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earthstellar · 4 months

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Megatron: "Your defeat here was foreseen by the ancients. What was it they wrote? The weak shall perish?!"

Optimus Prime: "Do not believe everything you read."

Episode: TFP - One Shall Fall

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This is such a great exchange, because Megatron is losing his composure in an effort to bring about a prophecy of devastation, while Optimus finally obtains clarity and comes to realise that Megatron in his current state of mind cannot be saved.

Optimus isn't just referring to the prophecy itself, but he is calling back to the early days of his communications with Megatronus, the messages they began to exchange with one another while speaking about the injustices playing out around them, their long letters to one another that eventually brought Orion to visit Kaon, the beginning of their shared initial dream.

Back then, he believed Megatron to be a prophet of sorts, a speaker of truth to the brutally corrupt powers maintaining the system of oppression that bogged down Cybertronian people for so long.

Megatron sees himself as the prophet destined to bring about a pre-determined destiny steeped in the power of Unicron, while Optimus is mourning the loss of his own hope in his friend to ever be the bringer of peace that he, once upon a time, hoped he could be. Or hoped they could be, together.

Optimus still sees Megatron as Megatronus, deep inside-- Or he had, up until this point.

But Raf has been poisoned by dark energon, Ratchet (while under the influence of synth-en) told Optimus directly to his face that he needs to take the shot already and end this war (and Megatron) for good, and it culminates in this exchange in this episode.

The specific choice of words here is possibly Optimus speaking as Orion, expressing his disappointment in what Megatronus has become, a figure of evil beyond redemption that he so hoped he could offer his friend.

But Megatronus no longer exists as he did, back in the messages they exchanged in their earlier days, back in the holovids of a gladiator seeking to utilise his fame to encourage a much overdue revolution.

Optimus has lost some hope here; He can no longer believe that Megatronus can be revived from underneath what Megatron has become.

He no longer has the hope that their letters and exchanges originally inspired; He can no longer revisit those words Megatronus so carefully and passionately sent him, encrypted ten times over to prevent a Senate raid in Kaon or Iacon, secret letters full of hope for a better future.

What better future is there, with their planet dead and now with Earth on the line as well?

Optimus-- or rather, Orion, from underneath the heavy weight of the Matrix-- is still speaking to Megatronus here. Even though he now understands that Megatronus is long lost.

He cannot believe the great desire for social justice that Megatronus expressed and once wrote to him about at great length, because look at what has become of it all. Look at what his friend has become.

Orion is an archivist; He places great value in what he reads. He placed such great trust in Megatronus, the fate of their world has indeed changed as a result of both of their actions, and Orion was directly inspired by Megatronus.

But that inspiration is now tainted; Those memories are marred by the realisation of how far from those ideals Megatron has strayed.

Is it possible to re-read those messages that are no doubt saved for an eternity in Optimus' databanks, possibly even part of the Matrix's own memory core now, without pangs of sorrow and guilt for where it all led?

Megatronus spoke of great, wonderful things that could have healed the wounds of their people.

But instead, their people are cast out among the stars, their homeworld dead and decaying, their diaspora left to battle an unending war.

He can no longer have faith in Megatronus, for Megatron has only one goal, and in this moment, that goal is to destroy.

What happened to all those words about justice, freedom, a fairer society, a better balance among all classes and castes, a shot at real opportunity for those left oppressed and abused under a Functionist system?

Deep down inside, Orion can no longer believe what he was told so long ago.

And Megatron is so far gone that this may not even register to him; He sees Optimus as a separate entity, a perpetual enemy, the living embodiment of all that prevents him from achieving despotic control over whatever remains, a block in the path to potential restoration of their world and people-- Under his control, of course.

I just really love the specific phrasing, here.

"Do not believe everything you read."

Megatron, in his addled state of mind, may not have registered this statement for what it truly is.

And that makes it even more sad, because it proves Optimus/Orion completely right.

Those words they shared so genuinely so long ago may as well have been lies for all that has happened since.

It takes a hell of a lot to make Optimus/Orion lose hope or faith in even former allies.

And this scene, as quickly as it goes by, is Optimus directly declaring that he can no longer entertain Orion's hopes in regards to Megatronus' ultimate fate anymore.

Or at least, that's how I interpret this scene.

God, TFP had some really great, really subtle writing.

#tfp #transformers prime #tfp optimus prime #tfp megatron #megatronus #tfp orion pax #aligned continuity #analysis post #or at least sort of an analysis post #maccadam #maccadams

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sorceresssundries · 11 days

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Gale sketches by @orangekittyenergy <3

CHAPTER 2 (of 2)

Link to chapter 1 here

Pairing: Gale x Fem Tav

Summary: Set post-game where Tav did not feature in Gale's troubles in Baldur's Gate. A whip-cracking, fedora wearing, Indiana Jones inspired mini-adventure - where Professor Dekarios is tempted out of the classroom, and on yet another perilous quest.

Warnings: THIS IS NSFW! *blares smut horn* Plot with smut. But, you have been warned.

Word Count: 3.9k

A/N: Just a bit of a fun based on the Gale as Indiana comparisons. Also, he looks like a young Harrison Ford, how could I not? This is not the stuff I'm used to writing! But it's been enjoyable and nice to try something new.

Elltavia’s senses were prickling again, whatever was buried in the remains of this temple was beating like a rotted heart, pulsing decay and corruption outwards through the forest. They were close to the cause, she could feel it. She just hoped whatever was the cause of the infection didn’t get to her before she could save her home.

Along the far wall of the room were four murals that stood out in a line. The once clean, carved scenes were eroded and time-beaten, but just about decipherable.

The four images depicted monks in various states of torment. The first monk strained under the weight of a massive rock, muscles taut with effort as it pressed down upon him. The second monk, blood dripping from his hand and ears, was feverishly inscribing words upon a scroll, clearly in agony. In the third panel, a monk appeared submerged and drowning beneath a cascade of shimmering gold, his features twisted and bloated.

The final tableau showed two figures, stripped bare, entwined in an act that should have been pleasurable. However, their expressions were ambiguous, dancing somewhere between ecstasy and agony. The knife suspended ominously above their heads left little doubt about their fate.

Underneath each carving was a word in an ancient language, which Gale was able to translate.

STRENGTH. KNOWLEDGE. WEALTH. LUST

Hovering above the scenes of suffering was a much larger image of a monk in resplendent robes, his hands covering his eyes as he sat before a closed book as if to shield himself from an unbearable truth. The book sat on a carved pedestal, and shimmered with golden light. The lines of the monk’s robes flowed gracefully, dancing in a breeze that no longer existed. The expression of the hidden face was left to the imagination, but Gale’s imagination didn’t have to work very hard. The monk was shielding himself from whatever was written in that book.

Gale‘s chest suddenly went tight, as though the orb that had once branded his skin and burned an aching, insatiable hunger within him was back. The ghost of a pain which would never truly leave him. He couldn’t help but see himself in the image, as though it was a mocking interpretation of his great folly.

Unlike this monk, when he was tempted, he had not been strong enough to cover his eyes. He had suffered the same torment as the other tortured souls. It wouldn't have seemed out of place to see a carving of a wizard with a dark orb branded upon his chest, bent over and crippled by unending pain and sharp regret. His hand once again absentmindedly moved to his chest.

“What is in that book, do you think?” Elltavia was started to get concerned by the faraway look in Gale’s eyes. She had not known him long, but she knew it was unlike him to be this quiet. Whether in a classroom, or on an adventure - he was a born teacher. He had the engaging, adaptable, patient, rare soul of someone who had collected knowledge like precious treasure, and all he seemed to ever want to do is share it. He was not made to be silent, and it worried her.

"Fortune and glory, Kidd." Gale continued to read the fragile inscriptions—warnings, death sentences, holy scriptures, and gold-tinted promises of doom for the unworthy. Yet, for those with the resolve to grasp it, an ultimate blessing. "Fortune and glory."

After more studying, Gale pressed his hand against an indent in the wall, and a rumbling echoed around them.

"I think we've found where the ritual would take place," he murmured.

The carved, ancient pedestal holding the book shown in the mural rose from the ground in the room’s centre, a half-decayed corpse resting against it, its mouldering hand still holding the book open, as if in a final, desperate grasp for whatever it contained.

"That book should not be open." Gale could feel the power emanating from it, warping and stretching the weave of magic around it. This was no ordinary spellcraft; it was far beyond his capabilities. Once, he would have been desperate to grasp it, to drink the forbidden magic until it drowned him. A long time ago, It almost had.

The source of the blight was finally clear. The book had to be closed, or the rot would continue to spread, cursing the forest and luring as many as it could to this place. The book was a lure, a power to draw people here to be tested, indifferent to the fate it bestowed upon them. The burning ache of the sussur, which had been simmering under his skin, began to flare and bubble. His magic tingled in his bones, demanding to be used, to cast protection over him. His mind was flooded with the weave, and the agony of not being able to use it was overwhelming.

“Close the book!” He hissed through clenched teeth, doubled over in pain.

Elltavia approached the book tentatively, with ranger’s care. The closer she got, the more Gale’s words became a far-away song, trailing distantly away from the fluttering pages. Each turn caused a soft rustle; leaves whispering secrets in a forest grove. It was the sound of her home, and it was calling to her. The book cast a gentle glow, soft as yellow moonlight. And with every intake of breath, she could swear the scent of pine mingled with the earthy perfume of petrichor sank deep, holding and soothing her.

Surely within its pages lay the answers they were looking for. It called out to her with a sweetness that stirred her soul, a siren's song promising sanctuary. The glowing page was right there in front of her, she just had to read the inscription…

I am the lure in darkest gloom, A whispered hope, a flick'ring bloom. In greed-drenched shade, I bide my time, Thy greatest urge will feed my shrine.

What am I? A tempter, sly, In every soul, doth ever lie. Resist the call for but one hour, Prevail, and gain the worthy’s power

“Elltavia, NO!”

And she burned.

It felt as though tendrils of flame were invading her through her nose, her mouth, sinking through her skin, licking the very bones of her. It was tugging at her, calling to her, scalding all the way through her. She was a woman aflame, and there was only one way to extinguish the fire. She needed Gale, and she needed him now.

