#but they'll figure it out

[respectthepetty]

Why I loved episode six of Dangerous Romance:

Finally, a female Slut for Christ has entered the ring, and she is a worthy opponent! Pimfah looked amazing in her Greek style cross earrings.

While our male Slut for Christ displayed a Latin style cross necklace.

It was the battle over the Roman Empire all over again, but luckily Sailom is GAY (which would be more Greek than Latin since "homo" comes from Greek but . . .)

The wind needs a windmill or whatever the theme is, so Sailom, who likes a challenge, was hellbent on reviving a dead language and picked Latin which even shocked Kanghan!

But Pimfah is about to have a bisexual awakening (and on Bisexual Awareness Week, too - Blessed!), so the queers, regardless of what language they are speaking, were thriving.

Because when push came to shove, even though Latin is a dead language, it got the job done when needed.

And sealed the deal since Latin is the root of all romance languages.

But our male Slut for Christ will have to work on finding the words to tell Sailom how he truly feels since he still views Sailom as an object he can own rather than a love he'll surrender to.

But it's coming, much to the confusion of Sailom's friends.

Very very much to their confusion.

Although, Guy is finding himself on his own adventure through love languages with Nawa.

Sir, it's already written in the stars balls. This is not up for debate.

And there is one particular set of balls heart you need to catch. (the joke made itself)

So next week, when the friend groups try to merge,

after the boys perform the "pinky promise" to be queer

I'll be even more annoying because Sailom is holding on tight

and it'll be time for Kanghan to prove he can be the best Sugar Daddy I know he can be.

It's time to start showering his baby with that Picasso and Rothko money.

Well, at least before Saifah tries to steal it.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 31 - The Bachelorette

Everyone takes a goddamn breather.

On AO3.

Which is when Gale and Shadowheart find y’all.

“What’s all this about a pass?” Shadowheart says, scenting blood in the water.

“That is where we find my people and the cure for these parasites,” Lae’zel says. “We leave immediately.”

To a chorus of negatives.

Astarion groans, because he’s Astarion. Gale questions the wisdom of setting out on a different venture with other priorities already in play. Shadowheart’s lungs have been magic-ed closed again, and while she can stand, walking is pushing it. Wyll just looks troubled (you remember his gut-churning horror over leaving the demon woman and the defenseless who might stumble into her path).

“Why don’t we at least rest here tonight and figure everything out tomorrow morning?” you say.

And then they’re all looking at you, and you wish you’d kept your stupid mouth shut.

“You found a potion?” Gale says. “I couldn’t find you after that mess down there.”

When you ran away. You ditched them. You couldn’t do anything to help, but you should have stayed; they were there on your idea.

“I didn’t want to be in the way,” you say and gesture to Shadowheart. It’s only halfway a lie. “I don’t know about medicine here. I’m sorry. Are you gonna be okay?”

“After some rest and once wiser opinions prevail,” she says and shrugs.

Fuck a duck.

Y’all are starting to draw a crowd, too. Both tieflings and druids. After what just happened, it makes your skin crawl to have so many eyes on you.

“We should probably make camp, then,” you say.

And one by one, the others agree. Now that everything is wearing off, all the adrenaline petering out, the exhaustion comes knocking.

Y’all set up on an outcrop above the druid circle. The chanting stopped. No more green haze swirling in a vortex around, what you can now make out, is an antlered idol. Rath calls a huddle outside the stone door, and he must announce what happened. Some of the druids slump in relief. But others lean in close to whisper. You catch at least two throwing glares at the steps up to the tiefling cave.

You hope they keep themselves armed, tonight.

So that’s one part of this dumpster fire banked. The tieflings can’t stay forever (don’t want to now, for obvious reasons). And as long as they plan to pack up and hit the trail, the goblins need to be dealt with.

But there’s no looming forced march, now. You’ve cut the hair holding the sword of Damocles. If nothing else, you accomplished that.

It’s only late afternoon, but y’all’s group is done. Even Lae’zel, after muttering and (you assume) swearing, takes a moment after she removes her armor to run her clawed fingers through her hair.

Then she busts out her cleaning kit, including that goddamn wheel.

You manage to join Astarion in setting up your tent as far away as possible (which puts you both near the ledge of the little promontory y’all are on). The sun shimmers over deep, blue sea out beyond the drop of the cliffs. The wind carries the scent of salt and water and growing things. It’s nice. You hesitate a moment, and then slip off your repurposed boots and roll up the legs of your trousers to give yourself shorts as best you can.

Then you find the closest tree and flop down.

Soft wind traces through your toes as you wiggle them. You scrunch them into the soft grass and sigh.

“You picked what I think might be the most beautiful spot here.” Wyll, heading up the slope from main camp holding two cups. He hands you one as he comes to a stop beside you. “May I join you?”

You beckon to the open spot of grass. He sinks down. Sighs. Glances at your bare legs and feet and then, with a smile, starts toeing off his own boots.

“Mmm,” he says and takes a sip of what smells like wine. “That’s much better. Good thinking.

You nod. Give him a silent toast and take a sip. Try not to grimace.

Wyll chuckles. “Not to your liking, I presume?”

The wine tastes like all wine does to you: intensely bitter. “Hints of cherries” a label might say. “Subtle smokiness.” It’s all bitter. Rotten, bitter grape juice. A slander to perfectly good juice, even.

“I don’t like alcohol,” you say. Because it doesn’t end at wine.

Beer? Sparkling, bitter wheat juice.

Whiskey? A burning, bitter punch to the back of your throat.

Vodka? Right out; you took a single sip and gagged into the sink.

This, finally out of all things, earns a startled look out of Wyll. “None at all?”

