#Devil's Roost

[fanofspooky]

Ti West’s horror movies

[carlosyadielstudio]

[devilsroost]

hey are you still doing that bendy au?

I really want to conclude the story. The characters I made and all the effort I put in I don’t want to all fizzle away! Time and muse are lacking but I still have designs on concluding it, with a lot more stuff trimmed out, like people who aren’t in the fandom anymore who’s storylines were intertwined. I at least want to conclude my part. Man, it was a wild, fun ride at the time though!

[constantvariations]

As fun as it is to dunk on Griffon, I think it's also important to remember how he saved and constantly looked after V for his entire existence. Vergil would never have returned without the compassion of his nightmares

[monst]

Watching the sunset

Tim Drake x Gn. Reader 

Extra Info: Established relationship, Watching the sunset with your favorite bird, Fluff 

WC- 1.1k 

     You know those moments. When everything stops and a single deep breath leaves your body utterly relaxed? Well, this was one of those moments. You feel the tension slough from your body with each exhale, your body tingling with the sudden calmness. You let your gaze drift, lazy eyes taking in the view of ‘the most crime-ridden city in the country’. For such a damning title, Gotham was truly stunning. 

     You couldn’t decide which buildings flattered the skyline more, the sleek new Wayne-founded high rises or the old but sturdy gothic structures that refused to stop reaching for what little light penetrated Gotham. You couldn’t ignore the large colorful billboards! They were a treat for your eyes amidst all the grey. Or maybe it was the lights. And while the odd flash of red and blue vied for your attention what you liked most were the everyday lights. 

    As the seconds pass more light infiltrates the city, office buildings look like Christmas, while the lights of the smaller buildings remind you of fireflies. The lights let you know that although the sun was setting Gotham was just beginning to yawn awake. Most of her residents were active during this time, and you could barely make them out from your perch. Their voices merge with the sounds of the city transport. The sound paired with the twinkling lights fills you with tranquility. 

       It almost looked like the city was winking at you. An odd pattern that could be Morse. Tim would enjoy that thought. You smile at the thought of him. You wonder if you could spot your bird from your roost. If ever there was something someone that could add to your peace at the moment it would be

     “Hey” Speak of the devil. 

     “Hi,” You smile. You look down to see that the gravel didn’t betray his arrival. “You’ve seriously gotta teach me that.” 

      “Only if you sign the waiver” He chirps. 

      “Waiver?” He hops onto the ledge with you, fussing over something in one of his pouches. You lean in when you hear his ‘Ah found it!’ You're not looking at a waiver but a crumpled brown paper bag and his very pleased grin. 

       “...Oh.. Wow.. It’s a bag.” 

       You're sure he rolls his eyes underneath his domino mask. “I come baring gifts and you treat me so coldly?”

       “My bad,” You pause “Oh wow, a very brown paper bag. How exquisite.” He sighs pretending to be put out by your reply. 

     “I see. I guess that means you don’t want any of these freshly baked, still hot and fluffy churros right?” 

     “I didn’t say that!” You lurch forward, hand striking forward to grab the bag from him. 

    “Careful” He yelps, the whites of his lenses wide, his arms stretched out to keep you from falling off the ledge. His eyes skirt from you to the easiest way off the building. 

    “I’m okay” You reassure. You can see when his shoulders relax, the rest of his body trying to shirk off the adrenaline. You want to avoid a lecture on safety so you quickly move past it. “Now hand them over before they get cold.” 

    He lets you know that you're ‘bossy’ as he hands it over and once the package is secure you let him have it. 

    “I know you are but what am I.” His face spasms going through so many expressions in the following seconds before settling on a deadpan. 

   “Why’d I introduce you to Bart.” He groans. 

   “Because it was a canon event” You open the bag, practically drooling when the sweet steam hits your face. “Want one?” 

   “Just one?” He teases. 

   “You could have zero.” You reply, setting the bag between the two of you as you begin to pull apart the first sugary stick. 

   “Not happening.” He watches you hum at the taste and remembers. “I have sauce.” he procures said sauce from a random zipper. “Chocolate” He adds, tugging his gloves off to snack alongside you. He chomps into his first churro and notices that you're gazing at the skyline and follows suit. It’s silent between you two, nothing but a passing of the chocolate cup as you continue to watch the darkening city. 

         After a while the concrete beneath you does its best to distract you by stealing your warmth but it’s swiftly foiled when Red Robin ushers you up and sets his cape down. The material is scratchy and cool against your bare legs. “I don’t think this is any better.” You laugh. 

       “Isn’t it the thought that counts?” He snarks, You roll your eyes a grin stretching your lips as you dip your finger in the chocolate sauce to spread it across his lips. He hums, licking his lips unbothered. Looks like you're not getting a rise out of him that way. Shame. 

       “Do I really have to sign a waiver to learn how to sneaky sneak?” You ask around a bite. 

       “No. But you have to promise to use your new powers with great responsibility.” You snort into your churro. 

      “Okay, Uncle Ben.” Tim exhales in amusement, leaning his head down onto your shoulder. Silence falls over you again but you're not ready for it to take over. “When do you have to leave?” 

       “Not for a while.” He replies, lacing his fingers with yours. You can’t stop the heat from rushing to your face when he brings up your entwined hands to press a kiss to the back of your hand. “I have to be at the Hill by 10. Jay said he had something to show me, I’m guessing it’ll only take all night.” 

       “If you're lucky.” You joke. 

       He groans, his fingers go to flick off sugar crystals from your shorts, while you go back to looking at the sky letting out a pleased sigh. 

       “Gotham is low-key beautiful” You’re about to take another bite before realization strikes you, and you turn over to Tim to say. “You better not say the thing.” 

       His grin is ecstatic “Can’t help it.” His fingers reach out, thumb brushing against your lower lip to remove some crumbs before continuing with the script “Not as beautiful as you.” 

      “Stop being so cute!” “Or what?” “I’ll kiss you.” In response to that, he just leans in, you hear the bag crumpling before he bumps his shoulder to yours. 

      “Go ahead then.” He whispers. “Kiss me.”

You lean in as well, you wish you could see his eyes. Your sticky fingers rest on his cheek, his cinnamon breath ghosting over yours as you both lean in to close the small distance. He tastes sweet. When you pull back he doesn’t move, letting his forehead rest against yours. 

“What are you doing?” You smile.

“Watching the sunset” He grins back at you. “Why?”

“Hey, that’s funny. I’m watching the sunset too.” 

[malfiora]

Good Enough

Bruce probably wasn't meant to hear it, but his heart squeezes all the same. His fingers clutch at his chest and his throat works around the lump suddenly lodged in it.

"I'll have to ask my dad," Dick had said. The words belong to another child, one Bruce has never met. But that voice – its tone, its warmth, its certainty – is Dick. Undeniably, unmistakably Dick. He's talking to one of his teachers (Mr. Mather, he recalls only because he had to deal with Dick's insistence that his biology teacher be called Ms. Sciencer for weeks) and he grins when he spots Bruce stalled by the door. "Oh, speak of the devil."

Bruce stumbles his way through a conversation about Dick's exceptional grades and aptitude for abstract concepts and how he has real potential as a mathlete, but his brain is humming with wordless excitement at the word "dad" and eager to hear it tickle the air again. He floats on that feeling all the way home, even elongating their return to tell Alfred to pull over at that fast food joint Dick likes, the one with the milkshakes.

And then he crashes. Dick disappears into his room to allegedly do homework (Bruce is eighty-five percent sure he's actually hopping onto his computer to IM Barbara Gordon), and with him vanishes the warmth of being considered a father. Left in its wake is a coldness injecting nausea into his gut.

He can't be a – he doesn't know how to – when did Dick even – and why him? The past three years flash by in reverse: Dick dancing through a spray of bullets, tears streaming from Dick's mask as he watched Batman fall from a snapped line just like they did, Dick standing proudly before a mirror in his brand new costume, a gleam of murderous intent staring up at him, a broken boy swallowed up in an EMT's blanket while his world lay shattered at his feet. What has he done? How could he think that drawing this bright kid into his dark roost was a good idea? And now Dick thinks of him as a father figure – it's too late to go back, isn't it?

He isn't John Grayson, will never be, doesn't want to try. He hears the whispers among polite society speculating why he won't adopt Dick, but none of them come close to the truth. It's rooted in fear (inaction always is). Fear that he'll be seen as the fraud he is, and then Dick will leave and regret ever calling him "dad."

