#y'all... i REALLY fucking love this man!

[dawnbreakerluna]

Finally after settling in and letting Sylus effectively live rent free in my mind, I can efficiently say he is genuinely my favorite of all the love interests. Everything about his character, personality, and his story so far is so intriguing and I feel it was just really easy getting to know him since the story update mainly revolved around sticking by his side, considering he is the centerpiece of Onichynus.

But I do want to just appreciate altogether how great of a partner he is, because I'm at the point now where I'm kind of speechless and in awe of the efforts that went into bringing him to life.

I do think Sylus is intended for a very specific audience of the player base, the ones who are particularly seeking something more mature and also unconventional in an intimate partner. Granted, yes, this is a video game, and the fictional aspects of it contribute to what makes him who he is. However, he's a very self-sufficient, confident, and shameless man. The most attractive aspect about him is how he's very forward and doesn't sugar coat anything whatsoever. I'm a sucker for a man who is always twenty steps ahead of everybody else and knows how to play his cards right, I can't help it.

But god do I love how sweet he is. I love how he genuinely cares for the MC even if he doesn't outright say it. Actions speak louder than words, they always say. Of course he's gonna be a tease but when it comes to really serious circumstances, he acts immediately & knows just what to say to comfort/soothe someone.

While it is still too early, I just have this deep gnawing feeling that Sylus is going to be the endgame choice for MC. There's just so many indicators that point to it, especially when considering the most vital reason he sought her out was due to their shared predicament of having Aether Cores in their bodies. And with how he operates in the N109 Zone, he's not that terrible of a guy. But he definitely doesn't play by the rules and has his own agenda. He's selfish, but for good reason. We've seen how far he's willing to go to protect the person he cares about most, and it leaves me aching for more.

[ladyinthebluebox]

wE wAnT cOmPaNiOnS tO bE mEaN aGaIn!!!!!!!!!!

my siblings in the maker, you can't handle Taash calling Emmrich a death mage couple times or [checks notes] ...asking Neve about her clothes [?????????????]

[stardustandglitterglue]

I know I'm late (I have my copy of the Book of Bill but I've yet to read it bc I've been busy) but BoB basically making BillFord canon in the year of our lord 2024 is so fucking funny and weirdly vindicating bc BACK IN THE DAY!!!! I saw that shit. So many of us saw the way Bill acted around Ford and went, "...he kinda fruity, huh?" and we were MOCKED!!!! SCORNED!!!!!!!! TOLD WE WERE "glorifying abusive relationships" WHEN ACTUALLY, WE SAW THE TRUTH!!!!!!!! 😤😤😤

[kaelidascope]

I need to make a point of saying that contrary to popular belief, I do not read. I do not enjoy reading, I hate being asked to read things, reading is exhausting and a chore. I like to write just for the sake of writing. The act of writing itself gives me so much gratification just to be able to do it!

But if I saw this bitch in the wild at 300k+ words I would never fucking touch it LMAOO doesn't matter HOW good it is man that's way too fucking long

what the fuck was I THINKING LMAO THIS SHIT IS INSANE I WOULD NEVER READ THIS

Not saying I think MM is bad or not worth the read. I certainly think it is! But for like, you know, people who like to read. Not me LOL glad some of y'all literally will sit and re-read this shit regularly though. Y'all juggernauts for that

It's not even like I write topics that I don't enjoy. I certainly enjoy them, otherwise I wouldn't be writing them. But I like writing them, not reading them. But that's not exclusive to topics, I just don't read anything in general

[poisonousquinzel]

thinking about just how likely it is that Batman was the only person Harley told about having suicidal thoughts whilst in Arkham in Detective Comics #831

"I was seriously considering hanging sheets from the light in my cell and doing the maximum checkout when I heard this voice..."

