nysscientiafic

[nysscientiafic]

how come every time I'm really stuck on a smut scene it turns out the problem was it just needed slightly more d/s undertones

[nysscientiafic]

published the first chapter of devil pact WIP yesterday, got two (2) comments, and immediately fixed a scene in the second chapter that's been bothering me for months. it's almost like the whole world was right that community interaction can be beneficial and motivating

[nysscientiafic]

salvation in a devil's snare, chapter 1

Baldur's Gate 3, Astarion/Wyll, mature, (many) warnings in AO3 tags, spoilers for basically all of BG3

additional tags include: alternate universe - canon divergence, deal with a devil, temporary character death, developing relationship, slow burn, angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, blood drinking

Mizora raises one sculpted eyebrow. “Even I don’t have power over life and death, sweet thing.” “Not that,” Astarion snaps, fumbling in his pack. “Whatever you’ve done to the resurrection magic. Blocked it, or—undo that.” The devil taps a finger to her lips, thoughtful. “My Wyll and I made a deal, little spawn. I can’t just ‘undo it.’ Not without something valuable in exchange.” “Fine.” He grimaces, potion bottles and miscellaneous paraphernalia clinking against his palm—until finally, his hand closes on the familiar round of a scroll case. “You deal in souls. Take mine.”

To undo a mistake that wasn't his to make, Astarion strikes a deal. But the world is still ending, and Wyll isn’t so quick to see salvation in a devil’s snare.

[nysscientiafic]

cute lil hookup fic is now 7.5k. they've agreed to go somewhere to bang 🎉

me: oh good, an idea for a cute lil oneshot so I can write this pairing hooking up even though it'll be awhile before they get there in the longfic

the cute lil oneshot: currently 6.5k and they still haven't hooked up

[nysscientiafic]

I finished a major lore/plot problem in my super long WIP and that was the biggest thing deterring me from posting chapters as I work on editing it. uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

what if I actually posted a WIP in chapters while it's in progress? is that a thing I should do

[nysscientiafic]

epilogue party hookup fic escalates to its own WIP tag

(spoilers for the epilogue party)

His maudlin thoughts and Gale's chatter are both dispelled by a raucous shout from across the camp.

"Fangs?" Karlach. Of course. No one else could make incredulity sound so foolishly joyful. "Gale, stop hogging the pretty boy and get him over here!"

And then Gale is shuffling Astarion over to where Shadowheart and Karlach are chatting, just within the warmest ring of the firelight.

"Good of you to notice, my dear," Astarion offers Karlach by way of greeting—because he's sure she meant 'pretty boy' well, and also because he would've stolen the compliment out of it even if she didn't. "How long do we have you for tonight? I assume your escape route back to Avernus is somewhere nearby?"

Gale makes a quiet meep sound that he attempts to cover with a hand, looking suspiciously gleeful for someone discussing a friend's imminent detonation. Shadowheart casts a glance his way and rolls her eyes. But she, too, is hiding some unknowable expression behind her wine glass.

It's Karlach who replies, though, tipping her face up towards the stars.

"Fuck, I will never get tired of saying this," she starts, almost to herself. Then she squares her gaze right on Astarion. "I'm not going back."

Astarion feels his brows climb towards his hairline. "You're not?"

"Never." The grin splitting her face is the kind of thing bards try, and fail, to capture with song. "I'm all fixed up."

She punctuates this last with a rap on her chest. It clangs as it always has; but the resonance is softer and a little more distant, without the ominous rattle it used to have.

A bubble of breathless silence forms in the conversation, even though the others obviously already knew. Waiting for Astarion to burst it, maybe. He hasn't made it a habit to care much about developments in the lives of others these past centuries, but—perhaps he cares about this one.

"Why, darling," he starts, and then surprises himself by being speechless.

Perhaps he cares about this very much indeed.

Karlach's smile goes from belligerently wide to something smaller, sweeter. She reaches out to nudge him in the shoulder—and the glancing touch is hot, but bearably so.

"This time," she says, "you're not getting rid of me so easy."

Astarion swallows and tries again. "I imagine a repair like that has a Hells-worthy story behind it, hm?"

