#not my OC: Betcha

[artbypockets]

omg somehow tumblr accidentally posted the unfinished version of this post that I foolishly had in my drafts, with unfinished art and no caption 🙄

anyway, meet Junkyard, Double Check, Dancer, and Betcha! Junkyard and Betcha belong to the wonderful @lightbeyondthegrave and I love them with all my heart 💕💕

(if you reblogged this before I realized the mix up can you please reblog this version with the caption instead? tysm)

[crownedinmarigolds]

Fangfest 2024 - Day Six - The Hierophant Atticus, an Elder Tremere who is certainly not making any big plans by manipulating many key events across our canon. He's been around a long time, and it's rumored he was there when Saulot was diablerized... but who's to say? To the naive viewer, he's a fun grampy with a silly accent, but he's done a lot for his clan, and perhaps only his seven Childer know what he's really up to. Though probably not. The Hierophant is a card that represents spiritual wisdom, traditions, institutions and the teaching and passing of knowledge to others. Atticus is a invaluable mentor to the younger of the blood, and it's his life's work to unlock the various mysteries that spice up this realm. Each Childe is carefully selected, each alliance thought over a thousand times. Nothing this old man does is serendipity.

[revelisms]

Back with another Magic Ministry AU story, heavily inspired by a rabbit hole on the Basilica Cistern. I've been working on this one for a while, and it's a bit on the longer side, but I really like where it's ended up.

As a sidenote — I thought this...might be the final push to get Terzo out of my system, because this ended up becoming one big messy character study of him (and how much he needs a hug). But, uh. Time will tell on that, I guess 🥸

light ascending

7k words | Rating: T | Terzo & Sister of Sin OC (Mariella) | OC-centric | CWs: Ritual magic, dark imagery, blood, language, doomed fate, grief, hurt/comfort. Also on AO3

The underground cleansing chamber hangs with a chill putrid as death. The fires do little to aid it, no matter their enchantments. In these halls lay the veins of a howling, primordial creature, devoid of life and devouring—and the cold is only one marker of the souls lost within its jowls. 

In one corner of the chamber, Sister Diana, High Priestess of the new Order, stands by a candlelit table. Her fingers dance delicately over shelves upon shelves of consecrated oils, stored here in preservation from any tarnishing by the sun.

"He's particular about his anointments," she is saying, twisting the seal free from one decanter. "Even more so, of their properties."

Not far behind, Sister Mariella, priestess-in-training, stands with hands clasped, her fair hair loose about her shoulders. Per tradition, she wears the plain black of their ritual robes: no paints, no gloves, no shoes: only a trace of sage-smoke on her silks and rosemary on her fingertips.

"Because of the Sight," she thinks aloud, "right?"

Diana turns over her shoulder. Her cropped fringe frames her face in a dark curtain; beneath it, a glimmer of hazel. "In some ways, yes." A smile plays at her mouth. "Not all."

The Sight is just one vessel of their Highest's magic, if the most sacred—powers granted only to the half-human, half-demon, half-Realm infinite. 

Some claimed that those in the papal line were descendants of Lucifer, himself, marked with the light of the Fallen. Others, that they were just unlucky children, sewn into the tapestry of a puppeteer's scheme.

She'd seen the Cardinal—Papa-elect now, formally, as of last Tuesday—enough times to think he was neither. 

Some unnamed thing between them, maybe.

Diana's hands clink through a set of pipettes. Vials are drawn and deposited: mixtures of amber, mugwort, chrism. Mariella's attention stays fixed over her shoulder, dutifully attentive. 

"It takes years to temper," their High Priestess continues. "For any variant, it could take a lifetime. But, where premonitions are concerned, the upper clergy are...I'm not sure if hesitant is the right word." 

As if any words were right for those black-robed bloodhounds beneath Sister's claws.

Mariella sneers. "Tight-assed?"

A chuckle rings bell-like off the walls. "Close."

"Does the variant matter, really?" Mariella wonders. "Even with Papa Secondo's ascension, they were asking questions."

Diana's fingers clatter through a wooden drawer, pulling out a jar of dried pine leaves. "The past is a clearer path, to most. What we could call the future is...contested, in the Order." She crushes one sprig between her fingers. The scent of a sweet forest snaps over her breath. "I've gathered that Bishop Alessandro thinks of it as inevitability. Cardinal Luca has always held the thought that it should serve as a guide; a mould to confirm to." She pauses, glances wryly back at her. "Monsignor Emeritus would call that dangerous thinking." 

Primo would call most things that, these days.

It's been years now since he retired to Ordained Lead of the Philosophical Doctrine—and, as such, overseer of the ritual proceedings. He'd held the title of Papa Emeritus when Mariella first met him, and he'd had the most foreboding presence she'd ever felt: a wraith louring on the Ministry's front steps, his paints jagged as shattered glass, to greet her in all her rain-drenched, luggage-toting misery.

(Ah—you are a blessing to an old man's eyes, Sister. I am pleased to see you have found your way to us. My priestess has told me much of you. He'd turned on his heel, fanning a gnarled hand. Come, come—we have spezzatino going in the kitchens. A room is already prepared for you.)

He was gentler than she expected, but that gentleness cloaked a cynicism that was unyielding as a steel bar. 

He had plenty to say about the flippancies of the new Order. Plenty more to say about the younger faces in the line of his succession—and the third-youngest, with his grandiose visions of reformation, most of all.

"To walk paths unseen is to walk blind in a tunnel," Diana murmurs, and Mariella can hear Primo's inflection in the words, "latching to any light we may find." Glass tinks beneath her fingers. "But that light is not always the surface."

There's a litany of meanings laced between that: that their Order isn't always as it seems; the handed paths, not as distinct as the texts deem them; their Exalted, themselves, not the broken horses they claim to be.

That unknowingness is perhaps the only Truth they have. Their own lowly Sight into what is inherently unseen.

But curiosity has often gotten the best of her.

"How do you know the difference?" Mariella hushes.

Diana turns. Her strong features are softened by the candlelight, sympathetic. "You don't." She lays a warm touch against her temple. "But that is not your burden to bear." 

Mariella worries over her thumb.

With Secondo's own purification, it couldn't have seemed farther from the truth. He was impatient, eager—her own knowledge and magic, one means to a rapid end. The papal seat had been his birthright; the rites, a rancid detour. But he'd been kind, despite his impatience. Forgiving as he could be, for her nervousness.

Diana's thumb smooths over her cheek. "You'll do fine, dearest," she continues. "Remember—you are a conduit. Nothing more."