Detective Comics #831

and how he knew when she strapped that bomb to herself in Batman (2016) #100 that he had to go after her because she was going let herself die in an attempt to end Joker's rampage for good but that she refused to physically do it because he didn't want to her Kill him and he told her that so she's found a middle ground

"We don't need to end it this way. He needs to be locked back up."

that she'd rather die than keep living with his presence in the world haunting her, haunting Them.

That if he did choose Joker, she wasn't going to disarm the bomb herself.

"Honey. You're talking to the wrong girl if you think he's not dangerous locked up in Arkham. It's like I said. That's not good enough for me. Not anymore."

the way he yells for her as she leaves.

"You're only going to get to one of us in time, Bats. Who's it going to be?"

"Harley!"

the way the two men stare at each other in the way they have so many times before, in those moments when Joker stayed or prioritized their fight over her. the way he knew Joker loved the thrill of it all and thought it was funny, thought there was No way Batman would leave him and that this game had to end as according to the rules. And that Batman would do so, he would follow the rules and save him. The way he immediately assumed Batman would choose him, choose his life and choose to stay and disarm the bomb.

And how Batman didn't do that. How Batman walked away from him, leaving him to die or escape or whatever, because He was choosing Harley and her safety and prioritizing her life over him.

The way he stared him in the eyes before choosing the woman Joker had always left to die over him. The way that it was always Him, it was never a question if he would choose Batman over her, but when faced with that type of scenario, Joker is the one that gets left behind to die.

The way she literally woke up in the hospital instead of them having a scene just outside after he removed it. because she didn't intend to live in one of the two options. the way the bomb probably did go off to some capacity because you don't just end up in the hospital knocked out for a week.

Him saying that he's glad she's okay, after everything they've been through, this war and Everything else. and the way he didn't brush off her concern

"I'm glad you're okay."

"Are you?"

"I had to bury my father again today. I did it with my family."

i just, i can't,,,,, i cant

[carmillas-vampiric-rage]

i really adore how the fandom agrees bi-han would be a good father. he'd still be a dick, make mistakes, is a little too harsh with his children, but he doesn't want to put his kids what he went through as a child at the hands of bis father. Idk, i just really love that. it would be so easy to write him as a horrible father who doesn't care for his children, but this man would die and murder and kill and smile for his children in a heartbeat. they'll be great martial artists, trained from birth to break anyone's hip flexor, but they will also have a father who loves and cares for them.

it definitely doesn't come naturally to him tho. he wants to do this but it's kinda a whole new way of thinking for the man. bi-han isn't exactly one to open up or show any other feelings other than anger and mild annoyance- but eventually, with his never ending want to not be his father, and with the help of his partner, it's easier for him to really be the father he wants to be.

to hug his children, read them bed time stories, praise them when they've done well, praise them when they haven't done so well. not view his childrens' s emotions as weak. it's a huge mental adjustment for the cryomancer, but he does it.

also, I don't think he'd be set on "only having a son to pass on his legacy" idk, call me a woke liberal feminist (or a partner who'd beat his ass) but I don't think he particularly cares, he just wants a child or children who can eventually be the next grandmaster and uphold lin kuei principles.

catch this bitch having five daughters and obliterating the very being of a lin kuei lackey who he overheard talking negatively about his daughters. they will all be killing machines who love tea parties and watching my little pony, and he'll be right there with them (he knows the theme song by heart)

bi-han is a girl dad through and through and you cannot convince me otherwise.

[bonesandpoemsandflowers]

honestly, I feel like Dave McKean's work elevated Neil Gaiman way more than the other way around and we don't distribute credit for that properly. I truly don't think--and, critically, never have thought--the early Sandman writing was so good that it would have gotten far without the heavy hitting art lending it such an air of respectability. McKean's work is so visually distinct still, let alone 20 years ago, let alone 30. "This is serious art for serious stories for serious people," those mixed media paintings say when they're surrounded by pen and ink put out on a brutal schedule. "I am a serious person with sophisticated tastes," the buyer says, given permission to be pretentious and smug as hell, which is very alluring to many people.

