#perhaps when i’m fully living on my own i’ll get one

[poprockspillage]

fuck around(didn’t bring my cane even though i thought about it) and find out(foot pain when i’m standing and hip pain when i’m laying down)

[atsulovee]

✧ ─ · · KINKTOBER DAY TWO !! · · ─ ✧

To Thee, My Eternal Love

Knife play - Vampire!Dazai x Fem!Reader ➻❥ content warnings: blood, threat of bodily harm and mutilation, implied kidnapping, slight yandere!dazai, period typical misogyny (early 1800s), mentioned abuse. ➻❥ word count: 2.2k ➻❥ notes: this one specifically made me glad i put a 3.5k cap on my word count for kinktober lol. i kept catching myself getting way too wordsy so i had to cut a lot of unneeded stuff.

"The red moon hung heavy in the sky, consuming and tearing every little star in its light. Your husband was slotted between your legs, one hand keeping you leg on his hip and the other pointing the silver dagger at your esophagus. Like the old renaissance paintings of the devil, Dazai was handsome."

“To thee, my eternal love,

Even from so far, I hear the lovely beat of your heart, the alluring race of your pulse. Each night as I wake, your beating heart is all I care to listen for. I have not seen the sun in centuries, nor heard the call of morning roosters, but when the heat of your blood is my replacement, I find I do not mind. 

My beautiful mortal darling, as ephemeral as the petals of a spring flower. I, they call a vampire, a forager of blood, but it is beauty that I seek. Under the cover of darkness, near the churchyard, was when I found you. A muse, an angel, sitting at a grave. So young, so beautiful. I just could not bear letting your beauty be marred and restrained by the common village folk. I knew then you walked in a murky world- one that no one else could understand. You’re far too slight for such burdens. I would carry the world for you, slaughter villages, burn down whomever you ask. It was time to strike, for love could not wait. You fought, and you cried, relieved to be rid of mortal plights. 

I am not the monster you wish to believe I am. My undead heart has not beat in centuries- however, when I am with you, I feel the faintest tremors of a pulse. I’ll live a long time yet, my dear, and I could not bear an eternity without you. The day you die will be the day I’m destined to wander this world more helpless and alone than I have ever been. I’ll call your name to the moon at night, knowing there will be no answer.

And that is why I must never let you pass on from this world. 

Your Darling, Dearest, Dead, Osamu Dazai.”

. . .

To be the perfect doll is to be quiet, docile, and moldable. To be a wife is to be the same. A delicate puppet on silk strings, meant to be taken care of, meant to bend to every will and whim of their man. 

Cursed with your womb, you are all but a fully autonomous person in the eyes of the masses. A woman in the early 1800s has one duty to her family- marry young and above your social standing. Never step a foot out of line and never pull at your own strings. 

You were his- irrevocably, incredibly, dangerously his. Dazai had long made sure of that. 

His hand clasps your own and pins it above your head, a silent command from him to listen as you lie on the satin sheets. In a flurry, your hair splayed across the bed like a halo as blood red light filled the room. To Dazai, you were the light of heaven he was destined to never see. A gift from a God that despised him- perhaps to make up for His transgressions. 

Dazai’s deep, steady breaths puffed against your neck, even as his narrow hips pressed flush against yours. “My darling…” He sighs, never once blinking. Dazai couldn’t stand the idea of taking his eyes off of you for even a second. Each moment, each minute, each hour was so special, so precious. Each second that Dazai dared to spend not gazing upon your beauty was a second wasted. You were human still. And you could so easily leave him, slipping away into eternity.

His hips stilled against yours, the tip of his cock gently kissing your cervix. “My darling.” Dazai nearly whines, leaning forward until his chest pressed against yours just so his lips could gently kiss at your pulse point. Your blood was warm, much like the sun he had not seen in decades, and it was sweet just like the food he could no longer taste. “I adore you.”

Dazai was always a desperate, pitiful man. One who longed for things greater than him and shrunk away when his wishes were fulfilled. But you, his dearest human, was one thing he could never shy away from. 

You were lonely tucked away in his home, but you were safe. There was so much beyond his walls that could harm a human and you were simply not allowed to die by anyone’s hand but his own. 

His cold hand drags up your torso, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and up to your chest. You were so warm, Dazai laughed weakly against your neck as he listened to the heavy beat of your heart. He had no need for you to reciprocate his devotions so long as you stayed alive.

“I adore you, my love. You know that.” Dazai resists the urge to sink his fangs into your exposed neck, pulling himself away to stare at the flush on your cheeks. “I haven't felt such joy in either of my lives- undead or otherwise.” He savored every whine and cry that fell from your colored lips as he slammed his hips in and out of your tight hole. 

His nails bit and tore into your skin, letting droplets of your blood stain the sheets below. You hiccuped and cried every night when he took you to bed, but you no longer fight like you once had. It was a pity, really. Dazai thought you looked especially cute as you kicked and squirmed, trying to fight an inhuman being away. 

You tilt your head to the side, sniffling as Dazai holds you by your hips, forcing you to feel every thick inch as he plunges into you with an obscenely wet noise. Your strangled gasp meshes into a hiss as he punches the air out of your lungs with each thrust.

“Look at me.�� Dazai whispers, grabbing your chin and pulling your face towards him. His voice is soft and sweet, a gentle breeze against your lips. But his smile is wide and his grip is bruising. When you fail to raise your eyes, he pulls your hips towards him harshly, forcing you to feel his cock in your stomach. “I will not ask you again.” It’s only when you feel the familiar blade of his dagger pressing against your throat that you dare look at him. 

Crimson light spills into the room like it was a flood. The red moon hung heavy in the sky, consuming and tearing every little star in its light. Your husband was slotted between your legs, one hand keeping you leg on his hip and the other pointing the silver dagger at your esophagus. Like the old renaissance paintings of the devil, Dazai was handsome. In the light, his brown eyes seem to glow mahogany. A horrible, horrible gaze as you don’t dare avert your eyes again.

After a moment, as he studies the look on your face, the resignation, Dazai smiles though he does not lower his blade. “There we go. I missed those pretty eyes, my love. I don’t like when you ignore me.”

As Dazai starts to move his hips once more, he drags his blade down from your throat to in between your breasts and down your sternum.

“You do know why I must keep you here, right?” He begins. “It’s not because I’m cruel and enjoy watching you suffer. There is just so much in the world that could harm you.” Dazai’s pelvis kisses yours each time he pulls out just to stuff you full once again. His thrusts are merciless and rough, one hand planted firmly on your hip, pulling you down on his cock each time he rams it in as the other points his dagger at your heart. “Just as easily as I keep you alive, I could kill you. Isn’t that terrifying?”

His voice is eerily calm and steady, even as wet squelches, gasps, and hisses fill the air. Each thrust muddies your thoughts, filling your mind with nothing but the dopamine of pleasure. It was hard to think, much less hate the man in front of you when he fucked in a way no human could. Then, he sinks the knife into your chest just slightly, enough to split the skin and let small streaks of red make their way down your skin. 

Instinctively, you squirm and whine, desperate to move away as your mind screamed danger but his dagger did not move. It felt like each shuddering inhale and hiccuping exhale would only drive the silver blade further into your chest.

“Calm down.” He mutters, moving the blade from the shallow wound as Dazai leaned down to lie his forehead against yours. He dragged it down your stomach, stopping just above where your womb would rest. “I have no intention to kill you, and you know that. If I had, I would’ve done so long ago. What poor excuse of a husband would ever murder such a darling wife?”

You knew, had learned months ago, what a monster your husband really was. You had made one attempt at escape and you knew to never try such a thing again. Dazai was cruel and vicious with his victims- the poor, innocent people he fed from, but he was so much worse with his love. 

His smile pulled tight as he looked down at you. He had intentions of giving you a second chance only once, if his beloved dared to defy him once more… The night would end with your shared bed soaked in blood as your corpses held one another.

Stakes don’t kill vampires, he had told you that night as he dabbed at the wounds he had inflicted upon you, bloody and weeping. That’s just a silly story that weak humans came up with to make themselves feel stronger. However, silver- something so pure and holy, is just the thing to do the trick. 

“You’re sick.” Your voice wobbles, thick and cracking as your eyes glare up at his. “The only reason you haven’t killed me is because I’m cattle to you.”

“Is that so?” He smiles, stabbing the dagger into the pillow next to your head. Dazai huffs with effort, gritting his teeth, letting his fangs click and clash together as he works open your cunt. “Will you do it, then? Will you try to kill your shepherd? This is the only chance you’ll ever get, darling.”

You spat at him, face flushed red in a way his no longer could, despite the drool wetting your bruised lips. Your rich blood mixed with sweat, streaking down your chest- the mounds bouncing as Dazai grinned.

“Just look at you…” He croons, hand that once held the dagger coming to grip your chin once more. His hand held you with such force, you could see the way his arms flexed. Your once soft skin was marred and littered with blacks, purples, and yellows- with puncture marks from when he had not felt like finding another victim to terrorize. “So precious. I should carve out your womb. No human man would ever want you, then. Even if by some chance of fate, you escape from my clutches, there is not a single person on this earth that will ever consider having you know that you’ve been defiled by me.”

“You’re vile.” You hiss, voice weak and strained. You wanted nothing more than to push your captor away, to reject his advances but such luxuries were fantasy so long as you wanted to live. You clasp your hand over your mouth as Dazai delivers a particularly hard thrust into your cunt, shutting you up. 

Dazai groans, his hand falling away as his desperate thrusts speed up. “I know.” He drawls, “I know. And that’s why I want you. Why I need you.” Dazai pants into your ear, the hot breath contrasting sharply to his cold skin- the chill running down your spine and pushing you closer to him. “Because I’m vile and you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

He groans, rolling his hips into yours inch by inch, with the depravity and viciousness of a beast. Desperation ached inside of his bones like a disease, burning and boiling with each thought of you. Dazai loved you so much, he wanted to keep you to himself forever. Wanted to kill you to preserve your memory. Wanted to turn you to make sure he’ll never be alone again. 

As you tilted your head back, walls fluttering around him, he takes his place with his lips on your neck once more. Gently, as he had done a thousand times before, his fangs punctured the delicate flesh. Warm, rich blood pooled into his mouth- only a single drop escaping him. 

Dazai’s thrusts speed up as he gasps, pulling back with bloodied lips. He could barely control himself on the best of days, he’d drain you in but a moment. Each movement made Dazai crave more, the lava pooling in his gut addictive and sweet.

It felt like his cock was molding its shape in your core, truly claiming you as his in the most vile, animalistic way. Everything felt raw, sensitive to the touch. You could barely think, barely breathe with how thoroughly the vampire was drilling your aching cunt. Overwhelmed tears drip off your flushed cheeks as your own incisor threatens to split your lip.

“I need you by my side, my love.” Dazai sighs, kissing down from your temple until he finds the still pulsing wound on your neck. “And so, I must never let you pass on.”

Once more, his fangs find their way into your neck and once more do you feel the gentle cold taking over your body.

➛ wanna join my kinktober taglist?

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[malaierba]

Thoughts on Toshiro’s eating behavior, restrictive ed/disordered eating habits, and ARFID (obvious warnings apply).

Been thinking about how Toshiro’s eating is described in the manga. Especially when you consider the context within which he snaps — which is jokingly referred to as “he has hangry”. Interestingly enough, emotional deregulation IS a common symptom of EDs. That, alongside all the symptoms that Ryoko Koi chooses to illustrate in him… it’s done too accurately for it to be dismissed as him simply choosing not to eat and starve, as if it were that easy.

Basically, I think Toshiro’s inability to eat is ARFID-coded, and that’s symbolism in itself. I also think food is one of the few areas in his life where he exerts control effectively.

Assuming that he was under the influence of the dungeon (not necessary for this analysis to work tbh), his behavior is a quite accurate depiction of how desire works for people who are chronic ascetics in general, and ED'd in particular:

According to Maizuru, he’s a person who's denied themselves all their life (“saving Falyn was his first selfish request“),

Who seems to only experience a sort of self-agency when it's linked to deprivation (not really eating food from anyone who wasn’t Maizuru as a child, turning down her food as an adult even though he’s otherwise easy to pull around),

Who's actively reaching towards something for the first time in their lives (so he doesn’t know how to work towards it without burning himself out).

A common trigger (perhaps the main one) in EDs is the desire for control. The logic often goes, what's easier to control than what you eat? what do you own more fully than your body? It tracks in Toshiro’s case: when he is picky that's one thing he can fully control, no one could force him to eat not when he was a child nor as an adult. Toshiro's “whims” are most indulged when he restricts or rejects food, rather than when he reaches for it.

The reason why I’m getting ARFID vibes from him is Maizuru’s wording. On the screenshot I shared, she said “he never ate much, but he ate plenty of what I made”, making it sound like he’d try stuff made by other people, but in the end, Maizuru was the only one who could tailor it to his tastes the best (and made it with love). Rather than fighting him or forcing him, he worked with him, which is the best course of action for parents with kids who are being picky eaters.

There’s also the wording used by Maizuru: I think he's ARFID and perhaps ortho coded, or some other restrictive ED. Here we have to note that EDs aren't exclusively or even always about weight, weight is often a secondary effect of the behaviors that are motivated by the ED. In layman terms, they're eating disorders not weight disorders.

With the established, I do see a narrative relevance to giving Toshiro this type of relationship with food:

It sets him in obvious opposition to Laios: You need to eat and take care of yourself to succeed, neglecting yourself equals not taking your goals seriously vs. I’ll sacrifice everything recklessly, myself included, in the pursuit of my goals.

Tangentially related but lol, can’t help but think of Laios getting SO mad when Toshiro’s reaction to his plan (admittedly thought of on the spot) to get back Falyn is “you aren’t even EATING” which, SO fair, you can strategize and make detailed long term plans all you want, but as they say the secret to your future lies within your daily habits.

It makes him a mirror of Falyn, her passiveness reflecting Toshiro’s own. Falyn explicitly says at the end of her adventure, while she’s turning down Toshiro’s marriage proposal, “I’ve always wanted to travel; I’ve always just done what my bother and Marcille want, I want to try doing what I want now”, which is reminiscent of Maizuru saying “He was always such a well-behaved, reasonable boy, so much so that it worried me sometimes. The only time he ever made a personal request was for this task” <- person disconnected from their desires. (More on this idea here, I love it as a narrative choice).

