#now I understand my compulsion for collecting

[liquidstar]

a friend who'd wait :)

[yanderefarm]

Honestly Silvan is so cute, i cant help but think about a master who treats him like their own little dress up doll, the maids might be the ones to bath him, but his master is the one that puts him in the prettiest frills and silks, who does his makeup flawlessly, and styles his hair just so, you mentioned him hurting himself either to get you to drink from him or to punish himself so i can imagine this types of master would do things like expressing disappointment whenever he harms himself before punishing him with isolation, of course putting him in a straight jacket along with his padded cell so he doesnt damage himself any further, maybe if he's particularly bad you'll strap him down to a chair, table, or even locking him in a coffin like putting a doll in their case so he has no choice but to be there completely still, alone in the dark until he understands what he did wrong

doll silvan

cw;; objectification, abuse, hypnosis, angst, questionable comfort, self harm, blood, cruel reader

haha this is so fucked up i love it so much it tickles the part of my brain that says to ruin that twink. the urge to treat silvan like a stress ball.

like i know he'd be so fun to absolutely ruin his sense of self and break him down until he doesn't even realize he's human anymore. and all because you love him! he'd be so grateful.

silvan looks good in anything. he could wear the ugliest colors and still somehow it would compliment his eyes you're sure. not that you would ever allow him to wear something ugly. even when he first arrived in his glorified potato sack you immediately set upon getting him something better. but no matter how many clothes you bought for him it was never enough, he needed more. at this point your tailor had taken up residence in your manor.

every day before breakfast you would go to silvan's room and help his maids wake him up, today was no exception. your tired pet would blink at you with a sleepy smile and a cute blush on his face before you would usher him off to the bath. while he bathed the maids would clean up his room and you would begin the process of picking out his outfit. it was a long and laborious process, plagued with indecision because nothing was perfect!

as soon as your lovely doll was out of the bath you'd set upon him. you stood him in front of the full length mirror, his body shifting as he tried not to get aroused. as much as you love him the fact that he's not one of your other lifeless dolls can get annoying sometimes. you end up compelling him to get him to behave properly, there's always a sick pleasure in watching his eyes go empty and his body become soft and pliant in your arms. you keep him aware of what's being done to him but he can't control his own body, his mind distant and foggy like watching from underwater. you start with wrapping his ribbon for the day around his neck, the ribbon you pick always sets the mood for the rest of his outfit. today you picked a soft pink ribbon which immediately inspired you to grab some matching pink and white babydoll lingerie. your pet always spends the whole day embarrassed and aroused when you make him wear nothing but lingerie, it makes him taste better.

you tie the ribbon around his waist tight like a corset, his breath hitching softly. you run your fingers along his cheek as you admire your perfect doll in the mirror.

"so pretty... dolls don't need to breathe do they?" you're so tempted to tighten up the ribbon too but you can't risk leaving any marks on his skin.

you released your compulsion on him allowing him to return to his normal self. immediately his heartbeat picked up and his face turned the same pink as his ribbon. you offered your pet your hand which he graciously took, his cheeks a burning red as you led him out of the room.

today was special, you were having a few guests for dinner and they were specifically interested in your notorious doll collection. that's why you had been fasting for a week now, any teeth marks on his beautiful skin would be disgusting and unsightly. it was hard to have him sitting there in your office especially with his heart racing every time a servant would come in. a lesser vampire would have cracked but your preference for aesthetics beat out your hunger. he was supposed to be perfect for the evening event.

you should have been keeping a closer eye on him honestly but between work and your admittedly stupid trust in your toy you thought it would be fine. he had somehow found himself a piece of broken glass to make a cut on his arm. that's aggravating. in trying to bring you his gift because you had to be starving he had gotten his blood on his outfit. that's infuriating. and his eyes looking at you pathetically like he knew what was coming. it took everything in your power not to hurt your little doll in anger, choosing instead to squeeze the door knob so tightly the metal bent and the door was pulled from its hinges.

you threw the broken door to the side and grabbed his uninjured arm, still careful not to bruise him. he was sobbing, begging, pleading for you to stop as you dragged him towards his isolation room. his fists weakly beat on your arm as he tried in vain to apologize, soon his wailing was going to start. god he made you mad. you were almost to the tower when you grabbed silvan's face, covering his mouth as you pressed him into the wall.

"you are a beautiful perfect doll. dolls don't scream. dolls don't cry. dolls don't stain their clothes." every word was like venom from your lips.

his tears were pouring fresh from his bloodshot eyes.

"i had plans for you tonight. you were going to do a lovely show. your pretty blood was already going to run." you let go of his mouth and eased away from him.

"but no you just can't help yourself. you enjoy ruining your body. do you hate me?"

"n-no!"

you grabbed his face again this time forcing him to look in your eyes. "do you hate being my beautiful doll? do I not treat you well?"

"master-! im-im so so so sorry im-im so bad i know im not im not good enough im-"

you leaned down and gave him a gentle kiss. "shh... I'm sorry for getting so angry with you, doll. it's ok."

"ca-can i still-still be your pretty-pretty doll? please. please i can i-"

"i could never find a doll as beautiful as you. but you can't go around misbehaving like that. you're going in your case for dinner and then you'll spend the night in your room."

he started to sob again his words failing as he tried to beg you not to do this to him. you gave a heavy sigh as you forced him back down into your compulsion. his tears stopped as his body fell limp in your arms, just like a doll.

you carried him gently to your dollhouse room where you kept everything you used to make your pretty lifeless dolls. you set him gently on the table and he blinked at you like he wanted to start crying again. you shushed him. instead you focused on finding him a new outfit, something white to match the straight jacket he'd have to wear. you found a cute pair of wedding lingerie and a pearl necklace to replace his ribbon. you hummed to yourself as you undressed him. your tone became sour when you got to his still bleeding wound, you licked the excess blood before you got to work cleaning his wound properly.

"this is really ugly work. do you know that I really hate doing this to you?"

blink. you gently wrapped his arm up tightly.

"mhm i hate it. you keep making me do this though. do you realize how much pain you cause me?"

blink blink. you gave his freshly bandaged wound a kiss before you made him sit up straight.

"arms out. i don't like making you miserable, you're my most precious doll."

you gently slipped him into the straight jacket and pulled it tight until he couldn't move his arms at all.

"you're too beautiful to be forced in your box, you know? but if a toy breaks you have to throw it away."

blink blink blink. a single tear fell down his blank face. you sighed again as you pulled his lacey white panties up his thighs.

"we don't want you to break. just accept your punishment like a good boy."

blink. you helped him down off the table before leading him to another full length mirror. you gently placed the "bloody" pearl necklace around his neck.

"if i let you go will you quietly go in your case?"

blink. satisfied with that answer you left him standing there to pull out his case. a coffin with a glass window in the top that allowed you to see whatever was inside. you unlocked the heavy coffin and pulled it open. the interior was a deep maroon and it was extremely well cushioned with an extra pillow for the head.

you released your compulsion on silvan who immediately began to cry again. you clicked your tongue at him.

"there's no reason to cry, doll. come get in your case."

"ple-pleash- hic don-dont throw-throw me aw-away- hic" he was sobbing so hard he couldn't breathe.

you pulled him into a hug. "you're not broken, are you?"

"im im ba-bad hic an-and im ug-ugly and hic- i can-cant be-be go-good-"

you rubbed your hand on his back. "you're not a bad doll, you're so good at being my doll. you get confused sometimes and think you're still human and that's when you're bad. but i forgive you. even if it takes me 500 years I'll train you into the perfect doll."

his head nuzzles against your chest as he sobbed and whimpered and hiccuped. his words were too broken to understand anymore. you held him for a long time, letting him get all his tears out onto your shirt. when he finally calmed down enough to breathe properly you guided him to the mouth of his case.

"please- please come get me tomorrow ma-master..."

"I'll get you first thing in the morning. we can even go out tomorrow if you don't misbehave anymore tonight."

he nodded as he sunk into the comfortable coffin space. his heartbeat immediately picked up as soon as the lid closed over him, a sense of claustrophobia washing over him. you could hear him trying not to panic even as you locked the coffin tight.

"be good."

[bugs1nmybrain]

Shigaraki's Psychological Conditions Headcanons - (a long ass post)

So, I'll preface this by saying I am NOT a psychiatrist and am not qualified to diagnose shit. I do however have a history of personal mental health disorders and am going to school for mental health work. This is mostly just for theory sake. My word is not absolute

Let's begin

warnings: mental illness as title suggests, not proofread and probably has typos

Antisocial Personality Disorder / Conduct Disorder

This one sort of goes without saying cuz duh he's a villain or whatever. I want to specify that in terms of Antisocial Personality, he likely is a sociopath, NOT a psychopath

I hear people call him a psychopath all the time and it's infuriating because people throw around labels without understanding what they mean. Psychopaths are more cunning and charming, and very manipulative. This isn't to say that Tomura is none of those things. Psychopath, however, applies to people like All For One. Almost diplomatic and very persuasive.

Tomura is a sociopath because he's known for recklessness and abrasive behavior. Psychopaths often pretend to have feelings, but for sociopaths aggression is a key emotion that's visibly displayed. They are also able to feel remorse in some cases, and I run this back to Shigaraki because he spent years in what was implied to be repressed guilt regarding the death of his family. Tomura admits it himself in his flashbacks, but ultimately decides to let go of that guilt (that he still fucking feels and is in DENIAL but that's another post). Hence, his forgiving nature toward his mother and sister when he's dreaming during surgery.

Even after Tomura let that burden go, he has no desire to be cool and collected, he just fucks around and finds out. Overall, though, he disregards people's lives and doesn't have remorse for what he's done because he throws his trauma and desires over it as a bandaid. He does show care and consideration to people in the League, though.

The conduct disorder part of it is self-explanatory. He's a violent criminal, lol.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)

Duh.

Trauma is pretty much all Tomura has known. I won't reiterate his backstory, but being physically abused and rejected as a child, the murder of his family, being blatantly ignored by people on the streets, and AFO's upbringing? That's a lot

His PTSD is so dehibilitating that it took hold of his body language and behavior. Before the end of s5, Tomura was rigid and hunched over. In the MHA video games, he's also seen as very restless and moving his body around (until s4 era in One's Justice 2). I'll attach a video below.

He's also just very irritable and easily set off at the reminders of his trauma and rejection. "I HATE YOU" is a key example, as up to that point Tomura had been improving his rash behavior, but he's very unsettled by his past and continues to be now.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

His case of OCD is connected to his trauma and emotions. You'll find that a lot of his conditions feed into one another. For him, he has a variant of dermatillomania (often known as the skin picking disorder). For him, that is in the form of scratching rather than picking. But he does it compulsively and without thought, and he does it in attempts to self soothe. I believe he does it occasionally as a self injurious behavior, resulting in itching himself rather than lashing out. He even just does it when he's only moderately anxious or irritated.

Depression

While we don't see Shigaraki slumped in bed or feeling sad in the ways we see in many cases of depression, his "I hate everything" mentality puts him here. Actually, it's safe to say he experiences anhedonia, which is the lack of enjoyment in anything. He seems to somewhat enjoy video games, but his bio states "nothing" as his likes. I'm inclined to believe he feels no personal joy or happiness, and tries to attain that through murderous rage. Never works tho, does it Tomura?

Bipolar Disorder and Unspecified Psychotic Disorder

This one might stir some debates, but I do genuinely think he has a mood disorder. I don't want to feed into stigma that bipolar and psychotic people are "evil," because I myself have these conditions, so maybe I'm projecting lmao. He's definitely not medicated, and so I'd say his case is Bipolar Type 1. This type is characterized by intense manic symptoms, though depressive symptoms can be severe, too.

Tomura has manic tendencies, and he's impacted by mania in that he seems to get spontaneous motivation, but he also will stay stagnant for some time. I saw this as the case when Spinner literally went at Shiggy for putting the League in a complacent stage, but he's done this before, such as when he was in a slump about Stain. When his motivation surges, though, he goes above and beyond and doesn't put extensive thought into it. He just lunges into his desires in pursuit of satisfaction. He also has delusions of grandoisity to some degree and has a moment where he treats himself as invincible. He fought Gigantomachia for almost two months, and kept fucking going at him. Surely, he could've asked the doctor to call him off, but Tomura wanted that power so bad. Tomura also went into his surgery without asking many questions about it. He makes very impulsive decisions, even after people insist that he "matured." He also gets flicked into motivation like a snap of a finger, and proceeds to be lead mostly by endorphins and gratification.

When Tomura experiences what he perceives as a "positive" emotion, it overtakes him. He becomes pretty much engrossed in his bodily sensations. Through maniacal laughter and taunting language that's charged in a hate induced fuel. When Shigaraki has "voila" moments, he has a surge in neuroactivity and gets into aggressive mood stages, but I guess that could apply to most of the villains. I saw this when Deku told him the difference between him and Stain, and Tomura had a surge in manic-like bliss and drive.

I'm not sure if Tomura hearing the voices of his family before his epiphany was just intrusive thoughts, but I thought they may have been auditory hallucinations. Tomura admits to hearing things that aren't there and seeing visual hallucinations, too. Evidenced by:

I hate how the dub translated this into "when you're this tired" as a broad statement. The manga gives this more personal association to Shigaraki, and he says that it happens when he's sleepy, and doesn't specify if it's only when he's extremely sleep deprived or just tired. Also, him staying up for days on end and smiling his ass off reeks of mania. He has delusional sprinkles in his thinking process, but they're not of bizarre nature, and are usually tied to his trauma. At this point in the manga he's very psychotic, though. That has a lot to do with him being fueled with adrenaline and also just breaking out of AFO's control.

I think he is either bipolar type 1 with psychotic features or has a mild case of schizoaffective disorder. Probably the first one, but I'm not sure.

ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder)

This one is more of a gut feeling for me, but I see Tomura as being easily distracted and aloof to his surroundings at times. He's fidgety and does shit on whim.

Also, look at his room.

I'm not saying that everyone with ADHD has a messy room, but from what I can see, he goes from one task, drops it entirely without picking up, and goes to the next. Some could argue that Tomura simply doesn't care, and that's true, but he's at least got some decency to put the shit in trash bags. Trash bags that he HASN'T EVEN TAKEN OUT. I think he gets too caught up in the shit he's focused on that it slips his mind to do simple things like that.

He has spontaneous interests from what I can tell from the many books and toys he has that seem to have gone untouched for some time. He also hyperfixates, and I don't mean interest wise. I mean that when he's dwelling on something, it doesn't leave his mind for DAYS, until he gets some gratification. All Might in s1 and Stain s2 for example.

-

In conclusion, this boy has a grocery list of conditions, but I love Tomura. I love my beautiful prince with a disorder, and he is so dear to me.

I'm open to discussions about this, but please keep them respectful.

[wrathfulrook]

Traitor

Patience has feelings for John and picks him over the resistance. It doesn't go well for her.

A stand-alone in the oneshot collection, In Which Bad Things Happen to Junior Deputy Patience Ekner.

Ship: John Seed x Patience Ekner (deputy oc) [unrequited]

Rating: M

Word count: ~2.5k

Read it on ao3.

He almost hadn’t gone with her. Why would he? But in the end, it hadn’t been up to him.

John wasn’t sure whether he was more surprised to see the deputy in his home, or more irritated that she managed to get inside unnoticed. Actually, she seemed more surprised to see him, as if it wasn’t his own house. Though, John was a bit of an insomniac, so perhaps her surprise was more that he was fully dressed and walking around nearing three in the morning.

In any case, both overcame any surprise when she became panicked and desperate, begging him to leave with her.

“You don’t understand,” she’d pleaded, her face reddening. “They’re coming for you. You have no idea what they plan to do to you!”

He’d laughed at that. The only member of the resistance he was worried about was her, and he certainly didn’t intend to go off with her, not even if this supposed ambush was real. Which of course, it wasn’t, because why on earth would she try to save him from her own people?

The resistance must truly be getting desperate in order to try something so pathetically transparent.

But, then he heard the explosions, the gunfire, the shouts, on the far end of his property. Her eyes had widened as if in terror and her pleading began anew. Well, then, perhaps an ambush was occurring. But what was her game?

He hadn’t even seen her swinging the table lamp at him.

When he woke, he was sprawled across the dingy, pilling sofa in some prepper’s tiny bunker. The lighting was fluorescent and dim and the air stale. And the deputy was pacing anxiously, her long braided ponytail disheveled, her pale, freckled face looking even whiter than usual. A handheld radio was held tightly in her grip, the plastic visibly biting into her skin. She twisted the knob compulsively, flipping between multiple channels, each one broadcasting a similar message in a different voice.

