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echoeyee · 4 months

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A List of All Canonical Mates and Almost-Mates in Warriors and How Closely Related They Are

don't write a multi-generational series if you're not gonna keep track of the generations, kids. created using this website. should be accurate as of jan 2024. please point out any mistakes or ommissions so i can correct them.

Adderfang and Swiftbreeze - unrelated

Alderheart and Velvet - unrelated

Algernon and Bess - unrelated

Appledusk and Mapleshade - unrelated

Appledusk and Reedshine - unrelated

Barley and Ravenpaw - unrelated

Beechfur and Gorsetail - unrelated

Beetlenose and Sunfish - unrelated

Berrynose and Poppyfrost - unrelated

Billystorm and Leafstar - unrelated

Birchfall and Whitewing - first cousins once removed through Robinwing and Fuzzypelt

Blackclaw and Mistystar - unrelated

Blazefire and Lightleap - unrelated

Blazefire and Sunbeam - unrelated

Blizzardwing and Featherstorm - unrelated

Blizzardwing and Hollyflower - unrelated

Brackenfoot and Brightflower - unrelated

Brackenfur and Sorreltail - unrelated

Brambleclaw and Jessy - unrelated

Brambleclaw and Squirrelstar - unrelated

Breezepelt and Heathertail - first cousins once removed through Wrenflight and Stagleap

Bristlefrost and Rootspring - unrelated

Bumblestripe and Dovewing - fourth cousins twice removed through Daisytoe and Flashnose's parents

Buzzardstar and Fernpelt - unrelated

Cedarpelt and Lakeshine - unrelated

Chasing Clouds and Rising Moon - unrelated

Cinderfur and Ashheart - unrelated

Clawface and Rowanberry - unrelated

Cloudrunner and Morningflower - unrelated

Cloudstar and Birdflight - unrelated

Cloudtail and Brightheart - unrelated

Crookedstar and Willowbreeze - unrelated

Crowfeather and Leafpool - unrelated

Crowfeather and Nightcloud - unrelated

Crowfrost and Dawnpelt - unrelated

Dappletail and Stormtail - unrelated

Dark Whiskers and Shy Fawn - unrelated

Deadfoot and Ashfoot - unrelated

Dewnose and Sorrelstripe - first cousins once removed through Frostfur and Lionheart

Dewspring and Nectarsong - first cousins through Fallowfern and Waspwhisker

Dustpelt and Ferncloud - uncle and niece through Robinwing and Fuzzypelt

Eaglestorm and Squirrelwhisker - unrelated

Emberfoot and Sedgewhisker - unrelated

Falling Rain and Falcon Swoop - unrelated

Fang and Daffodil - unrelated

Feathertail and Crowfeather - unrelated

Fernsong and Ivypool - second cousins through Frostfur and Lionheart

Finchflight and Dawncloud - unrelated

Finleap and Twigbranch - first cousins once removed through Clovertail, adoptive siblings through Hawkwing

Firestar and Cinderpelt - unrelated (note: I wouldn't personally include this, but it's listed as an unofficial romance on the wiki so it's here for the sake of completeness)

Firestar and Sandstorm - unrelated

Firestar and Spottedleaf - unrelated

Flamenose and Larksong - unrelated

Flipclaw and Flywhisker - aunt and nephew through Cinderheart and Lionblaze

Frogleap and Mosspelt - unrelated

Frogleap and Leopardstar - unrelated

Fuzzypelt and Robinwing - unrelated

Gorsestar and Windstar - unrelated

Graystripe and Millie - unrelated

Graystripe and Silverstream - unrelated

Gray Wing and Slate - unrelated

Gray Wing and Turtle Tail - unrelated

Hailstar and Echomist - unrelated

Hal and Featherstorm - unrelated

Halftail and One-eye - unrelated

Hareflight and Mistmouse - unrelated

Harley and Red - unrelated

Harrybrook and Blossomheart - unrelated

Harveymoon and Mintfur - unrelated

Hawkwing and Pebbleshine - first cousins through Cherrytail and Sparrowpelt's parents

Hickorynose and Meadowslip - unrelated

Hollyleaf and Fallen Leaves - unrelated

Honeyfern and Berrynose - unrelated

Husker and Moss - unrelated

Jack and Moonlight - unrelated

Jackdaw's Cry and Hawk Swoop - unrelated

Jagged Peak and Holly - unrelated

Jake and Quince - unrelated

Jake and Nutmeg - unrelated

Jayclaw and Curlfeather - unrelated

Jayfeather and Half Moon - unrelated

Larksong and Sparkpelt - second cousins once removed through Nutmeg and Jake (note: they're actually related through at least three different lineages: Fallowsong and Sweetbriar's parents' bloodline, Swiftbreeze and Adderfang's bloodline, and Jake and Nutmeg's bloodline)

Leaf and Milkweed - unrelated

Lionblaze and Cinderheart - adoptive second cousins once removed through Swiftbreeze and Adderfang (note: Cinderheart and Lionblaze were once canonically third cousins through Robinwing and Fuzzypelt, but this has since been retconned)

Lionblaze and Heathertail - first cousins once removed through Wrenflight and Stagleap

Lionheart and Frostfur - unrelated

Lizardtail and Lakeheart - unrelated

Mallownose and Petalfur - unrelated

Micah and Moth Flight - unrelated

Mintfur and Icewing - unrelated

Moon Shadow and Dewy Leaf - unrelated

Morningstar and Songbird - unrelated

Moss Tail and Dawn Mist - unrelated

Mudclaw and Lizardstripe - unrelated

Mudfur and Brightsky - unrelated

Needletail and Rain - unrelated

Nettle and Yarrowleaf - unrelated

Nettlesplash and Mintfur - unrelated

Nightheart and Sunbeam - unrelated

Oakheart and Bluestar - unrelated

Oakstar and Sweetbriar - unrelated

Oatclaw and Featherpelt - unrelated

Oliver and Princess - unrelated

Onestar and Smoke - unrelated

Owlfur and Softwing - unrelated

Patchfoot and Clovertail - unrelated

Patchpelt and Goldenflower - unrelated

Patchpelt and Robinwing - unrelated

Pinestar and Leopardfoot - unrelated

Piketooth and Shimmerpelt - unrelated

Quailfeather and Reedclaw - first cousins through Clovertail

Rabbitleap and Bellaleaf - unrelated

Rainfur and Petalnose - unrelated

Raggedstar and Foxheart - unrelated

Raggedstar and Yellowfang - unrelated

Ravenstar and Juniper Branch - unrelated

Redclaw and Brackenwing - unrelated

Reedfeather and Fallowtail - unrelated

Reedtail and Skyheart - unrelated

Rippleclaw and Graypool - unrelated

Riverstar and Finch Song - unrelated

Rooktail and Daisytoe - unrelated

Root and Moonlight - unrelated

Rowanclaw and Tawnypelt - unrelated

Runningwind and Dappletail - adoptive aunt and nephew through Rainfur

Ryewhisker and Cloudberry - unrelated

Sagenose and Birdwing - unrelated

Sandgorse and Palebird - unrelated

Sandynose and Plumwillow - unrelated

Scorchfur and Snowbird - unrelated

Scorchwind and Darkflower - unrelated

Sharp Hail and Dewy Leaf - unrelated

Sharpclaw and Cherrytail - unrelated

Sheer Path Beside Waterfall and Night of No Stars - unrelated

Shellfur and Fernstripe - unrelated

Shellheart and Rainflower - unrelated

Shorty and Cora - unrelated

Shrewclaw and Ryestalk - unrelated

Skystar and Bright Stream - unrelated

Skystar and Star Flower - unrelated

Skystar and Storm - unrelated

Slatefur and Cinnamontail - unrelated

Smallear and Speckletail - unrelated

Smoky and Coriander - unrelated

Smoky and Daisy - unrelated

Smoky and Floss - unrelated

Sneezecloud and Havenpelt - unrelated

Snowbush and Lilyheart - first cousins through Frostfur and Lionheart, foster siblings through Brightheart

Sparrowpelt and Tinycloud - unrelated

Sparrowtail and Berryheart - unrelated

Spiderleg and Daisy - unrelated

Spikefur and Pinenose - unrelated

Spireclaw and Fringewhisker - unrelated

Splashtail and Frostpaw - first cousins once removed through Graymist

Splinter and Milkweed - unrelated

Squirrelstar and Ashfur - unrelated (note: Ashfur was once canonically Squirrelstar's uncle through Brindleface, but this has since been retconned)

Stagleap and Wrenflight - unrelated

Stemleaf and Spotfur - second cousins through Willowpelt

Stemleaf and Bristlefrost - first cousins twice removed through Frostfur and Lionheart

Stick and Velvet - unrelated

Stone Song and Broken Shadow - unrelated

Stone Song and Hollow Tree - unrelated

Stonewing and Grassheart - unrelated

Stormfur and Brook Where Small Fish Swim - unrelated

Stormtail and Moonflower - unrelated

Tallstar and Jake - unrelated

Tanglewhisker and Birdsong - unrelated

Thistleclaw and Snowfur - unrelated

Thornclaw and Blossomfall - unrelated

Thrushpelt and Bluestar - unrelated

Thunderstar and Violet Dawn - unrelated

Tigerstar and Dovewing - second cousins once removed through Speckletail and Smallear

Tigerstar and Goldenflower - unrelated

Tigerstar and Sasha - unrelated

Timberfur and Ottersplash - unrelated

Toadskip and Poolcloud - unrelated

Toadskip and Nettlespot - unrelated

Tom and Turtle Tail - unrelated

Tree and Violetshine - unrelated

Waspwhisker and Fallowfern - unrelated

Whitestorm and Brindleface - foster siblings through Robinwing

Whitetail and Onestar - unrelated

Windflight and Rainfur - unrelated

Willie and Minty - unrelated

Windflight and Poppydawn - unrelated

Wolfstep and Fernshade - unrelated

Woollytail and Palebird - unrelated

Yew Tail and Gooseberry - unrelated

#warriors #warrior cats

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g0dspeeed · 1 year

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🐥WIP Wednesday 🐥

A favorite sweet moment for Cappie De la Costa and Eli Palmer from the collection of novels I'm writing with @gaeadene

In her hand, Cappie held out the test sticks. Eli took them, scanning the result. They both read positive , and he was pretty sure his heart stopped for a second. “Ok,” he whispered. “Ok. We’re really doin’ this. You’re really doin’ this, with me.” "Well, yeah? Who else would I be doing this with?" “I, I really hope nobody,” he breathed, reaching for her, wanting to cup her face. “Love, I, I love you. So much.” Cappie was all sunbeams and desert dust, cactus flowers and a purple horizon. She burned hot, but bit cold in the dead of night on harsh, rocky plains, a landscape of dangerous beauty not meant for the faint of heart. No wonder she fell for a man as strong and lively as the pines, whose nature was as soothing as a stream and patience as gentle as hawk feathers. Eli was the mountains and Cappie the desert. Their son could only be golden, forged from two people who had no business of ever meeting, but managed to meet, love, and now parent the Golden Boy of the Whitetail Militia. Her hands reached for him, for his handsome face, thumbs stroking the apples of his cheeks in a softness akin to reverence. "Love you, too, Elijah Jay Palmer," whispered Cappie. "We're gonna have a baby."

Tagging @bitchofedensgate , @redreart , @locustandwildhoney , @noire610 , @gaeadene

#oc: cappie de la costa #wip #wip wednesday #otp: cappieli #cappie de la costa x eli palmer

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thiefbird · 1 year

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happy friday! :D perhaps "Foreheads pressed together, breath intertwining, slow, content affection" for some hawke/anders or another pairing of your choice?

Decided to write something for a new Hawke I'm working on! Their name is (tentatively) Raeneth, and they are a Purple/Red, elf-blooded Rogue! @dadrunkwriting

Anders stretched luxuriously, feeling for a brief moment rather like Ser Pounce when he'd find a rare sunbeam at the Vigil. He smiled at the thought, forcing away the memory of being forced to give away his kitten by that bloody Orlesian Warden Weisshaupt had sent to replace Cousland.

He... wouldn't say he'd adjusted to this change, but they were processing it. His place in Hawke's bed, regular baths, Raeneth's ridiculously adorable bedhead, the whole nine yards. (Maker, but his hair hadn't felt this clean in years.)

"Good morning, love," he murmured, as he twisted to face them.

Rae scrunched up their face, cracking open one eye to glare balefully at him. "Too early," they mumbled, before shoving their face more fully into the pillow with a groan.

Anders chuckled, wrapping his arm around their waist to tug them closer. He nuzzled his face into the crook of their neck, kissing their skin over their pulse. "I should get back to the clinic," he whispered, only half teasing as he tensed as if to stand. He could feel Justice grumbling about abandoning their duty, but he knew Justice could be convinced to put it off a little while longer. With the right motivation, of course.

Raeneth grumbled again, fingers digging into Anders' hips hard enough to hurt, hard enough he knew he'd find bruises later. "No. Stay."

He pressed a kiss to their bare shoulder, relaxing into their grip again. "Mmm, you make a convincing argument, love," he said playfully, hand sliding up their spine to cup the back of their neck.

Rae arched into the petting, a soft sound indicating their enjoyment. Anders tangled his fingers in their hair, using it to tilt Rae's head back, and pressed their foreheads together with a sigh of contentment.

"Maker, Rae... I love you..."

It wasn't the first time he'd said it, not by a long shot, but his heart cramped and spasmed with the same fear it had the first time. Fear of rejection, of Templars taking one or both of them away.

Until Rae smiled, bleeding the tension from his limbs and replacing it with lax pleasure as they held him close. "I love you, too, Anders. And nothing and no-one can take that away."

#dadwc #dadwc prompts #anders #hawke #anders x hawke #handers

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ravnloft · 7 months

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wicked turns #1-3.

what's up everybody guess who's writing fanfic again lol. amma theylin (drow rogue/fighter, neutral) and astarion ancunin (high elf rogue/bard, leaning evil) get into Some BullshitTM

“So, there’s a monster hunter down by Auntie Ethel’s place,” Amma says.

