#YES THE GAUNTLET IS REQUIRED

[insomniactic-daydream]

Comfortable- Bakugo X Reader

Bakugo x Support Course Shoto's Twin Sister Reader (Pt.4)

<- (Previous Pt.3)

Summary: Endeavor has a soft spot for his younger daughter. Y/n notices how Bakugo has gotten more comfortable (and annoying) around her. However, she doesn't seem to mind.

The next morning came, and you began packing your bags of tools and as well as the gauntlets that were nearly completely. All that was really left were to adjust some things with Bakugo's arm measurements. Though, that's still required a large amount of your tools.

Sleeping last night was hard. Loving your family is hard. Everyone was raised differently besides Natsuo and Fuyumi, but even they see the situation differently. It was hard to be in agreement with each other regarding parents when all of you coped with trauma differently.

The sound of your phone ringing interrupted your thoughts as well as muted the noise of cooking pans in the kitchen for morning breakfast. You check the caller and roll your eyes before picking it up.

"You know it's barely 9 in the morning, right? Let me get some food in before slaving me away for your gauntlets. I'm pretty sure this is against child labor laws, Mr. Future Number One. " You say sarcastically, remembering all the time he's talked a earful of being the best during you making his support items.

For a man that says he can't be bothered to deal with 'extras', he sure likes taking up your space. But you label it as he only wants to learn and see how to modify his gauntlets whenever he needed to in the future.

"You're a dumbass. I was calling your forgetful ass to remind you. Make sure you ask your old man or someone before coming here. I don't need a stowaway." He grumbles. Although he didn't know an argument went on last night, you did text him pretty late. Sounding like a last minute plan rather than a though out one, which was 100% true.

"Don't get your peg leg in a twist, Captain. I was going to ask this morning. I'm confident they'll say yes, considering this is worth my grade." You retort back while placing your support informarion journal with your other things you'll be taking.

"Whatever loser, just don't keep me waiting for your ass too long." He says in a huff.

"Relax, you'll see me soon enough. God you're so obsessed with me." You say chuckling to yourself as you open the door out to your room.

"AS IF YOU LITTLE SH-" was all you heard before hanging up the phone. He knows better to call again just to cuss you out. You'll just ignore those calls too.

You walk into the kitchen seeing Fuyumi at work on the stove while your father and Shoto sit in uncomfortable silence.

"Good Morning Y/n, hope you had a good rest. I didn't see you at the table last night. Fuyumi said you were feeling tired, " Endeavor says to you. Fuyumi exchange glances with Shoto. Hiding the truth at what really went down.

"Morning, Dad. Apologies, I was feeling slumped last night." You lie before sitting down in the seat beside him.

Your dad is the Devil's incarnate, at least that's what most of your family says; and you happen to be his favorite child. Maybe in his mind, maybe treating you right would make up for giving up on Touya.

However, that makes situations like these difficult. You know that throwing your siblings under the bus for what really happened last night would result in just a bigger argument, with your father to your defense. Respecting your siblings' decisions and opinions whether you agree with it or not, you say nothing about the incident to your father.

After you all say thanks for the food and begin eating, you clear your throat to speak, gaining the attention of the table.

"So I'm going to a friend's house to finish their support item for class. I was wondering if I could have the chauffeur to take me if it's not too much of a hassle." You say already grabbing your plate to wash and put away.

"Very well. We can drop you off on the way to the agency. Prepare your things. We are leaving soon as finish." Endeavor asks.

"Yes, sir." You say before heading down the hall to go grab your things.

Soon after, you're out the door and enjoying a silent car ride to Bakugo's home.

"Try not to stay too long. Like the rest of us, Mr. Kurumada also has to go home at the end of the day. I wouldn't mind picking you up myself, but be mindful of others' time." Endeavor says before helping you gather your things.

"I know, Dad. I wouldn't want to overstay my welcome either. I'll try and keep the time in mind. Thank you for driving me here." You say kindly also giving a wave to your dad's driver too.

"Very well. I can help you carry your things to the door if yo-" your father says before you interupt him.

"I'm okay, Dad, no need to worry." You smile before picking up all your things and walking to Bakugo's door. He doesn't argue and heads back to the car.

Fragile. As if you might crack from the slightest touch. Touya death certainly did a number on how he treats you.

Tossing thoughts aside, you knock three times before the door opens. "Took you long enough, nerd."

"Shut up and help me. You're gauntlets weigh a ton." You say before shoving him his gear. And stepping inside the home.

"Wow this place is nice. Much more modern than where I live." You say putting your shoes down and trading them for house quest slippers. You observe all the family photos, taking in the faces of the annoying blondes parents.

You see a picture of him as a baby frowning up at his smiling parents. You'd imagined what it would be like to see such smiles on yours.

"My parents are designers. My old hag does clothes, my old man houses. Both of them got called in today, but they should be home later, " He grumbles as he lifts your stuff from the floor. His tone was much more relaxed than his voice at school.

"You'd think you would dress nicer considering your parents tatse." You smirk up at his carnelian eyes now rolling at your remark.

"I dress perfectly fine, you lump of coal. Now stop analyzing my house and let's get you to work." He says before grabbing your wrist and walking to the backyard. Still carrying your things with his other hand.

"Such a good host you are." You deadpan and drag your wieght behind him.

He sure has gotten comfortable grabbing and dragging you around, considering he recoiled at the thought of shaking your hand in the beginning.

You pay it no mind.

Although the fucker can be annoying at times, he can be fun to hang around when he isn't screaming.

He's not half bad.

(Next Part 5) ->

Kind of another filler chapter about sharing the Y/n' s family dynamics.

But trust, there will be more Y/n and Bakugo romance next chapter 🫡

Tag List: @queenriki7 @bumblebeebutter @mochimommy2002 @s3mis3m1

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[nebulaafterdark]

Do you think you could write something with Aegon x velaryon or targ reader and it’s their wedding night? Plz and thank youuuuu

Yes! Here we go.

Sweet Girl

Aegon x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader

Warnings: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI unprotected sex, loss of virginity, Targcest, soft!Aegon.

This is it. Y/N fidgets restless at the foot of Aegon’s mattress. Her uncle, her nemesis, her husband.

Aegon approaches with two cups in hand.

“No,” Y/N puts a hand out, pushing back against the gauntlet lightly. “Thank you.”

“You’re shaking.” Aegon says, pointedly. “Trust me, a drink or two always takes the edge off.”

“You don’t have to be nice to me now.”

“That’s not entirely true.” He frowns. “I have no desire to face the wrath of your mother, stepfather or the King.”

“You think my mother would be angry?” Y/N scoffs, “if Rhaenyra cared she would not have been so willing to let us marry.”

Aegon tosses back his drink. “You are her heir after all, there’s bound to be sacrifice required to pave your way. If it makes you feel any better, this was my mother’s doing as well.”

Y/N looks up at him, still standing over her with the cup.

“It is not poison, I swear.”

The brunette smirks, taking the offering in hand and chugging the liquid. It burns its way down her throat, much stronger than wine. “What is that?” She chokes out.

Aegon takes the seat beside her, the mattress shifting under his weight as he claps the princess once on the back. “Only the best for my wife.”

Y/N allows the cup to tumble from her hand and clatter to the floor. The effects of the concoction hit her fast.

“Would you like another?” Aegon asks.

“Somehow I don’t think that’s a good idea. Unless you prefer me unconscious.” Y/N muses, “on second thought-” she makes for the chalice.

“Oh no,” Aegon chuckles, catching her around the waist. “If I have to be awake for this, so do you.”

“Let us get on with it then.” Y/N tosses herself backwards onto the coverlet.

“You’re just going to lie there?”

“Mhm,” Y/N closes both eyes.

“Am I truly so awful?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“How are you meant to see anything with your eyes closed?”

Y/N peeks at him, through a slit in one eye.

Aegon moves over her slowly, leaning on his elbows. Keeping most of his weight off of her. “I’ll be good to you.”

She sighs, taking in his face above her, in full. Aegon is beautiful, she’ll give him that. And when he’s not being a twat, he can be kind. “Swear it?”

“I do.”

In a spirit induced state of willful negligence, she reaches a hand up to cup his cheek. “Could you ever love me?”

“Love,” he laughs. “What is love but a frivolous endeavor which breeds eternal suffering?”

Y/N lifts a shoulder, “I suppose you’re right. But there must also be benefits. Think of all those who live and die for it.”

Aegon shifts against her, making himself at home with his chest to hers. “I have never known love. However, lust and I are dear companions. You will find pleasure each time we lie together.”

“And when we are finished I’ll leave?”

“If that is your desire.”

“What if I stay?”

“That is my desire.”

“Then you do crave affection?”

“Among other things, yes.” He admits. “From you, as my wife, I crave affection above all.”

“I’ve never…been with anyone. I can’t say if I’ll be good at it.” Her eyes search his for reassurance.

“We could learn together.” Aegon leans in a bit closer, their breath mingling. “Conquer love and rule the Seven Kingdoms.”

Y/N pushes slightly off the bedding, capturing his lips with hers. “You’ll have to conquer me first.”

Aegon grins against her mouth, “gently the first round, then without mercy.”

Y/N inhales deeply, feeling his tongue invade her mouth. Lapping against her own, tasting her thoroughly.

As he suspected, she is sweet. Aegon relishes in this for a long moment, until her hips begin canting up against his. His finger tips grazing along the silhouette of her torso through the material of her nightgown. Squeezing the flesh of her hip, past her rib cage to the outskirts of her breasts. Cupping her soft mounds, nipples pebbling against his palm.

Y/N gasps, pressure building between her thighs. She rocks her hips against Aegon for relief, gasping at the feel of him, rock solid.

“Could you come undone like this, sweetheart?”

“I- I don’t know.”

Aegon hums, trailing kisses away from her lips, over her cheek, the corner of her panting mouth, sucking lightly at the pulse point on her neck. Rolling her peaks between his thumb and forefinger. “So responsive, I think you could.”

Y/N whines, looking for some relief from her aching core. “Aegon, please.”

“May I take this off?” He tugs at her gown, lightly.

She nods, staring up at him with glossy eyes. Following his lead, until nothing is left between them. Catching a glimpse of his length, she quickly moves her gaze away.

“You can look.” Aegon offers her a lopsided grin.

“Does it hurt,” Y/N motions to his cock, hard and pink at the tip.

Aegon kneels down between her legs, parting her thighs farther and finding her bundle of nerves. Y/N squeals, gripping his shoulders for purchase. “It wants attention, but it’s not painful yet.”

“I want you inside me.” Y/N rides his hand unabashedly.

Aegon groans, “need you to peak first, while my fingers fuck open your perfect little cunt.”

She whimpers.

“Lie back for me, dearest.” He purrs, still on his knees between her trembling limbs. He pecks a kiss to her knee. “Relax.”

Y/N’s muscles are taut in anticipation of his next move, bowing off the bed when his thumbs part her lips, making room for his mouth to connect with her pearl. He teases the swollen bud with his tongue.

“Gods, Aegon.” She cries out, desperately fisting his hair in hand. Unsure if she wants to pull him closer or push him away.

Aegon hums his approval. Sweetest cunt he’s ever had. Slipping a single finger carefully into her tight heat. Feeling her walls clench at the intrusion.

The feeling is foreign to Y/N, her husband allows her to get accustomed to it before adding a second. Curling them up to coax release from her.

He laps at her cunt as she thrashes above him. Overwhelmed with sensation. Calling out for him desperately. Three digits is a stretch and Y/N does whine a bit at the intrusion but Aegon keeps her attention on his lips. Closed around her pearl and sucking until she peaks. Hugging his fingers so tightly even Aegon moans.

