#its implied but its up to you to decide!!

[fernfie]

best friends

[whoreforsexymen]

Strong Drinks & Broken Links 🍺⛓️‍💥 CH. 1

Gray Hair & The Absence of Care

(Gif creds: me <3)

Pairing(s): Vander x Reader

Pronouns: GN!Reader (for now— please see this post for details)

Rating: SFW, except for strong language and consumption of alcohol (drink responsibly, people). Reader is old enough to drink, despite what Vander thinks.

Word count: 4.7k (the rest are going to be far longer, so be prepared)

Tags: Slowburn, Reader is implied to be 21+ years old, Age Gap, Heavy Use Of Language/Alcohol, Reader might be a little too angsty (I’m sorry), Tense Situations, Vander being the caring mentor type he is but in a poorly thought out way.

Notes: I don't think I've ever posted a fic on this account. So, welcome to my only outlet for the brain rotting obsession I have for this man. ALSO I SWEAR TO GOD NO ONE MENTION ANYTHING ABOUT SEASON 2, OR I'LL FIGHT YOU.

((If any of you want to be added to a tag list for this fic, please lmk!! Ask box is also open for requests/suggestions/comments 🤍 feedback is always appreciated 🤍🤍))

It had been a terrible night so far.

Not only had you been shortchanged more than two-thirds of the agreed-upon pay for a job you’d completed—but that paltry sum had quickly slipped from your grasp entirely, taken by a gang of thugs.

You had to give the undercity credit—it had an uncanny ability to remain a perpetual cesspool. You’d managed to take down two of the muggers, but the third—the one who’d made off with your coin—had slipped away while you were dealing with the others. Just your luck. The payout had been pathetic to begin with, and now you were left with nothing but the bitter taste of failure. It looked like you’d be scraping the dregs of the city to find enough for your next meal, yet again. 

That is, unless you decide to drink your dinner. As well as your sorrows, in the process. The idea struck you as you neared the central bar of the undercity, still sulking as you were making your way back to the shack you called home. The Last Drop. A name that said it all. If there was any place where the undercitizens of Zaun gathered, it was here. No doubt the owner had to be the wealthiest man in the area, though that wasn’t exactly saying much in a place like this. 

You made your decision. A warm meal might be out of reach, but liquor could suffice—if you drank heavily enough, that is. Or at the very least, it might dull the sting of the night’s failures. 

The bar was an eyesore, a hulking building among the rundown structures of The Lanes. A garish neon sign blinked above the entrance, buzzing like an angry fly, casting sickly light on the grime-streaked pavement. Inside, the din of loud music and the clatter of drunken chatter spilled into the street. It was a haven for folks with any background, no matter if they sought business or pleasure within its walls. 

You pushed through the door, noting how no one even bothered to glance your way. That was how you liked it—under the radar, always out of sight, always out of the mind of untrustworthy beings. 

Then again, you didn’t trust anyone anyway.

You duck and weave through the crowd of rowdy patrons, eyes scanning the bar for a table or booth at which you could hunker down and nurse your drink in peace. Your frown deepens beneath the hood of your jacket when you come up empty-handed. Typical. No matter, though. You’d have to order at the bar anyway, regardless of where you sat.

It’s when your eyes settle in the direction of the bar that luck seems to briefly shine upon you—there’s an empty stool. Without hesitation, you make a beeline for it, not wanting some drunken fool to snag it before you could. You practically dive-bomb onto the seat, landing with a small grunt, air knocked from your lungs. After the night you’ve had, this stool feels like an oasis, despite the new absence of oxygen beneath your chest. You settle into it like it’s the only thing left in the world, clutching the seat as if someone might try to commandeer it if you let your guard down low enough.  

The realization dawns on you that, in order to get a drink, you’d have to interact with the bartender. You hold that fact in high regard with contempt. 

Chit-chat? Not tonight– or truthfully any night. You’ve never been crazy about casual conversation. The events of the evening have only soured your mood further, and the last thing you need is some eager bartender trying to make nice. Normally, you’d avoid sitting at the bar for that reason alone, yet here you are.

Thankfully, the bartender pays you no mind, his attention fully set on the patron he’s currently tending to. That is, until said patron leaves and the barman finally turns to you, his new source of focus. 

The sheer momentum with which you rolled your eyes almost knocked you out of your seat. 

“Welcome to The Last Drop. What’ll it be?” His voice is deep, and heavy, garnering a thick accent that clung to every word. 

He’s an older man, though exactly how old is hard for you to pin down. His hair’s gray, his eyes tired, the lines of age having etched themselves into his face long ago. However, there’s something youthful about him—something that makes it hard to tell whether he’s an old-looking thirty or a young-ish fifty. Frankly, you don’t care enough to continue your mental evaluation of him. Age shouldn’t matter when it comes to bartenders. They either know how to pour a decent drink, or they don’t.

You don’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Something strong.” You mutter, your voice mostly flat, but with a hint of irritation that danced along the edge.

The bartender scratches at his graying beard, his gaze thoughtful as he considers your request. You grit your teeth, hoping he won’t try to scam you by giving you something weak and overpriced, just to line his pockets with your hard-earned coin. You’d seen it happen to others, and you’d be a damned fool if you let it happen to you. 

The bartender studies your face, or at least what he can see of it beneath your hood, before his gaze shifts to the shelves beneath the counter. After a moment of deliberation, he selects a bottle with thoughtful ease, pulling the cork out with his teeth. With his free hand, he grabs a tin cup and pours in a copious amount, sliding it toward you with a swift flick of his wrist. You’d almost call it a generous decision on his part, considering the fact that you hadn’t even paid your dues first. His choice to serve you first goes a long way in easing your suspicion, at least for the moment.