It’s midday. No one’s really injured, but after the tension of negotiating with goblins and tea with a hag, the group agreed it’s best to turn in early. Shadowheart is off doing something with incense and murmured prayers. Karlach is already half-naked and wading into the lake, and she gives a loud sigh of relief as the water steams up around her massive shoulders. Gale, without an item of acceptable enchantment level (to him) and worthlessness (to Amma), has decided his talents are better used here in camp, doing… something. Nothing? Whatever. As long as he’s not pestering her for loot, Amma couldn’t care less. Astarion said he’d watch over the poor dear, which is just as well for everyone else, because then they won’t have to deal with his antics, too.

But they’re all back at camp now, and there is a discussion to be had.

“A Gur,” Amma continues. “Said his name was Gandrel.”

Astarion is laid out on his little nest of carpets and cushions like a cat in a sunbeam. She watches him intently– sees the tendons in his hands tighten on the book he’s holding, the twitch of his shirtsleeve where the muscle tenses in his arm. He’s nervous.

“Told us something rather interesting,” comes Wyll’s voice from over her shoulder. He stands soldier-straight. Closer than Amma would like, but for this conversation– well, she’s just glad he’s not so disappointed in her that he wouldn’t stand beside her now. “About a vampire spawn he’s tracking.”

Astarion does his absolute best to be nonchalant. His eyes focus on the page of his book, he licks his thumb, turns the page.

“Tall tales, no doubt,” he says. “Did he ask for money? That’s a trick as old as Balduran. ‘I’m facing unimaginable evils, but I must have alms to fund my fight’. Might as well just make a wish and throw your coin into a well– you’ll see just as much reward for it.” Then, with a cold, sharp edge: “– You didn’t tell him where we’re camping, did you?”

“Should I have?”

Amma waits half a moment to see Astarion’s eyes stray from the page. That’s all the confirmation she needs.

“He was looking for you,” she says.

Astarion is slow and purposeful to stand. Wyll moves beside her, quick, instinctive– she holds her arm out to keep him back. She can hear the whisper of his rapier unsheathing like it has a mind of its own. Who’s the bloodthirsty one now, she wonders idly.

Astarion is just as tense. He’s standing in a way she’s never seen before: like an animal ready to pounce. But he hasn’t. Yet.

Measured, from between his teeth: “And what did you say to him?”

“I said, ‘You smell disgusting, might want to wash up before you speak with the lady of the house, good luck’. And then I left.”

Astarion turns his head and looks at her sidelong for a moment– a hawk, spotting a mouse– before his attention flashes back to the Blade. A hawk, spotting a mouse, and then the crows coming to chase him from the nest.

“I didn’t tell him anything,” says Amma. “Because you’ve been useful so far. If this hunter’s after you, that’s your business. But if you can explain why– then maybe keeping him away from you will be our business.”

She watches Astarion’s chest rise and fall beneath the fine silk of his shirt, watches the noonday sun blaze against his cheek. Shouldn’t that be impossible? Shouldn’t that have killed him already? Shouldn’t he have killed them already? Something keeps him from it. Not simply the tadpole, nor the artifact, and certainly not sentiment. But then– what?

“I’m not saying anything until you stay your blade,” he says to Wyll.

Wyll actually laughs. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“Well–”

Amma moves closer to Astarion. He steps back, in turn, one harsh line appearing in his face as his jaw clenches. No longer a hawk– an alley dog. Starved and trembling. She’s suddenly aware that everyone in camp has gathered around them: Shadowheart, still in her chain shirt; Karlach, smelling of wet iron, infernal heat coming off her in waves; Gale, propped up on his staff, sleepless, but still able to shoot ice and lightning from his hands.

Amma has never faced a vampire before. Nor has Wyll, if he spoke true to Gandrel. How fast is a spawn? How fast is a spawn with a mind flayer tadpole? Could they put him down before he strikes? Would he kill them? Would he turn them into mindless, bloodless slaves? Can he be felled by simple blades? Do they need a stake? Holy water? To find his grave and burn it?

“So what if I am a vampire?” He raises his hands, a pleading note in his voice. “I’m just as desperate as the rest of you. I’m– I’m a tadpole-haver first, and– a vampire second.”

“That boar,” Amma says, “in the forest.”

“Yes.” His shoulders lower a fraction of an inch, his face falls with relief. “I’m not some monster, lurking in the dark like all the stories. I’ve never even killed anyone! Well– not until recently.” A beat. “Not for food, at least.”

A strange sensation courses through her, and Amma can feel her companion’s mind unfold, secrets half-revealed. Her teeth pierce thick boar-hide and she drinks deep. She takes in his face. His hair, white, unnaturally so. How old is he, really? How many years has his face looked like this? She imagines the skull beneath it, fanged and terrible. She imagines the blood and veins and meat of his brain. The tadpole turns a figure-eight behind her eye. Astarion’s face lurches. His eyes grow wide and he leans away from her, but not before her mind finds purchase in his own– and bites.

There is no camp, no swamp, no Gandrel. There is nothing but blackness and blood. Others’; his own. Hunger. Terror. Hate. Gargantuan sensations, but all of them eclipsed by the sight of his eyes, shining in the dark like raw, fresh, bloody meat, and his voice, cold, cutting to the core, commanding. Ignoring fleas, ignoring mange, teeth find purchase in a rat, crunching its small ribs against the palate, clumps of fur on tongue, it’s rancid and it’s dead but it’s blood blood blood in mouth in throat in stomach–

Reality returns with a dizzying wave of fear and disgust. Amma sways, and so does Astarion– clutching his temple, shrinking back into the shadow of his tent, reeling like a struck hound. Her vision swims. She can still taste blood in the back of her throat. Is it from his memory? Or is it carnage in the wake of the tadpole’s turn, trickling down from the basin of her skull? She pushes it down. If he’s going to fight back–

– He doesn’t fight back.

She looks into the gloom of the tent, into eyes so red they look flayed; he stares back into her, piercing, unmerciful. The connection has been severed, but the memories remain. The way he looks at her– is it disgust? For his own past? For her intrusion? Does he want mercy? Understanding? She doesn’t know, nor does she particularly care, and she doubts she even has those emotions in her anymore.

(What did he unearth in her while she was digging inside him?)

But of this, she’s certain: Astarion is a monster. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. A charming thing that rips and claws and feeds as soon as it can get the chance. From the moment they met, he’s never been anything else, whether his blade was at her throat or in a goblin’s belly. There is no quivering conscience in him– not like the others.

She could use a monster.

“Animals,” he gasps. “Rats. Deer. Kobolds. Whatever I can get.” His face twists as he stands; she feels the psionic strands binding all of them together twist with it.

“Not because you wanted to.”

“I– yes. Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. So you can see why I was slow to trust you.”

He’s moved near to her, again– nearer than before. He looks down at her. The shape of his mouth is still holding onto a grimace, a snarl; this close, she can indeed see the pointed fangs between his lips. The sun hits his eyes like rubies. She imagines him covered in gore.

“But I do trust you. And you can trust me.”

She doesn’t.

From behind her– Wyll’s disdain: “Enough of this.” The sound of his blade unsheathed again.

“Stop,” Amma says sharply. “He stays. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”

“Thank you,” Astarion sighs. In an instant, he’s back to his usual self: he throws his hands out wide, inviting, grins at them all. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “And just like that, we’re all friends again. Now, do try to get some rest, will you? You’re all looking somewhat worse for wear.”

Shadowheart simply shrugs and goes back to her prayers. Gale and Wyll walk off together, grumbling darkly. Karlach turns, runs, and jumps back into the lake with a joyous whoop.

Astarion does not pick his book back up. Instead, he starts putting on his boots.

“Thought you trusted us,” Amma says.

“I trust you plenty.”

He whistles a happy tune, picks up his blade, thumbs the edge of it carefully. He makes a little show of gathering his things and buttoning his gambeson. When she doesn’t leave, he shoots her a smile– a real smile, sharp and scheming.

“Which is why you’re invited to help me kill this Gur.”

For a creature that must drink blood, Astarion loves to waste the stuff.

Sure, there’s satisfaction to be found in killing; sure, there’s a pleasure in putting someone’s insides on the outside. There’s bloodlust and delight in violence. He has these traits. There’s also common sense– strategy– not running headfirst into a fight against someone willing to bet their soul on killing him. He does not have these. It’s a lack that Shadowheart was ready to slap him over after removing four arrows from Astarion’s chest and one from Amma’s leg, bless her dark heart.

Regardless– Gandrel is dead, everyone else is alive, and after going through the hunter’s things, Amma is a whole one gold and three silver richer than before. She’s calling it a win.

Before this, Amma was used to traveling with humans, dwarves, tieflings– plenty of strange folk, certainly– but not elves. She’s used to being the only one who needs a four-hour trance instead of an eight-hour sleep. Now, she has Astarion to deal with. She’s not happy about it. She’d use the extra time to study maps or textbooks on the task at hand, sharpen her blades, rifle through other people’s belongings to see if they had anything valuable; these aren’t activities that are aided by having someone else up and wandering around, asking what she’s doing.

For the last few nights, she had been working on a map of the nautiloid crash region– no idea if it was actually accurate or not, but at least it gave them some sense of direction– and trying to ignore Astarion’s existence. Tonight, given recent revelations, she’s opted to leave the camp entirely. Went off to the river with her bedroll and some soap and salvaged linens from the blighted village. (She hasn’t told anyone else she has these.) She’s gathered an untenable amount of blood and muck in her long hair, and she doesn’t want to cut it. They kept it shaved in Ched Nasad. It must be washed.

The water here is fresh and clear and cold. The soap smells so strongly of lavender that Amma suspects it was meant for laundry and not skin, but it’s all she has, so she’ll make do. Soon she sees the current outlined in bloody, pink suds. She lets her mind go blank and dark. She thinks of nothing but the small pains of frigid water against her skin, of pulling snags and tangles out of her hair. Wishes she had oil and a comb. Wishes she had a real tub. Wishes she was back in Baldur’s Gate, spending the night in a nice, busy tavern, full of pockets she can pick and goblets she can down. She stays on the riverbank long after she’s dry. She sets her bedroll out on the grass, curls up, and allows herself to fall into a trance.

Maybe she wakes up because she knows something is wrong. Maybe she just gets lucky.

“Shit,” Astarion mutters, inches from her face.

He stands quickly, holds his hands up, steps away from her. On instinct, she throws a dagger from under her pillow. It thunks ominously into a tree next to his head.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he panics.

As he stumbles through the explanation, she stalks to the tree, removes the dagger, and holds it to his throat.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

He draws his face into the now-familiar expression he gets when he’s trying to look harmless. “Because, I–” And then he swats the dagger out of her hand.

Not one to give up a fight, Amma slams her elbow into his face. She can hear his teeth click together. The pained sound he makes is very satisfying.

“You–” he snarls, then catches himself, tries to act human. “I wasn’t– I’m not here to hurt you.”

Amma takes advantage of his momentary lapse to wade ankle-deep into the stream, grab a piece of driftwood, and snap it over her knee.

“No, no, there’s no need for that,” he says– but keeps his distance. When she doesn’t drop the makeshift stake, he takes another step back. Breathes in deep to calm himself.

“I swear on my own grave, Amma, I am not here to harm you. I just want to talk.”

A long moment of consideration. She watches him– he’s relaxed, as best he can while rubbing his swiftly-bruising chin. He could have killed her, just then. Easily. Could have used her own knife against her. Could have taken a fistful of her hair and smashed her head into a rock or held it under the water until she stopped moving. But he didn’t.

“So talk,” she says.

Astarion looks at her feet in the water and clicks his tongue disapprovingly. Then he bends down and retrieves her dagger from the riverbank, holds it behind his back; he walks to the edge of the stream, places one foot on a protruding rock, and extends his free hand nobly to her.

“Come out of there and be civilized, will you?”

Warily, she sloshes over to him. She takes his hand. It’s cold, and soft, and when he closes his fingers around hers, it’s surprisingly gentle. He doesn’t pull her in so much as simply drift along with her. Without letting go, he leans down again and retrieves one of the linens she’d left drying on the shore, hands it to her.

“I’m sorry, I…” His voice trails off as he looks at her. He’s close enough for her to smell the perfume lingering on his clothes. His eyes come alive in the dark, bright and precious. He’s still holding her hand in his, practiced, graceful.

She pulls her hand away.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Ah– yes. About today, earlier… fighting that monster hunter.”

Is it that he’s sorry for charging in like an idiot? He’s sorry for putting the group in danger like that, and it won’t happen again? Thank you, Amma, for protecting me so bravely from all the people who are trying to kill me?

“I just feel so… weak.” His face twists with the now-familiar look of disgust. For a moment, she’s struck with something– pity, maybe? Recognition? “Feeding on animals– it’s not enough. Not if I need to fight.”

That disgust, it’s something she feels, too. A rat in her mouth. A voice in his ear. They both know what it’s like to be made weak and small by someone else.

“If I just had a little blood,” he continues, “I could think clearer. Fight better. Please.”

“No. Go take it from somebody else.”

“Oh, you mean the cleric? Or the Blade of Frontiers? Or the tiefling that incinerates everything she touches? Or the man who can explode me with his mind? No. It has to be you.”

“The hells it does.”

“I wouldn’t be asking if we had any other choice,” he grimaces. “I need you alive. You need me strong. That’s the only way we’re going to save ourselves from these worms.”

He’s close to her. He’s very close to her. He could just reach out and trap her, but he doesn’t. And that’s somehow infuriating to her: that he would ask to bite her, that he seemingly cares what she would say. It blurs the line of trust– and mistrust– that she thought they’d drawn. It invites– sentimentality.

“Give me back my dagger,” she says.

“No, you’re going to stab me with it.”

“Give me back my dagger, and I’ll let you drink my blood.”

He cocks his head– a hawk, a mouse; a fox, a vole.

He pulls the blade hesitantly from behind his back. Hands it over to her. The way he watches her is predatory, dissective– his eyes linger at her collarbone, her jaw, her throat.

“It’ll only be a taste,” he breathes. “I swear. I’ll be well, you’ll be fine, and everything can go back to normal.”

“No, it won’t.”

Her blade flashes in the moonlight, and she presses it into her own palm.

“Get on your knees,” she tells him.