He's not even Thomas Wayne, not for lack of trying. His memories of the man are faded around the edges but he knows he devoted himself completely to any and all that he loved: his career, his wife, his son. Thomas Wayne didn't do anything by halves. But Bruce Wayne is constantly torn – one foot planted in civilian domesticity fumbling his way through raising a child, the other firm in Gotham's underbelly hellbent on redeeming the damned while keeping his kid partner safe from the danger that he throws him into in the first place.

"Sir," Alfred calls, his voice soft. "If you're done drilling a hole through the carpet with your eyes, I've put tea on."

Bruce blinks and looks up at Alfred. "Tea sounds great, Alfred."

He plods after Alfred and into the tearoom. Alfred deftly sets out cups, saucers, and bowls of cream and sugar before pouring the fresh brew. Bruce murmurs a "thanks" before sipping his. Alfred lowers himself into the seat opposite his at the small table.

"Master Dick seems to be doing well at the Academy," Alfred says. "I can't imagine that that caused your dour mood."

Those who call Batman the world's greatest detective just haven't met Alfred. "Dick called me 'dad' today," he explains calmly. "Not to my face. I overheard him say it to his teacher."

Alfred hums. "Could mean nothing."

That's...true. Dick may have used the term as shorthand. "Dad" is easier to say than "legal guardian" and more specific and personal than "Bruce." It could have been a Freudian slip, Dick's mind supplying him with a cognitive shortcut subconsciously. Bruce sets his tea down and stares into the liquid.

"Or," Alfred presses on (Bruce hates the way his heart lifts a little), "he is starting to see you – us – as his family." Alfred sips and watches him.

"That's what I'm afraid of," he admits after a while. "Alfred, I'm not – Dick deserves so much better than –"

When it's clear that Bruce won't finish the sentence, Alfred clears his throat gently. "If I may, I'd like to share a secret with you." Bruce nods. "There was a time that I considered leaving you."

Bruce's eyes widen. "What?"

Alfred nods. "I thought that after your parents, I was the last person who should raise a child, especially one who needed his world put back together. Surely the Kanes would have made better surrogates. Perhaps a foster if a suitable one could be found." He smirked. "I almost considered the Queens before that awful accident."

The blood is rushing in Bruce's ears. Alfred, his most loyal and longest friend, had wanted to leave him? "What changed?"

Alfred takes another sip, contemplates. "I don't think anything has. Everyday I wonder if I made the right choice. If I am being selfish staying in your life simply because I love you too much to let you go."

Again, Bruce's chest squeezes. Alfred, his Alfred, has the exact same fear. That somehow he'll fail his charge, will lose him. And all this time, Bruce has never considered going anywhere, can't imagine his life without Alfred in it. Maybe – is that how Dick feels? That Bruce is his? God, if that's true then...then Bruce as he is just has to be good enough. Because he's not going to let Dick go.

"My son," he says, testing the word. It tastes sweeter than the tea on his tongue.

[kedreeva]

Hi! 😁 I might soon have the chance to have a garden and I've always wanted to have a few chickens, and I've started some online reasearch about keeping chickens but since you're an expert and I don't trust some of the online sources, do you have any tips for absolute beginners? 😅

I do! You can have a garden, or you can have chickens, but the two are diametrically opposed forces that do not coexist peacefully without fully enclosing one or the other. Chickens can and will obliterate gardens and landscaping if they have access to it, including absolutely destroying mulch patches by helping you spread it all over the yard.

I'll put the rest under a cut ^_^

When you acquire chickens, don't get them from a hatchery, get them from a small breeder you've looked into and spoken with about their actual birds. Hatcheries have poor quality animals, so while you may be getting a "black copper marans," they're not gonna necessarily look very nice, and they're almost certainly not going to lay that nice, deep chocolate marans are known for.

Vs straight from one of the bigger hatcheries pages, photos of their eggs:

You also are NOT going to get the breed qualities of any given breed except maybe some of the production breeds. For example, a Jersey Giant from a reputable breeder will get up to 10-13lbs, which is as big or bigger than my peafowl. Same with Brahmas and Cochins. Hatchery stock you will be lucky to see 6-8lbs, and people are OFTEN disappointed about this kind of thing. Silkies, as another example, can look WILDLY different from a hatchery vs a private breeder. A show quality silkie is a puffball:

Hatcheries also pull skeevy moves like calling easter eggers (mutts that lay blue, green, pink, brown, or white eggs) "americanas" hoping that you mistake it for "ameraucana" the pure breed that lays stark blue eggs. Then they charge you ameraucana prices (like, $25/chick) when they should be charging more like $3-5 a chick. They'll do things like call a marans/barred rock mix a "mystic marans" as if it's a new color morph of a marans chicken instead of a mixed breed mutt they invented to be able to sex their chicks at hatch easier. People get these guys expecting MARANS eggs, and they get tan barred rock eggs. Same can go for temperament and behaviors. You go anywhere that has a group of chicken owners and ask them what their favorite breed is, you will get a range of answers with reasons like "my X is so sweet" while the next person will go "mine's the devil" and if you ask, 9 times out of 10, it's hatchery stock birds. Well bred private breeders often have MUCH more stable temperaments.

vs hatchery stock

Getting from a private breeder also lets you get eggs, which can help you dodge a LOT of disease bullets. There's very little that transfers through the egg, strangely, and some of that is transferred on the surface of the eggs (like mycoplasma) so a quick santizing dip before incubation gets rid of that. I know that hatching them yourself is more of a hassle, but so is losing your flock to newcomers that came in with something entirely avoidable if you'd hatched instead. If your breeder is NPIP certified, they're getting tested for the major egg-traveling problem (pullorum) and a dip will take care of most anything else unless you're super SUPER unlucky.

Lastly on acquisitions, be prepared to get roosters. If you can't have roosters, be prepared to get them processed for yourself for food, or let the roosters go to food homes. Please please please please. There are so many, many excess roosters. They cannot all go to homes. The rooster to hen ratio in a flock is like 1:9. The rooster to hen ratio in hatching is nearly 1:1. Let someone make use of them. EVEN if you order from a hatchery, and order all pullets, they can make mistakes and send rooster babies. It's not a guarantee! Have a plan in advance! Mentally prepare yourself! Don't be one of Those People making posts in local groups about how you don't want/can't have this rooster but also no one else can eat it either. Chickens are a lot of things. Sometimes food is one of those things.

BEFORE actually acquiring the chickens, locate a vet that will see them. You are GOING to have an issue at some point in their lives, and that's not the time to start looking for a vet, that's the time to already have a vet on hand. In fact if you can support a yearly wellness check on at least one of the birds to test for communicable illnesses (like mycoplasma) and have a good relationship with your vet in advance, that's even better.

As for care, if you plan to contain the chickens, the minimum recommendation for a backyard coop and run varies wildly. For stress purposes, most chickens will find 4 feet of floor space per bird inside the coop adequate, accompanied by 10 square feet of space in a run per bird. Unlike peafowl, it doesn't matter how big the run is, the chickens will be turning the entire thing to bare soil, which is one of the reasons most people don't keep both in the same pens. I literally attempted to keep 2 standard chickens in a 1200 foot pen and they systematically went about destroying everything they could get to.

Most layer feeds are 16% protein; most layer feeds are also /production/ layer feeds, meant to feed production breeds in a space where they get NO other feed except this. If you plan to feed anything other than layer feed to them, like treats or whole foods or scratch grains, then you need to find a higher protein feed for them, because most treats are lower protein than layer feed. Avoid anything produced by Purina or Dumor (which is purina but TSC brand), except MAYBE the organic dumor 5-grain scratch grain, it's well-known as one of the worst quality fowl feeds out there. Check out your local mill and see if they have any options that are better than the big box farm stores. Kalmbach makes good feeds, as does Belstra.

Possibly counterintuitive, but stick with a smaller waterer over a larger waterer. You can keep a larger one around for if you go away for the weekend or something to make it easier on a sitter, but a smaller waterer like a 5-quart or gallon waterer will be easier to clean and make sure that you're giving fresh water more often, plus avoiding mosquitoes growing in it. Waterers can slime up really easily in the summer, so just be prepared to give it a quick swish clean every time you change the water out. Smaller waterers also make it easier to give them medication if you have something that goes in the water, especially since a lot of the water medications are "make fresh daily." Personally I don't bother with heated water bases anymore in the winter, I just have enough waterers to exchange them for a fresh one a couple times daily, while the old one thaws inside the back door on some plastic. The galvanized ones you have to use with the heated bases always got gross fast, with rust and discoloration and the stopper in the bottom always dried out and eventually cracked over the summer when we weren't using them.