Y/N nudges at his head, coming down from her high, “too much.” She cries when Aegon attempts to keep her in place.

He chuckles, licking a firm strip up her slit before slinking up her boneless form. “You alright?”

“I think so,” she pants, shuttering at the lightest touch.

Aegon steals a kiss from her lips, then the tip of her nose.

“I want you.” She repeats.

The prince has been a lot of things in his life, wanted is hardly one of them.

“There might still be a bit of pain from your maidenhead,” he warns.

“Do it all at once.” Y/N encourages, feeling the tip of him nudging at her entrance.

“Tell me if it’s too much, we’ll stop.”

Y/N nods, bracing herself.

Aegon takes her mouth once more, waiting until she is fully at ease, contented in their kiss before sliding into her. There is little resistance as he bottoms out in her warmth.

“Ah.” She whimpers, it burns.

“Such a good girl,” Aegon praises, nuzzling against her cheek.

“Aegon.” Y/N paws restlessly at his back.

“Shhh,” he slides an arm behind her shoulder blades, holding her fast against the crook of his neck. Fighting to stay still.

They remain like this for a long moment before Y/N experimentally bucks her hips upward. There is still a bit of pain from the stretch, but nothing unbearable.

“Oh, my sweet girl.” Aegon admonishes, “be still until you are ready. Do not tempt me.”

“Move,” Y/N murmurs, against the shell of his ear.

He pulls out, until only the tip of him remains, thrusting back in softly. “Alright?”

Y/N nods, her head cradled against him as he begins fucking her in earnest. All the breath leaving her lungs in short puffs.

“So tight,” Aegon grunts out. “Not leaving this room until you’ve reached your peak draped over every piece of furniture. Against every wall.”

“Please.”

“Would you like that, sweetheart?”

“Yes.” Y/N is drawing near the edge again, the nip of pain from their coupling only serves to heighten the experience.

“I’ll fill you to the brim with my seed so that you might be with child on the morrow.” Aegon promises, clenching and unclenching his fingers in her dark hair. Feeling the quickening throughout his entire body. “Come apart once more for me.”

“I need you to touch me…the way you did before.” She pleads, so close to the precipice.

Allowing not an inch of space between them, Aegon snakes his free hand down to her pearl. Letting her rock against his fingers for friction.

“Fuck,” Y/N sobs, clamping down hard around his cock.

“That’s my girl,” Aegon all but growls between gritted teeth as his orgasm washes over him. “My good fucking girl.”

Y/N continues milking his length, even harder at his words. Riding out their shared high until Aegon flops down beside her, spent. He smirks devilishly; reaching down to collect the bit of his release trickling from her and forcing it back into her warmth.

He has conquered her. Or perhaps they have conquered each other.

[lunarblazes]

Ren needs something. His rule isn’t being properly respected—the hermits have grown restless and wild, challenging his authority.

Ren knows that the faerie stories of old are not just stories. There are tales of fae who aid any kind of rebellion, any kind of creature resisting a force, for a price. A small price, if Ren’s plan goes smoothly, which it will. Sir BDoubleO has seen to it that pure iron shackles are crafted and enchanted to bind Ren’s new helper to his will. No betrayals are to be had on this day.

And thus, Ren stands in the shopping district, a world away from where his hired help will find their task. He carefully steps around the faerie circle he’s concocted out of mushrooms around an old, battered stump, wary of getting too close and being sucked in. Fae are dangerous. Tricky. They cannot sense any weakness about you or they’ll pounce on it.

He waits for nightfall, until the stars shine overhead, the shackles in his hands poised and ready to coil around the first hint of faerie fire. As the sun rises, Ren sighs, deciding his hopes must be misguided.

It’s not a bright flash of light, or a spectacular supernova of petals. Ren smells the scent of sickly sweet rose petals, honeysuckle, and lavender on the wind before he’s even seen the creature. He snaps his fingers on instinct. The shackles lunge at the signal, snapping around the vague shape of a fae creature, and Ren smiles, his fangs on display.

“Hail and well met,” Ren says, inclining his head, but not looking upon the creature’s form. “I am King of these lands. Who might you be?”

Ren can feel the thing staring at him as its presence molds around the shackles. He’s forced it to show itself. An irritated sigh wafts in on the summer breeze as Ren continues to stare doggedly at the trees behind the circle.

“I am a traveler,” says the faerie, “and I am quite annoyed with you, King.”

“I require a boon,” Ren says swiftly.

“Don’t all of you?” the fae retorts.

“I offer payment.”

“Well, I should hope so,” it scoffs, “against faerie law not to.”

Ren blinks. He didn’t know that was a thing, but whatever. “I need your assistance. My people, they don’t respect me. I am setting up a gauntlet to test them, to prove that I am their rightful king, and I need your power to assist me.”

The faerie is quiet for a moment, contemplating the request. “I hate that that makes sense. Resisting a resistance. Wonderful technicality, I should have stopped those stupid stories.”

Ren doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so he just clears his throat. “Er, yes, I suppose? You will be paid a diamond, and to gaze upon your task we must travel to the Nether.”

“A diamond,” the faerie says incredulously. “One diamond.”

“Er… yes?” Ren says, trying desperately not to show any kind of hesitation and mostly failing. “That is your payment.”

A long suffering sigh from the circle. “I should have stopped doing this. Blast it.”

“Well, to the Nether!”

It’s only when Ren tries to move the faerie by the enchanted manacles around his wrists that he actually gets a good look at the creature. The manacles are bound to each other with a very large length of chain, large enough to let the faerie move its arms freely, lest they impede its work, and another length of chain sits resting in Ren’s palms so that he can lead the faerie around. He can lead it around and into the Nether by the manacles, and he begins to do so before pausing as he glimpses the creature’s face and freezes.

It has pale skin, only a slight red flush in the cheeks in the colder autumn air, and its wrists are clearly starting to blister. Small feathers wrap around its cheeks and the hollows of its eyes, shining iridescent in the rising sunlight; its hair is honey-colored, golden, and very fluffy, almost like puffy seeds. It doesn’t look very pleased, hissing under its breath when the manacles chafe against skin and leave blisters behind—fae can never touch pure iron. The enchantments might lessen the sting some, but it’s still gotta hurt based on the expression of the faerie being stuck in an eternal mix of annoyance and discomfort.

What’s far more pressing to Ren, however, is that he knows that face. It’s twisted, somehow, projected and dialed up to ten, but he knows who this is, suddenly he’s very sure he does.

“Grian?” Ren asks.

“Took you long enough,” Grian grumps, attempting to cross his arms and only succeeding in burning his forearms with the manacles. “Let’s get on with the stupid project, shall we? Chop chop, I haven’t got all day, especially not for one diamond.”

“You’re not free until I say you are,” Ren reminds him, slightly giddy. “You’ve got all day if I say you have.”

Grian stares at him, then shrugs. “You’re the boss, sure.”

Ren turns back to the Nether portal grinning. Oh this is excellent. Grian is not only a faerie but a powerful enough one to have legends written about him! An ally of the known resistance in the kingdom, and there’s such an easily exploitable loophole to use against him! Their morale will be decimated when they learn their beloved assistant had built an impossible quest against them. It’s perfect! Glorious! Nothing could be going better!

Ren’s so caught up in the glory of actually capturing a powerful faerie that he nearly forgets to stop walking when they reach the vault. Grian yanks on the manacles, snapping Ren out of his daze.

“Earth to King,” Grian says testily. “What d’you want me to do?”

“Right, right!” Ren says, shaking himself back into his skin. “Well, you just—I want each of my minions to build me a vault room in here.”

Ren pretends he doesn’t see the way Grian’s skin crawls at being called a king’s minion. If he sees it, he’ll get caught up in the glory, and he has to pay very close attention to these instructions, or Grian might decide the terms of the contract are unsuitable, and then they’d be nowhere. The manacles were insurance against that; if Grian didn’t like the terms, Ren could just lock him up here until he did!

“Then, every willing citizen of mine kingdom will doth be placed in this chamber! If they defeat the games in the vault, I shall give up my crown. If they cannot rise to the challenge, I shall stay in power forevermore!” Ren continues dramatically.

“Forevermore?” Grian asks.

“Forevermore,” Ren says solemnly.

“Okay,” Grian says, “what do you want me to do about it?”

“I need you to make a room that will cause despair. Make them give up their hope,” Ren says. “They should reach your room and feel as though they’ve hit the worst challenge yet. I want there to be no chance of success.”

If Ren had been looking at Grian, then, he would have caught the way those electric blue eyes of his flicker gold with delight as he phrased his instructions, the way his sharpened teeth nearly outgrow his mouth for a moment before snapping back to their rightful place. Despite his excitement, Grian’s voice is even as ever when he responds, “no chance of success?”

“Mhm,” Ren says absently. He’s just realized that capturing and forcing such a powerful faerie for this project is a great way to legitimize his rule. He’d be the King who tamed an untamable creature, the very forces of the wind and sky themselves! King Ren, the king who bested a faerie, bound him in chains. His people had to respect him after that. “No chance of success.”

Grian smiles to himself. “I can work with that.”

[greyias]

[ CUP ]: bringing both hands up to cup the receiver’s face, the sender draws them in closer to them in order to get a better look at their face.

Pairing: Gale x Tav Words: ~4700 Rating: T, despite any indications to the contrary Notes: I have no excuse for this, other than it made me laugh. I’m very sorry. Set late in Act 2, after the infamous spider meat scene. I should probably add a warning for the arachnophobic: SPIDERS

The walls of the tent seemed to loom around him. Normally a tight fit for Gale to stand up, now even more crowded as he finished his preparations for the evening. He couldn’t help but glare at the confines closing in on him, not exactly claustrophobic but also not a location he would normally choose to stage a grand, romantic gesture. He briefly contemplated the merits of conjuring the elaborate illusion of his tower back in Waterdeep again — but no, his concentration was already centered on a spell vital for his plans to try and make up for his outburst earlier in the day.

And even if it weren’t an issue, his Waterdeep illusion required more from him than he had after the day’s battles and puzzle solving within the depths of the Gauntlet of Shar. Which in itself was hardly the most romantic location to woo one’s paramour. Unless one happened to be a cleric of Shar, but even then, Gale doubted Shadowheart would find their current environs particularly stimulating in that way. And it wasn’t like he was trying to woo her.

And perhaps he wasn’t exactly trying to woo his beloved—just more… apologize? His normally boisterous paladin paramour had been unusually distant and quiet with him the entire afternoon and evening, and the timing between that and his less-than-accepting reaction to the reveal of her, erm, unusual proclivities could hardly be a coincidence. So, logic dictated that he make a romantic gesture to show that he accepted her, unexpected predilections and all.

His scowl deepened as he fussed with the stack of tomes that normally lay in a pile next to his bedroll, trying to make for the illusion of more space in the already crowded tent. This corner had seemed like the perfect place to get them out of the way, but every inch really was at a premium right now, wasn’t it? Hardly worthy of the grand, arduous gesture he was trying to pull off. If only he had some vestige of civilization, a romantic suite at an inn that wasn’t one sliver of concentration from disaster. Although he’d readily trade for even half the space of a thin-walled room at even the Last Light Inn at this point.

Although, considering one of the harpers had specifically warned them away from sleeping in any of the actual beds because of a lice infestation in the mattresses, that would probably also put a damper on the romantic atmosphere. Although really, after a century long of the inn suffering from a shadow curse, how were those vermin supposed to have survived? Barring the arrival on the head of an unsuspecting Elturian refugee, Harper, or Flaming Fist, it didn’t make a whole lot of sense. The buggers would need regular blood meals to survive any length of time, much less a century—unless they were undead shadow-cursed lice?

