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windsweptinred · 11 months

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Metamorphosis Part Four

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

They sat upon the black sands together, watching as the tides rolled in and out. Occasionally Dream would reach out, harnessing the lunar pull, practising making the waves soar. Then feel his mother wrench them back from him, hoarding the power feebly to her breast. He would stop for a while, he meant to cause her no more distress, but the lure of the celestial bodies was heady and impossible to ignore for long. The novelty of learning, instead of knowing, exhilarating.

Besides him, Hob sat fascinated, causally making the sand rise and fall at whim. How ironic, Dream thought, that soon Hob would control the sands of time and creation that slipped further and further from his sway.

Letting the sand drop once more to the beach below, Hob paused for a moment, before turning to Dream, "Hey love… I've been thinking. Do you need a moment?"

Dream raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"To mourn?" He promoted softly. "They were your parents."

Mourn? He looked to the sky, the stars winked back supportively. He sent a surge of love and sorrow intermingled, a desire to make his mother proud into the darkness. Only to have it slapped back. A flood of resentment and anger following in response. His Father, he did not even attempt. He had never had the patience for the bundle of fantasy and wishes that had been his third born. Dream shook his head remorsefully.

"We loved them, though our love was a foreign thing to them. They were ancient, desolate beings. Here before The One Above All thought true existence into being. Any care for creation they once nurtured, withered long ago. They will go together, and I pray they can find peace."

Hob seemed to ponder on his words for a moment. Eyes dimming a little.. Before his lip twitched and he looked at Dream with an amused grin." I wonder what my parents would think of me now? Look at me Ma! About to become the personification of existence. And Pa always said I'd never see past four and twenty with my lack of sense." He gave a little huff at that. Before a soberness crept into his expression," The personification of time itself … Shit. I'm not sure I can do this."

Dream leaned his head on Hob's shoulder. He had few words of advice to calm his fears. For once as lost about what was to come as his lover.

"From what I gather, we have been 'doing this', walking this path together since June the seventh, 1389 my love." He leaned forward to smirk at Hob cheekily. "Apparently a human peasant had the audacity to take one look at me and decide right then and there he was keeping me."

Hob let out a guffaw at that. Reaching out to flick Dream on the nose. "That's right, poppet. Doomed from the start you were."

He then flung himself back onto the sand, hair sprawled about him, a wistful look on his face. "As nice as your realm… Old realm is duck," He gave Dream an apologetic look. "I don't half wish we could be back home in the New Inn right now, tucked up by the hearth. My nerves are going crazy." He gave an embarrassed huff. "Just being somewhere warm, familiar, preferably with a lot of alcohol at hand would help."

Dream stroked his hair soothingly. He wasn't even sure if they could return to the Waking. He had no more answers than Hob did. He looked thoughtfully at the sands surrounding them. But maybe… He gave a tentative call, only for them to respond weakly to his summons. A few grains lazily rolled towards him.

"Perhaps, I can craft one last dream?"

He put his palm to the ground, calling out wordlessly... Help me Daniel. Please. To his immense relief, he felt an instant swell of joy great him in response. A giddy happiness swirled about him on the breeze as the sands began to lift about them. Dream pictured his wish.. And he felt Daniel eagerly begin to weave.

……

Hob inhaled the familiar smell of wood smoke and rushes unfurling around him.

Opening his eyes, he watched brick by brick as the White Horse rose up about him. He ran a hand over his jaw, feeling a thick lustrous beard. The Inn was empty, yet the feel of community, merrymaking… home, love remained. Soaked into the walls.

Hob turned, and there was Dream, his Dream. As he had first known him. As he had first loved him. Dark silky hair brushing his shoulder teasingly. Long, black tunic covering everything save the tantalising hint of a long, pale neck.

"Hello Robert Gadling."

He gave a lopsided grin, making to reply… But was interrupted by a white goat trotting its way merrily between them. Bleating excitedly.

Hob raised an eyebrow, sending Dream an disbelieving glance.

"You ditched my mates but kept the goat?"

Dream smirked, rolling his eyes playfully before waving a half hearted shooing gesture at the animal.

"Capricorn, be gone, impatient creature. You will meet your new master soon enough. "

Hob blinked, watching as the little beast pranced and bucked, before dispersing into stardust. Pondering on it for a moment, before shrugging it off...Not now.

He felt a hand at his chest give him a firm shove and he fell, with graceless thud, arse first into a chair. Staring up at an entertained little leer. Oh, this was familiar.

Dream closed in on him, hitching the skirts of his dark tunic up, revealing the beautifully contrasting pale, slender legs beneath. Clambering up onto Hob's lap and sliding slowly until they sat chest to chest, knees bracketing Hob's hips. Hob grasped at his slim waste, wrapping his hands about it. Marvelling still at how they met and overlapped in the middle. He ran his hands up and down Dream's lithe torso, mapping the slender muscles beneath the fine fabric. Mouth watering as he felt two erect buds beneath the weave. Dark mother, nurturer. He lunged forward, biting at the chest below through the material. Revealing as Dream's breath hitched and he arched encouragingly into Hob's teeth.

Reaching impatiently for Dream's high collar, he tore the cloth, watching it rip, a jagged line tearing down, revealing the hairless, smooth dip of Dream's lower stomach. With a growl, he latched onto a sweet pink bud, biting and sucking his claim. Dream threw his head back, the column of his perfect neck arched, letting out a high keen.

Two nimble hands grasped at his hair, yanking it back harshly. Dream leaned forward, nipping at the lobe of his ear and tugging gently with his teeth. Before licking a sultry trail from shoulder to ear, leaning in, whispering, "Will you claim your Night now, All Time?"

Hob purred thickly, grabbing Dream under the armpits and hoisting him with ease onto the table, drawing Dream's skirts up and over his hips.

Running hands up Dream's smooth thighs, he watched in awe as galaxies trailed in its wake. Grabbing at a knee, he leaned in kissing and nuzzling his way up, delighting as every pore of Dream's skin glimmeried delicately like starlight. He bit into the joint of thigh and hip, and watched as a supernova exploded about the mark. "You beauteous creature."

He felt two hands tugging at the shoulders of his tunic with impatience. Grinning, he drew back, pulling it off and tossing it aside without flair. Falling into Dream's embrace, two long legs encasing his hips, arms wrapping securely about his shoulders. He drew Dream into a tender kiss, tasting the sharp crisp air of a winter's eve on his breath.

They broke apart all smiles and soft giggles. Dream gave Hob a mischievous look, aurora borealis dancing across his eyes, before wracking his nails down Hob's shoulders, vines sprouting, blooming, withering and fading from the marks. Letting out a joyas laugh at his findings. He repeated the action, clawing gentle trails all the way down to Hob's wrists.

"Enjoying yourself my darling? " Hob purred, skin gleaming golden, beaming with joy. His hair, trailing lightly across Dream's pale chest, flamed from his natural dark auburn to a vivid red. Dream twined a strand about his finger, before tugging lightly at it. Hob purred and ground forward. Smirking, Dream grasped a handful and yanked, the hair darkening further to a deep rich burgundy as Hob flung his head back back, eyes clenched in pleasure. Between Dream's fingers, the hair continued to shift, strawberry blonde, a warm ivory and then returning once more to russet brown.

Fumbling at the binding of his breaches with a growl, he freed himself before lunging forward, grinding up against Dream hips. The feel of their skin colliding seared through him, every nerve ending burning intensely. Then a wave of utter tranquillity swept over its path. Dear god. Was this what the meeting of fire and water felt like? The merging of heaven and hell. Each caress, each drag of body against body scorched and soothed. He couldn't take it, he couldn't stop. He bit an impassioned shout into Dreams neck. Below him, Dream fared no better. Trilling and screeching with each grind. Breathing hotly into Dream's ear, he kissed the lobe before asking thickly, "My Night?". Dream reached up, cupping his bearded jaw, twilight eyes flaring. "My Time." With that, he aligned himself and space and time were as one.

…..

A great hand rose forth from the nothingness, unknowable yet known to all. With a great snap of its fingers, a chorus of angels raised their voices in harmonious jubilation. A crowd of demons hooted and catcalled with malevolent glee. In the vast unknown, ancient creatures of chaos woke from their slumbers, peering curiously…

Time opened his eyes.

Hail the Father

Within his pupils, great wheels turned.

About his skin, the great serpent Ouroboros artfully crawled.

He was Robert Gadling, mortal born, shy of 700 turns of Terras wheel. He was Time, older than death, older than breath. He was the gaps between the words of the Book of Destiny, the beat between seconds.

He reached out and felt the planets turn. Further, felt the life of all between first and last gasp. Further still, past, present and future. First linear, then circular then eternally lopping in figure eight.

He stood before a man, seven times over, stared into his eyes and whispered, "So much to live for Robert Gadling. Nowhere to go but up."

…….

Night opened his eyes.

Hail the Mother

Within his pupils, moons waxed and waned.

About his skin, countless galaxies gracefully glided.

He was Morpheus, Endless born, as old as imaginings. He was Night, who had always been, long before the light of the creation. He was sky and shadow. The space between galaxies. The infinite darkness, without boundaries. Limitless.

He reached out and heard the song of stars, moons and suns. Further, the thunderous chant of the planets of countless galaxies. Further still, the serenading of the omniverse.

He stood before sleeping fantasy, nestled safely in a bed of clouds, and whispered into his ear. "Wake now, sweet third and ninth born. My Dream is over, yours begins."

……..

Time opened his eyes

He felt the hard nip of wood digging into his thighs, two legs about his hips in a vice grip. Himself buried deep within his love. With each hard thrust, his consciousness became clearer. He was completely nude, glowing like a solar flare. He was making love to the most exquisite being in the omniverse.

He grasped at the table below him, feeling it creek at his strength. The legs grinding into the floor in a matching rhythm to their own. Below him Night's skin shone luminous. His hair, spilling about him like liquid midnight. Eyes dark, pupils a breathtaking solar eclipse.

The room about them was thick with smoke. No chimney, Time thought with mirth. From its cloudy plumes, the ghosts of years long past took shape. Hours, days, years flew by around them as time reenacted itself in a hazy grey. Out of the corner of his eye, Time saw himself and Night as they once were, meeting and parting over and over.

Beneath his grasp, the wood of the table began to shift, as grain formed back to bark. From the beams of the walls, branches sprouted, bud and blossomed. From the floor, roots broke free of earth, wrapping about each other in a binding embrace. Through the gaps in a great verdant canopy, the universe erupted in celebration. Comets dancing across the sky in a vivid display. The Zodiac circled them in a melodious sway as the constellation Lyra played sweetly. A tear escaped Night's eye, and moonflowers sprung from the ground where it fell. Blooming about him like a floral halo.

Within him, he felt a great seed split, sprout and grow, surging as his thrusts became erratic. He drew his hands up, placing them on his lover's abdomen, moonbeams gleaming gently through the gaps in his fingers.

"Do you accept the creation I offer thee, from this day forth my Darkness?"

Two eyes of breaking dawn met his gaze.

"To have and to hold, to love and to cherish within me my centuries."

He thrust once, twice. Night threw his head back and the voices of exuberant stars joined his passionate cry. Plunging once more into the endless abyss, Time felt the seasons shift within him. Autumn, winter, spring then finally summer. Creation exploded with life…

"My Night"

"My Time"

……….

They waltzed, arm in arm upon the sand dunes, as dawn broke upon the horizon. Swirls of sand and stardust dancing about them like a hail of ethereal confetti.

Night draped in a glistening gown of celestial bodies. Intricate lace of constellations and trailing swathes of stars. Time, robed in vibrant folds of greens, golds, browns and reds, forever shifting, merging and blending. Like the ever changing palette of the land.

Time looked into his beloved's eyes.

"Do you know what's fucking brilliant, my Darkness?"

Night leaned in closer,

"Chimneys!"

Night threw his head back and laughed.

(Art by the phenomenonally talented @kat-wick of her vision of the new Night and Time.)

(Just the epilogue to come now... And I finally get to wake poor Daniel up. 😅)

#dreamling #hob x dream #hob x morpheus #dream of the endless #hob gadling #night!morpheus #night!dream #time!hob #tumblr fic #the sandman fanfic #the sandman

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lostmyremembrall · 10 months

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🐍Happy birthday to you! We share the date it seems ^^. May I ask a 🐍date with Tom Riddle? Some informations for you to write : I am a girl small and a bit chubby. I like mythology, learning about culture, asian food. A bit shy but have character when you reach my limits. I like play on words and loves to read. If I was in the magical world my best abilities would be potions runes and metamorphosis Hope it's enough for you to write something with this?

