#but the save thing has six slots

[cogandstar]

alright, it is lunchtime for me, and then i'll be back to uh. hopefully get the true ending?

[altruisticalastor]

↳˗ˏˋAlastor x Readerˊˎ˗ ↴

☒ Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six

☒ Summary: "Alastor said we've met before. In the living world. But I seriously don't ever remember meeting him." Angel looked puzzled. "Soo... what do you remember from your life?" 

☒ Warnings: fem!reader she/her pronouns used, hurt with no comfort sorry, tons of confusion for alastor and the reader, one kiss, very suggestive language (its from angel- are we surprised?), slight self harming (alastor), blood, tears, arguing, desprate!alastor, toxic themes, split pov (second devider is when alastor's pov starts!)

☒ Word Count: 2,653

"You- WHAT?" 

Angel shot up from his spot on your bed. His eyes widened, eyebrows knitting in perplexity.

"I know- I know! It's bad... but I wasn't thinking clearly!" You slumped under Angel's judgemental gaze, pulling your knees up to your chest from where you sat on your bed. 

"Toots, there is no way his pussy eating skills are good enough to fuck you that dumb!" You averted your gaze. Heat rose to your cheeks from Angel's crass words.

"Oh, but they are..." You mumbled before you felt two of Angel's hands grip your shoulders, shaking you out of frustration.

"Did you really have to pick an absolute psychopath to be the one to pop your cherry? Toots, you're gorgeous. You could have anyone you want!" You were flustered beyond comprehension as Angel stopped shaking you. Opting to glare at your heated face instead. 

"We didn't go all the way! Plus he's the one who's been pursuing me all this time- I didn't get it at first, and I still don't. But-" Your expression morphed into one of contemplation. Angel's jaw went slack as he impatiently awaited your next words. "But what?! Spit it out!"

"He said we've met before. In the living world. But I seriously don't ever remember meeting him." Angel nudged you to the side before slotting himself atop your bed once more. "Soo... what do you remember from your life?" 

You froze. 

Angel's inquiry filled your mind with more questions than answers. 

"I... not much," You paused, turning to face Angel before you continued. "The earliest memory I have is waking up in a hospital bed after surviving a blow to the head from some hunting accident." 

You closed your eyes, wracking your brain for every last detail you could remember; no matter how small. "I ended up falling into a coma only days after that mishap. The next thing I know, I'm in fucking hell." You chucked bitterly. Angel let out a laugh of his own. 

"No offense, babe, but that has to be one of the saddest fuckin' things I've ever heard," Angel outstretched his legs, overlapping them atop yours. "That accident, what else can you remember about it? Maybe that's the ticket!" 

Your eyes shot open from Angel's question. "Wait... before I fell into a coma, there was this nurse- she told me that I was led into the woods by a dangerous fellow," You paused, eyes scanning Angel's wildly as he perched himself forward. Literally hanging on the edge of his seat from your musings. 

"She told me the gunshot wound saved my life, fucking ironic now because It ended up killing me anyway. She also said that... the man who took me into the woods was a serial killer who had been on the run for decades. He ended up getting shot in the head that night, also. Except he died instantly..."

Angel was hanging on to every word you uttered. He could see the pieces falling into place from your look of awe. "What was the man's name, toots? What was it?!" Angel shouted a little louder than he intended. You jolted back from his outburst, taking in a shaky breath. You replayed that memory with the nurse over and over again. 

She had to have said it at some point. 

Come on! Think, think- think!

“Turns out the man you were out in those woods with was a wanted serial killer. That 𝘈⃒̅𝘭⃒̅𝘢⃒̅𝘴⃒̅𝘵⃒̅𝘰⃒̅𝘳⃒̅ fellow was an active murderer for decades! The papers say he was good at steering clear of the cops for all these years. The hunter wasn’t even aiming for you both. His target was a nearby deer.”

"His target was a nearby deer."

A deer... 

Again. 

Retrace.

"That ɹ̸o̸ʇ̸s̸ɐ̸ʅ̸Ɐ̸ fellow was an active murderer for decades! The hunter wasn’t even aiming for you both. His target was a nearby deer."

Fuck- it was just out of reach. 

One more time, one more fucking time. 

Think carefully. 

"The hunter wasn’t even aiming for That A͊l͖a̪sto̶̸̅r̷̦͍ fellow. His target was a nearby deer."

You gasped sharply, startling Angel. You felt your heart sink into your stomach as the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

"Alastor... his name was Alastor." 

Your voice was distant as you spaced out. Angel's face blurred out of focus through your line of sight. 

"You've got to be fuckin' kidding me. That freak was going to kill you when you were still alive-? And now... you belong to him? Shit- toots! This is rough... and not the good kind of rough." 

Alastor sat at the piano. Staring at the keys with that ever-present smile— but not daring to strike a tune. 

You’ve been avoiding him again.

What was it going to take for you to realize that he was your fiancé on earth? 

Sure, his features were more creature than man, but at the end of the day; Alastor was still the same man you fell in love with. 

Maybe he should have held off from his… desires. 

Could you blame him, though? He’s been waiting nearly a century to be reunited with his beloved. 

You’re the person he thought about for all these lonely years in hell. The only solace for Alastor was the notion that you survived, lived a long happy life, and inevitably made it to the pearly gates. 

So imagine his despair when you showed up at the Hazbin Hotel, looking to be redeemed. 

Alastor recognized you immediately. He could spot that grin of yours in a crowd of billions. 

Smile at the world, and she smiles back at you. 

But— you didn’t even spare him the time of day. Alastor gave you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you just needed some time to reignite your memory. 

And so, he gave you time. You’ll come around, Alastor thought. 

But he couldn’t have been more wrong, as much as he hated to admit it. 

He grew impatient— losing all of his resolve when you admitted to his voice reminding you of home. 

Alastor presumed maybe a passionate encounter would jumpstart your adoration for him. You had never breached that level of intimacy when you both were alive. You were adamant about waiting until marriage, but those dreams never came true. 

Yet even still, it was not enough. 

Was he really that forgettable to you? 

Suddenly, a knock on his door pulled him from his stupor. Alastor quickly cleared his throat, straightening his bowtie and taking steps toward his door. 

The second he swung the door open, he was met by the person who invaded his every thought; you. 

“What a pleasant surprise! Come in, my dearest.” Alastor piped up, stepping aside to let you into his safe haven. 

Your face was devoid of any vibrancy, and your eyes frantically avoided his. Alastor watched you closely as you hesitantly stepped past the threshold of his space. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Alastor hummed as he shut the door before turning on his heel to face you. 

You rubbed at the sleeve of your dress nervously. Alastor’s mind instantly flashed the memory of your first meeting. 

The sight of you soothing yourself with a gentle caress to your bicep. Clammy hands seeping perspiration through that gorgeous vermilion dress of yours.  

“I-I remember you…” Your voice was barely above a whisper. Legs trembling from where you stood before him.

Your words caused Alastor’s heart to race wildly. 

At long last— you remember him! 

“I knew you would, my smart girl! Ah- you have no clue how elated I am to finally hear those words leave your lips!” He invaded your personal space without missing a beat. 

Alastor’s eyebrows knitted in confusion as you dodged his hand— that had full intention of clasping around your cheek. 

“Don’t… don’t touch me.” Your voice was shrill as you took a step back from him. 

Alastor took one step forward. 

“My darling, why are you being so cold? You know how much I loathe teasing.” Alastor forced out a chuckle as you took two steps back. 

Alastor took three steps forward this time. 

“You’re sick! You’re the one who’s been teasing me all this time— how dare you?!” You spat, raising your hands to push him away, but to no avail. 

Alastor grasped your wrists with his large palms. He gazed down at you with a frenzied look, grip tightening scarcely around your wrists. “Darling… this isn’t funny anymore.” His voice was low, and the corners of his lips twitched in irritation. 

“It never was funny to begin with! I mean, how could you try to kill me on earth and then think it’s okay to fool around with me in hell?!” You glared up at him, tears of frustration now rolling down your cheeks. 

Alastor’s grip loosened from your words. He was utterly astonished. "You think I... tried to kill you?" His voice was quiet, crimson orbs frantically searching yours. 

You grimaced at him, rolling your eyes before you shouted, "You led me out into the woods, and the next thing I know, I'm in the hospital with a gunshot wound to the head and no memories before waking up in a stiff hospital bed! Everything I know about you and the accident was spoon-fed to me by some crappy nurse!"

Alastor's smile dropped. He wasn't even aware of the frown that crossed his features. The only giveaway was the absence of that standard achy feeling in his cheeks from holding an everlasting grin. "Darling, I-I'm not following... you mean to tell me you... don't remember your life before that mishap?" 

You looked puzzled by Alastor's uncharacteristic display of distress. His hands slipped from your wrists as he wobbled backward. "Yeah, and It's your fault! If you didn't haul me out into those woods to kill me, I would still remember who I was! And my whole life before all this bullshit!" 

You took a step forward. 

"I would remember my family, my career, if I even fucking had one! I would remember my joyful memories, my painful ones, and— and- maybe I would remember somebody who actually loved me!" You furiously glared up at him. Pointing your index finger into his chest in an accusatory fashion. 

Alastor snapped at your last words. 

Somebody who actually loved you?

It was him.

It was always him. 

Was his love for you really that immemorable?

"You truly aren't joking... you... don't remember me." Alastor felt his heart shatter into a million pieces. You were the last thing keeping it intact. All that he felt in his chest now was your blunt fingernail piercing his skin from where you jabbed him. 

"I just told you I do! What the fuck are you talking about?!" Alastor could tell your patience was wearing thin. You were probably just as confused as he was but for all the wrong reasons. 

Alastor's arms fell limp against his sides. Yet his fists were balled up so tightly that he could hear the pitter-patter of his blood spilling onto the carpet from how deeply his nails sunk into the flesh of his palm. 

You weren't ever going to believe the truth, but Alastor still needed to try.

"My dearest... that is not how we met. And my intentions were not and never will be to end your life." Alastor paused, taking in a shaky breath before continuing. 

"You're frustrated about not remembering somebody that loved you, yes? As am I..." You tilted your head in confusion. Finally pulling your finger away from his wounded chest. "What the fuck are you trying to say, Alastor?" Your voice was laced with annoyance, and your scowl was unwavering. 

"Darling, that somebody that loved you was me-and still is. It will always be me," Alastor paused, hands now finding purchase on your shoulders. "That accident should have never happened! We were scheduled to be wed at the courthouse later that evening... but... we never... made it..."

Why were his cheeks burning unbearably so? 

And why was your countenance blurring before his very eyes? 

Alastor's grip on your shoulders was unwavering, but his hands now trembled. Your expression was one of perplexity as you shook your head incredulously. "I loved you in life and now in death. I've loved you all this time, my sweet girl. Nothing will ever change that! Please, I beg of you- you must believe me!"

The definitive radio static crackle to his voice was nowhere to be found. Instead, his voice was laced with desperation. You looked disoriented through his blurry gaze as you took a weary step back. 

Alastor felt wetness trickle down his burning cheeks. 

Oh, he was... crying?

The last time he wept was when he first arrived in this grim place otherwise known as Hell. The realization that he left you on earth all alone tore him up. Alastor was inconsolable for years.

You truly knew how to put him together just to rip him apart all over again, huh? 

There is no undoing grander than love itself. 

"I-I don't believe you..." Your voice was just above a whisper as you slipped out of his grasp and approached the doorway. You turned your back on him, literally and metaphorically. 

Alastor didn't miss a beat. He rushed to you, large palm slamming flat against the wooden door. "We worked at the same radio station! Your bitch of a friend Elaine and her parents took you in after your pill-addict parents abandoned you on your eleventh birthday!"

You let out a sharp gasp as he hovered over you. Alastor couldn't read your expression, with your face practically pressing into the wooden door. All he could see was the top of your head as he pushed his chest into your rigid back. His arm was outstretched, keeping the door shut and caging you in entirely. 

"It was love at first sight for me! We went dancing for our first date. Did you truly fail to notice how effortlessly we moved along the dancefloor at Charlie's last gathering? It's because deep down, your body remembers every dance we ever shared,"

Alastor flipped you over faster than you could process. Your back was now flush against the sturdy door, his arm still caging you in. He peered down at you as his thumb and index finger from his non-dominant hand grasped your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Every lingering touch..." 

He felt you tremble beneath his intense stare from how his chest now squashed against yours. Alastor's face dipped lower, invading your personal space. He brushed the tip of his nose against yours, breath fanning over your tear-stained cheeks. 

"And every kiss..."

Alastor observed you desperately as he pressed his lips against yours. He poured all his love into the shared embrace, hoping it would jumpstart your memory. But instead, you just shoved him away harshly, breaking away from his embrace. Alastor felt his world crumble around him as you wiped his kiss away with the back of your hand.

"You're fucking crazier than I thought!" With Alastor still reeling from the rejection, you took your leave. The sound of the door slamming thundered through his head. 

Alastor sunk to his knees. His hands came up to tug at his messy tufts of hair. Allowing the tears to flow freely now that he was completely alone.

Alastor did not think you were capable of hurting him until now. 

Alastor yanked at his locks furiously as his cheeks burned brightly in frustration. His knees quivered as his forehead kissed the carpet that was stained with his blood from earlier—when he unintentionally ripped up his palms. Alastor curled in on himself as he wept. 

This pain was worse than any other.

But more than anything, his love for you only burned brighter.

As did his determination to have you remember him and the pleasant life you both shared before all was lost. 

tags; @danveration @celestial-vomit @jyoongim @stygianoir @polytheatrix @mmik3yy @littlebullofblythe @cxrsedwxrlds @lillithhearts @nogiggleonlybitter @minniemumbles @chewbrry @lbcreations-blog @nonetheartist @call-me-nyxx @zombiesnips-blog @stawberrypimpsimp @wonderlandangelsposts @villxinmiixx @persephoneblck @maxlynn17 @littledolly2345 @karolinda007-blog @falling-endlessly @greekyoghurtwithberries @bladeismine @aloraaaxcrystalzx @doctorswife221b @scaramoochiie @fairyv-ice @chirikoheina @veroneverleft @tired-of-life-86 @saccharine-nectarine @c-thegingergirl @tsunaki @geminixbunny @softangxlicss @alleystore @sirens-and-moonflowers @fairyv-ice @honey132 @alastorsaries @zenix108 @michi-keinz @fokrilove @yourdoorisunlocked @willowshadenox @izakyun @fangirlbitch02 @kyana-chan @aquariaries @sincerely-lorely @maxlynn17 @ivebeenthearchersstuff

[charliemwrites]

Yes yes, I know. Part 9 for Charmed Slasher is coming out soon, I promise.

BUT! I had this Thought and just had to do it real quick!

(CW for violent imagery and actual violence)

Simon's been watching you for weeks.

You're such a sweet, quiet thing. Shy. Happy to let your coworkers lead conversations, chiming in only when directly addressed. You smile like sun peeking through clouds, slow and beaming, prying through darkness.

And they way you peer up through your eyelashes, the corners of your mouth tipping up. Oh, oh... he wants to ruin you.

Thinks of you while he strokes himself in bed, looking up at him through those thick lashes. Sticking together with unshed tears as you choke on his cock. That quietly pleased smile when he purrs that you're doing so well, almost halfway there...

It's becoming a distraction, this preoccupation with you. So many others just let their eyes slide over you, but not Simon. No, he sees you.

That you shred your bottom lip bloody when you're deep in thought. You wrinkle your nose and squeeze your eyes shut when you're trying not to sneeze. Always burn your mouth on your first sip of coffee.

He watches you in your home. The way you curl up with your favorite blanket, leaned up against the arm of the couch. A perfect open space for him to share with you. He memorizes your routines and imagines slotting himself into your life.

He shouldn't. That's not going to stop him.

Price has been staring at him hard when he thinks Simon won't notice. Gaz has been jumpier; the recruits whispering more fervently. They can sense him slipping; too many missions. Too much bloodshed. It's soaked past clothes and skin, muscle and marrow. His soul, if he has one, must be drenched crimson.

He needs an anchor to keep him from floating adrift in this sea of blood.

He's found you. So precious. So delicate. He couldn't let himself be too rough with you; you'd break so easily. Oh, his hands itch to break you down piece by piece like his favorite gun. Gut you and clean you out, only to put you back together again with his own hands, his initials stamped into you.

There's no salvation for someone like him, but you're all the Paradise he needs.

And then you go and do such a stupid, silly thing.

You go on a date. Look like something he wants to stain in your clingy jeans and low-cut top. Hair done just so. He wants to see it sweaty and tangled after burying his fingers in it; his vision goes red at the thought of anyone else getting that honor.

But no... no. It's not your fault, really. You don't know any better. But you will. You will very, very soon.

Simon watches your date greet you outside, slip an arm around your waist like it belongs there. Like you belong to anyone but Simon. The only things that saves the man from a bloody end right there is that you gently extricate yourself to go inside.

He seethes on the sidewalk across the street, fingers twitching for his Ka-Bar. The images of his initials on your perfect skin is burned behind his eyelids, and afterimage superimposing itself over his vision.

It's time you knew who you belong to.

--

Your father always said you have a temper like the Devil. Didn’t understand what he meant as a sunshine six-year-old, giggling after butterflies and munching on cheese sticks. Your parents’ pride and joy, their first and only babygirl.

You understood later, though, standing at the broken window and watching a pool of blood spread and spread and spread….. like leaving a marker tip on the page too long.

You’re Old Testament wrathful, fire and brimstone, churning beneath a lake of oil and ink. Pitch black, iridescent rainbow on the surface, too thick to realize what roils beneath until one misstep breaks that molecular tension—

Rage will boil up in your stomach, scorch your chest. Burns acidic in your throat and stains your teeth on venom. You don’t drown in anger, you wade into it until you float.

Not to say that you’re an angry person. You’re not. Not much to bother being angry about, by your estimate. Disappointed, resigned, annoyed, exasperated - sure. But the raw fury that sharpens your teeth and claws? It’s an energy expenditure your mind hardly ever feels the need to spark.

But there are some things…

“C’mon don’t be a fucking prude.” He’s drunk. He’s drunk and pushy and you feel your ribs expand, expand, expand…

“You fuckin’ owe me something.”

You show a little too much canine as you reply. “Because you bought me a couple drinks I didn’t ask for?”

“Fuckin’ spoiled bitch. Wha’ else d’you want, huh? Fuckin’ money?”

He pushes you. Your shoulders bump the alley wall behind you. The sky is so so dark above, no clouds, no moon. Even next to trash, the stink of that awful whiskey burns your nose.

You think of broken windows and blooms of blood.

“Just fuckin’ get on your knees.”

“No.”

“The fuck do you jus’ - it wasn’t a fuckin’—”

“No.”

His face twists, ugly and red (not the right shade of red) puffing up like a particularly loud bird.

“C’mere, you little—“

It’s nothing, nothing at all. A sidestep and a full-body shove. Your timing is perfect. You didn’t touch your second drink when your nail polish turned black.