Swallowing, brow pinched, Mariella nods.

The final stages of their work move quickly: decanters squeaked, vials sealed, a parting slew of advice before the flurry of their steps fall still. 

"Keep the Veil tight about you—you know what will happen, if you don't."

"Right."

"And hold your ground. These halls can be...restless, at such an hour."

"So long as the All-Father isn't sleep-walking in his slippers."

"Mari, be serious."

Mariella's smile blooms, impish, and softens. "I know," she says. "I'm just..."

Green-gold eyes linger over her, steady in their understanding. She reaches down, folds her cool hand within her own. "Have patience," she whispers. "I know it's hard, being so close to the ceremony. But you have nothing to prove, now, right? It's just for formality's sake."

Mariella can't help the bubble of frustration. Her mind locks back on Secondo's stony frown, soaked in a pool of magic ocean-green and effervescent: on the taste of the Past gnawing at her blood.

"And theirs," she says thinly.

For weeks, she's endured a sea of gossip leading up to this ritual. Her peers were convinced that she'd walk away from this with her heart half-eaten, or her sensibility in shreds, wrapped like a ring around their Exalted's finger.

The third heir, notably, was not his brother—not at all, where his coyness was concerned.

Diana battles with her words. "With the Cardinal...I know the other siblings have their, well." Her brows twitch towards her hairline. "Opinions."

That he was a revolutionary, with sermons sharp as a blade, who carried an unsettling edge of authority even the upper clergy, superstitions be damned, dreaded to go toe-to-toe with.

(And, in the same breath, that he was an egregious flirt, and a fool: one who seemed fond of waving at tradition—and any concept of a schedule—from the farthest reaches of the pews.)

Diana plucks the thought from her, clean as a doctor snapping off a leech.

"But," she continues, a touch exasperatedly, "give him grace." Her words falter, stiffen. "Our Order isn't always a kind one," she reminds her, "but we are tasked to carry it out, all the same. So is the Way."

There's a purpose there, beyond any concept of walled rooms and machined profits. One that, for better or worse, has claimed her.

A Veil of magic and tight-controlled chaos, guiding as moonlight and punishing as a forest fire.

So is their role in this blood-bittered, spell-stained sanctuary.

"So is the Way," Mariella echoes.

Diana smiles. Their eyes cling to each other: a final blessing, silent and still, before the cavern of these halls swallow them whole. Then, she slides her hand back to her side.

"Unblessed be with you, Sister."

And, like a shadow, she's gone.

Their Cardinal's reputation, predictably, precedes him. 

It takes an age for Brother Marco, glasses flashing, the scent of rosewater still etched into his robes, to scurry down the North Stairwell and announce that the second cleansing had been completed.

Patience seems all but a foreign concept to Mariella, now—but, willfully, she finds it.

"Thank you, Brother. Will he be able to find his way down?"

"I believe so."

"Then let him know that I am ready for him."

"Certainly."

Marco's footsteps scuff hurriedly back down the hallway and up the crooked stone stairs, happy to avoid any moment in these chambers more than necessary.

Alone again, Mariella fidgets. 

In her hands sit the triplet of vials, fitted into a wooden case to carry. Only candlelight stands to greet her. The walls are threaded with shadows and staccato-bursts of orange flame, damp-dry air mingling off the stones. 

The Ministry's underbelly is unnerving as a crypt. In every web of its grouting lies an ancientness even the scholars of Olde struggle to define. The fires hiss like living things. The archways breathe like the mouth of a giant. In the maze of its passages, magic pulses like blood in a clotted vein.

It takes her a moment to steady herself, remember the route. Her feet carry her in silent strides: two lefts, two rights, one left ducked through a narrow passage, and another, before the corridor opens into the final vestibule of a man-made cave. 

Here, immense as a hall of kings, sits the cistern: one of several thresholds to the Realm beyond. 

Prisms of stone arches stand like golems in the dark, all bearing the reddish gleam of an enchanted flame. At their feet, a pool of water little deeper than a hand trickles from the roots of the mountain's springs. It covers the entire expanse of the cistern floor like a sheet of black-blooded glass. Farther towards the center of the room sits a basin, deep enough to stand at one's waist, where already Diana has placed the initial items for the purification: the Book of Rites, unlit black candles, shards of selenite and quartz.

Thumbs pinched, Mariella makes a mental tally.

In the cleansing chamber, she'd laid out his vestments with the usual care. Thumbed through the unholy texts and spoken her own tithes for using so sacred a place. Asked Lilith's blessing for this final rite, final step into the Path.

Now, she can only wait.

The flames stutter to stillness, and breathe again. Ghosts seem to fade and appear at every turn. 

After so many minutes, the lights have played enough tricks on her—so she pays no mind to the silhouette that hovers just within the vestibule's archway. One that, for not the first time, has a face. 

This one is more severe at the edges: near-feline in its angularity. A face tousled by dark hair, dead-socketed with a white eye.

Mariella nearly jumps out of her skin. "Cardinal. Saints—you're quiet as a cat."

A crescent of teeth blinks back at her. "Eh—sorry, sorry," burrs a low voice. "Habit of mine, it seems."

"Not the first time you've scared the shit out of someone, then?" 

"You talk about shit, Sister? In here?" His grin slants fully at one side. "Blasphemous."

As if a near half-hour delay wasn't blasphemous enough.

One wrist flicks laxly through the dim. "I am late, yes, I know," he prattles on. "Apologies. All the fastings and feastings and washings and rewashings—it is extensive, no? One big glorified bath, they should call these things."

"At least a bit relaxing, I hope?" 

A huff comes before he dislodges from whatever muck has kept him in place. "A pinch. Pinprick, perhaps." He saunters more than walks: heel-toed lazings that draw him, head tilted, into the light. "Though, I don't suppose I would call it relaxing," he grumbles. "My definition of pampering, Sister, means wine and, ah...quite a few other attentions. Chocolates, also—chocolates are good, no?"

She lifts her brows, bemused. "I suppose," she says. "More a fan of panna cotta, myself."

"Feh. Hardly luxurious enough."

The banter only lasts so long. His eyes have strayed to the waters—and hers have turned to scrutiny. 

He's appeared to follow the required conduct, closely enough: the weathered lines of his face bare of any paint, the dark varnish so often chipped on his nails scrubbed clean. He, similarly to her, wears no shoes, no overcoat, none of his usual layers of black upon black upon black—only the white sheen of the Order's purification vestments, embroidered ornately with purple and gold. 

The colors will soon become his, as other colors had ordained his brothers before him.

