Malevolent Au - Tumblr Posts

Fanart for KryptidKracker’s Malevolent AU, Fool’s Gold

How I imagine things will go next season

But seriously though, AMAZING WORK

I can’t wait to see where things go next and what kind of pain we’ll be getting this season

I Took the One Less Traveled By - a Malevolent Fic

FINAL FIC OF SURROGATE: THE DIRECTOR'S CUT, SEASON ONE

Faroe is given a choice.

A choice six years in the making.

She could never have predicted the result.

AO3

----------

Her birthday.

He’d forgotten the date, gotten lost in their travels and searching.

Six years.

His daughter. His Faroe. If they hadn't pleased this monster , she would die. “No,” Hastur whispered. “No! Please! ”

The audience cheered. “Aaaand coming to you live, from Carcosa!” Kayne cried, holding up the cake in one hand. In his other, he had a weird mic, long and thin, almost like a wand. “The season finale to the greatest show of this generation!” And he tilted the mic away. The audience cheering stopped with the sound of a record scratch. “Been thinking of calling it Lester Yellow, you know, almost like it’s some kind of seasonal Home Depot color, what do you think?”

“Leave her alone,” Hastur breathed, so terrified he could not move. "I beg you. I'll do anything!"

"What?" whispered Faroe in a daze.

"No!" shouted Arthur. "Don't touch her!"

“No?” said Kayne. “Naw, you’re right, that name doesn’t really make sense. Oh, well.” Record-scratch, audience cheering. “And here we are! The overall ratings are in, kids! How do you think you did? Well, I can tell you: you did fantastic. The drama! The tears!” His voice dropped sixteen octaves. “The character arcs like blades, hooking deep in the gut! Oh, and of course, filicide. Fucking delicious."

Hastur made a noise as if he'd been gutted as Kayne spoke.

How dare you, John groaned.

“And I brought cake for the occasion!” Kayne said, holding it up again, and eyed them. “But you know what? No, no, cut. Cut! Edit. This little clusterfuck will not work.” And he snapped his fingers.

They were abruptly torn away from each other.

Everyone shouted. Nibbles bleated. Hastur and Arthur found themselves on opposite sides of the throne room, just within the blazing light—and behind some kind of barrier. Whatever it was, neither could get past it; whatever it was, neither could be heard.

They banged, shouted, kicked. Hastur, then John, tried spells.

To no avail.

Faroe scrambled backward until she slammed into the throne, gasping. Nibbles had been placed behind her, on the seat, unbound, but similarly cordoned off.

Kayne loomed , leaning over her, blocking the spotlight so he was silhouetted except for the freakish whiteness of his teeth.

Faroe stared up at him, gasping loudly, fear upon fear after horror upon horror making her shake, making her feel so weak. She’d grown up around bigger beings, long been used to such large things as her father—but this human-sized man, right now, felt bigger than them all. “Kayne!” she cried.

“That’s my name, feel free to wear it out and I’ll make up another one!” he said, and laughed.

It was horrible, that laugh. Worse than in her head. This close, shocking, knife-like, it pierced, and she screamed, covering her ears with both hands.

He crouched suddenly, holding the mic out to her so her gasps echoed back at her from around the room. “Hey, now, don’t be sad! You won! What do you have to say?”

Faroe cringed. “Go away!”

“Mmm, nope, nope, I mean, my script has a lot of space for improv, but that’s definitely not on the docket.”

“What do you want?” she cried.

He laughed. “What does anybody want?” he proclaimed. “Affordable coffee! Universal healthcare! Vengeance! A damn good show!” He tilted his mic away like a cue, and the audience tittered.

Faroe's tears were hot on her cheeks. “I thought you were my friend!”

All the sound stopped. Not even a record-screech this time, just sudden, strange silence. Hastur and Arthur were frozen, unmoving. Over her head, so was Nibbles, still in place like a photograph.

Kayne’s look was pitying, and cold, humiliating, as if she'd just been stupid . “Did. I act. Like a friend?”

She stared.

He leaned in, crawling forward, crouching over her on all fours like some predatory beast, and his spine did not curve right. “Did. I act. Like a friend?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Trust what people do. Not what they say.” He patted her cheek and stood again, human again, and all the sound resumed. “And now, it’s time for the final game of the season!” The audience cheered wildly. He looked at her. “It’s your cue,” he mouthed.

Cue? Cue for what? She had no idea what was going on, what these crowd sounds were, what the hell he was holding in his hand. Just how many times did she have to go into a horrible situation like this and not know what was going on?

She wiped her face, furious. This wasn’t funny.

“Oh, I disagree,” said Kayne.

In their invisible barriers, her fathers (fathers!) both railed, physically battering themselves, trying to get to her.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to draw the sword from the stone like Arthur had and…

Kayne tsked . “I think she's a little stunned, folks, let's all have some patience, yeah?" The crow laughed and hooted. "Faroe, Faroe, Faroe... don't make me wait! This has been six years in the making, baby doll. You are a success. Your presence (and your opinion and your happiness and your love ) forced these idiots to work together and be interesting enough that you don’t get canceled tonight! Isn’t that lovely?”

“Canceled?” she whispered, and memories stuttered into place. Similar words, something about a mini… mini show? Something, from that night, years ago— 

“Hey, that’s pretty good,” said Kayne. “Good memory you got, there. Bet you made some new ones tonight, eh? You two, reaching toward each other like some famous ceiling painting! You, fucked in the head and sure he was going to kill you, but reaching anyway! Him, uncaring if he fucking died as long as you didn’t—and just making it in the nick of time, because you were about to pass out, and then he wouldn’t have gotten to you quickly enough if you hadn’t reached back. Wow. I mean, wow. I couldn't have planned it that dramatically.”

The audience began chanting her name.

She'd never hated her name before. She hated how it sounded now, ugly, violent, like a club in each hand, coming down. She shook and looked at her fathers again.

Arthur was sobbing, on his knees; he’d beaten his hands bloody, trying to get out. Smears hung in the air, on nothing, showing where he’d tried hardest.

Hastur had practically torn out the floor; it was like a meteor had landed on him, divoting, but he could not break through. Whatever Kayne had done clearly locked him in from above and below, too.

They couldn’t help her... but maybe she could help them. Slowly, Faroe looked up. “If I play, will you let them go?”

The audience cheered.

His grin was brilliant and shiny and white, and there were definitely too many teeth. “Brave little thing. Yes.”

Such a simple answer had to be a trap—but she couldn’t risk it. “Fine. What are we playing, Kayne, worst secret friend in the world?”

That title cracked him up, and she clutched her ears again as glass shattered somewhere in response to his levity.

