late-night AU, Lovecraft calls for a special shade of purple prose, disregard this Tio sucks cocks
And he sleeps still: deep in the underground caverns of Malaysia, surrounded by darkness and burned-out lamps, his breath is all that disturbs the close air -- though not enough to stir the leaves of the open books, plays from every era, the last one still lying open and half-read, just as it was when the last flame finally gave out. Here he rests, the traitor-god, the sole one among their number who stood against the Great Old Ones, forsaking his kin for a love of mayflies, of insects, of the teeming fragile mass that is humanity. Here he slumbers, the one for whom waking is too painful in the absence of the human for whose embrace he exchanged his plans to rule this still-young world. No, the human is not truly absent, for beside him lies a set of bones that shall never be disturbed by another man so long as he himself remains in Morpheus' hold.
But not forever. He will not sleep forever. For the stars may align themselves once more, or a new threat may arise that shakes the world's very foundations. You may rest assured, dear reader, that should such an event come to pass, he will rise from his subterranean berth and protect us once more. Though he does not possess the strength of his elders or the magics of dread Cthulhu, he possesses cunning beyond the understanding of mere flesh vessels such as ourselves. Will that cunning prove sufficient to save us again? Only time will tell.
Here he lies, not dead but dormant. Here he dreams of the one whose bones he keeps, and sometimes the happier dreams bring a smile to his face -- though none shall ever see. The unlikely defender, the unsung hero, the one whose reward for his bravery was to watch those around him wither and die until he was all that remained to remember, save me. For I, too, live on, unable to journey to the next plane. My tasks here are not yet finished; we are both held here, defenders and prisoners of the human race that, in spite of all its faults and its shortcomings, we hold so dear.
Yours in eternity,
Professor Jonathan Turner
With a small sigh, he set the quill down beside the completed account. In one swift movement, he swept up the sheaf of papers. A moment later, the most important events of the past century were crackling merrily in the fireplace, sparks punctuating the document, the image of glowing, warping parchment caught in the scholar's glasses.
--
FOR SRS DISREGARD THIS. I'LL PROBABLY GO BACK TOMORROW MORNING AND KICK MYSELF. GOD DAMMIT JONATHAN, WHY SO PURPLE. I'M JUST DOING THIS TO BREAK CERTAIN HEARTS. ~♥ OH, AND FUCK THE ACTUAL CANON DETAILS. I LOVE IT, BUT I AM NOT GOING TO BEND OVER BACKWARDS TO BE LOYAL TO IT WHEN I'M BASING A GAY LOVE STORY OFF OF IT. THERE'S ONLY SO TRUE TO THE ORIGINAL YOU CAN BE. THESE ARE JUST A COUPLE OF ILL-ADVISED PARAGRAPHS WRITTEN AT THREE A.M.
It's true. Tio always gets to be the cool things -- from werewolves to eldritch abominations.
But not forever. He will not sleep forever. For the stars may align themselves once more, or a new threat may arise that shakes the world's very foundations. You may rest assured, dear reader, that should such an event come to pass, he will rise from his subterranean berth and protect us once more. Though he does not possess the strength of his elders or the magics of dread Cthulhu, he possesses cunning beyond the understanding of mere flesh vessels such as ourselves. Will that cunning prove sufficient to save us again? Only time will tell.
Here he lies, not dead but dormant. Here he dreams of the one whose bones he keeps, and sometimes the happier dreams bring a smile to his face -- though none shall ever see. The unlikely defender, the unsung hero, the one whose reward for his bravery was to watch those around him wither and die until he was all that remained to remember, save me. For I, too, live on, unable to journey to the next plane. My tasks here are not yet finished; we are both held here, defenders and prisoners of the human race that, in spite of all its faults and its shortcomings, we hold so dear.
Yours in eternity,
Professor Jonathan Turner
With a small sigh, he set the quill down beside the completed account. In one swift movement, he swept up the sheaf of papers. A moment later, the most important events of the past century were crackling merrily in the fireplace, sparks punctuating the document, the image of glowing, warping parchment caught in the scholar's glasses.
--
FOR SRS DISREGARD THIS. I'LL PROBABLY GO BACK TOMORROW MORNING AND KICK MYSELF. GOD DAMMIT JONATHAN, WHY SO PURPLE. I'M JUST DOING THIS TO BREAK CERTAIN HEARTS. ~♥ OH, AND FUCK THE ACTUAL CANON DETAILS. I LOVE IT, BUT I AM NOT GOING TO BEND OVER BACKWARDS TO BE LOYAL TO IT WHEN I'M BASING A GAY LOVE STORY OFF OF IT. THERE'S ONLY SO TRUE TO THE ORIGINAL YOU CAN BE. THESE ARE JUST A COUPLE OF ILL-ADVISED PARAGRAPHS WRITTEN AT THREE A.M.
It's true. Tio always gets to be the cool things -- from werewolves to eldritch abominations.