#but perhaps not that surprising in the grand scheme of things

[lillotte17]

*throws more Veilguard Banter into the gaping maw of Tumblr and then flees*

~~

Solas: “I have another question, Varric. If I may?”

Varric: “Just the one?”

S: “For now. I must admit, I was surprised to see that you were the one they asked to make an attempt at dissuading me from completing my mission. Not to belittle our prior bonds of friendship, but if the intent was to send an agent who might presumably hold some power of persuasion over me, I…would have thought another candidate might have seemed like the more obvious choice.”

V: “Would it really have changed anything if she had been the one telling you to stop?”

 S: “I…do not know. I should think not.”

V: “But at least you would have gotten to see her again, right?”

S: “Perhaps.”

V: “Heh, don’t you worry, Chuckles, I’m sure you’ll get your chance. The fact that I was here instead of her is more of a fluke than anything else. She was more than eager to follow up on the tip that led us to you, but then the kid insisted on tagging along, and you know how it is.”

S: “…kid?”

V: “Right, the kid. You probably haven’t seen him either.”

S: “…No. I have not. Although, I would have thought that there would have been news if the Herald of Andraste had… Well. I suppose there is wisdom in striving to keep such affairs private. I certainly have no right to voice an objection.”

V: “Why would you object to seeing the kid again?”

S: “Again? I… You are referring to Cole.”

V: *snorts* “Well, yeah. Who’d you think I was talking about?”

S: “Never mind.”

~

Rook: “So, Varric, do you really think the Inquisitor is going to show up?”

Varric: “Oh, don’t worry, she’ll be here. She’s been searching high and low for Chuckles for nearly a decade.”

R: *whistles* “And she never caught up to him in all that time?”

V: “Once. It…didn’t end well. After that, a few of our agents came close over the years, but it turns out that the world is a pretty big place, and tracking a lone elf with a network of magical transportation mirrors on his side is about as tricky as you’d expect. It’s even harder when you’ve got a notorious reputation and half of Thedas has seen portraits of your face. One whisper of the Herald of Andraste entering a city, and all our leads would vanish overnight.”

R: “But…I thought the two of them liked each other?”

V: “I think that made it worse, actually.”

Solas: “You do realize that I am standing right here?”

~

Solas: “For what it is worth, I am sorry about your Bianca, Varric.”

Varric: “Oh, you know, what’s an irreplaceable keepsake from the woman I can never be with in the grand scheme of things, anyway? At least you didn’t turn me to stone.”

S: “Your anger is justified. I do not expect your forgiveness, but I would apologize for my actions, none the less.”

V: “Look, if I were you, my forgiveness isn’t what I’d be worried about right now. Someone else has a much bigger bone to pick with you than I do.”

S: “I am not expecting her forgiveness, either.”

V: “So, you’re not even going to try?”

S: “And what, precisely, should I be trying, Master Tethras? This is hardly the sort of situation to be solved by a bouquet of flowers and a well-constructed poem.”

Rook: “Maybe you could send chocolates?”

V: “I was going to suggest groveling, actually.”

[nohaijiachi]

I've been seeing just about all moments of GO S2 being put under a microscope and absolutely dissected frame by frame

And still I am yet to see anyone mention a moment that might be small in the grand scheme of things, perhaps not as character defining as many other that have been (rightfully) analyzed a thousand times over, but which was *so* important to me, and every single time I watch it I'm just filled with so many feelings and jhaghagha

(putting this under a read more to not spam y'all with a ginormous post clogging your dashes)

The moment in question is this (my apologies for the pics, I currently don't have a proper way to take screenshots of S2 and had to snap photos of my tv screen lol)

It's such a quick moment, a small blip in the entirety of episode 5, but let me tell you why it absolutely destroys my heart every single time.

First of all let's refresh our memory on Aziraphale's relationship with Heaven and Gabriel specifically, shall we?

The very first time we see Gabriel in S1, he surprises Aziraphale at a sushi restaurant. Aziraphale looks to his left, because that's the side where Crowley usually appears when approaching him, but instead of his boyfriend the familiar Demon, he sees the reflection of Gabriel at his other side, and he turns around with what reads to me as very much an "oh shit" expression.

In episode 2 we see Gabriel again, along with Sandalphon; they are flanking Aziraphale and leaving him no way to escape in what to me seems a blatant intimidation tactic, especially with Gabriel being all "hey you remember Sandalphon, right :)" and Aziraphale being like "Oh yeah, likes smiting and turning people into salt, I sure do! *nervous laugh". There's literally no reason for them to be acting like this if not to (un)subtly remind Aziraphale what his place is, and that he is NOT safe, not even in his bookshop.

Whenever we see Aziraphale in Heaven he is constantly standing ramrod straight, hands kept caged behind him, none of his usual mannerism to be seen. He always smiles like a hare being stared at by a hawk and the cinematography very much underlines that tenseness by both showing the impossible, cold and sterile expanse of Heaven in contrast to the camera being shoved right in the characters' face to make the viewer feel just as uncomfortable as Aziraphale is.

When Gabriel and Aziraphale speak in the park there's this moment after it looks like Gabriel is leaving, but he pops right back up in Aziraphale's space in an instant, causing the reaction we see in these screenshots. Aziraphale is clearly taken aback and tense, eyes widening which is like, fair considering Gabriel pretty much jump scared him, but that's rather the point, isn't it? Gabriel pretty much jump scared him. He didn't just turn around and jog back to Aziraphale to ask him about the sword, he purposefully moved himself up to him without any warning. Like sheesh, talk about terrifying bosses.

No Gabriel here, but just another example of how much Aziraphale does NOT like being in Heaven. When he gets discorporated and finally manages to stand up for himself, saying he refuses to fight a war, he still looks like *this*. Like he's one step away from just discorporating a second time and without an actual body out of sheer anxiety.

When all it's said and done at the Tadfield airbase and the four horsemen are gone, Gabriel and Beelzebub decide to go check what the heck is going on, at which point Aziraphale pretty much seems to be bracing himself, straightening his back, adjusting his clothes nervously and then holding his hand in front of him in a show of dignified quietness I definitely read as him doing his best to hide just how anxious he truly is.

Of course we don't see Aziraphale's reaction at being told to shut his stupid mouth and die already by Gabriel due to the body swap, and at this point is pretty safe to say Crowley has never shared with Aziraphale that little tidbit of information, but even not knowing the extent of the cruelty Gabriel showed toward him at the end, he still knows that Gabriel and, by extension, Heaven was more than willing and ready to murder him.

Even at the start of S2, when an amnesiac Gabriel arrives at the bookshop and then hugs him (awkwaaaard), Aziraphale looks like he's entirely frozen and unable to react to the improbability of what is happening, and when Gabriel asks him if he can go inside the bookshop Aziraphale's immediate reaction is to pretty much recoil with an immediate "No!".

Of course he is then forced to let him in because there's a naked man on his steps while the whole neighborhood is watching, and we get some many more little moments of Aziraphale anxiety emerging through his body language: The pacing, the way he sits ramrod straight in front of Gabriel, and him literally backing away multiple steps when Gabriel asks him "You know how it's like, when you don't know anything at all, and yet you're totally certain that everything will be better if you were just near one particular person?"

(Because of course Aziraphale knows how that feels, and that's exactly the same reason why he's been so scared of Heaven for-fucking-ever!) (Also as an aside let me just bless Michael 'Acting Choices' Sheen for that smile that lasts a shard of a second after Gabriel asks that. You can pretty much see the word "CROWLEY" stamped in big bold letters on his forehead in that moment lmao)

(Also as an aside to the aside. Jon Hamm is just fantastic. Gabriel comes across as such an asshole in S1, but Amnesiac!Gabriel is a fucking cinnamon roll and he pulls it off so well ajahjahja)

Then of course we get the whole exchange about the 'something terrible' that sends Aziraphale into more anxious frenzy until another tiny, kinda overlooked moment hits us in the shins, in which Gabriel says "You're funny. I love you." And like, can't blame anybody for not looking at that moment without much thought, I know that that sentence had me crying laughing multiple times on multiple rewatches, but also... God, you can see the way some of that fear instantly leaves Aziraphale, the way he relaxes ever so slightly and ??? Aziraphale??? Is that all you need to instantly start trusting someone who wanted you dead? Who treated you like shit for who knows how long? (Why am I even asking this, of course that'd be enough, it's Aziraphale we're talking about, here.) Then of course the rest of season 2, he and Crowley having a row about what to do with Gabriel with Aziraphale insisting that he needs them, as his friends, yada yada, we get back to the initial moment that sparked this post.

We get there, Aziraphale's (eldritch) Ball and the romantic moment he's been working himself up for ruined, murderous Demons at his steps putting both he and all the humans inside in peril, and all he would need to do to avoid any harm coming to them is to give Gabriel up, and... "You came to me. I said I would protect you. And I will." Not just the words, but the way Aziraphale says them; voice lowered and serious, that hint of hesitation and fear at the start that melts away into full blown confidence at the 'And I will'.

It isn't just Aziraphale being scared by Gabriel mentioning the 'something terrible' at the beginning, nor the brief moments of cryptic recollection that he witnesses Gabriel going through-- It's that Aziraphale sincerely accepted to protect him, and he wasn't going to give that up. He is a Guardian and a Principality, after all.

And like, I see this and how am I supposed not to get my heart utterly shattered by it? If Aziraphale had rejected Gabriel, or treated him unkindly in any way, I hardly doubt anybody would be hard pressed to say Aziraphale did not have the right to do so, not after the way he's been treated by Gabriel and Heaven his whole life. But he doesn't. He is kind to him, if a tad long-suffering at times. The protection he extended over Gabriel is utterly sincere and unwavering.

And ngggggggh I don't even know where I'm going with this. I just. Love Aziraphale so much. Stupid, clever, anxious, brave man-shaped thing that he is, recklessly throwing himself into the line of fire for somebody that, by any means, did not have any right to ask something of that magnitude from him. He is my scrungly, and by God am I ever so excited to see how everything will play out in season 3. I want him to fully grasp that bravery and raise absolute -metaphorical- hell with it. Shine bright, you crazy bastard.

[taggedmemes]

SENTENCE MEME BALDUR'S GATE 3 / PART SIX

leave us in peace and we shall leave you in kind.

cut the crap.

we just want to go home.

enough of this charade.

i'll not play pretend anymore.

you'll soon learn what it means to ally yourself with the likes of this garbage.

i'm free now, and i'm never going back.

fuck them.

felt good letting off a little steam.

if i burn any hotter, i might explode.

don't get too close until i've found a way to calm down.

it's a bit early to be getting into tragic backstories.

let's save the scar-show for later after we've worked up an appetite for tragedy.

in the grand scheme of things, i'm inconsequential [to her].

she favored me like a child favors a captive pet.

it had the makings of a good stage show, but i did not want to be one of the players.

torture, bloodsport? or perhaps just a good old-fashioned walloping?

you owe me nothing.

i could extort you, if that's what you want.

you're teasing me now.

ignorance is alive and well it seems.

don't make me get the wooden spoon.

you'd best have one hells of an apology for me.

if you think your precious little god holds any power here, you're in for a surprise.

do you treat all your guests so poorly?

i don't like busybodies.

you are as thick as they come.

are you telling me you made love to a goddess?

i shared a bed with a goddess and yet i wasn't satisfied.

shall i share the story behind it or would you rather head straight to its sordid finale?

how are you still alive?

we've come this far together and we'll continue on together.

even i am tired of the sound of my own voice.

i'll rip your spine out of your asshole.

i'll use your blood to spice my stew.

i'll keep you alive until i've sucked the marrow from your bones.

killing me is a waste of time.

you bastard, you ruined everything.

this is an interesting way of thanking me.

a slap is all you deserve.

a hag was never going to help you.

they don't help anyone but themselves.

that double-crossing, filthy, lying hag.

focus on the positive.

forgive the aroma.

perhaps that is why i have survived so long where more fearsome peers have not.

your loyalty is admirable but misplaced.

his kind have charm beyond our mortal means to resist.

who'd keep a secret like that from his friends?

you can't trust anyone these days.

even in the middle of nowhere, he can reach me.

why do you insist on exhuming the past?

people think the biggest threat to a vampire is a cleric with a stake.

they're scheming, paranoid, power-hungry beasts.

i am what i must be, says what i must be.

how does it feel to be a devil?

i can't tell if you're being silly or serious.

you have to admire the man's ambition.

i promise i will not betray your trust.

you kept me by your side despite the menace i am.

i learned quick how to stay alive.

to feel invincible again.

this isn't where i thought i'd end up.

maybe when this is all done, you can show me where you came from.

i'm not normally one to begrudge someone their secrets, but..

i'm already blessed to have you at my side.

don't you cut a fine figure.

i am not some lower city coinlad offering you a tumble.

there is nothing so depressing as learning one's true value.

i could use someone with your skills.

they're ravenous predators with fangs like daggers.

it's hardly an irrational fear to harbor.

you've been decent to me, so far.

everyone's got their own fears.

maybe that's what i like about you.

all of this was for nothing.

if you're here to help, get to the fight quickly.

gods, i thought you were one of those beasts.

i'm not chasing after it, if that's what you're thinking.

the little beast's charming once you get accustomed to the smell of rotting flesh.

