#magic boorish

[healthhomecare111]

The Magical Paintbrush:

[based-bobcat]

Vertigo Visions: Doctor Occult was somehow the most misogynist, misandrist and confusing comic I've ever read in my fucking life. I had no fucking clue what was going on half the time. I don't get why this story is in the books of magic omni. It has nothing to do with the stories that precede it that's for sure.

Doctor Occult (and his femme half Rose Psychic) investigate a woman who can't stop screaming (And guess the reason. It's a Vertigo-go-to and rhymes with ape.)

This book seems to imply that Occult and Rose are Male and Female combined, but they fall apart when they separate? Anyway, during their travels to the girl's psyche Rose gets corrupted by something and she suddenly she feels 'desire' and goes out to get her freak on with the shadowy voice who says he knows whats going on.

Rose gets separated from Occult and the plot loses me. Rose turns into a teenage girl who gets caught easily/gets seduced and Occult turns into a slobby, insecure ignoramus.

Here are some out of context panels

My face when reading was

[bump1nthen1ght]

A Very Monstrous Kinktober (2024) Day 23 - Size Difference

Kink: Size Difference

Pairing: M!Reader x M!Dragon

Other Kinks: Master/Pet Dynamics, Cock Worship

Word Count: 1497 words

Kinktober Masterlist

Living in a dragon’s den wasn’t nearly as bad as all the fairy tale’s made it seem.

Is he greedy? Yes, indulgently so, never wasting a moment to savor your supple body and sink into his own desires. Every item of his is gaudish and shining, flaunts immense power and wealth. He’s practically allergic to the word “no”, sneers at the idea of reeling back his own wants. 

But he can also be quite generous, loves to share his bounty and show it off to anyone who would listen. He’s caring, always kind and sweet to his treasures, knowing that he would be nothing, would feel nothing, without them. And while he may be boorish and crude on occasion, you couldn’t help but love his soft attentive touches, the praises he sings for you every day.

Like now, for example.

“Your tongue is quite talented, boy.” The dragon purrs, a palm the size of your head settling on top. “Always know how to please your master.”

You smile brightly, circling your tongue around his bulbous head, still too big for your poor mouth to slip fully around. His compliments always stir the butterflies in your stomach, making you feel extra special. His perfect little boytoy, always ready and able to satisfy his needs.

You kiss down his length, your master’s tail flickering in your peripheral vision. Sweat and pre-cum mix on your face, squishing together as you nuzzle your face into his heavy ball sack. Your master groans, humps into your pliant tongue when you suck each one into your mouth. His cock twitches above you, fresh spurts of pre-cum dropping onto your forehead.

“Yes, right there, pet.”

Your cock aches in your shorts, pushes against the fabric, now wet enough to be see-through. Your master is generous enough to let you touch yourself whenever you want, as greedy for your pleasure as he is his own, but you hold back. It makes whenever he touches you all the more special, your cock pulsing with desire and absolutely desperate.

Hot geysers of steam exhale from your master’s nose, you can just catch a glimpse of them from behind the massive cock taking up your vision. This close you can see the veins throbbing, almost taste the blood pumping below the thin skin. A dragon’s cock is the most sensitive part of them, not scaled like the rest and typically sheathed away. But your master is kind enough to let you view such a rare sight, let you savor it like a dessert.

You dance your fingers up his thick shaft, spit-slick palm rubbing up and down all that it can grasp, other hand busy massaging your master's thighs. If he so wanted he could squeeze them together and snap your neck, his sheer mass enough to crush your poor body. But he won’t; You trust each other like that.

“Hmm, you’ve got me close, pet. As much as I crave your tight throat-” Your master yanks back your head, leaving your tongue sticking out-  “I wish to fill up another one of your holes tonight.”

Your master’s grin is devious, nostrils flared and mouth curled to show each of his glittering canines. Nevertheless the large hand around your head is gentle, lays you onto the ground as he stands up. All  7 and a half feet of his more humanoid shape, the shape he often uses when he lays with you, stand tall and dominant, his cock hanging heavy from its own weight.

“Right where you belong, pet. Below me.”

Your master crawls over you, body moving like a tiger about to pounce. He glances over your weeping cock, tutting his lips.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to make you feel good.” He says, talking more to your cock than you. It’s lewd the way it makes your stomach tighten. 

Your master only needs the one hand to push up your hips, spreading your thighs around his waist and lining you up to his dick. Thank god for magic, cause without the tattoo decorating your lower back, there’s no way in hell you could fit all of him inside of you. 

You’re face to chest with your dragon master, hot streams of his breathe blowing across the top of your head. He’s a massive beast in every department, your eyes already becoming unfocused as his bulbous tip pushes into your asshole. The small bumps circling his head send pinpricks across the back of your thighs, scraping along your insides and driving you wild. 

Hard scales press shapes into your ass cheeks, the hard planes of your masters pelvis unmistakeable. You wear the bruises they leave with pride, another sigil that marks you as his most precious boytoy. The proud signs of being bent over and ravished.

Once he's fully seated, your master huffs and settles in. You clench your lower half, neck having to crane at an uncomfortable angle to see his gritted facial expression. 

“Naughty boy.”

He grunts, but you know he loves it. If he’s not pounding you into oblivion or being serviced by your mouth, your master loves to sit on his throne and let you cockwarm him. Just another chance to be together, to be locked in an embrace.

Nails dig into the plus carpet and through to the stone floor. Long, white stripes are dug by your master's claws, forcing himself to pull his cock from your tight hole, even just a couple inches. Another breath ruffles your hair, your master grunting as he finally reaches his tips.

“Fuck me.” You pant, hands clawing at his scaled stomach. You stick out your tongue for extra effect, head craned to look upward into his slitted eyes. “Please, master, fuck me.”

“With pleasure.”

Your body shoots across the carpet under the force of his cock head, stars exploding behind your eyelids when his thick head presses hard and fast against your prostate. He’s never been one to disobey a begging request from his pet.

“O-oh myyy go-god!” You moan, the sound of skin and scale colliding and ass cheeks jiggling as your master uses you like a sex toy. The mark on your lower back flows, magic fighting against anatomy to amplify your pleasure and suppress any pain, stretching you out just enough that your poor organs aren’t at risk. Nevertheless you can still feel his cock all the way up in your guts, your hole perfectly shaped to his cock.

Your legs struggle to lock around his broad waist, the tops of your toes barely touching while you struggle to ground yourself. You’re left instead merely flailing in air, ankles up to your masters shoulders as he pounds you into the ground.

You don’t realize you’ve closed your eyes until you feel claws digging into your cheeks, your master squeezing your face and forcing them back open. You're met with his panting expression, his long tongue curling around his fangs and his slitted pupils now blown wide open. 

“You look so h-handsome like this.” Your master laughs, eyes shifting between your sweaty face and his cock moving in and out of you. “Taking my cock, what a good little pet. I knew I chose right with you.”

You babble and nod your head, all senses jumping out your skull with each hit against your prostate. If that wasn’t enough, a scaly tail soon wraps around the base of your unattended cock, and you swear you black out for a second.

“I want to see you cum, dear pet.” your master sighs, jerking you off at a sloppy pace, his own hips beginning to stutter. “Cum all over yourself for me.”

It’s not a hard order to comply, your whole body feeling electrified, pulled into putty from both ends. Your hands claw into the ridges of your master’s back, face nuzzling into his defined scaly chest. 

“C-cuming!” You babble, ass clenching around the hot rod inside as your cock jumps in his tail’s grip. Your cum splatters all the way up your stomach, some even reaching your clavicle and spattering onto your master's pecs.

“Y-yess.” Your master hisses, his forked tongue flickering out, tasting the scent of your cum in the air. “Now take your master’s cum, boy. Take it.”

Your body spasms again once your master unleashes inside you, shooting buckets of cums into the deepest part, the excess spattering out the sides and across your ass cheeks. Your master always knows how to keep you extra full.

Your master stays inside, even as his cock begins to soften, his sheath opening up to retreat the sensitive phallus back inside. But this is just another part your master loves; Holding you in place, relishing in the warmth of your hole. He’s kind enough to bring your ass back to the ground, ease the ache in your back from being bent over in the mating press. If you could you would purr, nuzzling into the hard planes of his abdomen. 

“What a good pet, indeed.”

[pastshadows]

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 4: Magic and Mischief

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 7K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [not in currently posted chapters; possibly upcoming - I haven't decided] Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions.

You hear the beating sound of wings, and your bed lurches, causing you to drift in and out of your trance. Your eyes flutter, but you continue to bob between the waking world and your meditative state. Pressure on your chest pulls at the edges of your trance, and it crumbles down around you. You groan in lamenting protest at the intrusion on your rest. You urge your eyes to open and see Tara’s round green eyes staring down at you. Her little face is twisted in a fuming scowl.

“Your vampire is in a petulant mood this morning.”

That’s nothing new.

You stifle a yawn, “What do you mean?”

“I was hunting a mouse in his room, and he hurled a pillow at me! The audacity!”

Better a pillow than a dagger, I suppose.

Blinking, you rub the sleep out of your eyes, “Are you okay?”

“Oh yes, he was far too slow.”

Your still half-asleep mind processes her words sluggishly.

Too slow…

Wait.

Too slow?

A swell of unease tightens your chest, causing your heart to palpate sporadically, and worry creases your forehead.

What did she mean by too slow? Astarion was never slow. Unless… 

“I’m sorry he did that, Tara. You might want to consider his room a no-hunting zone. I will speak to him.”

Her tail sticks straight up, and her ears pin back, “Be sure you do. That kind of boorish behaviour will not be tolerated.”

She jumps off your bed with a furious huff and skitters out of your room through the small opening of your door, where she no doubt let herself in to apprise you of the vampire’s ill-mannered behaviour.

Too slow…

Tara’s words echo, reverberating off the boundaries of your thoughts. The only time Astarion was too slow was when he was hurt or starving, but he had seemed fine last night when he came to check on you. Without the daylight from the windows streaming in, it’s hard to discern what time it is, but it can’t be much later than early morning.

He typically isn’t even awake this early.

You slip out of bed in a flurry and slip your housecoat over your nightwear, tying it tight around your waist. You trot down the long, dim hallway. The wooden parquet flooring creaks under you, and your heavy footsteps echo off the walls. In your rush, you don’t even bother to light the candles to illuminate the space.

You knock on his door lightly, “Astarion?”

“Go away.”

His voice is unusually tense, bordering on strained. Your perception strikes like lightning, awakening all your senses in a sharp trill of foreboding alarm.

He doesn’t sound like his usual cavalier self.  

“Astarion, what’s wrong?”

“Please, just go away.”

Something is very wrong.

“No. I’m coming in.”

Swinging the door open, he scowls at you in a haunting grimace, “I said GO AWAY.”

Did he actually just yell at me?

Astarion had shouted at you before, but not often with such a pointed edge of malice tingeing his voice. If you were not so worried about him, it might have given you pause, but you shrug it off without much thought. Astarion would never hurt you.

Well… not physically or purposefully, at least.

The darkness obscures your vision, and although you can naturally see in the dark to some extent, it limits your ability to see details.

You whisper a cantrip, and fire combusts from your palm, forming a bright glowing sphere that hovers and revolves as if you were holding a small star in your hand.

Astarion barely reacts to the sudden emittance of fire. His eyes squint slightly at the unexpected bright light, and he looks from the fire to you with an unspoken query.

Narrowing your eyes, you peer at him observingly, studying him. His body is taught. All his muscles are tense as if he’s ready to fight. He trembles so violently you can practically feel him vibrating the air around you. His jaw is clenched hard, making the muscles in his neck protrude unnaturally. His eyebrows knit together in a frightening expression that makes your hair stand on edge.

He closes his eyes with a grimace and struggles to make himself appear relaxed, but you can see his knuckles strain and tremor under his death grip on the door. His other arm is bent behind his back, and even though you can’t see it, you know it’s clenched in a tight fist as he battles with himself.

“Darling, please, leave me be.”

