#Maudlin Castle

[charmwasjess]

I really am crazy busy, both at work and life, and of course, finishing RH, but Vampire Dooku Turns Sifo-Dyas AU won't leave me alone, so you get a little piece of the morning after Sifo-Dyas returns from his Oba Diah moon:

Cut to be safe, cause discussion of sex

“So, who even was this?” Sifo-Dyas tilted the cup of blood accusingly in Dooku's direction, but he didn’t let go of it, either. “Some poor soul from Serenno? Someone’s parent, or treasured child? Disappeared up into the big castle like so many others, but who would dare question the noble Count Serenno?”

He was not sure who he was trying to shame more: Dooku, who did not seem to care, or himself, who cared a great deal more than he could currently handle. “I wonder what color her eyes were, or what she dreamed of being in life before you–”

“Not to interrupt your maudlin fantasy,” Dooku looked almost as tired as he felt, “but I do not go about exsanguinating peasant girls in my own kingdom, Sifo-Dyas. For one, that would take a tremendous deal of time.” 

“So difficult to fit more murder into your busy schedule? I ought to be grateful you spared the time for my own!” 

“In fact, hunting and killing live beings is rather impractical. Messy, and, if we must discuss your own death, that is a fine example of the kind of loose ends left by such practices.”

Sifo-Dyas glared at him, even as he grudgingly sipped the blood. It immediately soothed the static throb in his temple, but he did not enjoy being referred to as a “loose end.”

Oh, of course Dooku wasn’t done. “Most of what I consume is sourced from medical blood banks. Supplying my own would be a logistical nightmare.” Dooku paused wryly here, tolerant amusement curling his lip. “And… the effect of drinking live blood can cause quite an ardent physical response in the body, as you may have noticed last night. To both of our enjoyment, I believe. But it would be impractical at other times.”

Ah, that was right. Last night, he’d ended up in Dooku’s stupid bed again. Their first time, mere days ago, Dooku had shamelessly used the opportunity to turn him into an undead monster. And yet, knowing that, fully aware of that, Sifo-Dyas had still gone back for seconds.

Honestly, Sifo, where is your damned common sense? He was a Jedi Master and former member of the High Council. Why did Dooku still possess the ability to make him behave like a teenage boy navigating his first crush? And why, by the black stars, why, why did his own internal voice of admonishment still sound like Lene? 

“When the time is right for your first true hunt, a ceremonial rite of passage for our kind, I’ll arrange–”

“No thank you,” he cut him off tersely, “I’ll eat rabbits.”

“Rabbits?”

“They have rabbits on Serenno, do they not?”

Dooku paused. He actually looked like he did not know and was genuinely curious.

“How did I not know about this curse of yours, anyway?” Sifo-Dyas blurted out before Dooku could tell him about any stupid theoretical Serennian rabbits. “All those years ago, when we were everything to each other.”

Dooku’s quick glance up might have been wounded. Are we not still everything to each other?

Sifo-Dyas ignored that, still feeling a little too sore and betrayed for such sentimentality. “You must have taken such pains to keep it from me.”

“No more than any other urges I hid from you.”

“Urges?” Sifo-Dyas repeated, incredulous. “Other urges such as biting me in the neck until dead?!” 

“The ritual to make you was more complicated than that.”

“Oh, right, yes, the complicated ritual. For the vampirism to properly stick, you must first be fucking me and whispering romantic lies in my ear!”

 “Sifo…” Now Dooku decidedly looked pained. “I had my reasons for–” 

“Mortis gods, do you ever shut up?” 

“–I thought it would be more comfortable for you. Endorphins from intercourse dampen any pain associated with the bite. And, if I may consider my own feelings in this, your obvious happiness and pleasure made the experience …” 

“It made me taste better?!” Sifo-Dyas shoved up from the bed. He’d had enough of breakfast with Dooku. 

[troublebrewing-if]

Sneak Peek for Chapter 4 Side B

You know Reese is from Bharat, though you can not recall where in the world that country is located. Unfortunately, your geography professor had fled the castle before he could teach you much, loudly proclaiming that you were a “devil-child” and "unteachable." It was all rather overdramatic, you think.

When you were thirteen, you and Quinn had attempted to smoke your brother Peregrine out of his room, where he was reciting maudlin poetry after his latest breakup with yet another scullery maid. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but his window was right beneath yours and the sounds of his sobbing were disturbing you. It worked rather well, but you professor greatly disapproved of your use of his maps in the scheme. Your mother, likewise, was rather irritated, and lectured you for two hours about “not burning her goddamn castle down” and “running off a professor who had tutored all of your siblings.” When you helpfully pointed out that she shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain, she sent you a glare so withering that you were certain the wildflowers surrounding the castle looked a little less bright the next day. Thankfully, you were spared punishment, as your stunt inspired your father to invent his signature smokey whiskey.

[roleplayfinder]

Hi! I’m Pallywaug, 30s M looking for:

Baldur’s Gate 3: Astarion for my trans male Tav/Durge (bio here: https://maudlin-bonny-boys.carrd.co/#maz but you don’t have to read the whole thing!)

I’m open to AU & canon-divergent stuff! So far the only concrete plot I have is one that involves my OC knowing Astarion from the past, either pre-Cazador, or post- wherein he witnessed him preying on someone.

Cyberpunk 2077: Kerry Eurodyne/Johnny Silverhand for my trans male V/OC.

OC is a version of the one linked above in the BG3 pairing; in this one he’s a rockerboy/netrunner. Going for a male Stevie Nicks type of vibe.

Threesome idea sounds fun (Kerry/V/Johnny)but I’m happy to do just one of the requested roles above with my OC/V.

Misc Studio Ghibli: Spirited Away, Howl's Moving Castle, Princess Mononoke (bold=mine, all as adults)

Haku/Howl

Haku/Ashitaka

FTM or M Sophie (Simon)/Howl

FTM or M San/Ashitaka

There’s plenty of room to change plots around to your liking. Bonus points if you want to take the reins plotwise. I’ve been an admin/GM for 20 years and would love a break from handling that. Though I do still love collaboration!

I prefer slow burn, 60/40 plot to smut ratio.

Requirements:

All writers & characters must be 21+ and male/masc. Trans and NB friendly! No furries/beast races, no omegaverse.

3rd person, past tense

A writer who knows when to use brevity, how to write engaging prose, and how to render three-dimensional characters, rather than meet some arbitrary word count.

Avoid post splicing when possible.

If you don’t reply within ~1 month without communication of some kind, I will assume we’re done, and will not remind you.

Writing samples and more: https://maudlin-bonny-boys.carrd.co/



[estradasphere]

OK here i tried my best (for this ask game)

Destroy the things we thought we loved the best (rabbit rabbit - kill the king)

Until you can see right through (blur - chemical world)

Burning bridge lights up the sky (qotsa - domesticated animals)

You may not realize when it's done or why (fischerspooner - a kick in the teeth)

Had to give it back, wasn't mine to keep (high castle teleorkestra - the aramchek accusation)

Retracing my steps (will wood - 2012)

Familiar ground yet unexplored (ideamen - paper goose)

Velvet waters tumble out (kayo dot - and he built him a boat)

Hush me, touch me (mr bungle - pink cigarette)

This sanctuary harbors me (rabbit rabbit - the ghost king)

Your country turns to dust (tredici bacci - give him the gun)

The earth is melting down (kgatlw - melting)

A candle to pierce the darkness (maudlin of the well - riseth he the numberless 1)

It came so bright (gangpol und mit - don't forget the art)

Il futurismo nasce! (sgm - phthisis)

I can make one of your wishes come true (plus-tech squeeze box - the martin show)

You're hindered by your limitations (tub ring - wealth of information)

Splice us together (faith no more - the morning after)

My other life I will not miss (kgatlw - altered beast IV)

You and I are whole (twrp - all night forever)

[laurelsofhighever]

COMPLETE

Fandom: Dragon Age (pre-Origins) Characters/pairings: Maric x OC Chapter: 8/8 Rating: T Chapter CW: none Fic summary:

Hoping to cool off his charged relationship with Queen Rowan, Maric Theirin has taken his son Cailan to Redcliffe under the guise of a royal progress to acquaint the prince with his future kingdom. When word comes from Denerim that the queen has fallen ill and that tensions are running high thanks to an impending Orlesian embassy, the pleasant trip loses its charm, and bad quickly turns to worse. The only comfort in this sea of madness comes in the form of Gwawr, a Chasind healer working in the castle kitchens. Well aware of his duties and determined not to take advantage, there is nevertheless something beguiling about her, and as their time together wears on, Maric finds himself facing a choice that could have dire consequences for himself, his family, and the kingdom he has struggled for so long to build. Or, how Maric met and fell in love with Alistair’s mother.