Your “date” however, is wobbly and uncoordinated, you lean forwards on the balls of your feet in anticipation. Watch him bounce off the brick, stumble over a couple overfilled bags, and crack his temple on the metal corner of the dumpster.

You tilt your head as he collapses in a pathetic heap, barely conscious. Make a point to roll him over onto his back. The last sky he’ll ever see with any luck. You lean your foot into his stomach, watch him turn pale and then green. He’s not going to be able to roll over before all that drink comes up.

Satisfied, you step back as you brush brick dust and dirt from your pants and sleeves. Movement at the head of the alley catches your attention, but by the time you look, the disturbance is gone. Likely someone just passing by. You don’t care if you're wrong.

Below you, the man - you never bothered to actually remember his name - gurgles and starts to rasp wetly. The fury ebbs, a tide dragging out with bloody foam at the edge. You let out a slow, satisfied sigh and navigate to the alley's entrance.

You've barely stepped from the shadows of the buildings when there's a sharp pinch in your neck. The world goes black in seconds.

[slttygeto]

SIX THIRTY | KAWATA TWINS

synopsis: you were part of their childhood, their best friend and maybe even more. but are you down to let them love you in a different way?

content warning: threesome, both nahoya and souya fuck you (not at the same time), unprotected sex, p in v, cunnilingus, pet name (baby), they are willing to share you (and you accept of course).

word count: 3,7k 

note: thank you to the lovely @mztoman​  for supporting me as an artist! commissions are still open by the way :) 2 slots are left!

Sharing is part of any twin’s life growing up. Food, toys, maybe even friends—at one point, you get used to the fact that what is yours is also your twin sibling’s. Now, Nahoya and Souya didn’t exactly enjoy that, but it did help grow their bond stronger. From joining Toman together, to having the same group of friends—the brothers grew attached to one another and even made promised to always protect the other when in danger.

You were nine when you first met the Kawatas; rebellious, a duo of troublemakers, but funny and sweet—you remember first meeting them on the playground of the apartment complex you and your parents had just moved in. Something about having orange and blue hair could never go unnoticed, and soon enough, they started a conversation with you.

“You are new here,” the orange haired is the one who speaks first, his twin brother hiding behind him. That gave you an idea on their dynamic.

Plus, he wasn’t asking you, he was stating that you were new here—that he has never seen you before, and you were nodding along to his sentence.

“I am,” you were as tall as them, confident but a little shy. Nahoya noticed how you kept wiping your hand on your skirt nervously, and cocked an eyebrow in confusion.

“Are you scared?” you weren’t, but they seemed so… cool. You didn’t have friends, and your parents warned you when picking who to hang out with. And when you saw the orange haired one fighting those who bullied his brother, your heart called out for them.

“No,” you start, a little unsure if you should say this next, “I just think you’re so cool.”

And that blew Nahoya’s mind away. He’s been called a troublemaker before, mainly negative stuff regarding his behavior or outbursts but…cool? Only Souya has called him that, so this felt new.

Souya on the other hand was a little jealous. His brother was getting all the attention for being the hero and coming to save the day, and what was he getting? Nothing. It made his child brain feel all fuzzy—he was upset. He always sported an angry look, but he knew that right now, he was pouting.

“Here,” you reach your hand towards the younger twin who immediately looks at what was in it. A handkerchief.

“You should wipe your face with it, or at least get your mom to clean the cuts. Mom says cuts can be ugly when they’re not treated fast.”

Even at a young age, you’ve always been such a sweetheart. So caring and full of love. You had so much to give and expected nothing in return—truly a blessing.

So it was no surprise when years passed by, and you were still friends with the Kawatas. Although ‘friends’ is far from what you would define your relationship with them.

There was a hint of a friendship there, but on the surface it seemed as the two men were completely and utterly obsessed with you (and rightfully so). They weren’t sure if you felt the same, if you would go as far as they would for you. But one thing was certain; they wanted more than just a friendship.

From your point of view, you were close to them. You’ve seen them grow into handsome, strong men. They were still doing what they always did—being in a biker gang. It didn’t seem that serious at the time, but the more you looked into it, the darker things got. They told you everything you needed to know about Toman, but they tried their very best to shelter you from the dangers of their job.

 Nahoya

Coming home for dinner

Souya

We’re bringing pizza, don’t cook anything.

 There it was again, the princess treatment.

Even a decade later, they made sure to remind you that you didn’t need to lift a finger when they were around (and you appreciated that greatly). Things happened, you grew up and moved into your own place and they still made sure that you apartment wasn’t that far from where they work. Ensuring that they could pay you a visit whenever they could.

And soon enough, they were at your doorstep. They didn’t need to knock since they had a spare key, so you didn’t bother to pause the show that you were watching when you heard the rustling of keys outside your door.

“What if I was trying to break in,” came Nahoya’s voice first, and you flashed him a smile from your position on the couch.

“Then you would be one sloppy robber,” you teased, looking behind him at his twin brother who was taking off his shoes. You noticed that he had carefully placed the pizza boxes on the counter and your eyes sparkled when you noticed that it was from your favorite place.

“Oh my god! I’ve been craving pizza from this place!” you got up from the couch, pulling them both in a hug. “Thank you both, so much.” You say before planting a kiss on each of their cheek.

They shared a knowing stare, one that you always said was creepy twin telepathy, but this time they hoped that you wouldn’t push them away or find them weird.

To put it in short words, you felt like home.

Never in a million years did they think they would sit down and talk about having feelings for the same person—hell, they even thought that they had different types.

But then you came along, like the sweetheart that you are, and proved them wrong. They were aware of how unusual it would be if they were to admit that they liked the same person and were willing to share her so casually, but they didn’t care (and it’s not like people couldn’t tell that they were infatuated with you).

And as you ate dinner, unaware of the bomb that was about to be dropped on you, the men chatted and laughed with you like it was any other day. They didn’t want to risk ruining your night, or potentially lose you as well—but liking you has been consuming them whole, taking up so much of their time and thinking and something needed to be done. No matter the outcome.

Souya would be lying if he said that he wasn’t nervous that you would pick one over the other, mainly because he thought (and was so sure) that you would pick Nahoya over him just because of how much you two bicker. You’ve shown him how much he means to you, cuddled with him after a horrible day, and even cooked his favorite meal—but the man was just so sure you would not choose him.

Nahoya stands up from the couch and turns off the TV. You are confused for a moment, even go as far as to smack his shoulder.

“What was that for? I was watching!” You were met with complete silence from both men who usually nagged you about the shows you watched.

Growing aware of how quiet the men suddenly got, your stomach twisted in a mixture of confusion and anxiety—what was going on?

“Guys?” your voice was small, and they felt so bad that they were putting you through this.

“I actually—well, we actually have been meaning to talk to you about something.” Nahoya starts, and he looks over at his twin brother to let him continue.

“Oh god, are you two moving out? Did I do something?”

“(Name),” Souya cuts you off, and this is the first time you heard him use such tone with you. He couldn’t blame you, you were nervous and things suddenly took a turn for the worst, rambling was a very natural reaction.

“You guys are scaring me,” you were near tears, and they both wanted to do nothing but hold you and tell you everything will be okay.

“We are not leaving you, we’re not moving away either it’s just—“ how was he supposed to say this now? Planning it out was easy, but saying it…fuck, he was so scared of what might happen when it finally comes out of either his or Souya’s mouth.

“We like you.”

What?

You were frozen, lips parted in shock. This was not what you were expecting to hear on movie night—it was supposed to go well, be enjoyable and fun and now they were--

“We do, and it’s not just me or just him which is really fucking unusual—we can’t really imagined letting the other have you because it’s unfair, we wouldn’t normally do this with just anyone—“ Nahoya continues. This was actually happening.

“And you’re not just anyone…I’m really sorry sweetheart,” Souya adds, sensing just how confused you were.

“You can take all the time that you need to give us an answer, we’re leaving in a bit for a work trip. And no matter your answer, nothing will change.”

“…nothing?” You ask in a small voice, and if it was any other day, they would’ve dropped to the ground. You had that much effect on them.

“Nothing, I promise. Movie nights will still be a thing, we will still come over when you’ve had a shitty day—it will still be us,”

It has been exactly five days since the last time Nahoya and Souya came over. You’ve managed to think everything through, tried to come up with reasons as to why you might not feel the same way. How it could potentially ruin the friendship, maybe you didn’t find them attractive? Bullshit. You just couldn’t find a good enough excuse.

You did like them back—craved being with them, but the idea of dating two men has always seemed new, foreign. You could only imagine the weird stared as you walk down the street holding hands with both—but then again, who cares? You knew you wanted them and no other person, you couldn’t think of anyone who could make you as happy as they do (and have done for the past decade). The thought of losing them scare you to no end.

You went with no contact with them for the past one hundred and twenty hours—you were anxious, a little scared even if you knew you had nothing to worry about. You did like them back after all.

Maybe it was the fact that you had gone out and bought yourself new lingerie to surprise them that made you so nervous. You were waiting for them to walk through your door and be pleasantly surprised when they see you, maybe a little shy and taken aback? You just knew you wanted their jaws to drop and their hands to be all over your body.

And soon enough, you were hearing a very familiar sound of keys rustling at your door. You were sat on your couch in one of Souya’s large hoodies, no bottoms and socks Nahoya that had gotten for you for your birthday, what was hiding under the large clothing would soon enough have them swooning for you.

It was silent when they walked in, the blue haired male making an entrance first and expecting you to be asleep—which you weren’t.

“Hey,” you exhaled nervously, fiddling with the hem of Souya’s baby blue hoodie. You felt exposed, vulnerable under the guy’s stare. And it only worsened when his twin brother appeared next to him.

“Hey pretty,” Souya started, a little unsure of what was going on. Nahoya on the other hand was pretty quick to catch onto your little game.

He leans against the door’s frame with a little grin that never seemed to leave his face. It was mischievous, playful—he could tell you were blushing.

“You’re such a treat, aren’t you?” Nahoya says in a whisper, and Souya’s eyes light up at the suggestive tone. So this is where things were going.

You didn’t flinch, nor stare at them weirdly when the older twin spoke, and that alone gave Souya the green light to slowly approach you. Pulling you up and towards him, you were a bit taken aback that he was the one initiating things and not Nahoya (having always thought that Souya would be a bit more submissive in bed, but you weren’t complaining).

“I’m gonna need a verbal response before I do anything,” Souya whispers, but his voice in loud enough for his brother to hear. They needed to make sure you were okay with their confession, their proposal to share you and if any of this was making you uncomfortable.

“I’m all yours,’ was what you said, before Souya’s lips were kissing yours with so much passion. His fingers quickly went up to the back of your head to gently grip your hair, pulling you closer to him.

He was such a passionate kisser, nothing like you imagined—but again, you weren’t complaining. Your hands rested on his shoulders as your lips moved against each other, it felt so perfect to have him up against you like this. His hands then traveled down to your ass, softly gripping the flesh over the fabric of your (his) hoodie before letting out a groan.

You were far too gone from Souya’s kiss to notice Nahoya slipping behind you, while you kissed his twin brother and let him feel you up, he pushed your hair away from your neck to plant gentle kisses to the skin. You’ve always been a tease with the outfits that you wore, showing off parts of your body that they craved to touch, kiss and love on the same way they were about to.

You were truly blessing them right now.

“Wanna take it to your room?” Nahouya whispers in your ear, grinning at the little moan you let out against Souya’s lips when his lips leave yours to press hungry kisses on your throat. Fuck, they were so good and you weren’t even getting to the good part.

“Bed, please.” And who were they to deny their little princess?

The trip from the couch to your room was very short, mainly because your legs were wrapped around Nahoya’s waist as you kissed, his legs getting you there faster, while Souya tagged along in the back. They didn’t bother to lock your room’s door before Nahoya was plopping you down on your mattress, and jumping back on you to kiss you again.

His kisses were a lot gentler than Souya’s, a tad more playful and definitely enjoyable. Your hands traveled up to his hair, tugging at the roots to let him know that he was doing such a good job (although you grinding up against him was enough encouragement).

Their dynamic in the bedroom was already showing, because while Nahoya was on you like a beast, Souya was taking his time ridding himself of his jacket and shirt, anything that could get in the way of feeling your skin against his. So impatient and needy, but fuck it was so attractive to watch him that eager to feel you.

Pulling away from the kiss, Nahoya’s hands played with the hem of your shirt, silently asking you if he could take it off. You didn’t hesitate as you took it off in one swift motion, watching as the men’s jaw went slack at the sight of you in the pretty lingerie set you had just bought the other day.

This is the reaction that you wanted.

“Pretty?” your voice was small, shy but you knew what you were doing. Nahoya’s hand went to the back of your neck, pulling you back into a deep kiss as his other hand went behind your back to undo your bra, freeing your boobs in the process. You felt the other end of the bed dip as Souya joined on top, his hand immediately fondling with one boob.

“Fuck, you’re such a tease.” The older one says as he pulls away from your lips, tracing his tongue over your neck and down to your chest. While Souya’s hand was massaging one of your boobs, Nahoya takes the bolder approach and licks at your hardened nipple. This makes you hiss, eyes staring down at the two men worshipping you like you were a goddess.

Souya lets go of your breast and leans down, mimicking his brother’s action and engulfing your boob in his mouth. You were growing hot and bothered, your moans were uncontrollable and filled the entire room within seconds of having their mouths on you. You could only imagine what was about to come.

It felt as though they heard your thoughts, because they were pulling away from you at the same time to fully strip themselves of their clothes. Their eyes were filled with lust, and you could feel yourself getting wetter by the second.

Nahoya was silent as he pulled you down towards him, hands gripping the back of your thighs before pushing your knees to your chest. He admires you for a second, breath stolen from him at how fucking needy and ready you were to have them fuck your brains out. So fucking pretty.

“Think I won’t take your panties off, you look pretty good in them.” He teases you, lips brushing against your ankle before he was staring at his brother, waiting for a response.

“Push them to the side though, I wanna have a taste,” Souya’s voice added in, and Nahoya was quick to get off the bed while still holding your legs against your chest. He allows Souya some space between your legs, and watches as you eagerly try to look at how he was so eager to taste your pussy.

“You like it, hm?” You nod in response to Nahoya’s question, a shy moan leaving your lips when you felt the other one push your panties to the side and lick a stripe at your clit. His tongue felt warm and wet, pressing the right way against you. Your hips bucked with every lick, and the louder you got, the more prominent the bulge in their pants became. Your neediness sent the blood rushing south, your teary eyes and pouty lips were so tempting, but Nahoya promised himself that he would get to fuck you first and missionary. He wanted you to look at him while he fucked every single thought out of that pretty head of yours.

Your first orgasm of the night washed over you so nicely, Souya’s lips kept kissing and pressing on your clit even as you tried to push him away. He pulls away for a second to kiss your thighs, and watches intently as Nahoya takes off his boxers and lines himself at your folds. The tip of his cock teases your entrance for a moment, takes in how wet and ready you were for him, before pushing in slightly.

“Hold on tight baby,”

That was the last thing he said before everything around you started feeling fuzzy. His pace was unforgiving, sharp thrusts hitting the right spots all while groaning in your ear about how fucking good you felt wrapped tightly around him. Nahoya had a foul mouth, kissing and licking at your neck while praising you and your pussy for taking his cock like a champ. Wet sounds filled the room, the squelching of your pussy as he pounded into you was the only thing that you could focus on despite the obscene words leaving his mouth.

Souya was sat on the bed, watching as his twin brother pounded into you and left you a drooling mess. His cock sat heavy on his palm as he stroked it, letting out a few moans that caught your attention and had you taking your eyes off of Nahoya for a moment before said man was reminding you of who you should be looking at.

“Eyes on me baby, I’m not done with you.” His hand wrapped lightly around your neck, and he leaned down to press his forehead against yours to stare deeply into your eyes. His hips were driving against yours at a dizzying pace, each thrust, each stroke of his cock getting you closer to a delicious orgasm.

It only took another few strokes and a kiss to your lips before you were cumming around him with a loud cry, your thighs shaking around him. Nahoya helps you ride out your orgasm sweetly, reaching his own high right after you. He kisses you softly, brushes your sweaty hair out of your forehead. And soon enough, Souya was replacing his brother’s position between your legs.

“My turn.”

He kisses you sweetly as he pushes himself in, apologizing that he was too needy to wait and promises to make it up to you when you’re done. Unlike his twin brother, Souya takes it slow and is careful with his thrusts. They’re deep and calculated, watching every twist of your face with careful eyes to make sure he’s hitting the spots that make your eyes roll to the back of your head.

“Oh baby, you feel so good.” Souya whispers against your neck, his pace getting faster the tighter you clench around him. Your hands find his hair and you’re slightly pulling at it as you feel yourself approaching your high, your high pitched squeals encouraging the blue haired guy to keep doing what he was doing.

“Fuck you’re gorgeous,” Nahoya comments from his position on the bed next to you, soft hands caressing your cheek as you let Souya absolutely ruin you to the last moment. Your teary eyes meet Souya’s lustful ones, so dark and filled with desire to absolutely ravish you. He wanted to make sure you knew how you made him feel, how this was nothing compared to what he wanted to do to you once you settled down. Eating you out everywhere, fingering you in the car, eating you out while you sucked his brother off—so many plans.

“So close,” you whimper out next to the blue haired male’s ear, and he’s quick to start rubbing on your clit, observing how your jaw goes slack only after a few, gentle rubs. His eyes take in how your thighs shake and your entire body lifts off the mattress as you cum around his cock. He hisses at the feeling of your walls clenching around him, pulling out to paint your thighs with his release. The sight of you with your pussy leaking Nahoya’s cum and your thighs covered in his cum was something. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your stomach and watches as Nahoya’s arms wrap around your waist to pull you towards him to cuddle.

“You did so well,” Souya kisses your arm, before getting off the bed to go grab a towel to clean you up. While cuddled up against Nahoya, you nuzzle your face in his neck and whisper something that has his heart leaping out of his chest.

“I love you both, so very much.”

2023 © all works belong to slttygeto. do not repost my work anywhere else.

[jolapeno]

epilogue. she might just be my everything and beyond

javier peña x f!reader | epilogue of late night texts

summary: It's the year 2000. Javi is minding his own business on the porch of his pop's ranch when a text from an unknown number vibrates his phone. The only problem is, no one knows he has a phone and no one has his number.

chapter warnings: here's the epilogue. two idiots pining for one another. fluff. flirting. continuous romcom vibes. falling in love. idiots in love. mention of olivia (steve's and connie's child) ✨ wordcount: 2.7k.

an: at the end.

text key: bold is you/reader | italics is javi

you keep flirting with me and ill drive myself over

Oh will you now?

use my key and everything

You have had very little reason to use it lately.

thats cause youre so desperate youre already at the door

Desperate or welcoming?

both

I can be less desperate next time, if you prefer.

dont you fucking dare baby

So when you coming over?

already putting my shoes on

It flies by, time.

One minute, he’s clutching your hands until your fingers slide from his. A promise in the air, one he knows you’ll keep because it's all temporary. Knowing that you’ll be right back, suitcase—and possessions following behind—as you move across the country. 

