#none of the implications of anything are explored

[audliminal]

Survivability Bias Pt 2

Masterpost - Ao3

Danny spends the next few days exploring the town more, while he considers the implications of everything he’d learned  at the library. He’d taken notes, but they’re not exactly the best. Danny’s never been that good at taking notes, after all, but he has a pretty good memory, so the various key words and few quotes he’d scribbled down are plenty useful in reminding him of all the wild shit he’d read about.

There’d been a lot of history involved in the whole meta situation. It seems like these so-called meta humans, and various other races (species? Danny doesn’t know nearly enough about the cultural implications of that) have been around long enough to have had a significant impact on the world at large. And yet, at the same time, there really hadn’t been a lot of personal information on any of the heroes. Oh, there’d been plenty on some of the villains - and of course there’d still be villains here, he’s not lucky enough to escape that - but aside from various speculation about their romantic lives, and a few acknowledgements of family ties here and there, there’d been very few details about where most of them actually came from.

Superman, for example (he seemed to be this world’s go-to example of metas and superheroes), is listed as being an alien, who’s powers come from his biologies unique interaction with this planet’s atmosphere, although it doesn’t explain anything about what that means. Interestingly, there seems to be almost no speculation about Superman’s so-called secret identity. Only about half the listed heroes seem to have one according to the public, but Danny knows that song and dance too well to fall for it. Honestly, they’re even more likely to have a secret identity than Danny himself, seeing as Danny’s alter ego is literally dead. Not that ghosts seem to be much of a thing here.

He’d felt so silly looking up information about ghosts, right before leaving the library. Compared to the deep dive into recent history, googling “are ghosts real” must have looked insane if anybody could see it. The answer he’d returned had been not unlike the way things had been when he was ten or twelve. Before the portal, you’d see dumb ghost hunter shows where they never actually saw much of anything. Ghosts were, like, poltergeists that moved your furniture around and slammed the doors shut. The results here had been a little more interesting - clearly in a world where superheroes are a fact of life, fantastical stuff is a little more rational, and the speculation was clearly affected by that fact, but it still had been, seemingly, all speculation.

Of course, none of that really mattered when it came to Superman. Danny was at least ninety percent sure he wasn’t a ghost. And even if he somehow was, it didn’t change the fact that he either has a secret identity, or he basically never takes part in society. And if he doesn’t have a secret identity, then the question very much becomes why not. Because that means he either has no real reason to care about anyone here (which seems implausible), or he’s unable to spend that time in public. It’s that possibility that’s knocked out any chance of Danny approaching any of the heroes. Because there’s always the possibility that the endorsed heroes are being used to lure other metahumans in. And Danny doesn’t know nearly enough about this world to make any kind of judgment on what’s most likely here. After all, historically there’s plenty of examples of governments that  work with specific people among targeted groups, in order to more successfully take out the others. it tends not to end well for those people when it’s all over, but anyone who’s short-sighted or even just backed into a wall enough can fall for that.

Hell, the GIW had actually tried that line on Danny once or twice, not that he’d ever accepted. After all, they’d never realized that was actually sort of alive, so their pitches had always been... less than convincing. 

Danny blinks, reaching out to touch the brick wall in front of him. He hadn’t meant to come back here, but honestly at this point, he really shouldn’t be surprised. This random little alley on side street wouldn’t be interesting at all to anyone else. But if Danny stares long enough, he can almost see the green-tinged light of the portal that brought him here. Not that he’d ever seen the portal from this side. He hadn’t turned to look until after the light had faded. The idea of seeing his friends’ faces through the swirling green had been too much.

They had all known exactly what it meant when he came here. The difficulty of the journey was the point. Between the anti-ecto acts gaining not just mainstream awareness, but support, and the GIW gaining access to better funding and training, well, the second the GIW had started successfully ending ghosts, it seemed like all the denizens of the zone had collectively decided to stay the fuck home.

At first Danny had enjoyed it, had relaxed and been excited to finally be able to focus on just being a teen. But the GIW hadn’t calmed down, had just started going even more on the offensive, and the second he and Jazz had noticed agents showing up casually at their house, everyone had gone into full alert.

That’s how they found out that the next goal was to apparently take the fight to the zone itself.

The conclusion had been easy from that point. The portal needed to be destroyed, and fast. But with the ghost zone blocked off (and Danny’s death being the unknowing link that made the portal ever work in the first place), that would leave Danny as one of three remaining targets.

They’d all immediately agreed that Vlad could figure out his own solution. Dani- well, she had been traveling, but the second she turned up, the others had made plans to send her on her own one way portal trip too.

Of course, the likelihood that she’d end up here is probably minuscule. So he’s alone.

“Hey,” a stern voice cuts through Danny’s thoughts. He glances over to the person who’s standing at the door to a building. “There’s no loitering here.”

Right. It’s almost easy to forget, in the face of his life’s inescapable absurdity, that to everyone else in this town, he just seems like a possibly-homeless delinquent. Not that the delinquent part is unfamiliar.

