#Fallen Error

[dolliecreature]

Rin and her boyfriends 💙💚🧡💕

[the-nerd-beast]

I believe Carmilla Carmine to be a fallen angel

As well as the fact that she has daughters when sinners can't reproduce there is an important detail I can't believe no one has brought up.

Look at her, I mean really look at her, what is something you might notice? Other than her stunning beauty

An amazing lack of features she has. She has no wings, no shark teeth, no monstrous/bestial features, no horns (I was surprised to learn that her buns weren't wrapped around horns), no inorganic parts like Vox or what have you and she shares this trait with her daughters Odette and Clara. The only arguably inhuman trait are her large hands, which are not exactly a very defining trait especially since they moved away from her pilot design of having claws.

Look at the denizens of Hell:

They are incredibly diverse in form, having taken on features influenced by personality, sin, time period and cause of death. Even most "basic" sinners still look like generic devils.

(I used Mrs. Mayberry from Helluva Boss because she is the best shot of a "devil" sinner but they are seen often as background characters in Hazbin Hotel as well).

Now there is an exception to this though: Velvette

Now with her, I believe that is less a lore reason and more an artistic design choice since it is apparent her outfit and hairstyle is going to be different in every appearance she has so they left out any extra features to make that easier for the animators.

She is essentially a blank canvas for the animators to play dress up doll with, but she does still lack a nose which makes her a little less human looking than Carmilla.

Now getting back to Carmilla's daughters, even if Odette and Clara also died at the same time as Carmilla which is why they are together in Hell, the chances that they wouldn't have enough variables to have any unique features of their own feels slim, did these three really have so little variation in personality and sin one of them wouldn't look a little more monstrous?

Some have pointed out the horns they have are probably fake, with Odette's being her hairband, which with Carmilla's hair buns seem to almost be an attempt to "fit in" with the sinners.

Overall as many have brought up, the Carmines have more in common with Vaggie design wise with how few unique features they have, and we all know what Vaggie's deal turned out to be.

Anyway that's my two cents and I'd love to know your thoughts if you have any.

[sevastiel]

I've got two different fashion styles, I think

"I love this game's fashion! <3"

And

"I love this game's fashion :)"

Either its going to be very pretty, or I'm going to abuse every system possible to get the jenkiest/silliest result possible

[yall-its-soclover]

|☆| OPEN |☆|

This blog just reached 200 followers, and to celebrate im opening a Q&A for my Undertale Yellow au, Justice Prevails!

You guys can ask the Justice Prevails cast questions, including the original Undertale Cast from the Justice Prevails sequel story, Red Fallen!

A few rules, first!

This will be True Pacifist/Pacifist only! So no Genocide or Neutral spoilers, sadly.

Some asks may not be answered if they spoil the ending, or any plot twists. I may still give hints though :3

If you want to ask a character from a specific time (pre-jp, or post-jp) make sure to specify, or I'll be assuming you're asking the character during the course of the story!

Remember to keep your asks appropriate, of course.

And lastly, have fun! Thank you all so much for following me and supporting my art, it means the world.

(Characters and their roles are listed under the cut)

Main Cast

Secondary Cast

[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type au part 10!

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9 /// part 10

WERE ALMOST THERE LESSGO

Everyone say thank you to my friend Aster who has no interest in Call of Duty whatsoever, but let me talk to them about this fic for almost two fucking hours and use them as a rubber duck to fix some issues with the plot. Thank you, Aster! And sorry for ranting to you about Call of Duty fanfiction for TWO. FUCKING. HOURS. :,)

edit: why does the formatting always break after i post 😭

@imjustheretofightforlove / @pieckyghost / @life-as-a-gamergirl

...

The plan was simple, in theory.

Before the war began, tunnels had been dug into the mountain; At the time, their numbers, both of men and supplies, were outgrowing the fort, even with it being as big as it was. It was supposed to eventually become a store room, winding passageways connecting to create an outline.

Then war came knocking. Their supplies dwindled, they lost men, and the tunnels became nothing more than a forgotten project. Once they sat as an odd reminder of how far the fort had fallen; to have gone from carving through stone for extra room for all of their supplies to barely able to avoid hypothermia at night was a haunting ghost of their fall from grace.

But, perhaps now they could offer their salvation.

The Captain’s men were to set a scene; They hid the evidence of the medical center the once formidable fort had become and made it look like it had been bustling with life. 

Initially, they tossed around the idea of moving the sick and injured out but abandoned the idea quickly. It involved too much risk, too many variables; Some wouldn’t have survived the trip.

Instead they prepped the unused warehouse and war room. They moved the worst off into the buildings and those who had a better chance at fighting into the walls. Snow would cover the amount of movement that had happened over the course of executing their plan. 

The healthy few would  silently tell the story of a panicked and hasty retreat that looked as if it had happened just minutes prior.

They laid false tracks, leading to the tunnels. Tunnels that could perhaps be mistaken for an evacuation route by those unfamiliar with the area or a group in the rush of a promised battle. Tunnels that could trap those who charged in blindly. Tunnels that had one entrance, one exit.

And they waited, placing their trust in the reluctant apostle of a forgotten god.

…

Ghost had returned to camp well into the night; the air didn’t feel as frigid after sleeping on a mountain. The trek was much easier the second time, having two advantages with setting out earlier and not losing his fucking mind in a dead man’s cabin.

The general hadn’t asked him any questions. Just said that it was a shame he didn’t catch anything and that dinner had already been served.

That first night, Ghost fell in and out of a fitful sleep, unable to rest. He kept his weapons placed strategically, waiting for the ambush. There was no way they did not know of his betrayal.

Yet, the ambush never came. They marched on. 

It took weeks for the entire camp to make the journey that had taken him a single day. The snowy weather only worsened in protest of spring looming closer.

When the general sent out the platoon, Ghost was filled with so much  dread that he couldn’t feel anxious. He knew how to stay calm in dire situations, but this wasn’t that. He wasn’t calm, it was like he had hit his limit of how much stress he was able to process and was left hollow.

The morning was far too calm for the bloodshed that was bound to occur on either side. Tragedy was imminent and the sun hadn’t even crested the horizon.

Staring at the closed gates of the fortress in formation with men he should have called brother, he had a sinking feeling that he was going to be reunited with his old friend before the next sunrise.

He thought he might have heard that friend telling him to breathe.

Ghost was not the one leading the charge, no, he wasn’t trusted enough for that, but he was on the front lines. He was one of the first to push through the gates, to search for the enemy, and perhaps might have even been the one to pointedly stare at the obvious trail leading to the tunnels.

He may or may not have been right behind the commanding officer that followed the trail with his weapon drawn. 

And when they realized that the tunnels were nothing more than a circuitous dead end, they filed out in reverse order. The passages were not wide enough for two armored soldiers to pass by each other, forcing them to slowly and awkwardly work their way out of the commander’s shortsightedness one by one. 

The commanding officer, Ghost, and whatever other poor fools that had been stuck on the front line were still at the back when the Captain called to fire. 

Archers that had been lying in wait, hiding atop the walls, picked off the soldiers that made their way out one by one. The Captain’s men were greatly outnumbered, but those numbers offered no help when the only soldiers that made their way out were turned into pincushions.

It did not take them long to realize that the exit was impassable, and they fell back, looking to their commanding officer for an order.

Their commanding officer, whose head had been cleaved in two by someone who was once on their side. Some were frozen in fear, some charged towards the defector, and some attempted to flee. 

Those with delusions of bravery were cut down quickly, same went for the ones that froze. As for the rest, the traitor found a perverse satisfaction from attacking the back of a fleeing man, just as they had done to their enemies. 

The only light was from the few that had carried in torches. As they dropped, the shadows grew twisted and distorted, corrupted by the betrayal. 

The soldiers that made it to the exit found that swordsmen had joined the archers in blocking the exit. They turned back once more and saw the carnage caused by a wraith covered in the blood of their allies. 

They had a choice, not to live or die, but of which blade to be struck down by.

