#stripes are a spawn from hell

[brain-rot-central]

Possession

A/N: This is pure filth. I'm so sorry.

Word count: 2.8k

Rating: Explicit. Please read the warnings!

Pairing: Spawn!Astarion x FemaleHuman!Tav (the reader is Tav)

Warnings: 18+, fingering, cum play, cunnilingus, PiV sex, religion kink, praise kink, breeding kink, corruption kink, possessiveness, slight bdsm?, slight DD/lg (if you squint enough), cock drunk, pussy drunk

Summary: Astarion hasn't had anything in so long, not even himself.

Until you.

Astarion sighs above you with a great heave of his chest, his head dropping low enough to rest his forehead against yours.

You unhook your legs from around the small of his back as aftershocks of your orgasm rock through you. Your legs come to rest on either side of your vampiric lover, his cock still buried within the warmth of your sex. With every rhythmic contraction of your walls around his length, you feel it twitch from within. The head of his cock is nestled at the base of your cervix, and you let out a pleasured mewl knowing he's dribbling the last of his spend directly into your ripened womb with each pulse of his shaft.

Gently, Astarion pulls his length free from your warm nest. You whimper at the sudden loss of feeling full, and his seed begins to seep from entrance. It trickles down your folds and pools under you, causing you to shiver as the night air cools it quickly against your heated skin.

“Tch, such a waste,” Astarion says with a click of his tongue. He's looking down at the apex of your thighs to survey his handiwork, disappointed seeing all of his effort lay in vain.

The blush on your cheeks was finally subsiding when a new wave of warmth rushes to your face again as his eyes study your cunt. Astarion runs a finger up your swollen sex, catching some of his spend and bringing it back up to your entrance. He pushes his finger into your thoroughly stretched hole, languidly pumping the digit in and out.

“We simply cannot have that,” Astarion comments. He removes his digit from your cunt and begins to slither down your torso, littering your sternum in chaste kisses as he goes. “In fact,” he states with a silken tone, “one cannot accept such poor conditions.”

Your nipples harden to stiff peaks as his tongue dips into the valley of your navel. Your legs bend at the knees almost instinctively as Astarion’s lips kiss the curls atop your mound. 

Every memory cell in your body responds to Astarion autonomically, as if his touch has been seared into each of your nerve endings. It is intoxicating, and you can never get enough.

This man has dragged you into the depths of the Hells themselves. You've fallen out of favor with the Morninglord and have been shunned by your entire clergy as a consequence of succumbing to Astarion's advances.

It started as a simple favor; a quaint exchange. His continued vigor and vitality, all for the small price of occasional sips of your blood. You were hesitant at first, but you inevitably agreed.

You had no idea it would lead to you being on all fours in the cellar of an abandoned ruin, Astarion mercilessly pounding into you from behind as he grips your hair for leverage. You forfeited your honor to him, and your maidenhood, all too enthusiastically.

And you would do it all over again, for as long as he would allow it.

“We certainly need to rectify this unfortunate predicament,” he says. He kisses the soft skin of your inner left thigh, and you squirm at the stark temperature contrast of his cool lips against your heated skin.

A whimper escapes you as you feel the tip of his nose rub against your clit. Astarion licks a wet stripe up your center and you spread your legs wider, grinding your pelvis down onto the wet muscle.

His hands come up to wrap around your thighs as he suckles on your swollen nub, languidly stroking it with his tongue. You grip the sheets of the bed below you and pull as a strangled moan rips from your throat.

“A-Astarion,” you manage, voice barely above a whisper, “g-gods, please, it's so d-dirty…” Your voice trails off into a moan as he drags his tongue up your taint, collecting the remnants of his spend in a small well.

“F-fuck-!” you yell as his tongue pushes past your entrance, fucking himself back into your hole. Astarion hums into your cunt as he drives his tongue deeper into you, moving his head in just the right way for the tip of his nose to rub deliciously against your clit.

“The Gods are dead, my darling. There is only us,” he speaks into you. The vibration of his voice travels up into your pelvis and spreads across your abdomen, causing an obscene contraction of your walls around his tongue.

Your hands fly up onto his head and grip fistfuls of silver locks, bracing your feet on the bed as you grind yourself over his face. You cast your eyes down between your thighs to inspect the scene below, your breath coming in short gasps.

Smoldering red eyes meet yours, Astarion's eyelashes fluttering as he continues to hum into your sex. He meets your gaze once again and your heart begins to beat wildly inside of your chest.

This man was beautiful, so godsdamned beautiful.

And he was yours.

All yours.

Suddenly, he pulls himself away from your center and you whine in protest. You exchange glances and you see the corner of his mouth pulling upward into a crooked smile. Astarion pulls himself up and over your body again, bracing himself on his elbows on either side of your torso.

You moan softly as you feel his reawakened lust now resting against you, thick and heavy between your folds. The thought of using the small of his back as leverage to glide yourself against the weighted appendage crosses your mind, and you throw your head back with an exasperated sigh.

His hips twitch in response to your wanton display of pleasure and he groans, driving his hardened length through the slick heat of your swollen sex. He glides himself back and forth, smearing your arousal with slow rolls of his hips. 

Once again, body almost possessed, your legs come up to wrap themselves around the small of his back, and you wrap your arms around his neck. The pre-cum leaking from his tip provides additional lubrication, and you mewl as the head of his cock teases your clit with each canting of his hips. He continues this torturous routine as he drops his face mere millimeters away from yours.

“I want you to taste us, my love,” Astarion coos as he pulls at your bottom lip with blunted teeth. “I want you to savor how well we complement one another.” 

He skirts his tongue across your lips, seeking entrance. You open your mouth to accept him, and you immediately groan in pleasure at the taste spreading over your tongue.

Bittersweet yet mellow, with a distinct note that hits the back of your throat. Your whole body convulses, your back arching off the bed, chest pushing into his. It was debauched and utterly sinful; it was absolutely divine.

“Do you taste it, my darling?” Astarion asks as he pulls his mouth away from yours. His head dips to the nape of your neck and you shiver as he kisses your tender skin. “Can you taste how well we complete one another?” 

Your hands travel up the back of his head and you tilt your neck off to the side, allowing Astarion better access to the column of your neck. His tongue worries the two small scars beginning to develop over your jugular vein, his favorite place to feed on you, and you grip fistfuls of his hair.

“Do you know what else I taste, pet?” His mouth closes over the ghosts of your scars and your body convulses, wanton moans spilling from your lips as he nibbles the soft flesh.

“W-hat, else?” you breathe out, words separated by huffs.

“Your arousal.” He licks a stripe up the side of your neck, mouth close now to your ear. “Your excitement.” He nips at your earlobe, pulling gently. His voice drops into a low growl and he speaks into your ear, “Your fertility.”

Your whole body arches off the bed, your breasts pushing into his chest, and you writhe under him. A bolt of lighting shoots across your pelvis as the walls of your cunt clench around the memory of your first time. 

You think back to your coupling in the cellar, you on all fours as he slams into you repeatedly from behind. There was no other sound in that cellar aside from the wet squelching of your sex as he drove his length into you repeatedly.

You recall how thoroughly full you felt, how thoroughly mated. Your body willfully opening to him, beckoning him to claim you further. His hands on your hips held you steady as he filled you to the brim with his seed. You'd never cum harder in your life, your walls milking every last drop of his release.

Your clergy be damned; you knew there and then that you wanted Astarion on a carnal level. You want your womb to be desecrated by the sowing of his undead children.

“You want this, don't you?” he moans into your ear, accentuating his words with a drawn out thrust between your legs. Astarion braces his weight on one arm, snaking one hand up and over the delicate column of your throat.

You moan and lift your chin up just as his fingers wrap around your throat. “Tell me how much you want this, little love,” he says to you.

“Do you still want me?” is the silent question wrapped within his words.

Your hands release their hold on his hair and come to grasp the one on your neck. “A-Astarion,” you breathe, voice hoarse as his palm pushes against the center of your throat. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and you continue grinding your hips against his length, the head of his cock teasing your soaked entrance.

“What do you want me to do, Tavaria?” Astarion huffs out, voice desperate as he tries to resist the urge to sink himself into your warm, inviting center.

“I want… Gods…”

“What, do you want, Tavaria?” His voice is stern and demanding as he growls into your ear. “Tell me, now.”

Do you still want this, all of this? Us? …All of me?

Your head is swimming. You can think of nothing else but depraved, carnal lust.

“Fuck me, please, Astarion…” You open your eyes, hooded in lust, and meet his gaze. His mouth is slightly agape as he sucks in ragged breaths, his pupils blown wide. “Please, Astarion,” you beg.

The hand on your neck now rises to clasp your chin, holding your head steadfast. “Again,” he growls out, “say it again.” He grinds his hips further against yours.

You moan loudly into the night air, hoping no one from the nearby town hears. “Mark me, Astarion,” you manage to breathe out. “Fill my womb until the entire world can see what you've done to me.” You bring the hand holding your chin up to your mouth, placing soft kisses on the tips of his fingers. “Please,” you whine.

Astarion peels himself away from you in an instant, sitting up on his knees. “Turn over,” he growls out through gritted teeth.

It takes a second for the words to register in your brain, but your body inevitably moves as he commands. You turn yourself over on the forest floor, supporting yourself on your hands and knees. His palms sink into the plush flesh of your hips and he pulls you back toward him, his cock brushing up against the cleft of your ass.

You look over your shoulder to see him spit into his palm, working it over his length with urgent strokes. Suddenly the head of his cock nudges against your entrances and he sinks himself in. Your arousal provides enough support for him to fully sheath himself within you, and he hisses as his tip pushes against the end of your cervix.

Your arms give way and you lean forward onto your elbows, head dropping between your arms as your hips move of their own accord back and forth over his length. Your cunt throbs with each pass of his cock against your walls, and you sigh as it rubs against the spot inside of you that makes you see stars.

“Gods, you are so fucking warm,” he growls from behind you. Astarion reaches forward and grips a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back up. His other hand is sunken into your hip in a vice grip, holding you in place as he continues careening you both toward completion. You know you'll have a bruise come tomorrow, but you didn't care. You want him to mark you, to claim you.

You desperately push yourself back up onto the palms your hands, your muscles struggling to support your weight as your pleasure builds. Your whole body is shaking as you continue to meet his thrusts with your hips. Astarion adjusts his angle ever so slightly behind you, the head of his cock now pushing directly into the spot that turns your vision hot white.

“A-Astarion,” you mumble as saliva pools in your mouth, “d-don’t stop-!” You feel your thighs quaking, your cunt fluttering wildly over his length as you draw closer and closer to the edge.

Astarion catches onto your rapidly approaching crescendo and increases the pace. The clearing is filled with nothing but the wet sound of your arousal and skin slapping against skin. He lifts his chin up toward the sky and his mouth hangs open as he moans incoherently into the night air, hips never faltering in their assault.

“My sweet girl,” he says to you, voice thoroughly and completely wrecked, “you always feel so good around my cock.”

You feel yourself clench around him in response to his praise, pleasured mewls escaping your lips. His hand releases its grip on your hair, coming to rest on your hip as his fingertips sink into the supple skin beneath them. He's spearing himself directly into your cunt, directly into that spongy spot inside you, and your arms falter once again. At this point, you're not going to last much longer.

You cross your arms in front of you, resting your head on your forearms. Your brain has ceased all logical thought as he fucks into you mercilessly from behind. You mumble a mantra of “please, yes, please, oh, there, keep going,” from under him. 

One particular thrust has you seeing stars explode behind your vision and you spill over the edge into oblivion. You think you scream, the pleasure ripping through you so intensely that it obscures your other senses, but they're muffled by your face buried in your forearms.

His hips still as your walls contract around him. He sucks in a deep breath through gritted teeth, uneven pants escaping his mouth. He begins to move behind you again, his hips stuttering in short bursts into your wet heat. “I'm going… I'm going to…” he pants from behind you, chest heaving.

You manage to raise your head enough to look briefly over your shoulder. He looks thoroughly debauched; damp strands of silver hair are plastered to his face and beads of sweat drip from the tip of his nose.

He is devastatingly handsome.

“Do it,” you reassure him, softly. “It's okay.”

Astarion’s mouth drops open, a raw, guttural growl rupturing from his throat. His bottom fangs glint in the moonlight and his eyes roll back into his skull as hips finally cease. The grip on your hips tightens as he pulls you further into him, and then you feel it.

Thick ropes of heat coat the inside of your cunt and you moan, feeling some of it slip out between the place where you're joined and drip down onto the forest floor below.

With a drawn-out sigh, he slumps against your back, the added weight causing you both to collapse onto the soft earth below. You feel him mouthing softly against your back, leaving absent-minded kisses across your skin as his brain performs yet another hard reset, the second one of the evening.

Astarion’s senses finally return and he pulls himself free, rolling off of you and onto his back. You reposition yourself onto your side and slot yourself against him. His arm comes down over your shoulder, and you tuck your head against his chest. You feel Astarion kiss the top of your head, and you sigh in contentment at the warm gesture.

Neither of you speak another word, thoroughly spent. As your eyes fall closed, you nestle your cheek against his chest and hear the slow thud of his heart as it lulls you to sleep.

Within his arms, you are safe. 

You are loved.

You are home.

[reverseexorcist]

★ 𝐅𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐝 ★

"If it's alright could I request Carmilla Carmine x a fem reader who's a fallen angel? Like maybe they met during extermination and got their wings ripped off for not wanting to kill Carmilla's kids or they were already in hell with Carmilla for some time before the extermination? If you don't want to do this that's totally fine, and sorry if this isn't how to request stuff :)."