He rushed over, and managed to close the book - but not before catching a glimpse of the inscription within. As soon as he had read the words, the book and pedestal began to descend ominously back into the ground.

“Gale..” Elltavia’s voice was suddenly breathy and skin clammy as Gale grabbed hold of her and started to check her over.

“It’s the test, Kidd.” He appraised her pupils to see that they were blown wide, her breathing heavy. The spell was undeniably affecting her, not just emotionally but physically too. Her skin glimmered with a light sheen of sweat. Were her lips fuller, even more inviting than before? Surely it was a trick of the light? The urge to press his own against them, to run his tongue along her bottom lip, was all-consuming.

He pulled away abruptly, almost harshly, startled by the intensity of his desire. He had anticipated challenges to his resolve, but not in this way. He had mentally prepared himself for his ambition, his hubris, his self-worth to be cut out and dissected in front of him, to once again have to pull himself back from the brink of his unending desperation to prove himself. It was his tragic flaw, it always would be. He had not prepared himself for this.

The atmosphere crackled with a potent mix of heat and something deeper, something elemental. Lust. It hung thick in the air, dense and suffocating. It wrapped around him like a lover’s embrace, seeping into the marrow of his bones. He was suddenly starving, and she was ripe and ready to be savoured. He remembered when she had bitten the apple from his desk. How her eyes had met his as she bit down, how the juice had trailed down from the side of her lips to her chin…

“It sai..said.” Elltavia had her arms wrapped around herself, as though trying to hold herself back, and Gale desperately wanted to unfurl them and spread her out on the ground like a map. There was priceless treasure to be discovered. He ached from not touching her.

“It said something about lure.. Temptation..” Her breathing was heavy and lust-soaked. “Resist for an hour.. And we’ll pass the test.”

An hour of this, he thought bleakly, he did not know how he would stop himself from devouring her.

“I have rope” she panted “In my pack. You should tie me up.”

His response to that was a low, feral groan which seemed to rumble from deep within his chest. “I don’t think bondage will help me out here, Kidd.”

Struggling against this overwhelming desire was futile; he was a weary child resisting the pull of the receding tide, or a final leaf clinging to its branch before the onslaught of autumn's chill. He was no match for her; he was a raft-bound castaway - and she was the oncoming tempest.

Together they melted into a pool of tongue and hands, rushed and heavy. There was no softness or words of delicacy, no declarations or promises of what would come after. There was only urgency. There was only her and him and now. At the meet of their lips and the ripping of her shirt underneath his strong, tanned hands there was a rumbling noise which ripped around them and caused loose stone and dust to fall from the ceiling. The shock of it managed to distract them long enough to prise themselves away from each other. The second they pulled apart, the noise stopped.

“An earthquake?” He questioned through rough panting, speaking out loud rather than to her in particular. He quickly moved to one of the far walls and ran his hands over it, feeling for any structural damage and waiting silently for an aftershock.

As soon as his fingers stroked the grooves in the stone, Elltavia was behind him. She pushed him against the wall, and pressed herself against his back, standing on her tiptoes to lick and bite at the nape of his neck.

“Who cares?” She whined. Her hands made their way up the back of his shirt and she dragged her nails down his skin. The sound he made was sinful, and as soon as her tongue licked at the sweat trailing down his spine, the rumbling started again. This time they were both knocked backwards by the wall Gale was pressed against, as it started to straighten out and move towards them.

“Fuck.” He groaned, on his back. He could barely think straight, all his focus and all his blood was currently gathered in hard desperation between his legs. Urging to be sank into the ranger panting on the floor next to him.

She swung her leg round to mount herself on top of him, pinning him to the ground under her hips.

“Wait” he hissed through gritted teeth. She managed to stop herself from sucking on his bottom lip long enough to hear what he wanted to say, she desperately hoped it would be something filthy. Her restraint in her longing for his mouth didn’t stop her grinding her hips down against him. She gasped at how hard he was underneath her. To her shock, he grabbed her upper arms and managed, with difficulty, to push her off him and he sprang up and backed away from her with his arms out.

“Listen, Kidd, when we give into our temptation, to our urge, it sets off the trap.”

She tried to take in what he was saying, and she used her sharp, predator’s focus to survey the room. She had not previously noticed the heavy layer of dust which had settled on the holy ground. Bonedust. The bleak realisation sank in. This was all that was left of others who had been tested. The book was an incendiary, designed to spark simmering desire into a roaring flame. Resist it, or be crushed.

“I am your temptation?” She rasped. “Gale, of all the fucking things to desire?!”

“You’re one to talk!” He snapped. The cord that felt wrapped around him was tightening in frustration. This woman was literally going to be the death of him. This stubborn, infuriating, smart-ass was how he was going to die. He wanted to take his whip out and coil the leather around her…

“Fuck!” He said, turning around so he could no longer see her pouring out of her sweaty, ripped shirt.

“The temptation is each other… right?” She breathed.

“Obviously.”

“Then… then we can still.. Touch ourselves, can’t we?”

It was like pouring oil on a bonfire, the thought of her unbound and lost in her own touch, bringing herself to the brink of pleasure and plunging over a cliff of her own making was unbearable. He wanted to palm himself right there in front of her just from the thought of it.

She didn’t wait for him to answer, her hand quickly found its way into her underwear and to where she needed it most. She was a writhing mess on the floor - but the walls did not move.

He sank and crawled to her, and positioned himself over her, resting his forearms on the ground next to her shoulders, clenching his fists in frustration and caging her beneath him, but not touching her. He allowed one of his knees to push her thigh upwards, splaying her further apart. But he did not give her any further contact. He just held himself over her as she moaned and bucked her hips into her own hand. His gaze was as desperate and intense as any touch could be. Beads of sweat traced paths down his temple, falling onto her skin like liquid fire. Every inch of her felt alive, every nerve alight with anticipation. As he lowered his head, his breath danced against her neck, tantalisingly close yet never touching. His lips hovered, a mere whisper away, and she teetered on the edge of combustion.

“I’ve wanted you since you flashed your thigh at my desk.” His voice was almost unrecognisable, dark as sin itself. The lilt of his words caressing her skin. “I wanted to be that fruit on your tongue. The flesh on your lips.” She gasped, but could not respond. Her eyes fluttered shut as she imagined how he would taste as he spilled herself down her throat in ecstasy.

“Don’t you dare stop looking at me.” He growled.

Her eyes flashed open again to meet his, and his command would have sent her spiralling, but something was wrong.

“I can’t.. It won’t…” She removed her hand in desperation, and it took every ounce of resilience he had not to grab hold of her wrist and drag her lust-soaked fingers between his teeth and roll his tongue against them. “It just makes it worse.”

The walls were still at each end of the room, they had barely moved. The two of them were safe, maybe there was time to…

“Fuck it.” He said, and he lifted her robe and tore her underwear off her. Gods, the scent of her. He wanted to spend a whole day with his nose buried at the source of her divine, needy musk.

He did not have a whole day, he had minutes at most.

“Is this what you want?” He asked, shaking with the resolve it took to show her the decency she deserved.

“No” She responded, but before he could even attempt to pull himself away from her, she wrapped her powerful warrior's thighs around him and flipped them so he was beneath her.

“This is what I want.”

She turned round above him so her cunt was hovering over his face, just out of reach. This position gave her the chance to unbuckle his belt and finally get her hands where she wanted them. There was no time to undress him, to peel him out of his tight trousers the way she wanted to. This would have to do. He moaned beneath her as she finally freed him from his confinement, and without grace or hesitation - took the whole of him into her mouth.

In response, he grabbed hold of her hips and pulled her down against his lips. Locking her tight against him, he groaned and pushed his tongue into her. The taste of her was technicolour. He worked as quickly as he could to relieve the tight, coiling need which was squeezing the life out of them, but not quickly enough.

The walls had pushed towards them quicker than he anticipated, and it wasn’t long until he felt the hard force of it suddenly pressing against his feet.

Elltavia must have become aware at the same time he did, because her mouth was suddenly off him and she rolled away, completely disentangling them and stopping the movement of the walls.

They were both slick with sweat, and with each other.

“Get over to the far end. Now.” He snapped at her. The narrowing of the walls had now turned the large, circular room into a slim corridor. It would only take a couple more metres of movement and they would be crushed to dust.

“Do not bark orders at me!” She retorted with a hiss. “That is really not helping the situation!” She retreated as far away as him as possible, pressed her thighs together, and put her hands over her ears so she couldn’t hear his heavy, laboured breathing.

The hour may as well have been a day. They faced away from each other, breaths heavy and skin slick with sweat. They had both tried to cover themselves back up with what little material had not been ripped. At this moment the threat of being crushed by the weight of an ancient temple wall seemed inconsequential compared to the overwhelming intensity of this moment. Gale thought that If this were to be his end, he would welcome it with open arms. At one point in his life, he had resigned himself to the fact he would die alone at the order of a pitiless Goddess. What a privilege it would be then, to die in the arms of a merciful one. In the arms of Elltavia Kidd’Alka.

He thought of her as he faced the wall. He thought of her in every way except the one which had pushed its way to the front of his mind and coursed its way through his blood. He thought of her fierce loyalty to her home, how she had travelled far and risked her life. How she was blunt and forthcoming and how she refused to dull any of her bladed wit. He thought of the shimmering seasons of her eyes, of how long it must take her to braid her hair, how she has the wisdom of an elder and the bright laugh of a child. He thought of how much he wanted her to live, and how much he wanted to see her again. And suddenly, the urge simmered - it was there, but it no longer suffocated him. He could breathe. His lust had been mixed with something else, and the sweet combination had strengthened his resolve. He could do this.

Elltavia thought of the forest. Of her home. Of the children who fell out of trees and laughed in the dirt that caught them. Of the people who had spent their lives telling stories and weaving tradition through play and prayer. Of the mothers who had fletched arrows with babes at their breast. She remembered the first time she summoned an animal, and how the swift spring bird had flitted between branches and sunbeams to settle upon her shoulder. She remembered the poor autumn fox which she had found dead from the spreading curse. She would beat this. She would return home, and she would show Gale the place they had saved together. Her blood cooled, her resolve steeled. She could do this.