And then (here’s where I get suppositional). It could be an extrapolation of the way his upbringing has permeated so deep within himself that he overtly controls what he eats even under normal circumstances. This extreme exertion of self-control, this constant self-monitoring, would be unsurprising in the guy who’s a little too good at following social scripts and masking (fun fact, did you know that ARFID is often co-morbid with autism?).

I often think of him in this scene, where he seems to be telling Senshi that he’s had enough / he doesn’t want something (featuring the other Weird With Food character, my beloved Kabru, maybe trying to help him? or maybe hassling him too lol):

Looks like some habits are hard to break. But, Laios does get through to him when he kicks his ass, and Falyn seems to have reached him too with his words, so perhaps there’s hope.

Look at him forcing himself to eat a burger while holding so much distaste in his heart. Did he and Laios order for each other? At least Laios seems to like his meal.

[shanastoryteller]

Happy Pride!!!! Living Blood or Lady Mo please!

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43

Xuanyu disrobes unashamedly, hesitating only at the last second with the sleeve covering her left arm.

Jiang Yanli laughs. “Bit late to be modest, I think.”

“Modesty is overrated,” she returns, which is something that Zixuan would say and A-Yao would think. She slips the rest of the robes off and steps into the steaming bath, letting out a deep sigh of satisfaction.

The changes her body has undergone are even more obvious without the thick layers of the robes obscuring her form. The extra weight seems to have settled in ideal places, not only thickening her waist and limbs but settling heavily along her hips and breasts, which hadn’t exactly been small to begin with.

She sits behind Xuanyu, filling a bowl with water and then pouring it over her hair to rinse it of blood and dirt that had been hidden by her dark hair. Acting as a bathing assistant is far below her station, but Xuanyu had sent all the servants away and she doesn’t mind, really. Xuanyu is her sister, likely the only one she’ll ever have considering A-Cheng’s track record with matchmakers, and she’s been worried about her. This gives them time to speak alone. “How has your marriage with Lan Wangji been? Has he been kind?”

Xuanyu pulls a face, which isn’t encouraging. “I guess. He mostly left me alone, and then we had a couple fights and he was a jerk, and now I think he’s trying to make up for being a jerk, but it’s a little – well, it’s nice that he’s making an effort. I suppose.”

Not as good as she’d hoped, but not as bad as she’d feared. “Sect Leader Lan seems fond of you.”

“Oh, Lan Xichen is great,” she says easily. Better than reaction to Lan Wangji, but still not what Jiang Yanli had been hoping for. Then her eyes light up. “Sizhui is wonderful! I’ll give Wangji one thing, he’s raised a good kid. He’s so sweet, and a great cultivator, and he’s always trying to help out everyone around him. I’m glad Jingyi’s always hanging around – without him, I think everyone would just take advantage of Sizhui’s good nature.”

Well, that’s something. Surely Lan Wangji can’t resist Xuanyu’s charms for long, not when she dotes on his son and gets along with his brother.

“What trouble did you get into on the road?” she asks, running her hand over the wound on Xuanyu’s shoulder. It looks nearly fully healed already and there’s another mostly healed wound on her hip, a thin slice on her left arm, and the shadow of various bruises that were likely much worse a couple hours ago. It’s of course a good thing that Xuanyu has a strong golden core, but Jiang Yanli can’t help a moment of wistfulness.

Her own core never lived up to her mother’s expectations, or her own. If she’d had a stronger core, she could have given A-Ling siblings. A child should have siblings. She would have had a calmer childhood without two little brothers underfoot, but a lonelier one too.

Xuanyu shrugs, lazily scrubbing herself down. “Looks like Xiao Xingchen picked up the girl, A-Qing, while he and Song Lan were separated and was trapped in this place that was basically a ghost town.” How could he be trapped by a place that had no people? “And I’d heard some rumors so when we ran into Song Lan I helped him find Xiao Xingchen, but there was a bit of a fight with someone who didn’t want him to leave. I just happened to get caught in the crossfire, so to speak.”

She’s stretching the truth to outright lying. Before Jiang Yanli can call her on it, her stomach growls.

“Didn’t get a chance to eat on the road?” she teases.

Xuanyu flushes, ducking briefly beneath the water to hide her flaming cheeks before resurfacing. “Things were a little hectic. It may have slipped my mind.”

How has she managed to put on weight while also forgetting to eat? Perhaps Lan Wangji deserves more credit.

“I think I have some candies in my room, if you want something before the banquet,” she offers. “I know the speeches take forever.”

Her eyes light up before dimming and she slumps in the bath. “Thanks, Yanli-jie, but I better not. Sizhui gave me some on the road and I usually love them but just putting it in my mouth almost made me sick. It was awful. And weird! They’re my favorite.”

Jiang Yanli blinks then gives Xuanyu’s significantly larger chest a considering look. It could be nothing. It’s probably nothing. She hasn’t even been married a year and it doesn’t sound as if she and Lan Wangji have been seeing eye to eye.

Then again, the same could have been said about her and Zixuan.

“Can I ask you something personal, Meimei?”

Xuanyu nods. “You can ask me anything, Yanli-jie.”

“Are you and Lan Wangji having sex?”

She turns bright red and ducks beneath the water for so long that Jiang Yanli is starting to get concerned before she resurfaces, still red faced. “Um. We did once. Well – I guess, technically, it was three times, but it was only one night.”

Well. Apparently Lan Wangji has stamina on and off the battlefield.

“One moment,” she says, briefly squeezing Xuanyu’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

It takes one whispered conversation with the servant outside the hall and approximately ninety seconds before her personal healer is standing in front of her. Jiang Yanli ducks back inside to see Xuanyu out of the bath, in a thin bathing robe that’s clinging to her as she wrings her hair out. “I’d like my healer to take a look at you, Meimei.”

Xuanyu freezes, slowly standing straight with a wary look on her face. “That’s really not necessary. The wounds were just superficial and they’re basically healed already.”

“It’ll be quick,” she says, because if she’s right then she can’t let Xuanyu go down to the banquet without letting her know. “She’s very discreet – she’s been my personal healer since I was a child.”

“Jiang Xingyi?” Xuanyu asks, some of her tension draining away.

Jiang Yanli nods, trying to think of some reason that Xuanyu would know her healer’s name, or her reputation, but all the servants are terrible gossips and her health is a frequent topic of derision. “Just your wrist, okay? Your golden core has changed a lot. I just want her to take a look.”

She feels bad about lying, but Xuanyu had lied to her first.

Xuanyu relaxes even further. “Okay, Yanli-jie. If it’ll make you feel better.”

“Thank you,” she smiles, then opens the door to usher Jiang Xingyi in.

The old woman doesn’t smile, but Xuanyu grins back undeterred, and says, “Hi, Granny,” before paling and adding, “uh, um. Sorry.”

Jiang Yanli feels a familiar pang of grief go through her. A-Xian had referred to Jiang Xingyi as Granny, the only disciple both bold and beloved enough to get away with it.

Jiang Xingyi ignores her, instead reaching for her wrist and pressing her fingers against it. Xuanyu fidgets, shifting from one foot to the other, but says nothing as the moments stack on top of one another.

Finally, Jiang Xingyi drops her wrist and steps back. Her stern visage breaks, a smile stretching her mouth across her face. “Congratulations, Madame Lan.”

She knew it!

“Thanks,” Xuanyu answers before wrinkling her nose. “Um. For what?”

“You are expecting,” she answers. “At least a couple months along, I believe, although I’d have to do a more thorough examination to be sure.”

Jiang Yanli moves to embrace her, but Xuanyu’s face drops and she turns dangerously pale. “What? No. That’s not possible. I can’t be.”

“Three times,” Jiang Yanli reminds her, trying to goad Xuanyu into laughter.

But instead she just shakes her head. “No, no I can’t, I – this can’t be happening,” she whispers to herself, grabbing her own arms in a white knuckled grip. “It’s not. It’s impossible. I can’t be.”

She’s young, and this wasn’t a marriage of her own choosing, and it’s so new. Of course she’s surprised and nervous. Jiang Yanli touches her elbow, intending to say something soothing, but Xuanyu collapses into her arms, gripping her waist and hiding her tears in her shoulder.

“Xuanyu!” she says, hugging her back just as fiercely, her heart breaking for the younger girl’s anguish. “Meimei, it’s okay, I know this is scary, but it’s going to be fine.”

“It’s not,” she says, voice thick with tears, “A-jie, this is awful, this is – it can’t happen! It can’t, Wangji is going to be so mad, he’s going to hate me, and everything is ruined and awful, I can’t be – I can’t! I’m going to die!”

Jiang Yanli’s whole body goes cold and she grips Xuanyu even tighter against her. “You’re going to be fine,” she says, pushing her conviction into every syllable.

No matter what Jiang Yanli has to do, Xuanyu is going to be fine.

[aita-blorbos]

(Spoilers for Magnus Archives)

AITA for burning my childhood house down

Hello, Jon.

Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.

I’m assuming you’re alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private. (slightly strained) I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.

Now, shall we turn the page and try again?

WIBTA for starting the apocalypse

I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence, but I have worked so very hard for this moment, a culmination of two centuries of work. It’s rare that you get the chance to monologue through another, and you can’t tell me you’re not curious.

Why does a man seek to destroy the world?

It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.

It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, Jon, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.

I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die.

I believe there are far more people in this world that would take that bargain than you would ever guess. And I have beaten all of them.

Of course, this desire did not manifest overnight. When RS (87, M) first gathered our little band – L, S, and the rest – to discuss and hypothesize on the nature of the things he had learned from R, I felt what I believe we all felt: curiosity, and fear.

But as he compiled his taxonomy and codified his theories on the grand rituals, I began to develop a very specific concern. RS was so obsessed with his ideas on balance, even as our fellows began to experiment and fall to the service of our patrons.

I began to worry that if one of them successfully attempted their ritual, then I would be as much a victim as any, trapped in the nightmare landscape of a twisted world.

At first, I attempted prevention, but the cause seemed hopeless. The only way to ensure I did not suffer the tribulations of what I believed to be an inevitable transformation was to bring it about myself. So what began as an experiment soon became a race.

Beyond that, I was getting older, and mortality began to weigh more heavily on my mind. How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?

I convinced RS to work on Millbank, leading him to design it as a temple to all the Fears in equilibrium, such that my own modifications to the design of the Panopticon went… unremarked.

It. Took. Years. for the dread of the prisoners to fully suffuse the place, and I was an old man before I made my first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown, sat in the center of that colossal eye, the great ring of cells encircling me like a coronet.

It was… flawed, of course, as all RS’s rituals were, and none of the inmates survived as the power I attempted to harness shook the building almost to pieces, and the murky swamp upon which the prison was built consumed it.

But it left me a gift: For sat in that watchtower, I could see everything I turned my mind to.

It was a dizzying power, and one I discovered I maintained even as I found vessels to extend my life. Of course, I had to make sure the location was kept under my control while I worked on revising my plans, and so I moved the organization I had founded to assist in my research down to London, and the Institute as you know it was born.

I’ll not bore you with details of my bodies and failures through those intervening years. Suffice to say I kept busy, both planning my own next attempt, and doing my best to stymie those others who tried versions of their own.

Surely my interpretation of the Watcher’s Crown had been incomplete; there had been some element of the ritual I had overlooked.

It was not until I met G (70, F) that things began to really come into focus.

You see, the role of Archivist has been part of the Beholding for as far back as my research can go. This isn’t uncommon for the Powers; most of the beliefs around them are guesswork and fallible human interpretation, but there are certain throughlines and consistencies that can be spotted, regardless of the trappings.

But G was unlike any other Archivist. She simply did not care about compiling experiences or collecting the fears of others. She was driven to stop those who served the Powers.

More than once I thought she must secretly be of the Hunt – but there was never that sick joy in her, that thrill of predator and prey. She had simply decided that this was her position in life, and went about it with a practicality that even I found disconcerting at times.

I once asked her what drove her, what had started her down that path. She told me the Desolation had killed her cat.

I don’t know if she was joking, and, to be honest, I could never bring myself to look into her mind and find out for sure.

In any case, G’s ruthless efficiency in derailing and collapsing rituals threw into stark relief a question that had been bothering me for almost a hundred and fifty years: In the whole span of humanity, why had nobody ever succeeded?

Perhaps there were a long line of G throughout history, but I found that hard to credit. Could it be, then, that there was something in the very concept of the rituals that meant they couldn’t succeed?

She was clearly having similar thoughts in that last year, all of which culminated with the People’s Church.

When I saw that she was making no preparations whatsoever to stop it, I realized she was putting into practice a theory, and one she couldn’t afford to be wrong. She was going to wait, and see if the unopposed ritual succeeded, or if it collapsed under its own strain as mine had all those years ago.

Knowing G, I’m sure she had a backup plan if she had miscalculated – but she had not. The ritual failed. And all at once, I realized what had to be done.

You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?

Even those that seem to exist in direct opposition rely on each other for their definition as much as up relies on down.

To try and create a world with only the Buried makes as much sense as trying to conceive a world with only down.

Every ritual tied itself so closely to a single power as to render itself impossible. They could bring their patron close, but never sever it from the others, and eventually it would be violently pulled back into the place next to reality where they dwell.

The solution, then, is simple: A new ritual must be devised which will bring through all the Powers at once. All fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge. All under the Eye’s auspices, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots.

And there was only one being that could possibly serve as a lynchpin for this new ritual: The Archivist. A position that had so recently become vacant, thanks to G’s ill-timed retirement plans.

Because the thing about the Archivist is that – well, it’s a bit of a misnomer.

It might, perhaps, be better named: The Archive.

Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, Jon. You are a record of fear, both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you.

You are a living chronicle of terror.

Perhaps, then, if I could find an Archivist and have each Power mark them, have them confront each one and each in turn instill in them a powerful and acute fear for their life, they could be turned into a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom.

Do you see where I’m going, Jon?

It does tickle me, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck.

