of the King inside Larson that hasn't happened at all to Arthur.

Big G. Been bugging me since Season 1.

John has no access to Arthur's dreams. Arthur has to tell him about them. And the one time he slept (Horig), he didn't dream.

ETA: Not to mention that the thing they've been seeking for the whole time, the most common fandom trope, is John gets a body. What is the Blackstone, guys?

I can keep adding on. But I think you get where I'm going with this.

So TLDR:

I think John Doe is a John Doe, his identity still unknown... and despite intense effort from the King and Kayne, despite it being inconvenient to Kayne, *not* the King in Yellow. Never was.

And everything else. And *that* is why Alia needed him to hope. Because as long as they believe in hope, there is a chance.

Instead, he is entirely his own. The Consciousness Soul of Azathoth. His belief shapes him.

Whether Kayne likes it or not.

[tryanmybest]

I NEED MORE ARKAYNE THOUGHTS

ok

i think kayne has ruined one of the timelines by simply taking time to tear arthur apart. he is fascinated by him and i think he wants to know every part of him. i think he's torn his ribcage open with his bare hands and held his heart between his fingers. i think he's tasted his blood. i think it drives him mad seeing this arthur and knowing what he tastes like but knowing he can't indulge lest he mess up his one chance to get what he needs.

i think kayne wants arthur to kill him so bad. i think kayne wants to be torn to pieces and stabbed and bitten and he only wants it to be arthur to do it. i think kayne has destroyed and massacred carcosa a thousand times over but it's always a distraction to keep him from interfering with arthur's timeline just to lose himself in the pleasure of simply touching arthur. i think if arthur ever threatened kayne he would push himself onto the blade. or press his chest onto the barrel and pull the trigger himself. and he'd fucking love it. he'd get high on the pain and ask arthur to do it again and again. i think he'd take arthur's hand and push the knife deeper. i think he'd take his blood on his fingers and put them in arthur's mouth.

uh. yeah. anyway.

[inkdemonapologist]

FINALLY got these scribbles from last session of the Cthulhu game scanned in lmao, THINGS HAVE BEEN SO BUSY but cthulhu has been very exciting!!

While looking for some Alan Leroy guy to figure out why the Phantom is following(?) him(?), we asked around with (a) his book club friends and (b) the mob, as one does. Sammy managed to avoid seeing the yellow sign when he realised very quickly what Cool Obscure Book this book club pal might be describing (unlike Jack, a polite boy who does not RAPIDLY AVERT HIS EYES FROM HIS CONVERSATIONAL PARTNER), but did not manage to avoid being hustled off by the mob to talk to The Boss when Henry asked just a few too many questions. it went fine but Sammy was SO STRESSED, HES ALREADY BEEN KIDNAPPED BY GANGSTERS ONCE HE DOESNT WANT TO DO IT AGAIN

also hes still cute in this hat. you should wear hats more often sammy. ANYWAY if you're here for Out of Context quotes from this session, I GOT EM RIGHT HERE UNDER THE CUT:

[Sammy is played by me, Joey is played by Boo (inkyvendingmachine), Henry is played by Maf (inkcryptid), Jack is played by Mochi (whatyouwantedmetosee) and Thren (haunted-hijinxer) is our GM!]

[Sammy] He will mention to Henry, something about "Oh boy, dreams are starting up again" kind of thing. [Henry] Yyyyup. [Henry] Don't get possessed again. [Sammy] [Sammy] i dON'T THINK SAMMY KNOWS WHAT TO DO WITH THAT!! The last time he got possessed was BY PROPHET, whom he still shares a body with!! [Henry] Prophet doesn't count! Don't get possessed by anyone else. [Sammy] .... I'LL DO MY BEST, [Sammy] I just like the idea of Henry being like 'don't get possessed' and Sammy just LOOKS at him, like............ I'm already possessed, what are you talking about

[Sammy] Given how these things like to happen on auspicious days, I'm a little worried about New Years,

[Joey] That's exactly the spin he's going to put on it -- Some time off for New Years, and a bonus day off to recover from the celebrations! [Jack] Gotta account for those, now that drinking's back!

[Henry] Oh good, I was really worried Joey would call Norman and get a "who are you?" [Jack] Norman DOES do that, but just because he thinks it's funny. [GM] That's possible, yeah, [Sammy] Oh my gosh. I believe it, is the thing. [GM] I do too, honestly... this might just be a thing that happens.

[GM] And the studio seems normal, and nobody got kidnapped in the night, not even Norman, and Henry's family is safe -- things are doing so good! [Jack] Nobody that we're currently in contact with got kidnapped in the night! [GM] That's true. [Jack] I'm not ruling out Bertrum getting kidnapped. [Jack] ...unrelated to the Carcosa nonsense, he just got kidnapped. [GM] That's what he gets for hanging out with the mob. [Jack] Sorry, I mean, "The Great Bertrum Piedmont." Have to use his full and official title. [GM] That's how you get him un-kidnapped, he just breaks through a wall to correct you. [Jack] *laughing* The Kool-Aid Bert................ [GM] The Great Kool-Aid Piedmont, [Jack] Now that's fanart I don't want to see.

[GM] Welcome back! We've been talking about the Great Bertrum Piedmont Kool-Aid-ing through a wall to correct you about his name. [Sammy] *startled wheezing* Okay, well it sounds like I've missed some really important developments!

[Jack] I think Jack would lean in the direction of like, they wanted to get in touch with him at the charity thing-- aaagh, that's technically not true. He's not the fast talk boy, he's not allowed to, [Sammy] I mean, he CAN fast talk, Henry does it all the time! [Jack] But does he succeed-- [Sammy] Henry's not the Fast Talk Boy but he keeps LYING anyway!!!

[Sammy] I feel like Jack is good at looking worried, and, caring about his fellow man, [Jack] I don't think he has to TRY to look worried??? [Sammy] I don't think Sammy contains these qualities. Sammy looks like he's here to arrest you. [GM] She's actually giving Sammy a concerned look, [Sammy] Sammy is HERE FOR THE PROTECTION MONEY.

[Jack] Well, this was lovely! Time to leave, because Sammy's already... vibrating against the door trying to clip through it.

[Sammy] Sammy's IMMEDIATELY going to tell him about this clarinet with the missing E flat extension. [Sammy] ....and then ALSO mention that he thinks maybe he's seen this guy before.

[Joey] Joey slightly fixes Henry's hair before they head in. [Sammy] (That's a little bit gay, but alright,) [Jack] (I think it's more than a little bit) [Joey] LISTEN, listen, Joey recognises-- [Jack] Linda's out of town! [Joey] --Joey recognises the neighbourhood,

[GM] The door gets opened pretty quickly, but the guy inside actually looks a little like he's suddenly out of his depth, because whatever he was expecting to happen is not what is happening. [Sammy] That's a common reaction to Joey Drew.

[Joey] I feel like it's not going to be a fast talk roll, actually, to make this guy feel like this is NOT a dangerous ask? So I'm gonna go with persuade instead. [GM] Are you going with the tack that you were concerned parties from the event? [Joey] I think, concerned party, perhaps leaning towards the notion that they hit it off well at the party, and -- I'm just turning it into a fast talk, [Joey] *trying again* I think Joey is leaning more into an idea that they are freshly met, but have similar interests? Or... possibly leaning into he's ...a friend of a friend and we're looking into it for that friend? [Sammy] Joey trying NOT to lie is really funny. "Oh well obviously I'll just say -- oh, I guess that's not true; I'll just -- WELL, that's not technically true either," [Joey] ADMITTEDLY, if this does turn into a fast talk roll, using the same roll it's now a BETTER SUCCESS, so, [Sammy] Just really funny how hard it is for Joey to just, HONESTLY REASSURE someone without inventing a whole narrative [Joey] I'M GOOD AT COMING UP WITH STORIES!! I'm not good at... fact-checking them first...

[Joey] Please, if you hear from him, or get any more information, please reach out to us as soon as possible, because the sooner we can prevent this, the better off he'll be -- y'know, that whole thing! [Joey] Do the most heartfelt, emotional connection he can... it's a little gay, but... [Sammy] I fully believe in Joey's ability to extoll the virtues of this man he's never met.

