#small snippet spoiler under cut

[casino-lights]

so illario was in the final battle

and this was supposed to be a drabble, but I cannot be trusted to write Illario and Lidia succinctly. TW for a semi graphic description of wounds - I can't tell if it's not really that bad or if I just think the human body is neat so I'm marking that down anyway. no death or descriptions of the wounds being inflicted, though; this is fully set post-battle. the endgame spoilers are fairly mild though - just the location of the final fight.

if you saw my WIP Wednesday, this is what that snippet was from! I hope you enjoy it as much as these two enjoy arguing with each other. thank you for reading!

The dried blood matting half of Lidia’s bangs down against her split scalp didn’t bother her nearly as much as it bothered Teia. She fussed over her gently, blotting a damp rag against Lidia’s head and tutting like a disappointed mother.

“This is what happens,” she scolded between soft pats. “You always run ahead, and you always draw attention, and you always get yourself hurt.”

Absentmindedly, Lidia replied, “I usually work alone.”

“Yes, and this is why.”

“Mm.” The only sign she felt pain was a series of rapid blinks when Teia pressed against a particularly painful cut.

“If you would stop looking around, I’d be done faster.”

Lidia turned her head back toward Teia. “Is it still bleeding?”

“Not that I can see.”

She rose to her feet and brushed the dust of fallen Minrathous buildings off her thighs. “Then I’ll live.”

Teia gave up quickly. She was no one’s parent, no matter how much she cared. “Suit yourself. But Lidia?”

“Hm?”

“You’ve done immensely well. Not just here - since Lucanis’ return as well. House Dellamorte is lucky to have you.”

She smiled thinly. “We’re all just Crows today, Teia.”

“Yes, we are.”

“Speaking of Lucanis…”

Teia nodded her head in the direction of the raucous cheering and the gathered crowd surrounding a few figures climbing down from the rooftop where the final confrontation had taken place. They both saw the flash of a purple jacket at the same time, and a wave of relief washed over them as they shared a look.

“Vi is back a ways, checking the fallen for ours so we can arrange the funerals,” Teia continued softly. “Since you’re upright, could you see to them as well?”

“Of course. Tell Lucanis not to worry about us and just take care of himself if you get a chance to talk to him.”

Teia nodded, and Lidia turned away. She hugged her cape around herself like a blanket as she snaked her way through what was left of the Minrathous streets, hopping over and ducking under various bits of debris that cluttered the city. She caught a few of her fellow Crows out of the corners of her eyes as she passed - most bloodied, bruised, and limping, but alive - and they all shared reassuring smiles with her once they noticed her. We lived, said their grins. We won, and we lived.

She saw Viago leaning against a mostly-intact building, heaving a deep sigh, and she called out to him. He lifted his eyes to her as she approached, but his lips were pulled down into a scowl.

Quietly, Lidia asked, “Is it that bad?”

“We lost just over twenty,” he answered, voice low and solemn. “Not as many as I expected, but… less than ideal. Most were fledgelings, but there’s a small handful of master assassins.”

She felt a selfish desire to ask anyone I know? but stifled it. “Do you need anything? A hand with the bodies? A cart?”

“A cart,” he agreed with a nod. “Though I don’t know if we could get one to the eluvian with the state of Minrathous. We might have to carry them through on stretchers.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed again. “Which means we’d need able-bodied volunteers, a relatively clear path back to the mirror, enough stretchers to make for less back-and-forth, a cart waiting in the Crossroads…”

“Maybe we can ask Lucanis if he knows a clearer route?” Lidia suggested softly.

He blinked, then sighed with relief. “You saw him?”

“Teia and I. He looks alright. Reasonably unharmed.”

He nodded again, more slowly this time. “It's nice to have some good news, at least.”

Lidia looked past Viago, into the building, and saw rows and rows of white linens draped over bodies. A cold, sick feeling gawed at her stomach as she counted them, and she wondered how many more would succumb to their injuries or simply hadn’t yet been found.

Another fear gripped her, too. She scanned the bodies again, making note of the taller ones. From the shoes she could see, none looked more distinctive than the regular steel-tipped Crow boots. Though some were burned beyond recognition. She felt guilty, searching for just one body among the two dozen lying before her, and guiltier still that she was looking for him at all. 

But she hadn’t seen him with the other Crows. He should have been with Teia, or Lucanis, or even here pestering Viago endlessly. She shouldn’t care. He didn’t deserve it. But she asked anyway.

“Viago–”

“I don’t know.”

“I didn’t even ask yet.”

“No, but you have that look on your face.” Viago sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know where Illario is. Teia saw him last.”

Lidia frowned. “She didn’t mention anything to me, and I was just with her.”

He pulled a hand down his face before pausing to smooth down his beard. “I did not see him among the dead, if that’s what you’re asking, but I have no idea where else he would be right now.”

“Well, he isn’t with Teia, and he isn’t with Lucanis, where he was supposed to be.” 

She glanced over her shoulder just in time to see a pair of Crows carrying the mangled corpse of one of their fellows into the building. Viago sighed again and raked his fingers back through his hair. 

“Dammit. One of Teia’s fledgelings.”

Lidia looked back at him, horrified. “I thought you told them not to come!”

“We did,” he answered, voice pained and eyes closed. “But you of all people should know that doesn’t stop them from wanting to prove themselves.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, steeling himself to write another name on his list. After a moment of silence and a nod at the two Crows as they left the building, he sighed again and said, “Go home, Lidia. We’ve been sending the ones who can walk back to the Diamond for now to care for the ones who can’t.”

“Teia told me to help you.”

“And you can help me by going home,” Viago snapped. “And tell them to put a cart in the Crossroads. And station some people with it in case we need them to carry stretchers through the streets.”

She frowned, but gave a single nod of understanding before turning away. They were all Crows today. And she knew better than to question an order from a Talon.

She was welcomed by the warmth of Trevisan air once the cool, watery feeling of the eluvian faded. For just a moment, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, drinking in the flurry of scents that always filled the Cantori Diamond. The smells of spices, wine, and smoke wafted up from the casino floor, but the familiar chatter and laughter was replaced by eerie quiet, broken up only by the occasional groan or cry of pain.

Lidia’s eyes darted toward a flash of purple and she called out, stopping Chance in his tracks. He leaned back, peering at her curiously from around the corner, but smiled warmly as she approached. 

“Lidia! You made it back.” He touched her shoulder gently before bowing with a flourish. “Welcome home, my lady.”

She returned the expression as best she could despite her headache and festering worry. “Thank you. The Fifth Talon would like a cart prepared in the Crossroads outside the Minrathous eluvian along with some strong, uninjured Crows who can carry bodies back on stretchers if need be.” 

“It will be done. Any other requests?”

She glanced around, but saw no one else nearby. “I heard some of our wounded came through. Where are they now?”

“Using the card tables as extra beds,” he answered before frowning as he smoothed his moustache. “We’ve already lost three, and one more seems to be on his way out. The healers who stayed are all busy, and everyone else went to Minrathous. It’s… going to get better soon. I’m certain. Your arrival can only herald better tidings.”

Again, Lidia bit her tongue to keep herself from asking if the dead were known to her. Instead, she simply nodded to signal her understanding and left. 

As she descended the many flights of stairs separating the rafters from the casino floor, her brow furrowed as her concern compounded on itself. Every step felt heavier as she ran over the names and faces of her favorite Crows in her mind. Lucanis, Teia, Viago, and Chance were safe. Jacobus stayed behind in Treviso after Lidia begged him to - their argument consisted of shouting and frustrated tears, but ended with several forehead kisses and a warm, loving hug once he finally agreed to stay. But the others? Heir, Dolores, Cazi, Valerian? 

Illario?

She hated herself for worrying about him the most. He had not earned back that space in her head, and yet he’d stolen it again. He occupied her thoughts in various stages of injury, and images of him maimed or charred or exsanguinated flashed through her mind. With everything he put her through, everything he lied about, she knew she should be savoring the idea of him dead somewhere in Minrathous. But it haunted her, the thought of never seeing him again. It ached like a stone with sharp edges lodged in her chest.

I should’ve left Treviso entirely, she thought bitterly as she rounded the corner of the final stairwell.

The floor of the Diamond opened up before her, and she sighed at the state of it. About half of the card tables had wounded Crows perched on them - several with especially nasty-looking injuries - and a corner of the room was sectioned off with makeshift dividers. A few trails of blood - droplets, drag marks, or both - meandered off toward different tables. It would take days to get this place functional again. 

Overlapping voices from various healers and patients filled the room. Most were voices she recognized, and she felt a wave of relief as they registered one by one. And as one of them filtered in, her head turned immediately toward the sound.

“I know, quite heroic,” said Illario with a soft groan. “Maybe someday the heroism will outweigh the stupidity.”

Lidia spotted him on a table, shirtless and wrapped in bandages, with his hair swept over one shoulder and a healer tending to his right side. He moved sluggishly and only when told, but his posture was still straight and his voice was still clear. He looked… decent.

She chided herself again for being so worried. Of course Illario was fine. Of course he made it with only minor injuries. Why wouldn’t he? He always had demonic luck. Why worry about him, Illario the traitor, Illario the liar, Illario the cheater, heartbreaker, manipulator–

“Lidia?”

She looked back at him at the sound of his voice, realizing her fingernails were starting to dig into her palms. She grabbed a stray coin off an empty card table and turned it over a few times in her hand as she made her way toward Illario.

He smiled at her approach, winced as he turned too far, and gave a slightly smaller and surprisingly sheepish grin when she reached his side. “Stay right there,” he said, holding out his unbandaged arm. “That’s always been my good side.”

Lidia rolled her eyes. “You couldn’t possibly say hello, or ask me how I am, or ask after Lucanis, could you? Do you even care?”

“I–” He hissed sharply and cursed as the healer pried something off his skin with a sticky sound. He leaned forward at the same time Lidia did, blocking her view of whatever was removed from him, and flashed another forced half-smile. “Of course I care, but I trust your delightful bluntness. I’m certain you would have told me the second you saw me if he was dead. I’m also certain you would look like you’ve been crying.”

She scowled and crossed her arms, angrily spinning the coin between her thumb and forefinger. “You’re a bastard.”

“I’m not, strictly speaking, but I never did get to know my father as well as I would have liked, so I’ll give you–” He cut himself off with another wince as the healer removed another piece from him. Once more, Lidia leaned forward to look, and once more, Illario intercepted her, this time by reaching for her arm.

“Don’t touch me,” she snapped, pulling away from him.

He let his hand fall back to the table. “If there’s one thing I can say about you, it’s that you never gave me mixed signals. I always know exactly where I stand. I love this about you - have I mentioned that?”

“You have. A pity I can’t say the same about you.”

Before he could respond, his head surged backwards and he let out a pained cry as the healer unwound one of the bandages on his arm.

“Apologies,” the healer muttered, “but now that the debriding is done, I need to replace these compresses and apply the rest.”

“Sure,” Illario groaned through his teeth. “You’re the expert.”

Lidia took her opportunity and shifted her stance to see the extent of his injuries. She couldn’t stifle a small gasp, which seemed to hurt him more than anything else.

A splotchy pink burn blossomed across most of his right forearm and about half his bicep, and it continued across the corresponding side of his torso. For the briefest of seconds, he turned his head to look at her fully, eyes wide and pleading, as he inadvertently revealed the connecting burn across the right side of his jawline and down his neck. The moment passed, and he lowered his face and sighed quietly.

Raw, red, sticky-looking flesh was visible in a few places, and as the healer set a small bowl on the table to free his hands, Lidia finally saw its contents: a small pile of dead, mottled tissue. How long had Illario been here, having his skin peeled off piece by blistered piece? Most of the burns looked deep enough to go past the pain, but in some places they were angry and crimson, shining as if wet. 