You recognize this look. When you had first entered the Shadowlands, you had been so focused on trying to find a way to survive that horrid curse that no one had clued into the fact that there were no animals in this place for him to eat. Astarion never mentioned it to anyone and instead had suffered in silence until you found him in the furthest corner of the camp one night, away from everyone.

You toss and turn on your bedroll. The shadows of this place whisper and taunt from beyond the light that keeps them at bay. The corruption here is strong. It leaves you feeling unsettled, making slipping into a meditative state almost impossible.

Walking around camp as quietly as you can, you check on your friends, hoping it will ease some of the anxiety you feel. You mentally check them off in your head as you walk around.

Shadowheart. Gale. Wyll. Karlach. Lae’zel. Halsin. Scratch. Owlbear cub.

When you get to Astarion’s tent, he’s not there, and you look around the camp, confused for a moment.

Did he go hunting?

But how would he survive the curse?

Wait… What would he even hunt? Nothing survives the curse here, which means even if he could go hunting, there’s nothing for him to eat.

Fuck! How could I have been so blind?

You jog around but refrain from calling out to him. The others need their rest. You had been travelling through this damned land, fighting off all manner of creatures, and everyone was exhausted.

“Withers, where is Astarion?”

You pray the answer out of his mouth isn’t a demand for coin to cleave soul to body once more, but he simply points to an obscured area at the furthest edge of the camp.

You take off in the direction Withers is pointing in a hurry. As you turn a shallow corner, Astarion finally comes into view. He’s lying on the ground, curled up and writhing on the spot. His arms crossed over his stomach, his eyes squeezed shut, his forehead creased in the unmistakable grimace of agony.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You skid down and fall to your knees beside him, reaching for him, but he lurches away like a coiled spring, finally snapping free from the pressure.

“Stay away from me.”

“Astarion…”

He snarls at you like a wounded animal trying to protect itself from further harm. His mouth is set in a hard line. His jaw clenched so hard he can barely speak, teeth grating together with such force you can hear them rasping.

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

“Who’s counting?”

His voice shakes, tinged with a pain you’ve never heard in it before.

“How long, Astarion?”

“A ten-day, give or take a day, or two, or three. Time itself stills in this place.”

“Hells! Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It didn’t seem important.”

“Not important!? You are important! You should have said something!”

You bare your neck to him, “Here, feed on me.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no? You’ve never had a problem with it before.”

“You need your strength. In this place, everything is hungry.”

“Don’t be foolish!” You chastise him, “I… I need you.”

You haven’t yet told him about your feelings for him. They remain a secret, sitting uneasily and unspoken in your heart.

“I said no.”

“Please don’t make me do this, Astarion. I’m begging you.”

He shakes his head at you, his arms wrapped around himself as he trembles like a leaf in the wind.

You sigh, “I’m sorry. You leave me no choice.”

The last thing you want to do to him is take his agency away from him, but he cannot go on like this. He can barely speak, let alone continue travelling through this cursed land. You won’t, can’t, allow him to perish here.

With a quick maneuver, you unsheathe his dagger from his hip and slice a deep gash into your wrist. Blood rushes, gurgling out of the wound, dripping onto the dirt. Breath hisses from him harshly as his eyes focus on the bleeding cut.

You bring your wrist close to his face, “I need you, Astarion. Let me help you.”

His eyes dart to yours before he gives in with a growl, and his lips wrap around the bleeding slash. You can feel him draw your blood from you in large gulps. He moans low in his throat, and his body starts to relax, bit by bit, limb by limb.

You can feel yourself start getting lightheaded as he siphons your life out of you. Your skin starts to cool and pale, and your eyes feel heavy. Your heartbeat starts to slow to a feeble thump.

With a snarl, he throws himself back, detaching from your hemorrhaging wrist. Bright red blood is smeared on his lips and dribbles down the sides of his mouth.

He looks at you with alarm in those vibrant scarlet eyes and scrambles back to you. Astarion grasps your wrist tightly, elevating it above your heart. You waver slightly on your knees and then fall backwards into him, eyes fluttering towards him.

“Do you know how stupid that was? I could have killed you!”

He’s angry with me.

“I trust you, Astarion.” 

He growls, “You shouldn’t.” 

“I shouldn’t do a lot of things. It’s never stopped me before. I don’t see why it would now.”

His eyes bolt to your wrist. Despite his death grip putting pressure on your wound, blood is seeping out from his hand, gliding smoothly down your arm, painting your skin red.

“You cut too deep.”

“I’m fine, just a little tired.”

You close your eyes and float.

He jolts you, “No, wake up!”

“It’s okay, Astarion.”

You’re cold, you drift, and you feel your consciousness slipping.

He bellows, “SHADOWHEART!”

Astarion tries to swing the door shut on you, but you slam your hand into it with a loud thud, causing the fire to vanish instantaneously. Scowling defiantly at him, you push past him and barge into his room. The door rattles violently on its hinges as he slams it behind you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He seethes.

His room is dark, and you hurl fire into the fireplace, lighting the room in a warm glow.

You turn on him savagely, “You’re hungry, nearly starving by the looks of you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

He sighs loudly, “I may be a tad hungry.”

“A tad? Look at you! You’re trembling all over.”

You reach out to him, desperate to comfort him, but he backs away. Dropping your hand, you let your eyes dart to the floor so he won’t see the crestfallen look in them.

Why does he always hide things from me?"

“Haven’t you been hunting?”

“Of course! Well… I’ve tried.” He groans, “This damn city is too large and entirely too noisy. There isn’t exactly a ton of food readily prancing about.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I… I’ve visited enough pain upon you.”

Oh, for the love of… Not this bullshit again.

“I am not a child, Astarion!” You roar, “How do you ever expect us to work if you keep treating me like some wounded babe that needs coddling?”

The harsh look on his face lightens, “Us?"

Did I just say us?

You sigh, “You need to stop hiding things from me. I want the truth from you, even when it hurts.”

No more running.

"If you can do that, we will see if there can be an “us” again in the future.”

Astarion runs his hand over his face, “As you wish, my dear. I will endeavour to be more open with you going forward.”

“Good. Now, come with me. You need to eat. You’re grumpy.”

He laughs, “Grumpy, am I?”

“Very grumpy.”

Taking his hand, you lead him to your room and close the door, locking it behind you. You light the candle on the dresser with a whispered cantrip.

“How long has it been since you ate?”

“Oh, not too long.”

“The truth, Astarion.”

“Ugh.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut so hard his forehead creases, “About six days. Why?”

“I wanted to assess which strength Potion of Healing I’m going to need.”

“Healing potion?” He blinks, “Why do you still carry those around?”

“Old habits, I suppose.”

You pull the potion out of your bedside table and set it down before removing your housecoat. Throwing it on the bed, you take a step closer to him. You watch his jaw tense and relax repeatedly, and his hands clench into fists.

“You can’t go on like this. Feed on me.”

“I-,”

“Don’t make me get another dagger.”

He snickers, “You do have awfully terrible knife skills.”

“And Shadowheart isn’t here to save me from my own grave ineptitude.”

“You frightened me that night, you know. I hadn’t been that scared in,” he pauses, thinking, “decades. Not even when Cazador would pull me into the kennels…”

He steps closer to you.

“Astarion…”

“You wanted truth in all things, darling.”

Astarion grabs you by the waist, tugging your body flush against his. Bowing his head, he runs his lips down your neck and along your collarbone. As it always does, the temperature contrast sends shivers shooting up your spine, and you gasp. You roll your head to the side, exposing your neck to him further.

Astarion delicately kisses your neck, “You’re a gift.”

You feel that familiar icy pinch as his fangs sink in. You inhale sharply. The sudden stab of pain makes your hands go to his biceps, anchoring yourself, squeezing hard. The sharpness of the pain dissipates rapidly and becomes nothing more than a dull throbbing ache.

He groans against your neck, and you feel your essence being drawn out of you in steady, calculated pulls.

His tongue laps at your neck, savouring every drop. Astarion’s grip on your waist tightens, and he bucks his hips into you. His arousal is obvious, and he wants you to know it - feel it.

With a moan, you can’t help but gyrate your hips demandingly against him in response. You’re full of fevered need for him while he fills himself with you.

Your life spills into him, and you can feel yourself flowing through his veins, powering his muscles, sating his raging hunger. It’s an odd sensation - like you are one person inhabiting two bodies simultaneously.

Or perhaps that's the light-headedness talking.

Your head swims dreamily, and you close your eyes and let yourself begin to drift into him, enjoying the familiar serenity of this moment. The act of him feeding on you has always felt intimate. Your body shakes excitedly, and your heart croons the siren song of desire.

It feels like it ends too soon as Astarion removes his fangs from your neck carefully. He places his cool palm on the wound, putting firm pressure on it to staunch any residual bleeding. He reaches over to the bedside table and uncaps the healing potion with his teeth before bringing it to your lips.

“Drink.”

You do as you’re told, and Astarion pours the viscous sweet liquid into your mouth in deliberate increments, giving you time to swallow until the bottle is drained.

“Good girl.” He purrs as his thumb slides across your lips, wicking away any drops that may have spilt.

His eyes are lidded heavily with a carnal lust you would recognize anywhere. The crimson hue of his irises is so vibrant that they look like polished glinting gems, and you’re captivated by the dazzling incandescence.

Astarion eases the pressure on your neck momentarily, checking to see if the bleeding has stopped before reapplying it.

“Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, “Gentle as a babe.”

The tapered points of his ears are flushed rosy-pink, and his body is no longer clenched unnaturally. He looks happy, the way you like to see him, and you smile at him.

“What are you smiling at, my dear?”

Sighing softly, “You.”

“And why ever would that be?”

“You look happy.”

His eyebrows rise, and he cocks his head, “Perhaps, I overdid it.”

“No, you didn’t.” You bring your hand to the one he’s holding firmly against your neck and slide your fingers around his wrist, “I just like seeing you like this; the points of your ears flushed, your body relaxed, smiling. I like seeing you happy.”

His voice softens into a low, seductive timbre, “Is that so? Do you know when I am happiest?”

“Elbow deep in gore, if my memory serves me correctly.”

He chuckles, “Oh no, my love. I’m happiest when I’m deep in you.”

Promptly, you once again become exceedingly cognizant of his hard length pressed firmly against you. Using his index finger, he gently tilts your head so that you’re meeting his gaze. The passionate intensity in his eyes makes your heart leap, and you draw in a sharp breath. Your lips part intuitively as you stare back up at him, letting your eyes devour his beauty.

I should stop him.

He lowers his mouth to yours in a tender caress, and your eyes flutter closed. Your tongue traces his lips, and he parts them for you with a deep moan, allowing you to taste him. His mouth harbours the metallic tang of you, and it only pushes your arousal higher.

Your fingers nimbly pull the hem of his shirt free from his pants, desperate to feel his satiny, cool skin. Your hand glides up the contours of his lithe body greedily. You let out a shuddering breath as you feel the aching need in your already swelling flesh.

Astarion hugs you firmly to him as he walks you carefully backward until you’re anchored between him and your bedroom wall. His erection presses into you, and you grind against him, desperate for the gratifying friction. He groans, driving his hips further into you with an eager whimper.

He breaks the kiss off, nipping playfully at your lower lip, and looks down at you with heated eyes, half-lidded with arousal.

“Tell me what you want, my love, and it’s yours.”

What do I want?

Him.

Just him… forever.

You tremble against him, and your voice comes out in a breathless pant, “You.”

He trails his finger down your neck, featherlight across your chest and between your breasts.

Oh.

“You’re beautiful like this, you know. Skin flushed, teeming with need, begging to be tasted.”

Fuck.

His finger continues its lazy route down your stomach and over your belly button. Your skin prickles at the sensation, and tension coils hot in your abdomen. You can feel your knees buckle as the walls of your core spasm and contract.

So close.

He continues his relentless teasing advance. His fingers sweep under your night shirt and brush over the silk shorts covering your swollen clit, and you let out a shuddering breath.

“Fuck.” He hisses under his breath, “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”

“Astarion…”

“I want to hear you say it.”

You feel bashful all of a sudden, heat rising to your face. Your voice quivers pleadingly, “I want you.”