You dig into your pocket, retrieving the few gold coins you’d managed to hold onto when dealing with the aforementioned thugs. They weren’t enough for one measly meal, but they were enough for a drink or two– or three, but who’s going to keep track? Certainly anyone but you. You’d only stop once your pitiful wealth ran out. Without a second thought, you toss them onto the bar top, making it unspokenly clear to the bartender that you were hoping for much more than just this one drink. You grab the cup, lifting it to your lips and downing the lot of it in one quick, greedy gulp. The warmth spreads through you almost immediately, and it feels like a small victory over the obnoxious turn your night has taken.

The bartender watches this with a faint chuckle before you slam the empty cup back down onto the counter. He takes it without a word, refills the tiny tin chalice, and begins passing it back. Without missing a beat, you grab the cup from him, draining the contents in a second gulp before he even has time to set the bottle back down. 

“You look like you’ve seen better days,” he remarks casually, his voice low and steady as he finally reunites the bottom of the bottle with the countertop. 

“I’ve seen a lot of things.” you mutter, your eyes fixed on anything but him. The words come out flat, though there’s a weight to them. It’s more than just a refusal to talk—it’s a refusal to let anyone look too closely. You avoid eye contact like the plague. Eyes, after all, are the windows to the soul. And letting someone peer through them is a risky gamble you’ve never been apt to take.

You were clearly beyond uninterested in the beginnings of this conversation. The lack of willingness to be friendly reigning clear as you shove the tin cup towards him yet again. He grabs the empty cup and refills it once more—your third drink in under five minutes. He seems reluctant to hand it back. He maintains a grip on it as he eyes you again, this time much more thoughtful.

“Care to chat about it? Might be healthier than drownin’ yourself at the bottom of a bottle,” he offers plainly.

You give him a sidelong glance, not even trying to mask the edge in your voice. 

“Doesn’t sound like a good business strategy, encouraging your paying customers to cut back.” You fire back quickly, the sharpness of your words outpacing even your annoyance at the unwanted conversation.

The bartender chuckles again, a spark of amusement flickering in his tired eyes. There’s a glimmer of understanding in his smile—maybe he’s seen more than a few like you in this dive. Or maybe, he knows in the same fashion as you, that sometimes it’s more palatable to fill the silence with alcohol than with words.

“Fair point, but I’d prefer to keep my patrons alive. Helps me sleep at night, y’know?” The bartender shoots back, his eyes fixed on you, all too curious about what’s hidden beneath your hood. The conversation quickly turns uncomfortable, a painful reminder of why you’ve never liked bartenders—they always talk too much and ask too many personal questions. As far as you’re concerned, they should stick to the charade for the sake of their regulars, and leave all unsuspecting customers alone. 

The momentum of yet another roll of your eyes causes your head to bob ever so slightly— your hood creeping back towards the line of your hair. The new, incredibly subtle, view of your face made the barman clench the cup in his hands with rigor. 

His eyes narrow slightly, the amusement fading from his voice. 

“Where’re your parents, kid?” He asks, his voice low and in demand of an answer. 

The question hits you like a slap, and for a brief second, you find yourself caught off guard. You’re not someone who’s usually thrown by imbecilic remarks from the residents of The Lanes, but this one? It’s different. Not just the audacity of asking such a personal question, but the clear assumption of your age being made so boldly. 

Your head snaps up, and before you can stop yourself, you push your hood back, breaking your own rule about eye contact. Why? Who knows. Today has already gone off the rails, and you’re too far gone to care. The liquor’s sudden grip on your senses began to cloud your judgment, and honestly, it was far from shocking. To be fair, you had asked for something strong… Not to mention having no substantial food in your belly to dilute the potency you sought after. All in all, there was no ignoring how the liquor was starting to pummel you like a brick to the face would. 

You meet his gaze, eyes scanning his face for any sign of what he’s gunning after by asking such a question. But there’s nothing obvious behind those gloomy eyes of his. No clear motive. You can’t tell if he’s purposefully trying to get under your skin or if he’s just another fool with a quick tongue. 

“Rotting in their graves,” you mutter, voice sharp and, in addition, spiteful. 

“Which I’m sure you’ve got one foot in, yourself, Gramps.” You make a mockery of the decades that are clearly stacked against you, hoping to push him back into his corner.

He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he practically snorts, running a hand over his silvery beard as he crosses his arms; resting them across his stomach with the casual authority of someone who’s seen it all. He’s not rattled by your quips—no, not in the slightest. 

“How old are you, kid?” His voice is flat now, a hint of something more serious creeping in, though you can’t figure out why. You’re even more unsure now about his intentions. Constantly expecting the worst from people was your lot in life. 

“Too young for you.” You snap back, pushing forward with your usual sharpness, trying to regain some control over this ridiculous conversation. You reach for the cup he had refilled for you, but before you can even graze it, he snatches it away, clicking his tongue like a disappointed parent.

“Tsk, tsk,” he tuts at you, as if you’ve done something wrong.

“I asked how old you were.” he repeats, his voice now devoid of any amusement. 

He watches you carefully, his gaze inspecting your face as if he’s trying to peel back layers you didn’t even know were there.

You roll your eyes, irritation growing, and narrow them at him, unwilling to back down. You can’t tell if he’s probing for something deeper, or if he’s just getting off on making you uncomfortable. Either way, you’re done playing his game.

“Why are you so curious, huh?” you scoff, leaning in and making a bold decision to double down on your irritation. “I’m just another patron here to drown in my sorrows and drink them away. Not to mention, I’m paying for the privilege.” Your words are bold, and with that same boldness, you reach across the bar and rip the cup from his grasp.

