#armor practise

[mightypurpurea]

[wordswithkittywitch]

I am aware that my "sincere" tone often comes out as "passive-aggressive" and I'm working on that. So, with the knowledge I'm going for "sincere" here, I want as many people as possible to know about a key difference between renfaires and SCA events.

Renfaires have audiences. SCA events have participants.

This means that SCA events are often a lot cheaper to get into, because there are no actors practising skits, just nerds like you who have been doing it a bit longer. You still can watch people sing and swordfight, but there's no plot to follow. Because we are doing this for ourselves.

And you can join in! We want you to join in! We want to teach you how to spin flax and swordfight and forge armor and build kilns!

Because you aren't an audience. You're playing the same game as the rest of us and you have to play by the rules. We will loan you garb. It's free, we're happy to do it. But if you refuse to wear it, we are permitted to ask you to leave, because you aren't following the rules of the event.

I know you don't have to wear garb at a renfaire, but the SCA isn't a renfaire.

Anyone can reblog this. Even if you don't intend on attending an SCA event or a renfaire you should know the difference.

[astrids-blog333]

The Guarded

Guard!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Noble's Daughter!Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: She was born into power. He was forged in it. But some walls don’t keep danger out, they keep it close.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, age gap (non-specified), power imbalance, violence, forbidden love, assault, possessiveness, toxic family dynamics, themes of control and protection.

A/N: Guys, I can now confirm I am going through a strong Lucius phase, so expect the fics to come flooding ;) If you have any requests please please please let me know, I just want to write abt him, I have a bunch of ideas already.

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 5.4k

Your father buys Lucius on a Tuesday.

You remember because it rained that morning. Not soft spring rain, heavy rain, a relentless downpour that filled the gutters, turned the streets into rivers, and could soak through even the driest of bones. The kind of rain that brings the sharp scent of wet stone and iron up from the soil, cutting through the air with a bitterness you can taste. The sky was the color of bruised flesh, and everything in the world felt heavier, darker.

They drag Lucius in through the side gate, his hands bound in rough iron shackles. His chest is bare, a mess of scars, and his skin is streaked with dirt and blood. There's a fresh cut across his cheekbone, and the dark stain in his hair could be his own or someone else’s. But it doesn’t seem to matter.

Even in this pitiful state, he radiates something dangerous. Untouched by the grime, the limp, the fatigue, his posture is rigid and unbroken.

The guards call him The Bull of Numidia, a nickname that fits. But not your father, your father prefers a simpler name: 'my new dog.'

You’re supposed to be practising music. The lute lies forgotten in your lap as you stand in the corridor, pretending to focus on your lessons while stealing glances at the man being dragged through your father’s estate.

“He’s strong,” the trader’s voice drifts through the door. “Brutal. No discipline yet, but I have no doubt he’ll learn.”

Your father’s voice, deep and pleased, cuts through the heavy air. “Doesn’t matter if he listens. I only need him to kill.”

Lucius doesn’t flinch at the words. He doesn’t even acknowledge your father, or the guards, or anyone at all.

His eyes instead find yours.

You try to look away, but the pull is magnetic. Even as his eyes stay locked on yours, the rest of his body doesn’t move. It’s as if he’s waiting, not for permission, but for a moment to take you in.

You force your attention back to your lute, but his gaze lingers on you, burning through the air.

You tell yourself it’s hatred. It’s easier to convince yourself of that. To label it. Cleaner. You try to remind yourself of the stories, the way he’s been fought and beaten, reduced to a piece of property. He’s nothing but a tool, an object to be controlled.

But as the days stretch on, you realise something far more unsettling.

He doesn’t look at you like the others do.

The dinner happens on the seventh day.

Your father’s guests have arrived, an assembly of senators, generals, and some men in between. They’ve come for alliances, for the whispered promises exchanged in shadowed corners.

They look at you like a reward to be earned, but not in the way you’d like. Not as a woman. As a pawn.

Your fingers trace the edge of your glass, but you don’t drink. The fine wine has no taste, not when your mouth is full of other things. You smile at all the right moments, your expression has been carefully crafted, perfect and practiced. But you eat nothing, you never do. The emptiness inside of you is so much bigger than anything food can fill.

Lucius stands against the wall. His muscles are tense beneath the bronze and leather armor. He’s been bathed, but it does nothing to tame the wildness that still clings to him. There’s something about his posture, soldier-straight, he's a warrior even at rest. It makes everyone in the room uneasy. And even though the chain is gone from his neck, every man at that table knows it’s been replaced with something far more dangerous.

The leash is still there. They all feel it, even if they can’t see it.

You try not to look at him, but you can feel him. His presence tugs at the edges of your focus, and every time you glance toward him, he’s there, silent, watching.

It’s maddening, but you can’t stop.

One of the guests does look at him. He’s older, balding in places, with a belly that’s gone soft from years of indulgence. He reeks of wine, of entitlement. A man whose hands have always wondered. His fingers are always too low, his hands settling where they shouldn’t, pressing against your back in ways that make your skin crawl. You never forget the heat of those hands, the way they linger.

You feel it before it happens, the pressure of his stare on your body, the anticipation in the way his eyes track your movements.

It’s inevitable.

You stand, half-rising, ready to excuse yourself from the table, but the man stands too. His smile is broad, lazy, and full of arrogance. His hand reaches toward you, as if you were a prize, an object to be passed around.

“Let me escort you,” he says with a drunken slur, but it’s not an offer. It’s a command.

And then, his hand closes around your upper arm, his grip tighter than it needs to be, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh just below your shoulder. Not guiding. Controlling. His fingers slide, just slightly, as though he’s done this before and expects to get away with it again.

Lucius moves.

The motion is so fast, so sudden, that time seems to stop.

One second, the man’s hand is on your skin. The next, he’s on the floor, choking, gasping for air. Lucius’s hand is around his throat, unyielding, and his knee is buried in the man’s ribs, pinning him to the cool marble tiles. The sound of the man’s body hitting the floor is a sickening thud, and the blood that pools beneath him darkens the marble, spreading like ink.

The room falls silent.

Not even your father speaks. The air thickens, charged with the power of what just happened. Lucius is still, his body pulled taut, his eyes locked on the man beneath him. There’s no rage, no emotion on his face. He’s calm, as if he’s deciding whether the man is worth eating or letting go.

It’s chilling.

Your father’s voice cuts through the stillness. “Release him,” he orders, his tone tight, controlled. But there’s something else there too. A subtle crack of fear beneath the command.

Lucius doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.

“He’s a guest,” your father says, the words coming out like an afterthought, as if he’s trying to convince himself, not Lucius.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

Lucius shifts his grip, just enough to make the man gag. His body jerks, begging for breath. It’s deliberate, languid, like the predator enjoying its prey’s panic.

You take a step forward, your body moving before your mind can catch up. You shouldn’t do this. You shouldn’t interfere. But something pulls at you, a compulsion, maybe?

“Lucius,” you say, your voice surprisingly steady.

He looks at you then. Only you.

His gaze is still calm, but it’s sharpened now, like a blade pressed against your skin. And there, in the depths of his eyes, there’s something else, something that makes your heart skip. It’s not tenderness, not kindness. It’s something darker, something far more dangerous. But you know, in that instant, he’s waiting for you.

Waiting for you to release him.

You step closer, and the air between you thickens with unspoken tension. Your fingers brush against Lucius’ arm, and for a moment, the world outside the room fades into nothing.

The man beneath Lucius gasps for air, his face pale, his eyes wide with desperation.

But Lucius lets him go. It’s a fluid movement, almost graceful, like he’s discarding an unwanted toy.

The man’s body crumples, shaking on the floor. Lucius doesn’t bow, doesn’t apologise. He doesn’t care. He simply returns to his place by the wall, his fists stained with blood, his breathing steady and unbroken.

You turn and walk out without looking back.

You don’t need to, he’s already watching.

You don’t sleep that night.

The cold emptiness of your chamber keeps you awake, and the silence only makes the memory of Lucius’ eyes burn brighter.

But it wasn’t just the violence that kept you restless. It was the weight of his stare, the quiet way he dominated the room without saying a word, the way your pulse quickened when you heard his name spoken.

You shift in the heavy sheets, the silk clinging to your skin, but it’s not the fabric that’s suffocating you. Lucius is everything you’ve been taught to fear. But somehow, everything you crave.

And as if the night hadn’t already been humiliating enough, your father decided you couldn’t be left alone anymore. So now Lucius will be guarding your chamber from inside, as if you were some wilful child in need of constant supervision.

The sound of boots on the floor disturbs your thoughts before the door to your room opens. You don’t look up. You don’t need to. The room feels charged in a way it never has before, and you know who it is before the door even clicks shut.

Lucius.

His silhouette darkens the doorway before he steps in, heavy and imposing. You hear the scrape of leather as he removes his weapons, the quiet clink of metal as his armour is set aside. The air seems to thicken as the space between you grows smaller.

He doesn’t speak as he crosses the room, his movements fluid, controlled. When he reaches the bed, you feel his presence like a weight on your chest. He doesn’t sit. He stands, watching you, waiting. His eyes are unreadable in the low light.

You could ask him to leave. You could tell him it’s improper, that this is beneath him. But you know it’s useless. He wouldn’t listen. And the truth is, a part of you doesn’t want him to.

“I’m here to guard you,” Lucius says, his voice low and steady, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You nod, but don’t look at him. You pull the sheets tighter around your body as if you could hide from him. You can’t.

You want to protest, to argue, but the words die in your throat. There’s a strange, unsettled feeling crawling up your spine, and you can’t tell if it’s dread or something else.

Finally, you meet his gaze, and the look he gives you is intense, almost knowing, like he can read every thought that flits across your mind. It makes you shiver.

He’s not like the other men you’ve known. The ones who cower behind their titles. Lucius is raw, untamed.

After what feels like an eternity, Lucius moves to sit in the chair by the window, his broad frame taking up the space with ease. His eyes remain on you, never wavering.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he says, his voice a low murmur.

You tilt your head slightly, trying to keep your composure. “I should be.” You answer, voice tight.

Lucius chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating in his chest.

You swallow, feeling the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Lucius’ eyes narrow slightly, but the smirk that tugs at his lips tells you he’s not offended. He seems amused.

He doesn’t respond immediately, and for a moment, there’s only the sound of his steady breathing and the occasional creak of the wood under his weight. It’s unnerving, the silence between you both.

Then, just as you’re about to turn away, he speaks.

“You know, you’re the only one who doesn’t cower from me,” he says softly, almost as if he’s musing to himself. “The others, they can barely meet my eyes. But you…” He lets the words hang in the air, heavy with implication.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you say again, though this time, it sounds less like defiance and more like a challenge.

He leans forward slightly, his gaze intensifying. “Then why don’t you ask me to leave?”

Your breath hitches at the question, and you feel something stir in your chest. Lucius doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he stands, his movements slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to stop him. You don’t.

He crosses the room, stops at the foot of your bed. You can feel the heat radiating from him, and it’s almost too much to bear. The silence stretches long between you, thick with tension.

Finally, he speaks again. “Sleep well.”

And with that, he turns, making his way back to the chair by the window. He doesn’t say another word, but you feel him there, his presence so overwhelming, so undeniable, that you know you won’t sleep at all.

Not tonight.

For days, Lucius refuses to sleep.

Every night, he stands near the door, motionless, like a statue. His posture is perfect, his back straight, his body an imposing figure in the dim light.

And still, the air between you crackles.

You refuse to look at him at first. Your gaze is always fixed on the far wall, the firelight flickering in the hearth, the swirling thoughts in your head. You stay still, hoping the tension will dissipate if you just ignore it long enough. But it doesn’t. It never does.

The first night it happens, you wake with a jolt. There’s a sound in the room, soft, almost imperceptible, like the faint rustle of clothing. You blink, confused, then slowly turn your head. There, standing at the foot of your bed, Lucius watches you. His eyes are dark, but not unkind. It’s like he’s waiting for you to notice him, for you to do something.

You pretend to sleep, but it’s impossible to ignore the heat radiating from his presence. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He simply watches.

The second night, you wake again, only to find him standing by the window, bathed in moonlight. It’s eerie how quiet he is. But it’s also maddening.

The third night, he’s closer. Nearer to your bed. His silhouette looms in the darkness like a predator in waiting.

And by the fourth, you can no longer pretend it doesn’t affect you. You begin to dream of him. Not dreams of soft or gentle touches, but of him grabbing you, pulling you close, his body pressing you into the mattress. His lips at your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

You wake in a cold sweat, your heart pounding in your chest. The sheets are twisted around your legs, but it’s not the heat of the fire that’s making you sweat. It’s the thought of him. The thought of what he could do to you if he wanted to.

It’s the fifth night when you finally snap.

You’ve spent the evening wandering the halls, restless. There’s a tightness inside you that you can’t shake. The tension between you and Lucius is unbearable. He’s too close, always too close, but never close enough. And it’s driving you mad.

The night is still, when you make your way back to your room, where you know he will be. And there he is, standing by the door as usual, just out of the reach of the firelight.

You stand still, looking at him for a long moment. A restless surge rises within you, a hunger, a frustration that you cannot suppress.

"Do you ever sleep?"

Lucius doesn’t answer.

Without thinking, the words spill out. "It is a large bed, I'm sure we could fit."

He stays silent, still only watching. The only sign he has heard you is one single arched brow.

“What, are you afraid to lie beside a noblewoman?” You taunt him, your voice sharper than you mean.

The silence stretches, thick and taut. His gaze flickers over you, over the curve of your neck, the way your fingers twitch as you ball your fists at your sides. You can see it in his eyes, the slow, deliberate focus. Like he’s tasting the words you just said, weighing them.

You don’t wait for him to make the first move anymore. The challenge rises in you. It bubbles over.

“I’m tired of this,” you say, your voice low but intense. “Tired of you standing there, looking at me. Watching me like…”

The words taste bitter on your tongue, but there’s no going back now. You’re so close to the edge. You’re so damn close to breaking.

You step closer, your body swaying, your eyes never leaving his. “Take me the way you look at me.”

He doesn’t move, but you can see it, the way his shoulders go rigid, the way his hands fist at his sides like he's fighting the urge to reach for you.

“Don’t,” he warns, low and sharp.

You stop, just for a moment. Then take another step anyway. “Why not?”

His jaw tightens. “Because I said so.”

“You look at me like you want to tear me apart,” you say quietly. “And then you act like I’m some child who doesn’t understand the world.”

He turns away from you. “Because you are.”

You move again. Closer now. You can almost feel the heat coming off him, the tension wound so tight it hums in the air between you.

“I’m not stupid, Lucius. I know what I want.”

“And you think it’s me?” he snaps, spinning to face you. His eyes burn. “You think I haven’t bled for people who looked at me the way you are now? That I don’t know exactly how this ends?”