The mountain reeked of copper.

The sounds of a slaughter quietened.

The swordsmen did not holster their weapons. The archers did not drop their arrows. The Captain did not give the order to stand down. Each and every one of them waited to see who would exit the tunnels.

The silence was cut through by the sound of squelching, the sound of piles of corpses being stepped on as one man exited.

The traitor emerged, black cloak turned red. 

The Captain’s men cheered. 

The traitor did not.

They relit the fires that had been snuffed. The bodies were removed and treated with an undeserved amount of care as they were lined up and piled. Despite just cheering their deaths, they gave the felled enemy the mercy of a proper funeral.

They knew that their own allies had not been given the same treatment, but refused to stoop to the enemy’s level. The Captain watched as the pyre was lit. Soon after, they dispersed, preparing the fort for regular, day-to-day life.

The Captain stayed and kneeled by the roaring flame, tending to it, making sure it continued to burn. 

The traitor approached, stood next to him. He took off his armor piece by piece and tossed it onto the fire. It was soaked in blood, the insignia that once denoted him as one of the mighty general’s soldiers was hidden beneath the carnage that he had wrought. 

They both watched the fire.

The traitor walked towards the gate. The Captain stopped him. Thanked him. Held out his hand to shake. It was stared at for a long time.

The traitor accepted and shook his hand. He found that the Captain held money in his palm, an award for his treachery. Blood money. It was still accepted.

The Captain wore a gaze too kind for the size of the pyre behind him. Told the traitor that should he need it, he would have a roof for himself at the fort. One that did not require pledging a blade nor a life to his army.

The Captain said that they all owed him their lives.

The traitor disagreed but said nothing. He walked down the path to his steed, covered in the blood of his old allies, money in hand.

…

Ghost came back to himself sitting in a freezing river.

Ice and snow dotted the muddy banks in clumps. 

His horse was hitched to a tree. 

Water lapped at his neck; he was kneeling and hunched over enough that only his head was not submerged. Blood trailed away from him, following the flow of the river. 

His sword had been dropped on the snowy bank, pulled slightly by the water but still secure where it sat. His halberd had been buried into the riverbed, the ax slammed into the mud with enough force to hold it in place against the current.

First he realized someone was humming. 

Then he realized someone was holding his head to their chest. 

And then that they were wiping his face and neck, cleaning what the water could not reach.

Ghost closed his eyes and let himself collapse fully into Soap’s arms.

His tune did not stutter. He just held the broken man closer, pressing his lips against his hair and rocking them back and forth.

Ghost clung onto the arm stretched across his chest like it was a lifeline. And it might as well have been. Soap might as well have been. 

He couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

A former gladiator, forced to the ground and shaking because he had to kill people.

He was cold, but not as cold as he should have been. Submerged in a frozen river, he should have already been dead, but Soap didn’t let him feel more than a watery chill.

His fingers weren’t numb, yet he couldn’t feel them. He was trying. He wanted to feel the current, to feel the flow of water, but they might as well have not been there, refusing to respond.

He would never return to camp nor meet the general’s ire ever again.

There was a bird on the ground. A little waxwing. Hopping around and pecking the dirt. It scratched at the rocky bank for a moment before taking flight, landing in the branches of a leafless tree.

The little waxwing ruffled its feathers and shook its head. It called out a few times before taking off again, flying somewhere Ghost couldn’t watch it anymore. He wished it had lingered just a little longer.

He would have thought he was hyperventilating if not for the fact that he watched  his slow, steady puffs of air freeze in the wind.

After spending too long drifting away, Ghost found it within himself to ask, “What happens now?”

Soap hummed, “Find somewhere safe for tonight, eat something warm, and rest.”

He said it so simply without even having to think about it. It was obvious to Soap.

“And then after that?” Ghost asked, not able to accept that it was that easy.

“One step at a time,” he said gently, running a wet hand through his hair.

Ghost shook his head, his anxiety growing, his breathing getting quicker. He knew what Soap was trying to say, but to him it sounded like there was no plan. Like the only thing he could do was focus on tonight because there was no tomorrow. 

“Hey,” Soap pulled him back, pressing his lips to his temple, “Heroes for hire, right?”

“I’m—,” Ghost stuttered a moment before he remembered confiding in him about an old friend. “—Surprised you remember that,” he finished in a mumble. It was said so softly, a mortal man wouldn’t have heard it over the rush of water.

The god smiled, “Of course. You said it, didn’t you?”

The words bounced around in his mind but failed to process them.

“It’s up to you to live out the dream, for both of you.” Hope came so easily to Soap and Ghost would have given anything to have a fraction of his love for the world.

Soap paused the rocking as something spooked a small flock of birds that were sitting in a nearby tree. Ghost could see out of the corner of his eye the way the god glared over at them, daring anyone or anything to intrude on… whatever was happening.

As soon as Soap was certain that there was no imminent threat, he returned to his rocking and rested his head against the top of Ghost’s.

Ghost, ever the contrarian, cynically asked, “The dream of running around, demanding money from people in need?”

It was the very thing that had him itching for a fight when getting the kid medical attention; Someone taking advantage of another’s desperation for a little bit more change in their pocket. 

Was that the life Ghost was meant to strive for?

Despite the (surely by now, very annoying) pessimism, Soap easily amended, “Running free, helping people in exchange for a warm meal.”

“You remind me of him,” Ghost said before he could think better of it.

Soap was silent, Ghost didn’t know how long for. His thoughts were split between regret for voicing the comparison and guilt at the reminder of his long lost friend. When he found it within himself to pull far enough away to see Soap’s face, he found that he was wearing a soft smile.

Soap asked gently, “What’s his name?” 

Ghost wasn’t used to so much gentleness directed towards him of all people and struggled with the question. Ghost wanted to answer, but he couldn’t.

Soap, in all of his kindness, waited. Let him sit there and flounder under a simple task with enough patience to ascend him to divinity if he weren’t already a god.

Ghost took a deep breath and closed his eyes. 

He exhaled shakily.

“Roach. His name was Roach.”

Ghost felt years upon years of delayed grief hit him at once.

“He—” 

His voice broke. After all of that, his voice broke after six words. 

Fucking years of never-ending torment made bearable by one man’s presence and he didn’t have the decency to give out more than his name? Gods, the amount of fights he wanted to lose just so it would be over but kept going because of him and that was all Ghost had to offer? Six fucking words!?

“—Is very proud of you, I’m sure,” Soap finished his sentence for him, “And happy that you’ve come so far.”

I am.

“Both of you need to shut up,” Ghost grumbled, his lip curling at the nauseating words from both of them. 

He reopened his eyes slowly. The snow was still just as bright as before, the water was still moving, and the wind continued to shake empty tree branches.

He stood very slowly; He didn’t know how long he was kneeling for, but he did know that it was long enough for his legs to lock into place and one of his feet to fall asleep.

Soap stood with him, holding onto his arm to make sure he didn’t fall. He couldn’t be embarrassed, he certainly needed the help (not to mention he had done the same thing to Soap not too long ago). 

With his foot only half-assedly responding, he limped towards Taxes. Soap did not let go until Ghost grabbed onto her and started petting her mane. 

It took Ghost far too long to realize that his clothes were inexplicably dry. It should have been the first thing he noticed as soon as he stood, and yet…

He couldn’t afford to get lost in his own head again. 

Ghost removed his gloves to feel the coarse hair of Taxes’s winter coat beneath his hands and stared down at his feet, noting any and every detail about the snow and twigs beneath him.

Soap grabbed his weapons from the river for him and set them against the tree. Part of the ax and speartip were muddy, a line showing where they had been sunk into the riverbed. 

He watched, entranced, as the water on the blades frosted over and coated the metal in a sheen of white. He couldn’t tell how cold it was with the god shielding him from most of it, but if it froze that quickly…

It only served as yet another testament to how much Soap did for him with little to nothing in return. 

There was a tangle in Taxes’s mane.