Gasping, she yelled. “Well? Are you just going to… fuck around? ”

Well, maybe that wasn’t the way to go, because he laughed even harder, slapping his knee, and paced like a tiger. as if this was just so great that he couldn't hold still.

Faroe looked at her fathers.

No, she thought. She would not be crushed by this. She braced herself, reached behind her, and used Hastur’s throne to stand. (Like Arthur had, pulling himself up by a sword he made himself, like Hastur had, even after he'd had to do the worst thing, like—)

“Ooh,” said Kayne, low, his eyes lidded. “I liked that. You really are worth all that effort, maybe. Maybe. Still a kid. Well, anyway. Are you ready to learn what you’ve won ?"

“Yes,” she said, as if pronouncing her own doom.

He raised both hands, legs apart, as if posing for some kind of explosion. “A second season!”

And the crowd roared, louder than at the games, somehow more human than at the games, wild with anticipation.

"What?" Faroe called over it. “A second season? What does that mean?”

“Six more years, baby-doll. I don’t kill all of you for six more years.”

She stared. “ Kill? ”

“Your dad’ll explain the fine print later,” Kayne said, waving his hand, and abruptly shoved a plate with a slice of cake into her chest. “Take it.” He smiled. And it was a warning.

Her hands trembling, she did.

The cake was weird. The frosting was shades of brown, like rotten fruit, and it smelled like a peach left long on the ground, putrescent. Bile filled her mouth. She did not eat.

“So!” he said. "Let's see where we are, shall we? Not a forced family anymore, and while I have personal preferences on that account, I hear you.” He shouted at the ceiling. “I hear you! Conflict resolution! Declarations of love! Old plot lines revived! Punishment! I hear you, cheese and crackers!”

The audience laughed. Some asshole bellowed, That's what I said!

Faroe swallowed again. She was so tired; her body was done, fight-or-flight  reserves already tapped, but Arthur had stood, and so would she. “Will you get to the point?” she said as imperiously as she could.

“I like the schtick, doll, but don’t push it,” he said. “You get to choose.”

The audience went oooooh.

“Choose?” Choose what? She wracked her brain. She’d missed something.  

He watched her twist, his smile eager, hungry, cruel . He was waiting for her to ask.  

She’d agreed to play—and whatever else Kayne was, his warnings and specific promises had always been true. She clenched her healed hand, memories of flesh melting too close to the surface. “Choose what?”

He winked at the ceiling and said, “Hastur. Arthur.”

The audience murmured, uneasy. She waited. He didn’t add to the sentence. “What?”

“Two choices, babe. You get one vote. You can’t abstain. No ties. You have to choose. Hastur. Arthur."

Choose what? Choose what?

She couldn’t do this. How could she do this? What did he mean? What was he asking? “I request more information.”

“No.” He angled the mic away from himself, and the crowd said ooooh .

She stomped her foot. “That’s not fair! I don’t know what I’m choosing!”

“Sure you do. Hastur. Arthur.” He laughed, arms out, and spun on one foot. “Choose!”

Choose?

It had to be death. He’d already talked about killing.

All the spells he’d taught her were cruel in some way. And Arthur didn’t even want to talk about what Kayne had done. And her father… 

Her father was afraid.

She had to choose who was going to die tonight. Faroe put her hand over her mouth, trying not to sob. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye. Not to anyone.

“No one ever is, baby doll,” said Kayne in a mockery of gentleness. “You’re out of time. Choose, or I will, and oh… you will not like that penalty. You should ask your dad how it goes when my words are ignored. ”

Get him a body bag! Yeah! some guy in the crowd shouted, and they all just laughed.

She swayed. For one moment, just one, it almost drowned her. This choice. This weight. 

“Five,” said Kayne.

Arthur had stood.

“Four,” said Kayne.

Her father had done the hardest thing for her tonight and wept tears of gold. 

“Three,” said Kayne, holding up three fingers.

“I’ve decided,” she said, because she had.

Divorcing herself from the emotional angle. Stepping back from them being hers. From what she’d learned tonight. From the brand new beautiful things that helped to heal the horrors she’d seen.

She had to view this as an adult. She had to view this as a queen . The least harm to the most people. The most good to those in need. If someone was going to die, it had to be Arthur—because her father could bring him back. If Hastur died, Arthur would love her and be there—but he couldn’t bring Hastur back, and Carcosa would be in trouble.

She couldn’t think through it more than this. Felt like her brain stuttered and fell, face-first in the mud. She could not emotionally engage.

A drum roll began, low and menacing.

She spoke, and to make them proud, she tried to speak like the queen she was meant to be. “I choose Arthur to die,” she whispered instead, and then burst into tears.

#

Nothing happened. There was eerie silence; even Kayne was quiet, as though waiting for her to get it together again.

She couldn’t shut it off right away.  Hitching, choking, she finally dared look up.

Arthur was alive. Staring at her, clearly shouting her name. John kept trying magic, splashing gold along the invisible barrier, to no effect.

Did that mean…

She spun, terrified.

Hastur was alive, still trying to power his way through, his gold robe ichor-stained, his ragged half still fluttering as he tried with all his power to reach her.

Faroe was so confused she didn’t know what to do.

“Aaaaand we’re back!” said Kayne, and the audience cheered. “Excellent choice, baby doll! Real smart! I mean, I’d prepped for both options (and that’ll be fun when the other plays out) but honestly? I was hoping you’d choose him. Too much l-u-v and outright sappiness otherwise. Boring!”

“Wh-what?” she said.

Kayne snapped his fingers.

The barriers disappeared. 

“Faroe!” came from both sides, and suddenly, she had them back. 

Her fathers, both of them—and she and Arthur were both in Hastur’s arms, off the ground and half-hidden. She had them. They lived. They lived. 

"My daughter," Hastur cried, his voice broken.

"Faroe!" Arthur cried.

Faroe! John cried, and both Arthur’s hands took hers, squeezing them, comforting.

What had she chosen? What had she done? “I’m sorry,” she gasped, clinging. “I don’t know what... I don't know what I did!”

“Well it’s been a good night, folks, with our breakout star (pretty good show from a kid whose first scene in this show was grkk, you know, dead) , but it’s time to wrap up.” The audience cheered wildly.

“Go fuck yourself!” snarled Arthur.

“No,” Kayne said. “She picked you, loverboy.”

 What? breathed John.

“Couple of notes! Don’t make me repeat them, now.” Kayne counted on his fingers. “One! Arthur’s off the no-kill list. We all know you’re not going to do it, anyway, so that limitation is pointless.”

What the fuck? John demanded.