[Sammy] We can just check with Norman, have him peek out the window and see if it looks weird, [Joey] "Hey Norman, is your house in the right location?" [Jack] "Dunno why you called me outside just to tell me that you moved my house!"

[GM] Norman answers the door, and gives you guys a quizzical look. [Henry, out of character] :D Hey, did your house move? [Sammy, in-character] >:/ Did your house move?

[Sammy] Sammy will point out things Jack noticed as being different, as if he also noticed them. [GM] He'll turn back to you, and just kind of observe in a blase sort of way that he's apparently moved. [Jack] I love Norman,,,, [Joey] I love Norman's 89% Sanity score that never gets hit, apparently! [Jack] His sense of humour is actually an indefinite insanity. [Sammy] A constant coping mechanism, [Jack] Can't go insane when you already are!!

[Jack] Jack is, not happy about this, [GM, as Norman] He wonders if you'd like to come in for a housewarming, then.

[Sammy] Sammy's going to just catch her up on, the guy we're looking for read the play, [Sammy] Also, might be a guy that Sammy saw in New Orleans, and that might be why he knew the music?? [Sammy] ALSO, WEIRD THING with his clarinet, he doesn't have the E flat extension that you'd EXPECT HIM TO HAVE? [GM] I think Susie knows enough that she would say that's weird if he's playing seriously. [Jack] I was about to ask if this meant anything to these two-- [Joey] Norman is regaining sanity by watching Sammy rattle on about all this. [GM] He's probably chiming in opinions, too, that are completely not based in any actual musical knowledge -- [Henry] Norman just like "He's missing the E extension? Next he's gonna lose the, the F Shortener!" [GM] "What's the world coming to!" [Sammy] Sammy's giving him the most unamused look, and this is all Norman wanted. [GM] Yeah, yeah, this is how he keeps his sanity high. [Sammy] Just annoy Sammy Lawrence. That's the secret.

[Jack] Good to make sure things aren't going weirder over here-- which, uhhh, [Sammy] Which they are!!

[Sammy] That's smart, but that's also really spooky. Like okay, cool! The whole world has re-written this! Cool cool cool cool cool. [GM] He doesn't seem PLEASED about it, but he seems about normal. [Henry] He seems Norman about it. [Jack] Yeah, Normal Polk. [Jack] *cracking up* He shows up at work the next day and he's called "Normal Ponk." That's his name now.

[Jack] Reality's rewriting itself, wanna kiss about it? [Henry] Ah, Jack's okay again.

[Jack] If this was Fowler, then WHO WAS PHONE????

[GM] Well, okay, first things first, does Joey have Peter's number memorised? [Joey] HM. [Joey] ...I feel like he wouldn't admit it, but yes.

[Joey] Joey says he's going to call Peter back in a minute. And hangs up. [GM] You cut him off in the middle of some sort of response-- [Joey] Cool.

[Joey] He managed to break into a safe once by doing this! [Henry] "Break into" is... a bit of a strong phrasing. [GM] *mumbling* "Get locked inside of,"

[Joey] The main thing is, Do Not Go Alone, because if something happens to Peter... we have no way of tracking down the information that he has! We, we lose, all of his evidence! [Jack] .....and that's the ONLY thing, [Joey] Yup! [Henry] We ALSO lose his, HIM, [Joey] *mumbling* No, no that doesn't matter as much, as evidence, [Joey] It's clearly just, the fact that they lose all the benefits of having a reporter with ghost powers on their side, and NOT Peter himself, that is the issue! [Jack] iTS NOT LIKE HE CARES ABOUT YOU OR ANYTHING!!!

[Jack] *spongebob meme* You like Peter Sunstram, don't you, Joey?

[Joey] Both Henry and Sammy are the best able to get themselves out of a tough, fight-y situation, [Sammy] We can both punch, and Henry has magical power if something supernatural happens... [Joey] Also! Also, neither Joey nor Jack are there to be taken hostage and used against them! [Sammy] ... I think you're actually right. I hate to admit it, but I think you're right. [Jack] I can't wait for Jack to be kidnapped at the magic shop, you guys!

[Henry] I can't believe we're sending the two least talky boys off together to talk to the mob, [Joey] LISTEN. Henry and Sammy can go to the restaurant! Henry likes food! There we go! [GM] I can't believe Joey's just making sure Henry gets a nice meal after his shake-up earlier... [Sammy] I dunno, maybe Peter should come with us, just in ghost form. Henry can see him, potentially, [Jack] So Pete's body can... Not be where he left it when he gets back to it! [Sammy] ....hm, [Joey] *startled laughter* [Sammy] ....okay, nevermind,... [Jack] Just leave him in the car, what could go wrong! That's not disappeared MULITPLE TIMES!

[GM] Johnny Nero is of average height and build, with dark, slicked back hair, and a neatly trimmed moustache -- so not like any of the other people that you know! [GM] Wears expensive tailored suits, though. [Jack & Joey] *snickering* So, not like, any of the people you know-- [GM] It narrows it down a bit!! [Sammy] Alright, alright; bargain bin Joey Drew, got it.

[GM] You guys do get an offer to have food, while you're waiting. [Sammy] Yeah.... why not..... [Henry] Henry will, not,,, [Joey] *shocked* NO????? [Joey] *absolutely flabbergasted* FOOD!!!!! [Sammy] Gangsters don't usually poison you, they usually give you nice food and then they knock you out and throw you in the river. [Henry] WELL HENRY DOESNT KNOW THAT! [GM] He hasn't done speakeasies like Sammy has!!

[Sammy] I'm noticing that this guy actually looks really nervous, and isn't taking charge of the situation, [GM] He DOES have something that's probably a firearm in his pocket. [Sammy] Yeah, yeah, but, [Jack] It's his emotional support firearm!

[Sammy] Actually... Sammy WILL ask him if he saw it. [GM] Uh, [Sammy] Because he was RIGHT THERE looking at him. And I feel like, once you've seen it, and it does the weird thing where it gets in your head, you're not going to be confused what somebody's talking about if they ask you if you saw the yellow sign. You're going to know what that means. [GM] [GM] Are you going to say the thing...? [Sammy] Have You Seen The Yellow Sign?

[Henry] Henry is half-considering... [Sammy] *manically excited* DO YOU WANT TO TAKE THE THORN OUT OF THIS LION'S PAW, HENRY???

[Henry] You haven't been able to think straight since, have you? [GM] He kind of squints at you, because he's a gangster and he doesn't want to be like "D: YEAH, ITS BEEN REALLY ROUGH :(" [Joey] *laughs* Henry IMMEDIATELY knows this look, because Joey does this as well!

[Sammy] Push the roll!! Push push push! [Henry] *nervous* I DON'T KNOW IF I WANT TO PUSH IT,,, [Sammy] WE'RE ALREADY KIDNAPPED! WHAT ELSE CAN GO WRONG!

[Henry] We didn't get kidnapped, so it's you guys' turn! [Joey] We have the kidnapping charm with us, also known as "Jack Fain"! [Sammy] Oh I thought it was Peter Sunstram. [Sammy] [Sammy] DO THEY STACK?

[Jack] I can't wait for us to get to these spooky occult magic shops, and it's just like, "here's a bunch of overpriced tumbled gemstones and some incense!" [GM] The first one you go to is kind of that style. [Jack] Ideal! I hope they have a really tacky fake skull. [Joey] Joey is judging the whole place.

[Joey] WAIT, wait, they took you from the bar to the restaurant, and then you got the heckin' sign out of Nero's head, and he's not even gonna offer you a ride back to the bar?!? [Henry] I think what we got out of it is "not being kidnapped". [GM] JOEY is the one with the history of talking kidnappers into giving him rides, [Sammy] I do think it would be classier if he gave us a ride. I'm with Boo on this, it would be a classy gangster move. [Sammy] With that guy they kidnapped to do music for whoever's birthday party, they dropped him back off later, but, you know, it's fine, [Joey] Show your heckin' appreciation! *exasperated* THIS IS HOW WE CAN TELL HE'S AVERAGE!! [GM] Uh, lemme roll a quick like............. etiquette roll, [Sammy] Gangster Classiness, [GM] *rolls terribly* Yeah, I think he's frazzled enough -- this is gonna reflect poorly on him later. [Joey] Wow.

