#while they don’t fit the horde much

[goblin-enjoyer]

Oh by the corpses I think I’m loosing it. Earlier I just got back from a friends birthday get together for their 21ST. I’m a bit worn out so I go to watch some background entertainment on YouTube while a get my batteries for wow back (I heard there was a new important quest chain). I see some homestuck comic dubs in my feed. Odd, but makes sense as I have been listening to the music lately. So I turn on those old 3-4 year old videos thinking: “eh this is just some old dubs from 2015-16 might as well watch em while I recharge. See what this old decaying fandom had in its heyday”. I watch for a bit until I find a comp that BLINDSIDES me with a Covid reference comic. I look at the date, 4 years ago. After the video is finished I then proceed to realize that all those videos were from 2020-2022 and then start breaking down somewhat as I realize I’m getting old and starting to think “4 years ago was 2016” . Que this post . Honestly I can’t tell which is worse. The fact that 2016 was almost 10 years ago and as much as things change, every 5 or so years they kinda just reset a tiny bit in the transition from old to new to old again Or the fact that i might be a homestuck fan now. Nonsense of a mad[WOULD PREFER NOT TO SAY] in the tags as I don’t put that crabp in the main post.

[endursent]

- Through the Dark

【 content; sunday x reader , astral express sunday , dry humping , a bit of pining , tight spaces , NSFW 】

【 note; i've never written smut/nsfw before, so this is treading new grounds for me, but I need to practice for gss because i want that to be juicy. expect more, lol. it'd also be nice to get requests/suggestions to stir by brain a bit if you'd like.

also, the reader's gender is never mentioned but there are gender-neutral they/them pronouns used twice in the middle to enforce that ambiguity. 】

【 word count; 3.391 | read on ao3 】

“Stop… moving so much,” Sunday strains through grit teeth, he’s trying not to sound annoyed or upset, but it’s an uphill battle. 

  “You’re moving first, I’m just adjusting,” you whisper back, you can’t tell what expression he’s making in the darkness, but you’re sure it’s on some scale of annoyance or frustration by the sound of his voice. 

  “You–”

  You hear footsteps approaching and slap your right hand over his mouth, your heart beats faster as they approach, quick taps against hardwood floors… you feel Sunday still completely, his jaw moves slightly beneath your palm as he swallows thickly. Neither of you move an inch until distant shouts sound and the footsteps fade. You still keep your hand over his mouth for a moment longer just in case. You can’t see out of the closet you’ve squeezed into… what if there’s someone listening on the other side? Just waiting for either of you to make a noise?

  Your heart continues to beat rapidly in your chest, you feel it hammering against your rib cage–and you’re sure Sunday feels it too.

  After a while, you take a gamble and lower your hand from his face, surely they’re gone now? 

  “...” Sunday doesn’t say anything, a tense silence falling between you. His voice is a whisper when he finally does speak. “... is this a usual occurrence?”

  You have to take a moment to try and understand what he means. “Ha? Being stuck in a closet?”

  “Yes,” he just grumbles, disapproval clear in his tone. 

  “... no,” you mumble in return. The how and why of the situation was irrelevant—mostly because it’s your fault and you don’t want to think about it—what was much more important is that you are stuffed into a closet with Sunday with barely any wiggle room and you’re not keen on facing a horde of angry guards who could potentially be hostile with only you and Sunday to fend them off. 

  Your limbs barely have any space, Sunday’s arms are above the both of you, his elbows on either side of your head as the space is so narrow he can’t even lower them—there’s no direction wide enough for his arm to bend. Your chests are pressed together so tightly that the ornament on his scarf has nearly poked you in the eye three times and you felt the tickle of his feathered wings against your cheekbone when you turned your head to the door.

  The rest… is the uncomfortable part—not that being pressed like sardines in a can isn’t uncomfortable in general. Sunday is slightly taller than you and has to spread his legs on either side of you so that he can fit—the closet isn’t exactly tall either, so the two of you are slightly hunched as well, thus you have to tuck your legs under him so that he’s practically sitting on them, your knees press against the wall achingly and one of your thighs is pressing very insistently and directly between his legs.

  The strain in his voice is probably only half due to the uncomfortable, hunched position, and half because with every slight move you make, you’re essentially grinding your thigh against his crotch. It’s hard not to notice the situation, but for his–and your own–sake you pretend not to. 

  Unbeknownst to you, Sunday is fighting for his life. He hasn’t been touched by another… ever? Not like this, even if accidental. He feels the tips of his fingers prickle and his jaw clench unconsciously as he tries his best not to react outwardly. 

  “Okay… they should be gone now,” thankfully your hands were bent downwards, and thus you could push against the closet door with your elbow.

  But it doesn’t budge.

  You press again, nothing. It’s locked, or blocked by something. No matter how you try and push, the door doesn’t budge.

  “What is it?” Sunday frowns, he can’t see what you’re doing and the closet doesn’t have any holes or window on the door to allow light in. “Open it, just…”

  “It’s locked,” you interrupt him. 

  He says nothing… and you can almost sense the mixture of frustration and disappointment in him, but a soft, warm exhale fans over your face, it almost tickles. “Try again,” he urges surprisingly softly. “Perhaps it’s just stiff.”

  You do as he asks, but no luck. “… it doesn’t open.”

  Sunday clicks his tongue. “Alright—stop pushing, be still,” he nudges your head with his elbow. With every press against the door, your body pushes away from it—and your thigh flexes, pressing against him further. 

  There’s another beat of silence, but you can’t stand it—thankfully, an idea flashes in your mind and you decide to give him a heads up… this will require some wriggling. “Sunday, my phone is in my pocket, if I can get it and send a message to the Express group chat, someone must be able to come and pry the door open.” Never have you imagined a more useful task for Dan Heng’s spear.

  “Can you reach it?” he asks as you shift your arm from being stuck between your stomachs and squeeze it between your bodies. His eyes squint at the feeling. 

  You bite your lip in concentration. “Probably… but I’ll need to try and stretch my thighs and waist to fish it out…” 

  “I see…” he understands what that entails, but he’s not sure he likes the idea. “Can you reach my phone instead? It’s in my coat pocket.”

  You pat around his side and try to find it, it could be easier… but to reach down you have to try and bend forwards—which means pressing your forehead and face directly into his chest. The scarf wrapped around his collar is soft… and it smells nice, like cinnamon. Though his chest itself isn’t very soft, he’s rather skinny. 

  But no matter how you reached and even tried to tug his coat up, the pocket was too far down and his phone even deeper inside. There’s no other way.

  “I’m sorry,” you truly are, you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. “Maybe if we just wait…”

  “No,” he shakes his head and you feel his hair brush against your nose. “Just do it.”

  Deciding to try and just get it over with, you nod and start shimmying your back and ass upwards as much as you can to try and create space for you to be able to tug your phone out of your pocket. And it has the exact effect expected. 

  Sunday grunts, he tries to bite back any noise and his thighs twitch before he presses them against your hips tightly, as if trying to close his legs… it’s torturous, your thigh drags up and shifts and moves against him as you fish for your phone, he can’t even reach down to still your leg or tug at himself—anything, his arms are at too much of an awkward angle to be able to bend down in the tight space, so he’s stuck just enduring the searing heat that’s pooling dangerously easily between his legs. 

  Finally, you get a proper hold of it and drag your phone out of your pants pocket, you settle back down which elicits a sound from him that shoots through both of you like an arrow. “Sorry!” you quickly try and apologise, but the soft twitching of his body signals that the apology will do precious little.

  Sunday swallows thickly, so much so that you could hear it. His body was warm before, but now it feels like he’s radiating heat against you. He doesn’t want to say anything, worried his voice might not sound right—but the position you realigned into is pressing him almost painfully flat against himself… which also means he feels every small drag or shift you make. 

  You try to tilt your shoulders in a way that lets you see your phone screen… if you can just text the Express group chat that you’re stuck, surely someone can put off what they’re doing and come let you out. 

  It’s tricky to turn the phone in your hand with only one to spare and try to unlock it without seeing the screen, where even is the messaging app again? You just try your best to guess… until you try and type, which is when your phone tilts from your fingers and clatters to the ground.

  “…”

  “…”

  Fuck. 

  An exhale leaves Sunday. “You dropped your phone.”

  “… yeah,” you sound like a puppy being scolded by its owner. With your phone facing up on the floor, he could just barely see you giving him guilty dog side-eyes.

  He couldn’t explain the frustration it brought him that now no one knew of your positions—you had managed to send a … half-message… but it probably didn’t mean much to anyone. 

—

[17:42] You: slfep dmgwlsGn f

[17:43] March 7th ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ: Huh?

[17:46] Himeko: Probably put their phone unlocked in their pocket again...

[17:49] March 7th ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ: lol

—

  The light from your phone turned off as it was left untouched for too long, and you groaned slightly. Great… now what? Surely you’re not going to be stuck here forever.

  He wasn’t going to be able to keep his composure much longer, especially not when your damned body is pressed against his like this, the smell of your clothes and the occasional brush of your hands when you move them in the little space they can be moved. 

  It certainly doesn’t help that he finds you irresistible. 

  How could he, after his world had been turned—his beliefs, his ideals and his goals all turned from reaching forward, to halting in front of a mirror, forced to confront his reflection and pick out the flaws in his own mind before himself. 

  And you treated him just as you would any other person, despite what he had done, despite his false sense of benevolence that he still worked to understand how to redirect to something more realistic, how to understand what it is that drives... 

  His thoughts are interrupted—unfortunately, because it was distracting enough—when you pat his coat again to try and find his phone, but his skin begins to tingle every time you touch him, his poor body highly sensitive from the growing tension in his pants. “S-stop, be still—please,” he breathes, his voice suddenly far closer to your ear than it was before, his soft hair tickling your cheek. 

  Oh, that was…

  You’ve never heard his voice sound like that—not that you’ve known him for long enough to hear many of the pitches of his voice could make, but the way it rose slightly and cut off before pleading with you…

  Why do you want to hear it again?     “Sorry,” you say again, losing count of how many times you’ve said it already. “Are you okay?”

  He wouldn’t admit to his predicament with a gun to his head, but… it’s impossible to ignore, and there’s no way you don’t know either. He takes a deep—shaky—breath. “You can’t… move your leg?”

  You don’t want to lie to him and say yes, your knee is aching from being pressed so firmly against the wall of the closet, and your tailbone isn’t faring better against the other wall. You can pretty much only move it side to side unless you try and straighten your knee out—which as he felt earlier, was far worse. “Not really.”

  He swallows again, Sunday is glad he’s wearing gloves and that the closet is dark, or else you would have felt his sweaty hands or seen it on his brow by now. “I see.”

  He can’t stay like this much longer, his heart thunders against his chest, he hears it clearly as his breath hitches when he tries to provide himself some relief by shifting his hips to one side—but only proceeds to drag against you again, causing maddening friction that makes his thighs flex. 

  The tension in the air is so thick you’re not sure if it’s just the fact the closet doesn’t exactly have a vent, or that your nose is a hair’s width from Sunday’s neck, but it’s making your head feel lighter and your breaths deepen the more he tries to find more comfortable positions and fail, letting out short breaths or grunts. At this point he might as well just find the relief he’s desperately holding back from chasing. It would be less painful. 

  “Sunday,” his name falls from your lips quieter than you meant to, and surprisingly, your own name leaves him equally shyly. A simple breath that made your spine straighten instinctively—causing you to poke yourself in the eye on the ornament on his scarf. “Ow—“

  “Stop moving,” his tone sharpens and you feel a palm on your head. “… nhh—“  Sunday’s body twitches, you feel a throb against your thigh and he fears he��s going to burst if this continues. “…”

  But he can’t in his right mind just ask you if he can use your thigh to satisfy this torturous ache. 

  Thankfully, your mind is usually not ‘right’. “Hey,” you muster up some courage, it helps that neither of you can’t see anything. “If you need to…”

  “No,” he interrupts you, shaking his head—and a wing slaps you in the face, you feel like your face is taking too many swings today. “No, absolutely not.”

  “You sound like you’re about to cry.” His voice is tight, but not because he’s about to cry—he might, if this keeps going for too long—but because he’s reigning in every single willpower he has to hold himself still. “Will it be better if I do it?”

  He clicks his tongue, this entire situation could have been avoided if someone didn’t trigger the alarm. He could’ve gone about his day and not had to—yet again—confront a side of himself left neglected. “No… fine, let me.”

  It was… tentative, shy, as if he thought that short and subtle movements would mean you wouldn’t feel anything or not notice too much. Every shot of warmth from his waist to his fingers and toes made him shudder and his chest tighten, it was a fight on all fronts to both keep quiet and focus on being careful at the same time. 

  It was hard to watch, or rather listen to, as the dark was still all-encompassing. 

  Maybe he would feel better if he didn’t have to think about the uncomfortable silence in the darkness. 

  You can’t reach up, your hands stuck below your chests, otherwise you would have touched his face first. He likely wouldn’t have been as startled as he was when your lips suddenly—yet gently—pressed against his. 

  “Wh—mm you—doin—m—“ it’s almost comedic how his question is only half communicated, surprised and confused by the kiss that he slowly eases into, accepting your offer and splitting his attention. 

  His hips grind against your thigh, slow at first and uncertain, but as your mouth takes half his mind off of it, he begins to move more desperately. He’s been held at a precipice for so many minutes, an agonising hour that felt so long that he thought he would surely explode in some form if it were to continue for much longer. Sunday’s lips are surprisingly soft against yours, warm and inviting as he pushes back, his hand above your head that laid on it is now searching for purchase, as if he wants to take hold of you properly. 

  The two of you pull back to breathe, and Sunday wastes no time to duck his head next to yours, damp lips brushing past your temple and to your ear. He plants wet, open mouthed kisses below it, the sensitive skin tickled by the sensation as his tongue drags against the shell of your ear. 

  But he doesn’t give up, taken by the heated moment and relaxed barriers, his hips continue to cant against your thigh, his worldview narrowing to the sensation of your warm skin under his lips, to the delicious friction created by both your pants. “Hahh…“ he breathes out, a string of saliva separating his lips from your skin. 

  You move your leg in tandem to his grinding, you can’t help but feel his pleasure as if it were your own, the way his body trembles with strain, the breathy sounds below your chin and flex of his hips. You feel your own body respond and warmth pool needily, but you ignore it—he’s the one that’s been suffering for an hour in this stuffy space, you can wait… you try to convince yourself at least, ignoring the subtle throb of your own, at least it was just against air and not pressed against something as well—or perhaps that’s worse. 

  It’s embarrassing, Sunday echoes in the back of his mind, not only that he’s had to resort to this, but also the fact that he wants more. He doesn’t just want to rut against your thigh like this, he wants to touch you with his hands, trapped at an awkward angle over your shoulders. He wants to feel your own heat, the warmth radiating from your clothes against his a tempting tease, a longing of seeing what’s beneath. Your skin, your hair, your eyes, your neck, your lips—he wants to feel all of it. 

  Sunday mumbles your name again before his lips find your ear and the top of your throat once more, a hint of teeth as he captures your earlobe between them, a shiver running through you, you can hear his mouth and tongue so clearly... he kisses a reddened spot left below your ear from his single minded focus and his hips falter and his body twitches together, but he only succeeds in brushing his bangs against your chin and his small wings fluttering outward. The surge of heat emitting from his straining cock was unbearable, he moved faster, a breathy sound of your name on his lips again, Sunday says it for the third time as tension fills his body and all he can focus on is the warmth of your frame against his—a bit too tightly in the cramped closet—the soft warm breaths against his ear and the way your hands unconsciously started grabbing at his coat. 

  You feel him tense and groan, the choked sound foreign on his lips, you never expected to hear such a bodily sound from him, nor could you stop it from raising every hair on your arms. You hold onto him as he practically falls against you, Sunday’s breaths are heavy and his arms tremble by your head, his mind feels like it’s been tossed around a bit before stuffed back in upside down, he can’t straighten up or lie down and has to practically sit on your thigh. 

  “Are you okay?” you prod and poke at his stomach worriedly. “Was that okay? Are—“

  “Please… j-just… one moment,” he pleads, not ready to answer a barrage of questions just yet. His heart is beating so fast it almost worries him, his throat feels dry and his legs are weak. He did nothing but drag his crotch up and down your thigh and this is the state he’s left in? He can’t imagine how you would leave him if he got a real taste—

  He shakes his head and you splutter as you get a mouthful of feathers. “I… might have dirtied your pants,” he says shamefully, the sticky wetness between his legs left behind from the height of pleasure was surely going to stain you too. Though it felt good, certainly, he is having some post-clarity… for you to see him so tense and desperate as this—he always has a careful front, not more so than before, but the habit remains. 

  “I have more,” you try to assure him… you don’t have them with you, but you do own more. “So…”

  He presses his forehead against your shoulder. “… I don’t want to talk about it now.”

  A small smile cracks your lips and you stroke his side. “Okay, we‘ll talk later… how about a second grab for your phone? Now that you’re all, eh… spent?”

  “… don’t send anything until we’re dry.”

[00valentina-writes00]

✞⛧ Random dating thoughts (that slowly get more heated) ✞⛧

𝒜𝒷𝒷𝓎 Edition

✞⛧ Abby would insist on being your gym buddy and make a big deal about spotting you, even if you’re lifting the lightest weights. “Babe, safety first!” Meanwhile, she’s bench-pressing twice your body weight with ease.

✞⛧ She eats like she’s fueling a tank, so if you order fries, you better guard them with your life. But if you pout, she’ll reluctantly push her plate toward you. “Fine, take some… just not the chicken.”

✞⛧ She casually challenges you to arm-wrestling matches, and even if you lose every time, she makes a point of flexing and teasing: “Don’t feel bad—these guns are a gift, really.”

✞⛧ Abby has mastered the art of braiding hair thanks to her own routine, but she’s shockingly bad at braiding your hair because she gets nervous about pulling too hard. “How do you not sit still for this?!”

✞⛧ When she’s into you, her flirting style is a mix of being overly cocky and downright awkward. “I could totally carry you on my shoulders and outrun a horde. Wanna test it out?”

✞⛧ Abby has a fierce protective instinct. She’s the type to walk you home even if the world’s relatively safe, and she’ll always scan your surroundings for anything suspicious.

✞⛧ While she’s tough and stoic most of the time, Abby opens up about her past with you in small, vulnerable moments—usually when she feels safe in your arms.

✞⛧ Her love language would absolutely include acts of service. Whether it’s repairing your gear or making sure you have enough to eat, Abby shows her love by ensuring your needs are met.

✞⛧ She’d establish a small tradition, like watching the sunrise together after her early morning workouts, with you groggily sipping coffee while she teases you about “needing more gains.”

✞⛧ She’d lean on you during tough times but struggle to admit when she needs help. You’d have to gently remind her that being strong doesn’t mean carrying everything alone.

✞⛧ Once Abby Finds Out You Can’t Open Jars It’s over. She teases you constantly. She’ll swoop in with a dramatic, “Don’t worry, I got this,” flex her biceps unnecessarily, and pop it open in one try—every single time.

✞⛧ You Snore? She records it. Every time. Then uses it as leverage when you tease her about her overly serious workout routines. “You think I’m dramatic? Babe, listen to this masterpiece.”

✞⛧ You’d think she’d be bad at cooking, but she’s weirdly good. However, she only knows how to make portions that could feed a military base. “You said you were hungry. This is a reasonable amount of spaghetti.” (It’s not.)

✞⛧ Abby Learns About TikTok? She doesn’t really get it but becomes obsessed with the fitness trends. Suddenly, she’s asking you to record her doing ridiculous challenges, like trying to do pushups with you sitting on her back. (An:IM HAVING WHITHDRAWLS)

✞⛧ Abby is confident on the battlefield, but when it comes to dating, she can get a bit awkward. She stumbles over her words, especially if she’s nervous about impressing you.

✞⛧ Abby shows her affection by doing things for you, like fixing something you need or sharing her limited rations. She’s the type to ensure your boots are patched and your weapon is ready.