[dollypopup]

like. . .are any other Polin fans out there that do not give a singular flying fuck about Debling? we should form a club lol because from the very bottom of my heart and with my whole chest: I could not care less about him. Not sorry, I'm tuning into S3 for Pen and Colin and Pen and Colin alone

[maxdurden]

but slowly the instinct takes root in her throat

read it on ao3 here!

Story: but slowly the instinct takes root in her throat

Chapter: 1/1

Characters: Kipperlilly Copperkettle, Ruben Hopclap, Porter Cliffbreaker, Jace Stardiamond, (mentions of other Rat Grinders)

Summary:

Kipperlilly has been chosen by a nascent god of rage. She's proud of that fact, excited by what it might mean for her future. In the meantime, she's stuck on night watch during her sophomore spring break with Ruben Hopclap, her least favorite party member. She's been told to worship her rage, to accept it in all its savage glory. What could go wrong? -- A one-shot about my head canons for how the Rat Grinders' first quest to the Mountains of Chaos went down.

“It’s cold out here.” 

The knife in Kipperlilly’s hand stuttered over a knot in the stick she was carving into a stake. Her motions were harsh and confident, but not well practiced. Woodcarving wasn’t a hobby of hers, but she would have done just about anything to dull the boredom in this moment—and to distract her from the incessant whining of her companion.

That she was being asked to keep watch at all was an insult. The thought sat under her skin like molten metal, but she pushed it away. Not only had she been chosen, she’d risen to the challenge. She could feel the symbol under the stiff, pressed fabric of her shirt, and the memory of the ritual was still fresh in her mind. Jace’s magic, the glittering red shatter star, the oath she had sworn to the god of rage. 

Jace had continually checked his notes as he administered the oath, and Porter had seethed at the indignity. “Maybe I’d remember this better if I’d had the chance to undergo it myself.” The sorcery teacher was cool and unbothered around most of his students, but Kipperlilly had come to know him as a perpetually exasperated presence in her life. “But, no, it wasn’t this easy for me.” He said as he traced a slender finger down the page of his notebook.

“An eye for opportunity is well rewarded.” Kipperlilly had chirped unhelpfully. She smiled smugly in the direction of the barbarian teacher who, in an official capacity, was not meant to be attached to this quest at all. Even the rest of her party didn’t know he was here with them in the Mountains of Chaos. But he had revealed himself to her for this ritual, because she was his chosen, because he trusted her—

“It’s cold and boring. And doesn’t it freak you out that things are so dangerous here that we need a nightwatch?” The drone of Ruben Hopclap’s incessant complaints pulled Kipperlilly back to the present moment. 

The stick in her hand snapped under the pressure of her knife. It was no real loss. She didn’t need a stake, just a distraction. She needed Ruben to shut up.

“It’s the Mountains of Chaos.” She responded curtly. “Of course it’s dangerous.” 

“I heard Yolen Harris’ party is going to Harroway Bay to fight a sea serpent or something.” As he spoke, Kipperlilly grabbed a new stick to resume her carving. Something about the steady motion helped to ground her, and she needed that more now than ever. “I bet the serpent won’t be fun, but think about it: Toes in the sand and crystal service! Now that’s a decent spring break.” 

Kipperlilly watched as the wood parted from itself in thin, curling layers and grit her teeth. “It’s also a monumental waste of time. People kill sea serpents all the time. No one’s gonna remember that quest in a month.” 

She shouldn’t humor him with responses. Of all the people in her party, Ruben was the most indolent. Not that he lacked ambition; He envied Figueroth Faeth in all her stardom. He just didn’t have the actual follow through to do anything about it. It made Kipperlilly sick, and it was the lesser of the two things she hated most about him.

Kipperlilly was proud to say that Lucy Frostblade was her best friend. But, since they had met Ruben in middle school, she’d suffered the slight of having to share the claim to being Lucy’s. 

