#Unbounded flesh au

[toh-unbounded-flesh-au]

THE OWL HOUSE

UNBOUNDED FLESH AU COMIC

Im scared…

Lowkey not too proud of this but it’s alr :]] au info :33

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

OMG no way are you going to write an AU of Daemon's visions at Harrenhal??? I know its AAAAAGES away from where you are in the current story but desperate hos wanna kno ;)

Ask, and ye shall receive!

until i bleed myself dry

Note: This is technically using the characters/characterisation I have established in my terms of endearment series, but really you only need to know that the Reader is Rhaenyra's younger sister and that, instead of marrying Laena, he spent a decade ho-ing it up in Pentos before coming home and getting dazzled by his niece before deciding to wife dat gurl.

WARNING: Please note this is dark, dark stuff. Discretion is advised. Please use your judgement wisely before engaging.

Triggers: graphic depictions of violence, violence against children, character d*ath, MAJOR hallucinations, sexual scenes including visibly underaged character/s.

There is something fucking wrong with this place.

Daemon feels like a skittish child as he withdraws to his chambers, covers drawn up to his neck like the fabric will keep away the very worst of midnight evils. He does not know if the steady drip, drip, drip he hears is in his head or if the stone ceiling is cracked enough to let through the rain. Knowing Harrenhal, he would hardly be surprised by the latter. Still, the noise only serves to speed the racing of his thoughts, turning them fearful as he has not felt since the weakness of his youth.

In this moment, he curses his own doings. If he had stayed his hand—if he had held his tongue—the boy would not be dead, and mayhaps you would not be so wroth with him. He would not be alone in this shithole of a keep a world away, chilled to the bone and miserable as he thinks of you warm and safe in your bed with the children. Without him.

When he finally falls asleep, he dreams.

He knows it is a dream, for he can hear your humming. Soft, sweet, the kind of tune you sing to Daeryx after one of his tantrums. His head lifts from the pillow and he finds himself back in your shared rooms on Dragonstone, eyes finding you in the chair by the hearth. Your hair, unbound, shines like molten amber in the firelight, swaying softly as you tend to business that is concealed from his gaze. Enthralled, he rises, making his way to you.

Drip, drip, drip.

He pauses. That sound… it doesn’t belong here. He calls your name. You ignore him. He moves closer, tentative.

“Come look,” you murmur suddenly, startling him. “Come, kepus.”

His feet move unbidden, out of his control.

Bile pools at the back of his throat, gut curdling at the sight of the boy—the boy—cradled in your lap. You and he are wet with blood, and it drip, drip, drips to the floor, echoing eerily. His eyes are open, face petrified, and Daemon realises that the dark at his neck is not in fact a shadow but a gaping wound, made jagged by the weapon used.

You look up at him, skin shining with sweat and expression exultant. “Look at him, kepus. Look at what you made.”

Memory flashes—he brings his son back down to rest beside his daughter on your lap, two moonshine miracles side by side. “Look at them, kepus,” you whisper, spellbound. “Look at what we made”—and his lungs constrict. You make to lift the child up, but the movement jostles his head off its perch, and it rolls to the ground to stop by his feet. He cannot move. He is frozen, horrified.

You smile, tucking the headless corpse under your chin. Gore pulses against your throat as your chin settles to the yawning maw of the child’s open neck. You rock in your seat, a faint squelch each time your shifting weight disturbs the sodden cushion beneath you.

“I love him,” you whisper, lips pressing to where flesh meets innards. Your mouth comes away red. “I love him so much.”

Daemon awakens with a yell. He swallows once, twice, and then—

He leans over the side of the bed, retching violently. When it is over, he curls up on his side, shaking, staring at his hands. They are wet with blood.

It does not take long for terror to settle in his bones like a longtime companion. It follows him each day, in every waking moment, manifesting in strange visions that he knows—he knows—must be untrue, cannot possibly be real, and yet… And yet. There is a sort of verity in them.

Dark Sister feels like a leaden weight at his hip as he stalks the keep, a reminder of his earlier encounter with Rhaenyra. Only she was not the Rhaenyra he knows, and instead a strange sort of blend of child-queen, the face of the girl peering out accusingly from under her father’s too-large crown, exclaiming all manner of hurt as she stepped from the Iron Throne upon which she perched.

“You put me on that throne. And you love me, and you hate me for it. You created me, Daemon. Yet you are now set on destroying me. All because your brother loved me more than he did you.”

And, without warning, he had taken his blade up in arms and struck off her head, a puppet on strings pulled by another. As her body fell, it morphed into the boy again. Jaehaerys. The child he had murdered. He heard your humming even while Simon Strong’s voice filtered through his unconscious mind, alerting him of the raven that just arrived.

The healer woman’s concoctions have helped little. He still wakes to strange noises, still finds himself stalking after his monstrous one-eyed nephew down the halls, only to find that it is himself he is pursuing. He hears the words you yelled at him in that last great quarrel— “get away, leave before you turn on us and murder us like you murdered that boy”—interspersed with the sound of your screams, and perhaps they are the screams you let out when birthing his children, or perhaps they are screams of a different kind, a version of himself making good on the implication of your words, steel in hand and pursuing his love, his life, his blood—

These figments blur with reality to the point that he becomes unsure of what is before him and what exists only in his head to haunt him. He comes to dread the resting hours, only to find their horrors bleeding into daylight. Whatever strange power has come to roost in his mind serves only to bring him torment.

Perhaps this is why he is not immediately suspicious when he comes face-to-face with you once more.

You stand by the window, the dim light filtering weakly over your bare form. Your back is to him, curls spilling to brush the tops of your buttocks. Their gentle sway—the barest kiss to your skin—is tantalising, and his mouth dries even as he watches your neck crane, sly smile tossed back over your shoulder at him.

“Daemon,” you beckon. Like a cuntstruck fool, he is helpless to resist the call.

His hands settle to the familiar divots of your waist, up and up and up to cup the fullness of your tits. You lean into him, a quiet huff of pleasure escaping as his fingers squeeze and his lips fall unbidden to the slope of your jaw. He inhales deeply, stirred even now by the simplicity of your scent, a throbbing line straight to his groin. You turn in his hold, nose nuzzling against his chin.

“You were right,” you say, eyes shining. “You were always right.”

He is under some enchantment, surely, for he is incapable of coherent speech. All he can do is feel the satisfaction heat his veins, allow it to tug at the corner of his mouth. I knew it, he thinks. I knew her will would bend eventually.

You speak still, even as he backs you toward the bed. “Papa was weak. Rhaenyra is weak. Only you are the true blood of the dragon.”

You shift backward onto the mattress, legs parting invitingly. The split of you opens, revealing flushed folds and the teasing glimmer of want, shining slick for his hungered gaze.

“Fearless”—your hand trails down your belly, fingers tracing around your pearl—“brave”—you venture lower, pressing teasingly at your cunt, your lip caught between your teeth—“strong.”

Daemon drops to his knees before you, tongue licking through the spill and catching on your finger. He bullies it out of the way, arms locking around your thighs as he gluts himself on the sweet tang of you, senses clouding and narrowing to a singular point of existence. You grip his hair, the arches of your feet digging against his back.

“It is not my place to question you,” you breathe, twisting and writhing with his ministrations. He watches your face, enraptured by the toss of your head and the shape of your lips as they form moan after moan. Your release is quick, a final sobbing yelp followed by a flood of slick warmth. When your eyes reopen, they are blazing with reverence. Reverence for him. Your knees flex up, your lower half folded almost to your chest. Your cunt contracts, fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. “I live to serve you, my king.”

His head feels heavy as he rises just barely to crawl over you. He frowns. When he lifts his hand to extricate yours from his hair, he finds not flesh, but cool metal. A crown.

“My king,” you coo below him.

Your surroundings are changed. It is not the meagre offerings of Harrenhal that frame you now, but the sumptuous trimmings of the king’s chambers in the Red Keep, only brighter, more lavish than they ever have been. Jewels sparkle at your throat, in your hair, at your wrists. The sheets are molten gold against your silver-pale, and you wind your hips up at him provocatively, catching his cockhead against your opening.

“You belong on the throne, husband,” you say, fist closing around his shaft and pumping once, twice. You lead him back to the core of you, nudging him just inside. “Uncle. My love. And I belong at your side—at your feet—under your body.”

“My queen,” he gasps, driving forward with a grunt, and oh, he has missed you, missed this, missed the clutch of your walls like a mother’s embrace and the sound of your breathy cries as he plunges deep. Plunges home.

“My king,” you call out, rising into him with unrestrained abandon, precious gems clinking frantically with each fevered hitch of his hips against yours. “My lord. My master. I was made for you.”

“Yes…”

“Chain me to this bed, my king.” Your spine arches toward him, hands grabbing for his own and leading them above your head. He takes this for the encouragement it is, pinning your wrists to the pillow and rutting harder. You shout, elbows flexing to no avail. “Give to me my purpose. Give me your heirs.”

He is helpless to stop the noises escaping his mouth, feral and uninhibited, fucking with near painful intent. You take it all, curving yourself deeper, holding yourself more open so that he may lay claim to his conquest. As only a king can.

“And when I have birthed one,” you say, though now it is more a prolonged keening sound, “give me another. Never stop. Oh! Make me—make me take it—”

He does not know if he is imagining it or if it is happening before his eyes, but he can see it: ruling the Seven Kingdoms, sitting the Iron Throne the way his brother never could, striding down the halls of the keep as the commons bow and scrape to their sovereign, bursting into his chambers after small council to find his queen, to find you where you always are, naked in his bed and belly round and leaking milky white between your thighs, for it is his kingly law that the only part you play here is this, waiting for him to find you and fuck you and fill you and keep you, his little niecewifequeenpet—

He snarls, pulsing and burning. You squeal as he pushes past onslaught and straight to violence, bodies colliding so forcefully that his bones ache and his brain feels like jelly wobbling in his skull. What leaves his mouth can only be bestial in nature now. “I’ll make you—”

“Yes, make me take it until I cannot. Until my cunt is ruined by you.” He feels his end rushing up with every word you wail, his joints locking and grinding and gut roiling with the anticipation of it. “Until my womb is destroyed. Until I bleed myself dry, my king. Only for you.”

“Wha—”

The horror of it escapes him, for it is too late: the release crashes on him like a tidal wave, shoving him below its surface and imprisoning him in its current. He makes a noise like a wounded boar, chasing through the high despite the alarm in his mind, so at odds with the soaring rhythm in his loins.

You laugh, tilting welcomingly to receive him. “Make me bleed, my king. Make me bleed like my mother.”

It is enough to chill the heat in his blood to ice, destroying any semblance of enjoyment. But he cannot stop the unsteady eking out of what remains of his peak. He tries, but he cannot stop.

“No,” he says, a contradiction to the enthusiasm of his flesh prison. “No, no, I cannot. No—”

“What do you mean?” you ask, a strange quality to it. A duality. It crystallises into something comprehensible with every word that comes from your lips. All at once, it is not your voice he hears, but something much higher, younger, blending and overlapping with the cadence he recognises. “You already have.”

He looks down as he makes his final groaning thrusts, only to feel his stomach drop through the floor. Your thighs are soaked in blood, his cock sluicing a path through it all the while. All that flesh covered in red, and he glances up, only to see that you are gone, you are replaced by someone so small, so frightfully small, and he realises you are not replaced, it is you, but it is a you he has not seen for well over ten years, eyes wide and frightened and gleaming like game stuck through by an arrow and taking its final breath.