You try to bring the drink to your lips, intent on finishing it off. But just as the cup nears your mouth, the bartender’s large, rough hand slips over the opening of the cup like a solar eclipse. 

He glares down at you, his eyes narrowing as he sizes you up with a look that could strip paint. In that moment, something clicks in his mind. The defiance in your voice, the way you’re carrying yourself—it all reinforces his suspicion. You’re not old enough to be here. When you walked in, your hood had obscured most of your face. But now that it’s gone, he can see it clearly: you’re just a kid, trying to score some alcohol. The only thing that kept him from throwing you out on your ass, was your cadence. You looked young, and spoke carelessly, but you sounded grown. If you were in fact grown, he’d ease up. 

However, with the way you look—bloodied and bruised, no less—he’s convinced you’re in some kind of trouble. The kind of trouble he doesn’t want being drug through his bar. He doesn’t know where you’ve been, who you’ve pissed off, or what kind of people you run with. But this? This is his bar, and he’s fought too hard to maintain the fragile peace that reigns here. He won’t let you ruin that for him and his loyal patrons by dragging your poor choices in with you. 

“Seems I’ve struck a nerve,” he says, his voice no longer playful but flat and serious. “Either tell me your age, or you’re cut off.”

The room seems to hush around you. The muffled chatter of patrons behind you fades as the bartender’s tone sharpens, leaving no room for argument. It’s a quiet threat now, the kind that lets you know exactly how much leverage you have—and how little he’s willing to tolerate.

“You didn’t strike shit,” You hiss. “and I don’t need to answer to shit.” You add. 

The bartender bends over the counter, his face inches from yours. The bitter scent of smoke hangs thick on his breath, hot and rancid, and it presses against your skin like a physical weight. The damp air in the bar swirls around you, brushing your cheeks with an uncomfortable warmth that feels suffocating, as if the room itself is closing in.

“Keep talkin’ like that, and I’ll have no problem lettin’ my loyal patrons cut your tongue out for us to hang above the bar.” He says fiercely. 

You glance over your shoulder, catching the eyes of the dozens of patrons who have fallen silent, their conversations and business abruptly halted. It’s clear—they’re waiting for a signal, ready to back up their beloved bartender if things escalate.

“You can call off the cavalry, Gramps. I was just leaving,” you retorted, swiping one of your coins from the counter, as if to refund yourself for the drink you’ve yet to have. You release your grip on the cup, almost slingshotting it backwards from the sheer force you two had each been bestowing upon it. 

“Sit down.” the bartender commands, his voice low and final, as you attempt to abscond. 

You don’t reply, instead moving to shoulder through the row of patrons who are standing like silent sentinels, waiting for the slightest nod from their bar’s gatekeeper. It’s not like you expected them to part, but the way not a single person dares budge makes your blood boil. The crowd might as well be a wall of stone. 

“Sit. Down.” the bartender demands again, his tone sharper this time, a razor edge cutting through the haze of the bar.

You grind your teeth, your patience wearing thin.

“I’ll take my patronage elsewhere—”

You don’t even finish your sentence before a hand, seemingly out of nowhere, pushes you roughly back. You stumble, barely managing to stop yourself from falling flat on your ass. The sudden movement sends a rush of heat to your head, the anger spiking through your veins like fire.

You seethed at the touch, the anger burning hot in your chest, every muscle in your body coiled with frustration. But you knew better than to keep pushing your luck. Not today. Not in a situation like this, with dozens of hungry eyes watching, their hands twitching near their weapons of choice, waiting for the slightest excuse to make a move.

Biting back a torrent of curses, you forced yourself to swallow your pride, choosing to stay quiet—at least for now. It wasn’t worth the fight. You could practically feel the heat of their glares digging into your back as you turned on your heel, eyes locking once more with the bartender’s. You reclaimed your seat at the bar with deliberate flair, each movement oozing a sense of defiance and attitude. It was a performance, one you were used to. To you, it felt like you were playing the part of someone tough. But you knew, deep down, that to anyone else—especially the bartender—you probably looked like nothing more than a naive, immature idiot who didn’t know when to shut up. It wasn’t a great look, but at least it kept people from getting too close.

“I’m sat,” you muttered, voice brimming with the remnants of your irritation.

The bartender shook his head slightly, a hint of amusement creeping back into his expression. You could feel the tension in the room dissipate, the energy shifting as the crowd behind you resumed their rowdy conversations. The noise began to swell again, and for a moment, it almost felt like the bar was returning to some semblance of normalcy.

He grabbed a dirty glass from the counter, handling it with practiced ease, and pulled a rag from beneath the bar. As he began polishing the glass, he didn’t so much as glance your way. His focus was on the glass, and for a few moments, it felt like you were nothing more than a background detail to him. You could feel your impatience growing with each passing second. If he had something to say, you wished he’d just say it already. At least that way, you could get out of here—and maybe keep some of your pride intact.

The bartender continued his slow, methodical motions, running the rag around the rim of the glass with an almost exaggerated calmness. He didn’t bother to look up, yet you could feel the weight of his gaze on you through the silence.

“I’m gonna ask you again,” he said, his tone neutral, almost too much. “How old are you?”

You weighed your options. If you didn’t answer, you had no idea what would happen next. If you did answer, you still had no clue. It was a gamble either way.

“(Insert age here),” you muttered, the words slipping out begrudgingly, each one like a weight lifting off your chest.

The bartender scoffed lightly, a soft laugh escaping him that made your skin crawl. Your fingers began tapping impatiently on the bar’s edge, the rhythm a soft counterpoint to the growing tension between you.