Many thanks Enjoy your day!

🐍 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐇𝐂: 𝐓𝐨𝐦

A/N: Happy birthday to you too, then! I hope this serves as a belated birthday gift to you✨ Note: I interpreted metamorphosis as transfiguration. Hopefully, I included some HC that you enjoyed!

- You first met him on your usual visit to the library

- You were trying to reach a book above you

- You could have reached it,

- But a hand swooped into your view and snatched it away

- You turned around to acknowledge the person behind you,

- But when you saw the smug smirk playing on Tom Riddle’s lips, you instantly knew his action didn’t come from the place of chivalry.

- it took some time for you to get comfortable speaking with him,

- But once you did, he found you to be a fascinating person.

- You’re witty and naturally curious, with myriads of interesting facts

- Able to return his banter with a play on words, so a conversation with you is never boring.

- He wouldn’t burst into a fit of laughter per se, but you typically manage to draw out a suppressed smirk.

- Tom adores you and the height difference.

- He does tease you about your height.

- He likes to come up behind you and surprise you with an embrace.

- He would typically squeeze you hard against him because he finds you soft and extremely comfortable to hold

-He considers you to be a great study partner, and would prefer to be your project partner (including potions, runes, metamorphosis, and many other classes).

-It could be that you two are the golden team with guaranteed excellent grades, but it's likely that he just doesn't want to share you with anyone else.

-Who's to say it can't be both?

-Your excellent ability to read runes is especially cherished, since it means you can translate older Medieval texts with ease.

-Tom holds great respect for you, and would often come to you if his rune translation seemed a bit wrong.

-Tom finds your shy personality to be endearing.

-He would try to get you to react in all sorts of situations.

-During meals, he would wink at you from across the Great Hall.

-In class, he would blatantly stare at you and only when you start blushing, would look away with a smug smirk.

-You're an anthropologist, with a unique, open-minded perspective based on cultural relativism.

-You usually enjoy learning about cultures from the comfort of the library, but there are moments when you venture to the lake and the forbidden forest to speak directly with centaurs, merpeople, etc.

-In those cases, Tom gets somewhat anxious and tags along to offer some protection.

-"Not that I distrust other creatures," he says, "but what will I ever do if you get hurt?"

-Needless to say, you are blessed with friends inside and outside of Hogwarts, human and non-human.

-Centaurs, particularly, enjoy your company as they tell you about their traditions and mythologies based on stars and constellations. With or without Tom, your safety is guaranteed when you're meeting them.

-Unfortunately, Asian food is difficult to come by in 1940s rural Scotland. But, the talented house elves are fortunately here for you.

-They had Asian ingredients specifically imported from all sorts of Asian countries.

-Tom was certainly new to Asian cuisine, not having had the opportunity to eat much food outside Hogwarts or his orphanage.

-But, upon discovering that Asian food is important to you, he decided that he would try all your favourite dishes.

-Your typical date would include visiting the Hogwarts kitchen.

-Tom struggled with chopsticks at first.

-A heavy sigh as he, once again, picks up one of the sticks that somehow ended up on the floor.

-At one point, you decided it would just be simpler if you fed him.

-He would mumble a word of thanks, unable to look you straight in the eyes.

-His furious blush as he leans forward to take a bite.

-Before his eyes usually widen in surprise at the scrumptious food that he's tasted.

-It's not long before he learns to use the chopsticks himself so that you two can eat simultaneously.

-The date usually ends with you two, full, content, and drowsy, gazing at the warm fireplace with his possessive arm wrapped around you.

-There's nothing more blissful than listening to his steady heartbeat against your right ear, and the fire warming your cheeks.

-In rare moments when you end up falling asleep, he would try to rouse you before curfew. Head Boy duty, after all.

-In those cases, you are often too tired to walk back to your dorm, to which Tom responds by carrying you in his arms.

-His firm hands wrap around you, and you get to listen to his heartbeat for just a few more extra minutes before you reach your dorm.

A/N: I am sorry it took so long to get to it. Life's been super busy recently. But, I really hope I captured your personality! Again, happy birthday!!

#tom riddle #tom riddle jr #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle fanfiction #tmr #tom riddle fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #tom riddle fic #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x reader

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beasiannow · 25 days

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Betty Jane Smith: Before

Below Biju Jie Satō : At the start of her adventure

A mysterious science group in Japan has come up with an idea to get visitors to Tokyo to stay longer and have a more profound visit at the same time.

They have invented a machine that, at a quantum level, turns foreigners from outside Japan into true citizens of Tokyo physically and mentally for a whole week. Next, they put these machines into vending machines around Toyko (because they also own a snack food company).

Here, we see Betty Jane Smith from Chicago, Illinois, who, to her shock and surprise, has been turned into a Japanese woman who lives on Harajuku Street. What happens next?

Betty Jane Smith, once a Chicagoan, now stands on Harajuku's bustling streets—a bewildering and exhilarating metamorphosis. The quantum machine’s hum still resonates in her ears, its invisible tendrils weaving her essence into the very fabric of Tokyo.

Monday: The Awakening Betty blinks, her eyes adjusting to the neon kaleidoscope. The air smells of sweet crepes and cherry blossoms. She glances down at her transformed self: a Japanese woman with raven hair adorned by an oversized bow. Her kimono whispers secrets of centuries past, threads of tradition woven into its silk.

The locals pass by, unfazed by her sudden appearance. They, too, wear their eccentricities—their neon hair, platform shoes, and glittering accessories. Betty’s heart races. She’s no longer a tourist; she’s a resident. The vending machines beckon, offering matcha lattes and rainbow sodas. She hesitates, then selects a can of sakura-flavored tea. The taste blooms on her tongue—a memory she never had.

Tuesday: Lost in Translation Betty navigates the labyrinthine streets, her Japanese fluency a patchwork quilt of phrases. She stumbles upon a cat café, where feline eyes regard her with ancient wisdom. She orders a latte and pets a calico named Tora. The café owner winks, as if knowing her secret. Betty wonders: Is she the only quantum convert?

Wednesday: Harajuku Fashionista Betty embraces her new identity. She shops at Takeshita Street, donning Lolita dresses and fishnet stockings. Her reflection surprises her—a fusion of Betty and Tokyo’s spirit. She poses for photos with tourists, their smiles genuine. She’s no longer an outsider; she’s part of the Shibuya crossing, a pixel in the city’s heartbeat.

Thursday: Shrine Whispers At Meiji Shrine, Betty prays for clarity. The torii gates frame her uncertainty. She asks the kami: Why her? The wind rustles the sacred trees, and a paper fortune flutters—a mix of kanji and English. “Embrace the ephemeral,” it reads. Betty laughs. She’s living a haiku, seventeen syllables of wonder.

Friday: Neon Dreams Betty dances at a techno club, her pulse synced to the neon strobes. She meets Yuki, a fellow quantum traveler. They share stories over sake—Yuki from Birmingham, Alabama, Betty from Chicago. They laugh about their borrowed lives, the transient magic. Yuki whispers, “We’re stardust, Biju-san. Here today, gone tomorrow.”

Saturday: The Farewell As the week wanes, Betty stands at the quantum machine. Its hum beckons her back to Illinois. She gazes at Harajuku’s lights—their ephemeral brilliance. Yuki hugs her, and they exchange email addresses. “Remember,” Yuki says, “Tokyo lives in you now.”

And so, Betty steps into the quantum stream, her heart a constellation of memories. Chicago awaits, but Tokyo lingers—a neon imprint on her soul. She boards the plane, her bow slightly askew, and whispers, “Sayonara, Harajuku.”

The science group’s experiment succeeded: Betty Jane Smith, once a foreigner, leaves Tokyo as a citizen of dreams.

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t-h-i-n-g · 2 years

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Hii!! Can I ask for a mike or max x flirty!reader and its just fluff and cute

It's totally alright if u don't want to write that but thanks anyway!

Anything For You

a/n: hi hi, i don't write for mike so max it was for this one. also I didn't even realize till after writing this and remembering but I did kinda diss the guy in this OOPS it wasn't intentional at first i just wanted to make a little conflict and then he was the first one i could think of to be the center of it SORRY anyways i hope you still like it :))))

word count: 900+

summary: you always knew how to make max's face burst into a flame. even though she says she doesn't get flustered, she herself knows deep down what an effect you have on her.

warnings: mentions of arguments

st - masterlist m.masterlist

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Max Mayfield was many things. Stubborn, observant, daring, argumentative, and even compassionate. (Depends on the person you ask about that last one) She is headstrong and holds her opinions high on a pedestal.

If you say something that disrespects her or any of the people she confides in you'll more than likely receive a mouthful of curses and insults thrown your way. Max also can be considered sympathetic, varying the situation. Depending on the placement you can find a little red tint on her ears when she receives a praise or compliment.

Max Mayfield is many things. But getting flustered is not one of them.

That's what she herself states anyway.

Max denies any accusation that her cheeks were as red as a tomato when you bat your eyes a certain way in her direction. She doesn't snap her head away when you catch her eye from across the classroom to throw her a wink. Her eyes don't widen when a sly comment comes from your lips.

"What's going on in that pretty head of yours?" A voice broke through Max's daze. Her stare broke from the pencil resting on her desk to the person next to her.

"None of your concern," she practically grumbled, slouching further into her seat. You raised a brow at her snippy comment.

"Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?" You lightly teased. Rolling her eyes in response, Max took her writing utensil in hand and focused back on the assignment in front of her. After admiring her profile, you took the time to find the right words to say.

“The boys still being dumb?” you asked, placing your head down onto your crossed arms in an attempt to meet her gaze.

“They’re always dumb,” she quipped back. Chuckling lightly you reached a hand out to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. Not mentioning the way she froze as your fingers brushed her cheek you responded,

“Yeah, you’re right. But that didn't give them a right to react how they did, Max.” Exhaling through her nose Max readied herself to spill the previous day's baggage.

“Of course, I know that. Mike just needed to learn that not everything is going to be given on a pretty pedestal for him. I’m not some dumb little soldier or whatever. He can’t just push me around and tell me what to do all the time. Or the others for that matter. Even El; he just drags her around all the time without getting any say from her at all. And Will, jesus christ, I don’t know if I can handle seeing another sad puppy dog look when he gets turned down. Lucas and Dustin don’t even see a problem with Mike’s new ‘superior’ role that he has given himself. I’m just so sick of everyone saying I’m overreacting, cause I know I’m not. I know Mike’s a good person but this change or metamorphosis thing he’s going through is not going to stand.” Her hands smacked the desk in front of her at the end of her rant. Heads turned in both of your directions but Max just scoffed at them. You hummed letting her take a moment to cool off.

“You’re not overreacting,” you started, “I can tell you that much. The way you handled things yesterday was the right way to do it. Mike does need to be knocked down a few pegs with how big his ego is growing. I think it’s just the fact that we’ve all been friends for so long y’know. And he’s always kinda has been the ‘leader’ of our little group. But it’s never got to the extent that he bosses and pushes the others around. How about this, we meet up with Dustin, Luke, and Will after school to try to explain our point of view, hm? Maybe they’ll be more willing to listen if we all just properly sit down to talk.”

Max bit her lip, her eyes flashing up to meet yours. Wich you were currently staring back at her. Your chin placed into the crook of your elbow, your cheek smooshed lightly. Max cleared her throat and nodded.

“Yeah, that… sounds good.” Again you huffed out a laugh as you straightened your posture.

“Duh, it did. I’m practically an einstein descendant. What were expecting me to say some lame quip?”

A light quirk played on Max’s lips as she shook her head.

“Oh no of course not, never from you,” her tone laced with sarcasm.

“Hey,” you shoved her jokingly as the bell rang. Gathering your things as the other student exited the classroom, you hurried to meet Max who was now waiting at the door. Stepping out into the hallway, kids filtered around you as they passed.

“Could you talk to them? I don’t have any more classes with any of the boys.” You nodded assuringly.

“Of course, Max. Anything for you,” you drawled the last part as she scrunched up her nose. A light blush followed suit. “But seriously, I will. I got Bio next with Will and Luke. Dustin, I got Algebra with so it’s all good. Let’s meet by the flag pole, yeah?” She nodded as you shifted passed her. “Cool, I’ll see you then,” you stated, swiftly putting a kiss on her cheek before she could swat you away. A hand flew to her mouth to hide her smile, her face lighting up once more in a flame.