Read it on AO3!

5 years later

The soft glow of early summer bathed the road in dappled light, the forest in full leaf a coy veil over the length of the road ahead, fluttering in the breeze like so much Rivaini silk before the stark, granite walls of Redcliffe Castle. Maric’s charger tossed its head and snorted a protest at the tight grip he held on the reins. It had danced under him all morning, sensitive to the increasing stiffness in his seat, the tension that snaked across his shoulders like a briar around a ruin. Next to him, Cailan sat proud on the back of his own full-sized horse, and if it was only a steady, plodding gelding instead of a grown man’s battle steed, it was still a far cry from the grey pony that had brought him on that first, fateful visit half a decade before. Though he had tried not to think of it over the years, the glimmer of the man his son would one day become turned his thoughts to that other child, promised then snatched away almost as quickly: whether it would have been a boy or a girl, or if it would have shared her eyes. It was such an old hurt now, the details of her face had dimmed in his memory.

A cry went up from the gatehouse when the guard finally caught sight of them. Pennants bearing the red crest of the Tower snapped as the great maw of the portcullis groaned open, and Maric pushed away the tightness in his chest. Whether it was the place, or his own growing tendency towards the maudlin, such weakness had no place in a king riding to greet a vassal.

Eamon waited at the top of the keep steps, with his household arrayed around him and the apple tree by the well shedding a sweet-scented carpet of blossoms like the spray of a waterfall. A sergeant-at-arms barked an order, and the two long rows of house guard flanking the route from the barbican stood to attention, eyes forward and glassy in a perfect show of deference. Most of the time, Maric would have done his best to ignore the pomposity of it all, but now he barely noticed it to begin with. It was foolish to hope he might see her face, to scan the line of servants in their chantry best for a flash of dun skin and knowing eyes, and yet…

Grooms were waiting at the base of the steps to take the trailing reins of their horses. Protocol demanded they wait to greet Eamon until after the herald had finished reciting the long list of the king’s titles. He had heard them so many times his lips moved along with the words.

There – movement. The breath froze in his lungs. Half hidden behind the woman he presumed was the cook, a small, sullen boy was fidgeting against the tight grip with which she held his arm, scowling at the starched hem of his shirt. His hair was sandy brown rather than blonde, his skin tinted slightly darker, but in feature and form, he might have been a demon’s mirror of Cailan. He swayed. The force of emotion that ripped through his chest almost brough him to his knees, but through the ringing in his ears he noticed silence had fallen, that the eyes of everyone in the castle were fixed keen on him, that Cailan at his side was looking to him as expectantly as a hound waiting to be free of the slips. Ashen, Maric forced a smile to his lips, and tore his gaze away from his son.

“As always, I am overawed by the hospitality shown me here,” he called from the bottom of the steps.

“As always, you are most welcome, Your Majesty.”

But he caught Eamon’s glance towards the ranks of servants, the way his smile flattened into something more akin to a grimace. The news of Gwawr’s death had come in Bloomingtide, only five months after he had last seen her, but if the child had been born, healthy enough to see multiple winters…

By the time he reached the top of the steps, his smile had all but curdled into a snarl, his fists clenched so tightly at his sides the skin might have split. A shiver of fear reflected in Eamon’s eyes and confirmed his suspicion. To bring a confrontation in front of so many, however, would only invite a battle he was ill-prepared for. Perhaps he had grown from all of Rowan’s accusations of recklessness over the years.

He needed to find out where Gwawr was, if not with their son. If the worst had happened, if he had been granted hope once more only to have it stolen away… he wasn’t sure he could take the blow with grace.

“Can I see the armoury this time, Father?” Cailan asked, oblivious. “I’m old enough now, aren’t I? I want to see real swords.”

Forcing a chuckle, Maric nodded. “An excellent idea. You may go now, if the seneschal will take you. I have some business with your uncle that must be settled.”

“Are you sure you would not both care for some refreshments first?” Eamon asked, with another glance towards the line of servants. “It has been a long journey.”

“No. Thank you.”

The arl swallowed. “Ser Brendan, please escort His Highness. Your Majesty, if you would come this way.”

With a gesture, he retreated through the main doors and left the bright summer sun behind. Though the cool of the stone-damp air brushed against his skin, the rage boiling at the core of Maric’s being refused to be quenched, and by the time they made it to Eamon’s office, he was trembling with the effort of restraint.

The door creaked shut behind him.

“Your Majesty –”

“Do not try me,” he snarled, the silence broken. “I have a son, and you hid him from me.”

“The herbalist’s boy?” Eamon scoffed as he passed further into the room. “He could be anyone’s.”

Maric slammed his fist into the wall in front of the arl. “He is mine – a blind man could see it. If I cared to, I could have you up on charges of treason.”

“And what would that accomplish?” came the retort. “Would you really expose your own bad judgement before the whole Landsmeet, for the sake of a servant?”

“She was not just a servant.”

“You would have made a Chasind witch Queen of Ferelden in place of my sister,” Eamon sneered. “After everything she did to win your crown, you would have replaced her before she was even laid on her pyre. What I did, I did for Ferelden, to save you from a terrible decision that would have cost us all.”

“It was not your decision to make! Do you really think I would have cast Ferelden aside so frivolously? All I’ve ever done is for the sake of the crown.”

“I saw you heading down a bad road and sought to avert disaster.”

With a growl like a wounded bear, Maric loomed close. “Where is Gwawr?”

“Dead,” the arl admitted. “The winter before last, of a fever. I’m sorry.”

In the final year of the Rebellion, Maric had taken a mace to the chest; his armour had crumpled .around the strike, the impact had cracked his sternum and left him gasping, seized up, unable to move his limbs, and only a lucky kick from a loose horse had stopped his opponent splitting his skull in two. He reeled now in the same manner, his battle rage snuffed out by the crush of emotions that all fell on him at once. A heartwound. Grief, shock, the terrible sting of hope extinguished. As if Eamon were no longer in the room, he sank into the nearest chair and hid the world behind his hands. His hearing blared with a faint, high-pitched whine.

The letter still sat in his pocket, the one where she had told him she was with child. For all these years he had kept it to remember that shadow of joy, the few brief weeks where his mind had buzzed like a summer hive with plans to support them both.

“You.” The word hissed from his throat like the rasp of metal against rock. “You made her think I abandoned her. Our son.”

One by one, you will hurt the ones you love the most, and become what you hate. He had dismissed the sentiment in the dark of Flemeth’s hut, with his mother’s blood still spotting his clothes and the need for vengeance pressing keen into his gut. And yet, what had Gwawr thought of him in the end? Had she still hoped as she endured alone – or had she drawn her last breath thinking him a callous, indifferent lord who had trifled with her for his own amusement?

“I loved her,” he murmured now. “You had no right.”

Somewhere above him, Eamon drew a heavy breath. “I thought it best to put you out of the way of temptation, for Rowan’s sake. How could I have known the boy was yours?”

“You had no right,” Maric repeated.

Another breath. “She named him Alistair, I understand.”

“Alistair…” Feverish with the new knowledge, Maric clutched at it like a weed reaching for the sun. “Does he know of me? I wish to see him.”

“Would you put that burden on him?” Eamon asked.

“He is my son.”

“All he has ever known is here,” came the steady reply. “He is cared for, has others of a like age to play with, and no grand expectations – no politics.”

“Nevertheless –”

“Think of his sake,” Eamon insisted, turning to the window. “What would you do? Introduce yourself and then fly away back to your palace? Take him with you? We both know he would be scorned by the court. Here at least he will have purpose, perhaps a trade when he’s older.”

Maric dropped his head into his hands again. Gwawr had not wanted to be paraded in front of the Landsmeet; she had wanted to give their child the freedom he himself was never allowed. And then there were the witch’s words, prophecy or curse, that had eaten at him piece by piece for over a decade. The blood on his hands, the ghosts in his shadow. What use could he be to a child he had abandoned so easily already? When did it ever really matter what he wanted?

“People will ask questions about who he is,” Eamon said. “Orlais will ask. They’ll use him against you, and he’ll be caught in the middle.”

