#declawed shadow

[pincushionx]

Part two of declawed Shadow

Part one part three

Basically just exploring the idea of Shadow having his “natural hazards” being removed for “safety” reasons. This has lasting effects

[seraphdesire]

Regarding Donna Beneviento and her characterisation in the fandom, I think it's important to note that she really isn't the shy awkward adorable blushing mess that everyone depicts her as being.

This got long but I did a mildly extensive read on her character under the break! :)

Here are the notes I took a screencap of, written by Mother Miranda, which talks about the suitability of Donna being a vessel for Eva:

There's the evidence you need that she is severely mentally ill, so babying her just feels... wrong anyway, all things considered.

Note - "and has divided her Cadou among her dolls in order to control them from a distance." While I'm on my 3rd replay of re8 I still don't fully get how the Cadou works, but what I think is essentially happening is Donna is literally splitting off parts of herself and putting them in her dolls.

The main one being Angie, of course.

I always used to consider Angie a separate character entirely but she's linked deeply to Donna on a very personal level. Considering what she's like and what all the other dolls are like - loud, funny, sarcastic, rude, etc - and how Donna is literally the one directly controlling Angie (that's the only way she moves lol, because Donna is carrying her places. Which is also why, when you kill Angie, the illusion melts away to reveal that you've actually killed Donna), I think it's safe to say that's what her actual personality is like.

Also, her only spoken line of dialogue? Please listen to it. For those who are hard of hearing, like me, she says: "don't leave... I can't let you."

Bearing in mind the way she speaks? Her tone? She sounds confident imo. Determined. And perhaps even a little angry at Ethan for thinking he can escape her.

Just a last addition as well, can I say that her abilities as one of the Four Lourds is genuinely evil? Everyone else has physical intimidation - Alcina has her height and her claws and mutation, Heisenberg has his ability to control magnetic fields and metal, and Moreau can mutate into that huge fish-with-legs thing that vomits something akin to acid? Oh yeah and he can swallow you whole too.

Donna, on the other hand, doesn't have physical intimidation like that. She only has the threat of psychological damage (which makes sense considering she's severely mentally unwell). When Ethan goes through her gardens and has to solve the puzzles in the house, she makes him hallucinate about his wife whom he thinks is dead, and about his baby who is somewhere in this unknown country with a bunch of mutants who only have bad intentions.

It's even worse in the Shadows of Rose DLC imo. As Rose, Donna makes her hallucinate the bullies from back home, being called a freak and a weirdo, made to relive the worst moments of her life. And the puzzles too? Hell. Having to actually recreate the scenes of her bullying with wooden fucking dolls. I remember feeling really sorry for Rose while playing through that part.

And yet Donna is still "the uwu baby" because what? I don't know. People love to declaw female villains just because they're attractive (looking at Lady Dimitrescu here). They love to reduce the characters down to their looks and not consider their actual lore or background or the role they play in the franchise (looking at Leon especially...)

Which, ya know, of course people are allowed their headcanons for characters and Donna doesn't get enough screentime to really have her personality even thought of, let alone to be made canon. But I think it's fair to say that Angie and Donna are basically one and the same because they're literally the same Cadou.

This is a quick reminder that you are, of course, allowed to disagree with me. Everyone has their own opinions and that's fine. If you would like to politely debate about this in my comments or in my DMs, or even in my asks, then you're more than welcome to! Please remember debating and arguing are two different things though.

If it really irks you that bad then please scroll, it's not hard. If you don't want to do that then feel free to block me - the button is free of charge after all and should be used more to cultivate your feed to your liking.

[polysucks]

How do you feel about cats? I desperately wish asoiaf had more of them

I love cats, personally. I got two of them! I also have two dogs! I’m more of a cat person than a dog person, but I love both :3

But, as you know, I’m fuckin insane, so of course I had to use your ask as a platform to talk about how Peepaw Greg uses cat and dog symbolism in the series.

So let’s talk meta about his usage of cat and dog themes in Westeros.

In asoiaf, gpa Greg makes big big use of canine and lupine symbolism—most notably through the Starks and their direwolves—to explore some themes of loyalty, survival, identity, and instinct. The prevalence of dog-adjacent imagery, from the feral wildness of the direwolves to the brutalized obedience of people like Sandor Clegane, speaks to a deeper thematic preoccupation with what it means to belong (hypergeneralized) like. to a family, to a code, to a pack. Wolves and dogs in peepaw’s world are not literally animals, they’re totems of identity and indicative to some degree of fate that becomes perpendicular with the moral and emotional arcs of the characters they shadow.

By contrast, feline imagery like the Lannisters’ cunty lion sigil remains largely heraldic and aesthetic rather than emotionally or thematically embedded. Lions in the series symbolize institutional pride, legacy, and power, but lack the dynamic intimacy of the wolves. They are mythologized apex predators, ya sure ok, but predators in captivity, not the wild. They’ve lost their instincts. Their strength is theatrical. Their claws have become ceremonial.

The Lannisters aren’t predatory like their avatar so to speak. They’re curated. Groomed. Caged in gold and politics and perception. They hiss and bite, but most of them are bound by visage and expectation:

• Tywin is the lion’s roar—but it’s hollow in the end. He dies on the toilet. Womp womp (I laugh errytime)

• Cersei sees herself as a lioness, but she spirals into paranoia and ineffectual tyranny. (Literally just an evil slut. Smooth brain. No thoughts, just vanity. Yas queen go offffffff)

• Jaime begins as the golden lion but is declawed—literally—and only becomes compelling once he sheds that identity. (Smol. Must be protected at all costs.)

• Tyrion, the runt of the litter, understands the lion’s mold enough to break it—and it nearly destroys him. (I mean it kinda does long long term. I love who he becomes in adwd)

The Rains of Castamere goes fuckin HARD and underscores their obsession with legacy through intimidation (BECAUSE OF ONEEEEEEEE TIME. IT WAS ONE TIME. LIKE ITS NOT HARD TO ERADICATE THE ENTIRETY OF 2 HOUSE LINEAGES ESPECIALLY IF THEYRE SWORN UNDER YOU IM SORRY TYWIN BUT THATS NOT the fLEX YOU THINK IT IS im sorry okay back to our regularly scheduled insanity)

— A Storm of Swords, Catelyn VII

— A Storm of Swords, Arya VII

This isn’t a simple cats vs. dogs dichotomy. It’s about what these animals represent. Wolves and hound imagery when used in asoiaf evoke loyalty, instinct, and interdependence. Lions (or generally, feline figures which, I note, are very few) represent arrogance, isolation, and the brittle weight of legacy. Martin privileges the canine because his world favors those who endure—not those who posture. True survival in Westeros depends on bonds, not bloodlines; on pack over pride. (Get it? Bc a ‘pride’ is a pack? A pack of lions? Like the phrase blood of the covenant is thicker than water of the womb? Get it? Ok I’ll see myself out no need to call security)

While the thematic imbalance may seem skewed toward the wolf, this asymmetry is deliberate!!! The lion isn’t underdeveloped—it’s hollowed. It stands as a symbol of inherited power, not earned strength. Like Famous Disabled Worker Rights Advocate and Cheese Enthusiast Magister Illyrio once said

— A Dance with Dragons, Tyrion I

The lions of Westeros roar from red keeps and golden thrones (toilet thrones, am I right? Huh? Eh?), but they are trapped by politics, legacy, and illusion. Their power is a spectacle maintained through fear, maintained through myth. They ain’t even got the fundage to back it up. Pull up, Cersei. The wolves, by comparison, represent power that is quiet, blood-won, and bone-deep. They do not command; they endure. They are not elevated by institutions, but by instinct.