He does, but slowly. Calculating. There isn’t any worry in his face as he looks up at her (he thinks he’s good at hiding that kind of thing, but he’s not). Wariness, yes, but not fear. Instead, there is… intrigue. Fascination.

With red eyes fixed on the knife against her skin, he says, “You’re making this far more dramatic than it needs to be. You can just lie back. You won’t even feel a thing.”

Amma draws the blade across her palm, snikt, squeezes her hand into a fist so the blood streams thick and hot over her wrist. Holds it out to him.

“Stop talking,” she says.

Astarion doesn’t need to be told twice. He takes hold of her forearm with one hand, his grip much harder than is gentlemanly, and pries her fingers open with his other. He presses her bleeding palm to his lips with fervor. She can feel his teeth against the base of her fingers, his dead tongue lapping that which spills down to her wrist. It’s nauseating and thrilling in equal measure.

Eventually: “That’s enough.” She pulls her bloodied hand away from him. His grip shifts to her elbow, and his mouth moves to her wrist. He bares his fangs.

“Stop it,” she hisses. Jabs the pommel of her dagger hard into his jaw to try and make him let up. He does– falls back, clutching his jaw. For a moment, they lock eyes. She can see her blood dripping down his chin, coating his teeth, black in the moonlight. He can see the soft, naked pulse point in her neck.

He lunges.

This time, Amma has no chance to struggle– she’s already seeing stars just from what he’s taken at her wrist. When he bites down into her neck, it’s nothing like the hot snikt of a blade; it’s like a shard of ice. Her breath catches, her heart thrums. She can feel her blood racing as it courses through both their bodies. She feels cold.

She panics– acts on instinct– stabs. Her dagger drives easily into the meat of his thigh. He draws his head up from her with a horrible gasp, sending fat drops of blood across their shirts, lowing in pain. When he releases her, Amma’s legs give out. She can’t feel her feet.

“You wretched–” He grits his crimson teeth together and removes the dagger from his thigh. The rest of his sentence devolves into a painful snarl.

Her vision is dark at the edges. She can see him coming back to her as though through a telescope. She fumbles against him desperately, trying to push him back with bloodless limbs.

“Stop–” Her voice is hoarse and weak. His hands close around her wrists and force them to the ground, pinning her easily, effortlessly. “Astarion, stop–”

After that, all she feels is cold. There’s no more fear. No more struggle. Her vision goes dark knowing he’s still on her neck.

There are worse ways to die.

“No, no, you can’t die!”

The voice is muffled, unrecognizable. The world is dark. What happened? Who is this?

“Get up, damn you–”

There are hands at her chest, her wrist, her neck. Someone grips her chin and turns her head and it sends dull, throbbing pain all down the side of her torso. She smells blood, wet leaves, dirt. Back in prison? No, it doesn’t smell right. The wardens gave up trying to keep her alive after the fourth time she removed the bandages, anyway.

The hands leave her and she hears shuffling, rattling. She tries to turn over to her side. It’s hard. She’s so cold. So tired. Dimly, in the back of her mind, one dread thought forms: she failed. The Matron will be angry.

Healing magic shoots through her like a lightning bolt. A pale elven face swims into focus above her. She punches it.

“Agh! Gods damn it–”

Forest. Dawn, or close to it. Old, sticky blood on her hands. Astarion.

“I understand you’re upset, but let’s not get carried away,” she can hear him saying. It’s harsh and tight through gritted teeth. Amma sits up– difficult, painful. An awful, wet, metallic cough seizes in her throat. It makes her vision swim with pain.

“You fucking killed me,” she manages after a moment.

“‘Killed’ feels like a strong word,” he counters quickly. She watches him dab his knuckles under his nose, checking to see if it’s bleeding. It is. He grimaces. “Not many corpses have your vigor. Besides, I brought you back, didn’t I?”

She watches him. He watches her. The feeling of her body is starting to return. Her limbs feel weak, like the joints were loosened. Her neck throbs with every frantic beat of her heart. She struggles to blink stars out of her eyes.

“Now, I admit, I got a little– carried away last night,” he says. He lowers his chin and flutters his pretty lashes at the ground. “I apologize.”

“Take more than an apology,” Amma growls.

“Regardless, look at you now. Perfectly healthy! So let’s not fall out over this.”

She doesn’t feel perfectly healthy. She feels like, if she were to rate her bodily vivacity on a scale of zero to eighteen, with zero being dead and eighteen being pre-tadpole Amma, she’d be at a one right now.

His pale hand comes into view, open, delicate. He’s offering to help her up.

“We still need each other, after all,” he says.

She ignores it. “Do we?”

Clearly offended: “A strong, well-fed vampire? I’m a powerful weapon– you’d be a fool to toss me aside now.”

She’s loath to admit it, but he’s right.

“I didn’t trust you to begin with,” Amma says, “and I don’t trust you now. Go back to camp. We’ll talk about it later.”

He lingers.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” he asks. It’s– disarmingly soft.

A wave of disgusting unhappiness washes over her. Not just at him, but at the memories he’s reminded her of. The Underdark. The Matron. Failure. Whether he intended to or not, Astarion has her at his mercy, and he’s the first person in over a hundred years to do that.

“Just go,” Amma spits at him.

He goes.

#bg3 posting #amma #mine #fanfic #writing #NOT putting any other tags on this. nobody look at me im shy fhgdfhgfddfh

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evergreen-lyricist · 2 years

Note

Hawk, ask game

hi myth!! thank u so much for asking😊

fair warning some of this will be presented sans context bc i am Sleepy & spoonless.

Full Name: Hawk Johnson (*middle name undetermined)

Gender & Sexuality: cis guy, unconcerned about sexuality given the givens (currently has bigger worries)

Pronouns: he/him

Ethnicity: Korean (adopted by white parents; not culturally immersed)

Birthdate: April 19

Guilty Pleasure: watching the stupidest kdramas he can find & passing it off as "an important part of language acquisition"

Phobia: probably thasolophobia (however it's spelled) which is fear of the deep ocean & what might be in it

What They Would Be Famous For: in-world, it's entirely possible that Hawk would be kind of Known within the Draconic community & supporters bc of his relationship with Attemoon. it's rare enough for humans & Draconic humans to be together, let alone have kids, that they would get a decent amount of publicity regardless of how quiet they decided to keep it. (he is insistent that they keep Luna's face out of it though.)

What They Would Get Arrested For: honestly?? he probably wouldn't get arrested. i can't think of a situation he could get into that could lead to that.

OC I Ship Them With: Attemoon!! they are amazing together & he loves her sooo much😊

OC Most Likely To Murder Them: no one!!

Favorite Movie/Book Genre: a toss-up between action/adventure & romance

Least Favorite Cliche: definitely the possessive love interest

Talents/Powers: Hawk is pretty much a normal dude, but I'd say his big heart is pretty important in the narrative

Why Someone Might Love Them: Hawk has a very beautiful & distinctive smile. there are a lot of reasons someone might love him, but that's one thing that Attemoon loves about him in particular; his real smile is like a sunbeam breaking through the clouds.

Why Someone Might Hate Them: in-world, some people are going to hate him because of his relationship with Attemoon & everything that comes with that. out of world, there is no reason for anyone to hate him & I'd be very upset if anybody did.

How They Change: Hawk is kind of a passive person. not all the time, but especially at the beginning he definitely lets life lead him where it may. this is partly a cultivated part of his persona & partly the result of some emotional issues. over time, Hawk gets better at being assertive & speaking up for himself, instead of deflecting.

Why You Love Them: gosh. I love Hawk for a lot of reasons, but the one that sticks out to me is that writing him allows me to heal some things that he struggles with that also hurt me. like, Hawk & I are both Korean &, for one reason or another, culturally disconnected & feel inadequate because of that (holy oversharing Batman). in that sense, we can walk together & heal those wounds together.

#ev speaks #answering letters #myth my beloved....#cannot stop thinking about the scene where Magsie goes to get Hawk from his dorm bc Attemoon kind of really needs to talk with him!!#& also she's worries bc he is not responding to her messages & calls!!#Magsie finds him & his room is a grade A depression cave. like 'aled last when frances finds him at uni & he fuckin sonics away' type cave #& he tells her that the financial aid office told him his parents stopped paying for his tuition & he just told them he was working it out #spoiler: he was not. his parents cut him off financially bc they r upset with him for being friends with Attemoon #(they are dating but Hawk's shitty parents don't need to know that)#& Magsie is just. aghast. she takes him back to the house & tells Attemoon can she please hold this conversation tomorrow & is like.#'Hawk ur parents are shit & i can be your new mom' & he's like 'more like mother-in-law (gettit bc im dating ur daughter)'#& this is around the middle of the book so the storm ain't over yet. but things go vaguely uphill from there.#is it really found family if u found it through romance?? Hawk asks the important questions

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calamitydarcy · 17 days

Note

That was pretty good prose, ngl.

Image descriptions give someone a great appreciation for the art of writing.

oh, why, i am quite honored by your compliment.

however, i would like to contest your last statement; for i feel as though there is something more that can give one an appreciation for writing.

picture this, o dearest anon: leaving the dark depths of your room, cracking open the door. a cool spring breeze, the scent of flowers in the air. flocks of birds singing their song, greeting you with a welcoming chorus.

and the grass! oh, the grass! look at how it sways, how the sunbeams paint the green with gold! it is soft as your hands descend upon it; come closer! roll down the hill, stare up at the sky! see the images in the clouds as a hawk soars by.

isn't it wonderful, the beauty of nature? the world outside?

oh, wondrous anon, how i long to see the face behind such dedication, such love! reveal thyself, and we shall step outside and touch the beautiful, soft spring grass together!

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biussworld · 4 years

Text

Sanctuary

Hi! Here’s part two to Slow Dancing in the Dark!

Also, an explanation as to why I changed this one from a GN!Reader to a F!Reader is because it's about a quirk marriage. Quirk marriages are already disturbing as is since you're forcing two powerful quirk-wielders to marry for an even powerful quirk to fruit from it. Moreover, if it's a quirk marriage between the same gender, bearing children might involve experimentation and cloning which is honestly extremely disturbing for me. Surrogacy might also be an option, but the probability of the child bearing someone else's quirk instead of the parents' alone is a factor as to why it could fail. I MIGHT HAVE OVERTHOUGHT ABOUT THIS WHOLE FIC OH GOD. Does anyone even fact check? This also might not even be a big deal. Anyways,,

Relationships: Takami Keigo (Hawks) x Fem!Reader; Tokoyami Fumikage x Fem!Reader

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Warnings: Hints of pedophilia and sexual harassment from older idiots, forced marriage.

Word Count: 1.4k

"You look lovely, darling. I don't see why he wouldn't want a bride like you. Right, Mr. Takami?"

"Yes, indeed. Even I wouldn't pass up on a beauty like you."

The conversation between your father and Keigo's sent shivers down your spine. You were beyond disgusted, and you tried hard not to gag and regurgitate your breakfast right then and there.

You hate this. This entire situation, this place, the people, this stupid, stupid dress that feels itchy all over your arms and legs. This feels disgusting.

The laughter of the two men and the rustling of the cloths of the other dresses you were supposed to wear today was muffled as you sank deeper in your thoughts. It's the day of your and Keigo's wedding, and all you can think of is him. His face, the feeling of his hands on yours, the warmth of his embrace, and most importantly the last words he told you that had kept echoing in your head like a cursed mantra haunting you every day since he left.

You closed your eyes and sighed, silently hoping that this will all end when you open them again even though you know that's all wishful thinking. You hoped that instead of Takami Keigo waiting for you down the aisle, it would be your Fumikage with a smile on his face. But he isn't. He isn't here and he won't be saving you like a little damsel in distress.

You lost him and sadly, he lost you, too.

Your thoughts and the two men behind you were silenced when a knock sounded from the door. Your father walked up to it and creaked it open slightly to be greeted by Keigo's signature grin. "Can I see her?"

"Keigo, seeing your bride before a wedding is a charm for bad luck, you know?" You hear your father say to him, and you roll your eyes in your head as you let the voice in your head speak for you, "I've been doused in bad luck ever since I was born to your family."

"Aw, you know it's not true." He says, standing on the tip of his toes to peek at you and the others inside. "Please?"

"Let him in. It's not like they won't see each other later, too." His father perks up and immediately, Keigo's barging in through your door.

He’s standing behind you, and you look at him through his reflection on your mirror; you couldn't help but stare at him when he's looking like that. He was wearing his wedding suit, white and the contrast of the white on his bright red wings make them stand out quite perfectly. He offers you a smile, and you smile back at him.

He would've been the perfect groom, you think. Just not for you.

"Can I talk to her alone?" He looks at your dad and his, before looking back to you. He's earned a lousy shrug from both of them, and the rest had started filing out the room. After everyone has left but not without jeering at you both, he walked towards the window, opening it wide. "It's getting stuffy here, don't you think?"

You turn around in your seat to face him properly, your brows furrowed and your eyes squinted as you watch him take slow strides across your room. "What do you want, Keigo?" Is what you say after he looks back at you. He takes steps toward you and sticks his hand out. You place yours in his and he leads you to the open window. He doesn't talk, rather he turns to his side to face the sky and the city below. You mimic him and sigh.

"Do you want this?" Your voice is meek and hurt, only coming out as a whisper in the air but he hears you. "I hate it." He grumbles. You scoff and smirk at him, listening to his next remark. "I hate being caged and controlled. I want my freedom."

His words rendered you silent as you thought to yourself again. You had wanted to be free, too. It's what you've been yearning for years and years ever since you've gotten your quirk. From that fated day forward, everyone has been guiding you, dictating your every move according to the stupid story they made for the rest of your life.

"We have no way out of this, Keigo." You say hopelessly, your voice sounding even smaller than before. You close your eyes and sigh for the thousandth time that day, and as you turn around and walk toward your bed, he speaks. "Maybe I don't. But you do."

And no sooner than now, his red feathers picked you up and carried you just outside the window. He's looking up at you with a cheeky smile on his face, making you think that he might be making fun of you. "Keigo, I swear to god if this is a sick fucking prank I will murder you as soon as the wedding ends-"

"There won't be a wedding," He says nonchalantly, his arms crossed over his chest. "You belong to someone else and I honestly cannot see you as my wife."

