#fairy tales rewritten

[rapha-reads]

So I'm reading Echo North by Joanna Ruth Meyer, and I absolutely adore how it's a mix of all these tales I spent five months studying for my thesis. It's the entire ATU 425 tale type category at once*. A bit of Beauty and the Beast, a bit of Cupid and Psyche, a bit of East of the Sun and West of the Moon... When you know what you're looking at, it's so interesting to analyse it all.

*ATU= Aarne-Thompson-Uther Index, a classification of as many of the folktales and fairytales indexed around the world and the centuries, catalogued after their structures (their type). ATU 425: "The Search for the Lost Husband". ATU 425A: "Animal as Bridegroom" -> East of the Sun and West of the Moon (and The Serpent Prince, the Pig King...). ATU 425B: "Son of the Witch" -> Cupid and Psyche (also The Son of the Ogress, Tale of Baba Yaga...). ATU 425C: "Beauty and the Beast". There are a few more types (it goes to 425E), but these three are the main ones.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Reflection: A Retelling of “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves”

The mirror is a gift from the dwarves. Its frame of hammered gold is wrought with delicately-crafted birds and beasts, fruit and flowers. Its silver-backed surface, unlike those created by human craftsman, shows a true reflection.

The queen loves to gaze at herself in the mirror. It tells her that she is beautiful—skin like milk, hair like midnight, eyes as blue as a crystalline lake. She is young, healthy, graceful, charming—perfection in human form. Truly a queen worthy of this kingdom.

Then, one day, the mirror’s message changes. It shows that the queen has lines around her eyes, sunspots on her nose, wicked glints of silver in her night-black hair. The queen does all she can to hide the damage, spends hours before the mirror with cosmetics and concealers. To the rest of the world, the queen is as perfect as ever.

Yet every morning, the mirror tells the truth.

Worst of all, her husband has a little daughter—barely fourteen years old—who grows lovelier by the day. Every morning, the mirror says that before long, those who worshiped the queen’s beauty will transfer their devotion to the princess—and will be right to do so.

The queen's beauty would not seem so tarnished if the princess were not there for comparison. The queen tries to send the princess to an isolated estate—tells her husband it is better for the girl to grow up away from the corrupting influences of the court. But the girl is too dear to her father. She wastes away with homesickness, until her father the king orders her to come home for the sake of her health.

The queen tries neglecting the girl in ways the king won't notice—refusing to let her wash with good soap, denying her a maid, forbidding her fashionable clothes and hairstyles. Through it all, the mirror tells her that the girl’s beauty shines out brighter than ever.

Before long, the queen spends hours by the mirror each day, locked in a futile endeavor to restore what is lost forever. One moonlit night, she finds a dagger, and considers plunging it into her heart just to end this ceaseless torment, but the morning shows her a better path.

She will never be perfect, nor make the princess less so—but she can destroy perfection.

It would be easy to take this dagger to where the princess sleeps and shove it through her perfect heart, but the queen doesn't dare to mar her own beauty with blood-stained hands.

She gives the dagger to a loyal huntsman. He takes the girl into the forest—and returns holding a small, bloody heart.

That night before the mirror, the queen's smile makes her glow with a new kind of beauty.

*

People often tell the princess she is beautiful. She believes them, for she has never seen an ugly face. Old Sal’s missing tooth is an open door into her smile. The chambermaid’s freckles make a daytime constellation. The little stable boy’s one good eye glitters green as an emerald. Her stepmother owns a beautiful mirror, but the princess barely gazes at it. Why would she waste time examining her own familiar face in a world with so many other lovely faces to gaze upon?

One day in early spring, she asks to go berrying in the forest beyond the castle, as she once did with her mother. To her surprise, the queen permits it—the queen rarely allows the princess anything that might be a luxury. She even sends one of her huntsmen as protection.

In the eaves of the forest, the princess finds strawberries not far from the path, and she hastens to gather as many as she can. She invites the huntsman to join her, but he stands statue-like at the edge of the clearing, always on guard. Not wanting him to go without, the princess brings the berries to him, and offers him the largest, sweetest one.

As she does, she gazes at his face. Scars make mountain ranges along his cheeks and brow. His hair is edged with silver. The lines of his face are solid as stone. His deep gray eyes hold storm clouds.

“Oh, my,” the princess says in awe. “You are beautiful.”

The huntsman’s face disappears as he hides it in one of his hands. “I can’t,” he says, his voice rough with unshed tears. “I must betray my queen."

His other hands darts to the side, quick as a serpent, and the silver flash of a blade disappears into the undergrowth.

The huntsmen places both of his hands on the princess’ shoulders and crouches to look into her face. “You must run. The queen wants you dead. If you stay at the palace, she will find a way to kill you. You must flee into the forest and never return.”

“The forest?” the princess asks in terror. She has often wandered in the eaves, but she has never dared the strange terrors that are said to lurk in its interior.

“There is nothing there that can harm such innocence,” the huntsman says. “You will find shelter.” He turns her around and pushes her toward the depths of the forest. “Now run! As fast and as far as you can!”

The shadows of the forest embrace her, and the flowers make a path at her feet. She crosses shallow rivers, climbs rocky slopes, winds through twisted groves of trees. She couldn’t return home even if she wanted to.

She had not been blind. She had seen something like ugliness in the queen’s face whenever they were alone. But hatred? Murder?

She nearly collapses with grief, but through the trees, she sees a wisp of smoke. A chimney. A roof over a tumbledown cottage. The princess runs through the open door, collapses on the floor, and is glad to find a safe place to weep.

Her father will think her dead, and she will not be there to comfort him. She will never again see any of the beautiful faces that fill the palace. The hundreds of hidden details that made the castle home are forever out of her reach. The huntsman saved her, but to what end? A lifetime of loneliness and misery? Is this truly a better fate than the quick death of a dagger through the heart?

She opens her eyes. She has looked too long at the sorrows in her heart. She must find solace from without.

She gazes upon the cottage.

And sees seven beautiful faces.

*

The dwarves love their princess. She is beautiful, not only because of her face, but because of the way her soul shines out through it. She is endlessly beautiful because she sees the beauty in everyone and everything.

There never was a girl so selfless. Her every waking moment is spent filling their days with a million small comforts. The cottage has never been so clean. The food has never been so lovingly prepared. There is nothing she would not do for them, and in return, they devote their lives to her service.

She needs their protection. One so naturally kind and innocent can’t recognize when strangers might have ill intent. One day, after being out in the woods, the seven dwarves return to the cottage to find the princess nearly strangled by a set of stays. When they revive her, she tells them of a ragged old woman (with such beautiful hands!) who asked for food and water and then repaid her generosity by giving a nearly-fatal gift. The eldest of the dwarves caught a glimpse of the stranger’s retreat, and saw enough of her form to suspect the queen.

The dwarves keep a closer guard on the princess, but six months later, a few minutes go by when all seven of them are away from home. They return to find the princess nearly killed by a poisoned comb in her hair. The story she tells is similar to the last one—an old woman in need of help repaid their kind princess with a gift meant to kill.

After that, the princess is never alone. The dwarf on guard duty always has the envied task, so lovely is it to be in her presence. A year, then two, go by with no signs of danger.

Then one winter morning, after a night of birthday feasting, all seven of the dwarves sleep late. The princess rises at her usual time, hoping to fix them a holiday breakfast. By the time the dwarves stumble out of bed, they find the princess sprawled across the kitchen floor—cold, pale and lifeless, with a poisoned apple in her hand.

They despise themselves for having failed her, but their love for the princess drives them to serve her the only way they can—by laying her body to rest. The cold, hard earth won’t take her, and they can’t bear to hide her away in the realm of death. Knowing that decay will not touch one so innocent, they place her in a coffin of glass and lay her in their garden, where her beauty can brighten the world in death as it did in life.

They keep a constant vigil, lost in loving grief. They ought to have known she would end this way. This is the fate of all innocence in this dark and sinful world—to be destroyed by wickedness. Even as they see this truth, they know that it is wrong. The world should not be this way, but what can they do? They wish and pray for better, but they can’t hope. How can innocence ever overcome such evil?

In the spring, when the last snow melts and the first snowbells bloom, the dwarves see movement in the woods beyond their cottage. A prince approaches on a snow-white horse. He is ruler of this forest and its mysterious ways—a king of kings, even more beautiful than their princess. His face shines with a wisdom that does nothing to defile the innocence of his heart.

He leaps from his horse, approaches the coffin, raises the lid, and takes the cold hand of the princess between his.

“Beloved,” he says, “arise.”

In his words and actions, the dwarves find the answer to the riddle they have pondered in their long vigil of grief. In a world of wickedness, the salvation of Innocence is Love.

The princess opens her eyes. Takes a breath. Sits up and gazes upon the world she loves, upon the one who loved her back to life. Something of the prince’s wisdom is reflected in her, so that her beauty is almost painful to behold.

The dwarves rejoice, and the princess rejoices with them. She kisses each one atop the head, but does not release the hand of her prince.

Eager to serve one who served them so well, the dwarves cook her breakfast, and she eats with even more enthusiasm than she showed in her former life. Yet when the meal ends, she stands with her prince at the threshold of the cottage.

“I must return to my father,” the princess says.

The dwarves protest. What of the queen? What of the danger?

The princess looks at her prince with eyes full of love. “I have nothing to fear.”

*

The king rejoices at his daughter’s return—he has thought her dead for so many years. Grief has aged and weakened him, but there is beauty in his face that grows brighter with every minute he spends in the presence of the princess.

The princess tells him of her troubles since she went away, and the king is horrified by her words. “I knew my wife had lost her reason,” he says, “but not her heart! She must pay for her crimes!”

He moves toward the door as though he will administer justice this moment.

The prince stops him with a gentle hand upon his chest. “There is no need.”

*

The queen gazes at herself in the mirror. She never looks anywhere else. If there is a world beyond the edges of its frame, she has forgotten it. She sees only her own face, searches for the remaining scraps of beauty, tries desperately to erase the blemishes that grow ever more hateful with the passing of years.

Another face appears in the reflection—a face the queen thought she had destroyed long ago. It is lovelier than ever. The queen hides her face in her hands so she can not see the painful beauty of the princess.

“Come away from there,” the princess says. “Gaze with me upon the other beauties of the world.”

“And lose myself?” the queen shrieks. “That is what you have always wanted—to destroy my very self! To take all the honor and beauty that should be mine!”

“I wish to save you,” the princess says. “Come away.”

“Never!” the queen screams, clutching the mirror in two white-knuckled hands. “I have everything I need right here! You can’t take it from me!”

The princess touches the queen’s shoulder. The queen screams and shrinks away, hiding her face once more in her hands.