“____ years old and still so naive… You really are just a kid, eh?” His words hung in the air, his eyes still locked on the glass in front of him, but you could see the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“There are worse things I could be,” you shot back, your voice laced with a mix of defensiveness and defiance.

“S’pose that’s true,” he replied, finishing up his polishing with the air of someone who had all the time in the world. He set the glass down next to the others—clean, polished, and waiting to be used. With a fluid motion, he slung the rag over his shoulder, then placed one hand on his hip and the other on the edge of the counter. He shifted his weight, leaning just slightly into the bar, his posture relaxed yet somehow still imposing.

“But on the other hand,” he said, his voice dropping to a more serious tone, “what you already are ain’t too good either.”

It wasn’t a threat—more of an observation, one that hung heavily in the air, like the smoke in the room. You felt the weight of it, but you couldn’t quite tell if it was a warning or just another way to mess with you. Either way, you could tell this conversation wasn’t over.

You could feel the first few bubbles of anger rising in your chest, the heat creeping up your neck as your blood threatened to boil. You’d always been quick to anger—an unfortunate side effect of your temper and stubborn streak. They were the crosses you’d carried for as long as you could remember.

You scoffed again, the sound sharp and biting, as if it were the only defense you had left. You had already rolled your eyes a dozen times tonight, but it felt like you were on the verge of an explosion.

“What’s your goal here, Gramps?” you spat, your voice dripping with sass, every word a little jab. You didn’t care to hide your bitterness. You liked to fight with words just as much as you did with your fists, and the bartender was starting to see that loud and clear.

“You got the answer you were looking for. Whether you believe me or not, you’ve already served me twice. If my age was such a concern to you, you would’ve kicked me out long before I even sat down.” Your words hung in the air once more, and you could see the gears turning behind his eyes, but he didn’t speak.

He just let out a quiet laugh, as if your logic amused him. And he didn’t bother to answer, not even in the slightest.

The silence stretched, thick and tense, and it was clear he wasn’t going to explain himself. He wasn’t about to give you the satisfaction of an explanation. He simply leaned back, eyes flicking over to the rowdy crowd behind you.

It was infuriating.

You stayed silent for a beat, but only because you knew you’d have more to say. And damn right, you did.

“Do you do this with every new customer?” You snapped, your voice rising now, the frustration boiling over. “’Cause if you ask me, I’m not sure how this shithole’s still in business. You discourage your customers from drinking, even though this is a fucking bar, and that’s all people come here to do. You make it impossible to drink peacefully, just like you make it impossible to drink at all!”

The words spilled out like fire, each one more forceful than the last. Your temper was no longer something you were trying to hold back—it was running rampant, and it felt good to let it out, even if it was in the form of a scream. You weren’t about to let this bartender—this stubborn old man—have the upper hand. Not when it felt like he was deliberately pushing your buttons.

“So if it’s alright with you, Gramps, you got your answer, and I don’t owe you shit. I’m leaving.” You actually raise your voice purposefully this time, slamming your hands down onto the counter as you push yourself off of the stool once more. 

The bartender wasn’t fazed by your outburst. In fact, he’d dealt with feistier, louder, and much more difficult people than you—people who could out-shout you or out-punch you if they had to. He wasn’t bothered by your temper. He had raised four kids on his own, after all. He’d learned a thing or two about handling stubborn personalities, whether they were kids or grown adults who carried themselves like children. And you, in his eyes, were just another brat testing his patience.

“You’re not going anywhere.” His voice was steady, calm, and authoritative, with an edge of finality that cut through the noise of the bar.

Before you could react, his hand shot out faster than you expected, grabbing your shoulder with an unexpected gentleness. He tugged you back into the seat with a kind of effortless force that made your breath catch in your throat.

You shot up from the bar stool in a flash, but his hold was stronger than you anticipated.

Instinct kicked in, and your own hand shot out like a snake, grabbing his wrist with a quick, almost violent motion. You shoved it off your shoulder, irritation flaring up like wildfire.

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed, your chest heaving as you glared up at him, the heat of the moment burning in your eyes.

You huffed, your fists clenching at your sides, teeth grinding. The room seemed to close in around you, but you weren’t backing down—not now, not after all of this. The tension between you and the bartender was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. You could feel the weight of the crowd’s silent attention being drawn to you once more as they waited for your next move, but you weren’t afraid. You didn’t have time to be.

The man let out a heavy sigh, the sound thick with disappointment. 

“Look, kid—”

“By the fucking god’s, I’m not a kid!” you snapped, your eyes flashing a level of ferocity that sliced straight through him.

He pressed his lips into a thin, hard line, his gaze cemented on you still as he took a long, steadying breath. Patience was his virtue, and he was willing to endure this sparring match for as long as it took. 

“It’s clear you’re in some kind of trouble,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Maybe, just maybe, instead of lashing out, you could let someone help—”

You cut him off mid-sentence, your words an unpleasant interruption.

“Help? You want to help? Surely that’s the wrong word. Surely, I heard you wrong, cause, from the way I see it, you’ve done nothing except cage me in here, threaten me, and withhold what I paid for. So if it’s with any consolation, take your ‘help’ and fuck off.” 

Enough was enough. Without another word, you climbed atop the stool, bracing yourself for what came next. You steadied your balance, then launched yourself toward the crowd with calculated precision. The dismount was quick—intentional, forceful. You tucked your legs in, soaring over their heads in a perfect flip, and extended them just before hitting the ground behind them. Without pausing, you bolted for the door, heart pounding in your chest.