You look even more confused, rather than offended at his statement, and when he leans in closer to you, he speaks "You've put up with my dad's and yours' bullshit for as long as I remember. This is the only thing I can give back to you. This is the only way I can give it back to you." The puzzled expression on your face only deepens as he continues rambling.

"Keigo, what do you want?" You finally breathe out as you grab onto his arms in fear of falling, crumpling the crisp fabric of his coat.

"I want you to be free."

And with his words, his feathers slid out from under you and you're falling. And falling,

until a pair of strong arms catch you mid-air.

The air is cold and icy against your flushed cheeks, and you instinctively cover your face in fear of falling from such a high place. A few moments later, you feel your heart calm down from its high and your hands fall back onto your stomach. Like any other sane person, your instinct told you to look at the culprit of your current state. So you did.

If your eyes could deceive you, you'd curse at everything and slap the shit out of yourself and awaken from this sick dream you think you're having. But he's here, in the flesh and you know he’s not leaving. His crimson orbs are trained to the front as he focuses on the path he's taking, but you could see the mixed emotions reflecting from them-- the sadness, the pain, the suffering, the happiness, the anxiety, and everything else you could also be feeling right now. He's here, your Fumikage is here.

As soon as you two were far enough, he's holding you tight as you two are perched on top of a huge tree, away from the city and the chaos it brings upon you two. His arms are wrapped around you protectively and pressing you against his chest as if his life depended on having you right here with him and him only.

You don't notice yourself clinging onto him tighter, you don't notice the tears forming on the corners of your eyes and dribbling down your cheeks. But you notice the familiar feeling bubbling in your chest, the homey warmth wrapping you as his scent soothes the nerves in your body.

He's here, he's home, and he has brought you home.

"I've got you now, my love. I'm sorry it took me so long."

---

BONUS:

The sky's hues are perfectly dim as you two sat on the floor of your nest, overlooking the city. You were placed in between his legs as his arms are wrapped loosely around your waist, his chest pressed onto your back while his beak rests on your shoulder. Your hand finds his and it slips in beautifully like your hand was made for his and his hand was for yours. The dull sound of his and your heartbeat match in a rhythmic pulse as your steady breaths fill in the silence in the room.

From the day he caught you up to now, this has been a part of your nightly routine together. After patrolling the ward, you two would find your places beside each other and would bask in the mere presence of each other, wanting nothing but to feel each other's skin against their own.

You hear him hum, and you hum back, slowly falling into slumber.

"I love you, Fumi."

"I love you, too."

#tokoyami fumikage x reader #tokoyami fumikage #fumikage tokoyami x reader #fumikage tokoyami #tokoyami x reader #tokoyami #takami keigo x reader #takami keigo #keigo takami #keigo takami x reader #hawks x reader #bnha x reader #bnha imagines #sunbeam writes tokoyami

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yellowmagicalgirl · 3 years

Text

memories for when morning comes

An average afternoon and morning for Claire after ae stopped the Eternal Night.

This fic was, for the most part, written to spite an asshole on FFN who was complaining about how I use ae/aer pronouns for when I decide to specify that Claire is nonbinary in a fic, as opposed to they/them or she/her pronouns. Guess what? Ae/aer pronouns were first used in 1920, and even if they weren’t that old then one should still respect pronouns (especially for real people, though if this person is complaining about my pronoun choice for a fictional wizard I worry about how they’d treat real people who use neopronouns). (The other reasons I had for writing this were my own personal gender frustrations as well as just how it’s been a while since I wrote Claire.)

Title comes from “Welcome to Wonderland” by Anson Seabra, aka a song I found on a nonbinary pride playlist ;)

This fic isn’t Wizards compliant

Content/Spoiler Warning: Isolation, hopelessness, implied/referenced self harm, and introspection on misgendering and death

AO3

FFN

Claire wrapped aer arms around aerself and winced as even through the fabric ae could feel just how frozen aer hands were. That was the problem with having small, thin fingers. Aer circulation was pretty bad in aer hands. Sometimes, when aer nail polish was chipped, Claire’s could see how the natural color of aer nails changed to a pastel blue-violet tone, as opposed to the healthy pink that aer nails were supposed to be.

Speaking of supposed to be, where was Jim? He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. Claire fought the urge to check aer phone again. He would be here any minute now, and if he had gotten caught up in some sort of trollhunting business, he wouldn’t be able to tell aer at the time. But, ae was tempted to go find a bench and pull out aer homework. That way, ae could at least do something useful instead of just waste aer energy shivering and feeling anxious.

Ae shouldn’t be so anxious. They had saved the world years ago, and aside from the occasional goblin nest or gnome uprising there hadn’t been any problems. Jim had retrieved the stone that allowed him to walk in the daylight, and had found out that he didn’t have to actually change as much about his diet as he had planned. It was small things, like coating his salad in dressing and eating his steak rare. The supernatural world was at peace. Morgana was dead and would never be able to hurt anyone ever again. But, sadly, Claire had been diagnosed with anxiety long before ae had learned the truth about the creatures that lurked in the shadows. Ae sighed before walking over to the nearest bench. It was warm underneath the late January sunbeam. Ae pulled out aer phone, but ae didn’t check the time. Ae placed an earbud in each of aer ears, reaching up at the same time to run one of aer hands through the fade of aer hair before reaching the curly faux hawk at the top and curling aer fingers into it. Perhaps it couldn’t be considered a proper fade, not anymore, not when Claire had decided to let it grow out for the winter months so the chill wouldn’t permeate so directly into aer skull.

Claire let aerself become pulled into the loud rock music blasting from their earbuds as ae pulled out a textbook from aer backpack and began to read. Ae didn’t notice anyone approach aer until a blue, four-fingered hand stopped aer from turning the page.

“Oh,” Claire said, pulling out aer earbuds. Aer boyfriend stood in front of aer, one hand behind his back. “There you are.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Jim said. “Mom was trying to cook and, well, it was going well until the kitchen towel started catching fire. But, I have something to make up for it!” He thrust his arm out from behind his back, revealing the bouquet of violets.

“Jim, I, thank you,” Claire said, tracing the softness of the flowers.

He smiled down at aer. “Of course, anything for my handsome Juliet.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have a vase or anything, would you?”

Jim scratched the base of his horns sheepishly and opened his mouth, probably to say that no, he hadn’t planned that far ahead for their date.

And ae woke up.

All of Claire’s dreams were bad dreams. Some of them were memories, and they happened more often if Claire fell asleep in front of the haunted TV that showed all of the times that ae had been scared. Some of them were an amalgamation of horrible things that ae had heard about and things that Morgana had done or intended to do to her victims.

The worst type of dream, though, was neither of those two. No, the worst type of dream wasn’t bad when it was happening. It was a wonderful, beautiful, pleasant escape from the horrible reality that Claire had doomed aerself to. Ae would wake up in the Shadow Realm and know that Jim was dead and everyone assumed that Claire was dead as well. That their beloved friend had died to save the world. Or worse, their beloved daughter or sister.

Claire had died before ae had come out to anyone except for Enrique. It was after Jim had rescued aer brother from the Darklands, but before Morgana had taken a hold on Claire’s body and mind. Well, a stronger hold than Claire merely just using the Shadow Staff.

Ae had been alone, and ae had started talking to him. Practicing how ae’d come out to aer friends and family and boyfriend, even though ae hadn’t been ready. Enrique was the only one who knew who Claire really was, and he was a baby. He wouldn’t understand, and he wouldn’t remember Claire talking to him, and he would grow up hearing about the sister he once had who never actually existed in the way everyone thought Claire had.

(There was a possibility that there was one other person who knew the truth about Claire, but ae didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to think about how the woman who called Claire Child instead of Daughter might be doing so as a sign of some horrible mimicry of respect. Really, Claire would have rather have had aer bodily and spiritual autonomy respected and be misgendered than for Morgana to respect that Claire wasn’t a girl but then turn around and treat aer like ae wasn’t a person, just a weapon.)

Enrique wouldn’t remember his older sibling’s monologues about aer gender frustration. Perhaps it was for the best. Claire hadn’t been meaning to actually tell aer brother, or else ae would have gone to NotEnrique instead, because out of the two brothers ae had the changeling was the one who actually knew more than ten words. It was just easier to talk to a listening ear than aer stuffed animals or a mirror (and that was before mirrors were a reminder of aer trauma). It had been practice for something terrifying that Claire would never have to do. Never get to do. Hadn’t been ready to do. Ae had never gotten around to deciding upon a more specific label than nonbinary. Between the dread that came with the possibility of someone finding aer trying to do research, and all of aer responsibilities, ae had never really had the time. And of course, ae knew that their were plenty of people who didn’t want a more specific label, but ae wanted one. Ae wanted a more specific label, if only so ae could list out all the reasons and point to something that explained that Claire wasn’t the only one. And instead, ae had waited too long and no one would know.

The trolls would have probably reacted well, since trollish gender was rather different than human gender. Jim and Toby probably would have been okay with aer as well, since they had reacted well to aer being bi and they were respectively bi and pan themselves.

Mary and Darci? Back in middle school, Darci had followed Claire to a few GSA meetings but as far as Claire knew she was there as an ally. And while Claire had seen the way that Mary sometimes looked at Shannon, Mary had never done anything else to indicate that she was anything other than straight and cis.

Aer parents? Claire knew that they loved aer. Besides, they wouldn’t have thrown aer out, if only because Ophelia was a politician on the left end of the political spectrum. But, aer family was Catholic, and ae wasn’t even out to them as bisexual, and that was at least something they might believe aer on. Aer dad might even be more relaxed if Claire had a (cis) girlfriend than with any boy ae could date, trollhunter or otherwise. And if aer dad was on aer side, then maybe he could convince aer mom to accept that their child was bisexual. Maybe, considering just how many arguments Claire had had with aer mom about how Claire couldn’t be her perfect daughter. How could Claire possibly convince aer parents that ae wasn’t their daughter at all? Granted, there was the possibility that they’d be to ecstatic to care about the gender binary when Claire escaped -

No. Ae was never going to escape the Shadow Realm.

Ae slipped out of bed, undoing one of aer long white braids. It had always had the tendency to get horrifically tangled, and that was before aer magic made it so aer hair moved in an otherwise imaginary hurricane. It would tangle enough to make aer cry. Braids were easier. Braids, or short enough hair that Claire wouldn’t have to worry about it tangling, but ae didn’t trust aerself with blades so close to aer own skin.

Ae had mastered walking around aer house as silently as possible. Perhaps ae had become a shadow of aerself here. Silent, and trying not to cause a stir, not to draw attention to aerself.

Claire gazed out aer window to the dark landscape of the Shadow Realm. Morgana was out there.

Or, maybe, ae had become more of aerself here. The shadows obeyed aer will, after all. So had the Shadow Staff. Aer will, and not Morgana’s. It had been so surprisingly easy to steal away the scepter of the Eldritch Queen. Perhaps it had been seeking a monarch as shadowy as itself.

Ae hadn’t had the time for researching and trying to find the perfect label to describe their gender. Now, ae had nothing but time to think and solitude to not worry about someone walking in on aer research. Now, ae had no access to anything that could give aer answers. Ae had tried, but there wasn’t a WiFi connection in the Shadow Realm. Ae couldn’t look anything up online, and it wasn’t like there were any books in the Nuñez household to help aer find the perfect word to describe aer gender.

And yet, Claire felt that ae could call their gender a shadowy void and ae would be incredibly accurate.

A/N: Is Jim actually dead in this? Probably not; Claire is probably just making an assumption because the last time ae saw aer boyfriend he had just jumped in the way of a magical blast that had been meant to take out Claire and aer friends.

#jlaire #claire nuñez #jim lake jr #troll!jim #trollhunters #tales of arcadia #nonbinary!claire #my writing

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mrmissmrsrandom · 3 years

Text

Fic writer interview meme

tagged by @demoiselledefortune, thank you for including me!

My answers are below

How many works do you have on AO3?

69 (nice).

What’s your total AO3 word count?

553,656 words, but I do have several longish collaborations that inflate the wordcount.

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Currently looks to be at 12, not including other tags for the same series (FE and MDZS have different general tags for some things). Majority of my works have been across the Fire Emblem series at this point.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

A. Serrated, an MDZS Canon Divergence AU written in part with @mwritesink. It is also the longest fic I have on Ao3 thus far!

B. Return to Childhood Redux, an alternative sequel/spin on one of the Scum Villain Self-Saving System extras that was written for a Bingqiu holiday art and fic exchange. (Note: the rest of the translation at that time was unfinished, so not fully happy with certain characterizations in it, but... popular is popular lolol).

C. The Lion in Winter, a “30 years later” FE15 fic that I still need to finish (and I will!! I will!!! I’m super grateful to everyone who has stuck with it/returned to it thus far!!). It features slowburn Alm/Lukas as sad middle age men.

D. Tassels and Bells, a Serrated sequel/”extras” chapter fic in part with @mwritesink. No set update schedule like the first fic, just more if we’re in the mood to write.

E. Unlike the stream, you are not in view. A (currently) pre-slash Liujiu fic co-written with @dornishsphinx for Liujiu Week 2020, where Liu Qingge is a sharkboy and they meet as kids. My love of monster designs and sharks shines here.

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I try my best to respond! Thankfully a majority of the comments I’ve gotten are positive, and its always satisfying to get ones where “I never thought of this idea/ship/etc. but I love it now bc of you.”

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Garotte, an FE4 bad end fic. But the angst is also mixed in with horror.

Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

Hoooooo. Well, Love Like Ghosts is shaping up to be the craziest based on what me and @dornishsphinx planned for it, since it uses all three of MXTX’s current novels in one form or another. Some fun ideas: Meng Shi becomes an aspect of Guanyin in the heavenly realm, Qin Wanyue from Scum Villain and Xue Yang from MDZS end up together-- and those are the least crazy things about it.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Yep! And it was so weird, because... they commented on it after reading nearly 200k worth of content? If you didn’t like it buddy, I think you should have quit while you were ahead.

