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lostinforestbound · 4 months

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It's here after many weeks, the 10k one-shot to celebrate 200 followers, but I suppose it's also to celebrate 300 followers as well! I meant for 300 to be a different celebration but that's okay! I'm sure I'll make something else for the next milestone!

Requested Tags: @dutifullylazybread @heytheresunflower @barbwillbrb

Rolan/GN!Tav

I Shouldn't Love You Like You Are Mine

Rolan has too much to do with so little time. Becoming the new Master of Ramazith's tower is proving more complicated than the wizard have ever thought. On top of it all, he has a deep infatuation with Tav, the hero who saved him and his family many times. He knows he has no chance with them, so he has settled on hopelessly pining and dreaming. One day, Tav rushes into the shop in a panic, and he could have never in his wildest fantasies expect what they request of him.

Word Count: 10k (Don't like Tumblr? Read on AO3 instead!)

Relevant Tags: Rolan's POV, Makeout Diversion, Smut, Lorroakan Bashing

Beta Reader: @el-tur-el (Thank you so much for your help T!!!)

NSFW under cut, Minors DNI

The air is stale, the scent of electricity still strong in the space that surrounds him, the taste of blood on his tongue from when his sharp teeth gashed the inside of his mouth. He's sore, bruised, burned, somewhat electrocuted by the way some of his muscles spasm still, but he's alive. Tav is long gone with their companions, and all that is left is him and a dead man.

When staring down at the body of his spine-broken master, Rolan is not sure of how he's supposed to feel. At first, he felt a genuine joy that he had not felt in many years. The adrenaline was still high at the time, and he proudly remarked that he would turn the tower inside out to find its secrets and share them with the world. He always has been ambitious, that is what got him this far, after all. Tav seems happy for him, and he ignores how it made his heart pound even more.

As he stands alone in the room, he questions whether he's supposed to feel something now that the joy has faded within the span of minutes. Some kind of liberation? Or perhaps his emotions are fighting each other in his psyche, making him feel everything and nothing all at once. The man who tortured him, who beat him like he was a misbehaving dog he didn't even want, who refused to teach him anything about wielding the weave, lays dead by his feet. He can't help but think that he looks pathetic now, face twisted in permanent fear even after death.

He spits on his face as a final 'fuck you'. He hopes he rots in the deepest pits of the hells that he was once dragged to.

Running his stiff hands down his face, he tries to think of what to do first. He has to get rid of this body, it can't stay here lying around. It will decay and stink more than Lorroakan already has. Grabbing a fistful of the dead man's hair, he drags his body towards the balcony. He could throw his body over the railing, it would be insult to injury, but no. He will do something much worse.

He digs into the stray backpack at the edge of the railing and takes out a disintegration scroll, one that he knew Lorroakan hid out here as a backup plan in case a fight doesn't go his way. Without thinking too much on it, he casts the spell on the body, and Lorroakan disappears into ash.

His former teacher was now erased, made into nothing, and no one will remember or miss him. A fate worse than death, in Rolan's opinion.

Almost numbly, he heads back inside the main room and tries to find cleaning supplies. There's so much blood on the floor, and it did not help he made a trail while dragging the body. He wishes Tav was still here so he could demand they clean their mess up, where he wouldn't notice his tail flicking back and forth in irritation. Would they bother listening to him? Maybe not, but at least they would be there, just a little longer. Just enough time for him to pine once more.

Lia is right, he's a very selfish creature.

A couple of mage hands bring a bucket of water and an unused mop over. He is taken aback, as he thought they would have disappeared in Lorroakan's absence. Although, these could have been Ramazith's, wherever that wizard is now. It doesn't matter, either way. They're his now.

He dunks the mop into the water and starts swiping across the floor, noticing how as he cleans, the white cloth of the strands turn red. There's so much godsdamned blood, it will take him forever to clear the mess. There's a lot of blood on him, too. Specks and splatters of blood paint his hands crimson, long dried onto his red skin. His mentor's blood. Lorroakan's blood.

He helped murder a man, today. He killed someone. His blood is on his hands as much as it may be on the Nightsong's. Or Tav's.

An unsuspected shudder runs through his body, and he feels sick. He chalks it up to his adrenaline rush going down too quickly, ignoring the feeling as he swipes the mop across the floor.

The hairs on his neck stand on end as he feels the crackle of the weave, warning him someone is coming through the portal. Part of him hopes it would be Tav; he wants to talk to them again. Maybe they can help him with the cleanup, laughing about how they left him here without realizing it. He would stumble over his words like a fool, trying to be impressive in his pathetic state.

It's not Tav that arrives though, he recognizes Lia's quick footsteps anywhere. She's always been the fastest between him and Cal; they both could never beat her in a race, but he swears he lets her win.

"Rolan!" She shouts, quickly coming up to him along with Cal, whose heavier footsteps are right behind hers. "Finally! You kept talking up this tower and now we get to see it-"

"Wait, is that blood?" Cal immediately interrupts, face falling.

He must look horrendous, Rolan realizes. He got so busy cleaning the floor that he didn't even bother washing up first. Based on when he looked at himself that morning, the bruises should still be very prominent. Shit.

Lia bristles when she cups his face, looking at his injuries. "What is this?"

The silence that falls between them is telling. He knows she figured it out a long time ago, but she wants to hear him say it. "I'm fine, Lia. He was a horrible mentor, but it's not my blood on the ground."

"Tav told us they helped you kick his ass." Cal comments, trying to lighten their moods, "Looks like you did just that if this blood isn't yours."

"You should've killed him earlier, idiot!" She spits.

"I know, I know." He mutters, trying to speak even as Lia turns his face around to see the damage. "It's good to see you two."

"We missed you, brother," Cal says, gently moving Lia away and hugging him. "Please don't do that again. It was hard, without you."

Rolan lets out a sigh he didn't know he was holding, hugging Cal tightly. Lia joins in quickly after. When was the last time they held each other like this? He doesn't remember.

It feels nice.

While it doesn't last long, it is more than satisfactory for him. They help him with the clean up, Lia helping with the blood while Cal sweeps the floor with a broom. They take on more workload than Rolan wants, but he can't argue with them when they practically plead for him to rest. To be honest, he's unbelievably sore, and maybe sitting down for a bit wouldn't hurt.

It only takes his body a few minutes until it's antsy again, so he joins them quickly after.

And then he never stops moving.

He cleans, reorganizes, and keeps walking despite his beaten body screaming at him to stop. He can't stop, because if he does, he knows he will not want to get back up. He'll crash, and he can't afford that.

At the end of it all, he enters Lorroakan's room without thinking and is frozen in place. He's been in here before, but never for good reasons, only beatings. Is this not his room now that the original master is gone? But it reeks of his old mentors stench. He scrunches his nose as he looks at all the personalized decorations. They're hideous, all of the colors too bright to stare at, and most not matching with each other in terms of palette. There's not even a real theme and it makes him irate.

He remembers being beaten on this very floor for messing up a verbal component.

Enraged, he marches up to the bed and tears off the sheets, making a point to dig his claws into them so they would rip. The pillows are next, tossing them across the room and onto the floor. He'll need to replace every damn thing if he wants to use this bed. To use this room.

Unwanted memories start to flood into his mind as he tears the place apart, most of them being on the ground, where Lorroakan said he belonged. Beaten, burned, electrocuted, sometimes poisoned. A place where he was at his most pathetic. He often has nightmares about those late nights, but some of the worst ones were Tav walking in and seeing him like that, utterly broken on floor. They would never see him the same, and he doesn't know whether he prefers them to be disgusted by him or to feel pity.

He's close to a breakdown, having trouble getting air into his lungs before Cal and Lia comes in. "Rolan?"

With a slow sigh, he turns to look at them. "Why are you two up?"

Lia's eyes trail around the destroyed room, seeming to note the claw marks on the bed sheets discarded on the carpet. "Couldn't sleep." She says simply, giving a knowing look.

"Can we sleep with you?" Cal asks, rubbing the back of his neck, "Like when we were kids? Just for one night."

His jaw moves to start a pointless argument, but then snaps shut. They're both not children anymore, they can sleep by themselves. He can sleep by himself. However, he cannot deny that he craves the affection it would bring. He hasn't been this long without them, no matter how much he complained about them being clingy before.

"All right." He says quietly after taking a deep breath, "Not in here, though. Come."

He quietly leads them to the comparatively bland room Lorroakan gave him in Sorcerous Sundries. It isn't terrible, but he realizes that the bed is way too small for the three of them. Thankfully, he had a remedy. He adjusts an enlarge spell and makes the bed wider, and they all settle down on top of it easily.

Lia makes him stay in the middle while she settles on his right side, Cal climbing over carefully to lay on his left. Honestly, he misses having them so close.

"Rolan?" Cal speaks up as Lia pulls up the blanket.

"Hm?"

"Can you make a light show for a little bit?"

Rolan can't help but smile, slowly closing his eyes before opening them up again and raising his hands. "Any requests?"

"Make it look like flowers blooming." Lia says instantly, draping an arm around his middle.

He huffs before murmuring a few words, a burst of colors appearing in the air. Like asked, they take form of flowers blooming, petals falling near them gently. It's gorgeous.

It fades after a minute though, the exhaustion finally catching up to him as he falls asleep. If Cal and Lia were bothered by it not lasting, they don’t say a word.

For the first time in years, his night is not plagued by nightmares.

---

As soon as he wakes, Rolan does not stop moving.

He's the new master of Ramazith's tower, there is so much to do with so little time. The Absolute's army is on its way and he needs to gather everything he can to protect his siblings, and to protect Tav.

Tav doesn't need protecting, he knows that all too well, but he needs to do something. Anything at all. He needs to prepare the arcane cannon, but there is so much research to be done. On top of it all, he wants to be able to focus on his studies, but then run a shop at the same time.

He barely eats the toasted bread he haphazardly made for himself, too distracted by the logs Lorroakan left behind. There's so many customers he needs to take care of, including deliveries. Maybe he could repurpose the animated armor to make the deliveries, but that could be shaky as they're unstable. Well, Lorroakan's magic was always weakly done...he could rework the sigils. He'll have to rework everything in this place, actually.

Gods, everything is such a fucking mess. He knows he needs help, but respectfully, he wants everything a certain way and his siblings won't be able to give him what he wants. Tav would be able to understand-

He stops reading, surprising himself with his thought. Tav? Why would he think Tav would know how he likes things? It's ridiculous. But he can imagine it, them carrying books around with whatever means and placing them in alphabetical order, then by subject. They would tease him about being so stingy with what books go where on the bookshelf.

And they would laugh. Not quite at him, but laugh nonetheless. It's such a perfect sound in his ears, and the thought of it makes the tip of his tail flick about. Damn it all!

He's been thinking about them a lot, unfortunately. Ever since the Shadow Cursed Lands, where they succeeded in saving his siblings where he could not, an infatuation began to settle in his heart. He had half the mind to possibly confess, but immediately pushed it out of his mind. There was no possible way they would feel the same. He's too bitter, too arrogant, and he saw the way they looked at Gale, someone who is much more accomplished than he is. It is a fondness that he never received once in his life, and certainly not by them. He was jealous of it, but jealousy is an ugly little trait to have, so he gave up on dwelling.

The feelings never went away, no matter how much he wants them too.

He wants to say more to them, especially after they saved his sorry tail again during the fight up in the tower. They left before he could, he was too dazed staring at the mess the Nightsong made of his former master. He regrets being too out of it to say anything proper.

What would he have told them anyways? He doubts anything worthwhile. Probably a weak apology and an even weaker attempt to express his feelings. In the end, they would reject him, no doubt. He messed up too many times, back in the Shadow Cursed Lands, even if they accepted his apology for lashing out.

So he continues on and tries to forget, organizing the scrolls at the front counter of Sorcerous Sundries. His nose scrunches in irritation at the disorganization of it all. Was Lorroakan always like this? They aren't even categorized in the right sections, its horrendous. Diabolical. A sin on this shop.

Frustration straining his brow, he lays them flat on the counter to decipher where they should go, ignoring the ache that sits subtly in his bones. He hasn't had the chance to heal himself, so the bruises are still very prominent. It doesn't matter, he can take care of it later.

He knows deep in his heart that later will never come.

In the middle of his thought, one of the front doors burst open. Someone runs in and...well, he doesn't recognize them, but he does see the illusion aura that surrounds their figure. He's about to yell at them about their audacity, but their disguise instantly fades when they close.

It's Tav, in all of their wonderful glory.

"Tav?" He asks dumbly as they rush the to the counter.

They urgently hop over the counter and grab his wrist, and he actively has to suppress a wince by the force. "I need help. Hurry!"

Without a chance of responding, they drag him along towards one of the rooms along the side of the shop. They practically throw him in there.

The door slam briefly echoes in the room, and he barely has time to react before the back of his thighs meet the desk inside. He hisses, the bruises still fresh, “What in the hells are you doing?”

“I need a diversion. I was disguised but the Flaming Fist followed me.” They state, starting to open up the front of their tunic to make a mess. “Let me kiss you.”

He hates how the tip of his tail stands at attention, and thank the gods they don’t notice it. “What.”

