#characterization exercise

[linktoo-doodles]

cquackity getting dressed in the morning

[kingthunder]

Bg3 characters going down on you. Ahem.

Astarion: He'll get you off faster than you've ever gotten off in your life but he's not going to enjoy himself while he's doing it. It's not you it's him. Don't take it personally.

Wyll: He's never done this before but he's just so happy to be here. Aimless as a puppy at first, but takes direction well and gets the hang of it within minutes.

Gale: Look. We all know that Mystra trained his tongue very well. But you can never be sure how much of his enthusiasm is desire for you vs desire to fulfill your expectations, and he might not know either.

Lae'zel: Would much rather you go down on her. If she does decide to use her mouth, she will take you apart with ruthless precision and leave the pieces lying on the ground.

Shadowheart: Queen of edging. Likes to watch you squirm.

Karlach: All sex is fun sex and she will go down on you enthusiastically, but if mouths are involved she'd rather be 69ing so you can both be having a good time at the same time.

Halsin: Eats you out like a starving man at a buffet.

Minthara: Her mouth is a gift that she sees fit to bestow on you. Best not to forget that.

Dame Aylin: Will make you come eight times in a row before taking a quick water break and diving back in. Sorry, I meant Isobel, not you. She'll make Isobel come eight times in a row before taking a quick water break and diving back in. The rest of you are on your own.

[possamble]