Colors for penance, absolution, humility.

For sacrifice.

"Tomorrow is a big day for you," Mariella says, after a pause.

Terzo's eyes stutter back to her. "Ah—you must remind me, mh?" Dimples crease in deep-set hooks around his mouth. "Another day and a half of ceremonialness. Satan, I will be decrepit by the time they are finished."

"It's that bad?"

"Darling." He cocks his head on his neck, sharp-browed in silent emphasis. "Have you any idea long the Ascensions last?" 

Mariella can't help the smile that starts. "I can imagine."

"Heh, you can imagine. Forget decrepit—they'll have me in the crypt."

Another shake of his head has thrown his fringe loose. Idly, he thumbs it back. 

Her eyes follow the motion, the looseness of his hands. They're uncharacteristically ringless, now, gloved only in contrasts: dainty wrists smelted to a laborer's forearms, sewn with hair so black it shadows his skin; delicate fingers stained with nicotine, more fit for toolboxes than piano keys.

In another life, he may have been a tall, striking thing, built with slender bones and dancers' limbs to match the grace he carries himself with. But he isn't. Femininity lays strewn about him like carnage from a battlefield, at war with a ruggedness that is all hard edges and soft-stubborn grit. An orchid in full, spiteful bloom, spearing the cracks of an industrial waste.

From all that she's heard, for all his vanity, he doesn't like the way he looks. Never has.

Mariella, like many, has always found it beautiful. 

"Well," she continues, "it's only another day—and it will be over before you know it." He's linked his hands behind his back. She can smell the remnants of the imbued rosewater on his skin, close as he's come sidling and slow-footed to stand with her. "And this will be over before you know it, too." She swallows. "And then you'll be Papa."

Something unearthly fizzles between them: demon-magick that is his own, demon-magick that isn't; the marker of his father's blood, and of the ghouls even the hours of past rites have not been able to wash free from him. 

In his silence is a heaviness. A muted sort of finality.

After a breath, thumb jittering, Terzo hums. "Yes," he agrees. The word sits on the air like a stone. "Seems I will." His soon-to-be title muddles off his lips, venom-sweet and splintered with shrapnel: "Papa Emeritus the Third, they'll call me. Fitting—Third for the third. Suppose it would be a head-scratcher to have the second title go to the first one, and vicey-versa—the old bastard was a goddamn creative with the names, eh?" 

Mariella watches him sway on his heels. "Very...traditional."

"Traditional," he parrots, curling his lip. "Psh. If the All-Father was a manuscript, you'd need archival shitting gloves to turn the pages." 

"High honors to put him in the archives, all things considered."

He squints at her, teasing the start of a smirk. The slightly crooked points of his canines peek over his lip. "Suppose it is, mh?" 

There must be hidden irony in that, something deeper than the surface-level quips Mariella can dissect from him—but she hardly has the chance to think it through. His eyes have popped back to boyish awkwardness: the smirk licked clean, pulled flat again.

"Sorry. I realize I never..." His fingers flutter at his wrist. "You are, ah, Maria, yes? No. Marcella—"

"Mariella."

"Mariella. Yes, yes—it's a thing with the names, sometimes. They just, eh..." His hand dances to an odd gesture. "Poof. You know?"

A smile twitches at her mouth. "Mari is fine, Cardinal."

"Is it? Well, then—much easier for this old brain." He links his hands behind his back again. "And this...Cardinal this, Cardinal that—these formalities are not needed here. Terzo is fine, Sister." He pauses. "Mari."

"Alright." Mariella pauses too, smiles softer. "Terzo."

"Yes, good. Alright." 

His eyes skirt back to the grand arches domed around them, linger unsteadily on the cistern that ebbs beyond the vestibule's edge.

It sews reason back to her—and pulls at an anxious thread.

There are so many steps needed to be completed. Reports she will need to provide. Countless hours of sleep that will inevitably catch up with her, once she slumps back into the dormitories at such a frightful hour. 

All to fulfill the precedents laid down by their Highest—and by Sister, higher still, above him.

To fulfill the birthright of a man peering at her through a shock of black hair, with eyes unmatching: a green flame turned muddy in the red, a white moon smattered with a blood-kissed edge.

"Saints, I'm rambling," realizes Terzo, dryly. "How long have I been rambling?"

"Oh—no, I—it's alright."

He swats the air again. "No no no—you have a job to do, and I am making it wretchedly difficult for you to do it. I will shut up. I'll try. Promise."

The steamroll of his words washes over her like a torrent.

"It's...alright to be nervous," she reasons.

He forces a laugh, little more than a breath. "My brothers were not nervous about this, I assure you."

"Well—you're not your brothers."

She means it as a reassurance—the straight-lined sort she, once, had needed—but he must take the words like a screw to the gut, quick as his brow twitches, as the music in his hands welds still.

"Oh," Mariella flounders again. Her face burns. "I—no, I meant—it's okay if you are, is all."

"Yes, yes, I..." Terzo puts on a small grin, half-genuine. "Forgive me, if the thought makes me, ah...astute, this evening—the old goat has given me enough lectures on my preparedness for this, is all, and it is—has been a...long day, like I...anyways." He rocks back on his heels again, turned away. "Anyways."

Silence weighs between them, unbearable.

Mariella clears her throat. "It's, um...it's only my second time doing this," she admits. Her heel hushes over the stones: the first step towards the vestibule's edge.

"Is it? That must mean Dino was your first—Saints forbid." Terzo puffs out a low snicker. "You are still alive, it seems." He's moved as though to pat a hand on her shoulder, but thinks better of it. In the ritual acts, only she is allowed to touch him. "That, eh—that is a good sign, no?" 

Mariella gives him a playful grimace. "One can hope."

His lashes crinkle at the edges: a lopsided grin that loosens.

Reason seems to crawl back to him, too. With it, the gauze of regality, distraction that had been hanging off his shoulders slips, seemingly just out of reach from his fidgeting fingers.

No Cardinal, no Emeritus, no Papa-elect.

Just a stray without a leash, eyeing the waters before him like a cruel hand waiting to fall.

Whatever he sees in this Path must call to him. Terrify and compel him, in turns. 

He is not at peace with it, now—but he will be.

He has to be, to enter this place.

Beneath the vestibule, the cistern trickles in a silent stream, mirrored with flamelight and red-soaked stone.

"I...don't think I ever caught it," Terzo murmurs. At her feet, his reflection slides beside her own. "What drew you here."

Not, why you chose to come here. Not, why you wanted to.