Try to avoid straw bedding unless you REALLY trust the source. Straw is mostly for livestock, not poultry. It cannot catch the droppings of poultry the way shavings or sand or other beddings do, meaning the wet gunk drops to the floor under it and/or collects into grossness. It also molds easily, can carry in field parasites (since it's not treated the way shavings are often kiln fired before packaging), and breaks down into shards. I'm not saying you can't ever use it for any reason (I use it in some fashion, and have for over a decade, but not exclusively, and I trust my source, we've never gotten mites or anything, and I'm very careful about which bales I pick out), but if you have a choice, go for the wood substrates, or even for sand. A lot of people put sand in their runs because they can then rake it like kitty litter.

Look into what plants chickens can't have, and check your yard over thoroughly for them before adding chickens. Things like lilac bushes are toxic to them. Tomato and potato plants are nightshades so while they can have the fruits, the leaves and stems can be toxic. Stuff like that.

Lastly.... if anyone ever makes a claim about what something does for a chicken (example: diatomaceous earth, apple cider vinegar, pumpkin seeds, oregano, red pepper flakes, lavender, etc are all things I've seen people claim do all sorts of things from worming birds to curing respiratory infections), ask them for their source. If it's a blog post, ask them for a scientific article. If they can't provide it and you can't find one that backs up what they're saying, maybe reconsider the value of that particular advice. The thing is, the BIG production companies are VERY invested in finding cheap or organic or tricky ways to do WHATEVER it is (treat endo/ectoparasites, treat illness, make bigger or more eggs, change egg yolk color, etc), and they pour money into trying to figure out which old wives tales actually work and which ones don't. And if they haven't been able to prove it to a point where they'll spend money on it as a solution, then chances are REALLY GOOD that it's not a solution at all actually.

Things like how to clean coops, what feeds to get, what items to use for care, where to source birds, behavioral information etc, that's all stuff you can ask advice on in general public spaces. You'll still get a range of answers, and some of them will be garbage answers, but hardly any of them will do harm to your animals to do or not do. Like, for example, you can use a big waterer or a small waterer, as long as it's clean. You can vary coop and run size and still be fine. You don't have to feed exactly what someone else is feeding for your birds to be fine. You're probably going to try a few breeds before you find the one(s) you like best.

But when it comes to medical info or any kind of "treatment" type stuff? Consult a vet and/or at least look for scientific papers.

And lastly.... chicken math is Real, yo. However many chickens you think you want to get, plan on having the space for double that amount so you don't gotta rebuild anything when you ultimately decide wait, you need a couple more. The bigger space won't hurt them if you don't get more, but it'll be so much easier on you if you do ;)

[gensordraws]

Heyooo, also here to appreciate the artist. Hehe ❤️

Absolutely adore your mammon art and overall style! Your and Devil's roost's Mam fan art shaped my everyday life perception of him. :D💚 i now stan the Mammon with hoodies and being a gamer style (with Mammon still being an absolutely sassy menace) and can't unthink him being like that now... so I am including that in my fanfiction, too.

I'm curious... what's under the hat??👀 what's your take on that??🃏

Thank you! I appreciate that! Yeah I’ve been thinking a lot about what could be under his hat, I honestly think it’s nothing but his other eyes are there just closed and short hair (and yes I’m implying mammon has fur)

[ratsoh-writes]

Maybe do an updated version of the introvert vs. extrovert list ask in masterlist 2, but with all the skeles?

Alright. *breaks fingers* let’s do this!!

Introverts: honey basil red rust lord mutt coffee butler gold Pluto Helios peaches ram pitch moose quill harpy papaya sails Alden barin saga snipe slim pop tempo green lens cricket tinker partner rowdy

Extroverts: papyrus Star willow lilac edge noir mal cash charm sugar sparks lush sir Flambe pesto Jupiter orion barley crow roost mango fisher Jasper Finn hook captain silex Ollivander arwin Hilda bruiser butch boss rhythm vibrato gears zen thistle yarrow

Ambiverts: sans oak wine salt pepper weasel atlas Artemis rancher cider maple Pearl ace G compass taffy pudding stitches shield

Longer answers: under the cut cause it’s a long fkn list

Sans: he truly is fine with or without company. Simply put sans is just too lazy to care. While he does value his privacy, that’s more in the lines of what his thoughts are. Sans doesn’t give out his true intentions easily. And he can keep being a secretive little jokester in the privacy of his own home, or surrounded by friends. It doesn’t make a difference to him.

Papyrus (and willow): papyrus loves people! He thrives on being surrounded by other happy faces. When he’s alone too long, his more anxious thoughts start turning creep in, so having friends or just any people around is always preferable.

Star (and lilac): he’s an extrovert cause it’s a lot easier to have fun with others than by yourself. Daily tasks just don’t hit as hard without commentary from other people to fill the silence. Star hates silence lol

Honey (and basil): he’s an introvert cause people are scary. It takes a while for him to get comfortable. Therefore it’s just easier to have his me time by himself.

Red (and rust): introvert. He doesn’t like people. And he’s territorial and likes his space. There’s really nothing deep to it

Edge (and noir): extrovert. The best work is done with a proper team and edge prefers his allies around him. He’s learned over the years that just life is simply more.. enjoyable with others, even if they sometimes hold him back he feels

Oak: while he and sans are both ambiverts, it’s for entirely different reasons. Oak simply can’t be introverted. It’s not safe for him to be along long times with his memory. And his perception of time is trash, so he gets nervous if he’s alone too long. But at the same time he would really rather not be always surrounded you know?

Mal: extrovert obviously. Come on, this gossip queen can be nothing else! After all you need many friends in order to get good tea~

Cash: he loves his besties, and causing chaos is always better in groups. You need people to take the blame with you after all lol. Cash prefers having company, mostly of very close friends, but he’ll take others too. He’s pretty extroverted

Lord: he’s a total introvert. He’s only happy to be around a small handful of special people all day, and even then he still needs breaks from them periodically lol

Mutt: he was an extrovert before his LV sickness, but his inability to connect has made him loose his taste for always wanting companionship, so he’s more introvert these days. Unless it’s the right person that is…

Wine: he quite likes lazy days alone, but he equally loves outings with groups. Wine just lets the day take him wherever it may go with no real preference. So ambivert

Coffee: total introvert. He doesn’t like people, and when he is actually in the mood to socialize, it’s for a very limited time frame lol.

Pluto: he’s such a little introvert. He has to get himself psyched up for a day beforehand first when he knows he’ll be in a group larger than four for a few hours. Pluto is perfectly happy spending his days researching alone instead

Jupiter: sports are better with teammates so 100% extrovert.

Orion: his lazy devil may care personality is deceiving. Orion thrives in company, he craves interaction. He’s the guy who will look at a complete stranger and go up to them to get their life story. Total extrovert

Atlas is an ambivert because while he can enjoy company, he doesn’t necessarily need it. He just needs adventure and gossip. It doesn’t have to come from a face to face source, but it doesn’t have to be alone to be enjoyable either

Helios: while he has a great stage face, that’s all it is, a fake face. Helios never liked the spotlight, it’s just another thing he endures so he can stay in the fight. He’d much rather be chilling alone in his Snuggie than dealing with people all the time

Artemis: she’d have been extroverted if she hadn’t been shut away in a hospital room for most of her life. Artemis is used to being alone, but she also loves interaction

Charm: he hates being alone with his thoughts. The brain is cold and hard, other peoples beds are soft and warm~ extrovert

Sugar: he just loves everybody! Of course he wants to hang out!! Total extrovert. If anyone argues otherwise they don’t know sugar at all

Sparks: I could repeat sugars answer and you have sparks pretty much. He loves everyone! Extrovert!

Salt: he’s ambivert as he likes people, but he likes his own space too. He needs a healthy balance of both to feel fulfilled

Lush: he’s a tragic extrovert. Lush craves companionship and company, but finds it very hard to make said friends that fufills that. So he pretends it doesn’t matter when it very much does. Please be friends with him!

Pepper: he’s incredibly picky about the company he keeps, and honestly doesn’t care if that means a few days alone or not. Pepper can entertain himself. But he does throughly love hanging out whenever with the ones he deems worthy. Ambivert

Sir: he’s a nosy bugger and likes being around every one so he can know what’s going on at all times. Sir is a great extrovert!