A man’s voice—painful in its beauty—says, “Beloved, she has made her choice.”

At long last, they leave. The queen looks in the mirror and sees no face but her own. No greater beauty remains nearby to shame her.

In the confines of her world’s silver surface, she is fairest of all.

*

The queen is locked away in the prison of her choosing.

The king stays to do what good he can for his kingdom, and the princess promises to return for him after he has fulfilled his purpose.

The prince places the princess on his snow-white horse, and they travel once more past the cottage of the dwarves, who are glad to see her so beautiful and beloved.

At last, the prince brings the princess to his kingdom at the heart of the forest.

The beauty she finds there is beyond words.

[britishchick09]

rewrite christine would love this week in my children's lit class! ;)

[syefiles]

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: sylus : midnight stealth, but what should've happened. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: really sadistic sylus. not accurate scene (rewritten some parts) fingering, the reader is seen as a female and has a pussy, dom! sylus, kissing. lmk if i missed anything. 𝐚/𝐧: requests/suggestions open in my ask-box [] hiyaa ! i missed writing on here. lately sylus has had me in a choke hold T_T here's me coping with my obsession with a new fic. thank you, and enjoy :)

You were home alone with the bird twins, Sylus' most important and capable helpers whose posts are his house. You were almost going to shake your head to get more ideas on how to invade the vampire and get the brooch.

It wasn't fair. A ruler of a nation against a pitiful hunter who just happened to waltz straight into his own personal hell. "Stop worrying your pretty little head. Boss might be scary and sophisticated, but if you play your cards right, you can achieve your goal." Luke spoke from the dinner table, while Kieran was sat on it. "But then again, you only have an hour left in your deal. Make it count."

You sat up from the couch, finally picking yourself up with enough confidence to face the final boss. Luke and Kieran put up two signs, one with tiger claws and another with a peace sign. "Good luck, you stray." Kieran remarks.

The moon was beautiful. Although the sun never shined in this dimension, it was still a sight for sore eyes. You approach the heavy door decorated with expensive vintage handles, that might cost a few thousand back at home.

You tightly grip the evol-sealing handcuffs and a tranquilizer gun, giving yourself a few imaginary pats on the back. You open the door, seeing the smoke-headed crow resting on his headboard, as vulnerable as a dove. His breathing was steady, hands remained warm atop his covers. He could've just asked me to tuck him in.

You approach his figure quietly, as if cautious of a landmine on the wooden floors. Your leg climbs on his mattress, sitting down gently. Your mouth whispers his name, "Sylus, Sylus?" When you saw his chest still remained steady, you successfully cuffed his heavy hand on his headboard.

"This is what you get for toying with me." You muttered under your breath and the same volume you did when you whispered his name. You set the gun down, while you inspect his red and black robe, He must have hidden it here.

Your hands barely touched the fabric, his free hand successfully trapping your wrist. His eyes furrow, failing to recognize your features at first. You stare at his face in shock, like a cat trapped in a glass box.

"Showing up uninvited at this hour, want me to tell you a bedtime story?" He asks, clearly sarcastic and angry. Your shocked expression drops, "Actually..." Your two hands cage him in, closing the space between you. You could see his face so distinctly from here.

"You should be able to figure out what's going on here." His eyes stare at you, almost burning holes into yours. "These handcuffs have you helpless. No matter how powerful you are, you can't do anything for an hour." You taunt, successfully catching your hunt.

"Really? What do you intend to do now that I've become your prey?" He asks, intrigued. Your right hand detaches from the plush of his headboard, putting out your hand. "Where's the brooch?"

He smirks, "Help yourself." fully offering his semi-naked body to you. While patting down his sides and pockets, you list all of the things he had done to you once you stepped foot into the N109 Zone. "No ordinary person would do that. So..." Your hands stopped their advancements, completely staring at him now, he stares back.

"Don't tell me you're doing all of this because you like me."

Sylus laughs at your misunderstanding. He did all of this for his own benefit, he only desired to resonate with you and nothing else. Yet, fate chose the hard path for you two. "Clearly, you read too many fairy tales." You ignored his words and resumed back to searching.

Your hands search under the collar of his robe, "Does my answer really matter to you?" He asked. "That doesn't matter now. I won!" You exclaim, using your thumb to flip the coin up into the air, and catching it with your hand.

Sylus let a few moments of silence pass, trying to savor what little feeling of triumph you have left. "Don't tell me..." Your expression changes into a frown, "I won't go back on what I promised you." Sylus sits up, his back no longer leaning on the bed. "This was quite the thrilling experience for you huh, sweetie?" His evol submerged the metal of the handcuffs, causing it to deteriorate.

Your eyes widen, and you quickly try to get up from the bed, but he flips you over by your thighs, completely laid down. You try to retaliate with your hand, but he catches it almost immediately with his. "You're pretty good at running away."

He takes the gun by your side and inspects it himself. "You were gonna use this on me?" He almost laughs, staring at your shocked and vulnerable expression. "Yes, just like that." He says, aligning the gun on your cheek, running it down and up your soft skin. "You're so beautiful when your face contorts in fear, kitty."

He lets out a low laugh. "And disobedient kittens get punished," He lightly slaps the gun on your cheek. He traces it down to your chin, lifting it up to level his eyes with yours. "I-I won fair and square!" You respond, only receiving a heavier slap with the gun on your cheek.

"Bad girls don't talk back." His left eye glows but quickly settles down once your hands reach into his robe, feeling his hard abs and warm skin. Sylus raises an eyebrow, curious at your moves. You slip one side of his robe off, exposing his neck. You grab onto his shoulders, licking and nipping at his neck.

He lets out a groan, while a hand slips up from your inner thighs and into your panties. They're soaked, he thought. A finger hooks on your panties, sliding them to the side, his middle and ring fingers toying with your clit, rubbing circular motions on it. Your tongue slows down, letting out exasperated moans here and there. "Sylus-"

His hand slaps your clit, making you jolt in response. "Try that again, sweetheart." He stops his fingers from moving, waiting for your reply. "Sir..." You mutter, two fingers entering you. Your arms shake on his shoulders from his lengthy fingers bullying themselves into your sopping cunny.

"Good-fucking-girl." Each word came with a curl and a thrust from his fingers, making you go ballistic. He was nimble and skilled with his hand, while two were inside, his thumb was working magic on your puffy clit. Your mouth didn't stop leaving love bites all over his neck, while he kisses all over your boobs and collarbones.

"Such a pretty face." He says, admiring your sweat and small tears collecting at your waterline. You let out small moans and whimpers from the pace his fingers were jolting in and out inside of you. "Gonna cum for me?"

He asks, your cunt pulsates around his fingers and they grow tighter each curl at your g-spot. "Mmhm-mhp!" Your hand covers your mouth, cautious of all of the noise you're making. Sylus' head lowers, "Come on, be loud for me, darling." he whispers in your ear, his hot breath tickling the shell of your ear, that action alone was enough to send you over the edge.

"S-Sir, 'm cumming- oh fuck!" You exclaim, finally letting go of your hand on your mouth, Sylus quickly kisses you while you make a mess of his fingers. He didn't slow down, letting you ride out your orgasm.

He pulls away, a string of saliva connecting you two. You lay there, disheveled. "Look so pretty f'me, hm?" He grabs a towel from beside the bed and wipes off the residue and your essence. Your eyes close, you were too tired to even process anything at this point.

Sylus sets down the towel and grabs the blanket, wrapping you two in it, spooning you from behind. "B-but Sylus, what about you?" He smirks, grateful you asked him that question.

"You can pay me back at the banquet tomorrow."

©syefiles 7/19/2024 - do not copy, translate, modify my works.

[nyanbinary-perineum]

Oh?~

What's the matter?

You said you could handle it ;3c

That it was all talk, that there was no way my Alluring Cat-Thing Cum was addictive ;3c

That it was a ridiculous fairy tale to say a single taste would send a shiver down your spine and spark a heat within you that refuses to ever leave~

That it was impossible for a mind to be drained and rewritten in real time all from a single mistake ;3c

You feel it? You feel your thoughts turning? Your mind re-centering itself around your new purpose; A Need to please me for the chance of another taste?~

I can see the confusion settling, you seem less and less concerned as it takes hold (=•ω＜=)

You're already turning your gaze from me and to your new obsession ;3 Eyes transfixed on my cock and your stupid mouth agape as you begin to drool onto yourself~

Hmm? Oh we weren't talking about anything, dumb little pet~ You were just about to get a treat from your new owner is all!

Go ahead and open your pitiful little cock hole and I'll choke you on your favorite thing until the only thing left in that cum-soaked brain of yours is the sense of pleasure you get from being properly used like the dumb little thing you are~ 💜

[nylpad]

BREAKING DAWN

Warnings: Fantasy conflicts, self discovery, emotional moments

In a world where fairy tales were more than just stories, you, known only as Y/N, found yourself entangled with Carlos de Vil, the son of the infamous Cruella De Vil. Unlike his mother, Carlos had a heart of gold, and his eyes sparkled with kindness, a stark contrast to the coldness one would expect.

The two of you met at Auradon Prep, where children of both heroes and villains gathered, a place where destinies could be rewritten. Carlos, with his silver-white hair and tech-savvy brilliance, stood out from the crowd, and it wasn't long before you became fast friends.

One evening, as the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the school grounds, Carlos turned to you with a solemn expression. "Y/N," he said, his voice tinged with a seriousness you hadn't heard before, "the sun shall set and my days shall end. That's what my mother always said. She believed I was destined to follow in her footsteps, to become nothing more than a villain in someone else's story."

You took his hand, feeling the tremble in his fingers. "Carlos, look at me," you urged. "You are not your mother. You have the power to choose who you want to be. The sun will set, yes, but it will rise again, and with each new day, you have the chance to be the hero of your own story."

Carlos looked into your eyes, and in them, he saw the unwavering belief you had in him. It was a belief that warmed him more than the setting sun ever could. "With you by my side, I think I can face the dawn," he whispered.

And as the stars began to twinkle in the sky, you and Carlos made a pact. Together, you would face whatever came your way, not as villains or heroes, but as two souls determined to carve out a path of their own, under the watchful eyes of the setting sun and the hopeful gaze of the rising moon.

[doublekanble]

heart

Alastor/reader (gnc)

romantic-platonic

word count: 5.5k

or, alastor is a man of many things, and you believed he can never love without hurting his love. tw: a small paragraph of al eating your heart.

1. “–I was right.”  you coughed, the more you do, the more your voice choked on itself. Your body seized and shuddered with every beat of your heart as blood spew from the wound, already giving up on getting yourself away when you can barely breathe. He wishes he could’ve made it easier for you, but he got caught up. “you really are selfish…”

As the hand he’s holding onto quickly grew cold, Alastor hoped, for all its worth, that when he fall, however long it’ll takes, you’ll find the strength to finally accept his love for you. For now, he set his left ear over your heart, his hair stained red, Alastor listened closely for what he thought was the last time, as you and your life stops entirely.