“Who cares!” Ruben whined. He was always whining. She found herself wishing the high-pitched frequency of his voice would drive a nearby pack of wolves into a slavering bloodlust and they would come here to rend him limb from limb. As she turned the stick in her hand, and notched her knife into it once again, she imagined the violent scene in great detail. It brought her some solace. “I’m cold! I’d rather be at the beach! Who’s gonna remember us for coming to this empty, useless temple and looking for a dumb name, anyway? Even if we find it.”

He didn’t know the plan. He didn’t know they would change the world someday. That they’d create their own god, raise him from his mortality. That they would carve Elmville from its stubborn mundanity and reform it in the image of something worthy. They would be greater than the Bad Kids, or any adventurer who had ever graduated from Aguefort. Many alumni of the school had saved the world, but none of them had ever remade it. 

“You’re probably cold because you dressed for the beach. Like an idiot.” She snapped, pointing with her knife toward his sandaled feet. 

“Dress for the job you want!” 

Kipperlilly felt hot, buzzing rage rising in her throat. It was a familiar feeling, like boiling water overcoming all her senses.

Her grandmother had once tried to endear her to her family legacy. She’d taken her to the kitchen, and showed her the Copperkettle, the magical item from which her family got their name. Most halfling families got their names this way, from heirlooms that often harkened back to a time before they came to Elmville. The Copperkettle was barely magical. 

Newly immigrated to Elmville, the family had struggled to make ends meet, and the Copperkettle had kept them fed anyway, against all odds. This was the only version of the story worth telling, but her grandmother had embellished it with all kinds of details—the names of her ancestors, what kinds of stew the kettle had produced, the tale of their eventual agreement to share the stew. The story dragged on until there was nothing but a frustrating buzz in the back of Kipperlilly’s young head where the anger rose to meet it. She didn’t want to be standing in her kitchen, listening to a lecture about the history of the most boring family in Elmville—She didn’t want to be reminded that she was a part of that family. 

She tried to sit still and quiet, to listen politely like her parents had taught her, but the anger ballooned inside her until it was too big for her tiny body to contain. She had felt near tears with it by the time she admitted it to herself, and acted on it. In her anger, she had scurried forward and kicked her grandmother’s knee—anything to get her to shut up. 

She remembered being dragged away by her parents. They had sat her on the cold cement porch stairs outside their family home, wagged disapproving fingers in her face. And she’d known then that they were right—or thought that they were. Anger was something to ignore, to push down and suffocate. 

Gods forbid it have the ability to suffocate back. 

That night, with Ruben seemingly incapable of shutting his mouth, the same anger was starting to expand hot and fast in her chest. Her anger was always vicious and strong, oftentimes stronger than her, but there was something new this time too. 

With the feeling, the symbol on her chest burned steadily. For a moment it was a grounding feeling. She could honor this anger, just like Porter had taught her. She could feel it and savor it—The way her face burned and the way her focus on the world sharpened until there was nothing but Ruben’s voice, and the knife, and the wood. 

“And this job sucks. Even if it was memorable, we’ll always be remembered as the dumb kids who needed a chaperone on our sophomore project.” Ruben filled the silence when Kipperlilly didn’t respond. 

Her stick snapped again, but this time in the tightening grip of her hand rather than under the pressure of her knife. 

“And the solution to that is to resign ourselves to a lazy beach week?” She let the words claw their way from her throat, and seep through clenched teeth.

Her hand held tight to the pommel of her knife. Without the grounding repetition of sliding it along the wood, she started to think of other things she could do with it. She thought of nothing but wolves, and blood, and the heat of rage that clung to her every breath. 

Ruben’s sniveling answer fell on deaf ears. She wanted nothing more than silence. She wanted peace. She wanted to not have to endure his weakness and whining. 

The first plunge of the knife came without thought. It was a mindless thing that drove her to stand, approach and attack. It all happened in the flash of prickling anger that overtook her senses and mind. But the scream that came with it pulled her back to reality, made her angrier. 