You sniff the wine. Try another sip. Still bad. “Nope. I’ll drink it if it’s mixed with other stuff that covers it. But even then, I can still taste it.”

You can’t tell if his expression is perplexed, pitying, or just amazed. He sets his own cup down right on the grass and leans back on his hands. “So what do you drink, where you come from?”

“Water. Tea.” A thought occurs. You try to keep your voice nice and normal and level. “Do y’all have coffee here?”

“Yes, actually.”

oh my god oh my GOD.

That thought must be showing loud and clear on your face, because he holds up a halting hand. “But it’s rare along the Sword Coast. You mostly only find it in port towns.”

Motherfucker.

You’ve heard the name Baldur’s Gate from some of the others. Astarion is maybe from there? Maybe he knows a place. Maybe you’ll have a reason to go there after all this brainworm bullshit.

“To my recollection, coffee is rather bitter,” Wyll says.

“Not with enough milk and chocolate.”

“Your people drink milk?” he says.

You pause. Right. Because that’s a genetic thing. One that might not be present over in Faerun (but they make cheese?).

“Historically, my mother’s people handle dairy very well,” you say. “My dad’s, not so much, but there’s enough Wh—of my mother’s side over there that my dad never had any issues. None of his side does, far as I know.”

Your fourth cousin might—little five-year-old spitfire. But she’s the only one.

Then you register what he didn’t ask about, and you have to breath calm and move slow so you don’t give your damn self whiplash. “Do you know what chocolate is.”

Please. Please. If there’s one good thing in this whole shitmess, please.

“Oh yes. Again, port cities, but my home town had at least once shop,” Wyll says and you want to kiss him on the mouth. He catches that expression, too. His good eye sparkles. “You’re a connoisseur, I take it?”

You got no idea how the fuck a French word translates, and you don’t care.

“I don’t care who I have to kiss, marry, or kill, if this place has chocolate, I am going to get it.”

His eyebrows lift. He gives a sort of “hmm” lip gesture and nods.

“Noted,” he says.

You both sit in silence for a moment. You’ve probably made this awkward. You get real excited about few things, but when you do, hoo boy.

You take another sip of the wine to try to cover it, and because he was nice enough to bring it and hospitality is written on your bones. He finally takes pity and gestures for the glass. You almost don’t give it back (it’s so rude). But then he gives you a look, and he’s still got that playful glint. He’s not mad. He’s not even annoyed. You hand it over.

“I wanted to tell you,” Wyll says and nonchalantly pours your wine into his. Is that something people do? Wine does seem important to everyone else; probably bad form to let it go to waste like that. “The way you handled that situation back there, with our gith friend. You did well. Not everyone could stand up against her like that. It was brave.”

It really wasn’t. She was attracting attention; would have attracted more, and with what y’all just did, that seemed a bad idea.

You shrug. “Was just trying to keep us all outta trouble.”

Wyll nods. Sips his wine. Stares at the blue sky a moment, where a crow circles far overhead. You wonder if it’s one of Bird Lady’s.

“Well. I’m glad to see the leader of the group I’m joining has a practical head on her shoulders,” he says.

“I’m not…” you start to say. Oh jesus fuck.

He gives you a knowing look. “Especially when that practicality includes protecting people.”

His praise sends a flicker of warmth through you. Quickly doused by cold shame. You’re not a protector. You never saved anybody but yourself. You were good and practical about that, leaving everyone else behind, leaving them to take the blame when you ran off into the night—

You give a tight-lipped nod. Wyll seems like a genuinely good person. There’s no way he’ll understand your bullshit, let alone sympathize with it.

He gives a formal kind of bow, and heads back down the slope towards the campfire, where Gale has two pots sitting over raked-out coals.

The leader. Christ’s sake. The only damn thing you’re fit to lead is a parade of your own mistakes off the edge of a cliff. Why in the fuck these people keep saying that is beyond you.

Though, a little voice whispers. That means you made yourself important, right? Enough to keep around?

Only so long as you keep performing well enough. Only so long as your shitty plans pan out. The second one doesn’t, the second they see how goddamn inadequate you actually are…

Fuck. You should have kept that wine. Slam the rest back just to take the edge off the constant, churning anxiety in your gut. You fiddle with the glowing ring on your pinkie finger.

A scrape as Astarion emerges from his tent with a small stool he one hundred percent did not have before. He sets it down, wiggles a bit to make sure it’s not going to tip over. Glances over to you, and then down to Wyll’s retreating back.

“Making friends, are we?” he says.

You shrug.

“The Blade of Frontiers,” Astarion says. “I might have heard of him once or twice back in Baldur’s Gate. In the lower districts, mind you. The taverns there care more about quantity rather than quality, if you know what I mean. I didn’t think we’d end up inviting obscure monster hunters into camp.”

“Wait, he’s what?” Astarion had been coiled tight when Gandrel identified himself. The look in his eyes as his fingers inched up to the hilt of his knife. “You don’t think he’s here for you, is he?”

“Oh darling, is that concern I hear?” When you only throw some plucked grass at him, he snorts. “No. I expect someone of his caliber wouldn’t be manipulated by the likes of Cazador. Though one can never be too certain, I suppose.”

Wyll, now seated at the campfire, sits enthralled by Gale and a lecture of some kind. He seems affable. Courteous. And very competent.

Unless that’s the point. He saw you as the leader and came to chat. Be friendly. Exactly like someone would do if they were trying to make themself appear non-threatening. He could be playing a long game. Either lull y’all into a false sense of security to grab Astarion in the night, or simply ingratiate himself well enough to try to turn y’all against the vampire spawn.

“Though I suppose having a mindflayer parasite dims the odds of that,” Astarion continues. “Hardly enough time to receive a summons and get himself abducted and brainwormed.”

