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theodorka · 20 days ago

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SNAPE IN LINGERIE: THE FANFICTION

It's done. It's finally posted.

Inspired by this and definitely also this ( @wisteria-lodge @fafodill )

This was so much fun! I got a bit extremely carried away. It's 46k words, so I can't post it all here, but you can read an excerpt under the cut and/or read it on AO3.

It takes place over three years, because I think it would take Severus about 3 years to get to a point where he's putting on lingerie for his boyfriend and, for some reason, I decided I was going to write the entire Strangers to Lovers Relationship Arc.

I genuinely love this fic. I may need to write the full happily ever after at some point. I really want to write Kasimir being icy to Lupin when he turns up and maybe have him punch Sirius in the face or something as a treat 🥺 we'll see :) Please enjoy

Perfect Poison Pearl by Theodorka

Severus Snape x MaleOC

CW: I write SMUT, it's SMUT, which is Explicit Sexual Content; not in this excerpt though. Implied & Internalized Homophobia. Read tags on AO3 if you read the rest

The first time Severus met Kasimir, it was because Minerva McGonagall wheeled the weedy brunette into the staff room and plopped him down across the table from him. She forcibly introduced the new Arthimancy professor and said rather pointedly,

“Professor Kobza was at Durmstrang and finished his studies the same year you did. I’m sure you’re relieved to finally have someone your age on the staff.”

Minerva, who repeatedly struggled to remember twenty-three year old Severus Snape wasn’t a teenage student of hers any longer and hardly wanted help making friends, promptly left the room, though not before leveling him with be nice glare she reserved just for him.

Kasimir and Severus exchanged curt nods. They shared a look in which they assessed the other’s interest in abandoning this farcical playdate, then nodded at one another again. Both left the staff room without another word.

The second time Severus met Kasimir, the man was wearing a dress.

Severus didn’t recognize him initially as he entered the Hog’s Head—the willowy youth had let his hair down from the messy pile usually stacked on top of his head, secured in a bun. Instead, it spilled over his shoulders in smooth waves. He’d also shaved the ever-present stubble from his face and wasn’t wearing his reading glasses, on his face or perched atop his head.

And he was wearing a dress, of course.

It fit him well. Long-sleeved with a high neck, a loose fit skirt that fell to the knees, it wasn’t a particularly enticing ensemble.

(not that Severus was evaluating it thusly; it was merely an objective, distant observation, disentangled from subjective preference because Severus Snape didn’t have a preference, subjective or otherwise, for men in dresses)

But it was intricate. The fabric was dark, crimson netting and lace embroidered into it. The buttons on the collar were small and shiny white, mother of pearl maybe, and the same on the cuffs of the sleeves. A little ruffle of milky silk peaked out from the cuff, drawing Severus’ attention to the dark red manicured nails and holding it until he was too close to miss who they belonged to.

It was only when Severus was halfway to the bar and Kasimir turned that the two saw one another. Kasimir blinked, amber eyes dressed up in a dusky, faintly shimmering shadow, his lashes long and black, and a manicured hand tapping the side of a crystal glass filled with something dark.

Severus didn’t even know Aberforth had crystal back there.

Kasimir nodded curtly to Severus and he returned it automatically. Kasimir turned away and Severus went to sit at the opposite end of the bar to immediately mind his own business. Neither so much as looked in the other’s direction the entire night.

The next day he saw Kasimir in the staff room, marking Arthimancy homework with a familiar expression of resigned disappointment, looking like he did every other day of his life. Weedy. Tired, purple shadows beneath his eyes, no longer hidden beneath well blended concealer. Truly abysmal posture. A bit of a mess, really, sleeves of his frock rolled up, stubble smattered across his cheeks and chin, ink stains on his hands, thin framed glasses perched at an angle on his long, narrow nose.

Severus saw it now. The effeminate qualities in his features he hadn’t noticed until he was confronted with the man wrapped up in a dress, face and nails painted. Thin wrists, bony, soft-looking hands with long, slender fingers. High, delicate cheek bones.

Kasimir was conventionally attractive, but evidently doing his best to conceal that from the world with a slovenly appearance. Preferring to preserve the effort for his evening activities, it would seem. Severus wondered whether he struggled at Durmstrang—he rather got the impression androgyny wasn’t looked on fondly over there, if Karkaroff was any indication; a man so full of masculine bravado it turned Severus’ stomach every time he’d the distinct displeasure to be in the man’s presence, back when he’d been a Death Eater and then a double agent.

Not that it was looked on any more fondly here. He had plenty of personal experience to speak to that, having thin, delicate wrists, preferring his hair long, and being rather weedy himself. Severus wasn’t pretty, not like Kasimir, but that just made him an easier target—he was freakishly hideous and looked like his bones were made of glass. He could hit much harder than it looked like he could though. One of the only ‘benefits’ of growing up in Cokeworth—you learned how to fight. You learned how to fight or you’d fucking die before you needed more than both hands to count to your age. You could learn how to run too, but eventually, you’d have to fucking fight.

Severus watched Kasimir flex a cramp in his hand, and his eyes fell back to the forearm and that was when he saw them:

The scars.

Jagged, black streaks ran like poisoned rivers beneath the skin, veins stained black and deformed. As Kasimir adjusted his quill between his slender fingers, Severus saw one particular vein protruding unnaturally, as if someone had taken his veins and tied them into knots, and when they finally untangled, they couldn’t lay flat anymore. They twisted at strange angles, disappearing and reappearing and doubling back where they shouldn’t.

Poison. Severus thought immediately. His fingers rubbed the spine of the book which lay in his lap, pressing against a ridge in the binding, petting it, fingers itching to examine the injury—but Kasimir wasn’t his patient. Kasimir wasn’t his anything—well, his colleague, but that wasn’t a reason to hold his hand, for the express purpose of medical examination, of course.

It could have been a curse, he supposed. He would need to biopsy a vein to be sure, and if it was poison, he could figure out which then too. Severus had his doubts about the hypothesis already—certainly, there were malignant and virulent poisons which could do such a thing…but only in the seconds immediately before they killed the victim, after many, many hours of pain. Some poisons killed quickly, discreetly. The kind that might have once run through Kasimir’s veins was meant to kill slowly, painfully, and to send a message. But if it had once pumped through his veins, how on earth did he survive?

Severus could think of a few possibilities, but they seemed unlikely. A bezoar would work and was likeliest. While rare, virtually any wizarding hospital would have one on hand for dire emergencies. Additionally, some of the poisons which inflicted such injury had antidotes, particularly those meant to extract confessions and information from the victim, in exchange for an end to the pain and the opportunity to live.

But such poisons were difficult to brew, the ingredients dangerous and/or expensive to acquire; no sensible poisoner would administer such a poison under conditions in which the victim could then simply walk themselves to a hospital. And if Kasimir’s scars were caused by poison, then he was moments from death before the antidote was administered. He would be extremely lucky for it to work in time.

Yes, poison seemed more and more unlikely the more Severus thought about it. Indeed, who on god’s green earth would be poisoning this man to begin with? This weedy, crossdressing, scruffy, slouching, slender-fingered, messy-bun bearing, pretty little twerp? The man was an Arthimancy professor, for Merlin’s sake, the second most boring subject at Hogwarts after History of Magic.

How infuriatingly mysterious.

Kasimir looked up and blinked. He nodded politely at Severus through the rectangular lenses of his frameless reading glasses. Severus nodded back and immediately shoved his book in front of his face, hoping the man didn’t think he was leering. His cheeks reddened behind the opaque covers, due to his being caught leering.

Severus frowned at the pages, heat rising higher on his cheeks. Kasimir wasn’t pretty. Where had that thought even come from? Not him, surely. They’d all been wrong, of course: his father, his fucking tormentors, everyone—Severus wasn’t queer, he wasn’t a fairy, even in spite of his skinny body and long hair and the fact no woman would ever look his way, much less touch him.

Kasimir wasn’t pretty. He just did his makeup well and looked alright in a dress. He probably wasn’t even queer either—just a man with a fucking weird hobby. It’s not like it was illegal to wear a dress. And maybe if Severus looked half as decent in a dress, he’d take to dressing up in them too—who fucking knows?

It didn’t matter, the point moot; Severus looked fucking ridiculous in everything on account of the fact it was his weedy, skeletal body stuffed inside of it, his hideous face attached to said body, his sallow, pallid skin wrapped over said face and body and head, his ugly, hooked nose tacked onto to the center of said face, his filthy-looking hair growing out of said head, his crooked teeth crammed haphazardly inside the mouth of said face—Severus was himself, his wretchedly hideous self. Quite frankly, he shouldn’t be seen ever, regardless of the clothes he wore.

It wasn’t even the end of the first week when Severus started fielding complaints from his Slytherins.

He’s horrible!

He’s unfair!

He threw my abacus out the window!

Professor Kobza said if he saw another abacus in his classroom, he was going to brain its owner with it!

“Then…don’t…bring your abacus…to his classroom.” Severus explained slowly, for the fifth time that day. He pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered what on earth the man had against the abacus. Maybe one killed his mother.

Severus, who had a perfectly acceptable habit of listening at keyholes and around corners and behind tapestries and statues, overheard Minerva say Kasimir had quarreled with Dumbledore about not being allowed to threaten to brain students, that he couldn’t damage student property, and the most he could do was confiscation. Ultimately, Kasimir must have conceded the point, considering Severus started to receive only complaints about confiscated abacuses.

Patrolling the castle one evening, Severus overheard Professor Sprout and Madam Hooch gossiping behind a greenhouse. Nothing better to do and hoping to learn something interesting, he strolled behind a high garden wall where he could better overhear—only to find Kasimir leaning against it, cigarette smoking delicately between two slender fingers. The two made startled eye contact and then nodded politely, once both had a moment to recover.

Kasimir reached inside his cloak, produced a silver cigarette case and extended it toward Severus, the engraved lid popping open. Cautiously, as if the man might suddenly snap it shut on his fingers, Severus accepted one. The two smoked quietly while they learned all about who Madam Hooch had been hearing about from Madam Rosmerta, until the two women bid each other goodbye until the next time.

Severus and Kasimir quickly learned their schedule. They’d share a cigarette as they eavesdropped, exchanging pointed glances and amused smirks whenever they overheard something particularly interesting or scandalous. When the women parted, the two put out their cigarettes and went their separate ways, without ever speaking a word to one another.

It was Christmas before they finally exchanged two words. The words were Merry and Christmas, accompanied by polite nods. They both immediately went back to nursing their mulled wine and discreetly eavesdropping on Minerva and Poppy gossiping in hushed, but not hushed enough, whispers.

It was New Year’s Eve when they finally had an actual conversation.

Severus was lightly inebriated at three in the afternoon—as one is on New Year’s Eve—inebriated enough to take a risk and, with any luck, sate his curiosity. He’d developed a hypothesis about Kasimir and—being a man of science—had been waiting for an opportunity he felt brave enough to test it. And so, he took an oversized cloak his mother had made him years ago hoping he’d grow into it—he never did—bounded through the castle to the tucked away Arthimancy wing and knocked thrice upon the door to Kasimir’s quarters.