An hour passed in silence. The two of them focused and determined. Two people who ached enough to not touch each other. And it worked.

Suddenly, it was as though they had emerged from holding their breath in ice water. The walls rumbled and slowly retreated back to their stations.

“Is it over?” Elltavia spoke quietly, too nervous to turn round or remove her hands from her ears. Her answer came when a strong, comforting hand placed itself on her shoulder and she didn’t burn from the touch. She let Gale turn her, and take the hands from her ears to kiss them.

“Not for me'' He said gently, stroking her cheek and tucking a braid behind her ear. Before he could kiss her properly, without magical kindling feeding his flame for her, the book reappeared. It fluttered once more, and settled on its final page.

“Is it safe?”

“I think so” He said, more calmly than he felt. “We passed the test.”

He made his way to where the soft glow welcomed him to read, and spoke the book’s final inscription aloud…

Behold, two souls of spirit true Live long - old magic rests in you.

“If this is some bullshit about how the power was inside us all along, I'm going to be really annoyed.” Elltavia was still breathless, but relieved.

“Maybe…” He said thoughtfully, but from the book and the murals and tenacity of the ancient magic, Gale didn’t believe that was the case. There must be the mentioned ‘reward’ somewhere… But, he was not interested. Godly gifts he could live without. There were other things more worthy of his attention now. Other desires to fulfill.

“What do we do about the book?” she asked, closing it and running her finger over the cover. “Will you take it to the Academy?”

“No. This belongs here. It’s as much a part of the forest as you are.” He turned to look at her, her bright eyes fierce, “You know what lies here now, you can tell your community - you can spread the story and let them become guardians of magic and knowledge. And this can stay here… closed.”

He bent down and kissed her, soft but purposeful. Full of the promise of things to come.

“You know, Kidd. Before you dropped by my lecture I was reading about this amulet…”

She entwined her fingers with his as they made their way back into the lush greenery of her vibrant forest home. “Sounds interesting professor, I take it the next adventure would also require you to bring along your whip?”

“Oh, most definitely. I could give you another demonstration now if you’d like?”

Her bright laugh echoed through the trees as they walked into the distance, unaware of the ancient gift bestowed upon them by the temple in the forest. Perhaps one day, Gale would notice his hair wasn't greying as quickly, or that the furrows between his eyes no longer deepened despite the endless days of laughter shared with Elltavia. Maybe then, they would realise they had been chosen as timeless protectors: the wizard destined to safeguard the magic he once sought to consume, and the ranger courageous enough to save her homeland.

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 gale #gale fanfic #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #indiana dekarios

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everyones-fangirl · 10 days

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Delectable Little Pet

Warnings: 18+ This will be about after ascension Astarion so expect some extreme dark romance and future triggers. Male Masturbation. Stalking.

Word Count: 4,182

Chapter 3

Astarion

The streets were slick with fresh rain, and mud filled the spaces between the rundown cobblestones. I couldn't help the disgusted scowl that took over my face as I stepped over an especially large and foul-smelling puddle. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of wet earth and decay. Another night, another hunt for my captor, Cazador. What once might have felt like a hunt now felt like an unending chore. The challenge had long since faded, replaced by a monotonous routine. The most difficult part of my task was finding a fresh place my fellow brothers and sisters hadn't already prowled.

Tonight, I found myself wandering into an area I hadn't hunted in for a while. The unfamiliarity brought a faint spark of interest as I shrugged my shoulders and approached a tavern. Its windows glowed warmly, casting light onto the wet street like a beacon. From several paces away, I could already hear the lively sounds of conversation and music. Over the years, I had mastered the art of remaining unseen until I chose otherwise. This night was no different. I slipped through the door and made my way to a vacant table, which was rarer to find than I had expected. The warmth inside was a stark contrast to the cold dampness outside, but it did little to ease the chill in my bones.

I let my eyes rake through the bar crowd, my disgusted expression never faltering. The patrons were a motley assortment—merchants, laborers, and travelers—all oblivious to the predator in their midst. Failure was not an option. I had honed my skills to perfection, using words and charm to lure my prey. Over time, I had learned to read people, to understand their desires and weaknesses. I hadn't been refused, not once. As my gaze scanned the room, I calculated my approach. The more attractive Cazador deemed my victims, the more he rewarded me, which often meant a slightly less repugnant meal—a fatter rat instead of the usual scraps. The prospect of that meager reward drove me forward, a grim determination settling over me.

I noted a group of young women near the hearth, their laughter rising above the din. One in particular caught my eye—a redhead with a playful smile and an easy grace. She would do nicely. But as I observed her, another figure drew my attention. Sitting a bit apart, a wood elf with an air of quiet melancholy. She was stunning in a raw, unpolished way, her beauty striking and otherworldly. Cassara, as I would soon learn her name, possessed an ethereal quality that set her apart from the tavern’s usual patrons. Her skin was pale, with an almost translucent shimmer that took on a subtle green hue under the flickering lantern light. It was as if she carried a piece of the forest with her, a living connection to the natural magic of her heritage. Her figure was a delicate balance of strength and grace, curvy yet slender, moving with the effortless elegance of her kind.

Her hair, a deep, rich brown, fell in thick waves down her back, catching the light and hinting at the wild, untamed nature of her spirit. It framed a face that was both delicate and striking—high cheekbones, a slender nose, and full lips that seemed perpetually tinged with a hint of sadness. But it was her eyes that captivated me the most. Light green and luminous, they held a depth of emotion and a potent magical energy that seemed to pulse around her, adding to her enigmatic allure. Yet they also seemed to be haunted by shadows that mirrored my own. She wore a simple dress, the fabric torn and worn from travel, yet it did little to diminish her beauty. The dress clung to her in places, hinting at the curves beneath, while the rips and tears suggested a recent struggle, adding a layer of vulnerability to her appearance. Despite her disheveled state, there was an undeniable aura of power about her, a latent energy that seemed ready to burst forth at any moment.

My lips curled into a predatory smile. The redhead would be an easy mark, but Cassara—there was something about her, something intriguing. The challenge she presented reignited a spark of interest within me. I stood, smoothing my cloak, and moved towards her table, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. As I approached, the sounds of the tavern seemed to fade, the world narrowing to the space between us. Cassara looked up, her eyes meeting mine with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. I sat down across from her without invitation, my movements fluid and deliberate.

"Good evening," I said, my voice a smooth, honeyed tone that had lured many before her. "You look like someone with a story to tell. May I join you?"

She hesitated, her eyes flickering with uncertainty. I leaned in slightly, maintaining eye contact, letting the allure of my presence work its magic. Her light green eyes, though wary, held an undeniable curiosity. After a moment that felt like an eternity, she nodded slowly, and I settled into the seat across from her, a sense of satisfaction curling in my chest. The hunt had begun, and I was ready to play my part. At this angle, I could see the light dusting of freckles that powdered her nose and cheeks, a delicate constellation that added to her ethereal beauty. Her glare toward me only deepened as I stared, her eyes narrowing slightly, but there was an innocence in the way she held herself that stirred something dark within me. It made me want to hide her away, to keep her purity and fire all to myself. The fire that lit up those beautiful green eyes burned bright, and I could already tell she would be a feisty one. The thought of breaking her, of watching her come completely undone, sent a thrill through me. How I wondered how her beautiful lips would look trembling? How long would she pretend to fight me off? The anticipation was intoxicating.

“Don’t mind my friend; she has trust issues. I’m Caty, and this is Cassara.” The redhead smiled at me, leaning in with a familiarity that was almost charming. “Did you come to see us perform?”

Her voice broke the spell, and I shifted my gaze to Caty, acknowledging her with a polite nod. “Indeed,” I lied smoothly. “Your music drew me in from the street. You both have quite the talent.”

Caty beamed at the compliment, her eyes sparkling with delight. “Thank you! It’s always nice to have appreciative listeners.” She glanced at Cassara, who remained guarded, her posture stiff and unyielding.

I turned my attention back to Cassara, my gaze softening as I tried to draw her out. “You have a remarkable presence on stage,” I said, my voice low and sincere. “It’s clear you put your heart into your music.”

She blinked, surprise flickering across her features before she masked it with a cool indifference. “Thank you,” she replied, her tone clipped. “But I’ve learned not to trust flattery.”

Her response only intrigued me further. “A wise approach,” I conceded, leaning back in my chair. “But I assure you, my interest is genuine. I’ve traveled far and seen many performers, but few have captivated me as you did tonight.”

Cassara’s eyes softened slightly at my words, but the wariness remained. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. I would bide my time, coaxing her trust out bit by bit, until she was completely ensnared. As Caty and I continued to chat, I kept stealing glances at Cassara, noting every detail. Despite my presence, she couldn't help but giggle at her friend's jokes. Each laugh was a musical sound, and every time she did so, her nose would scrunch up while her eyes closed and her head tilted back, revealing a small dimple on her right cheek if you looked closely enough. Her laughter was infectious, and it lit up the room around her. She was warm. She was light. She was everything I missed being. It enraged me. Her vitality was a glaring reminder of my own lost humanity. I felt a surge of anger, a deep-seated bitterness that twisted in my gut. I wanted to be the reason that light faded, to see her vibrant spirit dim under my influence.

As we continued our conversation, I maintained my outward composure, masking my darker thoughts behind a charming facade. Caty was a delightfully easy distraction, her enthusiasm and friendliness a perfect cover for my true intentions. But my focus never wavered from Cassara. I observed her closely, noting how her eyes sparkled with unguarded joy whenever she laughed, the way she absentmindedly twirled a lock of her thick, dark brown hair around her finger, the subtle shift in her posture when she relaxed in her friend's company. Each of these details added to my growing obsession. Her innocence and warmth were like a beacon, drawing me in despite the darkness within me. The more I watched her, the more I wanted to possess her, to extinguish that light and replace it with something darker, something that reflected the void within me.