“We’re kissing. Now. Just-“ They groan, loosening their shirt more to make themselves look like a mess. “-I need to make it look like I was busy. Rolan, please?”

He should say no. Everything is screaming at him to say no. But he is a weak man, and he’s dreamed that he could have them in his arms. Or be in their arms, it didn’t matter to him.

As soon as he gives a nod, they grab the front of his collar and pull him in, kiss searing. It takes everything in his being not to moan at the contact, especially when they loosen his hair properly to make it fall past his ears. They don’t touch them, much to his relief.

Pretending to put on the same act as them, he presses into them enthusiastically, letting their tongue in when it pries at his teeth. He fell out of control so quickly that he doesn’t know how to pick himself back up. He had half the mind to let them have their way with him. Blood rushes down south when their hand slides up his clothed stomach, sweat beading on the back of his neck as the muscles tense and quiver. Their touch was firm, demanding, and the voice in his head screams at him to not deny them for a moment. How long has he been waiting for something like this to happen?

Before he could panic about his dick twitching in interest at their ministrations, the door flies open. It startles Tav enough to where they bite his lip on accident, making him jolt.

A group of Flaming Fist freeze at the door, taking in the scene before them.

Rolan reacts quickly with his typical sneer, sitting up straighter and trying to ignore Tav being between his legs. “Do you mind?”

“Well, sir-“ One starts but the other, a commander most likely, cuts them off.

“There’s a suspected thief that we believe ran into here.”

“So you decided to almost break down one of my doors?” He questions, making a show of magic to fix his hair up. Tav moves away with their arms crossed in front of their chest, looking annoyed.

“We apologize, sir, but this thief is-“

"Excuse me?" Tav states, putting on an offended face. "How dare you! I am not a thief! I've been in this shop for a while now, unless you are accusing me of stealing from here?"

Rolan comes in before the Commander starts to retort. “My partner, no, my associate could not have been a ‘thief’ as they have been here with me for the past fifteen minutes. And this chase happened how long ago now?”

One of the other Flaming Fists glances up at the clock in the room. “…Five minutes.“

The man to their right smacks them upside the head.

“And what did they look like?” Rolan continues.

“A pale half-orc, short hair with a blue blouse, but-“

He raises a hand to silence them, as if they were misbehaving children. “Then I believe we are done here, as my associate is wearing nothing of the sort and does not look like what you described. Now, unless you are here to buy something or set a donation for the rebuilding fund of the shop, you will kindly leave the premises of Sorcerous Sundries this instant. I expect a formal apology by the end of this week.”

In all honesty, it's funny how lost these Flaming Fist look. They seem unsure of what to do. As Tav scoffs and looks away, it seems as though they're trying not to laugh. He has to fight the smile that's teasing the corners of his mouth, staring at all the blustering Fists as they figure out what to do. Reluctantly, frustrated and angry, they exit out of the office and leave the shop with their tail in between their legs.

He brushes himself off when the heat dies down, finally able to compose himself. “What the hells were you doing? Are you mad?!”

They finally let out the laugh they were holding, straightening themselves out. “I blew up a Fireworks shop. An Absolute Cultist was running it! Who knew? To answer your second question, maybe a little bit. It's been a tough day.”

"And you thought you could just run in here while I was working? Making the Flaming Fist dirty my floors after I just had Cal clean it?!"

"I'm sorry Rolan, I panicked. I wasn't thinking." They say, seeming genuinely apologetic.

He could barely focus, mind still catching up with the events. Is he truly this easy? All they had to do was demand a kiss and he would follow them, like a lovesick puppy? He's ashamed of himself, and he didn't even notice them speaking again.

"Rolan?"

"What?"

"How are you?" They ask sincerely.

He straightens himself up and gets back into his usual facade. "I am well enough. This shop and the tower is a horrid mess, so I've already been spending time reorganizing the texts. Lorroakan barely knew his alphabet. They were not even organized by subject!"

They laugh at that, and gods, the sound makes his heart pound, but afterwards they frown at him, eyes scanning to his face. "You're still bruised."

"I haven't had the time to take care of them. There is too much to do."

They dig into their pack and hold out what he recognizes as a superior healing potion. "Here. If you're going to work, at least heal up. Did I hurt you earlier?"

He slowly takes it, perplexed, "It is nothing I can't handle."

"I'm sorry." They murmur.

"I appreciate your apology, and I forgive you." He states, uncorking the bottle and drinking down the potion.

Instantly, the deep set ache and soreness of his form fades to something less painful. Its like a warm hug, and he feels energized.

They give him a soft set smile as he places the bottle down on the desk. "You look a lot better."

Gods, if he could, he would crush the fluttering feeling the compliment gave him. "Excuse you, I always look better. Now, besides that whole mess that you created, was there anything else you needed from me?”

"I want to make purchases...and barter?" They squeak out.

He sighs heavily, opening the door back up for them, "Of course you do. All right, what do you have for trade then?"

They head out to the counter with a skip to their step. "I promise it's worth it!"

---

Tav ended up having plenty of things to trade, including heavy set armor, rings, and magic items they don't need anymore. Thankfully not all fortune is lost, as they give some coin for high level spell scrolls. A Globe of Invulnerability...how interesting. He knows they are out and about adventuring, but what would they need that kind of spell for? How do they even have the gold to afford it??

They were out the door before he can ask them, clearly in a hurry to get somewhere. "Thank you Rolan!"

A little defeated, he continues on with the rest of his day. Organizing, organizing, and even more organizing. This place is such a shit show, it will take him ages before everything is how he wants it to be. Cal always teased him about having his socks color coded in his drawers.

He plops onto a fresh bed at the end of the day. This was Lorroakan's bed, but Cal and Lia helped him out with cleaning the room. New mattress, new sheets, new blankets, and even new pillows. They tore down the hideous tapestries and paintings he had, and he plans to change the wall into a new color. He still needs to personalize the room to how he likes, but now it was his. No trace of Lorroakan is found here. He idly wonders how Tav decorated their room, or if they have a home to go back to. They're still a mystery to him.

As he lays there, staring at the patterned ceiling, he finds it strange he has a room to himself. It's nice, and he's never had more privacy than now. Sometimes Lorroakan entered in his room at odd hours to start a lesson at his leisure. If he wasn't a light sleeper before, he is now due to the man's random visits. Now here he is, laying his bed, with his nights uninterrupted for the most part.

He has privacy.

...He’s pent up, isn’t he?

Through all the beatings and stress, he never took time to himself and get off. He was worried about getting caught by his mentor. On top of it all, he was too exhausted and hurt to even do much for himself, some nights barely having energy to bathe. But now…

With a sigh, he summons a mage hand to grab a book for him. When was the last time he read a smut book? Half a year, maybe more? Even then, he wouldn’t indulge too much as he never had a lot of privacy. With this large bedroom, the walls being silenced, and the time he now has, he will indulge for a little bit. For one night.

As he reads, there’s not much to go off. This one is poorly written, but he can at least give himself an idea. His mind sketches out a neutral form, no identifying…parts, yet. He’s indecisive, but he’s sure he’ll come up with someone satisfactory for the night.

Usually, his fantasies contain anonymous people with no face, or they wear a mask. It’s less embarrassing than thinking of someone directly. Sometimes they take him from behind, pinning the back of his neck to a table while they rail into him. Others he has someone under him, thrusting into them and littering bites on their neck.

For now, he imagines a person of no specific gender yet, holding him close in a crushing grip and devouring his mouth. It leaves him no room to breathe as he’s pinned to the wall, their thigh between his legs pressing up against his growing erection. Heat gathers south embarrassingly quickly, the tent of his pants tightening. What is Tav like in bed?

As soon as that question pops into his head, the blank person he tried to fantasize about turns into Tav. It shocks him how vivid it is, and he immediately sits up, book falling flat on the mattress as he drops it. No no no, absolutely not. They’re a friend.

A friend who pulled him in by the collar to kissed him with reckless abandon. A friend that was ready to pin him down on his desk. A friend who stroked a finger along his jaw to help him relax into their mouth.

Hells.

His fingers trail down his stomach and into his trousers, taking himself in hand. What’s the harm of indulging in this? They kissed, after all. All of their wonderful features are fresh in his mind. As he teases the underside of his shaft, he imagined it was their hand instead of his own. Precum was already beading at the tip, and he uses it to slick up his cock. He still feels their hands on him, pressing and demanding. He wonders what they would’ve done if they had more time. Are they gentle or rough when they stroke? He’s not sure whether he prefers one or the other yet.

None of this would happen, they have many suitors at their disposal. But damn it all, he could dream that they chose him, in the end.

Gods.

He covers his mouth tightly with his free hand, almost painfully as he thrusts up into his other one. This room is covered in silencing sigils, it’s not like anyone would hear him from the outside, but even he doesn’t want to hear his shameful sounds.

He feverishly switches to a different fantasy, this one containing Tav once more, though this time he isn’t complaining.

They’re both deep in the woods, away from the Tiefling party. They saved them all from the goblins, they deserved some compensation, did they not? Tav is pressed against his back, one hand putting two fingers in his mouth, rolling the muscle of his tongue between them while the other jacks him off. He’s utterly helpless, Tav taking control of his pleasure for him in the best ways as he helplessly grips the bark of a tree. They would tell him how good he was, how much they wanted him, how lovely his moans were. That he was handsome, strong, and worthy.

That they loved him-

Strings of white decorate his stomach, his climax coming with a stuttered gasp. It came more quickly than he thought it would, and his body spasms with how intense it is. The cry that climbs up his throat stops short by his hand.

He massages himself through it, feeling dazed and utterly pathetic. How dare he think about Tav in this way, as if they were an object for his pleasure? They’re not his, and he’s not theirs, no matter how much he wants to be. What would they say if they saw him like this, desperate and lustful even after his orgasm?

Gods, he wants them so badly, and he knows he can never have them.

Catching his breath, he feels disgusting. Filthy. He shouldn't think of them at all, he hasn't earned that right to them. It's pitiful.

To remedy his sin, he gets out of his bed and heads to the washroom. It's grand in comparison to his lowly basin in the shop, and he's unsure where to start now that he has access to it. Firstly, he takes out a Create Water spell scroll and casts it, filling the entire tub with water. He then modifies the Produce Flame spell to heat up the water. That will do for now, he'll figure out how to make the process a lot quicker later.

He takes off his soiled nightwear, stepping into the water with a slight hiss. All right, maybe he made it a little too hot, but it's nothing he can't handle. Lorroakan has burned him worse. As soon as he gets to the hip line, he pours lavender oil into the steaming water and sinks in completely. He's heard of the scent being beneficial for sleep, mostly from Tav. He wonders if they are an herbalist- no, no, he isn't supposed to be thinking about them.

Emptying his mind is proving harder than he thought. No thanks to his previous transgression, Tav's face plagued him. Questions pop up without him wanting them to: how does Tav look when flustered? Are they experienced with intimacy? Do they like pain? Are they sweet? What is their perfect date? How do they show their love-

He dunks himself fully into the water before the thought could finish, and he feels the sting of the hot water against his face as he sits under the surface. Finally, his mind is silent, so he holds his breath as long as he could. It's oddly soothing, just being alone under the water. A perfect escape to everything around him. He may just have to do this more often.

Unfortunately, he has not done any training to hold his breath, so he has to come up for air within thirty seconds. Perhaps he should practice, but that's for another time.

Now that his hair was thoroughly wet, he begins washing and conditioning his hair, giving himself a scalp massage while he was at it. He didn't trust the mage hands to do it for him. They were floating in the corner, waiting for a command. Can mage hands pout? It feels as though that's exactly what they're doing. Why are they so eager to help anyways? He should dismiss them when he has the time.

After dunking under the water again to wash out all the products, he exits the bath carefully, using Prestidigitation to instantly dry himself. Ah, what would he do if he didn't have that spell on hand? It is incredibly convenient. Can Tav use magic for mundane tasks?

He pauses as he slides on a robe. Gods damn it, it's happening again! That didn't last too fucking long, now did it?

With a groan, he marches back into the bedroom and towards the balcony, pushing the doors open. The night hair hits him immediately, sending a brief chill through him before calming. With a heavy sigh, he goes to the railing and leans against it, watching the silent city of Baldur's Gate. The lanterns have long burned out, and the stars are blooming above him, but he can't relax. He's desperate for Tav, and it's pitiful.

Pressing his forehead on the cold stone, he realizes what a miserable, selfish, wretched creature he is. After all of those things, he's somehow still hopeful. Why else would they kiss him like that? Is he reading too much into this?

Though, perhaps, instead of dwelling on unwanted thoughts, he should just let them go. Lia always did say he thinks too much. Cal mentioned it could be quite damaging on one's psyche.

So he lets the thoughts flow. All of the domestic ones and all of the lustful ones, too. He flickers through memories of he and Tav's interactions, thinking of what could have been and where he went wrong. The shouting, the aggression, the drinking. Gods, the drinking. He hasn't touched wine in a while because of it.

Then he lets it all go.

He raises his head, taking a deep, long breath of the fresh night air. He's in Baldur's Gate. They all made it. The Absolute's army is about to knock on their door, but just for tonight, at least in this moment, he's calm. He's okay.