“Quiet!” Hastur snarled, focused, rapt.

“Someone learned his lesson,” Kayne said in a sing-song voice, and counted his second finger. “Two: new stars! Can’t kill them. Can’t send them away. You’re smart. You get the idea.”

Hastur got the idea. “Yes.”

“Good!” And everything froze.

#

Hastur stood alone, facing the being he’d tried to find a way around for six years, who now scared him more than anything he had ever known.

There was nothing here in this place. A vague blue-gray light, and nothing else. Eternity in emptiness. Hastur made a low, strained noise.

“And three… I don’t like you,” Kayne said, and it echoed, the words sound over and over again from all directions.

Hastur trembled. “I know.”

“I don’t like you… less than I did, though? The utter misery works for me. Crunchy heart, all in pieces . But still. I don’t like you. So here’s what I’m thinking, Golden Boy.” Kayne approached, and as he did, his guise melted away, and what he was came out to play.

Hastur fell back, crying out, huddled in terror.

Shadow bled from the thing “Kayne” had hid, madness threatening even Hastur's mind, and the next words burned themselves into him like brands. “She gets six more years. It’ll be played out at that point; I’ll probably move on. But you? You.”

Hastur panted, not daring to run, not daring to anger him more.

“I'm thinking I might just kill you, anyway.”

Hastur felt like his hearts stopped. He stared.

“Am I being greedy? Having my cake and eating it, too? Yeah, sure, but I mean, easy win, right? Everyone is gonna love season two. But you? You’re the one who did the shit. You did it all, didn’t you? Why, it was all… your… fault.” And his voice dropped low to a pleased and terrible rumble, eager, expectant, hungry.

Hastur’s whisper was nothing. “Yes.”

The darkness writhed, relishing. “You have to pay, don’t you? You know you do. You should hear their cries… they want you to suffer, bucko. They want you to hurt. That’s only fair, isn’t it?”

It was. He hadn’t suffered enough. Not for what he’d done, what he’d wrought. He could see that. He deserved… more. "Yes," he whispered, head bowed, because it was right. 

So would end the King in Yellow, Lord of Carcosa, fool.

But six years—that wasn’t enough time. If he were dead, who would protect them? They wouldn’t be safe. They would be prey. He couldn’t make them safe in six years. No one could. Hastur made one soft, helpless sound. "Wait..."

“That was lovely! Heartbroken is a damn good look on you, bubby.”

”I need more time,” he whispered, ready to bargain whatever misery this being wanted.

”No,” said the Faceless One. Then he flicked Hastur's mask. Hastur cried out. It reverberated, that pain, shocked him, briefly blinded, flashed through him like lightning, and he found himself flat-out on the ground, whimpering helplessly. He reached up and found a chip in the mask that was his face, an eerie, sharp jag along the top right edge.

“You can’t bribe me, no matter how pretty that was," Kayne said, withdrawing, shrinking back into his guise with every step. "Six years. Good luck making it aaaaall work out.”

And time started up again.

#

Hastur was where he’d been, protectively holding his family ( his family ), unable to breathe. 

His grip tightened. Fragile. They were all so fragile. His face hurt so much, throbbing with his hearts.

“Guest star number one!” Kayne bellowed as if there’d been no interruption.

Trumpets played.

“What the fuck?” came a new voice, a male voice, a heavily accented Bostonian voice, and a man came stumbling into the spotlight as though thrown.

Arthur twisted toward him.

Arthur? said John. Arthur, it… it can't be.

“Parker?” said Arthur, his voice going high and fragile.

“What?” Parker challenged, clambering to his feet. His clothes were a mishmash of Dreamlands commoner fare, as if he’d stolen it all off various washing lines, and they were sweat-stained and torn. His hair, long enough to tie back, was greasy and in his eyes; his boots were worn, and his beard was half grown in. “ Arthur?”  

Arthur gawked. Tears began rolling down his face. "Parker? Put... put me..."

Hastur let him down.

Arthur staggered toward that voice, and his breath hitched once. "Parker? Y... you're alive?"

" You're alive?" said Parker. "Fucking... you... son of a bitch, you're here?"

The drum rolled. “And guest star number two!” said Kayne. 

Watch out! a new voice snarled.

But not new. Not at all.

“I got this,” soothed Parker, but it didn’t matter at all.

Arthur stopped as though he’d been gut punched. “Yellow?” he choked.

MURDERER! the voice cried.

“Easy, Sunny,” said Parker.

No! Parker, get away from him! He’s fucking dangerous! Yellow snarled. He'll hurt you! He... he'll... get away from us!

Arthur staggered back as if punched. He shook now from head to toe, his breath going shuddery and shallow, his voice a soft whimper. 

The drum roll abruptly resumed, and the orchestra began building, louder and louder, adding percussion, strings, brass—“And of course, what’s a new season without a new villain?” Kayne cried, and his eagerness made the room tremble. “Guest star number three, straight from the wilds of the sweetest digs in the Dreamlands! Covered in the sins of his youth, filled with power from the nastiest rituals you’ve ever seen, scion of the Order of the Falling Star, and one of my favorite puppets… Wallace (ace… ace…) Larsooooooooon!”

The music exploded into chaos, a gargantuan blare of discordant noise, and the audience joined it, booing, shrieking, hissing and howling.

"What? What is... where am I?" came a syrupy drawl, smooth and unafraid, and Larson staggered into the light, dressed in colorful finery good enough for Court, with dragon-hide boots, with jewels sewn into the seam of his cloak, rubbing his eyes as though briefly blinded.

Arthur went completely stiff, as rigid as if he'd been electrocuted. It seemed he no longer breathed.

Hastur, John warned.

“What’s happening?" said Larson mildly, unafraid, confident. “I do declare… my, my. What is this place?”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand action!" Kayne bellowed—and disappeared, along with the spotlights, the crowd, the ambient noise, leaving them all alone in Hastur’s throne room.

The silence was deafening. Then, it was broken.

“You!” Larson snarled... at Parker. “Thief! How in the hell did you get loose again?”

“Oh, fuck this guy,” said Parker. “He ain’t getting you back. You hear me? Try it, asshole!”

Parker, I’m scared, said Yellow quietly.

And Larson spotted Hastur, and fell at once to his knees, arms raised. “Oh… oh! Nilgh'ri l' vulgtmah Uh'eog ph'nglui Turor! Llll ahornah, h' ahuh'eog nilgh'ri! ” he proclaimed in R'lyehian, pronouncing what had to be worship.

Hastur! John cried.

Without a sound, Arthur lunged at Larson with every intent to tear him to shreds.

-----------

Notes:

Wow. What can we even say?