Caty’s laughter and chatter filled the space between us, a constant stream of words and stories. I played my part well, nodding and smiling in all the right places, but my mind was focused on the task at hand. Cassara remained guarded, her responses to me polite but distant. It only fueled my determination. As the night wore on, I could see Cassara beginning to relax, her initial wariness giving way to a tentative curiosity. She listened intently to Caty and occasionally glanced my way, her light green eyes filled with questions she wasn't yet ready to ask. It was a delicate dance, this slow erosion of her defenses, and I savored every moment of it. Underneath my composed exterior, the rage simmered. Her very existence was an affront to my own, a stark reminder of what I had lost. The desire to break her, to see her crumble under the weight of my influence, was a dark, insidious force that drove me forward. I would be patient. I would be methodical. And when the time was right, I would strike. Until then, I would savor the hunt, the slow unraveling of her trust, the gradual dimming of her light.

Unable to resist, I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a smooth, seductive tone. “You have a beautiful laugh, Cassara. It’s like music in itself.”

Cassara’s eyes flicked to mine, the wariness returning full force. “Thank you,” she replied stiffly, her smile fading as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She clearly wasn’t charmed by my forwardness, but that only made the game more intriguing.

Caty, oblivious to the tension, beamed at my compliment. “Isn’t she wonderful? Cassara has had that effect on people since I met her.”

“I can see why,” I said, my gaze lingering on Cassara. “A woman as captivating as you must have many admirers.”

Cassara’s eyes narrowed slightly, her discomfort palpable. “I’m not interested in admirers,” she said coolly, her tone leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Undeterred, I flashed her a charming smile. “Perhaps you just haven’t met the right one yet.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she looked away, focusing her attention back on Caty. “I think we were talking about the performance,” she said pointedly, trying to steer the conversation back to safer territory.

Caty, ever the peacemaker, laughed lightly. “Yes, of course. Astarion, were you really drawn in by our music? It’s always nice to hear that we’re making an impact.”

I nodded, though my eyes remained on Cassara. “Absolutely. It was mesmerizing. Like I said I’ve traveled far and wide, and rarely have I heard such talent.” Cassara’s shoulders tensed at my persistent gaze, her discomfort growing more evident. It was clear she wasn’t going to be easily won over, and that only fueled my desire to break through her defenses.

“Your voice, Cassara,” I continued, ignoring her clear attempts to disengage. “It has a haunting quality, like the whispers of the forest at dusk. Have you been singing long?”

She met my eyes with a steely resolve. “Since I was a child for spells and lullabies is all,” she answered curtly. “But I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”

Her bluntness was refreshing, a stark contrast to the usual simpering responses I received. It made the hunt all the more thrilling. “I beg to differ,” I replied smoothly. “A talent like yours is worth knowing more about. There’s a depth to you that’s intriguing.”

Cassara’s expression hardened, and she looked at Caty, silently pleading for help. “Caty, perhaps we should call it a night,” she suggested, her voice tight. “It’s been a long day, and I’m sure we’ll have more opportunities to talk.”

“Leaving so soon?” The voice that rushed from my panicked lips was hardly recognizable as my own. I audibly cleared my throat before composing myself and leaning in toward the two girls. I gave them my best smolder, deploying my charm that had never failed me. “There’s actually a party in the mansion by the central wall. There will be a lot of musicians there,” I lied through my smiling teeth. The effect I was aiming for was immediately visible in Caty’s glazed-over eyes.

Her hand went right to my forearm, and she giggled. “You mean we could get more jobs?” Her face lit up as she looked at Cassara with excitement. “We could be famous!”

I smiled, nodding my head. “Exactly, and you two will by far be the best ones there.” A part of me almost didn’t want to hand Cassara over to Cazador. I longed to break her myself, to watch her spirit crumble under my touch, but that was impossible while I remained under Cazador’s thrall.

Cassara took Caty’s hand from my arm, and I looked at her in confusion. Her eyes were completely clear, my charm failing to sway her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Caty.” She pulled gently at her friend’s arm to draw her attention away from me. Shock turned to anger swiftly, and my fists clenched as I struggled to regain my composure. No one had ever told me no before. Cassara’s defiance intrigued and enraged me in equal measure. Her strength only made my desire to break her more intense. She was a puzzle I was determined to solve, a challenge unlike any I had faced.

Caty pouted, looking between Cassara and me. “But Cassara, it’s a chance we might not get again. Think about the exposure, the opportunities!”

Cassara’s grip on Caty’s hand tightened. “We don’t even know this man, Caty. We’ve been through enough to know better than to trust a stranger’s word. Let’s not rush into something we might regret.”

I could feel my temper rising, but I forced a smile, masking my frustration. “I understand your hesitation,” I said smoothly. “Perhaps another time, then. I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Caty’s shoulders slumped, disappointment evident on her face. “I guess you’re right, Cassara. We should be careful.” She glanced back at me, offering a half-hearted smile. “Maybe next time.”

I nodded, standing up from the table. “Of course. I’ll be around if you change your mind.” I held Cassara’s gaze for a moment longer, silently promising that this wasn’t over. Her resistance only made the hunt more thrilling.

As I turned to leave, I could feel her eyes on me, a mixture of wariness and curiosity. She had won this round, but I had time. I would find another way to get close to her, to break through her defenses. She wouldn’t be able to resist forever. Walking out into the slick, rain-soaked streets, I vowed to myself that I would see Cassara again. Her spirit was too bright, too pure, to be left untouched. I would be the one to dim that light, to make her mine. For now, I would retreat, plan my next move, and wait for the perfect moment to strike. Cassara had no idea what was coming, but she would learn soon enough. No one defied me and got away with it.

Cassara’s defiance would be her undoing, and I couldn’t wait to see the moment her resolve crumbled under the weight of my relentless pursuit. The whole interaction left my heart racing with excitement; it had been so long—too long. The thrill of the hunt, the intoxicating mix of defiance and innocence in Cassara’s eyes, stirred something primal within me. I could feel my cock twitch in my trousers, and a low, frustrated groan escaped my lips. The desire to grip myself in my hand and pump to the thought of her was overwhelming, but I had work to do. Cazador still needed me to bring him someone to eat.

Biting down my desire, I pushed through the dark streets, my senses heightened. The rain-soaked cobblestones glistened under the dim streetlights, the scent of wet earth mingling with the distant sounds of the city nightlife. The glow from the tavern faded behind me, replaced by the shadows of alleyways and the soft murmurs of the few remaining night dwellers. Every step felt like a chore now, the thrill of the chase for my master’s victims dulled in comparison to the fire that Cassara had ignited in me. Yet, I knew failure was not an option. Cazador’s wrath was a fate far worse than the endless hunger that gnawed at my insides.

I slipped into the shadows, my presence unnoticed by the few passersby. My eyes scanned the streets for an easy target, someone who wouldn’t be missed. A lone figure stumbled out of a nearby tavern, reeking of alcohol and desperation. Perfect.

Silently, I moved closer, my steps soundless on the slick pavement. The man was barely aware of his surroundings, making him an easy mark. As I approached, my fangs ached in anticipation, the hunger clawing at my insides demanding satisfaction. But I resisted the urge to drink, knowing my master’s needs came first. In one swift motion, I had him pinned against the wall, his startled gasp cut short as I gripped his neck. The man struggled weakly, his eyes wide with terror. “Please…” he whimpered, but I paid him no mind. He was nothing more than a tool to appease Cazador. Using a bit of rope I kept hidden in my cloak, I bound his hands behind his back and hoisted him over my shoulder. The weight was negligible; I had carried heavier burdens before. Making my way through the winding streets, the rain began to fall again in a soft, persistent drizzle. It was a fitting backdrop for the dark deeds I was about to commit.

Cazador's castle loomed over the darkened landscape like a sinister sentinel, its imposing structure a testament to both ancient craftsmanship and malevolent intent. The edifice, built from blackened stone that seemed to absorb the very light around it, rose high into the sky, its towers piercing the heavens like jagged teeth. As one approached, the atmosphere grew thick with an unnatural chill, the air tinged with the faint scent of decay and despair. The castle's exterior was adorned with grotesque gargoyles and intricate carvings depicting scenes of torment and suffering, their twisted forms casting eerie shadows in the moonlight. The main entrance was a massive set of double doors, forged from dark iron and reinforced with thick wooden beams. Intricate, arcane runes were etched into the metal, glowing faintly with a malevolent light, a warning to any who dared to cross the threshold uninvited. As the doors creaked open, they revealed a grand hall, the walls lined with ancient tapestries and flickering torches that cast long, dancing shadows across the cold, stone floor.

Inside, the castle was a labyrinth of corridors and chambers, each more foreboding than the last. The air was thick with the scent of dust and old blood, a grim reminder of the countless lives that had been claimed within these walls. The main hall, with its high, vaulted ceiling and grand chandelier made from the bones of long-dead creatures, was the heart of the castle. Here, Cazador held court, his dark throne perched atop a dais, draped in luxurious, blood-red velvet. The throne room itself was an opulent display of Cazador's power and cruelty. The walls were lined with portraits of himself, their eyes seemingly following anyone who dared to enter. A large, ornate fireplace dominated one side of the room, its flames casting a hellish glow that danced across the polished marble floor. The flickering light illuminated Cazador's throne, a twisted masterpiece of dark artistry, adorned with the skulls of those who had defied him. Beyond the throne room lay the castle's dungeons, a warren of damp, dark cells where the unfortunate souls captured by Cazador's thralls awaited their grim fate. The air here was suffused with the stench of fear and decay, the walls slick with moisture and stained with the blood of countless victims. The distant sounds of tortured screams and the clanking of chains echoed through the corridors, a chilling symphony of suffering that never ceased.

Above the dungeons, the castle's towers reached high into the sky, their narrow windows offering glimpses of the landscape below. These towers housed Cazador's personal chambers and his extensive library, filled with tomes of forbidden knowledge and arcane secrets. The library was a place of eerie silence, the only sound the rustle of ancient pages and the occasional drip of water from the leaky ceiling. Cazador's castle was more than just a fortress; it was a living entity, imbued with the malevolent essence of its master. Every stone, every shadow seemed to whisper of the darkness that resided within, a constant reminder of the evil that lurked behind its walls. For those unfortunate enough to be drawn into its depths, escape was a distant dream, overshadowed by the all-consuming presence of Cazador and the horrors he wrought.