Maybe he'll be okay later, too.

After an hour, he makes it to his bed and lulls himself to sleep, pulling up the thickest parts of the blanket to hold. It manages to lull him to sleep. A success, in Rolan's tired mind.

There's so much to do with so little time.

---

A tenday has passed and Tav has not returned.

It's for the best that they don't come, as they continuously plague Rolan's mind. He can't stop thinking about them, no matter how much he distracts himself. Most of them are lustful and depraved, some of which make him feel utterly ashamed. He has no right to think of them in this way.

Though, it's the other thoughts that confuse him the most.

They're domestically blissful. He imagines waking up in bed with them, nuzzling into their hair as they convince him to stay a few more moments. He imagines dates, lacing his fingers through theirs while telling them how stunning they are. He imagines it's their body that he pulls close late at night, and not a spare pillow he squeezes to his chest.

He hates these thoughts more than most, as it makes him silently grieve what could've been if he weren't such an arrogant prick. What if he was nicer to them when they first met? Would they have approached him a third time at the party and invite him to their tent? Embarrassingly, he's been losing more sleep than usual over the what if's, and it's making him sloppy with his work. Papers were scattered, he keeps losing his books, and ink stains have been appearing on his robes more and more lately. Unacceptable.

Is he truly this pathetic, losing sleep over domestic thoughts with someone unreachable? Is he that lonely? Does he crave company that badly? It is a wizard's curse, surely.

He thought he got over this, but it seems he needs more than one night to 'let go' of them. Damn it all, why can't this be easier?

He shakes his head, regaining his focus of the task at hand. Rearranging the scrolls once more, he stands onto his feet again and brushes the dust off of his robe. He proudly places his hands on his hips. Finally, after so many days, he has the counter exactly how he wants it. Everything is organized, not a speck of dust in sight, all of it is beautifully-

One of the doors slam open again by a gust of wind, and rage fills him to the core. Why, oh why are the gods so against him? Now there's dirt of the floor, he just made Krank sweep it all out!

The anger disappears instantaneously when he sees Tav rush through the door, sweat beading on their brow and their face flushes from exertion. Extremely similar to how they appeared last time-

Oh no.

As they rush past the counter to the same room they both in before, he starts following them without thinking. What in the hells was he doing?! This can only lead to something terrible for him, even if Tav would be none the wiser. Why does he torture himself like this? He finally has everything he could ever want, yet he greedy for more. For the one thing he can never hope to have.

But they need him, and he could never deny them.

He quickly enters the room after them, shutting the door on his way in. Thankfully this room is more presentable this time around, but he doubts Tav will notice it. They have never been one to look at the finer details. At least from what he has seen, it's not as if he spent much time around them. That thought makes jealousy swell in his chest.

"I need help again." Tav states, rustling up their clothes.

"I can see that," He sasses, but Tav is already pushing off the mantle that sits on his shoulders before pulling him into a kiss, hand fisting the front of his robes.

What has he done to deserve this punishment? Are the Gods testing him by dangling his one desire in front of him? They should know he's too weak to resist their touch.

He gasps into their mouth when they pin him to the wall, free hand grasping the back of his thigh. They easily put their leg in between his, which puts him in a daze. Is this truly an act if they would go this far, or are they testing his boundaries? The worst part about this is he never wants them to stop. He wants them to keep going and reduce him to a pitiful, breathless mess.

They're already succeeding in that, it seems.

When he feels them try to pry his teeth open, he lets them, tangling his tongue with theirs. The noise is so lewd in his ear, a blush immediately rising to his face at the intimacy of it all. He thought about this situation constantly, both through the actual memory and then to his fantasies. Though, fantasy is nothing compared to their real hand tracing the skin of his exposed neck, mapping out the dips and curves of his adam's apple. Images flash through his mind of them choking him, not to hurt, but to claim. He honesty hopes they would do so, but alas, their hand trails up to cup his jaw instead.

This action only made him more flustered, and while he doesn't understand why, he accepts it all the same and leans into their hand. No one has ever touched his face like this in many, many years. Usually it was hit or slapped, no thanks to his teacher. Even when their touch is as gentle as a dove, he can't help but flinch when their thumb strokes along his cheekbone. They pull away from the kiss, catching their breath with a question on the tip of their tongue.

As if the world is playing a joke, those same Flaming Fists burst the door open. They look surprised once again.

"Again?!" He shouts at them, bristling and baring his teeth.

"Do you fucking mind?" Tav yells after, giving them a hard-earned glare.

The Flaming Fists do not bother arguing again, turning heel and leaving the shop without another word. They look foolish, doing their walk of shame. At least they were quick about it, Rolan did not feel like giving them another lecture.

"How do you do, Rolan?" They tease, a hand still fisting his sleeve.

It is a miracle how he keeps his composure. "Well enough, I suppose. Now, as I said earlier, again?"

"There's a perfectly good explanation."

"Then?"

"They were assholes so I stole their money."

"I'm inclined to agree. They are quite intrusive in their searches. Though, must have you lead them here again? I just had Krank clean the floors of the shop from bottom to top!" He complains, running a hand down his face as he stabilizes his footing, "Now I'll have to command him to do it all over again. At least the bottom part."

"I know, I'm sorry to do this to you again. I can make it up to you!" The say quickly before taking a pause. "Wait, you reanimated Krank?"

"Despite being Lorroakan's, he still had his uses." He drawls, suddenly feeling trapped in their space. "Clearly weaponry is not the armors calling, so I have him clean the floors in the morning and at night. There hasn't been any complaints."

"It's animated armor, Rolan. It can't complain."

"I meant complaints from the customers, you absolute dunce!" He snaps and immediately regrets it, but Tav bursts out in a fit of laughter at his insult.

Never has he understood what was so funny about them being insulted. Does he look like a fool doing so? Are they laughing at him? He should be angry over it but he most likely deserves it.

"Well, I feel terrible for dragging you in here twice," They giggle, wiping a stray tear from their eye. "So I want to make it up to you."

"And how do you suppose you'll do that?" He challenges.

"Well, we already got the first part of it started, if you're interested." They tease, voice low.

Oh gods.

"We could take it further. I can feel your little friend down there, and I'm more than happy to help." They murmur in his ear.

A cold sweat hits him in that instant. This is his worst nightmare. He wants it, gods does he want it so badly, but if he accepts it there will be no turning back for him.

They attempt to cup his cheek but he turns his face away, gently pushing them.

“Rolan?”

“I can’t do this.” He says, unable to look them in the eye, but he feels the way they tense.

Before they can start apologizing, he continues, “I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since the Shadow-Cursed Lands, I think. I adore many things about you. But you keep holding me like this, kissing me, and it's starting to make me believe that there will be more than this, one day. When The Absolute is gone, and Baldur's Gate is safe, you would do me the honor of considering me as a...companion."

"Oh, Rolan..."

"I refuse to be a side piece, someone who will be at your beckon call whenever you're bored. You’re tugging at my heart as if it’s your plaything, and while I know you have not done this on purpose, I can't handle it anymore."

He exhales sharply, tilting his face up when he feels tears sting his eyes. "Please, do not torture me like this and just go. Leave."

When he’s met with silence, he swallows and blinks away the wetness of his eyes. He knew that he never had a chance, and that their affections were never real. How could his savior ever look at him like he looked at them? But that diversion of theirs was so wonderful, and for at least a temporary moment, he felt wanted. Desired.

Loved.

He knew he couldn’t continue. It is selfish of him and he would’ve been setting himself up for heartbreak.

Tav leans in close, eyes tender as they tilt his chin back down. “Rolan…I’ve been a fool. I thought I was being obvious.”

He finally can look at them in the eye. “What?”

They can't help but chuckle, but it is a good natured one, “I’m in love with you too, idiot. Why do you think I would keep seeing you in this way?” They ask, tucking some hair behind his ear. “I'm so sorry, I should have been more forward with you. I never meant to hurt your heart like this, you mean too much to me."

He must be dreaming, he has to be, but he can feel the of their body pressing against him. They want him too, and it makes his heart want to burst out of his ribcage. He isn't aware of the blush that rises in his face at their confession, making his already red skin grow crimson.

They carefully cup his face again, pressing their forehead against his, being mindful of his horns. "I'm sorry Rolan, truly. Could you ever forgive me?"

His adam's apple bobs with his swallow, but his face remains a stern look. "...Your apology seems genuine, and I forgive you."

"Well good, I was worried that I just fucked up my chance." They huff with a smile, gently pinning him against the wall once more. "Now, would you like me to try this again and kiss you?”

“Please.” He whispers instantly, tail coiling around their leg.

It was unclear who pulled in first, but what mattered is their hands were all over each other as they kiss fiercely. He felt one of their hands move back and grip the base of his tail. A pathetic whimper escapes his mouth, pleasure shooting up his spine. Tav happily nips his bottom lip in response before pulling away. “I want to see your bedroom, Rolan. Now.”

"As you wish." He responds breathlessly.

Using Dimension Door, he teleports the both of them to the top of the stairs of Sorcerous Sundries, pulling them through the portal and into the tower. This is a totally inappropriate use of one of his higher level spells, but his mind is in a sexually charged place. He'll chastise himself for it later.

His grip on their hand is tight, sweat gathering there as he teleports them again to the bedroom. It isn't customized to his liking quite yet, but it at least has the colors he wants. Deeper blues mixed with other calming colors to help him sleep. He doubts Tav is admiring the features with the way they pull him onto the mattress.

When they both settle in the bed, Tav quickly gets undressed, unclipping the armor and ripping off their under clothes in one fell swoop. Whatever he though their body looked like in his dreams, the real thing is so much better. Any little scar or texture change, he either wants to trace with his fingers or with his tongue. As they lay back and spread their legs, he reaches for them.

They gently smack his hand away when he tries to touch their chest, smirking. “No. You will sit back all pretty and watch.”

His mouth goes dry, surprised at the sudden command, but would he truly be a student of the Weave if he did not know how to listen to directions? He does as told, sitting back on his feet.

"Do you have oil in here?" They question.

"Right side, top drawer."

They crawl over and grab it, settling back into position as they drizzle the product onto their fingers. They make a show of it, too, playing with the substance between their fingers before their hand trails down in between their legs, locking eyes with Rolan.

He swallows as he watches them open themselves up, all for him. It sends his mind reeling with lust, and he’s still not allowed to touch. Torture, is what it is. They have him exactly where they want him, and he is not complaining one bit. Not in his wildest imagination could he have though of this scenario. It's incredible. They're incredible.

As they go on languidly slow, he starts feeling hot all over. His clothes feel too suffocating around his body, his trousers unbelievably tight. It takes everything in him not to palm his growing erection, biting a lip to stifle a small moan that threatens to escape his throat.

“I want to watch you take all those layers off, Rolan. It’s not fair if I’m the only one naked.” They demand, hooking their fingers inside of themselves and groaning.

He responds by finally taking off that mantle that sets heavy on his shoulders. They watch him unblinking as he instantly gets his robes off, seeing the tent in his smalls that expresses his want. It looks painful. He throws the robes, shoes, and smalls off somewhere in the room, his cock now in the cold air, leaking.

They smirk at the sight, now curling three fingers in with a long winded moan. “Gods, I can’t wait to have you in me. I bet you feel so good, look at that…”

Have they always been this good with their words? They always have in his pathetic fantasies, but the real thing makes him twitch in need. He wants to touch them, feel their skin against his in a blaze of pleasure.

Alas, he has to wait.

Finally, they take their fingers out of themselves and sit back up. “I’m ready for you.”

“I want to touch you, Tav.” He admits, fingers twitching on the top of his thighs.

They crawl over to him and sit in his lap, breathing hard as they wrap their arms around his shoulders. “You may.”

He takes some small amount of comfort in that they’re as hot and bothered as he is, watching their flushed face before they crash their lips into his own.

He whines into their mouth, his cock trapped in between their stomachs. The friction is positively divine and he already thinks he may be close with the way their fingers trace the ridges on his back. They're mapping them out, pressing against the wing impressions on his shoulder blades and then trailing them down his spine. As soon as they reach the base of his tail, they tug on it once more.

A gasp shudders out of him when they grind against him. “Tav, if you keep doing that, I won’t last much longer.”

They hum in approval, sucking a hickey into the base of his throat. “What if I promise to make you come again?”

“Tav, please—”

“Okay okay.” They relent, moving back a little to give him some breathing room.

They stay in his lap as they pull him in for another kiss, and he joyfully obliges. Their tongues dance as he gropes their chest, mostly wanting to feel the unique textures of their skin. They’re perfect, to him. He wishes they were some sort of god, because at least then he would have an explanation for his need towards them. This unrelenting desire that he has pleaded for every night when he dreamt of them.

He has so many dreams, one that wake him in a sweat and painfully hard in his trousers. He made a theory that indulging would help the process of forgetting his desires, but it seems as though his hypothesis was wrong. Dead wrong. His dreams of them only became more vivid, some tricking him into thinking it was real. He mourned when he woke up those mornings, wondering why the Gods were torturing him with their image, their body, their face, their laugh.