Daemon rears back, but it is too late. You begin to cry. A dark patch spreads out from underneath your broken body, from where he had torn your fragile opening apart. What have I done? he thinks.

“It hurts, kepus,” you say. “It hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, fixed to stillness by revulsion. “I’m sorry. I never meant to—”

“But you did,” you insist, childish pout despite your obvious agony.

Your hands reach out, and he leans away, too horrified to touch you—and he doesn’t know if it is you or he that he is more afraid of in this moment—but you are not searching through the air for him, no. Instead, a bundled weight is settled in them, and you bring it into the crook of your arms, gripping it as though it is the most precious of objects. You smooth the fabric from the top of it to reveal a tiny head of silver hair. The babe gurgles and roots at your flat chest, absurd and awful.

“This is what you wanted,” you say, eyes filled with betrayal. “Am I going to die now, kepus?”

Your Grace…

He shakes his head, but he is no fool. You are too little to withstand the sheer volume of blood you have lost if the bedding is anything to go by. He feels it stain his legs. He feels it drying on his cock.

“Your Grace?”

“I will, though. I’m too young. You’ve killed me.” The babe begins to suckle, and you cry harder. Your body isn’t built for this task, not yet, not like this. He wants to protest, to tell you that this is not his work, cannot be, for he has and would never do something so foul, so wholly inhuman, that the you he has gotten with child has only ever been a woman grown, but it is like you know his thoughts for you scoff and say, “You’re lying to yourself. I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He stares down at you, immobile, unable to even think. The metallic scent of your life leaving you fills the air, floods his nostrils with stinging heat.

“… Your Grace?”

Daemon jolts, blinking. Ser Simon Strong looks back at him. “Is the duck not to your liking, Your Grace?”

All at once, you are gone. The king’s chambers are gone. He is not even within his dank chambers at Harrenhal. Instead, he sits at the table in what passes for the dining hall here, a plate full of food steaming before him. The smell makes him ill.

“There’s also goose, if you’d prefer…”

He swallows, trying to ground himself in the present. Voices waft all around him, but he finds it difficult to pay attention.

“I’m not hungry,” he says shortly. It sounds stronger than he feels.

A pause, and then—

Simon clears his throat, turning to his companions. “I was saying, given the rather dire news…”

Daemon tries to concentrate. He does. He knows the others are speaking of matters of utmost importance. Of  Rook’s Rest, of his nephew, of the war. But his mind can only turn over his encounter—his vision? His nightmare? Or is it merely truth finally unveiled to unworthy eyes?—with you, the last of your words haunting him near to madness.

“I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He has grown restless here, revolving between the frustration of securing an army from those who see naught in him but the very worst and the torment of these terrible visions that seek him out at their pleasure, heedless of his duty or desire. Tedium or terror—when he is entrenched in one, he wishes for the other, and there is always a sick sort of irony in the granting of said wishes. In truth, he is able enough to tolerate the resistance of these riverlanders, insulting as it is. The phantasms that pursue him have almost become too much to bear.

What is worse? The accusations from the mouth of a juvenile Rhaenyra, full of admonishments for the way he’d so thoroughly undermined her claim before she ever got the right to exercise it? The condemnations from Viserys, a retracing of steps trod so long ago, brought to life once more and forcing Daemon to relive the very worst of his brother? The boy’s laughter darting through the stone halls, an ominous prelude to the sickening sound of steel sawing through skin and the rolling of his head, landing always at the feet of the one responsible for his fate?

They are all bad enough as they are, but for the simple fact that they do not surprise him. Monster, they call him, and he wears the name well. In most all aspects, he is a monster. But never has he thought himself monstrous to you.

He has come to despise the sight of you here, sometimes docile and worshipful, sometimes angered and raving. Sometimes you appear as a siren come to lure him to iniquity, and like a fool he always falls into the trap. Other times, you are battered, caged, a shell of yourself. No matter how it begins, the end is always the same: bloodied, beaten, fading from the world, and it is always his hands he finds the cause of it in. A new reminder every time of all the ways he has thought of taking you, owning you, keeping you. Always, he thinks to save you—to protect you. Always, he destroys you.

Just as he thinks himself finally driven to the edge of all reason, the Rivers woman beckons him to the godswood.

“When you came here,” she says, “you were a closed fist. You wished to bend the world to your will. But you’ve discovered, I think, that… this world will not be governed. There are omens here for those who seek them.”

She pauses. The air seems to whisper, to creak in the dark. Daemon suppresses the urge to shiver. Her eyes move to him, an odd little quirk to her mouth. Amusement, he thinks. Or pity.

“You do not scoff?” she asks.

How can he, after all he has seen here? He has been brought to the very edge of sanity by these omens. What irony, it is, after the great complaints he has made of superstition in past weeks (and months, and years).

“I’m no longer inclined to,” is his short reply.

She laughs. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

She stops before the heart tree and turns to him, expression solemn.

“Do you wish, then, to learn what is given to you?” The answer must lie in his face, for he cannot do anything but stare, silent, tense. “All your life, you have sought to command your own fate”—she takes his hand—“but today, you are ready.”

Gentle pressure at his wrist, and something in him knows to move past her, to take those final few steps so that he is close enough to make out the details of the face carved into the wood. His arm raises by itself, acting on its own power, or perhaps some higher power, his fingers brushing bark and the hot pulse of… blood? But he has no time to truly question it for—

He is flying—

No—

He is a raven, staring at the face of a pale-haired man with a wine-dark stain on his face and he flies into the forest, towards an army, only there is something wrong with the soldiers, they are blue and their eyes glow ice-cold and their breath is frosted with death and their bodies carry the look of corpses stood upright once more—

And then the dragons are dead, all of them, the ground wet not with water but with blood and he walks through it, falls straight into the ground and he is drowning, steel plate armour dragging him down into the depths and he looks up at the sky—

A red comet bursts through the air, hot like fire, and he sees eggs embroiled in flame, a girl sat in ash cradling the bodies of three newly-hatched dragons, a whisper of a memory on the air, “we are the only ones able to bring the fire to life… It is the secret”—

And he is before the Iron Throne, suddenly silent.

Rhaenyra stands before the seat. Viserys’s crown is in his hands. She moves toward him, down the stairs of the throne. He hears her speak.

“From my blood…”

But she does not finish. A roaring conflagration engulfs her and she screams, twisting and warping before him, burning, only not, because you step from the flames, unburnt, voice mingling with that of your sister’s, a haunting echo.

“… come the Prince Who Was Promised…”

You are before him, taking the crown from his grasp and retracing the steps your sister took, and then you are stepping over a charred body, Rhaenyra, oh gods, and ascending the steps. You sit. You lift the crown. You place it on your head.

“… and his shall be the song of ice and fire.”

He is on his knees now, right on that final step at your feet. He feels the warmth of you as you bend forward, your palm caressing his jaw. You look otherworldly in the shadow, backlit silver and gold and wearing a king’s accoutrements far better than any of your predecessors.

“You know what must happen now, Uncle,” you say gently, kindly. “You know what you must do.”

He bows his head to kiss your ring—the seal of the king��no, the queen—and then wind is whistling in his ears, chilling him to the bone and spraying his hair about wildly, so much so that he can barely hear the words yelled at him by the boy sitting astride Vhagar.

“You have lived too long, nuncle.”

—and he wrenches away, panting, body collapsing before the heart tree like a puppet with its strings cut. The world comes back to him in fragments: the scent of dirt and woodlands, the sharp sting of cold, the ache in his muscles that has since settled like sludge at the bottom of a river, ever-present and persisting. Finally, finally, he withdraws with hands washed clean, free of his many sins.

At last, he has come to the crux of it. At last, he understands.

He sits at the base of the tree, stunned and overcome, as faint words slither on the breeze, a final knell from the liminal space of prophecy. Your name. A cheer.

“Long live the queen! Long live the queen!”

Read on AO3:

Taglist:

Now in the comments!

To be on the taglist:

Click here to apply for the general taglist! Click here to apply for the terms of endearment taglist!

[cyberdragoninfinity]

Hm, I see you like yuri and aporia quite a bit.. :3 how do you think they'd react to each other? (It can be in your au too if you want :33)

The boy has eyes like a greedy dragon and a smile like a maddened cannibal as he examines Aporia's claws with delighted fascination. "So this is what it looks like to become one." The smile grows wider, hungrier. "We really are the same."

"I fail to see the similarity." Aporia huffs, recoiling his hand. The child simply snickers in reply, disappearing into the tangled curtain of wires and cables plugged into his back and arm ports. He reemerges a moment later on the other side, having to crane his neck to meet Aporia's gaze, even with the great and powerful Embodiment of Despair sitting ever so gingerly on the ground.

"Then maybe you should look harder, Aporia. We may as well be twins!" says the boy, leaning against Aporia's knee and giving him a fiendish little grin. "Metaphorically speaking, of course. We've both been parts of a whole, haven't we? Well, I suppose I still am, unfortunately I'm still trying to collect all of my pieces, but you… you did it. You reunited as one and unlocked your true power. I have to admire the efficiency! You make it look so easy." His smile twitches, sliding into a grimace as he glances at the cables and cords around them. "I would admire the rejection of humanity too, if you weren't so dedicated to being a machine." A disgusted sniff. "Why on earth would you want to become some cold metal Thing when you could just embrace your divine flesh and become a creature of true organic destruction instead?"

Aporia narrows his eyes. "You cannot fathom the divine touch that's had its hand in making me," he rumbles, a warning tone. "A holy machine is an existence beyond your very comprehension, little one. I exist unbound by useless, distracting emotions; I have no need to be a slave to things like your juvenile yearning for chaos and destruction!"

That earns him a nasty little glare. "Come now. My name is Yuri."

Something flickers in the corner of Aporia's mind. He pushes it back, hastily. Leans down as much as he can to bare his ever-sharp fangs at the boy. "Hmph. Another thing then, Yuri--you and I are nothing alike. Our goals and situations are night and day." He speaks slowly, syllables taking a particularly prickly edge. "The Three Emperors of Iliaster were made to become me. They're androids. They were built from my despair, built with reunification intended… and I stand as the sum of their parts. They merged into one by their own accord, for the good of completing the Circuit and saving the future. It was their decision. They wanted it."

Yuri matches his bared teeth with the lazy glint of his own devilish fangs. "And you think we don't?" he purrs. "Please. I know how badly the others are yearning to be one. They're desperate for it! I'm just the only piece ambitious enough to make it happen."

"Ambitious." Aporia snorts. Ambitious the way a vampire sinks its teeth into your neck, sure. "Perhaps that's the crux of how we differ, Yuri. My pieces weren't hunting each other."

"My, my. That's an awfully accusatory tone you're taking."

Aporia has had enough feelings for ten lifetimes. A hundred, even. His Z-one crafted mechanical makeup dutifully seals every distracting, useless emotion away, at his own insistence. And yet he's all too aware of something very close to frustration digging its barbs into his brain. Dancing around with that flickering something that's refusing to stay out of sight out of mind. "The Emperors are… were… a unit. A shared existence. Allow me to point out that you and all of your pieces have your own separate lives. Had, I should say. And it seems you won't rest until you've ensured the complete and utter ego death of every last one of them." He sits back, letting cables slacken. Hums. "My pieces weren't so eager to annihilate one another."

"Oh? Then why don't they come out to play?" Yuri quirks the second most ridiculous eyebrow in the room. "Ah, that's right, they can't! They don't exist anymore! Not in a way that matters, anyway. It's just you now, isn't it?" He purses his lips, smirks. "So presumptuous of you, old man. Acting like I'm the only one here annihilating people. Though I suppose "people" is hardly an applicable term, in your case."