[vigilskeep]

sorry for rambling in your inbox but having recently finished a cassandra romance, your post abt people not, like, analyzing her got to me. i know you have arthur who romances(divorces) her and makes her divine but i don't know if you've fully played that out, actually seeing it in-game made me feel rabid. it's kind of an insane thing to do to her... cassandra is the divine candidate who /wants/ the position the least. leliana actively puts herself forward as a candidate, vivienne would never be so gauche as to be direct but she clearly is interested in the position. for cassandra it is a duty she must accept, bordering on a burden (particularly if she can never marry an inquisitor she loves as a result). she became the right hand of the divine as a teenager!!! she loathes the trappings of her name and nobility but she's been trapped by duty instead her whole life. free my girl she did all that but i understand her

it makes me feel insane.

i haven’t played it through no. and i don’t even consider myself to know cassandra particularly well (this is true of a lot of inquisition companions, having never finished the game fully with dlcs and thus never felt completely comfortable watching through banter compilations and alternate endings and low approval scenes and so on.) but from everything i do know about cassandra, the very fundamentals, making her divine feels so... cruel? it’s terrible for literally everybody involved except possibly the snakes in the grand cathedral who are going to eat her alive.

cassandra is a woman of action and passion, brash and violent, a blunt weapon, forthright in both her accusations and her affection. the life of a divine is everything she hates; she might as well be the noblewoman in a gilded cage she was raised to be (in a childhood that poisoned her entire extended family and nation for her), or perhaps an honoured corpse preserved lifeless and useless in the grand necropolis (the ones a young cassandra thought looked so “very sad” in the midst of all their buried, wasted finery.)

i was struck during dawn of the seeker by what an obvious publicity stunt it was to make her the divine’s right hand after her success against the conspiracy. a duty she had to accept, was even publicly surprised into accepting. at her age, would she ever have been put so forward in the seekers to be engaged in fighting such a conspiracy, if not for her name? she would not even have been allowed to join the seekers when she did if not for that. she has no skills of good judgement or leadership and it’s only due to the accident of her birth that these pressures she isn’t equipped to match are constantly placed on her shoulders.

she already wanted to leave after beatrix died, but justinia convinced her otherwise, for a failed vision that ended in death cassandra blames herself for. i find it harder and harder to blame her for dodging the inquisitor’s position, considering all that. and to make her divine... she won’t be good at it, she’ll fall into every politician’s scheme and old orthodox pattern even as she tries for ‘reform’ that she has no clarity of purpose for, she’ll be trapped there for the rest of a long grey life with none of the passion she longs for. she won’t be good at it!!! nobody in thedas benefits either! it’s worse! what the hell

(it’s kind of why i love my arthur and this ending the way i do, because of the equivalency. she does terrible things to him, reinstating the circles while he stands alone as her archmage. but he also did a terrible thing to her, by putting her in this position! by ruining her life and also lying all this time to someone he supposedly loves! neither justifiable or comparable, love loses, nobody wins, they are drowning there is no sign of land etc etc)

[nautilusopus]

okay FIIIIIINE i'll throw my hat into the Goncharov ring

Been a while i've done a proper movie breakdown, may as well be this one.

Rather surprisingly (but perhaps not too surprisingly given the unexpected renaissance of things like the original Dracula and Breaking Bad on this website out of seemingly nowhere and with very little prompting), I'm seeing a lot of new people suddenly interested in Martin Scorsese's seminal film classic Goncharov, originally released in 1973. Obviously a movie like that doesn't make it coming up on 50 years without generating a lot of discussion about the different ways the movie resonates and why, but coming into it in 2022 there's been so much cultural cruft that's collected around Goncharov that (similar to stories like Fight Club and Scarface) it's a little hard to parse what it's actually about with all the mythologising that's gone on around the characters.

Those movies, in one way or another, are about portraying the downfall of their protagonists -- Fight Club's after ironically creating another system of control and dehumanisation and becoming what he sought to destroy, Scarface's after being consumed by the wealth and power he's amassed. A lot of people assume it's that kind of story, because aren't most well-loved movies? However, I think this is ironically an assumption made because of the genre of film it is. All the people that aren't going, "OMG Goncharov is so cool and badass and fucks bitches," are going, "WOW I can't believe Goncharov is a cautionary tale about power corrupting," and in the process people miss that Goncharov is first and foremost about loss, in all its different forms.

I'm both kind of surprised and frustrated people miss this, given how utterly pervasive the movie is with its clock symbolism -- it's the one thing everyone remembers about it, it was in all the tie-ins. I dunno, maybe that got funneled back into the theory where they're meant to reinforce how Goncharov is just a mortal man at the end of the day, which is fine I guess, but the movie overall becomes a lot clearer when you interpret it through the lens of, "These things are gone and you can never get them back; clocks don't go backwards."

One of the most fascinating things about the movie is how every character embodies a different kind of loss. I'm gonna ease into this and start not with Goncharov but with:

Rybak, who is usually associated with loss as we typically think of it, i.e. the loss of loved ones via death. This comes up all the time, either in his trust issues (why he's being such a prick at the wedding), in the card game (he never bothers to bet much money, knowing he's bad at poker, and still loses all the same). Rybak is terrified of loss, cannot manage it, and ultimately is punished by losing what few people he had left and then being spared by Lorenzo who deems him punished enough, and is forced to survive, to grapple with what his life is now without them.

Goncharov's is actually more subtle, and it's loss of small, insignificant things as a result of the larger losses he believes he's processed. This is something that's frequently contrasted against Rybak. The pawn shop going under is actually a microcosm of this whole thing. Goncharov anticipates that this is obviously going to lead to financial issues for him, plans accordingly to deal with this, and... it works! He's saved! Except that means card games can't be hosted at his place anymore, given it's burned to the ground. Does this matter, in the grand scheme of his life? No, of course not. Poker night still gets had all the same. But it is different now, and always will be. Little things like this continue to add up, until something as insignificant as a towel -- a towel that never should have been in his room, but Sofia is no longer there to drop off his laundry and chat with him -- is ultimately the final nail in a coffin built of insignificant splinters, each one an imperceptible change underneath the much more larger, noticeable story beats of things like grief.

Otto is the big obvious one I'm not gonna linger on: loss of his youth, moments in the past that he wants to redo but can't. Most people at least seem to have gotten this one.

(This is also what the clocks get associated with a lot, which again, doesn't NOT make sense but also if it were just for this one character that, while thematically important, was honestly just a side character with limited screentime and only two scenes, would they really be all over the movie before Otto's name is even mentioned?)

Sofia's a bit abstract, and is the loss of self -- of the familiar anchors we have to who we are, what we think our core principles are, our place in society, who we want to be to our loved ones -- and by the time she dies she is rendered utterly unrecognisable to herself, and is horrified by it. She grieves herself the same way Rybak grieves his wife (even gets a direct visual callback via the way her face is lit when she's burning Lorenzo's check). You see echoes of this in Goncharov as well, but while Sofia is grieving the person she used to be, Goncharov is grieving the world around him (even though really, it's the same world it always was -- time keeps ticking on, one second per second, and neither one of them can ever un-fire that gun).

Lorenzo, tragically, gradually loses his freedom (and maybe in a parallel world would actually be the protagonist of a movie where he chokes on his own hubris like everyone seems to think Goncharov is GRUMBLE GRUMBLE). As he comes into his own more and more by his family's legacy, he is afforded fewer and fewer options about what decisions he can even make. Arguably he was doomed from the start, but the further he clings to power as a means to freedom, the more it drives him to destroying everything he ever (thought he) cared about. The tragedy of his character, and what makes him a good villain, is that he can clearly see what he is doing to himself and he absolutely hates it (his walking out early at the wedding is a tacit admission of this), but his absolute refusal to accept loss, to accept grief and pain and all the awful shit that comes with the human condition, is what causes him to toss aside every out he has because if he has enough CONTROL over his situation, surely he will never have to lose anything ever again. But, really, he already has.

I dunno. Goncharov is one of those movies that is great, and everyone seems to realise it's great, but nobody ever really puts into words why, and that's how you get Fight Club fans lmao. And it sucks because the actual discussion around the movie beyond "it's another hubris story but REALLY GOOD guys" is so much more fascinating and a much more earnest emotional truth that just never gets talked about.

[sky-kiss]

Can't Have Mornings without a Sun

A/n: @molinaesque asked for some soft!Raph/Tav, and I'm cold so like. I dunno. Here's whatever this is.

R/T: This is fine in the winter. It won't fly in the summer, devil boy.

Did a devil dream?

Tav thinks she read something about it once, years prior. A lifetime ago. The words are lost, but the sentiment remains. They didn't. Devils didn't dream, sleep, or eat; they were beyond or divorced from humanity. 

Raphael dreams. 

She frowns, pushing up on her elbow to observe him. His nudity is somehow the most negligible intimate factor in the equation; it's his wild hair, the little huffs of breath bordering on a snore, and the way his mouth falls open ever so slightly in sleep. It's humanizing in a way Tav knows he'd despise. She reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. The cambion grumbles, turning his face into her pillow. He doesn't stir. 

That surprised her; Tav had expected him to sleep lightly. 

She's afforded some time to think here in the early morning hours. The sunlight cuts through the bedroom window in jagged diagonals, only just falling over the bed. It'll be a half hour at least before it reaches her, and the light seems content to linger across her lover's nude form, bisecting his thighs and abdomen. She drags her nails across this dividing line, chuckling when Rapahel shifts. He grumbles something, shuffling nearer. It's a difficult task. In sleep, he's tactile. Her head remains pillowed on his arm (it must be numb by now), one of his legs hooked over her hip. In the grand scheme of things, she supposes it's possessive or instinctual. Technicalities that she'll argue at a later date. For now, all that matters is she's warm; he's here. 

And that's odd, too. In all Tav's imaginings, Raphael took his leave immediately after their first coupling. He would kiss her hand, thank her for her service (perhaps with a wink), and leave her cold. And yet.

She frowns, stroking his cheek. And yet, there's a dreaming devil in her bed. He's more mortal than he'd like to admit. Ageless, and yet there are crows feet near the corners of his eyes and laugh lines around his mouth. There's gray in his hair and dark bags from one too many sleepless nights. There are scars on his chest and ribs, and she wonders, not for the first time, what his life was like before they met. He's lived so long…thirty of her lives? Fifty? It's so much space to cover, so much weight. 

He is an odd thing. Tav struggles to quantify him, let alone understand. Her fingers tease back into his hair, nails scraping across his scalp. Touching him helps; it makes him feel…real. She's not deluded enough to call him soft, only handsome. So achingly handsome. 

"You're thinking," Raphael grumbles. He opens his eyes just long enough to glare, though the haziness robs the expression of its strength. "Loudly. A dangerous occurrence in your best moment, let alone before sunrise." 

Tav snickers. "Funny, I'd have expected you to be more of a morning person." 

"There are no mornings in Hell, pet." 

His tone remains petulant. Raphael reaches out for her shoulder. He shoves. It's enough to set her off balance; years of experience tell her to throw her weight into the motion instead of fighting it. Either way, she finds herself on her back, staring up at the ceiling first and Raphael shorting after. He presses up on his arms, settling himself between her legs before letting himself drop. Tav grunts as his weight drives the air from her lungs. 

"You deserved that," he says by way of apology, nosing into her throat. 

"Raphael?" 

"Sleep, little mouse. Or I will find a more suitable pillow." 

Tav rolls her eyes, ducking her head to kiss the crown of his skull. 

[vinyls-and-valentines]

The most noticeable thing that changes about the Fabulous Killjoys is the way they fight.