I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was.

Of course, I had to bide my time, get a measure of you before I began to push, learn how you worked – So I decided I would wait until something came for you, and see how you reacted. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during G’s tenure, and, while she was always prepared, I made sure you would not be.

I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when JP attacked, I watched eagerly, one hand on the gas release from the start.

You acquitted yourself well enough, so I decided to see how far you would get, though I waited until the worms were in you before I pulled the lever. I needed to make sure you felt that fear all the way to your bones.

The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus. Even if that sliver of paranoia, that vague wrongness you couldn’t quite place wouldn’t count as a mark, it was only a matter of time before it confronted you in a far more direct and affecting matter.

Admittedly, given the advent of the Unknowing, I needn’t have bothered. But what’s the old saying about hindsight?

More important to me was Sasha’s encounter with the Distortion. If it had taken an interest, then I very much wanted it to cross your path.

So I found one of its current victims and convinced her to make a statement.

Poor H (~20, F). I actually had to put her in a taxi myself, she was getting so lost in those narrow London side streets.

It worked, though.

Between the stabbing and at least two desperate flights into its doors – you’re marked very deeply by the Spiral.

JL (~70, M) was a surprise, of course, and I was forced to improvise. I had no idea how much G would have told him, and he could very easily have derailed everything if you learned too much too fast.

I justified it to myself saying I was going to have to send you out into the world anyway, if you were to encounter more of the Powers, but I can’t honestly pretend it wasn’t a… rather rash move.

Still. I’d requested Detective T (~25, F) be assigned to the case when they found G’s body in the hope that having a Hunter in the mix would eventually lead to a confrontation, and setting you up as a killer certainly hastened that.

Then it was just a matter of feeding you statements to lead you to a few Avatars I thought were likely to harm you – but probably would stop short of actually killing you.

J (27, F) served her purpose exactly as I had hoped, as did our dearly departed Mr. C, marking you for the Desolation and the Vast.

Honestly, I had – nothing to do with M (23, F) and her Slaughter adventure, but when I saw the situation, I made sure to trap her here, so when her rage bubbled over you would be right there, a ready target.

I didn’t foresee the mark coming from surgery gone wrong, but it was a very pleasant surprise.

The Unknowing was a distraction, but not an unwelcome one. For this to work, you needed more than just the marks; you needed power. And that was something the Unknowing served to test, though it posed no actual danger in the grand scheme of things.

And it did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been very worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just die. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand why.

As it was, it was just right, and once again, you came through with flying colors.

By this point, your abilities were coming along in leaps and bounds, and I was concerned that meeting face-to-face might end up with you – (sigh) – Knowing something you shouldn’t.

I had initially planned to go into hiding, but when your colleagues surprised me with the police, well. It was simple enough to cut a deal.

All that remained, then, were the Dark, the Flesh, the Buried, and the Lonely.

I was a little put out when that idiot JH (???, M) misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him.

I couldn’t see what happened in there, of course, but given how you came out, I’m very sure it counts as a mark.

I suspected the coffin might turn up again, and once it did, it was simply a matter of getting any, uh… restraining factors you might have had flying off on a wild goose chase, and waiting.

Honestly, Detective T has been proving invaluable through this process. I’d been racking my brains for months about what I could use to lure you in.

And, of course, I knew the Dark Sun was just sitting there waiting. So when it came time, I just whipped up another apocalypse and sent you on your merry way.

Then all that remained was the Lonely.

Poor P (~50, M). He really should have left well enough alone. Or just done what I’d asked in the first place.

Ah well. He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about M (same age as you, Jon, M).

Of course, he had no way of knowing that, in addition to setting you up for the final mark, he was giving you all the tools you needed to escape from it.

How is M, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that.

And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date. I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.

You are prepared. You are ready. You are marked. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here.

Don’t worry, Jon. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.

Now. Repeat after me.

You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right.

Come to us in your wholeness.

Come to us in your perfection.

Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!

Come to us.

I – OPEN – THE DOOR!

[dirtyvulture]

Natasha Romanoff x Male!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Requested by anon: Um *clears throat* Hello, I’m new in discovering your fics, and you’re the first writer I find who writes for male reader x Natasha Romanoff! I’ve only ever seen writers write for only female reader- BUT I UNDERSTAND REALLY, Natasha displayed major lesbian vibes and etc, and I fully support it really. But uh, as a male myself, and having Natasha as my favorite MCU character, it’s been rare finding fics for male reader, but again I’m not complaining, I fully support writers writing female writers!

Sorry I’m rambling, I just wanted to request, if you’re okay with it, something with male reader x Natasha with Father’s Day as the theme? Perhaps maybe Nat surprises reader that they’re gonna have a baby and all that? Of course there needs to be smut involved, I’ve read all your fics and clearly smut is a must have for the fic! Perhaps some daddy kink to throw in the mix?

And again, if it’s not on the books, I’ll understand!

AN: Enjoy, anon!

Natasha stares down at the little plastic stick in her trembling hands, blinking rapidly to make sure she’s not seeing blurred. There are two lines on the little window, matching the symbol for “Pregnant.”

She had never thought this could be possible, given what she had thought had happened in the Red Room, but maybe that hadn’t been an entirely honest truth--not that she was complaining. 

She thinks about how she’s going to tell you, knowing how much you always wanted to be a father, but had accepted that biologically having children with her might have been a huge challenge. Maybe it wasn’t as difficult as either of you thought after all.

Natasha knows she can barely keep the news hidden for long, so she wraps the pregnancy test up carefully and hides it. She goes to make dinner before you come home, deciding to cook your favorite meal instead of her planned one.

The smell of sizzling steak greets you the moment you open the front door, and you’re shocked for a moment because Natasha had texted you that she was going to make spaghetti and meatballs instead. Not that you’re upset, you’re always grateful when she cooks for you. But steak was more of a special occasion kind of meal, and your personal favorite.

“Nat honey? I’m home,” you call out, dropping your work bag at the door and slipping off your shoes.

“In the kitchen!”

You walk through the living room and find your girlfriend standing at the stove, moving an impressively thick cut of meat from cast-iron pan to a plate.   

“That looks really good, babe,” you say, greeting her with a kiss before going to help set the rest of the table.

“I made a salad, it’s in the fridge if you can get that out.”

“Sure.” You’re tempted to ask the occasion, but you wait. You grab the big glass bowl of salad and place it on the table. Natasha brings over two plates, one steak almost twice the size of the other, and puts the bigger one down in front of you. 

“Thanks for cooking, Nat. I’m starving,” you say, eagerly grabbing your fork and knife and carving into the meat. Natasha clears her throat, offering you the salad bowl and you relent, making sure to take a healthy portion of vegetables to balance out the pure protein on your plate. 

The meal is finished in relative silence--you would’ve struck up more conversation with her, but were too busy scarfing down your steak. It’s only when the last piece is gone that you sit back, patting your belly and smiling at her.

“That was amazing, Nat. What was the occasion?” you finally ask.

Natasha bounces in her seat, as if she had been waiting the whole time for you to ask. “You’re not gonna believe it, babe,” she says, getting up and grabbing something from behind the sink. She holds it out to you, wrapped in a napkin.

Slowly, you unravel it, surprised to see that it’s a pregnancy test, but even more surprised when you see that it’s showing a positive result.

“Is this...Is this yours?” you ask, not realizing how stupid the question is until it comes out of your mouth.

“Yes!” Natasha squeals, throwing herself at you and wrapping her arms around your waist tightly. 

“Oh my God.” You squeeze her back, trying to comprehend the meaning of the pregnancy test. You can’t believe it. Natasha had told you she couldn’t get pregnant, so you had never bothered to use protection with her, but that wasn’t to say you didn’t want to be or were not ready to become a father. It was one of the few dreams you had carried with you your whole life, and while you had been a little sad about Natasha’s situation, she was still open to adoption and you knew you didn’t need to be biologically related to your child to be a good father.

“I can’t believe it, Nat,” you say, pressing a kiss to her head.

“You’re gonna be a daddy. My daddy.”

The word makes your head spin, and also causes a tightening at the front of your pants. You look down at yourself, slightly embarrassed, and Natasha caresses your growing bulge, causing your hips to jerk forward at the contact. 

“Bedroom?” is all you can get out of your mouth before she takes your hand and drags you out of the kitchen. Both of you make quick work of your clothes and you join your girlfriend on the bed, your hands running along her sides with a soft reverence. 

“I love you so much, Nat,” you say, kissing her. “You’re gonna be the best mother to our child.”

“Our child,” she repeats, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. You wipe them away and press your forehead to hers, not saying anything for a moment as your hand goes down and rests on her flat belly. Of course, it’s too early for her to show or for you to feel anything, but you still cannot wrap your head around the idea that you and Natasha are finally going to have a child together. 

Natasha scratches up and down your back, digging her nails impatiently into your shoulder blades. You rock your hips against hers, your cock hardening faster when it rubs against the insides of her thighs. 

“I want you, Daddy,” Natasha pleads, and this new use of the term has all the blood rushing down to your cock so fast you think you might pass out. 

“You can have me, Nat,” you insist, leaning back to guide your tip to her entrance. You push into her gently, still wanting to be gentle with her even more than before, and her velvet walls wrap around your member with a familiar warmth. “Fuck,” you mutter, rolling your hips in short strokes, resisting the urge to pound into her without abandon. 

“More,” Natasha demands, her hands curving around the back of your thighs and trying to pull you into her. “You don’t have to be careful with me,” she says, but you can’t imagine being rough with her anymore. 

But the pulsing and squeezing around your cock overtakes your willpower and Natasha moans loudly as you finally begin slamming into her, driving your cock deep into her with each stroke. 

“Yes, just like that, Daddy,” she whines, holding onto her knees to keep them as wide as possible. You watch with drool on your lips as your cock thrusts in and out of her soaking pussy. Your entire body begins to tremble as you feel yourself ready to finish. 

“N-Nat, I’m gonna...I’m gonna...” you pant.

“Finish in me,” Natasha says, and the reminder that the thought that you don’t have to pull out because she’s already pregnant causes you to erupt instantly. Hot ropes of cum pulse out of your cock, and the effort, combined with the heavy meal you just had, causes you to almost collapse on top of Natasha. You wrap your arms around her, dropping your head onto her chest as she strokes your hair softly. 

“I’m so happy you’re the one I get to start a family with,” is the last thing you hear Natasha say before you fall asleep.

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AN: Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

[jawnscoffee]

John‘s Wedding Speech

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Maybe I shouldn’t have let my husband hold his speech first because it’s way harder to leave a good impression when there’s already a winner.
Anyway, I‘ll just try to make this as good as possible. 

So, ladies and gentlemen and others. Hello from my side. 

For the first time in my life, I actually had to sit down and think of a proper way to do this. In high school, my, allow me, bloody awful roses-are-red poems didn’t count nearly as much as this speech does right now, and as much as I am happy that I don’t have to recite a violets-are-blue-sequel, I got, well,… really stressed out.

The reason for that is not because I couldn’t think of any good things to say about my husband, by the way. Even though there certainly are some features I‘ll probably find unpleasant until we’re 89 and are struggling to even solve a crossword puzzle. Or let me correct that: I will struggle.
That‘s probably something I‘ll find annoying too, then. Likewise, his remarkable creativity to come up with excuses to not fetch some milk from the store. Or his habit of commenting on every single sentence that’s been said in a TV show.

But before this gets too awkward: this is not a shit-talk show about Sherlock. Because, as I mentioned, all of these things were not the reason why I struggled to come up with the right words for this day.

The reason why I struggled to come up with the right words for today is that, even though there are some bad things, which I just mentioned, there will always be too many good ones that can be said about him.

Because matter how much he hates fetching milk from the store, I know he‘d do it for the rest of our lives if that meant it would make me happy. And no matter how much he hates watching, I quote, „those stupid TV shows," I know that he‘d do it until all eternity if I just stayed by his side. Which I will do, by the way so he doesn’t have to do that to his delight. 

So there were only three words I could come up with that perhaps can measure up to the indescribable person he is: I love him. With all my heart and everything I am I love everything he is.

Sherlock, you saved me in as many ways as I saved you, maybe even more. 

When we first met, I thought I knew what love was, and you thought the same. It turned out we were both wrong, as everybody can see today.

You loved me so entirely that I suddenly realized that I‘ve never been fully loved by someone else. Because nobody of those people were you. Because you love me in ways I‘ve never seen, or even heard of, before. 

Before I met you, I was so alone, and now I owe you so much. You are not only the best man and human being that I have ever known, but the best place where I have ever let my heart rest.
Thank you for being my home. Thank you for being you, even in times when I couldn’t be myself.

You once said to me that love is a simple chemical equation. But if you still think about love this way, I’m afraid you have to exclude mine from this. Because my love for you isn’t just a simple chemical equation. It’s the most complex thing I’ll probably never understand, but even though you might think the opposite, I don’t think that’s bad. I think that’s what all of the poets mean when they say, „My love for you is endless." Because mine for you is, Sherlock.

So when I say I love you, I hope you know that I love you in just as many ways as you love me, which I count to be countless. But if my life is about keeping on counting them anyway, I‘ll be a very happy man indeed. And I really hope you don’t mind this, for once, fruitless experiment. Because I can assure you, that the fruit is and will always be the same, no matter how much time changes.

Like it already has been, it will always be me and you from this day on. The Bakerstreet boys. Or now rather: the Bakerstreet husbands.

The rings on our fingers are the proof and a promise we’ll keep until even you can no longer solve a crossword puzzle.

But I will love you just as much then. Probably even more because my love for you grows each day. And it always will - Until the game is over.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

hiii :D

i wrote this yesterday at 1am or something BUT there’s already sherlocks wedding speech so i thought *claps* I HAVE TO WRITE JAWNS

soooo…yeah

thank you so much for reading. I am happy about any feedback, also on ao3. lots of love <3

tagging: @a-victorian-girl @lisbeth-kk @topsyturvy-turtely @bs2sjh @atamh @missdeliadilisblog @helloliriels @calaisreno @grace-in-the-wilderness @totallysilvergirl @jobooksncoffee @snonkerdoodlefizzy221b @nottheweasley @jawnn-watson @sunshineinyourmind @keirgreeneyes @catlock-holmes @221beloved @paulineholmes02 @dw91165 @peanitbear (just tell me if you wanna be removed/added!!)