We wrote this crazy series as a love-letter to Malevolent. We're playing in the sandbox, raising castles (and razing them, too), and honestly never expected that anyone else would enjoy the mess we made like you wonderful readers have.

Thank you all for your comments, your encouragements, your reactions. They've meant more than you know - and ensured that we would actually WRITE this thing instead of just going, "Wouldn't it be amazing if..."

As for this forced FOUND family, their story isn't done. We're already working on season two—though we might need to catch our breath before we post it. :)

Thank you for trusting us. <3 Hopefully, you enjoy the ride to the end the way we are.

And thanks again to Harlan, who is awesome, and made these dolls for us to play with in the first place.

See you in season two. Love, Trin, @sepiabandensis, and @sparklyandheroic

ME FR RIGHT NOW

Refrain, chapter four - a Malevolent fic (The start of Surrogate, season two!)

Kayne's "season one" ended with a choice: whichever father Faroe picked, he was ready to let that slingshot fire.

She picked Arthur. Well, that was nice, wasn't it? Especially since he'd spent almost a year pulling that rubber band back, loaded.

Of course, he had no idea how well it would work. Humans are weird, and pieces of Hastur seem to respond particularly well to prolonged exposure.

It was time to deny a wicked man his prize.

Time to give a good man a second chance and see what he did with it.

Time to take the abused piece of a god and find out how it changed when given to someone else.

Part of Surrogate, a Malevolent AU. Written with @sepiabandensis.

AO3 (chapter four)

-------

They got used to sleeping outside, when the weather permitted. They also got used to welcoming other travelers.

These moments, to Sunny, were unreal. Seated around a campfire, sharing stories; lying beneath blankets of stars. The freedom. The living.

Maybe Parker was right. Even if they eventually did get caught… maybe this was worth the journey.

#

Parker-watching was a good thing to do. Sunny liked when they were in places with reflections; he could see the planes of Parker’s face, and the steady, sharp gaze that missed nothing.

Sunny also noticed whom Parker watched. And whom Parker… watched.

In one small town, within spitting distance of Myngar, they took a room at an inn with some fantastic roasted fisher-bird. The rice-like grain from the nearby floodplains made a light, flavorful beer that was easy to drink, hard to overdo, and just potent enough that even Sunny was warm from the buzz.

Sunny had taken a liking to people-watching, as well. It was good to keep an eye out while they were on a case, but there was a certain kind of simple beauty in watching others, humans and otherwise, go about their lives. It reminded Sunny of a lifetime ago, when he had watched strange and stilted dancing in a bar in Addison, but it was so much better.

Today Parker’s gaze wandered, dragging Sunny’s along with it, but when it got to the bar… it lingered.

The barkeep’s son was a tall, handsome man with lowered lashes and a shy smile who seemed keen on keeping Parker’s glass full. Sunny did not miss when their hands brushed against at another exchange of a glass. He also did not miss how the man’s gaze lingered, too, sweeping back towards Parker, and how Parker met and held that gaze. Sometimes, when the man leaned just right, it was if the flavor in Parker’s mouth changed. Almost like hunger. Almost.

You prefer the male form, Sunny observed.

“Yeah,” said Parker, still watching the guy.

You like that form.

“Kinda,” said Parker. “Guys like that, they know how to move. I like spreading ‘em. Like butter on toast.”

Sunny thought for a long moment. If you wish to indulge, I will not interfere.

Parker had a coughing fit. “Buddy… come on, I’m not doing that to you.”

Larson did. I learned how to… step aside. Away. To put myself away.

“To what?” said Parker, soft. “You what?”

To remove myself from it.

“What, you… you dissociate?” said Parker, recalling the word from a case four years ago. “Are you serious?”

Sunny seemed lost. Yes?

Parker put his hands around his beer. He was silent for a long moment, and no longer watching the barkeep’s son. “I’d rather you didn’t do that, buddy. I’m not gonna put you in a position where you have to.”

But you deserve pleasure, Sunny said, intensely. You deserve good things.

“I’ve had plenty of fun. You know what’s not fun? Screwing over a partner, you hear me?”

It was Sunny’s turn to be silent for a long moment.

“That son of a bitch,” Parker muttered, and did not bring it up again.

#

Two weeks later, Larson hired non-magical goons—natives to the Dreamlands—and these, Parker found harder to spot.

The group caught him fair and square, dragging him out of a town before he’d reached an inn for the night. They beat him up. They threw him in a half-wrecked room with a heavy door and locked it, then got rowdy-drunk in the main room to celebrate the payday they’d snagged.

Parker used a board from the bed and a block from the wall and levered the door off its hinges while Sunny hissed, Yes, Parker!

From that point, they both were a lot more careful.

#

I never want to go back to him, Sunny told Parker after the fourth failed capture. He spoke with the same desperate pleading he’d used when begging Parker not to hurt him on the day they had met. Parker, please. I never, ever want to go back.

“I hear you, buddy,” said Parker, breathing a little hard as he jogged in the wilderness. “But if they catch us and we can’t get out, that only leaves one option, you know?” And Parker wasn’t Larson; he never used Sunny’s words against him, so he didn’t say, you didn’t want to die, or anything like that. He just let it sit. This was Sunny’s hand to play, however he wanted to play it.

Instead, Sunny began to recite a poem.

If we must die—let it not be like hogs Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, Making their mock at our accursed lot, If we must die—oh, let us nobly die, So that our precious blood may not be shed In vain; then even the monsters we defy Shall be constrained to honor us though dead! Oh, Kinsmen! We must meet the common foe; Though far outnumbered, let us show us brave, And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow! What though before us lies the open grave? Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack, Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

Parker sounded stunned. “Oh,” he said, softly. “That’s… that’s it. That’s… everything. You just… damn, Sunny. That’s… that feels right. What is that? And don’t say ‘a poem.’”

If I can’t say it’s a poem, Sunny said wryly, I will call it a war cry. I will not let him take me. I won’t execute you to do it, but… It would be an honor to die by your side, my friend.

Parker set his jaw. It was a good sign; Sunny knew that by now. It meant Parker was ready to throw himself into something, head, hand, and foot, heart, soul, and spirit. “I’m in. I won’t let them get you, if I got any say in it. Let ‘em try.”

#

They said this man was strong. Had knocked out a casting sorcerer, somehow, with just his fists.

They said this man was smart. He’d reinstated the true rulers of Karnath, unraveled the mystery of the Mummy Caves, and somehow brought peace to Princess Y’thgna in her final moments.

They said he was also on some kind of personal quest to taste every single food in the Dreamlands.

Of course, all of that couldn’t be true. But it sure was fun to talk about.