The healer covered them one by one with bandages soaked in a healing solution as Illario tried to be still. “I told you that was my good side,” he muttered, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Lidia tucked the coin into her pocket and hoisted herself up onto the table beside him, legs kicking off the edge. “So… what happened?”

His eyes fell to the uninjured hand he had resting in his lap. “Magefire.” His voice sounded low, unenthusiastic - a far cry from the initial charm he laid on so thickly. “But this lovely gentleman here–” he motioned lightly toward the healer– “has assured me the wounds are not fatal. Just scarring. You’re crushed, I’m sure.”

Her headache throbbed dully, reminding her not to take his bait tonight. Instead, she said, “I’m just surprised you got hit at all. You’ve always been the luckiest bastard in Antiva.”

“Well, this time, I left Antiva.”

“Which you have done before, and you know what I meant anyway, idiot.”

He shrugged with his good arm, still refusing to meet her eyes. “Lucanis and I were cornered, and I stood in front of him. Foolish thing to do, I know. But I suppose I was trying to make up for something he would probably tell me not to worry about anyway. He was fine last time I saw him, if you’re concerned.”

“I’m not. Unless he tripped over something during his victory march, he’s alive and well…” She trailed off as she looked him over again. His right arm injured, mostly on the outside; his right side burnt while the left half of his body remained untouched; only the lower right corner of his jaw and cheek scorched… he shoved Lucanis behind him with his left arm and shielded his eyes with his right.

“Then I’m sure he’ll give me a stern talking-to for trying to protect him in the first place,” Illario said wearily, finally glancing up to her. “Who knows, maybe all I really achieved was making the First Talon look weak in front of the others.”

“Or making yourself look even more pathetic.”

“Which would just be impressive at this rate, no?” He breathed a soft, humorless laugh. “Illario Dellamorte, the Crow who lost all his dignity in record time. They’ll sing about my failures someday.”

As the healer left to attend to another patient, Lidia touched Illario’s leg, the weight of her hand pleasant and warm on his shin. “If nothing else, it was brave.”

He gave an indecisive tilt of his head. “It was also stupid.”

“More than one thing can be true.”

He gave a wan smile. “Lucanis probably would have been fine if he hadn’t been babysitting me in the first place.”

“Knowing him, he fought harder with you next to him.”

He studied her face, his eyes searching hers for a moment. “You’ve blood on you,” he said, nodding toward her hairline. “Your own?”

“I’m alright.”

“That’s not the answer to my question.”

She rolled her eyes. “It is mine, but I’m still alright.”

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Venatori.”

When she did not continue, he deadpanned, “The picture you’ve painted so far is vivid.”

“Don’t vex me, Illario.”

“Am I not allowed to ask for details? To be concerned for you?”

She glared at him. “Now you’re concerned about me?”

“One concussion makes another more likely,” he reminded her in that insufferably knowing tone of his. “And I would hate for my hard work in facilitating your recovery from that first one to go to waste.”

“Yes, but whose fault was my first concussion?”

Indignantly, he flattened his hand against his chest. “I accept no responsibility for the actions of previous targets.”

“But said previous target would have been asleep if it wasn’t for you playing hero.”

“Must we always revisit that night?”

“You brought it up!” Her head ached as she raised her voice, and she massaged her tender scalp gently as she closed her eyes.

His teasing smirk faded to a soft frown, but he replaced it with a subtle smile before joking, “And here I had hoped you would be kinder to me now that you’ve seen the extent of my injuries.”

“Not a chance. My skin is still crawling from being this close to you,” she answered while making no attempt to move farther away.

He arched a brow smugly. “Well, I suppose, as you said, more than one thing can be true.”

“I am… glad… you made it,” she managed reluctantly. “I was looking for you among our dead.”

“Hoping to see me with my skull split, were you?”

Her hand slid up and his uninjured one met her halfway. They locked gently at his side. “You would deserve it, but… no. I was hoping I wouldn’t see your boots.”

“Oh? And I would have thought you’d only know me by my gloves.”

I would know any part of you, her mind brought forth. She blanketed the thought and tucked it away to be scolded later.

“I suppose I’ll be escorted back to the villa and left there to recover,” Illario mused aloud when she didn’t answer his quip. “I wonder if it’ll be too much to ask for Caterina to let me stay in my own room again. And I’m sure Viago will be just as thrilled as you are that I survived.”

“He’s busy. I’ll take you.”

He sighed fondly - if a touch sadly - and stroked her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. “Do you remember the last time you took my care upon yourself? I don’t suppose you’ll be making me pastina this time.”

Lucanis’ wake. She made a hot meal every day and shared it with Illario in silence as they sat in his bed and he stared into the fireplace. At the time, she had no way of knowing that his grief was doubled by guilt and only compounded by her kindness. She did not regret it, not even now, and that frustrated her more than anything else.

She hopped off the table and pulled lightly on his arm. “On your feet, Dellamorte. Come on.”

He swung his legs over the side of the table and winced. “Where are we going?”

“Home. I’m not letting you take up space in the Diamond when others may need it more.”

“I won’t argue with the promise of a more comfortable seat,” he responded with a grimace as he rose to his feet. Looking down at their hands, still entwined between them, he added, “Though we could stop for coffee on the way…”

“The owners of Café Pietra could be lying under rubble in Minrathous right now.”

“...So, no?”

“No.”

She pulled him out the Diamond’s front door and they started the long walk back to Villa Dellamorte. Out of habit, Illario walked at her side so she was safely between him and the buildings. She pretended not to notice, but heat rose in her cheeks all the same.

At a side street, she directed him to turn, and when he gave her that quizzical where are you taking me look, she explained, “We have to stop at the market.” 

“For what?”

“Pastina, idiot,” she said pointedly, as if it should have been obvious.

He smiled and leaned against her, further entangling their arms. “I don’t deserve you, cara mia.”

She glared at him sideways. “No, you don’t. And don’t call me that. Lucanis would be cross with me if I let his brother starve, that’s all this is.”

Neither of them knew if that really was the extent of it. But for once, he neither questioned nor corrected her. 

She held his hand the whole way home, and they sat in silence as they shared a bowl of pastina on his bed. For a night, that could be enough.

[munnmolads]

For people who have read the Lemurian Sea God myth...

Where do you place it in Rafayel's lore? I'm slightly torn between options. Also a small snippets of a theory I never posted and I'm sad about it 😅

Spoilers for the myth under the cut.

I'm thinking it's majorly alternative timeline instead of linear story relative to the main story.

Based on what I gathered from the myth (and I need to rewatch it several times), Rafayel was shackled the entire time from the Forgotten Sea to Romirro, somehow surviving the changes the planet(?) goes for millions of years.

I find it hard to believe it's connected to the main story that is in the current timeline, unless there's more going on than meets the eye. Because how he would be able to be in the current timeline, if Romirro happens after the main story and he's shackled in there? Or why they are trying to awaken the Sea God's powers again in the main story line, since it seemingly was that he managed to get all his powers back in the myth.

But man, I'm so sad that I actually wrote about the bond being a shackle for him in my drafts, but I never posted it. I theorized that Extreme Dose's "bad ending" was hinting what he was supposed to do - take her heart so it's not interfering with his godly duties. I still am torn about if Raf was meant to fall in love or not. At this point, I feel he wasn't supposed to fall in love. This is why I find making these theories so interesting, it's really fun to see how my own perspectives change after some time.

I might edit this theory/analysis a bit more with the information we currently have and post it anyway 👀

[three-realms-archive]

The Three Realms Archive: Masterlist and Rules!

Welcome to the Three Realms Archive, where you can find stories about the beings that reside in the Three Realms and beyond! Whether it be stories of the Avatars of Sin, the students of Prince Diavolo’s RAD exchange programme, or of the incredible human who became sorcerer under the tutelage of the Wise Sorcerer and Master of the Seven Rulers of the Underworld… You can find their stories here!

Atmospheric introduction aside, welcome to this side blog for writing to do with Obey Me! And Obey Me! Nightbringer. These will most likely be bits and pieces that come to me when they come.

My ideas inbox is currently open (use the ‘Ideas Here!’ tab to send them), but please read the rules below first!!!

This blog is new, so bear with me whilst I work on aesthetics and getting started on writing/uploading some stuff I've written :D

Rules and masterlist under the cut:

Rules and Considerations

Please be kind and respectful to each other!

For personal reasons, this is a non-NSFW blog. Please do not suggest NSFW in the ideas box beyond slightly suggestive - any requests like this will be ignored. I will do my best to place content warnings where I think it's needed.

The ideas inbox is called such because you can be as vague as you want - even a single word. However, it is also called this because they are ideas and - depending on various factors like my schedule, how inspired I am, and how much certain ideas inspire me to write - there is no guarantee I write for every idea, or the same amount for every idea. Thank you for understanding in advance :D

I’m a fairly new OBM player, so if anything I write is contrary to the canon, please let me know and I can add a note or rectify it. Most of these are meant to be “imagine the character in this situation” and my personal interpretation.

Have fun!

Masterlist

🌟Inspired by an ideas inbox request!

Oneshot Fics

Checking In: The House of Lamentation family check into a human-world hotel.

Beware MC, the Kind: Sorcerer MC is gaining a reputation similar to that of their teacher, Solomon the Wise. But for what reasons?

Let's Form an Idol Group: Will Asmo's next attempt at making his brothers into a boy band succeed? (This one has a cute commenting challenge - please check it out!)

Dramatic Drama: Telenovelas can be very emotionally-investing for demons.

🌟A Small, Little Lie: TSL Arranged Marriage! AU. The sentence "I love you" means very different things to the Lord of Masks and his spouse and former-knight, Henry.

Love Me, Or Not: Satan pulls on flower petals, hoping to get the same result you did.

Was Never Your First, After All: A childhood friend visits you and Mammon realises ‘first man’ doesn’t suit him much anymore.

First Dates: A collection of first date thoughts from each Avatar of Sin.

Short Snippets

Ante Up: Mammon finds he's a lot more motivated to win quickly when he's at the casino with you.

The RAD School Play: Ideas about MC’s role in a school play at RAD.

Six Pillows and a Tattered Armchair: An angsty (ref. to Lesson 16) accompaniment to ‘Beel is Pillow’, exploring Belphie’s relationship with sleep in the aftermath of his actions.

The RAD Cheer Squad: 2, 4, 6, 8 - who do we appreciate? … Probably not whoever came up with the RAD Cheer Squad.

What Is Up, Fellow Celestials?: Luke finds this one human really, really cool. MC and Simeon suffer the consequences.

Just Wanting To Be Included: Mammon and Beel post a FabSnap video, but their brother just wants to be included.

Debuting Change: Diavolo invites a special guest to a special occasion.

Just A Study: Solomon tries to convince himself that living with you was just a study. Spoilers for Nightbringer Lesson 40!

Relent: Belphie has a super, super smart plan to get you to cuddle in bed with him.

A Rainy Day Indulgence: Simeon dances with you in the rain, and it reminds him of something.

Headcannons

Unhinged™: A bunch of silly headcanons that could each be their own anime episodes. Chaotic things the OBM! cast have done. Inspired by this post by @leniisreallycool.

Series

Beel is Anything, If You Beel-ieve

A very unserious collection of slice-of-life snippets, where Beel goes on a journey to become as many things as possible.

Beel is Pillow: Beel is pillow.

Beel is Paint: Beel is paint, according to Asmo.

Beel is Anime: Beel is anime, and Levi is not okay with this.

🌟 Scars, Wounds and Minor Inconveniences

A series exploring slice-of-life snapshots of the Obey Me! characters in the aftermath of Lesson 16. Each chapter is made up of two posts: a oneshot centred around one of MC's scars, wounds or minor inconveniences; and a post with the general headcanons inspiring the oneshot. Features references to injury and spoilers for Lesson 16 of OG Obey Me!.

