#minor spoilers for inheritance games

[itz-pandora]

I clinically cannot be normal about any piece of media I engage with

[acesw]

Disabled Characters in Reverse: 1999 - Part 1

Hello! With the new patches having been announced over the course of time, I figured it was time to renew an old lore-post of mine. This is the list of disabled characters in R:1999.

I posted these on twitter last week, but I decided to wait until the release of 2.2 so that I could uplift some spoilers for the game. Some minor spoilers ahead for 2.3 and 2.5 are ahead!

From the length of the entire text alone, I've separated it by 3 posts. This post here will guide you in the known characters who are physically disabled. I now have 14 characters in the main spotlight here, and I hope you enjoy reading this incredibly long post. So now, let's get started.

Chronic Illness: Cristallo, Rabies, Erick, Semmelweis, Barbara

Cristallo was born prematurely, with an added condition that makes her physically fragile. As seen in the game, she needs a life-support system to maintain her health when she’s outside. It’s also implied that her condition may be a recurrent cancer, as her arcane abilities are tied to a machine that provides cobalt therapy, a known advancement in radiotherapy in the post-WWII era.

In Sotheby’s anecdote, it’s been noted that Cristallo needs extra accommodations to her room, and it’s crucial that the electricity is kept running; she would risk having episodes like seizures otherwise.

Rabies is an odd case. In his stories, it’s stated that Adam Miłosz cured Alicia of rabies through unknown means, at the cost of contracting the disease himself. However, instead of the virus being acute and guaranteed to be fatal, it became a chronic illness to Rabies due to the abundance and use of arcanum.

Since the rabies virus attacks the brain, his cognitive capabilities and ability to recall things before the present had been impaired, making him rather docile and animal-like in nature as a result.

As revealed in her anecdote, Erick has a hereditary blood condition that came with her arcane skill. While her arcane skill grants her insane strength, overusing it will accelerate the effects of her blood condition to the point that it can turn fatal. To prevent this, she also inherited an armband from her grandfather, Harald. The armband suppresses Erick’s ability to use arcane skills, but by extension it also prevents her condition getting worse.

Semmelweis’ journey in the roguelike has been very clear that she suffers from the Beyond disease, a parasitic and incurable disease that mainly affects the brain by heightened hallucinatory symptoms paired with vampiric-like symptoms. The disease has a high fatality rate, but survivors tend to be granted abilities and urges equivalent to that of a vampire.

Semmelweis keeps her symptoms at bay through Lorelei’s arcane skill, and maintains her urges with sweets such as chocolate. While the Beyond Disease is most known for being passed on via contact, (e.g. biting) it has also been found to be genetically carried by some people.

(Bonus mention: Valentina is also a canon survivor of the Beyond Disease, having become a full vampiric-like being. She was the one that bit and infected Semmelweis)

Being born as a cross of 3 different beings, Barbara was born with a delicate body and she suffered a multitude of conditions growing up. Among them, asthma and insomnia were the most prominent. These conditions were incredibly debilitating for her growing up, and they continue to persist til her adulthood. Because of these medical scares (and her instinctive tendencies), she also has anxiety. For this—and strangely enough—her conditions can be alleviated with stuffed toys and the country music that she keeps on her at all times, much to her chagrin.

Amputees: Shamane & Willow

Shamane lost his left arm as a punishment for his previous failures. But after having lived without it for 20 years, the lack of it doesn’t bother him anymore. In fact, he finds pride in his loss, claiming it as a “token of bravery.”

Prior to the events of 1.3, he crafted his prosthetic arm as a means to avoid scaring kids. In his I2, we see that he was provided with a more modern prosthetic, likely provided by Laplace.

Willow is mainly characterised by her ability to perform in floor gymnastics having a prosthetic leg. Even when she lost her leg when she was younger, it didn’t stop her from performing to the best of her capabilities and reworking her skills in floor.

Blindness: Urd, Ms. Radio, Argus

Urd, despite her mysterious presence in the story, is most notable for her blindness. Throughout all her appearances, she's always found with a covering over her eyes, and has been referred to as the “blind woman” throughout the game many times even prior to her reveal. She also has recurring partial amnesia, with the “Storm” being the main cause of it.

She still chooses to travel across cities despite it, documenting her travels and insights about each place as the “Friend From Afar.”

Despite all the awakened lacking any eyes, Ms. Radio is the only character that has explicitly stated that she does not have any eyesight. She uses her body vessel and the radiowaves to be able to sense things around her, and is a generally sensitive entity.

Argus is notable for her vision impairment and partial blindness due to an untreated injury paired with her arcane skill. She struggles to see at nighttime, and has to activate her arcane skill to be able to do work. She tends to use picrasma candies to keep her arcane skill running for as long as possible.

However, Argus will tend to overexert herself and her arcane skill, which can result in her having temporary complete blindness. She refuses to have her injured eye treated nor be provided a prosthetic either.

Others

Mobile Disability - Noire

Our new character here, Noire, is most known to be a wheelchair user! Whether she was born with a disability or not, this aspect is incredibly important for her and I’m excited to see how that will go for 2.5.

Speech Impediment - Balloon Party

Balloon Party as a child had contracted an illness that caused her to have a persistent high fever. In the end, she awakened her arcane skill this way, with her being able to cough up balloons that can be harmful or a cure to anything. However, it might have also affected her speech because of the physical strain that comes from coughing, it results to Balloon Party’s speech being slowed and having abnormal pauses before she speaks again. 

Burn Scarring - Joe

Being a blacksmith, Joe gained a lot of burn injuries due to his work. He developed his skill over time, but it came at a cost; these scars became a part of him. Considering that Joe very likely never went to get proper treatment due to him growing up less privileged, it’s also likely that these scars crudely healed and can cause some pain. His scars are most prominently seen in his face, but they extend down the left arm and even both his hands, which are bandaged.

Albinism - Windsong

Windsong has indicators that she may have albinism; from her white hair, pale skin, and differently-coloured eyes. It can be assumed that she has Type 1 OCA, which leaves her to have the aforementioned features. There isn’t much beyond that mainly due to this being a popularized headcanon among the fandom, so what other symptoms she might have is open to interpretation.

Honorable Mentions

What is this section? The honorable mentions list is meant as a list for:

-Characters I realized I should've added here but it was too late

-Characters who have some headcanons/insights from other users from both Twitter and Tumblr, and I took it to consideration

I hope you enjoy these ones. :)

Oliver Fog - Depression, Arthritis/Chronic Pain (credited: @space-magician on tumblr)

Early on in childhood, Oliver had been exposed to how the London fog takes a heavy toll on his family and has experienced grief early on due to his father passing away from overexertion. It prompted him to start working as a (greatly desensitized) Fogwalker, feeling an unbearable weight on his shoulders metaphorically and even literally with how he struggles to get up in certain weather conditions. It hints towards him having chronic pain/arthritis due to the intensive nature of his work, as well as depression stemming from his grief.

Loggerhead - Short-Term Memory Loss

Loggerhead has short-term memory loss as an aftereffect of her awakening, causing her to slowly lose memory over the course of 3 days. However, Laplace provided her with a special film that allowed her to maintain her memories for longer.

Last Notes

Of course, these are only the first batch of this list, and I hope you'll have fun reading the next two installments here once linked. :)

Psychologically Disabled Characters

Neurodivergent Characters

Thank you!

[amethystsoda]

Things in early access Fields of Mistria that I need more info about!! (minor spoilers ahead)

-The mines stop at level 60 for now and at silver ore

-March apparently got pecked really bad by Henrietta at some point???

-Balor has a big chest scar when you see his summer beach swimsuit 👀

-Valen mentioned living in a bigger city for a while before she came to Mistria.

-obviously the two hidden romance options on the website-people are speculating it’s the two dragon statues. Caldarus on your farm and the other dragon statue in the mines.

-what is the secret plant you’re helping Celine grow?????

-and what’s the gate with twisted vines?? And does it relate to Eiland because his theme subtitle was “roots intertwined”??

-did the devs have planned romance groups for whoever you don’t marry 👀 like the vibes between Juni and Valen?? Elsie and Landen?? One of the characters even mentioned a love triangle in game 👀

-what happened to Olric and March’s parents??? They inherited the family forge, so what happened 😭😭

-What will happen with Valen’s panacea?? And can she get help from Juniper (as Juni is the potion expert)… I think they should collab….

-speaking of Juniper 👀👀 is she from an ancient witch queen family??? I need to know more.

There’s probably a lot more I’m not remembering and I haven’t gotten full 4 hearts with everyone, but I’m so looking forward to future updates 😈💖

[bakuliwrites]

Mirror, Story 6: Nerves and Other Small Rituals

Previous Story, Next Story

Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI) for the fic as a whole

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Relationship: Astarion x Tav (OC)

Chapter Summary: As they settle into their new life of domesticity, Astarion and Orlando begin to relax and enjoy a sultry evening at home with one another.

An anthology of short, post-game stories featuring Astarion and my Tav, Orlando.

Chapter Tags: BG3 SPOILERS, ACT 3 SPOILERS, Blood drinking, oral sex, vaginal fingering, anal sex, sex toys, outdoor sex, comfort, Astarion speaking Elvish

Read here in this post or over on my AO3.

Orlando’s talons gently graze Astarion’s scalp as she cards her fingers through his snowy curls. His head is in her lap while she flips quietly through the small, leather-bound novella she’d picked up in town earlier that evening. Astarion is content lazing in the grass beside her, soaking in the moonlight and reveling in the crisp night air. A fair breeze graces Baldur’s Gate, ushered in from distant ocean storms. Lightning flickers in the far distance above the glimmering waters, purple veins striking wild along the hem of the sky. The moon above drapes soft, resplendent light across the Sword Coast, and Astarion relishes its silent providence.

Over the last month or so, Astarion and Orlando have spent almost every night lounging in the garden of their cottage, taking advantage of the surprisingly temperate summer. In the early portions of the night, when the moon is still climbing up over the sea, Orlando and Astarion enjoy their coffee in the sunroom that looks out onto the southern coast. The little room is filled with their idle gossip and the washed-out purplish pink of evening; but more importantly, the room is filled with love. In the blue dawn, before the sun’s tendrils have a chance to spread beyond the horizon, the couple slow dances to the sound of mourning doves cooing in the trees that line the front walkway. And in the deepest hours of night, when the air is cool and the stars streak across the sky with sparkling tails trailing behind them, Orlando and Astarion enjoy the silence of the world, hidden beneath the swaying branches of the willow at the back of their property. They have begun to settle quite nicely into a life of domesticity, though the occasional adventure to visit Gale or Halsin serves to scratch their travel itch.

Astarion must admit, however, that a quiet existence is certainly doing wonders for him. His night terrors have lessened over the months, and when he does get them, he is grateful to wake in a comfortable home, where his beloved is always there to hold him close. He has picked up sewing and embroidering again, and there isn’t an article of clothing in the house that hasn’t met his needle and thread. Lately, he has been contemplating starting his own little tailoring business. He and Orlando have been living off the funds they made doing odd jobs over the course of their travels, and some of the money Orlando received in her inheritance from the sale of her family estate. But that money won’t last much longer if they want to save some for emergencies.

As for Orlando, the new life seems to be suiting her quite well. Astarion’s fears over the Tiefling adjusting to life with a vampiric partner have been assuaged over the months. She’s adapted faster than he expected, sleeping through most of the day and puttering about during the night. Occasionally, when she grows restless, she’ll pop out to the city to run errands that they otherwise wouldn’t be able to do in the darker hours. But with a surprising amount of ease, evening has become morning for her and by dawn she is ready to bed down. She has gone back to her book writing and research. Her study is orderly but filled to the brim with scrolls covered in the languages of Faerûn. Syntax trees crawl spider-like across the pages and half-filled dictionaries lay open on her desk. Astarion often finds her hunched over her work, scribbling away, or busily formulating some new potion or spell.