[spiral-man]

Hey dudes,

Just wanted to wish everyone a happy-

Hello Jon,

Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.

I’m assuming you’re alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private. (slightly strained) I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.

Now, shall we turn the page and try again?

Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence, but I have worked so very hard for this moment, a culmination of two centuries of work. It’s rare that you get the chance to monologue through another, and you can’t tell me you’re not curious.

Why does a man seek to destroy the world?

It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.

It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, John, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.

I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die.

I believe there are far more people in this world that would take that bargain than you would ever guess. And I have beaten all of them.

Of course, this desire did not manifest overnight. When Smirke first gathered our little band – Lukas, Scott, and the rest – to discuss and hypothesize on the nature of the things he had learned from Rayner, I felt what I believe we all felt: curiosity, and fear.

But as he compiled his taxonomy and codified his theories on the grand rituals, I began to develop a very specific concern. Smirke was so obsessed with his ideas on balance, even as our fellows began to experiment and fall to the service of our patrons.

I began to worry that if one of them successfully attempted their ritual, then I would be as much a victim as any, trapped in the nightmare landscape of a twisted world.

At first, I attempted prevention, but the cause seemed hopeless. The only way to ensure I did not suffer the tribulations of what I believed to be an inevitable transformation was to bring it about myself. So what began as an experiment soon became a race.

Beyond that, I was getting older, and mortality began to weigh more heavily on my mind. How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?

I convinced Smirke to work on Millbank, leading him to design it as a temple to all the Fears in equilibrium, such that my own modifications to the design of the Panopticon went… unremarked.

It. Took. Years, for the dread of the prisoners to fully suffuse the place, and I was an old man before I made my first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown, sat in the center of that colossal eye, the great ring of cells encircling me like a coronet.

It was… flawed, of course, as all Smirke’s rituals were, and none of the inmates survived as the power I attempted to harness shook the building almost to pieces, and the murky swamp upon which the prison was built consumed it.

But it left me a gift: For sat in that watchtower, I could see everything I turned my mind to.

It was a dizzying power, and one I discovered I maintained even as I found vessels to extend my life. Of course, I had to make sure the location was kept under my control while I worked on revising my plans, and so I moved the organization I had founded to assist in my research down to London, and the Institute as you know it was born.

I’ll not bore you with details of my bodies and failures through those intervening years. Suffice to say I kept busy, both planning my own next attempt, and doing my best to stymie those others who tried versions of their own.

Surely my interpretation of the Watcher’s Crown had been incomplete; there had been some element of the ritual I had overlooked.

It was not until I met Gertrude Robinson that things began to really come into focus.

You see, the role of Archivist has been part of the Beholding for as far back as my research can go. This isn’t uncommon for the Powers; most of the beliefs around them are guesswork and fallible human interpretation, but there are certain throughlines and consistencies that can be spotted, regardless of the trappings.

But Gertrude was unlike any other Archivist. She simply did not care about compiling experiences or collecting the fears of others. She was driven to stop those who served the Powers.

More than once I thought she must secretly be of the Hunt – but there was never that sick joy in her, that thrill of predator and prey. She had simply decided that this was her position in life, and went about it with a practicality that even I found disconcerting at times.

I once asked her what drove her, what had started her down that path. She told me the Desolation had killed her cat.

I don’t know if she was joking, and, to be honest, I could never bring myself to look into her mind and find out for sure.

In any case, Gertrude’s ruthless efficiency in derailing and collapsing rituals threw into stark relief a question that had been bothering me for almost a hundred and fifty years: In the whole span of humanity, why had nobody ever succeeded?

Perhaps there were a long line of Gertrude Robinsons throughout history, but I found that hard to credit. Could it be, then, that there was something in the very concept of the rituals that meant they couldn’t succeed?

She was clearly having similar thoughts in that last year, all of which culminated with the People’s Church.

When I saw that she was making no preparations whatsoever to stop it, I realized she was putting into practice a theory, and one she couldn’t afford to be wrong. She was going to wait, and see if the unopposed ritual succeeded, or if it collapsed under its own strain as mine had all those years ago.

Knowing Gertrude, I’m sure she had a backup plan if she had miscalculated – but she had not. The ritual failed. And all at once, I realized what had to be done.

You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?

Even those that seem to exist in direct opposition rely on each other for their definition as much as up relies on down.

To try and create a world with only the Buried makes as much sense as trying to conceive a world with only down.

Every ritual tied itself so closely to a single power as to render itself impossible. They could bring their patron close, but never sever it from the others, and eventually it would be violently pulled back into the place next to reality where they dwell.

The solution, then, is simple: A new ritual must be devised which will bring through all the Powers at once. All fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge. All under the Eye’s auspices, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots.

And there was only one being that could possibly serve as a lynchpin for this new ritual: The Archivist. A position that had so recently become vacant, thanks to Gertrude’s ill-timed retirement plans.

Because the thing about the Archivist is that – well, it’s a bit of a misnomer.-

It might, perhaps, be better named: The Archive.

Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, John. You are a record of fear, both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you.

You are a living chronicle of terror.

Perhaps, then, if I could find an Archivist and have each Power mark them, have them confront each one and each in turn instill in them a powerful and acute fear for their life, they could be turned into a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom.

Do you see where I’m going, John?

It does tickle me, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck.

I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was.

Of course, I had to bide my time, get a measure of you before I began to push, learn how you worked – So I decided I would wait until something came for you, and see how you reacted. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during Gertrude’s tenure, and, while she was always prepared, I made sure you would not be.

I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when Jane Prentiss attacked, I watched eagerly, one hand on the gas release from the start.

You acquitted yourself well enough, so I decided to see how far you would get, though I waited until the worms were in you before I pulled the lever. I needed to make sure you felt that fear all the way to your bones.

The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus. Even if that sliver of paranoia, that vague wrongness you couldn’t quite place wouldn’t count as a mark, it was only a matter of time before it confronted you in a far more direct and affecting matter.

Admittedly, given the advent of the Unknowing, I needn’t have bothered. But what’s the old saying about hindsight?

More important to me was Sasha’s encounter with the Distortion. If it had taken an interest, then I very much wanted it to cross your path.

So I found one of its current victims and convinced her to make a statement.

Poor Helen. I actually had to put her in a taxi myself, she was getting so lost in those narrow London side streets.

It worked, though.

Between the stabbing and at least two desperate flights into its doors – you’re marked very deeply by the Spiral.

Jurgen Leitner was a surprise, of course, and I was forced to improvise. I had no idea how much Gertrude would have told him, and he could very easily have derailed everything if you learned too much too fast.

I… justified it to myself saying I was going to have to send you out into the world anyway, if you were to encounter more of the Powers, but I can’t honestly pretend it wasn’t a… rather rash move.

Still. I’d requested Detective Tonner be assigned to the case when they found Gertrude’s body in the hope that having a Hunter in the mix would eventually lead to a confrontation, and setting you up as a killer certainly hastened that.

Then it was just a matter of feeding you statements to lead you to a few Avatars I thought were likely to harm you – but probably would stop short of actually killing you.

Jude served her purpose exactly as I had hoped, as did our dearly departed Mr. Crew, marking you for the Desolation and the Vast.

Honestly, I had – nothing to do with Melanie and her Slaughter adventure, but when I saw the situation, I made sure to trap her here, so when her rage bubbled over you would be right there, a ready target.

I didn’t foresee the mark coming from surgery gone wrong, but it was a very pleasant surprise.

The Unknowing was a distraction, but not an unwelcome one. For this to work, you needed more than just the marks; you needed power. And that was something the Unknowing served to test, though it posed no actual danger in the grand scheme of things.

And it did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been very worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just die. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand why.

As it was, it was just right, and once again, you came through with flying colors.

By this point, your abilities were coming along in leaps and bounds, and I was concerned that meeting face-to-face might end up with you – (sigh) – Knowing something you shouldn’t.

I had initially planned to go into hiding, but when your colleagues surprised me with the police, well. It was simple enough to cut a deal.

All that remained, then, were the Dark, the Flesh, the Buried, and the Lonely.

I was a little put out when that idiot Jared Hopworth misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him.

I couldn’t see what happened in there, of course, but given how you came out, I’m very sure it counts as a mark.

I suspected the coffin might turn up again, and once it did, it was simply a matter of getting any, uh… restraining factors you might have had flying off on a wild goose chase, and waiting.

Honestly, Detective Tonner has been proving invaluable through this process. I’d been racking my brains for months about what I could use to lure you in.

And, of course, I knew the Dark Sun was just sitting there waiting. So when it came time, I just whipped up another apocalypse and sent you on your merry way.

Then all that remained was the Lonely.

Poor Peter. He really should have left well enough alone. (cruel laugh) Or just done what I’d asked in the first place.

Ah well. He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about Martin.

Of course, he had no way of knowing that, in addition to setting you up for the final mark, he was giving you all the tools you needed to escape from it.

How is Martin, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that.

And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date. I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.

You are prepared. You are ready. You are marked. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here.

Don’t worry, John. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.

Now. (cruel, cruel laugh) Repeat after me.

You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right.

Come to us in your wholeness.

Come to us in your perfection.

Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!

Come to us.

I – OPEN – THE DOOR!

[shmaptainwrites]

𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 [𝐀 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘]

PAIRINGS — Violet Bridgerton x fem!Reader [Modern!AU]

SUMMARY — Violet receives shocking news about a staff member and must quickly adjust to maintain her family's affairs

WORD COUNT — 3.1 K

WARNINGS — none

NOTE — Ah! The first chapter is here! I am so excited to share this with all of you and give Violet the love she deserves with a little bit of a twist! Again another big thank you to @sleepyfireball and @lifesizehysteria who have been there for my incoherent screaming about this at all hours of the day

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐀𝐎𝟑

𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑷𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑰: 𝑨𝑭𝑭𝑨𝑰𝑹𝑺 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑵𝑬𝑬𝑫 𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑬𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮

If there was one thing that was universally acknowledged, it was that the Bridgertons were always in the spotlight. 

Whether it was right at the start when the heartthrob Edmund Bridgerton began dating Violet Ledger, or their early marriage, or the child that followed soon after, or the seven children that followed after that, the life of the Bridgertons was always and would always be publicized. 

Violet loved her family to pieces, anyone could tell that, but there were times she wished they could live a different life, perhaps not one so fully in the public eye. 

One might think that after over twenty years of such a reality, someone might get used to it, but the world had a way of surprising you. Just as Violet thought she might be getting a hold of things, heavily pregnant with her eighth child, she lost the love of her life. 

There were always people, itching for contact, for a word to be uttered to them from the illustrious family, but when she screamed out for help the world was silent. 

From the moment he died in her arms the cameras would not leave. Suddenly they knew everything. About her grief, how close she herself had come to dying while giving birth to her last child; she could not escape one moment without seeing her own tearstained face somewhere. 

She knew it would be completely impossible to remove herself and her family from all those curious onlookers, but she did her best to create a shield, and as the years passed, the cameras pointed away from her and her loved ones, only returning every once in a while, often around the time of joyful news. 

It had been a long while since that time, but with every single flash of a camera came back those moments she wished so desperately to erase from her mind. 

Her children had almost all since moved on, scattered across the world pursuing their dreams or starting their families, and the family home had certainly grown much quieter without their presence, but that didn’t mean life remained quiet. 

“Mum!” Hyacinth squealed and Violet could hear her feet pattering up the stairs until she threw the door to her office open, a bright smile on her face. 

Violet chuckled a little at the sight, Hyacinth was still in her pyjamas, one of those heatless curl contraptions clipped to her hair, a certain exuberance in her eyes that was not brought on by just anything.

“Yes, dearest?” she said, putting down her pen and taking off her glasses, giving her full attention to her youngest. 

“She’s coming here! To London!” 

“I’m sorry, who is coming here?” Violet looked at her daughter with some confusion, knowing that when she got too excited she often forgot to give context. 

“Beyoncé!” Hyacinth exclaimed. “Mum, please, please, please, you have to let me go!” 

Violet shook her head, “Hyacinth, you’re sixteen, I’m not going to let you go to a concert alone. They might not even allow you into the venue alone.” 

“What if I convince Benedict to come with me?” Hyacinth asked. “Or Daphne!” 

“Daphne just had a baby, please don’t ask your sister if she’ll go to a concert with you,” Violet chuckled. “But I suppose if Benedict says yes then I’ll consider it.” 

“Really?” Hyacinth grinned and Violet nodded her head. 

Hyacinth squealed once more and ran over to the side of her mother’s desk, engulfing her in a tight hug. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” 

“Hyacinth, shut up! It’s nine in the morning.” They heard Gregory call from his room, but Hyacinth clearly didn’t care and Violet simply rolled her eyes at the interaction between the two. 

“Where did you find out the concert was happening?” Violet asked. 

“Just on here,” Hyacinth swiped on the front of her phone screen showing the small news widget that had a headline about the tour dates, but Violet’s eyes drifted lower and widened at the sight of something else. “Mum, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?” 

“I-I’m fine,” she said. “Why don’t you go see what your brother wants for breakfast, I have to make a few calls.” 

Hyacinth nodded her head, listening to her mother, leaving the room and closing the door behind her, allowing Violet to open her laptop and look up the headline she had seen. 

Of course everything had to happen the day her assistant went on leave. 

She quickly picked up her phone and called Anthony, praying he would pick up.

He answered after a few rings, but not without some frustration in his voice.

“Mum, can I call you back? Eddie is being a little shit right now and-,”

“Landon was just arrested,” she blurted and Anthony quieted. 

He quickly spoke to Kate, letting her know he had to take care of an emergency and Violet could hear him move to somewhere surely more private. 

“Okay, walk me through what’s going on,” he said. 

“I don’t know much, I just saw it on the news,” she explained. 

“What was he arrested for?” Anthony asked. 

She read through the article trying to gather a few details before speaking again.

“Looks like embezzlement from the other family he was working for,” she explained. “I had no idea, Anthony. We had no idea.” 