Hrm, best not take the chance. The living version of the buggers were bad enough, and toss in an undead, necromantic curse on top would just be an additional nightmare to deal with. Perhaps it was best to make due with the limits of his current environs rather than—

“Gale? Are you in here?”

Musings on the merits of undead lice were quickly derailed by the call.Wait, no—it was too soon for the guest of honor to arrive. “Uh—yes, just a moment!”

Before he could reach the entrance to intercept her, Ari peeled back the tent flap and stepped inside, a gentle expression of concern writ across her features. “You’ve been cooped up in here since dinner. You even missed Raphael, he says ‘hi’ by the way, and you wouldn’t believe what those scars on Astarion’s back—”

She froze, statement ending in a lurch as her gaze whipped over to the shadowed, far corner of the tent. Her eyes narrowed, then widened alarm before she flung herself fully into the space, maneuvering her unarmored body between Gale and the perceived threat. An appreciated, romantic gesture in normal times, but not at all the way he’d been picturing this going. As her bare fists balled up, arm reeling back for a punch he found himself grabbing her wrist in an attempt to keep the evening from derailing completely.

“Wait—no! It’s okay!”

“It’s not okay, there’s a giant spider in your tent!”

“That’s just Llarry—he’s a friend!”

Said giant spider, who had been settled back in the far corner, was sitting as comfortably as an enormous arachnid could in such a cramped space, legs crossed as if settling in for tea. One spindly, furry appendage waved as if in greeting. Although perhaps the gesture perhaps came across a little more intimidating to the uninitiated as Gale had to redouble his grip on Ari’s arm to keep her from punching in one of the creature’s eight eyes.

“See, see, friendly.”

Her protective scowl gave way to a deeply confused frown as she hesitantly lowered her fists. “I’m sorry—Llarry?”

“Well, technically his full name is Llarraggathssinssrigg, but really, he only uses that in more formal settings. He much prefers to go by Llarry.”

“You named the giant spider infesting your tent?”

Llarry reared back, front legs now waving irritably as a soft whisper of discontent escaped his mandibles. Ari’s balled fists started to raise back up at the action and Gale forcefully lowered them back down.

“No, no, of course not,” Gale corrected before they could get off on even more of the wrong foot… leg… tarsus… claw… whatever. The correct terminology wasn’t important at this particular juncture. “You know he doesn’t really appreciate the insinuation that he didn’t have a name before this, and also, it’s not very polite to refer to his presence as an infestation—”

“I can understand him perfectly fine, Gale!”

Oh. Right. The spell for speaking with animals had been one of the first things she cast each day in order to properly give Scratch and their resident owlbear cub morning scritches — here he had to settle for a potion to try and arrange tonight’s events. Although technically Llarry would have understood his instructions regardless, but considering the nature of the evening, it seemed only polite to have a proper back and forth about expectations, boundaries, safe words and whatnot.

Llarry made a series of elaborate clicking noises, front legs waving eagerly.

“Yes, of course,” Gale said at the reminder, “how boorish of me. Llarry, this vision of loveliness trying to valiantly punch you is Aravyn, although she does let her friends call her Ari.”

Llarry's multitude of eyes lit up as he trained his hopeful gaze on the half-elf.

“I have known you for all of sixty seconds. I’m not sure we’re to friends status yet.” As Llarry drooped dejectedly, some of Ari's defensiveness melted. “But I suppose since we’re already using nicknames, fine. You can use Ari, I guess.”

A trill of excitement escaped Llarry, far higher in pitch than expected from a beast of his size.

Seeing that indeed they were not about to be wrapped into a cocoon of webbing, Ari's defensive posture relaxed slightly, although she hadn't quite yet moved from her protective positioning shielding Gale. She tilted her head dubiously at the giant arachnid taking up a full third of the limited space. “So, let me see if I understand this correctly.”

“Of course.”

“You found a giant spider in your tent after dinner, and then made such good friends with him, you’re on a nickname basis with him.”

“Ah, not exactly that,” Gale said as he tried to step around her, although in the limited confines of the tent there wasn’t much room to maneuver without manhandling her. “You see, I brought Llarry here.”

“I’m sorry, what? 

“Third level conjuration spell, really handy in a fight if you need some extra allies—but you know. I figured why not be a little creative, spice things up as it were, in a safe, controlled environment.”

“…what?”

“You know…” Gale trailed off, hoping he didn’t have to spell it out.

“No, I really don’t.” Ari glanced between the two of them with an expression caught somewhere between confusion and suspicion. “Explain it to me like I’m five years old.”

“Oh, this is hardly the conversation for a five year old.”

“Gale!”

The hint of irritation in her invocation of his name had him fiddling nervously with his collar. “Well, you see, I realize that things back in the orthon’s lair got a little unpleasant. And maybe I wasn’t as supportive as I should have been in the moment. But I love you, and I wanted to show you that I fully support your… proclivities. No matter how… unconventional they may seem at first.”

“Unconventional proclivities? How does a spider—” Llarry reared back with an affronted hiss at the rude generalization instead of his name, front legs waving irritably. Ari glanced at the display with a cautious frown before amending, “I’m sorry, how does Llarry fit into this?”

“It’s okay.” Gale abandoned fussing with his collar to give her an awkward but hopefully supportive pat on the arm. “It’s a fixation, we can’t help what we find stimulating. What one person may find a strange predilection, another may discover an unexpected fount of amorous adventure.” He ignored her trying to mouth the phrase in befuddlement, and instead offered an encouraging smile. “So as a show of good faith and open-mindedness…”

With his free hand, Gale made an expansive gesture at Llarry, who waved a giant furred appendage in a way that was definitely overeager to get the evening started. Damn it, Llarry, don’t get too thirsty.

Horror slowly dawned on Ari’s face, color draining from her usually rosy, freckled cheeks as she turned from spider to man. “Gale.”

“Yes, dearest?”

“Is this about the spider meat?”

“And there’s zero judgement here. This is a safe space,” he was quick to reassure. “The point is, I brought Llarry here to show that I want to make this work, unexpected kinks and all.”

Gale wasn’t sure what reaction he’d been hoping for was, but her slowly sinking to the ground as if her legs could no longer hold her weight was not it. Instinctively he made to steady her, batting away the giant spider arm that was also trying to do the same thing. Perhaps she was just overwhelmed at the magnanimity of the gesture, the whole-hearted acceptance of—

“I... I need a moment,” she said weakly, swatting both of them away as she hid her face in her knees.

“I… yes, of course. All the time you need. Although, maybe less than an hour? There is a time limit on the conjuration spell, so if you’d like to get started—”

Llarry eagerly extended a leg in her direction, and it was immediately shoved back.

“I said a moment!” she insisted more forcefully.

Gale quickly made a “cut it out” motion at the spider, who folded back in on himself into his cramped corner with a huff. He knelt down next to her, hands hovering uselessly in the air as he tried to understand this reaction.

“I have a feeling I may have made a miscalculation.” The opening statement was spoken at a normal volume, but the next was dropped to a whisper that hopefully only she could hear, and he did his best to not let any dread creep into his tone. “Does it have to be dead? Llarry’s pretty open-minded, but I don’t think he’d be particularly amenable to that arrangement.”

Not to mention that would be beyond the bounds of this particular spell. But baby steps. Unfortunately, his whisper wasn’t quiet enough as Llarry let out a noise that was neither disturbed nor eager. Intrigued? Oh gods, best to not contemplate that.

“Gale,” Ari croaked.

“Yes, yes, I’m here. Unless you don’t want me to be? Do I… need to leave the tent for this? Is this a private affair? I’m not sure how I feel about that, but I—”

She whirled on the spot, uncomfortably twisting as she grabbed him by the collar of the shirt and pulled him close, eyes wide as her voice raised loud enough for the entire camp to hear. “Stop! I’m not sexually attracted to spiders!”

“What—I mean no, not attracted to them, of course. I didn’t think that!” Not entirely. “Attraction and arousal are two different things. For example, some people like me get hot under the collar when they see a beautiful, strong woman tear a bloody swath through cursed shadowed creatures, and when you lick… rotting… spider… meat… you—”

“It was charmed!” Her grip on his collar shifted to his shoulders as she shook him fiercely. “The spider meat was charmed!”

Elocution left him. “What? But you—”

“It was laced with succubus spittle, Gale!” She fixed him with a wide-eyed, mortified gaze. “I wasn’t… I don’t get turned on by licking spider meat.” As Llarry proffered a tentative limb, she released one hand to shove it away. “Or any part of a spider!”

“Oh.” Gale blinked. “Oh. Why in the nine hells would anyone dope spider meat? With an aphrodisiac?”

“There’s no good answers there, Gale! None!”

“Oh gods, you don’t think Yurgir was—not with the displacer beast?”

“I have been unable to think about anything else for the entire day!”

“Okay, not to lose the conversational thread, but I want to be one hundred and ten percent sure on this point. Your titillated reaction was in no way genuine, and you do not have any desire to indulge in any arachnid-related fetish?”

“I do not.” It came out a defeated whisper as she buried her face into shoulder to hide her burning cheeks. 

Llarry slumped and emitted a dejected trill, his evening clearly ruined.

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“A relief?” She raised her head back up from where she was trying to hide from her mortification. “I thought you said you accepted me as I am—even the weird parts!”

“Yes, but that’s not a weird part of you is it?” He shook his head, then replayed back the words that he’d just spoken. “Wait—that came out wrong.”

“So you don’t accept my weirdness?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant!” Gale held up his hands defensively. “I love your weirdness, your unexpected nature—I just am a little relieved I don’t need to reserve a third level spell slot to summon a fey spirit in the form of a giant spider for you to salivate over if we want to get intimate!”

“What the fuck is going on in that tent?” Astarion’s loud voice drifted their way.

“Dark Lady preserve us, don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to!” Shadowheart chimed in.

Okay, that was unfortunate. Another issue to deal with at another time. 

“You—you didn’t use your sound dampening charm you created?” Ari whispered fiercely. “When you thought we were going to have a wild night of spider licking?”

“Look, Llarry requires a dedicated amount of concentration to keep on this plane of existence—”

“Oh, well if Llarry requires your concentration—”

The spider in question made an elaborate series of gestures with three of his appendages, clearly indicating that this was not a part of the relationship he had agreed to be party to.

“Please, Llarry,” Gale begged first to spider, then turned his attention to his girlfriend, “I’m trying here.”

“Trying what?” An edge of equal desperation tinged her voice. “Why, why, why why—” she caught herself, took a breath, then exhaled before finishing the question, “why did you feel the need to bring a giant spider into… this?”

“I already told you—I thought I hurt your feelings.”

“You did hurt my feelings—because you yelled at me!”

“And I was only yelling out of surprise,” he tried, oh he tried to stop himself from finishing the rest of that thought, but Gale of Waterdeep was nothing if not thorough in the worst of ways, “because you licked a dead spider!”

“I only licked it because it smelled weird and magical and off!”

“Oh yes, a great justification for supping a little essence d’arachnid — not to mention a sure fire way to pick up a food-borne illness.”

“Hey! I needed to investigate!”

“With your tongue? Did you see me putting ancient relics in my mouth?”

“Yes! I gave you several to stabilize your condition!”

“I—I didn’t eat them, I just consumed them, there’s a difference!”

“And that difference is?”

“Well, one involves a dead spider and your tongue—”

“You know for someone who’s claiming this was a safe space, I’m hearing a lot of judgement in your voice.”