Your voice stays steady. “Then let it end.”

He breathes like a man on the edge of something. “You still don’t understand. If I start, I won’t stop. If I touch you-”

“Then touch me,” you say, and your voice cracks with something desperate. “Please.”

That breaks him.

He surges forward, faster than you can think. One rough hand grabs your arm, the other your waist, and he slams you against the wall.

Your breath punches out of you with the impact, but you don’t flinch. You don’t pull away.

His face is inches from yours, wild with fury and restraint, and for a second, it seems like he’s going to speak again, say something cold, something final.

But he doesn’t.

He kisses you. Hard.

It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. His mouth crushes yours, and it’s angry, desperate, brutal. One hand braces beside your head, the other locks around your hip, keeping you caged against the stone.

You kiss him back, just as fiercely, your hands fisting in the front of his tunic, trying to drag him closer.

He pulls back, just barely, breathing hard, eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to memorise you, trying to stop himself from doing something worse.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he growls, voice raw.

“I do,” you whisper, and you kiss him this time.

And something in him just shatters.

He groans into your mouth, grabbing your waist and turning you, backing you toward the bed in a daze of heat and resistance. He breaks the kiss only to press his forehead to yours, his breath ragged.

“I swore I wouldn’t touch you,” he mutters.

“Then break your vow.”

He doesn’t rush your clothes off. His fingers go to the ties of your dress, pulling each one slowly, watching your face the entire time.

“You don’t rush a thing like you,” he mutters, voice low, reverent.

The bodice loosens. You shiver.

He pushes the sleeves down your arms one by one, exposing skin like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His rough hands skim over your shoulders, down your back. He kisses the hollow of your throat, then lower, just above your heart.

“You don’t know what this does to me.”

“I know exactly what it does,” you whisper, pulling his hand down to your thigh.

He growls.

Then he lifts you in one swift movement, lays you down on the bed, and crawls over you. You reach for him, but he catches your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head.

“You stay still.”

Your breath catches as he reaches for a strip of silk from the bedding. He binds your wrists above your head, the fabric firm but gentle, his eyes on yours the entire time. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

His free hand moves down your body, fingers parting your thighs as his mouth follows. You can feel his breath between your legs, warm and maddening.

He glances up. “Keep your eyes on me.”

Everything inside you seizes.

His tongue is relentless. He maps you with precision, like he’s studying you, learning how to ruin you just right. You writhe, but his arms lock around your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice sending vibrations straight through you.

You can’t answer.

He keeps going.

When he finds that perfect rhythm, the pleasure builds fast. Your hands strain against the binding, back arching. You moan his name, broken, desperate.

A sob breaks from your throat, raw and unexpected.

Lucius stills immediately.

His head lifts, eyes sharp, chest heaving. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, tears stinging your lashes. “No,” you breathe. “Please don’t stop.”

His expression softens, just a fraction. His hand comes up, brushing your cheek, his touch impossibly gentle.

“You’ll tell me if you need me to stop,” he says firmly.

You nod, but that doesn't satisfy him. "Words, sweetheart."

“Yes.”

That’s all he needs.

He goes back with renewed purpose. This time, he doesn’t hold back. His hands grip your thighs, thumbs spreading you open, his mouth working you with single-minded intensity.

You cry out, and then you break.

It hits like a storm. Your body arches, muscles locking, vision blurring as you come hard against him. He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, spent, gasping.

Lucius finally lifts his head, lips slick, jaw tight with restraint. He watches you, his eyes dark and intense.

You can’t move. You don’t want to.

He unties your wrists, kissing the tender skin before lowering your arms gently. His hands cradle your face.

“I’m not done,” he says, voice hoarse. “But I had to taste you first.”

You’re still catching your breath, chest rising and falling rapidly, your limbs heavy and trembling. He moves over you, slow and sure, braced on his arms as his body cages you in. He’s already undoing the rest of his tunic, muscles flexing as he shrugs it off and tosses it aside.

You take him in, broad shoulders, defined chest, every inch of him cut and battle-forged. A warrior. A gladiator. Your protector.

And he’s looking at you like you’re his.

“Look at me,” he commands softly. “Do you still want this?”

“Yes,” you whisper. You reach for him, but he catches your wrists, gently but firmly pushing them back above your head.

“No,” he says. “You’ll let me do this. You’re mine to take care of.”

You nod, your throat tight.

Lucius kisses you again, but it’s slower now, much more deliberate. You feel the heat of him pressing between your thighs. His hand slides down, positioning himself against your entrance. The tip of him brushes you, and your breath catches.

“This’ll hurt,” he says, voice raw. “But I’ll be gentle.”

You nod again, biting your lip.

“Breathe.”

Then he presses in, slow, steady, giving you time.

The stretch is sharp at first, your body adjusting to the size of him, and you gasp, hips twitching beneath him. He stills, his grip tightening just slightly as he holds himself back, muscles trembling with restraint.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “Just a little more.”

You whimper, hands curling into the sheets, and then he’s fully seated inside you. You feel every inch of him. Thick, hot, pulsing deep.

Lucius doesn’t move right away. He leans over you, his forehead resting against yours as he waits.

“You’re okay?” he asks, voice low and serious.

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes fluttering open to meet his.

“Good girl.”

Then he starts to move.

His hips roll slowly at first, his body heavy and hot above yours. Each thrust is deep and deliberate, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His hands pin your hips in place as he drives into you, taking his time, watching every reaction.

You moan softly, the pleasure growing steadily with each stroke. His strength surrounds you, every movement, every breath a reminder that he’s holding back just for you.

“Lucius,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Tell me what you need.”

“You. Harder.”

A growl escapes his throat. He draws back and thrusts in harder.

The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, each motion more powerful, more demanding than the last. His control starts to crack, his rhythm turning fierce, claiming you completely.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. All you can do is feel.

His mouth crashes onto yours again, swallowing the sound of your cries as he drives into you. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, anchoring yourself to him.

His pace turns brutal. Perfect.

“Such a tight little body,” he groans. “You were made for me.”

You sob again, but this time it’s pleasure, unbearable and raw. Your body tightens, your second climax rushing up like a wave.

“Lucius... I-”

“I’ve got you,” he growls. “Let go for me.”

You do. You break with a scream, your walls clenching around him, body locking, and Lucius snarls in response, his rhythm faltering as he follows with a sharp grunt. He pushes deep, grinding against you as he spills inside.

You lie tangled together, panting, drenched in sweat and satisfaction. His weight presses into you comfortingly, his arms still braced around your head.

He gently shifts to the side, bringing you with him, pulling you into his chest.

You feel his lips on your temple. “You did so well, sweeheart.”

You curl into him, every part of you aching and full.

Lucius strokes your hair, his voice quiet now. “You’re mine. And I’ll protect you with everything I have.”

It’s the following week when it happens, when things start slipping out of control.

You should be at your embroidery lesson. He should be stationed at the western gate. Neither of you are where you're supposed to be.

Instead, you’re pressed against the cold stone wall of the eastern corridor, hidden behind one of the larger statues, the scent of dust and heat heavy in the air. Lucius has you pinned there, one hand splayed against your lower back, the other gripping your jaw as he kisses you like he’s starved for it.

You hadn’t even said a word, just passed each other in the hallway, your gaze lingering a second too long, and that was all it took.

You shouldn’t be here. It’s the middle of the day. But gods, it’s like you can’t stop.

“Lucius-” you whisper, breathless against his mouth.

“I know,” he growls. “I know. But I need you.”

His hand snakes up under your skirts so quickly it makes you gasp. You shudder as his fingers trail over your thigh, rough and calloused.

“Here?” you hiss. “Are you mad?”

He doesn’t answer. His hand finds the apex of your thighs, and you let out a soft whimper, grabbing onto his shoulders for balance. He’s already pressing his body to yours, the bulk of him shielding you from view, his lips moving down your neck as he hikes one of your legs around his hip.

“Can’t wait,” he mutters. “You’re driving me mad. All week, in that dress, walking past me like you don’t know what you do to me.”

Your protest dies on your tongue when he presses against you, hard and unmistakable, through the rough fabric of his trousers. You’re already soaked for him, he feels it as his fingers slide beneath the thin cotton of your undergarments.

“You’re not helping,” you manage, your voice shaky.

He smirks against your skin. “No, I’m not.”

You barely have time to bite back a moan before his fingers sink into you, two of them pushing deep with no warning. You writhe against the wall, hips bucking helplessly as he thrusts them inside you, thumb rubbing tight circles that make your knees buckle. It’s fast. It’s sloppy. It’s everything it shouldn’t be.

“Lucius- please, someone might-”

And then you hear it. A footstep. A distant voice.

Lucius stiffens, but his fingers don’t stop. He shifts slightly, body shielding yours completely. One hand flies up, clamping over your mouth just in time to muffle the desperate moan clawing out of your throat.

“Quiet,” he whispers into your ear, voice dark and low. “Be good. Stay still.”

You nod, barely.

The footsteps fade. The corridor is still.

But Lucius doesn’t move away.

Instead, he growls. “Look at you, so wet and twitching on my fingers while your father’s men pass by.”

You whimper against his hand. Your walls flutter helplessly around him.

He pulls his hand from between your thighs. You’re too dizzy to think, too lost in the rush. He undoes his trousers with his free hand, pulls himself out, and positions the thick head of him right against your entrance.

Your eyes widen. “Lucius-”

“I won’t take long,” he mutters.

He doesn’t. He pushes in with one hard thrust. The stretch, the heat, it’s all too much too fast, and you can’t help the muffled cry he has to swallow with another palm over your lips.

His hand stays there, firm, while he fucks you hard and fast against the wall, every thrust a full-bodied press that forces a soft thud out of the stone. Your leg slips from his hip, but he catches it, lifts it back up with a grunt, not slowing down for a second.

“You love this,” he pants. “Don’t lie to me. You love the risk.”

You nod, because it’s true. It’s wrong. It’s dangerous. And you love it.

You feel your release rushing up before you’re ready, your body tightening, your thighs trembling.

“Lucius-” you sob against his hand. “I’m close,” you manage, and that’s all he needs.

His hand drops from your mouth just as his pace slams back into full force. He grits his teeth, fucking you through the wave of it, his hands locked around your waist like iron.

Your climax hits you with a sharp cry you barely manage to swallow. You dig your nails into his shoulders as you come around him, your walls spasming so tight he groans and chokes on his own breath. He follows with a rough, guttural sound, burying himself deep inside you.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of harsh breathing, the drip of water from the stone ceiling, the far-off hum of the estate’s life resuming outside this shadowed corner.

Lucius leans his forehead against yours, still catching his breath.

“This is madness,” he mutters.

You nod, still panting. “Then don’t stop.”

His lips twitch. His eyes narrow.

He pulls out slowly, tucking himself back in with a hiss, then crouches to adjust your clothes for you, smoothing your skirt over your thighs like a man not seconds removed from fucking you against a wall.

He stands, towering over you, his voice grave. “You need to go. If someone sees you now-”

You nod, smoothing your hair, your cheeks flushed.

But before you turn to leave, he grabs your wrist, pulls you back for one last, deep kiss.

“This isn’t over,” he breathes against your lips.

You know it isn’t.

Not even close.

I'm like actually in love with this man, it's a problem. I don't know if you can tell lmao but I'm just writing lots of self-indulgent stuff at the moment. Hope you enjoy it!

[zwolfgames]

Platonic Yandere Baldurs Gate 3 x teen reader (Drabble)

(Just a quick idea i might flesh out a bit more in the future. Just take it as a oneshot at the moment. Reader is about 13-14 ish. For Gale's ever dying annoyance you'll be a sorcerer. I like to imagine the reader as a thiefling cuz theyre cool, but whatever you want goes as it isnt described anywhere.)

Warnings: None.

Parts: The list

"Why... is there a child here?"

You heard the gith woman speak to mostly no-one as you had encountered her on this burning mess of a mindflayer ship.

You wonder that yourself. Why take you? Just a little teen with no real significance? Surely there's better candidates for the mindflayers to infest...

"I can hear you, you know?" You sigh and walk closer to the unknown woman.

Sure Githyanki people were known to mercilessly slay anything that even resembled an obstacle.. But seeing as you're having the same problem... and she also looks lost... you'd take this one chance.

"Don't speak to me." The woman hisses. Her armor glints in the light of an explosion out of the ships' window.

You shrug and walk past her. Moving trough the choatic halls of this fleshlike vehicle. The scurrying brains on the floor weren't a pleasant sight... but you've seen worse.

All you really had on you were the clothes you were abducted with, your long stick from the woods that you used to practise your magic and a dagger because your mother had advised you to carry one...

But against otherwordly foes... this aresenal looked a bit bleak...

You soon noticed the woman following you silently. Why? You didn't know. Probably because of the aforementioned fact that she also didn't have a clue what to do here.

"So what's your name?" You spoke curiously. Not that scared of the gith anymore now that her shining blade remained sheathed.

"I said to not speak to me, tshk." The gith woman sneered.

"Just curious." You respond with your hands in a surrendering motion.

But you get it, she's cautios. You'd be too if you met some kid on a mindflayer ship. They're not exactly common. It's safe of her to assume you're a ploy.

"My name's Y/N." You just mention for the hell of it. Might aswell die being known.

"... Lae'zel..." Ah... there's the name you wished for.

"Exotic.." You nod in acknowledgement. Probably not the best thing to say at the moment, but for some reason you felt calm. Something in your head was making you think so, atleast.

You and Lae'zel traveled a bit further down the halls of the Nautiloid. Passing by corpses of people with missing brains... yuck. A little chest here.. a little chest there. Your mother would be happy with some extra gold...

"You're a little thief, are you?" Lae'zel spat in distaste.

"Providing for the family, ma'am." You salute jokingly.

Lae'zel looks slightly startled by either your actions or your words. Keeping closer to you as the noises of fighting became louder.

In the end, you and Lae'zel had aquired a new compagnion, a lady named Shadowheart had been freed from one of the mindflayer cocoons. How did you open it, you may ask? Well you just cast Knock. It really took the intrigue off of the buttons next to the pod.. But it made everything easier.

This Shadowheart person was very secretive... immediately throwing hostile statements at Lae'zel, wich the gith returned. You supposed this is what your mother meant by girls infighting?

But all in all, they might despise eachother and glare at you as if you ate their left arm.... they still helped.

Lae'zel had instructed you all to go to the control room, apparently she's felled these ships together with her Githyanki squadrons before. Wich is cool, but you wouldn't say that considering Shadowheart might want you dead if you admit any liking for a gith.

What met you at the control panel was a big fight... well for your standards, that is. You were used to stray magic monsters or stealing goblins...