Within a blink, Javi is asking you where you want things to go, in the little place you chose with so much ease. Spotting you unpack a photo frame, the photo strip from Houston front and centre, sitting on a bed of receipts. 

The next, he’s sweating for reasons he’d rather not be.

His back twinging, protesting as he carries another box to the van. Your smile rises at the sight of him approaching, gesturing to pass it to you—still standing on the edge of the truck.

“Cariño. You’ve lived here six months. How have you amassed so much sh–tuff?”

Narrowing your eyes, taking the box and placing it on top of another, “Nice save.”

Sending you a sink, he smiles as you slide your hand in his to get down. Knowing he doesn’t ever need to feel them slide from his again—hopefully, no emotional goodbyes at the airport. Not ones that don’t involve you visiting someone for a long weekend here or there.

“Are you forgetting that I packed an entire suitcase the first time I saw you? Because knowing that information, I am surprised you’re confused that I’ve doubled my possessions since living here?”

Pulling you close, he focuses on how you feel warm against him—fitting against him perfectly. A feeling he’s had plenty of time to grow used to but finds he never does. How you slot with him, face turned upwards, looking at him like he moves mountains and walks across fire.

If you asked him, he would.

But you never do. You just look at him as though you know he would. Knowing he does.

He supposes it’s why you’re all set to move in with him. Into his home. His room.

This place—as lovely as it has been—will no longer be yours. The little home in the centre of town is tucked away above a video store that you’ve become a frequent customer of, whether he has plans with you or not.

From tomorrow morning, though, you’ll be waking up with him officially. The two of you have had months of it, where you’re there but not entirely with him. Even if, over time, your things have been left amongst his, some even finding themselves hanging alongside his. To the point a drawer was needed—and hangers. Still, for a while, when you said home, you had meant yours.

That was until the last few weeks. Your eyes shimmering, twinkling with the stars in the night sky, curled into his side. His green jacket, the one with the brown collar, wrapped around your shoulders, no longer smelled of old cigarette smoke and desperation but rather sweetness and hope. Your hand entwined with his:

Can we go home, baby?

Yeah, I can take you now.

No, to yours.

You poke him. Light, but purposeful. A little jab to bring him back, and the way you’re smiling at him—fuck. He can’t imagine a look that could make his heart double in size quicker. His thumb strokes alongside your cheek. His pink shirt—the one you had commandeered as your own—rolled up at the sleeves and tied at your waist.

Javi’s noticed you steal his clothes a lot. Fashion them into something that suits you better. He doesn’t moan. If anything, he makes it a purposeful thing to show you how much it means to him—how much he likes it, craves it.

“C’mon, only a few more boxes...”

Groaning, he buries his lips against yours, feeling your smile widen, grinning widely against him as you hold him close.

Your teeth pull at his bottom lip before releasing it with a pop, a twinkle to your eyes. “… think of it like this: once the van is packed, we get more time to say goodbye before I have to return the keys.”

“Hmm,” he mumbles, keeping you in place with two fingers under your chin. “And how do you plan on us saying goodbye, baby?”

Sliding your nose against his cheek. “Loudly. I plan on saying it loud, baby.”

You packed me a note in my lunch?

I did

It wasn’t very safe for work.

you said you eat your lunch at your desk

Yes but I’m not a loner, Javi. I do eat lunch with people.

lesson learned then baby

But yes.

yeah?

I don’t think the porch table will cope though, may have to think of a more stable surface.

I think I can think of something

No wood! I am not having you pick splinters out of my ass again, baby.

that was on you

I think it was on you and your speech about how beautiful I looked being a ranch-hand.

Do you fancy coming to my office Halloween party?

do I have to dress up

Yes. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll be dressed up too. 

before I decide what are you dressing up as 

That’s the incentive to come, if you say yes I’ll tell you.

do you want me there 

Yes! Want to show you off

then ill be there baby

Because you like being showed off?

yes. but also because you want me there

While outwardly, he’d protested the trip to Miami from the moment you booked it off work up until he was sat beside you on the plane, he does see the beauty in it.

Although, Javi primarily suspects that it is down to you. You with your legs out, you in a bikini on the beach, robbing his shades until he buys you your own—a matching pair, something that makes Steve chuckle and Connie aww.

The lazy mornings that remind him of Houston are nice, too. The ones where neither of you are woken by an alarm or his Pop’s awful singing. The backdrop of the airy hotel room and a warm, gentle breeze blowing the sheer curtains as his thumbs dig into the back of your thighs and make you chant, is a bonus. 

Because Javi can make your skin glisten, and your body sing, whenever and wherever he gets the chance. 

What he can’t have at home with you is the sight of you fitting in so easily with the two people who have become a second family. The ones who have seen him go to lengths he hadn't known was possible, him and his old partner seeing things that only appear in occasional nightmares now. 

Connie and Steve welcomed you in with ease and with them, you smiled so effortlessly. Blending in like you were always there—laughter bursting out of you when you’re playing with Olivia. 

It's there, ever-present on the beach, as you chase Olivia around in the sand. The castles the two of you had been making long since trodden on, as the little girl squeals and squeals until she’s caught. 

“You should marry her.”

Turning his head, Steve nods towards the three of you. Connie snapping photos as you roll in the sand. The yellow tinge from his aviators adds an additional glow to the world as he eyes up his former partner-turned-friend—a friend who apparently now gives unwarranted marriage advice.

Scratching his chin, he rolls his jaw. “You giving me permission, Murph?”

“C’mon, Jav. She’s nice, good to you. Clearly makes you very fuckin’ happy.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe I’m already planning it.”

“Yeah? Fuck. Can’t wait to tell Connie. She told me I needed to convince you.”

Javi shrugs, pushing the glasses up his nose. “It so hard to believe I’d have come to that conclusion on my own?”

“Before you met her? Yeah. Since her? No. Could tell you were smitten—”

Snorting, Javi runs his hand across his chin. “I was not fucking smitten.”

“Yeah, you fucking was. No shame in that, Jav. No shame in enjoying one good woman.”

Groaning, he turns back to the laughter. The corner of his lips twitched, wishing to slide into his cheeks as he watches you throw your head back, neck exposed, as Olivia tries to do a handstand.

“I got the ring last month.”

“Shit.”

Turning his head, he narrows his eyes, watching Steve put his hands up in defence.

“You just said—“

“Yeah, well. Forgot how determined y’can be about things. Surprised me. S’not a bad thing,” Steve says. “Just, y’know. Years ago, I knew you as the man who fucked his way through—“

Elbowing him, Javi smirks as he hears Steve splutter. A sharp look added as Steve holds his hand up.

“I’m not that person anymore, Murphy.”

His friend nods, apology falling. The evidence that he means it stitching into his expression—that he was just joking, teasing. An explanation coming, that he knows how he’s changed—all words he would have once craved hearing. But since meeting you, he’d found even the teasing didn’t upset him as much.

Clapping his hand on his shoulder, Javi looks over his shades. “I know. Alright. Just, I don’t like the reminder, that's all. Feels like… feels like a lifetime ago.”

“Y’telling me.”

Snorting, Javi slides his hand off. Moving his eyes back to the sight of Olivia grinning at the two of them. Her small hand trying to cover her mouth as she whispers something to you, something which Javi suspects involves him from the way she’s running full speed towards him.

“She’s grown up so quickly.”

He’s about to reply, but Olivia interrupts—skidding to a stop in the sand, kicking it across his feet. Swiftly, her hand—all small and delicate—wraps around and tugs on his hand.

“Uncle Javi, can you come play?”

Over the top of her, he spots you. Leaning your weight on one side, hand covering your brows to watch his expression.

And fuck, how can he say no to either of you.

hows pops?

He’s good. In fact, enough to be getting your Mom’s cookbooks down from the shelf for me.

I hope you know thats him saying he loves you

He has told me how much it means to him that I wanted these. Also keeps telling me that he’s happy they’ll be staying in the family.

bet that made you cry didn’t it 

Yes! Obviously. 

youre so cute baby

In my defence he caught me off guard with the comment, I was busy staring and deciphering the handwritten notes.

not gonna be able to read them now if youve cried all over them

As always, you’re hilarious. I obviously didn’t cry into the book! I cried in the bathroom.

you turn the tap on to try and hide it again

Shut up, Javi.

i should be back soon, just grabbing the parts now

Don’t rush, he’s fine. Promise. He even says his back is barely giving him any problems since I told him I’d cook from the book.

what you cooking?

Come home safe and find out.

youre such a tease 

Learned it from you baby. 

At one stage, Javi had been good with people.

Persuasive.

Now, he’s unsure if he even knows how to ask for a favour without giving something up or flirting.

He’s still charismatic, or so you tell him. But, he's pretty sure his tact has gone, impatience bubbling as he tries to pretend to give enough of a shit to be able to ask for the favour he wants.

For you, he decides to push through. To not walk back through the door he came through. He does stuff his hands into his jacket, the man staring at him, still wearing the same confused expression he had when Javi first stepped through the door.

Because even if he’s explained three fucking times, the man still doesn’t understand why he asked him to create the crossword he’s got clutched in his hands. 

The one that would never even go to print—just a single request. A favour. All personal, just for him. Not to be published in every newspaper, but just one.

The one for him, and him alone.

It didn't matter how many ways he explained it, the man remained confused. Only reluctantly accepting, he's sure, to get him to leave.

That had been days ago. Now, you're ahead of him. Your fingers brushing over the tops of long stands, occasionally looking over your shoulder at him, making him feel like he's stepped into one of the movies you've made him watch. 

Even when you look ahead, he can tell you’re grinning from behind—taking the view in. It's 'one of your favourites', something you’d told him the first time he brought you here. 

It’s why he brought you here, now.

Second to you, of course, baby. 

You stop some distance ahead, beginning to place down a blanket, all chequered and soft, as he comes to join you. Placing the basket in his hand down on the edge of it, before your fingers are swatting at him and undoing the ties before you grasp the bottle, food and other bits.

Not that he can eat, needing more than what the wine you’d grabbed would do.

Nerves bubbling, dancing and fluttering like the flies further down the hill. You don't notice. You're focused on the newspaper, the crossword he's not let you see for the last few hours, taunting you, making you wait.

He almost wishes he hadn't when it adds to the knot in his stomach, it tightening more when you become irritated at his coyness as he's reading out the clues—

Javi, what are you up to? You always do down, across, down. Always.

You’d have made a good detective or DEA agent.

Likely given him and Murphy a run for their money—something Steve had even said to you both when the two of you were in Miami. Sand in your toes, sea air in your hair—grin brighter than the sun.

“Give it here,” you say, not sharply, but not playfully either.

His hand wipes his lower mouth, hiding his smirk, having wanted you to do that for the past fifteen minutes.

When you take the crossword, you’re chewing. 

Distracted, barely able to spot him sliding the remainder of your punnet from reach. Because Javi remembers how you feel about being asked any critical questions when you are eating.

He supposes it's the one benefit of you making him watch so many romcoms. It allowed him to do market research and ask questions without raising your suspicion, such as where wouldn't you like to be asked and if you want him down on one knee. 

Mainly, I don’t want to have food in my teeth when I’m being asked. Don't want to spit any leftovers at you in my shock.  

“Hey,” he whispers, stealing your attention—watching you smile, glancing at your clean teeth. “Eres preciosa.”

Your lips slide, curling up into your cheek. “You’re such a flirt, Peña.”

Kissing your cheek, he keeps his arm around you. Fingers playing with the fabric on your hip—balling it up before smoothing it out. Thumb and index brushing, calming, soothing him as your eyes glance over the page.

Occasionally, asking him things, avoiding the clues he desperately wants you to solve.

Until.

Fuck, until.

“Javi.”

“Hmm,” he mumbles, pretending indifference, head tilted down, resting his chin on your shoulder—knowing from the high-pitched way you said this name that you’ve already cracked it.

Your fingers slide over the paper, smothering the white and black boxes from view. “Javi?”

“Yes, baby.”

“I think that’s my reply, isn’t it?”

Lips curling, he wraps his fingers around your chin, turning you to face him. Watching it happen in slow motion, how you smile before you grin—tears all but filling your eyes as you clearly try not to get ahead of yourself.

“You wanna make me less lonely, cariño?”

Swallowing, you drop the paper. Let it fall to the blanket, twisting your body until your knees are between his thighs as you take both sides of his cheeks.

“Sí.”

“Sí?”

Nodding, a tear falls. It's one shimmering with joy and happiness, his thumb swiping it, spreading it across your skin.

“I don’t know… I don’t know the translation,” you laugh, it spluttering, fingers stroking his skin. “But I’ll marry you. I love you. Yes, Javi.”

And he whispers it.

The translation. Pressing it, as well as I love you, to your lips as his arms snake further around your waist. Hearing you, all quiet, it almost buried in kisses, repeating the translation back.

Before he falls backwards into the grass, with you on top of him—his fiancé. His world.

you fancy coming to laredo in autumn

Any particular reason?

been told I need a best man and I only know you

an: gosh, here we are. i began writing late night texts one night after a chaotic chat with @guyfieriii because i was manic/sad/anxious all at once and it was the only logical thing i could focus on. as much as javi and reader saved one another, they saved me too. thank you to you lovely lot. not only did you welcome this in with open arms, but you cheered me on every single week (also, btw, how cool is it we didn't miss a single week omg). i owe you so much, and i cannot believe we made it here together. to the old followers, i see you. to the new ones who just discovered me, hey, welcome. to all of the friends I've harrassed over the last few months, i love you. to the new ones I've made, i also love you omg. i'm already missing this pair so much, and i cannot wait until we get to hang out with them sporadically. i'm going to go cry in a corner, but just know my heart is so full and so happy and it's all down to you all 🩷

[azfellandco]

Hi friend this ask is a request for you to wax lyrical about Crowley slowly dying of a poisonous dose of laudanum, because it seems That Scene is still on all our minds. <3

Godbless (they said agnostically). This is going to be a mess of a response because I have been working a lot of overtime and am pretty sleep deprived, and also because there are a lot of angles to this.

First off: you're so correct to point out that laudanum is an analgesic and not literally a poison, because I think this slots in so nicely with the pattern of stuff we see Aziraphale consume and why (food and wine, for sensual pleasure) and stuff we see Crowley consume and why (alcohol for numbing and six shots of espresso to brace himself, and now laudanum, a medical grade numbing agent, at a dosage that would have killed Elspeth had he not intervened).

To really get into this I'm going to have to talk a little about something I have a lot of approximate knowledge about: Victorian era medicine. Why I find poison sexy (maybe compelling is a better word here) is partially tied up in the Victorian era and this exact subset of knowledge, which I am going to disclaim right now as not very precise. I research stuff primarily to regurgitate it in fiction, and not for complete factual accuracy.

First off, let's take a moment to admire Crowley's prognosticative abilities once again.

Antiseptic is 25 years off, germ theory is held in disdain by the western world, but here's Anthony "that went down like a lead balloon" Crowley just trying to be helpful to this guy covered in blood.

Antiseptic was not in common medical and surgical use until the 1850s. It was pioneered by Joseph Lister, who actually worked at the University of Edinburgh, which was kind of the place to be in terms of medical breakthroughs of this time period. Before the advent of washing your hands and sterilizing surgical equipment, something like 2/3rds of surgical patients died either on the operating table or of infection afterwards. Medicine during this time period was difficult, dangerous work with a high risk of complications, and surgery was haunted by death and disease. Dr. Darymple would have administered laudanum to a patient and then strapped their limbs down and put something in their mouth so they didn't bite through their tongue before cutting into them, and even if he was a good surgeon they might have died a week later from gangrene or sepsis anyway.

It's in this world that laudanum and opium more generally got romanticized by literature and poetry. The Victorians loved opium, but the symbolism of the poppy, from which opium is derived, has been sleep and death since the classical world. My go-to example of the blending of these themes (poppies as sleep and death symbolism and this time period's interest in the classical world) is The Garden of Proserpine by Algernon Charles Swinburne, of which I will include an excerpt below:

No growth of moor or coppice,          No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies,          Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes          For dead men deadly wine.

The symbolic connection between opium (and thus laudanum) and sleep and death is my strongest association with either drug. The poppies = death association is used all the time even in the modern day. See this song, Flowers, from the musical Hadestown:

Lily white and poppy red I trembled when he laid me out "You won't feel a thing," he said, "When you go down" Nothing gonna wake you up now

Poppy symbolism is doing a lot of work in this song, actually, drawing a line between virginity and death, and the flower imagery standing in for both Euridyce's sexual relationship with Hades as well as her death but I disgress.

This is my personal context for laudanum and opium. I think it's encouraged to read the sleep and death connection into both of these medicines, both by the artistic tradition that arose contemporaneously with their use and by continued references back to it in the modern day. I am thinking of the scene in Inception where the opium den they visit is full of people who go to be drugged in order to dream their lives away as just one of many other modern day examples. Opium is sleep and sleep is death.

So while the laudanum is not literally poison, I think there is cultural context in which it is possible to read it as symbolically poison, regardless of whether Crowley's not-actually-human body should be able to withstand it. I think that it is compelling to read it as such, given the above-mentioned pattern of Crowley's habits of consumption.

I've seen a lot of posts about how the next time Aziraphale and Crowley see each other after this flashback is the time Crowley asks Aziraphale to bring him holy water and Aziraphale refuses on the grounds that he won't provide Crowley with a suicide pill. While I think this says more about Aziraphale than it does about Crowley (Crowley has never struck me, by behavior or attitude, to be the kind of person who would kill themself, whereas for Aziraphale one of the worst things that could happen would be losing Crowley) there is something there, something in that tartan thermos, something in the idea that Crowley would drink his death.

There is one more angle to this, and this is going to be a bit of a reach. I once read an analysis post in another fandom about the symbolism of poison as a choice of weapon. This line will haunt me until my grave: "a man stabs, a woman poisons". Just as a sword is a phallic symbol, poison (to me) is a feminine coded way to kill another person. For more context, please read The Laboratory by Robert Browning, a poem about a woman procuring a poison to kill her husband's lover, written by another Victorian poet. Crowley dying being discorporated by self-administered poison compels me for all the reasons mentioned above but also for gender reasons. Nonbinary icon.

Crowley dying being discorporated by self-administered poison feels like it is in conversation with two events that happen chronologically later but narratively earlier: the "suicide pill" conversation and Crowley trying to wait out the apocalypse in the bar after the bookshop burned. For all intents and purposes he seems to have given up at that point and only pulls himself together because Aziraphale appears to him and proves he isn't gone gone. It makes sense as an exploration of Aziraphale's anxieties (the suicide pill convo), and the extent to which they might be justified (Crowley drinking as the world ends). It's interesting it's compelling it's symbolically rich it's consistent with characterization choices in the show.

I think realistically Crowley would keep from Aziraphale that he was in pain until he physically couldn't do so, because it would threaten the wall they've had to erect to keep each other safe to do otherwise, but in a scenario where Crowley was hurt, properly hurt, Aziraphale would find a way to excuse them because he would not stand for Crowley suffering.

Just...