Deputy, come in Deputy – Patience? Are you there? – Please respond, Deputy – Come in…

So this wasn’t part of the resistance’s plan, then. She had, in fact, gone AWOL to save him.

The deputy screamed in frustration and threw her radio at the concrete wall, cracking the plastic shell to reveal the metal and wire viscera inside.

John laughed. “My, my, what a predicament you’ve gotten yourself into.”

She whirled to face him, her blonde braid whipping around behind her. Her face softened, her grey eyes widening when she saw him awake. And, oh, but he couldn’t help but smile smugly. Was she truly that easy? Had it really only taken a bit of charm and flirtation interspersed among his radio threats to make her look at him like that?

She rushed to his side. “Are you hurt?”

“From where you hit me over the head, you mean?” he asked, one eyebrow arched in smug disbelief. “I’ll be fine. I doubt the same could be said about you, though.”

John stood up, ignoring the pounding headache and what was surely a goose egg on the back of his head. He supposed he was lucky the moony woman hadn’t accidentally killed him with that blow.

“What will you do now, my dear?” he taunted her, one hand coming up to caress her cheek. She actually leaned into his touch, the poor fool. And as easily as he touched her, he even more easily pulled it away. “What are you going to do now that you’ve betrayed the resistance so thoroughly, stealing me away in the night before they could get me in their grips? I doubt they’ll forgive you…”

She was breathing heavily, her heart racing in obvious panic.

“We’ll stay here a few days. Just until the search for either of us dies down a bit. And then you can go back the cul- the Project. This bunker had been abandoned for a while when I found it and I never told anyone about it; you’ll be safe here for now.”

He nodded, still smiling in disbelief at his luck.

“And will you come with me when I go? Will you finally Confess and Atone and quit your sinful crusade against our holy work? I’m sure you’d be able to find your purpose, once your sin had been exposed and absolved.”

The deputy shook her head no, adamant in her stubborn resolve. “I will never join the cult.”

“It isn’t a cult, my dear.

“But, then, why save me? You won’t come to the Project; you can’t go back to the resistance. You have nowhere to go. So, why did you do it?”

There was a tense silence, a flash of fear punctuating the tender look in her eyes. “I couldn’t let them do that to you. What they planned- you have no idea…”

“Tell me.”

She shook her head again, face reddening in an effort not to tear up. In reaction to her current circumstances? Or in reaction to the idea of some horrible fate befalling him?

“Tell me,” he demanded again.

“They wanted- well, I’m assuming you know Matthew 7:12?”

“Of course.” He arched an eyebrow in pleasant surprise that this heathen woman had at least a passing familiarity with scripture. “‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’”

“Well, that’s what they wanted.” Her gaze hardened. “They wanted to eviscerate you and fill your hollowed out torso with bliss flowers. They wanted to wrap your body in barbed wire and suspend it from the rafters of the Henbane bridge for all to see. They wanted to stake your hands together and drive antlers through your skull, a real ‘greatest hits’ the corpses you and yours have displayed.”

She was practically shaking with raw anger at that point. Whether at the resistance for planning such a fate for him, or at him for not taking her seriously, John couldn’t tell. In any case, he grinned.

“Oh?” he asked nonchalantly. “How macabre. Why didn’t you let them? I know you think I deserve it.”

“No.” Patience was firm and decisive in her answer. How adorable. How pathetic. “No, I do not think anyone deserves any of the shit you do to them, and I certainly don’t want to turn around and do it to you. I’m a cop. I didn’t sign up for torture; I didn’t sign up for executions.”

How rich. The young woman had killed so many faithful he doubted she could even keep count. No, he knew this wasn’t about her supposed fidelity to the legal system.

He reached his hand out again, noting the flash of something in her eyes, and gently gripped her chin, tilting her face up towards his. She let him.

“No, no. You’ve taken your wrath out on my brothers and sisters time and time again. Don’t try to play ‘good cop’ now. You’re not fooling me, my dear. That’s not why you saved me. Tell me the truth.”

Her eyes flashed fear. She was so obvious. Was this truly the best the resistance had to offer?

“It’s not that you wouldn’t let them do that,” he continued. “It’s that you wouldn’t let them do that to me. And I want you to tell me why.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A lie. She continued to let him hold her face, her freckled cheeks dusted with pink. Embarrassment? Lust?

“Oh, yes, you do. It’s painfully obvious. You wear your heart on your sleeve, don’t you, my dear?” When her eyes widened in outrage at the accusation, he soothed her by gently stroking his thumb over her cheek, mocking in his eyes. “It’s alright… I’m flattered. Don’t worry, I’ll keep your little crush a secret.”

Rage flashed in her eyes, and she forcefully shoved him back. “You’re talking out of your ass, Seed.”

John smiled smugly and offered up his hands as if in surrender. She certainly was easy to read.

“Alright, alright,” he humored her. “If not that, then why? Why save me from your own people? And don’t try pulling that good cop routine with me again. You don’t intend to Atone, but you certainly can’t go back to the resistance. By saving me, you painted a huge target on yourself. You’re all alone… no allies, no friends… Whatever will you do?”

“Oh, shut the hell up.”

John took a step closer to her, noting how she made no moves to step back or otherwise keep the distance between them. He kept his facial expression steady, despite the amusement that observation provided him.

“Why did you save me?”

Her brows furrowed – stress, fear, overwhelming emotion.

“I don’t know.”

He closed the distance between them once again, but kept his hands to himself for now.

“Of course you do. You saved me at great personal expense. There’s no reason to do that. Well… no reason but the one.”

He smiled down at her, almost sweetly. Her lips parted slightly and she inhaled with a nearly inaudible stuttering gasp. But John was an observant man. He pressed his advantage by placing a steadying hand on her waist, affecting a quiet, intimate tone as he spoke.

“You care for me, don’t you?”

She didn’t reply.

“More than just care,” he continued. “You’ve essentially traded your life for mine. There’s no way the resistance will let you live after what you’ve done. But you know that, don’t you? You’re no fool, Deputy. You knew what you were doing… trading your life for that of the man you love.”

His eyes flickered across her face, tight and red. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was- shame, anger, grief? He looked down at her, studying her features. The dark circles under her eyes, the unkempt flyaways escaping her braid, the heavy scent of campfire smoke that permeated her clothes and hair… He took it all in with a clinical detachment.

And he wondered what she was taking in about him. Probably the sharp scent of his cologne, the body heat rolling off of him, the weight of his hand on her waist... Though, he doubted there was any sort of detachment between Patience and her observations of him.

“Because you do love me, don’t you?”

She said nothing, face growing redder.

He smirked down at her, hand flexing, gripping her waist. “I barely had to do anything, did I? I didn’t even have to try. A little attention, a little flirting, and here you are. Falling on your sword and betraying your own people for-“

Patience lashed out and slapped him across the face.

He stepped back in stunned surprise, hand coming up to soothe his stinging cheek. And then his eyes narrowed as a hot wave of anger came over him. John couldn’t deny the little thrill he got from seeing the flash of fear in her eyes as he pinned her to the wall with a hand on her throat, careful and controlled enough not to crush her windpipe, but firm enough to hold her in place.

“You little…” he hissed down at her before wrangling his fury under control. “Did that make you feel better? Did it make you feel good, knowing you hit the man you love just to make sure he takes you seriously? Hm? You’re a pathetic little girl, Deputy. You think a little slap is going to make me feel bad about what I say?

“Well, I hope it did make you feel better, because guess what? None of it matters. You threw your life away for me. Your own people will hunt you down and slaughter you like an animal for your betrayal. And you made that choice. For me.”

Her face was beet red with the effort to hold back her tears, but he didn’t stop. Why would he? She had saved him from certain doom and crippled the resistance by knocking out herself as their figurehead, all in one fell swoop. The sadistic and pleasurable rush of power he felt right then was intoxicating, and he had no intention of ending it anytime soon.

“It’s pathetic how easy you made this all for me. And despite it all, I bet you’d still give anything for me to hold you in my arms, to kiss away your tears… is that it?” His laugh was biting. “And you don’t regret it at all do you? You’d save me again, wouldn’t you?”

She didn’t answer and didn’t meet his eyes, so he harshly gripped her chin and made her meet his eyes.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“…yes.”

“Yes,” he repeated smugly. “You would.”

His long fingers traced over her plush lips, and she nearly melted under his attentions. Pathetic.

“Oh, Deputy, I’d have enjoyed you very much. Such a beautiful, young woman, so desperate to please me.” He smirked. “I can only imagine how much I would have loved that.”

The look of desperation in her eyes, it was so simultaneously ego-boosting and pitiful to John.

He scoffed as he took his hands off her and stepped away with a cold smile.

“But lust is a sin. And unlike you, I’m no sinner.”

~

John had left without incident. Patience had stayed. But the bunker had been abandoned for a reason. How long could she hide there until she ran out of supplies? He kept his ear to the ground, waiting to hear of any incidents involving the deputy. But he still hadn’t heard of any sightings. She was laying low.

He opened up his front door, breathing in the crisp morning air. But as he took a step out, he stumbled over something, sloshing hot coffee out of his mug and onto the deputy’s face below.

As he looked down at her strewn across his doorstep, he raised a single eyebrow, partially in surprise, and partially in irritation that his useless men had allowed anyone to get so close to his house. He took a sip of the scalding coffee as his eyes scanned over her body. The note pinned to her jacket caught his attention. FOR JOHN, written in bold script. He ripped the note from her and unfolded the torn paper, reading the message inside.

Here's your whore back.

He snorted in amusement. So, the resistance had caught up with her after all. ‘His whore.’ Interesting. Had they assumed the foolish woman’s feelings were mutual? Idiots. She’d done a lot for their cause. Likely would have continued to, if they hadn’t taken her out.

John contemplatively looked her over as he sipped at his morning cup of joe, admiring the theatrics of their work. On her forehead was the Project’s cross, clearly carved into the thin skin when she was still alive, based on the sloppy work. The hot coffee he’d accidentally splashed onto her face pooled in the divots of the wound and in the corners of her unseeing eyes. Lower down, on her chest, also obviously work she’d endured while conscious, was the word TRAITOR, carved in all capital letters.

Clearly an homage to the tattoos he gifted to Confessed sinners.

In their attempt to get back at him, the resistance had given him a gift. Truly, the Lord works in mysterious ways.

John radioed out for his men to clean up the mess at his door, then closed the door and went back inside to refill his mug.

[rosypenguins]

Hey so uh about my Vampire AU… I still somehow have no clue what I want to do with the first chapter so uh… UH- DISTRACTION! DOM AND FAYE HEADCANONS BECAUSE THEY MAKE ME VIOLENT!!

💚Faye is brutally honest, whereas Dom has absolutely no issue lying if he thinks it’ll be for the better. It’s gotten to a point where he does it almost compulsively now. (This has definitely impacted him negatively in the past, but will he stop? HAH-)

🧡Despite me saying this, I feel like Dom can’t lie on command. He can do it impulsively, but if he’s specifically told to lie about something he struggles to keep a straight face. (This leads to a lot of people thinking he’s just as bad a liar as Faye when this really is not the case.)

💚Faye is easily overwhelmed by loud noise, and usually has to listen to music at a low volume. Dom, meanwhile, has to blast his as loudly as possible.

🧡I feel like they mostly listen to Indie stuff. I can’t really see them being into any main-stream artists.

💚Considering Dom’s comment about him and Faye wanting to be friends with Elliot for a while, I like to imagine that after they said goodbye to Elliot in the first spin-off episode, they high-fived and got super giddy. But then cut to two hours later and Dom’s pacing the room like: “oh my God, we overshared again he LITERALLY HATES US-”

🧡I’m sorry but there’s no way they both don’t have low-self esteem. (Dom’s: “We can be a bit annoying to be fair-” will forever live in my head rent-free until further elaborated on.)

💚Anyways, I feel like these two are always sharing their thoughts with one another, and even when they’re apart, they’ll still turn to where other would usually be with the intention of saying something, only to realize they’re not there and feel a little awkward afterwards.

🧡DO NOT SEPARATE. THEY DO NOT LIKE BEING SEPARATED.

💚They’ve probably tried to create their own language before. But they kept changing the rules of it so neither of them really understand it anymore.

🧡But they probably have a second, non-verbal language of just hand motions, expressions and straight up mind-reading.

💚They’ve probably tried to pass as one another at least once before. (And no one fell for it.)

🧡I like to think they both have DND-style OC’s they’re super invested in, but they don’t really do anything with them other than create increasingly complex lore and compare them with each other. (They’re always arguing over which one would win in a fight.)

💚Faye’s really sweet to everyone else, but I like to think she’ll bully Dom any chance she gets.

🧡I also feel like Faye likes giving Dom space buns because they look funny, but Dom’ll usually keep them in since they keep his bangs out of his face.

💚Faye loves platonic hand-holding.

🧡Dom probably collects random acorns and pinecones. (Thank you @ratkingnezu for randomly looking over my shoulder and suggesting this lol.)

💚They also probably have all sorts of knick-knacks resembling birds and rodents and insects scattered all around their room. (And they all have names and despite taking up so much space, Dom and Faye refuse to part with any of them.)

🧡They’re both hoarders. They’ll be going through all their stuff and find some random ribbon they took off a Christmas present and be like: “…but what if I NEED IT-” and then they’ll immediately forget about it like two days later.

💚Speaking of Christmas, I feel like they’d both hate Christmas music. (They hear Mariah Carey on the radio in November and suddenly they’re filled with dread.)

🧡I feel like these two would hate clothes shopping. If they ever needed anything, they’d probably just go to a Target or something.

💚Also, if they see anything that looks remotely soft in a store, they have to go and feel it.

🧡They probably hate coffee with a burning passion. (And I like to think they’re both juice-box addicts.)

💚I feel like Dom and Faye were the type of kids who weren’t allowed to have phones ‘til they were around 12-14, so up until then, they were probably just sent outside and told to be back before dinner. (Optional.)

🧡But quickly after Faye got a phone she got addicted to Instagram and now spends several hours scrolling each day.

💚These two probably prefer the company of animals over people, honestly. Neither of them understand people very well.

🧡Dom seems like the type of guy to be just a little bit obsessed with his friends. Like not even in a romantic way. He’s just… really clingy. (He’s probably not used to having someone other than Faye to talk to. So when he does find someone he sticks to them like glue.)

💚Meanwhile, I feel like Faye’s a lot more introverted. She’s more than comfortable being alone, and she doesn’t really mind that Dom’s technically her only friend. (All she really needs to be content is Dom and her spiders. Neither of which are going anywhere anytime soon.)

🧡I feel like Faye tends to go non-verbal whenever she’d overwhelmed or overstimulated. Whenever this happens, Dom’ll usually take her somewhere quiet, and hold her hand silently as she calms down.

💚She probably also has some noise-cancelling headphones she brings whenever she goes out to loud or crowded spaces.

🧡Meanwhile, Dom will do everything he can to mask and pretend he’s fine and he’ll literally be on the verge of a meltdown with tears streaming down his face all like: “No, no I’m fine, I just something in my eyes.”

[ofsappho]

treehouse chapter 32

Dream of the Endless | Lord Morpheus x reader pregnancy fic

You are introduced to an inhabitant of the Dreaming. (ao3 link here if you prefer to read it there!)

For the past few days,  the rain in the Dreaming has not stopped.

The Dreaming has a baffling variety of weather, from sheets of rain so heavy you can barely see out of your large window to light droplets of mist that leave a fine sheen on your skin, as if the winds and storm clouds are more temperamental than the myths of the god Zeus.

You suppose that given where you are, you’re not too far off.

Per your new silent understanding with the god of dreams, you haven’t seen hide nor hair of Morpheus since the beginning of the storm that has blanketed his realm. Lots of Lucienne and Matthew, who’ve kept you from going stir crazy with their company, jokes, and camaraderie, but none of him. No dark, skulking shadow comfortingly following your steps, no stars glittering with more than light and cosmic dust.

It’s what you wanted, right?

Right.

And in his absence, your experience of the Dreaming has gotten… better, somehow, like you’ve developed a tolerance to the madness that’s endemic to a realm built out of collective fantasies. You walk through these halls and they make sense, how the corridors wind and twist. It’s still one big Escher painting with staircases going where no staircases should and walls twisting into each other like Gordian knots. It makes sense to you now that you’ve accepted that it never will.