Few had crossed the wards of this Ministry's grounds of their own volition. The lure of this place held a strange magic of its own. In the seat of its teeth, one's will became its own will; one's path, its own path.

"Sister Diana has mentioned snippets, of course," he continues, "but..."

His eyes lift towards her. Mariella pits her fingers against the carrier.

"Our family worked in art," she explains, "I was surrounded by it, my whole life. I've always had an interest—the occult, especially."

He furrows his brows, intrigued. "Creating it, you mean?"

"No," she laughs. "I'm not an artist, by any means. Dealing it. Mother started a collective in the sixties."

"Ah."

She continues, "There was always an expectation my brother and I would take over the business, and we...I...wanted to see it through." The memory of that chases through her, sweet and acrid as vinegar. "Chained me to a desk, for years," she mumbles. "Even with that, it was never enough."

"For you?"

A frown steeples between her brows. "For her." She shrugs, her words muted. "Maybe for me."

She can feel his eyes lingering on her cheek like a brand. Stubbornly, she keeps her own at her feet.

"She got sick a few years ago. Federico—my brother—wanted out of the business, and it just...I don't know. It changed so much." She pauses, chewing on her lip. "Not having her there to...prove to myself that I could do it—that it was worth it." She can't tamp down the chuckle, bitter as it comes. "It's so strange. You want someone out of your life, for so long—but once they're gone, you realize how much of a crater they left. What a void you have to fill, yourself."

For a long moment, he says nothing. His fingertips pitter at his palm.

"So the magic filled that void, eh?" he mutters.

Mariella smiles. "In some ways."

"Not all?"

"No, not all."

Another pause simmers through him, pensive and puzzling. "I imagine there was a...special quality to it. Working between the artists and the curators and the collectors, I mean. Navigating it." He quirks a brow. "Not much different from the Order, eh?"

Only now, the product is not the artwork their congregation produces—but the needs of their congregation, itself. 

Blessings and charms, incantations and spells, all weaved across their waiting hands like feed to a starved flock. A beacon for souls yearning for a light to guide them, from mountains high to valleys low.

Or, in his case: a silk-robed pinnacle to a cavernous pit.

"No," Mariella says again, "it's not."

He hums.

He's come to stand a touch off-kilter from her, staring down at his robes. In an odd, soft-graveled way, he tries to give the reassurance he's staved his hands from.

"It's all just words and waltzes, these things." His eyes tip cattishly over his shoulder. "You will do exceptional, Mari. You know it, yes?"

She does. 

She must.

"I know."

His smile hangs a touch more genuine at the corners. "Good." Gradually, his hand unfolds from his back: waves to the flickering arches before them. "Well, then?"

It's all the permission she needs.

The water envelops her steps with pinpricks of sensation, slow-slipped and glittering. It calls to her, sings to her: a vessel of endless possibility.

This is her Path. Her purpose. Her home.

Behind her, soon to be, her liege.  

She can hear his footsteps trailing the shadow of her own, his vestments a silken hiss off the water's edge. As it had for his predecessor before him, the cistern hums in its greeting: a millennia of lifetimes past stirred to welcome the presence of the Unholy, of its Keeper.

Hellfire bathes them with red. It sets an eerie glow to his undead eye, blistered in white and gold. For a breath, it's hard to remember that he is human, at all: that the light hasn't stained his skin in blood, taloned his nails with black, twisted his robes to wings claw-tipped and leather-thin.

At the basin, she pauses. He falls still with her—staring down, down at the ebbing coil of waters they come to stand beside.

His throat ripples. He sets his jaw, the dark lines of his lashes lifting. Mariella holds his stare like a rabbit eyeing a wolf from the weeds; like a cub before a lion.

"You've greeted me, in the Olde Way," she says quietly, "and, by Lilith's blessing, will be Renamed. Do you accept it?"

Terzo takes in a breath, nods. "Yes."

"To be the Gate's ward, now and forevermore, until you are called?"

"Yes," he says again.

"To be bound to your summoned, and your summoned only, until they are reclaimed?"

There's a forced calmness to his face, though she can sense the frustration beneath it: proof of battles she has not been privy to, and may never be. "Yes."

"Then we will begin."

First are the black candles—twin flames lit to represent the handed paths. She sets them on the footholds of the two pillars closest, crafting the symbolic Gate between realms, and speaks a low incantation. Then comes the oils, their vials a cold sting against her hands. Each mixture is strategically placed: drops of mugwort to his slow-lifted palms, a thumb-kiss of amber to each temple, the Chrism dotted at the crown of his head.

She can smell his magic, this close: awakened, shivering, unbound: the ashen smoke of a snuffed flame and the sweet tang of clove, spiked with a metallic edge. It has grown stronger since his Exaltation; ignited. It leaves her head heavy, her hands sluggish. There is Future on his breath, and Death in his eye. Beneath his robes, inked across the branches of his heartlines, a glimmer of snapdragon pink.

She fights to ground herself, for a moment. Her palm lays slow, slow upon his breast: feels the power in him straining at the seams.

"Astraeus—Nyx—Perun. These names have adorned you, before. With your Awakening, they will adorn you, again."

He is so warm, always—they all always are—but with the loss of the Veil, he is burning brighter still. Mariella swallows, fighting to keep her aura about her. Her own blessing seeps like mist beneath her hand. 

"Our Lightbringer," she whispers on, trapped in red-green and blood-smattered white. "Our Morning Star."

Terzo's eyes skim between hers.

He is nothing human, now, not with magic so ancient in his veins—as ancient as this place, and the markings of its wards: as wild and cosmic and suffocating. 

Oh, but he feels young. Heartbreakingly young, for the smallest instant.

A child and a Devil and a man, his heart half-beating in his hands.

"Do you accept it?"

Her Cardinal, her Papa-to-be, her Path does not smile, does not look away—not like he had before, in every babbled distraction leading up to this. And, in it, she knows—regardless of whatever his Sight may show him—that he will succeed: that the cause of this Ministry will reach heights never-before seen beneath his hand, and lay the groundwork for even greater heights in his absence.

Mariella does not shy away from his stare, though the spellwork within it threatens to pierce her through. "...Do you accept it?" she whispers, again.

Terzo blinks: green and white and human. His chest swells a slow breath beneath his vestments, ebbs into a silent sigh. "Yes."

The last confirmation. The final rite.

She smiles. "Then only the Realm waits for you."

He looks at her as though he is both lamb and executioner: waiting to be led to slaughter, and to drop the knife.

Her hand hovers before her, a silent offering. 

Slowly, skin soft-roughened and molten, he takes it.