He brushed through it slowly. Soap patted Ghost’s shoulder and let his hand linger there. Part of Ghost wondered if the god was as touch-starved as he was.

“Do you know where the nearest town is?” Soap asked. He was probably about to have to leave again.

Ghost nodded slowly. 

Ghost was going to a town. To find a hotel. So he could rent a room. And stay there. Because he wasn’t going back to camp again. Ever. He couldn’t. 

And again, it was Soap who pulled him back. 

Soap dropped his hand to grab Ghost’s, squeezing it with that complicated look of emotions that Ghost wasn’t willing to unpack. Nothing was said, but Ghost squeezed his hand back.

They stared for a while, Ghost still trying to process how to function under the crushing weight of freedom and Soap doing whatever it is that Soap does.

Soon, the god was stepping back but did not let go of his hand. The complex array of emotions was taken over by one he knew very well: An unwilling goodbye. 

It was the sad smile of someone not wanting to leave but already anticipating their next reunion; Seeing it on Soap and about him made him feel… odd. There was a pain in his chest, but one he wanted to seek out instead of avoid. Ghost still managed to find guilt in causing Soap any negative emotion.

Soap said in a voice that was only just loud enough to be heard and no louder, “Well, I’ll… try to see you there.” 

He admitted the “trying” part reluctantly, as if ashamed by his own limits. Ghost wanted to reassure him that it was okay, but words were never his strong suit.

You should kiss his hand.

Ghost pulled Soap’s hand closer and pressed a kiss to Soap’s knuckles like some stupid scene from a stupid fairytale. As he pulled away, he rubbed his thumb across where he just kissed and let go.

Soap’s eyes were wide and a blush was just visible against his tan skin. Ghost felt pride well up from somewhere deep inside him; He, Ghost, a mortal man, just made Death blush.

“Until we meet again,” Ghost said with a sarcastically pompous tone and a burgeoning smile as he got on his horse, hoping a message that he himself wasn’t clear on was clear to Soap.

The god was still gawking at him, frozen in surprise even as Ghost rode towards the faint path in the snow. It wasn’t until he checked behind him and saw that the god was gone that his brain turned back on and practically screamed at him that he’s an idiot.

Because, yes, the god was frozen in shock, but why the fuck did he assume Soap was frozen because he was happy about Ghost kissing his hand?

Ghost closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. 

This was the fucking bar fight thing all over again. He had assumed that Soap wanted or needed his help to get down and made a fool of himself back then, and the same had happened once more. 

Except worse. Because he just fucking kissed his hand. Unprompted.

Well… unprompted from Soap, at least.

Quit your whining. Soap’s a god, if he didn’t like it, he’d have done something about it.

Which was the same excuse he had given after the cabin.

I was correct then, and I’m correct now!

He buried his face in his hands. Gods, why didn’t Ghost just fucking ignore him like he always did? Everything would have been fine if he hadn’t acted on some stupid little voice inside his fucking head—

You’re gonna thank me when all of this is said and done.

Ghost couldn’t take it anymore and yelled in exasperation to an empty, snowy forest, “When all of what is said and done!?”

Predictably, the trees held no answer and he heard the faint echo of a familiar laugh from somewhere in his own head. Ghost resituated and mocked the voice, hoping his annoyance was clear.

The town was hours away, and he’d spend every minute of the ride stewing in the agony of knowing he was an easily manipulated, stupid idiot. He sighed, although it quickly turned into a frustrated groan.

“Fuck you,” Ghost grumbled.

Aww, you’re so nice to me!

Ghost could picture his stupid shit-eating grin without even being able to see him. He shook his head and reminded himself that he was angry at him and shouldn’t smile at his joke. Fucker.

…

The room he had been given was comfortably small, most of the area taken up by a large bed centered on one of the walls, with a floor that creaked every time he shifted his weight.

Most of the light streamed in from the windows that overlooked the tree line although a few dim lanterns were dotted about the room. A wood stove in the corner was working to fend off the frigid weather with a small table and chairs under one of the windows.

Ghost barely took the time to check the room before dropping his gear and outerwear unceremoniously to the floor. It was warmer than what he would have expected and the bed was calling his name even though it couldn’t have been past noon.

He still needed to give the god an offering, both as a part of his daily routine and as a thanks. Ghost couldn’t help but yearn for when it was warm enough for him to go searching for Soap’s temples.

He missed the thrill of exploration, the rewarding feeling upon properly reading the environmental clues, and comfort once near one of his old shrines. As soon as spring began to scare away the snow or he was far enough south for it to warm up, he’d have to find one again.

He stared at the ceiling above him in case it had any ideas for possible offerings hidden in the wood grain. Nope. But the bed was more comfortable than he expected.

The quilt overtop of it was rough, scratchy, and heavy in a way that he knew he would not struggle to stay warm that night — It reminded him of one his mother had made years and years ago. The unrefined stitching was charming; whoever made it cared more about functionality than looks and wanted something warm as opposed to pretty.

Uncomfortable, lumpy pillows sat against the headboard. The last time he had slept with an actual pillow was… probably back in Soap’s temple after the bookstore debacle. (He still had no idea where Soap had gotten it and the blanket from).

Sure, most people would probably call it pretty shitty, but he wasn’t on a cot, in a sleeping bag, or staring up at a canvas tent. To him, it was perfect.

While he was cold, he did not get under the covers. He knew that he was lying to himself that he would be able to stay awake if he did.

But he definitely wasn’t lying to himself about staying awake as long as he just laid on top of the blankets. The fact that he blinked and suddenly the sun was much closer to the horizon than it had been a moment ago meant nothing.

The cause of his vexation was sitting at the table. Soap was staring out the window with his chin propped up on his hand, Ghost could only see the back of his head. He was tapping his fingers against his arm.

Ghost reluctantly sat up and stretched, afterwards having to blink several times for the world to return to normal.

“I was wondering when you were going to wake up,” Soap commented without turning away from the window.

“Should’ve woken me, then,” Ghost grumbled. He was surprised by the rasp in his own voice, making a face of confusion, only then realizing how deeply he must have slept. He moved his legs over the side of the bed like he was going to stand, but as soon as he realized that standing meant leaving the bed, he changed his mind.

Soap chuckled quietly, now looking at him. “I’d rather kill myself than interrupt your sleep.”

“Fucking hell! Alright, gods…” Ghost responded as if he wouldn’t make a similarly grim joke. “How long have you been waiting?” he asked, fruitlessly trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

“Not long.” Soap answered fast enough that Ghost knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was lying. He rubbed his eyes harder, now wondering how long Soap had to wait on him.

When he finished, he found Soap staring at him. As soon as he saw that Ghost had noticed him, Soap looked away, shifting in his chair and messing with his hands.

It was Ghost’s turn to stare now as he tried to figure out what made him so antsy and… was he blushing? What— 

Oh yeah. 

That.

Fuck.

How does he even begin to apologize for kissing Soap’s hand?

Tell him you want to kiss him on the lips.

Ghost wanted to throw something out the window. That stupid little voice was the very reason he was in this fucking predicament to begin with!

Oh, boo hoo. Now kiss.

Ghost took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry about earlier—”

“I’m sorry I made you—”

They started speaking at the same time, both apologizing but cutting each other off before the reason for the apology could be revealed. They paused and a slightly awkward laugh was shared as a tense air fell over them.

“You first,” Ghost said before Soap could, delaying the inevitable.

“I’m sorry I made you do— well— all of this,” Soap said, looking anywhere but at Ghost, gesturing around.

“All of what?” Ghost asked.

“This,” Soap said again. “The— The betrayal, the cabin, the ambush— all of it.” He finally looked back at Ghost, his voice filled with regret. “I’m glad you’re not there any more—” If he said it with any more anger, smoke would have been pouring from his lips. “—But I wish it hadn’t come with… everything else.”

Ghost sighed sadly, upset at the idea that Soap believed he owed an apology for pushing him to leave the general’s side. “Soap—”

“Nope! Your turn! What do you think you have to apologize for?” he interrupted quickly, his tone pulling a 180 with a hypocritical denial to hear any push back on whether he needed to apologize. 