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I don’t know how to respond to the “different kind” question of this lolol... but yep! I’ve written smut. I think my main issue is trying to draw out sex scenes/foreplay when I write it on my own.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yep! I had at least one that I know of, but that was waaaayyy back on ff.net days. I found it, told my friends about it, then they dogpiled the fic with comments about it being stolen, and then it was deleted soon after. It... looking back on it, it was probably too intense, especially for the fic in question.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes, but it is more “had a request, but haven’t seen the result/the one who asked decided not to continue beyond the first chapter.”

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes! Several times now at this point, and it has been a lovely experience each time. :D

What’s your all time favorite ship?

To write, it looks like right now its setting up to be Arthur/Hawk from FE4... which honestly shows how much of a crackship/rarepair/multiship writer I am haha. I love so, soooooo many ships and love to write for so many ships as well though.

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I would like to say never say never, but I’m not sure how to proceed at parts on my Wen Ning/Lan Xichen “everyone else is dead but we’re still here” postcanon fic.

What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Lengthy descriptions of space/character features unless I’m super invested with in the phrase of “I have to make this character the most sexually desirable person in the grocery store.” You feel?

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I am not comfortable enough in the other languages I know to do that. :D

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Pokemon Special. It was that manga that drove me to write fanfic in the first place.

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

On my own, despite some pacing issues and it not being one of my most popular, its Sunbeams Shade Black Wings for the MXTX Big Bang. It just feels... really close to my heart, and one of the fics I wrote through tears at points because I was so invested in writing the story.

I’m not going to tag anyone, but feel free to do it if you like!

#my asks #writing meme

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crowfeets · 3 years

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i started writing a scene far in the future and im kinda proud tbh, this is still draft 0 and rough as all heck

also, sappy... kinda nsfw, 18+ only pls!! just to be safe

Tapestries lined the walls, busy gold-thread embroidered things that made his eyes swim, so full of dizzying colour and form and movement. They were rich with peacocks, with beautiful black and brown-skinned people in armour and shining colourful robes and crowns. There were vines and flowers and mangoes and parrots and forest goats. There were rampant lions, tigers and sun bears, unicorns, crocodiles. There were people with the bodies of glittering snakes. There were a lot of naked people too. Jackal wondered if the artists had just really wanted to look at some tits.

Jackal found his eyes wandering, lingering on one corner. A woman with very little clothing – was jewelry clothing? - seemed to be in conversation with a man whose sheer linen kilt left very little to the imagination.

They were good artists, whoever they were, in Jackal’s opinion.

Amal squeezed his hand under the table.

“Whuh?” Said Jackal, intelligently, still thinking about what it would be like to be between the tapestry people. Maybe with his face in the woman’s tits, and as for the man’s cock… He blinked rapidly, tried to focus on Amal’s earnest, smiling face.

“Tea, my love?” Amal asked gently.

This, Jackal deduced, was not the first time he’d been asked.

A few of the advisors shifted uncomfortably in their seats or looked sourly into their own cups.

They could suck Jackal’s dick for all he cared. If only it were big enough for them to choke.

“Sure, magpie. Only ‘cause you ask so sweetly.” Jackal took a vicious, petty little glee in the reactions of the nobles around the table. He fought the urge to sneer.

They tended towards a decrepit and bearded conformation, wreathed in finery like hunched and aging parrots. A few women, but mostly highborn old men used to using blood and status as a truncheon.

Amal’s lips twitched, and he looked down bashfully for a second before nodding to the servant carrying the tea service.

“Thank you,” Jackal murmured reflexively as a steaming porcelain cup was set in front of him. The smell of spices wafted up with the steam.

The person serving the tea bit their lip and looked away. The old windbags he was cloistered with had much the same reaction as to any open affection between himself and Amal. IE, they looked like they’d swallowed a lemon. Or a live bat.

Jackal grit his teeth.

Amal trained his sunbeam smile on the person with the tea as they laid out plates of sweets – fine porcelain dishes of cakes sweetened with honey or rose syrup and sprinkled with pistachios, halva, deep-fried and sweetened dough, spongy fried balls made with milk and cardamom. There were also dates and nuts.

“Bless you, my dear, you have my thanks.” Amal’s tone was light as he selected a date. He was quietly, Jackal knew, breaking social convention for him.

Jackal still simmered, felt hot anger thrum in his chest. He grabbed a cake and bit into it irritably as the servant circled the table. No one else thanked them. It tasted like ash in his mouth.

Amal squeezed his hand again, rubbed his thumb in circles and Jackal squeezed back. He took a deep breath and felt his muscles unclench.

He looked into Amal’s face and, gods, really, his damned eyes were beautiful. He had painted the lids blue again today and the deep warm brown stood out against the blue. He looked every bit the magpie. It was thoroughly unfair.

Jackal wanted to kiss him, to hold him, bureaucrats and committee meetings be damned.

Amal reached out and cupped Jackal’s cheek, gently, quickly, with a flicker of a smile just for him. The way his eyes danced, crinkled at the corners… it was like looking at a hawk in flight on a clear day. Like looking at the sun glittering on the river water just before it set. Like joy, like everything beautiful, like home. His breath hitched.

How the twins’ blight was he supposed to just sit here when Amal made him feel like the world was being born anew in his chest?

Jackal still felt the warmth fading on his skin as Amal turned back to the table. Twins, he didn’t just want to kiss him, he wanted to bend Amal over the damned thing. These higher-than-thou bastards could stick that in their water pipes and smoke it.

“Well, everyone! Are we all settled? No one is going to faint from hunger or thirst? Lovely. Now, your proposal, my lord?” Amal clapped his hands, jewelry jangling, then sipped his own tea as he settled himself more comfortably on his cushion, back straight as bamboo.

And the gentleman in question shuffled his papers in be-ringed fingers, began to speak again in that awful dry papery voice.

#rambling about dank river valley fantasy wip tag #crowscratch 2 aka writing tag

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calenheniel · 4 years

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Queen of the Ashes, a frozen fanfic | Part VII

Frozen | Alternate Universe | Hans x Elsa | Romance, Drama | T+

They meet as children, each with a secret. Plagued by tragedy, their paths cross again many years later, and their secrets are unraveled.

Follow updates: #QueenoftheAshesFrozen

Read below, or find links to AO3/FF.Net/Wattpad on my Tumblr.

Author’s Note: I see recovery from any kind of trauma as one step forward, two steps back - and I envision Elsa's recovery in the same sense. I'm not making her regress or retreat purely for plot reasons, or to throw up false obstacles for drama. It's very much, in my mind, a natural, human reaction to resist change, especially when it comes all of a sudden.

I have many, many other thoughts and ramblings I would love to share with you all about the writing process for this fic, but I'm saving it for the end. I want you all to form your own impressions and ideas of what's happening before I tell you mine.

»»————-　❈　————-««

VII.

The queen was swept up in a procession of meetings with various delegations for the rest of the evening into the following morning, with hardly a second to breathe between bows and curtsies to people she hoped she would never see again.

As her steward announced each successive appointment to her, she avoided making eye contact with him, keeping her expression cool and indecipherable.

By the time she was able to slot in a brief return to her room to regroup, he informed her that she was expected in the courtyard for an afternoon of lawn games with her guests. She met the news with a deep and unbroken sigh, half-tempted to call off the rest of the week’s events and remain secluded in her room, undisturbed. But in the warmth of the sunbeams as they washed over her bedsheets, recalling her conversation with the prince from the day before, the queen yielded to her obligations.

She was welcomed with polite bows and smiles when she arrived outside, and she returned the gestures with her usual vague pleasantries, observing her surroundings. Large spaces had been demarcated in the grass for games of bocce and kubb, with some others she did not recognize introduced by the foreign visitors.

“Your Majesty,” a man in fine dress bowed before her, gesturing to one such game, “would you do us the honor of playing a round of croquet?”

She followed the direction of his arm to where several noblemen and women were bent over with wooden mallets, trying to strike colorful balls through arched posts, and suppressed an eyeroll.

“Perhaps later,” she answered with a forced smile.

Others soon followed his example – from the Netherlands, Germany, Portugal, Spain, and Weselton (the last of which she had never even heard of until that week, when its Duke had proposed a trade agreement so outrageously unfavorable to her country that the man had almost been laughed out of a meeting with her council) – but she rebuffed each in turn, her eyes seeking out the prince.

She found him standing alone, a few feet from where the princess played horseshoes with the French ambassador and his wife, the game surrounded by a circle of onlookers. They applauded and cheered as she hooked one shoe after the other onto the stake.

“It’s all in the hand-eye coordination,” the younger woman remarked as they released a collective “ooh” at her success in the latest match, and she curtsied to her opponents with a grin.

Seeing her older sister approaching them, she waved at her. “Elsa! Will you play a round?”

The queen’s smile wavered for a moment. “I’ll sit this one out, Anna,” she said, “since it looks like many of our guests would like a go at playing against you.”

The crowd laughed at her comment, but the princess frowned. The queen drew closer to her, murmuring: “I have to speak with Hans. I hope you don’t mind.”

The princess’s frown converted into a wide, bright smile. “Of course not,” she whispered, though her pitch was higher from excitement. She winked. “Go get ‘im, sis.”

The queen refrained from rolling her eyes as she stepped away from the participants, raising her voice so that everyone could hear her again. “I’ll be rooting for you, and praying that the rest of you don’t get defeated too badly.”

The ambassador and his wife chuckled along with the other competitors, watching as the queen left the game area. The princess coughed to refocus their attention, and announced with a grin:

“All right, so who’s the next victim?”

This challenge drew their interest away from the queen, who slipped out to the back until she was standing next to the prince. Their proximity did not go entirely unnoticed, as she noted a haughty scoff from the neglected Duke of Weselton in her direction, but her thoughts did not linger on it.

The prince smirked. “What did you say to Anna?”

“Nothing that should concern you,” she replied, though without any particular rancor. She kept her eyes focused on the game, but could not make out much between the huddled bodies of the spectators. “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to know that I should never quarrel with your sister,” he quipped as the princess scored another perfect ringer. “She has the aim of a hungry hawk.”

“The squawk of one as well,” the queen observed as her sister shrieked with glee at her victory.

The prince stifled a laugh. “You surprise me, Elsa,” he said, smiling at her sharp glance. “Not because you’re capable of making a joke, obviously. Rather…” He paused, looking down at her, and then back at the game. “You’re standing quite close to me, right now.”

She reddened. “And? What of it?”

“I just thought… never mind. It doesn’t matter.” He glanced at her hands. “Are those gloves new? I don’t remember you wearing them before.”

Her blush spread until it touched every corner of her face, her hands knitting together in front of her. “I was busy, and forgot to have mine washed.” She looked down at them, her nose wrinkling at the pure white fabric. “These were my mother’s.”

His brow softened at the comment. “I used to have a pair like that. They’re well-crafted.”

“Right. Back when you used to wear gloves,” she remarked.

A strange smile flitted across his lips. “Yes, back when I used to do that.”

She shot him a cautious, but curious, look. “You’ve never told me why you stopped wearing them.”

He shrugged. “I only wore them before because my father told me I had to. But once he died, I didn’t see the point in it anymore.” He simpered at her. “It seems to bother you that my hands are bare.”

Her nose scrunched. “I’m just not used to it, that’s all. And besides—you used to be very attached to yours. I wouldn’t have guessed that you were wearing them just because someone told you to.”

His smile slipped. “I learned the hard way what would happen if I didn’t behave, from an early age.”

She stared at him for a while, her hands glued together with discomfort at the plain and cold answer. “I see,” she said, and fell back into silence, sensing the sensitivity of the subject.

Don’t feel.

Her stomach constricted at the thought, and she suddenly turned to him.

“Walk me out of here.”

The prince blinked, but bowed his head in acquiescence. “Where to, my Queen?”

She frowned at the intimate form of address. “There’s an archway leading out of here onto another, smaller courtyard in the northeast corner,” she replied, nodding in that direction.

His eyes widened. “Are you sure? The path there goes right through the center of the games, and everyone will—”

“Yes,” she interrupted. “I won’t ask again, Hans. Now offer me your arm.”

After a moment of hesitation, he did as commanded, and she looped her hand through until it rested atop his forearm. He led her away from the games area with calm, confident strides, the crowds of spectators parting for them in waves as they passed.

The queen ignored each new look of astonishment and gasp—including the grave expression of concern from her steward. She held her chin high and kept her expression indifferent as they finally reached the archway, though she could not keep her hand from gripping his arm until her fingertips turned white.

Once they had passed through it and were protected by the surrounding stone walls, she exhaled through her nose, her features relaxing. The inner courtyard was quieter and grayer than the main quad, the only hint of color coming from the trees planted on either side of stone benches and the blue, cloudless skies above them.

“Elsa,” the prince said and glanced at her hand, still clutching his arm.

She removed it with flushed cheeks, turning her back to him as she made her way towards one of the benches.

He joined her after a moment, looking at the entryway to check for prying eyes. Finding none, he turned his gaze to her, somewhat uneasy.

“What’s wrong?”

She sighed, closing her eyes, and then leaned back until it rested gently against the stone wall behind her. “I’m tired of being told what I can and can’t do. I didn’t want to think about it, for once.”

“Did something happen?”

Her eyes reopened to shoot a glare at him. “You ask as if you don’t know.”

He leaned back, copying her. “Are you saying this is my doing?”

“No—and yes,” she replied, crossing her arms. Her forehead wrinkled at seeing the white gloves upon her biceps. “I suppose your impertinence inspired something in me.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, earning another glare from her, and his eyes darkened. “I’m happy to be of some use to you.”

Her blush deepened. “It’s an inconvenience,” she snapped. “I can’t be like this. Not in my position.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am queen, now, and I can’t just do whatever I want, whenever I want, like Anna. I can’t storm out of official dinners, or refuse meetings with ambassadors, or—”

“Walk away from games held in your honor, and be seen alone with dishonorable gentlemen?”

She grew quiet at his interjection, and his look became more serious. “I’m aware how much my public reputation plays on your mind, and theirs, so it’s impossible for me to put into words how much I have appreciated your hospitality in allowing me to stay for so long.” He held out a hand to her. “So thank you.”

She stared at it for a time before she finally relaxed her hand, placing it in his palm. His thumb pressed the top of her hand, slightly pulling down the fabric of the glove upon it.