He heard something crash inside.

A few moments later, Kasimir cracked open the door. He blinked at Severus and opened the door the rest of the way, removing his reading glasses and perching them atop his head. He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame; Severus had observed in the passing months the man was incapable of standing up straight for longer than three seconds. Behind him, Severus saw a tower of books and confiscated abacuses stacking itself into an unsteady pile, looking like it would collapse again if you sneezed too close to it.

Kasimir said nothing by way of greeting, the two only exchanging brief nods, so Severus launched into his hypothesis:

“You sew, yes?” Severus held up the large bundle of fabric by way of explanation.

Kasimir’s face twitched, almost a flinch, like he thought Severus might throw it in his face. Severus glanced between the cloak and back to Kasimir as he waited.

Slowly, a smile crept onto Kasimir’s countenance and he nodded, holding out his hand. Severus handed him the cloak. Kasimir stood aside and gestured for Severus to step through. Entering, Severus examined the deeply disorganized space.

Books in half a dozen languages were stacked haphazardly and if Severus wasn’t so pleased about his hypothesis being correct, he’d have considered pointing out it was a fire hazard. And that it was making him anxious. He dearly hoped Kasimir didn’t smoke in here.

Large unfurled scrolls were stuck to the walls, scribbled with…numbers and such, by the looks of it, other symbols Severus didn’t recognize, but vaguely remembered being associated with Arthimancy. He saw one covered in some kind of advanced algebra, drawn runes glowing gently on the parchment, shuffling themselves around an equation which bent itself into concentric circles. Repressed memories of revising for his Arthimancy N.E.W.T. resurfaced and Severus stopped looking at all the math on the walls for the sake of his sanity.

Kasimir led Severus through a narrow and concernedly unsteady maze of stacked books and scrolls, past random whirring magical devices, several dozen dead and dying houseplants, a harpsichord, and an empty terrarium. A fluffy white cat with amber eyes leapt from where it had been napping on a cluttered writing desk that was very obviously the cat’s. It immediately attempted to trip Severus, winding around his ankles, as if herding him through the maze.

At the end, the room opened up into a converted sitting room, what was obviously a studio of some kind. Fabric was piled on every available surface and mannequins wore dresses Severus had yet to see on Kasimir during the nights they politely ignored each other in the Hog’s Head. They were half finished and with a flick of his wand, the brunette covered them with a sheet, looking a bit sheepish.

“Helmi likes you.” Kasimir said approvingly, nodding at the cat.

With three whole words to go off, Severus clocked a light accent he couldn’t place. Which made sense, if he’d gone to Durmstrang, Severus supposed, wondering where he was from, what it was like there, and could he please tell him everything else about himself while he was at?

But Severus controlled himself—he knew how much his intensity was responsible for so much of his misfortune; the friendship it cost him, in a time long since lost forever. It grated on people; he needed to rein himself in if—if nothing. Severus was just testing his hypothesis, sating his curiosity. Nothing more.

“Feel honored, for she’s hard to impress.”

“Helmi?” The cat jumped onto a nearby stool and Severus held out his hand for the cat to sniff. She nudged his knuckles with her fuzzy forehead, then licked his ring finger. Severus frowned and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“It means pearl in Finnish.”

Severus nodded; Finnish then. Kasimir was Finnish or part Finnish or grew up in Finland. This was going well, he was learning so much already: Kasimir had a cat and was maybe Finnish. It was only a matter of time before he told him about the scars and let Severus hold his hands—to examine said hands, for medical evaluation purposes.

Kasimir gestured to a large mirror taking up most of the wall.

“Stand here, please.”

Severus frowned, but supposed he asked for this. It would be rude to be uncooperative, so he went to stand before the mirror, hands in pockets, avoiding eye contact with himself. With a dramatic billow of dark fabric, Kasimir levitated the cloak over Severus and let it fall into place. He circled him, adjusting the garment’s drape.

“Mm.” Kasimir summoned a measuring tape, measured Severus’ shoulders, then wrapped it around the shoulders horizontally, then again vertically down the middle of both shoulders.

Severus…disassociated, Occluding out of instinct, wishing now he’d never left the safety of his dungeons. He didn’t know what he expected. Not to be so…seen, he supposed. Maybe that Kasimir could just eyeball the cloak and then eyeball Severus, tell him everything he wanted to know, and then he’d be on his merry way without having to meet the man’s cat or stand in his sitting room, having his measure quite literally taken.

“What was it that gave me away? That I can sew?” Kasimir asked, as if seeking to force Severus to be present in the moment by way of uncharacteristic conversation.

“The…intricacy.” Severus said slowly, feeling a bit under a microscope and, not for the first time in his life, regretting being a man of science and a pretty nosy person in general.

“I realized you must make them.”

“You’ve been admiring my handiwork?”

Severus shifted uncomfortably, hands so deep in his pockets he was discovering a lost world of forgotten, crumpled notes to himself that had long since disintegrated in the wash.

“I just, er…recognize craftsmanship when I see it, I suppose.”

Kasimir hummed, summoning several pins from across room. He’d pinch two parts of the fabric together and stick a pin in to designate where to take the garment in at.

“You have such excellent posture—you ought consider modeling.”

Severus snorted, because it was among the most absurd suggestions he’d ever hear in his life.

“Oh?” Severus said, instead of Oh, be fucking serious, you twat.

“Mm—if you can walk straight like that for the thirty to sixty seconds every other minute, you’d make a small fortune.”

Severus scoffed. He could model. Absurd. But Kasimir’s tone was flat, like tacit acknowledgment of a known fact—not sarcasm at all. Severus was something of an expert on the subject, but his eyes narrowed nonetheless.

“Do you? Model?” It seemed a strange thing to suggest otherwise. And unlike Severus, Kasimir was conventionally attractive—in the objective sense, Severus didn’t have subjective preferences about men’s appearances—but Kasimir laughed at the question.

“Oh, no. Don’t have the posture for it—mother did her best, of course, but I never cooperated.”

Well, the man did have terrible posture. And now Severus was starting to think it was deliberately terrible. Spitefully terrible, even.

“Your mother…what? Tried to turn you into a model?”

“Mm. She’s a retired one herself. Runs a fashion house in Milan now. She says I’ve a strut only a mother could love.”

Kasimir arched an eyebrow at the mirror and Severus laughed—genuinely laughed—trying to imagine the man strutting down a catwalk. The vision shifted, imagining him in one of the dresses he’d seen Kasimir in—the burgundy one with billowing sleeves, a jade brooch affixed to the high collar, and a cinched waist which created a dramatic silhouette Severus spent most of that evening pointedly ignoring—and he stopped snickering abruptly.

Once all the pins were in place, Kasimir removed the cloak. The man moved very carefully. At no point during his standing like a mannequin—one with pockets and hands, to shove hands in pockets—did Severus feel the other man’s touch against him, slender fingers deftly making contact with only the fabric. Like the man knew a single touch could send Severus fleeing back to the dungeons.

Severus wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t fled regardless.

A few days later, Severus received a note at lunch.

I’ve finished altering your cloak. Come by later.

-Kas

Kas. Severus swallowed looking at the note, reading and rereading it, staring at the name, until Kas was burned into the back of his eyelids.

It’s just a name. A pretty normal, single-syllable, name. Kas.

After lessons were finished, Severus swept to the Arthimancy Wing and knocked thrice upon Kasimir’s door.

He heard something crash inside and he frowned. The place was a death trap. The door cracked open and Kasimir smiled at him, an even larger pile of confiscated abacuses rearranging itself.

“What’s your problem with abacuses?” Severus said and immediately frowned.

He’d meant to say hello, Kas, test out the name on his tongue. Kasimir gestured him in and Severus followed him back to his studio. Helmi purred at his ankles as he shoved his hands into his pockets. After last time, he’d gone back to the dungeons and cleaned out the pockets of all his robes.

The cat was leaving bright white fur on his dark robes and Severus frowned. He picked up the creature and held it out at arm’s length, before it could trip him and he died from the blunt force trauma of falling face first into a stack of random garbage and abacuses. She chirruped at him, attempting to wiggle free, ignoring Severus’ pointed glares.

“The problem with abacuses is that the abacus is an unnecessary crutch for the mind.” Kasimir began.

“Before the O.W.L.s, an abacus shouldn’t be necessary as the rigor of the arithmetic should be within a student’s reach using only mental math. After the O.W.L.s, it swiftly becomes something which only holds the student back, as the speed of calculation is severely hampered by using a mechanical, external device.”

Severus nodded, not really caring, but enjoying getting to hear the sound of Kasimir’s accent on so many different words.

“The sooner students learn to perform calculations of significant rigor in their head, the better off they’ll be—there is simply no incentive to permit them use of an abacus, except that it makes children feel better because they are insecure in their abilities. But how will they get better otherwise? That’s a rhetorical question, by the by—I’m not open to suggestions on the policy.”

They reached the studio and Kasimir rounded the mannequin wearing Severus’ cloak. He leaned onto it, arms wrapping around its shoulders from behind as Severus put Helmi down on a stool. She swished her long, fluffy, white tail irritably at him.

“Do your students cry to you excessively about my cruelty? The other Heads of House have told me theirs do.”

Severus smirked. “Yes, especially the ones who have very expensive abacuses. One student told me you threw one with bejeweled beads through a window. An unopened window.”

Kasimir scoffed. “Bejeweled, pfft. Ridiculous. Can I tell you something? I really just hate the noise they make. Their being unnecessary crutches just also happens to be true.”

Kasimir hid half his face behind a mannequin, mischievous smile playing on his lips. Severus watched the way the other man’s fingers smoothed the fabric against the mannequin and felt his throat go very dry.

“Yes, well, you should see what I do when a student turns up with a gold bloody cauldron. It’s certainly a mistake no one makes twice.”

Kasimir snickered, cheek rubbing against the cloak’s collar; where the nape of Severus’ neck would be, were he currently wearing it. Severus looked away, finding it hard to catch his breath. It was rather dusty in here, he supposed.

“Would you tell me about this cloak?” Kasimir asked quietly after a moment.

Severus glanced over. “What is there to tell? It’s just a cloak.”

“It’s just nothing, I assure you.” Kasimir said swiftly, sounding almost a little offended.

“Someone made this, no?”

Severus blanched. “Oh, er—yes. My…mother…did.”

“She was quite skilled.” Kasimir said, lifting the back of the cloak and raising it to show the underside, revealing a dark seam.

“You can barely tell it’s stitched together, rather than a garment cut from a single cloth. Your mother clearly cared about how you’d be perceived.”

Severus frowned, pretty sure he was being insulted, but Kasimir didn’t make it sound like an insult. Doubtlessly, his mother had stitched it together from scraps: things his father had worn through, dark curtains she found at a boot sale or flea market, whatever she could get her hands on for nothing, or very near to it.

