#watching the pit fiend fight

[scurvgirl]

These Vox Machina fights are so fucking punishing. It is hard to watch them sometimes. And at these times I want to turn down the difficulty like a video game for them. Honestly, I’m just happy that I KNOW how things all end up so I can be comforted about the characters’ longevity. 

It makes me appreciate that the Bell’s Hells fights vary in difficulty so we feel more investment directed towards those big moments...like the Otohan fight. 

[thisisnotthenerd]

picture this: you're a busy working mom whose husband died on the job under mysterious circumstances, leaving you alone to raise your young son in a town with none of your family or support network, at a job that will never pay enough, no matter how much good work you do. your son at once idolizes his father and resents him for leaving, and has channeled all of his energy into solving mysteries without regard for his health or well-being.

you watch him get bullied, watch him get into fights constantly as he searches for his missing babysitter and the other missing girls in town. he wears a nickname given to him by a bully with pride and tries so hard to impress his friends. you see him build up a group of friends, only for them to go to jail. after your apartment is attacked, you go with him to prom to take down his evil vice principal, who killed your husband on an impulse. you devour the dragon who killed your husband and it tastes like hollow victory, like revenge for the man you can't bring back.

the next year, your son goes on spring break with his friends after he gets accosted by an entity that used to work with your husband and some kind of mirror entity that leaves shards in your apartment. you don't hear much from him on the trip until you see a pit fiend choke him out and kill him, on a livestream. your son gives up his worldly possessions for the sake of defeating an entity that was raised for the sake of the status of an elven family.

your son comes back from spring break with the name of an eldritch entity tattooed on his chest and tells you his father died because the being he used to work with put a target on his back. your son met his dead father in heaven after he went to hell as a litigator for his friend. your son has been threatened with death for existing and come back.

that summer, the eldritch entity is summoned out of your son's body, and he spends the entire summer tracking down a cult and sealing the entity once more. you've left your (thankless) job to become a public defender for people like you, getting nothing for years of work, of doing your duty to bring home a little more for your son, and they won't give you your pension.

your son works himself to the bone for his friends, knowing he can't go to a good school unless he somehow ensures they all succeed. he does everything: perfect grades, every extracurricular, running the student government campaign for his friend, and he's still tracking down another missing girl. he gets dominate monster cast on him by the principal despite doing nothing wrong.

you chat with him in the car, driving to school, and he can't afford a moment of rest. people have been killed following the leads he's tracking, he warns you of the danger of following up and yet he still aims to find the clues.

and you wonder, is this all i've shown him? stretching yourself thin, never more than a moment's rest, and yet others don't appreciate it? after spending your lives in this town, and you're still goblins, still punished for the crime of existence, having to work twice as hard for half the credit.

they call him "the ball".

every day sklonda gukgak wakes up.

[st-danger]

Saint your killing me... I need so sodo x rain or swiss aggresive please overstim, please and thank you have a good day/night :)

He can't help himself. It's the natural reaction. Natural and expected to fight, to try to get away, to curl into himself and try to protect himself from cruel hands. Aether's always been the strong one, but Swiss and Rain certainly aren't weak, and together, Dew stands no chance.

"You asked for it," Swiss reminds him, a chiding, condescending tone the way one might speak to a very stupid child.

Dew would respond, were it not for Swiss's large hand pressed over his mouth.

Back to Swiss's chest, a strong arm wrapped around him. Legs hooked over his, forcing them apart. Dew never stood a chance, exactly as he'd asked. He thrashes as much as he's able, which admittedly isn't much at all. Rain has settled himself between his spread legs, hands pulling at his cock. It's red, overworked and limp in his palms. Useless. Covered in his own cum, which Rain uses to smooth the glide of his mean fingers. Behind Swiss's hand, Dew shouts, muffled and tortured, eyes rolling back and squeezed shut. He breathes harsh and stilted through his nose against the overstimulation.

Swiss shushes him, soft and sweet, holding him tight.

Letting him wear himself out.

It's easier for him now, Dew can tell, and shouts uselessly when Rain starts smearing his cum directly over his head, back and forth until he's shaking, begging ineffectively. He can't open his eyes; he knows exactly how Rain will be smiling and the cruelty he's treating him with now is bad enough without the added visual of delight plain on his face, lips drawn back enough to share a glint of fang.

Still, Dew struggles.

"Poor little thing," Swiss murmurs. "Look how small it's gotten."

"It's trying to hide, too," Rain laughs, still polishing the head and tugging at it. At least there's his cum to lubricate it; it's excruciating as it is, the idea that they'd be touching him dry is unbearable even as a concept.

"That it?" Swiss asks, nuzzling closer into the crook of Dew's neck. "You ask for it and it's trying to get away from us, too?"

Dew can't respond. The tears are pricking at the corners of his eyes. He's not a crier, he really isn't, but there's no way in Heaven or the Pit that he could possibly be expected to hold it in. Swiss will lick them off his face, he's sure. He likes the tears, likes them even more when he can convince Dew to brush mascara over his lashes to watch it streak down his red face. He hadn't planned on finding himself here today, no time to put it on. They'll make him fix that sooner rather than later, he knows.

Rain stops suddenly, and Dew sags, entirely limp, fiending for oxygen. Swiss peels his hand away.

"You can give us more," he says, confident. Dew hiccoughs a sob, shaking his head. Rain pets his trembling thighs, revoltingly happy.

"Can't- can't," Dew manages. "Stop, oh fuck, stop, you're gonna, ugh-"

"You don't mean stop," Rain interrupts, and Swiss agrees.

"No," Dew pants. "No, s'gonna make me- fuck, you'll make me piss-"

Swiss hums.

"So you can give us more," he says.

Rain's hands close around his sad little cock, and this time Swiss seems to think it's best if his cries aren't muffled.

[hexed-padlock]

“A New Type of Vampire”

AU/Headcanon where Tav was part of the party that killed Strahd.

Pairing: Hinted Astarion x Tav but mostly gen. Party & Tav

Warnings: PTSD, flashbacks

Notes: A few people are mentioned, old party members of Tav: Alfvin (human wizard), Rägen (human rogue), and an unnamed Paladin.

Summary: After defeating the Orthon, Raphael upholds his end of the deal and reveals the information behind Astarion’s scars. The tale that’s unraveled reminds Tav of the mists.

————————

Yurgir put up much more of a fight than expected. Even with Karlach’s warnings, they had still been caught off guard with the Orthon’s fondness for explosives. One moment, Tav was clearing out a group of merregons, and the next they suddenly found themselves flung off an overhang with a defeaning boom. Shadowheart had to patch them up with a hasty Healing Word but couldn’t do much more as she was preoccupied with several more merregon.

Now, hours later, they were hurt and still so very sore from the whole ordeal. Shadowheart took the second most hits, while Gale was mildly scuffed up. Astarion, the bastard, somehow avoided getting hit until the end when an unexpected explosion sent him flying straight into the growling displacer beast. Needless to say, they were all happy to have that fight over with.

Tav sighed and dropped onto their bedroll with a low thud. Huntress, they’ve just about had it with fiends.

As if to spite them, the scent of sulfur began to waft through the old, stuffy air of Shar’s Gauntlet. Tav barely had a moment to clamber to their feet before a low orange glow signaled the arrival of Raphael. The rest of the party grabs their weapons as the cambion appears in a flash of brimstone and fire.

“Splendid! I should thank you for making quick work of Yurgir.” The devil was all smiles, fanged and hungry. He briefly mentioned his plans of re-educating Yurgir, which had Tav almost concerned for a moment, before swiftly turning to Astarion.

Raphael actually upholds his end of the deal and Astarion listens with rapt attention as the devil unveils what he learned. A contract, a ritual—between the Archdevil Mephistopheles and the vampire lord Cazador Szarr. Through this rite, Cazador would gain untold power and become a new type of vampire—The Vampire Ascendant. An evolution of sorts that will allow Cazador to gain untold levels of power, backed by an Archdevil of the Hells.

A dark power, a deal, and an all-powerful vampire lord, Raphael summarized.

Tav feels their hands go numb as a low ringing fills their ears. A pit forms in their stomach as a familiar fanged smile flashes through their mind.

The cambion continues speaking, Astarion giving him his full attention. Tav finds their eyes drifting over to Astarion’s and- Oh, gods. A familiar dread slowly crawl ls up their spine, the ringing growing ever louder, as Astarion’s eyes fill with fear… and hunger. Cold grips their insides and a soft caress of a familiar fog wraps around their limbs, clouds their eyes.