✞⛧ She loves teasing you, especially once she gets more comfortable. Whether it’s poking fun at your bad aim or how much you complain about patrols, it’s always lighthearted and affectionate.

✞⛧ Abby gives the best hugs—firm, warm, and grounding. She holds you tightly as if to shield you from the world.

✞⛧ While she’s strong and intimidating to others, she’s incredibly gentle with you. She’ll brush your hair out of your face, kiss your forehead, and hold your hand when you’re anxious.

✞⛧ Abby is always looking for small items that might make you happy—whether it’s a flower she finds, a worn-out book, or something she crafts herself.

✞⛧ In rare quiet moments, she’ll grab your hand and sway with you to the faint sound of music from an old record player or her own humming.

✞⛧ Her apologies are sincere and often accompanied by small actions to make it up to you, like offering to take over your duties for the day.

✞⛧ Once Abby falls for you, she’s all in. She’s fiercely loyal and will do anything to ensure your happiness and safety.

✞⛧ Though she struggles to express her feelings at first, over time she becomes more vocal about how much you mean to her. “You’re the reason I keep fighting” is something you’d hear her say during particularly tough days.

✞⛧ Abby doesn’t say “I love you” often, but when she does, it’s raw, heartfelt, and utterly sincere. She prefers to show her love in the little things—like keeping your favorite item safe or holding your hand just a little tighter in dangerous moments.

✞⛧ She watches you when you’re not looking, memorizing every little thing about you. If you catch her, she’ll smirk but won’t admit to it.

✞⛧ Abby tends to fidget around you—twisting a knife in her hand or adjusting her gear—especially when she’s nervous or unsure how to express her feelings.

✞⛧ Abby hates unresolved tension and prefers to address issues head-on, though her bluntness can sometimes make things worse.

✞⛧ She ensures you’re always safe in their post-apocalyptic world. Abby checks your surroundings meticulously, insists on teaching you self-defense, and would sacrifice everything to protect you.

✞⛧ Abby is the kind of partner who will always have your back, whether it’s a dangerous encounter or someone making a rude comment. She doesn’t tolerate disrespect towards you.

✞⛧ Watching her play fetch with a dog like Alice is a sight to behold. If you join in, she’ll grin from ear to ear, clearly smitten with the simple joy of the moment.

✞⛧ She brushes strands of hair out of your face or gently holds your chin to make you look at her when she wants your full attention.

✞⛧ Abby is attentive to your needs. If you’re upset, she won’t always have the right words, but she’ll stay by your side, offering silent comfort or a grounding hand on your shoulder.

✞⛧ Abby’s kisses are slow, purposeful, and full of intensity. At first, she’s gentle, her lips tenderly exploring yours as though she’s savoring the moment. But as the kiss deepens, her confidence takes over, and she becomes more demanding, pressing you against her with a firm grip on your waist.

✞⛧ She’s a fan of long, passionate kisses, often wanting to take her time to feel the connection. However, when she’s feeling playful or needy, she can turn it into something heated quickly.

✞⛧ Abby loves kissing you on your forehead, especially when she’s feeling particularly affectionate or protective. It’s her way of showing she cares without saying it

✞⛧ Your loyalty is something she treasures deeply, as she finds it hard to trust others, but with you, she feels safe to let her guard down.

✞⛧ Abby’s drawn to how you challenge her, whether it’s in casual conversations or in moments of intimacy, always keeping her on her toes and making her think.

✞⛧ She adores the way you show affection, especially when you offer small, tender gestures that demonstrate your care for her, like tracing her scars or offering her a quiet moment to breathe.

✞⛧ Abby’s not shy about leaving marks, especially when she’s feeling possessive or protective. She loves to mark you as hers, a reminder to anyone else that you belong to her.

✞⛧ She can be a little rough with you when she’s particularly heated, biting or sucking on your skin with a sense of urgency. She might even pause to admire the hickeys afterward, a slight smirk on her face as she watches you squirm from the heat (If you’ve been together for a while, Abby might leave little marks in places only the two of you know about, as a private symbol of her affection and control.)

✞⛧ Abby’s dirty talk is rough, no holds barred, and calculated. She’s all about taking control and making you beg for it, and she doesn’t hold back from calling you names or pushing your buttons in all the right ways.

✞⛧ Abby doesn’t give up control easily. She’s a hard dom, and she expects you to follow her lead. It turns her on to see you submit to her

✞⛧ she loves spanking you. It could start slow, just a teasing tap, but it escalates quickly as she sees how much it turns you on. She’ll mark you up, and the sting from the slap on your ass stays with you long after she’s done.

✞⛧ While missionary can feel intimate, Abby likes to switch things up by pinning your wrists above your head and giving you no escape. It’s a perfect position for eye contact, and she enjoys how much control it gives her over your pleasure.

✞⛧ Abby gets off on lifting you, pinning you up against a wall or any available surface. The feeling of holding you up while taking you hard and fast turns her on

✞⛧ Abby isn’t gentle when she uses a strap-on. She goes all in, thrusting deeply, making you take all of it, all while commanding you to take her. She’ll order you to stay still, make you beg, and won’t let you move until she tells you to.

✞⛧ She loves watching you as she fucks you with the strap-on. Seeing your face contort with pleasure, the way you squirm beneath her, and hearing the moans and gasps you can’t hold back only heightens her desire. She’ll often tease you about how desperate you look.

✞⛧ Sometimes, Abby enjoys taking her time, slowly sliding in and out, building the intensity. She’ll alternate between gentle thrusts and hard, punishing ones. She likes to see how much you can handle before she goes faster or harder.

[neosprites]

Digital Stamp Making Tutorial

Hello, and welcome to the long-awaited(at least on my part) digital stamp-making tutorial from neosprites! I’d like to preface that I learned what I was doing from this tutorial so it may be a bit redundant, but if anything I get a bit more specific. Thank you so much to @graphic--horde for your work, it changed me as a graphic maker. This is gunna be a long post so feel free to bookmark it for later. Now, onto the show!

The frame I will be using for this tutorial (which is the frame I use on 99.9% of my stamps) I found from the above linked post, which I believe is from a creator that OP lost track of. Its inner dimensions are 94x50 pixels and its outer dimensions are 99x56 pixels. Here it is!

Find your material! - I recommend using websites like Tumblr and searching with the “GIF” filter only on, or alternatives such as Giphy or Tenor. Your browser may let you directly save the .gif file; if not and you are noticing it restricts you to save it as a .webp file you can try an extension like “Save webp as PNG or JPEG” (for Firefox but I image other browsers have similar functions, but I really recommend you switch to Firefox). To use this you will right click on your source .gif like normal but instead of clicking on “Save image as…” click “Save webP as…” and then click “GIF”. You should be redirected to the website ezgif.com where we will actually be doing all of our editing! Here’s the .gif we’ll be working with.

Convert to GIF (optional) - if you used the extension from the above step you should already be ready to click the blue “Convert to GIF” button. If not, go ahead and open ezgif.com and click on “webP” and then “WebP to GIF”; then convert to a gif with the blue button.

Resize the GIF - now that we have a gif ready to edit, let’s make it the right size. The easiest method I have found is to change it directly to the frame’s inner dimensions, 94x50 pixels. [EDIT: Make sure in the aspect ratio drop drop menu you select "stretch to fit" and not "center and crop to fit" like I did in the photo example.] Click “resize” and then type [94] in for the width and [50] for the height. Next press the blue “resize image” button.

Add the frame - next click “overlay” then click the thin blue button that says “Extend canvas size(use if overlay exceeds GIF sizes)”. This will give us some extra room to add the frame onto the design. Next click “Browse…” and find the frame you have saved onto your device, then click the blue “Upload image” button.

After that it’s going to be misaligned, that’s normal! It will say you have the option to drag it into place, but don’t bother. That’s one of the reasons my old stamps look wack, it’s just harder to do. Instead type [44] in for the Left box and [22] in for the Right box. It took me a while to figure out these dimensions to be honest, and I’ve only tested it with this frame so I don't know if it works with others. Then click the blue “Generate image” button.

Crop the transparent edges - click on “crop”. You will have the option to check a box that says “trim transparent pixels around the image” however, I don’t recommend this as it tends to crop a few of the frame’s pixels with it sometimes. Next, set the Left position to [44] and the Right position to [22]. For the other dimensions we will use the outer dimensions of the frame which are 99x56 pixels, this will trim everything except the tiny spaces in between the stamp frame’s spikes. Type the width as [99] and the height as [56] and click the tiny blue button that says “set”. After that click the blue “Crop image” button.

Save and use! - all that's left is to click “save” and upload the graphic to your liking. (best seen on dark mode obviously)

If you’d like to tag me in stamps you’ve made using my tutorial I would love to see them, but it’s not required!! Make sure to always give credit for pictures/gifs when you can and try not to make stuff out of personal/fan art. Thank you to the person in my inbox who requested this tutorial, I had been meaning to for a while but it was just the kick I needed. :)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Damage Control 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Jonathan Pine, Lloyd Hansen

Summary: you’re sent to work intel on a mission with two very combative men.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You switch with Pine as the window seat gives you the flip in your stomach that directly challenges what’s left of your lunch. He obliges. He seems the sort despite his work. He struggles to fit his long legs between his seat and the next row. You feel bad for him, the world isn’t much made for the tall, handsome sort. Pfft. 

The seatbelt light goes off and you settle in with a book you haven’t much focus for. You close it and glance over at the window, blanching and looking at the seat ahead of you. You swallow tightly and let a breath out through your nose. 

You love going to new places but it’s the getting there part that really stinks. You lean into the seat as if you might become a part of it. You keep yourself strapped in and open the book then close it again. The subtle thrum of the plane keeps you on edge. 

Suddenly, the tremble becomes a shake. Not thinking, you reach over to grab the armrest. Instead, you latch onto Pine’s wrist and squee. The rumbling has your heart topturning and when it’s over, you stay clasped on. 

“Alright,” he pets your knuckles. “Just a bit of turbulence.” 

“I’m sorry,” you rip your hand away. “Like I said, I used to be brave. I think sometimes you age into fear. Like a rollercoaster. When you’re young, you don’t think of it then you’re in line as an adult and you’re counting every regret you’ve got.” You give a sheepish smile, “are they serving alcohol?” 

He hums, “think the cart will be out soon. I could go with for a pint myself.” 

“Well, if your taste in lager is anything like your football choices, I think you might be left unsatisfied,” you chortle and try to shake out your nerves. It’s fine. Everyone else is entirely unbothered, don’t be a nervous nelly, now. 

“You’re not going to let that go, are you?” He sighs. 

“I’m not judging. I’m just honest,” you smirk then crane to look down the aisle. “Trolly can’t come soon enough.” 

“On that we can agree,” he intones. 

His company calms you. Just enough for you to not grind your teeth to dust. You tuck the book down beside your leg and try to stretch out the tension from your hands and legs. 

The flight wears on. A Stella helps soothe you through the next bought of turbulence as Jonathan distracts you with chatter about some trek he made through the Scottish hills. You know what he’s doing but you’re not unhappy about it. It helps keeps your mind off the distance to the ground. 

After a while, you relax enough to close your eyes. You don’t sleep but you manage to shut off your anxiety for just a little. When the announcement comes to warn of the landing, your knotted up all over again. 

It isn’t until the wheels hit the ground that you notice you’ve grabbed onto your seat neighbour once more. He doesn’t say a word, nor does he seem to mind. You suppose given the nature of your acquaintance; you can expect to be caught in close quarters rather often. 

You nearly cry as you disembark and your feet hit solid ground. You drag your bag through to customs and yawn. You’re ready to keel over but you’ve a long way to go still. 

“I’ll get the rental,” you volunteer as you finally clear the hordes of arrivals. 

“Shall I keep guard of the luggage,” he offers. 

“Oh, sure,” you agree. “I’ll be as quick as a housefly.” 

You stride off and find the right rental kiosk amid the furor. You get your keys and return to Pine. You walk off into the rental lot, slightly disoriented as you check the car number a seventh time. 

“This way,” he gestures with his head as he keeps hold of both bags. 

“Oh, jeez, I can take mine back,” you reach for the suitcase but he swiftly veers away. 

“I can handle it,” he assures you. “Would you pop the boot?” 

You approach the rental and hit the button on the keychain to unlock the hatch. He loads up the bags as you investigate the front seat and adjust the mirrors and incline of the backrest. He gets in as you fiddle with the stereo. 

You finally get it perfect and back out, gripping the wheel tight as you swerve in reverse and slam on the brakes. He glances at you and you return his look coyly. 

“I’ve got to be on the right-side. I nearly forgot. Forgive me,” you smile. “You might have to remind me a few times. 

“If it’s better, I can drive.” 

“No, I can manage. I think. Right, right, right...” you mutter to yourself as you slowly step on the pedal. “Anyhow, now we are free of the commoners,” you kid, “this Hansen fellow. Peculiar. Interesting in a way that makes my skin crawl.” You begin as you stop to signal and follow another car around the slog of airport traffic. “Mercenary for hire but it turns out Roper has diversified his efforts to cause general malaise. It isn’t ideal, but he’s the only lead we’ve got at the moment.” 

You sigh and frown as you think of his file. It wasn’t an easy read. Weeks spent poring over every bit of intel you could find. Typically, you don’t mind your job. You’re good at it but sometimes you wade so far into the depths, you can’t see much for the murk. 

“It would be good to practice caution. It’s rather surprising Hansen wouldn’t foresee Roper’s deceit, considering they seem to be much alike,” you continue. “In fact, I’d be wary that this all might be in itself a ploy. This could be Roper playing into our pursuit.” 

“Yes, I thought the same. Anything I should particularly of this man?” 

“He’s a cockroach. Hard to kill. Presumed dead for some years and then... as if by miracle, there he is. Missing a few parts but still around and worse,” you say. “I’m sure you live by the law of this line of work; never trust anyone.” You follow the curve of the road into the city. “Not even me.” 

[hades-in-bloom]

The Bigger Person

Spawn!Astarion Ancunin x Redeemed Dark Urge!Reader

summary: after saving Baldur’s Gate, Astarion and his partner descend into the Underdark to take care of Cazador’s misdeeds. All seven thousands of them. Was it something the elf truly wanted to do with his freedom?

spoilers for Act 3/Pale Elf and Epilogue

warnings & contents: teethy fluff; established relationship; comfort, sass, and class; hints of existential crisis; the reader could be any gender; mentions of trauma; some hugs; assumed drow or half-drow background of the reader but could be any race

a/n: I am kinda terrified of writing for Astarion as I respect Larian’s work SO MUCH (so Larian, please forgive me, if I ever do this goofy dagger-happy love wrong). This blurb came out of nowhere as I was bored during my long ass flight. As always, proceed at your own risk. Minors DNI! Masterlist xoxo

soundtrack: miley cyrus — used to be young

***

You watched Astarion from afar as elf was basking in the azure light of a Sussur tree. His pale skin glowing, eyes half-lidded—one of, if not the most beautiful sight you’ve seen in your entire life. Radiance of a Sussur flower might have been the closest thing to the sunlight the vampire spawn had now, after the ever-protecting tadpole was gone.

It was barely a couple of weeks since the Netherbrain crushed into the Chionthar. The exhausting journey was finally over. Your thoughts for a moment went to Gale—how was he fairing now, taking into account his condition? And what any of you was supposed to do with your lives now, after saving the world?

You shook off your guessings by and by—only to notice that it was Astarion’s turn to stare at you. His smooth lips curved into a mischievous grin.

“My once murderous little love, what were you daydreaming of?” The man wondered as he stepped towards you, stretching out a hand for you to touch, inviting you to feel the soothing coldness of his forever-young skin. The elf tilted his head a bit, curiously; studying you.

“You seemed… far from here.” Although his tone was lighthearted, you could see concern in the wandering gaze of garnet eyes. After all these weeks traveling—and now living— together, you could read him quite well.

“It’s nothing,” you mumbled before coming to your senses; a gentle, slightly teasing smile appearing on your face. “I was stalking you, actually. You fit quite well with the Underdark, you know.”

Astarion didn’t seem to object your observations.

Obviously.

“Well,” he gestured abstractly, pretending not to care, although he cared quite a bit. “You don’t say, my sweet. Although I'd assume that my features should look aesthetically pleasing in most of the attention worthy places.”

You couldn’t keep a straight face as you laughed, enjoying his lazy attempts to hide a proud smile.

“Behave, Astarion. There are kids in the close vicinity, after all.”

The man changed in the face and let out a soft groan. “Seven thousand of them,” he muttered with slight annoyance in his voice.

Despite grimaces Astarion made regularly, you could see him enjoying it—taking care of the murderous horde of vampire spawns to whom the elf showed mercy in the palace. He was their mentor, their leader now—a counterpart to what Cazador was, the monster that created them all. Now so much better than him.

“I blame you,” Astarion continued in the meantime, playfully pointing a finger in your direction. “That’s all your nasty influence. Be the bigger person, dear!..” he passionately—and painfully accurately—mimicked your tone of voice while saying the last piece. You, though, weren’t offended in the slightest. You liked him even more when he dared to show the silly side of his complex, wounded personality.

You felt his hand crawling around your waist as he huffed next to your ear shortly after. “Why should I be a bigger person, darling, when I can be happy and petty?”

You snorted. “I don’t think you’re holding back on pettiness, love.”

His smile stretched across the skin of your neck in a silent, although eloquent enough reply. None of you said a thing for quite a while, staying motionless close to each other with heads buried deep into your own thoughts.

“Thank you.” You blurted out eventually.

Astarion shifted, looking into your face with his eyebrow raised. He was visibly confused.

“Thank you for choosing this. Choosing them.” you continued as you met his gaze with yours. “Instead of your… freedom.” You struggled to find a better word for that.

Astarion didn’t seem to be convinced; didn’t seem to follow at first. “I’m free,” he replied gravely. “The bastard is dead.”

You shook your head slightly. “You could’ve been anywhere. Doing anything,” you retorted with care. “But you’re here instead.”

His facial features softened as he understood why you were saying what you were saying. There was a pinch of truth in your words—he spent some time thinking about it, too, after you’ve both descended into the Underdark and began building this fort; the safe harbor for Cazador’s cursed—as although perpetually hungry vampire spawns now, these people deserved to have a place to call home, no matter how dangerous or uncivilised per human standards it was.

You heard Astarion letting out a reluctant sigh as he came to terms with his own decision once more.

“This was the right thing to do.” The elf concluded at once.

Mild aversion to his own heroism that manifested itself in his whole appearance in that particular moment made you giggle suddenly.

“My, my. Who thought you'd be up for doing The Right Thing the first time we met.”

The elf gave you a friendly, tad fiendish stare as he rolled his eyes, and you scoffed as he spoke. “Not that you were a paragon of virtuousness back then either, being your daddy’s scion.” You made an unamused face that made him smile.

Astarion reassured you then with playful seriousness, letting his lips and teeth slide affectionately to your neck. “Don’t keep your hopes up, darling. Now my quota of the rightful deeds is fulfilled for the upcoming century.”

You smirked as you locked him into a hug, not believing a single word of what that man just said as you felt him hugging you back.

[justakidicarus]

Linked Universe AU idea: All things come in Three’s

Inspired by being a writer and how all interactions are best done in groups of three or less cause otherwise you always forget someone.

The entire premise is that instead of the chain all meeting each other at the same time or one after the other, the Link’s meet two others, jointly with them for at least 2 months, and then all three groups meet each other and suddenly the group dynamics have been thrown into wack and they have to figure out where 6 others fit into their little world.

Endgame is canon LU dynamic except they fucking tell each other their secrets and shit (Except the Hero’s Shade Twilight is taking that to his grave).