When Astarion grows weary of his embroidery, he draws Orlando away from her work to give her mind and his hands a rest. This time in the garden is one of those such times.

Astarion shifts his weight with a soft grunt, the pressure of the ground sending irritating tingles up his sciatic nerve. His skin is velvety soft as he skims his palm down his forearm, brushing away a tickly, errant strand of hair that has seemingly floated from the top of his head and landed on his arm. The faint scent of brandy and bergamot lingers on his collarbone, and jasmine and musk hang in the air surrounding him. Astarion’s fingertips feel sore from where he’s pricked them with his needle, and he begins to gingerly rub them together. The sound they make is scratchy and soft, oddly soothing even though he worries he is developing calluses.

Hand-in-hand with settling down, Astarion has finally begun to feel like he can inhabit his body again. Like his spirit is returning, piecemeal and hesitant. He can feel it fill the tips of his fingers, a slight tingle brushing away two-hundred years of numbness. It suffuses through his veins, thrumming into his unbeating heart. Pieces of himself will always be missing, he knows this. When he looks in the mirror the sensation is more real than ever, an empty reflection staring back. But he’s grateful for any part of his soul he can reclaim as his own. And every sensation of the world has become new to him, novel and wondrous, once again. He wants to feel it all.

The gentle night breeze carries the heady scent of roses blooming in the garden and with it, a yellow petal that settles on Astarion’s chest. He plucks it up, holding it between the pads of his thumb and index finger, feeling its velvety softness in the ridges of his fingertips. He fidgets with it and listens to the crinkling sound of Orlando’s novella as she flips the page.

“Read to me,” Astarion murmurs, a demand the Tiefling is more than happy to indulge. She leans down, gently pressing a kiss to Astarion’s forehead, her dark hair draping around him and enveloping his vision for a moment.

“If you insist,” she coos, the pad of her thumb smoothing along the angles of Astarion’s cheek. Orlando clears her throat, hazel eyes scanning the page for the next full sentence she can start with. Softly, she speaks in his mother tongue, Elvish gliding smoothly between her lips. Astarion watches the way Orlando’s tongue curls behind her teeth with every, “L”, or the way her lips purse with every rounded vowel. It sends delightful shivers up his spine when Orlando’s rolled “R’s” whisper purring vibrations through her exhales. He imagines the tip of that skilled tongue of hers dragging softly along the shell of his pointed ears and feels his cheeks burning at the thought.

It’s only after she reads a paragraph or so that Astarion really gleans what it is he’s listening to.

The Rakshasa’s gilded eyes have a feral glimmer to them as they drag up the length of Temperance’s body. She tenses for a moment, a shiver of anticipation prickling along her lilac skin as the man (or perhaps spirit) before her gives a low hum. His tongue wets his lips as he takes a calculated step towards the Tiefling temptress, whose barbed tail is flicking slowly back and forth, rhythmic and almost coy. Temperance ghosts her talons down the valley between her breasts and lets the strap of her dress slip down her shoulder. Another step forward and the Rakshasa is nearly upon her, slitted pupils blown wide with desire.

“Darling,” Astarion interrupts just as the Rakshasa and Temperance close the distance between them. The vampire spawn cracks a garnet eye open and peers up at Orlando with gleeful suspicion, “Are you reading an Elvish translation of Infernal smut?”  

A blush dusts the Tiefling’s cheeks.

“Possibly,” she murmurs, casting a sheepish glance towards the ground. With a dark chuckle, Astarion abandons his flower petal, letting the wind whisk it away once again while he reaches up to tangle his fingers in Orlando’s dark curls.

“You naughty thing,” he purrs, pulling her down, the scent of jasmine gracing his nose as he traces his tongue along the part in Orlando’s soft lips. She tastes of peppermint and honey, a remnant of the tea they had been enjoying earlier. It’s taken some time, but Orlando has managed to coax herself out of her timid and often solitary pursuits of pleasure. In their early days of knowing one another Astarion had sensed the shame Orlando felt when it came to seeking pleasure for herself. She was always so eager to please, but so cautious to receive; a feeling that is all too familiar to the vampire spawn. It brings an unbridled joy to Astarion’s heart to see his beloved openly enjoying her risqué novella, and even more so that she agreed to read it to him without hesitation. Like him, the Tiefling is coming home to herself, slowly but surely.

“I couldn’t resist when I found it,” Orlando manages between kisses, her twittering laughter music to Astarion’s ears.

“And you’ve been sitting here, stone-faced, letting me think you were concentrating on something of substance?” Astarion returns, feigning offense. He smiles against her with each press of his lips to hers.

“Hmm, well I planned to include you once I’d done my proper research,” she breathes, moving to lay kiss after kiss along Astarion’s jawline. He gasps when she reaches the delicate flesh beneath his ear and allows his hand to stray down to her breasts.

“Well, why don’t you show me what you’ve learned,” Astarion purrs, mischief dancing in his eyes when his beloved gasps into him. Her sharp canines graze his earlobe, nipping lightly and drawing from Astarion a strangled moan. Orlando chuckles to herself, her breath fanning gently against Astarion’s neck.

“Meleth nîn,” the Tiefling hushes, sending prickles of excitement along his nerves, “Tell me what you need.”

Speech struggles to clamber up Astarion’s throat, arousal constricting his vocal cords as Orlando does exactly what he’d wanted her to, her warm tongue dragging up the shell of his pointed ear.

“Vanimelda,” he manages, momentarily halting Orlando’s motions and yanking her down into the grass beside him, tangling his limbs with hers. Her talons, onyx enameled with mother-of-pearl, ghost along the tender flesh of his stomach while he busies himself leaving impassioned bruises on her lips. She moves to unlace his trousers, but Astarion beats her to it, the growing strain within eased once he is free of them. The grass tickles his bare body, a tickle mirrored by the strands of Orlando’s hair whispering against his skin.

“If I’m to be bare to the elements, darling, so must you be,” he demands with the quirk of a pale brow. Orlando gives him a knowing look, something impish in her hazel gaze. She takes her sweet time pulling her billowing shirt up over her head. But it gives Astarion a proper view of the scales that frame the sides of her body, that hug her curves deliciously and peek out from underneath her breasts. When she is free of her clothing, she pauses to gaze at Astarion. He is bathed in moonlight, silver and cold. Her eyes are filled with wonder, though; not fear. Not hunger. Not hate. Only an amazement so deep, it is as if she is viewing the heavens for the very first time.

“My Star,” she whispers, her hand tenderly caressing the hollow Astarion’s ribs make above his stomach with every inhale, “The gladness in my heart is unmatched seeing you so utterly relaxed.”

“You are wretchedly sentimental,” Astarion grouses, though half-heartedly. He, too, is filled with such a deep relief seeing Orlando so at ease. The months have been kind to both of them, and he hopes in the deepest chambers of his heart that this remains so.

Orlando affectionately shakes her head at Astarion, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. A silent moment passes, the couple huddled close and near, Astarion cupping Orlando’s round face, his palm pressed to her cheek.

“Gi melathon anuir,” he finally returns, irises suffused with adoration.

“Anuir,” Orlando tenderly beams, before leaning closer and murmuring to him, “You are my home, and my home is in you.”

The Tiefling lifts up Astarion’s loose shirt, letting it bunch up against his collarbone as she feathers kisses down his sternum, fingertips pinching his pebbled nipples and eliciting a tiny moan from her beloved vampire.

Wordlessly, she trails down his chest, past his navel, and nibbles the inside of his thighs. Her hands smooth along his hips, massaging the suppleness of his ass and warming him as they go. He’s used to feeling cold, but the natural heat of Orlando’s body reminds him of days spent by the fire or basking in the sun, long ago. He is alive with her, the twinkling flame of her soul rushing through his veins. Her little lovebites leave marks on his skin, marks Astarion will cherish forever. Marks that mirror the scar he has permanently left on her neck. He craves the taste of her blood as much as he craves her touch, but he is too lost in his own pleasure to be hungry just yet.

The Tiefling’s playful gaze flicks up to meet Astarion’s, asking silently for permission as she inches closer and closer to his groin.

“Take me,” he breathes, voice husky with desire; and with a soft smile, Orlando does. She presses one final kiss to the dewy tip of his cock, before the tip of her tongue drags along its length and Astarion is lost in a haze of heady passion. Orlando’s tongue swirls around his tip, her mouth warm around him. The same curling tongue that rolled her “R’s” and purred her “L’s” sends delicious heat through Astarion’s body. His head lolls back just after he catches a glimpse of Orlando’s head bobbing up and down, though his view of her is mostly obscured by the laborious rise and fall of his chest.

“Fuck, darling,” he groans, laying back in the grass and clutching his own chest. Orlando’s talons rake down his thighs, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to elicit another pathetic moan from the vampire. He laughs at his own desperation, trying so hard not to buck his hips into Orlando. As the moments pass and as her tongue licks, twirls, and drags, Astarion finds it more and more difficult to keep still. He wants more. He wants his nerves to beg and scream for relief, to be alight with fire and voltaic with sparks. So, just as Astarion can feel his cock twitching, just as he is about to finish and spill himself inside Orlando, he stays her.

“I need to feel you inside me,” he whimpers, eagerly drawing her up and tasting himself on her lips. She nods, her cheeks rosy with arousal, and allows Astarion to gather her up and draw her inside with him.

***

They had bought the appendage together at a discrete little boutique in the Upper City. It was kept in the trunk at the end of the bed, hidden amongst a variety of toys they had bought or fashioned for one another. The magic of this particular appendage is quite remarkable: everything Astarion feels Orlando can feel too, and it has thus far brought a great deal of pleasure to them both. Astarion rifles through the trunk for a moment before he finds it, passing it off to his beloved and watching with an aching desire as she straps it to herself. He then lays on his stomach, satin sheets cool against his skin, the fire in the hearth crackling in his ears.

Orlando gently places her hands on his hips, her lips peppering kisses along Astarion’s back.

“Are you ready for me, Astarion?” she begins, her tone dulcet and serene. He lifts himself and crashes his lips against hers, kisses sloppy in his confirmation.

“Yes,” he breathes before laying back down on his stomach. The anticipation in him builds, and his core is already taut from Orlando’s earlier ministrations. He suspects he will not last long.

Carefully, Orlando eases into him, slow and gentle to give him time to adjust. Astarion gasps at the contact but relaxes after a moment. He hears Orlando give a shuddering, satisfied sigh once she is sheathed in him. Astarion reaches back to squeeze Orlando’s hand as if to say, “I’m ready,” and with that, she’s off, slow at first, before she picks up her pace at Astarion’s request.

Astarion grips the pillow his head is resting on, cheek pressed into it and eyes clenched shut in pleasure. When Orlando gets a good pace going, she leans down, one hand snaking around to Astarion’s front, brushing his erection.

“Is this okay?” she asks, dragging a talon up its length. Astarion manages a strained, “Yes,” before he is lost in an overwhelming wave of pleasure as Orlando grips his cock and begins to stroke in time with the motion of her hips.

Astarion is lost in bliss once again with the feeling of Orlando pumping in and out of him, hips pressing flush to his ass, the lewd slap of skin on skin. The rawness of his overworked nerves sends wondrous chills through his body. Orlando’s hand around his sensitive cock warms him right back up. There is lightning in his veins, and it electrifies the very air around them.