Astarion pushes his hand past the waistband of your shorts, and his finger slips between your folds. You have to stop yourself from crying out at the decadent sensation of his bracing fingers cooling the fiery heat pooling between your legs.

The pad of his finger teases your clit, drawing leisurely circles around the swollen, pulsing bundle of nerves. You moan, bucking your hips, and sag into him.

Your bedroom door rattles loudly, and Gale’s muffled voice rings behind it, startling you, “Are you in there? Tara told me something is wrong with Astarion, and he’s not in his room.”

“Gods, his timing is horrendous,” Astarion whispers near your ear.

Or it’s perfect. I let that go too far.

Your entire body whines with displeasure as Astarion stops the delicious onslaught of sensation and withdraws his hand.

It takes you a moment to regain enough of your composure that your mind can coherently put words together again.

“Just a second!” You finally manage to call out.

You grab the robe hanging over the chair by your bed and slip into it in a rush. Astarion sits on your bed, hiding the obvious erection still prominent in trousers.

Your fingers still tremble from the adrenaline coursing through your veins, and you fumble with the lock on your door. Gale’s concerned face is awaiting you when you finally manage to open it.

“Were you still resting? I didn’t mean to wake you, but Tara-” He cuts off as his eyes fall on Astarion sitting casually on your bed, “Oh… I hope I’m not interrupting?”

Before Astarion can get a word in, you blurt out, “No, of course not. Tara woke me to say Astarion seemed unwell, so I went to check on him. Everything is fine.”

“Unwell?” Gale eyes the fresh bite mark marring the skin of your neck, “I see.”

Fuck. I forgot about that.

Feeling the need to explain yourself, and by extension Astarion, you continue with your hasty word vomit, “He was just hungry. Apparently, there aren’t a lot of animals roaming the forests around Waterdeep.”

“Hmmm, I’m sure,” Gale says skeptically, eyeing Astarion.

“Your neck is safe, wizard.”

“Yes. I see you’ve already found one to dine on.”

You don’t like the austere intonation of Gale’s voice or the weariness in shaded in his eyes.

“I offered, Gale.”

“Yes, of course you did.”

Astarion stands abruptly, “Thank you for the meal, darling. I’m feeling much less… grumpy. I best get some sleep. I am ever so tired .”

Astarion kisses your cheek and whispers in your ear, “This isn’t over.”

Gale watches Astarion with reservation as he disappears into his room.

“No animals in the forest, hm? And you believe him?”

“He can hear you, Gale.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Yes, I believe him. He has no reason to lie, and we have no reason to doubt him.”

“I would argue that your blood is a rather strong incentive to be untruthful.”

You shoot him with a warning look, irked by the judgemental undertone. It was your neck, your blood and your choice. Whether he believed Astarion or not was inconsequential.

He sighs, “It’s none of my business. You know him better than I, after all.”

Tara lopes down the hallway, rubbing herself on Gale’s legs as she weaves through them.

“Did you speak to the vampire about his conduct?”

“Yes, of course. He said he was ever so sorry, and he won’t throw anything at you ever again. He even promised he would warm your evening milk.” You raise your voice slightly even though you know you don’t have to, “Isn’t that right, Astarion?”

His voice echoes down the hall, muffled by his closed door, and you can hear the displeasure in it, “Indeed.”

Gale excuses himself, proclaiming that he has business in the city he must attend to. Closing your door, you rest your forehead against it, taking deep breaths.

That was too close, but at the same time, not nearly close enough.

Your body is still humming with anticipatory tension, yearning for his intoxicating caress. Your skin crawls with the prospect, and you shake your head, trying to dislodge your titillating thoughts. With a grumble, you ready yourself a bath in the large oval wooden tub and soak in it until the water becomes too tepid.

You spend the rest of your day doing idle chores, trying to keep your hands and mind busy enough that your thoughts stop drifting to what had occurred in your room that morning.

I will never be able to look at that wall the same.  

By late evening, you’re sitting by the fireplace in the grand hall, engrossed in your book. Tara lounges sprawled out in front of the hot flames leaping about in the fireplace.

You twitch, jolted by a light kiss placed on the top of your head.

“Sorry. Did I startle you?”

“You could make some sort of noise when you move about, you know.”

Astarion cocks his head, “I could… but where is the fun in that?”

He sits in the heavily padded chair across from you with a cunning smile on his roguishly handsome face.

Gods. He really is something else, isn’t he?  

“You delight in scaring people?”

“Darling, I’m a vampire. It’s in my nature.”

You roll your eyes at him, “Did you sleep well?”

“Like the dead.”

“Very funny.”

Astarion leans forward and eyes you raptly. The ambient light increases the cardinal lustre of his red eyes. Striking shadows cast bewitchingly over his debonair expression. A small half smile quirks up one side of his lips.

You cock your head at him, “What?”

“Come out with me tonight.”

You close the book, “Do you need help with something?”

“No, darling. I want to take you out… on a date.”

“A date?”

“Yes. Allow me to court you.”

“Court me?” You giggle, “You sound old.”

He chuckles, “Love, I AM old.”

“What would we go do?”

“Go to a tavern, go on a crime spree, rob someone. The possibilities are endless really.”

You nod, “Okay.”

“Truly?”

“You sound surprised. Did you expect me to say no?”

His finger comes to his lips, “Last I checked, friends don’t go on dates.”

I have let my misery shackle me for far too long. I’m sick of being afraid.

“They don’t,” you say bluntly, “But there’s something you must do first.”

“Anything.”

“You owe Tara warm milk.”

Astarion sags in his chair with a loud groan.

Tara’s head pops up, eyes suddenly alert, and her tail vibrates happily straight into the air, “It’s about time, vampire!”

He points at Tara, “This is your fault.”

You beam an angelic smile at him, “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Go get ready. I’ll warm the…,” he pauses, “Tressym, her bloody milk.”

“A man of his word.”

He lowers a haughty glower at you, his mouth twitching with the hint of a smile, “Go.”

You trot up the long staircase to your bedroom giddily. Butterflies carouse in your stomach and your heart flutters in tempo with the beating of their wings.

A date? We’ve been out countless times together, but Astarion has never asked me on an actual date.

You slip into a yellow, body-hugging sheathe dress with long sleeves. The delicate fabric is adorned by an embroidered dragon twirling from your chest, down your back and around your midsection. You pick a dress with a high neck to cover the fresh bite marks gracing your skin. Checking the mirror, you comb your hair and freshen your makeup before going downstairs.

You hear Tara scold Astarion, “It’s not warm enough, vampire.”

You have to stifle a laugh as you walk into the kitchen. Astarion is standing with the bowl of milk in 1 hand, and his other is pressed against his forehead, lamenting exasperation, as Tara stares at him scathingly through narrowed eyes.

“Having trouble?”

He hits you with an impatient look that slowly dissolves as his eyes explore you from head to toe and back again.

His mouth drops open, “You look exquisite.”

You giggle, soaking in his praise, “Let me help you with that.”

You slip the bowl of milk from his hand as he stands there in stunned rapture.

Fire springs to life in your palm, and you hover the bowl just above the licking blaze, warming the milk quickly. Placing the bowl on the ground, Tara starts to lap the warm milk with happy, resounding purrs.

“Astarion?”

“Yes?”

“You’re gawking.”

“Right. Apologies.” He bows shallowly, “Shall we go?”

“Lead on.”  

You and Astarion stroll through the dozing city. The streets are dimly lit by tall lanterns burning in precise increments on each side of the thoroughfare. You’re thankful this night feels warmer than most, or maybe it’s just your feverish excitement keeping the cold at bay.

You banter back and forth while you make your way into the center of nightlife here in Waterdeep. The walk is long, which takes longer as you and him stroll casually, enjoying each other's company.

The stars shine brightly overhead and flicker captivatingly as you stare at them. You feel Astarion’s hand bump up against you. You smile as his hand slides into yours, and your fingers interlock.

“I can’t believe you had me warm milk for that cat.”

“You threw a pillow at the TRESSYM.”

He huffs, “She was thumping about in my room!”

“I don’t see the problem. You warmed her milk the other night, did you not?”

He nods, “I did.”

“Why?”

“I needed her to deliver a message to a lovely, fiery sorceress. She needed convincing.���

“Why ask her to deliver the message at all?”

“I did not want you to think I ran off again.”

Oh…

He kisses the back of your hand, “You know this city better than I do. Where should we go get ourselves into trouble?”

You flash him a wicked smile, “I have an idea.”

“Oh, intriguing.”

“This way.”

You walk hand-in-hand, leading him through the winding avenues until you’re standing in front of the tavern called The Grinning Lion.

“This certainly looks upscale.”

“This is where the nobles come to overindulge. I want to play our game.”

His eyes widen in surprise, a devious grin stretches across his face, and he drags you, giggling, into the tavern.

The tavern is busy, as it was most nights. The walls are adorned with dark, heavily lacquered wood panelling. Opulent scones decorate them, casting their softly rocking illumination. Cabinets of obviously fraudulent battle trophies line the walls. Finely dressed nobles, patriars, and other well-off citizens pack the crowded room. They hoot and holler, calling out lascivious jeers.

Astarion smiles fiendishly, “Oh yes, this will do nicely.”

Astarion’s hand comes to the small of your back, and he leans close, “What would you like to drink?”

“Something hard.”

“Someone is feeling adventurous tonight. Find us a table. I’ll get the drinks.”

You nod to him and start to meander your way through the befuddled crowd. You turn your head slightly, but not enough to look at him.

Under your breath, you whisper, “And Astarion… Red jacket, blue piping, unsightly hat, greying beard.”

You weave your way through the throng, getting bumped into from time to time by some roaring drunk noble stumbling about. Finding a small table in a dim corner, you sit in the overtly pretentious chair and scan the rambunctious room.

It isn’t long before Astarion walks up and slides your drink over to you. You pick it up and take a small sip. Elquesstria, imported from Evereska - your favourite. He hits you with a striking, playful smile.

You lean back in your chair, “Did you manage?”

“What do you think?”

You hear the recognizable jingle of coin, and he smirks at you with a guileful expression, “We should endeavour to thank him before we retire.”

You giggle, taking another long sip of the succulent liquor. This was a game you and he had invented purely for amusement. You’d pick a mark for him, and he would relieve them of their coin or whatever else was in their pockets.

You point him towards progressively more difficult marks, trying to give him a challenge. If he successfully picks the pocket of every target, he wins; if you point him at someone and he either declines or gets caught, you win. The prize was whatever you two decided on after.

You have never won.

He was too good, an expert Rouge through and through, with centuries of practice and mastery of his skills behind him. His stealth and dexterity are unmatched.

You finish your glass in long gulps when you see the waitress heading for your table. Her eyes graze over Astarion, and her hips start to sway lewdly back and forth. She straightens herself elegantly and tugs on her shirt, revealing more of her ample cleavage. You stop yourself from groaning.

And it starts already.

The waitress puts her hand on the table, leaning close to him, closer than she needs to, “Can I get you something, Saer?”

He glances at your empty drink and orders you another. She nods curtly at him, “And for yourself?”

“Nothing for me.”

He stares straight past her, watching the crowd, and she huffs in frustration and stomps away. You can feel the alcohol going to your head already, and you giggle at her vexation with his complete dismissal of her transparent flirtation.

He cocks a brow at you and leans in, “What?”

Surely, he noticed that, right?

“Nothing.”

“Alright, love. Who is next on your hit list?”

Your finger idly taps the table, and you keep your eyes focused on him, “Light blue shirt, short blonde hair, ugly shoes.”

He nods, “You remember how to play well.”

It was something he had taught you so that you didn’t rouse suspicion. Scan the crowd, but don’t stare at any one person for too long. Pick a mark and watch from your peripheral vision to pick out the details if more are needed.

“I had a good teacher.”

Astarion sips his drink, “The best,” he winks, “I’ll be right back.”

He gets up from his chair and scans his surroundings, no doubt planning his route.

You keep your voice quiet. His sharp ears will hear you even in this raucous commotion, “Astarion.”

He hesitates but doesn’t look at you. He lowers his head and straightens his jacket - a signal to you that he’s listening.