Hells, he hopes he's not dreaming right now, they feel too real. He can feel them biting and tugging his lower lip, so he concludes that they were, in fact, here with him. Making him feel so much better than his wildest fantasies. Their nails bite into the back of his neck as they briefly deepen the kiss, before pulling themselves away, a string of saliva connecting them. For at least a moment, he catches his breath.

With a solid push to his chest, he falls back onto the bed with a soft thump. He pushes himself back up onto his elbows quickly, breathing harsh. At first, he’s worried he screwed something up. Did his nails hurt their skin? He should have blunt them this morning. But then they straddle his waist and take hold of his drooling hard-on, ready to sink onto him. “Hold still.”

As they lower themselves, stars burst behind his eyes as he takes them fully, their walls squeezing around him so deliciously. He bites back a moan that tries to work its way up his throat. Squeezing his eyes shut, he manages to hold himself together when they seat themselves onto him.

“Gods, you feel so fucking good Rolan.” They moan, clenching briefly around him until they finally relax. They do a test grind, and he knows he's hitting all the right places within them with the way their eyes flutter.

“So do you.” He says breathlessly, a light sheen of sweat already decorating his skin, pupils blown wide as his tail flicks about. The appendage instinctively reaches for something to hold onto. Anything at all. In the end, he settles with wrapping his tail around their waist, keeping himself grounded. They smile down at him when they feel it squeeze them.

He tries to reach for for their sides shakily, but they are more put together in this moment, and much faster. They take his hands, lacing their fingers through his, and pin them each besides his head. He’s only met with a grin before they start riding him with reckless abandon, gripping his hands unbelievably tight.

A groan that trails off into a whimper escapes his throat, hips subconsciously thrusting up into their tight heat. It felt positively divine feeling their walls clench around him, purposely teasing. They’re grinning, even when they toss their head back and moan. He squeezes their hands for dear life, already losing himself as their skin meets his. “Ah— Tav—“

“That’s it baby, I want to hear you.” They pant, leaning down and kissing him soundly. He lets their tongue pry his lips with ease, begging for a taste.

“I won’t last if— gods—“ he cries against their mouth, toes curling in the sheets.

“I don’t care, let me feel you. I want it.”

He curses when they clench around him again, clearly wanting to milk him dry, but he manages to stave his orgasm off. At least for a little bit. This felt so fucking good, he never wants it to end. But with the way they roll their hips, he’s not going to last. He wishes he could have last longer, giving them their pleasure the way they deserve after all of their hardship. They saved him, saved his siblings, saved the tieflings. Twice. Then they saved him for a third time. They did not have to, they could've walked away and let him lay with his poor choices. They didn't, and he's never seen them more angry than when they saw his bruised face.

His stomach suddenly tightens, giving him that impending warning he knows all too well in recent days. “C—Close, I’m close—“ he rasps.

“Me too. Fuck, you feel so good love.” They murmur thoughtlessly.

That nickname teeters him over the edge, and Rolan came with a cry in his throat. Tav was not far behind, fluttering around him as they came as well.

They breathe hard, resting on top of him and letting go of his hands. They instead use them to hold his heated face and kiss him gently. With his hands free, he wraps his arms around their back to pull them closer. He’s spent, exhausted, but he’s never felt more content as he kisses them.

Before they both could feel uncomfortable, he murmurs the words of prestidigitation and cleans them up as they rise off of his softening cock. They plop next to him on the bed, smiling tiredly.

“You were amazing.”

He laughs at that, wiping sweat off of his face. “I should be saying that to you.”

“Then we’re both amazing, hm?” They tease, scooting closer to his side. "Where did you learn how to fuck like that?"

"Must you be so vulgar?" He exasperates with a groan, making them laugh, "But if you must know, I have done extensive research on the subject."

"Ooooh research! What, did you study anatomy books?"

He groans, covering his face with his hands.

"Wait a minute, you have a smut collection?! This I have to see."

"Absolutely not!" He shouts, his face, neck, and ears now a deep crimson.

They burst out laughing, and as much as he wants to chastise them for it, he ends up laughing with them. He's never felt so light before now, as if he's finally feeling relief for all the trouble he's been through.

Gods, he's truly in love with them, isn't he?

"I can go for a round two, if you're up for it." They say after calming down their laughter.

He snickers at that, pecking heir forehead. "As much as that sounds wonderful, you've exhausted me for the day."

"Then how about some cuddling? Karlach always said I give great hugs."

He hums, pecking their cheek next as they wrap their arms around him. "I think I would like that, very much."

Letting out a deep rooted sigh, he feel all the tension in his body finally leave him. He should be disgusted by all the sweat gathered around them in the aftermath of their activities, but in this moment, he wouldn't have it any other way. There's time to complain about it later. Perhaps he can show them the bath he now uses. Would they be impressed by it? It certainly is better than whatever they have going on in the Elfsong Tavern. He wants to do everything to impress them, make himself worth their while even with the chaos that is their lives. But for now, he's calm.

For the first time, Rolan felt truly free.

"Does Krank know how to clean bed sheets?"

Snorting, he looks at them again. "I haven't made him try. He's decent at mopping and sweeping...somewhat. Why?"

"Just curious. It's cute how you just have a little servant now, cleaning the place."

"Krank is not a servant, he is an employee of my establishment."

"You don't pay him!"

"That is not the point! He works, does he not?"

They laugh, pressing their forehead against his. "Fine, fine, but why not make him clean your room, including the sheets?"

"He will mess them up! I know how to properly smooth it out and make this room look highly presentable."

"Oh, I'm sure you do...anyways, do you have a bath in here? I stink and feel sweaty." He barks out a laugh, reluctantly getting out of their arms and shuffling off the bed. "I do, it's in the next room over."

When he offers his hand to them, they happily take it as he leads them to the side room. The large bath presents itself, though it is empty right now. He should figure out a way for it to be ready automatically in any time of the day, but he'll work out the kinks later. He wants to show them that his fingers have talent in ways they wouldn't comprehend. All of it in the form of a heavenly scalp massage.

#forest-writes #rolan x tav #rolan #bg3 rolan #holy rolan empire #rolan bg3 #rolanites #rolan brainrot

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fuckyeahmhawkefenris · 4 months

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MAJOR update

So I don't know if anyone else even cares about this stuff, but I made some huge progress with tagging/retagging things here. For some time I haven't been tagging any posts at all lacking motivation because, seriously, does anyone even look at tags these days?

Still, my love for this ship keeps me going. Maker, I'd forgotten how therapeutic the process is. For a few days I almost stopped dwelling on my own personal issues.

Anyway

Allow me to remind y'all that this blog has a list of TAGS, a rather extensive one. I shudder to think how much time I spent compiling it all, but it does make me happier somehow

We have an impressive collection of fanart, so many comic bits they had to be separated into their own category to make it possible to navigate through all the artwork, writings that I don't think can be found anywhere else. In the beginning this fandom also used to produce a lot of memes and jokes, not so much of it now, but we don't forget our history! There is so much to uncover and rediscover.

I guess that canoodling/hugging/cuddling/snuggling tags are still a mess (always have been) despite my best efforts, but I genuinely tried to make it make sense somewhat. Having 8000+ pieces of art for your ship gets you there. Hard to believe it used to be almost nonexisistent in the beginning. It was so easy to navigate in 2012...

I didn't even try to sort out the comics, and fiction is not tagged either, except for the most basic basics.

Well, if anyone has any better ideas/suggestions don't be shy about @ ing me. Hell, if you can think of any new tags worth adding, let me know. And if you could reply to the relevant posts with it, it'd be fantastic.

If you're bored and don't mind spending some time with Fenris and Hawke, observing them love each other, please take a look at the list. There are also separate pages for the people who make fanart and write stuff for us, so you can always find more of their works by looking up the artists name in the tags. Though this page is forever in progress.

There's always room for improvement, so if you have anything to say, PLEASE SAY IT.

Also, the pornstash is up again, and now there is some semblance of a system.

It is a members-only blog, since almost all of its content is flagged and can only be viewed by members. So you need to become one. Everyone is welcome to join, but please don't follow it. All you need to do is like this post. I'll see your username and send you an invite. After that you'll need to check your e-mail (NOT tumblr inbox!) and follow the link you'll find there. And please read the post i linked carefully, there's vital information in it.

I'm just really tired

I'd really like to sort this place out completely so that when I retire, and someone is willing to take it off my hands, I could be at peace.

#fenhawke #hawris #male hawke x fenris #male hawke #garrett hawke #custom hawke #dragon age 2 #announcements #theBlog

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confessionsofa-roleplayer · 27 days

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I miss the good old days when writing on tumblr was less of a hassle. You didn't need to follow the icon trends to be relevant and you could use gifs of any size on your posts and no one cared. Everything was just about writing and your editing skills didn't matter. And be ready to be accused of being racist, if you're writing a PoC, if you accidentally make a mistake while trying to brighten a picture that was in a dark room setting for an icon. The correct response to this would be to reach out to this person and try to give them some tips! Not to yell at them as a first response. I miss when the "trigger warnings" actually meant something and weren't used so lightly. Despite what you think kids may think, tw do not mean "this thing is something that I don't like", or "it makes me uncomfortable", or anything like that. It actually means something that can trigger you into having a panic or anxiety attack. I miss when anyone could write villains and no one batted an eye and no one attacked you for doing so. They seemed like any other character being written. But now fiction equals reality and if you don't put disclaimers all over your blog, you could get callouts and hate mail for writing them. And even when you do put disclaimers on your blog, you could still get the callouts and hatemail. I miss the days before pro-ship and anti-ship existed, especially since no one on this hellsite can tell you the actual definition of what those words even means. Because it seems most people use those words wrongly. I miss not having reblog karma, and before folks gets the pitchforks over this one. I understand why people feel the need for it, but I feel like some people have taken it too far. It went from "reblog from the source so it doesn't mess with my notes! I'm not a meme blog!" to "I know you're just reblogging it from the source so you don't have to send me anything!" Meaning you can't even reblog it from the source now, too. because apparently it's not really about, "messing up my notes!" I miss not having to fill out interest trackers. We used to just be able to talk and communicate with each other over what we want to write, and now it's like we have to fill out an application before we can write with each other, like it's some kind of job interview. I'd prefer just talking with my writing partners personally. I miss when people didn't complain about not getting memes, while also simultaneously complaining that people take on more than they can write. Which is it guys? Do you want us to send you memes or not? Will you complain, too, when I don't get your response out quickly enough because I took on another meme? I miss not constantly needing to worry about everyone's opinion on how we can all run our blogs. Everyone says, have fun, it's your blog! But is it really? You almost have to worry about it, at least to an extent, because you get unfollowed and blocked in the blink of an eye anymore. No communication. Just blocked. Leaving you with no clue as to what you did wrong or how you could fix it. The point? Tumblr has become a place where you have to jump through hoops just to write with each other these days. It's just a big hassle. Between all of the spoken and unspoken rules, the trends, and the people who are all addicted to outrage, ready to get a mob together for even the tiniest of offenses. It's no wonder people don't want to write on tumblr anymore. Everything we do seems to make people angry. It's like walking on broken glass. If y'all ever wonder why people are disappearing out of the rpc, this is probably a lot of the reasons why. Some of you guys really take this RP thing way too seriously. It's not real life. Just relax okay? We all need to relax…

#general #confessions

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flowers-of-io · 1 month

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TFS should've been titled The First Knife. And hear me out here.

The dispute over Whether The Hive Got It Right has been going on since, what, the Collective Obligation loretab? I think that was the first moment where someone (Rhulk in this case) called the Hive out on believing in a foolish and simplified logic, whereas the "true" finality was supposed to be something else. Then in Deep the final shape gets namedropped as the thing the Witness wants to achieve: perfect stillness, rather than whittling the universe down to the last perfect being that remains standing. Oh and also Unveiling gets disproven as a literal historical truth and everyone is wondering if the Winnower is even a thing in this case. In Witch we've got Immaru raging that this version of the final shape is boring and stupid, and the Hive's is much more interesting. (And all Hive fans nodded sagely at this.) Savathûn isn't a fan of either, because she loves life; Tumblr keeps eating my links, so for direct quotes see the Altar of Reflection dialogue starting with "I didn't want to die, you know..." and the Rites of Passage chapter "A Deal's a Deal".

So pre-TFS the Hive fans crowd is all crowing about how the Hive's idea of the final shape is much cooler and ✨️novel✨️, how it sucks that Oryx's genius has been retconned, how boring the Witness is as an antagonist, etc etc. Overall a mourning veil dress code kind of atmosphere. We're awaiting TFS launch day with anxious weariness.

Then ofc TFS turns out to be fucking majestic and We're So Back Chat and [muffled screaming], but this is not a post about that. What this post IS about is a single entry that shipped (heh) with TFS, from the Nacre jumpship loretab.

You exist because you have been more suited to it than all the others. Steal what you require from another rather than spend the hours to build it yourself. Break foolish rules—why would you love regulation? It serves you to cross lines, and if others needed rules to protect them, then they were not after all worthy of that existence. [...]

This great, beloved cosmos. Always decaying, always finding that same old lovely pattern, despite every candle-flame burning amid the flowers. A billion electrons taking the path of least resistance. In Darkness or in Light, someone is always making my choice.

