#a very knightly gesture

[thesadpuffin]

Zelda Reacts Part 8

shoutout to that one person who said something about Link in knights armour and being extra chivalrous - it never left my head and here we are XD

Part 7: Dark Link <<<

[vinnyvamppp]

To Be Desired

⭐: No Goggles Mark, Mohawk Mark, #17 Mark/Sinister Mark, Mentions of Invincible (requested!).

Synopsis: Variants of your childhood best friend spawn across the globe, and you find yourself in the crossfire of their previous lovers. What happens when you experience the parallel pleasure they offer?

Warnings: Power Struggles, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Morally Grey, Nipple Play, Fingering, Pussy Eating, Overstimulation, Public Sex, Squirting, Rough Sex, Switch!Reader, Switch!Invincible Variants, Plot changes for convenience, Matching Freaks, Position Changes, Porn w a Plot, etc.

Invincible Variants x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5,239 (PART TWO HERE)

“You won’t believe what just happened, oh man!” Mark exclaimed with glee; an unfamiliar look of pride swam within his irises. It was the night he received his powers; a deep crater buried itself into your driveway from his failed landing. “What?” you questioned, prying your front door open as he entered. There were scuff marks littered across his naked upper body, battered and bruised from his knightly adventure. “It was incredible. I—I flew,” he explained, his hand gesturing excitedly. This was a dream of his; he would craft makeshift suits and detail desired escapades to save the world. However, for it to come true was another story.

“No way! This… this is a funny joke,” you sputtered. One doesn’t usually acquire powers at random, but in this dimension, who knows? “No, really. I took a huge leap off my roof, not really expecting anything,” he interrupted to soften the already ridiculous landing of his story. “You know, and I just took off.” The topic was so exhilarating; the thought of questioning him hadn’t dawned upon you. He leaned against the back of your couch, crossing his arms as you two reminisced.

“Wait—why were you jumping from the roof anyway? What if nothing happened and you fell?” you questioned with a raised brow. “I know, I know, it’s stupid. But I was curious and decided to give it a try,” he rationalized quietly, fingers nervously scratching his nape. “Aw… I want powers now,” you feigned sadness as you sulked. It was your attempt at being amusing, but truthfully, you felt left behind. Was it envy? Was it the need to feel important? Was it the fear of him leaving you behind to begin his journey as a hero? You didn’t know at the time. His expression became tinged slightly with guilt. “Hey, don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get powers soon,” he reassured you, but it was too humorous to be sincere.

“Yeah… soon. Real funny, wasn’t it?” you said to yourself as your body perched against a rooftop. It was the second day of the Mark variants ravaging Earth like their playground. The once-majestic towers now stand as skeletal frames, their glass windows shattered. Debris litters the streets, a tragic mix of shattered concrete and twisted metal, and the air hangs heavy with the scent of smoke and ash. Heroes formed makeshift shelters and sifted through rubble for survivors.

The Mark you once knew was head over heels for Atom Eve. It was no secret; he was a lost puppy whose ears would perk at the sound of his name on her tongue. Utterly devoted. Sickeningly in love. You were the very last to discern his truth. The two were written in stone, but it left a bitter taste in your mouth that you had long since gotten over. Until now. You were late to the news of the world's destruction. A strangely familiar face appeared on the news, a version of Mark that made your chest tighten. Within your family, a strange ability was acquired—a power bred through evolution to ensure survival in a world full of the unknown. Once in a lifetime, through a series of visions, you would discover a pivotal moment in time to peer through. That moment was now. Eighteen variants were loose internationally, each with their own tragic story and love interests. Six had dated or lost their Atom Eve, five had slain their worlds' Amber, and six had been devoted to you.

Helping where you could, you began assisting in fighting off the weaklings who figured now was the best time to attack Earth. Micro tears riddled your uniform as you tore through them mercilessly, all through a look of pity. There were days you'd resent this “job” you'd granted yourself, the little recognition and appreciation you'd receive from the public. How selfish of them—and you. You wanted an excuse to have this world fair alone without a need to rebel when no one would notice. As luck would have it, a voice suddenly dawned behind you, his body floating midair and adorned with the appearance of your dearest friend.

Mohawk Mark

“Oh, shit… I know you,” he rasped, his expression twisted into a cocky grin. His stature and pose were that of confidence—and a man who caused insurmountable damage to those he met. “You look just like her,” he continued, his feet finding purchase on the ground as his stride increased. “Sorry, you've got the wrong one—try finding her—” Just as you spoke, static buzzed in your skull—a low crackling hum that drowned out the edges of the memory before it fully formed. It was there—just beyond reach—shrouded in white noise.

The harder you focused, the more the static swelled, but for a moment, the interference cleared. A voice—the ghost of a feeling—and just as quickly, it was swallowed again. You understood the gist; he was indeed one you would find yourself tangled with. “Looks like you’ve been through some tough shit—mind if I join you?” Without waiting for a response, he lunged forward, grappling you in a powerful embrace. His intent wasn't one of danger but instead of safekeeping despite his demeanor. Reflexes took over as you slammed against his cranium with the strength you could muster, effectively knocking him back.

"Fuck, you're a feisty one," Mohawk Mark growled, his breath hot against your ear. "I like that shit. Let's see how you handle this." His chuckle was condescending—yet a thrill shot through you. “‘Won't be handling shit,” you quipped before biting into his neck—just rigid enough to draw blood. He groaned, his flight knocking you two back into an alleyway.

Similarly to your Mark, he seemed attracted to strength, his veins pumping with lust rather than adrenaline. Holding a firm grasp of your jaw, his lips collided with yours in a searing and blood-stained kiss. The muscle of his tongue forcefully parted your lips as he sought to taste you against his own. Finding yourself against the wall, your legs wrapped around the width of his waist, your ass snugly hovering over his pelvis.

He pulled away every few seconds to watch your expression succumb to your selfish wants. Sex with the enemy was enticing and you weren’t letting him escape any time soon. “You planned this?” you murmured between the saliva-ridden kisses. “That would be telling. You know enough if you’re agreeing to this.” His voice grew to tease as he licked his lips—mirroring his satisfaction before peppering kisses down your exposed neck.

His version of sex was rough, with small increments of romance—only reserved for the best prize. With muffled groans, his teeth harshly nipped their way lower, his fingers tearing through the fabric of your suit. As he continued down your now-exposed cleavage, his tongue ran along the scantily clad lace of your bra. Staring up at you, he let out a mischievous snicker before his teeth snagged the cup and tore it from your chest—leaving it discarded on the ground.

“Shit… was fucking not enough? Had to ruin my clothes too,” you complained as your hips bucked against his pointedly. This earned a guttural grunt from the flesh of your breasts, as he heaved out a response. “You’ll forget about them anyway,” he dismissed as he continued until your panties were the last to be removed. The cool air dusted your wet cunt—its arousal seeping through your folds like honey. Its chill made you shiver and like bees to nectar, his tongue feasted before his eyes.

Hoisting you up, your thighs rested against his shoulders as he knelt, the angle allowing his tongue to slip inside your already spasming pussy. An unusual pink hue dusted his cheek as he stared up at you in utter bliss. Your fingers dug into his forearms, your puffy folds pressed against his lips as he devoured you. With your head resting against the wall, your hips ground themselves relentlessly against his tongue.

"Mmm, shit, already soaking wet for me," he taunted, pumping his tongue in and out of your tight cunt. His tongue—rough and textured—lashed out to lap at your clit, sending jolts of pleasure through your body. His groans sent mild vibrations through you as his fingers reached up to paw at your tits, nipples stiffened in the cold air. You couldn't help but moan as he ate you out with relentless intensity, his tongue plunging deep into your folds. His calloused hands roamed your exposed flesh, pinching and kneading your breasts, twisting your sensitive nipples until they grew numb.

His hands couldn't stop their exploration—they explored what he had lost many years ago. Sparks flew as his tongue circled against your clit, flickering the bundle of nerves with a speed inexperienced before. Every time you neared the precipice of your orgasm, his tongue would flatten as he sucked your clit—ruining the rhythm. You tugged his hair with a frustrated groan, and his eyes rolled into his skull with an amused moan.

Finally pulling away, he stood to his feet. His lips parted to speak when suddenly, “Hurry the fuck up,” you said curtly with exasperated gasps. With lidded eyes, a Cheshire grin settled across his features. “Yes, ma’am.” Prying his suit off, he palmed his dampening erection. For once he fell silent as anticipation ate away at you both. As he freed his cock from the confinement of his boxers, it slapped against his lower abdomen.

It stood with a veiny girth—the tip kissed a rosy red like his many mistresses' lipsticks. With a pleased hiss, he stroked himself briefly—eyes just barely losing focus from the buildup before he plunged himself into you. Your pussy hugged him with a familiarity that felt like home, the painful stretch soon becoming one of bliss. His hips began to quicken, wanting to see your fucked-out expression like never before.

However, his greed overwhelmed him as the stimulation grew difficult to ignore. His usual grunts and growls diluted into groans and profanities. The alleyway echoed with the cacophony of moans that mingled in the air—inharmonious, yet emotion-filled as a flame flickered within your core. “I’ve waited so fucking long for this,” he grunted, a grin etched into his lips. “N-None of them—no ssslut compares to this. Only pussy I need—only woman I want.” A groan interrupted his sentence as your cunt contracted around him—swallowing him at the base.

That’s right—every harem formed and woman fucked was so he could ruin the image of you that plagued his mind in its grief. The vulnerability of it all made your toes curl, even if it wasn't much.

The fingers pawing at your breasts began kneading them like stress balls, until they were red. Truthfully, he missed every inch of you—not that he would admit that, especially since you weren’t exactly his. A high-pitched moan ripped from your throat as he continued to bounce you on his dick. Pre-cum coated your insides as the sounds of arousal grew louder, his balls tightening. With every thrust, he could see the air physically leave you, the scuff marks from brick marking your skin.

He could barely tell where to focus his eyes—on your tits or face? Both were gorgeous but fuck, he should just kidnap you and take you home with him, right? “Fuuuuck, Mark… I’m g-go—” you groaned as your fingernails indented into his skin, a pain and pleasure-filled gasp crawling from his throat. “Fuck, yeah…” he said, his raspy voice cracking with the slightest whine. “Take it… s-shit, take it…!” It was a growl as his eyes fluttered shut to hide his eyes practically rolling around his skull. With a clenched jaw, his dick began to milk itself. The pleasure mounted as your impending orgasm washed your body in a sweat-breaking heat. Just as he came, your cunt spasmed, once he pulled out, something within snapped as an aroused gush squirted from you.

His groin was now coated in your scent, taste, and the result of your rough fucking. The pleasure racked your brain as tears threatened to spill over. Noticing this—and pleased with his efforts—he let out a short chortle, a hand coming up to swipe your folds and have a final taste. His expression turned into a feigned sob as he silently teased—his tip running a line between your folds and ass, resisting the temptation to fill your asshole with his seed. Once you two were settled from your high, he spoke up. “Had fun, babe.” Your eyebrow lifted at the newly coined pet name.

Suddenly, a muffled voice in his ear caught his attention. “Shit…” he muttered with an annoyed grimace at Angstrom ruining his amusement. “Go on,” you beckoned. “Not yours anyway—so no need to stick around.” It was a light jab—one he received with a satisfied smirk before taking flight. “Doesn’t matter—I’ll be back,” he replied curtly before disappearing into the horizon.

You stood there—naked—processing what just happened. "Shit, I need a new suit from my apartment.”

Variant #17 Mark (I wouldn't even keep you as a slave in my Empire!) Or Sinister Mark (personalities are similar in the comics, so imagine what you will.)

"You thought you could hide from me?" he said, peering down at you with a friendly grin for someone so domineering. Staring down at the man’s shadow, his cape billowed in the wind. Unlike the other Marks you’d caught a glimpse of, this one barely had a bruise on him. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he finished before he landed softly on the ground. As he approached, you remained still, eyebrows creasing into a frown. “I’m not—” You were abruptly cut off by a low voice as his head tilted to stare into your eyes. “Don’t play stupid. My version of you had the same power—but she resisted our cause.” His voice was tinged with pity as he frowned; he decided to take another route in his approach.

“I’ll tell you what—I’ll leave if you come with me,” he offered with an outstretched palm. You vehemently shook your head in disagreement. “I’m not going—it'll disrupt the timeline.”

“Why does that matter?” he asked.

“What makes you think I won't resist either…?” you retorted, causing his eyebrows to raise slightly in thought. “I’ll change your mind—and give you what you missed out on in my world.” It was such a matter-of-fact opinion—one rooted in a determination to outclass any obstacle that might deter him. Curiosity bested you the moment you turned to face the chaos erupting in the streets as a strong gust of wind obscured the debris. He was behind you. His fingers draped over your waist as he took flight—and to… your apartment? “I’ve been watching you for a while now… I know all about your preferences. Let’s have some fun, shall we?” His lips just barely grazed your ear.

Amongst the hands that roamed your body, a sense of longing lingered in every squeeze and grope. While being one of the strongest—and surely the most vile—his personality could be charming like your dimension’s Mark. Even if feigned for manipulation. He spun you around to face him, that polite smile etched into his face again as his body betrayed innocence. The erection forming within his costume became difficult to ignore—but he found a distraction. A touch, a handhold, and finally—a kiss.

“Let me show you what it's truly like to be satisfied.” His words were reassuring, yet they felt more directed toward his version of you rather than now. His tongue swept into your mouth, tangling itself in a wet heat as he sucked the air from your lungs. The warmth of his fingers spread across your cheek as his tongue attempted to delve impossibly deep. The taste was better than you imagined—not that you expected any less. If anything, finding him in a forgiving mood proved to be favorable.

His fingers shifted from your face to the back of your costume—in his attempt to be gentle, he tore the cloth from your body like tissue paper. In an instant, his costume was discarded in the corner, leaving him in snug boxers that hugged his dick. Before you knew it, you were pinned against the bed—a hand flush against your throat as he shrugged slightly. “Didn’t mean for that to happen,” he said, an amused huff exiting his nose as you exchanged knowing glances.

The remaining hand gently pried the panties from around your hips and down the length of your legs. His eyes fell upon the wet patch that seeped through the thin fabric—as the semblance of a pleased grin stretched across his lips. Focusing his attention once more, his fingers slowly parted your folds, watching as your velvety walls peeked through the slit. Its warm flesh was inviting—something he had yet to try since you retaliated so often against him at home. Just why couldn’t you be this welcoming? So willing to be corrupted? So… morally gray at the least.

Pressing two digits inside your warmth, he watched it conform to the size of his fingers. An obvious shiver ran through him with each moan that vibrated from your throat—as he imagined you hugging him and wrapped around his cock in plea. The sensations set your skin alight with gooseflesh—and each time you attempted to scurry away from his gift, the hold around your neck tightened ever so slightly. He was such a brat.

Your hips ground into his hand, clit colliding with his palm in gentle waves. As his fingers slowly retracted, his cock shyly peeked from the pocket of his boxers. His patience was running thin as he adjusted himself at your entrance—and slowly pushed through. A loud sigh escaped his lips as he bottomed out, his head falling backward as he quietly cursed under his breath. Mirroring his restlessness, your foot hooked around his lower back and pressed him deeper. A drawn-out moan echoed from your throat; he was barely holding on as he gnawed at his lip to contain himself. Reflexively, his hips stuttered before setting a relentless pace—pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes that hit all the right spots.

“Already so wet for me… pathetic. Fucking slut.” His words struck a nerve within—as you repulsively tightened around him, earning a whine. Your moans echoed through the room, mingling with the slap of skin against skin and Mark's grunts of pleasure. He hammered into you like a man possessed—his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he drove you toward climax.

The long thrusts stimulated every inch of his dick—the veins kissed with every grip of your cunt. “Did your version of me not do it for you?” you teased before taking a sharp breath at his relentless pace. “Y-You really don’t know when to be quiet,” he gritted. “But n-no… not like this. You're much better. I would take you to be a part of my empire.” He replied, his jaw tightening as his hips drilled into you with renewed conviction at the thought. A second you—not the one he’s attempting to keep as a slave for disobeying—but one he could trust to blindly follow his power. His grin grew wolfish as his other hand overlapped your throat—his gaze shifting between your bouncing tits and pleasured face.

The slight closure of your windpipe didn’t allow for much noise—but no matter, Mark began to sing like you’d never imagine. It was strange—the sound was much louder due to your silence as you clawed at his skin. His voice began to crack as his tightened jaw began to slack. "F—fucking incredible," he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. "I knew… you'd be worth every s-second of c-...chasing you down," he sputtered as his length began to twitch inside you.

Seeing someone as strong as him unravel before you was a greater sense of accomplishment than becoming a hero itself. With a closed-lip groan, he began overstimulating himself with the effort to get you off. “Haaa… I’m c-close. Ugh…!” you muttered through strangled gasps—as the deprivation of air made you lightheaded and sensitive. Every nerve ending inside your cunt doubled as you went taut beneath him. “C’mon, fucking cum for me,” he heaved.

His thrusts became sloppy as he came inside without warning—doubling over as a consequence. An unfamiliar sensation painted your insides. You both saw stars as silence pierced the room—the slick produced coated his cock in a glaze. Through bated breaths, his fingers finally released their grip around you as you coughed out a response. “I have to admit… you’re hard to deny,” you said, momentarily spent as you lay before him. “Swee—” He was cut off by a voice in his ear.

It was Angstrom demanding his presence over the city. “What a nuisance,” were the final words you caught as he muttered under his breath. Every version of Angstrom was a hindrance to this Mark—nonetheless, he suited up to leave. “I’ll return—and you will join me,” he said confidently, as if there was no argument to be made. You nodded absentmindedly and sighed. Just what had you done?

No Goggles Mark

“Dude…! You’re so cool—what is that? I’ve never seen any powers like that in my world,” he said with an amused expression as he snickered at your agony. You stared up at him, your heartbeat suddenly quickening when meeting his gaze. A look of recognition flickered within his eyes. “Hey, I know you,” he said, his feet touching base on the ground as he approached you with a widening grin. “I’m not sure you know me exactly…” you replied, backing away as your eyes searched for a route to escape—his friendliness had truly taken you aback.

“Who do you work for?” he asked, words flying from his mouth without a care as he approached closer. “You're way stronger than the Guardians of the Globe dudes I fought.” He fought who?! A sense of dread filled you as a new series of questions plagued your mind. If this one could ruin the team to filth—then just how strong was he, and what exactly did he want? “I don't want to fight you, man,” you somewhat pleaded; he frowned with disapproval. “Fight? No, man… but it seems like you’re in trouble, dude.” The topic switched again—his gaze now behind you—as a flurry of aliens attempting their takeover waltzed through a portal. You didn’t have the heart to tell them it was a failed crusade before it began.

Taking a stride forward, a strong arm suddenly wrapped around your waist as you two were propelled to a lone-standing structure where steel beams and concrete floors remained. “Put me down,” you bruised him as you backhanded him into the metal beam. While he had a smile on his face, momentary irritation settled across his features. The painful sting ran to his cock. “Aw, what's the matter?” he asked, standing to his feet as you both came face to face once more.

“It would be hot, but I don't want to fight, dude. I’ve missed you. I promise I’ll be gentle… at first.” The delivery was more seductive—dropping an octave—as he approached you, hands outstretched and finding purchase against your hips. One thing other variants wouldn’t admit—was the supple touch of the right woman could caress their soul.

“I’m not the me you want,” you replied. “You can just be the one I have anyway,” he said. He was indeed serious—and while less terrifying than the other Marks you’d encountered, his strength was menacing nonetheless. “Then let’s see what other talents you’ve got.” Your response made his expression brighten with a new goal in mind. At that, the grin on his face widened as he leaned down and captured your lips in a fierce, dominant kiss.

His tongue forced its way into your mouth, battling yours for dominance as he ground his hips against yours. You two stumbled around the enclosure—footsteps echoing in the empty building. Mark’s hands cupped your ass, squeezing roughly as he whispered crude compliments into your ear. "Nice ass," he growled appreciatively, his fingers caressing the soft flesh. He couldn’t articulate it well—but you were truly beautiful in every universe—and he couldn’t wait to have his share.

Your fingers traveled up his muscled back as body heat pooled across your fingertips. Eagerness unlike any other began to rise as you longed to touch every inch of him. Hero costumes were peeled from one another, and you found his groping becoming progressively obsessive. His hardened cock stood awaiting stimulation as he bit back his urges—sacrificing the time to feel you once more.