The idea of Aziraphale gathering Crowley close in the dark graveyard, feeling him stumble, Crowley who is so bright and brave and beautiful reduced to clutching to Aziraphale and the pair of them trying to will him back to health the way they can choose to sober up, and failing... Crowley because by this point he's too weak, he waited too long putting up a front for Aziraphale, Aziraphale because of conflicting magic or because he's too anxious, his own personal moment of the gun shaking in Crowley's hands during the bullet catch, where he knows what he has to do but he can't do it, can't trust himself not to make it worse.

And then Crowley's body going cold, Aziraphale holding it and crying because despite knowing it's just a body and that Crowley can get another one, he failed to protect him. Crowley died for someone and Aziraphale couldn't prevent it. And the things they don't say to each other, all rushing in to fill the silence left by Crowley's stopped breath. Aziraphale whispering to him, kissing his temple, part of him wondering if he'd ever be able to do this if he wasn't already gone.

It would just be really good, okay. It would be really good.

[bruisedboys]

fairly new to your blog but I absolutely adore your work!! here's my james thought of the hour:

james potter snuggles you on the sofa and smothers you in kisses whenever you have a bad day - it gets to the point where he's all you can smell, see, and hear.

by the end of the movie (which ofc neither of you paid attention to), he's got you laying on his chest, big palms rubbing the length of your back while you stick your face into the crook of his neck and mumble away your grievances.

i love him sm please 😭

-shivs

thank you so much!! this ended up a bit different to what you asked for but I hope it’s still ok 🤍

gn!reader 0.6k words

The last thing James expects when he gets home is to find you crying on the sofa. Unfortunately, it’s exactly what he finds.

His bag drops to the floor, all but forgotten. “Sweetheart? Are you crying?”

It’s a stupid question, really. It’s obvious you’re crying. You’ve got your face half in your hands, fingers splayed over your red cheeks as tears drip over your hands. James asks because he can’t quite believe it, can’t quite fathom that you’ve been crying at home without his comfort for who knows how long.

You stare at your knees as you lower them, hands scrubbing cruelly at your cheeks. You push your legs over the couch and squint at the floor.

“No,” you lie thickly.

James frowns. “Honey,” he says, one part exasperated and two parts sickly sweet. “What’s the matter?”

He doesn’t expect an answer and doesn’t get one. He crosses the room and stops right in front of you, his shins pressing into your knees. You look up at him, half-guilty, half-upset, and whole adorable. How you’re so pretty even when you’re crying is beyond him. He takes your gorgeously sad face in his big hands.

“Why’re you crying, hm?” He drags his thumbs across the skin under your eyes gently. “Tell me.”

It’s not a demand more than it is a plea. James watches your face crumple as you try not to give in. It only works for about six seconds.

“Had a bad day,” you admit, lips puckered from speaking around his hands.

James melts.

“Baby,” he croons. Your face goes warm under his hands from the pet name. He graciously ignores this, dropping your face and taking the smallest step backward. “Lay down, will you? I want to cuddle.”

You do as he says, lying back against the arm of the sofa, one leg dangling over the edge. James invites himself in, knowing you’re too shy to ask yourself. He plants his knee between your spread legs and then carefully presses his chest to yours, heavy enough to be a good cuddle but not too heavy to cut off your airways. His face slots into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. He can smell your perfume.

Slowly, he kisses you all along your skin, messy ones pressed to your neck, your jaw, your cheek. When he’s done there he tugs at the neckline of your shirt, pulling the material aside so he can kiss your collarbone, your shoulder. You go squirmy underneath him, hands clutching his waist.

“Jamie.”

You sigh his name in a way that has James feeling tingly all over. Your arms snake around his waist and the tingling only intensifies.

James pushes his face into your neck, his lips dragging over your hot skin. “Shh, don’t talk,” he says, all fake-annoyed. “You’re ruining the moment.”

You giggle wetly and James basks in the sound.

“Sorry,” you whisper into his hairline, sounding the opposite. Your hands slide over his back, and then, god save him, beneath the hem of his shirt, your soft palms spreading over the bare skin of his lower back.

James’s breath catches and he’s sure you hear it, sure you know what you’re doing to him. He lifts his head just a little, so he can look at your face. Still tear-smudged, but a whole lot happier than two minutes ago. He’s got your obvious weakness for being kissed to thank for that.

“Baby,” he says, half stern and half soft. Your hands are only rising, fingers pressing into his bare skin. “What’re you doing?”

You tilt your head to the side like a puppy, acting clueless but he can tell by your shit-eating grin you know exactly what he’s talking about.

“What d’you mean?” You ask innocently. One of your hands slides down his back and then your fingertips are pushing beneath the waistband of his pants. James almost dies on the spot.

Instead he whines like a toddler and drops his burning face to your chest, his skin warm and tingly all over. He’s suffering immensely, but at least you’re not crying anymore. It’s all worth it.

“I’m just messing with you, baby,” you say, and he can hear your smile in your pretty voice. You pull your hands out from underneath his clothes and bury them in his hair instead. “Thanks for the cuddle.”

James squeezes you so tight it’s borderline bone-crushing. He’ll cuddle you all night if he has to. Even if you start getting handsy with him again. Especially if you start getting handsy with him again.

“S’what I’m here for, babe.”

[monstersdownthepath]

Herald of Shelyn: The Spirit of Adoration

CR 15

Neutral Good Large Outsider

Inner Sea Gods, pg. 308

This gorgeous gal is said to be the incarnate of Shelyn's hope and love, born directly from the emotions of the Goddess of Love, and it shows. The Spirit of Adoration (who's title I will be shortening to 'the Spirit' or SOA from now on) is one of the rarest of the Heralds to ever see, as she spends the majority of her time in Nirvana, frolicking among the gardens of her mistress and creator. For vast swaths of her existence, the Spirit does little but entertain and interact with people coming and going from Blossomheart, the divine domain of Shelyn, putting her +22 to Perform and her Bardic talents to use. The only times she leaves are on diplomatic relationship missions with other planes... and as the occasional muse for a mortal in dire need of some beauty in their life.

Able to take the shape of any Small or Medium Humanoid, the Spirit masquerades as a bright and beautiful Bard when cavorting among mortals. She exists to lift spirits, dispel darkness, bolster love, inspire art, and preserve beauty, all things she excels at. Not over is she an incredible marriage councilor, but a phenomenal wingman, standing by the side of someone hopelessly in love but unable to pursue it, either because they physically cannot or simply don't know how; in either case, the Spirit provides answers and guidance.

Whether it's helping a budding relationship or helping an artist hone their skills, the Spirit can hand hand out upwards to six tokens of Inspiration, which often take the form of jewelry. So long as someone carries the token, they're blessed with a +4 insight bonus to Will saves, as well as Craft and Perform checks. Any Bard holding onto the token also gains +6 rounds of Bardic Performance per day regardless of their level, and the Spirit always knows the condition and emotional state of a token holder, arriving to their aid if they ever begin slipping... and if they put the token down for too long, she will know that it's because her job is done and they no longer need her blessing, letting her free up the slot for the next soul in need.

The Spirit is a noncombatant for the majority of her life, a far cry from most Heralds and very fitting for the servant of a goddess who holds out hope for even the most vile of souls. Even when pushed into battle, the Spirit seeks to end it as quickly as possible via diplomacy, charm, and calm explanations, saving violence only for creatures which cannot be reasoned with--namely, mindless Constructs and Undead--but even then preferring to fight only until they pose no danger to an innocent, going so far as to knock out and imprison the likes of daemons rather than dispatching them. While some may see her all-loving nature as foolish in such a universe, like her goddess she maintains that redemption, beauty, and love can be found in anything and given to anyone.

Remember that she's a merciful being as I explain to you just what could happen if that mercy ever stopped.

It takes a while to get there, mind. The Spirit's entire kit is devoted to keeping fighting to a minimum, to the extent that she has a Charming Aura that causes any creature within 30ft of her that fails a DC 24 Will save to be charmed for a day if they fail. A power like that would certainly be useful in the hands of a nefarious fiend, but the Spirit only uses it to get on everyone's good side to make them more amenable to her attempts at Diplomacy (which she has a +17 in).

She's also got Calm Emotions at-will for the same reason, and her aforementioned 40 rounds of Bardic Performance to distract or fascinate hostile crowds long enough for her to try and talk them down from their rampage. Should that fail, she has Good Hope and Inspire Courage +4 to aid any nearby allies in efforts to pacify the opposing force. She will refuse to kill any thinking being and will hesitate to harm even unthinking ones beyond the point of healing, using her at-will Cure Moderate Wounds to spare both ally and enemy from death in the hopes that her enemies will see the folly of their actions and begin walking the road to redemption.

While 40 rounds is usually enough to last her an entire day, there is the small but amusing interaction with her Inspiration power, in that she's not restricted from giving herself her own token, granting herself a +4 to Will saves and Craft/Perform checks, as well as +6 rounds of Performance if for whatever reason 40 isn't enough. If the DM allows her to do that, it's important to note that the stat enhancement is an insight bonus, meaning it STACKS with her own Unearthly Grace, which adds her Cha mod to her AC and all her saves; this means her saves go from an already impressive +17/+20/+24 to +17/+20/+28. She doesn't have immunity to mind-affecting effects, but between her 26 SR and a +28, she may as well; foes of a similar level to her simply can't affect her with anything that targets her Will unless she rolls a 1.

Her DR 10 is bypassed by Evil weapons like most celestial Outsiders, but she's immune to the common Fire and the typically-reliable Sonic, and has 30 Resistance to Acid and Electricity. She's not just sturdy, but she's also fast, moving 40ft a round on the ground and a 60ft fly speed with a proper +17 to Fly, allowing her to make impressive and often beautiful aerial maneuvers. Even beyond that, if she can see you she can just be there because she's got Teleport at-will, letting her appear directly next to anyone who's posing a threat to her or her charge. She's got a 10ft space and 10ft reach... but her statblock is a little ambiguous as to whether her 10ft reach is because of her weapon, a +2 Dancing Glaive, or in addition to it (which would make her reach 20ft). The downside that the glaive can't be used to attack creatures directly adjacent to her, but that's mitigated by the fact it's a Dancing weapon, allowing it to fight entirely on its own even when she moves, and leaving her hands free to cast spells, go full-defense, or open-palm slap someone for 5 nonlethal damage.

Whether she's wielding it herself or letting it dance around her, the glaive can attack up to four times a round for 2d8+8 damage, tripled on a critical hit. While she tends to go for nonlethal, the real use of her weapon is to disarm her foes; she's got Improved Sunder and a weapon strong enough to make that hurt, smashing apart her foes' weapons and armor if she just doesn't reach over and take them once she has them calmed, charmed, fascinated, or stunned.

"Stunned?" Oh yes. At will as a standard action, the Spirit can make a Stunning Ray ranged attack at anything within 180ft, blasting a target with a dazzling beam of light that deals 1d8 untyped and irresistible damage. Any creature impacted by the beam must make a DC 24 Will save or be stunned for 1d6 rounds, time the Spirit uses to rid them of their gear whenever she can... and, as the book states, time she uses to talk to them. Yes, for the entire duration of your stun, a 10ft tall beautiful woman will be trying to talk you out of continuing the battle. If you say "no, I'm going to keep fighting," guess what? There's no 24-hour immunity on her ray, so she may just blast you again... and again, and again, and again, and again, all the while relieving you of your equipment and perhaps even breaking it in front of you, until you either succeed the save (only to fail it again next round) or finally break down and surrender.

I don't know about you, but I think if I was some nameless soldier ready to kick some schmuck's teeth in, and the incarnate of resolute love and beauty descended from the heavens specifically to tell me to knock it off, I might begin questioning 'are we the baddies?'

And you know what? I've said all this without revealing the Spirit's nuclear option: Bardic Magic. 3/day, the Spirit can cast any Bard spell of any level. Do you know what most Heralds lack? Level 7+ spells. Do you know what the Spirit of Adoration has? 3 castings of any level 8+ equivalent spell in the game. Besides simple and silly utility options, the Spirit of Adoration can simply end any fight by casting oh, say, Overwhelming Presence, Waves of Ecstasy, or Hymn of Peace. And that's just defensive; offensive it's even worse, because Bards have access to spells including Shadow Evocation, Shadow Enchantment, and Shadow Transmutation, effectively meaning the Spirit of Adoration's spell list is "all of them." Bardic Magic is basically 3 castings of Limited Wish, except even stronger since the Bard's lower spell levels allow some sneaky power houses like Irresistible Dance, Mass Suggestion, Brilliant Inspiration, and Greater Shout, which are normally outside the power of Limited Wish. The DM is essentially encouraged to let the Spirit pull out whatever insane nonsense she needs to at a whim... but note that Bardic Magic is actually casting a spell, NOT using a spell-like ability! She has to provide components, if any are needed!

It's still a powerful option, and it makes her considerably more versatile than she already appears to be, in AND out of combat, and makes her just as dangerous as any Bard can be while surrounded by allies with fewer qualms about using lethal force. If you think she's dangerous on her own, just imagine how obnoxious Stunning Ray will be when there's a hasted Barbarian bearing down on you...

You can read more about her here.

[lokisgoodgirl]

The Honeytrap: Clandestine F*cks [Avenger!Loki x Fem. Reader] 18+

Part of the Clandestine F*cks Collection [Link] A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: (22) An unexpected mission lands you and Loki at the Plaza hotel, and he has a new object for his seductive attentions. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Language. Jealousy. Mild Angst. Secret relationship. (w/c 3.9k)

“Good Morning, Agent.” Loki purred, arms spread against the metal rail as the elevator closed behind you. He raised his gaze slowly, eyes crawling up your body as you turned to face the sliding doors. You wasted no time pressing your back against his firm torso in the otherwise empty lift. Nudging your ass against his crotch, you felt him straighten at your unexpected touch. His shoulders rolled back, a sharp hiss stealing from his lips. Loki's masculinity felt overpowering as he towered over you from behind, inhaling the scent of your hair.

“Good Morning, Laufeyson.” you murmured in response.

You had been away from the Tower for a week, the Quinjet landing mere minutes ago. The only contact between you and Loki over the last six nights had been hushed phone-calls in the dark as Natasha slept next door. Loki’s dirty whispers had been nectar in your ear, dripping into the crevices of your imagination as your fingers worked between your thighs, alone in your hotel room. All the things he had promised to do to you when you were back. Tonight, you knew he would keep his word. “I’ve missed you, darling.” he muttered darkly. “He’s missed you.” He pressed his growing erection into your lower back. The tight column hidden beneath expensive wool ground against your ass, a whimper of need clawing behind your teeth at the unbearable suspense.

Loki’s fingers brushed the hair from your neck, combing it upward before his jawline slotted against the curve. You moaned in spite of yourself, melting into the warmth of his kiss as your hips began to thrust of their own accord. You were deprived of him. Every morsel a sweet relief. He chuckled. “It pleases me that you have missed me, too.” he murmured against your skin. “Of course I’ve missed yo-” Ding You jumped forward, pulling at the collar of your shirt as the doors parted revealing Natasha and her signature frown. “Hey.” she growled, pressing the button angrily which was already lit. Loki’s eyes glinted as your stare hardened, willing him not to engage. She was in a horrible mood. “Agent Romanoff, you look a little tired. Are you quite well?” he purred, the corners of his mouth twitching as you rolled your eyes. “Shut up Laufeyson.” she sighed, “some of us get assigned important missions. Remind me, what have you been doing the past week? Working on your smart-ass one-liners? Annoying everyone? Fucking A+ saving the world shit right there.” Loki pursed his lips, avoiding your smug smile. The doors opened to a bustling lobby, the operations floor buzzing with activity on a Friday morning as it always did. The three of you made your way to the conference room where the rest of the team had already taken their seats. You and Loki settled a seat apart, Scott Lang nestled between you. It was probably for the best, you thought. The horny god’s hand would be halfway up your skirt by the time Rogers had finished his opening motivational pep rally. That wouldn’t be great for the whole secrecy thing. And god knows, you needed to be more careful. “Good Morning, Avengers!” Steve declared, rising and beginning to pace across the top of the room.

“If you’ve been listening to my guided meditations you’ll be familiar with the term ‘conscious patriotism’. But what is ‘conscious patriotism’, and what does it mean for you?”

Across the table Wanda crossed her eyes in your direction, her jaw falling slack to the side. You stifled a laugh, resting your head in your hand. Your wandering gaze fell to Loki paying rapt attention to the Captain. You shamelessly drank in the straight edges of Loki's angular face. The way the incomparable sharp lines slotted together, an early morning glow pouring over his heavenly bone structure. The regal line of his brow was stoic, his chin slightly raised as he feined interest. Isn’t it funny, you thought absent-mindedly, that no one else in this room knows what he looks like when he cums. Like a warrior. Like a- Steve's saccharine smile faded as he ran his eyes around the room. “Now, there’s been an unexpected development around the Boleirov project, and we’re gonna have to call in a mission tonight-” A wall of groans rose at the notion of Friday night being cancelled. Again. It broke you from your trance. “Now gee, we all know that crime doesn’t take weekends” Steve huffed, folding his arms. “This is a key opportunity to take down a bunch of heckin’ big players and we’re sure as jimmies not going to pansy out of it.” A rumble of concession rolled around the table. Tony raised his hand. “I just want to say that not everyone is going to be involved. Just a small group...but it’s a douzy. I’d be fighting for a place if I were you.” He leant back with a smug smile, gesturing to Cap to continue. Steve cleared his throat awkwardly. “Stark and I have formulated a mission-plan and essentially it’s a...well, it’s a…” “-A honeytrap!” Tony said gleefully, clapping his hands together as the group groaned. “C’mon guys, remember how fun the last one was?” “You and I have very different definitions of fun, Stark.” Nat muttered, shivering at the memory of a foul-smelling oligarch’s hands running over her ass. “Oh...just you wait.” Tony quipped, folding his arms. “Captain, continue please.”

Steve cleared his throat again. “This time around will be slightly different, the trap is for a woman.” He looked knowingly around the room. “A heterosexual woman.” There was a low murmur of excitement as the women met each others eyes, smiles curling at the corner of their lips. There had never been a female honeytrap subject. Their minds whirred with possibilities; each decrepit old creep they had been compelled to get too close for comfort with under the duress of national security flitting through their minds. They hoped the female equivalent wouldn’t disappoint in their sudden yearning for payback. “Well, I suppose I am the obvious choice” Thor rumbled, stretching his arms and puffing his chest unsubtly. “As...regrettably, the most alluring member of our band, I am willing to accept this mission.” Tony rolled his eyes, leaning forward across the table.

“First of all Bright Spark, you put her father in a coma. So that’s a no. 'Ethical boundaries' . Secondly, your face is on Times Square right now. There isn’t a chance in hell you wouldn’t blow the whole thing. We need a bit more subtlety. Not your strong suit, big guy. And that’s coming from me.” “I’ll volunteer...” You turned, regarding Scott with impressed disbelief. “I’d like to give it an ol' college try, if there are no objections. I can be quite charming when required.” he wriggled his eyebrows, chuckling awkwardly as his cheeks turned pink under the vacant stares of his colleagues.

