deliciouslygrandhideout-blog

[pewpop]

is this ooc? idk and I don't care

[steviesbicrisis]

They meet at the age of 8 and 6 years old, way before they'll be known as the Freak and the King. Steve is playing with his favorite toys in the playground when two older boys start tormenting him. Eddie steps in and scares them away. After that, Steve becomes Eddie's shadow, following him everywhere and copying everything he does.

They grow up having different interests because of their dads: Steve gets into sports to please his dad, Eddie gets into metal and D&D to piss his dad off. Despite the differences, they remain the best of friends.

Eddie comes out to Steve at the age of 15. Surprisingly, Steve is extremely supportive and happy about it, Eddie feels very lucky.

They're 16 and 14 years old when Steve gets to high school. In time record, he joins the basketball team and hangs out with the popular kids, but talking to Eddie in between periods doesn't do any good to his reputation.

«You have to stop talking to me at school, I don't want people to mess with you just because we are friends,» Eddie tells him one day after school. Steve is outraged and tries to protest but Eddie stops him «it's not a big deal, we'll still hang out after school! You know it's my job to protect you, you're like my little brother.»

Steve doesn't fight it anymore after that, but he looks crushed. For a week, they barely talk even outside of school and Eddie is terrified he did something wrong. But then, Steve asks him to hang out and things go back to normal.

Their first big fight isn't until two years later, a few days before Eddie's 18th birthday. Steve is one of the most popular guys in school, he acts like a douche and has rows of girls drooling over him. Eddie isn't a big fan of this change but, as long as he doesn't act the same around him, he doesn't mind.

Eddie is giddy because Rick has given him a fake ID as an early present and he can go to a gay club he had been talking about to Steve and get wasted for his birthday.

Steve, however, doesn't look happy at all «you're going to a gay club?»

Eddie mistakes it for disgust and accuses him «do you have a problem with me going to a gay club?»

A fight ensures. Steve is outraged Eddie would even suggest that, Eddie calls him out for his behavior at school. Steve leaves Eddie’s house and they don’t speak to each other for a week.

Eddie goes to the gay club but he doesn’t enjoy it, always imagining how it could’ve been if Steve was there with him. He goes straight to Steve's house after and they make up, both apologizing for what they said.

Steve gets his first official girlfriend at 17. Nancy wheeler is a nice girl, she's smart and pretty, she has done nothing but make Steve happy, but Eddie hates her. He doesn't even know why, he feels like a terrible friend, but every time he sees Steve hugging her, twirling her around, kissing her, he has to look away and swallow a painful sensation in his chest.

When they break up, he feels bad about how relieved he is, especially since Steve looks devastated.

«It's okay, I was a terrible boyfriend, got with her for all the wrong reasons» Steve smiles at him sadly, and Eddie doesn't understand.

The break-up brings major changes in Steve's life: he drops all of his asshole friends, he surprisingly keeps in touch with Nancy and becomes best buddies with Robin Buckley from band.

The major change, although, has to be in Steve's behavior towards Eddie: being the youngest, he had always been the one to follow, but now he tries to take the lead, puts a lot of effort into planning their hangouts, pays even more attention than usual to what Eddie wants, and Eddie can't help but compare it with the way he had seen him act around Wheeler (he scratches the thought immediately, calling himself weird for even making the comparison).

It's almost Steve's 18th birthday when their friendship faces another critical point.

They're talking about Steve's birthday party when the topic of dates comes up, with Eddie asking if Robin will be Steve's date.

«How come you never talk about your dating life?» Steve seems nervous as he asks the question. Eddie laughs, because dating isn't an easy thing when you're gay and you live in Hawkins, but Steve insists on the topic, pressing on knowing if Eddie has had some crushes at least.

«I mean, there are guys who I find attractive? sure. But crushes? nah man, never had one of those» Eddie realizes at that point how odd that is, being almost twenty and not being interested in anyone like that.

Then he looks at Steve and for a split second, he sees it: the same crushed expression Steve had when he called him little brother and told him not to talk to him at school, or when they fought about Eddie's birthday, or when he had talked about his break up.

Eddie feels like he's done something terribly wrong but can't pinpoint what that is.

This time, there is no fight between them but, for the next few weeks, Steve avoids him. Eddie notices a pattern in their friendship: he says something he doesn’t know it’s wrong, Steve is crushed and takes a few days of break from him, then acts like nothing happened.

Eddie hates it.

It's the Friday before Steve's birthday that Robin Buckley comes marching in his Hellfire session. She drags him out of his trailer and gives him a piece of her mind.