“Sorry,” Danny mutters belatedly, realizing that the person is just waiting as he stares at them like a weirdo. He’s not very good with people anymore. Not that he was that good to begin with. Phantom had been a Ghostly Menace, constantly destroying the town with his fights, nobody had expected him to function as a person. Nobody had thought he was a person. But as Danny Fenton- well, he’d fallen short of just about every expectation set at Danny Fenton’s feet.

Distantly he wonders if his friends even bothered to disguise his disappearance. He’d always kind of wondered if his parents would ever notice if he and Jazz just- left. School definitely noticed, though most of the faculty would probably take it as completely expected. After all Danny Fenton was a terrible student, constantly skipping class and never doing his work, and even when he was in class he was usually halfway to falling asleep anyways. Lancer had certainly lectured him about his lack of discipline more than enough. So they might just come to the conclusion that he’d dropped out and run away.

He doesn’t know if he’d prefer that, honestly. The truth is messed up and complicated and frankly, unbelievable. But maybe if they knew the truth at least one person might feel a fraction of sympathy for all the bullshit that he’d been dealing with. Funny, Danny thinks, how coming here feels more like a death than when I actually died.

[everythingannoyingpjo]

i really don't like how Riordan wrote Octavian in HOO. during SON, it really seemed like he had something planned for him, some backstory or reasoning for his actions, but when he saw the way fans hated on him he decided to just make him a laughingstock. he's supposed to be this powerful guy, Hazel even says so, and he's supposed to be able to talk the senate into almost anything, and yet we don't see any of this past SON. and the hypocrisy for him! with Luke, people forgave him even though he tried to literally destroy Camp Halfblood, gr00med children, and obviously did not care if his own allies got killed. his main reasoning was "I don't think my dad cares about me so I'm just gonna injure and/or off dozens of children!". Octavian does try to destroy Camp Halfblood (which I'm not gonna say is okay, bc it isn't) but he has an actual reasoning! his home had been attacked and the people who did it just ran away with no explanation. yes, Leo had been possessed, but nobody even told Octavian that! so his rage was absolutely reasonable. and he actually cares about his allies. he waits to attack several days to a week just so the onagers would arrive, that way there would be no casualties on his side. plus, it seems like people just ignore the fact that he was manipulated by Gaea and was obviously having a mental breakdown near the end. it's constantly brought up in arguments for Luke like "he was manipulated by Kronos!!" but when a similar thing happens to Octavian, nobody mentions it or seemingly cares.

Note: OP has a negative opinion of Luke and of some fans differing reactions to Luke and Octavian as antagonists. However this is not a fandom complaint or character complaint blog. It is a book complaint blog. This ask was sent before that point was clarified. Please try to limit complaints and discussions to what occurs in the source material only.

Yes, I agree. I tried to make a list of your points below for clarity.

during SON, it really seemed like he had something planned for him, some backstory or reasoning for his actions

It did seem that way. There are a lot of implications behind Octavian and not much fact.

It is implied he was raised in New Rome. This means he was raised in a culture that promoted suspicion of/aversion towards greek demigod culture. (You can see this aversion in the way people/the laeres react to Percy when he arrives at CJ.)

It is implied he has prophetic powers.

It is implied that he is unwell/unstable. It's implied he is being manipulated by Gaea.

It is implied that public opinion of him is favorable.

It is implied he wants to go to war, specifically against greek demigods should they exist, though he should have no proof of their existence.

It is implied that he killed Gwen.

It is implied (in TOA) that he has a connection to the triumverate.

None of this is ever explained/explored/given more detail. Why does he believe Apollo supports him? What is the extent of Gaea's influence on him? Why does he angle for war before the attack on Rome even happens? What does he know and how?

he's supposed to be this powerful guy, Hazel even says so, and he's supposed to be able to talk the senate into almost anything, and yet we don't see any of this past SON.

Given every implication above, he should be powerful, or competent, or at least have the backing of competent people. We never see that. We never know why he makes the decisions he does and how he accomplishes his goals is almost never shown or explored.

Octavian does try to destroy Camp Halfblood (which I'm not gonna say is okay, bc it isn't) but he has an actual reasoning! his home had been attacked and the people who did it just ran away with no explanation.

Octavian was pretty clearly angling for war even before the attack, but certainly that cemented the legitimacy of such an action in his mind. Yet from SoN onwards Rick treats Octavian as a complete joke. Which honestly, I do think Octavian is funny, but I also think the story would have been better if I believed Octavian was a legitimate threat. And I don't because he basically disappears from the narrative at this point except to exist as some sort of omnipresent boogieman. None of his actions, motivations, or reasoning is ever explored. Any shadow of substance he had in the previous books is flattened. He becomes completely two dimensional.

It's hard to even be mad at people for not seeing the legitimacy in his attack when it's the result of Rick completely ignoring his character. After SoN he basically only exists to create a sense of urgency in completing the quest.

and he actually cares about his allies. he waits to attack several days to a week just so the onagers would arrive, that way there would be no casualties on his side.