Kipperlilly was often angry. She had felt the urge to destroy—to tear the world apart, ruin her friends’ moods, to see things burn because of the fire in her stomach and on her tongue. But she had always felt remorse, too. That destruction, the harsh words, the cruel actions had always stopped her before—she always ended up just the same as that kid on the porch stairs, crying as her parents wagged their fingers in her face.

But not this time. This time, she relished in the anger. She did just as she was told. She let it consume her. It was like falling away from herself and being more present than ever all at once. She viscerally felt the skin and muscle part under her knife, felt as the blade scraped and stuck into ribs. She heard every scream, felt Ruben’s hand clawing at the sleeve of her pristine, white blouse. She saw the terror in his eyes fade into glassy, distant nothingness. 

But the whole time she was wrapped in the resplendent ecstasy of wrath. It kept her distant and safe. It kept the fire in her belly roaring and hungry for more. It smoothed over the edges. It distracted her from the way her hand slipped on the blood slicked grip of her knife and the way the blade cut into the flesh of her own palm. It held her anxieties about being heard and her guilt at a distance. 

She sat back from the unmoving corpse underneath her, and stared at the shredded chest of a boy she’d known since middle school. With shaking hands, she set her knife down beside them, in the fast collecting pool of blood. There was a fist-sized bloodstain on her blouse where Ruben had clung to her, but he’d long since lost the strength for that. Her sweater vest was ruined. Warm, tacky blood adhered her tights to her knees. Everything smelled so strongly like blood that she could taste iron on her tongue. 

And then there were Ruben’s dark eyes, staring, staring, staring, and seeing nothing. 

Kipperlilly lurched to the side and retched, but nothing came up. The weight of what she’d done settled on her like the sky falling. Tears blurred her vision, and she was grateful because she didn’t want to see. Whether they were tears of contrition or self pity, she couldn’t say. 

Somewhere nearby her party was asleep, if they hadn’t already been awoken by the screams. Sometime soon, they would see what she’d done—or otherwise notice Ruben’s absence. And Lucy. What would Lucy think? How would she ever look at her again?

Sitting there over the dead body, for maybe the first time in her life, Kipperlilly couldn’t think of a plan. She could think only one thing: Porter. 

She’d done what he’d said. She’d given into her rage. He had to help her fix this. He was the only one who would understand—even if he couldn’t have possibly foreseen that it would come to this. 

She tried to stand and her polished bar shoes slipped in the blood, sending her tumbling downwards and face to blank, pallid face with the corpse. It was washed in the sickly green light of distant beacon fires, which only made the quickly paling skin look worse. She couldn’t leave it here. This time, she knew the thought was one of self-preservation. 

Pulling herself to her feet, Kipperlilly carefully sheathed her bloody knife. Then, she gathered the body in her arms, and pulled it up the stone stairs into the temple. She slinked through the shadows, past the alcove where the rest of her party slept. It was some distance away and, by then, her arms ached under the weight but she hoped that the distance meant there had been no disturbance here. The rock face that made up the temple echoed with every sound, but things were quiet. There was no sound of confusion, or people rushing to arms. 

She kept moving, past towering statues of proud warriors and their flaming horses, past the walls scrawled with words of prayer, until she reached the chamber where she knew Porter was staying. His presence was still unknown to the rest of the party and, at least as recently as the ritual, he wanted to keep it that way. This place, deep within the temple, was cavernous and massive. It was the place she had undergone her ritual earlier in the day but now, returning to it, she felt so far from the victorious spirit she’d clung to then. 

She stopped once inside, letting the corpse slump to the ground far from the giant altar at the other end of the chamber in front of which a bedroll was laid out. Porter wasn’t sleeping, though, he was standing on one of the staggered platforms, facing the iron brazier that dominated the center of the altar. 

Words failed Kipperlilly. She stood over the body and stared across the wide space between herself and the barbarian teacher—the soon-to-be god—who she’d worked so hard to impress, and couldn’t bring herself to speak. He had put so much faith in her, and surely this would be a grave disappointment. But in her panic, she didn't know where else to go.