And people did.

#

Parker traveled smart, and kept their head down, sticking to crowds; and so they got to hear the news.

The Games were in Carcosa. (And Sunny waxed eloquent.)

Carcosa was attacked. (And Sunny freaked out.)

The Carcosan princess was missing (and Sunny twisted, trying to figure out who the hell that could be).

The Carcosan princess was found (and maybe was human, and Sunny didn’t believe that at all).

A storm like no one had ever seen crash-landed in the Middle Sea. (And Parker and Sunny were very glad they hadn’t gotten to the coast yet to catch a boat towards Carcosa, because every boat on the water had been turned to toothpicks.)

This slowed them down a bit. Parker knew they were being chased, but… when the storm finally passed, everything was kindling. The closer they got to the sea, the more damage they found. People wept; voices cried names, hoping for response against impossible odds. The wounded moaned, sometimes still trapped in buildings that had fallen.

Parker couldn’t just keep going. He knew they were close; Carcosa was across the water, or so Sunny said. But they couldn’t ignore all of this. “We gotta help, Sunny.”

Sunny had lapsed into that heavy, meaningful silence, but at last: I agree. People are wounded, or hurting, or need to find family, and that is what you and I seem to excel at. Plus, there’s talk of Carcosa being allied with Celephaïs, now—we can always go there to resume our quest, after we’ve helped.

And Parker had to say it, because he wasn’t in the business of tricking Sunny. “Means we’ll be in the crosshairs. And in one place longer than we should be. You still up? Because I am.”

I’m still up, my friend. Larson we will deal with when he comes—we always do. His voice still trembled when he talked about Larson coming after them.

“Glad to work with you, buddy,” said Parker. And they dove in.

#

They weren’t caught for three weeks. Maybe Larson hadn’t considered they’d stay behind, risking themselves. Maybe he’d just assumed they’d avoid the worst of it, because (both were sure) he would have.

But they stayed, and they helped, and though Parker tried to keep it all under wraps, the weird hooded guy with the wisp of gold in his mouth just wasn’t something people wanted to keep quiet about.

#

“Mister,” said a woman one night. “Please. You’re the one helping people, right? Please.”

Parker was tired. Sunny was tired. They hadn’t even had the chance to enjoy their truly excellent hot and sour soup. “Maybe?” said Parker, turning. “What’s up?”

She was a worn woman, tired, too thin. She’d chopped her hair off rather than trying to maintain it in all the chaos, and her clothes were threadbare. “My son. Please. He… we thought he was getting better, but he’s not,” she said, wringing her hands.

“I can’t make any promises,” said Parker, because he always did, “but I can at least try. Where is he?”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” she sobbed. “This way. I’m sorry, it… my home is on the other side of town.”

“Eh,” said Parker. “Nice evening to stretch our legs. Lead on, ma’am. I’m Parker. Nice to meet you.”

“Pah… Pakah,” she repeated. “Cill.”

“Hi, Cill.” And Parker did a thing that he sometimes did: he offered the soup to the woman.

Sunny didn’t sigh this time. They could get more soup. They would. That looked really good, too.

She looked shocked. Took it. And, her eyes filling, she turned and hurried off.

Parker followed at speed, hood up. “Spot our tail yet?”

I can’t tell. I still think you’re right and we’re being watched.

“I’m sure we are.” His gut was never wrong. “You ready to move on yet?”

They’re not ready.

“I agree.” Parker navigated around a cart filled with debris, being taken for burning. “Let’s just be careful.”

Cill wasn’t kidding; her home was more than just on the other side of town. It was outside it, on the outskirts, far enough away that its flickering, candlelit windows shone in the night.

So this felt suspicious as hell, but the woman’s distress was real. Her glance, over her shoulder, was desperate and just a pinch guilty as she clutched the soup to her chest and went inside.

Had Larson hurt some kid? “Batter up,” Parker warned softly, and stepped in behind her.

It wasn’t a wealthy place. Essentially one room with bits of mismatched furniture here and there, it had a single bed with a boy, a child who had to be five, at most. Half his face was bandaged; the wound, whatever it was, had turned, seeping brown, and did not smell good. The boy’s breath came fast and shallow.

“Aw, kid,” said Parker softly, and headed for him.

Sunny let out his insubstantial breath. This will be an easy one. It’s like we did for that woman in Thraa, remember? I’m going to let you do this one: focus, and let my magic flow through you.

“Yeah, that’ll work. Cill, how’d he get hurt?” But her look made him pause.

She kept glancing behind him.

Parker looked. There was nothing there. Oh, boy. “Cill?”

“He… when the shipyard was destroyed. It was flying debris. Nails and wood.”

“We can help him.” Parker needed her to know this. “Okay?”

Her look was pleading.

Why does she keep staring at us like that? Sunny’s voice was low.

“Pretty sure it’s a trap, but that kid is really hurt,” said Parker.

“Now, I wasn’t gonna let such a golden opportunity pass by,” said Larson, and he appeared from shadow, hand held palm down over the kid’s head.

Sunny gasped, but it was almost second nature as he took hold of Parker’s voice. “Larson,” he said, softly. “That’s a child. An innocent. Don’t hurt him. Please.”

“You,” Larson sneered, “ain’t in a position to bargain, you truant little shit. Now, let me talk to the big man.”

Parker took in a soft breath, his jaw his own again. “Speakin’,” he said. “You’ve got us where you want us. Yeah? Let the kid go.”

“Sure. Soon as I really get what I want. You are gonna hold damn still, aren’t you? No spells. No tricks. This little game of ours has been fun, but it’s over. I win.”

More men stepped out of the shadows. There was real power here; this must have taken days to set up.

Cill was softly crying.

The kid…

Parker, Sunny whispered. The kid.

They were on the same page, but they’d only get one shot—and only if Larson was distracted. Sunny began prepping the spell like a slingshot, and Parker drew focus back to himself. “So much work for just one guy, right? I must’a really busted up your plans. Whatever they were.”

“You’ll never know them,” Larson smugged.

“Really? I got a few guesses. Educated ones, even.”

“I don’t care,” said Larson, baring his teeth a little.

“No? You don’t even want to know how I keep getting away from you? Just some guy from Boston, fooling the Great White Hunter?”

“What you’ve been, boy, is lucky. And I think we both know why.”

Parker could feel the magic building. Just needed to keep him talking. “Because I’m smarter than you?”

“Because of what you stole,”  Larson snarled.

Parker leaned on his accent, knowing without question that it would grate on Larson’s nerves. “Didn’t steal nuttin’. You know, Lahson… for all we’ve been playing cat and mouse, you haven’t showed up all that much. Ah ya scared?”