Phantom Pain (Oneshot + Headcannons): Mammon is used to your 'needles-thing' by now. He doesn't mind it. After all, he has his own things he does every now and again.

A Weak Wrist (Oneshot + Headcannons): Your wrist is still weak from the TSL Quiz; so Lucifer doesn’t understand why you trust Leviathan more.

Nightmares (Oneshot + Headcannons): Belphegor relishes you and Beel growing further apart... until he doesn't, when Beel's dreams change.

Splintered Arms and a New Bedtime Routine (Oneshot + Headcannons - Coming Soon!): The angels are confused at the weird routine you and Beel have before bedtime during a sleepover at Purgatory Hall.

Better, Quicker Reflexes (Oneshot + Headcannons - Coming Soon!): Lucifer used to think his form of discipline was effective.

[burnt-by-marigolds]

Stealing Moments of Comfort – complete fic

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relantionships: Astarion & Tav, Astarion / Tav

Additional tags: Angst, emotional hurt/comfort, friendship/love, nebularomanticism, banter, character study, relantionship study, autistic Tav, sensory sensitivity, overstimulation, implied/referenced self-harm, self-esteem issues, loneliness, childhood memories, (some nice some not so much), canon-typical violence, (but only described in flashbacks), spoilers for Act 3 (Baldur's Gate 3), Astarion is trying his best, Yae is also trying his best

Summary: Running into Petras and Dalyria in the flophouse proved to be a tense experience. Now Yae and Astarion both worry about the future and their ambiguous, unexplored relationship, weighing the possibility of turning into an illithid or ascending. Yae suffers from overstimulation; Astarion comes to comfort him, convinced it’s the last warm moment they share.

Read on AO3 or under the cut.

⊱✿⊰

I… did it, I guess.

I have written and published my first fanfic. Which is a lot, given my complicated relantionship with the skill known as finishing, and the fact I dropped writing almost ten years ago and only picked it up again recently.

Thanks to everyone who liked and commented on my wip snippets, for every little bit of encouragement. I know I needed it.

Shout out to @thekindredcollective and their BG3 Spring Cleaning event for giving me the push to finish it sooner than later.

Stealing Moments of Comfort

We are a team, aren’t we? You’re still with me?  – Astarion to Tav, Act 3

⊱✿⊰

Putting a tent up so close to others was a matter of practicality: it ensured safety. And, well, maybe companionship had become a welcome thing during all the travels and adventures together. But tonight? Seated by a small table, Astarion glanced at an empty mirror placed among other clutter, wishing he could disappear – just like his reflection had two centuries ago.

And that silly ragged owlbear plush Yae had put on a cushion next to the tent’s entrance. The serious Yae, who barely ever cracked a joke, for some unfathomable reason found it amusing. At this very moment, Astarion regretted not throwing the toy away – because even the stuffed animal seemed to regard him with contempt. The worn beady eyes whispered: You’re pathetic.

Angry, the elf unscrewed a jar of preserved blood. So easy for others to judge him! He hadn’t really hurt Petras, the idiot’s face would heal eventually – unless the wretched fool would get sacrificed first, in which case it didn’t matter anyway, right?

Righteous chumps and their double standards.

Astarion remembered the moment he’d held the other spawn to the golden light filtering through dusty window panes. The thrill of being in control, of being feared instead of fearful. The cloying scent of undead flesh turning to ash. Dal begging him to stop and the knowledge – oh, the knowledge – he had the power to do however he pleased…

And then Yae had spoiled it all.

Frustrated, the rogue slammed his forehead against the table, and raked all ten fingers through his silvery curls. 

I, um… Well, the way they swirl around your ears. I like it, Yae’s half-bashful, half-nonchalant voice rang in his mind. Gods, please, there couldn’t possibly be a worse moment to remember how the warlock had offered to be Astarion’s mirror. The initial hesitation, then a quick barrage of words, all in fear otherwise the thought would remain unspoken.

The vampire felt like he was looking into hundreds of broken shards – all of them empty to match his hollow self. But the reflection in Yae’s eyes? It was his only one, yet just another lie, conjured up beyond his control. Once Yae saw through the illusion, he would definitely ditch Astarion.

And it was probably going to happen tonight.

⊱✿⊰

Yae wished his head wouldn’t hurt so badly, as if someone was trying to gouge his eyeballs out. He wished the light of the flames flickering in the center of the camp wouldn’t be so painfully bright, threatening to send him reeling whenever he looked directly at it. He wished Karlach’s hearty laughter, as she entertained Wyll with one more anecdote about her time under Zariel, wouldn’t ring in his ears like a sheet of metal struck with a rod. 

Shadowheart’s herbal tea left a bitter aftertaste on the warlock’s tongue. He sighed and emptied the bronze cup in one swig. Blah. No matter how thoughtful she had tried to be, the medicine probably wasn’t going to help. He only drank it to make her feel better. 

Yae rummaged through the contents of the chest, huffing in exasperation. Where had he put that damned sleep mask? All he really wanted right now was to lie down in his tent, wrap himself in a blanket, cut off as much stimuli as possible and try to forget all the misery.

A soft clink, grating to his oversensitive hearing, made the half-elf wince. His hand had knocked against something smooth and cool. With furrowed brow, Yae pulled out a glass jar with the Emperor’s astral tadpole in it. Oh, right. He had almost forgotten about the little parasite. It writhed languidly in the vessel. Even now, he could sense its profound loneliness, and a twinge of sympathy coursed through him. There were times when he felt like he was being stored away in a glass jar, too, prevented from truly connecting with other sentient beings.

Was this why the thought of potentially turning into an illithid didn’t frighten him as much as it disturbed others? Or why he had felt so safe and comfortable while visiting the myconid colony? Because a sense of belonging was woven directly into those creatures’ very nature?

Yae flopped down onto the dirt from a squat, settling into a cross-legged position. Pensive, he watched the listless tadpole swim about its prison.

At first, he had been ready to accept the Emperor’s offer. It was such an incredible opportunity, he would have learned so much, gained insights beyond normal people’s understanding. And in exchange for what? The body he had never been particularly fond of? This imperfect vessel, prone to headaches and sensory overloads? Or his “remarkable” personality and lack of social skills – qualities that seemed to put off everyone around? Yae’s patron didn’t show disapproval, so honestly, the choice appeared obvious.

And yet.

I want you to stay you. 

It wasn’t Lae’zel’s or Wyll’s strong convictions that made Yae waver, nor Shadowheart’s vehement protests. They didn’t understand, didn’t want to undergo the change, and it was fine.

No. It was Astarion’s acceptance, and the concern that followed, that made the warlock shelve the idea – almost literally. The vampire, as loath as he proved to use the tadpole himself, never tried to dissuade Yae from embracing illithid powers; he turned out to be the only person in the entire camp who encouraged the other man to make his own choice. 

But do be careful.

Yae groaned and bent slightly as if from physical pain. He wished he could repay Astarion in kind. He wished he could just say: “Sure, go ahead, do the ritual if it’ll make you happy”. But he couldn’t – and despised himself for it. Deep inside, he was certain he’d lose Astarion and hated his own inability to let the vampire go. 

Yae raised the glass jar to his eyes again. Behind the faint reflection of his grey irises floated the translucent creature. That’s it, he thought. If Astarion ascends, it’s all over. If he does, I’m taking the tadpole.

⊱✿⊰

Astarion hated many things in existence, and waiting idly for a bad event to occur was one of them. No, he should take control and face the inevitable on his own terms – better to get it over with than count the hours. He only needed Yae to bear with him for a little longer; once he ascended, he would be happy to go his separate way, just–

Well, perhaps “happy” was an overstatement.

Astarion stood up, ready to wield his preferred set of weapons: charms and smiles. He swallowed the feeling of disgust and sauntered towards the center of the camp.

“Shadowheart, dear.” It almost scared him how easy it was to adopt a playful tone. “Have you perchance seen Yae?”

“You two just can’t stay away from each other, can you?” the not-exactly-cleric-of-Shar teased the vampire as she shifted her grip on an uncorked bottle of Amnian Dessert Wine. “I have, in fact. He came to me feeling bad, so I gave him some herbs. He said he was going to sleep early.”

“Feeling bad?”

Shadowheart sighed.

“You know. Overstimulated.”

Yes, Astarion knew.

⊱✿⊰

The crunch of dirt under careful footsteps warned Yae someone was approaching even before he heard the lilting “darling, it’s me” and the rustle of the tent’s flap. 

“Do you mind?” the half-elf snapped from between the covers. “You’re letting light in!”

“Yes, yes, just give me a second–” The flap swished back down. “You know, sometimes I could swear you’re the vampire in this relationship. Don’t you have your blindfold, excuse me, sleep mask on?”

“So? It doesn’t fit perfectly. There’s a tiny slit,” Yae grumbled and shifted in his bedroll – not to face the visitor, but to bury himself deeper in the blankets. People always found it hard to believe just how sensitive he could be. “What do you want?”

Astarion’s cocky façade didn’t crumble one bit. Still, something about the other man’s frail state ruffled him. He didn’t want to see Yae suffer; he needed to see him strong. He knew for certain his friend wasn’t weak – the power he wielded against enemies! And yet…

Astarion pushed the intrusive thoughts aside.

“Honestly, you surprise me,” the words carried a very precise weight of nonchalance. “You always act like you’re the only person with an intact brain inside your pretty head, and yet when you feel sick, all you do is wrap that silly cloth over your face and hide away from the world.” Another sound followed the rogue’s words, a more dry and crinkly one, like… a sheet of parchment? Yae huffed.

“Oh, I have pursued many solutions already, both preternatural and mundane. I even dared to ask my patron to show some clemency, but the magic they grant me isn’t exactly of curative nature.”

“Patron-shmatron,” Astarion snorted. “The powers don’t care about the well-being of their subjects, I thought you already knew that. But speaking of magic – have you talked to Gale?”

“Yes.” Yae sighed. He realized the vampire wanted to help, but the underlying suggestion – even if not deliberate – that he hadn’t tried hard enough to resolve the matter still annoyed him. “He proposed casting Leomund’s Tiny Hut and filling it with darkness. The problem is, I can’t work the spell myself, and if he does, he’d be stuck with me for several hours, which is… far from ideal.”

“Is it? Say a word, and I’ll drag him here and tie him to a pole,” Astarion offered with mock gallantry mixed with a drop of sultriness. “Of all the people in this group one could share a tent with, he’s not the worst choice.”

Yae groaned.

“No!”

The vampire let out a snicker. Right, the grumpy little pet wasn’t a fan of suggestive jokes. Now probably even less than ever.

“Apologies.” The sick half-elf couldn’t see it, but he was certain Astarion flashed him a not-so-repentant smile. “On second thought, maybe it’s not such a brilliant idea. I mean, you two would probably get lost in some incredibly boring, unnecessarily convoluted arcane dispute and you’d forget entirely about my existence.”

The unconvinced hum from between the blankets clearly indicated Yae doubted if the feat was ever possible.

Astarion glanced at the yellowed parchment he had “borrowed” from the group’s shared supplies.

“Why not cast Darkness around yourself, though?”

“I don’t have any magic left. And it’s better to save the scroll in case we need to use it against enemies.”

“Nonsense. You need it now.” He sat down next to the bedroll. “Take that stupid rag off your face. Cast the spell.”

“It’s only several minutes, it’s a waste of the scroll,” Yae protested.

“It’s several minutes of respite, for gods’ sake! Just do it!”

“Fine, fine, just keep it down, will you? Ugh…”

The warlock untangled from the covers and pushed the sleep mask up to his forehead. He then took the parchment from Astarion. Once the words of power filled the air, shadows clotted and amassed, obscuring the inside of the tent in an almost suffocating blackness. Even gifted with darkvision, the two men were unable to pierce it. Yae sighed; to him the pristine darkness proved so soothing. 