Honestly, with how this ended, I'm really tempted to write a much fluffier part 2 to this

Part 2 ↫ Right here

➲ 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚 Carmine + !Fallen Angel!Reader

➲ Romantic ☐, Platonic ☒

➲ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 Count; 3,462 Words

➲ Warnings/notes; Female reader, descriptions of gore/blood, canonical Lute slander (sorry Lute), romantic or platonic wasn't requested so I went with platonic to fit the story more (if the requester wants romantic just feel free to ask me), mother mode Carmilla (she might be a bit ooc because of this),

Oh wow.

Oh wow were you shaking.

You couldn't tell if it was from the excitement or the nerves - Probably both if you were being honest with yourself, but you couldn't shake off the vibrating feeling tingling beneath your skin that made you want to fly laps around heaven. Your stomach was doing flips, but you led mask only reflected your nearly psychopathic grin and twitching eye.

Even after your lieutenant Lute shot you a stern look, no doubt pissed off because you couldn't sit still for five goddamn seconds, you still couldn't resist fidgeting with your spear. It was sparkly, and somewhat heavy, and a murderous weapon that was entirely yours! It was also cold, freezing almost. Even against your gloves it made your palms feel numb and seemed to shine in sync with your own valiant excitement.

Baby's first extermination, basically. While the name certainly sounded scary, you'd been waiting for this day for six months (you and the other forty-five cadets in your platoon) and you were ready to do your best! Sure, you were still technically a rookie, hanging around the flock and bringing up the rear of the exorcists, but this was how you proved yourself to rise the ranks, right?

Your heart stopped beating in your chest when you finally reached the front. Holy shit, that was the high seraphim! Sera, right? Oh wow, she really was much much taller in person, towering above the clustering sea of black and white murderous intent. Her outward vibe was motherly and caring, but you could see the glint of distain, guilt and regret sparking in the deepest depths of her eyes. Which was confusing, because you were doing a good thing, right? Ridding the divine planes of sinners irredeemable souls.

The thoughts crowded your mind - Evil, twisted monsters crawling around like bugs in the brimstone crowded crevices of hell. You could only imagine the satisfaction of killing your first hell spawn.

It would have to be cool no doubt. Something big with lots of teeth and claws and that could breathe fire! You had to come home with a cool story to brag about. You'd heard the tales from all your superiors. From everyone including the first man Adam himself, your respectably awesome (if a little terrifying) lieutenant Lute, to the other lieutenants like Michael and Gabriel. You'd have to off a demon built like a mountain to get their attention.

And by the big man himself, you were going to do it. Even if it took you a hundred years, you could already see yourself commanding a group just like yours, bearing a helmet with horns big and curved and bold, black stripes stippled along your ivory wings.

With a very particular pep in your step, you saluted the high seraphim Sera respectively, head cocked up just so you could regard her kindly warmth in fullness. Her smile didn't reach her eyes, and although she swiftly sent you on your way with the rest of your platoon, you couldn't help but let your nerves sway your resolve ever so slightly.

It didn't matter though! You unfurled your wings with perhaps a bit too much of a dramatic flair, but with your spear in hand and helm polished so it shined with malevolent glory, you kicked off without a second thought, tailing right behind where you were supposed to be.

Your first impression of hell was the heat.

With the extermination already well under way, raging fires were already burning up half of the city sending whorls of smog up into the air. You easily battered it away with a few strong flaps of your wings. With your head on the swivel, your eagle-eyes peered around the desolate land for the forms of the sinners struggling to thrive below, silhouettes hidden by the thick layer of smoke and ash blanketing the landscape.

Lieutenant Lute furled out her wings below you, a screeching war cry echoing throughout the battlefield as she all but left your rookie platoon in the metaphorical dust. The sound itself only spurred you on, itching for the blood of a demon on the blade of your angelic spear. Without a second thought, you tucked your wings to you sides and dived below, headfirst into the fray.

Billowing flames licked past you harmlessly, though they burned like hell (which seemed rather apt, considering where you). You didn't falter, flying through the embers like a goddamn phoenix ready to cleanse the realm sprawled out beneath you. The solid wingbeats of two of your fellow cadets only strengthened your resolution, a holy fire burning in your soul - An itch to clear the filth of devil scum away. This was the chaotic strength that your captain had sought to build in you, and now you were finally able to act on it.

But everywhere you looked, you only found simple, humanoid souls running and screaming in terror. Eyes wide, half-dead or bloodied beyond belief as they scrambled to find shelter from the onslaught of exorcists like yourself. Nowhere could you see the mangled forms of the demons you'd been taught to slaughter. Descriptions from your seniors before you passed through your mind - 'gleaming eyes with with wrath and lust', 'gangly limbs twisted to an unholy form', 'mouths filled with rows of sharp teeth, and claws like knives'.

You faltered, confused. The words of Lute rang out in your mind.

"Of course, it's not like they can actually hurt you. You're all warriors, the toughest, just use your spears to stab the shit out of them!"

You were alone now. You couldn't hear the comforting sounds of your fellow rookies behind you anymore. They were well in front of you now, peering around with a similar confusion to yours. But to your absolute horror, they simply shrugged their shoulders and dived forward with bloodlust evident in their glowing white masks. Silver points of spears were jammed through the heads of the terrified demons below. But were they demons? They didn't look like them at all. Every single book you'd seen depicting demons drew them as eldritch monsters with too many eyes to count, tentacles and claws and fangs with nary but bloodlust and vile thoughts hidden within their slitted eyes.

But the demons in front of you looked just like people. You could see the way their faces contorted in terror. You could see them scrambling to help what you could only assume were friends and family, pulling them along and carrying the ones who couldn't run for themselves. You could only feel your heart fall as you watched one of your best friends land on top of a sinner already crushed by rubble, turquoise skin stained red. The begged and pleaded and cried, but their voice was silenced as the spearhead sunk into their skull.

You flinched. The world around you ignored you completely, and for once, you were completely happy to go unnoticed.

Shakily, you touched-down in a nearby street. It was littered with already oozing corpses, but other than that it was peacefully empty. At least here the sounds of violence and pain and terror was muffled, far away enough that you could at least try to distance yourself and get your breathing under control.

You barely reeled in a gag as the smell of blood invaded your senses.

Was this really what you wanted to do for the rest of your life? You could still see yourself in your mind's eye, a model exorcist like your lieutenant now leading her own platoon into another extermination. Maybe this would be a one off, just a shock to the system that would get your mind reworked into killing mode. But, the more you thought about it, the more your heart clenched in pain and terror that seemingly matched the suffering souls around you. You were an agent of heaven, you thought you were killing mindless monsters, not those with human souls! Sure, there were probably shitty people fucking around down here, but what about all those who had to sin in self defence?

A chorus of startled gasps startled you out of your panic ridden stupor. Your wings flared up, trying to make yourself look bigger, more threatening as you wheeled around. The spear in your hands looked more like a prop at this point, and it was clear that you had minimal idea how to use it inside a proper battle. But still, you fumbled with it and pointed it threateningly in the direction of the two demons that had appeared right behind you.

They clutched each other, stumbling backwards and further away from the danger of your angelic weapon. One of them placed an arm in front of the other, her eyes narrowing behind her red-tinted glasses as if she was both terrified by you, but was daring you to do something about it.

But still, you could see them shaking from where you stood. They both seemed rooted to the ground, the one with platinum blonde hair refused to take her eyes off of you, but the demon behind her (maybe her sister? A friend?) was looking around nervously.

You could see yourself reflected in those crimson specs, and for once it made you freeze. You'd seen yourself in uniform plenty of times before, the steel boots and guard gloves and the led, horned helmet, but it always seemed almost comforting before. When you were surrounded by your cohorts, it made you fit in. Out here, you realised, you were the monster.

The ever-present smile on your mask shrunk, falling into a grimace as your grip on your weapon tightened. Your wings drew in, you shrunk backwards, almost stumbling over your own feet in the process of trying your hardest to get away. You never wanted to scare people.

So drowned by your own confusion and fear and reckless thoughts of worry about the future that you didn't notice the confusion growing the faces of the demons in front of you turn into abject horror as a far more ominous silhouette grew behind you.

"I thought I taught you not to hesitate," Lute growled in your ear, placing her free hand on your shoulder and digging her fingers in till your were sure a bruise was marred into your skin. You didn't respond, couldn't even if you wanted to. The trembling that rattled you only grew stronger, and you fumbled as your hands cramped painfully. With a resounding clatter, your spear dropped from your grasp an on to the brazen brimstone floor.

Lute growled.

She didn't say anything, but she knew. The both of you knew by now. You couldn't kill a sinner.

Lute didn't even hesitate before shoving you to the ground. Your head collided with solid stone painfully even with your helmet on, stars shining behind your eyes as her words blurred together as she pressed her foot firmly between your shoulder blades. Your wings shivered and spread involuntarily, and you feared the moments that would come next. Lute was unpredictable, but this could only end with bloodshed.

The two girls still hadn't moved, transfixed in horror as they watched the scene in front of them play out.

Asphalt stung your hands and you tried to claw your way to freedom, fingertips digging into the scorched Earth as you started crying. Lute, however, was stronger than you. Of course she was, she'd been doing this for centuries, and you were still a fledging on her first trip out of heaven.

You never thought it would end like this.

Lute dug her fingers into your wings, tangling into your still downy feathers before she yanked with all her might. The scream she tore from your lips was hellish, agonising, yet the blended with the sounds of violence all around you. You were sure you blacked out several times throughout the process, but by the time your old lieutenant was done with you, barely anything but feathery stumps and golden blood remained of your wings.

You could only curl up, cry and watch as Lute tossed clumps of feathers aside as she stalked toward the two demons that still hadn't had the thought to run. And for the first time in your life, you felt sorry for the sinners that populated hell's ring of wrath.

She would make them suffer, that was for sure. If she was happy enough to tear of another angel's wings, you could only imagine what she would do to a sinner. You didn't want to imagine, and your mind was fuzzy enough that you thankfully didn't have to.

The sound of something sharp rang throughout the air. It made you groan in pain, the sound piercing your ears and making your brain rattle in your skull. Sharp - 'Tink tink tink tink tink.' If you could see the look of relief coming across the demons faces, a part of you might've urged Lute to run. Only, she had just torn your wings off with little qualm, and now you had no shits left to give if she lived or not.

The exorcist never got the chance to strike, her weapon torn from her hands and thrown across the street till it collided with a bloody body. Lute herself barely had time to react before she was struck over the head once, then twice in rapid succession. A whirlwind of white and angelic steel and pure fury launched herself in the path between the two demons and the exorcist. It was almost exhilarating to watch, seeing Lute strike out with her fists in a pathetic attempt of hand to hand combat against her new foe. Whoever they were, they were really fucking fast, almost too fast for you to keep up with.

The fight was over before it started. Without her weapon, Lute couldn't do much against the sinner she was pitted against, and as ruthless as she was, she knew when a battle was lost. In a flurry of black and white feathers, she fled. And then the newcomer's attention was shifted to you.

At this point, you would've welcomed death. The pain alone was making you drift slightly, and you didn't even have the energy left to groan when whoever nudged you slightly with something hard and cold.

"Mother.." The words were so soft, floating away from your ears.

"We need to leave." It was undoubtably her. That voice was the one who beat Lute into the ground.

"What about..?" That was the one who called out for mother.

"Won't she tattle?" So that had to be her sister.

Those words sent a dose of adrenaline through you. With as much strength as you could muster, you clawed yourself into an upwards position. You could feel the clotting blood running down your back, but if you were going to die, you at least wanted to do so with some dignity.

Shakily, with much more effort than was really desired, you reached up and peeled your helmet off.

It clattered noisily like glass against the floor, and suddenly the world was much brighter, much more red and the air was laced with more sulphur and death than you could imagine. But what really surprised you was the look of shock written across the sinner's face.

She was tall. Really tall. The only person who could really compete was Seraphim Sera or maybe Adam, but you really couldn't tell with how delirious you were.

"Una niña?" They all looked surprised.

The one called mother took a few steps forward, confusion and anger clearly present in her eyes. But, as she kneeled down in front of your comparatively tiny form, you realised the anger wasn't directed at you.

"Did she try to hurt you?" She turned back to face her daughters. They both shared a look, but ultimately shook their heads no. That right there, was your saving grace.

She looked back at you, hair pinned into high horns, and took your helmet in her large hands. She passed it off to one of her daughters, before gently scooping you into her hold.

You whined, writhing minutely in her hold as the searing phantom pain of your wings being torn off returned. Fat tears rolled down your cheeks, and yet the demoness tutted softly, shushing you like you were a baby.

Her daughters followed without a word, and you and the family unit moved swiftly through the desolate roads. So many questions were running through your mind, and yet you couldn't find the answer to any of them, your thoughts to lost to the fog of blood loss to ever truly return.

"You better not betray me," Were the last words you heard before promptly passing out.

The plushness of a soft blanket was the first thing you felt waking up. For a moment, you felt nothing but relief realising the entire thing had been a horrid nightmare, but when you tried to rustle the numbness out of your wings, the relief was replaced with horror when you realised that your wings were just straight up missing, only two feathery stumps remaining in their place.

That made you shoot up in horror. You didn't even care about the sharp sting that ran down your spine and into your very being, you were a bit too concerned about your current predicament.

"You're awake."

That made you promptly scream before ducking under the covers like you were a nestling again. A soft sigh reached your ears, but you dared not to venture out from the warmth of the thick covers.

Not like you had a choice, though, as you were soon pried away from their safety. It was her, the demoness with the high-pinned buns. She looked down on you, red eyes glowing in the low light, and yet, you couldn't sense a smidge of hatred towards you. Only distrust and sadness laced her expression.

"How old are you?" She asked after the silence had gone on long enough.

"I'm a fledgling," Is all you said. You didn't really fancy giving too much information. Although, the look of horror the crossed her face maybe suggested that you'd already given away plenty.

"Obligan a los niños a hacer esto?" She raised a hand and carded it through her snowy tresses, locks of white hair threaded loose as she paced back and forth. You only watched her, slowly sinking back into the comfort of the warm blankets.