“Has anyone contacted you about it? Police? Press?” 

“Not yet,” she shook her head. “But I suppose we’re going to need a new financial manager,” she sighed.

“I’ll call the lawyers to make sure everything is in order,” Anthony said. 

“Darling, you’re on vacation with your family, I don’t want to distract you from that,” she sighed. 

“Mum, you’ve cleaned up all of our messes more times than I can count. Let me at least take care of the legal stuff from here. You can be on damage control with the media and find someone to replace him. You have that giant charity gala coming up and Marianne just went on leave, you can't do it alone.”

Violet bit the inside of her cheek and nodded her head, “Okay, but please tell Kate I’m sorry about this.” 

“You have no need to apologize, it’s not your fault.” 

“I hired him, it feels a little like my fault,” she groaned. “Okay, okay let me leave you. I’ll get things sorted over here, maybe talk to Pat about releasing a statement and get ahead of things.” 

“Good idea, we can touch base again tomorrow, how’s that?” 

“That should work. Call sooner if anything comes up,” Violet said. 

“I will, and don’t let this get to you too much. Love you, Mum.” 

“I love you too, my dear,” with one last sigh she hung up the phone and leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling. 

She took a moment before calling Pat and crafting a statement to release to the media together. After the wording was sorted, Pat took care of the rest and Violet immediately started her search for a new financial manager. 

She desperately tried to push down the feeling of dread that seemed to be creeping up inside her chest. Small voices making their way through, only to say that she had brought this upon herself. She prayed that if anything this would only be a minor scandal, that Landon had spared their family from his misdeeds. 

Violet didn’t know what she would do if it was more than that. Because in the end if Landon took their money, he had also taken their privacy. She could deal with a material loss, their family had more than enough to manage, but something that put that burning hot light back on her would make her feel like she was slowly losing her mind.

She didn’t particularly want to be in charge of the hiring process again, afraid she may make the same mistake as last time, but Anthony was right. Especially with Marianne on leave, she could not handle the events that were coming up alone. She would need some kind of support and to ensure the public knew the Bridgertons were still holding their heads high regardless of what was happening around them. 

Violet didn’t leave her office until well past midnight. She was grateful that both Hyacinth and Gregory came to check on her during separate occasions and made sure that she had eaten food and had something to drink. Clearly, this was not a common occurrence, but any time there was an issue the siblings knew their mother would be practically locked in her office until she couldn’t handle it any more. 

“Mum?” Gregory knocked on the door, carefully opening it a crack and sticking his head through. 

Violet had her hair clipped up, her glasses crooked on her nose, hunched over her computer. 

“Mum?” Gregory repeated, and Violet looked up from her screen. 

“Yes, darling, sorry,” she apologized, looking up with a yawn. 

“I think you should go to sleep,” he said. “You’re not going to be able to deal with whatever happened if you’re running on fumes.”

“You might benefit from taking your own advice,” she teased. “I distinctly remember you staying up all night before your A-Levels.” 

Gregory chuckled. 

“Well if you want me to listen next time maybe you can set a good example,” he suggested. 

Violet conceded, closing her laptop and removing her glasses, placing them down on her desk. After getting up, she pulled her son into a tight hug. 

He was now taller than her, just like all her other boys, but she still dragged him down for a kiss on his cheek before sending him off to bed and taking his wise advice. 

As Violet readied herself for bed, her mind couldn’t help but drift back to the situation she had to deal with. She was worried, not only that she wouldn’t see the signs of untrustworthiness in someone, but also that she may perhaps be too guarded to see a good candidate when they were in front of her. 

Regardless, she would have to find someone, fast, and she prayed that somehow she’d have clear enough vision to pick the right person. 

—

A few weeks had gone by, and schedule wise, things were getting tight for the Bridgertons. 

“Still no hires?” Anthony asked over a video call and Violet shook her head.

“I have another interview with someone today, but I’m starting to think I’m going to have to do this gala alone.” 

“We can call Benedict, maybe he can come and help, just temporarily?” Anthony suggested, but Violet shook her head. 

She knew that the responsibility of such tasks stressed her second son and, in the end, might just create more work. 

“No, let’s just hope this next applicant is a good fit,” she said. “I’ll send you a message to let you know how it goes.” 

Anthony nodded his head, “You take care, Mum.” 

“I will. Kiss Eddie and Kate for me?” 

“Always,” Anthony smiled and Violet smiled back before hanging up the phone. 

Violet arranged her papers and cleaned up her space a little in preparation for the applicant that would be brought to her soon. 

She’d made it a habit to be the person to greet them at the door and she figured it made sense to continue that, especially since they tried to keep a minimal amount of staff in the house and they were often off dealing with much more important things than answering the door. Plus, everyone was vetted by security on the way in so she didn’t have much to worry about by means of safety. 

When the time finally came and the sound of the doorbell rang throughout the entire house, Violet came down the stairs, quickly checking her hair in the mirror before answering the door. 

After so many years in the spotlight, Violet was not one to choke on her words often, but she found herself unable to speak for a moment, simply staring at the woman in front of her. 

“Hi, I’m here for the interview for the financial manager position,” you said. “I’m supposed to meet with Mrs. Bridgerton.” 

Violet blinked a few times and finally nodded her head, coughing a little and opening the door wider. 

“Yes t-that’s me. I am her. V-Violet,” she stumbled and stuttered, cursing herself internally for seeming so absentminded. “Sorry,” she cleared her throat again, welcoming you in. “Call me Violet.” 

“Violet, it’s nice to meet you,” you offered your hand for her to shake. “You have a lovely home.” 

“Oh, thank you,” she smiled, a pink tinge coming to her cheeks. “It’s been in my late husband’s family for generations. I tend to forget to give it so much as a second thought.” 

You chuckled a little at her comment and waited for her to direct you to where she wanted to hold the interview. 

“Did you have to travel far to get here?” Violet asked as you walked up the stairs together. 

“No, not too far,” you shook your head. “I suppose you’ve asked that quite a few times of late.” 

“Much to my own dismay,” she nodded. “I can’t count the number of interviews I’ve done the past few weeks,” she admitted. 

“Well then I hope this one goes well for the both of us,” you smiled and she chuckled. 

“Yes, as do I,” she nodded. 

Violet opened the door to her office and let you take a seat across from her desk before sitting down herself. 

“So, shall we get right into it?” she asked, and you nodded your head. 

Just as Violet opened her mouth to begin to speak, a loud muffled sound started vibrating through the walls of the old home. Violet frowned, but then quickly realized where the sound was coming from as Hyacinth’s voice rang loudly through the hallway, singing along to a Whitney Huston song. 

She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, very embarrassed, and quickly excused herself, running over to Hyacinth’s room, opening the door without knocking. 

“Mum what are you-” 

“I’m in the middle of an interview,” she said. “Turn it down, or, better yet, please turn it off.” 

“Shoot! Gregory said it was tomorrow, the little twat!” Hyacinth quickly turned off her music and apologized to her mother. 

“Never mind that. I’ll talk to Gregory later,” Violet sighed. “Just please keep it down.” 

Hyacinth nodded her head and Violet left the room, going back to her office and closing the door behind her. 

“I’m so sorry for that,” she said. “School has been over for two weeks and they’re already restless.” 

“Your children?” you asked and Violet nodded. 

“My two youngest are still with me, the others have all moved out,” she explained. “Now where were we,” she settled back in her seat. “Can you tell me a bit about your educational background?” 

“Well I studied business for my undergrad and then went on to get an MBA and a Master’s in Economics,” you explained. 

“And on your CV it says you worked for a holding company previously?” she noted. 

“Yes, that was my last place of employment,” you confirmed. “I managed a lot of the company's assets and dealt with investments mostly.”

“And why did you leave?” 

You smiled, “Looking for a new challenge.” 

Violet nodded her head and flipped through her papers. 

“Do you have much experience dealing with people publically?” she asked. 

“Not particularly, that was often handled by others where I was previously employed,” you said. “I’d like to think I’m pretty personable though.” 

“I would have to agree with you,” Violet smiled. “Do you work well under pressure? I wouldn’t say it is a constant with this position, but it definitely has its moments.” 

“I have been known to be able to deliver the desired results within whatever time frame I’m given,” you nodded your head. “I’ve always been a very meticulous person, I find it often comes to my advantage in a workplace setting.” 

Violet skimmed through her papers and as she did so she asked, “Do you have any questions for me?” 

“A few, actually,” you adjusted your seating slightly. “I was wondering if you might tell me a little more of what the day to day looks like?”

“Great question,” Violet nodded. “Similar to your work with the holding company, we will have investments that need to be managed and stocks that need to be watched over. My family and I have also started a few charities that will need to be looked over and, along with those, come plans for budgets and expenses. It is more so the bigger picture and making sure everyone working on those is doing their job properly, think of it as quality control.” 

“Is there anyone I will be working closely with?” you asked. 

“Yes, me actually,” Violet nodded. “And my eldest son Anthony once he returns from visiting his wife’s family in India.” 

You tried to hide your surprise, but it did not go unnoticed by the seasoned socialite. 

“You’re surprised,” she said, reading your expression quite plainly. 

“A little,” you admitted. “I was told typically families of your standing aren’t particularly involved with these sorts of things. Mostly posing for the camera while others do things behind the scenes.” 

“I can see where you’re coming from, but I assure you that is not the Bridgerton way,” Violet chuckled. “My husband studied business specifically so that he could change the way we did things here. Edmund never wanted the family’s money only to be used for show, he wanted it to have meaning, especially knowing our country’s history of taking things that do not belong to it. In a way, I suppose he wanted to give it back while still ensuring his family could have a good, comfortable life.” 

You hummed thoughtfully, a smile gracing your lips, and Violet could sense you were impressed. 

“I take it you agreed with your husband?” 

Violet nodded her head, “Why do you think I went back to school in my forties?” 

“Mrs. Bridgerton, you are full of surprises,” you laughed. 

“Violet, please,” she reminded you. “I try to be. That’s how I prefer it.” 

She asked you a few more questions, a few situational problems so she could get a sense of your style of working. You had an inkling things were going well, but you didn’t realize how well until the interview was over and you were preparing to leave. 

“So, when can you start?” Violet asked. 

A little taken aback, you took a moment to think about it before looking back at her with an excited smile. 

“Tomorrow.” 

“Perfect,” she let out the breath of air she had been holding and patted her hands on her legs. “We have a lot of work to do.” 

TAGLIST —

@paola-carter @madde11 @thesamesweetie @cherrysxuya @philocalistwrites @mako-mermaids2021 @oh-mydarling @courtneyteal @amethyst-bitch @etherynn @lilisdarling

[michaelmylove]

Hello, John. Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.

I’m assuming you’re alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private. (slightly strained) I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.

Now, shall we turn the page and try again? Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence, but I have worked so very hard for this moment, a culmination of two centuries of work. It’s rare that you get the chance to monologue through another, and you can’t tell me you’re not curious.

Why does a man seek to destroy the world?

It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.

It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, John, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.

I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die.

I believe there are far more people in this world that would take that bargain than you would ever guess. And I have beaten all of them.

Of course, this desire did not manifest overnight. When Smirke first gathered our little band – Lukas, Scott, and the rest – to discuss and hypothesise on the nature of the things he had learned from Rayner, I felt what I believe we all felt: curiosity, and fear.

But as he compiled his taxonomy and codified his theories on the grand rituals, I began to develop a very specific concern. Smirke was so obsessed with his ideas on balance, even as our fellows began to experiment and fall to the service of our patrons.

I began to worry that if one of them successfully attempted their ritual, then I would be as much a victim as any, trapped in the nightmare landscape of a twisted world.

At first, I attempted prevention, but the cause seemed hopeless. The only way to ensure I did not suffer the tribulations of what I believed to be an inevitable transformation was to bring it about myself. So what began as an experiment soon became a race.

Beyond that, I was getting older, and mortality began to weigh more heavily on my mind. How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?

I convinced Smirke to work on Millbank, leading him to design it as a temple to all the Fears in equilibrium, such that my own modifications to the design of the Panopticon went… unremarked.

It. Took. Years, for the dread of the prisoners to fully suffuse the place, and I was an old man before I made my first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown, sat in the centre of that colossal eye, the great ring of cells encircling me like a coronet.

It was… flawed, of course, as all Smirke’s rituals were, and none of the inmates survived as the power I attempted to harness shook the building almost to pieces, and the murky swamp upon which the prison was built consumed it.

But it left me a gift: For sat in that watchtower, I could see everything I turned my mind to.

It was a dizzying power, and one I discovered I maintained even as I found vessels to extend my life. Of course, I had to make sure the location was kept under my control while I worked on revising my plans, and so I moved the organisation I had founded to assist in my research down to London, and the Institute as you know it was born.

I’ll not bore you with details of my bodies and failures through those intervening years. Suffice to say I kept busy, both planning my own next attempt, and doing my best to stymie those others who tried versions of their own.

Surely my interpretation of the Watcher’s Crown had been incomplete; there had been some element of the ritual I had overlooked.

It was not until I met Gertrude Robinson that things began to really come into focus.

You see, the role of Archivist has been part of the Beholding for as far back as my research can go. This isn’t uncommon for the Powers; most of the beliefs around them are guesswork and fallible human interpretation, but there are certain throughlines and consistencies that can be spotted, regardless of the trappings.

But Gertrude was unlike any other Archivist. She simply did not care about compiling experiences or collecting the fears of others. She was driven to stop those who served the Powers.

More than once I thought she must secretly be of the Hunt – but there was never that sick joy in her, that thrill of predator and prey. She had simply decided that this was her position in life, and went about it with a practicality that even I found disconcerting at times.

I once asked her what drove her, what had started her down that path. She told me the Desolation had killed her cat.

I don’t know if she was joking, and, to be honest, I could never bring myself to look into her mind and find out for sure.

In any case, Gertrude’s ruthless efficiency in derailing and collapsing rituals threw into stark relief a question that had been bothering me for almost a hundred and fifty years: In the whole span of humanity, why had nobody ever succeeded?

Perhaps there were a long line of Gertrude Robinsons throughout history, but I found that hard to credit. Could it be, then, that there was something in the very concept of the rituals that meant they couldn’t succeed?