Guiding him to the floor, you seated yourself against his lap—your legs hooked over his forearms. He was always too quick to finish battles, and that even applied to sex. Just the tip. That's what you two agreed upon. Sinking onto his cock—its girth filled you deliciously. The wet sound of arousal followed by his restrained groans filled you with delight; it was amusing to see a Viltrumite struggle to contain himself.

1… 2… 3… 4… 5… and 6! On every sixth shallow thrust, you would contract your muscles—gripping his dick like a vice as every vein received a kiss from the gods inside your cunt. It had him crazed—wanting more of your warmth than you were willing to give. “F—fuck, babe, you’re killin’ me,” he hissed with an unforeseen weariness shaking his voice. “Can I?” he started. “No.” His expression hardened at your words. “You’re ruining the—” Before he could finish, he inhaled sharply as his head fell back. “Am I…?” you asked with feigned curiosity. It was undulating in a rhythm that drove him wild. He groaned beneath you—his hands digging into his palms as he fought his urges to misbehave.

The sound of your ass slapping against his pelvis filled the air—mingling with your moans and cries of pleasure. Anything would be worth trading; he could watch his dick disappear within your cunt nonstop. His impending release redoubled his efforts—pounding into you with a ferocity that sent you hurtling over the edge.

The excitement overwhelmed him as he sheathed half his cock inside—the spreading warmth and moisture making his thighs quiver beneath you. His balls tightened, painfully so—that alone ripped a pornographic moan from him. If he could fuck you as desired, he wouldn’t be nearly as needy. Your combined moans echoed through the infrastructure—and you were certain that with the windows gone, someone could hear—but the thought was out of sight and out of mind. Pre-cum beaded down his length as it was smeared each time he entered your warmth. “M-Mark…” you muttered; he nodded fervently behind you as his jaw locked.

“Y-You ready for it, babe?" he asked with a faltering grin as sweat tickled his brows. Leaning your full body weight against him—you felt your orgasm building quickly. The pleasure reached new heights as you both milked each other dry for the sake of proving a point. Your body instinctively began to lurch forward as your orgasm washed over you like a tidal wave. The tip of his cock was bedecked with a foam ring of cum. Mark would’ve begun convulsing had it not been for him carrying you—instead, his body stiffened as he let out a tight-lipped groan. You could’ve sworn you saw his toes curl too—but who knows? His pale skin was flushed a hue of red as his body thrummed with an aftershock.

Once you’d come down from your high, a satisfied grin beamed at you. "Dude, that was incredible," he murmured, a satisfied grin on his face. "We should do this again sometime," he said—as if this was some casual fling, not that you would mind.

Before you could respond, a message in his ear interrupted the conversation. “Ugh… this always happens; I have fun, and then—dude…” he sounded exasperated as he hurriedly redressed—reluctantly wishing you a botched farewell. “I like you. You’re coming with me.”

Feel free to request more lmao

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[spectrechosts]

Better Off Together - Chapter 7

Masterpost

Kallixenia startles awake, groggy.

She’s… She has to…

Where is she?

“Oh, you’re awake! Welcome home, kind paladin.”

She’s… home? She sits up from the couch she had been sleeping on, examines her surroundings through the slits in her helmet. Brings her hand up to feel that yes, she is wearing her helmet, and her hand does seem to be gauntleted in turn.

“I… fell asleep in my armor?” She asks.

“You did,” says her wife, sitting beside her. “Dead tired after all that adventuring, weren’t you? Didn’t even make it to bed, just walked in and keeled right over here.”

That doesn’t sound like her. And besides, why would she wear her full plate all the way home anyway? The roads aren’t that dangerous around… wherever they are.

She stares at her wife for a moment.

“…Where’s Lunaeris?” She asks, and her wife pouts.

“Playing favorites isn’t very knightly of you.” She chides teasingly, tapping one of Kallixenia’s pauldrons. “In her study, I think.”

“Right, I- I have something I need to check with her, about our latest trip.”

She stumbles into the kitchen, where she almost collides with Nephele as she cooks.

“Easy, sleepyhead.” She chuckles, steadying her. “Breakfast’ll be ready in just a minute, why don’t you sit? You must be exhausted.”

Nephele gestures at a table where three more of her wives are already seated, and Kallixenia tilts her head, opens her mouth to say something, thinks better of it, and quickly mumbles “Just a minute” as she leaves the room.

“Lunaeris-” She says, closing the door to the study behind her. “Something is seriously wrong.”

“Hm?” Lunaeris asks, closing her book and furrowing her brow. “What is? Why are you dressed like you’re looking for a fight?”

“I don’t know!” Kallixenia says, distraught. “Lunaeris, where are we?”

“Home..?” Lunaeris replies, looking around.

“Are we?! This isn’t the collapsible cabin, where in the hells is it?”

“It’s… home.” Lunaeris says, tenting her hands in front of her and frowning. “Hrmph.”

“Right? And- Everyone out there- I’m married to them?”

“Yooouu… are.”

“I am almost certainly not! Lunaeris, I don’t know who half those people even are!” Kallixenia says, pacing. “Nephele is Nephele, but- The last time we saw her she was moping about being single, we’re not married! I haven’t felt that way about her since we were teenagers! And, and the girl who was with me when I woke up- You remember that time we were escorting some merchants across the plains, and one of them kept getting all clingy with me, and it-”

“-It pissed me right off, yes, I remember.”

“That’s her! I wouldn’t marry her, I barely know her and you despise her! It makes no sense! I don’t even know her name, I don’t know any of their names-”

A scream interrupts them, and they rush to the kitchen just in time to see Lagakh locked in battle with Nephele as Hrok slaughters the merchant girl.

“This isn’t what it looks like!” The dwarf yells, hefting his axe to take another swing at her.

“Well, what is it?” Asks Kallixenia.

Lagakh ducks a swing from Nephele and stabs her in the gut. “Succubi!” She yells.

The rest of Kallixenia’s assembled ‘wives’ look at her, and at their new attackers, and scramble. The illusion warbles and drops, demonesses retreating down various caverns as Kallixenia tries to reorient herself.

“Come back and fight, two-faced wenches!” Hrok bellows after them disapprovingly. “Cowards!”

“I’m sure they’ll take the bait and give you a fair fight any minute now.” Lagakh sighs, pulling her sword from the now-undisguised corpse and levelling it at Lunaeris. “Did she wake up with you?”

“Hey.” Kallixenia growls, grabbing the hilt of her blade.

“You wouldn’t-” Starts Lunaeris, backing away.

“Did you see her wake up, yes or no?”

“No, but-”

“Step away from her.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Kallixenia listen. She’s not geared for exploring a cave-”

“She’s a wizard.” Kallixenia hisses through gritted teeth, heartbeat pounding in her ears. How fucking dare they-

“Kallixenia! Did any of the succubi look like they were there for her?” Lagakh continues, as her and Hrok inch closer.

“I don’t know. Back off.”

They pause, a tense silence hanging over the cave chamber.

“…You think her the type to cower quietly, in a situation like this?” She asks, and Kallixenia hesitates. She cranes her neck to look at Lunaeris; hiding behind her, no fire in sight.

“W-What?” Lunaeris asks. “Kallie, what are you doing!? Protect me!”

That’s not right. She turns to face Lunaeris, pulls a gauntlet off and cradles her cheek. It’s not even particularly warm. This isn’t her. Kallixenia sighs and shakes her head.

“Get out of here.” She says, hurt.

Lunaeris pouts. “Fuckers. I really had her…” She grumbles, dropping the illusion and scampering off.

“…Sorry.” Kallixenia says, after a few moments.

“It’s fine.” Says Lagakh. “Anything less, I’d have figured you were the fake and Lunaeris just had a thing for short, plumpened maidens that I didn’t know about.”

“Ah. Right.” Kallixenia says, her shame compounding on itself. “I- I didn’t fall for that, just so you know. I just- I didn’t think Lunaeris could-”

“No need to get shy, it’s not really surprising.” Says Lagakh, shrugging.

“I’m curious about the other big ’un, though.” Adds Hrok. “Sticks out from the rest.”

“…One of my battle-sisters.”

“And?” Lagakh prompts.

“And I was fond of her, slightly, over a decade ago. May we move on? Demons generally aren’t fond of Lunaeris, I’d like to find her before something happens.”

“Place is a maze.” Hrok says. “Pick a cavern and watch for it turning into something else.”

“Great.” Says Kallixenia, and she starts walking.

~

“Hold.” Lagakh says, holding a hand up. “We’re walking into another one.”

They advance carefully, and Kallixenia’s brain fogs as her surroundings shift and shimmer before her. The cavern transforms into a tidy corridor, daylight filtering through stained glass windows.

“Religious designs.” Says Lagakh, running her fingers across one of the windows. “Your monastery?”

Kallixenia shakes her head, she’s never been here.

“Sophia’s, then.”

“I’ve never known the old girl to care for company,” muses Hrok. “Should be interesting.”

They creep onward, opening a door out into a quaint, well cared-for courtyard. Sophia is out there, walking arm-in-arm with a much younger paladin. More paladins of all different orders are scattered about the courtyard, among them-

“Is that me?” Kallixenia whispers, bewildered.

“Seems she has a type.” Says Hrok.

“But-”

“She’s old, not blind.” Says Lagakh. “Focus, we need to-”

“I’m not deaf either.” Sophia says, pausing as she passes by them. She looks around the courtyard. “This is no dream, then. Where are we?”

“Succubus den.” States Hrok, eyeing her companion. “Shall we fight about it?”

“I don’t think so,” says the succubus. She kneels and kisses the back of Sophia’s hand, then rises and walks away.

“We’re never going to get a good fight out of them with so many of us.” Hrok complains. “Kallixenia, Lagakh, go back to your caves. I will clear the rest.”

“No.” Says Lagakh.

Sophia hums, rubbing her thumb across the back of her hand. “Not terribly convincing- she should be much older than the last time I saw her, as should she, her, those two- but a pleasant diversion.”

“Old flames?” Lagakh asks.

“Yes, I was quite the heartbreaker, in my day.”

“And… me?” Kallixenia asks tentatively.

“Mm, too young for me now.” Sophia says. “You’ll forgive an old cleric her penchant for women in godly armor.”

“Of course,” says Kallixenia, nodding. “Let’s move on.”

~

“I feel like we have to talk about this.” Kallixenia says, blushing.

“What’s there to talk about?” Asks Ryse, as she shoos away her succubi. “I’m not going to pounce on you, if that’s the worry.”

“No, of course not, I trust you, it’s just-” Kallixenia hesitates. “The whole… me, slathered in oil, fawning over you, thing, is very… specific?”

“It’s really not. You saw the one pretending to be Lagakh.”

“I did.” Kallixenia says, awkwardly glancing at the orc.

“Don’t look at me,” Lagakh says, shrugging. “I’m well aware her endgame is enough lovers that she never has to lift a finger for herself again.”

“I just don’t want to, you know, be accidentally setting some kind of expectation-”

“Kallixenia.”

“You’re very nice! I just-”

“Kallixenia, be serious.” Ryse says flatly, giving her a look. “I don’t have a crush on you, I think you’re hot. Nothing is going to happen between us, you won’t hurt my feelings by telling me that. I probably won’t sleep in a pile of treasure, either! It’s a fantasy.”

“As long as we’re all on the same page.” Kallixenia says.

~

“I’ll warn you now Kallixenia, we’re going to see you in this next one too.” Ryse purrs, smug.

“You can’t tell me you wouldn’t be a little flustered, seeing yourself in three of your teammates’ fantasies.” Says Kallixenia, as they plod along.

“I’d be mad I wasn’t in all five.”

“Well, I didn’t see the first two.”

“Four out of five.” Says Lagakh, and when Kallixenia quirks an eyebrow at her and Hrok, she adds: “You’re a respectable warrior, but also have a certain cuteness about you.”

“Oh! Thanks?”

“No problem.”

“Too tall for me,” says Hrok. “Nothin’ personal.”

“No offense taken.” Kallixenia says, turning her eyes forward again. “Shouldn’t we have stepped into another illusion by now?”

“I hear voices ahead.” Ryse says. “She could have broken out on her own, we should hurry.”

They rush onwards, and the cavern’s appearance never changes. Kallixenia can make out the sound of Lunaeris’ voice, and she sounds okay, but if she’s not alone then- how long until something happens?

They storm into Lunaeris’ chamber, and despite everything Kallixenia is still confused by what she sees.

Lunaeris glances at them as they enter and winces.

“Ohh, none of you are the real one.” She grumbles, slouching in dissatisfied annoyance. “That’s- oh, that’s really disappointing, I completely misunderstood the puzzle.”

It’s- It’s just her.

Kallixenia watches a quintet of herself wilt under the Princess’ fouling mood.

“We wanted to tell you, Princess, truly.” Says one.

“But you were having such fun trying to figure it out!” Adds another.

“No, no!” Lunaeris snaps, crossing her arms. “You all lied to me, don’t get sad now that you’ve been found out.”

“Sorry Princess…” They all apologize, ashamed.

Lunaeris rolls her eyes and focuses on the real Kallixenia, still gawking from the mouth of the cavern.

“…What?” She asks, eyes darting across the party. “Why are you all looking at me like that? What am I missing?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re very single-minded?” Says Ryse, leaning against the cave wall.

“Why? Seriously, what’s going on? What should I be-?”

“Nothing, Princess. It’s a succubus den, there’s no puzzle.” Kallixenia says.

“Oh.” Says Lunaeris. “Well, alright, I’m obviously not fooled; so why the strange looks?”

“It’s just-” Says Lagakh. “Typically there’s some variety dug up from your subconscious, so that you don’t instantly know they’re fakes.”

“Okay?”

“And yours are…” Lagakh gestures. “Not.”

“Can you… stop being me? And leave?” Kallixenia asks her doppelgangers.

“Don’t leave! Stand and fight!” Hrok goads. “She killed your king!”

The demonesses aren’t provoked.

“Who even cares about that guy?”

“I never liked him.”

“Kings get killed all the time, not my problem.”

They wander off, and Hrok huffs.

“This is a terrible dungeon.” He says.

“So- No one else has caught your eye?” Lagakh asks. “Ever?”

“Umm…” Lunaeris hums, thinking. “No.”

“Never?”

“No, never.” She says. “All my suitors were dreadful, and then I met Kallie.”

“And nobody since then?”

“I don’t know what’s so hard to understand about this. Anytime since then I would obviously already know Kallie, so…” She trails off. “I mean, look at her. And she’s my knight. How could anyone else compare?”

“Could have more knights.” Says Ryse.

“Sure, but I already have the best one, so… why bother?”

“I- I wouldn’t say I’m the best-” Kallixenia stammers, blushing.

“You’re telling me you went to her monastery, where everyone presumably acts and dresses and is built like she is, and felt absolutely nothing?” Lagakh asks.

“Yes. Because she’s the best one, like I already said.” Lunaeris says, looking at her like she might be an idiot. “Do you all not see the appeal?”

“No, no, they see it.” Kallixenia says, before the conversation can take an even more flustering turn. “Are we done here?”

Everyone looks between eachother and shrugs.