In an instant, Tav feels the mists around them- they wander aimlessly but there’s no way out. It’s blinding, disorienting—suffocating. A thick fog spans out in every direction, blanketing the Valley in an eternal gloom. They hear the distant howls of wolves, the eerie childish laughter, and the whispers. He was always watching, Tav knew. No matter where they went, it was never safe. It felt like a nightmare, and maybe it was—for what reality would allow such terror to exist alongside the living? All those souls lost in the pursuit of a monster’s hunger for power. Van Richten, Esmeralda-

Scenes flash through the mists, feeling all too real.

They hear The Huntress calling for them. They feel the Blood Spear echoing the land’s old magic, digging into Tav’s soul, empowering, hungering, thirsting-

They turn sharply in the mist and find a raven-haired human looking back at them, gripping onto a black dagger and clad in dark leathers. A friend. They were safe. Rägen. She was was as deaf as a rogue could be and as paranoid as a bat. Her heart was in the right place once you earn her trust. They’ve handled countless monsters together, having to rely on strangers, now family. Tav blinks and- They see her body, trapped within the amber- cold, cold, cold and alone-

“(Tav)?” … Alfvin? Alfvin. Their wizard, a brilliant arcane scholar and diabolist. A sharp mind and a trusted ally. Sharp brown eyes and black veins along the sclera, a scar running over the bridge of his nose, the familiar smell of sulfur and ash- His body hung from the gallows, the mists caressing a limp cat at his feet.

Raphael vanishes in another swirl of hellfire, descending once more into Avernus.

“Well, that was definitely something.”

Astarion’s lips feel dry as he processes the information Raphael provided. The Rite of Profane Ascension. A ritual that guarantees his death, but also untold potential. Power, freedom. He could keep himself safe, could keep Tav safe.

He expects some wry comment from Tav, but silence is all that greets him. He expected a quip or two about Raphael, maybe a seething comment about the ritual and infernal contracts- not silence.

He turns and finds the party all staring at a very much catatonic Tav. Their eyes are wide and empty, distant. They see something not there and their body shakes with subtle tremors as the air swiftly begins to cool. He flinches because it doesn’t make sense. Tav is bright and shining, someone laughs at danger and taunts fate itself. But this Tav was silent, staring but not seeing.

Astarion wants to reach out, to comfort, but the look on Tav’s face has him glued to the ground. A fear, horror, but of what?

It doesn’t take long for someone to approach Tav. Gale, sweet Gale, calls to Tav and shakes their shoulder.

—————

Someone shakes their shoulder and Tav flinches back, the tadpole responding and lashing out, overwhelmed with the sudden onslaught of memories.

Flashes of manic, chanting voices calling out. “He is the ancient, he is the land.”

A land cloaked in an eternal mist

trapped. trapped- no way out.

empty husks of people walking the streets

ravens crying out in warning

a flash- Blood red eyes, long raven hair

flames eating at a burning windmill. Ye Old Bonegrinder.

the stench of death and a lich’s grin

shadowed entities glinting within the amber that traps them

and a single man, sitting atop a throne, fangs glinting in the candlelight of Castle Ravenloft.

———

The party is flooded with flashes of memories- vivid, horrifying memories. A single name echoes above it all. Strahd.

The tadpoles grip onto the name and a final memory flashes. Strahd, astride his nightmare, plunges a black longsword through their- Tav’s- back. It’s a pain unlike any other. Shadows overwhelm them, darkness taking and taking. The Blood Spear’s tries desperately to stave off the dread plane’s magic as it takes and takes and takes.

A blinding light fills the room and Tav glances back to see a blade of radiant light pierced through Strahd’s middle. Behind him, their bloodied paladin, a Banite sent to conquer but one who’d chosen to instead save, smiles weakly.

Tav whispers, a voice unfamiliar to the party but still overwhelmingly Tav’s, “We’re free.”

They’re wretched from the visions as Tav seizes on the ground, clutching their middle the same way they had in the vision- the memory.

They blink up at the others, eyes wide, as they weakly mutter, “I can explain.”

“What in the Hells was that?!” Astarion screeches. He feels the horrible, pained cries. Sees the horror wrought by a single vampire’s will. Thousands of people, of souls, trapped in a demi-plane because of a single man’s selfish wish. He could practically taste Tav’s own fear, constant, all-consuming, as Strahd played with his new toys. Monsters clawed from the shadows as the dark gods laughed.

The whole party is shaken from the whispers in their heads.

Gale weakly pipes up. “I believe we saw some… interesting memories.” Definitely interesting. Dark magic unlike anything he’s ever seen should count as interesting.

Lae’zel hisses back, “Obviously.”

Shadowheart is silent as the memory quickly passes, echoes of a familiar shadow magic fading as the images vanish.

Wyll shudders as, for a moment, his limbs are frozen. He’s the Blade of Frontiers. He’s slain devils and monsters alike, but the power of a dread lord in his own plane was nothing like he’s experienced.

Karlach surges forward to hug Tav and moves to grab the rest of the party. There’s complaints and a lot of squirming, but they all settle into the hug.

Tav, suddenly surrounded by warmth, sobs. They’re safe.

They’ll explain another time, Tav thinks as they relax into the warmth of their party.

They all understood pain, they all shared their stories, and Tav supported them all with no judgement. They’ll wait. For now, it was time to return the favor.

(Bonus:

(Astarion very pointedly tries not to stare as the memory of sweet, darling Tav killing Strahd fills his mind. Seems like the gods finally answered his prayers.

The slayer of Strahd himself, now fighting to protect him and the rest of Faerün. His heart races at the thought and yep he’s definitely in love now.)

————————-

Hello! Sorry for taking a while to post the next reveal fic. I’m not sure how I feel about this one but it’s a scenario I had drafted up already. I tried my best bur writing really isn’t my strong suit lol.

Next fic is gonna be a lot sillier.

If anyone has some reveal ideas or prompts they have, feel free to reach out!

Tag list:

@writingmysanity @furblrwurblr

[niqhtlord01]

The Great Git Hunt Part 1: The Death of a Legend

During the turning of the 42nd millennia the universe was to see many upheavals of a galactic nature.

 The 13th Black Crusade finally shattered Cadia and opened the great rift, sundering the universe in two and unleashing innumerable demonic incursions into real space. Tyranid Hive Fleets began appearing more frequently along the entire eastern fringe devouring innumerable worlds and forcing the Imperium to fight tooth and nail for every world to slow the tide of chitin.The Tau launched the Fifth Sphere Expansion while the Imperium’s attention elsewhere and sought to steal several dozen worlds from Imperial control and integrate their populations in the name of the greater good.

Yet the most perplexing, if not confounding, event was to pit two of the greatest warhosts against each other all over the death of one elderly man.

That man was Commissar Sebastian Yarrick.

Dying at the age of roughly 153, the energetic Commissar Yarrick made a name for himself by leading the Imperial resistance against Ork Warlord Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka on the world of Armageddon. Taking for himself the severed arm of an ork warchief he slew in combat to replace the arm he lost, Yarrick would become a nay mythical figure amongst Ork culture and the primary rival of Ghazghkull himself. It was said that the warboss only ever cursed Yarrick; an honor amongst orks for sure. Their rivalry would span nearly a century as the two would fight again during the third war for Armageddon and then far afterwards as Yarrick chased the warboss half way across the universe seeking to end the green threat once and for all.

Many would be safe to assume that with a rivalry so deep between two titans of their peoples that their stories would end with a climatic clash of arms where one would lay dead at the others feet. Yet fate sought to intervene in the cruelest of manners.

While pursuing his eternal foe with a fleet of Black Templar space marines, Imperial Guard, and several warships of the Imperial Navy; Commissar Yarrick was set upon by the newly reformed World Eaters chaos space marines legion led by their demonic primarch Angron.

With the opening of the great rift Angron emerged from the Eye of Terror at the head of the largest force of Khorne worshipers the universe had seen since the Horus Heresy. Angron was not content to follow Abaddon and his mongrels, so set out on his own to leave a path of devastation and slaughter spanning several sectors. Each world his followers set foot upon they would leave in fire with nothing but the hollow skulls of its former inhabitants piled in mile high mounds to watch over them. It was in fact the most recent slaughter on the planet Mori that reverberated throughout the warp so strongly it incapacitated the navigators of Yarrick’s fleet and pulled them out of the warp.

Angron was surprised at the sudden appearance of an Imperial war fleet, but welcomed the new challengers with great relish. The Khorne warships descended upon the imperial fleet like carrion fiends and began pulling it apart piece by piece. The navy fought back with great ferocity but the troop transports were left to fend for themselves as hordes of boarding craft were launched at them, each packed with world eater space marines churning for the coming bloodbath.