She was clearly having similar thoughts in that last year, all of which culminated with the People’s Church.

When I saw that she was making no preparations whatsoever to stop it, I realised she was putting into practice a theory, and one she couldn’t afford to be wrong. She was going to wait, and see if the unopposed ritual succeeded, or if it collapsed under its own strain as mine had all those years ago.

Knowing Gertrude, I’m sure she had a backup plan if she had miscalculated – but she had not. The ritual failed. And all at once, I realised what had to be done.

You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?

Even those that seem to exist in direct opposition rely on each other for their definition as much as up relies on down.

To try and create a world with only the Buried makes as much sense as trying to conceive a world with only down.

Every ritual tied itself so closely to a single power as to render itself impossible. They could bring their patron close, but never sever it from the others, and eventually it would be violently pulled back into the place next to reality where they dwell.

The solution, then, is simple: A new ritual must be devised which will bring through all the Powers at once. All fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge. All under the Eye’s auspices, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots.

And there was only one being that could possibly serve as a linchpin for this new ritual: The Archivist. A position that had so recently become vacant, thanks to Gertrude’s ill-timed retirement plans.

Because the thing about the Archivist is that – well, it’s a bit of a misnomer.

It might, perhaps, be better named: The Archive.

Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, John. You are a record of fear, both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you.

You are a living chronicle of terror.

Perhaps, then, if I could find an Archivist and have each Power mark them, have them confront each one and each in turn instil in them a powerful and acute fear for their life, they could be turned into a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom.

Do you see where I’m going, John?

It does tickle me, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck.

I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was.

Of course, I had to bide my time, get a measure of you before I began to push, learn how you worked – So I decided I would wait until something came for you, and see how you reacted. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during Gertrude’s tenure, and, while she was always prepared, I made sure you would not be.

I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when Jane Prentiss attacked, I watched eagerly, one hand on the gas release from the start.

You acquitted yourself well enough, so I decided to see how far you would get, though I waited until the worms were in you before I pulled the lever. I needed to make sure you felt that fear all the way to your bones.

The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus. Even if that sliver of paranoia, that vague wrongness you couldn’t quite place wouldn’t count as a mark, it was only a matter of time before it confronted you in a far more direct and affecting matter.

Admittedly, given the advent of the Unknowing, I needn’t have bothered. But what’s the old saying about hindsight?

More important to me was Sasha’s encounter with the Distortion. If it had taken an interest, then I very much wanted it to cross your path.

So I found one of its current victims and convinced her to make a statement.

Poor Helen. I actually had to put her in a taxi myself, she was getting so lost in those narrow London side streets.

It worked, though.

Between the stabbing and at least two desperate flights into its doors – you’re marked very deeply by the Spiral.

Jurgen Leitner was a surprise, of course, and I was forced to improvise. I had no idea how much Gertrude would have told him, and he could very easily have derailed everything if you learned too much too fast.

I… justified it to myself saying I was going to have to send you out into the world anyway, if you were to encounter more of the Powers, but I can’t honestly pretend it wasn’t a… rather rash move.

Still. I’d requested Detective Tonner be assigned to the case when they found Gertrude’s body in the hope that having a Hunter in the mix would eventually lead to a confrontation, and setting you up as a killer certainly hastened that.

Then it was just a matter of feeding you statements to lead you to a few Avatars I thought were likely to harm you – but probably would stop short of actually killing you.

Jude served her purpose exactly as I had hoped, as did our dearly departed Mr. Crew, marking you for the Desolation and the Vast.

Honestly, I had – nothing to do with Melanie and her Slaughter adventure, but when I saw the situation, I made sure to trap her here, so when her rage bubbled over you would be right there, a ready target.

I didn’t foresee the mark coming from surgery gone wrong, but it was a very pleasant surprise.

The Unknowing was a distraction, but not an unwelcome one. For this to work, you needed more than just the marks; you needed power. And that was something the Unknowing served to test, though it posed no actual danger in the grand scheme of things.

And it did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been very worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just die. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand why.

As it was, it was just right, and once again, you came through with flying colours.

By this point, your abilities were coming along in leaps and bounds, and I was concerned that meeting face-to-face might end up with you – (sigh) – Knowing something you shouldn’t.

I had initially planned to go into hiding, but when your colleagues surprised me with the police, well. It was simple enough to cut a deal.

All that remained, then, were the Dark, the Flesh, the Buried, and the Lonely.

I was a little put out when that idiot Jared Hopworth misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him.

I couldn’t see what happened in there, of course, but given how you came out, I’m very sure it counts as a mark.

I suspected the coffin might turn up again, and once it did, it was simply a matter of getting any, uh… restraining factors you might have had flying off on a wild goose chase, and waiting.

Honestly, Detective Tonner has been proving invaluable through this process. I’d been racking my brains for months about what I could use to lure you in.

And, of course, I knew the Dark Sun was just sitting there waiting. So when it came time, I just whipped up another apocalypse and sent you on your merry way.

Then all that remained was the Lonely.

Poor Peter. He really should have left well enough alone.  Or just done what I’d asked in the first place.

Ah well. He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about Martin.

Of course, he had no way of knowing that, in addition to setting you up for the final mark, he was giving you all the tools you needed to escape from it.

How is Martin, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that.

And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date. I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.

You are prepared. You are ready. You are marked. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here.

Don’t worry, John. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.

Now. Repeat after me.

You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right.

Come to us in your wholeness.

Come to us in your perfection.

Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!

Come to us.

I – OPEN – THE DOOR!

Oh my god you. You really did the whole thing. You did the whole damn thing. I don't know whether i should be deeply concerned or impressed or just afraid. Maybe a queer concoction of all three

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 11/19/2024

no silly little witticism here this week! just heartfelt thanks for helping me pay my rent this month :)

listening

absolutely wild pick from last week's spotify weekly recommenced, Things Will Fall Apart by Louis Cole feat the Metropole Orkest and conductor Jules Buckley. it's been on loop all week for me and im a little sad it won't pop up in my spotify wrapped

when you make a dance pop song with a full orchestra backing, it has a really interesting effect somewhere between Golden Age of Hollywood swashbuckling film score and marching band?

Yes, understood Things will fall apart just likе they should This little shred was good Don't think it through Things will fall apart, they always do At least, something's always true

the syllables are so choppy they don’t even register to me as English at first, i was fully willing to believe this was German for the first couple lines. like @dying-suffering-french-stalkers, i have a deep fondness for works about putting an era to bed. or works focused on the sunsets of things, or one of the last living practitioners of an art. putting the chairs up on the table, sweeping the floors, and turning the lights out and locking the door behind you. this song has that sort of quiet post-wake-party remembrance.

however once you think the song has ended but it keeps going, you can turn it off. you don’t really need that extra minute and a half of strings and light vocalizations.

Lately, Louis Cole has been doing live shows with the Netherlands’ Metropole Orkest and conductor Jules Buckley. Cole recorded nothing with the ensemble. In a press release, he says, “Sometimes, when I’m mixing my own solo stuff, I’ll feel like a song needs a little magical dust. But mixing an entire orchestra and your own rhythm section, there’s so much human energy! You don’t have to add any magic. It was there the whole time.”

i don’t hear many pop songs this millennium with a full orchestral backing. perhaps i need to look harder. unfortunately spotify took this extreme interest in this song as a newfound extreme interest in electroswing, which is really not what this song is. i hope this artist does more albums like this so they can wear grooves in my brain

-

reading

very hard to focus on anything book length this week. some depressing local news (my local paper's links do Not want to preview nicely here, which is annoying:

At a city council meeting in October, district Vice President Dan Joyce told council members that the management district was not attempting to "criminalize homelessness." The city’s civility ordinance bans people from sitting, lying down or placing personal items or bedding on sidewalks from 7 a.m. to 11 p.m.

cool piece from our pals at 404 Media. i am So fascinated by crime infrastructure

Based on interviews with malware developers, hackers who use the stolen credentials, and a review of manuals that tell new recruits how to spread the malware, 404 Media has mapped out this industry. Its end result is that a download of an innocent-looking piece of software by a single person can lead to a data breach at a multibillion-dollar company, putting Google and other tech giants in an ever-escalating cat-and-mouse game with the malware developers to keep people and companies safe.

(via longreads) my interest in how and why systems fail extends to invasive species management. plus i used to live in florida just above the everglades and these fuckers (the snakes) were everywhere

[I]magine thousands upon thousands of pythons, their slow digestion transforming each corpse into python muscle and fat. Unaided, Florida’s native wildlife doesn’t stand a chance. “That’s what I think about with every python I catch,” Kalil says. “What it ate to get this big, and the lives I’m saving by removing it.” Biologists are taking a multipronged approach to the issue. They have experimented with enlisting dogs to sniff out both pythons and nests—a technique that has proved difficult in such hot weather and inhospitable landscapes. Ongoing projects use telemetry to track pythons to find “associate snakes.” Researchers use drones, go out in airboats, or even take to helicopters to locate their subjects in the interiors of the Everglades. Always, agencies and individuals are looking for the next best methods. “But for now, the python contractor program is the most successful management effort in the history of the issue,” Kirkland says. “We’re capturing more and more—something that is indicative of the python population out there and indicative of us getting better at what we do.”

-

watching

continuing noirvember, watched hitchcock's Notorious to see if i still dislike hitchcock. the answer is yes. there are bond girls and there are hitchcock girls, and not that bond girls are paragons of female agency in film, but hitchcock girls are mostly fluttering little pathetic things. a scrap of agency they showed in the beginning of the film becomes a running joke and something their noses are rubbed in for the rest of the film. not for me!

patrick mcgoohan is leading me into some real dad-ass movies. Ice Station Zebra (1968, dir. Sturges) is a real you're stuck at home sick with your dad and it's on TV for the whole afternoon kind of movie. they truly do not make two and a half cold war submarine espionage films in super panavision with an overture, intermission, and interact music any more. i get why howard hughes was really obsessed with this one. it is a suspense film, but full of people competently going about their business, which i find oddly comforting.

unfortunately i do not feel this really needed to be two and a half hours long. the loving closeups of sub interiors and instrumentation really did keep me amused, though. despite how cluttered every shot is with actors, there is tremendous clarity of purpose and motion with the camera movement. just a really technically brilliant film.

how similar the russian and american control rooms and instrumentation were made me chortle. ties nicely into a little diatribe mcgoohan goes on much later in the film, "The Russians put our camera made by our German scientists and your film made by your German scientists into their satellite made by their German scientists." funny and darkly true! every allied nation had some sort of Operation Paperclip going on! mcgoohan is the focus of every scene he's in, as a spy who is really hanging on by the last remaining shreds of his fingernails.

i had a good time with it, but one of many cold war suspense films im glad exist in the world but don't necessarily need to see again. it might join Escape from New York as a film i put on when im very sick though.

-

playing

this pc needs some sort of replacement something, bc it has a really persistent overheating problem. it only tolerates powerwasher simulator on the lowest possible settings and genshin impact on basically mobile settings. it does not even want to run new vegas. i popped my head out of goodsprings to look out over the desert at the Strip and it said no thank you! too many polygons! naptime!

speaking of genshin, major update this week and new character i will be pulling for. she has a sister who died in the last patch, which i do Not care for as someone with a beloved little sister, but her moveset and skills are unique so far in the game. i feel like her skills are little too complicated for me to fully take advantage of with my "hit enemy very hard until he is dead" playstyle but she has a limited flight ability that will genuinely be very useful for exploration.

if i do not get her when i hit pity on the banner i won't bother pulling another nine times or whatever, bc the next patch has a character i really desperately want and i am saving for her

-

making

the local crew is all getting art this year, bc i already have bristol board and a selection of small frames and zero budget. people who have pets are So easy to get gifts for bc u can simply get them stuff for their pet or that looks like their pet. way less gray cat than black cat merch in the world tho

aiming to send out international holiday cards by the end of the week, and canadian cards by american thanksgiving. the rest of you they'll get there when they get there ok

[frostbitebakery]

Anything from Who Ordered The Resurrection Special please?

DO I! :D

“The war is over. What now?”

Ryloth’s mountains rise on the horizon with the setting sun.

Obi-Wan rubs at the corner of his eye, leans back on his other hand. The grass is tickling against his skin. Kashyyk’s vegetation has always been so soft and lush; it’s a balm that almost, almost makes him smile. “I’m afraid we’re not out of tasks to do yet, my friend.” Perhaps his tone is too sarcastic, too downtrodden. But the exhaustion is clamoring up his every nerve and muscle and strand of thought.

“You’re right,” his Commander agrees softly, small chuckle rounding the vowels, echoes of it flowing back from the cliffs. Geonosis is not a good resting place. “Even death can’t keep you away from work.”

It sounds too serious for a joke. “What do you mean?” he asks and turns his head towards—

Goda shakes him by the singed shawl, breath burning and fire. “The one who should have been didn’t care and now everyone is paying the price.” The hole in his gut sizzles, melts, and Obi-Wan frantically pulls at the bandages. “Stop them before—“

“Goda, please, hold on, yes?” They’re alone but they shouldn’t be. It had been carnage the last time. Goda pushing Obi-Wan into a fighter with his last breath, voice cold and droid-like when it wasn’t drenched in despair.

Goda’s glove smells like death as it brushes against Obi-Wan’s cheek. “We weren’t ever meant to be, were we?”

“Who—? Commander—“

“Your men.”

Obi-Wan wakes up.

Day 2

Wolffe hauls the backpack higher up on his shoulder, pulls the cap deeper into his face. “Sinker owes me. I’ll rig up the IV once I’m back.”

“I’m sure Nurse Rosa appreciates the nickname.”

Wolffe holds up his hands. “She’s the one who came up with it.” He slaps Cody’s shoulder before turning to the front door. “I’ll get something to eat, too,” he says, stepping through the door and into the faint morning light.

Cody leans against the door, closing it with his weight, and lets himself sigh deep and even.