“Or the shitbag who turned you already knew him, he already got himself abducted, and then that shitbag contacted him. How do y’all communicate over long distances? Is that a vampire thing at all?”

A pause. His whole tone lifts up into a teasing lilt. “You are concerned. Or at least planning something no doubt sinister in that devious little mind of yours.”

You turn and find him a lot closer than we was, looming over you. He’s changed out of his armor and into that silly, frilly shirt. He peers down at you with the sun lighting his hair into a white halo around his face.

“There’s not much we can do right now, I reckon,” you say. “If he’s just some wandering guy hunting this demon woman who got brainwormed like the rest of us, he seems like a good ally. I think we ought to wait and see.”

Astarion taps one long finger against his lips. Watches the camp a moment. And then, all silky, “And if he were a threat?”

You shrug again. “We’d have to deal with it, yeah?”

“Mmm. I have to admit a certain level of curiosity, my dear. Why go through all this plotting and planning to protect a vampire spawn? Even one as beautiful as my good self? We’re monsters, you know—though maybe you don’t.” And if that isn’t a backhanded insult. “Exactly the type of dangerous creature heroes like our good Blade put down. Yet here you are.”

Astarion is a grade-A ass. A for asshole. He left you high and dry after biting you. He tried to bite you in the first place. He’s rude and a thief and very clearly rolls his eyes whenever you do something halfway decent for somebody. You shouldn’t care. Were y’all back on Earth and all of these people normal humans, if you met this man at work or something, you wouldn’t give two shits about him.

Maybe it���s the brainworm connection. Maybe it’s just the first layer of foundation in shared fucking trauma. You’ve only known these people a little over a week, but already, the idea of losing one of them makes you nervous. And not just because you can’t boil a potato over a fucking campfire. It’s because, well…you might like some of them. Sorta. Very tentatively.

Even this pompous jackass.

You ain’t telling him one word of that, though.

“Pretty sure it’d fuck group morale beyond all repair if we go around letting each other get murdered or kidnapped or whatever,” you say. “Sets a bad example.”

That probably sounded really callous, didn’t it? Or maybe Astarion don’t care about stuff like that (he was down for letting Lae’zel go full ax murderer on that idiot man earlier).

The man tilts his head in a sort of nod. Then stands there for a couple of seconds, staring at you. Long enough to become uncomfortable. Long enough you open your mouth to ask if you got a bug in your hair.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” he says.

“Ain’t nobody let Gandrel know who you were. I doubt anybody’ll just stand by if somebody else—Wyll—tries to stab you.”

He actually gives you a fake little pout. “Oh, will you swoop in to defend me, darling? It might be a bit tricky without a chasm to shove him into. Though if you could get him up here, to the edge of the cliff…”

Okay. Wow. Fucking asshole. Maybe Gale had a point kicking him out in the dirt.

Before you can string those words together, he squats down next to you, face level with yours. His eyes are such an interesting shade close enough to see them. Most days, they’re a dull crimson, kind of brown in the right light at the right angle. But all up in his business like this, in full daylight, they’re the color of fresh, arterial blood.

“I do think it’s…sweet,” he says and boy howdy, that last word is doing a lot of heavy lifting there. “Not many would offer to take on a hero for my sake. Even if I’m reasonably certain you’d find a way to kill him without getting your own hands dirty.”

“I ain’t said a single goddamn word about killing—” you start.

And then he reaches towards you. Both brain and body sort of trip over their own feet, and you sit there like a jackass as his fingers brush your hair. Pluck up a blade of grass. Accidentally brush your ear on the way out.

“Sorry,” he says. “It’s been bugging me for several minutes. And it sounds like dinner is nearly ready; I couldn’t on good conscience let our dearest leader show up with foliage in her hair. Even if she was the one who put it there.”

When—oh. Right. Throwing grass just blows it back at you most of the time.

Then Astarion stands, dusts off his hands, even as Gale’s voice rings out that supper is, indeed, ready.

He waits for you to climb back to your feet. You step past him to start downhill, and notice he don’t follow.

“There’s really no point in continuing the ruse anymore,” he says and waves dismissively at the gathering below. “I’ll stay at my tent, I think.”

You get it. If you couldn’t eat food no more (wait, what the fuck happened to all those meals he took back to his tent in the first days?) you probably wouldn’t want to sit around and watch everyone else enjoy it. Still. Isolating himself ain’t gonna help none of y’all.

“You sure?” you say.

“Quite. I have a few things I need to attend to.”

Well, you can’t force him. “Right. I think we’re gonna eat up and then figure out what to do, next. Want me to come get you for that?”

His head tilts again, the barest twitch. He looks…odd. Then he’s all smug and smarm again when he grins. “If you like. However, I’m rather beginning to trust your judgment, darling. Careful you don’t take on too many burdens, though?”

Goddamnit, he’s doing it, too. None of them should be doing that. They don’t know you like you do; they don’t know how much of a fuckup you really are, and you’re in too deep now to admit it.

Astarion glances back at you. His chin lowers a touch; gives his eyes a hooded look. “Do feel free to seek me out should you need someone to help alleviate any of those burdens, hmm?”

What a bizarre way to phrase that. And it’s not like he’s volunteered to help with literally anything else (that wasn’t murder). Still. If he wants in on the planning?

“Yeah,” you say and hope it doesn’t sound as weirded out as you are.

Guy is such a nut.

Notes:

Astarion: *seductively brushing Eleanor’s ear* Do let me know if I can alleviate you. Eleanor: *mii channel music playing* Why does he talk like that? My poor girl has the romantic intelligence of a potato. 😂

Previous - Index - Next Chapter

[cinlat]

Blood in the Breeze: Ch 16 (Into the Void)

Parts one and two of this series linked.