[Jack] Normal success for Jack! How many terrible tacky skulls do I see? [GM] Just SO many. [Sammy] This place won't help you, buddy. [Jack] I dunno, if you buy enough tacky skulls, maybe the guy won't wanna get near you. [Henry] Just throw tacky skulls at him! [Jack] A tacky skull a day keeps the pallid mask away!!

[GM] A more discerning occult collection than the other one. [Jack] The kind of place that has the more occult things like, in a locked cabinet instead of in a heap on the counter. [Sammy] In the bargain bin, [Jack] "Box of assorted random magic junk"? Yeah, I wanna rummage my hand in that, I'm not gonna get five curses, [Jack] *laughs* I'm not even AT the other place anymore and I'm still dunking on it! [Sammy] Jack's just saying these things to Joey to like, keep his spirits up. [Joey] It would be working,

[Sammy] I am curious if the restaurant is at the same address that we remember it being on. [GM] It is the same address! The name is different. [Jack] What's the new name? [GM] Lombardi's! It was Leon's. [Henry] ... some dude got his whole name changed, [Jack] Oh man, when do they do that to me, I want a legal name change! [Jack] Bringing the Yellow King into the world to get a free transition, [Sammy] No! Don't do it! He won't transition you into a human, it'll be..... something else,

[Henry] We're gonna run over the Pallid Mask. Vroom vroom motherfucker.

[GM] You do bump into something that is unyielding. [Jack] Oh no, Jack's car! [Jack] ... and also, whatever he hit, I guess!

[Joey] Joey is immediately flipping around to grab his cane; if the guy tries to get in the car, he's going to bash him in the face! and say GET OUT!! [Sammy] Well, it worked really well for Nero, so [Henry] The guy just got hit by a car and didn't move! I don't think the cane's gonna do much! [Jack] Especially not with Joey's weak noodle arms! [Joey] Yeah but he's upset!! That this guy is trying to get in the car! He was not invited in! [GM] ...make a CON roll. [Joey] [Joey] oKEY DOKEY,,,

[Sammy] Peter now is NOT the time to astral project [GM] Luckily he doesn't have that insanity currently, or he'd already be gone! [Jack] The car stops and Pete's ghost just flies through the windshield,

[Jack] I'm losing my mind... [GM] You are! 1d6 of it!

[GM] This is kind of wild magic zone, so you get some creative license. [Joey] Hmm. Hmm! Hmmmmmm... [Sammy] Oh no, you've given Joey Drew creative license,

[Joey] But when I picked out Jack's car, it's the first car that has full safety glass in it!! [Jack] [Jack] SO EVEN MORE EXPENSIVE TO REPLACE!!!

[o0cosmic-whorror0o]

Old, perverted eldritch horror creepily leers at, gropes, and then tentacles petite, unconscious angel. {18+} They/He eldritch nightmare, He/Him angelic ingenu. The term 'boy' is used to refer to the angel, but he is an adult. The story is from the Olde One's perspective, and they are many thousands of years old, so they think of him with words denoting youth, as he himself is only one or two centuries old. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Doll Maker ebbed out from under the bed like pooling ink, swirling, shadowy tendrils slithering up over the sheets as their form solidified to loom over the bed, peering down at their sleeping groom.

The boy’s pale pink hair fell all around him, framing his petite figure, which was wrapped in sumptuous silks so fine they were transparent, and his smooth chest rose and fell in a rhythmic, but almost laboriously intense pattern which quickly captured the Doll Maker’s leering gaze. Through the silk of Prince Edward’s nightgown, the Doll Maker could see the light fluttering of the long lashes on the closed eyelids of all six eyes on Edward’s chest as they tickled the paper-white skin, which was currently graced around the delicate collarbones by a tinge of rosy pink. The Doll Maker carefully hooked a claw under one of the sleeves of the nightgown and dragged it down a bit so that he could trace his fingers over his slumbering prize’s collarbones, and the boy shuddered in his sleep at the Doll Maker’s touch. They moved their eyes up along his modestly covered throat, fantasizing briefly of the wedding night, when they would finally be able to peel that covering away and smother his neck with kisses and bite him until it would surely be unbearable to put the covering back on for a day or three, then further to his pink little mouth.

It occurred to them that the thoughts they so relished of defiling his virginal throat both externally with their teeth and internally with other things were rather disgraceful, and they exhaled in repulsion for the bubbling shame that was tainting their enjoyment of this otherwise deeply satisfying moment.

For thousands of years, they had continued to drag themself through miserable existence across an increasingly less and less vast seeming cosmos on the distant, glimmering promise of this one, perfect toy, and now that he was theirs, they couldn’t help but feel sick at their own urges and the decisions that had led them to this moment and created a being like Prince Edward Roosevelt Jekyll III, Coveted third Sun of the Lost City of Carcosa. What loathsome degenerate could possibly exploit a singular opportunity to bend the cosmos to their whims to have a PERSON tailored to their desires? And for the result to be -

But that was unthinkable. They were beyond even Everything and Nothing. Gods were like fat spiders to them, and regular people barely even flies in magnitude, but it was unthinkable. Edward was perfect, sacred, and incapable of disappointing in their eyes. Any temptation to infer what it might say about them that the exact incarnation of their yearning, capable of satisfying all of their emotional, physical, and visual wants better than anything they could even imagine on their own looked and behaved the way Edward did, and that he had such alarming life experiences to shape him to be so exact was to be indulged later, and there were no harsh words justifiable to describe him with. Ever.

He was so exquisite in his unconscious state that it made their chest ache. They hadn’t felt so connected to this person-shaped flesh-vessel they maneuvered around the world of actual people that they could experience sensations so viscerally in so long that most continents in their world of origin were arranged differently, or had been entirely subsumed by the sea, since last it had occurred.

They melted half-literally over Edward and let their hands wander indulgently over his slim waist, marvelously wide hips, and thighs, squeezing handfuls of tender flesh lightly and nuzzling his cheek without removing their mask. As he had taken medicine to induce this sleep, it was heavy, and he did not wake, though he did moan and whine softly in a way between fear and pleasure, and his breathing became still harder. ���Perfect~ Perfect~ Oh, my sweet, so perfect~ I am anew each time I see you. I had gotten so very old waiting, so very tired, hopeless, but you fill me with energy, joy, and warmth each time you are in my presence, you blessed little thing!” they uttered against the silky feathers of Edward’s headwings.

They couldn’t resist, and they knew he wouldn’t mind when he found out. He was their special toy, made just for them, after all. Thin tendrils of shadow wriggled up over the sheets in the same fashion the rest of their form had, and the Doll Maker pulled the obstructing fabric off of their cherished plaything, granting the slimy appendages a freedom which they swiftly abused, worming their way into the prince’s nightgown through all available openings to coat him in their glistening ink as they caressed him. They started as slowly as they could bear to, letting their disembodied tentacles rub against his chest and thighs and wrapping more of them around all six of the white feathered wings on his back, staining the feathers as they did. They twitched, and so did most of their disembodied appendages. He was so warm all over, and he looked so innocent. They wanted to squeeze him until he was all bruises, and force some of their tentacles into him so deeply they would pierce all the way through to the other end, even to snap those luxurious wings of his one by one and to hear what lurid noises he would surely make, but they knew they could not damage him like that right now, not until he was awake and able to prepare for it. They had to leave no marks that would linger past early morning, and that made them hiss in frustration.

The tendrils wrapped around Edward’s thighs, squeezing a bit aggressively, and moving up to slip beneath his panties. The boy whimpered again, and this melted the Doll Maker’s heart, so they loosened their grip on his poor legs a tad. He was already covered in dark ooze, the sight one the Doll Maker saw often, but would never tire of. As they admired the way his skin turned faintly pinker and noticeably heated up in reaction to the ooze, they pulled the drawstrings on his panties undone, and passed a small knife to one of the tentacles, which ran the edge over the smooth skin between their groom’s legs until it found the most tender, yielding spot. It paused for another moment so that one of the other tendrils could rub itself against the coveted space between the supple thighs and enjoy the feeling of his pulse through it, before sinking the blade inside, a rush of hot ichor following as it was withdrawn. They pressed the tips of two tentacles against this fresh, slick entrance with a reverent greed, forcing both inside, one after the other, slowly enough to drive them up a wall for their groom’s sake. No matter how much restraint it took, they could not have him awaken tearfully to find his innards properly ripped asunder.