With their escape routes blocked and the transport ships in danger, Yarrick ordered the ground forces to land on Mori. It was only on the surface of the planet could the imperial force bring to bear their full might. The landing was hounded the entire way by the ever pressing chaos war fleet with many ships never making the journey, but by the grace of the emperor several made it to the surface and disembarked their forces.

Never one to back down from a massacre, Angron landed on the planet once more and led his legion against the now dug-in imperial forces. Under the leadership of Yarrick, the guard and space marine forces held the unending horde back for seven days and seven nights. Yet by the dawn of the 8th day only Yarrick and a handful of guardsman remained. Angron himself took to the field for the final slaughter and slew the guardsman with ease until only Yarrick stood against him.

Power claw met demonic axe as the elderly commissar matched blow for blow. So assured of his victory, the inability to shatter the crude ork weapon infuriated Angron and his rage furthered him to unleash a flurry of blows. One snuck past Yarrick’s guard and violently severed the commissar’s right arm at the shoulder.

As the arm and power claw fell to the ground Yarrick staggered backwards. His remaining hand tightened around his bolt pistol as blood began flowing from the wound. He looked up and saw the demon primarch looking down at him; mangled and jagged teeth grinning as Angron looked down at him. No doubt the monster expected him to beg for his life, but Yarrick would not.

Spitting out a glob of blood at the traitor, Yarrick brought up his bolt pistol and roared “FOR THE EMPEROR!” one final time and pulled the trigger. A single bolt left the weapon before Angron swung his axe and decapitated the commissar. The bolt struck home against one of the skulls hanging from the primarch’s neck and shattered it; a prized treasure as it had belonged to one of his close comrades back when the primarch had been mortal and a slave in the fighting pits of his homeworld. The primarch took up the severed head of Yarrick and put it in its place around his neck; a sign of honor for a great warrior while the rest of the skulls of the dead imperials were collected and offered to Khorne.

News of this massacre did not reach the wider galaxy for several months until a passing merchant ship picked up the distress signals of the imperial navy that still echoed in the warp. They soon found the lifeless husks of imperial ships floating above the planet of Mori and when they descended to the surface found the remains of the imperial’s last stand as well as a lone ork power claw still stained with demonic blood.

When the merchant ship reported their findings to nearby Imperial authorities an investigation force was dispatched by inquisitorial agents which further discovered the truth of the situation and the death of Yarrick.

Initially, there was hesitance with releasing the information regarding Yarrick. In a time of such chaos, the death of such a notable figure if reported to the wider imperium could trigger further outbreaks of panic. In a rare show of defiance however, the Astra Militarum insisted that it be made public and a large scale military funeral be held and broadcasted imperium wide to turn Yarrick into a martyr and potentially Imperial Saint stating that he chose to die fighting the forces of chaos then be cowed into submission.

Had the Astra Militarum made such demands a few generations earlier the Inquisition would have purged their ranks for such brazen defiance; but since the great rift’s opening they found their position had weakened and they needed the legions of Imperial Guard standing with them than against them. So, the Inquisition relented and the military funeral was held on Yarrick’s homeworld. Despite the great dangers of warp travel, several high lords of Terra made the journey to pay their respects as well as countless Imperial Guard regiments, space marine contingents, mechanicus forces, and even a rare Imperial Class Titan joined the funeral procession.

It was during this period of mourning as news of Yarrick’s death was spread throughout the imperium that it also trickled into the hands of the Imperium’s enemies as well.

Ork freebooters hijacking Imperial ships learned of the news while having fun with their human prisoners. There wasn’t an ork alive that didn’t know of the legend of “Old Bale Eye” and the impressive ork body count he had amassed over the century of fighting. News of his death spread even faster amongst orks than it had with imperials until finally words reached the green prophet himself, Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka.

At first, Ghazghkull refused to believe that anyone but him could have done in his oldest rival. He had fought Yarrick too long and knew that the wily hummie wouldn’t go down so easily. But when a squad of his handpicked Kommandos came back from Mori and presented him with Yarrick’s severed power claw, the green prophet flew into a rage.

The roar let out was so powerful that it reverberated in the warp, silencing nearby warp storms and sending countless ships of all affiliations from the astral tides of the warp back into real space. Not since the war of the beast was an ork roar heard so strongly in the warp from so far away that even the navigators on holy terra itself could hear the anger of Ghazghkull.

From that moment on the greatest warboss of orks the universe had ever seen had a new mission. He would take every ship in his fleet, every gargant and war machine his boy’z made, and every ork boi in his waaagh and he would not stop until he had the head of the one who done in Old Bale Eye and mounted it to the front of his flagship.

The Great Git Hunt, had begun.  

[lostplotbunniesbg3]

Mephistopheles x tav/reader & Raphael x tav/reader (no incest, just shitty dad stealing his kids obsession)

The idea:

Mephistopheles finds out about how Tav/reader is the one to convince astarion to end the profane ascension ritual, basically stealing 7 THOUSAND souls from him... He's not pleased. So, he steals tav and keeps them as a "pet" (how that is done I'd up to you guys 👀) after the whole elderbrain thing is done because he's annoyed and it's an effective punishment.

Raphael is PISSED. Tav was supposed to be HIS. Not only does his dad take the crown, but ALSO his new obsession. So, he starts getting pissy and goes to Cania to demand tav be given to him instead. Of course, Mephistopheles looks at the Cambion with the most deadpan of deadpans and tells him to fuck off.

Tav, is honestly not happy to be with either devil, but they'd choose the overly ambitious Cambion over the SECOND MOST POWERFUL ARCHDEVIL anyday. So, they end up doing anything to assist Raphael in his endeavor of stealing them back.

Two endings (or your own interpretation!)

Raphael wins!!! He successfully steals back Tav. Leaving Mephistopheles proud enough to let it slide.

Or

Mephistopheles wins... and successfly coerces tav into a contract, (where they won't turn into a lemure...) and raphael is forced to watch while looking like a sad soggy seal :(

A Heist Bunny, With Tav As A Treasure?! Raphael/Tav vs Mephistopheles/Tav

An Arch-devilish suggestion with this plot bunny, pitting fiend against fiend, father against son, fighting over Tav (or a reader) as the prize? Between a Hell and a Hot Place (like rock and a hard place? No?...), an intrepid adventurer finds themselves in quite the tricky situation.

Plenty to toy with here with some pet play kink, a little dubcon flavour here with captivity and its implications if you're looking at the more kinky angle of the pet part, so do remember to add in your CWs if you take this one on.

There is more to examine here from Raphael's feelings too. It could be a simple case of a possession, or perhaps he cares a little more than he means to? Sometimes it takes losing a thing to realise how much one valued it, after all...

So, would you like to take on a battle of the fiends, with Tav/reader as their trophy? Adopt this devilish little bunny to see how deep into the hells the rabbithole might go...

[steveraglan1987]

🐰🔪 + 🐻🛠️ pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease

well i'm not sure if this is about them separate, ship or both, so i'll just cover all my bases to be safe. And apologies for the wait time.

Keep in mind i'm a movie fiend so this will probably be raglan, except for when i say games, and my interpretation of henry in the movies.

🐇🔪

- i hate willcare.

I don't think it's canon at all and the only thing it tells me about people who like it is that if they watched Marvel's Infinity War, they probably thought Thanos loving Gamora enough to sacrifice her was really sweet and not absolutely horrifying as a show of abuse.

I'm not saying William was never nice. I'm gonna say this once and only once, as someone who is a victim of abuse himself and knows many people in even worse situations:

A few minutes of kindness do not make up for hours of cruelty and torment.

Abuse isn't love. I love William Afton, but that comes with owning the fact that he's a piece of shit. I don't like changing stuff I see as unsavory, either, despite my own experiences, though I'm sure I could fix him or at least run him over with my Toyota Civic, etc etc.

- William Afton is also not a drunk.

I have nothing to add here, but I don't even think he likes alcohol that much. But I found it important to mention with the above, since typically fans fall into one or the other category. Which is either blaming his bad behavior on vices, or claiming he doesn't have them at all because he secretly loves his son that died and that it's all for him? Which is not true. Continuing.

- William Afton purposely let his son die, and he was the first child to die.

Let me explain. In the games, William knew that CC was getting bullied through all the cameras in the house, and the one in the Fredbear Plush that he frequently spoke to CC through as a manipulation tactic.