“I’m sorry?” Severus snipped, crossing his arms.

Kasimir’s eyes flashed to Severus’ and he frowned, eyes darting through the space.

“Er—my mother, she says the clothes make the man. In her world—fashion—this is something taken as fact, as well as everything associated with it. There is no pretense about why clothes are worn, the purpose they serve. It is about image, always—I did not mean to—it is not wrong that your mother cared about how you looked, no?”

Severus blinked, digesting the excess of information.

“I…suppose…not.” He said finally.

“I don’t generally consider myself vain…” Severus added. “The cloak just…didn’t fit.”

Kasimir nodded, looking relieved, and gestured to the mirror. Severus, reluctantly, went to stand in front of it, avoiding his own reflection, hands enpocketed. With a billow of fabric, the cloak fluttered over Severus’ shoulders. Kasimir circled him, examining the reflection in the mirror every now and again.

“Spin?”

“Excuse me?” Severus’ snapped his head toward the man, a disgust in his voice like Kasimir asked him to throw himself from the window.

Kasimir arched a finely shaped eyebrow. Severus wondered if they were like that naturally or if he shaped them. They were very nice…eyebrows, Severus observed, trying to decide if it was strange to notice such a thing or if he shouldn’t pretend he hadn’t noticed.

“While I find your ability to be so very still enormously impressive, you are not, in fact, a mannequin and I’m a little worried how the garment will look when you inevitably are forced to move in it…please?”

Severus rolled his eyes, the small sound of please ringing in his ears as he spun slowly in a circle, not at all flattered by Kasimir and his eyebrows being enormously impressed with him.

“Cross the room and back…please?”

Severus scoffed, but did as he was asked. Kasimir then had him cross and uncross his arms, forcing him to free them from their pocket prisons. Then, he conjured some wind, which knocked over half the labyrinth and made both the cloak and Helmi’s fur billow majestically while Kasimir observed. Finally, he had Severus pace around the room a few times.

“Good, it looks good.” Kasimir said at last.

“A shame I’m the one wearing it.” Severus sneered at his reflection, lifting the hem of the cloak and releasing it, watching the dark fabric flutter dramatically as it fell back to his side.

Kasimir was quiet walking him back to the door, the labyrinth rebuilding itself to let them through. At the door, Severus turned to find Kasimir leaning against the frame, a vexed expression on his face as he held Severus’ gaze. Severus tilted his head.

“You look good, Severus. Not just the cloak.” Kasimir said after a moment.

Time seemed to slow for Severus, analyzing every tiny movement in Kasimir’s face but it was for naught. He was sincere. It wasn’t as if he could lie, he’d said it staring straight at him. But still, he couldn’t…mean that. Surely not. Severus knew exactly what he looked like.

Maybe I’m standing too close…he does usually wear reading glasses.

Severus nodded politely and promptly fled the Arthimancy Wing, cloak billowing and adding a flourish of drama to his every step. There was a faint scent of cologne on it, citrus and spice, and Severus couldn’t get the image of Kasimir—long arms wrapped around the mannequin’s shoulders—out of his head until he took a long, cold shower and chain smoked several cigarettes.

Properly introduced, the two started talking at the Hog’s Head or, more accurately, ignoring each other whilst seated side by side, instead of at opposite ends of the bar. Kasimir evidently spent his evenings at the pub sketching new designs or reworking old ones. Severus typically read, occasionally glancing over to watch Kasimir’s progress. And every now and again Kasimir would turn up in something Severus had watched him design.

“Why don’t you do this?” Severus asked one spring evening, uncharacteristically inebriated and chatty. He’d drunk more, as he’d stayed later than he usually did due to it storming out, flashes of lightning glinting through the window and thunder rattling the windows of the old, worn-down pub. Aberforth was reading a paper behind the bar, smoking a cigar and paying them precisely zero mind—with the exception of Severus and Kasimir, the place was empty.

“Do what?” Kasimir asked, sipping his gin and tonic, condensation clearing the charcoal dust from his slender fingers. His nails were dark purple tonight, the faintest amount of glitter catching the light. It matched his dress, two-toned, black skirt and amethyst on top, made of what looked like velvet or something else warm. He’d have to touch it to be sure. Or simply ask, but Severus wasn’t going to do that, not that he was planning or wanted to touch Kasimir or his clothes either. It was just an observation—he would have to touch, to be sure. He wasn’t going to.

“Clothes and such—fashion? Whatever it is, why do you teach Arthimancy instead?” Severus had a book open in front of him though he’d yet to read a word all night, plagued by his questions and curiosity.

“Fashion isn’t quite the same in our world as the one I’m familiar with.” Kasimir said.

Severus blinked. “Oh. Your mother’s Muggle?”

“Indeed.” Kasimir nodded.

“Are you not fond of wizarding fashion?”

“Oh, I am. I just feel a bit…behind, perhaps. For whatever reason, Muggle and wizarding fashion diverged centuries ago. Magical fashion is influenced by history and factors that feel alien and unapproachable, no matter how long I spend in the wizarding world. I don’t think my interpretation of wizarding fashion would be successful, or even welcome.”

Severus nodded, having very little idea what Kasimir was talking about, but thrilled to be harvesting information from him about anything frankly. He was surprised to learn Kasimir felt he possessed inadequate knowledge, considering he didn’t know anyone who knew so much about fashion or thought as much about it as he obviously did.

Maybe Lucius and Narcissa did. Their clothes were all very finely made. Not that they were making their own bloody clothes—perish the thought. Dumbledore might be fashionable. He was known to wear heeled boots with buckles and purple robes with intricate embroidery—was that a fashion?

“And…” Kasimir continued. “I think I would struggle to run any business in the wizarding world. Fashion almost necessitates an international business organization and my name is too…”

Kasimir sighed as he sharpened a charcoal pencil magically. Severus arched an eyebrow so high and so fast, it would have breached the stratosphere if it could leave his face.

“You were about to divulge critical information about your mysterious past?” Severus prompted when Kasimir didn’t continue, making the other laugh.

Though he was pretty sure he quite literally couldn’t help himself, Severus often regretted being nosy. But nothing bad ever seemed to happen when he and Kasimir were being nosy together and eavesdropping on people. He figured he could probably be nosy about Kasimir too, without something horrific happening or nearly getting murdered. And maybe he’d finally learn something about how Kasimir got the possibly-poison-scars on his arms.

“It’s not so interesting.” Kasimir said. “And requires excessive context.”

Severus awaited his excessive context, expression expectant. Kasimir glanced over and rolled his eyes, smirk playing at his painted lips—dark red, ever so slightly leaning towards purple.

“Oh, fine. My father’s surname is Auvinen. I expect that doesn’t mean anything to you, but in wizarding Finland, it’s the name of an ancient and noble pureblood family.”

“You’re a ba—illegitimate?”

Kasimir nodded, lips quirking at Severus’ choice of words.

“A bastard, yes. My mother gave me my father’s surname out of spite after discovering he was married when she told him she was pregnant. Though, I imagine she wouldn’t have, if she’d known what it would lead to. Or if she’d known he was a wizard.”

“Your name isn’t Auvinen.” Severus observed. It was Kobza. Kasimir Kobza.

Kas.

“That’s because my father is a Professor at Durmstrang—of the Dark Arts—and when I turned up at the school, all of eleven years old, with his family’s name, he attempted to have me expelled when he couldn’t get his friends in the Finnish Ministry to bully the Muggle government of Hungary—my mother’s Hungarian, don’t ask me why she gave me a German name, I don’t know—into forcing me to forsake the name.”

Kasimir blew away some charcoal dust off his sketch, not quite purple lips puckering while Severus froze, blinking rapidly, drink halfway raised to his lips.

“Cowing to the Auvinens, the esteemed headmaster of Durmstrang at the time informed mother I would be expelled if I didn’t change it. They called it what I think is known as slanderous defamation—one of the two—in English. She complied for my sake, but at that point unfortunately, I’d gotten a nickname. More unfortunately, it stuck. Puoliverinen Auvinen, meaning half-blood Auvinen in Finnish, but it quickly morphed into puoliverinen avioton: half-blood bastard.”

Severus nursed his firewhisky, trying to look casual, like he wasn’t hanging on Kasimir’s every word, internally cringing at the memory of his own half-blood affectation, something he was never going to mention to him now. He didn’t particularly feel like offering his own horrible nickname from school either.

“I take it your father didn’t favor you?”

“No.” Kasimir breathed. “Though he favored my older half-brothers and they favored me, as an easy target, if nothing else.”

Severus frowned, fingers tensing around his glass. Could he have gotten those scars at Durmstrang? The school did have a notorious reputation for being…darkly competitive: students breaking into factions, infighting breaking out amongst them. If Kasimir was already a target, by a Professor no less…hm.

“It’s all in the past, of course. But you see how it might prove difficult for any business venture of mine to thrive with all of that waiting for me out there. Better to go abroad, do something quiet, try not to remind my father or his family I exist by staying out of the way, don’t you think?”

“And do you…enjoy this?” Severus asked with a smirk, knowing enough to suspect the answer.

Kasimir laughed. “Not as much as I hoped I would. There aren’t a great many careers in Arthimancy that keep the lights on, so I hoped I’d enjoy one of the few that does. Alas, I keep having to hold my tongue and remind myself the Headmaster said I can’t threaten the students—does that answer your question?”

Severus nodded.

“Well, go on. Tell me all the mysterious details about why you work a job you clearly hate.”

Absolutely fucking not. But despite himself—and he chalked it up to being three firewhiskys deeper than he typically ever got, and that it was storming, and that there was no one else in the Hog’s Head except Aberforth, who already knew everything there was to know about it—Severus told Kasimir.

“I…owe the Headmaster. He got me acquitted after the war, since I was…useful to him. He wishes to keep me close at hand, so here I am, day in, day out.” muttered Severus, eyes fixed on his glass as he swirled the firewhisky.

“Oh, that was true.” Kasimir nodded, not even looking up from his sketch.

“When I overheard Madam Pince talking about it with Madam Pomfrey, I wondered if it wasn’t…exaggerated.”

Severus frowned for about three different reasons.

“I’m shocked you talk to me at all.”

It was not what he meant to say.

Kasimir glanced at him, smoky-shadowed eyes flitting up and down Severus in a way that made him feel…exposed.

“Severus, why on earth would I judge you?” He held up a hand, as if gesturing to the entire world by way of explanation.

“Because…because I’m not a good person and have done horrible things?”

“But you haven’t tried to assault me for talking to you, have you? You haven’t insinuated I’m a subhuman pervert, have you? You don’t pretend you don’t recognize me when I’m dressed like this, do you? Severus, if you accidentally killed a student, I would probably provide an alibi on your behalf if you asked, do you know that?”

Severus stared, unblinking, stunned, watching Kasimir’s ears turn adorably pink as he scribbled furiously in his sketchbook. Then, he laughed.