The groups in question:

Wolf Trio - Time, Twilight, Wild

I couldn’t split these three up they are literally the succession line. This groups dynamic is probably the most chaotic out of the three (surprising I know) with Time being the defacto leader, Twilight being the second in command, and Wild being the attack twink. This group may seem to be the quickest to adjust but once the rest of the Chain crack just a little bit under their exteriors they realise the rabbit hole goes deep and they have only barely scratched the surface. Probably the last group to fully open up to the rest of the Chain but never become problematic to the group dynamic. This group faced more savage and ruthless variants of black blooded monsters together, and the occasional dangerous normal monster such as Lynel’s and Iron Knuckles (I haven’t played TP idk what Twilight has)

The Mature Trio - Sky, Four, Warriors

I shoved all the brain cells together. This groups dynamic would be a lot more team based, as these three have all relied on others throughout their journey in meaningful and significant ways. Wars is the main strategist, while Four and Sky’s opinions are respected and incorporated into their resulting battle plans. This group would have the easiest time integrating into the greater Chain, and probably the quickest to share information about themselves. These three faced the more dangerous black blooded monsters during their time as a group of three, alongside large hordes of regular monsters at once.

Chaotic Good (debatable) Trio - Wind, Legend, Hyrule

The rest of Time’s succession line. The most Chaotic group, these three sum up to about twice the craziness Wild gets up to. Legend is the undisputed leader of these three and the other two are content with this, as Legend has some of the craziest battle plans with the most amount of explosives. Also the entire group can’t/refuse to swim. Wind and Legend take turns cooking after Hyrule cooked once and nearly killed them all via the Bubonic Plague. The group (mostly legend) would be the most problematic when joining the greater Chain, but that’s mostly authority issues. Getting Legend to open up is like pulling teeth, Wind does not want to talk about his fear of water or his imposter syndrome but surprisingly Hyrule is the last to open up concerning his Ganon curse, and y’know the fact he has The entire Triforce. These three faced black blooded monsters with gimmicks during their time together.

The meeting

I was thinking they would meet in War’s Hyrule. Time and Wind, having already been there for the War of Era’s and recognise it, both of them taking their groups to the castle to meet Artemis and presumably Wars while the captain in question is taking his group to the castle for some much needed R&R. Wars is talking to Sky and Four about the other Heroes he’s met, Mask and Sailor, when he arrives in castle town, sees six links in the square, and almost nopes out.

Yeah the War of Era’s Trio is the bridge between the three groups.

Don’t really have anything else for this AU, just an idea I wanted to share

[loweffortopinions]

Dragon Age: The Veilguard

Play Time: 70 hours and going because I like to hurt myself?

Platform: EA Pro Play 

Rating: 4/10

(Moved this Review from my other account because I can't mix art and text)

Environments 

I had a few oh, that’s pretty moments, but overall I found it hard to feel immersed. The cities are nice I guess and detailed, but they lack distinct, memorable qualities. 

A city like Minrathous has the potential to be an exciting showcase of magic woven into everyday life. Mages using spells to transport goods or to perform mundane tasks. I was also looking forward to see a clear divide between magic users and non-magic users, as previous games have implied that Minrathous is Ferelden in reverse. Instead, NPCs feel static, and there is nothing new or interesting done with the magic. For a place built up as legendary in previous games... Minrathous just doesn't deliver. Further, you only get to explore one district, so there is no contrast between richer and poorer areas. And Treviso? It's pretty... but I mostly remember pointy roofs and ziplines.

Character Design

Faces and hair are a big step up from previous games, and armors are varied and nice to look at. But it comes at the cost that it feels overdone, leaning into flashy, cartoony territory. I ran around in my starting armor for half the game because nothing really fit my character.

The companions suffer from this too to some extent. Darin’s open-chested armor seems impractical for a warrior, Neve, supposedly from Docktown, looks more like an aristocrat from Orlais than her background suggests. Bellara’s design is fine, but aside from her vallaslin, she doesn’t seem particularly Dalish. Emmerich and Harding look fine, especially in their camp outfits, which I prefer for most characters.

Combat and Gameplay 

I’ll be honest—I eventually turned the difficulty down to story mode just to get through the game. The combat didn’t do it for me: repetitive enemy hordes that seem randomly placed, limited abilities, and dodging and rolling mechanics that don’t feel very engaging.

Aside from a few setpieces and two boss fights, no encounter stood out. It’s not a particularly hard game, it just got tedious after a few hours.

Another complaint is that every class now feels overly magical. Since the lore around magic is such a key part of the series, this really rubbed me the wrong way. 

Story and World-Building 

Starting with the biggest issue: Veilguard’s main story is a weak.

In Inquisition, even if Corypheus wasn’t the most compelling villain, there was still a sense of growth as you built up your organization and connected with companions. In Veilguard, it feels like they stripped away what worked in previous games and just kept Corypheus. And the worst part? I miss Corypheus. At least he had a booming voice and some interesting lines. Veilguard has none of that.

The villains in this… honestly, where to start? Rather than feeling meaningful, they’re just names repeated so often it feels like the game worries I’ll forget them. Villains aside events unfold without much connection, leaving me questioning why things happen the way they do.

Why are we choosing these allies?

Why am I stuck doing busy work for them while the world is supposedly ending?

But who cares! It's not like your allies really matter. Rook is a one-man army after all. If we’d had them instead of the Hero of Ferelden, the Blight would’ve ended in Ostagar—and every named NPC would’ve survived, including whoever slay the Archdemon. 

Character and Companion Dynamics 

While presented as experts, they rarely get the chance to demonstrate their skills. Harding sometimes provides useful contacts, and Emmerich occasionally shows his abilities, but beyond that, companions often feel like tropes with minimal growth or depth.

For instance, one character is the “unwilling father,” but we never see him grapple with it genuinely—he just says it. Others are similarly shallow: the socially awkward “nerd,” the “noir detective” with a heavy burden, and the “tortured assassin” who doesn’t seem all that tortured. Insights rarely go deeper than quirks, like loving coffee or fish, which get mentioned repeatedly without further development. 

Previous games built strong, opinionated characters who added depth to the world, but here, companions are lacking. Banter is shallow, with little conflict or chemistry. I’ve never played a Dragon Age game where I wanted to skip side quests or companion quests, yet here, I actually did.

I honestly prefer Andromedas cast over this on. Never thought I'd say that but here we are.

Main Character and Roleplaying

Rook’s voice actor; I love em'... which only makes the limited dialogue options more frustrating. I tried to play Rook as a practical, no-nonsense character, but the writing kept steering me back to a softer, more agreeable tone.

If you’re aiming for a tougher or more forceful personality, you're out of luck. If you plan to play be prepared for Rook to come across as a diplomat. Further, you are forced to agree with everyone, and never get to question them or their motives.

So... maybe don't get this if you're into Baldurs Gate 3 and player agency?

Ending Words 

If you’re like me, and the highlights of previous games have been the banter, character depth, and exploring the world and lore, you’ll likely be disappointed. Honestly, I’d even recommend skipping it. Then again, I've seen people say the opposite. So what do I know?

No matter what you do, I’d suggest waiting for a sale. It’s not worth the full price. 

Extra shit

Combat and Gameplay 

There’s the matter of the quest marker, which gives you tunnel vision which distract you from the enviorments.

The loot feels out of place due to its flashy animation. I started skipping loot in certain areas because it felt inappropriate and slowed down the pacing.

You'll fast travel a lot. And I don't mean in a big open area. It's more of a design flaw: Fast Travel to the Lighthouse to talk to a companion. Fast travel to a location to start that companion's quest, walk to said spot to start the quest. Repeat 5 times.

Story and World-Building 

The ending to its credit, was nicely paced and visually strong. If the rest of the game had been more like that, it would’ve been a decent experience. 

The Shadow Dragons, the Crows, the Wardens—all these factions make sense to be here but do nothing meaningful for the story or the worldbuilding.

Even dramatic scenes lack memorable moments. For example, there is a prison escape that's visually pretty but otherwise lacks substance. The person you rescue has supposedly been there a year, but nothing about their appearance or behavior reflects this. There’s no memorable dialogue, nothing deeper—it’s all surface-level.

I personally think Bioware are cowards for only letting you side with an anti-slave organisation. Come on: This isn't the Teviner you've built towards for 3 games! *shakes fist*

[imtrashraccoon]

…..I don’t mean to bother but I’ve had some major art block sooooo maybe a small Drabble for some inspiration? I’ve been on a tangent with undertale and dragons lately(mentally) but I’ve been so freaking busy and tired that I’ve just not had anything to put down onto paper. So dragon au if you don’t mind( Your The Dark Fortress AU has me in a star’s dammed chokehold)

Have a great weekend!

I'm so sorry this took a while but I hope the length makes up for it! These guys may have me in a chokehold too lol

This is a sort of part two to this post.

Future Tumble Edit: I made a prequel to these drabbles.

Donovan

You woke up in a cold sweat, desperately trying to inhale as much oxygen as you could. It was that same dream again; the one where you were constantly running but could never escape the invisible screams. Besides terrifying you, the nightmare served as a continual reminder that you were completely alone in the world.

The little nook you'd claimed as your own was dimly lit by distant firelight but you couldn't tell what time it was otherwise. The dark fortress was silent, as if even the structure itself was resting like it's scaly residents within. You should probably try to go back to sleep but after such a rude awakening, you were reluctant to do so.

Then, you heard heavy footsteps approaching your little hideaway and the dim light was replaced by a cyan glow as the last dragon you had wanted to see peeked inside. Because of his size, Donovan could only fit his head into the entrance but for the moment, he chose to remain outside. Both of you sat there for a moment, just staring at each other silently.

"I could sense your distress earlier. Are you alright?" the black dragon finally asked.

You frowned and averted your gaze. "No..." you whispered.

He seemed to consider your answer for a moment. "I suppose that was a silly question to ask," he started to say. "Would you be willing to talk about it?"

You shook your head, "No, not right now anyways."

He gave you a slight nod. "I won't force you but I am here if you decide you want to."

The idea of unloading everything you'd had to carry since you were a child onto your superior wasn't something you liked, especially because he was the one responsible for your trauma. Sure, he hadn't personally killed everyone you had held dear or destroyed your home town, but indirectly or not, you were still resentful and afraid of him.

"No matter what you believe, I consider you a valued member of my horde," Donovan added. "I value your wellbeing just as much as I do any of the others."

That was surprising. You'd only been here for a short time and in that time, he hadn't given you the impression of being so forthright. Still, he'd never lied to you, or any of the other dragons, as far you knew.

When you nodded silently, you heard him shuffling outside the nook and the cyan glow from his eyelight briefly disappeared. It returned after a moment and you looked over at him curiously.

"Would you like some company at least?" he asked in a soft voice.

You raised an eyebrow and gave him a confused look. Wasn't that what he was already doing?

He seemed to change shape before your eyes into a more compressed form. He still looked like a dragon but now he was wearing some rather formal clothes and was closer to your own height. You had a feeling he was still much larger than you though. The important thing was that he could fit into your little hideaway now, which you weren't sure if you liked.

He rolled his shoulders and flexed his phalanges, giving you the impression that he wasn't used to this form. Notably, he remained outside and waited for you to answer his question.

Once you'd regained your ability to speak, you shrugged. "I guess not?"

He gave you a toothy grin before crawling into your space and settling down at the edge of your makeshift nest. You noticed he had a book tucked under one arm and a part of you felt relieved that he didn't seem interested in just making conversation.

You laid back down and pulled the blanket up to your chin. One of Donovan's tails was resting against your leg but you didn't mind. Just him sitting near you seemed to ease your lingering anxieties. The sound of his breathing and occasionally turning a page soon lulled you into a comfortable slumber. Maybe in the morning you'd ask if he was always able to change his form like this.

Dirk

Steady...

You readjusted your grip on your sword and tried not to dwell on how sore your calves were becoming from squatting for so long. You were perched in an alcove above the courtyard where your opponent was currently searching for you.

You wouldn't exactly call the dragon a friend. He loved to tease and prod until you inevitably snapped. You knew that he got a kick out of seeing you mad but you weren't much better. You had always been a hot-headed person and whenever he wasn't purposely being annoying, you liked to test the limits of his own patience.

Sure, it was basically suicide to poke the literal beast with razer sharp claws and teeth, but you liked to live dangerously. While you also had to stay clear of the blade he liked to strap to his tail, you actually enjoyed the little cat and mouse game you two played. How far was too far? Who would chicken out first to keep from hurting the other?

You couldn't keep yourself from grinning as Dirk slowly stalked through the courtyard. He had an incredible sense of smell so you knew he'd figure out where you were eventually, but by then it'd be too late. As soon as he wandered beneath your hiding spot, you dropped down, landing squarely on his back.

Dirk reacted immediately and with a snarl, did his best impression of a bucking bronco. You stubbornly dug your heels into his sides and held on the best you could, but were soon sent careening across the courtyard.

You scrambled to your feet, inhaling sharply at the pain that would soon become many bruises. With a roar, Dirk charged and you just barely managed to leap to the side. One of his wings came down hard against your back. You struggled to catch your breath.

"Is that...all...you got...?" you panted.

His smile twisted into a cruel grin. "oh i've just barely started, cute stuff~"

You grinned and beckoned him closer.

Dirk didn't hesitate any longer and you braced yourself to meet him. He swept your legs out from under you with his tail. You kicked his stomach and rolled to your feet again. He just barely grazed your back with his claws. You smacked his snout with the flat edge of your sword. He barreled you over onto your back. You clawed at his eye sockets with your own nails.

Then he sat on you and no matter how much you struggled, you couldn't throw him off. Your sword was pressed against his throat, as was his tail blade to yours. You both stared at each other for what felt like ages, daring the other to stand down first.

"you're getting better..." Dirk remarked in a quiet voice. The target that floated above his chest was pulsing wildly but he didn't seem even close to being winded yet.

You huffed and rolled your eyes. "You're an awful liar..."

He snickered and licked a wet stripe up your face. "you're not wrong about that!"

Maul

You let your feet dangle over the edge of the wall and inhaled the cool autumn air. Somehow, you'd managed to survive living in this terrible fortress for three months. Finding your place in the rankings had been difficult but as the days passed, your confidence began to return.

While you still avoided most of the resident dragons whenever possible, there was one who didn't seem to mind your presence. Compared to the others, Maul was even-tempered and patient. The only time you remembered him lashing out was when Dirk attempted to steal his dinner once.

The big guy had left a couple hours ago without saying a word to anyone, which is why you were sitting outside right now. He was different from the others and you couldn't help but wonder why. He definitely took satisfaction in kills but he also wasn't one to boast about them. He also didn't usually go out of his way to hurt people but he was all too willing to defend himself if needed.

Just as you were thinking of going back inside again, you spotted the familiar silhouette of the dragon on the horizon. As he drew closer, you noticed that he was holding a large stag in his talons. You waited until he'd landed before creeping back inside the fortress again.

By the time you'd made your way to his quarters, he'd morphed into a sort of person-sized dragon and was already beginning to dress the carcass. You didn't know that he was able to change his shape but it would explain how he managed to always have preserved food on hand.

Unfortunately, being in a different form certainly hadn't dulled his senses and just as you were thinking of leaving, he paused and slowly turned around until he locked eyes with you. For a moment, you felt rooted to the spot as he studied you suspiciously.

"...do you...want to help?" he asked in a quiet voice.

You had expected him to tell you to leave and when he hadn't, you were taken aback. You didn't have a lot of experience with butchering but it couldn't be so bad if he was allowing you to help.

"Um, I suppose so? What do you want me to do?"

You crossed the room until you were standing next to him, purposely staying on his left side to avoid startling him. He'd already hung up the stag and sliced it's throat to drain the blood into a basin underneath. You could tell that he'd been careful when killing it, likely to avoid losing most of the meat, and it didn't seem like it had needlessly suffered before dying.

Maul retrieved a sharp-looking knife and handed it to you. "...watch," he grumbled.

With his own claws, he began making careful incisions in specific areas along the carcass. You did your best to pay attention but you couldn't help noticing that despite his obvious skill, he had a slight tremor in his hands as he worked. It wasn't so much as to ruin the pelt but you were beginning to understand why he might've wanted help.

He soon had you copy his movements and with some guidance, you helped him peel off the pelt, which was set aside for later. After that came the process of carving up the carcass into various cuts of meat. You weren't sure how he was planning on preserving all of it, but you had a good feeling he would smoke it and a part of you hoped he would let you try some when he was done.

It took several hours and you definitely wanted a bath afterwards, but working together had made the arduous task a lot easier. You could confidently say that you'd butchered an animal now, however you wouldn't say that the process had been enjoyable. Your skin felt sticky from sweat and other fluids, so on top of a bath, you would also have to thoroughly wash your clothes to get all the blood out.

While cleaning up, Maul had started a fire and began roasting a sizeable chunk of venison, which was helping to clear the almost overpowering scent of blood from the air. The tantalizing smell also served to remind your stomach that you hadn't eaten a proper meal all day.

Just as you were about to sneak away, Maul dropped a heavy hand on your shoulder. "...where do you think you're going?" he growled.

"S-sorry, I just thought-"

He didn't let you finish protesting before all but picking you up and dropping you into a chair near the fire. "...stay." He sternly pointed a claw at you to punctuate his demand.

You nodded, feeling more than a little anxious all of the sudden. Why was he upset? Had you ruined something?

Maul sliced off a decent hunk of the roasted venison before approaching you again. At least he had half the mind to set it on a tray before offering the still piping hot meat to you. When he didn't explain and just stared at you expectantly, you took a careful bite. He let out a pleased rumble before pulling up a chair and sitting down himself.

It wasn't anything fancy, but to you, it might as well have been the best thing you'd eaten in years. You couldn't remember the last time you'd had any venison that wasn't tough or incredibly gamey. You hadn't noticed Maul adding any seasoning, but he could've while you were busy cleaning and you wouldn't have noticed.

"It's really good..." you hummed softly.

He gave you what probably passed for a smile as far as dragons were concerned and ruffled your hair. "...you helped, so you deserve to enjoy it."

The finality of his statement stuck with you. While the scarred dragon wasn't much for speaking, you had a feeling that he meant everything he said. The thought that he was happy with how hard you'd worked made you feel warm and fuzzy inside. Maybe he actually liked having you around after all?

Reven

You wished you hadn't gotten out of bed today. Not only were you existing on maybe four hours of sleep, but your old scars had decided to act up as well. Needless to say, you were in no mood to deal with any of the dragons' shenanigans and had sequestered yourself on the ramparts, hoping none of them would find you.

A sudden gust of wind had you drawing your cloak even tighter around your aching body. It was a foolish idea to even be out here and while you knew you would regret it later, you really didn't want to go inside. At least you'd had half the mind to bring your whetstone so you could be somewhat productive, but now that your sword was sharp enough to split hairs, you didn't have anything else to do.

For a moment, the sun was blotted out by a large shadow but when you looked up, you didn't see anything. You were starting to consider going inside after all when Reven appeared out of nowhere, landing on the stonework a few meters away.

You held your breath, hoping by some miracle he hadn't spotted you and was simply surveying the area. Of course, you were proven wrong when he turned his head and fixed you with an unimpressed look.

The cloaked dragon was impossible to read even on the best of days but if there was one thing you knew, it was that he was best left alone. He wasn't as "stabby" as Dirk tended to be but you had witnessed how quickly he could snap on multiple occasions. Oftentimes, he seemed to grow irritated for no reason and when that happened, he would lash out at anyone unlucky enough to be nearby, which was usually Dirk.

You regarded Reven silently. It didn't seem like there was anything bothering him at the moment, but you really could only see his eyes beneath his hood and they always seemed full of hate. Today was different though. Sure, he looked like he'd been force fed a lemon for breakfast but there was something else there...

"H-hey..."

He narrowed his eye sockets at the sound of your admittedly pathetic voice. Suddenly, the empty space in the center of his mismatched eyelights constricted and a very familiar realization came over you.

No matter how friendly they could be, there was no changing their nature. You would never be more than prey to them.

Before you could even think of running, Reven had you. The next thing you knew was the deafening sound of wind in your ears and how every movement made your stomach lurch. How sharp daggers threatened to pierce you on every side. How you couldn't move. How you didn't dare open your eyes for fear of what you might witness.

The seconds seemed to stretch on for an eternity. You were still alive? What was he doing? Why hadn't he flung you against the wall? Or dropped you from a thousand feet? Or swallowed you whole? Or...?