Weasel: he doesn’t really care if he’s causing chaos with friends, or just chilling alone. There are many ways weasel keeps himself entertained. He’s pretty independent. Ambivert

Butler: he tolerates large groups if he likes the people in them, but it doesn’t stop him from craving that sweet sweet alone time. He’s a social introvert.

Gold: while he does love being with friends, his social battery is way smaller than he acts it is actually. You can tell golds getting tired the more he flirts. He’s secretly hoping he can get this interaction over with so he can go back and work on his outfits

Flambe: all eyes on him ladies and gentleman~ extrovert lol. He loves attention too much not to be

Pesto: like Flambe, pesto craves attention and validation. And he wants it from lots of friends. He’s not in a place where he can feel that again, but he’s getting there. Extrovert

Peaches: he’s perfectly happy with just his trees, and family. But even with a large family, he knows he’ll get all his me time during his work in the orchid. He’s a sweet introvert

Rancher: he’s top goal driven to be introvert or extrovert. He doesn’t care if he’s alone or together with people, as long as he’s achieving the thing he wants to do right now!

Cider: he prizes peace, but peace can come in a group just as much as when it’s just him. Cider is used to a cramped large family, so being surrounded doesn’t bother him. But he’s also perfectly fine alone for a while. He’s definitely ambivert

Barley: he’s so extroverted he literally feels itchy if he’s been alone too long lol. Barley jokes that he’s allergic to solitude

Ram: things are just easier to understand when it’s just him. Ram does prize his alone time and peace. So introverted.

Pitch is easily the most introverted skeleton on this list. He’d be just fine socially if the only three people left in the world were him, Ram and maybe a nice gal/guy for ram lol.

Moose: he’s pretty introverted. While he does like outings, he wants to plan ahead for them. Or else he feels very drained afterwards. It is what it is

Maple: as long as a chainsaw is involved, maple doesn’t care if he’s alone or with 100 people. People that know chainsaw safety that is lol. He’s ambivert

Quill: he’s so introverted it hurts. Groups larger than 3 drain him so fast. He even needs breaks from best friends occasionally

Crow: he’s totally extroverted! Crow thinks people make everything so much more interesting! Yes he would like to hear about your day! Give him all those details!!

Roost: he’s a ladies man~ and a lads man~ and a platonic but flirty chill dude/dudettes guy! Roost just likes fun banter and prefers it over none at all. He’s pretty extroverted

Harpy: she truly doesn’t care if she does everything by herself, or if she has competent partners around her. In her main social life she’s seen as ambivert, but personally she feels as if she leans more towards introverted. While she puts up a good farce, she does just feel.. better alone. More calm.

Mango: she feels more secure surrounded by people she likes, preferably humans but she has monster friends too who’ve earned her trust! Mango is definitely extroverted!

Papaya: he’s more on the introverted side of the spectrum. Papaya is friendly and kind, but he simply just needs a dose of peace and quiet every day to function.

Fisher: his favorite activity in life is playfully tormenting others, and since that requires other people to work, extrovert it is~

Jasper: intellectually he knows he’s a walking dumpster fire if left to his own devices so Jasper constantly seeks out company from buddies. And he does like it lol. So he’s very extroverted

Finn: he quite literally took a job in the royal guard, then as a scout master cause it involves working with other people! Finn loves people and loves helping them! He’s extroverted for sure!

Sails: his ideal day is just him, his dog and a nice day out on his boat in the ocean. Nobody needing anything from him. Sails knows he’s an introvert and is cool with this about himself

Hook: he gets lonely easily, and seeks out lots of companionship and drama cause of it. Hooks always been extroverted because of this. It’s why he’s so happy on the ship with all his crew mates

Captain has honestly never had a life where he was alone. In his old au he shared a ship with many others, and now he captains a navy vessel with a crew on his own. He’d feel quite off if he ever did find himself alone. Captain is definitely extroverted

Pearl quite likes her relaxing me time, but she has no issues pleasing the masses as well as a princess. The spotlight on her is heavy but not exhausting. She’s a good ambivert.

Silex: this man is so extroverted lol. He wants to meet every one and see it all!!! It’s hard to imagine him as anything else

Alden: he’s happiest when it’s just him in his art studio. No distractions. Alden is for sure introverted even though he comes across as one of the more friendly skeletons

Ollivander: the reason his bank is so successful is because in part of how personable Ollie is! Ollivander is an extroverted fellow, and that friendly helpful face he puts on at work is very much genuine. Unless you aren’t paying your debts that is~

Hilda: she’s so obviously extroverted lol. And sucks for her since she was raised in a family of quiet polite high class introverts lol. Hilda felt pretty repressed growing up, leading to the over the top personality she has these days

Saga: she’s very much introverted. Saga is happy to just be left to her books for the rest of her life. But she will tolerate polite companions for a bit each day

Barin: he’s introverted, always has been. But his duties require him to manage a lot of people. So Barin powers through like he does with everything else in life. He really really values what little alone time he does have though

Arwin: he’s the extroverted life of the party! Arwin is a fan of having many fans and wears his posse like a badge of honor lol

Snipe: he hates people. And he probably hates you too. So don’t bother him. Introverted

Bruiser: he loves meeting his favorite people. And things are simply just too boring without them! So bruiser is very extroverted. He’s a needy friend lol

Butch: in order to kick *ss and take names, there needs to be *ss to kick and names to take, so for the sake of all his crazy shenanigans, butch must be extroverted lol

Boss: he craves companionship despite his best efforts to pretend he doesn’t. Boss feels quite lonely when he finds himself with nothing to do. Hence why he bosses his brothers around so much. He’s extroverted

Ace: causing chaos with (or against) others is fun~ causing chaos alone is also fun~ ace is a true ambivert

Slim: he’d rather hurl than have to be around people all the time. And his best friendships are more than often done through a screen. Slim is introverted all the way

Pop: he’s a very friendly and random introvert! He comes across as a quirky socialite though when- oh where did he go? Did he ditch every one again?

Rhythm: dancing is simply more fun with a partner so rhythm must be extroverted! Besides you need a mob to make a flash mob lol

Tempo: he’s very much introverted. After all he need solitude in order to make the compositions he loves! And he’s happiest when he’s creating

Vibrato: it’s a good thing he’s extroverted with how much he’s on stage! He loves his fans so much! And the paparazzi, and his bodyguards who keep him from the paparazzi lol

Lens: even without his paranoia, lens has always been more on the introverted side. There’s certain people he trusts enough to be fine around whenever, but anyone else is very tiring for him emotionally. It takes lens a long time to open up

Cricket: he’s introverted as well, a bit of a surprising fact for anyone who often sees him with cash and mal. Cricket likes his alone time at the junkyard. Only best friends can drag him away from it lol

G: he’s ambivert for sure. G does quite like being surrounded by people, but there’s something equally alluring with exploring life on his own too. He’s a go with the flow guy. Whatever fits better with that days plans works fine

Green: while socializing is enjoyable, green needs time to recoup and heal from it. He thinks very hard when he’s with people and even if he likes them and what they do together, he’s simply just tired afterwards. So introverted

Gears: he’s extroverted, but just barely. Gears can be alone for ages when he’s caught in creating a new trinket, but when he’s away from that (and lucid after he gets out of the inventors haze lol) he craves companionship! He wants to chat! To hang out! To be doted on lol

Compass: he’s a true ambivert. He’s happy playing and exploring on his own, but if someone wants to join he’s perfectly chill with adding them. No fuss. It’s not that deep for him

Zen: he’s an extroverted boy! Zen is just so curious about people. He wants to hear their stories! Plus it pleases the little host inside of him to have lots of others around!

Shield: hes ambiverted. While shield enjoys company, he also enjoys his independence quite a bit. Shield likes toeing the line between popular social guy and cool independent lone wolf. Why confine yourself to one label when you can have both?

Taffy: she doesn’t care for quantity of friends, just the quality. And if that means she’s alone sometime, well that doesn’t bother her. Taffy is a good ambivert

Pudding comes off as extroverted pretty easily, but she’s quite ambiverted really. Most of her social butterfly mask is just that, a mask. She enjoys the play bit doesn’t need it to feel fulfilled

Partner: he’s more introverted. And it reflects in what he does when he’s off the clock. When partner isn’t playing his part as sheriff, he takes a lot of time alone to himself

Rowdy never really got to explore himself socially as a child, so he’s trying very hard right now to come across as social open and adventurous. He’s been realizing over time though that he really just wants to be left to himself for most of the time. Adventure is only fun when it’s scheduled in with plenty of me time breaks in between. He’s an introvert

Stitches: he’s happy nerding out with friends, or nerding out alone! Online forums are a thing too. Stitches doesn’t need lots of companionship to be happy although it is fun. He’s ambivert.