Freed of the compulsive urge to sort chaos into order, your mind returns to thoughts of a more usual sort.

Gods are real. That is without question. And so is magic.

…What else?

You could ask Lucienne, but you don’t want to.

You want to ask him.

After wrapping yourself up in a warm sweater and sliding your feet into fleece-lined slippers, because good God is the Dreaming cold all the damn time, you set out in search of Morpheus.

The marble tiles lead you to him, reflecting your intentions. It was odd the first time you found yourself practically deposited by the castle itself in the kitchens when you wanted tea, but now you just relax and let it happen.

The throne room again. You don’t think you’ll ever stop blushing when you see Morpheus’s grand, ornately carved chair.

He’s not on it. Instead, you find him lingering on the steps to the throne, laying back as rain seeps through the ceiling to drench him in a perpetually-refilling, miserable-looking puddle. His dark hair sticks to his forehead and he stares aimlessly into space, his hands folded under his head.

The whole thing is a little pathetic, honestly.

You dance out of the way of a stray stream of rainwater before it soaks into your slippers.

“Morpheus,” You call out, stepping only where you’re sure it’s dry.

When he shoots up into a sitting position, he almost falls down a step. The puddle soaking into black coat grows larger.

Without thinking, you giggle at Morpheus’s uncharacteristic clumsiness, making a warm, happy noise that seems to make the inside rain disappear altogether.

This is how it’s supposed to be between you and him. The realization hits you like a flash of lightning.

This is what you want your future to look like.

He clears his throat as a faint blue tinge colors his sallow cheeks in something approximating a blush. “I offer - uh, my sincerest regrets for the-“ Dream waves his hand at the pool and it disappears in an instant.

“It’s fine, it’s not like it’s your fault,” You offer.

He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to; Morpheus says everything by raising a single eyebrow and stifling a smile.

If you could facepalm in an elegant way, you would right about now. “I walked into that one, didn’t I?” You say with a good-natured sigh. There’s no shame in admitting when you’ve been bested.

He inclines his head. “Perhaps.” His lips purse with amusement.

Your heart skips a beat.

Before Morpheus can somehow throw you off balance further, you plop yourself down on the stair next to him. “Well, we’re off to an excellent start.” But you don’t sit  close enough to touch. It’s for your peace of mind, naturally.

“I’m inclined to agree.” Morpheus pauses. “Certainly better than the last time we-“ He mutters under his breath.

You can hardly begrudge him his right to be salty, so you act like you didn’t hear anything. “I want to play a game with you, Dream Lord. Interested?” The floor is remarkably uncomfortable, you think as you lay back. How on earth does Morpheus do it?

Ah, that’s probably the point. He is so predictable and somehow endearing all at once.

You take your sweater off and bunch it under your neck to support your head, before carefully arranging the skirt of the soft cotton chemise you had underneath it around your legs. All of the clothes his realm has provided for you are like that, dreamy, fantastical gowns and underpinnings that would better suit a fairy princess in a children’s book.

The thing about talking shit out and forgiveness and moving forward is that it takes two. You know that, you knew it even when you didn’t want to forgive Morpheus one day.

But in the echoing quiet that enveloped the past few days you’ve spent alone, you decided to try.

“What do I get when I win?” Morpheus asks, his blue eyes shining as they behold your face, your expression soft and unmarred by anger.

He’s always so confident. “I ask questions and you have to answer them,” You continue to explain.

You’ve put a lot of thought into this, dissecting what you want from him beyond what he refuses to give. It feels as if you’re walking a tightrope fifty stories above the ground, trying to be true to yourself and fair to him.

Time alone helped you get over that too - the seething, bitter resentment that even though Dream didn’t deserve shit, your feelings betrayed you and filled you with guilt over hurting him anyways.

Your eyes accidentally linger a second too long on his mouth and your cheeks flush.

Morpheus mulls your proposition over in his head: “Seems straightforward enough.” For what feels like the first time, the different incarnations of Morpheus, of Dream, that you know and the vast, unknowable, immortal Other all seem to align, one on top of the other. You can see his familiar godlike beauty and secret kindness in each, and there is a certain order to his existence that you can understand.

And you are not afraid. “But you have to tell the truth. Otherwise you lose the game,” You tease, hoping that he can see you reaching across the emotional crevasse between you, that he wants you to build a bridge.

His gaze flashes at your face for a moment. “And what would happen if I hypothetically lost?” There’s light in Morpheus that transfixes you, hope and sorrow beading like tears in the corners of his eyes.

“Horrible things. Just absolutely diabolical.”

Morpheus hums under his breath. “Consider me terribly frightened, then,” He says dryly.

He’s smiling. Just a little.

“Good. So what’ll it be?” Your voice is too strained, your posture too stiff. You’re giving away the churning, anxious contents of your mind that settle uneasily in your stomach, the fear that you’ve come too late.

You feel something rustle your hair. Morpheus has moved closer, his fingers mere inches from your face. “Query away, Basileia. I am at your disposal.” His hands twitch as if it’s painful for Dream to restrain himself from touching you.

That odd word rolls off of his tongue like an ancient prayer, soft and musical. It’s like a word you’d find chiseled in the ruins of a temple, part of a poem to honor a long-gone goddess.

“What does ‘Basileia’ mean?” You ask.

“You came all this way to ask me that?”

He can be such a little shit sometimes. “Obviously not, I’m just getting warmed up. Naturally.”

“Naturally,” Dream agrees in a manner that indicates he’s humoring you. “In the expressive native tongue of the poet Homer, ‘Basileia’ means ‘great queen’.”

You’re like a moth caught in the hot, unrelenting light of his undisguised, unrepentant tenderness. You couldn’t fly away even if you wanted to.

“So, Morpheus, Dream of the Endless… what exactly do you do?”

Even though you’ve started adjusting to the magic surrounding you, to the unvarnished divinity burning in Morpheus’s human form, it’s the moments when you’re so painfully human that you truly feel the difference between you.

Like now. “Pardon?” He raises his dark eyebrows.

“You know. What do you do? What does your job entail? Uh… Could you describe the duties that come with your honored station? Or do you just sulk all day under your own personal rain cloud?” Dream is behaving like a wet street cat someone took pity on and let inside.

Stick a pair of cat ears in his hair and the resemblance would be remarkable. And he’s got the big, pathetic, and adorable eyes and an over-dramatic, faux-disinterested yet deeply involved manner.

“I do not sulk,” Dream of the Endless mutters under his breath. “I am an Endless.”

A couple seconds later, Dream amends his statement. “I only sulk sometimes.” He frowns at the sour taste of admitting it.

“Mmhmm.”

“Of course I… ‘do things.’ If one can call being an integral part of the fabric and machinations of reality ‘things’. It’s a state of being, for your future reference.” When Dream notices you shifting uncomfortably, trying to find a good position for your aching back, he helps you up before summoning into existence a significantly more comfortable chaise lounge for you to stretch out on.

It’s upholstered in black velvet, of course, and practically bursting with stuffing. If you weren’t pregnant, and your joints weren’t swelling painfully from the cold stone floor, you’d reject it on principle.

“It’s not not ‘things’,” You offer as you lay back, watching Morpheus return to his miserable isolation.

You get that he’s punishing himself on your behalf, but you’d really feel better if he’d just sit with you like a grown-up instead of pushing you away. Pretty damn on the nose.

Morpheus sits with his arms on his knees, his long fingers laced together. “You already know I am the god of dreams, that I create them. It’s- that language feels inadequate, somehow.” As he goes on, his whole face lights up.

His hands start to move as he speaks, and his voice grows stronger, more confident. “You’re growing a life inside yourself that we made. Humanity’s dreams are alive in me and I grow them, nurture them. I cradle them in my hands and release them to be yours, and mirrors of you, mirrors of your world, and mirrors of me.” His passion is so palpable you can practically feel it on your skin, sparking like electricity through a live wire.

“Right now there’s a little girl surviving in a war zone, dreaming about a bar of chocolate. In her dreams, I give it to her, so the taste stays in her mouth when she wakes. A little bit of sweetness in a life currently marked by suffering,” Morpheus says quietly.

He reaches a pale hand out and before your eyes, the sky bends down at his call. His pointed finger meets the galaxies and nebulas and stirs them as casually as if he were stirring coffee. Darkness begins to bleed through the tableau, snuffing out the stars one by one, poured into the world from his hand.

“I craft nightmares as well.”

You blink and his fingers aren’t fingers anymore. They’re claws of flawless ivory bone, coated in dripping black blood. His mouth is filled with razor sharp fangs and his eyes turn into shadowed hollows of unfathomable depths. Morpheus grows taller, his bones prominent under the paper-thin veneer of gray skin. The darkness swallows him up, wraps him in fabric woven from pained screams and bitter tears that smells of the sour, battery acid scent of fear.

You resist the urge to flinch, to pull away, to find a hiding place and guard yourself and your baby from this threat that humans have known since before they struck rocks together to create the first fire.

You’re a child again, arranging your stuffed animals in a ring around your bed to protect you from the monsters, spending hours watching your window for movement instead of sleeping.

Your stomach churns and bile rises in your throat. Your hands clench as you hold the vomit in.

The entity, the horrible nightmare king, watches you. It sits up and stares at you, daring you to run.

You do not run.

You pull yourself upright and you stare the nucleus of every fear you’ve ever had straight in the face. “I had a nightmare the night before you-“ The blood. The needles.

Morpheus walking away.

The memories sting like a slap to your face.

The figure bows its head in repentance. “Before I came to you? Yes. I’m sorry. I never- I did not make that one for you. My creations take on a life of their own after they leave my workshop, but it was never supposed to come for you. And I won’t ever forgive myself for subjecting you to that, my- my love.”

Even through the vicious mouth of teeth, Dream’s voice sounds the same. Sadder, even.

“I see,” You murmur, trying to calm your racing heartbeat.

As the wraith sighs, its exaggerated, protruding ribs creak as the bones slide against one another. He cuts a remarkably forlorn figure even when surrounded by his fantastical kingdom and wielding damn near the full extent of his power.

“You don’t need to apologize. Nightmares are a part of you. I understand that now. You can’t go against what you are, what you were made to be.” It’s as simple as that, isn’t it?

The distance between you and him feels insurmountable.

Light filters through the throne room bit by bit, as if Morpheus finally gave the sun in The Dreaming permission to rise. “I…” He starts, then falls silent again. “That's not all I am. I need you to believe that.” You watch as Dream slowly dons his previous appearance. He rearranges himself as if he’s a stained glass window, turning each piece of colored glass into an entirely new design. A design you’re more familiar with - dark hair, pale but not bloodless skin, shining blue eyes flecked with stars and nebulas.

“Alright,” You say with a nod. You recline again into the soft, comforting cushion of the chaise lounge, feeling warmth on your cheeks as if you’re sitting outside on a hot summer day.

“Tell me, what has become of one William Shakspere?”

A smile tugs at the corners of your lips. “Shakespeare?” 

“So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason.

And touching now the point of human skill,

Reason becomes the marshal to my will

And leads me to your eyes, where I o’erlook

Love’s stories written in love’s richest book,” You recite from memory without a second of hesitation. “From ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’.”

His pretty, pretty eyes crinkle at the edges in amusement. “Interesting choice of quote.”

You flush and fall silent. Perhaps you should’ve hesitated after all.

“That’s one of my favorites, too.”

“Of course you love that one.” You pause before grumbling under your breath, “Mr. Conceited.”

Morpheus hides his laughter under a pronounced cough.

“If I wished to be conceited, like a certain sibling of mine that I shall not name, I’d take credit for the tales of the Bard of Avon. But that would do him an injustice. William took the scraps of inspiration I tossed his way and changed the face of mortal culture for the rest of time. Then dreams and fantasies he inspired fed back into me.”

And then… you’re swept off your feet and into a vision.

Figures whirl past you, dancing and talking and fighting one another. The imperious fairy queen Titania, resplendent in a glittering cloak, hand in hand with the impish, donkey-faced Puck. A thousand and one incarnations of Romeo calling out to a thousand and one Juliets at her balcony.

You feel it. You feel the joy, the laughter, the sadness, the anticipation felt by every single person touched by one of Shakespeare’s works. Millions. Hundreds of millions, maybe.

Hundreds of millions of hearts shattering every time Romeo takes the poison and Juliet cries out at the sight of his corpse.

A tear rolls down your cheek. Then another, and another.

These stories are alive. They breathe. They’re more than alive, they’re more real than reality,

The weight of all those feelings, all of those people, that power…

“That’s what I do at its very best. That is what I can be,” Dream says as he steps forward, so bright and brilliant that he makes those stories look like faded imitations of his glory.

You gasp, your hand clutching your throat. “You’re amazing. Do you know that? Do you realize how fucking incredible all of this is? My god,” You murmur.

Morpheus merely bows his head. No bravado, no charm. Just an overwhelming sadness that takes you a moment to understand, and when you do, your heart shatters for him.

“It’s beautiful. You’re- you’re beautiful, Morpheus. Even the nightmares are beautiful, in their own way. So powerful. I respect power, even if I don’t want to be on the other end of it,” You comfort. You’re not even lying.

He’s the most human thing you’ve ever known. That’s where his deep pain comes from, his fatal flaw; the inherent opposition of immortality and mortality, his envy of beings that are his vast inferior, his love for the light that he reflects but can never, ever join.

“…You think so?” His mouth trembles.

“I know so.” Your voice gains strength, urging him, begging him to listen. “It’s the truth. You don’t believe me. Don’t deny it, I can tell. You’re the very best of us, the artist of artists and muse of muses, and you don’t believe me.” His baby stirs inside of you, not content to be left out of this conversation. Little Bird wants to comfort their daddy too. “And you’re not very happy, either,” You finish.

He sighs and the many ages he’s lived hang upon him like shackles, drowning him in his sorrows. “I wasn’t. Until I met you,” Dream admits tenderly. “I recall a disagreement you and I had back at the beginning, in the park. Remember?”

“Yeah, I do. I was furious at you,” You recall, torn between giggling at how overblown the fight became and apologizing over and over for how horribly crass and insensitive you were that afternoon.

“My… cynicism, if you will, comes from my job. The worst parts. Not only seeing the most sick, sadistic, and cruel parts of the collective mortal psyche, but having those parts live in me, become me. Become what I create. Me and not me, all at once. Hundreds of billions of voices in my head, screaming, sobbing.” Morpheus presses his palm to his temple as if somehow, he can press hard enough to make the torturous sounds stop.

Your regret over hurting him churns in your rib cage, then crawls up your throat, forcing its way from between your lips. “I-“ You start to speak.

“Don’t apologize,” Morpheus says quietly. “Don’t you dare. Your feelings were legitimate then and you… were right. Like the humans I loathed, it was easier for me to choose hatred and rage than it was to believe that my life could be worth something more. I was no better than them. Someone had to tell me the unvarnished truth and you fearlessly did. Thank you.”

His eyes are clear and his face is earnest, yet sober. There is no secret rage or cloaked resentment lurking inside. He’s not who he used to be, or like any man you’ve known before him.

You have nothing to fear.

It’s evident that of the many things Morpheus desires, the very last thing on that list is pity, especially yours. He’s too proud for that.

After a long minute spent scrutinizing him, holding your breath in case he changes his mind, you eventually nod. “If I had your job, I think I’d go insane in about five minutes.”

Dream sighs in relief, almost imperceptibly. “I can’t deny that I’ve been close to that, at times.” You were right. Pity would’ve enraged him. But you know him like no one else does.

“What do you mean by ‘hundreds of billions of voices’?” You ask.

“I hope you didn’t think humanity was the center of the universe.”

“What can I say? Conceit is one of the human-est qualities out there,” You quip.

Morpheus smirks as he looks at you through the thick sweep of his long, dark eyelashes. “Your hubris is very attractive. But I suppose that’s because all of you is… very attractive,” He almost purrs, drawing flirtation around himself like a fine coat.

“Yeah, okay buddy, you can dial it back,” You respond, rolling your eyes even as your cheeks flush. “I’ve already been caught. You’ve got me. It’s not like you can get me more pregnant.”

“Darling, you get so flustered and red whenever I compliment you. And I’m meant to resist that temptation?” He raises an eyebrow.

There’s a beat of silence as you sit there, Morpheus’s gaze feasting on your pulse jumping in your throat and your fluttering eyelids.