Fun Ghoul, although blessed with a knack for chemistry and mechanics, has unsteady hands. While this does not impede his work with electronics and explosives, it makes him a slower shot than most due to a shaky aim worsened by recoil. Because of this, in his early days in the Zones, Fun Ghoul relied primarily on incendiary devices and his own physical abilities to dispose of opponents in an area all at once. The downside of having a combat style based around such tactics however, is that it meshes poorly with the mid-to-close-range the Fabulous Killjoys have developed over the years (in no small part due to Kobra Kid), and thus led Fun Ghoul towards a style focused more on dodging hits and making decisive point blank shots or further sacrificing accuracy for the sake covering a wider area.

Jet Star, is the opposite of Fun Ghoul, in the sense that he has exceedingly steady aim born out of years of practice and a greater-than-life sense of competition, but can struggle to move effectively due to his size. As such, it perhaps comes to no surprise that Jet Star used to prefer long-range fighting, neglecting close-range in favour of playing up the fear factor of both his skill and affiliation with some of the Zones' most infamous snipers and gunslingers. That doesn't mean that he was useless in a close-range fight, of course, however his movements were simple, predictable, and incredibly limited, which put him at a disadvantage against anyone with more experience or endurance than him. Jet Star's current style hasn't as much shifted in order to accommodate the others' as it evolved alongside Jet Star as he learnt to direct his body as deliberately as his shots even when it comes to close quarters.

Party Poison has always been a flexible fighter, and it is this very adaptability which highlights just how purposeful their attacks truly are. In the grand scheme of things, nothing fundamentally changes about Party Poison's fighting style outside some improvements in their aim and the variety of their movement as they learn to fight alongside other people, however, the intent with which they fight does. As a young killjoy, whether consciously or not, Party Poison's intent in a fight was to always harm the oponent, prioritizing ways in which they could incapacitate them without having them lose consciousness or simply inflicting as painful an injury as possible to attain their goal. This intent then gradually shifts towards a desire to protect others from the cruelty Poison's own fighting style reflected back at the world because despite the cruelty of their actions they had never done it because they enjoyed it.

As candidate to become an exterminator, Kobra Kid's fighting style used to something akin a swiss knife, however much more calculated and deliberate. While trying to figure out its way through the Zones, Kobra Kid relied on any weapon available to it, going through a wide variety of combat and more often than not pushing aside his distaste for blasters in favour of having a weapon which was effective and easy to replace. Having Jet Star, Fun Ghoul, and even its sibling by its side, allowed Kobra Kid to focus on its unarmed combat and blade-wielding, casting long-range combat aside in favour of a style which gave it better control over the situation, enabling it not only to easily dispose of opposing combatants due to its athleticism, but to also support its crewmates in situations where long-range combat is the favourable approach

[chadfallout76podcast]

what made you put nora x danse together in death shroud? i was surprised considering nora x hancock shippers seem to be the loudest/most popular ship in the fandom!

That's a great question with a complex answer. Sometimes writers write from instinct without a lot of thought in the moment. At least for me anyway, it's very stream of consciousness and I let the great whatever kind of guide me, in the moment not really thinking too much...just mentally playing out scenes in my head, letting the characters interact and then I transcribe what's in my head to the page. I had to think about your answer and why I put them together.

I know people LOVE a Nora/Hancock ship, but I looked at it through the lens of grief and loss. When you lose the love of your life, a part of you dies with them. Imagine a perfect morning, your husband, your child shattered in just minutes. MINUTES. In minutes everything you've ever known is gone. Then seemingly minutes later you watch them killed. An empty death. A pointless death, seemingly without reason or justification. And then, boom...you are thrust out into a harsh, unforgiving, broken world mirroring the shattered part of your soul. People bend, but they rarely break and even when they do, the road you take may grow dark, but at the end of it even in the deepest part of you, the heart YEARNS for what it lost. Nate went to war because he felt a deep sense of duty to his country and to his family, however misplaced this may be in the grand schemes of suits, politicians and madmen. Soldiers always pay the price for their kindness, willing to make the ultimate sacrifice and represent the last true measure of devotion and faith in an idea. I think Nora would've loved that about him.

Danse, while completely different, is a blurry shadow of Nate. The dedicated soldier, whose ideals and life were built around the idea of what the Brotherhood should be (perhaps not what it was under Maxson). I would argue that many of Danse's actions fly in the face of how Maxson would do things, and yet he clearly skated reprimand as the ends always were satisfactory. There is a nobility in that fact, as Danse isn't motivated by power, making many of his decision altruistic to a degree. His arc however SIMILARLY to Nora leads to a cataclysmic loss of everything he's ever known. His entire identity, his "family", his entire life shattered in minutes. Danse is a widower to the person he was, Paladin Danse DIED that day. Danse is who survived.

Sometimes soulful love is born from a shared journey in healing. For Nora, Danse is a reminder of the man she lost...never, ever to be replaced or forgotten but honored. There is so, so much of who Danse is that is a shadowed remind of what she fell in love with in Nate, enough to be comfortably familiar while also different. For Danse, Nora is the suture of a wound as deep as the soul, not born into, but made...not created by Man with 1's and 0's, but through choices and actions that represent the truth of sentience. They very much needed each other. Healing journeys can create friction. People are complex. Guilt, doubt, regret, fear of being wounded again all can push people away from each other. And yet, in due course, the heart wants what the heart wants. Nora and Danse found their way back to each other, and for me, would've remained following the events of Death Shroud.

Although for more on what happens next...you'll need to wait a little bit. ;)

[plush-rabbit]

The Dateables and Things

A/N: I needed to write something and like it was supposed to be about them and how they show affection towards you, but it did not come out like that so here it is!!

-

Barbatos: 

He was only ever meant to serve- devoted and loyal to a fault where he’d die for his master if it was asked for. Barbatos was never meant to interact with you more than necessary; you were only an exchange student after all, a means to an end for the young master’s grand scheme. And yet, here you stand before him, invading his mind and body, acting as a poison that will wear him away and leave nothing but dust. You’re nothing more than a human, and all the same, you are a human, all of that and just that. He isn’t sure what it was that attracted him to you, perhaps it was how every other demon and angel and sorcerer had taken a fancy to you, or maybe how you always tried to include him when he was content just staying by the sidelines. Whatever the reason was, he was attracted to you, like a moth to a flame, his heart fluttering and beating against his ribs. 

It’s no surprise how affectionate you are with him. You cling to him, hands hooked onto the crook of his elbow, or hands bunching up his blazer so as to not get lost. When you part ways, your lips press against his cheek, fingertips oppressed over his jaw to turn him towards you and to keep him from running away. It wasn’t something that he was proud to admit, but he wanted your touch. He craved it more than he could ever understand, and more than he was ever willing to admit. He wanted to keep you close to him and he wanted to kiss you and never part for breath. The attachment and desire terrified him. It wasn’t like him to want to give in to such temptations, to want someone and want to give up so much of himself to someone other than his king. 

The attention that you gave to him was something that he craved, and wanted once he got a taste for it. He truly believed that if he just sat back and spoke to you in short conversations, that you would find someone else- find someone who could love you as selfishly as possible. But you never left him alone and he didn’t push you away. He wanted the attention that you gave him, he savored it each and every time that it was given to him. You had wanted his attention and when some spell had made him want your attention, he couldn't lie to himself that stealing and harboring all of your love was intoxicating.  The spell made him obsessed, and now beside you, he wishes he could blame a spell that would warrant such a lack of manners and selfishness. 

Porcelain clicks against each other in a sweet melody, and he feels your eyes on him. You sit on a stool, watching and talking, and he is paying close attention. He serves you the first slice, humming and nodding along. He pours you the first cup and places the sugar and creamer in for you even though the tea that he has made needs nothing of the sort, but it’s something that you prefer. The honey is stirred in thick and sweet now mixed into the drink, and he passes you the fruit that has sat above his slice of dessert. 

Barbatos says your name so sweetly, your name held in a whisper as he draws your attention. “My dear, would you like another slice?” Such a simple question has you beaming, your smile bright like the human sun, and it’s all for him, the warmth, the love, the want for him. It's for him and no one else. He’s glad that this is the timeline for him, that you chose to want him. You shake your head, and politely tell him no. Your hand reaches for his that are bare from the usual gloves that rest beside his own empty plate. Your wraps around his, your thumb arching over his knuckles. He pulls out of your reach and he smiles as your fingers reach out to continue to touch him. He curves over your hands, thumb and index finger pinching over each of your fingers and tracing upwards. “I wish I never had to part from you,” he whispers to you. “I think I could trace your body for eternity and never grow bored.” When he kisses you, he can taste the honey stuck on your lips. You’ll always get the sweetest honey, always be poured first when it’s the two of you, you'll have the sweetest piece and the finest china.

Diavolo: 

There’s an expectation for him, from him. He is a prince. A future king of his people. He has done so much, has sacrificed having any sense of normalcy in his relationships, and he will always be expected to sacrifice and to make the right choices. He suggested the exchange program to open communication, and it brought you to him. It was meeting you that he realized just how lonely he really was. Or perhaps he had always known that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how desperate he was, there was always going to be a power imbalance with every relationship that he would have had. He was never going to be an equal in a relationship. But then you come along, and he isn’t a king to you. He isn’t a “Lord” or a “Prince”, he is simply just Diavolo.

You’re human and it has to be a cruel joke on him made by the universe to have you live a short life and have him live to a time that you could never comprehend. A part of him restrained himself from trying to get to know you, but that was all that he wanted to do; he wanted to get to know you. He wanted to be close to you and to hold your hand and when you would lean against or laugh at one of his jokes, he would swell with pride, beam with a smile and be covetous with your attention. You were sweet with him and it was intoxicating. He needed more of you, needed more of the casual banter and the eagerness that many were hesitant to give him. Not many were like that to him. Not many wanted to be around him in fear of saying something that would offend. 

It’s so rare for him to wish for anything different about his life. He’s fine with his status despite how lonely it could be. But when he’s around you, when he’s reminded of how human you are when you grow weary after using magic, he wishes that things were different.That maybe as human, he would have met you all the same and would have fallen for you just as hard. You make it difficult to stay away from you. He tries not to grow so attached, but he can’t help but seek you out as you do with him. It is wicked of him to steal so much time away from you, but having you close to him brings him comfort that he has not had in a long time. 

When he’s around you, he gives you his all; his entire being is placed in your hands. He’s allowed to be himself, to stay soft without the fear of being torn apart and having to harden up. Around you, he’s allowed to want and to give into his wants as small as they seem. He can trace the lines on your palms, have you brush his hair and hold his hand. Around you, he does not have to be a prince, he can simply be himself. As much as he loves being someone that you can rely on, he cannot deny that he also loves just being spoiled by you. He gets to let his guard down and to have you pet him and coo such soft things that if it were any other, he would have ordered an execution. He gets drunk off your comfort, how you baby him and how you let him be a puddle of ooze when around you. He wants nothing more than to spend his days with you, to nuzzle into your chest and let the world be locked away and blocked by wood. 

Your legs are thrown over the cushions of the seat, your phone held in your hand as you mindlessly scroll through whatever it is that you’re watching. He could only guess short videos with the brief seconds that are given to him. Your back is turned to him, and he stares at the nape of your neck and the outline of the shirt that is draped over your back, the muscles and fat shaping the fabric over your body and he is entranced by it. You’re in a vulnerable spot, and you give your back to him, and he gets to stare, gets to let the tip of the pen blot on the document, and let the stack of paperwork remain the same height. In the next breath, you tell him that you can feel his eyes on your back and the corners of his lips twitch. He makes no noise as he walks over to you, crouching down to be at eye level with you. “I think I would like for you to hold me,” he says in a delicate voice, fearing the possible rejection even if it were impossible. Your smile grows and you open your arms, letting him lay upon you. Diavolo gets to be held by you; he is allowed to feel soft and have you wrap your arms in a comforting hug and play with the hair that trails along the back of his neck.

Simeon:

You’ll always catch his haze on you no matter where either of you are. He’s been alive for so long, and lived in a way that a proper angel should. Simeon is an angel, devoted and loyal to one and no other. He is supposed to be an angel first, and a being second. His entire existence, his reason for being alive is to be devoted to Father. In the entire time that he’s been alive, he can count on one hand all the times his own loyalty has wavered, and even then, it was a passing thought, and ones that he has punished himself for. Never has he strayed from the teachings that have been engraved upon him, words etched into his very soul and being, words that glisten along his skin in gold and blood. He is an angel, through and through. 