Astarion tried not to think how much the tent now resembled a tomb. At least there were two people in it, he reassured himself; as if to prove that point, he sought out Yae’s hand. It jerked at the unexpected touch, but didn’t shy away.

If only it wasn’t the last time they held hands like this… Even so, Astarion would treasure the memory.

For the next few moments, they just sat, a layer of darkness like a shroud upon them. Eventually the magic faded; the light of the campfire and torches once again danced on the tent’s canvas, shining through. Yae dropped onto his back, letting go of the cold fingers, and slung one arm over his eyes.

“You were right.” To his surprise, Astarion’s voice sounded disheartened. “It was pointless.”

“No, I–” He suddenly felt like an ingrate. “You were right. It was nice, if brief. Thank you.”

The vampire lay down on his side next to the warlock and propped his head on an elbow.

“No matter how many scrolls I lift from careless wizards and foolish nobles, it won’t be enough. An inefficient solution is no solution at all.” If only I had the power to protect you.

“I still appreciate it,” Yae muttered from under his elbow.

“Me wasting resources?” Astarion forced some of his stylemark tease into the words.

“Yeah. You wasting resources on me.”

“It was irrational. You haven’t forgotten you hate it when people act irrational, right?”

“It was thoughtful. Even I can see that.”

“Come now, don’t try to make me feel good.”

“No, really. It’s not your fault all spells are designed as if someone had a very complex dragonchess ruleset in mind.”

This finally drew a chuckle from Astarion.

“You’ve noticed that? Horrendous when it comes to practical, everyday purposes.”

Yae didn’t respond. Despite the fatigue, his spirits lifted a bit as well; the shadow of today’s events cleared in his mind, like a dispelled magical effect. Well, maybe it didn’t withdraw completely. The memory of the acrid smell that had filled the flophouse’s small common room still lingered in the corners of the man’s psyche. It threatened to spring to the fore should he concentrate on it too much, to coat his tongue again, to worsen the already bad headache. But at least for now, he had the strength to ignore it. Wasn’t it nice to just enjoy Astarion’s company in comfortable silence instead?

“I’m a scum.”

Yae started as his friend’s voice brought him back. It took a few seconds for the words to register. Something didn’t add up. 

“Where does this one come from?”

“Can’t you see? I’m doing it again. I’m acting nice because there is something I want to talk about and I’m trying to soften you up.”

The tiniest of smiles formed on the half-elf’s lips. Astarion no doubt believed what he’d just said; his voice had that distinctive, almost anxious tinge.

It is true that brains generally prefer simple explanations – but Yae was never quite satisfied until he had a chance to take a thing apart and understand every minute detail of its inner workings. The reason given rang true, but he didn’t think it was the only, or even the most important one. It took almost all his willpower to not immediately open his mouth and argue. But by now he knew that in return he’d only get a snarky comment about being a smartass.

“Well, at least you’re not trying to seduce me anymore, so I’d still say that’s a step up.”

Astarion scowled.

“As a former magistrate, I swear, someone should immediately revoke your smartass license.”

Oh, well. He got called a smartass anyway.

“Yeah, right, just tell me already why I should hate you so I can tell you why I’m not going to.”

Despite the circumstances, Yae’s dry response did bring Astarion a little comfort. Which, somehow, also made things worse.

“Nice things just don’t last, do they? They are meant to be… fleeting.” The vampire paused. That wasn’t how he’d rehearsed the lines. Gods, after two hundred years of honing his casual, disinterested tone, he should be able to use it at will, like a street magician casting Dancing Lights for the amusement of the crowd. Instead, wistfulness crept into his words, but he wasn’t some teary-eyed puppy, damn it! Astarion clicked his tongue and pressed on. “When we started to get along… I immediately began to wonder how long it would take for us to stop.”

“Yeah. Me too,” whispered Yae.

The red eyes flicked in his direction, filled with disbelief.

“Really?”

“Really.” All of a sudden, the warlock felt immeasurably tired, and it had nothing to do with the headache or overstimulation. “It happens every time. Whenever I meet someone interesting and start thinking there might be a connection. I’m too weird for normal people and too normal for weird people.” He sighed. “Sorry. You were talking. I cut in.”

Despite the uneasiness, Astarion chuckled.

“I don’t know, I rather dig your brand of ’weird’.” And that’s the problem. “Look. I know what you think. You dislike that I fried Petras’s nose a little. I promise you, the fool won’t suffer any permanent damage.” Here came the defensiveness again. Once more, the vampire tried to quickly don his favoured armour of nonchalance – not a shining one, but tarnished with bitterness. “Well, it had to happen someday, right? You had to realize I’m not a person you want to keep around. I don’t blame you. I’m not going to try and convince you to change your mind. You’ve already shown me plenty of patience. But– if you’d only let me stick around for–”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tsk, come on!” The pale elf’s voice thrummed with frustration. Was Yae feigning ignorance on purpose? “I saw the look on your face! When I asked if we’re still a team, you didn’t even bother to reply! You avoided me for the rest of the day!” The words just… spilled, an almost accusatory tide instead of a graceful flow. Astarion pressed his mouth into a tight line.

“Oh, by the gods.” That was exactly why Yae hated all sorts of social interaction – no, why he feared them. So many assumptions. People invariably digging for hidden meanings. “I was unable to say anything! I– I needed time to myself! You know I always need time!” Vexed, he fidgeted with a ring on his finger – a perfectly mundane object with some simple etchings, made of three interlocking bands of metal. Of course the entire situation boiled down to him doing or not doing something, not having the correct expression, not showing the expected reaction, needing to process things. And now his voice was cracking while blood thumped in his ears – and he hated it with all his heart, because you shouldn’t show such intense emotions, Yae, it’s unprofessional and makes people uncomfortable.

Exhaustion and shame enveloped him like the pungent smoke – sticking to him just like the smell had stuck to hair, clothes and skin. Now he wished he could just cast Darkness again – to wrap himself in it safely, vanish, and possibly never return.

The uneasy silence that followed suddenly made both men aware of other, more distant sounds. Scratch barked happily, and the owlbear cub hooted back at him. Someone laughed. Was it Halsin? Probably. The sound had that warm, growly undertone.

“Just say I’m a cruel, horrible person, a monster, and let’s have it out of our way.” If only Astarion could run away from the mixture of desperation and defeat that burned in his chest. Wasn’t it what he wanted all along? For people to believe he was strong, intimidating, ruthless? He had tried hard to cultivate that image, but never once anticipated there could be a time when he’d regret others seeing him this way.

Another howl of throaty laughter echoed through the camp. What was the term Halsin had once mentioned to Astarion? “Deimatic behaviour”?

Yae’s head throbbed. He covered his eyes with open palms, trying to stop them from popping out of the sockets. Most of the time he felt utterly unequipped to deal with his own life, with all the setbacks and problems – and no matter how much he wanted to be there for Astarion, he simply lacked the energy. The half-elf’s brain spluttered and nearly came to a halt like a malfunctioning Gondian clockwork – its favoured reaction in stressful situations, to just shut off. For the past few hours, he had gone through numerous versions of this conversation. In his mind, he knew exactly how to say all the right things. He was kind, understanding, wise – and, most importantly, able to offer Astarion precisely the words the vampire needed to hear.

Right now Yae’s head was as empty as a patriar’s promise.

And yet, something stirred in the petrified mindscape. Something alien that had in the last few weeks become intimately familiar, a part of himself. 

Yae’s tadpole gently brushed against the creature nestled in Astarion’s brain. The vampire suppressed the urge to shrink back, realising the immaterial caress wasn’t an intrusion, but an invitation. Almost a plea.

Let me in. Otherwise I don’t know how to express myself.

Astarion’s nostrils flared. Why couldn’t Yae just talk like a normal person? 

The brief spike of irritation died out as quickly as it had occurred. If Yae could, he would. There had been times when Astarion was so starved he lost the ability to speak, hadn’t there? He glanced at the other man with compassion he rarely allowed himself to show, and let the tadpoles swirl together, establishing a connection.

Yae sighed; his confidence surged. 

Usually, social interactions were so… confusing. He remembered playing Three-Dragon Ante with his older brother for the first time. Zenith didn’t explain the rules beforehand, stating that Yae would learn “as they went”. This discouraged the younger boy from the start, and the whole experience turned rather frustrating, with Zenith proving to be a messy teacher, mentioning various options in a rather haphazard way. Talking to other people posed an even greater challenge – you had to constantly keep guessing what the unwritten rules were, and those tended to change without warning, while others acted like they expected you to read their minds.

Well, actually reading minds was wonderful. Direct, raw, complex yet clear. With this, Yae could work.

So, is your parasite bothering my parasite because you wanted me to know you’re terrible at cards?

Hilarious, the warlock thought back. But gods, didn’t it feel good to uncork and be able to communicate again. He kept the connection unintrusive, just skimming over the surface of whatever Astarion was willing to share. As he calmed down, the sense of peace sipped into the vampire’s mind as well, and they non-verbally conveyed bits of what had troubled them today – just enough to notice how similar their fears and worries were.

You do sometimes feel like a mirror, Astarion’s thought was uncharacteristically quiet, bashful.

Yae took an audible breath.

“You’re not a monster,” he whispered. The physicality of the sound felt so out of place. “And even if you are, I don’t really care.” It was true. No matter how tempting it would be, he didn’t want some idealised version of Astarion. He wanted the real person. “You’re a friend. Yes, I’m worried sick – quite literally – not because of you, but about you.”

“You don’t want me gone?” 

“No. I’m sorry I didn’t say so immediately. Sometimes I’m dumb like this.”

Reassured, Astarion withdrew from the mental connection. The vampire didn’t hate it – and it was kind of adorable how elated it made Yae – but right now he wanted some privacy, at least in his own head. The two parasites twirled together for the last time before gently untangling.

Yae stared at the faint outline of the tent’s ceiling for a few more moments, bracing himself. He recalled again how Astarion had encouraged him to make his own choice regarding the special tadpole. It really was the time to repay the kindness.

“Astarion… I just wanted to make it clear. Once we face Cazador… Whatever you decide, your fate will be in your own hands.”

Astarion let out a loud exhale. Good. Oh gods, good. He wanted freedom. Above all, he wanted to be his own person. And it felt so validating Yae recognised this. 

The worst part, though, was that deep inside the unconditional acceptance chipped the vampire’s resolve to steal the ritual for himself.

Astarion shook his head. He shifted to face Yae more fully – as much as the cramped space allowed – and focused on something nice instead. At least he hoped it was nice.

“Friends.” He tasted the word. “You seem pretty attached to the idea. Not that I don’t like it,” he added quickly, “quite the contrary… but…”

He trailed off, suddenly uncertain if he really wanted to broach the subject. Not knowing was so nice, after all. And one serious talk was more than enough for tonight.

Yae thought back to his life before he had been kidnapped by illithids and infested with a tadpole; before he had moved to Baldur’s Gate; even before he had reached out to his patron and formed a pact. The tired poetic cliché would dictate it felt like a lifetime ago. If only memories had become a nice, gentle haze; if only the past would turn into a vault full of precious personal mythology. But the images danced in his mind, sharp – and while some weren’t unpleasant, those he’d rather forget burned the brightest.

The first one seemed innocent, happy even: a young boy, scrawny and awkward, perusing through his father’s magical tomes stored safely in a cozy, elegant library. Behind the window, the charming alleys of the Evereskan residential area soaked up the sun, the polished cobblestones almost glowing. The view reminded the boy of an oil painting – pretty, marked with a touch of gravity.

The thick aroma of special inks mixed with distinct scents of paper, vellum and papyrus, and the dusty undertone always made his nose tingle. Whenever he grew weary of reading, he would spend time contemplating the leather bindings, tracing embossings with his small fingers, staring at the marbled endpapers until he’d get dizzy.

It was a safe haven, away from the confusing demands of the world outside.