The last part of his statement didn’t make any sense; It should have been obvious why he was apologizing. Ghost had just kissed his hand out of nowhere, of course he needed to apologize for that. 

Did Soap somehow forget? Was it that bad that he immediately repressed it to the point he didn’t even remember Ghost’s fuck up? Did he just want to pretend it never happened and brush it aside in the hopes it wouldn’t happen again?

Well, Soap would be right about that — Ghost sure as shit wasn’t going to make a mistake of that magnitude again. He owed that much to Soap, at least. He couldn’t let himself establish this pattern of constantly and consistently overstepping—

“Ghost?”

His head shot up. Soap was looking at him concerned. 

Right. They were talking.

He started his apology, “I’m sorry about earlier…” 

But Ghost always has been and always will be a coward. “With— um, not giving you an offering.” Gods, what is wrong with him? Stupidly, he stuck to his lie. “I, I tried to think of something— of an offering—”

Unless pretending he wasn’t upset about it was a test to see if he’d still apologize without Soap having to mention it, to see if he was actually sorry, and he just failed.

He was staring firmly at a knot in the floorboards as his hands mindlessly picked at his nails. He was never sure if it was a habit he formed to distract his hands or if it was because he wanted the pain of picking them too far.

Breathe.

“Ghost.” 

Soap had stood up, was standing in front of him. His eyes widened, not having heard the god’s approach. He grabbed Ghost’s hands and pulled them apart. When his thumb absently moved to keep picking at his nails, Soap clasped their hands together to prevent the action. 

Soap, perfectly fine with turning Ghost’s world on its head with just a few words, said so softly, “I’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear it. You do not owe me. You have done more for me than I could ever put into words.” Soap brought his hands together and kissed his knuckles.

If Ghost wasn’t blushing before, he definitely was now. And he wasn’t even wearing his mask.

I FUCKING TOLD YOU, YOU STUPID LITTLE BITCH.

Ghost snorted. 

Which was not the right response to Soap’s heartfelt words, but damn if dead people don’t have awful timing. Knowing just how bad of a response it was made him chuckle more, shaking his head.

“I— I’m sorry—” He was still giggling.

“What?” Soap thankfully sounded more confused than offended.

“Roach, he—” Still giggling. He could feel the dead bastard’s smug grin in his sudden silence.

“What…? Wait, did he say something?” Soap asked, catching on. “He did, didn’t he? What did he say?” Soap had a growing smile, almost laughing along with Ghost even though he had yet to find out what was so funny.

“…Nothing,” Ghost said unconvincingly. Gods, how does he explain what he said without recounting every time the asshole demanded that he flirt with Soap.

“He was making fun of me, wasn’t he?”

“No, no—”

“No? Then what was it?”

“He’s mean to me,” Ghost tattled, trying to stop laughing.

Am not. Pussy.

“You’re not gonna tell me, are you?”

“You don’t want to know,” Ghost said honestly, shaking his head. Without thinking beyond just wanting to hide, he dropped his head and closed his eyes in embarrassment, the crown of his head resting against Soap’s sternum. 

Which solved his problem of wanting to hide, but created a new problem in not knowing what to do with his hands as Soap let go. 

Gods, so much was fucking happening and he was still barely awake.

Shakingly, hesitantly, his hands fell to Soap’s sides. He was still too caught up in his own issues for the forefront of his mind to pay much attention to the action, leaving his subconscious to decide that it was the right move.

His hands were clenched in a loose fist, as if his subconscious thought that it would fix any worry of the motion being mistaken for wandering, grabbing hands. 

Part of him, the stupid part, wanted to pull the god closer and, at first, he couldn’t figure out why. But Roach’s influence must be rubbing off on him because he realized he wanted a hug. 

How fucking embarrassing.

What was even more embarrassing was how much his blush worsened when Soap brought his own hands up, one brushing through his hair and one resting on his shoulder, occasionally rubbing half-circles with his thumb.

Recompense.

That was the only thing Ghost could think of in that moment. What could he do in return.

He just said you don’t need to give him anything, dumbass.

Yeah, thanks, dumbass, but he wanted to give him something. Ghost from a year ago would have scoffed at that idea and probably make fun of him too, but a year ago the only thing he had to look forward to was dying on the battlefield.

“Simon,” he said quietly without thinking about it a moment more.

“Hmm?” Soap asked quietly, neither of his hands pausing.

“My name— It’s Simon.” He lifted his head from where it was resting but did not look up. He would lose his nerve if he tried looking up at the god, so he decided that the third button from the bottom on Soap’s shirt would be just fine as a replacement.

It wasn’t the kind of offering the god needed, it didn’t have much of any meaning aside from another way to address him, but it meant something to Ghost, at least. The gods didn’t care about his weird personal plight with his real name given to him by his Mother versus the moniker bestowed upon him by those placing bets on when he’d die, but maybe it could mean something to Soap too.

“Thank you, Simon,” said Soap, still running his fingers through his hair.

And the way he said it, maybe it did mean as much to Soap as it did to Ghost. It was just his name, but it had tears welling up in his eyes. He did not know how long it had been since someone called him by his actual name.

(He did. It was the last thing Roach had said, his last words wasted on trying to save Ghost, calling out for him to move before acting for him.)

He still couldn’t look up at him, but he did manage to pull up enough to now be staring at the fifth button on his shirt. No one knowing him as anything other than Ghost was a self imposed punishment; He could have, at any given time, told people his name, but he didn’t.

And he wouldn’t. Not after how nice Soap said it. No, he would like to keep that to himself and Soap.

“I think my name was John.”

Ghost heard the way he said it. It was the same way Ghost had confessed his: quick and impulsive, saying it before your fears could talk you out of it. 

He finally pulled his eyes up, making eye contact for a split second before he settled for staring at some point on his cheek. Ghost was still sitting on the bed while Soap stood, the exaggerated height difference only making the moment of vulnerability that much more intimidating.

“John?” Ghost asked to confirm.

Soap inhaled shakily, like finally hearing someone else call him by his name confirmed hazy memories. “All of it’s fuzzy, but… I— I think it was.”

Ghost knew he would never understand the full weight of that confession but he knew that he felt happy that Soap trusted him enough for it, that Ghost may have been able to help him find solace with a question he might never be able to answer.

He would never know the origin of Death and it wasn’t a question he felt too pressed to find an answer for, not when he was sitting in front of it, fucking holding him. Knowing the name he had before becoming Death was more than enough for Ghost.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you Johnny,” Simon said, squeezing his hand.

“Is it?” Johnny asked, a question loaded with more than what was directly said.

While Simon did not know what all the god wanted to ask, he knew what his answer was regardless. “Yes, I think it is.” 

The hand that had been on his shoulder moved under his chin and slowly tilted his head up. 

It wasn’t the first time the god had done it, but his breath still hitched; the god did it the same way every time, always careful, always with a touch light enough to be a suggestion and nothing more, never forcing. And like every other time, he obliged.

Simon still dodged the eye contact like it would cause him physical pain if their eyes met, but he took in every other detail of Johnny’s face; The lingering blush, the expression that Simon couldn’t describe as anything other than awe even though that couldn’t be what it was, and (after a courage-gathering inhale) the eyes that were not looking at his own, but staring at his lips.

It took Ghost an embarrassing amount of time to realize, ‘Oh, he wants to kiss me.’

And as soon as he did, a million and one fears ran through his head, all about messing it up or misinterpreting it, but the closer Soap got, the more muffled they became. 

And, well, thinking had never done him any good, so he made an impulsive decision and crossed the last half of an inch between them.

Ghost hesitantly brought his hand to rest on Soap’s cheek, reassured when Soap did something similar and held the back of his neck. Soap held his hand there like it was protection, covering a weak spot during a moment of vulnerability. 

Vulnerable was really the only word he could use to describe it. Normally, where the word would bring fears of helplessness and going unprotected, he only felt comfort. Intimacy, his brain provided.