Read every chapter on FFN or Ao3.

Summary: Fynta and Aric still have some things to work through. Verin offers some brotherly advice (and violence). And the council, once again, regrets every decision that led them to where they are.

Chapter Word Count: 3,402 Chapter Rating: T Characters in Chapter: Fynta Wolfe, Aric Jorgan, Theron Shan, Zolah Holran, Lana Beniko, Shillet Jorgan, Verin Ejnar-Wolfe

Author’s Note: Whole chapter under the cut. Better formatting on Ao3.

  The Thunderclap   Leaving Nathema

 Aric glared at the gleaming box on the edge of his desk. Strange that such a menacing device could look so innocuous when Aric picked it up. He didn’t know why he’d pilfered the holocron, or what he planned to do with it, only that it felt important. An idea niggled at the back of Aric’s mind, roosting there until it could reach maturity.

 “Did you hear me?” Aric leaned back in a desk chair that might as well have a permanent impression of his ass. Shillet waited on the other side of his comm, black eyes glaring into the camera. He saw the accusation. Aric had interrupted whatever she’d been working on, but couldn’t be bothered to keep his attention on the conversation he’d started.

 Scooping the datacron into a drawer, Aric gave his daughter an apologetic nod. “Sorry, kiddo, what was that?”

 The teenager in question rolled her eyes, then went back to painting her toenails. Shillet had grown into a woman overnight, filling out in ways that made Aric uncomfortable with so many young men on the base. She’d also taken to wearing makeup and doing things like painting her nails. Not for the first time, Jorgan wondered if there was a boy involved, but he was too much of a coward to ask. Maybe he’d comm Elara to see if she knew anything.

 “I said ‘how did it go?’” Shillet leaned forward to blow on the wet paint. “You weren’t out of contact as long as I expected.”

 Was that disappointment that Aric heard in his daughter’s voice? “Missed the target,” his gaze slid towards the drawer, “made some interesting discoveries, though.”

 “That’s good, then, right?” Shillet screwed the cap on and fanned one hand over her feet. “It’s better than nothing, at least.”

 Aric started to answer that he didn’t know. That he might have found a weapon or a shield, but wasn’t sure which way to wield it or who to tell. Fynta had wanted to blow the thing up, so she probably wouldn’t approve of him removing it from the vault. All Aric knew was that it was important.  

 “And I’ve lost you again.” Shillet sighed.

 “I’m still here,” Aric grumbled, then sat straight when the door to their room opened and Fynta swept in. “So is Fynta.”

The woman waved, then tapped the side of her head to let Aric know that she was on another call. She’d been in near continuous contact with Odessen discussing what had been discovered on Nathema. Everything from Vaylin’s tortured childhood and the strange absence of the Force, to the world shaking dread that came with realizing that Vaylin’s full potential had been unlocked.

 “We need those numbers, Theron.” Fynta ended the call, then learned over with a grin. “You look nice. Any particular reason?”

 Jorgan clenched his jaw to keep from growling and tried to be invisible for fear that Shillet wouldn’t answer if he drew attention to himself. Shillet flushed a deeper shade of green, and Jorgan saw red. He didn’t need this added stress on top of everything else and contemplated finding a reason to ground the girl until he got home. He’d      definitely     need to speak to Elara.

 Fynta slid into Jorgan’s lap, looping one arm around his neck while he sorted through the boys Shillet’s age on base. “How was the movie?”

 “It was fine, stupid actually.” Shillet crossed the room to put her supplies away, calling out to the comm she’d left behind. “I thought I might help unload the ships. A bunch of kids work there on the weekends for school passes.”

     What’s his name,    lingered at the back of Jorgan’s throat, but Fynta answered instead. “Take Tranx and Zula. Those two have been going stir crazy.” Fynta’s smirk turned devious. “I think Torian does some maintenance there too.”

 “Torian,” Jorgan heard himself say before he could stop it. A sense of relief washed over him at the knowledge that Shillet’s crush was on a man who would never take advantage of her. Not to mention, the Mandalorian chief was head over heels for Fynta’s pet Jedi. Once more, Jorgan was struck by the startling realization that he trusted Mandalorians with his most precious people than anyone else.

 Fynta carried on without acknowledging Jorgan, but Shillet dropped her head enough that a couple of tendrils fell across her face. “Listen, if it’s a boy’s attention you’re after, you’ve got to show them that you’re serious.” Fynta nudged Jorgan with a grin. “Blow something up.”

 Jorgan stood, dropping Fynta onto the floor from her perch on his thighs. She laughed, and Shillet did her best to hide a smile. Jorgan ignored them both. “On that note, please don’t take dating advice from Fynta.” He avoided any mention of motherhood. Neither woman took the insinuation well, and he didn’t want to upset the comfortable rhythm that they’d found.

 Fynta cupped her hands to her mouth, amplifying her voice while still sitting on the floor. “It worked on your father.”

 “Okay.” Shillet dragged the word out and leaned forward. “I’m going to go eat dinner. See you when you get home.”

 The call ended, and Fynta met Jorgan’s glare with a bright smile. “What? She knows that I was kidding.”

 “Does she?” Jorgan held out one hand, pulling Fynta upright with a grunt. “What if she believed you?”

 “It was a joke, Riduur.” Fynta patted Jorgan’s cheek and stepped away. “She’s practically an adult,      and    you and Elara raised her well. Give the girl some breathing room.”

 Jorgan clenched his fists and followed, looming so that Fynta knew that he was serious. “She’s thirteen, that’s not an adult.”