Inside the library no one made fun of his naivety. No one scolded him for being rude when he didn’t mean to be. No one ridiculed him for not being able to stay still. No one told him it was bad to show emotions. No one stared at the ugly bruise that lingered on his forehead, a mark from the time when, overwhelmed with frustration, he had banged his head against a wall. No one showed impatience at his silence, and no one sneered when he couldn’t stop talking about a treasured topic.

The books, even though full of power and magic, felt safe.

Xan of the Greycloaks encouraged those studies. A rather consummate pessimist, he would have, for once, been somewhat proud if his son had become a wizard like him. Perhaps he was trying to spare the boy at least some of existence’s misery; and perhaps he honestly didn’t realise his child had at some point decided all attempts at connecting with others were simply ill-fated and thus not worth the effort. 

It was certainly a blow when his son – for some unfathomable reason – chose a warlock’s vocation instead, but at least the father could find solace in the familiar, unmarred sense of impending doom.

The boy was an adult now and even though every day he feigned indifference, deep inside he hadn’t changed – deep inside, he still longed.

“I’ve always just wanted someone to be there,” Yae whispered into the darkness. Another picture sprouted in his mind: an adolescent version of himself, scared and wounded after a magical accident, reaching out to an eldritch entity precisely for this reason.

Astarion went quiet, letting the words sink in. 

Friends.

He smiled, remembering the shy kiss the other evening, on the bank of the River Chionthar.

Fine. He wasn’t going to argue about labels. He sat up.

“Alright. I’m going to get my bedroll.”

“What? Why would you–?”

“Because we’re doing a friendly sleepover. What did you think, you naughty boy?”

“I didn’t–!”

The vampire’s laughter rang in the air. The darkvision made the tent’s interior dull and grey, but he could imagine the lovely shade of rosy pink colouring Yae’s face. 

“Easy, darling. Should I also get that terrible owlbear plush?”

“Hey, the owlbear is cute!” Yae protested, but there was a hint of a smile in his voice now. Good.

“You must really be unwell. This is the first time I’ve heard you use the word ’cute’ willingly. Anyway, I’ll get a blanket, too. We’ll throw it over the tent to block off more light and sounds.”

“You’re going to smother me.”

“Possibly. If you’re into it.”

“What–? Argh, stop teasing me!”

“I’ll be back in a few!” Astarion left the tent before Yae could complain more.

As they were falling asleep, their fingers – deathly pale and light pink – hooked loosely, resembling the interlocking bands of Yae’s ring. Astarion wondered if things could really last, or if he’d simply stolen another moment of comfort. 

Or maybe those moments weren’t stolen at all. Maybe they were given freely.

Epilogue

A cry of anguish filled the blood-reeking air.

Yae slowly collapsed onto his knees. He didn’t touch Astarion, not knowing if the vampire wished for physical contact. Instead, he simply was there – a quiet, supporting presence. Astarion shuddered and sobbed; Yae felt his heart clench painfully.

“What do you need right now?”

“I don’t know. Let’s leave this cursed place.”

Later that evening, Yae browsed through his belongings. The jar was there, stuffed safely between layers of clothing. He plucked the little parasite out and held it at the eye-level. 

The small thing wriggled, begging for company. It just wanted someone to be there. 

Yae’s face twisted with sadness and guilt.

Emperor? Can you hear me? He took a deep breath. Please don’t be mad. If I don’t do it, the temptation will always be there. 

Swiftly, before doubt could wash his resolve away, the half-elf dropped the tiny creature to the ground and squashed it with his boot. It was yucky, like stepping on a slug. He winced at the sensation.

The loneliness was no more. 

With that, Yae went to find Astarion and see if there was anything he could offer his dearest, dearest friend.

[jenn2d2]

A Word With Friends - May 25, 2025

Finally, finally catching up on my tags, this one from the very lovely @seaglassmelody! Was also tagged by @notyourmamasdeerbat, @serensama, and gotta include @hedwigoprah ❤️

Rules: Use the challenge word to write a sentence or scene and then tag a few friends. Happy writing! 

This week’s word is: Sanguine

Definition (Adjective): optimistic or positive, especially in an apparently bad or difficult situation. OR Definition (noun): a blood-red color

My entry is another snippet of a WIP, a bit of the next chapter of Crow Parties are Murder where Emmrich does a little corpse whispering and Illario appreciates just how much effort it must be.

[There is a wee spoiler, so putting it under the cut just in case anyone wants to avoid that.]

The necromancer was beginning to show a small sheen of sweat at his brow as the continuation of the incantation settled onto his frame like a heavy blanket. Illario could tell that the normally sanguine man was beginning to feel the strain of holding the connection, which added to his own sense of unease. He had witnessed him throw the bodies of Venatori around a room as if they were made of paper and unravel blood magic with a wave. To see mere conversation pose such a challenge gave him a new appreciation for the effort involved and the man holding the magic together through sheer force of will. "Is anything else wrong? Do we need to tell her anything else?" Neve asked, one last time, putting as much emphasis as she could. The glow shifted from a bright green to a more intense blue, the light reflecting in the detective's eyes as the temperature in the surrounding area grew noticeably cooler. "Gabrielle," the response came out as an extended, angry hiss as Neve's face hardened. "Her knives are so sharp." All at once, the corpse sighed and relaxed as Emmrich let go of the incantation. He stepped back a couple of paces, and Neve reached out an arm to steady him as he caught his breath. "I'm afraid that is all I can do for this evening," Emmrich smiled ruefully, gratefully accepting her assistance to move to a nearby pew to sit. "The spirit was willing, but in a lot of pain. If at all possible, I believe we should ease them to a proper rest sooner rather than later."

[mithrilhearts]

Okay just because I know it's been on your mind a bunch lately! Tell me about "Time In Between" 👀

OH GOD IT'S HAPPENING, SOMEONE IS ASKING ME ABOUT MY DRAGON AGE STUFF!!! YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!

Can you see I'm excited? I'm happy??? Rookanis owns my ass right now (With Neve x Rook as a close second, let's be honest), and so I'm happy to share what's going on!

I appreciate you asking about this fic from The Dreaded WIP Game!

I'm going to throw it under the cut to avoid Veilguard spoilers just in case.

I'm currently working on a small fic that handles Rook's time in the Fade from act 3 of Veilguard - how Lucanis (and Spite) are dealing with her being gone, how Rook is doing in the Fade since they're actually stuck in there for WEEKS, and of course the aftermath.

There are so many little moments that we don't get to see, and thoughts I've had, so anyway, a little snippet from Lucanis' side of things.

“Rook?” Lucanis asked quietly, clambering up from his knees as the elven god’s eyes met his, that sorrowful look he bore was a facade, it had to be. Lucanis knew better. “What have you done to her?!” A bit of Spite’s distinguishable hiss infiltrated the assassin’s voice, but it was hard to separate who was Lucanis, and who was Spite at this given moment considering the boiling feeling of rage and loss taking root in his chest.

“Her work is done.”

At first, it felt as if someone had just dropped stones into Lucanis’ chest, wanting to drag him back down to the ground. For a moment, there was a weakness in the assassin’s legs that fooled him into thinking he might collapse, but something kept his knees locked. It was as if Spite were bracing him, holding him on his feet, and shoving him forward. Those four little words of Solas’ nearly sent Lucanis aflame, for he knew their implication, and clearly, so did Spite.

The bright purple glow of Spite’s rage took over Lucanis’ eyes, and immediately he lunged, with ghostly wings sprouting from his back. He may not have had a dagger on him worth killing a god, but he would find a way to kill this one with his bare hands if that’s what it took. 

[thorntopieces]

SNIPPETS!!!! I'd love to see them!

snippets under the cut but! bit of context first because i can't resist talking. if you don't care for the context you shouldn't need it for the small bits below!

this contains spoilers, both implied and explicit for persona 5, including 3rd semester general information. if you have started playing 3rd semester you are fine. if not you should wait to read this :) the snippets all take place before the end of november

basically i headcanon goro to have a condition called OSDD-1 (other specified dissociative disorder), which is basically like the condition i have (DID) but with either no amnesia or less elaborated identity states. i think the trauma he went through as a kid (neglect even if not intentional, his mother's death, foster care, social isolation, the inherent traumatic nature of being an assassin) caused his mind to fail to integrate properly, causing different 'personalities' (outdated term) to protect his mind. he has amnesia for traumatic childhood events and his assassin work, only keeping objective knowledge of it because it would be dangerous not to. so he knows roughly what happened, he just can't remember it. this translates interestingly to the metaverse, where you obviously show your true self. so if you don't have one true self, what happens then...?

on top of this, i have elected to explore the protagonist (named akira) with depersonalisation-derealisation disorder and sumire with OSDD-2 (caused by brainwashing/torture/etc)

at the end of the day it essentially rewrites all of the second half of p5 (october - end of 3rd semester). it's a massive undertaking but i'm having a lot of fun

if you have more questions i'd be happy to answer them. but here are a few snippets from the first few chapters (separated by **) :) general content warnings for: depersonalisation, derealisation, talks of murder, mild body horror (feeling puppeteered), general discussions of mental illness. nothing should be more explicit than the darkest tones p5 hit

And then, eyes cast to the floor, “And — Sakura-san, Okumura-san. I truly am sorry.”

Then he leaves, the silence of the gym faculty office oppressive.

“That was weird as hell,” Ryuji says into the quiet. “He’s been hounding us for months, harassing Akira to have someone to talk to, being a dipshit on camera but now he wants our help? Fat chance.”

Akira wants to retort, to say that no, actually, he’s really been enjoying the outings with Akechi to all sorts of places, but the words are trapped in his chest and nothing feels real. Distantly, with the last of his strength, he thinks that he really shouldn’t be as put-off by this as he is. He’s been through this four times before. This isn’t the first time he’s had his less-than-socially-appropriate part-time job revealed by someone he cares for.

But he’d been like this the past few times too, hadn’t he? With Tae he’d almost fainted, the world blurring in and out for almost an hour before he was stable enough to leave. With Iwai, he’d frozen up for minutes on end as his mind raced through all the possibilities of what would happen now. With Chihaya, he had for a moment felt true fear that the supernatural could be used for evil and work against him. Then, with Kasumi, where he’d gone home afterwards and only barely managed to send Morgana away to Futaba before majorly breaking down, unable to go to school the day after and claiming a very real migraine.

Akechi is a whole different threat. Tae only really knows him with the mask he wears there, Iwai with another, Chihaya a third. Kasumi, like always, is an exception. He’s pretty sure Akechi is the only one that might have been able to see past all twenty-something of his masks (one for each of the confidants, one for his parents, one for school, one from the court and police) to see what truly lays beneath. And he’s affiliated with the police.

Akira hasn’t felt so threatened by the very concept of Existing as he does right now in this moment, standing in the faculty office where his life had almost ended for a second time that fateful day in mid-April.

**

“So you’re the Black Mask we keep hearing about,” Sakamoto says, his voice rippling over the tense silence of Leblanc. “The Palace Rulers ‘cept for Kamoshida and Futaba almost pissed themselves even mentioning you. Are you really that scary?”

Akechi almost wants to laugh. Is he, per every definition a serial killer, scary? Maybe. “Yes, that would be right. He often had me go around the known Palaces of those funding his political campaign and check that their Rulers were compliant to what He wanted.”

“And you killed Futaba’s Ma,” Sakamoto continues. “And Haru’s dad. You’re an awful person, Akechi, you know that right? I can’t understand what Akira could possibly see in you.”

“Yes, I did,” Akechi says. The marionette strings in his face prevents him from acknowledging the second statement entirely.

“Why?!” Sakura-chan almost yells at him and he flinches involuntarily. “You killed my mum! What gave you the right?!”

For a moment his vision swims and his head hurts more and he’s sleepy and the tendrils expand in his jaw and curl around his body. He could sleep. He should sleep. But almost by a miracle, his voice keeps speaking, sounding different to his ears. His mouth moves on its own.