“Great!” She says. “Let’s leave.”

~~~

Like my work? Consider buying me a Ko-fi!

[it-happened-one-fic]

Undying Devotion - Sebek

Author Notes: Ah, hand kisses my beloved. I actually stole this hand kiss from a Trigun manga panel I believe.... But anyway, this fic has actually been sitting and gathering dust for quite some time. In fact, I had this written before I started posting my Strictly NRC Dancing series, but I'm pleased to finally be sharing it with you all now. This fic was also edited to "Bad Habits" by Ed Sheeran. As per usual, Reader is gender-neutral. I hope you enjoy!

Type: Gender-neutral reader, fluff, flirting occurs, romance heavily implied

Word count: 922

Sebek walked silently beside you, the perfect image of a stoic bodyguard with his arms behind his back as he carefully listened to you. 

His eyes were riveted to your form, even though all you were doing was prattling on about one of the many books he’d recommended to you.

A knightly romance. The sort that he adored even though he would never admit it. 

After all, he’d only recommended it to you because he thought YOU would like it. Not because he himself had enjoyed it.

“Hey Sebek, you know more about knights than I do. Why do knights always kiss their lady’s hand?” You tilted your head to look at him as he somehow managed to straighten even more at your question.

 A preening smile appeared on his face as he realized that you’d just acknowledged the fact that he did know more about something than you did. “It’s simple, human. But remember that they do not only do this for their lady love. They also do it for the lords to whom they owe allegiance.” 

He glanced at you, making sure you were listening even though you were the one who’d questioned him in the first place, before he continued, “Kissing the ring on their lord’s finger is a show of undying devotion to that ring, which almost always signified the lord’s throne. Naturally, the knight’s undying devotion is extended to the person wearing the ring.”

A smile crept onto your face as you put two and two together, “Awww, so they're promising to be eternally devoted to their love when they do it for the lady?”

Sebek nodded, a quick, short motion that matched his single-word reply that was totally at odds with your pleasure over your revelation, “Theoretically.”

You were grinning now, seeming pleased with the discovery you’d made, which had Sebek tilting his head. 

Presumably you thought it was an incredibly romantic gesture, and that was why it made you so seemingly giddy.

But then your smile faded and you frowned, stopping in place before you turned to face him fully, “Then why doesn’t the lady ever do the same for the knight? I mean if it’s just a pledge of devotion, why don’t they make the same pledge?”

And there it was. Your infuriating ability to make him question the very same thing you pondered. But Sebek had been raised in the knightly manner, so this was one of the things he staunchly refused to question.

And, just like he usually did whenever you had him questioning something he’d always taken for granted, he found himself sputtering out a characteristically loud reply, “BE- BECAUSE THAT JUST ISN’T HOW IT’S DONE! THE LADY NEEDS NOT MAKE SUCH A PLEDGE BECAUSE HER KNIGHT HAS ALREADY DONE SO! IT IS NOT AS IF THE LORD WOULD PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO HIS KNIGHT!”

You were still frowning slightly as you eyed the green-haired young man, “Yeah, but it’s sort of different when it’s between a lady and her beau….”

Your hand caught his in a surprisingly gentle grasp as you smiled at him, confusing the young man as he watched you lift his hand that was now clasped in yours, “I think it’s only fair that she make the same pledge as he.”

With those words, you pressed your lips to his knuckles in a featherlight kiss. Causing Sebek to freeze with a quiet intake of breath as he stared at you.

 Either unable or unwilling to yank his hand away from yours, as you silently and gently kissed his hand. 

A hand that was already scarred from his training but that had not yet faced the great trials of this world.

You withdrew with a smile, and it was like Sebek had suddenly started working again as he jolted slightly before hastily yanking his hand away from yours as you started laughing, “HUMAN! How DARE yo-”

“Relax, I’m just teasing you,” Laughter bubbled out of you as you continued to giggle at the now-flustered knight until your phone made a quiet buzzing sound. 

Your eyes widened in an almost comical fashion as you glanced towards your pocket and then back to Sebek, “Oh crap! I’ve gotta go, or I’ll be late for the unbirthday party! Bye Sebek!”

And just like that, you were off. Trotting away from him and towards the mirror chamber that would take you to the party that you were apparently about to miss, like you hadn’t just flustered the young man beyond all reason. 

But Sebek wasn’t looking at your hastily retreating form or pondering the party to which you were headed.

 Instead, he was silently staring at his hands. The ghostly sensation of your lips on his knuckles leaving him stunned even now.

Truthfully, Sebek did not recall moving his hand but found himself thoughtlessly pressing his knuckles to his own lips in the exact same place that you had kissed anyway.

His eyes were closed, as if he were deep in thought, before he at last pulled his hand away from his mouth. A curious expression on his face as he finally looked up in the direction you’d long since disappeared.

“A pledge of undying devotion….” Despite himself, his lips twitched up into a slight smirk as he turned to head back to where his lord and master awaited his return, “Preposterous.”

But despite his words, Sebek could not deny the warmth in his chest as he pondered how you would react if he responded to your silent, if joking, vow in kind.

[beauberry-pie]

Monkee Tea Party Madness

Fluff, no warnings apply. There's a little bit of yelling, but nothing terrible.

Word count: 719 words

Enjoy Cg!Monkees!!

Everything was perfect. The tablecloth had been laid out, wrinkle free, and each of the little tea cups had been placed neatly in a circle around it. Sure, the table was plastic and rickety, but it wasn't like they were actually going to put real food and drinks on it. The tea pot in the center, cutely decorated with little painted flowers, was empty and entirely for show. Five seats, all mismatched and well-loved, were placed around the table. In these seats were Prince Davy, Princess Peter, Queen Mike, Sir Micky, and you! Everyone had dressed up for the occasion, though some were happier about it than others. Happiest among them were you and Mickey.

"Tea, my friend?" He asked, voice pitched down in an attempt to sound more knightly. With a giggle, you stuck your tea cup out towards him. With a grand, sweeping gesture, he grabbed the little tea pot and pretended to pour tea into your cup. You thanked him, of course (it was only polite), and then took a sip. It was simply marvelous!

"...there's no actual tea in there, right?" Davy asked, a little uneasy. He couldn't see any tea. But everyone was carrying on like there actually was some. You pretended to take a sip in response, while Micky rolled his eyes.

"Of COURSE it's actual tea! You think I would serve false tea? How could you accuse me of such a thing?" Mock hurt entered his voice, and Davy sighed.

"But we're playing pretend, aren't we?"

"PRETEND?"

"Calm down, Mick," Mike sighed, holding his own teacup gingerly. "Davy, of course we have real tea. Real biscuits too, and they're delicious. Don't go on about nonsense like that."

"But Mike-"

"Thank you, Michael :)" Peter, although accidentally, cut off Davy. Boy, was this tea party beginning to make Davy upset.

"You're welcome, now how did you do that with your voice-"

"Crumpets, anyone?" Micky asked, just in time. Nobody can know how Peter does that with his voice. It's a secret.

"Yes, please!" You chimed. You were getting a good kick out of watching Davy spin out about this. You knew everyone was playing pretend, sure, but watching them play like everything was real was so much fun. More fun than any pretend tea party could be, even if everyone dressed up like they did now!

"But Micky, there's nothing on your- ohhh, I get it now. You're all having a trick on me. I see, I see." Davy grumbled. When he caught sight of you giggling, though, his face soon lit up. "You wanna know my favorite trick to play?" he asked, mischief glinting in his eyes.

"Don't you dare," Mike warned.

"What trick?" You asked, none the wiser.

"Well, Micky and I have this good friend of ours, don't we Mick?" He cast a glance at Micky, who looked a little confused before getting the same look in his eyes.

"Oh, yes! A very good friend, yes." He put his teacup down. You still had no clue what was happening!

"A friend?"

"Yes, and do you know our friend's name?"

"No...?"

"THE TICKLE MONSTER!" With dual roars, Micky and Davy lunged at you with playful intent, hands darting out to poke and prod at your sides and earning uproarious laughter from you.

"Well, and here I thought we were all going to act like civilized people," Mike sighed, crossing his legs and pretending to take a sip of his, still pretend, tea.

"Not even our tea parties are safe from the threat of the tickle monster," Peter shook his head solemnly. "I just hope they don't break anything this time."

"This time?"

"Oh, did we not tell you?"

At the mention of last time, three mouths abruptly shut and three heads abruptly turned to stare at Peter. While Micky gave him the death glare, you and Davy tried your best to look like pleading puppydogs.

"No, no you did not. What about last time?"

"NOTHING!" Three voices chimed in unison.

"Well, everyone was roughhousing, and you know that vase-"

"YOU BROKE MY VASE?"

...Needless to say, you didn't have anymore tea parties for a while, and the tickle monster was sentenced to a three week break- or until Micky and Davy learned to keep the fiend from breaking any more glass objects.

[llondonfog]

Oh no please take care of yourself! Drink lots of water and rest! Hope your fever go away soon!

I have a little something (hopefully can cheer you up during your sickness). It was a short ficlet (which I am devastated to announce I have lost the link to 😭) from Lilia's POV on one of his rare sick days. He feels his brain all mushy and he very much intends to sleep the fever away like he always does, but he wakes up to tiny Silver putting a dripping wet towel on his face in his attempt to mimic what his father did to him when he was sick. Lilia is, of course, touched by the gesture, but he is also concerned that tiny Silver might catch the cold from him, yet he can't persuade tiny Silver to stay far from him. So he tells tiny Silver that Malleus is coming over and assigns tiny Silver the honor task of tidying their house to welcome the prince (Lilia lies, Malleus is busy to show up that day and he never minds the messy state of Lilia's abode anyway). But tiny Silver believes him and welcomes his papa's knightly order and he, along with his animal friends, sets out to make their home spotless!!! Lilia then drifts back to sleep, only wakes up when the fever has subsidized, just to find the tiny bunny plushie on his bed. That was the plushie he made to gift tiny Silver on the day he started sleeping separately from his papa, to "be his guard to protect him from bad dreams".

(Please if anyone has the link to this ficlet please please please share 😭 I need to read it again and again it's one of the cutest things ever)

WAHHHHHHH one of my greatest weaknesses is Silver being the caretaker for Lilia!!! This hardened warrior who has been guarded and alone for so many centuries of his life now being gently cared for by his little human son??? UGH.

(also the thought that Lilia has softened so much as to handmake a little stuffed animal that would serve to comfort his son!! the domestic vision of him clumsily sewing together a bunny plushie, nicking his fingers and the stitches crooked and uneven, only for Silver to exclaim so happily that he loves his new friend when Lilia presents it to him and hugs it close!! oh, it makes the stinging ache in his bandaged fingers all the more worth it, this strange warmth spreading out from his chest.)

Hopefully someone will see this and know what the fic was so that we can link it properly here 😭

[beevean]

Inspired by @serialsunset's posts about Helia, and how their relationship could be summarized as "the right people meeting at the wrong time", I might have come up with more or less a timeline to both deconstruct and reconstruct the ship, starting from canon's shaky foundations lol. If I can whip Brain into shape, I might write this as a multi-chaptered fic.

either everything from her POV, or mixing up POVs.

Encounter with Hector, as it happens in the game. Julia has dreams of the crest appearing in the mountains. She hopes it’s Isaac, even if it doesn’t feel like him. She vaguely knows who Hector is, and by lying, she hopes that he can help, even if he doesn’t seem very approachable. Banter in her shop that establishes them as getting along well even when he’s cursed.

(at some point, Julia should learn that Hector was the one who left Isaac for dead)

“so you were Isaac’s sister.” The two exchange memories of him. Maybe Hector talks about Rosaly with her… because Isaac killed her and that’s why he deserves to die. Julia hates how much Hector reminds him of Isaac, swinging between being perfectly cordial and caring and frothing at the mouth with obsessive rage. She takes pity for him and vows to help them both.

(would Hector ever talk about Rosaly?)

Julia saves Hector from his suicide attempt. She is distraught over Isaac’s death, but puts on a brave face because Hector is also emotionally fragile.

Hector thinks he harms everyone he loves. Julia reassures him that he didn’t harm her. She’s lying. Hector is still thinking of Rosaly, but he awkwardly avoids talking about her at this point.

conflicted emotions, love and grief. Julia is harboring feelings, but doesn’t want to disrespect a dead woman, and she fears that Hector is not over Rosaly yet. Hector is also torn between his grief for Rosaly and his budding attraction to Julia, and he yearns for love but also doesn’t want to disrespect her. The two build rituals of pretenses, using goodnatured banter, flirting and knightly gestures to dance around what is eating at them.

Idea: Julia is crying in her room, and is startled when Hector knocks, alarmed. He’s having trouble sleeping too: this time, he couldn't ignore her pain. Julia pretends that she is fine, really don't need to worry, I can make a potion for you if you need it... but when Hector proposes to sleep together, she can't deny herself the comfort that she needs, and accepts. Both of them used to do the same with Isaac, they point out. And despite the ghost hanging between them, they are comfortable with each other, and they manage to fall asleep. Maybe Hector even gives her a slight kiss on the forehead when she’s half-asleep.

Julia goes for the first kiss, but Hector rejects her, because she’s too much like Rosaly (and Isaac: idk if Julia knew about their tumultuous relationship, and if she’d feel weird for having feelings for her dead brother’s ex lol)

at a later date, Hector kisses her in a fit of despair. Julia suspects why, but won’t confront him, and accepts the kiss. She likes him, he’s cute now that he’s free of the Curse, he’s a good man, but…

they start to get comfortable enough to have sex. Hector has hang ups, though, for obvious reasons. Julia decides to relax both with potions and aphrodisiacs: she blindfolds him, so that he will “see” her and not Rosaly. She takes change, she’s flirty and inhibited almost like Isaac, but not as selfish as Dracula: a good compromise for Hector who really just wants to let go. Julia, once again, is not allowed to let go. She won’t allow herself to. She doesn’t know how.

Hector might start to learn about Julia’s unique quirks that are neither Rosaly nor Isaac

after a while, Hector and Julia decide it’s better to break up. They are not getting better, and Hector is not stupid and can tell that Julia is not honest with him. Hector leaves, leaving the Devils with her: feeling a bit guilty, she agrees, only comforted that he’s not leaving her alone but leaving her space. Julia keeps having dreams of meeting him again, but she can’t tell if it’s the future or her wish.

(alternatively, she might also propose it, to show she is growing more selfish, much like Hector did: and as it was for him, it’s presented as a good thing, an act of self-love. Maybe, later on, Hector might share advice about this, having gone through this himself in Dracula’s castle)

The problem between them, as they realize at this point, is that they rushed to soothe their own pain, without taking the time to grieve in private because they felt alone.

Julia stayed behind in the mountains only for Isaac. Now he’s dead. What is she going to do about it?

They keep in touch. They write, and it’s no problem for Julia to teleport: sometimes he walks the distance himself too. They are much more comfortable around each other when they don’t see each other every day (I imagine them always greeting each other with a tight hug and feeling that it’s the most natural thing in the world). There is still warmth between them: not a façade, but genuine fondness for the other. They chat about Trevor and his family, Julia having befriended Sypha. But the two feel a close commonality that they can’t share with anyone, with their shared grief and experiences and even parts of their personality (both of them are fairly introverted but know how to be social, for example. They also both like ugly critters lol)

years later, after opening up and being fully honest about their issues, they try again. Hector apologizes for not respecting her as her own person, Julia apologizes for blaming him for things that were not under his control. She, finally, breaks down and has an honest cry on his shoulder. Now that their hearts are more at peace, they can live with their own ghosts.

I don't think I emphasized it enough here (I like angst :<), but I really do think the two like each other as people not because You Remind Me Of X, but because they get along well, they are on the same mind wavelength, and Hector is really kind to Julia not just because of how she looks like. Maybe I could add more bonding scenes in the game frame?

[thedragonagelesbian]

following the kiss with a series of kisses down the neck? :D

Kiss Prompts!

um this got quite out of hand! will probably polish it up and put it on ao3 at some point, but for now thank you for sending such a generative prompt! (major veilguard spoilers below cut)

13. following the kiss with a series of kisses down the neck

"Now, remember: the whole point of this is to relax." Varric was smirking at him, and were that gesture, those words, and this location paired with any other man, Cyrus Hawke might've come to a very different conclusion about the nature of their visit. "You do know how to do that, don't you?"

A much more pleasant one too.

Cyrus considered trying his luck--as he had a handful of times before, the chest hair really was irresistible--with a why don't you show me. Instead, he gave a soft huff. "I can relax in the estate."

"That doesn't count, when you finally have enough coin to relax here." Varric swept his hand across the room, one of a few dozen private chambers within the Hightown Baths. Like so much of Kirkwall, the room and the bathhouse both bore Tevinter stylings, dating back to when the city had been Emerius-- marble and columns and bronze filigree and stained glass windows to hide the smoke from the Foundry. A privacy divider separated two tubs set into the floor, one steaming and another overflowing with rose-scented bubbles. "I've seen you shop around for those fancy Orlesian soaps whenever you have a few silvers to spare." Cyrus' cheeks warmed, embarrassed less by the habit--every other coin of his had only ever gone to the family, permitting himself only this one indulgence: the occasional hot bath with the scent of lavender--and more that Varric had observed it. "This is all that, except more, and you don't have to worry about saving or sparing. You don't have to worry about anything at all: you get to just be."

"Be," Cyrus echoed, and for all his effort, the word still came out sounding hollow. It was accompanied by an appropriately timed twinge in his chest, where his right lung had collapsed all too recently under a templar's boot. He resisted the urge to ask if that was the real reason for all of this. Kindness as distraction. Placation.

Everyone else had tried their hand at it already. Lectures from Aveline and Anders and drinks from Isabela and Fenris and hugs from Merrill and divine forgiveness from Sebastian and steely silence from Bethany. Furious at how much of himself he had risked trying to rescue her from the Circle.

"Right."

Cyrus shrugged off his tunic, the silk finer than anything he'd ever had against his skin and still his body was coiled tight beneath it. Varric hurried to the other side of the room, but before he ducked behind the privacy divider separating the two baths, Cyrus caught him glancing at his stomach. Smooth plane and angular bones and a spiral scar circling his navel, the skin still rough and new.

Better me than you. That's what he had said, when the last of the rock wraith's electricity had dissipated and Anders had roused him back to consciousness and Varric was struggling to look him in the eye as he mumbled out his gratitude for Cyrus' willingness to use his body as a shield.

Better him than anyone.

"Let me know if you need anything, Knightly."

The inspiration for the nickname.

"I'm fine," Cyrus said instinctively as he stripped his breaches and small clothes too. Finally, he let his hair down, auburn spilling between his shoulders, and yet he hesitated at the edge of the bath, listening to the water shift and splash around Varric's body on the other side of the divider. It would be all too easy to submerge himself, and that was what frightened him. How effortless it would be to float away from his body and all its aching responsibilities. To forget that Bethany was trapped in the Gallows by the same marble that now tiled his luxury.

And yet he couldn't repudiate Varric's kindness, could he?

And it was. Easy. To let the warm water swaddle him, heat burning away a month's--a lifetime's--worth of pain in his muscles from holding them taut, as if he'd lose something--someone--else if he let his guard down for even a second. But he couldn't keep that up now. Sinking through the soap suds to the smooth basin beneath, eyes shut and weightless, his every defense stripped away beneath the distorted hum of the world around him.

Relax. Indulge. Be.

At what cost?

He kept himself under the water until his lungs began to burn, emerging with a gasp and gulping down mouthfuls of steam to keep his insides warm and his head fuzzy and the regrets at bay.

Combing back strands of wet hair, Cyrus caught a glimpse of something that made him frown. A trick of the light, maybe, playing across the length of his palm, or maybe he'd been under the water longer than he thought, but as he lowered his hand again, the skin seemed weathered. Spotted with age and furrowed and scarred in places he couldn't remember being hurt.

"You know sacrifice well, Champion, but not as well as I. You are not ready for what is to come. What will be required of you."

Pain spikes behind his eyes. He screws them shut, balls his hands into fists, holding fast to something clenched against his palm while something else--weight mantle manacle--tears at his other wrists. Tries to break him in two.

"Knightly?"

"What am I supposed to make of that," it's his voice now, echoing through his thundering skull, spitting with a bitterness he doesn't know himself to possess, "of all the stories you tell about me, of the damned nickname, other than that I am supposed to be the world’s savior?"

"I just gotta ask, if only so I can check it off my 'good friend responsibilities' list for the day... Are you okay?"

Cyrus jolted. Blinked. He was back in the baths, all pains gone except for one, a familial grief strangled through the valves of his heart. "I told you I'm fine."

His voice, his words, and yet he sensed them on his lips a moment before he said them. As if he already has. Had.

Varric clicked his tongue in response. "See, you shouldn't try to lie to a professional bullshitter.

"It's not--"

"And denial is all well and good, but Blondie did mention that the wrong sort of templar caught you poking around the Docks and left you for dead." Cyrus' chest tightened, as if it was all about to cave in again. Better him than anyone else, except this pain hadn't gotten him any closer to saving Bethany. If he had fought back harder-- "Now, personally speaking, I'd rather keep you not-dead... And I know your mother and sister feel the same."