«Steve went to a gay club tonight. I wouldn't tell you this, but he basically wants to hook up with the first guy he sees and that is super dangerous and I'm worried about him! plus, this is all your fault.»

Eddie can only utter a "what??" before Robin floods him with a stream of words "you rejected him twice", "he just wants to get over you", "like he hadn't tried already with Wheeler" and "you owe him that".

The whole ride to the club, Eddie's mind is full of Steve: Steve who looks excited when he comes out, Steve who's sad about being called "little brother", Steve saying "I got with her for the wrong reasons", Steve constantly making plans for their hangouts -or dates, maybe?-, Steve, Steve, Steve...

Finally, everything in Eddie's mind makes sense, his desire to protect Steve, his hatred for Wheeler, him thinking he never had a crush when he actually had one, for several years now.

He finds Steve outside of the club, leaning against the wall, a guy way too close to his personal space. Eddie's ready to pull him away when Steve shoves the guy and tells him to piss off. That's when he notices Eddie.

«What are you doing here?» he glances briefly at the door, looking distressed «are you here for-»

Eddie doesn't let him finish «I came here for you. Robin told me... well, she told me a lot of things.»

Steve makes a strangled noise and runs his hand through his hair, nervously «Fucking Buckley- shit... fuck» he's avoiding looking at Eddie.

Steve looks ready to run inside, so Eddie grabs him by his elbow «Can we talk?»

«No.»

«Steve-»

Steve frees himself from his grip «I said no, Eddie! I don't wanna listen to you rejecting me basically for the third time I'm my life! I get it, I'm like your little brother, you must think it's so pathetic that I've been going after you all this time but trust me it's embarrassing enou-» he can't keep talking because Eddie is kissing him.

Steve melts into the kiss but then he comes to his senses and gently pushes Eddie back. He needs answers.

Eddie doesn't give him the time to ask anything «I hated Nancy Wheeler.»

«What? what's wrong with Nancy?»

«Nothing's wrong with Nancy. That's why I was so confused, but I hated watching you two being together and I didn't know why! Steve, I've been so stupid and I'm sorry but there's a reason why I want to protect you and look after you, why I hated Nancy and every other girl who you had a date with, and why I thought I never had a crush on anyone before. It's because... I've been in love with you for so long I didn't even notice.»

Finally, Steve is looking straight at him, eyes watery «Is this some sick joke?»

Eddie takes his face between his hands, tenderly «I promise you it's not. I'm sorry, and I love you. I'll tell you a thousand times more, until you believe me, until I make it up to you.»

«Oh, it will take more than a thousand fucking times» Steve is grinning as he says it.

Eddie doesn't recall seeing Steve smile like that before and fuck, I love him so much.

It takes some time, Steve has trouble believing him, but Eddie doesn't blame him. Steve waited five years for him to sort his shit out, Eddie can wait a bit more.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 35 - The Devil Wears Douchebag

Y'all meet a theater kid loser.

On AO3.

The Halsin guy is, once again, y’all’s best bet—no, Lae’zel, we don’t even know where the creche is and we do know where the goblins are and I promise if our dumb, istik brains get this wrong, we go there next.

Thank fuck for Gale and his teleports.

And your suspicions the night before were, in fact, entirely correct. Blood potion and dirt potion taste fucking horrific together. You futilely scrape your tongue with your nails in between gargling with tea (despite Gale’s wincing and “that was a perfectly good brew”). You’re so desperate, in fact, you try to gargle with wine.

Astarion laughs so hard when you choke that he almost rips open the seat of his pants as he keels over in hysterics.

Bastard.

But you can talk, your head feels calm and clear, and you’re not face-planting dead in the dirt.

“We cannot leave that devil to terrorize innocent people,” Wyll says as you swig the alcohol taste out with more tea (actually drinking it, this time, Gale).

He did agree to join y’all to get help taking that thing down. The brainworms fucked him up along with the others; man is down to a couple of spells a day. And the devil’s last known location was sort of in the vicinity of where y’all need to go anyway.

A demon hunt it is.

***

Y’all step through the swirling, swooshing purple portal into sunshine. Astarion isn’t the only one to sigh and turn their face up to bask in the warm, clean light. To a one, y’all’re coated in swamp muck and hag goo. There’s nobody on the road when y’all emerge, but you suspect anybody coming across you would give you a real, real wide berth.

The teleporter spits y’all out near the grove again. It’ll be several days’ walk to the goblin camp. But at least the crew knows this area well enough to find all the streams to camp next to.