“Not that your enthusiasm is not admirable, Lang...” Loki purred darkly beside him, making your pussy clench, “...but I think they have someone else in mind.”

His eyes roamed between Rogers and Stark, brow twitching as he confirmed his suspicions. “Me.” Rogers nodded, as Lang looked to the table with disappointment. “It’s always the tall guys. What if she’s a personality kinda gal?” he muttered, as Loki smirked. “Stark and I believe Laufeyson holds the right...skill-set, to tackle this particular target.” Steve mumbled, picking awkwardly at the armpit of his tight costume he insisted on wearing everywhere. “Skillset.” Lang huffed beside you. “They must have had a reference from Megan about his skillset, jeesh.” You frowned, trying to follow the threads of conversation batting back and forth across the room.

The Boleirov’s were a notoriously ugly family. This daughter had probably never had anyone give her a second glance. She would be putty in Loki’s hands. Done and dusted and back to fuck you senseless before ten pm. Stark was right. He was the obvious choice. “OK that’s settled. Laufeyson, Wilson, Lang and Rominoff report to operations for mission scoping and everyone else...you are dismissed.” You saw Nat’s eyes squeeze shut, before raising your hand. “Captain, may I suggest I take Natasha’s place on this? She needs to rest, Sir.” Rogers eyes flickered to Natasha, noting the deep shadows under her eyes.

He nodded.

The skirt of your black silk gown brushed lightly against your legs as the doorman ushered you inside the Plaza Hotel with Scott on your arm. He was enjoying this immensely, letting his eyes roll appreciatively down the rear of your open-back dress as you walked ahead. It was just before 9pm, and Ms Boleirov should be leaving her appointment with a Hydra patsy inside one of the hotel’s private meeting rooms. Her next stop? The champagne bar. Where she would enjoy the attention of a certain dark-haired lothario who would do whatever it took to procure the small notebook she always carried on her person.

It was full of every financial transaction to Hydra over the past three years, enough to lock up dozens of financiers and key players for life. You took a breath as you approached the grand marble staircase leading down to the bar. Golden chandeliers hung from the ceiling, a warm glow filling the traditionally decorated space as light piano music played from a baby grand in the corner. It was stunning, but that wasn’t what caught your attention. “Wolf is in the den, no sign of rabbit” Scott mumbled to Wilson through the microphone built into his combat suit, hidden beneath the eveningwear. Sitting majestically at the bar was your secret lover. A cold shiver rolled down your spine as you observed him in the wild, trying not to trip down the sweeping staircase as you clung to Scott’s arm. Loki’s intense gaze roamed up your legs outlined against the silk as you descended.

Just a random guy checking you out...no big deal, you thought. Just don't imagine his gorgeous face deep between your legs and you're fine. I’ve never met this man before in my life.

You repeated the mantra as you ghosted past Loki, leaning against the bar exuding sexual energy with his fingers wrapped around a scotch. A whiff of his cologne filled your nostrils, making you inhale with a barely audible groan. Your heart was hammering in your chest. You could tell Loki was watching the placement of Scott’s hands as he ushered you to a table, placing a lingering kiss on your cheek before you sat. You and Lang conversed in the practised banalities of your alter egos, your eyes flickering upwards sporadically as the covert god of mischief busied himself with a copy of Forbes, sipping his drink. A woman caught your eye at the top of the stairs, her long, dark hair rippling down her back as she descended. “That’s her.” Scott mumbled, massaging your hand as he cast his eyes momentarily upward. You shook your head with a smirk, “No, she’s not as...elegant.” Scott frowned. The smile plastered on his face was contrastingly manic as he felt the nerves set in. “What are you talking about hon" he said through gritted teeth. "Remember what Stevie said? She’s had a lot of surgery...a lot can change in six months, since the last file photo. That’s her. Didn’t you see the composite?” You realised with growing horror that you had been so distracted by dissecting the ways you were going to go to town on Loki tonight that you had missed this crucial information in the briefing. She was hot. The picture you’d seen had not been hot. Shit. Ms Boleirov gracefully swept her hand down the banister, reaching the ground level. Her hair flicked over her shoulder, the expensive suit clinging exquisitely to her lean body. The only person not staring was Loki, licking a finger and turning the page of the magazine. He landed on page twenty-four, just as the target occupied the barstool beside him. “That’s a great article.” Loki looked up, the slant of his eyebrows indicating surprise at the unexpected interaction. “I’ve just begun reading…” he started, looking back to the page and then up to the woman. “Is that...you, Madam? Apologies you just look so...different. But no less accomplished, I am certain.” He smiled, the creases of warmth by his eyes making you want to vomit. You could hear his voice clear in your ear, the linked microphones catching every subtly seductive gravel in his words. Her coquettish laugh tinkled as she raised a finger to be served. Loki raised his hand, “Allow me.” he purred, motioning to the bartender who nodded.

Scott’s fingers intertwined with yours in maddening predictability, his rehearsed story ricocheting in and out your ears as your stomach churned. You were here for back-up, if needed. But at this rate, it would be Boleirov needing protection. You couldn’t decide which was worse. The seat you had occupied squarely facing the amorous scene unfolding at the bar, or if you had been facing away unable to see it without drawing attention to yourself. “What’s going on, Y/N?” Sam’s voice made you jump. You had forgotten he was in a van outside keeping an eye on the movements of her henchmen. “Nothing, darling” you smiled, reaching subtley to smooth Scott’s cheek.

Loki reached and placed his hand against the back of Boleirov’s chair, angling himself as he chuckled seductively at something she said. It had been thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of pure hell. His dark hair was smoothed back, tied in a messy knot. The midnight blue suit he wore was perfectly tailored to his sinfully proportioned body. Soft wool clinging to every subtle flex of his biceps shifting beneath the fabric. His jaw clenched as he contained a gentle smirk, the look that always made your panties wet in public at the most inconvenient times. Fuck, he looked so good tonight. Why did he have to look so good tonight? He looks good every night, you idiot.

His thick thighs widened on the stool, his free hand dangling off the bar near her handbag, long fingers creating a line for her gaze to follow towards his lap. Loki’s hand lowered to her thigh, wrapped tight in the luxurious material of her designer trousers. You tried to block out the sultry words coming out of his mouth that made blood thunder in your ears. If there was one thing Loki could do as easily as breathing, it was flirting. The fingers that should be buried deep in your pussy right about now travelled up the curve, teasing lightly as she giggled like a teenage girl. He was so close to her handbag...surely he could seidr it or something. Get the notebook, Loki; you willed silently with your eyes. You realised you were staring over Scott’s shoulder again. Your partner put his hand over his heart, concealing the mic. “What is with you tonight?” he hissed, as your gaze snapped back to him. You shook your head with a half-smile. Boleirov stood, looking back over her shoulder at Loki as his lustful stare followed her to the ladies room. She watched him lean back against the chair, noting his eyes lingering on her ass before disappearing beyond the door. “Wolf has located the prey.” Loki murmured quietly, as he signalled the barman.

He paid for the drinks, waiting until the man busied himself with the glasses before continuing. “It is in an inaccessible location. Brassiere. Stage three required.” “Are you sure, Laufeyson? In her titties? It’s risky, my man.” Wilson muttered over the earpieces. “For another, perhaps” Loki chuckled, flicking through a few pages of the magazine. Your heart dropped. Stage three was full on seduction. Physical contact. Your eyes widened as the door to the bathrooms opened. You downed the rest of your champagne, smiling sweetly at Scott as he frowned with confusion. Loki greeted her, leaning to whisper in her ear loud enough for the microphone underneath his shirt to pick up.

“Why don’t we go for a little stroll, you and I? To my room, perhaps.”

Boleirov said something indecipherable, but it didn’t matter. She was nodding. Loki ran a strong hand down his thigh, clearing his throat and shuffling in his seat like he did when he was trying to stifle an erection. He raised a finger to her cheek, trailing it down her skin and curving to her chin before giving her a quick wink. The god stood, gesturing for her to lead the way in an infuriatingly gentlemanly manner. You took a deep breath, feeling your cheeks growing hot. Lang reached out, his grip tightening around your wrist as his eyes narrowed. Why could you not stop staring. Scott shook his head. Don’t he mouthed silently. Your eyes widened towards the window. Scott whirled around to see what had caught your attention, and when he turned back, you were halfway across the floor.

“Laufeyson” you hissed, hearing nothing but white noise. “Laufeyson?” Nothing.

The reception was terrible as you went deeper into the maze of the Plaza, trying to remember the blueprint layouts that were sprawled across the walls of the briefing room. You unpopped the nub from your ear, you would deal with Scott later.

You took off your heels, bounding up the side-stairs two at a time with your silk gown fluttering behind you all the way to the eighteenth floor. Loki had booked the famous Tower Room, because of course he had. Panting, you took a moment to catch your breath. You slipped your heels back on, fixing your hair before cautiously entering the corridor. The hall was quiet. You found the plaque outside the room with ease, pressing an ear to the door. Now I know what Megan felt like, you thought. It was not a pleasant feeling. Your blood froze, breaths increasing as your cheek burned against the cool wood. Minutes felt like hours as you heard the chink of glasses. “Ohhhh, Mr Rogers…” a woman’s voice groaned, “I don’t do this...but you, there’s something uhhh...about you I…” There was a soft thud...was that the sound of a zipper? Suddenly the world was upended, the surface falling away as you fell face first against a familiar solid expanse of muscle. “Darling?” Loki purred. “Come to check up on me?” You had landed on your knees, arms conveniently placed on the sides of his thighs as he looked down at you smugly. “Celebratory fellatio would be delightful, love…” He waved the small notebook in his hand “...but let’s close the door first shall we?” Rising to your feet, you peered around his shoulder. “Where is she?” you muttered, pacing across the huge living room. “The chaise…” Loki murmured, thumbing through the book in his hands and squinting at the writing. You approached a lump hidden under a blanket on antique sofa in the corner, seeing a sheet of dark hair strewn across a pillow. “Loki, is she dead?” you gasped, hearing him huff. “Of course not. I merely enchanted her. When she wakes, she will think that we spent a delightful night of passion together and that I have left her unceremoniously like the bad boy I am.” He smirked. You paced towards him, crashing to his lips as he choked in surprise. Your hands wound through his hair, making it come loose from its ties. “Madam…” he purred, “this is most unprofessional. How very...me.” You ran a thumb over the lipstick on his collar, noticing there was more smeared on his neck. “You did this on purpose. To make me jealous.” you said, raising an eyebrow. He shrugged. “Perils of the mission, darling. She couldn’t keep her hands off me. I needed that notebook. And I needed to be close enough to enchant her, you see.” His lips twitched as he watched your eyes narrow. “Don’t give me that look, kitten” he growled, “you fucking love it.” He swooped forwards, lifting you effortlessly over his shoulder and turning on his heels, striding towards the circular bed within the turret of the room. You hit the mattress with a soft thump, the luxurious duvet cushioning the fall before Loki descended. His messy kisses devoured you, working down between your breasts as you spread your thighs wider, heels resting on the edge of the bed.

You ran your eyes up his body, the blue fabric of his suit snug around his tantalising thighs. The creases at his hips flexed as he unbuckled the expensive leather wrapped around them. Fuck, you loved that sound. He shrugged off his suit jacket, casting it aside over Ms Boleirov strewn on the sofa.

You giggled as he unzipped his trousers, unleashing his cock with a snarl as he leant forward between your open legs. His hands ran up your calves, eyes glinting with lust at the sight of your thigh-holsters clasped against naked skin. “Now, the hundred gold coin question, my love...are you wearing any panties?” he said coyly, sliding a hand slowly up your tingling skin. You bit your lip, throwing your head back as he trailed a finger through the bare wetness. “Agent…” he chided, in a very Rogers fashion. “This is certainly not mission appropriate.” You giggled again, pulling his tie as he managed to slip his cock inside you with one graceful movement.

You moaned loudly, feeling the bed shift backwards with the force of his thrust. “Quickly, Loki…” you murmured regretfully, the silk of your dress pooling around your open thighs. Loki growled, flicking his hair back as his mouth fell open.

“It’s been a week since I’ve had the pleasure of your company, darling...I don’t think speed will be a p-problem..” he grunted, lowering a hand to gently rub your aching clit. His fingers slid against the slick of your juices, the feeling of his cock sliding into you repeatedly making him whimper as he squeezed his eyes shut. “Norns, Y/N you are...so...uhhh...gods, I missed this my beautiful temptress...fucckkk.” “Who do you belong to, Loki?” you groaned loudly, hearing him pant as he gained pace. “You, darling. I belong to you. No one could ever c-compare...I swear it by all the..fuckk...g-gods.” “That’s right, baby…” you murmured, biting his lip hard. He hissed, his eyes glinting with danger as you pulled away.

“Maybe you’re my god-slut, Loki...always so eager to please.” you goaded, watching his jaw clench as he fought the urge to rail you even harder. “Seeing you with that woman was so...uhhh...I thought I was going to...fuckkk...burst Loki, godddd…” Your cries escalated, squirming beneath him as he brought you to the brink. He would keep you there. Until it suited him. “So possessive. So needy...perhaps I should make you jealous more often, darling. Y-you, uhhh...seem to en-enjoy it.” He squeezed out the words through broken breaths, the muscles in his neck straining against the need to empty himself inside you immediately. Loki pinned your wrists above your head, your fingers grasping at feather pillows as he bottomed out again and again. The noises from his throat were sinful. Guttural. Desperate. A pure chase for release as he worked your swollen clit beneath his talented fingers. You arched your back, raising your hips to meet every thrust of his heavenly cock as his breaths became shallow. Your dress had slipped up around your waist now, the dark silk fanning out like a pool of oozing tar on the white sheets. “I can’t hold on much l-longer...I..” he grunted, beautiful eyes simmering with bottomless need.

You propelled upwards, smashing against him in a ravenous kiss as his flattened fingers increased their pressure against your core. You groaned like a whore into his mouth as you came around him, clamping down on the thick cock filling you with every muscle you could spare. Loki’s moan of your name staggered from him, his body shaking as the hastened climax caught him by surprise; juddering with a deep moan as he rocked to completion inside your soaking pussy. Your heady pants filled the air as your foreheads touched. You brushed the tousled hair from his forehead, claiming him a final time with a deep, loving kiss. A loud pop sounded from the bathroom like a muffled gunshot; something heavy clattering against the tiles. Loki shielded your body underneath his as you braced, steadying yourself. The god flipped his head upwards, hair flying back as danger flashed in his eyes. He stood and tucked his cock back inside his trousers, striding past Boleirov to the bathroom door and throwing it open. “Oh...Odin’s beard.” he muttered in disgust, returning from around the corner with his face in his hands. “What?” you said worriedly, letting your dress fall around your ankles once more as you stood, readjusting your thigh holster. “Let’s be honest guys, there was never going to be a good time to do that.” Scott waved awkwardly as he peered around the door, his face a brighter red than the material of his suit. “I held out for as long as I could...I’m really, really...really sorry. I’ll be honest.. I was not briefed for this eventuality.” Lang stood, rocking on his heels as he waited for one of you to speak. He broke first. “Y/N you went all weird and took off...I was tryna be a good teammate, snuck under the door with the ol’ ant powers to save the day. If anything this is on...on you guys.” He cleared his throat, his face twisting in a grimace as Loki seethed. Your lover looked at you with frustration in his eyes. You shrugged, sighing deeply. “It’s done now. Scott, all you need to know right now is that no one can know. Not a soul, OK?” Scott mimed zipping his mouth closed, throwing the imaginary key to the side. Loki caught it in a fist, drawing it across his throat like a knife as Scott’s eyes widened in alarm. “Let’s go.” you said, wishing the ground would swallow you up. It was a quiet trip to the parking lot where Wilson was waiting in the standard unmarked van. Loki threw the side-door open, the wall of lights and comms equipment blinking unsubtly in the gloom. “Hey folks.” Wilson greeted you, as Scott climbed quietly into the drivers seat. “I procured the notebook, obviously.” Loki said, his signature smarm warming the air as he positioned himself on a bench to the side. He patted the only other available seat beside him. You slid into it. “Yah, great” Wilson nodded, “Did you manage to procure any panties for Y/N at the gift shop on the way out?” There was momentary silence before Scott snorted from the front, unable to contain himself. Wilson took off his headphones, ready to resume his position up front on the passenger side. “Here’s a top tip for the next time you wanna churn butter on the job, guys. Turn off your microphones.” He hopped out the side of the van, holding his arm briefly against the metal. “’God-slut’, man? Really?” he chuckled, shaking his head. The side-door slammed shut. You and Loki looked at each other in the back of the darkened van. Words were not forthcoming as you opened and closed your mouths in unison. Fuck.

- Tags @lokischambermaid @lady-rose-moon @mochie85 @michelleleewise @vbecker10 @muddyorbs @holymultiplefandomsbatman @cakesandtom @lokiprompts @sititran @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @xorpsbane @gigglingtigger @simplyholl @loopsisloops @thedistractedagglomeration @yelkmelk @ozymdias @lokikissesmyforehead @ravenwings73 @tbhiddlestan83 @filthyhiddles @123forgottherest @loveroflokiforpoeticjustice @ladylovesloki @handsaroundmyneck @five-miles-over @peacefulpianist @nerdy-fangirl-65 @animnerd @goblingirlsarah @trickster-maiden @mistress-ofmagic @kats72 @mcufan72 @imalovernotahater @peaches1958 @peachyjinx @fictional-hooman @tiredbut-here @trojanaurora @marygoddessofmischief @wheredafandomat @mrsbarnes32557038 @lokislilkitten @thomase1 @maple-seed

[headcanonsandmore]

Sergeant Benton with every Doctor (1-13)

1- I get the sense that One's initial dislike of being questioned would soften a little when dealing with Benton's sweet earnestness. Especially if Benton risks his own life to save Susan (because of course he would).

2- On the rare occasions where Two interacted with Benton, they seem to get along perfectly fine. I think that if Benton was around full time, he'd definitely develop a strong friendship with him. And, of course, Benton and Jamie would get along super well.

3- As we all know, Three was the closest to Benton out of the incarnations who met him, but I think Benton being a fully-fledged traveling companion would put an interesting spin on things. I think Benton would have a great time, although he would probably get tons of marriage proposals from the inhabitants of planets they'd travel to (I mean, he is super lovely, after all). And I'm sure Jo Grant would appreciate having her himbo bestie around.

4- Four liked Benton the most out of the UNIT soldiers he interacted with, so no surprises that he'd appreciate having Benton as a traveling companion a lot. I imagine Sarah-Jane would also appreciate a sweet himbo to bounce ideas off (especially since Benton is basically the opposite of Harry Sullivan in every way).

5- Five would get along so well with Benton, it's unreal. Benton is such a calming influence that Five would have him around just to chat over tea with. I also think the most personable of the classic Doctors would appreciate Benton's down-to-earth nature and sense of cheery humour. Also, Benton is the only UNIT man that Tegan and Nyssa would actually like, and we all know those two need at least one himbo third wheel with them at any given moment (Benton tries to sneak date money into Tegan's purse so she can take Nyssa to a cinema, Tegan gets flustered and turns bright red, Nyssa is confused but pleased nonetheless).