“Aliens are real? Like, real real?”

“Aliens are… real real.” Your slang sounds funny and out of place in his fancy, posh accent. “Out of the many, many species that exist, only yours is fond of casual, familiar language as a sign of affection.”

“Which is the most formal?”

Out of nowhere, cats spring from every spare corner of the room. You yelp, only to be surrounded by a dearth of overly-inquisitive yet exceedingly polite cats sniffing your feet and investigating your hands. A pretty one, all black with bright blue-green eyes, jumps on the back of your lounge and begins to rummage through your hair.

“Mmm. I’ll make things equitable by selecting from the species I could describe to you in your native tongue. Felis catus. Their eloquence is unmatched on your planet, in my humble opinion.”

It’s pale pink nose, cool and slightly damp, brushes your cheek.

“What do cats dream of, anyways?” You say through your giggles, gently carding your fingers through its’ soft, downy fur. The cat purrs louder and louder with each pet. After a moment, your self-control breaks and you kiss its little forehead as you scratch under its chin.

“Oh, plenty of things. They’re an imaginative bunch. For example…” Morpheus nods at the clutter of cats. Dozens of flickering eyes flash towards him and they blink so slowly that you realize it’s intentional.

The cats spring into action. They jump and scamper, chase each other and clamber up the columns encasing Morpheus’s throne room, growing in size until even the smallest kitten could level a multi-story house with a single stomp.

The black one who’s decided to make your lap its napping place stays where it is, even nestling itself into your curved stomach, right next to your baby bump. You can feel the vibrations of its happy cat noises through your dress. “They dream about shrinking people down?

“They dream about growing big, big enough to toss your species around like feather toys.•

“Entirely on brand,” You reply. You feel the smile on your face deep in your soul, keeping you warm all the way down to your toes.

Your smile emboldens him. Dream picks himself up off the floor effortlessly, almost giddy with excitement. “Come. I wish to show you something,” He tells you as he extends his hand out to help you to your feet.

You hesitantly take it and allow him to steady you with his other hand on the small of your back.

The throne room begins to swim before your eyes, taking on that migraine-inducing translucent quality that felt like you’d just taken a tab of bad acid, that made you want to escape from this realm into the Waking World, where you could be sure that you and your surroundings were real.

His hand hasn’t left your back and you’re horribly reminded of being dragged through different planes of existence, like a fish caught on a hook being reeled through the air.

But this time, Dream is with you. He’s steady, a solid pillar of a body you can lean against and feel with your hands, keeping you upright and grounded. “We’re not swimming through dimensions, just going down the block. Metaphorically,” He says quickly, rubbing your back in a silent apology.

You trust him.

Amidst the chaos, the rainbow of colors painting the world around you like you’re walking through an abstract painting, you reach for him. Your fingers intertwine with his, fitting so easily it was like you were always meant to hold his hand.

His pulse jumps in his wrist, beating faster and faster as the minutes pass that you stay with him, that you let him lead you forward.

A door appears out of nowhere, made from solid oak with a heavy brass handle. It hovers in the air, trying to decide if it wants to exist, until Dream reaches out for the handle. As soon as he starts to open it, the door steadies itself.

Even though you can’t tell what’s beyond the door, Dream urges you to walk through first.

You’re struck by his silence and the barest hint of hesitation. Whatever he’s about to show you matters. He cares, deeply, for your approval.

You realize you may be inclined to give it to him.

On the other side of the door is green. Green and blue and pink and purple.

Fields of grass as far as the eye can see, touching all the way to the horizon. Sun shines through each blade of grass, making them glow a vibrant, almost unnatural verdant hue that you can barely tear your eyes away from the grass. Impossibly soft and so alive. You can practically feel the life bursting from the stalks, the millions of tiny souls sleeping in the soil using photosynthesis to stretch even closer to the sun.

The great blue sky stretches overhead, as blue as cornflower, dappled with the occasional fluffy white cloud. The clouds only enhance the great, overwhelming beauty around you, trundling through the sky like little flocks of white sheep.

Pink and purple flowers break up the green grass, scenting the clean, crisp air with the faintest aroma of sweetness. You can practically taste the flower nectar on your tongue. Violets, daisies, bluebells, countless other wildflowers that match not just the blue of the sky, but all the other shades one could see in the sky; the shy, warm pale pink of the dawn and the dappled purple of early twilight.

The gentle cooling breeze brings with it the scent of dark, moist soil, earthy and lush.

Everything is bursting with life, as if at any moment the grass will break into a chorus of song or the flowers will turn to you and greet you cheerfully.

It’s like something out of a movie.

Once you realize it, you turn to him with your hand pressed to your mouth and happy tears crowding your eyes. “Morpheus…” You gasp.

Morpheus gestures towards the horizon. “Basileia, I introduce you to Fiddler’s Green. A member of the Major Arcana and one of my oldest subjects.”

“It’s just like Howl’s Moving Castle.”

Your delight makes him blush ever so slightly. “Indeed. And Spirited Away, and Castle in the Sky, Kiki’s Delivery Service. My Neighbor Totoro.”

“After I was released from Roderick Burgess’s glass prison, the Dreaming, my own domain, a realm woven out of every piece of myself, seemed as alien and foreign to me as Ithaca was to Odysseus. I thought the evolution of my dreams and nightmare without my guidance symbolized my redundancy. A democracy of dreams. I was no longer needed, and I did not belong in the only home I’ve ever had.” 

Even the living, breathing beauty of Fiddler’s Green can’t alleviate the heartbreak you feel when you see his spirit breaking from that loss, unable to move on or forward.

“Until you showed me that film you’re so fond of, I’d been disturbed, frankly, at the changes in my dreams and nightmares. Even a dream as loyal and dutiful as Fiddler’s Green had abandoned me, and returned to my realm feeling like a foreign limb stitched to my body.”

Morpheus pauses to take a deep breath.

“You and Fiddler’s Green reminded me that I can be a dreamer, too. I can feel wonder. I can walk through unknown meadows and see a blue sky I’ve never witnessed before, and let it thrill me. Inspire me.”

The warmth of the sunlight illuminates the contours of his chiseled face and turns his eyes from icy, unforgiving sapphire to gentle, open cerulean. “Your generation dreams in the daylight and the open air, not only at night, in the secret recesses of the mind.”

You want to reassure Dream that he suits the Waking world just as much as he does the Dreaming, but you sense he needs to keep going. Not just for you, but for him, like setting down at last the burden that’s been choking the life out of him.

“It is my hope one day that I can do that for you. Be with you in the open air, walk with you through my world and yours. I know you’ve dreamt of it. I’m not sure what exactly I feared. Maybe that your feelings would disappear once you saw me as I was, that I couldn’t be the dream you deserved. So I did what dreams do and I fled into the shadows.”

“What makes you think that would have happened?” Somehow, it’s worse knowing the truth.

It’s worse knowing how close he was to you when he felt a million miles away. It’s worse realizing that if Dream had made a different choice, just one, there would be nothing tearing you apart. 

He looks at you with such anguish gathered in the furrowed lines in his forehead. “…It’s happened before,” Dream says brokenly. “And what I could offer wasn’t enough for them. I wasn’t enough. And I love you. I couldn’t bear it if you rejected me like all the others.” His shoulders hunch and he angles himself away from you, tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat.

Before you fully understand why, you reach out your hand. “Come here, Morpheus.” Doubt flickers across his expression.

You’re not offended. He’s been brought low too many times before, and that reaction has nothing to do with you. If you could, you’d reach into the past and steal away everything that taught him fear and uncertainty.

After a short while, he takes your hand hesitantly, still afraid you’ll tear it away from him.

You run your thumb along the back of his hand, tracing each vein and tendon. “It didn’t have to go down like this. I understand. I see you. You never had to push me away. Do you hear me?”

“I do.”

It’s painful to talk about this. “I don’t blame you for being so afraid. I was just as scared. What you were afraid I’d do to you, I felt like you were doing to me.” But it’s a good kind of pain.

The two of you are cauterizing the wounds you’ve left on each other’s hearts and the sweetness of Fiddler’s Green soothes what’s left.

His mouth trembles. “…I’m sorry.” A soft breeze dances around the two of you, swooshing through the very tips of his hair.

You hold his hand with both of your hands and draw his palm to your heart. “You have to stop making decisions about us and me without me. I am not another dream for you to control. I want to forgive you. But I will never allow anyone, god or not, to have power over my life like that. You dragged me here because you were afraid I’d reject you. I know. But you never even gave me the chance to say yes. So now I can’t.” A stray tear gathers at the corner of your eye. “You would’ve been enough for me. I would’ve fought for us. Quit making it so that I can’t.”

Dream carefully wipes it away before it can fall, touching your cheek with the lightest, most delicate of pressures. “One day, perhaps I can. And can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

The words pour from your mouth all turbulent and twisted, mirroring your thoughts. “Honestly? I’m not sure. Maybe. I want to. Listen to me. I really, really fucking want to. But I don’t know. I need more time and you have to show me that you’ve changed. And you’ve got to be okay with it, even if it doesn’t work out for us. You can’t control love. You’re either in or you're out.”

His expression is a mask of stone and ice, and his eyes are hooded. You might as well be singing your heart to the wide open sky or pleading for mercy from an avalanche.

“If you don’t think you have that in you, to trust me with that and to keep loving me even when there may not be a happy ending for us in the cards, even when you’re not getting anything out of it, tell me. That’s okay.” It would not be okay. It would shatter what’s left of your heart. It would choke the life out of you.

But you have to give him the option to leave, right? Otherwise you’d be a hypocrite. Behind the knee jerk compulsion to never let Dream go, there is a soft thudding feeling in the back of your mind that reminds you that you mean it. You want better for him. You want him to know what love actually is, even if it isn’t with you. He deserves that.

Morpheus sucks in a sharp breath. “It will be a… new adventure for me, admittedly. But I like adventure, and I’m-“ He pauses to brush a stray hair out of your face. “I’m very fond of you.” 

He speaks of fondness and you know he means more than that. Dream speaks of familiarity. The unbearably ordinary and mortal part of love that is waking up together everyday and sharing a cup of coffee, not dramatic declarations or life-or-death drama. You were afraid it wouldn’t be enough, what you could give him.

“So I’ll try. Let me warn you as well - I will not be parted from you. I just won’t. You must find a way to accept that.” His hand moves from over your heart to just between your collarbones, his palm pressing flat and possessive into your skin.

In the raging blue-gray storm of Dream’s irises, you see flashes of pale lightning.

“I understand,” You answer.

A familiar quickening sensation inside of you draws your attention away from him. You remember reading in one of your pregnancy development books that at sixteen weeks, your baby can hear you, even if they don’t understand the sounds.

Little Bird knows your voice, you realize. Little Bird wants their father to know they’re there.

His stricken, concerned voice brings your mind back to him. “What is it? Are you well?” He asks as he curls one of his arms around your waist before stooping so he can see your face to make sure you’re not ill or in pain.

“Morpheus,” You say dreamily. “Give- give me your hand.” After a few seconds of your blind fumbling for it, Morpheus places his hand in yours.

You clasp it to your small baby bump.

Silence. You frown. Perhaps the moment has passed.

Just as Dream begins to pull away…

A stronger movement. A hummingbird-fast flap of tiny wings.

When Morpheus tucks his face into the crook of your neck, his tears dampen your skin. He gasps. You’re both sniffling. “Oh, my love. My queen. Thank you,” Dream whispers. “I can- I can hear…” The sky overhead blooms into a riot of color, every shade of every sunset.

“Hear what?”

Morpheus straightens. His smile-

His smile takes your breath away. “I can hear our Little Bird.” You kiss him without any hesitation, your chapped lips moving against his smooth, soft mouth, and your happy, happy tears mix with his own.

[eiraeths]

more assorted 141 headcanons

idk what really is considered a trigger warning or a content warning but there’s mentions of ocd tendencies and trauma responses. also the impending feeling of doom that comes with being a solider at war.

soap is a dirty charlatan. going back to my previous headcanon of him being a punk teenager he might of shoplifted from big companies and what not anyway since he’s an adult with responsibilities he doesn’t do that anymore. instead, it turned into making elaborate schemes whether it be a game of cards or pilfering random items from people only to give it back to them to see the shock or confusion on their face

ghost can pickpocket. him and soap once had a long game of who could steal the most stuff off of each other’s persons before the other notices. price had to put a stop to it after they got a little too over-zealous with it

ghost can sew and uses this skill for evil. he find out someone he doesn’t like is superstitious and he’s making a miniature effigy of them and terrorizing them with it. not in an explicit way either only implicit. probably makes it look just like them and leaves it where they can find it and its just mini them in a hazardous situation. no one but price knows it’s him.

gaz is super into formula one racing. he gets soap into it and tries to get price into it but price would rather watch football/soccer. price will still watch it with them but doesn’t understand a damn thing going on

soap is good with cars. bro is a full on mechanic. this may be because he wanted to see how many different ways he could turn a vehicle into a bomb and got really into the mechanical aspects instead. he still figured out the bomb stuff though

soap is very number oriented. counts ceiling tiles and passing cars religiously. may of stemmed from running out of bullets before. this could be seen as a trauma response compulsion or ocd compulsions tbh. feel like its not really an active thing he does but rather an action without conscious thought behind it

gaz once wore eyeliner and everyone short circuited because god DAYUM he’s hot. it was definitely lower lid heavy and pointed down or followed the tilt of his eyes

ghost is a bird freak and can mimic a lot of different bird calls. oh side snippet time y’all know that nursery rhyme about counting magpies? the one for sorrow two for joy? anyway thats very ghoap coded now i gotta write something with that. anyway ghost uses his powers of mimicry (its echolalia and we all know it is) to distract enemies in the field. like the assassins creed whistle except its just bird whistles. he definitely loves infodumping to the 141 when different birds cross their path. when soap learned about birds like great tits or blue tits he had a field day. ghost still hasn’t told him about other birds with vulgar sounding names for that very reason.

a nod back to my previous headcanon about soap collecting pretty rubble from explosions, the team adds onto this for him when they can. price finds him rubble with specific shapes (there was in fact a cock shaped one and price had an internal debate if he really wanted to give it to him knowing what it’d spark. never in his life had he heard so many dick jokes in such a short amount of time. he considered separating gaz and soap because of it. ghost ended up doing it for him by manhandling soap into a different seat and staring at him until he closed his mouth) gaz gets him rubble with specific patterns on them like mosaics and tile. ghost tries to find him specific colors whether it be one of each color of the rainbow or a single color with various shades and hues

ghost separates stuff by color. he mostly wears black but also has some clothes that are like dark blue or green. i don’t see him wearing warm colors at all no matter the shade

price once received a present of cigars from around the world and it’s one of his most prized possessions. even if he sticks to one brand (og price smoked villa claras so we’ll go with that)

gaz and soap make plans to build a race car despite knowing they’ll never get the time to do so. an entire journal of soap’s is dedicated to this car. its got blueprints of the body, motor, and electrical system.

ghost makes soap a quilt with the mactavish clan pattern (i forgot what the actual term is. tartan?) being the key focus and soap cries

all of them try to carry gum for soap (bro definitely got an oral fixation)

okay thats all for headcanons for now. any of y’all got headcanons for price or gaz i can steal and add onto cause its harder for me to come up with mundane things for them

[saiwriting]

The Mask of Vulnerability 

Saiya Soublet

Emotional intelligence is the new fad. Deeper than any dietary restrictions or new dance craze, there is the diet of the soul. Today, we all crave the vulnerability and intimacy which was stolen from us through capitalistic fervor and divide-and-conquer social media tactics. We are living in a time where colonization and imperialism are more overtly pervasive throughout every facet in our lives. Vulnerability and the illusion of connecting to others on a deeper level is on the rise as a result of this. 

Oftentimes, I see posts that I think are both funny and incredibly relatable, but what part they are relating to is up for debate. These memes commonly take the form of making subverted or subdued attempts at being open, but also making light of our deep feelings through a cute-ification and heavily humor leaning medium. Admittedly, I think that I loved liking and retweeting and posting these collages of consciousness because I, too, felt the calling to express all of the deep emotion and struggle that was going to pour out from me sooner or later. Other than putting it into my writing, it was funny memes that, when actually analyzed (or…maybe over analyzed) could point to the true culmination of feelings inside. Unfortunately, this comes at a price of a waning authenticity that is pervasive in a culture that thrives on relatability and group-think instead of individuality, personal expression, and the cultivation of an honest exchange of the qualities of humanity. 