The basin pools around her steps. Her robes tangle stubbornly at her knees as the chill needles through her, slicking the silks to her waist. He follows her unsteadily, his fingers tight through hers.

She can sense the weight of the anointments on him; the wavering of his presence. Half-here, half-wandering, half-living.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

He clicks his tongue. "Alright as I can be."

"Not too torturous, is it?"

"The cold, or the medical proceedings?" Terzo's mouth slants at one side, a wicked glint striking briefly back into his eyes. "I jest, I jest—an image of composure you are, truly. You'll be leading the ceremonies in no time, yes?"

His humor is a flat shield to the tightness in his lungs. His hand swallows hers, hard enough to sting.

"Yes, you'll be fine," he's mumbling on. His eyes are unseeing. Clove and bloodmetal itches in her throat. "You'll be fine."

"Terzo," Mariella warns.

He snaps his eyes shut. Squeezes them. "Sorry." Slowly, stiff as a marionette, his fingers pry their way free from hers. "Sorry, I'm fine." He sighs, blinking. "It's the, eh...it is always like this. It'll pass. Not your fault, darling."

She shouldn't prod, not now. 

But her heart hammers, blisters, bleeds. 

She can't be sure if it's her own.

"What do you...see?" she whispers.

Terzo's eyes flick to hers. His mouth pinches at the corners. "Nothing. Nothing to worry about."

She hesitates. Diana's cautions float across her conscience: the Veil fraying at the seams, close to his own being as this. But, gingerly, her hand lifts from the water, finds his cheek. 

"Any path is Nothing. And any path is All," she says. "I know you know that. You can see it." His eyes fall unsteadily on hers, and Mariella waits, her fingertips skimmed over his skin—worn beyond his age, but soft, still. "You can see that," she says again, "can't you?"

The dark line of his lashes twitch, a beeswing flutter.

Lilith's own, that look must have been the same as hers, all those years ago. The same hope, same hate, same boneless relief.

"You see me," she continues, softly, "don't you?"

His breath mingles with her own, light as a prayer. "Yes."

There's no desire in the way she leans to meet him; no surface-level adoration or simmering need in the touch of her brow to his. Her other hand raises, cups a wet touch over his cheek.

"You'll do fine," she says firmly. "You will."

His brows wrinkle to a knot against her own. He fights with a smile; lets it sag like a stone. "For as long as they'll have me," he mutters.

The inference tears her heart to her feet.

"Don't say that," hisses Mariella—and he's not supposed to touch her, but, at long last, he does: a sunspot warmth of fingertips at her neck, thumbing shaky and half-minded beneath her ear.

A sigh quivers against her lips. "Sorry." The waters are so frigid, but he's warm as a flame in her arms, burning deep as Hell itself. "Sorry, I—"

She shushes him. Holds him—as tightly as she needed to be held that day the call from the hospital came; as tight as she can, for the smallest moment.

Hell below, he feels so small to her now.

Stifled.

His throat hitches against her cheek—but he holds his ground; holds her, hands rough but gentle as he can manage, lost in the sweet tangle of her hair.

"You'll do fine," Mariella whispers again.

There is Future in his touch, and demon-magick in his blood, and hope as much as fear, as wrath, as love.

"I know," he whispers back.

He will. 

He must.

Slowly, they untangle—and though there is still a hand at his cheek, one of his own turning to keep it there, there is nothing more to be said, now. Nothing more to be done.

His Path blazes before him, inevitable.

In her own power, the mould.

"Ready?" she hushes.

Jaw tight, Terzo closes his eyes, nods again.

Her hands slide to his chest, to the back of his head. A cradle and a coffin in one. 

Mariella clears her throat, continuing: "In this final Act, I release you from the realm of the living; I bind you with the realm beyond. In this, you will emerge the Eternal. In this, the Way is sealed."

His magic is fizzling. The cistern is singing. Beneath her hand, tendrils of lilac-fuchsia glisten and glow.

"Unholy be thy name: Revered be thy power." Her palm splays firmer into his sternum. "May you be blessed in the way of the covenant, now and evermore." Terzo takes in a breath, lurched quickly beneath her fingers. The water laps across his shoulders, spills across her wrists. "By his grace, be it commanded." And, in a drowning hush, consumes him.

Unreality pricks at her skin. 

For a heartbeat—fire beneath her palms, and beauty, and nothingness—there are countless paths gnawing at the edges of her consciousness: but she knows, with certainty, there is one—and it is all and nothing and everything, it is Diana and Mother and Primo and herself, dead and alive and dead again, and this man-demon-spirit all omniscient in the tide, and she can't breathe, the Veil spilling like silk from her being, can't separate herself from it—

But she must. 

She must—

Only stillness surrounds her: lightless as the heavens, silent enough to hear a teardrop fall.

She is emptied in it.

She is him, and he is her.

The edges of her magic are wrangled: wrenched back, back around her, tight as a wire—and the tether snaps. Blisters with the breaking of his own body from the basin. 

Together, they breathe as one, a slow-sucked gasp that heaves out thin and clean. 

The light is blinding. There's blood in his eyes.

Mariella, trembling back into her bones, clasps her hands and bows her head low, muttering a deluge of thanks for all that was given and all that remains; a prayer for his strength and sanctity; a cleansing whisper of her own.

His soul is still peeling free from hers. His magic still scalding her hands. 

She won't dare open her eyes again—not yet. What she may find could hardly be called human, in such a state.

But he is—a human with purified waters slicked off the the dark mop of his hair, off the strong bones of his features, off the glimmering silk of his vestments; a man with one eye gleaming moonbeam-white and Hell fading in his veins and breath beastlike in his chest.

"Unblessed be," Mariella whispers. "It is done. It is done."

A hand has come to lay upon her head, heavy and molten. The nails are pointed. The Olde Tongue fangs coarsely off his teeth, commanding the Realm's hold to free her. 

The essence of his magic flees from her bones like a stripped sheet. Air staggers into her lungs, wet and spluttering.

"Sister," Terzo says sharply—and he is as he was: his brow furrowed in worry, human and whole, his palm braced at her temple. "Sister, are—? Mariella—"

"It's alright," she rasps, lacing her fingers through his sleeve. She has to take another breath to steady herself, blinking slow. "It's okay."

His lungs swell beneath his robes. His eyes cut swiftly between hers, denying it still—but, gradually, his shoulders loosen. "Alright." He traces a lock of her hair behind her ear, half-minded. "You are sure?" he presses, anyway. 