(having done this time and time again, for the first time in a long time, he felt a longing for warmth, your warmth, the one seeping from you and dissipating with the cold air in the night.)

2. If there is ever a need to described himself, then Alastor would be the first to say that he is a man of many thing.

The charming popular radio host of New Orleans, the life of the party, a bachelor second to none. He’s your friendly neighbor who greets you with a smile and a caring friend. He’s the perfect son and an amiable stranger. Everything you want, he will be. Everything, except all you ever wanted from him is someone to talk to.

You’ve always a strong fascination for writing from years gone by. From the gloomy and miserable words of a poor but astute poet, riddled with nihilism and pain, to a long-gone romanticist who wrote fairy tales and chasing love he couldn’t held in his hand, or a myth, lost to time and rewritten over and over again. All the books you ever care to curated in your home is that of the classic and the dead.

Perhaps that’s why he’d grown so attached to you and the poetry you sewn into existence with clumsy words.

With his unfortunate lot in life despite his mother’s best effort –god bless that woman, Alastor would, in time, learn how to play charade better than anyone else, barely remembering the last time he bother to show care to anyone else with love and honesty rather than bemusement. He doesn’t need moth-bitten books to guide him through conversation when he can just as easily play the role of a salesman, granting you the option to pick between a piece of stale bread or the last supper. But only a salesman in the end, his words and gestures is with all the saccharine and none of the sugar.

Although he could never hope to weaves paintings with his word, ever only a mockery of one, Alastor welcome his shortcoming in strides, as long as people bought into his act. For the love he lacks in his heart, valuable you, his treasured companion, would make up for it all.

In stark contrast to his hidden callousness, you were a much more genuine person. The books and stories you gathered throughout your short-lived life give you a means to convey the feelings that made up your whole existence. In the occasion where he manage to pick the right topic, you would choose to hastily penned out your thoughts, writings border-on obsessive as you speak of vivid strokes of emotions no single word in any language can ever hope to capture. And yet, your heart, enraptured by the scenery, frantically beat so loudly in your chest as you speak of worlds end and death departed with shared poison; it would also spoke of a love so ordinary and mundane.

You’d never mourned the Danish storyteller that chased love endlessly, simple deeming it a life worth living. He wondered if you ever regretted telling him that.

(you sing praises to the odds and the out of sort while cursing at the commonplace of life, Alastor charmed the ordinary and laugh at the macabre death brings. as long as you’re there by his side, he have no need to love anything else.)

 3. Just like everything else about you, your close proximity to Alastor is not the standard, and should always be seen as an exception.

That evening, you both got shooed away after a particularly early dinner, his mother’s only excuses was that you, the esteemed and beloved guest, already help with cooking, so it’s only natural you’ll get to spend the rest of the stay resting up. Even if the most you ever did was being so horrendous at chopping veggies, Alastor ended up taking over your load instead.

He laugh about it, saying that you’re pretending so you don’t have to do the work. His mother slapped him on the back of his head, while he nearly chop off his own fingers, she comforts you about your culinary skill. You smile at him when she turns her back on you both, knowing full well Alastor’s fighting his instinct to throw the first thing in his hand at you.

You two stand awkwardly on the porch and stare at the only available seat before Alastor argues that he did the most work so he should take the rocking chair. You point out how he’s practically whispering in the hope of his mother not noticing, he doesn’t bother to deny it.

After some mindless chatter, Alastor would suddenly joke about how if he were to ever read the same works as you, maybe he’ll be able to conceived a love so vicious and gentle too. You, sitting just by his feet, only gives him a sheepish smile. It wasn’t until before you’re at the front of his door, already bid his mother goodbye and ready to go back, that you would throw a remark at him.

“I think you’re a pretty vicious guy on your own,” you walk the three step down and continued through the front walk nonchalantly, hands in your coat pocket instead of linking with his like usual. “If you were to love someone, you’ll hurt them in the end. Even if you were to read all of my books.”

You stand at his gate. Although you’re waiting to see whether he’s going to go with you, you might as well have been gauging his reaction. Unconsciously, as he catches your gaze, he relaxed his grip and stride towards you like a panther to a sitting duck.

“You’re welcomed to, by the way. Just don’t dog-tag them.” Faint stinging shot through the heart of his hands from where his nails was digging into. His laugh sounds more like choking as he ignores your offer for now.

“Now, I wasn’t aware you have such a dreadful view of me, let alone thinking I can’t – what?” incredulously, Alastor barks “Love?! HAH!I supposed one of us are going to have to break that pathetic news to my mother.”

The moment he reach you, he catches a soft sigh falling from your lips, “It’s not that I think you can’t, Al.” the nickname that he imprinted on your frontal lobe sounded like nails on chalkboard, “It’s that I think you shouldn’t.”

“How delightful…”

You turned and began to walk on your own. If Alastor was anyone else, he would’ve taken this at face value and get offended at your eccentricity.

“And where, pray tell, does these impressions of yours come from?” He snatched your left arm, pulling it from its resting place and do the job himself. You give him a look, he smiles.

“I’ve been watching you.” His expression must’ve been something, enough for you to instantly stop on the sidewalk as you stammered and tries to pull your arm from him. “Not like that you deviant! I was just trying to get a read on you, since everyone kept talking about you being unattached and all.”

“Yes, yes, I know. What now, you want in on the chase? It’s ok dear, I know I’m utterly irresistible!” Refusing to let go of you, he only laugh on as you scowl. It’s well known to everyone that Alastor have been available for the longest time since anyone ever known him. It was also a well-kept mystery, the fact he have never courted a single person throughout his entire life.

“Utterly hogwash, that’s what you are.” Huffing to yourself, you finally would relent your arm to him. Your shared steps echoing across the darkening street, it’s near curfew. “I do have to say, I see what they meant, about you being a good spouse and all that,” He smiles a bit brighter at that, “But I just can’t see you being vulnerable with anyone else. You despises things not going your way, and love just have too much uncertainty!”

“Yes, yes,” he repeats, as if soothing you from a tantrum, “Weak and frail Alastor, the poor soot of New Orleans, unable to tear his ribcages open and show everyone his organs the same way his beloved whimsical friend here does every day ~.” You hiss as he settled his own weight against you with his head on your shoulder, nearly knocking the both onto the ground, “I guess you’ll just have to be with me for the rest of your life then! If you don’t, I’ll simply drown in my own piled up misery! What a life it’ll be!”

“Sure you will. Now get off and take me back home you dramatic coot.”

4. At that time, there was no need for Alastor to inquire your meaning of “vicious”.

In direct contrast to your trusting nature, you’re also perceptive and doubtful to a fault. The first slight of your tongue was a comment on how he can stop smiling around you. Always with that same gaze as you have now, lying underneath him. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what he said to you that day. But it was enough for you to stood up and walked from the table with a ten-dollar bill pin under your half-finished lemon tea. The issue was quickly resolved with a phone call to your home, but he quickly learned that you don’t take kindly to – and quite frankly, refused to participate in – saccharine sweet insult.

But at what point did he stop hiding himself and let you read him freely, he thought. If he bit down on his tongue until he bleeds and shut you out like how he did to so many others who couldn’t even take one step near him, then maybe something could’ve turn out differently.

Replaying that moment over and over in his head, for the first time in his life, Alastor think about the concept of love, really think about it. It simply was an aspect of life that he never pay mind to, equating it with romance book and kissing under starry skies, and thus, utterly useless. When he think of love, all he have to go off of is his dear old mother, who sacrifices and suffers so much for him, which, in time, he pay her back with everything he have. His life was only about her and himself and the bodies under the forest floor and it was everything he wanted and more. Until one rainy day, with his eyes on the script he’s writing out for tomorrow’s broadcast, bleary-eyed and hearing the bed calling his name, he thought about you.

When he came to, he already dropped his coffee cup. The brown liquid burns, even through his slipper.

After that, Alastor would start picking out books from your carefully curated shelves, sitting in your armchair and skims through the lines while you spread across the ground like an old cat, he tried to find the feelings that you described to him in the same page you’d read a million times and over. But as he does so, he would soon find that there’s not a single word in any of those old and yellowed pages of yours that is able to captured the quickly spreading rot in his heart. In a frenzied, Alastor would burn through your small library faster than you could ever hope for.

(Alastor knows that time and time, again and again, as long as you’re willing to reach for his hand, he will never let go of yours.

at some point, he’d stop caring about whether you’re willing to at all. why would he, when the meaning of being able to love you became all he care to know at all.)

5.

“You don’t need to love like I do, you know that, right?”

He turns to you, on your stomach, lying in your nest of blankets and pillows with a pencil in hand putting down incomprehensible charcoal shape.

“Bragging now, are we?” he gets up from the armchair and settled down by your side, eyes watching your hand while propping the book he was reading in his lap. You crank your neck and stare at him with a look, “And how are you so sure I want to love like you, dear?”

“You’ve been plowing through my books.”

He sends you a beaming smile, acting innocent while playing with your hair.

“You offered.”

“Aren’t they all the one I told you about?”

Your eyes on the book he’s holding, then the one he just placed back into the shelves. It feels like he’s back in his mother’s kitchen, with his dirty nails behind his back and a poor excuse for the missing bread on the dinner table. Except this time, there’s just you and him in your small living room, and you’re looking awfully smug about it.

Raising his hand in the air, he sigh pitifully, “Ah~, guilty as charged, darling.” and offers nothing else. The silence afterward is enough of a white flag anyway.

Pleased with what you got from him, you turn back to your work, seemingly unaware (or even worse, maybe you don’t care at all) about the gnawing in his chest and the storm raging in his head while his hand weaves through your hair.

The last time you talked to him about love, you more-or-less called him and his love hazardous. While Alastor have no trouble with accepting it from anyone else, with you, it feels as if you’re discarding a part of him to the dogs. Although his knowledge on many topics far exceeds yours, when it came to pure and genuine emotions from the heart, you’d know enough to examine him under all type of love there is, and time after time you’d deemed him impossible to ever love. And despite knowing loving and love is wholly separate, it tears him open to even considers that you’d thought of him as unable to love and be loved and something about it is just so incredibly agonizing to the point of wanting to rip you open so you can see just how unlovable you are too.

But in your living room, sitting right next to you the way no one else is allowed to. He sigh, making sure his words doesn’t come off as unpleasant as he feels.

“If I don’t have to love like you, then how do you supposed I should be doing it?”