Never are we comfortable with exposing our shadow sides to others, especially strangers on the internet, but as the lines are blurred between what is a private struggle and what constitutes as a web-wide conversation starter or PR nightmare. As a whole, we share more of ourselves with those that we don’t see face to face because it feels good to project your shadow side into the ether. Your shadow blends well with the pit of darkness that is the internet so that you are not singled out as “the person” with “the flaws.” When expressing true vulnerability within the confines of real life, face-to-face interaction, there is no hiding that shadow and it may even be distressing to see how much we obscure our own light. Online, everything blends, so it is never truly you. 

This is seen with the uptick in what is called “therapy speak” as ways to avert our attention from inward accountability to external excuses or just compulsive labeling and shelving of things that should be picked apart and thoroughly looked to be put in the right place. It’s like looking at moldy dinner in a tupperware that was made a month ago and going, “Yep, that is my moldy month-old dinner in a tupperware,” and then not throwing it away. Labeling, now that we as a collective seemingly know most of what we can about how we function cognitively and behaviorally, is obsolete. It does nothing for us but create an echo chamber of back and forth accusations with no following justice. Sometimes our justification and healing for the more vulnerable side of things lie within the feelings and issues rather than trying to exist without. 

Of course, this is nothing new because there has always been a complex with the rise of the way we do social media now that emphasizes a more curated version of your authenticity where you can show yourself but it has to be polished because we’ve gotten so used to the consuming of others instead of interacting. So, this curation of vulnerability is on the rise as a result. I have personal experience with how that can be an illusion of opening up, but in reality, it is just a sarcastic mask masquerading as the mask of tragedy. There is no way to truly know this from an outsider perspective and it takes the less popular version of introspection and shadow work to really understand how we cut ourselves off from actually feeling authentically. Humor, sarcasm, and relatability are huge drugs for our ego. 

Vulnerability at its realest is a surrendering of the ego, a condemnation of the pressure built inside of us from harboring things that we try to file away in the back as our undesirables. That reality, however, does not align with the core principles of social media that keep us enmeshed into its patterns. As a society, we’ve finally understood the harmful nature of pop culture therapy speak, but have invented a new way of pathologizing our spiritual breakdown into our newest harmful pastime: relentless humor in the face of tragedy. Admittedly, as effective of a method as it can be to make sure that we still harbor joy in our lives, there is a time and place. Unfortunately, we have put too much emphasis on laughing together that the cries and pleas of those actually struggling fall on drowned out ears. It’s difficult because we want to be open. We want to be loved and seen for the light that we all possess, but it is difficult when we are uncomfortable with vulnerability and even more uncomfortable with the consequences we have seen time and time again where vulnerability on the net is met with scrutiny, shame, and even disdain. Even positive forms of vulnerability, such as sharing a sweet moment of drinking coffee with your husband on your porch, is met with vitriol. 

So, how do we combat this? Well, for starters, we can be more honest. Take the humor out of spaces meant for reflection and honest expression of things that are more troubling in nature. Stop making your feelings funny! If you feel sadness, if you feel doubt, if you feel like things are not going to be okay, express that fully. Humor is a great tool to lighten our soul, but if we use it as a sedative for more serious emotions, we run the risk of numbing ourselves from what makes us feel truly human. Another way that we can combat this is by opening up the pit of social media a bit. Right now, it seems as though it’s a black hole of negativity, apathy, and overall unseriousness, but if we create more open and safe spaces for people to have conducive conversations about how they actually feel, then it can foster more spaces where we can express actual joy. 

Everyone is putting up a mask online, and if you don’t think you are, you probably just don’t know it yet. Take off the mask. Open your eyes to the sun and realize that you are not the sum of your parts. You are whole just as you are. I encourage you to be the initiator of honest conversations and the creation of safe spaces online. 

[j-sims-tmi]

Mr. Sims,

I am writing to you as I find I am rather curious about the role of the Archivist, and previous questioning on the matter has lead me to ask you, as the current holder of the position. Would you be at all amenable to speaking of any of your duties, powers that the role gives you?

In return, I am open to your questioning, though I ask that you do not compel me; I am willing to answer most questions without the compulsion, but certain questions I am honour-bound not to. And, ah, I'd rather not upset my benefactor.

Kind regards,

Jonah Magnus

Oh. Is- is that what those asks were about? Uh, that's... interesting.

I suppose I can tell you more, Mr... Magnus. I was surprised that you asked—I assumed that you would know more about this than anyone else—but after some thought... it does make sense; you didn't have a lot of time to understand what an Archivist is. I wouldn't say that I've spent a lot of time in this position, certainly not as long as my predecessor did, but I... will share what I learned. Though, you might have more luck asking Elias—he knew two Archivists.

...Actually, how much time did you have? As in, which year are you from?

Well, regardless. On the basic, mundane level I am expected to manage the Archives, naturally—I take statements and sort old ones, we do some follow-up research on the contents, and I record those notes with the statement. At least that is what I was doing for the first year or so. I wasn't aware of... everything else yet.

As you clearly know, this role is tied to the supernatural closer than I initially thought. On top of what I already said, I am also expected to, er... save the world now, I guess. Stop the rituals. I found out that the previous Archivist was doing it as well, so I guess it's a part of the job, though I wasn't exactly warned about it when I was promoted, hah.

There is another thing, but it is... more difficult to explain. I- I am the Archivist. I have to collect experiences, whether it be through other people or by myself, I- I need to... to know. Or, uh, at least Elias says so. It feels both right and wrong, but that—that is not what you asked.

As for the powers it gives me, um... I'm not sure which ones are tied to me being the Archivist and which ones I have because I'm an avatar of the Eye. I'm not sure if there even is a distinction between those two. I can, uh... compel people, but you seem to be aware of it already. Sometimes I can just Know some relevant information. It seems like my presence somehow helps people give statements, too? I noticed that I heal faster than I used to. And I'm not sure if that is a power per se, but I am... my well-being depends on my, er... statement intake?

This is all so far. I know I lack some of the powers that Elias has— for example, he is somehow metaphysically tied to the institute (assuming he is not lying about it), which I am pretty sure is not the case for me. Well, I do feel a little... homesick, almost, when I go too far from it, but it's not the same, I think. I don't exactly have a lot of Eye avatars around me, so it is difficult to tell what is "normal" and what is not. I, um... I have only Elias, actually, so I usually take his word for it.

I think I've told you everything relevant, but feel free to ask me for some specific details. Now, I have some questions of my own.

When you founded the Institute, did you... did you know it's going to be like this? How much did you know about the Fears, avatars, rituals, etc? I just—I never thought about you too much, but I always hoped that the Institute was found in earnest, out of genuine curiosity. I want to know if I was wrong. If this was a trap to begin with, and I was doomed from the beginning. Not that it would change anything, I guess. I just... want to know.

[etruatcaelum]

On Ozlem.

This will be less a singular headcanon than a collection; my reading of the relationship is particular and on several key points, well off the beaten track from popular fanon. I thought it would be helpful to put it all in one place for ease of reference.

Salem’s Childhood.

Salem was the second-born child of a minor lord, born into the eighth generation of mankind since the creation of the world Arziant, in a kingdom called Pastoria. Her mother Salome had been the king’s only child, but not heir to the realm; Pastorian law and custom forbade women to leave their divine appointment within the home. In practice, a woman belonged to her father until she was given to her husband.

In that time, monolatrous worship of the God of Light was nigh-ubiquitous, and tradition held that no one who lived a virtuous life would die before their hundredth year, unless slain in battle or by some violent calamity brought about by the Darkness. To fall ill was proof in itself that one had committed some offense in the eyes of God. This was not mere superstition, for although natural sickness did exist, the God of Light gave healing to those he judged pure and inflicted disease as a punishment for sin.

Death in childbirth, although not (as Salem believes, even now) wholly unknown, was quite rare and supposed to be a punishment reserved only for the truly wicked. Both of Salem’s parents were well-known for their piety, and her father Lord Ithai was scrupulously devout; for his wife to sicken and die in the course of bearing their second child was shocking, not only to Ithai himself but to all of Pastoria. While he would have held the tragedy against her in any circumstance, his personal inclination to do so fed eagerly upon advice from religious advisors who, to preserve Salome’s good name in the eyes of the people, blamed her infant child. There had been, after all, prophecies foretelling the virtue and great deeds of heroes in the past; why not portents of a dire evil?

(In truth, Salome had made an error in a ritual entreating the God of Light to grant his blessings to her unborn child, and he intended to make an example of her carelessness.)

The modern fairytale The Girl in the Tower portrays the girl’s father as a paranoid, possessive tyrant who loves the girl as a miser loves his treasures, who becomes angry and violent when she asks to be set free; this characterization, though not an inaccurate portrait of Lord Ithai himself, elides the misogynistic norms and popular religious justification for Salem’s imprisonment. Simply put, she had no hope of rescue because most of Pastoria truly believed that she was an ill-omened child who needed to be locked away for the good of all.

Salem did not grow up in complete isolation, though she was alone far more often than not: she was raised by an ever-changing parade of servants, priests, and tutors. Her father visited her on occasion; her elder brother Kalev snuck in to see her with greater frequency.

The first twenty-one years of her life, she spent in locked in a single room—little more than a cell, ten paces wide and nine across—at the top of her father’s keep. Her singular window overlooked the block where Ithai executed those whom he suspected of treating her with undue kindness; from the time she was old enough to understand, Salem was made to watch these executions (and in time it became a compulsion to do so, one that still lingers; to this day Salem keeps obsessive count of the deaths she considers to be her fault).

She was nearly always hungry. Of the one hundred forty-three people Ithai executed, in those twenty-one years, most were kitchen servants condemned on suspicion of bringing her too much food, or for lingering to speak with her while she ate; to bring the lord’s daughter a meal, it was well known among the kitchen staff, was to risk one’s life. Quite often, she went without food altogether, and seldom received more than one meal in a day. Salem grew up both hoarding food and feeling intense guilt around eating.

Ithai was, on the rare occasion of his visits, extremely abusive; Salem was so terrified of him that even now she feels on edge around men who remind her of him. (He was quite tall, broad-shouldered, with a full beard; his hair sandy-brown in his youth, half-grey by the time of Salem’s birth; a deep baritone.) She cannot handle being yelled at without shutting down. Her instinctive reaction to violence against herself—to simply take it, quietly, without resistance, and wait for it to be over—is a response she learned in childhood, and unless she is already quite angry, it’s one she finds difficult to overcome.

Escaping the Tower.

In the fairytale, at the age of sixteen, the girl asks her father for paper and pen. She uses these to write pleas for rescue, promising to marry anyone who can save her from her father, and throws them to the wind. Innumerable would-be saviors flock to answer, only to be slain by her father while the girl looks on in horror, until one day a true hero defeats her father in a duel and frees her at last.

This is not quite how it happened.

When Salem was sixteen, and Kalev eighteen, she put to her brother that he should find someone to marry her. She was reaching the proper age (indeed, their mother had been only a year older when the king married her to Ithai), and she could think of no other means to escape than by marriage, though the prospect filled her with dread. Kalev undertook this effort very reluctantly, fearing that anyone willing to marry a girl who’d spent her whole life locked away would undoubtedly be at least as awful as their father; but he did try, without success, for several years.

He was twenty-one, Salem nineteen, when he met Ozma: not an aristocrat but the wandering knight of a holy order who chanced to be nearby when Kalev’s retinue was set upon by the largest wyvern any of them had ever seen. Ozma leapt to Kalev’s aid and slew the grimm, and would have died of the injuries they sustained in doing so had Kalev been less skilled in healing. They talked, afterward, finding they had much in common; and before long, the conversation turned to the plight of Kalev’s sister.

Ozma had no interest in marriage—had sworn vows of chastity, in fact—but Kalev’s account of Salem’s treatment horrified them. They had heard tell of the ill-omened girl held safe within the lord’s keep, of course, but the rumors had given them the impression that she was sickly, too frail to leave her bed. Upon learning the truth, they became determined to help her. Together, the pair hatched a new plan: Ozma would pledge themself as Kalev’s vassal, ingratiate themself to Lord Ithai, and find some opportunity to free Salem in secret.

Two more years would pass before Ozma found their opportunity, for the magic Ithai had woven around her cell would not allow her to cross the threshold, even were the door torn from its hinges. During this time, Ozma stole up the tower whenever they could to visit Salem; they didn’t dare enter the room, for fear of being ensnared by the wards, but they could speak to her through the door.

Without fail, Salem would beg them not to come back; desperate though she was for escape, she did not believe this plan had any chance of working, and lived in terror of Ozma being found out and executed. Ozma, for their part, stayed resolute in their conviction that freeing her was a worthy cause to die for, which had—for as long as they could remember—been the only thing they really wanted.

In the end, what happened is this:

Lord Ithai came to Salem’s cell late one evening, on the same night Ozma risked ascending the tower to talk to her; and though they realized the danger halfway up the stairs, hearing echoes of her father’s tirade, before they turned back as they’d promised her to do if this should ever happen, they heard the unmistakable sound of a blow, a choked cry of pain, and could not find it in themself to leave.

Up they charged. Ithai had his back turned to the door, his hands around Salem’s neck, and Ozma gathered all the magic they knew to strike at him from behind; but Ithai was an experienced combatant. Though wounded, he was not bested, and he whirled around in a murderous fury to retaliate. The duel was swift and brutally decisive—within moments, Ithai shattered Ozma’s defenses and had them on disarmed on the floor.

Salem had collapsed when Ithai dropped her and remained cowering against the wall while the brief battle raged; but when her father raised his hand to strike Ozma dead, with the door open and someone who had been kind to her about to die because of her like so many others, she snapped. Her magic, never trained, and never very strong, exploded outward as she threw herself across the room.

She drove her hand into Ithai’s body as if his flesh were water and ripped his pulverized heart right out of his chest.

That was not what she meant to do, exactly. She had wanted only to make him stop, and twenty-one years of desperate fear crashed together in that moment to become a wild, boundless rage; but no sooner had his body crumpled than reality caught up with her, and then she was only a girl clutching the gory shreds of another person’s insides in her hands, whereupon she became hysterical.

Salem does not, whatsoever, remember leaving the tower, nor anything else until dawn, when she regained her senses to find Ozma coaxing her to let them clean the blood off her hands. But after realizing what had happened, Ozma scrambled up, pried the gore out of her hands, swept a few valuable-looking trinkets into a satchel—they’d wanted her to have something to her name—thrown their cloak around her shoulders, and raced the both of them out of the keep at speed.

The image Jinn presents when Ruby asks her what Ozpin is hiding, of Salem and Ozma fighting their way out together, is a representation of how Ozpin would have told this story: distilled, softened, stripped of personal feeling… but that fight did happen, for the lord’s death and Salem’s passage through his unravelling wards awoke his retinue. Ozma fought; Salem was a storm of uncontrolled violence lashing out in blind panic.

Their First Relationship.

Although Ozma had, over the course of those two years spent whispering through her door, fallen quite hopelessly in love with her, it became clear to them within hours that Salem not feel the same. The satchel of minor valuables they’d hastily gathered for her, she tried to give to them, and their polite refusal to accept caused her to lapse into hollow silence for several minutes before she asked what they wanted from her instead—and only then had they realized how scared she felt that she might be no more to them than a prize.

The first lie Ozma ever told her was that they had never thought of anything but to set right the terrible injustice her father inflicted upon her, and they resolved to take the secret of their infatuation with her to the grave.

Still: she had nowhere else to go, and neither of them dared stay in Pastoria after murdering a nobleman. Ozma offered to take her wherever she liked, and Salem ventured that she had always wanted to see the ocean. In those days, the land formed a single continent, and Pastoria lay nestled at its heart, in the verdant foothills beneath the Light’s sacred mountain.

The long journey would be Ozma’s undoing, for the sea and the edges of the great continent belonged to the God of Darkness, and the vows Ozma had made to Light forbade them to enter Dark’s own country. But they thought nothing of it at the time; their whole life, they had scrupulously abided by the stern, unyielding tenets of their faith while privately yearning for death, only for Salem to ignite within them a ferocious desire to live.

So off they went.

For more than two years, the pair traveled further and further west. Salem grew easier around them, and as her wariness ebbed, true friendship rose to take its place—not the desolate, harrowing need which had bound them both together when they fled, but the simple sense of being kindred spirits. (It was during their travels together that Ozma first decided to worry less over fitting into either manhood or womanhood, and began—just between themself and Salem—to invent an un-gendered mode of address for themself; at the time, the phrase they’re still so fond of repeating in the present, that they are only a man, not even a very good one, was not self-deprecation but a private joke they shared with her at the world’s expense.)