"You're still a child." It was a statement.

You hated being a child. You didn't want to be a child, at least, you hadn't wanted to be a child in the past. You wanted to join the ranks of the exorcists, and to do that you at least needed to be juvenile. Hell, you were lucky enough to make it into the cadets while you still had baby feathers decorating your wings. But now, the fact that yes, you were still technically a kid made your saviour look upon you with more than just disdain and hatred like any other exorcist, but rather she looked upon you with an emotion that you'd never seen before, and not one you could really name.

"You are a child, and now you have fallen," She eyed your mostly healed wing stumps, and you couldn't help but reflexively flex them anxiously. The literal weight off your back made you want to cry.

"Was this your first extermination?" She gazed upon you with a guarded look. You nodded.

"And you didn't hurt my daughters?" Another nod from you. That seemed to make her relax just a tad.

"Could you ever hurt someone?" That made you pause, the memories of the extermination rushing back to you full force. Tears grew at the corners of your eyes, and still, you answered with a simple 'no'.

She exhaled a sigh of relief before closing the distance and kneeling down to your eye level.

"Carmilla Carmine." She reached a hand out toward you. So that was her name.

You clutched your hands close to your chest, fearing her touch, but gave her your name anyway.

"What are you gonna do with me?" You asked, voice cracking. Her gaze softened, finally letting her guard slip for just a moment.

"Well, you weren't going to make it out there by yourself. You'll be staying with me," The words took a moment to sink into your mind. Well, at least it was better than death.

Gently, like she was working with a scared animal, Carmilla coaxed you out from the comfort of the bed, slowly ushering you to her side. With your wings missing and their remains bandaged, head bare and missing your exorcist helmet, it felt like the safest place in the world.

"Welcome to Hell."

Rules + Info,

Masterlist,

[queenimmadolla]

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You surprise Eddie with your baby's first trick-or-treat costume. Spoiler alert: she's adorable.

a/n: for maisie 🩷

more penny and Eddie here

“I’m waitiiiiiiiiing.” Eddie sang out from the couch, tugging at the neck of the cream colored turtleneck you’d guilted him into wearing. It wasn’t as bad as the sweater he had to wear with it. Truly the ugliest thing he had ever seen. 

  It was so ugly, it offended him and he was a little grumpy about it, which you teased was appropriate considering he was supposed to be dressed as Bert from Sesame Street. 

  Yeah. Sesame Street. 

  The (totally) gay puppets.

“You’ll have to get close.” Eddie had threatened when you pulled out eyeliner, not to line his eyes like you did before one of his shows or a date night, but to link his brows together in the most unrealistic looking unibrow ever. 

  Once upon a time, up until like two Halloweens ago, Eddie had used this day to be completely and thoroughly chaotic. Messy. Well, as messy as the social pariah could be on Halloween. So just really drunk, maybe high—sometimes both—making out with someone who wouldn’t acknowledge his existence the following day (and he was very grateful for you for breaking the curse on that last carefree Halloween). But that was the old Eddie Munson.

  Gone was the Eddie Munson that either went all out–in leather, eyeliner and fake blood–or barely tried with some devil horns and a bad sense of humor for halloween to deal weed and drugs, smoke weed and drink til he threw up, or get fucked. Granted, he wasn’t going through this change alone. 

  Your opportunities to party on Halloween night with your friends–having all gotten ready together for the big, slutty night out–drinking ‘til you were stupid only to wake up on your bedroom floor (sometimes not even yours and on one year, the top of your neighbor’s car) with no real repercussions were no more.

  Your days as primarily careless teenagers and now young adult were over, replaced with enjoying the night in a way you were both surprised to find that you didn’t hate, even as early twentysomethings. 

  Hell, the both of you were eager–even if Eddie had to wear a lame costume. He’d wanted to be Ernie, at least.

  “Shut up!” You called back from the bedroom. Eddie snickered at the amusement hidden under your voice and shifted until he was lounging on his side, arm propped up with his hand.

  “Still waitiiiiiiiing!”

  You’d been hiding a certain costume from him for the past three weeks, and the anticipation was killing him.

  “You are the most impatient man I have ever met.” 

  “I just gotta have you, baby.” Came his immediate response and his grin widened when he realized he didn’t even have to think up replies for your quips, it just came natural now. He knew you that well. Still made him giddy and want to kick his feet in the air.

  He loved being married to you. Sue him.

  “Okay, here we come!” You announced and Eddie scrambled to sit up straight, eagerly leaning forward to get an early peak. 

  You walked down the short hall, dressed in a striped sweatshirt, jeans with the bottoms rolled into cuffs and a pair of red converse. Ernie. But Eddie already knew what your costume was, it was a couple’s costume and you were indeed a couple. 

  It was who you were glancing back at, just out of his line of sight, that held his curiosity. 

  “C’mon, baby. Go show daddy!”

  At your prompting, your baby–just a couple of months over a year old–came waddling out, footsteps awkward as she got used to the orange duck feet covering her own and the padding and stuffing of her yellow duck costume, clutching a bottle you’d given her to keep her from fussing while you got her dressed. Her curly little head and chunky cheeks were framed in the hood of the costume, with the duck’s  head resting on hers.

  “Are you kidding me?” Eddie asked, mouth dropping open as his eyes darted from his cute little spawn in her adorable costume to your smug expression and back, “Are you joking? OH MY GOD!”

  Eddie reached his arms out to Penny, fingers curling into his fists as he made grabby hands, “You are so precious, my little baby, come to daddy!”

  Penny was delighted with his praise, drooly mouth dropping open and big brown eyes sparkling as she rushed forward. Her lack of coordinated motor skills paired with the duck feet and the padding of her duck bottom throwing her equilibrium off meant she immediately lost her balance and you and Eddie both inhaled sharply, quickly rising to attention as she wobbled forward briefly, then fell back on her cushioned tail feathers.

  It was far from a dangerous fall, so you and Eddie stood frozen, waiting for her response so as to not sway her to have a certain response, having taken her to the doctor’s after a fall once only to learn she was perfectly fine and had only started crying because you had. 

  You both learned real quick to wait for her response after falling, sometimes she cried and had a boo boo that Daddy and Mommy could fix with some first aid and a kiss, and other times she'd run right into the wall, get up, and walk away (albeit while muttering in angry baby gibberish).

  Penny blinked once, eyes flying from your face to her dad’s before she wiggled her bum against the floor, set her bottle down next to her and tried to stand up. 

  You both let out matching sighs of relief before Eddie darted forward to scoop her up.

  “Are you rubber ducky?” Eddie asked once he had her situated in his arms. All she did was give him that big, beautiful smile of hers (no longer gummy with the teeth she had coming in but thinking about that made Eddie teary eyed) before her attention strayed to his long curls and her chunky little fist flew out to grab some of it, staring it down before she put it in her mouth.

  “Say, yes, baby.” You encouraged her after picking up her bottle, hand tucking in one of her curls peaking out.

  “Yesh.” She parroted, mouthing aggressively at the hair in her fist. While she was distracted, Eddie took the opportunity to press kisses into her cheek, smothering her in them until she grew annoyed and snapped her head in his direction, mouth wide in protest.

  “Sor-ry!” He huffed, still grinning as he pressed another one into her soft cheek. She was all talk  and no bite. Mostly.

  “What does the duck say, baby?” You asked, trying to prompt her. She could do some of the animal sounds and she’d gotten the duck right a few times.

  “Moooo.” And sometimes she moo’d.

  “That is one interesting duck.” Eddie commented and you shushed him.

  “No, baby. Quack.”

  “Cack.”

  Your heart dropped into your stomach. “Okay, that’s a little too close to–we’ll stick with moo.”

  You grabbed her trick-or-treat bag, a disposable camera and a couple of other things you thought you might need to take her trick-or-treating for the first time, while Eddie continued to coddle her, only putting her down when you were all ready to go. 

  Penny was little miss independent until she caught sight of the steps outside of the trailer. Then she whimpered, dropped her bottle and turned to Eddie, shoving herself at his legs as she reached her little arms up to him.

  “Up! UP! Up!”

  It was mean of him, really it was, because Penny was genuinely afraid of the steps but that also meant she demanded her daddy hold her in his arms, and that wasn’t really a loss for him so he hoped she’d hang onto that fear for a while before she got inventive and found another way to climb down them without him.

  Eddie picked her up and she curled into his chest, chin on his shoulder as she clung to him with the duck head on her hood hitting the side of his face. He was trying to hide his smile but it was much too large to conceal and you glared at him with no malice, more amused with Eddie than anything.

  “It’s okay, sweetpea. Daddy will protect you from those big, mean steps.”

  He cackled as you shook your head with a smile. 

  “You are so messed up, capitalizing off of her fear.”

  “Hey–it’s easy for you, she still demands and needs your boob. Did you see her refuse my kisses in there? I’m fighting for her affection here. And I’m gonna keep doing it, as soon as she gets over her fear of steps, I’m telling her a monster lives underneath them. Now, let's go get some candy I’ll also eat on her behalf.”

  He bounded cheerfully out the door, Penny bouncing in his arms while you locked up behind him and called out in your laughter.

  “And using your baby for candy–oh, you’ve got to choke tonight. I’ll save you, but you’ve got to choke.”

  Eddie paused, waiting for you to catch up as his lips curled into smirk in a very Grinch like manner and you groaned, eyes squeezing shut as you realized what he was implying without having to verbalize it. 

  “I mean, I’d be happy to arrange that–”

  “Keep walking, Bert. We only have an hour and a half so we’d better get a move on if you want a decent amount of candy to steal from your own baby.”

  “I’m not above taking candy from any baby.” He confirmed leaning down just as you leaned up to meet in a kiss, the both of you smiling into it. It was brief, ending when Penny accidentally pecked the both of you with the head of her costume.

[georgiapeach30513]

Down On My Knees, Part 3

Summary: One. Two. THREE.

Pairings: Jax Teller X Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings:  dark, explicit language, explicit sexual content, mentions of punishing oneself, degrading language, violence, death, sex in a chuch, unprotected sex, PIV sex, creampie, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 3K

Previous

Series Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics

Jax sits abruptly in bed, scratching his neck, and stretching the twinge of pain in muscles. The night was a living hell. Your scent lingered all in his bed. Your sounds haunted him. He can still taste the kiss of your mouth. It’s like you wanted to inflate every part of his mind and body with you.

He takes a deep breath as he massages the crick in his neck. You felt too good. Your body is sin incarnate. You are a demon to him, and he can’t stop. There isn’t a stopping point now. He has begged with every fiber of his muscles for this ache to have you to stop, and still it continues. It continues to seep into his soul, and he’s gone too far now. He’s tasted and had you.

He grabs a cigarette, and lights it quickly. Staring out into the alleyway at the brick of his nightmares. The flashes of that night. Did he see it happen, and did nothing? Or worse. The compelling thoughts he has towards the swell of your belly. The soft curves that accompany the changes to you. All he wants to do is hold you, and your stomach.

Growing up poor, you don’t have many chances of what you can do. Continue to stay poor, or join the church. He remembers the feeling a woman’s flesh under his fingers. The way their bodies become pliable because of his movements. The soft begging sounds in their voice. He didn’t have to take, they gave freely. It couldn’t have been him in the alley. He was just a coward that didn’t stop a series of misfortunes. He’s a coward. Not a monster.

Jax clenches his eyes close when he hears the rustling of the paper. He prolongs a pull of his cigarette. Trying to avoid whatever devil message awaits him. He misbehaved last night, and his back normally paid for his sins. He would stripe the cords of muscles as he punished himself. But he would prefer your fingernails. He didn’t make his skin pay for his sins. It just didn’t feel right.

“You’re no saint. You’re no angel,” a gruff voice says at the door before loud booms of a man’s gait disappear down the hallway. He knew he wasn’t either of those. He filled your cunt with so much of his seed, he watched it drip down your legs as you hobbled to your room.

Today you were going to be examined by a doctor. Obviously to check and make sure that everything with the baby was growing correctly. He didn’t want the babe to be taken somewhere else, even if he knew it was for the better of yours and the child’s life. You wouldn’t have to live with the shame, and neither would your child. Jax runs a hand harshly down his face before turning towards the door.

He picks the paper up slowly. His eyes fill with rage as he reads the words. A fucking game. A sick, slow, tortuous game.

Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

Proverbs 11:2

He crumbles the paper, and lets it fall to the floor. He’s either a madman or a man that will have his soul damned to hell for the things he’s done. And will continue to do. Popping his neck, he determines it’s time to get dressed. He’ll have to escort you to your appointment. He will be the only one with you from now on.

“Jax,” you whisper, and wish you could yell. His hand smooths over your stomach so gently. He dips his fingers low, grazing the digits over your exposed cunt. And his eyes have an eerie emptiness. As if the only thing that mattered were you, and the spawn growing in your belly. An obsession bubbling within him.

“Father Teller,” you speak softly, and those crystal blue eyes turn to look towards you, but his pupils block out most of their beautiful color. Seeming like he’s in a stupor. “Don’t touch me here, and I’ll let you cleanse me again. Right before the eyes of God,” clearing his throat, his pupils fade back to normal, and he yanks his hands away from you.

“You are a filthy little lamb,” you keep your eyes looking forward as he leans towards you. Putting his mouth right on your ear, “My little lamb,” your eyes flutter close with his emphasis of my. Jax flattens his tongue and llicks up your neck, and you purr. “You don’t even know what pleasure is. You don’t even know the ways that I can fuck that tight little cunt,” but he did. He is no angel. And he’s definitely no saint. But he can make you see heaven.

“I want to look at you this time,” his laughter is husky against your sensitive column, and slick pools to your core in the most humiliating way, “Jax, we can’t here.”