The corridors were dimly lit, the air thick with the oppressive presence of Cazador. I made my way to the lower chambers, where my master awaited his next meal. Cazador’s eyes gleamed with anticipation as I entered the room, the man still draped over my shoulder. “Another one for you, master,” I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil within.

Cazador inspected the man, a cruel smile spreading across his face. “Well done, Astarion,” he said, his voice a silken purr. “You continue to serve me well.”

I nodded, the praise feeling hollow. My thoughts were still consumed by Cassara, by the plans I would lay to ensnare her. Tonight was just the beginning. As Cazador began his feast, I slipped away, retreating to my quarters. The rain continued to patter against the windows, a soothing rhythm that belied the darkness of my thoughts. Cassara had become an obsession, a target I was determined to break.

No one defied me and got away with it.

Lying down on the bed, the mattress yielding just enough to cradle my weary body, I let my thoughts drift back to her. Cassara's defiance, her beauty, the way she had resisted my charm—it all fueled my desire. Her light green eyes, shimmering with potent magical energy, and the way her dark brown hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall of silk, were imprinted in my mind. Every detail of her lithe, curvy form ignited a fire within me, a primal hunger I could not satiate. The thoughts once more had my cock growing in my pants to the point of a pain I couldn’t ignore. I loosened the pants swiftly and took my painful erection in my fist. A strangled groan left my lips as I began stroking myself to the thought of her. What else did those freckles pepper? The thought of tracing them with my tongue, mapping each tiny mark on her pale, shimmering skin, drove me wild. I imagined her beneath me, her long, thick hair spread out on the pillow, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and reluctant desire. The thought of her finally succumbing to my touch, her resistance melting away, was intoxicating. How would her soft, full lips feel against mine? Would they tremble as she tried to hold back her moans, only to finally give in and cry out my name?

My strokes quickened as I pictured her delicate hands reaching out, hesitant at first, then gripping me with surprising strength. I could almost hear her breath hitching, the sweet sound of her surrender. I wanted to see those light green eyes darken with lust, her body arching towards me, silently begging for more. The thought of breaking her, of being the one to shatter her innocence and bring forth the depths of her hidden desires, sent waves of pleasure coursing through me. I imagined her soft gasps and whimpers, the way her body would writhe under my touch, and it pushed me closer to the edge. With a final, powerful stroke, I reached my climax, a guttural moan escaping my lips. My body tensed, then relaxed, a sense of satisfaction mingling with the lingering frustration of unfulfilled longing. I lay there for a moment, my breath coming in ragged gasps, the vision of Cassara still vivid in my mind.

As I cleaned myself and adjusted my clothing, a dark smile played on my lips. This was just the beginning. I would find a way to get close to her, to break through her defenses, and make her mine. The hunt was far from over, and the thrill of the chase was only just beginning. With that thought, I finally allowed myself to drift into a restless sleep, the night's events replaying in my mind, the promise of future conquests keeping my dreams alight with anticipation.

#bg3 astarion #astarion x female oc #astarion x female tav #astarion x tav #astarion smut #baulders gate astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x oc #astarion #bg3 tav #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 #Astarian evil #dark fanfiction #dark romance

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muzzleroars · 5 months

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hmmhmfsgh I love all your work so much, your concepts for the lore of Ultrakill are so interesting, and I wanna eat your art style it's so good

I have a question regarding Lucifer: after everything has calmed down with all the archangels, would it be possible for him to be freed? If they realized he was put away unjustly, could Michael unbind him? Are the chains unbreakable, or would Michael be too afraid/stubborn to go back on the decision?

aaaa thank you!! and i'm so glad i get the chance to talk about this...because i think this is ultimately how michael's redemption arc would have to end and how he could be released from the guilt he's carried all this time. it would come when michael has recalled his mercy, when he is at ease with gabriel's position in hell and has more or less taken up his role as prince of heaven to help what remains of his citizens rather than continue attempting to condemn hell and its sinners (including a very important apology to the ferryman). gabriel would know the time is right to show him to that testament, to reveal to him god's own shame at casting lucifer out and all the lies they must have been told since - he shows it to all the archangels, but it is michael's decision which matters the most. and i think, in feeling that ugly remorse he's carried for eons finally fall on his head, he would make the determination that lucifer's imprisonment is unjust. he must be released...the decision, however, is met with immediate opposition.

gabriel is the least opposed, though he believes in taking this much more methodically and being sure he and v1 aren't left with what might be a bigger problem than they can handle. raphael is outright against it, stating that lucifer is surely far too much now warped by hell to be trustworthy, even if he agrees the original binding was wrong. uriel supports his points, going further to put forth the idea that lucifer may not even be himself by now, instead more an avatar of hell instead given how it's connected to him so thoroughly. michael is staunch in his stance, however, impressing upon them the utter depravity of any decision other than freeing him as soon as possible - he was innocent, and he's endured unending torture trapped in a pit devoid of god's light. regardless of his state, keeping him chained now would be the most hideous act of cruelty heaven could carry out. unfortunately, they can reach no conclusion with raphael and uriel unswayed and gabriel not entirely agreeing with michael's admittedly emotional plan. so they end the discussion at odds, but that hardly matters to michael. he will go with or without their help.

v2 knows this almost immediately, when he comes to see it afterward. didn't go his way, it can tell. but v2 lets him know that hardly matters as it knows what he's thinking now too, and it will join him whenever he's ready. michael of course tries to insist it's unnecessary, but v2 counters that it's not all about him - lucifer is serving out a sentence that should never have been passed, and v2's nature can't abide by that. they will do what's right, even if it's so late, and v2 is proud of him. michael, in return, is greatly humbled and infinitely grateful toward v2 once more, like he has been several times now when it's saved him, yet v2 tells him he'll have to save any praise until they're done. they're both well aware of what they're about to do in the silent pause that follows, but michael leads them on when the moment has passed and he prepares to undertake his final penance. the one he's always been waiting on.

freeing lucifer proves to be just as brutal as he always thought it would have to be. satan in its suffering form, bound up into a dragon that wears his halo skewed and nailed to its face, bodies of angels twisted up into a hard carapace covered in scales of a thousand faces crying out to him. its belly cut open, pouring forth the flayed and decayed corpses of those that were lucky enough not to survive their fall, while michael's own spear pins lucifer to its chest. and hell itself growing onto and into them all, burrowing under shattered wings and into its grotesque frame, with lucifer now seemingly unable to hear michael. whatever it is fights autonomously against them, instinct ruled by agony and lashing out against anything that dare come near it. with each chain michael severs, it grows more wild, encased in ice that begins to crack with deep, resounding shockwaves that carry through all of hell. it alerts gabriel and v1, who move together without a word straight to treachery (gabriel knew this would be the outcome, so they're relatively prepared) and do what they can to support michael and v2. as more chains fall, raphael and uriel appear to plead with michael to stop, yet they too protect him in what ways they can even though he refuses to heed them. he hears nothing but the pain of the monstrosity before him, his own dead body numb to all the damage it does, yet able to feel it in white hot phantoms. he could be torn apart and he would never cease, he is already a corpse anyway. and when he has done away with all the chains, those that could only be unbound by his will, he finally pulls the central spear from its heart...and the beast collapses in a great flood of blood and cinder.

from without, a great sigh of relief rushes over them all, so many of the angels that had been held in that form dying instantly upon its release, and they are glad of it (there is the briefest, faintest sound of a hymn of many voices long since forgotten) stronger angels scatter almost as quickly, unused to a free form and so taken by it immediately to follow the howling winds of hell. only lucifer remains, hands buried in the ash around him and so very aware of every life lost, a name for each voice that only he now knows. only michael goes to him with weapons tossed aside, calling out to him finally once more by his own name that he has long forgotten. yet still, michael, he knows. michael has come and the world must have ended. this is his time, this is their revelation, and lucifer stands on the ashes of all the angels he led to death. he asks to be struck down just as michael reaches him. no more. no eternity of torment. no lake of fire. free him as he has all these other souls, and free the ones that escaped - they know not how they run, they mean no offense. they will surrender to michael as he does now, so long as he destroys them entirely. please. they have sinned and done wrong, now let it end and have your kingdom of peace. let the world be free of suffering within and without. let it be perfect.

it is unthinkable, unknowable, when michael finally speaks after being stricken so still and silent, when he tells lucifer there is no battle, that he came only to free him. not for a thousand years to reign on earth, but for whatever they have left. he is sorry he couldn't save all of them, he is sorry he has come so late, he is sorry his spear ever pierced into lucifer's side and drew the first blood of god's creation. he is sorry he comes to him like this, michael already dead and lucifer a burned out husk in the blood of all those that should still be in paradise. lucifer doesn't seem to take in what he says, or, more likely, he can't, and so only continues to repeat his request, asking michael to at least kill the rest of them. even if lucifer must be left to suffer forever, let it be in solitude. michael only reaches him once he admits god's death, that everything done now is his own will and he releases lucifer from this place...a ringing silence, the whole of hell letting out a long groan. lucifer is what remains of him now, god's own fire still lifting to the dead air in sparks from his charred body. and he screams terribly, millennia of grief, of anger, of deepest hatred, tearing through the halls of hell as his fire lights briefly once more to illuminate a brutally dark, brutally cold cavern to see god's light for the first time. it can't last long, he can't bear it anymore, and he has much more to do if that hatred can no longer find a place. let lucifer bury his dead, let him divide out these ashes into all the angels he once knew even if it takes him one thousand years to make every grave. let him find those that ran, even if they have reached the four corners of the world by now, to offer his apologies for what he did to them. let him seek out the few left of the damned so they know how he regrets bringing sin into the world. let him be sure this can exist as a place where the love of god will never be known, let his own name be forgotten in every soul that managed to survive his tyranny.