Each direwolf’s fate mirrors their Stark:

• Lady’s unjust execution reflects Sansa’s theft of innocence and disconnection due to her loss of identity and lack of companionship.

• Grey Wind’s death during the Red Wedding marks Robb’s failure to heed instinct, and his transformation from noble heir to vengeful pretender.

• Nymeria’s independence parallels Arya’s exile and self-determination, leading a pack in the Riverlands as Arya learns to lead her own life beyond names.

• Shaggydog’s ferality reflects Rickon’s descent into chaos without guidance or protection or intervention.

• Summer’s sacrifice anchors Bran’s transformation into something inhuman, but still bound to loyalty and vision.

• Ghost, albino and silent, is Jon’s mirror: othered, introspective, and spectral. A quiet nod, too, to his secret Targaryen bloodline. (Suck my ass it’s canon)

These direwolves are not pets. They’re living metaphors and fragments of soul and fate.

So no—I don’t think the series needs more cats! Their absence is the point. The feline is not underused; it is overestimated, just like the legacy it represents. Lions are only dangerous when the wolves are gone.

And besides—when Martin did give us a Cat, he had her butchered at a wedding and threw her body in a river. He killed her. Then he brought her back. Then he killed her again—socially, narratively, and emotionally.

So… maybe we’re good on cats.

Rip cat you woulda loved the MILF category on pornhub <3

[lunrsys]

Is Sonic clawless/declawed? He doesn’t seem to have claws like metal Sonic or Shadow

this is cuz of au lore (vine boom)

metal and shadow are not hedgehogs, theyre both hybrids meant to look like hedgehogs but they have some differences from hedgehogs

sonic and amy for example have smaller claws meant to dig and make burrows, metal and shadow have giant claws meant for fighting

[gailsfrog]

HES BACK

PUZZLES IS BACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

I Literally amost cryed bro ive been screaming that entire 41 min runtime idk abt yall-

Ok first off Karen/Katana's Dynamic with Mr. WPNZ IS SO INTRESTINGG ghgfkjgh sdkg Like OMG are they gonna be a fam again? no :(

Guys im TOTALY normal with him- HES TOTALY NOT FKUCKIN HOT ghkfghgh

HEAD GUN >:3

Ok but the eye thing tho??? ?????

He has Chainsaw hands >;3 MURDER DRONESSS

hehe Rizz

Katana thats COOOLL

BAHEAHE FRR

I screamed very loudly.

Buisnes partners. Ok them together back then kinda sweett

Bro left to get the milk 💀

I never expected to hear the word 'pregnent' in SMG4 (asside from Smg3's serch hisory ep lol)

The playfull bickering for a sec hereeeeeee

teehee THIS IS SO GOOFYY MR. WPNZ LOOKS ADORABLE AJEKAE HAEL

OK BUT THEIR CHEMISTRY IN THIS WHOLE SCENNEEE AEEEE

Its soo cutteee

tehehe

Ok but Mr. WPNZ has a point lol

Our kid IM GONNA DRAW HIMMMMMMMM EAHEAK E

OK BUT THIS TO THE SCENE BELOW MEE AAEE

I thought they gonna kiss for a sec lol

HELLL YEAHHHHHHHHHH HE IS SOO A MODERCYCLE GUY (Now put puzzles on the back hehehehe)

First biggest plot twist.

Their wepond limbs :D (cool idea >:3) So ig Mr. WPNZ Geneticaly was born a gun. :T

CRIES* THIS IS CUTEEE

Ok by this point i was likE O m g gh fd ghksjdf g and then like wheres 4???

DA CASTLLEE

Bros drinking milk insted of alkihol lol

SMG4!!!!!!!!!!! YOUR OKAYYYYY Awh he bandeged :(

(Ima start typing b4 my pic number runs out :')

Ok but Smg4 is like a bartender here EE

Smg4's voice is so sweeeettttt (Smg3 i get you bro)

Ok those lill guys are so cuteeeee

*4 reaches hand across* Hes so supportave for herrrr hgkjsdh kdfg Like a husband but like their more of freinds lol

*Mario getting a sandwitch* It dont look like they have beef ok lol

Im quoting this blue man bro cuz its gonna take like 5 screenshots :P

SMG4: "You can't change someone for who they are... But maybe... That's okay, That's why you're there, right? To teach them when they mess up. To be there when they need it... You're in their corner of the ring through it all, supporting them so they can grow and be happy (sobs) "I imagine as a parent... That's what you'd want more than anything" *Mario chokes on the damn microwave*

OK BUT FRR SMG4- BRO COOKED ON THISS LIKE WOW

"My grandpa gave me that microwave" Bro you were birthed out of a USB you dont have Grandparents-

Wpnz guy heist:

*gets annoyed with kids* :'o yeah Karen right :T

Yeah he a villan alright.

dang you know it intence if they dont bleep stuff out

Ok but the fight scenesss (PEAKK)

Do the red eye thing have importantce? Gives me smg0/niles vibes a bit. and when puzzles screen goes all realistic eyeballs

Declawed :( oWW probably hurtsss

poor karen bro 😭

yay the kids saved her :>

They kick ass here tho

Him being all "AAAAAAAAAAAAA" goofy ass

Cant be dead right?

Ok where are karens glasses bro

:3

My reaction to the whole MR WEPONDS AND PUZZLLES AHAEAEAE

Fu last pic opTION hg jkhkdfg

im wording this :0

HES ALLIVEEEE fgjfhkjfdhkjdh

grey light?

SHadow guy??? Marty Huh?? The HITMAN INC GUY??? ?????

TV STATIC HUH???????? "cat got your tounge" Pun intended.

And allone" IS THIS PuZZ?

" A FREIND" DEAD GIVE AWAY I WAS LIKE AEEEEEE *Screams* NO WAY- ITS PUZZLES

BRO WHILE THE SCREN WAS GLuTCHING I WAS LIKE

NUH UH

NO WAY BRO NOO WAYY

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

MR PUZZLES???

MR PUZZLEs!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*walks arround room screeching*

*REPLAY* MR PUZZZLES

*TRYES NOT TO CRY* *curseing* HES BACKKKKKKKKK

Mech is Cute btw hehe

Ok but for like Mr. WPNZ and Mr. Puzzles. Ive seen post abt the ship YES >:D and now they gonna be freinds?? Its gonna be * I N R E S T I N G* >:D Cuz their like oppisite Puzzles has a tee hee voice and WPNZ has a lower voice. But their both mechanical ee and It seems Mr. WPNZ might have Screen-ghost powers? Im currious on how their dynamic is going to work. Cuz Mr. WPNZ Is like A helluva boss ahh Assassian and Mr. Puzzzles Is an Ex-Tv show guy I wonder if puzzles is more cold hearted after the Puzzlevision stuff and Puzzle park stuff. I hope hes a goober stillllll EE. It'd be SOO COOL to see Mr. Puzzles lock in possibly with the help of Mr. WPNZ and ACTUALLY Kick ass at being a villan LIKE What if he gets a new model or something where Mr. WPNZ Gives him weponds or they fuse?? Like if they fuse what if Smg3 and Smg4 Fuse LIKE (I still cant think what 3 and 4 would look like fused :T)

Also, remember how Mr. Puzzles has like Daddy issues? since im pritty shure his dad was abusive and and an asshole. (screw that guy idk if hes still allive.) and Mr. WPNZ is litarally a dad. GUYS THIS IS INTRESTINGGGGGGGGg AEEEEEE

As for Marty, I think hes gonna be a reoccuring side villan. I think Smg3 used to be like that. YEaarrrsss ago so yea :> im guessing next week were either gonna get a Mario reacts (fr karen???) or like Smg3 and Smg4 talking abt stuff, or a remastered lol :3

[theworldisadumpster]

I wish that there were enemy specific taunts for Vicious Mockery.