farcille postcanon characterization warmup that got way out of hand. beware, here be spoilers, dragoncock, and bottoming as an extreme sport.

~~~

Marcille has always loved Falin’s voice. Soft, high, airy and girlish—it was always as gentle as the rest of her, even in the midst of pitched combat. When things went to hell in a handbasket, it was always Falin’s whispery incantations that kept Marcille grounded as blood and monster guts sailed through the air. 

And that hasn’t changed. No amount of dragon could really change that, Marcille thinks. Yes, she she has moments when her voice becomes rough and ragged and guttural, mostly when she’s swinging her mace or her fists, or gritting her teeth through a monster claw stuck into her side. But maybe that urge to growl was always there, and she’s just finally able to voice it now. Marcille finds that she’s loud at times she would have been silent before—grunting with exertion when she would have grimaced quietly, singing some nonsense melody over a mundane task when she would have hummed it under her breath—and that’s a good thing.

But otherwise, nothing has changed. Falin’s voice is as delicate as ever, chiming in a lilting giggle behind a dainty gesture of her hand. Rustling like pages of well-loved books as she casts her protective wards, or ponders over how to cook a new monster, or murmurs right into Marcille’s ear while she…

Well. While she’s got Marcille bent over her own desk with her nightgown pooled at her ankles. Marcille’s not sure if it’s rude or considerate that she didn’t get a chance to dress herself before she had a girthy cock shoved up her cunt first thing in the morning. 

“Marcille,” Falin whispers, unfairly shaky as if she’s the one getting fucked within an inch of her life. She’s mouthing at Marcille’s neck, draped over her and pressing as close as possible in every way, gripping Marcille’s hands tight and keening like she’s found heaven between her legs. “Marcille, Marcille…” 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that she gets to do that, that she gets to sound like that—with that sweet voice she’s always had, now making obscene little noises that are still whispery fine and almost ethereal coming from her mouth. These quiet, barely voiced sighs that puff against Marcille’s ear, the dulcet moans that thrum against her skin, and that demure little gasp when she thrusts a little harder and somehow finds even more space inside Marcille to bottom out in—

“Marcille…” she whimpers like she’s in pain, on the verge of tears, fingers tight between Marcille’s as they grip the edge of the rattling desk together. “You feel—so good, oh… You’re”—another moan buried just behind her ear—"so wet, so good…” 

It’s not like Marcille got the chance to be anything else right now, did she? Not when Falin fell upon her just as she was sorting through her documents, pressed against her back and already unfastening the clasps of her gown and slipping it off her shoulders. She was fully naked before she even got a playful good morning whispered into her ear—it’s a miracle she had the forethought to push her papers out of the way just before Falin had her wrapped around her finger in the most literal sense. 

Well. Fingers in the plural, really, since she always starts with two. Usually while pawing at Marcille’s tit with her other hand until her stupid knees give out and she ends up buckling over whatever surface is nearby—in this case, her desk, mercifully free of any uncapped inkwells at the moment. Now slathered with sweat that makes her tits slip and slide along the wooden varnish, of course, but otherwise non-disastrous. 

Hopefully her nightgown is catching most of the mess running down her thighs, or she’s going to have to make the most humiliating request to the castle staff about her carpets for the third time this month—

“Yes…!” Falin digs her heels in and fucks her even harder, taken with some kind of mindless momentum all of a sudden. “I love you,” she pants in that stupid—feathery, daisy-light tone that has no business being this sweet while she’s ravaging Marcille like this— “you’re perfect, you’re perfect—” 

Marcille’s going to die like this. This is how she’s going to go: Bleating like an animal with her cheek stuck to her desk with drool, eyes just permanently rolled back in her head, toes barely touching the floor as Falin keeps fucking her further onto the desk. She hasn’t said a single coherent word since her second orgasm however many minutes ago, just broken into an endless stream of guttural noises as her cunt slobbers and squelches around Falin’s cock almost as loudly as she’s wailing. 

“Marcille,” Falin keens, sounding like a bashful princess ravished to breathlessness—just something straight out of a high-minded erotica novel—all while hammering Marcille into the desk at a shallow, breakneck pace. “You feel—feel s–o good, you’re perfect, oh—oh, you’re perfect, you’re beautiful, I love you, I love you—” 