“And he does not know who I am?” Grief clawed at Maric’s gut, high enough to chase the words from his throat.

Eamon was still at the window. “How can he, so young? It would be for the best to let him live his life. Let him be free of you.”

The practicality of the argument could not be denied, but still Maric’s fists clenched in his lap; indecision drove him to his feet. He wanted to take the boy away, wanted to fold him into his household and treat him with the care he had wished to dote on Gwawr. But would Alistair thank him for such a selfish act? Maric had never known his own father either, but the leery, judgemental eyes of the nobility was something he remembered hating even before he was old enough to understand why his mother thought it necessary. There would be no way to keep him apart from the politics of the Landsmeet, no way to shield him from the games the banns liked to play to win themselves favour. Gwawr’s last, adamant plea had been to spare him.

“I cannot do nothing for him. I will not.” Cailan might have been doomed to endure his bloodline, but perhaps Alistair’s future could be different. “He should have an education, a stipend for his upbringing.”

“I can say I’ve taken an interest in him,” Eamon offered.

“I don’t even know the sound of his voice.”

 “His life is here,” the arl repeated. “He’s taken care of.”

For a long moment, Maric did not speak. He paced to the window and cast a gaze out over the courtyard where he had first met Gwawr, singing a ditty about a rose in a voice as sweet as mountain violets. If this were a fairy tale, he would have spotted a small figure running about beneath the boughs of the apple trees, smiling and sandy-haired, recognisable even from a distance. When no such figure appeared, however, he straightened, rolling his shoulders to better bear the weight of his royal mantle.

“Do not think your actions are forgiven,” he warned the arl. “I will remember what your lies have cost me as I think of a suitable punishment.”

Without another word he swept from the room, the agitation in his limbs such that he cursed out loud at the prospect of going to his own chambers to wallow and lick his wounds and wonder if there would ever be lesser evils in the choices he was forced to make. Instead, he took the winding steps up to the battlements of the curtain wall and emerged to a view over the sapphire summer waters of Lake Calenhad. A breeze billowed up the face of the cliff and carried with it the sulphurous odour from the hot springs that fed the castle’s pipes, up into the clear expanse of the sky. And yet even here, above the eyes of his subjects, he could not allow the grief to surface, and with nowhere else to grow it crushed inwards, hollowing out his ribs until every heartbeat echoed like the blow of a forgehammer.

“Gwawr… forgive me… Maker be my witness, I never meant for this.”

He ought to ask about Goldana. He couldn’t recall seeing her on the steps with the other servants, but he remembered her brightness and remembered wanting to nurture it. Beyond that, his treasurer would have to be consulted, his clerks given instructions. Tutors would have to be vetted for discretion –  

A harsh shout jolted him from his thoughts, followed by another, gruffer voice admonishing the first. Down in the bailey, the pomp of the royal arrival had been stripped back into the more usual activities of the castle’s daily life, and at one end a line of training dummies had been set up for the instruction of the squires. They sat in the shade of the wall now, young hopefuls taking a break from their education to joke with each other over their waterskins, and watch with varying degrees of interest as a small child – a tiny figure at such a distance – went among them on some errand inscrutable from so far away. There were laughs. One squire ruffled the boy’s hair like a fond uncle, but the moment withered when the arms master emerged from the stables and barked an order for his charges to don their helmets. Not quite brave enough to be noticed, the boy skulked around the edge of the practice circle to watch the sword patterns being drilled against the dummies.

Maric watched, and watched, hungry for the clumsy imitations the boy made of the squires’ movements where he thought they could not see, fierce in his pride for the way he remained undaunted. The stone of the crenellations bit into his palms; the summer sun blazed overhead. An hour passed, perhaps, and Maric watched, and eventually the cook emerged with a sharp, scolding tongue, and Alistair was herded like a stray sheep back towards the kitchens and out of sight.

[chloristoflora]

When we made our rendezvous, Civil and Pard seemed equally glad to see their prince. Dutiful professed himself surprised and pleased to have them come to meet him. His warm welcome of his friend and his Wit-beast impressed the Old Bloods, both those who had been to Buckkeep Castle and those who awaited them. He had, of course, known of his friend's coming through my Skill.

When we returned to Buckkeep Castle, not only the Prince and Laurel returned with us, but also Web and the minstrel, whose name was Cockle. He sang as he rode with us, and I gritted my teeth to his rendition of "Antler Island Tower". That stirring and maudlin lay told the tale of the Antler Island defense against the Red Ship raiders, with much emphasis placed on the role that Chivalry's bastard son had played. It was true that I had been there, but I doubted half the exploits attributed to my axe. Web laughed aloud at my pained expression. "Don't sneer so, Tom Badgerlock. Surely the Witted Bastard is a hero both our folk can share. He was a Buckkeep man and Old Blood both." And his bass joined the minstrel on the next refrain about "Chivalry's son, with eyes of flame, who shared his blood if not his name."

Didn't Starling write that ballad? Dutiful asked with false concern. She considers it her property. She may not take kindly to Cockle singing it at Buckkeep.

She wouldn't be alone in that. I may strangle him myself to save her the time.

Yet on the next refrain, not only Civil and Dutiful lifted their voices, but half the guardsmen as well. That, I told myself, is the effect that a spring day can have on folk. I hoped it would wear out soon.

Golden Fool, by Robin Hobb (Tawny Man Trilogy #2)

[sunrisetune]

SUP GOOSE SUP I HAVE SOME QUESTIONS FOR YOU (ao3 wrapped) :3 :3 :3

(3) What work are you most proud of (regardless of kudos/hits)?

(18) The character that gave you the most trouble writing this year?

(30) Biggest surprise while writing this year?

(Referencing this ask meme)

HELLO HEYYY thank you!

This is something of a reduced exercise bc I've posted five (5) short fics this entire year,, (at time of drafting this),, but nonetheless! x)

3 -- I like how "The Zee And The Lonely Sky' turned out. At first it was a collection of journal entries (guess what else was happening this year that helped inspire that p: ), but then I felt like it'd drag a bit and that,, like,, fleshing out my in-universe idea of how my two characters knew each other would be worthwhile. And it was fun \o/  Fallen London game... good.

~

18 - This is a much longer answer bc I'm going to take the liberty of rambling about a character in a fic whomst I haven't actually posted yet: Justice  x) For my WriMo this year I finally started a DA fic that I've been vividly daydreaming about for like a month but never actually writing, as you do (/jk). It's a post-DA2 into DAI redemption arc for our favourite SJ spirit W; or recovery arc, maybe. This is the summary I made for it in November:

Through an act of violence Anders and Justice were, finally, separated, though at cost to them both. Afterwards, Justice found their way back into the mortal world almost entirely by accident. But only almost. Possessing the still-living body of an elf woman whose mind is somehow missing, once again unable to leave the flesh and unrecognizable to anyone who'd known them before, the spirit makes a pilgrimage of sorts to Skyhold. Apparently there had been an attempt at peace that had gone horribly wrong, and the rising powers tipping the balance in the Mage-Templar War had congregated at the top of the mountain. Justice would join them. When Justice gets to the castle, she finds Hawke, because of course she does.

The idea of a personification of justice as an elf woman in the uhhhh wretched hive that is the rest of DA lore was interesting to me; and also specifically a retroactive / parasocial spite response to trivia I read, that before DA2 was made the writers were considering having Justice merge with Velanna but David Gaider thought that would've made her ""more annoying than she already was"". Fuck off, David I feel like there's a decent amount of fic where Friendship Route Anders and Justice are separated and Anders is for the most part written as being better off, while Justice is able to go back to the Fade, and then just??? Fucks off, I guess?? And is never really mentioned again, which I was not entirely persuaded by. So I decided to try and write something that follows Justice through being separated from Anders and surviving it and then having to, you know,, Deal With All That, especially while the war is going on, bc, like,, I’ve always read Justice’s and Anders’ actions in DA2 as both of them being scared. Justice is more afraid of becoming a demon than anything else, even non-existence,, and it happened; it very nearly cost him and Anders their life even before Anders literally asked Hawke to murder them after committing the worst act they’d ever do.

And while I am uhhh not entirely disposed towards a lot of what happened in Inquisition, I really liked Cole’s storyline of reverting from being a demon, and then having a choice on what he wanted to become; I thought that it’d be interesting to follow Justice down a similar arc.