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding. Slowly, you tried moving your fingers and then your toes. The daggers kept you from moving the rest of your body since you weren't about to chance what would certainly prove a horrific way to die.

You chanced a peek at your captor and came face to face with one of his eyelights. While it sharpened slightly as it focused on you, the psychopathic bastard said nothing, but how could he? It was awfully rude to talk with your mouth full.

Reven was apparently hellbent on taking you...somewhere. Unless he had finally gotten fed up and decided to do away with you where Donovan would be unawares? No, who were you kidding? Nothing escaped the corrupted dragon, nonetheless the absence of his favourite pet.

You placed your hand against Reven's jaw. There was nothing you could do but accept whatever he had in mind. So, while it seemed insane, you willed your body to relax. Anything could happen next and you needed to be ready for it.

Your acceptance seemed to do the trick or maybe he had just arrived at his destination. A wave of butterflies welled up in your gut, threatening to burst out as he descended back down to the ground. You felt a jolt pass through his body and into yours as he landed.

He deposited you onto the ground and while you panicked at first, he only gave you an annoyed look and settled down in the grass. To say you were confused was an understatement. He hadn't said a word the whole time and now he was just ignoring you?

"Reven?"

He let out a huff but turned to look at you out of the corner of his eye socket.

"Why did you...kidnap me?" you asked quietly.

He looked away again and towards the horizon. "you were acting like a sad sack all day," he muttered. "thought a change of view would help."

You frowned slightly at that. He'd taken you to a rocky outcrop overlooking a lake surrounded by a pine forest. It was certainly different than the often bleak fortress, so much so, that you could actually see the sunset.

You watched as the sun slowly sank beneath the horizon, painting the world in a swash of oranges, yellows, and reds. The sight was certainly spectacular and once the colours began to fade, you turned to Reven again.

"It's beautiful, thank you..."

He only grunted in response but you could feel his gaze on the back of your head when you looked away again. He didn't seem interested in making conversation but that was alright with you. Sometimes just sitting next to someone who cared was comforting in and of itself.

[wuxiaphoenix]

Headcanon: Kabane

First off, if you haven’t seen Kabaneri of the Iron Fortress, I highly recc’ it. Despite the kabane it’s a monster apocalypse, not a zombie apocalypse. We all know monsterapocs give main characters much better survival chances than zpocs. Yes, gore, horror elements, some horrible deaths, but our good guys never give up. Not easy, when you’re up against hordes of kabane.

BTW, the etymology on that name is interesting. The Japanese word for “dead body” is shikabane. Leave off the shi for death, and... you have a body that is Not Dead.

Canon evidence supports this. Kabane breathe. They bleed. They have (sometimes visible) heartbeats. They respond to what they see, mimicking people’s actions if they aren’t attacking in a bloodthirsty frenzy. They are, in short, living creatures aware of themselves and their surroundings, even if they appear to have taken over dead human bodies.

“Appear to” being the operative phrase. We see through the episodes that every body that revives was bitten/infected before death. (Or in one specific case, shortly after, but I haven’t seen the Battle of Unato myself.) The point being that the majority of the body’s organs would be still alive when the kabane gets it breathing again. In particular, the heart.

To kill a kabane, you have to destroy the heart. To prevent a body from rising as a kabane, you have to destroy the heart. Both of which are best done with shaped charges, because even before an infected person dies the kabane may have formed its iron cage, making ordinary weapons... ineffective.

Now we get into headcanon and speculation. Warning, there be spoilers (and weird biology) here!

You may be wondering if the kabane are an unprecedented monster. Zombies! Black smoke/fused colonies! Surely there’s nothing in nature that acts and feeds as a mob of individuals, then gathers into one massive form to travel to new hunting grounds?

Yes. There is. We call it a slime mold.

Now, slime molds aren’t psychokinetic, they don’t create iron cages, and they don’t break back apart into individuals once they’ve formed their “slug”. But they do have chemicals to order individual cells to “group together”, which would fit neatly with the “black blood” in canon. Inventing “white blood”, a chemical to split everything back into individuals again, is just a step of SF farther; justified by kabane being actual different bodies instead of single cells. Also various slime molds can be parasites (though mostly of plants) carried through liquids or spores if they land in an appropriately moist place. This fits well with being bite-spread (saliva to blood) or some unlucky souls getting infected through an open wound or scratch without getting bitten.

Now let’s get into the Stargate stuff. Ma’chello warning here!

(Yes, he deserves his own warning. Fridge Horror at the very least.)

Ma’chello, in the eps we see him or his influence, has the main goal of wiping out the System Lords. To that end he produced... various not at all ethical things, including a device that switched people’s minds between bodies and wouldn’t switch them back, and a page-turner infested with parasitic creations that targeted Goa’uld and drove anyone who wasn’t carrying a Goa’uld crazy. Apparently the better for them to encounter a System Lord or Jaffa and pass on the parasite. You can imagine for yourselves what was likely to happen to someone having a psychotic fit near a System Lord. We know the page turners were found in a sealed room that had dead bodies who had been a group of Goa’uld... and we can deduce their symbiotes were killed, and then the suddenly freed hosts couldn’t get out through the door that required System Lord tech to open from the inside, and died of thirst.

So. Yeah. Ma’chello... while apparently an unparalleled weapons-crafter, doesn’t really get human or animal behavior, and is exactly the kind of guy to find or create something that will wipe out Goa’uld and blithely let it loose without regard for the consequences to anyone else.

Consider if he found something kind of like a slime mold. (Kind of like army ants too, more on that later.) Probably an alien parasite/predator of alien animals, no interest in humans at all, originally. Infects something frog-oid, or rabbitish, or what have you. Takes out the higher brain, creates a new brain for itself by infecting the heart neurons (yes, those exist, look up sensory neurites), and protects that new brain with some kind of internal “skeleton” cage. Spreads and feeds, and when prey grow thin on the ground and hibernation isn’t enough to keep them from starving, all the individuals ball together as a lumpy, mildly psychokinetic beastoid like ants creating a bridge out of their own bodies, that crosses long distances and falls back apart in a fresh hunting ground.

Ma’chello would love this. The original critters wouldn’t be that smart, so he’d think unaffected humans could easily take them down. And the kabane infection, from what we can observe, kills almost all of the brain, and would definitely kill the Goa’uld in the process. Or it would, if Goa’uld didn’t usually destroy just about all parasites and diseases in their host.

Well, he has a way to get around that! Just tweak it so that “skeleton” makes a kind of biological equivalent to naquadah, which the System Lords have engineered their own biology to not attack. It probably wouldn’t even take much tweaking; you simply cannot get that much life-sustaining calories and “iron” from just blood, they have to be creating both of them somehow. (Also it can’t be iron and stop bullets to the heart, the physics doesn’t work. It has to be something nastier.) Weird alien fusion? Who knows. They’re doing it, it can be tweaked to do even more exotic things.

...Are you getting a Bad Feeling About This? Good.

Tomorrow: Unintended Consequences.

[halaxia]

cw | blood, injury, angst

The sun was bright, almost obnoxiously so, the air smelling of spring, sweets, and flowers. Birds chirped happily as they flew across the bright blue sky, some stopping to observe life beneath them from electrical wires that hung above while others continued their journey, once again singing their joyous tune.

It was a beautiful day, and you were dying.

It was supposed to be an easy mission: survey the area, take out the curse (a fourth grade, the report misinformed), and be on your way. However, the aforementioned “simple mission” took a turn for the worst and resulted in the difficult exorcism of a horde of vicious curses and Inumaki’s hands stained with your blood.

The collar of his uniform was unzipped, mouth opening and closing as he searched for something, anything he could say that wouldn’t curse you far more than you already had been. Just hold on, stay a little longer—he only wished he could offer you his reassurance through more than his pleading gazes and shaking hands.

“It’s not safe here, Toge,” you managed, looking up at the boy who’s lips were stained with his own blood from use of his cursed speech. “You shouldn’t—you can’t use your cursed technique anymore without hurting yourself. The veil hasn’t been lifted yet, th-”

You cut yourself off with a cough as blood sputtered from your lips and Inumaki’s hands applied more pressure to the deep wound in your abdomen, violet eyes widening with worry. The corners of your vision were beginning to darken, Inumaki’s face going in and out of focus before you. You were fading away—you could feel it, as could he.

He had called Ijichi numerous times to no avail (Inumaki’s phone had no signal while yours was shattered following a nasty blow dealt to you by the curse), the older man most likely trying to lower the veil after sensing something had gone awry—you always commended Ijichi on his perceptiveness.

Without a working phone, Inumaki couldn’t reach any of his fellow second years, nor could he his underclassmen, and Gojo was away God knows where on a business trip, though Inumaki was doubtful if his sensei would have been able to break through the veil, had he been there.

Nobody was coming.

A loud bang sounded from around you—it was likely another curse, clumsily stalking it’s prey before launching its attack. Inumaki was far too concerned with your blood seeping through the gaps of his fingers to worry about his surroundings.

“Toge, please,” you sobbed, not even having realized you’d begun crying until you heard your quivering voice plead with the blond. “I-I’m fine, really, I-”

More blood fell from your lips, and more tears welled up in Inumaki’s eyes and fell onto his flushed cheeks. The curse was getting closer, you could feel it.

“If you don’t kill that curse, we’ll both end up dead.” With as much strength as you could muster you pushed Inumaki away from you, leaving the curse just in his line of sight from where he sat a mere foot away from you. You met his worried look with a weak nod of reassurance before rolling him his throat spray which had fallen out of his pocket in his frenzy.

Biting back another coughing fit of blood to the best of your ability, you smiled.

“I’ll be fine, just hurry.”

Another loud bang, and Inumaki knew he could no longer ignore the beast that was quickly approaching. Everything after that happened far too quickly for Inumaki to recall—trying his best to look past the smeared blood on the outside of his throat spray, he downed the bottle quickly before attacking the curse nearly just as fast, and by utilizing both his cursed speech and the cursed weapon he’d borrowed from Maki, he exorcised the curse with such speed that even Gojo Satoru himself would have been impressed.

Unfortunately, Inumaki wasn’t fast enough.

The first thing Ijichi heard once the veil had been lifted was the guttural sound of sobs, and the first thing he saw upon rushing into the previously cursed alleyway was your limp body clutched in Inumaki’s arms.

His voice, hoarse from overuse, repeated your name over and over and over again, each time more desperate and hurt than the last.

“Don’t leave me,” he sobbed, your body still warm in his hands, your blood staining his uniform. “Don’t leave, please don’t leave, please…”

The sun was bright, and the air smelt of spring, sweets, and flowers. Birds chirped happily as they flew across the bright blue sky, some stopping on an adjacent rooftop to listen to Inumaki’s hopeless cries before continuing on their journey, singing their merry songs once more.

It was a beautiful day, and Inumaki had lost you.

[fortheloveof-sebastian]

Not So Little Things

Pairings: Sebastian x F!Reader, Imelda x Poppy

Summary: You receive unlikely advice from Imelda about how to focus on the little things in concern to your “overly friendly” boyfriend.

Warnings: kissing, fluff, brief (deserved?) bullying of Leander

Word Count: 3k

A/N: Granted, openly kissing each other in the 1800s at school, in front of teachers, probably wouldn’t realistically happen. But it does in the wizarding world, I’m making it canon. Also, I kind of fell into the grumpy x sunshine trope with Imelda and Poppy and fell in love with it. Enjoy!

“What are you looking at?”

Natty’s voice, warm like honey, washes over you. However, it does nothing to dampen the spark of anger you’re currently nurturing. At first you almost don’t notice her, until she drops her books down rather loudly on the table besides you.

“Oh, hi Natty,” you say absently.

Her brow furrows. “What is with you?”

In lieu of explaining, you motion across fhe Diviation classroom. A horde of other girls in your year surround Sebastian. The room lights up as he smiles, and his adoring fans giggle while he traces the lines in their palms and predicts their future with seasoned showmanship.

A ball of jealousy forms in the pit of your stomach, like you’ve swallowed something unsavory.

He holds their hands so gingerly, the placement of his fingers on the lines of their palm deliberate and earnest. The same fingers that danced across your skin, played with your hair, and now traitorously entertained the likes of those girls.

Your quill snaps in half as your fist tightens.

Quietly, reserving judgement, Natty rummages in her school bag until she finds a spare. “Here,” she says, proffering it.

“Thanks,” you mumble, both sheepish and apologetic.

One of the girls, a pretty redhead, seizes Sebastian’s hand and presses her palm against his so that their fingers are aligned. Of course, his are much larger, and this contends as an incredibly hilarious reason to collapse into another fit of uncontrollable giggles.

“He doesn’t mean anything by it,” Natty says, finally settling in besides you.

Your molars grind furiously together. In response, you manage to hiss back, “Exactly.”

“He’s just a stupid boy.”

“Yeah but he’s my stupid boy.”

Class begins and you’re left to ruminate in your anger. You can barely focus on anything that Professor Onai is saying, and she mercifully deigns not to call on you; it’s undecided how much of that was Natty’s influence, as you swore you saw her jerking her thumb across her neck several times when her mother looked over in your direction.

As class concludes, you shoot to your feet and make an immediate beeline for the door.

“You can’t run from your problems,” Natty calls.

You throw over your shoulder, “Watch me!”

A stream of students envelope you in a facade of isolated safety. Above the din of conversation in the hallway, you hear your name being shouted. Cursing, you hunker your shoulders in a bid to make yourself smaller, but it was no use. You once watched Sebastian chase a first year from one end of the castle to the other just to return a dropped book — if he wanted to talk to you, he would find a way.

He manages to make it within earshot then, slightly breathless, asks, “Are you running away from me?”

“No,” you insist. Trenched in despair, your gaze darts back and forth, searching for a possible exit. “Not so much running, particularly, as just walking very fast in the opposite direction.”

Sebastian growls in frustration.

You glance over your shoulder. He’s elbowing his way closer and closer to you, using his advantageously long strides to close the distance faster then you can create it.

“Y/N, wait.” His hand locks around your wrist and spins you around. You’re merely inches from his face, which makes it just all that much harder to concentrate. He orders, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Um.” You swallow. “Can we do this somewhere else?”

“Can you please inform what this is we’re doing? You ran out of class like a dragon was on your heels.”

You debate the rationale of hashing out your issues here in the midst of the gallery tower. Preferably, you would go somewhere private, but that would involve telling Sebastian the problem, which furthermore would lead to you staying rooted to the spot, as you couldn’t imagine him agreeing to put a pause to the conversation to find an empty classroom.

You weren’t going to get your way.

Carefully, you pry off Sebastian’s grip on your wrist. “You basically humiliated me in front of the entire class,” you tell him.

Sebastian blinks, confused. “What?”

“You were like…” you wave your hand, as if hoping to magically summon the appropriate word, “seducing those girls and they were falling all over you.”

“First off,” he says, “if I was seducing someone, you would know it. Secondly, I was just being friendly.”

“Yeah, but do they know that?”

Sebastian’s expression, his usual look of bemused ebullience, shifts. A matter of seriousness crosses his face, so quickly and without warning that you might’ve laughed at him otherwise. “Of course they know that. You’re my best girl.”

A fission cracks through your heart.

“I just — I wish you would show it,” you say, although that’s not exactly what you mean. Words are escaping you. Sebastian shows you, but then he also goes and does that with other girls, and it makes your worries surface all over again.

“You don’t think I show it enough?” Hurt flashes across his handsome features.

You run your hands over your face. “Sebastian—what I’m trying to say — the way you acted in class today, nobody would even know that we’re together.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he sharply replies.

Dread swallows you. You know that you’ve just pushed Sebastian very far from you, and there’s little chance in getting him back now.

The hallway has emptied, giving an echo to his words. You resist the urge to cry. You’re not necessarily upset as you are frustrated; frustrated that you feel this way, and frustrated that you’re not communicating it properly.

“Just forget it,” you say, voice wavering. Before he can see the first tear fall, you turn away from him. “Good luck on your match tonight.”

The only sound filling the Feast Hall is that of a kitchen elf, scrubbing the tiles and muttering about inconveniences. He, at least you thought it was a he, probably wouldn’t have shown his face if it wasn’t for the fact that you were the only one there; everyone else had bundled themselves in their warmest clothes and paraded out to the Quiddith pitch for the upcoming Slytherin versus Gryffindor match.

The roar of the stadium reached your ears even from your position, sprawled out on one of the benches in the Feast Hall. You half heartedly took a bite from your cold dinner.

There was a twinge in your chest, a pinch, that you couldn’t seem to ignore.

You’ve never skipped one of Sebastian’s games before. Even before you were together, you went to every single match. And now, here you were, wallowing in your own self pity, too humiliated and heartbroken to muster the strength to go out to the pitch and face him. It wasn’t like you were even going to talk to him, but just the thought of seeing him hurt like a punch to the gut.

From your view on the bench, a familiar Hufflepuff slides into view. “Y/N, are you still here?”

You nod, trying your best not to appear glum. “I’m not feeling well. But you’ll cheer for me, right?”

Poppy makes a face. “You’ll cheer for yourself! I’m not leaving you here all alone. C’mon.”

“Poppy, really, I —”

The smaller girl had already snatched up your hand before you could finish your protest. For someone her size, she was surprisingly strong. She drags you past the kitchen elf, who apparates himself, towards the massive double doors separating the Feast Hall from the rest of the castle. You stumble upon an impatient-looking Imelda leaning, hip and elbow, against a pillar.

“Imelda?” You look between them.

Maybe it was just a coincidence. Surely Imelda was waiting for someone else, or perhaps to mock anyone going to the match. Last week, during the match between Slytherin and Ravenclaw, Imelda had gotten suspended for the rest of the season for punching an opponent.

Despite your theories, however, Poppy breaks every single one by strolling right up to the disgruntled Slytherin and taking her hand. “All ready,” Poppy chirps.

Imelda looks less than thrilled to be holding hands but she doesn’t immediately bite off her head, or even argue. You don’t realize that you’re staring at the two of them in blatant confusion until Imelda returns your stare with a pointed glare.

“Are you just going to stand there with your mouth hanging open like that?” Imelda asks. “We’re already late because Poppy insisted on getting your sorry arse.”

Poppy swats her arm. “Be nice.”

“Um.” You blink. “I didn’t know you guys were together.”

“It’s something new,” Poppy says.

She beams at Imelda. It’s quite infectious, her enthusiasm, and you find yourself smiling. You never would’ve pictured them together, but now that you were witness to it, it was undeniably adorable.

“Let’s go. All of the good seats are going to be taken and I want that Ravenclaw bitch to see my face again.”

With an indignant sniff, Imelda strides off, Poppy skipping after her like a bouncing puffskein. It’s subtle, but you notice Imelda glance down at Poppy with poorly disguised affection. Ever the traitor, your mind turns to Sebastian.

Even Imelda, the grumpiest person you know, makes it clear that she’s with Poppy.

Why was it so hard for Sebastian?

It’s a quite distance from the castle to the pitch. You shuffle behind Imelda and Poppy, grateful for the latter’s nonstop chattering. You don’t think you could collect your thoughts enough to hold a coherent conversation. Fortunate for you, though, the only person who typically could keep up with Poppy’s talking was Poppy herself.

You’re about a hundred yards from the entrance to the pitch when Poppy spots something in the tall grass and darts off with the vague promise to return shortly.

Your stomach plummets. Unlike Poppy, you don’t enjoy Imelda’s company. Especially today, when you’re already feeling low. Ever since you beat Imelda’s time in the broom trial, she had been painfully short with you.

“Why were you alone? Aren’t you, like, courting Sebastian or something?” Imelda asks, disinterest coloring her tone.

Awkwardly, you clear your throat. “I am. I just, um, wasn’t feeling well.”

You cough weakly.

Imelda doesn’t respond right away. Her gaze remains fixed straight ahead, undoubtedly tracking Poppy to make sure she doesn’t get lost. Then, she says, “I know we’re not friends, but you don’t have to lie to me. I saw Sebastian in Diviation today.”