A plan was set out for him, there was to be no shortcuts, no distractions or any of the sort. And yet, he meets you. Defying death and making relationships with a kind that eats your very soul, and protecting the young angel from such a proud demon. Meeting you set him off of his trajectory. Meeting you had only made him fall, slowly and surely. He chases after you, lays his head on your lap, and watches you sleep, traces the shape of your face and dips his index on your cupid’s bow. When he sees you laugh alongside Luke, and wave to gesture him over, he believes that he could have had a good life with you had he been born mortal. He’d stake his life on it, rip his own wings out if he was wrong. He would have been happy with you, he would have lived a good, long, loving life with you. He’d grow gray and rest beside you, count every new wrinkle that appeared on your skin. In a different life, he would have loved to wash dishes with you and live ordinary. 

Whatever he has going on with you, the relationship is a sin. It’s a mockery of what happened long ago, but in Devildom, where the moons’ light and the stars and night sky obstruct Father’s view, he can lie beside you. He’s rotten, worms and parasites filling his insides, but when you kiss him and hold him in your arms, he’s pure and holy once more. He wants you, craves you, desires you more than he has ever needed something in his life. He describes you in such a way that anyone would have believed you to be a saint, to some angelic figure higher than him, someone coated in gold and sweet like perfume. Yet, you aren’t that. You’re human. Sinful and pure, an enigma that holds onto him in the middle of the night with your ear pressed against his chest. He’s noticed the way that Raphael looks between the two of you, and he’s aware of what the angel would say, but it’s you, and it’s no question that the former angel would trade everything just to sit beside you for a moment. 

He’s answered for his treachery, held his tongue and stole from the Celestial Realm all for you. He was stripped of his status and made human. It’s blasphemy to think, but it’s you that he’s placed above all else. He’d never place the blame on you, he would rather have his mouth fill and drip of blood before he would ever make you feel guilty. There are many things that he would do rather than ever have you feel like you have to hold the blame for his blessing being removed. Even with his blessing removed, even with his status as a human, it doesn’t stop him from blessing you, from hoping and pleading that his words would keep you safe from the dangers around, from something that he can’t protect you from. 

“I don't think I’ll ever understand how you type so fast,” he says, watching in amazement as you send out a message. You stick your tongue out to him in response and he smiles. “You think that being a writer and living with Luke and Solomon, that I would have it down by now, but-” he cuts himself off with a sigh, turning his body over, the comforter pulled slightly away from you. The phone is placed on the nightstand where it buzzes with a notification, and your hands pull on the stolen piece of blanket back towards you. You open your mouth in a retort, and he watches as you furrow your brows and swiftly turn your head to sneeze into the crook of your elbow. “Bless you,” Simeon whispers as you sniffle out your thanks. The moonlight peeking through the window does nothing to warm the room like a sun would have, but it’s enough to see you in a pearl glow with fuzz dancing in the air. There was a time where he would bless you before you woke, desperate to keep you safe, and now he continues that, hoping that you would stay alive because he needs you more than he would like to admit. 

Solomon: 

The sorcerer has never been one to form bonds- after a few hundred years of immortality, one learns that all good things do come to an end, and the pain never fades. However, you seem to be different. He’s spent a long time alone, and he’s had his fun and spent time mourning for those whose voices he no longer remembers- he’s told himself not to get attached, played coy with you, teased and flirted, and he thought that whatever the two of you shared, would stay as a fling. He was fine with it- he was fine with the flings and the small moments, and he was fine remembering the things that his past lovers used to love. Solomon was supposed to be fine, not caring, not wanting to get close because getting close meant love and love meant mourning and it meant grief, and as powerful as he is, grief wears away the soul. He’s sure that he could handle another heartache, but he’d rather not.

A part of him is sure that he had some way that he showed his love to someone, that he could be vulnerable to someone when he was younger, when the weight of immortality wasn’t so heavy. He tries to remember it for you, tries to even copy your own, but it never fits right. Every action that he mirrors is false, it isn’t him. All of it is you, and he doesn’t want to be a copy of you- much less he doesn’t want to stain the memories he has of you with copies of himself crudely pasted over your silhouette. You show love so eagerly, so readily, and without saying any words, you’ve already made it clear what you think of him, and what you want from him.

It’s a slow build of wanting to be with you and allowing himself to be close to you. The flirting is fine- that’s the easy part, sharing sharp grins and letting his hand linger onto you for a bit longer than necessary- it’s all fun and games. He never thought he would ever want you so hopelessly, as if he were young and in love all over again. You were supposed to be fun, and then all of a sudden you weren’t. It was by chance- maybe, or maybe not- that you had been chosen for the exchange program, and it was only by chance that he had wanted to stick close to you out of some sort of comfort to provide to you when you looked so helpless and lost. And by a cruel joke from fate, he had gotten attached. The brothers had taken away all of your attention and it had left him feeling empty. He wanted to reach out to you; he needed to touch you, to be near you and to occupy every inch and ounce of your mind just as you had to his. 

Citrus coats his fingers, it’s sticky and wet, and he pulls at the white string that dangles from the orange slice, tossing it onto the bowl of peeled skin and white thread. A television show plays in front of you, one that you’ve been eager to watch and enthralled ever since. Two empty bags of popcorn have fallen to the floor, and you sit with your leg underneath you and body pushed to the corner of the couch. It’s so simple, so human, that it makes him smile and wince when orange squirts on his wrist. The slice of citrus is cleaned, peeled and made to look delectable for you. You turn your head towards him, mouth parted open and he places the slice on your tongue. With a hum, you knock your head gently onto his shoulder as a thank you, and he continues to peel the citrus. 

He stares at you, with your finger pinched softly over the peeled slice of citrus, and you trace his lips with it, and he can’t help but smile, and open his mouth to have the orange placed flat on his tongue. “Thank you,” he says, with bursts of juice filling his mouth and sliding down the back of his throat. He can't help but stare at you, to have the bowl of skin and seeds in front of him. The show has been paused and it lights up the room, and he’s looking at you. His thumb brushes over your lips, and when he kisses you, you taste like citrus, and summer. You lean into the kiss, lips stretching into a smile and thinning the touch between the two of you. Solomon’s hands are sticky and sweet, and when he looks at you, you’ve returned to watching the series as you lean against him. If you were to ask him for anything, he’d do it in a heartbeat, no matter how big or how small the request is. And in this moment, you ask for another slice of citrus, and he hopes that you would always ask him for this, that you would never peel your own fruit again just for the chance to be beside you, for the chance for you to need him.

[miranyx1337]

Alastor x angel reader

FEATHER chapter V

When I opened my eyes, I sensed it was the day I never wanted to face. The day to start implementing a grand scheme against heaven. Crimson light pierced through the curtains, but it wasn't the familiar sunlight. A magnificent pentagram gleamed above the hotel, and an army assembled against heaven. They aimed to extinguish my people, but did I possess the right to thwart them?

I observed malicious smiles honing angelic weapons, relishing the thought of golden blood. Yet, what emotions would Adam's blood evoke in me?" I'll likely be his top priority. I suspect he forced my mother into silence and passivity. If only I could erase his little secret from memory.

If souls could be judged anew, why hide it? Is it about his dignity or perhaps the will of God?"

Strips of bandages cascaded near my bare feet. As I reached the portal in the nick of time, I grievously injured two of my wings. The pain of unfolding stiff feathers pierced my back, accompanied by a subdued hiss escaping my lips.

Examining my ravaged visage, circled light eyes, disheveled hair, and wings with missing feathers. I confronted the memories of the previous evening. Running my fingers over my cheek, recalling increasingly embarrassing details,

Wait, didn't Vaggie once mention that Alastor's favorite meal was decaying deers? Oh heavens, I hope he didn't consume them yesterday. I watched as my cheeks reddened and feathers bristled. It wasn't what I had planned, yet I easily surrendered to the arms of the radio demon.

I braided my hair and arranged feathers in any sensibly stylish manner. Trembling hands slowly buttoned up the snow-white shirt, a silver corset wrapped around me, and beneath a light skirt with a slit, long black boots peeked out.

"What time was really left? Three weeks until the battle?’’ Approaching the balcony with determination, I forcefully swung open the doors. Only 4 or 5 meters separated me from the ground. With a smooth movement, I jumped onto the railing. maintaining balance by leaning on one of the columns.

Barely 9 days passed, yet it felt like an eternity without flying. A few deep breaths, I spread my arms to sense the balance. Seconds from the jump, a sudden tug pulled me back. A black tentacle gripped my waist, and moments later, I found myself in the arms of radio demon.

"I knew you might feel regret, but I wouldn't accuse you of suicidal attempts," he whispered directly into my ear. I sharply recoiled, standing on my own.

I glanced back to utter the first words of the day. "Jumping from the balcony is nothing compared to a hellish portal," I proudly replied, resuming my climb on the railing.

"Sweetheart, just wait a little; impatience isn't a trait of wise people," he cautioned.

"What should I wait for? An army furious angels led by Adam?" I questioned.

"Wait for my plan to work."

"No offense, Alastor," I addressed him directly for the first time, "but your army of cannibals can only break their teeth on celestial blades."

His face revealed he didn't take criticism well. " Oh, I see you don't appreciate demonic beings,". The atmosphere thickened. "And me.

When I first learned about the plan from Charlie and Veegie, I was terrified. However, my deep longing to return home was tied to their success. My lips opened in silent astonishment; they truly wanted to face the angelic forces.

So, what's the plan? Invite them for dinner with our own bodies?"

The plan is the last thing your beautiful silver head should worry about. I'm the one pulling the strings here, Soon, we'll partake in a feast with Adam's head served on a platter and golden drinks in our cups."

"Stop talking like that about my kind ," I insisted.

"Oh About angels flying here to murder hundreds of souls or those who aren't in a hurry to descend for you?" he mocked.

My lips tightened in a grimace; I felt anger taking control over me.

"Alastor, stop!" - I shouted, to my own surprise, feeling my hand clenching on the cold metal.

A blue chain led from my hand straight to the tied demon, who instantly froze.

Alastor looked at me with undisguised surprise, his eyes wandering across my face and hands, trying to connect the dots until he finally found an answer.

Alastor POV:

Angel magic weakened contracts but also made them susceptible to a new owner

The hands that touched me with unique delicacy this night, now are helding the chain tightly around my neck and hands, instantly making me to be on my knees

As quickly as they appeared, they vanished, and I desperately gasped for air.

Y/N approached, visibly in shock but stopped a few centimeters in front of me.

The sudden command still echoed in my ears, piercing through my body like a blade.

Traces on my wrists and neck burned. I know the feeling of chains, but their angelic version was something else on my sinful skin.

Oh fuck it, I became properity of an angel

From her bewildered eyes, I gleaned that she has no idea what just happened. Does she even know about soul contracts in hell? If not, it's better to keep it that way. "Give me a second," I propped myself up on trembling hands, clumsily attempting to stand, "and I'll explain everything."

I felt a slender arm lifting me up. She gripped my face, examining it from every angle.

"We will talk later," she uttered with a gaze lowered.

I tried to read something from her expression, but with a stony demeanor, she turned towards the balcony.

A strong gust of wind forced me to lean on a cane and close my eyes. When I reopened them, Y/N had dissolved into the air. Only the shadow of wings traversed the crowd gathered below.

Simultaneously, giving me time for deep reflection on how to deal with this... unconventional situation."

[thebarontheabyss]

One day, the person who used to bully MC in their life walks into the bar. When MC sees them, bad memories start to resurface in their mind. Since they don't want to deal with their bully, they hide in the staff quarters. RO sees them and decides to follow them to ask if there's something wrong. When they find them, MC is on the verge of crying.

How would each of the ROs react? What would they do after MC told them about the bully?

Oh, this is a spicy one. Let's see... 👀

Death would focus on comforting MC rather than confronting the bully. "You know, in the grand scheme of things, they're just a blip in eternity. And if it helps... their demise was rather undignified – choked on a sandwich, alone in their apartment," Death would say in an attempt to offer some perspective, albeit awkwardly.

Lilith/Damien would react with a sly, menacing grin. "Let's give them a show they'll never forget," they'd whisper, their eyes burning with a profane light. They might use their infernal powers to torment the bully with nightmarish illusions, pushing the boundaries of retribution. Eventually, their actions might be so extreme that MC finds themselves feeling a pang of pity for their bully.

Morgan/Morgana, after hearing MC's story, would express a fierce protectiveness. "Who's the wretch that dares upset you?" they'd ask, ready to take action. They'd likely cast a spell that would cause the bully to experience a series of frustrating and embarrassing mishaps in the bar, providing a satisfying sense of poetic justice for MC.