-----------

likes and reblogs are appreciated :))

#max mayfield x you #max mayfield x y/n #max mayfeild #max mayfield x reader #max mayfield x yn

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 10 months

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Fed - a Magnus Archives fanfic

So. This was just what it was, now. Hardly the first time in my life I’d faced challenges, gray morality, and a strange situation in which I wasn’t precisely trapped, but all my other options were worse than the one I was considering.

It was heavy. Too heavy.

“Take a moment,” said Spider Martin. “Looks like you need it.”

I eyed him. “Reading my thoughts?”

“No, your face. It’s quite expressive. Whatever you’re thinking about, it’s clearly a lot?”

I hated his blue eyes.

That wasn’t his fault. Something about him just made me remember how I had watched him die.

(Then is your Martin really your Martin?)

Yes. Shut up. I couldn’t… That was not a box we were opening this afternoon.

Spoilers for the whole show. This is post-MAG 200.

Part four of the Magnus Monsterverse AU.

AO3

--------

The fog took me, and as if I’d spent a thousand years there instead of my own metamorphosis, I immediately succumbed.

It wasn’t even conscious: just a completion, a sense of self and no other, an aching, longing magnificence that hurt like pure joy, flooding through me. I think I cried out. I might have come. I definitely wept.

This place… oh. Oh. I ate it up. It ate it up. We ate it up, together. There was such strange joy in me. It was such a wondrously terrible new thing. It drank it in, and I drank it in, and I may have cried out again, because this time, he answered.

“I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m here.” And Martin pulled me in, shocking in his there-ness, his solidity, his presence, the very miracle of his existence.

He was the only thing that was real, and We loved it that way.

I clung to him and cried. I could not get close enough. I never could, not ever; it would never be enough, and I embraced that, painted my body, rolled my eyes back in my head to bask in its glorious void.

He breathed deeply, slowly, and his heart beat strong. “It was you,” he said. “While I was in the waves, it was you, missing you, thinking of you, grieving you… that’s what did it. That’s what powered everything.”

And suddenly, I saw.

Saw him in strange, wild waves, surfacing to stare at a gray sky that matched his eyes.

Saw that he rarely surfaced. He spent most of his time under, in the broad, booming silence, the current pulling him along, far from everyone and everything. The isolation under pressure; the magnificence of loneliness in a world with other living things—

He rejoiced in his pain, felt he deserved it—but it didn’t last.

“They died,” he whispered, and tears kissed his cheeks, so I kissed them off.

He felt them dying; felt the people—so far away their absence made him ache—winking out like lights.

Martin breathed in the water (and I did with him) and mourned and lost.

And when it happened, and all were gone, his god fed on him.

Because of me.

“It was you,” he whispered. “Missing you was… it became everything. I missed you so much that I…”

He lost himself.

I could look up at him, now, and saw him like burning mist, saw his perfect eyes with limbal rings I could tumble into and drown.

“When they found me…” He swallowed. “When Tim leaned through the door of fire that Maneula somehow got him to make and found me, I didn’t know his name. I knew his face, but it just made me cry.”

I understood that. I knew I’d cry when I met him, too. I was sure he still hadn’t forgiven me.

“When they came, I fought them. I thought that if they took me away from here, I’d lose missing you. That’s bonkers, isn’t it?”

“No,” I said.

He touched my lips. His eyes were wide. “What?”

“No,” I repeated.

He looked stunned. “You’re in my silence. You can’t speak.”

Oh. I felt what he meant; he had this weird, Lonely power, this silence he could enforce, but, I—ah. “Yes, I can.” I knew how to talk.

Martin still stared. He looked spooked. “We… we should go back.”

I’d scared him. That would not do, so I kissed him instead.

He made a sound and responded, clutching me, his blazing eyes sliding shut. Color washed his cheeks, and as it did, we became real.

The fog vanished as if eaten by summer sun. We stood together in our apartment block, in the central courtyard, under blue spring sky, in sight of all the windows.

We both breathed hard, shudders trembling through us like aftershocks.

“What did you do?” he whispered.

“I kissed you,” I said, still dazed. “Was I not supposed to?”

“You… you became the Lonely,” said Martin. “You were the Lonely. You… I don’t understand.”

Eh?

What?

Eh?

“I what?”

“Hey, kiddos,” said Mike, coming out from the same building I lived in. “We’re heading out to get a bite. Want to come?”

We had no time for this. We had to deal with what just happened. We—

Oh. Behind him came a rogue’s gallery.

That was Michael Shelley. Right behind him came Helen Richardson, scowling.

There was Arthur Nolan—an angry, angry man, made worse because there were two of him in a row. They had not bothered to be anything but identical.

Sarah Baldwin came out beside Jane Prentiss, both of them chattering away about something called Brother Love I’d never heard of.

(The Eye dropped three seasons’ worth of this bizarre forbidden-love-among-the-cloisters “reality” show into my head. Thanks. You shouldn’t have.)

(Drama! It happily tremored at me.)

I stared at the lot of them, frozen. So many of them had tried to kill me, or been part of my torment. My actions had led to their deaths, as well—and some of them, I’d never even seen in the light of day.

I made a small noise. I don’t know what it was. Some panicked thing.

“I've got you,” said Martin. “It's okay. They’re not going to hurt you.”

I couldn’t believe that.

They greeted Martin with smiles, though no touches, no personal space invasions (and I could appreciate that). Me, however… no one seemed to know what to do with. They eyed me. Jane stared. Michael tilted his head. Helen rolled her eyes.

“We going, or what?” snapped Nolan One with all the grace of a bulldozer. “I’m fuckin’ hungry,” said Nolan Two.

“I think we should initiate our new friend and make him join,” said Mike Crew.

Sarah Baldwin laughed. It wasn’t a nice sound. “He looks like a scared rabbit.”

“He’s fine,” said Martin.

Was this happening? This was happening. “You’re going?” I said to Martin.

He looked grim. “We should.”

He was trying not to be lonely. Trying so hard.

I would never get in the way of that. “I’ll go, sure,” I said, staring at Jane (whose skin boasted numerous scars, even more than my own, but no sign of worms just yet). “I, uh. I’m Jon. Hi.” So graceful. My face burned.

Jane grinned, stretching her scars. "Hi."

Helen laughed. As she did, her face shifted; she was still Helen, still herself, but she’d changed, like distortion through glass. “Hi, Jon. I’m Helen.”

Michael tilted his head further. Too far. Smiling in an utterly banal manner. "Archivist."

“I… yes. It’s weird to see you both at the same time.”

They just looked at me.

(It was thrilled. If I could have shrunk small enough to hide in Martin’s pocket, I would have, and It loved my misery.)

“Oh, I like this one,” said Michael. “You’re much less human than before.”

“Ah. Well,” I said. “That’s true, I suppose.”

“Still a prick,” said Helen.

“Hey,” I protested.

“From what I recall,” said Martin, “you were the one so obsessed with him that you wanted to keep him in your corridors until everybody else he ever knew died so you could have him all to yourself.”

And everyone turned to stare at her.

Helen’s dark cheeks blushed darker. “Well. Desperate times, and all that.”

Michael cracked up.

Crew followed, and Sarah, and soon everyone was laughing, even the Nolans—and it wasn’t a bad laugh, it really was not, but I felt no better.

“We’ve all come a long way,” said Jane.

“Archivist,” said Michael. “Come to us. Join us. Let us see your skill.”

“My what?”

“We’re, uh. We… can you guys go ahead? We’ll meet you at the curb.”

“Ooh,” said Nolan One, low. “Somebody hasn’t been told about the birds and the bees yet.”

“Be nice,” said Sarah, and swatted his arm.

Nolan Two bared his teeth at her.

“Sure,” said Crew, and gestured to them all. They all walked on, continuing their conversations or lack thereof.

Michael winked at me over his shoulder, then loudly said to Helen, “So what did that feel like, all trapped inside you?”

“Kill me now,” I muttered, covering my face.

Martin kissed my forehead. He’d lost just a shade of the color he’d had, but seemed to be holding steady. “So. Here’s how this works. We go and meet at a pre-set point in the city. Then we, uh. He gives us a list of people.”

I looked up slowly. “To what end?”

He just looked back.

“To what? To… to feed on?”

“It’s that, or we feed the Fears through ourselves—and something about us, about what we were at the ends of our worlds means that if we let them feed on us, we supercharge them. We could end it here all over again. So we don’t do that. Instead, we… Annabelle calls it ‘hummingbirds.’”

Flitting from person to person, sipping the nectar of fear. “So it’s all even less stable than Leitner said. This is horrible.”

“It’s not that bad. The people we see don’t even realize it’s happening, usually—we keep it light. Besides, we don’t do it to nice people.”

My look was dry.

“I mean it, Jon. People who hurt animals. That sort of thing.”

“A lot of those in London, are there?”

“You’d be surprised. There’s less fear in this world in general; it’s less spread out, so it’s potent. We only need a little.”

“This is insane. You know that, right? You must see it. This is lunacy.”

“It’s surviving. Which is a choice.”

Oh, how I hated that, but I understood. I knew. I got it. We could all do the world a favor and die, but none of us truly wanted to. Or at least… knew we should not want that. How did one judge the worth of a life? The risk of that life doing wrong? At what point could I or anyone say, you’re too dangerous to live because of what you might do?

“You’re right,” I whispered.

“It's going to be okay. I promise. Come on and join us today.” His smile was small, but real. “Keeps you from going crazy.”

And I knew that was true for him.

And I knew it was true for them.

And I knew it was not true for me.

Something weird was happening here. Or I was delusional.

Or maybe It was lying to me, wanting me so hungry I would make a mistake.

(I knew, though: It could not lie.)

“I’ll join you,” I said, softly. “But I swear, if I see actual innocent people being… being…”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I trust the people we’re working with.”

“Web.” I clenched my jaw. (Were my teeth made of eyes, too? Calcified, maybe?)

“I don’t expect you to be there right away,” he said, and kissed my forehead again. “I don’t expect you to adjust to all this quickly. But I hope you can at least trust me.”

I stared. “That is a hell of a thing to leverage, Martin.”

“It’s that important. I wouldn’t just say that, you know.”

I did know. “You’re really serious about this.”

“I need you so much.” It was a whisper. “I’ll do anything I have to do in order to keep you from… burning out, or getting devoured by your stupid Eye, or falling afoul of the hunters.”

“Hunters?” I said.

“Later.”

We were growing quite a pile of things to talk about later. “All right. All right. I’ll come with you. Show me, Martin. I trust you.”

So help me, he regained some of his color as we walked out of the courtyard to join the others, who’d waited by the curb.

I had never been good with groups of people.

The theater group in which I met Georgie (and through her, gained at least some social skills) had helped a little.

The Magnus Institute Library employees, of whom I was merely one of many, also helped—I could tag along without pressure, camouflaged by their gregariousness.

The Archives… that group was considerably less comfortable because I felt like it was all on me.

It wasn’t. I know that now, but my promotion went straight to my head, and not in a confident way. I’d felt immediately underqualified and out of place, and wondered daily why the hell I’d accepted the position.

I knew now. I could not have refused. I didn’t know that, then. I’m not sure that understanding would have helped, either.

Still, the social aspect of things had only meant stress. To this day, I did not recall going to Martin’s birthday party and rambling about emulsions while eating rum and raisin ice cream. The Eye did not give me that memory back. I knew it happened only because Tim and Martin and Sasha had never stopped teasing me over it. Very funny, really.

(Tim. Sasha. Oh, gods…)

(Right, Archive, focus, you’re all right, they’re here now—)

(Jon. Dear lord. Focus, Jon.)

So I was obviously in a good head space for something like this.

“So you’re really Jon,” said Jane Prentiss, and something that wasn’t a tongue moved in her mouth as she spoke.

I choked a little. “Y… yeah. Hi.”

“Huh. I killed you in my world,” she said.

“I’m hearing that a lot today,” I muttered.

She smiled, and dear gods, her teeth were squirming. “I’m glad they found you. I wanted to apologize.”

“To… wh… why?”

“Well, it wasn’t really you I was mad at. It was your Eye.”

“Oh.”

Her grin made it more awkward, not less; she stepped closer. “You smell delicious, by the way.”

“Martin,” I said in a tiny, pitiful voice.

“Jane, come on, be nice,” said Martin, pulling me closer.

She laughed and backed away.