“What are they gonna do to me? A priest. They’ll think you’re the one tempting me. And you are. You are a siren, and I am weak to your calls. Look at you with your legs spread open for me. Growing our — your miracle,” a rumble vibrates his chest, and you look up at him. Peering up at him with the most innocent doe eyes, “Don’t be a tease,” he jerks away from your body, and the moment the door opens.

You clear your throat. Fiddling around, and avoiding the doctor’s eyes. He looks between you and Jax before settling himself in a chair. He has to know. Whatever this is between you and Jax is palatable, “Any bleeding?”

“No,” you answer shortly. Keeping your eyes on the ceiling. You don’t think. You don’t feel. You hate feeling invasive people around you, and this doctor wanted to know everything about your body. Growing up you always had someone poking and prodding you.

“Well, it seems your mother won’t have to marry you off. Such a disappointment,” gritting your teeth, your eyes roll closed as a single tear falls from your eyes. Like it was your choice. They were all the same. You’re sure this doctor is far from being an innocent man. Rumor has it he enjoyed his title, which is why Jax didn’t leave you. This doctor wouldn’t hesitate to pressure you into pleasuring him. Acting like he was the epitome of an upstanding citizen.

“That’s enough,” Jax answers, and starts pushing the doctor’s hands away from you. Between his harsh words, and him having his hands on you, Jax has had enough. “That’s enough! Get your fucking hands off her!” The doctor stands abruptly, pushing away from you, and Jax rushes to him. Towering over the sniveling doctor, and he presses his forearm against his neck.

Jax’s neck twists and pops at an awkward angle. Staring wildly at the doctor. He’d said the wrong thing. You lurch up on the table, pushing your dress down and begin cowering away from them as Jax bangs him up against the wall.

“Do you even know who you’re talking to? What is growing in her belly? Do you know who we are?”

“A bastard priest, and a bastard,” Jax slaps him across the face. “In her belly,” grabbing the doctor’s shoulders, he knees him hard in the gut. Letting his groaning body fall to the ground. “I’ll have you arrested, boy.”

“Jax!” You shout, covering your ears. He was going to be thrown under the jail. He was going to leave you, and then you were doubly shamed. His fists pound into the doctor with sickening thuds, “Stop it! Stop!!” Jax stands, panting. And brushing his hair back with bloody hands. He smirks down at the doctor before spitting on him.

”I want to go home now!”

“Does the slut even have a home? Or is she keeping your bed warm, Father Teller,” his laugh is gurgled in blood, and Jax kicks him while you jump off the table. “He will use you, princess.”

“Haven’t you heard?” You stand tall with your chin tilting upwards. “I’m already used up,” you click out of the office. Holding onto the dignity that you have remaining. He can talk about you like you’re nothing more than an object for greedy men. But you’re not. You’re so much more than that. You have a choice.

Jax remains, and he leans down to the doctor’s ear, “Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.”

His eyes go wide as he stares up at him. “No. No!” A revolting crunch stops his screaming instantly. Jax’s head quivers with intense rage before he screams at the limp man on the floor. Disgusting. Vile.

“It isn’t complete!” A nurse screams as she walks into the room. Horrified as she stares at the deceased man. “If you have a problem, you can contact The Society,” she shakes her head, running away from Jax. Jax knows that they will clean this up. They’ll make it all disappear. He didn’t care. But you would not be disrespected. You would not be made to feel less than when you are carrying a miracle.

You would change it all.

Jax runs his fingers through his hair. Slicking back each strand as he watches you cry and pray on your knees. So devout. And yet, you were cast aside like filth. Made to feel that you weren’t being used as a grand design. You were a goddess. Something that people seemed to forget. But he couldn’t forget it. He’s felt your power mingling with his own.

Now all they cared about is the babe in your belly. They didn’t even see you. You are only the vessel, and the couldn’t understand how important you were. Jax sees. But he also knows who you belong to. And it’s not them. Neither does the baby belong to them.

Taking a deep breath, you sit back into the pew. Your hand rubs over your stomach as you stare in awe at the altar. “I never put much thought into religion,” you gaze up at the paintings, sculptures, lights, all the grandeur of the church. Those judging eyes looking at you. Determining your eternal life, “But they’re wrong for casting me out. I didn’t ask for this.”

“You were to be married?” Wiping away your tears, you nod your head, “Did you love him?”

“I didn’t really know him. But I was to lay in the bed while he filled me with his seed, and I produced heirs for him,” you chuckle. What a life this was. You were expected to be the most pure thing, while also becoming a broodmare for the man with the most money. Men that bargained for your virtue like some prize pig.

“I wasn’t anything to my family. Useless really. I can’t carry on their name. I can’t rule over their kingdom. I can’t do anything but incubate a child for a man. And then when the worst thing someone could imagine happens, I became impure. Carrying my shame right under my heart.”

“Do you love the baby?”

You shrug. There is judgment all around you. But what judgment did your family face for throwing you and their grandchild away? “I don’t know. I feel this odd detachment sometimes. But I don’t hate him. Or her,” you chuckle as you rub your hands up and down the baby’s home. Such a small human changed so much. “How many lashes did you give your back for what we did?”

Jax slowly stands up. He turns towards the aisle, and walks right up to the altar. He doesn’t bother with any rituals. He surpassed that when he had you. He doesn’t serve a god. He’s become one. He undoes the buttons of his shirt. Letting it fall on the floor. The shirt is heavy with grief, but Jax is now free. Free from all the humanly bonds that kept him contained.

His eyes flutter closed when your fingers start caressing his scars. Your precious unblemished skin skims over his gnarly back, and you whimper, “None are fresh,” you whisper. His scars look more like the cut wings of a fallen angel. “You’re not sorry for having me in that way?”

“No,” his voice is animalistic. Nostrils flaring as the sanctuary’s candles flare to life. “And I’m going to have you again,” you yip as he pulls you in front of him. His hands coax you to lay flat, and he stalks around your body. Looking around at all the eyes that have judged both of you so harshly.

“She. Is. Mine!” His arms spread out wide. Pacing around. Making eye contact with every saint. “And you can’t do anything about it,” a roll of thunder vibrates through the building, and you inch your dress higher. If sinning was so bad, why did it feel so good? You’d go to the pits of hell if it meant keeping Jax.

“You can’t touch me now! I did this. I did it for all of you!” He rips open his slacks, and steps in between your legs. “I’m going to have you properly this time,” leaning forward, he rips open your dress. Giving you nothing to hide your transgressions. Your sins on display for all the marble eyes in the church. And when you’re bare before him, his hand flattens on your tummy, “And he’s mine, too.”

Kicking his boots aside, he yanks down his pants, revealing his own sins to you. Marks of which you’ve never seen inked on his skin. Runes decorate so much of his body, and you are curious as to what they mean.

“You’re mine,” you nod. Gulping as he kneels to the floor. His cock glistening in the diffused light. Yours. All yours. He could ravish you, and you’d thank him over and over again. You actually study his member for the first time. Desiring to kiss upon the head while you look up at Jax. You had him inside of you. “Growing inside of you” he nods as he settles himself lower.

“Do you hate me?” You shake your head no as he crashes into you. Setting your body on fire as you arch into his embrace. He spreads your cunt so wide that it stings. And you deliciously take every veiny inch of his steel rod, “You could never hate me. I saved you. I saved us!”

You didn’t understand. It feels as if it’s a fever having him like this. The flashes from that night confuse your mind, and you push them away. Replacing them with something completely different. Hand held out for you. Asking if you want to rid yourself from the pain of your family. Break the cycle of being a tool to further men.

“Can I save you?” Your eyes glaze over. Melding tonight with that moment. Was it Jax? Was it your choice? “Do you want your first time to be taken from you? Do you want to live to serve a man that doesn’t love you? I can save you.”

“Save me,” you beg. Jax’s thrusts become harsh as he smiles down at you. He snaps his hips into your body, while all the saints and sinners view everything. You hide nothing now. “Save me!” You screamed as the rain poured down. He covered your mouth, but nobody could hear your screaming. Nobody cared for you. Jax offered you a way out. You just didn’t realize. He was your saving grace. Your sanctuary when there was no other way out.

“Oh god,” your back is so arched that your head tilts backwards. “Oh. God!” This is unlike either time. This is cleansing. It’s heavenly. It’s taking you to a different plane of existence. Finally realizing the divine plan all along. He had you. He had all of you. It was always him. Always your choice. You have him just the way it was intended. The two of you doing what is natural. What your body craves, and is intended to do. The difference being, you want it. You want him. You want this depraved feeling with him.

“I am god. I’m your god. And I will serve you, princess. Mine,” blinding pleasure ripples through your body as Jax takes control. Repeating those four sentences over and over again. “My goddess. Nobody can touch us. They need us,” what God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.

Your pleasure-addled brain fuses the statues into hooded people. Circling around the sanctuary as they watch a heavenly bond between you and Jax. You made this choice. The choice was him. Sinfully it was him. You are free. Free of the life you were bred into.

“One.”

Your eyes close as your body reaches a new peak. A peak you have never been before. The journey wasn’t traditional, but you willfully and blindly followed Jax.

“Two.”

Stepping right to the ledge. You take a deep breath. Readying yourself for the plunge.

”Three!”

You dive into the murky waters as your body sets sail to new heights. And you come undone. Your velvety walls putting Jax in a chokehold. Screaming out, “Oh god,” as Jax’s warmth fills your body, and he pants down at you. Chest heaving as he kisses around the perimeter of your face. Holding himself inside your heat while you come to.

“Shh,” he whispers on your skin. “I won’t let anyone take you from me. Keep your eyes just on me. Just on me, Princess,” that title has never felt right. But it did now. You were his. His princess.

The cloaked man tilts his head as the final hooded figure comes out of the church, and right up to him. Giving him a single nod. “Four, five, six, seven,” he says with a smirk. Then the man cracks his neck as he gets into the carriage.

“She’s ready to meet me. Wonder how Father Teller will react to her attraction to me?” Opie turns and looks at the man. “I’m sure he’ll be green with envy.”

“Where to, Mr. Levinson?”

“Let’s stay close. I’m sure those two are going to be fucking all night long. I do enjoy watching,” with a crack of the whip, the carriage pulls off. “It’s almost done.”

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Next

Masterlist

@tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @peaches1958 @seitmai

@smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989

@theinheriteddutchess @thedreadandthefugitivemind @rainydayandmondays @welp-heregoessomething @distractingbeth

[the-most-humble-blog]

🩸 THE ACCIDENTAL SAINT OF SUBURBIA (A Blacksite Literature™ Declassified Payload)

Let me tell you about a boy named Billy.

---

Not a warrior. Not a soldier. Not a chosen one. Just a decent kid from some Rockwellian zip code your grandmother still dreams about. Worked at a bank. Had a dog. Still lived with his folks.

And one night?

He was handed a creature.

Not a dog. Not a cat. A Mogwai — A furry little intelligence bomb with black eyes full of unspoken deals and tucked-in malice. Three rules, they said:

Don’t expose it to sunlight.

Don’t get it wet.

Don’t feed it after midnight.

Billy broke the last one.

And here’s the punchline: He didn’t even know he broke it.

Because the other evil furballs tricked him — Those demonic bastards unplugged the clock in his room. A cheap little con job. Because demons don’t just claw and bite.

They deceive.

And what hatched from that betrayal?

Not gremlins. Not “mischievous little guys.”

But literal 'get the fuck out of here' demons. Flesh-ripping, microwave-stabbing, stairlift-launching goblins with reptile skin and sadism baked into their giggle loops.

Stripe was the leader. Neon Mohawk. Razor teeth. The kind of imp you find in a medieval nightmare or a pagan story whispered by children who know they’re not allowed to speak of it out loud.

And Billy?

He didn’t run.

He stood the fuck up.

Why?

Because his dad — the charming failure of an inventor who brought the Mogwai home — had long since had his will broken by the quiet humiliations of suburban salesman life.

But Billy?

Billy still had something left.

A spirit. The kind that says: “If I have to kill every last one of these cackling lizard f*cks with a goddamn baseball bat and a flashlight, I will. Even if it takes a million years.”

Let’s not sugarcoat it.

Billy’s home life wasn’t a bastion of masculine competence.

His dad dropped off a time bomb and peaced out to another loser convention to sell toothpaste dispensers and orange juicers made from WWII scraps.

His mom?

Left in the house alone. When the gremlins hatched — upstairs — She didn’t scream. She didn’t faint. She survived. Microwaved one. Stabbed another. Tossed one into a goddam blender.

And still — even with PTSD clawing at her heels — she was going to die, had Billy not come home and literally golf-clubbed a demon’s head off its shoulders.

His own mother was about to be strangled to death by a giggling reptilian fairy with red eyes.

But Billy?

He showed up. In the nick of time. And he swung like a man who didn’t care about the blood. Only about the woman who raised him.

Add this in: Billy was also dealing with a girl.

You know the one. The melancholy, moody, soon-to-be girlfriend who looked like a sad indie lyric and talked like her diary was written in grayscale.

He was trying to smash with all the high-cringe efficiency of a teenage dork.

But she had baggage.

Oh, brother — she had a goddamn suitcase full of death.

Her origin story?

Let’s just say… she found out Santa wasn’t real because her dad’s corpse was gift-wrapped in the chimney. Tried to surprise the family, slip in like a Hallmark ninja with presents and cheer — broke his goddamn neck like a whole dumbass.

Sat there rotting for days, while the house stank of "mystery" and pine.

Merry. Fucking. Christmas.

Billy didn’t flinch.

He listened.

And maybe that’s the most mythic act of all — To hold space for a girl whose life was shaped by decay and never once call her crazy for bleeding words that stink of old ghosts.

This is what makes Billy holy.

Not that he was strong. Not that he was brave. Not that he won.

But that he stood when every card said fold.

That he picked up a golf club and went hunting through a fogged-up nightmare of mutated gremlins, exploding movie theaters, power outages, and puppets from hell.