An infernal general of the hells... well not really on your preffered list of foes....

Luckily you had your two capable compagnions. Shadowheart blasted that guy with continous holy blasts, while Lae'zel just rammed a greatsword trough his fiery armor.

Cool, fighting is... cool. Atleast your spells were used for more then washing the dishes at home now.

After taking over the ship, it just fully crashed, you felt the air whip in your hair and cut into your skin as you fell down along with the debree of the Nautiloid.

Lae'zel and Shadowheart were nowhere in sight... so you tightly closed your eyes, bracing for impact... Wow... you'd be so lucky if you knew feather falling right now... bummer that you didn't.

The impact didn't come. You felt light for just a moment before you just passed out onto a wet patch of sand.

Well... not dead.. yet.

"Hey... wake up.."

Something... or considering their ability to talk, someone nudged your shoulder.

You blinked your tired eyes open. Sclera feeling dry and burned from the amount of ash on the crashed ship.

A drow stood above you. Wich is... very strange, where were you? They don't live on the surface... do they?

"How has a true soul landed themselves here? You look too pathetic for our majesty." The drow woman sneers in disgust. You know... the amount of woman hating on you was getting a bit disturbing.

"A true.. soul?" You spoke hoarsley. Throat parched from all the fire, along with being passed out here for gods know how long..

"Oh you are such an imbecile asswell. It does no good to have a putulent child as a true soul... I ought to end your suffering myself." The woman growled. Wow, just when you were about to say she had the same hairstyle as your mom-

Wow!- a sword next to your head. Yikes!

The drow still glared. Not yet having sliced your head in two due to a sound further down the beach. Sandy footsteps coming closer.

With a scowl she retreated into the wreckage of the nautiloid. Hiding from whoever was walking this way. You sat up with a groan in response. Holding your thumping head.It was no other then Shadowheart that found you. Somewhat looking relieved to see a familiar face, yet that annoyance still persisted.

"You've made it. Good. You're a bit too young to die." The black haired half-elf spoke and pulled you up.

"You almost make it sound like you care.." You cough out some dust after your teasing remark.

"Well we survived together. I'll take it as a sign that we better stick together." Shadowheart sigh and crosses her arms over her plated chest. You wonder how her eyeshadow hasn't melted off.

"You think Lae'zel made it too?" You ask a bit hesitantly, not wanting to get a death glare again.

"Im sure she did, gith are ruthless." Shadowheart scoffs and leads you further from your place on the beach. Moving on to a forest, wich you really didn't mind. You've basically been raised in the woods. Its a wonder that you didn't turn out as a druid.

"Help! A mindflayer, right here! Help me!"

Some pathetic call came from between the wreckage. Well... if you see one then it's too late? No?

Shadowheart seemed to think the same... Wich sucked, because that meant you'd have to be the better person here and see.

With a sigh of reluctance you walked towards the voice. Being carefull of the burning wreckage around you.

You ended up on a dune overseeing the beach, looking down you saw the man thats been screaming for help into the sky as if the gods would come get him.

"Are you blind? There's not even a tentacle in sight!" You yell down at him. You see the white haired elf jump and look up at you and Shadowheart.

"It was right here! I swear, come down and look!" The posh sounding man urges.

"You think were stupid. You're littarly holding a dagger!" You shout back.

"So are you! You irritating child!" The pale elf shouts back. You glare at him and he glares at you.

"So what's your real problem?" You scowl in annoyance.

"... Well fine, I don't know what to do from here, I dont even know how I survived-" The man points at the crash site. "-this."

"Would you like to join our 'we don't know what to do from here and we don't even know how we survived' club?" You grin in amusement. Shadowheart gives you a dissaproving wack on the arm and the man doesn't look happy by your mocking.

Two beats later he sighs. "Fine... untill I find a way back..."

"So what's your name? I'm Y/N and this is... actually I'll let her decide if she wants to tell or not." You nod.

"Shadowheart." The woman growls out in annoyance at your irritating behavior.

"Astarion.." The pale elf nods. Making his way up to you two.

So that made three... or if you found Lae'zel... four.

Before you could even scream for your Githyankee acquaintance, another problem stood in your way.

The very obvious portal with a hand trough it.. yelling 'help! A little help!'.

Well... maybe if it added a please?

"I can sense you there! A little help, please!" Ah.. there was the please.

This hand didn't look cursed... so it should be fine right?

"Let's not? Mhh? Who knows, maybe it's a mindflayer." Astarion advices with some smug purr.

"Well he said please, didn't your mom teach you any manners?" You huff with a roll of your (e/c) eyes. The elf froze at the sentence and Shadowheart just looked annoyed that you were once again helping someone when you didn't have time.

You huff and take the hand. Pulling at it in vain as this portal remains steadfast in holding this person on the other side.

"You can do it, just keep pulling, my friend."

The male voice called out. You set your feet properly into the dirt around you and pull with your while back put into it. As the mans purple sleeve shows due to you pulling him out, you decide to grab that instead, making your way down his arm.

Shadowheart can't seem to look at your struggle anymore and helps tug.

Together the bearded man comes crashing out of the portal.

He stands up and dusts his robes off.

"Hello, I'm Gale of Waterdeep, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance- Why are you a child?" The man stops his speech to once again asses that you are in fact a kid. Well, you prefer teen, as the number ten isn't in the didgits of your age for nothing. But sure yea, let's all keep bullying the kid.

"Well one day I was born, and from there on I began to age-" You start snidely. The man- Gale, stops you from your useless banter.

"I know how aging works... But why are you involved with... this all?" He asks in concern.

"Oh so you're genuinely a minor? I just assumed you were on the short side." Astarion notes randomly. Putting a hand over his heart as a theatric pose.

"I'm here because I also got abducted by mindflayers, there's nothing more to it. Do you want to join us in in walking around aimlessly or do we stick you back trough the portal?" You look up at Gale with a raised brow.

"Right, walking around aimlessly it is..." The bearded man sighs and takes your hand. Whatever his reasons, he seems the most startled by seeing a minor waltz around all this mindflayer stuff.

Your aquired band of misfits manage to locate Lae'zel, who had just broken out of a cage. Not looking too happy too see the growing group.

After a round of names and insults, she informed everyone... well... really just you because somehow everyone else seemed to know it all already, that you've all been infected by mindflayer tadpoles. Yuck, the last thing you wanted was tentacles on your face, what would your mother think!

Gale reassured you that that wouldn't happen and that- just like Lae'zel said- we were going to find a cure..

Or try. Whatever came first. Really.

So you set foot into the forest, hoping to find a hint of civilization to find the nearest healer. Lae'zel had been captured by patrolling thieflings.. so there must be something around here.

And you were all right. You had ended up at the emerald grove. Quickly getting pulled into their problems with the local druids and the refugees... Some Halsin guy was missing, apparently he was very important.. And he was in some goblin camp... full of goblin cultists? You were really glad Gale was writing this down because your attention span didn't make it trough this.

Wandering around the Emerald Grove had landed you an audience with the resident folk hero, the Blade of Frontiers! Wich was actually the coolest thing up ti'll now. Your mother used to tell you stories of what this man did at your age, saving a village from evil cultists, his many good deeds.

The legends true name was Wyll... wich was cool too. The darker skinned human quickly offered your group to take you over, so they could continue their journey without the worry of a teen. You were surpised when Shadowheart protested. Astarion didn't seem glad with the possibility of your absence either.

You were confused, Lae'zel was confused and Wyll himself was probably the most baffled.

He seemed to just assume you must be someones family here and offered to come with if you helped him find a demon he had to slaughter.

Yea ok, seems fair. Anything for the Blade of Frontiers.

Events went faster now, you had a bigger group, they were all quite choatic, not matching eachothers morals or ways.

Astarion was teaching you the art of pickpocketing while you all explored the grove for more information on the lost druid Halsin.

Gale was discouraging you from listening to the elf. Trying to teach you new spells instead, even trough his annoyance of your sorcerer ways. How could you learn magic without a book! What do you mean you just accidently set your treehouse on fire when you were four?!

Wyll seemed to find you quite amusing, seeing you snark back at these intimidating adults (Lae'zel) and observing how a child from a city outside of Baldurs Gate dealt with all the information.

Shadowheart and Lae'zel were still going about their mutual hatred. Why them two?

You don't know.

Goth vs frog, the neverending battle.

No matter, however. As you all found this 'demon' Wyll was after. Turned out its some nice thiefling named Karlach.

The votes on what to do were varying. Wyll didn't want to kill a non hell-being.Lae'zel told him just to get the pact over with, same for Astarion.Gale and Shadowheart were for the cancelation of this execution. Both for very diffrent reasons.

But due to Wyll being as good as you imagined him, he didn't kill the woman. Great, since she's the first one that had a positive reaction to meeting you.

Karlach saw her more carefree years in you... Just some dumb kid fighting things and messing with ploys that didn't concern you.

Thats how it all started... Karlach. The barbarian had begun the urges in your group to not let this kid they got saddled up with to get corrupted.

Everything's so bad already. They can save one thing, no?

Your first night camping with the bunch was quite fun. You helped Gale with cooking, your mother taught you well after all. The wizard was shocked as he hadn't expected a child out of everyone here to be the only one to help.

Fine enough, you made dinner.

And love goes trough the stomach, or so the saying goes. With a hoard of hungry stomachs fed, the appreciation towards 'random kid were stuck with' really picked up.

You wouldn't make it long without them getting attached. Too bad you tought you were going on a fun adventure. This isn't just some fun little thing...

Welcome to your new found family <3

Don't really know what compelled me to write this, I just miss bg3 because I'm on a road trip 😔. But if anyone's interested, I'd surely answers asks about this... thingy? Hope you kinda enjoyed atleast. Adios.

[autumnwoodsdreamer]

Illustrated from Lift a Sail, Chapter 6: The Moment I Hold You to Me Is When I Stop Running

Transcript

PAGE 1

[Some time later…]

Ahsoka: You’re like a father to him.

Din: *

Ahsoka: I cannot train him.

Grogu: *hopeful*

Din: You made me a promise. And I upheld my end.

Ahsoka: You asked me to see to it that the child is trained, and I agreed to that, but I never promised to take him from you.

Din: He needs to be with his own kind. He has to be with a Jedi.

Ahsoka: Well, then that disqualifies me. I’m not a Jedi.

Din: What?!

PAGE 2

Din: But you have the same powers! I’ve seen what you can do!

Ahsoka: The ability to wield the Force does not make one a Jedi. The order fell a long time ago and I left before then. I only carry the name as a tribute now.

Din: Do you know of any others?

Grogu: *seriously?!*

Ahsoka: I’m searching for one. A dear friend. I have a better chance of finding him after today. Thank you.

Din: And your friend? Would he train Grogu?

Ahsoka: I can’t say. He’d love to meet you, I’m sure. But I can’t commit him to anything. He has a family to get back to and many years to make up for.

PAGE 3

Din: I gave my word to…

Ahsoka: “Reunite him with his own kind.” I know. He let me see that memory.

Din: He… he remembers that?

Ahsoka: He does. And, if I recall correctly, there were actually two roads…

The Armorer: Until it is of age, or reunited with its own kind, you are as its father.

PAGE 4

Ahsoka: He’s never had a family. What you’ve done for him, what you’ve given him… he’s never had it before. He needs you; not me.

Din: But I don’t… I don’t have that—the Force thing. I can’t understand him the way you can.

Ahsoka: That’s only a barrier if you believe it. From what I’ve seen, no one has ever understood him as well as you. He’s made his choice. I have to respect that.

PAGE 5

Grogu: *extremely happy baby babbling*

Ahsoka: *laughs* Yes, you’re very welcome, little one.

Din: Thank you. Maybe we’ll meet again.

Ahsoka: May the Force be with you. Take care of each other.

You can see when I took a break from this and then came back months later 🫣

So much is inconsistent: Grogu’s green, Ahsoka’s orange, the text size (because I only figured out I should make the text before I make the boxes by the fourth page), Din’s proportions (and, man, have I got to practise those vambraces…)

But I had a blast putting this comic together.

This is the point my story diverges from canon (the whole series hinges on “what if Ahsoka didn’t send them to Tython?”). I enjoyed writing Ahsoka’s dialogue and mannerisms back in 2021, and I had so much fun visualizing her now. I always picture a mash between her Rebels appearance and a pinch of her Live Action counterpart when writing so this is that.

I know I say this a lot, but: Thank you to everyone who has supported this story—from day one to two minutes ago. Every kudos, every comment, every bookmark, every like, every reblog has meant so much to me. This is the story I am most proud of, one I can’t believe I’ve found so much inspiration and motivation for, one I continue to enjoy and want to explore ever more. I’ve learned in leaps and bounds in writing this—characters, scenes, descriptions, story arcs, even my art has improved because of it. Thank you for all the kindness you’ve extended and the support you’ve given this story.

Sincerely,

Autumn 🍁

[tainbocuailnge]

it speaks for the staying power of the kimono that it's easy for modern horny artists to incorporate humongous cleavage and side splits without looking unnatural when in practise they hide the shape of your bust almost entirely and historically the attractiveness they represented was in a woman moving gracefully while wearing up to 40 layers of carefully color coordinated extremely expensive fabric. an anime woman sliding her kimono down to expose her shoulder is like a robot purging its armor in order to increase attack power.

[starsonablackboard]

you guys flooded my first post with notes yesterday which is a little confusing for me and also insanely cool, i've never received such feedback on my art, so thank you everyone!! you gave me motivation to draw something substantial so you get an updated lamb design yippee! probably not the final one tho

also another lengthy post which is not required reading, just some stuff i've been thinking about on and off for a couple of weeks. i codenamed it "with death comes peace au" in my head and it may become a fanfic at some point but i don't want to be too hopeful

relevant to the first pic

• i do love the "single parent to a small nation" type of lamb, but for my au i see them more as an actual Cult Leader tm, which means they have to be irresistibly charming and charismatic. they put a lot off time into their looks and mannerisms and behavior (they had some practise even before their first death and before the red crown, but that is maybe for a later post), and they aim for a "heavenly angelic benevolent" type, since they're a lamb, a soft and fluffy creature that's mainly associated with innocence and self-sacrifice

• also the malnourishment-looking hc from the previous post still stands, which is a pain in the ass for them. their head-wool is their best quality one tho, so they try to get the most out of it, and style it in this cute fluffy bob (that also somewhat hides the hollowness of their face) with little braids here and there and camellias that never wilt, cause yk, for power show off holy image upkeep purposes

• they actually do like their neck scar, but the flock finds it unnerving

relevant to the second pic

• so you remember how i said that they were laser focused on survival before their first death? they lived off of spite and spite alone, they knew of genocide for all their life (being born well after it started) and were determined to not let the bishops win. they didn't get a say in their birth, so they at least were entitled to have a say in their death (at least in their mind. but what a single sheep has on four gods)

• SOOO when the survival goal failed (kinda. task failed successfully yk) and toww gave them a new goal of cult leadership and slaughter, the spite became thirst for revenge. and it is a powerful tool, but it does not translate to the most graceful style of fighting.