“Did everybody here kill me?” I whispered.

“Not all of them, but, uh. Possibly most?”

Fuck.

We walked past the park and into the city. It was clean; the vehicles genuinely were all electric. I saw no one who seemed down on their luck, either, which was bizarre.

What kind of idealized place was this? And what, exactly, was the hidden underside?

They were all talking, and because I have terrible timing, I decided this was the moment to whisper to Martin, “What did you mean by, ‘don’t you try to take my choices and blame yourself for them?’”

He stiffened. “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

“All right. I can wait.”

“Liar.”

I laughed. “I am not lying.”

“You can’t wait to find out,” he teased.

Gods, I wanted to kiss him. “I may have learned a little patience in a thousand years.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he challenged.

I grinned, but before I could respond, he spoke.

No. Another him spoke.

“Right,” said his voice, but it wasn’t him, and I turned slowly to find the other Martin waiting for us all on the corner.

The moment I saw him in the light of day, I knew: this Martin was Web.

Completely Web, all the way through; his smile was perfect, and his stance, and the way he shifted his weight and barely met other people’s eyes and laughed easily.

It was completely fake, and I could see it, and I felt like my skin was going to crawl right off my bones. Or whatever I had under there. Eye-bones.

He seemed to know, and he stopped to stare at me. For one moment, when I met his eyes, they were dead. Flat. Dull. There in place to hide the spiders behind them, utterly without anything resembling emotion or true life.

Then he was just Martin (so similar to my Martin, or… no. What Martin had been before everything), and smiling at everybody. “I’ve got all kinds of assignments for you today,” he said, handing out Post-It notes.

“Sure, but did you account for our latest acquisition?” said Nolan One.

Sarah Baldwin barked a laugh, and Jane elbowed her.

“I did!” said Spider Martin happily. “Jon? It’s okay if I call you Jon, right? You’re starting out with me today.” He approached me.

Don’t reach for the Eye, I told myself. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

On my bright green Post-It was Martin’s flowing script with two addresses and the instructions, 1:30pm Martin B.; 3:00pm Mike C. “What?” I said.

“Why?” said my Martin.

“Because we’ve all got split shifts, and it seems like a good idea to help Jon get along with everybody?” said Spider Martin. “His second will be with Mike.”

“Not fair,” said my Martin, but without anguish.

Spider Martin shrugged. “It’s the best one for this afternoon. Trust me on this.”

Everyone seemed to accept this with ease. Great. They were all drinking the arachnidian Kool-Aid.

“Can I get him next time?” said Michael.

Spider Martin beamed. “Yes! Jane after that.”

“Yipee!” said Michael.

“What is happening right now?” I said.

“I think you’re popular?” said my Martin.

I did not feel popular.

“Shall we?” said Spider Martin.

“I don’t even know what we’re doing. I don’t understand. I don’t—”

My Martin cupped my cheek, turned me to him, and kissed me. Lingering. Slow. A delicate tasting of lips and tongue, a gentle whisper of love and attention, a promise. “You’ll be fine,” he murmured.

“I don’t have a box for any of this,” I murmured back. “And I think my label maker is broken.”

Martin laughed. “Your label maker of doom?”

“Something like that.”

He nuzzled me. “See you in a little bit.”

And he pulled away, paired up with Sarah Baldwin. (Stranger—and if she did anything to him, I would…)

(Would what? Would what? I didn’t know. Something terrible. Something…)

“I don’t bite,” said Spider Martin.

I looked at him.

Martin’s smile. Martin’s face. Martin’s body. No—Martin’s skin. I could feel he was crawling on the inside.

I turned away. Whatever happened to him was done. He wasn’t mine, never had been. I still wanted to react. Violently. As if to his murder.

“I’m not dead, you know,” he said.

“Yes, you are,” I whispered.

“No more than Annabelle. I know—or I’m pretty sure, anyway—that you’ll struggle with this, but I chose this path. I did. I’m happy with it, too.”

“You ended your world.”

“Pot, kettle?”

I swallowed. “Knowing I did wrong hardly exonerates you.”

“We didn’t really get to know you in my world,” said Spider Martin. “You caught up with Darren and took the book back right at Mister Spider’s front door.”

Darren. That’s what the bully’s name was. “Did I?”

“Yeah. You died pretty quickly. Your mind snapped before they could get much fear out of you, so there wasn’t a point to dragging it out.”

I turned to stare at him.

“There you are!” he said cheerily. “Your eyes were brown originally, weren’t they?”

“They were. And yours should be green.”

He beamed. “Naw.”

“Naw?”

“Blue tends to be trusted more easily. It’s racially offensive, and largely due to media influence, but there you go.”

I stared harder.

“Would you rather me pretend to be something I’m not?” he asked, putting genuine curiosity into it.

“No,” I said quietly. “I… it’s a nightmare. This. Is all.”

“Because you think it’s losing someone.”

“It is.”

“No. The Stranger—that’s losing someone. A weird ingestion and rebirth like the Distortion—that’s losing someone. This?” He gestures at himself. “This isn’t losing someone any more than you were lost.”

I wasn’t sure I hadn't been lost.

He smiled so easily. “Come on. Let me show you how this works. You’ll think better when fed,” he said, as harmless and bright as a children’s mascot.

I was already fed. Somehow. But I didn’t want to try to get into it. “Lead the way, I suppose.” Everyone else had already paired off and left. “Do you always assign partners?”

“And areas, yes. We wouldn’t want to cause harm, and the buddy system helps prevent that.”

I snorted.

“It’s true! Your Beholding might lack the ability to consider consequences, but surely you don’t think we do.”

“What, the Web has a stance against overfishing?”

“Yes! Exactly so. We didn’t even mean to end the world when we did. We’re significantly more careful now to avoid it ever happening again.”

“How did it happen, then?”

(The Eye offered to show me. I refused.)

“Get to know me a little bit better, and I’ll tell you.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to get to know him better, but I also didn’t feel like I had a choice.

In silence, he led me north, past old buildings I sort of knew, past silent cars I’d never imagined, past lovely boutiques and pubs with a distinct lack of loud music or voices coming from them.

I’d never seen a London like this. I had no idea how to feel about it.

Neither did It, and the drive to know why this was so grew in me with anticipatory joy like a child looking forward to their birthday.

I couldn’t blame It. This was absolutely unexpected. The differences in history must have been significant.

“How did your world end, anyway?” said Spider Martin. “You hardly have to tell me, of course, but I rather thought you’d prefer we hear your understanding over Manuela’s.”

I really needed to meet this woman. “And how the hell would she even know anything?”

“Same way she found you.” We turned a corner, and finally there was sound—a busker, just beginning to tune his violin. “She calculates things. Honestly, if she weren’t so firmly entrenched in the Eye, she'd have made a lovely sister.”

I stopped walking. “She’s Eye?”

“That she is. It was her desire to see more and know every world that had her prepared and able to escape when the time came.”

I couldn’t imagine Manuela Dominguez as Eye. “Then she didn’t build a Dark Sun. She didn’t hole up at Ny-Ålesund. She didn’t try to summon Mister Pitch.”

“Not her. Some of her alternates, yes, but they’re secondaries. She’s Prime.”

“Prime?”

“The first one of her kind rescued. In her case, the actual rescuer, too.” Martin produced paper money from his pocket.

It wasn’t a design I’d ever seen. “May I?”

“Of course.” He handed it over.

It was a ten-pound banknote. Julius Caesar glowered on the front of it, stern and uncompromising. The bill itself was cornflower blue; intricate guilloche in a gradient from orange to purple subtly deepened the design, and it bore such phrases as The Bank of Holy England and Toward the Greatest Empire.

Damn. I really needed to get hold of some history books.

(The Eye offered to show me how this banknote existed. How it had been designed. What the phrases meant. Why a long-dead Roman emperor decorated the front. No, I told It, firm and tamping down my need. Let me find out on my own.)

This delighted It. The joy of discovery through me was apparently worth the wait.

“What did money look like where you came from?” said Spider Martin.

“Do you actually care?” I drawled.

“Inasmuch as I’m trying to establish a decent working relationship with you, yes, I absolutely do.”

“Then surely you know telling me things is more valuable than asking.”

“What do you think I've been doing?” said Spider Martin. “We are here to pay that man over there to play ‘The Outlandish Knight,’ which he associates with a past girlfriend, with whom he associates the feeling of being trapped and controlled, and playing it makes him afraid he’ll never get free. Thus, shall I be fed. And you, my dear Archivist, merely need to watch him—because he’ll feel very, very watched, and thus shall you be fed.”

I frowned. “And he deserves this, does he?”

“In revenge against that girlfriend, he poisoned her cat.”

“He what?” Well, now I was furious.

Which (calm down, Jon) was probably on purpose. It was calculated.

“He did,” said Spider Martin. “What happened to him wasn’t nice, but he isn’t very nice, either.”

“Did the cat… die?”

“No, fortunately, though it did go blind.”

I clenched my jaw. Anger against this random man tempted. (Easy, Jon. Easy.) “If you’re lying to me, we’re going to have a problem.”

Spider Martin looked at me. “Jon, I’m not stupid enough to lie to you. You could just see it. If I lie, it’ll undo any attempts to build trust between us. All right?”

That… made sense. “All right. Why do you want to work with me, then?”

“Because we all need to work together. All of us. We’re unique in all the world, and we have a challenging existence. We need each other to keep each other balanced and prevent the world from ending again.”

Damn, but it was all logical. “Why did you call me Archivist a moment ago?”

“Because that’s what you are—and I suspected it would be easier to think of eating a bit of this man’s fear with that reminder.”

This honesty was refreshing. Maybe a little too refreshing. It was all calculated, every bit of it.

But then, it was calculated because it would be effective, and I couldn’t fault him for trying to be effective. Web was just… so disturbing about it, which was the entire point. “Will this mark him?”

“No. We’re getting a taste, caring for ourselves, but not doing enough harm to mark anyone. Most of them don’t even remember it happened after; they just shrug it off.”

I exhaled shakily.

It was heavy. Too heavy.

“Take a moment,” said Spider Martin. “Looks like you need it.”

I eyed him. “Reading my thoughts?”

“No, your face. It’s quite expressive. Whatever you’re thinking about, it’s clearly a lot?”

I hated his blue eyes.

That wasn’t his fault. Something about him just made me remember how I had watched him die.

(Then is your Martin really your Martin?)

Yes. Shut up. I couldn’t… That was not a box we were opening this afternoon. No.

Maybe not ever.

“If you’re really not ready, it’s okay,” said Spider Martin. “Last thing I want to do is upset you.”

“Sure. Because I’m so dangerous compared to the lot of you.”

“You are, actually.” Spider Martin shrugged.

I rolled my eyes. “No, I’m really not. I can hardly damage anyone the way I could at the end of my world, and I was nothing but a punching bag before that.”

He tilted his head. “Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s not what we—oh, pardon.” He took out his phone.

“Not what you what?”

Spider Martin’s eyes went wide. “Shit,” he said. “Keep up!” And he turned and ran.

Spider Martin could move. That was not at all how my Martin ran, not at all his body language or motion or mobility, and the smooth, loping speed of it was freakishly comforting compared to the mask of the one I loved.

I ran after him.

Fun fact: being made of eyes and/or light beams made me better at running than I would have guessed.

I mean. I wasn’t good at it. But I also didn’t run out of breath, or stumble, both of which would have been the case before.

I kept up with Spider Martin, who I swear was running with the use of six extra invisible legs, and that was no small thing.

“What is it?” I called at his back.

“Get ready for a fight!” he said.

“A fight? A fight with wh-”

I saw.

Hunters, Martin had said.

Nolan Two on the ground with smoke pouring out of his chest instead of blood.

Nolan One behind a car flipped onto its side, unable to stick his head around it at all because of—

What was—

What WAS that, that was—

I couldn’t understand what I saw. Purple, green, wisps of things like tentacles, not solid, and yet they were, punching holes into that car, not just reaching around it but building Nolan’s fear, and—

We turned the corner at the same time as Mike Crew and Helen Richardson, and everyone acted at once.

Coordinated? No. They’d just done this before.

Helen distorted into a tall and mutated and terrible thing and dropped straight into the sidewalk—and at the same time, a yellow door opened beneath Nolan Two, and he fell out of sight.

(I couldn’t see the attacker. I needed to see it.)

Mike bared his teeth—a horrifying look, actual anger, which he had not shown with me the day he threw me into the sky—and gestured.