It occurs to him that the rest of the group have probably all heard the tale already. Maybe twice over, even, since Shadowheart and Gale likely didn't arrive together. But when he glances their way, all he sees is a rapt, glassy-eyed wizard and Shadowheart's appreciative nod.

A spark of annoyance flares in his chest, at Shadowheart gracing him with her approval—followed by deeper irritation at himself, for enjoying it.

He's saved from considering his own thoughts by the interruption of a familiar voice, warm with pride.

"A worthy story indeed," Wyll says, appearing at Karlach's other side like a fey prince from a portal. "But before we begin, a toast to our girl. And her freedom, at last!"

He's holding two wine goblets—ostensibly returning from the refreshments. He raises one in celebration, arm strong and wrist elegant; bearing himself nobly even in this homely camp.

The other goblet he slides smoothly into Astarion's hand.

The toast is lovely, probably. Astarion doesn't hear a word.

Instead, he lifts his glass, and sips the wine, and does his level best not to stare.

Wyll is… different.

His travel-worn but well-tended armor is gone, shed for makeshift protections crafted from slain devils. He still wears the scruff of the road, but it's a darker shadow along his jaw; fewer opportunities for a clean shave in the wasteland of Avernus, probably.

But beyond the trappings, even his presence is different: his muscles are more corded, his middle stockier, his knuckles rougher. Less flutey spellcraft and more hard scrapping, Astarion imagines. He holds himself with the same eternal alertness that used to put Astarion on edge back when they traveled together—but it hangs naturally on him, now. He seems immediate, to a new and heartracing degree: more inhabited. More vivid.

Wyll finally looks like the hunter his reputation claimed him to be.

It takes Astarion's useless breath away.

[nysscientiafic]

me: oh good, an idea for a cute lil oneshot so I can write this pairing hooking up even though it'll be awhile before they get there in the longfic

the cute lil oneshot: currently 6.5k and they still haven't hooked up

[nysscientiafic]

⚠️ I am gaining momentum on a fic for the first time in over 200 years

[nysscientiafic]

(text description in ALT and below the cut)

Based on some rumblings I heard, I ended up quickly throwing together a fun little WIP bingo sheet! I'll admit I largely wrote the prompts for writing, but I think a good number of them should also apply to art!

Ultimately, the goal is to have fun, and finish whatever WIPs you can (without burning yourself out or having a bad time). If you needed a sign to pick up that project you've been putting off, the time is now!

3x4 Bingo square titled "Finish your fucking fics february"

the top three across left to right read "Update your oldest WIP", "Finish a WIP that's been buried deep in your drafts", and "Finish a WIP that you haven't posted yet"

the second row reads "Finish a recent WIP", "Finish a WIP you're scared of" and "Finish a WIP that's been haunting you"

the third row reads "Update a partially posted WIP", "Finish any WIP/Free Space", and "Finish the next WIP in a series you've been avoiding"

the last row reads "Update your newest WIP", "Finish a WIP that's been ignored for at least 6 months", and "Finish the next chapter for a fic you've been meaning to for months"

[nysscientiafic]

I have not written any Wyllstarion AU anything because it is my hope and wish to finish at least ONE canon piece PLEASE FATE LET ME DO THIS THING but

in my heart where all the AU dreams live. an essential component is that they cross paths in an arena where Astarion is shockingly, violently good at what he does. violent in a surprisingly literal sense—his skill and accomplishment have come at his own expense, at the very least, if not with some fairly steep pain paid by others as well.

whereas Wyll, meanwhile, also brings extraordinary prowess and talent to bear, but without (visibly) any of the same cost. he can be good at whatever is the metric in our given AU, while also being good to others and perhaps even himself.

they get to be foils of one another, on the surface, in their attitudes toward whatever our AU premise is.

which makes it all the more interesting when we get under the surface and discover the ways Wyll actually is sacrificing himself and thinks that's just the cost of living, and uncover the tolls Astarion isn't willing to pay; and find the places where Astarion actually does know how to enjoy life and Wyll has forgotten; and and and

[nysscientiafic]

a little Wyllstarion snippet

“Would you sit with me?” He tosses it over his shoulder, casual as you please. Given the circumstances, Astarion can hardly deny him.