Bit by agonizing bit, the tentacles sank deeper inside of the sleeping angel prince’s body, until at last, they pressed as far up into his core as they could. The things wiggled and writhed against his plush walls as they attempted to coil there so that they might draw more of themselves inside. He was tight to the point that it made it difficult, squeezing around the Doll Maker’s slippery appendages deliciously in a way that briefly made their eyes roll up as they ravished him. “Oh, my sweet boy~ So good, so pure and small, perhaps I should only ever touch you while you cannot know what is happening? Your innocence is indelible, but what a pretty notion, for you never to learn of or understand any of the things this old lecher you shall wed forces on that body,” they thought aloud, several more tentacles ensnaring Edward’s figure to pin his arms above him and massage at his divine hips. One started rubbing at the sticky mess of glossy, pink blood and squirming shadow between his legs, and managed to drive its way inside to join the other two, stretching him out so much that the bulge of the three brutal instruments could be seen in his midsection. This stirred him enough to try to turn over, panting, and making one last helpless whimper before giving up when he was unable to do so. He instinctually tried to spread his legs a tad wider, an impulse the Doll Maker obliged, guiding his legs farther apart and rewarding these subconscious efforts to alleviate the fullness the boy was struggling with by beginning to make the tentacles move in and out roughly, cramming them just a bit deeper inside than before and sliding two more between his rosy lips to defile his throat as well.

They knew they could not leave marks, but as the night progressed, their abuse became vigorous, forcefully and thoroughly fucking their prize’s dripping, inviting form into utter disarray for hours and hours, dragging him into every position practically imaginable and enjoying the debaucherous view from every angle. By the time they were finished, and they finally withdrew their last tentacle from him, he was bloated with their aphrodisiac fluids, and they healed his entrance closed before much of it had time to spill out so he would remain that way until he was next opened. They admired the view of their handiwork for a while, before taking his limp shape into their arms and carrying him off to bathe him.

They tended to him lovingly until he was all clean and dry, dressing him in something pretty and leaving him in a chair so that they could change his bedsheets, before tucking him back in.

They stroked his hair a bit, then sank back down beneath the bed to await the rising of the twin suns and, likewise, their good angel.

[petit-etoile]

Congrats on 200 followers! :D For drabble ideas, how about one where Tav is becoming overwhelmed from being the leader of their group and they end up having a bit of a breakdown in camp, so Astarion whisks them away and dotes on them for the evening to help soothe some of their worries.

i  am  tired  of  being  brave

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount:  1,036 content warnings: none other tags: canon compliant, introspection, character study, idiots in love, established relationship, gender neutral tav, human!tav archiveofourown: here.

tag list: @azrielshadows1nger, @pandimoostuff, @faevi, @microskies, @foreverthemaraudersera, @queenofthespacesquids, @claryvoyantfray, @6doodlaang14, @anne-isnotokay, @itshimbotime, @yeeteth-the-raven, @sessils,@8-opossums, @worryknotdear, @abirdaboxandachippedcup, be added to the taglist here

summary: All you want is to get away from everything. Astarion indulges you.

‘Enough!’ you shout.

Lae’zel and Shadowheart have the decency to look properly chagrined when they peer over at you, frozen as if turned to stone. Shadowheart’s knife dips underneath Lae’zel’s chin, but the pretense of applied pressure goes away. You have no idea what hour it is or how long they’ve been going at it but the little patience you have snaps like a fine thread.

‘We have only gotten this far because we trust each other,’ you snap at them, pulling your nightshirt tighter around your shoulders. ‘But if you want to ruin that, leave me out of it!’

In what is likely the silliest mistake to make, you turn around and march to your bedroll to pick up your hunting knife and then march beyond the outskirts of camp  —  beyond Halsin and Jaheira and Gale and Wyll and Karlach, and Withers who seems to be musing over the situation with faint interest.

If Shadowheart and Lae’zel want to fight to the death, let them! You’ve done all that you can to get the group this far. You’re tired, you’ve been woken up two nights in a row, and you’ve had it with the drama.

You plunge yourself through the nearest bush you can find and sit next to running water, your arms pulled across your chest to keep the breeze from chilling you to the bone. You’re miserable beneath the moonlight. You can’t remember the last time you’ve slept more than four hours.

You almost doze off in the underbrush beneath a tree, but then there’s a hand sliding over your mouth and a body behind yours, somehow wedged behind you once your eyes closed. You gasp and try to reach for your knife, but Astarion tuts and continues sliding between you and the tree. It would be annoying if you weren’t relieved it was him. You relax back against him despite the feeling that your heart is going to leap out of your throat.

‘You shouldn’t fall asleep in the woods,’ Astarion warns you. ‘There are terrible beasts that have made this place their hunting ground.’

You shiver. ‘I didn’t mean to fall asleep,’ you say. ‘I just needed to get away.’

He hums. ‘Did something happen back at the camp?’

It doesn’t do any good to keep secrets, and your other companions had already witnessed it. You tell Astarion about Lae’zel and Shadowheart’s never ending fight. It doesn’t make sense to keep attacking one another, especially since the Artefact is the only reason the worms haven’t burrowed deeper into your skulls. It wears you down every day to keep making decisions for everyone when there are people with better experience. Everyone looks to you no matter how much you wish they’d look elsewhere. You never wanted this fellowship to hang on your every word. You just wanted allies.

‘It’s hardly fair,’ Astarion agrees. ‘To have the weight of this…Absolute sitting on your shoulders. I can’t imagine what it must be like to wrangle us all into cohabitation.’

‘Some discomforts are easier to resolve than others,’ you say. ‘It was easy making everyone throw their stakes away.’

‘I’m fairly certain Wyll kept his,’ Astarion snorts.

‘Yes, but he doesn’t wake us all up holding it at your neck,’ you say, elbowing him. ‘They don’t have to become friends or lovers or anything of the sort. They just have to get along until we arrive at Baldur’s Gate.’

Baldur’s Gate still seems so very far away. Acknowledging this drags you down more than you wish it to. You’re tired of walking and fighting and lying your way out of every other conflict. You miss your family and your life before the worm. The only good that’s come of it is Astarion. He lets you lounge on him when you please in exchange for some blood, and…

It’s more than that.

Astarion lets you do whatever the hell you please as long as it doesn’t annoy him. You’re free to nap in his tent or sit at his side while he reads, and he’s even allowed you to style his delicate curls with pomade. He lets you kiss him if you ask, holds your hand. If you asked him to kill someone for you, you’re certain he would without question.

Reluctantly, you sit forward. ‘I should probably head back,’ you admit. ‘I should make sure everyone is still alive.’

‘To the hells with it,’ Astarion disagrees. He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you back. ‘You close your eyes and sleep. Let them come looking for us if it troubles them that much.’

‘And if Shadowheart kills Lae’zel?’

‘I’m almost certain Lae’zel would win,’ he says. ‘But, I have no doubt they’ll behave. You, on the other hand, are being naughty.’

You laugh but you do as you're told. You worm further in the roots and lean back against him. It’s chilly, but having someone else there does wonders for how willing you are to fall asleep. It’s almost nice how secluded you are away from the drama and stress. You almost wish you were a vampire so that you could sneak out and use hunting as an excuse.

The respect for all you do is nice. Sure, Halsin and Jaheira have both commended you for how hard you work for your age, but it isn’t the same. You still stand in the middle of camp trying to handle things on your own. The planning, the decisions. They somehow fall on your shoulders. A little more input would be nice, or a sign from a god that you’re doing the right thing. You try not to think about it as you feel sleep edge toward your consciousness. Astarion hums softly in your ear, and though it’s uneven, you can’t help but think it’s so off-tune that it’s lovely.

You yawn so hard your jaw pops, and Astarion hushes you, kissing idly behind your ear. It lulls you into an ease you haven’t experienced for a while. You melt into the touch. If you could purr, you would.

‘This,’ Astarion says, ‘is what you deserve. To relax here in my arms. Sleep now, and we’ll deal with what shall come in the morning.’