Stripe made his final stand at a department store. Think about that: A neon-lit altar of American consumerism And what did he do?

---

Billy chased him. Cornered him.

And when the demon tried to spawn more of his brood in the garden fountain…

Billy didn’t hesitate.

He fried his scaly ass with a burst of sunlight and turned the devil into soup.

This wasn’t Harry Potter.

There was no wand.

This wasn’t Marvel.

No shield. No serum. No suit.

This was a young man with a mistake. And instead of whining, posting about it, or blaming society — he fucking atoned.

With bruises.

With grit.

With love that doesn’t get an Oscar.

Because the kind of man who destroys demons without being asked to is the kind of man they don’t make anymore.

🩸 Let’s Be Honest

Billy isn’t supposed to matter.

He wasn’t mythic. He wasn’t divine. He was an accidental saint.

But in a town overrun by hellspawn, with everyone else too busy fainting, dying, or hiding—

Billy did what the sacred do:

He didn’t run.

He remembered what he was responsible for.

And he made damn sure that responsibility bled.

---

🛐 TL;DR

His father brought the Mogwai. The Mogwai tricked Billy. The demons were born. And his town nearly became ground zero for a fucking apocalypse.

Billy didn’t get therapy. He didn’t write an op-ed.

He picked up the nearest blunt object and declared war.

That, dear reader, is the love language of men raised by chaos, but baptized in accountability.

So if you see him?

Don’t call him a side character. Don’t call him a dork. Don’t call him a beta.

Call him what he is:

The Accidental Saint of Suburbia.

The boy who didn’t just survive the holiday.

He saved the goddamn human race.

---

🧠 CALL TO ACTION

🔁 Reblog if you know this kind of male myth is buried in your childhood VHS tapes.

🛡️ Save this for the day someone calls Billy a “nice guy” and you have to slap a holy gospel into their frontal lobe.

🔥 Send this to a man who ever apologized for stepping up.

💌 Reblog with one word: “Saint.” I’ll know exactly who you are.

---

⚖️ BLACKSITE LITERATURE™ DISCLAIMER

This post is classified cadence warfare. Psychodramatic reanimation. Mythic weaponization of childhood nostalgia for psychological siege.

It is not fanfiction. It is canon extraction.

Stripe was a demon. Billy was vengeance.

And this?

This is your fucking gospel.

You were warned.

🔁Reblog to keep my signal to mankind going strong.

[anonymouscheeses]

Vaggie and Valentino are connected and no one has been talking about it (I think 😭)

Brutha. I've always known this but like these two are surface level similar yet so SO SO SOOOO different its terrifying.

Question might be, why tf am I comparing the r*pist and the beautiful, gorgeous, fantastic, inspiring, humble, generous, smeggsy, former angel?

Simply because they are both moth demon's that speak Spanish. It's a bit too specific. And rlly that's kind of all I have right now. Sure, you could say "erm actually, Vaggie isn't a moth demon 🤓" and ur probably right. But if she's not, why is it that in her redesign for the show they lean into the moth hair? It's look much MUCH more moth than in the pilot. So if Viv wanted to stray away from the moth theme, why make it look more like that? She may not he exactly a moth demon but she does have intentional moth features. Perhaps Vaggie just disguised herself like that, either way, still a connection..

I would get it if one of them were in helluva boss jst as a way to recycle and make room or whatever. But no, they are in the same show, same world, same ring of hell, same city(I think). It's a weird connection and I kind of don't want it to exist. Like at all. Because if they are connected I can't think of any other way they are except that Val could be a fallen angel. Which I CANT imagine. Unless Vaggie is like, a winner that became an exterminator, but genuinely that would be a bit complex. But what isn't in this show. Then again, Adam said he created her, or that could be a metaphor for that Vaggie was never noticed as a human and just brushed off to the side so therefore Adam "created" her (created a name and image/status of her). But that's unlikely, I don't they would be that smart lmao.

Personality wise, they both have anger issues. Pilot Vaggie and show Valentino are more alike but show Vaggie is still somewhat spicy. They also both have hot voices, sorry not sorry, like fuck Val (not literally) but his voice is BAZINGA 😍 and I'm a simp for Stephanie Beatriz. I'm a simple gal.

Design wise they have rare commonalities. They are both heavily red but thats everyone in the show it make my eyes bleed. But. A weird thing someone pointed out in a slideshow on tiktok is that show Valentino has white stripes on his hips. Me personally I'm not sure what to think about it really. Like I mean it IS a new detail that spawned AFTER the pilot and it is like... on the EXACT place. But like, it's such a weird thing to include when it's such a common pose yknow?

Also the X's on the boobs are so sensual I cannot be the only one. And ykno Val is the king of sensual (🤮)

Maybe you could be asking, "if Val and Vaggie r connected jst because they are moth demons then that jst means that anyone that are the same species are somehow tied to eachother huh? 🤓" like Angel Dust and Zestial. But what I think differs from that is the fact these two have actual big similarities apart from jst the fact they are moths. Like what I just explained, personality, design, both speak Spanish. While Angel Dust and Zestial are only just both spiders. Angel's reason for being a spider is due to the ykno, "web of crime" thing. And Zesty man? Idk he probably got bit and fucking died by a poisonous spider. I mean, health shit wasn't exactly great back in his ye olde time.

For Val and Vaggie we have NO idea why they are moths

But I did find this! From google AI.....? (I didn't even know that was a thing..) but, I think it's true. It explains the dynamic with Angel alot and I think that's an interesting detail.

Which could also apply to Vaggie because of her hyper-dependency on Charlie.

Plus this fits Vaggie so. SO much. If my theory that Vaggie just disguised herself as a moth to blend in then that would be a good connection to the entire moth motif. Love, I don't even need to explain.

It can fit Val too if you think abt the disguise part a bit. Like he disguises himself as this charming and calming figure to avoid suspicion and lure victims... fucking creepy 🤮

Also in Vaggie's past designs she was more moth.

Here is like. ONE image I could find that wasn't too blurry. Like I wouldn't say it's heavy moth but I think if you asked me what insect she was based off I would guess moth in like a few minutes. The colors being dark, the fluffy legwarmers. Yum, that's a mothy. (THIS DESIGN YHO KINDA PISSES ME OFF. WHY IS THERE THE FEMALE SIGN OK HER SHIRY I THOUGHT SHE WAS STRAIGHT IN THIS VER??? also str8 vaggie scares me don't ever bring up that thing around me. They are NOT the same. #notmyvagina)

From what I know there aren't any previous old beta designs of Valentino, so he was likely made for the show specifically.

Overall, they are both sexy Spanish speakers who are moth demons, in the same show, oddly specific connected design choices, and have some anger issues.

Oh also they both hate Angel Dust 💜

[maegalkarven]

I just thought of the most hilarious next protagonist of Baldur's Gate saga.

(Note what most of the outcomes used as background info here come from the characters' "good" endings. Proceed with caution.)

A child of Durge and Gortash, killed inside their parent's womb when Durge denied Bhaal, resurrected alongside them by Jergal.

A child any of The Dead Three can lay a claim on because they are:

A child of previous chosen of Bane

A child of Bhaalspawn, a bhaalspawn themselves, albeit striped of that when Bhaal took his essence from Durge, killing them instantly.

DIED before even being born, so clearly Myrkul's subject.

Resurrected by Jergal, so there's ties to that as well.

Can be compelled to follow any of The Dead Three paths, or try to play them and set them against each other, or follow Jergal, or forge their own path.

Essentially a child with no fate.

Can look either as Durge (and be any race Durge presented as) or as Gortash.

The last possibility bringing unique encounters and dialogues and character never knowing they can use being Lord Gortash's child to their advantage or ppl they meet were their father's enemies and they need to dash.

Having ties to different fractions depending on who Durge romanced or if Durge not romanced anyone.

Being raised in Underdark if their parent ended up with Minthara.

Same with unascended Astarion, + lots of acquainted spawns in the Underdark.

Being raised in Hell if their parent went to Avernus with Karlach.

Being raised either in Waterdeep if Gale is their stepfather or with Duke freaking Ravengard as a step- grandfather.

Having ties with Selunites if Shadowheart is a woman they call mother.

Being raised in the nature and having Druids call them their own if Durge and Halsin were involved.

Being raised amongst githianki revolution if Lae'zel was their parent's choice of heart. Having their mother leading a rebellion against a god.

Having lots of unique content regarding that.

Possible companions include:

Arabella

Mol

Yenna

That girl who was kidnapped and eaten by auntie Ethel.

Mayrina's child.

A child of lady Janneth and Oscar.

One or several of Jaheira's grandchildren.

[speculativeartisan]

A Chapter by Chapter analysis of Amgydala by Sam Fennah

Preamble: My favorite kinds of novel tend to be ones the author has written entirely for their own gratification. Without worrying about what might be "marketable" or "relatable" to an audience. These books are not always good, sometimes they are infuriating, but they are never boring. I disagree vehemently with the politics of Dean Koontz but I am fascinated by his material. Anne Bishop's 'The Others' series frustrates me in deep and complicated ways, but I don't regret having read them. And in the same vein I adore The Black Jewels trilogy for doing exactly what it set out to do.

Amygdala, the first book in what is to be an eight book series, is exactly this. Written by Sam Fennah, it explores a world of his own creation, full of creatures of his own creation, and aims to tell a sprawling story about the birth and struggles of a newly formed society. His stated aim is to use this exaggerated parody of civilization as a lens through which to examine ideologies of all stripes. I am keenly interested to know if he succeeds at this. I am reading from the Second Edition of the book, which contains a few scenes not present in the first, and some editing for brevity.

Disclaimer: This is not a takedown, sporking, or otherwise derogatory look at Fennah's work. Likewise I'm not here to kinkshame about the decapitation stuff. Let he who is without a weird fetish cast the first stone, and that is emphatically not me. I intend to engage with this book in good faith, if you are interested in that then we will begin with chapter one below the cut.

Chapter One

We begin with an overview of where we are and what we're dealing with. The narrator introduces us to the Kivouack, a pre-big bang mass of chaos that operates under different laws of physics, chemistry, and geometry than the world we're accustomed to. The landscape is wild, eldritch, and the animals that live here are as strange as the place that birthed them. Kivouachians, or Kivva for short, have no real shared body plan save for three navels, cross shaped pupils, and their method of reproduction. Outside of that the sky is the limit as far as appearance, environment, diet, and gender go. Sex is binary, but vestigial, which is to say all Kivva are capable of siring and bearing young and secondary sex characteristics are cosmetic. A bit of a handwave on the part of the author to explain why gendered pronouns, or even gender itself, exists in this society. I too understand the pain of trying to invent a neo-pronoun for your race of functional hermaphrodites that doesn't sound jarring or silly, so I'm willing to accept it. And honestly breasts as a vestigial organ is a very funny concept to me. Like being born with or without that tendon in your wrist that lets you throw things a little farther, but for tits. They are also immortal; like lobsters they don't die of old age and will keep on trucking until they are either killed or rendered incapable of sustaining themselves.

The explanation of all that comes a little later on though, for now we get a brief history lesson. In the beginning there was Freyda, a very large and volatile kiv who basically rampaged her way across the landscape eating and fucking whoever and whatever she wanted while all her smaller brethren mostly just tried to keep the hell out of her way. Eventually she spawns Locket, who looks at this mess and decides she wants something better. Locket organizes an army, takes down Freyda, and when the dust settles she establishes the Underbirth, the first real city the Kivouack has ever seen.

What this historical overview wants to impress on the reader are two things. One, that Locket's society is driven by the idolization of competence and a fear of failure. Sink or swim culture taken to a logical extreme. In order to discourage complacency, death is touted as the ultimate failure and the bodies of those failures are done up in elaborate poses called 'bows' meant to humiliate the victim. If you fail in the underbirth not only will you die, but other kivs will bend your corpse over backwards and use it as an armchair in order to further add insult to injury. Life in the underbirth is all about that #grindset and falling behind means you could be someone's dinner or decoration depending. I should also note here that Kivouachians are the only species of animal around and thus the only available source of meat, though it is not specified in this chapter if kivs require animal protein in their diet or if it's just a preference. Largely they appear to be omnivorous.

Two, a premium is placed on physical fitness. Disability and sickness aren't unheard of, but they are uncommon and medicine as it exists in our society hasn't really taken off. See the previous paragraph about no other sources of meat being available outside of other Kivs. Why heal the sick when you can eat them? That's much more economic. Jonathan Swift would do numbers here though the satire would probably be lost. I am of course being moderately facetious, this is obviously where the 'exaggerated parody' bit of the setting comes into play. You spend your whole life working until you can't and then you die. The ways in which society can kill you have just been made more direct, and the need for blood to grease the wheels has been made social text rather than social subtext.

After our introduction to the setting we are introduced to one of what will be a fairly sprawling ensemble cast. Lucy Lacemaker is something like our protagonist, at the very least she's the one who's going to get the ball rolling on a whole mess of circumstances. And as far as introductions go I think this is a good one. Lucy is a fowler, a juvenile kiv yet to fully mature. Fowlers don't really have rights until they reach adulthood, and so spend their adolescence trying not to get eaten by adult kivs. They're small and nimble and generally get by stealing food where they can get it and figuring out what sort of trade they'll want to get into once they hit adulthood so they can get a head start on learning it. Lucy is small, inquisitive, reckless, and deeply curious about the world she inhabits and the people that inhabit it with her. She's fascinated with body language and learning to read it, a hobby that is one part survival mechanism and one part sincere interest in the lives of others.