6- Benton would not only be able to restrain Six during his initial regeneration mood swings, but he'd also help Peri acclimatise to the situation. Mel would probably remind him a bit of Jo Grant, and he'd naturally fit into being her best friend.

7- Listen, I don't want to split up the duo of Seven and Ace, but -if I had to- Benton would slot in well. He'd be able to see through Seven's manipulations as well as acting like a sweet big brother to Ace. He'd probably get a little worried about all the pyrotechnics, though.

8- Eight would either have a slight crush on Benton, or try manipulating him into a scheme of dubious morality. Either way, Benton would have a hard time dealing with this eldritch figure. He'd probably get along well with Eight's rotating line-up of queer companions, though.

9- God-tier duo. Can you imagine human golden retriever Benton being around Nine? Nine; the incarnation with a boat-load of trauma and guilt who just wants to save people? Well, Benton's making him take a day off at the beach with some ice cream, plus some healthy discussion of emotions and wellbeing. He'd save that time lord's life just by being his friend, and it would be fantastic.

10- To be honest, I wouldn't be surprised if Benton got exasperated with Ten at times, especially with how he treated Martha. Also, that whole "Time Lord Victorious" thing? Couldn't happen with Benton there. Doc, I dunno about the nature of time, but you're supposed to help people, not decide who's important and who isn't *upset puppy dog eyes intensify* *Ten immediately reverts back to normal*. Oh, but can you imagine Benton around Donna? That would be amazing.

11- I feel like Benton would probably calm down Eleven's energy a bit, and would also be a nice calming influence on all the TARDIS crew. He'd also probably be a little confused by River Song, just in general. Also, he'd tell tons of embarrassing stories from when he used to babysit Kate Steward.

12- Listen, we know that Twelve has a... difficult situation with U.N.I.T but I think he'd value Benton's presence despite that. I also think Bill especially would like Benton's sweet nature. And -hey- Benton would also be immune to Missy's shenanigans so conflicts would be resolved a good deal easier. Although Benton would definitely be a little alarmed by Clara, and try to help her and Twelve ease their co-dependency.

13- Given the amount of himbos in Thirteen's TARDIS teams, I think Benton would probably fit in quite well. He'd definitely bring an 'older cousin' vibe to a friendship with Yaz, and I imagine he'd also be there for Yaz when Thirteen is being a self-sabotaging jerk. He would also probably have a double-act with Dan. The lovely din-dins man meets the Dan with a plan and a pan. 🤣😂

[t1meslayer]

Introducing Pokemon Scarlet and Violet: Fallout

It's been a long time coming — some six months, in fact. But after teeing things up throughout the month with my drawing skills and a little-a fic preview, the hour is nigh.

My ongoing Pokemon ScarVi fanfiction series, "Paldea's Fearsome Foursome," is hitting its first climactic story arc. Introducing...

Fallout

" An apocalyptic new threat lurking within Area Zero drags Florian down into the crystalline caverns for one more bout with the enigmatic Paradox Pokemon, alongside his friends from Paldea and Kitakami. What will they find hidden among the bounty of treasures below the Great Crater? Will the young trainers be able to save the world again? How will Arven fare against Professor Raifort's next History exam? All these answers and more await within the pages of this grand adventure. "

An extended author's note is available now on AO3 (and, to a lesser extent, Fanfiction.net) with special thanks to everyone who has been following the series thus far. Though I figure veterans and newcomers alike could use a refresher on not just the events of my extended Pokemon Violet universe thus far, but how those events slot into the original canon.

Luckily for you I've created a handy-dandy infographic for just such a purpose:

Be sure to let me know if you have any other questions or comments, my Asks are wide open.

In the meantime...

Chapter 1 is all prepped to run this Friday, May 24! I hope you're looking forward to it <3

[utilitycaster]

Level Up post: The Mighty Nein!?

🎶It's been a while🎶but our heroes are level 17, which means they've leveled up once in the past six months, and Kingsley has presumably been level grinding by fighting ghosts or dinosaurs or stuff.

Everyone's proficiency bonus is now +6, and the two standard spell casters present, Jester and Caleb (everyone hope that Caduceus is having a great time not being killed by the ocean) have access to 9th level spells.

Obligatory reminder that corrections are welcome, speculation is fine as long as you understand it's speculative which is why I didn't include it, and if you want to list every possible spell Caleb could take, do so on your own blog because I too own many D&D books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany.

Beau: Beau's punches now deal 1d10 damage, she has 17 ki points, and she gets Debilitating Barrage: if she hits a creature, she can spend three ki points to make a creature vulnerable to one type of damage for one minute, or until they take damage of that type. This can only be done on the same creature once a day. Fun fact: this is actually very similar to Caduceus's Path of the Grave Channel Divinity feature!

Caleb: Caleb gets a ninth level spell slot, can prepare another spell, and learns two spells automatically; he may have also copied some spells in his downtime. We haven't seen what those spells are yet, so place your bets! Most of the 9th level wizard spell list rules, but time stop, shapechange, true polymorph, mass polymorph, and foresight all seem to be the most likely. I suppose meteor swarm is also within his wheelhouse. My hot take is that despite the name, Time Ravage isn't totally Caleb's vibe, but like, I wouldn't be mad about high level dunamancy.

Fjord: Fjord took a fifth level in paladin, giving him access to 2nd level paladin spells, plus he gains one first level spell slot and two second levels. He also gets an extra attack, and if Matt was feeling generous he may have let Travis finagle this so that Thirsting Blade, which is an invocation that achieves the same thing, can be swapped for a different invocation, but I wouldn't guarantee it. He also gains the oath spells Augury (which we saw) and Misty Step.

Jester: Jester gets a ninth level spell slot and can prepare one more spell per day. She can destroy undead of challenge level 4 now, and she now can have FOUR duplicates and move any number of those four as a bonus action. The cleric 9th level spell list is pretty short and Mass Heal seems to be the most useful option.

Kingsley: Kingsley leveled up considerably in blood hunter and took levels in Swashbuckler Rogue. I don't know for sure what level he is, but his access to Grim Psychometry and his speed is 35 feet/second indicates he's taken up to at least 10th level. He's also taken at least three levels in rogue because we know he's a swashbuckler (sneak attack when fighting without any allies in melee with the creature, which is why swashbucklers rule). So: three blood curses at least and possibly four if he's level 14 blood hunter; hemocraft die of either 1d6 or 1d8 depending if he's level 10 or higher in blood hunter; at least 2 and possibly 3 crimson rites (if he's level 14) in addition to his Order-specific Rite of the Dawn; and Aether walk (phasing between things on the ethereal plane, which Taliesin had expressed interest in upon Molly's death.) He's also got the typical rogue features of a cunning action, expertise, sneak attack and thieves' cant (please talk with Veth in thieves' cant, it's all I want). Personally, because this group is not hurting for expertise between Veth, Beau, and Caleb, and blood hunter is a tank-y class and Kingsley's got Molly's tough feat and bonuses to dex saves as a blood hunter such that uncanny dodge/evasion aren't too crucial, I would go with the 14 blood hunter levels - levels 11-14 are some good shit. However, we don't know for sure how those remaining four levels are distributed between blood hunter and rogue.

Veth: Veth took her 17th level in rogue, bringing her to Rogue 16/Wizard 1. She took an ASI to strength and constitution. She has learned, in addition to the mostly unrevealed wizard spells (Tenser's Floating Disk my beloved though), another Arcane Trickster spell (wizard spell, either enchantment or illusion, can be up to 3rd level) and has another third level spell slot.

Yasha: Yasha gets a 6th rage per day and her brutal critical goes up to three additional dice.

[whoreviewswho]

Only One Race Can Survive! - The Daleks, 1963

Part I - The Mutants

Sydney Newman, 1986: "Being a real aficionado of science fiction, I hated stories which used bug-eyed monsters, otherwise known as BEM’s. I wrote in my memo that there would be no bug-eyed monsters in Doctor Who. And after a few episodes, Verity turned up with the Daleks! I bawled her out for it, but she said ‘Honest, Sydney, they’re not bug-eyed monsters – they’re human beings who are so advanced that their bodies have atrophied and they need these casings to manipulate and do the things they want!’. Of course, the Daleks took off and captured everybody’s imagination. Some of the best thing I have ever done are the thing I never wanted to do. It’s true! It’s worked out that way". 

Like most periods of the show's history, Doctor Who's inception was a tumultuous time behind the scenes. Script editor David Whitaker, in what would quickly become a desperate hunt for reliable writers and workable scripts, approached writer Terry Nation having seen some potential in his script for ABC TV's science-fiction anthology Out of this World. Despite having, by his now admission, no faith in the programme, Nation soon found himself out of work and committed to a six-episode serial that would air fourth in the season's run. 

Initially entitled The Survivors, Nation's original pitch to Whitaker was quite different to the story that eventually made it to screen but kept a lot of the same themes and allegory intact. Nation's serial originally featured three races; the Daleks, the Thals and a third species whose ancestors were responsible for the neutron bomb that devastated Skaro and had returned to the planet to make amends. The set-pieces were more extravagant in initial drafts and the Daleks less definitively villainous but producer Verity Lambert was impressed with Nation's work, offering him a seventh episode to allow greater expansion of his ideas. 

David Whitaker, 1979: "Terry Nation didn’t want to write for us, considering it rather demeaning that he’d even been asked."  Terry Nation, 1987: "I had no faith in the show. It was the old writer’s axiom, ‘Take the money and fly like a thief’."

As Nation continued to work, the programme's production elsewhere became more fraught. The two serials commissioned for writer Anthony Coburn required increasing rewrites, the initial first story that would become Planet of Giants was deemed unworkable and budgetary concerns had ensured John Lucarotti's epic Marco Polo would not fill the intended third slot. Much to the dismay of Donald Wilson and Sydney Newman, two of Doctor Who's three founding fathers, Nation's The Mutants suddenly became the strongest contender for the second serial. 

Verity Lambert, 1980s: “The crisis came when Donald Wilson saw the scripts for the first Dalek serial. Having spent so much time defending ‘Doctor Who’, he saw the Daleks as just bug-eyed monsters, which went against what he felt should be the theme of the science-fiction stories. There was a strong disagreement between us, in fact it went as far as Donald Wilson telling us not to do the show. What saved it in the end was purely that fact that we had nothing to replace it in the time allotted. It was the Daleks or nothing."

David Whitaker, 1979: "Actually, that Dalek story was educational in a subtle way – it showed the dangers of war, pacifism and racial hatred. It contained many admirable and idealistic truths in it, and it was also a jolly good adventure story."

To this day, Terry Nation is somewhat of a divisive figure in the Doctor Who fandom. On the one hand, we have the man who penned what is arguably Doctor Who's most important, formative and defining serial. He is the creator of, not just an iconic monster but, iconic worlds and the core spirit and characterisation of Doctor Who itself and its leading ensemble. Yet, on the other hand, we have a writer who made no bones about his disinterest in the scripts he was writing. It has not become controversial among fans to condemn Terry Nation as a lazy, even hack, writer. One of these things is probably true; Terry Nation was a very lazy writer. But to call him a hack? Not in my opinion. Terry Nation is a very simple writer, certainly. The man's approach to structure was very traditionally rooted in the sci-fi serial format, his style of dialogue would not seem out of place in then contemporary comic books and his plots could never be described as complex or involved stories. 

But why should any of these things be flaws? So, the man could write in the mould of classic sci-fi serials? Doctor Who was in the mould of a classic sci-fi serial and what Nation understood so well was that week-to-week structure that so many of his successors, and a good deal of his contemporaries, failed to get a hold of. Sure, Terry Nation serials are awkward stories to binge but they were never designed that way. Ever tried reading Oliver Twist more than one chapter at a time? It is horrible. Every individual chapter is truly an episode unto itself with great moments of character and action that effectively recap the story and move the grander plot forward. This is why, despite the unusual length of seven episodes, The Daleks still holds my attention for the whole runtime. Possibly more than any other writer's work on the original programme, Nation's episodes are consistently great to jump into just as single episodes. This also goes hand in hand with the very direct and simple dialogue really works as well. It is never subtle but it is always efficient and perfectly compliments the flavour of adventure serial that Nation consistently captured. Terry Nation is a good writer. Obviously. He is so good that even when he could not care less, and most of the time he did not, he could always deliver fun and beyond competent scripts.

Terry Nation, 1978: "It was quite a good eerie beginning and, at the end of it – the last frame of the picture – we saw a bit of a Dalek. We didn’t see a whole Dalek. And the phones started to ring. People saying, “Christ, what is that thing? A week later, the Dalek appeared."

The Daleks is a masterful blend of serialised action/adventure, thought provoking science fiction ideas and positively chilling horror that is well beyond the brief that Nation was given. From the moment it begins, this serial is unsettling. There is, of course, a brilliant dramatic irony baked into the premise that operates as both a clue to what is really going on and a genuinely compelling danger for our heroes. There is a school of thought that has concluded that The Daleks is too long but, again, I feel that this is a very contemporary mindset that somewhat misses what this story is going for. Say what you will about Destiny of the Daleks, for a not-at-all random example, but the first episode of this story, titled The Dead Planet, is not an exercise in killing time until the Dalek shows up to menace Barbara at the end. Despite what we know now, The Dead Planet does not have a reveal at the end. There is no frame of reference for the audience to project onto what is happening at all. Instead, the episode is a slowly rising crescendo of intrigue and tension that spans from the sparseness of a silent, dead forest to the gradually more claustrophobic and unfamiliar terrain of the city until Barbara gets cornered in an unknown corridor by an unknown terror. It is beautifully constructed adventure fiction that plays on the natural marriage of primal horrors, being the least creatures alive on the planet, and the imagery of contemporary nuclear warfare.

An Unearthly Child is a story defined by juxtaposition and survivalism which are both ideas that Nation picks up on beautifully in his story but he also brings themes of morality, identity and action. The Daleks is an almost biblical parable. With An Unearthly Child and The Daleks, the two core identities of the show appear to emerge. The former is a cynical and unrelenting programme that believes in unstoppable forces of nature that, no matter how hard we try to escape them or destroy them, will always be there at the core of our beings. With the latter, it is something more optimistic. A programme that is insistent, no matter how devastating the situation, that we can affect our destinies and help those around us to strive for better lives where we learn from our mistakes, can change and move forward. It is this version of Doctor Who, unsurprisingly, that the majority of the franchise believes in.

One thing Wilson did insist upon this serial was an experienced director whom he could trust to steer the ship and Christopher Barry was called in to take the job. Barry, however, was in the midst of other commitments leading to the unique situation where he only directed part of the story – episodes one, two, four and five. Richard Martin made his directorial debut with episode three and went on to direct episodes six and seven as well as the following serial and the Daleks' immediate next two appearances. Barry would also return to the series directing serials infrequently until 1979. As excellent as Martin's work in this serial is, and he realises some pretty spectacular imagery and visual effects for a little programme and with no experience, I could sing the praises of Christopher Barry all day. His choice of camera shots are incredibly dynamic throughout the episodes he helms with some particularly creative uses of angles and composition that really get the best out of these tiny sets. So many classic Doctor Who stories are hampered or even ruined by flat and uninspired direction (and eventually Barry will be the culprit of such a thing) but The Daleks, for my money, stands proud as one of the most cinematic serials of its era. 

The cast are all excellent with great moments to shine. William Russell is always on good form and one of my favourite moments of the serial is when he smashes Susan's flower. It's a brilliant and revealing character beat for him. Jacqueline Hill is great and has some epic girl bossing toward the end ("Do you always do what Ian tells you?" "No."). Carole Ann Ford sells the desperation of Susan's mini-quest very well but let ustake some time to single out for praise is William Hartnell who turns in possibly the defining performance of at least his first year in the leading role and steals every single scene that he’s in. Considering the overly aggressive and immoral characterisation of An Unearthly Child, it was not necessarily a given that Doctor Who would be a likeable character any way moving forward but this is the story that first truly defines him. He is still arrogant, selfish and perhaps a little morally ambiguous but he is also shown to be deeply passionate, delightfully witty and shows more than a handful of moments of genuine charm. I love how character driven the plot ultimately is with little more than the Doctor's selfish, stubbornness to please himself that puts the whole crew in danger. It is worth mentioning too how the fluid link saga things on the TARDIS' identity as a machine, in the literal human understanding of the word. Very rarely beyond this serial would the TARDIS actually be treated in this way by the narrative, as opposed to simply being a magical element that carries us from A to B. The Doctor's actions are cruel and self-interested but by the time he is encamped among the Thals and one can see his delight in getting to know their people and their science, he suddenly becomes such a fully realised person in ways that he was not before. The Doctor is a scientist and an explorer, not some vindictive wizard with indefinable motives. 

While the presentation, and perhaps core value itself, is a little dated, I also appreciate the Doctor's, and the rest of the main cast's, push for the Thals to be proactive as a peoples. It is a little clunky on the whole and comes off as a pretty pure endorsement against pacifism (though Ian's line "Pacifism only works when everybody feels the same" is a difficult claim to refute) but the nature of the message, insisting that standing up to oppressive forces and taking control of one's own life, is one worth conveying and an essential step in the development of the Doctor's morality. We are not entirely there yet, this is not a heroic character (indeed, he actively causes the Daleks to die), but this is the biggest leap we will get until the Daleks' next appearance.

Speaking of, let's get into the Daleks themselves. It is remarkable how close they are to being fully formed in their debut story. It disappoints me no end that this version of the Daleks, the calculating Nazi scientists allegory, is so ill-frequently represented in subsequent media appearances. The Daleks barely kill anybody at all in this script, largely seen just deliberating and experimenting in the labs of their cities, making the few uses of their weaponry a genuinely awesome shock for the audience. It is also a lot of fun seeing the original educational edict play out, for the only time with the Daleks; they cannot leave the floor of their city for they are powered by static electricity. 

The true unsung hero of this production continues to be Ray Cusick, the BBC designer who somewhat infamously took over from a young Ridley Scott who was too busy to take on the job. Before even getting to the main event, we should note that the production design all around is stunning on this story. All of the sets and costumes that are dripping in glorious futuristic aestheticism that would make Star Trek jealous. The Daleks look incredible and, again, it is too easy to take for granted how truly iconic they are. The most radical redesign in the entire barely strays at all from their original realisation here. Even watching them today, it is unbelievable watching them in action. Just how smoothly and freakishly the creatures glide around their home world. They are just so thoroughly alien and it was one of the best choices of the production that their true nature is never actually revealed. How is it possible for the Daleks to be so far from anything resembling humanity? It is left purely for the imagination and to great effect. While Nation was very keen on the image of a gliding creature, allegedly inspired by the the Georgian State Ballet, Cusick was the one who really created the visual identity of the Dalek creature.