To your surprise, you made it—flying through the door and slamming it shut behind you with a satisfying crash. Finally, you were free, never to be seen within a hundred yards of this bar ever again. 

The patrons had made a half-hearted attempt to grab at you as you rushed past, but a sharp, deafening whistle from the bartender stopped them in their strides. He shook his head softly, a silent message that it wasn’t worth the chase. That it was better to let you go. If you were in trouble, it would catch up with you soon enough.

Deep down, the bartender hated seeing someone so young seal their own fate in such a way. But, in the end, there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t save them all—no matter how badly he wished he could.

He couldn’t help but wonder— if maybe, just maybe, he’d been a little too assertive, or downright impetuous with you after all.

But it didn’t matter now. You were gone. All he could do was hope you’d survive out on those streets. 

taglist: @blogforhoes @committingcrimes-2047 @dirtandcrime @eternalgoddessofart

[flower-boi16]

The main reason I don't like the Pentious backstory leak is because it's very heavily implied it's Jack the Ripper, aka, a REAL killer who actually murdered real women, and Viv decided to use such a tragic thing for "her character's sad backstory 🥺"

After she apparently claimed it'd be distasteful to include the Titanic in Baxter's backstory.

She easily could've done a fictional killer, and I hope it turns out it actually isn't Jack the Ripper, but I don't have high hopes... especially with the Jeffery Dahmer stuff from the pilot

Also, the backstory is kinda confusing with how he went from being so heartbroken and regretful about letting these women die just to go haywire in Hell, wanting to take over it, cause turf wars, or whatever

It definitely seems very hypocritical for Viv to make that kind of decision in her writing after saying that. You also do raise a good point about how we’re missing some of the pieces here, though maybe it could be explained once the season comes out but I don’t think it will.

It really feels like the backstory was made after Pentious’s creation, and it was then just slapped on there to give him some kind of depth (which fails due to it coming after his sacrifice), making this another example of how poorly structured Viv’s shows are. Not to mention it ends up feeling like a retcon because like you said, this doesn’t line up properly with what we were shown of his character before.

Pentious as a character is even representative of most of Hazbin’s problems when it comes to its characters; the “growth” is mostly off-screen, we don’t see him developing any real relationships with the characters especially Cherri who he has a rushed romance with for SOME REASON even though the pilot explicitly showed them being enemies, so, where the fuck did this come from???

All of this makes Pentious’s sacrifice completely and utterly hollow because we have no reason to give a shit about him or his relationships with the other characters. It’s played off as a joke and then taken seriously two seconds later, so why even make it a joke at all?

It’s supposed to be this big character moment for him now I GUESS but without the build up it’s completely hollow. The backstory in Season 2 should have been in the first season, that would have AT LEAST made the sacrifice feel like it had even a little bit of build up. But the writers decided to have it after the sacrifice, which is literally just having the build up come after the payoff.

That’s not how you make a good character moment. That’s not how you structure an arc, period. These problems all lead Pentious as a character completely hollow and a downgrade from how he was in the pilot.

Pentious is a shit tier character is what I’m saying, basically. There were SO MANY THINGS they could have done with him as a character that could have made for a compelling arc that they just didn’t do because the pacing and structuring of this show is complete ass.

[honourablejester]

I am having a severe flavour problem with the new 5.5e warlocks. And I kinda saw it coming, but I also thought that maybe they’d do something about it before we got here. But, well. Apparently not.

My problem is this: taking up the warlock subclass at level 3 instead of level 1 has turned all warlocks, flavour-wise, into absolute idiots.

“Through occult ceremony, you have formed a pact with a mysterious entity to gain magical powers. The entity is a voice in the shadows—its identity unclear—but its boon to you is concrete: the ability to cast spells.” (PHB 2024)

You have explicitly and purposefully made a deal with something you don’t know the identity of.

Now. You could always play the warlock as having done that, if you wanted to play someone a bit reckless. But. It was an option, not baked into the class. You could also have met your patron any number of ways and decided how to deal with it, going into the pact knowingly and with foreknowledge of the potential consequences. Because you choose your subclass at level 1, your patron and your relationship with them was essentially your first decision as a warlock. So if you were in a pact with a devil, you had the chance to be knowingly in a pact with a devil. It was a choice you might have knowingly made.  

Here, though, your warlock put a phone call out into the void and won’t know for two more levels what exactly picked up on the other side. Which bakes a considerable amount of recklessness and frankly outright stupidity into the class concept.

Weirdly, both sorcerers and even clerics come out of this shift better, of the classes that used to get their subclasses at level 1. Sorcerer, it kind of makes sense, when the magic is in your blood regardless, that it just might take a while for the nature of the magic to become fully apparent. Sorcerers, by the nature of their lore, never had a choice what magic they possessed. It was always luck of the draw and the potential idiocy of their ancestors. And clerics, their subclass is a choice of domain, not patron, so they can still be devoted to their particular god from level 1, and just choose which aspect of them to exemplify at level 3. So clerics, even with the shift of timing, are still making more or less the same choices. Their god is still a conscious choice from the start.

But warlocks are now explicitly stated to be gambling on the nature of their patron for power.

Of course, you can just ignore that. You can say that your warlock fully knows what patron they’ve made a bargain with from the beginning, and it’s only at level 3 that the patron considers them valuable enough to start giving them identifiable, tailored abilities, or some similar justification. Before that, it��s something like a trial period, where they decide if you’re worth keeping on and having abilities that could link back to them. Ignoring the text and telling your own story is still (and always) an option.

I’m just faintly annoyed that they built the idiocy into the text. That the new Pact Magic feature outright states that you were dumb enough to make deals with mysterious voices from the beyond without the first clue who that voice might be.