Tinker: anyone who knows this monster can just smell the introvert oozing out of him lol. He crochets all day alone and loves it that way

Thistle: he’s extroverted! In fact he gets jittery if he’s been alone too long. He starts feeling unsafe. Loneliness is scary man

Yarrow: yarrow too is more extroverted for sure. Being raised in a coven all about family inclusion and stuff kinda leaves you no choice lol. He’s cool with it though

[echoarts03]

Crackship Alert!

I got into this fucking ship after following Devil's Roost's art posts on Twitter about some things that happened in their RP server, and then a user did a dub over the entirety of the comic with their boyfriend and I lost my SHIT laughing XD

I wish I drew more, but I was all out of ideas by the time I finished these two. If you guys have any ideas I'd love to hear em, but for now, you get this! XD

Don't steal my art or repost it on other platforms, or I WILL break your knees.

[aleisters]

The Summoning - Haarlep/Ascended!Raphael, Explicit - 3400

READ ON AO3 INSTEAD

Summary:

The House's defences are all down, including the golden veil of the boudoir, and through the archway, Haarlep can see the ever-burning skies of Avernus beyond, and they can see a tumbling shape silhouetted against a sun that never quite sets. The shape is harm coming home to roost, to take its temper out on the broken bricks of the House, to lay blame in the throats of anyone foolish enough to stay. Haarlep leaves bloody, sticky footprints on the stone floors, padding towards the balcony, watching as the shape becomes a monster—their monster—and swoops down. After an attack on the House of Hope forces Raphael to take on his ascended form, he comes home. Haarlep is the only one who waits for him.

There's smoke and screaming. Most of the inhabitants of the House of Hope are incorporeal, spirits, but there is plenty of blood. Those that burst into goreshowers to become imps and hellboars roam the halls, snuffling their own entrails, what was left of their humanity. Korrilla is nursing a shattered ankle whilst picking over intruding corpses, leaning on a staff.

"What even bloody happened?" She snaps, and the Archivist is typically wheedling and unhelpful in response. Haarlep ignores them and steps through a dead devil, gore squelching between their toes. There's blood under their nails, a purple bruise at the corner of their mouth, but otherwise they’re unharmed—though only for now.

The House's defences are all down, including the golden veil of the boudoir, and through the archway, Haarlep can see the ever-burning skies of Avernus beyond, and they can see a tumbling shape silhouetted against a sun that never quite sets. 

"It doesn't matter," Haarlep says, when the bickering behind them becomes incessant. Korrilla and the Archivist fall quiet. The shape is harm coming home to roost, to take its temper out on the broken bricks of the House, to lay blame in the throats of anyone foolish enough to stay. "What always happens? He overplayed his hand, and retribution came for hope."

"Ah," the Archivist says.

Haarlep spares him a glance out the corner of their eye. The Archivist is wringing his hands, rooted to the spot with indecision. "I know you like to be broken by our master, but unless you know a good necromancer, I would recommend leaving." The shape grows larger. The shape wishes it could blot out the sky. The shape wishes it was layers and layers deep in the Hells, walking over corpses of archdevils and fathers and choking the life out of Asmodeus himself. "He won't be in the mood to play. Not with you."

"Ah, fuck." Korrilla groans. It contorts into something like a hiss of pain towards the end. Sweat drips down her forehead. She sounds dubious: "But you—you're staying? Half thought you'd take the chance of him being too gone to know you're gone."

"You understand mortal folly very well, Korrilla." Haarlep steps over a dismembered arm, burning coal eyes trained on the sky, ears pricking for the sound of huge wings, the roar of flame. They don’t talk to others in the House often. They hear about all of them through Raphael, through his memories, through his secrets. It doesn’t go both ways. She doesn’t hear about Haarlep from their shared master. "You don't understand this."

"Bugger it," she says. "I don't think I want to. I don't want to see it, either."

They don’t turn their head to watch her dragging the Archivist away. The portal is open; they can go to the material plane for a while, come back when the House is safe again. Haarlep leaves bloody, sticky footprints on the stone floors, padding towards the balcony, watching as the shape becomes a monster—their monster—and swoops down.

Raphael all but crash-lands with an unearthly scream, huge wings folding around him. His triplicate skull, fused together, uneven, crowned with bones, lifts, eyes burning, maw open wide, steam rolling off his tongues. He looks at Haarlep. He snarls. His tail whips across the floor, cracking a bedpost, sending a chair spinning and toppling. To ascend is a terrible thing, Haarlep knows; there is madness and violence and all of Raphael's preferred calculation and games are gone.

This is the price of his heritage. Seen as little more than a cambion but containing Mephistopheles' penchant for cruelty and experimentation made manifest. He's on all fours, claws skittering and scraping on stone, and enraged enough to be genuinely dangerous, uneven eyes burned and focused on the only other creature in the room. Haarlep can count on one hand the number of times that they've seen Raphael prompted to transform; deep-seated betrayals, usually. He has serving cambions, he has warlocks, he has spirits, but sometimes the only remedy for an attack is returning the show of force.

Haarlep doesn't know how that worked out for him. There's no way of asking this heaving, panting, burning monstrosity anyway; this sculpture of bones and thorns and flame. They can ask later when Raphael has lips that can form the required vowels and consonants. They walk closer, careful, one foot in front of the other.

The thing that is Raphael lunges. Haarlep's hands fly out to grab his antlers, hold him at arm’s length, but too late; a pair of tusks on the middle face gore into Haarlep's belly, through their clothes. They hiss angrily, hands bracing and shoving him back. There's a sucking noise when the tusks pull out of his body, and the wounds leak dark red, weeping rivers. Haarlep pulls hard, yanking Raphael's head up to eye level, and Raphael makes a chittering sound of recognition. 

"Bad dog," Haarlep snarls, teeth gritted. The wounds would kill a mortal, but they've been hurt worse with far more intentionality than this, before; they have done worse to Raphael. But the pain is useful. "Typical of you to recognise me too late, mm?”

The Raphael-beast whines, a sound somewhere between an actual dog and something screeching, alien and mechanical. He tries to shake his huge head out of Haarlep's grip, eyes flickering down to the twin wounds on Haarlep's abdomen. He wants away. Haarlep does not relent their grasp. Raphael will look at them. He will see what he's done. Doing an injury to Haarlep will not be a source of guilt—they won’t let it be. Instead, he will know his own lack of control, and be ashamed of what an animal he is.

“Look at what at a beast you are,” Haarlep hums, dropping one hand from Raphael’s horns to lift their silk shirt. The wounds are dark and gaping, and Raphael clicks deeply in the back of his malformed skulls. His jaws open, head lowering, and Haarlep lets him, curious what he’ll do. After a moment, a long dark tongue snakes out between teeth, lapping up blood from their stomach, and Haarlep breathes a curse.

After another moment, Raphael’s tongue presses into one of the wounds, and Haarlep gasps, grip tightening on Raphael’s antlers. Pain and pleasure of a kind make their knees tremble. Raphael growls, a somehow penitent sound, and lathes his tongue over and into the other wound. Haarlep groans. Their nerves spark up—correctly for Haarlep, but perhaps wrong for others, who would be devastated that something like this could pool heat between their legs.

Haarlep only pushes Raphael away when the distraction is nearly too great. The beast’s focus is entirely, pleasurably, on them now, and Haarlep knows they have the upper hand. They can push and do manipulate him into place, from all fours into a kneeling position, this version of Raphael still so much larger than him. Such a strange, beautiful, elongated shape. His claws reach for Haarlep and Haarlep whistles, sharply, slaps them away.

“Wait,” they order, voice raised and pointed. “Careful, Raphael. If you’re going to act like an animal, I’ll treat you like one.” Raphael snarls, the sound rolling three times over, echoing from every mouth, but his hands retreat.

“Good.” But not good boy. He hasn’t earned that. “Down.” They push him onto his back. His wings flatten out beneath him, and he sprawls wide on the stone; a dog showing his belly to his rightful master. What a dangerous, dangerous creature he is, and Haarlep has the immeasurable satisfaction of being able to put him on a leash and bring him to heel without so much as getting an actual collar out.