"Yes, it—Diana warned me. It's happened before. I let the Veil fall too loose—"

"No, no—you did wonderful. You were clear. You were right there," he says, thumbing her jaw. The shivers are still coursing through him; settling down, now. After a pause: "It is, eh...it is all finished, then?"

Until the tomorrow's ceremonies: the formal ascension, with its blood-marks and dressings, where his body will be kneeled before a black altar and crowned.

But, for tonight, at least—

"It's done," Mariella says again.

The relief washes through him like rainfall: melts the nervousness off his face like sun-warmed snow.

She can smell the exhaustion that ebbs into him; taste the flurried comedown of his spellwork, ashen and bloodied and bright. But it buzzes, burns still.

"Good," whispers Terzo. Twitch-smiled, weary, he drags a hand through his fringe. "Well, eh," he grouses. "Let's get out of this mess then, mh? Freezing my goddamned balls off, in here."

All Cardinal, all Emeritus again.

Primo's office is lit only by moonlight and the glow of a hearth, crackling and warm before him. He's known for a nocturnal mind, and for working by near-vampiric conditions; at such a late hour, the sight hardly comes as a surprise.

Folded behind his desk, his pale hair drawn back, his eyes linger on her, beady as a hawk's. "Well?"

Her last sight of Terzo had come at the threshold of the Ministry's kitchens. He'd insisted on a post-ritual raid—another supposed habit proven true—and, in mutual silence, she'd warmed her hands on a cup of black tea while he wrangled together an unceremonious take on a negroni, orange slices and all, in an old coffee mug. He'd slipped a package of biscoff in her pocket and a cigarette from his own. Around a snap of violet flame at his palm and a final sip of her tea, they'd given their partings.

"If you...need anything at all," Mariella had hushed, "you can—"

"I know." His mouth had wavered at a smile. "Thank you."

Part of her had wanted to lay a hand on his arm. Say something else, anything, to not just leave it at that. And, were it a different night—or if she was a different sibling—he may have slid the invitation over, for her.

But the warmth of his body had shifted, ever since he dragged himself out of those waters, reclothed himself in a thrush of black. Cold and closed as a cage.

The man she'd held was in the cracks of it; boxed away, now, to make room for another, still sketching the edges of itself in his skin. But, in its chrysalis, she saw bitterness—in his distance, the fanged thing their clergy so seemed to loathe—and, on some hare-boned instinct, found herself leaving first.

"Goodnight, Papa." 

She'd said it reflexively, already knee-deep in the coming customs of propriety. 

Over a pop of blue smoke, hissed lightly through his teeth, he'd looked away. The tobacco was the same that stained the air in Sister Imperator's office: woody, cheap, earthen.

"Not yet," he'd rumbled. His lips twitched around the cigarette. "Tomorrow." His stare had haunted her steps, seeing and unseeing. The smoked husk of his breath had chased her off the walls. "Night, Sister."

Now, as ordered, she's returned the required items to Primo's care. With it, a report.

"The proper precautions were taken," she says. "All in all, it went as predicted."

Primo ticks a thin brow. She can feel the cold claw of his Sight in her, rummaging through her mind like clothes on a shelf. "And how was the offering received?"

Mariella swallows, thinking back to the Realm's magic, the spellwork beneath her hands. "No changes from the previous purification."

Idly, Primo glances at a set of a files on his desk; skims one sheet a touch higher. For a moment, he stews in his thoughts. Then, clean as a dagger: "Is he confident?"

Her eyes snap up. His own, silver-blue and white, meander to meet them.

"Yes," she says steadily.

He squints at her. Winter frost in her lungs, winter eyes piercing her through. But, eventually, she is freed from it.

"Very well," he mulls. He gathers up the sheets, settles them into a clean stack. "Then I will see you bright and early, my dear. Another long day ahead of us." 

Mariella nods, pinches her nails into her hands, and moves to stand from her seat.

Before she reaches the door, he speaks again.

"Mariella." She glances back at him, hunched like a strange, battish thing over his desk, his bony hands folded. He studies her like a portrait littered with fine details: one of many in a precious collection. His mouth makes an odd twist. "You did well," he lands on, eventually.

"Sir...?"

A smile blinks, cool and plain. "It is not an easy Sight to bear. There is a certain strength required to carry it. More, perhaps, to guide it."

The admission weighs strangely on her. Picks at her.

He unfolds his hands, weaves them again, before reorienting on his work. "Sleep well, Sister."

Slowly, Mariella turns back to the door. The handle stings beneath her palm. "Goodnight, Monsignor."

The morning's gossip will claim that Primo stalked the gardens that night, winged as a beast. That an apparition trailed his steps, feline-footed and hazed with blue. That their Papa-to-be was seen crawling out of the ghouls' chambers at dawn, reeking of celestial bodies and muddied magic.

Mariella won't give it any mind. She's learned enough now to take such chatter with a grain of salt.

All that will matter will be her hand on the chapel door, Diana's light a calming grace beside her: bathed in the sun's glow, freshly robed, carved in black and white; the two of them, and a sea of others, there to greet the sanctity of their Beholder.

Her skull-paints will match the adornments of his own. The black leather of her gloves, a mirror to the claw-tipped pair that will gloss across his knuckles. He will wear vestments dark as ink, adorned with Death's imagery, lined with a purple fit for kings—and at her side, he'll pinch a soft touch at her wrist. Flash a smile.

Back in his bones, in full.

Glittering and golden.

"Hello, Papa."

His lashes will crinkle at the edges. "Enchantée, darling," he'll purl. "I mean, eh—Sister. Marcie, right? No. Marnie—"

"Mari."

"Mari, aye. Right, right, right."

Still Cardinal, still Emeritus, always.

[felix-krain]

A thousand years cast aside thou shall pass

along those wretched beasts who thee raised

No longer shall thou invoke Our forgiveness

Begone, or be slayed by Our hand

[holopossums]

The sky doesn't care what my poor heart wants And the desert can't hear my cries The moon doesn't mind that I'm left all alone And she's gone, gone

[messybento]

TT03 fan character :) here's her artfight page :o

[zhaitansvisage]

Think it’s so funny how every single commander of mine in gw2 and it’s all AUs, truly there is no canon compliance in my house.