• all that is to say that, yeah, they fight like a wildfire, and never really change in that regard. you don't have to learn defense if you kill your enemies fast enough (yes, it bites them in the ass. more often that they'd like to admit)

• i also liked the idea of them having armor, because let's be frank in the game they might as well be fighting naked, that wool cloak doesn't do anything for protection. i opted for a lightweight leather one since leather is easier to obtain, suits their quick movements and it's kinda a power move to wear armor that's made of your enemies' brethren. intimidation factor is important

[felassan]

Notes and thoughts on the companion Abilities we learned today -

just for reference a quick note again of what they are:

Harding - Seismic Shot; Heavy Draw; Shred; Adrenaline Rush; Soothing Potion Davrin - Battle Cry; Death from Above; Heroic Strike; Assan Strike; In War, Victory Bellara - Fade Bolts; Enfeebling Shot; Replenish; Time Slow; Galvanized Tear Taash - Fire Breath; Dragon's Roar; Dragonfire Strike; Spitfire; Fortune's Favor Lucanis - Eviscerate; Abominate; Soothing Potion; Debilitate; Adrenaline Rush Emmrich - Final Rites; Replenish; Entangling Spirits; The Bell Tolls; Time Slow Neve - Icebreaker; Blizzard; Glacial Pace; Time Slow; Replenish

Some Abilities are shared between companions. For example, both Lucanis and Harding have Adrenaline Rush and Soothing Potion, and Emmrich and Neve and Bellara all have Time Slow and Replenish. I think this is to do with the "core kits" that were mentioned before. like "Time Slow" for example as a part of the core kit for mage characters.

some of these Abilities we've seen demonstrated in gameplay videos so far or had shown/described in screenshots/articles before, like Death From Above. :>

Seismic Shot: since "seismic" can relate to earthquakes and other vibrations in the earth and its crust, this is a really cool name for one of Harding's moves (dwarf, Deep Roads, the Stone, Titans, her new earthbending skills etc) and I'm curious about both its gameplay effects and if it's tied to her new magical powers

Shred: arrowfire that shreds armor presumably

Soothing Potion and Replenish: both sound like heals

Heavy Draw: a heavy attack of Harding's? (Rook at least has access to both light attacks and heavy attacks)

Battle Cry: similar in name to previous abilities like War Cry and Battle Roar. Applies Taunted to enemies in the area

On Death From Above and Assan Strike. Death From Above deals high Stagger and can be used to deal damage from afar, presumably Assan Strike can also be used to deal damage from distance

In War, Victory: the Grey Warden motto will never not slap and evoke a great sense of heavy emotion.. 🥺 it was this part of the Grey Warden motto that was featured as a dialogue line in the release date reveal trailer. A+ name for a Grey Warden's move, no notes

Galvanized Tear: this ability is like a gravity well, it pulls enemies together. you can use it to draw enemies into one place

Adrenaline Rush: a buff that grants enhanced damage/enhances Rook's damage stats

Heroic Strike: applies the overwhelmed debuff. This causes the target to take additional Stagger ("deals high Stagger")

Eviscerate: At half health of less, this deals bonus damage, increasing in effectiveness the closer the target is to death. can be used to detonate a combo and strike a whole group of enemies

Abominate: Deals high Barrier damage and applies Knocked down to enemies in the area. can be used to knock enemies down. also, implications

Final Rites: it's giving finishing move vibes. I love the allusion to cultural practises like Last rights. very appropriate for a thoughtful, caring necromancer whose character is about exploring death and necromancy in a thoughtful nuanced way

The Bell Tolls: For Whom The Bell Tolls (two) reference? :) it's giving a 'your time alive is ending' or a 'your time as a spirit inhabiting this dead body is ending', clock strikes midnight, Cinderella-kinda vibe. bells toll in some places of worship when someone has died (funeral bells), or during other important life rites. also very appropriate for a necromancer

^ No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were: any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.

Fortune's Favor: Lords of Fortune allusion, 'fortune favors the bold' :)

Taash has three abilities involving her fire-breathing and two with "dragon" in the name. 👀 they are really emphasizing the dragon connection/dragon symbolism and she is really living up to the "Ataashi" ('dragon, glorious one, great thing') in her name. in Trespasser Dragon's Breath was a Qunari conspiracy to kill most of the leadership of southern Thedas, involving explosives. I'm really curious about the specific mechanism or origin of her fire-breathing; like is she doing it the way fire-breathing performers do it irl (sounds kind of DA Artificer-y), or has she literally gained or developed some kind of literal innate fire-breathing draconic ability?

throwback to this post:

Maybe it was Taash who wrote this Codex, and the title is alliterative, “Taash Talks”? The writer comes across like a dragon enthusiast and it references being near the shore/sea. Iron Bull once said “So, when you face a dragon, does it get your heart pumping? Do you breathe a little faster, feel the blood racing?” (in the DA:TV trailer, Varric says that they will need someone “with fire in their blood” to face dragons).

Varric was being literal in that line huh. :D

the Qunari are known to hold dragons sacred. they have a physical similarity and some believe that the Tamassrans cultivate dragon blood within the Qunari, allowing some to tap into combat abilities similar to Reavers. is that practise the source of Taash's fire-breathing power? Kieran comments that Adaar's blood doesn't belong to their people. Cory also has weird comments about qunari blood. or maybe she just drank dragonblood? Reavers unlock powerful abilities by drinking it and a dragon-hunter would have access to dragonblood in abundance. Cassandra has dialogue where she tells the Inquisitor that her family used to be known for their Reavers. she says that too much dragonblood caused them to grow deformed, they grew scales and became more draconic than human. if there are legends of Reavers growing scales and draconic appearances after overindulging, why couldn't someone also breathe fire dragon-style? :D "igniting everything with draconic fury" makes me think of Reavery stuff too. Taash is out here living my Inquisitor's (who was a Reaver) dreams.

[guillotinesandroses]

Hello! If it's possible can I request a one shot of a male reader x Saber Lancelot from Fate/Grand Order? The knights of the round table are known to be infatuated with women so male-reader tends to feel bad for having a crush on Lancelot and believing that he could never like the reader. But little does reader know that Lancelot had been having growing affection for them seeing how they work hard to save humanity and tries to work up the nerve to ask them out. Hopefully this is a good enough description. Thank you for your time and good luck with your blog! Also if you need help with researching Lancelot and his story feel free to message me since the Fate franchise can be a bit convoluted.

Thank you so much for being the first person to send a request <3 Sorry this took so long to complete, some stuff happened and I got overwhelmed :') I hope this fits what you wanted, I had to take some creative liberties due to being on a time crunch. If there are any personality or lore inaccuracies, please let me know!

Lancelot x Male!Reader

Contents: Mutual pining, insecurities, confessions, reader is the game's main character but older than Mash and a parental figure of sorts to her and Galahad.

Concealing, Reflective Surfaces

Once again, you find your hopeless self watching him from afar. Pristine armor glowing beneath the golden sun, his sword strikes with the strength of a thousand oceans, power drawn not from wrath, but rather from an insatiable thirst for justice. Your head rests against the back of your fingers, elbow shaky against the table as you try to keep your cool. 

Heart skipping at least three beats, you flash him what you pray is an unassuming smile. You raise a thumb up as he looks to you for approval, a faint, relieved smile gracing his sculpted face at the gesture. The second he turns back to look for another training dummy, the previous one destroyed, you swallow hard. Shame nearly boils over within your chest just as much as adoration. A hand moves from your cheek to cover your mouth, someone must have cursed you to have you reduced into this. 

Even so, you cannot help your eyes from trailing up, back to the Saber your heart remains so fixated on. Everything about Lancelot screams perfection. King Arthur himself admitted it long ago; Lancelot is the perfect knight. Fate itself must hate you, you have convinced yourself, for making you desire someone so unattainable. When placed next to him, his strength, charm and looks, what are you in comparison? 

The one and only thing you have going for yourself is your status as a Master. In spite of your rank making you into a valuable- irreplaceable even- member of the group, that is all you are. There is no weapon you are even average with, your servants need to keep rescuing you like some sort of helpless damsel in distress. Hell, even the damsels you have come across, the ones powerless in their myths, fight better than you. Although you usually would not mind not being the strongest, your feelings reprimand you for not meeting the standards he must have. 

Lancelot adores nothing more than his own swordsmanship skills. Although his fixation on the arts of combat is charming, listening to him talk a delight, it leaves you hollowed. He truly seems to admire skill with the blade, which you have none of. You have made various attempts at learning to use a sword, requested aid from your other Sabers, but that never led anywhere. There is no way he would be impressed by your pathetic fumbling. 

Besides, Knights of the Roundtable are famously infatuated with women. Lancelot himself is known for having fallen head over heels for Guinevere. There is no telling what he would say if you were to confess. What if he still grieves for his deceased lover? What if he is not interested in men at all? 

Your heart clenches, that is the most painful thought of all. Swordsmanship you can practise, flirting you can improve and even your fashion you can work on, but there is nothing you can do if he simply does not find your gender attractive. Fingers absently tracing your arm, a pained frown threatens to crash over your features. You shut your eyes, wishing you could force yourself to accept reality. There is no way he could ever return your feelings. 

You sigh, and decide once again that even if your face burns up or your heart bursts, you will bite your tongue. It is better this way. All of that heartache and humiliation, so easily evaded. One day you will move on. The glitters of light reflecting from his armor will cease to haunt you, and his voice will no longer send a swarm of butterflies to choke your lungs. 

Meanwhile, on the other side of the field, Lancelot finishes his training session. He wipes the smallest droplet of sweat from his brow, for someone of his level, it is difficult to get sweaty. However, the ever-present eyes- which he at least hopes linger on his form- gave his heart a much harder workout, even as he performed trickier moves. They were both to hone his own skills and to hopefully impress you. It may be rather childish of him to think that way, but he cannot seem to keep himself from entertaining the thought. 

As he walks over to you, he repeats in his head what he planned he would say throughout his whole training session. He will approach you casually and ask you to meet with him later, at dusk. The setting sun and peacefulness of the evening will create a beautiful artpiece. That canvas will be where he paints his confession. Regardless of whether his feelings are to be accepted or not, although not an artist, he will take it as his duty to represent the moments leading up to it as they should be, pure and tender. 

Having made up his mind, Lancelot steps in front of you. He begins with confidence and patience, not jumping right into what he intends on saying. "Master, I have completed my training for the day." 

"That's great!" You smile, brighter than the sun, and his heart jumps into his throat. "Y'know, it's always a pleasure to see you so hard at work. Putting on a good show for me... almost makes me jealous how much attention you pay to those dolls." 

His breath stutters. The ocean of love in his heart rises to a raging storm. Lancelot clears his throat, steadying his breathing as he learned to do when he first learned to fight. It has been a while since he has needed to resort to the Lady of the Lake's simplest techniques. Although he seldom needs to utilize it in battle, in your presence, he has found use for it after all, more times than he cares to admit. 

"I... do apologize, Master. It has not been my intention to make you feel neglected." 

"Eh, it's fine! I'm just joking. Anyway, making sure everyone's skills stay sharp is important. You haven't done anything wrong. If anything, I'm really happy you're taking this all seriously." 

"Of course, it is my duty. Humanity's future is on the line, so we must succeed. I will do anything in my power to make a brighter tomorrow into a reality." 

"Right, but still, even if something must be done, it doesn't hurt to praise those who work the hardest towards it. And, well, since I can't do much of anything, who would be better for the job than yours truly?" You grin, though he can't help but notice the expression is the slightest bit strained on your lips. 

"I must respectfully disagree, Master. We would not have made it this far without your guidance. The plans you have constructed have been vital to our success." 

"Hm... I don't know about that... but I do know my tomorrow's brighter as long as you're there!" 

Lancelot's chest clenches up in a pleasant ache, which he hopes his armor hides the reaction sufficiently. His original intentions for the conversation are long forgotten. Steadying his voice, he musters up a response, "your kindness knows no bounds, Master. I am thoroughly undeserving of such a sentiment, but know your words are appreciated." 

Before you can interject, he straightens his back and looks away. "Although I truly enjoy your company, I fear our time is up now. Word has traveled that suspicious, cloaked individuals have gathered in the forest near our current safe haven. I shall patrol the area and ensure we will not fall victim to ambush." 

He barely grasps the approving goodbye you grant him. He reprimands himself for his inability to get any words out. A fragile breath falls from his lips. There is no chance you could be interested in him.

As much as he wishes your subtle flirting truly meant something, that cannot be the case. You would not act so confident if you returned his feelings. There are very few things that leave his muscles clenching with anxiety. 

That blazing determination in your eyes, it gets even a swordsman like him weak in the knees. Lancelot has to work fast to regain his composure more than once each time he gets to bask in your glowing presence. Nothing but pure intentions burn in your soul- sheer desire to help others, to save humanity's future- those are the motivations that drive you. You are far more of an ideal knight than he is, rejecting injustice at every turn, working tirelessly for your selfless ambitions. The guidance you give during combat is the sole reason your servants have made it this far. 

With each direction granted, his aching affection grows. Many times he has been forced to urge you rest as you burn the midnight oil. There is nothing to question about your unwavering convictions. Your leadership undoubtedly the sole reason your side keeps winning. He is more than proud to follow such a talented strategist, yet he struggles to say it to you, for once unable to tell the truth. 

It is ironic, for someone who is claimed to be so honest by others, he sure has made a point to remain dishonest to the last person he wishes to lie to. He tries, ponders over his confession more and more with each passing day. However, each attempt he makes at working up the nerve to ask you out leaves him feeling like a young boy at the playground. Words die on his tongue the moment you look at him. 

It matters not that he is a legend, the Knight of the Lake who has won armed enemies barehanded, fought a foe for hours until nightfall and slayed a dragon. His luck in love has always been horrendous. He has been called many names- charmer, womanizer, seducer- though rarely has he truly had the intention of enchanting someone. Too many times to count, disturbingly often have strangers ended their lives upon his rejections of their love. Perhaps he is cursed, perhaps fate has something against him, his naivete. 

Regardless, he was the one to always pay for their unrequited affections. Whenever this happened to a princess or noblewoman, his King forced him to serve some king of penance to appease her family to avoid political conflicts. Their grief was no fault of his, that is what he told himself back then in his bitterness. However, after his affair with Guinevere, he began to question everything. Perhaps he had seduced them; if his loyalty to the King could be compromised so easily, perhaps his judgement of himself had always been flawed. 