Wyll chomps at the bit, though. His hero instincts can’t let y’all rest and clean up. So loathe as y’all are, y’all agree to set off now and make camp and wash your damn clothes later.

You ain’t that far from the grove when you notice the handholds carved into a cliff on your left. You saw similar marks when you went to visit a national park a few years back. Ancestral Puebloans used them to get up to their cliff cities down in New Mexico. You look up, and think you see the top of a structure up there. And more importantly, some kinda chest on that structure up there.

“I’ll be right back,” you say and unsling your pack. “Might be something useful.”

Lae’zel eyes the cliff and nods approvingly. Probably because this is exercise and while she left off going into the hag fight, she’ll be right back on your ass tonight, you reckon (your entire body is sore, but your pack seems a touch lighter than usual).

“I’ll go with you,” Wyll says. “We can scout the area from up there. Make sure there aren’t any goblin patrols.”

And then Astarion surprises all y’all. “I suppose I’ll go, too.” Catches all of you staring and rolls his eyes. “If someone died up there they might still have valuables.”

Of course. Mr. Sticky Fingers.

“Dibs on jewelry,” you say, because you haven’t forgotten that conversation and you can’t afford to back down on it.

He tilts his head, all amused, and Lae’zel makes a sort of low hiss in the back of her throat. Surprisingly, Shadowheart near mimics the sound. Then the two realize they agree on something and both appear pretty grossed out by the prospect.

The cliff ain’t one long wall, but a jumble of several shorter ones. Your boots are thin and flexible enough, and the angle just shallow enough you can scrabble up. Slower than both the boys—holy fuck, Astarion is fast at that but he frowns at his hands when you crawl up to join him on the first ledge.

Wyll, the gentleman, lets you go first in case you need a boost, but also scurries up beside you in case you need a hand at the top—which you do thanks to the whole “upper body strength deficiency” thing.

There is a structure at the top, alright. Real dilapidated, all wooden poles leaning haphazardly together. But there’s also a chest up there. Astarion volunteers himself. Shimmies right up, swipes the thing, and more slides than climbs down, the wood groaning and swaying alarmingly.

There’s no bodies, though. Just a moldy sack of some kind, and a spectacular view of the smashed open butthole ship.

“Damn,” you say, looking out. The debris field is huge, but the main shell of it seems to have landed close together. More like it dropped right outta the sky and cracked like an egg, less like an airplane shredding itself to pieces as it plowed across the landscape.

You wonder how the damn thing flew at all. No wings or rotors; probably wasn’t as fast as an actual airplane, since you doubt it had to generate lift like one. That lack of speed (and Not-Sasha) are probably what saved you from being roadkill.

“Quite the view, isn’t it?” Astarion says.

You hum. “I wonder if anybody else survived? Maybe fell out earlier, got saved by that dream douche.”

There’s a pause as you both wonder if that word translated correctly. Then Astarion moves past it. “If they did, they’re probably dead in a ditch somewhere by now.”

You give him a look.

“I’m just saying, we’ve been incredibly lucky. The wilderness doesn’t lack for monsters and bandits and cutthroats. Any one of us could have died at least twice by now had we found ourselves alone.”

“True,” Wyll comes in. He surveys the destruction below, and gives a slow shake of his head. “It almost makes you wonder if something else has a hand in all this.”

Astarion’s scoff is harsher than usual, his voice laced with heavy sarcasm. “You think gods saved us for some ‘higher purpose?’”

You could catch those air quotes blindfolded. You ain’t sure if he’s mocking the higher purpose, or gods in general (you try to hide the smile at either prospect). It is interesting, though, since gods are actually a physical thing, here.

“I’ve not seen the handiwork of many gods,” Wyll says. “But I have seen the influence of other things.”

“Ah! A well-traveled group, then!”

Y’all whirl, both men going for their blades.

Another guy stands behind y’all, dressed like a real fancy man, all ruffles and buttons and embroidery. You heard nothing from the other below to indicate y’all had company, and the man’s hands—held out as he dips into a theatric bow—are clean, his fingers well-manicured.

Fancy little fuck did not climb up here.

“Who’re you?” you say, dropping your customary swearing because this guy seems to have dropped clean out of the sky.

His eyes shift to you—

Oh. Fuck.

Those ain’t human eyes. That’s not a man. He’s man-shaped, but there’s something about the air around him, something that suggests an ill-fitted suit, like the atmosphere strains against the seams where he stands.

What the actual fuck is that thing?