I think that he let Michael kill CC on purpose because he frequently pit them against each other (as implied through. Everything?) and it was his first real taste of death. I don't think it mattered that it was his own or he would have intervened when they were fighting in the first place. If he wanted Michael to stop, he could have broken character through CC's toy to do so. But he didn't. And moreover, he was experimenting with fear gas on his children in the games?? He wouldn't have had all the cameras otherwise. It's kind of horrifying to think he would subject all his children to horrific nightmares but still "loves" them? I don't think William Afton is a sociopath or anything, but I'm thinking that it's possible people give him way more credit for "caring about people" than is actually true. He's self serving. Not super evil, not super nice. He could go either way if it benefits him. People don't really understand how being selfish works, I notice, and tend to sort William into the boxes of either being secretly tragic or evil. The world is not so black and white, and nor is William.

- The reason that in the films, Golden Freddy kid has a grudge against William, is because HE'S the crying child and he knew William was the killer but didn't tell the other children because William was his dad.

I think GFK (Golden Freddy Kid) was killed by Vanessa, much in the same way that Michael killed CC in the games. I think this is a major thing Raglan held over Vanessa's head to help "influence" her into becoming a cop, she killed his son. He probably uses it to his advantage, and undoubtedly plays along with the "grieving father" story just to guilttrip her, but judging from the stare GFK gives William while he's seizing in the backroom, it's not true. And GFK knows that. He's the leader because he was the first, but he's not around often because Vanessa is his sister and he's not really sure how to deal with that, either.

- William has a dozen ways to justify or explain away what he did, obfuscate, but the honest truth is that he just enjoys it. He loves the thrill, the betrayal, the satisfaction of getting away with it, the twist in his stomach every time someone looks at him knowing he did it and being unable to prove it. He loves his restaurant, so it pains him when it closes, but it was worth it.

🐻🛠️

- Henry also kinda sucks.

He's not the worst parent ever, but he's definitely not winning any awards. He literally beats his daughter in the graphic novels. He's just average for the 70's as a parent, and people forget that. Sure, he loves his daughter, but what I really think is that he loves the idea of a daughter more than having one. He tried to keep her safe, and despite his best efforts, she died. And he spiraled, begging for forgiveness from someone who didn't really care because even then she kind of knew.

In my mind, Henry's not a religious man until Charlie dies. He's Catholic, and he has a rosary that he frequently counts the beads of regularly to beg for forgiveness for letting her die. It doesn't get easier when he knows who did it, and if anything, it gets worse. He does everything he did in the games to atone, and not necessarily for his daughter despite him saying so. After all, he found his daughter in Pizza Sim, but he waited and lured all of them back instead of just designing Lefty to set fire as soon as it caught her. I would say that's the biggest pointer. If it wasn't about more than her, then he wouldn't have gathered everyone.

- Henry dyes his hair black after faking his suicide.

I think he's kind of shaggy, and he gets skinnier and gaunt after it because of grief and bad habits like smoking and not eating properly. He's fairly tall even if he's not quite as tall as William, so it looks a bit odd when he starts shedding weight. Though, thinking on it, neither of them keep weight by the time Pizza Sim comes 'round considering William's flesh has come off by the pound.

🐇🔪 + 🐻🛠️

- William's obsession is hilariously one-sided.

Henry doesn't know about it. He doesn't need to know, anyways. He probably wouldn't have sex with William, generally, but you never know. William likes to joke about it, or imply it, but Henry laughs and shrugs it off - at least when he's in a good mood. He thinks William's funny. If he's in a bad mood, it's annoying, and he tells William to fuck off.

- William's obsession itself comes from jealousy of Henry's family.

I think especially in the movies, I like to headcanon William as trans and Henry as cis. He sees Henry with a full family and gets jealous because he doesn't really feel like he has that, and he might as well since the death of his son lines up so perfectly, he could just take it right out from under Henry. It's all too easy to help them match. Henry doesn't appreciate what he has, and on some level, maybe he's saving Charlie from such a miserable life with a know-it-all who doesn't realize what a gift he has. (Being born the way he was meant to be.) And maybe, just maybe, he's saving Charlie from a cruel and unforgiving world that didn't accept William, and certainly wouldn't like Charlie just on account of being a girl. William would know, he was one once. And after that, he realizes he has a hunger for it. There's a certain trust that children afford you, this look in their eyes. It's the kind you normally only get from the closest of friends, but it's easier when he's Vanessa's dad, or their good pal Spring Bonnie. It's everything to him to see that look of betrayal once he hurts them, knowing he caused it. It makes him laugh. He couldn't explain it to anyone who hasn't experienced it for himself, but it's fun. It's like winning the most intense version of Blackout.

- William couldn't kill Henry if he wanted to.

He just couldn't do it. His obsession with Henry causes him to hesitate, almost confused with love, and then he just can't. Henry could kill William, though. William could definitely hurt Henry though.

[mediterraneanmenace]

Pairing: Raphael x Raksha (OC, not Tav/Durge) I consider Tav a separate character with their specific story elements - Raksha never gets abducted by the Mind Flayers, nor she ever gets a tadpole. Her home is also not Baldur's Gate but the city of Helgabal, in the kingdom of Damara! :)

Warnings: 18+ for sexual themes (in later chapters), age gap (Raphael is like... *several* centuries older, if not millennia), slow burn.

Summary: Eleven years before the events of Baldur's Gate 3, Raphael's attentions for a young, ambitious tiefling turn into something deep enough for him to want her as his bride. There's only one problem - Raksha slays infernal beings for a living. (This is pretty much an experiment feat. a Raphael more in touch with his human feelings)

"Perfume lingers about your flesh Like incense about a censer; You charm like the evening, Tenebrous, passionate nymph

Ah! the most potent philtres Are weaker than your languor, And you know the caresses That make the dead live again!

You tear me open, dark beauty, With derisive laughter, And then look at my heart With eyes as soft as moonlight"

[Les Fleurs du Mal — Charles Baudelaire]

[24 Ches, 1481 DR]

Raphael's mind was so inconveniently clouded by that mortal; a tiefling whose veins bore Archdevil Baalzebul's blood - his father's greatest and most hated rival.

Four long years he'd been watching, stalking her since she started her rise to Paladin Captain at nineteen until now, at twenty-three. At first, the Cambion didn't give much weight to her androgynous visage appearing in his dreams; not until he found himself fantasizing more and more about his hand lost in the sea of her inky black hair, with her muscular arms around his neck...

If Mephistopheles' ambition to oust Asmodeus mirrored his own, Raksha's rapid promotion wasn't too different from Baalzebul's rise as the Master of the Nine Hells' favorite - but unlike his father, Raphael saw that as something worthy of praise rather than enmity.

Fate was not without irony for the man who adopted and raised Raksha was the head of an extremist sect of the cult of Ilmater, the "Martyred Father" - the young tiefling's zealotry was one of the main reasons she managed to climb the ranks so fast: her dedication to purge the world from vice and sin brought her to the deepest pits of Avernus to fight against evil in its home.

But that didn't deter Raphael from wanting Raksha for himself, even if he was everything she fought against: she was the forbidden fruit, the sweetest he would ever taste.

He would stay in the mirror room at the House of Hope for hours, scrying the tiefling go about her life, without knowing he even existed if not for some fleeting glances whenever he visited the court of the Lord she served, the cathedral she lived at or the training grounds his beloved Paladin would train at along with her companions.

Raksha would look at him and ignore his presence as yet another curious, random person wanting to see the famous Holy Vengeance, whose sword slayed countless fiends from the Hells. Korrilla, sick of seeing the pathetic state of longing her boss was in, decided to prod him into doing something.

"Just go talk to her. You had a thousand mistresses" - the Warlock thought for a split second to her sister - "This... Raksha can't be too different from all the others, no?" "You are right, many were the lovers to entertain me in my boudoir"

Raphael's thoughtful eyes fixated on Raksha's reflection in the Scrying Eye and an almost paternal smile appeared on his lips: she was practicing the speech for her nomination as Holy Inquisitor that would have taken place that very night. He knew she wouldn't have stopped until it was perfect. A formal, high society event that would culminate in a ball was the crowning moment of a lifetime of sacrifices for her.

"But she's... Something I rarely met in all these centuries. A kindred spirit"

Korrilla didn't have a hard time figuring out why: personality wise, Raksha was incredibly similar to her master's younger self with her pompous, brash attitude - a pride not unwarranted, given her accomplishments.

"I guess it makes sense" the Warlock thought, shrugging. After all, that was the same man who would fuck an Incubus glamoured to look exactly like him so falling in love for someone who had a brain similar to his wasn't too far off.