I mean, warlocks are rather implied to be not the most sensible people from a standing start. But I'd like to have the option of my dumbass having made calculated risks, instead of just gambling blind, you know?

[cafeeeeeeeeee3]

Uujh,,, I just saw a post talking about these two. Not gonna tag it cause I did exactly 2hat it criticized lol

Anyways, idk what I was going for here. But I've heard it before and I really agree that these two would work out together.

I think Cross' inner lieutenant comes to life everytime it happens, tho. This man is sadistic in a whole another brand. And masochistic. Exercising hurts.

I think Dream would start out kinda afraid, too. If you've ever stepped on somebody's feet so that they can do pull ups (I am unsure whether this is the right name. Very unsure.), you simply CANNOT not be afraid that you will harm them. You only really stop fearing after they step on you, because you're assured everything is fine.

Tbh I think Dream would be somewhat afraid even after this. He's stronger than average, and I'm sure he knows.

Overtime I think he'd start getting more used to it. It becom3s pretty casual. Like, yeah, its midnight and Cross is doing push ups. It is midnight and Cross is silently implying that they have been slacking off, because he's obsessing over routine for the eleventh time this week and he won't stop insisting that they're slacking off until he's sore enough that he is sure he has improved from yesterday in some form.

I'm not sure why Dream would join in. I thought it would be about feeling somewhat pressured to fit in, because he strikes me as the sort to do so. If he sees anybody near him working really hard on anything, his people pleaser instincts get triggered and he just decides he needs to work just as hard.

Perhaps it's not even people pleasing, but a mindset closer to these you can see in school. Every second you're not doing something, you're giving your opponent the advantage.

Really half baked concept tbh, but yeah.

Also, look, they were meant to be drabbles. I spaced out while paying more attention to the video on the left side of my screen and this happened.

[hinamie]

I don't want to regret the way I lived

[formosusiniquis]

When Mike Wheeler, red faced and still faintly tear stained, asks him how he knew he liked both Steve doesn’t know how to tell him it was his sister.

Before Nancy Wheeler it had only been boys. Before Nancy Wheeler Steve had been sure he was gay and knew well enough to keep it to himself; dating around enough to earn himself a protective reputation. Before Nancy Wheeler there’d been Marcus Summers, from the baseball team, during freshman year. Steve had gone to every game, and had been forced to make up excuses about schoolwork and his other commitments when asked why he hadn’t tried out for himself. Before Nancy Wheeler there’d been Tommy Hagan. The summer between seventh and eighth grade had been very kind to Tommy, he was sunkissed and boy next door sweet, Steve had wanted to hold his hand and count the freckles across the bridge of his nose. 

Before Nancy Wheeler there’d been his first love, a boy who only visited one summer, the year Steve turned ten. His name had changed every time they hung out but he’d favored E’s. Eli, Emmett, Elliott, Eric, Excalibur, Excelsior, and once for about an hour Wayne. His hair brushed his chin in pretty brown curls and his big brown eyes were always bright with excitement. He always got storm off mad when any of the other boys they’d played with that summer said he was acting like a girl, E would run off to the woods and Steve would always follow. E always came up with the best games anyway, he didn’t like playing soccer or HORSE or anything else with rules that couldn’t be bent; he preferred imagination games where they were knights or wizards. He didn’t laugh when Steve said he always liked playing house, but never wanted to be the dad because why would he want to be someone who never wanted to spend any time with his kids. E who, while insisting on being called Samwise all day, was his first kiss.

Cause he knows what Mike wants to hear. He’s seen the way Mike and Will have danced around each other since the last portal closed. He’s heard the things Mike has said to and about Will. He’s heard all about the week that Will was in the Upside Down. He’s heard all about the summer of ‘85. He’s heard all about the final off again that seems to officially mark the end of Mike and El romantically. He knows that Mike wants him to say that he’d never even thought about boys before he met Eddie. That there’s just something special about Eddie that makes him want to give up his lady killing ways. That Eddie was different. That it was okay that he was having these scary new thoughts, maybe Will was just an exception.

And Steve doesn’t know how to have that conversation. When he realized he liked both it was a relief, that maybe he could have something normal and wouldn't have to spend his life lying or hiding. 

But Eddie was different. Eddie was special. Eddie was probably it for Steve which is scary in a different way that he’s not ready to touch yet -- not when it’s only been three months.

There’s never been another girl since Nancy Wheeler, not really

There will never be another boy after Eddie Munson.

So he tries to help, as best he can. It’s easier with Eddie there, not quite dozing against his shoulder -- the kid’s emergencies always seem to come so late at night these days. “When I was ten, there was a boy whose name kept changing who decided prince charming should get to kiss his faithful knight. And when I was sixteen, your sister-”

Mike’s goodwill diminishes quickly as his sister gets introduced to the conversation.

“Stevie,” Eddie says. It’s not an admonishment for bringing up Nancy. It’s awestruck and watery. “You remember that?”

“Of course I remember the first boy I ever loved," that word catches up with him a second later. Remember. 

Cause there's Eddie with his riot of brown curls and his Bambi eyes. Eddie, who has explained why soft feminine words chafe against his skin leaving him itchy and anxious. Eddie, who has an Uncle in Hawkins. Eddie who moved to town the summer before he entered high school with a buzzed head and his mother's last name. Eddie who finally settled into an E he liked best.

"Wheeler, here's a tip from me to you," Eddie says, his advice is always better received than Steve's anyway, "if you have to ask you probably already know."

"Straight people don't really spend much time wondering if they aren't really straight," Steve agrees.