“Kipperlilly?” He turned before she had to say anything at all, those dark eyes widening in shock. It must have been quite the sight. She was usually so well put together, but now she was disheveled and blood splattered. Not to mention the corpse at her feet. “What in the world have you done?”

“I—I didn’t mean to.” Now that she had found them again, words came tumbling out of her without her control. “He made me so mad. You said to lean into the anger! I pledged myself to it! It was supposed to be—You said it’d be holy, that it would be sacred, but I—” She got stuck on this word, stuttering it out too many times before the sentence died altogether in her throat. She couldn’t say it. 

She’d killed him. 

Porter jumped from the platform in one fluid motion and strode toward her. His features were pinched with a deep concern, but he didn’t seem panicked. Some small part of Kipperlilly wished that he did—maybe so she wouldn’t be alone with the suffocating feeling, or maybe because she thought it’d make her feel less small.

“Why didn’t you bring him to Lucy? She has diamonds, doesn’t she?” He demanded first, coming to stand in front of her and the corpse. She had to angle her face up to see him, always, but now she looked elsewhere. Anywhere but at him or the bloody mess at her feet. Her eyes fixed on the pictographs of war lining the temple walls. 

The thought of bringing the mangled body to Lucy made her throat close up. She thought of her gentle friend. She tried to imagine the way hate would contort her features but, for all the awful things she had done, all the ways she had failed Lucy in the past, she had no frame of reference. She knew that even now she was avoiding the full reality of what she’d done. Facing Lucy would mean facing this, and she couldn’t do either.

“I can’t…” 

Slowly, Porter nodded, “You’re right. She’d never forgive you.” He admitted callously. “None of them would ever look at you the same way again.” 

There was a pause. Wind whistled through the colossal, empty stone halls. “You were right to bring this to me.”

She was right. No one else would understand. She sniffled, trying to pull herself together. “There has to be something—” Something that didn’t involve a cleric. “Professor Stardiamond could summon something.” Just like their training in the woods. All the appearance of danger with none of its teeth.

“How would a monster have gotten here?” Porter asked, shaking his head. “No, that’s sloppy. You can do better.” He pressed. Then, “You wanted Ruben dead, didn’t you?” 

“No,” Kipperlilly said with so much conviction that she surprised even herself. She angled her face up to see the disbelieving expression looming over her. She allowed herself a glimmer of self-reflection, just a moment of honesty, to decipher her own meaning. “I wanted to kill him,” she admitted, “But I didn’t want him dead.”

“Those are the same thing.” 

They weren’t. Kipperlilly struggled against the fog of panic and misery in her head, trying to piece the words together. She had wanted the violence. She had relished sticking a knife between his ribs, but the consequences of those actions weren’t welcome. She hadn’t thought about them before they were real. But Porter was right; How could she have been so stupid? 

“I might be able to help.” Porter turned his eyes toward the still body between them. “But this wasn’t the plan. You were the one who agreed to the ritual. You were supposed to be my chosen.” He ground out the words in frustration. 

“What?” 

Some selfish dark thing seized in Kipperlilly’s gut. She remembered how she had felt special during the ritual. She had known that she would be relied upon. She would be great, with her name raised above the rest, when it came time for Porter to ascend. Despite the dead boy at her feet, she didn’t want to let that go. 

“The others will know something has happened, but they’ve already made their choice. That’ll need to be fixed.” 

“Fixed?”

“Go get Stardiamond.” Porter said, tone dismissive. “Bring him here and we’ll catch him up on the plan.”

“What do you mean fixed?” Kipperlilly had not asked for much. She obeyed dutifully. She paid her dues. She would follow Porter through the nine hells if it meant she got her shot at greatness; If she could be a legendary adventurer; If she could be better than the fucking Bad Kids. But, this once, she demanded an answer. 