 “It is by my standards.” Fynta turned to open one of the drawers and began counting ammo magazines.

 Jorgan hadn’t intended to lash out, but before he understood his own actions, his fingers were wrapped around Fynta’s bicep, and she stared wide-eyed into his face. “Shillet isn’t Mandalorian.”

 Jorgan knew the growled words hurt. He wanted to regret them, but he couldn’t. Still, he should have chosen a better way to say them. “Fynta—”

 “You’re right,” Fynta interrupted, placing her hand over his. Jorgan’s fingers loosened under the unspoken threat. He hadn’t gripped her hard, but Fynta wouldn’t tolerate being handled in such a manner, nor should she.

 Lifting his hands, Jorgan let go of his wife and stepped away. “I’m sorry.”

 “I will never push anything you are uncomfortable with.” Fynta touched Jorgan’s cheek again, but it was fleeting. “She’s      your     daughter.” And like that, the familial moment shattered.

 Fynta put space between them, and Jorgan didn’t feel right about closing it yet. With a sigh, he plopped onto the bed and ran a hand over his head.  “I don’t want to fuck this up anymore than I already have.” He chanced a glance at Fynta, waiting until she met his eyes. “Any of it.”

 Fynta dropped the magazine she’d checked back into the box, then knelt in front of Jorgan. “You and I, we’re always good.” She pressed a quick kiss to Jorgan’s lips. “And, Shillet is a great kid.”

 Again, Fynta pulled away before Jorgan could reply. Her nails scraped over his scalp as she headed for the door, towards her escape. “I’m going to check on Verin, he took a nasty knock to the head. See you in a bit.”

 “I’ll be here,” Jorgan answered, but his wife was already gone. With a snarl, Jorgan flopped onto the bed and glared at the ceiling. With everything he cared for close by, why did Jorgan still feel like his world was falling apart?

The Thunderclap En Route to Odessen Conference Room    “How about a drink, Fyn’ika?” Verin pressed his palms into the table across from where Fynta stared through a holomap. She was parsecs away, lost in a way he’d seen before. She blinked, focusing on him through whatever thoughts occupied her attention. Verin flashed a crooked grin and lifted a couple of dark bottles. “Come on, vod’ika. I smuggled in some netra’gal.”

 “Why didn’t you tell me that on the way      to    fighting the voidspawn?” Fynta leaned across the table to snatch one of the Mandalorian specialties and twisted the top off by brute force. “I could use a decent drink about now.”

 Spinning around one of the deck mounted chairs, Verin straddled the seat and watched his sister. “So, are you going to tell me what’s really going on, or do I have to drag it out of Jorgan?”

 Fynta lowered her drink and rubbed her eyes. “The old bastard is talking again.” She tapped her temple. “He’s scared of Vaylin, and was      not     happy about our trip to Nathema. And, I’ve got this headache from hell thanks to all of the Force suppression stuff. I can only imagine how Lana feels.”

 Verin propped his elbows on the chair back and settled in to let his sister talk herself in circles. Fynta didn’t disappoint. She spun her bottle in a lazy circle on the table. “I’d hoped that Arcann would join us, but he’s not confident in his ability to resist Nathema’s pull. Probably a good thing now that I’ve been there.” Without warning, Fynta thumped her head against the table. “And, Aric’s mad at me again.”

 “Why now?” Verin asked, taking another sip. He let the sweet liquid warm him from the inside, steeling his nerves for the tough conversation to come.

 “Mostly because I’m osik around kids.” Fynta gestured around the room without lifting her face from the table. Her words were muffled against the false wood polish. “It’s one of the rare moments when we can’t see eye to eye on anything.”

 “I’ve been meaning to ask how that was going?” Verin expected some hiccups while Fynta tried to find her place in Shillet’s life, but the pushback from Aric surprised him. Verin supposed some things couldn’t span the gaps between their cultures. That had never been a problem for them because they hadn’t planned on having children. The galaxy had a way of turning people’s plans inside out. Verin knew that better than most.

 When Fynta looked up, it was with a violent shake of her head. “No, we’re not doing that.” She chugged the netra’gal, then smacked her lips. “New topic.”

 “Okay.” Verin took a drink, dragging the silence out to let the annoyance drain from Fynta before continuing. “What’s happened since Darvannis?” She’d had the coveted lust for life then. She fought and loved and laughed. Perhaps she still did, but it sounded hollow.

 Fynta shrank into herself, knees curling against her chest and chin propped on them like when she was just a skinny kid. “You gave me Cinlat’s haalas gaid, armor that she lived and died in. Of everything learned from her time among Mandalorians, that was the only part that she truly loved.” Fynta offered a wry smile and tipped her head in Verin’s direction. “Apart from you.” The old sting of loss surfaced, but time had dulled the effect.

 Verin didn’t interrupt. He could see that Fynta was building to her point, but had taken the long way around. Letting out a breath, Fynta plopped her chin back on her knees and hugged them closer. Once again the little girl from that night so long ago when it became just the two of them against the galaxy.

 “I’m not Mando’ade anymore, Verin.” The words felt like a blow to his stomach. He wanted to argue or snort in disagreement, but made himself stay silent. If he spoke too soon, she’d shut down.

 “I’ve been thinking about it,” Fynta continued. “The Resol’nare is as close to a religion as we have. How many do I follow? Speaking the language, sure. Wearing the armor, I am now thanks to your gift. I’m bred to fight, but I won’t answer the call of the Mand’alor.” Fynta snorted. “Shab, she answers mine. And Shillet...I can’t force that decision on her. Not when her father is Cathar.”

 Verin nodded. “Have you two discussed it? Shillet, I mean.”