[mischievous-piltovan]

The Undying Oath (NSFW)

Chapter 5: In Dim Carcosa (SFW)

Pairing: Viktor x fem!Reader

Summary: Reader navigates troubled waters. The Herald is no longer Viktor, he’s merely wearing her late lover’s visage. Yet, she can’t leave him - the guilt of her past betrayal and her duty to the denizens of Zaun keep her bound to the Emberlift Alley Workshop. But not all is lost.

A/N: I had the outline for a way longer chapter, but the more I worked on top of it, the longer it became. So I decided to chop it off in two chapters. Bad news: this might be a harder read, a bit morose with no immediate pay-off. The good news: the next chapter is gonna come much quicker since I not only already have an outline, I also have it fairly written. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this one. 

Warnings: Major Character Death. Loss of a loved one. He came back wrong. Angsty. War.

Word Count: 5.2K

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 (In Progress)

Also on AO3

Somewhere far away, embedded deep into the veil of the Cosmos, the stars were cackling. At least, they must have been. Because whatever the celestials had planned for her was undoubtedly a joke. And a bad one at that.

After the fiasco that was their moment of intimacy, Viktor explained the origin of his lack of feelings. The procedure Dr. Raveck performed - a mixture of open-chest surgery and chemical infusion -, although resulting in his successful recovery, came with a side-effect: the complete removal of his capacity to feel.

“And what about all this metal?” She asked, motioning at his artificial limbs. “Was this the Doctor too?”

“No, these are my doing,” Viktor responded calmly. “I got rid of the hexcorized tissues in favor of parts I had control over.” 

Yet, the cosmic punchline was in the bittersweetness of it all.

There was no doubt in her mind that she was glad Viktor was alive. A part of her was thrilled to be by his side again, to be able to watch him use his intellectual prowess to aid those in need. Like he always dreamed of. After all those months beside him, watching him decay bit by bit every day. After mourning his loss for weeks, engulfed in guilt imagining his last days all alone. This opportunity to be with him again felt like a blessing.

But something wasn't right, he wasn't right. He miraculously came back from the dead. But he came back wrong. 

Viktor was not the man she loved anymore, just an echo of who he once was. An uncanny simulacrum, not completely different, but an ill-imitation of the original.

Like a song she knew by heart, but every now and then he changed the lyrics, sang off-key, outpaced the tempo. In every exchange, every act, no matter how mundane, something was always frustratingly wrong.

It was in the way he walked, still impaired and aided by a cane, but it lacked the grace of before, being replaced by an almost robotic stride. It was in the way he was built, still thin with long and lanky limbs, but he was now rigid, standing artificially straight. It was in the way he spoke, with his still low and accented voice, but with a new dull lint of his speech, tempered and softened, lacking the once alluring sharp edges 

And all of it seemed to mock her. 

In this new form, Viktor was both her persecutor and warden - his very presence tormented her, made her acutely aware of her love for his old self and the fact he was forever gone. But it also kept her in place, for she couldn't leave him. She had no right to.

Not when she had done it once already. Not when he needed her help again. She just had to endure, to bear the cross of her own mistakes in spite of her feelings. And so she did.

—--

Luckily, he kept his mask on throughout the day, blocking out the world from his remaining humanity, and unknowingly shielding her from excess torment, albeit a little. In his full herald garb, the girl could pretend he was someone else entirely, his accented voice was the only hint of his old self, and even that was attenuated by the modulation of the mask.

She started to use his metallic veneer as a tool to help her envision him as someone else entirely. While masked, he wasn't her once fianceé Viktor, but the transhumanist scientist known as the Herald. By clinging to the difference on these labels, she was able to keep some semblance of sanity.

The schedule around the Emberlift Alley Workshop was divided in three blocks. The mornings were  designated for new patients, people whose issues were yet to be assessed and properly diagnosed. It was also when Viktor took their measurements in order to build them their prosthesis. Around noon came those whose synthetic limbs were already built and just had to be attached, as well as those in need of maintenance. The evenings were devoted to building the prosthesis based on the measurements taken in the morning. She only needed to be present for the afternoon appointments, when her healing was necessary.

And she'd take every opportunity available to not be present in the same room as him. To avoid unnecessary feelings and ruminations from clouding her mind. To keep her focus on her work.

Instead of remaining idle, she started to organize the rest of the house bit by bit during her free time, trying to bring back some of the home aspect to the place. The busy work kept her from dwelling on the stalemate, preventing her from spiraling into dark thoughts. The people of Zaun needed her in topnotch condition, there wasn't room to come undone. Viktor didn't comment on it, but noticed the effort - the organized space brought him further clarity of mind.

One evening as she was sweeping the floor in the living-room, a familiar voice called her name from behind her. It belonged to Ralph.

“Long time no see, Ralph!” She greeted him, turning around. “Are you here for mainte- what's all that?”

Ralph grinned as he approached her, a small wooden crate in his arms filled to the brim with… Junk?

“It's material for the prostheses!”

“No offense, but,” her hand delicately plucked a corroded rusty screw from the crate, rolling it between her index finger and her thumb. “I don't think these can be used.”

Before Ralph could respond, an accented modular voice rang from behind them.

“They can,” its sound alone sent a shiver down her spine, inching her dangerously close to the precipice of her own mind. “Ralph brought these for me at my request.”

That day she learned just how Viktor was able to keep providing people with prosthetic limbs even under the shortage of resources the conflict between the two cities was causing.

Stricken by curiosity, she followed him as he took the crate down to the workshop below. He placed it on the desk next to the HexCore, its pulsating cold light casting ghastly flickering shadows over the stone walls of the basement. She watched as the Herald pressed various keys on the machinery the HexCore sat atop before the runic matrix reacted, spinning faster than before. Her breathing hitched when an energy beam erupted from the core, elevating the material from the crate and amalgamating its contents together - sorting it by material, no less. In the next moment, all the contents inside the crate were gone, and sheets of different types of material rested on the desk next to it.

An almost inaudible ‘amazing’ escaped from her lips. She swore the Herald chuckled before continuing.

“Those I've helped come bearing whatever form of scraps they find as a show of gratitude,” he explains. “Although the sentiment is unnecessary, the gesture allows me to help more people in the long run.”

Ralph is one of those who often visits with scraps, and in the days that follow is the one person tethering her to some semblance of lucidity. Whenever he comes, he makes sure to stay a while, a warm smile always on his face.

“Your situation is so unique, I'm not sure I have the words necessary to help you,” Ralph relented during one of his visits. They both sat across from each other at the recently uncluttered dinner table. “But I need to encourage you to cut yourself some slack.”

A chuckle escaped her lips.

“I cut myself some slack when I betrayed his trust, didnt I?,” she murmured with a long exhale. “I don't think I should be allowed to do so ever again.”

Ralph rolled his eyes, exhaling loudly in mock annoyance.

“You know what, you actually shouldn't. You are the worst person to ever step foot in Runeterra, and your sins could never be forgiven,” he conceded, looking away from her. “For instance, leaving your gilded life in Piltover to come to the Fissures just because you refused to build weapons to be used against us. What a crime.”

She arched an eyebrow in a knowing look. “Ralph…”

“Not to mention all the years in the Academy, fighting to bring positive change to the Undercity!” He turned back to her, crossing his arms. “And spending all her energy healing our sick after getting her shiny new arm? What a monster!”

His words held good intentions, but failed to truly reach her. Every moment interacted with Viktor was a dire reminder of her mistakes, a memento of her subsequent loss, and an omen of her guilt.

She woke up one day in the middle of the night in full alert. Sitting up on the bed and quickly scanning her surroundings proved there was nothing to worry about, it was just another rough night for a troubled mind. On instinct, her eyes landed on the bed on the other side of the room, and she was graced with Viktor's sleeping form.

It was a rare sight, one she subconsciously tried avoiding by opting to always go to bed before him. The Herald had a habit to stay up late tinkering away at the workshop downstairs, which gave her ample time to get ready for bed and be fast asleep before he was even in the room. The last thing she needed was being further damaged by the sight of him stripped down from his Herald form to something more akin to the man she once knew.

And that was the right call, because seeing him now with his face bare, lips slightly parted, and a peaceful look on his face was… Blissfully painful. 

And dangerously magnetic.

Her limbs moved on their own as she slowly rose from her bed, tiptoeing her way to his side, eyes locked on him, committing this Viktor to mind as much as possible. She sat on the floor next to his bed, resting her head over one arm atop the mattress. 