Terry Nation, 1987: “Raymond Cusick made a tremendous contribution and I would love to be glib enough to put it into percentage terms, but you can’t do that. You start with something that’s a writer’s dream, that he’s put down in words, and amended, and added to in conversations. Something starts there... I think they may have given him a hundred pound bonus, but he was a salaried employee... The copyrights resided with the BBC and myself... he made a tremendous contribution. Whatever the Daleks are or were, his contribution was vast."

Ray Cusick, 1992: "Everyone was rushing around corridors saying ‘Oh, there’ll be Dalek films, Dalek soap, Dalek tea towels’, they thought there’d be lots of money. I was very friendly with Terry Nation and we appeared on a very famous show called ‘Late Night Line-Up’, and I remember asking him after the show ‘What about the films, Terry?’. And I never saw him again!"

As well we know, Terry Nation is not a subtle writer. In a lot of ways, Terry Nation's scripts seem to defy analysis. Funnily enough, this is something that he has very much in common with, a remarkably different Doctor Who writer, Russell T Davies – neither of them are particularly keen on subtext. As noted above and well documented at this point, there are parallels to be drawn between the Daleks and Nazi scientists. These cold and calculating survivors of a long and brutal war who skulk about in their underground bunkers, preparing to exterminate an entire race that poses no threat to them. As Ian describes them; "They're afraid of you because you're different from them" These are parallels that Nation was very intentionally drawing in his work (and would draw even more intently come Genesis of the Daleks)but there is a particular quote from Nation about his creations that I find deeply tantalising;

Terry Nation, 1978: “I can’t isolate one character [that the Daleks are based upon]. But I suppose you could say the Nazis. The one recurring dream I have – once or twice a year it comes to me – is that I’m driving a car very quickly and the windscreen is a bit murky. The sun comes onto it and it becomes totally opaque. I’m still hurtling forwards at incredible speed and there’s nothing I can see or do and I can’t stop the car. That’s my recurring nightmare and it’s very simply solved by psychologists who say you’re heading for your future. You don’t know what your future is. However much you plead with somebody to save you from this situation, everybody you turn to turns out to be one of ‘Them’. And there’s nobody left – You are the lone guy. The Daleks are all of ‘Them’ and they represent for so many people so many different things, but they all see them as government, as officialdom, as that unhearing, unthinking, blanked-out face of authority that will destroy you because it wants to destroy you. I believe in that now – I’ve directed them more that way over the years."

This is a deeply interesting and revealing excerpt, in my opinion. Nation was a child during the Second World War, a fact that he often mentioned in interviews and something that continued to permeate his work. It would be hard to describe him as anything other than a man with liberal political values, many of which are on display in The Daleks. That being said, it is incredibly easy to read The Daleks as a condemnation of Nazi fascism, totalitarianism and racial hatred. Perhaps not is too easy. Let us take moment to consider the politics of The Daleks as a condemnation of, not the Second World War but, the post-war climate and even more directly on the UK itself. After all, it is not without note that the Thals are of typically Aryan physicality and even had German names in earlier drafts of the story. In real-world history, we all know that it was not the Nazis who dropped the first atomic bomb – it was the Allies and, while the plight of the Thals has a great deal in common with the Jewish in World War II, it is not especially difficult to shift the lens of the Dalek allegory onto the 'good guys' watching the programme. When considering this with the above quote, there becomes something almost anarchistic about The Daleks. Nation's story is a survivalist thriller in many respects (with a lot of the natural horrors, of course, being directly resultant of man-made atrocities) but his self-confessed anxiety for the future perhaps fuels the story's optimistic insistence that when everything is torn down and destroyed, life will prevail and we can begin again, better than before. 

The Daleks presents strong ideals of community which makes perfect sense given the quote above. Nation's self-proclaimed fears seem keenly tied to isolation and that paranoia runs rampant in the terror of The Daleks. Take the sequence in The Survivors where Susan is racing back to the TARDIS on her own. The journey is horrifying and tense as she has no support or reassurance on her side. She is a young woman who is already dying and anything could be out to get her.The person who does find her, of course, is Alydon, a man from a kind, supportive and united community. The kind of community that could take on the Daleks. There are a lot of problems with this too though. The Thals are presented as, in Susan's words, perfect. They are peak physical performance, they look like humans and the villains, the irredeemable monsters, are physically inhuman.

Terry Nation, 1978: "[Survival] is a theme that’s actually gone through my work enormously...  I’m in that aeroplane and I’m waiting for the moment when they say, 'Can anybody fly this aeroplane?' – And I can’t, but I know that finally I’m going to be the one that has to do it."

On Saturday the twenty-first of December 1963, the fifth episode of the BBC's new science-fiction adventure serial, Doctor Who, aired in front of an audience of 6.9 million viewers. The episode was penned an up and coming Welsh comedy writer named Terry Nation and it was the first of seven chapters in a saga entitled The Mutants. Following a thrilling cliffhanger and the unexpected reveal of the serial's bizarre antagonists, something unexpected happened – Doctor Who suddenly became incredibly popular. Between episodes two and three, 2.5 million more viewers tuned in for the adventure with another 1.5 million accumulated by the serial's end. Doctor Who might have debuted four weeks earlier with An Unearthly Child but The Daleks, as it came to be known, is where the programme that has lasted sixty years actually premieres.

David Whitaker, 1979: "When it was shown, not very long after being recorded, we were, and I don’t mean this to sound smug, proved quite right."

Peter Cushing, 1970s: "I thought it was very good. Very well made."

David Whitaker, 1979: "The Daleks were a smashing invention, and I took to them at once. I would say they’re worthy of Jules Verne."

Verity Lambert, 1980s: "What was very nice, though, was Donald Wilson coming up to me after the Daleks had taken off and saying ‘You obviously understand this programme better than I do. I’ll leave it to you’."

Part II - Dr. Who and the Daleks

Terry Nation, 1987: "After the Daleks, I was for a short time the most famous writer on television. The press interviewed me, there was mail arriving in great van loads. There was stuff coming to my house that said ‘Dalek Man – London’, and I was getting lots of them. Almost all the kids wanted a Dalek, and nobody was quick enough... My God, was that to change! Within the year, there were Dalek everythings." 

As we all know, the Daleks were incredibly popular with the British public. In a manner cheekily compared to the Beatles, the Daleks dominated pop culture with all assortments of merchandise and spin-off material quickly emerging on the market. Between Nation and Whitaker's The Dalek Book, TV Century 21's comic strips (also credited to Nation), Whitaker's novel adaptation Doctor Who in an Exciting Adventure with the Daleks and any number of toys, costumes and promotional tie-ins, the impact and legacy of the Dalek serial was immediately felt. Nation was swiftly commissioned for a second serial, the decidedly less culturally penetrating The Keys of Marinus, and eventually asked for a sequel Dalek story but what could have been the most high-profile exposure for his creations that one could ask, strangely enough, came without much involvement from Nation at all. 

In late 1964, American film producer Milton Subotsky approached Nation and the BBC about purchasing the film rights to The Daleks. For a fee of £500, Subotsky secured the rights and set about producing Dr. Who and the Daleks. As well as co-producing with Max J. Rosenberg, Subotsky was also credited for the screenplay with not insubstantial uncredited contributions from David Whitaker. The film was one of ten theatrical efforts by prolific television director Gordon Flemyng and marks the first of only two times (to date) that Doctor Who has been adapted exclusively for the silver screen. 

Tom Baker, 1975: "There have been two Doctor Who films in the past, both rather poor."

I find Dr. Who and the Daleks to be a deeply fascinating cultural oddity but that fascination surrounding its existence ultimately fails to translate to the screen itself. Even if it was just rolled into production as a quick attempt to capitalise on the enormous success of the Daleks in yet another form of media, it is admittedly impressive how much of the picture really works. Bill Constable’s art direction is quite breathtaking at times, working beautifully with the luscious technicolor presentation. This is a gorgeous film just to look at and it really effortlessly realises the fullscreen, explosive world of the Daleks that previously only truly existed in the aforementioned comic books and annuals. I particularly love the latter sequences as our heroes scale Skaro's landscape amongst some gorgeous matte painting work. That being said, there is still something that speaks to me more about the 4:3 black and white glimpses offered in the TV version. The feeling of peering through your TV screen into these small corners of what feels like a larger, more dangerous world behind and beyond the camera is much more captivating for me than these much grander sets presented without ambition or flair.

Since I neglected them in my main review, let me quickly sing the praises of Peter Hawkins and David Graham as the voices of the Daleks. With the assistance of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop's Brian Hodgson, the pair created the unique electronic tones of the creature's voices using a ring modulator. Their voices are immediately recognisable and they put in great performances though it is clear, in hindsight, that the sound of the Daleks still had some work to do. Hawkins and Graham's initial Daleks are much more monotone than they would later become with the pair only later landing upon the rising pitch and angry tones that would truly define them. They are excellent in the film as well but, it has to be said, the story is not served by how many scenes they have of dialogue amongst themselves. Obviously it makes sense to showcase the full-colour, enormous Dalek props at every possible opportunity in your big screen Dalek film but there is just no way around the reality that Daleks rolling about and talking amongst themselves as slowly as it seems possible they could is not compelling cinema.

Worse than just looking at Daleks are the flaws of Terry Nation’s incredibly serialised storytelling being put on full display here. While the screenplay effectively trims the fat, save for the Dalek scenes, the general structure of this story does not work well as a single feature film. It is a similar problem that a lot of novel adaptations have where the filmmakers just cannot get the chapters to effectively translate to scenes and sequences. Dr. Who and the Daleks also has a bit of a bland core cast. Barrie Ingham is a good Alydon and Peter Cushing works magic with his dottery version of the Doctor but Roy Castle's doofus take on Ian leaves much to be desired and Jennie Linden's Barbara feels so surplus to requirements that she just gets folded into Susan's character and then a generic love interest. The film is entertaining but a bit of a lacklustre watch on the whole. It is not a poor or even unnecessary addition to the Doctor Who canon. This is as good a 90 minute adaptation of The Daleks that could possibly exist. It is just also true that the best version of that story is, regrettably, not this.

Roy Castle, 1990: "[I]t was quite unusual. Very unlike anything I’ve ever done... [The Daleks] were brilliant. I think if you’d said to the producer, you must get rid of the humans or the Daleks, he’d have got rid of us humans in a flash."

Peter Cushing, 1990s: "Those films are among my favourites because they brought me popularity with younger children. They’d say their parents didn’t want to meet me in a dark alley but ‘Doctor Who’ changed that. After all, he is one of the most heroic and successful parts an actor can play. That’s one of the main reasons the series had such a long run on TV. I am very grateful for having been part of such a success story.”

In 2024, the prevalence of Dr. Who and the Daleks in the greater story of the programme has dwindled but it is worth remembering just how significant an event it was. While not a critical darling, the film was a box officer smash in the UK and was often repeated on television over the following decades. For so many fans, Dr. Who and the Daleks was more readily viewed than great swathes of the television show itself. Even though The Daleks is the story that happened on television, it is not unfair to say that Dr. Who and the Daleks is the story many of us remember happening.

Part III - The Daleks in Colour

Russell T Davies, 2023: "I've got to beblunt, I've watched this, as a fan, ahundred times as a black and white show andI've never enjoyed it so much as in colour."

And so, we fast forward, to 2023 and the sixtieth anniversary of Doctor Who. Showrunner Russell T. Davies has made the entire back-catalogue available for streaming in the UK, three new specials are about to air and the boldest, most publicised attempt to bring the original series to the general audience since 2005 is taking place. Thanks to the work of fans such as Rich Tipple and Benjamin Cook, RTD spearheaded an all-new colorisation and re-edit of The Daleks down to a seventy-five minute length to offer an alternative "blockbuster" version for potential new fans. How many of the uninitiated took any notice of its appearance on iPlayer and sprucing on breakfast television remains to be seen but, nevertheless, Doctor Who: The Daleks in Colour arrived in our screens on the 23rd of November, 2023. 

The film in question is an interesting but flawed experiment. Certainly, the possibility of colourising the ancient history of Doctor Who has been a tantalising one for decades now and something many fans, myself included, have been eager to see. In and of itself, this is a fine thing to strive for and, in this respect, The Daleks in Colour is incredibly successful at it. The colourisation is breathtaking. Not only is the colourising itself incredible but the choice to eschew real world reference points for the sets, costume and lighting in favour of the most vibrant, almost psychedelic options that they could possibly think of is the correct choice. The entire production has a sense of 1960s pop and visual style that slots in seamlessly with then contemporary productions to the extent where it looks like this could always have been the plan.

What feels very much not like it was planned, however, is the runtime. On paper, chopping up the serial makes a good deal of sense. Seven episodes is a big commitment to somebody uncertain of the original show and with 1963 pacing being what it was, the decision to pare things down matches well with the mission statement. Alas, the editing in this film does not work but not because the idea is bad. Dr. Who and the Daleks has proven that paring down the script can lead to a generally well-received and, for many, preferential product. Yes, Dr. Who and the Daleks is, in many ways the elephant in the room. While the decision to choose the debut of the Daleks as a story to hook in new fans makes a lot of sense on paper, the fact that the Subotsky adaptation exists at all makes it a little difficult to justify.

The direct comparison is ultimately unfavourable and not just because of how many of the colour choices seem direct inspired by it. The Subotsky film's existence awkwardly lampshades the fact that what one is watching here is not an eighty-two minute feature designed to watched in one sitting. This is an almost three hour one awkwardly cobbled together with jarring new musical cues. Many of the technical choices employed such as speeding up the film, tightening up gaps in the dialogue and recording new Dalek dialogue to disguise swathes of cut material all amount to a very obviously cobbled together experience. 

Still, this experiment was necessary and this is a great little curio of the franchise but the awkwardness of the production and its core appeal as an alternative proves it unlikely, in my opinion, to ever actually attain its goal – enticing new viewers to watch the Hartnell era. What The Daleks in Colour is is an alternative to the original and a glimpse into an alternate history for a captive fanbase. It could have been an amazing leap forward but remains, instead, a noteworthy first step into uncharted territory.

But what of that original serial then? Well, in my opinion, The Daleks still holds up today as one of the best stories in the history of Doctor Who and a landmark moment in science fiction storytelling. But this is not for everyone. BBC television of the 1960s is certainly not for everyone; I watched this with my partner and we both did feel the length when watching the episodes in close proximity. Even so, I do strongly implore checking out the first two episodes in the serial for some of the most intriguing and moody sci-fi adventure storytelling you might ever see in Doctor Who. In December 1963, Terry Nation and the Doctor Who team created some wonderful episodes of television. And that was not the end of the story.

Terry Nation, 1987: "I don’t know to this day what the enormous appeal of the Daleks was. I’ve heard all sorts of ideas about it, but they were slightly magical, because you didn’t know what the elements were that made them work."

Sydney Newman, 1986: “Someone once told me that there was a question in Trivial Pursuit, ‘Who created Doctor Who?’. You turn the card over and it says the answer is Terry Nation! I wrote a rather stinging letter, demanding the destruction of all the Trivial Pursuits that had that mistake in them, hinting at some fabulous compensation that they should give me for demeaning my contribution to (laughs) world culture! I got lawyers and everything, but I didn’t get anywhere. They just said they would withdraw the card. I even wrote to Terry Nation for his support, and he sent me a very nice letter back.”

*This title would be adopted by fans despite not appearing on any documentation at the time. It became officially endorsed with the 2001 VHS release

[madanythinglaboratory]

Elemental Magus (a DND 5e Homebrewed Wizard subclass inspired by @comicaurora)

DISCLAIMER: This is straight-up unbalanced. Balancing was always a secondary concern, because that's not what I like about making these, but this time, it's bad enough that even I can't see past it. However, I don't know exactly how to balance it properly while keeping the things I like about it, so I'm freeing this from my drafts and letting the ideas out so someone else (possibly future me) can retool it into something that won't make your GM rip out their hair in frustration. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the subclass all the same ! EDIT: Did my best to rebalance it. Let me know what you think !

2nd level: Such A Lofty Title

Starting at 2nd level, you are revealed as an Elemental Magus, an extremely rare kind of mage that can command all six Primordial elements: Fire, Life, Lightning, Stone, Water, and Wind. 

You can now copy spells that deal fire, necrotic, lightning, bludgeoning, cold, or thunder damage as well as healing spells into your spellbook, even if they are outside of the wizard spell list. Your spellbook can only contain a number of these spells equal to your proficiency bonus. You cannot learn these spells as part of leveling up, and cannot choose them for your Spell Mastery and Signature Spells features.

2nd Level: Just Another Problem to Solve

At 2nd level, your intense study of the mechanics of elemental magic has allowed you to supplement your spells with the properties of the elements. Depending on the damage a spell deals, you can choose to add an additional effect to the targets of your wizard spell in function of the element used:

Fire: One target of your choice must succeed on a Dexterity saving throw or take 1d6 fire damage at the start of their next turn. Anything that would douse a regular fire stops the condition.

Necrotic: One target of your choice must succeed on a Constitution saving throw or have their hit points maximum reduced by your proficiency bonus + the spell's level. This effect is not cumulable with other reduction of maximum hit points, including another use of this feature.

Lightning: One target of your choice must succeed on an Intelligence saving throw or be unable to take a reaction until the end of your next turn.

Bludgeoning: One target of your choice must succeed on a Strength saving throw or have their speed reduced by 15 until the end of your next turn.

Cold: One target of your choice must succeed on a Dexterity saving throw or have disadvantage on their next attack roll.

Thunder: One target of your choice that is either concentrating on a spell or has activated a feature that ends on certain conditions or the target's will (such as a Barbarian's Rage or a Druid's Wild Shape), they must succeed on a Concentration saving throw against your spell save DC. On a failure, they drop concentration on their spell or their feature deactivates.

You can use this feature a number of times equal to your Intelligence modifier (minimum of 1).

6th level: Safety Is By Definition Not Overcomplicated

At 6th level, you’ve mastered the technique of rune casting, at the cost of the speed of intuition-based magical forms. When you cast a spell that deals fire, necrotic, lightning, bludgeoning, cold, or thunder damage, you can choose to use a runic circle for the spell. When you do so, your spell takes effect at your initiative minus 10, and any roll the spell asks for (damage rolls, saving throws, attack rolls, concentration checks …) can be granted advantage. Additionally, if the spell requires you to use your action to keep an effect of the spell going, you can instead use your bonus action.

If the spell affects an area of effect, you can move it a number of feet equal to five times your Wisdom modifier (minimum of 5) as it takes effect. If the spell affects a single target and said target moves away from your range of casting, the spell fails and you waste a spell slot. 

If used outside of combat, the spell takes effect after 10 minutes instead. 

10th level: Phenomenal Natural Talent

Starting at 10th level, you can use your command over the elements to shield you and your surroundings from their effects. On your turn, you can use an action to expend a spell slot and summon a 10 ft. sphere of protective elemental energy centered on yourself for a minute.

When you use this feature, you must choose one type of damage from the following list: bludgeoning, cold, fire, lightning, necrotic, or thunder. You can nullify the effect of one spell dealing that type of damage per round. The spell must be cast at no more than two levels above your expended slot.

While this feature is active, you are considered as concentrating on a spell for all intents and purposes. Once you use this feature, you can't use it again until you finish a long rest.