Larson was turning colors again. “Just trying not to crack the chamber pot too soon,” he snarled.

“Ooh. Funny. Get that, Sunny? He’s calling you shit.”

I’ll fucking show him shit, Sunny muttered, the power coiling beneath their tongue.

“Enough of this,” said Larson, and his goons shifted, in position. “Stand down, or the kid dies.”

Parker could do that. After all, Larson didn’t say not to speak.

He relaxed his jaw, his lips, his tongue. He gave Sunny his mouth. And Sunny sang.

The power flowed from them like a wave, surging over the kid, bandages burning away as the infection was purged and the wounds knit themselves closed, sight even returning to the eye that was mangled. It was golden light, pure poetry in R’lyehian, and Parker could feel his face smiling as it left a golden glow of protection sweeping around not only the boy, but Cill too.

“You can’t hurt them now,” Sunny said. “As it turns out, this shit don’t stink after all.”

Parker laughed.

Larson stared as if he fully believed they’d gone mad. “That was your shot? Are you out of your damn mind?”

And they came at him, fists and ropes and anger, too much to fight through—but not before he saw the gratitude on Cill’s face.

Take that, you asshole, he thought, and tumbled into darkness.

#

They say he single-handedly turned the tide of the death-toll after the Storm in Zakarion.

They say he lost his life there, captured by whatever evil tracked him down (and various Dreamers imagined this immortal clash as various things, from angels and demons to good and evil enfleshed).

They say he even saved the child of an enemy before he died.

They say a shrine had already been raised, and there would be more. No one would ever forget the names of Pahkah Yang and Sunny, his golden friend.

#

There would definitely be no further chances to get away.

Parker woke and found himself bound to a ridiculous level; chains and ropes, up his arms and legs, around his torso. Every finger had been individually tied. There was some kind of muzzle on his face, keeping his mouth from opening, its straps digging into his cheeks. He couldn’t even turn his head—blocks had been strapped to it, keeping it straight.

Well. It had been a good run.

Honestly? He’d always believed he’d die young, but here, he’d gotten to live twice. He’d helped people. He’d seen things so few had, and really loved this new world.

It was Sunny he felt sick for.

Parker didn’t really know from spells. Not really. But the things Sunny had described about that last one—the one the Outer God interrupted—made him certain Larson had been about to do something terrible to Sunny. Sunny was the one in real danger here.

Parker, Sunny said. Can you hear me? Blink twice if yes, three times if—well, I suppose I’ll know if the answer is no.

He could blink twice. Easy. Also, ow. His head hurt. Whoever did him had done him dirty. Fuckers, he thought, and really wished he had a way to silently communicate with Sunny.

He didn’t want Sunny feeling bad over this. They’d done the right thing, even if it meant capture.

Oh, thank the gods, Sunny said. His voice was soothing and gentle—Parker was reminded of how Sunny had spoken after he’d passed out, when Sunny had healed his bullet wound, what might have been a lifetime ago. I… This is perhaps selfish of me, but… I was afraid of being alone. I’m glad you’re still here. He went quiet for a moment. I’ve decided… I think there are some ways for me to fight against him now. I promised you that I wouldn’t go down without a fight, and I’m going to keep that promise.

Parker blinked twice.

Sunny let out a soft, desperate laugh. Thank you, Parker. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I feel like, maybe, I did something very good. That we did something good. And I don’t know about you, but I can face my end with… fewer regrets. He took a lungless breath. If I have the opportunity, I’ll make it quick for you, my friend. And I’ll look for you on the other side.

Two blinks. And Parker set his jaw. He was all in.

Heh. Heh, heh. Fuck. Somehow Parker could feel Sunny shudder. Should I try to fill our time? Talk? Close your eyes for two seconds if no, or… one blink for poetry, two blinks for songs, three blinks for… something else, I suppose. I’ll figure something out.

Three blinks. Always, he encouraged Sunny to explore. That was just who he was. Consistently.

Sunny knew who Parker was. Parker had lied plenty—Sunny had seen him do it, to get out of things, to get information. But never to Sunny. Parker had tricked, too. Fought. Been quite aggressive… but never to Sunny. And Parker had always had a reason for doing those things, and explained. It made everything better, somehow. Good. Living.

Parker’s heart raced now, of course. His wriggled attempts did nothing. There would be no getting out of this.

Sunny sniffled. Something else, he said. You know, I don’t remember tasting anything before you. I think the entity that put me in Arthur’s head ensured I remembered nothing. So I think that made this the most wonderful. To be able to taste.

“Mmmm,” Parker agreed.

This is perhaps a bit embarrassing, Sunny said with a laugh. But I think the sweets were some of my favorites. I really liked that sipping chocolate we had in Jaren. I think that might have been my favorite—at least of the drinks.

Parker chuckled just a little. A couple of tears slipped down his face, but he said, “Mm-mm-mm,” encouraging.

My favorite meal, though, was when we had—do you remember, Parker, when we had to catch that fish, on the Oukranos? A real laugh, now. And despite the fact that we had it in a trap, it still took us twenty minutes to catch the fucking thing. You got all wet. It tasted so good, though, probably because we were both tired. But you were laughing, and I was still having such a good time. It was like we didn’t have to worry about anything but—

“Fucking hell, you two,” said a bright voice, a strident voice, a voice that Parker sort of knew. Had heard briefly. Most recently, when something pulled him to the roof, when they were going to be caught. “If I wanted mush, I’d have bought the damn cable package.”

Sunny gasped. Parker, it’s him! The Outer God!

“Mmm?” managed Parker, because what the fuck? What does he want? he thought.

“Eh. The usual. A better lemon pie. Six Amy May Wongs with some sharp toys. A better use of time, for fuck’s sake. Anyway! You’re all wound up. Ready to go. It’s time to fulfill your actual purpose, babes.”

That sounded bad. Parker couldn’t see him; he wanted Sunny out of this. Maybe he could bargain.

“Nope, sorry. He’s blow number two to that tender psyche. Ciao!”

Parker! Wh—

Wh—Parker was ripped from the restraints (it hurt, damn it) and hurled.

He hit the floor, staggering into blazing white light that took his sight, into some… presence that thrummed through the room and made his skin tingle, and discordant trumpets hurt his ears.

If this was the Pearly Gates, they needed a tune-up. “What the fuck?” he cried, blinded, half-deafened, staggering

“Parker?” came a voice.

A voice he knew.

A voice he’d listened to, and coaxed to laughter, and pulled into intense detective work, and thought about, and jacked off to, and dearly loved until the owner of that voice had turned around and strangled him dead.