They don't rush Mike out the door, a crisis is a crisis and even in the wake of new discoveries Mike deserves to be heard out. Deserves a chance to cry and rage and feel those emotions someplace safe from his Reaganite father -- just as much as Will deserves to have someone who knows what they want come to him, deserves better than experimentation.

They cross the bridge from late into early by the time Mike sets off. The sun is creeping up over the horizon and Mike looks solid, certain; the dawn hints at the man he is growing up to be. Though every instinct of Steve's begs him to drive the kid home, Eddie's soft hand lingering at his hip holds him fast. They wave instead, encouraging Mike to go home and to bed before he does anything; knowing his front bike tire is already pointed toward the Byers-Hopper place.

"The first boy you ever loved, huh, Stevie?" Eddie teases before the door has even managed to click shut.

"And the last, I'm hoping, if I play my cards right."

"You were always pretty good at that. You were the only person that summer who called me by my name, except Wayne."

"It was your name." He knows that's too simple. Knows how hard Eddie has had it, continues to have it. But that summer it had been that simple, Eddie trying on names like shirts each one fitting until they didn't. "For what it's worth, I like Eddie a lot more than Excalibur."

"Oh fuck off, I was going through a fantasy knight phase. Which I know you remember."

"Right a phase, and how much longer is this fantasy 'phase' going to last?"

They're the kind of tired that makes you feel drunk, when Eddie tackles Steve and sends them both to the floor and to giggles. Eddie might not have been his bi awakening, but Steve is pretty fine with him being his everything else.

[theminecraftbee]

can i request three somehow forced into a fake dating situation

Three stares directly into Martyn’s eyes. They are blue and of an average size. It feels as though maybe this should be against the rules, but according to the book it had read, this was… normal. A normal thing to do on a date. Look deeply into someone’s eyes. It would not be suspicious at all, even though Three isn’t really sure how to look more or less deeply into anyone’s eyes at all. Eyes are not flat, but even when Three Looks, it isn’t as though there is anything interesting in there.

Martyn is sweating somewhat. He looks away first.

Three’s pretty sure this counts as a victory, especially given Martyn can’t see Three’s face behind the mask anyway. It is good Three has now won the game of ‘staring lovingly into its date’s eyes’, because that had been a strange, threatening mortal ritual. It would rather not do that again.

“Haha, thanks again for agreeing to this date,” Martyn says, very suspiciously looking around the small cafe in a bustling semi-private Origins server. “It’s been so long since we’ve gotten to hang out like this. Gods, do I sound stupid.”

“You do,” Three says.

“You don’t have to answer those,” Martyn says.

“Will comply,” Three says.

“Oh, for the love of—we’re on a date. A date!” Here, Martyn winks obnoxiously. “It’s not a mission.” He winks obnoxiously again. “Besides, you should lighten up!”

“Will comply,” Three says.

“You know, I had forgotten how obnoxious that was,” Martyn says cheerfully. “Anyway, I should order us some drinks! Have some conversation! Keep an eye out around us, yeah, for our waiter?”

“You are not very subtle,” Three says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Martyn says. “Besides, honestly? I am really glad to just hang out with you. Because we’re dating! On this server for fancy couples. Yep.”

The problem is, of course, that a fancy origins server is a great place for the strangest of people to hide.

When Martyn had asked a favor, Three had been… uncertain. This was not because Three doesn’t care for Martyn—it does, greatly—or because Three didn’t want to see Martyn—they’d met up a few times before now, tentative and quiet and frustrated and all the things that were hard to explain, and then in all the ways they were okay again—but because Martyn, for all Three cares for him, is still an idiot.

Three is its own handler, now. It does not have to follow handlers that are morons. It had told Martyn this. When Martyn had stopped wheezing, he’d explained that it’d be fun. Not Listener business, he promised; he still hadn’t quite gotten out, but he wouldn’t drag Three in, Scout’s honor.

(Three believes him. It’s never been that Three doesn’t trust him.)

It was a friend of Martyn’s that had gone missing. Apparently, on some fancy modded server? And now, Martyn wanted Three to come help him do some recon because, quote, “Jimmy laughed at me until he cried and that hurt me a little bit, not going to lie, and I’ve used up the favors Ren owes me, and Oli was busy. Have you met Oli? You’d like Oli.”

(Three did not like Oli.)

Three agreed, despite its better judgement. The reason it thought this may be a poor plan was because—

“Ah, the lovely Valentines,” the waiter says. He gives them a plate of lovely heart-shaped calamari. Three wonders if they had belonged to heart-shaped squid. “It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s wonderful here with my beloved!” Martyn says.

The waiter and Martyn both look at Three. Three doesn’t say anything and sits perfectly still.

“Um,” the waiter says.

“It’s for a health condition,” Martyn says, which technically isn’t a lie.

“Very well, sirs, although it may get in the way of the kissing competition!”

Martyn, who had just started sipping some wine, chokes on it.

“I will win the kissing competition,” Three says.

Martyn chokes harder.

“I will see you to it!” the waiter says. “And of course, our patented species comparability exam is the highlight of the evening.”

“Oh. I am not sure I can produce viable offspring,” Three says.

The waiter stares at Three. Three stares back, although not into the waiter’s eyes, as to not cause any confusion. The mask somewhat prevents that from working, though.

“Very well then,” the waiter says. “I suppose just—do you need help?”

“It knows what it’s doing,” Martyn hisses.

“I did do research before coming here,” Three says.

“I’ll just head on,” the waiter says, in a tone that suggests to Three that maybe it did not do enough research before agreeing to help Martyn.

Oh well.

At least the mask means it doesn’t have to keep a straight face as it picks Martyn off the ground and, completely flat in tone, says: “Do not die. I would be sad if you died of something as stupid as choking on wine.”