For the love of—fuck. Marcille can distantly hear herself scream, can feel the desk digging into her as she flails, her grasp on sanity getting thinner and thinner with each word that tumbles out of Falin’s mouth and shoots straight through her nerves. She’s—good god, she’s not usually this talkative. It’s almost always Marcille begging and blabbering about how much she wants Falin’s cock, how good it feels, how she wants it harder and faster and more, screaming and crying Falin’s name over and over—

But now, in the absence of Marcille’s pathetic yapping—after she’s already fucked the words out of Marcille so thoroughly—Falin’s taken it upon herself to murmur a stream of honeyed nonsense into her ear, her frail and gentle voice breaking with desperation—and fuck, it’s not fair.

“Yes, yes, oh—” Falin sobs into her neck. “I love it—I love it when you sound like this, I love you—you’re so good, so good for me, my Marcille—” 

No, no, no, she can’t do that, she can’t do that—she can’t say that, in that voice, while her cock is so deep in Marcille there’s hardly room for anything else, battering all her nerve endings and rearranging her so that there’s nothing left but her, Falin, Falin—

“Ah!” Falin cries out, like she’s the one getting reamed against her stupid fucking desk so hard she can barely breathe— “Yes, please, please—please say my name again!” 

Well. She can beg all she fucking wants, but it’s not going to be pretty and she has no one to blame but herself—it’s her fault Marcille can hardly speak, it’s her fault her name is only coming in rough wails with both syllables separated with heaving, crying breaths. Marcille gives it her all, scrapes whatever intelligence she has left to speak, and sounds like a dying animal in a way that can’t possibly be anything but hideous to listen to—

And still, Falin sobs, as if in utter ecstasy as she fucks Marcille so hard the desk starts scraping along the floor in harsh jumps. 

“Yes, yes—ah—” Her voice, not so whispery gentle now but still so melodious and clear, sounding out from deep in her chest— “I—love—you—” she weeps, punctuated by the hard slams of the desk against the floor as she drops the rapid pace in favor of mercilessly hard thrusts— “Beautiful—perfect—mine!” 

Then she finally, finally comes—not that it stops her, not with how she thrusts with every spurt. Like she’s not just satisfied with letting it spill out, like she needs to fuck it into Marcille with all her strength, once, twice, then one last time, stuffing her cunt absolutely full with searing heat—

And Marcille doesn’t even realize she’s coming until she’s unceremoniously ejected out the other side of the high, that telltale swoop of vertigo rushing through her veins. The orgasm doesn't even have the grace to let her go limp with afterglow, of course, and she’s left there convulsing and twitching like a drowning fish. With her jaw pressed to the desk, she can actually hear her teeth chatter from how hard she’s shaking, Falin’s warm weight on her be damned. 

(One day. One day, she’ll stop embarrassing herself like this—one day she’ll finish like a normal person during sex, instead of going off like a cheap firework every half hour and wringing an orgasm out of herself as soon as she feels Falin finish inside her, whether or not she even had one left in her to begin with.) 

“M-Marcille,” Falin stammers, her voice breathless but now shy and girlish again as she slowly untangles their hands. “Are you—are you okay?” 

The gall. To ask her that, when she’s nothing but a sweaty carcass slung over her desk, still twitching erratically. To be so gentle as she straightens up and kisses the back of her neck, tenderly brushing her hair to the side as she pulls out ever so slowly—

And still. Not. Slowly. Enough—apparently! Not with the sparks that explode in Marcille’s eyes again, utterly unclear if this is another orgasm or just a particularly brutal aftershock! She just goes squeaking and shaking and sliding off the desk onto her knees, hands clapped over her cunt like they’re going to protect her from the lightning racing up and down her spine. She doesn’t even know where she landed, really, convulsing and closing her thighs around her hand as cum and slick drools into her palms, falling forward and— and smacking her head against the edge of her desk.

“Oh!” Feathered arms clasp around her before she can slide past the wood with her sweaty forehead and land on her face. “Careful—are you okay?” 

The gall. The audacity. The—something, or whatever, fuck, Marcille doesn’t even care anymore. Her head throbs with an oncoming bruise, she can’t feel her legs, she can feel her pussy way too much, and it’s a wonder she hasn’t fallen apart on the spot—

“Okay… let’s…” There’s some maneuvering going on, but hell if Marcille can actually tell what Falin’s doing. “Here, let’s take a bath—I’ll go draw some water.” 

Marcille whines, because no—she doesn’t know where she is, she just twists until her face finds feathers and buries herself there. She even manages to bring one cum-covered hand to grip at the quils, because this mess is Falin’s fault and if she doesn't like it then she can wash it off herself—but she’s not allowed to leave. 

A little chuckle under her breath—and it’s so fucking cute and girlish like she hasn’t just demolished a full grown woman to the brink of unconsciousness, but Marcille can’t even find it in herself to be mad. Falin can ask her whatever the hell she wants, do whatever the hell she wants, so long as she doesn’t let go. 