Since then, there have been many things he blames himself for. His King's guilt, the civil war and the eventual downfall of his country. He never deserved the Queen's love, let alone the King's forgiveness. All he exists for is eternal atonement. How could he ever hope to be deserving of the affections of someone as wonderful as you? 

Hah, he does not even deserve his class as a Saber. A heroic spirit, a noble knight, titles that make him want to laugh. Such praise should be preserved for worthy ears. At best he suits the class of Berseker, having escaped through madness when his King died. There is not much he considers himself to be worthy of, so he devotes himself to battle, leaving himself otherwise dull as a person. 

All he seems to be able to speak of is his talent with the blade. An urge to impress courses through him in your presence. However, there is very little a man like him can impress someone like you with. So, each time he returns to the one quality he appreciates about himself: his swordsman skills. He hopes with all his might you have yet to grow exhausted by it, as being a fighter is the only use you can have for him. 

You are so hopelessly weak. He means no harm by thinking this way, your vast power clearly rests in your brilliant mind. However, it is undeniable that as marvelous as you are, your blinding light had to be balanced with physical fragility. Each time you part from him, his restless thoughts wander to your wellbeing. You have your servants, yes, quite the number of them, but none as powerful as him. 

Although at times separation is required for certain missions, his soul longs to stand by your side. In the same relentless fashion he once protected his king with, he wishes he could rest in your palm as your blade. With the role of shield already taken by your dear friend, he hopes there is still room in your hands for a sword. After all, it is the perfect, most ideal combination, is it not- the wielder, his sword and his shield- Lancelot cares not for Mash's place, and even if he did, he would not dare take it from her, such treachery would be unforgivable. His desired spot is within the grasp of your dominant arm, as the one you live your life through. 

Every tiny detail he notices about you drives him insane. The way you bite your nails when nervous, your quiet, annoyed groans when ink finds its way onto your hands as you write, and how you slouch in chairs when you think no one is looking, fully relaxed for once. Your flexible stretches in the morning, the glow of your smile as it reaches your eyes, and the melody of your voice, the delighted, unrestricted laughs and praises you give when the tides of battle turn in your favor.

Lancelot is certain, absolutely positive that you are the morning sun. You ignite it all, the world and people surrounding you. The passion of your soul torches these lands in a purifying, healing light. This disaster, apocalypse, is the freezing night, the unforgiving winter. You are the blaze, you are spring, melting the cold snow and scorching the old world, only to cauterize the wound so it heals, life growing back stronger with time. 

Want surges through his veins like a rising storm, to cradle and feed your flame. You are redemption, mending, repairment- everything he is not. Taking a deep breath, he shakes his head, fantasies of this sort should be purged from his unworthy mind. There is enough he has ruined by following his greedy, self-indulgent desires. So, he continues on his trek through the forest, heart heavy, searching for bandits he knows he made up on spot, for the purpose of swallowing his feelings again. 

While he wanders the woods, you rock back and forth in a chair. You bite your nails with your heart up your throat. Anxiety claws up your chest. What if you made him uncomfortable, what if he never wants to talk to you again? Maybe the flirting and jokes were too much. You really should just let the earth swallow you, he left so abruptly, there's so many other things you could have- 

The door of your room swings open. Abruptly shifting to a more natural position, your nervous internal monologue is cut off. "Knocking was invented for a reason, you know." 

"I did knock, Master, but even after my third attempt, you did not respond." Mash closes the door behind her. "I figured you must either not be here at the moment, or you were caught in one of your many daydreams again." 

"Well, it's neither, actually! You see, I was absorbed into my work, plans for the-" 

"Master, if you are going to claim those notes contain your newest battle formation idea, there is a question I must ask you." 

"Hm, what is it?" 

"How will '(Name) heart Lancelot' be incorporated into our strategy? Please don't tell me you plan on involving yourself in battle." 

"I- didn't turn the paper-" you cut yourself off and scramble to crush the drawing and toss it away. Leaning onto your hand, you try to act nonchalant. "No idea where that came from. No, not at all." 

"Master, your crush on him is becoming painfully obvious." 

"No..." you trail off, leaning back in your chair and avoiding eye-contact. 

"Yes, it is. You have informed me of your preference for men, which combined with your excessive attention towards him makes connecting the dots quite easy." 

You exhale, fiddling with the pen in your hand. "Well, what of it?" 

"Forgive me for my bluntness but at this point, I find watching you longingly gaze at him from afar unbearable." 

You frown in the same manner she does, speaking at the same time. 

"I get it, you don't like him-" 

"I want you to be happy." 

You pause in shock. "You... don't hold it against me?" 

Mash sighs. "The spirit, he... whatever is left of his essence within me, is almost screaming that you deserve someone better. I don't know if I should agree with him or not, but against our better judgement, I at least will support you. Though I do wish you'd chosen a better man... I will help you with what I can." 

A faint smile falls on your lips. "Thank you. I... really do love him." 

"When are you going to confess?" 

"I- confess? No, there's... there's no way I could. No chance he feels the same way." 

"There's no time for insecurities right now." Mash pauses as you turn to her. "This unresolved tension may not have caused any major issues yet, but if given time to bubble up and inevitably burst, it will. During a mission as important as we are on, any and all unpredictable variables should be dealt with as soon as possible." 

"What if... what if he rejects me?" You ask, voice a whisper. 

"Then you've ripped the bandage off, and you can move on. Besides, if he really is worth your attention, he will be nice about it. If he isn't... well, Master, I am always more than willing to battle him again." 

A small laugh falls from your lips. Both of the beings making up who she is- a kind-hearted girl and the somewhat vengeful spirit of a knight- show their colors in her words as well as their loyalty. You promise you will sort out the situation, feeling a bit silly for having taken romance advice from someone so much younger. Well, either way, you arrange for a message to be delivered to him, to meet you in a field after nightfall. The place is beautiful but also familiar, and you hope the novelty of the sights has yet to have worn off for him. 

Fireflies and stars glimmer against peaceful surface of a lake. Gentle waves wash into the shore, a sound he finds comfort in. The rejuvinating scent of the cool nighttime air lingers with divinity. Like whispered dreams, a fresh breeze melts around you. Breathing out a heavy sigh, you know there is no turning back; all there is left to do is wait and rip the bandage off, just like Mash said. 

"You requested my presence, Master?" 

You nearly jump at his sudden approach. In spite of his heavy armor, he moves in silence. "Ah... yes. I... wanted to ask you a few things about sword fighting." 

"I am honored to be the one whose assistance you've chosen to request. Though may I inquire, why?" 

"Uh, I just thought... it would be fun to learn some techniques. Also, if I get separated from the rest of you like that one time last week, I think it's good for me to have at least some way of defending myself." 

"That is a reasonable concern, though I hope there'll be no need to worry about it a second time. Where would you like to begin?" 

As Lancelot explains the basics of sword fighting, you can barely keep your focus on what he is saying rather than how he is speaking of the subject. Although he maintains his stoic exterior, his words exude an addictive passion, dedication to the art. Even so, you do your best to follow his instructions, aching to impress him. Your heart skips several beats when he steps behind you to correct your stance, and you bite your lip to concentrate. After many attempts at technique and a few simple spars, glancing around a bit too much across his form causes you to trip and fall mid-swing, shame burning in your guts. 

He does not laugh, he does not make you feel bad about yourself in spite of your horrendous form and lack of significant progress. Instead he lowers himself to your level, offering his hand. "You are not wounded, are you?" 

Your lip trembles before you speak. Accepting his hand, you evade his gaze, faces far too close. "Uh... no, I'm fine, thanks." 

Lancelot pulls you up to your feet effortlessly while remaining mindful of his strength. The movement is precise and careful, yet your clumsy self still finds a way to stumble. You fall forward with a surprised, cut off breath, arms landing squished against his chest. Unsure whether you should want to jump into the nearest river or consider this a strike of luck, you pause, then step back with a mumbled apology. 

"You need not be sorry. The fault was mine; I shall be more considerate of my strength if this situation is to repeat." 

His hand still holds onto yours, as if ready to pull you into him again. Your heart skips another beat at the thought and you breathe in, knowing you cannot handle this anymore. "There was... actually another reason why I wanted to meet you here. Training... was just an excuse, really." 

"An excuse..? You need not deceive me, Master. Regardless of whatever is concerning you may be, I will by your side to aid you. Are these concerns related to your wish to learn to defend yourself? Do you feel..." Lancelot trails off, eyes drifting away in what seems like thinly hidden shame, "...your Servants are inadequate of providing you necessary protection?" 

"No, I trust my... Servants." The word still tastes foreign on your tongue. "They can protect me. I know trying to learn to fight would be pointless for me in this state. There's only so much a human can do against the kinds of enemies we fight." 

"Though it is true that you may remain ineffective against the majority of our foes, there is no way mastering new skills and knowing some level of self-defense could ever be pointless... but that isn't the reason you came here tonight?" 

"No, I invited you here for a much more selfish reason." Your mouth dries, throat as hoarse as sandpaper when you force out the words. "I... I am in love with you, Lancelot." 

With your averted gaze, you almost miss how his eyes widen, how his lips part. You look away fully with a heavy chest, not wanting to see his face twist in disgust. Heart thudding against your ribcage, you ready yourself for the worst. However, the tone in his words is much different from what you expected. 

"You... are in love with me?" His voice comes out in a shocked whisper. It echoes with want, admiration and disbelief. 

Swallowing, you raise your eyes to meet with his. Your breath catches in your throat at how he looks at you- vulnerable, almost hopeful- with his guard down. It is as if he has left himself open for attack; his armor shattered and sword fallen from his grasp. For once, his serious and professional front breaks. In spite of lacking talent with a blade, you have done the unthinkable; struck Lancelot straight through the heart. 

"I... there is no way I could accept the feelings of someone as wonderful as you." 

Several emotions crash through your head at his words; grief, confusion and relief. His conflicted frown trembles as you speak. "What do you mean by that?" 

"Master, you... have thoroughly devoted yourself to saving this world's future. It is a beautiful ambition," he breathes, "you inspire and support the others, spend every waking moment ensuring we succeed. You are bright and radiant, a glowing star even amongst humanity's greatest, and standing next to such greatness... what am I?" 

Your eyes widen as he continues. "I betrayed all of those whom I knew to feed my own selfish desires. I caused the demise of my King, the fall of his kingdom. A traitor such as I, surely I have nothing of value to offer you. Therefore, I apologize... but I must reject your confession, it is not something I am deserving of." 

Shoulders relaxing, your heart eases as he averts his gaze. You take a careful step forward, voice gentle as you speak. "Do you... return my feelings?" 

"Master, I am deeply regretful of this, but I must deny your feelings for me. For the betterness of your health and future-" 

"That's not what I asked, Lancelot," you cut him off, "do you feel the same way towards me?" 

The knight remains quiet for a moment longer, then searches your eyes. His own reflect a deep regret, years worth of stored guilt. "I... am in love with you as well." 

Your expression eases up, a faint smile spreading to your lips. Lancelot's face shines with devotion and self-restraint as you approach him. Hand brushing up to trace his cheek, the corner of his eye twitches. He holds himself back from leaning into your touch, from smiling, from enjoying himself too much. You meet him halfway, closing the distance properly, and he cannot bring himself to pull away. Smoothing your thumb over his skin, his lashes tickle the fingertip. 

"Then that's all that matters to me," you whisper. 

His eyelids droop against his will, control slipping from his firm grasp. "...You mustn't." 

"But I want to." 

His breath hitches, and he tries to ground himself by gripping the familiar hilt of his sword. He stands still as a statue as you trace patterns over the sculpted marble of his skin. 

"I can't make you forgive yourself. But I can love you as you are, and I want to love you as you are." 

"I've... restrained myself for so long. This is... everything I have been longing for, but..." 

"So accept it. Please, let me be by your side." 

A quiet chuckle falls from his lips as he shakes his head. "Those words were meant to be mine. I am the Knight of the Lake, your knight, beloved." 

His soft voice breaks as he catches himself, realizing what he just said. He rushes to apologize but you press a finger against his lips. "I would love for you to be my knight. I'd love for us to be together, no matter what you think of yourself. All you need to do is accept me." 

He sighs. His hand rises to press your own against his face closer, giving in. "...How could I ever deny you?" 

You smile in soft delight, pressing yourself against him. Leaning into him as he exhales into the closeness, you bring your lips up to his. He freezes again, absentmindedly drifting away. 

Noticing his hesitation, you ask, "You are... okay with this, right?" 

"Oh... I am far more than content with our current situation. Perhaps I am enjoying it a bit too much, more than I should but I..." he trails off, sighing wistfully, "If I'd known this would turn into a confession... I would have brought those flowers I find your gaze always resting on." 

"Such a romantic." A soft chuckle falls from your mouth. You step forward, this time noticing how his body tenses, not in discomfort, but rather anticipation. Far too much of a gentleman, far too self-critical, he will not make the first move. So you do, and only for a moment allow your breaths to linger together, faces to brush against one another, before you close the distance. 

Relief washes over you the moment your lips touch. Months of pining, pent up emotions spill over from your body. Like a floodgate opened, you pour all of your gentle devotion into the kiss. There is no need to rush, now that you finally have him. All of the time in the world belongs to you. 

Your heart hammers even faster against your ribs as a soft breath brushes against your face. He sighs into the kiss, and a warmth flows through you. He has waited for this just as long as you have. His powerful hands cradle your face, tender, tracing down as if your skin is porcelain. No longer does the implication of weakness bother you. 

Lancelot loves you. He adores everything you are. Qualities you never saw in yourself, they convinced him he could never be good enough for you. Although you were aware of his insecurities before, you could not have assumed they could make him think so low of himself, of such an amazing person. You have every intention of helping him wash himself clean of those doubts, the phantoms that still haunt him. 

The past is dead and gone, his sins long forgiven. Together, you are the future. Yet in this moment, it is as if neither exists. The present drowns you as does his presence. Not a shred of doubt lurks in your minds anymore; this is what you'll build a future for. 

[ukerukokoro]

The shock was clearly written all over Temari’s face.

„Wha…!?“

She had not seen that coming and apparently neither had he. Gaara had doubled over. Grimacing, his eyes were squinted shut while he was holding his nose. Damn! She had quite a punch!

"You ok? Where was the sand!?" she asked, coming closer. 

"I did not use it" he said with his voice muffled through his hand.

"You punched right through the sand armor" he added. His voice was entirely calm as usual. Hers was not.

"Well I have a mean punch! Why did you not use the sand Gaara?" she asked. 