Aporia clenches his jaw. "That's completely different."

"So you agree then? That your little--what did you call them? Emperors? How adorable--you agree that they aren't people." That increasingly irritating smile splits into a vividly vicious grin. "Just spare parts necessary to becoming whole. They may as well be gears and screws." A giggle, starting small then blooming into a full blown cackle. "Though I guess they already are!"

"Enough!" Aporia bellows, snaps forward to swat Yuri away like a meddlesome housefly. He ducks out of reach, though, nimbly grabbing hold of a particularly thick braid of wires and shimmying up it like a climbing rope. With a pounce he lands on one of Aporia's pauldrons, still laughing as he settles into a precarious crouch.

"Awfully cranky for a so-called emotionless machine, aren't you?" Yuri snickers. "Admit it, we're far more alike than different! All I've done is just accelerate the same process you went through. You wiped your Emperors from existence to become yourself again, and when I absorb my last two stray fragments, well, then it will be my turn." His turn to hum now, as he admires his nails with a thoughtful frown. "Honestly, why bother dying on such a morally righteous hill over something that's such a simple matter, anyway? It's just mutual exclusivity! Our pieces weren't born--ahah, created, to be separate forever, don't kid yourself. We've always been the ultimate end goal."

His gaze snaps up, meets Aporia's scowl with snake-split pupils. "And the only way our lives get to truly flourish is if theirs reach an end." Something wicked sparks in those violet, inhuman eyes. "But I think you know that. Don't you, Aporia?"

What a truly… aggravating little insect. So adamant, so filled to the brim with blistering venom and malicious glee. Clinging to arrogance a little too tight, like a shaky hand grips a rapier. This boy with a truly nasty smile and an even nastier laugh.

It would be clawing its way through Aporia's emotionless walls, lighting a flame of exasperated fury inside him right now, if it wasn't so familiar.

Isn't this precisely what you would do, if you were that age again? Postured, plotted, picked at sore spots, just to see a reaction? Fought feverishly with any adult who'd dare try to argue with you? Defended your choices, one of the few things left still well and truly your own?

For a moment as Aporia stares Yuri down he can almost see a flicker of long red hair, a wild, gleaming green eye. It's all certainly what Lucciano would do, isn't it? Right down to the hysterical madman cackle. If he focuses, Aporia can access every inch of his components' memories within his circuits and systems, see all of the child Emperor's schemes and outbursts and chaotic leanings. And while Lucciano was a despair-driven, exaggerated facsimile of his childhood, Aporia needs only glance at those memories for mere seconds to see the true shades of himself within them, the lonely child from a future he now hopes will never come to pass. The lonely child who screamed and sobbed and lost the ones who loved him most. The lonely child who never truly stopped being afraid.

It's like gazing at a painting and all at once understanding it, suddenly seeing the 'how' and 'why' in every brushstroke. The despair of losing those who love you… maybe Yuri was spared such grief. Maybe he wasn't. Either way, Aporia can't fight the pang of sympathy that awakens and pushes through the cracks in his "emotionless" walls.

He's just a kid.

With a sigh, Aporia shifts, an uneven motion that almost-but-not-quite shakes Yuri off his shoulder. "I do admit," he says finally, slowly, "If I was the more foolish sort, I would almost believe your vicious resolve about all of this was quite the display of compensation."

That rattles Yuri out of his self-satisfied staredown. "What--!" he spits, bristling like a particularly ornery purple cat. "What are you getting at? I'm not compensating for anything, you miserable bag of bolts!"

Aporia doesn't flinch. Just sits, watches him.

An uncharacteristic redness creeps onto Yuri's face. He crinkles his nose, bares his teeth, before the thickening silence can grow too great. "Answer me!"

"Mm. It's nothing important. You simply remind me of someone." Aporia looks away, diverts his attention to the thick braids of wires plugged into his arm. Runs the back of his claws along their dull sheen. "He spent a very long time being scared and alone, too."

"Hah!" The laugh is high and loud and knifepoint dangerous. "And just what is that supposed to mean? Do you think I'm some sniveling little scared-of-the-dark toddler? Shaking in my boots, trying to hide behind my other pieces, so the big bad monsters don't get me? Please! I am the monster, Aporia. And I am not scared."

Aporia slowly turns his head to look back at Yuri. He can almost feel a pitiful smile playing at his lips. "You admit to the loneliness, then."

The glower he receives in response could burn a wheat field to cinders, but Aporia's mechanical senses are too fine-tuned to miss what comes before: a single split second of eyes going wide, mouth twitching into a mortified wince. A child caught with a thieving hand deep in the cookie jar. Aporia's turn to prod at a nerve, it seems.

It still comes so naturally to him after all.

"Hmph. Perhaps placing my admiration in you was a very stupid mistake." Yuri hisses finally. He tears his sour gaze away and, quick as a viper's strike, leaps from Aporia's shoulder back to the ground, cape fluttering behind him. "Fine! Stay on your high horse. I don't care." He turns, flashes a mean, toothy smile. "Just remember which of us obliterated more souls to be here." The smile quivers, coils once more into a grin just short of diabolical. "If we want to count machines as having souls, anyway. But, ah! That's a moral quandary for another time. Either way, hopefully I'll be matching your record soon!"

Yuri crows and cackles like it's the funniest joke in the world, and the wires and hardware that were once Lucciano thrum with a wave of kinship so strong it nearly re-acquaints Aporia with nausea.

"Ahh, well, anyway. This has been oh so… fun," Yuri's lip curls with disdain. "But I really must be going. I am terribly busy, after all. Do think of me when the world's in ruins soon, won't you?" His eyes cut one last noxious pink inspection over Aporia's hulking form, and he smiles almost sweetly. "Enjoy your rust. Ta ta!"

Then, with a flick of his wrist and a flourish of his cape, the boy is gone, turning on his heel and marching off to God-knows-where to do God-knows-what. Aporia sits in the silence of his cord and cable jungle for a moment, letting their charge course through his inner mechanisms, his beautiful heaven-touched form. He sighs again. Of course it's a fool's errand to get Yuri to see their differences, to understand the merits of shedding the human for the powerful and perfect machine. He knows the adamancy in one's opinion only a child can hold with such vicious gusto. Sometimes it's truly the only thing you have, at that age.

Somewhere inside him a child who will never exist again yearns for a friendship that will never be, and Aporia can't help but wish Yuri a safer, better future than he himself will ever know.

((WOW I AM SO SORRY THAT THIS TOOK LITERALLY LIKE 3 MONTHS TO GET TO, ANON i got so inspired by this i ran off into the woods and had to write a fic about it. :,)

I loooved loved loved thinking about the way these two Certified Danaguys would react to each other... the fact that theyre honestly kind of similar is making me a little sick in the head i must say. something something reuniting into one, embracing a divine individual identity (in organic and mechanical flavors,) plant vines vs power cables... never mind the fact lesterlucciano and yuri are definitely the same breed of sadistic cackling 12-14 year old little fucker and would probably get along like a house on fire.

there's a bit in tag force 6 on Aporia's route, where he comments on how he never got to have a normal childhood/play with other kids growing up, and how lucciano has that same desperate aching for connection with other people. i just definitely think he'd be able to see a similar loneliness in Yuri too, past the nasty venom. traumatized child recognizing traumatized child Big and a Lot. wahhh

tysm for this ask! got me writing again which is a big deal for me :3

(meanwhile in kansas au i think they would lock eyes at the beauty supply store when yuri is shoplifting mascara. aporia wont snitch tho <3)))

[arcielee]

dōna riña

Summary: You are enraptured by the prince and princess.  Paring: Daemon Targaryen x Rhaenyra Targaryen x Female!Reader Word Count: 2053 Warnings: Kissing, fingering, oral (female receiving). 18+, MINORS DNI. Author’s Note: Thank you to @aspen-carter​ for being my beta reader. Her stories are amazing, so go and enjoy her work! This is one of the poll options and it didn’t win, but I couldn’t help but write this anyway. I was inspired by @sapphire-writes​ (The Au Pair) pieces they have been working on and it literally would not leave my brain alone. Anyway, this is dedicated to @howyouloveyourdragon and @evattude for voting on this in that poll ♥ Italics are High Valyrian.  Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel 

The prince and the princess as newlyweds were insatiable, by all accounts.

The chamberlain of Dragonstone had advised to allow the space their unbound passion ceaselessly demanded, as their fervent dam broke and the outpour spilled into every corner, every crevice of the castle.

Rhaenyra had a shyness at first, with her cheeks pink from the salacious affection from her new husband and her whispered plea to take her to the marital bed, but Daemon would not be abated. The staff learned to recognize the lingering, lustful gaze of the Rogue Prince and would be quick to clear the room.  

While the others scurried away from the fire that bloomed between these two dragons, you could not help but be drawn to their flame, with an awe that radiated from your face whenever you caught sight of their fervor. You dared allow your eyes to dawdle past what was deemed appropriate for your station, just captivated by their beauty and mesmerized by their actions towards one another, the intimacy of their touch and the beauty of their old language that spilled from their lips in soft, honeyed tones. 

On this day, your steps were nimble towards their bedchamber with the clean bedclothes held against your chest. You had been informed that they were bathing, together of course, and it permitted a window of opportunity to tidy their quarters and change the linens. 

Inside the bedchamber, you saw the royal garments strewn across and the sheets bundled, with the musky scent of sweat and sex that was heavy in the air. You walked to draw the curtains aside, allowing the light and sea air to pass through; you then began to sort  the clothes and separate the ones that had been damaged with their removal and required mending and the ones that needed to be washed only. As you stripped the bed and gathered the soft silk, your eyes fluttered with the intoxicating smell of their lovemaking, and its potent smell made a warmth curl within your core. 

Gods, you sighed, setting the soiled linen on the velvet settee and began to place the fresh sheets. Your mind fluttered to another night when you had this same task and you had been late to come; your hands had trembled as you tried to tuck the corners, quickly, when the door had banged open. 

You had muffled a squeak, ducking behind the woven partition wall and peering carefully at the noise. 

It had been, of course, the prince and the princess, once again in an impassioned embrace and their lewd sounds filled the room; the suckling noises on the bare flesh from their ardent undressing. 

Your eyes widened as you watched them, your tongue wet your parted lips and you felt that same warmth, almost as ache to your core. You heard their hushed whispers exchanged between and your fingers began to trail your dress, dared to press over your clothed cunt and it caused the softest moan to spill. 

Everything stopped. 

The prince pulled away from Princess Rhaenyra, shirtless and flushed, with long strides to throw aside the partition and find you. You fell back, stumbling over the velvet stool and pressing yourself against the vanity. 

The fury etched on his brow lifted, aware that you were as white as his long tresses that spilled onto his shoulders. Behind him, you saw the princess move, who was still wearing her corset and shift, peering curiously. “What was she doing, husband?” She asked him in their foreign tongue.

“I believe we have a pervert amongst us,” he replied, a smirk on his lips. “I can smell her cunt from where I stand.”

You did not know what was being exchanged, you were only aware of the dark gaze of the prince in that moment; you fell forward, your knees bruising against the cobblestone. “My prince, my princess, forgive me,” you cried. “I was only changing the sheets and you…you startled me…and I…”

“Stop scaring her,” and the princess pressed from the bed, coming to your side with purposeful steps. “You may leave us,” she said to you, her voice sweet. 