[cheerclaw]

here i come with another batch

nomashawn || Caterpillar || AcidicPetals || NoHayTroblemo || Zeromothman || flatdoge || jounter || DodolToffee

[sweet-beezus]

Some more recent-ish stuff, but this time a few of them are actually fresher-

[a-weird-cryptid]

Not all is holy

A Magnus Archives based story/fanfic

Statement of Father Thomas Bright, regarding a confession made at the London Oratory. Original statement given January 14th, 2013. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, head achivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins:

I worked at the London Oratory for over 30 years by now, taking over the position as a priest a few years ago, and I never had any issues with the confessions people made in the confessional. Sure, some might have been harder to handle than others, but nothing was particularly odd about them. The strangest thing I've heard until that point was a woman confessing me about her unhealthy obsession with buying expensive items and how it tore her marriage apart. She asked for advise and well, I gave some to her. Just like I always did. I was never one to judge the things I've been told. Simply accepting the story I was given, commenting on it, comforting whoever sat next to me, giving advice and so on...

That is until a few months ago. I believe it was on the 17th of November, 2012. A particular cold and busy Sunday. I still remember how exhausted I was from the day, even after the stressful part was over and all that was left to do is some preparation and organisation for the next few days.

It was already way past closing and confession time, I'd say around 08:00 pm, when I heard the heavy front door opening. I just assumed it had been the wind, since it started to pick up a lot during the last few hours. Even though I was sure I locked the door. But then I heard footsteps coming closer. I was concerned by that point, but I didn't though much of it. Still busy by my work I kindly told, whoever entered, that the church was closed and it would reopen the next morning at 7:30 am. But the footsteps were getting closer nonetheless. By this point more frustrated than concerned, I decided to make my way to the entrance, but to my surprise, I couldn't find anyone in there.

When I work overtime and alone in my church, I usually keep most lights on. Without them, it always makes the inside of the building look creepier than it already is. With all it's almost lifelike statues, that seems to stare right into my soul... Even after working there for so long, I still didn't get used to them.

I looked around, checked if somebody was hiding anywhere. I wasn't afraid, just... confused... I still couldn't find anyone, but there was this strange feeling of a presence. The same you get when you're watched behind your back. It felt strong and intimidating, sending shivers down my spine. I should have known that something was extremely off about the situation back then and there. But I just shrugged it off, blaming it on pure paranoia and the still open door with the wind whistling though it.

I made my way to it, my first few steps being unsure, but getting more confident the closer I got. As I shut down the door, locking it to make sure it couldn't open again, I started to second guess if that was a good idea... Still feeling this odd presence... Like an unspoken threat... Something that clearly means no good...

Being the believer I am, I quickly made a prayer, asking God for my protection, before moving on to go back to my paperwork. But I still couldn't shake off this sudden feeling. Of hopelessness... Perhaps even regret... Though I had no clue where it was coming from.

The presence continued to move, though this time without making a sound. And as it did, it seemed to pull me closer. As if I was attached to it with invisible strings. Slowly but surely, it made it's way towards the confessional, stopping as soon as it got inside. By this point, I decided to follow it, with a few feet of distance away from it at all times. Looking back, I don't even know why. It almost felt like my feet were going on their own... Or rather controlled by the presence...

The door of the confessional slowly closed. With a loud creaking, that echoed from the walls. Almost sounding like a choir. And I could have sworn at that very moment, I could hear the organ play ever so slightly...

It reminded me of Isaiah 6:1-4. In which Isiah described the throne of God, surrounded by an angelic choir, made out of seraphim, singing the same lines over and over again. They were the closest to the Lord, but I could tell for sure that the presence couldn't have been an angel. Or at least not anymore...

But then again, angels don't say "be not afraid" every time they appear to humans for no reason, so I thought. Leading to me making the foolish decision to sit down at the other side of the confessional. I had already convinced myself by that point that this must be a sign of God, a test, to see if my faith was still worthy. It needed my entire willpower to convince myself that I was in no harm, considering I was on holy ground and believing that an angelic being was sent to me. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Only after I closed the small door, I realized that the presence, whatever it was, must have tempted me to get in there, it already being too late to change my mind at that point. When I tried to open the door again, I was shocked to realize that it wouldn't open. Not locked by a key, or something standing in front of it... But held close by the pure willpower of what was next to me. I don't know how to explain how I knew it. I just did...

Of course I started to panic by that point, banging against the door, begging it to be opened again. To no avail.

That is when the presence first spoke to me. "Be not afraid.", it said, though I was certain it wasn't an angelic being by that time. I could hear it's voice echoing though my mind, giving me a headache, but it came equally loud from everywhere around me. Feeling like it filled up the entirety of the building. The church shook as it spoke, like during an earthquake, taking out all of the lights, leaving me in total darkness. I could hear how parts of the ceiling crashed on the floor, leaving dents in the wood and shattering the stone in the progress. I hold onto the wooden cabin for dear life, my heart pounding in my chest almost as loudly as the voice from the presence.

It was surprisingly calm though, I dare to say charming, even... In a way that made you feel lured in and tempted to follow whatever command it gives. Welcoming and warm, like a mother with open arms... Only making me even more cautious about whatever it was sitting next to me...

I tried to collect myself, holding tightly onto my cross I wore as a necklace, hoping that the Lord has heard my prayer, protecting me. My entire body was shivering, but not because of any cold. In fact, it was starting to get warmer. At first, I didn't notice it and if I did, I surely didn't payed attention to it. My entire body started to sweat. Just a little bit at the beginning, but then it got worse, as if I had a particular bad fever.

It was in that moment, that I decided to proceed like I normally would, asking the presence what's bothering it. My voice was mumbled and quiet. Unsure and hesitan. But the one next to me seemed to have understood it nonetheless.

It answered me, bringing the church to crumble down further in the progress and worsening my headache.

It told me about the war against God, the betrayel of his friend it lead to... And about the regret it feels for it. The shame... The sorrow... The pain that came with all of it... I almost felt sorry for it, if it wasn't for the unbearable becoming heat in the cabin and the feeling of the walls around me getting closer while the ceiling was crashing down on me.

I could feel that my hands burned badly. Just like any other skin exposed or otherwise. Peeling of my flesh, as if I had the worst sun burn of my life. I felt like I was burned alive, stuck in an ever getting smaller space.

I never had any problems with the size of the confessional, but during that moment, it felt like I had no place to move in, no place to get rid of the burning hot walls, them only tightening around me, taking away my space to breath.

Then the presence told me about the fall of Lucifer. And the, quite literally, hell of a place all of those fallen angels, lost souls, ended up in.

"But you already know all about hell and suffering, isn't that right, Father Thomas?.", it's voice echoed. I still remember the laughter that came after it, sadistic and cruel, like it was enjoying the pain it was inflicting on me. I don't know what I believe was scarier. It, or the fact that it knew who I was without me ever mentioning it. But I can't say I'm surprised.