“She was a cognitive pscientist,” his mouth says. “She worked in a research facility closely related to Shido. I was ordered to spy on all of the employees’ Shadows for some weeks to ensure they weren’t hiding any progress from him. Your mother recognised the true potential— and danger —of the works he was doing and attempted to muddle the data she submitted while keeping a true copy elsewhere. Somehow Shido found out about it and ordered me to cause a psychotic breakdown in her. The intention was to incapacitate her, not kill her but—”

The sleepiness gives way for an onslaught of memories. Isshiki Wakaba’s Shadow walking around him, muttering about fractured minds and the outcomes of child abuse and how he’d make for an ideal test subject, being the son of one of the most distorted men in the country—

“I lost control,” he whispers, barely loud enough for the others to hear. The strings, the tendrils, the sleepiness is gone. It’s just him, now. “I didn’t mean to kill her. I really didn’t. It was an accident. He was overjoyed.”

He feels so conflicted … about everything really. His victims. His victims? The victims? He should feel shame and guilt and remorse and the entire spectrum of human social emotions, it should be drowning him, filling his throat with tar and choke him out, slowly killing him. But Goro’s not entirely sure he does. Is it because any feeling except the drive to keep fighting is thoroughly repressed and compartmentalised or is it because he genuinely doesn’t care? Has his upbringing led him to be this immoral? Surely not, killing people doesn’t mean he’s evil. What other path of survival was there for him if not getting fished off the streets by him? A revenge plan, but that’s almost secondary. Staying alive is the primary goal. Because it’s not just his life he’s fighting for but also—

If he can take down Him for being willing to to abandon his mother and also hire a 15-year-old as a supernatural assassin? He might as well. He has to save his life and save—

“And my father?” Okumura-san asks. “You kept going after you took out Futaba’s mother. You’ve caused so much hurt, what’s the justification for that?”

Goro shakes his head, swallows down the disgust at the memories of his unhinged cackles ricocheting off the bloody walls of Mementos. That’s him, the murderer, the killer. He doesn’t think about it much.

Can’t.

Won’t.

Shouldn’t.

The marionette strings are back, speaking for him, existing for him. “I make no justifications. I have no excuses. If I’m allowed to be entirely honest with you, your father’s downfall was inevitable. He became an uncontrolled piece in His game. Please trust me when I say that the fate he suffered was by far not the worst that could have befallen him.”

**

He brings his phone out and opens the Metaverse Navigator. The red eye stares ominously up at him and for a moment it feels like it blinks. But it’s gone as fast as it came, a trick of the light, and he speaks the necessary code words into the navigator. “Nijima Sae — Tokyo District Court — Casino.”

The world around them warps and turns and reddens and there are lines covering his vision. A headache tears through Goro’s skull and the voices he doesn’t usually hear grow louder and louder, a cacophony in his skull, reverberating through his brain, one crying, one laughing, one speaking in hushed tones and one reassuring him hat it’ll be okay. The marionette strings settle into his joints, into his skin, molds his face into the appropriate expression and leave him ready to fight and defend and protect. The Metaverse is hostile, he’s not safe here. Correction, none of them are safe here.

Goro’s grateful for the support he has, even if the voices ring in his ears and distracts him from the environment he’s in. At least it’s only in the Metaverse that it’s this loud and clear. In the real world he barely hears anything ever. Once it’s safe— if it’ll ever be safe enough —he should look into it. Not see a therapist though, he’s not like Akira. He doesn’t need a shrink to tell him that his mind’s fucked up beyond repair.

Ideal test subject. Fractured mind.

Safety first, a voice whispers. You know enough to survive. You know where to find us, when you need it. You’re doing enough for now, Base.

That’s true, admittedly. He can live for now with the knowledge that there’s him and … and him and him and him and him and it’s through their shared efforts that he’s still alive. And the one that’s currently guiding him that’s allowing him the use of his Persona.

Despite being in the Metaverse for years now, Goro hasn’t Awakened to his own Persona yet. He’s been through five Awakenings taking place in his body, aware but not in control for them. All the way since the beginning he’s borrowed one of the Personae. The marionette strings in his body allow him use of Robin Hood, the tendrils Loki. He hasn’t needed the others for some time now. He doesn’t pretend to understand it exactly, and the only person that would know is dead at his hands.

The casino comes into view in front of him, bright and brilliant and garish and … and partially his construction. To some degree he’s helped build this hall of delusion for one of the few people in his life that sees him as a whole, real and valuable human. It’s almost sickening. Will his influence be visible in the Palace?

You’re fixing it now, the voice whispers intently. Isn’t that atonement? Isn’t that sufficient?

**

Half an hour later sees them sitting in a booth at the now-empty Leblanc, hot cups of (decaf) coffee in front of them.

Akechi sighs again— he’s been doing that a lot since they entered Mementos earlier in the day —and anxious tugs at a loose strand of hair. He’s discarded the jacket and tie and folded the sleeves of the button-down up to the elbows. It’s almost like the person sitting in front of him is someone entirely new, but Akira knows better. He’s seen many facets of Akechi— every person is multitudinous after all —and this is just one of them.

A faded memory of a class back before the Hawaii trip pops up in his mind. A random statement from Kawakami right before a question. He mentally shakes his head, willing the memory away. He’ll listen to Akechi and make no judgments.

That anxious tug at his hair almost makes Akira giddy on the inside, though. Is that a habit Akechi picked up from him?

“I don’t know where to start,” Akechi says quietly. He doesn’t meet Akira’s eyes. “Do you remember the conversation we had some weeks ago about the influence of personae in the real world?”

Akira nods. It had been an enlightening conversation over a game of billiards, an exercise in speaking in tongues to avoid warranting suspicion, an hour and a half where Akira had felt blissfully present, the world around him loud and vibrant and alive.

“I suppose it’s as good a starting point as any. My — to say it plainly, my personality isn’t quite … intact. I don’t have a name for the condition, nor do I necessarily want one, but it’s a protective mechanism.”

“A trauma condition?” Akira asks with a small grin. “No offence, but yeah, checks out.”

That makes Akechi laugh, quiet but genuine. “Yes, well, you know most of my tragic backstory. I’m sure you can imagine how that may have affected my faculties.”

“Sure,” Akira says, then as a thought springs to mind, he quickly stutters out. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. It’s personal, I get that.”

Akechi nods and for a moment they sit there in silence.

Suddenly. “Do you think you could remove your glasses?”

Akira blinks, but obediently removes them and places them on the table, lenses up. “Sure. Any reason?”

Another tug at the loose strand. “You use them as a defence against the world. I thought it would be more fair like this. Both of us unmasked.”

“Sure, makes sense,” Akira says, and it’s genuine. It does feel more … intimate, to be without the glasses. They hide his eyes when he’s surveying his surroundings for threats, provide a cover for when he fades in and out of reality, make him appear less threatening to those he encounters. Without them — it feels almost special.

Another few minutes of silence. Akira doesn’t need to look at the clock to know that the trains will stop running long before they finish talking. That’s alright, he has the spare futon for this exact purpose. Akechi’s never slept over before, but that’s a problem to tackle later.

“There are … multiple versions of me,” Akechi says eventually. “Multiple versions with multiple roles to protect me and keep me … well, I doubt sane is the right word. But there is one primarily for dealing with the public, one for handling my—” a shudder, “—extracurricular activities, and so on. They are sort of like your masks, but to an extreme degree if you’d like a point of reference. Your personae are all Shadows you have captured, with the exception of Arsène, my personae are quite literally fractured facets of myself.”

Akira nods (wow he’s been doing a lot of just nodding, hasn’t he?) and thinks over this for a minute. Truth be told, he’s noticed all the inconsistencies in Akechi’s behaviour, so minute they might not be picked up by anyone, but Akira’s observant, has to be to have survived his childhood, to keep his Thieves safe, to not go insane in the loud hustle and bustle that is Tokyo. He notices stuff.

Akechi’s voice, inflection, animation, from the higher and smooth voice he employs when on television or radio or talking to people he does not trust in the least, to this more flat tone he’s now hearing him speak in. His verbality, from unable to shut up about a topic that engages him, to fatigued hand gestures signalling his wishes. His curry preferences, his coffee tastes, and once— when he’d been sitting next to Akechi before a Phantom Thieves meeting doing homework —his handwriting. Minute changes, but visible. Softer rounded strokes in the kanji vs harsh straight lines. “Sometimes you take your coffee with milk and sugar, other times you verbally express that anything but black coffee is a sin.”

“Yes,” Akechi says slowly. “Coffee preferences … yes, that is one of the tells, I suppose. If my memory serves my right, you’ve mostly been in contact with me, like, me, the one you are talking to now and — well, the detective prince—” A pause, a muttered swear, “—this is really difficult to talk about, I’m coming to realise. Especially— promise you won’t?”

He promises. Why wouldn’t he promise?

“Up until now I have refused to truly acknowledge this. Of course, I have kept track of symptoms and written extensive notes on it, because it would be dangerous to let anything slip, to forget anything at all.” He pauses again, and takes another sip. “I am aware of the other parts of me, some of them appear to ‘possess’ me at times and puppet me around like I’m some doll. But despite being aware of them for a decade or so to varying degrees, none of them have names. We are all Goro, I’m Goro, the despicable prince is Goro. All of them are Goro equally as much as me. It makes it exceedingly hard to talk about.”

No wonder, Akira thinks, sipping his coffee. Decaf is never as good as the real deal of course, but he needs to sleep today, even if tomorrow is a Sunday. “You can stop at any time. All that matters to me is that you’re safe and how I can accommodate you when we’re in the Metaverse.”

“I don’t have my own persona,” Akechi says after a minute or two. “I expect that if I was in a situation to require one, I would awaken to one, but so far one of the other parts have always awakened first. I suppose as the … base part … I’m needed for more mundane matters than chasing criminals in the cognitive world.”

Akira frowns. That’s … certainly unique. He’s never heard of something like that occurring, but then again, there isn’t exactly a precedent for how someone’s presence in the Metaverse should work. He’s a fantastic example of that himself. “So when you use—”

“Robin Hood corresponds to the detective prince part of me,” Akechi explains. He’s sounding even more tired than at the start of the conversation. They should wrap this up soon. “It’s — imagine, I— the person that makes up me, this part of Akechi Goro —am almost always conscious. But there is almost always someone else that puppeteer me around. I’m a passenger in my own car, the car being driven by someone else. I can employ the persona of whomever is there with me at any given time. They lend me their persona so I can use it while they take possession of my mouth and limbs. So far with you I have used Robin Hood the most— you all know of my alternate Metaverse identity. I chose not to use him. Well, define chose, I don’t exactly get a say in the matter. But beyond that. Sometimes some of the other parts attempt to take over and what you saw earlier, both in Sae-san’s Palace and in Mementos, was the physical evidence of that process.”

[greenleaf777]

Wanted to share these two screen shots from the new CC3 House of Flame and Shadow cause i have had to reassure a few people. Its when Az has a moment with Nesta. Which I LOVE their relationship so much! They are so sweet together. It so beautiful …..and when he says Gwyns name(and several others) 🙄

The actual context and screen shots for the scene is spoilers so don’t look under cut……..

SPOILERS

Don’t expect some great acotar character focused story lol. This book is about BRYCE and her family not the acotar characters. They are only side characters here.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

☀️This book I read in translated Portuguese so i am not promising everything is 100% correct.☀️ will only know when the book is released.

Nesta puts the dread trove mask on to kill a wyrm(or whatever its called)thats attacking Bryce, Nesta and Azriel. She gets a little lost in the mask and Azriel has to snap her to reality so he lists off the people most important in her life. Cassian, Gwyn, Emerie, Feyre, Elain and Nyx. Nyx is the one that really snaps her out of it. Also want to point out that Az and Nesta are in the first 1/3 of the book not the whole thing. Nesta shows up twice after that in a small snippets.