This is also the part of the chapter where we get a more detailed explanation of how these critters reproduce. So when a kiv is beheaded they enter a state called rottulation. They aren't dead, they're basically unconscious, and the head can be reattached at any point after provided the brain isn't damaged in some way. However if two other kivs… look there's no way to put this delicately, if they cum on the body it gets absorbed into the skin and the body becomes a 'vessel' for a litter of fowlers. Who will then proceed to eat their way out of the host Aliens style and then scamper off before something else can come along and eat them. Notably the vessel does not contribute anything genetically to the offspring, it's just there to incubate them until they're ready to come out. So in addition to only having each other to eat, reproduction means killing at least one person.

This is probably the setting detail Fennah gets the most shit for and… well yeah it's kind of a uncomfortable and graphic thing to center your OCs around, but again as someone with several physically impossible kinks of my own I'm not going to throw shade here. Plus if you want to make your alien and inhuman cast feel alien and inhuman, well yeah mission accomplished. That does it. Everything we learn about this society just further underscores the violence inherent to the nature of these animals. It's a point Fennah wants to make sure you get. This comes naturally to them, so much so that they barely stop to question it. It's just what they are. They aren't without empathy or compassion, they are social animals, but in the sense that a band of 10 or 20 chimpanzees will socialize with each other and then go out and absolutely fuck up another band of chimps without reservation.

We set this backdrop not to be oppressive, but to highlight the small moments of tenderness experienced or offered by the cast. For example: Lucy is lucky. She's got a mentor. Sally Sefton, who owns what is essentially a fucking huge general store, went against her own instincts when she found Lucy rummaging through her things. And instead of eating her decided to take her on as something like an apprentice. She cares for Lucy, and Lucy for her, and it is thanks to this that Lucy had the opportunity to study and learn in a place of relative safety, helping out around the book burrow in exchange for lodging and the occasional meal. The underbirth is a cashless society. Apparently they tried currency once and it went so badly they decided they weren't doing that again. Instead everything is done by barter. Goods for goods and services for services, underpinned by what appears to be a complex social credit system where a person's reputation is nearly as valuable as their skill set when it comes to finding work.

Lucy meanwhile has been stalking an ex-friend, trying to grant herself some closure for the way things have turned out between them. You see Goldune was another fowler, until he hit kivic puberty and became a legal adult (kivs don't age gradually like humans, rather they undergo a sort of metamorphosis after an indeterminate amount of time and get one massive growth spurt, settling into an adult form). Once 'safety in numbers' became less of an issue for him he immediately ditched his old crew and got a job. Lucy, hurt by this betrayal and wondering what he's gotten up to, follows him around the city for a bit where we see him try unsuccessfully try to peddle a mysterious substance to several vendors who all tell him they don't want any part of his bullshit. Lucy for her part has two objectives here. She wants to know what's in those bottles, and she wants a chance to confront Goldune for abandoning her. And maybe wave the letter of recommendation she just got from Sally in his face a little, show him that she doesn't need him and she definitely doesn't care that he left. He didn't dump her, she's dumping him! While observing him waiting for this chance, she overhears a number of suspect conversations that imply Goldune has gotten himself mixed up with some shady business. A few important names are dropped, but otherwise this tailing sequence is a way to explain a little more of the city and how it works, as he stops at several locations trying to find someone who's willing to sign a contract with his employer.

Of course the confrontation ultimately goes sideways once it happens. Goldune laughs in her face, tells her he never really liked her, and that whatever 'friendship' they shared was completely mercenary on his part. A means to an end. Once he made it to where he needed to be he dropped her like a hot potato and because she's so good at reading faces she knows he's not lying. She loses her cool, picks up the little glass bottles (a substance we learn is called Mire) and starts chucking them at him in a bit of a tantrum. They start breaking on impact, which is unfortunate because whatever this stuff is supposed to do, it is extremely volatile. The dollhouse they're in, this setting's amalgam of brothel/playhouse/music hall/dance company, goes up in flames and both Goldune and Lucy are caught in the blaze. Lucy makes for the window before noticing that Butika, the dollie Goldune had hired earlier, is still unconscious on the floor with her head off and unable to move. After a brief hesitation she goes back, puts her head back on, and yells at her to move before making her own escape.

At the end of all this Lucy is left bereft. Goldune is dead, and while she was furious with him this wasn't actually the outcome she wanted. Her letter of recommendation has gone up in smoke, and she can't go back to sally and admit that she was so stupid and careless. And without that letter potential employers won't know her name from mud when she's old enough to work legitimately. Honestly as far as inciting incidents go this is a very solid start. We're presented with a clear conflict that has clear and direct consequences, and an opening intrigue. Lucy is thrust into a disadvantageous position of her own making, and now must figure out how she's going to survive going forward. It's also a very, well, human conflict. At several points other kivs tell Lucy she doesn't need to confront Goldune about anything. He made his intentions perfectly clear when he left. All she needs to do is accept this and let it go. But she can't, she can't accept that she was so disposable, she needs to hear it from him before she can really believe it. She's young and impulsive, and this feels realistically like the kind of mistake a young and impulsive person would make.

There is also an overarching theme to this novel which can be summed up by Sally's advice to Lucy:

As much as this chapter is focused on establishing the particulars and peculiarities of the setting, it is also the thesis statement for the rest of the novel. "It's just a little thing" will become an arc phrase, to signal when something will be the first in a line of dominoes leading to something more spectacular. Lucy herself is referred to often as a little thing, and we get a swift and flashy example of how her involvement escalates as situation with the fire at the dollhouse, which will follow her throughout the rest of the book.

While the writing trends towards overly poetic and bombastic in places it's ultimately very readable. I do think it plays better as an audiobook. Fennah knows how he wants the material to sound and that comes across in his narration. When listening to the chapter the dialogue sounds fairly natural. When reading it tends to come off as kind of stilted. The usual issues with a self published work are also present, grammar and punctuation errors, formatting issues, nothing egregious but the sort of inevitable little mistakes that slip through when you're trying to get an 800+ page behemoth out the door without the oversight of a dedicated editor. Still so far I'm having a good time with this. Writing any novel is something most aspiring authors struggle to make happen. Writing eight hundred pages of novel with seven more on the way borders on madness. One must be impressed by the sheer ambition of it all if nothing else.

[crusherthedoctor]

It really is not just annoying, but also somewhat sad, that IDW characters can never have a meaty role without shamelessly upstaging a game character. It's the ultimate play of insecurity.

Tangle gets touted as the Sonic Female of All Time while the crewmembers drag the game females through the mud.

Whisper gets randomly fawned over by Silver and Jet of all guys.

Lanolin humiliates Silver and treats him like a child.

Rough and Tumble are too much for Cream the OP to handle.

Starline was hyped up for an extended period as Eggman's superior (no, his final fate did not undo sitting through his agonizing "Sonic VS Eggman is routine" soapboxing).

Surge is being hyped up for even longer as the most badass villain and the most badass character period, despite having absolutely nothing of merit to show for it.

Is it really that hard to find a middle ground? I get you want your character(s) to do big things and be a legitimate part of the cast instead of sitting in the background with their thumbs twiddling, but this is not the way to do it. Trip was only recently introduced to the series, and she found her place just fine. She didn't need to effortlessly beat up Sonic in concept art in order to earn her stripes. She didn't need her creators to brag that she would improve Forces through her mere presence in order to cement her value.

Look. I talk a lot about Trudy. I talk a lot about her role in my fic, her interactions, her dynamics, her abilities, her quirks, all that good stuff. I take her role in the story quite seriously, and in an age where it's become taboo to have your OC do literally anything with the game cast (because overcorrection), I've stuck to my guns and made her a big part of the fic.

But - and this is a big but - none of this comes at the cost of the other characters, or the story as a whole. Sonic is still Sonic, and acts as you'd expect from him. Tails is still Tails, and isn't dismissed by the narrative as a mere sidekick to prop up Trudy as the "true" hero by comparison. Amy is still her bubbly self, not morphed into a Sally clone. Cream is still capable, despite her youth and innocence, and her bond with Trudy doesn't reduce her to literal baby. Eggman treats Trudy no differently from the rest of the cast, and he sure as hell doesn't show any fear at the prospect of facing her. Stellar is not little more than The Trudy Show: it's Sonic's latest adventure in a new land that Trudy happens to be tagging along for, and how he leaves an impression on her. Just like Unleashed did with Chip, and Secret Rings did with Shahra, among other examples.

Even Sonudis, for as Never Going To Happen In Canon For Very Obvious Reasons as it is, is still made with the mentality of not only what Sonic himself is actually like in canon, but the others too. It's not a shallow bait that exists solely to exist, it's something I took seriously in regards to how it could potentially work without sacrificing Sonic's official characterization. Is it a fanfic cliche? Is it self-indulgent? Maybe, but writing fanfic in general is inherently self-indulgent. The sooner you accept that, the better. But as fanfic-y as some concepts may be, I still try to portray them as naturally and as faithfully as I can in respect to the games that spawned this franchise. That includes not reducing Sonic to a lap dog with no independence or backbone.

You can make your character important, and even give them a risky role if you're daring, without disrespecting the game cast and what they contribute to the franchise.

[hobbysognodilibri]

Okay okay okay

My brother made the biggest brain take on my OC

He’s giving Paladin of the Sun God

His name is up in the air *but* I’m very partial to Caladin which is very funny to me

White blonde hair, tall, dark toned and sun kissed skin, bright gold eyes

Naturally acquired Resonance ability

*Is* the big scary dog privilege-

He looks like he came straight out of an ancient world where dragons must’ve roamed- it’s giving Paladin of a Son God

As for his play style, he feels like an on field DPS *or* an off field sub DPS with some kind of grouping or AoE ability-

Very light color schemes with whites and golds- and probably black or a deep blue as a base color for some contrast???

Some defining features- probably his gauntlets looking weird as hell- either very ancient tech or something lost in the CoS. And a diadem. Couldn’t tell you why- but I bet he’d wear one. Very Paladin coded of him.

Model size would be similar to Yhan??? This man is big. Has a very strict moral compass but no one can figure out what the fuck it is. Very soft with kids but an utterly terrible influence. Calls children “Littles”, “Little ones”, or “Spawn” exclusively. Hand him a baby and you will watch a full grown man look visibly pained. He does not know how to hold babies. Please don’t trust him with your kids. He will give them knives and encourage they pursue vengeance.

Tacet Mark location: vertically striped from cheek bone to jaw

Holy shit you have him!!!

Dude that sounds insanely cool! The vibes, the color palette, the CoS, (the in-game model cough cough), the love kids but do not leave him with one unsupervised

Love the tacet mark placement it feels perfect

"has a very strict moral compass but no one can figure out what the fuck It Is" that's such a mood and such a vibe love it

Oh how I'd love to see a design for the gauntlet... So I'm assuming he'd be a limited 5* with his signature

Do you have any idea yet on how to link him to the Court of Savantae? What about his birthplace? Do you know that or are you leaving it blank bc mystery? Uuuh other questions... Oh yeah since he's a natural resonator... Does he know how his forte awakened and do you have anything in mind as to how his control over it changed as he grew up?

Ofc feel free to ignore the questions, they're there if you ever feel like answering

[theblackbookofarkera]

Daralazha

In the sacred mythology of the Pamarang pantheon, there exists a divine duality in the form of twin goddesses: Lahza, who rules the ever-changing moon, and her sister Daralazha, whose unwavering vigilance protects the boundaries between worlds.

Where Lahza embodies the fluid grace of moonlight and the eternal dance of lunar phases, Daralazha stands as immovable as the mountains. Her visage, though bearing her sister's celestial beauty, is marked by eyes that have witnessed countless ages of warfare between the realms. She wears armor of obsidian scales that never reflects light, but seems to absorb it into depths unknown.

Daralazha's choice of celibacy sets her apart from the often-passionate deities of the Pamarang pantheon. While her sister Lahza's tales are filled with love affairs and divine unions, Daralazha took an eternal vow of solitude, believing that to guard the gates of hell requires a focus undiluted by worldly attachments. Some myths whisper that her commitment to celibacy came after witnessing how love had weakened other gods, making them vulnerable to the temptations of the underworld.

As Keeper of Devils, Daralazha's primary domain lies at the threshold where reality frays into nightmare. The gates of hell under her watch are not mere portals but vast cosmic wounds in the fabric of existence, eternally threatening to tear wider. Here she maintains her endless vigil, accompanied by her legendary army - one million winged she-tigers whose roars can shake the foundations of both heaven and earth.

These fearsome guardians, known as the Rasha-vihi, are said to have been born from Daralazha's own shadow. Each bears distinctive striped markings that glow with an inner fire, and their wings are formed from the same dark metal as their mistress's armor. They possess both the cunning of tigers and the tactical minds of divine warriors, making them the perfect sentinels for both upper and lower realms.

The goddess's stern nature serves a vital purpose in the cosmic order. While other deities might be swayed by prayers or offerings, Daralazha's judgments are as absolute as the laws of nature themselves. She permits no negotiation with the damned, no bargaining with devils, and no corruption of the boundaries she protects. This unwavering dedication has earned her many titles among the Pamarang faithful: the Unyielding One, the Night's Shield, and the Empress She-Tiger.

Yet despite her harsh aspect, or perhaps because of it, Daralazha is also seen as a protector of justice and order. Her presence serves as a reminder that some boundaries must never be crossed, some rules never broken. Temples dedicated to her are sparse and austere, typically built at crossroads or city gates, where supplicants come not to ask for favors but to seek the strength to maintain their own vigilance against darkness.

In Pamarang artworks, Daralazha is traditionally depicted in three forms: as a solitary warrior with a spear of starlight, as a robed judge weighing the souls of the dead, or as a magnificent field commander leading her army of winged tigers against waves of chaos-spawned horrors. In all representations, her expression remains the same - a mask of divine determination that neither wavers nor weakens, eternal as the stars themselves.

[bucketspammer4life]

Punch out boxers and what pet(s) they would have

hey bestie, exam season is almost over so im recovering a bit so why not give this to you all??