With other people, however, Salem struggled: her speech was stilted and afflicted by a ruinous stutter, she was awkward, she was sometimes volatile and sometimes seemingly void of any emotion at all, she was painfully shy, she could not eat with anyone else looking at her, she sometimes lost the thread of conversations and simply lapsed into silent staring… every invisible scar her childhood left upon her marked her out as strange, as unnatural, perhaps even dangerous.

By the time she and Ozma reached the ocean, Salem felt utterly exhausted and half-certain her brother and Ozma were the only good people in the entire world; she found the desolation of the coast appealed to her, the wild emptiness, the sheer scale of the endless water.

She wanted to stay, and stay they did.

They built a little house upon cliffs overlooking the sea, a day’s walk from the closest village. Planted a garden. Lived. Grimm were far more numerous around the coast than in the heartland, and though the creatures proved to be less trouble than Ozma expected, they still insisted on teaching Salem how to fight, more than the basics she’d picked up along the journey. For a year, all seemed well.

However, though Ozma had long since forgotten their vows, the God of Light did not forgive, and seeing now that his wayward servant had no intention to repent, he at last struck Ozma down.

The sickness killed them slowly; it began with mere fatigue, headaches… mild at first, though they grew ever more severe and lingering until Ozma was left nearly insensate with agony for days at a time. Over the course of nine months, they slid piece by piece into a listless haze of pain and confusion—and though Salem tried everything she could think of to help, even leaving them in village and traveling alone to the nearest city to plead for medical aid or healing from the temple, they died just short of four years after her liberation.

Salem has always, deep down, believed she killed them, somehow.

In all that time, Ozma had never breathed a word to her of how they loved her or the depth of their feeling, still afraid to ask for anything she didn’t want to give; and Salem had only just begun to realize similar feelings for them when they fell ill. The thought that they had died not knowing she loved them was almost as unbearable a torment to her as grief itself.

Salem’s Petitions to the Brothers.

The journey back to the heartland took Salem just seven months. She had pushed herself extraordinarily hard to traverse such a vast distance in so little time, scarcely sleeping or eating and using magic to whip herself onward past the brink of collapse; she was deeply unwell, and her thin hope that the God of Light might take pity was all that kept her standing.

She had always been fervently religious, in her way, although her imprisonment and the abuse she’d suffered and the estrangement she felt from the rest of mankind after her escape had all left her with idiosyncratic, at times nakedly heretical ideas about the Brothers. (For one, Salem had spent most of her life praying to the God of Darkness too, because it never made sense to her that only one of mankind’s creators should be worshipped; she believed, and still believes even today, that it was Darkness who freed her from the paralyzing terror on the night she killed her father.)

Salem had no intention of marching into the sacred domain of the Light to demand anything, nor did she truly expect him to give her what she asked; but she did feel certain there had been some mistake, because good people were not supposed to sicken and die, and she did believe, with all her heart, that the God of Light was just and kind.

When she climbed the marble steps, she imagined that she would kneel before the pool to pray, and perhaps the Light would offer her some sign of comfort, of sorrow, of understanding. For him to appear in front of her himself before she could even utter a word shocked her, and ignited a wild hope that he might actually grant her a miracle—hopes that he shattered by instead chiding her for making demands of him.

That was the first fracture in Salem’s faith. Light sent her out of his realm and left her reeling: he had not been kind. Why reveal himself to her at all, just to rebuke her prayers? It seemed—unfair, even cruel.

Of course she turned to the God of Darkness, then. If even the gods were cruel, Salem did not care to live in the world, and she had worshipped Darkness from afar all her life. Why not seek out kindness from him, or else find merciful death in the jaws of his monsters?

Perhaps, she thought, he was lonely too.

Finding his realm took some doing, for no one in living memory had dared go looking for it; in the end, Salem resorted to following the grimm until one led her to the proper place. By then she had lost all sense of time, exhausted and sick and starving as she was, but it was almost exactly a year since Ozma’s death when she stumbled wearily up the granite steps to visit the God of Darkness.

Though Ozma believes that she asked Darkness to bring them back to life, and lied to him about having gone first to his brother, this is not so. (Salem told them the truth, eons later, as well as she could: but by then she had been so long alone, and the events that had led to mankind’s destruction were so distant, that her account had been meandering and confused, difficult to follow. The answer Jinn gives Ruby is not absolute truth, only exactly what Ozpin believed to be true and chose to hide, and contains a great deal of guesswork on Ozma’s part, to make sense of it all.)

What she did do is tell Darkness of all her sorrow, vowing to revere him above his brother for the rest of her life if he ended her pain. Salem half-hoped he would unite her with Ozma in death—it seemed a fitting mercy, from the god of destruction—and half-feared he would answer by unburdening her of the capacity to feel at all. Until he did so, it never occurred to her to imagine that Darkness would grant her the favor his brother had coldly forbidden her to even want.

But he did, and during that brief moment before the God of Light appeared in all his icy wrath, Salem had every intention to uphold her end of the bargain. Light had treated her with cold disdain, but in Darkness she had found the kindness she had been taught to expect from his supposedly benevolent brother; she would never again worship the God of Light, and had Light not interfered then, she would have become a devoted, unendingly faithful disciple to the God of Darkness.

Instead, the Brothers twice incinerated Ozma in her arms and drowned her in the fountain of life to consign her to a deathless eternity alone, and that was the second fracture in her faith.

Her Rebellion.

When the Brothers cast her out of Light’s realm, they sent her home: to the cliffside by the sea where she and Ozma had lived.

The very first thing Salem did was hurl herself into the sea.

How long she spent drowning and drowning and unable to die beneath the waves, Salem did not know; by the time a (distraught) fisherman discovered her undying but horrifically broken body in his net, the little house on the cliff had fallen into ruin, and the village she remembered had grown into a large and prosperous town.

The fountain of life had poured into her soul—which left the physical pool in the Light’s domain a mere puddle of water with no magical properties at all—and remade her into the very wellspring of creation itself; the life-force humans would, much later, come to know as aura. No matter the severity of her injuries, she could not die, but healing serious injuries with aura requires training, focus.

Salem had healed imperfectly: the bones she had shattered when she plunged into the sea knitting back together at strange angles, her body bent and distorted by the uncontrolled and unchecked growth of masses that would have killed anyone mortal, her chest distended with seawater. She could barely move, let alone speak, and it was only good fortune that the fisherman who had found her overcame his panic before casting her overboard again.

He brought her to Light’s temple, in the town that had once been a village. The priests there were baffled, but they could see that she was in terrible pain, and they did what they could to help her. Mostly, this was miserable: a matter of breaking bones and carving out tumors, little by little pulling her body back into human shape.

She did not make it easy for them. The ruin of her physical body had not diminished her magical power, and as soon as Salem understood where she was she began to lash out, wanting nothing to do with the gods who had done this to her. Still, the priests felt sorry for her—and assumed that her violent reactions were motivated by pain, rather than hatred of the god they served—so they persisted.

Then the ones who had taken charge of her care began to sicken, and Salem realized two things: first, that they were not caring for her under Light’s auspices; and second, that he accounted the kindness they were trying to give her a sin deserving of punishment.

That was the third, and final, fracture in her faith. She stopped fighting her caretakers and bent every effort toward healing herself and trying to heal them; in this, she failed, and watched those who had aided her die one by one even as she was restored to perfect health.

She was outraged.

Yes, she had prayed for things she was not meant to have, and yes, she had sown discord between the Brothers by mistake, and yes, she had railed against them and called them monsters when they ripped her love away from her again. Perhaps that did make her selfish, arrogant, deserving of the torment they inflicted upon her—but these people had done nothing to deserve death.

It was an injustice.

It was worse than cruel; it was wrong.

Salem returned to Pastoria brimming with righteous fury. There, to her surprise, she found Kalev—an old man now, though she still looked not a day older than twenty-five.

The reunion was strange and bittersweet. Kalev had spent most of his life wondering what happened to her, praying to God to keep her safe and happy, and to learn that the Brothers had treated her with such brutality devastated him. From his devastation and her rage, the first spark of rebellion was struck.

When Salem set out to galvanize others to their cause, she told the truth: of the injustices and cruelty she had seen; of how the Brothers had made her immortal by throwing her into the fountain of life, and so revoked the promise of healing for the pure from the rest of the world; of the division she had seen between Light and Darkness; of her vision of a new world freed from the chains of their creators. The gory spectacle of her immortality and the fervent truth of her convictions overcame every obstacle that had always set her apart from the rest of her kind.

Though it was Salem who lit the match, the firestorm she unleashed surpassed her expectations, and when the rebellion stormed the marble steps to Light’s domain, the movement had long since grown beyond her, grown bigger than the faint hope she clung to that she might find a way to die after the Brothers were gone.

(She wouldn’t recognize it until eons later, but she had already begun, even then, to resign herself to the possibility of living forever.)

The Moonfall and the Making of Remnant.

See this post.

Upon climbing back out of the pool of grimm, Salem found that it, just as the fountain of life had done, had poured itself into her soul. The vast and infinite well over which Darkness once presided had diminished to mere scattered ponds of atrum, still capable of birthing grimm if given a spark of life yet no longer alive as the dark lake had been; and she felt that vast and infinite power churning within herself now, mixing together with the molten radiance of the fountain. She began to have an inkling, then, of what she had done.

Eons ago, the Brothers created mankind by the admixture of their two natures—so went the old stories—creation and destruction bound together in one. Salem had thought to do the same, when she bore the light into the pool, but instead… some intangible barrier had shattered, she thought, had fallen into dust and less than dust. The waters mingled: and here is fire.

She wandered away from the Dark’s onetime domain in a daze, unsure of what she would find in this new world but excited to meet it, and what she found was the first and second of Remnant’s peoples: the fauni, who were no more human than she, and the grimm, as fierce and wild as she remembered.

Humans would come later. Salem has… complicated feelings about mankind, these days, a mixture of admiration for their virtues—their strength, their wisdom, their resourcefulness, their passion, their ingenuity, their hope—and profound wariness. She has not thought of herself as human since that half-century beneath the waves, and even less since her transformation in the dark lake; she is grimm, she is the one called God of Animals, the fauni are her people, and she does not much care for the way humans treat those who are different from themselves.

The First Reunion.

Ozma knew nothing of this, when the God of Light sent them back into life. They knew only what Light told them: that Darkness had destroyed mankind for an offense he implied had something to do with Salem, that humanity would rise anew in desperate need of redemption lest they be condemned to obliteration, and that though Salem yet lived, she was no longer the woman they held dear.

When they agreed to return, Ozma did not give a damn about any of this. Salem lived. No matter how she’d changed, they felt certain beyond any doubt that they would love her still, and when the words I’ll do it left their mouth, they had every intention of finding her at once.

But nothing could have prepared them to wrench awake behind a stranger’s eyes, nor for the overwhelming flood of another’s mind shattering and bleeding into their own. Nothing could have prepared them to feel the like-minded soul die so that they could live.

Nothing prepared them for the horrors of this new world, where humans bereft of magic cowered in the shadows like rats among grimm who now seemed all but unstoppable. Nor could they fathom the scale of suffering they saw everywhere they went: the senseless ravages of disease, the brutal and desperate wars over resources that had once been abundant, the seemingly endless panoply of false gods and false creeds which served as pretext for yet more war, the almost-human creatures called faunus who—they were told—lived bestial lives in the wilderness, whom the grimm did not hunt because they had no souls, who hated humanity just as fiercely as did the grimm… who served and worshipped the malignant Witch of the Wastes.

She had to be Salem. Ozma knew it from the moment they heard the first whisper of that name, for who else in this damned and desolate world could wield power of that kind?

Fear crept over them. Doubt. They remembered what she had done to her father, the spectacular violence in her fear; Ozma had never been blind to Salem’s wrath. What had happened to her, after they died? What had she done? What if—in the end it was this thought that overcame the rest of Ozma’s worries and brought them to her doorstep, heart in their mouth—what if the God of Darkness had laid a curse upon her?

(Might she still be saved, even now?)

Some of those fears melted away when Salem opened her door and Ozma looked into her eyes at long last: they knew at once that she was still herself, and for a while that was all that mattered.

For her part, Salem had long since made peace with never seeing Ozma again; she held on to a faint hope that their soul might be reborn, now that the gates of death had cracked, but she knew—thought she knew—that they would never return as themself, and she might never find their soul again. Her grief had become a deep ache, never quite fading but possible to live with, around, through. What else was there for her to do but keep living?

(Sometimes—now and then, when the anguish rose to the surface again—her mind did conjure echoes of them. She had spent countless nights of her interminable isolation huddling miserably in their arms, half-dreaming and half-believing they were really there. It comforted her sometimes to pretend not to know these were only hallucinations; she liked to imagine their spirit lingering with her, reaching out to soothe her when she could bear the pain no longer. But even that had not happened in a very long time, when Ozma found her.)

The first thought to arise from the searing, wordless shock of finding them before her once again was wonder at the recognition aglow in their eyes, the smile dawning upon their face as if no time had passed at all; the second, an overwhelming terror that this wasn’t real.

Both were cautious, in the beginning. Salem felt acutely aware of how much she had changed, how foolish it would be to expect everything to go back to the way it was in that little house by the sea; Ozma’s fear that she had been cursed by Darkness seemed all but confirmed by her grimm appearance and the bizarre, erratic tale she told of defying the Brothers and plunging into the divine wellsprings. She could do magic no longer, for the Brothers had torn their gifts from her soul, and the wild power she held now was unlike anything Ozma had seen.

Yet… even so.

Every troubling tale they’d heard of the Witch proved to have a reasonable explanation. Of course the fauni had souls (and Ozma has never quite lost their mortification for believing otherwise), and Salem’s careful observations of the grimm led her to believe they were drawn to powerful negative emotion: hatred, anger, misery, envy, fear, all feelings roused by the rampant persecution of faunuskind at human hands. She offered protection to those fauni who sought her out, and sometimes stole into settlements late at night to set captive fauni free. In the village nestled along the edge of her woods, she was well-regarded—if still a little feared, for she seldom left the woods unless someone came to ask for her help.

Those first few weeks together in her cottage were peculiar, thick with dread and uncertainty and the awkward feeling of the eons now lying between them; there had been missteps and hurtful misunderstandings aplenty, while they learnt each other again.

She was different: she had acquired a sardonic sense of humor which delighted them, an astounding depth of knowledge on the natural forces of the world, an alarming farrago of new gods, a vicious temper that often saw her storming out of their cottage to (she admitted to them once, rather sheepishly, when they asked) lurk at the bottom of a lake for hours to calm herself…

But though they looked, Ozma could find nothing in her to fear; she was still kind, still inquisitive, still terribly shy, still—true enough that Salem was no longer the awkward, volatile, passionate girl they’d held so dear, but that girl wasn’t gone. She had only grown into herself, and each day they loved her more.

Ozma didn’t exactly intend to lie to her.

For those first few weeks, they kept what the God of Light had told them to themself, wanting to hear Salem’s side of the story before they made any judgments; and as weeks turned to months, Ozma concluded that, cursed by the Brothers though she was, nothing was wrong with Salem, and they resolved to forget their task as they had once forgotten their vows to be with her.

They found that they could not. Even as the love they shared with Salem, never quite fully realized in their previous life, put down roots and blossomed in this one, the suffering they had seen—the promise of obliteration—the twisted, still-bleeding shrapnel of the boy they had overtaken—all of it still lurked in the back of their mind, impossible to forget and growing ever harder to ignore.

In the present, when Ruby asked Jinn her question, Ozpin did almost believe that Salem had lied to Ozma, used them, led them blind and infatuated to their ruin: but that is only the lie Ozma has clung to for centuries.

The truth, far more painful, is that Salem trusted them. In spite of everything she had suffered, despite her terror of rejection, of losing them again; despite the fact that they answered her eager questions about how they’d found their way back with naught but vague nothings, Salem chose to give them her trust and her love and her unwavering faith; and so, when they cautiously ventured to lament the division they saw tearing Remnant apart, she had looked at them with hope shining in her eyes and promised to help them heal the world of its wounds.

To create a paradise—without the Brothers.