“I’m not judging,” Gale insisted. “I’m just…”

Ari quirked a single brow, arms crossed as she awaited his explanation for why this was about his concern, not judgement. And this entire thing was a ridiculous misunderstanding as it was. Llarry let out a long series of very sincere, but chiding clicks.

“You’re not helping,” Gale muttered darkly.

“You have to admit, Llarry has a point.”

“I really don’t have to admit that.” He shot her a look. “And okay, let’s say I concede that inadvisable curiosity had you put your tongue on it the first time. But if you knew it was charmed, why in Faerun did you taste it again?”

Her cheeks flushed a deep, deep red again. “Because you yelled at me!”

“I feel like we covered that point already.” Gale frowned. “Have we reached a circle in this ridiculous argument? Or is it a spiral at this point?”

Llarry made a low inquiring trill, front legs gesturing in a fluid motion toward the tent flaps, as this was definitely not the fun evening he had been promised.

“Not now, Llarry,” both Ari and Gale  sighed in unison.

Gale scrubbed a hand across his eyes, a desperation clawing up and squeezing at his chest as this conversation, if it could even be called that at this point, seemed to spiral completely out of control. Ah, control, what a beautiful, deranged illusion to grasp for.

Words. He needed words. “It was never my intention to upset you.” That was a good start. “When you grew distant, avoiding my gaze… can you really blame me for wanting to fix it?”

She stared at him, long and hard in a way that told him without any words, that yes. Maybe a little blame was being directed his way. He couldn’t help but wilt some at that.

“I can see you’re mad,” he started.

“I’m not mad,” she insisted. 

“But you’re not happy either.” This really wasn’t going well at all. “Look, I may not have the cleanest track record when it comes to correcting mistakes in relationships. Possibly overcorrecting just a tad.”

“Just ‘a tad’? You don’t think this was a little extreme?” She asked softly, the trace of hurt in the question like a twist of the knife. “Instead of… talking to me first?”

“When you put it that way… I suppose going to such elaborate lengths without consulting you first was perhaps a little ill-considered.” The wounded look still lingered in her eyes, and he tried to swallow past that gnawing guilt trying to rise back up in him. “You just seemed upset, and you know how they say actions speak louder than words, and I know I use a lot of words.”

“You do,” she said quietly. “You know, the first time was out of curiosity.”

“I do feel like we’ve firmly established that fact.”

She shot him a look, but the heat in it was quelled by something a little more raw. “The second time wasn’t just because you yelled or the meat was charmed. It was what you said.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You suggested that we’d run our course.”

“I did no such thing,” he insisted, with a heat. “I would never—”

“You literally told me that, and I quote, ‘the time might just have come when you and I should split ways’.” After the verbatim recitation she dropped her gaze, looking anywhere but at him.

“That was a joke,” Gale insisted hotly.

“It certainly didn’t sound like one at the time.”

Again, she wouldn’t quite look at him, just like most of the afternoon that had started this whole sordid affair. Llarry’s eight eyes glanced between Ari, to Gale, and with a world���s worth of recrimination behind the action. Stupid summoned spider—why had he not let the damned thing leave the tent when they had a chance?

Spider voyeur be damned, he moved in, gently cupping her face and tilting it up so he could look her in the eye. He half-expected her to pull away, but she allowed the motion. The shuttered expression on her face cranked that vice around his chest one notch tighter, even as his thumb brushed lightly across her jaw line.

“I told you once that nothing would turn my heart from you,” his voice was naught but a whisper, but with no room between them, it might as well have echoed from the walls, “and that hasn’t changed.”

She swallowed and after a moment managed to summon the semblance of a smile. “Not even my unfortunate habit of sampling things I shouldn’t?”

“Not even that,” he breathed.

She let out a half breath, half-laugh in response, and this time when she closed her eyes it seemed to be in relief. It was a small win, but he’d take it, and the vice loosened enough so he could breathe again.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, leaning into him.

“Whatever for?”

“Overreacting?” she tried. “I probably should have said something too. I just… felt stupid about the whole thing. And you were just so angry when you were yelling at me to stop licking things.”

“I was concerned,” he insisted, and yes, maybe a little irked that he’d been ignored in the moment. “Maybe we can just chalk up this entire sordid affair to misplaced affections and intentions? I mean, I brought Llarry into our lives to prove my love, didn’t I?”

The third wheel cleverly disguised as a giant spider rolled all eight of his eyes.

“Don’t be like that,” he said, “it was a genuine misunderstanding. Anyone could make this mistake?”

“Anyone?” Ari asked.

“Okay, maybe just me,” he amended, “but I think it’s safe to say that you’re off the hook for the evening, my eight-legged friend.”

A woeful, keening sound left the spider, his large, bulbous head dipping low in clear dejection.

“It’s you not you, Llarry,” Gale insisted, “it’s me.”

The mandibles clicked in rapid staccato, intercut with distressed squeaking.

“Yes, yes, but given the new information we’ve all uncovered in this impromptu group therapy session, the parameters of our previous negotiations really don’t apply here.”

Another click, what counted as a huff.

“Come now, let me just release you from your service. You’ve got less than an hour left of existence, my friend, you should make the most of it.”

Llarry turned his octagonal gaze in Ari’s direction. 

“No.”

Now, spiders couldn’t exactly snort, as they lacked the nostrils to do so. However every single spiracle across his large hairy body exhaled their frustration at the same time, and with a decisive shuffle of all eight legs pounding against the rug-lined floor of the tent, Llarry waddled his way past the embracing couple and shoved his way out the tent’s front flap and into the camp beyond.

“Wait, Llarry, don’t be like that—”

Almost immediately, cries of alarm went up from the rest of the party going about their evening, Scratch let out a loud growl as the owlbear cub screeched a warning. The clang of metal against stone indicated that someone had taken a swipe at the vorekink-friendly spider — and missed.

“Oh no,” Ari murmured, starting to move towards the tent flap to try and save their weird relationship counselor, “Llarry!”

“He’s up in the rafters already!” That seemed to be Lae’zel, presumably the one that had tried to cut the poor dejected spider in two. “Damn it elf, can’t you aim your longbow better?”

“It’s not my fault he’s faster than a Quickling on a sugar high!” Astarion snapped back.

“Okay, am I going crazy,” Karlach asked loudly, “or was that spider crying?”

“Leave that poor spider alone,” Wyll, ever the voice of reason, tried to bring peace and order back into their lives. Bless him. He tried.

“Yes. It’s clearly had a rough evening,” Halsin rumbled.

“I guess he’s fine?” Ari winced, turning back to Gale.

“He always did have a penchant for drama,” Gale sighed.

“You’ve known him for less than an hour.”

“But it seems like a lifetime, doesn’t it?”

“Gods yes.” She buried her face into his shoulder again. “Do you think we have any chance of convincing everyone they didn’t hear any of this?”

“I’m afraid I’m tapped out of that particular magic for this evening.”

“Is there no justice in the world?”

“Modifying our friends memory? Probably not justice—I would say it’s morally dubious at best.”

Ari tried to sink her head further into the retreat of Gale’s night shirt. Unfortunately it was not nearly as voluminous as the folds of the robes he wore in the daytime, so there was not much solace to be found there. The muffled groan was the best she could muster. At that point, the tent flap shifted again and Karlach looked in, an eyebrow raised as she took in the sight before her.

“Soooo,” she managed to draw out the two-letter word out into multiple syllables, “you’re both alive I can see. Well, I mean we already kind of knew you were alive. Because of all the yelling.”

“Remarkable observation as always, Karlach,” Gale’s reply was dry, one hand busy smoothing the top of his mortified girlfriend’s head. “Can we help you?”

“Ah, it’s fine. It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

“Look, the gang—” At Gale’s quirked eyebrow, she amended, “—okay, mostly Astarion because he’s nosey as fuck, sent me in to ask what the hells is going on in here? I told him if the spider tent’s a-rocking, don’t come a-knocking, but he insisted…”

“Just a little… mutual misunderstanding is all.”

“Uh huh. You know, if you want to keep it spicy, there’s a lot easier ways than the five million fucked up scenarios I imagined listening to all that.”

Another pitiful moan left Ari, but it was mostly muffled by Gale’s shoulder. He gave her head a consoling pet.

“She okay?”

“No,” Ari’s words were muted by her insistence of slowly smothering herself in her boyfriend’s shoulder, “just let ceremorphosis take me now. I don’t think even my soul wants to remember any of this.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad,” Karlach insisted.

“Astarion will never shut up about this,” is what Gale was pretty sure she said, but it was mostly just indistinct mumblings at this point.

“Hey, first wise crack from Fangs, and I’ll cave his skull in. Then we can have Withers bring him back. No harm, no foul.”

“Except for Astarion’s skull,” Gale pointed out.

“You’d do that for me?” Ari mumbled.

“For you, soldier? Anything.“ She gave Gale a lurid wink. “Well, I’m just going to leave you two lovebirds to go ahead and smooth out any remaining ‘misunderstandings’ you might have. Maybe just put up that fancy sound dampening charm before you really get going, ‘ey?”

With that, she ducked back out, a chuckle in her wake. Finally alone, Ari emerged from her refuge in Gale’s shoulder, a red crease marking where she’d pressed her face particularly hard against his clavicle. “You’re really smart, right? What’s the chance of a rogue portal appearing and swallowing us up before we have to face the others tomorrow?”

“Alas, a statistical improbability.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

Gale tucked back an errant honey-blonde strand, attempting to smooth her now disheveled hair. “I think we might have to resign ourselves to being the talk of the camp, at least until the next insanity is thrown our way.”

She dramatically hid her face back in his shoulder, as if he’d pronounced the world was ending. “I am never leaving this tent again.”

[drkineildwicks]

More BH6

Been working more on the sequel to (Not So) Hated by Life Itself this past weekend (read it now on FFN and AO3), so have some more art for it.  For those of you just tuning in, the Live and Learn AU involves Obake accidentally being blasted back in time to a little before the events of the movie, as a teenager.  Shenanigans ensue, as they do.

This is one of those traditional art sheets where I fill a page out for my art for the day, polish it up, and then post it.  In this case, it’s all for the sequel, Ready To (Live Life Anew) and is mostly for the vibes.

Starting from the top left:

I learned that March was Noodle Month and it seems like the sort of thing Noodle Burger Boy would celebrate. XD

Mini-Max is always great for filling in a tiny bit of empty space.

Below that, Hiro and Tadashi were really excited to learn about the revival of the Pirates of the Caribbean Online MMO.  Obake is less excited.

To the right of that, Obake is quoting the “Cluelessness” demotivator to Hiro, punctuated by Fred quoting Louis Stevens in the Even Stevens episode “Snow Job” (quote starts here)—yes that is a very young Shia LeBeouf, and that one girl is Christie Carlson Ramono, AKA Kim Possible AKA Trina Aken.

To the right of that…was listening to some videos critiquing the Jurassic World series (as they should) and one guy was saying how genomes are not the same as genetic code…since Obake is taking a few Bio classes in the sequel it seems like the thing both he and Karmi would say, to everyone’s annoyance.

Below the PIRATES!! one is Gogo taking Obake out to birdwatch to wind them both down, something that probably takes place after the “Fate of the Roommates” episode when they’re on better terms.

To the right of that—the boys also have a writing class and Hiro has been writing about their escapades in the Pirates MMO for those assignments, here he’s brainstorming Obake’s backstory; Obake is unamused.

To the right of that is something that takes place in the “Supersonic Sue” episode—Obake and Megan have an antagonistic relationship for most of the fic and right here is right before that falling out starts up.