Lightning struck.

Struck… what?

(I couldn’t see it! I needed to see it!)

Mike couldn’t see it, either; he struck where those tendrils were coming from, the central invisible knot of them, but evidently did not hit it, because now, it threw tendril-attacks at him. He moved, guessing as much (he could not see them, I knew he could not), staying out of the way of whatever it was punching holes where he’d been.

Spider Martin picked up another car and threw it.

That one connected; the car hit something, but was not enough to stop it, and more tendrils shot out toward Mike and Spider Martin.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. My eyes burned, my head throbbed—I couldn’t see it, I had to see it, I needed to see—

Michael grabbed me and pulled me into a yellow door in a wall just as one of those purple-green tendrils slammed into the sidewalk where I’d been, cracking it, penetrating below the concrete.

The Corridors. So familiar. I knew this well.

“No!” I cried, throwing myself at the door.

“Easy, Archivist,” said Michael, right up behind me, long hands draping over my shoulders to pull me back. “You aren’t ready to deal with them.”

“No! I need to see it! I need to see it!”

“Archivist,” Michael thrummed at me. “You’ll make your Martin cry.”

Martin?

Martin.

I stopped, gripping the door handle. “I… I need to… see it?”

“You will be hurt. Maybe killed. That would be terrible.”

He did not sound like it would be terrible.

I shook. “I couldn’t see it. Michael. Please. I have to see it. I have to try.”

He sighed. “Silly Archivist. As you wish.” He reached past me, all around me, and opened the door.

We were on a nearby roof, and I could look down and see.

I looked.

Looked.

(Use me, It beckoned.)

And I did.

My vision opened as it had not since I arrived here, and I saw.

Connected it was all connected

Powers like the Fears but different

All through this world every living thing everyone was marked or

Not marked something like marked already connected

Connected it was all

The thing

There

A person but not

It was three persons in one

Three of them together standing there strange dark bodysuit a gas mask

No hands

No hands only those tendrils sprouting from their arms, tendrils which now seemed so solid

Each of them moving independently (three person in there, three minds to work them) trying actively to kill us all

To kill the Nolans the Mike the Helen the

I saw, and as I did, I broke the attacker apart.

I didn't even mean to. I just saw it for what it truly was, and made reality real.

One second, it was invisible, impossible to harm, its tendrils unseen by the others. The next it stood there, a person in a weird suit—and it shuddered, and then it was three. They exploded apart, splitting the uniform and popping the gas mask like a hatched egg in rapid-time.

And now, the others could see them. Could see three naked people on the sidewalk, gasping, shuddering, heads down, vomiting.

Nolan, Mike, and Helen surged in without hesitation, all at once.

I looked away, swaying, gasping.

Michael kept me from falling off the roof. He looked amazed. “What did you do?”

Fed.

I was so fed.

I felt rich with it, blissful, drugged. Absolutely relaxed and warm and tingling to the edges of every inch of my form.

Sirens. Coming.

“Time to go!” said Michael, pulling me back through his yellow door.

The Corridors did their thing, and I felt it, and floated in it, and spun and flew and was.

Michael cried out.

So did I. We became colors and swirling paint, flowing out of the drain against gravity in beauty and madness and bliss. And then—

I woke up.

I was back in my little bed in my gray apartment. My hair was wet; I smelled of soap. My heart pounded. (Benign essential blepharospasm, perhaps?)

Martin was next to me, asleep. I stared at my boring popcorn ceiling.

Had that… happened?

Next to me, on the nightstand, was a bright green Post-It note with handwriting I didn’t know. It said, Jon. We need to talk.—JL

Leitner.

Sure. Sure, we could talk. Fuck if I knew about what, though because I had no idea what had occurred.

It was four twenty-two in the morning. Martin slept. Leitner could wait.

I watched Martin, trying to understand (had I slept? If so, it was the first time in a thousand years), trying to parse what I’d seen and what I’d done.

The Eye did not help me because It could not. It didn’t know, either, and that frightened me more than anything else I’d seen.

------

NOTES

He's like a shammy; he's like a towel; he's like a sponge! A regular towel doesn't work wet, but Jon works wet or dry. Holds 12 times his weight in trauma!

#tma #tma fanfic #tma fic #jonathan sims #tma au #magnus monsterverse #martin blackwood #web!martin #mike crew #jane prentiss #arthur nolan #michael distortion #helen distortion

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dustedmagazine · 2 months

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The Royal Family — S/T (Cardinal Fuzz / Echodelick / We, Here & Now)

Photo by Elijah Shark

Don’t confuse The Royal Family with the garage pop band that gigged around Edmonton in the 1960s. This regal troupe lives in the now. They’re a Toronto-based psychedelic supergroup comprising personnel from various outfits, such as ROY, Possum, Wine Lips and The John Denver Airport Conspiracy. Such a multifarious origin means that their influences also arise from multiple sources. Raga, drone, kosmische, chanson and baroque elements all wind their way into the band’s sound. The Royal Family’s technicolor tapestry spreads across multiple branches of a vast psychedelic family tree, the luminescent roots of which originate from various points around the globe. They fuse all these influences together with their own whimsical notions, brewing a heady concoction perfect for mind expansion.

The Royal Family’s chameleonic approach to psychedelia reveals itself immediately. They kick off their debut album in a raga mood with “Morning Song,” a swirling whirlpool of chiming acoustic guitar, a meditative drone and a sitar melody courtesy of Jordan Sosensky. The Indian-tinged harmonies circle gently like slow motion turbulence that peppers an otherwise sonorous river. The languidly moving eddy currents mirror the refrain “take your time, it’s all you have.” That phrase is the perfect summation of the spirit of the album, which unfolds with an unhurried grace. As the track climaxes, various percussion implements enter at all angles evoking the ecstatic revelry of Amon Düül’s most delirious emanations.

With a tongue-in-cheek wit, The Royal Family satirizes Canada’s symbolic subservience to the monarchy with its name, while simultaneously embracing the country’s anglophone and francophone roots with its lyrics. “Le Ciel Bleu” and “Chocolat” showcase chanteuse Astrid VanRuymbeke’s delightful French singing voice. These two tracks, along with “La Maison Du Bonheur” emphasize the band’s baroque leanings, employing flute, melodeon, xylophone, chimes and other unconventional instruments. The Royal City really lean into their baroque side on “For the Birds,” which contains vocal harmonies eerily reminiscent of The Left Banke’s “There’s Gonna Be a Storm.” It’s the gentlest track that the band offers and includes contributions from Toronto folk mainstay Hieronymus Harry.

The back half of the record is a song cycle that narrates the stages of a caterpillar’s metamorphosis into a butterfly. It flows with a lysergic stream of consciousness logic and incorporates multiple genres within its kaleidoscopic corpus. The propulsive “Chrysalis” gives a nod and a wink to Kraftwerk and Neu! while “Metamorphosis” and “I’m the Wind” tug at threads previously loosened by Olivia Tremor Control. It’s the two-part “When I Was a Butterfly” suite where The Royal Family lets its freaky wings unfurl. The song is a culmination of all that came before, the perfect denouement to this cosmic opera.

Bryon Hayes

#the royal family #cardinal fuzz #echodelik #we hear and now #bryon hayes #albumreview #dusted magazine #acid folk #psychedelia #toronto

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vvatchword · 11 months

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Metamorphosis

When Dr. Lamb published Metamorphosis, it was by her own hand. No publisher in Rapture would touch it.

“Why the hell did you come down here?” asked one, throwing the manuscript at her across his desk.

“It could not have been written had I not,” she said.

A simple cover in white linen. Embossed on the front, a jellyfish with its tentacles outflung, suggesting the shape of sun beaming down, and below, its larval stage, like a shining pearl.

“The chain of industry is characterized as a force outside of us,” wrote Dr. Lamb in her foreword, “but industry cannot and does not exist outside of human beings. Does industry form spontaneously from the earth? Does it emerge from any species other than our own? No. If it cannot exist outside of mankind, then mankind makes up its fabric, psychology, and utility, and it is foolish to ignore the donations of his time and body. Instead of representing the chain as a spiritual force above mankind, we are served better by imagining every link as an individual human life that exerts pressure on all its neighbors—a pressure which can be detected across the whole of the system itself.”

“Read at the Expense of Your Self!” wailed The Rapture Tribune.

“The Pinkos’ Little White Book!” howled The Rapture Daily Post.

“Eleanor Lamb’s Secret Father,” winked Do Tell!, which was, as always, ahead of the times.

Despite the cries of critics, the book was purchased in droves and ordered by bookstores all over Rapture. By the time the major publishers finally descended to beg forgiveness, Dr. Lamb had founded her own publisher and needed them no more. The little white building sat directly beside her own, churning out a hundred copies per day.

Most unconventional were the prices she exacted. For its wholesale price, she asked for $0.10 per book, well under market standards; from people, she asked what they would prefer to pay. “Free” was always an option.

“By demanding space between each other,” Dr. Lamb wrote, “we have only grown mad for human connection. Any promise of social interaction becomes as powerful as a drug; even the educated find themselves incapable of resisting the most questionable charlatans, and for such tawdry payment as ‘physical touch’ and ‘a listening ear.’ This physical need for touch, this psychological need for understanding, are basic requirements of every human body; not only do we ignore them at the peril of our individual emotional and physical wellbeings, we ignore them at the peril of our society’s.”

Andrew Ryan’s Sunday editorial spat acid.

“Beware the charlatan who rouges the words of science,” he wrote. “Prove that adult human beings require selflessness, Dr. Lamb: you will find a cash prize in your mailbox as soon as you do. Citizens: beware the morass of selfless living. Remember that to be selfless is to sell yourself to another’s service. And for what? The pitiful paycheck of social approbation? One must ask oneself: ‘What does Dr. Lamb gain from the sale of my soul?’”

Dr. Lamb’s editorial sprawled below his:

“Ryan is obsessed with the ‘tyrant.’ What is a tyrant? The tyrant is an individual who demands his wellbeing at the expense of all others; he suffers from the terror of victimization and the unpredictability of groups. When the tyrant views a world of plenty, he does not relax with the knowledge he shall be well; he glances aside at his fellow man and sees robbers. He fears he shall be excluded to the same extent that he would exclude them. Incapable of judging the true extent of his need and unwilling to try, he says, ‘All or nothing!’

“To the tyrant, selfishness is primarily viewed as a matter of survival: ‘If I have survived,’ he says, ‘it is because I have defeated others in order to perpetuate myself.’ Note that the tyrant describes his own manner of ascent; he does not explore alternative modes; he does not face down his own fears or heal his own psychological wounds. By fabricating a toxic environment where only he may prosper, he subjects a captive audience to his personal poison.”

In the first few weeks after the book was published, people could be seen wearing white hatbands or white ribbons on their arms—first by the handful; then the dozens; then the hundreds.

“All of us have dealt with the destructive nature of selflessness or we would not be here. Well do we understand the sacrifices demanded for the sakes of society, God, government, kings—always others, never ourselves. The erasure of our boundaries; strangers asking us to give and give and give even when we have nothing left; the theft of our time and our physical wellness and our labor with no acknowledgment or return. But if we can freely admit the failures of selflessness, we would be remiss if we did not examine those in selfishness. The true question is not which mode of thought is better; the question is, ‘In what context is it best utilized?’”

True Believers gathered on the street corners and watched her building, smoking cheap cigarettes.

“The astute reader will note that these beliefs are not limited to tyrants. Central to the philosophy is fear of attack and a citizenry at constant war with itself. But why should the philosophy fear attack in a modern society made up only of its constituents? Have we not invited only the best of mankind? Why, then, is it wrapped up in the terms of war? Who is fighting whom, and why? Why must all human interactions be defined by the brutality of battle? Why the expectation of destruction instead of that of diplomacy, friendship, communion, education, or art?

“And think of the outcome: for it is one thing to destroy the parasite—but here we destroy paragons, those who believe everything we hold dear, who possess incredible abilities and knowledge that might uplift us all—who, left to their own devices on the surface, might have brought that Sodom to some greater understanding.”

The buildings beside Lamb’s went up in white, one by one by one.

“How many geniuses toil here in obscurity? Have we taken them from the surface only to destroy them? What use is a destroyed glory? Who knows how many beautiful things we have lured down here to die? What use is the philosophy if it only benefits a few, if it upholds the monochrome monolith over the multi-faceted glories of ten thousand teeming brains? What happens when an environment has been tooled to benefit the few over the many?”