For instance:

Raphael -

"You're looking fat devil, lay off the souls"

"Seems the cat's been declawed"

"in the battlefield or the bedroom, this won't take long"

"Now, now, what would daddy say?"

Cazador -

"Lazy vampires don't get treats"

"All powerful yet you hide in the shadows"

"Centuries of dishing out punishment, it's your turn to face the whip slaver"

"7000 souls and you're as lonely as ever"

Balthazar -

"Would be a shame if someone knocked your mother a-jar"

"Surrounded by ghouls and zombies yet you're the most hideous thing I've seen"

"Don't go falling to pieces, you're out of thread"

"Flesh artist or glorified butcher?"

Ketheric -

"Which god's teet are you latched to these days?"

"Daddy can't bear to share his little girl"

"You brought Isobel back just to drive her away. Pathetic"

"Once a fierce general, now a slave to the absolute"

"What would your wife think of you now?"

Orin -

"Behold, bhaal's favorite little failed abortion"

"All that blood, and it's still not enough"

"How ironic one so steeped in gore could be so gutless."

"Slinked through our camp like a child sneaking sweets. We'll you've been caught Orin the red handed"

"Chosen of Bhaal, a glorified title for a glorified pawn."

Gortash -

"Poor unwanted Gortash, the shoemaker's son given the boot"

"A child sold to a devil by the one they trusted most, now where have I heard that before?"

"A caricature of a ruler hiding behind tin soldiers and larger minds"

"Tut tut, one shouldn't cast nether stones in glass houses"

"That's what happens when you play with fire Gortash, you get burned."

[emblemxeno]

(Feel free to answer publicly) I know this is in YMMV territory, but Fates did this nice thing where I wanted all of the royal siblings (including Azura) to make it to the end. Meanwhile in the one between Shadows of Valentia and Engage, I didn't care if Edelgard ate dirt.

adshfasbfasbbasf LMAAAAAAO

I myself am kind of a bleeding heart, so I sometimes like to imagine an ending where every playable character in 3H got to the end.

But the problem with imagining that scenario is that Edelgard needs to be convinced that she's wrong and she's not the type of person who can accept that she's wrong (aside from throwaway bullshit like suddenly growing a brain cell about education when Ferdinand brings it up). She demonstrates in multiple routes that she'd rather die than compromise anything, that the fighting and death will continue unless killed by Byleth and/or Dimitri. So unless you declaw her-which runs the risk of stripping her of the few good parts about her characterization as seen in certain instances of Three Hopes-it's extremely difficult to write a world where she can coincide with anyone.

So I end up back to where you're at, which is "i don't really give a fuck if she makes it, I guess, it's too much work trying to give this character an out for her shit." That also extends to Hubert as well, they write him wanting the player to respect him as a threatening, cutthroat genius strategist, but in practice he's just like Iago without the tendency to beg.

And like you said, it's different with the Fates siblings and royals, because there's concrete and visible reasons why they are the way they are, yet they're also written to have reasonable hope spots. Ending up rooting for them shows the success of the logical and emotional aspects of the narrative to me. They were never written to only be tragic opposites who'll never work together, they can coexist and be one family, but it's a lot of fucking work.

[mychlapci]

Sorry my king I've been losing my mind over the fact that there's no sunderfroid content out there

K9 au where sunder is froids working dog. He's not a true k9 unit tho. Arrested as a serial killer and assessed by froid upon internment, froid was so fascinated by sunder that he negotiated for a weird alternate punishment. Sunder was to be stripped of his status as a mech, forced into the position of a mechanimal. No shadowplay necessary for the mnemosugeon. It's part of the punishment. He needs to know what's happening. He needs to know what he's been reduced to

Sunder is declawed in the form of having his optics smashed in by froid personally. I need sunder to be resentful, to hate what he has been forced into, and yet play the role of the dog oddly pliantly

Froid knows he is playing with borrowed time. He knows his "dog" can never truly be controlled. He knows they are playing a game simply until sunder grows tired of it. But he's too drawn in to pull out

I need them to develop some weird form of companionship. Sunder finding a weird form of comfort in defaulting to being a simple beast sometimes, knowing he has simple rules to follow, that he will be rewarded for completing his tasks, and knowing that those simple rules can always be pushed. Froid knowing that he's getting dangerously attached to his prisoner and powerless to stop it. Both knowing they could end each other at any given moment and leaving it unsaid

Idk I just want to see froid turning up for some criminal investigation kinda thing where he turns up to psychoanalyse a suspect and he's got this hulking shadow behind him. The poor subject just immediately starts shaking, plating rattling, as the beast leans over its master, grinning and licking over its dentae, engine rumbling dangerously

k9 Sunder is so big brained. bad, naughty serial gets to crawl around crime scenes and get off to the sight of dead bodies while his master analyses the scene <3 he's Froid's big, terrifying dog that loves to bite. please let him bite someone.

[komishko]

"Declawing"

The Author is tasked to guide Silver under a series of checks, to ensure her readiness for the dispatchment to the Barrens. But... why?

Made by @komishko & @redlaserpointers

The rapped sounds of a door are unmistakable, as the Author knocks. The room is vacant, save for a desk with the resources he needs, and a chair placed for him. Inside the room is Silver, idly staring at a wall before registering the Author’s presence. He carries an interesting aura, and she can’t help but sample his appearance.

Brown coat to suit the cold weather, and some mitten gloves to suit. A green tinted goggles sits on top of his leather aviator hat, casting a shadow on where his eyes would be. Yellow irises gleam from his eyes, looking into Silver with an unreadable expression. Perhaps what is most intriguing is a clipboard held tightly on his broad chest. The information is concealed, and only intended for his eyes to see. Silver swayed her head, wanting to take a peek of the secrecy, but failed.

“Good evening.” The Author bowed his head, speaking for the first time. His baritone, sultry voice melted its way into Silver’s audio receptors.

[Good evening to you too.] Silver bowed back.

“Are you ready for your checkup appointment?” He smiled.

[Yes.]

Reaching his hand into one of his breast pockets, the Author pulls out a yellow pencil. The clipboard is placed onto the desk, face up but still far away for Silver to immediately read it. Before she could try to raise her head and gleam over the mystifying contents, the Author speaks, jolting her attention as it snapped back towards him.

“Firstly, I will test your motors to see if it is functioning.” The Author tapped the tip of the pencil with his fingertip. “Look into the end of the pencil, please.”

The Author moves his pencil in front of Silver's eyes, to see if she follows it correctly. Her eyes dragged itself left to right like a pendulum, right to left like a swingset.

"...eyes – check. Thank you, Silver." He walks a step towards the desk, noting something on the clipboard. "Now, instead of your eyes, can you move your head towards the pencil?"

[I believe so.] She focuses the motors of her neck, and relaxes her eyes. As the pencil swings round and round, Silver kept her concentration steady, the pencil in the center of her vision.

"Excellent, thank you." The Author repeats the evaluation process, noting on the clipboard.

There is no harm in asking, she realized. [May I ask, what are you noting on the clipboard?] Silver pointed.

“Oh?” The Author shoots a curious glance at Silver. A slight hesitance shackles on his breath, but he draws a straight answer. “It is just… a checklist of examinations. If you cannot complete a task, then I will jot it down and ask the laboratory staff to remedy it.”

