I think it’s very important to say that all my “Essek has to be there, it doesn’t make sense if he isn’t” comments prior to tonight were based on a wildly different conception of what the oneshot would look like. Something more involved in the meat of the Solstice itself, which he has very direct ties to.
However. While I of course would’ve loved to see him, I miss him so dearly, the ways he was Present without being actually There were beyond incredible. Caleb choosing Fortune’s Favor as one of his Spell Mastery spells. Trent, having only seen Essek with Caleb once, knowing that threatening Essek specifically would make Caleb move. Caleb’s “I am nervous to wait.” when talking about said threat and going to Blumenthal. Essek’s importance in Caleb’s life is so Felt and There that it works perfectly well that he doesn’t appear in person! They’ve been together for seven years, of course we’re going to see those pieces of him that have become ingrained in Caleb!! It’s so!!! Freaking good!!!!
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Get you a man who lights up like this at just getting to talk to you on the phone
and then looks at you like this when you're finally reunited.
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pluvi begging you to expand on gojo not wanting what happened to his mother to happen to you 🙏
warnings: it’s all a dream so nothing is real aside from the flashback stuff but pregnancy as horror, (sewing) needles, implied gore/eye trauma, implied child harm, gojo is messed up yo!!! and its bc of his mama!!!
he dreams about her.
it’s an odd thing, really. gojo isn’t much of a dreamer—not much of a sleeper, all things considered, but it’s difficult not to give in when you drag him to bed and curl up in his arms. the soft rise and fall of your chest, the steady thump of your heart, the sound of your breath; it soothes him into slumber.
and he dreams about her. she was always young. he’s older now than she ever got to be. frail, thin; borderline skeletal, robes hanging from her body like webbing. she sits in a chair facing a window, swathed in moonlight, the silver of her embroidery needle glinting with each stab. her face is veiled. her stomach is swollen with child.
she doesn’t turn to him, but she beckons without noise. his feet take him easily to her, and he kneels at her side as she sets aside the embroidery hoop to let him place his head on her knees.
her hand is cold as it threads through his hair. it’s gentle, at first. then harsher a moment later. she grips firm, tugs him up by those electric white threads, stares down at him through all that elaborate lace.
he imagines she’s weeping beneath it. his mother never wept before him, but she was pretty in the aftermath, eyes puffy and pink and shining. they were a cold kind of loving when they regarded him. she must have been beautiful once, elegant and lithe and willowy, cruel like the heartless sea and sharp like a brilliant diamond, but whatever was there is long gone. he thinks all sons must empty their mothers, bleed them dry from within, because his was always a shell.
she trails her hand down the side of his face, and he turns into the palm and closes his eyes, and she is silent as she sets down her embroidery to lift her veil. she is silent and hollow and eidolic as her fingers brush down his jaw and tilt his head up to look at her.
but it’s your face that he sees when he opens his eyes.
it’s your hand against his cheek, your eyes pink and puffy and pretty, your stomach bulging by his own doing. it’s your fingers that pluck up the needle, still attached to a thread of brilliant cerulean, and raise it to his eye.
his mother never was able to pierce him with that needle. she stopped herself, each and every time, dropping it and tugging him close in shame. she never doted, never was kind, but she never did manage to harm him.
you do. he lets you. it’s only fair. whatever thing is in your stomach can’t be human—whether god or demon what does it matter, at the end of the day—and didn’t he put it in you himself? if his mother never got the satisfaction of spilling his blood, shouldn’t you?
but he wakes just as the tip pierces his iris, and you hold him in your lap, eyes wide with concern and not puffy from weeping, and you hold no child within you. your hands thread through his hair and they’re warm, your lips plush when you bend to press a kiss to his brow.
he turns inward to press his face into your (empty, blissfully vacant) abdomen. the wetness he leaves there, falling from his so very coveted eyes, is colorless.
he thinks it ought to be brilliant crimson.
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I wish I could find a nice, chill writing-focused Hazbin discord.
I tried a server today and it was 300+ members after being open for a day and wanted a picture of my driver's license to access 18+ channels and, I'm sorry, but that is deranged. I left so fast that if this was a cartoon there would be a smoking Soot-shaped hole in the wall.
I just want to write my dumb stories and talk to people about the demons we're slamming together to make kiss like Barbies, not give up like my government ID for fandom. C'mon. Jeez.
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