“Such ferocity from one so defenseless,” he says, his voice pitched so low it goes gravelly.

Your lips hurt. They’re pulled back over your teeth in an animal snarl, you realize. Every hair on your body stands on end. Something about that thing ain’t right, ain’t natural, shouldn’t fucking be here.

“Who are you?” Wyll says as your monkey brain scrambles for human words.

The thing ignores him. Scopes the area with a disdainful air. “My, my, what manner of place is this? A path to redemption? Or a road to damnation? Hard to say, for your journey is just beginning.”

You immediately want to smash his teeth out. Not just because of the gibbering alarm shrieking in your skull; his entire vibe oozes pretension.

Which gets worse when he again, theatrically—still pretending y’all ain’t standing there, waiting for an answer—taps his lips with one finger. “What would suit the occasion? The words to a lullaby, perhaps?”

And then he launches into some goddamn poem. You don’t pay much attention—something about a cat. The talking pisses you off. Bitch drops out of nowhere and fucking monologues at you and you want to crawl out of your own skin. He rambles on and on until, finally, says his name: Raphael.

There’s no magic translation of his name. It really is “Raphael.”

Which is a Hebrew name.

It is an angel’s name.

You don’t think this thing is an angel what the fuck.

Your companions both look to you, for some reason, and when you still don’t speak (please be wrong, please be wrong, please your mother cannot be right about this), Wyll ventures a, “Are you the cat or the mouse?”

And hoo boy. Does this (demon demon demon) man look fucking ecstatic with somebody playing along.

Your mother and the others loved talked about the devil. Loved. Demons and evil and witches and sin. Couldn’t somebody spit out more than three sentences without bringing one of them into it, up to and including passing the salt at breakfast.

You left all that behind. Slowly, deliberately. Like pealing leeches—fat and gorged and pulsing with your own, stolen blood—from your body. Each belief, each phrase, each word carefully (or extremely rushed in a fit of anger) pulled out, mouths chomping and bloodied. Each one dropped into the dirt and left behind to rot.

Now you’re here, with wizards and vampires and a literal fucking soul trying to fly off into space, and you look at this monologuing motherfucker, and something long dead stirs within you.

(demon demon demon)

You been palling around with killers and monsters. But now, in front of this creature, you feel the first brush of evil.

Raphael lifts his fingers. He’s been talking; you were too busy keeping your limbs still, knees locked, keeping yourself upright. Now he snaps, and the world shifts—

You’re in some ugly fucking dining room. Everything in red and gold and black, like a migraine made visual. Fireplaces big enough to stuff a fucking buffalo into. Paintings of demons (yep, those’re demons) on the walls. It’s all opulent and gauche in a nauseating way.

Voices startle behind you. The rest of the crew, clutching their weapons, eyes wide, teeth bared in Lae’zel’s case and huh, she’s an alien entity to these people and the two of you seem to have the same reaction to that thing.

Beyond them, you spot another painting. A red demon, big, bat wings spread wide, dressed in frilly, foppish finery. Skull in one hand. Same, smug face as the creature standing in the room with you.

Motherfucker.

“What’s going on?” Gale says. “Who…?”

“Welcome, welcome to the House of Hope,” Raphael says. Gestures to the huge table piled three tiers high with food. It even smells good. You been living off stews, sausage, and cheese for a week. That pie looks so flaky and tender, your mouth actually waters. “Please, help yourselves. Enjoy supper. It might be your last.”

“Don’t touch the food,” you say. So many stories about abductions and food. Fairies, Greek gods, and that one Guillermo del Toro movie with the pale man.

This, unfortunately, draws the attention of the sonuvabitch back to you. Jesus lord, his face is so sleazy. He cocks his head. Studies you.

“Yes, you’re an interesting case, aren’t you?” he says. His voice dips even lower, going ragged in his throat like he’s trying too hard. “Not from around here. You notice it, don’t you? You and the gith, both.”

“Notice what?” Wyll says.

“That creature cloaks its appearance,” Lae’zel says. Much better wording than your own, mental his skin is fucking fake!

“Indeed,” Raphael says. He tosses an arm into the air as if to present a stage line. Only hot wind buffets out from him, stinking of ozone and sulfur. And when you blink through watering eyes, there stands the red motherfucking demon from the painting.

Wyll tenses beside you. Astarion has gone utterly still, not even pretending to breathe.

Raphael smirks. Says, “What’s better than the devil you don’t know? The one that you do.”

“No,” you say.