[Understood.] She nodded, somewhat satisfied with the answer. However, the note of hesitance was captured by her, and the lingering want to know persists.

"Alright, can you move your right arm a bit forwards?" The pencil is repurposed as a baton, as the Author points towards her arm.

With no response, Silver moves her right arm forwards. It jitters a few times, especially near the hand area, and a hitch formed in her thoughts. She proceeds to move it more in subtle confusion, somewhat perturbed by the mixed signals that crashed upon each other in her circuits. It felt as though another arm is freakishly molded into where her old arm was to be, a terrific amalgamation where two bodies are coalesced together.

"Does it feel off?" asked the Author.

[Yes…] Her voice tried to hide the discomfort.

"Do not worry. Both your arms were replaced, so it might take a bit to get used to. Exercise it a few times and it should feel normal."

[…why were my arms replaced?]

He shook his head, snapping himself from the recollection, before giving a white answer. “...they were obsolete models, to put it short. We wanted to give you a better pair of arms.”

[Okay…]

"Here, you can just fiddle with these tools for now." The Author picked up the clipboard from the table, before pushing it towards Silver’s vicinity. With it is an assortment of fidgeting toys. Some of them were designed by the Author, mainly to keep his hands busy whenever he’s deep in thought or merely bored.

Silver grabbed a stress ball with her right arm, trying to grip it as hard as she could. However, the strength of her new arm is barely enough to condense the ball, no matter how much she exerted her power. Examining her arm further, she realized her fingernails were filed, made much more and barely protruding from her fingers.

The Author proceeded to turn away to note down more things on his clipboard. As she continued experimenting with the limits of her dexterity, he encouraged Silver. "Check the left arm too.

Silver proceeds to grab a screwdriver, spinning it around in her hands. The more she tried out her new arms, the more she felt a sense of uncanny. The exteriors of her arm felt like it was made of rubber, not weak to cause damage to her, not strong enough to cause damage to others. It felt like something was… missing.

He glanced behind for a moment, analyzing Silver’s movements before continuing to jot down his notes, quietly reading his own writing. "No stiff movement, joints rotating right... same drill as the old arms."

Meanwhile, Silver talked to herself as well. [These seem to work fine, it’s just…] Her words trailed off into an unfinished thought. She tried out the other toys whilst observing how her arms react.

After a few seconds, the Author turns back towards her. "Alright... stand up, please."

Silver did as asked, cautiously standing up. She worried that if her legs were changed too, it would fail her, making her trip and fall.

Noticing the worry in her body, he extinguished the doubt, stifling a chuckle. "Your legs are still the same, don't worry."

Duly noted, Silver thought. With a newfound confidence, she adjusted her posture and stood up perfectly upright. Looking down to her torso and legs, there doesn’t seem to be any difference. The lightbulb symbol etched emblematic on her chest glowed a bright red. It always intrigued her, why she was built with this. The Sun seemed to be such an imperative motive, as it hung with its chin high up in the tower.

There’s a sense of… subdued frustration, almost? She cannot pinpoint it, nor would she know why this emotion surfaces, but this body almost feels… old.

The Author stepped back a pair of meters away, before giving the next instruction. “Excellent. Now, try walking around."

Silver proceeds to walk around in circles. The Author kept a safe distance as he ticked down a couple of things on the checklist.

"Good, good. A few sidesteps, please."

All the while, it kept Silver thinking to herself. The more she tried to understand the source of this elusive, diminished frustration, the more she cannot seem to grasp it, the more it seemed to flee like a fleeting memory. This body felt… tight. Very tight, very compressed. It felt like she barely had room to breathe. But now, that feeling is gone, only faints of it. The body is still the same, but the perception has shifted.

"Thank you. Try rolling your heels, please."

But her arms of all parts have been replaced. Has something happened in the past? The more she scavenged her memory folders, the more it doesn’t add up. Halves of memories remembered, the colors of the red floor but not the floor. The sounds of shrilling, but from who? Does she know where she came from? Does she know why she is undergoing this maintenance?

"Alright, and a few stretches, please…"

How many of these checkups has she gone through? It felt like the first, but the first of what? Tens, hundreds? The more she thought, the more her chest felt constricted, her waist too narrow, the memories flooding away. A thousand thoughts whisked away into a single drop.

"Very good. Thank you for complying."

Silver looked at the Author. After the rumination of her identity, she felt an urge to attain validation. [Was my performance satisfactory?]

"Seems fine to me. How about you, though? Do you have any complaints, besides the arms?" He placed the butt of the pencil on his chin, spinning it around.

[No, I don’t.] She shook her head.

"Well! That's all we needed to check, you are ready for your new mission." With a whisk of the wrist, the pencil is pointed over to the door. "The laboratory crew is waiting outside, they will escort you to the transport."

Silver walks forwards, her palm hovering over the doorknob. But… something draws her to not go, quite yet. She stops and looks back at Author. [I have a question.]

The Author looked with intrigue, tilting his head. "What's your question, Silver?"

[Maintenance does not normally concern itself with so many details, and the arm replacements…] Silver exercised her left arm, reaching out to the side as the slight discomfort still shows. [I believe something has happened to me before. May I know what happened?]

The Author looks up at Silver, the shadow lifted from his face revealing a pair of blank eyes, darting between her eyes and the clipboard. A soft sigh blows from his nose. "We can't send you to the Barrens unprepared, you know? A lot of adjustments had to be done."

[I see. Thank you for the time, then. I will… continue my mission.] Silver exits the badly lit maintenance room.

Kip was waiting outside, before her head prepped up at the sight of the robot walking by. She ecstatically walked up to Silver, immediately barraging a whole load of questions. “Hey, Silver! How was the maintenance? Are you doing better?”

Barely acknowledging her, she walks past Kip. The engineer felt the energy that spring up from her leaving immediately. “Ah… farewell, then.”

The Author remained in the room, looking from the door frame and grimacing at how she ignored Kip just like that. Out of anybody, he would understand how it feels to have your creations turn away from you, treating you like a ghost. But… that was to be expected, after all. His eyes darted over to the final check, as his teeth chewed on the yellow pencil.

[pincushionx]

Declawed

Small little idea of Shadow being declawed during his time in the lab which very much effects him.

Part 2 part 3

[thehollowwriter]

All of my non-twst ocs are old ones I've had for a while. I have considered making them into twst ocs too as an au or smt... Let's see what we have:

☆My first ever queer couple consisting of a butch bi ginger (Cassandra- though she prefers being called Casey- Russou) and a lesbian ex gymnast (CatherineHarris). Both are assassins (or spies? A weird mix of the two idk little me was cooking and the food was a mystery). Casey's a sniper who's tough as hell and will fight you in the alleyway, and Catherine is as elegant and charming as can be and you'll be quite seduced until poison gets slipped into your drink.