"This is your fault! How could you let him run off like that? Your little brother. My baby boy!"

"She wouldn't want you to blame yourself."

"You don't know my mother."

More voices, more pounding against his skull, suddenly too hot and too sick, but when Cyrus tries to stand, he can't move. Yanking against the water, shoulders wrenching from his sockets, but he can't--

"And I know it's not the same thing because your sister is made of pure sunshine and my brother is made of nugshit, but I... I get it. The turning it all over, wondering what you could've done different, the regret--"

That word. That's it. Regret.

It is the undertow. Catches him by his throat and drags him under screaming. Water in his eyes mouth lungs stomach, its weight a suffocation, leaden with it and sinking into the depths, nothing left of the world around him except this. Contrition's current wound not only around him but inside, dragging him down by the entrails.

Each burn along the tract of his spasming body has a voice, a question, another enough. Strong enough, fast enough, smart enough, good enough, sacrificial enough, not yet enough of himself given to save them.

...save who?

No.

No, this is wrong, he's let go of this, hasn't he? These are not his ghosts, not anymore, Creators save him, he has already broken his fingers trying to bury his family, hands scraped raw and bloody against the unforgiving earth, but by Falon'din, he did it, three little trees planted in Lothering and the fourth, finally freed over a decade ago, and with them, he put all these regrets to rest too.

He's learned how to let go of things without leaving claw marks behind. So he stops fighting. Closes his eyes and lets the water and the weight wash over him, and he prays. Sylaise enansal. Tel'vella ar'avas, melanda vir atish'an ar ghilas la ar'athlan vhenas. Mae'aise'mala ir'eth, mae'aise'mala ir'lath, mae'aise'mala ar'hamin. Vir suledin sa'vunin, la ar'hamin.

Words Merrill taught him after Kirkwall. Words he chanted over and over and over again after Adamant, just trying to keep the fractures of his mind and body together.

Peace, peace, peace.

Everything crashes. The ocean vanishes, and Cyrus hits the ground. Cracked stone comes into focus beneath him, firm where he kneels against it, certain and sturdy and yet... and yet at the edges of his vision it turns to vapor. Solid in that way that only things in the Fade are: so long as he believes it.

Fuck.

He lifts his head, heavy again, aching again, his moment of peaceful suspension vanishing out in ragged gasps as he takes in his surroundings. An expanse of harsh light and cold shadows greets him, like a painting left out in the sun too long, its colors drained pale.

The Nightmare's lair was all sickly sheen. Kirkwall--where the Fade had dragged him after Inquisitor Trevelyan closed the Rift behind her--was pure wet darkness, a viscous womb still leaden with the aborted blood magic experiments of ancient Tevinter mages. This place, this prison visited so many times from the other side, is familiar in its cruelty, even as its nature, its emptiness, is different.

Familiar too is the longest shadow of them all: the Black City, looming. Oppressive. Watching.

Is it listening too? Can the blighted fragments of his goddess hear him when he starts to shudder? "Sylaise enansal. Mae'aise'mala ir'eth, ir'eth, ir'eth, please, please, please, not here, not again, please..."

"Cyrus--!" The wretched bellowing--the death rattles of a man pressed too many times too close to the grave and what lay beyond it--stutters as Cyrus feels hands against him. One on his shoulder, another on his cheek, fumbling and grasping tight as if to secure the edges of both their bodies, both warm and solid and real, but it can't be. It can't. Because what Cyrus sees when he blinks the tears from his eyes is a ghost. "Easy now, Cyrus, please, I've got you."

This thing with Varric Tethras' face and body and scent tries to hug him close. Like the real Varric Tethras had a hundred times before, tucking him safe against his chest, the only point of grounding Cyrus had when the world kept dropping out from underneath him. After the Arishok. After Kirkwall. After--seven years after--Adamant.

After the gods escaped. After Treviso. After Elgar'nan and Solas raged in his mind and something broke, something in the curled whisper of you do not even remember what the Dread Wolf took from you scratched against a tapestry of blood magic and sent it--sent him--unraveling. And with them the body in the infirmary. The figment that comforted him so many times. Pretended to, at least. Words never quite right, touches never quite there, hollow memories and manipulation, the Dread Wolf's wool could never wholly fill or cover up the cavity his grief carved into him.

An absence he could always feel but never understand.

It is the fact that this thing is present--that its chest hair rubs Cyrus' cheek same as the real thing, no invention or imagination, no gap to be woven over by the god of lies--that makes him howl. Fear turns on a hairpin to fury, and he throws himself against it snarling, "Ir emah'la shal, Fen'harel! I will not fall for this again." It clings to him, stubborn, no matter how much Cyrus writhes, so he throws his hand back and strikes it hard across the face. "You vile bastard!"

"Maker's hairy ass!" It finally recoils, rubbing its face like Cyrus has actually hurt it. Like it actually feels anything. "What did I do to deserve that?"

"Fenedhis," Cyrus snaps back and reels to his feet. Something deep in his chest mourns the distance, and that's all the more reason to take several steps back, staggering toward the precipice from which Solas peered down at him. "I do not know if you are a spirit or a figment of my grief or both, but whatever you are, you are not real."

It doesn't jump to its own defense. Not like the thing in the Lighthouse would, so quick to dismiss him and his concerns. To run its fingers through his hair in a callous approximation of comfort and whisper that he has nothing to worry about. Instead, this considers him carefully. Forehead furrowing and unfurrowing, jaw clenching and unclenching, the anxious working of muscles like he always does when he's deep in thought.

Did. Used to. Because this is not him.

"Guess I've gone about this the wrong way, huh," it says at last, accompanying the words with a long exhale and its hands held high. "Sorry, I really didn't mean to cause you any more pain."

"You spent months haunting me. Months I should've spent grieving and moving on instead of having this-- this--" he tries to find a word for it, the immensity of what he's been carrying, and all he can do is gesture wildly to all of it, all of him, "festering inside of me without even knowing it!"

"Solas did that to you," it insists, matter-of-fact. "He used blood magic to fuck with your mind something awful, and I'm sorry about that too, but I'm..." It pauses to regard itself, and Cyrus hates himself for staring too, beard collarbone belly hands, ungloved and spread in invitation, welcoming Cyrus to come inspect it all more closely. A body that doesn't make his skull throb the way the one in the infirmary did. Too much stimulus to override, too much magic drilling through his brain. "A bit more complicated."

"You are a trick put here to torment me."

It's familiar--something not just sterile and mimetic but really, truly perfect--the way that Varric's brow knits together, weighing down on a set of sad eyes beneath. He made that expression most in the years after Kirkwall, but sometimes before that too, when Cyrus was at his most severe. Harshness made for a most unruly survival mechanism. And then as now, seeing it hit upon the right wrong target, his heartstrings tug.

Then as now, his instinct is to apologize for what this world has made of him.

He almost listens.

"No, that's just it. I'm not. Call it a peace offering if you're feeling generous, a bargaining chip if not, but no matter how much Chuckles may regret using you up and locking you away, he'd regret it even more if it meant you'd be alone." Professional bullshitter, liars the both of them, if Cyrus had met Solas first, he would've fallen eyes open into that wolfish smirk, he knows better by now. Should know better than to listen to a single word from this thing's lopsided mouth. "Don't tell him I told you, but he's secretly quite the romantic. I think he had a soft spot for us in particular."

"...I still don't understand."

"Say someone dies right as the Veil is being torn apart at the seams, and then a fragment of their soul gets pulled in along with the most sorrowful bastard in the history of Thedas. Said bastard then dedicates his copious new free time to nurturing this soul to distract himself from the ruinous things he's doing to its--my--poor widower." Varric--it--smiles sadly and begins to reach out, as if to take Cyrus' hand, as if it feels the same pathetic yearning clawing at its ribcage, before retreating again. "And then, one day, there I was: someone to keep you company for all eternity."

Soul. He said s o u l.

It's dizzying. The implication, the temptation, the sweetly sickening thought of cracking this thing's body open and seeing just how deep the verisimilitude runs. Hunting for that originary kernel from which Solas spun all this out, this thing that is so agonizingly close to being right and Cyrus cannot help but long to run red with it. Every jagged edge where the illusion might break down just to sink his nails into whatever could be real...

"Something." He makes himself spit it out so he doesn't choke on it. "Something to keep me company for all eternity."

"Really, that's the part you object to? Not that last bit about eternity?"

Cyrus shouldn't answer it. He glances away, eyes sweeping over the colorless landscape and ruins, and he should just pick a point and start walking toward it, but instead he shrugs. "How long is forever, really?"

"It'd be a lot shorter if you found a way out." Its voice is firmer now, less storyteller and more like the man in the bathhouse trying to talk his way around a truth too painful to circumnavigate. "Solas did it, that must mean there's a way for you to do it too."

"Must it?" And he sounds like his younger self too. Like everything he's spent the last decade trying to outgrow, all that work undone, left hollow. Defeated. "There wasn't last time." It wasn't for lack of trying, for the first year at least, before Kirkwall's chains had wrapped around his bones, hooking on ribs and vertebra and the curve of his pelvis to bind him there forever.

This doesn't hurt as much, at least.

At least there's something here that looks like his husband, right?

No, no, that's what the Dread Wolf wants, that's why it's here, to lull him into staying, so why does it reply, "Still, I've never known you to shy away from a challenge"?

Cyrus charges at him, grabs the lapels of his jacket, and screams, "You don't know me!"

Be something else. Be anything else, other than something he could love.

But Varric just shakes his head. "Trust me, I wish I could lie about this too. Give you a clean break and a quick goodbye. Easier that way, right? Except I know... everything. All of us. That day in the bathhouse, the nights you spent in the Hanged Man with me after Leandra died, the siege at Adamant and all the years afterward spent missing you before finally, finally getting you back..." It covers Cyrus' hands with its own and squeezes them hard. "And I remember promising after I nearly got you killed in the Deep Roads that I wouldn't lie to you again. So, yes, I do know you, and I know that you can't give up now."

"Why not?!" Cyrus is shaking again, knuckles aching either from the tightness of his own grip or its or both, and why does the leather feel so real? Smooth and worn and supple, too textured to be spun from blood magic and guilt. "Why not? Why, Creators, Varric..."

He gasps his name and now there's no longer any pretending that this is anything other than his husband.

Cyrus falls to his knees again, and this time, he doesn't resist when Varric cradles him to his chest.

"I can't," he sobs, "I can't. I thought I could do all of it again. The adventuring, the saving, the bleeding and the hurting all the fucking time, why doesn't it stop? Why can't I just... stop?"

"Cyrus--"

"I could make a home here." Blabbering now through the tears, falling faster as Varric strokes his hair like he always used to, steady hand against his skull to hold him still. "I could be safe here with you."

Flush against Varric's body, he scarcely has the strength to lift his head, but he does, to look up at Varric, mouth parted and eyes wide and pleading. Another hand catches him by the cheek to wipe away some of the tears, and Cyrus is certain that if they vanish from his body, he will fall away into nothingness.

"Please, let me stay with you."

Cyrus kisses him before he can say no.

He never kissed the thing in the infirmary. Never even wanted to, perhaps because it was more than blood magic could simulate, breaths and saliva and stubble and the taste of Varric's tongue, so the Dread Wolf stole that from him. So Cyrus takes his desire back. Forcefully. Biting, bruising, panting, like he needs to get his teeth around Varric's throat from the inside out, the only way to hold him tight enough between his jaws.

(He did learn how to let go of things without leaving claw marks behind, but the Dread Wolf stole that from him too.)

And this thing kisses back, and it feels real. The scratch of its beard, the heat of its mouth, the crushing drag of its lips moving against him, equal in force but agonizing in pace, slow and deliberate to Cyrus' desperate nipping. Varric, gentle, caressing the back of his skull, Cyrus, ravenous, nails scrambling for purchase against the leather and catching on the skin beneath.

Residue. Remnants. A ghost's particulate traces.

How much more of Varric's body can he keep like this? Under his nails, in his mouth, between his legs.

Cyrus' lungs start to burn, but he doesn't pull away to breathe. Lips slick and open, Cyrus keeps kissing him, chin, jaw, neck, down the center of his throat. Varric tilts his head back with an obliging groan as Cyrus' teeth scrape against his jugular. And further down still, sprinting the length of his body as if it might vanish the moment that he hesitates, collarbone and sternum and ripping open the last buttons of his shirt to kiss his navel too.

Devouring without savoring. No moment to linger, to enjoy the fat on his hips or the shape of his nipples, just one long breath with which to swallow him whole... until the hand in his hair pulls him away from Varric's happy trail.

"No," he's holding onto the cloth of Varric's belt like it's the last lifeline he has left in the world, "no, wait, please..."

Varric tilts his head back, and Cyrus sees that him blinking back tears too. "Sorry, love--"

"One more time, I need to feel you one more time, please, please, please..."

"But we shouldn't make this any harder than it needs to be."

"It won't be hard if I stay."

"But you're not staying." He says it so definitively that Cyrus can't think of anything to do but whine in response. Unable to find the words to beg or the tears to sob more, just whimpering in Varric's arms. "The world still needs you."

"Fuck the world."

Fuck me, or let me fuck you, and then maybe you won't make me go.

And then even if you do, I'll have more left of you than the memories a god scarred into me.

"And more than that," Varric insists softly, "your friends still want you. So we can play pretend all we want. Maker only knows how much I want," it makes Cyrus shiver every time--the last time--when Varric speaks of desire, smoldering and real, pretension stripped down to a husky growl and the tightening of his grip on Cyrus' body... before he shakes his head, "but we both know how this will end."

"I don't like this ending. You were supposed to write me a better one." That was the promise, made the night Cyrus' heroism nearly killed him, indistinguishable from all the others except that for the first time Cyrus was scared that he had finally gotten himself hurt in a way that he couldn't come back from. The night Cyrus knelt before Varric and begged him for a different story. A selfish, happy one. Not this tragedy he seemed to have been reciting all his long, miserable life. He said yes then, why won't he say it now? "Why don't you want me to stay?"

"Because I want what he would've wanted: for you to keep living."

And despite himself, Cyrus smiles.

Sadly, bitterly, still crying, still hurting, and maybe it won't ever stop, but still he tucks his mouth against Varric's sternum as he hugs his husband close one more time.

"Damn it. Damn you, of course you'd say it like that. How predictable am I, so much better at living for someone else than living for myself."

Varric chuckles, the dryness undercut by the teary hiccups. "Look at that, I've finally found a way to use your selflessness against you."

"I'll always be yours..." Cyrus whispers into his heart. "Just tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it, I swear."

Inevitability is one thing. Service is another. The only thing Cyrus has ever known, and what was impossible moments before suddenly seems so easy: when everything else he's had to hold on to has been taken away, he can still choose this. Devotion.

"I want you to keep going. I want you to find a way out of this damned prison, and I want you to kick a couple of gods' asses, and then I want you to find somewhere safe to live a long and happy life, and I don't want to see you again until you're even more wrinkly and grey than you are now."

As he speaks, Varric rocks him gently, voice like the tide, back flat in the Amaranthine harbor before Cyrus was even old enough to realize he was a boy, letting the world cradle him. Varric always felt like that-- chest and arms and legs big enough to float on top of.

Is it not a blessing from the goddess of love to feel him--if not all of him--one last time?

"I'll still talk to you, you know," Cyrus says, weepy rambling bloodletting of the heart, "you didn't leave us a body to burn, so I'm going to plant a tree in Kirkwall for you, even though you'll hate it. Especially because you'll hate it, and I'm going to make sure it grows into something beautiful, and every time I visit it, I'm going to sit in its shade and tell you everything about my life, and it won't be nearly as interesting as how you'd tell it, but you'll have to listen to it anyway."

"You've given this a lot of thought."

"That's what I did in Lothering for my family, when I finally laid them to rest..." Cyrus frowns. "Do you think the trees I planted for them are still there?"

"I think you have to leave this place and find out for yourself."

"Of course..." Another form of service, another reason to keep going, and still Cyrus cannot help but linger some few moments more, nuzzling up to his neck, the closest, safest thing to home he's known in so long. "I love you."

"I love you too. More than I could ever put into any words or story."

"You bloody hypocrite," Cyrus gives him a small shove, "telling me not to make things harder than they need to be and then quoting your wedding vows."

They all thought Varric would have some long-winded speech prepared, but it was just this: the simple acknowledgment that some things are too big, too much. Love, grief, the way they've bent and bowed their lives around one another a thousand times over.

"Sorry," Varric laughs again, softer this time, apologetic hands massaging Cyrus' back, always knowing exactly where and how to touch him, "I just couldn't help it. Who knows when you'll get to hear it again?"

"Two can play that game, you know." Maybe some small part of him is still hoping that he'll win. Cyrus takes Varric's hand, brings it to his mouth, and covers the ring there with his lips. "Sylaise enaste var aravel. Lama, ara las mir lath. Bellanaris."

Bellanaris. Eternity. Come all too soon.

Everything aches as Cyrus pulls himself to his feet by Varric's shoulders. The constant low hum of his chronic pain turning sharp, stiff, brittle, knees and back groaning loudest of them all. "Creators, I'm too old for this..."

"You'd think Chuckles would've done you the courtesy of leaving you some forearm crutches too," Varric tsks. "Well, you can lean on me for now."

"For how much longer?" Despite himself, an inkling of fear worms it way back into Cyrus' voice as he once more takes in their surroundings. Splintered cobblestone and twisted arches and fog parting, slowly, to reveal the silver-tipped grass growing up between the gaps. He glances back down at Varric and drinks in every detail of his visage that he can. Eyes burning warm, wood in the hearth. "I can't stay, but... would you stay? With me? Until the end?"

"Of course, love. Every step of the way."

[sovengardeswag]

You Poor Unfortunate Soul

Summary:

Raphael collects the esoteric, the rare, and the lovely. He has recently come into a spell that lets him take voices. No ripping out tracheas, no bloody messes.

Astarion wants the sun. Doesn't want to get on his back for a dead rat. Wants to be free of Cazador in every way he can be.

The two strike a deal, the voice of a spawn for the sun. And a soul as well. After all, true love's kiss doesn't exist.

A little mermaid inspired fic about Astarion giving up his voice to walk in the sun (AO3 link in replies)

Chapter One: In Pain, In Need

Baldur's Gate smelled like fish guts and cat shit on a hot summer's day, making winter nights a much more pleasant time in the city. That's what Astarion told himself, at least, when he found himself missing it and cursing the cold. His padded doublet offered little protection but, even if it did, he wouldn't be warmed, undead flesh unable to hold onto heat the way the living did. Thus, there was an equal measure of relief and dread when he entered The Blushing Mermaid, the air within much warmer than the air outside.

Astarion's goal this night was to get in and get out. No long flirtations with the shy ones. No, the last thing he wanted was to drag this out. That was why he had chosen this place. Tired, lonely sailors from far away? They would follow him home with a wink and a kiss after months at sea, no one would ever miss them either. As he took a look around at his choice of prey, he sat at the bar and asked, "Have you any good wine?"

"We've got red wine and, uh, white."

"Red then," speaking of, his eyes fell on a table with a lone tiefling. A man with dark skin and one red eye, the other a false eye that was stony grey. His hair was tied in tight and neat cornrows that were framed by his elegant, curved horns. He seemed peaceful, just people-watching as he drank his ale. And there was a noble quality to him, despite the surroundings. His scars told a story of adventure, of experience in combat. And yet they did not greatly age him, he looked 25 if his reckoning of human ages was accurate. In short, he was beautiful. Cazador would be pleased indeed. This man wouldn't earn him a place in the favored spawn room, but Cazador would find no reason to put him in the kennels at the very least. Little wonder then that he strode up to the man as he sipped his disgusting glass of wine, "Well hello there. Is this seat taken?"

The man seemed mildly surprised to have been approached and told Astarion, "Not at all. Please." He gestured for Astarion to have a seat. "I'm Wyll by the way." He then gave a little knightly salute, "The Blade of Avernus at your service."

Astaron wracked his brain for some sort of recognition, some sort of knowledge about him, and came up empty. Never had he heard of this man in the taverns. "I'm sorry darling, I'm afraid I'm a bit behind on my adventuring news."

"Ah, that's alright. I used to have a different title. I earned this one when I was at Elturel. I was there when it was released from the hells and helped the people there."

"Well, aren't you quite the hero, then?" Certainly explained the name. In his experience, most decent tieflings avoided names like The Blade of Avernus. "You simply must tell me more." He leaned forward, sipping his wine once more. Maybe he could get more drinks in this man. "Were you from Elturel? Was the experience as utterly shocking as I've heard?"

"Actually, no, I wasn't even at Elturel when it fell. I was sent into Avernus afterward to hunt a devil."

"Sent in? How?" There was only one way he knew that people got sent to the hells and came back. "Are you a warlock?"

"Was. I was a warlock. I assure you, I am beholden only to the Sword Coast now."

"And you were named The Blade of Avernus after felling your quarry."