There was nothing he could do to try to describe it, partially because it broke his brain, but what else is new.

When they separated, Soap’s chest was moving like he was breathing heavy, like he had run out of air. Ghost smiled; He knew it was no physical limitation causing his perceived breathlessness. 

But they didn’t stay separated long. No, now that kissing was on the table, it was going to be taken fully advantage of.

Soap was the one to close the distance the second time, now holding Ghost’s face in both hands, one still on the back of his neck and the other positioned so his thumb could rub his cheek, just under his eye.

Ghost was completely out of his element but he trusted Soap. Johnny stepped closer, resting his knee on the bed next to one of Simon’s own. He almost laughed at himself; Earlier, he had scoffed at the fact that he wanted a hug, and now…

When the contact started to become too much and he remembered that he was supposed to be breathing, he tapped Soap’s wrist and pulled back. Soap thankfully understood, moving one hand back to his shoulder and the other ghosting the back of his neck. It was still contact, but much less all-encompassing; Something easier to digest without taking it away completely.

They sat in silence for a moment, processing and basking in the sudden development. Ghost felt like he was a kid sneaking into a closet to steal kisses from his sweetheart. The comparison made him blush more, and only then did he realize how red his cheeks must have been.

Simon wondered when the hell they had grown so close, wondered when the god managed to fully gain his trust without his notice.

It was anxiety-inducing and exhilarating all at once. And with Soap’s presence alone calming the anxious part of him, he was left with a delighted, fuzzy feeling that made the world feel a little more welcoming, a little bit brighter.

Ghost’s smile grew as he quietly teased, “And here I thought the kiss of Death was supposed to be a bad thing.”

Soap did something between a sigh and a scoff, like he wasn’t sure if he should take it as a compliment or a taunt. It seemed he took it as both, rolling his eyes even though the fond smile never left him.

“Oh, gods…” Ghost groaned in reluctant realization, his head falling against Johnny’s chest.

“What?” Johnny asked, his hands hovering, his worry palpable.

Simon pulled him closer as he groaned, “Roach is going to be so fucking smug.”

Damn fucking right I am, you stupid, lovable, delusionally oblivious bastard.

Soap huffed, clearly not having expected that development. “What do you mean he’s gonna be smug?”

Go on, tell him.

Ghost was now officially trying to hide against Soap, even though it was Soap he would want to hide from after this admission. He groaned like he was in grievous physical pain and (very) reluctantly admitted, “…Roach has been trying to tell me that you want to kiss me or that I should kiss you for weeks now.”

The words were so mumbled, Ghost hoped that Soap didn’t understand them. But of course he did. Simon heard Soap’s laugh as much as he felt it, and damn that pushy, dead freak, he wanted to burrow through the floorboards.

“Is… Is that why you kissed my hand in the forest?” Johnny asked, a grin audible in his voice.

He groaned again, just needing to make his annoyance known, and nodded against his chest. 

Soap’s arms landed on his back and held him, comforting him even as the traitor chuckled at Simon’s misery. “Well, he wasn’t wrong — And I’m very glad you chose to listen to him.”

Ghost held his breath for several seconds, though he had no idea what he was trying to achieve. When he breathed in again, he turned his head to the side, still resting against Soap but watching the sunset through the window.

I believe a thanks is in order.

“Thank you, Roach,” Ghost reluctantly mumbled, forgetting that Soap would hear it too. He needed another nap.

The god echoed his words, “Yes, thank you, Roach.”

Simon shook his head, “Don’t thank him too, his ego was already bad enough.”

“Well, I think he deserves it,” Johnny said, leaving Simon outnumbered. 

Ghost finally pulled his head up and stared at Soap. “That’s because you don’t have to listen to him—”

Soap quietened his petulant argument by kissing his forehead, stopping Ghost in his tracks and leaving him to blink blankly as his blush slowly grew worse as if they hadn’t kissed on the lips just a moment ago.

Haha, loser.

Simon looked away and resisted the urge to feel the spot the god kissed, who only chuckled at his reaction.

…

Although the sun had settled behind the mountains, he still braved the nighttime winds that rolled through the town. It had only been a few hours since he left Taxes in the hands of the local stable, but he couldn’t not check on her. So, to the stables he trekked.

The locals were wandering the street just fine, unfazed by the weather. Ghost, however, was not as acclimated.

It wasn’t long after Soap and Roach bullied him that the god had to leave, still bound by the limitations of his power. Ghost distantly wondered if he could give Johnny food offerings again and claim they were for dates… But the idea was left behind when it made him confront the idea that he might be dating a fucking god.

Flowers would still have to do… 

…Which are also something given on dates. Fuck.

He hugged the buildings, the store fronts and porches offered some protection from the wind that billowed down the street. There were more people out and about now, but even the nighttime rush was still quite quaint.

The hitching posts in front of the tavern were almost all taken. Fortunately, the building didn’t look too rowdy from where he glanced through the windows from the other side of the street; Soap would absolutely kill him if he got into another barfight.

When he finished trudging through all of the snow and got to the stable, he found that predictably, Taxes was fine, but that didn’t stop him from letting out a sigh of relief. When he went to pet her, she was reluctant for only a second or two before she remembered that she liked to be petted and demanded that Ghost continue and never stop.

He loved his stupid horse.

“We actually made it out, huh?” he mumbled, still not believing it himself.

Ghost’s small smile only grew when he realized that she didn’t even know that her life was about to change for the better; She’d never have to march into battle or deal with the general’s men ever again.

Tomorrow was going to be stressful, trying to figure out a plan of action and leave to avoid having to spend what little money he was given on another night in the town. But, now that he thought about it…

It was stupid beyond belief and proof that his survival instincts had been thoroughly fucked, but part of him considered taking the Captain up on his offer.

Out of one frying pan, into a second frying pan, out of that frying pan, and back into yet another fucking frying pan. Brilliant.

But he wasn’t indebted to the Captain, there was no reason for him to stay longer than necessary, and, well… 

Fucking hell, he wanted to trust what Captain Price had said about helping him, alright? Yes, it’s fucking stupid, but fuck he just wanted it to be true.

Maybe… Maybe he could “take a sabbatical” or some shit, follow through on the idea of finding a temple of Johnny’s, maybe shake the bastard by the collar and demand to know what the hell happens if you date a god, and then see if the Captain’s offer still stands.

It felt like it should have been suicidal to return to a military after finally breaking his chains, but— but he wanted to have hope, dammit.

Taxes let out an ear piercing whinny and stomped around, at which point Ghost realized she was probably pissed that he hadn’t brought her a treat. No doubt the stable hands had already given her something, but he’d like to keep the horse in his good graces.

Glancing around, there wasn’t anything left out in the stable for him to pilfer for her, meaning he’d have to go all the way back to his hotel room, get an apple or oatcake or something from his bag, and then come all the way back to give it to her.

“The lengths I go to for you…” Ghost mumbled in mock annoyance.

Softy.

“Shut up,” he demanded without any bite, rolling his eyes. He could still hear Roach’s chuckles echoing faintly from his own mind. He patted her nose in lieu of a goodbye and when he stepped away, she moved around in her stall, stomping some more. 

He shook his head and took a courage gathering inhale, dreading the frosty wind; He hoped Taxes appreciated that he was facing a snowstorm just to get her a snack. 

Making sure his cloak was pulled tight, he stepped into the snow, and made it three steps before hands grabbed him and his world went dark.

[apilgrimpassingby]

Views of Christ and Culture

So, this morning I was watching a video on Reinhold Niebuhr's typology of five views of Christ and culture. They are:

Christ against culture: the culture is seen as something bad that Christians are to avoid interaction with as much as possible. The most obvious form of this is Anabaptist groups like the Amish, but less extreme versions of it can be found among most Baptists (and related groups like Pentecostals and Evangelicals) and form the basis for monasticism.