☆Twin brother (Alekai Snow) and sister (Chromespear Snow. I'm working on the name change, okay) from another planet. They're part of a species I called the Nocturi. Well, half Nocturi and half Solarian. Alekai's a doctor who was forcibly declawed and needs tech to help his fingers move bc it caused nerve damage, and Chromespear's a blacksmith, and she needed more development tbh but she was iconic

☆The boss of my two assassins who's just an incredibly superfluous, cartoony supervillain simply known as "The Director" (nobody knows his name and neither does he 💀) He's shipped with an irl friend's oc who's a mafia boss and they're both incredibly evil together

☆The powerful mage and general (Ephemeris Vikatte) who's got a whole *gestures* thing going on with Alekai. The two of them are basically just "enemies" (in a petty way) to friends to lovers. He's a bit of a dumbass tbh XD himbo energy

☆The guy who in retrospect is low-key a beta Silas. (Kurai Dusk) He's traumatised and tired but he loves his wifey to the ends of the earth. He's also the second in command to the Empress who I'm considering making a Queen instead because little Quinn did not understand what that title meant lmao

☆Another doctor guy (Assegai Copper) but he has anxiety and mommy issues and powerful magic and is trying his best. He's a small-town GP (like REALLY small-town. Like a village) and he accidentally saved an assassin named Crimson (unrelated to my other two assassins) who he has a situationship with now XD (I actually started writing a story for them when I was like... 12/13. Rewrite? 👀)

☆My beloved Empress/Queen (Achlys) who's the last of her species, and whose species in question I actually wanted to be a mimicry of the Nocturi. She has immensely powerful magic and control of shadows and the darkness (was known as "the Shadow Empress" Can you tell this was my edgy phase yet)

☆My mad scientist (Dr. Maddeline Kruger) who "killed" Catherine. Casey's been hunting Dr. Kruger down ever since, but she doesn't know Catherine is still alive. I'm probably gonna change this storyline there was a lot wrong in retrospect 💀

Okay I'm tired now but tadaaaa should I make twst versions of them

Tagging: @distant-velleity @br3adtoasty @rainesol @theleechyskrunkly @jovieinramshackle

@galaxies-and-gore @cyanide-latte @cynthinesia @officialdaydreamer00

@krenenbaker @offorestsongs @kitwasnothere @elenauaurs @boopshoops

@inotonline @1dont-really-know @kazumify @minteasketches

@elysia-nsimp

@skrimpyskimpy @casp1an-sea @offorestsongs @tixdixl

@poisoned-pearls @the-trinket-witch

@ramshacklerumble @ghostiidasponk @thegoldencontracts @sillyslipperybananapeel @cloudcountry

@skriblee-ksk @twstinginthewind @lumdays @theolivetree123 @natsukishinomiyaswife

@authoruio @jewelulu @raguiras @moonyasnow @skibidibabygirl

@quartztwst @yuizenihaswriten @oya-oya-okay @kirans-wonderland @coffinkissez

@idikeis @s-t-y-x @minutewondertwist @random-twst-and-oc-stuff

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

Veilguard is a black hole where I have no inspiration. I feel nothing for these characters. I don’t even feel anything for my Solavellan, if you can believe it. Maybe I’m outgrowing it (been 6 years) or I’ve simply thought and daydreamed absolutely everything there is for this romance, or my added daily adult responsibilities and work schedule make creativity and such difficult to gather up and channel into whatever, but Veilguard was supposed to be the extra kerosene to keep it burning, but it’s turned into a blanket smothering it. I can’t believe this game made me distinctly, actively, and deliberately not care about this world anymore. I don’t care about these companions or their problems or their cutesy lil non-issues, I don’t care about Rook, I don’t care about Treviso, the Crows, Lords of Fortune, Isabela, Dorian, the Veil Jumpers, Mythal, the Evanuris, the Blight, the Crossroads, the Venatori, the dwarves, the Qunari, the Antaam, Rivain, the Mourn Watchers, the Shadow Dragons, and hell, I sort of scarcely care about Solas in this present iteration of him. I simply don’t care, because the game has given me nothing to care about, because what is there is so hackneyed and superficial and declawed and just… the height of mediocrity. A 57/100 Metacritic-worthy storyline. A genuine 5.7/10 IMDB.

Nothing here for me to chew on, because what I chewed on in games past were the deep philosophical and morally ambiguous arguments and debates which, while not always handled gracefully, still allowed for exploration and critique and analysis. Here there is nothing. Nothing is contentious, nothing is “problematic”, nothing is gray or dark gray. There is just Good Guys and Bad Guys. There is no doubt, no regret, no genuinely lingering feeling of being haunted by choices because no one holds your choices against you for long, no one interrogates you. Reactivity? What reactivity? How is it that S1 of Telltale’s The Walking Dead (2012) managed to nail this sort of character reactivity better than this fucking game made twelve years later.

If the Inquisitor was bland and the character reactivity brief to your choices a bit brief, then in Veilguard it might as well not exist, because none of the companions will ever protest to any great extent that makes you worried you’ve genuinely fucked up, because everyone talks out their feelings and all the dialogue options and banter can only point toward reconciliation and emotional intelligence that only my fellow overly-therapized critically online lefties and liberals could conjure up. There are no hard feelings. Everyone likes you no matter what. Everyone forgives you for letting their city get destroyed, everyone is like “Nah Rook you gotta keep going, you’re doing the right thing!” as you bring down travesty after travesty everywhere you go.

It’s all the beats of a superhero film without the heart, without the messiness and problematique ✨ elements that made us dissect and argue and postulate for years. “Not only is this game free of problematic elements like in prior games, but we’ll explain everything to you—repetitively and poorly c: “.

Ugh this game is such a black hole for inspiration. I can’t even think or know where to begin with it. Looking at other peoples’ fanfiction AU endings written before Veilguard dropped is honestly my safest bet because everything else people wrote is better than what we got.

[the-last-quest]

A short fic based on this post because it’s been consuming my brain

[883 words]

Nine lowered himself on the lip of the cave, his shoes connecting with the ground as quietly as he could.

He almost missed what he was looking for, the light of the full moon outside not enough to reach into all the small crevices of the cave, only a small glimmer, not fully in the shadows, giving away that something was there. That thing being the metal arm belonging to the fox that he, and everyone else, had been missing for the past few hours.

Sails hadn’t noticed him yet, the pirate curled up into himself, and for that Nine was a little relived. As he made his way further into the cave his mind raced with things to say. He knew what he wanted to say to the other, but now that he was faced with it, he had no idea how to.

He made his way closer to the other, his footsteps silent due to years of practice. Everything was going peacefully until he accidentally kicked a pebble, the noise alerting the other fox to his presence

Nine froze as he made eye contact with Sails. He thought by now he would be used to seeing reflections of himself, but this was different. It was obvious that Sails had been crying, though now the tears were dry. Along with that he looked terrified of being discovered, seeming ready to bolt at any second. It reminded Nine in when he had felt like this, when he was younger, backed into a corner with no escape. He decided then and there he never wanted to see that expression on any of his brothers again.

Nine put his hand up in front of him to show that he didn’t mean any harm, he didn’t trust himself to speak. Only a small swish of his tails before Sails curled into himself again indicated that it was okay for Nine to come closer.

As Nine sat down next to the pirate he dug into his shorts pocket. He nudged the other lightly with his shoulder, drawing attention to what he held in his hand.

A blue and white bandana.

A bandana that had led Sails to run off and hide. A bandana that had fallen off when Sails and Mangey were play fighting. A bandana that hid a jagged clipped ear.

With shaky hands Sails took the bandana from Nine. He watched as Sails held the bandana to his chest before looking back up and giving Nine a shaky smile.

He decided to use that as a chance to speak, to say something that could tell the other he knew how he felt, that he was the same. But as he opened his mouth no words came out, his brain once again failing him as he had no idea how to handle this.

Now though he had Sails’ attention, he felt like he had to do something.

Nine took a deep breath, aware of the eyes that were on him, as he started to unclasp his black glove. He paused and squeezed his eyes, unwilling to look at his own paw as he removed his glove. It was silent for a moment, long enough for Nine to begin to regret what he did, until he heard a small, sharp inhale when Sails realized what Nine was showing him, the scars from being declawed.

Nine turned away from his paw before he opened his eyes again. He was met with Sails looking straight at him. This time though Nine couldn’t read his expression, a mixture of sadness and pity, but also an understanding.