Bottom left takes place during the “Fred the Fugitive” arc—the Hamada brothers do up some Shadow the Hedgehog shoes for Obake to test, Gogo takes it upon herself to help him learn how to skate.

Bottom right is Hiro testing a combo of Knuckles’ and Vi’s gloves, although they require the nano-dex in order to lift them.

Bottom center…Trina does not need the nano-dex to lift those gauntlets. :O

So.  So far we’re at 381 pages, 155+k words, 27 consecutive chapters, somewhere between a third and halfway through, and I’m once again in the situation I was in last year when I suddenly had the big burst on the first book: stuck on my laptop in the living room because my big computer decided to go blooey.

Hit it.

Big Hero 6 © 2014 Disney

Done in Pencils.

DeviantArt | FanFiction | Tumblr | Etsy | Buy me a Ko-Fi | Patreon | AO3 | Tapas

[bambiraptorx]

Remember that AU of Minor Interference where Draxum doesn't have the mystic oath hold him back? I finally figured out a way to continue it yay!

Previous parts: Part 1, Part 2

Content Warnings: child abuse, injuries, implied/referenced violence, eye trauma

Raph doesn't like the way Draxum is looking at his eye.

He doesn't like the way Draxum's gauntlet is warm against his skin as it holds his face or the way that the man's breath gusts lightly across his scales or the deep, almost concerned frown on that blue mask, and he certainly doesn't like the way Draxum mutters under his breath. Raph doesn't know if it's because he's upset or because he doesn't want to be heard, but it can't be a good sign.

He doesn't like the way his eye throbs or his vision on that side is blurred, either, but he's trying not to think too much about that.

Draxum withdraws his hand and curses. Raph feels like doing the same, but keeps his mouth shut. He doesn't like to talk around Draxum if he can help it; it just feels safer that way.

"I can't heal that."

What? But—but Draxum always heals whatever he does, he has to be able to heal it. Raph half-raises a hand, then thinks better of it, and switches to his other arm. Better not to mess with the dislocated shoulder too much.

"Um, w-why not?"

Draxum shifts his position to Raph's side, his hands already poised to adjust the hanging arm. "Eyes are too delicate and it's nothing I was trained in. Anything I'd do would run just as much of a risk as causing more damage, maybe permanent damage."

The icy fear that never quite leaves Raph's chest anymore reaches up his throat, coiling around his skull and prodding the ache in his eye. "Permanent? You—you can't fix it?"

If Draxum can't fix it... what's going to happen to him? What's gonna happen to his eye? What if his sight doesn't come back, what if he loses it—

He grunts as Draxum's magic jerks his shoulder back into place, the ligaments twitching as muscle and bone try to remember how they're supposed to sit.

Draxum sighs through his teeth as his magic reorganizes Raph's body. "There's nothing I can do, yes. But don't worry, I know... someone. They might be able to help."

---

Raph is less disoriented by Draxum's portals than Leo's, something he'll never admit out loud. But Leo would have at least told him where they were going.

It's a small building, one the Baron has to duck his head to enter, and Raph's elbow spikes scrape against the doorway as he follows. It feels old, but clean, like it's much older than Raph is but kept in good condition, and judging from the mild humming of mystic energy, it's somewhere in the Hidden City.

"Tourmaline, I require your assistance," Draxum calls. Raph looks around the room, unsure what to make of it. There's a handful of variously sized chairs, a table with unfamiliar equipment and a window to another room above it, and a poster in some language he doesn't know with a diagram of an eye. Or maybe it's multiple languages? Hard to make out, with the blurry vision and all.

"I'll have you know my hours of operation are listed on the door you opened to get in here, Baron," a dry voice calls through the window. A large snake sticks their head through it, their neck as thick around as Raph's bicep. "Or have you forgotten how to read?"

"Don't play games with me, Tourmaline," Draxum snaps. "This is a matter of importance. I have someone who needs healing."

The serpent huffs. "I'm an odd first choice for that, given that my specialty is—"

"It's an eye injury. You treat eyes. Surely the connection is obvious."

The snake swivels their head towards Raph. "Ah. That doesn't look good, how did it happen?"

Raph opens his mouth to answer, but Draxum beats him to it. "Training accident. We were sparring, a blow landed when I didn't expect it to. It was my fault, I'm afraid."

None of that explanation is exactly wrong, but it feels like it is.

"Training, hm?" Tourmaline's eyes don't narrow (they don't have eyelids, after all), but their tone splits the difference between curious and suspicious as they slither out of the window and onto the table below. "You seem to be on the younger end. What is your name?"

Raph blinks (and ignores the subsequent pain in his eye). He wasn't quite expecting to be addressed. "Uh, Raphael. I'm fifteen."

He gets the impression that if Tourmaline had eyebrows, they would be shooting up. "Fifteen? That's... that's very young to be training with the likes of the Baron. How exactly did that arrangement occur?"

"He's my apprentice," Draxum cuts in. "Unofficially, as of yet."

Tourmaline drops to the ground, or at least, the first part of them does. It looks like they've still got a lot to bring though the window. "And you chose to spar with him anyway, without that legal protection? His parents could prosecute—"

"The paperwork hasn't come through yet. And my immediate priority is treating his eye, not dealing with matters of responsibility." Draxum's tone is sharp, his words rushed together. "Now will you heal him, or will I be forced to delay treating his injury by finding someone else?"

"You're toeing a very serious line here, Baron. This could be reportable to—"

"Heal him, berate me after. His injuries are more important than anything else. Don't drag this out for him."

The serpent sighs. "Fine, fine. Just let me finish coming in." They slither their way around Draxum and Raph, the end of their tail finally coming through the window in the wall, and come to a rest in front of Raph. Even knowing they're a person, it's a little unnerving to be so close to a snake so big. Their head raises to his eye level, swaying slightly.

"The eye is clearly ruptured, judging from the distortion of the globe, conjunctival bleeding, and misshapen pupil. I'd presume that your vision has been affected?"

Raph nods.

"Time is of the essence in healing it properly. I can't guarantee your vision will go back to normal, but many emergency healers aren't trained fully in the intricacies of eyes. Credit where it's due to your mentor, I suppose. He was right to bring you here." They coil the very end of their tail around Raph's wrist, a lightness to the touch.

"You're likely too young to have much experience being healed, but don't worry. You're in good hands, so to speak."

Raph is actually very familiar with how healing works, but he doesn't get the chance to say that before energy flows into his body, up to his face.

The snake's mystics are different than Draxum's—softer, kinder. They wash up his arm in a gentle, numbing wave. He barely feels it as they nudge his eye back into shape and put the tissues back in order. It takes longer than Draxum would have spent by several minutes, but it barely hurts. It doesn't even itch by the time Tourmaline draws their tail from his hand.

"There, finished. Look around for me."

Raph does. It's better than before—his eye no longer throbs, and for the most part his vision is clear again. "It's, uh, still a bit fuzzy."

Tourmaline nods. "It may return to normal on its own, it may not. If it doesn't clear up in a few days, have Draxum bring you back. Now take a seat. Healing can have odd effects when you aren't used to it, and it's best to relax for a while afterward."

Raph obeys. He's more tired than he usually is after healing. Maybe Donnie will have some theories on why that is, if he remembers to tell him later. For now, though, he'll enjoy having a chair sturdy enough to hold him. He leans back as much as he can, eyes closed.

Something clinks, metal against metal. "Here is your payment."

"My rates haven't changed, Draxum, and I trust you have not forgotten how to count. Why the extra?"

"For the, ah, inconvenience. And because..." a swallow. "I may have been slightly more blunt and demanding than truly necessary. It was—I want the boy safe, you understand. His injuries are worrisome to me."

Which is a load of bullshit, because Draxum wouldn't cause them if it were true. But still, the serpent seems to accept it. "You and your apprentices, Baron, always getting so attached. He's in good hands."

A gap in the conversation that might leave room for a nod, or might not. Steps click in Raph's direction, pausing in front of him. "Come, Cypress. Time to go."

Raph doesn't really want to. But it's not about what he wants, when it comes to Draxum.

He opens his eyes and stands. Nods once. And follows Draxum through the portal he opens. What else is there to do?

[writingquestionsanswered]

Overwhelmed by Publishing Goal

Anonymous asked: Writing no longer feels free or easy anymore now that I have dreams of publishing. I’m trying to hone a technique to learn to finish a book a year to be ready for the industry but also like writing at the same time (and with the way I’ve devoured so much writing advice and gotten overwhelmed it feels fun less and less). Like I’m not even sure if I’m meant to be a writer. I don’t even know how to tell. Yes I can come up with an idea but I’m not sure that’s enough to determine that someone is meant to do something. Writing feels like something you have to be “spiritually” or emotionally connected to and I have found that I don’t always feel connected to the entire process. I’m rambling now but I’m just kind of disheartened. Any thoughts?

How to tell if you're a writer:

Do you write? x Yes No Congratulations! You're a writer!!!

Can you imagine if people who spent time knitting weren't allowed to call themselves knitters unless they finished, wore, or sold the things they knit? Or if people who loved to bake weren't allowed to call themselves bakers if they kept what they baked for themselves? Or if loved running and ran two miles every day, but couldn't call yourself a runner unless you'd participated in a marathon?

It's weird that we put all these constraints on being a writer that we don't put on other things.

Now, being an author, on the other hand, does require publication. Whether you self-publish, traditionally publish, or publish on a fiction sharing site, having your work out there for the world to see is what makes you an author.

Do you still get to call yourself a writer if you're overwhelmed and frustrated by the work it takes and the publication process? Um... YES, friend! I think most authors would agree that feeling overwhelmed and frustrated by the publication process is just part of the natural gauntlet one must go through on their journey to becoming an author.

As far as your situation goes, while it's admirable that you're trying to get yourself up to industry speed before you've even hit the publish button or gotten a book deal, you're putting the cart before the horse a little bit. Right now your only focus should be putting together a manuscript that is ready for querying or ready for an editor and publication. That's it. The writing you do in order to get to that point is going to do a lot of the heavy lifting as far as getting you to a place where you can plot and write faster. And you can tweak that process with each book you write.

And the reality is that while traditional publishing does "expect" a book a year, many traditionally published authors who are actually hitting that goal are doing so with a ton of help from others. And they're more likely to be able to dedicate more of their time toward writing. So it's a bit unrealistic to hold yourself up to that goal if you're not even published yet.

Finally, I honestly don't think I know a single author who feels spiritually or emotionally connected to the entire process of writing and publishing. I mean, yeah, ideally we should all feel some level of connection to whatever it is we're working on, but by no stretch of the imagination does that connection extend to every single day or every aspect of the writing and publishing process. So, please don't feel like you're falling short just because you're not having some sort of sacred kinship with every stop of the process.

If you haven't already, you might spend some time reading through the relevant-sounding posts on my Motivation master list. It's got a lot of posts that deal with the different reasons behind burnout and frustration, plus solutions, and some things you can do to make writing fun again.

I hope that helps! ♥

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I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[in-search-of-a-fallen-star]

at the last stroke of midnight (pt. 2)

Pairing: Shouto Todoroki/Reader

WC: 1,904

Content warnings: aged up characters, everyone is in their 20s or older. fantasy au. no pronouns used for reader, but they are described to wear skirts and are referred to as ‘my lady’. brief descriptions of fantasy violence.

part 1 : part 2 (you are here) : part 3

Your first impression of the tournament is that it is loud. The stands on both sides of the field are crammed with people, and the sound of chatter washes over you like a wave. The queen had made it a point that her box not be above the stands this year, so you are down in the thick of it. 