“And the waitress.”

Astarion strides away into the crowd, and you keep your eyes cast down at the table. You want to watch him, but you know that would make it far too obvious. If someone were to notice your intense gaze following him, it would hamper his ability to slink through the rabble.

The waitress reappears and sets your drink down with a loud thud. She looks around, obviously looking for your earth-shatteringly handsome company, and then slaps you with a catty half-smile.

You look at her with the sweetest smile you can muster, “Thank you.”

She takes off with a huff and vanishes. You shake your head, laughing to yourself.

My jealous streak is alive and well, it seems.

Taking another long draw of your drink, you savour the slight burn as it slides down your throat. Your limbs start to tingle, and your inhibitions dwindle. You settle into this moment comfortably without fear and insecurity gnawing at you.

Astarion dodges around a particularly inebriated man awkwardly lumbering and takes his seat gracefully beside you. He grabs his drink and takes another small sip.

“The waitress hardly seemed a worthy target.”

You rest your head on your hand, “Is this your way of telling me you lost?”

He scoffs, “Hardly. A mere observation. I’m curious, why her?”

“She was stripping you with her eyes. I thought it only fair you strip her of her coin.”

His eyes meet yours, and he smirks, “You’re a merciless, jealous thing, aren’t you?”

Taking another gulp of your drink, you smile and shrug at him innocently.

“If you keep drinking like that, the night will be over far too quickly, darling.”

You bring your hand to your chest dramatically, “Are you insinuating I can’t hold my liquor, Astarion?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to carry you home.”

“Unlikely to be the last too.”

He chuckles, “Promises. Promises.”

You glance around the room, “Enlighten me, Astarion. Who would be the hardest mark here?”

His eyebrow cocks, “Asking me to give away trade secrets now? How very bold.” He smirks, sipping his drink, “I’m not sure I should. I do want to win, after all. I have my prize all picked out and everything.”

You drain your glass. You know that look and the suggestion intonation along with it.

The waitress appears at Astarion’s side with a bright grin and a tempestuous, sultry gaze, “Can I refresh that for you, Saer?”

She doesn’t even look your way, let alone meet your eyes, and you feel your palm warm with the unmistakable heat of your envy physically manifesting. You can’t help yourself, and you scoff out loud at her.

Astarion keeps a keen eye on you, ignoring her proximity to him, “Another drink for my wife.”

He takes your hand, placing an affectionate kiss across your knuckles. You sputter, nearly choking on the air, and the heat emanating from your palm retreats with the rush of astonishment.

His wife... Gods, why does that sound so good?

The waitress shoots herself upright, her face flushes, and she backs away from him swiftly, “Right away, Saer.”

She scurries off in an uncoordinated hurry. You would laugh had you not been staring at him in bewilderment.

“Your wife?”

“Don’t worry, friend, you’re all but green with envy, not to mention that twitchy palm of yours. I thought you might enjoy seeing her flounder.”

You stare at him, mystified. The spirits make your head feel fuzzy, and your heart feels like it’s shot up and lodged in your throat. Your thoughts revolve dizzyingly.

The waitress returns and plunks your glass in front of you with a fake smile. He nods to her curtly, and she hurries back off.

You grab your glass and swallow several big sips, draining half of it, before returning it to the table.

Astarion looks around, anxiously glancing away from you and back, “Did I overstep?”

Your voice comes out in a breathy sigh, “No.”

He smiles, “I do not often see you lost for words. What’s going on in your head?”

“Nothing, just…” you shake your head, trying to get a hold of yourself, “Nothing. You were about to enlighten me before we were rudely interrupted.”

“Was I?”

You find your confidence, “Yes, I believe you mentioned something about trade secrets.”

“Oh no, darling,” he tuts, “I mean to win tonight.”

“Consider the game won.”

“I win?”

You nod, “If you teach me what a Rogue looks for.”

“And my prize?”

“We can discuss that on the way back.”

“Deal.”

Astarion reaches over, grabs the spindly leg of your chair, and drags it across the floor until you’re right beside him. He leans in close, and you inhale his intoxicating scent.

“Do you see the man sitting at the large round table in the middle of the room? Tan shirt, sweat stains, grotesquely stiff moustache?”

You quickly scan the room, not allowing your eyes to linger too long on any particular area, “The large man?”

He nods, “The very one.”

You look at him quizzically and tilt your head just enough to see the man in your peripherals, searching for reasons he would be the toughest mark here. All you can make out is that he is stationary, and due to his location in the room, a number of people are huddled around him.

“Care to elaborate?”

Astarion’s eyes are full of beaming delight. He always did love teaching you his craft, even if you were terrible at it. It makes your heart leap.

“Tell me what you see.”

“He’s in the middle of the room, naturally where most of the people congregate, and he doesn’t move from his chair often, if at all.”

“Very good, darling,” he purrs, “he’s in the pathway for the waiters and waitresses, meaning they check in with him most often. The counter is in front of him, so there’s always someone observing. There’s also an oil lamp on the beam to the left that brightens the area, which, naturally, people will gravitate to.”

You nod your understanding and wait for him to continue.

“As you so astutely observed, he doesn’t move often - in the dark, that would be an advantage, but not in well-lit areas. Also, his coat and pants are rather… tight,” his face twists in disgust, “and wet. I don’t have to explain that one to you, surely.”

You giggle at the revulsion twisting his face, levelling a challenging glare at him, “Are you saying you couldn’t do it?”

He snickers, “With time and patience, anything can be done, but I would not touch that man if he had all the coin in Faerûn. He’s positively sodden. I can smell him from here.”

“Even if it meant you would lose?”

“For you, my dear, I would do anything, but surely you don’t mean to go back on our deal?”

You polish off your drink, “No. I am a woman of my word. You win… for tonight.”

“Good. Shall we go? I fear the walk back will take us until sunrise as you stumble about.”

“You have no faith in me, Astarion. I would always cast Fly.”

He snickers at you, “You would likely Fly straight into a building.”

You can’t help but laugh.

He’s probably right.

“I’ll go settle up.”

You nod, “I’ll wait for you outside. I’m not sure how much more obnoxious yelling I can handle.”

“Don’t stray too far, love.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He grins and departs, once again lost to the crowd. You twist your way through the unruly horde and let yourself out. The crisp night air feels refreshing in your lungs, and you drink in it. The tavern air felt unnaturally warm, carrying the sour fragrance of stale spirits and body odour.

Chilled by the breeze, you cross your arms over yourself and wander a little way towards the street.

“My wife.”

You hear Astarion’s voice in your head and smile to yourself giddily. Perhaps it’s the liquor influencing you, but you finally feel like you’re ready to stop running from him, from yourself, and your feelings. You hope you wake up in the morning with the same unwavering resolve.

The unsteady slapping of hard-soled boots on the pavement wrests you out of your hazy thoughts.

“Saer, I thought that was you.”

With a cringe, you turn and see a heavily wavering man. He looks almost like a sapling tree caught in a high wind as he sways from one side to the other on his feet, stumbling to keep his balance.

“Aldous.”

AO3: [Cross-Posted]

Chapter Master List - Shadows of the Past

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. It gives me the confidence to keep posting, and I am grateful for the support!

I am SO tempted to write more date nights for Tav because this was incredibly fun!

[yuurei20]

I was wondering if it's ever mentioned about Rook disliking anyone, because I don't remember ever getting that impression. I can pretty easily think of someone anyone else dislikes so it felt odd lol

Hello hello!! I think you may be right!

Rook himself might be one of the more disliked characters, with Floyd calling him annoying, Leona calling him a pest and a weirdo and Malleus saying he seems like a boorish fool.

Trey says, “Rook tends to blurt out everything that crosses his mind, positive OR negative,” but I have not been able to find him speaking disparagingly of any other person.

Trey gives the example of Rook saying that an assignment from their Science Club advisor was boring and, while happening off-screen, that might be one of the most negative things that Rook has ever said. When commenting on his most disliked food (garlic) he says it is “not so much a distaste as it is a…professional aversion.”

Even when discussing Idia (possibly the character who earns more in-game vitriol than any other) he is gentle with his wording, saying, “We all sparkle in different ways. The Roi de sa Chambre shines when conversing with his own heart. He is not one for forming friendships with scads of people.” (Riddle clarifies that, “In other words, he’s a shut-in.”)

And even during the first Halloween event when Magicam monsters harass Vil with constant, unwanted photography, he never speaks poorly of them.

Trey says that he has never seen Rook in a bad mood. Vil says Rook is “affable and honest. Honest to a fault sometimes, and utterly devoid of tact,” insinuating that if Rook had a problem with someone, Vil believes that he would let it be known.

As we learned in Book 5, however, Rook is wholly capable of keeping his opinions secret for years even from Vil, so I’m not sure there is any way we can really know for sure.

What might be the harshest thing Rook has ever said was a line invented for the EN server: he calls Leona an “idiote” (the feminine form of the word) in a vignette, but he has not actually ever name-called anyone (and he is very much a fan of Leona).

There might be another question here of, "Do any of the three light-magic users (Rook, Kalim, Silver) dislike anyone?," and the answer might be no!

Much like Rook, Kalim is also infamously positive ("When everybody else is happy, I'm happy, too!") and the closest we see Silver come to having an issue with someone is during Spectral Soiree, when he tells Jamil, "It's wrong to take other people's things."

But he soon decides that Jamil is trying to teach him a life lesson about making hard decisions for the greater good and spends the rest of the event complimenting Jamil on his foresight, even presenting him to Lilia as the reason he was able to reach their goal.

Silver does not seem to have a problem with Leona either, and when Rollo's plot is revealed during Glorious Masquerade his first reaction is wondering what must have happened to him to result in Rollo making such choices.

So this may not be a quirk that is unique to Rook, but possibly something shared by all three light-magic users! :>

[glowingbadger]

YES A FELLOW GALE LOVER! i can't resist those big brown eyes.

F, K, W for Mr. Gale bg3?

I love our beautiful dork of a mage!!! Also I got another request for Gale but the only difference in letters was that they requested D as well, so I'll just put all of those in this post.

Also, writing for BG3 characters is so weird because there's like... actual, canon information about their sex lives? Like, I'm so used to taking what's in canon and extrapolating what sex with a character might be like in a purely hypothetical sense, but with BG3 it's like... I have actually fucked Gale. I was there, it was awesome.

Alphabet prompts - Gale (BG3)

D (dirty secret), F (favorite position), K (kink), W (wild card)

NSFW 18+

Dirty secret: Over the years, Gale has maintained something of a preoccupation with envisioning all of the erotic potential in magic, to the point that he has a mental (maybe physical too) list of spells he wants to experiment with sexually. From the more obvious, like utilizing illusions to create more stimulating visuals, or Mage Hand to add to how he's able to touch you, to the somewhat creative, like the myriad uses of Alter Self, all the way to more eclectic options, like utilizing Web or Shape Stone for bondage purposes, or... with a HUGE amount of focus applied to doing so safely without harming you... some experimentation with Evard's Black Tentacles. With time and trust, he may even be willing to delve into mind affects like Dominate Person, if you request it. Needless to say, he's imagined it all.

Favorite position: Leaving aside whatever position one would consider "melding consciousnesses in the weave," to be- even while being intimate in a more traditionally "physical" way, Gale prefers to feel as much of your body against his as possible. He wants to be positively tangled in you, immersed in your touch, your scent, every amount of you he can feel and cherish. This means he's happy with missionary, with spooning you, with fucking you deep and steady from behind while pressing his body against yours on the bed- anything so long as he can hold you close and feel as intimately connected to you as possible.

Kink: I suppose we've already discussed extensively what might be considered a "magic kink" of sorts- but other than this, it absolutely has to be a praise kink. Telling Gale in no uncertain terms exactly how good he makes you feel and how dearly you adore him will have his cock throbbing hard and his pulse pounding, desperate to truly earn such praise and show you how eager he is to live up to it. That said, he will absolutely give as much as he receives; Gale can't tell you enough how breathtaking you are and how he'd give anything to hear you cry out his name each and every night. His silver tongue will never get tired- no matter how it's put to use.