He continued to pull on it after she offered no initial resistance, until the covering had come off completely, and her bare skin was once again touching his. He raised her hand closer to his face, as if to kiss the top of it; but when she noticed the scars from the rose thorns still embedded along his fingers, she jerked her hand from his, and looked away.

“None of this is for you.”

“I know,” he acknowledged. “I wouldn’t think that for a second.”

“Then don’t look so pleased,” she said, her look skeptical, and relaxed back against the wall again. She eyed his hand after a beat. “Does it hurt?”

He held it up, inspecting the red lines along his skin. “Not really. I’ve had worse.”

“From roses?” she mused.

He wore a hollow smile at the question. “No. Not from roses, Elsa.”

An awkward silence settled on the pair for a time, the noises from the games echoing faintly from beyond the tall border wall that separated them from the main lawn.

At length, the prince spoke. “You said something strange yesterday, in the garden.”

She frowned. “What?”

“It was before I pricked my hand. You kept saying over and over again, ‘conceal, don’t feel,’” he recounted in a careful way, “and it was hard to hear you properly after that, but I think it ended with—”

“Don’t let it show,” she murmured, and he blinked in surprise.

“Yes, that was it.” His brow furrowed. “What is that?”

The queen was quiet for a minute, her hands – one gloved, the other bare – gripping the fabric of her dress. Her fingers twitched along a seam.

“It was something my father taught me to say whenever I felt like I was losing control,” she said, pushing out each word with effort. “We used to recite it together, when I was a child. It still brings me some comfort to say it.”

“It brings you… comfort?”

The incredulity in the prince’s voice forced her gaze to meet his, a glower working its way into her features.

“Why do you sound so confused?”

“Because it’s—it’s…” He scoffed, shaking his head. “What in the world was he thinking, saying that to a child? Telling you ‘don’t feel, don’t let it show’?” He repeated the mantra with bewilderment. “To think of the hurt he inflicted on his own daughter in doing so—”

“Hurt? You don’t know what you’re talking about, Hans,” she snapped. “My father loved me, and tried to help me—”

“‘In his own way’—wasn’t that how you put it before?” he interrupted, earning a scowl from her. “And what kind of help was that, Elsa? Covering your hands, keeping you locked away, and giving you empty words to say over and over again until you’d grown to fear and despise your own power? Until you’d shut out everyone, including Anna?”

“You talk as if my father were a uniquely cruel and horrible man, but what of your own?” Her scowl twisted on her lips. “To abandon his youngest son to the malice of his older brothers for so many years, their brutality unchecked and unpunished? What kind of ‘love’ is that?”

“None at all,” he agreed, taking her aback. “But that’s the difference between us, Elsa: I don’t pretend otherwise. I don’t know what my life would’ve been like had he chosen to be a better, kinder man, because he didn’t make that choice. I’ve had to live with the consequences of that, for better or worse. And so have you, with your parents’ choices.”

She was silent after that, and her hands and shoulders visibly trembled when she next spoke.

“They loved me,” she whispered. “I know it.”

“Maybe they did,” he said in a gentler way, “but love… isn’t always good.”

Her voice was hoarse when she addressed him, her eyes tinged red. She wiped any trace of tears from her face.

“What are you saying, Hans?”

He paused to take in the tree branches that hung above them, their leaves long and narrow. “These are apple trees, aren’t they?” he asked, not looking to her for confirmation. He plucked a fruit from the branch, holding it up at eye level for closer examination. “Fine things, apples, when they’re ripe like this. Beautiful, even—your mouth waters just looking at it, thinking about how sweet or tart it might be. But then…”

He turned the fruit in his hand, revealing a small hole in the opposite side. “You see something like this, and even though you want to take a bite out of it, you think, ‘well, I’d better just check.’ So you take out a knife and cut it open,” he said, and dug both of his thumbs into the side where the hole was. “And what do you find?”

She watched as if possessed, and her eyes widened when the apple came apart easily under his ministrations. “Nothing but a rotten, brown core,” he continued, a sigh escaping his lips as he gazed into the fruit’s ruined interior. “The handiwork of a hungry worm, no doubt.”

The queen pulled herself out of her trance, shaking her head, and glared at him.

“And so what? ‘Love is like an apple’? I’ve had enough of your insipid analogies,” she said, rising from her seat. She reached to grab her other glove from his side of the bench, but as she did, he placed his hand on hers, holding her there.

Their noses were nearly touching, and his breath was hot against her cheek. “I know that the memories of your parents are precious to you,” he murmured, his grasp soft, “and I don’t mean to deny you them. I only ask you to question what happened—to ask yourself what good it did you to be kept inside all these years, separated from your sister. And all because of what? You hurt her once, when you didn’t know any better,” he said, “and they made you pay for it, for every moment after. But you shouldn’t have to anymore.”

The juice from the putrid core of the apple oozed out from his fingers onto the back of her hand, and she grimaced, the sensation causing her skin to go cold.

When the prince released her, her lip quivered, and she pressed the other glove to her chest. “It’s not that simple. They were trying to protect me, and Anna.”

“And themselves,” the prince countered, and retrieved a handkerchief from his coat pocket to wipe his hands. “But that’s acting out of fear, not love. You know that.” He laid the used cloth across his lap, and then leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees, looking up at her.

Her breath was visible against the air, her mouth contorting as she tried to respond. “I—”

The sound of footsteps caused both of their heads to swivel towards the entryway, and the queen’s eyes shined with alarm. “Anna,” she whispered, and ran to the entrance, bracing herself against the stone wall as she peered around it.

She caught sight of the hem of the princess’s dress as it stole away back to the main lawn, her breath stopping in her chest as she whipped back around, pressing herself against the wall. Her body began to quake, wisps and curls of ice spidering out along the walls and the ground below from her fingers and feet.

“Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let it show,” she said, shutting her eyes, “conceal, don’t feel, don’t let it—”

“Elsa, stop.”

The ice shattered into pieces as her eyes reopened, finding the prince mere inches from her, her hands clasped in his. She gasped at how hot they felt, and at how tightly he held onto her despite the cold.

Her breath came in short bursts as she tried to gather her wits. “Hans, she saw us, and who knows what she heard.” Her eyes darted back to the entrance, widening with anxiety. “Perhaps there were others, too, that we didn’t notice.”

“There weren’t—I would’ve seen them,” he said, and pressed her hands to reassure her. “Anna didn’t hear anything. She was probably just dropping by to see if her ‘scheme’ was working—nothing more.”

“How can you be sure?” Her breathing was still disjointed, and tears welled in her eyes. “If she found out about my powers, or about her stolen memories, just when we’re starting to get along, I… I couldn’t bear it.” She released a half-formed sob, and pushed him away. “I can’t lose her again.”

“Elsa…” the prince began, but she shook her head.

“I need to go,” she said, and left, ignoring the long look from the prince behind her.

»» —— ««

She returned to her quarters that afternoon with no explanation or parting gesture to her guests, who watched her brisk retreat from the games back into the castle in huddles of hushed voices.

Their whispers and stares seemed to follow her even as she laid upon her bed, curled into a ball, and she swallowed the tears that threatened to spill. Nonetheless, though she had long since deposited her mother’s gloves atop her dresser, her magic remained contained by the memory of the prince’s hands on hers—which she presently sunk into her mattress, hiding from view.

Just as her heartbeat had begun to slow down again, her cheek nestled comfortably against her pillow, a knock on her door roused her from her waking sleep.

“What is it?”

“It’s me,” her sister’s voice answered, soft but insistent. “Can we talk?”

The queen sat up in alarm, staring at the door. “I—I’m very tired, Anna,” she stammered. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

She heard a sigh on the other side of the door. “I’m worried about you. You looked so upset when you left.”

Her expression relaxed at the reply, though there was still some caution in her gait as she rose from her bed and approached the door, placing a hand against it.

“You’re right,” she admitted. “I was upset.”

“…was it because of Hans?”

She opened the door just far enough to come face to face with her sister, taking the younger woman by surprise. “I think you know the answer to that,” she drawled, “since you were watching us.”

The princess cowered with embarrassment. “I really didn’t see much, I swear. You two were gone for a while, so I was wondering what happened, is all.”

The queen’s look was suspicious, but a little more patient than before. “Right. Well, I—yes, he upset me,” she conceded, and paused. “I don’t feel like myself when I’m with him.”

“What do you mean?”

Her brow crinkled. “He annoys me, and makes me say and do and think about things that I wouldn’t, normally.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” the princess asked with a half-grin.

The queen’s frown returned. “Yes. I know you may feel otherwise, but I don’t think his influence is a good thing. Not for me, anyway—and probably not for you, either.”

“What are you talking about?” The princess retorted, and planted her hands firmly on her hips. “I don’t know what he did or said to you tonight, but I’ve spent enough time with Hans to know that he really cares for us, Elsa—especially you.” Her brow rose. “But someone probably gave you ‘the talk’ about him, right?”

At the queen’s silence, she continued: “In my case it was Gerda, so I guess you got Kai. He probably told you the same things she told me: ‘he’s suspicious, he’s after the crown, blah blah blah.’ Even Ambassador Dubois lectured me about it, but it was in French, so I missed almost everything except ‘ce n'est pas un homme bon,’ which means—”

“I know what it means, Anna. I used to take French, too.”

“Yes, I know,” the princess said, waving away the interruption. “Anyway, as I was saying: I’ve heard the same stuff from just about everyone, and I’ve seen the way they look at me and him together, and how they looked at you two today. As if we haven’t asked him about the fires and the rumors—it was practically the first question out of my mouth on the night of your coronation!”

The queen stepped back, blinking. “You… asked him about that?”

“Of course!” the princess exclaimed, though she still managed to keep her voice at a hushed volume. “You think I’d let him get within an inch of you if I thought he was some kind of criminal on the run? I made sure to vet him, the same way you’d do for me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “But Kai, Gerda, and those fancy nobles we’ve been hosting at court the past couple weeks? They don’t know him like we do, and they haven’t even tried to get to know him, so they still assume the worst. But I can promise you that he’s a good apple, Elsa.” The princess’s gaze grew more hopeful. “You can see that too, can’t you? Even if it’s just a little bit?”

Her older sister made no reply for a while, disconcerted by the analogy, and then answered.

“Sometimes, yes. But…”

“But what?”

She closed her eyes. “I don’t feel as though I know him very well at all. Not compared to the way you say you do.”

The princess crossed her arms. “Then what’s missing for you?”

The queen looked down at her uncovered hands, her fingers still thrumming from his warmth—and still slightly sticky from the decaying apple’s residue that he had dripped onto them.

Her eyes tightened. “I don’t know, exactly. It’s just a feeling.”

“Well, he’s almost at the end of his two weeks here,” her sister remarked, “so if you don��t figure that ‘feeling’ out soon, there’s a chance you never will.”

The queen’s pulse quickened at the reminder. “Has it been that long already?”

“Yes,” the princess replied, and added with a slight smile: “Are you considering letting him stay for longer?”

Her sister blushed, and raised her chin. “No, I’m not.”

The princess’s grin twitched. “If you say so. But I know a certain prince who’d be very happy if you were.”

“Anna,” the queen warned, and the younger woman made a gesture of surrender.

“I’m just saying—it might be nice.”

“For him, maybe. But I can’t be responsible for the well-being and happiness of a stranger. Neither of us can.”

The princess smiled sadly as she regarded the queen, reaching up a hand to touch her shoulder—and then retracting it before it could land, holding it against her heart.

“I’m not asking you to be ‘responsible’ for him or his feelings,” she said, her head bowed. “I’m just asking you to consider what it would be like if you listened to your own, for once.”

The queen stared at her sister for a long time, unable to form a reply, and swallowed.

“I think that it’s time for you to go, Anna.”

Her sister frowned. “That’s it? You’re just sending me away, like I’m a child?”

“No,” the queen replied, growing taller. “I’m asking you to leave.”

The princess’s spine twisted up to match her sister’s posture, and she shot her an unhappy look. “Fine. Then I’m leaving. Goodbye, Elsa.”

The queen said nothing in return, watching as her sister turned tail and stomped back through the hall to her own bedroom.

She sighed as she closed her door again, plodding over to her wardrobe and pulling out another dress. She laid it neatly on the bed before undoing the bodice of the one she had been wearing until then.

As it dropped to the floor, however, she began to notice a strange mixture of smells waft up to her nose – iron, rot, and sweat – and her gaze was drawn to the gloves she had used that day and the other pair from the day before, still unwashed, laying atop one another on her dresser.

The stench caused her to gag as she gripped the side of the wardrobe, trying to collect herself. Covering her mouth with one hand, she carefully picked up the offending objects between her index finger and thumb of the other, and dropped them into the washbasin on the opposite side of the room.

The gloves floated on the surface, and on instinct she submerged her own hands into the water with them. She rubbed her palms together vigorously, scrubbing off the remnants of the apple, hearing the prince’s voice in her head with every twist of her fingers.

You hurt her once, when you didn’t know any better—and they made you pay for it.

Her jaw clenched at the memory, scrubbing harder, and she did not notice the water growing colder.

For every moment after.

By the time she was ready to withdraw her hands, she found them stuck in place; frowning, she looked down into the bowl, and gulped.

The water was frozen.

#helsa #QueenoftheAshesFrozen #frozen #frozen fanfiction

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itsthegameilike · 4 years

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Best of 2019 Reads

I didn’t get to read quite as much this year as I usually do, but I wanted to collect my favorites, anyway, because books always deserve more love. The most love. Without further ado...

Call Down the Hawk--Maggie Steifvater (lgbt) While this book works best if you’ve read The Raven Cycle, I do feel as though it stands alone and separate from the series. It’s magical and intense and profound and it was one of the few books this year that I absolutely devoured. The new characters are fabulous, especially Jordan, and Declan absolutely shines. If you read The Raven Cycle and weren’t sure about this one, it’s worth reading just for Declan. The stakes are high, the dreams are marvelous, and the ending leaves you ready for more.

On Earth, We’re Briefly Gorgeous--Ocean Vuong (lgbt) I first discovered Ocean in one of my poetry writing classes in college and I never looked back. The way Ocean sees the world is spectacular. The lowest lows are part of his life experience and he transforms them into sublime beauty. His first novel is no different. While largely plotless, more vignettes than anything else, it transformed how I thought of the world for weeks. And there are more than a few passages I’ll never forget.