You open your mouth to reply but then promptly shut it again. You’re not sure what to say — how many other people noticed?

“Everyone noticed,” she clarifies.

A groan escapes you. Embarrassed, you slap your hands over your face to cover it.

The start of the Quidditch match is preceded by a deafening cheer. You hear the whistle, then peer between your fingers to watch the miniature-looking players rocket into the sky.

Sebastian happened to be quite talented on a broom, but his reckless and competitive nature made you nervous. The stakes of today’s game would only exacerbate his willingness to ensure a win for Slytherin.

“You can’t let it bother you,” Imelda says, bringing you back. Poppy’s head can be seen, popping in and out of the tall grass.

You exhale. “Yeah.”

“I like to say that I know him well enough, considering that we’re on the same team.” Imelda stuffs her chin further into her scarf. The tips of her cheeks are pink. “He’s just one of those infuriating people person who doesn’t realize he’s crossing any boundaries.”

“Maybe you’re right,” you agree hesitantly. “You’re lucky to have Poppy.”

Imelda tears her gaze away from her girlfriend long enough to scowl. “Please. She’s the second biggest flirt in the school. She doesn’t realize it, of course, because she’s just being nice to everyone. But people misinterpret it.”

You consider this.

“How do you handle it?” You ask Imelda.

The Slytherin lifts a shoulder. “It’s hard sometimes. I try to remember that it’s harmless, it’s the little things she does that reassure me.”

“Imelda, Imelda! I found this for you!”

Poppy bursts out of the grass. She has something in her hand, and you don’t know what it is until she steps away from Imelda to admire her work. A bright yellow flower sits in Imelda’s dark hair.

Poppy claps. “I knew it would look so pretty on you and I was right.”

Imelda pointedly glances at you as if to say see.

You find yourself smiling back at her.

The three of you resume your journey to the Quidditch pitch, the colorful tents rippling in the wind along with the four house flags surrounding the stadium at equidistant intervals. Rows and rows of students fill the bleachers, displaying an array of interest in the game. Some were actually invested in quidditch, while others used the game as an excuse to be sociable or avoid homework.

You maneuver through the crowd, mumbling apologies, until Poppy finds who she’s looking for: Natty, Amit, and Ominis are all huddled together, along with Garreth and Leander. Natty waves as you approach.

“Shoo, Leander,” Garreth says. His arms shoot out and he pushes his fellow Gryffindor onto a lower bench, effectively opening up enough room for you, Poppy, and Imelda to sit. Leander concedes, but not without a betrayed look.

There’s a moment of silent confusion as the former students absorb the cheery yellow flower in Imelda’s hair. Amit lifts a crooked finger, “Imelda, is that —”

“Do you value your life, man?” Garreth asks.

Bickering erupts between Amit and Garreth, joined in by Natty and Poppy.

You drown it out by turning your attention towards the ovular field. You instantly search for Sebastian and spot him cruising above the stadium, appearing relaxed, although you know he’s anything but.

“He doesn’t play well when you’re not here, you know,” says Ominis from besides you. He’s drumming his fingers on his knee.

You feel a twinge of regret. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Hm,” Ominis replies, unimpressed.

Why did no one believe you?

The announcer bellows, “Gryffindor, two hundred points! Slytherin, still behind at only sixty points!”

Quidditch players arc over your heads, emerald and maroon colored uniforms flapping and inciting a gust of wind. There’s plenty to look at during a game — the Beaters, the Chasers; the crowd; the professors, dressed in house colors and pretending not to care about the score — but you can only watch Sebastian.

Seemingly on a whim, he glides closer to where you are in the student section. His brown eyes meet yours. From your seat, you observe him as his spirits visibly lift, and he smiles.

He races off.

“If you care about me or my pocketbook, you won’t miss anymore games,” Ominis comments. “I bet Garreth ten galleons that Slytherin wins.”

You laugh. “That was your first mistake.”

“Betting on Slytherin?”

“No, against Garreth.”

“Sallow from Slytherin has spotted the golden snitch, and Gryffindor is right on his tail!” The announcer declares, voice ringing loudly. There’s a noticeable shift in interest as the crowd focuses on Sebastian’s emerald colored uniform and the Gryffindor chasing after him.

With your untrained eye, it takes you a moment to spy the snitch. It flickers erratically, flashing in the sun above Gryffindor’s goal posts.

“Go Sebastian!” You yell, cupping your hands over your mouth.

Amit, Natty, and Poppy cheer with you, along with Imelda. Garreth and Leader, starkly opposed, shout encouragements at their Gryffindor seeker. Ominis panic grabs your hand and leans into you as you narrate the game to the best of their abilities. When it gets too loud, he can’t hear the announcer, and prefers anyways to listen to your comments since you focus mainly on Sebastian.

Your voice rises and falls as Sebastian races after the snitch, weaving in and out of the podiums. “He’s close! Oh, he almost got hit by a Bludger!”

Ominis grip tightens. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” you reassure him.

Your narration reaches a crescendo as the snitch disappears behind the stadium, the two seekers hot on its trail. Breath hitching in your throat, you shoot to your feet. If Slytherin loses this game, you were never going to be able to forgive yourself.

Unwittingly, Imelda’s words enter your thoughts.

You had to admit, begrudgingly, that she made sense. You couldn’t change Sebastian, or his tendency to be overly friendly. In fact, it was something you loved about him. It was the small things that mattered.

And, if one thing was clear to you now, it was that despite being upset with his actions, you still loved him dearly and wanted the best for him.

Murmurs rise as the seekers fail to return.

On the field the game continues, albeit somewhat slowly. Everyone is waiting for the snitch to be caught, inevitably changing the tide of the game. You held Ominis’s hand tightly. Slytherin’s only shot at winning was if Sebastian caught the snitch, subsequently preventing Gryffindor and securing the one hundred and fifty points.

Garreth bends over Amit and Natty. “Ready to pay up, Gaunt?”

Ominis’s only response is a gesture that could be considered poor sportsmanship. Normally you would’ve laughed but you’re wound too tightly with nerves, holding you together.

A stream of emerald across the sky, then maroon.

Tension fills the stadium, then —

“Sebastian Sallow from Slytherin has the snitch! One hundred and fifty points are awarded to Slytherin, and they win the match!”

Jumping up and down on your feet, you cheer with the rest of the Slytherins as a roar of excitement rumbles through the stadium. Even the other houses could respect a good match, and an even better play on Sebastian’s behalf.

Laughter erupts as Garreth digs into his robes and then miserably hands Ominis a pouch of galleons.

“Butterbeers on Ominis!” You shout, smiling so wide that it hurts. Besides you, Natty’s eyes widen. “What? Is something —”

Diverting your attention to whatever has claimed hers, you discover Sebastian hovering on his broom only a few feet away.

You’re struck by how unfairly handsome he is. Every time you see him, it’s like the first time all over again; a hand reaches into your chest and squeezes your heart.

The wind has ruffled his hair and pinkened his freckled cheeks. His shoulders heave, either from excitement or exertion, but he’s never looked happier than he does now. You know how much he loves Quidditch and how undoubtably thrilled he is about winning the match.

He prompts his broom forward.

Sebastian eclipses your vision, turning so that he’s sideways in front of you, still straddling the broom. He smells deliciously of sweat and the freshly cut grass on the field, and something else; fire, your brain decides in a haze, the danger of an opened flame but warm and safe like a hearth.

His brown eyes twinkle. “This,” he says, grinning broadly, “is how you know I’m seducing someone.”

In a fluid move, Sebastian scoops one hand behind your head to cradle it, then pulls you close and presses his lips to yours. A cry of delight breaks out as he deepens the kiss. For you, however, the rest of the world falls away, and all you can focus on is pouring yourself into this boy. You try to impart your apology, your forgiveness, your love for him, and you can taste on his lips that he understands.

Another shriek of approval echoes as he triumphantly pumps his fist into the air as he continues to kiss you with unabashed abandon, holding up the golden snitch. Finally he pulls away as a few professors start to protest, but instead of looking ashamed he looks even more exhilarated than before.

You grin wildly at each other.

He’s swept away by his teammates, then, and you watch his retreating form as he celebrates.

Your friends and several strangers pat you on the back and congratulate you for the kiss, making you blush. Imelda is last, the yellow flower still sitting in her dark hair. “Maybe with Sebastian it’s just not so little things.”

[messitydepressity]

Fic Prompt Request. Joel & Tommy meet Tess! (This is canon verse, not a no-outbreak AU)

Please, and thank you so much!

Of course!

I did not expect to love this as much I did, lowkey might become a two parter.

This is in Joel’s POV, and I think I’d like to explore Tess’s.

Also keeping it under 1k was a lie I told myself lmao.

Anywho, I hope this is good enough 🫣

—

“What the fuck, Tommy?” Coated in gore and fucking livid, he could ring that dumb fuckers neck for the shit he just pulled.

They’d just spent the better part of five fucking days scoping this place out and sleeping in the icy rain.

And his brother had just pissed it away.

“She came out of nowhere, it ain’t my fault that she got in the way!” Tommy’s hissin’ and spittin’ in his face like a wet cat.

It only serves to make Joel’s anger ratchet higher.

“So you take her the fuck out. We’ve been over this, it’s us or them.” Throwing the broken chunk of wood he’d used to bludgeon the last clicker at Tommy’s feet in a fit, he presses the butt of his hands into his eyes.

There was enough medicine in that urgent care to set them up for a goddamn season.

Winter is getting ready to truly set in and the threadbare tent they’ve been staying in just over the border of Connecticut isn’t going to fucking cut it.

They’d needed that stash to bribe their way into a decent shelter within Boston QZ before the snow started to stick.

It’s bad enough that it’ll take another few weeks of hard walking to get there.

“I ain’t killing just for the hell of it, I’m still human. If you want to slaughter everything with a pulse, have at it.” He leaves Joel alone and seething, after throwing his hands up in exasperation and disgust.

Fine by him, he’ll let the drama queen take his walk and circle back to the medical center by himself.

One of them has to make sure they don’t die from exposure.

The place is still crawling with the half-rotted fungus heads, more stalkers than anything, but the stray click can still be heard leeching out of the building.

Fuck it, he’s going to die at some point.

Dropping in through the same section of collapsed roof as he and Tommy had used earlier, he holds still in his squat and listens for any sign of impending death.

Easing to his feet, he clicks his flashlight on and crosses it over his gun hand.

If that woman from earlier is still here, he won’t hesitate.

Glass cracks and splinters softly under his measured steps, the small examination rooms he passes already well and truly pilfered.

There’s a small locked storage closet with an old digital keep pad in the center of the building that’s rumored to house a fuck ton of medicine.

From antibiotics to Oxy.

It’s old, and not as potent, but it’s still worth a fair amount.

The raiders he and Tommy had taken out last week had been bragging about their plans to clear the place and claim the stash.

His brother hadn’t bitched when they’d slit their throats in the middle of the night and took their map.

A loud whack and a bellow have him spinning on his heel in the waiting room.

He’d expected more infected, not more men.

There are three of them crowding in a smaller figure behind the receptionist's desk and one of them is nursing a busted nose and spitting blood.

A second man hits his knees clutching himself, but the third gets his hands around the neck of the same woman who’d alerted a fucking horde earlier.

Jesus. Maybe Tommy was right to leave her be.

Later, he’ll tell himself that he had intervened because he saw the low-slung duffel overflowing with the very same shit he’d come for, that he’d only wrapped his arms around the slimy fuckers neck out of his and Tommy’s need to get off the road.

It was most definitely not because he could see the hand that slithered under the waistband of her jeans once she’d started to black out.

He’s not good enough of a person for that, not anymore.

And yet, as he slings that duffel overflowing his shoulder, he stays.

Crouched next to her as she gasps in gulping breaths while rolling onto all fours from where she’d hit the floor like a damn rag doll, he waits until her green eyes cut to him before standing.

He’s no stranger to the malice that rolls in her gaze.

“You alright?” He asks backing up a few steps and sliding his pistol out of its holster.

She’s eyeing the bag that rests against the back of his hip with a calculating gaze, no doubt trying to figure out how to get her hands on it.

Not fucking likely.

“I’d be better if you weren’t taking my shit.” She spits, voice lined with venom. Cocking a brow at her, he takes her in.

She’s probably five or so years younger than him, maybe Tommy’s age and the way she glares at him says that she ain’t one to back down from a fight.

As if the three beat-up men he’d taken out weren’t evidence enough.

Broken nose might have walked away, but the one she’d kneed in the nuts was bleeding like a stuck pig before Joel had plunged a knife into the soft spot of his temple.

“Finders keeper and whatnot, darlin’” she bristles at the saccharine sweet lull of the pet name before reaching behind her.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Sparing his brother a glance as he comes around the corner with his gun trained at her head, he’s more than a little miffed to find him gore-free, blood-free, and dirt-free.

Somehow, Joel always comes out smelling like shit while Tommy sparkles like a goddamn rose.

And shows up after the hard shit is done.

“You boys even know what to do with all of that?” Now that Tommy’s covering his ass, he drops back into a squat to sit level with her.

“I’m assuming you want to barter with FEDRA, nobody else is willing to deal in anything bigger than a pill bottle or two, and a whole duffel is a fucking target.” She’s smart, and a fucking threat of she’s reading him that easy.

“What are we doin’ Joel.” He hasn’t known what the fuck he was doing since they’d left Texas, and this is no exception.

They’ve been winging it and hoping like hell it continues to work out.

“That what you were plan’n? There ain’t a QZ ‘round here, and travelin’ soldiers are more likely to shoot you before hear’n you out.” Shifting into a half crouch of her own, she studies him.

They’re two predators mentally circling each other while they look for weaknesses.

“I have a connection waiting for me.” Her jaw clenches and her chin juts out as her hands flex in the moldy carpet beneath them. “I’ll take you there, but only if we split it.” She could be bluffing, could be waiting until they’re out of this death trap to try to snatch the bag and run.

But they’d been banking on finding the sketchiest looking FEDRA soldier once they made it into Massachusetts, and hoping like hell that offering to trade contraband wouldn’t get them shot.

If she’s got a hookup, they need her.

Fuck.

“If you so much as think about fucking us over, I’m putting a bullet in your head.” Lips peeling back in a sneer, she nods.

Good enough for now.

Reluctantly holding his hand out to the woman he’d ripped Tommy a new one for not killing earlier, he introduces himself.

“I’m Joel, this is my brother Tommy.” Her hand clamps around his in a vicious grip as he pulls her up.

Shouldering past him, she pauses by the door that Tommy’s still hovering by.

“Tess, now let’s get the fuck out of here.” Ma’am, yes ma’am. He thinks sarcastically as she leads the way out like she’s the head of their group, and not the one with the shit end of this deal.

Trouble, he’s just invited trouble into his life, he just knows it.

—

Tysm for the prompt!🖤

@bumblepony

[ramblings-of-a-mad-cat]

The Rueful Tale of Philip Wittebane

Why Emperor Belos is the Greatest Villain in Modern Media 

I’ve been sitting on this one for a long time. Full disclosure, I never shut up. My username is no joke. So be prepared for me to go on and on. But I unironically think this character is a masterpiece, that he leaves his contemporaries like Bill Cipher and Horde Prime trailing behind, and I’ve been itching to talk about why. Let’s dive in.

Chapter 1 - The Myth.

Belos is first introduced as an idea, an overarching threat that looms over the heroes and their world. He starts out as an enigma, a mystery, and gradually, the layers are peeled back to reveal the monster underneath. In Season 1, the antagonistic force that The Owl House deals with is less Belos himself, and more the world he creates. Because what he represents is in total opposition to the morals of The Owl House crew and to the very message of this show: Acceptance. This is a through-line that remains consistent about the character to the very end, but we see hints of it from the first episode. Little things like how the prison is called the “Conformitorium.” One of the first things that makes Belos a terrific villain is that his very nature is in conflict with that of the protagonists. This is a battle of ideals, and we as an audience are persuaded to see things the way the heroes do, and understand why Belos is wrong. 

Yet he remains in the shadows throughout the first season, creating slow build-up and a good reveal to his character. Instead, we see the impact that his reign has had on the Boiling Isles, and initially the Coven System is presented as an ideological debate. The story toys with the idea that it might even be a good thing, that Eda is ignorant for her resistance.  For a very long time, we know precious little about Belos apart from his image. Even when we meet him, he is posturing and misrepresenting himself as a prophet for The Titan, and he does it all from behind a mask. Figuratively and literally, he conceals his true nature. We don’t learn the real truth about Belos until Season 2. We don’t even learn his real name. He’s built a mythology for himself in The Boiling Isles, but while other villains might embrace these lies and choose to believe them, Belos is a little different. By no means is he in touch with who he really is or why he feels the way he does…but unlike most villains who fit into this trope, Belos disdains his image as much as he does anything else in the Isles. He prefers his real name. 

As the story of The Owl House develops and the characters are fleshed out, as we learn more about this world, Emperor Belos’ disguise is slowly stripped away, as are the lies and propaganda his regime has established. Supposedly, The Isles were in complete chaos until Belos turned up, yet when Luz and Lillith travel back in time to the “savage ages” we see a world that is happy and free. The clues about Belos are pre-set well before the actual moments of revelation. Notably, a book about Grimwalkers can be seen at the beginning of Eclipse Lake. During the scene where we see him unmasked for the first time, as he shares dialogue with none other than Hunter. That’s not a coincidence, anymore than his nostalgia for the human realm as we learn that he’s been there before. The truth is hiding in plain sight, and many viewers picked up on the hints at the time. That Belos was not who he said he was, that he was likely human. Fans guessed that there was something off about Hunter, and Belos was behind it. 

It is here that Belos deviates from expected tropes. 

When a villain is initially presented as a monster, but the following installment provides them with backstory and context for why they are the person they’ve become…normally, this is the part where said villain gains sympathetic qualities. At least, the memorable villains do. One would assume that in Season 2, when we learn where Belos comes from and why he turned out this way…that we could see things from his point of view. That we could see another side to him. Even if he’s still in the wrong, there must be some explanation for his actions, surely? Something that would earn him compassion from the audience. But that’s not what happens. The scene in Eclipse Lake shows us his face, making it easier to personify him. It shows him being softer with Hunter, gentle with him…but there is still the uncomfortable air of manipulation. Which symbolizes the journey that the audience will take with Belos. Upon learning his origins,  we understand him even better…and as a result, we hate him all the more. Any fragment of fondness is snuffed out when we realize that his more likable qualities are not and were never real. This is why we learn about Philip before we learn who he really is. 

Now typically, the greatest villains are the ones who, in another story, could have been heroes. The villains who have justifiable motives, the villains who feel conflicted about their villainous actions. In essence, the most memorable antagonists are the ones that the audience cannot help but root for, the ones they hope to see redeemed. Prince Zuko from ATLA is an iconic example, Catra from SPOP is another. We as an audience have sympathy for villains who are in pain, who could, under the right circumstances, be brought back into the light. That is fundamentally averse to everything about Belos, not just as an antagonist but as a person. The man is irredeemable, and there are several key moments in the story that prove it. A villain must first wish to be redeemed in order for it to happen, they have to make that decision themselves, and Belos will never do it. Yet he exists as proof that villains do not have to be sympathetic to be well-crafted. They can be complex and multi-layered while still being pure evil. Belos does not earn our sympathy, but honestly, that’s a good thing. A man like him should not inspire sympathy. 

If we want to understand Belos, we’ll have to go back to the beginning.

Chapter 2 - The Past

(Artwork by @a-magpie-in-gravesfield)

One of the signs that a character has been written with care, is that they can be broken down to the essentials and then put back together like pieces of a puzzle. If a viewer can analyze Belos as I’m doing right now, examining his life from start to finish, and understand exactly why he is the way he is...that can only mean he was masterfully crafted. This often traces back to their childhood and family, which is especially true for Emperor Belos. Or should I say, Philip Wittebane. Because a psychiatrist would have a field day with this lonely, hateful old man and all of his hangups, which all stem from his traumatic backstory. Philip’s goal is straightforward and horrifically simple, his motive is unwavering. He wants to eradicate all of the Witches in the Boiling Isles, and then return to the human realm where he likely assumes he’ll be hailed as a hero. (At least initially. That last part would change in Season 3, and I’ll talk about that down the road.) This is in spite of the centuries he has spent in The Demon Realm, interacting with Witches time and again. Nothing has widened his perspective. Nothing will change his mind. There are two reasons for this. The first is plain and simple racism. But the second reason…is Caleb. 