“I’m not sure, but hopefully not at all.” You said offhandedly, but you might as well just drove a knife through his stomach, but it’s you, so he let it be, “If you can’t help yourself though, you’ll probably do something really horrible.”

“What do you supposed I’ll do?”

You turn to him, a hint of surprise in your eyes at how close he is now, but you let him be, “Undecided. But you seems like the type to let it eats you alive.”

“I’ll let my love eats me?” Laughing in disbelief, he could almost call you cute with how you nodded to yourself, resolute in your idea about him.

“You’ll let it eats you, yes.”

Alastor chuckled to himself as he tap your sketchbook twice, you hand it to him.

“Well, I’ll need to make sure that I won’t be alone, aren’t I?”

You laugh openly and said that’s true, he’s too selfish to be taken alone. Alastor couldn’t care about how much of that was just more of your usual jest and how much of it is your view of who he is. If you, who love so selflessly and readily, agrees without push back, that someone as selfish as him will doomed whoever it is that he loves so much, then who is he to deny.

At that time, the line of charcoal you put onto the paper come together to show a shadow of a small man dragging a coat by his unseen feet, a mock-up from one of the stories that you loved. Alastor stop wondering if he ever could love something like the poems and stories you’ve read a million times over, instead, he think it’s best if he loves the way you expected him to, the way he can see himself doing.

6. To be loved is to be changed.

You told him this while he stand in your kitchen, trying to shoo you back to the table so he can work without fuzzing over you. And now, while he’s holding you, so cold and so unlike you, Alastor wondered whether you would like it if your bones were to be buried in the same spot as the others.

As much as he’d love to keep it near with him, there’s not a single excuse in the whole round earth that can ever help him convinced his mother of letting him uprooted the garden out back and buried you down there, neither can he bring you with him everywhere. Alastor wants to try taking you to the morgue after he’s done, but how do you explain bringing in a set of skeleton with missing ribs? It’s simple, really.

You don’t.

He lifted you up in his arms and sat back on his sofa, your lulling head settled just below his chin, wanted to savor what’s left of you for just a bit more before rigor mortis sets in and makes you even less of what you are now. The gramophone in the corner of his room spewed utter nonsense as Alastor closes his eyes.

It’s Tuesday tomorrow, but he will have to roll up his sleeves and get to work on cleaning out one of the guest room in his hunting lodge if he doesn’t want the ants to take you first. He’ll have to call in sick, too. Alastor likes to think that when he sees you again, you’ll at least have the will to appreciate the troubles he went through for you and not complaint about being locked up inside. You and the love you have for him, akin to small river, a gentle stream, with orange and yellow leaves floating across, tucked in a forest somewhere. It widdled down the rocks and carved a path for itself. The same one that you oh so heartlessly withheld from Alastor.

You'd appreciate being bury in such a scenery, it’s a shame you won’t be, though your body would’ve made way for the prettiest flowers. But you’ll have to take what he can afford to give. To be loved is to be changed, after all.

(when, not if. having gone on for this long, he’s sure that you’re suspended in between life and death in the hell you refuses to ever believe in. half of him prayed that there’s not a river there so you can drown yourself in it just to forget all about him. the other half prayed you’ll remember nothing at all, even of the literature you love so much.

at some point, where will you stop being yourself? when you forget enough of yourself? Alastor doesn’t need to care about the semantics. he knows he’ll choose you time and again, even if you forget how you love.)

7. You take your time reading through farewell letters.

Unless the cats and dogs on the street can write, then there’s only a few, you kept a significantly smaller number of friends by your side. But it must’ve been hard to even focus with Alastor sitting right next to you.

“Darling, surely we can-“

“Please don’t make this any harder than it already was, Alastor.”

Desperately holding onto your wrist and halted your pace for just a second, he all but plead a hopeless case.

“You’re not thinking straight! Are you really just going to up and leave because someone told you so? After living your whole life here?!”

Your hand, moving like clockwork, already finished with the letters, refusing to stay in his. You pulled back from him and place the rest of the letters in a small wooden box with a deer carved on its lid. “You know it’s not just that.”

In times like these, he wonders if it was himself who have gone mad. As if the whole world is in on one big joke and you are just following along with it. Any moment now, you’ll burst into laughter and tell him that everything is a lie. You’re not moving to Washington to help a friend you know for some years with their business, and you’re not leaving him, not after everything he showed you. But you’re holding onto the letter with his mother’s name written on the front with misty eyes as if you have no other choice. So he held you by the shoulders to the point digging his nails into it and turned you to look at him.

“Then what else is there?! For Christ sakes-“ you look as if this is the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do in your life, he felt as if this is the hardest battle he have to fight, “Please, mon Chéri, talk to me...”

Alastor collapse onto you, his whole weight pins you down on your small couch. Head on your chest, he listens as your heart beats just a bit faster. You let him.

“…what do you think we are, Alastor?”

Without hesitation, he reply.

“We are whatever you want us to be. Whatever it takes for you to stay.”

For someone like you, a romantic at heart, just like who he is now, that should’ve been enough for you to at least considers the possibility of forgetting about what’s right and wrong. For sure, it would’ve been enough for you to stay, if you were anyone else.

But you’re you, and he’s only himself. The romantic in you see through his act for the longest time and still fall in love with him, but just like how your love is selfless and kind, it’s also viciously rational. If you were anyone else, you would’ve ignored the rational part of yours.

“I’m sorry, Alastor.” All this time, he was desperately proving himself to you. Doing everything in his power just so you’re willing to forget your rationale and love him just as much as he loves you. “We’ll die loving each other.”

He doesn’t care if he die, Alastor wants to scream out. He’s ready to die to love you, he have been screaming out all this time. But despite all of his effort, you deemed him a love not worth chasing after till death, while he already planned the path to hell with you.

Your fingers, shaky and gentle, brush through his hair. If it was anyone else, he wouldn’t have to place himself bare and vulnerable like this. But if you were anyone else, he wouldn’t have love you at all. And if it’s death holding you back from loving him, then so be it.

8. For a long time now, Alastor knows you more than anyone else.

You were never a dancer, not by choice either. Its pathetic in the cutest way, how you froze up and refused to move, the way you stutters and try to pull from him only ever makes him want to bully you more. But from the way your brows draws together, to the way you’d tripped over yourself chasing after his footstep, all of it, Alastor earned from you.

From the way you stayed up overnight, to how the bottom of your shoes dragged against the pavement as you walk. From the tip of your pencil, to the bottom of your bookshelves. Every books on your shelves and every sketches. Alastor swear with all his life that no one else knows better than him when it came to you.

He knows intimately the curves you’d penned on your signatures; he knows how you’d change your mind at a moment notice about anything, he knows how you take with you small things on the side of the road that you deemed pretty enough and he knows you still have a lot you want to do here that you’ve told your lovely friend. So it’s only normal for Alastor, the person you grown to love so much, to know exactly why you refuses to even considers being by his side, and it’s just his luck that he also knows just how to write a letter with words just like yours.

So when was it that you got a friend you trusted so wholeheartedly, so faithfully, so much so, you’re your dearly cherished Alastor became a second thought in your mind? Weren’t you a romantic? Weren’t romantics idiots who can’t think straight when it come to love? So why was it that you alone refuses to let yourself love him and remained so loyal to someone you only considered a friend, someone who couldn’t even tell your lettering from his? Was it them? Who fed you lies after lies to captured you in their own hands? Was it them who taught you the telling and sign of a madman? Is that why your view of him was so horrible, you' refused to ever fathom life with him?

He knows you would’ve hated him for this, but Alastor adores you, and sometimes you just don’t know what’s best for you, even when it’s staring at you from across the front walk and following you to your home.

So if someone as rational as you can be swayed back to his lodge for just one more visit, then your friend surely can be swayed too, to come and visit you some other time, down here in your beloved New Orleans.

9. If anyone ever ask anyone else, then they will say that Alastor, beloved local radio host of New Orleans, is a man of many things. But if they were to ask you, then he’s one of the person you cherished the most, and your dearest friend.

He’s everything, the charming popular radio host of New Orleans, the life of the party, a bachelor that’s second to none. Alastor plays himself as your friendly neighbor who will always greets you with a smile and a clenched fist behind his back, hiding a stain just on the cuff of his sleeve in the early morning, a caring friend that offers you help just in the nick of time. Alastor is his mother’s perfect son, who spent more time comforting her about your whereabouts than to care for his own fracturing mind; an amiable stranger, gripping the newspaper detailing yet another disappearance with a bit too much force. Everything you have ever wanted him to be, he was. And yet, to his utter bewilderment and maddening grief, you refused to let him be anyone other than a friend you talked to about everything.

In the letters you saved from your beloved pen pal-turn-missing person, they would call you mature and wise. Sentimental words and kind, to his eyes, all are but hollowed gestures advising, agreeing, and offering you a place up in Washington until you can forget all about him and move on with your life, leaving Alastor to be nothing more than a nostalgic blot on the tablecloth, nothing more than yearning in early Junes. Until you forget the fact you ever love him at all, all because you decided that you couldn’t afford to let yourself be love by him.

Keeping all of it in mind, Alastor decides your dear friend should be bury far away from the comfort of your room. Three years, seven months and eleven days after your death, Alastor dragged a body into the woods. Not just any old one like usual, but not anything else too special.

It’s odd, even though you’ve been gone for the more than a year by now, it’s almost as if you’ve neve left his side. Maybe it’s the rest of you, lying peacefully in your nest of pillows and blankets, in your room that he diligently maintain. Maybe it’s your shared books he sometimes takes from his shelves and skims through in the dead of night after a hard day. Maybe it’s the locked box, sitting by his work desk welcoming him home after a night out, the same one he held in his hands, void of blood and anything else.

Or maybe it’s the reverberating sounds of heartbeat, so unlike his own. In both his waking days, in his reveries, over the sounds of the jazz band down in his favorite speakeasy and following him into the woods. Ever so silently, oh-so gently, utterly viciously in his left ear.

In any other case, Alastor finds he absolutely adores the idea of your ghost haunting him until his fell into his grave.

(you said that he should never love because he couldn’t be in control. he mourn the fact you never even let him prove you wrong. Alastor would’ve let you dance on his rotting corpse if that’s what it takes for you to let him call you his.)

10.

Somewhere in his heart, Alastor had hoped that you of all people can evade the hand of rots.

It’s a genuine shame that in the end, all of the words in the world will do nothing to stop you from sharing the lot with the others, he thought, staring down from where he straddled you with his hand peeling off layers of skins and fat. Warm fingers brushes against your hollowed cheek, before raising a small hammer and bringing down onto your bare chest. Alastor wants to preserve you for as long as possible, but to do that properly, he might as well take all of your innards out and sewn you up. It’s not that he’s not open to that idea, Alastor love every part of you. It’s just that he’s sure you’ll be extremely upset when you find out. So he’ll have to get comfortable with doing things the hard way, no matter how hard it is to do so.