“Good to know. I might need to take you up on that someday. We’ll have to kill Aberforth if it ever comes to that though.”

The man grunted from behind his paper and Kasimir laughed, a light, melodic, musical sound that made the nape of Severus’ neck tingle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just going to slap another link here for your scrolling convenience:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66675931

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titleknown · 11 days ago

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KAIJUNE 2025 #2, H&H

...You know, before writing this, I let out one of the longest, most resigned sighs I could. And hey, right, old man, good bit, I thought this would be the best way to start. Turns out, doesn’t work in text.

Let me start over. Hi, I’m Akira Schwartz, proud Asian-American, proud Jew (but not too proud), electrician, successful comedian (in dog years), and currently, freelance kaiju responder. Or as I like to call it “WHAT THE FUCK, WHAT IS THAT THING, WHY IS THE LIGHTNING GREEN?!”

[READ-MORE]

Which was, to be blunt, my primary original response when Mr Brightside crashed in around the club in Vegas I was in. I wasn’t even done bombing yet, there’s hospitality!

But, I tried to help, do what I can, sabotaged a couple of transformers, and one thing lead to another and I, uh, distracted it long enough for Toriatte to hit it back and save things. And I thought “Hey, I could be pretty good at this. Maybe I should try for one of those civillian corps things going on, maybe post videos on that Youtube thing that debuted when I was in my thirties!

...My early thirties, I will note. But, long story short, the vids turned out more successful than any comedy I’d done and it changed my life. For the better? Eh. For the better when I’m not fearing it’s going to shortly end? Sure, let’s go with that!

But, that’s not what this is about. It’s about this little guy I found. Well, little, the size of a moderate car, these things are relative. Point is, found the little guy right around Sedona, riiiiiight around… well, around the time things were getting bad… well, okay, things were getting worse… well, OKAY okay, the time the big red My Little Hitler: Friendship Is Anti-Life burst out of the Pentagon and wrecked Washington.

You know, yet another indignity. We were on some abandoned farmland, there’s a lot of that in Arizona. That’s a real ray of sunshine to this, they stopped draining the aquifers for extremely inefficient water-hungry crops, and all it took was Godzilla-sized god-monsters destroying large portions of infrastructure. Hooray?

Anyway, we were on there, and this creature… it seemed to be stuck, not moving. Now me, of course, I immediately stopped to help the poor- yeah we got a flat tire from the shrapnel around there, and someone had to repair it! And after we drew straws, well, that someone was very concerned for the integrity of their organs.

But, it didn’t move. They just kinda stayed there, trembling. I think I heard them whimper and saw some of the shrapnel stuck there. Whole lotta blood, silver-purple, baby was hurt bad. So, I decided, foolish me, to take a chance and try to help. I mean, the crew and I dealt with impalings before, why not again? Tikkum olam doesn’t technically exclude giant scorpions after all.

So, I checked their wounds, removed the shrapnel, stemmed the bleeding, disinfected, yadda yadda, health school 101. They twitched a little, but they were no Mr. Krinkle. Which is good, because as you can clearly see from my stunning malnourished, weedy physique, I’m no Steve Irwin.

I checked if they were stable, I checked with the person there who actually knew insect anatomy to check if they were stable, and then I was off. Into an ambush in Sedona by the fascist cancer monsters, like in Pink Floyd’s The Meat Wall. Which is also the porno title, but moving on, we almost died. These things are fast, they put guns and wires into their anatomy, and they have tactics.

Even though Mr. Neighdolf wasn’t there, I could feel his eyes on me, the sweaty, nasty stench, the sound of meat against shattered pavement… and then the sound like that exploding transformer and the smell of a barbecue of flesh zombies. Metaphorically of curse, we did not eat the tumor monsters.

And it was the little fella. They followed us, they saved our (turkey) bacon. And, well, most of the crew thought they were cute, they seemed to be friendly, and they were mostly healed, so long story short, that is why we now have a double-wide horse trailer.

I wondered about the two-tone look apparently they’re bilaterally gynandromorphic, sex split down the middle, happens a lot in arthropods. So, happy pride I guess!

Ah, well, I don’t think I could imagine the team without ‘em anymore. Mostly because we probably would’ve been dead several times without ‘em. They’re very protective, but they’re very sweet. Like a large armored sheltie that doesn’t obey the square-cube law.

I noticed some similarities to another one I’ve seen, Virgin Killer, big scorpion, has weather-type stuff like this little goober, but if that’s the case… boy do they have a lot of growing to do. Maybe we can do a road trip after this, she’s got sightings...

-----------------------------------

Abilities:They're small, so they're limited in both their resiliency and combat ability relative to older kaiju, but even then their resiliency and physical strength is significantly greater than a conventional organism of their size should have.

They have the ability to shoot both fulguric and cryonic rays, or in more conventional terms ice and lightning, castable as beams or a more concentrated sting. They can also control weather to create "strange rains," including healing ones, but unfortunately for Neon Tyger's host they have very little mastery over it at their age.

Bonus Trivia: They're not just related to Virgin Killer, but in fact the lone surviving egg of hers from the original incident. Their scent being camoflauged by the smoke-grenades lead to VK missing them in the chaos, and they were left as VK went on her currently-ongoing rampage, but they did manage to hatch, survive and muddle through.

--------------------------------

A lighter note for our second entry! Gotta pace one's self after all, at least for the nightmare coming tomorrow. I figured I may as well make the "Minya" of this setting, tho unlike Showa Minya I hope they're actually endearing and not unpleasant to look at.

The bilaterally gynandromorphic thing was because I was thinking of the paint scheme and liked the look, it being on pride month was just a happy coincidence.

The name is from Heaven and Hell by Dio-era Black Sabbath, mainly because it's a song I like and it fit the paint scheme, and the idea of the potential for good and evil inside anyone fit well with this babby kaiju just learning their place in the world, IDK.

Also, bonus trivia, I based Schwartz's manner of speaking on John Stewart. From the Daily Show! I wonder how evident that was to folks in the writing...

And of course, in Kaijune tradition, this character and all related narrative elements are under a CC-BY 4.0 license, as long as I, Thomas F Johnson, am credited as their creator. Have fun!

#my art #my writing #kaiju #kaijune #scorpion #intersex #i think #if bilateral gynandromorphism doesn't count i'll delete that tag #baby kaiju

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leescoresbies · 6 months ago

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I'm doing a second veilguard run-through with this necromancer cutie - caspar (cas) ingellvar - who is a mourn watch mage, somewhere between an intense academic and a gloomy mortician, dealing with the public and responsibility that scale beyond publishing research and chasing around skeletons for the first time. assume all these hairstyles come with like four pencils and a bone shoved up in there because he forgot them.

i'll feel it out as i go to decide if he will romance davrin or emmerich because a little weedy death mage falling for a handsome monster-hunting jock is delightful but also the other option is just His Thesis Advisor. which obviously rocks.

#rook ingellvar #dav #dragon age #veilguard #dragon age veilguard

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docholligay · 1 year ago

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Choose Your Own Adventure (jan 2024)

I think the problem is that I want to write GOOD things instead of writing anything at all, and I think that's kind of a mistake or at least i think it's not helping me. In any case, I've decided I'm going to write BAD things. Do y'all remember the choose your own adventure novels from the 70s and 80s? No, because so many of your are in class with my daughter fingerpainting, but trust me they were always bad. They were always bad! So I'm writing something like that, and it's going to be bad, or maybe accidentally good, but I don't fucking care which. I'm going to add onto it every month, and you can play along if you like. After every segment it'll basically ask the audience what we do next via a poll. Enjoy. Or hate. I gotta do something and this is something. The perfect is the enemy of the good and the good is the enemy of the accomplished. It's a haunted house story. OKay.

Some houses are histories in themselves. The story is told, complete, before all witnesses, in the lean of a building, a rough and torn roof, or a well-kept garden with an elm grown old, a bench curved around it. You imagine lives for these houses, even moreso than for the people in them. They are the old men in the pub, they are the spurned spinster, they are the young mother. These bricks and stones and lines of wood contain our tragedies and triumphs and turn them to their own. They are the books of our lives that we cannot write for fear of the honesty.

It was, to the observer, such a house.

It must have been grand, once. The knockers bore witness to such a thing, iron and old brass twisted together like snakes into the letter of a family that must have prospered here long ago. The moon shone off that knocker, silvering her like a wilted duchess, her back bowed by the swell and retraction of time’s seasons. The door itself was not one, but two, a pair of twins craved by craftsmen and then by circumstance, the detailing of leaves and acorns in its edging torn away and scratched in places, offering them a violent individuality.

The house branched from those two doors, the twins made mere siblings still echoing each other into an angle on either side, slowly boxing in a sandy courtyard where only a handful of shabbat bushes now grew. Cracks crept up the side of the house, splitting and spreading like a rumor as they dug into the high walls, dipping under the roof eaves. Where the cracks could not be seen, it was only for the veiling of more than half dead vines slowly climbing the stained and sickly yellow paint, pushing out the dark and tattered shutters.

For all its scars, what one noticed at the approach was the sheer immensity of the place, as modest as a whore, as spartan as a pope. The grand doubling of it, rows of windows staring in the moonlight, reflecting a life out into the grit of the courtyard, the house curving at either end in grand octagonal bays, one enclosed, and one free, suggesting a difference that might have been born and not made.

All of it was perfectly bisected by a high tower that rose above the doors, peering over a widow’s walk. It, too, was made with the sharp lines of an octagon, square glass panels neither revealing nor glimmering, only taking in the night, capped with a dome so dark it blended into the night sky, even as the moon looked on. A clock, stopped at three fifteen, adorned the front of the tower, its white paint once stark against the black but now faded to a dispassionate grey. An iron flag atop the dome should have shown which way the wind was going, but stayed it its place, pointing outward to the front gate.

Fog settled over this forgotten ruin like a tender blanket over the dead, hiding it from the world.

Standing in the middle of a great path of weedy grass, a flashlight held in her hand, Lena Oxton gazed up at the house. She was not immune to the human sense of augury in such a house, but neither was she immune to the pouring rain that fell off the edge of her cap and brushed against her chin, nor the bickering taking place in the van behind her. Signs and portents may or may not be real, and ghosts might only be a suggestion, but the rain was very real, she was sodden and cold , and someone was about to die in more than a suggestive way if they had to spend the night in that small van.

She looked back toward the wall where the van was parked, its headlights only just visible over the wall. Even with that being true, she glanced over her shoulder toward the house and considered, just for a moment, bolting back toward that crumbling brick and throwing herself over it. But only a moment. Fear did not get to hold the yoke. She had never allowed it before, and she wasn’t going to start with a house just because it had gone to rack and ruin.

Lena stepped toward the carved and pitted door, took a breath, and knocked.

Who's in the van? <-- I'm a voting link!

#doc's choose your own adventure

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timeforbedwolfstar · 8 months ago

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I Solemnly Swear that I am Up to No Good - The Friendship

Enjoy this next chapter of my Marauders fic! The brainrot is real, guys …

Finding Home will be updated this week, likely on Wednesday. The first chapter of the DPS x Marauders fic will be released on Friday.