She watched him sleep, his chest rising and falling with each breath. The same sharp jaw, now framed by metal, the thin cracked lips, moles dotting the area above his upper lip, just under his eye, and the twins at the side of his neck.

This was not the Herald. This was Viktor. 

Her eyes landed on his hand closest to her and she dared to snake her marbled hand towards it, stopping right before touching it. One marbled pinky curled around his and something akin to elation blossomed inside her chest. 

Her eyes fluttered close. In the dark behind her eyelids, she could almost pretend they were back at their shared bedroom in Piltover. His scent and the ongoing soft sounds of his breathing lulled her into a false sense of security, and before she could do anything, sleep claimed her.

When next she woke, the clarity of the day lit up the room from the window. Lifting her head up from her arms, she winced as the stiffness of her neck made itself known. Massaging the region, her eyes searched for Viktor but found an unsurprisingly empty bed.

With a groan, she rose to her feet while mentally chastising herself for falling asleep on the floor. Not to mention having Viktor waking up to her sleeping creepily at his side like an obsessed lunatic. She dreaded what he'll have to say about it.

A glance at her own bed proved she wouldn't have to wait to find out. On top of the mattress rested a vial - filled with a clear liquid she recognized as the calming concoction Viktor offered upon their first meeting - and a note. She picked it up and read it ‘Drink it whenever you feel restless’.

Apart from that, he never mentioned that night again. And she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

—--

The day she dreaded came earlier than anticipated. After nudging a frame on the wall to the side and back, rotating it ever so slightly clockwise and counterclockwise for the ninth time, she exhaled in resignation - the frame was fine as it was the first time, she was merely stalling. Stalling from recognizing her work was done, the whole house had been thoroughly organized. 

Which meant her only excuse to be absent from the workshop outside of the afternoon hours was no more. 

She exhaled once more, trying to weigh her options. On one hand, she could keep on being present only when the prosthesis were being attached, she'd just have to find other things to do around the workshop in the meantime - sitting idly with her thoughts was an easy way to slip into spiraling. There was the option of going out and finding purpose somewhere else, maybe going back to the Firelights Hideout to be a part-time inhouse healer. But then again, there was a conflict happening out there, and exposing herself to being caught by enforcers or in the crossfire of a shooting just because she didn't want to spend more time with the Herald than necessary was… Stupid. On the other hand, being present during assessment could prove useful - getting to know the patients and their woes beforehand could give her more insights and perhaps make her work better. She could even heal them beforehand in case they had wounds still open, or even aid them with stuff completely unrelated to the prosthesis whatsoever.

She glanced at the wall clock and felt a chill run down her spine - it was still mid-morning. She could do this, couldn't she? They say consistent exposure to a trigger tends to dull its effects on a person. She already spends a lot of time in his presence daily, a little more couldn't make such a big difference. Let's not think about the different circumstances each part of the day schedule entailed, with the afternoon time being more busy work and her being able to ignore Viktor's presence entirely, while the morning period would consist of observing and learning on her part. Just. Don't. Think. About. It.

With a resolute exhale, before resolve could escape her, she patted the remainders of dust off of her clothes and made her way down to the basement.

Viktor was sitting at the HexCore desk, noting something down on a parchment paper. She fought the icicle in the pit of her stomach signaling her to run.

“Greetings, sit on the table. I'll be there in a moment” he spoke without facing her, the orange glow of his mask kept firmly at the paper before him.

“No, uhm… it's actually me” She greeted shyly. He turned to her upon hearing her response.

“Oh,” he interjected. “There's still a couple hours before the afternoon appointments start.”

“I know, it's just… “ She could feel her resolve faltering, but pressed on nonetheless. “I was thinking about being present during the morning assessments as well, to learn of your methods and perhaps lending a helping hand where I could.”

A pause befall the two and suddenly the air was thicker. Her eyes kept away from him, fixated in the glow of the rune matrix beside him. The icicle in the pit of her stomach evolved into a dagger and was risking becoming a sword each second that passed between them. 

She started deliberating being torn asunder from the inside or just bolting out of the door, not to set foot in the workshop again, when Viktor spoke. “I believe your contributions could be valuable. You may stay.”

Before she could respond, the creaking of the wooden stairs behind them announced the arrival of a patient. She turned around and was greeted with a familiar face.

“Hey, Miss Architect! Long time no see!” A middle-aged man with an athletic build and thinning gray hair stood leaning on a crutch, his left leg missing from the knee down.

“Yo-you're Wenn, right? The courier?” Memories of the countless times she visited the Undercity for data gathering flooded her mind, his face a constant presence. But once the words left her mouth, her eyes did a double take at his missing limb. “Oh… “

“Yeah, I know… “ Wenn jested coily. “But Mister Herald here is gonna make me all good, isn't he?”

“Correct,” Viktor agreed curtly. “Please sit on the table so I can get your measurements.”

Wenn did as commanded while Viktor prepared the tools. The girl stood by the HexCore desk, crossing her arms. “So, what happened to you?”

“Same as everyone else, Enforcers,” Wenn answered nonchalantly. “Was doing my rounds in a permitted area and was still met with a landmine. I was darn lucky it only got my leg.”

“Please, hold still.” Viktor’s robotic voice cut through. 

“I wish I could say a mine buried in a permitted area surprised me, but I'd be lying…“ she commented dryly. Enforcers brutality against Zaunites was already a well-known reality often overlooked by the Piltovan state, but ever since the conflict broke out, it felt like it had been cranked up to eleven. The Enforcers filled Zaun with barricades and checkpoints, stipulating permitted areas for passage. Unfortunately, it looked like they didn't keep the bombs solemnly in prohibited territory.

“Tell me about it… “ Wenn sighed. “This whole situation was bad enough before, my radius of operation had shrunk significantly because of it, losing my leg was the cherry on top of this shitcake.”

“We'll solve that part at least.” She assured him.

Viktor turned around and was about to rise from his chair when she stopped him. “I can note down his measurements for you.”

“That would be helpful, I appreciate it.” Viktor acknowledged it, turning back to Wenn after informing her the number. 

The girl diligently grabbed a pen on the desk and started writing down what Viktor was telling her when something grabbed her attention - the schematics she was scribbling on. Something was off, the schematics was for a standard prosthesis, something that he usually builds for the common folk. A courier like Wenn, who spends his whole day on foot, walking around the uneven stone pathways of Zaun needed something more sturdy, with more padding. Viktor certainly had something like that designed, didn't he?

“Is this the right schematic?” She prodded. 

“It's the leg one, correct?” He retorted.

“it is.”

“Then it is correct.”

Did Viktor really only have one-size-fits all for each single prosthesis? 

She shook her head slightly, brows knitted as the gears turned inside her head. She could see where Viktor was coming from, by working with standard models he could attend to a larger number of people in less time. Tailoring each design individually was simply not time-efficient, despite the boost in quality for each piece. Not to mention, to most people the standard design would suffice. 

But how about these edge cases such as Wenn's? If they give him the standard module, he'd be back in two weeks or less for maintenance, or replacement altogether. Sure, they'd be making his life better, but only slightly. Wouldn't this be considered inefficient?

Her eyes traveled back to Viktor, and something clicked. Viktor and Jayce were brilliant scientists whose sharp minds worked meticulously to solve complex problems. But she noticed early on in their partnership that they more often than not lacked the ability to perceive what the problems were in the first place. 

“We were analyzing some of your data and we came across the fact that the average commute time for those who come topside to work varies from two to three hours during rush,” Jayce began, running his index over the papers in front of him. It had been a couple of months since the partnership between the Undercity Development Section and the HexTech Research Division began, the Ventilation System project was already underway. The pair of scientists had pulled the architect aside as soon as she arrived at the lab that morning, seemingly eager to show her how serious they were. At least that's the vibe she was getting from Jayce. “And we were brainstorming some ideas for a faster and more robust Public Transportation System using HexTech.”

Jayce rolled out a parchment paper in front of them with a map of the Undercity. On top of it, he placed a translucent sheet of butter paper. Then, he grabbed a marker and started sketching on top of it. The girl leaned in closer.