Peisinoe would see this as an opportunity to demonstrate their own prowess in handling bullies. "Darling, leave it to me," they'd say confidently. They would approach the bully with a mixture of charm and intimidation, using their stage presence to publicly humiliate them.

Shelly would rush in with a worried look, immediately trying to cheer MC up. "Hey, what's wrong? You know you can tell me anything," she'd say with a comforting smile. She'd be indignant on MC's behalf and suggest telling the others or finding a way to make the bully leave. Shelly's approach is more about lifting MC's spirits, offering to make them their favorite drink or treat.

Yaga's approach would be one of tough love. "Crying in the back isn't going to solve anything," she'd say, her tone gruff but not unkind. She would encourage MC to face their fears and stand up for themselves. "You're stronger than you think," she'd add, perhaps sharing a personal anecdote about her own experiences with bullies to motivate MC.

Hastur, upon understanding the situation, would assure MC of their safety with a calm but firm presence. "They will not dare cause trouble under my watch," he'd say. His towering presence alone might be enough to deter the bully from any antagonistic behavior.

He Without Name would enter the room silently, his presence almost unnoticed until he's fairly close to you. "Sad... Why?" he'd inquire in his usual cryptic manner. Understanding the situation might be challenging for him, but he'd stay near MC, offering silent support.

The Raven, true to their nature, would take a more mischievous approach. "Time for the art of subtle revenge," they'd muse. They might orchestrate a small but humiliating incident, like discreetly dropping a... surprise... on the bully's head from above, much to the amusement of the onlookers.

[hazelcephalopod]

So it was… complicated in the end. Everything went tits up basically. Not entirely unexpected. The Betrayers Betrayed. There was the unpredictable. The CG god of beauty and magic destroyed Aeor, after the weapon was fired by the Betrayers and a mage fired the failsafe via a localized wish over Aeor* -basically weaponizing the entire city.

The hardest parts, the very worst- the Stormlord and whoever else was sending every wind in Exandria towards Aeor killing hundreds in minutes? Everything else was the heat of battle, decisions made of many sides. That was… well, a massive brutal assault with no warning and siege all in one. No one hardly blinked, they entered battle with glee. Then. They looked at what they had done. They regretted it, they had remorse. In the end they struck me as very fallible; but also how they are not mortals, how they conceive of things is based on how they exist. They’ve seen countless cities rise and fall, probably with and without their involvement. Mortals live so quickly, have such a small affect in the grand scheme of things 99.9% of the time. Mortals can not fully comprehend gods, but imho even if they can live as mortals for a bit they can not truly comprehend mortals -based off what we’ve seen with the Matron I think godhood fundamentally affects their perception and psyche. This to me was not explanation nor excuse, just perspective. They committed an atrocity, now they have to reckon with it. They are now realizing they can not remain and preserve their beloved world and children, all except them -perhaps even them- will be utterly obliterated if they stay and they have to reckon with that. They will eventually exile themselves. I don’t think mortals need to forgive them or not -personally, I think the truth coming out would be enough justice and let each make their own choice as to how to deal with that information.

Who came out looking the worst imho was the Archeart. They made the choice to destroy the city, destroy the knowledge -save perhaps for themself and the KM. That did take me by surprise, yet, most fitting. This was in fact their mess. They gave mortals magic, and they created a weapon to destroy gods with it.

Personally I am conflicted, they destroyed this entire city. An entire culture. Nearly every Aeormaton in existence fell with Aeor -and yet in a few centuries they will be repaired, will roam the ground beneath. They will how we be forever scarred by it, as all Exandria is. Yet. What being does not seek to persevere its existence? We saw, the gods came to exandria not on purpose, but by circumstance. They crash landed fleeing obliteration they had never having even faced an end before. Their entrance into this existence prompted by massive trauma, the need to survive for the first time. They do not wish to die, especially as ending is a thing that so very rarely happens to them and only in violent or unnatural end. They have little experiance with they type of entity ending that is not deeply traumatic. Tbh. I don’t think another wrong will make a right. I don’t thing vengeance disguised as some desperate justice will a) work; b) lead to much good. Especially when we know who is at the helm of seeking that.

Which brings us back to the final and first point -as best as we can assume so far. Ludinus wants to use Predathos to destroy the gods. He shows this to Bells Hells to convince them to join him? Tbh I don’t think much will change, perhaps opinions will be cemented. In the end Ludinus is still the man who killed Orym’s husband and kin. He’s still the boss of the one who killed their friend. He’s still a man who has orchestrated so much harm, and done so as a mortal -as far as we know. We still don’t really know the extent of Predathos danger. We do know Ludinus has already brought one civilization to ruins, led another as the shadow leader of an authoritarian state which is dripping in blood. He evades justice constantly. Is this the person to being justice to the gods? What will he sacrifice for his vision of what the world should be? I struggle to believe BH will go along with that -i admit I can not discount it entirely. Are the willing to gamble their world on Ludinus’ dark dream?

(Edit) *did so while embracing the woman who created the weapon. Telling her he was proud. (And then pushing her into the gate tbh. I do not remember where that gate went)

PS: we barely know Braius so no idea but I’m going to guess anti Ludinus. Teven is a champion of hell, so also no.

PPS: Essek? Maybe if things were different, if he didn’t have the history he had, with Ludinus and other. If he hadn’t accepted that his actions have consequences and has regrets. Interestingly he might sympathize more with the gods especially if they see how much the gods regretted what they did. He cussed the inciting incident of a war, he did some fucked up shit during that war. He can never go home again.

[idontknowreallywhy]

75-3

Final part of this fluffy nonsense. Yea it’s mildly unhinged… but once the idea of Scott tormenting his offspring by being outrageous took me… well… who am I to argue?

Again a warning for old people being romantic ;) (at what point do I need to make this Teen rating on AO3? Perhaps it has crossed that line with all this insinuation 😏)

Part 1 / Part 2

💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙

Kala Patthar was one of their favourites.

It was objectively a beautiful sunrise, of course. But there were other reasons that wouldn’t have made it into the guidebook.

By 2077 the Tracy villa and all of its many architecturally improbable extensions was teeming with life. And trip hazards. If there wasn’t a bum-shuffling toddler lying in wait for the unwary around every corner it would be one of the multitude of domestic animals that had begun to take over in the years since Grandpa Jeff uttered the immortal words “Aww I’m sure a couple of kittens or a bunny rabbit wouldn’t hurt…”

Or perhaps the unsuspecting might fall foul of a horde of stampeding kindergarteners cackling over some nefarious plan to make the lives of the Tracy adults just that little bit more Interesting this morning.

Or worse, TEENAGERS. Several of these had seemingly sprung from nowhere to lurk moodily in doorways, complain about adult incompetence, monopolise the holoscreen and consume a significant chunk of the Tracy fortune in snack form.

Suffice to say, it was busy. And with apparent responsibility for two of the grouchy teenagers, the most devious of the kindergarteners and the loudest of the toddlers, Scott and his long suffering wife had their hands full. And their brains. Chances to escape grew scarce and any idea of a semblance of privacy anywhere on the Island was absolutely laughable. Most trips off-island had become taxi journeys for a horde of offspring (theirs or a sibling’s… it mattered little) desperate to see “the real world”. Such was the life of a parent. They wouldn’t have changed it for anything. And yet.

And yet.

It was on Scott’s 45th birthday that, doubtless to enable some grand surprise-party-esque scheme in his absence, Virgil had insisted on the weary pair leaving the island for a few hours to, in his words “just do something, anything, as long as it is somewhere else”. And so they’d taken off in One and set a course for the next impressive sunrise they could make it in time for - the one reflected off the highest mountain on the planet, best viewed hovering a few thousand feet above the smaller peak of Kala Patthar.

Despite the close proximity of the new co-pilot seat, it had quickly became clear that Thunderbird One was just too shouty for any kind of conversation to take place without yelling oneself hoarse or using the IR comms system. As that wasn’t always ideal for training and so on, Brains had installed small headsets so the two pilots could communicate privately.

Of course a truly private conversation was a rare treat and Scott had taken full advantage of that during the half hour flight to their destination. As it turned out, he had a lot of ideas about how they might spend their free morning and had run them by her in some detail.

By the time they arrived she was wound so very tightly she’d leapt over the top of the seat before he’d even got the autopilot engaged. It had been a more than little hairy for a moment, albeit they both dissolved into hysterics as soon as it was clear One wasn’t about to become an unexplained fireball to add to the mystique of the mountain range below them.

Scott smiled to himself at the memory. Perhaps not their most responsible hour… In any case, the mutual near death experience had led to child five’s eventual appearance… so all’s well…

This morning, the journey was necessarily longer and the conversation perhaps a little more suitable-for-all-audiences. But he treasured it all the same. The sound of her voice never failed to soothe the uncertain, scratchy parts of his soul. Together, things just made more sense.

One’s cheerful song filled the rest of his hearing and everything was right with the world. Without travelling a whisker over Mach 7 they reached the Himalayas well before dawn managed to. After ensuring the autopilot would do the business this time (see, he could learn), Scott pushed back the shoulder guards, leaned around and reached back to grasp his wife’s hand.

“Right, give me a second.” She took a breath and steadied herself before reaching a foot tentatively forwards towards the footplate. She was a little less sure of her step these days, her famously steady hand shaking a little within their white knuckled grip on each other. He worried about that, the same way he worried that she was a little slower, a little thinner.

A little more fragile.

But then, he supposed, so was he.

If she slipped, could he still pull her up? He thought so, he was still lifting rather more in the gym than his medic-approved fitness plan recommended. But even then, the entirety of her body weight dangling by one arm would likely be… bad… for her arthritic shoulder.

He twisted more and reached around with his other arm to catch her round the waist. His back complained a little. He ignored it. Mostly. At least, he didn’t groan out loud. You’re not old until it’s audible.

Perhaps at some point the two of them would have to admit this was a ridiculous thing for a couple of their age to be doing and find a park bench to sit on to watch the sunrise like all the normal, sensible OAPs. But as she finally made it around to the front, fell into his lap and snuggled against his shoulder he thanked whoever might be listening that today was not that day. They had never really achieved normal or sensible so it seemed a little late to start pretending now.

His arms settled around her as naturally as they always had. He buried his face in her hair, as silver now as his own had been for the last twenty years, but the scent that surrounded him was the same as the first day he’d held her.

A shaft of gold burst over the horizon and bathed them in its warmth. They both knew full well the ship was so highly insulated that the internal temperature sensor wouldn’t even have flickered but they’d both swear they felt it even so.

These days they appreciated the unique view a little more. For a few minutes at least.

She’d obviously been pondering the same memories he had as, with a little huff of mirth she raised an arm to point out one of the shadowy outcrops below.

“You know… it must be thirty years to the day since I almost made you nosedive into that particularly pointy hunk of rock.”

“I believe you’re right…” He couldn’t resist a little smirk “… although it didn’t end so badly as I recall… happy birthday to me.”

She looked up at him. He looked back. The eye twinkling thing was involuntary, it really was. Apparently she thought otherwise and whacked him on the chest.

“Stop that train of thought right there, old man, I’m not as agile as I was.”

He pouted. She raised an eyebrow. He finally gave into the desire to stroke it softly and murmured:

“Can’t help it, you being so pretty and all.”

She blushed then, which made everything ten times worse and they forgot about the sunrise for a while.

As if summoned by the earlier conversation, the resulting and now very much grown-up child in question appeared on the comm but neither of them noticed Mal’s hologram pop up until the horrified squawk transported Scott immediately back to Alan’s teenage years.

“Dad, what the hell are you doing in Kathma… MOM! DAAAAD! Aaaaaggggghhhh my eyessss. You can’t DO that in a Thunderbird, it should be illegal!”

She giggled. Scott’s lip quirked. Apparently the near completion of his third decade had not entirely exorcised the angst-ridden whine. Scott refused to lift his eyes from her face but winked and dropped his voice into the tone that still made all but one of his children jump to attention:

“Do what, exactly, Malcolm?”

There was a pause, before the whine intensified in another direction:

“Uncle Virgil! Dad and Mom are… are… well… SMOOCHING in One and it’s inappropriate and… and unhygienic, please tell him to stop.”

A familiar rumbling laugh could be heard retreating in the background as his brother firmly refused to get involved. Uncle Gordon, however, clearly saw an opportunity to broaden the education of his clearly-far-too-sheltered 29 year old nephew:

“I’d wager he’s done a lot worse than that young Mallie. Oh the stories that little silver firework could tell…”

“That’s no way to talk about your sister in law.” John interjected.