Well, doesn't this sound quite familiar. Maybe our gut feeling has been right after all, that the Winnower from Unveiling and the Deep-who-spoke-to-Oryx were not the Witness.

Of course, we still don't know what the Winnower is, or if they really exist within the universe in a manner other than purely conceptual. Unveiling could've been messages from the Witness emulating the Winnower. The Witness calls itself the first knife, after all, and puts itself as the instrument the Winnower themself attacks the Gardener with. But we know the Winnower *exists*, and that their philosophy also still exists. The Witness' idea of the final shape wasn't the ONLY idea. There is, still, the force--entity--concept--which believes the end result of the universe will be one last, strongest being conquering everything. There is still someone who believes the "old", Hive idea of the final shape.

TFS, then, is not the story of the final shape. It's a story about the Witness, and preventing its idea of the final shape of the universe, but not about the concept of the final shape *itself*. The concept is bigger than that. If the Winnower really is somewhere out there--beyond our reality perhaps, but still out there--they will continue cheering on those who believe the Hive and the Vex's idea of perfection, and this idea will continue to be relevant in some manner. Even if it never actually comes to pass. The great game between the Gardener and Winnower is still, after all, ongoing; we may yet win, and we may yet lose.

#i like my lore with coffee #anime eyes #the darkness #destiny 2 the final shape #destiny 2

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utilitycaster · 5 months

Text

@rowzeoli replied to your post “Do you think part of the D20 journalistic bias...”:

I rarely go on tumblr so sorry if you see me spamming your posts tonight, but I really enjoy your perspective and thoughts! I think I'm the journalist you're referencing in regards to the Fantasy High Junior Year article and unfortunately 1) journalists only get access to interview subjects at very specific junctions (usually press day before the series goes out or halfway through) 2) most publications are honestly Going Through It and cutting freelance rates and just not paying to cover AP

So I'll be totally honest - I post on Tumblr because I assume it is far more unlikely to be seen and so I can vent freely (hence the fairly harsh tone of the criticism in the original post), but I guess this is a chance to clarify. I don't expect anything to change, nor do I expect you to respond; indeed, I wouldn't blame you if you block me after this. But if readership is down (and who knows? maybe it's not and I'm the outlier), this may be illuminating.

The issue with your specific article - which I brought up relatively tangential to the larger point of "at this point I think Polygon's AP/TTRPG coverage is a waste of time to read" isn't really that it's only an early look at the series; and because Fantasy High Junior Year is at this time ongoing, it's honestly entirely valid that there hasn't been a follow-up. It's, well, the "surface-level and factually wrong" issue.

Dimension 20 was by no means the pioneer of remote recording as you claim in your article; that had long been the default of smaller recorded AP shows well before pandemic lockdown for the simple reason that if you're not a media company the overhead is very low - no need to have a dedicated space or even cameras beyond decent laptops. Burrow's End's puppetry? Critical Role's Call of Cthulhu: Shadow of the Crystal Palace did shadow puppets in 2019. They had diagetic audio on the main campaign as early as 2016. I don't even like Kollok, but that's had complex set design since 2019. Meanwhile premise of the article is yet another rehash of Polygon's "Dimension 20 is CHANGING THE GAME" constant drumbeat, while your actual pull quotes from Brennan Lee Mulligan are him musing that this is simply an entry in an ancient tradition of storytelling and isn't, in fact, terribly novel. The interview fails utterly to back up your point and indeed contradicts it; I get that the timeline was probably tight but this is outright incorrect in multiple places and your argument isn't just unsupported; it's outright dismissed by the very person you claim is proving it. If the premise came before the interview, it needed to be reworked afterwards, and if it came after the interview…I'm not sure what to say, really.

This isn't your article, and I'm putting it here to illustrate that this has been a pattern for Polygon's AP coverage specifically. This article about Worlds Beyond Number is perhaps my favorite example of "this is not serious journalism:" Rusty Quill Gaming, The Adventure Zone, Friends at the Table, and NADDPod are all theater of the mind long-running podcasts (RQG's campaign lasted a whopping 7 years of real time) and that's just off the top of my head; the idea of a long-running edited audio podcast being novel is laughable. RQG and TAZ both started at level 1; I'm not personally familiar with Friends at the Table. I don't actually think starting at level 1 vs. 2 is terribly important in storytelling in the first place other than that a few D&D classes pick their subclass at L2 and that choice can be narratively relevant, which it was in TAZ; however, some classes pick a subclass at L3 so you can still achieve this with a level 2 start (as Critical Role's second campaign does). Both Emily Axford of NADDPod and Griffin McElroy of TAZ have long been composing their own music and RQG is heavily sound designed. These are not obscure pulls, either; these are some of the more well-known names in the space.

At this point, Polygon AP/TTRPG articles - by multiple different writers - simply feel like madlibs: "(actual play show) is groundbreaking in its (thing that other shows have been doing for 5+ years); I especially liked (visual effect) and (incorrect understanding of TTRPG mechanics)."

The people I allude to in the post you responded to as having egregiously uncharitable and sanctimonious takes on Daggerheart (within, again, hours of its publication) are a frequent Polygon contributor and a Rascal editor and they further my mistrust of those publications: There is this constant insistence that everything they like be "groundbreaking" and "innovating" and they will claim this even when it's demonstrably not the case, as the above examples note. As Mulligan says in your article "it’s important to keep new artists with new experiences and backgrounds flowing in," and yet by focusing intensely on high production values (difficult for smaller indie upstarts to have) and by incorrectly claiming that a well-established media company within the space like D20 invented a number of things it flat out did not, this journalism is actively, if unintentionally, working against that goal. As I put it elsewhere, Polygon's bizarre pedestaling of Dimension 20 and simultaneous putdowns of Critical Role (which turn into wild contortions when D20 mainstays like Mulligan or Aabria Iyengar collaborate with CR; for that matter others besides me have observed that Polygon acts like Spenser Starke is two different people, the genius who created Alice is Missing and the knuckle-dragging moron who put out Candela Obscura and Daggerheart) coupled with the obsession with production values over story has the whiff of claiming they're the champion of the little guy for sticking it to the 700 lb gorilla in the space and then focusing on 500 lb gorillas while making it impossible for smaller monkeys to compete because most brand new shows without the name recognition of someone like Mulligan involved can't exactly hire Rick Perry to do their models or Taylor Moore to do sound design.

I suppose a good way to put this, since I've run into this in many spaces, not just AP/TTRPG or even journalism, is that bias on its own in a subjective medium isn't inherently bad; but if something is so nakedly biased against something I love, I will, naturally, turn to it with a far more critical eye, and if its arguments are not ironclad I'm going to start noticing every structural issue in every argument and every tiny mistake. Sure, as a fan of Critical Role, and as someone who feels that Kollok was nigh-unwatchable and that Burrow's End was promising in parts but deeply flawed, I disagreed with Polygon's nonstop mud-slinging towards the former and glowing, verging on fawning reviews of the latter two. But that's not entirely damning on its own; I do get that not everyone will like Critical Role and that some people will love Kollok or Burrow's End for valid reasons. What's damning is the journalism itself is riddled with factual errors and the analysis is so weak that to call the arguments a flimsy house of cards would be generous. The opposite is also true; if Polygon's lead editor were out here repeatedly misspelling the name of one of the main characters in Worlds Beyond Number (note: this has since been corrected) but the articles had compelling arguments, even ones I disagreed with, I'd be far more forgiving, but as is? It's offering me absolutely nothing: it's poorly researched, it's poorly structured, it's poorly written, it's poorly copy-edited, and it shits on things I like seemingly just for clicks. I'm done giving clicks.

I am deeply sympathetic to the pressures facing digital journalism and media and the arts in general; as someone who is fortunate enough not to personally face those pressures and has the income to be a patron, I would love to help in my small way (and I do, at least, financially support a number of the AP shows I love). But the quality of some of this journalism is truly so bad that I can't bring myself to support the institutions putting it out; it's "dead dove do not eat" until such time as someone whose analysis and opinions I do trust cites them (or, perhaps, until there is a sea change of lead editorship). I know that this won't help the crunch, and may make it worse, but I just can't because the quality is so poor. I don't have a good solution to how to write about something that takes a lot of time to watch and process and about which the articles pay very little in return, but the current strategy of bouncing between uninformed provocateur and utter sycophant depending on the show and creators; of drooling over such surface features as shiny production and falsely claiming everything is "groundbreaking" while getting the most basic facts wrong has driven me away.

#rowzeoli #i'm leaving this rebloggable but other people...try to be respectful i will turn off reblogs if need be.#long post

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ellesthots · 3 months

Text

Fateful Beginnings

XXIV. “natural curiosity”

parts: previous / next

plot: under extreme pressure to perform, you prepare for your first and final interview with Bruce Wayne. Batman learns intriguing info on the gruesome murder of John Doe.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, mental illness, anxiety

words: 3.2k

a/n: this brings me to the end of my back-posting! we are now up to date across tumblr, ao3, and wattpad 🥳 excited to keep writing more soooon 👀

Was this some kind of cruel punishment?

If it hadn't been for Dr. Vry's unfortunately logical and desperate plea, you wouldn't have said yes—now you were left flying back for half a week. With enrollment for freshmen starting the first day of September, you had to have this in to Bridgit the morning after meeting with him. Thinking of all the belongings you'd just bought for the apartment you thought you'd be living in, you decided against a flight and booked a U-haul for that weekend instead. You'd see if Mar wanted to drive back with you in it, and if not you'd buckle down and do it yourself.

Your parents came back not an hour later. After a few minutes of hugs and chitchat they put themselves to bed, exhausted. Your mom didn't appear critically ill or markedly different in any way (besides a darker tan), so you let yourself relax for the evening out on the couch. A rerun was on the television, the air was stale, and the setting sun stabbed your eyes. You grappled with feelings of guilt as the minutes turned into hours of nothing. You loved them, but was this all you had to look forward to?

Bruce busied himself with monotonous tasks the rest of the day. The panic attack had wiped him out physically, but his mind was wired. A still-relevant yet menial task he felt he could get into a rhythm with involved stealing the giant stack of newspapers Alfred kept by his fireplace in his office for kindling. He flipped through pages and pages of decades-old Gazette publishings, refusing to indulge his curiosity as he passed the months directly preceding or proceeding his parent's murder. It felt like an impossible feat as he discarded them to his left, forcing his eyes to remain tethered to the current moment. Eventually he found clippings from the past few years, and he nestled into the corner chair to pore over their contents. Why was the Gazette failing? Why was the journalism department going to shut down? He distinctly remembered his parents reading the Gazette together every Sunday before church. On the walk to church, he remembered people sitting on park benches reading it. He only paid attention to the comic strip curated by the art majors, but even as a young kid he knew the paper was influential.

As he skimmed through the recent few years of publishing he couldn't discern why sales were lower. It was putting out relevant information that was decent to read... He stood up and walked down the hall to Alfred's room, and found him buttoning his cuffs. "Master Wayne, what's wrong?"

Bruce shook his head. "You read the Gazette, right? Do you know how many people read it?"

Alfred finished the last button and shook out his sleeves to straighten them. He shrugged. "I don't know precisely, but in concept it seems to be doing rather well. On my grocery trips I see lots of people reading it."

Bruce nodded and made some small talk for a moment about dinner ("I've been craving some sausage and cabbage soup, would you mind that, boy?") before making his way back to Alfred's office. He logged onto the computer and looked up sales for the Gazette. While there had been a decline, it had been slow and not enough to completely shut down a department. After looking into Gotham's budget, he realized there was enough budget and in fact, the majority of the Gotham finances were allocated between GCPD and GU. Looking into the school attendance rate there was still a good amount of students applying to the university; less people going into journalism, sure, but still enough to warrant continuing the major. Was Vry a particularly attentive and anxious president, or was it manipulation to get him to agree to be interviewed?

Alfred forced him away by physically walking upstairs to bring Bruce down, and they ate the soup in silence. It was warm, and soothed him enough to take the edge off his guttural sense of impending doom.

The next day he got a call from Gordon. A quick change into the suit and a back exit getaway later, Bruce found himself at the police station. The guards stiffened their spines and glared at him as he walked up; usually it didn't bother him, but after being discovered he felt every eye on him was an x-ray. He walked down a dingy, slim hallway to Gordon's office and knocked on the door. Gordon invited him in, appearing visibly stressed. "In the office on a Saturday?"

"Hey. I don't know what to tell you, but the results came in inconclusive."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "No idea what the metal is?"

"That's not exactly the problem." He reached into the desk and pulled out a plastic EVIDENCE bag smattered with pokes from the sharp metal inside. It landed on the table with a sharp rap. "We know what it is, but we are lost as to its function."

Bruce swirled the bag so the shrapnel tilted and moved about its cage. Gordon continued. "We brought in a few dentists, even one doctor, to clarify why this might be used as a filling but no one had heard of it before." He quickly continued. "Well, one guy did. Said he used to be a chemist. He'd heard of the metal, but said it was bordering on corrosive. He couldn't make head nor tail of why it would be used in a man's mouth."

"What is it?"