“I’m bringing you with me, I promise,” Falin whispers so tenderly, pressing a kiss to Marcille’s head. There’s arms tightening around her back and under her knees, and she feels herself being lifted. “I wouldn’t leave you like that…” 

Better not, Marcille grumbles to herself. Not sure if it made it past her mouth, but it doesn’t matter. Falin’s going to take responsibility for turning her morning into—into this, even if it means having to draw some bathwater with an elf clinging to her the entire time. She’s going to be the one to wash her off, bring her their missed breakfast, and tell everyone why she wasn’t there at the morning meeting—

Maybe not that last part. 

“I’m sorry,” she hears, in that soft and whispery tone she’s loved for so many years. That voice that didn’t change, even with everything that happened—everything that Marcille did to her, and it’s—

It would be so, incredibly stupid if she started crying out of nowhere. 

“Liar,” she whines, digging the indignant annoyance back up to pout like a spoiled brat. “You liked… every second…” 

Another giggle that so infuriatingly lovely. “I did.” The sound of a squeaky valve turning, then rushing water that slaps against stone. “Did you?” 

Marcille just grumbles again and clings even tighter. Falin just laughs a little louder and strokes her hair, too kind to demand an answer in so many words—or, perhaps, impishly content to let Marcille incriminate herself with her silence, as she so often does.

[nilboxes]

How do you think Aventurine would react if Ratio got seriously hurt?

I would make a little caveat that I think my read on Aventurine is a little more niche on the account that I had to characterize Aventurine prior to his release and really do not see him through the lens of his nihilism/trauma in 2.1 as I consider it to be Aventurine at his lowest and not exactly true to his baseline.

The very basis of my Aventurine is greed and control these two concepts I feel is what defines him as a character. A gambler is inherently greedy, always clamoring for more more and more, though there is something about Aventurine that speaks to a great hunger for control. I find him extremely contradictory as a character, but it goes that way, and as someone whose life has been characterized by gambles, games and everything boiling down to luck, all Aventurine has control over ultimately is himself and he has really worked hard to gain control of himself and his emotions.

So let's say Ratio got seriously hurt, assuming through battle or a dangerous situation. Perhaps say even Aventurine was overwhelmed and could not fully protect Ratio, but Ratio falls first, he bleeds, it looks dire. Aventurine would know immediately something's not right when the near-fatal blow hits even without looking and his heart seizes, he stops breathing as he looks and fully registers what just happened.

But he wouldn't cry. He stops himself from crying. He wouldn't even make a sound, but it is suddenly extremely clear to him he had failed in protecting Ratio and there might not be taking it back. So, he digs deep and thinks for a moment.

A lot of what Aventurine does and how he operates is always in dominos, he nudges here and there for results, and he never really gets his hands dirty, but his first instinct here would be to do so, and he would do it with cold silent fury. His eyes are dead blank, nothing really sane is going on behind that, he is intent on the full eradication of whatever or whoever it is that hurt Ratio.

Still he doesn't lose it. He wreaks destruction in a very calculating manner, can imagine him dropping the chips from nowhere or beating someone up with his bare hands and he does it with his eyes going wild, a small smile on his lips like how dare they hurt his precious Ver, and he would make sure nothing is left.

Then he would have to look at what's going on with Ratio and with whatever it was destroyed and maybe they are sort of in the clear now he would lose it, only a little. He would look absolutely devastated in a way that you can tell his entire world is collapsing. Veritas Ratio is Aventurine's world, after all, his inspiration and his meaning. He would gather Veritas into his arms and try to first aid, reach for his healing spray and attempt aid. His hands are still steady but his mind has been doing a whirwind, what if Ver dies and is lost to him forever? The thought makes some tears flood his eyes, but he doesn't wipe at it. When the healing spray could do no more he knows he must carry Veritas to safety and doesn't hesitate. He's only shorter, but he can fireman carry Veritas with ease and makes his way.

He only starts crying, tears running down his eyes uncontrollably with some hiccupping but never outright sobbing and he glares through it, when he realizes Veritas is still bleeding, feeling the wetness seep through his clothes, and through his tears he bids his legs to go faster and allows himself to just very quietly plead "Hold on, Ver, please, don't leave me yet. Don't leave me, don't leave me."

[mangofresca]

luminary