"On the contrary, when I arrived at Elturel, I found this was no devil trying to further terrorize the poor people of Elturel, but a tiefling, the same as many of them. A hostage in Zariel's court who was conscripted to fight in the blood war. When Elturel fell, she ran away and hid among them. And when I learned this, I couldn't bring myself to kill her. I had been deceived."

Astarion, feeling this was getting a bit heavy, broke the tension with a giggle, playing the part of a tipsy admirer, "You naughty thing you. All it took for you to disobey your patron was a pretty face?"

Wyll chuckled a bit, just the slightest bit of fluster to his face, "No, no, nothing like that. You see, while she was with the tieflings, she had taken to protecting them. Making sure they survived the hells. There was one child, Mol, despite being injured and small, who tried to protect Karlach. She said she would take my eye if I so much as laid a hand on Karlach. And I knew then, from the child and the look in Karlach's eyes, that I had been deceived. And I paid the price for it that very night."

"Is that how you lost your eye, darling? Tribute to your patron?" He laid a comforting hand on Wyll's, his voice full of sympathy and awe.

"Oh, no, I lost my eye long ago. But that's a story for another day, perhaps. It's a proud moment, to be sure, but not exactly one to be told to charming voiced strangers in a tavern."

Astarion took a look at Wyll's stone eye, then. It seemed to be made of bloodstone, with an adorable heart-shaped pupil carved into it but there was something else there. Something magical. It hit him, that this was a sending stone, no doubt still sending news to his former patron. Ah. well, it wouldn't be the first time he performed in front of an audience. "Well, there's no need for us to remain strangers. Perhaps, after a bit here, we can go to my home for a nightcap. I've always dreamed of being swept off my feet by a hero." Truth be told, Wyll was just his type, a sweet face, but just a bit rugged.

Wyll flustered again, pulling his hand away, "Look, you're lovely, you truly are, but I don't do... that. I'm sorry."

Shit. Shit. He had miscalculated. Most adventurers weren't like this. They were only happy to take what they wanted from Astarion. Why, oh why, did he have to run into a virtuous hero? "Ah, there's no need to apologize, darling. I should have realized you were the chivalrous sort." This would have to be a long game and he'd have to try his luck at a different tavern.

Just as he was about to ask Wyll how long he was staying in Baldur's Gate, there was a crash from the kitchen, some swearing, and a burning smell. A grease fire, no doubt. And before Astarion knew it, he was trapped in the building, the fire burning all around him. Watching as it consumed all in its wake. He should have been outside, watching the scene with the poor sods who were mourning their favorite watering hole. Yet here he was, walking through a burning wreckage, looking for that beautiful fool who had insisted on getting people out. If Wyll perished in this blaze, Astarion wouldn't stop thinking about it. It would be just another death on his tally of sins. So even as the flames licked at him and burned him, he pushed through. His only relief was that he didn't need to breathe.

Eventually, feeling nothing but pure heat on his body and ash falling upon him, he found him. A support beam had fallen on him and the smoke inhalation knocked Wyll out. Astarion pushed on the beam with all his might, his hands catching splinters as he pushed and readjusted and pushed again. Nevertheless, he just barely managed to push it off of the man's leg. He then picked Wyll up and hauled him out of the burning tavern.

But he didn't lay Wyll down at the front for the fists to take care of. No, it wouldn't do for Astarion to be spotted. He snuck to the next alley over instead and sat Wyll down on a crate. He pat Wyll's cheek as he spoke, the hero of Elturel finally taking in some clean air. His eyes fluttered and opened and Astarion knew that the first thing the tiefling saw was him. He coughed and Astarion told him, "Shhh, it's alright, lovely. Don't stress yourself."

Wyll nodded, taking deep breaths as Astarion assured him, "Don't try to yell for the fists, you'll only hurt yourself. I'm going to make a racket and they'll heal you and you'll be good as new but I have to go. Do you understand?"

Wyll nodded, his good eye scanning over Astarion, trying to memorize his face.

"There we go. You'll be alright, darling. Now, I'm going to make that racket and leave you.” And with that, Astarion lifted a discarded milk can and slammed it as hard as he could into the ground, slinking off once it had made an ungodly noise.

Covered in soot and ash, sporting a few minor burns, and with his hands covered in splinters, Astarion was in no state to continue his little hunt. He needed to change and get these damn things out. He just hoped his master would see it as a pause and not a failure.

As he returned to Szarr Palace, he decided to go in from the tower connected to the wall. Climbing up was a bit of a pain with the splinters, but far less terrible than what was in store for him if he got caught. He walked past the half-asleep fists with no issue, the charmed guards merely said, "Welcome home, Master Astarion," as he walked past them. Jumping onto a balcony afterward was practically trivial.

He thought he was home free as he crossed the threshold, walking one, two, three meters away from the balcony doors before he felt a chill and heard Cazador's voice. "You're home early. And what a state you're in."

Astarion flinched as he turned around, "Ah, Master, I assure you this is merely a delay. I just need to clean up and be on my way to catch you a morsel tonight. I know that I shouldn't come home without one but I just wanted to make sure that today's was of good qua-"

Astartion immediately shut his mouth as Cazador grabbed his wrists, the ancient vampire having noticed that Astarion was trying to not gesticulate. He looked at his hands and asked, "What manner of nonsense did you get into, boy?"

Astarion tensed further at that. Of course, Cazador would notice his property had been damaged, however temporarily. "I-I assure you master. I just wanted to ensure that-"

"Cease your prattle!" Cazador commanded as he bent Astarion's wrists, a small whimper coming from the spawn. "Tell me why you have these splinters."

Astarion felt the pull of the command like the pull of a leash upon his brainstem. His eyes glowed in response and he spoke loud and clear. "I pushed a beam away when I was caught in a fire at the Blushing Mermaid. I was with a target there at the time."

"Were you spotted by the flaming fists? Be truthful."

Another pull, his eyes continued to glow, "No."

"And what gave you the audacity to believe you had a right to break the rules, to come back completely emptyhanded? Speak true!"

"I thought I could sneak past you and wanted to change my clothes."

Astarion felt the sharp sting of a back-handed slap then, right across his cheek. Cazador had seen disrespect in his honesty. Astarion's jaw clenched, and the command lifted.

"You little idiot. You cannot ever get anything past me in my home. Not ever. And to think, you were so close to earning the favored spawn room this month. It's as if you throw away every opportunity I give you. Every single time. I do not begrudge you for trying to survive a fire, but I will not tolerate disrespect."

"You're right master, I'm sorry. I should have checked into the flop house and found clothes, I shouldn't have done this to you. I shouldn't have gotten hurt. I promise to be good from now on. I promise." He was tempted to yank his wrist away but knew that if he did at this angle, it would likely snap. "I'll take care of my splinters before going back out. And I'll bring you back the most beautiful virgin I can find in the lower city."

"Oh Astarion, you always did beg so sweetly," Cazador stroked Astarion's cheek gently, "But you'll just have to save that for later. Your actions need to have consequences, lest you grow arrogant again."

Shit, shit. "But Master, I've already injured myself! I've learned my lesson! You don't need to waste Godey's time!"

"Oh, but Astarion, what use are consequences with no follow through, hmm? You'll start to believe every threat is a bluff." And with that, he started to drag Astarion to the kennels. The spawn trying to dig in his heels like a dog dragged on a leash.

Godey was there when they arrived. Of course, he was. Where else would he be? He stopped cleaning his scalpels and watched as Astarion was thrown on the ground like scraps to the dogs. "Here so early, child? It isn't even midnight. No matter, Old Godey is ready to play."

"Stay your hand, Godey. I have something specific in mind for him."

"Oh? Is that so, Master?"

"Indeed. Keep an eye on him as I find the implements. You are free to strike him if he tries to leave."

"Of course, Master. I won't lay a hand on him a moment before."

But that wasn't true, as soon as Cazador was gone, Godey started to run his bony fingers through Astarion's hair. He told him, "You must like playing with Godey, being such a naughty child. What did you do to anger the master this time?"

"I hurt myself in a fire. And then I tried to sneak in to get clean and healed."

"Oh, such a shame that you got in trouble for that, and such a shame you escaped those flames. You would wear scars so prettily."

Astarion instinctually covered his face at that. Oh gods, Godey was going to give Cazador ideas at this rate. The last time that happened, the skeleton ripped his fangs out of his mouth, let them grow back overnight, and yanked them out again for a straight ten-day. He couldn't even remember what he had done, only that Godey had said he should keep his fangs to himself and it had given Cazador the idea.

Speaking of, though, he returned. But he was not baring Rhapsody or some horrific tool. No, he was holding a set of tweezers. The kind a nobleborn lady would use to pluck her eyebrows. And Cazador was holding it while wearing a glove. “I want you to remove the splinters yourself. And then, when you're done, Godey will, shall we say, give you a manicure."

Astarion hardly saw the point in getting rid of the splinters if Godey was going to rip out his claws, each time Godey readjusted the grip would surely cause shooting pain with the shards of wood in his hands. But he wasn't one to make his own life worse, so he reached an open hand out to Cazador.

But as soon as the tweezers touched his hand, the spawn hissed in pain, a rash blooming on his skin. The tweezers were made of silver. Bastard.

Cazador smirked at Astarion's pain, telling him, "Do think on your actions, Astarion." He then looked to Godey, telling him, "I'll come to check on him, come dawn. Have fun, old friend."

Thus was the beginning of Astarion's newest torment. He had been forced to hurt himself before, this was nothing new, but it was no less humiliating and terrible. At first, he tried to be delicate about the process, keeping the tweezers at the very tips on the most shallow splinters, hoping to reduce the burning sensation and hives to his fingers. But Godey gripped his hair and pulled, "Trying to pull one over on Old Godey, eh? Do it properly, child, lest I do it for you."

Astarion grit his teeth and adjusted his grip on the tweezers, more hives blooming as he squeezed and gripped the splinters, perhaps with a little more force than strictly necessary. Some of them needed to be dug out, the burning smell of silver actually piercing his skin faint but present, the tiniest wisps of smoke when they came free. Pain radiated through his hand through the entire process. He wondered if his hands would scar as his back did.

The same thing happened with his other hand. With each pinch, each pull, each squeeze, he shot agony into his palms. By the end of it, his hands were an ugly red color, they felt warm for the first time in 200 years, and they were utterly covered in blisters, itchy and burning. Panting, he threw the tweezers aside, his hands shaking.

Godey kicked Astarion in the gut. "Naughty thing, don't go throwing away the master's heirlooms around like mere stones! Pick it up and put it where it belongs."

"Fuck you, Godey," Astarion managed, despite the wind being knocked out of him. Though it earned him another slap before he picked up the damn tweezers and put them on the table.

"See, was that so hard? Now, give Godey your hand. I want to hear you scream."

Astarion couldn't help but wonder if, despite the fact that he was completely bones, Godey was getting off on this. Either way, he gave Godey his hand and watched as Godey clamped the pliers over his pinky claw. He gently tugged once, twice, trying to build up the dread in Astarion before he blinked out of existence in a flash of red light. What?

He heard a smooth voice then, almost sing-songy. "There now, we wouldn't want those lovely claws of yours to be ripped out, now would we?"

Astarion scrambled to his feet and turned around, seeing a human man just standing there. Cazador wasn't with him, "What is this? Did Cazador decide to put me to work for my transgressions? Did you banish Godey for some privacy?"

The man chuckled darkly and told him, "No, little vampling, nothing so base. I'm not another guest of your master's but a savior. Now, you can come wih me or be a good boy and wait for the skeleton to come back and do your little manicure."

Astarion looked at his blistered and red hands before looking back at the stranger. If this was a setup, then it was certainly an elaborate one. "Fine."

The man snapped his fingers and they were suddenly elsewhere. A dining room laid out with food of all sorts and several goblets. The man told Astarion, "Drink your fill, vampling. I ensured that you have only the finest of blood."

Astarion picked up a goblet and sniffed it. No poison. But this place, "Where have you brought me?"

"This, Mr. Ancunin, is the House of Hope. Where the famished come to feast and the desperate come to deal. And I know you, pretty spawn, are both. Come, drink your fill."

Well, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with the blood on the second sniff, so he took a drink. "Why is this spicy?"

"Why, it's cambion blood of course. I also have incubus and hellhound, even demon. All watered down with tiefling for your palate. Though I also have more mortal fare."

Astarion gripped his goblet lest this strange man take it from him. Though this clearly wasn't a regular human man. "Who and what the hells are you?"

"What an appropriate way to phrase that question. If you'll allow me..." And then, in a spiral of flames, the man became a devil. "I am Raphael, at your service."

Oh gods, a cambion. He should have known. He vaguely wondered if the blood he drank was Raphael's. He drained the goblet and said, "Well, you've wasted your vintage then, devil. I'm not keen to trade one master for another."

"Who said anything about your soul?"

Astarion, having gone to sniff at another goblet of blood, paused and said, "Go on."

"You see, I'm a bit of a collector. I seek the rare and esoteric and I've come into possession of a rather unique spell. I won't bore you with the details, just that it's derived from hag's magic and that you are the perfect test subject for it."

"I'm not hearing an offer."

"Patience, I was just getting to that. In exchange for your cooperation with the spell, I can offer a partial cure to your vampirism."

Astarion simply drank what he determined to be tiefling's blood as he listened. And then, he spoke, "Well then, we should be going over the details of this, shouldn't we?"

Raphael smirked and gestured for Astarion to follow him, "Let's."

Instead of an office as the spawn expected, Raphael led Astarion to a richly furnished boudoir with many chaise lounges and a bathtub that smelled of lavender and mint in the middle. On the far side of the room, he spotted a bed where a skimpily dressed devil that looked remarkably like Raphael lay. "Another client?"

"No, just another part of the House of Hope. Please, sit."

Astarion sat on one of the chaise lounges as Raphael spoke, "I can give you a potion that allows you to walk in sunlight. You would still need to avoid silver lest your allergies act up, still need to slake your thirst, but never would you have to worry about anything more than a sunburn."

"What's the catch? Surely a potion like that would have every vampire lord breaking down your door."

"Nothing gets past you, does it? No, vampire lords don't seek it out. Not because they relish in scampering through the dark like rats but because the sensation of the sun is still there."

Astarion felt what little bit of hope he had crumble to pieces then and there, "So, it doesn't work."

"Ah, that is where you, Strahd, Cazador, and every other vampire misunderstand. The potion negates all the damage from the sun, just not the pain. But what's a little pain when you can take a stroll with a pretty thing on your arm, when you can sniff roses at noon, and when you can hide from your master in plain sight."

Astarion still didn't give an answer, but he did ask, "What does the spell do?"

"It takes voices. Don't worry, your pretty throat will be left unharmed, but the voice that had brought a thousand people to their doom? The giggle that makes virgins fall into a stranger's bed? It would be the perfect display of the spell's use and the perfect addition to my collection."

One thousand. One thousand. He knew the amount of people he had brought to Cazador had been high but never past the hundreds. He suddenly felt a little sick. A thousand pairs of hands had touched him, a thousand mouths had kissed him, and a thousand people had died after having him. But with the sensitivity to sunlight removed, he would never have to do that again. "So all I have to do to ensure my master can't touch me is lose my voice and be uncomfortable while standing outside." And yet, somehow, it sounded too good to be true. "There's more, isn't there?"

"Just two little things. The first is that you must refrain from drinking the blood of thinking creatures for three days. The other is that your voice by itself isn't all I need from you."

"Spit it out, devil."

"The young man you saved today isn't any old tiefling. He was Grand Duke Ravengard's son."

"Don't lie to me. I know that Grand Marshall Ravengard's wife was a human and the Grand Duke doesn't exactly have a pair of horns."

"There's more than one way to make a tiefling. Let's just say that Mizora gave him a bit of a makeover."

"So you're saying he's hells touched."

"Indeed I am."

"I fail to see what my flirting with a prince has to do with any of this."

"I'm saying that he's valuable. Eventually, daddy will succumb to some malady or other as all humans do and little Wyll Ravengard will become Grand Duke Wyll Ravengard."

Astarion finally caught on to what Raphael was implying, "You want me to bring him to you."

"Not physically but yes. Woo, seduce, enrapture him. Wrap him around your little finger and whisper my words into his ear, putting him around mine."

"Bit brazen to steal another devil's warlock, isn't it?"

"On the contrary! Wyll was freed from his contract when Elturel sas spat back out of Avernus. This is simply filling an open position."

"I see, so live in the lap of luxury where Cazador can't touch me at the expense of my voice and some discomfort." There was just one problem, "How do I stop Cazador from compelling me back at night?"

"That's your problem. Steal a ring of mind shielding or tie yourself to your bed. I'm sure you'll think of something, you're a resourceful spawn."

"And if I fail? What's to stop me from running to Athlacka or Kozakura after realizing he only likes the company of maidens?"

"Then the potion incurs fees and I retain ownership of your soul."

"Fair enough."

"Now, don't speak so quickly, Astarion, I have a reputation to uphold. There are certain guarantees I need to decide you've taken serious steps in this endeavor. You need to get him to kiss you in three days."

"Ha! You're joking! I'll have him eating out of my palm by then."

"Not a regular kiss. True love's kiss on his part."

"You're joking, you're joking, that doesn't even exist!"

"Oh come now, where did that bravado go? Do you truly believe that you can't make a man fall in love with you in three days?"

Astarion clenched his jaw and thought about it. Here was an opportunity to get away from Cazador. And he was going to throw it away because a devil wanted him to whisper into some prince's ear? "Where do I sign?"

With a sweep of his hand, Raphael summoned a contract and a quill. Astarion read it and found the terms were laid out as described before signing it.

When it disappeared, Raphael told Astarion, "Now then, let us get to the fun part.” He led Astarion to the bed and had him lie down. The devil who had been there moved and asked, "Shall I go, Master?"

"No, I have need of you Haarlep."

"Oh, I didn't know that spell had a naughty component."

"No, just hold his wrists."

"How sad, he looks like he would be fun to play with."

Astarion freely gave his wrists to what he now knew was an incubus. He told Raphael, "This is going to hurt, isn't it?"

"I have no idea, but we can't risk you clawing my eyes out, now can we?" He straddled Astarion's waist and opened the spawn's mouth to pierce his finger, drawing runes on Astarion's throat with blood while speaking an incantation.

Suddenly, Astarion felt a pulling sensation in his throat, painful, like a fishing hook had been lodged in his larynx and an angler was trying to yank it out. His instinct was to reach for his throat and check that he hadn't been stabbed but Haarlep held firm, eerily smiling down on him. When he looked at Raphael's hands he saw a red rope of light coming from his throat. "Now, speak, sing, do everything you can to get your voice active."

Astarion nodded, saying, "My name is Astarion Ancunin. I am two hundred and forty years old and I was born in Baldur's Gate."

He felt another tug at his throat and once again tried to pull his hands away as he screamed, Haarlep holding on tight. Raphael had pulled on that magical cord and told him, "That's it, little bat, keep going."

"I was a magistrate, once, but am now a vampire spawn, hunting pretty morsels for-"

With another tug Astarion found himself silenced. A scream from that last, savage pull, dying in his throat. Haarlep let go of his hands and Astarion sat up, seeing Raphael holding up a glowing orb like a prized fish. There weren't sounds coming from it, despite what Astarion would assume. And Raphael was looking at it as well, almost amazed that it had worked, "My, isn't that lovely?"

Astarion tried to speak but no words came out. He huffed through his nose and pointed to the voice.

Raphael caught on quickly, telling him, "Oh, it's going behind glass. Protected and safe and labeled in my archive."

Astarion nodded in understanding. Yes, that made sense. Raphael would want to show it off.

Raphael then set aside Astarion's voice in a jewelry box, the magic rope disappearing as he closed it, before pulling a potion bottle out of his nightstand and uncorking it. Going to tilt Astarion's head back, he said, "Drink."

Astarion did not hesitate as the bottle was pressed to his lips. The mixture was warm and oddly fungal tasting. He was surprised that he was able to taste it at all. But as it was downed, he felt... different. Warmer. Though not quite body warm.

"Now, we can't send you out with your hands like that. Your prince charming would think you contagious. Go clean up in my bath."

Astarion nodded once more, getting up and going to dunk his hands in the pool. He found that in an instant, he was energized. All of his aches were gone, his hands were no longer covered in bumps and hives but merely slightly red. Even his minor burns were gone. He also took the opportunity to wash what little remained of the cambion's blood from his throat.

"Your clock starts at sunrise and runs out on the sunset of the third day. Nod if you understand."

Astarion nodded once again.

"Now, I'm going to send you into his path. Just do what you do best." He gestured for Astarion to follow and the spawn obeyed.

As he followed Raphael, Astarion felt as if he had, perhaps, made a mistake. He saw all manner of debtor now that he cared to look. The tiefling woman staring into the boudoir, another woman running around like a dog, and, gods, was that a man cradling and praising a full chamber pot? What was to be his fate if he failed to make Wyll fall in love? The removal of his tongue, his past under Cazador used against him? There was hardly any time to ponder though as they came to a room full of mirrors. "Ah, here we are."

They stood before a portal to Baldur's Gate. It was time to fulfill his mission. "I'll put you in his path, don't worry, just walk in."