Haarlep stamps a foot down on one of Raphael’s thighs, pinning it to the side, standing between his legs. Bone bites into the bare sole of their foot. Heat scrapes between the bones, licks at sensitive skin. They suppress a wince, pressing their lips into a firm line, but push down harder, ignoring the way the fire is too hot even for them. Raphael growls up at them, but his chest burning chest is heaving, anticipatory.

Between Raphael’s thighs, here’s a slit in the bony carapace. It’s not perceptible most of the time—though hard to say who is looking intently between Raphael’s thighs, when he’s like this. They’re liable to be more concerned about all his claws, all his teeth. Haarlep’s head tilts, examining. They tut, disappointed, and their foot moves to the top inside of Raphael’s thigh, keeping it pinned open and presenting a new threat: that they could step on him in a particularly vulnerable place, if Raphael doesn’t behave himself. “How are you going to fuck me if you’re not even hard? All your greed and nothing to show for it.”

Raphael whines again, a keener sound than before. When he does, the fire in him burns brighter, hotter. It puts an answering ache between Haarlep’s thighs, a warmth of their own. They like him like this, whether human or cambion or monstrosity: Raphael begging that he can do better, even without words. Haarlep pulls their shirt off entirely, dropping it to the side, and they dip fingers into one of their still bleeding wounds with a low hiss. They bring their fingers to their mouth. Raphael’s many eyes track every movement. Predator-like, he goes uncannily still to watch Haarlep’s tongue curl over their fingers, lapping up their own blood. There is still a thin, threading whine in the pit of his chest.

“I suppose,” Haarlep exhales, “I’ll simply have to take care of myself. And we’ll see when you catch up.” They remove their foot from Raphael’s thigh to undo their trousers; a soft, fitting velvet fabric. They tug them down their hips. The fabric sticks, dark with blood, and then peels away. No underwear underneath. Removing the trousers leaves them splattered in their own blood, cock half-hard between their thighs.

Raphael lurches impatiently, threatening to sit up, and Haarlep puts their foot directly between Raphael’s thighs, against his slit. Raphael’s intake of breath is sharp, jaws opening wide—all drooling teeth and enormous tongues on show. Not too much pressure today, beneath Haarlep’s foot. Just enough to keep him in place. They can feel a pleasant, growing weight beneath. They put an iota more weight on their foot, and Raphael groans, frustrated.

Haarlep purrs, pleased. “I told you to wait.” They run a hand down their body, through their weeping blood, between their legs to wrap their fingers around their cock and work it up. Looking at Raphael helps. All that coiled, bestial need, all destruction set aside to look at Haarlep. So much wanting, looking at a perfect version of himself. They shiver visibly, moan softly, hips canting into their hand; it’s genuine, sure, but what in Haarlep’s actions isn’t designed to drive Raphael mad, too?

They move their foot again, just a little, leaving the pressure beside Raphael’s slit and parting their thighs in the same action. They don’t want to get in the way of seeing what Raphael has for them, and they need the room to spit into their fingers and put it between their thighs, bending forward so they can reach and rub their fingers against their hole.

They exhale, “Do you want me?” and push their fingertips inside themselves with a short gasp. It doesn’t matter if the image is ungainly, the angle unpleasant. It’s only for Raphael. It’s a promise of what he can have if he’s good. Their voice lowers, becomes something private, something for the two of them, that Raphael will strain to hear. “Show me you want me and you can breed me.”

They work themselves open slowly, agonisingly, a wet mix of blood and spittle to slick the way. Two fingers, then three. Raphael wraps a huge, clawed hand around Haarlep’s ankle and in the moment, in some quiet recognition of their master finding control in the depths of this entire loss of it, they let him do it. No matter that his palm is hotter than Haarlep can rightly stand, that the barest touch of his claws opens their skin.

All secondary when the slit in his carapace is pressed open, revealing the entirely promising length of his cock pushing out: a twisted, textured thing, dark and fleshy and slick, weeping a black fluid where it rests against his belly. He’s big, far bigger proportionally than when he’s human or cambion—and Haarlep is admittedly greedy for this rare thing, for a sight that looks like a challenge.

They kick his claws away from their ankle. They step either side of his hips. “Good boy,” they croon, and when he chitter-groans in response, they kneel. They take his heavy cock in hand and their fingers slip on the strange wetness of the thing, and they’re staggered by the heat of him, and Raphael bucks to be touched. “Stay,” they command, voice firm, but they’re unable to keep themselves from whimpering, as he fills them, as they settle down onto him. Hells, it’s glorious.

And—it’s not that it doesn’t hurt, to take him, touch him; to sling their thighs either side of his thorn-like carapace, to have bone spears press bruises into their skin, to have flames lick up between dark bones so fiercely that they cut through any of Haarlep’s tolerance. It is simply that the searing, scorching pain is worth it, to be so full and then to take Raphael’s crownlike antlers into their hands; to put a monstrous, warlike, conquering devil in his place.

Burns smooth over into shiny new skin. Bruises turn yellow and fade away. Wounds close. Even the threat, promise, of being gored is an insignificant risk: Raphael will never kill them, not even like this, a half-mindless thing caught between rage and wanting. He could not do without his mirror, and even in the dusky early days before their long twilight together settled in, Haarlep was never afraid of him.

Agony is a sweet thing, paired with all the pleasure. And it is agonising. The flood of it all is near-exhausting, and worsens when Raphael grasps their thighs, their hips, rending their skin open with claws and letting blood bubble under the heat of his palms. Haarlep’s grip on Raphael’s antlers becomes a focal point, looking down into his too-many eyes.

“Good boy,” they repeat, airless, and when they move, the in-out slide of Raphael inside them is nearly unbearable when Raphael’s claws sink into their skin further. They can, have taken and indulged in worse pain than this, and Haarlep isn’t shy about how welcome a sight blood is, as it dribbles from their body onto the flaming parts of Raphael and sizzles into nothing instantly. “Yes”—they find a rhythm—“oh, finally, when have you—ah—ever felt this good inside me before?”

The slick heat of him plays tricks on the mind. Raphael never lasts long, no matter his shape, but the inherent natural wetness to his cock like this gives a feeling like he can’t help but fill Haarlep. Can’t help but make endless mess, mark them from the inside. It is, after all, such a rare thing for Haarlep to let him. It isn’t usually worth the effort of getting themselves open for him.

He may not be able to talk, but he’s not silent, either. His whole body speaks with desire, the way he claws and grasps at Haarlep, and there is no shortage of animal sound—clicking, chittering, snarling, screaming. He answers Haarlep’s questions with groans. He answers them with rolling his hips up, not content to be still and ridden, needing to try and take, a rutting that is not formless but clearly purposeful, trying to get as deep as he can and stay as deep as he can and resenting the way that Haarlep rides him.

They laugh, light-headed, aroused and woozy. They’ve barely thought of touching themselves all this time, but they do now, releasing one hand on Raphael’s antlers to wrap around their cock and pump themselves in something like an accompanying rhythm. “Do you wish you were on top of me? How rare.”

Raphael snaps furiously, jaws closing an inch from Haarlep’s face.

“You wish you could hold me down and breed me properly, don’t you?” So hard to speak, wrapped up in Raphael’s heat, inside out. “For once you need to take instead of—fuck!—taking.” They work their hand over themselves a little faster. “Well—if you come before I do, you’ll never hear the end of it. Put,” they grunt, startled mid-speech by a vicious rock of Raphael’s hips, “that knot in me before I say you can, and I’ll make sure that the next week, the next month of your life is an endless stream of begging for me, and you won’t come once.”

The click-screech is panicked. “If you want to fill me up,” Haarlep growls, “then you’ll make me come first. You will last, Raphael, or I will treat you like the bitch you want me to be. You’ll be”—fuck, fuck, it’s harder to focus, the more they talk, the more they touch themselves, thumb sliding over the slick head of their cock, the more they rock back onto Raphael and have him drag against their prostate every time—“mine, ah, to use—”

To his credit, they can feel Raphael’s thighs tremble under them. That’s a trait he has no matter how he looks: it’s the effort of holding on, of following Haarlep’s instructions. It burns a thrill right down their spine. How good he tries to be for them. How desperately he needs this. Hard to tell, really, how much of them is lightheaded with arousal and how much is lightheaded with blood loss. It doesn’t seem to matter, overmuch.