Scott snorted and his wife cackled.

“Don’t call me Mallie. And ugh, I did NOT need that mental image!”

It would have been a waste not to fully appreciate his son’s tormented facial expression and he would never be fully able to turn down the chance to show Gordon how it was done. Thus Scott kissed his beloved on the nose then finally looked up at the hologram with a smirk:

“Just as well for you really, son, else you would not have existed.”

The jaw drop was most pleasing. As was the subsequent gulping fish impression.

“That… that is not the sort of thing a person needs to know about… himself.”

“I didn’t know you were such a bashful butterfly, Marshmallow.” It seemed his mother was unable to resist a little light teasing of her own - the deployment of the childhood nickname a low blow.

“I’m not! It’s just… at your age… it’s not safe! I bet you have no safety harnesses! One is more risky than the others. What about your heart, Dad?”

A line had been crossed. Nobody made reference to that little… incident… and got away with it. Particularly when they were the prime suspect in yesterday’s washbasin-lizard prank that had probably put more strain on the senior Tracy heart than any more pleasurable pursuits could inflict.

Revenge could take so many forms…

“I’ve ravished your mother in plenty more dangerous places, Malcolm, and plan to continue to do so as long as possible. So unless there was a pressing question you had… I’d like to get back to the task in hand.”

He squeezed her knee and winked. She whalloped him again and hissed his name disapprovingly while utterly failing to convey any sense of genuine disapproval.

He was going too far and he knew it, the poor lad had gone from hologram blue to hologram purple and he could hear Gordon guffawing fit to rupture something in the background. But when he could feel the love of his life pressed against his chest and shaking with silent hysterics he couldn’t stop himself. He’d always loved making her laugh… it was his greatest weakness.

“You… I cannot believe you said that, Father. Out loud. I… I am returning your birthday present!”

Scott was about to feign a sad face when a quiet comment whispered into his ear made him cackle.

“Awww shucks, but I guess I’ll live. Your Mom reckons hers will make up for it.”

It was good for the self-proclaimed heir to Gordon’s throne to be on the receiving end of the teasing for once and Scott had no regrets. Although he did choke slightly when the raven haired 13-year old offspring of his eldest daughter wandered into shot, grinning, gave a cheeky salute and called “Go Grandpa!”

He was for it now.

“Now look what you’ve done! She’ll be traumatised! And Loopy Lu will kill you dead. Deader than dead.”

“Not if she hears you call her that first, she’ll be too busy hunting you to bother with me. Why don’t you go and be a supportive uncle and minimise the terrible trauma I’ve inflicted. We’ll be back for dinner.”

“You’d better.”

A finger was wagged with impotent menace.

“And if you’re smiling sickeningly when you are… there will be consequences!”

“Good to know.” Scott swiped the hologram away.

They sat together quietly for a few moments, content with just the sound of each other’s breath. The sun had truly risen now and was already too bright to look at. Scott pushed away the irritation at missing the moment - the sun rose every day after all - they didn’t need the excuse of An Occasion to come and watch that particular little trick. They could even come back tomorrow. Although maybe he would try to find some sort of light harness… just in case.

His wife chuckled to herself again and sighed “We probably won’t live that one down for a while.”

Scott lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles one by one.

“What would you like to do now?”

She paused for a moment as she ran her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. “Pigeon Island isn’t far… you could land and we could go for a walk along the shore?”

“It’ll be pretty empty down there at this time of day.”

“Precisely.”

He grinned and put his hands back on the control levers.

“Well as we have been vigorously reminded, health and safety is paramount so you’d better hold on tight, Mrs Tracy.”

“I always do.”

Thunderbird One performed a wide arc over the highest place Earth had to offer before her scram jets squealed in delight as the trio chased the dawn across the sky.

[doctorcrowleywho]

Hello! If you're currently taking requests, would you mind doing an Aziraphale x female angel reader fic with them half jokingly singing the song Sixteen Going On Seventeen from the Sound of Music to each other?

THIS MAY OR MAY NOT BE BAD OR GOOD! MY HOPE IS GOOD!

The Apprentice

Word count -   1642 

Warnings - tons of fluff and the sound of music

Pairing(s) - Aziraphale x gn! reader

Summary - You and Azirapjale torture Crowley with a Sound of Music duet

In the grand scheme of things, you were a relatively new angel, even though you hated that stereotype. In your eyes, you were just as responsible and ready for a real mission as any other angel. Gabriel always viewed you as the weakest link, even though you did try your very best at things. It never seemed to be good enough, but that was Gabriel for you- the angel with the most unrealistic expectations.

For centuries you begged for a mission on earth, wanting desperately to help on the front lines. There was only one angel on earth that has stayed on earth since the beginning, so that job was spoken for. However, once Aziraphale heard there was an angel that wanted to be on Earth as much as he did he was the first to hatch a plan to get you down there. 

Which was about the nicest thing any angel has ever done for you, and he didn’t even know you. Wasn’t that what an angel was supposed to be like? Not whatever you dealt with every day in the sanitary office space that was heaven. Love was messy, unpredictable, and found in all of the most unexpected places. 

“Well,” Gabriel clapped making you jump slightly at your desk. You were currently deep in paperwork, which you never understood why heaven had paperwork. “,it looks like Aziraphale is looking for an apprentice, and for whatever reason, he’s chosen you.”

At this, your eyes lit up as you jumped up from your seat which made Gabriel jump back slightly. “Really!” you practically squealed doing a quick little happy dance. He hated it when angels showed too much emotion, that's why he was personally happy you were going down to help Aziraphale. Perhaps he’d keep you in line somehow.

“Unfortunately, yes.” he sighed fidgeting with his hands as he walked away from you “, he expects you immediately by the way,”  he called back making your heart beat fast in your chest. 

Squeezing your eyes tight you couldn’t help but let out a short happy squeal. This could very well be the start of your forever, and you were ecstatic. 

—-

Aziraphale was ecstatic to have another angel like him around. Yes, Crowley was a wonderful partner- or uh enemy, who he regularly enjoyed to the company of. But, perhaps this new angel would like the same things he did. Maybe he could take them to all his favorite bookshops, record stores, and even restaurants. Oh, he couldn’t wait to show them the wonders of food. 

He was tidying up the shop to make your coming to earth extra special. Nothing partially fancy, just putting books in the right places. Which, to his surprise none of them were even close. 

“I don’t understand why we need another angel around, one is plenty,” Crowley mumbled under his breath taking a swig of whatever Aziraphale had that was drinkable around. Thankfully, it was just whisky this time. 

With a huff Aziraphale turned to Crowley and placed his hands on his hips “You know maybe you’d benefit from another angel in your life. Could turn that from upside do-” he was starting to tease but was interrupted by four knocks. 

“This should be fun,” Crowley muttered one last time making his angel roll his eyes as Aziraphale went to answer the door. For whatever reason, he felt like his heart skipped a few beats.

As he answered the door he couldn’t help the smile that tugged on his lips as his eyes fell upon you and your radiant essence. Of course, he knew you were an angel, but the light that seemed to shine from you was unlike no other that he was used to. It took him a moment to come to as he shook his head to clear his mind. 

“H-hello,” you began practically sounding like one of those door-to-door sellers “,I am a regular old human wondering if I could come in to look at your paper stacks with words on them-”

“Books.” he reminded you beaming at you like a proud teacher.

“Books! Yes, I’d love to come in and look at your books please!” you smiled nodding your head suddenly feeling very proud of yourself as well. 

A soft chuckle fell out of his lips as he shook his head in utter disbelief, he won the lottery with you he was sure of it. “Please come in dear! I’d love to show you my newest collection.” he mused opening the door for you. 

A soft gasp fell from your lips this time as you stepped into his bookshop. It was just as amazing as you’d imagined, and you had lots of time to imagine how different things on earth would look like at your boring office job. The air smelled like fresh pine with a mixture of dust that could spur flashbacks from any great point in history. The soft lights almost created a feeling of soft warmth. It felt like you were finally coming home for the first time. 

You couldn’t help but venture further into the bookshop until you stumbled into his backroom.  Which was where you saw him, the wily serpent Crowley. Upon seeing you he tried to put on the typical demon act that he always did. But, that was hard when he was already three bottles of whiskey down. He did his usual sly demon smirk and realized he didn’t have his glasses on. His golden eyes went wide as he lazily searched for them. 

“Well hello there angel.” he chuckled darkly (or he tried to) as he watched you shiver just a bit at his presence. 

However, you relaxed almost immediately feeling Aziraphales's well-manicured hand on your shoulder. He glared over at Crowley like the cutest attack dog ever. “Really my dear is that necessary?” he huffed making Crowley hiss ever so softly. 

“Ssssorry twas forgetting myself.” Crowley sighed flinging his glasses off as he pursed his lips together. 

“Dear this is just Crowley, don’t worry about him he’s about as scary as a garden snake,” Aziraphale teased making Crowley scrunch his face up in return “, anyways how about you sit down as I find some music to put on.” he hummed gesturing to a chair right next to the love seat Crowley was spread out on.

But, that’s when you saw it and you couldn’t help but squeal excitedly when you did. It was about the only other thing you knew about the earth, and you were frankly very proud of it. Quickly, you picked it up and handed it to the other angel. “Can we listen to this!” you asked eyes wide.

“The Sound of Music?” Aziraphale read the title out loud which earned the loudest groan Crowley could muster. 

“THE SOUND OF MUSIC? I am not drunk enough for this!” He picked up another bottle and began to work on the cap as you nodded hurriedly. 

“Please,” you begged sticking out your bottom lip and Aziraphale felt his knees go weak “,I love the sound of music, it’s all they let us listen to in heaven!” you giggled making Aziraphle chuckle to himself. 

“Oh trust me darling I know,” he winked over at you having no choice but to put it on. Snapping his fingers he set it to play a song he felt was very fitting for the moment. 

“You wait, little one, on an empty stage

For fate to turn the light on

Your life, little one, is an empty page

That men will want to write on.” he sang along offering you his hand which you took immediately.

“Tooooooooo write on” you sang through a series of broken giggles. This was better then you could of ever expected. If this was how being on earth was going to be then you never wanted to leave. As long as Aziraphle was there you felt right at home. 

“Oh no they’re singing…. discorporate me now.” Crowley hissed from the couch covering his face with his hands.

“You need someone older and wiser

Telling you what to do

I am seventeen going on eighteen

I´ll take care of you” Aziraphale continued paying no mind to the grumpy demon on the couch. He only had eyes for you anyway, and he was going to protect his little spark of light with everything he could. 

Your eyes seemed to sparkle as he twirled you around his backroom. To you, he held the entire world in his hands, and you were the luckiest angel alive to have him show it to you. If you had your halo on you swore it’d be brighter than any kind of sun in the galaxy. 

“I am sixteen going on seventeen

I know that I´m naive

Fellows I meet may tell me I´m sweet

And willingly I believe”  with that lyric you kissed him on the cheek making him turn the brightest shade of red you have ever seen. But, you couldn’t help it you were so full of love that it had to be shown somehow. 

“I need someone older and wiser

Telling me what to do

You are seventeen going on eighteen

I´ll depend on you” as you sang the last line he took a deep breath before kissing you on the nose, which even made Crowley perk up. That was fast, especially for the angel's standards. He had no idea how heaven managed to send a perfect fit this easily. 

Now it was your turn to go bright red. You had no idea that he was going to reciprocate. However, he gave you no time to react as he scurried out of the back room going to check on the kettle.  Leaving you to touch your nose like a crazy person with Crowley sitting there wide eyed. 

“He never put on tea.” the demon muttered raising an eyebrow.

[five-and-dimes]

Endless. Not Everything

(AO3)

(This is an AU in the sense that I know, I know, that fem Dream is canon in the comics. We're ignoring that for this one. )

Dream is horny, but Hob seems reluctant to take the next step. So Dream jumps to conclusions and tries to be something he's not.

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

It’s unsurprising in hindsight that the first to make the decision is Delight.

The Endless are still fairly young in the grand scheme of things, but they have watched humanity grow in leaps and bounds. And as they do, it is nigh impossible not to be shaped by them in some ways. The Endless exist because of humanity. They are a part of each other. Delight drifts among humans more than the others, watching and laughing and bringing delight and being delighted in turn.

“Oh, my siblings,” Delight announces one day when they are all gathered together, “call me sister.”

The most surprising part of the interaction is Destiny’s response.

The eldest Endless gives a rare small smile, “Dear sister. You may call me brother.”