"Hm." She would not like the answer. He straightened up and let go of his nose. His hand was covered in blood. Hahahahahaha the tanuki screeched in his head You are such a loser! You'd be dead without me! He closed his eyes for another moment and lifted his hand a bit. Temari fell silent. By now she knew when to give him a moment to deal with Shukaku. Reigning him in was never easy but he was getting quite good at pushing him down. 

"My defense sucks" he said and opened his eyes to look at his sister.

She frowned. 

"Not the jutsu...MY defense" he added to clarify. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the Jutsu. On the contrary it did take some deliberate effort to surpress it.

"YOUR defense is non existant Gaara. You never  trained it" she said. You don't say Captain Obvious, he thought but did not say it.

"Exactly my point" he said and grimanced again. His nose hurt. 

"Wait a second ...you asked me to train with you Taijutsu without telling me we train Taijutsu?"

He stayed silent for a moment, his green eyes holding her blue ones. Sounded about right.

"Yeah."

"Gaara!" She sounded distressed though he was not quite sure why. He was the one with the bloody nose.

"I mean I always knew that Kankurō is an idiot but I actually always thought you were quite clever" she said.

"Gaara is not clever. He is just quiet and camouflages his stupidity." Gaara turned around to the source of the voice. Kankurō was apparently in high spirits today. Though he usually was.

"Wow...why is your face all bloody? Is that nose broken?" Kankurō asked.

"I punched him" Temari said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"I mean...we all want to do that at times Temari but really you cannot punch the Kazekage" Kankurō replied which earned him a punch from Temari to his upper arm.

"Au...what did you do?" Kankurō asked then, looking at Gaara expectly. 

"It's more what he didn't do...he didn't use the sand for defense because your brother wants to practise Taijutsu but failed to tell me that beforehand" Temari said. 

Kankurō's attempt at giving Gaara a pat on the head as rebuke was prevented by a solid wall of sand.

"Figures...come let's get you to the doctor...I think that nose needs setting...and after that we can talk about this practising taijutsu thing...now...if you please Kazekage sama..." Kankurō said, extending his arm indicating to the door of the training hall.

"Oh yes... we so will talk bout that" Temari mumbled, strolling after them.

[100jewels-between-teeth]

Oneshot

wordcount: 4027

AO3 ¤ Ko-Fi

~

CW: not technically 18+ but we are tiptoeing that edge, pining, sexual tension so tense it will break teeth, light violence (sparing)

Pairing: Lucanis Dellamorte x F!Rook de Riva

Summary: Lucanis decides to take his fellow Crow up on the challenge of a spar, Rook challenging if he is still the great assassin he once claimed to be, or has now rusted with time. The First and Fifth Talon lock in battle.

Time seemed to move so strangely in the Fade. To some, it took no time at all to get used to the new location, the thrumming of magic constantly around them. But for others, it was a much harder transition. The constant feeling of intrusion, like they did not belong and the world around them knew this. They were not ancient elves, none were they spirits. They were just people struggling to bring a world together, while this one strained to accommodate their intrusion.

It took almost two weeks for Lucanis to stop feeling that itching behind his eyes.

Luckily, in that time, the group had seemed to form itself into an almost family dynamic. He was thankful that this was not a group of recluses that would never be around each other. Dinners together, morning coffees. The days where they were not travelling or fighting were spent turning each other's weapons, repairing or adjusting armors. Even just learning about the lives of these people that Lucanis shared space in the Lighthouse with. It reminded him of the early days of the Crows.

Though, comparing the two, this lot was far more hopeless in comparison when it came to fighting.

Under the afternoon glow of the Lighthouse, Lucanis was in the courtyard with some of the others, taking advantage of the downtime they had been blessed with before the next excursion. Taash and Davrin stood facing each other, fists raised in a stance that spoke of practised skill going against brute force. It was a sight, surely, a Quinari squaring up against an elf. The start of this sparring lesson had already earned an eye roll and sigh from Neve and Emmrich, going over recovered tomes. Harding couldn't help but laugh at the two tumbling over each other as she practised on targets near the opposite end, not wanting to risk skewering anyone.

Lucanis stood nearby the pair, his keen eyes watching their every move, studying how the two handled themselves in combat. There was no single form of martial arts being practised; rather, it was a blend of techniques he could assume were passed down through generations of Qun and Wardens. One moved with fluidity and precision, the other with what Lucanis could only describe as the most graceful of brutish force. Both their movements, however, were calculated and deliberate.

As Taash threw a punch towards Davrin, he failed to guard himself and took it straight to the ribs, disrupting his breathing for a moment. Davrin wouldn't let himself get caught off guard a second time as he pushed kick his opponent to gain some distance. Taash, of course, stomachs the blow, countering with a strike of their own that Davrin had made sure to anticipate. Their movements were synchronised, a dance of fists and feet as they spared. Lucanis watched closely, ready to intervene if things got too heated.

"Nice try, Taash," Lucanis called out, his voice carrying over the courtyard, eliciting another look of disapproval from the two mages. "But you left yourself open there. Davrin, remember to keep your guard up.”

“They should be doing this with much sharper instruments than fists. Knives, swords, anything to make this more exciting. I want blood, desperation!” Spite paced around them, his voice cutting through Lucanis’s thoughts like a white hot blade. He couldn't help but flinch, but hearing Spite sound so frustrated did give Lucanis a little bit of gratification. Anything to frustrate the demon.

Pushing the annoyance from his mind, he brought his attention back to the others, beginning his critiques to the two. Of course, no matter what, Lucanis knew that they were formidable fighters. But they both had come to him wanting to learn more of his skill, to be more dexterous and precise with their bodies. Brute force could only get you so far before true skill had to come to play. Honestly, with everything happening in and out of the Lighthouse, his mind even, the distraction was welcome.

Though the voice that broke through his instruction was enough to shift that distraction onto something completely different.

“Taash, your right hook, you swing with it too high. He is expecting this with your height.”

Avantika's “Already so comfortable with her first name I see-” Rook’s voice broke through the lesson, his fellow Crow seemingly appearing from the air as she approached the group. Wild black curls surrounding those eyes of amber fire, Lucanis could not help but swallow the ever-present lump in his throat. Even without all of her armor and finery, just clad in a simple purple salwar kameez, the woman knew how to stand out amongst the others. A feat of her own really, considering exactly who was all here.

As she got to the group, she gave a quick yet light jap with her elbow to Davrin's stomach, earning a ‘oof’ from the elf.

“He is too busy protecting his face to pay attention to his core. Instead of long punches, resort to quick jabs. Come at him from his sides.” Taash nodded fervently as Rook pointed out all of Davrin's blind spots, earning an embarrassed blush of the Warden's cheeks. Before Lucanis could even interject with a response, those eyes landed on him

"They are good, Lucanis, but they also aren't moving around enough for this to be a proper spar. I don't think I have ever seen a fight stand so still in my life. Unless you really are just having them take turns." Ava looked up to Lucanis, shrugging her shoulders.

"Your fighting lacks urgency, as such you are too used to protecting unnecessary parts of the body. See how even that kick winded you and caused you to stumble back?" Taash looked away, huffing as Avantika shook her head, giving a smirk to the man training "Have the Crows, more specifically the First Talon, really lacked that much in training abilities? You're going soft." She laughed to herself.

Of course Lucanis felt that bristle from her words. The resounding snort from Harding trying to stifle her laughter did not help, either. Though he knew Rook was mostly joking, there was still a sense of pride in him that he carried from being First Talon. With her words, a sense of challenge bloomed in Lucanis’s chest, making him straighten his back with a brow arched as he took a step towards the woman.

Of course, Lucanis could see that just the action of acknowledging her words would spur the mage on.

"I just feel you two may... just may... have a slightly inadequate teacher.I can only assume that time in The Ossuary may have rusted his technique a bit. Maybe if you had a better instructor..." That confident smirk Ava wore only spurred that fire within Lucanis’s chest more. He barely even noticed that now, the two had gained much more attention than before.

“Really now, Lucanis, I would not take such a thing lying down.” Neve’s quite amused timbre joined in. “Clearly it seems the younger Crow has something to prove.” Now that elicited a glare from Avantika, Lucanis captured the moment in his memory as he chuckled.

"Your expertise is welcomed, Rook. Clearly your gifts as a Fifth Talon apply here. " He emphasised the ranking of her family, a little salt in the wound as Rook looked back at him with a steeled gaze.

"But I'm afraid I must decline. As a First Talon, I cannot risk causing any harm, even in a controlled environment, to one of my team." If Rook was going to throw shots towards him, he was not going to bow out so easily. Of course he wanted to accept this little challenge of hers, but he was not about to do so without making her squirm a little first.

"Oh no... no no I do completely understand, Dellamorte." The way Avantika growled out his name made goosebumps rise on his skin, his internal temperature flaring and even making Spite illicit a growl of their own.

"I am only just worried you may be out of your prime. It is evident how you two were sparring.” Lucanis then remembered again they were not alone in the courtyard as Ava addressed the others. “He is losing his touch. Besides, he is right about the safety thing. I would hate to put him on his ass and cause any injury." Her voice was almost a teasing pur as her eyes drifted back to him, her smirk growing wider as she arched her brow.

All eyes were now on Lucanis. Shockingly, Spite had nothing to say, the demon’s eyes just glancing between the two Crows. For a moment, Lucanis just inspected the woman, noting her confident stance and how the light breeze that rustled the foliage in the garden lifted those thick, endless curls. How they looked when wild and tangled after the fray of battle.

‘Control your thoughts, man!’ Lucanis was more surprised that it was his own thoughts hissing at him to keep himself under control than Spite.

"Rook, while I appreciate your offer, I must make you aware of the risks involved," Lucanis began, his tone serious yet respectful. "As a Crow, it is my duty to ensure the safety of fellow Crows and my team around me,any injury that occurs during our spar would ultimately fall on my shoulders. I cannot in good conscience accept your challenge without first informing you of these risks."

There was almost a disappointed sigh that resonated from the group around him, Harding frowning slightly as Taash let out a small sigh. Even Avantika had her shoulders fall, seemingly believing that her poking and instigating had all but failed.

"However,"

Now that perked the mage up.

Lucanis continued, his gaze steady as he met Avantika’s eyes. "If you are willing to accept these risks, then so am I. But I want to be clear that I will not hold back, and I expect the same from you."

Rook beamed up to the man, his heart stuttering slightly before he quickly pushed away the feeling.

“I accept. I will even make this more fair for us. No magic, no fancy knife tricks, no interference from… outside forces.” The rest of the party around them could assume the comment was about their potential meddling, but both Rook and Lucanis knew exactly who she was addressing with that, Spite letting out a little grumble.

"Well then, I would truly hate to lower your expectations of me. I think I am more than willing to accept those terms.” Lucanis mirrored the other’s smirk.

The rest of the onlookers were quick to give the two room, dispersing to different parts of the courtyard to watch what was about to unfold. Avantika flourished the scarf that was still draped over her shoulders, quickly removing the jewellery that adorned her face and hands. Lucanis followed suit, deft fingers popping the buttons of his vest before removing completely, also keeping in mind that the sleeves of his shirt were still firmly rolled up his forearms.

“She is watching you… Quite closely.” Spite snickered as Lucanis’s brown eyes snapped toward Avantika, her eyes seemingly fixed on what Lucanis was doing with his sleeves before noticing that he had seen her gaze. She quickly averted her eyes, removing the last of her rings as she began to pace back and forth, Lucanis now being watched and analysed by his opponent.

“Let us see what you’ve got… pequeña cuervo”

It seemed his little nickname had set off the first attack, Avantika narrowing her eyes as, in a flurry of dust, she broke into a sprint. Sliding between his legs before sweeping her own, she aimed directly for his legs, trying to make connection with his calf. Lucanis anticipated the maneuver. It was a move he had experienced countless times before, often at the hands of the formidable women and men in his family. With practiced ease, Lucanis reacted swiftly, catching himself before he could be tripped up.

With a graceful agility that belied his size, Lucanis executed an impressive, albeit unnecessary, back handspring, using the momentum to add distance between himself and Rook. As he landed firmly on his feet, he couldn't help but smirk at the woman, impressed by her speed and agility.

"Nice try, Rook" Lucanis remarked, his voice laced with amusement as he adopted a defensive stance, ready for whatever she had in store next. Despite the playful banter, Lucanis remained focused and alert, fully engaged in the spar and determined to give his all in the friendly competition.

Ava slowly stood, her stance half crouched as she prowled around him, sizing up his defence to try and spot any kind of crack. Lucanis had years of skill and experience above the Fifth Talon, but he was not impervious. Especially when it came to fighting a woman who was far too distracting sometimes.

Getting closer, she quickly swept up the dust on the ground to his face, providing enough of an interference that she could race to his right, landing a blow straight to his side, fist connecting before she rolled on his back attempting a chop at the neck. The dust was enough of a distraction for her to land the blow, but Lucanis's reflexes kicked in, managing to brace himself to minimise the impact. Though the Crow's attack landed, it lacked the force to cause any significant damage.

Despite her speed and agility, Lucanis's body was tough, hardened from years of enduring the rigours of his job and his own family, like a fortress standing against the onslaught of time and adversity. Lucanis was far more durable than she had anticipated.

As Rook’s chop attempted to land, Lucanis swiftly caught her hand in mid-air, halting its momentum. With practised precision, he deftly manoeuvred behind her, locking her arm behind her back with a hand, using his momentum to guide her down to the ground. Though, as she fell, Lucanis's other hand snaked around to cradle her abdomen, providing a cushion against the impact and shielding her from the dusty ground.

It was a subtle gesture, but one that spoke volumes of his consideration and attentiveness to her well-being, even in the midst of a spar. With Rook pinned beneath him, Lucanis leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered to her.

"Do be careful, pequeña cuervo. I may be losing my touch, but I am still a Crow for a reason"

It took all of the strength Lucanis had in his soul to disregard the shiver and shuddering breath as just adrenaline. He could not possibly give that kind of reaction to a woman like Rook, the walking ball of glorious flame she was. Quickly, he helped her stand on her feet, taking a few steps back to collect himself once more.

"Nicely done.You seem to be well trained, De Riva. I’m glad Viago has not started slacking on your techniques.."

He couldn't help but feel a sense of respect for her, not just for her prowess in combat, but for her fearlessness and tenacity. Her continued fearlessness to face insurmountable odds head on.

"Shall we continue? I wouldn't want you to think I'm going easy on you, after all." He smirks

Avantika ruffled her thick black curls, now tousled and messed around her face. Her breathing was frantic, and now her flamed amber eyes were wild. Moving into position, she began moving around Lucanis again, rolling her shoulders and neck.

"Quite ungentlemanly to make me have to make the first move. Come now, isn't the male supposed to lead?" Avantika took a deep breath, lifting her fists to protect her face and midsection, legs ready to jump and run at his move.

“I'm just warming up, Dellamorte."