Page with circle is first page!

[clawdee]

ok ok ok ok

@rebel-held and I told each other we'd get some writing done this weekend on our many WIPS

I watched Thunderbolts* on Thursday, which ignited a fire under my ass for Androniki, my Bucky Barnes / fat!f!Reader Whitaker (Princess) fic (she is not a Princess, she is nicknamed Princess--by Bucky, it makes sense in context).

I had a vague plotline, but after Thunderbolts* the plotline has solidified a bit more, and a lot has been added to it after many long chats with the sibling.

Androniki now takes place after Thunderbolts* (even after the 2nd after credit scene), it is not canon-accurate--I'm playing around with Marvel lore, if you don't like it, leave. I'm trying to stay as close to canon as I can with what I am using, and filling in what the MCU hasn't yet.

I don't believe there's gonna be spoilers in what I'm sharing, but I'm putting it under a cut...and it's def bigger than a snippet because it's a funny scene (to me) (very very rough draft, basically word vomit):

“Miss. Whitaker has a dig in Greece this summer—she’s a big-name archaeologist—our intel has shown that de Fontaine and Whitaker have a vested interest in Miss. Whitaker’s dig that she’s doing in Greece this summer—this is the first dig Daddy Whitaker has been interested in.” Bucky leans back in his chair. “I thought she was just going to party, I didn’t know she did anything besides spend Daddy’s money.” Sam shakes his head. “No, she’s a big name in the archaeology scene, it’s what she does and she’s good at it, how do you not know her? She digs old things, you’re old,” Sam laughs at his own joke. “I’ll send you her file.” Bucky waves his hand. “I’ll Google her.” “There’s more info in the file.” Sam sighs. “But anyway, her dig is in Mitropisi, which is a locality in Lavreotiki, East Attica.” He taps at the table top bringing up a virtual map. It shows Greece as a whole, the major metropolis’ pointed out, and then it zooms in. Mitropisi was a small little town southeast of Athens, near the tip of the mainland of Greece. “Anything in particular they’re looking for?” Bucky grabs his carton of chow-mien and stuffs a chopstick full of noodles in his mouth. Sam looks at the map and shakes his head. “We don’t know.” He swallows quickly. “What do you mean you don’t know?” “Man! I mean what I said, we don’t know if she’s looking for anything in particular or what; and it annoys me! She and her team have been tight-lipped about this whole dig. We just know there’s gonna be one.” “And where it is,” Bucky adds, pointing at Sam with his noodle-filled chopsticks. Sam nods. “And where it is,” he echos. “But I need you to go Bucky; Bishop is one of the interns going with her. Coupled with the fact that Whitaker’s father and Fontaine are interested worries me.” “de Fontaine,” Bucky mumbles without thinking and then shakes his head. “Never mind. So I have to go babysit the heiress playing Indiana Jones, plus Hawkeye Jr.?” Sam holds up his hand. “Kate,” he says pointedly. “Can take care of herself, but I’d like her to have backup. Besides, someone has already broken into Miss. Whitaker’s place, we think it might be connected.”

[linnetagain]

Spoopy shenanigans it is! Thank you @gewhanaa for tagging me, hopefully you enjoy this little snippet for WIP Wednesday. Proof that I am, still, doggedly, picking my way through the conclusion of Good Men and Monsters.

Minor spoilers below the cut! See if you can guess what Father Dekarios might be doing... or why 😉

What is a ghost, but an echo? A memory? A piece of the past that has so firmly embedded itself that the spirit lingers. 

They are everywhere. Around most of the village, they are only slight stirrings. A brush of air, a cold breath all that marks where once a mother walked every day to and from the market to feed her children. Her footprints imbued with her spirit, still, so many years after she was laid to rest. Perhaps she prayed as she walked. For good produce. For healthy children. For a bargain. Either way, her footprints are a deeper memory than most.

The village is otherwise empty. It remains much as it was. Or has little reason to miss what came before, perhaps. Having been accustomed to the busy thoroughfares of Oxford and London, it is rather a surprise to find it so quiet. In a way, it is almost peaceful. 

The walk up to the manor is long. Time passes differently, in this liminal space where the world is softened. Like a layer of glass laid beneath reality, it is not reached so easily by the turning of the days or the seasons. Instead it takes time and refracts it in upon itself. Shortening and lengthening in equal measure, distorting it beyond recognition.

So Gale travels slowly, taking care to keep the edges of himself close. It has been a long time since he walked this way. If he were to go much faster, he would risk losing his tether. 

The manor, in comparison to the village, has a very clear ghost of what it used to be. When Gale reaches the crest of the hill, he finds himself caught, gazing up at it, for a moment too long. The castle remembers itself as it first was built; a wooden structure upon a mound, moated, the lingering memories of soldiers bearing crude arms and strange helms opening their shapeless mouths in empty faces in silent cries of battle. Gale edges through them, keeping careful track of where the ground truly is, and where it simply remembers being. Trying not to step through any of the figures of the fallen. They'd never know, of course. But still, it feels impolite.

Between the castle's wooden walls there are memories of stone, too. The turrets that replaced the motte and bailey, which once stood as siblings to the one that still remains. Over the modern façade there is another, a grand Georgian facing of sandstone pillars and wide glass windows, and atop that the Tudor red-brick that the towers were torn down to make space for. They are laid almost within one another, existing separately and simultaneously, like a photograph exposed halfway through development. The stone keep of the castle exists in both its moment of bright, sharp creation, and the mangled dilapidation it was later abandoned to.  

No more battles, it seems, at least, though as Gale ascends the grand staircase with appropriate care, stepping over the silvery-white lilypads of the moat below, there are shadows flickering around him. The sound of laughter; a snatch of a piece of music. Someone's name being called. And under all that, which might seem normal, there is a scream. A crackling of flame. Someone crying, for help, or for mercy. 

Gale steels himself against the ghosts of the place, and slips through the front door. Locked, of course. But nothing can hold him now. He's no more real than they are.

The ballroom is busier again. The air moves around him; flickering shadows brush his skin, his hair, fluttering at his cloak and leaving him shivering as if ruffled by a winter breeze. Whirling skirts of dancers. The rising voice of a bard in full flow. Glasses clinking, drinking horns raised in victory, cups clinked together in companionship. A small group of half-remembered shepherds huddle from the storm with their flock in the ruins of the old keep, their faceless figures much clearer than their flock, but far less than than those of a figure that Gale sees, at first, only from behind.

Then he turns. His face is clearer than nearly every figure around him, his features distinct. His eyes flash with humour, almost as if this memory is fresh. And yet it can't be. The fashion is one that Gale has only ever seen in paintings; portraits of his ancestors from generations before. Despite the cut of his waistcoat and breeches, however, he is unmistakeable.

Astarion.

His hair is longer, tied at the base of his skull with a ribbon. He bows, low and polite, to... nothing. Nobody. Astarion's echo moves through a party that no longer exists. Turning his hand, laughing behind his palm. Clearly talking to someone. A good friend, perhaps, if the way his head is bent is any indication.

Gale had not intended to follow. He is here for a reason. And yet.

Astarion turns. Not to dance. His elbow is held up, as if he had once walked arm in arm with another. They promenade, sedately, down the side of the ballroom. Through the shepherds. Through crumbling walls of a keep that has been gone for centuries. And out, through the door that Astarion had taken him, not even two full months ago.

And Gale follows.

[kyberblade]

WIP *mumble*day!

I was tagged by @joelalorian even though it’s Friday!!! 🤣 My kind of tag, tbh.

These things are what is currently haunting my Mando drafts, and I have no idea when they will come so we’ll just say - soon. These are still rough edits.

This is a snippet from my series coming up Our Song is Not Yet Written. (Below the cut in case people don’t want spoilers. There will also be a snippet from the upcoming chapter of Close to Home, the sequel of Back To You.)

The council chamber was filled with sun as the doors slid open to let you in. The glare off of the marble floors made you want to squint, but you kept your head high, eyes wide as you walked in under the scrutinous gazes of the Masters. Once you were facing Master Yoda, you blinked rapidly a few times to give your eyes a break, the side of your mouth twitching up ever so slightly at the Master’s amused hum and twitch of his ear.

“Beautiful day, is it not?” His voice was warm, head tilting to the side slightly in amusement as he blinked up at you in a slow, almost exaggerated movement that bordered on teasing.

Letting the smile take full control of your features, you nodded. “Yes, Master. It truly is.”

“Hmmm….” He hummed in agreement with a nod of his own, before turning to look out the nearest window. “Thought it was a little bright, I did.” His eyes cut to the side, twinkling with mischief as he watched you carefully.

You cleared your throat, weight shifting slightly to your left before finding your center once again. “I much prefer the sun to rainy days.”

“You don’t find the rain…. calming?” Master Windu’s voice startled you with its cryptic tone.

“On most any other planet, yes,” you looked between the two Jedi, landing on the one who asked the question. “But here, it just makes me think of all the grime.”

“Very sterile, Coruscant can be.”

You bobbed your head at the ancient green knight. “Yes. That’s the word for it. Sterile.”

“Enough talk of weather. We need to get down to business.” Ki-Adi-Mundi said from behind you, making you glance over your shoulder with a nod.

“Yes, Master. Sorry.”

“Sorry, be not. Humoring an old Jedi, you were.” Yoda chuckled in amusement at his own words, earning one more small grin from you. “Besides. Missing, still one member of this party is.”

The doors to the chamber flew open, revealing a flustered looking Anakin. He muttered apologies as he took his seat, allowed to observe the council but not be a member. He studiously avoided Obi-Wan’s glare from across the room, their friendship still very much one of Master and Padawan, no matter the titles they bore now.

“What are we waiting for?” Shaak Ti asked quietly, the holo projecting her all the way from Kamino wavering every few seconds with an unstable connection.

Yoda grinned. “Her partner.”

Plo Koon laughed quietly, all eyes pulling to him. “Master Yoda, she needs no partner. She just passed her trials, and is more than capable of handling this on her own.”

“Arisen, new technicalities have. This mission will require two. A Jedi and a-” The doors slid open to reveal, standing there in all its glory, a walking suit of armor reflecting the sun and this time it actually made you squint- “Mandalorian.”

Close To Home:

Bee bleeped from beside him and sped up, going several paces ahead.

“What’d she say?” Din asked, barely turning his head to look over his shoulder at you.

“She says you’re stubborn.”

He huffed, turning back forward. “She did not.”

“Says the man who stubbornly won’t learn binary so he can stop asking what the droid he lives with is saying.”

Something grumbled under his breath was all Din had to offer, forging ahead with renewed interest. He turned left around a corner and paused, pressing a few buttons on his vambrace.

Several yards ahead, forgoing the turn, Bee stopped and blooped in question.

“I don’t know, Bee,” you answered. “But this is Din. As long as he’s silent, it’s usually all okay. Talking too much? Now there’s where something’s fishy.”

Din’s sigh could have moved mountains, even through his visor. “It’s this way,” he said simply, continuing down the left offshoot.

Bee squawked in disagreement.

“Your readout is for the service hatch, but there are markings leading away from there,” Din answered hurriedly, dismissively. “Mandalorian markings.”

“So you do understand her?” It was more statement than question as you followed behind the beskar wall.

“I can understand tone.” Din’s incredulous tone told you he was already done with the entire topic of binary today.

“You hear that, Bee? You just need more inflection and he will understand every word.”

The astromech rolled up beside you, tweeting and tittering away animatedly, throwing in an over exaggerated whistle for good measure.

Din huffed yet again, mumbling under his breath, “Don’t need to know binary to understand that.” He glanced over his shoulder at you briefly before continuing forward. “She gets it from you, you know.“

“Gets what from me?”

Shaking his head, the Mandalorian chuckled softly. “Never mind.”