You don’t mean to say it. You have every intention of staying still and quiet, like Astarion. Of fading into the background and hoping the bad thing doesn’t notice you until y’all can get the fuck outta here.

But this is all too much, and you’re flat out panicking and (demon demon demon the devil will steal your soul). It just sort of slips outta you.

Raphael frowns, mildly. Cranks up the sleaze. “I’m afraid I haven’t even—”

“No thank you we’d like to go now—” You clap both hands over your mouth. Resist the urge to walk over to the nearest wall and lobotomize yourself through sheer blunt force trauma.

At least a few self-preservation instincts manage to reach in and make sure it comes out sorta polite?

The next frown is not mild. “Ill manners make an ill guest. On this plane and in all others.”

You’re done talking. You’re done moving. You can feel the sweat beading in your armpits and along the edge of your scalp.

Raphael’s creepy demon eyes hold your gaze a moment longer. When you sensibly keep your lips shut, he resumes his monologue. You all but sag against Astarion when the demon shifts to address the others.

Something something brainworms. Something something he’s your savior (you’ve had quite enough of those to last a lifetime). Something something grandiose pretension.

“I could fix it all like that.” Raphael snaps his fingers. Flames burst up from his hand.

Neat party trick, you think and absolutely do not say.

He wants y’all to ask for help. Says y’all won’t find any with Halsin or Lae’zel’s people. He says all that in the nastiest, most arrogant way possible, and your companions look at each other, unsure. One of them is gonna say something stupid, ask for more information, actually consider what this fuck is saying.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” you say. Your voice only shakes a little. You’re almost proud of that. “But I have to insist we leave.”

Maybe it’s the extra courtesy in your phrasing. Or maybe he’s too wrapped up in the sound of his own speech. He sweeps right into his next schtick of “blah blah denying reality, blah bah change your mind, you’re so weak, you’ll come crawling back, blah blah.”

Wyll is damn near trembling to one side. There’s a look in his eye part contained anger, part fear.

“You’ve been lucky so far,” Raphael wraps up. “And I’ll be there when that luck runs out.”

He snaps his fingers.

You’re once again on a cliff, under a blue sky smelling of pine and distant water and the slightest tinge of burning slugs and rubber.

None of the others gives you crap as your legs give out.

Previous - Index - Next Chapter

[spaceorphan18]

Hmmm, which character did I write this piece of meta for... "He thinks his worth is brought about by how much service he can provide for others."

[gumamelart]

Although I'm excited with the new pokeani protags, I'm a bit sad that Ash won't be able to meet Nemona. These two adore battling so much, I feel like they would get along so well.

I bet Nemona and Ash would share the same braincell, meanwhile Arven and Penny are just tired of their shenanigans.

[bruxbea]

idk if our last Dark Urge run was bugged or not (they never once did the Matt Berry "FATHER" dialogues when being character selected) but this time poor Dirge Lark is sure going through it..

love the idea that this decent sized group of fairly capable thinkers collectively went "Hey so the short one muttering to herself in the corner, should we bother to inform her we've elected her our leader or should we just, idk, see if she picks up on social cues?"

[villain-byteniwoha]

I think one of the funniest parallels in Stormbringer has to be the way Dazai and Chuuya... used one another as an excuse to cling onto life/humanity. It happens in similar settings too!

We have Dazai, who's presented with the most perfect death imaginable: a way to die quickly and painlessly. But then Mori, the mentor figure who forced himself into that role in Dazai's life, says:

"Your perfect death will end up as double suicide with you and Chuuya." And that's enough to make him turn around and act serious LMAO by the mention of death with Chuuya, or maybe even just Chuuya dying, this boy suddenly wanted to live (as if Chuuya wasn't the reason he found interest in life at Fifteen... I see what you're doing, Asagiri)

Then we have Chuuya, who's been backed into a corner. He could easily snap Professor N's neck to get back at him for... everything. And we have Verlaine, the mentor figure currently forcing himself into that narrative, pushing Chuuya to descend to that same hatred. But then Chuuya says:

"I'd never think the same way Dazai does."

Bro no one's mentioned Dazai in this context, why is he in your head, why's he in your little speech about holding on to your humanity?

Stupid.

[amielot]

Touch starved round 2

Dream: Who kicked that? Not me.

Bonus:

[graciehart]

Special Agent Fox "I do not gaze at Scully" Mulder ⤷ [2/13] ✧ Season Two

[goodomensao3tagoftheday]

[lauren-nicole-art]

It's a blessing and a curse.

[bluerosefox]

Dinner?

Feeling a bit Spirit Halloweenish.