 Shaking her head, Fynta seemed to remember the beer in her hands and drained half the bottle in one pull. Sighing, she smacked her lips. “We’ve tiptoed around it, but Aric being her father doesn’t make me the girl’s mother. She’s got Elara for that. The woman raised that child. I’m...a friend. Shillet respects my authority and no longer believes that I’m a danger to Aric’s happiness, but it’s different.”

 Fynta shrugged, then drained the rest of the bottle. “I’m not a Republic soldier, not a Mandalorian, not a mother. What am I?”

 “You’ve forgotten the spirit of mandokarla. Life fluctuates, and we evolve. Are the ones who are forced into the ba'slan shev'la less Mando’ade than the ones who remain in society?”

 “No, but—” Fynta’s eyes narrowed when Verin snapped his fingers.

 Leaning back, Verin laced them behind his head and grinned. “You’re overthinking it. It’s not always all or nothing. We work with what we’re given.”

 Fynta sighed. “Yeah.” Verin leaned forward and smacked her on the back of the head. She snarled a curse while rubbing it. “What the hell?”

 “Enough pity. Time to get back into life, Fyn’ika.” Verin dodged her response with a laugh. “You’ve got a husband and a daughter. Whatever happens with them is up to you, but it won’t turn out well if you don’t get back into it.”

 Fynta snorted and muttered an insult under her breath, but her eyes weren’t dull anymore. She stood and checked her wrist chrono. “Shab, I’ve got another meeting. Thanks for the drink, ori’vod.” Verin nodded, lifting his bottle in salute while she headed towards the door. Fynta stopped, speaking without looking back. “Hang around for a bit, if you can.”

 “I get to sleep through the night here,” Verin chuckled and made a show of settling into the cushions, legs kicked out and feet on the table. “I’m not giving that up without a fight.”

 Odessen        War Room

 Images of broken tanks and derelict walls floated in the center of the table. The conference room was full to bursting, with senior members in the chairs while those who came in later positioned themselves around the walls. Fynta stood towards the back, having seen Nathema in person. Murmurs drifted through the air, but she had heard it all before.

 “The question now is what to do with this information.” Lana waved a hand, pausing the holo on the image of destruction left by Vaylin’s escape.

 “Is it relevant?” Zolah asked. The woman had her menagerie of men surrounding her, each wearing a furrowed brow specific to them. When every eye turned on the Chiss spy, she gestured at the image. “Whatever power that place had over Vaylin is broken. Does this information serve as anything beyond telling us that she is not only psychotic, but no longer leashed?”

 More murmurs. Fynta had theories, but she wasn’t ready to share them. Aric stood stiffly at her side, his fingers flexing around an invisible object. Fynta would need to look into whatever was troubling the Cathar later. For the moment, she counted down the time her presence was required before it would be rude to slip away.

 “You’ve been ignoring me.” Valkorion stood at Fynta’s side, startling a curse from her. The old Sith smiled in his demure way and nodded at the image. “Did you learn anything of…value?”

 For whatever reason, Valkorion had been unable to follow Fynta into the vault that protected her small party from Vaylin’s wrath. It had left her chilled, as if the ghost of Valkorion was a separate heat source instead of cold death. Fynta had learned plenty in those sprawling catacombs, and none of it surprised her.

 “Only that you’re as bad of a father as you are a benevolent ruler.” Fynta folded her arms and refused to look at him.

 Valkorion sighed while the meeting carried on around Fynta. She was surprised that the old bastard hadn’t stopped time again. “Vaylin needed to be controlled.”

 “She was your kid,” Fynta snapped. “As far as childhoods go, that was one of the shittiest I’ve ever seen., and I’ve seen some bad ones”

 “You aren’t considering a charity case, I hope.” It took Fynta a few seconds to realize that Lana’s barb was directed at her. When she glanced to her right, Valkorion was gone.

 Instead of trying to explain that Fynta hadn’t been talking to the collected group, she rolled with it. “Of course not. Mad dogs need to be put down.” Lana gave a quick jerk of her head, but Fynta wasn’t done. “Let’s keep in mind that this is a child who never grew up. Valkorion kept her chained in agony for years. It’s no wonder she went insane. Whatever our course of action, let’s make it quick and as clean as possible.” With that, Fynta pushed away from the wall and walked out. She was done with meetings and talking circles around a problem that none of them knew how to deal with.

 As expected, Aric fell into step at Fynta’s side. “You feeling sorry for her?”

 Fynta lifted a shoulder. “There’s not a lot standing in between Vaylin and any one of us ending up just like her. A push in the right direction, and we all go feral.”

 “Not everyone.” Aric bumped Fynta’s shoulder, and she forced a smile so that he’d know she appreciated his faith in her. Valkorion hummed in the recesses of Fynta’s mind. It felt like a fly buzzing around her head, the melody too quiet to pick out, but she      knew     it was there.

 Shillet waited at the door when Fynta and Aric got home. The smell of food hit Fynta’s stomach like a punch, but it was Aric who voiced their mingled surprise. “What’s all this?”

 “Dinner,” Shillet answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the galaxy. Which, Fynta supposed it was. The Nautolan girl skipped to the table where an assortment of meats and vegetables that didn’t normally go together waited. She offered a wide, sharp grin. “These are the only things that I know how to make.”

 “It looks good,” Aric laughed while ruffling the girl’s head tresses. Fynta made a mental note to teach her a few Mandalorian staples to sneak into her father’s meals.

 The night carried on in companionable conversation. Fynta finally let herself relax long enough to invite Cormac, Tayl, and Elara over for a few drinks. The kids vanished into Shillet’s room, leaving the adults sitting around the table like old times. Fynta heaved a steadying breath and told herself that Vaylin could wait until tomorrow. Tonight was for family.