Perhaps it had been written from the beginning, the way the Endless would come to take this part of humanity upon themselves. They are all still so young, have not yet learned the things that would separate them, and so they watch with warmth as Delight bursts into peals of laughter and throws her arms around her brother’s neck, embracing him the way she embraced everything.

Slowly, the rest follow suit. Desire curls their lips in disdain and firmly declares that they are a sibling, thank you very much, regardless of shape or form. (It is fitting, they all think, that Desire would be the most comfortable in their given, genderless state.)

Despair takes time, mulling over every option before sighing and announcing who she is as their sister. (None of them are quite sure if she chose the option because it caused her the least amount of despair or the most.)

Destruction wavers. There is violence and destruction in both genders among humans, though in very different ways, and it makes them both uniquely unappealing at times. (In the end, it is a brother that they lose.)

Ultimately, it is not until Death spends that first day as a human that a decision is made. Death had always been flexible, but during that day it just feels right to return as a sister. (It takes a long time for humans to catch up with this decision, but luckily Death is able to find humor in the misgendering.)

Dream takes the longest. Dream is a thing of fantasy and imagination, constantly shifting and fluid, and the forms taken often do not fully fit with humanity’s limited views on either gender. For a long time Dream is just… Dream. It is not until one of the times that Death has dragged Dream down to mingle with mortals that Dream recognizes a distinct discomfort when they walk together and are called ‘sisters’ by various travelers. Dream is called ‘lady’ and ‘lass’ and ‘she’ and wants to scream. (In the end, Dream doesn’t even need to say anything. Death smiles, and rests her hand on Dream’s shoulder soothingly and says “Ready to go home, little brother?” and Dream feels something uncurl in his chest.)

And so they carry on, the Endless family. Brothers and sisters and siblings, more than human but with humanity woven through them like tapestries. Their identities become something innate to them, until it is hard to tell whether it was something they chose or something they discovered. But it doesn’t matter. It just is.

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

Then Dream is captured.

He spends more than a century trapped in the Waking.

And it starts to matter.

Burgess and his followers, with their narrow minds and greedy souls. Dream is dragged to their feet, bound by ancient magic and cruel hands. They strip him, expose his form to the cold and the pain, cage him in glass and shine a light on him to display all the parts of him that do not belong to them.

They call him ‘it’.

And oh, Dream burns, and burns, and burns. His fury is a fire with nowhere to go and it hurts. Dream is not human, he knows that, obviously, but that does not mean he is…

He is not…

He is not a thing, a tool, a toy-

…Is he?

He hates Roderick Burgess for putting that question in his mind.

He hates himself more for asking.

He wants to die when he realizes he’s not confident in the answer.

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

The discomfort, the shame, follows him even when he escapes, even when he recovers his tools and repairs his realm and regains his power. And he… he is trying to get it right this time, after so long getting it wrong (and isn’t that a tragedy, he thinks. Isn’t it a travesty, that for as long as Dream has been he has tried so very, very hard, and still managed to get it so very, very wrong).

Death says “Don’t be a stranger,” and Dream hears “Don’t go back. Don’t go back to before the pain. Don’t go back.”

Something about that hurts.

Then he goes to visit Hob.

And seeing the immortal, seeing the familiar face look up and smile at him, soothes something in him like a balm. Even without knowing all of Dream’s cosmic failures, Hob knows enough of the failures between just the two of them that Dream expects to be met with anger, or bitterness, or, he fears the most, perhaps not met at all. But instead he smiles, and lets Dream sit with him, lets him apologize and forgives him and chats about the time past as though nothing had changed.

Except, that’s not completely true, Dream realizes. Because things had changed. Dream changed. He had thought for the better, but Hob frowns softly across from him. Hob changed. His edges softened, his patience stronger, asking gently if Dream would like to talk about whatever happened. They have both changed. For the first time, Dream is the one who tells a story and Hob is the one who listens.

Many things have changed. Hob’s eyes water, and he reaches out and covers Dream’s hand with his own. Dream does not pull away. It is different, but it is still them, and Dream sighs at the warmth against his perpetually cold skin, turning his hand to curl his fingers around Hob’s and tucking away the image of Hob’s caring smile like a flower in the pocket of his mind.

When he leaves, Hob says “Don’t be a stranger,” and Dream hears “Come back. Please, please come back.”

It hurts a little less.

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

In the grand scheme of things, it escalates rather quickly.

Dream and Hob meet more frequently, soon falling into a rhythm of seeing each other once a week, sometimes in the Waking (where Dream still felt an itch of discomfort, despite not being trapped or bound, not that he let Hob know) and sometimes in the Dreaming (where Dream felt like he could breathe).

With each meeting, Hob grows more bold. Twining their fingers together as they strolled through a dreamscape or pulling Dream in for a hug before they part outside the New Inn. Dream’s pulse beats needlessly, a little excited and a lot terrified at the way this human has wormed his way into Dream’s heart so effortlessly. Dream falls hard and fast, the only way he knows how, but he thinks Hob’s eyes reflect the same growing flame of fondness so maybe… maybe it’s not just him.

And so it happens fast, in a way. A mere few months after reuniting, Dream curls shaking hands into Hob’s jacket and pulls him into a kiss and Hob, like a miracle, kisses him back. They stand pressed together, smiling against each others’ mouths, arms wrapped in an embrace and it feels like the beginning of something.

It begins. But, Dream thinks, it never starts.

Time passes. They hold hands when they walk through the city streets. Hob pulls him down to rest his head on his shoulder, runs his fingers through Dream’s hair, wraps his arms around him and smiles the way he had before, when they were still calling each other friends. The only difference between then and now is that sometimes Hob kisses Dream on the forehead, and his cheeks, and his knuckles, and sometimes at the end of the night, if Dream leans in far enough, he will plant a chaste kiss against his lips, though never as deep or firm as the first one they shared.

Dream tries, occasionally. Holds an unneeded breath and reaches out to run a hand down Hob’s arm, presses forward to deepen a kiss, tries to be obvious in the way his gaze roams hungrily over the other man’s body. All he ever accomplishes is Hob looking away uncomfortably and finding an excuse to cut their time together short.

Hob has said that he loves him. And Dream… Dream believes him, he does, and Dream loves him back but…

But Dream also wants Hob. And evidence is pointing to Hob not wanting him.

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

Dream twists their interactions in his head like a puzzle. Plucks and pulls at them like a tangle of human Christmas lights.

Sifts through them like a landfill.

He has never ventured into Hob’s dreams, and he will not start now, but he recalls every story the man has ever told him, and it is not difficult to draw conclusions from those. He had already assumed the problem lay with himself, that much seemed obvious if only given his history, but turning over Hob’s words in his mind, he thinks he may find an answer. In his (relative) youth, Hob had not shied from telling his mysterious stranger of his various conquests, the young women in steadily rising social class that he managed to coax into bed with him. And there is, of course, his marriage in the 1500s. As time passed, Hob began to keep his exploits more private, something Dream was secretly grateful for, but even reflecting on the history he knew of, it seems obvious where Hob’s sexual preference lay.

So it was that Dream found himself in his chambers, standing in front of a full-length mirror, naked and uncomfortable, contemplating how to fix the problem.

While Dream’s given form is not quite the human-stereotype of masculinity, he is still undeniably masculine. And if that is what is keeping him from being closer to Hob, if that is why he is not allowed to pour his passion across Hob’s skin with his lips and fingertips, if his preferred physical form is the only thing keeping them from growing their intimacy…

Well. He is the Shaper of Forms.

It’s an easy fix.

Or, it should be, at least. Dream is aware of the modern human standard of beauty for women, not that he understands it. He also remembers the general shape of Eleanor, one of the most prominent lovers in Hob’s life. And yet, when Dream begins the arduous process of changing his shape into something more suited to Hob’s tastes, he finds that he simply… cannot bring himself to mold certain features.

He considers heaping flesh on certain areas of his bony figure, debates wide hips and heavy breasts, thinks about shrinking himself down until he would have to stand on his toes to reach Hob’s lips. He turns each option over in his mind, like rummaging through an unfamiliar closet, and finds that he just… can’t. In some ways.

It is childish, he knows it, but even if a woman’s form is what it takes for Hob to want him back, for Hob to be pleased by him, Dream finds he still wants to… look like himself. Wants to still be recognizable, with the sharp angles of his bones pressing under paper-white skin, the deep timber of his voice, the long length of his body. He wants, so badly, for Hob to take pleasure in at least some of the features that Dream has come to think of as his.

Dream hates himself for it.

Still, when he molds his form, he does so as minimally as possible. There is the obvious anatomical change, and his chest rounds with modest breasts. His hips do widen, but are no softer for it. He keeps his face angular, but less square, his chin more tapered and his jaw sloping towards his ears. After a moment of consideration, he allows a soft flush to color his cheeks, lets his lips become a deeper shade of red, and closes his eyes as his eyelashes lengthen. Dream is unbothered by extending his hair to fall by his collar bones- he has worn his hair longer throughout his life, as has Hob- but he does purse his lips in discomfort before deciding to add soft curls to the dark locks.

The end result is… obvious. There is no mistaking exactly what Dream has done. But there is still a familiarity that brings Dream a small comfort. He looks like, perhaps, the fraternal twin of his preferred shape.

Shaking his head, Dream internally chastises himself once more. Endless are genderless, beings and concepts that defy humanity’s boxes and labels. Dream is a multitude, in constant flux of shifting shapes. He is the King of Cats, has appeared before as fire and bone and light, has taken shapes far away from any human gender, and it is surely a failing of Dream that those forms should fit more comfortably than the one he wears now. It should not matter whether some mortals on the street might see Dream in this shape and use the word “she”.

It should not matter. If the choice is between his own comfort or Hob’s pleasure…

For Hob, Dream would become anything.

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

When Dream walks into the New Inn, Hob’s mouth goes so dry he is convinced the moisture in the air around him must have evaporated. If Dream’s ruby-red smirk is anything to go by, Hob is anything but subtle.

“Hello, Hob.”

Sliding into the seat across from Hob, Dream shakes off the last tendrils of doubt, because there is no misinterpreting the look on the immortal’s face, which means that Dream was right.

(It’s not as satisfying as he thought it would be. He shakes that off too.)

Hob clears his throat, “Dream, good to see you,” he smiles, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, “Trying, ah… trying something different today?”

Dream leans forward, resting his head against a hand. In a similar way to wanting his form to be recognizable, his outfit is not overly changed either. In fact, he had merely copied Death’s outfit from their last meeting, though he added a fitted coat to the ensemble, keeping the skin of his arms covered while still emphasizing his new shape.

“I thought perhaps a change would be welcome,” Dream raised an eyebrow, “Is it not?”

“Well, I mean, everything’s welcome with you,” Hob stammers, still clearly floundering, “Always gorgeous, you know that.”

Dream did not, in fact, know that.

“Is that so?” He tilts his head, watching as Hob nods numbly and takes a long sip of his beer. “You seem distracted,” Dream taps a long, black fingernail against the table, focusing on keeping his voice steady, “Would you prefer to go someplace. Quieter?”

This is usually the point where Hob finds a reason to leave.

Hob swallows thickly. “Um. Sure.” He grins, a hint of excitement in his eyes, “I’ve got a new scotch upstairs. If you care for some.”

Dream grinned back, “I could be persuaded.”

When Hob takes Dream’s hand, eager and wanting, it only hurts a little.

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

They never make it to the scotch.

Once inside the apartment, Dream leans forward, pushes into Hob’s space, lets his eyes linger on his lips. Only this time, Hob doesn’t kiss him chastely and change the subject. This time, he pushes right back, their lips crashing together, and when Dream sighs at the feeling of calloused fingers twisting in the hair at his nape Hob groans, their tongues tangling together.

It’s perfect. It’s everything Dream wanted.

(Or. Maybe not everything.)

(But he ignores that.)

Neither notice when they move. Dream is focusing on sliding his hand beneath Hob’s shirt, scratching his fingers through the hair he feels across the broad chest, and Hob is focusing on sliding Dream’s coat off, letting it fall to the floor as he runs his hands over smooth, white skin. So neither of them are focused on when exactly their legs started moving them towards Hob’s bedroom, barely paying attention when they fumble through the door frame. It’s not until they are tumbling onto the bed, limbs twining together as they fall onto the mattress, that they pause.

Hob lands on top of Dream, his cheeks flushed as he pushes himself onto his elbows, putting just enough space between them to look down at Dream’s flushed face. “Is…” he swallows, his voice wrecked, despite barely doing anything, and Dream feels a surge of pride, “Is this alright?”