Chapter 2: Boys and Trains

Wednesday, September 1, 1971

“Now remember,” Remus’ mother said, fussing over the clasp of his cloak, “don’t tell anyone about . . . the werewolf problem.” She whispered the last few words, adjusting his hood so it fell just right over his back. He could thank her OCD for that. Or maybe it was just his mother’s anxiety at being separated from her son for the first time in eleven years.

It was clear from the moment she’d woken up that morning that it would be an emotional day for Hope Lupin. To be fair, most days were emotional for her. But this year, on September first, 1971, she could start a new chapter of her life. One where she didn’t have to worry so much about her werewolf son. One where she could focus on herself. One where she could heal the rift between her and her husband, Remus’ father, Lyall.

Or so Remus thought. But what did he know about the inner workings of his mother?

A surprising amount, he reminded himself. Living with only his parents for company for the past six years would do that to a person.

You’re not a person, he told himself scathingly. You’re a bloody werewolf. They're not the same.

But oh, how he wished they could be.

After tuning out his mum, who was telling him every single thing that he must remember to do (“Don’t forget about laundry, make sure you eat at least three times a day, . . .”), Remus stood studying the people around them. There was one boy, with messy black hair and glasses, writhing away from a woman with the same black hair pulled back in a messy bun atop her head. The father, a tall, weedy sort of man, glanced around with a happy smile on his face, and wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

“— and don’t forget about the moon on Sunday —”

The full moon. The same moon that had given him the werewolf curse six years ago. The one that had left him with a horrible scar on his left shoulder, from the wolf that had nearly killed him.

And it would have, too, if Lyall hadn’t been so quick.

Remus shook off his thoughts as his mother wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. “I love you, fy mab.”

“Dw i'n dy garu di hefyd, Mam,” Remus replied. “See you at Christmas.”

Hope gave him a sad smile, then nodded and stepped back. Remus picked up his battered, secondhand trunk and lugged it to the train as the last whistle blew.

He waved at his mum from the window, watching as tears rolled down her face. He felt a pang of grief and longed to go back in time, to refuse Dumbledore’s offer, to be homeschooled by his parents like they’d planned all this time.

But it wasn’t to be.

On the train, Remus found himself lost and alone. He didn’t know anyone going to Hogwarts this year. His condition had made it impossible to make friends.

Oh, he wanted to. He wanted to be able to have friends, to talk with others his own age, to be around kids who didn’t care about his affliction. Once upon a time, a normal life might have been possible for him. But his fate had already been decided, many long years ago.

Making up his mind, he started to drag his trunk down the train in a random direction. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew he was going somewhere. He had to be.

He was lucky. Towards the back of the train, he found a mostly empty compartment. A girl sat there, with bright red hair. She wore her Hogwarts robes already, and Remus guessed she’d changed just before sitting down. Or she’d been wearing her robes on the platform. Anything was possible, really.

“Hey,” he said softly, knocking on the wall. “Is it okay if I sit here?”

Without turning her head, the girl nodded. Remus sat down awkwardly as far from the girl as he could. He didn’t much like girls, but he attributed most of that to his limited contact with them. Other than his mam and the grandma next door (What’ll we say to her, Remus thought, when I don’t come see her for months?), he hadn’t had much contact with the opposite sex.

He blamed his father for that.

It wasn’t his fault, Remus told himself firmly.

But . . . it might as well have been.

Lyall Lupin had left their small family years ago. Not physically. He still lived with them. But mentally, he was distant, cold, uncaring toward his wife and son. Remus wanted his mother to heal the rift that had grown in six years’ cold time. But, logically, he knew, it wasn’t likely to happen. His father simply didn’t work that way.

As he sat there, staring off into the distance, the door opened again. A pudgy-looking boy with blonde hair and blue eyes, dressed in Muggle clothing under his robes, knocked on the wooden frame. “Can I sit here? Only, I’ve got a friend who’s coming, too.”

“I don’t mind,” said Remus. “Come in.”

It turned out that his friend was the boy Remus had seen on the platform. “I’m James,” he said, by way of introduction. He held out his hand to Remus, who shook it carefully. He had learned that the nice ones always turned on him in the end.

The pudgy boy, whose name was Peter, was friendly, and Remus found he got on well with him. At first glance, it seemed, Peter and his friend, James Potter, had a complicated relationship.

Peter and James were neighbours, and very close ones at that. When Peter started to display magical signs, James’ parents took him and Peter’s sister under their wing in place of their neglectful parents. Mr. and Mrs. Potter had played the parental role in Peter’s childhood, and fostered a close friendship between him and James. Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew had not been around for many years.

The boys were a great source of entertainment. James was funny, with a new joke every few minutes, and a constant source of laughter. Peter was quiet, but sometimes chipped in and lit up the compartment with his witty retorts. Remus could see why James liked him so much.

Against his will, he began to like the boy, as well. Maybe we could have been friends, in another life.

The compartment door opened again, bringing with it another boy. He had short black hair, stormy, lightning-grey eyes, and flashy, brand-new Hogwarts robes that fitted him perfectly.

“Can I sit here?” he said, in a voice so high-and-mighty it made Remus laugh aloud.

“You’re one of those posh ones, aren’t you?”

Translations

fy mab — my son

Dw i'n dy garu di hefyd, Mam — I love you too, Mum

#marauders #the marauders #remus lupin #fanfiction #james potter #sirius black #peter pettigrew #the hogwarts express #the friendship #i solemnly swear that i am up to no good

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in-tua-deep · 4 days ago

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Had a dream last night that seemed to have it all - immortals, mystery, found family, gay romance

It was about an immortal elf-esque queen who ruled alone because her betrothed (or husband? unclear), Destree the Destroyer, was sealed away at some point in the last thousands of years. Lots of mystery surrounding that dude, tbh, but I think there was some implication that victors write history and the immortal queen had some genuine affection for him

Anyway, she had magic of some kind, ended up leaving her castle and throne and decided to travel through the lands instead

Idk exactly what occurred, but at some point she wound up getting involved in a plot and semi-adopting four kidnapped teenagers (I do not remember a single thing about two of them oops) but the other two were very plot relevant

Carver had short blond hair and a knack for brawling and physical fighting. Very knight coded and had a sword. The other one was Ardel and he was a weedy lanky kid with longer dark hair, magic, and a whole lot of inconsistent backstory and mystery around him

There was a whole plot where, in the kingdom they were in, only girls were allowed to formally learn magic, and the immortal helped (badly) disguise Ardel as a girl to get into the classes until she persuaded the school head (some nasally dude) to allow him to attend where he undisguised himself and had a blast with his classmates for the day (with a break in the middle to sneak off and meet with Carver)

And I remember how close Ardel and the immortal became, and there was a victoriously jubilant scene where she carried him via piggy back and flew using magic up to the top of a tower and then spiraling down the staircase, hair blowing back from how fast they were going, laughing themselves silly

When the nasally dude asked her who she was to Ardel, she told him that she was Ardel’s mother

At the end of the day they all got kicked out of the magic school, but it was worth it

At some point the squad ended up exploring this cave filled with treasures and magic items. There was this massive framed painting off in its own corner, and when Ardel looked at it the painting changed scenes

I don’t remember all that the painting showed, but one scene was this cracked and ruined old forest land, with the only real color in the bleak scene being this bright yellow golden flowers seemingly taking over the forest and growing from the cracked open earth. They looked really pretty, but there was something threatening and terrifying about them. The impression I got was that the painting showed scenes from the gazer’s own memory (it felt like it was related to what Ardel was hiding)

The other thing I remember was the painting basically showing a montage of Ardel and Carver together, going back to the scenes from the school where Ardel snuck out to meet him (when the dream had followed the immortal instead) and basically showed their developing relationship

Their first kiss was in the forest in a ditch after one of them had tripped and the other had fallen in right after them, they were both laughing, and it was sweet and innocent and good

I mostly remember how sick Ardel’s face looked when he saw the scene with the flowers and how guilty he sometimes looked when he spent time with the immortal

After they left the treasure trove, someone that I think knew of the immortal made a comment about the immortal not being mother material and questioning if she even liked kids, and there was this montage of the immortals travels through the land

She often disguised herself using magic to look like an old woman, even though she usually looked quite young. I think she felt old though, after living through so many ages. I think she might have been one of the last of her kind. (I wonder if that’s why she didn’t hate Destree, because he was immortal too and might be one of the only ones to understand)

But the montage was just her in her old lady disguise interacting with kids. And you could tell that she found human kids fascinating and miraculous, holding a baby handed to her on a train like it was the most precious and important thing in existence

I don’t really remember much else about the dream. I think it was implied that Ardel’s family was wealthy and not very good, and that they had some kind of tie to Destree the Destroyer. I think Carver’s family was also implied to be wealthy and not great, and he wanted to stay by Ardel’s side.

The immortal queen was lonely, and abdicated to travel so that she could connect with humanity without forming lasting attachments that she would subsequently lose thanks to her lifespan. But finding the kids and rescuing them and then essentially adopting them changed her in a lot of ways

I think Ardel’s family was planning to unseal Destree. I don’t think anyone knew what would happen if they succeeded. The only person who actually knew the destroyer was the queen, and again, the impression I got is that history remembered what happened a bit differently than she did

I hope it worked out for them

#my dreams #immortal Queen dream #Ardel and Carver #dream journal #poor Ardel seemed torn in a lot of ways #very archetypical teen from villain family torn between tradition and found family #I think they were traveling with the immortal to return the kids who were all kidnapped for maybe ransom #and they were mosying towards ardel’s family and taking lots of detours #no one really wanted to get there and end the journey I think #but yeah carver seemed pure of heart and dumb of ass

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clarepreed · 2 years ago

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Micro-Story: Action Park, 1986

Story Summary and Content: - 2,140 words. The infamous waterpark also known as "Traction Park" nearly claims another victim. Drowning, on-site resuscitation.

“You’re crazy,” Robert exclaimed affectionately, eyeing his girlfriend Linda. She stood beside him in a neon green bikini and a towel draped over her shoulders, one hand planted on her hip and the other shading her eyes. They were spending their first anniversary at Action Park, an idea that was one hundred percent Linda. He thought the decision was probably tied to her recently getting a job there, which afforded them a discount.

“It looks fun, and I’ve not gotten to try it yet!” Her attention was caught by a long water slide called the Cannonball Loop. It plummeted steeply, then carried riders through an awkward-looking loop before dumping them in a pond. “So far, Rick just has me selling tickets and beer!”

“Didn’t you say someone broke their nose in that thing the other day?” Rick asked.

“Well… yeah, but it’s not like it happens to everybody! And it’s so epic!” Linda reached over and snagged Robert’s arm. “Come on! I’ll go first and you can watch me come out and decide if you want to go. I’ll let you know if I think it will hurt your knee!”