Your eyes strained to focus on her, aware of how her nipples pebbled beneath her chemise; you focused on her blonde lashes, so light they seemed a golden halo around her lavender eyes that keenly watched your reaction. “Thank you, your grace,” you whispered and you were quick to leave. 

The days passed and reprimand never came from the chamberlain. You did not speak a word about the encounter, remaining dutiful to finish your chores assigned and trying to ease the small hitch of panic in your chest as you finished their bed. Your hands fluffed the feather pillows and your fingers traced the sheets, stopping at the edge to gather the old sheets and, before you could stop yourself, took a deep inhale of them.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

You jumped, the flutter of silk around you as you brought your arms sharp to your sides. You turned towards the voice and saw Prince Daemon Targaryen leaned against the doorframe, a smirk to his lips. 

You curtsy, your head bowed and your eyes bore into the silk spill on the cobblestone, unwilling to make eye contact. “My prince, forgive me,” you stammered for words, “I was only changing the sheets and I will be on my way-” 

“Must you frighten every handmaiden in Dragonstone?”

You had to look up, dared to turn towards the musical tone of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her silver curls were still damp at their ends, the wetness made them seem almost golden, and her skin was flushed pink, she was wearing only a chemise and no corset. Freshly washed, perhaps waiting for another one of the girls to help her dress but you knew they would not come unless summoned, unwillingly to disrupt them. 

“My princess,” you rasped.

“I believe this is the same handmaiden as before,” the prince responded and you saw how she tilted her head towards her husband, the curl of her pink lips to whatever he was saying to her. “I can smell her cunt from where I stand.”

The focus returned to you and you felt the burn in your cheeks from her gaze. “Indeed,” she murmured and began to walk towards you. 

You held your ground, eyes wide and forced yourself to swallow, but your throat was desperately dry. As she came closer, you cast your eyes downward and enjoyed the floral scent that wafted with her queenly presence. She leaned forward, her arms crossed behind her back and catching your eyes with her own lavender ones, with the same sweet or mischievous smile splayed on her face. “My dear girl,” her voice was low and sultry, her lilt clenched at your core. “You seem so very devoted to your queen to-be, is this correct?” 

You nodded your head quickly.

“And you would serve your queen however she requested?” 

“Of course,” you breathed, straightening to look at her. 

She hummed and pressed closer still, the warmth radiated from her and seemed to meld with the passion that churned in your lower abdomen. “Then allow me to kiss you.”

Your eyes widened still, your lips parted with shock and she gently cupped the back of your head, tilting her head and bringing her lips to touch yours. Her lips were soft and your hands trembled before they rested on her hips, your soft moan allowed her tongue to curl against your own with a languid pace to savor your taste. 

She pulled back and peered past you, only then did you remember that Prince Daemon was still present. You looked back at him, your pupils blown and your lips red, and he returned your gaze with a steely one, a fire burning behind his eyes as he moved towards you. 

The princess slipped her hand into your own, pulling you towards the bed you had just made and stopped to cup your cheeks, bringing your lips to hers again. 

You were bolder with your touch, one arm curling around her waist and pulling her closer against you, your other hand grabbed the back of her neck and your fingernails were gentle to scratch her skin. She almost purred in your mouth, her tongue running along your bottom lip before she nipped into it and broke away again.

You saw that the prince was laid across the bed and the princess pressed another quick kiss to your lips. “You may leave now and without any ill will,” she offered you an escape. “Or you may stay and serve your liege.”  

Your hands moved to untie your apron and the cotton fell to the floor; the princess smiled and helped with your laces until you both wore only your chemise, hers was silk and yours was cotton. 

She guided you to lay on the bed, until your back was pressed against Daemon, his bare chest warm on your backside, and you watched as Rhaenyra crawled onto the bed and towards you.

Your heart was aflutter from the soft touch of her hands on your thighs, her gentle nudge to spread your legs and you obliged her. There was a shiver of pleasure as her fingers traced the insides of your legs and you felt a shift behind you, the prince’s large hand grabbing the fabric and rucking it around your hips. 

The princess looked up through her lashes at you, her fingers slipping into your smallclothes and pulling them down; you lifted your hips so she could remove them, her exhale a tickle on your wet cunt. She watched you carefully for a moment and your own breath caught in your throat when she dipped forward, the touch of her tongue bloomed the blood to your cunt. 

You mewled pitiful from the sensation of her hot mouth, how it caused a blossom of pleasure that pulsated from your center and flittered to the ends of your begin, rushing back with each lap of her tongue. 

“She likes it,” the prince spoke, his low baritone reverberating against your back.

She stopped a moment, perhaps to respond but instead you leaned forward, capturing her mouth with your own with the desire to taste yourself on her lips. Her kiss was soft and warm, and her tongue gently flit across your upper life. “Lay back,” she breathed against your mouth and you felt the thick arm of the prince snake around your waist and pulled you back against him.

You gasped as she dipped forward again, her mouth pressing on the top of your slick folds; her quickened motion of her tongue against your pearl made you moan louder, your back arching against the prince. 

He hummed and his hold on your waist relaxed; the princess peered up towards him once more. “Will you help me, husband?”

You felt the warmth of his palm press against your stomach and move to rest above the patch of your pubic curls, his fingers traced your slit and then pressed against your nub. You jumped from his touch and his chin rested on your shoulder, his warm breath tickled your ear. 

Her hands gripped into the softness of your thigh to hold you still and you felt the sinful curl of her finger within you. 

Your cries grow wanton and she added a second finger to the sensual tactician against the sweet spot within you. “Do you like this, sweet girl?” She breathed into your cunt. 

“Y-yes, my princess,” you stammered.

The prince stopped his ministrations and brought his fingers as a sharp slap against your clit. You cried out, a mixture of pleasure and pain. “That is your queen.”

“Yes, my queen,” you corrected yourself, tears brimming the corners of your eyes. “Forgive me, my queen…” 

Your words trailed off as the first wave of pleasure began to crest, the simultaneous actions of both the prince and the princess brought your climax with a fury that drew the breath from your lungs, an anguished cry with your release. Your gaze fell towards the princess, who withdrew her fingers and brought them to her lips; you were enchanted by her perfect pink tongue that curled around her digits. 

She smiled at you, still sweet, still mischievous, and all she said is, “Good girl.”

[buckets-and-trees]

I read a lot of incredible fics in 2023, but these were the ones that blew me away beyond anything:

ASPEN'S FAVORITE READS 2023

Ted Lasso x Reader

Victory Lap by @ozarkthedog

Max Burnett x Reader x Nick Fowler

The Truth Will Set You Free and Reluctant by @navybrat817/Navy

Andy Barber & Ari Levinson & Ransom Drysdale & Nick Fowler & Steve Kemp x Female Reader

Giving Your Body and Soul to the Warlocks by @witchywithwhiskey

Nick Fowler x Reader

Home is a Heavy Heart by @sunshinebuckybarnes Partners in Crime by Navy Anew by Elsie Taking Care by @nickfowlerrr Clockwork AU by @sgt-seabass (plus many other characters) Sweet and Stained by @biteofcherry/Eva See Through You by Navy

Ari Levinson x Reader

Sweet Thrill by Navy Good With All Three by @blackleatherjacketz Down Again by Navy In a Field of Wildflowers with Ari by Eva Bartender FWB Ari series by @ghotifishreads +can we keep moving in the after hours? +domestic husband+Jukebox Jonesing+horny Monday to pining+make outs and more Yours to Have by Eva

M'Baku x Reader

From On High @boxofbonesfic

Curtis Everett x Reader

Sacred Hunt by Navy Branded by @stargazingfangirl18 Fulfilled by @stargazingfangirl18 The Fabric of Your Flesh by @ghotifishreads

Natasha Romanov x Bucky Barnes

Over and Over and Over Again by @drabbles-mc

Steve Rogers x Reader

Heat Inducing by Navy Make the Dust Fly by Eva A Deal with the Devil Comes with Wicked Strings by Molly Touch the Darkness by Eva A Shelter in the Storm by Molly Captain America's Sweetheart by @vonalyn And All Was Lost by Molly

Stucky

Timeless Desires by @smutconnoisseur

Stucky x Reader

A Monster, A Captain, and A Soldier by Molly

Bucky Barnes x Reader

To the Rescue by @ghostofskywalker Shatter by Navy Hot Girl Shit by @awake-dearheart You Don't Own Me by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky Send Me an Angel by Navy Tired Eyes by @lovelybarnes Bring Your Wife to Work Day by Elsie My Queen by @adrinktostopyourthirst Single Mom Reader by @buckyalpine Two Sides of the Same Coin by Navy Alcohol You Later by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky Hellfire, Take My Soul by @rookthorne A Tide of War and Broken Dreams by @sgt-seabass Metal Arm Kink by @adrinktostopyourthirst Lachrymose by @rookthorne Soft/Emotive Sex with Bucky by @adrinktostopyourthirst Warrior/Worrier by @delaber The Pineapple Contract by @buckyismybicycle Bucky with a virgin reader by Eva You Belong to Me, I Belong to You series by Molly drabble by @vonalyn Rooted in Love by @jobean12-blog Love in Bloom by Jo That's the Way Love Goes by Jo Unbound by You by @vonalyn Codename: Lazarus series by @sagechanoafterdark Halloween is the Perfect Time for Tricks–and Treats by Molly Missing You by @nickfowlerrr

[ariel-seagull-wings]

C'EST MOI

@thealmightyemprex @a-roguish-gambit @themousefromfantasyland

Gambit:

Camelot Camelot In far-off France I heard your call Camelot Camelot And here am I to give my all I know in my soul what you expect of me And all that and more I shall be A knight of the Table Round should be invincible Succeed where a less fantastic man would fail Climb a wall no one else can climb Cleave a dragon in record time Swim a moat in a coat of heavy iron mail No matter the pain he ought to be invincible Impossible deeds should be his daily fare But where in the world Is there in the world A man so extraordinaire? C'est moi C'est moi I'm forced to admit 'Tis I I humbly reply That mortal who These marvels can do C'est moi c'est moi 'tis I I've never lost In battle or game I'm simply the best by far When swords are crossed 'Tis always the same One blow and au revoir C'est moi C'est moi So admirably fit A French Prometheus unbound And here I stand with valour untold Exceptionally brave amazingly bold To serve at the Table Round The soul of a knight should be a thing remarkable His heart and his mind as pure as morning dew With a will and a self-restraint That's the envy of every saint He could easily work a miracle or two To love and desire he ought to be unsparkable The ways of the flesh should offer no allure But where in the world Is there in the world A man so untouched and pure? (C'est moi) C'est moi C'est moi I blush to disclose I'm far too noble to lie That man in whom These qualities bloom C'est moi c'est moi 'tis I I've never strayed From all I believe I'm blessed with an iron will Had I been made The partner of Eve We'd be in Eden still C'est moi C'est moi The angels have chose To fight their battles below And here I stand as pure as a prayer Incredibly clean with virtue to spare The godliest man I know C'est moi

[scraps-n-starters]

Au I'm probably not gonna write but oof.

So BSD Arahabaki is sometimes picked up as a "Chaos god" by fandom, it's fun, it's great

What if there was a matched god of order? Because all the best chaos comes from order torn apart, because to build something sometimes you must break it first

Maybe a god of predictable tides and neatly formed snowflakes, pin straight weft lines and tall reaching bamboo shoots, golden veins of lacquer laid with care

An amused little thing with a penchant for calming their partner when they get out of hand or winding them up to new levels for rage, who when their love gets tangled in the soul of one stubborn brat with a fondness for Order (as if he himself had never shattered something just to watch her find peace in putting it back together)

well. Maybe she'd find her own host. A viciously clever little thing with a taste for Chaos.