I mean, this is largely supposition. The narrative heavily implies the wait for the onagers is because he wants to win with overwhelming force. But you are right that his compatriots safety could be the reason he wants to win with overwhelming force! But we don't know, because again, he was never fleshed out!

plus, it seems like people just ignore the fact that he was manipulated by Gaea and was obviously having a mental breakdown near the end.

It's pretty clear he was being manipulated. I think one thing it's easy to forget is that all these characters are teenagers. Octavian is a child. He has been put in a position of responsibility that should be reserved for an adult. It's hard to think Octavian is 100% evil or that he 100% deserves to die. EXCEPT that Rick has prevented us from being allowed to see him as a real person. He has made him feel like a complete caricature of a human being. And even then, it still disgusts me that Rick made his death a complete joke, something to laugh at.

If Rick was trying to say that "people who think this way are a joke" he should have shown us more of Octavian's thoughts. He should have given us the oppurtunity to see the point he was making by laughing at him.

Instead we have the implication that there was more, and no answers. He never even gave Octavian a last name. I do not like Octavian as a character, but everything about how he was written is sort of fucked up.

[maraschinomerry]

Sleepless Nights pt1

Pairings: George Karim x gn!reader

Summary: as if it wasn't enough to be woken up in the middle of the night, the events that occur are going to stop you going back to sleep

Content: canon-adjacent, canon-typical horror/fear elements, hurt/comfort, psychological implications

A/N: this is my first ever fic that I've written to intentionally be multiple parts so please be patient with me (and thank you to @neewtmas and @uku-lelevillain for encouraging me to do it this way)! I thought it'd be really interesting to explore the lasting implications of the events of the Annabel Ward case - none of the characters seem to get much sleep anyway, so I'm building on that. There should be 2 more parts of this to cover the home invasion and Combe Carey Hall (part 2 is like 75% written already 👀)

Word count: 2.7k

Taglist: @neewtmas @marinalor @ettadear @honey-with-tea @mischiefmanaged71

It had been a long night.

It started with the thundering of feet past your door in the middle of the night. You stirred, rolling over to glance blearily at your alarm clock, but even if you'd got your eyes to focus it was still too dark to make it out properly. What was Lucy playing at, running through the house at a time like this? You tried to go back to sleep, but the padding of more feet and a couple of dull thuds alerted you to the fact that there was something going on. Reluctantly, you flicked off your duvet, pulled on a pair of socks and a jumper and wandered to the door. On the landing below, Lucy was standing in Lockwood's bedroom, peering past the boy leaning on the doorframe. A pair of boots lay scattered in front of the other door, which you supposed explained the thuds, and as it creaked open George emerged in socks, an oversized T-shirt and an equally oversized scowl. You weren't the only one annoyed at being disturbed, then.

“Can't you even be bothered to cross the landing to wind me up?” Was that what this was about? You'd been dragged from peaceful sleep for a prank?

“Annabel Ward's ghost is here,” Lockwood replied quickly and quietly. Dread settled in the pit of your stomach. She was the ghost they'd dealt with at that Sheen Road house, and it had ended badly. But at least they’d secured her. How had she followed them home? Was that something ghosts could do? As George returned to his room to prepare, you stepped back into yours and grabbed a handful of salt bombs and your rapier.

Together you headed cautiously up to the attic. Part of you had expected to hear wailing, crashing, anything, not the silence of an empty room.

“I don't feel anything.” George confirmed your suspicions, hand on the door. If this really was an elaborate prank you were going to be so mad. He was prepared for the worst, though - chains, rapier, torch and two full body belts of salt bombs, flares, a whole stash. Lockwood had taken the chains, and now he took the lead. You hadn't been in here very often, you only joined the agency shortly before Lucy and the guys had kept mostly to themselves so you were still adjusting to the idea of your personal spaces being so open. It was a little unnerving seeing it now so dark and desolate, lit only by the sickly torchlight glow. A spread of articles about the dead starlet littered her floor, and as you scanned the room you spotted another on the wall by her bed. She must be more invested in this case than you'd realised. Below it were other photos of a young redhead girl, and you would have almost assumed they were of Annabel too were it not for the fact Lucy was in them. Oh.

“We contained her source, covered her body with a silver net,” you heard Lockwood say. You grimaced at the thought of finding an actual body. Ghosts were bad enough without having to contend with their corpse.

“How did she even get in here?” George continued, joining you in looking at the pictures on the way. “It's not as if her source is inside the house.” When there was no response, you all turned and looked at a slightly sheepish Lucy.

“Is it?” Lockwood pressed. Before she could respond, there was a whispering from the entrance to the room, and she raised her torch just in time to catch curling wisps of other-light before they disappeared into nothing.

“Uh… she's back.”

You and George moved away from the wall, closer to the main group. Instinctively, you drifted towards Lucy, figuring she would be your best bet against the ghost she'd already survived twice. George hung back, and as you all swept your beams across the room to catch where she might appear next, he missed the glow manifesting over his shoulder.

“George…” Lockwood began, low and warning. “Don't… move.”

A face was forming now from the glow, long hair falling as it appeared. George stayed remarkably calm. “Please tell me it's a wasp.”