Which is how he comes to be sitting, hands folded uselessly in his lap, as Wyll washes blood and filth and monster slime from their clothes. It’s almost meditative, the swirl and scrub and slosh of it all. Astarion takes mental notes: garments to mend; garments to bicker with Wyll about throwing out (before they’ll compromise by turning them into bandages and wash rags).

Into the rhythmic quiet of the laundering, Wyll says, “I don’t imagine you would’ve heard many of the stories.”

Inexplicably, Astarion has to fight against the impulse to tense up. He doesn’t answer.

But Wyll must not expect a reply, because he continues: “The Blade was a more popular tale—well, on the Frontiers.” A tentative sort of half-laugh; bashful, maybe. “But the reputation was that he traveled alone.”

This is something Wyll does, sometimes: talk as though the Blade is some other person. Separate. Astarion hasn’t divined exactly what it means, just yet.

He can’t see Wyll’s face, but it’s easier to just listen, sitting side by side this way. Letting the hills and valleys of Wyll’s confident oration surround him.

“I told people that the solitude was to pursue quarry; travel lighter, move faster,” Wyll says. “But the truth was—sharing camps with anyone else drove me half mad. I would lie awake all hours, barely able to close my eyes, much less get any rest.”

Astarion stops fidgeting with his nails, turns to take in Wyll’s shape leaned over the washtub. He attempts a neutral tone as he prompts, “Would you?”

Maybe not neutral enough, because Wyll smiles wryly. “I would. I was terrified Mizora would show up—reveal my pact to some bystander; terrorize some poor innocents.”

He slows his work. His hands are probably pruning in the water. “I became something of a hermit, over those seven years,” he muses.

Astarion licks his lips. He feels terribly twitchy, just then, at the idea of Wyll finishing all the washing by himself.

He rises, restless. Clean clothes are slung over the side of the tub; it’s simple enough to busy himself with pinning them to the line. Wyll never pays any mind to which pieces are delicate enough that they need more pins for extra support, so this arrangement is for the best, really.

Even so. Wyll catches his eye—gives him a soft smile that makes him feel like his chest is collapsing.

Then he shakes himself, returns to his story.

“I’m not sure what brought that to mind, exactly,” he says, as though it was some bland anecdote and not a rare glimpse behind his implacable facade. “Just that—I sympathize with having something that’s yours taken away from you, I suppose. In some small way.”

Astarion stills.

He forces himself to finish with hanging up Wyll’s shirt before turning to face the man. “Wyll. You’re telling me that rancid bitch made you afraid to sleep.” His muscles are taut, fingers itching for a blade. What he wouldn’t give to cut Mizora into strips. “Don’t you dare ‘some small way’ about that.”

From his seat near the wash, Wyll’s eyes are wide and his lips parted—caught off guard by Astarion’s vehemence. “I only meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Astarion snaps. “You deserved better.”

Entirely on impulse, he crosses to kneel beside Wyll, one leg folded under himself so he can lean in close. He cups his fingers under Wyll’s stubbled jaw.

“You still deserve better,” he insists, and his voice comes out—oddly rough.

Wyll’s flaming eye is very bright and very round as he stares back at Astarion.

“She visited me at our camp,” he admits—confessional, like it’s a sin of his own. “In the night, sometimes. When everyone was in their own tents.”

“I wish I’d caught her and torn out her throat.” Astarion means every word.

“I wish we’d gone to that clothier,” Wyll replies, non sequitur. “I wish I’d bought out the whole store for you.”

He’s referencing the last town they visited. Astarion didn’t even know Wyll had spotted him eyeing the couturier’s windows.

He surges forward. Wyll meets him halfway.

Astarion would never admit it, but—it’s still a shock, to have the beautiful, pure-hearted Wyll Ravengard want a creature like himself for affection. For sweetness. Wyll kisses him so delicately: not like he is breakable, but like he is detailed. Intricate.

Complicated and worth learning.

His tongue slips into Astarion’s mouth, slick and exploring. Not conquering but curious—as though Astarion is something to taste, not just to fuck.

Warm brown hands enfold Astarion—one lighting on his neck, the other curving on his waist—and this time, his touch feels more than welcome. His hold is mooring; a steadying brace against wild winds and tides. Astarion thrills in the circle of his arms.

And pulls back to nip at his lower lip.

Wyll is welcome to revel in as much saccharine romance as he can stomach; it does nothing to quell Astarion’s rising hunger.