Ozma should have told her then. In that moment, they had known she would never break from her hatred of the gods who had slain the last world and tortured her for so long, would never submit to them again, and that had been the right time to tell her.

But they’d looked into her eyes, and imagined that boundless admiration curdling in betrayal and disgust, and instead they had leaned closer to kiss her and said, let’s do it.

Lux Aeterna.

Every lie that followed came easier than the last. Salem balked at too grand ambitions, and it often seemed to Ozma that she would have preferred to stay in that cottage with them forever—it was plain to see she did not much like standing before crowds, let alone leading a country, for all that she could be a dazzling orator when she had time to prepare—but they found they could persuade her to agree to almost any course of action so long as they gave it to her piecemeal.

(There were some lines she would not cross: Salem flatly refused to even consider imposing prison sentences, no matter the crime, and she afforded no patience to those humans who protested bitterly at being treated as equals to faunuskind under Aeternian law. But Ozma considered that she was often on the right side of these lines, and did not trouble themself much over her stubbornness.)

The girls were a surprise bordering on miraculous. Salem and Ozma had talked about wanting to have children, raise a family, but neither believed Salem could bear her own. (Ozma could not help but see it as a good omen, a sign that they were on the right path, and all the more so each time their daughters came out human.) Mara, the eldest; the twins, Dana and Lital; and Esther, the baby.

For a time, all seemed well. Lux Aeterna soared to prominence in the region: a small but prosperous city-state ruled by fair-minded, if frightfully powerful, rulers, a place where all were welcome regardless of appearance or culture or creed.

The troubles started small.

Ozma, plagued by terrible nightmares of the final judgment and knowing that this harmonious medley of differences was not what the God of Light truly meant by unity, grew ever more nervous about their utter failure to nudge Salem toward adopting a unified state religion.

Many of their people did worship Salem and Ozma, of course, just as planned. However…

Salem had been the one who put forward the idea of claiming divinity, but it quickly became apparent that Salem meant something quite different than what Ozma had thought: they’d envisioned a stepping stone toward acting as heralds for the true God, condemning the worship of false idols. But to her, becoming gods meant little more than fulfilling a certain societal role, one which overcame every difficulty she found in connecting with other people by simply asking them to accept her as an inhuman being who acted in accordance with inhuman rules. She cared not at all for the trappings nor the power of godhood; she just liked the rules, the contractual nature of relationships built on ritual and reciprocal favors.

Thus the worship of other gods did not trouble her whatsoever; Ozma could not even persuade her to stop adopting more of the gods invented by Remnant’s people, let alone to condemn the worship of false idols. Nor could they explain why it troubled them so without revealing their deception, and so they fretted, and their occasional arguments on the subject never came to any satisfying conclusions.

Then came the intractable problem of what Salem looked like, and the stories told about her across the region.

Grimm did not trouble Lux Aeterna, but they did prey upon her neighbors—many of them ancient human city-states wherein fauni were still enslaved and viewed with deep suspicion; many of them envious and resentful of the way Lux Aeterna flourished. Rumors began to spread of dark rituals performed by the Grimm Queen in the wilderness at night; baseless accusations of human sacrifice, of secret cannibalism, of Aeternians driving grimm into other kingdoms in order to steal more land, and similar fare.

Ozma tried desperately to lower tensions through diplomatic appeasement, ignoring Salem’s blunt insistence that it wouldn’t work. (She had seen this play out many times, in many places, and her cynicism with regard to mankind’s fear of the unknown is boundless.)

It did not work.

Rumors became threats, threats turned to actual incursions against Lux Aeterna’s borders—and one gory assassination attempt against Salem herself, which shook Ozma very badly—and when a vigorous, decisive defense of the borders failed to put an end to all the saber-rattling, Lux Aeterna took the offensive.

With the onset of war, Ozma discovered a new side of Salem that they had never yet seen: she had a strategic brilliance that spoke to deep experience, and she was utterly, dispassionately ruthless. In swift succession, one after the next, each hostile city-state crumbled and bent the knee beneath the Aeternian banner.

Salem approached this conquest with an attitude of grim necessity: there could be no peace with these wolves snarling at the door, and so the wolves must be broken and brought to heel. To Ozma, the merciless expansion of their borders felt by turns intoxicating—for how simple it was after all, to bring people together by the sword—and horrifying.

The Shattering.

One of the many things Ozma reflected upon, during their protracted withdrawal after Jinn caused them to relive all this, is whether Salem had begun to suspect the truth, near the end. Throughout the last few of the thirteen years they shared, she developed a habit of making disquietingly blunt remarks about what they were doing; about the necessity of conquest, if Ozma truly wished to unite the world behind their banner.

Salem did not have any idea what Ozma was hiding from her, but she did know that there was something they would not tell her; and as the war raged on, she grew ever more impatient with Ozma’s—as she saw it—willful blindness to the cost of their grand ambition. To bring freedom and peace to a small portion of the world, that could be done with ease: one needed only to give people something true, a common cause to strive for, and then shepherd it from one generation to the next. Lasting change did not dawn quickly.

(They were still, she often reminded herself, so young. She had been impatient once, too.)

Lux Aeterna had always seemed to her far more precarious than Ozma believed, an idealistic, fragile experiment surrounded on all sides by adversaries who would like nothing better than to tear it to shreds; years before the possibility of war even crossed Ozma’s mind, Salem had deemed it inevitable and made quiet preparations to insure that the outcome fell in their favor. (Her web of spies was vast, intricate, and wholly invisible to Ozma.)

One thing to prepare for war; another to wage it and hear her partner speak dreamily of bringing the whole world together and in the same breath recoil from the bloodshed.

It vexed her that they couldn’t seem to grasp that one implied the other. More than that, it crushed her to think that they were not satisfied with the life they had built with her, even more than it hurt when she realized they wanted more than a simple life together in her cottage. Salem had grown to like Lux Aeterna, despite her misgivings. She cared for its people; she loved her own daughters to bits; she loved Ozma. She was not… exactly… unhappy.

But she was not exactly happy, either. She felt inadequate, and taken for granted, and with ever-growing frequency in those last few years, like everything she did was wrong somehow. Whatever Ozma refused to tell her was plainly tearing them apart, and they seemed to always be further out of reach.

By the end, Salem had begun to question whether they even loved her anymore, or if all that really bound them together was inertia, or tired habit, or some misguided sense of obligation to her and their daughters.

The truth was worse, and far more horrible than Salem could ever have guessed: that the Brothers she’d thought long gone were trying to claw their way back was awful enough, that they wanted to butcher this world too a nightmare almost beyond comprehension, but the depth of Ozma’s betrayal in serving those monsters for all this time, in manipulating her into enacting their design, was beyond her ability to fathom. She could not understand it. (She still cannot understand it.)

There is a very old story faunuskind used to tell about where they came from, called The Shallow Sea: in it, the God of Animals gathers all the unhappy misfits and outcasts of the world and brings them to a certain island—a harsh new world where they can make their own home, if they choose. All they need to do is leap into the magical waters of the sea and swim ashore, shedding their old human skins to become something new.

Most choose to embrace the change, the chance for freedom given to them; but a small handful refuse, spitting accusations at the god and their chosen people, so the god sends them back home to their old lives, and for the rest of time, the ones who refused to change and all their descendants hate and fear the fauni, for reminding them of what they are not and never can be.

This is the myth Salem quoted to Ozma when she refused to go along with the divine plan for Remnant’s future, and this is what she meant: that the Brothers are of a kind with the resentful humans in the story, seething impotently that the world has outgrown them, and they deserve nothing but scorn; that humanity cannot be saved because there is nothing to redeem, and the only course is to press onward; that the world will never again be what it was.

Both she and Ozma understood her meaning perfectly. (No one else who witnessed Jinn’s answer did, a fact Ozma has not actually realized yet. When they tell Hazel that Salem is cursed to live for as long as the world turns and that she craves only death, they are—as they so often do—lying through their teeth.)

Salem does not remember anymore what she said, exactly, for she’s torn and twisted the memory so badly in desperation to make sense of it that the only thing she remembers is the emotion, and the way Ozma glared at her before they stormed out of the study.

Nearly four hours elapsed between that moment and Salem catching Ozma leaving with the girls. Most of that time, Ozma spent at war with themself, torn between their desperation to stay with Salem and their terror of what punishment the Light would inflict upon her, upon their daughters, upon the whole world if Ozma defied him. Salem, meanwhile, was sitting where Ozma had left her in a state of abject shock and horror.

Both were so on edge by the time they came face-to-face in the corridor that they broke at almost exactly the same time, and both remember seeing the other move to attack first. (In The Lost Fable, there is a very brief shot in which Ozma tightens their grip on their staff—bracing themself—and then Salem visibly startles at that movement the instant before she snaps.) Both were caught up in an overwhelming tide of desperate fury and years of pent-up resentment and distrust that had long since eroded the foundation of their relationship, and both were one hundred percent focused on trying to kill the other.

Neither of them knows exactly what happened to their daughters.

& The Rest.

Since that night, Salem and Ozma have seen each other only twice—in the apocalyptic final battle for Ruakh, and in Atlas when she captured Oscar.

Salem has largely done her best to avoid them, not caring what they did so long as she knew they didn’t have all four relics. She never wanted to see them again, after Ruakh. Ozma, meanwhile, has never stopped hating themself for sacrificing her for the sake of the divine plan… but the divine plan is all they have left, and they do not believe she could ever forgive them, so they keep stumbling through the motions of trying. Their paranoia, their tendency to see her in the shadows of every conflict and every grimm, arises from a mixture of intense guilt and twisted longing.

Salem is not aware that they do not have a choice about coming back, and nearly all her hatred in the present is founded upon her belief that they have spent the last three or four thousand years making a deliberate choice to murder an innocent person each time they return, either out of sheer zealotry or an obsessive desire to punish her. The instant she learns this is not so, her rage will rebound tenfold on the God of Light.

The girls did not, in fact, die that night. Ozma’s semblance—once they’re free, once it manifests in its fully-realized form—will reach back four thousand years to the moment the fight began and simply bring them forward. Or it has already done so, depending upon one’s perspective, and they just haven’t arrived at the right moment yet. Either way, to the children it is as if no time passes at all.

(The girls disappear from the scene right before the fight begins, and V9 gave me time travel shenanigans. I am in constant misery. Let me have this.)

[galaxgay]

In this post about Aziraphale reveling in Crowley's trust, @ravenofazarath2 got me thinking about why Crowley is actually so different from all the other angels and demons. It's definitely something that has stuck out to me especially since S2 but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

(Apologies, this meta is gonna be unnecessarily long and also might be missing information because I need to rewatch S1 and haven't read the book yet. Also, this meta is just for fun so take it with a grain of silly salt 💕)

@ravenofazarath2 mentioned that maybe Crowley isn't brainwashed like Aziraphale (and all the other ethereal beings) because he bit the apple- The apple that contains the Knowledge of Good and Evil. And I am now going insane because wait a second-

When we see him in Eden he says this line, speculating on why it's so wrong to have the knowledge of good and evil. It's such an... interesting thing to say- especially for an ethereal.

Sure, he could very much be talking about Adam and Eve choosing to eat the apple and being kicked from Eden for it (Landlords and their obnoxious rules🙄), but for fun, I'd like to play with another idea.

To be a bit more philosophical, I want to preface this theory by saying "knowing the difference between good and evil" means understanding its many complexities. It means knowing there are times where good deeds are poisoned with malice or even have evil unintended consequences and evil deeds can be justified by means outside of one's control and have good consequences- and what is good for one person, may be evil for another.

Angels and demons do not have this "knowledge". They have their strict rules and codes that they follow almost compulsively and are all collectively in on this bit. Good and Evil are almost always about immediate action and never factor in consequences. They recognize good and evil based on their respective sides. Nothing more, nothing less.

Additionally, the phrasing of that line is interesting to me. It kind of sounds like "as someone who has bit the apple, gained that knowledge and can now see the difference between good and evil, (and perhaps fell/was punished for it himself) I don't get what's so wrong with that knowledge."

The reason I don't think this is too much of a reach is because sure, halo-hugging angels who are still apart of the "cult" are going to be brainwashed, but what's so strange to me is that demons, who are fallen angels and have supposedly seen both sides themselves, don't seem to share Crowley's sentiment. Not a single one. They seem almost as brainwashed as the angels are. Is that not bizarre? Not to be a nerd but statistically speaking, at least one other demon should be able to agree, right? Why is it only Crowley?

Because it's not about seeing both sides, it's about understanding both sides. Something you can only do, if you take a bite.

(Sure, one could say the demon's quest to ruin humanity could be an act of rebellion and revenge but again, why is it all of them? I feel like at least a few of them would in one way or another agree with Crowley, even the littlest bit and they don't.)

In S1, we get this beautifully dramatic frame where Crowley says "I only ever asked questions". Which of course, is a line that everyone has been scrambling back to after seeing angel Crowley in S2. Which makes me think of this ask that Neil Gaiman answered:

Crowley's implication of not deserving to fall and Neil Gaiman saying that Crowley isn't a reliable narrator when it comes to his fall are certainly opposing views but why can't they both be correct? (we're exercising DBT today for fun)

If we know anything about Good Omens, it's that the entire theme of the story hinges on perspective. How the same instance can be viewed dramatically different depending on who is watching and where their morals are aligned. For both of these things to be true, Crowley would probably see his fall as a punishment for having simple curiosity. To Neil Gaiman, a much more neutral, outside observer, Crowley's fall wouldn't have been such a random, out of place happening. Which leads me to wonder what the Great War was even about. (I'm assuming the Great War happened before Eden-)

Perhaps it was about asking questions and making suggestions.

It seems kind of silly to say but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. If the Great War is what caused many of the angels to fall, it would make sense that the center of that war would be a lack of faith. And the thing about faith is a lot of the time there's this idea that you should hang your questions aside and choose to believe- questions can oftentimes be seen as a threat or a lack of faith. Even more so are suggestions. I believe Aziraphale's reaction to Crowley's questions and suggestions in S2E1 are a perfect example of this being just the case.

I can imagine Crowley, and many of the higher ranking angels such as Lucifer and Beelzebub finding each other to all have the same questions and suggestions and doubts about the future of the universe. Having the rank they had, I could see them planning to go to God to ask questions- they, at this point, have no reason to believe anything should happen to them should they ask questions.

With them having those questions, I could also see there being a rift between the Angels who wished to ask questions, and those who strongly opposed it. And as they debated it, it snowballed out of control turning into a full-on war.

(Small note: sure maybe they became demons before the war actually officially starts but I still think this theory could hold pretty strongly.)

Crowley was on the side of asking questions and making suggestions. They did in fact fight with the other angels who ended up falling. Her questions and suggestions were viewed as a lack of faith. If you view faith as being able to hang up your questions and doubts, it actually was a lack of faith. To Neil Gaiman and katiebird2000's point, Crowley's fall was in fact just the consequences of his actions. To say "all I ever did was ask questions" is to negate all of the other things Crowley did.

(I'd also like to throw out there that faith in this circumstance is faith in God, not faith in doing good which I think explains a large portion of Crowley's morality throughout the story because God and good are not synonymous. Crowley believes in doing the right thing but does not believe God is the one to do it.)

And so Crowley fell. To his point of view, he fell for simply having questions. So when Crowley heard about the Tree of Knowledge, she had to go. When they heard the word "Knowledge" they probably thought taking a bite would answer their questions- provide her with the thing she was denied in Heaven. It was also the perfect first act of rebellion- to indulge in something he was not meant to indulge in.

But when he took a bite, something completely different happened. The wool over her eyes had been peeled back and suddenly the universe became so much more complicated. Perhaps tempting Eve to eat the apple was originally about temptation but then became an act of setting them free- to give them the right to choose just like the apple did for Crowley.

And everything from there on is history.

I think that's why Crowley not only loves humanity but also why Crowley himself is so human: that is the one thing he shares with humanity- the knowledge and understanding that good and evil are not mutually exclusive. Knowing that good and evil are tied by a red string of fate, destined to dance circles around one another eternally.

[libbee]

Losing Touch With Reality

It was my daily experience of chaos and incomprehensible psychological setbacks where I felt like every time something went wrong in my life or every time I felt a negative emotion, I would fall into an aperture where I will drown in the contents of the unconscious for many days. I was almost always dissociated and daydreaming my life away. Then a few days later, if something happened in real life that was severe enough to bring my attention back to reality, I would be back here from the aperture but facing memory issues (what did I do in all these days?), detachment from reality (who are these people?), unable to handle my physical life (where is my career going, what happened to my classes) and living a provisional life through imagination.