A Human hand never could contain a God's Wrath alone. But a God's lover, one a Deity of their own right, however bound in human flesh? Well. She'd just have to work with her own little playmate

(Dazai with a matching God under his skin who refuses to let his soul come unbound without her husband set loose as well. Bound literally by "as long as you both shall live", one cannot pass without the other)

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

Omfg, Zoroark Lewis!! And Arthur working for Emmet as a depot agent who still lost his arm somehow?! Who is an enabler encouraging Arthur's probably sleep deprived plan, of course, but only if he can go too. He has a lot of vacation time saved up, it's fine, and he trusts his other depot agents to keep things running smoothly while he's gone. Listen, he's been a good, responsible adult for however long Ingo has been missing, he deserves to get to do a few crazy as shit things like punching a hole through time with a train, as a treat. Plus he... probably shouldn't let Arthur go alone if he's still fucked up enough over losing his arm that he can't work. I'm just imagining Arthur driving the train down the mountain the same way he does that hill in Hellbent, just like screaming the whole way down until he finally crashes into something, but worse because he only has one arm, is intensely sleep deprived, and is probably on some pretty intense pain killers.

Wait wait, no, before my brain runs away with this more, tell me what other ideas this crossover idea already has. I think this au conception was before I started following you, so I don't know if it's been fleshed out at all. I have Questions about how, for example, Arthur lost his arm, and how Lewis wound up in the past but still died with a grudge against Arthur, and if Vivi has amnesia here, etc.

qhjqhjk ok honestly the au is very vague right now, in that i have some hazy ideas but i'm not sold on them and could go another way if we think of something better. but anyway

so right now i think all the riftnappings happened at once? like, ingo vivi and lewis were all in the same place for Reasons and all of them got yoinked. and this was probably possessed-arthur's fault since yeah lewis still hates him. probably the fall killed lewis but the others survived? the alternative is that vivi was taken later in the same way the protagonist is. either way i think yes to vivi amnesia bc she idolizes her ancestor so otherwise shed get a lot of spoilers out the gate (since mushi (the original one) is the hero of legend)

another thing i pitched re: how they even wound up in the past is that arthur is volo's descendant, and as such is a vulnerable point for giratina to exploit. i think giratina mostly just wanted vivi, but the other two got caught in the crossfire

IF mystery is vivi's partner and not a thing from the past (which was another pitch earlier), i think he looks like a weird hybrid vulpix but is Not a vulpix and can still do the transformation thing. like a hoopa confined/unbound situation. however giratina possession is also probably not, like, arm based, so maybe he grabbed arthur's arm in his teeth while falling? (if that happened, you get the bonus that even if mystery would have form shifted he still arrived in hisui with a mouth full of blood and someone's fucking arm and it's like. he's very small now but that's not exactly a recipe for trust)

now i'm just like. going on. but also i think lewis is sort of unique as a zoroark in that 95% of the time he's very chill unless he has to remember arthur for some reason. normally zoroark are consistently vicious and humanity-hating but lewis is just a nice young man if you ignore the fire-breathing anger about That One Guy (who doesn't seem to actually exist as far as anyone can tell.) this i think is bc most zoroark were abandoned by humanity sort of comprehensively, and were made to feel entirely alone and rejected, whereas lewis has no problem with most of humanity but his betrayal over arthur was just so intense that he came back as a zorua anyway.

anyway yeah jlskjsklj part of emmet's reasoning is also that like. if he made it all the way over to the station in the first place he's probably not going to like. Stop. he's gonna do the inadvisable wormhole thing one way or another and at least this way he's sort of supervised. but yes mostly he's just also really on board with the idea himself. and also yes re: the train going down the mountain like the van in hellbent, except that i think emmet's driving.

also i think THEY keep their memories, maybe arthur put some kind of protective barrier together or it's just a matter of the actual physical train walls or whatever.

the final note is that despite ingo and vivi having amnesia and all that, a lot of people know arthur's name in hisui. except, of course, they know him via lewis, so most of their understanding of him is that he's an evil, murderous, two-faced scumbag with no morals and the blood of at least one good man on his hands. which makes for a fun time when arthur chats with people for a while and then finally introduces himself

[veraynes-blog]

7, 17, and 25

7. Any worldbuilding you’re particularly proud of?

Hmm, I'm not sure I do a whole lot of worldbuilding in many of my fics tbh. 😅 Of the stories posted in the last few years, I guess Unbound took the most researching of the time period and has the most OCs in it, if that counts. But for real, in-depth worldbuilding, I think I'd have to point to an old discontinued fic, Shatter. I put so much effort into fleshing out the ST mirror 'verse and various settings.

17. What highly specific AU do you want to read or write even though you might be the only person to appreciate it?

Well, I was going to repeat my usual 'High school teacher Ten/politician Harold Saxon' AU as the traditional answer I give to this question in the vain hope someone (not me) will write it... but I guess I'm now kind of writing a version of it with the John Smith AU. Huh. 🤔

In that case, I would love more of the recently-possible Fourteen/Simm!Master AUs I've started to see! Saxteen FTW 🥰

25. What other websites or resources do you use most often when you write?

I end up on the Doctor Who wiki a lot, naturally. Online thesauruses and dictionary definitions for the truly humbling amount of common words I have to check. YouTube as a last resort for researching anything practical (like how one would reload an early 20th century revolver and what all the parts are called, off the top of my head...). And I use a free word processor/organiser tool called yWriter which I love but is very different from the typical document software.

Thank you for asking! 😊

[human-antithesis]

Ævangelist - Threshold of the Miraculous

gazing upon eternity made manifest I am traveler wearied by wounds sustained in apotheotic congress with the infinite itself I stumble west to find emptiness and my rotten soulstrands seek the grave spiritual failures

I am sole divinity in this unmade world my suppurating gashes pour out existence I selfdesecrate through unritualized seeping degradation and humiliation

'a la nue accablante tu //Stéphane Mallarmé - untitled sonnet basse de basalte et de laves a meme les echos esclaves par une trompe sans vertu'

whispers crowd around the darkness draped in shades of emitting divinity I am alone and the skies shiver beneath the weight of the lash which sustains me the thing which I swing on is dust the voice I remember can't contain this and the void is my master beneath me to writhe la que de mon coeur depend //Walt Whitman - Song of Myself c'est le demon ancestrale de la monde nos illusions ont l'envergure de Dieu dans l'obliquite de nos batiments

he comes beneath me in the dark my memory shakes and I am lost the endless emptiness is full rotted spirits ascend and corporealize don't look for me beneath them //Walt Whitman - Song of Myself remember that I am your god my wings are reality and you are my spark eternity depends on this bow down and pray bow down and pray

shedding diamonds like blood //Albert Giraud - "Pierrot voleur" perfection the endless twist in my unfelt glory the wings of creation the birth of the night and the day I despise all I care for is the blessing of human failure reflecting my own you are made in my image //Genesis 1:27

eternity depends on this bow down and pray to me eternity depends on this bow down and pray

children we seek in the void have spirits that demand my touch I will tear their flesh from my being I will crush them beneath me within the crimson of my solace unbound eyes blister and souls unravel who shall stand the day of my coming //Malachi 3:2 for I am like a refiner's fire

eternity depends on this eternity depends on this eternity depends on this bow down and pray

I am endlessness and beauty I am glory for the unmade god I am the beast that is indulgence I am the ascetic longing for nothing deny the flesh and succumb to god

eternity depends on this bow down and pray to me eternity depends on this bow down and pray

I am sole divinity in this unmade world my suppurating gashes pour out existence I selfdesecrate through unritualized seeping degradation and humiliation I exist on the threshold of the miraculous I am the thing that begins the end that which I swing on is ineffable //Walt Whitman - Song of Myself I am sine qua non I am the inception I am the downfall children we seek in the void have spirits that demand my touch I will tear their flesh from my being I will crush them beneath me within the crimson of my solace unbound eyes blister and souls unravel who shall stand the day of my coming //Malachi 3:2 for I am like a refiner's fire

[toh-unbounded-flesh-au]

THE OWL HOUSE

UNBOUNDED FLESH AU

Somethings different... au info :]

[brightgoat]

Pro. Soc. greenhouse concept art

[indiaalphawhiskey]

Escaping Eden | Dark Soulmate AU

this sounds like my next obsession, can i pretty please have more thank you my queen

But of course! 😘

🦚 Escaping Eden

Of course Louis’ match was the heart of his five-year op – the center, the star, the Nicole fucking Kidman of an international harem – because when did anything at MI6 ever go according to bloody plan?

The sight he was met with pulled a quiet, breathless ‘fuck’ from his throat. There, on simple, white sheets, a man lay sleeping. Unlike the others, his wrists were unbound, his hands tucked sweetly between his cheek and the pillow. Artificial moonlight poured over his form, little beams and slivers glittering where they weaved themselves into the rich brown of his curls. A tender pink flush dusted the tops of his cheekbones, marring the creamy skin where it met the edge of his black blindfold.

Louis let his eyes rove freely across his features, counting each gentle ebb and flow of breath that passed between those startlingly plump lips.

Unconsciously, his gaze drifted; skittered down crests, and cusps, and curves. Louis’ eyes followed them devotedly, from the tops of his shoulders, down the soft line of his spine; watched them dip and then rise up, up, up the swell of the sweetest little arse Louis had ever seen – bouncy, milky, flesh encased in sheer, lavender panties that were peppered with tiny, tiny hearts. Without warning, the captivating vision in front Louis began to go soft at the edges, an entirely different kind of fantasy coming to life in his mind.

In this one, this beautiful boy had waited for him faithfully all night, poised and perfect, until he finally succumbed to sleep. His sweet figure now lay peaceful and vulnerable against familiar sheets that were worn with use; his nose pressed gently into a pillow that smelled faintly of shampoo and of home.

Louis felt himself melt slightly at the thought, at this glimpse of the simple reality he secretly longed for. His heart skipped two beats in rapid succession as his eyes drank in Sparrow’s uniquely humble pose. There was a virginal obedience about him that was both innocent and maddeningly obscene – an allure that hinted it could exist both in this den of temptation, and out of it, in the world Louis really lived.

A million words came to Louis’ mind, then – words only attributed to galaxies and planets, to heavenly bodies, to realities that were so breathtaking, their existence was miracle enough.

Exquisite. Ethereal. Divine and delicate. They echoed in Louis’ head, overwhelming him. For the first time that night, he felt his staunch composure being pulled apart, replaced with an irrational, urgent need to be close, to reach out, to touch this stranger.

He excused his sudden weakness by telling himself it was strictly scientific – that he needed to make contact to ground himself, lest he be drowned by the night’s illusions. And so, he sat on the bed as carefully as he could manage, and ran his thumb tenderly down Sparrow’s cheek and across his bottom lip. He felt his breath catch at the contact, a part of him surprised that Sparrow’s form didn’t just fade away.

Louis took a beat to recover, and then pressed down gently on the plump, pink flesh. He stared, transfixed, as Sparrow stirred slowly, exactly as though Louis had roused him from sleep. The cotton on the pillow shifted slightly with the drowsy lift of his head, and his lips pursed purposefully to leave a kiss on the pad of Louis’ thumb.