Robert peered up at the ride. He’d hurt his knee in high school, and it still bothered him enough that he hadn’t been able to play college football. “You’re convincing me. You want me to wait down here?”

“Yeah, I think Barbara will let me skip the line to ‘test’ the slide. They do that all the time, and Rick can bite me if he has a problem.” She smacked her gum a few times and then swallowed it with a gulp. “Didn’t want to choke on that. Hold my towel and my shoes?”

“Sure thing, babe.” He took her thong sandals and her towel, and she gave him a quick kiss. “What about your sunglasses?”

“Oh, yeah, don’t wanna lose those. Every body of water in this place is just filthy with broken sunglasses at the bottom.” She sat her sunglasses on top of his head. “Thank you! I’ll be down in no time!”

With that, he watched her turn and run up the hill, providing him with an excellent view of her ass as she jogged. Once she’d made it to the end of the line, Robert walked down to where spectators gathered to watch riders come out of the end of the tube.

The first thing he noticed was that the pool at the end wasn’t particularly deep; it looked like a large depression in the ground covered by the world’s widest Slip ‘N Slide. A man shot out of the end as Robert approached, skidding through the water before finally slowing. He staggered to his feet, pale-faced but grinning.

Robert looked up at the wooden stairs at the head of the slide, wondering if he’d be able to tell when it was Linda’s turn. It wasn’t long before another man spewed out of the tunnel, face down and feet first. That man rolled over on the water and then surged to his feet, a stream of watered-down blood spraying from his mouth.

“Fuck! Busted my damn lip!” the man said. He sloshed his way out of the water just in time for a teenage boy to drop from the end of the tube, yelling as he caught air.

Several more people came through, and he never saw Linda on the stairs. He was getting hot and wished they’d built some shade by the end of the ride.

I wonder if Barbara refused to let her in front, he thought. She’ll be mad if—

A slim woman in a neon green bikini popped out of the slide, head first and face down. She shot along the surface of the pool, her body coming to rest halfway down the length. She did not roll over, or flail her arms, or thrash her way to her feet.

The small crowd at the base of the ride fell silent.

Linda bobbed gently in the shallow water, her mane of wavy hair floating in clumps around her head.

A woman let out a scream, the sound breaking through Robert’s momentary stupor. He dropped their things in the weedy grass at his feet and started pushing his way through the growing crowd, trying to reach the sorry excuse for a barricade built to separate the spectators from the pool.

“Hey!” a man shouted. “No need to push!”

“That’s my girlfriend!” Robert exclaimed.

“Where’s the lifeguard!” someone shrieked. “There’s usually a guy here! Where’d he go?!”

Robert pushed past another gawking man and went under the barricade, hurrying over to the pool. Linda was still motionless, her arms and legs spread out in the water. He hurried into the pool, shoes and all, slipping and sliding as he made his way to her body.

“Linda!” he called out, grabbing her shoulders and turning her over. “Linda!”

Linda’s face was ashen beneath her tan, and a cut ran just beneath her left eyebrow. Both of her eyes were open to slits. Her lips had taken on a bluish cast. As he watched, a rivulet of water trickled from her nose. Robert shook her, then pulled her close, heaving her torso out of the water. He leaned his ear close to her mouth and waited.

“HOLD!” he heard someone shout. “DON’T SEND ANYONE ELSE! STOP! SOMEONE DROWNED!”

He felt nothing from Linda, no reassuring puff of air against his cheek. Robert reached down to slip his arm under her legs, intending to carry her to the flat grass along the edge. Another man was suddenly there, helping Robert as he thrashed up out of the water, his feet struggling for purchase.

Robert laid Linda out in the grass, trying to be careful with her head.

“I’m going to go get help,” the man said. “No one in this fucking place seems to know anything happened!”

“Linda!” Robert exclaimed again, staring down at his girlfriend. He had his CPR merit badge from the Boy Scouts, and he’d taken a class at the local YMCA a couple of summers ago, but he still felt uncertain. He kept expecting her to bolt upright and cough up water on her own, after which she’d fill him in on what happened with Barbara.

She’s going to die if you just stare at her!

Robert sucked in a breath and sealed his mouth over Linda’s, belatedly pinching her nostrils closed as he exhaled. Her cheeks puffed out, but he couldn’t tell if the air made it to her lungs. He tried again, blowing more forcefully this time, and saw her chest expand.

“You have to get the water out!” Someone shouted. “She can’t breathe if she’s full of water!”

Robert saw a flash illustration run through his mind of a rescuer straddling a drowning victim and pushing into their stomach. He glanced up, realizing people had moved closer, gatheringin a circle but seemingly unwilling to help. Robert leaned down and gave Linda another breath. This time, he heard a gurgling sound as his air moved in and out of her lungs.

Scuttling around, Robert swung his leg over her hips and clasped his hands together. After a brief hesitation, he pressed his hands to her stomach, just above her navel. Then he shoved, wincing as her chest heaved and her shoulders shrugged. He shoved again, and her head lolled to the side, water trickling from her mouth.

“Come on, Linda!” he exclaimed, grunting as he pushed into her a third time. This time, he heard another gurgling sound and water sprayed out of her with force. He shoved a fourth and fifth time, his hands digging into her belly and her body emitting wet huffing sounds. “Cough it up, babe!”

He pushed again, and she made a hurk! sound. Bubbles slid from her nose, frothing over her blue lips. He thrust into her abdomen one more time, worried by the color of her mouth.

“Take a breath! Come on!” Robert crawled off of her and slid a hand under her neck, roughly opening her airway before he pinched her nose. Her lips felt cool and slack when he covered them with his own, forcing air into her lungs. Her cheeks rounded, and her bikini-covered breasts rose, but each time his air rushed back out of her and she made no effort to move or breathe.

After he gave her another breath, Robert pressed his fingers into the slim column of her neck.

“Does she have a pulse?” someone asked.

He couldn’t tell. He held his fingers there, waiting to feel the rush of blood against his fingers.

“I don’t know!” he exclaimed. He leaned down and gave her another breath. “Linda!”

“You gotta do CPR,” a woman said, her nasal voice almost droll. “If she doesn’t have a pulse you have to pump her chest.”

“Where’s a goddamn lifeguard?!” a man shouted.

Richard’s hands shook, but he moved over her, pressing the heel of his clasped hands between her breasts. Then he rolled his shoulders forward so that his weight sank down, pushing into her sternum. He did remember this part. He was supposed to push two inches at a rapid pace. He couldn’t remember what that pace was, exactly, so he just went for it, bobbing up and down and counting under his breath.

“…five, six, seven, eight…”

More water burbled up from between Linda’s lips, and he heard a sucking sound when he recoiled. Her stomach popped up each time he pressed down, her shoulders rising up slightly off the ground.

“…fourteen, fifteen!” Robert leaned down and pressed his mouth to Linda’s again. He had to keep his mouth wide to properly cover her lips, and blowing into them felt strange. But her chest rose and fell both times, and then Robert resumed chest compressions.

“One, two, three…” Linda’s open, unfocused eyes looked down her nose at him as he worked, her head nodding with each pump of her chest. “…seven, eight, nine…”

“I’ll take over breaths!” A young woman dropped down by Linda’s other side. Her wide eyes took in the scene. “I’m a lifeguard! Not here, at the rec center!”

Then she bent over, carefully opened Linda’s airway, and gave her two slow breaths.

Robert started pumping Linda’s chest again, trying not to wince at the feeling of her bones shifting under his hands. Short, gurgling puffs of air escaped her lips, and the young lifeguard turned Linda’s head to the side, letting more water trickle out.

“…nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen!”

The lifeguard’s cheeks puffed out, followed by Linda’s. If he looked carefully, he could see her throat swell briefly before her chest rose. Another breath, and then Robert was back at it.

“One, two, three, four, five…”

“I heard they called an ambulance!” a man said. “Still haven’t seen a single damn employee!”

“…fifteen!”

The lifeguard gave Linda another pair of slow, deep breaths and then tipped her head to the side, letting a small amount of water drop out into the grass.

“One, two, three—” Linda’s abdomen lurched and her chest heaved. Robert pumped twice more, and then Linda’s head twisted to the side. She vomited up a stream of water.

“On her side!” the lifeguard said, and together they rolled Linda toward Robert.

“Linda? Oh my God! Linda, take a breath!” Robert crouched down so he could see her face. Her eyes were closed now, mouth gaping. Color was returning to her face as pink splotches. Linda gagged, and the lifeguard reached around and swept her finger between Linda’s teeth.

Robert leaned down on his elbow and reached out with his other hand to push her hair out of her face, uncovering the wound over her eye. Linda wheezed and gasped, barking out painful-sounding coughs.

Then her eyelids fluttered open, and she looked around in confusion.

“Hey, you’re okay!” Robert rubbed her arm, clinging to her like she might slip away from him. He felt a strong need to keep touching her now that she was awake and breathing. “You got knocked out in the Cannonball, babe.”

“What?” she croaked, trying to lift her head. Her left eye looked swollen.

“You had an accident. But it’s okay! You’re going to be alright now.” Robert leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Jesus Christ, babe.”

“I guess…” she coughed, then continued: “Don’t do it. You’ll… hurt your knee…”

“What? I’ll hurt my knee,” Robert muttered. “I’ll hurt my knee!”

“I love… you, Robert…”

“Oh, hey…” This was not a word they’d used yet, not even after a year. But he thought about how awful he’d felt when her limp body washed out of the slide, and how happy he felt now. He kissed her forehead again. If this feeling wasn’t love, he didn’t know what love felt like. “I love you, too, babe.”

#resus writing #cpr resus #female resus #medical drama

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the-gay-disney-games · 2 years ago

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Round 1A: Atlantis: The Lost Empire (2001) vs. Newsies (1992)

Propaganda:

Atlantis: The Lost Empire:

“I know Milo is trans because he is exactly like me in every other way why wouldn't he be this way too”

“Milo is a twink and Helga is butch I rest my case”

“Audrey”

“Helga Sinclair is literally there, gay awakening of many along with Kida and Audrey”

“Literally everyone on the exploration team is some form of queer coded except for Commander Rourke. From weedy Academia Disater Bi Milo, to lesbian coded mechanic Audrey, to the crotchety, gossiping, seen it all and death's too intimidated to take her old queer Wilhelmina Packard. Plus how all of them wear their crystals at the end of the movie... They are not straight.”

Newsies:

“i could make a supercut if i had the energy. 1: kenny ortega word of god confirmed trans racetrack, 2: the male leads get a balcony scene, a weird alley scene where one shoved the other against a wall by the chest and it’s REALLY gay, at the end when jack decides to stay it cuts to DAVEY (these r the male leads) instead of sarah (the love interest), 3: in one of the songs one of the characters sings “ain’t i pretty” and one of the other guy characters nods. also it’s a musical about the underdogs/oppressed winning yes it’s based on a real thing but yk. and they made the ending a lot happier and all the main characters are amalgamations of people/made up”

“Just gay as hell tbh”

“Kenny Ortega, the director, confirmed that he purposefully queercoded it! Jack and Davey almost kiss like 20 times and the have a balcony scene also Blink and Mush are constantly cuddling in the background.”