So, Astarion did just that. He stepped through the portal, its light not harming him as he stepped into the pre-dawn of Wyrm's Rock, the home of the Grand Duke. Astarion felt rather confident if he was honest. He had saved Wyll, after all, making him fall in love should be easy.

Then the sun began to rise.

[mermaidsirennikita]

do you have any historical romance books that involve the MMC groveling? I do love a good groveling scene, esp when it’s like…literal on-his-knees groveling (though not only when it’s that kind)

Oh yes, def!

When the Earl Met His Match by Stacy Reid. My favorite Stacy Reid, the heroine is pregnant out of wedlock by a man who won't marry her, and her parents want to send her unborn child to a baby farm (very bad) so she basically shows up on the hero's doorstep in Scotland because they've been corresponding (having never met) by letter. He's actually mute, and he agrees to marry her and claim her baby as his own. It's really lovely and hot and he's honestly a great guy, but things happen towards the end that necessitate a grovel and he does an AMAZING one imo. He does get on his knees.

The Day of the Duchess by Sarah MacLean. I'm not SURE Haven gets on his knees, but he might as well, and he is on his knees on the stepback (which I oooown, can't believe the luck). So the hero cheated on the heroine (it's a revenge thing), and she runs off, only to return on his doorstep in labor with their baby. They lose the baby, and the heroine again flees, only to return two years later wanting a divorce. He agrees to give it to her... on the condition that she helps him find his next wife, which is really a way for him to grovel and try to get her back. It's a book-long grovel.

Her Lovestruck Lord by Scarlett Scott. The hero and heroine have a marriage of convenience that he never intends to do right by; he doesn't consummate it and returns to the arms of his longtime mistress, a married woman. The heroine waits for a year before getting really pissed and going to this masked sex party, determined to cuck and humiliate this husband she's seen like, once. And guess who's also at the masked sex party after being dumped by his mistress? Guess who accidentally deflowers his wife? Guess who starts feeling REAL bad about some shit? It has one thing I don't loooove but I overall found this very enjoyable in an OTT soapy way, and it satisfied my love of the grovel.

Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage by Jennifer Ashley. Another "gotta get her back" book. Mac and Isabella got married like, the night they met each other, and had this very passionate marriage that fell apart after a tragedy (also: Mac needs to grow up). She leaves his ass for years, but they stay legally married, and theeeen she comes back to let him know that someone is forging paintings and claiming they're by Mac (who's like, a famous painter). She just wanted to let him know, nothing else! And he becomes determined to get her back. It's SO GOOD. At one point they have oral sex that involves like, breakfast. It's great.

Something Spectacular by Alexis Hall. If you want something different for a historical grovel moment, this is a nb/nb romance. Peggy is genderfluid, and her friend/ex wants Peggy to help her seduce this famous castrato soprano (knowing for being an exceptionally good lay) Orfeo. Orfeo immediately takes an interest in Peggy instead, and they fall in love, but they're both afraid of committing and Orfeo has a Past, and there's this really lovely, fun "hit your knees and beg" moment towards the end that I LOVE.

The Hawk by Monica McCarty. Medieval Scottish romance, the hero is a famous seafarer/pirate type who doesn't take anything seriously; the heroine is a very serious young woman he picks up out of the ocean (and I think? She's on the side of the enemy). They gradually fall in love and fuck on a raft in the middle of a storm, but of course he fucks it up and has to do a BIG gesture at the end. Very classic "man who won't let himself fall in love falls for woman who refuses to admit she's in love with him" book.

The Notorious Lord Knightly by Lorraine Heath. Another book-long grovel/grand gesture. The hero and heroine were engaged years ago, but he left her at the altar. They cross paths again when a scandalous book by an anonymous writer begins circulating, and everyone is like "uh dude this sounds like you" and he's like "it is N--" before reading it and finding her to be like "UMMMMM this is EXACTLY the kind of sexy shit we did together???? What the fuck girl???" She's PISSED lol, and with good reason. He's.... very hot.

A Rogue's Rules for Seduction by Eva Leigh. Another "he left her at the altar" book, but this time they're brought back together by their friends, who trick them into going to the same house party on an ISLAND. He.... does hit his knees. Like. He hits his knees with such dedication and enthusiasm that he actually damages said knees. But he's happy to be there.

Wicked in His Arms by Stacy Reid. Stern hero meets feisty heroine and "dislikes" her immediately; then they impetuously fuck in his closet (she loses her virginity on like... a desk) and she runs down the hall sobbing and he chases after her and they run straight into his mom and sister so BOOM marriage. They develop a real relationship over time, but he fucks up and has to do a bIG gesture.

Untamed by Elizabeth Lowell. Classic medieval (written in the 90s) wherein the hero and heroine are in an arranged marriage after he defeats her father, and he's determined to have an heir. He suspects her of fucking her friend (she didn't) before the marriage, so he kinda acts like an asshole, and then they fall in love, but then he acts like an asshole again, and she gets taken by enemy forces and doesn't even believe he'll want her back and... well. He does. A very. Impactful. Spiel. About what he'll do to get her back. And it is part of a very dramatic grovel.

The Bride Goes Rogue by Joanna Shupe. Heroine believes she and the hero will marry due to an agreement their fathers made, and he's like "lmao no", so she decides to go wild and heads out to a masked sex part with her BFF. Who is the masked guy she fucks, but her sexy former fiance? They begin a fwb type thing, he fucks up, and commences with a pathetic pitiful delightful grovel that makes him seem like a kicked dog, basically. It's great.

Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake by Sarah MacLean. Heroine wants to experience the world as she resigns herself to spinsterhood, enlists local sexy rake to help her. There is much accidental trampling on her heart in the process. He's definitely on his knees on the floor begging her to forgive him at one point.

The Earl Takes All by Lorraine Heath. This one is Gorilla Twins (all hail Gorilla Twins) so uh.... Yeah, Edward has shit to grovel over. And he does, in classic angsty Lorraine Heath fashion. Very few authors do pure angst as well as Lorraine. It is fucking magic.

[theredandwhiteknight-if]

How about:

💓 BEATING HEART - what gets their heart racing?

+

💘 HEART W/ ARROW - what traits do they look for in a relationship? do they believe in love at first sight?

Oooh 2 this time!

Guinevere

Guinevere is very weak to chivalric romantic gestures. Very into the Lady and Knight kind of dynamic. Fighting for her, asking and wearing her favor, writing her poetry, all that stuff. Even just giving an impassioned declaration of love to her privately gets her flushed and giggly.

She looks for someone she can trust and confide in. Someone who supports her and who is as loyal to her as she is to them. She wants someone who makes her feel safe and secure.

She is a huge romantic so while not quite love at first sight, if she feels a pull when she first meets someone, she will follow it.

Arthur

Arthur is very much a knight at heart so any sort of knightly feet gets him flustered. Duels, jousting, just any example of Lancelot’s skills as a knight really appeal to him.

He wants someone who will treat him as an equal instead of as a king. Someone he can be simply Arthur around, and who he doesn’t feel pressured to be perfect for.

He doesn’t believe in love at first sight as much as he used to, but a pre of him still believe he’ll know when he finds the one for him.

Gawain

He’s really into knightly duels and shows of valor. Dueling with Lancelot or doing tests of skill. It’s all very lighthearted to him but that kind of intimate chivalric fighting gets to them.

They want someone who lets him be free of pressure. Someone he doesn’t have to be the responsible and mature one for like he does his siblings. Who lets them mess up and be unknightly and real.

He doesn’t. A relationship requires a mutual respect for them that he thinks can only come from an existing relationship.

Morgan

Honestly standing up to her gets her heart racing. Meeting her eye to eye and not being someone who simply submits to her will is what she loves. She’s so used to pretty much getting away with anything that it’s nice when someone doesn’t take her nonsense.

Morgan wants someone who will be her equal. Who can tell her when she’s going too far and or needs to stop. Someone who understands her and who she can protect.

She doesn’t. She’s attracted to people easily and will pursue flings, but she needs to build a relationship to really consider an actual romance.

Galehaut

Just small examples of trust and affection get to him. Lancelot absentmindedly touching or cuddling him. Laughing at his jokes and defending him to others.

He’s looking for someone who can accept him as he is. Someone who will let him protect them and who he can be honest about his feelings with. Someone who wants a simple life like him.

He tries not too but will still follow his heart if he thinks he has found someone. He won’t pursue them immediately but will still try and get to know them to see if what he fealt meant anything.

Agravaine

Being chosen over someone else is really the key to their heart. They’re so used to being second best at most. Being chosen first, of even being considered the first priority means so much to them.

They just want someone who will choose them, who doesn’t try to change them or compare them to others. Someone who in happy to have them as a partner.

They do not. Anything attraction they’ve felt towards someone has usually always ended in rejection (partially due to their own rather aggressive and rude attitude) so they tend to ignore any attraction to others.

Sybil

Just little gifts like flowers or rocks or such really get to them. They love little tokens that show their partner was thinking of them in these innocuous moments.

They shut want someone who helps them feel like they belong. Someone they can find a community with and who wants to eventual settle down somewhere with them.

They do kind of believe in it. As in if they feel a pull they’ll jump into the relationship quickly and go from there. They’re a fairy so for them, they have time to try relationships and see if they last.

[yolowritter]

Plagg's past holder is...Not Great™

Hello there everyone, and welcome back to another post! This here is a little something I cooked up for Plagg in "A Case of Ladybug Luck". To give some context, I very much consider the Kwami to be Gods, and treat them like it. So when the story moved towards exploring them further, I decided to write a piece of Plagg with a past holder. Yes, Sullivan's name is a Dark Souls 3 reference. I'm a nerd, sue me. Actually don't, I can barely pay for my readers' therapy. Anyway, this can be read as a standalone, so I figured it wouldn't hurt to post! Enjoy!

Trigger Warnings: Emotional manipulation, extreme apathy, plague and disease, and mass-genocide. Abusing Cataclysm is very dangerous to others.

A man sits on an old throne, inside a forgotten, crumbling keep. The roof has long caved in on one side of the chamber, letting the rain and thunder slip through the many cracks. The halls of this castle are silent, without so much as the squeak of a mouse to interrupt the heavy breathing echoing in the wind. His face is covered by a cracked helmet, one adorned with the faceplate of a panther’s skull. And the rest of the body rests inside an ever-rusting suit of black plated armor, decorated at the knees and shoulders by silver claws. Those very arms extend to wrap around the body, as if in a tired, pointless gesture of protection. Pontiff Sullivan sits upon his dusty throne on an eerily quiet night, with only the occasional strike of thunder to shatter the silence.

Beyond what tired eyes can see lies the rest of the keep, a forgotten Lord’s castle than once stood tall and proud. Moss and tangled vines have begun growing on the exterior walls, most of the windows blown to pieces by howling winds, and not a single soul’s footprint to be found. Rather, all Plagg can see with his endless eyes are the harsh claw marks on the ground, another result of his master’s choice of adornment. On the bottom side of Sullivan’s boots lay the jagged claws of a fierce black panther, a terrifying beast whose presence haunts every speck of air the God of Destruction can perceive. By his rough estimate, Plagg guesses it must have been at least two decades since even a stay cat set foot inside this old keep, at the top of a small hill overlooking a small town. Even the massive greatsword laying against the throne’s arm has been gathering dust, slowly eroding with the passage of time.

His master does nothing but sit on this very spot, has not moved in what the Kwami thinks may be weeks or even longer. All ‘round the ancient castle lay dark scorch marks of pure Destruction, one of which is visible through a half-crumbled wall just a few halls away. The howling winds continue to tear the keep apart one stone brick at a time, and Plagg is left only with memories. He recalls the battlefield, those very fields just outside the main gate. Said former testament to human engineering now lies ajar, with worms slowly eating at the wood it’s mad of. But once, many years ago, it had been the sight of war. Sullivan, then a young and determined knight, had finally gathered whichever friends could be mustered to retake his ancestral home from the boy’s uncle. Plagg cannot remember for the life of him if they were actually ever related by blood. Yet…the Kwami cannot find reason for the detail to matter. No, instead his jumps to Sullivan’s bravery and courage, to the sheer presence of shining gold that almost three hundred men had rallied behind. A kind smile and encouraging words had appealed to morals and knightly conviction once, the same features now lay hidden behind a faceless mask.

That boy…is gone now. Plagg knows as much, but is still tethered to this shell of a man, a shattered reflection of valiance twisted into nothing more than self-righteous foolishness. That was why, in the pride of his old age, Sullivan had sent his servants and knights all away to far-off lands, back when a single sliver of goodness still nested in his heart. The breastplate’s tattered cape billows in the wind as the Pontiff finally stands, armor crafted by the magic of Plagg’s Miraculous creaking with every movement. The Kwami feels himself strain as much as the metal plates, having held Sullivan’s pitiful existence together for so long that he, a literal God, has begun to long for the separation that so defined his kin before first contact with humanity. Truly, even being formless once again would be preferable to this horrible stagnation that permeated the very concept of Destruction.

With great effort, a single step is taken, and then another…and another…and another, until eventually the aging Pontiff’s legs have carried them both across the deserted halls and up a staircase that’s barely stable enough to hold a single man’s weight. It’s then, overlooking the surrounding lands from high above, that Plagg finally sees it. His Destruction, the echoes left behind by that great Cataclysm which brought Sullivan and his comrades victory, a gain in which the Kwami had once gladly shared. It’s been so long since he’s observed the full scope of that battle, if only because no mortal should be able to do the same. And yet, the Pontiff takes deep, ragged breaths as he gazes to the black flickers lining the grass, almost as if marking the ground with timeless scorches. Plagg feels it too, the subtle way in which they tremble in warning. He’s already known of course what any deviation from the throne-watching entails, but now it’s fully confirmed.

In the town below, a single traveler rests at a tavern, coughing lightly as if to clear his throat. Not a soul suspects, fewer have even heard the rumors, but what is death if not the slow, methodical destruction of physical matter? What is impending doom, if not something Plagg can feel? The stormy night goes on, and a blinding flash of thunder splits the skies as Sullivan begins to raise his arms. Trembling old bones and half-shattered armor both creak in protest, much more resistance than the God of Destruction can bother mustering. Still, the Pontiff manages to raise his clawed gauntlets up to an opening in the crumbling watchtower’s stones, and murmurs the word under his breath.

Cataclysm. A notion that Plagg had once been proud to personify, when that very same power had turned a legion of bloodthirsty, half-mad men to dust right before Sullivan’s eyes. The Kwami had used it then in desperation, this flicker of divine power. To save his Holder, a brave man he’d grown far too attached to for anyone’s good. With golden hair to match the aura surrounding the young knight, and green eyes glimmering with brilliant rays of hope as banners were raised in victory…Plagg had failed to see the darkness skulking underneath. That same evil was now made manifest in wisping black smoke ‘round the old Pontiff’s clawed arms, with a pained grunt as viscous veins of inky puss flickered to life all across his body.

The once rosy tint of the boy’s cheeks had long been stolen, replaced with a pale, ghastly complexion fit only for the horror stories told about the many creatures which had great aversion from the sun. Plagg hadn’t bothered to learn what the folktales were calling them this century. The black energy crackled all through Sullivan’s body, sapping both his and the Kwami’s lifespans to bring forth the very power that even a God like him had grown to fear. Of course, Plagg had heard the justification countless times, so many that he had truly began to lose count faster than Sullivan lost his mind. Yet it mattered little, when the dark mist of Cataclysm spread throughout the air, carried by howling winds all the way to its unsuspecting victims.

A raspy cough nearly tears through the Pontiff’s lungs, and he desperately clutches a crumbling wall to stay upright. “It’s a mercy, Plagg. They are all sick, and I am the cure…” he speaks the words with a conviction the Kwami once admired, and falls silent once more. In the town below, the Plague has begun to spread, from the traveler to the innkeeper, and then to another. The swirling dark mists flood the air around the slumbering villagers, and Plagg feels each and every bright soul disintegrate into absolutely nothing, leaving naught but tiny specks of ash.

[huffle-dork]

Swap into the CrystalVerse Chapter 13: Fantasy Masks

Co-written with @crystalninjaphoenix 

Read Swapboys | Read Fantasy Masks | AO3 Link

Prologue | Switch | Stitched | PNPT | Septicheroes Taglist: @brokentimewatch @di-diwata  

Bro is used to falling by now, and used to landing in strange places. But this is the strangest yet. It's a wide open room, filled with boxes and trunks and racks of medieval-looking clothes. The roof above is canvas, stretched over large white support beams that curve gently. This room must be large, but his vision of it is obscured because of all the stuff around. It's cool, but not winter-cold like that world with the kids.

"Hwaet!"

That's... a word? Definitely a voice. Where did it come from?

Bro pushes himself up and looks around in confusion. The fuck is he now? ... a theater maybe? Cuz those look like costumes....

"umm.. hello??" He calls out.

As Bro stands up, one of the racks of clothing is pushed to the side and he is immediately confronted with the tip of a sword. Not a fake plastic sword. Not a metal replica found at a fair or convention. This is a heavy-looking, razor-sharp, thirty-five-inch-long knightly sword.

Bro pushes back as much as he can to get away from the- sword?? A FUCKING SWORD?? "H-Holy shit-"

It's being wielded by a man wearing a waist-length red cloak and a wolf mask... and the rest of the man's clothes are similarly medieval.

"Tshais?" the man says, eyes widening behind the mask. Then he shakes his head. "Ní he, ní é thusa é."

"Dyaki?" Another voice calls, and someone else appears. A man wearing a white tunic-thing and--and the first man covers the other's face before Bro can get a good look. "Gah! Dyaki, cadé aan saolile?!"

"Caor uir tho aghaidh," the first man says. "Níl sé dó Tshais."

The second man quickly pulls on a mask shaped like an owl. "Cadatá aer sil?"

"Níl a fhiasagim! Dheial raigh sé!"

...What the fuck is going on?

Bro can barely tell what's going on as he looks between the two men, "f-fuck I... I can't tell what you're saying- ummm hi? I.. I'm Chase! can you not... point that very sharp and real sword at me please?"

The two men blink in almost comical unison. It's hard to tell what their expressions are under the masks, but it's clear they're just as confused as he is. They look at each other.

"A bhfuil an fies agatcén te anga a bían?" asks the wolf-masked one.

The owl-masked one shakes his head. "Ní aith ním aer shor aer bithé."

The wolf-masked man stares at Bro for a moment more. Then lowers the sword, but does not sheathe it.

"Tá brón yom," he says.

"Dyaki, cén f--"

"Is léir ghaer de mhuentor ann FhaoNaigh é," the wolf insists. "Caith fimid bhaifh measeil. Agus gan ainmneasha, ceimhni?"

The owl winced. "Diar mé oer ash 'Dyaki.'"

"...Foc."

Bro backs up more and keeping ping-ponging between the two men talking, though he doesn't understand anything. It kinda sounds like when his aunts would curse in irish but- also way different. It feels... older. God he wished Alt was here... maybe he knew a translation spell or something.

The wolf-masked one notices his growing confusion. "Tá brón yom," he repeats. He leans closer to the owl and murmurs something that Bro can't hear, then looks back at him. "Iss féid irlaet 'Dyaki' a laoch yom." The man gestured at himself. "'Dyaki.'"

He points at the owl-masked man. "Iss féid irlaet 'Henrik' a thabh aetaer. 'Henrik." The owl inclines his head.

"Cad Iss féid irlinn laoch oer?" The wolf points at Bro.

"Dyaki..." Bro repeats with a slow nod. Then, his eyes light up, "Oh! Henrik!" He smiles, relived. At least they found someone who he... sort of recognized.

The owl--Henrik's eyes widen.

Dyaki looks at him. "A bhfuil aithme oer? Cén shoi a bhfuil aithme aer FhaoNaigh?!"

"Níl aithme!" Henrik protests.

Oh- maybe they know sign? ... it could be worth a try.

Bro tries to sign I'm sorry, I can't understand you. Do you know sign? even if he's a bit clumsy with it.

Then Henrik’s eyes widen further as he sees Bro sign. "An labh raíon sé i láemhi?"

"Ní labh raíon i láemhi é sin a aithmím." Dyaki shakes his head. He finally sheaths his sword... and begins making gestures. It's clearly sing language of some sort, but it's not BSL.

Bro grins bashfully and holds up his hands, "ah okay.... that doesn't work either... shit- ...doesn't my phone have real time translation?” He pulls out his phone and tries to see if it even works.

Bro's phone does indeed work. But in the upper left corner where it usually provides cell bars and WiFi, it simply says No Service.

Bro tsks under his breath, "Of fucking course.. just my luck..."

"Cadé aan saolile?" Henrik steps forward, right up to Bro, and stares at his phone. He reaches out. "An féidi lom yeamháil...?"

"Henrik!" Dyaki looks stunned at the fact that Henrik is reaching for Bro's phone, as if he's committed some social faux pas.

"Féash aer," Henrik says quietly. "Táse shomh ai teash, caithfi mé iarash."

Bro looks at Henrik reaching for the phone and he looks confused but he offers it to him. "Uh- maybe you know where to get some service? Are we just in a bad spot? ... im realizing you can't understand me either but talking gives me comfort-"

Henrik takes the phone gently, like it's made of porcelain, and turns it over in his hands. He seems interested in the buttons and charging port at first, but then notices that the screen responds to touch and eagerly begins swiping back and forth between the home screens.

"Dyaki, féash aer!" he says excitedly. "Is motael aus gloena a lashonn! Aus frea raíonn sé, féash! Ní fhaka mé draíosht marse riam."

"Isé draíosht aan FhaoNaigh," Dyaki mutters. "Tabhair aisdó é."

"Tá, tá." Henrik nods and gives the phone back to Bro. "Rai moith a ghat."