Lucanis chuckled at the Fifth Talon's playful jab, his eyes alight with amusement as he prepared to resume their spar. Rolling his shoulders to loosen up, he adopted a defensive stance, his muscles tensed and ready for action.

"Alright then, let's see what you've got."

He replied with a grin, his gaze fixed on her as he began to circle her cautiously. He studied her movements, searching for any openings or weaknesses in her defence. With a sudden burst of speed, Lucanis lunged forward, feinting to the left before darting to the right. He aimed a swift jab towards her midsection, testing her reflexes and agility as he sought to keep her on her toes.

What he did not expect was for the woman to drop.

Before his hit could connect, he watched Rook drop to her knees, one hand wrapping around his wrist. Before he could think about reeling back, her other arm snaked around his leg, the man now finding himself completely lifted onto Rook’s back. With a grunt, he felt himself tossed off of her back as she suplexed him, the wind knocked out of his lungs as he landed with an ‘oof’.

The voice of Taash could be heard after cheering out, the mutterings of Emmrich and Neve calling this most uncivilised following. Again, Lucanis had nearly forgotten about the audience that was watching. Before he could catch his breath to stand, Rook pinned his shoulders down with her knees, keeping her weight on pinning his wrists.

This is your round, Avantika. Any woman who's managed to put me on my back and is sitting on my chest has more than earned that win."

Not wanting this to be a complete loss, however, the older gentleman managed to find his competitive spirit again. Lifting his feet he looped them over the woman's arms and crossed them over her chest before pushing down. The back of her head would have met the ground had Lucanis not moved quickly to catch her. His large hands cradling the back of her head as he secured yet another small victory.

Wide amber eyes stared up at Lucanis, the world, just for a moment, disappearing as they both caught their breaths. Lucanis could see that the move she pulled clearly took quite a bit of energy out of her. It was something he knew she wouldn't be able to pull again. But the last thing Lucanis wanted to do, especially after that, was underestimate the little crow. Rook was the first to break the silence.

"So... how many women have put you on your back, Lucanis?"

Lucanis, clearly not having expected that question, chuckled. A breathy one, like he is trying to suppress the amusement from his memories of having been put on his back. Only one other woman has ever managed such a feat against him. And manages to do it consistently too.

"One...."

He answers honestly, his voice filled with fondness at the memory of the woman in question. A tenderness that seemed uncharacteristic to the hardened Crow. But before he could elaborate further he helped to pick her up again. Seemingly able to lift her entire weight with both hands, holding her up to the sky like she is the sun. His brown eyes shimmering as they studied her.

"Alright, let's get back to it," Harding declared, her voice breaking the moment between Lucanis and Rook. "Scores are one to one, and we're ready for the next round."

Setting her down, Lucanis had barely enough time to walk away and ready himself before her arm wrapped around his chest, her other hand pinning his arm to his back as her leg swept his feet from under him. When they both got to the ground, Rook quickly hopped off of him.

“The little fireball wants to play. Oh come now lets play!” For once, and probably the only time, Lucanis agreed with Spite.

Now fully engaged in the spar, Lucanis adopted a boxer-like stance, his arms cocked and ready for action. With each movement calculated and precise, he launched a series of short, controlled bursts of blows, aiming to test the Crow’s defences and keep her on her toes. Despite the intensity of their exchange, Lucanis remained mindful of not overpowering his opponent, yet ensuring that each strike carried enough force to make an impact. Each blow she blocked with her arm, legs, crouching with each arm as she tried to dance around him. Each kick over his head, each time she tried to strike under his chest, he moved around her. Each time he swiped, she bent back, flipping on her arms to keep this dance going alive. At one point he remembered hearing Rook laughing, Lucanis’s own chuckles following. It was slowly devolving into less of a strategic fight now, and more who would get the upper hand on who, and would be the first to fold. As they danced around each other, trading blows in a flurry of movement, Lucanis felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins, fueling his determination to match the girl's skill and tenacity.

Of course, neither truly paying attention to their surroundings, when Avantika’s back hit one of the trees growing in the courtyard, both knew exactly who would win this fight.

Lucanis smirked, even laughing at the sight of the trapped Crow. One of his arms pressed against the tree to keep the woman from escaping.

"I would recommend yielding right now, Ava...."

Lucanis chuckles while looking down at the exotic bring of a woman, towering over her in his full height as strands of his hair fall into his face, making him look disheveled and a bit unkempt Normally, he'd be more embarrassed at his current state, but he had a feeling a woman like Rook didn't care. Her own hair was a wild halo of unkempt curls, her skin shining from the sheen of sweat. In this moment, she looked nothing if not ethereal to him.

“Lucanis… are we alone?”

Avantika’s voice was barely above a whisper, her eyes burning into his with some sort of unspoken anticipation as her hand gently raised to brush a stray strand of his hair away from his brow. To his surprise, they were, the feeling of Spite nowhere to be felt in his mind.

Until the sound of someone’s throat being cleared behind them obliterated the small pocket universe the two had found themselves alone in, for that brief moment.

Davrin and Harding applauded behind them, Taash whooping excitedly as they exclaimed how that was exhilarating to watch. Lucanis could only agree, it was exhilarating to be a part of. Moving away from Rook, he retrieved his vest, quickly buttoning it before turning back to his comrade.

"Thank you for the honour of your spar Ava. You were truly magnificent."

Taking a few steps towards her once more, he took her hand and bowed to kiss her bruised knuckles. Though the kiss noticeably lasted just a moment longer than necessary while his deep brown eyes once again gazed deep into her like a moth seeking flame.

“You…. you were the magnificent one, Lucanis. You’re a wonderful teacher, and I thank you. I wear this defeat with honour, First Talon.” Avantika’s voice was filled with nothing but admiration and respect. And Lucanis’s smile that followed her thanks only reflected that back to her.

He was a man lost.

As he took his leave, Avantika staying behind to gather herself and talk strategy with Harding, that feeling in the back of his eyes returned as he stifled a grumble.

“Weakling. You should have given me control, I would have ravaged her then and there. Finally act on all those thoughts I see in your mind as you read those stupid letters. You are losing your touch, stupid man.” Spite spat at Lucanis, watching Avantika with eyes that could be described as only predatory. Lucanis could only shake his head, for that was the true difference between him and Spite. What he told himself to keep Ava’s own advice of being his own man in his mind.

Spite wanted to hunt her, devour Rook until there was nothing left.

Lucanis… especially after today, wanted to ravish her, lay himself at her feet and worship the goddess who dared bless him with a spar.

He was ruined.

[aperture8]

BG3 - Digital Characterbook

I will start with the result of the MBTI. I had to use a translator because my English is terrible and there was so much text :D

It's a wip because I'm still trying to put the different parts of the puzzle together...

The Myers-Briggs test was developed by Katharine Briggs and her daughter Isabel Myers, both lay psychologists. The test is based on the psychological type theory developed and published by the Swiss psychoanalyst Carl Gustav Jung in the 1920s. Jung differentiated between extroverted and introverted types. The Myers Briggs test, which is frequently used in the USA for personnel selection, picks up on these characteristics and supplements them. The test uses a questionnaire to determine whether an ‘applicant’ is more introverted or extroverted. If the result were an ‘ENTJ’, which stands for a mixture of the personality factors extraversion, intuition, thinking and judgement, then this would supposedly be a born leader: they are decisive and good at recognising and correcting inefficient processes.

Don't forget the MBTI has a lack of validity and is most likely so popular because of the Barnum effect; As with horoscopes, the description of the type is kept vague and flattering so that everyone recognises themselves. I used the MBTI and the Enneagram System just for fun to describe Ardreyth's personality. You really shouldn't take this kind of test serious.

The Result:

INJT - The Architect

I-INTROVISION

or you could say: solitude as a kind of protection. Ardreyth's introversion manifests itself not only in her tendency to seclusion. Withdrawal or complete isolation brings with it a certain strategic advantage in order to be able to analyse undisturbed (focusing on intuitive thinking (N)). For example, Ardreyth likes to practise at night and alone, not only to recapitulate the fighting mistakes of the day's training session, but also to develop new fighting techniques independently of Callimar. She keeps these secret from the other students and never presents them publicly (knowledge is seen as power that is accumulated and not shared). Ardreyth favours strategic thinking and rational decision making, withdrawing from chaotic or emotional contexts to calmly explore patterns, risks and solutions. Her introversion reinforces her emotional distance even from Callimar, who is the only one she trusts conditionally.

N-INTUITION

Her strength in this area comes from her ability to recognise hidden patterns and develop long-term strategies that others miss. Ardreyth notices the secret rebelliousness of a young priestess against the Mother Matron, who is secretly defiling the offerings to Lolth. Instead of exposing her, she skilfully draws attention to an older rival by manipulating the evidence. In the long run, the young priestess proves more useful to her. Years later, she uses this priestess to sabotage a ritual that would have posed a threat to House Mizzrym.

T-THINKING

Ardreyth's decisions are based on cool rationality, even if they are morally questionable. Emotions are deliberately suppressed in order to achieve her goals. Her thinking is not characterised by coldness of feeling, but rather a survival strategy in Drow society. Every decision is a strategic move in her quest for power and autonomy. She does not shy away from sacrificing lives in order to obtain valuable information and destroy relationships in order to strengthen or weaken existing systems.

J-JUDGING

Ardreyth's "judgments" act like a kind of armor in an unpredictable world. Through their tendency to plan, document, and systematically control everything down to the smallest detail, they transform chaos, threat, and ignorance into strength, influence, and security. Their gift lies in taming the uncontrollable. INJTs dislike chaos, not out of fear, but because it seems inefficient. Ardreyth's control becomes a tool to save time and energy; they use it to impose their will on others, but it also serves as a shield that conceals their vulnerability. The tragedy here is that the more perfect her plans are, the tighter the shackles are, she becomes a slave to her own systems.

Ardreyth could be described as a clever strategist who, over the years, has become very good at playing the drowish power poker… but this strategic talent also isolates her. As an INJT, she doesn't think much of Lolth's willfulness… but her quest for control clashes with her DU heritage, which drives her to impulsive violence.These strategies could actually free her if she would learn to trust herself and not just her plans.

Next part will be the Enneagram

[adam-sadmon]

So to supplement by last post wherein I made an Armored Core AC based around Makoto (and might do some more for the Thieves) it's alternatively funny to instead imagine AC's not built by design aesthetics or combat styles/characteristics of the Thieves but literally made BY the Thieves, so here's how I imagine each Thief would build their AC if sat down in front of Armored Core 6:

Ryuji: Easy. Tank legs, dual miniguns and dual missile launchers on the shoulders. He hasn't optimised it whatsoever and with a build like that honestly he doesn't need to, he's Tokyo drifting at mach 10 turning the atmosphere into 90% lead. He will absolutely drive Futaba insane over how stupid his build is and how terrifyingly effective it is, especially when he turns her fully optimised meta build into a tin can.

Futaba: Futaba is a Gamer TM, and a toxic meta-slave at that, so she's running dual Zimmermans and Songbirds, at least when she's playing online. She likes to challenge herself in the campaign (which she's played though about 10 times now) and loves to flex on the rest of the Thieves in the Arena, usually by only equipping a single bazooka and turning on manual aiming to practise her Quake/TF2 rockets. OH, and she has in fact bugged Yusuke into making some waifu decals for her which she stickerbombs her AC with.

Yusuke: At first Yusuke was literally just using the first AC you play as during the first mission of the game since he spent a 100% of his time creating decals and re-colouring his AC, until eventually he started changing the AC parts to compliment his decals and aesthetic, and finally he actually went into the test range to fight... So he could spend 110% of his time in photo mode.

Makoto: Makoto, much to the fear and surprise of Futaba, is ruthlessly efficient when it comes to her AC build and approaches weapon and part stats the way she would an exam, going out of her way to build an energy-weapon based medium-weight AC, having ran the numbers on the various energy generators and the sheer DPS on quad-pulse guns, and much to her surprise has even beat Futaba on multiple occasions, even against her meta-slave build. Though nobody knows and she wouldn't hasten to tell anybody Makoto has secretly spent an inordinate amount of time away from studying to make Buchimaru decals for when she plays alone in the campaign.

Ann: Having little frame of reference as far as mecha go Ann failed upwards, instead trying to emulate herself in the metaverse by running with dual Ludlow SMG's and even adding the whip-like plasma thrower to her build and, inspired by the sleek femme-fatale villainesses of her childhood shows, built herself especially light with reverse-joint legs, not for the added jump distance or decrease in weight but because they look like high heels. She has accidentally outed Makoto's dark secret by telling Mako-Chan that she and her should hang out and make some more Buchi emblems and makes Futaba question her existence when she victory dances after turning her AC into Swiss cheese.

Haru: As bloodthirsty in AC6 as she is in the Metaverse Haru gets noticeably too into Arena fights especially when landing a fully revved chainsaw or by going wide eyed and shallow-breathed when flying 300 metres up in the air on hovering tetrapod legs while raining down 40 missiles at once, usually on Ryuji who can't reach her with his stubby little tank legs and who refuses to change his AC. She's attempted to make a lighter weight, more aesthetically pleasing and eloquent AC's but says fuck it when she realises she can't equip the chainsaw without being overburdened.

Morgana: Morgana doesn't have thumbs, however when hanging around Futaba he backseats and has gotten her to make a gentlemanly, lightweight AC with quad-handguns painted all black and white to emulate his stylish masculinity, which he then got to see melted by Sulla. He hasn't even got to Balteus yet.

[sidhewrites]

art from @dreamcrow

-- Miss Jane

Titles: Baby Jane, The Brave Sir Jane

Apparent Age: Between 4 and 6

Gender: Presents as Female, too young to know the nuances.

Species: Magical Construct, appears to be a fairy

Height: 3'3"

Appearance:

Jane appears to be a petite child who suffered from malnutrition at the start of her human life, leading her to be smaller than a normal child her age. Despite her sweet, round face and large green eyes, she has the hints of the same sharp features of her mother. Her nearly black curls are usually pulled back and out of her face, often into pigtails that stick out to resemble horns. Her pointed ears twitch much like a cat’s, and she has a slightly prehensile tail with a tuft of dark fur on the end. Though she prefers more practical clothing than her mother, Jane occasionally dresses up in bespoke armor and a little, unsharpened sword so that she can play at being a knight. Jane is rarely without one of her many little pouches or bags, in which she carries a variety of snacks, stickers, toys, and the occasional woodland creature as well. Her wings are delicate and golden, giving off a faint warm light, and occasionally shedding scales here and there like fairy dust.

MAGICAL

Skills / Power set: Flight, very simple illusions, seemingly trusted by all animals in the Archival Realm, very weak ability to Command Animals. It’s not magical, but she seems to be able to charm just about anyone who visits the library. Excels at catching frogs and naming toys.