Caption: Outer shell of walnut aka PHYSICAL REALITY.

But the catch is that I thought everyone lived like that. I could not understand that different people live differently. It took a long time to accept my intuitive nature and limitations to stay in touch with reality. It feels like wearing VR glasses and experiencing reality in a very confined and isolated way, there are other people sitting next to me in couches but all I can only see is the inner perception of the external life and not the external life itself.

What if I did try to force myself to live in the external physical reality? Either I experienced intense emotional pain so that I had to recoil to my shell and heal whatever wound might have been triggered. OR, something would go south in my life that forced me to withdraw and wonder what was going on, where did all these problems come from? I was just doing what I thought everyone else did but the sheer number of emotional and physical set backs forced me to shed my skin and realize something was wrong with the way I perceived "reality".

So, in an attempt to fix my life as much as possible and gain a sort of control over my life, I peeled layer after layer after layer of every feeling and thought that I encountered. But I regularly feel like I am possessed by an unconscious world although my eyes are open and I appear calm on the outside. I go into another realm with a lot of concepts, ideas, patterns, connections. And then come back to physical reality with a lot of contents to assimilate and integrate.

I feel like the "collective consciousness" (not coined by any psychologist) that is the default layer of the world is like the shell of the walnut while the psychological contents are the fruits inside the walnut. This world where people live is built upon the outer shell of the walnut and it is very real. They have the ideals, ideologies, beliefs, assumptions, conventions, how to behave, how to perform. Everything is very normal and real to them.

But if you manage to break this outer shell with a lot of thinking, questioning, contemplation, self reflection, walking through your memories one step at a time, you will find the internal fruits. Sometimes I look at the people around me and feel like shaking them and yell "stop this performance right now! why can't you see this inner world? why are you playing a character?" but then I realize how different their reality is from mine. Now everything is different in my life. I don't have the same identity I used to have before, don't have the same thoughts and beliefs, don't have the same hobbies and interests, don't have the same compulsions and automatic response, don't have the same emotional problems that I used to have before (victimhood, impulsivity, obsessions with people, mistaking imagination for reality, emotional investment in others, validation seeking, etc.)

Caption: Inside the walnut aka PSYCHOLOGICAL REALITY

I can go on and on about this whole "thing". It is tiring and exhausting. And it is a very real thing although it is completely invisible. I am not sure exactly which astrological houses deal with the world of the unconscious, perhaps all 12 houses are interconnected so all of them have the reflection in the psychological sphere. Let's look at what makes up the subjective reality:

Touch, hearing, taste, smell, sight

Your brain, mind, control over body parts, awareness of self

Psychological life, identity, perception, life experience since birth

Your fate, destiny, daemon

Cognitive bias, logical fallacies, what you do not know yet

You are not omnipresent and omniscient

That is what makes up subjective reality from the POV of one native, which is completely unique to them although the parallels are found everywhere in the world. Psychology has a language of its own, particular keywords, classifications, sentences, phrases that are already written by psychologists at various places.

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: The Scary Book

L. Marie Wood: Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call the tale of the book that kills people Lovecraft: o-oh! i like that Lovecraft: b-books that kill, that's totally my jam! Robert W Chambers: whose jam?

Wood: anyone who reads this book of esoteric stories will find themselves driven mad by the revelations of horror Wood: and then die horrible, bloody deaths Wood: as this innocent-looking book cuts a swathe of destruction across the country Wood: leading us on a merry, madcap chase!

L. Marie Wood: and that book? the one that kills people? Wood: why, it's this collection of short stories right here! [holds up 'The Tales of Time'] King: Poe: Barker: Koontz: Lovecraft: Lovecraft: w-why did you bring the killer book here King: wait, so the book that kills you is real? Wood: yes, i wrote it King: King: does it King: does it actually kill you

Barker: christ steve of course it doesn't, it's a bit Barker: are you actually falling for this Wood: oh yeah? maybe you'd like to take a look inside then Barker: Barker: yeah you know reading's not really my thing Barker: edgar you love books, why don't you read it Poe: yeah i don't think so

Wood: what's wrong? you're not actually scared are you?Wood: you don't actually believe that these stories could kill you? Wood: why it's just an ordinary short story collection Wood: or is it??? Koontz: are we going to die

Wood: no dean no one's going to die Wood: just as long as you don't succumb to the otherworldly compulsion to open this infernal tome and read the cursed words within Koontz: Koontz: i want to read it now King: dean no!

Wood: any unfortunate soul could fall victim to this sinister book - a flight attendant, a barista, an old lady... Lovecraft: i-i don't understand Lovecraft: t-those don't sound like reedy academics Wood: no i'm saying ANYONE could get got Lovecraft: Lovecraft: t-those don't sound like reedy academics

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Random - I was so inspired by you that I thought about making a blog about my fics recs but I don't even know where to begin. It's too overwhelming!! How do you even do it 😭😭

Hey Nonny!

Ooof, don't have a life is my suggestion LOL 🙃

Seriously though, I'm honoured that I have inspired you and I hope that you find the time to create your own fic rec blog!! The secret for me, anyway, is that I generally don't really have a life outside of work, so I spend a lot of time on my blog, AND I also have a compulsive disorder that actually benefits in the sense that I have an obsessive need to file and organize things, and in turn it benefits you guys, LOL.

I've written several posts in the past that you can reference back to:

I want to start a fic rec blog, but I’m insecure about it

I want to start a fic rec blog in another fandom, any advice?? (Long post with links to my other informative posts... Essentially a masterpost and the best one to read)

I also want to start a fic rec blog, any advice?

How do you go about collecting your fics?

How do you keep track of and organize fics

Have you thought of keeping an excel sheet

I want to make fic recs, may I use your formatting for mine?

How Do I Go About Collecting Fics for Fic Recs

Those hopefully will answer all your questions :)

But yeah, some starter tips:

Come up with a method right away on how you're going to file fics. Mine took 4 years, and I STILL am revising it. By this I mean, are you going to rec only fics you've read, or stuff you find? Will you be an interactive blog (which again eats up time). Have a system in place. Mine did well initially because I usually ONLY rec fics I've read. Now people like it here because they feel like they're a PART of the blog, because I add their recs to my posts, and will rec fics suggested to me. It's how I've lasted a long time here.

That's another thing, allow yourself to evolve with "what needs to be filled". There was a gap in the fandom for recs, I just started doing it and then suddenly I became THE rec blog. It just HAPPENED. I never intended on it, but I enjoy it.

Don't let fic recs comsume all your free time. Running this blog is a LOT of work, and most of my evenings AFTER my full-time job, and weekends were consumed with blogging. I struggle a lot with my mental health because I constantly feel like I have to have something always for y'all. Nowadays I let myself have most of my weekends to myself, and I'm doing a bit better because of it.

People will criticize you for what you rec. It will bother the shit out of you, but also understand that they don't KNOW how much work running a fic-rec blog is. Just... let it roll over you and continue with what you like.

Take breaks. I'm overdue for a Blog Break™.

Add fics to lists AS you're recced them. It saves a lot of time.

Have a tagging system. It's ALSO saved me a LOT of time.

Do your lists offline, and copy-paste into Tumblr after. I make each rec post on a Tumblr draft, copy-paste it into notes, and make my list from there. That way the formatting is consistent throughout.

And finally, DON'T let yourself get overwhelmed!!! That's when it feels like more of a chore than a fun-time. Seriously, just take a break and go back to it.

I hope all these tips help, Nonny! And when you do start your blog, let me know, and I'll rec it for you! 💜🖤

Have a great day Nonny!! 💜🖤

[crimsonfluidessence]

Prompt 25: Perpetuity

Content Warning: Child abuse, psychological horror, dehumanization, torture

As a being of order, Esredes detested the chaos that swirled within him, and the world around him. The world, above all else, needed to make sense. There had to be reasons for why things happened, rules to follow, there had to be order. Chaos was bad. It consumed everything around it and left nothing in its wake. Chaos was the enemy, and it always would be. This had been taught to him as a teenager, and it had been his philosophy since. Adhere to and create order where there was none. But sometimes, this presented a problem. The Star operated on absolute laws. One of those was that evil existed, couldn't be reasoned with, and had no recourse but to eliminate it. Esredes had no need to question this, of course, not for a very long time. A knight did his duty, and a harrier defended himself. But then came inklings, clues, hints, teases of the absolute laws of the universe being broken. And they came in the form of the dark rooms.

Whether at the camp, or now at the Tribunal, or when talking to an Inquisitor or similar nonhuman entity, Esredes couldn't help but observe patterns of behavior, as he always did. And in doing so, questions came to mind. Pure evil existed. He knew this for a fact from his work. There were many entities- those that pretended to be human- which were plain and indisputably malicious. He tried, time and time again, to understand if there was a deeper motivation. Why did you abuse your son for years on end because you didn't want him? The little shit owed him. Why did you betray my people? How did that stop corruption? The answers were contradictory and nonsensical, until they finally landed on 'I have a compulsion to hurt people'. And of course, one of his favorites: Your people are dirt compared to my family. The Church told me to do it.

Absolute evil could not be negotiated with. Absolute evil had no true thoughts, feelings, or motives. It simply manifested in and took hold of a shell of an organic body through which it could do it work. Esredes wondered, sometimes, if evil was not an individual phenomenon, and instead these creatures all were part of a collective, a collective and parasitic force that manifested in the consciousness of human bodies at random. If he tried to start talking directly to it, and not the shell it was inhabiting, would it finally drop the game and laugh at him, realizing he figured out something no one else had?

The more Esredes observed the same rules happening over and over again, the more he spotted the little cracks. And in there, as he always did, he tried to burrow. There was a phenomenon that every manifestation of evil, no matter how vile, shared. If you applied pressure long enough to their lack of morality, there would be a moment where they snapped, and began to claim to feel remorse. But the moment you left them alone, this moment of clarity vanished forever, and they reverted back to normal. An Inquisitor told him the moment of clarity was fake, plain and simple. It was a defense mechanism to get the pain to stop. And of course, that would be the simple explanation, but it left something to ponder.

These creatures were not intelligent. They were barely sentient above an animal at times. They did not have the sense of mind to cower and avoid pain, no, they egged him on to cut into them, whether with words or a knife, over and over again. Why, then, did they suddenly have the presence of mind to try? It didn't feel natural, or organic. It felt like something else beyond them was taking over, and in that laid his fascination. The Azure Dragoon had been the most interesting failure so far- Alvere, of course, remained his only success, but Alvere was still human to a degree, more around his level. It was easier to extract evil when there was a person inside, even an incomplete one like himself. But the Azure Dragoon to take up the mantle after Estinien retired had nothing inside him. Once his mask broke, he was a dull, grey nothing that stared back at you. Esredes had kidnapped him and contained him in the camp's basement room for answers from the abomination that had killed fifty of his people with no remorse. What made him interesting is he was not alone. A voidsent had fused with him back during the Final Days, but this voidsent had a conscience while he did not. The voidsent was reasonable, and polite- naive, even, and offered his assistance in the current conundrum. It said it could try to reawaken old memories, and force the Dragoon to have a conscience. And indeed, what Esredes witnessed was a forced, extended moment of clarity. For a while the Dragoon began to emote like an actual person who can feel guilt. He screamed, he cried, he told Esredes to keep hurting him, to which he didn't need to tell him twice. But while it was forcefully prolonged, even this didn't last. Eventually, he settled back into apathy, and nothing spurred him any more. The most progress Esredes made was getting him to agree to not kill them again. It was a dead end, but one with promise. The memories made him begin to mimic human behavior again. Did that mean that even in a host where evil was completely taken over, in a defective being born only for malevolence, there was some kind of left in good instinct that didn't work properly? And if so, did that mean memory magic was the key? The key to breaking an absolute law of the universe. The key to changing the way human nature worked. The mere tease of it was too much for Esredes to resist. He was no Sharlayan Academic, he was the wrong kind of person to do something as big as figure out a way to cure or combat evil itself- but what if he had simply stumbled across something no one else had tried before, with this unnatural circumstance of a voidsent fused to a host?

Maybe there was another way. Maybe there was a true way to combat evil besides simply disposing of it, and leaving it to reform in another host like a voidsent. Maybe evil was his new nemesis, and he would find a way to strike back at it for all it did to take everything from him.

Evil was a permanent presence, and he was sick of it. If there was even a chance of shifting the balance, he would take it. For the good of the Star. For her. For himself.

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

(internet safety talk anon again) hmm, yeah, i totally see your point. i think there's a lot of complicating factors to the current tumblr discussion. i come from an internet background where it's generally considered you'd never treat your personal blog like a street corner--more like your personal living room. a public feed like posting in a popular tag would be closer to a street corner. i think a lot of people from that background are really protective of that attitude, in the face of perceived encroachment of "anything you say or do online is for mass public consumption and you should treat it like you're speaking on a Public Platform." personally, i'm instinctively protective of it because acting like i was posting for anyone other than my personal friends led me to develop a follower base, which was horrifically traumatic as an experience (although i also wouldnt come onto someone elses post to shout about my decisions there, tbc, and i don't respect the decision making of anyone who does). this isn't to say any other attitude about the function of ones internet space is fundamentally unhealthy or incorrect, to be clear! this one may even be unhealthy, i am not attempting to defend it by virtue of spelling it out.

the other factor is the unfortunate reality of the current popular communist clique and how they're setting the social tone for this on my dashboard, at least... the discussion has devolved into lots of intentional moral OCD triggers in its most visible form, and a lot of the social dynamics evolving from it are genuinely scary to look at from the outside. unfortunately, i think this is also unsolvable, as any impetus for collective action on such a scale will tend to give rise to popular thought leaders whose behaviors are shaped by the extreme trauma of the movement. and frankly, i do not think "the most popular communist bloggers have all decided to encourage compulsive thought patterns and behaviors about this topic, which sometimes manifest in group controlling behavuors" is a justification for being suspicious or wary of the topic of fundraisers overall. however, it is an unavoidable material factor in why the conversation is going as badly as it is, and I guess the only real point there is it'd be nice if the most visible people rightfully defending fundraising practices were doing so as ethically as you.

I hear you, and I understand where you're coming feom when you say this. Please hear what I say next as coming from someone who apparently shares a fair amount of context with you.

1) on a site like tumblr, where reblogs and feeds absolutely DO serve as an open to the public commons, one can absolutely treat one's own BLOG as a private and contained space. But one's feed is still a shared common space you have agreed to be. If you do not like what someone is doing in that shared space, you can remove yalls interaction by removing them from your feed, but you cannot make your discomfort THEIR responsibility simply because it showed up on your feed.

Moral OCD trigger warnings were nice when they were news to everybody. As someone with OCD, including morality related obsessions and compulsions, let me be frank.

They have become dogmatic in a way that exacerbatory to, not relieving of, those symptoms. They have become a cudgel that people with moral OCD now fear when they interact in shared spaces. Because that is what the fuck moral OCD does.

It is absolutely within all of our rights as obsessives to ask our loved ones to help us counter and reduce triggers, but it can never be our right to order a stranger to comply with it on the off chance we're exposed to their words. That is not how one counters or reduces moral OCD triggers.

2) "the popular communist bloggers have all decided to encourage compulsive thought patterns and behaviors" is simply not an acceptable accusation to levy. It is a dismissal of the reasons and motivations people might have for doing and saying what they do, or for making the asks they make, and ignores the very real truth that sometimes two people both need things at the same time that cannot be met wholly within a shared space. It is, frankly, belittling.

Maybe it's the Jew in me, maybe it's the dyke in me, maybe it's the genocide ethnographer in me, but "a vaguely defined cabal of people from a geoup I feel disdain for have intentionally conspired to harm me" will always make me more suspicious of the genocidal intent or actions of the person SAYING it than of the person it's being said about.

If we want to have a conversation about how to make the activism space more friendly to people with moral OCD, we are going to need to have a FAR more comprehensive and dynamic conversation about what that will look like than you have proposed here.

3) you are positioning me as "one of the good ones" in a community I have no part in, and I will not tolerate you wielding my words as a weapon against the people I am literally TELLING YOU are being treated with an international genocidally intended neglect that INCLUDES people stirring up batshit unethical demands that I have NEVER seen anyone in the progressive political sphere say before the past several years and then pointing to the justified anger and backlash as further proof of why they had the right to do so.

Do not expect me to validate such rhetoric on my fucking blog.