“it’s directed by a gay person, same guy who directed the high school musical movies, so everything that’s super gay can be assumed to deliberate, literally certifiably gay coded. it revolves around the friendship between these two guys. it’s a lot to get into maybe i’ll get back to you later but it’s really gay and also my favorite movie, i mean my name on here is literally transfagjackkelly”

#polls #queerest disney movie tournament #round 1a #disney #atlantis: the lost empire #newsies #okay so I’m a theatre kid so I know newsies but I honestly had no idea it was based on a movie

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seijatachiis · 2 years ago

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decided i wanna invest more into 5s like max investment so lvl80, at least one skill m3, maybe module if it's good. decided that since my only max lvl 5s are these ones bc they're ops i really like. (ignore texas) ((tho i'll max lvl her for my One max levelled vanguard))

so i decided imma max lvl and at least m3 one skill for an op of each class!

vanguards as mentioned will be texas, she's already s2m3 mod lvl1 so it's just levels.

defender: nearl

i'm anti meta so my saria is only e260 sl7. i actually raised nearl first bc i was anti meta so i'll s1m3 and look into her module :D also bc dr silvergun said smth recently about having stonks defenders to tank and that hasn't left my mind (i say with lvl90 hoshi and mod lvl1 on both mods)

sniper: andreana

i've always liked her and while i'm not sure if i wanna commit to abyssal hunters i will commit to her. she's so cute i love her. i am also maxing insider already but it is what it is

caster was easy, absinthe! she was the first caster i got and used ALL the time until i got eyja.

AND SHE FINALLY GOT A SKIN SO THIS WILL BE A CELEBRATION OF THAT TOO!!!!!!

already mentioned i'd do NCD like last time but yeah.

specialist: enforcer. i've always wanted a maxed pusher but idk smth was always holding me back on weedy. i don't like feater or shaw too much so i'll do enforcer :) i like his skin a lot and his seiyuu

medic: ptilopsis! she's been like my main medic since forever! and i had to wait FOREVER for her skin to return but she's a good birb

anyways lol ignore me i'm just thinking out loud but this is my plan after i max insider!

#aru posts #arknights #heh #ptilopsis #andreana #nearl #enforcer #the rest of the operators oops

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lizzy-frizzle · 2 years ago

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I decided to write up a silly little Operator File, for if my arknights doctor OC was an operator instead

Operator Iremia: Incantation Medic

Basic Info [Code Name] Iremia [Gender] Female [Combat Experience] None [Place of Birth] Victoria [Date of Birth] May 5 [Race] Zalak [Height] 165cm [Infection Status] Medical tests have confirmed that no infection is present.

Physical Exam [Physical Strength] Normal [Mobility] Normal [Physical Resilience] Standard [Tactical Acumen] Standard [Combat Skill] Normal [Originium Arts Assimilation] Outstanding

Profile A contributing member of Rhine Lab’s Originium Art Section, Doctor Valerie decided to join Rhodes Island as operator Iremia due to personal differences with Rhine Lab’s goals. She’s made great strides while working under Dorothy Franks, and numerous life saving devices have been invented in her name. Aside from some memory issues, her knowledge of Originium should prove valuable at Rhodes Island.

Clinical Analysis Imaging tests reveal clear, normal outlines of internal organs, and no abnormal shadows have been detected. Originium granules have not been detected in the circulatory system and there is no sign of infection. At this time, this operator is believed to be uninfected.

[Cell-Originium Assimilation] 0% Operator Iremia shows no signs of Originium infections.

[Blood Originium-Crystal Density] 0.13u/L Operator Iremia deals often with Originium based experiments, but takes unusually excessive amounts of safety precautions. With the frequency and volume of these experiments, she should be monitored more regularly, however at this point we think it's unlikely she will get infected.

Archive File 1 When Iremia first joined Rhodes Island, she struggled to make friends. She’d often find herself eating alone in the cafeteria, or isolated in the labs performing all sorts of experiments. Some operators thought she was standoffish or rude. Though, after operator Dorothy joined, she started opening up more – thanks to Dorothy pulling her into conversations. This led to her befriending a number of other scientist and medical personnel – notably Rhine Lab operators and operator Weedy.

Archive File 2 Other operators have been coming to Iremia to change benign aspects of themselves, resulting in some files being inaccurate. It turns out that Iremia’s arts can alter people’s heights, weight, hair color, and various other physical aspects. Kal’tsit has issued a mandate that operators can no longer bother Iremia for these changes, as it has resulted in requiring to update approx. 200 files.

Kal’tsit, please send out a reminder, I’ve seen over a dozen operators with different -undyed- hair color this week. - Gavial

Archive File 3 Iremia has briefly discussed her desire for a cure to oripathy – chiefly her Mom. Iremia can still be found in her dorm crying over this subject, so please refrain from bringing it up unless she initiates.

Regardless her reasons, she has put more hours in the lab than Silence with regards to experiments and tests to further our understanding of the disease. This has led to infected operators finding Iremia to be genuine, and easy to confide in. However, this has also led to Iremia attending every infected operator’s cremation. This should be noted with regards to her mental health, and perhaps we should limit her access to them.

On top of all of this, Iremia has already found a way to slow minor infection rates to a surprising degree – though not effective against heavier infections. Even if it’s not a cure, this breakthrough has bolstered her confidence and mood substantially.

Archive File 4 Iremia has established several romantic relationships with other operators, so needless to say she’s adjusted to Rhodes Island. She’s been spotted making out with a number of others in hallway corners, and for some reason when this was brought up to Kal’tsit she seemed unsurprised, and unbothered. This has led to some operators starting betting pools on the exact number of partners Iremia has among Rhodes Island. The current highest bet is thirty operators.

Promotion Record ‘Eh? You want to know how I use my arts? Well...I just kinda...do it? I’m not sure what you were expecting...’

…

‘You want to know if I can take Originium out of people? No. I’ve tried...C-can we please drop this subject?’

…

‘My rings? They’re my own design! I made them at Rhine La-Oh, I might not be able to talk about them actually. I think Rhine Lab has the patent...’

#cute girl tower defence tag #my OCs #val writes things

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beecreeper · 9 months ago

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1, 2, 7, 8 for the tav asks!

Ooohohoo these were fun. Suuuuuuuper long answers under the cut

1. What would your Tav’s greetings be (at different levels of approval)?

I hope the tone I have in mind comes across for all of these :/

Briar:

Low -- Make it quick.

Medium – What do you want?

High -- Hello again

Romanced – Well look who it is. Do you actually have something to say or are you just here for the fun part?

Rejected Bhaal (regardless of approval): *apathetic , not even looking at you* Hm.

Ferox:

Low -- *flat glare* Hm.

Medium – What do you need?

High -- I'm not the best with words but... go ahead.

Romanced – Whatever you need

Molli:

Low – *uncomfortable* Yes?

Medium – *Fidgeting, nervous* Oh? Do you need me for something?

High -- Oh hey! Whatcha need?

Romanced -- *huge happy lovestruck smile* Hey!

Pact isn’t broken in time (see below for details on that): *distracted, shaking herself to attention* Hm? Yeah?

Myrala:

Low -- *muttering* Eilistraee’s grace... *exasperated* What?

Medium – Yes?

High -- Oh! Nice to see you again. Need something?

Romanced – My love~

Poppy:

Low -- *annoyed* What do *you* want?

Medium – What's up?

High -- Hey! Good to see ya!

Romanced – Hey cutie~

2. Describe their tent setup! What’s on the outside? The inside?

Briar’s tent is kinda ratty and rustic looking. Dirty, moldy edges. Mushrooms and mold gets seeded around any area she hangs around too often, so there’s a bunch of mushrooms growing out of the ground and even on her tent/in the tentpoles. She’d have a couple jars and bottles of her gross fermentation projects hanging around. Also bones. At the beginning she sticks with animal bones and anything she can pass off as being “for druid reasons” but after the dark urge cat is out of the bag she would just blatantly keep human body parts around her tent. She’s also frequently burning incense.

Ferox’s tent would be very simple and practical. Utilitarian. He’d have a beat up training dummy with very heavily dented armor that he has to replace all the time. I don’t have much to say here he’s a simple man. From a purely out-of-universe perspective, I want to say that there’s little flowers (forget-me-nots and daisies in particular but just tiny weedy wildflowers in general) in the area around his tent. *He* didn’t chose that deliberately, but I as the creator of this world say it is so and would model it into the game like that.

If we ignore any sort of logic for how she acquired it, Molli would have a one of those round striped tents, giving medieval fair/circus vibes. She’d also have strings of those little triangular flags. Everything in a black/while/teal/yellow color scheme though I haven’t decided what goes where. Inside she’d have a big ol’ pile of as many pillows as she can get a hold of, most of them kinda patchy and old but that hardly matters because she just wants ALL THE COMFY. She’d also collect and string up a variety of different bells.

Again, ignoring how she has it, Myrala’s tent would be neat, probably blue or dark purple with silver accents. I’m also picturing a round rug with moon designs around the edge. Nothing fancy fancy, but nice. She’d have a silvered longsword sitting in her camp, as well as a tambourine and a bunch of loose wildflowers that she’s picked.

Poppy’s tent is small, easy to travel with and set up, more like a tarp over a bedroll than a full tent. But it’s obviously well used and personalized. It’s got a variety of patches over it, having been repaired many many times. She also has a bunch of little trinkets and souvenirs from her travels. She’s also the only one out of my guys who would have realistically actually had her tent on her when she got tadpoled.

7. Describe their arc. How would a player help resolve it? What choices can be made? Can your Tav be turned down a dark path, or pulled to a lighter one?

Obviously the thrust of Briar’s companion quest is the typical durge stuff – recover memories and deal with the urge. There’d be a little minor sub quest in the underdark where you piece together some of Briar’s memories of her druid circle and what happened to them. A big moment would be whether or not the player can talk Briar out of killing Isobel, which then has a big influence on whether the player can get Briar to reject Bhaal. If she does accept Bhaal, she will either turn on you immediately or continue to play along and try to betray you later (depending on dialogue choices and character relationship) but the point is she WILL try to betray you at some point and you’ll have to kill her in order to continue.

Ferox obviously has the same big choices – kill isobel or not, accept bhaal or not – but he’s much easier to get on the redeem path. Even on the evil path he wouldn’t betray you like Briar does. Another choice would be whether he takes up a new paladin oath or writes himself off as irredeemable.