~

30 - Does "shipping characters I didn't necessarily think about at first" count as s surprise bc if so, Awakening-Anders/Justice, which is at least partially your fault SYRUP :p I specify Awakening bc, not to get kind of maudlin in the middle of a cheerful ask answer about shipping, but unfortunately, Dragon Age (that's it that's the joke)

[rphunter]

Hi! 30sM here, looking for some pairings from Dragon Age, Baldur's Gate 3, and Studio Ghibli films (Spirited Away, Howl's Moving Castle, Princess Mononoke). I am only comfortable writing with other queer men age 21+ with characters also 21+. Trans friendly. This is a hard boundary, please respect that.

Pairings: 

Astarion for my Fenris or OC Tav/Durge (bio here: https://maudlin-bonny-boys.carrd.co#maz)

Dorian Pavus for my Fenris

Howl for my Adult Haku or my FTM/M Sophie (Simon)

Ashitaka for my Adult Haku or my FTM or M San

Details:

DM if interested, won’t see it otherwise.

Plots always flexible! Bonus points if you want to take the reins plot-wise. I’ve been an admin/GM for 20 years and would love a break from handling that. Though I do still love collaboration.

I prefer slow burn, 60/40 plot to smut ratio.

I usually write 3rd person, past tense.

I do not post match or follow word counts, I like brevity as well as walls of text. I care more about having something to respond to.

Please be someone who can write engaging prose and render three-dimensional characters

Please avoid post splicing as much as possible.

I will not be responsible for reminding you to reply. That said, I’d be happy to restart when you return, no hard feelings. Just let me know please!

Writing samples and more: https://maudlin-bonny-boys.carrd.co

,

[findroleplay]

Hi! I’m Pallywaug, 30s M looking for:

Baldur’s Gate 3: Astarion for my trans male Tav/Durge (bio here: https://maudlin-bonny-boys.carrd.co/#maz but you don’t have to read the whole thing!)

I’m open to AU & canon-divergent stuff! So far the only concrete plot I have is one that involves my OC knowing Astarion from the past, either pre-Cazador, or post- wherein he witnessed him preying on someone.

Cyberpunk 2077: Kerry Eurodyne/Johnny Silverhand for my trans male V/OC.

OC is a version of the one linked above in the BG3 pairing; in this one he’s a rockerboy/netrunner. Going for a male Stevie Nicks type of vibe.

Threesome idea sounds fun (Kerry/V/Johnny)but I’m happy to do just one of the requested roles above with my OC/V.

Misc Studio Ghibli (bold=mine, all as adults) specifically Spirited Away, Howl's Moving Castle, and Princess Mononoke

Haku/Howl

Haku/Ashitaka

FTM or M Sophie (Simon)/Howl

FTM or M San/Ashitaka

There’s plenty of room to change plots around to your liking. Bonus points if you want to take the reins plot-wise. I’ve been an admin/GM for 20 years and would love a break from handling that. Though I do still love collaboration!

I prefer slow burn, 60/40 plot to smut ratio.

Requirements:

All writers & characters must be 21+ and male/masc. Trans and NB friendly!

No furries/beast races or omegaverse

3rd person, past tense.

A writer who knows when to use brevity, how to write engaging prose, and how to render three-dimensional characters, rather than meet some arbitrary word count.

Avoid post splicing when possible.

If you don’t reply within ~1 month without communication of some kind, I will assume we’re done, and will not remind you.

Writing samples and more: https://maudlin-bonny-boys.carrd.co/

-

[adrasian]

Adrasia felt somewhat chastened in that moment, as if he'd been gently scolded by one of his elders again. "'Your thing'? Superhuman endurance, then?" He tried to mimic Kaden's outward display of ease, the question lightly joking as he watched the trajectory of the ball arc over the green. There was a bit of underlying curiosity there; the celestial was certain the other was not human, whatever he may be. But no matter the cheerful tone, Kaden's words were still bleak ones. Adrasia eyed the other man somberly, trying to gauge how deeply Kaden believed what he'd said and how much of the hope he mentioned he actually held. A difficult thing, being owned by such a man...

"Four, in an institution such as this," The celestial clasped his hands behind his back, businesslike. It was easier to discuss in this detached fashion, at least if he hoped to avoid delving back into more maudlin thoughts. "Many years before that, I spent almost five decades as a... guest of lord like these masters. Though he was more concerned with blood than flesh." Being a slave at Krovs was a vastly different experience than the celestial's first imprisonment, full of every day insults and indignities and an uncertainty of what came next that made it impossible to rest. But Adrasia had never truly rested by his own nature and the isolation of that long confinement was far worse than anything the castle demanded, by his reckoning. "I've tried a few different methods of 'getting on with it', over the years. I would gladly further take your advice on the subject."

"Thank you, it's sort of my thing, I s'pose," Kaden replied, grinning lopsidedly. A little hint at his god-given virtue there that even Lucien skillfully tested every single day. Now he played the game on a higher difficulty mode with his powers suppressed. Some days he wished Ransom succeeded in killing his master for good, not that he'd say that out loud in the wrong company. He turned down towards Ares as he dropped the ball and sat obediently at his feet, Kaden pausing their conversation so he could toss the thing again for his pet.

The shift in emotion in Adrasia's features did not go unnoticed to the trained detective. He let out a short laugh despite himself. "Darlin' I've been here for five years and four of 'em in Gaudet's hands. It ain't easy thinkin' cheerfully in these circumstances," he chuckled. A little bit of humor to lighten the mood, he hoped. "Still, I agree. But there's nothin' else to do, is there? Runnin' gets us nowhere, fightin' gets us killed. The best way to survive is to just... get on with it and hold onto hope." How odd it still felt to speak those words now as a victim rather than someone helping them back in Texas. The kresnik liked to think they helped the spirit move in the right direction of recovery but now they felt hollow. "How long've you been gettin' on with it?" he wondered, sure that Adrasia wasn't new to this life even if he might be new to Krovs. He could spot a seasoned slave from a newcomer based on their behavior and the older celestial held himself far too calmly to have just rolled in a week or two ago.

[streetsofdublin]

MAUDLIN CASTLE SEPTEMBER 2022

Maudlin Castle is a tower house which formed part of a medieval hospital and National Monument located in Kilkenny, Ireland

[solasan]

from a charred letter found in a bedchamber within castle cousland: —do try to be safe at ostagar, big brother. perhaps it’s maudlin of me, but i shudder to think of the state of affairs were highever to fall into little oren’s hands; he’s a sweet boy, to be sure, but six is too young to rule a teyrnir, and oriana should be sorry to see you go. as would i, you know. at any rate: i’ll be sure to keep him entertained, if you be sure to stay alive. [the letter trails off into an ink spill; in the corner of the parchment is a blot of blood.] • template

[dragonmuse]

Request: Izzy and Charlie babysitting Raven! (Bonus points for Lucius being involved somehow, but not required lol <3)

(Hopping back to 'wake myself in the shadows'! instead of Lucius, I added a bit of Stede and Eddy, but Lucius does have a brief cameo)

Stede sat on the bench, watching Eddy and Raven have a very serious discussion on the merits of the different buckets available in the sandpit. They were both a little sandy and Stede was fairly sure Raven was winning the debate. 

At four, Raven had already grown into his name. His hair was black and thick, sticking up in all directions unless it had seen a brush in the last five minutes and his skin was delicately pale. Stede could see Alma everywhere in him, the solemn shape of his lips and the way he quirked his head when he was listening. On the whole, he was a chatty child, easy to make laugh and friendly. Until a few minutes ago, he’d been playing with a band of children, but they had all gone home and Eddy had stepped in to engage him. 

“Grandpa!” Raven cried and raced over to him, trailing sand. “Eddy says I can have juice.” 

“Oh, yes of course, my dear,” Stede laughed. “You’re very sweaty, I imagine your very thirsty.” 

“Super thirsty,” he agreed and took the juice box Stede produced from the basket beside him gratefully. “Can I sit in your lap?” 

“Always,” Stede curled a hand around him and Raven clambered up contendly. Eddy sat down beside him. 

“Apparently we have to make a whole castle next time,” Eddy informed him solemnly. “We’ll need fresh equipment.” 

“I’m sure we could outfit you engineers with something sufficient,” Stede put his other arm around Eddy’s shoulders. “It’s been such a nice weekend, hasn’t it?” 