“Stand perfectly still.” Lockwood tensed the chain. Whether Annabel noticed or whether she was always going to react this way, her face began to contort. “On second thoughts, move!”

George dove towards the empty space in front of the door as Annabel lunged forwards with a snarl. Lockwood swung the chain; Lucy switched her torch to her other hand and hurled a salt bomb; you brandished your rapier. The ghost vanished in a burst of sparks, but you knew that wasn't the end.

“Not a wasp, then,” George huffed.

You needed to find the source to put an end to this, and you all knew it. Lockwood pushed Lucy for an explanation, but before she could offer one the ghost appeared from nowhere, Lucy almost running into her as she turned. She stumbled back, landing between the boys as you surged forward and threw two of your salt bombs. The chain slashed through her and she dissipated once more. You all formed a circle, back to back, spinning slowly. George was on your right, Lockwood your left, and Lucy on their other side.

“I had her ring in my hand, and then I fell asleep with it,” she finally explained. The bed came into view as you turned, and you began to move towards it before Lockwood reached out and stopped you.

“Let’s get rid of this thing properly, then we can go searching.”

Those fine silvery tendrils began to unfurl down the far side of the bed and the group broke into formation with Lockwood at the head.

“Oh, shit.” George's voice shook, reflecting your thoughts exactly. On Lockwood's word, they swapped weapons, so now you and the taller boy had the rapiers and the other two held the chain across behind you.

“Be ready to move,” Lockwood told you quietly. You nodded.

Annabel was fully formed and furious. You heard the warning shouted as she lunged again and you all reacted at once. Lockwood twisted as he jumped towards the bed while you rolled towards the window, your rapier clattering from your grip, and Lucy and George surged forward with the chain which sliced the ghost in half. She reformed quickly, quicker than you expected. You were a sitting duck, squatting behind the armchair and with nowhere to go but back towards the wardrobe and the spirit in front of it.

“Y/n, go!” Lucy yelled as she hurled more salt bombs. Annabel flickered, just long enough for you to escape your hiding place. George ushered you behind him, into the safety of the eaves, giving you a second to catch your breath. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder to check you were okay and you nodded gratefully, hands on your knees.

“George, throw it all, everything you've got!” Lockwood said forcefully. The other boy reacted immediately, flinging his body belts in one fluid motion, and you tried to ignore the glimpse of bare skin as his T-shirt rode up with them. He almost crashed into you as everyone ducked back from the explosion of the screaming ghost, his hands grasping at your jumper and yours at his arms to stop you both from toppling. Lucy had landed on the bed and Lockwood down the other side. His face popped up, halfway between a smile and a grimace as he held aloft a silver ring with green gems.

If you'd had your way, you'd have gone back to bed and tried to forget the whole thing. It was still very early in the morning after all, the sky outside a rich blue dotted with stars. Instead you all ended up in the kitchen, listening to Lucy explain why she'd thought it was a good idea to take Annabel's ring, which was now in a silver-glass case. Something about a psychic connection, she said.

“I literally cannot believe you stole a source from a crime scene,” George shook his head in bewilderment. He'd swapped his boots for a pair of grey sweatpants and was leaning against the edge of the sink. You sat on the worktop on his right, watching the argument unfold.

“Excuse me,” Lucy countered. “I'm not the only one around here who steals sources. What about that ridiculous skull you're always experimenting on?” She had a point, and it added a whole new layer of worry to the events of the night. How many other sources did your team have hidden around the house? How many other visitors were waiting to attack in your sleep?

“What exactly are you planning on doing with this psychic connection?” you asked instead.

Lucy looked to you, relieved to have someone care about her reasoning. “Solve her case. Get justice for those 40 years she spent boarded up in some wall.”

“She's dead, Lucy.” Trust Lockwood to state the obvious. “We need to destroy her source. Let her go.”

The girl at the other end of the dining table looked so defeated that you felt sorry for her before remembering she'd basically invited an angry ghost into your home.

“Come on George, back me up,” she pleaded as she moved forward. He tried to deny it, but you knew from the moment she suggested trying to communicate with Annabel that it was an opportunity he wouldn't be able to resist. When he joined her, Lockwood looked at you.

“What do you think, y/n?”

You weren't exactly sold, but you could tell Lucy would never find peace until she tried and you trusted the boy beside her to keep things as safe as he could. Besides, there was no way you'd be able to get to sleep knowing your friends were downstairs putting themselves at risk. “Fine, let's try it,” you sighed, hopping down from the counter and standing at Lucy's other side.

The first rays of daylight were creeping into the study, the site of this experiment, by the time you were all set. You wondered whether you were likely to get any sleep at all tonight as you squeezed into the alcove behind Lockwood and George. The curtains were drawn, leaving the room dimly lit by only a lamp in the corner and the picture light on the wall. It would have felt cosy if not for the sense of foreboding that had settled over you. Ever the researcher, George had a small notebook and pen to record any useful information or unusual activity (though you hoped there wasn't any). A hush fell over the group as Lockwood placed the ring in Lucy’s palm. Silver shards spread from within it like ice, and she closed her fingers around the cool metal.