We learn the truth about Philip in Thanks To Them, though the story was heavily foreshadowed in Hollow Mind. Growing up in the seventeenth century, he was raised by his older brother Caleb after they were orphaned. When they moved to Gravesfield, Caleb became a Witch Hunter in an effort to be accepted by the village, and trained Philip in the trade as well. At some point, Caleb encountered the Witch known as Evelyn, and the two of them left for The Demon Realm. Philip set off in pursuit, carrying a jagged knife. From here, we don’t know exactly what happened, and this is where the portraits from Hollow Mind can fill in the blanks. Because even in Season 3, likely due to executive meddling, the truth is still obscured and left ambiguous. However, eagle-eyed fans put the portraits together and deduced how this sorry tale ended. Philip journeyed through the Demon Realm until he found Caleb. By that point, he had already begun to consume Palismen, as Caleb is shown embracing Philip in his hidden, monstrous form. This act from Caleb is a symbol of acceptance, in total opposition to Philip’s mindset. He accepts his brother, even in an inhuman state. But Philip cannot return the favor. Dana Terrace has confirmed that Caleb and Evelyn fell in love, that Evelyn was pregnant. But Philip could not tolerate such a reality. 

It is heavily implied that Philip murdered Caleb, though the details are vague. It’s possible that he was aiming for Evelyn, and Caleb shielded her. That would make a lot of sense, as by his own admission, Philip “tried to save” Caleb’s soul. However, one of the portraits shows Caleb likewise holding a knife, looking frightened and upset, as though Philip has challenged him to a duel. Philip was also stunned into silence at Luz’s accusation that “you did it to him first.” Specifically that Philip/Belos had stabbed him in the back. Whether Luz was talking about Hunter or Caleb, whether or not she knew the double meaning of her words, Belos was clearly thinking about Caleb, evidenced by hallucinating an image of him only hours later. (To see images of all the Hollow Mind portraits in detail, follow this link.)

It’s not clear what the circumstances were, and Belos is not exactly a reliable narrator. The murder of his brother had a profound impact on him that lasted through the centuries. But regardless of the details, Belos being responsible for Caleb’s death is spelled out about as directly as Disney would allow in For The Future, with a hallucination of Caleb that features that same jagged dagger floating over his head. The blade is stained with blood and is pointing at Caleb’s head. It’s an image that evokes thoughts of the Shakespeare play Macbeth - a tragedy that depicts a noble hero descending into darkness and murder. Quite appropriate for Belos, who unfailingly views himself as the good guy, as the savior of humanity, the Witchhunter General. He’ll do “anything” to save humanity from “evil.” To that end, Philip murdered his brother, and not just once. I said before that a psychiatrist would have a field day with this man, and truly, they could write an award winning paper on the psyche of Philip Wittebane,and the way he constantly recreates Caleb’s death by means of the Grimwalkers. 

We know little about them, but Grimwalkers appear to be imperfect clones created from the remains of a corpse. Which means Belos preserved Caleb’s body and harvests his DNA for this project. Every time he builds a Grimwalker, Belos attempts to reset his relationship with Caleb back to a state that he prefers. He tries to rewrite history, rewrite his own memories of Caleb so that he needn’t face the fact that the big brother he idolized, actually evolved beyond his prejudice. But it never works. Each and every time, the Grimwalkers “choose to betray” Belos. Just as Caleb “betrayed” Philip by leaving with Evelyn. This pattern never changes, yet Belos won’t stop trying. Paradoxically, he also seems to give up on the Grimwalkers remarkably fast. We can see the exact moment Belos decides to kill Hunter, and it’s for no other reason than because Hunter has learned the truth and demanded an explanation. It’s not surprising that Belos would define this as a “betrayal” but it does mean we should take that version of events with a grain of salt.

Because Belos is a liar, through and through, and his perception of events is warped by his narcissistic tendencies and his seemingly indestructible bigotry. Rather than try to salvage his relationship with Hunter, Belos wrote him off as a lost cause, contaminated by the truth. How many Grimwalkers were killed for asking a question? For learning something that he didn’t want them to know? For talking out of turn? For failing to live up to the idealized vision of a ghost who they don’t even know about? Belos is an old man knee-deep in denial, and he intentionally perpetuates the cycle of abuse on innocent children for no other reason than because they have Caleb’s face. He wants someone to fulfill his fantasy of Caleb making the “right” choice and helping him wipe out the Witches. He wants to hear Caleb tell him that he was right to do what he did. But it will never happen. 

(Artwork by @pespillo)

Chapter 3 - The Other

Unresolved familial issues aren't all there is to it, though. There are also his values. As we’ve talked about, there are two contributing factors at play. The unresolved issues with Caleb, but that wouldn’t be enough on it’s own to motivate a plan of genocide. Such a thing comes from raw, unfettered hatred of witchkind, from a kind of racism. A fear and intolerance for anyone perceived as "other" and the dehumanization of such people that comes with it. Which feeds into his brother-issues as well. Belos surely blames Evelyn for “corrupting” Caleb. Yet if we want to know where this prejudice began, we need look no further than his upbringing. The man hates Witches, partially because of Evelyn, but partially because he was a Witch Hunter. In Connecticut. During the 1600s. There’s a very simple answer if one does the math. Belos is a Christian man. Specifically, he’s a Puritan. If you know your history, you know the Puritans were a rigid, intolerant society that were so extremist in their faith that it bordered on resembling satire. This is the environment Philip Wittebane grew up in.

Of course, this is never directly spelled out in the dialogue, because doing so on a Disney Channel kid’s show is…never going to happen. But we know it’s true. In Dana’s initial concept, The Boiling Isles was actually supposed to be Hell. Belos is a God-fearing Puritan who believes anything “sinful” is evil and must be purged. Witches were seen as consorts of The Devil, they would be no exception. So there we have it. In the series finale, Dana actually sneaks a more overt reference into the script. After possessing The Titan’s corpse, Belos screams “Finally. I can cleanse this Perdition MYSELF!” The word “Perdition” is defined as “a state of eternal punishment and damnation into which a sinful and impenitent person passes after death.” Philip despises The Boiling Isles, and he always will. Because despite having lived there himself for centuries, it will always be a land of sin occupied by the Devil’s children. That’s all that matters. 

This outlook is no accident. This is an essential cornerstone of Belos’ villainy and his character, but also of the themes being explored, and the greater story being told. I said before that acceptance is the message of The Owl House, and one of the greatest problems with religion is how intolerant it can often be of anything that does not “fall in line” with its perspective. Belos is a physical manifestation of everything that’s wrong with The Bible, or at least how it’s often interpreted in modern day. He is hateful, prejudiced, obsessed with his own vision for how the world ought to be, and completely incapable of entertaining the notion that maybe he’s wrong, that the world is bigger than his perception of it. He will not tolerate anyone or anything that contradicts his point of view.

Without getting too political or topical, there are many real life parallels to be drawn from the conflict of this show. People fighting for their rights and freedoms against oppression that is fueled and supported by religious communities. Belos proclaiming that he will “cleanse this perdition” is him announcing his (second) attempt to commit genocide on the Witches. In that line, we hear absolute rage toward the world he despises. The mask has completely fallen away, and in that moment, we see Belos for who he truly is. Perhaps the scariest part is how people like him are not uncommon in the world. What’s more, since it bears repeating - this was his second attempt to wipe out all life in the Boiling Isles! People who are evil enough to attempt genocide do not stop just because they didn’t succeed. They keep trying. People like Belos are desperate to erase the group they hate. 

If that wasn’t enough, Belos is even more dangerous, conceptually, than some of his contemporaries. His faith and how he exploits the idea of faith, help him stand out against characters like Ozai from ATLA and Horde Prime from SPOP are cruel, sadistic, and mad with power, just like Belos. The difference is, those characters weren’t raised in a Puritan society. You see, despite his racism, despite his overinflated sense of self-importance…Belos does not have a God Complex. He sees himself as the hero of the story, but not as the Creator. Because of how he was raised, he would never see himself as a God. In his mind, there’s another who occupies that role. When Belos rules the Boiling Isles, notice how the mythos he creates for himself places him firmly as the second in command. He establishes himself as a Prophet for The Titan. He becomes the “Jesus Christ” of the story. Even when Belos is lying through his teeth and propping himself up, his comfort zone seems to be telling himself and the world that he is not self-interested, and is merely representing the will of a higher power.

Herein lies the danger of the lies that Belos is selling. The Coven system is terrifying because it doesn’t immediately seem so bad. Ever since Harry Potter, having magical “groups” for your characters to be sorted into has been the trend. Within the Boiling Isles, the Covens are popular and normalized. It is “cool” to graduate and join your Coven. Never mind that doing otherwise is literally illegal. It is not hard to envision an equivalent to the Coven System being established in the real world as a means to control people disguised as the newest meme, convenience, or fad. The power of a cult can be staggering. Again, I won’t point fingers, but I suspect we all have something particular in mind.

But this works extremely well with The Owl House, with its messaging, and with its protagonist.

This frightening, uncompromising bigotry from our villain, as well as the utter devotion to such values, is part of what makes Luz such an effective protagonist for this tale, and why she makes such a perfect foil to Belos. She is the type of person who Belos should realistically loathe with all his heart. She’s a bisexual neurodivergent woman of color. She is everything that Puritan society would recoil from. Yet that’s mostly saved for symbolism, (again, the religious aspects of this show are kept to subtext) as Belos initially appears to accept Luz and attempt to forge solidarity between the two of them as fellow humans. Whether or not he was being truthful, who knows. You never know with Belos. Perhaps he was simply excited to see another human again after so many years, and therefore willing to overlook her “flaws.” But he did indicate that he would show mercy toward another human as, for the purposes of the show, it’s Witches that he hates. This presents Luz with the opportunity to reject his offer and continue to be a fantastic ally to The Boiling Isles, thereby setting a great example for viewers. Yet, Luz also checks herself. She fears becoming like Belos, even though she needn’t, and she feels tremendous guilt for having inadvertently helped him even though she didn’t know any better. We could all learn from Luz’s attitude.

She and Belos are compared and contrasted quite a bit throughout this show, despite how utterly different they are. The Titan is shown to accept Luz immediately, as opposed to Philip, who suspects that The Titan was deliberately impeding his effort to learn magic. Which creates yet another example of him coping with failure by rewriting history, when he invents the story of being The Titan’s prophet. Through Luz, the duality of Belos is explored and later subverted. We meet Philip Wittebane through his diary, and he seems like a decent man at first. Then we see the truth, first that Philip is truthfully a wicked, scheming murderer…and then we see his real identity. This is, itself, a twist on typical tropes. In any other show, Luz might have clung to the image of Philip, insisting that it wasn’t all an act, that he must be in there somewhere. (This idea is even mocked during his death scene, and we’ll cover that too.) But once again, Philip is not some long-forgotten version of Belos. He changed his name for no other reason than because he was getting a reputation and needed to start over. He prefers the name Philip, for he still sees himself as a human among witches, a hero among monsters. As opposed to Luz, who embraces both realms. She is a “child of the human realm, student of the demon realm.” Even as a teenager, Luz is already wiser than a man who has lived for centuries.

Chapter 4 - The End

The death of Philip Wittebane is appropriately pathetic, and once again plays on the expectation of more common tropes. When he is ripped from The Titan, he materializes as his younger self. He thanks Luz for saving him from the curse that ailed him, causing him to act as evil as he did. Yet it is immediately obvious, to the audience and to Luz, that this is just an act. He compares himself to Eda, but Eda’s curse never affected her personality, and it didn’t take her four hundred years to master it. No, Luz and the others have been fooled too many times, they’re not getting fooled this time. Lesser shows might have had this be genuine. Might have let Philip return as a friend or even pass on, absolving him of all responsibility by having him be “under a spell” for the duration of his crimes. But The Owl House doesn’t do this.

Instead, we get one last half-measure, one final attempt from Belos to manipulate the characters and save himself. He’s always been a charlatan, so this is to be expected. What sells this idea is the expression on Luz’s face. We can see just how done she is with Belos and his lies, and in that moment, clouds gather, and boiling rain falls. Luz is unaffected, and this appears to be no accident - but Emperor Belos slowly dissolves, eventually giving up on the facade. The rain figuratively and literally strips away his disguise, revealing him for the monster that he is. While it’s not clear if this is the will of The Titan, or if it’s actually Luz’s doing, it doesn’t particularly matter. Either way, she doesn’t lift a finger to help him. Either way, the irony of this devout Christian succumbing to what seems to be a literal act of God is absolutely priceless.

In his final moments, Belos demonstrates his fundamental flaw, one last time. “You’ll be just as bad…just as conniving…just as evil…and just as unforgivable as THOSE WITCHES!” For a brief moment, the dialogue sets you up one more time, to think that he’s falling back on expected tropes. The audience expects him to say “you’ll be just as bad as I was.” Or something to that effect. That is the implied ending of that thought, to anyone with a shred of self-awareness. But Belos doesn’t have that. As The Titan said, he cares for nothing but being the hero in his own version of reality. To the very end, he blames the Witche for everything. To the very end, he is incapable of seeing the error of his ways or taking responsibility for his actions. His racism shines through his last words, one final plea for Luz, and the world, to see things his way. “We’re human. We’re better than this!” As if Belos is better than anyone. As if Luz hasn’t made it abundantly clear where she stands. As if Belos didn’t surrender what made him “human” for the sake of fighting the Witches. In his last breath, Philip Wittebane clings ferociously to a world that no longer exists. He is a fossil, a remnant of the bygone Puritan era, extinguished in the light of a brighter, more tolerant future. Belos dies with the past, as well he should. 

At the end of the day, the biggest and most consistent problem with Belos is his refusal to change. He cannot or will not learn any kind of lesson from his experiences. Nothing will challenge his worldview. He is a hypocrite who decries witchkind despite having used more magic than most characters to sustain himself. Not because he is afraid of death, there’s no evidence that he is. (Let’s be honest, the man probably expects admission into Heaven.)  No, he simply wishes to “live long enough to see this through.” In other words, he can’t die until he’s finished his plans for genocide. His bigotry inevitably cannibalizes itself to survive, as is often the case in real life. During Thanks To Them, he spent months recovering from a near death experience in the human realm - he saw for himself how drastically things had changed. He saw the twenty-first century, and this did not deter him one bit. How is that possible? Unfortunately, we don’t see much of his reaction to the modern human realm, but when we next see him, he is attempting to return to the Demon Realm. It’s quite possible that he has no desire to exist in the changed, tolerant world Luz comes from, so he has nothing left to live for but slaughtering The Isles. Because no matter how fancy one dresses up their hatred, at the end of the day hatred is singular. Hatred is alone. 

Well this was a whole freaking thesis. Still, I had fun writing it, and I hope you guys had fun reading it. But for now, that's all from me. Byeeee!

[whateverisbeautiful]

🀄️reflecting on richonne

One thing about Rick and Michonne - they did not split up if they didn’t have to. I love noticing how often they paired up and stuck together, especially pre-canon. And I also found it interesting the averse reaction they had whenever they did have to part. This “Richonne = magnets” stuff is just scientific fact. 😋 

(Side Note: before I even get into this post, I had to first quickly lose my mind over the latest glimpse into the spinoff. No spoilers for those avoiding any set pics…all I’ll say is ahhhhhh my heart is full and bursting at the same dang time and if you could have seen the scream I scrumpt when pics popped up on my tl last night. If just photos nearly knocked me out then I truly will be a mess in the best way when the show airs. We’re about to eat and I absolutely cannot wait 🤩🙌🏽

Now back to the regularly scheduled program, which is actually quite fitting since it’s all about how the king and queen are always together. Thanks in advance for reading, y’all 💛)

Once R&M decided they were done having any opposition after s3, they so clearly couldn’t hide how much they genuinely liked each other and enjoyed being around each other. And in the s4 premiere, Rick also could not hide that he was feeling a type of way when she kept going out to look for the Governor. An early indicator that Richonne ain’t meant to be split up. 

Then when everyone in the prison is scattered after Too Far Gone, of course Michonne is the one to reunite with her Grimes boys because even the universe knows they aren’t meant to be split up. 

In Season 5, Rick and Michonne are so often together. Like during the church dinner, the run with fellow couple Bob and Sasha, and when visiting Noah’s neighborhood. And they have to have a whole chat on who stays with the kids and who goes when Carol and Beth need rescuing from that hospital. Why? Cuz naturally they wouldn’t split up. 

And especially in The Distance we see how true that is. Rick is on full edge while Michonne is away looking for those cars. Then, after he’s willing to let her take the lead and make a huge decision for the group to go to ASZ, Rick of course wants Michonne to be the one that rides with him, Glenn, and Aaron. When their ride with Aaron goes awry and Michonne wants to go into the woods, Rick is against it…but then what’s the next scene? The two of them going into the woods. And later in the ep it’s just Rick and Michonne in that car with their kids while everyone else is in the RV. Why? Richonne doesn’t split up. 

In the s6 premiere, everybody is in different groups to take on the walker horde and whose paired together with Morgan? Of course Rick and Michonne are teaming up. They don’t split up. 

Michonne exhibits a rare moment of pure panic when Rick walks out of the infirmary to take on all those walkers in No Way Out. She’s so torn with an injured Carl inside and dazed Rick outside. She knows Rick needs her help. And deep down she knows if they’re going to take on anything it should be together.

When they go kill those Saviors in their sleep in 6x12, everybody pairs up and, despite being two people who could totally lead their own group, Rick and Michonne are paired up together with Daryl. (In my mind, I’ve always chalked that up to the fact that if they’re going to do something that dangerous R&M are going to need to visibly know each other are okay at all times lol. And magnets don’t split up.) 

It’s Rick’s turn to exhibit panic later in Season 6 when Michonne isn’t back yet after going out to find Daryl. In the scene where Abe offers him some comfort and later when he finds her locs on a walker, Rick seems so genuinely shaken. And a big reason why is cuz Richonne isn’t meant to be split up. 

In Season 7 they become even more consciously aware that Richonne is not meant to be split up when Michonne basically says as much in the 7x08 cell scene.

After both feeling off due to their distance in 7A, in the msf Michonne beautifully expresses how she doesn’t want it to be her way but “ours” and that the two of them can only win if they’re in it together. And then it’s the “me and you” way for them from there on out. When they go to Hilltop, The Kingdom, mow down walkers in cars (of which Rick says a passionate no when Michonne mentions splitting up lol), and meeting the Garbage group (where the arm grab that altered my brain chemistry just further illustrates they don’t like to be split up). They are side by side through it all. You already know why. 

Then, in one of TWD’s most gloriously blissful eps I got to thinking…how’d it work that only R&M went on that run for guns in 7x12? Like they needed a lot of guns and the streets were dangerous. They could’ve brought along a few more people, and yet Rick and Michonne told TF, “all y’all can stay home for this one, cuz we’re not trying to just look for guns while we’re out here.” #DirectQuote. Like I know they wanted this to be a two-person only run. Not just cuz they could handle it but cuz they wanted this honeymoon alone time together too. Here for it to infinity and beyond. And just further proof they don’t split up. 

Later when TF prepares to approach Oceanside, the gang is again all in groups and have these big tasks to set up and our lovely leader Rick said my main task is making sure my wife gets up that tree safe. Period. They don’t split up. 

Michonne has straight up sirens going off in her head while Rick is off at war in Season 8. Cuz they know they aren’t meant to be apart, especially when fighting the fight. 