Wild card: Listen. Maybe this isn't much of a headcanon, since his "flirting by asking you if you've ever read books where the heat of battle makes people horny" moment in act 2 basically implies this as canon- but Gale is a regular smut connoisseur. He's the type to get extremely invested and rather snobbish about it as well- my guy has got some hot takes. He's picky about the tone, quality and realism (for the sake of immersion, of course, he's not so boorish as to insist on realism at the detriment of artistry), but when it lands, he'll read with rapt attention, finding himself incredibly attached to the characters, their dynamic, the romance of it all. It only makes him long for you more desperately; yours is a love that would shame any prose or poetry, after all.

[xfulmen]

Friendly reminder that Laxus' strength is considered to be on the same level as a Wizard Saint yet the reason he isn't one is because of his boorish behaviour. ( despite the fact that currently this title doesn't have as much significance as it used to, unfortunately ) And when he was heavily poisoned to the point of being on the brink of death he was still able to summon nuclear explosions causing catastrophies with a snap of fingers. And that's not because of the lacrima that was implanted on him, that's his own raw strength. His lacrima served as the key to unlock the massive amount of magic he possesses.

[limerental]

ficletvember 2024 - day 24

yennefer/sabrina

Sabrina Glevissig arrives at Aedirn's court apparently simply to affectionately antagonize a disillusioned Yennefer.

Stares and whispers follow the sorceress as she strides across the opulent banquet hall. How beautiful she is, the crowd thinks, how poised and delicate. How long the trail of her gown, how generous the cut of her decolletage. Oh, hopefully she has come to replace our moody and miserable court sorceress.

Yennefer fights the urge to roll her eyes and draws away from the minds of the masses. Aedirn's court in Vengerberg has proven to be full of dim-witted fools, the king included. Of course, they'd look at Sabrina Glevissig and mistake her for a woman of substance. 

“Oh Yenna, you haven't changed in all these years,” says Sabrina as she slips close enough to kiss one of Yennefer's cheeks and the other. Her smile is brilliant white, her cheeks rosy. “You're still as unpleasant as you ever were.”

“A pity,” Yennefer says as she clasps Sabrina's arms, “I had hoped to become even more unpleasant as I aged.”

“Like a moldy cheese. Or a fine wine that ages to vinegar.”

“Have you come to my court simply to exchange unimaginative insults?” Yennefer asks as they begin to walk a circuit of the room, their elbows linked.

“Your court?” Sabrina laughs. “They'd leap at the chance to exchange you for the first pretty face that comes along.”

“They'll be waiting a while longer then,” says Yennefer.

Court decorum states that she is meant to introduce the visiting sorceress to the necessary parties gathered here and there throughout the banquet hall, but Yennefer steers them away from the most chatty and convivial, not interested in being forced to watch Sabrina shamelessly flirt back with geriatric nobleman.

“It's not flirtation, Yenna. It's called being a generous conversation partner.”

“Is that why your neckline falls so low? Generosity?”

“No, that's flirtation.” Sabrina winks. Her eyes are drawn with smoky cosmetics, her lashes lengthened with magic. As a girl, Yennefer remembers being desperately jealous of Sabrina's effortless beauty. Besides being flat as board through the chest, she hadn't needed to change a single thing with her enchantments.

Sabrina hears the memory in Yennefer’s thoughts, and her smile grows smug and her gaze heavy.

“Aren't you here for some reason besides monopolizing my precious time?” Yennefer asks, interrupting her lewd thoughts.

“Please, your King Virfuril’s already drunk himself to sleep, and your court would rather you did as well. You've got nothing more important to do and no one more important to do it with.” 

“I haven't missed you,” says Yennefer.

“No, I should hope not.”

They make another round of the room, passing a particularly rowdy corner, where Yennefer recognizes the young Prince Henselt of Kaedwen, uproariously drunk and seemingly involved in a drinking contest with Virfuril’s eldest son. It's Sabrina's turn to steer them away from unwanted conversation.

“So your court isn't perfectly appreciative of you either,” says Yennefer. “Is your prince that awful?”

“He’s a hot-headed, boorish imbecile,” says Sabrina even while still smiling courteously. “It's fortunate his elder brother will take the throne. Kaedwen would likely meet its end under his rule.”

“No great loss there. Unfortunately, Aedirn will likely continue existing in miserable drudgery for centuries, whether or not I stick around to see it.”

Sabrina looks at her, a faint glimpse of alarm showing through her polite expression.

“You're thinking of abandoning court? Yenna, if the Brotherhood hears of this–”

“And where would they hear of it?” It's only a passing fantasy, the thought of leaving Aedirn to rot. “Don’t tell me you enjoy being a glorified babysitter. A mage of your power, and you've been sent along to cure your prince’s hangovers. I warm their castles and protect their borders and Aedirn's court still sees me as a joyless witch they'd love to trade for a prettier model.”

“You are a joyless witch,” says Sabrina with a sniff, even as she guides them out of the banquet hall, pointedly turning her back on Henselt's drunken crowd.

In the darkened corridor beyond the hall, she wastes little time in crowding Yennefer against a marble pillar, a thigh between her legs, her lips at her throat. Yennefer’s hands sink into Sabrina's blonde curls. 

They hadn't been friends as girls, but they'd done this often, sneaking out of Aretuza's dormitory at night, giggling and smug over never being caught.

“Tell me more about how powerful a mage I am,” says Sabrina as she kisses down her neck. 

“You'll have to work harder than that to have me singing your praises.”

Sabrina leans back, her hands fitting easily to Yennefer's corsetted waist, and her courtly polite smile has vanished, replaced by something wicked.

[commanders-company]

Audio Log Archive: Calculator Zoxxe

Entry 34 - 1326 AE. Transcription start:

Ten years with the Inquest, and I’m still equally amazed and appalled at what my fellows get themselves caught up in. I’m sure sciences like herpetology and ichthyology have their uses, but it gets aggravating seeing promising researchers become obsessed with some rare fauna or another when they should be applying themselves to the stated goals of our organization.

Case in point, this “Scarlet” character. Everyone and their golem is buzzing about this mysterious sylvari who studied at all three colleges - personally, I doubted the authenticity of her certifications even before the Council revoked them. As though a non-asura could ever hope to achieve our heights of genius. Ha!

Still, I can’t deny the spark behind her eyes. She has big plans, whatever they might end up being, and I have no doubt she will do anything to see them through. I have no interest in partnering with pirates or bandits or whatnot, so I will continue to watch from a distance as I continue my own aetherology research here. Who knows, maybe Scarlet will impress me after all. Or maybe dolyaks will sprout wings and fly.

Entry 39 - 1327 AE

Of course Scarlet ended up being a bust. Anyone who believed differently was a fool of the highest order.

She certainly went out with a bang - my aetherology instruments were going haywire from the sheer amount of magical energy that rushed towards the deep jungle. Now that we know the truth about the sylvari, we can near-conclusively see that her true goal all along was to reawaken Mordremoth. It was certainly a bold idea to flood the ley line stretching from Lion’s Arch to Maguuma with magic; not unlike jump-starting a stalled golem with an external power source.

Whatever her exact motivations for this could have been, her success does open up a potentially fascinating avenue for my research - what sort of link is there between the elder dragons and the magic of the world? Clearly Mordremoth was attuned to it, but what about Zhaitan, and for what purpose? And most importantly, how can we exploit it for ourselves?

I’ll prepare my thesis and send it to high command along with a request for additional funding and personnel. I have no doubt they will give me all I ask for, so I will begin my personal work at once. I wonder if the Pact would miss one of their submersibles…

Entry 53 - 1335 AE

The Pact and that blasted commander of theirs continues to be both a boon and a curse! While our agents in the Rata Novus lab have passed on immeasurably useful data from their efforts, that blasted sylvari keeps killing more dragons - good for the survival of the common folk, I suppose, but absolutely detrimental to my research.

Only one dragon remains, the ever-theorized but heretofore unproven “deep sea dragon.” There’s so much more we’re on the cusp of discovering, and the commander is on track to ruin my career without even knowing!

But, as always, I have a plan. I was able to find records of Scarlet’s notes left over in an old workstation. She mentions time she spent with the late Omadd, and most importantly, a fascinating device he constructed near the Silverwastes. Supposedly, the device allows the user to peer into the fabric of reality - the very Eternal Alchemy itself!

Finally, a chance to mathematically prove what I’ve always believed - to show those boorish idiots I call my fellow researchers that absolute structure is the only way to success. Everything down to the smallest particle of the least important atom can be determined, charted, predicted and directed. The Inquest has always strived to control the Eternal Alchemy, but no one ever thinks about what we’ll do with it. Absolute order to all things is the only conclusion that makes any sense, and I will be the one to put it in place.

I will be traveling alone to the machine - no reason to give anyone else the chance to muck everything up, or worse, steal my work. Very soon, all asura - the entire world - will know my name!

Entry 55 - 1335 AE

[unintelligable] -it’s wrong. It’s all wrong, everything is wrong, I was - [crashing, papers scattering, yelling]

I fixed it. The machine worked and I saw everything. All magic flowing in and out the dragons like water through a filtration matrix. For a moment it was so beautiful. But the dragons died one by one, and in their place, there is…

Nothing. Less than nothing. Void from end to end. No greater purpose, no rules or equations or anything comprehensible. An emptiness that will take and take and take until there is nothing left.

She’s doomed us all. She can’t save us this time. Now everything we’ve done, everything I’ve done is worthless. No one can stop what’s happening.

The Void comes for us all. The Void comes. It comes. It comes. It comes… 

[unintelligible]

Entry 56 - 1335 AE

Ahem.

I’m not going to delete my last entry - embarrassing as it may be to admit, it is important to acknowledge when one’s conclusions end up being incorrect, if only for the purpose of proper documentation.

Which is to say that the world didn’t end, obviously. The Commander found a way, as she always seems to do. Our agents report that Aurene now fulfills the role the previous elder dragons used to, sans the whole death/rebirth cycle. Magic flows through her to be cleansed, and the world is balanced once again. The Void is - it’s gone. It has to be -

[coughs] I’m putting together another thesis and personnel request. The events of the last few days opens up yet another previously unknown facet of aetherology. We’re not under immediate threat anymore, but it demands to be studied. All sorts of possible applications could be found, if we can properly contain it.

I cannot - I will not be taken by surprise again. I will master its flow and dictate its course.

I will be the one in control. It will have no power over me ever again.

Should my proposal be approved, and I have no doubt it won’t, I will be forming the V.E.R.G.E. krewe - Voidic Energy Research and General Exploitation. We will decipher every secret of the Void and turn it to our own ends - and prepare ourselves should it ever return like this again.

I will be ready. And someday soon, all of creation - even the Void itself - will bend before me.

[cantsayidont]

July 1983 to October 1986. In 1983, DC lured Doug Moench away from Marvel and books like MASTER OF KUNG FU and MOON KNIGHT to take over BATMAN and DETECTIVE COMICS under the editorship of Len Wein. Their run, which lasted 40 months, was the final phase of the Bronze Age Batman continuity; although it continued for some months after the end of CRISIS ON INFINITE EARTHS, everything through DETECTIVE COMICS #566 and BATMAN #400 is functionally part of pre-Crisis continuity, in particular most anything to do with Jason Todd becoming the second Robin. (Jason debuted during the end of Gerry Conway's run in early 1983, but it was Moench and Wein who oversaw Jason's actually becoming Robin.)

From 1981 to 1986, there was a tight continuity between BATMAN and DETECTIVE COMICS: a story begun in one book would continue in the other two weeks later. This was something new for Batman; there had been occasional multi-issue storylines for years, and Steve Englehart and Len Wein had introduced a certain amount of Marvel-style continuity in the late '70s, but having around 40 story pages per month allowed more room for character-driven stories, supporting characters, and subplots. When Doug Moench arrived, a central focus was on leading up to Jason Todd becoming Robin, but there were also numerous other major and minor subplots, from Alfred's attempts to connect with his adult daughter, Julia Remarque (introduced by Conway in 1981), to Gotham's messy city politics and various deadly underworld power struggles.