“We noticed that the existing lift's engine is rather old, and demanded that the ascension was done as horizontally as possible,” Viktor chimed in as his partner sketched. Her eyes met his golden ones for a brief second before  returning to the paper before them in a fluster. She was still digesting why the leaner scientist had such an effect on her. “This resulted in a longer route between the Undercity Terminal and the Topside Terminal. And that in itself already largely adds to the commute time. So we moved the whole system to a location in which the distance between the terminals is the shortest, since building the new lift vertically is not a problem anymore.”

She studied Jayce's croquis on the translucent paper for a second, before calmly bringing her index finger to it and tapping on a location on the map. “This district right here has historically been formed by people who go to work Topside. It grew organically around the terminal,” she spoke calmly. “These are the people we'd be affecting by tackling this problem. If we move the system to the other side, even if technologically and logistically seems more efficient, we're failing to address the practical effect of such a change.”

She took a marker from Jayce and began scribbling on the paper as she spoke.

“Nowadays, the people start gathering at the Terminal around 4 am. They leave their houses and are promptly met with a line to get to the lift,” she wrote down ‘4 am’ and ‘house -> terminal’. “If we move the system here, all these people would have to find a way to go from their houses to the terminal, adding time and fatigue to the commute. Especially to those carrying wares, goods and tools with them. We'd need to address that.”

She finished writing down all points on the paper, before setting the pen aside. Then, she leaned back where she sat, meeting the scientist's gaze. “Your plan might be the most efficient time-wise, but it wouldn't be solving the problem. I'd suggest building the new system near that district, even if that means sacrificing some of its efficiency. The problem was not simply shortening travel time between Topside and the Undercity, but rather bringing more quality to the existing commute.”

She sighed at the memory, a little twinge of longing constricting her chest. She quickly shook it off, this wasn't the time for sentimentality. Her gaze lingered on the schematics a bit, before turning to the Herald with newfound resolution. If the goal was to aid the people of Zaun, then the magic in her marbled arm was not the only tool at her disposal. She needed to address his methods as an academic peer.

When Wenn left the Workshop, she pounced without hesitation.

“He's gonna be back here in need of maintenance in a couple of days,” she spat, looking down at the schematics.

The Herald stopped in his tracks. She felt the glow of his eyes on her, but didn’t turn to him. “How would you know that?”

“Didn't you hear? He's a courier,” she retorted. “The exertion of his line of work is bound to damage the structure of the prosthesis. Rather quickly even, I'd wager.”

The Herald didn't respond right away. Instead, he slowly made his way to her side. His focus on the schematics in front of her.

“In the assessments, are you taking into consideration the lives of who you help?”

“I don't pry much outside of the measurements,” he stated calmly, almost in a whisper. “I see what you are suggesting, but working with a template is far more efficient than tailoring each piece individually.”

“I don't disagree with that on a theoretical level, but do we have data on returning patients? Those with need for maintenance or replacement altogether?”

The Herald paused. “No.”

She finally turned to him, arching an eyebrow. “Then we don't know at what rate we're helping new people compared to returning ones,” she concluded. “Nor do we have data regarding what caused certain types of damage in returning patient's prosthesis, I presume?”

Another beat. “Correct.”

The silence lingered between them. She kept her eyes on him expectantly. With the mask, it was impossible to read him. 

“I was focused solemnly in helping the largest number of people in the most efficient way possible,” he stated finally. “I failed to acknowledge those points.”

Although spoken in a dull, flattened manner, his words spoke of regret. She could almost hear Viktor instead of the Herald. Her hand reached for the metal on his shoulder on instinct.

“You were doing what you thought best,” her words were soft. “Besides, it doesn't matter how big that brain of yours is. You're still a single person who tasked himself with this gargantuar endeavor of helping the people of Zaun. Something was bound to slip past you.”

He finally faced her and she thanked the gods for his mask. She'd unravel where she stood if she was to meet his face bare at this proximity. She quickly cleared her throat.

“I was thinking we could pinpoint the most prominent use cases and expand our line of templates,” she proposed. “That way we avoid having to tailor each prosthesis we make from scratch while also addressing the issue at hand. It's not perfect, but I believe it's a good improvement. I might not have the documents here, but I have some information of the average Zaunite jobs and occupation as well as geological differences from when I worked at the UDS.”

“Perhaps I've… forgotten the benefits of intellectual collaboration,” the Herald contemplated. “That is a truly elegant solution.”

“Glad I could help, I'll jot down the information I can recall and I'll get you the notes later,” she responded, taking a step back. “I'll go get some water before the afternoon patients start rolling in.”

In truth, she needed some breather from the whole interaction. The Herald was dangerously close to becoming Viktor and she couldn't allow herself to spiral. She was at the foot of the staircase when the Herald spoke again.

“I was hoping you would join me later tonight so we can design the new templates,” he proposed. “Work together, as we once did.”

She froze in place, her back turned to him. Her marbled arm pulsated with warmth with the rhythm of her heartbeat. The interval between them getting shorter as his words registered. She was already pushing her limits by taking the morning assessments with him, - doubling the amount of time she spent in his presence - and that alone was already taking its toll. Working with him at night would triple it. She couldn't possibly do it.

“Yeah, I think that's reasonable.”

Her words betrayed her. 

—--

If she was asked to describe at least one of the patients that passed through the workshop that afternoon, she wouldn't be able to do it. She went through the motions absentmindedly, completely engulfed inside her own mind, dreading the last third of the day. 

Why would she agree to his proposal? Was it another facet of the guilt she felt at his betrayal? Was it the sense of duty to the Zaunites in need? Was a product of the self-loathing she harbored throughout all the months she believed he was dead? Was it a combination of all of that?

Or better yet, was it a foolish hope of rekindling something between them through intellectually collaborating on a project, like it happened the first time? Even though he is not capable of feeling anymore?

Whatever the reason behind it was, her fate was sealed. 

Despite that, she still took all means necessary to stall her return to the basement. As soon as the last afternoon patient was gone, she excused herself to freshen up. After splashing water on her face more times than necessary, she made a quick detour to the kitchen to brew some coffee. Only then, holding a mug in each hand, did she finally make her way back down.

She found the Herald where she left him - sitting in front of his desk, bathed in the purplish glow of the HexCore. With a long exhale, she made her way towards him.

“Here, unbearably sweet,” she said, placing one of the coffee mugs in front of him. “Just the way you like it.’

The Herald turned to her and her heart sank when golden pupils swimming in dark scleras met her gaze. She had failed to notice his metal mask sitting next to the core on the desk. 

“Thank you, although I’d rather have it black,” Viktor spoke in his own accented voice. “Sugar adds nothing but empty calories.”

This was still the Herald. He was just wearing Viktor's skin. 

She stood rigidly beside him, putting as much distance from him as possible at the current setting. She kept her eyes low, opting to focus on the schematics in front of him instead of his face. But the space between them felt heavy, his very presence pulled her in and pushed her away simultaneously. It made the coffee she sipped go down like sandpaper. This was not going to work.

“You spoke earlier of information on the average jobs and occupations of the denizens of Zaun,” the Herald spoke without looking at her.

“Ah,” She gasped, snapping out of her thoughts. “That's right.” 

Her eyes quickly scanned the desk, spotting a blank piece of paper and dragging it to the space between them. Next, she grabbed a pen, uncapped it, and leaned the tip onto the paper. “Okay, so this is what I remember.”

She started narrating everything she could recollect, annotating it as she went. She scrambled her brain for information, and for each piece recalled, the neural path to the next one unfolded. In her head she could picture the Zaun of another time, when it still was simply known as Piltover's Undercity. The hum of the machinery and pipework vastly drowned out by the cacophony of everyday life. The thick air laced with the smells of the fishery, combined with the fumes of the factories and the sickly-sweet aroma of chemicals. The brief amounts of sunlight hitting the underground at noon when the sun was at its zenith, passing through like an eclipse. The neon artificial lights flooding the streets for the remainder of the day. 

Each new canvas her mind painted brought forth a description of how the citizens lived, how each human was a product of their environment. And how they molded it and were molded by it. 

It was chaos. Flawed. In dire need of quality for its resident’s life. But oh, so beautiful.

“I have forgotten how elucidative you could be when explaining your craft,” the Herald's voice brought her back to reality. The dim light of the Workshop felt more oppressive as her surroundings came back into focus. 

“I uh- Thank you,” she responded sheepishly. 