"I'll have to ask you to keep an eye on the House for me tonight, Korrilla" - Raphael ran his hand through his hair in a nervous gesture - "I have a ball to attend to"

[leftoverdinosaurbones]

Chapter 7: A New Beginning

Series: F!Reader (Dark Urge), Spawn Astarion, Haarlep, Raphael - NSFW (minors DNI)

[Major Spoilers - Set post BG3]

***

Here is the next chapter of the fanfic I've been working on!

You can start with Chapter 1 here on tumblr or read through everything here on Ao3.

Content Warning: Gore

Summary: You race to the forge as the walls of Zariel's Fortress come tumbling down around you. Will you make it in time? Will you be able to help fix Karlach's heart? Will Raphael defeat Zariel - and what does that mean for you, your companions, and the fate of the mortal world?

Chapter 7: A New Beginning

Karlach downed the health potion in three strong pulls, the warmth of the liquid reviving her body and soothing the wounds inflicted upon her while in this dungeon.

She cast the empty bottle against the wall and we watched, in silence, as the bottle exploded into a hundred little pieces.

“Ahh,” Karlach sighed, wiping the residue from her lips with her forearm. “Let’s get the hells out of here.”

“Wait, Karlach. Dammon told us about the forge here. How we can find it and use it to fix your heart. We have to do this so we can leave Avernus - together.”

Karlach looked at you, tears starting to build up in the brim of her eyes. She blinked them away, not willing to believe that she might be so close to salvation while buried in the deepest pits of damnation.

The walls shook around you as fragments of the stone started to crumble. The fight between Raphael and Zariel was only getting more intense.

Karlach turned away from you to look at one of the crumbling walls.

“We don’t have time to get to the forge before this whole place goes down. I won’t risk all of our lives just for the chance to live in Baldur’s Gate. I can’t ask that of all of you.”

“We should at least get out of here and argue about this elsewhere. I didn’t escape from Cazador’s dungeon just to get trapped in this hells forsaken one.” Astarion snapped, failing to hide the panic rising in his voice.

“Karlach, please.” Wyll took Karlach’s hand into both of his, gently caressing it. “We must at least try.” You caught a fleeting moment of deep tenderness in their eyes for each other. Have you noticed that before? But it passed as quickly as it came.

Karlach grabbed a sword from one of the racks and squared her shoulders, leading us down the hall and out the door. You took two steps to match each one of her paces, forcing you to keep up with an awkward jog-step.

Chaos fell on your ears as Karlach pulled open the door. Fiends tore through the hallway, many of them fleeing from the battle at the front of the Fortress. Some of them had destroyed body parts, dragging limp and leaking appendages across the floor. Others trampled over top of the slower-moving ones, further destroying the bodies in their desperation to escape.

“Gods…” Wyll whispered as Astarion’s fingers brushed against yours, gripping your fingers briefly with a soft squeeze.

Karlach looked back over her shoulder at us. “You know there are no gods here, Wyll.”

With a rumbling roar rising up from her lungs, Karlach raised her sword and swung, deep and wide. Her sword ripped apart three fiends passing the door, blood bursting across her face. She turned her chin up towards the ceiling, her veins running thick across her face and down her neck as she gathered all the deep rage buried within her and summoned another deep, bone-shaking bellow. Karlach was truly a terrifying sight to behold.

Karlach stepped into the space newly created in front of the door and began her campaign down the hallway, slicing away at fiends like she was merely clearing vines from a path in the swamp.

You ran up behind her, the Hammer held up tightly in your grasp. You see a cambion out of the corner of your eye, angling off to strike Karlach across her back. As the cambion starts to run towards Karlach, you swung your Hammer, cracking against its ribs. The Gauntlets of Hill Giant Strength made your swing feel nearly effortless, though the damage done looks irreversible. The cambion doubles over, letting out a strangled cry as it drowns in the blood filling its lungs.

You all continue to paint yourselves in blood and gore as you make steady progress in clearing your path through the Fortress. Finally, Karlach pushes open a set of wooden double doors to a small outdoor clearing. A smoldering forge emerges before you, untended flames blazing in a forgotten inferno.

“Gods dammit!” Karlach clutched her hand into a fist. “We should have known the blacksmith would be long gone at this point.”

“Perhaps we should at least look around. There may be something here that we could bring back to Dammon to help repair your heart,” Wyll offered up in sympathy.

Karlach flung open various cabinets and spilled their contents on the floor. You were too distracted by watching Karlach in her furious search to be meticulously careful in your own exploration around the forge. Throwing a glance over your shoulder, you pulled open the doors of a large cabinet. Immediately, you felt something solid barrel into your chest, nearly knocking you to the ground. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around the figure, pulling them tight against your body as you lifted them up with your hips and twisted them to the ground. You pinned them down with a shin pressed across their stomach as your companions came running over.

This was no fiend - this was a tielfing. They had thick gloves on their hands, accompanied by a dark brown apron. Grease marks adorned their face. Their eyes grew large at the sight of you, looming over them covered in the blood of the countless fiends you slaughtered in the halls.

“Please…” they whispered, eyes closed. You sighed, relief washing over you as you stood, reaching out a hand to help them to their feet. You held their hand firmly in your grasp as they stood to hold them in place.

A crack of lightning burst across the sky, snapping you out of your thoughts. The screams from the battle at the front of the Fortress made their way to your ears, reminding you all of the chaos going on just on the other side of the thick walls. Urgency returned to all of you as Karlach stepped in to tower over the blacksmith.

“You need to help me.” She pressed, panicked. But then, her face softened as she met the eyes of the tielfing. “Please…my heart.” She placed her hand gently over the mechanical replacement in her chest.

The blacksmith looked up at Karlach, the sympathy in their eyes mirroring the look Dammon gave Karlach so long ago, when they first met in the Grove.

“I can certainly try…but I make no promises on how well this will work.”

The blacksmith gathered up some of the materials (now scattered across the ground) and got to work. Your companions remained silent - the only company kept were the sounds of metal scraping on metal, the rumbling heat of the forge, and the harrowing screams in the near-distance. Some fiends poured through from the hallway to the clearing, but none bothered you. They were too focused on escape, on survival.

Finally, the blacksmith laid down their materials and stood up straight. They held out the piece of twisted metal, connected with various delicate tubes and filtering vents.

As the repaired heart clicked into place, you felt the ground quake beneath your feet. The stones of the Fortress walls began to collapse rapidly, tumbling out and onto the ground. You looked towards the front of the Fortress as a stretch of massive wings burst over the walls, filling up the sky. A great, three-headed monstrosity of a fiend roared in triumph, turning to gaze over the battlefield.

He lifted up to soar over the length of the Fortress, spewing hot flames over patches of remaining fiends. You all stood, exposed, in the wide mouth of the courtyard. Fear twisted in your stomach as you realized what little time you had to take cover from the fiend’s flames as he flew in your direction.

He flew towards you, closer and closer, as you felt your heart lept into your throat. You stood firm at the front of the forge with your feet planted to greet the flames…which never came. As you watched him continue to fly past, you noticed a glint of gold upon the crown of his heads - Raphael. Your mouth fell open, taking in the sight of him in all his horrible glory. You’ve never seen him in such a form before.

A stone smashed into the forge, ripping you from your thoughts.

“We have to go!” Karlach bellowed, envigorated by her new mechanics.

“Come on!” You grabbed hold of the blacksmith’s arm and ran after Karlach.

You ran towards the back wall of the Fortress, the wide double doors standing tall as a beacon for your escape. You stumble over newly formed divots in the ground, shaped by the frequent tremors ripping through the terrain. Finally, you make it to the doors.

The doors were jammed shut as the falling stones crushed the hinges in place.

“I. WILL. NOT. DIE. HERE!”Karlach roared, each word punctuated with a kick of her foot against the solid wood of the door. At last, the doors burst open and back, revealing the desolate landscape of Avernus.

***

You emerge back through the portal at the Devil’s Fee, doubled over, with your hands braced against your knees. Your breath pushed in and out of your lungs forcefully as you tried to steady yourself. You wiped your forehead with your sleeve, collecting a mix of sweat and blood.

We actually did it.

You looked around at your friends. They were covered in smears and splatters of blood, beads of sweat dripping down their skin. The folds of their clothes were filled with the sand that whipped against us as we ran from the falling Fortress to the portal. You clasped a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh that threatened to burst out of your lips.

“What is wrong with you?” Astarion looked at you first with his shoulders drawn up tight and tense. His lips were turned down into a tight grimace with his forehead stitched into deep lines.