They do use him, gladly, desperately, seeking the edge so they can tumble over it—but it’s the slip of one of Raphael’s claws into one their gore-wounds that does it, Raphael inside them and inside them, the furnace and sharp edges of his body finally what breaks Haarlep. They cry out, shuddering, come spilling over their fingers and onto Raphael’s body, and they push down, so that Raphael is flush and home and can feel the ways that Haarlep’s orgasm wrecks them.

In the haze of their pleasure, a plaintive whimper beneath them.

Only half-heartedly irritable: “You can’t even wait for me to be done?” Exhaling, catching their breath: “Go on, then, puppy. Fill me up.”

Raphael growls, some looping pattern in the sound like a laugh, a desperate but happy noise, to be given permission. He’s drooling, ridiculously, and Haarlep barely has time to consider that they should have put Raphael’s tongues to better use before the devil’s grip on them tightens agonisingly and he ruts his hips hard and fast, never really pulling out, slamming his hips up against Haarlep painfully—

Until he stops, with a wounded animal noise, buried deep as his orgasm takes him. His huge head thunks back against the floor and Haarlep groans, gasps, as he really fills Haarlep. His hips shift, twitchy movements designed to drive all that come inside Haarlep and keep it there, and before they can say anything clever, before they can praise him, Haarlep drops their head forward with another gasp. Fuck, they’re never ready for the swell and tight press of the knot.

“Oh,” they exhale, “Good boy, there, that’s”—their breath is short, as they laugh, trying to reconcile all of Raphael’s usual bullshit with how good it feels to be taken, to let this monstrous form of him cut and fuck and breed them—“so good.”

They wriggle their hips, slightly, wince; they aren’t going anywhere. They’re sat firmly on Raphael’s cock. Really, they could free themselves, but—where is the fun in that? When Raphael’s many eyes are rolling back in his twisted skull, his hard grip turning listless and groping, keen to keep Haarlep close.

It hurts, to be held. Pleasure gives away to oversensitive, pain overtaking everything else. But—they can see the monster calmed, and know that he’ll be himself, before long.

They’ll indulge him for as long as it takes.

[horizon-verizon]

Alicent is the quintessential example of what not to do as a parent. In the book, it’s pretty damned clear that she sees her children as pawns and that she certainly doesn’t think that Aegon would make an effective ruler, just that she would make use of him to gain power through him.

Oh, sure, she gives the lip-service that she fears for her children’s lives along with her own and yada yada yada…. but at the end of the day, Rhaenyra and Daemon only went tribal on their asses after Aemond murdered Lucerys, unprovoked, during a diplomatic mission. They were more than happy to leave them be and use soft power to defend Rhaenyra’s birthright. Alicent has no one but herself and her own side to blame for the gloves coming off after Lucerys’ murder.

As it is, if you were to compare Rhaenyra to someone else who almost had his own birthright/power taken from him by grasping social climbers (even if not exactly the same situation), may I present Tywin Lannister and how he dealt with the Reynes and Tarbecks after his weak-willed and people pleaser father (similar to Viserys) let them have the run of the roost. Spoiler: those houses no longer exist.

In short: Rhaenyra was a saint in how she dealt with Alicent, given that Tywin would’ve killed every last Hightower down to the last child.

Sure, maybe you can say that Alicent did believe that Rhaenyra would do it because that’s what she would’ve done in her shoes or she knew that most of her colleagues would’ve happily defenestrated her long ago, but that says more about her than about Rhaenyra. As it is, I’m not so charitable and I’m more keen interpret it more as a propaganda rat-fucking campaign, since for all that they painted Daemon as the devil and Rhaenyra as “Maegor with teats,” they certainly dealt with the Hightowers with kid-gloves prior to Lucerys’ murder.

Okay, so in bk!Alicent's defense, though it is not as severe and obvious as with Rhaenyra, Alicent does get written with a short hand: her body used to compare against Rhaenyra; how she's barely mentioned after the Dance apart from her going a little crazy (George, like w/Rhaenyra, could have given us maids/lady-in-waiting/direct journals that show observations of Alicent at this time as well as her feelings abt things before she ever even married Viserys); etc. And if you grow up thinking and seeing women who become lady/Queen consorts, birthing males, and looking forward to the "reward" of power through that male...you see why Alicent's bothered. Many of us would be bothered at the very least even if we disliked and were a little honest with ourselves abt how none of it is fair...bc it was never meant be "fair" that you, a woman, can only get some agency or having a certain sort of power by being heirs or being a part of the family itself. Or putting yourself at risk of death or chronic illness to birth children for a man who may not and is not obligated to care about your wellbeing.

Doesn't mean that she didn't genuinely LOVE all her kids; it's a twisted sort of thing and becomes more so the deeper they all got into the war. We see her wail at Aegon's death. How she curses Rhaenyra for Helaena even though that's not her fault. Alicent's problem is that she decided to go after a child that would grow up to possibly be an issue, thinking that she is the exception, and refusing--esp by the end with how she died--to accept her own culpability in her kids' death. All of which comes from pride rather than a lack of love.

Once again, I am not saying she was "correct" or in the right, bc she was not. Morally nor politically. But the feeling of having been "duped" is both valid, understandable, and likely real for her. For nothing else, it's admirable that she wasn't a shrinking violet and saw through her desires or took things into her own hands when she saw it needed to be for her own ambitions. I don't like her and I wouldn't if I were in this world and had to be around her (even if I had to grow up in such an environment I doubt I'd be so religious and sincerely traditional, I never believed in God and would want to read anything and thus comes across knowledge of there being different religions across the world...so...) and I like to think that I'd also judge her heavy for how she moves with her kids and pitting them against Rhaenyra, but I also think that I would see her thoughts even more bc that would be my reality as well.

Rhaenyra was a saint in how she dealt with Alicent, given that Tywin would’ve killed every last Hightower down to the last child.

I mean, Tywin wasn't the brother of the Reynes and Tarbecks and didn't face a possible accusation of being a kinslayer. I see your point, but I think this particular thing doesn't quite have the same stakes as for the circumstances pre-Dance. Rhaenyra being a woman, even if she weren't their sister, would still face a lot more censure if she pulled a Tywin Rains of Castamere bc she'd be ridiculed for doing what men are licensed to in any sort of war effort even as Gyldayn and Corlys both have canonically looked at her askance for not going to the Battle of Rook's Rest herself...even with how Aegon nearly died. just as people did to empress Matilda. And the accusations of cruelty, of course.

Also, (pre-Dance, since you speak of pre-Dance...post and during-Dance Alicent is a different thing) Alicent cautioned Aegon from going all out and killing Rhaenyra in "The Blacks and the Greens". Why? the taboo of kinslaying. She also criticized Aemond for killing Luke not bc she liked or respected either him or his mother but because it embroiled them into both a war and cast them as the power grabbing, undeserving party who potentially angered the god as well as ensured any of them could be killed before she could "prove" and intimidate Rhaenyra with a show of support for her sons that really was never going to come but she didn't seemingly believe that so....

[bagopucks]

Highlight Reels

Jack x Southern/country!reader

He met you in Nashville after a Predators v Devils game, out for a drink in one of the downtown bars.

You approached him, and he fell in love with your southern drawl immediately.

You’re not sure what you fell for first, but he was so sweet, it was cute.

You put your hat on his head, and the rest was history.

Jack is spoken with a hard A and K, but his middle name sounds so much better rolling off your tongue. It almost makes him like it.

He’s an outdoorsy guy, but certainly not a country guy. He may like the music, but the lifestyle does not live with that one.

Jack’s spider paranoia is amusing to you. You grew up in barns where they crawled everywhere.

When he calls, you come, with a shoe, magazine, sometimes just your hand. You’ll go to extreme lengths to kill the bug wherever it is. If you have to climb on the sink you will, or the kitchen counter. And if the spider crawled under furniture, you’ll move it until you find the little bugger.

Jack still thinks “bless your/his heart” is a sweet phrase. Ellen giggles when you say it, because she knows it’s not.

Of course his brothers love you. They think it’s interesting, your dynamic.

Quinn likes to get on you sometimes, saying he can’t understand you, and it takes you two or three times of repeating yourself to realize he’s just making fun of your accent. He usually gets punched for it.

You make Luke laugh. Your accent does, your idioms, mannerisms. He loves it all. And you love making the youngest brother happy.

At the Lake House, you and Jack definitely go off on boat trips together. Sometimes it’s just for a little alone time on the lake, other times it’s because he knows you have the craziest kind of fun, and he likes to have you all to himself.