He didn’t know what to think until Sails let out a small noise. It was a mixture between a laugh and a sob. Nine stared at Sails as the other fox devolved into laughter. Nine doesn’t know why but he joined in the laughter.

It felt like a weight was lifted. Everything was out in the open now and there was nothing to hide. The culmination of the stress and the shame, and most importantly the relief of not being seen as different tipped them over the edge.

It was a while until the laughter stopped. Nine leaned back again the stone wall of the cave, wiping away tears. He felt a weight drop onto his shoulder. Sails was looking up at him, a smug smile on his tear stained face. Nine rolled his eyes at the other’s antics but made no attempt to push him off, instead leaning his head to rest on top of Sails’.

They didn’t say anything. No long winded discussions on how they got their scars. No unpacking why they felt to cover them up. Just a mutual understanding that both of them had faced something that irreparably changed them physically, something that still affects how they view themselves.

Soon Nine would have to call in, letting the others know that they were safe. Right now though he could wait. Sure it wasn’t the most comfortable situation, he could feel Sails’ elbow digging into his side, and he couldn’t say he was totally happy, but he did feel somewhat content and based on the quiet purr Sails had started to let out he did too. It wouldn’t hurt that much to stay in this moment for a little longer.

[geeseandlimes]

[Honkai Star Rail] led with your hands tied

Rating: T Pairing: Gallagher/Sunday, pre-slash Character(s): Gallagher, Sunday Warning(s): Depictions of Violence, Someone giving the other cigarette burns, dog metaphors and predator/prey dynamics (briefly) Summary:

“Master Sunday will not be pleased with your performance, hound.” “Let him be angry. Still got the job done.” or; Gallagher decides to play with fire on the next mission given to him by the Family. He gets burned, literally.

“Master Sunday will not be pleased with your performance, hound.”

“Let him be angry. Still got the job done.”

It’s hard not to tell the Oak Family representative that Gallagher doesn’t particularly give a rat’s ass on how Sunday feels about the entire thing. If the job is done, it’s done, and the sooner Gallagher can go back to doing far more important things with his time. Things like sleeping or taking care of whatever petty thing his subordinates somehow miraculously fumbled. If Sunday wants to be pissy about how Gallagher does things, let him. Not like Gallagher will ever get a promotion or a pay raise in this damn place.

The Oak Family representative doesn’t seem too pleased about Gallagher’s answer, either. They can shove it for all Gallagher cares.

He pulls out his lighter from his pocket, shooing the representative away with a lazy wave of his hand. They make a displeased huff and march off. It leaves Gallagher alone, at peace for once in the hustle and bustle of Penacony’s dreamscape. Gallagher pulls out his box of cigarettes to tap one out and light it. As fake as these things are in this dreamscape, he can still imagine the rush of satisfaction on that first hit of nicotine and going through the motions lets his mind calm down.

He was truly at peace for the briefest of moments.

…or that could be the self-satisfaction talking.

Truth be told, Gallagher is playing a dangerous game this round of “pretend to be loyal to appease the Family.”

A ruthless and merciless mutt like Gallagher should be perfect for this mission, Sunday had said when he approached the Bloodhound family head with this particular request. With such an outstanding record, he’ll have this problem solved neatly.

Efficiently.

Sunday was acting entirely as if Gallagher hadn’t been defanged and declawed by the Family to make him an obedient dog. Sunday was taunting him.

So Gallagher decided to taunt him back. Old hounds can be “messy eaters” when they have barely any teeth left to bite and chew properly.

Gallagher was sloppy.

He knew the issue Sunday needed the Bloodhound Family to deal with almost immediately. A far too industrious (too curious) reporter working for the IPC managed to wriggle their way into the dreamscape under the guise of a vacation—paid for entirely from their own pocket and not ICP funds. This reporter then proceeded to stick their nose in places it didn’t belong. They wandered dangerously close to Family secrets that did not need to be discovered. Naturally, this meant they needed to go.

ASAP.

First, Gallagher sent some of the newer recruits. Still wet behind the ears and jumpy, keen to prove themselves. Predictably, they fail, and the IPC reporter gives them the slip. There’s collateral, too. Gallagher went to find the reporter himself, next. But he doesn’t do it with the usual finesse. Instead of stalking quietly from the shadows he made his presence known.

Any chance to show himself, he did, and watched as the IPC reporter scurried away in fear. Gallagher continued to stalk them. He waited, listened as they tried to trickle as much information as they could (as much as he let them) to the people back in the IPC, before he finally pounced. He was sloppy, yes, but the hunt had been good.

The reporter practically squealed for mercy. Begging and pleading for their life before Gallagher’s jaws closed around their neck. He was messy there, too, and that was the reason a Family representative approached him.

Now, here Gallagher stands, metaphorically picking his teeth clean after a fresh kill.

Gallagher takes a long drag of his cigarette. One beat, two, and then he exhales. His eyes watch the smoke as it lazily curls its way up to the perpetual night sky. It should only be a matter of time before Sunday gets here. As sloppy as Gallagher was, Sunday won’t let his entire performance of this mission slide. It’s almost a blemish on the Family’s (on Sunday’s) pristine record.

He taps the ash off the end of his cigarette. Gallagher should probably make himself scarce for the time being to try and get a little bit of breathing room. He’s got some sharp wit, certainly, but his mind is still exhausted from the hunt. He’d rather face Sunday when he’s got a well-rested mind.

“Going to run away from the scene of the crime as soon as you’re done? Or is it that you are trying to run away from your own bad behavior?”

Gallagher curses in his head. Speak of the devil, and he will come.

He turns around to face Sunday, hands in his pockets and lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Just going to freshen up before I make my report,” Gallagher says smoothly. He purposely ignores the barely concealed disgust in Sunday’s eyes. He can’t get giddy just yet. It’ll blow his cover.

Sunday gives Gallagher a once over. “Freshen up?” he parrots. His head even tilts to the side cutely, almost like one of the origami birds. Gallagher tries hard not to bare his teeth. “I wasn’t even aware you knew how to do that,” Sunday continues. He walks towards Gallagher in even, measure strides, stopping once he’s in front of him. Gallagher almost snarls when Sunday’s hand comes up to tap a knuckle delicately against Gallagher’s tie.

“Not when you barely seem to care about your own slovenly appearance.”

“I’m sure the way I dress is not why you’re here.”

Sunday’s hand falls away, once again taking position behind his back.

“Considering your lackluster performance, I felt it imperative to talk with you myself.”

Gallagher gives a noncommittal hum. Sunday’s wings twitch the slightest in annoyance, but otherwise the man stays impeccably calm and unbothered. It makes Gallagher want to grab him by those wings and pull, act the disobedient dog Sunday likes to paint him as. It makes Gallagher want to do what he just did to that reporter not too long ago. Stalk him, make him paranoid, wait for the right time until he can lunge forward and sink sharp teeth into Sunday’s delicate breast.

The taste of blood will be so sweet.

“What you did almost cost the Family some of our reputation and money. While the Alfalfa Family assured me that there has been no decline in funds, the damage has still been done.”

Gallagher brings his hand up to grab at his cigarette. Sunday doesn’t let him. A prim, gloved hand swats Gallagher’s own away. That same hand plucks the cigarette straight from Gallagher’s lips. He can only watch, a little wide-eyed, as Sunday brings the cigarette to his own mouth and takes a drag off it.

The smoke he blows from his mouth is wispy and delicate, but smothering, just like the man himself.