It’s a far cry from the peace of your mountain home, where the loudest noise is the rushing water of the glacial runoff that flows through the center of your village. It’s even quieter in winter- it gets so quiet that you can hear the snow fall. 

This is… not that. 

Another thing you miss about your home is how cool it is. Even in the summer, the nights get cold enough that an extra blanket or a sweater feels nice. Here you’re sweating under three layers of skirts. Curse these southerners and their damn formal clothing, you think as you try to subtly adjust your skirts to get some semblance of airflow. 

You hadn’t been informed that this tournament would require even the servants to be in formal dress, so you’d missed the beginning of the tournament while the other ladies in waiting quickly stuffed you into a gown. You’d almost deliberately left the favor the queen had given you on the vanity in your quarters, but then you remembered the hopeful look on the queen’s face when she’d given it to you, and begrudgingly stuffed it in your pocket. 

Unfortunately, since you’d missed the introductions at the beginning of the tournament, you didn’t know any of the knight’s names, and you haven’t been in the south long enough for any of the crests the knights are wearing to mean anything. You watched the ladies around you hand out their favors to knights who came riding up with a bit of interest. Luckily it seemed like they knew the knights who approached them, and blushed and tittered when the knights would tip their lances to them for the ladies to place the favor.

You don’t know any of these knights, and it seems unlikely that any of them will come to you for a favor, so you busy yourself watching the spectacle. You know the queen is going to ask you what you thought about it, so you want to have answers for her interrogation questions later. 

It means that your eyes are elsewhere when a knight rides up to you. They have to clear their throat and tap their lance against the railing of the box to draw your attention. You look to either side of you to see who the knight is trying to catch, when the knight speaks. 

“I was looking for you,” they say, and their voice sends a shudder up your spine. They lift a hand to their visor, opening it just enough that you can see the mismatched eyes underneath, twinkling with amusement. “You’re hard to find.”

“Well you found me,” you huff, crossing your arms. “Do you want a prize?”

“Yes, actually.” The knight smiles, and tips his lance in your direction. “Would you grant me your favor, my lady?”

“Why should I give it to you?” you ask, looking the knight over for any clue to his identity. His armor is plain, and his shield bears no crest, only a red and white field. Like his hair, your brain supplies. 

“I need the luck,” the knight says, his eyes earnest. 

“I’m sure there are dozens of ladies here who could give you luck,” you gesture to the stands filled with women, wreaths of flowers clutched in their hands.

“But I want your luck,” he pleads. 

“Fine,” you cave, leaning down to slide the wreath of flowers over the tip of his lance. “But if you win, I want the prize. It is my luck, after all.” 

He stands up in the stirrups of his saddle, reaching up to grasp your hand in his gauntleted one before you can pull away.  “As you wish, my lady,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes on yours as he presses a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

You open your mouth to say something, but the horns ring out, signaling the start of the tournament. The knight smiles at you one last time, before he sits back down in his saddle and shuts the visor of his helmet. He waves at you before turning his horse to ride to the start line.

You pull your hand to your chest, unconsciously rubbing the spot where he kissed. His lips really are as soft as they look, you muse for a moment before snapping yourself out of your daze. You do your best to ignore the pounding of your heart as you watch the knights assemble for the first part of the tournament.

Jousting is the first event. You’ve seen knights practice in the training yards of the castle, trying to knock each other off their horses or gather rings on their lances. It’s much different watching it up close, and you find yourself swept up in the enthusiasm of the crowd, cheering at the clash of lances on steel.

As loath as you are to admit it, the queen was right, you muse as you watch. This is more fun than you were expecting. You groan inwardly at the thought of telling her that. She might have a reputation as being refined and elegant, but she can be smug as hell when she’s right about something.

The knight with the red and white shield is one of the last to go in the jousting event. You watch as he takes his place at the end of the tilting lane, lance in hand. The flowers you gave him flutter in the wind at the base of the lance, and you can feel the queen’s knowing gaze on the back of your head. You stubbornly refuse to turn and look, keeping your eyes fixed on the knight. 

The stands quiet as the heralds call the start of the round. The crowd seems to be holding their breath, waiting for the sound of impact. You hear the drum of the horse’s hooves on the dirt as they pound down the tilting lane, and the crowd roars as both lances shatter against the knight’s armor. Both of them stay seated, turning their horses to go back to their starting point and prepare for another pass.

Brushing aside the lance that his squire offers him, your knight clambers off his horse and runs into the tilting lane with a clank of steel. The crowd gasps, watching him root around in the dirt before he finds what he’s looking for- he pulls the favor you gave him out of the dirt and dusts it off, before trotting back to his side of the tilting lane and climbing back up on his horse. You watch as he slides the favor over the tip of his new lance before getting into position. The crowd murmurs around you as the heralds call the start of the next pass.

There’s a clash of wood on steel and you watch as your knight unseats his opponent with a clean hit, the other knight going flying off his horse and landing in the dirt. Your knight reins in his horse and swings down, walking over to offer the other knight a hand up as the squires run down the lanes. 

After making sure that his opponent landed safely, your knight turns to the queen’s box and salutes with his lance, as is the victor’s tradition. For a moment, you feel his eyes on you, even though they’re covered by the steel of his helmet’s visor. You dismiss the feeling as nonsense, but you can’t help the slight flush that colors your cheeks.

Once the jousts finish, you watch the tournament attendants clear the tilting lane markers and reset the arena. The victorious knights gather around the edges, talking quietly with their squires as the tournament attendants finish setting up the arena for the melee. 

Over the chatter of the festival goers around you, you hear the queen call your name. You leave the railing and turn towards her seat, curtsying as you approach. “Your majesty,” you greet, bowing your head with your curtsy. 

“I have a favor to ask you,” she says, inclining her head to you conspiratorially. “Take your handkerchief to that knight with the red and white shield.”

You snap your head up, looking at her incredulously. “What? Why?” You hiss, lowering your voice to not be heard over the crowd.

“You gave him your favor, did you not? Take him your handkerchief to wipe his face, and go congratulate him on his win.” 

You want to say no, but she looks so excited that you can’t bring yourself to deny her. “Yes, your majesty,” you say with another curtsy as you turn to leave. As you walk away, you hear Princess Fuyumi, seated next to the queen, start “The knight with the red and white shield? Mother, isn’t that-”

The queen shushes her, and begins to say something that gets lost in the crowd as you make your way out of the box. You see several other ladies walking toward the field as well, each of them approaching one of the knights with water or towels in their hands.

Your knight has his visor up, a cup of water at his lips as he surveys his competition. His eyes catch you approaching, and they brighten as he turns toward you. He waits for you to approach, varicolored eyes watching you as you walk closer. 

“I told you I needed the luck,” he gestures to the favor, which he now has pinned to his breastplate.

“Your lance broke on the first hit,” you offer your handkerchief to him, which he accepts gratefully. He dabs at the sweat on his brow, and you’re briefly distracted by how unfair it is that he looks so handsome while sweating. It makes his skin glisten in the summer sun, highlighting his high cheekbones. 

With his hair pushed back inside his helmet, you can get a good look at his face, and you notice the scar that surrounds one of his eyes. It makes him look dashing, you decide. 

“But I stayed in the saddle,” he reminds you. He goes to return the handkerchief, but his hand halts midair. “May I return this to you after I’ve had a chance to wash it?”

“That would be preferable.”

“I’ll need to know who to return it to,” he looks at you hopefully. “Will you tell me your name?”

“I already told you, I’m no one of consequence,” you sniff, turning your head to survey the arena and crossing your arms over your chest.

“You’re seated in the queen’s box,” he points out. “That makes you of consequence.”

“There are servants in the queen’s box too.” 

He starts to ask another question, but the herald’s trumpets interrupt him. Something in his expression makes you pause as you turn to go back to the queen’s box. “Uh, good luck out there,” you offer, smiling at him tentatively.

His answering smile is luminous, before his squire grabs his attention and begins preparing him to enter the arena. You begin the walk back to the queen’s box, turning over the thought in your head that your knight has a very cute dimple.

[duckprintspress]

I feel like I need to start talking more about how one of the big things that Duck Prints Press does is open the door to people who could never even get a foot in with traditional publishing or even most medium/"small" presses (we're a small press, but we're really more of a micro-press, I see places calling themselves small presses that are fucktons bigger than we are).

I've got some anecdotal evidence that people avoid the publications of Presses like this one because they think our writing and editing standards are lower - that we're the people who failed to make it in bigger presses because we weren't good enough - and that, consciously and unconsciously, gatekeeping biases on who is and isn't qualified to write lead people to support small presses less than they might support a more established organization.

So...y'all realize that there are a lot of reasons people wouldn't pursue working with trad pub, right? and I don't even mean ethical doubts, and I don't even mean "trad pub doesn't want to publish certain kinds of stories," though those are definitely factors - we're able to give more space to play with themes and genres because we don't focus solely on "is this marketable" as a sales rubric.

But that's not what I consider the biggest difference.

Hi, I'm Claire, and I own Duck Prints Press, and I have a massive history of clinical depression, including being suicidal in the past. I'm a great writer, and I'm not just tooting my own horn, I've got almost 150,000 kudos on AO3 that suggest that just maybe, I know wtf I'm doing stringing words into sentences. I don't need a big press to tell me I'm competent, I already know that. What I do need is to not end up suicidal again. If I face the gauntlet of rejections that's supposedly "required" as part of gatekeeping trad pub, it will do severe damage to my mental health, and probably destroy my ability to write as depression-induced self-deception eats through what I know to be true.

THAT'S what's different about a micropress like ours. Yes, our founding vision was to work with fans, but the vast majority of the people who work with us have mental illnesses, physical disabilities, neurodivergence issues, and/or other "meatsuits are terrible actually" issues that strict publishing environments can't or, really, won't accommodate. We say "fuck that noise" and go out of our way to accommodate people, granting extensions and ensuring everyone can work on their own schedule. We're able to be very flexible, which means we bring in a lot of people whose incredible skills are overlooked, ignored, looked down on, kept out of, more mainstream publishing options.

If someone has trouble with deadlines? We still work with them.

If someone has an illness that flares irregularly and unpredictably? We still work with them.

If someone needs frequent reminders? We still work with them.

If someone works slowly because they can only do a little at a time? We still work with them.

If someone needs extra time, additional support, special software...we have thus far been able to accommodate literally everyone who has come to us.

As long as the creators who work with us keep communicating and keep showing at least a little progress, we will find a way to make things work, because we want to be as inclusive as possible, and because we know that most people with these challenges, no matter how good they are at writing or art or whatever it is they do with us, would face many more hardships to have these opportunities with a larger, more strict organization.

Just, every time I see indications that people think we're "less" because we're not HarperCollins or Penguin or Tor or something, I get so angry, because it shows so little understanding of how gatekeepy and especially how ableist trad pub is, and I wish more of the people who are thinking things like that would recognize that their behavior is, essentially, snobbery.

And to be clear I'm not saying "people with these challenges never get trad pubbed," that's clearly ridiculous and untrue, but I am saying, people with these challenges shouldn't have to be The Most Exceptional just to have a chance, and we deserve to have a place that will accommodate us instead of having to perform health, perform neurotypicalness, etc. just to succeed. We deserve to not have one flare-up potentially ruin our careers, and we deserve the same opportunities and respect as people who choose other directions.