“Even if we bring Ruben back, they’ll see you as a monster. We’ve got to get them on our side.” As if from nowhere, he produced a shatter star. It bathed the chamber in a low, pulsing red light, shifting as he examined it. It tore itself apart into fractal pieces and slammed back into itself. 

“How? They already made their choice.” 

Some more than others. Oisin, under the right circumstances, might have been convinced. He had a legacy to live up to; He understood ambition. Porter had talked about not giving up, about continuing to evangelize about rage, and the unnamed goddess. The others were never to know about Porter’s plan to ascend. But, they could be won over with stories about a plan to resurrect a dead goddess, with the promises of the glory that that would bring. But, these weren’t the right circumstances.

“We would have had time to change their minds.” Porter’s words were harsh, but grounding. It was Kipperlilly’s loss of control that had brought them here. Even if she couldn’t own up to the rest of it, she had to own up to that. “But there are other ways. Watch.” He instructed, and stepped forward to kneel over the corpse. 

The shatter star leapt forward from his hand, burrowing into the mutilated flesh in front of them. The forward motion was violent and eager, and the corpse thrashed disturbingly like a rag doll limp in the mouth of a vicious dog. Kipperlilly watched with wide eyes as blood splattered upward onto her already ruined clothes. 

The motion stopped and, for a fleeting moment and eerie peace settled on the room. Kipperlilly looked up, half panicked, to see the way Porter’s steady, focused eyes were fixed on the body between them. Before she could demand to know what was happening, a rasping breath shattered the silence and Ruben came flying upwards, sitting ramrod straight. 

An animalistic growl issued from somewhere deep in his chest. Kipperlilly stared—in horror or in awe she didn’t know—as Ruben’s wits returned to him and he turned on her with a murderous glare. 

“You fucking killed me!” He roared, launching toward her with a ferocious speed. She stumbled backwards in surprise, still not having fully processed that he was alive, and fumbled for her knife. 

Ruben’s hands were outstretched, his face contorted into a mask of animus and hostility. He was inches away from tackling her when he suddenly froze. He shook his head, and was left blinking in dazed confusion.

“We’ll have none of that.” Porter spoke, standing from where he’d been kneeling at eye level. “If you need to fight it out, let’s do it when there isn’t already a monumental mess to clean up.” He grumbled.

Ruben looked down at his bloody clothes, then back between Porter and Kipperlilly. “You killed me so I’d have to worship your stupid rage god?” His anger seemed more directionless, now, and that must have been just as well to Porter, who shrugged.

“You’d have to ask Kipperlilly why she killed you. My god and I just brought you back.” Porter brushed a speck of blood off his hands and onto his pants like it was a meer inconvenience, and added, “You’re welcome.”

“You’ll have to kill the rest of them?” Kipperlilly was slowly piecing it together.

Panic kicked at the inside of her ribcage. A tidal wave of thoughts came crashing down on her. This was her fault. Everyone could have had more time. She could have convinced them all eventually, the right way. But she had fucked it up. She had forced Porter’s hand. Ruben had chosen to worship rage rather than die. Everyone else would have to as well. But Lucy would never. 

Lucy would never. 

“Lucy’s stocked for revivify.” She blurted out, the words leaving her before she’d had time to process. “If she’s here while you’re killing the others—She can’t be here while you’re killing the others.” 

She could feel Ruben’s glare boring a hole in the side of her head, but she kept her eyes fixed on Porter. She would follow him through the nine hells. She would convince her friends to worship rage. She would kill them all, or let them die, if she must. But not Lucy. 

Lucy wouldn’t come back. Kipperlilly needed more time. She would have had it, if not for her own miserable wrath. 

Porter seemed to consider her words. “Get Stardiamond, tell him to bring the others to me. You keep Lucy busy. Tell her you don’t know where Ruben is, make her heal that cut on your hand. I don’t care, just handle it. You’ve made enough of a mess.”

Relief rushed over her, and Kipperlilly nodded, ever the dutiful soldier. “Right, of course.” Her eyes flickered briefly over to where Ruben’s burned into her like hot coals before she turned to carry out her marching orders. 