The Starless Sea--Erin Morgenstern (lgbt) Like everyone, I could go on and on about The Night Circus, her first novel, and like, I expect, everyone else, I can say with confidence that this book didn’t disappoint. There’s underground libraries, time travel, whimsical romance, an ocean of honey, and secret societies. If I could dream up the perfect novel, more than half of the tropes included in this novel would be in it. It does what the best fantasy does; actually transports you from your living room to a different world, just for a little while.

Small Gods--Terry Pratchett The first of my recs that wasn’t released this year. I read lots of Terry Pratchett this year but this was by far my favorite. There’s nothing quite like a god who’s been transformed into a turtle and only remembers he’s a god because of the belief of one simple-minded but kind person. Organized religion is examined with care and as with all Pratchett novels, hilariously. The novel finished and I felt like I’d learned more about life than I’d learned in six months of actually living.

A Winter’s Promise--Christelle Dabos This novel is complex and the worldbuilding is extensive and complicated, but the rewards of paying attention and being committed are high. The characters are spectacular, though it takes some time to reveal their many motivations, and the world is even more so. The side characters also shine as every single written character has a decided motive. I devoured this one as well and the second in the series is even better. I would argue if you don’t like the first one, you should still try the second, that’s how good it is. All of the work of the first novel pays off in the second.

On A Sunbeam--Tillie Walden (lgbt) A lengthy graphic novel set in space with some excellent queer representation. It’s been awhile since I enjoyed this one, but I read it in one sitting. The drawings were beautiful and the colors were perfect for the tone of the story and writing. The love story between the two main girls is sweet and soft and heartwrenching and it was perfect to be wrapped up in their world for a little while. This book is like briefly being trapped in a snowglobe.

Spinning Silver--Naomi Novik I enjoyed Uprooted more than I enjoyed this particular fairytale retelling, but it was still worth a read. The main character is resourceful and interesting, the way she goes about navigating world and finding love not quite the path you would’ve expected in the beginning. The world is lush and well developed and the court of the fey is one of my favorite locations in a fantasy novel in awhile. What really sells this book is the ending. The middle can be slow, but it was worth it for the way all the threads come together.

Nevernight--Jay Kristoff I could talk about this novel for-fucking-ever. There are footnotes that can be extremely informative and are often laugh out loud funny. The violence and the language and the jokes can often be crude, but there is so much joy written into them that it hardly matters. The twists and turns of the plot are amazing and there was even one or two I didn’t predict. Mia is such a badass and her quest for revenge is the kind of quest I love to see female characters involved. She gets a storyline few women get, especially in fantasy. Godsgrave, the second novel, is also incredible and puts Mia in an awesome queer relationship. The last novel, Darkdawn, came out this year and was actually a bit of a disappointment, but the series overall is still one of my favorite.

Devotions--Mary Oliver Everyone knows Mary Oliver and I’m not going to pretend this recommendation is revelatory in any way, but this collection got me through some of my hardest days. It’s best read a poem at a day with a good five minute think afterward. You’ll start seeing the world in a different and more hopeful way. Nature has lots to teach you, kids, and so does Mary Oliver.

The Trials of Apollo--Rick Riordan (lgbt) This is a whole series and the fourth one came out this year and if you haven’t read any Rick Riordan this probably isn’t the place to start. But if you’ve read some of him and haven’t yet checked out this series it’s a must. It’s more adult than any of his other ones and the stakes feel so high, that when I started reading the fourth one this year, I could barely do it, I was so nervous. They’re hilarious, as can be expected by Riordan, but they’re also profound. There are a couple of emotional moments that I still get lost in while lying in bed at night and Apollo’s character arc is one of the most rewarding in recent memory.

Red, White, and Royal Blue--Casey McQuiston (lgbt) A favorite of the year on tumblr, I think, and definitely worth all of the hype. I read this in one sitting. It was quick and easy and joyful, definitely an alternate universe that I would prefer we were currently living in. Alex and Henry are both delightful and their romance is poignant, something that gave me comfort as a queer woman. If you need a little light in your life, start here.

Little Fish--Casey Plett (lgbt) One of the hardest books I read this year. It’s an intense look into the life of a trans woman and her friends, most of whom are also trans. And when I say intense, I mean intense. It often hurts. But I loved it for the way the author portrayed her main character. There was so much love and sympathy there. Nothing was held back. It was very clear that this book was the heart of this author. It meant everything to them.

Snow & Rose--Emily Winfield Martin A children’s fairytale that world builds so good that none of the rest of the book even matters. The rest is also good, but I could’ve gotten lost into the world forever. As with all fables, it ends with lessons learned and they’re important and earned lessons. It’s been awhile since I’ve read it, but I remember it being spectacular and well worth my time.

Peter Darling--Austin Chant (lgbt) Not the most well-written on this list, but it is a hopeful read. And the most adorable. This book is entirely for the queer representation, but it is very good representation. It also is a retelling of Peter Pan, which is good fun. It’s short and quick and I finished with a huge smile on my face.

#book rec #end of the year #call down the hawk #rwrb #nevernight #these are all definitely worth a read trust me #and a lot of what I read this year was not so

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chinatea · 5 years

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Ian/Di, abo, drabble.

This is very short and sketchy, so please don't expect a wholesome story or anything. The idea jumped me in the midst of writing a different fic, so I had to take a lil detour and jot this down.

So, Ian(18) is an alpha cleric in training. And Jimin(16) is an omega nun in training. According to an established protocol, they are to become mates. That's it.

Ian’s eyes are closed when the procession of omegas amble into the inner yard, one by one. His senses immediately latch onto their scents, new and sharp and blooming. Unlike the alphas, they never mask them. An omega’s scent is soothing and inviting. Even healing, in case of some senior nuns, albeit the ones present today are still in training, with a long way to go ahead of them.

Same goes for the alphas.

One by one, the omegas settle down on a flat pillow next to their intended alpha. At some point, someone lowers down next to him, the crisp rustling of their clothes pleasant to the ear. Still Ian keeps his eyes closed, his breathing even - his omega is here.

Then, as soon as it started, it's all quiet again. A senior alpha cleric rings the crystal bowl and an hour-long sitting meditation begins.

Later, when Ian opens his eyes, he takes a slow look at the omega beside him. His name is Jimin, he knows. Draped into sky blue from head to toe, a color of the unmated omega, his face is obscured behind a veil.

“Let’s go,” the alpha says before promptly standing up, hands locking behind his back.

Jimin tips his head in a bow and raises his hand in silent request. Ian hesitates before taking it, helping him onto his feet. Jimin wobbles, unsteady, but doesn’t say a word otherwise. It occurs to Ian then that his limbs must be weeping right now as the omegas don’t go through the same rigorous training the alphas do, meditating for hours on end.

Something urges him to hover close, watching like a hawk for more wobbling, as they leave the yard and enter the gardens - a maze of tall hedges with quiet nooks for contemplation.

Such meetings are mere formality. The time of Jimin’s heat is drawing closer with each week and when it happens, they will mate, as required by the procedure. Ian’s alpha will be satisfied, gaining him the peace of mind needed to proceed with the advanced training.

It is as the founder of their order had said a long time ago: one who fights against one’s own nature is like a dog trying to bite their own tail.

Ian can see the truth in that. Even having gained a decent control over his senses, he, too, can feel the desperation lighting every cell of his body on fire, perhaps with more clarity than the average man would. His alpha is aching for a mate. To lay a claim. Fighting that is as pointless as it is dangerous.

So they don’t - they appease it to the best of their abilities.

Ian didn’t choose Jimin. Initially, he decided to go with whomever his mentor would deem suitable for him. He doesn’t need companionship, he just wants a means to an end, nothing else - anyone would do. Unexpectedly, an omega reached out to him, as is within their rights.

Ian still doesn’t know why Jimin chose him. Not that it matters - just a means to an end, nothing else.

Ian asks him questions as they stroll along a moss-covered path. Ordinary things, about Jimin’s life at the convent - everything that Ian already knows. Their lives are not that different and that’s not an unpleasant thought.

Occasionally an alpha disciple would take a mate outside of their Order - a pure folly, Ian thinks, that only leads to a fragmented mind that is neither here nor there.

On the last leg of their promenade, they always end up sitting on a stone bench under a honeysuckle arch. The conversation dies down on its own, hushed by the sound of a water feature hidden nearby. Ian takes that moment to study the omega - his delicate scent has already imprinted on him and that’s a good sign. They are compatible and their bond will take root easily.

“Can I ask something of you?” Jimin speaks up.

Ian nods, curious as to what the omega might need of him.

“Can I kiss you?” Jimin proceeds, voice fading into a hush.

Ian stares at him for a long moment.

“If you wish,” he says, his voice even but his blood runs hot as the beast inside him howls. It’s not pleasant. Debilitating for a lesser mind. And while Ian has no obligation to comply, he has no real reason to refuse.

Kissing is simply ignored by the established rules of comportment.

As Jimin inches closer, until nothing but a haze of the omega’s veil separates them, Ian’s gaze gets lost in his eyes and the fullness of his lips, stretched just barely so in a shy smile. His omega is quite a looker.

His lips touch Ian’s cheek through the veil. And the innocence of the gesture is disarming, but not as much as the realization unfurling in his guts that, for a split second, he had expected more. Desired more. Craved it.

Ian catches Jimin’s chin between his fingers, surging for a longer - sweeter - kiss.

The veil stays undisturbed.

It’s not required for an alpha to pay their omega special visits before they mate, but it’s not prohibited either.

Ian shows up a week after that kiss. It wasn’t planned. An impulse. The longing to complete the bond thrumming under his skin. All the more deafening in the tranquility of the covenant.

Scents mixed with incense. Sweet fumes billowing in the air. The silence of it all.

Jimin is preparing tea inside a practice room. A shallow, ankle-deep pool frames it from all sides and the water dances off the stone walls. Somewhere up above their heads the light from the sunbeams whispers.

“Can I ask something of you?”

Ian watches him move. The magic of his hands flitting about like little birds. Every movement so precise it looks effortless.

Jimin tips his chin in a nod. No veil today. He’s wearing teal. The gossamer fabric covers most of his body, leaving only his shoulders bare. It’s a bit frivolous and Ian thinks he could spend the rest of the day just pressing a thousand kisses on skin.

He moves before he can stop himself, a palm hovering above the shoulder.

“Can I...” he starts.

The rest of it drowns in the air as Ian takes Jimin’s mouth, slipping inside with ease. Jimin is warm and pliant in his arms, their desire unfurling in the room, thick and heavy - Ian licks it off his skin, mouth roving over every inch presented. Like a tribute. The way his ancestors would have felt before claiming a mate. Empowered by the knowledge that everything is the way it should be. Because it feels that way.

“Alpha,” a gasp that throws Ian back to the surface.

His hands are not where they should be, he realizes with chagrin, moving away. His fingertips are wet, dipped into the omega’s scent, and Ian curls them into a fist, nails digging into his palms until it starts to hurt. He takes a deep breath and apologizes.

“It’s not time,” Ian says, distraught.

“Yet,” Jimin tacks on, looking just as wistful.

(Weeks later, Jimin dons the pastel shade of purple for the first time.)

----

So...that’s the whole thing, lol. I didn’t write it for the plot or anything, just to convey a certain mood, I guess. An experiment, if you will.

Something I didn’t get into detail in the fic is the colors of their clothes. Both alphas and omegas don’t wear just one single color, that would be too boring, but there is a system they must adhere to nevertheless. Unmated omegas can wear all shades of blue and green (often with white and silver undertones) except for very dark ones because those are reserved for alphas. They also can’t be too saturated and be all in your face. Mild, soft, washed-out colors are ideal. Mated omegas, however, move on to the red/purple area of the color spectrum. Alphas have even less variation in colors than omegas. They can choose from grey, blue or black. Dark and muted. Ian wears mostly black but that surprises no one.

And it doesn’t really matter in this story but when I was writing this I imagine they’d practice something similar to zen-buddhism with alphas more focused on meditating and physical training and omegas - on rituals (which can also be a form of meditation), art and healing.

#ian/di #personas au #snippets

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nutwit · 5 years

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5, 14, and 32 for the dnd ask meme, please!

o shit another one ok!

in the words of the good red man, here a we go i think i said that last time actually oh well

5. Favorite NPC

Oh that’s a tough one. I think it’s tied between Bernard Tripsocket, gnome conspiracy theorist, Julian Montressor, the dapper physicist pirate captain of the Stern played by Christopher Jackson, and Mzumiel (Zoomy), a three-city-block-long beta fish eel monster, demon lord of the fourth column, master of the ethereal and lover of model trains, the billion-eyed and long-mouthed, and owner of the most soothing telepathic southern accent this side of the underdark.

this next one’s a doozy so its under the cut

14. Introduce the other parties you’ve played in / DMed

I’ve DMed for just one other party, and played in just one other party too. And technically speaking, the party i DMed for was part of the same story as all the characters in the last answer? Here let me explain.

There are three parties: the CFRP, the Freelancers, and the Librarians. The CFRP stands for Center for Firmament Research and Protection, and they’re the party I outlined last #asked and answered.

The Freelancers are a team of legendary heroes *snrk* who do adventures for hire. They’re honestly a more traditional dnd party, but we play the freelancer campaign in dungeon world, so fuck you.

Helios Amastacia, high elf paladin.

Remember Venus Amastiacia from the last post? Her older sibling has been out looking for their wayward sister for years. Helios is built like a brick shit house and bares the power of Tyr, the one-armed god of tactics and war. They’re by far the most level-headed of the bunch. Strong parent vibes but also strong sibling vibes, and also just generally very strong.

Tex McCree, human fighter.

Jesus Fucking Christ this man. He’s fucked his way across half the continent, at some point toppled some kind of feudal lineage, accidentally got a lordship, peaced out of that and found A Shotgun, somehow, sweet-talked his way into bed with the chairwoman of the Shatterpeak Council (Keegan’s mom), he’s a mess! He’s a mess! He got grossed out by touching a dead body like a week ago!

Mira the Blade, human thief.