So was he dead again? “What?” he said. “Arthur?”

He turned and threw his hand over his eyes—that was it, that presence, too grand and huge to look at, blinding-bright golden robes shimmering with faint patterns that bloomed and died in his vision, and some sort of limbs like waves of ink spread along the ground.

And he could feel that if not for Sunny, tucked into his head, he would have been overwhelmed.

Buoyed in those tentacles were two people, nestled up against the robe, one a little girl, and the other—

A voice that was and was not Sunny’s spoke. Arthur? Arthur, it… it can't be.

“Parker?” Arthur Lester said.

Arthur… something terrible had happened to him. Scars pockmarked the right side of his face. His hair was long and sweat-sticky, falling past his shoulders. His beard was salt-and-pepper, and gray threaded through the hair at his temples, and those eyes—

They were still fucking yellow.

“Put…” Arthur said, looking up into the darkness of a crowned hood on that massive shape. His voice was ragged. “Put me…”

Gently, tenderly, the tentacle set Arthur on the ground. Arthur staggered forward on weak knees, but his face wasn’t quite orienting the right way.

John had his eyes, Sunny had said, and Parker swallowed.

They weren't looking directly at him, but they sure could still cry. “Parker? Y... you're alive?” Arthur said, voice cracking (and Parker had not forgotten, had not lost any of the memory of that voice).

There was so much… much. Right now. Had Sunny been right? Arthur had murdered, and… vanished? To this place? "You're alive?" said Parker. "Fucking... you... son of a bitch, you're here?"

A snare drum rolled. “And guest star number two!” that voice rang out, the voice of the Outer God.

Watch out! It was a desperate cry, sharp and snarled and full of terror.

“I got this,” soothed Parker, though he absolutely did not.

Arthur stopped as though he’d been gut punched. “Yellow?” he choked.

Parker winced, just as Sunny began to seethe in the back of his head. MURDERER! Sunny cried.

“Easy, Sunny,” said Parker.

No! Parker, get away from him! He’s fucking dangerous! Sunny snarled, a dog with its leg in a trap. He'll hurt you! He... he'll... get away from us!

And then it got worse. Impossibly, it got worse, and it got complicated.

The drum roll rioted, and instruments blared from nowhere, painfully loud. “And of course,” cried the Outer God, his voice weirdly distorted and echoing, “what’s a new season without a new villain? Guest star number three, straight from the wilds of the sweetest digs in the Dreamlands! Covered in the sins of his youth, filled with power from the nastiest rituals you’ve ever seen, scion of the Order of the Falling Star, and one of my favorite puppets… Wallace (ace… ace…) Larsooooooooon!”

The music shrieked, and an unseen crowd bellowed.

And Larson stepped into view, staggering like Parker had. "What? What is... where am I? I do declare,” he said, smooth and calm like this happened every day. “What is this place?”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand action!" the Outer God bellowed—and disappeared, along with the spotlights, the crowd, the ambient noise, leaving them all alone in a dark throne room, in thick and near-complete gloom.

It still hurt to look toward that being, whatever it was, though Parker briefly couldn’t see anything but silhouettes. “Fuck,” he murmured.

Larson heard him. “You! Thief! How in the hell did you get loose again?”

Hastur, said the voice that was and was not Sunny's.

You’ve got to be kidding, thought Parker, and wondered if this meant they were all in hell. “Oh, fuck this guy,” he said, wanting to lend Sunny strength. “He ain’t getting you back. You hear me? Try it, asshole!”

Parker, I’m scared, said Sunny, which made him feel half-feral.

But apparently not all feral. Not nearly as feral as Arthur.

Parker knew Arthur. Knew him as a man who’s studied another for years can know, and saw the change. Even in the gloom, he saw the switch flip.

Saw the moment that body language stiffened, saw the moment Arthur’s brain turned off.

Larson turned toward that radiant something that hurt to look at, fell to his knees, and proclaimed a bunch of gibberish.

And Arthur—

Hastur! shouted not-Sunny’s voice.

Arthur lunged with murder his every inch, teeth showing in a white rictus as though he planned to bite Larson to death, fingers curved like claws.

Maybe it’s not hell, Parker thought. Maybe I’ve just gone crazy. And with the habit born of years past, of chasing this man down from the time he was self-destructing in Jack’s Bar to their most twisted child-murder cases, Parker ran after Arthur Lester to stop him from doing something dumb.

Already missing Sunny and Parker

Just had a very cute Surrogate fic related thought

Hastur loves Faroe

Hastur also loves cats

Therefore, if Faroe were to wear a cat onesie, I think he’d instantly flatline on the spot from how cute it is. How to kill a god 101

She pops out like: “Behold!” Hastur instantly keels over clutching his chest

Someone show Faroe Lester Yellow Disney’s Brave right now. She would absolutely love it

HEHEHEEEE

GUYS HOLY SHIT

Just have these two shitposts from a while ago. First one is an au if John and yellow randomly swapped out of the blue. The second is if Arthur and John needed glasses

>> Next

Little au concept:

What if in one of the different universes, Kayne explained more about his abilities when he first met Arthur, just to see what would happen. In this universe, john was the one who suggested that if things don’t work out Arthur would die and they would work things out in the dark world, In this universe John was the one with the knife, and in this universe, Arthur disagreed with John’s backup plan. When John drove the knife into Arthur’s neck Arthur felt betrayed despite living, and Kayne, after having so many similar conversations, assumes Arthur would want John back, and is surprised when he stands corrected.

Arthur decides that he’s sick of the world, sick of being betrayed by John and sick of himself, so he asks Kayne to help him do the same think Kayne once did. Kayne, intrigued and curious on what would happen if a mortal did so, agrees so long as Arthur can stomach the worst of it, so he takes Arthur to a universe where Arthur is happy. Sure he still experienced loss, not Faroe is alive and his pride and joy, where Arthur’s absence would be felt and hurt the person to whom he holds most of his regrets.

Prev << current >> next?

[Image id- a uncolored art of a woman with a Slit dress with two puffy sleeves. Also, two necklace, has curly hair and is smiling-end id]

design for God! Au Bella, she is the Goddess of childbirth! More info about her under the cut

She is in a queerplatonic relationship with John & Arthur

She is aroallo

Arthur & Bella have a child together, Faroe goddess of the sea

She someone not to fuck with

She can be very scary when angry

She loves to help Arthur with the dead children that have died, she acts like a mom to them

Personality: nice, but stubborn, very loving, not afraid to speak her mind

Hates Larson with a burning passion

Bella sees as Addison as second daughter

She very much approves of Addison & Faroe's relationship

[Id uncolored Paper drawing of a man with hat with white Lily in it that has a veil covering his face he wears a corset and a vest with a short sleeve shirt under it. Has gloves and striped pants id ends]

This is Arthur in the God au. He is the God of death and tragedy. He is aroallo and in a queerplatonic relationship with Bella and John. Bella and Arthur have a daughter together named Faroe, Goddess of water, who they love and adore. Arthur loves helping children out after they die. He will let children follow him around until they feel comfortable going into the afterlife or have parents to take the child to the afterlife. He doesn't get angry easy but if your horrible person then he will very aggressive person. He adores Faroe's wife, Addison and is like a Father figure to her.