"The man said 'Electrum'. I made him repeat it because it sounded made up." Gordon rolled his eyes and bit his lip, lost in thought. His tone was biting. "I just want to find these punks. Can't have someone causing crime scenes like that running loose."

He'd never heard of Electrum. He opened his mouth to speak but Gordon continued again. He's talkative today. "The man said its properties are that of a 'spark to light up the wire'. Something about conductivity. I think it's just some man who got an under-the-table dental. Probably cracked open a soda can and peeled off a clip to tuck into his gums." By the end he was mumbling, and quickly stood up.

"They were certain it's Electrum?"

Gordon nodded. "He said it was clear. Bet his life on it." And with that he left, motioning to be followed out.

Electrum. Nothing could be found on the web about it. Alfred didn't know, and there had never been a mention about it in any newspaper since 1800 (any further back he couldn't find). By this point he was exhausted, and hadn't even realized he'd pulled a whole weekend staying wide awake. He physically pored over every newspaper article himself pre-1900, his smart engine struggling and misreading the small, fuzzied print. There was nothing that could even be vaguely related to Electrum. Fuck. He dragged his feet up to bed and crashed early Sunday evening.

Had it really only been a strange, foreign filling? Usually this would be his favorite type of thing to sleuth out, something no one could find but he could; he would read the small print from an article in 1806 and solve the mystery, following its crumb trail to an ultimate victory. It was the perfect catharsis, but he was too in his head. All Monday afternoon he twiddled his thumbs and waited for evening, but when evening came he couldn't bring himself to put on his suit. That one scrap metal felt like it was lodged in his tooth, giving him an emotional toothache. He slipped into bed and laid on his back with his arms behind his head. He gazed up at the ceiling, drawing a mental map of the situation. The John Doe couldn't be traced back. Dentist, former chemist, clarified it was Electrum. Electrum can't be found anywhere. No trace of it. Testing was inconclusive. Bordering on corrosive. Man was stabbed repeatedly and hung by the blades. Owls were etched into hilt. Owls were etched into pins and rings of the Gotham University president... Bruce squinted. How could he gain more information on Dr. Vry? His first thought was a Batman interrogation, second idea stalking her in his car for a week to see what she was up to. Both options, especially the latter, caused an internal cringe. Much like he couldn't shake his suspicion about Electrum, he couldn't shake the thought you embedded in him that he was too invasive.

Being invasive to criminals isn't bad. Often, it's the only way to catch them. Your voice came into his mind. And you're assuming she's a criminal. What happened to probable cause?

Her jewelry insignias perfectly match those on the weapon in an unsolved murder.

Perfectly, huh?

Almost.

Almost, yeah.

Even imaginary you mocked him. He continued having a conversation with himself until Alfred knocked on his door. He bristled and sat upright in bed. The old man leaned against the doorframe and gazed at him, spectacled. "Wanted to check in. Social battery ran out, I assume?"

Bruce stared down at his sheets. "Unsolved murder. Can't find any clues."

"Peculiar. Not much stumps you these days."

He struggled not to receive it sarcastically given how vigilant Alfred had been about his mental wellbeing the past few months. He hoped this wasn't another request for him to meet with his therapist, but his hopes were quickly dashed. "I called New Discoveries, they have a few openings this week and next."

Bruce bit back a retort. "If I ever need her, I'll give her a call."

"Bruce,"

"Stop, please. I've got enough to deal with right now."

He leaned in and raised his eyebrows at the boy. "Your analyst could help with that."

"I don't need someone to tell me my parents died."

Alfred heaved a deep sigh. "I'm worried about you."

"I'm not talking about this." This was the push he needed to get out and into his suit. He jumped out of bed and strode firmly past him, ignoring Alfred's calls to get him to 'just make a phone call'. He was surprisingly swift getting into the suit and out on the town. Guilt plagued him at abandoning Alfred, but this was about the tenth time they'd had that conversation since June and it was making him ill. He wouldn't mind seeing his therapist again, he'd liked going after the murder, but he didn't think he could handle being forced to reckon with his mortality at this point in his progression. He still wasn't sure it existed, and until he tied up all the loose ends about the owls, or his symptoms got significantly worse, he was going to ride this last high as long as it let him.

The next few days with your parents went smoothly. It was almost like before your mom had gotten sick, plus Walter. Walter was ecstatic to see your parents back, and you no longer sobbed in the shower out of lonely desperation. You were able to distract effectively through various arts and crafts with your mom, and by the time you were starting to need 'me' time she would tire. You spent some time with your dad fixing the back deck and pulling some weeds out of the raised flower beds. You tended to the pumpkins your parents had planted in June, and harvested some bell peppers and blueberries.

You avoided thinking about Gotham until you were in Gotham; you hadn't even mentioned to your parents you'd been fired/quit, and figured they'd know when a U-Haul ended up at their house with you and Mar inside. The quiet neighborhood was relaxing when your family was around, but that desperate feeling of loneliness was pinned to your chest. The town felt more desolate after being in the city, the quiet felt heavier when they were gone, and knowing how fragile her health was you figured you'd spend more of your life without her than with her. The combination threatened to consume you, and you spent every lull in conversation and every night lying in bed unable to sleep from worry about finding your purpose in life. What interested you? What motivated you? What were your values? How could all of the above be translated into a livable life?

Where did you belong? Did you belong here, in the sleepy town with wide open skies? Did you belong in a city with skyscrapers and sardine-squishing sidewalks? You liked the access the city afforded you. When you'd first moved there, you'd been enthralled by the hundreds of restaurants and stores within a mile's radius. You'd maxed out a small credit card being silly and young, trying cuisines you'd never even heard of. You found cute themed shops that were abhorrently overpriced but nonetheless aesthetically pleasing to visit. But the city moved so fast, and just in time for you to settle into a routine with a favorite restaurant they'd be closing shop. It was cutthroat and intimidating, and you felt softer. Too soft. Life here was too slow as to be entirely, aggravatingly boring. There were only a handful of restaurants in town and they were all dying fast food chains strung out amongst various struggling mom and pop shops that wouldn't dare invite in a health inspector. But the nature was beautiful, and sometimes you loved the quiet breeze of it all. You had no friends besides Mar who you could never see leaving the city, a degree that was worthless in the current economy, and your extended family lived in south Florida for some unknown reason. You only saw them once a year at a family reunion that was usually in July, but had been postponed to Christmas. Ugh.

On Monday you set off for Gotham. You'd arrived on time a few days earlier to ensure you could properly pack your stuff. Day one was filled with throwing out the perishable groceries and giving yourself a moment to breathe outside of your childhood home. The food tasted bland, your favorite shows had lost their spark, and your bed was lumpy and hard. The floors were cement and made your feet ache with every slapping step. The water took ages to heat up compared to home, and you kept watching your step for Walter who never showed. The flight had been frustrating. Your head pounded. You felt like screaming into an empty field, creating a dust storm from pounding your hands into the dirt until you were bruised.

Day two after arriving back to Gotham, you sat down at your small desk in the corner to think up some questions. It was impossible to focus, but you kept yourself to task by repeating you'd be out of here permanently, genuinely, so, so soon. As you stared at the blank page, anxiety sprouted. It hadn't before occurred to you that everyone would be reading this; in fact, everyone would likely be seeking this out so much it would be translated to different languages hours after being published. For a moment you couldn't wrap your head around why this time felt so much more high-stakes, and then you remembered the fate of an entire university department rested on how marketable and quality this interview was... and remembered how obscenely rich and powerful the subject was. You twiddled your fingers just slightly above the keyboard, nervous to even begin to dive into it.

The first thing you did was peruse Scypher, especially their forum sections.

SEARCH: Bruce Wayne

SEARCH: Mr. Wayne

SEARCH: Bruce

SEARCH: billionaire

SEARCH: Gotham

SEARCH: Gotham City

SEARCH: Gotham and Bruce

SEARCH: Gotham and Bruce Wayne

You sifted through hundreds—if not thousands—of posts thirsting after him. There were pap photos, one-shots written daydreaming about him, some tweets hating on how rich he was (you liked those), but the vast majority were simply pining after him in a public arena. You got a small sense of what people wanted to see from him, but not enough to create a substantial question.

You went onto Google and searched the same things. A handful of articles from major news outlets were titled similarly: What We Know About Bruce Wayne, the Orphaned Billionaire. People generally knew about the circumstances of his parent's murder, that he lived at home with his maids and butlers (was there more than one Alfred?) and everything that he'd announced at Gotham University graduation. There was logistical data on his Wikipedia page such as his height, birth date, current age, and where he went to school growing up. Information for the past decade was slim, the only bits being where he attended college, his date of graduation, and his major. It appeared the only times since his parent's death he peeked out into the public eye were school-related.

No one knew anything about his personal life, and you worked yourself into a tizzy brainstorming ways to persuade him into talking about himself. Where was the line between too benign of a question and too invasive of one? What was relevant information to someone high-profile's first interview? You'd spent hours digging into the first interviews of now-major celebrities, but they all happened before they rocketed into fame. This was different: he was born famous, and now at age 30 he was finally speaking to someone. After a certain point in your research you feared you would need to be the blueprint for this kind of thing; even nepo babies had been interviewed as children, asked questions such as their favorite musicians, movies, books, and colors. How did you show the public he was normal, personable, even? Did you even want to make him appear normal, because he didn't seem it. He was an enigma. Someone you couldn't quite peg.

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes. What's my goal with this? No one else's, mine? What do I want to learn about him? What are my natural curiosities? This led to an immediate rush of creative energy, questions popping up left and right; you didn't care about how invasive or off-kilter they might seem. After the brainstorming, you gathered the questions into three categories: COMFORTABLE - DEEPER - DANGEROUS.

The first contained questions that were more basic, and likely wouldn't elicit an emotional response in any way to the interviewee. The second probed a bit more, considered more thorough and juicy. At this point an interviewee might be more choosy with their phrasing, or pause to think about it. The final category was fully questions of your own mind, questions you didn't think you'd ever ask but wanted to be put to paper. These were so juicy as to be intimate, so personal as to be disorienting.

When else would a woman have the leverage to ask such a dizzyingly powerful man anything she wanted?

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royboyfanpage · 6 months

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Hello, please don't take this the wrong way but when I first started getting into comics I really disliked Ollie for how he treated/reacted to Roy and the whole drug thing but many years and more experience later (I know the characters a bit better now and stopped reading bad takes on tumblr) I'm realising that theres a lot more nuance and apparently they've got a really close relationship these days?? So I was just wondering if you might be able to explain that to me because I'd love to get into more arrow stuff (honestly mostly fanficton because lbr comics are crazy confusing and expensive) but I'm struggling to shake the assumptions I made about Ollies character when I was younger

Hi anon! Thank you soooo much for this ask, I've been looking forward to answering it for hours and now I finally have the time. Ollie's one of my favourite fictional archers, and I adore talking about him at any opportunity because he is SUCH a nuanced character. So here's-

Why Oliver Queen Doesn't Suck

Mandatory disclaimer that this is my own opinions, other people may have different interpretations which is totally fine! Ollie's been around for over 80 years, there's a lot of content to read and a lot of conflicting characterisations, so other people may see him differently than me. Also disclaimer that much of this was written from memory. I fact-checked the date of Nixon's declaration of the War on Drugs and the Denny O'Neil quote, but the rest of this was from memory. Apologies for any innaccuracies, both for comics and context.

Now that that's out of the way, lets talk Snowbirds.

In order to discuss Snowbirds Don't Fly, one of the most important things to factor in is context. I understand it can be difficult to see through the historical lense of a time period in which the majority of people on this website, myself included, were not even born let alone reading comic books. However, it's still crucially vital to discuss what was going on in the real world at the time of its publication in order to engage in a rich discussion of the comic. Snowbirds was published the year that the War on Drugs officially began following Nixon's declaration of drugs as "public enemy number one" on June 17th 1971, just under two months before the release of Snowbirds part 1 in August of that year. At the time, drug addiction was very much seen as a moral failing, and the war on drugs focused heavily on the incarceration of drug users (particularly ones that the US Government wanted an excuse to lock away such as people of colour and pacifists against the war in Vietnam, but that's not relevant to Snowbirds.) While Snowbirds was absolutely not a perfect comic, it was created to show a more humanising side of addicts than the usual demonisation seen on the news. In the words of writer Denny O'Neil, “we chose Roy [...] to show that addiction was not limited to 'bad' or 'misguided' kids.” It was created to show that addiction was not a moral failing, and that anyone could fall into it due to circumstances, even someone we've already accepted as 'one of the good guys' for the past 30 years. Roy was used as the symbol of a good kid who made a bad mistake in order to humanise real young people who'd gone through similar circumstances. And where there's a kid, there's a parent, which is where Ollie came in.

Now, I very strongly believe that Ollie was not written to be the bad guy of Snowbirds. Not only was he also an established 'good guy', but he was a symbolic stand-in for much of America at that time, including the people who would be reading it. And, while Green Arrow is very much a character who brings with him a lot of strong political takes, villainising their readerbase would be a step too far. Ollie was a stand-in for the concerned and ill-informed parent, a character who's consumed all the anti-addict propaganda being spread at the time and internalised it. That's why the fact that it was his own ward struggling with addiction was so poignant to the story. Ollie was forced to re-evaluate his worldview after seeing someone who he knows isn't what the media says addicts are struggling with addiction. Snowbirds has such an interesting character arc for Ollie, seeing him struggle to combine the ideas of what he's heard and what he's actively seeing in his mind.