Christ of culture: the culture is seen to be basically good, if flawed, and working for the same things as Christ. This is most associated with liberal theology, although I'd argue that the prosperity gospel is the most prevalent form of this.

Christ above culture: the culture is seen to be good, but its natural, temporary good must not be confused with or used as a substitute for the supernatural, eternal good of Christ. This is the view of Roman Catholicism and Orthodoxy.

Christ and culture in paradox: Culture and the church are two separate institutions that, though Christians have duties in both of them, are not to be confused or allowed to dominate the other. This is the traditional stance of Lutheranism and Radical Two Kingdoms theology among the Reformed.

Christ as the redeemer of culture: the culture is seen as basically bad, but Christians are to put it under Christ's dominion for Him to redeem. This is the view of the Theonomist and Kuyperian theologies among the Reformed.

Everyone who'd like to, respond with which one you support and why! Tagging @sapphosremains and @idylls-of-the-divine-romance to see if the "progressives support Christ of culture" is accurate to the ones I know.

[carlyraejepsans]

for real WHERE does the idea that [utdr humans] are nongendered so that "you can project on them" come from. their literal character arcs are about NOT being a blank slate to be filled in by the audience

i think i understand the assumption on some level for undertale, because there is a very intentional effort to make you identify with the "player character" in order to make your choices feel like your own (the beating heart of undertale's metanarrative lies in giving you an alternative path to violence against its enemies after all, and whether you're still willing to persue it for your own selfish reasons. YOUR agency is crucial).

of course, the cardinal plot twist of the main ending sweeps the rug from under your feet on that in every way, and frisk's individuality becomes, in turn, a tool to further UT's OTHER main theme: completionism as a form of diegetic violence within the story. replaying the game would steal frisk's life and happy ending from them for our own perverse sentimentality, emotionally forcing our hand away from the reset button.

i think their neutrality absolutely aids in that immersion. but also, there's this weird attitude by (mostly) cis fans where it being functional within the story makes it... somehow "editable" and "up to the player" as well? which is gross and shows their ass on how they approach gender neutrality in general lol.

but also like. there's plenty of neutral, non PCharacters in undertale and deltarune. even when undertale was just an earthbound fangame and the player immersion metanarrative was completely absent, toby still described frisk as a "young, androgynous person". sometimes characters are just neutral by design. it's not that hard to understand lol.

anyone who makes this argument for kris deltarune is braindead. nothing else to say about it.

[hawkmothmoon]

Okay!! Last two The Bear pieces (til season 3, at least. Maybe sooner. Idk! I am inconsistent! I love many shows and movies and games and can’t commit to only posting from one fandom!!) JK I went and did a bunch more Bear pieces lololol

I had this idea of doing it to the single piece but it wasn’t working so I separated them out. Took inspo from the prayer cards we saw in the show.

My handwriting sucks lmao don’t judge me

[drk-mnd-fds]

I'll probably post a few sketches that were drawn spontaneously and stored somewhere on the computer

[koreanthrillerenjoyer]

Wich of my top 10 movies should you watch asap ?!

quiz

Another one dj khalid

@friendlynbhddevil @ongshimi @notsocharmy

[danganronpabirthdays]

are there any may 31st birthdays?

Happy Birthday to:

Aki Lum - Danganronpa: Survivor's Guilt

Ayuna Fukase - Danganronpa: DEADICATION

Ben Fumihiro - Danganronpa Ultimate: Fallen Despair

Mark Kickorey - Total Danganronpa: Forgone Error 

Moriji Tsurisakana - Danganronpa Dreamland

Komaru Naegi - Main Danganronpa Series

[variouspolltournaments]

Propaganda

Virche Evermore: I bawled my eyes out multiple times while playing this 👍

[isame-allen]

Hey can tou draw fallen dreamswap

Yes I could

[fallenasleepyetagain]

Seduction - Nightmare/Blue

Media: UTMV/UTAU

Genres: High School AU, Human AU, Teenage AU, DND, Characters play DND, Pining, Mutual Pining, Almost Kiss, Story Within a Story, Family Dynamics

Characters: King Nightmare, Blue, Dream, Ink, Cross, & Error

Character Human Names (in the same order as above): Nikora 'Niko' Nomura, Briar Cárdenas, Donovan Daniels, Isidoro Bonheur, Cain Ximenez, & Emmanuel Balcom

Pairings: Nightmare/Blue, Implied Error/Cross

CW/TW - Implied Neglect

Word Count - 3684

Read it on ao3 instead!

Our heroes were expecting an army. Hordes upon hordes of undead knights and creatures known only to the darkest depths of the Shadowfell should've been lined upon the walls and borders of the village. An army should've been defending the castle. The king.

And yet, nothing.

The entire kingdom was quiet. The only sound was the sound of the party's feet against the cobblestone ground. Villagers glanced out their windows and doors, watching them with bated breath.

There were a few open shops that the party could stop in if need be, but most places were closed indefinitely.

The heroes didn't need to stop. Not this time. They were ready. Their entire adventure they had been preparing for this battle since the start.

As they made their way through the village, the centerpiece of the kingdom slowly showed itself.

The Mareridt Castle.

A large, skyscraper-esque castle sat in the center of the village. It had towers that could touch the clouds, and dark gothic architecture with details that could only be made by hand.

The Mareridt castle was always visible on their adventure, able to be seen from miles away. It was like it was watching them, waiting for their arrival.

It loomed over them, a sense of doom and dread filling the party's senses. When they reached the front gates, they opened all on their own. They would be going to their deaths of their own accord. They would die knowing they could've turned back at any point.

There was a duty to be done, though, and the party entered the castle.

Blue, the half-orc Druid went in first, his staff, the Deathshaper, in his hands. He could feel the amount of death and decay here, there would be no shortage of bones for him to use. Although, the world was stifling, the darkness and shadows clawed at his heart. Connecting to the earth to use his Druid abilities would be difficult.

Error, a human sorcerer, stayed on Blue's left. Her hand gripped on her dagger, Lolth's Kiss; she hoped she wouldn't be in close enough combat to use it. Her crossbow felt heavy on her back, and yet, her magic felt stronger than ever. Her shadow magic felt all consuming, threatening to snuff her out if she allowed it.

The party's barbarian, Cross, flanked Blue and Error. His tiefling tail flicked back and forth, his eyes scanning the area. His glowing greatsword was strapped to his back, it had a name, once, but it had been forgotten to time. His body tensed, everything about the castle was making him uneasy. Being back was terrifying.

At the back was Dream and Ink, the party's rogue and bard.

Dream unsheathed her twin scimitars, which she had oh-so lovingly named Pleasure and Pain, her fingers tensing and relaxing as he walked. She hadn't seen much in her time, being a Kalashtar, but the Mareridt castle was something else. The spirits here were tormented and in constant agony. Whatever was causing their pain had to be destroyed.

Ink's rapier was tucked neatly into the sheath on their hip, their hands flitting up and down their flute. This was probably the worst idea the party had ever come up with. Being a changeling, Ink would've preferred a stealthy approach, but noooo, instead they had to waltz right on in.

And that was the party. The five of them walked through Mareridt castle, seeing...nothing. No guards, no servants. Not a single person was there. The castle was entirely empty. Eerie.

The group soon made it to the throne room, and there he was. The king. The one who was to blame for all of the troubles across the land. The one who had sent his closest guards to stop them on their journey. The one at the head of it all.

King Nightmare. Ruler of the Mareridt castle.

Nightmare was lounging against his throne, made of a dark marble. His legs spread wide and the side of his face resting against his knuckles.

Power radiated from him, his teal eyes looking down at the group. He's a drow with hard skin and long, jet black hair. And, by the gods, was he gorgeous.

He pushed himself up from the throne, hips swaying as he took a few steps forward. His cape billowed behind him, his heels clicking against the stairs as he approached. His lips twisted into a cruel, saccharine smile; eyes looking down at the party like a wolf looks at a deer.

Then, he-

"I flirt with him."

Wait, what?