A pamphlet began passing around the Drop, ripped from the book and printed rogue by some starry-eyed stranger:

“The philosophy’s intent is to glorify the best in humankind. But what is the reality? It is this: the powerful destroys the powerless. What is the powerful? He who retains the most material goods, social currency, or physical strength—none of which depend on the quality of the idea, but the transmission of it.

“If the idea could come alone, by itself, and be instantly understood, this would be one thing; but all ideas come couched in human beings. Will a Negro scientist with poor diction and no funds fare better than a white Adonis with a charismatic disposition and a tycoon father? In my position, I have met many of the former and none of the latter.

“Why do we expect that the most excellent idea comes couched in power? Perhaps it is to justify the powerful class. Perhaps it is to justify the philosophy’s existence, to soothe our wounded consciousnesses, a survivor’s bias—to reassure ourselves that we have overcome because we have simply tried harder, cared more, possessed fewer vices. But how often does progress come as the dissenting voice, the voice of the small, the evidence we would prefer not to notice and can afford not to?

“In short, the powerless is not destroyed because he is incapable—far from it! No, the best idea might just as soon fall to a glib speaker who only excels in matters of speechcraft, to the more handsome and charming, or he who knows the boardmembers he begs for aid, or to he who crouches upon masses of pre-existing capital. The best idea cannot win until the philosophy acknowledges the natural formation of groups among human beings and deals accordingly.

“The astute reader might notice this: the powerful utilize the group and its mechanisms even as it is derided; the group is formed even as its influence is ignored.

“Why does the philosophy ignore the impact of the group?

“What is the philosophy but a philosophy of tyrants?”

UPRISING: BLACK SCRAPBOOK HUB

#bioshock #bioshock 2 #sofia lamb #andrew ryan #fanfiction #uprising #vvatchword #in which I feature two people who just cannot shut up #'True Believers' in this context are Andrew Ryan stans #i based dr. lamb on me #i'm prepared to fuckin yoshimitsu this bitch #first draft subject to change

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swimmingwolf59 · 1 year

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Last year I started rewatching tos in production order, and after watching ~2 episodes a week I finally finished!! For some ungodly reason I also decided to try and rank all tos episodes based on my personal enjoyment (and not whether or not I think it’s an objectively good episode), and though I changed this list around about a hundred times, I think I’m more or less happy with it now....

So if anyone is at all interested in that, well, here you go LOL

1. Journey to Babel

2. The Immunity Syndrome

3. Mirror, Mirror

4. The Deadly Years

5. The Ultimate Computer

6. Obsession

7. The Man Trap

8. Operation - Annihilate!

9. Friday's Child

10. The Trouble with Tribbles

11. For the World is Hollow and I Have Touched the Sky

12. The Tholian Web

13. A Piece of the Action

14. Tomorrow is Yesterday

15. The Galileo Seven

16. Amok Time

17. The Devil in the Dark

18. The Corbomite Maneuver

19. The Naked Time

20. The Way to Eden

21. Is There in Truth No Beauty?

22. The Cloud Minders

23. Turnabout Intruder

24. The Enterprise Incident

25. Wolf in the Fold

26. The City on the Edge of Forever

27. Arena

28. The Conscience of the King

29. Balance of Terror

30. The Doomsday Machine

31. That Which Survives

32. A Taste of Armageddon

33. The Enemy Within

34. By Any Other Name

35. Bread and Circuses

36. Spock's Brain

37. Dagger of the Mind

38. I, Mudd

39. The Lights of Zetar

40. Miri

41. Space Seed

42. The Empath

43. Spectre of the Gun

44. The Mark of Gideon

45. Errand of Mercy

46. Court Martial

47. The Changeling

48. The Menagerie Part I

49. The Apple

50. All Our Yesterdays

51. The Savage Curtain

52. Requiem for Methuselah

53. Shore Leave

54. What Are Little Girls Made Of?

55. A Private Little War

56. Return to Tomorrow

57. The Squire of Gothos

58. Catspaw

59. Charlie X

60. The Alternative Factor

61. Wink of an Eye

62. The Return of the Archons

63. And the Children Shall Lead

64. Where No Man Has Gone Before

65. Assignment: Earth

66. Metamorphosis

67. Who Mourns for Adonais?

68. Plato's Stepchildren

69. This Side of Paradise

70. The Menagerie Part II

71. Elaan of Troyius

72. The Gamesters of Triskelion

73. The Paradise Syndrome

74. Mudd's Women

75. Whom Gods Destroy

76. Day of the Dove

77. Patterns of Force

78. Let That Be Your Last Battlefield

79. The Omega Glory

#star trek tos #episode ranking #i'm really surprised both operation annihilate and the tribble episode made it into my top ten lol #thanks leni for helping me figure out which episode i was missing LOL

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cherub-advice · 7 months

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Ok so I punched this (f, cherry, idk how old but definitely an adult) cherub in the face, but then she blushed (!?) And vowed revenge (!) And then she just kind of fucked off, but on her way out I think I saw her wink at me (⁉️) so, I think we might be kismeses now? Idk what to do in this situation. Help.

i wish i had a hot cherry woman who wanted me dead you are so lucky for that

okay so everyone has wished for a hot cherry woman to step on them but unfortunately cherub hate does by definition involve a death match and destruction of all you hold dear. and i dont think non-cherubs can undergo The Metamorphosis so youre basically fucked. maybe shell forget about the short lifespans of planetary beings and accidentally delay the intergalactically violent booty call until after youre dead idk. but also apparently you managed to rizz yourself out of literal genocide so yk what you can probably do anything.

#unreality #yeah sure. you definitely punched a cherub in the face and scored.#godspeed grumblr sex god.

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defiledtomb · 2 years

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Hi Lou 🥰🥰🥰 hope you had a good week! I’m simping again for everyone…. Do you have perhaps some Delicious Facts to spare of the ROs and Sive + Lys (my OTP Besties 🥹) ??? Love you have a good weekendddddddddddd 💙💙💙💙💙

Hi sweetpea ❤️ I did, but I'm so mad over the fact that it's monday again 😂😔 Hope you had a great week too!

Hmm, delicious facts you say... Let's see what I got that isn't spoilery:

Sive: Ah Sive, or 'son of soot' as I called him before he had a name. Before Ouroboros was planned, I wrote a whole ass story about how Sive and Lys met and fell in love. Sive was a punk who ran from his father and Lys lived in a mysterious moving house filled with gadgets and weapons, like some howl's moving castle type maximalist. L was in that story too, as Lyselin's older brother, but he was named Ante in that story. Hah.

Lyselin: I called her 'the collector' in very early planning (pre Ouro). Before she had to begin using a wheelchair for her chronic pain, she was a knight. She used a big ass zweihander (think Guts sword in berserk) that wore her body down once she started falling ill. When she started spending more time at home, Sive visited her frequently and she always kitted him out for whatever crazy mission he was going out on, which eventually led to her making armor and weapons instead of wielding them! The 'collector' thing was also tied to Oma, as Lyselin would accept and keep the things Oma found and would help her categorize them until Oma knew who she wanted to give them to.

L: is very sensitive both physically and emotionally

Id: sings a lot (but is v embarrassed about it. You will learn why in Ouro *wink*)

S: can cook like a master chef

Y: Has a forked tongue. This was one of the first things I planned for Y. LMAO

Auryn: Is a very good climber and does it as a hobby as well as for work. The four arms after metamorphosis was what they hoped for.

Hope that sates your curiosity! ❤️

#ouroboros-if #seeing you in my inbox always puts a smile on my face thank you 🥰#interactive fiction #ouroboros spoilers #just in case

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noxcomnia-a · 1 year

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What's Peculiar About Your Soul?

Long post of several muses under the read more!

Your soul is... Stained

You have bared witness to something unspeakable... As a direct result, your soul has been forever altered. It is still of you, true, but something about it will never be the same... It is off color- off-kilter, as well. It tilts and spins at an odd, incorrect angle. It tenses at sudden noises. You wish you could forget... Everything is so fuzzy and vague, being dead... But the memories persist. Just barely. Just enough for them to hurt.

Your soul is... Hungry

Visitors are not supposed to tap against the enclosure of your soul. It sends it into a manic frenzy. Understimulation gnaws at it like a hunger pain... It gravitates towards sights and sounds- towards new people, interesting places, foreign smells. It shudders in place when it is held, vibrating like an atom. You want to be real. You want to be held. You want the sensations of life returned to you. You did not know it was possible to crave quite so much.

Your soul is... Bright

It glitters like a winking star... Occasionally it must be covered with a tarp, so that guests do not lose their vision to its splendor. Many wonder what causes it to behave in such a way... but your collector has no straight answer; even they are unaware. Are you grinning? You can not tell... You lie coiled there in your display, revealing every facet of yourself to marveled onlookers... Your face aches? Why does it ache? Are you grinning?

(I have no icons for happy)

Your soul is... Fluid

No one has ever seen something quite like this before... The way it changes shape so effortlessly- as though undergoing constant metamorphosis was something it was naturally designed to do. It folds in on itself, and suddenly it is oblong and rectangular... Again it folds, now it is sharp all over, like some kind of urchin... It shifts once more, now it is light and airy, like a bird. You do not know what you are anymore... Perhaps you never did. You have no name for yourself at this point. You allow your soul to dictate that itself.

#( headcanon ) chloe;#( headcanon ) alice liddel;#( headcanon ) edgar valden;#( headcanon ) happy;

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sciencestyled · 7 months

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Hydrating Your Fins and Feels: A Splashy Tale of Water from Thin Air!

Ahoy, wave riders and cloud surfers! So, we’ve just surfaced from the depths of a mesmerizing narrative spun by none other than our favorite fin-tastic friend, Ariel. And darlings, if you think you know water, prepare to be as shook as a seashell in a tidal wave.

When our beloved mermaid isn’t combing her iconic locks with a dinglehopper, she’s navigating the mysteries of...wait for it...making water out of thin air. It’s not sorcery, it’s science - with a sprinkle of mer-magic, of course!

We bet you’re more hooked than Captain Hook on a good piracy day. Who wouldn’t be? We are talking about delving (not diving, mind you) into the spellbinding world where the air we flutter through becomes the water we... well, we don’t exactly swim in it, but you catch our drift!

Now, don’t flip your fins just yet. The enchanting narrative that we were so graciously graced with, unravels a tapestry of knowledge as whimsical as Ariel’s underwater castle yet as concrete as Eric’s terrestrial abode. Atmospheric Water Generators, or AWGs if you’re into the whole brevity thing, are the wizards behind the curtain, or shall we say, the Tritons behind the tides.

“Alright, alright, but what’s in it for me?” we hear you echo through the seven seas and across the starry skies. Well, darling, if the prospect of harnessing the hidden droplets of the sky and turning them into your own personal oasis doesn’t make your heart flutter like Ariel’s fins during her first glimpse of Eric, then perhaps the dance of technology and nature, intertwining like the seaweed in the ocean’s gentle embrace, will.

We plunged (again, not dived – we’re respectful like that) into the atmospheric ballet where passive systems and active systems pirouette in a performance that would make the Nutcracker seem as mundane as a seaweed salad on a Tuesday afternoon. It’s a silent dance of air transforming into liquid grace, a spectacle of transformation as mesmerizing as Ariel’s own metamorphosis.

And who needs a crystal ball when you have the golden kiss of sunlight adding a dash of eco-friendly elegance to the mix? Solar-powered AWGs are like the sunbeams that dance on the ocean’s surface – a dance of light, energy, and sheer poetry.

Yet, let’s not swim past the seaweed of challenges without a glance. Every treasure chest has its lock, and every magical spell, its price. But fear not, for in the world where mermaids and humans unite, where sea meets sky, and science kisses magic – every challenge is but a stepping stone to wonders untold.

So, dear sea- and sky-farers, we present to you a narrative spun with the magic of the seas and the mystery of the skies. A tale where every droplet of water is a gem of untold stories, where the air we breathe holds the elixir of life, and where a mermaid’s musings usher us into a world where fantasy and reality are separated by nothing more than a fleeting wisp of cloud.

Prepare to be swept away in a tidal wave of revelation, where the boundaries between the mystical depths of the ocean and the enigmatic heights of the skies blur into a symphony of discovery as limitless as the horizons Ariel so dreamily gazes upon.

Triton’s trident couldn’t have conjured a tale more magical, and darling, we’re more than here for it – we’re absolutely, undeniably, and irreversibly submerged! (Not dived, remember? Wink.)