He isn’t sure where it comes from, but it’s an urge that rises suddenly, all-consumingly, with no hunger or warning to prelude it, like a countdown placed upon his life only seen as it hits zero—a flash of red, and suddenly every second ticking by is another second too late, another moment lost.

Lovino is smiling so brightly that the simmering heat of Agrigento’s summer seems more akin to the frigid winds of winter. He’s laughing—not a snort, not the contrite brush aside or sardonic smirk he gets when he thinks he’s being clever—head thrown back and shoulders shaking with mirth.

Alfred forgets how to speak, how to think or move or breathe, forgets everything except how to stare—gawk, his brain helpfully supplies, very obviously—regarding Lovino as if he was the one to paint the stars across the sky, to sprinkle indigo and amethyst across the midnight horizon, to use hardened hands to cradle the sun and bring lighted warmth to the world. As if he was something beautiful, ethereal, untouchable.

Except, he’s not; he’s not untouchable in the way Alfred previously perceived him to be, distanced by water and antiquity and a complex Lovino tends to wear like his own form of bastardized battle armor. He is there, right there, laughing, and Alfred wants to reach out a hand and–

And.

He’s touching Lovino’s face before he’s even thought the action through, before he’s even realized he’s done it, cupping his hand around the swell of a cheek and feeling the heat of it still flushed with laughter and wondrously-worn glee. He feels the expression under his palm calm as that smile fades, replaced instead with slowly-dawning confusion, soft in its perplexity, and he traces his thumb across the dip of Lovino’s under-eye, if only to savor the way those dark eyelashes flutter.

“Alfred?” Lovino asks, painfully sincere, with a tone that melds between a question and vague, befuddled acknowledgement. His eyes are wide. He does not move away.

“Would it be cool if I kissed you right now?” It’s a reply in the technical sense, an answer to a question that had seemingly been hanging in the air for longer than he realized. His own voice is startlingly soft considering the pressing urgency he feels tugging at his gut, his hands, his tongue, like if he can’t have this nownownow he’ll die, starved, stripped of life before he’d even realized he was bleeding.

Lovino gapes at him, blinking slowly. The cheek beneath Alfred’s palm burns warm, and he almost expected Lovino to blush, to feel skin stain itself scarlet beneath the pads of his fingers. He wonders if he should ask why it doesn’t.

There’s a moment where hazel eyes flick from his down to his lips before rising again, and Lovino makes a noise in the back of his throat like a hum, a huh, like he’s realized something about himself and the world and the universe. Like the knowledge of whatever it is has only just settled, and now he must contend with life now that he has it.

He blinks at Alfred again. “Yeah.”

He says it like it’s easy, like it’s always been easy, like permission would have always been granted had Alfred ever had the wherewithal to ask. Alfred files that away for later, wondering, not for the first time, if he missed something in the tones of Lovino’s voice, if something else existed in the recesses of cutting words and huffed musings and trite insults that were never really all that insulting to begin with. But that’s for another time, or maybe never, because Alfred never really cared to indulge in worries and preclusions, and Lovino is too good to be wasted on half-baked ruminations when the now was so much better.

Lovino says it like it’s easy, and when Alfred ducks his head down and leans in, it certainly feels easy, easier than maybe he expected. It feels like old nights spent tucked beneath the dim lights of New York speakeasies, of hushed conversations held in the stacks of his library, like something big and bright and cosmic had settled off somewhere far away, a revelation exploding in the periphery of his universe, vast and grand in its own private corner.

Lovino’s hand settles boldly on his shoulder, fingers brushing the hairline at the back of his neck, and Alfred can feel every inch of it burn through his clothes. Lovino tastes like vintage wine and the cigarette he had been smoking not ten minutes ago, and even though Alfred hates the smell, he thinks he can learn to like the taste if it’s been tempered by sweet reds and the natural soft of Lovino’s tongue brushing past his lips. Alfred feels Lovino’s cheek move beneath his palm, and he doesn’t quite get why until he realizes that Lovino is smiling, pulling away enough that they look like two kids grinning into each other’s mouths, lost and dumb and found.

“Been wanting to do that for a while?” Lovino sounds smug, but his eyes are bright, sparkly, pretty, his hand fisting the back of Alfred’s shirt.

For a moment, Alfred thinks, if you count eighty seconds ago a while, sure, but that doesn’t seem right, isn’t right, and Alfred can feel certain pieces of their histories click into place—not any sort of life-altering change, but instead something soft, the clink of a plate placed in front of him on the nights when he wouldn’t bother with sleep, the fresh scent of pasta and garlic bread the only thing to bring him back into his own body, the reminder that he existed within the scope of four walls, the person as well as the land.