No pressure tags: @almostfoxglove, @wrathkitty, @littlemisspascal, @hellishjoel, @what-the-heckin-heck

[wannabelilybriscoe]

last line tag

thanks for the tag, @kaaaaaaarf!

i'm assuming this means the last line you wrote? *adjusts my grandma spectacles and squints* here’s a snippet from the upcoming chapter of asfteotw...

tagging @m00neroni @moonheavens @marigold-hills

not sure who'se been tagged already. join in if you want!

snippet under the cut bc spoilers

Dolohov hammers on the door. In a jerky movement, Remus turns the water off. Steps out of the shower. Grabs the rough, starchy towel off the sink and dries himself. Dons the scrubs, avoiding looking at the monster in the mirror again. His own body smells strange to him—soap and raw skin.  “Too ya long enough,” Dolohov mutters. He turns and stalks off down the hall.  Remus follows him, anxiety building in the thrumming of his muscles and the pressure behind his eyes. The fluorescent lights above them are too bright, the echoing of their footsteps too thunderous. They walk down more winding corridors that Remus remembers distantly but has trouble making heads or tails of until they come to a door on the third floor. Dolohov knocks twice before opening it and stepping aside for Remus to walk through.  “In you go, sharpish,” he jeers.  Remus tenses his shoulders and walks in. A small group of people are gathered in the center of the room, which appears to be some sort of lab. There’s an electrical hum in the air, and the room feels warm, suffocatingly so, pressing into him from all around. The first person his eyes land on is Riddle, pacing back and forth in the middle of the group. The tall man halts when he sees Remus.  “Remus Lupin. So good of you to finally join us.”  Riddle shoots a sharp look at Dolohov. The soldier grunts behind Remus, but already, Remus has stopped paying attention to him—because Sirius is there.  His boyfriend leans against a table with his arms crossed, in a pose so familiar in its casual defiance that it takes Remus away from the present for a moment. Sirius’s eyes widen when he sees Remus and his body jerks forward. But he seems to catch himself last minute and leans back against the table, fingers gripping his biceps tightly. Clear grey eyes bore into his and suddenly, the image of the monster in the bathroom mirror flashes in Remus’s mind.  What must Sirius think when he looks at him? Heart pounding in his ears, Remus takes in the other faces staring at him—Cas stands beside Sirius, her posture calculatedly relaxed. Regulus is also there, eyeing him with an unreadable expression. His grey eyes dart to Sirius then back to Remus’s face. Beside the shorter boy, coiled to spring, is Crouch. There’s no misinterpreting his expression: disgust.  What must they all see when they look at him? Not a person like them. A monster. An animal who rips other sorry creatures apart with his hands and teeth. A beast to be caged. He wants to turn and run, to escape their fearful watch.  Riddle’s voice pulls his attention. “Right, let’s cut to the chase. Since the older generation have proven themselves to be disappointingly unreliable—inevitable degradation, I fear—I now turn to you, the youth, the vanguard of tomorrow, to see our project through.”  He pauses, heaving a burdened sigh.  “There has been a hitch in our plan.”

[sunmerry-writes]

WRITEBLR INTRO

Hello hello! my name is sunny: 20 yr. he/him; this is my third attempt at a writeblr after tumblr nuked my last one. all my mutuals... lost...

I'm looking for active writers to be mutuals and interact with (bonus if ur open to beta reading! or want a beta reader!) I'm open to ask about ocs and tags for writing games! Don't be afraid to say hi :)

I currently have a ton of wips (over twenty), with most in planning stages, some in drafting.

My current focus, 'WANDERLUST' is a middle-grade coming-of-age fantasy with some religious trauma and existential dread.

I'll be posting info and snippets of my wips, while following/liking/commenting on my main account: @sunmerry-strawb as this is my side-blog

About me:

I'm an aspiring baker

I own a menace (cat) named pebbles

I write in a variety of genres; but my favourite are fantasy, supernatural and horror mainly centred around late teenage casts. I always end up accidentally sprinkling horror of some kind into all of my wips

My favourite book is currently "Gideon the Ninth", I adore Tamsyn muir's writing. I'm also a huge fan of Dungeon meshi and Witch Hat Atelier among other things! (as you can see above, Digimon)

My wips are under the cut! I have many more; these are the ones I'm currently focused on. I'm more than happy to share more spoiler-y details and brainstorm in DMs!! Especially in exchange for info on your wips ;)

Click the titles to be transported to the wip's intro post!

WANDERLUST

A pair of young twins find themselves trapped in a fantasy realm, and with the aid of local kids embark on a treasure hunt for five magical rings contrived from an old legend in order to return home.

Shadow Knights

A story set in a near futuristic city grappling with rapidly developing technology, centered around a young woman who accidentally discovers a science experiment that went wrong, leading to artificially created monsters stalking the city streets and killing residents. She joins a team to hunt them down. (aka the wip with the most body horror and psychological horror BY FAR.)

STRAY

A post-nuclear apocalypse story about a band of teenagers and their journey across the rotting world in search of a safe-haven called "Paradise".

Dragonborn

A story about three kids on the Australian coast who fall through a sinkhole and accidentally uncover the secret population of dragons living in their underground cave systems.

By the seashore

A story about a young boy named Louis who decides to stay with his father at a small coastal town for the summer after the death of his mother, and finds an amnesiac, mute boy washed ashore the beach after a thunderstorm.

(divider by @\cafekitsune!)

[anniedreamwilldo]

I Still Worship The Flame - Chapter 6: Mischief

I Still Worship The Flame - Chapter 6 - sadspatula - Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling [Archive of Our Own]

Wolfstar | WIP | Rated M | Chapter 6/ ?

It’s 1984. In the small Welsh town of Direidi, every day was the same and Remus was sick of it all - the same cobbled streets, the same boring small talk and now, the same strike. But when Lesbians & Gays Support the Miners arrive, and with them, Sirius Black, everything changes and the quiet voice in the back of Remus’s head that always told him he was different can’t be ignored anymore.

*crawls out of the abyss* new chapter folks!!!

Lil snippet under the cut which is a lil spoiler-y but I have to post it here because it's a part of my fave scene I've ever written and it's basically word for word a real life convo I had with one of my best friends.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sirius offered so gently it made Remus’s insides twist up in guilt. 

“I don’t want to be a whinger,” Remus muttered, fiddling with the volume dial on the radio in his hands until the low thrums of Radio 1 seeped from the speaker. “I don’t want it to seem like I’m making myself the centre of the universe or nothin’.”

“But you are the centre of the universe,” Sirius replied, a light chuckle in his voice. “I don’t know who made you feel like you aren’t, Moony, but your feelings matter. To me, at least.”

“Sirius…” He choked out after a moment. It was too much. Too wonderful, too delicate, too utterly consuming. 

That a star would call him the centre of the universe was surely some kind of messed up poetic injustice. Sirius shone so brightly that there was no need for the moon. But Remus wanted to be selfish, he wanted to be there just to soak up some of his glow and bask in its warmth. 

Remus swallowed harshly. He absolutely would not cry. He wouldn’t . 

[oh-no-its-bird]

Chasing Shadows snippets for Tenzo's eventual introduction scene(s) under the cut, so spoilers for that if you don't wanna see it till the chapter itself is out.

Fuck if I know what chapter it'll actually be in tho, the fic is decently slow paced, so it'll take a bit of build up to actually get there. I'm gonna wanna cement Orochimaru and Kakashi's dynamic before adding him in, so.

Maybe around chapter 10ish? Dunno, we'll see

Kakashi stared at the child sitting on Orochimaru's work bench.

The child stared back with big, dull eyes.

"Why do you have a baby?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes." Orochimaru waved a dismissive hand in the kids' direction as said child began to try to fit his fist into his mouth.

"Danzo gave him to me."

He was small and a little scruffy looking, maybe 4 years old, and had some of the biggest eyes Kakashi had ever seen.

"Elder Danzo . . . gave him to you?"

"Yes, I think it was implied that he'd be helpful for some experiments Danzo has been wanting done, but I really don't have the kind of time to devote to something that tedious. Not when our current experiments are going so well."

Kakashi frowned, unsure why a baby would be helpful in any sort of experiments.

If Danzo wanted him to be some sort of test subject, surley there were better options? There were probably plenty of older, stronger shinobi who'd agree to being poked at if it meant Konoha could get stronger. Kakashi himself would probably agree to something like that— I mean, it couldn't be that bad, right?

"What kind of experiments did he want you to work on?"

Orochimaru finally looked up from what he was working on, turning to Kakashi with a suddenly thoughtful look.

===

"Wha—? You can't just name him Boy!" Kakashi stared at Orochimaru, offended on the kids behalf.

"Why not?" Orochimaru blinked at Kakashi, looking genuinely confused.

"Because that's not a name, obviously!"

"I find this ironic coming from a child named after a scarecrow."

Kakashi puffed up, crossing his arms angrily. "There's nothing wrong with my name."

"I never said there was, only that it was ironic."

Orochimaru shrugged, unbothered. "By all means."

"Ugh, we aren't naming him Boy. I'll think of a good name since you're so awful at this."

[peachdues]

PHANTASMAGORIA: THE CUT SCENES

Now that Phantasmagoria: Part III has been out for a few days, I thought I would share some of the cut scenes, as well as some of the deviations from the original draft/outline of Phantasmagoria as a whole for anyone who is interested or wants to see a bit into my writing progress!

Spoiler: if you thought the final version couldn't get any angstier, you would be incorrect lol. Everything is under the cut! NSFW warning, light TW.

CUT SCENES -- NOT INCLUDED IN FINAL DRAFT BUT WRITTEN

Part III opened post-kitchen hate-fuck from Sanemi's POV where he broke down in his room. Flashback montage of Y/N and Sanemi throughout the years, happy, smiling, and the best of friends. Scenes included Sanemi piggy-backing Y/N when they were small children, a scene when they were teens and she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder, etc. Cut back to present and he thinks about how far they've fallen.

Sanemi flashback to the night he and Y/N reunited at the club; Sanemi tries not to think about how much it stings that Y/N hugged Kyo but barely greeted him. Hearing "Sanemi," and not "Nemi," stung a lot more than he thought it would. Reminisces about how he always used to pretend to be annoyed by her hugs, but he secretly coveted them and would always try to find ways to prolong them.

More of Sanemi's thoughts/feelings after he and Y/N started sleeping together + his panic at the idea that she might also die and he will have lost yet another person he loves

Sanemi's inner monologe where he decides he will be whatever she wants him to be (after they dance in Part I) -- even if that means he's nothing more to her than a warm body to fuck (callback to Part 2 when she tells him that's how he sees her)

Longer fight between Y/N and Sanemi over the first night issue

During the makeup/makeout in Part III, Y/N and Sanemi 69 and try to see who can get the other to finish first. Sanemi wins.

Convo snippet: "You don't know me," "Yes, I do. I might be the only person who really does; who sees every part of you."

ORIGINAL DRAFT -- SCENES IN FINAL VERSION CHANGED

Sanemi originally found out that Y/N's mom was sick before she died and would go visit her to keep her company

Mitsuri, not Shinobu, OD'ed -- Mitsuri and Obanai didn't end up together so she went on a bender during the lake weekend

The Douma scene was a lot more explicit (form Y/N's POV) and a lot worse. Douma had her naked and he was taking photos to send around while she cried. Sanemi, not Akaza, was the one to find them, and he beats Douma so bad he almost kills him. Y/N struggles between wanting to cling to Sanemi for comfort as he carries her out of there, and wanting to keep herself distanced because she swore she would not let him in. Scene was inspired by Ptolemea by Ethel Cain (song was later used to inspire the scene where she has a panic attack while Sanemi brings up her mother)

After the main confrontation between the two in the kitchen, Y/N was going to blow Sanemi right then and there (instead of them taking time to think/process)