Now, paddle over to the enchanting scrolls of Ariel’s discoveries - and remember, it’s a world where forks are combs, air is water, and every page turned is a bubble of magic popped in the endless ocean of the unknown!

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gingeralesober · 7 months

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In the bustling heart of Jungle Juice, a city known for its saccharine streets and high-speed rail networks, there resided a woman named Emily. Her life was a tapestry of bittersweet memories, a constant yearning for something pure and unspoiled amidst the sugary excess of the city.

One rainy morning, Emily hurried down a city street, her steps purposeful, yet her gaze distant, as if lost in a world of her own. She rounded a familiar corner, and her foot slipped on the wet pavement. With palms scraping against the curb, she narrowly saved herself from a fall, leaving minor scrapes in her wake. As she looked up, she found herself face to face with an unexpected sight – a bright yellow taxi that seemed to have materialized out of thin air.

The big yellow taxi stood out amidst the city's sugary façade, an enigmatic presence in the rain-soaked streets. It beckoned Emily with a mysterious allure, drawing her in with an inexplicable connection.

With trembling hands, Emily hesitated before opening the taxi's door, revealing an interior unlike anything she'd ever seen – green seats that resembled lush pastures and a fragrance of blooming flowers. It was as if the taxi held the essence of a hidden paradise within.

Behind the wheel sat Gabriel, a lovable goofball from New York City, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous grin. He extended a hand to Emily, his voice as warm as a fresh pretzel. "Welcome to the Big Yellow Taxi," he said in his unmistakable New Yorker accent. "Buckle up, Emily. We're going on a wild ride!"

Emily hesitated, her initial wariness giving way to curiosity and a hint of laughter at Gabriel's infectious enthusiasm. She nodded and fastened her seatbelt.

As the taxi roared to life and they pulled away from the curb, Gabriel turned to her with a playful wink. "Now, Emily," he quipped, "before we embark on this adventure, there's the small matter of the fare."

Emily's heart sank as she realized she had nothing on her to pay for the ride. She cast a sheepish glance toward Gabriel. "I'm afraid I've got nothing to pay for this journey," she admitted, her voice tinged with embarrassment.

Gabriel waved it off with a hearty laugh. "Ah, don't sweat it, darlin'," he said, his road rage bubbling just beneath the surface. "Consider this one on the house. But remember, the price of this journey ain't in dollars – it's in the unforgettable moments we'll create together."

Emily couldn't help but smile, her initial reservations fading away. As the rain continued to fall outside, the taxi carried them deeper into the unknown, and Emily's heart swelled with a mix of anticipation and gratitude for the unexpected adventure that had begun with a slip on a rain-slicked city street.

The city of Jungle Juice transformed before their eyes as skyscrapers turned into towering trees and the high-speed rails gave way to the soothing sounds of a pristine river. It was a surreal metamorphosis, both enchanting and bewildering.

Halfway through their zany cab ride, as the rain drizzled on, Emily decided to open up to her charismatic driver. "Gabriel," she began, her voice tinged with nostalgia, "there's something I haven't told you."

Gabriel glanced at her with curiosity, his goofball charm shining through. "Spill the beans, Emily. What's on your mind?"

With a deep breath, Emily continued, "I had someone in my life a while back. His name was Hasan. He was a burly Turkish man with a heart of gold and a smile that could light up a New York City block. He was like a giant teddy bear, always there to protect and comfort me."

Gabriel listened intently, his New Yorker spirit connecting with Emily's story. She went on, "Since he's been gone, the city just hasn't been the same. It's lost its sweetness, its vibrancy. I've been yearning for paradise ever since he left, and I know that's where Hasan would want me to be."

Gabriel nodded, his goofy grin softening with understanding. He knew that Hasan's memory and the paradise they sought were intertwined within Emily's heart. With a silent promise, Gabriel vowed to help Emily find her way back to both.

As the taxi continued its journey through the transformed landscapes, Emily's heart felt lighter. She had shared her story with Gabriel, the lovable goofball who had become her unexpected confidant, and it had brought her one step closer to the paradise she deeply yearned for.

Their voyage to Paradise was more than just a physical journey; it was a whimsical adventure filled with laughter and quirky New York anecdotes. "They paved paradise, and put up a parking lot," Gabriel would exclaim, his road rage momentarily forgotten as he belted out the lyrics of his favorite song. Emily found herself laughing along, her worries melting away.

Upon arriving at the gates of Paradise, Emily was awestruck. "Hey farmer, farmer, put away your DDT," Gabriel mused, gesturing towards the pristine landscape. It was a place of unparalleled beauty – rolling meadows, cascading waterfalls, vibrant gardens, and a symphony of birdsong and rustling leaves. Time seemed to stand still as Emily was enveloped in the wonder of it all.

With a heavy heart, Emily stepped out of the taxi, knowing that her journey had come to an end. She turned to Gabriel, her eyes shimmering with gratitude. "You've given me a gift beyond measure," she whispered.

Gabriel beamed, his lovable goofball charm in full display. "Remember, Emily," he said with a wink, "Paradise isn't just a place; it's a state of mind. Take this experience with you, and you'll find your way back, even in the midst of the New York hustle and bustle."

Years passed, and Emily returned to Jungle Juice, forever changed by her adventure. She had transformed her own corner of the city, creating pockets of paradise amidst the saccharine chaos. Boots, her loyal feline companion, remained her trusty sidekick, a reminder of simpler joys.

The Big Yellow Taxi became a symbol of their journey, a testament to the power of unexpected friendships and the magic of adventure. It would pass by from time to time, a whimsical reminder that the choice to find paradise was always within reach.

But life, being unpredictable, had more surprises in store. Tragedy struck one fateful day when Gabriel, the lovable goofball driver of the Big Yellow Taxi, met with a terrible accident. Emily received the news with shock and sorrow. She couldn't bear the thought of her dear friend suffering alone.

Without a second thought, she set out to find him, with Boots as her loyal sidekick. Through the labyrinthine streets of Jungle Juice, Emily embarked on a quest to rescue Gabriel, who had become a beloved companion in her life.

Emily's journey through the saccharine maze was filled with whimsical encounters and humorous mishaps, all underlined by Gabriel's New Yorker spirit and his inexplicable road rage. She encountered people who questioned her mission, but Gabriel's antics and infectious charm always managed to win them over.

As she ventured deeper into the heart of the city, Emily began to encounter familiar faces – those who had also embarked on zany journeys with Gabriel's guidance. Together, they formed a tight-knit community, united by their shared experiences and their desire to rescue their beloved goofball driver.

With each step, they drew closer to their goal, guided by the laughter and camaraderie they had shared during their journeys. Emily knew that Paradise wasn't just a destination; it was a state of mind, a connection to the quirky and unpredictable nature of life, and a source of strength and resilience.

And so, with determination in her heart and the support of her fellow travelers, Emily continued her quest to rescue Gabriel, the lovable goofball driver of the Big Yellow Taxi, and to ensure that their whimsical adventures would continue to touch the lives of those who sought the sweetness of life in the midst of Jungle Juice's saccharine chaos.

But as they ventured deeper into the city's maze, Emily began to notice a change in Gabriel. His goofy antics gave way to a worsening road rage, his once-lovable personality overshadowed by irritability and impatience. Doubt gnawed at Emily as she wondered if she had made a grave mistake.

One evening, as they ventured into a chaotic intersection, Gabriel's true nature was revealed. He unleashed a tirade of curses and honked the horn incessantly, causing a cacophony of chaos around them. It was as if his lovable goofball persona had been consumed by an uncontrollable anger.

Emily and her companions were taken aback, their trust in Gabriel shaken. It seemed that the goofball had a darker side, and they found themselves in a situation they hadn't anticipated.

In the darkest moment of their ordeal, Gabriel's road rage reached its peak. He drove the taxi into a narrow alleyway, trapping Emily and her companions in a perilous situation. It became clear that Gabriel had been leading them into a trap, his intentions far from the goofy charm they had known.

As menacing figures closed in on them in the dimly lit alley, Gabriel stepped forward, his eyes filled with malice. "You were all fools to trust me," he hissed, his voice dripping with anger.

Panic surged through Emily as she realized the gravity of their predicament. She had placed her faith in Gabriel, and he had betrayed her trust. The situation grew dire as the menacing figures closed in, their intentions unclear but undoubtedly sinister.

In their darkest moment, a surprise savior emerged. Boots, Emily's loyal feline companion, sprang into action. With a hiss and a well-aimed scratch, he leaped onto Gabriel, distracting him long enough for Emily and her companions to break free.

A chaotic and desperate struggle ensued as they fought their way out of the alley, narrowly escaping Gabriel and his sinister allies. The revelation of Gabriel's true nature had shaken Emily to her core, but it had also ignited a newfound determination within her.

As they emerged from the darkness of the alleyway, they found themselves on the outskirts of Jungle Juice, far from the city's saccharine heart. The sky above was clear, a stark contrast to the artificial lights that illuminated the city.

Emily knew they could never return to the city they had once known. Instead, they chose to build a new life in the wilderness, far from the chaos and road rage of Jungle Juice. They cultivated gardens, lived in harmony with nature, and found their own version of paradise.

Years passed, and Emily and her companions thrived in their new home. The memory of Gabriel's betrayal remained a painful scar, a reminder of the complexities of human nature. Boots, the loyal feline who had saved them all, remained by Emily's side, a constant reminder of the strength that could be found in the most unexpected places.

One day, as Emily stood beneath the clear, starry sky, she noticed a bright light streaking across the heavens. It was a shooting star, a symbol of hope and redemption. In that moment, Emily made a silent wish for Gabriel, that he might find his way back to the lovable goofball they had once known.

Miraculously, her wish was granted. Gabriel, burdened by the weight of his own anger and road rage, had undergone a profound transformation. He had seen the error of his ways, and the darkness that had consumed him had given way to a flicker of the lovable goofball he used to be.

With newfound purpose and a heart heavy with remorse, Gabriel embarked on a journey of redemption. He sought to undo the harm he had caused and make amends for his past actions. His path led him to the wilderness, where he encountered Emily and her companions once more.

Tears filled Emily's eyes as she saw the change in Gabriel, the genuine remorse in his eyes. She knew that redemption was possible, even for a lovable goofball with bad road rage. With forgiveness in her heart, she welcomed Gabriel back into their community, and together, they worked to build a better future.

In the end, Gabriel's transformation served as a testament to the power of redemption and the enduring hope that even the goofiest of souls could find their way back to the light. As they looked up at the starry sky, Emily, Gabriel, and their companions knew that they had forged a new path, one filled with the promise of a brighter and more genuine paradise.

But tragedy would not be far behind. As they continued to build their new life in the wilderness, disaster struck. Gabriel, who had once been their lovable goofball redeemer, met with a tragic accident while trying to protect his friends from a sudden danger.

Emily and her companions rushed to Gabriel's side, but it was too late. He lay there, his breaths shallow, his eyes filled with remorse and a glimmer of the goofiness he had rediscovered within himself. In his final moments, he whispered a heartfelt apology to Emily and the others, his voice filled with sorrow.

Tears streamed down Emily's face as she held Gabriel's hand, forgiving him for his past actions and cherishing the redemption he had achieved in the end. His sacrifice was a tragic reminder of the complexities of human nature and the capacity for change and forgiveness.

With heavy hearts, they laid Gabriel to rest in the tranquil wilderness he had helped them find. The stars above shone brightly, a testament to the enduring hope that even in the goofiest of times, there could be redemption and a path to a brighter, more genuine paradise.

And so, Emily and her companions continued to honor Gabriel's memory, living their lives in harmony with nature and carrying forward the lessons they had learned on their journey of transformation. They knew that paradise was not just a place but a state of mind, a connection to the goofy and unpredictable nature of life, and a source of strength and inspiration.

As they gazed up at the starry sky, they knew that Gabriel's flicker of goofiness, though tragically brief, had left an indelible mark on their hearts and had illuminated their path toward a more genuine and enduring paradise.

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melisandys-world · 8 months

Text

"Embracing Misunderstanding: How Being Misunderstood Taught Me to Be Extraordinary"

In a world that applauds the conventional and the predictable, there's an extraordinary art to being misunderstood. It's a journey that leads you to blend in while standing out, a paradoxical dance where not everyone grasps your innovative concepts. But guess what? I'm glad I was misunderstood, because it was the very challenge of being misinterpreted that taught me to be truly extraordinary.