“It's okay, Annabel,” she murmured, eyes closed. “It's safe.” You admired her confidence. If you were given the choice to be half-possessed by a ghost who had tried to kill you less than an hour ago, you'd be encasing the source in so much silver-glass you could barely see through it. Your fears were confirmed when, as the session continued, Lucy rose to her feet and moved towards Lockwood. You all tensed. Lucy's eyes suddenly opened, but she wasn't really looking at any of you. That foreboding feeling tugged at the core of you, deep in your chest.

“Something isn't right,” you whispered through your teeth. George glanced at you, but said nothing.

“He's angry. Jealous.” Lucy's expression twitched as though fighting the wave of emotions she was being subjected to. “She's afraid. Again.” Her hand came up to Lockwood's cheek and he took her by the wrist; she pulled away, then stroked him again, then away once more. “It's alright. He loves me. You love me don't you?” Something was definitely wrong. She shouldn't be switching perspectives like that. Things were going too deep. The boy in front of you could sense it too.

“We need to stop this, now,” he said darkly over his shoulder, not breaking his focus on Lucy.

“Let's just see what happens.” George was writing something. You knew he was invested in seeing this through, but at the expense of your friend's safety seemed a step too far.

“George…” you began, and he turned a questioning gaze to you. Lucy let out a gasp, and you both snapped your attention back to the matter at hand. She was choking on nothing, clawing at her own throat. Reliving Annabel's final moments.

“Lucy, stop it. Annabel!” Lockwood was gripping her now, trying to bring her back to herself. You were frozen in horror. George thought for a moment before he barged past and flung open the curtains.

Everything happened in slow motion and too quickly. The room was flooded with light, the glare of the early morning sun temporarily blinding you so you almost missed the chair flying through the air. Lockwood was quicker, spinning his body to shield Lucy as they landed on an armchair. You had less chance to react. As you dropped to the ground, the rush of the chair passing above you ruffled your hair. It collided with the bookcase, one of its legs snapping clean off and another breaking as it hit a table and rolled from there onto your back and across the floor. It was hard to tell whether the scream that followed came from you or Annabel or both as the room exploded into a shower of impossibly bright sparks, bursting and scattering in succession. Your arms were wrapped over your head, legs tucked under in a crouch, and you curled yourself in even closer as the flakes of light fell around you, illuminating patches of the carpet. You felt something on one of your hands and flinched, but the warmth was not from a spark but skin. Fingers wrapped around your palm and more across your shoulders, pulling you from the alcove and against the security of a trembling yet firm chest. Your breath came in gasps, shaking even more than the person holding you.

“Are you hurt?” George asked quietly from above. You hummed a vague response - nothing was bleeding or broken as far as you could tell if that's what he meant, but your back ached from the impact of the chair and you were too shaken to speak. He stepped back slightly, holding you steady as he moved around you. You twisted to follow his gaze, ignoring the pain in your spine as you did so, and noticed that Lockwood had led Lucy from the room to recover. George's breath hitched, and you soon saw why. The back of your jumper was dotted with tiny scorch marks, nowhere near deep enough to have done you any harm but enough to leave the fabric irreparable.

“Shit,” he whispered, paling.

“It's fine,” you groaned, sinking into the nearest armchair. “It's an old jumper anyway, it's not the end of the world.”

“It's not the jumper I'm worried about.”

It was so rare to see him the way he was looking at you, so tender and full of concern, that it made all the remaining fight leave your body. You wanted to say something, to tell him that it wasn't his fault. Lucy had been in immediate danger, you'd have done the same thing if you hadn't been so scared, it was just the way things worked out that she had both boys protecting her and you only had yourself. Still, he'd come for you the second he could, so how could you blame him? But exhaustion overtook you, and you suspected that if you tried to voice any of those thoughts you'd only end up feeling worse, so instead what you said was: “Come on, it's been a long night. I'm going to try and get a couple of hours’ rest before we start again.” George nodded and wordlessly helped you to your feet and up the stairs.

“Sleep well,” he said softly as he left you at your bedroom door.

You didn't.

[deesea-ao3]

Thoughts regarding Fawcett City

While outlining the plan for my upcoming fic release, I eventually got to the stage where I had to start choosing which parts of canon I wanted/needed to develop. I had loads of cool ideas and headcanons I wanted to explore, but none of it could be implemented if I didn't have a solid grasp on the bigger picture, namely the setting.

Now, for DC comics, we are expected to suspend our disbelief regarding certain cities. It is established that IRL American cities are there, while also being right next to the fictional ones, and we just have to pretend like that makes sense geographically/ economically. Over the years, DC has made countless fictional cities, ranging from highly complex environments like Gotham, to placeholder set pieces like Happy Harbour.

Fawcett City tends to be in between those two extremes. Depending on the era and writers, Fawcett City is either its own wild, wacky city or some boring street in Philidelphia. I am, of course, partial to the former, but even then, a lot of the interesting aspects of the city's lore are found in reading between the lines; seeing the implications for what they are and running with it.