Danny blinked, stared blankly, blinked again before slowly very slowly closed his front door.

A few seconds later Danny opened the door again and once again meet a certain tallish young man, around his age if maybe a few years older, in front of him...

Who was it?

Bruce Wayne....

Bruce freaking Wayne, someone according to what he heard from Sam telling him from what she heard from her parents had apparently just dropped out of med school and was 'in the wind' according to rich elite gossip talks, was at his front door.

........

Why?

Wait... Did he just ask Danny out on a date?

-x-x-

Bruce Wayne has just dropped out of med school and is beginning his training into becoming the person his city needs him to become. While looking into where he can he remembers how in his teen years the planet was almost destroyed but was saved by a ghost teen hero and looks into it. He digs deep to uncover what happened, uncovering impressive firewalls Amity Park has, etc and finds out about Danny Fenton/Phantom.

He decides to go visit the younger man, who is just about to start college himself, and ask a few questions.

He uhhh... Bruce just wasn't expecting to find Danny very cute (even though he was pretty certain Phantom had been his first male crush when he saw a photo of the teen years ago), and adorable with his owlish stare, and well the first words out of his mouth was

"Would you mind joining me for dinner?"

-x-x-

[a-heart-of-kyber]

The absolute gold that is:

Osha: Hello. 😐

Qimir: Oh! Hello!🤗

Osha:...Hi. 😐

Qimir: ....Hi? 🤨

Osha:....😐

Qimir: Hi! 😄

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 32 - Munchies

Gale is hungry and not for food. So is Astarion, and that innuendo IS intended.

On AO3.

So, y’all nearly lose Lae’zel. Mostly because outta the three options y’all got, “searching for the hidden location of a bunch of lizard murder hobos” sounded like the longest, most involved, and most dangerous one.

Lae’zel takes it about as well as can be expected. She cuts one of her training dummies into pieces with a single-minded viciousness that makes you wonder who’s face she’s projecting onto it.

She does end up staying, though.

Then there’s the western route. Y’all murdered druids so Halsin could have a smooth transition back into power if 1. Y’all even find him, 2. He ain’t dead, and 3. Y’all ain’t dead. Three steps makes this one slightly less of a pain but still not ideal.

So then there’s old Auntie Ethel.

You show Gale the map she gave you, with her house marked on it—damn thing is enchanted and he eyeballs it real weird. There’s only her house and a mark he says is some kinda wayfinder rune stone thingamabob.

To which Wyll chimes in about the rampaging demon woman you kinda roped all y’all into dealing with.

To which Gale puffs up, lifts his hands, and opens a fucking portal.

“Jesus fuck,” you say. “How the fuck long have you been sitting on that?”

“Will it trap us in a stone?” Astarion says, having decided to grace y’all with his presence, though he seems kinda put out by it.

Not long, Gale explains. And also no, on the stone thing.

Gale took a hit after waking up in a portal after the butthole ship went down. Shadowheart and the others chime in with the same. Spells weaker. Some unsteady (Gale says with a pointed look at Astarion, who dodges it) or unusable. Only Astarion seems to have netted positives (which sends him preening for about five minutes).

But their strength is returning, gradually. Gale had felt his magic capacity (“connection with the Weave, Eleanor” so now you’re calling it his mojo) increasing every day. So now he can cast this. Apparently, it connects to that rune stone thing on the map by Auntie’s house. As best you understand it (in between zoning out) it’s kinda a train station (or subway, since it “tunnels between the fabrics of the realms”). Y’all’ve seen weird marks carved into big rocks; those are the waypoints.

You call them teleporters, cause that’s what they seem like to you and you couldn’t follow his detailed explanation all the way through. It ain’t like you can use magic anyway.

As none of y’all want to spend the night at some stranger’s house in god-knows-where, y’all break for the night to settle in.

But Gale catches you before you get far. Up close, you can see sweat on his brow. He’s trying hard to hold himself straight, project calm and coolness as usual. But there’s a strain around his eyes that you ain’t seen before.

“May I have a word?” he says.

Only Astarion lingers, idly swirling a cup of wine near the fire. He looks up as you glance his way, but then you look to Gale again.

“Sure,” you say.

He leads you off a bit, out of earshot of most of camp. Stops at the tree you and Wyll had chatted under.

There, he tries to slap on a smile. But there’s tension around his eyes, and even the smile seems to twitch with effort.

“We’ve been on the road together for some time now, haven’t we?” he says. “Survived some perils, overcame some obstacles. Ever since you were kind enough to pull me from that stone, I’ve seen you demonstrate remarkable guile and generosity.”