14th level: A Primordial True Name in Its Purest Form

At 14th level, you learn the true name of the Elemental Primordials. As a result, you can now invoke the higher property of one of the elements during combat in order to control the battlefield.

Fire/Transmutation: As an action, you can choose a creature within range, which must make a Constitution saving throw. On a failure, you can choose to transform one resistance, vulnerability, or immunity from one type of damage to another for the duration. The target can choose to fail the saving throw.

Life/Survivability: If a creature fails their last death saving throw or takes enough damage to die on hit within range, you can use your reaction to temporarily stop them from dying. If the creature is healed or stabilized while their death is being halted, their hitpoints remain at 0, but the creature will instead be unconscious and stable instead of dead or dying, and your Life effect ends.

Lightning/Connection: As an action, you can choose two willing creatures, including yourself, within range. of you in order to link them. When one of the linked creatures takes damage before the end of the effect, the other can choose to take half of the damage instead of their ally.

Stone/Loyalty: As an action, you can choose a spell caster within range to let them to temporarily use your spell slots for their own spellcasting. When your ally uses one of your spell slots, both of you take 1d10 necrotic damage. This damage cannot be reduced in any way.

Water/Flexibility: As an action, you can allow up to three willing creatures within range other than yourself to make an action become a bonus action instead for the duration.

Wind/Communication: As a bonus action, you can choose a creature within range and force them to make a Charisma saving throw. On a failure, their allies are now temporarily hostile towards them. The target can use their action in order to try and convince their allies that they aren’t an enemy, repeating this saving throw. Creatures immune to the charmed condition will not turn hostile.

Each of these effects lasts for a number of turns equal to your Wisdom modifier and you are considered as concentrating on a spell for all intents and purposes while they are active. Once you use one of these features, you can't use any of them again until you finish a long rest.

[einloukrativesangebot]

March 2024 Destiel Fic Recs

My favourite fics written in March 2024. Please leave kudos and comments for the authors.

Baker Six by komodobits

Summer, 1944. Dean doesn’t think about First Lieutenant Novak.

Feel It All Around by egravis

With Cas newly fallen, a lot of things have changed. Like, for one, Cas has never appeared so fragile before.

I hate you when Sam sees it (and love you when he doesn't) feat Bobby Singer by FreyaBlackthorn

Dean and Cas love each other in the dark. They hate each other in front of a freshly soul-supplied Sam. It's that easy.

Except it's not easy, because Sam may be a Winchester, but even his stupidness knows bounds. So how can you make your little brother believe you are totally not interested in your feathered best friend (who is totally your boyfriend, for the record)?

Bobby makes a guest appearance because he's the best, and because he cannot be fooled.

Never Let Me Go by K_A_Mindin

Found the place to rest my head

Personal Jesus by GreenEnthusiast

Dean has made a nasty habit of calling out to Castiel in the dead of night, when he’s all alone. Repressed feelings and a case of beer are quite the duo, one the Winchester is no stranger to. All he wants is to love and be loved, but he’s not sure if he knows how.

The Space Between The Trees by birdyedwards

The point was that Cas fell out of that barn and right into Dean’s life like he’d always belonged there. Like there was a Castiel-shaped spot missing somewhere and he’d slotted right into it. Over the past several months, the two of them haven’t been apart for more than a couple hours and Dean wonders how he ever went on without him. How it was even possible that Cas hadn’t been there the entire time.

- + -

The thing no one tells you about hunting is that it’s surprisingly boring. Having Cas around helps.

touch and go by stayawake

Cas comes equipped with enough angelic strength to fling demons against the wall with a flick of his wrist, but still lets himself get pushed and pulled around by Dean like it's nothing.

a happy ending in the palm of your hands by all_american_hips

It has been three months since the world was saved.

-------

Everything is finally in its place, and Dean tries to get his shit together.

An angel walks into a flower shop... by FreyaBlackthorn

This is literally a pinterest post turned into a silly fic. What would happen if an almighty angel walked into a flower shop to buy his serial killer of a boyfriend flowers? (feat Sam, because let's be honest, he would probably be there and be a little gremlin about it).

love in messages by DeanIsABottomDamnit

The relationship between cas and dean seen through texts, through the years

inhuman/human by Xxcxreyxx

Stuck in Purgatory, Castiel has time to think.

devastating, apocalyptic, & utterly catastrophic by aalienbluezz

And that was it. Cas was done. So done. Why on Earth would he read this ridiculously inaccurate folklore when he could just look at Dean’s adorable face. And eyes. And his pretty, pretty mouth. Cas was about two minutes in to remapping out each atom of Dean’s devastating cupid’s bow when Dean finally piped up with that same strange look and a self-conscious laugh: “Uh, I got crumbs on my mouth or somethin’?”

or,

Cas introduces Dean to the wonders of Chapstick.

the gone fishin' fic by the_oncoming_stormageddon

Dean and Cas have been dating for three months, but Dean isn’t sure that he’s ready to come out yet. Meanwhile, Bobby’s known they’ve been dating for six months.

A Tough Nut To Crack by ImYourHoneyBee

The cold is worse, bad enough that their comfortable moss insulation and leaf doorway don’t keep it out, and despite his thick winter coat, Dean is freezing. On the other side of the nest, Cas is curled into a tight ball, his tail flipped over his nose like a blanket. Dean wonders if he’s cold too.

It’s dark inside their nest, almost pitch black with how the maple leaves block out the starlight. Cas is nothing but a lump, but Dean bets that if they were lumps together, they’d be warmer. It’s not gay if they’re huddling for warmth, right? It should also be taken into account that they’re squirrels, and he’s pretty sure it’s not gay if they’re squirrels, either.

Dean is suffering because he’d insisted that they be two squirrels sleeping on opposite sides of the nest, five inches apart because they’re not gay.

Morning After by lizleenimbus

Dean wakes up after a one-night stand only to find something - or rather someone - he didn't expect.

It's the first month of @deancaspinefest posting, so check those fics out here if you want some long fics of Dean and Cas pining for each other. And please do read my fic "Not our kind of thing" here.

Check out the other posts:

January, February

[grailfinders]

Grailfinders #315: Habetrot

today on Grailfinders, we’re finally getting the hell out of lostbelt six! we’ve just got one more faerie to go and we’re free until summer finally kills us. all we need to do is Habetrot, so let’s take a look at her kit, probably just another sewing servant….

huh.

wow, I just spoiled so much of this lostbelt for myself! everything past this point is going under a cut.

so! Habetrot! she’s going to be an Ancients Paladin to literally be an ancient paladin (as well as to sew some sick wedding dresses), and she’s also a Witherbloom Warlock because literally no one in this lostbelt can keep their hands off weapons that will kill them. realistically she should be a hexblade, but a) we literally just did a hexadin, and b) the black barrel strikes me less as a sentient weapon and more as just. a giant ball of radioactivity.

so with that out of the way, let’s get building!

(as usual, a character sheet can be found here, and next up: sword baby)

Ancestry and Background

Habetrot is obviously a Fairy, unless you spell it correctly, then she’s a Faerie. who has Fairy Magic including Faerie Fire at third level. make it make sense. that makes the creatures in an area glowy if they fail a save, giving everyone else advantage to hit them, it’s a big boost to your crit star generation. off the bat though you have access to the Druidcraft cantrip, which is a more themed prestidigitation, just a billion tiny effects rolled into a single spell. and at level five you can Enlarge/Reduce creatures, and if you grow larger you can hit harder than usual, because a person-sized baby hits harder than a person-sized person. you can also shrink, but then you deal less damage with melee attacks. your faerie fire and enlarge/reduce share a single free cast per day, but you can also cast them (using your Charisma) with your existing spell slots. you can also fly, which makes your dirigible kind of pointless but we’ll get it anyway.

oh right, almost forgot. as a faerie you have free reign over your ability increases, but I picked +2 Dexterity and +1 Charisma here.

while I could use Habetrot’s waybackground, I’ll keep things kind of recent and call her a Guild Artisan. that gives her proficiency in Insight and Persuasion, and also means she has to pay regular dues to her guild boss. Boggart runs a tight ship, better not be late.

Ability Scores

Boggart hasn’t eaten you yet for some reason, so I bet your Charisma is super high. that and your Dexterity. balancing on a giant balloon is hard, and you’re also a crack shot with a gun. we have to make your Strength the third highest for multiclassing, but if you can convince your DM to ignore this you should dump it instead. she is literally a baby. physically, anyway. that being said your Constitution is still above average, babies can bounce back from just about anything. that means your Wisdom and Intelligence are low, having trouble learning things was your defining trait for quite a while.

Class Levels

1. Paladin 1: I promise this will make sense in the long run, just go with me here. starting off you’re good at Wisdom and Charisma saves, because magic doesn’t work on faeries that well. you’re also good at Medicine, it’s kind of like how Carpenters also used to be Surgeons, and you’ve got Religion down pat. the closest thing to a god in this land is rotting in a pit. there, that’s religion. you still know more than most people, tbh.

you can use Divine Sense to detect a couple types of creatures around you, but uh, spoiler alert! they’re faeries. they’re all faeries, you’re surrounded by faeries for thousands of years.

you can also Lay on Hands as an action, mending someone’s dress to give them some HP. you have a pool of five times your level each day to use, and spending five HP can heal someone from a poison or disease. when you say debuff immunity, you mean it.

2. Paladin 2: second level paladins can pick a Fighting Style, and you’re not really into fighting that much, so I guess you’re a Blessed Warrior. with this you can pick up two cleric cantrips of your choice and can even swap them out on level-ups, though for my money there’s only two we need. grab Thaumaturgy for the second of the three “do what you want” cantrips, and Mending, because making a character whose entire thing is sewing without the ability to mend would be a crime.

while we’re talking about Spells, you can cast those now. you get some spell slots, and your Charisma powers them. I’d grab Cure Wounds for your first skill, and Ceremony so you can finally find a use for all these stupid dresses you keep making since nobody actually gets married in britain. if they refuse to marry, you will make them marry. and get a +2 bonus to their AC for a week to boot!

you can also add a Divine Smite to a melee attack by spending a spell slot, but you don’t really use melee weapons. the only smite that doesn’t care what weapon you use is Branding Smite, and we won’t get that until fifth level. stay strong, habbe.

3. Paladin 3: but enough doom and gloom, let’s talk subclasses! as an Oath of Ancients paladin, you have an extended spell list, which now includes Ensnaring Strike to tie up an enemy with sewing supplies, or Speak with Animals to speak with animals. fey animals seem to be able to talk anyway, but still.

you can also Channel Divinity once a short rest in one of two flavors. you can spend an action to incur Nature’s Wrath on a foe, forcing a strength or dexterity save or they become restrained by vines I mean thread. you can also Turn the Faithless as an action, forcing every fey/fiend in thirty feet of you to make a… Wisdom save, or they become turned for a minute and have to run away from you.

you are a fey. huh.

this is the closest I could get to the downside of Habetrot’s third skill, WotC still isn’t big on players hurting themselves, even if they can’t get enough of shooting themselves in the foot.

4. Paladin 4: use your first Ability Score Improvement to bump up your Dexterity. if you have to pick up a weapon, you might as well be decent at it.

5. Paladin 5: fifth level paladins get an Extra Attack each attack action, as well as second level spells! as mentioned, Branding Smite is the only smite you get that is okay with ranged weapons, and it adds an effect to the enemy for up to a minute if it hits, preventing them from going invisible- kind of like faerie fire, in a way!

in a similar vein, your oath spell Moonbeam deals extra damage to shapechangers, and Misty Step is just a good utility spell to have. if you’re in a bad situation, stop being there.

you can also buff up your friends’ dresses with Aid to give them extra HP for the day, or you can Find Steed to get a balloon to ride on. it can’t fly yet, so I guess we’re still trying to find some helium.

6. Paladin 6: sixth level paladins exude an Aura of Protection, adding your charisma modifier to all saves you or nearby friends make, no limitations (aside from you being conscious). when you said debuff immunity, you meant it.

7. Paladin 7: seventh level ancient paladins finally get something that is 100% unequivocally useful- the Aura of Warding. you and all your nearby friends have resistance to spell magic. there’s a reason nobody in britain uses magecraft.

8. Paladin 8: I think we’re late enough in the build to break out the serious spoilers now. use this ASI to pick up the Squire of Solamnia feat and become one of Aesc/Tonelico’s most trusted knights. now you can mount or dismount for only five feet of movement, and you can make a Precise Strike when you attack with any kind of weapon, giving yourself advantage plus an extra d8 of damage. you can do this proficiency times per day, once per turn, though you only burn through uses if the attack actually hits.

9. Paladin 9: ninth level paladins don’t get much, but they do get third level spells! your freebies are Plant Growth and Protection from Energy, but I’d say your best fit atm is Crusader’s Mantle. it might not be crit stars, but it will make everyone’s weapons a lot shinier as they do radiant damage. this also works on ranged weapons, yay!

10. Paladin 10: if that’s not enough auras, here’s one more! with the Aura of Courage, you and nearby allies never have to worry about being frightened! I know, Morgan’s scary, but it won’t help any if her allies get frightened too!

11. Warlock 1: we’ve covered Morgan’s fall from… errr, “grace” doesn’t quite sound right, plus she actually became queen, so it’s more of a rise… whatever. she’s queen now, you’re hanging out with boggart when this pretty young thing walks in with a god-killing weapon on her back. it’d be best if you take that off her hands, right?

obviously the “best” fit for this would be making it a Hexbladepatron, but we just did that and it’s not sentient, so we’ll make do with Witherbloom. starting at level one you learn some Pact Magic, a separate set of spell slots you can cast using your Charisma. there’s not a lot of them, but they recharge on short rests!

right now you can cast Eldritch Blast for a quick burst fire, Prestidigitation to fulfill our “do anything” cantrip trio, and you can either Hex an enemy to further empower the black barrel against them or craft an Armor of Agathys to make a protective gown out of ice for a lucky maiden. oh this spell’s actually just for you. you look nice in it though, and we’ll get something else later.

you also get an extended spell list of Witherbloom Spells, including Spare the Dying and Cure Wounds for more dress patching. you also get Inflict Wounds, which both feels out of character and also is a melee attack.

of course the real reason we’re going to college is for Witherbloom’s Essence Tap. as a bonus action up to proficiency times per day, you can empower yourself in one of two ways for up to a minute. Overgrowth is nice, letting you spend your bonus actions healing yourself by spending hit dice, but we’re here to make a black barrel, and for that we need to make Withering Strikes. when you deal any kind of damage, you can turn it into necrotic damage while ignoring the typical resistances.

12. Warlock 2: at second level you get two Eldritch Invocations to help make your warlock levels tailor-made to your needs. we’re saving one for next level as usual, but pick up Armor of Shadows now for free mage armor… also on yourself though. darn. the warlock spell list is a little greedy, huh? Charm Person is nice though. that one’s barely magic, you’re just personable.

13. Warlock 3: at level three we’re taking the Pact of the Blade to make an Improved Pact Weapon. I would love to give you the heavy crossbow option for the black barrel, but sadly you’re too small and babyish for DND to let you use the big guns. so instead, you can spend an action to summon a light crossbow of any design you wish to your hand. it gets +1 to all attacks and damage rolls, deals magical damage, and can be used to cast your warlock spells. you can also turn magic weapons into your pact weapon if you like, so if you come across a real black barrel mid-adventure feel free to scoop it up.

speaking of spells though, you get plenty. as a witherbloom student you get Lesser Restoration and Ray of Enfeeblement for free, so… I guess giving an enemy weaker attacks is kind of like giving your friends defense buffs? we’re also stretching by grabbing Earthbind, helping you tie flying enemies to the ground with your sewing equipment.

14. Warlock 4: at fourth level you can bump up your Charisma with an ASI for stronger spells and auras. if your balloon is light enough, maybe Mage Hand will help it fly? if not, wait until next level. also, probably use Invisibility to stay safe in the meantime. it would be terrible to die right before a build comes together.

15. Warlock 5: at fifth level warlocks get third level spells. Fly will finally help your balloon leave the ground, while Revivify and Vampiric Touch… are free.

the real reason we stuck around this long was for the invocation Eldritch Smite, which finally lets your black barrel do the kind of damage you’d expect. it’s similar to divine smites, but they can only use warlock slots, deal force damage instead of radiant, and they knock stuff over instead of dealing extra damage to zombies.

16. Paladin 11: I don’t think that’s enough pain though. with Improved Divine Smite all your weapon attacks deal an extra 1d8 radiant damage! all your… melee… attacks. dammit, not again.

17. Paladin 12: okay, okay, we can save this. we just need to make a gun that can kill a god no matter what their health is in four levels. I’ve got it. Use this last ASI to pick up Metamagic Adept for two sorcery points and two kinds of metamagic you can use. we’re here for Distant spell to make your gun have some proper range, but Careful is nice too. I don’t think you have many AoE spells, it just feels in character.

18. Paladin 13: you’ve finally got fourth level spells, congrats! Ice Storm and Stoneskin are nice, but we’re here for two things. Find Greater Steed will give you a flying mount so you can finally stop wasting concentration on a balloon, and Banishment will help you kill gods.

well, not so much kill is permanently relocate them back to their home planes, but tomato tomatl. you can also use this on creatures from the plane you’re already on, but that’ll only banish them for a good minute.

19. Paladin 14: you can now use your Cleansing Touch as an action charisma modifier times a day, ending one spell on you or a willing creature. there is a reason. faeries don’t use magecraft.

20. Paladin 15: our final level of ancients paladin turned you into an Undying Sentinel. when you drop to 0 HP without dying you can drop to 1 instead once a day. you’re Mash’s guardian faerie, after all.

also, you don’t suffer the drawbacks of old age and can’t be magically aged. I don’t think faeries really have a “natural” lifespan, but if they did you’ve long since exceeded it.

Pros and Cons

Pros:

there’s a dearth of enemies in D&D with ranged options, so being a ranged fighter is always a smart move. a smarter move is being a ranged fighter who can fly. and you excel at that, with plenty of cool ways to pump out damage from a distance and keep even the winged bastards you have to fight from ever getting close. being able to ignore a semi-common resistance doesn’t hurt either.

you also come packing a ton of support options thanks to your auras and healing spells basically nullifying most-if not all- magical effects on your party, up to and including magical damage.

as a paladin faerie you’ve got plenty of tools in your kit for dealing with fae, demons, and undead, who tend to be the biggest troublemakers in the forgotten realms.

Cons:

while you have plenty of damage options, the best are reserved for melee paladins, which you aren’t. unless you risk getting close, you straight-up cannot use divine smite, improved divine smite, turn the faithless, or inflict wounds.

speaking of your support, guess how much of that requires you to be right next to your party! just about all of it, that’s right! having a gun is fun, but actually using it hampers both your offense and defense.

your highest level spell slot is fourth level. Find Greater Steed is cool and all, but is it really worth your highest spell slot? none of these creatures have more than 60 hp, so they will last at best a round or two in a fight. the biggest benefit of greater steeds are their ability to fly, but you can already do that.