She’s the best thief in the world. No, really. I’m not just saying that, it’s important for her character arc. She’s even stolen from the Amastacia vaults, which she and Helios have laughs about sometimes. She likes to push the limits of her abilities and wouldn’t be caught dead in a bathing suit for a number of unspecified reasons. Very gay, extremely gay. Has an as-of-yet unidentified link with Nikolai Hoobluff from the CFRP campaign. :3c

Hollik Bannagammer Merrilin, gnome bard/barbarian.

Baby boy. He just wants to write good songs about his heroes, Mira and Helios. Him and Tex are very good chaotic friends who have never caused problems ever for the party in any circumstances. One time he bought approximately 2000 dollars worth of fish from a butcher at 4 in the morning. His catchphrase is, “Hello, new friends!” Also if you hurt his friends he will kill you.

Sunbeam Talbot, halfling ranger.

So this one’s fun. In the second arc of the Freelancer campaign, before Talbot joins up, they get hired by Hollik’s brother Bernard to steal his notes back from the museum he recently got fired from because his notes prove some big conspiracy or whatever. Talbot happened to work at that museum, and Mira tried to steal his ID to get in, but Talbot clocked her before she got away. So now that the museum’s been destroyed by ancient death roots from beyond time (don’t ask), he’s hunting her down to figure out what the fuck is going on. Also, in the CFRP campaign, he’s the head of the CFRP.

So, for those of you keeping track, the timeline is super convoluted and intriguing. I have a lot of reveals I really really want to get to, so hopefully we’ll be able to start playing again once school lets out after next week.

So that’s the Freelancers.

The Librarians are a group of relic hunters brought together by a mysterious pair of brothers to recover a mirror from an ancient ruin that totally isn’t made of rebar and concrete for undisclosed reasons. We haven’t played much with them because Katie’s been busy but I’m totally in love with her world.

Alys al’Damo, half-elf wizard.

Alys is off looking for the chosen one to guide them on their quest for something something. She doesn’t really know who or what she’s looking for. All she has to go on is vague prophecy and tarot-like character descriptions that she adheres to vehemently. She also has a very good hawk familiar and specializes in fire magic.

Vix Sen, half-orc bard.

Vix is a very strong very sexy fashion designer. She’s the Edna Mode of dungeoneering. She’s designed turtlenecks for the king of all turtles probably. Mostly she spends her time nowadays casting three thunderwaves in a minute jesus fuck Vix please I like having EARS.

Jedediah Brookes, human warlock.

Doctor Brookes is very dirty and greasy and very nice. He has a secret doctor’s office in the seedy part of town where he stitches people up for free if they’re down on their luck, but in secret, like batman. But surgery doesn’t explain his witch bolts. Turns out his dad is a god of healing or something? And Jed, being great, begrudgingly made a pact with him to be his emissary on earth.

Cederus Dur-Barundeaunt, dwarf cleric.

This boy is mine! Cederus is a very old, very wise dwarf who’s spent most of his life in the clergy. He’s that sort of old man style rascal where your pop pop would smuggle you a sweet when your mom said no sweets. The most important part of his characterization though, and the reason I love playing him so much, is because of a bit of worldbuilding I did with Katie. Dwarves in this world calcify as they get old. Cederus is getting on in years, and two parts have already started to turn to limestone: his upper leg, and his eyes. He is totally blind and relies on his familiar to see.

I had to do some homebrewing with Katie to make Cederus work right because clerics aren’t supposed to have familiars and I had to start at level 2 for this campaign. He’s got an extremely thick french accent. I love him.

AND FINALLY

32. Your favorite role to play (tank, healer, etc)

I haven’t played many roles actually (I’m the DM it’s my curse), but honestly, I don’t even think of characters like that at this point. I’m not really very interested in playing any particular “role“ over the others, because I’m not really into that kind of play? The numbers and the mechanics are a lot of fun, sure, but the reason I play DnD is to write a good story with my friends! I’d much rather play a character with a motivation or theme that I’m really into than fill a party role, although roles can be useful in coming up with motivations!

THIS WAS SO BIG IM SO SORRY and also very late! but if anyone is interested in more of this, let me know!

#my post #asked and answered #call-me-nemo-cae

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books-secretgetaway · 2 years

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Mister Impossible Review

Mister Impossible is the second book of The Dreamer Trilogy by Maggie Stiefvater. This series follows the dreamer, Ronan Lynch, from The Raven Cycle after high school as he navigates his place in the world. In the second book, Ronan and Hennessy have joined with the mysterious Bryde to learn how to control their dreams, leaving behind the dreams they manifested, Matthew and Jordan. Declan, the oldest of the Lynch brothers, searches for a way to keep his youngest brother awake, should anything happen to Ronan. All the while, the Moderators do everything they can to stop Ronan and Hennessy from bringing about the end of the world.

The irascible storm from the eyedropper didn’t bother him; he was just another piece of it.

I could barely put this book down. Every time I found myself with time to read, I was racing through this book, eager to know what happens. Maggie Stiefvater has long been a favorite author of mine. I fell in love with The Raven Boys when I read it almost seven years ago. She has a way of writing compelling characters that you just can’t help but be completely enamored by. When I saw that she was writing a spin-off, following one of these amazing characters, I immediately pre-ordered the first book. I was lucky to get the Owlcrate box made exclusively for Call Down the Hawk, then the Owlcrate exclusive edition of Mister Impossible. I have travelled many miles to meet Stiefvater twice, once in Houston, Texas, and once in Edinburgh, UK at one of her speaking events. It’s safe to say that she is in my top three favorite authors.

Mister Impossible did not disappoint. It sat on my TBR pile for many months simply because this last year was a hard year, and I wasn’t able to read anything. Finally dragging myself out of my reading slump, I breezed through this book. Call Down the Hawk had a much slower start than this one and it took me longer to get hooked, but Mister Impossible wasted no time drawing me in. It throws you into the action immediately and there are no slow moments that made the story drag on. We follow several characters, jumping between them in each chapter, but Stiefvater is so great at crafting interconnected storylines that I never got lost. I knew who I was following and what was happening with ease. Every character had me captivated. Stiefvater even manages to make characters that you love to hate. Our villain, Farooq-Lane, is someone you want to fail but don’t want something bad to happen to her along the way.

There were a few times when it felt like the sections didn’t belong. Stiefvater has an incredibly distinct voice and I can tell something is hers instantly and she’s great at keeping it consistent for the most part. But these little sections don’t quite fit and I’ll go into explanation in the spoiler part of my review. Because of how distinct the author’s voice is, when it strays, it’s unfortunately quite noticeable. It’s not enough to ruin the book but it did draw me out of my immersion.

I am still in awe with how Stiefvater brings this story to life. Ronan is a dreamer and he brings things out of the dream world and into reality. Dreams, as we know, are so abstract and often times not even in our own dreams do we understand what is happening. The idea of putting these strange and remarkable things to the page is something that seems impossible but Stiefvater crafts it so excellently, with vivid details that make it easy to follow along. Ronan not only dreams entire people into existence, like his younger brother Matthew which he dreamt when he was a child, but extraordinary things. Sundogs that move as fast as a sunbeam, a sword made of the sunlit sky, and a menagerie of impossible creatures that call the Barns their home. Everything is so vivid and detailed, no matter how strange the dream was. I couldn’t imagine putting the things she puts into words and it’s one of the reasons why I am so drawn to The Dreamer Trilogy.

The rest of the review will be filled with spoilers as I go into more detail about why I love this book and the characters so much.

Golden Matthew, charming the city. Rebellious Ronan, finally grown into something useful. Cunning Declan, trafficking in art and stories. The Brothers Lynch.

Ronan Lynch was first introduced to readers in The Raven Boys. In that series of books, he landed as my third favorite, behind Gansey and Noah, but this doesn’t mean that Ronan is a weak character by any means. I just love Gansey and Noah far too much for all their endearing quirks and personalities. Ronan is a solid third for me and I absolutely love following him as his story continues. Gansey and Blue’s stories came to a conclusion in the final book of The Raven Cycle, Noah’s spirit moved on, and the continuation of Adam’s story coincided with Ronan’s as they began a relationship, though his story was mostly finished as well.

He was not dating Ronan; he was living in Ronan’s life with him.

Ronan is a dreamer, someone who can do incredible things, a Mister Impossible. Ordinary life is not in the cards for him. We saw a glimpse of what his future could possibly hold with his father, who was killed after shady business dealings using his dreamt materials. What future does a dreamer hold, especially one as volatile as Ronan Lynch?

People would either want Ronan’s ability or stop him from using it. So it makes sense that we see his life after high school. I do miss Gansey but I understand why we don’t have him in this series, and we really don’t need him. I love getting to know Declan more and more and Matthew fills that hole that Noah left when he moved on.

I like both Hennessy and Jordan, though I am more drawn to Jordan. Hennessy suits Ronan with her extreme pessimism and hardness. She’s someone that Ronan needs to save, and I enjoy their moments together, how he’s trying to show her all the things she can do with her dreams. She did get frustrating at times, and I’m so upset that she teamed up with Farooq-Lane and Liliana. I’m convinced that Liliana has bad intentions and I’m so angry and distressed that the ley line has been shut off. Hennessy is definitely that love to hate character in this novel.

One dreamer was feeling I need this to stop everything and the other dreamer was feeling I need this to start something.

In book three, I’m really hoping that they’re able to help Matthew and I’m scared to see the aftermath of the dreams falling asleep. It sounded really bad, with planes falling from the sky so I’m wondering if this was the apocalypse all the Moderators were so afraid of. Realizing just how much of the world had been dreamt opens endless consequences to Hennessy’s actions. I don’t see any good out of the ley line being turned off, but I also wonder what would’ve happened if Ronan had succeeded in destroying the dam. So many questions and so many possibilities. I need the third book now so I can see what happens.

These days, lots of people are trying to stay awake.

Jordan, on the other hand, was much more enjoyable. I loved seeing her with Declan, bringing him out of his carefully crafted self and into his real self. Seeing him fall into the art world of Jordan brings a whole new side to him.

Funny how opposites make each other look brighter.

In The Raven Cycle, he was this strict and intentionally boring character that we barely got to know, but you wanted to. He had these adorable quirks, like the way he texts and the way he cares for his brothers, so he was definitely a character that you just knew had so much more to him that we couldn’t see. I really appreciate that we get to see more to him and that he’s another well-rounded character that Stiefvater is fantastic at bringing to life.

Mister Impossible is yet another strong piece of writing from Stiefvater, but as mentioned before, there were some sections that felt like they didn’t belong to the rest of the book, and both involved the Moderators. Most noticeably, in chapter 13, the Moderators attack the Zeds – Ronan, Hennessy, and Bryde – and it’s a very chaotic and hard to follow sequence. It feels like the Moderators came out of nowhere and were suddenly attacking them. A new Zed, Rhiannon, is killed in the sequence but it’s so hard to follow that the emotional impact isn’t as strong as it could be. There’s a significant lack of Moderators in this book compared to the previous so when they show up, it feels out of place. We followed them much more closely in the previous book so we were more keen to their movements. Here, they just show up to confront the Zeds, then they’re off again. I like seeing Farooq-Lane realizing that the Moderators aren’t the good guys and I wish we had more chapters following them. Mister Impossible is considerably shorter than Call Down the Hawk so we could’ve used more chapters for them. After learning that most of the Moderators are dreams, I really wish we had seen more of them in this novel as perhaps desperation sets in or frustration.

Ronan is tough and he can be a hard character to love. He is often cruel and pushes people away, but we saw throughout The Raven Cycle that he is deeply loyal and caring about those he loves. He is incredibly complicated but that makes him such a compelling character.

Ronan’s sin was immediacy, not villainy.

“But his head didn’t seem built to hold the future. He could imagine it for just a few seconds until, like a weak muscle, his thoughts collapsed back to the present.”

One of the reasons I enjoy reading about Ronan so much is the relatability I feel with him. Throughout the novel, Bryde asks him “What do you feel?” and Ronan struggles to answer. As someone who struggles to express what they’re feeling, I could completely empathize how he didn’t understand what was happening to him or want to share it with the others. But as the book progresses and his lessons with Bryde continue, we see him begin to open up. Ronan finds his place and what he was born for as he opens the ley line and helps other dreamers who are too far away and are suffering. In the end, when we learn that Bryde is a dream dreamt by Ronan, it makes sense. The only one who could understand Ronan is Ronan himself. He desperately needed a teacher, but Ronan is such a fireball that getting one who would get through to him would be near impossible. Only a teacher that comes from his own mind could help him.

Thinking back over the book, it starts making more and more sense that Bryde is a dream of Ronan’s. Of course, there were all the hints that he wasn’t like anyone else and I got the sense that he was a dream, but whose I did not know. He was very birdlike and Ronan has an affinity for birds. His closest companion is Chainsaw, the raven, and we got to see his best day in which he wished he had an army of birds. Bryde is so much like Ronan if Ronan were able to be true to himself and allow himself to be honest.

“Ronan was beginning to understand that Bryde’s first instinct was always to play with his enemies’ heads. He would fight if he must, but he always preferred having his opponents defeat themselves.”

Bryde could’ve only come from one mind, the mind of Ronan Lynch. And now that he’s gotten what he wanted – a way to stay awake – I wonder what’s next for him.

“He was an enigma before and an enigma after.”

I was really worried when I picked up this book that I would be completely lost. I read Call Down the Hawk all the way back in late 2019, so it was a considerable amount of time between books one and two, but I had absolutely no trouble picking up where we left off. It was easy to resume the story and the things I didn’t remember as well as others were filled in without bogging down the story. A good sequel is able to stand on its own without losing the reader and I think Stiefvater accomplished this with ease.

I really enjoyed this sequel to Call Down the Hawk. The continuation of Ronan’s story is so compelling and interesting and I am on the edge of my seat waiting to see what happens next. Stiefvater is an incredible author who writes characters so beautifully. I don’t ever want Ronan’s story to end and I would love read more about the other Raven Boys, but I know that the story will end. I can only hope that the ending doesn’t rip out my heart.

#mister impossible #mister impossible review #review #the dreamer trilogy #maggie stiefvater #book review #books #fiction #fantasy #secret getaway

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