“You were reckless,” Sunday says, “and almost caused us to lose a lot of money. The only reason the other heads have not rallied for a more extreme punishment is because you did finish the job in the end.” Just not to Sunday’s standards. That was what Gallagher was going for, but he needs to play the fool. He sheepishly brings a hand up to scratch at the back of his head.

He tucks his tail between his legs, lets his metaphorical ears draw flat against his skull. Gallagher even tries to act a little bit apologetic.

“Must have had a bad night, then,” he says. “Sorry, I’ll do better next time.”

Sunday appraises him, long and hard.

“I do not care for liars, hound.”

Gallagher wishes to tear out his throat and feast on his innards.

“Know that you will have to work hard to make me believe you. Do not slip up like this again.”

The threat of a heavier punishment hangs over Gallagher like a guillotine. His gums are itching, his muscles tense—all of it a bone deep anger that Gallagher tries to repress.

“Yes, sir,” Gallagher rasps out.

That seems to appease Sunday.

His smile is mocking, “Good boy.” Sunday is taunting him again. Gallagher can only watch as Sunday takes one last puff off of the cigarette. “Hand,” Sunday instructs.

“I’m not an actual dog—”

“Hand.”

Gallagher gives it far too willingly. His pride stings, but he reminds himself of the reason he’s doing all of this. Sunday doesn’t even say anything when he takes Gallagher’s hand. He just briefly runs his thumb over the bumps of Gallagher’s knuckles.

A burning pain follows.

It is the dreamscape, but pain still feels all too real. The only noise Gallagher makes when Sunday presses the lit end of the cigarette against his skin is a sharp hiss of breath. He keeps steady, still, knowing the game Sunday is trying to play. One wrong move and Gallagher is in the doghouse. One wrong move and he’s back to square one. He closes his eyes to block out the pain, opening them again when Sunday lifts the cigarette off of Gallagher’s skin and flicks it to the side.

A harsh red circle stars back at Gallagher. “A reminder,” Sunday says. “If you mess up again, the punishment will be far worse.”

Gallagher doesn’t even watch his tongue this time, “Fuck off.”

That smile Sunday wears turns cold, wicked.

“Care to repeat that?” Sunday’s voice holds a dark promise.

Gallagher swallows thickly.

Remember, remember why you’re suffering through all of this. Remember your plans.

“I’m sorry, sir, and I will not do this again.”

“…good boy.”

And with those words, Sunday turns on his heel and leaves Gallagher alone. When Sunday is out of his sight Gallagher spits and seethes. He angrily stomps out the cigarette, grinding it into the false concrete of the dreamscape.

He can’t wait to finally break Sunday.

*****

When Sunday opens his eyes, it is to the real world. When his senses finally come back to him, he almost rushes to the bathroom with how ill he feels. The fake cigarette that he had taken from Gallagher in the dream had been atrocious. The smoke filled his head, his nose, and suffocated him in a way that he hated. It made him feel horrid.

But not as horrid as that Bloodhound did.

Sunday can still taste the cigarette on his tongue. Or perhaps it is something unique to Gallagher.

Sunday doesn’t care.

He doesn’t wish to know.

That old mutt just needs to obey.

[choccy-zefirka]

Monsters Like Us

After seeing the lovely @bharv 's BG3 nostalgia, I also started having feelz about Ketheric and Meteor, my Half-Orc Durge (they/them), and wanted to self-reblog their first kiss fic... But Tumblr ate it as always. So have at it again!

Her voice a thunderstorm, her moon-white anger adding more and more inches by the second to her height, her shoulders, and her bristling wingspan, Aylin insists, again and again, that he should be dead.

She is correct, of course. And she would have readily, understandably, eagerly killed him herself. When Myrkul took over his body and then cast it aside, a drained mortal husk once more after all these years, her heavy boot would have caved his face in, with no more dark magic to rebuild the split skin and shattered bone — had the others not pulled her back. Not that they were particularly ecstatic to save his miserable life. Not that they should be.

“Yet he lives,” the druid says to Aylin. His voice is dry, colorless; and he stands unmoving. Not as tall, or as seething as the Moonmaiden’s vengeful daughter — yet still here to pass judgment. On behalf of all the dead trees that rose, naked-white as sea creature carcasses, out of the suffocating waves of green-black smoke, when the once happy, sunlit, moon-kissed haven around the Towers became an offering to Shar. And on behalf of all the people that fell into the smoke’s corrosive clutches under those dead trees’ shadow.

When the dark gods turned away from Moonrise, disappointed and bored; when the Moonmaiden’s child flew free again — the Shadow Curse was lifted. The light will warm the trees once more, and the lost souls will finally know rest. This has to make the druid happy — yet surely, he would be even happier if the Curse’s caster died with it.

“He lives. What is done is done. Better he travel with us than continue to poison this long-suffering land with his presence.”

That is what the druid says. Isobel, however… Isobel says nothing.

Isobel does not even meet her father’s eyes, in those few fleeting moments when, now and again, he catches a glimpse of her across the campsite — before Aylin inevitably snaps to attention and covers her with her wing; a glittering shield of moonlight between his little girl’s pure heart and his festering darkness.

He feels nothing whenever this happens. Just a heavy emptiness tugging at the edges of his heart. And he is uncertain whether that’s because he had ached and screamed and cursed the gods to the point of numbness long, long ago — or because he truly is a monster.

If only these ragtag adventurers had given him a cage instead of a tent. As a reminder that he is a captured beast. To gawk at, and throw an occasional tomato. He knows the green-eyed child, with Shar’s black freshly washed from her hair, would have loved to do that. It would have distracted her from the panicked questions he can read in her eyes, like he once read in his own in a mirror.

That would have at least been more honest.

But no. No cage for him.

His Netherstone has been pried from his armor — which they have had him swap for civilian clothes, to make him less conspicuous, as they draw within closer and closer reach of Gortash’s grasping golden claws. The Stone’s safekeeping has been entrusted to the Gith. A fair choice, in case he suddenly fancies stealing it back. Which he won’t; he is too tired — but how are they supposed to know? A monster declawed is a monster still. And that otherworldly soldier is a fierce guardian against monsters if he ever saw one. He can swear she keeps sharpening her blade even in her sleep.

And he himself, general no more, undead no more, serving his gods no more, father no more — just a clawless shell by the name of Ketheric — has been stuffed in the remote corner of their camp. Kept alive, kept among them, at the Urge’s insistence.

Had this been the same Urge as he knew them, before… well, before Orin’s blade did its work — he would have assumed that he is being tormented for their own sick amusement. But this is just the thing: the Urge has… changed. In ways creatures like them are not meant to.

A mad dog, he once called them. And it is not as if he were wrong. When they first joined forces, the Urge, too, was a monster. And not by choice, like him; by nature.

They were the gods’ cruelty and callousness personified; a hand-crafted plaything to suit Bhaal’s whims. Devoid of all the things that make mortals such a nuisance to deal with when an all-powerful, capricious entity wants their orders followed, and followed now.

There was no free will behind their ever-widened eyes, no stray thought that was not planted in their head by Bhaal. Even their appearance — which, to a hapless bystander mistaking them for a real person, might have looked like the result of a union, perhaps even love, between an Orc and a Drow — was assembled out of very specific puzzle pieces, trait matched to trait, to turn them into an efficient killing machine. Both agile and strong; capable of rending some writhing, screaming fool limb from limb with their bare hands, and then disappearing into the shadows. Ketheric remembers Gortash being immensely fascinated by that. Of course.

Yet now they wield that… perfectly molded body of theirs to jump between terrified refugees and a pack of gnolls. Their skull-crushing gray hands clasp gently around the trembling fingers of a lost child, as they guide them to safety. Unharmed. With flesh unruptured and blood unspilled. Their tusked mouth smiles — a real smile, not a vacant, drooling leer at the smell of blood — when they greet their companions.