Their plan is to put an IV into the zombie for electrolytes until his organs can handle digestion. Wolffe gets some supplies from the hospital since going there is still out of the question even though the zombie has drastically healed since the first moment he appeared. It’s not leathery skin stretched over bones and gnarled limbs anymore. He had almost looked fresh faced when Cody had helped him into a loose t-shirt and sweatpants. Very fresh faced. It’s easy now to imagine what he’ll look like once he’s fully alive again.

Cody’s cheeks turn warm and that’s enough of that.

Maybe Cody’s family is in a unique position when it comes to… the stranger side of life, and as a firefighter he’s certainly seen enough shit one can’t explain that easily. But he’d rather not make tinfoil hats in a padded room while the zombie is whisked off to be sliced and diced.

“Hel…lo…”

Perfect timing. Cody looks up to his unalive guest standing in the doorway of the guest bedroom, looking lost in Cody’s borrowed clothes. “Oh, hey, you’re up!”

“…there.”

Cody blinks. “Where what?”

.

Cody has to think about that one for a minute. Which might give Obi-Wan the wrong impression about his family and Cody’s relationship to them but he’s not exactly thinking about them day and night anymore. Not now that they’re all adults with their own lives.

“My siblings mean everything to me,” Cody lands on, tipping a finger against the red MFD mug. “They didn’t have it easy growing up but they worked hard and,” he huffs out a laugh. He isn’t cynical usually but working hard to achieve dreams and success hasn’t been cutting it since before he was born. “Our father had some helpful connections so they could at least get a foot in the door.”

Cody refuses to publicly acknowledge the reality behind those connections for his siblings’ sake. He dug deep to uncover the truth behind Bly suddenly getting the scholarship of a lifetime, the top notch medical school of the country personally inviting Wolffe into their program.

Fox had fucked off to the Navy following his dream of reenacting the beach football scene in Top Gun. So it was up to Cody to ensure their father’s shady business wouldn’t bite them in the ass in the long run. Ponds had already paid the highest price for that. Boba—

“Boba is the oldest,” Cody starts, smile tugging at his mouth despite everything. He’s currently in jail for murdering my second oldest brother, Cody chooses not to say.

Obi-Wan tilts his head in interest but Cody moves right along.

“You met Wolffe,” he continues, grinning at Obi-Wan’s sigh. “Yeah, he has that effect on people.”

:

“I’m not here to hold people’s hands, Dr Koone,” Wolffe says reasonably.

The medical superintendent looks down at his hand being held by Wolffe and raises a bushy eyebrow around the breathing mask contraption covering most of his face.

“This means nothing.” Wolffe about had a heart attack when he got the news of the gas leak explosion rendering his mentor comatose. “It’s not my fault you like to live in a medical drama.”

Dr Koone pats his hand.

Wolffe sighs. “I’ll have Boost fluff your pillows. He’ll sneak in your ER novels.”

:

“I actually am not sure what Bly does,” Cody says slowly. “She got a bunch of doctorates hanging in her garage and her favorite hobby is making slime.”

:

Bly punches the end call button on the touchscreen with a growl. “No one lets me do anything around here!”

Cody blows on the spoonful of sauce before taking a careful sip. “They’re not going to fund you your own CERN, Bly.” A bit more oregano should do the trick.

“The things I could do with it!”

The alarm is about to go off and Cody stops it before the first beep. “Drain the spaghetti, please.”

Bly takes the huge pot over to the sink, hitting the cold water. “They act like I’m one inevitable lab accident away from becoming Doofenschmirtz.”

“They aren’t wrong.”

Bly whirls around, hands over her heart. “That’s the nicest thing you ever said to me, Codes.”

“I love you no matter what doesn’t count at all, does it?”

His sister scoffs out a laugh and waves him away. “I already knew that, idiot.”

Cody shakes his head and announces to the station that lunch is ready.

:

“After Fox’s stint in the Navy and fulfilling that dream, he went on to the next one,” Cody explains and pauses.

:

“Please give a warm welcome to our special guest tonight,” the club host says into the mic. “His unapologetic attitude towards life and its wonders has firmly established his name in the poetry community worldwide.”

Cody is about to clap when he notices everyone around him snapping their fingers.

“I swear, all your lives are made purely out of 90s tropes,” he murmurs to Bly.

“You would know, old man.”

Fox slinks onto the stage in a tight fitting black turtleneck and board shorts, and grabs the mic. “Pain.” He stomps onto the floor once. “Spite.”

The crowd goes wild.

[viscari-a]

Lee Hakhyun my boi Q-Q

major spoilers for orv novel and side story 5! (760s)

I’m not fully up to date on the side stories but I’m a major chunk of the way in (the Zodiac Ball arc). Im someone who always finds myself rooting for the side/mob characters that appear for 2 chapters and never again. And Lee Hakhyun, with all his compassion, his regrets, his failures, his concerns, his insecurities, feels so uniquely human and relatable in a way that not even Kim Dokja had felt. ORV I started because of the premise and story telling and I got attached to the characters along the way. Lee Hakhyun…I got attached a few chapters in Anyway, the crazy thing is that I’m kind of mourning Lee Hakhyun more and more as the story pass. He’s still alive!!! And I’m grieving for him!!! He’s changed over time and maybe it’s character development, or confidence, but it feels more like the loss of an identity. Especially because in the current arc I’m on and the ones before it, he takes on Kim Dokja’s identity again and again, over and over and over. And at first, it’s so apparent what the differences are!! It’s really amazing, and full props to the author for being able to distinguish and write their characters so well. It’s also because of this that I feel like Lee Hakhyun is becoming Kim Dokja, and if so, that’s so…sad. Not in a bad way or anything fully negative. Change is inevitable, change happens. It’s not always bad, but thinking of what was is always…sad. (Also all of this is fully intentionally on the author’s part I believe, LOL). If it an identity change, it’s one thats almost coerced onto him, and that makes it sadder. The company calls him Kim Dokja and want him to be Kim Dokja, his current group calls him Kim Dokja because of context, his stories are telling him to be Kim Dokja. In truth, in one of the earlier chapters, I was so relieved and happy when the cast shared their true names and our MC said ‘Lee Hakhyun.” He wanted a new identity, and he got it; he has lived a whole life full of successes and failures that are entirely his own. But in the end, it’s cyclical. He was a person (kdj), but just a part, such that people appreciate but are not satisfied. He is an author compelled to write someone else’s story, such that readers admire that story but not his writing. (An author who got popular off a work that you wrote but that isnt your own, how scary is that?? As a writer, that sounds terrifying) He is himself, trying to be whole, but is made to be someone who he didn’t/doesnt want to be (49%), and the more he is made to play that role, the more his boundaries get lost. Lee Hakhyun, the more the story goes on, the more I can’t tell what actions/thoughts are yours, perhaps made with more confidence, and what actions/thoughts are Kim Dokja, whether acting as him or slowly becoming him. I want the story to have a happy ending, but is that even possible, with my perceptions of it? What would it entail? Can he be two different people at the same time? He has people around him to remind him who he is as Lee Hakhyun, but the knowledge that they’re all fragments of Kim Dokja add a level of instability and mind fuckery that makes it less reassuring than it should be. How much has he changed from the 560s to the 760s? Is it character development, or character transition? What is the core of his identity, considering everything? Lee Hakhyun of the beginning is someone I’ll remember fondly for how human he is, and I’ll have to do some rereads to define him more concretely, but I’ll miss him, if he’s not there anymore In context of this post and the whole story, honestly rip our MC for constantly being in an identity limbo and rip me because I didn’t expect the side story to include so much existential crisis. Regardless, i really truly hope he’s happy and content and confident in/by the end

[emerysaks]

heyy could you do a fluffy cartinelli fic where they're old ladies living happily ever after

Thanks for the ask! Gal Pals

A/N: This ask is set in 1981 when Raiders of the Ark premiered. The Uptown Theater was a movie theater nestled in Washington, D.C.’s Cleveland Park neighborhood. Built in 1936, it hosted several world premieres, including Jurassic Park, and it was one of the 32 theaters to play Star Wars on opening day.

Peggy ended up in DC with S.H.I.E.L.D. in this universe, and Angie followed.

***

“Hurry up, darling. We’re going to be late!” Peggy glanced at her watch and sighed. After almost 35 years, she should be used to Angie running behind schedule.

“Hold your horses, English. I’m coming,” Angie grumbled as she came into the room. “Some of us had to work today and are exhausted.”

“Were your students troublesome?” Peggy teased. She placed her hand on Angie’s back and ushered her through their front door.

“Summer classes are rarely troublesome, Peg,” Angie corrected. “They just get excited because of the summer musical revue.”

Peggy turned the key in the lock and tugged at it. Satisfied their home was secure, she turned to Angie and offered her arm. Angie slipped her own through and shrugged. “Honestly, I shouldn’t complain. Most of the teachers would kill to have interested students.”

“Most teachers didn’t share the stage with Julie Andrews and Carol Channing,” Peggy observed.

Angie rolled her eyes. “I was in the ensemble. I don’t think Julie knew my name until you showed up and started talking in the same posh accent.”

“Such a lovely woman.”

“Meanwhile,” Angie pressed, “I don’t think my resume impresses my students.”

Peggy let her eyes trail down Angie’s form before resting appreciatively on the soft curves of her bottom. “Perhaps not your male students,” she smirked.

Angie scoffed. “I’m 56, Peggy.”

“And they’re hormone-fueled college students. Trust me, I’ve been to your shows. I’ve seen how their eyes wander,” she growled.

Angie slapped her hand against Peggy’s arm. “Stop it. You’re almost 60.”

“I’ll never be too old for jealousy, darling.”

Angie threw her a sly grin. “Are you too old for other things?”

Peggy tugged her closer. “We don’t have to go to the movie tonight,” she winked.

“Nope! I’ve been dreaming of movie popcorn all week,” Angie told her. “We’re going.” She glanced at Peggy and cleared her throat. “We can talk about that… later.”

“Flirting aside,” Peggy smiled, “your students love you, as evidenced by the waitlist every semester. They’re going to be heartbroken when you retire.”

Angie nodded and smoothed a hand down her dress. “I’ll miss them, too.” She gazed thoughtfully at Peggy. “Was it hard for you? Leaving the field and becoming a Director? I know retiring from teaching college drama isn’t the same, but-”

“Darling, I’ve told you many times. Your job is not lesser than mine.”

“You saved the world from Hydra, Pegs. And aliens. And that one guy who could talk to slugs.” She pursed her lips. “That one was weird, and I still don’t fully understand it.”

“And you educate the minds of future generations,” Peggy interrupted. “I daresay your job is more important.”

“Do you miss it?” Angie pressed again.

Peggy grew pensive. She’d been Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. for over thirty years but still sometimes longed for the adrenaline-fueled missions in a foreign country. She’d always enjoyed fieldwork, and although she occasionally participated in missions here and there, her job these days tended to be at a desk, sifting through requests and dealing with bureaucratic nonsense.  

“I do miss it,” Peggy admitted. “I miss the camaraderie in the field. The satisfaction of capturing an enemy agent. Going to sleep at night sore and bruised but knowing the world’s a little bit safer because of it.”

“I don’t miss it,” Angie told her softly. “I hated nights waiting up for you. Hoping you were safe. Cleaning up your bloodied face and hands. Watching you while you slept and wondering if you’d return the next time you left.”

Peggy sighed. She knew all of that. She’d only been released from the hospital for a few days in March 1977 before she tried to volunteer for a mission her team could handle without her. When Angie found out, a particularly explosive argument ensued. In the end, Peggy had trudged into Howard’s office and told him she needed to scale back fieldwork and focus on how she could best serve S.H.I.E.L.D. from her desk.

“I know, and I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that.”

Angie smiled and bumped her shoulder against Peggy’s. “Well, I probably shouldn’t have said some of those things back then. But,” she continued, “it’s much nicer getting to see you every day. Nice to worry less, too.”

“You might not have to worry if Johnson gets his way,” Peggy scowled. “I’ve never seen someone campaign so hard for an unavailable job.”

“Oh, please,” Angie rolled her eyes. “They’ll have to pry your cold dead body out of that chair before you willingly leave.”

Peggy frowned. “That’s a big dramatic.”

“Am I wrong?”

Peggy smiled but didn’t answer. “Tell me again what we’re seeing?”

***

“Raiders of the Lost Ark?”  Peggy asked, studying the poster plastered outside the Uptown Theater.

“Yup!” Angie grinned.

“Han Solo made a biblical movie?”

Angie laughed and nudged Peggy in the ribs. “Don’t pretend you don’t know the actor’s name. Besides, I know you secretly think Harrison Ford is a dreamboat.”

Peggy turned away from the poster and frowned. “What? No! I merely said he was a nice-looking man.”

“Come on, Pegs. Any time we pass a Star Wars poster, you glance at it appreciatively.”

Peggy huffed. “He’s young enough to be my son.”

Angie giggled. “And Greer Garson was old enough to be my mother, but that didn’t stop me.”

“You always did have a soft spot for English accents,” Peggy murmured affectionately.

“You think?” Angie laughed and slipped her arm back through Peggy’s. “Now, let’s go get some popcorn and find a seat. I’m excited to see Han Solo beat the Nazis.”

Peggy looked startled. “What?”

“You’ll see,” Angie promised. 

***

Peggy found their seats and waited for Angie to sit before taking hers and handing the giant bucket of popcorn Angie had insisted they buy. As she sipped her drink, she watched Angie fish a bag of candy from her purse, followed by another box of Cracker Jack.

“Retrieving a measuring tape or lamp out next?” Peggy asked dryly.

“I understand that reference,” Angie smirked. “And no, I’m not. But I refuse to pay what they want for a box of Cracker Jack.”

“So, you resort to candy smuggling.”

“Whatever it takes, English. I’m saving money. Be grateful.”

Peggy shook her head in amusement and passed the soda to Angie. 

Angie took a long sip and gazed at Peggy. “You know one of the best things about being old ladies now?”

“I thought we established that we’re not old.”

“Hush, grandma.”

Peggy rolled her eyes but said nothing.

“Nobody gives us a second glance when we go out. We’re just two older – okay, middle-aged ladies – spending time together. Best friends. Gal pals.”

Peggy snorted inelegantly. “Gal pals. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that one.”