“I asked for this,” Martyn says.

“Yes,” Three says. “You did. That is why I am here.”

(Beneath the table, it grabs Martyn’s hand. Martyn squeezes Three’s hand back. It had missed him, though. For all they do not see each other often—)

(Well. It had missed him, though.)

[tiredpacdad]

most exhausting hospital trip ever

[tacagen]

dont know whether zixx is a bishop clone or not? a 100% accurate test: put a wedding in front of him and see what he does.

[jonathanbyersphd]

This whole "I didn't see the heavily implied thing on my screen so it didn't happen" trend in fandom spaces rn has gotten so irritating

[raptureshots]

happy pride month, Frank Fontaine doodle upon ye

[socksandbuttons]

loving the response on dadcode and bean bloodmoon comic

[astranauticus]

finally put together a sheet for (some of) my ocs..... skjfahksjhfk

anyway please send me asks about them (and penny's work partner i don't have a design for yet) and i will try my best to answer 👍

[randomwriteronline]

Perditus grunted a little as he adjusted his leg while laying down against the rock. It was a pleasant day, all things considered: the sun was warm without being smoldering, the winds were strong but not as harsh as usual, and he had something to make the pain a little more bearable.

With his eyes shut he fished a flint lighter and a medicinal sghitt out of the pouch under his thigh armor.

He didn't bother looking as he heard footsteps approach quickly; medication stuck between his teeth, he clicked lazily until he caught the telltale crackle of papery tissue catching fire, took the longest, deepest inhale he could, soaking in the acrid taste and familiar burn in the back of his head, and let an enormous cloud of septic-smelling smoke blow out of his mouth with a growling sigh.

His fellow debtor sat beside him nervously, scanning the horizon.

"Any news?" he asked.

"I was going to ask you," the Glatorian replied.

"None, then."

"None."

Hard nails tapped far too quickly against the rock.

Perditus took another drag. The numbing effect was starting to take hold of his anguishing limb.

"Do you think it'll be soon?" Atakus asked.

The Tapyri exhaled: "Maybe."

"Yes or no?"

"Maybe, I said."

"Maybe means nothing," the other said, glaring at him with his typical nervous anger, the fact that the larger being still wasn't looking at him inconsequential: "Will it be soon, yes or no?"

A shrug: "Probably, yes."

"You think?"

"Unless he wants to observe these freaks of nature do their merry little dance in a new environment for a while. But I'll bet a guy like him has already watched them long enough to get bored by now."

Another pause.

The hard nails were now scratching at the stone.

Another long drag and a puff of smoke.

"Do you think he'll kill us before or after the plan's done?"

"Who knows," Perditus answered lazily. He reclined his head to better bask in the sun. "Before would be a little annoying. For us, of course, he wouldn't care if we never saw what all this thankless work has been for. But then again we're his cannon fodder - maybe he'll wait till he has no need even for that."

He played with his sghitt, turning it between his fingers.

The knowledge that his eventual instantaneous murder would be inevitable had slowly but surely numbed him to the very same fact across the span of the many, interminable centuries that had passed since the day he'd started wracking up this blasted debt, and his only request (which he knew would never be taken into consideration) was to be allowed to die slowly, painfully, so that he could at least feel the life leave his body properly; but Atakus had never managed to make peace with the horror of their shared fate, and now that the moment was drawing near he was every day a little closer to losing his mind completely to the horror of his situation.

Frankly he was surprised the Potori had lived this long, with as anxious a disposition as he had. He'd always imagined he'd get out of his shackles with a stroke.

And yet here they both were.

Awaiting the second coming of a cruel god.

And while entire species were about to be massacred into heaps of melting, wailing scraps any second or day or month now, they were sitting against a rock under a pleasantly warm sun bathing in its light.

He could hear the Agori's irregular breath become louder.

"How's your leg?" Atakus asked in a fruitless attempt at changing the course of his spiraling thoughts.

"Hurts as usual." Perditus replied. "How's your heart?"

"Beating too fast," the Potori answered, "As usual."

The Glatorian's hand leaned over to the smaller being, offering the sghitt between his index and middle: "Take as many as you need."

The medicine was taken from his fingers by significantly shakier ones. He listened to the air slither with a long hiss into Atakus's lungs for the first time; the second was a little longer, a little less frantic, followed by a loud sigh; the third time was slow and deliberate, finally a little more at ease.

He listened to the sound of Skrall armor scraping against stone as the Agori laid back against the warm rock with him. A smaller hand placed the medication back in his palm, and he hummed gratefully before taking another drag himself.

The wind picked up slightly and dragged the smoke away from them.

He opened his eyes blearily, squinting in the sun.

Such a nice day.

Something far, far away, up in the clear sky, exploded. He saw the burst, a blot of bright hot color tearing apart the stratosphere, and long lines of white and faint red as pieces of whatever that was tried to land on Spherus Magna; but the destroyed body was barely above the size of a dot from where he was, and its meteors shriveled up into dust before coming anywhere close to the highest point available for them to strike, and in the end nothing of whatever tragedy had just transpired mattered at all.

The Glatorian hummed.

"Did something happen?" Atakus asked, eyes closed.

"No," his companion reassured him. "Relax."

The Potori did not respond, and got a little more comfortable.

Perditus glanced at him.

Maybe it made sense - he mused for a second, a second only - for Velika, of all cruel, paradoxical beings, to one day have complete and total control over this cruel, paradoxical world.

[dreamcast-official]

listen i like aku/sai but also so many ppl throw the nuclear family structure on them + roxas and xion and then im like. ok thats stupid actually