Nikora looked over the DM screen at the group of his boys at his table in utter shock. He had been in the zone, setting up his friends for the final battle against the BBEG of the campaign.

"Come again?"

"I flirt. With him." Briar, sitting on Nikora's left, leaned in closer and tapped his pointer finger on the table as he spoke.

Laughter erupted from across the table as Nikora continued to stare in disbelief.

"You know, I had expected this behavior from our resident bard," Nikora said, gesturing at Isodoro who only grinned at him. "Or, fuck, even Don would pull this shit!"

A glance was enough to send him into a fit of laughter. Emmanuel face palmed, being squished in between the cackling Donovan and Isodoro. Cain put a hand to his mouth, trying to suppress his laughter.

"But you, Briar?" Nikora said, "You? It's an unwanted surprise."

"Can I flirt with him?"

In all four years of playing dnd and being dungeon master, Nikora should've expected this. Flirting with the BBEG or powerful creatures wasn't unheard of, but from Briar? Sweet, kind, not-openly-horny, Briar?

Even now, his blue eyes were full of adoration and excitement. This wasn't out of malice, just a genuine want to flirt with Nightmare.

"...Fffffffine." Nikora hissed out, gritting his teeth together. He couldn't say no to Briar's cute face.

"Roll," Nikora glanced at his screen, "Charisma."

For a moment, he was going to make it at disadvantage, but decided against it. Briar's half-orc would need all the help he could get, considering Blue got a minus one on every charisma check. Besides, Nightmare didn't hate the party, at least not Blue.

Briar took in a deep breath, grabbing his d20, slowly rolling it in his palm. The table held its breath, if this was successful, it'd be one of the funniest things to happen during the campaign, plus they'd get a powerful warlock as an ally.

"Wait, B, don't roll yet." Isodoro held up his hand and glanced at Nikora. "I want to cast bardic inspiration first."

"Go ahead."

"Oh! Can I cast guidance on myself?"

"No."

"Aw man."

"But first, Iso, how does Ink cast bardic inspiration in this moment?"

There's a pause as Isodoro thinks for a moment, snapping his fingers and leaning against the table.

"Well, Ink's probably been playing tunes this whole time, it's who they are. They...probably paused for a second when the party saw Nightmare. But when Blue goes to approach Nightmare, they'll play a short measure or two of Blue's favorite song."

"Perfect. Briar, add a d6 to your roll."

With a nod, Briar scanned the dice by his character sheet before grabbing his d6. Once more, he inhaled deeply, and begun to shake the two dice in his hand. After a moment, he tossed the dice down on the small dice mat in front of him.

The dice clicked together as they landed before separating. All five boys were on the edge of their seats: Cain leaned into Briar's side, the other three leaning across the table to see what the dice said.

Nikora could only hope it wasn't a natural 20.

"That's a..." Brair paused, scanning the dice, "17 on the d20, aaaand a 5 on the d6!"

"So a twenty two." Nikora hummed. He glanced down at his board with Nightmare's information on it. "Go ahead."

"What? Did I pass the DC?"

"I haven't decided yet. I want you to tell me how Blue flirts with him. Words and everything."

The look on Briar's face told Nikora that he wasn't expecting to have to actually flirt.

"I make Don actually flirt with every NPC he wants to flirt with too. It's only fair."

"No no, I know! I'm thinking, give me a second."

"Sure."

And a second was all he really needed. Briar took a deep breath and sat his hands on the table.

"Nightmare's throne has steps up to it right? Is he a few steps up still?"

"Uhh," Nikora paused, looking up at his board to check the interior map of the throne room, "yeah."

"Okay so, Blue is going to sheath the Deathshaper onto his back, and he's going to approach Nightmare." Briar said as he pushed the half-orc figurine closer to the drow figure.

"Blue doesn't move his eyes from Nightmare, completely and utterly enamored by him. He's wide-eyed, in awe. He's never seen someone radiating with such...power and control.

"He fidgets with his breastplate before taking another step forward, until they're about...a foot apart."

Nikora made a mental note of that, they were a third of a meter way from each other.

"Quickly, Blue grasps Nightmare's hands with his own, holding them to his chest. He inhales sharply, before speaking. He looks up into Nightmare's eyes with the most earnest, genuine expression he could possibly have."

It took Briar a moment to get into his 'Blue voice,' but he got there eventually.

"You're beautiful."

So Nikora would have to roll first, an insight check, and then an intelligence saving throw. He preferred to use the dice when it came to this sort of thing. Sure, he knew how his characters and creations would respond in theory, but he liked to keep himself on his toes.

In a different campaign hosted by Emmanuel, Nightmare played a drow woman (what? He loved drow!) who ended up falling head over heels for a Lich Queen by using that strategy.

But that was another story for another time.

The insight check would be used to see how exactly Nightmare would view this flirting. Rolling low would be best here, as rolling high would show Nightmare that Blue was, in fact, being genuine.

Behind the board, Nikora's dice clattered, and Briar held his breath. When the DM rolls without a saying a word, it causes panic throughout the table.

And that's an eighteen.

Plus two for Nightmare's wisdom stat and...

Great.

Nikora didn't really have a DC set in his mind, but an eighteen was high enough to let Nightmare know that Blue wasn't lying. Twenty was more than enough.

Now, for the intelligence throw...

Before the campaign even started, Nightmare's stats had been predetermined. Since he was the big bad end character, Nikora could really do whatever he wanted with his stats and be okay.

Every stat was at a sixteen, meaning Nightmare would get a plus three on each dice roll. With the exception of wisdom and constitution, which were both at fourteen, which gave a plus two instead.

Once more Nikora wasn't sure how high he needed to roll here, but he was willing to roll and see what would happen.

The d20 clattered against the table and Nikora slammed his head in his hands.

That was a three.

Plus the three for intelligence made the saving throw a six.

Lady Luck was not on his side today.

A six wasn't high enough to do much of anything. Like, ever.

"So."

"...So?"

What was he supposed to do now?

The big bad he's spent so much time setting up just fell for a half-orc!

"Nightmare..." Nikora took in a deep breath. He'll roll with it. It's what he always did. There was that backup plan just in case something happened...

"Nightmare's eyes widen slightly, his gaze quickly scanning up and down Blue's body, borderline undressing him with his gaze. His lips pulling back into a smirk, his fangs peeking through.

"After freeing his hands from Blue's grasp, he holds Blue's chin gently, making him look downward. His thumb runs over Blue's lip, a satisfactory hum coming from him.

"'You're awfully handsome, you know.' Nightmare says, 'Stay right here for me, hm? Give me a moment to wipe your friends off of the face of Toril, and then I'll see what I'll do with you.'"

"Jesus," Briar nearly choked on the air he was breathing, his cheeks completely flushed.

"Can I have Dream throw a knife at Nightmare while he's distracted?"

"WHAT?! Donovan if you kill my drow husband I swear to god-!"

Nikora put a finger against Briar's lips before nodding.

"Roll a stealth check first."

Donovan's d20 rolled against the table and, upon seeing the number given, the table burst into a collection of laughter.

"That's," Donovan held his head in his hands, "That's a natural one..."

"Haha!" Nikora clasped his hands together, cackling evilly behind the board. "So, Dream attempts to throw a dagger at Nightmare, but she ends up stumbling, an action that echoes throughout the throne room. The knife only grazes Nightmare's coat, slamming into the bottom of the stone throne."

"Oh thank god."

"Shi- Wait, wh- Briar! Whose side are you on?!"

Briar playfully stuck his tongue out at Donovan, who flipped him off with similar lightheartedness.

"Nightmare turns around," Nikora said, clearing his throat to get the table's attention. "A flash of anger goes through his teal eyes, a cruel smirk growing upon his face as he takes a step forward toward the rest of the party."

"Damnit Don!" Cain slammed his hands into his face, "If we have to fight this guy, we're fucking dead."

"Ohh, fuck you asshole, I didn't see Cross try anything!"

"That's because Cross knows how powerful Nightmare is! We're in deep shit!"