In MASTER OF KUNG FU, Moench's signature storytelling preoccupation had been "kinky weirdos hurting each other's feelings," and his initial run on the Bat-books also featured a series of messy, sometimes bloody romantic triangles, the most important of which involved Batman; the now-reformed Catwoman; Nocturna (Natalia Knight), a pretentious Goth burglar who attempted to adopt Jason Todd; and Nocturna's adoptive brother Anton, who became a cat burglar out of deranged obsession with Natalia and later tried to kill her so no one else could have her. It was all very grandiose and inevitably somewhat florid, but then expecting gritty, understated realism from a comic book about a man who fights crime dressed as a bat is itself pretty silly.

The strongest story in this run actually has little to do with that soap opera: "What Price the Prize?" in BATMAN #372, is an intelligent, grounded drama about an up-and-coming young Irish boxer maneuvering for a bout with a Black champion obviously inspired by Muhammad Ali, featuring some of Don Newton's finest Batman art; the conclusion in DETECTIVE #539 isn't quite as sharp, but is still one of Moench's best. Other highlights include a clash with Catman (BATMAN #371/DETECTIVE #538) in which Thomas Blake's determined belief in the magical power of his costume nearly gets both him and Batman killed over and over; a wistful story about the private life and hidden depths of boorish Harvey Bullock (DETECTIVE #549); a delightful one-shot (BATMAN #383) in which Batman repeatedly tries and fails to get some sleep; the debut of Black Mask (BATMAN #385–386 and DETECTIVE #553); a comedic tale of Batman and Catwoman on an actual date, in costume (BATMAN #392); and a distinctly '80s-Bondian espionage adventure reuniting Moench and artist Paul Gulacy (BATMAN #393–394).

Artistically, the run got off to a good start with Don Newton on BATMAN (inked by Alfredo Alcala) and Gene Colan on DETECTIVE (generally inked by Bob Smith). Newton's departure in 1984 hurt, leading to a period of artistic musical chairs and some really bad early Pat Broderick art, followed by Tom Mandrake taking over BATMAN. Mandrake gets a bad rap in some quarters, mostly because his style is looser (and about two steps further in the direction of Gene Colan) than many comics fans care to tolerate, but his work here is mostly fine, and certainly an improvement over Broderick's. The Annual has some very nice early Denys Cowan pencils, inked by Alcala, and BATMAN #400 is an all-star extravaganza art-wise.

Maddeningly, DC has never properly reprinted a lot of this material, which I think is badly overdue. If it's not as epochal as some more familiar periods both before and after, the median level of quality is pretty decent (and certainly no worse than the 1987–1991 period, which has now been reprinted in its entirety); its emphasis on characterization wouldn't be matched again in the Batman titles for many years. Denny O'Neil supposedly hated much of what Moench had done (Moench has said O'Neil especially loathed Nocturna, whom he flatly refused to revive in any form), but Denny is dead now, and in any case, his Batman stories include their share of stinkers as well as gems. I don't know that DC has any kind of real reprint strategy anymore, but I hope they won't wait until Doug Moench is dead to properly remaster and collect these issues. Doing them all (BATMAN #360–400 and Annual #10, DETECTIVE #527–567) in something akin to Marvel's Epic Collection format would probably take four volumes — there's around 1,800 pages of material, more if you include Moench's Superman/Batman stories from WORLD'S FINEST — but why not?

[thewholekittyandkaboodle]

Unhinged LWA Regency AU written by a sleep deprived college student

Akko is a free spirited young lady with no interest in marriage or being a delicate flower, instead desperately searching for a way to become a witch. However, she must do this in secret lest she be burnt at the stake. Things take a turn as Akko's governess and distant aunt by marriage Ursula mysteriously disappears and leaves her in charge of her estate. With her estate, comes a whole host of magical items, spell books, ancient magic knowledge and magical creatures hidden in the halls. The only clue as to who had owned them being the moniker 'Shiny Chariot' engraved on the most powerful artifact of the items, the Shiny Rod. With help from decedents of ancient witches that become her new friends, Akko must learn to be both a refined lady of the house and a magnificent witch all while fending off boorish English gentlemen who seek to undermine her claim to the estate.

Wears a dress: Akko, Lotte, Jasminka, Barbara, Hannah

Wears a suit and pretends to be a boy around polite society: Diana, Amanda, Sucy, Constanze

[vulpes-fennec]

Prythian's Fantasia 🎪 (Ch. 1)

Summary: It’s 1889. Desperate to save her ailing mother’s life, Feyre strikes a bargain with ringmaster-witch doctor Amarantha. As the Archeron sisters join Prythian’s Fantasia and head for the World’s Fair in Paris, they begin to realize the circus’s magic runs far deeper than its enchanting nightly performances.

Read: Masterlist | AO3

Friday, March 8th, 1889

***Nesta***

The rain had let up by the time 25-year old Nesta Archeron stepped out of the St. John’s Wood Road station. Taking the family carriage was preferable to clustering with all the grimy plebeians, but riding the Metropolitan Railway was considered en vogue for young adults in 1889. Besides, showing up to a suffragist meeting in a fancy carriage wasn’t very humble.

Political disagreements—revolving around Prime Minister Gladstone and Irish Home Rule—had left the budding suffragist movement in disarray. Still, Nesta’s particular group of women’s activists managed to meet every Friday. Which was why, even on freezing March days like this, Nesta was committed to trekking out to central London.

Central London itself was a veritable sludge of shit, coal soot, and rot. But she’d rather be wading through the mucky Victorian streets than walking up the front steps of the Archerons’ house. Nesta didn’t have issues with the four-story building crafted from warm red brick, with its ample windows and three full-time staff to attend to their needs. The home was even outfitted with running water—what more could she ask for?

Nesta had issues with her mother’s disagreeable presence. 

Nesta hadn’t minded being her mother’s favorite child when she was younger, for it meant receiving pretty dresses, compliments, and plenty of dance lessons. But as Nesta grew older, she realized Isabella Archeron cared only about social status. And once Nesta joined the suffragist movement, it became abundantly clear that her mother saw her as a marriage mart project—and never as an actual person. 

Isabella Archeron had fallen ill last spring. Her health failed to improve at their country home, at the southern coast, and even at the hands of their family doctor. So shortly before Christmas, Nesta’s father returned the family to London.

“The pollution is not ideal, but there will be better doctors in London,” he’d reasoned. “And better chances of finding a husband for you, Nesta.” Nesta had agreed to the move, but not because she wanted to get married. If she couldn’t go to Manchester, where the beating heart of the suffrage movement lay, she would find like-minded women in London. 

Society in the country moved at a snail’s pace, as things often did when the closest neighbors were a carriage ride away. Women’s suffrage was met with blank stares, and then revulsion once Nesta explained it in simple terms. Really, did no one find it illogical that in a family with three daughters, the father was the only individual with any say in matters of politics? The women in the family outnumbered him four to one! 

“Miss Archeron.” A maid dusting the vases in the front foyer gave a little bow as Nesta entered. Her brown eyes lingered on Nesta’s muddy boots. Though the servants turned a blind eye to Nesta’s comings and goings, she was certain they gossiped amongst themselves. 

“Hello, Bridley.” Nesta gave the maid a nod. Poor, poor Bridley, a sweet girl married at such a young age to a boorish man who drank and gambled away into the night. This was precisely why Nesta had no intention of getting married, for upper-class men were hardly any better.  

“Your mother called for you several minutes ago. I tried to borrow time, saying you were in a bath, but—”

“Yes, yes, I know. I must make haste.” Nesta waved Bridley off and ran up the stairs. She felt a bit guilty for tracking in street grime, but her mother was a woman who did not appreciate being kept waiting. 

Nesta hastily threw on a tea gown and undid her braid, making sure there was no dirt on her face before opening the door to her mother’s bedroom. “You called, Mother?” Nesta greeted cautiously. 

“Nesta, dear.” Only Isabella Archeron could make terms of endearment sound unpleasantly cold. “Come, sit by me.” Nesta entered and perched delicately on the edge of the four-poster bed. “Sit up straight, Nesta. You won’t attract any aristocrats with that slouch. And goodness, I know you just got out of the bath, but there is no reason for your hair to be undone,” her mother chided sharply. 

Nesta automatically tilted her chin up and squared her shoulders. Surely even Queen Victoria would not meet her mother’s standards for appearances and proper etiquette. “My apologies,” Nesta gritted out.

“Hmm…I just purchased the scarlet dress for you from the catalog.” Her mother’s attention flitted from one topic to the next like a butterfly, and she waved a ladies’ fashion pamphlet at Nesta. 

“Mother, I have five dresses that have not been worn in public yet. The scarlet dress is hardly a necessary purchase,” Nesta protested. Prices in those catalogs were astronomically expensive, but of course Isabella Archeron loved spending money like it grew on trees. 

Nesta refused to balk at her mother’s icy look. “Yet two of those dresses have already fallen out of fashion! You must make a stunning entrance at the Beddor’s gala next week. It’s the debut event of the season, and I heard that several families from the House of Lords will be there, with sons of marrying age.” 

Nesta suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at her mother’s obsession with marrying up in society. Didn’t she realize that most courtships these days were based on love—not social and economic value? Did she ever think about how much potential was wasted when women were limited to marriage, children, and managing households? Clearly not. 

Her mother continued chatting. “...and Tomas Mandray should be a fine option. Did you know that Lord Mandray’s wealth increased by 40 percent since last year? He was so smart for investing in those railways…”

“With the Beddors hosting, it would be poor taste for me to upstage Clare,” Nesta said carefully. 

“Clare? Upstage her? Why, Nesta, that poor girl is so plain, even Bridley could upstage her in last season’s frock.” Her mother chuckled cruelly. “Oh, don’t give me that cross look. You know it’s true.” 

Nesta suppressed the urge to defend Clare. Perhaps Clare lacked remarkable features, but at least she didn’t possess a nasty personality like her stunning mother. Besides, vying for attention from men was as close to pathetic as one could get. “But Mother, how am I to attend the gala if you are unwell and Father is still away?”  

Isabella Archeron bristled. “Unwell? My dear girl, I am just a bit under the weather. I will be in perfect health to accompany you to the Beddors.” 

Nesta highly doubted her mother’s chronic illness would magically clear up in a week, but she chose not to say anything. 

Her mother pressed a pair of garnet and gold earrings into Nesta’s hand. “Wear these earrings to the gala, Nesta. They were your grandmother’s, and they will surely catch the eye of every man in the room. I know this to be true, because your father asked me for our first dance when I wore these 27 years ago.” Icy gray-blue eyes glinted with cunning. 

It was nauseating. What kind of mother expressed affection in the form of social-climbing strategy and materialistic goods? Where were the hugs, kisses, or warm words of comfort? Although the earrings were beautiful, they reminded Nesta of her fate: you will marry, just like the generations of women who came before you. 

“Thank you,” Nesta managed to say, closing her fist. 

“You may take your leave now, my dear. And tell your sister Feyre to join me for afternoon tea.” Isabella Archeron’s placid tone indicated she’d grown bored already. 

“Yes, Mother.” Nesta closed the door, gripping the earrings so tightly that the metal backings left pricks of pain in her palm. Days like this drove her to dance away her self-loathing in the parlor downstairs. The waltz, the tango, the metal pole…Nesta was a master—or should she say, mistress—of these forms. But first, Nesta needed to find Feyre.  

***Elain***

A colossal structure of wrought-iron stretched up, up, and up into the twinkling night sky. What a magnificent building! If Elain craned her neck, she could barely make out the tricolor flag of France fluttering from the upper viewing terrace. The grand lawn before her, a bursting promenade of shops, exhibits, and worldly wonders, invited her to explore at a leisurely pace. 

A solid arm looped over her shoulder, drawing her close to a warm body. Elain gasped, startled at the rush of sensations he—for the person was definitely a man—elicited. She felt warm, like she was sitting by a toasty fire. Secure, as if she’d come home. Elated, like champagne bubbles rushing through her body. Elain glanced to her right, trying to see who the stranger was…

Knock, knock, knock. Sharp raps on her door woke Elain from her nap. “Elain! Elain!” Her younger sister’s muffled cries sounded from the hall. “Are you in there?”