[captainjonnitkessler]

I truly, TRULY do not know how to say this, because the fact that I have to say it makes me feel like I am losing my grip on reality. But no, in the post-capitalistic anarchist utopia, I will not be relying on “autistic minecraft girlies” to be building inspectors because - and this may shock you - one of those occupations takes years of education in how to read and interpret hundreds of thousands of lines of regulations based on complicated math and physics that were the result of decades of tragedy and death, and the other one involves playing a children’s video game.

[whoism0]

Side Order Typeface: Complete!

HEY. do you remember when Nintendo made a typeface for Splatoon 3's Side Order and never elaborated? It looks a little bit like this:

Well I went over to the lovely @splatoongamefiles and asked for the font file. They gave me the file, all nice and simple, BUT it was completely unfinished... I really liked it, so I finished it myself!!!

This is what it looked like when I started:

and this is what it looks like now!!!!!!!

It took me 6 months because I apparently started working on this in february, but it only took that long because of my laziness! I did, however, know nothing about this kind of thing before except for my vague interest in typography and fonts. I used a free font-making software called FontForge and I had to learn it from scratch and with no help. So I think all in all, it turned out pretty good!!

I also decided to name the typeface since when I downloaded it, it was called something silly and just for the files so I named it Spire after the Spire of Order which I think works very nicely!!

Now I'll talk about what's changed because I did upload beta version 0.2 of this recently!

added uppercases A, D, G, H, I, K, M, V, W, X

added symbols " # $ % & ' ( ) * + - / < = > [ ] ^ _ ` { | } ¡ £ ¿ × ÷

added all the accents you can see above, but not ALL of them because im lazy

fixed lowercase k so now it looks like a normal letter

B - adjusted sizes of the upper and lower sections as well as sharpened corners of the lower section

K - slightly lowered the crossbar

L - curves of the corners are now slightly smoother

z - raised the top right corner by 1 pixel so its no longer 1 pixel wonky...

@ - increased the gap on the left side

deleted all the original file's kerning and did it myself >:)

and lastly! here's the link to download the typeface!!!!!! if you do use it somewhere credit is always appreciated :))))

p.s. if there are any specific characters/glyphs that I haven't added but u really need please dont hesitate to let me know!!!!

[shadandrews]

grips them all in my teeth but gently like a cat scruffing a kitten

[pocketramblr]

Please!

AU where both Izuku and Bakugou are rejected from UA Hero Course.

And to make it juicy. The reason for the rejections is the suicide baiting incident being known by UA. While Bakugou is rejected for obvious reasons. Izuku is rejected for his ‘own safety’ and because they won’t trust his psyche went unscathed.

1- The thing about Bakugou is that he was not particularly well liked by his classmates at Aldera. Oh, he had friends, and no one was willing to stand up to him, but plenty of students had grudges about how he acted. They rolled their eyes when Bakugou went on a rant about being the only one who could make it to UA, or his lackeys hyped him up, but then they'd look away without a word when he caught them and glared. No one was going to say he wasn't powerful and couldn't do it, just like they weren't going to say Deku had any chance. Sometimes, capable people are also very annoying, and you just have to deal with that, so the kids did. And if a few were in a small group chat that would sneak pictures or videos to show the kids not in their class and complain, well, that's what the kids did. And then one day, one filmed the conversation after school, after Bakugou threw out the notebook, and posted it publicly, as well as in the chat.

2- nothing came of this. Izuku had either blocked or been blocked by a lot of his classmates online, and hadn't really bothered to look for most of them anyway, so neither he nor Bakugou are aware of the video. The sludge villain sort of happened an hour later, and that's what got the big media buzz- the news couldn't publish the names of the teens involved if they ever even had them, but locally, people at Aldera knew who the kids on tv were.

3- the next year, UA has its recommendation exams. Every student is meticulously background checked before even being accepted as an potential for the exam and interview. A couple weeks later, they have the standard exam. The background checks will happen after this- UA after all has a very prestigious image. Bakugou wasn't wrong that if he took his lackey's cigarette and UA found out, his chances would be gone. Unfortunately for him, the video was still online. Mostly forgotten about... Until it contained not one but two potential UA students.

4- Nedzu and the six hero course homeroom teachers are on the board of student admissions, but so are two others each from administration, public relations, the school board, and the heroics commission. The top fifty scorers are ruthlessly picked through. The video is watched. Some want to exclude Izuku, some Bakugou, some both. Nedzu would prefer to have them both enrolled in separate classes, but is outvoted. He doesn't warn the board this will mean All Might will not be staying on to teach - he really can't, without telling secrets, but he does warn All Might the next night, and gracefully accepts his resignation.

5- a week after the exams, acceptance and rejection letters are sent. These are simply written on paper. Apparently neither of them are a good fit for the school. No further reason is given. Bakugou spends one day in his room, quieter than ever, then rush applies to other schools. Shiketsu is supposed to be UA's equal. Perhaps their admissions process will be less rigid. Or perhaps his rise to number one is "supposed" to come from humble starts, and Aldera Middle School wasn't that, but some mid rank hero school is. Meanwhile, on the beach, All Might tells Izuku that he actually ended up with the most rescue points in the exam, and his score was high enough to place him in top ten... It was just the screenings afterwards that did it. Perhaps the school was concerned about his health, with him breaking nearly every limb. Or perhaps his incorrect quirk registration was a red flag- either way, it's things All Might blames himself for, Izuku is the one who passed the test, and with only a few hours of having OfA too. So All Might asks Izuku what he wants to do- try for another hero school nearby? Toshinori probably can't get a job there on short notice without being suspicious, but he'll work to train him every day after, and come up with some other excuse for why he's in the field less. Or, should he reach out to I-island? Toshinori's even willing to see about setting up a personal internship with himself or Gran Torino, though he really kinda hopes Izuku doesn't pick that one. Izuku bursts into tears and apologies, having only held them back this long out of shame, they hug, and Toshi tells Izuku to take his time deciding, it'll be all right, because Izuku is here and he has full faith in him, regardless of what UA admissions thinks.