“Oh, Gods,” Astarion whines, his muscles tensing, relaxing, tensing, relaxing. His core is tight, so very tight, and he can feel it threatening to release any moment now. Astarion ruts into the mattress when he’s close; so very, painfully close.

“Astarion, my love,” Orlando cries, her motions erratic as she, too, draws closer to elation, “Come for me, my darling.”

As her encouragement spills from her lips, a prayer in this sacred space, Astarion feels the coil in him break. He’s a whimpering mess when he finally finishes, threads of dewy cum splaying across his stomach and the sheets beneath. Orlando halts, pausing to catch her breath before easing out of him, undoing the straps and casting her temporary appendage to the side. She flops down on the mattress beside Astarion, who is utterly breathless, and hungrily captures his lips; a passionate apology for having to leave him empty. He returns this with equal fervor, clinging to Orlando, practically wrapping himself around her. But he is desperate to return this feeling of rapture, not done yet with this evening. His elegant fingers snake down to Orlando’s heat, folds wet with anticipation. He is slick with her arousal as soon as he touches her, circling his thumb gently around her clit while two of his fingers slip deftly into her. She whines, needy and desperate for him.

“Tell me what you want, Vanimelda,” he purrs, garnet eyes glinting in the firelight. Orlando merely whimpers. Her face is flushed and feels hot against Astarion’s shoulder. His lips find her temple, while her hands clutch his back.

“Use your words, darling,” he teases with a dark chuckle.

“Hah-” she huffs, talons digging into his shoulder blades, “Y-you, my love.”   

Her walls pulse around Astarion’s fingers, but he is not ready for her to come just yet. Swiftly, he withdraws, savagely smashing his lips against hers before trailing sloppy kisses down her chest and suckling hard on her nipples. He nips, suckles, and twirls his tongue around her pert buds, and relishes the almost lyrical whimpers that escape her lips. He knows her tits will be so sensitive tomorrow, and he knows she will revel in it.

A string of unintelligible Infernal spills from Orlando’s mouth in clicks, coos, and purrs as Astarion’s fingers find their way back to her heat. He slips in with ease once again, pumping deep and slow.

“Fuck, please-” she whimpers, tugging at the hairs on the nape of Astarion’s neck, “Bite me, my darling. Please.”

She need not say another word. Astarion dives down, canines sinking into Orlando’s neck, fiery blood bursting on his tongue. With a cry of his name, Orlando comes undone around Astarion, body overheated and legs shaking with her release.

When Astarion withdraws from her, Orlando clutches him close. They wrap themselves in one another for a long while, and Astarion calms himself to the gentle thrumming of Orlando’s heart. She smells like him, and he, her. In the silence, he drinks mindfully from her, not wanting to drain her, though her iron is rich on his tongue. Her blood always tastes perfumed after they make love, and it fills him with peace.

Astarion’s fingertips find their way to Orlando’s scales, where he absentmindedly caresses as he clings to her. They are smooth under his touch, and her voice comes in quiet vibrations through her chest. Softly, she whispers Elvish poetry to him as dawn draws nearer. Astarion finds himself falling fast asleep in her arms, and joyously, his dreams are untroubled. But before he does, he breathes a quiet, “You are my home, and my home is in you.”

A/N: It feels like it's been an eternity since I've updated this and also since I've written fanfic at all. These last 6 months have been insanely busy for me. I've really been missing getting solid opportunities to do some writing, but I'm trying to make more time for it. This was a fun chapter to write :) I did some research on Elvish phrases (thank you to Reddit and all the other various Sindarin/Quenya dictionaries online). I'm by no means an expert in Sindarin or Quenya, but I tried to find phrases and research them as best I could. Here are the translations, if you are curious:

Meleth nîn: My love Vanimelda: Term of endearment meaning beautiful (I believe Aragorn calls Arwen this, and it references Varda, but I could be mistaken) Gi melathon anuir: I will love you forever

Anyways, I'm weak in the knees for the concept of Astarion speaking Elvish, so I had to throw some of that in here. I couldn't resist! I've desperately missed writing this fic and writing for our darling, Astarion <3 I'm hoping the next chapter won't take me nearly as long to get out as this one did. I'm also hoping to work on a few of my other projects, so stay tuned! Thank you for reading and I hope you are doing well <3

[katsona-the-katsequel]

Background Events: The Power of Rumors

A compilation of times where rumors have changed reality in the Persona series.

Click here for the time we focused on the evolution of Persona experimentation.

Spoilers for P2, P3 (briefly), P4 and P5!

One of the most basic concepts of Persona is the connection of everything through the Collective Unconscious, and to understand this concept, we're gonna have to rely on the J-Man once more.

According to Carl Jung, the Collective Unconscious refers to a part of the human mind shared by all people, inherited rather than developed individually. This universal aspect contains fundamental symbols and themes (archetypes) that influence our thoughts, emotions and behaviors unconsciously. Despite attempts to suppress these ancient influences, they continue to appear in traditions, superstitions and phenomena.

Rumors relate to the Collective Unconscious by reflecting shared, deep-seated fears, hopes or archetypal themes present in a culture. Since the Collective Unconscious consists of universal experiences and symbols, rumors often tap into these common elements, spreading quickly because they resonate with the unconscious mind's familiar patterns and ideas. This shared connection makes rumors compelling and believable to many people, as they echo fundamental, collective human experiences and anxieties.

And this is how Nyarlathotep took advantage of the Collective Unconscious to create the Rumor Curse. He probably only thinned the barriers between the physical world and the CU in Sumaru City so rumors became a reality (which would also explain why there are demons all over the city). I'm not going to mention every single instance of rumors becoming true in Persona 2 since that's a whole game mechanic, so let's go over the most important one: the Oracle of Maia.

Despite Nyarly admitting he made the whole thing up, the entire city thought this was a prophecy created by the Maian aliens, which made it true. Through Innocent Sin the prophecy was fulfilled, culminating in Maya dying and the world ending. This is the best and most extreme example of rumors becoming true, a high bar that wouldn't be reached again, not even in Eternal Punishment.

Some fans theorize that the Rumor Curse didn't affect just Sumaru, but all of Japan, and that it was never lifted. While this would give an explanation to some of the following cases, there are more canon reasons for them becoming true. Also, if the theory was true, then Strega would have done more damage than it did when they formed their cult and defamed SEES. Not to mention, the minor rumors like Fuuka being a ghost come to take revenge. By P2 rules, they should all become reality, but they didn't. And so, we must rely on the alternate explanations given to us.

Like divine intervention. The next major rumor spread in the series comes from Chie of all people:

Urban legends like the Persona Game or the Joker were the bread and butter of early Persona, and this fits the bill. Depending on how much of The Magician you hold canon, the rumor existed way before Izanami began her game, which would mean she simply took advantage of a popular rumor to create a connection to the TV World. Being a small town, Inaba is more susceptible to rumors and gossip quickly spreading around. Rumors would keep moving the plot forward, whether it was to learn a victim's identity or their profile to find them in the TV World.

The closest thing to the rumors game mechanic from P2 was the fame-to-advance-in-Mementos from P5. Both Akechi and Phantom Thieves fought an invisible battle to stay in the population's mind and gain influence in the CU. However, this is a double-edged sword. Can anyone remember what happened when all of Tokyo thought the Phantom Thieves didn't exist at all?

Yaldabaoth thinned the barriers once more and, for a few moments, the "Rumor Curse" had returned to lay siege on all of Tokyo. The only time anyone took advantage of this would be during the final fight against Yaldy, where the entire city saw the Phantom Thieves as heroes and saviors, boosting their powers to defeat a god. This can be compared to P2's Joker, whom the entire city saw as a wish-granting entity, and ended up becoming one.

Regardless, the same curse that plagued Sumaru ended in Tokyo when everything went back to normal. Default settings for everyone. Even though rumors aren't as powerful as before, no one can deny the way they shape the people's cognition. And in a world where the Collective Unconscious really is a thing? That can go a long way.

[thatrandomlemononyourcounter1]

Hello <3

Consider this my intro post! 

My name is CJ (not really but I'm not sharing my real name online lads)

She/her demiromantic/hetero-demisexual :PP

I do write! My AO3 account is also ThatRandomLemonOnYourCounter (Which is where I post my kotlc rewrite)

I'm a MINOR so don't be weird in the chat homies. 

I'm also Christian, so keep that in mind :D

This blog supports Palestine, so if you're on Israel's side (Zionists), disrespectfully leave. 

Honestly if you're any form of nasty (I.e. racist, bigoted in any manner) please leave because I will not tolerate that on my blog or around myself.

This blog is safe for everyone unless you're a massive jerk :)

One thing about me is that I really love to write things, so if you have any requests, feel free to submit them <33

If you have any hcs/questions/comments please please please drop them in my ask box or something :)))

My fandoms:

KOTLC, TMNT (Mostly ROTTMNT, TMNT2012, Bayverse, and Mutant Mayhem but I'm going to start watching 2003), MCU, The Inheritance Games, Final Fantasy (IX, XII, XIII, VII, WOFF, Tactics WOTL), BotW/TotK, HTTYD, Chronicles of Narnia, The Hunger Games, Divergent, Pirates of the Caribbean,  Pokemon (both anime and games), Grishaverse (I've only ready shadow and bone so idk that much), Gilmore Girls, AGGGTM (No spoilers cause I've only read book 1), One of Us is Lying series

MY LESSER KNOWN FANDOMS:

The Secret Zoo (Someone should read this), Explorer Academy (this too), and honestly final fantasy doesn't have much action either

Unfortunately, I pick up new fandoms like shiny rocks I see outside so...I was doomed from the start.

My moots: Moots!!

Anyway thanks for reading!!

[butterflytint]

first of all, i finished the cruel prince last week and it was phenomenal. Second of all, i finished reading fourth wing two days ago and it was okay, not spectacular. Third of all, i just finished reading the third book of the inheritance games trilogy and my heart literally sank because my love for this series was so vast and this ENDING DID NOT SATISFY ME. What i don’t understand is when authors write a masterpiece of a book and do not give an ending that SATISFIES the reader and makes them understand that this would of course be a rational outcome based on what transpired in the plot. But god, this final book was so good and then in the last fifty pages, it burst into a heaping dumpster fire. I want to break all the doors and windows in the house now.

Like for example, Attack on Titan (minor spoilers ahead),

the ending was…. tragic … and that’s not to say it was a bad ending, from a writing perspective it made sense. Tragic endings don’t equate to poor writing. But endings that don’t give full clarity or even let the characters who suffered get their get back, like that is infuriating 😭or even when evil characters don’t face ANY consequences whatsoever.

So with aot’s ending, while it was sad, it was what the characters were fighting for and they resolved their main conflict from the beginning of the series, of course it snowballed into many more issues but the one we were introduced to in the beginning was what made the series what it was and showed how and WHY the characters developed or changed and the endings and motivations were different for each of them and they MADE SENSE.

So yeah i should maybe go out for a walk and touch some grass or something don’t mind me

[hollyhuedsoul]

Baseline for a Cultist Simulator / Soul Eater AU : A Sheet of Short Concept Introductions

Warning to all who enter : content ahead discusses blood, implications of ritualistic self harm, murder, the occult, the like, and, like all of this blog – is not intended for minors.

The characters within are being depicted and are to be interpreted as adults in this au, and there may be light spoilers for Cultist Simulator within. Nothing major or clearly defined, and hopefully nothing to restrict your interests in trying out my most beloved game of all time, should this snippet catch your interest.