Fawcett City is home to the physical entrance to the Rock of Eternity, the intra-dimensional heart of ALL of planet Earth's magic. It is a prison of great evil, an archive of powerful mystic knowledge, and hosts a network of doors leading to countless other worlds. It is maintained by an undying spectre of one of Earth's greatest sorcerers and fiercly guarded by his greatest champions. Despite all this heavy lore, Fawcett has been egregiously neglected in a lot of post New 52 series and has become shockingly boring, leaving people to find interest in Golden/Silver age works.

In the early days of Shazam! Captain Marvel publication, a lot of the conflicts that occurred in the city were magical in nature, and civilian reactions were always rather nonplussed about it. A talking crocodile invasion was treated with the same amount of weight as rampaging robots, with very little upset about how the existence of magic might challenge their established worldviews. I don't think Captain Marvels first writers did this purposefully. It was more a consequence of the fact that they only had so many pages to write their story on, and comics, in general, weren't meant to be anything more than passing entertainment than deep, introspective storylines, and that's not even addressing how limiting the medium had become due to the Hay's Code.

Because of this, fans of this era are left with the impression of Fawcett City being DC's resident urban fantasy setting. A place where bipedal cartoon tigers walk around in twee green suits. A place where unicorns eat trash alongside racoons. A place where the old lady you see at bingo night is casually also the Baba Yaga. It's a delightful contrast to other DC cities like Gotham, for example. The idea of a random Midwestern American city just being extremely magic and all its citizens just being normal about it is hilarious. For writers like me, it's the perfect sandbox to explore our own interpretations of how magic works in the DCU, and I wish more people saw its appeal/potential.

I'll probably make a separate post about my own headcanons/lore regarding Fawcett later, but for now, I just wanted to ramble about it a little.

[starcollectorsilas]

Thinking about Chuuya- specifically in reference to school aus.

Because Chuuya is SMART okay. He is one of very few people who can keep up with Dazai's chaos, from a combination of knowing him for so long and also from just being smart himself. In stormbringer, Chuuya is shown to at least accurately estimate the answer to rather complex physics equations that cannot be done in your head. He does it anyway. He has an advantage in this where he himself needs to be very concious of gravity and its affects and how it works, and he also has years of first hand experience with how it works he can apply practically to the situation to make estimates easier based on prior knowledge and experience. However, the biggest detriment to that in Chuuya has probably never seen the inside of a school in his life.

It's reasonable to assume that he receives some form of education in the PM as a teen, especially given the fact he needs to work with numbers for running the jewel market. He runs that market with the most success it's hard in years if I recall correctly, while likely not knowing his seven times table. (In chuuya's defense- I don't know my seven times table either and I have a HISTORY with physics that is actually largely sunshine and rainbows so.)

but he does physics that people who've been in school for YEARS fuck up. Mentally.

So he's far from stupid.

However- I am a firm believer in the Chuuya doesn't preform well in school. Regularly a B or C student. He doesn't fail, but he's not scoring the marks he could be.

Because things aren't explained the way he needs them to be. He questions why things work the way they do, explores other possibilities to a point where he confuses himself over the material because school only ever covers a surface level explaination of how and why things work, and expect students to just get it.

When Chuuya does understand something, he UNDERSTANDS it. It becomes common knowledge to him, he can remember it and apply it well in classes, any grades or scores on in class work about the material is scored high. But the second he's under test or exam conditions, he just blanks. It's not the stress or pressure, because he works well under both. It's the lack of practicality to it. It's question after question with no running line he can use to tie everything together and get it the way he needs too. On top of this, he doesn't understand the questions, with nuance and implications his brain isn't wired to pick up on, taking questions literally in a way that costs him marks repeatedly.

If he was in a college or university, he would do so much better, even under test and exam conditions, but while in high school I think that environment just would not work out for him.

As I can make anything about skk, the countermeasure to Chuuya not understanding the way certain things are explained is that Dazai explains them better in a way that's understandable and fills any of the gaps in his knowledge that trip Chuuya up because it should be 'common sense'.

In my head the ada and pm have a joint study group held in Fukuzawa's classroom after school onnnnn... hm. Tuesdays. Because by then the topics for the week have been established, and they each should have had at least one of each class. They all work on their school stuff until everything is covered and then they just watch a movie on the board in the class because it shuts them up (totally not because Fukuzawa has just a little bit of a soft spot for the rowdy group of teens all pressed up against each other sitting on the floor on a random tuesday in early decemeber because none of them really want to go home and it's too cold to go anywhere else. It's not like they're causing trouble or being annoying- they're watching Barbie princess and the popstar for the third time this term.) and they're not causing any harm.

Chuuya isn't the only one who struggles like this, just maybe the one who does so the most, but he would be an incredible physicist, and through support from a few of the nicer teachers and his friends, I'm sure he'd find a way to do well anyway.

I do know he'd get to college and have a realisation like 'huh? learning is actually kind of enjoyable' and that'd be it. He'd become a certified genius. A gilmore girls extra, if you will.

anyway autistic + dyslexic Chuuya who stuggles in school agenda is real.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Exercises For Poets

Writer’s block plagues writers of all kinds, but perhaps none more so than poets. Writing poetry is an exercise in patience, passion, and perseverance. From mining your surroundings to playing with literary devices, here are some exercises to help stimulate your imagination.