THIS IS VERY LONG....but essentially, at least starting out, lucifer needs to actually largely be left alone. he is relatively unresponsive to outsiders, gabriel the only one of the group that can engage him at all in the beginning, and he is more often heard singing in hymns none of them can understand. he travels through all of hell, though he seems increasingly uneasy the higher he climbs and often returns to his place in treachery by his own accord. far from being the ultimate presence of evil they came to believe he was, lucifer is clearly a being broken, a being that's forgotten all his joy, all his memories of heaven, instead locked into mourning. raphael and uriel in particular feel great guilt over disputing his freedom, seeing how he buries each angel he lost, how he preserves their names and relates, to no one, their whole lives in heaven before they came here. he tells of the work they did, of the happiness they made, he eulogizes each of them in words that must have run through his head countless times, words he never thought he'd get the chance to speak. he needs a true grieving period before any significant progress can be made with him, yet there are always sparks of the old lucifer. something is lighter in him seeing the damned minos cares for, actually able to see the city they built here. he rejoices, in quiet, muted ways with each fallen angel he retrieves, and he wishes to make hell a place they can all share in with him. even hell itself. it has suffered too, after all.

#NOVEL LENGTH ANSWER....you can tell it's been on my mind!!!#they do begin to be able to speak with him #and he's very....changeable emotionally #because lucifer is deeply conflicted over their role in his fall #he blames god before anyone and a big part of him knows they had to do what they did for their safety #he knows they were lied to. crushed beneath god's will and tethered in their own way #but lucifer is deeply achingly angry for what he and all the rest of his angels went through #and god died without him. like a coward.#so they are all that's left to take his pain #cake answers #lucifer #michael #rise and fall au

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just-scarecrow-thoughts · 6 months

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so. bloodborne huh? I'm not familiar with the game. tell me about it. be as detailed as you'd like.

Would you love me if I was a squid, the video game.

You know how Dark Souls 3 was super, super dry, like, everything was dead or far beyond it, in a constant state of decay and unending grimdark oh god everything is horrible and has been horrible forever-ness?

Yeah, Bloodborne saw that and turned in the exact opposite direction.

Bloodborne is completely, irrevocably, undeniably, wet.

You are not traipsing about the bones of a collapsing empire futilely clinging to its last scraps of dignity and power, unable to simply let the cycle end, the fire dwindling, and dwindling, until finally, one day, with a gasp and a pitiful pop, the fire goes out.

No.

In Bloodborne, you have been thrust into a still breathing carcass still fresh with gore and blood, and you are filled with the visceral feeling that something has gone horribly, utterly wrong, and you were just the sonuvabitch unlucky enough to fall right into it at the exact wrong moment.

Dark Souls has skeletons and hollows, decay and extent forms of it.

Bloodborn has beasts and blood, and is not dead, nor is it dying. It is living, and it is living in its most horrible, awful, true form.

And that's why I love it.

#bis rants #bloodborne #fromsoft #soulsborne

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workersolidarity · 6 months

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🇷🇺🇺🇲 🚨 DMITRY MEDVEDEV, FORMER RUSSIAN PRESIDENT SLAMS ZELENSKY VISIT WITH BIDEN

Dmitry Medvedev, the former Russian President and current Deputy Chair of the Russian Security Council slammed Zelensky's visit with U.S. President Joe Biden yesterday, and accused the Biden Administration of blackmailing the U.S. Congress.

Medvedev wrote on the Social Media platform X:

The primitive blackmailing that Biden Administration has unleashed against the Congress is not new and has historical precedents. “Give money to our guy (insert the necessary surname), otherwise we’ll have to go to war against the Russians,” said various American presidents in various times, extorting money from lawmakers.

The point of today is different:

1. Never have they clamoured for that much for a second-rate state in the stage of decay.

2. Never have they demanded the money, so brazenly and aggressively, for the country that has openly corrupted the acting US president and his family members.

3. Since the Cuban Missile Crisis, never has been the threat of direct confrontation between Russia and NATO, turning into WWIII, so real.

This is a new phenomenon in the US political discourse, created by the “Joe, Hunter & Partners” joint-stock company. They have impeachment prospect looming ahead (which is unlikely), and losing the election (which is quite likely). This is where this boorish blackmailing, unending hysteria and outrageous hints against us are coming from.

The Administration and their scared fosterling are sure to get the money. If not now, then in the coming year, to go on with their war business at all costs. And for this dough, new rivers of blood will flow, for which Biden family and their banderite scum are responsible.

#source

@WorkerSolidarityNews

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finnismyoriginalsin · 1 year

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S2 AU Titled Show me that bloody black horizon (also this might change).

Part of Finnlena ficlet series where Finnlena stuff/Finn/doppelganger stuff happens, but mostly what if Elena negotiated with Finn instead of Elijah, this story might come all together sometime...

I left off with Bonnie astral projecting and seeing the coffins, and her revelation that Finn and Kol were out for revenge against Klaus for their untimely daggering, in Kols case not half as long as the 900 year old daggering of Finn, whom she learned from the witch ancestors had never deserved it.

----

Finn (the actual noble brother) had tried to keep his family in line, and they rewarded him with a dagger they never once thought of taking out; this lead to 900 years of semi-conscious torment, hearing snippets of conversation he was not supposed to hear, knowing the secrets his family kept when they poured out their dearly if redundant hearts things they know they could never tell a living soul, and who was Finn, but the perfect listener wrapped up in his decayed clothes.

If they didn't look hard enough, they wouldn't even of noticed him under the tatters and dust, if not for that awful dagger sticking out his emaciated chest----looking more and more like a desiccated mummy with each passing century? Decade? Even they lost track of the time he was entombed for an almost literal eternity.

We're they to blame when he listened and listened, and they talked to him too, in some vague way of redeeming themselves against their greatest sin of all. Did they think of the horrors of the semi-conscious state he was in, of the vivid dreams, the madness that had overcome him from his lack of use of magic and the unending torment of his thoughts and entire existence in this horrifying state? They must have had as they too had been through the same. But maybe since they were not daggered as long, they hadn't experienced what he had.

So by what right did they keep him there? What self righteous indignation did Elijah harbor to keep him trapped in that box? What betrayal did Klaus think him possible of if he was let out?

And Rebekah? She talked to him the most, trivial things about boys, but also the deeply profound hurt Klaus could dole out. Sometimes even by Elijah. He did not blame her cowardice of never releasing the dagger from his chest, he knew Klaus's wrath more than anyone. He did not blame Kol whom he hardly got on with whilst a vampire and could feel entombed right next to him at times. But Kol was a different story, and with their combined dark magics, they may get their revenge after all.

-----

Elena did not heed Bonnies advice for them to at least stick together, if she undaggered Finn she would be doing it on her own. She would not ever risk her friend in this most dire of circumstances. There were too many variable's, and getting out by the skin of her teeth was Elenas way.

-----

She had brought a crow bar and some packets of blood, plus a knife just in case (though that likely would cause no harm), and she had on Alaric's ring, just in case things got extra hairy and she died next to the coffin.

What she didn't anticipate were the runes covering the tomb. And now she wishes Bonnie were there.

She waves this off thinking, maybe, just maybe the magic had worn off by now and goes to work with the crow bar instead.

She's there for over 2 hours, sweating through her clothes before she finally moves the coffin lid an inch. She almost shouted in triumph before making a mental note to keep the shouting to a minum and mostly to herself.

She pushes and pushes and finally, the lid is mostly off what appears to be the top half of his body, she internally smirks at the idea of trying to get that dagger out via his feet and legs.

But the smell.... God the smell is horrific. She'd been around death long enough to be put off by the smell, but this is a whole other level of disgust. Why didnt she at least think of some heavy duty mask or, and looking inside, gloves. What she would give for some gloves, she could at least hold her breath.

Her cell phone, of course had no signal, but checking the time she had until at least dawn to get him up and out of here with none the wiser (Klaus wasn't on the scene yet, and Elijah she had once again daggered when Bonnie mentioned he could not be trusted with Klaus's demise).

Kol was of course in one the other coffins. But she was not ready to wake one original, let alone two...yet. And Rebekah, though she silently mourned a teenage girl in a 1000 year old body, she had yet to think of if she should undagger her. If she had a part to play in Klaus's demise.

-----

TBC....also not beta'd and written at 4 in the morning and cannot forget @katherineholmes for cheering me on and @ryoryeonggu for helping me to iron out Finn very possibly having magic powers and a kinship with Kol bc of them, thank you guys! ❤️❤️❤️❤️

@katherineholmes, @sevensistersofsussex, @kaizsche, @ryoryeonggu, @livlepretre, @vicioux, @vasilisarheadragomir, @lovesomehate, @victoriahughes, @papatundespainknife (if you like Finnlena 😊)

#finnlena #finn x elena #finn mikaelson #elena gilbert #TVD #the originals #original groupie #myfanficTVD

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utilitycaster · 1 year

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In the Locked Tomb series, the villain of the first book ends up being Cytherea, Lyctor of the Seventh House. She, like most lyctors, epitomizes her house. The Seventh House serves to celebrate the beauty found in death and decay: "They draw out moments of beauty, preserving people, places, and times in amber for later dissection and delectation."[1] Cytherea is herself nigh-immortal, as a lyctor, and also eternally dying of a terminal illness. Her plan is to eliminate the heirs of the houses to prevent there ever being other lyctors, destroy the Emperor (and Empire), and in doing so, be destroyed herself.

She succeeds only in her final goal. The Seventh House's predilection for those preserved-amber moments is its undoing, as its heir is slaughtered by its lyctor, and its lyctor driven to seek death because of her unending pain, but unable to do even that with peace and dignity, as ending her life means ending what remains of her cavalier, who, by the nature of the lyctor process, must be an eternal sacrifice.

Given the author's background in fandom (particularly fanfiction) and internet culture[2][3] and the many references to that both textually and metatextually within the series, it is not out of line to assume that the Empire, constructed in-universe in our near future and stagnated for ten thousand years at the start of the series contains commentary for, among many other things, fandom itself. The plight of Cytherea explores the fallacies inherent in a number of common trends in fanon.

Cytherea explores, as do all the original lyctors, the trope of lifespan angst. In Harrow the Ninth, we learn that the requirement of cavalier sacrifice is a profound source of guilt for the necromancers who experience it, even millennia later. It is then revealed that the sacrifice was always avoidable. By the end of Nona the Ninth, only one "imperfect" lyctor remains of the seven there have been, and she is newly ascended within the past few months, underscoring the unsustainable nature of this trope.