Alright, enough of my blabbering :

- Mr. Soleil 'Soul' Evans (Bright Young Thing)

The second-borne son of a man caught in too many affairs of the pocket and the thirst. Blood of a lord, inheriting not his title, but a little more than could be bargained for.

Amongst the high-bred, Soul is a cold mare, but along the still-water streets and the shade of home, he is in true form, a mulish man kicking off the shackles of one's best Sunday dress. A pianist, an artist – the struggling lot plagued by dreams that would leave good men asking him unfortunate questions.

There are many who would seek to lead such an individual to unknown crossroads, especially as his original path of luxurious meandering falls short; his proud, regal father falls to delirium and disease. A man dying, then dead, his coffers cleaned by numbers of unspoken oaths that escaped all but debtors' notice. What remains is mostly for his brother and his mother's comforts. For himself, a small dowry. A heavy sentence of responsibility to replenish. To settle into a skin that doesn't suit him.

One clue, a hint of what knife has butchered Soul's inheritance, however, remains for him to decipher. A letter addressing many names, but all the same, the same, singular woman. Demands pleading for more time. More chances. Speaking of all the funds that had fallen from a dying man's throat into her greased palm. Cursing her in all of her names and writing 'the harpies' upon her.

If Soul should seek answers and restitution, he must first prepare himself to find the proper door, and, the means to knock. But as he shall learn, not all doors are of wood.

Some are wounds.

- Miss Albarn (The Benefactor)

A librarian that burns cigarette scars into midnight lounges when the thirst takes her, and indulges in tongues living people do not speak in when hunger nears. She funds those willing to seek words she has not yet tasted, acts as a translator for those without lantern light to read beside, and is a discreet collector of things the Bureau would prefer be burnt.

She is as various as her possessions and seven times as unknowable, a bearer of many a nom de guerre. Both the wine and the glass. The gleaming microscope and the bloody rot inspected.

No one seems to know where Miss Albarn came from, nor what her father became or where her mother went. This is a rare part of the histories she does not record with much scholarly discipline.

She is as kind as the sun. She is illuminating and bright, and she grows brighter still. One day, she hopes that the sky might open for her, too, if she can gain enough sway in the ports people do not visit, and the house that takes only sleeping guests and waking residents.

Until then, she guides the unfortunate. Making skulls of flesh into glass, flesh into pigment, hair into plumage.

Most regrettably, Miss Albarn can not dream. Unlike her contemporaries, she tries.

- Elizabeth 'Liz' Thompson (The Runner)

A daughter of the streets, descendant of some ancient fueds between colonels and their war machines. A child of struggle. An orphan. Older of two. Parent to herself and one younger.

For many years, she has worked and lived in odd jobs. Anything to get away from the cold, to stay out of the winter seasons and their ailments. Anything to keep her sister, Patty, up and pretty in the Gaiety, dancing as she so longed to. They did not both have to follow the city's edges, after all. Even if it kept Liz sharp, at least Patty could become fond of softer things.

But so it came, that softness, so unlike the cool bricks of alleyways. Pearls, fur coats, good bread, wine, and the letters. The trinkets of the younger Thompson's admirers, bearing those golden strings of expectations and new dangers. Benefactors are of fickle hearts, and even the pampered bear claws one must be mindful of, should such beasts not be entertained.

Liz was intolerable of it. In such circumstances, she could forget her fear of hunger, her hatred of the cold. Between them and her sister, those things didn't exist at all. It was quite simple really, putting a lump of lead between the seeing and thinking halves of a man.

What was in his parlor for the two sisters to abscond with, was not so simple, however.

Now, she has to run. It's all she can do.

- Patricia 'Patty' Thompson (The Dancer)

A flittering, eccentric woman from one whim to the next, she's been reared to tolerate the pain as long as she can make the leap, all with a smile to pair and the heart to match. Affected by an infectious source of optimism otherwise only found in her vivid dreams, Patty talks an awful lot of giraffes, trees, burrowing moles, and cuts her hair in snippets before rest.

She's lived many years at the Gaiety out of passion, her sister's support, and the determination to see Liz in a nice dress, if nothing else. Torn ligaments could never amount to much, compared to the delight of bringing home fresh meats and good cheeses with funny names.

Not ignorant by any means, the younger Thompson fashions herself a person of the moment, not yesterday or tomorrow, but the less-than-lucid joy of the most current daydream. And sometime in some yesterday long passed by now, a man demanded her interest and earned two denials. The first, knocking him onto his own floor and, the second, from the eldest Thompson, leaving him there to seep. She wouldn't commit much of it to memory, if not for the painting in the foyer.

Only then did she begin to learn the Names and put to mind the Hours, as figures peeled themselves away from white paint and gave her whispers, promises, and pleasant phrases. Gave weight and providence to what was before, childish wandering.

Patty now dances at the Ecdysis Club, and she fashions herself as a woman who will never stop dancing. She dreams of droves and ever-beating, pounding feet, of red hands, and a thunder under her skin. When the night is most fluttering and feeling, she does as the painting had, and peels away her layers. Peels until the audience, too, hears the endless storm.

At the end of the night, she collects pigments only she can produce. And by moonlight, she paints herself unceasing.

- 'The Pale Prince'

"... is of great notage, that this piece was crafted in 888, by eight different, unnamed artists who only addressed each other by different variations and means of saying, 'eight'. One, by tally, the second by doodles of seeds, third used military ranks...

The age is indicated by the materials used, and the related records passed between those responsible. Eight-hundreded and eighty-eight letters in all, discovered. Each, recovered miraculously well-preserved in sites from modern Italy to China, Peru to Brazil, several crates buried in Antarctica or Afghanistan, tablets of stone in Greece and Congo...

The style, however, is unlike anything resembling the era's movements, and the content it depicts raises more questions than I fear I will ever be able to answer. The painting depicts a man in a suit, dress pants, leather shoes. Very pale. Of course, I needn't explain to you how unusual this discovery is, but I shall, as it suits me, detail that...

Unfortunately, the Bureau began to dig for the painting's destruction during my last year at the institution. I must confess, I dearly suspect that, my colleague, Mr. Elias Crow, purposefully 'lost' the piece to prevent such an outcome.

I do also, confess, many personal doubts that the Bureau would possess even the correct means to do so properly. In the seven years I spent in its company, I found the thing most delightfully fascinating, and wrathful. And yes, I mean wrathful. Fitfull, even. Petty, like a creature. Something with cold breath.

Our first director, Mr. Eugene Shelly, happened to sneeze upon it, most regrettably amidst an examination. I can still recall each tiny infraction, the tiniest daps of...

They never did find all the pieces of Mr. Shelly. No, he was a bit scattered much like having been 'sneezed' himself. The first seven days passed by fine enough, his flu even improved, but on the eighth he took to the most inspirational mania I had ever been second-hand to, many thanks to his poor wife who confided in my person.

He had been shoving pen tips between his knuckles to wring out vital pigments from the skin, and drinking white paint..."

- 'Black Star' (The Long Forgotten)

Some people forget who they are, before they find out in the first place. But some cling to the gusto of their being, like a stain in the skin. The man who named himself after the tattoo he bears, has ideas, hints, pictures, ambitions... just not the whole frame of his own being.

A patient of Dr. Nakatsukasa, if you inquired with the hospital. Showed up one night, soaked from head to toe in a strange water, unlike the rain or any sort of tide along the harbor. A good friend, if you asked the woman herself. And perhaps unlike most folks, there is less of a bedside manner in her voice when she says as much. But, a right fool and pest, to most. Kinless and without modern manners.

But no matter, Black Star knows he is destined for some manner of greatness. Often to be found raving and looning about surpassing 'god' as both the individual and the idea – the man with no memory or name holds an air of immense strength, hands that could bend iron, and often the voice of a striking, insistent hammer.

He behaves enough of himself to labor and repay the good doctor for housing him, but his words cause much grief with the Bureau at all hours.

As it should, really. He's determined to recall himself, and he's finding the right books, getting her in trouble. Leading her to learn what he has been forced to forget. All the while, those that had once forgotten him, now perceive Black Star, and they have their inklings of his kind. Those who go into the noon and never return, for in London, they have never been in the first place.

- Dr. Tsubaki Nakatsukasa (The Physician)

The hospital is often cold, even with the blankets she brings. Even with the bouquets she prepares for those without guests. Even with the kind words she does her best to utter tenderly, amidst each passing. It was a chill in her bones that brought the good doctor to do the work she did. A hope to let the end fall sweetly, and be warm.

But there are still things people say about the road to hell, and it being paved with good intentions. About how you shouldn't humor raving men with no memories too deeply, or follow a dying patient's last wish to the home of a strange librarian, or treat a nameless woman for stab wounds in the middle of the night.

- Inspector Crona Gordon (The Detective)

When she looks at the sun now, she sees it bleed.

Tsubaki has become quieter than ever before.

They 'would do a great job', they said. They 'needed all the inspectors they could get out there' they said. 'They weren't born to push parking tickets' they said.

But couldn't someone ELSE deal with all these people?! They didn't know how to deal with dancers who tore their own skin off, or women who put jewels under their tongues and threw up snakes, or librarians with glowing eyes! It never got easier!

But, such is the life of a member of the Suppression Bureau. Especially as the child of the hydra's sole, remaining head; as Director Gordon's only child.

There was an obligation in their blood to root out 'complications'. Find evidence, write it into the most damning light according to the rules the other rules allowed, lock the suspect away - the idea in itself was rather simple. If Crona was efficient, they'd never even have to arrest the suspect themselves! It was having to find these secrets, bare their mind to the most heinous acts of mankind, again and again, that was hard. Hard to talk to so many people, hard to keep running into those hard stares and on top of it all, deal with Ragnarok at the same time...

And now, there was this doctor, and the cabaret dancer, and an assassin, and they had the painting, and there was a guy that didn't exist on record, and that creepy woman ‐ there were too many to keep track of! Why couldn't Inspector Liber, or

[out-with-the-boys]

The Dance- Chapter 10

Homelander x Supe OC

Notes: 18+ No warnings apply for this chapter. Each chapter will have individual content warnings as they apply to avoid spoilers. Find this work on AO3. Tumblr master post here.

Previous chapter.

It didn’t surprise Morgan much that life was back to normal so shortly after she and Homelander returned to New York from her father’s funeral. A part of her would still mourn him always, but she couldn’t put the rest of her life on hold anymore. The world was still spinning, and she had to carry on.

While she wasn’t allowed to go on any saves for a while longer, or exert herself too much in other ways, Dr. Foster had cleared her to get back to work. Ashley was still pushing her ‘Girls Get it Done’ initiative, and had found a few ways to incorporate Morgan’s unique talents into it. When she realized she could roll it into ‘Women in Stem,’ Morgan half expected her to start frothing at the mouth with excitement.

When she wasn’t working on keynote speeches or interviewing with the press, the rest of her time was filled with shoots for the new Vought movie. Dawn of the Seven was well underway on production, and the director, Adam, had been dying to get her on set now that she was cleared for work. She wasn’t particularly wowed by the script, but it was a surprisingly fun aspect of her job.

Maybe she had inherited a little of Sammy’s acting bug after all.

The Dawn of the Seven set buzzed with activity, a carefully controlled chaos that mimicked the real-life missions she couldn’t currently be part of. Extras in costumes rushed around, crew members darted between trailers, and the ever-present hum of cameras and lighting equipment filled the air. Adam was already calling out orders, his voice barely audible over the commotion.