Most evenings when you’re on your way back to the dock, Jack’s leaned back steering, and you’re standing next to him with a can in one hand and the other carding through his pretty hair.

When you’re silent, Jack knows your mad. You can be the sweetest, kindest, most loving woman in the universe. But you have your father’s anger.

People usually don’t test you, but when Jack does, he gets an earful.

His team likes you. Nico can’t understand you. It makes you laugh. He’s always making faces at you when you talk.

You tried taking Jack hunting with you once while you were visiting his family. He didn’t last more than five minutes, including the walk out to the woods. He wanted to talk too much, you sent him right back to the house. Jim came out not long after. He made a much better hunting buddy.

You’ll sing to him. Jack loves to hear you sing. Most of the time it’s when you’re in a lovey mood, cooking, or when he’s had a bad day and he’s asking for a little affection.

The first time he met your parents, they were both bewildered. They liked Jack, but boy was he funny to watch on the farm.

So lost. Trying his best, but just falling short. It was cute.

You asked him to come help you with a sheep birth once. He threw up. You asked him to come help you move the cows. He tried to pet one of the calves. You had to practically push him over the fence when the mom came after him. You told him not to. He shook like a leaf for a while after that incident.

The horses though. Jack loved the horses. It took him some time to figure out how to ride, and you were patient, but once he got the hang of it, you guys would go for hours. Nothing was hotter than the sight of Jack in jeans and a flannel, sat on top one of your favorite horses, with that beautiful smile on his lips.

You eventually did find something he could keep up with. You let him wash the dogs in the front yard, and help your mom with her garden. He enjoyed that a lot more than all of the animals. Though he learned that the free range chickens are assholes to strangers, and the rooster was not a big fan of him.

It made you laugh the first time you came up into the yard, watching Jack waving a tiny spade at your rooster, shouting “chill out” while it tried to get close enough to peck him.

Jack’s favorite thing though? Your lake. He’d spent one of his Christmas breaks with you at your family’s house, waiting impatiently for the lake to freeze over. And the second it did, you guys were out skating and playing hockey.

You revoked the ‘no checking’ rule. Neither of you ever hit each other hard. It was only ever playful little pushes. But admittedly you were known to get aggressive when Jack was winning. And that previously mentioned temper would get to you if Jack teased you too much about losing.

You’d spend as much time as you could out on the frozen lake, before dragging your ice sickle of a boyfriend inside to cuddle up by the fireplace, usually with marshmallows and hot chocolate. You liked yours burnt. Jack hated kissing you after you ate them.

And of course, after a lot of arguing, you got your parents approval on letting him sleep with you. Jack was usually out like a light the second he hit the bed after being on the farm all day. You’d usually still be up, leaning against the headboard with his head on your lap, reading a book.

[violant-apologia]

The Airs of Pilgrim's Dawn

a randomiser quality: 38 little snippets from life in my silver city

0-4: A gust of smog from the East.

5-9: A jade figurine is thrown from a window, smashing into fragments onto the cobbles.

10-14: A preacher and a tracklayer stand at a street corner, chatting about the lack of weather.

15-19: A tracklayer walks down the street with a pushchair, laughing at her infant’s babbling.

20-24: The most recent Hour of Dance lasted all night. Limbs are still sore, but there is a sense of solidarity in the city.

25-29: The Burrow-Church is bright and looming.

30-33: A ginger tom slinks into a nearby alley.

34-37: Urchins run through the street, flicking pigments at one another. Their graffiti is left half-complete on a high wall.

38-41: A mechanical failure: this street’s red night lamps haven’t turned off. The buildings are illuminated in a sleepy orange-pink.

42-45: The whistle of a locomotive. A tracklayer reacts with a grumble — her partner with a nostalgic sigh.

46-49: A couple of gendarmes patrol a street, chatting amicably as they go. Pilgrim’s Dawn may have fewer laws than London, but what is sacred must still be protected.

50-52: A particularly forceful drum beat startles a group of pigeons from their roost. They mingle with bats in the cavern air.

53-55: A spirifer (is that the right term, where spirifage is not a crime?) bows to a passerby, trenchcoat clinking as he does so.

56-58: A stall offers ‘REAL HADDOCK PIES’ – though they smell like Evenlode angler.

59-61: The smell of roses and sulphur is thick today.

62-64: Yet another frieze is carefully carried up to the Burrow-Church. Theology, it seems, is an active process.

65-67: A young bohemian reads poetry on a street corner. The imagery is beautiful, but his delivery could use work.

68-70: An effort is made to align phonograph music with the earthen drum beats. ‘Close enough’ is achieved, and a small dance floor forms on the street corner.

71-73: A tracklayer’s hanging garden falls as he tends it. Porcelain, roses and soil scatter over the cobbles.

74-76: A fire breaks out – the accompanying screams are only of tourists.

77: There are no door knockers in Pilgrim’s Dawn.

78-79: A Starved Man lumbers through the streets. Dancers swerve to avoid him, snatches of suspicion visible from within their pirouettes.

80-81: ‘The Bun: A hairstyle for the working man!’ a poster proclaims.

82-83: A green-eyed devil sighs as he watches a couple dance. One tries to spin away from her partner but stumbles – she falls into his arms, laughing.

84-85: A pair of Clay Men tango slowly in a crowd; their quavers are the others’ semibreves.

86-87: A rat lingers by a carving of your face. It scratches its back using your nose.

88-89: A rose-scholar looks over a balcony at the dancers below, jots down notes of their movements.

90: Morning prayers: north, east, south, up, down.

91: The sound of the sea – not the zee, the real thing – seems to emanate from the south.

92: A young deacon tries to explain what a ‘Judgement’ is to a curious Clay Man. It’s clear that she doesn't entirely understand the concept herself.

93: A fox? No, just your imagination.

94: ‘My daughter!’ cries a tracklayer, eyes wild and regretful. ‘No, I—’ And then he snaps back to himself.

95: An Infernal Tourist protests – the Rose Giveth Its Verses to Devils – but the tracklayers dance on, heedless.

96: A black, shuttered palanquin is borne through the streets by two weathered Clay Men. There are whispers – surely not the Empress? … Another royal? – but nobody impedes their progress.

97: A dolorous devil stalks the streets. He tries to keep to the sparse shadows and startles at dancers of the Terpsichore.

98: Trumpets at the gates; a regiment of devils pass through on their way to the Burrow-Church.

99: A bulky figure in a glittering cloak sweeps through the streets. Insults are hurled in its wake.

100: The ever-present drumming has a lazy, contented quality to it today. Is the Drummer… happy?

[m3rricat]

wip wednesday

From the next chapter of Advocatus!

Something festered in the meat of Wyll’s brain. He thought it was the sending stone, stark and heavy as ever. But then it moved. Moved, as if the stone she had wedged in his gray matter all those years ago had hatched, letting loose something that squirmed against his skull. Some Hellish worm smuggled in through him no doubt, the great fool that offered himself up to a devil as a foothold in his precious home. Now all of his mistakes were coming home to roost. Except, Wyll was sure, he was himself in a corner of the Hells right now. All around was a high cavern of red and bruise-purple, like meat. Meat that was charring in surrounding fires, unleashing a reek of cooked, rotting carcass. It smelled beyond horrible his nose. Which was strange. His infernal senses would relish this— But his body no longer had infernal senses. The weight of the horns was off his brow, and the lack of counterbalance without a tail sent Wyll stumbling the first few steps he tried to take. Stripped of an infernal body but stuffed in an infernal place? He furiously tried to parse what she was up to. Wyll moved forward, no idea why or where. He was in the Hells: there would be no strolling out. But he soon managed to find a passage in the wall of the cavern, like some sort of massive bodily orifice. He headed inside it, trying not to heave as the hatchling wriggled in his head. Several steps down the dim passage and then without warning he was standing in light so bright it blinded. The new scene slowly emerged as his eyes adjusted. A beach, of all things. Like a dream, his surroundings had shifted like some theater set wheeled away. And, as in a dream, Wyll decided that the hell behind him didn’t matter because above him was a real blue sky with a real sun and tatters of real white clouds scudding overhead. He had nearly forgotten what it looked like. Then, this dream took a new turn. There, yards away on a rise by the water, stood Astarion, practically glowing in the sunlight. The next moment, Wyll found himself right in front of Astarion with no memory of how he bridged the distance. And then this Astarion, clad in an odd purple doublet, turned his beautiful head to look at Wyll. There was no recognition in those ember-red eyes.