Dream answers by gripping the back of Hob’s neck, gentle but firm, and pulling him down until their bodies are pressed together again, kissing along his lips and jaw. Hob let out a huff of laughter that turned into a gasp as Dream dragged his teeth down the skin of his neck.

None of Dream’s fantasies compare to the reality of Hob’s rapid heartbeat under his mouth, the feeling of coarse hair and flexing muscles under his fingers. It’s almost enough to distract from the way Hob’s hands slip under his shirt, touching curves that didn’t exist in Dream’s fantasies.

Almost.

Hob asks again, “Is this alright?” before slipping Dream’s shirt over his head, his own following quickly, and Dream only has a moment to appreciate the vision that Hob makes above him before Hob is kissing down Dream’s chest. It feels… good. The scratch of Hob’s scruff against his skin, the weight of his body pressing down on him as he settles between his legs, the dedicated way he licks and bites at Dream’s nipples.

It feels good. But it also feels… wrong. In a way that is getting harder and harder to ignore, even as the last of their clothes are discarded and he is gifted the vision of Hob, naked and gorgeous and clearly wanting. It doesn’t distract from the fact that Dream is naked now too, that Hob is moaning and wanting for a body that isn’t truly Dream. Slowly, it begins to feel like he is drifting farther and farther from Hob’s bed, like he is watching his lover put his hands on a stranger. Like a stranger is putting their hands on him.

Somewhere along the way, Dream is realizing, his motivations have gotten twisted. It occurs to him that he should not have to remind himself that he wants Hob, should not have to repeat a mantra of I want this, I want this, I want this, when Hob runs his hands over Dream’s skin.

Because before, he had wanted this, wanted Hob to touch him and kiss him and bury himself in Dream’s body, had fantasized about it and craved it deeply. But now, it is the wrong skin. The wrong body. He thinks that maybe it stopped being about what he wanted the second he stood in front of that mirror to change himself. Hob is kissing along a slender neck and caressing a breast with one hand and dipping between legs with the other and Dream shudders and adjusts the mantra in his head.

Hob wants this. Hob wants this. Hob wants this.

All Dream can want now is just to make Hob happy.

It does not prevent what happens next.

Hob is murmuring sweet praises against the skin behind Dream’s ear, and then his fingers are pressing between Dream’s legs, stroking, pushing, entering, and Dream gasps, body tensing, and then there is a soft tearing sound between their bodies.

They both jerk in surprise, Hob pulling his fingers away immediately, eyes wide with concern, barely managing to blurt out, “Shit, did I hurt you?” before they are both looking down and freezing.

The skin of Dream’s chest is splitting slowly, like a torn seam, stretching and tearing down his center from the hollow of his throat, between his breasts, and down to the base of his belly. Thin, gossamer strands of skin criss-cross like threads, pulling taut, and beneath is an empty blackness. No blood or flesh, just a void, an absence which grows and presses against the shell of him until he is bursting at the seams with nothingness.

“Oh my god, Dream-”

Dream snaps to sit up, pushing Hob back and crossing his arms across his chest, trying to pull his skin back together like a robe that’s slipped open. But the seam only splits farther, threads snapping as the gaping maw of his body widens. He curls in on himself, trying to force the edges back together, and he feels the skin of his shoulders split, feels a tearing down his spine like a broken zipper, his entire body an ill-fitting dress that he is spilling out of.

Hob is wide-eyed and horrified, “Dream,” his voice cracks with panic, his hands held out, desperate to do something but afraid to touch, “Dream, tell me what to do, tell me how to help-”

But Dream can only shake his head, “I’m sorry,” he rasps, “I can’t.”

And then he is gone.

~~~

When he lands in the Dreaming, Dream is in his own body.

Or rather, he is in the familiar shape that he has come to think of as his. There is still a residual ache, though not wholly unpleasant, radiating through his bones.

He thinks, absently, that it is not dissimilar to the first time he stood up straight when escaping Fawney Rig. Like stretching his spine after a century curled too tight.

A painful relief.

“Woah, you alright Boss?”

Matthew’s voice startles him into awareness of his surroundings. His raven lands in front of where Dream is crumpled at the base of the throne room stairs. Pushing himself up on shaking arms, he finds himself wrapped in his longest cloak, buttoned up to his chin. Despite knowing intrinsically what form he is in, he finds himself running his hands over his face, neck, and chest, as if needing to feel for certain that everything is in its proper place, that nothing is swelling or splitting apart or breaking breaking breaking.

“Boss?”

Matthew hopped forward, concerned, and Dream let out a shaky sigh. “Yes, Matthew, I am alright.”

“Uh-huh…” Matthew tilted his head skeptically, “No offense boss, but I’ve seen you more ‘alright’ than this.” He paused, “At least I think I have.”

“I am fine, Matthew,” A hint of frustration seeps into Dream’s tone as he straightens himself, standing and pulling himself to his full height as if that could erase the shame clinging to his skin. How pathetic, how disgraceful. It was bad enough to lose control, to be held at the mercy of his own body, but to once more flee and leave Hob alone in the shadow of Dream’s weakness was nigh unforgivable. How many times would he crumple and run away from Hob before the immortal decided he wasn’t worth it? Dream could hardly believe he had stuck around this long.

As he glanced around the throne room, Dream thought he could see the echoes of broken glass.

Sighing, Dream turned tired eyes back to his raven, “I am fine,” he repeated, “but I would appreciate some privacy this evening. Please let Lucienne know that I am not to be disturbed except for emergencies.”

“Yeah, sure thing.” Matthew still looked worried when he flew off, but Dream didn’t have the energy to be annoyed by it. As soon as he was alone again, he let himself sag onto the bottom step of the staircase, drawing his knees up and resting his forearms across them.

He wishes he could be surprised at his ability to ruin his relationship with Hob so swiftly and thoroughly, but all he feels is resignation. He had hoped he could bask in the joy of this relationship a little longer, but there was nothing to be done now, not after such a blatant failure. The least he could do was not hide. He owed Hob that much.

It didn’t take long, but then, Dream didn’t expect it to. Barely an hour had passed before he could feel the familiar warmth of Hob entering the Dreaming. He couldn’t help the small, fond smile at Hob’s ability to force himself to sleep when he wanted to.

A part of him still wanted to hide, wanted to dissolve into sand and cower in the cracks and crevices of the palace until Hob was forced to wake. But Hob deserved better than that. And a small, traitorous shred of optimism wondered if he might be forgiven.

So, with a soft breath of willpower, he opened the throne room to Hob’s searching subconscious. He practically fell through the palace doors, as though he had been sprinting before being brought here. Dream stood, stiff and waiting for chastisement, and for a moment they simply stared at each other, Hob still reeling slightly from the change in location.

“Dream,” Hob’s voice is not angry. In fact, it is heavy with relief, and Dream feels his breath catch in his throat as Hob rushes forward and rambles, “Thank God, I was so worried. I’m so, so sorry, are you alright? Are you hurt? Can I hug you?”

Dream blinks as Hob comes to stand before him, hands held out but waiting for permission. Hob’s eyes are searching Dream’s body, looking for any wounds or signs of distress. He does not mention Dream’s changed form.

He’s not angry.

Everything is not ruined, and Dream feels like crying with relief, and without thinking he throws his arms around Hob’s chest, curling his fingers in the back of his shirt and burying his face in Hob’s neck. A huff of breath is knocked from Hob’s lungs as they collide together, but he doesn’t hesitate to return the hold, one hand carding through Dream’s hair as the other strokes his back.

“I’m sorry,” Dream whispers into his skin.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Hob responds immediately.

But Dream shakes his head, pulling away reluctantly, “I should not have…”

Should not have what? Gotten Hob’s hopes up? Promised something only to fail to deliver? Wanted more than he deserved?

Hob frowned, cupping Dream’s cheek in one hand to try to meet his eyes, “Dove… what happened? I… I was afraid that I hurt you-”

“No,” Dream reassured him immediately, “you did nothing wrong, I just…”

Stepping away from Hob’s hands, he slumped back to sit on the bottom step. Hob quickly joined him, sitting beside him and waiting patiently for Dream to find some way to explain himself.

“I am. Endless. But… there are still. Things that I am Not.”

‘Lovable’ is at the top of the list, he thinks, though ‘wanted’ isn’t far behind.

‘Woman’ is on there somewhere, too, apparently.

When he looks, Hob’s brow is furrowed in confusion, so he continues, “I have many forms that come easily to me. That feel… natural. But. The one I wore for you is not one of them.” Hob’s eyes widen, but Dream doesn’t give him a chance to interrupt, needing to get everything out before he loses his fragile courage, “I do not know why. Endless are… we were made genderless. It is a human thing. It should not feel so. So wrong to shape myself in a way that pleases you. And yet you saw what happened when I tried. I could not…” Dream’s voice cracks, and he has to clench his eyes shut and swallow thickly.

“Dream…” Hob sounds heartbroken, and Dream hates himself for always getting it wrong wrong wrong.

“I know that you love me, as I love you,” Dream pulls the words out through gritted teeth, “But I… I am greedy, and selfish, and I want you. And I. Wanted you to want me as well.”

“But I do want you.” Hob blurts the words out, loud and desperate, unable to bite them back any longer.

Dream glances up, blinking slowly, uncomprehending, “…What?”

Hob’s eyes are wide, his hands coming up to grip his own hair as his voice takes on a note of something like hysteria, “I do want you. Fuck, Dream, I want you so fucking much I thought it was a problem!”

“What?”

His hands flail as the words spill out, tripping over himself to get out months worth of feelings, “Dream, Dove, I’ve been taking two cold showers a day. Sometimes I have to sit on my hands to keep from pawing at you when you’re in arms reach. Fuck, I’ve bitten through the inside of my cheek more times than I can count just trying not to jump you!”

There is a long moment where they simply stare at each other, Hob with wide eyes and his hands in the air, Dream with his mouth slightly agape and eyes glistening with disbelief.

“Then why didn’t you?” Dream’s voice is soft, skeptical, insecure.

A pain lances through Hob’s chest, and a watery laugh escapes him, “I’m such an idiot,” he whispers, mostly to himself, before looking up at Dream with sad, guilt-ridden eyes, “I didn’t want to push you. You’ve had… a bit of a rough century. I didn’t want you to feel pressured into anything too fast. And then you showed up like…” he waved a hand ambiguously, “like that, and I thought you were, y’know, trying to hint at something.”

Burying his face in his hands, his voice raises with self-deprecation, “And I guess you were, I just didn’t think… fuck. I just didn’t think,” he finishes softly. When he lifts his head he looks so very sad, but he doesn’t hesitate to reach out and take Dream’s hand, “I’m so sorry, Love. For all I nag you to communicate more, I didn’t tell you what was going through my head either. I should have just asked from the beginning instead of assuming. Fuck, I should have asked as soon as you showed up so different. I should have realized something was wrong. I’m sorry.”

For a long moment, Dream’s eyes drift between the earnestness on Hob’s face and the soft grip of their clasped hands. He doesn’t not meet Hob’s eyes when he confesses, “Is it wrong of me to take comfort in the fact that I am not alone in my misstep?”

This time when Hob laughs, it is a bark of surprised delight, and his free hand ruffles Dream’s hair, drawing an annoyed huff from the Endless, “No, no dear, I understand.”

Dream isn’t sure that’s true. Isn’t sure Hob fully understands that in the scant handful of relationships Dream has had he has always been the only one fumbling, the only one struggling and struggling to catch up with his partner, to understand the things they seemed to know intrinsically, to find the balance between too much and not enough that everyone else seems to find with ease. He doesn’t think Hob truly understands, the way Dream does now if not before, that in his past relationships every fault had been his and his alone, and so the very idea that perhaps the weight of this one does not need to rest solely on his own shoulders, that for the first time they are, perhaps, equals in their fumbling, is such a heavy, heady relief that he feels faint with it.

He opens his mouth to explain all of this, but before he can speak Hob is pulling him in for a soft, gentle kiss. “We’re in this together, yeah?” He rests their foreheads together, smiling, “So we’ll figure it out together, too.”

That is all Dream has wanted, for a very long time.

He smiles against Hob’s lips, bringing a hand up to play with the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. “Well. You need not sit on your hands anymore.”

Hob laughs, “And you need not be anything other than yourself.”

It is still hard to believe that anyone might be happy with Dream being himself.

But.

Hob can be very convincing when he wants to be.