“Mhmm,” Eddy whipped out a tissue and mopped up an errant stream of juice from Raven’s chin. “We’ll have him again next month, don’t get maudlin already.” 

“I know, I know, but he just grows so much between visits.” 

“I’m gonna be big,” Raven said, swinging his tiny sneakers up onto Stede’s other leg. “Taller than you, Eddy.” 

“Impossible!” Eddy gasped. “I’m the tallest person in the world.” 

“No, you’re not!” Raven sniffed. 

“How do you know? Have you measured everyone in the world?” 

“Can I?” The juicebox straw went between his lips. 

“You can try,” Eddy considered. “At least in the household. Maybe we can bring you to the bar with a tape measure and let you at least try with the junior drag set.” 

“We could make a game of it,” Stede agreed. 

“Hello,” a shadow fell over their happy trio. A tall figure (taller, even, then Eddy ) with a bristle of hair and dark sunglasses. 

“Cha-cha!” Raven cried happily and threw up his arms. 

“Bird-boy!” Charlie chuckled and grabbed him up, tossing him into the air. 

“Watch the juice,” Stede wrinkled his nose and stood. “Or you’ll be wearing it.” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Charlie settled Raven against his hip. “What’ve you got there?” 

“Apple,” Raven sucked loudly on the straw so it made a horrible draining noise. 

“Awesome,” Charlie nodded. “Have fun with your grandparents?” 

“Yeah! We saw a movie and I got to eat so much popcorn!” 

“What five or six kernels? Bird-boy a lot or real a lot?” 

“Actually a lot,” Stede offered. “His appetite was good this weekend.”  

“Yeah? Good job,” Charlie praised. 

Raven was a picky eater and often seemed to survive on air, no matter what he was coaxed with. They’d allergy tested him, naturally, and taken him to specialists, but the ultimate diagnosis was that he was just like that. 

“Can I do the swings?” Raven wiggled a little and Charlie set him down. 

“Sure, have fun with that.” 

“Push me?” Raven called out as he ran towards them. 

“I will,”  Stede volunteered. “I know you have to go, but-” 

“Go ahead,” Charlie waved him off. “Fuck knows I don’t want to do it.” 

“Izzy waiting in the car?” Eddy asked wryly. 

“No, I drove. He’s got a client to meet,” Charlie glanced over at her. “Tax season is warming up.” 

“Do you become a numbers widower?”  

“Little bit,” Charlie barked a surprised laugh. “But he has fun playing games with the IRS. Anyway, he’ll be around tonight.” 

“What time will Alma be home?” 

“Her plane is still listed as on time, so probably 11ish. We’ll keep him overnight.” 

“Makes sense.” 

The conversation lapsed. They both watched Stede push Raven on the swing. The boy kept demanding ‘higher, higher!’ and Stede obliged.   After a few minutes, Charlie checked his watch. 

“Two minute warning, Raven!” 

“Nooo!” he protested. 

“You can’t move into the playground,” Charlie shouted. “Five more swings. Come on.” 

After that it was a blur of transferring Raven’s little suitcase (robot-themed) and a lot of ‘last hugs’. Eventually though, Raven was in his car seat, armed with a water bottle and several picture books to look through. Charlie straighted, turning to face his father. 

“Have a safe drive home,” Stede said. 

“Yeah. I- thanks,” Charlie mustered a smile. “For looking after him. It was a help.” 

“Any time. We love having him. Truly.” 

Charlie searched his face, then gave a sharp nod. “Good.” 

What Stede wanted to ask was if Charlie would text when they got home. To ask if he’d send more pictures. Alma did sometimes, but it wasn’t her thing and Stede knew for a fact that Izzy took them all time. 

The bridge between their two riverbanks was not yet firm enough to hold that wait. Instead, he just waved as Charlie’s ridiuclously flashy car pulled away from the curb. 

“Ready to head out?” Eddy asked, resting her hand between Stede’s shoulders. 

“Charlie used to build sand castles,” he leaned back against her. “I forgot about that.” 

She kissed his temple. “Time does that to us.” 

“Yes,” he closed his eyes. He could see a blond head, bigger than Raven, but not by much. Just digging in the sand with a shovel and determination. Even then Charlie had been clear in his goals. Whatever he aimed to do got done. 

Stede just hoped he was doing enough that one of those goals might be to heal things between them. 

*** 

An hour later, Charlie pulled up to the apartment building and five minutes after that Raven was running in their front door calling, 

“Uncle Izzy! Uncle Izzy!” 

“Is that an invading army?” Israel’s office chair creaked and Charlie just knew he was leaning back too far in it so he could see out the door and down the hallway. He made out the sound of Raven running down the hall and being caught up and spun around. 

He took his time removing his shoes and settling Raven’s things by the couch. The kid had aversion to the office/guest room and they had long ago given up trying to convince him into it. When he was over, he slept very happily on their couch which was deep enough to keep him comfortable and safe from rolling off the edge anyway. 

“Israel, do you want me to take the chicken out of the freezer?” He called down the hall.

“No chicken,” Raven’s little voice floated out. 

“Who said it’s for you?” Israel scoffed. “But no that’s for tomorrow! Got this one hamburgers.” 

“Again?” Charlie mumbled to himself, but dutifully took out the patties he found beneath the chicken to defrost.  Raven would eat hamburgers most of the time and that mattered. Charlie reserved the right to have internal gripes about it though. 

A few minutes later, Raven re-emerged on his own. 

“Uncle Izzy is working,” he informed Charlie. “And it’s boring.” 

“I’ll bet. Cartoon time?” 

“Yeah!” 

Charlie scrolled through his phone while Raven watched tv. Occasionally he put it down to answer a question and that satisfied his tiny companion.  A half-hour later, a warm hand circled Charlie’s neck and squeezed gently. 

“Mm, hi,” Charlie tipped his head back to smile up at his husband. “You free?” 

“For tonight,” Israel confirmed, leaning down to kiss him. “How was the drive?” 

“Fine, boring.” 

“And...” 

“Fine,” Charlie sighed. “We were all very civil.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mm. Eddy asked where you were.” 

“I’m sure they missed my smiling face,” Israel rolled his eyes. “Want to start dinner? Get a break in?” 

“Yeah, all right.” 

Charlie cooked while Israel and Raven worked on the puzzle they’d had out since they’d last seen each other. It was some train thing and the two of them sat on the floor with equal ease. Raven did more talking than piecing together, but Israel had long experience with Bonnet blood trying to talk his ear off and was entirely unphased. 

They ate together on the floor too, Charlie perched on the couch.  The nights usually went fast after dinner. There was bathtime, only lightly supervised until it came time to actually wash up. Israel usually oversaw that, his instructions of ‘for the love- your actual skin kid, not five inches away’ or ‘you can’t leave shampoo in your hair that’s how you get a rash’ dashing through the apartment.  

Once in pajamas, Raven would find Charlie like a heat seeking missile and hold out a stack of books, 

“Read to me, Cha-cha?” 

“Can’t you read yet?” Charlie narrowed his eyes at him. 

“You do it better,” Raven pushed the stack of books towards him.

“This is a con,” Charlie announced as he always did. Raven giggled. 

With that bit of playacting done, they settle on the couch, Raven laying out and Charlie sitting by his feet in the waning light. He’d read at least two books (“One more...please?”  “Your eyes are closed.” “Are not!” ) and by the end of that Raven was usually asleep, sprawled out and twitching. 

Israel would always sweep in to brush Raven’s hair off his forehead and leave a kiss there, before holding his hands out to Charlie and getting him to his feet. They walked quietly to the bedroom and shut the door. 

“He sleeps like you,” Charlie said, not for the first time. 

“Poor kid,” Israel snorted. “You all right, demon?” 

“Just thinking,” he stretched out onto their bed, reaching upwards and arching his back until something cracked and then sank back with a sigh. 

“About what?” Israel stood over him, his gaze covetous, but when he sat down, he kept his hands to himself. 

“Who leaves a four-year-old? I’m so...ugh. I don’t even  like babysitting, but I love that stupid kid so fucking much. I can’t imagine just walking out.” 

“Yeah,” Israel did reach out now, but just rest his hand on Charlie’s chest, rubbing in small circles. “Me either.” 

“You’re actually good at all this uncling stuff though.” 

“You are too.” 

“Maybe, but it feels forced.” 

“You think I’m not working at it?” Israel shook his head. “It doesn’t come naturally.  It was easier when he was a baby in some ways. Just had to keep him warm, dry and fed.” 