Now, the most infamous part of Snowbirds is, obviously, the slap. Full disclaimer, I am not saying that Ollie is in the right for that. He was 100% undeniably in the wrong for how he responded to Roy's addiction. However, I think a key component of comic books that people tend to ignore is the component of marketing. The writers wanted this comic to sell. It was a very important story for the time, and with the amount of comics being released it was crucial to them that people actually found the comic and read it, especially since it was one of the first comics released outside of the strict rules of the Comics Code. And what would catch readers' eyes more than seeing a superhero hitting his sidekick whilst said sidekick is surrounded by drugs? I'm not trying to discredit the panel, it was obviously a very significant part of the story, but there were external factors at play too.

A lot of the development of Roy and Ollie's relationship is seen in comics released post-Snowbirds, but even in the comic itself there's clear development, particularly at the end. Snowbirds Don't Fly is a character arc for Ollie of him adjusting his worldview in order to grow and better himself after recognising his own biases. And people tend to forget that Snowbirds ends with Roy hitting Ollie back, and what does Ollie do? He listens. He lets Roy get his frustrations out, and listens to Roy's perspective, and he's proud of him by the end of it, proud of the young man he is.

Okay, now that we've gotten Snowbirds out of the way, let's talk about-

Post-Snowbirds

There's a common misconception that Roy and Ollie having a close relationship is a recent development, which just isn't true. While it could've absolutely been explored in more detail, it's clear that Roy and Ollie reconciled post-Snowbirds. The earliest example that comes to mind is 1993's Green Arrow vol 2 #75, wherein Ollie and Roy refer to each other as father and son.

Keep in mind that this was written by Grell who is, at least in my opinion, one of the best references for Ollie. While they did have some issues in the later issues of the run preceding Ollie's death (the causes of the conflict I'm unsure of, they were on rocky terms during Connor's introduction but I don't know why, if anyone has context for that please let me know but that could've just been a choice Dixon made), it's clear to see that Snowbirds was not something that permenantly damaged their relationship. Ollie put in the effort following his actions, to better himself both as a father and as a person, and Roy recognised that and forgave him. Parent/child relationships are hard anyway, let alone under the circumstances Roy and Ollie are under as heroes, and the fact that Ollie actually recognised his own flaws is far more than many parents do.

If we go later, we can see Roy talking fondly about Ollie whilst Ollie was dead in Titans (1999), fondly recalling memories with him from his youth, as well as keeping a photograph of him on his wall.

While Roy does recognise that things with Ollie weren't always perfect, he does also acknowledge the good times between him and Ollie, and it's clear from the way he speaks that he holds a lot of love for him.

Later still, when Ollie returns from the dead, the duo reunite with fondness

One thing particularly that stands out to me is that, at this point, Ollie was missing many of his memories and Snowbirds was still fresh in his mind, with him bringing up Roy's addiction multiple times throughout Quiver as if it happened within at most the span of two years. Despite this, he still embraces Roy and treats him with love, making it clear that Ollie loved Roy even near to the Snowbirds era. There are more instances I could go into in Green Arrow (2001), but I'm running out of free time, so I'd highly recommend reading it :)

Aaaand later still, Ollie openly admits to having fucked up with Roy during Snowbirds.

He admits his failings, and demonstrates that he's got Roy's best interests at heart. He's not being selfish, he's letting Roy have his moment in his initiation as Red Arrow and staying in the background because he believes that's what's best for Roy. And-

He openly states that he loves Roy.

There's more in the current continuity I could reference, but I don't have the time to go through them right now and I'm definitely more familiar with content pre-52 (particularly 1994-2004 is the ten years I'd say I know the best), so hopefully this is enough.

Roy and Ollie's relationship isn't perfect. It has clear ups and downs, which is what makes them so interesting! Oliver Queen is a very loving, yet very flawed man, and to go either way of "evil abuser" or "perfect father" discredits who he is.

Anyway, your faves don't have to be unproblematic to love them. Ollie has a really compelling character arc during and after Snowbirds, and I like him a lot :)

For further reading, check out my masterlist on my pinned post, particularly Oliver Queen's B- Parenting, Snowbirds (1), and Snowbirds (2)

#tw drugs #roy harper #speedy #arsenal #red arrow #green arrow #oliver queen #snowbirds don't fly #thank you for the ask anon!!!#i will get to your second ask asap #fun fact the only panel i screenshotted specifically for this post was the quiver reunion #the rest were already in my gallery

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khaire-traveler · 8 months

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This is not an invitation for discourse. I am just stating my personal opinions.

I've been seeing some posts going around lately about myth retellings and wanted to give my opinion on something: I think the helpol community (maybe other polytheistic and pagan communities, too) is honestly too critical and intense about modern retellings (and even some historical ones as well somehow).

I know what it's like coming from that critical point of view. I used to be highly critical of certain retellings and stories that used Greek mythology. They used to deeply bother me, actually, but overtime, I realized that staying mad and fuming about these things I can't change - that will always be created - is really exhausting and even causes me to miss out on some truly interesting stories.

Also, seeing how intense some people can be about retellings has actively discouraged people in the community from writing them. How do I know this? I am one of those people, and I happen to know several others in the same predicament. Some people in the community will rip and tear and claw at retellings as if the retelling murdered everyone they loved. People talk about these retellings as if they're literally destroying the earth itself sometimes - like, seriously, y'all, it's wild.

Once, I saw someone post a short story they wrote - a retelling of a myth that I won't name, as I don't want to give the identity of this person away. This person posted this story with good intentions and was a worshipper of the figures depicted within the story, but still, they got absolutely dragged by larger Tumblr blogs and were torn into and literally chased off of Tumblr. This kind of behavior is not ok for multiple reasons, but the main point I'm trying to make is that we are actively making it harder for people within the community to write retellings. You want retellings from people who actually worship the gods? Then maybe make the community a much less judgmental place because sharing creative works takes a lot of courage as it is. Imagine building up the courage to create and share a retelling just to be ripped into by the very community you are a part of. I'm not saying you can't mention to someone when they've gotten something wrong or have written something potentially problematic, but I am saying that you shouldn't ruthlessly dissect someone's work and rip them a part if they seem to be well-meaning but misinformed (assume the best; not everyone is out to get us; easier said than done, I know). You can give criticism while still being respectful to the original author.

For many of these other authors, however, they likely don't even know that worship of these gods exists in the modern day, and even if they do know, acknowledging it may not be relevant to their story, or even their point. Sure, in a perfect world, these authors would acknowledge our little community and pay homage to actual ancient traditions/culture/etc, but we don't live in a perfect world, and that's ok. It is ok, y'all. Not every author writing a retelling is going to be a literal classics major or historian. Not every author writing a retelling is going to be educated on the actual ancient -or modern - worship of these gods. Not every author writing a retelling is going to pay homage to original source material. Do those things suck sometimes? Yes, absolutely. Do we need to lose our heads over it? No, not really. We can choose to focus on other things - on material and media that we actually enjoy and that do depict things how we'd like them to be depicted.

Now, none of this is to say that there are no problematic retellings or that speaking out on problematic retellings is wrong because hoo, boy, there are quite a lot of those. Some retellings claim to be historically accurate and are, in fact, not; some retellings are written by authors with less than ideal values and ideologies; some retellings are even based entirely on misinformation which can be frustrating to hear about. All of these things are true, but it's also true that not every retelling is out to get us. Not every retelling is trying to attack our small community and the gods we worship. As alarming and offensive as it can feel sometimes, it's important that we take a minute and realize that honestly, authors write stories, and sometimes a story is truly just meant to be a story. It's nothing personal. It feels like we, or our gods, are being attacked, but at the end of the day, we still have our own practices, and we are still allowed to engage with those practices. We are still allowed to worship our gods respectfully, even if others do not. And it is important to acknowledge here that others do not worship our gods. These authors are most likely not worshippers of the Theoi. They most likely do not have relationships with these gods as we do, and unfortunately, they may not have respect for these gods either. It would be ideal if they did, but they just might not, and there's no controlling that.

Honestly, most authors are trying their best. They're trying their best to write an interesting, authentic story that will capture the attention of their intended audience. They want to tell a story based on a mythology that inspired them so deeply, so carnally, that they felt the need to write a whole ass book or create a whole ass game about it. They see stories of tragic heroes, powerful gods, and all those caught in-between, and they think, "This is fucking epic; I'm gonna do something with this." Greek mythology is fucking cool. There's absolutely no denying that, and the fact that so many creators of all kinds continue to create retellings based on the love and passion of a mythology from over 2,000 years ago is pretty damn awesome, actually.

#helpol #hellenic polytheism #hellenic pagan

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raayllum · 3 months

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Something I’ve been noticing a lot in my current rewatch is how Rayla and Soren are foils…Soren being the failed crownguard (“failed” in large part bc of his father’s choices) who ends up on a quest to kill his little king… Rayla trying to make up for her parents’ failures as dragonguards and going every extra mile to protect Zym but taking Ezran under her protection as well (sometimes FROM Soren)…, Soren runs Viren through for trying to kill Ez but he’s just an illusion, the real Viren is trying to kill Zym, and Rayla is prepared to die to stop that…then Rayla goes but Soren stays, and when she comes back he’s taken up her role as the moral center of the show, arguing points that she used to make

I tried to see if you’d written anything about these two being foils specifically but tumblr search is… you know lol. I would love it if you could point me to a relevant meta if there is one! If there isn’t, I hope my thoughts were interesting lol they make me emotional

Y'know funnily enough I don't think there ever was a dedicated Soren&Rayla from almost anyone (of course I could've missed it, but at least not from me) precisely cause from what I remember of early post-s3 arc 1 days, their foil relationship was just... a general fandom consensus of everyone going "Oh yeah that checks out" and kinda left at that.

After all, Soren is the princes' sworn protector who tries to kill them, makes his way back onto the right side, and then 'kills' Viren (his father) in order to protect them... whereas Rayla is their sworn killer who defects from her father in order to protect those same princes, and then she actually kills Viren (if Aaravos and Claudia hadn't intervened) in the same episode. More than that, they both leave behind their previous "hey kill these kids" roles in favour of being a Protector of their respective princes (Soren with Ezran, Rayla with Zym) respectively likewise in 3x09.

You're absolutely right that Soren and Rayla both rely a lot on their physical fighting skills, and this parallel in regards to failure always stands out to me in S3:

Soren: As crownguard, it was my job to make sure that nothing happened to him. No matter what. So when the Moonshadow elves came I did everything I could to protect him. But it wasn't enough. I just... don't want to fail you, too. Rayla: It's me, and it's all my fault. I failed them. I let them all down. They're right to reject me. I'm not good enough, and I never will be.

as does this one for Runaan-Viren, because Runaan may have brought his teenage daughter on an assassination mission, but she's never seemingly scared of him the way Soren is of Viren

even if both fathers take issues with 'fear born' weakness at least in theory

And of course there's some other parallels scattered throughout, which makes sense: 1x01-1x03 is basically Rayla speedrunning Soren's S1-S3 arc of perpetuating the cycle of violence to actively trying to stop it by joining forces with your previous 'enemy'.

I think in a lot of ways Soren was exactly the sort of human Rayla had prepared her whole life to kill -- he's proud, he lies, he's not a 'good' person (at first) -- but of course, now they're good friends and it's very sweet to see. Arc 2 has less direct foils, but it's still there, y'know? Just more quietly in the background.

For example, enough has changed since 2x07 that now in 4x05 their roles have virtually switched, since Soren is the one campaigning to save the dragon while Rayla, although not the aggressor, is saying to walk away. I expect S6 Rayla to take some of Soren's 'protector' quality on further in regards to "doing everything you can" when Callum gets possessed. Possible 5x08 parallels also stand out to me with the concepts of identities (names), ownership vs agency, and compassion against the enemy currently wailing on you through future possessed!Callum and Elmer parallels.

The two are also in for a real pickle since they're the most "these people are the bad guys, we're the good guys" in the show... and it's like sir your sister is evil and ma'am your boyfriend is going through a corruption arc, you're in for some rude awakenings. That said they do have their unbreakable bonds of love with Claudia and Callum respectively, so who knows. It'll all work out. (Eventually.)

On that note we can also see some parallels between 2x02 and 3x03 perhaps... Rayla accuses Soren of trying to kill Ezran but explains it poorly, so Callum gives her as much as he can but doesn't side with her in the moment (which to be fair it is Quite a leap so like Callum you're so valid) VS Soren poorly explaining Viren asking him to kill the princes and Claudia not siding with him. The difference is that in the face of more evidence in favour of Claudia + Soren, Callum still sides with Rayla, and in the face of more evidence against Viren ("You'll understand when you see the first to change" -> "Claudia, you're changing too"), Claudia still sides with Viren, but I digress.