Wyll’s hands are on his hips, looking at you curiously as he bit down on the inside of his lips. A smile dances in his eyes as he, too, starts to laugh. You extended your arms towards Wyll, beaming, welcoming him into your embrace. Hearing the rumbling of his laughter as you pressed your face against his chest, you started to allow yourself the release of laughter, too. Joy erupted out of your lungs, your bodies as you cling together.

Karlach stepped towards you both, arms stretching to encircle you as her contagious laughter joined your own. You are filled with a gentle warmth, so unlike the vicious heat of Avernus. Finally, Astarion threw his hands down to his side in a huff and joined in, sliding in beside you and resting his chin on your shoulder as he wrapped his arms around you and Wyll. He closed his eyes and hummed contentedly, warmed by your unbridled delight.

As your fit of giggles died down, a small cough in the corner of the room reminded you of the blacksmith.

“Thank you so much for bringing me here, back home. It’s been a couple years and I… I don’t know what to expect. I am going to try to find my friends, my family…anyone still here that I might know.” They gave a small wave before turning and making their way down the steps.

Read the next chapter here.

[your-good-pal-chevy]

Swordtember : 1 : Shattered

Blade hammered against blade, sparks shooting off in all directions as the two swords clashed. Amid the clamor, the two fighters danced in a deadly spiral, each moving and twisting with the rhythm of their duel.

The two of them were far from evenly matched.

On one side stood a youth, ill-equipped and little trained, hardened by the turmoil of a life given over to war. Where others had skill, this one had experience. For as long as their memory could recount, they had been immersed in violence and bloodshed, and it had made of them a wicked and ugly thing. But, where others had fallen, this one stood.

Many brave champions had been felled by the youth's opponent. Barbarian heroes and gallant knights alike had fallen before this Sword Devil. A behemoth, hardly recognizable as a man beneath his fearsome armor, more akin to a tower of pitch black steel. Despoiler, warrior, killer. To call him a man, though he was of flesh and blood, seemed ill fitting. He was a monster, more so than any beast of tooth and claw.

But someone had to fight this monster, someone had to fell this giant. And so the youth stood, giving ground as needed, desperate to keep metal between their flesh and certain death.

No, the youth thought, For once, I do not fight only for myself. If I cannot defeat this fiend here, countless others will perish in his wake. I must fight.

Again and again, their swords clashed. The youth bore only a simple blade, forged by a simple smith, bereft of any enchantment or decoration. The monster carried a sword of the same black steel as his armor, pitted and chipped from truly countless battles.

Just as the two warriors were far from an even match, so too were their arms. The fiend hammered and hammered, using his great blade as a blunt instrument, until finally the youth's sword shattered under his assault. That great black blade tore through it, sending one half flying in either direction just as it tore a cleft in the youth's breastplate.

The youth cried out, only barely able to throw their body back far enough to avoid being rent in twain. Falling to their knees, blood gushed from the gash across their chest. The youth gasped, clutching feebly for the hilt of their ruined sword.

"Relent," came the brassy voice of the beast, deep within his horned helmet. "Surrender yourself to the comfort of death. You need not face this pain much longer."

The youth barked out a harsh laugh. "Comfort! No, devil." They took up their sword once more, pointing the jagged remains at the monster before them. "If I fall here, you will lay waste to these lands, and you ask me to give myself to the night? I think not."

The youth took up a ready stance, wielding the broken sword like a dagger. "I choose pain. I choose struggle. I choose death, to be sure, but only if it be on my feet."

The demon stood there, merely watching the youth for a time. Then, its voice intoned once more. "Very well. Let none claim I did not offer you the mercy of a swift end. And let none claim that you did not fight until your last."

Both fighters held for a moment, the world itself seeming to hold its breath, and then they charged as one. The demon was too strong, too powerful, and the youth knew they could not hope to best him with their blade in such ruin.

And so the youth did what they did best. They used their experience, their low cunning, their grit and determination.

As they had scrabbled in the dirt for the hilt of their blade, the youth had clutched a handful of mud in secret. They threw it in the Sword Devil's face as the two charged, the momentary distraction providing an opening as the fiend reeled from the filth now obscuring their vision.

The monster's blade swung in a wide arc, blind and hoping to taste flesh, but it met only the air. The youth had crouched low under the blade, letting it pass harmlessly over their head.

With a roar of defiance, the youth leapt forward, lunging for the devil's ankles. Finding a joint in the black steel that encased the monster, they plunged their shattered sword into that nook, something it would not have been able to do were it still whole.

Steel met flesh, and the devil howled in pain. That great black blade was swung again, missing the youth by a hair, but then one of the giant's hands lashed out and found purchase.

The devil fell to one knee as his leg could no longer hold him, but at the same time he crushed the youth in his huge grip and lifted them off the ground by their neck.

"Pain indeed," the beast growled, crushing the youth's throat, "I offered you a swift death! Now, you shall die slow-"

The youth, however, had other ideas. Even as that great black gauntlet was strangling the life from their body, their hands were free.

And a rapscallion such as them never went anywhere without a knife close at hand.

The demon, unable to see from the mud still caking the visor of its helmet, was utterly unaware that death had come for him. A small knife jutted from his helmet, having found purchase deep in his eye.

The Sword Devil fell, his grip still tight around the youth's throat, but the youth rose. They spat on the beast's now still armor, rubbing their throat as they struggled to catch their breath.

"My kind is no stranger to pain," the youth barked, "While yours, ever so secure in your strength, are always so surprised when it comes to visit. May you burn in whatever hell will take you."

[infernally-fond]

I keep getting these tragic/beautiful edits of fuckin' Dark Souls on tiktok, and one of them left me with an itch to sketch out a post-BG3 moment in Cania for Pallas. It's poncy and reads like I've been listening to FromSoftware character dialogue on loop because I have.

Raph is only mentioned, so I'm a little hesitant to tag this with him. So, fair warning, his presence is minimal.

——-

Deep below the citadel, on off hours, one could see the condemned souls unwinding from the miserable toil of mining deeper still into the frozen depths. 

Their overseers, a set of fearsome pit fiends with whips of hellfire, had returned to the surface the precise moment their shifts ended. Whatever hunger stirred in them for the wails at the end of a cracked whip did not outcompete the drudgery of supervising such work. And so, the souls too rested. 

Mephistopheles' paranoia did not yet extend to the souls of laborers. Unaware of it though they were, the laborers spent every night with an unparalleled freedom to coexist in each other’s company. 

Pallas visited the Mepistarian mines with some regularity, long since familiar with the mineshaft that lead down into the excavation. She was cloaked in old furs that shimmered behind a gauze-thin aura of hellfire to endure the cold. Hellfire burned a cold white, casting inhospitable starkness into the ice. Without it, there would be no light at all. 

The laborers had no use for fire - no need for warmth, no need for light. 

Pallas gingerly lowered to sit some thirty paces from the bulk of their resting forms, pulling her knees to her chest and watching them with a gentle curiosity.

Mortal souls were fascinating things - perhaps more similar to the recently subdued illithid hivemind than living mortals. They shimmered in cool colors, something like tarnished copper. The newer souls held their shapes better, more consistently. They squabbled amongst each other, occasionally finding the energy to physically fight when free of the fiends’ supervision.

Something seemed to happen over time to change the souls condemned to the sub-city mines. Whatever manner of cruelty resided in the souls lured to the Cold Lord’s promises, sunless centuries immersed in the presence of each other would buffet them into something almost lovely. A strange descriptor, but…

Those with the longest tenure drew softer figures, edges implied and often shifting - a reimagining of self. They would hold form enough to work when the overseers lashed at them with hellfire, but when resting they softened once more, eager to drop a mask of burdensome solidity.

Pallas had seen a litter of pups outside Baldur's Gate, warm and round-bellied, curled up between each other that reminded her of the scene ahead. 

The fraying souls mingled in affectionate twirls together. Not quite a pile - it was more elegant, more artful than that. Like a lazy dance, perhaps. Like watching wind slowly direct a smattering of leaves into a loose coil, always just on the edge of dispersing. 

They spoke to each other in voices unconcerned with identity. Vaguely feminine or masculine, vaguely old or young, some swinging between affectation mid-word. 

Shifting voices murmured gently to each other, twined into one thing, issuing benedictions of "be safe" to each other, to itself - this one thing they made. It was foreign to bear witness to such softness in this or any plane. 

Impressions of hands stroked impressions of temples; a pair of arms curled over what seemed, for a moment, the soft curves of shoulders.

Watching with a waning focus, Pallas wondered if the truer nature of mortality was before her, if some profound distinction would be easily parsed from the visual by someone wise. Halsin might have commented on the connectedness that underlies everything. Gale might have speculated on the specifics of the merging. ("How many arms do you count? I've spotted at least s- oh, seven now.")