“No way, walking and talking and diaperless is way better,” Charlie contended. “Anyway, I’m just being maudlin.” 

Israel leaned down and kissed him once. Neither of them were keen on getting caught out by Raven’s infrequent, but startling sudden wakeups.  

“Angel’ll be getting ready for work, want to call and bother him?” 

They did and Lucius regaled them with bad customer stories as he got dressed, phone propped on his desk so they could watch him. When he was almost ready to go, he swept the phone up for a closer look at his face. 

“Everyone surviving over there?” He checked. 

“If I say I have consumption and must go to the sea for a resting cure, would you come with me?” Charlie asked with a pout. 

“I’d visit with a hazmat suit,” Lucius snorted. “But I was thinking of coming by on Thursday. You still only have a morning class then, right?” 

“Yeah,” Charlie grinned. “Really?” 

“Really. I’ll even sit in the back and play student.” 

“Kinky. I’m into it.”  

With that to look forward to, Charlie picked up his book and Israel got his. The longer they were married, the more often they had these kinds of quiet nights. Even three or four years ago, Charlie would’ve sneered at the picture they made, both of them quietly pursuing their own interests, one of them occasionally interrupting the other with some good line or something that made them laugh. Now it just was a part of their increasingly domestic picture. 

Charlie turned off his light long before Israel, but he didn’t mind falling asleep that way.  Besides, someone had to be awake with the dawn because that’s when Raven’s little brain turned back on.   

Today, he did get up before him, but he was still watching the coffee drip when Raven sat up, got his preferred plushie of the moment (a turtle of all things named Brussel Sprout) and shambled over to lean against Charlie’s leg.  

“When is Mama coming?” he asked in his smallest, babiest voice. 

“As soon as she wakes up, I bet,” Charlie assured him. “You know she misses you like hell. Hey, you want to go get bagels?” 

Raven nodded, bottom lip quivering a little, but game for the distraction. They both just put on shoes with their pajamas (Charlie didn’t sleep in them, but he did put them on for Raven’s sake in the morning).  

They returned with bounty, including Raven’s requested rainbow bagel with a very thick slab of cream cheese. Charlie cut it into quarters and was gratified that Raven ate half. Israel was in the shower when they got back. 

“Heated up your oatmeal,” Charlie gestured at the stove.  

They all ate and before Raven could start asking for her again, Alma texted. 

Alma: on my way 

“Mama’ll be here in fifteen minutes,” Charlie told them both. 

“YAY!” Raven got down off his seat and ran to gather his things, stuffing them willy-nilly into his suitcase. 

“Should we fix that?” Charlie watched, amused. 

“Nah,” Israel said. “She’ll just dump everything into the wash anyway....is there more in there than he left with?” 

“Dad,” Charlie sighed. 

“Jesus fuck.” 

“Let her handle it. She thinks it’s cute when he overindulges the kid.” 

“It’s something,” Israel said darkly. 

A quick toothbrushing and change ate up time. Alma slotted her key into the lock  as Raven sat on his suitcase so Israel could zip it shut. 

“Mama!” Raven said delighted and darted to the door.  

She opened it and threw open her arms, “There’s my little bird.” 

Raven hugged her tenaciously and she lifted him up with a happy sigh, burying her face in his wild hair. Charlie had to look away, her face too raw to be watched. 

“How was your flight?” Israel asked, with no such compunctions. 

“Don’t get me started,” she groaned. “Why do I ever let the university book these things? I almost missed my connection and I could’ve screamed. How was last night?” 

“He slept well. Ate okay. Let me get his shit in your car. Your dad went off again.” 

“Did he?” Alma smiled and kissed Raven’s head. “Did you get nice things, dear heart?” 

“Clothes,” Raven shrugged. He had one hand in her hair, playing with the strands, unwilling to move an inch from her arms.  “And books. I like the books better.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she rubbed his back. “Thanks, you two.” 

“You can stay for lunch,” Israel offered as he hefted up the suitcase.

“Better not, but thanks,” she smiled at him and Charlie tried not to look grateful for that. “Raven has a play date this afternoon.” 

“Maggie?” Raven asked hopefully. 

“Who else? Her mother told me she’s been up since 4 this morning asking when you’re coming.” 

“Let’s go now!” 

“This afternoon,” she promised.  

Charlie got a wave goodbye as Alma carried Raven out, trailed by Israel with the suitcase. 

The apartment was quiet. Charlie grinned and started stripping the couch. The quiet didn’t bother him. They’d fill it with noise in just a few minutes.

[legend-collection]

Reynard The Fox

Reynard the Fox, also known as Renard, Renart, Reinard, Reinecke, Reinhardus, Reynardt and by many other spelling variations, is a trickster figure whose tale is told in a number of anthropomorphic tales from medieval Europe.

Reynard The Fox 1846 by Granger

He seems to have originated in French folklore. An extensive treatment of the character is the Old French Le Roman de Renart written by Perrout de Saint Cloude around 1175, which sets the typical setting. Reynard has been summoned to the court of king Noble, or Leo, the Lion, to answer charges brought against him by Isengrim the Wolf. Other anthropomorphic animals, including Bruin the Bear, Baldwin the Ass, Tibert (Tybalt) the Cat, Chantecler the Rooster and Hirsent the She-wolf, appear to give testimony against him, which Reynard always proves false by one stratagem or another. The stories typically involve satire whose usual butts are the aristocracy and the clergy, making Reynard a peasant-hero character. Reynart's principal castle, Maleperduys, is available to him whenever he needs to hide away from his enemies. Some of the tales feature Reynard's funeral, where his enemies gather to deliver maudlin elegies full of insincere piety, and which features Reynard's posthumous revenge. Reynard's wife Hermeline appears in the stories, but plays little active role, although in some versions she remarries when Reynard is thought dead, thereby becoming one of the people he plans revenge upon.

Reynard appears first in the medieval Latin poem Ysengrimus, a long Latin mock-epic written ca. 1148-1153 by the poet Nivardus in Ghent, that collects a great store of Reynard's adventures. He also puts in an early appearance in a number of Latin sequences by the preacher Odo of Cheriton. Both of these early sources seem to draw on a pre-existing store of popular culture featuring the character.

The 13th century saw the light of a Middle Dutch version of the story (Van den vos Reynaerde, About Reynard the Fox), comprised of rhymed verses (scheme AA BB). Very little is known of the author, Willem, other than the description of himself in the first sentences: This would roughly translate as:

Willem, die Madoc maecte, Daer hi dicken omme waecte, Hem vernoyde so haerde Dat die avonture van Reynaerde In dietsche onghemaket bleven (Die Arnout niet hevet vulscreven) Dat hi die vijte van Reynaerde dede soucken Ende hise na den walschen boucken In dietsche dus hevet begonnen. Willem who has made Madoc, and suffered many a sleepless night in doing so, regretted that the adventures of Reynaert had not been translated in Dutch (because Arnout had not completed his work). So he has researched the story and in the same way as the French books has he written it in Dutch.

Who this Willem was, remains a mystery. Madoc of which he here spoke, probably another one of his works, is also still an unknown text to this day. Illustration from Ghetelen in Reinke de Vos (1498)

Geoffrey Chaucer used Reynard material in the Canterbury Tales; in the “Nonne Preestes Tale”, Reynard appears as “Rossel” and an ass as “Brunel”. In 1485 William Caxton printed The Historie of Reynart the Foxe, which was translated from a Dutch version of the fables. Hans van Ghetelen, a printer of Incunabula in Lübeck printed an early German version called Reinke de Vos in 1498. It was translated to Latin and other languages, which made the tale poplular across Europe. The character of Tybalt in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet is named for the character Tibert/Tybalt the “Prince of Cats” in Reynard the Fox. Goethe, also, dealt with Reynard in his fable Reinecke Fuchs. Reynard is also referenced in the Middle English poem Sir Gawain and the Green Knight during the third hunt.

[inblackwoods]

Someone shut me up if I get redundant, but I do want to talk about how Dracula is constantly subverting the expectation of a singular, hyper-masculine heroic character to save the day and win the girl. Obviously, I find it relevant to my ongoing “Dracula is a story about love/community” idea. 