Today’s scene was a reimagining of a past mission, complete with exaggerated dialogue and explosive action that bore little resemblance to what had actually happened. Morgan’s role was minor—more of a cameo, really, but she hadn’t even been a part of the original mission in the first place. None of it made a lot of sense, but that was cinema.

“Psyren!” Adam called, waving her over. “We’re ready to run your lines. Remember, you’re stepping in just as Homelander’s about to finish off the bad guy. It’s all about power and presence.”

Morgan nodded, adjusting the exaggerated version of her suit Vought had designed for the film. It was flashier, more stylized, and far less practical than the real thing, but it photographed well. The real thing still looked pretty battered after Harlem anyway. 

Off to the side, Homelander was chatting with one of the producers, but Morgan could feel his eyes flicker toward her every so often, studying her. His presence had become a constant lately, a mix of genuine interest and strategic maneuvering that made her head spin. She wondered if this was all part of his latest game—showing up just often enough to remind her that she was never really alone.

Adam gave the signal, snapping Morgan back into the present and the cameras began to roll. She delivered her lines with the right amount of bravado, channeling a confident, commanding persona. With a mock telekinetic wave toward the villain, they flew backward in an impressive stunt choreographed to the last detail. 

Acting might not have been her first choice, but it offered a strange kind of escape—a momentary illusion where she didn’t have to worry about all the nitty gritty of her role at Vought, even if just for a few takes. Eventually the scene wrapped with applause from the crew, and Adam gave her a thumbs-up, clearly pleased.

As the crew moved to reset for the next scene, Homelander finally approached, his expression casual but his eyes sharp.

“You looked good out there,” he said, voice low enough for only her to hear. “The spotlight suits you.”

“I’ll be sure to pass your compliments along to wardrobe.” she snorted, brushing the compliment aside with a modest shrug. 

Homelander’s smile lingered, his gaze fixing on her with a different sort of intensity than she was accustomed to. “You don’t have to do that, you know. That whole ‘self-deprecating to appear humble’ thing? I thought we were supposed to be more honest with each other.”

Blinking, she wasn’t quite sure how to feel about him calling her out like that. He wasn’t exactly on the mark about why she often talked herself down, but he was close enough to make her question a few things. She narrowed her eyes slightly, pushing back the small flutter of discomfort.

“I am being honest,” she snorted lightly, arms crossing in front of her as if to shield herself from the weight of his gaze. “What you’re talking about is a purely subjective thing.”

“You could always just take the compliment,” he offered, his lips curling into an amused smirk. “A simple ‘thank you’ wouldn’t kill you, would it?”

Her brows raised a little further, and she leveled him with a dry look. “I don’t know. It might.”

Homelander chuckled, stepping just a little closer, but his movements were slow, deliberate. “Well, let’s find out, shall we?”

Morgan’s breath caught in her chest for a split second, but she masked it with a shrug. “Fine. Thank you,” she said, her tone laced with sarcasm. “Happy?”

His eyes flashed with that same intensity, a mixture of amusement and something a bit mercurial. “I don’t know. Are you?”

 Shifting her weight, she tried to shake the feeling that he was attempting to peel back layers she wasn’t ready to expose. “You sure know how to make something out of nothing, don’t you?”

He smirked, undeterred. “I know what I see. You can pretend you don’t want the spotlight, but you’re made for it, Morgan. You could be something... bigger. Something more.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, pushing down the surge of unease that came with his words. He wasn’t wrong, and that was what unsettled her the most. “And what, exactly, do you want me to do with that? Shine so bright that no one can look away?”

His smile softened, but his eyes remained sharp. “Something like that. Or, you know, you could just stop hiding behind all this modesty and let yourself be seen for who you really are. I think you’d like it more than you think.”

Morgan felt her heart skip a beat at the intensity in his voice, and her defenses shot up instinctively. “Maybe I’m just not interested in being put on a pedestal,” she countered, her voice cool. “That’s more your thing, isn’t it?”

There was a glint of something mischievous in his eyes. “You say that now. But one day, you might realize you belong up there too.”

Forcing a smile, she stepped back slightly to create some space between them. “I’ll leave the high-flying acts to you. I’m fine keeping my feet on the ground.”

Before Morgan could fully retreat from the moment, Ashley came zooming toward them in a golf cart, braking hard before she got too close. The wild-eyed look of panic on her face told Morgan everything she needed to know before she could even think about peering into her mind. There was a fire to be put out somewhere.

“Can I speak to you?” Ashley addressed Homelander sharply. “Privately,” she added quickly, her gaze flitting between Morgan and him.

There was a chance she could gracefully make her escape, but his eyes locked with hers and he smiled. It was a triumphant and wry expression that made her want to wither a little. She had been honest with him, and now every interaction they had was hinging on that fact.

“Oh, Psyren can stay,” he said with a dismissive wave. “There aren’t any secrets between us.”

Exchanging glances, neither she or Ashley were about to argue with him. She was about to deliver bad news, and Morgan was already anticipating that she might need to soften the blow. From the details Morgan had picked up on amidst the chaos, she didn’t imagine Homelander would react well.

Start with the positives. If you can.

Ashley flinched slightly as Morgan silently nudged her in a direction that she hoped would help. Swallowing hard, Ashley took the tablet she’d had tucked under her arm and pulled up a video to show them. 

“So, it’s been scrubbed off the web already, but this was online for about twenty minutes, give or take.” she began, a slight tremble betraying her nerves. “People have definitely seen it.”

Morgan had already seen the content of the video through Ashley’s memory, but hearing it out loud made her stomach churn. There was a super-powered man causing havoc in a village somewhere she didn’t recognize immediately. Homelander had taken him out with hardly any effort, cutting through him with a single short blast of his heat vision. 

That blast caught somebody else too.

Tensing slightly as she listened to the despairing wails of a woman over the tablet speaker, she kept her gaze averted. The shock from Homelander was palpable as he tried to replay his own memory of the event back in his mind. He was in and out of there so fast, he hadn’t realized his mistake.

“How? I–” he paused, a million questions all bubbling to the surface, each one of them a concern with how the public would see him now. On one hand, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disgust. Someone had needlessly been killed in a conflict he was involved in, but that was the least of his worries.

Then again, she thought back to that fleeting image of that small boy– he was so desperate for love and approval, no matter what form it took. It didn’t make it right, but she could feel his desperation so strongly it made her stomach give an uneasy twist

“I assume there’s already a plan in place on how to address this, yes?” Morgan pressed, giving Ashley a pointed look. 

“N-not yet, but we’re working on it.” Ashley stammered. “But, there’s something else you should know.” 

With a swipe of her finger, another video began to play, but this time it was a live feed. Congresswoman Victoria Neuman was poised in front of an angry crowd, calling for justice. With a long, quiet exhale, Morgan closed her eyes and braced herself for impact.

“Wait… They’re protesting?” Homelander’s voice wavered between disbelief and a simmering anger as he stared at the live feed. “They’re protesting me?”

The camera panned over the crowd—hundreds of people holding signs, shouting, their faces twisted in anger. Neuman’s voice rang out clearly over the speakers as she condemned the reckless actions that led to an innocent life being taken.

Ashley flinched as Homelander snatched the tablet out of her hands, the plastic casing creaking under the pressure. Morgan could feel the panic rolling off him in waves, but it wasn’t just the fear of public backlash. It was the deeper wound—the idea that people were turning against him. 

“They can’t... They don’t know what they’re talking about,” he muttered, shaking his head as if trying to convince himself. “I was saving them. Those ingrates wouldn’t even be alive if it weren’t for me.”

“Homelander,” she said softly, stepping forward but keeping her tone measured. “It’s not about what you did—it’s about how it’s being framed. Neuman’s spinning this against you because she knows how much you mean to people. This isn’t just about you—it’s a power play.”

His eyes snapped to hers, the flicker of vulnerability vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. “A power play?” he echoed, a dangerous edge creeping back into his voice.

Morgan nodded, her heart pounding as she tried to keep him focused. “If you react out of anger, you’re playing right into her hands. They’re trying to paint you as reckless, but if you show restraint, if you get ahead of this, you can still own the narrative.”

Homelander’s jaw clenched, the tablet still trembling in his hand. For a moment, she wasn’t sure if he would listen or if the rage would consume him. His eyes darted back to the screen, the protesters’ chants echoing in the background. 

“They need me,” he muttered, almost to himself. “They don’t understand what I did for them.”

Morgan hesitated, then took a step closer. “Then show them. Show them who you are, but on your terms. You’ve always had the power—don’t let them take that from you.”

There was a long, heavy silence as Homelander processed her words, his gaze shifting between the live feed and her. The tension in his body didn’t ease, but his grip on the tablet loosened, if only slightly. He let out a sharp breath, his face still twisted in frustration but not the explosive anger she feared.

“Fine,” he growled, handing the tablet back to Ashley with a flick of his wrist. “Fix this. Spin it however you need to, but make sure Neuman knows she’s just painted a target on her back.”

Ashley gulped and nodded rapidly, her hands fumbling with the tablet. “Y-yes, of course. I’ll get the team on it right away.” Before she scurried off, she projected a quick and unsure mental ‘thank you,’ toward Morgan. 

Don’t thank me just yet, she warned her silently. Things seemed to be in hand for now, but the gears in Homelander’s head were still turning. Something in him was still deeply unsatisfied with the resolution they’d agreed upon.

The air between them was heavy with unspoken words. She could sense his emotions simmering just below the surface—anger, frustration, and something else. Something sharper, more focused. For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. Morgan glanced up at Homelander, waiting to see if he would voice his dissatisfaction. His jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed, but there was no immediate explosion of anger, no outburst.

“You did the right thing,” she said carefully, watching for any sign that her words would set him off. “By giving Ashley the chance to spin it. If you’d gone out there—”

“I know,” he cut in, his voice low and controlled, though there was a definitive edge to it. “You don’t need to remind me.”

Morgan nodded, falling silent. She didn’t push him further; she knew better than that. But there was a shift in the air. He wasn’t just angry anymore—he was thinking, calculating, and his focus landed squarely on her.

“You always know what to say, don’t you?” he asked, his tone softer now.

Morgan frowned slightly, taken off guard by the change in his demeanor. “I just know what makes sense in situations like this. If you’d stormed out there, it would’ve given Neuman exactly what she wants. You don’t want to give her that satisfaction.”

A slow smile crept across Homelander’s face, but it wasn’t the smug, triumphant grin she was used to. It was different. Almost… appreciative. “You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Morgan replied, her voice measured. “But I understand how the public sees you, and how easily things can get twisted. You have to be careful.”

Homelander’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, his blue eyes sharp, as if he was trying to peel back layers she wasn’t showing. “Careful,” he echoed, his voice soft but carrying weight. “Funny. You’re telling me to be careful, and yet you’re one of the few that’s not afraid to stand up to me.”

The silence between them grew thicker, more charged as Morgan floundered to find a good response. She could feel the shift in him—the way he looked at her, not just as someone who could manage a situation, but as someone who saw through the layers of power and persona. She wasn’t fawning over him, wasn’t trying to manipulate him–as far as he could see. She was different. He’d noticed it before, but now, after this moment of crisis, he was seeing her in a way he hadn’t before.

“You know,” he began, his tone almost playful now, but there was a glint of something more in his eyes, “I could get used to having you around like this. Not just when things need fixing, but... in general.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow, her instincts on high alert. She knew where this was heading, and she wasn’t sure if she was ready to face it. “I don’t think Vought hired me to be your personal advisor.”

Chuckling, he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming in its intensity. “No, but they hired you to be my handler, didn’t they?”