He receives a deliciously shuddering gasp for the rough treatment. A predatory appetite in Astarion’s belly stirs—something entirely separate from vampirism.

“You’re too good to me, lover,” he purrs, sliding the words right into Wyll’s sweet rounded ear.

Wyll’s rumbling laugh tapers into breathlessness. “Impossible.”

[nysscientiafic]

me: I'm SICK of all this plot and FEELING, I just want to write about my blorbos FUCKING

me: HERE is a scenario where they can get freak nasty to their heart's content

me, immediately: (starts writing a scene where one of them is having annoying small talk with a completely different person)

[nysscientiafic]

I fell asleep writing last night :) we're back babey

I went to a con and it was so much fun but also all my energy left my body forever and now I am a husk. I want to want to write

[nysscientiafic]

I went to a con and it was so much fun but also all my energy left my body forever and now I am a husk. I want to want to write

[nysscientiafic]

Lesser-known steps of the writing process:

Finding all the paragraphs where you used some hyper-specific word more than once

Rearranging paragraphs that you swear you wrote in the right order but turned out to be totally backwards

Going for a walk, coming up with the perfect line, and forgetting it as soon as you get home and open your laptop

Creating a separate document where you can dump all of those nice sentences that no longer fit in anywhere

Waking up in a cold sweat because so-and-so was supposed to be barefoot but never actually took his shoes off

[nysscientiafic]

a little Gale'zel fragment

(vague plot spoilers through Act II)

Nearly a tenday later, Gale wakes in the chill clutches of the Shadow-Cursed Lands to find Lae’zel crouching at his bedroll.

He startles, clamping down on what would’ve surely been a heroic shriek.

Lae’zel entirely ignores his consternation. “You stood for me.”

Gale spent most of the day so drained by shadows he could barely stand at all. He attempts to shake off the haze of panic and the blear of sleep.

“Hm?” he prompts, eloquently.

“At the crèche,” Lae’zel specifies, impatient. “You saw the perils of the zaith’isk, suspected the duplicity of both the Sa’varsh and the Ch’r’ai. Yet at the portal in the Astral, when that—entity—would speak to only one of us, you stood for me.”

The words begin to align and create meaning in Gale’s mind. “Oh. I—yes, I suppose I did.”

Lae’zel clicks, low in her throat. “Why?”

That finally brings Gale to full wakefulness—because he’s not sure. Shadowheart bears the prism; and all of them have a stake in their mysterious dream visitor, surely. Any one of them could've been sent forth to speak to the mysterious dream figure. It had been instinct, felt right the way so many of his decisions do, to vouch for Lae'zel.

He disregards the gith leaning over him to squint up into the dark, where stars might shine if the void of this place didn’t swallow their light.

“A goddess’ charge is no small thing,” he says, finally. Looks back to Lae’zel, who’s eyeing him warily. “You were to bear the consequences, whether we obeyed or denied Vlaakith. It was only right you see for yourself. Choose for yourself.”

He’s expecting the stern, narrow stare he gets in return. It’s frequently her response to his most earnest thoughts.

What he doesn’t expect is that she bends down, sudden and quick in a way that puts him in mind of a striking viper, only to stop with her face heart-quakingly close to his own.

“I will not be lured into your philosophy of choice,” she snaps, as abruptly as she’d moved. “The wrongs of the gods are only greater for their meritless divinity.”

She raises a hand, and for a wild moment Gale imagines she’s going to strike him—but she only settles it above his chest, sharp nails tenting over his scarred heart.

“Mystra doesn’t deserve your sacrifice,” she announces. Pointedly, as though they’d been arguing.

Then she gets up to leave as suddenly as she’d appeared, and Gale is left to wonder if somehow they had been.

[nysscientiafic]

WIP Wednesday on the dashboard edition!

Wyllstarion devil deals

Wrapping up the last of my dashboard prompts. Thank you!!

-

Wyll blinks. He was expecting—too-familiar banter; a jovial attempt to sweep away petty rudeness. Or acid sarcasm, perhaps, if Astarion felt particularly caught out. But this—this is something else entirely.

Shifting the sheets, Wyll turns to take Astarion in fully, strange circumstance be damned.

He finds an odd picture.

-

finishing up WIP Wednesday!