Maybe her companions’ echoes of presence had left impressions like a microcosm of the merging before her well within her own mind. An imagined insistence for safety, received and given in an even cadence. 

"Do stay safe."

The voice, impossible to categorize on any spectrum of mortal description spoke just beside her shoulder. Startling as the proximity should have been, she felt the words as if they were gentle touches down the crown of her head. 

Pallas parroted the words clumsily, strangely certain this was what was appropriate. 

The spirit, softened at the edges, almost transitory across moments, affected some quality that implied an emotional warmth. It suffused the rigid boundary of self asserted by her living soul. It settled at her side, unmoving, at ease.

The murmuring dance of souls before her synchronized in a song with such precision as to suggest the presence of a conductor. The singing was always lovely. It's what drew her down here time and again.

No one voice was particularly ethereal - it wasn’t a bard’s talent on display. It was connectedness. Each of the component souls sung in a series of dearly remembered voices simultaneously. To hear it was to bear witness to choruses of families - blood and chosen - across time. 

The Canian fiends didn’t sing like this. They sang, of course- but their hymns were demonstrations of technical mastery of the performer, written to exalt the domineering qualities of the subject. The High Cantor’s voice was clear and clarifying as ice cold water, impossible to replicate, objectively beautiful. But, even so, hymns for the Cold Lord’s pleasure were sterile accolades.

Impossibly different (better - an inner voice whispered) were the twining chorus of treasured voices lacing together into something that would wring tears from any mortal to hear it. 

A curl of satisfaction tightened in her chest. Pallas privately enjoyed finding pride in the distinction between herself and the fiends around her. Maybe the cambions, vicious as their treatment had primed them to be, mourned the wrong loss. 

“We’re unlike them,” Pallas whispered resolutely, chasing the bitter joy of her conclusion as she proudly overlooked the twining selves performance. “They’re repressed shells. They live devoid of beauty outside of pointless, showy intricacy. They don’t even sing properly.”

The form before her smiled without a face to do so. It knocked gently against her shoulder with an impression of a humanoid form, unbothered by the thin veil of hellfire. When they touched she felt its fondness expressed in something akin to temperature.  

“Everything that sings, sings properly,” the soul chided, smoothing over each spike of irritability expressed in the flicker of hellfire with more of that fond warmth.

Pallas accepted the correction silently, never moving her eyes from the ongoing dance. The true danger of this place was combating the compulsion to fall asleep to the gentle chorus. Skilled as she was, Pallas couldn’t maintain the hellfire through sleep. 

Perhaps to fight off the sleep or dismiss another burgeoning wave of formless yearning, Pallas pondered the High Cantor’s songs once more. Perhaps they weren’t all militant ballads. And then, there was Raphael, of course. He -

She shook her head as if to physically dislodge the thought. Still, a fragment of memory flashed- his distinctive, idle humming just under his breath as he shifted papers in his exorbitant lodgings in Wyrmm’s Crossing. Casual, improvised. (Unfit.)

Pallas wondered how such a thing could be branded into her hindbrain, as immediately recognizable as the pull of hellfire. And then hadn't she seen him bent over a journal, consumed with intensity, quill flicking so quickly as to render the penmanship unsalvageable?

That didn't make sense. It dashed across the distinction Raphael himself would assert-

“Be safe, friend.”

The formless soul beside her lengthened in shape, as if to mimic rising to a stand. She leaned into the parting wash of fond warmth before it parted from her to join with the others, a new chorus of voices added to the song. Among the additions, it weaved in the recalled fragment of that absent hum, forever integrating some distant shadow of Raphael with the formless inertia of whatever this tangle of mortal souls had become.

[magnetarmadda]

WIP Game

Thanks @blasphemous-lies-and-deceit for the tag, and for what’s essentially about to become a callout of how many WIPs I have

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! Tag as many people as you have WIPs!

The Magnus Archives

A Little Light

Academic!Jmart

All I Ask of You

An Old Song

And the plan changes

Another Hour

The Archive Undying (i.e., This is the bad ending)

Archivist!Sasha but make it Jmart

Arms

Aro Jon

Assigning the archives staff a cat

Beholding is a gossip queen

Distance

Dorks in love

Emma!Jmart AU

Fabric store jmart au

Halloween fic

How much angst can I stuff into three chapters of jmart

I’m just projecting now it’s fine

Impossible Year

Intentions

Into Your Arms

Jakery AU

Jmart self care time

Jon is a cat-sitting fiend

Jon’s cat watches Little Einsteins

The Kitten Caretaker

Leitner burning as a form of closure

The Lonely

Love Calls You Home

Love confession in a fight

Love potion connected to the Loneley

Martin freaking out about Jon at the library

Martin helps interrogate Gerry

Martin is adopted AU

Martin meets Jon in a bow tie

Martin wakes up before Jon leaves for the Panopticon

Martoad

Oh my god they were (platonic) roommates

Orchestra pit jmart AU

Penguins

Post-breakup proposal

S2 Captain Terror rewrite

The Saint of Never Getting It Right

Sasha Cat AU

Stay Tonight

Taxi

There’s a KITTEN in the ARCHIVES parts 1 and 2

This World Is Not Real

Tim wingmans his way across America with jmart

TMA murder mystery

Wait For Me

We Can Make It Out of Here

Murderbot Diaries

Murderbot Sherlock Holmes

I’m not gonna lie, I thought there were more than that, so I think I must have some squirreled away somewhere else (at least two more Murderbot wips are in the ether somewhere), but I think 54 WIPs is enough for y’all to roast me lol

I’m not gonna tag 54 people, just a handful: @probsnothawkeye, @hihereami, @organchordsandlightning, @bluejayblueskies, @wordsintimeandspace, @therealandian, and then anyone else who wants to do this, please consider yourself tagged by me as one of my 54 and tag me in your post! As always, no pressure to do this 💜

[amatres]

Karlach: Is that it, then? I've killed the bastard who ruined my life, and now I crawl into a corner and die? Am I fucking missing something? Karlach: It makes no sense. None of it means anything. ... Karlach:And you - you'll just keep going, won't you. Watching the stars. Warming your hands on the campfire. Dancing, eating, making fucking love all night- all of it, all of it .. Karlach: It isn't fair. I don't want it like this. ... Karlach: Thanks for listening. For existing. Love you.

Karlach: Gods, I've changed. I used to hamstring pit fiends for fun. Look at me now. ... Karlach: Will you stay with me? When it's time. For me to go. I think I can do anything if you're there. Even die. ... Karlach: Thanks for everything, soldier. I'm extremely glad to be in this thing together.

Karlach: We did it, soldier. The city's going to be all right. And so are you. … Karlach: So were you. My friend. My companion. I adore you. … Karlach: I never gave up. I did my best. I did my best. It's the one thing I can't beat, isn't it?! I wanted to live. In my city. With my friends. But life is for the living. And I saw - gods! Goodbye, sun. Goodbye, sea. Goodbye. Karlach: I'm ready. I… I… Stand back, I'm going to-

Karlach: So Gortash is nothing more than a pile of flesh, same as the rest of us. Balaerra: Perhaps a bit uglier. Karlach: Feel like I should laugh but I'm just too godsdamned tired. Is that it, then? I've killed the bastard who ruined my life, and now I crawl into a corner and die? Am I fucking missing something? Balaerra: What do you mean? Karlach: It makes no sense. None of it means anything. He's dead, and he's no fucking sorrier now then he was before. What was the point? I'm still dying. I'm dying. I'm going to die! Balaerra: Maybe we can still fix your engine, stablize it. Karlach: Got a miracle in your back pocket you forgot to tell me about? I'm going to be as dead as Gortash any day now. Any moment. And what then? Off to the City of Judgement to waste into oblivion? Into the dirt to get eaten by maggots? Is that it for me? Is that fucking all?!And you - you'll just keep going, won't you. Watching the stars. Warming your hands on the campfire. Dancing, eating, making fucking love all night- all of it, all of it Karlach: That's my reward for everything I suffered. That's why I survived ten years of torment. The fighting, the clawing, the longeliness, the fucking loneliness… All of it, so I could rot. Because the person I trusted the most gave me away to the devil. It isn't fair. I don't want it like this. Balaerra: I would do anything to change it, but I just can't. Karlach: You could try. Haven't you got a Wish spell in that pack of yours? What the fuck am I supposed to do now? Balaerra: Live. For as long as you can. Karlach: You do it. I'm tired. Let's get out of here. I've always hated this place. Stupid fucking gigantic bridge or whatever. I think I need to go to camp for a while. Be alone. Scream at the sky. You can come and find me later, if you want to. Karlach: Thanks for listening. For existing. Love you.