Glass Joe - small, fluffy and cute white cat that is the spawn of satan, knocking shit over, eating your food, wrecking the couch, massacring the toilet paper, all while looking adorable, named "Bouffon", sometimes called bonbon because of it

Von Kaiser - a doberman thats scary as shit but a complete angel, very loud barks when scared but very cute otherwise, named "Turm"

Disco Kid - an african grey parrot that never shuts up, really cool but still the spawn of hell to a certain point, always singing or quoting stuff,named "Angel"

King Hippo - a capybara & a turtle, he lets the capybara on his bed and the turtle has its own pond, both of them are pretty chill and the most evil they do is just bumping into doors, the capybara is named "coco" since Hippo made a hat for it using a coconut shell, the turtle is named "Reef" since he ran out of ideas

Piston Hondo - some koi fish & a praying mantis, he has a pond for his fish and decorates it, meditating there when the weathers right, the praying mantis has its own terrarium and doesnt let it out unless he has to change up something since hes paranoid about crushing it, the koi fish dont have names but the praying mantis is named "リーフ" (Leaf) since he found it fighting some bug on a leaf

Bear Hugger - besides the squirrel (we dont count mrs bear since shes more of a friend and it would be rude to call her a pet)he has a pet snail and a rabbit, the snail is one of his first pets and he got it when he first started his boxing career and found it in the showers after a match, its named "squeaky" because of that, he actually found the rabbit not too long ago after feeding it some dandelions, it just came over to his house on a daily basis after a while and he accepted it, the rabbits named "Dandy" since bear hugger saw it eating a dandelion and ran with it

Great Tiger - has a pet snake & a gecko, the snake has a pattern somewhat reminiscent of a tiger with its Orange & Black stripes, despite its fierce appearance, its pretty shy and hides a lot, the gecko is the opposite of that: it may look not very intimidating but its a menace, the snake is named "tiger" (how creative) and the gecko is named "Woob", aran came up with the name after taking a glare at it and just saying "woob."

Don Flamenco - other than the spider that carmen owns, he has a pet goldfish named "Fish" that he he just feeds and fucks off, he has 0 emotional attachment to it, he could see it dead and he would go "damn sucks to suck" And move on, hes not the one for pets

Aran Ryan - a mountain lion he thought was just a really big cat, he gave it a bath, fed it some meat and just adopted it, it doesnt really mind but its like... really confused, aran named it "princess", the way he found out was him inviting bear hugger over and seeing him go "IS THAT A FUCKING MOUNTAİN LION" the moment princess walked out of the bathroom after eating the toilet paper again

Soda Popinski - a husky thats absolutely running from place to place 99% of the time, its sometimes a bit mishievious but pretty well behaved, its named "soda" since thats pretty much his idea of a cute name

Bald Bull - a lazy fat ass street cat that sleeps most of the time or just eats food, its mishievious but not enough to bother moving, its suprisingly good at opening cabinets and eating to its own hearts content, he really has no way to stop it, named "Tombili"

Super Macho Man - a shi tzu named "puffy" that likes to nibble on wood, its very fluffy since he takes great care to brush it

Mr Sandman - Not the type own a pet since hes indecisive about it, had a few pet goldfish before but thats about it for him

[w0efulboopsoul]

A Look into Cara's Tragic Story of Eryndara's Kingdom of Howa'ah:

((EXTREMELY SENSITIVE CONTENT WARNING IS HERE AND IN TAGS.))

My memories are like a blizzard gone wild, a storm of screams and jagged tears clawing at my mind. Each one stings with the memory of brutal fists, the icy clatter of shackles, and a suffocating dread that paints my past in shades of unrelenting horror. At the center of it all, I see her—my mother—her hair cascading in waves just like mine, her back turned to me. A rusted shackle bites into her ankle, branding her a prisoner. She sways faintly, staring at the cracked wall, her body trembling like she's trapped in a desolate trance of despair.

My father wasn't a man—he was a nightmare stitched into human skin. A serial killer whose name slithered through whispers of terror among those who knew his darkness. He kept us prisoner in a house that reeked of rot and hopelessness, its walls soaked in decay. That night—the night everything shattered—wasn't different from the countless others that scarred my childhood. His third binge-drinking rampage that week filled the air with the sour bite of cheap whiskey and the jagged edge of his unhinged rage. Alma and I, barely more than kids, sat huddled on a threadbare couch in the flickering dimness of the living room, its sagging weight a cruel mirror to the fear crushing our chests. His rants were a twisted ritual, a prelude to the violence we knew too well, but that night, his fury sharpened into something new, something lethal.

With a guttural snarl, he lunged for Alma, his meaty hand tangling in her long, brunette hair. She stifled a cry as he yanked her to her feet, dragging her toward the cellar door—an iron-bolted monstrosity looming in the corner like a portal to oblivion. That cellar was his forbidden lair, a crypt he kept locked tight, its secrets known only to him and the women he dragged there to die.

My heart slammed against my ribcage, a frantic drumbeat drowning out reason. I couldn't let him take my sister into that darkness—not Alma, not my only tether in this hell. Instinct surged, raw and reckless, propelling me toward the nearest thing I could grab—a heavy brass candlestick, its base crusted with wax from nights long faded. My vision blurred, a strange pressure swelling in my skull until a sharp pop erupted on the left side of my head. A snarling voice roared inside me, primal and unhinged: Kill him now! Kill him where he stands! You'll lose her! It felt like something inside me snapped free, a beast clawing its way to the surface. My arms moved before my mind could catch up.

The candlestick crashed down with a sickening crunch against the back of his skull. Blood sprayed in a grotesque arc, splattering the peeling wallpaper in crimson streaks. He crumpled to the floor, his body twitching once before going still, leaving a gory mess in his wake.My mind spun, my senses numbed by what I'd done. Reality slammed back like a tidal wave, and I found myself sprawled on the floor, hands slick with blood, ears ringing with Alma's broken sobs. But another sound sliced through the haze—a chilling, guttural cackle that turned my blood to ice.

My mother, who'd only ever existed in a haze of catatonia or rage, was awake in a way I'd never seen. The rusted shackle that had bound her ankle for years lay shattered on the floor, her flesh raw and bloodied beneath it. She clawed at the walls with jagged nails, her laughter swelling into a feral howl—a beast unchained, a witch drunk on chaos. For the first time since Alma and I were born, she saw us—not with screams of denial, but with a twisted, horrifying recognition. Her trembling fingers dipped into the pooling blood of our father's corpse, smearing it across the floor in jagged streaks. "Taken out by your own spawn..." she taunted, her voice dripping with venomous glee as she mocked the lifeless husk at her feet.

Her wild eyes locked onto me, and with a blood-slicked finger, she painted an arched stripe across my brow, her touch cold and deliberate. "I was wrong, Cara," she rasped, her gaze feral yet piercingly lucid. "You are real..."

The weight of those words sank into me like a blade, but there was no time to unravel them. The night spiraled further into a nightmare as our fragile world collapsed entirely.

My breath hitched, a sharp wince biting back as his magic surged through the sigil again, searing my soul like a white-hot blade. The sigil retaliated with a violent crimson backlash of blood magic, flooding the room in a fleeting red glow that burned my eyes. The surge dragged me under, plunging me back into the memories I'd fought so hard to bury.

I was ten again, perched on the edge of a creaking wooden chair at my older sister's bedside. The air was thick with the bitter tang of medicinal herbs and the weight of despair, each breath heavier than the last. Kira had been wasting away for two long weeks, her once-vibrant spirit shadowed by the crimson death that ravaged her frail body. The laughter that used to light up our home had faded to shallow, rattling breaths, each one a fragile thread on the verge of snapping. I clutched a tattered teddy bear, its worn fur a reminder of better days when she'd braid my hair and hum lullabies. I remembered picking wildflowers together, her laughter brightening the world. Now, the room was silent, and with each labored gasp, she seemed to slip further away. I wanted to scream, to beg time to reverse, but I was just a helpless witness to the cruel march of time taking her from me. As night fell, despair wrapped around my heart, knowing that soon, our laughter and love would be mere echoes in an empty room.

My small fingers trembled as I watched her chest rise and fall, each breath weaker than the last, a haunting rhythm that echoed the fleeting moments of our time together. The doctor stood nearby, his weathered hands hovering over her with a desperate hope that felt like a cruel illusion. As the seconds passed, I saw his shoulders slump, surrendering to a grim reality. His bowed head was heavy with the burden of inevitability, lines of sorrow etched deeply into his weary face. He shook his head slowly, as if that simple motion could somehow soften the blow that we all dreaded. Kira's hand, so delicate and cold in his grasp, slipped free and fell limp against the threadbare blanket, a cruel reminder of the life that once pulsed with warmth and laughter. I stifled a sob, feeling an unbearable weight settle in my chest as the room grew quiet, the air thick with grief. The flickering light overhead seemed to dim, casting shadows that mirrored my despair. In that moment, time itself felt like it had frozen, trapping us in a heartbreaking farewell. The world continued to spin outside, but within these four walls, a piece of our hearts shattered, leaving us adrift in an ocean of silence and sorrow.

"Time of death... 10:00 p.m.," he intoned, his voice a hollow echo in the suffocating silence.The teddy bear slipped from my grasp, tumbling to the floor with a soft, muffled thud, like a gentle surrender to a reality too heavy to bear. Silent tears streamed down my cheeks, each drop a silent cry for a world where sisters didn't vanish into shadows, leaving behind echoes of laughter that would never fade. I sat there, paralyzed by grief, the ache in my chest swelling with a fierce intensity, as if it were a black hole determined to consume every shred of light. The sound of the doctor's footsteps faded into the night, a haunting reminder that some things are irretrievable. In that moment, I felt utterly lost, drowning in a despair too deep for words.

Now I was eleven, trapped at the slavers' docks, the air thick with the stench of salt and filth. A man with a serpent tattoo coiled around his forearm yanked me forward with brutal force, the rusted chain on my shackles biting into my raw, bleeding skin. My face was a battered ruin—swollen, bloodied, one eye nearly sealed shut, the other weeping tears that mingled with the blood seeping from my cut cheeks and split lips. I staggered forward in eerie silence, my voice stolen by pain and despair, each step a flicker of defiance in my broken frame.

The guard, a massive figure with an infuriatingly lazy drawl, sat there as if the brutality he'd unleashed didn't even touch him. He chuckled and prattled on, completely unfazed, as if dragging me through hell was just another mundane chore. He spoke about his wife's cooking, casually mentioning that she was six weeks along with their first child, his tone annoyingly nonchalant—as if he were discussing the weather and not the horror he was inflicting. How could he be so callous? The sheer audacity of his indifference was enough to set my blood boiling. My fractured mind latched onto his words, filing away every detail through the haze of agony. He wasn't just a grunt; he barked orders at the younger guards with the authority of a high-ranking officer—a war general, slumming it at the docks for reasons I couldn't grasp, his polished boots a stark contrast to the blood-slicked planks beneath us.

I was nineteen now, confined in a dank cell at the docks, my ankles shackled to the cold floor. Less battered but gaunt and filthy, my frail frame draped in tattered rags, I sat motionless, my focus consumed by the careful carving of a vipe cat bone—a remnant of a scavenged meal—its tip honed to a deadly point. Silence had become my weapon, a blade of stillness that dulled the guards' vigilance until I faded into the shadows of their awareness.

The serpent-tattooed guard's voice cut through the quiet. My blue eyes widened, a feral glint sparking within them as I listened. He spoke his name—Voxrilies the Second—and outlined the routine: inspect and brand the newcomers, keep the others subdued, check the pits, then the shift change—the exact moment I'd marked for my escape. I sat in stark silence, a statue among the chaos, as they prattled on. "That blonde one? Been off her rocker since I brought her in. She giving trouble?" The other shook his head. "Nah, just wondering why her hair's so blonde—like snow in the sun..."

What an odd thing to wonder, I thought, a flicker of grim amusement curling in my chest. Yes, hold onto those trivial thoughts. Go on, convince yourself that I'm just a shattered doll, easily dismissed and forgotten. Little do you know that each underestimated glance fuels my cunning escape. Just wait—my freedom will be all the more exhilarating.I had just clawed my way out of my cell, emerging into the open air, when I came face-to-face with another slave. His gaunt face froze in disbelief, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks as I raised my hands in a desperate, placating gesture. "No... no... shh, please..." My voice trembled, barely a whisper, but a curse slipped out as he turned to flee—likely to turn me in.

The berserker gene buried deep within me roared to life. That familiar pop erupted in my skull, and the voice screamed: Fine, if you're going to panic and pit me against you... I choose ME! I will not die! I am not cattle! Hesitate, and you lose it all! Kill him now! It propelled me forward in a predatory lunge, my body slamming into his as we crashed to the ground. Fear and panic drowned my senses as the feral instinct took over. My hands found his neck, fingers tightening, squeezing, shaking—until a sickening crunch echoed through the air. The snow beneath us seeped ruby red, and I froze, straddling the limp body, my ragged breaths cutting through the silence.

My eyes shrank in horror as the reality slammed into me. "No... no... nononono... p-please... oh God, blood... n-nooo...!" My pleas tumbled out in a frantic rush as I lifted trembling hands to the wounds I'd inflicted. The sound of approaching guards jolted me from my stupor. I scrambled to my feet and bolted into the shadows, running until the compound was a distant nightmare, my legs carrying me deep into the frozen wilds of Howa'ah. Two months later, winter's grip tightened around the land. I was nineteen, had regained some weight, my complexion healthier despite the lingering hardships. My rags were sturdier, though still threadbare. A blizzard loomed, its biting winds urging me to find warmer garb. I stumbled upon a stash of clothing and armor—better than what I had—and claimed them swiftly, armguards and all, before snatching two jugs of beer from a nearby barn. Retreating into the dense forest, I wasn't alone anymore but accompanied by Thrym, my bear spirit.