Bro watches them look at his phone with increasing confusion. It’s like… they’ve never seen one before. That’s… really weird. But- technically with the kids they went into the past… What if they went even further?

Bro panics a bit at this thought and stumbles to stand up. “Uh- you all keep saying… FhaoNaigh- I don’t think.., I’m that? I- where is this?” He tries to look around more to see if he can get more hints, taking off his mask and shoving it in his pocket in the meantime. His hair fades back to his regular brown. “I’m not a FhaoNaigh- my name is Chase! I need to- god where’s alt??”

The two men step back, looking surprised and worried at Bro's distress. "FhaoNaigh?" Dyaki repeats, pointing at Bro with confusion.

Bro shakes his head at being called that again.

"Fuaimean séosil o bhfuil sé ará 'Tshais,'" Henrik mutters.

"Is cumalei ndáiríre," Dyaki emphasizes. "Ommm... Lasmuigh?" He points to the side and starts walking in that direction. "Téi lasmuigh?" He gestures for Bro to follow him.

As Dyaki points and directs Bro to follow, he slowly does, really trying to look at everything as they walk.

Henrik and Dyaki murmur to each other as they walk, allowing Bro ample time to look at the stuff. All these trunks and boxes and various containers... he doesn't see anything made of cardboard or plastic. These clothes... they're more than medieval-looking, the stitches look hand-done. And sometimes they come across weapons. They all look real. And there is not a firearm in sight.

“What the fuck….” Bro breathes, “please tell me this is just some really convincing re-enactors… or a ren faire… those are fun I like those-“

"Hwaet!"

They've reached the edge of the room. It looks like this place is a massive... dome? The white stone rafters curve down to meet the floor. Dyaki pushes aside a flap in the canvas and again gestures for Bro to follow.

Bro looks around at the dome and squints at it before following after Dyaki again.

Outside is a camp, pitched of tents. Not colorful tents with mesh and fabric. Strong, sturdy tents made of canvas. The sky above is bright blue, and the air is somehow crisper, fresher than Bro has ever breathed before. People wander past, wearing the same medieval clothing and masks as Henrik and Dyaki. There is a rising smoke from a fire in the distance. And surrounding all this are massive white stones. ... No, not stones. Bones. This camp is surrounded by the skeleton of some massive creature.

Bro’s jaw drops as he sees the camp- breathes the crisp air. Okay… this might actually be real. As soon as he registers the camp is surrounded by bones- Bro can’t take it anymore. He has to see. He leaps into the air and flies above the camp to see the skeleton in full. Not even considering what he could have done would backfire on him or scare anyone. The adhd has taken hold and he’s definitely off his medicine by now with how many jumps they’ve done.

"CADE AAN SAOLILE?!" he hears someone shout from below, followed by various cries of panic and awe.

As he goes up, up, up, the skeleton comes into view. First, the reptilian head, topped with horns. Then the extending lines of wingbones confirm it. This is a creature that does not exist in his world. A dragon.

Bro feels his breath puff out of his mouth as it falls open in awe. “That’s… that’s a fucking dragon-“ He laughs breathlessly and pushes back his hair. “Holy fucking shit…! This is the craziest place yet! What the fuck!”

By now he’s registering the sounds of panic/awe below and he curses. “Ah fuck… right- Jesus okay-“ he quickly zooms back down and makes sure he finds where Dyaki and Henrik are. He at least has the decency to look embarrassed. “S-Sorry! I got curious!”

The two of them are staring at him in utter shock. "Aan... bhfuil tú... Sinse?" Dyaki asks slowly.

Henrik shakes his head. "Fiú tá a fhies ayam go bhfuil mísheart." He takes a step forward. "...Tshais? Aan tufuil Tshais?"

"Níl sé Tshais!" Dyaki shouts. "Tshais ní fédie lais eithil!" Oh. 'Tshais.' It's the name Chase but spoken with slightly softer sounds.

“Tshais-“ Bro starts trying to say and then brightens as he realizes. “Oh Chase! That’s me, yes! I’m Chase! Chase Brody!” He points to himself and nods eagerly. As if he just forgotten that he just blew these guys’ minds.

This does not help with the blown minds. If anything, it looks like Dyaki's brain is melting. He takes a deep breath, turns to the side... and shouts, "Foc! Foc foc foc foc foc!" The meaning of that seems pretty clear.

Bro points at Jackie having a meltdown, “…well I know that word for sure-“

Henrik laughs.

He then looks at Bro thoughtfully. "Tshais mak Brodi." And he nods. "Credine thú. Ash cén... tshai?"

Bro blinks at Henrik attempting to talk to him and just politely nods.

Dyaki rejoins the other two. "Aan bhfuil a fies cá bhfuil Maerfin?" he asks Henrik.

"Aran mbhea lach." Henrik starts walking through the camp. Dyaki follows, and gestures for Bro to follow to.

Once Bro’s led to follow he does. “Man… this is really really weird…”

The three of them head through camp, the other people parting around them, not even bothering to disguise their stares.

Bro waves at some of the people before he thinks better of it and just follows behind Dyaki and Henrik.

-----------

Alt appears in a forest. It's a very lovely forest, the trees taller, wider, and bigger than he's ever seen before. The branches above are thick, and the only reason there's sunlight is because it's autumn and the vibrant leaves are thinning. Bushes and other undergrowth practically hide the forest floor beneath him. He barely has the chance to notice all this when--

Something goes whizzing right by him. If he turns around, he sees an arrow embedded in a tree, shaft and fletching vibrating.

Alt breathes for a second, confused by the air and trees when- He yelps in surprise and glitches away.

He then glitches back and pulls it out of the tree with wide confused eyes. “…a fucking arrow?? Who shot an arrow at me?!”

The forest is quiet except for the rustling of leaves. And then there is a louder rustling coming from a bush on the opposite direction of the arrow. And then there is a thunk, the sound of someone falling, and a hissed voice that says, "Dyamison!" Whatever that means.

Alt crouches down into a defensive stance, building up electricity in his hand. He carefully walks forward and then tries to glitch to where he heard the sound- hoping to get the upper hand.

The glitch is successful. He pushes aside a bush to see--a rabbit? No, it's someone wearing a rabbit mask, staring up with him with wide eyes...eyes that immediately shoot to the lingering glitch effects around him.

"Dyamison!" Suddenly another bush gets pushed aside and a man stands up, wearing a hat, a deer mask--and armed with a bow and a quiver by his side. His eyes also shoot to the lingering glitches.

"Tá brón yom, tá brón yom!" The man says, raising his hands. "Shílmé fur fiana thú, mé mionn é! Rinne mé! Dhírash--dhírash a fhákáil leis éin!" He sounds... panicked.

Alt backs up with his hands up and feels himself panicking too. “W-woah hey! You’re- you’re speaking a whole other language what the fuck…”

Strangely enough, Alt's panic seems to calm the man down slightly. He lowers his own hands, now simply wary instead of afraid. "Tá brón yom, níl a fhies aya cadatá thú ag rá."

The man in the rabbit mask stands up and steps backwards, almost tripping over some hidden roots. He looks at the other and raises his hands and--that's a sign language of some kind, definitely. But Alt doesn't recognize it.

"Cadatá igh seis aya?" The first man asks.

More sign language.

"Cén fáth nachrai tú dhírash taréis sin a rá?" The man sounds exasperated. He looks at Alt, and gives an awkward little bow. "Aan duine de FhaoNaigh thú?" he asks slowly, as if the speed was the issue and not the whole other language.

Alt looks between the two with widening eyes.

This- this was insane. God- didn’t Blaise give him a translation spell? …oh oh yes! Okay he knows this- he’s used it on Henny when he’s been really sick!

He breathes and closes his eyes. He places a hand on his temple, “thuiscint” then he places a hand on his throat, “labhairt nua.” When he’s done he opens his eyes back up and they’re glowing blue green. But- he should be able to understand them now…? Hopefully.

“Ah sorry… I didn’t understand before, could you say that again?”

Both of the men look impressed--but honestly, not as impressed as most everyday people would be when seeing magic.

"Are duine of FhaoNaigh you?" the man in the deer mask says. That makes no sense. The spell is struggling with this language. But thankfully, the man realizes something is up. "Om... say I aríse. Are being of FhaoNaigh you? Are you one of the FhaoNaigh?"

Alt knits his eyebrows together. Huh- this must be a tricky language… could it be old? Judging by these guys outfits and the fact that they tried to shoot him with a bow is very much convincing him of that.

“One of the… FhaoNaigh? Uhhh who are those?” Alt asks delicately.

"You don't know who the Fair Folk are?" the man in the deer mask says, sounding shocked. "Well, I guess that shows that you're not one of them. Where are you from, then? Why are you..." He pauses, searching for the words. "...made of... harsh light? And smell like... lightning?"

The man in the rabbit mask rolls his eyes and signs something.

"You describe it, then, Jameson!" the first man says, annoyed.

Alt’s eyebrows rise. Jameson. Okay that,.. that explains the sign. God he wished he could understand that too… feels rude to not know his side of things.

“Fair Folk… no can’t say I have… unless you’re talking about my complexion.” Alt tries to laugh. “I’m from- …really far away I’m guessing. A city called Brighton. And uh- I’m not… made of light- it’s just my magic. I can… hm- just sort of move around really fast. But with my whole body.” He glitches back and forth across the clearing before settling back in front of them. “We call it ‘glitching’ but if I’m right about this.. you wouldn’t know what that was.”

"Braiton?" The man in the deer mask shakes his head. "I've never heard of it. But I haven't traveled much. Jameson?"

Jameson shakes his head. He signs something else.

"Oh, Jameson thinks your magic is fascinating," the man in the deer mask says. "And I do too. You're right, I've never heard of... ghlishing." He pauses. "What are you doing out here, then? You appeared out of nowhere, i-it startled me. Sorry about the arrow, I thought you were a deer, I swear it."

Alt shakes his head, “it’s okay! I’m sure it was scary seeing someone appear out of nowhere. As for why I’m here… that’s a really long story I’m not sure you’d believe…”

Alt laughs, “And, uh, thanks. You guys are the ones who are fascinating to me… uh- where is this exactly?”

Strangely, the men hesitate when he asks where this is. "You're in the Dragon's Greatwoods," the man in the deer mask says slowly. "And you may as well tell us. I wouldn't believe that you showed up out of thin air if we hadn't seen it ourselves. Oh, I should introduce myself to you first. Call me Chase, son of Brody. And call him Jameson... Jameson, do you want me to...?" He waits for him to nod. "Okay. Jameson Jairsolas. What are you called?"

“Um…” Both of his names are out of place here. Guess it can’t be helped. “I’m Alt. Alt… Brody.”

He studies Chase closely. This is this world's version of his brother… he guesses he could see it? Weird to see Chase not in bright almost blinding colors.

“Okay well… I’m from- another world. One that’s like this one, but different. It’s Another world that is… probably in the future? If not just… something different entirely… not sure yet… but something feels distinctly more magical here…”

"Another world?" Chase repeats. "Oh. Okay. Nice to meet you, Alt Brody." He pauses. "That would explain the harsh light--the ghlishing. Strange to think of a world with less magic, though. You must be even more out of place at home. Sorry about that."

Alt blinks. Wow he accepted that a lot faster then he thought he would. Alt stuffs his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “It’s alright. I got my brother- he’s …magic too. Somewhat.”

Jameson signs something.

"Really?"

He repeats it insistently.

"...Fine, I guess." Chase sighs. "Jameson wants to take you back to our camp. He insists that nothing bad will happen, which--I suppose I'm more inclined to believe coming from him, but I'm still not entirely sure." Another pause. "If you're from another world, why did you come here?"

Alt tilts his head at this and then nods, “your camp… yeah that’s probably a good idea.” The glitch laughs at Chase’s last question. “We can’t really… control it at this point I guess. We’re trying to get home but… we keep picking the wrong places. We’re uh- kinda hunting down a dangerous person too.”

“Hmm.” Chase hums. “Well maybe we could help with that search. We’re very prepared to… protect people from dangerous people. I could’ve said that better, but you get what I mean.” He looks at Jameson. “If this turns out to be a bad idea you’re taking the blame.”

Jameson nods, as if he expected that.

“Alright, Alt Brody, follow us.” Chase turns and starts heading through the trees. “Anything else we should know before we get there? Like about your brother? Where is he, if not with you?”

"Hopefully close by," Alt mutters, "If not just- if you see someone is a stupidly bright orange jacket, it's probably him. ... oh or if you see anyone in the sky." He walks after them, afraid of scaring them more with his glitches. Even if it pains him.

Chase momentarily stops walking. "...In the sky? Does he have wings?"

Alt laughs, "Uh- no. That would be sick, though. His powers means he can fly. Amongst other things. And... knowing Chase- he's gonna be zipping around without much thought."

"That must be strong magic," Chase whispers. He's so in awe that he almost misses Alt mentioning his brother's name. "Wait... oh! So your brother is also called Chase. Good to know, that'll be helpful if the flying and bright orange isn't. There aren't many people named that in Glasúil. That's... where you are by the way. I'm not sure if you'd know that."

"Oh- huh, that's weird. It's a common name where we're from." Alt comments. ".. Glasúil- ... I've never heard of that. So, i guess we're not in the past past... just- somewhere... fantasy, I guess?" he shakes this head muttering, "This is the weirdest place yet..."

"Fantisey? You mean like... a story?" Chase considers that. "I suppose if your world is different enough, this one would seem like a story." He laughs. "It gets stranger. Wait until we reach camp. Which won't take too long, don't worry. Only about ten minutes. Come on, we can hurry." He starts walking again, he and Jameson picking up the pace.

Alt laughs, “Yeah… this is one crazy story.” He tries to keep pace with the others, though he looks over his shoulder quite a bit. As if worried about what could be lurking in the shadows.

-----------

As expected, the string snap as soon as Magnificent leaves the last universe. He falls for a moment, then winds up on... a wooden surface, of some kind. Like a dock for boats. He hears voices. Though he can't recognize what they're saying, they sound alarmed. When he looks around he finds himself in some place very strange indeed. It's a town of some sort but... incredibly, the whole thing is floating on water. The buildings, the wooden street, the poles that hold lanterns. But if he looks in the distance, he can see stone buildings. They must not be too far from land.

This is the most crowded landing yet. People are staring at him, all wide-eyed shock. He popped out of nowhere in the middle of a street and now there are about... twenty, thirty people staring at him--though they aren't too keen to get close, so he has a wide circle of space around himself.

Magnificent is enraged as he lands, pushing himself up with anger and looking around to see where that annoying hero and his disobedient cub are. But he pauses as he realizes he’s surrounded. He backs up, eyes wide as he takes in the look of the people. …why do they look old-timey? And not even… Henrik old-timey… these people look medieval. And so does the buildings around him on this strange floating dock,

“What the fuck-“ he whispers. He then glares and disappears from in front of them and slinks into nearby shadow.

The crowd gasps and cries out in surprise as Magnificent disappears. They look around, as if expecting him to be nearby, but of course, he is not.

Mag should probably stay out of sight until he can glean where this is… maybe he should disguise himself to fit in. Though… it could be fun to show off his magic and let these simpletons heed him as a god. Hm… maybe later. Right now, he needs more information…

Magnificent has found himself in a vast city, all clearly medieval in setting and yet impossibly incredible. The city starts on an island, where there are narrow buildings and winding streets and fenced-off gardens, all surrounding an enormous walled castle. But the city expands beyond the island as well, floating out onto the lake that surrounds it. This is where the maze of wooden walkways and houses come in. You would think that houses floating on a lake would be dangerous, but everything is remarkably sturdy. And there is something... something in the air.

"Goddess Almighty..." Magnificent breathes out in wonder. When he was human- this kind of place would have been his fantasy. And... maybe it is, still. A fantasy... so fantastical in how its structured. And even more so- he can sense something in the air. Magic? By now, he's yearning for anything. The power of the last world wasn't nearly enough...

Yes, it is indeed magic. And there is so… so… much of it. When he reaches out to detect it, it’s as if everything gives off a faint glow. In fact, he can feel this magic already sustaining him, slowly, like rain dripping into a bucket. But when he tries to reach out to take more or make it go faster, he can’t. This film of magic feels strangely distant. It will not give him more than he can hold naturally, and he cannot make it go faster.

Magnificent feels magic already in his veins and its incredible. Oh he likes this very much... but as always- he needed more.

But if he seeks magic to take, he can find it easily. There are so many magicians here. Granted, many of them have weak signatures, but in this city of thousands there are a smattering of powerhouses. The strongest of which is located in the castle in the center of the city.

Weak signatures cloud his vision but he can feel the strongest near... oh- a castle. Perfect... The dark magician grins to himself and then shifts into his cat form, slithering across the shadows to make his way towards the castle.

There is, of course, a wall around the castle, and there are, of course, guards patrolling it. But the gaps in the main portcullis are wide enough that a cat, liquid as they are, can slip through easily. And once inside the castle grounds nobody pays attention to a cat. Strays are not uncommon here. The castle is a collection of buildings, but the magic signature is within the main palace. The doors and windows are closed, but that won’t be a problem, will it? Even if Magnificent was an ordinary cat, he would simply need to wait for an opportunity.

Magnificent takes his time to study the people and this place as best as he can. When he reaches the windows he plops himself down in a place to wait... he can't draw too much attention just yet. It was already well guarded here. He can't afford to get caught. So he waits... he can be patient.

It's not long before a woman with a broom comes walking down the hallway inside, sweeping dirt into the corners. Not bothering with a dustpan. Magnificent has seen many people wearinggreen tunics like hers, it must be a uniform. She notices the cat sitting outside and her eyes light up. Discreetly, she glances to either side and then hurries over and slides the window open. It's a good thing he chose this spot, not all the windows will slide like that.

"Nash bhfuil tú gleoti?" she coos. "Teash tar, teash tar." It's a language Magnificent doesn't recognize, sounding like bastardized Irish, but judging by her tone she wants him to get close. Probably for petting.

Magnificent is quick to jump on the windowsill, letting himself be pet. But, as the woman makes contact, he floods his power into her. Attempting to decipher and learn the language while searching through her mind. And make it malleable to him as well- Could be useful...

The woman gasps. Her mind is surprisingly weak already, like a piece of cloth worn thin. She does not even try to fight against him. Deciphering the language is tricky, since it's not one Magnificent is familiar with, but he gets there eventually. And learns some about this new world.

This city is Suilthair, the capital of the island kingdom Glasúil. Glasúil is ruled by "aan Rith"--the Royal, the King. This woman is convinced the King is a good man, a kind and just ruler. But Magnificent knows the signs of manipulation when he sees them.

Magnificent shakes himself out as the information comes flooding. Ah- interesting. His eyes glow as he looks at the woman and he asks in her head. {Fair Maiden, can you direct me to where the Royal is?}

The woman smiles faintly, flattered at being called fair. She says something that Magnificent understands to mean, “He’s in the Great Hall at this time of day. Follow me.” And she stands up straight and starts down the wide hallways.

He chuckles and follows right after her. He makes sure to study the castle as the walk- this almost feels too easy. Not that he's complaining...

The palace corridors are wide and grand, but feel somewhat empty and dark, even with the many windows. The woman leads him down hall after hall until they reach a set of grand wooden doors. There are two guards on either side, but one of the doors is propped open so that kind of defeats the purpose of them, really.

"Through there," the woman says. "I'm not allowed in."

Magnificent giggles and in a quick burst of static he returns to his proper form. He pats her shoulder and strides forward, grinning wide. "Thank you, my dear. Now- run along~, I have business to attend to."

The two guards cry out when Magnificent shifts form, grabbing their pole arms while the woman calmly walks away.

Mag meets the guards' eyes and cocks his head at them, sending out a mental blast of obedience. "Excuse me gentlemen~ Let me through."

He attacks, and at once—maybe even faster than normal—the guards relax. They lower their weapons and step aside, letting Mag access the open doorway.

Magnificent chuckles and dramatically flares his cape to walk by and into the room. "Much obliged!"

The Royal... must be the most powerful person in this realm. And if all these fools kept falling so easily... either the king would be easy prey. Or... a worthy opponent. Either option had the mad magician excited.

This was going to be so much fun~

The Great Hall is indeed great, a wide open space with a peaked roof above and old tapestries hanging on the walls. There is also a fireplace with a roaring fire on the other end of the room, but its warmth doesn't reach the door. A long wooden table takes up most of the space. There's room for many people to sit but there is only one. A man sitting at the head of the table by the fireplace, drinking from a goblet and staring at one of the tapestries thoughtfully. He wears a green cape, a golden circlet sitting on his brown hair. From this distance, he almost looks like Alt. But then he looks at Magnificent and he sees that his eyes are an unnatural emerald green color.

"You wasted no time," he says, putting the goblet down and standing up.

Magnificent can't help but smirk. Clever already... and so much like his cub. "Ah, you expected me, then?"

“I felt a stranger coming ever since you entered the castle grounds.” The King clasps his hands behind him. “I’ve never seen such strange garb. A mask, but you’re not one of those rebels. Where are you from?”

"mmm incredible reach~!" Magnificent's blood is roaring in his ears, hungry for the power just a few feet from him. He laughs a bit madly and repeats the king's gesture, but tilts his head like a curious cat. "From a world beyond your comprehension~ I'm merely... visiting. Trying to see what a world like this has to offer~"

“And you think you can take my power?” The King chuckles. “You can try. Perhaps this world will have things beyond your comprehension. Magic may exist on your Earth, but do you think the magic here will be so easily taken and converted to yours? You already had trouble in the last world, I see.”

Magnificent's confidence wavers and he stumbles back just slightly. He's- unnerved. He didn't even feel a presence inside his head at all. His eyes darken and spark with power as he growls. "How the fuck did you do that?"