“I am serious. My mind is already brimming with a handful of design solutions from your explanation alone,” he continued. “Although I believe it is rather late and I’d like to let those ideas simmer down as I sleep.”

“Late?” She glanced at the wall clock and silently gasped. No less than three hours had passed since she began her lecture. Any semblance of the worries from before, gone. 

Maybe this could work after all.

-----

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 (In Progress)

Also on AO3

[gayboysteve]

"Come inside, little priest. To your right, little priest. Take the bride's path. This is Carcosa. You know what they did to me? Hmmm? What I will do to all the sons and daughters of man. You blessed Reggie … Dewald … Acolytes. Witnesses to my journey. Lovers. I am not ashamed. Come die with me, little priest."

Rust was Childress' bride. “Our death is our wedding with eternity” [X] I've seen the post obviously about Rust and Marty getting married in Carcosa, but the way that Childress is speaking to him. The way Childress spoke at the beginning of the episode.

"I'm busy. I have very important work to do. My ascension removes me from the disk and the loop. I am near final stage. Some mornings, I can see the infernal plane"

I take this to mean that Childress knows that he's about to die. And he's offering Rust to join him, both as a priest and as his bride. He refers to Reggie and Dewald as his lovers. He knows that Rust can "see" the circle. He plans for them to kill one another, thus joining them in matrimony to death, with Carcosa as the alter before the yellow king. "Take off your mask." Remove your veil? Anyone?

Rust's appearance is important here too. In a bright white shirt amongst the filth and despair of Carcosa's caging branches and desecration. It's both a bridal white and a Messianic figure, given the state of his hair and mustache. It's especially prevalent afterward when he's in the hospital.

Marty interrupts the ceremony. He doesn't allow Rust to become another one of Childress' victims. His "brides". And still, from Rust's perspective, he was joined with death briefly. Except it was not ascension into the infernal plane. He sank deep into the dark where he was surrounded by love. The contrast of a type of Lovecraftian hell vs the very un-Christianiac version of the afterlife.

[attollogame]

REVISED—Suha Sobhi [4/6]

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree If mankind perished utterly; And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn, Would scarcely know that we were gone.

Nature is often touted as a means of healing. Green walks, escapes to the sea side, and moments in the sun are considered holistic cures to the ailments of human kind. Nature, however, can also be one of the most vicious bringers of punishments - which is precisely what Suha Sobhi is like. The adopted sibling of the infamous Crowes, Suha stands as a beacon of judgement in the Attollo courts (or at least what passes as court).

Fiercely protective of her brother, Alexander, and with a disdain for certain individuals (like Sysba) that is fully unmatched, Suha believes that compliance with law and order is the only way to survive in this city. This doesn't mean that she hasn't been vocal about her brother Markos methods, however, nor the history surrounding Attollo's prison, Carcosa. Perhaps an outside perspective can see where she's coming from.

Gifted with a powered ability that permits her to manipulate nature, Suha seeks to de-stress herself by indulging in her gardens and greenhouses. There, she combines her love of horticulture with her love of experimentation, creating new breeds of plants that probably should have been left to the science fiction novels. Despite her powered abilities having no ties with her careers, Suha still manages to use them as a sword of Damocles above those who test her - namely, her older brother and sister.

Unlike Dreamwalker and Dorian, Suha sees no need to wear a mask to conceal herself from the world. She knows how she is perceived in the eyes of the world around her, and likes to make sure they know exactly how she perceives them, as well - right down to the minuscule expressions.

Standing at about 5'6", Suha can be considered as an average woman at first glance. Her side passion in the fashion industry allows her to style herself immaculately, often coordinating her hijab to match her outfit and her jewelry. She has dark skin and dark brown eyes that seem to strip an individual of every barrier they possess. Often, she adorns rings and earrings, and she wears a pair of reading glasses for the many documents she's forced to sift through.

Suha is proud of her position as a Judge for the Crowes Court, and genuinely seeks to better the city of Attollo - even if her siblings may appear to want otherwise at times.

[inknopewetrust]

Are you still writing a rust fiction can you give us a spoiler

bestie anon, am i? AM I? yes of course it just takes me 8,000 years to publish anything. but i'll give a little sneaky peak of the opening "frames" of the fic. it's called 'a house in nebraska' after the ethel cain masterpiece.

In the reward of death, you often wondered if those women had ever found peace. Were their horrors laid to bed or their sadness lifted from their shoulders heavy with burden?

Fixed vacant on the ceiling in the darkness of your bedroom in a house littered with holes and creaky staircases, you saw them when you closed your eyes.

Mistakes of unremarkable grief and insurmountable spite, the faces of memories that had become ghosts sprung to life with a rejuvenated mission to find answers.

Carcosa called home in the eclipse.

And away in another world, a camera blinked red to hear a tale come alive.

The smoke from the cigarette twisted in the air; trailing along the chemtrails of the small, musty room with wooden panels and leaky wallpaper.

Blink, blink, blink.

“We talk plenty ‘bout Marty, but you two ain’t the only ones that worked this case,” Detective Maynard Gilbough pulled a newspaper clipping from a file that had been scattered about before them. “Tell us ‘bout her. She ain't live in these parts anymore and the folks up in Gering give us an inch for every mile we take... So y’all will be fillin’ in those gaps for us.”

The detective tossed the yellowing paper across the table.

It was faded along the edges. A worn, bleeding ink recalled the stories of old that replayed on the film reel within his mind whenever he let his thoughts wander just far enough. The picture was in black and white—a fragmented, distant past that lied with a stoutness that lingered in the fruitless victory in Vermilion Parish near twenty years prior.

The cigarette was bitingly bitter against his tongue. Its fumes littered his sights of you.

And for the first time since he sat down for the interview, Rust Cohle pondered his words before they tumbled out. He had been so calculated with the two detectives before him yet the flowery, sermon-esq verbiage that leaked like sieve from his mouth could not grasp the weight of the missing. Rust simply took the cigarette from his mouth and tapped its end along the side of the coffee mug.

And he paused.

The detectives had found a crack in the pavement.

[capesch-arts]

Continuation of that illustration of Faroe finding her father in the amphitheatre :) 👇

Faroe... Faroe! Please!

... I'm okay .. Jane... You were right... This was a trap... Another one to... *Sob* break me... We shouldn't have come here...

Faroe... You didn't know... You HAD to be certain... I can't blame you for that... I'm sorry that I can't do anything to help...

... What... Why is he.. like this..?

It's what he does, Faroe. He takes people and breaks them. And then mold them into whatever he sees fit to serve him...

Why couldn't he just.. kill him? You said The King hated my father, so much so even you felt it.

I suppose... It's because how dead Carcosa is... The city was already dying before I split off from him... I suppose he wanted your father to fill in the empty spots.

And he made him play endlessly in this amphitheatre, without care if he breaks his fingers or not. A... Damned... living music box...

Faroe? Are you-

I'm okay. He hasn't broken me. It's just- I hate him...

The King?

No... My father.

Wh- Your father? Why?

For leaving me... For abandoning me so he could... die fighting a BLOODY god! He should've stayed, and maybe- and maybe-

And lead the King to you and your grandfather? Lead his cultists so they'll find and hurt you?

At least we'll still be together! And not- this! I-

Faroe! Don't give me tha-

I- I wish he stayed. At least... Maybe we'll die together. Maybe he didn't need to endure all of this- becoming a.. a mindless slave to the King..

And you wouldn't have a future. Faroe, he knew what he was facing off against, and he never wanted that burden to be passed to you. He wanted you to live in a world where The King can't reach you, even if it meant sacrificing his happiness with you just so you could LIVE. It's not right... Maybe he could have done more.. but it's the best he could against him.

Well... I fucked that badly, right? Since I ended up getting into this bullshit... Every road seems to just end up in The King in Yellow's hands... What's the point of it all?

Faroe...

Let's go, Jane. There's nothing for us here... Not anymore... Is he still?

Yes, he's still playing right next to you.

[Faroe kissed Arthur on the cheek, then stood up while rummaging her bag.]

Faroe, what are you- the music box?

There's no reason to bring it. It was a lure for me to enter the city and... It only brought me grief... If we're going somewhere where we can't turn back, it's only fitting it stays with my dad... Can you help me wind it?

Of course

Good bye, dad. I love you...

Bonus for the sillies 👇