The Blessing in Misinterpretation...

Imagine presenting avant-garde ideas to a crowd of skeptics, only to be met with puzzled looks and raised eyebrows. It's like trying to explain a complex scientific theory to a bunch of cats—they're just not on the same wavelength. But hold on a second, because in the midst of this apparent disaster lies an unexpected blessing. Being misunderstood is like finding a hidden treasure chest, brimming with opportunities to refine your ideas, tweak your approach, and emerge even stronger. Those who doubt your creativity unwittingly propel you to refine it, leading you down a path of innovation you wouldn't have discovered otherwise.

The Unseen Path to Extraordinary...

In a world where everyone seeks the safety of conformity, standing out takes courage and determination. Being misunderstood acts as the ultimate test, like the universe's way of weeding out the ordinary from the extraordinary. When you're met with resistance, it's not a sign to retreat; it's a cue to charge forward. The very struggle of convincing others to see your vision hones your skills, making you resilient, resourceful, and ready to conquer uncharted territories.

The Magic of Right Place and Visionaries...

One day, in the land of misunderstood brilliance, you stumble upon a sanctuary—a place where your ideas are greeted not with skepticism, but with intrigue and enthusiasm. These are your kindred spirits, the visionaries who not only comprehend your unorthodox ideas but also amplify them. Surrounding yourself with these unconventional minds is like adding rocket fuel to your creativity. Their belief in your potential pushes you to elevate your imagination, and together, you transcend the ordinary and embrace the extraordinary.

Realization of Self-Worth...

Remember the days when your eccentric ideas were brushed aside? Well, those days were merely the cocoon stage of your metamorphosis. The true worth of your creative genius unveils itself when you break free from the constraints of misunderstanding. As you soar above the clouds of conformity, you're suddenly aware of the majestic wingspan your ideas possess. What was once perceived as strange is now seen as groundbreaking, and what others failed to grasp is now celebrated as visionary.

Triumph in the Symphony of Sarcasm...

And now, the grand finale—where their failure to understand becomes your greatest triumph. They missed the bus to brilliance while you rode the roller coaster of creativity to the very top. Your success is sweeter with a pinch of sarcasm, a wink to the universe that you were always destined for greatness. The very same ideas that were dismissed are now the cornerstones of your accomplishment, reminding everyone that misunderstanding is not defeat—it's a necessary pit stop on the road to success.

What I'm trying to say is...

In this captivating journey of embracing misunderstanding, I've learned that being misinterpreted isn't a flaw; it's a badge of honor. It's a testament to the audacious spirit that drives us to innovate, to challenge, and to redefine the boundaries of creativity. So, here's to the skeptics, the eye-raisers, and the naysayers. Your doubt fueled the fire that forged my extraordinary path. I'm grateful for the journey of being misunderstood, for it's the very journey that taught me to be unapologetically, unabashedly, and unequivocally extraordinary.

Mel xoxo

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justyouraverageanonbloghere · 2 years

Text

The Infernal Play

I was looking forward to this trip to Paris in all honesty. Just me and a few friends. You see, we were avid bookworms hooked on finding old books from the classic periods that just happen to find themselves at a thrift shop or a run down library going under. We were thoroughly enjoying ourselves with taking in the architecture, but what we didn't expect was a fetish parade happening in the city as well. My friends found the idea of leather and latex strange but it always fascinated me. Especially when I saw him.

He was stunning. Muscular, cut, and looked incredible in that leather tracksuit. I didn't realize I was staring as he gave me a grin and a nudge of his chin in response. I was going to work the nerve to talk to him but that was soon shattered once another skinhead went up to kiss him as they immersed in the crows.

Not even a week in another country and I got my hopes crashed. Fuck.

I decided to disperse from my group to just look into the antique shops nearby. I mostly did this so my friends didn't see me heartbroken. But part of me was hoping I'd get to see that man again. Shaking my fantasies from my head I decided to browse the books that were lining the shelves against the far end of the store.

"Don Quixote . . . Dante's Inferno . . . Centuries . . . Antigone . . . Metamorphosis . . ."

I was caught off guard by a black bound book engraved with gold leaf before an arm clad within a leather hoodie obstructed my field of vision. There was no mistaken it was him. He grabbed the book to the left of the one I was eyeing and spoke.

"Declamation Attacking the Uncertainty and Vanity of the Sciences and the Arts by Agrippa. Surprised they have an original copy here."

I was taken back. "You read ancient literature?"

"Yeah. What did you expect a skinhead to only think of sex, poppers, and bondage?" He quipped with a grin.

"In all honesty? Kind of."

He ended up laughing as an arm wrapped around my waist to pull me close to him. "Want to read it with me?"

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to breathe in his smell of sweat, polyurethane, sandalwood, and high-end cologne. To read with him and pick his brain over what texts he liked most. But before I could answer his phone rang and it was a text from the guy from earlier.

"Damn. Can't get away for a minute." He sighed. "It was nice getting to talk to you despite it being short lived." He grinned before giving me a soft kiss before leaving.

I was in shock. My heart was in the air as I gently touched my lips before quickly snapping myself out of my stupor. "Wait! Can I at least know you're name?!" I shout out in a plea.

He stopped and hung in the doorway as our eyes locked before he answered me. "Johannes. Johannes Van Der Berg." He smirked with a wink before disappearing to the crowd once again.

Johannes...

At least I was offered some solace, but that just made me wish I could have him instead. It wasn't fair that such a rare catch was already caught before I ever had a chance. At this point I couldn't continue browsing and decided to head back to the hotel.

Once I got back I took a shower so I could at least rub my sexual frustration out. His scent, those strong hands, his voice, his muscles underneath that track suit. I never wanted a man more in my life. He was too perfect to pass up. But even then, I doubt a cross continental long distance relationship would work. After my shower I threw myself on my bed to nap.

In my dream I was in a grand ballroom all in yellow and gold. All were in masks dancing to a flute that sounded so different to anything I've heard. As I walked among the crowd I saw him. A man in a pale mask taking my hand and dancing with me amongst the crowd of aristocrats.

"Can I see you without your mask?" I asked him, enamored by the bottom half of his features. Chiseled and vaguely familiar.

"Yeah?" He asked, my heart immediately knowing who it was.

"I think it's time. We all showed ourselves aside from you." I answer. I want to kiss him. I know it's Johannes.

His mask began to fuse to his face as black tendrils escaped from his grinning mouth before speaking in a gravelly voice that shook me to my core.

"I wear no mask."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I woke up from that nightmare in a cold sweat with my heart pounding out of my chest.

"A dream. That's all that it was." I sighed before reaching over to turn on the nightstand lamp only to see that book from before. I inspect it more to admire the work put into the cover and ultimately open the book to its title page.

Le Roi en Jaune

The King in Yellow? Never heard of this story before.

I flip to the next page to see it blank. Then the next one. Then the next page.

"What the hell?"

I thumb through the blank book until I saw text on the back of the cover's interior in a foreign language beyond me.

"Y' ah'ehye ya orr'e llll ya aimgr'luhh, throdog uh'eog ph'nglui turor. Goka ya gotha ng Y' ahor ymg' ah syha'h . . ."

"What kind of language is that?" I mutter. "Eh. I guess I got a journal now."

I would immediately regret turning off the lamp once I was met with a darkness that wasn't that of the hotel room. I was swallowed by those tendrils that were reminiscent of the nightmare Johannes. At this point all I could think of was wanting Johannes to protect me. To see him one last time.

And then I awoke again in another cold sweat gasping for air. Only this time, my room was different and I was in a bed with someone until I gasped when seeing him.

"Johannes!" I gasp before realizing my voice was different. He was out like a light thankfully so I decided to head to the bathroom. Flipping on the light I was shocked to see that I was Johanne's boyfriend! Or rather in his body. I had to say that I was pretty attractive now I've gotten a better look at myself.

"Now at least I can be with him." I grin as I take a selfie on triumph with my cock beginning to harden.

However my victory was put on hold when I felt a dread overcome me. One I was all too familiar with. I come out the bathroom to see a hooded figure in yellow standing on the side of Johannes' sleeping body. I wanted to call out to wake him but I couldn't find my voice. All I could do was watch the hood fall to see a mass of writhing tentacles with two yellow pinpoints of light where eyes should be. I wanted to scream but I couldn't. Like I was being forced to watch.

Tentacles wrapped around Johannes, lifting him up from the bed as they began entering every orifice of him. They writhed and filled in every inch of him before he floated there, drifting to be as if he was standing in mid air before he opened his eyes with a grin.

"Y' ah na'ah'ehye. Ng hai syha'h ot mgehye'lloig ahor uaaah!" Johannes laughed out in a voice that I immediately remembered.

"It's you- It's you!" I cry out. I wanted to run for the door but I was frozen in place.

Johanne's grin widened as his feet met the floor, walking to me in a carefree saunter before pulling me in his arms and smashed our lips together in a suffocating kiss. His tongue entered my mouth as a feeling of utter calm came over me and I reciprocated.

"There. Now we can understand one another." Johannes purred out. Literally.

"Who are you?" I ask, looking deep into glowing yellow eyes.

"I have been given many names. Kaiwan, Zukala-Koth, Fenric, The Unspeakable, He Who Sleeps Beneath, Him Who is Not to be Named, and even the Dweller of the Depths." He chuckled, placing kisses along my jaw as his arms tightened around my body to keep me pressed against solid muscle. "But I am widely known as Hastur, the King in Yellow."

That's when it clicked. That weird phrase in the back of the book was an invocation to this thing!

Hastur released me and got on a bended knee to kiss each knuckle of my hand. "I had no choice but to trick you. You happened to exist within my dreamscape and I wished to court you." He confessed before looking at me. "This body seemed to have an adverse effect on you so I made it my host. But I assure you I am now one with him. We are the same now. And we both desire you."

"After all, it's why I ripped out your mind and placed it in that body. It was his wish in all of this." Hastur admitted, standing back up to look at his body. Watching Johannes feel himself and flex his muscles was kind of hot. Especially when I saw tendrils dance and move under his skin.

I think Hastur noticed that I liked what I saw because he picked me up with ease and brought me to the bed where we kissed once more, feeling each other's body.

"Allow me to court you. Become one with me and we shall rule together." Hastur growled within my ear as he grinded his bulge against mine. Fuck he wasn't wearing underwear underneath those leather joggers.

"I accept." I gasp before he connected our lips once more.

With brash movements, Hastur removed my trackies as he freed the throbbing monster from his joggers. I didn't have time to process before he slid all ten thick inches inside of me.

As he thrusted in and out of me and kissed me I began to see everything. The outer ones, the macrocosm, those who still slept, the ones who waited outside of time-space, the true vastness of the universe, and finally I saw Hastur in Johannes body ruling on a throne where a golden city stretched along a planet equal to the size of ours. It was radiant like a star. As my soul zoomed away from the star I saw that they were Hastur's glowing eyes.

"My King..." I moaned out, finally understanding who was fucking me. Fucking my body and my mind with my true purpose. And there I saw me on my King's lap, both of us wearing ornate masks while we adorned ourselves in clothes like what Johannes' crowd were.

I snap back to what was left of this reality in time to where Hastur threw their head back and let out an inhuman roar as he shot Johannes' load deep within me. I couldn't process much after that due to the surge of information and pleasure, so I passed out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I woke up with a groan and rubbed my eyes. Jolting up I went to the bathroom to see Johannes there taking a selfie of himself with a cocky smirk.

"Johannes?" I ask.

Glowing yellow eyes look up at me as he put the phone down, walking up to me and pulling me into his arms.

"Hello, my Prince in Yellow." He grinned. "Come, I have to show you something."

He lifted me into his arms and we walked out to the balcony to see a Paris bathed in gold. The sky was the same color and the stars above were black. Almost as if they were inverted.

"What happened to Paris?" I ask.

"I absorbed your planet within mine. This is the star planet, Carcosa. This is my kingdom. OUR kingdom." He grinned, kissing me softly.

I groan softly in the kiss as he sets me down. "Take upon the sight of our kingdom. There is one more thing I must do." He disappears for a while before returning. He was shirtless aside from wearing a harness and skin tight rubber pants.

With one more soft kiss he turned to the masked citizens below, slowly lining the streets to look up at the two of us.

"The time had come, the people should know the son of Hastur, and the whole world bow to the black stars which hang in the sky over Carcosa."

#body possession #male body possession #male tf #male possession

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