[tangledinink]

woah woah woah don’t tell me Donnie’s still having relapses in his memory again please. that caption is making me fr worried about ‘tello’s brainium cranium

somedays, donnie wakes up and his memory seems fine. other days it... doesn't. they're sure that all the drugs currently in his system and the general state of his physical health are probably part of the problem, and once he recovers a bit, it might get better, but...

everyone had kind of hoped that once they broke the curse and got donnie home, things would just... be fixed. it's hard to accept that it's not. but he's still home. that's most important part. and if it has to be the first step, too, rather than the ending... well, then. so be it.

[ swanatello ] [ prev ] [ next episode ]

[ruporas]

can’t talk about it

[ID: Black and white comic of Vash and Wolfwood from Trigun Maximum. The comic starts with the sounds "thud, thud, click". Vash, mid-action of peeling an apple, turns to the sound, noticing who it was that entered, and says, "Oh, Wolfwood, you're back." He resumes back to his apple in the next panel as he speaks, "Where'd you go? You snuck out of bed quickly this morning..." Wolfwood's hand then enters the panel, hovering over Vash's cheek and Vash looks up as Wolfwood asks, "Can I?" Vash responds, "Not going to talk about it?" while using a hand to gently hold Wolfwood's hovering hand and presses a kiss to his inner palm.

Vash then gets up fully, setting down the knife down on the table and the apple onto a plate, He leans into Wolfwood as Wolfwood explains, "Had to meet someone. Nothing interesting to talk about." Vash kisses Wolfwood's left cheek and a hand moves to cup his other cheek while muttering, "You're being vague." Wolfwood says neutrally, "If yer really that curious, keep askin'. We  can talk about that instead of doing this." Vash leans back and responds, "Let's talk after, since... You look so tired."

The panel pans to a close up of Wolfwood's downcast eyes, bags heavy underneath his eyes. He doesn't allow Vash to sit in that moment for long though, then saying, "Yer not helping, Spikey. Being all slow with it... I could fall asleep right now." He moves his hand to start unclasping Vash's coat, starting from his collar. Vash with red cheeks, responds briskly, "Oh, shut up. I'm worried about you. I can't be worried?"

The final shot shows Wolfwood's back to the viewer while Vash's softened expression can be seen as he holds gently onto the side of Wolfwood's face and a hand firm on his waist. Wolfwood responds, "I'm fine, seriously," pausing for a moment before continuing, "Is it okay to still..?" Vash responds, "Yeah, it's okay."

The next image is a shot from later that night after the previous comic. Vash and Wolfwood are now in bed, half naked. Wolfwood's buries his face into Vash's chest, his arms wrapped around him, while Vash is petting at his hair. Vash reminds him, "Hey. You said we'd talk about it." Wolfwood pauses for a moment before piping up, "In the morning? I'm sleepy." Vash says, "Okay..."

The next two pages start from the morning after. Wolfwood is already fully awake, pulling on his outer jacket as he says to Vash, whos' still bundled in his blankets, "Breakfast is on the table. Make sure to eat it. I'm going to grab some things in town and then we're leavin'. Got it?" Vash says, "Mh." Wolfwood responds, "Good. See ya in a bit." The dialogue starts to shift into Vash's inner thoughts now, as he gets up and eats toast, thinking, "Wait. Weren't we supposed to... talk about it?" The next shot then shows him fully up, meeting Wolfwood in town. He carries a half worried expression with him while Wolfwood slides on his glasses for him. A quick panel shows Wolfwood's tired expression from the night before and quickly juxtaposes with Wolfwood in front of him who's smiling gently, the shades covering his eye bags. Wolfwood asks him, "Still not awake yet?" Vash pauses, his thoughts stirring, thinking, "Oh. I guess I was getting ahead of myself... thinking you owe me that kind of honesty." He smiles at Wolfwood and responds, "I'm awake!" His thoughts continue, "Maybe one day, you'd trust me enough to share your burdens."

The final image shows Wolfwood pulling at Vash's cheek and Vash complains, "Owwwww why..." Wolfwood quickly says, "You were thinking something stupid, right? It's all over yer face." Vash mutters, "Nooo, I wasn't..." END ID]

[extrashortshorts]

So hawks can't kiss and neither can crocodiles. I feel bad for buggypillar.

[ssaanaaloves]

[chiropteracupola]

"Are you finished with my portrait yet? Show me!" "Cipacton, I can't draw you if you keep moving!"

[ofmd-alsaurus]

"awww they have their happy ending as innkeepers!"

no. they have their happy future looking forward together. right now they happen to be trying their hand at fixing up and keeping an inn. but that's not the ending. it's going to be a vehicle for personal growth for both Ed and Stede and they WILL be returning to the sea in some capacity in S3

[coulrology]

FLOATING HEADS RAUUGHHHH 👻👻👻

[zamjd]

yall

I can scan my sketchpad since it fits (need small since I don't want shadows to obscure stuff) anyways I forgot to change the dpi so shit qual but happy that I figured this out 👍

Edited it cause printer desaturated the pic (curse you cymk!!)

anyways here's sol and cricket by yours truly @venomous-qwille

Those 2 recent chapters got me thinking about them more

[tokyo-daaaamn-ji-gang]

Them just walking around while you watch them, at least they were only a little lost.....