In Season 9 (one of their most joyous eras cuz they’re finally able to be more settled and together🤗) they want as much time as they can get with each other. Even when work has Rick leading at the bridge and Michonne leading at ASZ, Rick is eager for them both to take a day off and have a family fun day cuz nothing is more important. And cuz they don’t like to be split up for long. 

These aren’t even all the moments I could pinpoint lol. But I think the case is proven. 

So of course these two are going to find each other even after all this time. We’re getting a whole reunion spinoff because Rick and Michonne’s connection is in every way magnetic. 

Years, distance, walkers, wars - ultimately nothing stands in the way of Richonne being together. Why? My babies don’t split up.🧲😌

[pengychan]

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 27

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: E Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** Don't you hate it when talk about Feelings has to wait because you've got an archdevil to take down. ***

In the many centuries that followed the Fall of Netheril, the Blood War raged on as it had for time immemorial. In that time as Steward of Avernus, Raphael witnessed all manners of events across the Hells and many other Planes. 

Most were mundane, some unusual, some extraordinary; very few, however, compared to witnessing a mortal coming within a hair’s breadth of godhood, the blinking out of existence of all magic, the destruction of an empire in a matter of moments - all made possible by an artifact of immense power and potential, now collecting dust in the Eighth layer of the Hells.

All in all, until a couple of decades into his seventeenth century of life, Raphael could quite safely say he had yet to witness anything that came close to that. Until he witnessed a blindfolded Solar with a glowing sword in hand, charging into Avernus atop a golden mastodon, leading a mounted charge of thousands of Hellriders against demonic hordes. 

That, he had to admit, did fit the definition of an extraordinary event… and it was as much a folly as Karsus’ bid for godhood had been. There was a reason why Celestials had long stopped waging war against the demons of the Abyss: those of them who were sent to do so had been changed beyond recognition, taking on characteristics of their enemies to better vanquish them.

In the end they became something altogether different, ever caught in-between demon and celestial: the first devils. Sworn enemies of demons and yet reviled by what had once been their own kin and by the gods - the very some who had sent them forth to be their scourge and their shield, the only bastion against the hordes of the Abyss. 

So many eons had passed that history had turned to legend, and a little known one at that. But it was the truth. Raphael would know; Lord Mephistopheles had been one of those first devils, after all. He had never willingly spoken of that distant past to him or anyone as far as he was aware, but Raphael had made it his mission - one of several - to learn all he could about his sire, so he could spot any gaps in his armor.

While he did learn much, he had not found any such gaps. None large enough to let a figurative dagger slip past, at least. But Raphael had also learned to be patient, and he had time in abundance.

“Apparently, they intend to chase the demons into the Abyss, and slaughter them all,” Lord Bel had muttered, unaware of his thoughts. He had been watching the charge through a telescope atop the Bronze Citadel. On top of the outer rings of its defensive walls, much of the garrison was watching the events unfold too. “What does my steward make of it?”

“I think it’s the epitome of idiocy,” Raphael had replied, gaining himself a chuckle. 

“And my steward is correct.”

“I have been known to be.”

“Don’t get complacent, boy,” Lord Bel had replied, as though Raphael wasn’t quite past the age to be considered one even by hellish standards. He’d lowered the telescope before speaking again. “It is idiocy. She will fail. Her mortal friends will die and she’s likely to suffer a worse fate yet. But as long as she’s fighting demons, she can be a useful idiot.”

“A strategic alliance?”

“If she’s so inclined, which I doubt. Celestials are usually too righteous to do the clever thing. More likely than not, she will refuse the alliance and make some lofty oath to take up her sword against us should we intervene - with the unspoken implication she will do so either way once all demons are dead by her holy hand, of course.”

Raphael scoffed. Demons were close enough to infinite in numbers, and anyone with half a brain knew that defeating them for good was impossible. They could be held back, never destroyed; they were as eternal as the chaos they had spawned from. 

“Does she truly believe her quaint cavalry can succeed where all of our forces could not?” 

“Don’t underestimate a celestial’s arrogance. Still, the remote possibility exists that this one may see reason.” Bel pulled away from the telescope, and turned back to look at him. “It would be foolish of me not to make an attempt. As soon as this battle is done and they make camp, you shall go as my envoy. Do try to return in one piece.”

He did go, and the meeting was short as it was unpleasant, with the solar doing most of the talking. As Bel had predicted there was the refusal of any cooperation, the promise to destroy their forces should they approach, the silent threat that they would be next once the demonic hordes were crushed. He’d returned to Bel in one piece, at least, and the Lord of the First had laughed when he heard his report. 

“She thinks she can destroy demons and then us in one fell swoop? Well then, let her try. Let us see how many demons they can slaughter for us before they’re felled.”

It was many; hundreds, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands and more. Zariel fought furiously, if recklessly, and she fought well. So did her host, which lasted longer than Raphael had thought it possibly could - but they were mortals, and they fell far more easily than a celestial would; more easily than a fiend, too. More and more fell, their numbers dwindled, and the demons kept coming - wave after wave, horde after horde, shattering spears and shields, disemboweling horses and riders alike. Battles turned to indiscriminate butchery and no legion of devils intervened one way or the other. Their offer for help had, after all, been quite rudely rebuffed and Zariel, sworn sword of the Morninglord Lathander and herald of dawn. 

She had made plain that she was their enemy, and few things are quite as convenient as two enemies making one another bleed. So the troops of Avernus retreated, took advantage of the rare lull to reorganize their numbers, repair weapons, and prepare for the fighting that was inevitably going to resume once the Ride failed. 

Because it did fail. When a group of terrified Hellriders finally broke away over the course of a particularly bloody battle, Raphael knew it would seal their fate. They fled back to the portal they’d opened up from the Material Plane, went through it… and such was their terror the demons may follow, they closed it behind them, leaving the rest trapped.

Of those who remained some broke, turned on one another, tried to seek escape where no escape existed. They died, almost every one of them, until a small gang was left, closing ranks alongside a wounded mastodon and a solar who still held her head high, still attempting a last stand. It was brave, and it was futile. Raphael was there to see Netheril fall; he bore witness to the fall of Zariel, too. 

But unlike Karsus, Zariel did not stay down for long. She was alive when a delegation of bone devils sent by Asmodeus himself came to retrieve her from beneath the pile of corpses, to take her all the way to Nessus. They came quickly, a little too quickly for Raphael not to suspect the Lord Below had been expecting precisely that outcome before making a move.

Raphael assumed she would be tortured, or made into a trophy; he was dreadfully correct, but not in the way he’d thought he would be. When Asmodeus announced Zariel - now an archdevil, corrupted by the Hells down to her bones - was to be the new ruler of Avernus, leading their forces against the demons of the Abyss, saying it was an unexpected development would have been a severe understatement. It surprised and angered many, but none dared voice that anger - especially not Bel, who publicly accepted the decision without protest even as he schemed, from the beginning, to regain his lost throne. 

Losing the position of Steward of Avernus did not bother Raphael nearly as much. All things considered, it was perhaps a blessing in disguise - too many centuries in one position can make anyone complacent, dull the edge of ambition. But he’d prepared for that chance: over the centuries he’d set aside enough souls to his name, enough warlocks and connections. 

He could not retain the title of duke, but he was allowed to remain in Avernus, in a dwelling he may create for himself, as long as he paid a quota of souls each year. Simple enough, truly.

As Zariel rose to power Raphael, servant of none at last, was ready to strive out on his own.

***

The first time Karlach had seen Zariel, there was a moment when she’d almost been relieved.

Surely, none of that was truly happening. She had not been grabbed and thrown through a portal to the Hells; she had not heard Gortash say she would make the perfect specimen for a prototype, whatever that meant. She had not been dragged inside a flying fortress of iron and basalt high above Avernus, sulfur threatening to choke her at every breath. 

None of it was truly happening, she’d reasoned, because she was having a nightmare. She had to be dreaming. The creature standing before her with a burning halo over her head, ashen skin and burning eyes, could only be a figment of her imagination. She had a few precious moments to take solace in that.

Then the pain started - her chest sliced open and ribs spread apart with an iron instrument, something torn out and then replaced by what felt like molten lead - and she knew that if this was a nightmare, it was one she would never again wake from. Until she did wake up ten years later, under the sun amidst the remains of a nautiloid, swearing to herself that she was never, ever going to set foot in Avernus. 

Things hadn’t precisely gone according to plan, because she actually set both feet back in Avernus in the end, just so that she wouldn’t… well, die. But she would have never gone back alone, of that she was certain. She would have never been able to survive half a year there, never been able to find out that there was a chance to replace her engine with one that could function outside the Hells. In choosing to come with her, Wyll had saved her life.

And he still thought I’d let him get himself grab the sword and get fucked over again for my sake. As if. As fucking if. 

She could hear the sword in question humming faintly at Halsin’s back. Actually, the hum kept growing less and less faint the higher up they went. Reacting to Zariel, Lulu had whispered when Karlach asked about it.

“We’re close, I can tell - I feel her, too!” 

“Shouldn’t she be able to feel you and the sword approaching, too?” Wyll asked, causing Lulu to frown. At least, it looked like a frown. Discerning the expressions of a hollyphant really wasn’t easy. 

“... Yes, she should feel my presence too, shouldn’t she? And she hasn’t come to meet us.”

“What were you expecting, miserable little thing? A hug?” Mizora muttered, but she looked thoughtful as they made their way further up, among turrets at the slit windows and other infernal machinery. One good thing about the earlier fight was that they met no one the rest of the way; clearly, whoever was supposed to occupy the few highest floors had responded to Flo’s call to come and fight them. 

Still holding the chain they had attached to Lulu for show, Halsin had frowned. “She has not called upon any forces to stop us, either.”

Mizora hummed. “She may very well wish to keep that pleasure for herself.”

“No, she wouldn’t hurt me. And you know that. You had to kill me because she wouldn’t, even if she kept coming to see me every day,” Lulu had replied, and it seemed Mizora had nothing to retort to that. She only scoffed, and Lulu spoke again. “She will listen to me. I know it.”

“... I am sure you still mean a great deal to her,” Wyll said, not unkindly. “But in the event she does not take up the sword--”

“You’re not picking it up. If we have to fight her, we do it without that thing. No one’s getting changed beyond recognition on my watch,” Karlach cut him off the same moment Lulu huffed, shaking her head.

“There will be no such event. I know her, I’ve known her forever. And it’s only been… less than a century and a half since the Ride. That’s not long!”

Wyll chuckled. “It sounds like a long time to me, but I am certain Halsin would say otherwise,” he said, and Halsin smiled. 

“That’s a very kind way to call me old.”

“Oh, come now. You’re barely a middle aged elf.”

Lulu fluttered closer to Karlach, who was still frowning. “I know you don’t understand - I know she hurt you - but please-- she is still there. She must be.”

It’s all the hope she has to cling to. If she’s beyond saving, what will Lulu even do with herself?

It was a sad thought, and Karlach forced herself to chase it away. No, she couldn’t think that way. She had to hope that the hollyphant was right; that enough of the old Zariel was still there within the monster. Honestly, that was one fight she’d happily do without. In the end, she sighed. 

“If the Zariel you knew is still there, we’ll do our best to bring her back out.”

“Yes! And she’ll apologize!”

Low bar to step over, that, but well. They were in the Hells, and it would still be one step up Gortash. I’m sorry you felt wronged, the bitch had said. The absolute bitch, pun fully intended.

“She had better,” Karlach said, making an effort to smile. Up and up they went, until they finally were at the very top of the Fortress, before the metal trapdoor leading to the roof. From there, Zariel would survey their surroundings while the Fortress’ engines got their soul refill from the Styx. 

She’s right there, right beyond this door. And there is no way in all the Hells that she does not know Lulu and her sword are here.

Karlach swallowed, stared at the door a moment, and turned to Wyll. “Just in case something goes wrong, I just… I wanted to… er…” she cleared her throat. “I mean--”

He smiled, and reached up to cup her cheek. “This is not the day we die,” he promised, and brushed a thumb over her cheekbone before he stood on his toes to kiss her. Karlach kissed him back - oh it was so, so nice - and almost wanted to cry when he pulled back. Almost, because he was smiling again and he had that look on his face, the one he got when he made a promise he’d do anything to keep. “This kiss wasn’t our last.”

A sigh. “Delightful, truly. I believe you just rotted half of my teeth,” Mizora muttered, and vanished the chains on Karlach and Lulu with a single gesture. “Well then. I believe I shall let you go forth.”

Halsin glanced over. “Are you not coming?”

She did not reply right away. First, she looked at the closed trapdoor with an expression Karlach couldn’t quite place, but which seemed infinitely bitter. “If you do succeed in redeeming her, I don’t relish the thought of finding myself face to face with her.”

“And if it comes to a fight?” Wyll asked. Mizora sighed, the way a parent does when faced with a particularly slow child asking a particularly dumb question.

“In that case, I’d have all the more reason to make myself scarce.”

“It won’t come to that,” Lulu declared, and bodily slammed into the door before any of them could add a single word, throwing it open and flying outside. “Zarie--”

There was a burst of flames, and she barely managed to duck beneath it. Lulu let out a yelp, wings beating furiously after dodging the attack. “Hey! That wasn’t nice! It’s me!”

That wasn’t nice, she said. Oh gods, they were so screwed. With a groan, Karlach climbed out, a hand ready to fly to her greataxe, which had been silvered for the occasion. She heard, faintly, the sword's humming growing stronger as Halsin followed her and Wyll outside… to be met with no more attacks. The roof was empty but for one being.

At the apex of her fortress, cutting a fearsome figure against the red sky of Avernus and with her only remaining hand still lifted, Zariel stood alone, looking at them all with flaming eyes.

***

Raphael’s face was still wet when the notes of the Song of Rest rang out. 

It was a small respite, far less than the long rest he clearly needed - and Haarlep, truth be told; Durge wouldn’t have said no either - but it was all they could afford now. They sighed at the relief the spell did provide, and tilted their head towards Raphael. They had to rein in a frankly ridiculous impulse to reach out and wipe his face dry, brush back his hair. 

Later, perhaps. We have precious little time. The others may yet need us.

“Thank you,” they said instead. There was much more they wished to say, but that too would have to wait. “I am sorry the circumstances don’t allow for the kind of rest you need.”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead.” Raphael’s voice came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat before speaking again. “Which will be very soon, I suspect,” he added, in the same tone one may use to make observations about possible rainfall later in the evening. Durge had to admit he was doing an admirable job at pretending he had not been sobbing his heart out against their chest until minutes earlier, in a breakdown that had been… nearly a couple of millennia in the making, from what they’d gathered. 

“Oh, thank you kindly. We really needed a little bit of doom and gloom, to balance out the insufferable cheery surroundings,” Astarion huffed, gesturing to the wasteland all around and the towering fortress above them. All seemed business as usual; the others may not have gotten to Zariel yet, which meant they may very well be still on time to help. 

A couple of steps away, having taken on the glamor of a bone devil, Haarlep sighed. “It would be inconvenient,” they lamented, in the raspy voice that left the skeletal jaw. “And after we took such pains to keep you alive.”

Raphael scoffed, putting the lyre on his back. “Regardless of convenience, that is the most likely outcome if we attempt to walk through the fortress’ front door.”

“Oh, not if I walk you in as prisoners while wearing this form.” Haarlep bared the bone devil’s fangs, causing Raphael to pause and turn slowly to look at the glamor. “See, I had a plan and everything, before I spotted you fighting for your life and had to make a detour. I figured that if I took the form of one of the fortress’ guards, no one would question me going in.”

“And when did you get--”

“About an hour ago. Poor thing was so pent-up, he couldn’t resist. Gave up his body soooo readily, it was almost a shame to push him in the Styx.” A sigh. “Ah, well. Couldn’t let him show up while I was using his form, could I now? It may have been a little embarrassing, one of us would have had to change. Or he’d have killed me on sight. Anyway, I never went into the Fortress, clearly. I checked on Raphael’s sending stone, and saw it was suddenly outside, so I rushed to the spot and not a moment too soon.”

Raphael stared for several moments, looking all the world like he had a million questions he’d rather pull out teeth than ask. In the end, he only asked one. “Dare I ask what you were planning to do once inside? Fight Zariel?”

“I mean, I’d rather not. But I could have cheered from the sidelines, or snatched you if things went wrong and tried to make a run for it. Or I could have distracted her. I’m good at that.”

“I doubt she'd be particularly vulnerable to your idea of distraction.”

“I mean, with the crossbow.”

“I doubt she’d be particularly vulnerable to your crossbow, either.”

“Well, that’s why it was Plan C. But surely, right now what matters is getting in the fortress, and then we can… well, we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it, no?”

“Cross it. You cross a bridge when you get to it,” Astarion corrected them. “But that slip aside, I say we go for it. It’s the kind of plan I could have come up with myself, really.”

“It’s hardly even a plan,” Raphael pointed out, gaining himself a toothsome grin. 

“Precisely,” he said, and that was that.

***

“So, you have come to cut me down. It took you more time than I was expecting. You’ve longed to do it for a very long time. I can always tell when someone thirsts for blood.”

Zariel’s voice was raspy as Karlach remembered it, as though fire had scorched her throat once and the burns never healed. She sounded calm, but that could change at the drop of a hat; Karlach had seen it happen more times than she could count, a quiet façade burning away like flash paper to leave behind seething fury, bottomless hatred, a thirst for blood and war nothing ever seemed to quench.

And if that happened there would be no turning back, no getting her to calm and listen. So she ground her teeth and forced herself not to say that yes, actually, she’d dreamed of sticking a blade where the sun didn’t shine more times than she could count and part of her still really fucking wanted to go ahead and try to do just that. She might have, if she’d been alone. But she was not - Wyll was there, and Halsin too. They had risked too much already, for her sake. 

As though the bitch had just read her thoughts, Zariel’s eyes shifted from her to Wyll. Her lips curled in a humorless smile. “The warlock who’s been aiding you. I see, now. I can sense Mizora’s mark all over you. It was her to betray me, then. She’ll pay the price for this, once I’m done with you.”

“We’re not here to cut you down! We’re here to help you!” Lulu called out, immediately fluttering between them and Zariel. It was almost painful to listen, all that hope in her voice. “We have brought--”

“Silence.” The flail secured to the wrist missing a hand was raised and brought down to the floor. It cracked the stone, but she made no move to attack. Not yet, at least - she’d just given a warning. It wasn’t like her to give warnings of any kind, but Karlach found she was not overly surprised. One thing was clear: Zariel, archdevil of Avernus, was unwilling to harm Lulu.

If not for her, she’d have attacked on sight, or called for a legion or two to back her up, or both. And now she wants her out of the way so she can do just that. 

“Whatever foolish notion you have of saving me, you are wrong.” She took a step forward, the blood red feathers of her wings glistening as they shifted. Karlach reached for her weapon and so did Wyll, and they took a step back - but Zariel ignored them entirely. Her gaze was fixed on Lulu, and on her only. “I let you leave once, you stubborn creature, and you keep returning time and time again, seeking what is no more. Can’t you see there is no use?”

“No! I’ll come back again if I have to! You kept coming back, too!” Lulu dared flutter closer, that desperate hope still in her voice. “When I was locked up in the dungeons, you came to see me almost every day. And you got so mad, but you kept coming. And you never struck me even if you screamed, even if this was all my fault.”

That struck a chord. Zariel paused mid-stride, and the look on his face turned to something much closer to confusion. “Your…?”

“I am sorry I couldn’t get to you on time-- the battle was so fierce, I couldn’t find you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you fell. Please, let me--”

A scathing laugh, the confusion burning away in the brightness of the flaming halo. Zariel lifted a hand in the air. A black warhammer, the very same one she’d ripped from the grasp of a demon lord, appeared in her grip in a faint cloud of mist. It was called Matalotok, but Karlach had heard it referred to as the Maul of Brutal Endings. Not very reassuring, that.

“I did not fall, Lulu. I rose, so that I may shoulder a burden none in Celestia was ever willing to take on. Asmodeus and his angels were right from the beginning. You cannot stave off the bottomless hunger of the demons of the Abyss with virtue .”