As I cried in pain, begging for it to stop the torture, watching as black skin paled off my body, smoke started to come from my surroundings. If I didn't knew it any better, I'd even say myself. Like acid it burned in my eyes, filling up every inch of my lungs and eventually body. Caughing didn't helped either, only worsening the effect.

Then, the presence said something about advice, but I couldn't hear it anymore. Desperately trying to keep myself alive and stop my robe from catching on fire.

But the deal it offered me next I could hear loud and clear. My place in heaven, it return for me getting out of there alive. Without hesitation I agreed to the deal, just wanting for it all to end. For the overwhelming pain and heat to stop.

And it did.

Just like that I found myself back in the normal confessional. With the only evidence of it ever burning being a few marks and a faint smell of smoke. The lights were back on, as I could tell from the small gaps of the cabin's wood. I examined my skin, discovering that the burns were mostly gone, only leaving a few nasty ones here and there. Nothing of the blackened, peeled skin remaining.

When I tried to open the small door, I noticed it being unlocked again. Slowly I made my way out of the confessional, with my legs still shaking. I still felt the presence, though this time it seemed to come from the ceiling. I could hear the flapping of wings coming from the same direction. Then I heard a window glass shatter and caught a glimpse of what could only be described as a rotting angel. Before the presence was gone for good, leaving me standing alone in the church.

I didn't quite know what to do at this point, so I decided cleaning up the mess was as good as anything else. I also treated my left over burns with some wine, usually stored in the church for festival events. It wasn't the best desinfectant, for sure, but it was better than leaving the open wounds untreated. I believe my mind was too overwhelmed to comprehend what happened at that moment. All of the damage this... angel looking like devil... had done to the church was gone, as if nothing had happened.

After getting rid of the glass shards, I made my way to the confessional again. Trying my best to get rid of the burn marks. Which was surprisingly easy.

There was something else I should probably mention. When I checked the cabin the presence sat in, I found a large, white feather. Assumingly from it's wings... Which I decided to bring for... Well... This statement as well for further investigation...

Statement ends.

Well... this surely was unsettling. After questioning Father Thomas further, he stated that this incident was one of a kind and no further strange things happened during his work ever since. Though he seemed strangely exhausted when giving the statement, as if he didn't sleep properly for days, according to the staff.

Personally, I believe that the incident was most likely caused by just that. Exhaustion, a lot of stress and a lack of sleep over a long period of time. As well as the abuse of alcohol, more specifically wine. Said combination leading to those extreme hallucinations.

One of the staff members also reported to see some scarring on Father Thomas' arms. The type of which can only be created by a fourth-degree-burn left untreated by a doctor. The priest is also reported to be extremely interested in our further research. More so than most others giving statements. A few files about demonology, demonic possessions and exorcisms were stolen from the Archive, the day the statement was given, though the police found no evidence for Father Thomas to be responsible for it.

I can't say if this strengthens the evidence and truth of the statement given by him, though I think it's an oddly coincidence for sure.

I let Sasha do some research about the local news reports of earthquakes during that time, as well as any other reports of the London Oratory being destroyed.

Besides a few renovations that were made to replace and strengthen part of the churchs, damage that has mostly been made by time, she returned empty handed. No records or any kind point to the incident Father Thomas described.

Though one document of a renovation, made on December 1st, 2012, states that one of the windows of the dome had to be replaced, due to it being shattered. Most likely due to it being frozen and therefore easier to break. Assumedly done so by some kind of bird, since a few blood strains and feathers were found stuck on the remaining glass. All of which were white and of various sizes. The zoologist department of King's Collage confirmed that the ones found at the window match the one sealed in a plastic bag, which was given to us by Father Thomas after ending his statement. They didn't match any currently known species.

Personally, I don't believe this case needs any further investigation, but Tim seemed to be thrilled when the topic "architecture of the church" was brought up, although it was quick to fade when I explained to him that it was not one from Robert Smirk's design.

Nether the less, he insisted on getting some reevaluation on the case, so I just sent Martin. Though I most definitely believe it is just a waste of time.

End recording.

Author's Note:

Thank you so much if you've read so far!

I wanna give a HUGE shout-out to my friend, @sarah-kings, who helped me a lot with the final version of this story and it's titel, giving a lot of constructive criticism to my first draft. And even writing a bit for me, at the end of the story, regarding the part with Tim wanting to further investigate. Since I'm not too familiar with all of the different characters of TMA yet, only being at episode 18 of the first season (no spoilers please!). But I still wanted to include them.

I also want to thank them for continuing to drag me into this fandom. I listen to 2 or 3 episodes months, or even years ago. But never got really into it, since I didn't though it to be too interesting at first. But they told me it gets better, so I really hope it's worth to keep going.

Furthermore, I want to add that I wrote this fanfic in a way that makes it plausible for it to be canon in my own stories as well. If you're somewhat familiar with the Ocs I've introduced so far, you might even be able to put all of the puzzle pieces together. I will most likely add Father Thomas Bright to my official Oc list for the very same reasons.

For more original series, as well as reviews, discussions and similar, check out my master list of series.

[grandwretch]

ok i do think that the benefactor/blue fairy/step-mother might be the fairy who “cursed” rosamund, but hot take: i don’t think she’s actually the big bad, and rose’s backstory is probably a lot more complicated than we were told

[marinerainbow]

Ey @slashingdisneypasta Before I go to bed, I had an entertaining thought to share (of course you don't have to respond if you don't want to. This is just food for thought ^^). Let's say in the Tiny Tots AU, the whole gang remain in touch as they grow up.

Imagine the absolute drama that would ensue when Poppy tries to introduce Henry- or even Ben later- as her boyfriend to the gang. I don't think it'll end well 😅

[screw-the-government]

It’s done! Say hi to Farren!

[puppypop5]

Yeah-!

He's not exactly the paragon of morality, he does as he's told and asks no questions

YIKEZ

[drawing-myself-in-and2-death]

not

he's a skeleton made of sentient wood and plants/fungus

also he's not a person so doesn't experience human emotion the way we think of it[closest human words could be aroace?]

and is my creation/is me in many ways

so either I control him or we'd be on the same page

wait, if he is a part of me would the curse be mirrored onto me? hope not that'd be inconvenient I don't like the idea of my brain being yoinked

it'd just be like a really strong friendship basically, we'd just be productive and do a lot of cooking/ baking and caring for the various animals that live in/around him

Your icon is violently in love with you for 5 weeks how screwed are you

[lady-hallowtide]

Nosferatu In Star Wars