Louis’ eyes widened in surprise and he barely managed to swallow his gasp, his hand frozen where it hovered, still touching Sparrow’s lips. He felt it on his skin when Sparrow let out a warm breath, felt like he could caress the words he spoke as they danced off his tongue. “I’ve been waiting for you,” Sparrow admitted, with a breathy, dreamy moan.

It was said so softy that a gust of wind could have carried it away.

I’ve been waiting for you.

At first, the words were tender as they echoed in Louis’ mind, warm and strangely familiar. They seemed to tug gently at his memory, pulling his consciousness through thick, syrupy fog towards… something. And then it clicked, and all at once, the world around him shattered.

He snatched his hand away from Sparrow’s lips like he had touched an open flame – an apt description, considering the way the skin on his thigh was searing with heat.

He clutched at it now like an open stab wound he desperately had to stop from bleeding out, only it was worse.

No, he prayed. Please, no.

But even as he thought it, the cursive letters formed in his mind, clear and sharp. How could they not, when he had them memorized? He could forge them perfectly, had spent his youth tracing and re-tracing them, down to the subtle way the ‘y’ crooked left ever so slightly.

His mark.

[littlefreya]

Bark at the Moon

Summary: Walter always comes to you when he needs a hard release. Tonight he seems to need it more than ever.

Pairing: Werewolf!Walter Marshall x Female Reader 

Word count: 2K (WTF it was supposed to be a drabble)

Warnings: 18+, sex, lycanthropy, supernatural themes, no strings attached, vaginal fingering, oral performed on female, primal play (slight biting and scratching), cockwarming, slight denial, angst, fluff and romance.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own

A/N: Not me naming my AUs after Ozzy Osbourne songs/albums. Following my post from October I am trying to follow up. This one-shot is also inspired by A Company of Wolves and @fishcustardandclintbarton​ moodboard. Many thanks to my beta and muse and dear friend @agniavateira​ for all the help. 

Please reblog and comment if you enjoyed 🖤

Title: Bark at the Moon

Muddy Timberlands dragged across the worn doormat as the large detective sought to rid himself of the dirt caking his soles. Black and soft, the dark mane of curls hung loosely above his forehead, a pale blue sheen cascading over each ringlet that concealed his face while he kicked his feet like an unruly child.

An instinct within pressed you to reach a wandering hand and entwine your fingers between those healthy locks. But ironically, touching Walter screamed ‘taboo,’ as if he wasn't going to finish wet and messy inside you anyway. 

Otherwise, he wouldn't have been here. 

"Rough evening?" you murmured, taking a long whiff of air. Traces of coffee drifted from his breath, mingling with the brisk November chill that wafted over your face.  

It's not that you didn't enjoy his company; it's just that Walter left you with nothing but bitemarks, bruises, and dirty sheets. A foreigner to this country even after all these years, Walter was much like the salty rocks from the islands that bred him: hardened and crude, yet smooth at the edge where the water licked the stone. Some evenings he wouldn't even speak; the moment his boots made it past the doorway, all civilised manners flew out the window, luring the beast to wander. Shredding your outfit, he’d fuck you to tears, shaking you the way a canine carnivore stuns its prey and then unload himself into you until you ached and begged him to stop.

Once stripped off his uniform, the sullen cop was no different than the deviants he shoved behind iron bars. Little did it matter, you loved him enough for the two of you, and though you knew you were a toy to pass the time, he always crawled back to you with that deprived agonised sparkle staining his gaze. 

After what seemed like an endless battle between his shoes and the bristly rug, he finally paused and slowly lifted his chin. Marine-blue irises peered below thick brows, and a red rim of weariness perfected his customary scowl. 

"Yeah," he drawled with indifference, "got any beer?"  

Observing him for a moment, you studied the sharp ridges of his furrowed brow and nodded, turning to let him in. Despite his heavy frame, he followed with lithe stillness, stepping into your house without making a sound while you advanced to the kitchen. 

Whatever happened tonight must have left another dent in the coarse material that made this man. You often mused on the things he must have seen and found out it’s better not to ask. 

You reached for the fridge when his arm wrapped around your waist by surprise and snatched you back, hauling you flushed against his broad chest. Briefly, he nuzzled your nape, his parted lips huffing hot against your skin. His breath carried the pained melody of a sad longing animal, an ache so great it seeped through the pores of your skin and infected you with his grief. 

You weren’t afraid of the beast but felt sorry for it.

“I need to feel you,” Walter rasped, a timbre of plea in his baritone. Palm swiping greedily at your breast and his cock hard and hungry, he ground his hips at the cleft of your ass. Like the black, shaggy dog that he was, he sniffed the air and then rubbed himself further against your jeans, seducing the wanton animal within you to come out of its hiding. 

“You want me too, I can smell it, I can smell your cunt.” 

Where was the lie?

With a guttural growl, he turned you to face him, skilful hands already making tatters of your clothes and his fangs nipping your throat. Caged in his grasp, you hissed and shuddered out of fear and lust. A part of you was always frightened that one night Walter will pierce an artery by mistake at the heat of the moment whilst another, more archaic urge, called for the sweet passion that was your Thanatos.

Succumbing to both urges, you forced his cable-knit sweater off, exposing his muscular, beefy torso and splaying your hands down his flexing pecs to feel the soft, dark fur that covered his chest and belly. Everything about Walter was large and charged with virility, twisting your moral compass and making any argument weak in his presence. Staring at the bulge in his trousers, you gnawed your bottom lip, giving to the pang of hunger that shot through your clenching core while your wicked fingers began to fumble with the clasp of his belt. 

With a low roar rumbling in his chest, he scrutinised you as if this was a trial, his eyes flashing, anticipating you to reach and grab his large cock. 

“Fuck…” his sonorous voice caressed your ears. He quickly slid his hand down your trousers, grabbing a handful of your ass before gliding his fingers to feel between your engorged petals. 

A tempest of moans unfurled from your clenching throats once you squeezed his shaft in your palm, choking around the veins adorning the meaty girth.

“You are always so wet for me, always so ready,” he uttered and licked your cheek. 

“Walter, please!” 

At your plea, his fingers slipped deep inside your burning cavern. Back and forth, he probed your little slit, spreading thick wetness across your mound and further up your virginal ass to taunt you. 

Before you met Walter you vowed that you’ll never be into that kind of debauchery. But whenever the bulbous crown of his cock accidentally teased your puckered hole, the only thing you could muster to think of was how much you wanted him to fill every empty inch within you.  

Long, nimble fingers dug deep, parting your sealed walls asunder in an endeavour to find the small heap of pleasure that regressed you to savagery. You were nothing but an instrument of pleasure, gyrating to the melody he composed by the rhythm of his thrusts, following every note. He made you shudder, made the earth below split in half and all the while, he held back and watched. A sick mist of curiosity hovered over the frigid ocean that was his glance, mindful of how logic and reason drained from your face, leaving you utterly incoherent and primal. 

Just as he was.

He crooned at your whimpers and nodded at the desperation dripping from your gaze. Hips swaying, you wriggled against his hand in a frustrated attempt to reach for the tendrils of ecstasy that loomed inches from your grasp.

“You want to come, love?” he asked, almost patronising. His brow lifted, and his eyes flared with what you could only describe as pity.

“Yes! Please! Please make me come!” 

His fingers tore from your sleek with a sudden haul, leaving you a trembling, outraged mess. Yet you had no time to curse him for denying your pleasure. Moving faster than your thoughts, Walter stripped your trousers and slammed you rear onto the counter. Kneeling between your spread legs, his strong hands gripped your thighs and dragged your cunt into his bearded jaw.

“Fuck!” 

His mouth wrapped around you in a lover’s embrace, his silky tongue plunging between your lips to savour the honeyed nectar that dripped from your tightening core. Thoroughly devouring your cunt, Walter hummed. Raw, unfiltered, and unbound, he laved every inch within as if he was dining at Olympus and feasting on ambrosia for the first time. Arching back, you dared to entangle your fingers in his curls and ride his bristly face until you succumbed to the furious, quaking bliss that spasmed within your womb and consumed you into rapturous euphoria. 

Engulfed in a veil of blissful darkness, you continued wailing, heaving, and slumping on the counter. Puny jitters of aftershock trod upon your throbbing flesh while Walter finished his feast with languid laps of his tongue.

Once you blinked your eyes open, Walter stood straight between your legs, now fully naked, peering at you quietly. His eyes were aglow with all the conundrums he could never speak. Still hazy from your ecstasy, you stared back with awe, drinking each taut bulging muscle and worshipping the feral, beastlike entity that he was. Not even the scars on his body could steal away his unspoken pride. 

Reaching a hand for his imposing cock, he crept closer and glared straight into your soul as he pressed himself into your tight little entrance. A loud groan thundered through your kitchen as he pushed in, erupting into the most melodic war cry which never failed to astound you once he penetrated you. Still clenched from your orgasm, you gritted your teeth and whimpered in pain, not quite ready to have all of him at once. Yet Walter wasn’t keen on stopping and continued delving deeper and deeper, despite your nails tearing fresh new trails of blood down his shoulders.

“Wait!” you pleaded, yelping when he suddenly bottomed out inside you.

An arduous gasp tore from his lips, and his forehead dropped on your shoulder. Stilling inside you, he breathed in the mien of a wild creature, trying to regain his composure for a brief moment as he timed his assault. Fingers etched below your thighs, he pulled you up with ease and carried you through the apartment whilst still buried inside you.

Confused by his actions, you hung your arms around his thick neck and clung to his body, welcoming the soft brush of his hide against your naked breasts. 

Soon, you found yourself on your bed with him seated beneath you while your legs enveloped his wide waist. Nestled between your cinching walls, his cock throbbed full of rage, desperate for the unbridled friction that Walter forbade as he refused to move. Milking every drop of his self-control, he vigorously fought to dominate his desire. 

With his shaft pulsating hot and buried completely within your womb, your previous orgasm felt like a distant dream and a fresh new need soon awoke, begging your body to writhe on top of him and take what you were promised by force. But Walter was in no rush to unmake any part of you just yet. Securing one arm around the small of your back while the other held your jaw, he made you stare directly into his eyes. 

Bare more than ever, he allowed you to glimpse through the cracks that creased his beautiful blue eyes, showing you the pure terror harbouring the heart of darkness that lived within him. 

Perhaps, a part of him desired you to break and cast him away from you, to say ‘nevermore.���

Mercy softened your face instead. 

Enamoured and embroiled with curiosity, you allowed yourself to roam freely, gliding both your eyes and fingertips to descend the delectable plains of his body. Tender and careful, you stroked a soothing touch over the elevated scar tissue the way one pets a wounded creature, your gentle caress painting over the large claw mark that marked him years ago and left him cursed.

Walter followed the movement of your hand. His chest sinking with a low roar, his cock twitched and swelled inside your protesting canal while he remained immobilised and kept himself sheltered in the warmth of your sanctuary.

“Last night,” he finally spoke, his voice soft yet drenched with hesitation while his eyes dropped to stare into nothing for a shy moment. “Last night, when I turned... I… killed someone…” 

Your heart clenched in anguish along with the seams of your cunt. All the hurt that flowed in Walter’s blood now mingled into yours, ascending your body from the spot where you were coupled. 

What you wanted most of all was not to run. No. You desired to suck the poison tainting his veins and swallow it instead, unable to bring yourself to do anything but love him more than you did earlier. 

Spreading your legs further to each side of his hips, you moved closer and wrapped your arms around him. Nails biting into his muscular back you clutched him tightly, making a firm statement of your unwillingness to spite him for his actions. 