Karlach scoffed. “Oh, so we’re supposed to thank you now?” she spat, and Zariel’s flaming glare turned to her for only a moment before Lulu spoke again, high and desperate. 

“This isn’t about that anymore, Zariel! You know it! This isn’t you, this--”

“I told you, didn’t I?” Zariel cut her off, and bared her teeth in something that could have been a smile, or a snarl, or both. The halo of fire around her head seemed to burn hotter. “When demons die, they cry out my name in terror. This is who I am.”

“How many times have you told yourself that, so that you could believe it?” Halsin’s voice rang out before Lulu could retort, and it caused Zariel to stop in her tracks. Halsin had stepped forward, and in his hands was the Sword. Even in a scabbard, it hummed and shook as though alive. “I know what it is, to dedicate one’s life to a mission. I know what it is to lose oneself to the pursuit. But if you were indeed lost, you’d have struck already. Us, and her. ”

Zariel stared, and the corners of her mouth curled in a sneer of disdain… even as something in her gaze faltered, as the flames of her halo burned somewhat less brightly. Then the moment was over, and she bared her teeth again.

“Fools. I shall take that sword from your cold dead hands, the last remnants of my shame, and shatter it to pieces. You should have wielded it when you could. ”

There was no time to think of a response, much less to utter it. The next thing Karlach heard was a scream that seemed to shake the sky itself, Wyll’s shouted warning, Lulu’s own cry of dismay. Then Zariel charged in a wave of flames, warhammer and flail lifted.

End of diplomacy. Oh well. We tried, Karlach thought, and let out a cry of her own before she lifted her blade to meet the attack, the engine in her chest roaring with her.

***

“Hah! See, I told you it was going to--”

“Haarlep!”

“Hush!”

“Gods above, shut up !”

Now that was rather rude, Haarlep wanted to point out, but they did not, mostly because they might have a point. Dropping the ruse of marching prisoners inside the fortress as a bone devil - enforcers of Baator’s laws, and arguably the most feared devils by anybody below a pit fiend -  was probably not a good idea while still within sight of guards. So they bit their tongue, quickly regretting it because oh those teeth were sharp, and kept going.

There were a few glances their way, but the chains the dragonborn had pulled out from their bag of holding were pretty convincing, as well as a really interesting item to just carry around. That, and the general fear of bone devils kept anybody from coming to take too close a look, which was good news.

Haarlep’s glamors were good enough to fool other devils, certainly… but this was probably not the moment to test that assumption. So they shot a few glares around, waving the tail and stinger, and proceeded undisturbed deeper into the fortress. 

“Prisoners for Zariel,” they snapped once or twice, when someone dared ask, and that was it. They kept going - up and up and up, until the elevator ran its course and they were left with only a few more levels to go up on foot. They only stopped a few moments when they came across a room full of corpses; Haarlep could only assume that was where Raphael had been when the bearer of his ring had been found and he was forcibly ejected from the fortress.

“We’re close to the top,” Raphael spoke, nudging a corpse with his boot. “Surely, if Zariel is up there, the others would have reached her by now. And yet, nothing seems to have happ--”

A scream rang out suddenly, somewhere above and yet everywhere, shaking the walls, the floor, the ceiling. It caused them all to still, and exchange a glance. 

“Remind me to make a sarcastic remark about your timing after we’re done,” Astarion said, and Raphael only sighed before they rushed up the last flights of stairs, not wasting their time or breath on more words.

***

Karlach was honestly holding her own, fending off most blows and even working in a few good hits of her own, until a lash of the flail took out her right arm at the elbow. 

Not that she realized what had happened right away: at first there was only the sound of her weapon hitting the ground, along with a thud she didn’t quite place; then there was Wyll’s scream, and the realization that she was falling back. Then her back hit the ground, and there was pain. 

Laughter, too - Zariel’s laughter, above her own scream. “You should have known better,” she snarled, and lifted Matalotok above her head, ready to end her or at least come pretty damn close to it. She never got the chance, because suddenly Wyll was there in a burst of swirling mist, between her and Zariel, and pressed a hand against the archdevil’s before crying out. 

“Dolor!”

At such close range and without warning, the blasts did exactly what they had to do - throw Zariel back. She did not fall, a powerful beat of her wings saw to that, but she was pushed back enough that Wyll could turn and cry out. “Halsin! Help her!”

Ah, right. She was missing an arm and bleeding out, which was really not ideal.

“Wyll--” Karlach tried to call out, but he was off, head to head with the archdevil of Avernus. He had no hope of defeating her on his own, and he knew that. He wasn't trying to down her: he was trying to hold her back, away from her. 

No, no, no, no, no. Not him.

Karlach groaned and tried to sit up, despair overriding any and all pain. She felt for her weapon with the remaining hand, and just as she grasped the handle there was a touch on her back, helping her sit up. She heard Halsin speak, not far from her ear. 

“Don’t move. I think I can help,” he said, and Karlach groaned. 

“No, no. Wyll, he-- wait-- the sword…?”

“Lulu has it.”

Out of the corner of her mind Karlach could see her, hovering a short distance away. She was holding tightly onto the sword, trembling, and staring at the unfolding battle with wide eyes. The very picture of a broken heart; Karlach would have felt sorry, had she not been distracted by the sight of Halsin holding up her own severed arm. She had seen some nasty shit, but looking at it still made her puke a little in her own mouth. 

“The fuck…?”

“Hold still. I never tried this before,” Halsin replied, and held the arm to the bleeding stump, murmuring some incantation Karlach did not grasp. She sure as fuck saw the effects, though: under her stunned gaze the shards of bone in the stump shifted, set themselves straight again - and then there was tissue growing, stretching, knitting itself back together. Within moments her arm was hers again, with only a tingling sensation in the nerve endings that had already faded by the time she stood and picked her greataxe up. She laughed, incredulous. 

“Well, that was horrifying, but really damn useful. Could you always do it?”

“I learned recently. Traveling with you never fails to broaden my horizons,” he replied, and Karlach took a mental note of paying for his drinks at the next occasion before she turned back to the most pressing matter - Zariel. Wyll fought viciously and he fought well, but against an archdevil… well, he was going to need a little extra help. 

Good thing she was there with a big fuckoff axe, ready to provide that help. 

“Hey, handsome! Need a hand?”

“What-- how--?”

“Halsin’s got new tricks!”

Wyll had a deep cut on his forehead, turning his entire face in a bloody mask, and his right horn had broken clean in half, but he still smiled. “Oh, thank the gods.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but it would have to wait. First, they had an archdevil to deal with. 

And they did just that, the two of them and Halsin, in a blur of magic and fire and blows. Karlach wasn’t sure how long it lasted, but soon enough she was locking blades and eyes with Zariel. The engine in her chest roared, and so did she. 

“Take a good look at me while you’ve still got eyes! You’re going to pay for what you did to me!”

Her fury was met with a sneer. “I made you stronger, and instrumental in a war upon which the safety of all Planes rests. You ought to be thanking me. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You  never made a willing sacrifice.”

Were you in my place, would you risk it all to save others?

The memory of Zariel as she had been once, seeking to protect rather than destroy, caused Karlach to grind her teeth. “Didn’t have to, did I? You made that fucking choice from me! Took my heart! Made me a weapon! YOU HAD NO RIGHT!”

Zariel sneered, again. It was really starting to piss her off.

I could stem the tide of chaos and save many lives, the memory of her had said.

“I had every right to do what was needed. Would you rather have the demons of the abyss run amok across Planes?” the archdevil she was now snarled instead. “Would you rather--”

“Oh, fuck off!” Karlach pulled back, ducked under a vicious swing of the flail, and caught the falling hammer with her greataxe. The metal vibrated on impact, but it held up, courtesy of the improvements in Bel’s forge. “What of the innocents you were supposed to protect? What of them? The ones this bullshit was supposed to be all about!”

Yeenoghu slaughtered those I swore to protect.

The sneer of Zariel’s face froze, and for a moment she looked stunned, as though she had no idea how either of them had come to be there. Karlach sneered, and took advantage of the lapse to push back with all her might before ducking out of the way. 

Wyll’s blast caught Zariel in the chest, causing her to stagger back; she unfolded her wings and took flight, only to cry out in surprise and pain when Halsin’s lighting spell hit the mark, and she fell back to the ground, snarling. 

“You--!” 

The already boiling air of Avernus seemed to waver, shimmer, and it was the only warning they got before a wave of fire burst forth from Zariel with a cry of blackest fury. It burned hot, but fuck it - Karlach already had an infernal engine in her chest. She knew hot. She could withstand it. So she charged through it, not caring if it scorched her, and swung her greataxe in a wide enough arc to cut, deep, into Zariel’s shoulder.

There was a crack, and a scream; the flail attached to her wrist hung limply alongside her entire arm. Zariel was barely able to hold up the warhammer to block Karlach’s next blow and there they were again, locked in combat, their faces so close Karlach could see each flicker of flames in those eyes. They saw her, and hated.

“I was a fucking kid! I was dragged here and forced to fight! Was I not supposed to be protected from this bullshit?”

“You? A bodyguard idling her life away! I gave you a greater purpose! What is one life compared to--”

“And Elturel! The entire fucking city!” Karlach screamed, straining to push her back. The engine roared, blood rushed in her ears. “Were they not innocent? The very people the Hellriders were sworn to protect, too! The ones who followed you! The ones who died for you! Don’t give me bullshit about greater good! This isn’t about protecting anyone!”

“Enough!”

“No! You’ll listen to my every fucking word if I had to cram them down your throat!” Karlach disengaged, ducked under the blow. She heard Wyll crying out some incantation, felt the air shimmer around her - some sort of protection spell - one moment before Halsin summoned a wall of thorns right where Zariel stood.

Thorny vines reached up to grasp her and she cried out in fury. She incinerated them, of course, but they held on just long enough for Karlach to strike. The silvered blade cut through the air, and then through the wrist where the flail was attached. The bloody flail fell onto the ground, and Zariel screamed.

But not loud enough to cover Karlach’s own scream. 

“They died because they followed you, and you failed, and you tried to take Elturel! Yael died hoping you could be saved, and you tried to take her fucking city to the Hells!”

“I SAID ENOUGH!”

The warhammer fell, and this time Karlach was not fast enough to entirely avoid the blow. She was able to roll with it and avoid getting her every rib shattered, but it still hurt like a bitch and sent her tumbling across the ground. Zariel may have been on her the next instant, if not for the barrage of magic from Wyll and Halsin keeping her at bay. Karlach groaned, and forced herself to stand with a grunt. 

Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Lulu was still motionless, as though paralyzed, holding onto the sword with all limbs and her trunk. But all her attention, again, was for Zariel. So she met her gaze again, and sneered right back as one of Halsin’s healing spells hit, allowing her to breathe more easily, the pain in her ribs abating. 

“You can take your bullshit about a greater purpose and shove it up your ass. You don’t give a damn about protecting the Planes anymore. You only want the excuse to keep slaughtering demons because you like it, and it’s all you’ve go--!”

There was another shriek and the hammer fell, cracking the floor, causing the entire fortress to shake and all of them to fall back. Fury and hatred was a tangible thing now, coming off Zariel in waves, the most burning hatred and deepest despair. Pain, too, cutting through the very soul, almost unbearable - but just almost. Karlach could bear pain. She’d borne plenty already. 

So she stood, downed a potion, and back into the fray she went.

***

“I take it that diplomacy did not achieve the desired results.”

Raphael’s voice was barely audible beneath Zariel’s agonized shriek, and beneath the crack of thunder as Durge immediately stepped in, striking her before she could so much as try to deliver a blow to Halsin. Astarion was right behind them, bow drawn and some sort of shimmering arrow ready to let loose.

Raphael almost followed - if he had to get himself killed, he may as well do it properly - when Haarlep lay a hand on his shoulder and spoke. “Huh. What’s wrong with her?”

“Wh--” Raphael turned, and there she was - the hollyphant, silent at last. Well, not entirely silent: she was muttering ‘no, no, no’ repeatedly to herself, hovering in mid-air and clutching the sword they had gone through such pains to obtain, a distant cast to those beady little eyes. All in all, she was a wretched sight. A shattered mind; Raphael had seen plenty of those, many shattered by his own hand. He was always rather good at that, as many of the broken souls wandering across the House of Hope would have confirmed, if they could. 

He supposed he may as well try his hand at the opposite, if he did still have a powerful enough restoration spell left in his arsenal. As Zariel landed a devastating blow on Halsin’s summoned Myrmidon, Raphael took a few steps towards the madness-stricken hollyphant. 

He lifted his hands, and she did not react when they glowed, nor to his words. “Te curo.”

The light flared up a moment, engulfing the hollyphant. It faded quickly, and before it did she was already gasping, recoiling as though awakened from a deep sleep. 

“I-- what--” She looked around, eyes wide. There was another cry of fury and she turned - they all turned - to see that Zariel was unable to move, her legs having seemingly turned to stone. Ravengard’s doing, no doubt; he was staggering back just as Zariel beat her wings to try free herself, only for Astarion to put an acid arrow through one, and for Karlach to bring down her blade on the other. 

Zariel screamed again, and lifted the handless arm, began crying out words - a summoning , for her legions to come aid her. That would certainly mean their end, and Raphael didn’t pause to think: he stepped forward, and cast another spell. 

“Silentium!”

To Zariel’s fury and Raphael’s relief, it took effect before she could complete the summoning. She let out another cry of anger, or at least so the silent twisting of her features suggested. On the other hand, Durge turned back and grinned at him, all fangs. 

Good one, they mouthed, and lifted Mourning Frost. A sorcerer’s subtle spell required some more power but oh, wasn’t it useful to cast with no need of words. Above Zariel there was the spark of lighting, so bright it almost turned the red sky white, and then--

“NO! PLEASE! DON’T!”

Everything happened too quickly for Raphael to react, let alone to try doing something. The hollyphant darted forward, still clutching the Sword, and came between Zariel and the descending bolt of lighting at the last moment. Raphael saw Durge snatch back their hands, but it was too late.

The spell was cast, and lightning struck.

***

Everything happened in the blink of an eye, and in utter, eerie silence. Lighting came down, and Lulu rose to meet it; it went precisely as one may expect, when one takes the full force of a powerful spell. It threw Lulu back, and she fell some distance away; the sword clattered by her, skidded a few more paces before coming to a stop. It still glowed.

Lulu, on the other hand, remained motionless. 

Shit, Karlach said, or tried to. She went to the hollyphant without thinking, out of the sphere of silence Raphael had cast, and crouched by the stricken celestial. Why did you do it, she almost asked, but she did not. She knew exactly why she’d done it.

“Hey! Say something!” she called out instead, reaching to shake her. Lulu let out a groan and shuddered, but didn’t lift her head. Karlach was reaching for a potion of healing when a bone devil she could only assume was Haarlep, if anything for the fact they stood next to Raphael without trying to kill him, spoke.

“Huh. You may want to look behind you.”

Karlach did just that, and for a moment she could only stare, her mind blank of all thought. Zariel had broken free of the spell that had turned her legs to stone, but the battle had not resumed. Under her companions’ stunned gazes, she was walking slowly, almost tentatively, towards Lulu. One of her wings had been almost hacked off, and she left bloody footprints in her wake, but she did walk. Her eyes were fixed on the hollyphant, the fire in them faint in a way Karlach had never seen. The flaming halo, too, seemed to be petering out. 

“Fool,” Zariel rasped, and stepped closer, her face a mask of agony. Karlach backed off quickly, ready to attack if need be, but the archdevil of Avernus did not so much glance her way. She made it to Lulu, and fell to her knees. "You utter fool. What have you done?”

“I promised Yael-- I promised, ” Lulu gasped out. She tried to move, but her head fell back again, and she could only look at Karlach, at the sword a few feet away. “Please…”

Zariel lifted her gaze to look at the sword, still glowing within the scabbard, and Karlach put her greataxe away to pick it up, in a daze. She was vaguely aware of the fact her companions were approaching, ready to fight again if need be; for a moment, all that existed in the world was herself, her tormentor, and the sword that may put an end to the archdevil Zariel with no need to risk lives, no need to risk more of her life.

Then Karlach looked up, staring Zariel in the eye - it seemed so wrong, that lost look on those features - before she stepped closer, and held up the sword. 

It’s not just any sword, it’s sentient, Lulu had told them, and she had not been joking. The Sword of Zariel glowed brighter and slid out of the scabbard, lifting itself into the air before her old wielder. Celestial runes seemed to draw themselves into thin air around it, and the vibrations almost sounded like a song. 

Beyond the glow of the sword, Zariel was shedding tears like molten lava. Her only hand reached for Lulu, hovered a few inches from her golden fur, but she hesitated to even touch her. At last, she looked up at the sword, then at Karlach. “This,” she rasped, “is your chance to cut me down.”

For a moment, Karlach’s fingers twitched; for a moment, she almost did reach for her weapon. But then she saw it again, Gortash’s corpse in his silk robes, laying on a marble floor and somehow still smirking at her, even in death. 

He's dead, and he's no fucking sorrier than he was before. What was the point?

A rhetorical question, that. If she could go back, he’d kill him another dozen times. She’d help Astarion kill Cazador another two dozen times, too. But now that Zariel knelt before her willingly, she balked. Of fucking course.

Maybe she was tired. Maybe she wanted to find out if she’d really get an apology for all the bullshit she had to go through. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, she pulled her hand away from her weapon. 

“... No. Fuck this. I didn’t claw my way out of the Hells to hand you a coward’s way out. So take that thing, and deal with what you’ve done. It’s all I’ve been doing for the past ten years.”

For a few moments, there was only silence and Karlach could almost believe someone had cast another silencing spell. Then, slowly, Zariel stood. Karlach found herself taking a step back, holding her breath, as Zariel's fingers brushed the hilt of the sword. There was a sound like sizzling flesh, and Zariel let out a pained gasp, but that pain seemed to break all hesitation at last. Her only had closed on the hilt and held on, tight, even as it seared her flesh. 

When she spoke again, her voice was a cry of pain, and sorrow, and yet something that was much like hope. “I, Zariel, supplicate myself before the holy light of justice. If it should accept me, I vow to take up this blade once more in its service.”

For a moment, nothing happened, her words echoing in the silence. 

Well, Karlach thought, that was a whole bunch of noth--

And then there was light. It cascaded from the skies, the same light they had encountered in the Citadel. Karlach stepped back, ready to call out for Astarion and Haarlep to get back, but there was no need: the light only fell on Zariel, and on Lulu - bright, so bright, Karlach had to close her eyes against it. Then the glare faded and she opened her eyes again, blinking. 

For a moment, all she saw was a wall of golden fur. “You’re back! You’re back! Oh, I knew it!”

It was odd, really, listening to Lulu’s voice coming from the immense golden mastodon standing before her. And hovering in the air on gold-feathered wings, her eyes covered by a blindfold, was the Solar she had seen in the stained glass at the Citadel. She remained in mid-aid for a few moments before slowly descending to the ground before her. 

She looked at Karlach for a moment - could she see, with the blindfold? - before she bowed her head and sank on one knee.  “Karlach,” she spoke, her voice a melody so unlike the rasping voice she knew. “You have my thanks, herald of dawn.”

Karlach opened her mouth to speak. She closed it. Opened it again. She heard voices, faintly, felt Wyll’s touch on her arm. In the end, she spoke with a voice that didn’t feel like her own, either. 

“I'm the herald of nothing. Just say you’re sorry.”

Zariel lifted her face, and again she seemed to be looking at her despite the blindfold. Her skin was flawless, unmarred by fire, the way Karlach’s own would never be again. Such a stupid detail to get fixated on, but she couldn’t help it. Those beautiful features twisted in sorrow.

“I am sorrier than words can ever express, for a wrong I know words alone cannot atone,” she spoke, and that was it. Karlach closed her eyes, leaned back against Wyll, and for a time she just cried and cried and cried. She wasn’t even sure if crying helped, to be honest. 

But the several pairs of arms around her sure as hell did.

*** One archdevil down, one more to go. ***

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