Elain stifled the urge to snap at Feyre when she opened the door. She was fairly certain her dream had featured the Tour Eiffel: the architectural wonder waiting to be unveiled this summer at the Exposition Universelle. Photographs of the attraction had been kept hush hush, but if Elain had just seen it in its full glory…that meant it wasn’t just any dream. It was a premonition. 

“Elain, look what I managed to get!” Feyre was excitedly waving three slips of paper in Elain’s face. With her mismatched servant’s clothes and faint smell of coal, Feyre must have been wandering the slums of London again. 

Elain blinked, trying to regain her post-nap bearings. “What is that?” She took the shimmering crimson slips of paper from Feyre’s hands. In gold lettering, the paper read:

Admit One | Prythian’s Fantasia

A magical night awaits you at the greatest show this side of Earth…

“Three tickets to see Prythian’s Fantasia!” Feyre gushed breathlessly, her blue-gray eyes shining with excitement. “Remember, the circus that arrived last week?” Ah, yes. The circus that Feyre had been raving about every spare minute.

“This side of earth?” Elain repeated. A craggy mountain with two branches of magenta amaranth flowers crossing below it was printed on the ticket. A strange choice of imagery for a circus. “What does that even mean?”

Nesta’s angular face appeared behind Feyre like a ghostly apparition. “Feyre! You’ve been out of the house again, haven’t you?” Nesta accused sharply. “It’s a miracle you haven’t been robbed, stabbed, kidnapped, or caught some venereal disease!”

Feyre’s expression soured. “Says the one who went to a suffragist meeting today!”

“Be quiet.” Nesta whipped her head around anxiously. “Unless you want me telling Mother about your dalliances.”  

“Look, Nesta,” Elain tried to diffuse the situation. “Feyre got us tickets to Prythian’s Fantasia.” 

Nesta’s icy eyes narrowed at Elain’s hand. “Where’d you get those from? Isaac Hale?” She spat his name like a bitter root on her tongue. Elain winced. Isaac Hale, the butcher’s son in the seedier side of town, was Feyre’s paramour. She’d met the man once, and found him relatively handsome and well-mannered. But she privately agreed with Nesta: Feyre could do better. 

“He gave them to me for free.” Feyre crossed her arms indignantly. “Why are you in such a mood today?”

“Nothing in this world is free. Especially between men and women,” Nesta scoffed. 

“Well, they’re for tonight’s show. Eight o’clock. Do you want to go or not?” Feyre jutted her chin out stubbornly. Eldest and youngest Archeron sisters faced off, like a viper versus a wolf, their matching blue eyes blazing. Elain held her breath, preparing to intervene again. 

“Fine.” Nesta was the one who relented. “By the way, Mother asked to see you for afternoon tea.”

“How is she?” Feyre asked, cooling down quickly from their verbal exchange.

“As superficial as she always is.” With that, Nesta turned and left. She didn’t have to specify that their mother only wanted to see Feyre. Isabella Archeron rarely asked for Elain. 

Perhaps all middle children were simply doomed to be forgotten. 

It was always like this: Elain meekly sandwiched between Nesta and Feyre, the two rebellious and squabbling women of the Archeron house. Nesta, who openly derided the male species and passionately spoke about women's rights. Feyre, who renounced high society by excelling at archery and sneaking off to the seedier parts of London. 

While Feyre’s artistic talent was her only refined hobby, Elain seemed the perfect lady, all agreeable manners and poised like a princess. 

But it was all a defense mechanism. Excelling as a high society lady prevented her cruel mother’s scrutiny. And if the peerage saw Elain as a docile, conventional woman, they would not suspect her of seeing the future. For what man would marry a woman who fell into fitful dreams, one who could predict his death and misfortunes? 

At least Elain’s visions only came when she lulled herself into a meditative state or dreamed. If she fell into random, episodic trances, she would definitely be sent off to an asylum for insanity. The future came in flashes and snippets, always cryptic but never subject to change. And with the number of startling—and sometimes horrific—premonitions she received outnumbering the pleasant ones, Elain would hardly call her ability a “gift”.

“Any news from Papa?” Feyre asked Elain. Reginald Archeron, a renowned merchant who sailed to the four corners of the earth to do business, had set off for Continental Europe just after Christmas. He still had not returned. 

Elain shook her head. “The postman didn’t have any correspondence.” 

“It’s unusual for him to be gone so long, and not send any word.” Feyre chewed her lip worriedly. “Perhaps we should alert the authorities?” 

“What good will that do?” Elain replied shortly. “We don’t even know what country Father is in.” 

“I don’t see how you can be so calm about this.” 

Elain blinked, trying to keep her expression neutral. Why worry about her father, when he was probably having the time of his life cheating on their mother? The terrible premonition arrived three years ago: Reginald Archeron kissing a woman with dark hair and emerald green eyes in a continental-style opera house. Possibly in Moscow. Or perhaps it was Berlin. 

The most striking detail was the ornate golden locket that had glinted in the woman’s hands. Elain went rooting through her father’s study when he returned from his trip, and she found the exact same locket, complete with the woman’s picture in it. Holding the offensive jewelry piece in her very hands had Elain tasting bile. 

Elain had been 21 years old and well aware that not all marriages were pleasant. Still, the realization that her own father was unfaithful had been a shock. That her loving Papa was one of those types of husbands. But Elain didn’t dare breathe a word of her findings to her sisters, who knew nothing of her abilities. Nesta…Nesta would probably tear their father apart with words alone. Feyre…Feyre, who valued their family unit more than anything, would be crushed.

Feyre sighed, not waiting to hear Elain’s response. “Well, I’ll see what Mother wants. Be ready for the circus by seven. We need to travel to the south bank.” Elain nodded, closing the door distractedly. 

Elain’s mind returned to that mysterious man from her vision. Oh, how she longed to return to that hazy dream, so warm and tantalizing it was! He existed somewhere. He had to. Elain didn’t catch any of his features, but she felt so sure that he wasn’t anyone she knew at that moment. The man was waiting for her in the future. In Paris, too!

Oh, Paris! The Continent! As her father’s favorite child, Elain was shown the goods he’d help procure, like beautiful fabrics, spices, rough-cut gems, and wood carvings. She had fond memories of spending hours in his office, staring at the large maps on the walls and devouring books about foreign lands. “I’ll bring you to the continent next year, Elain,” Reginald Archeron had promised. Then he promised again, the next year. And again, the following. Many years passed, a slew of broken promises in their wake.

Not that she would ever want to explore the continent with her father now, knowing that he spent those trips canoodling with mysterious women. But the London gloom outside her window had Elain wishing her life was different.

If Nesta and Feyre were shamelessly carving their own unconventional paths, why couldn’t she do the same? She didn’t need to wait for her father to take her to the continent; she was 24 years old, a modern woman with the means to travel the world. 

As if an answer to her thoughts, the mystery man’s phantom touch seemed to linger on her shoulder, urging Elain to make her way to the Exposition Universelle. To find him in real life. 

***Feyre***

Isabella Archeron had been a formidable woman just two years ago. Her golden-brown hair had been a luscious mane that shimmered even under England’s clouds. Her back had been ramrod straight, the sharp lines of her cheeks and jaw had nary a wrinkle. Flitting from one party to the next, Isabella Archeron was truly London’s finest social butterflies.

But her mother’s hair turned limpid, even gray. The pale hue of her skin was almost sickly, and the angles of her face only made her look hollowed out, older. Now, Isabella Archeron spent most of her time confined to the bed or the bath. 

Watching her mother’s chest rattle with phlegm-filled coughs and her frail hands tremble, Feyre wondered if something swift and sure like cholera would have been better. It would’ve been better than this gradual chipping away at life over the months. 

“How are you feeling, Mother?” Feyre asked cautiously when she entered the room. Although illness had dulled Isabella Archeron’s quick mind, it soured her temperament, leaving her prone to mood swings.

“Feyre. Pour me a cup of tea, won’t you?” 

“Yes, Mother.” Feyre dutifully placed a sugar cube into the dainty china cup, and poured steaming tea from the ornate teapot. 

She was about to stir the sugar and cream with a spoon, when her mother snapped, “And do not stir the tea. I may be ill, but I am not invalid.” Feyre set the spoon down cautiously and dutifully walked towards her mother’s bed, hating how her shaky hands rattled the cup and saucer. 

“Have you heard from your father?”

“No, Mother.” 

The difficult pregnancy had meant that Feyre would be the last Archeron child. Feyre suspected her parents hoped she would be a son who could inherit the family business and lead the household while Reginald Archeron was away for work. Feyre wasn’t a son, but her parents still expected her to be the “most responsible” of her sisters since early childhood. 

For example, ever since she was 16, her father assigned her to managing their bank statements while he was abroad. All Feyre had to do was sign the checks and record the transactions in the balance book, but at this point, she could forge Reginald Archeron’s signature in her sleep. Feyre had also tended her sisters whenever they got sick, bringing them warm soup and administering tonics. Thanks to those years of “experience”, Feyre was now charged with managing the rotating circle of doctors, household expenses, and servants ever since her mother fell ill.

Perhaps she was assigned this role of “caretaker” because her parents were reluctant to change their attitudes toward her sisters. Nesta, the first-born, could have easily been taught the tools of the trade. But Isabella Archeron was keen on shaping Nesta to be the wife of a lord or a prince, not a merchant’s apprentice. Then came Elain, who took after their father and automatically became his princess to dote on. 

That left Feyre at the scrutiny of both, but without the love from either parent. 

“Hmm. I’m feeling rather abysmal today. I fear these doctors are not helping me whatsoever.” Her mother gestured to the array of tonics and powders on the bedside table. Feyre’s eyes widened in alarm when she noticed a pile of brown-stained handkerchiefs. 

“Are you coughing up blood?” she said in alarm.

“Don’t be silly. Why would I be coughing up blood? I just spilled my tea.” Her mother sounded like she even believed it herself. But Feyre was doubtful; she’d seen those tell-tale colors on Isaac’s work apron numerous times. “Do write to your Aunt Ripleigh and ask if she could send some more of that rose and daisy tea. It was delightful.” 

Aunt Ripleigh had been dead for six years now. There was no rose and daisy tea in the house, either.

“Of course, Mother.” She made a mental note to ask Nesta if their mother had experienced another bout of memory loss during their session together. Isabella Archeron’s diminishing moments of lucidity were concerning. 

“Well, Feyre. You’d better hurry along and get ready for Watson's charity ball. I’ve already told Mrs. Watson that I’ve fallen ill, but your father should be able to accompany you three.” Isabella Archeron’s blue-gray eyes closed, and within moments, she’d fallen asleep.

The charity ball her mother spoke of had occurred two seasons ago. 

Hopefully she would sleep past supper and continue assuming her daughters were at a charity ball instead of a circus. Isabella Archeron considered anything below the opera or classical music hall a lowly performance unfit for their presence. Laughable, considering the Archerons were only wealthy merchants, not the aristocracy. 

“Yes, Mother.” Feyre said, even though she couldn’t hear her. She touched her mother’s hand before she left the room. It was deathly cold. Feyre didn’t love her mother, but she didn’t want her to die. Despair rose within her like the tide, as if it was her fault Isabella Archeron wasn’t getting any better. 

It was rumored that Amarantha, the circus ringmaster, was a powerful witch doctor. Apparently she learned her craft from the natives in the tropical latitudes and left a trail of miracles from town to town. Feyre had nearly laughed in Isaac’s face when he told her that. 

A female ringmaster? Impossible. And a witch? Those were from the Dark Ages. 

But now, Feyre was desperate. If modern science could not cure her mother, why not try other methods? The Archerons had money. Jewels. Exotic antiques. Feyre was quite confident she could pay Amarantha for a little healing spell. 

Nesta was wholly focused on the suffragist movement. Elain was swept away by the pageantry of fancy dinners and shows in London. Both seemed rather ambivalent about their mother’s health and their father’s suspicious silence over the last few months. Once again, it fell on Feyre to do something, anything that would keep her dysfunctional family together. 