Cytherea, and the Seventh House's philosophy, can also be interpreted as a critique of "woobification", of angst for the sake of angst, and of the prioritization of the aesthetic with no consideration of consequence. It is precisely Cytherea's combination of incredible power and endless pain without respite that destabilizes her utterly. The preservation of that which is by its nature ephemeral is itself her destruction - and deconstruction. The attempt to create something from a mortal being that must simultaneously embody fleeting beauty, saintly tragedy, and near godlike power, and which must exist in this state, as a public figure, for eternity, ultimately becomes, not once, but twice, a vehicle through which corruption, failure, and ruin enters what was meant to be a sanctuary.

In the Critical Role fandom, the ultimately impossible ideals imposed upon Cytherea which lead to her downfall are reflected in the similarly impossible expectations some fans have regarding the characters played by the women of the cast (and, in extreme cases, those women themselves), most notably those of Marisha Ray. In this essay I will

Rocket, Stubby the. "Find Your Necromancy Family Among the Houses of Gideon The Ninth". Tor.com. Written Sep 20 2019, Accessed Dec 9 2022.

Grady, Constance. "How Gideon the Ninth author Tamsyn Muir queers the space opera". Vox.com. Written Feb 5 2021, Accessed Dec 9 2022.

Clements, Mikaela. "The Butch Lesbian Sci-Fi Aesthetic: A Conversation With Tamsyn Muir". Los Angeles Review of Books. Written Oct 1 2020, Accessed Dec 9 2022.

#sometimes you get a really cursed thought and just need to ride it #not maintagged in either fandom but fine to reblog or what have you

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moved-accounts-btw · 5 months

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break for wolcott and midnight for theo pls

Interesting, Interesting. [Wolcott: Break.

Insolation within her amulet triggered a complete loss of her sanity, primarily exacerbating her claustrophobia. Among the siblings, William stood out as one of the more resilient and cunning ones, adept at evading punishments and outmaneuvering Adam during their upbringing. However, this prowess led Adam to forcefully confine her in the attic for an agonizing two-week period, especially when Mikael wasn't around to intervene. Her fear of being trapped in a confined space and forgotten haunted her, though fortune favored her when the twins were born, requiring her services as a babysitter.

Previously, William grappled with a toxic mindset: any failure she encountered brewed the belief that she would face retribution. The source of this punishment could emanate from Adam, Mikael, the council, or often, from her own self-inflicted standards. The uncertainty of when or how the retribution would manifest perpetually tormented her.

Pre-transformation, William would retreat to the farthest corner of a room, anxiously bouncing her foot. Known for experiencing silent panic attacks and shutdowns, it became imperative to monitor her closely to prevent self-endangerment. Initially, she engaged in self-destructive behavior as a means to feel alive, to garner attention, or as a form of self-punishment, which gradually ceased after a near-fatal encounter with an anomaly.

Post-transformation, her anxiety and meltdowns led to stress eating, an act that eventually shifted her mindset, granting control to the insects within her. They began consuming anything in their path—trash, decayed items, even corpses left behind by rampages or anomalies. Consequently, her insect companions grew increasingly hostile, perceiving her breakdowns as threats to their nest.

During quieter moments of breakdown, she sought solace in the company of her teammates, including Iceberg, viewing them as a surrogate family during lengthy missions. Although instances of these breakdowns were witnessed by others, William endeavored to conceal them, aware of the lack of pride associated with such episodes and unsure of how to seek assistance. Their coping mechanisms remained unhealthy, having been previously met with dismissive attitudes or indifference from teammates. Presently, William finds comfort in the company of individuals like Kondraki, Clef, or Gear, content with merely sitting alongside them during these vulnerable moments.

[Theo: Midnight

His depression often keeps him awake during the quiet hours of the night, contemplating the twists of fate that led him to be a mere tool, enduring the relentless agony of each passing day. His existence seemed to be marred by unending suffering, inflicted by the kind of pain that could drive a person to the brink of madness. It's a life robbed by his father's selfish desires, stripping away any semblance of a normal existence or the chance to pursue a career in teaching.

In the midst of these nocturnal ruminations, he finds himself daydreaming about the prospect of marriage and fatherhood, only to be haunted by the fear that any child he might have could inherit some form of anomaly, perpetuating the cycle of suffering.

During these trying times, he reaches out to Talloran for advice or resorts to consuming copious amounts of weed to attain a mellow enough state to finally find sleep. Talloran and Draven stand as Theo's pillars of support, yet sometimes, they're either occupied or asleep, leaving him to grapple with his struggles alone. Unapologetic about his use of weed as a medicinal remedy, he vehemently defends its therapeutic benefits, even going as far as pleading to consume edibles. However, this often results in intense cravings, leading him to consume substantial amounts of snacks, devouring ten bags of chips before finally succumbing to slumber.

When these remedies fail, he reluctantly seeks refuge in his sister's or sibling's quarters, knowing that one of them might be awake or willing to offer him their bed for the night. Despite lacking shame in this matter, unlike his sister William, he feels a tinge of guilt, understanding that seeking comfort in their beds should be a last resort.

#scp foundation #scp fandom #scp au #bright rewrite #J. William Wolcott #Theo Wolcott #ask

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apocalypticavolition · 5 months

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Let's (re)Read The Great Hunt! Chapter 25: Cairhien

A new chapter, a new city, a new chance for me to warn you all about spoilers. There are so many spoilers in this post. Spoilers for The Eye of the World, The Great Hunt, The Dragon Reborn and so on ad infinitum. Toss my invitation to read these spoilers right into the fire if you're not ready. Just be ready for the consequences.

A new chapter icon! The rising sun icon refers to events in Cairhien, usually just the city proper. It's not too complex in its meaning.

Fat ships and broad barges filled the river, and tall granaries sprawled along the far bank, but Cairhien seemed to be laid out in a precise grid behind its high, gray walls. Those walls themselves made a perfect square, with one side hard along the river. In just as exact a pattern, towers rose within the walls, soaring as much as twenty times the height of the wall, yet even from the hills Rand could see that each one ended in a jagged top.

Planned, grid cities are pretty new; they're relatively common in America because most of our cities were built up after the idea took off. Cairhien's grid is likely the result of their recent devastation. The towers all still being in such a state of disrepair is another sign of this, and another sign of the societal decay afflicting the subcontinent.

Many of the farmers were afraid to go back to their lands near the Spine of the World, and they all came here, near enough. That’s why Galldrian has the river full of grain barges up from Andor and Tear. There’s no crops coming from farms in the east because there aren’t any farms anymore.

Frankly, details like this make it seem as though, if events had continued on their current course, Cairhien would have been the next western nation to disappear. Food insecurity on such a massive scale would bankrupt any economy sooner or later, especially in the event of supernatural, unending winters keeping everyone starving.

“I fear Galldrian keeps his people quiet by entertaining them. He gives gleemen and musicians the King’s Gift, a bounty in silver, to perform here in the Foregate, and he sponsors horse races down by the river every day. There are fireworks many nights, too.” He sounded disgusted. “Elder Haman says Galldrian is a disgrace.”

Panem et circenses. Frankly, it's a miracle the whole affair has lasted Rand's lifetime; the treasury must be nearly emptied at this point.

And damn if Loial isn't pissed.

He had never seen fireworks elaborate enough to require even one Illuminator. He had heard they only left Tanchico to put on displays for rulers. It was a strange place he was coming to.

I'm going to guess that Rand's knowledge here is just outdated instead of being fully wrong. The chapter house is likely a necessity of keeping up with Galldrian's expectations.

“Well, they were tall enough to warrant the name, once. When the Aiel took Cairhien, about the time you were born, the towers burned, and cracked, and fell. I don’t see any Ogier among the stonemasons. No Ogier could like working here—the Cairhienin want what they want, without embellishment—but there were Ogier when I was here before.”

As subtle as a brick, this foreshadowing. But also:

The divide growing between the people's interests and the Ogier seems like something that will probably grow rather than be fully healed by the end of the age. Perhaps it's the seed of whatever leads to the Ogier taking off eventually.

He wanted to tell them he was not playing their Great Game, but instead he said, “We will take rooms in the city. We can go now?”

Poor Rand doesn't understand that just by being here he's playing it, same as everybody else. He also doesn't get that the best way to avoid attention is to be unremarkable and meet expectations. There's a reason he takes to disguising himself as a beggar later on.

He felt as if people were looking at him. He could not wait to get a good, plain coat again, and stop pretending to be what he was not.

Of course, Rand would attract attention in Cairhien even in a beggar's robes because he looks just like an Aielman for some reason.

checks notes

The reason is genetics.

The innkeeper was a plump, unctuous man with a single stripe of green across his dark gray coat.

You can tell he's a good guy both because he's fat and because he catches Rand up on the whole Aiel thing. That said he is a bit racist what with his inn sign being an Aiel being killed by a Cairhienien.

“We have to show these Cairhienin we know what’s right as well as they do, Lord Rand”

It's unfortunate for Rand that Hurin gets too caught up in the gravity of Rand's alleged lordship to be a better teacher about these things, because he's right but he's saying it in the way Rand will care about the least.

He often forgot that Loial had run away from home, in effect, to see the world. “What about you, Hurin? There’s music in the Foregate, and people laughing. I’ll wager no one is playing Daes Dae’mar there.”

Rand forgets that Loial is a baby runaway so often because as he aptly demonstrates, he's somehow even more naive. Of course people are playing the Game in the space immediately outside the city walls, where movements and actions are a little harder to track.

“Everyone by now, Lord Rand,” Hurin said quietly. He seemed to feel eyes watching, too. “The guards at the gate would not keep their mouths closed about an outland lord coming to Cairhien. The hostler, the innkeeper . . . everybody tells what they know where they think it will do them the most good, my Lord.”

I'm actually a little with Rand on this one. The gossip spreading this quickly is shocking as hell. He hasn't been here an hour yet!