Morgan felt the weight of Homelander’s words hanging in the air, his gaze unrelenting, as if he were waiting for her to flinch or falter. But she didn’t. Instead, she took a slow breath, keeping her voice steady.

“I already told you, I’m not looking to control you,” she said, her tone just light enough to deflect the tension but still firm. “I’m just extending a helping hand.”

His smile widened, a predatory glint in his eyes. “A helping hand? Is that all?”

She held his gaze, keeping her expression calm, though she could feel the weight of his scrutiny pressing down on her. His interest in her felt dangerous. It wasn’t just growing, but she could sense it evolving into something new.

He stepped even closer this time, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off of him. It was a subtle but unmistakable reminder of just how easily he could overwhelm her. But Morgan didn’t flinch. 

“I think you’re doing just fine on your own,” she replied smoothly, her tone measured. “I’m just providing a little backup is all. You know, like a good teammate should.” 

Homelander tilted his head slightly, studying her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. “I don’t need backup,” he said softly, taking another step closer, so close now that she had to crane her neck slightly to meet his eyes. “I don’t need anyone.”

The words hung in the air between them.. His gaze shifted, and something flickered behind his eyes—something more personal, more dangerous.

“But you,” he continued, his voice dropping even lower, “you stand apart from everyone else.”

Morgan swallowed but kept her expression neutral. “I’m just doing my job.”

His smile softened, but it sent a chill down her spine. “No,” he said quietly. “You’re doing more than that. You don’t try to control me. You don’t cower in fear. You stand your ground.”

There was a dangerous undercurrent to his words, but Morgan held his gaze, refusing to let him see the unease building inside her. “It’s just about mutual respect,” she replied smoothly, her tone calm but cautious. “That’s all.”

Homelander’s eyes flashed with amusement again, but the possessiveness in his smile deepened. “Respect,” he echoed. “You’re one of the few who’s earned it, Morgan.”

She could feel the shift in his tone, the way his gaze lingered on her a moment too long. It wasn’t just respect anymore—it was something darker, something that made her pulse thrum with quiet dread. She had worked so hard to stand her ground, to not be like the others who cowered in fear, but now she wondered if she had miscalculated. Had she drawn him in too close? She didn’t know what was worse—that he respected her, or that he seemed to want something more.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she replied cautiously, trying to keep the tone light.

“You should.” He smiled again, but there was a possessiveness in it now, a subtle claim that sent a chill down her spine. “I don’t say that to just anyone.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” she murmured, struggling to find her voice for a moment. “But let’s not get too far off-track here. There’s still a fire to put out, and I don’t think lingering here at the movie lot is going to help.”

His expression faltered, the intensity in his eyes dimming slightly as her words pulled him back to the present. For a brief second, she could see the flicker of surprise—almost disappointment—at being reminded of the real world creeping back in. He had been so swept up in his own delight, in the surprise of her defending him. The shift in his focus was palpable.

“Right… We should go back to the tower.” His voice was quieter now, the earlier edge gone.We… That one, simple word suddenly felt like an anchor hung around her neck, dragging her into depths unknown. She didn’t want to be enemies anymore, that was for certain. Whatever it was he wanted them to be though–that was something she wasn’t entirely sure she could ever be ready for.

Song: I’m Not the One by The Black Keys Author’s notes: Last chapter, I planted a seed. This chapter, I feel, was the perfect place for it to take root in Homelander. Morgan has been starting to prove herself as an equal in his eyes, and now that she seems to be falling into the role of ally, he’s going to cling hard and fast to that.  Anyways, I’m excited for things to start picking up from here. I’m also starting to turn into some of the darker territory with things The Boys doesn’t shy away from. That said, if you have any specific triggers you’re worried about, you’re always welcome to shoot me an ask.

Next chapter.

[the-gods-dam-snack-bar]

Intro Post!! (Please read before continuing)

»»————- ✨ ————-««

➜ Hi, My names are Percy, Jason and Sawyer

➜ I use He/They/Sun pronouns

➜ I am a minor

➜Autistic

➜ Child of Poseidon

➜ My Dms and Asks are always open

➜ I am a major Luke Castellan (series) simp

»»————- ✨ ————-««

➜ My current hyperfixation is on PJO

➜ Im only on house of hades though so please no spoilers

➜ Some of my other fandoms consist of: Kotlc, The inheritance games, Spy School, Hamilton, Ducktales (2017), Star wars, Phineas and ferb, And Heathers

»»————- ✨ ————-««

➜I run a Percy Jackson Roleplay Group. Please Ask if you wanna join

»»————- ✨ ————-««

➜ I have a few sideblogs, they consist of:

➜ @percy-jackson-is-a-seaweed-brain (Percy Jackson rp blog)

➜ @lukes-red-converse (I have no clue what this blogs supposed to be, any ideas?)

➜ @callas-panakes-tree (Calla from Kotlc rp blog)

»»————- ✨ ————-««

➜ please just don't interact if your: An nsfw blog,, Ableist, Homophobic, Transphobic ect ect.

»»————- ✨ ————-««

[the-original-b]

Nine Ball in Armored Core VI--a Theory

Hello, Tumblr. It's been a while, I know.

I've been busy, between the two jobs with irregular hours I've scarcely had time to interact with many of you (and I'm sorry for that. I know I can be a better friend and I'll make the effort to try harder once my hours stabilize).

In what remains if my free time I've been deeply engrossed in Armored Core VI. Yeah, I'm a mech warrior too.

Let me explain--the first video game I ever bought with my own money was Armored Core 2 for the PlayStation2 back in 2001, and I've been a loyal supporter of FromSoftware and the series for what would become years. And I was disheartened by the franchise's apparent end in 2013, that a piece of my childhood was effectively dead.

Fast forward a decade, with this new entry, and I'm ten years old again.

This isn't a review of the game, or series as a whole, but I just wanted to share some insight regarding a recurring character in the franchise.

And if you got PTSD flashbacks from reading the title of this post, you know who I'm talking about.

Minor Spoilers for Armored Core VI below; ye be warned.

It's my headcanon that, the same way C4-621 inherits the Raven callsign from another operator, Raven inherited it from its previous owner--an augmented human who carried not just the legacy of the Raven name, but a fearsome and deadly AC to go along with it... perhaps an AC whose red-and-black silhouette struck terror into the hearts of the men and women who encountered it.

I have nothing concrete to substantiate this, but Raven's AC NIGHTFALL shares a lot in common with previous Nine-Ball iterations. It's a middleweight bipedal build with a light weapon in its right hand, a light missile launcher on one shoulder, a heavy cannon on its other shoulder, and a terrifying weapon in its left hand. It's possible Raven wanted to pay their respects to the legendary AC and its pilot, but make the design their own. Even the name NIGHTFALL is two consonant sounds away from "Nine-Ball," close enough to evoke the legend, but different enough to make it distinct.

Even their introductions to the player are similar--you encounter them standing atop a mountain of wrecks before turning their attention to you.

This is all just speculative fun and gushing over the deeper lore of an IP that defined my childhood, and I realize I may be well off the mark here. I guess we'll see if FromSoft decides to prove me wrong in the future if they add DLC to Armored Core VI in the future.

Until next time. Last one out hit the lights.

~~B

[fellsilver]

DRAGON AGE.

BORN: Sometime in the Towers Age RACE: Human + Elf (ostensibly) NATIONALITY: Most recently Marcher (Waterdhavian) CLASS: Mage + Rogue

BACKGROUND.

There are powers in Thedas the likes of which mortals can scarce imagine and that the Chantry has long tried to suppress. Mystra, Mother of Mysteries, is one such power. As a guardian of magic and balance in its use, She has raised up many Chosen to propagate the Art across Thedas. To this end, she once possessed a half-elf woman named Elué Shundar, married Dornal Silverhand, and gave birth to seven miraculous daughters. Laeral is one of those seven. She has traveled Thedas in many guises under many names seeking to thwart tyranny and show that magic can be beautiful and beloved. She is far more powerful than she seems and intentionally curtails her power in order to move freely.

DA:O.

A century ago, Laeral and her sister Alustriel faked their deaths and assumed new identities in Ferelden. There they hid among various monasteries and repositories of knowledge in anticipation of the Fifth Blight — and a way to thwart it. The Warden will meet Laeral at Kinloch Hold's docks. If the Warden talks to her, she'll let slip she believes there's something that will help against the Blight hidden within. They can bring her into the party. Although she fails to find what she wants, she does turn up an artifact that can help inoculate non-Wardens against the taint. There is no foolproof protection against so terrible a plague, but this significantly increases the party's odds of survival. She will join the party permanently against the Blight if asked.

DAII.

With the Blight ended, Mystra has tasked Laeral with returning north to the Free Marches. A century ago, she and her husband Khelben were prominent citizens of Waterdeep, a coastal city-state in the Marches. She does not reveal herself as the Laeral of the past but rather poses as a descendant of the two bearing the same name. She is reluctant to fully reimmerse herself in Waterdhavian society; the grief of her lost love walks those streets daily. Instead, she takes up residence in Kirkwall while she settles her "inheritance" in Waterdeep. There she takes a keen interest in the brewing tension between templars and mages. She is a firm but secret supporter of the Mage Underground and can become a companion to Hawke. However, Mystra orders her away to Waterdeep at the beginning of Act III. It seems the Mother of Mysteries wants that tragedy to unfold. Laeral can only pray it's for a greater purpose.

DA:I.

Shortly before Inquisition, Waterdeep's Open Lord was ousted in a bloodless coup. Laeral was voted into the position and accepted on Mystra's urging. Though she must tread carefully, she makes Waterdeep an ally of the Mage Rebellion and offers alliance to the Inquisition soon after its formation. She will make various appearances at Skyhold and is present at the Winter Palace. Waterdhavian troops can be called on during the Siege of Adamant and the assault on the temple in the Arbor Wilds; Laeral will lead her troops during both conflicts.

DA:TV.

Minor spoilers for the game follow.

Like the rest of the Free Marches, Waterdeep has been beset by darkspawn. They are holding out, however, largely thanks to their Walking Statues. It is suggested Rook reach out to Blackstaff Academy for arcane knowledge they can't find anywhere else. In terms of mechanics, their main points of contact in the city are Open Lord Laeral Silverhand and Blackstaff Vajra Safahr; the eluvian into the city is located in Laeral's private residence; and the faction is the Watchful Order of Magists and Protectors. The primary questline in the city involves the Evanuris trying to use Braethan Cazondur, a masked lord of Waterdeep, to depose Laeral. If the conspiracy is thwarted and Laeral remains in power, she will lead a contingent of the Watchful Order to support Rook in the final battle.

[bakuliwrites]

Mirror, Story Two: Ventricles

Disclaimer: Post-Game Spoilers!!!!!!

Previous Story, Next Story

Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI) for Eventual Smut

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Relationship: Astarion x Tav (OC)

Chapter Summary: After a year of adventuring, Astarion and Orlando are back in Baldur's Gate, excited to begin their newest adventure: home ownership.

An anthology of short, post-game stories featuring Astarion and my Tav, Orlando.

Chapter Tags: BG3 SPOILERS, ACT 3 SPOILERS, domestic fluff, suggestive conversations, lots of banter, Astarion getting bit in the ass (and not in a sexy way, though that might happen in a future chapter)

Read here in this post or over on my AO3.