Karlach: Hey, soldier. You're back. Balaerra: I've been worried about you. Are you all right? Karlach: Yeah, despite my best efforts. I kept trying to flop over and give up, but Karlach just won't let me. Did I miss anything important? Balaerra: We can talk about that later. I'm more concerned about you. Karlach: Would you believe if I said I'm all right? You know soldier, we're so fucked. The Dark Three are trying to consume the Swoard Coast, we've still got tabpoles in our eyes, and I've got a ticking time bomb in my chest. I'm not sure anyone has ever been more fucked than this. Karlahc: And yet… we're fine. In this moment, we're fine. Here I am. There you are. Breathing. Talking. Even laughing, if we want. Is it very precious to say that despite it all, I'm… happy? Balaerra: Very precious indeed. Karlach: Gods, I've changed. I used to hamstring pit fiends for fun. Look at me now. To make matters worse, there's something I wanted to ask you. Will you stay with me? When it's time. For me to go. I think I can do anything if you're there. Even die. Balaerra: Of course I'll be there, Karlach. Whatever you want. Karlach: Thank you. Now! Enough tragedy! I'm not done yet. And our schedule is packed with important heroics, isn't it. Plus, if I cry any more, I'm going to run out of tears and start leaking motor oil. Thanks for everything, soldier. I'm extremely glad to be in this thing together.

[creepycute-puppy-gf]

can u me more about Baldurs Gate 2? 🥺

This is kind of like asking me to explain the appreciable aspects of a life. Is it worth it, what makes it valuable, etc.

It's about as triumphant of a master piece of lived story telling and gaming as one can imagine. In 2 you start a leg into the story as the child of Bhaal, in D&D the god of death, really just one child who has killed another of Bhaal's children for whatever reason you see/saw fit (to save the world, to take his power, to make daddy happen, w/e pleases you because it will drive your story forward) and find your self imprisoned by a new threat.

Now, the story is great and important there are just countless things from there that make that story feel lived. The 2nd edition D&D rules were brutal and insane, you have to learn them and the game will not ask you only destroy you if you don't. It's easily in the hardest games ever made if you set it high (and harder still with mods that flesh out the 2nd ed. ruleset) careful stat balancing and allocation of skills along with heaps of luck and puzzling out strategies (strats are like, a huge brain buster puzzle but fun. How can you beat a pit fiend with no level 3 weapons??(required to deal damage) I did, get good scrub.)

The part that makes it so good to me is the combination of customization (mods esp.) and roleplaying you get to do. Like you know, an ACTUAL roleplaying game not like a stat builder game or just an adventure game pretending to be roleplaying games (Dragon Warrior and Zelda,,,,,) you actually have to sink into Baldur's Gate and be your chosen character(s). The romances while shallow are fun and interesting, the ways you get to exert yourself over the game are near endless between mods and base-game, the quests are many but all carefully crafted as to be majority fun and meaningful and even with humor and intrigue and wit. It tackles and even challenges a ton of social issues esp. at the time of 1999, asking you to reflect on bodily autonomy, race issues, the meaning of life, religious zealotry, imperialism&capitalism, and fluctuating morality to name a few.

An easy example of one of my many loved parts, so I realized I fucked up at the start making my character I should have been a halfling or a gnome or so right? Wrong, I should have been a Goblin. 2nd ed. doesn't support that but I do. So I made my character a goblin, grabbed a portrait, and am now prepared to roleplay my future interactions as a gobbo girl bhaalspawn. (portrait by foretbwat, pls forgive i love ur gobbos sm)

I did in fact cast double-image before the pic, my gobbo is not doubled normally.

So I can live out my dreams as whatever I want really, this is only half-assing it, I could sit down and do a LOT more with this but I am content here. (I checked, her stats are good and within the realm for a same level 2nd edition Gobbo, except her charisma which I will chock up to her being a bhaalspawn. Other mods are from gear+spells so nbd. 8) )

I can rewrite the game as I like, the story, the characters,,,it's a total power trip if you want it to be. I fucked a sailor that fucked me over twice, he fucked a gobbo girl that's the daughter of a god, and he has to live with knowing that. (goblins are reviled in this leg of time in Amn)😎 👉‍ 👉‍

Unlike real D&D I never have to hear the DM shit on my ideas or my friends cry it's their turn or care about lore or sit through dull exposition or really anything that isn't in my vision for the game. Black Isle killed it with this game, turned it to mulch it's perfect, and I don't see 3 coming close because it can't replicate the feeling of being one with the world. It's like 1 parts watching a tv show 1 parts writing your own story for the show and playing it out. Irreplaceable and so so full of love in that way.

I can go on, because that doesn't even touch on the fun of the gameplay in stages (the gambling, the fighting, the thieving, the magical mischief, the exploration and skulking about. The min/maxing, the build and class crafting, watching a fucking bear EXPLODE into bits and pieces because it hit a fucking landmine.)

It could however have used a more diverse writing crew, the lack of queerness in the base game (There's an okay amount of mods n such) is totally understandable being a game released by a publisher in the 90s. Imagine a game featuring gay sex in 99 on the shelves at Best Buy?? 90s were too conservative for that (unless it was part of the campaign but even then, that's 2000s territory)

[waltwhitmansbeard]

Bard, paladin (both choices), cleric, warlock, barbarian

this is the ask meme!

bard: what is your favorite “how do you want to do this?”

vex killing [redacted] in dalen's closet was so fucking satisfying (redacting bc the bestie is watching cr for the first time and i don't wanna spoil her!)

paladin: what is your favorite friendship

orym and fearne own my entire heart

paladin: what was your favorite badass moment

everything keyleth and scanlan did in that fight against the pit fiend was *chef's kiss*

although tbh runner-up is the CHOICE that joe manganiello made in the finale!!! absolutely boss babe shit!!!!

warlock: what is your favorite critical role merch 

this is a tie between the vax hooded cloak and the caduceus cardigan (which i am currently wearing)

barbarian: who is your favorite villain

ooh, this is hard. i mean, i wanna say essek, but considering his path, i won't consider him a villain. so i think narratively, the briarwoods, but in terms of what they can do, i'm gonna say otohan thull. i cannot WAIT for next fucking episode!!!

[burdenofheaven]

These past few sessions in pathfinder

So, recently my crew has gotten back into our sessions after months off. And while some of you may not care, I like how things are going. So we enter in with four out of five of us exploring the fortress of the giant lord known as Mokmurian. Beforehand we rode in on a red dragon who then helped us take out the guards, a myriad of giants and giant-kin including a biclops. We were in a sticky situation so we jumped into the deep hole after our tiefling geisha cast feather fall on us. Dragon and drow stay up there while we have fun in the fun hole. After too many normal bears, a couple dire bears, and some giant covered in metal that I killed but also got killed by, the fight was over. I get revived via goblin villain from the start of the campaign sending me back to the land of the living and we head up the hole. Drow has killed the dragon because they’re both chaotic evil. As we rest, drow and his daughter leave so we no longer have to deal with them taking exp or money. We explore down the dark tower and meet with the black monk, he wrecks us because we all trickle in one at a time but I kill him and take his major artifact. We head up, my tiefling step brother has mummy rot and will die soon, but he’s fine because he makes a deal with a pit fiend. Then we all head back into the hole and make our way to fight more giants, as we do so we meet the stone giant lady who asks us very nicely to avenge her forsaken husband and make peace with her kin by deposing their ruler. This goes well and she gifts us some stuff to help us. We then run into some lamias and two of our party die because they’re both clerics. We run them off though and then run into a jotun hill giant with runes all over him, massive lad hits me with what may as well be a tree and we run out of the room. We then try again and ask him politely to not do that, he agrees but says he must fight anyone who tries to walk in the room, so we don’t and converse with him. After talking with what is essentially a dumb lump of muscle, we all make peace and head on out. We only do non-lethal damage to the giants and giant-kin we see and they tend to stand down. After some troll beating though we head deeper into the fortress and then run into my characters father. A monster of a man who was torturing and beating the giants to make examples of any who opposed him. He calls us all out, especially me, for our faults but does not make excuses for himself either. His philosophies of perfect peace and prosperity through forced order, while at their core pure and noble through a need to stop death, disease, and suffering, we as a party find him wanting in that his execution is all wrong. He believed mercy is for the weak, my character retorted that it was for the strong. We ended there, as he left to watch from the shadows, judging us as a sort of test.