This is a speech, you realize. Man’s practiced this. He’s usually expressive when he talks; waves his hands a bit and his face is animated. Here, he’s still and forced-pleasant. You watch him sharper as he goes on; having delivered the opening sentence, he backs that up with exaggerated examples you ain’t sure even he believes.

“In short, I’ve grown to trust you,” he says. And there’s the thesis.

“Okay?” you say.

He waits a pause. Probably expected something more, and when you don’t elaborate, he sort of stumbles into the next part. Uses more words than he needs to (he must be one of those people who get a “five page essay” assignment and turn that sucker into fifteen pages, single-spaced) to get to the next part. “You see, I have this… condition. Very different from the parasite we share, but just as deadly.”

You frown. “What kinda condition?”

Much better than leading with “is it contagious”, which you want to do.

“The specifics are rather personal. Suffice to say, it’s a malady I’ve learned to live with. Though not without some effort.”

Like slamming down both a dirt and a blood potion in the morning. The man makes these for you. He was one of the first of them (Shadowheart being the actual first) who tried to help you. And he cooks for y’all. You owe the man your time and attention.

And then he says he needs a magic item. Which, okay? There’s gotta be plenty of those around Faerun, right?

“I wouldn’t ask this of you if it weren’t vital—dare I say it, critical,” he says. “I may have, ah, pushed it aside for too long, now. The need has become severe.”

You nod, but then catch his glance. You got your arms folded, and your glowing ring lights his face in soft blue in the shade of twilight. Your first, real jewelry. Your enchanted jewelry.

“I know the allure magical items possess. I understand their value, and their power. All this to say: I understand the sacrifice I ask of you, and I promise, you will be rewarded with any and all means at my disposal.”

Again, the flicker of his gaze. The raw hunger in his eyes. Except it’s not just hunger, is it? That’s fear tightening his jaw and drawing a line between his brows.

“What happens if you don’t get an item?” you say.

He loses the last few threads of fake charm. His face goes entirely grim. “It’s already started, I’m afraid. And as you’ve probably noticed. I’ll spare you the finer details, but it begins with simple biological deterioration. Muscle spasms, disorientation, a slight ringing in the ears. And, if left for too long…catastrophe. And not just for myself.”

Jesus on a pogo stick. Only now do you notice the tremor in his hands. The hands he’s carefully left hanging at his sides, rather than draw attention to them as…as he normally does goddamnit.

“Why in the fuck didn’t you say something sooner?” And what the fuck is it about this group of screwheads not letting anybody else know they’re literally starving or like, melting from the fucking inside? These fucking people.

To this, Gale winces. “I don’t intend to impugn what I’ve now seen is your good character…”

“But we’re all a bunch of strangers on a butthole ship. Yeah, okay, I probably didn’t need to ask that.”

A lizard murder hobo, a vampire, and now a wizard with a chronic illness. What the fuck are Shadowheart and Wyll hiding?

You look at the ring. The one good thing in all this. The first actually nice thing you’ve ever had.

But Gale don’t look well at all. And he’s helped you so much in all this. You probably owe him your life, and it’s bad group dynamics to let one of them stumble and fall.

You sigh.

The second you get something nice, the universe comes to snatch it away. As usual.

You try to ignore the way your throat tightens as you wiggle the ring off your pinkie. It’s not even that nice of a ring and it was too small to begin with. And Faerun is littered with more. This was probably their version of one of them quarter machines in a grocery store selling kid’s jewelry. You ain’t gonna get upset over something that small, not when it sounds like this man’s life actually depends on it.

You hold the ring out. His whole face lights up in relief. “Thank you.”

He presses his hands to his chest. His whole body flares in purple light and he kind of grimaces, but it’s the Thanos snap that dissolves the ring to dust what really grabs your attention.

“Holy shit,” you say.

“Yes, it’s quite a sight.” He pants a couple of moments, dry swallows a couple more times, and then sighs as his whole frame relaxes. “H’oh, that hit the spot. I can feel it work. The magic is a lullaby that sings the demon inside to sleep.”

And if that ain’t the most concerning phrase. He must see the “what the fuck” on your face, because he lifts his hands (oh look, he’s gesturing again), and continues. “Not literally. I’m only saying, it has worked. And I am indebted to you, most gracious lady. You can count on me for any aid that you require.”

You…did do it because he makes the potion that keeps your soul from flying off into space. But you also did it because he’s part of the group and you don’t like seeing people hungry or hurting.