Because, even a beast needs to be protected and cared for. 

* Disclaimer: I don’t own Night Hunter/Nomis or Walter Marshall * Dividers by @firefly-graphics​​

[djassassino]

The ramblings of someone who takes Hololive Vtuber lore way too seriously, part 1.

Okay, so now that I am unbound by limitations and pressures of Twitter, this will be my area for long form cringe. Starting off has been these ideas I’ve had for a long time but never had anyone to sort of talk to them about. So I’m just gonna put this stuff out into the void.

For a long time, I’ve had this idea festering in my head of more dramatic, lore focused versions of some of the Hololive girls. So like something you’d read out of a novel or see in an action movie. Quite an original idea, of course. But I just felt like there are some really interesting ways to flesh out these characters in some very cool premises for stories. For the sake of any naming in the future, I will call this specific AU the Alternative Real AU.

Here are some of the few ideas I have:

Amane Kanata - The Angel of Judgement

Kanata’s default lore is that she’s an angel kid going to school to become a full on angel. Pretty basic stuff for one of the HoloGirls. What I had in mind for her was that Kanata was still this seemingly normal girl, living a normal life amongst humans. The key difference being that she is already a full fledged angel. She lives as a normal school girl to see life through the eyes of a human. And quietly, she passes judgement on the people she encounters.

A running joke for Kanata is her “gorilla strength” so I kinda incorporate that into her power. Angel of Judgement Kanata would be this impossibly powerful being, with a focus on brute strength. I imagine her as kind of this Saitama level kind of fighter. Her right fist would be her signature choice of weapon, so to speak.

Basically, the Kanata I imagine is a mixture of regular Kanata, Saitama, and the Spectre from DC Comics.

Nanashi Mumei - The Guardian of Many Origins

For Mumei, my idea is a little more fleshed out. Mumei’s default lore basically describes her as a product of human civilization collectively. A being made of their efforts and will. Mumei was also said to have chosen to look as she does. And I want to keep that much intact. Mostly. This new Guardian of Many Origins Mumei would be an owl spirit that has inhabited the souls of many women, all chosen by the Owl to be the guardian of civilization. This would mean Mumei would be so many different people, different races, every life cycle. Each version of Mumei would add knowledge and experience to the Owl. So very much like an Avatar for the real world.

Mumei would be the most experienced, diverse fighter on the planet. Both with weapons and firearms and unarmed combat. Also one of the smartest, most knowledgeable people on Earth as well. Wisdom and experience beyond any mortal. The whole package deal.

Except our current Mumei’s connection with the Owl is severed for some reason. This is why she acts the way she is. The Owl still resides inside her, but it’s locked away. Hence why Mumei is so normal.

Takanashi Kiara - The Knight of Flames

And lastly, Kiara! Honestly, one of my favorites. Kiara calls herself a part time warrior, but I would like to have her be more of that. She would have been born at the very beginning of the planet’s life cycle, birthed from the fires and molten earth that filled the entire planet. Formed as a flying creature of flame. Kiara would be much, much older than civilization and humans themselves. As she would make herself seen further, Kiara would act as a protector of humans and life on earth. A force of change and progress for humans. She would be the basis for the phoenix myth. She would have been the one to introduce fire to them.

And eventually, Kiara would have developed a human form. With a body, she would have learned to defend herself and live amongst humans. In time, she became a proficient warrior. One almost unmatched in combat. The fires she fought with and the flames she produced would ascend her to legend status, as the people saw her as a goddess of fire. And when she did die in battle, her body would explode into flames, destroying all in the immediate vicinity. Kiara would be reborn the next day, from the ashes.

The cycle continued for thousands of years for her though. Meet new people, befriend them, fall in love, defend the people, eventually fail, die. Repeat. With time, it became exhausting for her. It chipped away at her soul each time she needed to let go of the people she grew to love. So Kiara renounced fighting completely, beginning a restaurant. All as a chance to reinvent herself and bring peace to her life.

So that’s pretty much it! If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading and I appreciate you just having some interest in my incoherent mess of a train of thought.

[five-rivers]

Now i would like to see prompts of a curious benevolent eldritch being coming to visit Amity Park and coo at the baby eldritch (Danny) and tech him how to access his eldritch powers.

I know this is probably supposed to be about some more traditional and tentacle-y eldritch abomination, but this is essentially what I’m writing Grandfather Clocks as (not to mention assorted other oneshots and everything happening in Mortified).  I’m too invested in Lost Time to clearly imagine anyone but Clockwork in the Adult Eldritch Abomination role...  at least from a more general prompt like this one.  

... on the other hand I now have Vague Ideas (tm) about a full AU where Danny has eldritch abomination powers instead of ghost powers and all the eldritch abominations he’s ‘fighting’ are just coming to play with the baby.

WARNING this is for real written as horror, since it’s from Danny’s perspective.

.

Time seemed to congeal as the shadow in Danny’s soul stretched backwards.  This one had a name.  It skittered between the dark and the part of Danny’s mind that still resembled a human’s.  He breathed in, slowly, then out, tasting it on his tongue.  Once, it had been two.  

Finally, it coalesced into something he could actually speak.  “Skultech,” he said.  

“Relative of Skulker?” asked Tucker.  “Or Technus?”  He didn’t look at them or at Danny.  He had protections, but they weren’t perfect, and he’d already taken a step away from the light.  

“Yes,” said Danny, internally translating the vibrations of air into something with meaning and weight.  

Skulker.  The hunter, fleshless and tireless.  A pursuer of the mind more than the body.  Almost sporting in his own way.  The library with all its labyrinthine but immaterial paths was the best place to lose him.  

Technus.  A horror that lurked in the depths of the internet, luring in deep-web users and more than a few unluckly click-bait and phishing victims.  Technus didn’t kill them, did very little to them, really, but there was a reason there wasn’t a computer club at Casper High anymore.  

They had been two.  Now they were one.  Part of Danny was fascinated.  Another was thrilled, happy, as it always was when these dark things manifested themselves in Amity Park.  

His shadow stretched, whispering over his features.  He could feel curl over the texture of the ground beneath him, grasping at grass and bark and soil as if it were possessed of a thousand thousand tiny fingers.  It wanted to open up and play.

(’It,’ Danny said, as if it weren’t him, an extension of himself.)

“What do we do?” asked Sam.  She, unlike Tucker, looked directly at him, even half-shrouded in shadow as he was.  She always did, even if she averted her gaze from the likes of Skulker and Technus.  

Near the beginning, Sam had made the connection between the others, especially ones like Ember, who were as beautiful as the were dark, and cults.  She had started a joke about making one for Danny.  Over time, it had become less of a joke.  

Danny tried to ignore the pleasant buzz of his skin as he imagined a cult attempting to do something as sweet as bind him to their will.  

Because, really, he shouldn’t be thinking of something like that as ‘sweet’ at all.  

“It’s still Skulker and Technus,” said Danny, even if he had never seen them like this.  “I think... the same type of thing should probably work.  I distract, Sam gets people out of the way, Tuck, you get the computers at the library ready and tell me when to lead them there?”

“Do you think it’ll really work when it’s both of them?” mumbled Tucker.  “I don’t know if I can even do both of the things at once...”

“The alternative is not doing anything,” said Sam, “and considering that they seem to be after Danny...”

Tucker made a face, the glow from his PDA reflecting from his glasses.  “Yeah, I know,” he said.  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t try.”

“Remember,” said Danny, “don’t give me the go-ahead until you and everyone else is out.”

“Yeah, I remember, I remember,” he said.

“Go do your thing,” said Sam.  

Danny nodded and left the shelter of their hiding place.  He did not stand up, or walk, or move.  He simply stopped being there and started being in front of Skultech.  

From a distance, he probably still looked human.  

They fought.  

It was hard to describe how they fought, exactly, in human terms, but they did.  Right up until one of Skultech’s three-fingered hands wrapped around Danny’s ankle and his shadow vanished.

He, breathing hard and falling, remembered what it was to be human.  To be vulnerable.  His shadow came back to him, flickering.  He came back to himself.  

There was a darkness that was himself, and he was so relieved.  Why?  How often had he wanted this gone?  But he was whole, and like that he was half, and-

He’d gotten distracted.  

Skultech had surrounded him, a hunting ground strobed with lightning.  This kind of fight was an oddity to both Skulker and Technus, this kind of movement, this kind of strategy.  Danny began to doubt that his earlier plan would work.  

What was a library but another kind of forest?

With only enough warning for his self to wrap around him protectively, Skultech yanked him down into the Dream.  The pale seaweed threads of human consciousness gave way to the dark and the other.  He fell to the floor of a midnight palace and rolled to his back, coughing up not-water from the idea of his lungs.

Here, said Skultech, in something that wasn’t quite language.  The True Voice.  Danny had seen people fall to their knees when the others used that.  Had seen sane men turn into blind faith worshippers.  Had heard lies that became true in the speaking, or near enough that it didn’t matter.  

He had never quite managed to speak that way himself, no matter Sam’s cajoling.  

Danny managed to open his eyes.  He did not come to the Dream often, no matter how much it called to him.  Both his halves agreed, here, where every place was also a person, it was dangerous even in the shallows.  

The ceiling was covered in layers upon layers of spiderwebs, and he did not like what that meant.  Skultech was nowhere to be seen.  

He pulled himself up and got to his feet.  

The floor beneath him was glass.  Beneath that was clockwork, but the gears were galaxies and solar systems, the springs were entropy and enthalpy, and the chains were the laws of physics themselves.  Clockwork.  It was...  It would do, as a name.  

The distant sense of amusement was disturbing.  

Danny looked around.  He needed a way out, a way back up, to where he could leave the Dream.  

Why did Skultech bring him here?

Spiderwebs and gears.  Symbols of control, of interconnectedness, of carefully laid plans.  Was he stuck in a web he couldn’t see?

He spun, slowly, trying to see if he could see any doors or other openings.  Something flashing, moving, in the distance caught his eye.  His first instinct was to move away, but...

But it was like he was being drawn in.  Like he couldn’t turn away.  It was a mirror.  A window.  

It showed him himself.  At first, a hundred paces away, just himself, as he was, but then at pace ninety-nine it changed.  Mirrors did that, in the Dream.  Everything did that, in the dream.  

Time sped up.  The mirror reflected not just light, but sound and feeling.  He could see himself, his shadow, and-

He felt it when all the little Loves that kept him tethered to his humanity snapped, the lives they were anchored to burning up as they met their deaths.  He screamed and heard it echoed back to him a thousand times over.  

He could not stop walking.  He could not stop watching.  Ninety steps away.  

His shadow in the mirror was wild.  Unbound and grieving.  Flesh and blood and bone existed, but his two part mind was unbalanced and divided from itself.  He sought aid from the only other like himself and received a knife, received Hate to replace love and at seventy-five steps he watched as what he had once been embraced Vlad and devoured him whole, eating and becoming everything that made him him.  

The shadow unfurled, hungry and seeking.  The memory Love it once had and the Love it had desired for so long driving it onward and outward, the center pulsing like a diseased star.  Seventy steps.  It had eyes like constellations.  

The mirror showed the Dream, now.  Veins of sickness wound through the garden of human thought, through the tangled vines and twisted paths.  What it found did not satisfy, and it sought more, and more, delving deeper.  Sixty steps, then fifty.  

It ate at the best of people, of others.  The singers fell silent.  The doctors could no longer heal.  The kind became cruel.  

Darkness fell.  Then war.  The shadow ruled all from its misery.  