Astarion smooths his hand along the wall, creamy stones cool and uneven under his fingertips. His touch ripples along the seams between each one, bumping gently as he trails along the perimeter of the house. In the darkness, it glows like a lantern, warm light pooling on the grass from the diamond-paned windows. Astarion thinks back to over a year ago when the image of this house had first been presented to him, during the celebration after the defeat of the Netherbrain. At the time, it had seemed like a pipe dream. Neither he nor Orlando had much money to their names, and the thought of settling down seemed almost too good to be true. Unbeknownst to Astarion at the time, this little cottage on the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate was a gift to Orlando from her mother, who had received a sizable inheritance from the sale of their ancestral property. Who knew decaying estates with inert portals to the deep sea would be worth so much?

The cottage is perched on a low cliff overlooking an isolated cove, just beyond the city limits. A narrow, winding road leads up from the harbors of Baldur’s Gate and splits into three different paths. The property sits just off the southwestern-most of the three paths, private but only a ten minute walk from the city. Orlando surprised Astarion with the house a few days after the ceremony, once they had recovered from the raucous festivities. However, neither felt ready to settle down just yet. They dumped what few belongings they had with them there and set off on the road, itching for adventure. Though Astarion wonders if it wasn’t adventure they were looking for, but a means to escape the mounting pressure of being named Heroes of Baldur’s Gate. 

On the road, Astarion and Orlando were just two travelers of little to no renown. In the furthest reaches of Faerûn, they could venture forth in quiet anonymity for a while. A smattering of people here and there might have recognized them, but overall, they were left well alone. However, the exhaustion of travel got to them and the decision to settle down, at least for a little while, was made. It was back to Baldur’s Gate, where the hullabaloo had died down and they could walk the streets well-liked, but not fawned over (or sneered at, in the case of the few remaining Absolute supporters). 

As Astarion leisurely paces through the garden of his new abode, bathed in starlight and humming softly to himself, he feels awash with relief. Relief and a bit of apprehension. This will be the first time in over two-hundred years he’ll have a home. A real home. Somewhere he can feel stable and secure, safe and comfortable. And yet, this building does not yet feel like home. Nevermind the lack of furniture or the dusty, cobweb-riddled corners. The house, in all its newness, is a foreign body. A husk, aching to be filled with memory. But it brims with potential. With promise.

As Astarion passes the window that will soon belong to their bedroom, Orlando gives him a small wave, approaching the cloudy glass with some excitement. She struggles for a moment trying to tug at the rusty old deadbolt, but finally manages. With some help from Astarion, she pushes open the casement window, sending up a cloud of dust as the panes swing open.

“Sorry,” she laughs, which swiftly turns into a cough. The house sputters out years worth of abandonment in gray puffs, dousing Astarion and an overgrown rose bush that has certainly seen better days. He and Orlando wave their hands around to dispel the choking motes, scowling until the air clears. 

“Gods, it looks as if I’ve gone crawling in the dirt,” the Elf grouses, dusting off his now grubby shirtfront with the back of his hand. 

“You look like you’ve been crawling in the dirt? What must I look like then?” Orlando exclaims, tugging down the hem of her oversized work shirt to show off the sandy brown fruits of her sweeping labor. 

“Like the Princess of Dust and Cobwebs,” he teases, leaning in to steal a quick kiss. He feels her smile against him, soft lips feathering kisses at the corner of his mouth. When they separate, Orlando wears an impish smirk.

“And are you the Window-Cleaning Prince, come to rescue me from my tower?” she coos, batting her eyelashes in an almost mocking fashion. Astarion rolls his eyes.

“Hardly,” he scoffs, grabbing a cleaning cloth from where it was draped over his shoulder and whipping the air with a sharp crack, “Now close it, so I can clean it,” 

“Yes, sir,” Orlando returns, though her tone does not house a single ounce of actual obedience in it. She merely does as she is asked because she, herself, has work to get back to. Astarion chuckles alongside her as they each return to their cleaning duties. He watches Orlando from the window while he scrubs at glass stained with dirt and rainwater. She’s beaming to herself, happy as a clam as she removes the offending layers of dust from the bedroom hearth. He thinks about her excitement as they made their long journey back to Baldur’s Gate, the elation she felt at finally getting the opportunity to “nest,” as she put it. To make a home for the two of them. 

The two of us, Astarion repeats in his head, a thought that fills him with a quiet, fluttering joy. 

Out loud, they had dreamed of all the empty rooms they would fill with furniture, furniture they would get to pick out together. Astarion, in his imagination, leaned towards a gothic, ornate look with dark wood, crushed velvet, and shades of crimson or merlot. Orlando seemed satisfied with this aesthetic, though she requested the kitchen remain light with its already colorful tile backsplashes and touches of sage green, terracotta, and cream. A bit of a hodge-podge home, perhaps, but uniquely theirs. The time had come to start their interior design, but they needed to build up their savings again. For now, however, they were content with making do with what they had and imagining what could be. 

Astarion finishes up with the windows before returning inside to help Orlando unpack some of the various trinkets and talismans they’ve collected along their travels over the last year. He unwraps a vintage bottle of Elverquisst, gifted to them by Shadowheart when they met up with her on their way to visit Halsin, and stores it in the cellar until such special occasion warrants its consumption. He watches as Orlando carefully positions a crystal figurine in the shape of an octopus on one of the windowsills, a treasure that they may or may not have pilfered from a Goblin camp just outside Daggerford. A Githyanki greatsword hangs over the mantel, Lae’zel’s way of thanking them for helping her people. A sun catcher, either meant to be darkly humorous or perhaps an awkward attempt at consolement, hangs at the kitchen window.

“Who gave this to us?” Astarion questions with the raise of an eyebrow as he pulls the object out of a little velvet bag.

“I don’t know, honestly,” Orlando admits, gazing at the object, perplexed, “It was in our pack after Withers’ get together, with a little note addressed to you.”

He sighs, holding it up in front of his eye and peering through the prismatic crystal. Something about it screams Minsc to him, in which case, the gift is no doubt a clumsy attempt to make Astarion feel better about losing his ability to walk in the sun. He can practically hear Minsc proclaiming that this “magical item” is supposed to capture sunlight, perhaps allowing Astarion to temporarily wander out in the daytime.

“And what good would a suncatcher do for a vampire spawn?” Astarion sneers, testing its weight in his hand, about ready to toss it back into the crate he found it in. 

“You could thrash it around like a flail and whack people with it,” Orlando half-jokingly suggests, mimicking a swinging motion with her hand.

“Could do,” he muses, dragging a fingertip along one of the pointed edges, “It’s rather sharp, actually. Might even do a fair bit of damage.”

Should there ever be a home invasion, if he’s desperate enough, Astarion will snatch it from its resting place in the kitchen and make good use of it.

When all but a few of the crates have been unpacked and the night sky starts to lighten with the first threat of day, Astarion and Orlando adorn each window with thick, light blocking curtains. Satisfied that not a single sliver of light can pierce in or out of the house, they settle in for slumber sometime around dawn. In the heat of the morning, there’s no need for a fire in the hearth. But the discomfort of their thin bedroll, padded only by an ornate rug Wyll sent as a housewarming gift, has the two of them searching for softness and comfort. Weary from a night spent cleaning, Orlando promptly passes out in Astarion’s arms, snoring softly against the crook of his neck. Astarion follows not long after, falling into a deep, dreamless meditation.

Sometime around early afternoon, Astarion senses Orlando’s restlessness. He feels her slip from his grasp, taking special care to rearrange the blankets back over him. Her lips brush against his temple before her warmth is temporarily lost to him. Astarion’s eyelid briefly flutters open to catch a glimpse of the bioluminescent spots on Orlando’s back retreating in the darkness. A while later, he hears the front door open and close, but is far too exhausted to pay it any mind. He dreams of sitting on the porch, enjoying the rushing sound of the waves down below and feeling the gentle prickle of sunlight on his skin. Orlando sits at his side, fingers carding softly through his snowy curls, her lips tasting of sugar and lemon. 

A ruckus awakens Astarion later that evening. He jolts awake, joints aching, left arm asleep, and back ferociously sore. Orlando is nowhere to be found, at least not in the living room. And the terrible racket is only getting louder by the minute.

“Darling?” he calls out, groggily wandering from room to room, cradling his numb left arm. There is a brief moment where Astarion has half a mind to grab the suncatcher-turned-flail from the kitchen window. He and Orlando have just started to settle into this house and he’s not about to let intruders ruin the sanctity they are trying to create. His anxiety is quelled, however, when a moment later, Orlando’s voice calls out to him.

“In here!” she shouts from somewhere at the back of the house. Astarion fumes off to the bedroom, towards the source of the commotion, relieved he won’t have to defend his property, but irritated to have been so rudely awoken. What on earth could Orlando possibly be doing this early (or late, rather, given that it was well past sunset)?

“What in the nine hells-” Astarion begins, fully awake and incensed. However, upon entering the bedroom, Astarion is greeted by the sight of two rather burly looking Dragonborn carefully lifting a plush looking mattress onto a canopy bed. Orlando sits on the floor, hair up in a messy bun, fussing over the drape of the crimson bed skirt. Her beam upon seeing her beloved is enough to brighten the whole room and temporarily make Astarion forget about the ache in his body.

“Ta-da!” she enthusiastically greets, clambering to her feet and gesturing towards the newly assembled bed in the center of the room. Befuddled, Astarion blankly stares at the newest addition to their furniture- well, one of the only additions to their furniture. 

“Thank you, my friends,” he distantly hears Orlando twitter, forking over a hefty bag of coins and showing the two Dragonborn to the door.

“No problem, O,” one of them returns in a gruff yet jovial voice, “Say hi to your mom for us.”

“Will do! You’ll have to join us all for dinner sometime,” she returns, before the door falls shut and she traipses back to join Astarion in the bedroom. She closes the door behind her, an apprehensive look on her face.

“Do you like it?” she ventures quietly, hands clasped behind her back and tail hesitantly swishing against the floor, “I tried to find one I thought you’d like. If you don’t like it, we can return it!”

Astarion silently inspects the bed, inching closer and smoothing his palm along one of the sturdy, oak posters. The thick, velvet curtains, parted and held open with some gold tassel cords, are luxurious underneath his fingertips. He presses a palm against the mattress, testing its firmness. This bed is everything he has ever dreamed of, right down to its gothic, ostentatiousness. He feels his chest constrict, overwhelmed with emotion. Orlando bought him a bed. Bought him a bed that he actually likes. Went out of her way to pick one out that she thought he might appreciate. He can’t remember the last time someone did something like that for him. 

“Like it?” he dreamily starts, sidling over to the side of the bed he’d like to claim as his and flopping down onto the mattress. He bounces briefly before sinking into its heavenly plushness.

“Oh,” he groans, letting his eyelids flutter shut as he luxuriates in the comfort he wishes he had had last night, “It’s magnificent, my darling.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Orlando joyously cries, throwing herself down right beside Astarion, who turns to drape an arm over her. They’re eye to eye, centimeters apart, gazes searching.

“Where in all of Faerûn did you get the money for this?” he exclaims after a silent moment, flabbergasted, “And why couldn’t we have done this yesterday so my arm wouldn’t have to feel like it’s falling off?”

“Well, while you were busy cutting off the circulation to your extremities, I went into town to purchase a couple of necessities using the last of the money we made outside Candlekeep-“

“Money you made,” Astarion cuts in.

“We made,” Orlando emphasizes with a wicked little grin, “Helping that sweet old lady find her missing Gremishka.”

“The wound still stings, you know,” Astarion murmurs, gingerly rubbing his backside.

“Well, think of it this way,” Orlando begins, scooting closer and cupping his face. Astarion rests his hand on the small of her back and smirks as the Tiefling goes on, “Thanks to the small sacrifice your derriere made, we now have one of the nicest, most comfortable beds I could find at Fredweard’s Furniture and Upholstery. Reed and Aria, the owners of the shop, owed me a favor and agreed to help me assemble it. I was hoping it would be done before you got up.”