I'd also argue that Ezran is the moral centre of the show (at least to me) simply because he's the only one in the main cast who hasn't entered the 1) you did terrible things in the name of love/protective relay and 2) he's pretty measured and compassionate 99% of the time (but I do love the 1% when he's not let me tell you).

I talked about it in this meta (which is 2+ years old jc) about how like a good moral line event horizon measuring stick is "how does this character treat Ezran" and if they're treating him poorly they're not doing the right thing, and if they're treating him well then they Are, but it doesn't go into S4 or S5 so like. Mileage may vary

Last but not least: I do have a Sorayla tag for headcanons edits brotp content in general so if you want more of them, that's what I'd recommend, with fics such as "flower crowns" (oneshot) and "if heaven and hell decide" (completed multichap, 60k) for their dynamic

#sorayla #tdp #requests #parallels #the dragon prince #astrid-goes-for-a-spin #thanks for asking #tdp soren #tdp rayla #brotp

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fanfic-lover-girl · 1 year

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Anti Tagging is a Broken System

So there was this anti Zutara post that I saw a while ago that was tagged as both 'anti zutara' and 'zutara'. As you can imagine, zutara bloggers were mad and the OP claimed they tagged the post as 'zutara' as payback for zutara fans bashing kataang in the 'kataang' tag.

There was also a jedi critical post that was considered to be insulting to someone's religion or culture or some other nonsense. The person asked (**demanded**), the post be tagged as 'anti jedi' because seeing it in the 'jedi order' tag was causing real-world harm.

It confirmed my belief that the tagging system is severely broken and lacking.

These are two issues at play that I notice:

Villain vs Hero Double Standard

What's interesting is that this issue is mainly relevant for protagonists. If I want to bash Ozai, Palpatine or Joker on Tumblr, I don't have to tag my posts as anti. Maybe their fans would prefer it but we all know that these men are villains and the lowest scum in media. It's not bashing - it's the cold hard truth.

So why is it that my calling Ozai a bad father is not Ozai bashing, but me calling Aang a bad father is Aang bashing?? Why the double standards?? Sure, the hero will likely be more sympathetic because we are meant to root for them. But at the end of the day, just like Ozai, Aang played favourites and this left scars on his kids even in their fifties. If you are an Aang fan you can try to justify it, but his actions still hurt his kids no matter how you spin it.

What Does 'Anti' Even Mean??

There are too many ways to be anti character, anti ship etc which makes things murky.

Let's use Kataang as an example. Are you anti Kataang because you objectively looked at the ATLA show and you think how it is presented makes it a bad ship? Are you anti KA because you genuinely like the ship but you think it was not developed properly or did not go the way you thought best? Are you anti KA because you are just emotionally repulsed for whatever reason even though canon may give you reasons to support it? Are you anti KA just because it may be popular to be so in your circle?

That's the problem. Theoretically, the first two scenarios could be classified under the general 'kataang' tag. Because people who hold those opinions are not just bashing it for no reason but have objective truths that they have observed about the ship. Saying that Aang kissed Katara without her consent is an objective truth. Why should that be labelled as 'anti kataang'? It's the truth about the ship.

How would I address this?

The general tag should not be treated as a safe space. If you want a safe space, stick to a 'pro' or 'anti' tag. The general tag should be treated like a neutral zone where everything is laid on the table for debate and discourse. So if I browse the Jedi Order tag, I should see metas about cool Jedi powers and master-padawan relationships but also metas about the separation of families and the social harm it causes kids.

People need to stop being babies and grow up. If someone posts a critical meta about the Jedi order, it does not mean they are attacking whatever religion you have or calling for genocide in real life. Do you know how much witchcraft, paganism, atheism and other kinds of Christian bashing posts I see in the Christianity tag?? If you don't like something, just scroll past it like a big kid. Don't send death or rape threats to someone if you disagree with them.

I think if someone does not have substantial or accurate reasons for hating something, they should stick to the anti tag and avoid the general tag.

What do others think?? Tagging is hard because it's up to the discretion of the poster but I hope my arguments here made sense.

@caripr94

@tragicfantasy-girl

@sokkastyles

@the-badger-mole

#tumblr discourse #fandom etiquette #tagging #shipping discourse #character discussion #atla aang #aang vs ozai #character bashing #atla #anti tagging #jedi order #jedi order critical #toxic fandom #star wars discourse #star wars #atla discourse #anti kataang

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mostlyinthemorning · 2 years

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Okay tumblr, do you want to hear the story of the time I had a live badger under the front seat of my car?

A few of you have heard this story before, but I feel like you might be okay hearing it again.

So.

Mumblety years ago, my first real job after university was working at a wildlife rescue centre. Basically, people would find injured and orphaned wild animals and they’d call us up and we’d nurse them back to health or raise them until they were grown enough to go back to the wild. Most of the time the patients were birds (robins, so many robins) and small mammals, like squirrels, but occasionally we got a more unusual animal.

One day, this baby badger comes in, he's really small, probably about 6 weeks old.

Super cute, kind of like this:

At six weeks old he’s still nursing so we bottle fed him for a few weeks and then eventually, when he started eating solid food like mice, we put him out into an outdoor enclosure. By the end of the summer, he's catching and eating his own food and he's growls super ferociously whenever anyone comes up to the cage.

Ah-ha, we think, we have rehabbed him successfully. He's ready to be released!

The wildlife center isn’t really located in badger habitat, but I was planning to travel to visit my parents, about four hours south, and they lived in the country and had lots of gophers for him to eat. Thus, a plan was born. I would visit my parents, I would take the badger with me, he would be happily released into the wild, and my friend and I would go camping, just to round out the weekend.

So, my friend (who also works at the wildlife centre) and I happily load our things and our badger into the back of my very small Toyota Tercel. (You see where this is going, I hope.)

My car was like this, but blue.

You might notice that this is not a very large car. And you’d be right.

Badger safely stowed in the back seat, we head south. I think it’s important to mention that the badger is in a plywood crate with a sliding wood door that goes up and down as this will be relevant later on.

Now, it’s a blazingly hot day, probably 35C/95F and my little car doesn't have air conditioning. It is hot. Even with the windows down. And the badger is annoyed. We can tell he’s annoyed by the loud and angry growls coming from the back seat.

Our plan is to stop about 1.5 hours into the trip to visit a bank and a grocery store. The badger doesn’t care about this plan. He’s still very annoyed.

We pull up to the bank, parking in the shade so the badger won't be toasty in the sun, and we go inside. This is before the days of paying with everything with debit cards so we needed cash. We come back out pretty quickly and open the door of the car and immediately there's a problem. The badger is still growling, but now the growls are coming from under the front seat of my car.

We slam the door closed and try to decide what to do. Because we’re going camping, we aren't really prepared for anything other than opening up the door of the crate and watching the badger run away. We don't have any gloves, or a towel, or even so much as a business card saying that we are allowed to have a live badger in our car. As we're standing there, trying to figure out what to do about our predicament, people keep coming up to us to ask if we've locked our keys in the car. (If only!)

I crack open the door of the car a few times, and the badger growls at me every time. Clearly, he lives under the front seat of the car now. We have to do something. It’s still hot, and now we’re behind schedule and we still have 2.5 hours left to drive.

A guy in a big oilfield truck pulls into the parking spot beside us. Figuring we don’t have a choice, we accost him as he gets out of his truck and ask if he has any gloves we can borrow. He admits that he does, but, of course, he wants to know why.

We explain.

He absolutely refuses to get involved but he agrees to lend us his gloves. Apparently he doesn’t have any reservations about watching two 20-something young women wrestle a live badger as long as he doesn’t have to do it himself. Gloves secured, we open the door of the car.

The growling gets louder.

It's still coming from under the seat.

Now, I don't know if you've ever tried to stick your hand under the front seat of a Toyota Tercel in order to retrieve a live badger. But there's not much room.

The other thing you should probably know about badgers is that the scruff of their neck is extremely loose so that they can twist around if a predator grabs them.

All of this is to say that wrestling a badger out from under the seat of your car is vaguely similar to trying to fish an angry, squirmy cat out from underneath your bed, if the cat had 2 inch claws and the ability to completely rotate in its own skin. In a public parking lot. While trying not to attract a crowd of onlookers.

Finally, after much swearing, we manage to shove the badger out from under the seat, I grab it and slam it back into its crate.

Whew, we think. At least we fixed that problem. But everything is okay now. Back to the plan!

It takes about five seconds for us to discover that the badger released himself by sticking his claws under the sliding door and lifting it up.

At this point, you probably won’t be surprised to learn that long with our lack of gloves, we also don't have any tools that we might use to fix the door of the crate. But somehow we manage to wedge the door of the crate shut.

Whew, we think. At least we fixed that problem. But everything is okay now. Back to the plan!

You might be sensing a theme, and you’d be right. With the hindsight of some years since then, we probably should have turned around. Oh, to be 23 again.

It's still 35 degrees.

The badger is still angry.

We still have 2.5 hours worth of driving ahead of us.

We head out on the highway and the trip gains the soundtrack that I can still hear to this day.

Growl, growl, scratch, scratch.

We turn up the music. The badger growls louder.

I’m already doing ten over the speed limit. I drive a bit faster. Did I mention that the car doesn’t have air conditioning?

Growl, growl, scratch, scratch.

Thunk. Scratch, scratch. Thunk.

Our gerry-rigged closure on the crate has failed and the badger is sticking his claws beneath the door and lifting up the door. It’s only going to be seconds before a hot angry badger is loose in the car. We’re fifteen minutes from my parents’ house.

I pull onto the shoulder of the highway and my friend scrambles into the backseat. Putting all of her weight on the sliding door, she holds it down as the badger scratches furiously. I pull back onto the highway, now I’m going twenty over the limit.

Fifteen long, hot, and exhausting minutes later, we arrive at my parents’ house. I swear the badger's growls can be heard in Ottawa. Gasping a hello to my mom and dad, we lug the heavy crate with the heavy badger out into the field, wanting to release it as quickly as possible.

The growling gets louder. The crate might be the heaviest thing I’ve carried in my life. Staggering through the field, we finally decide we're far enough away from the house. We lift the door of the crate. The badger dashes for freedom—which is to say that it runs ten feet away and turns to look at us.

Whew, we think. At least we made it here. But everything is okay now. We did it!

Heaving a sigh of relief, we gather up the crate and turn to go back the way we came.

The badger follows us.

We walk faster.

The badger chases after us, practically at our heels.

We jump across the creek.

The badger launches itself into the water, swimming after us.

We stop. The badger comes and sits at our feet like the world’s shortest, widest dog. We look at it. It stares back at us. Maybe the badger just needs a moment to consider its life of freedom. We wait. The badger wanders away. We pick up the crate for a second time and try to walk away. The badger is having none of it. It gallops after us. I pick up the wet badger and tuck it under my arm. This is the happiest it's been all day. Clearly, we are not releasing this badger into the wild.

Now, friends, we have a dilemma. We’re four hours from home, it’s getting late, and whatever we decide to from this point forward is going to involve a slightly damp, half-grown badger made of growls.

Our plan, if you can call it that at this point, was to release the badger and then go camping in a nearby national park. This now seems like a bad idea. But we're four hours from home and we have to do something.

So.

We decide to take the badger camping. In a moment of prudence, we forgo the national park and choose a nearby provincial park instead.

We drive to the park. The badger rides on my friend’s lap. There’s no growling.

We set up our campsite. Thankfully, the campground is nearly empty. While we’re setting up the tent, the badger explores the campsite, amusing himself by digging a few holes and making sure to keep us in sight. It was like having a very short, very growly dog who likes to dig.

I’m sure it won’t surprise you in the least if I say that it’s at this point that we realize we’ve forgotten the matches for the stove.

The nearest town is twenty minutes away. The badger will have to go back in the crate for the journey. The badger is not a fan of this idea. But we get him back into the crate—something that’s a lot easier now that we know he’s not trying to eat us—and we head for town, accompanied by the now-familiar symphony of growling.

Now, it's been a bit of a day. So I think I should be forgiven for accidentally going over the speed limit on the way out of the campsite. This is, of course, when I get pulled over. Remember, we don't have a single piece of official wildlife-related ID between us, not even so much as a business card. This was before cell phones so we can’t even phone the wildlife center to vouch for us. We're both convinced that this is it, that we're probably going to jail for wildlife smuggling. And the badger is never getting out of that crate. In the backseat, the badger is growling louder than ever.

The officer comes up to the car window.

The badger growls.

We hold our breath.

The badger growls even louder.

The officer proceeds to absolutely ream me out for going twenty over the limit. The badger growls at every word. The officer doesn't even acknowledge the badger. I apologize profusely. I promise to never ever do it again. The officer gives me a warning. The badger growls. I drive away very, very slowly.

The next day we drive home and I can't even remember the details of the trip, I think I've blocked it out, but I’m pretty sure we let the badger had free-run of the car. When we got back to the wildlife center, we learned that badgers don't leave their moms until they're a bit older. We put him back in his cage, and about four months later, he digs his way out. And every now and then for about a year after that, people would come to the wildlife centre and say that an overly-friendly badger had come up to them on our nature trail.

And this is why I always make sure to carry gloves in my car.

THE END

#houdini tells stories #wildlife rescue is a time let me tell you #badgers are the best

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