First is Jonathan, who obviously doesn't have a ton of machismo. He swoons, he's preyed on, he's locked away helpless in a tower. We all know this. He even finds himself connecting to the idea of women from the past writing letters at the desk he's sitting at in the castle, saying, “here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love letter, and writing in my diary in short-hand all that has happened since I closed it last” [Chptr 3]. Perhaps worth mentioning is that this is written right before he’s attacked by the three women. If he’s a hero, then he’s not of the standard, invincible superman sort.

Then, when Jonathan is suspected to be dead, the narrative moves on to introduce Seward, who Lucy goes to some effort to talk-up to Mina, listing his positive qualities and reasons why he might be compatible with her. The implication is that Jonathan is dead! Someone needs to come in and save the girl in his place! But Seward is Seward. So this is obviously not going to work. Lucy immediately moves on to describe him as nervous enough to sit on his own hat and then start fidgeting with a lancet, which scares her [Chptr 5]. And then, if one isn’t yet convinced that he's an unheroic mess of a man, his own diary starts and he's brooding, obsessive, maudlin, and prone to cruel thoughts and sometimes cruel actions. He's not our hero either! He’s too dark, quiet, arrogant, etc.. Fine, who else is there?

Quincey? Yes, one might think for a moment, but then recall how, after he's so ridiculously charming in his proposal and really does seem like a knight in shining armor, he up and leaves the narrative for a while. Completely unmentioned for six chapters! When he comes back, it's relieving and exciting and wonderful and-

He has the wrong blood type. There's an implication he might have killed Lucy, who Seward says, due to the transfusion, "had got a terrible shock, and it told on her more than before, though plenty of blood went into her veins, her body did not respond to the treatment as well as on other occasions” [Chptr 12]. She dies later in this chapter. This isn’t Quincey’s fault and no one could have known about blood types at the time, but I think it’s possible that this transfusion killed her or, at least, contributed to her death.  

Okay, so who else? Van Helsing? Close... but he's old and not likely to get into any dramatic knife fights and he considers himself still married, if his wife is out of the picture. So no saving the day in direct combat or winning any girls for him. Even when he kills the three women, it’s while they’re asleep and its only given a page or less of description. It’s not very dramatic or heroic. Arthur? He's a bit nervous too, despite Seward calling him brave. He falls to his knees and needs to be held up by the other suitors [Chptr 16], he sits up and sits back down in nervous fits of energy [Chptr 15], and he seems generally somewhat faint of heart, being described as growing “very pale” as he sat down and “breathing heavily” in response to the news that they’re getting close to confronting Dracula [Chptr 25]. In that same moment, Quincey and Jonathan are grabbing their knives in preparation for battle! And Arthur doesn't ever get near Dracula at the end. So not him either!

None of the men are perfect, infallible heroes on their own. They’re human beings who get scared and make mistakes. They all need help sometimes; they all fall short in one way or another, which can be compensated for by the other members of the CoL.

The ending is the most convincing aspect of all of this- the final battle is anticlimactic. Dracula's asleep, he won't wake up, and the only active threats are nameless henchmen. It's not a tense, drawn-out battle; it lasts for perhaps a page or two and then it’s over. There isn't a singular hero, there's two. It's not just Jonathan who single handedly saves the day and wins the girl, Quincey has to be there too. And neither of them would have gotten so far without the others, Mina especially. And then Quincey doesn't live to get any reward for his triumph other than the knowledge that he saved his friends! 

So again, in final, there can be no singular hero. It's a story about the strength of community, love, and cooperation. The fighting isn't glorious and triumphant because that isn't the point! The point is that people need love and friends/family to function, do good, support each other when in need, and save the day together.

[storm-and-starlight]

While the Crown Hangs Heavy on Either Side

All These Fictions We Took to Mean Fate

Here it is, the second installment. This is where the angst really starts to kick in!

The song for this segment is Into the Open Air, by Julie Fowlis. (Yes it's a song from Brave but it's a damn good one go listen)

Part One / AO3

2

He first met Geralt of Rivia, Butcher of Blaviken, in a very small town on the edge of the world called Posada, about as far as one could possibly get from Lettenhove. The story itself is practically public record at this point, he’s told it so many times. Tavern, elves, ass-kicking, Toss a Coin -- ask anyone how the bard Jaskier met the White Wolf and they can rattle off the song like they learned it at their mother’s knee, never mind that it isn’t-- quite true.

Less well-known is the story of what happened after, how he followed Geralt to the next town over, and then the next, and the next, and made a name for himself singing songs about a heroic witcher, and how Geralt let him when he seemed bound and determined to drive away everyone else who tried to give a fuck about him.

Jaskier wandered across half the known world at Geralt’s side, singing songs about monsters and magic and the heroes of old to people so hollowed-out by the wars that even a mediocre bard who sang about a witcher was a welcome change, and pretended to everyone, even himself, that he wasn’t related to the man who wrought so much destruction.

~

Jaskier is currently getting resoundingly drunk.

He tends to do that a lot, actually -- he has a whole stash hidden away in some forgotten broom closet that no one’s been able to find him in yet that he saves for when the weight of everything rumbles down on top of him like a pile of stones.

Right now, he’s having an argument with the patch of lighter stone on the walls that looks like a face if you tip your head to the left and squint at it, because he’s always been a maudlin drunk and he needs someone to talk to.

“It’s Geralt. I haven’t… I haven’t thought about him in a decade, you know. I was over him.”

The stone face appears to be judging him, silently.

“Fine, fine. I wasn’t over him, but I was doing fine.”

Still judging.

“Okay, so I missed him. A little.”

Silence.

“A lot.”

The face looks at him out of one lopsidedly triangular eye.

“Fuck off.”

The face does not fuck off, because it’s nothing more than a lighter bit of rock in the middle of a castle in some forgotten broom closet where Jaskier is getting drunk because everything he thought he’d left behind for good, everything he’d thought he ripped out of his own chest just to be able to function, has abruptly come back in the form of a white-haired witcher and it turns out that Jaskier is decidedly not fine, at all.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asks the universe at large, and the walls rattle his own voice right back at him. “I can’t just-- can’t just kick him out--”

But he can’t let him stay, either, because Geralt is a weakness and any weakness will get him thrown to the hounds. Or, more accurately, his brother’s legions still snapping at his heels for war. He can’t show weakness, can’t be anything other than the perfect, untouchable Emperor of the West and loving some scruffy monster hunter is most definitely something that could get him deposed or more likely assassinated, but--

But never mind all the shit they say emperors are supposed to do, he wants Geralt to stay.

~

He first fell in love with Geralt of Rivia two years after Posada, in the middle of some tiny no-name town in the southwest of Kaedwen, when he’d come down with some kind of cough that was catching like wildfire and Geralt had huffed, sighed, and bought him an inn room for a week while it felt like he was going to hack up a lung. It was the first time he’d shown anything more towards Jaskier than the gruff kindness he gave to everyone, his hand on Jaskier’s back as he coughed a warm reassurance that someone, at least, didn’t want him dead.

Or maybe he first fell in love a month earlier than that, when Geralt got caught in the back by a kikimora he hadn’t seen coming, on a contract for drowners of all things, and Jaskier had dragged him out of the mud and bandaged up the gashes and sat by him, all night, to make sure his breathing didn’t stop and Geralt had thanked him, deep and serious, when he’d finally been able to speak again

Or maybe it’d been six months before that, when Geralt’d taken a collection of pretty rocks a child had gathered as “payment” to kill the monster that was killing her family’s sheep and then set them back on her windowsill in the middle of the night, offering no explanation beyond the slowly-growing evidence that he was a good man, one of the best that Jaskier had ever known. Has ever known.

Or maybe-- well, it doesn’t really matter when he fell in love with Geralt, only that for as long as he can remember he’s been burningly, blindingly, achingly in love with the man, the kind of love that feels like it could make Jaskier’s heart cease to beat if anything ever happened to him.

And damn his stupid fragile heart, but he never really stopped.

~

By the time he’s made his way through most of the Verden brandy and into the Skelligan white, he’s stopped lamenting Geralt’s presence and started wondering what the fuck he’s even doing here.

He took the throne to try to repair some of the damage, to keep his brother’s armies from fragmenting and carving out bits and pieces for themselves, to try to let the land recover and keep everyone else from attacking him, and most of all to keep his brother’s empire from collapsing in a pile of bodies.

A year or two after that, he realized that as de-facto ruler of a good third of the civilized world, he had a chance to start making things actually better, and he started making reforms. Limits on the power of the nobility, regulations for how much merchants had to pay their workers, protections for travellers and offers of neutrality for universities. It’s a work in progress -- it’s near-impossible to turn a pack of bandits into an effective police force, and that’s the least of his problems -- but he’s trying.