"He hasn't attacked yet though guys." Isodoro cut in, stopping the two before it turned into a full-fledged argument, "I roll advantage on persuasion checks thanks to my flute. If it comes down to it, I could try to talk him out of it?"

Cain sat back in his seat, nodding, dropping it. Donovan did the same, brown eyes glancing back at Nikora.

"...Can I continue dungeon master-ing please?"

"Yeah, sorry."

"It's chill." Nikora shifted in his seat, closing his eyes for a moment, getting into character.

"'Well well well,' Nightmare says, eyeing up each party member before landing into Cross. 'Looks like my little hellion has come home. We both knew you'd be crawling back before long. The world doesn't tolerate monsters like you, Cross.'"

Nikora takes a breath. The party is engaged, he has his notes and character motivations all planned out. He's ready. They're all ready.

Cross stiffened at the words, his body tending. The horrors he committed under Nightmare's rule...unforgivable.

But someone did forgive him. Error, despite her distaste for touch, took a step towards Cross, squeezing his hand.

"You're a fool if you think your little friends will end me. They'll die, and it will be your fault, Cross." Nightmare's piercing eyes bore through the party. "Like lambs to the slaughter."

Panic surged through Blue as he watched Nightmare slowly approach his friends like a panther, stalking, ready to pounce. He stepped forward, attempting to stop the warlock.

With a flick of Nightmare's wrist, a blast of eldritch magic shooting out at Blue. It knocked him back into the throne, taking the wind out of him. It was, in Nightmare's own way, keeping him away from the danger, even if it hurt.

"Wait, wait." Ink stepped forward, hands sweating and eyes flitting around. Gods, they hated this. They had so many plan ideas, so many unused schemes because the group had decided to rush in! They could make this work though. They had no choice. "I think you're confused. Uh. Sire."

"Am I?" A scoff left Nightmare as he shook his head. "Bold words from a changeling."

"Rest assured, your highness, I know who I am." Ink flipped their platinum blonde hair to the side, pure white eyes boring into Nightmare's face. "And I know what I'm here to do, and that is, in fact, not to kill you."

Nightmare raised an eyebrow, stopping on the steps to his throne.

"The...The magic cursing my village," Error stepped forward, dropping Cross' hand, much to his dismay. She glanced towards Ink, who only nodded in encouragement. "It's yours. Or, more accurately, your patron's. If you could just undo the shit that you did, we'll get out of your hair, and we'll stop beating your men half to death."

"A magic user like yourself should know a warlock's curse is not so easily broken. For it's not a curse of my making."

"Then," Blue sputtered as he stood up, holding onto his side from the eldritch blast strike. "Then take us to your patron! To the Underdark, the Shadowfell, wherever it resides. Don't...Don't make us fight you. Please."

To Blue, he was too beautiful to die.

"Awh." Nightmare cooed, running the back of his fingers across Blue's jaw. "You're adorable. But, I don't think that's your decision."

Cross and Nightmare locked eyes, "It should be his. Make your choice, my hellion. Fight me, or die by my patron."

Silence echoed in the room, Cross' heart slamming in his chest.

"...I don't want to fight you, either." He mumbled, "I want to, um, work with you. Again."

There was a pause. The gears in Nightmare's mind turned, debating if he should even humor the party. Was it even worth it letting them take the issue to his patron? Ohhh, she wouldn't be happy with that.

...That's exactly what Nightmare's been wanting, though. To finally get back at that she-devil was something that kept him up at night. Fantasizing about finally taking over and having power to himself.

"Deal."

A sigh of relief went through the party, Dream sheathing her weapons, but still eyeing Nightmare with suspicion. She didn't trust him, even if Blue did.

"Yes!" Blue cheered softly, grasping Nightmare's hand and bringing it up to his chest. "We have experience dealing with nasty patrons; wherever she is, we'll find here."

"There won't be any searching necessary, my dear. For she is right here in this castle." A slow cackle left Nightmare. "My patron...is my little sister."

"NIIIKORRRAAAAA!!"

Oh for the love of-!

"Whaaaaaaat?!" Nikora pushed his chair away from the table as he glanced up at the basement staircase. Standing at the top was his older sister, Mona, arms cross and hip popped to the side. That wench.

"Parents are here to pick your friends nerd. Times up."

Nikora glanced at the clock on the wall before realizing the three hours had already passed.

"Jeez. Okay, uh, same time next week?"

"Sounds good." Donovan nodded as the other started packing up their stuff, chatting about various events in the campaign. Mona disappeared from the staircase, avoiding the traffic that was teenage boys.

"...Nikora?"

"Huh-? Oh, hey." Nikora turned to the side. Briar had stayed behind. He hasn't even noticed. "What's up?"

Briar fidgeted with his messenger bag, not meeting Nikora's gaze. "I was just wondering if you needed help, um, cleaning up?"

"Nah, I've got it. Thanks though." He closed the dm screen, placing it face-down on the table. "C'mon."

"Okay!"

The two walked up the stairs, following closely behind the others. Nikora leaned against the column on the porch, waving goodbye to each of his friends as their parents cars' pulled into the street.

Per usual, Donovan's stepmom was first to come, the black sports car not even bothering to pull into the driveway.

Isodoro went home with Cain and his dad, and Emmanuel's sister was soon to follow.

"And then there was one."

The playfulness of the comment was soon lost, the silence filling the air as Briar and Nikora waited. After who knows how long, the two sat on the stairs of the front porch, Briair's bag leaning against the wall.

"...You don't think your brother forgot again, do you?"

"I don't know." Briar mumbled, putting his face into his knees. "I told him. I even put it on the calendar and the fridge! He shouldn't've forgotten..."

"Well...if he doesn't show, you could always stay overnight if you want."

Briar's eyes lit up, "Really??"

"Well, sure, yeah. It's not a school day tomorrow and if we're quiet, Mona won't care."

"I would love that, i-if you'd let me."

"You're my friend, of course I would." Nikora gently smacked Briar on his shoulder.

At that moment, the rickety orange truck pulled up to Nikora's house. Briar's brother was smoking a cigarette as he parked along the road. He waved, smiling slightly.

"Aw. I kinda wish he forgot about me now."

"Don't say that, oh my god. We can hang out another time."

"Yeah..." Briar stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He turned towards Nikora, smiling. "Thanks for indulging me today. You didn't have to but...you did. And I appreciate that."

Nikora shrugged, "It's no big deal. You have good taste, drow are always hot, so-"

And he's cut off. Briar's lips, surprisingly soft, connect with his cheek. For a split second, he thought it was some sort of Spaniard custom he was unfamiliar with, before realizing that it was something else completely.

Flushed cheeks. Aloof expression. Averted eyes.

"Bye!"

Before Nikora could say anything, Briar rushed off, getting into his brother's truck before they drive away. He doesn't move, watching as the truck drives off. He slowly put his hand against his cheek, his own cheeks beginning to blush.

Briar kissed him.

On the cheek, sure, but it was still a kiss!

Did Briar like him? Like, like-like him?

Nikora put a hand to his chest, his heart thumping vigorously in his chest.

Did he like-like Briar???

Had he fallen for his seduction as Nightmare had?

With a sigh, he leaned against the column on the porch. That wouldn't be too bad.

"Get back in her before you catch a cold, gay boy."

"Mona!"

[bakvrue]

Feeling especially soft about leo before bed...... I wanna run into his arms after months of being apart and feel like I'm home again. I want to call his name and ask him the same question in the same tone that I've asked since we were kids. "Leo, do you like me?" And his response is a confident devilish smile, "You caught me." But now it hits different. Now we've been apart for so long. Now we're both stronger, we've been attacked, we've survived, we've fought and fought and fought. But now we're here. Bleeding and battered on this war field, clinging onto each other. New promises whispered into the night air to carry us home, even when home is right in front of our eyes.

[a-v-j]

Thank god Nightmare didn’t want to marry Anti, we’ve seen how kings treat their partners in your worlds 😂

☝️ ah-

...

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