You must answer any more invitations you receive, my Lord. Decline if you will—though they’ll read things into whose invitations you do decline. And into whose you accept. Of course, if you decline them all, or accept them all—

It really is a great joke on the Wheel's part to have Rand come to Cairhien without Moiraine when this would be the time she'd be a much better teacher to him. But perhaps she'd force Rand to play politics when in fact his solution proves to be the best: delay the issue until the breaking point and then accept the invitation that seems to matter.

A man standing in front of the guardhouse took note of him—his bright coat marked him out, as well as his height among the Cairhienin—and hurried inside, but Rand did not notice.

It's pretty unusual for the narration to point out stuff the POV doesn't know. Not sure what to make of it.

Memories of Thom were always sad. Thom had been a friend. A friend who had died for him. While I ran away and let him die.

This is foreshadowing both short and long term. The short should be obvious (guess who's back?) but the long is of course Rand's increasingly unhealthy obsession with blaming himself for the suffering of others. Back in Whitebridge there was nothing Rand could have done to stop Thom's "death" and Thom chose to die when he could have ditched the boys and left them to their fates unscathed.

He walked on in a daze, staring at the man bowing on the dais to the clapping of his listeners, cradling his harp in one arm and with the other spreading his patch-covered cloak as if to trap all the sound they made. He was a tall man, lanky and not young, with long mustaches as white as the hair on his head. And when he straightened and saw Rand, the eyes that widened were sharp and blue.

It's a good thing he didn't notice Rand mid-performance or he might have given something away.

Rand shook his head. To his surprise, Thom seemed disappointed.

Jordan is beating us over the head with the inevitable Moiraine/Thom pairing that surprised so many. I figured it out in junior high folks, it's not subtle!

Even if I could have reached the boat before it sailed, Domon and his whole crew would be spreading the tale all over Illian about how I was being chased by Trollocs.

Thom would love to know how dramatically ironic this claim is.

It's good to have you back, Thom!

Next time: Rand joins everyone's favorite chat program!

#let's read #wheel of time #wot #robert jordan #wheel of time spoilers #wot spoilers #rand al'thor #elricain tavolin #loial #hurin #cuale #thom merrilin

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padfootastic · 1 year

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so way back, when FoD was just in the beginning stages, the idea was this: harry & sirius bonding, post gof/ootp. getting to know each other, making new, fun memories. taking in the world together. but ultimately very low stakes, slice of life. the entire focus was supposed to be on the godfather-godson relationship. hence, dog days. a pun. a summer fic where they do nothing except laze around and eat ice cream and frolic.

also, coincidentally, i just looked it up and google tell me this: the hottest period of the year (reckoned in antiquity from the heliacal rising of Sirius, the Dog Star)

cut to now when we’re at chapter 4 and sirius is nowhere to be seen even lol by my estimation, it would take atleast another 10k words for him to come in. there’s so many OCs and plot and tangents i’m keeping track of 💀 it’s become more than just the usual s&h fics i write; it’s about harry coming into himself, becoming independent, fighting back. it’s almost an ode to all the smart/powerful/ooc harry fics i used to love reading lol

so instead you have Foundations of Decay. it’s an mcr song title bc im extremely basic like that but i just—really love it? the idea of harry realising his life is in a state of unending ruin, only getting worse, and that he can either fight fruitlessly, symptomatically, as he has been so far or start anew. enter the system and use it to change things. he’s working off a decaying foundation and he’ll build something lasting (sirius) on it.

idk. might not make sense outside my head but i rly liked it lol

#why is discord showing dates in american ew #makes no sense #anyway #the rising of sirius thing is SO coincidental #i literally just got to know #i think i might’ve still called it that if i’d actually checked my notes before posting lol #but i’m also not u happy w this title lbr #it does feel v edgy tho #but yeah #i’m sentiposting a lot these days huh #don’t mind me lol #titles & summaries are always the hardest part of any work for me #i can never get it down #it always feels like a hopeless ask #task* but ask works #so to see this title evolution is also just. nice.#fic: foundations of decay

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cchapsticck · 1 year

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RED ATMOSPHERES rcd. 1995 (8360 words) by cchapsticck Chapters: 5/15 Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Characters: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley, Dustin Henderson, Original Characters Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Vignette Narrative Structure, POV Eddie Munson, Gay Eddie Munson, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Developing Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, Genre Microcelebrity Eddie Munson, Multimedia, Journalistic Narrative Structure, Interviews, Unreliable Narrator, Getting Back Together, Getting to Know Each Other, The Brutality Of The Passage Of Time, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms Series: Part 3 of METALHEAD Summary:

He likes California, even if it’s mostly a desert with a single weather pattern. Part of the appeal is that it is simply not Indiana or the surrounding nearly identical states. Another, more specific part of it is that like, truthfully, respectfully; LA is kind of a dump. Like the town he grew up in, he’s pretty sure, would legally be and has been referred to as “a dump” what with the unending ravines of goopy alternate dimension portals. So like. He likes to think himself something of a connoisseur of things, places and people that are otherwise in disrepair or are otherwise aesthetically unappealing to a certain social stratum of the populace. And he’s gotta say, LA is a dump in a brand new way he’s never experienced before.

Like, it's kind of fun. A new frontier of “Offensive To The Tastes Of The Masses” heretofore unseen by his pretty narrow midwestern dipshit standards. So much of it is old and lived-in in a way that only urban things and life therein can be. In a way that feels intentional. Its decay and its detritus (decay and detritus being a fully relative concept, relative to the once pristine middle class standard of perfection of Hawkins at large that, for better or worse, has dominated his normal for damn near the last decade of his life) has always been part of it. None of it makes sense. None of it transitions smoothly into any other part of it. Everything is disparate and forced against some other element with an unapologetic ugliness that makes the sum of juxtaposition a brand new thing.

Indiana isn't like that. Could probably never be like that. Too dependent on its neat squareness of hard delineations of space and lives and the people who occupy both.

#steddie fanfiction #steddie fic #steddie fics #stranger things fic #steddie #steveddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things 4

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muzzleroars · 1 year

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your blog is like a finite library where i continue to stumble upon beautiful things

thank you for your thoughts

as of the ask - how would you imagine fraud and characters in it, if you can picture it at all? between all three of the upcoming layers, this one is the most eluding one of their description, so it's always interesting to see different opinions on it

thank you so much! your art is genuinely such an inspiration, i'm always so happy to see a new piece from you and so i wanted to thank you as well for sharing your work

fraud is a very interesting layer in the inferno, with its set up being somewhat unique compared to many of the others as it consists of ten pits of torment that cover a pretty broad range of sinners. what stands out to me about it as an environment though is that it is within the walls of dis and it is a ruined city, with massive amounts of crumbling or simply destroyed architecture. this is sort of my basis for how i envision fraud and although i'm likely way off base, i think it could be interesting to see a transition in aesthetics in general past heresy.

heresy itself marks the first layer in dis, the city that consumes the lower layers of hell, and it's interesting to note the highly architectural environments it presents in game - the gothic cathedral is sharp and commanding, very much having a presence in itself. i would love to see more city-like environments included, but ones that have a distinct, alien feeling compared to those of the lust layer as they are not made by humans, it's architecture meant to torment, to enclose and to sicken, and i enjoy fraud being the pinnacle of this before it gives way to an utterly barren treachery. but importantly, i want to see the decay of fraud, to see its twisted form nearly incomprehensible in its destruction. once there stood buildings difficult for the mind to conceive, but those fell centuries ago and the damage of so many souls suddenly filling what's left of its skeletal remains only ruined them further. fully understanding and taking advantage of all the ways it can move is now vital to v1, some areas near impossible to traverse as no comprehensible paths exist (if they ever did). it would be a very tiered layer, with v1 sometimes having to ascend into different bolgia in order to make its progress - i just like the idea of playing a lot with movement and creative thinking (+ some help from explosives) to find paths forward. overall, i want the sense that this was a city but it's impossible to say anything beyond that, what's left all jarring to the senses and nearly overwhelming to look at (especially again to contrast it with treachery, a blank, unending void that barely has a single thing the eyes can find purchase on).

following that, however, i think fraud will really do something to emphasize the blindness of hell - like several people have pointed out by now, many beings lack eyes in hell, but i think the most important of these have been the angels. virtues have their eyes removed (or they simply vanish) upon descending into hell while gabriel's helmet appears sightless as well, and we now know this is likely due to god being so ashamed of it he wants no one to actually behold it. this makes fraud quite interesting for a couple reasons: in the inferno, the lower layers mark the beginning of sinners wishing for no one to lay eyes upon them as they are so humiliated by their state and who they were in life to place them so deep into hell. they attempt to hide their identities, they sometimes do not give their names, and this becomes incredibly apparent in fraud. additionally, fraud is a sin of deceit, many of the sinners there those that worked in secret to do harm, meaning even in life they wished to go unseen. so i very much think that the sightless nature of hell will be worked in deeply - i would be interested in all the husks and demons here to be without eyes, with only the machines remaining to see it. this is also another reason why i want fraud to be so difficult to look at - it doesn't want to be seen, it begs not to be perceived and it never should be. before it was only the angels that all had their eyes taken, but so deep into the layers nothing may see, everything must be sightless lest it see a world so painful and so hideous, so ugly and so embarrassing to god.

so my ideas are very much based around the actual source material of the inferno, but i do think fraud could make for some really interesting architecture. and i would sort of like to see a husk/husks that seem adapted to living in such a bizarre place, a lot like the stalkers with forms now made for vertical ascents and clawing their way over ruins, possibly translucent like so many animals that live without sun in the deep sea (not to riff too much on wrath lol). i guess in a sense it really is like those trenches or subterranean cave networks - alien and unsettling, difficult to traverse with its grotesque geography, and suited to life totally unlike that above it. fraud is a place that wants to hide, but ironically it exists as one of the most expansive layers in all of hell.

#very much just into the idea of hell getting increasingly hectic #until v1 hits the neverending wastes of treachery #but fraud i think has the potential to be REALLY neat imo #and i know whatever they do with it it'll be super interesting!#it's just such a massive layer i think it has a lot to offer #cake answers

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