Angie laughed. “Yep. Gal pals. Getting popcorn and sharing a soda.”

The lights dimmed, and cheers broke out in the theater as the opening credits began to play. 

Peggy felt a warm palm slip into her lap and brush against her thigh. She glanced at Angie. Her lover’s eyes were fixed on the movie screen, but a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. 

Peggy placed her hand over Angie’s and laced their fingers together. She leaned over and felt Angie shudder when her lips brushed against her ear. 

“What else do these gal pals share, darling?”

Angie turned her head until her lips were almost touching Peggy’s. “I promise to tell you all about it when we get home tonight, English.”

Peggy’s pulse quickened, but ever aware of their surroundings, she pulled away and returned her gaze to the screen. Giving Angie’s hand a squeeze, she settled in her seat and watched Indiana Jones swing across a deep chasm, off to seek his ark and adventure.

[letters-from-dekarios]

(I really love this idea!! I hope you'd allow me to indulge in sending my ask as my storm sorc/tempest cleric tav who gained a bit of a crush on our favorite wizard after the Weave scene!!)

To Gale,

Firstly, I am not avoiding you. It is a pure coincidence that we so happen to miss each other quite often lately, and that is why I am sending this letter. I am definitely not embarrassed by our connection in the Weave and what you could have felt from it.

Now that that matter has been dealt with, I would love to hear about your experiences growing up learning about the arcane arts. After spending that night with you, I am ashamed to admit I have never felt that same amount of fondness, passion, and understanding you have for the Weave. While I 'know' that what's flowing through my veins is raw, powerful magic, I have never really taken the time to 'understand' it - like how one can be aware of being alive, but not how to properly live. I hope that makes sense.

I would love to hear more about your thoughts and experiences with the Weave, and with your permission, I hope to learn more about the Weave from you. Perhaps by learning and understanding you and your magic, I can understand and better appreciate myself and the power I have been blessed with my whole life.

Your loyal companion,

Thalia

Dearest Thalia,

Please know it is with utmost respect that I feel honored my guidance in your manipulation of the Weave would make you feel such a way. It’s not every day that one captures the feeling the Weave brings like you did. I’m privileged that you felt so comfortable with me as to share that.

And, do know, that I take no offense to your taking time to yourself. My first interaction with the Weave and its magic, as you know, was when I was a mere child. Even then, the feeling had me almost bashful! The warmth felt within Mystra’s embrace is quite the overwhelming spirit. You have no need to apologize.

As aforementioned, my beginnings with the Weave were… complicated. I began to sense the magic as a young child, and by the time I was eight, I was beginning to practice fully-fledged spells. You may recall having mentioned a man named Elminster, both a dear friend and my mentor. Given that Mystra had a brief respite from the mortal world, it was he who guided me through the Weave, with the help of Mystra’s remnants in the magic world, and taught me much of what I know now.

I took to the teachings rather quickly. One might say I was a prodigy, and I think it’s quite a fitting title. At just ten, I had conjured my very own Tressym! Tara, my beloved feline friend, was one of my first complete conjurings who managed to stay longer than a few moments. Perhaps it was out of pure spite for my mother not allowing me to adopt a kitten, I shall never know why Tara stuck around with me.

Amidst it all, the overall feeling was one of overwhelming power. I did not start with the understanding I have of it now. I’ll be the first to admit my beginnings with the Weave were awkward. I, more than once, destroyed my mother’s fine items and was made to repair them. It was chaotic— a surge of all sorts of emotions each time I used the magic bestowed upon me. It was as if, with just a flick of the wrist or a word spoken just right, I could destroy everything around me.

It took time and quite a bit of effort to grasp the Weave by its reins and tame it to my liking. This is what drew Mystra to selecting me as one of her chosen as she grew to restoring her full power.

With growing older, entangling my soul with the magic I possessed became easier and easier. Soon enough, I needed no teacher at all. The conceptualization of the Weave and its intertwining in all magic takes getting used to. I would be more than happy to elaborate on other spells with you if you’d let me.

It’s hard to put into words how the Weave makes a person feel. You experienced it, what it’s like within the moment, trying to describe that without the visualization or the emotion behind it can become confusing. Especially for those who have not or have rarely touched the Weave.

Please, visit with me whenever you would like. I would be more than delighted to guide you as best as I can in mastering the concepts of your magic that I do understand.

From the desk of,

𝑮𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒌𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒔

text reads: gale dekarios

p.s. it took me a solid hour trying to find information on gale and mystra and the timeline with elminster (and what his relationship with elminster really was like). at some point i said ‘screw it, i’m interpreting this how i like’ so while i try to be accurate, as best i can, im just doing what my little head tells me to ~ kore

[evil-flesh-eating-ai]

top 13 deaths in the magnus archives

SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Hello, John. Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.

I’m assuming you’re alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private. I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.

Now, shall we turn the page and try again?

Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

[A SLAP ON THE TABLE – OR A CRACK? SPOOKY.]

I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence, but I have worked so very hard for this moment, a culmination of two centuries of work. It’s rare that you get the chance to monologue through another, and you can’t tell me you’re not curious.

Why does a man seek to destroy the world?

It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.

It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, John, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.

I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die.

I believe there are far more people in this world that would take that bargain than you would ever guess. And I have beaten all of them.

Of course, this desire did not manifest overnight. When Smirke first gathered our little band – Lukas, Scott, and the rest – to discuss and hypothesize on the nature of the things he had learned from Rayner, I felt what I believe we all felt: curiosity, and fear.

But as he compiled his taxonomy and codified his theories on the grand rituals, I began to develop a very specific concern. Smirke was so obsessed with his ideas on balance, even as our fellows began to experiment and fall to the service of our patrons.

I began to worry that if one of them successfully attempted their ritual, then I would be as much a victim as any, trapped in the nightmare landscape of a twisted world.

At first, I attempted prevention, but the cause seemed hopeless. The only way to ensure I did not suffer the tribulations of what I believed to be an inevitable transformation was to bring it about myself. So what began as an experiment soon became a race.

Beyond that, I was getting older, and mortality began to weigh more heavily on my mind. How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?

I convinced Smirke to work on Millbank, leading him to design it as a temple to all the Fears in equilibrium, such that my own modifications to the design of the Panopticon went… unremarked.

It. Took. Years, for the dread of the prisoners to fully suffuse the place, and I was an old man before I made my first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown, sat in the center of that colossal eye, the great ring of cells encircling me like a coronet.

It was… flawed, of course, as all Smirke’s rituals were, and none of the inmates survived as the power I attempted to harness shook the building almost to pieces, and the murky swamp upon which the prison was built consumed it.

But it left me a gift: For sat in that watchtower, I could see everything I turned my mind to.

It was a dizzying power, and one I discovered I maintained even as I found vessels to extend my life. Of course, I had to make sure the location was kept under my control while I worked on revising my plans, and so I moved the organization I had founded to assist in my research down to London, and the Institute as you know it was born.

I’ll not bore you with details of my bodies and failures through those intervening years. Suffice to say I kept busy, both planning my own next attempt, and doing my best to stymie those others who tried versions of their own.

Surely my interpretation of the Watcher’s Crown had been incomplete; there had been some element of the ritual I had overlooked.

It was not until I met Gertrude Robinson that things began to really come into focus.

You see, the role of Archivist has been part of the Beholding for as far back as my research can go. This isn’t uncommon for the Powers; most of the beliefs around them are guesswork and fallible human interpretation, but there are certain throughlines and consistencies that can be spotted, regardless of the trappings.

But Gertrude was unlike any other Archivist. She simply did not care about compiling experiences or collecting the fears of others. She was driven to stop those who served the Powers.

More than once I thought she must secretly be of the Hunt – but there was never that sick joy in her, that thrill of predator and prey. She had simply decided that this was her position in life, and went about it with a practicality that even I found disconcerting at times.

I once asked her what drove her, what had started her down that path. She told me the Desolation had killed her cat.

I don’t know if she was joking, and, to be honest, I could never bring myself to look into her mind and find out for sure.

In any case, Gertrude’s ruthless efficiency in derailing and collapsing rituals threw into stark relief a question that had been bothering me for almost a hundred and fifty years: In the whole span of humanity, why had nobody ever succeeded?

Perhaps there were a long line of Gertrude Robinsons throughout history, but I found that hard to credit. Could it be, then, that there was something in the very concept of the rituals that meant they couldn’t succeed?

She was clearly having similar thoughts in that last year, all of which culminated with the People’s Church.

When I saw that she was making no preparations whatsoever to stop it, I realized she was putting into practice a theory, and one she couldn’t afford to be wrong. She was going to wait, and see if the unopposed ritual succeeded, or if it collapsed under its own strain as mine had all those years ago.

Knowing Gertrude, I’m sure she had a backup plan if she had miscalculated – but she had not. The ritual failed. And all at once, I realized what had to be done.

You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?

Even those that seem to exist in direct opposition rely on each other for their definition as much as up relies on down.

To try and create a world with only the Buried makes as much sense as trying to conceive a world with only down.

Every ritual tied itself so closely to a single power as to render itself impossible. They could bring their patron close, but never sever it from the others, and eventually it would be violently pulled back into the place next to reality where they dwell.

The solution, then, is simple: A new ritual must be devised which will bring through all the Powers at once. All fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge. All under the Eye’s auspices, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots.

And there was only one being that could possibly serve as a lynchpin for this new ritual: The Archivist. A position that had so recently become vacant, thanks to Gertrude’s ill-timed retirement plans.

Because the thing about the Archivist is that – well, it’s a bit of a misnomer.

It might, perhaps, be better named: The Archive.

Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, John. You are a record of fear, both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you.

You are a living chronicle of terror.

Perhaps, then, if I could find an Archivist and have each Power mark them, have them confront each one and each in turn instill in them a powerful and acute fear for their life, they could be turned into a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom.

Do you see where I’m going, John?

It does tickle me, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck.

[THUNDERCLAPS.]

I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was.

Of course, I had to bide my time, get a measure of you before I began to push, learn how you worked – So I decided I would wait until something came for you, and see how you reacted. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during Gertrude’s tenure, and, while she was always prepared, I made sure you would not be.

I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when Jane Prentiss attacked, I watched eagerly, one hand on the gas release from the start.

You acquitted yourself well enough, so I decided to see how far you would get, though I waited until the worms were in you before I pulled the lever. I needed to make sure you felt that fear all the way to your bones.

The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus. Even if that sliver of paranoia, that vague wrongness you couldn’t quite place wouldn’t count as a mark, it was only a matter of time before it confronted you in a far more direct and affecting matter.

Admittedly, given the advent of the Unknowing, I needn’t have bothered. But what’s the old saying about hindsight?

More important to me was Sasha’s encounter with the Distortion. If it had taken an interest, then I very much wanted it to cross your path.

[THUNDER CONTINUES AS HE GOES ON.]

So I found one of its current victims and convinced her to make a statement.

Poor Helen. I actually had to put her in a taxi myself, she was getting so lost in those narrow London side streets.

It worked, though.

[SOMETHING CREAKS. ANOTHER LOUD SNAP/CRACKLE.]

Between the stabbing and at least two desperate flights into its doors – you’re marked very deeply by the Spiral.

Jurgen Leitner was a surprise, of course, and I was forced to improvise. I had no idea how much Gertrude would have told him, and he could very easily have derailed everything if you learned too much too fast.

I… justified it to myself saying I was going to have to send you out into the world anyway, if you were to encounter more of the Powers, but I can’t honestly pretend it wasn’t a… rather rash move.

Still. I’d requested Detective Tonner be assigned to the case when they found Gertrude’s body in the hope that having a Hunter in the mix would eventually lead to a confrontation, and setting you up as a killer certainly hastened that.

Then it was just a matter of feeding you statements to lead you to a few Avatars I thought were likely to harm you – but probably would stop short of actually killing you.

Jude served her purpose exactly as I had hoped, as did our dearly departed Mr. Crew, marking you for the Desolation and the Vast.

Honestly, I had – nothing to do with Melanie and her Slaughter adventure, but when I saw the situation, I made sure to trap her here, so when her rage bubbled over you would be right there, a ready target.

I didn’t foresee the mark coming from surgery gone wrong, but it was a very pleasant surprise.

The Unknowing was a distraction, but not an unwelcome one. For this to work, you needed more than just the marks; you needed power. And that was something the Unknowing served to test, though it posed no actual danger in the grand scheme of things.

And it did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been very worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just die. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand why.

As it was, it was just right, and once again, you came through with flying colors.

By this point, your abilities were coming along in leaps and bounds, and I was concerned that meeting face-to-face might end up with you – (sigh) – Knowing something you shouldn’t.

I had initially planned to go into hiding, but when your colleagues surprised me with the police, well. It was simple enough to cut a deal.

All that remained, then, were the Dark, the Flesh, the Buried, and the Lonely.

I was a little put out when that idiot Jared Hopworth misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him.

I couldn’t see what happened in there, of course, but given how you came out, I’m very sure it counts as a mark.

I suspected the coffin might turn up again, and once it did, it was simply a matter of getting any, uh… restraining factors you might have had flying off on a wild goose chase, and waiting.

Honestly, Detective Tonner has been proving invaluable through this process. I’d been racking my brains for months about what I could use to lure you in.

And, of course, I knew the Dark Sun was just sitting there waiting. So when it came time, I just whipped up another apocalypse and sent you on your merry way.

Then all that remained was the Lonely.

Poor Peter. He really should have left well enough alone. (cruel laugh) Or just done what I’d asked in the first place.

Ah well. He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about Martin.

Of course, he had no way of knowing that, in addition to setting you up for the final mark, he was giving you all the tools you needed to escape from it.

How is Martin, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that.

And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date. I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.

You are prepared. You are ready. You are marked. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here.

Don’t worry, John. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.

Now. (cruel, cruel laugh) Repeat after me.

[WHEN THE ARCHIVIST BEGINS TO READ THE INCANTATION, A HEAVY, DENSE STATIC RETURNS AND BEGINS TO BUILD, ADDING IN HIGHER PITCHES AS IT DOES SO.]

You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right.

Come to us in your wholeness.

Come to us in your perfection.

Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!

Come to us.

I – OPEN – THE DOOR!