With steady fingers in spite of the drumming in his ears, Alastor patiently picks out every pieces of bones he could, placing them into a small, wooden box. With a wistful smile, he closes the lid and set it aside. He miss you already.

Pushing your lungs out of the way, he dig his hands in. With blood runs up to his wrist, Alastor tries to be as gentle as he can while pulling your heart out. One hand holding onto it, another carefully cutting away everything that ties it to your body.

Distinctly, every part of you was always warm, and over time, Alastor, who’s hands are as cold as winter itself, find comfort in your touch. It was almost like you were made just for him, and him, you. And now, with your heart, cold and silent in his hand, Alastor realized what a miserable life it will be to go on living without your warmth with him from now on until he’s six feet under. But it’s ok, he’s sure of it, because above all else, what he’s been chasing after this whole time is in his hand.

For a brief moment, Alastor wondered if he were to meet you in another lifetime, one where you aren’t so complicated and so in love with the idea of living a fair life and a right love, would you have let yourself be wrong and love him. But he’s glad that your love, with all its beautiful intricacies that causes him this much pain, with a wound in it, still look as beautiful as he hoped.

Sinking his teeth into it, into you, the taste of iron and metallic flooded his mouth and drown his senses as he closed his eyes shut and nearly buckled under the taste of you. There’s not a single word in the book to describe the visceral sensations running through his blood and spreading through his every veins. Alastor shivers, the back of his head felt numb, his fever grows as he desperately takes his time and savor you. It’s a shame you can’t last forever, but he’ll take what he can get for now.

(as his teeth tears into your veins, he hears a sounds, so familiar, somewhere in the corner of his ears. it wasn’t until he caught his own heart beating that he realized that the rhythm he’s hearing isn’t his at all.

until the day you two can meet again, until then. he pray he will never forget the sounds of your heart, beating so gently.)

[nightmare-grass]

Odd Moon-related Connections in Genshin Lore

- Glaze Lillies and Nilotpala Lotuses only bloom at night

- Glaze Lillies may have been the favorite flower of Guizhong, who’s hair was grey/white and who’s outfit had stardust on it (she was the god of dust, so unless she was a god of stardust specifically that’s some odd things about her)

- Nilotpala Lotuses bloomed at the bleeding feet of the Goddess of Flowers after being cast out of Heaven in the wake of the Seelie disaster

- There is at least one account in Sumeru that claims Liloupar came to the people in a moonbeam. Quote: “Our prayers to the Goddess of Flowers have borne fruit. Her envoy came to us in a moonbeam, granting us life-saving medicine and clean water … …She called herself Liloupar, born of the lilies” and later in that same passage, Quote: “At moonrise, she warned us that the water from the canal may carry disease.” So many mentions of the moon in one text about Liloupar and her relation to the Goddess of Flowers.

- Seelies seem to have a moonlit sky with sparse clouds reflected in their bodies, the bright orb in their heads looks like a moon.

- Guizhong’s death produced a cloud of dust that blocks out the sky and creates a darkened area in Liyue.

- Istaroth was said to be responsible for the Sin Shades, who only show up in Evernight in the dark.

- Nahida has some moon connections in her titles, and she has white hair and pale skin, like Paimon, who has a starry pattern on her scarf like Guizhong had on her robes.

- The Goddess of Flowers built a city for her offspring, the Jinn, and she called it Ay-Khanoum, translated to English that’s the City of the Moon Maiden.

- You can link the mythologies of the Goddess of Flowers and King Deshret to King Solomon and Astarte, who was a version of Ishtar, who is the root for the name Istaroth

- The power of the Aranara is the power of dreams, they exist in the dreamscape. And with how much we use a harp to connect with Aranara, it’s just as likely that music is linked to dreams. And Venti, one of Istaroth’s thousand winds, is a bard who knows all songs past and future, and plays a harp.

- The moon sisters were named Aria, Sonnet, and Canon, literally musical terminology.

- There’s probably a connection between the three moon sisters and Teyvat’s concepts of Time, Memory, and Dreams

- One of Venti’s powers is that he can pull up memories from the far flung past

- The quest for Time and Wind has these sun dial looking things that are actually moon dials since the puzzle only activates at night

- Seelies make a jingling tune, Nahida makes a jingling tune, the Goddess of Flowers taught Rukkhadevata the “source song” which birthed the race of Aranara, and the Pari fought the abyss using the Great Songs of the Khavarena, which seem to summon pure elemental energy aligned with Dendro.

- One of the fairytales that was weirdly important to the Abyss Order before we learned that fairy tales could hold the truth about the past if it’s been rewritten/deleted in Irminsul was the Pale Princess and the Six Pygmies. I’ve already noted a few pale characters with crowns or royal status but there was also a character called the Night Mother, who seemed to be the villain of the story. Another odd Night connection.

- Andersdotter wrote The Boar Princess, her signature rose design is on the cover. A rose is also on the cover of The Pale Princess and the Six Pygmies, so could she have written that too? As a member of the Hexenzirkel, it’s pretty likely.

- The Seelies were said to be beautiful pale people, and Rukkhadevata is pale with white hair, as is Nahida. Another trait they share are elf ears. Klee is pale with fair hair, and she’s an elf; from what we know of Alice, her mom, she could look much the same. Although he’s old, Pulcinella of the Fatui Harbingers is also an elf with white hair and pale skin, fitting the description. Seelies are fairies, and elves in real world folklore are considered fae, so could the Seelies have given us the elf race in Genshin? Or the Moon Sisters, who presided over the Seelies? Elves seem to be as long lived as gods, so it’s not out of the realm of possibility.

- I think Aria, Sonnet, and Canon represented Memories, Time, and Dreams, symbolizing the past, present, and future respectively. I don’t know the order of the goddesses in their roles, but I do know they had a fight and two died, leaving only one, and wouldn’t it be something if that surviving moon goddess became Istaroth, the god of Time? Maybe even Irminsul came from the death of the moon goddess of Memory? I don’t know what could’ve happened to the goddess of Dreams, but maybe her death caused the constellations that are canonically made up of the crystalline fruits of Irminsul in the sky box of the Firmament.

(If I could post more than 10 pictures I would but you have the internet, you can look up photos of the stuff I’m talking about.)

[rei-ismyname]

X-Men/Mutant Dynasties

Something I've always felt uneasy about is when offspring of Marvel mutants basically inherit their mutant gift 1:1. The X Gene (though I don't love that either) is supposed to be a naturally but randomly occurring thing in humans that causes them to develop a strong mutation. In many cases, a superpower as opposed to six toes. I'm sure people experience such minor mutations as well but it's not due to the X Gene.

A character that exemplifies the my dislike of this is Raze, the alternate reality/'future' child of Wolverine and Mystique. Them existing in a pretty ridiculous era with a constant nostalgia recycling is a factor too.

This idiot. He literally just has both parents gifts - shapeshifting, claws, and a healing factor. Keep in mind those are metal claws too - something Logan doesn't have biologically. Maybe it's a Mystique thing and she's like a ditto in Pokémon breeding because her kid with Xavier is this chump.

It's just Charles Xavier again! I'll admit part of the dislike is them featuring in such mediocre, unimaginative stories, and they're pretty transparent Nostalgia bait. Has it lead to good stories? I don't think so, not as a critical element. Could you honestly tell me what either of these idiots' motivation is without looking it up?

Also, I think taking the randomness out of it just leads to eugenics and bioessentialism - a place the x books should not go, or at least not have nominal heroes doing it. Leave it to Mr Sinister.

Mutant trait inheritance has been around since almost the beginning. Polaris has Magneto's powers but weaker, Siryn has *similar* powers to Banshee, Nightcrawler looks like Mystique (though that makes sense through retcon. Shit, maybe she IS a Ditto.) On the flip side, there's even more Mutants that inherited none of their parents' mutation.

IRL Mutation is supposed to be, well not random per se, but the result of damage to genes. In our universe it's neither a good thing nor bad thing. In 616 it's pretty muddled tbh. I'm not a scientist - I'm a writer, so I'm not going deep on something that doesn't have internal consistency. I'm always going to dislike thin characters trying to evoke familiarity through mashing two iconic ones together, but it's more than that. What's the source of my discomfort then?

Yeah, it's the eugenics. HoxPoX actually took it further, revealing that Moira and Charles intentionally sought to breed reality warpers, to the point of researching partners that would give the desired result. They were successful too, resulting in Proteus and Legion, two of the most powerful mutants alive. The ethics of these actions aren't editorialised but I think they're meant to be read as horrifying - especially when you consider the context of the 'pairings' and the lives these poor kids have had. Maybe it's not so surprising Xavier views David as a weapon and Moira seems to hate Kevin. It makes Chuck and Moira look terrible.

Pic unrelated, I just wanted to break up the text and what better than Beatnik Namor?

The superbaby schemes never come to light and they're not really punished for being shit parents. Certainly not socially. I'd love a book where they were, but the time has kinda passed. Maybe the fairy tale morality of big two comics doesn't have the framework or the desire to explore it, though I think that if you're going to put eugenics in your fiction you probably should.

I've been sitting on this draft for months because I feel like I don't have the knowledge or vocabulary to explore it properly. I'm probably missing something. I've decided it's been edited and rewritten enough and I'm posting it as is, so if you have any thoughts on this I'd love to hear them. Join the conversation!

[nerdraging4point0]

Mad Hearts and Temptations // Chapter Two // Wonderland Romance AU

Tropes and Tags: Wonderland romance, instalove, too much sex, destiny, fated lovers.

Content warning: 18+ only minors DNI. dark themes, gore themes, gothic themes, PinV, PinA, oral (f!recieveing, m!recieving), voyeurism, exhibitionism, angst.

This work below is fictionalized ideas and stories involving real people but does not directly reflect their thoughts, feelings, or behaviors. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction.

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It’s different this time. 

As I walk down the long, dreary corridor lined with identical doors, I feel a sense of weary familiarity. How many times have I made this journey, desperately seeking the door at the end that always seems to remain out of reach? My footsteps echo off the cold tile floor, the sound bouncing back at me mockingly. Yet something feels different. There's a charge in the stale air, a shift in the energy propelling me forward. 

“You’re late,”  her voice catches me off guard, I turn to see a striking, surreal sight. The pretty girl from the coffee shop stands there, only now with white bunny ears twitching above her cascade of perfect curls. Her ensemble seems plucked from a fairy tale, from the lace gloves to the ruffled corset and tulle skirt. She consults the pocket watch in her hand, it’s chain softly wrapped around her delicate wrist. Sweet caramel eyes meet mine as her lips curve into a smile, pointing down the hallway I've become so familiar with. 