Between trad pub, small press, and self-publishing, no one route is inherently "superior." Backing one over another doesn't guarantee you're only going to get good stories, or good editing. Trad pub publishes utter schlock sometimes, and self-publishing is fantastic sometimes, and some small presses do have lax standards, and some small presses are exceptional, and I feel like maybe people just really don't understand why places like Duck Prints Press try to exist - it's because we're trying to create spaces that meet us where we are, instead of focusing on rigid conformity, marketability, hard rules, etc.

The only way we'll get a diversity of voices in publishing is by supporting a diversity of publishers. The only way we'll be able to make space for everyone is by supporting the places that carve out new spaces to fit those who didn't fit elsewhere.

I wish more people would understand what we do and why we're here, and that folks would at least try our publications before assuming that we're "like big press but worse at writing/arting/editing."

Idk. I'm just tired, and sick, and still working even tho I'm sick, and frustrated with how hard it is to get anywhere, so here, have a rant I probably shouldn't post.

(this post brought to you by me seeing Chuck Tingle - entirely reasonably, to be clear, Chuck Tingle is awesome and I support him entirely! - celebrating the Camp Damascus release to thousands of notes, and Tor posting a poll about some Locked Tomb short story and getting 1300+ votes, and how I have to claw our way out of the background tumblr noise to get 100+ notes even on our biggest releases)

[hydropyro]

Raphael / Hope Theory

Continuing from my previous theory regarding Raphael's relationship with Haarlep, this is my theory about Hope.

Raphael is 'in love with' Hope (in his way, to paraphrase him)

Evidence 1: In the House of Hope there are several notes written by Korilla that document conversations between Hope and Raphael. The most important of them for this theory is 'Taming of Hope Part 1' which reads as follows:

- - -

Raphael: Did your mother sing you nursery rhymes?

Hope: What?

Raphael: Little Miss Teffle, sat on her kettle, steam blowing between her lips. Along came her oven, in need of some loving, and soon she had scalded her hips.

Hope: That's funny.

Raphael: And yet you do not laugh. Come, Hope. Don't look so aggrieved. This little realm around us, this house, you have mastery of it.

Hope: And you of me.

Raphael: Sing me a song. Hope? I'm speaking to you. Now, don't go silent. I'd hate to have to slit a child up the navel and rinse you in their insides.

Hope: You're some pervert.

Raphael: Then sing me a song, I say! Nursery-sweet. But don't demean. I'll know if you do.

Hope: (after some moments she does. I remember our mother used to sing it to us, a gentle melody laden deliciously like plump young arms laden with autumn-ripe apples. When the song concludes, Raphael sighs and looks at my sister)

Raphael: You're something, my dear. Really rather something. I would have you master your own fate. Let me give you free reign to do so. Let's abandon this whole ugly imprisonment. Serve me willingly. Things would be as merry and jubilant as that song you've just given me.

Hope: Sweet Raphael?

Raphael: Yes, Hope?

Hope: Eat. Shit.

Raphael: But--

Hope: Stuff your maggoty tongue in some other woman's ear.

Raphael: (here he looks upon her with such longing and hate I think he might actually [end] her.) Oh, that was in error, my dear. In grave error. I shall see you soon.

- - -

I believe that Raphael constructed the House in part for her, and repeatedly asks that she take her place, I believe as the 'lady' of the domain.

Her sister, Korilla, is Raphael's loyal warlock. Her mortality points toward Hope also being mortal and not some ancient embodiment of the concept of 'hope', though Raphael probably gets a kick out of the juxtaposition. My personal headcannon/assumption is that Korilla sought to be his warlock before Raphael's obsession with Hope began, and that Hope may have been part of Korilla's payment for his patronage.

The House of Hope was built just before the events of BG2, and thus is just over 100 years old, well within the lifespan of a mortal dwarf.

We know this because while in the House of Hope in Act 3 we can speak to the Infernal Mason, a skeleton that claims to have been the architect of the House. He was *also* the architect that built Moonrise Towers for Ketheric Thorm. Upset by Thorm's corruption and change of devotion from Selune to Shar, the architect made a deal with Raphael, asking him to fight Shar's encroaching armies before the Shadow Curse took hold.

Raphael did this, which is how Yurgir came to be in Shar's Gauntlet, as he was part of the fighting force against Shar, and specifically her Dark Juctisiers.

Now, on a darker note (TW: SA) I think Raphael has likely found loopholes to try and get with Hope. As a devil I think he requires affirmation of some kind, or a positive contract, before he's able to assert himself over anyone (in any fashion). This is why he doesn't force himself on Hope. He can't. She would say 'no', and he can't breach that. (Whether he physically can’t or has a personal boundary not to, I’m not sure)

But, when you first visit the boudoir, Hope appears and expresses disgust for the space. You can ask her, "Have you been here before?" to which she replies, "Never willingly," implying that she *has been there unwillingly*. Knowing what we know about the space, I'm guessing that she has met Haarlep.

I think it's possible that Raphael has used Haarlep to charm a 'yes' from Hope. (ie Hope would say 'yes' to Haarlep under his innate incubus charm/seductive magic but wouldn't to Raphael).

Haarlep, like Raphael, also appears to require an affirmative, but has natural abilities that cause people to be charmed and seduced by him, forcing people to agree to things even if it's not entirely consensual. As such, Haarlep is able to take your soul if you fail certain checks during that scene (or if you click on the option to give up your body and mind for scientific purposes).

Raphael his highly charismatic, but he doesn't have these magical charms, and so he has no way to coerce Hope to say 'yes' other than torture, which hasn't worked thus far.

Whether that would mean Raphael could also participate along with Haarlep, or would only be able to watch, I'm not sure, but given all of the evidence I have no doubt it's happened.

And, in Raphael's form Raphael would have all the sensations even if Haarlep was the only one capable of touching her.

I believe Raphael intends to create a sort of Zariel, corrupt someone holy and use their power for evil. Hope is powerful, and he allows her to indulge in her power. For example she’s able to ‘astral project’ in a sense around the House, and he permits it.

Raphael intends on becoming a God. While I don’t think he’s ‘lonely’ I think it’s possible he gets bored, and would want a partner to keep him company. It seems that Hope is the goddess he’s set his sights on.

[blackjackkent]

Have you seen one of these grant applications? We're lucky Einstein didn't have to fill one out or God knows what "E" would equal.

For Rakha and Wyll!!

(From @bladesandbhaalspawn)

(Prompts from The West Wing)

Ngl this one stumped me a little. XD I haven't really messed particularly with modern AUs but even if I had I was struggling to come up with a reason why Wyll and Rakha would be applying for a grant. But! I am not one to turn down an ask generously offered, so instead I adapted things a bit and rather than quoting the line directly, let it inspire me in a more general way, and settled on the idea of the two of them discussing Paperwork in a different form. Hope you enjoy even though it’s bit different from the original prompt. :O TY for the ask! <3

-----

Rakha squints down at the fallen body of Gerringothe Thorm. Stripped of her golden armor, the corrupted creature looks thin and frail and grotesque. Piles of coin lie scattered around her like blood puddles. Her head lies at an odd angle and her black eyes are blank, staring into the broken ceiling of the tollhouse.

“What… was she?” Rakha asks slowly, nudging the corpse with her boot toe. 

Wyll purses his lips thoughtfully. “Well, the tollkeeper, it seems,” he says with dry, muted humor. He crouches down carefully next to Gerringothe’s body and prods it carefully with one gauntleted hand, then wrinkles his nose at the unpleasant squishing sound this elicits. “Ugh. It’s like her skin came off with the armor. Or the armor was her skin.” 

Rakha does not respond with disgust, but she stares down at Gerringothe unblinkingly. “She wanted us to give her gold. To feed her. To pay the toll,” she says slowly, in the tone of voice she uses when she is working out an array of facts in her head. “What did she mean?”

“The toll to get to the city, I’d wager,” Wyll says absently, wiping the sticky blood from the corpse off on his tunic. Then he recollects himself, realizing that this isn’t a question to the answer Rakha is actually asking. “It’s a tax required to bring goods to Baldur’s Gate,” he explains more deliberately, looking up to watch the slow twitch of muscles in her face as she absorbs this information. “Any route into the city requires paying it.”

She thinks this over. “Why?”

“Funds for the city. And a record of imports.” He shrugs slightly. “Anyone bringing goods to the city has to fill out a stack of forms. Information about what they’re bringing, where it came from. Who it’s being delivered to.” He tugs his lower lip with his teeth thoughtfully, recalling civic lessons drummed into him by his father years ago, in another life. “The records all go to the city.” He grins crookedly. “I used to think it must be the most boring job in the world, reading through them all.”

Rakha tilts her head slowly to one side. “And the tollkeeper. They consume the gold,” she says, slowly and carefully.

Wyll’s eyebrows shoot up and then he shakes his head hastily. “Ah-- no, they collect it for the city. They don’t normally eat it. This must be a product of the curse; this isn’t what tollkeepers are normally like.”

She looks at him with an expression as still as steel. “Are you sure?”

A long, long pause. Then, very slowly, he smiles. “Hell’s fires. Are you making a joke?” he asks, delighted.

Almost imperceptibly, the corner of her mouth twitches upwards. “Yes.”

[veilkeeper]

For the companion!Tav asks for Serenity (unless that doesn't really work) how about General 1 and 9, Story specific 1, 10, and 11, and Romance 1 and 12?

questions from here

(Serenity uses he/him pronouns. He is a Dark Urge character.)

General

1. Where can your Tav be recruited?  Are they first encountered on the Nautiloid, or in the Nautiloid crash region?  Or are they not recruitable until a later act?

Lingering outside the druid grove. He doesn't correct you if the player assumes he's a tiefling refugee, but it very quickly becomes apparent that he isn't one. "I... could be?" He says when questioned. "Honestly, I don't remember anything before waking up down by the beach. But I've got these terrible headaches. From the tadpole? Maybe mine is laying sideways or something. Would be my luck." (*has definitely already murdered someone and is trying to sound sweet and innocent on purpose*)

9. Does your Tav have any escalating conflicts with one of the other companions, like Lae’zel and Shadowheart’s knife-fight?

He might have beef with one of the more "good" companions that he feels like he has to watch his back around. Oh, maybe Jaheira? She's probably eyeing him suspiciously. The undercurrent of this being that he feels a lot like a caged animal, especially in a good-aligned PC's game. Like if he slips and gives into the urge, he'll be killed or driven off (which, given their impending ceremorphosis, is as good as being killed). I don't think it would escalate to blows, but if he ever confesses to his urges (see below), there might be a confrontation.

(more below!!!)

Story Specific

1. How does your Tav advise the player character when it comes to the Dream Visitor?

Considering his dream visitor is offering a lot of answers he can't verify (mixed with a heavy dose of temptation), he advises caution. He would never tell the player to outright turn down power, but he would certainly caution them against going too far. Power is useless if you aren't the one using it, and too many of these tadpoles risks making it so it isn't you anymore.

10. How do they react if the PC licks the dead spider in the Gauntlet of Shar?

"I suppose there are worse things to find exciting." If the player goes in again they get a deep, long-suffering sigh. "Care to pack some away? To enjoy back at camp? In private?"

11. What do they say if the PC tries to force them to go up on stage with Dribbles the Clown?

He'd be furious, especially since he's probably barely holding back from gutting Dribbles as it is. Just on stage shaking like a dog trying not to cause a scene.

Romance

1. Is your Tav a romanceable character?  Are there any specific requirements to romancing them?

Yes, with the heavy asterisk that he'd eventually break up with the player if he's ever left wondering about their loyalty to him, especially once the urge/bhaalspawn stuff starts coming out. He'd do anything for the player, and he expects that intensity in return - and that includes them being okay with him being okay with a lot of fucked up stuff.