Weaknesses: Mistrusted by most mundane animals outside of the Realm, burned by iron, weak to ash and holly woods.

Jane is incapable of leaving the archival realm. Being a construct, she was made out of matter from the realm itself, and will crumble to dust if she ever properly crosses the barrier. There are very few exceptions here and there where the veil is thin or faded, but hard limits on how far from the castle itself she can go. Ruby does not know this, however, and has never let Jane leave regardless.

PERSONALITY

Strengths: Courageous, selfless, friendly, wishes to be a hero, innocent, believes the best in people, very forgiving, food motivated, loves stories.

Weaknesses: Inexperienced, naïve, easily manipulated, easily frightened and spooked, often too forgiving, cries easily.

Fears: Being alone, large animals, sudden noises, quiet enclosed spaces, hearing doors shut behind her, complete darkness, overly serious or frightening strangers (though she tries to be friendly and polite all the time)

Likes: Frogs, adventures, stories, coloring, stickers, desserts, hide and seek, standing in shallow ponds and watching the fish swim by, music

Dislikes: Artichokes.

Hobbies: Coloring, playing pretend, practising her letters, reading, taking her stuffed toys out for tea parties and picnics

[barbex]

happy friday!! From the emotionally charged sentence starters, how about: ❝ why do you stick around? what is it you think you see in me? ❞

For @dadrunkwriting, thank you for this prompt! It's only fitting that this is a continuation from your last prompt, for which I wrote the Amnesia ficlet (https://barbex.tumblr.com/post/728915573761785856/happy-friday-from-the-emotionally-charged). Someone teach me how to write short because this is 2500 unedited words. I could say I'm sorry, but I'm not 😂😂😂.

Another fenders ficlet, of course.

---

Fenris' life in Kirkwall is not busy. Unless Hawke calls on him for a job, he has an astonishing amount of free time every day, something he never experienced as a slave. When he told Varric that he practises dance routines in the mansion's hall, it was only half of a lie. It's not dance movements, but stretches and martial arts forms. As a slave, every moment of his life had a purpose, even if it just meant to watch his master for mood changes. The first few weeks in the mansion, he didn't know what to do with himself, the walls closing in, the rotten corpses staring at him. 

Training, focussing on his fighting forms, saved his sanity.

Reading is a new way of spending his time, ever since Hawke taught him how. He discovered that he can spend a lot of time in a book, not even noticing the hours passing by, except for his legs cramping and a pinch in his neck. Sometimes he catches himself looking over his shoulder, as if someone would punish him for doing this. Reading. Him, a slave. 

But he seems to have found another pastime, recently. Taking off his sword, he steps into Anders' clinic, and leans it against the armor stand next to Lirene's desk. She placed it there just for his sword.

"Hello, Fenris," Lirene says, smiling at him. It took her a while to relax around him, but by now, he seems to have become a normal sight at the clinic. He washes his hands in a basin, looking over the line of people. It's a busy day once again, people of all kinds and races waiting in line for Lirene to write them into the book. One of the assistants takes the patients into the next room, sorting them by urgency with a well trained eye. Fenris does not feel comfortable doing that, he doesn't know enough about injuries and illnesses, but he knows how to help someone onto a cot, how to hold them down, and he knows how to clean and wash. 

Currently he washes bandages, or scraps of fabric being used as bandages. His finger are cold as he rinses them out, and he sighs with relief when he can move to the heated water to scrub them with soap. It's simple work, but nothing he has ever done before, at least in what he remembers from his life. It is kind of soothing, to use ones hands like this, while his thoughts wander elsewhere.

Currently — and annoyingly — his thoughts tend to wander to the one man in the clinic he always claims to hate and distrust. And — annoyingly again — if he is honest with himself, it is not true. Not anymore. Not since he had to accept that they had been so much closer while he had forgotten his fear of magic. He still has no memory of that time and Anders doesn't talk about what happened between them, but even with his limited experience, he can guess from his behaviour. They were friends. Maybe even more than that.

Anders kneels in front of a crying elven girl, speaking gently, while his hand brushes over her sprained wrist. Soon, the girl stops crying and smiles at Anders. He smiles back, so soft and caring, his eyes twinkling as he whispers something to her. The girl giggles and runs over to Lirene, who takes a piece of candy from a glass and hands it to her. Her parent wants to follow her but Anders holds them back, all softness gone from his face, glaring at the elven father. 

"How did that happen?" he hisses out.

"I don't... I don't know what you mean," the young man stutters.

Anders grabs the elf's wrist and twists it. "Someone did this to her, only worse. That kind of injury doesn't just happen." 

The man tries to pull his arm away, looking at Fenris as if asking for help. But seeing that no help is coming, he finally turns back to Anders and crumbles. "I work as a gardener for a family in Hightown, and Pirrina came around to go home with me and she got in the way... a cup broke. The master was very angry." 

Anders looks about ready to murder someone. "The name."

"Please, Healer, I need that job."

"I understand." His gaze falls on Fenris, who only now realises that he has been staring at Anders. "Nothing will fall back on you or your family. Give me the name, please."

"The Verdalens."

Anders nods. "Take Pirrina home. Everything will be alright."

Fenris throws another bundle of soiled bandages into the pot and stirs them in the soapy water. He recognizes the expression in Anders' face, that determined crease around his mouth. Anders is ready to go into battle. 

For a few hours, everything continues on as usual, the stream of patients a constant. The later it gets, the more the stream changes from Lowtown families to foundry workers, hacking up their lungs as they come in. Injured from the various gang wars show up in between, and Anders treats everyone the same way, with the same calm patience, his hands glowing with healing or handing out potions. 

Fenris doesn't flinch anymore when Anders uses his magic. He has seen it too often by now. The mage works himself to exhaustion every night, and Fenris would be a fool if he'd still compared him to power crazy magisters. 

At last, it's quiet, Anders sits down on a chair and shakes out his hands. Tiredness wavers around him like a dark cloud. Fenris watches him, waiting for that determined crease to reappear. 

Lirene hands a plate with two sandwiches to Fenris and gestures towards Anders. "Make sure he eats his." She leaves with a wave, before Fenris can ask how feeding the mage has become his job. 

Holding the sandwich out to Anders, Fenris waits for the mage to acknowledge it. "Eat, mage."

"Ordering me around, huh?" Anders looks at the sandwich and shakes his head. "Not hungry."

"Stop being annoying," Fenris says. "You need your strength."

"If I'm so annoying, why do you stick around? Why do you care about my strength?" He takes the sandwich and takes a bite. "Fuck me, this is good." The sandwich is gone in three more bites.

Fenris holds out his own sandwich. 

"That's yours," Anders says, staring at him.

"I had lunch, you didn't. You need it more." 

After a short hesitation, Anders takes the sandwich and inhales it like the other one. He keeps glancing at Fenris as he chews. When he's done eating, he keeps looking at Fenris, a soft expression on his face. "Thank you, I didn't realise..." He licks his lips and his eyes widen as he quickly turns away. 

Fenris can't deny that he has been staring at those lips. He could touch them, with his fingertip, or with his lips. But he won't. He stands up, walking to the armor stand to pick up his sword. Not because he cannot stay this close to Anders and his gentle eyes and soft lips, and his golden hair he wants to touch... He shakes himself, willing these strange thoughts away. "What will you do now?"

"About what?"

"The Verdalens, where the little girl got hurt."

"Oh that." Anders grins like a cat. "I'm just going to spook them a bit."

"But you can't risk the father losing this job." 

"Don't worry, I won't do that." Anders puts on his coat and stuffs a small leather bag and two potion vials into the pockets. Picking up his 'walking stick' from behind a curtain, he lets Fenris step out of the clinic and locks the door behind them. "It's a bit of a walk to the Verdalens, if you want to come along."

"Yes, I'm going with you." 

"I thought so." Anders dances down the stairs, more energetic than Fenris has seen him before.

Fenris frowns as he catches up with Anders. "You knew I would come along?" 

"You've been watching over me for weeks now, frowning and growling." Anders' voice is strangely neutral. "I'm not sure what you expect to see. Maybe you're waiting for me to explode, or transform into a demon, or — oh, I know." He looks directly at Fenris, making it hard to breathe. "You're waiting for me to do bloodmagic and mindfuck someone. Of course." Anders turns back to the path and walks faster. "It's not going to happen, but I guess you can never be too careful."

The assessment is painful but correct. He used to be like that. When he learned that Anders let himself be possessed, he watched the mage, fearing and waiting for the moment when he would give in to his demon. And seeing a mage with such power at his hands, more powerful than any magister he has ever known, Fenris naturally assumed that he would hunger for more and turn to bloodmagic at any moment. 

Fenris hurries to catch up with Anders. "I know you are not a bloodmage." He stares at his feet. "And I know you're not going to explode."

Two fingers touch his chin and lift his head. He recoils from the touch, his markings glowing. 

Anders rips his hand away. "Sorry, I shouldn't, fuck. I know I shouldn't touch you." He stops and waits for Fenris to look at him. "Please, forgive me, it won't happen again." 

Fenris calms his markings, taking a step closer to Anders. "Explain."

"The way you look down when you speak..." Anders fidgets, looking anywhere but at Fenris. "I've seen that before. The elves in the alienage act like that when one of the guards asks them something. Mages speak like that to templars in the Circle." He finally looks at Fenris. "Slaves speak like that, keeping their heads down. For safety." 

It is hard to breathe. Fenris feels like he has been stripped of his armor, defenceless in front of this mage, who sees him like nobody else. 

"It's just a habit," Anders says easily. "You're not a slave anymore, you'll get over it, like with everything you set your mind to."

A storm churns in Fenris' mind, too many thoughts at once. Anders obviously knows him well and for the hundredth times he wonders what happened between them in that stretch of time he doesn't remember. The sense of loss settles over him again, the feeling that he is missing something he doesn't even remember having. 

"Here we are, this is the backyard of their mansion." 

Fenris needs a moment to come back to the present. "Are you planning of storming in and —"

"No, nothing like that. These people wouldn't care anyway, but with one thing, all these noble gits are the same. They're superstitious." Anders grins at him, mischievousness twinkling in his eyes. "They're all obsessed about dalish ghosts and such nonsense, so we're going to shake them up a bit." 

Anders creeps up to the backdoor opens one of the vials from his pocket and twitches his finger over the opening. Smoke wafts from the small bottle, disappearing through the keyhole. He gestures for Fenris to follow him and walks around the corner of the building, ducking under the windows, until he comes up to one where bright light spills out into the garden. Peeking over the edge, he nods. "There they are, master and mistress. Now let's set that ghost to work."

Somehow, with the combination of the smoke wafting into the room, a screaming grenade thrown into the room, and sparkling powder blown through a gap in the window frame, Anders' magic forms a ghostly figure floating through the room. He sings some sort of incantation with a distorted, throaty voice, sounding vaguely elven. Anders somehow projects his voice to the smoke ghost, his face contorting as he promises a terrible destiny to those who anger the dalish ghosts and Fenris has to press his hand to his mouth to not give their position away with his laughter. Anders looks at him, a boyish grin on his face as he projects a gravely laugh to the ghost.

Inside, the woman screams and the man tries to fight the ghost with a candlestick, burning himself with hot wax. Among the screams, somewhere a door claps and Anders grabs Fenris' hand and runs back the way they came, through the backyard and out into the backroads. Still giggling, he runs, pulling Fenris behind him, until a dark alley opens at their side. In the darkness, Anders lets go of his hand, leans against the wall and laughs out once more. "Oh, that was fun. Did you see their faces? They were so shocked." 

Fenris joins in his laughter, wondering when the last time was he laughed this much. "Do you think they'll treat their staff better now?" 

"I don't know, maybe." Anders wipes at his eyes and chuckles to himself. He glances at Fenris through his hair. It has fallen out of its tie, a golden curtain in front of his face. He wipes it back, pushing the strains behind his ears. "Did you have fun?"

Fenris breathes out with another giggle, rasing his head to look at Anders. He steps forward, taking Anders' hand back in his. "Yes, I had fun." He doesn't quite know what he is doing, but holding Anders' hand, stepping closer to him, close enough to feel the heat of his body — it feels right. 

"Fenris?" Anders looks from his hand to Fenris' lips and back. 

"I wondered... when I had that amnesia..." He steps closer, his breastplate touching Anders' chest. "Did we kiss?"

Anders' expression darkens. "Don't ask me that."

"That is answer enough." Fenris stretches up on his toes, feeling brave. "Can we do it again?"

"Only if..." Anders bites his lips, taking a shuddering breath. "Only if you don't hate me afterwards." 

Fenris' heart beats faster. There is a draw to Anders, a feeling of familiarity that assures him that he has done this before. A hole in his mind he needs to fill. Now, he wants to remember. "I promise." He stretches up and catches Anders' lips. 

For a moment, they just stand there, lips carefully touching, but then Anders lets out a sigh and surges forward, his arms wrapping around Fenris' shoulders. "Fen," he whispers and it sounds like a prayer.

Fenris may not remember their kisses, but he knows in his heart that this is a real one. They devour each other as if they have to sate a terrible hunger, lips smacking, tongues touching, sharing each others breath. Pleasure and desire runs down his back like electric sparks, his body pressing harder against Anders, as if he craved this closeness without realising. His hands find their way under Anders' shirt, brushing over his chest. 

"Fen, Fen, love." Anders kisses along his jaw, until he reaches the curve of his throat. Fenris shudders at the touch, his whole body reacting to the pleasure. He didn't even know. "I've missed you," Anders mumbles against his throat.

"I'm here." Fenris slides his hands into Anders' hair. "I was here the whole time."

"Not like this." Anders stops kissing him, breathing hard. "You were there, like an image but not..." 

"I am sorry," Fenris says, touching his finger to Anders' lips. "I'm sorry for hurting you so."

"It's alright. Just..." Anders takes his hand and presses it to his chest. "Just take me home, love."

"Home?" 

Anders nods. "Your place."

Home. His mansion. Fenris breathes against the sudden tightness in his chest. "Come then. This time, I want to remember."

[four-leafed-queer-gal]

Silly Game Time: WEIRD GLADIATOR FIGHTS! A professional tennis player with a high-quality racket and a magically inexhaustible supply of tennis balls (they reach for a ball, and it appears in their hand). VS Genghis Khan, on foot and in comfortable robes instead of armor, weilding only his own high-quality racket.

You have $5 to bet on the winner (no split bets). Place your wager!

Oooh- Professional tennis player. Much as I love my Mongol ancestor, professional tennis players are terrifying in terms of swing strength. While the Khan definitely is strong, he hasn't done a lot of tennis swings for practise, so he wouldn't be as good at it as the tennis player.