As she backtracked through the empty, echoing halls of the temple, she recalled slights against her and held them close to her chest like kindling for a fire. The way Oisin and Ivy would whisper behind their hands and snicker at her; Mary Ann’s brutal dismissal when she tried to bond with her; the betrayal of everyone when they changed their party name. The Rat Grinders could die. It was a price she was more than willing to pay for her own chance at greatness.  It was easier to take ownership of it all. To foster the anger inside and pretend that this was how she wanted things to go, rather than admit to losing control. The symbol of an unnamed god burned quietly against her chest.

[bucket-puns]

Personally. It'd be funny to have Ishmael on the extraction team. But that's just me.

[nikonuee]

@ people who make Ed a "naur my soft widdle baby Eddie-pie just had trauma amd that's why he traumatised the crew and did all that fucked up shit 🥺🥺🥺"

Why do you refuse to have nuanced characters? Why deny him the sauce?

[sequentialprophet]

Ricky really said y’all forgot who the fuck I am

[pitske]

Chere and his family

[hermit-frog]

I swear, the moment armandiel starts compelling me again, people immediately ruin it with their tags. wth do you mean you don't care about anything else in the show?

[nocentis]

Honeysuckle

⚶ ┆ Between his teeth and beneath his nails, an airy fruit light as love is bitten down to the rind. Even with his mouth full of pulp he finds himself desperate for her taste.

A sigh echoed and swallowed, kept locked in his chest like a secret. He held his breath until it burned; savored every hitch and every hum of her sacred song. Each curse spoken like a prayer, like praise; wept like gratitude wrenched raw from the soul — raked clean and spit out like the pit of a cherry. When he's forced to breathe, she is the hallowed riptide, and he would be blessed to drown in her lush.

Ripe as a peach at the crown of her cheeks; soft red flush so sticky sweet. Another of her colors comes to life in his mind. One shade closer to the divine.

⚶ ┆ Woven together like lace under the pale light of a waning moon. He can't be sure where he ends and she begins. She pierces straight through him like he belongs to her, and in some capacity, he knows that he does. There is no room left in his heart for desire of this nature. It has reached its bounds and collapsed inward on itself — a singularity the size of her that takes of these moments and stretches them infinitely, ever deeper, ever denser; inescapable.

Too much would never be enough and yet he counts every falling grain of timesand, tallies them up, and says his Hail Mary's in correspondence. Blessed is he for these hands to hold her, for these eyes to view her, for this mouth to speak her name. Blessed is he for the breath and the bread, the water, the whine.

Under his breath, to no god in particular, he issues his thanks.

"You're still awake." Her voice is strained by the small hours. The calm is sweeping her away and yet she remains afloat, waiting for the rise and fall of his chest to slow before she sinks into sleep. "Your train leaves early. You should rest."

His own voice is gravelly, thick with syrup, when he attempts to quell, "There will be another train. There is always another train."

There is nothing more important than this — her head on his chest and his fingers in her hair, scarlet as the sun's kiss and softer than silk.

She shifts so that she can look at him, and the nightglow catches the honey of her eye. "You should rest," she reiterates, and though she aims to chastise, he can feel her care bleeding through her touch.

"I will," he promises, though he chooses not to specify when. "I'm not ready for tomorrow."

He feels her hum before he hears it. Gentle as a lullaby, it dims his vision, and he finds a brief reprieve inside his eyelids.

"You're ready," she assures, succinct as ever.

"You're right," he concedes through a sigh, "I don't want this to end."

"Then don't end it," she slides her hand into his, weaves their fingers together in an airtight knit, "Water it. Let it grow. Keep it alive while we're apart."

He responds first through a light squeeze, a bit of humor trapped in his chest, and he can't deny that, "There are some things even I can't kill."

[silent-sentinels]

lmao if faucet keeps this up our amount of drafts are going to exceed our actual number of posts on here