I sense this is no longer the hopeless cycle of before. The static has lifted, rules rewritten. My quest down the corridor feels destined, each step bringing me closer to the door I've always sought. Something has unlocked within the universe's machinations. The end, once perpetually out of reach, now feels attainable. 

Racing down the twisting corridors, my feet barely touching the ground as I move with haste. I round the last corner and there it is, waiting for me. I approach with purpose, my hand outstretched. This is it. As my confident fingers close around the cool metal knob, a bright light suddenly floods out from the keyhole. I freeze, squinting against the harsh glow. A voice emerges, disembodied, yet clear. It calls my name, beckoning me. I stand transfixed, pulse racing, unsure whether to turn the knob or run. The light is warm against my skin, the voice soothing, but caution wars with curiosity.

I squat down, one knee touching the cold tiles beneath me as I brace myself on either side of the keyhole. I line up my eye with the bright light and it dims as I get closer, looking through the gaping hole to see what lies behind it. As the light fades, I can see the silhouette of someone. Whoever they are, they are tall, wearing a long tail coat and trousers with their hands clasped elegantly in front of them and a top hat placed neatly on their head. The voice carrying my name sounds miles away but just the same, clear as a bell - it's a man. 

Ember.

My name has never sounded so haunting and yet so beautiful to my own ears before. I open my mouth to say hello, to call out in response, but before any sound escapes, on the other side of the door, an eye flashes before me, looking back at me from the other side. I jump back in fear as I'm met with the deep realization that it's Alice's blue, deranged orb staring back at me. The icy blue iris bores into me, surrounded by veins spider webbing outwards across the white. Her heavy-lidded gaze feels menacing, hinting at the madness brewing within. I shudder, unnerved by her unblinking stare as a chill runs down my spine.

I wake startled and sweating, the dream leaves goosebumps over my skin as I pant trying desperately to catch my breath. Heart pounding, I scan my familiar bedroom but can’t shake the lingering sense of danger. My eyes dart to the front door and I am gripped by fear when I see it is unlocked. Propelled by raw panic, I leap from bed scrambling to the door on shaky legs. I turn the lock and slide the chain into place, reinforcing the barrier between me and my imagined pursuer. Only after double-bolting the door do I begin to calm down, the cool wood against my back restoring my senses. 

I try desperately to slow my heart, to calm my heavy breathing by holding my breath, letting it out in slow exhales. My eyes search the dark wildly to make sure I am alone, scanning every corner available without moving from my spot. I swear I can see someone in the shadows resting in the corner of the apartment; tall, dark, and ominous, top hat and all.

 "Help me, Ember. Set me free." The voice is wistful and melodic and I'm drawn to it. The way each word is articulated slowly, the deep tenor of it. Rationality has me bringing my knees to my chest, holding them tight as I keep my eyes on the shadow. Outside, a car passes by and it casts light through my window, horizontal lines dancing across the clean walls of my studio apartment. With them sweeping away, whatever shadow I think I see in the corner is gone, leaving me reassured that I am alone.

 Yet a lingering unease remains as I stand up crossing the room, curling up on my bed, heart still racing as I struggle to slow my breathing. The voice seemed so real, almost seductive in its plea for help, and I can't shake the image of that tall, shadowy figure in the corner, top hat and all. 

Was it just my imagination playing tricks, or something more sinister? I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing for the morning light to banish the darkness and the strange visions within it. But until then, I cling to my knees, listening intently for any further sounds in the still of the night. The encounter has left me rattled, and I know that sleep will not come easily tonight. 

–

I am only offered a couple of hours more of dreamless sleep before it is interrupted by an early morning call from Tori. 

“Hello?” I answer the phone groggily, not even opening my eyes. 

“I need help!” she whines. I hear shuffling and then something crashes on the other end. 

“What else is new?” I tease giving a tired giggle at my own joke. Tori is sweet but she is a chaotic mess sometimes. 

“Ha, ha. No, I have a shoot next week and have no props for it. I repeat no props!” She wails. Tori and I were hired at the shop around the same time, and you could say we built sort of a workplace friendship. She's been diligently building up her photography side business as of late, and ever since I offered some creative suggestions after perusing her portfolio a while back, she's enlisted me to join her on prop scouting adventures. We've scoured high-end boutiques with ornate mirrors and vintage furniture, dingy thrift stores bursting with kitschy knick-knacks and retro dishware, even dusty antique shops filled with weathered books, faded maps, and tarnished silverware. 

“So, will you please go with me?” When she asks again I realize that I have drifted off in the middle of her conversation. I sigh, rubbing my face with my hand, turning over in bed. I look into the corner where the shadow loomed last night, empty and clear. 

“Pay me in coffee and you’ve got a deal.” 

–

Entering the store, we seemed to be the only two people other than the cashier and the customer he was occupied with at the cash register. Despite being busy, he glanced up and offered a polite, welcoming smile as the bell on the door announced our arrival. Since it was just an antique shop I didn't think I had to overly dress for the occasion, black leggings and tank top and with oversized white cardigan paired with a simple pair of stylish cream boots seemed fitting. Overall, my outfit achieved the ideal balance of comfort, flexibility, and presentability for an afternoon spent digging for hidden gems in the cluttered aisles.

The place is a chaotic jumble of items from various eras, crammed together on shelves and stacked in teetering piles that threaten to topple over. Mismatched antique furniture, including ornate Victorian chairs with worn velvet upholstery and chipped mahogany tables, are shoved into every available corner. 

The wooden floorboards creak under the weight of the haphazardly arranged clutter. Navigating the narrow aisles requires contorting your body to avoid bumping into precariously placed porcelain vases and stained-glass lamps. Some items are caked under layers of dust, evidence that they've sat undisturbed for ages. Others appear practically new, though still decades-old – vintage comic books with crisp pages, classic toys in their original packaging, kitschy 1950s kitchenware in pristine condition.

“It’s gonna be dark, I need as many gothic things as we can find.” Tori says her voice trailing off as she starts to pick through the shops inventory. Her pretty brown waves gathered into a loose ponytail, white tank and highwaisted jeans accent every curve she had, her red plaid jacket tied around her waist. I nod along, half-listening as I note the diverse array of products. 

My eye catches a purple love seat in the back with buttons all along the back. It looked like it belonged in a vampire's cottage. It was perfect for her. 

"Why don't you start with the chair in the back, it looks like it would fit what you're looking for." Tori's eyes immediately pop up finding the chair and her feet carry her toward it. I laugh a little as I follow behind her. The loveseat truly did look like it belonged in a Gothic vampire's lair, with its deep purple crushed velvet upholstery and ornately carved wood frame. The buttons marching down the back were large and shiny, looking almost like black pearls. It had curved wooden arms and clawed feet, adding to the overall sinister Victorian aesthetic. As Tori rushed over and sunk into the cushions, I could imagine her hosting a vampire tea party on that loveseat.

I pause to gaze at the intricate display of antique timepieces, the faded faces and tarnished metals speaking to their age and history. Though motionless now, I can almost see the second hands sweeping around the numbered dials when first purchased long ago. I imagine the gentlemen who once carried these watches, checking the time with a flip of the enameled case, the steady ticking marking the passing minutes. Now they sit preserved behind glass, the once polished chains artfully draped. Yet as I lean in, the ghostly echoes of multiple ticking movements seem to sound in synchrony.

Tori busies herself examining the dark wooden furniture adorned with intricate carvings and velvet upholstery, I meander through the rest of the store without much purpose. My eyes drift over an assortment of antique items, ranging from ornate lamps to faded paintings in gilded frames. Tucked away in a back corner, angled to reflect the ceiling, sits an elegant mirror atop a gold stand. Unlike much of the shop's inventory, not a speck of dust mars its glimmering surface. As I stride past, a flicker of motion suddenly grabs my attention. I freeze, pulse quickening as I glimpse a blur of long white hair in my peripheral vision.

I set my coffee down and squat in front of the glass reflection. My eyes scan the mirror intently, searching for any imperfection or oddity that could explain the strange flash of light I thought I saw. I lean in, my nose almost touching the cool surface as I examine every inch, looking for a reasonable explanation. But the mirror seems completely normal, its smooth glass surface flawlessly reflecting my puzzled face staring back at me. I stand up and take a few steps to the left and right, carefully observing how the light hits the mirror at different angles. But no matter how I position myself, I can't recreate that brief, bright flash. It couldn't have just been my imagination...could it? 

Perplexed, I lower myself in front of the mirror once more, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. As I peer deeply into the glass, the surface seems to swirl and blur. I feel an odd sensation like the floor is tipping beneath me. Gripped by a sudden vertigo, I tumble forward as if falling into an abyss. The mirror envelops me in a grey vortex, its cold tendrils wrapping around my helpless form. Icy darkness consumes me as I spiral into the unknown depths beyond the glass.

[bilightningwhumper]

Whump Writing Intro

Whump writing side blog to @bilightningwriter

Generic writing blog is @bilightningwriter-writing

My blog is majority labeled as Mature or 18+. If you're a minor and interact anyway, on your own head be it.

Ask box is open, but if you do anything with an ask game or prompts list, please tell me which one because I share a lot that inspire me randomly. Questions about my WIPs are also welcome!

Main writing whump tropes used:

institutional whump (partially inspired by the BBU community)

noncon/ nsfw (majority of my noncon scenes are kept to whumpee's perspective only, not the whumper), more explicit in consensual situations, but I am a descriptive writer regardless

Female/lady whump, as well as male and enby whump

Captive whump

Creepy/intimate whumpers

Torture whump (more mental and emotional than physical but I do write all of these)

Conditioning whump

Nonhuman whump

Lab whump

What I don't write:

gore

main character death (unless it's a whumper)

explicit underage (try not to, anyway; will have warnings if that occurs)

I also write LGBT+ and/or neurodiverse characters. I enjoy happy endings, so hurt/comfort is big for me. Basically a lot of whump eventually followed with a lot of fluff.

*IMPORTANT NOTE: Because of yet another AI scraper, I put all of my fics on Ao3 as user-readers only. I know omegaverse messes with some AI generators, but this one is new to me, so better safe than sorry. Remember, you can make an account for free on Ao3 (it's not subscription based either, it's just free) with your email. So they're not gone, just user-readers only.*

My Ao3 Psueds

Works below the cut

Main works-

The New Eden Institution series: Omegaverse institutional/nonhuman-adjacent/conditioning whump, retelling Fairy Tales in a Modern Dystopia AU with LGBT+ and neurodivergent characters (more modern than medieval, but you'll see why as stories go on)

TNEI Tumblr Masterlist

Ao3 link to series

TNEI Ao3 link Masterlist

Mangst 2024 Masterlist with this series

Shadow of a Shield: Omegaverse AU with alternate ending to Endgame where some Avengers had unknown children

SoaS Series Masterlist

Ao3 link to series (in the process of being rewritten)

SoaS Ao3 link Masterlist

Temptations of Fate: Sapphic Romeo and Juliet-inspired angels/demons story

ToF Masterlist

Current writing events/challenges I'm doing:

My AI-less Whumptober 2024 Masterlist

My Angstober 2024 Masterlist

My Flufftober 2024 Masterlist

Corresponding Ao3 Collections for these

If you want to be on a taglist, feel free to dm/pm me or comment on the post, as I don't update on a schedule (just whenever they're finished).