Tonight, she would see for herself what this Amarantha was all about. Even if the ringmaster turned out to be a dud, at least she got a famed circus show out of it. 

✨

Taglist: @velidewrites @reverie-tales @highladysith @shadowsxgwynriel @foxwithagoldeye @sunshinebingo

[scotianostra]

On 27th March 1625, King James VI died.

James Charles Stuart has many facts, myths and urban legends surrounding him, this is just one of them.

Rumours have abounded for centuries that James was a homosexual, I'm not saying he wasn't but at very least you might call him bisexual, he did after all father seven children to his wife, only three of whom survived. Known for writing poetry, there is little doubt he loved his wife, Anne, and wrote many poems and love letters to her throughout their marriage. Most of the rumors of James’ sexual orientation came from Sir Anthony Weldon, who was a bitter enemy of the king, whose writings were published long after James was dead.

One of the most amusing quotes from King James regarding marriage and women was when, at the Hampton Court Conference, the Puritan leaders complained of a line in English wedding vows where the groom says to bride “with my body, I thee worship.” James’ response was “If you had a good wife yourself, you would think all worship and honour you could do her, were well bestowed upon her.”

James supposed lover was George Villiers was a courtier who became a favourite of King James I. The King became infatuated with him and made him Viscount in 1616, Earl in 1617, Marquis in 1618 and Duke of Buckingham in 1623. Outmanoeuvring his rivals the Howards, Villiers was appointed Lord High Admiral in 1619. He manipulated the lovestruck King James to gain unprecedented control over royal patronage, rewarding himself and his family generously. He married his relations into the most important families in England. His own marriage was to Lady Catherine Manners, only daughter of the wealthy Earl of Rutland. Was their friendship more than platonic? To coin a Scottish phrase, "

Mibbes aye mibbes naw."

James had a deep and terrible fear of witchcraft and personally oversaw many witch trials while ruling in Scotland. He saw witchcraft as a branch of theology and even wrote a famous treatise titled Daemonologie, in which he dealt with sorcery, magic, and even vampires and werewolves!

James had a relatively peaceful reign, except for the infamous Gunpowder Plot, and kept taxes low. He was known as both the British Solomon and was called “the wisest fool in Christendom” by the King of France. James was both a brute and a gentleman, a sloth and a scholar, a boor and a poet, paranoid and cunning.

Perhaps we should look at his mother's French Emissary Monsieur de Fontenay who had the following to say regarding the young James’ character and traits:

“I have been well received by the king, who has treated me better in reality than in appearance. He give me much credit, but does not show me much kindness. Since the day of my arrival he has ordered me to live in his house along with the earls and lords, and that I shall have access to him in his cabinet just as the others have… .

To tell you truly what I think of him – I consider him the first prince in the world for his age. … . He apprehends and conceives quickly, he judges ripely and with reason, and he retains much and for a long time. In questioning he is quick and piercing, and solid in his answers. … He is learned in many languages, sciences, and affairs of state. more so than probably anyone in his realm. In a word he has a miraculous wit, and moreover is full of noble glory and a good opinion of himself.

Having been brought up in the midst of constant fears, he is timid and will not venture to contradict the great lords; yet he wishes to be thought brave.

He hates dancing and music in general and especially all the mincing affectations of the court … .

From want of proper instruction his manners are boorish and very rough, as well in his way of speaking, eating. dress, amusements and conversation, even in the company of women.

He is never at rest in one place but takes a singular pleasure in walking; but his gait is very ungainly and his step is wandering and unsteady, even in a room. His voice is thick and very deep as he speaks. … He is weak of body … But to sum up, he is an old young man. …

He misunderstands the real extent of his poverty and weakness; he boasts too much of himself and he despises other princes. In the second place, he disregards the wishes of his subjects; and lastly, he is too idle and careless in business and too much addicted to his own pleasures, chiefly hunting. … He told me that he really gave greater attention to business than he seemed to do for he could get through more work in one hour than others could in a day. …"

James ruled Scotland as James VI from 24th July 1567 and, as you might recall from my post a few days ago, ruled in England, Wales and Ireland as James 1st from 24th March, 1603. He died 27th March, 1625 at Theobalds House, and his remains lie in the Henry VII Lady Chapel in Westminster Abbey.

The third pic shows James's body next to Henry VII and his queen in the vault

[pennzance]

"How can you respect that man? He's loud and boorish and rude and he never actually DOES anything."

"Yes, because he's the Archmage."

"So what? It's just a title. I bet he never actually does any magic."

"No, he doesn't, but that is sort of the point."

"What are you talking about?"

"He knows ALL of the spells. ALL of them. From cleaning water to transfiguration to the seven spells that end the world. If he ever feels like he needs to USE magic, it's because we are all very probably about to die in horrible, unknowable ways."

[yuurei20]

Rook Info Compilation part 4: Archery and Hunting

Rook says that he excels at archery both as a competitive sport and as a method of hunting.

We see him applying this skill in Book 5 to inform Ace and Deuce that they have passed their VDC audition, and again in Book 6 to hit phantoms at their weak points with his magic. Vil says, “Rook never fails to his a target. His aim is perfect.”

Rook has a voice line about striking every target during an archery game at a festival.

Rook’s least favorite food is garlic as “foods with lingering scents are a hunter’s bane” and that hunting is not some activity that he can choose to engage in for a time and then abandon: “Those who hunt are always sharp-eyed, perpetually on the lookout for more prey.”

Rook says he makes it a point to memorize the species and height of every student on campus in order to be prepared. (There is a line in the EN adaptation where he says that the prefect’s height is unverified, but this does not exist in his original dialogue.)

Rook has lines about hunting Lilia, Malleus, ghosts and Kalim, in addition to offering to play tag with people in his gym class.

Rook seems particularly interested in Leona, saying that he would “make for fine hunting quarry” and that looking at Leona gets his “hunter’s blood boiling” every time.

He also purchases a souvenir for Leona during Glorious Masquerade.

Rook has multiple Beanfest-related lines about both Leona and Malleus, with Ortho commenting that the year that Malleus and Leona teamed up to take him down resulted in them exerting themselves to a considerable degree.

(Rook invites both Leona and Malleus to his birthday party and neither one appears.)

Rook intentionally infuriates Malleus in a vignette where he compares dragons to impalas, antelopes, lizards, crocodiles and monsters in an attempt to throw him off balance and ultimately invite him to play a game of tag. Malleus is not amused.

In a separate vignette Rook discusses Malleus with Lilia, but when Lilia asks if he truly intends to hunt Malleus, Rook responds “I am interested in him, to be sure, but right now it is you who has capture my heart, Lilia. No hunter would be foolish enough to pursue another quarry when they stand in the presence of your mysterious beauty.”

Malleus, practicing the long throw nearby, responds by sending a shotput so close to Rook’s face that he nearly slices off Rook’s nose.

Rook encourages Lilia to strengthen his grip on Malleus but Lilia responds, “I could not be more proud.”

On the subject of Rook, Malleus said that he thought him to be a boorish fool, but he cannot imagine that Vil would select such a man as his vicehousewarden.

Despite ignoring Rook’s invitation to his birthday party Malleus does join Rook in a song during Spectral Soiree, where he accompanies Rook’s singing on a pipe organ.

[sitp-recs]

Hey hey, I just found your blog so I'm sorry if you already recommended these fics (or don't do fic recs).

Do you know any drarry fics were there is some type of makeover like a house makeover, finding a new job, getting new clothes for Harry, ... Or Draco is just really stylish and sure of himself? I'm thinking something like Turn, House Proud, Heal Thyself or Let him lead me to the banquet.

If you know any fics like these which aren't drarry that would also be really nice.

Wishing you a lovely october :)

Hello, Happy October! I adore those fics you’ve mentioned, they’re all incredible. I do feel like astolat captures this proud, confident Draco perfectly - it’s one my fave characterizations! I think you might enjoy these fics if you haven’t read them yet, they’re a mix of makeover trope and fashionista/confident Draco:

Burning Down the House by @peachpety (M, 4k)

Harry is happy as editor-in-chief of The Quibbler. From planning to printing, design to deadlines, he enjoys being in the hot seat. And after vanquishing Voldemort, managing fires is an easy part of the job. Until his scorching crush on his impeccably dressed fashion editor flares out of control, and he's forced to face actual fires.

Sex on Legs in Six-Inch Heels by @tessacrowley (E, 9k)

Draco Malfoy is a brilliant freelance cursebreaker and the only one who can help the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with a very dangerous case, but more importantly, he's wearing six-inch heels, and Harry cannot handle it, he really just can't.

Haute Allure by @lol-zeitgeistic (E, 12k)

Harry is famous for his menswear now. Malfoy is the inside leg that he loves running his tape measure up.

Party of Two by fireflavored (E, 13k)

Drinking, sex, and a total misreading of the concept of fuck buddies.

A Saviour’s Guide to Manners and Decorum by @wolfpants (E, 13k)

Honorary Minister Harry Potter (yes, he's fully aware his job title is meaningless, and he quite likes it that way) is a disaster at public events. After seven years of dealing with his boorish behaviour, cringey table manners, and clumsy dancing, the Ministry's press team take matters into their own hands and hire Wixen Britain's leading Etiquette and Deportment Expert, Draco Malfoy, to take on the challenge of cleaning up Harry's image before the Ministry's 300th Anniversary Celebration Gala.

Queer Eye (For the Wizarding Guy) by Magnolia822 (E, 23k)

Harry’s life is fine. He might be a little disorganised, and maybe he needs a bit of a haircut, but he’s fine. Really. He doesn’t need a lifestyle intervention, especially when the one giving it is Draco sodding Malfoy and his team of queer fashion and design experts. Of course Harry’s friends disagree, and now he is stuck with Malfoy for a week. One of them might not survive.

Slithering by astolat (E, 27k)

Draco found the nest down in the Manor’s cellars, while he was clearing them out.

'Tis a Far Better Thing by @the-sinking-ship (E, 37k)

'Tis a far, far better thing doing stuff for other people — or however the Muggle saying goes — because Potter is in need of professional help, and Draco is just the man to give it to him.

Shine, Even in the Darkness by raitala (E, 41k)

Harry hasn’t seen Draco for over fifteen years, but now he’s showing up everywhere and Harry is sort of weirdly attracted to him, but that can’t be right?

Nights With You by @the-sinking-ship (E, 58k)

Draco is mortified when moments prior to departing for the most anticipated destination wedding of the year, he is cruelly dumped. But when he learns that Harry Potter has, at long last, split with his horrible boyfriend, Draco is certain his luck has changed. Never a man to squander an opportunity for revenge (and what would probably be a spectacular shag), Draco vows to make Potter his for the weekend. Now all Draco has to do is convince him.

Home Truths by @skeptiquewrites (E, 67k)

In the off-season Harry decided to fix up Grimmauld Place and found that Draco Malfoy was the only person who could help him. A demanding career and unrelenting press scrutiny were enough to deal with before Harry added a house with a mind of its own, family history, and a tense, flirty, complicated relationship with his childhood nemesis to the mix.

Life Lessons by @bixgirl1 (E, 68k)

On the cusp of a promotion, Harry needs a little help with his image. Enter Draco Malfoy — who doesn't really do that, Potter — to whip him into shape… and make him feel things he hasn't for a very long time.

Criminal by @the-sinking-ship (E, 83k)

Things were going just fine for Draco Malfoy. He successfully conned and counted cards across Europe and America, amassing a small fortune, along with a lengthy rap sheet. That was until he made the grave mistake of returning to England for a high stakes card game and got himself caught – by Harry Potter no less. Now, Draco is stuck in England under Auror Potter’s guard with no friends, no distractions, and no escape. How the hell will he pass the time? And since when did Potter get so bloody fit?

Bonus: art!

Dropped Dead Gorgeous by dustmouth (T)

Draco Malfoy is hired to organise a funeral party on the anniversary of Harry Potter's first death. This of course has everything to do with how he is a true artiste with lace, fripperies, and dead bodies, and absolutely nothing to do with why Harry Potter keeps inviting him out to dinner.