Lovino is so close, close enough for Alfred to feel the tickle of his bangs against his forehead, and suddenly every word and every gaze and every laugh pulled from scowling lips all align and glimmer like radiant galaxies, all with Lovino at the center.

“Nah,” he says, grinning at the eye roll. “Just thought of it now.” But that doesn’t stop him from doing it again.

[tinyetoile]

Yknow I just realized that none of the shapeshifters spawned by Senshi lasted until the final round, which makes sense since he's known the group for the shortest amount of time

[mx-lamour]

Character Descriptions: How Much to Reveal?

My partner comes downstairs to poke me gently on the shoulder, and I catch a glimpse of gray ink on his arm: a row of polyhedral dice. He’s a writer, too. Or, he wants to be—is, in spirit, and I have to keep reminding him (and myself) that’s what matters. That, I suppose, and the actual act of writing. I peel myself away from my own keyboard to look up at him.

Squinting at the speeding train of his own thoughts, he tells me his ideas, so we can collaborate (I’m the one with the college degree in writing, but he’s the plot mastermind), and one uncertainty he brought to me was this:

How much do I need to describe what a character looks like?

This is the first in a series of Creative Writing Advice articles I will be posting exclusively to my ko-fi page. They will be free to read, but I would like to encourage you to leave a tip if you find them useful!

I do have a particular fundraising goal: ADHD meds are still in short supply and only the brand-name manufacturers seem to be able to distribute them. Our insurance only covers the generics. So, if you'd like to support my partner's quality of life and our creative endeavors, we would very much appreciate your support! ♡♡

[theriverbeyond]

Hi! Do you have any tips on how to keep characters in character? I love the characterization in your fic :)

omg!!! im BEYOND honored to have recived this ask!! thank u I'm so happy to hear u like my characterization of them. my only advice is to 1) become deeply obsessed with a character & think about them all the time 2) talk about them with other people who are also obsessed

become obsessed with a character and think about them all the time. i will be in line at the grocery store and be like "what if Gideon and Harrow were in line at a grocery store"

talk about them with other people. i will message a friend being like "what if gideon and harrow were in line at the grocery store" and my friend will reply something like "omg i bet Gideon is buying the protein bars specifically that Harrow also likes and then saying nothing when Harrow "steals" them" and then i will send a fire emoji and maybe something like "griddlehark post grocery store sloppy make out session when" and we will go on from there.

essentially, put that blorbo into situations!!! it's fun and helps construct a sort of 3D characterization model of them in your brain you can then spin around at will

[khaleesiofalicante]

I truly believe that this would be Mavid if David have an interest in making IG videos with Max ❤️

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C7FSVMvOgIG/?igsh=MXB4ZDA3MGlhbmI4eQ==

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C95l7PCBGwt/?igsh=MWtrOGFxNXB2djhvZQ==

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C9dT4IvhUaL/?igsh=MXhicW01ZnVhOGU4dA==

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C8pC-ovuhwP/?igsh=MWV5a2k2bzN2cHRnag==

Ps: would David actually enjoyed to shared this kind of videos? I doubt it because they appreciate their privacy A LOT, but at the same time they are SO obsessed with each other and have this hunger to show everyone how lucky they are to be together, so…I don’t know hahaha

I think it's Max who would do these kinds of challenges (and post them online if David is okay with it)

David would definitely post thirst traps of Max because he wants everyone to know that he bagged the hottest man in the world lmao

[skitskatdacat63]

misc lore drop day 27/?

One of the best irl Vettonso moments by far to me is that press conference where they keep one-upping each other about how long it takes for them to find the limit of a track. “Two”, “I do it in about one and a half” “one!” It's a great example of how they can be lighthearted and silly but still can't resist the perpetual one-upmanship. As I said in yesterday’s post, they’re basically bound to compete against each other, but are forced into a situation where they need to cooaperate more often than not to make life not constantly unbearable for them, and everyone around them. So they need to find little ways where they can get that energy out. Which is. Incredibly annoying to everyone else around them. Imagine you can’t get through literally anything(i.e. Card game, hunting trip, dinner, etc.) without them verbally, and sometimes even physically, sparring. To them, it’s a sport. To most everyone else, it’s insufferable. To those who know them well, it’s a mating ritual. I think those who know them well begin to recognize the increasing fondness and familiarity they have for each other in arguments, and are gushing to each, “oh my god, look how enamored they are with each other!” They would never admit it’s flirting, not one bit. To Seb, it isn’t flirting because he already flirts in way more blatant ways, duh. Fernando is like, “Me!? Flirt with him!? That’s preposterous.” 