[pjs-daycare-new-era]

This is more or so a ooc question but is plum from the au he's originally from like a toned down version of lust to be more romance themed than.... that.

…

to keep is short, and frankly family friendly,

I am presenting myself as the new writer for Underlust (in my case). Because Underlust is now public property for the community, Ive decided to rewrite the whole thing, Plum is Lust, but a redone version.

Hes a child in this, so hes more focused on romance and fairy tales. But, in his original Au, he is very much equipped to his dead name. However he knows when it’s appropriate and when it is not, and respectfully, always follows boundaries.

So yes, he is from Underlust, however, a rewritten one.

-Mod Lilac 👑

[agonycrossbow]

Thinking about the complete and total role reversal that must have inevitably happened after Leon and Ashley got home from Spain and how how quickly the fairy tale came unraveled as soon as they touched back down into reality.

Fairytale Leon: The strong, honorable, fearless knight who walks through fire and water and mud and shit with his head held high and moves forward, undaunted, towards his goal. Feels more like a force of nature than a man, as he leaves a trail of violence and chaos in his wake, with the blood of his enemies sprayed across his face and in his hair. He's in charge and inescapable; woe betide the man who crosses his path.

Reality Leon: Soft-spoken and almost demure, with his eyes almost constantly turned downcast as he walks to wherever he's told to go -- an unquestioning "Yes, sir" following every order. His body armor has been traded in for a well-pressed suit that seems almost too clean -- and despite having been tailored specifically for his measurements, doesn't look like it fits him right. Always seems at a distance, as though he's perpetually standing just out of reach.

Fairytale Ashley: The warm-hearted and free-spirited princess fair who keeps the light of hope burning and charms the honorable knight with her easy smile and welcoming personality. Her presence is like a home away from home, as she's fair-minded and treats everyone with respect. She's exactly as strong as she needs to be, as she's inspired by the strength of those around her -- which then inspires those people further in return.

Reality Ashley: Cold and closed off for the sake of keeping up appearances. Too afraid to show any emotion that's too strong or hold an opinion that's too controversial due to the looming consequence of potential backlash. Everything in her life is dictated by her station, forcing her into a selfish and self-centered lifestyle that sees her only interacting with her Equals.

Thinking about Leon and Ashley passing each other in the halls of the White House or at some official government event and only allowing themselves a quick second or two to look at the other as though they're just window-shopping for something that they know is forever out of their reach.

Thinking about the cognitive dissonance of "I know you and feel safe with you and want to be with you" lingering from the memory of their shared fairy tale being paired with the reality of "I don't really know you at all, do I?" and the forbidden longing that never gets addressed or resolved, causing each of them to have a certain level of identity crisis.

Thinking about how surprisingly and upsettingly different it feels when they finally take a second to acknowledge and talk to each other. Neither of them really knows what to say or how to address the other. The thought of casually putting a hand on Ashley's shoulder feels invasive and almost wrong to Leon, despite having held her in his arms so, so many times. Ashley wants nothing more than to reach out and touch him -- to adjust the lapel of his suit jacket or straighten his tie, but for some reason it feels like there's an invisible wall between them -- that, even if she were to reach out, her touch would never really reach him. Because they're strangers to each other now in a strange setting, and all of the rules have been rewritten, and nothing feels like it should.

[adarkrainbow]

Please, tell me more about the Sailor and the Dog.

It's one of most infamous "queer fairy tales", however I can't find it anywhere. It doesn't even have a Wikipedia page.

I'll try to reblog my old posts tomorrow but long story short - I found out an author had rewritten in modern day, for a young audience, "The Sailor and the Dog", presenting it as one of those "queer fairytales" that had been erased and pushed aside by classifications and catalogues... except I, and a lot of others, didn't find the original fairytale or where the modern author took his material from.

But ultimately someone on Tumblr did help us discover the original tale, which went by a different name. And, as with many of those folktales, the queer element truly isn't obvious and you have to look a bit into it to see this.

Oh yes and I forgot to add in my last ask - to the list of "sexual deviancies" common in fairytales, from the incestuous fathers to the Beauty and the Beast subtext... You have some fairytales that suspiciously end with two people of the same gender just living together, no question asked, happy end. I remember I stumbled upon some French fairytales where there's this young soldier that helps around a cursed prince or king, I can't recall, and in the end he just goes to live by the palace with the prince and that's their happy ending. There's nothing explicitely said but a modern mind can't help but read "gay". Darn I can't recall what it was... I'll find it back another day.

Meanwhile what I ORIGINALY wanted to say: another example of casual non-conforming love stores is the Scottish variant of Snow-White, called "Gold-Tree and Silver-Tree", where the heroine ends up living a literal threesome with the prince and the prince's new wife that casually saved the heroine from her cursed sleep...

[gaiakon]

Universe 4162’s Timeline

Primal Era

Little is known about the Primal Era, but we can assume that the timeline starts with our timeline.

Fleeing from Halcandra & Forgotten Land

The only way for this timeline to work for me– and in most timelines that they create is to split the emigrants. Some leave to colonize Halcandra while others head to the Forgotten Land.

Shortly after the apocalypse leads to a nuclear winter to those who decided to stay on Earth, creating Shiverstar.

Era of the Ancients

This is the creation of what happens in Halcandra. This is stuff that is either canon or close to canon that I believe fits here.

Creation of the Factions

It is heavily implied that the ancients are human. Two factions were created– Magic and Science. Around this timeframe, we see that humans no longer look like humans due to the fact that they have changed along with the environment.

Creation of Miscellaneous Ancient Technology

The Love Love Stick, Master Crown, The Amazing Mirror, the Lor Starcutter– anything that you can think of that may or may not be confirmed to be created by the ancients reside in this part of the timeline

Void termina Created

This is something that The Ancients did that took things too far.

Era of Ruin

This is the era where everything falls apart, and anything that the Ancients have created have been now either ruined or in memories of fairy tales today.

Voids Rampage

With what seemed like an apocalyptic lifestyle. Void Termina made the universe a living nightmare. Some Ancients fled to the forgotten land, while others put up a fight.

The Four Heroes of Yore Created

Some were appointed with awesome powers beyond imagination. They chose those who were worthy of such power with Galacta Knight being one of them.

Heart Hero was Galacta Knight

Soul Hero was Morpho Knight

Dark Hero was who we now call Zero

Dream Hero was who we now call Fecto Elfilis

Void Defeated

After a fierce battle, the four heroes vanquished Void Termina, however this is where complications fly.

Sealing of Galacta Knight

With fear of what he could do, The Ancients quickly sealed Galacta Knight with the primary aid of the Magic Faction. Since they sealed Galacta Knight, who feared Void Termina, The Science Faction grew fearful, causing tension and progression to fall.

The Halcandra Civil War

Halcandra became a fight beyond recognition with the Four Heroes of Yore not intervening due to the fact that they feared what they’d do to them.

The First Use of the Master Crown

Desperate, the Magic Faction took matters into their own hands, and just when the tides were turning in their favor, the remaining Heroes of Yore decided enough was enough, and sided with the Science Faction, defeating the Magic Faction

Banishment of the Faction of Magic

Due to their unforgivable crimes and fearful nature, the Magic Faction was banished, and history was rewritten in the Science Faction’s favor. With only one faction still active, they disbanded and simply called themselves “The Ancients”

No Hero Era

This is the era where now that everything is settled, there’s stirring plots at every turn, fall outs were made, and promises were broken. This is the dark times. This is the bulk of the timeline.

Four Heroes of Yore Disbanded

After dealing with the horrors that corresponded, there was a massive fallout with the group. Without Galacta Knight reminding them as to why they were not only allies but close friends, they disbanded.

The Jambastian Cult Founded

Silently in the shadows, desiring revenge, the Jambastian Cult was Founded, trying to find ways to tear down the Science Faction… little do they know that their enemies were destroying themselves anyway.

Second Use of the Master Crown

While this isn’t exactly in the timeline explicitly, someone decided to use the Master Crown due to its awesome power, and because the Heroes of Yore have disbanded, they no longer have to worry about anyone stopping them. Eventually his soul was taken from the Master Crown, and he was defeated promptly.

Landia is Crowned

Thinking critically and believing that the crown is too much for anyone, they decided that Landia, the guardian of Halcandra, should wear it, believing that they could handle it. With years of resistance, it eventually fell under the influence and brought Halcandra to Ruin.

The Creations of the Hero Sigils.

Grief stricken that the only one doing hero work is the Soul Hero, Morpho Knight decided to create the Hero sigils, those who harness its power will be gifted the heroes powers. The only way to do this to himself is to cast away his physical being and retreat into a butterfly’s form, however this caused the Soul Hero’s Sigil to be flimsy and unstable.

Dark Hero is discovered as Zero

Driven with sorrow and hatred, missing their friends, the Dark Hero became Zero, with their only goal being to find whom she called her friends and forcefully bring the band back together. However the more minions they created, the easier they forgot who they are, and simply became a being known for mind enslavement.

Dream Hero Captured in the Forgotten Land

Fecto Elfilis left, believing that the only way to save the universe is to destroy the remaining Earth Natives, retreating to the Forgotten Land to lay waste. However, they were promptly captured and put away.

Majaway 4162’s Backstory

As a child she was trained under Count Manke, her father. She wore herself too thin and any accomplishments she made were given little reward. As a psychic mage her goal was to control anything or anyone around her. Eventually it was time for her to control a Nova despite how dangerous that was. She was scared, but her father insisted, berating her and calling her a coward for even doubting her abilities. It’s due to doubt in her heart and lack of proper training that she failed, blowing the nova up and leaving her to rot in the vacuum of space. With her body struggling to be kept alive, her father not bothered enough to even find her, and her consciousness fading for what felt like forever, Hyness took her in, reviving her with powerful magic in an exchange for allegiance for his cause. Indoctrinated into the Jambastian cult, she ended up becoming much more hungry with power than she first thought. Her weakness of insecurity made it easy for Void Termina to keep a hold of her for quite some time.

Popstar’s Relevance

A strange world named Popstar starts to become relevant in the Star Maps.