“Well, it is much appreciated, darling. I-“

Astarion pauses abruptly, casting a suspicious glance at a rather proud looking Orlando. 

“Did you say they helped you assemble it?” he questions, the bed frame creaking ever so slightly as he shifts his weight, “As in, you had a part in the assembly process?”

Astarion recalls Orlando’s insistence back when they visited Gale in Waterdeep, claiming that she knew how to properly reassemble a broken chair with a confidence that would’ve made Professor Dekarios himself look like a diffident neophyte. With a flick of her wrist and an unintelligible utterance, the chair pieced itself back together, only to collapse under poor Gale as soon as he set himself down in it. After several minutes of breathless laughter, Orlando went back to a more traditional method of mending. By the time she was done, she had it sturdier than when Gale bought it, though she vowed never to try to use magic to fix anything ever again. Though skilled in spells pertaining to the mind and the otherworldly, furniture mending is not Orlando’s magical strong suit. Though, she’s picked up enough building skills from her many years partnered with Gortash to make her a threat (albeit, only when it comes to small household items). 

“Mayhaps,” she drawls noncommittally, glancing demurely away, “Magic played no part in it this time. I promise!” 

“I just want to guarantee that I’m not going to be rudely awakened in the middle of my rest when the bed comes crashing down underneath me,” Astarion posits, somewhat jokingly. But only somewhat. Orlando gives an insistent reassurance that the bed will, indeed, hold together. 

“Jokes aside, darling,” Astarion begins after a bit more teasing, smoothing back some errant strands of her dark hair. Orlando’s eyes are bright when they meet his, curious and loving. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, leaning his forehead against hers and holding her close.

“I’m glad you like it,” she murmurs, voice muffled against him. They lay in one another’s embrace for a while, enjoying the softness of the mattress and each other’s company. This is not Astarion’s first real memory of home, post-Cazador. But it is his first memory of stability. Home has always been wherever he and Orlando are, so long as they are together. But life on the road, in the year after the defeat of the Absolute, was never stable. There was always a constant search for shelter, for food, for money. This house, however, feels solid, sturdy, and comforting. Though it is a work in progress, already in the first two days of living here, Astarion can feel it welcoming them. One day, this cottage will be alive with memory. These first few days are the spark, the strike of a match lighting a hearth. The slow trickle of blood into ventricles aching to burst into life.

“You know,” Orlando slowly starts after a little while, drawing back to look Astarion in the eye. Her gaze is dusky, cheeks dusted pink in the low candlelight, “I can think of a few activities that might test the mettle of this frame.” 

Astarion raises an eyebrow, an impish, lopsided smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“Hmmm, perhaps we ought to test if your construction skills have improved,” he purrs, gently gripping Orlando by the back of the neck and swallowing up her laughter with a fervent kiss.

A/N: I wanted to do some dialogue and banter practice this chapter, which was lots of fun! I really enjoy writing domestic fluff and I don't do it nearly enough! Looking forward to writing some more in future chapters. Up next will finally be some smut. Breaking in the new bed and what not, of course. Thank you for reading! Lots of love &lt;3

[vivianstravelblog]

Book Review: The Hawthorne Legacy

~ Warning! Minor Spoilers! Book Review: The Hawthorne Legacy (The Inheritance Games #2) by – Jennifer Lynn Barnes (2021) ~ REVIEW I loved The Inheritance Games, the first book in the series; I rated it 4/5 and thought it was so much fun. I was looking forward to the second book, but sadly, it suffers from the second book slump. In The Hawthorne Legacy, Avery tries to find Tobias, aka Homeless…

[thatrandomlemononyourcounter1]

Hello <3

Consider this my intro post! My name is CJ (not really but I'm not sharing my real name online lads)

I do write! My AO3 account is also ThatRandomLemonOnYourCounter

I'm a MINOR so don't be weird in the chat homies. I'm also Christian, so keep that in mind :D This blog supports Palestine, so if you're on Israel's side (Zionists), disrespectfully leave. Honestly if you're any form of nasty (I.e. racist, bigoted in any manner) please leave because I will not tolerate that on my blog or around myself.

This blog is safe for everyone unless you're a massive jerk :) One thing about me is that I really love to write things, so if you have any requests, feel free to submit them <33 My current project is my KOTLC rewrite! We're up to Chapter 14 and I usually release one chapter a day. Sometimes I might release two depending on the chapter :D Here's the link: KOTLC REWRITE If you have any hcs/questions/comments please please please drop them in my ask box or something :))) My fandoms: KOTLC, TMNT (Mostly ROTTMNT, TMNT2012, Bayverse, and Mutant Mayhem but I'm going to start watching 2003), MCU, The Inheritance Games, Final Fantasy (IX, XII, XIII, VII, WOFF, Tactics WOTL), BotW/TotK, HTTYD, Chronicles of Narnia, The Hunger Games, Divergent, Pirates of the Caribbean, Pokemon (both anime and games), Grishaverse (I've only ready shadow and bone so idk that much), Gilmore Girls, AGGGTM (No spoilers cause I've only read book 1), One of Us is Lying series

MY LESSER KNOWN FANDOMS:

The Secret Zoo, Explorer Academy, and honestly final fantasy doesn't have much action either Unfortunately, I pick up new fandoms like shiny rocks I see outside so...I was doomed from the start. Anyway thanks for reading!!

[ravarui]

Ravarui is an independent multi-fandom multi-muse RP blog.

The blog is private/mutuals only and highly selective Non-RP Blogs do not interact, unless you got an RP Sideblog

Written and loved by Akki (she/her - 30y/o - germany)

Icons were made by @alyafae

Short overview of my muses as well as my rules under read more (in case the link doesn't work)

Shanks is currently my most active muse, so be prepared for a lot of One Piece content on this blog

Links:Rules - Muse list - Memes - Wishlist - Headcanons - Mains & Exclusives

Muses on this blog are currently:

Tony Stark from the MCU Red Haired Shanks from One Piece (Manga/HC-based) CANON DIVERGENT SINCE CHAPTER 1134

Figarland Shamrock from One Piece (HC-based/Plotting mandatory) John Marston from Red Dead Redemption 2 Cersei Lannister from Game of Thrones (book based with some show influence)

Request only:

Jaime Lannister from Game of Thrones (Book based with some show influence)

Arthur Morgan from Red Dead Redemption 2

Morzan from Inheritance Cycle (Heavily HC-based)

Disclaimer: This is a multimuse blog for muses of various fandoms. I am up to date to everything regarding all the muses I have on this blog, so this blog is NOT going to be spoiler free.

Recent spoilers, for example in regards to the latest One Piece Chapters, will be tagged however.

This blog will contain mature and triggering content, such as murder, robbery, kidnapping, mentions of slavery etc. Especially when my Red Dead Redemption muses are involved. I will tag triggering content like "murder tw" for example.

1) No Godmodding

If you do it, I’ll contact you and ask you not to do it again and change the part in the reply. If you do it regulary you will be blocked.

2) Portrayal

My Tony Stark is mostly based on the MCU since I have little to no knowledge about the comics. His relationship with Pepper is exclusive with @alyafae version, since we developed our headcanons together over the years and there is no way to seperate them by now.

Everything that happens in Movie Red is irrelevant for my portrayal of Shanks and will be treated as AU. So please do not assume that he raised Uta, unless we discussed it beforehand, because my version does NOT know her.

His backstory is heavily headcanon based and in my version he was NOT found in a treasure chest as a baby by Roger!

Post Time-skip Shanks has a tattoo that looks like this

In the verse where he is married to Makino he wears his wedding ring around a thin chain around his neck, and he keeps the ring hidden under his shirt. No one except his crew and the people of Fuschia know about their marriage. Please do not assume your muse knows about it, unless we talk about it before. I am more than fine with muses finding out about it over the course of threads! It just has to come naturally.

Arthur and John stay mostly true to canon. Arthur is mostly based on the high honor version, because that's how I play him in the game. John is mostly neutral, but leans towards high honor, can however also act more low honor, depending on the situation/muses

3) This blog is 18+ and mun is 28+

I will not write with anyone under 18, since I myself am in my thirties now and it just makes me uncomfortable writing with minors. Preferably people who follow this blog are 21+

4) Shipping:

Shipping is always welcome, no matter what kind of ship. If we're mutuals and you would like to ship our muses in whatever way, don't hesitate in approaching me. Chances are I ship them already as well anyway.

I am multiship in regards to all of my muses. The only exception is my Tony Stark muse when it comes to shipping with Pepper. That is exclusive with @alyafae

I also won't ship Steve and Tony. If you are a Steve Rogers blog and send something shippy in a romantic or smutty way Tony will not react in a positive way and will make fun of him for it.There are only two people who are excluded to this rule.

5) Triggers:

I have personally no triggers and I am willing to RP very dark themes as well. The only topic I will not touch is animal abuse. Otherwise everything is fair game.

If we write dark/triggering themes I require plotting/ooc talks! I do not want to make my RP partner uncomfortable.

Should we write something dark and you notice that you can’t bring yourself to write this theme anymore or feel in any way uncomfortable with the way it’s going: Please tell me immediately so we can talk and drop it if you need it.

You never have to worry when you bring something like this up. The well being of my RP partner when writing highly triggering and dark subjects is my main concern.

6) Activity:

I have a personal life and RPing is a hobby and not my job.

I try my best to do my drafts, but I don’t always have muse for them and some drafts take me longer than others.

Mains/Exclusives get priority most of the time.

So please be patient. You’re welcome to send me a small reminder if I didn’t reply in two weeks. Tumblr loves to eat my notifications and on top of that I have the attention span of a squirrel sometimes and also tend to forget to draft replies.

7) OC’s:

I am OC friendly, but picky when it comes to interacting/following them. If you have no about page I will not follow at all. No arguing. If you have one, I'll read through it and if I can see our muses interacting I'll follow. Otherwise I wont. It's nothing personal.

8) Duplicates:

I adore duplicates! I love exploring all kinds of shenanigans our muses can come up with, if there are two of them.

9) Memes:

This blog is private/mutuals only. It’s a personal preference so I can keep my blog tidy. Memes are open for everyone, even non-mutuals, unless stated otherwise in the tags.

My memes don't have an experiation date and it doesn't matter when I reblogged one. If you want to send something in, feel free to explore my meme tag and send whatever interests you. Spamming memes is also encouraged.

You're always welcome to turn asks into threads! Doesn't matter if we already have a lot of them going or not. It's always encouraged.

10) I wont accept asks like: Do you want to RP with me?

If I am following you it’s a 100% indication that I want to write with you and explore the chemistry between our muses.

If I am not following you and you send me such an ask it will be ignored. If you truly want to write something then come to me with an idea or send me a meme. They are always open unless stated otherwise.

11) Inbox memes/Asks:

Always specify a muse when you send something into my askbox. Especially when sending asks regarding Headcanons or little games like: Guessing my muses kinks

Unspecified asks will get deleted/not answered

If you forgot to specify you're always welcome to either hop into my DMs to clear things up or send a follow up ask.

12) This rule applies to ALL blogs that follow me (especially personal blogs)

If you reblog my roleplays when you are NOT involved in them, I will message you and ask you to delete it from your blog. If you don’t do this you will be BLOCKED without a further warning.

13) If I see you posting a lot of callouts and drama I will block you. I am to old to deal with this stuff

14) My IM is reserved for mutuals only. So if you have any question send them into my askbox.

Rules will be updated