[Id begins, a women with a long wavy hair with a sea star in her hair and fish net in her hair with a strapless dress with a water like design on her dress Id ends]

This Faroe she is goddess of water and child of Arthur and Bella. She is very kind goddess but she can be scary when needed and has parents that are not afraid of protecting her. She is married to the Goddess Addison who is the Goddess of revenge. She hates Larson with a burning passion. She has amazing relationships with Arthur, Bella and John; she calls John, Abba. Then calls Yellow uncle Yellow.

Soo I redid some redoing and adding some characters

Arthur-God of death & tragedy

John-Wisdom & Judgment

King in yellow-God of Madness

Faroe- Goddess of water

Addison-Goddess of revenge

Eddie-God of mechanry

Larson-God of greed and wealth

Marie-Godess of hospitality, home and fire

Kellin-God of War

Kayne-God of chaos, choices and deals

Yellow-God of lies

Bella-Goddess of childbirth and life

Trade-God of trades

Scratch-God of nightmare

Butcher-God of music & hunting

Oscar-God of loyal and devotion

Noel-God of peace

Parker-god of patience

The witch-Godess of nature

Yorick- God of tricks and information

Lilly-Godess of Medicine and healing

Daniel-God of manners and rules

So I made an God au for Malevolent here who I got so far

Arthur-God of death & Tragedy

John-Wisdom & Judgement

King in Yellow-God of madness

Faroe-Goddess of water

Addison-Goddess of Revenge

Eddie-God of mechanary

Larson-God of wealth & greed

Marie-Goddess of home & hospitality & fire

Kellin-God of war

Kayne-God of chaos & choices

Yellow-God of Lies

Bella-goddess of childbirth

The trader-God of trade

Scratch-God of Nightmares

Butcher- God of music & hunting

Oscar-God of life

Noel-God of mysteries

Parker-God of patience

An official colored design of Arthur from my God au :]

Happy One Year (Late) Anniversary to This Post!

This world has updated a lot since this original posting so I thought I’d celebrate with a lil poll and let you all choose what to talk about!

Thank you most especially to @asacolyte and @rightpastnowhere and all of my other friends not on Tumblr who have indulged me in this crazy world. Bless you all.

Multi-Fear Avatar Brainrot

It’s a concept that’s been on my mind for a hot minute now especially now that I’m relistening to The Magnus Archives. Is this a possibility? How would it work? Who could be a Dual- or Tri- Avatar? Well, friends, I’ve had too many a hot shower to think on this so here we go.

What is a Dual- or a Tri- Avatar?

A dual- or a tri- Avatar are the unfortunate souls who have completed the death requirement for Avatarship for multiple Entities. They also have to be able to handle the pulls and hunger from multiple Entities. The highest number of Entities we’ve seen one Avatar serve is three. Four or more Entities sharing one Avatar is deemed impossible.

Different Avatar Relationships

The different dual- and tri- Avatar relationships are as follows:

Dominant: The Entity being fed and used the most. Usually the first Entity to claim the Avatar. Holds the most sway. If not fed, ruins and affects the entire system.

Cooperative: Entities have equal amount of power with the Avatar. Feeding processes usually involve feeding both at the same time. Usually present in Entities that rely on each other (i.e. Buried and Vast). The easiest option on the Avatar itself. No power struggles.

For Tri-Avatarship:

Co-Dominant: Rare. An extremely special case in which both Dominant entities are related to the same death. They must occur at the same time or else will result in one Dominant and multiple Passives.

Co-Passive: Passives can occur at separate times and do not have to be related to one another to feed off the actions of the Dominant. However, when related to one another, the feeding process is much easier.

Passive: The Entity that feeds usually from the actions of the Dominant. Still present in the Avatar and will have its own feeding rituals sometimes. If left unfed, doesn’t take down the whole system but begins to inhibit the use of the Dominant.

Most Common Types

A Dominant/Passive relationship is the most common in dual-Avatars. A Dominant/Passive 1/Passive 2 is the most common in tri-Avatars. Any dual- Avatar with Cooperative or any tri-Avatar with Dominant/Co-Passive relationship can consider themselves the luckiest with their lot. A tri-Avatar with a fully Cooperative relationship has yet to be seen.

Examples

Barnabas Bennett (MAG 92) - Barnabas could have easily become a cooperative dual-Avatar of The Lonely and The Web. In his letter to Jonah Magnus, he states his enjoyment of being alone as well as the fact that he doesn’t have much family or connections. During his entrapment in The Lonely, Barnabas was able to manipulate the outside world through his actions in The Lonely. This gives me reason to believe that if he was able to escape The Lonely (through Jonah or other means), he would be able to use this manipulation from The Web through The Lonely in order to feed both Avatars.

The Narrator (The Stanley Parable/The Stanley Parable Ultra Deluxe): Narry is dealing with a Co-Dominant/Passive Relationship. The Eye and The Web were both present and related to Stanley’s death in the Countdown Ending. When Stanley walks into The Mind Control Facility, he sees all of the screens watching and monitoring him and his co-workers. Going further into the facility reveals that his actions and emotions were being controlled. Stanley tries to take control of the facility himself. The Narrator begins the Countdown Ending, showing Stanley that he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. The Narrator is the one in control. The Entities bonded themselves to The Narrator at Stanley’s death and bonded themselves together since they were both equally present. The Spiral was tacked on later during the Mariella Ending where Stanley walks through an endless loop of corridors. This causes an existential crisis and he succumbs to the madness. The Spiral is usually fed by the insanity induced by the feeling of being controlled and watched. At the moment, The Narrator is only Avatar in my fandoms that I believe can handle three Entities. It makes sense considering he’s usually akin to a god when I write about him.

Thoughts? Comments? “Hey this character could fit this system!”? Let me know! Reblogs are appreciated!

I rarely ever post my art on here, but I've compiled a bunch of Eye Avatars and their titles on a couple pages so here ya go! A lil dump. Also, Arthur and John Malevolent are on there!

This references the titles I've given them in here. *jazz hands*