“It’s all good,” you say. “How, um, how often d’you need one of them?”

“I was able to wait about a tenday between, back home. I had a steady supply of such artifacts in my tower at Waterdeep, mind you, and I wasn’t gallivanting about the countryside with a worm in my head while fighting packs of goblins. I nearly pushed it too far, this time, and it hasn’t even been that. I suspect I may be down to a hand of days, maybe a few more.”

So about five days, give or take. Swell. Peachy.

Fuck.

“Right,” you say. “I guess we’ll have to keep an eye out, huh?”

The look he gives you is so warm and relieved you have to look away. “I am sorry for asking this of you, but I truly, truly appreciate your help. You do your people credit, Eleanor, to have raised such rare kindness in a person.”

And that’s hitting too close to home.

You nod again, mumble something about heading in for the night. He sweeps down into a both-arms-out bow and leaves you with a defined pep in his step.

He passes Astarion on his way back up, who gives the wizard a single, arched eyebrow.

When the vampire man reaches you, he says, “I’ve known people hungry for power, but Gale takes a bit too literally for my liking. At least I only take blood.”

So he heard. You wonder just how sharp them pointed ears actually are.

Gale needed that ring. You know that, logically. But still, you look to your bare pinkie finger and the cold disappointment sinks into you.

“At least he only wanted that trinket,” Astarion says. “Can you imagine if we’d had to give him something more valuable? Gods, what happens when he needs another one? I’m not donating.”

You try to smile. But too much has happened today, and your own masking game ain’t up to par at the moment. Astarion gives you a sort of pitying look.

“Don’t tell me you actually thought that bauble was useful?” he says.

“Not really. Just, you know. First actually gold thing I ever wore.” And that makes you feel even more pathetic, so time to change the subject and make a joke! “So that means the next one we find, I call dibs, got it?”

He lifts his hands in surrender. Eyes you a second. “Lower class family, was it? Grew up with a single pair of shoes between you and your siblings, and one good dress to visit whichever temple your family liked?”

You huff. “I had three skirts, thank you very much.”

“Oooh, someone’s family was moving up in the world.”

Normally, you’d be down for this sort of game. Teasing is fun when the other person plays into it. But this topic…it’s a little more difficult. And you’d really like nothing more than to crawl into your tent, lay down on your face, and pass out until morning.

You try to smile.

“I’m heading in for the night,” you say. Pause and look him over. He’s a touch paler than he has been the last couple days. A light smear of purple smudged under his eyes. “Have you, y’know, fed on anybody else? Since me, I mean?”

“Haven’t had the chance, darling. Are you offering?” A glint in his eye. You don’t miss his gaze moving down your neck.

“Not tonight, sorry. You took more than my usual donations, I think, and I ain’t really sure how healing spells work when it comes to replacing red blood cells.” At his stare, you veer off into explaining that part of biology, as best you can remember. Then, “But I think in a week, I should be okay. If, y’know, that’ll still help you out.”

He’s on full smarm when he says, “How could I turn down such a delectable offer? Though I’ll be sure to take less next time.”

There’s a slight question at the end of that sentence.

“And I’ll be ready with a potion and some actual bandages,” you say. Last damn thing you need is the whole crew finding your half-bled carcass drooling in the dirt again.

Astarion literally twirls one of his curls around his finger. He’s got such Blanche Devereaux energy.

“Well,” he drawls. “Do let me know when you feel up to it.”

You nod. Lift a hand. “Night.”

“Good night, darling. Do sleep well. I’ll be waiting in my own tent, whiling away the time until I can taste you again.”

Jesus lord.

You consider flipping him off. Decide you don’t wanna take the time to explain that gesture and get into a verbal sparring match over the potential innuendo. Settle for a, “You do that.”

Never has a bedroll been so comfortable.

Which is why you shouldn’t be so surprised when, halfway through a dream involving you and Deadpool (except you were Deadpool?) robbing a steam engine while fighting ninjas armed with a gatling gun, the dream shifts and your soul slams back into your body.

The sudden physicality of it jolts you. Dreams don’t have feeling, but suddenly the air is cool and smells vaguely like…burnt metal? Carbonized steak? You lie flat on your back, staring up at an old screensaver of spinning, LSD purple clouds. And there’s somebody talking nearby. And that voice is vaguely familiar.

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[zaacoy]

Short freenoodles focused comic inspired in part by takakmimi's freenoodles post on twt!!

[miguxadraws]

did this just so i dont sleep without drawing anything today

demon and nun au by @spitinsideme