Explore Your Surroundings

Find inspiration in your environment and everyday activities:

Take a walk. Go on a walk and bring your notebook. Look around and write down observations on what you see: a tree, a person, a neighborhood. Try starting a poem by using some of these descriptions. Make a decision about its structure: what will the stanzas look like? Will you use enjambment or will you use punctuation? Do you want to use long sentences or short?

Find an interesting object. Whether you’re in an office or a kitchen, a park or a library, choose an object you can see and describe it. Does it evoke personal memories? Does it have cultural implications, or elicit a certain emotion? Try starting a poem with this object and its associations to guide you.

Brainstorm Ideas

Try these exercises as a jumping off point for a new poem:

Use flash cards. Think of a topic. Take ten blank flash cards and on one side of each flash card, write a line about this topic. Use a mixture of emotional detail, concrete detail, and images when writing these lines. Put all the cards face down in front of you. Turn five of these cards over, face-up. What kind of poem is this? What questions remain? Experiment with which five cards should be turned up in order to create a poem that is both mysterious and clear enough for the emotions to be anchored.

Eavesdrop. Carry your notebook with you as you go about your daily tasks and write down interesting things you overhear. At the end of the day, go over the snippets of conversation you wrote down and, rather than thinking about the content of the conversation, analyze how it was said. What have you learned about the way people speak? Incorporate this speech rhythm into a new poem.

Analyze your every move. In the evening, write a list of twenty things you did that day. Use this form: “I washed the dishes, I ate an avocado, I read the newspaper,” and so on. The only rule is: don’t list the things in chronological order. Review your list of twenty activities and see if any of them spark a line of poetry. Try to make use of one of these seemingly mundane activities to write a longer poem.

Free write. Take your notebook and give yourself ten minutes to simply write whatever comes to mind, not letting your pen or pencil leave the page, and not revising. After ten minutes have passed, review what you wrote. How do the subject and tone change from the beginning to the end? Is there anything you might want to lift for a new poem?

Play With Structure

Play around with the formation of a poem, and experiment with language to create new meanings:

Think about the stanzas as various “rooms” in the house of the poem. Imagine that the poet is taking readers through various rooms in a tour of a house. Now, read one of your own poems and look at the stanzas: in the margins of your poem, write down what each stanza or “room” is revealing.

Play with elliptical language. Look at one of your poems, and play with elliptical language. Are there are any words you might want to omit to heighten the sense of mystery? How does the omission of different words change the lines’ potential meanings?

Play with your own ambiguous meanings. Create a sentence that could be interpreted at least two ways. Think of the word “blue”—is it indicating color or mood? Or consider using qualifiers like “perhaps” or “should.” Let this sentence constitute the first few lines of a new poem, and keep playing with this concept of double interpretation throughout.

Make a mess. Write your next poem in long-hand in your notebook and feel free to make a mess with strike-throughs, asides in the margin, and the like before you type it up on a screen. How does the typed up version look on the page? Is it thin, sprawling, even or jagged? Are you moved to make adjustments in the poem, such as shortening or lengthening lines, for the sake of giving your poem a definite shape? Consider editing for diction, pacing, and clarity. Even consider cutting the nonessential lines and phrases.

Play With Form

Try writing different types of poems that have different rhyme schemes or lengths:

Write a haiku. Let the subject take on any topic you want but limit yourself strictly to the haiku form: three lines with the first line having five syllables, the second containing seven syllables, and the last containing five. How did this exercise make you revise your language?

Write a poem of any length. It can be on whatever subject or subjects you choose (and it doesn’t need to rhyme), but try to make each line in iambic pentameter. Remember, this means five iambic feet (da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM).

Write a traditional Shakespearian sonnet. Do this using iambic pentameter and the rhyme scheme ABAB CDCD EFEF GG. Make sure your poem has exactly 14 lines, and use the last two lines to make a “turn.” Remember that the turn often has the poet looking back at the previous 12 lines and making a two-line comment on them.

Play With Setting

Transport your poetry to different time periods and locales:

Write a few lines setting a scene that is easy to accept. Think about the example of snow on pine trees or a dog lying under a hammock. Establish a scene of your own. Then have your poem take a twist. Take your reader and yourself somewhere very different—spatially or thematically—from your original scene.

Subvert the norms. In the Elizabethan period, the dominant subject was romantic or courtly love. In the age of the English Romantic poets, you were supposed to write about nature. Poetry advances when these rules of acceptability are violated. Think about Walt Whitman: when he should have been writing about nature, he wrote about machinery. Thom Gunn wrote a poem about Elvis Presley when pop stars were not considered appropriate for poetry. Both poets violated the literary decorum of their time. In choosing what to write about, nothing is too trivial. Don’t censor yourself. Don’t feel that you have to be serious, or even sincere. You can be playful, even sarcastic in your poems. Think of a subject that may seem outside of today’s literary decorum and write a poem about it.