Anyways. Cards. I was joking yesterday about how most of my ideas form from little details that I like to expand on. I do think it’s really fun to see how much of a deal and how much significance I can put into something that seems generally meaningless. So: cards. In the olden days(and I think still now actually, but I'm too American for that and it doesn't matter here anyhow), there were actually different suits used in different parts of the world, and even within Europe itself. I like that even though vettonso both exist together in the hyper insulated world of royals, there are still minor differences that keep them apart, and that they can argue over. Everything with them is deceptively complicated and convoluted. Fernando’s not just gonna bend over and let them play a game with Seb’s cards, huh!? That’s practically submission! We will use Spanish cards, and that’s final! It’s hilarious because both of them would actually probably both use French suited cards, but they’re of course going to find any way to protest that they’re actually not similar in any way, and are actually two incredibly different people(lies!!!!) So they spend longer than an actual card game would take debating with each other over what card suit they should use, Spanish or German. It’s more likely that Fernando would already know Spanish cards well and did use them, but Seb? They don’t even probably use German cards in Vienna, but he bought a deck and he’s going to use it no matter what. 

I'm just imagining him playing practice games with Mark in preparation before Fernando comes to Vienna. And Mark’s like “c’mon you both know French cards, why must we do this?” Uh duh, it’s my turf, I’m not gonna play by his rules!” “But aren’t they shared rules?” They eventually end up having to flip a coin to decide what deck to play with, because they always run out of time to actually play games. Though knowing them, they’d probably argue over whether to flip a thaler(HRE) or a real(Spain.) You KNOW Mark’s banging his head against the wall somewhere when they come up with that argument. It’s so funny because it’s a game to them like any other, and whenever someone else tries to cool down the situation, they’re both like “BUTT OUT!!!” It's a genunine sport for them to come up with some kind of new argument, over literally anything. 

[zukkaoru]

heyyy you guys should send me some ficlet prompts (preferably bsd but a really good prompt could persuade me to do another fandom) bc i need to get the words flowing again. you can make up your own prompts or here are links to a couple lists i found in my drafts:

things you said... dialogue prompts (angst) dialogue prompts (fluff, angst, and h/c) dialogue prompts (misc) lyric prompts from laurel hell touch prompts

[kelpie-writes]

Want to get to know your characters better?? Make their instagram pages!

I found it was a really fun exercise to think about each of my characters' online presences, and honestly helped me to get to know their characters better by thinking about it!

I'll link a template here but be aware that you can't download the image without a pro account so I screenshotted them instead (though it wasn't perfect either). If you decide to make this I'd love for you to either tag me or reblog under this just so I can see them!

[nilboxes]

Anon who asked about Ratio getting seriously hurt. Thank you for the very detailed answer! Was very pleasantly surprised by the sweet treat :) If it's okay, can I ask how deep you think Aventurine's greed for Ratio could go?

Fathomless.

Aventurine himself cannot quantify just how deep this greed and desire for Veritas goes. It permeates his very being, so much that it's such a part of him. He knows it's always there like his own bodily organs, the back of his palm, the breath in his lungs, the feeling is very much at home, it's so familiar sometimes he doesn't quite notices it. He can still desire other things, but the hunger he has for Veritas runs far and deep.

A gambler wants a lot of things after all. I wrote in the drabble collection fic Nemo Saltat Sobrius how he found inspiration from the Scholar King. This greed and desire definitely built over time. I imagine in his early days in the IPC, prior to becoming the Stoneheart Aventurine, he finally has enough personal freedom to go try all sorts of things. He eats all kinds of cuisines, shops, goes around Pier Point, does little side trips when his assignments take him off Pier Point, sleeps around with flings. It fast becomes empty, but he finds comfort in the Scholar King lectures he puts on when he feels particularly in need of some company for encouragement.