They still wear all black, with spikes on their armor’s pauldrons and little skulls embroidered in silver along the collar of their camp shirt. But even that seems like a deliberate, almost playful fashion choice. They stride with confidence, clearly knowing that the dark colors flatter their powerful built and contrast with their silvery skin and white hair, which is no longer hanging in matted strands caked in days-old viscera. They groom themselves without Gortash coaxing them into it (do they even realize who Gortash was to them, at this point?). And they do that every time after they sully themself in battle… or while playing with their dog.

They are doing the latter right now. Spending their small window of rest leaping back and forth, with their black tunic ballooning in the wind; racing against a gleeful, sleek-coated animal… Who trusts them to bury their face in his fur, to pull him close with no intent to dig into his vulnerable belly and pull out his innards like a macabre garland, while the dog is still alive, screeching in pain and betrayal.

Thump.

The well-worn, drool-dark leather ball rolls up to Ketheric’s feet. He kicks it forward weakly, almost instinctively — his legs, after all, are still the same legs that ran about playing with Squire, when she was a creature of fur and flesh. What a good girl she was. The best girl. Does Isobel remember her..?

The ball rolls through the dirt, but the dog has been distracted by the smell of whatever scraps the company’s wizard is working to hard to turn into something presentable over the campfire. He races off, tongue lolling out of his mouth, and Ketheric is left face to face with the Urge.

“Hello,” they say, with that smile again. Well-meaning, if slightly awkward. A person’s smile. “Are you well? Have you been tired on the road?”

Ketheric exhales through his nose. The sound that comes out might even count as an approximation of a laugh. A person’s laugh? Or a monster’s attempt at one?

“Not in a way you are implying. I have had many, many more strenuous marches than this one.”

“Physically strenuous, you mean,” the Urge guesses, perching on the same log where he sits. The distance between them is barely one arm’s length, yet as deep as the void in the Shadowfell. “And otherwise — ?”

“That is only for myself to know,” Ketheric says, without raising his voice. He rarely ever did that, after all his screams at Selune and Shar were spent. Back when he had the ability to instantly close all wounds, that made him quietly intimidating; but he cannot help but wonder if now it just makes him weak.

“Fair enough; I just…” the Urge’s eyes look him over, still as blood-red as he remembers them. Irises bright crimson as the fresh jet from a slashed artery; sclera deep black as slimy clots on a corpse’s lips. Bhaal knows what he likes.

But the glow within their eyes cannot have come from Bhaal. From the Urge. That’s a living, sincere mind of someone else peering back at Ketheric. Trying to connect. That someone… is Meteor.

Meteor. He recalls, from eavesdropped conversations that the monster in the camp was not really invited to, that they’d named themselves thus because when the nautiloid crashed, they fell from the sky like a shooting star. Overly dramatic? Perhaps; but then again, some laughed at Melodia’s name when the two of them were young. So young, so distant, that he cannot look back at them in any other way than characters from a storybook that he can re-read, slowly turning the pages through the molasses of his heavy numbness — but never relive.

“Yes, it’s a silly name,” she’d say, with that same spark of defiance Isobel grew up to have. “But it’s mine.”

Meteor’s white eyebrows arch.

“I am sorry. I saw how Orin treated you; if I was the same… I shall no longer be.”

Ketheric shrugs.

“That is what we were. Dogs, each leashed to their respective god. Snapping at each other’s throats.”

“I am not going back to being a dog!”

Impulsively, Meteor shifts closer to him, till their knees touch, and clasps his bare, unarmored hands. Ketheric’s skin probably stings them with how icy-cold it is; he does not think he will ever be warm again. But their own fingers are warm. Unexpectedly comforting.

“And neither should you.”

“So you keep saying… But it has to be too late for me, hasn’t it?”

Inadvertently, Ketheric’s gaze wanders away from Meteor and to the spot where he knows Aylin and Isobel have pitched their tent. Also separated from him by a bottomless void.

Meteor squeezes his fingers tighter, which makes him drift back to their face. So open, so concerned. So stubbornly insistent.

“Don’t… Don’t look at them. We will never be on the same level as those two. They are beings of pure light. They are beacons that dispel darkness, and remain untouched by it; and you and I… Well, we dove right in.”

They shake their head, shuddering a little. Their hands slip off Ketheric’s and begin to gesticulate — fumbling through air as if the words they are searching for are suspended out there somewhere, cloaked into an invisibility spell. And at the sight of them, the smallest, wispiest inkling of… something stirs suddenly in Ketheric’s hollowed-out chest. Like the first shoots of living grass peeking through the dead soil’s cracks in the wake of the receding curse.

“My skull is like a beehive where every bee, every moment of every day, tries to drill at… what’s left of my brain. Telling me to tear and strangle and maim and kill. There’s a mad little goblin man dancing over me at night, promising me my…” Meteor’s lips curl in disdain, “...my inheritance, if I take the lives of those dear to me. I don’t know what it’s like, to just… be good, effortlessly, naturally, because you were born this way, made this way by the gods. But I still try. And you — you can try too.”

Their voice quivers, teetering on the edge of something Ketheric struggles to identify. Envy? Longing?

“You have memories of your past self to guide you. You have a… how would Gale put it… frame of reference. You still won’t be pure, ever again, but if someone like me can poke their head out of the dark…”

Their thread of thought snaps here, under inner strain; they breathe deeply, and a tear, utterly alien on their once-scowling, blood-drunk face, rolls along their cheek.

Another instinct awakens; Ketheric’s hands remember how gentle they once were, in another life, with his little Isobel, with his Melodia… He cups Meteor’s face, lingering on their eyes, just as theirs linger on his.

What follows next feels only natural, seamless; a compulsion almost. There is no more mossy bark separating them; Meteor’s knee is between his legs, their skin flushes warmer than ever before underneath his touch, their eyes burn into him, calling to that sliver of life… And next time he blinks, his lips are on theirs.

This is not the first time he has kissed a half-Orc. There were many long, dark days when he felt especially trapped in the crumbling towers, with Ilithid rot swelling underneath and the lightless sky pressing downs from above. He fumbled for release then, half-blind to what he was truly lacking… And Disciple Z’Rell was as efficient at providing that as she was at everything else.

So, he knows how exactly to tilt his head and slip his tongue between Meteor’s tusks. He takes ever longer, ever sweeter, ever deeper draughts of them. Oh, there is no man more parched than one who has already loved and lost.

His hand weaves through their mane of white silk, and his eyes slide shut, as he allows their massive presence to envelop him. Softly. Fully. Bhaal’s defiant creation cradles Myrkul’s abandoned tool; the monster-that-became clings to the monster-that-refused… And those powerful arms, honed for carnage, remain gentle.

[rjschoicesstuff]

I'm not much of a reader but I rlly wanna Try reading more fics so like if u guys have fics (by u or others) u think I would enjoy u can let me know hehe..

My most favourite books are (of course) Immortal Desires, Blades Of Light Shadow, Wake The Dead and Queen B. (But I know I would be very picky with Queen B specifically because I don't like the route with Ina and I do like Poppy x MC but only if they're like toxic and u don't declaw them etc. lol they need to loathe each other)

Not specifically asking for fics for those books only tho. There are more books that I like than books that I dislike.

Any fics that are mc of any gender x f!gabe x m!cas I would Definitely check out. + I love polyamory in general even for other series + wlw romance (but not a must)

Idk what else to mention, u guys can ask questions if that'd help haha.