12. Free space! Share anything from your companion!Tav au!

At a certain point of approval (probably high), he'd tell the player about his urges, and trying to script that conversation would be crazy because it would go SO differently depending on the situation. Is the player generally a good person who helps people selflessly? He's visibly nervous, about to bolt. Full plans to just take off if this goes poorly and risk dealing with the tadpole alone. Uses a lot of flowery language to try to pass off the urge as something that's possessing him, rather than something that is him. He's telling the player some version of the truth, but he's not dropping the charade entirely. Has the player done something "evil" like side with the goblins? He is much more relaxed and honest about the urge. He would tell them what actually bothers him about his urges: not that he has them, and not that he desires doing terrible, violent things, but that he has vicious headaches and a compulsion to do such things. "We both know it can be fun to cause some wanton destruction. I just want to pick who, and when." Romanced? He's terrified, but in the way a cornered animal is. He tries to get the truth out and if there isn't immediate understanding he lashes out. He would respond especially badly to any sort of implication that "it's okay, I know the real you, just resist the Bad Thoughts!" because "The fact that you have touched me and you are still alive is proof that I have been resisting." This would be a conversation that either secures his loyalty forever or results in a decisive break up.

[chiefwritesbook]

WIP Intro: SOTAL

Hi hello this is my main WIP and book 1 is out and I'm !!!!!!

(have a moodboard first of all)

Series title: Stories of the Ancient Lands (SOTAL) Genre: Epic fantasy/romance Themes: Justice (and prejudice), power & leadership, morality, self-identity, friendship & love

Blurb for book 1: War rages across the elven kingdom of Kies Tor. In the capital, the exiled crown prince has returned, seeking to usurp the throne. Midst the bloodshed and chaos, Talin Zylvaris II must take her place as queen and lead the kingdom to safety. It’s a heavy weight for the youngest Torrian ruler in a thousand years.

There is, however, a glimmer of hope in an unlikely alliance to the west. Against her council’s advice, Talin rides out with her mysterious royal bodyguard to seize it, oblivious to the dangers stirring at home. Caught between a court conspiracy and advancing Hellhounds to the north, Talin has only one chance to save her people. If it is not already too late.

About the main squad: Talin: Queen of an entire kingdom, inherited a war, trying her hardest not to screw up and also keep her people alive while everyone at court plots things behind her back. Probably needs to be fished out from the increasingly large pile of other people's bullshit.

Red Wolf: Lord Commander of the Royal Guard. Not a Werewolf™️ and definitely not a simp for the queen, not at all. Prone to getting stabbed or slashed by various sharp and pointy things - it's an occupational hazard.

Ettrias: Talin's twin brother, crown prince of Kies Tor, also very much exiled for murder. May or may not be plotting to assassinate the queen. People tend to forget he's highly competent with a sword and attempt to kill him for some reason.

Captain Golmin: Army vet who became head of the royal guard because it pays to be best friends with the Lord Commander. Really just tired of everyone's shit. Always ends up caught in the middle of a court conspiracy or another, possibly because he's dating the crown prince.

Ashera: A 12yo child who wound up as the Lord Commander's squire because the guy felt guilty about failing to save her hometown and subsequently promised her mother that he'd look after her. Looks like a cinnamon roll, can and will commit crimes.

Book 1 excerpt to finish off: Talin tried a different tactic. “Why did you allow the assassin to scale the walls?”

“We needed a man for questioning.” Red Wolf took the torch from her at the bottom of the steps and led the way onwards, past endless rows of black-barred cells. She could see some were occupied, though none dared come close to them in Red Wolf’s towering presence. A straggly youth with rags for clothes spat on the ground when they passed. Her bodyguard slammed the bars with a gauntleted hand, and he jumped back, eyes wide.

“You and Captain Golmin set this up?” Talin asked.

“The plan was my idea. Captain Golmin only helped because he had an obligation to his lord commander,” Red Wolf explained. “We organised a new night shift that left blind spots on the walls and allowed the assassin to observe the pattern. We also leaked false information that I would not be guarding you at night. I had been asking you if you required me to guard your chambers only because I did not want to go against your word, but you refused each time. We were running out of opportunities.”

“You mean to say that I was bait,” Talin said.

“Not the word I would use, but in a way, yes,” Red Wolf confessed.

“Why?”

“You have been on the throne for less than a year. If someone wants you dead this quickly, something is amiss. I’d like to find out what.”

[barbwritesstuff]

send asks you say?

how likely are each of the ROs to get back with MC after a breakup?

Assuming the reason for the breakup isn't devastating...

Carrie - Requires you to perform a big romantic grand gesture.

Ed - Only after a 500 word written essay explaining why things will be Better(TM) this time around.

Marco - Will fall sobbing into your arms before you finish asking.

Farro - Will consult with Hani. If she approves, then yes. If she doesn't, you're out of luck.

Vicky - Honestly? I have no idea. 50/50. She may, she may not.

Roe - Unlikely. You'd have to run a gauntlet and a half before they'd consider your application.

Shawnie - If you buy her chocolate... then yes.

Sergi - Was unaware you'd broken up.

[whcnimdone]

@estarion - happy ( late ) birthday you eccentric bastard.

they're late.

they know they're late, but they've been up for days by this point, working dedicated to finish the collection of little trinkets and tapestries that they know astarion would enjoy to have for his birthday, for his day of life. after all, even the vampire spawn would know and notice that they have been absent from all camp activities since days before and now days after the spawn's birthday.

they're working on the last piece with a sure sign of mania that most would balk and frighten at, but for the faerie it was something of a comfort to know that they could push through this and then get something to eat, to drink, and then pass out for a few days, at the begrudging nature of their Guardian in their dreams. ( never did trust that damn person, but they were helping, for now. it would have to do. )

they look up briefly, scanning around them to check that everything is where it's supposed to be so they can hand it off to astarion in a few moments when the last few strands curl through their fingertips and settle with a gentle fluttering of cloth.

the first thing they made held a spark of hope, a couple intertwined flowers that looked as if they were fighting an endless winter and a glimpse of spring at the ground inside a magically lit terrarium. it was the representation of how often he seemed to give the ground that spark, the lingering feeling that they must fight, they must fight, because no one else can do it.

the second thing they made, they didn't exactly make it by themselves. their patron had giggled and laughed and cackled at the fact that they sought out a smithy that their patron once knew out here among the woods, slinking away to their friend of a friend to make a couple of pieces that they know astarion.

the first of which was a fanciful gauntlet decorated with gold inlay that wreathed itself in a manner much like a golden laurel, the symbol of their newfound family. the symbol of victory, of survival, of knowing you had won. it was a subtle way of ensuring that astarion would never be far from family - would never be shunned for being who he wanted to be, or who he strove to become.

the second item from the smithy was a simple one, but a necessary one. it was a ring. not a purity or promise or engagement ring, but a friendship ring. they were wearing the other half of it, and they had a note attached to it in a small ring of parchment that detailed what it all meant, and that he was not required to wear it. a blacksteel band with a ring of red and a centerpiece of a bright red agate, heralding a once per dawn ability to cast counterspell, directly as a gift from them and their patron.

the last of the group from the smithy was a crown that looked a little amateurish. something made by unsteady, shaking hands, but with dedicated aim with someone guiding them. it was bronze, yes, but it was polished and taken care of bronze, engraved with the motto of both their patron - "trying is a matter of hope. you cannot try if you do not have hope." - and themselves - "do it because no one else can do it for you."

and of course, there is what they're currently working on.

it was a simple thing, meant to keep him warm at night when he did not seek out one of the others for snuggles and cuddles. it was a fur lined scarf, decorated in his obvious favorite colors, telling a story in the transition of gold to red to black, not too bright to negate his roguish tendencies, but bright enough to catch eyes when he would take off the hoods.

they sigh, as they finally finish the last stitches to keep the fur lining in place. a nod, and they gather up all the items, peeking out the tent in the middle of the night, and walking casually up to astarion's tent. they set them out in places that only he'd know something had been placed there -

the ring and crown are lain near but not on each other on top of his makeup 'stand', with a note explaining what the ring does. the scarf is folded up carefully and placed with his day outfit but not on top of the fabrics he relies on so easily. and lastly, the terrarium is placed where even the others could see it but they'd overlook it unless they were karlach or perhaps shadowheart on her more curious days: right next to his nail filers and the book he loves to read in camp.

& with that, they saunter back to their tent and crumble into their tent.

[sercezgazety]

The Emperor's Two Bodies

There are two separate bodies that the Emperor has. One is very old and fragile. With every passing day, it becomes more fatigued, losing the fight against the curse. This body’s joints ache when the weather changes and ache when it doesn’t. It requires palismen to keep its form. It doesn’t lack any teeth, but that’s rather unfortunate, given how sensitive they are to low temperatures and sour tastes.

When the curse pours over, depriving the body of its shape and grotesquely elongating its limbs, it loses fingernails by the time the sludge finally recedes. It doesn’t matter how well-versed in healing magic the Emperor is, at some point the nailbeds just start hurting permanently. Which is a good thing. It means there’s no necrosis.

This body is dying, has been dying for decades, and there’s no way around it. The palismen just prolong the inevitable. They buy this body time so that the Emperor can accomplish his mission, but eventually, his iron will is not going to be enough to keep it moving and breathing. Oh, don’t give me that look, William. You know it’s true.

On bad days, this body’s breath smells like something dead and rotten, and on really bad days, when it coughs into a handkerchief, there are maggots squirming in the sputum. The Emperor makes sure to burn the piece of fabric immediately, but it doesn’t change the harsh realities. He isn’t in full control of his body — and no wonder, no witch and no demon have such a power. When bodies hurt, they just hurt, and when they rebel, they rebel, even though the curse has made sure that this one rebels more than any other. To witness this body’s failings is dangerous and, if one doesn’t have enough common sense to move aside when the Emperor’s hands turn into spikes, then yes, painful at times. But it is also the greatest privilege there is. It is the sign of ultimate trust to be allowed so close. If someone truly loves the Emperor as dearly as he claims he does, he stays by the Emperor’s side, Hunter.

Like all bodies, this one needs to eat, sleep, and sometimes perform other functions discreetly. With every passing year, its sleep gets interrupted more and more frequently by said functions. This body has foods it finds agreeable and many more that make it nauseous, but the ones it likes, it really likes. It’s tall, but straightening its back hurts, so it spends most of the time hunched. But watch closely, my dear boy. That other one might be slightly hunched as well, but it’s sitting on a throne, and when it stands, it stands tall, towering over everyone else.

That other body, Luke, the one that never ceases to command respect, belongs to the most powerful witch on the entire Isles, who knows, perhaps in the entire realm. It is untouchable, and there are those who say it’s immortal.

Almost nobody has seen it, it remains hidden behind the mask and the gauntlets. It has magic no other body possesses and no one in the Isles has ever seen ere. The Emperor conjures up blades made out of flesh that are sharper and harder than any steel. He makes the ground swallow him and spit him out anywhere he pleases, provided he���s willing to deal with the inconvenience of limbs materializing twisted in ways no other body’s joints would allow. He speaks to the Titan Himself, and it’s very obvious he has some connection to His flesh, being able to summon vines, limbs and tendons from the ground with nothing but a wave of a hand. The Emperor’s magic operates on that which is alive, but not quite. He animates the tools he requires.

The Golden Guard has similar magic, although it’s merely borrowed from the Emperor and cannot be used without the staff. The staff, mind you, Timothy, is just one part of his regalia. It marks him as the Emperor’s, yes, but the thing that truly marks him is the mask.

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