But he is-- he really is a despot, a dictator, who rules by strength of arms and little more and the things he’s had to do to keep the peace, to keep a hundred different factions from starting a thousand different wars…

Perhaps Geralt was right to not have recognized him after all.

He laughs at that, bright and bitter and overloud, and takes another drink to drown out the pain of that realization, knocking his head against the wall.

“I’m fucked,” he tells the face conversationally. “Thoroughly, irrevocably, irredeemably fucked. If I stay, I’m fucked. If I leave, the world’s fucked. If Geralt stays--”

“He’s fucked too?” The words are coming from the hallway, deep and amused and achingly, achingly familiar.

“We’re both fucked,” Jaskier corrects, morosely, and then, because he’s drunk enough that it feels like the world’s about to end, “Hello, Geralt. How’d you find me?”

“Followed your scent,” Geralt says, taciturn as ever, and then “...may I come in?”

“Always,” Jaskier says, and it comes out more heartfelt than he really means it to, but the door swings wide and it’s… it’s Geralt, looking like he hasn’t aged a day, still with his hair falling messily out of its tie and his ragged black clothes and his golden eyes that can somehow manage to look so unspeakably fond--

“Jaskier,” and oh, that sensation like a trapped scream is back, building and building in his guts-- “come on.”

“What?”

Geralt huffs, exasperated, and it’s so fucking familiar that it might as well be ten years ago and Jaskier drunk off his ass in some country tavern. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“Is that you offering to keep me company?”

“Yes.” It’s so very Geralt that Jaskier wants to cry.

“Okay. Yeah, okay,” and he lets Geralt haul him up onto his feet and out into the light of the hallway.

~

He first knew that Geralt loved him back the first time he nearly died.

The contract was supposed to be for archespores. Just archespores, which, while dangerous, were also stationary and thus easy to observe from a distance. He was supposed to take a seat on a nearby hill, record the fight, and stay well out of range of danger.

The fact that there was a colony of arachnomorphs on that very same hill hadn’t been mentioned by anyone in the village, so you couldn’t really blame Jaskier for not knowing.

He remembers-- flashes, bright moments caught in time. Fangs sinking into his calf; black blood splattered across his face; the gleam of Geralt’s sword as it struck an arachnomorph clean in two.

Pain.

He remembers struggling to breathe, not knowing why his heart was slowing, slowing, until Geralt had choked out something about paralytic venom, and then he’d been scared, almost more scared than he had been when his brother was conquering everything a day’s ride to the south of Oxenfurt and the Pankratz name had been a curse on every tongue.

He remembers warm arms around him, holding him upright as he struggled to breathe, potions and thin broth poured down his throat as often as Geralt could manage, a whispered midnight plea; “don’t you dare fucking die on me, Jaskier.”

He remembers when he’d finally gasped awake with a full breath, when his heart had stuttered back to a normal rhythm, how Geralt had buried his face in his neck for a long, long time, and how his lips had trembled where he pressed them to Jaskier’s skin.

~

Geralt supports him on the long wobbly walk back to his own rooms, listening to Jaskier’s mumbled directions and occasional snatches of maudlin poetry, and manhandles him easily onto the bed. It’s barely midafternoon -- the sun hasn’t even begun to think about heading for the horizon -- but it feels like it should be later, like the sky should be darker. He’s not someone who walks under open sky and sunlight anymore.

“We should… talk,” Jaskier mumbles, head shoved into a pillow, and he can feel the weight of Geralt’s eyes on him again.

“Jaskier, you’re drunk.”

“‘S why I said we should talk.” He drags himself up into a sitting position, ignoring the way the room seems to dip and wheel around him, and focuses only on Geralt. “Wouldn’t-- wouldn’t be able to say this if I wasn’t.”

“Jaskier--”

“I missed you.”

“I know.” Jaskier blinks at that, until Geralt makes a face and chokes out “I-- missed you too.”

“”S been a decade, Geralt, I would certainly hope you’d spent some of that time missing me.”

“More than I’d like to admit,” and oh, oh, that’s-- he’s-- Jaskier grabs for Geralt’s arm with both hands and drags him down onto the bed until he can slump against the unforgiving plane of Geralt’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” he says, to the universe at large and maybe a little bit to Geralt, and there are hands along his shoulders and that screaming feeling is back in his stomach. “I’m sorry. I can’t… I can’t do this.”

Geralt huffs, sharply, a prelude to something, so Jaskier cuts him off.

“I’m not the man you fell in love with. Not anymore.”

“Jaskier…”

He wants… he wants to ignore it. He wants to tuck his face back into Geralt’s shoulder and pretend like the last ten years were all a dream and that he doesn’t have just as much blood on his hands as any warlord, like he’ll look up and they’ll be somewhere in the back-end of Sodden hunting drowners for a silver penny a head. But he is drunk and he is tired and there is a little voice in the back of his head chanting be all my sins remembered and Geralt…

He’s not the man that Geralt fell in love with. He hasn’t been for a long time.

“I… I killed people,” he starts out with, because that seems like as good a place to start with as any. “I ordered their deaths because they were going to destabilize my fucking empire, and I attended their execution, and I tried not to start any more wars but it doesn’t really help that I’ve got rebels on half a dozen borders and if I want to manage overland trade at all I’ve got to find a way to manage them, and I’ve sunk the ships of my brother’s generals because I was too scared they were going to start a rebellion and I should have just fucking given everything back and pretended like Valdo never even existed but I didn’t and now I’ve got an empire and I’m just a bard, Geralt--” and it turns out, in the end, that the scream in his stomach was actually a sob, now that a decade’s worth of pain has caught up to him, “and everyone thinks that I’m some kind of warlord even though everything I’ve done has been to try to make it all better and I never wanted so much as a fucking Viscounty.” Because that’s just the cherry on the fucking cake.

He snorts, thunks his head back against Geralt’s bicep. “Do you remember Idalia? Because I had her killed, when she tried to-- to make a puppet of me and take over the navy. She put me on this throne, and I repaid that with an axe. How could you possibly still think I’m worth--

Geralt covers his mouth with a hand and hums at him, warm and familiar like an oft-remembered bruise, or perhaps an old scar, and settles Jaskier back against the headboard while he strips off his boots and the leather arming jacket, all the Redanians left him of his armor, the movements like something out of a dream. Remembered and yet not. “I know.”

Jaskier lets out half a startled noise and chokes the rest back, because maybe all of this really is a dream--

“I’ve heard what people say about you in taverns.”

“And?”

“And I wished I could have stayed with you anyways,” he says, and scoops Jaskier back into his arms like he never really left.

~

Geralt hadn’t let go, even as Jaskier’s heart eased back into its normal beat with just the faintest of pauses beforehand, even as all the pain of the paralysis caught up with him and he let it all out in desperate dry sobs, and his lips didn’t leave Jaskier’s skin, either.

He just-- stayed there, cradling him, even as the fire burned down to smoking embers and the slow breathing of the night crept over them, and his lips stayed pressed against Jaskier’s temple, where the pulse beat close under the skin.

Things… changed, after that.

When Jaskier was well enough to stay on Roach’s back with a minimum of wobbling, Geralt led them both to an inn and practically carried Jaskier upstairs, his hands horribly, horribly gentle right up until Jaskier had wrapped his own shaking fingers around the cut of his jaw and dragged him down for a kiss, and then for more.

That first time had been sloppy, horribly so, Jaskier still trembling-weak and Geralt terrified of hurting him more, but he’d held him as close as ever afterwards, and the time after that--

Jaskier hadn’t gained the reputation he had in only four years as a wandering bard for no reason, after all.

And it’d been-- more, at the same time. No early mornings fleeing a married lover’s bed, no spurned affections, no bedazzled flings with nobility for a week or a month or a day before right back onto the mud and blood and dirt of the Path -- no, now he woke in the same pair of arms every morning, felt the weight of Geralt’s fond frustration and his pride and the desperate, desperate love he held, even as they watched the world fall apart around them under his brother’s sword.

“I’ll keep you safe,” Geralt promised, one night after wandering through ruined village after ruined village with only the stray dogs and witcher-wary nekkers for company. “No matter what.”

Jaskier just tucked his face into Geralt’s throat, ignoring the way his stubble burned, and wished with everything he has in him that that were true.

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