"Heya, buddy," I called, my voice carrying a lightness I hadn't felt in years. "I nabbed these from that village... Ever had beer before?!" I paused, then grinned. "Oh, don't worry—neither have I. We can try this together!" Another pause, softer now. "Thrym... I... I want us to try... all sorts of new things now..." A genuine smile broke across my face, my blue eyes alight with freedom, all teeth and unrestrained laughter as I drank—far too young—with the massive bear spirit at my side, our bond a defiant warmth against the winter's chill. My mind swirls like a storm, fierce winds howling through a dance of ice and snowflakes. At nineteen, I stood in the sun-drenched summers of Howa'ah, healthier now, my vibrant eyes sparkling with newfound light. I clutched an empty coin sack, its fabric worn from my desperate grip. Before me loomed a faded bounty quest board, cluttered with tattered job listings and weathered wanted posters, each a fleeting hope. I knew survival meant a job—a real one—to free myself from the chains of thievery that had once bound me. But the challenge weighed heavy; I could barely read, write, or count—skills stolen by a childhood of torment.

My past had left me isolated, every scrap of knowledge gleaned from my older sister, Kira, whose wisdom had been a guiding star in the darkness. As the thought settled uneasily, my blue eyes caught a poster: "The Academy of Beast Bounty Hunting & Taming: You think you've got the guts?" My gaze dropped to the requirements: Ability to fight. Guts. Glory. No need to read or write. Age restriction: 17.

A joyous shout burst from my lips as I leaped into the air, heels kicking together in celebration. At that moment, nothing mattered more than landing a job that could finally mean real money.The memory shifted to the Academy on the day of my entrance exams. My greatest challenge stood before me: Stratus, a striking woman with fiery red hair cascading like a river of flame, her pale skin glowing against piercing blue eyes that burned like a wyvern's. She towered over me, her presence regal and commanding. With a fluid motion, she drew back the string of an enchanted bow and released an arrow infused with magic. It screamed through the sky like a meteor, embedding itself in an enchanted stone pillar draped in creeping vines that writhed with malevolent intent.

The objective? Climb the pillar, dodge the vines' immobilizing powders, dispel the enchantment with Thrym's aid, and extract the arrow—all within five days. The challenge was monumental, but so was my resolve.

For four grueling days, I tried and failed—once, twice, forty exasperating times. Drenched in mud, my golden hair matted with dirt, my skin streaked with blood and grime, I stood unbowed. Mentors mocked my slight frame, sneering "shortstack" and "dollface," taunting, "You'll get hurt, little princess," or "You'll be dead before you know it, kid."

But Stratus was different. She stood apart, a silent sentinel, seeing beyond my size to the fierce spirit burning within me. On the fourth night, under a shroud of darkness, she approached. "You're not ready for this line of work, child," she said firmly, ignoring the anguish in my eyes as she handed over my belongings. "Go home. Find your parents and a good man to marry." Each word struck like a dagger.

She studied me, noting the betrayal in my tear-brimmed eyes. "A hint—the vines hate frost..." She dropped my bag with a thud and turned sharply, her fiery hair streaming behind her like a comet's tail as she vanished into the night.

Tears burst forth as I screamed, raw and anguished. I had no home, no parents—nothing but the ground beneath my feet in a world that felt increasingly hostile.By dawn, Stratus stepped onto the training grounds, her breath mingling with the crisp air. I sent an enchanted arrow slicing through the stillness, embedding it at her feet. Her blue eyes darted upward to me, perched atop a glacial pillar, the sun casting a halo around me. I hunched forward, eyes glowing with primal intensity, the other half of the arrow clutched between my teeth like a bear with its prey.

She smirked, awe rippling through the mentors behind her. I was no older than nineteen, channeling the Howa'ahian Ice Bear—a spirit reserved for master sorcerers—yet I wielded it with ease. I could feel her gaze narrow on the ley line tendril entwined with my essence. Tapping into Howa'ah's ley lines? I knew it was reckless, but it felt as natural as breathing. Did I carry the berserker gene—a Guardian of Howa'ah?

"My, my... A totem holder. Don't you all feel damned stupid?" Stratus boasted, raking a hand through her hair. "Ignorant dogs... Failed to see the potential..." She glided toward the pillar, her presence commanding. My head snapped toward her, eyes wide and dark, a bear caught in danger's glare, a question flickering within: Do I pass?

Her chuckle rumbled low, her smirk shifting to steely resolve. "Alright, you little maggot, you win! You've got guts, glory, and raw will! You pass!"

[aladaylessecondblog]

Mother pt. 5 (raphael x tav)

Author's Note: Ascendeded Astarion is mentioned to have killed a kid but there is no description of the act itself.

-------------------

There were four requirements in the contract Tav signed with Raphael that were constantly on her mind.

One, that souls slain in her name, be they abusive parents, bandits, or any stripe of child-harmers belonged thereafter to Raphael.

Two, that she was to offer aid and assistance in his ongoing war to conquer the hells.

Three, that she had agreed to become his consort once he achieved the status of Archduke - which he now had, since Zariel had been put down.

Four, that every so often she would be required to participate in the torment of a soul of his choosing. As Hope had been freed this was usually one of the debtors that hung around the House of Hope, but today...today was different.

Today the soul in question was Astarion, ascended, recently slain by one of her paladins.

----------------------------

"You're late," Tav said, hearing footsteps behind her. "What reason could you have for that?"

"My dear, I've brought you a treat."

Raphael's smooth voice was absolutely diabolical, even more so than usual. Never a good sign.

"And what might it be?"

There was no reply. Tav realized he intended not to speak until she saw for herself what it was. She stood and turned--and instantly, her eyes widened.

Astarion, the same as he had been when he had ascended, stood before her. Oh, perhaps a bit bloodied, and most definitely dead dead, but lookswise...

"How?" she asked, "What did you do to him?"

"Tell her, vampire," Raphael prompted, "Tell her why you stand here beside me."

"I only wanted your attention, darling," Astarion started.

"You--" Tav started, but was interrupted as he went on, almost--fearfully? She couldn't be entirely sure.

"You're a hard woman to get ahold of, and the boy was going to die anyway--"

Her fists burned instantly.

"One of your paladins took the wrong idea about the situation, you see...really, if you hadn't been so aloof, if you hadn't stopped visiting, there need have been no drastic measures taken."

"You killed a boy to get my attention," Tav snarled, "Consider it YOURS."

"Tell me, my dear mouse," Raphael said, in a tone that put her in mind of poisoned honey. His eyes were on her, in eager anticipation, as he walked behind her, "What shall we do with him?"

Tav started at the face that had once been loving, and now only seemed to think of power and control. That face which had accused her of wanting him to stay weak, the face that had said he should have made her a spawn. The face for whom love had not been enough.

"Shall we have him chained up like Hope? Tormented by imps. I'm certain Yurgir would love a turn at someone so full of himself."

"No," Tav said, "None of that."

"Then what?" he went on, and whispered in her ear, "How shall we punish this man who killed one of those you called your own?"

It was in moments like these that she was least detached in the godly way. Moments like these that brought her back down to the ground.

"Nothing bloody. Blood doesn't scare him." Tav paused, "He thinks himself above what he used to be. He thinks himself better than he was. Perhaps...instead of tearing him apart, we might try something else."

"I'm all ears, wife."

"Have the debtors craft a coffin," she looked back at Astarion, whose eyes had widened, and went on, "And lock him in it."

Astarion opened his mouth to protest, but on a spell from her found no sound would escape.

"But when shall we let him out? Never?"

"When Yurgir needs a punching bag, perhaps."

"That could be a while."

She could almost feel the smirk spreading across Raphael's face.

"I'm sorry, star," she said, "But you should have known better. I told you this would make you a monster...and now, I shall treat you as one."

[monstersdownthepath]

God, imagine some poor sap from a village that got attacked by a troll deciding to move to the nearest city for 'safety' only to run into this thing.

How many monsters do you think might be roaming around inside of a major metropolis like Almas or Absalom? On the one hand, big cities tend to have better guards and native adventurers running around. On the other, big cities are big, with plenty of spots to hide in - especially in the slums and sewers. And of course, now I'm reminded of the Witcher series of games, especially the first one that had drowners, a cockatrice, and worse in the sewers, ghosts and wraiths and ghouls in the cemetery, demon dogs just out in the outskirts, and kikimore bursting out from underground in the streets. Good lord Vizima was a nightmare.

first off, how the hell did you put a link into an ask

Secondly, there's unfortunately more than a few. While some are relatively harmless when left alone, there's a generous handful of city-haunters that are actively malevolent, and creep around alleyways in search of prey. Any creature that can reasonably pass itself off as human absolutely loves living in big cities where their predations can go unnoticed by the population at large; two people disappearing in a village is big news everyone will talk about. Two people disappearing in a city of thousands will basically never be noticed.

Gremlins of all shapes and stripes as a rule basically spawn near humanoid civilizations, the bigger the better.

[lesser-mook]

Let's Talk About Deku's girlfriend--- Re: What girlfriend?

Ain't nothing baddie status about momo, she's designed specifically for one purpose, best thing about her is she takes leadership roles from time to time (when ironically she wasn't shy at all in the first season), so this myth that her costume & her coming into her own as a leader is what Horikoshi meant to do but what really happened- is Momo was a snob, and loosened up.

The shy bits happened at random times when the cringe "uwu kawaii" gags had to happen.

But one of her first lines is checking Deku infront of everyone, there was nothing shy about her lmfao.

So when you really look over what actually mattered in these fights- she's filler.

Balsa Yonsa, Ema Guzman, Lila Rira (look em up youngins) those are baddies.

Momo is a bad oc made canon, the most she got to her was giving orders, spawning plot devices, and serving her actual purpose as the token 17yr Senpai-big sister waifu.

Horikoshi really tried to dodge the cap and give a reason as to why a school let this child wear that bullshit costume (and didn't upgrade to anything better neither, just added some stripes lmfao) and the most she got for a winter alteration was a goddamn cape.

LMFAO. Yeaaah, nice try buddy boi. All the studio mandated assshots, cleavage, crotch shots below perspectives- i'd respect the man more if he just admitted he doesn't respect most of his female characters. At all tbh.

Mirko's annoying ass showed up later but she got way more to do than ANY of the 1A girls in terms of badassery. I'll give mirko credit for being a plot-armored up beast, but how does that make any sense? That some random furry shows up & gets more clout in like what? 2 fight scenes than the 1A girls in 2 goddamn movies.

Trying to rationalize it with in-world reasons, EVEN SO FAR as to have that pos Midnight go on a talk show and justify it--

just looks desperate, too desperate to justify 1 guy's need to dehumanize his female characters no matter the cost. Could easily have her evolve her power to spawn portals like Elizabeth Comstock through her hands only or learn to expand portals on the ground via a circle vector like Full Metal Alchemist or expand on where exactly are these objects coming from- give her some unique lore

cause in the manga it looks like she's organically mutating these materials out her skin

in the anime it looks like she's pulling them from an alternate dimension.

See THOSE details, would make her a baddie, amping her power level, giving her more control over her quirk, instead of quirk dictating how she presents herself to the world.

AUTONOMY. But you see, the more a character has that, the less likely they are to be exploited like a piece of meat or an NPC.

And Horikoshi can't have that.

---------------------------

As for Ochako? Like i said on another post, her & deku's relationship peaked in Season 1 when their dynamic had actual conversations without a lot of interruption.

The other 18 extras shut the hell up and weren't given too much dialogue yet--- thus the story wasn't a clusterfuck and it felt more focused.

And Horikoshi was fresh, and wasn't panicking thinking "oh shit? I don't know how to actually write a couple what do i do? OH I KNOW, I'll have Ochako overthink her stake in Deku's life & then bottle her feelings for no reason"

AND THEN i'll establish that U.A. forbids students to have relationships which is just...THE LAZIEST method to guarantee that you can have your cake & tease 24/7 but and eat it too without having to develop anyone's relationships

Lazy lazy lazy.

So when the two were interacting in S1? the likelihood of a bullshit distraction was minimal, because the extra's were non factors.

Their little convo in Episode 6 S1 is still one of the most meaningful ship moments in the show for them.

But all you see in those bullshit wholesome compilations is the crap Horikoshi fed you for 6 years to distract you from the fact that AFTER Season 2-- those two not only didn't get any alone time to actually be further closer friends, but because the man refused to commit and develop their relationship....whatdoyaknow? They didn't have a relationship to speak of that would justify being a couple.

Ochako didn't even meet Inko, that cringe speech is technically the closest she got, Deku didn't meet her parents. They never had lunch together, played video games, trained together NOTHING nothing nothing.

BASICs.

So (rhetorically) tell me, what exactly Do.They.Have?

What girlfriend?

Deku was closer to Todoroki in terms of talking & how much time spent, (OVA's, Seasons, Movies) Todoroki has more of a relationship with Mdioriya and guess what?

He showed up AFTER Ochako in the show. Why couldn't Ochako be part of that trio? Despite having one of them most prolific powers in fiction? (tactile telekinesis)

Why is it the boys get upgrades after upgrades but Ochako's main/major quirk upgrade after that plane feat is in the goddamn finale of the ENTIRE story. ....because she talked about love with someone she has zero stake or obligation to, who was cutting her up trying to kill her.

Despite the contrary of my reply. I'm going to be honest op, there's literally nothing to talk about with these two or any of the girls. They're decoration, a wide variety for the rule-34 warriors & bottom feeders to take their pick.

That's their relevance to the fandom, who they like, and what they look like.

Who they are? When has that ever mattered.

Hence referring to Momo as a "baddest bitch", and I'm pretty sure that descriptor has nothing to do with who she is as a character.

The most you can say is: WASTED potential.

Or they "look cute", which is more honest to reality. Their reality of relevance to the fandom.

(Will space out the paragraphs & add more visual another time, this is just a last min dump)