It was not enough.  

Forty steps.  It’s eyes met Danny’s.  It knew he was here, knew he was watching.  It began to speak in its True Voice, and Danny could not cover his ears to keep it out.  

It spoke of the things it had done, of the things it would do.  Danny watched as it carried out its plans, and even more.  It spoke of how it, he, was Danny, and all this destruction, all this suffering was wrought by his own hands.  It spoke of Love Danny did not cherish sufficiently, of fragility, of how it was determined to Be rather than Be Not even though its every moment was loneliness and Hatred to the point of agony.  

Danny’s ears were bleeding.

Thirty steps.

It spoke of how it would hurt Danny, in particular.  How it would rend his shadow, wound so there was no hope for him to escape his fate, even with foreknowledge of it.  It spoke of how, with Danny watching, the mirror was a window, was a door it could reach through and Danny saw it reaching.  

Saw it reaching out and in and towards now and those that he Loved, those that he cherished and Danny would have pushed himself to run but he couldn’t stop walking.

Twenty steps.  It could make itself look like Danny, and even though it was wrong, Danny was wrong too, he was so, so, so, wrong and his wrongness was going to get them killed.  It was going to get everyone killed.  

They were looking at it, not him, speaking with it, not him.  His darkness was covered.  With it, these things were like staring at the sun.

It tore away the protections he had so painstakingly layered over those he Loved.  

Ten steps.

He saw his parents with a bomb made by their own hands, one that would devastate the Dream for miles around, killing anything that dared to imagine, the culmination of their work.  Nine steps.  He saw Mr. Lancer writing lesson plans with his own blood, each sentence less English than the last.  Eight steps.  He saw Sam with the ritual knife, her smile full of blood and sacrifice.  Seven steps.  He saw Tucker clawing out his eyes, surrounded by computer screens flaring with symbols humans were never meant to use.  Six steps.  He saw Jazz-

He saw Jazz notice.  

Five steps.

He could have wept.  

She armed herself with stories and legends and saltwater and truths that made Danny seize and the fact that this thing was not her brother.  Four steps.  

He watched her confront it.  

Three steps.   

He watched it toy with her, her machinations only delaying her doom.  

Two steps.

He watched it k-

One step.  

No!

For the first time, he screamed in his True Voice.  His fist snapped out, striking the mirror dead center.  It shattered.  

Was that enough?  Was he in time?  He- He couldn’t feel them.  He couldn’t-  They couldn’t be dead.  They couldn’t be gone.  

He dropped to his knees.  The shards of the mirror glittered up at him, calling him.  His hand shook as he reached out and picked one up.  Slowly, he raised it to his lips.  He opened his lips and as soon as the shard was even with his teeth, he bit down, the glass crunching like thunder.  

Already, he was reaching for another piece.  He swallowed.  His hands went out, nails scrabbling along the floor in his hurry.  Mirror shard after mirror shard was shoved into his mouth and choked down.  

There was something around his neck.  With one of his many hands he reached up, feeling up his chest to throat.  There was a collar there.  It felt like control, like ownership, like Love.  

Something liquid dripped from his eye.  

Even as he gagged on glass, two of his hands, his human hands, explored the circumference of the metal piece.  There were delicate fractal patterns on the surface that had double on the interior.  As his fingers pressed down on them, they in turn pressed on the skin of his neck, sending pleasant curls of thought down his limbs.  

His questing fingers found the collar’s lead.  It was at the same time, like the spider silk above and the clockwork chains below.  Flexible.  Strong.  Indelible.  It was as inevitable as gravity that he should Be Loved and Love in return.  

He licked the last powdery pieces of mirror off his fingers and his extra arms slowly evaporated back into the Dream as if they never were.  

Who would Love him like this?  Love him to the point that it manifested in the Dream like this?  The answer was all around him, was inside him, as his heart echoed back the Love as best it was able, but he could hardly believe it.  

The sound of footsteps on the hard floor jolted him out of his reverie.  He looked up and met the red eyes of Clockwork’s avatar.  

It had the appearance of a blue-skinned man wearing a cloak and festooned with symbols of time.  A few long white hairs peeked from beneath its hood, and a painful-looking scar laid over its eye.  

For a moment, Danny was stunned, because this was a true avatar, an extension of Clockwork himself, not a human hollowed out for use as a vessel.  For someone as powerful as Clockwork had to be to be so vast in the Dream to bestow such attention on Danny-

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the only thing that rolled off his tongue was blood.  Shame crept up his cheeks.  He didn’t know if it was his use of his True Voice when destroying the mirror, or consuming all those shards afterwards, but his normal voice was gone.

Shh, soothed Clockwork’s avatar, gloved hands cupping Danny’s cheeks and forcing his lips closed.  You need not speak, child.  Those who love you will know your intent.

Danny nodded slowly, beginning to feel dazed.  He remembered the scenes in the mirror.  Remembered what the shadow-him had done.  His fingers bent around the lead- it was almost as thick as his wrist- and looked up at Clockwork’s avatar.  

Clockwork could strike him down, now, could destroy him so completely that even the merest memory of him was gone, and he would not care, because he would know it was done out of Love.  

The lead shivered against his palms and grew.  

No need, said Clockwork’s avatar.  You have devoured your destiny and become free of it.  

That sounded reasonable.  The avatar brushed a thumb across Danny’s lips and smiled.  

You have given yourself fangs.

Danny blushed again.  He hadn’t meant to.  

The avatar released Danny’s cheeks to reach for his hands, arranging them in Danny’s lap and rubbing circles into his palms.  Then the avatar gently brought Danny’s attention to the door in its chest.  

The door was glass.  Beyond the glass laid an approximation of a heart made of the same elements as what laid beneath the floor.  A metaphor for Clockwork’s heart, Danny guessed, though what laid in the avatar’s chest couldn’t be anywhere near as grand as the real thing.  

The avatar nodded, and then leveled a gloved finger at Danny’s own chest.  He looked down.  

There was a door, there, too.  

His breath caught in his throat and he tried to scramble away, some still-human part of him objecting strenuously to whatever was going to happen.  

All at once, the whole of Clockwork’s attention turned in on him, and for an infinite moment of time he was held in a perfect embrace.  His thought from earlier returned.  Anything, and he would not object, because it was done out of Love.  

His edges, usually so sharply defined, even in the Dream, went fuzzy, almost blending with his surroundings, those surroundings being Clockwork.  

The avatar reached for Danny’s door and opened it.  It hurt, but not as much as he thought it would.  Within, laid his heart. 

The surface, the shape, of it looked human enough.  The veins and arteries were all in the right places.  The atria and chambers all looked to be the proper sizes.  It beat an even rhythm.  

But inside it was as black as night and something like a star twinkled in its depth.  

It was... odd, how closely it resembled Clockwork’s galaxies while being at the same time so different.  

Clockwork’s avatar opened the door to its own chest, pinning it to his cloak, then he reached into Danny’s chest.  

There was the pain he had been expecting, radiating from his core to the very tips of his fingers and toes.  If he were not held immobile by the sheer force of Clockwork’s regard, he would have arched backwards and screamed.

Methodically, the avatar cut and tied off every one of arteries, veins, and nerves that led from the rest of Danny’s body to his heart.  Finally, the heart excised and cradled in its hands, it drew back.  

Danny should be dead.  The Dream did not follow the same rules as the reality he had been born into, but his mind would not let go of the fact that he had no heart.  He should be dead.  

The avatar inserted Danny’s heart into its chest, next to its own, and closed its door.  Slowly, the image of Danny’s heart faded into metaphor as it sunk down into the deeps to nestle next to Clockwork’s true heart.  

Danny understood, then, that from this moment on, Clockwork would decide the direction of his heart, would determine who he Loved and who he Hated.  If he should Love or Hate.  Danny rather doubted Clockwork would let Danny do anything so damaging as Hate.  

I shall keep it safe for you, said the avatar, something more profound behind its words that might have been Clockwork himself, until you are old enough to protect it on your own.

Danny understood, too, that although this promise was not a lie, he would never be old enough to reclaim his heart, no matter how much time passed or how powerful he grew.  Clockwork’s Love and protection would keep both him and it safe, young, fragile.  How could it do otherwise, when time itself would flow around him?  When Love would keep him anchored to one form?

Clockwork’s attention relaxed, then, and Danny could move again, curling around the gaping hole in his chest.  The avatar ruffled his hair and, with his other hand, held something out to Danny.  

Six paired sets of life and death glimmered against the lavender of the avatar’s glove.  Danny recognized them.  They belonged to the people he Loved.  He had not realized he Loved Mr. Lancer, but he could see now that it was true.  

Moving slowly, as if underwater, Danny held his cupped hands beneath the avatar’s.  His breath caught as the avatar tipped the lives and deaths into his hands.  

So precious.  He brought them down to his lap and, with painstaking care, began to peal the deaths away from the lives.  Each death he ate, consuming it and breaking it down into nothing.  Each life he placed in the hollow that had once housed his heart.  

Like this, they would not die, they would not leave him.  They would be with him, always, just as he would always Love them.  

Exhaustion hit him all at once, and he slumped forward to rest his head on the Avatar’s shoulder.  It laughed, lightly, and helped him close the door in his chest.  Then, it took a heart-shaped padlock from within its cloak and threaded it into the latch of Danny’s door.  The click as the padlock closed echoed off the floor and distant walls.  

With a kind of detached curiosity, Danny watched as the edges of the door, latch, padlock and all, melded into his skin and vanished as if they had never been there at all.  He knew that he would not be able to find the door again without help, and that, even then, to open the door he would need the padlock’s key.  A key he had not yet seen.

But what reason did he have to open his chest?  Others might have cause, those who wanted to hurt him, or those that he Loved.  This was another protection, another way to keep him safe.  

This time you devoured your destiny, said the avatar, petting him.  The sick futures have been cut away.  Next, we shall remove the presents where you Are Not.  After that...  The sentence trailed away in a buzz that made Danny’s thoughts go quiet.  

The avatar began to do something that could only be described as singing even though neither voice nor sound were involved.  It was a lullaby, and Danny felt himself become even heavier and softer than before.  He curled into the avatar’s side, feeling small.  The pain of his missing heart eased itself into something more bearable.  The threads of love that kept him from becoming a monster wound tighter around his limbs and sewed themselves deeper into his skin.  

His eyes drifted closed.  

When he woke, he was in his bed, in Fentonworks.  He blinked several times at his ceiling, and leapt to his feet only to be waylaid by dizziness and static across his eyes.  He brought a hand up to his neck, half expecting to feel metal.  

He didn’t.  

He shifted, pressing two fingers against an artery.  No pulse.  He switched his grip to his wrist.  Nothing.  

Right.  No heart.  

No heart but six lives and-

He stumbled out of his room and started banging wildly on her door.  Jazz threw it open and froze.  

“It’s really you?” she asked, voice quivering.  

Danny opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out.  It didn’t seem like Jazz really needed a verbal response, because she threw herself at him, enveloping him in a hug.  

“I was so scared,” she whispered.  “The- the not-you-” She sucked in a shuddering breath.  “Everyone was dying, and then- and then it was just-  It was like a dream.  Like it didn’t happen.  But you were gone.”

Danny nodded, even though she couldn’t see him.  

“I’m so glad it’s you,” she said.  “I’m so glad it’s you.”

Her love, so tenuous and slender compared to Clockwork’s, but no less genuine, wound around his wrist.  He hugged her back.  

If he had been able to speak, he would have said, Me, too.