An image of Dr Veritas Ratio forms in his mind, the Scholar King. He still has goals here at this time, he still thinks he has a chance to make a difference for his people and those who've helped him. He strives, he perseveres, not quite alone because he's got the Scholar King on his side.

He collects images of the Scholar King, at first it is because he believed it brought him luck, but then for lack of friends (his Sigonian eyes and his commodity code spell trouble for a lot of people) he finds some companionship in the little Scholar King figurines he collects. (He buys them online and even then they aren't plenty) He also starts to learn more about the Scholar King, Dr Veritas Ratio, he reads the articles, watches the biographies, the documentaries about him, sees the rare pictures of him without that alabaster head. He thinks, how beautiful.

It is when he becomes Aventurine that things take a downturn. His fondness for the Scholar King becomes obsession. Since learning his people are gone and those who helped him cannot be reached, the deep and sudden meaninglessness must have hit him hard. I imagine he would have held on to his inspiration and found some strength to go on because of the Scholar King's teachings about finding one's own purpose in life.

Still, the reality is crushing. He clings harder, he buys an actual life-sized statue of Dr Veritas Ratio, his Scholar King, it keeps him going. He fantasizes about this beautiful man and starts to imagine all sorts of scenarios with this Scholar King. It's a defense mechanism, to imagine, to be taken away to another reality, to hope. The Scholar King in his head is not enough, he needs the real one, the Dr Veritas Ratio.

So he does what he's good at, he schemes, he makes little nudges in the Technology Department and in extension the Intelligentsia Guild, just introducing them to this very talented person in this corner of the cosmos, it is the tiniest nudges, here and there. He cannot really wait but he doesn't want to nudge too hard, and eventually that invitation letter gets sent, and it's thanks to Aventurine's luck it finds Ratio at the most opportune time.

When he sees Ratio he can't help himself, every sense of propriety is melted away by the yearning, the hunger. Ratio is every bit as beautiful in the candid photos taken without his headgear. The real Scholar King is now accessible to him, the one built in his mind is was just a projection, Aventurine knows this well, and it's easier for him to separate that version with this living breathing one he has a chance to come to know now, and he wants to know everything about Ratio. He does this in the manner only a worldly, materialistic man knows how, to touch, to feel, to consume and consume. He doesn't have to have expectations about what Ratio would be like, the Scholar King was nothing but a construct in his mind, he just wanted the man in his entirety to be in front of him.

Aventurine's greed-filled desire is marked with intense looks, harsh nips of teeth, torrid hands that itches to grasp tight and never let go. He never really thinks too hard about why he's come to harbor these feelings for a man he doesn't really know, he hasn't even truly met, but the greed persists. There's no logic behind simply wanting, one can desire things simply because, and that's true here for him. He rides these feelings, unsure where it will take them, and surprisingly Veritas reciprocates in some manner. The greediness persists, even when it is being fed, he always just wants more and more of Ratio, he cannot get enough, he will never get enough, because he's obsessed.

The entire train of thoughts only appear to be healthy and sane because Aventurine wants so, so many things, most of them contradictory, like wanting Veritas all to himself but also wanting the world to see how brilliant he is, that it cancels back to balance. There is a strong desire to fully possess Veritas but he also doesn't want it, because that would mean taking away what makes Veritas who he is. So Aventurine is at a standstill with his own endless insatiable greed and lets it be, feeds it with what he can get, what is best for the person who matters the most to him, and it's not enough but it needs to be, but it's still never enough. The thoughts could make him dizzy if he traces it too much, so he makes it simple, so long as his darling Veritas is within his reach, it is enough.

[the-desert-beast]

thinkin about writing short convos between my ocs / fav characters in the style of dragon age companion banter

[catsaysmlem]

maverick in the movies: is the best of the best at a job that involves years of rigorous education, retaining massive amounts of information and performing split second calculations and decision making, is consistently seen with technical books whether they be piled up at his bedside table or actually being perused by him over coffee, had the qualifications for Annapolis which means his academic credentials in high school were at minimum above average, highly qualified in general and evidently a functional human being

maverick according to fandom:

[crabappleblossoms]

hmmm to make a trapped inside due to a tornado fic about narumitsu or blackmadhi….. what a lovwly buffet of options