Renaissance Era

(For the most part there are canon elements from the Kirby Franchise, so I will go for things that are different from the Canon Lore or relevant plots).

Magolor’s Defilement

While Magolor was roaming around Halcandra, he looked around for any clues for the Master Crown, discovering a mansion of what he thought was abandoned. Unfortunately it wasn’t, and as self defense, the owner (Father Manke) stabbed his hand with an ancient artifact known as the “Goppoko Rigga.” It gives a permanent curse to anyone who uses offensive magic. The curse gives pseudo sensations of painful elemental effects such as frostbite, consistent lightning strikes, and third degree burns.

Crown Hunter Arc

After his defeat as Magolor Soul, and his suffering in Magolor’s Epilogue, instead of simply continuing his goal as becoming a carnival host, Magolor instead decided that what he had been through was too much for him. He also figured that this Universe isn’t the only one because of his dimension hopping. Instead of simply leaving Another Dimension, his mission was hopping from one dimension to the next, killing anything associated with the crown. He took the one thing that cursed him, the Goppoko Rigga to begin his bounty hunting, weld Mistilteen wood into a scythe, and began to work. Whether it's freeing Landia, destroying an untouched Master Crown, cutting down various Mistilteinn, or destroying his own echoes of his twisted forms (Overlord or Soul Beast), he got the job done. However there was one who he chose to give mercy to, and thus quit his bounty hunting job. His name went down to Legend– and he changed his name to Hunter.

Taranza becomes King of Floralia.

After Kirby dethroned Queen Sectonia, saving Floralia, the only one fit to become ruler was Taranza himself. With the help of King Dedede, he was able to become a benevolent ruler himself, making his queen, Queen Joronia, proud. He decided that since Hunter (Magolor) is no longer hunting crowns, he wanted him to be his right hand man.

Gaiakon becomes a Princess

During the events of Planet Robobot, there was a little leafan named Gaiakon who wanted to save the world. Once she learned the Haltmann company was attacking Planet Popstar, she knew her family was in danger. Stepping up to save her kin, she decided to infiltrate the Haltmann company herself— not exactly sure as to how. She remembers Kirby and decides to lag behind. Keeping enough distance to make sure he’s out of sight, her plan was successful. Gaiakon discovered the Access Ark and the Mother Computer, and decided to figure out how it works. She stole the helmet, thinking about what she wanted, but unfortunately she didn’t have it for long enough; it disappeared, transferring to Haltmann’s head. As a side effect of using it, she turned humanoid. When she came back home, the Leafen and Bulbies thought she saved Dreamland, and they deemed her ruler. In a weird way, her dream came true thanks to Kirby.

Jambastian General Magaway Summons Void Termina

Due to her psychic abilities, it’s thanks to her that the Jambastian’s plan for the summoning Void Termina was executed properly, beginning another Era.

The Calamity Era

The Calamity takes place on the Present Day of This Universe, and the story that unfolds here.

Rampage on Planet Popstar

Jambastian Majaway knew about how threatening Kirby and his closest friends were, and took no time to capture them. With them out of the way, Dark Matter ransacked Planet Popstar, quickly turning a once beautiful land into a rival to Shiver Star. She took over many other planets as well, only failing to take over a small handful, notably Floralia (due to its sun stones) and Ripple Star, due to how prepared and paranoid Queen Ripple is.

The Hero Sigils Discovered

Dark Taranza from the mirror world discovers the Hero Sigils and hatches a plan for immortality.

A Foreign Traveler Enters Popstar

An echo of Jambastian Majaway travels to Universe 4162 (Her native universe being 3361), and is mistaken as Jambastian Majaway. Proving her innocence, she ends up becoming a knight alongside Magolor under Taranza’s rule.

Kirby Becomes Zero 3

Jambastian Majaway hatches a plan with Hyness to make sure that Kirby is not only no longer a problem, but also another asset to victory over the Universe. She morphs Kirby and his closest friends into Dark Matter permanently, calling Kirby Zero 3 to avoid suspicion.

GateKeeper is adopted into the Jambastian Cult

A Magolor Soul Beast playing dead and badly wounded was founded by Jambastian Majaway. She helped him recover, gave him a set of Shape Shifting Powers, made his broken Master Crown usable without side effects, and recruited him into the Jambastian Ranks. Due to everyone fearing him, he becomes close with Jambastian Majaway, becoming her right hand man. He was named Gate Keeper.

[mask131]

I finally found a post that allows me to express something I meant to say for a long time... About myths and legends and fairytales in general, and the whole business around the word... "original" (cue to Hammer horror dramatic thunder)

The massive wave across the Internet recently is to denounce the use of the word "original" as meaning absolutely nothing when it comes to myths and folklore. For example, people love, when talking about fairy tales to say "Actually, in the ORIGINAL fairytale this happened like this". And a lot of people criticize it, for good reasons. Take Sleeping Beauty. Many people will speak of the "original" Sleeping Beauty, by referring to the Brothers Grimm version of the tale, "Briar Rose", as opposed to a more recent version such as Disney's. But in truth there was a version older than that and more famous - the French version by Charles Perrault. So this is the original, right? No because many people will point out: there was a version older than this one, Basile's "Thalia, the Sun and the Moon". And this one a lot of people like to describe as the "original" Sleeping Beauty. And yet, there is still another, older version - French again, the medieval romance known as "Perceforest". And this one yet again takes inspiration from older myths and legends - including Germanic ones apparently...

So the use of the word "original" here means, indeed, nothing or is useless because fairy tales, and world-famous/ancient folktales rarely have an "original" version. They have been retold, rewritten and re-transcribed and adapted for centuries and centuries across various cultures and continents, and even the most ancient versions are just reflections of deeper oral versions.

This is what everybody has been defending, this is what everybody has been pointing out: there is a need to fight against the term "original" which can be too easily mis-used or over-used, since the actual "start" of a folktale or legend is lost, given its roots are in oral culture. The same thing is true with myths, especially things such as Greek myths. A lot of things people think they know about Greek myths start with Ovid, a Roman. Then you have to differentiate late records of Greek men, closer to the CE than BCE, and the oldest versions and records we had, Homer and Hesiod. And even then Homer reflected in his writings an even older tradition of a previous civilization lost to us since no written record exists. Take Medusa, and the post I made about her. Everybody uses today the story of her being a priestess of Athena being raped by Poseidon. This is a modern extrapolation of Ovid's tale about Medusa being a woman raped by Poseidon within Athena's temple (no priesthood involved). This in turn was Ovid's rewriting of a widespread tradition from Classical Greece about Medusa being a woman cursed by Athena for being so vain she deemed herself more beautiful than Athena (no rape involved). And this in turn was an evolution of the older Hesiodic/Homeric versions of Medusa, the Gorgon, being born a monster from monster-gods parents, and being part of the monstrous primordial forces of the sea/the underworld.

Now... here we reach my actual point. When I made my post about Medusa some people said "Its a good post but you shouldn't use the word "original" because we do not have the actual origins of Medusa". I agree that technically it is true. By all I said above - all myths and legends take roots within a lost oral culture, there is always a previous version before the one we have, etc... Yet, while I fully know this, I will keep using the word "original". To refer to the oldest record we have of Medusa as a character and myth: Homer and Hesiod (the two actually have a different take on Medusa, but they remain the oldest written records about her).

Why? Because while I agree that in itself the term "original" has been over-used and mis-used and that in the world of myths and legends and folktales it ultimately means nothing... I also strongly believe that refuse to see an origin, that refusing to see a beginning, that refusing to see a given starting point somewhere, opens the gate for all sorts of other misinformation or bad things.

The post in question was about a specific Greek myth (hence my switch to Greek mythology as an example). I won't say which but let's just say in this myth something bad happens. And it isn't an Ovid case where the thing originally was neutral or good and then was made bad later: we are talking about this bad thing happening by the oldest records we have of the story. Right. And this post reacted about an adaptation that changed this bad things to happen in a different angle and be less bad. And this person thanked deeply this adaptation because, by changing the story, it helped them "reconcile" with the myth. Because in their own words: "There were oral versions of it before it was recorded. The myth existed long before it was written. So who is to say this isn't how it happened? Who can say the version of the adaptation isn't more truthful to what the myth was originally about? It perfectly could have happened that way in the oldest versions of the myth, and I chose to believe it did!"

And that's where we fall into the pit. Yes, it is bad to over-use "original" as a word because the true origins of all myths are lost to time... But it is just as bad to not have any beginning point or refuse the idea that a myth was "created" at some point because we have this above. "What ifs", and "It could have happened" and "Why shouldn't it be like that" and "I chose to believe this because we might never know". People will start using the whole "no origins", "oral culture before written culture", "there must have been a previous version" as an excuse to invent versions of a folktale that never existed, or share versions of a myth that never was told, or defend versions of legends that are nowhere to be found.

Because that's the old logic fallacy: "If you can't prove it did not exist, then it means it could have existed". And this opens the gate for all sorts of inventions. Yes, you can invent a version of Medusa's story where she is the child of Zeus and Athena, and then claim it is a possible and likely story because "We don't know what was being told in pre-Homer times, maybe it was part of oral culture". Yes, maybe. But you will also agree with me, dear audience, that such a version is very unlikely to have existed, and that if one starts spreading this version around as a real myth they should be "booed" just as much as someone claiming Ovid's version of Medusa is the "original".

If you ask me, the oldest version of a tale, the oldest record of a myth, should be considered the starting point of the legend, the... I will dare say "original" version of story. With the caveat that, indeed, there might have been older versions, non-recorded, oral, lost to time - but given we do not know what came before this oldest record, given we will likely never know what stood before this most ancient transcription, do we really need to keep beating us over the head and conjecturing about what came beforehand, especially since we are talking about just friggin' Tumblr posts and Youtube videos and the like? For a very advanced and thorough academical research, it is understood... But when it comes to just talking simply and plainly about things, maybe we should have some common sense and have a starting point of the chronology, and focus more on "That's the oldest version we have, and here is how it evolved and moved through from there" instead of "Let's go back into a past so obscure and so distant we actually won't see anything and won't have anything to say".

I will defend the use of the word "original" when it comes to myths and folktales, as long as it is an "original" that is actually the oldest version of a legend we have, and as long as the person that use it knows very well and agrees that there might have been previous versions and evolutions before it, but that were lost to time and thus that we will never know.

... And please, stop using the "there's no original" excuse to make up myths. Because listen: if you have a problem with a legend or myth, and then love a fictional adaptation's change to it, and you claim this new version "reconciled you" with the original... No. No you don't like what the myth or legend is actually about, no you don't like the folktale. You just like and enjoy a fictional retelling, a modern rewrite of the folktale. Not the actual story or the original myth.