The King grins. “Already surprised? You may not last long here, Marvin. Strange, I knew a man with close to that name once. He escaped his fate.”

Oh- now he's done it. Magnificent roars in anger and lashes out to attack the King with his claws.

The King reacts swiftly. Mag didn’t even notice the sheathe by his side. In the second before Mag reaches him he pulls out a large knife, and Magnificent’s claws glance off the coppery metal.

“Rashness will get you killed, magician,” the King says, spinning the large knife. Lightning traces the blade.

Magnificent's eyes glow with rage and he summons green fire in his hands, "How did you get in my mind?! I didn't even detect you! What are you?!" He spits.

“I am what you seek to become.” The King smiles. “And there can only be one of us in this world. I’ll offer you mercy. You have three days to leave this world.” He raises the blade, not pointing it at Magnificent, instead tracing an outline around him. Ozone fills the air. “If you don’t, I will kill you. If you cause too much trouble, this offer is forfeit and I will kill you. Do you understand?”

"Don't patronize me!" Magnificent shrieks, "I won't stoop so low to take pity from the likes of you!" He teleports to be right in front of the King and tries to grab him by his cloak.

But as Magnificent teleports in front of him, he feels a sharp pain in his gut and hears a hissing sound. That electrified blade went right into his stomach. And the King doesn't so much as flinch.

Magnificent cries out and then moves to try to shove himself away from the blade- but the shocks have his muscles trying to spasm.

"This is not condensation, Marvin," the King says. "Nor is it pity. It's a shame to end a life so ambitious. But your anger will leave me no choice." He smiles drily. "Learn to abandon it."

The mad magician grits his teeth in rage. "You're underestimating me too quickly, Your majesty." He spits the title out like its poison.

A spiral of green and purple magic blooms behind the magician, trying to ensnare the king's senses.

The King glances at it, and... and for a moment, it feels like Mag has control. His eyes even glaze over. But he doesn't respond to commands like he should.

"You are very powerful," the King says, tilting his head like he's admiring the spirals the way someone would a work of art. "But I think you're misunderstanding this situation. This sort of trick won't work." He grabs Magnificent by the shoulders and spins him around. When he traced an outline around him earlier, when the air had smelled of ozone, a doorway had opened up in the middle of the air, edges lined with snapping green power. On the other side is somewhere lined with trees. "See if you can make your way back here to try again," the King says, and pushes Mag forward.

Magnificent gasps as he's grabbed and tries to spin around to reach for the king as he's pushed through the doorway, spitting curses. "NO!"

The King is not expecting to be grabbed--in his experience, people are usually pretty weak after being stabbed with lightning. He cries out, surprised, and the two of them tumble forward through the doorway, which abruptly disappears.

"Ageless fucking Elders!" The King curses, scrambling to his feet. He spins around, clenching his fists in frustration, then forces himself to take some deep breaths. They're now outside of the city in a completely different location. A copse of autumn trees, surrounded by fields for as far as the eye can see.

"Congratulations, Marvin, you've managed to change my mind," the King mutters. "You get to live so it'll be easier to get back to somewhere with people instead of the middle of thrice-damned nowhere."

Magnificent spits dirt out of his mouth and pushes himself up, gripping at his wound. "Oh how generous of you, your kinglyness" He spits. He looks around the landscape and bares his teeth in a snarl. "... also stop calling me that, before I claw your innards out and frame it on a wolf."

"Very creative," the King mutters. "Fine, Magnificent. You are aware you're not bleeding, right? You know what sealing a wound is, right? Unfortunately I didn't think to bring medical supplies or health potions so you'll have to live with that."

Magnificent blinks and looks down at his hand, revealing that there is, in fact, no blood. He scowls and rubs at the area and mutters, "... still hurts like a bitch." He shakes himself off, much like a cat would and observes the woods. ...what can they do now? He hasn't felt any presence of his cub or his idiot brother...

"Right, those two who have been hunting you through your travels," the King says, picking up on Magnificent wondering about those two. "I suppose if they have the talisman that lets you travel you would've needed to find them. Hmm... and if they could be anywhere in the kingdom, you might not have found them within three days. My limit was perhaps a bit unfair."

Magnificent jumps at the king just casually saying his thoughts out loud. "Jesus christ! Can you like- not?? For a second?" He hisses, bristling like a startled cat.

The King looks at him, confused. “Jesus…? Oh, one of your world’s gods, I see.”

"what? oh yeah- uh... right. I suppose he is." Mag makes a face at this.

The King pauses. “I suppose if we are forced to work together for a time I could offer you that trust.” He is clearly reluctant. “I’ll swear on my family line to not hear your thoughts until we find our way out of the wild. Happy?”

Mag studies the king's expression and then sighs and slowly nods. "Alright. And I'll try not to do the same. I have... no idea how to navigate this so... I guess a truce is in order."

The King nods slowly. "A truce." He looks around and starts carefully walking deeper into the trees, away from the fields. "It's been a while since I walked in the wilds. Especially so unprepared. We'll have to use our magics to their fullest. The first order of business is food and water. I see no water, and only small animals will run across the fields. We must look elsewhere."

Magnificent makes a face, "Fuck... i haven't gone camping in the woods since I was a boy..." He mutters. "Jackie always loved this shit- fucking- god." He nods to the king and realizes his appearance will probably scare off anything coming towards them. He grunts and then changes his appearance to fit in. Getting rid of his mask and letting his hair get long and brown and curled up in a bun. His shirt changes to a billowy sleeved tunic with dark green patches and a small capelet over his shoulder. His classy dress shoes turn to hunting boots. It feels... strange. But at least they can keep a lower profile now. After much thought he puts back on his mask though. He needs to be able to... somewhat see. Or see the magic around them. Maybe he can sense some life around here... ugh. Hunting. All this is leaving a bad taste in his mouth, reminding him of days he long since wanted to forget.

The King watches as Magnificent uses magic to change his appearance. He raises an eyebrow. "Clever," he says quietly. "May I suggest the addition of some piece of jewelry? Wizards here need a focus to channel their magic, and as you are clearly magical, it would look strange to see you without one."

"Ah would I be considered a wizard here then?" Magnificent mused, "My father always called us sorcerers."

After a moment of thought, the King also reluctantly removes the circlet from his head, stringing it along his belt. "Be discreet about it, though, too much shine will attract magpies."

Mag shrugs and tries to think of an easy focus. He looks around then finds a rock on the ground, perfectly round. He pumps it full of black magic and its shape shifts into one of a simple gold focus with a black opal in the center, though it seems cracked with various colors underneath. He smirks and puts the trinket on, letting it dangle around his neck. "I'm fairly interested in how our magic systems may differ-" He pauses and then briefly glances at the King. "Though... you know my name, but I only know your title. What exactly should I call you? or do you prefer to only be referred to in royal terms."

The King grins, looking almost mischievous. "Aodhan will work, if you must. Though it is not... hmm... common to use a monarch's first name here.”

"Well, where I'm from the monarchy is nothing more than a figure head that distracts the populace with its extravagance." Magnificent replies with clear distain. "So, Aodhan will do fine until we're around others I suppose. I'm not referring to you by title if I can help it. Though... I guess you can refer to me as... that name- if you must... or the simpletons who stalk me call me ‘Mag’. That could work too."

“As for the matter of magic, yes, wizard would be the closest thing you are, though what you just did with that rock would be more akin to sorcery, which is the manipulation of the natural world. Wizardry is other flashy magic, such as summoning things or shapeshifting... but enchantment is the magic of the mind. Out of all the options, wizardy would best explain the variety of power you have." The King continues.

Mag chuckles at the explanation of magic and shakes his head. "So limiting... the divisions here. How quaint."

"Hmm... it is quite frustrating, isn't it?" the King agrees. "I know others who would say the division is the price to pay for the abundance of power in the land. But... well, it's as you said, rather limiting, isn't it? Luckily, we don't have to abide by those limits." He smiles darkly. "We have some walking to do yet. I hope you're prepared."

Magnificent chuckles and shares that dark smile with the King. "As I'll ever be."

[katyspersonal]

Ludwig x Maria always intrigued me. Do you have any ideas on their potential relationship?

Damn... This is a really cute ship ;-; I've been noticing that fandom, likewise, pointed out something fitting about them since the old fandom times xD And it feels so good for me? Whereas Gehrman and Laurence are 'dark' people, leaning on 'ends justify the means' side; Ludwig and Maria, on the contrary, are the knightly, honourable, 'bright' people believing in good and not having the full picture of what they're getting into!

🌙 They would both certainly love horse riding. Even have competition at such! The Cainhurst Knights (especially male ones) seemed to prefer horse-riding, and..... we all know Ludwig was a horse girl xd (source: dude trust me my aunt works at Fromsoft lol)

🌻 Maria would most likely take the lead in relationship. Although Ludwig would be surprised initially, but he would soon become HER horse-girl fdhshfd. Hell, Maria would be the one to plan the dates! AND she would be the one to provide Ludwig some adorable sessions of eating lumenweed/sunflowers past his beasthood xD

🌙 Unlike SOME people, Ludwig would be able to face the struggle Maria had to face upon Adeline giving herself to the research for the Eldrich Truth. More than that; he'd be able to comfort her, having faced the agenda himself. It could have given Maria more of a hope.

🌻 They ABSOLUTELY had friendly sparring sessions. Sorry, not I make the rules xD. Basically, a lot of their meetings feature kicking one another's ass until they can just laugh and forget all of it. They are both very battle-ready types! Training one another to be good at fight was the least they could do for one another!

🌙 They had MANY topics to be salty about; how Healing Church was getting things wrong, how chivalry mattered for the hunt, how Moon was a valid guidance for the hunters, how Laurence was kinda sketchy... You know those friendships when friends have many topics to vent about, but none of them quite drown out the quality of their friendship? That would be Ludwig and Maria!

🌻 Again, Maria would be the one to gift the flower bouquets in relationship. Luwdig would often be surprised by Maria taking up the role of uhhh, provider of romantic gestures in relationship. But he'd accept soon enough, and even think he could never asked for a better partner. Maria LOVES flowers, and Ludwig, with his ass obsessed with simply efficient weapons and nothing more, would learn to love her obsession with gardening!

🌙 They would both take their turns in crying and falling in despair as strong yet very sensitive warriors. They have all the resource to support each other at their hardest, and to encourage one another that the 'Stars and Moon' know the way. They are a weird combination of both having enough of their humanity intact AND enough of devotion to the exterior powers.

🌻 They would often get into the same silly jokes! They just get each other's cringe moments SOOOO much... At times, when they are separated, they think up of the jokes they will tell one another when they meet again!

🌙 Maria is 6'7'' (201 cm) tall, and Ludwig is 7'00 (213 cm) tall!! You could tell the height difference barely has any bearing on their relationship. They are both very tall!

🌻 I believe that Maria, well.... "died" before Laurence unleashed Executioners on Cainhurst. That'd send Ludwig into complete fanaticism over the 'Moon's guidance, believing the very act of following it alone could reunite him with Maria :( Regardless of her relationship status, that was what made him seek his ONLY source of confidenment in "Moon's Presence". Friendship or love, it didn't matter... There was only one power in the whole cosmos left capable of understanding his loss.

[frowningfox]

Farris and Asim:

Stillness, Roots, and Hair!

stillness: How does your OC act while still? Are they fidgety? Do they have any common gestures or tics? Does their clothing affect how they hold themselves while at rest?

Both Sir Ferris Finnigan and Asim are very inventor-y sorts of people and are constantly either jotting down notes or tinkering/fidgeting with something they're making.

Asim has a bit of a chewing-on-things fidget fixation, which he's a bit embarrassed about if he catches himself doing it in front of people because it's considered "childish".

Sir Ferris Finnigan on the otherhand might seem a lot more fidgety than he actually is on the account of Sir Ferris Finnigan's Armor and Sir Ferris Finnigan's Body being at-odds with each other and not exactly having the same goals in life/death. It's fine though. The Sir Ferris Finnigan who is in control of the situation is the Sir Ferris Finnigan you would want in control of the situation.

Asim has several gestures he defaults to a lot, since when he was little, he spoke in a mix of underelven and undersign like many dairau do. It was mostly taught out of him at academy but he's been having more slip ups lately. He commonly uses the tap left pinky finger to lips and then move it outwards gesture, which is sign for "I'm telling the truth"/"you can trust me" and tapping his index finger next to his eye then holding it there as he taps his middle finger and thumb together once. Which is sign for closing one eye. He uses this to indicate he's winking... because uh. It's hard to wink with one eye.

I've not RP-ed it but I imagine he would make a sign of blessing at people too, he's started greeting people with the dairau phrase "Selgam" which is well... a greeting that means "blessings"/'bless you" etc. I think the gesture would be tapping your left pink between your collarbones and then drawing it downwards then outwards to point it at the person you're addressing.

As a treat he can have my tic where I hold down my ring finger with my thumb and then turn my hand twice shortly and quickly. Though he would hold down his pinky instead(elves only have four fingers, their ring finger/pinky finger is the same finger).

Sir Ferris Finnigan and gestures/tics.... if you can imagine a knight being chivalrous or posing for one of those dramatic murals, he does all of that. He is the most flamboyantly knightly guy out there. he does it all.

Clothing does effect both Asim and Sir Ferris Finnigan and how they hold themselves at rest.

Asim has had it drilled into him through religious military academy that he must "look the part" so when in his paladin gear, he is very formal and upright in his posture. He even holds back on emoting with his ears when in Paladin Mode and will hold them at the unnatural neutral "half mast" that elves are taught to hold in mortal led training regiments.

Sir Ferris Finnigan has equal but different struggles with clothing and posture. Sir Ferrris Finnigan's Armor keeps Sir Ferris Finnigan's Body upright and noble looking. Not in the same "yessir, at your service sir" officer type way Asim was trained in, but in a more extravagant NOBLE HERO posture

roots: Is your OC's look inspired by any specific style of clothing or fashion trend? What are the roots and/or inspiration for their look?

Sir Ferris Finnigan:

He is literally heavily almost directly inspired by the Tenniel illustration of the white knight from Through the Looking Glass(and picking and choosing traits from various adaptations)

So heavy on classical Knight In Shining Armor inspiration, but with the design changes required of "since most of these are live action, an actor actually has to be able to function in this".

Asim:

Well, since he mostly wears his Paladinial gear currently, I'll explain that design instead of the more traditional cultural roots I want to bring into his design as he embraces his heritage more.

His vestments and armor are very... what if you took a typical DnD high fantasy paladin and toned it down so it was more grounded in reality, and then merged it with a 1800s pastor's cassock and wide brimmed hat

His helmet is a sallet because I just really like their silhouette but I took inspiration from russian and nordic helmet reconstructions and added a facial ventail/aventail to create a sort of veiled look to it. (also, that way even with the visor lifted, he would have a veil over his eye(s) to protect them from the sun)

hair: How does your OC wear their hair? Does it have some kind of meaning?

Sir Ferris Finnigan: Balding. Big Mustache. It means I like Alice in Wonderland. The white knight is a darling old man and I love him greatly and Sir Ferris Finnigan is an homage to him.

Asim:

His hair is usually a mess. He has trouble brushing his own hair, it frustrates him. If his hair looks neat and tidy, it's because he conned a loved one into brushing it for him. He also wears a Makhiorya, an dairau beaded braid that symbolizes the connections and relationships they've forged through life. In-game, he has just started wearing it and so it only has a few beads on it (you must ask each person for a drop of their blood to use in a ritual, with no further explanation, to add their bead to your braid. it's a symbolic gesture of trust on both parts, though most dairau know why you are asking in the first place, hence it being more symbolic)

IN DEPICTIONS, I draw him with a few specific depictions of Makhiorya, mainly styles worn by or depicted on certain religious/holy figures, specifically deities, martyrs, saints, certain higher priests, and folk heroes.

The braid starts at the temple, and is attached to the back of the ear by a special earring(this is means its beads will jingle as he emotes with his ears!), on the loop from the temple to the ear, there are three copper rings, symbolizing Brother Luck, Miss Fortune, and Mx. Blessings, the Three Twins, a trio of luck deities in the dairau pantheon. And four gold beads, represent the Child Emperor, Father Weaver, Mother Neverwas, and Grandfather Death. Their beads on the makhiorya represent an ascended status of the wearer, meaning that they have been accepted into the inner family of the pantheon.

The red beads on the other two loops of braid(it is a long braid, pinned up) symbolize connections/relationships like they normally do but the beads aren't typically arranged like this. Evenly spaced beads on a loop is shorthand for "idk how many beads this guy actually has, but I bet it fills his entire braid, but he always room for more*". It's a way to consistently depict a religious figure's braid without making a stance on the actual number you think they have.

The at the end of the braid, and therefore at the pinning point of the loops, is his ferryman's fare(for grandfather death to take him home to the feywild), a couple copper coins pinning the end of his braid together. in the hole of the coins is a red bead for himself. This is another "in depiction only" thing for drawing him, he lost his ferryman fare when he got in trouble at the religious military academy and they forcefully buzzcut his hair(very taboo in dairau culture, ESPECIALLY when the makhiorya is cut off as well). Hopefully he can find it again.

*it's customary to start another braid when you've filled one up, but that would be something noteworthy and you wouldn't just depict a religious figure with multiple just because you think he probably had more. It's something you would know for a fact, and if you didn't you'd just... use the "many but room for more' shorthand. Also, to make another, you would dedicate extra ferryman fare to a lost soul, or someone who's lost their fare and wear it at the end of the new braid. It might be interesting going forward to depict Asim with his main braid having no fare, but his other braids(if he ever gets that far) with lost soul fare. It would be very in line with his themes. But I would want him to make it to that point in game before depicting that... though it is tempting if I were to make a heavily dairau religion themed art piece of him.

[fodlaneverafter]

FEA character mini-analyses: blue lions as royals

Here is part 2 of explaining why I cast characters the way I did in FEA (my ongoing 3H/EAH crossover fic)! Part 1, about the Black Eagles, is linked here.

Now without further ado, let us begin!

Dedue as Hunter Huntsman: even though canon Dedue wasn't raised with Dimitri, his loyalty does suit the Huntsman's duty toward Snow White. And that's not even the half of it. Hunter's love of nature, his friendliness with animals? Such a Dedue thing. Plus, they're both axe wielders. That has to count for something.

Felix as the Charmings: I know no one could've seen this coming out of the left field--I certainly didn't. Now, Felix may not have the razzle-dazzle of Daring, or the awkward sweetness of Dexter, or the epic heroism of Darling, or... any sort of charm whatsoever, but hear me out, this is about the call of duty, yeah? It would make sense for Felix to despise the corruption of chivalry if he lost his brother to it. (Oh, and yes, of course, Glenn dies in this AU too!) This puts him in a precarious position as a Royal, since it looks like he could be swayed to the Rebel side, but let's be honest; bro's always been like that anyway.

Sylvain as Hopper Croakington III: he's... *gestures wildly* HE'S A TOAD. Having to be kissed in order to change back into a human is more Sylvain than anything else in the fairytale world. As a human, his personality is very much the opposite of Hopper's though, so in honor of that, and also because I delight in clowning Sylvain, he becomes panicky and clumsy in frog form. Only pain for Sylvain.

Ingrid as the O'Hair twins: Ingrid's dedication to her knightly duties mirrors Holly's dedication to mastering her destiny. I honestly can't say she's anything like Poppy though, other than their down-to-earth vibes. I don't know, I just felt like that long blonde hair worked well as a Rapunzel thing, okay?

Annette as Ashlynn Ella: oh now THIS is where it gets good. As the daughter of Cinderella and a Royal, Annette's every perfectionist, ambitious, overachieving quality can be maximized to their full potential, and I just love that. Not to mention, her absent father being a Cinderella thing? Stepsisters who would make her feel like she always needs to prove herself to be taken seriously? Her weird love of cleaning? Such a Cindy vibe.

Ashe as Blondie Lockes: I struggled with Ashe for a long time, but Blondie's lockpicking talents, earnest ways, and innocent-girl front were what eventually got me. And yes, I am aware. Ashe has no head of gold. But with that heart of gold, isn't anything possible? Huh, maybe I should've made him the son of Robin Hood... *remembers Sparrow* Never mind.

Mercedes as Farrah Goodfairy: the greatest tragedy in casting the FEA characters was that Mercie was too old to fit into a high school setting, no matter how I tried. But literally what would she be if not a fairy godmother! She's very powerful but unable to access most of her abilities, simply because of destiny. As a Royal, she's not bothered by this, which only slightly echoes her passive attitude toward her canon backstory, but we take what we can get. Anyway, it's also a perfect reason for why she's best friends with Annette.

And that, my folksies, is that!

The Blue Lions have such iconic dynamics, and I needed to preserve as much of those as I could through these castings. They've got that Royal story, and they do it so well.

Next up: Golden Deer!