Molli’s companion arc would focus on her patron and the details of her pact, which she doesn’t know anything about. In her canon timeline, I shift all of that stuff to after the events of the game, but if she were a companion I’d bump up the timeline so the player can deal with it. Learning about her patron and what it’s actually doing to her would lead to the realization that her patron is essentially taking over her body bit by bit and the only way to break her pact is to cut out the part he’s already infected – her arm. I think it’d be a fun element to have the culmination of the quest be more or less a game of chicken. After learning the solution (at some point in Act 2), the player could convince Molli to cut off her arm at pretty much any time (with requisite dice rolls of course), breaking her pact but losing all her warlock levels. The longer they wait, the longer they get to keep that power, but they take the risk of her patron’s control spreading too far. At some point in Act 3 a cutscene would signal at the point of no return (triggered by her current level) where the player has to make a final choice to either break her pact or convince her to keep it. If you *do* keep it past that point, you would get a special power boost and special features, but you’d also be dooming Molli to be completely taken over eventually.

Myrala’s arc would be about her conflict between whether or not to resort to stealing and other unscrupulous methods to help people. I have vague concepts for Myrala involving either trying to steal something or having just stolen something and dealing with the fallout from it. One idea I have is that she was actually considering going after the Nightsong for Lorroakan before she got tadpoled. Just one job and her little congregation of refugees will be set for years! How lucky that this tadpole situation put her right in the path of it! I sure hope it doesn’t present any complicated moral quandaries!

Poppy I picture as a more minor companion, more like Halsin or Minthara, with a much less elaborate personal quest. She’s just kinda chillin’ after all. I think it would be kinda fun if instead of Poppy having a traditional quest, she triggered a BUNCH of small unique interactions with random NPCs because she just knows so many people. Like oh this random person used to be part of her mercenary group, oh she met this other random person three years ago at a gnomish wedding, oh hey I think I once got arrested with your sister. Or was it by your sister? Either way tell her I said hi.

I also think it would be fun if I involved Billy here (not the durge version of Billy probably? Though knowing him he might be involved with bhaalists anyway. I’d have to go consult with his creator...). But like, learning that he’s in the area and Poppy going “THAT BITCH?! Oooh okay we gotta find him and take him out he’s an asshole”. There wouldn’t be a “kill him or not kill him” tension as much as I think it’d be a matter of whether or not you can stop him from escaping. The challenge of the combat encounter would be preventing him from getting away because he’s a scrappy, scrambly kinda guy who seems to be able to wriggle out of anything. There might even be multiple encounters possible.

8. After Act 3, what does their life look like? What are they talking about at the reunion party?

As a companion, Briar is only making it to the reunion party if she forsake’s Bhaal and she’s noooooot happy about it. I was actually just saying to a friend of mine yesterday that “good” ending Briar has the vibes of that stereotype of a bipolar person going on mood stabilizers and then feeling all empty without the highs and lows they used to have. Without her memories, without her urges, without the purpose that being Bhaal’s chosen gave her, Briar feels like she has nothing left and no identity. She’s been a reclusive hermit since the downfall of the brain, doing a lot of psychedelics and occasionally murder to try and feel something but murder isn’t fun anymore and she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

Ferox has a few different endings. If you make him accept Bhaal but then destory the brain well... you’ve probably seen how that ending goes for durge in game. If you help him reject Bhaal there’s two more possibilities – hermit Ferox and restored paladin Ferox. Hermit Ferox went to find a cabin far away from other people so he can never possibly hurt anyone again. He starts growing flowers. Paladin Ferox stays around Baldur’s Gate to help rebuild.

Good ending Molli is having a great time! She’s sticks around in Baldur’s Gate, bonding with her reunited brother and getting a job playing at the Elfsong. She’s learning how to use mage hand to play her concertina now that she’s one handed and is very excited to show the player how good she’s getting at it. Bad ending Molli is... creepy. Her warlock mark is spread up into her face and her mannerisms are a lot less... her. She seems a little not-all-there. Her warlock hand is starting to have more and more of a mind of it’s own, and she finds that her fingers are getting clumsier when she plays, like the muscle memory is just gone. She doesn’t get her Elfsong job and is kinda cagey and ominous about what she *is* doing instead. It’s probably nothing to worry about.

I can see a bunch of possible endings for Myrala, like one where she *does* end up going back to crime and ends up working with the guild/zhents (maybe even leading them?). If I go with that Nightsong idea, I could have an ending where Myrala gets that reward money from Lorroakan and uses it to build a proper church for Eilistraee and get food and housing for a bunch of drow and tiefling refugees. See? It all worked out it was worth it see how much good she’s doing?? I’m actually still not sure what her good ending would be here. In her canon timeline she marries Wyll in his Duke ending and uses that influence to accomplish her goals, but as a companion I wouldn’t want her ending so tied to another companion like that. Like she could just go back to what she was doing before -- struggling to help her little congregation without proper resources or support -- but that feels unsatisfying.

Poppy’s easy! She’s just going back to doing what she was always doing! A bunch of crazy odd jobs in odd places. It’s honestly astounding just how many new stories she’s picked up in the time between the end of the game and the epilogue.

#durge briar #durge ferox #tav molli #tav myrala #tav poppy #text posts

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nonhumanresources · 2 years ago

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Caramel Changes

Here's one to get you into the spirit of the season! Short two page TF written all the way back in October 2017, when I did a series of stories for the season. I'd love to do more, autumn is my favorite time of year.

Summary: you get a weird piece of candy while trick or treating. You probably shouldn't eat that. You do.

What to expect: second person caramel-coating bird TF.

Length: 1.2k words. Fun fact, it's actually 1200 exactly including the title; I usually round.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Trick-or-treat!” you shout, holding out a pillowcase nearly filled to the brim. The frail old woman standing in the doorway smiles, showing off her three teeth.

“Oooh, hello there!” she says, her voice as rusty as the hinges on the door. “I’ve got some very exotic candy for you tonight! I made it myself, you know!” There’s a twinkle in her eye as she speaks, dropping a single wrapped caramel in each of your friend’s pillowcases, ending with yours, giving you a toothy smile and a small wink. She waves goodbye as you thank her and turn from the door, walking back down the weedy, unkempt walkway of cracked cement and back to the smooth sidewalk to continue your annual night of candy gathering.

One of your friends stops next to a trash can sitting out on the curb. He pulls out the caramel and tosses it into the black depths, never again to be seen by human eyes - unless someone happened to be living in the city dump.

“We should throw these away. If that old hag really made them herself, there’s no telling what she might have put inside,” he says to the group. One by one, your friends mumble in agreement and pull out their own caramels, each piece sharing the fate of the first. Soon enough, everyone is down one candy and ready to move on.

Well, everyone but you.

Story below the cut, or here if you prefer to read on a Google doc. If you made it this far I am kissing you full on the lips platonically. Or is it platonic? It's queer, that's for sure. Comments/questions/thoughts always appreciated!

You hesitate, staring at the small square. Why would an old lady want to do something like poison candy? She had seemed nice enough. Besides, she was the only person so far who had seemed excited to be handing out free candy. While that was suspicious, to you, it seemed more kindly than anything. You tuck the caramel back into your bag. Your friends stare at you in surprise.

The lead boy shrugs and turns around, tossing a remark over his shoulder. “It’s your funeral!”

You shrug in turn and reply. “Whatever. Let’s go get more candy!”

The night moves on, and you load up on more and more candy until lifting your pillowcase becomes a full-body workout. A couple hours later, you’re shouting a farewell to your friends as they make the trek home. You nearly fall inside your bedroom door, exhausted. You dump your candy bag on the floor and fall over onto your bed, where one of the two pillows is missing it’s cover. You start to drift into sleep, but before you can enter the realms of dreams, you realize with a start: you hadn’t eaten a single piece of candy! Despite being around sweets for hours, you hadn’t eaten even a single branded chocolate; saving your Halloween candy was essential. One piece couldn’t hurt, though. You decide on something small - not too big, but not tiny, either. Something like…

...the caramel. You dig around in your pillowcase and pull it out. Now that you were in the light of your room, you could see colorful swirling patterns breaking up the normal monotone tan of caramel. What had the lady said? It was exotic? Whatever it was, it was like no other caramel you had ever seen, and it looked delicious.

Unrolling the clear wrapper, you pop it into your mouth, excited. Some inevitably sticks to your fingers. The soft caramel melts in your mouth, spreading across your tongue, and down your throat. It leaves you with a warm feeling, almost like soft, warm butter being spread on your insides.

The caramel in your mouth thickens just a bit, sticking to your teeth. You try to work it around in your mouth, but it grows even thicker, locking your jaw in place. The warm feeling grows hot, and you hold a hand to your stomach as you start to feel nauseous.

As you move your hand, you notice that your fingers refuse to bend. You look down in surprise. The caramel on your fingers had spread, coating your whole hand and locking it in place. You start to panic as the candy creeps across your body, spreading outwards from your hand and your stomach - some had gotten lodged on your shirt, too. Your clothes are pressed against you so tightly, they almost seem to become part of you. You hunch over as you are coated in sticky caramel. For a few seconds, your whole body is locked in place. You feel a pressure against your face, like the caramel was pushing into it. Or maybe your nose was pushing out of the caramel? Your arms feel are pulled around your stomach, and they almost seem to squish outwards, wrapping around yourself.

Soon - at least, you think it was soon; caramel had coated your perception of time, as well, leaving it slow-moving and awkward - soon, the caramel begins to loosen and the hot feeling begins to subside. You stomp, trying to knock the caramel off of your feet. You try to wiggle your toes, but they are… unwieldy. You quickly see why, as the caramel breaks off, revealing two large sets of talons on the ends of two large three-toed feet.

You pry your arms away from your sides as you wobble around on your now-pointy feet, trying to keep your balance. The caramel rips away along with them, hanging down in tattered shreds. It starts to fall away, dropping to the ground and revealing brightly colored wings underneath the hanging tatters instead of pink skin. You flap them frantically and fall over backwards.

Your caramel shell shatters all across your backside, and a huge tail covered in brilliant hues unfurls behind you, spreading the length of the room. You yell in surprise, but your face is still covered in caramel. The effort tears away the candy covering your nose and mouth. A huge SQUAWK echoes out, and you fling your hands to your face. Feathered wings meet a large beak, and you let out another surprised squawk.

Dizzy, you stumble upright and totter up to your mirror, your long tail dragging across the wooden floor behind you. What you see isn’t surprising, but it is still shocking: a huge bird, feathers askew, stares back at you from the mirror. You blink; the bird, your new form, blinks back. You realize that because of your many colors, you are most likely now male, regardless of any prior truth to that fact.

Your exhaustion gone, you flap your wings experimentally and rise a few inches into the air, your amazing plumage fragmenting the light into soft, multicolored shafts that decorate your room like a disco ball. While being a bird was disorienting, it certainly was dazzling. You drop back to the floor, talons clicking on wood. You aren’t nearly as clumsy now.

I could get used to this… you think, flexing your claws. An idea forms, and you smile as best you can with your curved beak. You hop onto your windowsill and pop open the latch, wriggling out into the night air. Why not go out for a night flight? After all, it’s not like matters could get much worse, and you could always stop by the old woman’s house to see if she had a cure.

Maybe later, though. After all, you don’t become a bird every day.

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