Play With Titles

Titles can inspire a poet, but they’re also useful to readers:

Guide the reader—but surprise them, too. Write a poem whose title lets the reader in on how the poem is going to proceed by indicating what lies ahead. Then, write this poem, making sure to both deliver on the promise of the title while complicating its meaning.

Play with capitalization. Write a first line that could also work as a title, and write a poem under this line. Play with the capitalization of untraditional nouns: try giving weight to unexpected words by capitalizing them.

Play With Literary Devices

Utilize different literary devices in your poetry to produce different outcomes:

Play with diction. What are some words that, for some reason, make you laugh when reading them? (Think, for example, about “fork,” “nose,” “potato,” or “peas.”) Write a poem that deliberately uses these words to create a tone.

Use assonance. On a sheet of paper, brainstorm a handful of words that use a similar vowel sound. Now, using this brainstorm as a guide, write a poem that utilizes assonance in one or several places (or even throughout the poem). As you read over your draft, ask yourself how these sounds add musicality to the poem, acting as a kind of sound-glue that holds the poem together.

Try anaphora—at least once. Write a poem of at least seven lines, using anaphora at least once. Now, write a poem of over 15 lines in which you use anaphora several times, switching the words being repeated over the length of your poem. Let the development of your anaphora tell another story or add another layer of detail and depth to your poem.

Look Inward

You are the greatest muse for your own poetry. The following exercises require you to mine ideas from your personal life:

Does your personality make its way into your poems? Think of what kind of social person you are and consider the feedback you get from others about your personality—from family, friends, and others. Write a poem that is spoken in your natural speaking voice. This poem need not exhibit your best self. Try allowing the poem to be controlled by a voice other than the one that shows you off. Write a poem that lets the ruggedness of your life drive the voice.

Start a letter to someone you know, would like to know, or once knew. The rule is: assume that they won’t see it. Start this letter by addressing this person directly (think “Dear X”). After you’ve written a few lines or sentences, begin breaking your letter into poetic lines and finish the poem.

Imitate Poets

Imitation is the best form of flattery. Look to poets you admire for inspiration in your own writing. The following writing exercises borrow concepts from other bards:

Mimic voice. Think of some of the poets or poems you admire. These could be poems you’ve discovered in this course or longtime favorites. Pick one of these poems and read it over and over again, noting the methods the poet uses to achieve his or her voice? Notice how the poem develops stage by stage. How does it find its way through itself? See if you can write a poem that follows a similar style of organization or path of development. This is more than an exercise; it’s a way of opening yourself to the influences of other poets.

Describe a disturbing occurrence with an uninvolved, distant voice. Remember that the point of poetry is to make the reader feel something, not for you, the poet, to get emotional. The best way to do this is to write “cold.” If you are doing the feeling, the reader will pull back because all the emotional work has been done by you.

Create tension. Use space to create suspense, putting the reader on the same level of knowing and not knowing as the speaker. Write a poem that describes one large action and uses spacing as a way to force the reader to pause, creating tension and suspense as the action of your poem progresses.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[gatheringbones]

[“Instead of presuming trans femininity’s coherence in advance and then using history to certify it, this book examines where and when trans femininity became a fault line in broader histories, including the repressive practices of colonial government, the regulation of sex work, the policing of urban space, and the line between the formal and informal economy. In this way, the method of this book is deceptively simple: it uses the history of trans misogyny to understand where trans-feminized people were lit up by the clutches of violence and how they responded to its aggressions. In doing so, we learn what makes trans misogyny unique and get a glimpse at how wildly diverse people around the world have come to find themselves implicated in trans femininity and trans womanhood, whether or not they wanted to be.

For these reasons, I maintain a difference between trans femininity and trans womanhood or trans women. The first is meant to signal a broad classification by outside observers, including aesthetic criteria and the history of ideas attached to people who have been trans-feminized. Trans womanhood and women, on the other hand, name people who saw themselves as intentionally belonging to a shared category—in other words, who tried to live in the world recognized as women, whatever that category meant to them contextually. Everyone in this book may have been trans-feminized, and all may have been brought into the orbit of trans femininity, but only some considered themselves to be trans women in response. These careful, empirical distinctions remind that trans misogyny has had the effect of pulling huge swaths of people into relation with one another, like Black trans women in New York City and kathoeys in Bangkok, who but for the accidents of history may never have seen each other as having anything in common. It does not weaken the category of trans femininity, or the political project of trans feminism, to examine trans women alongside hijras, street queens, transvestites, and Two-Spirit people, even if few to none of the latter would identify as trans women. On the contrary, it reveals just how narrow the Western definition of woman has been, since many groups of people reject it as a colonial limitation, even when it arrives in a trans idiom.

Some of the fault lines this book explores remain sources of major friction to this day. Is trans femininity best understood in relation to womanhood, or does its history suggest that gay men’s culture is its better reference? Much would seem to be at stake in the answer, for if trans women are women, period, as the adage goes today, why does so much of their history involve gay men? From late-nineteenth-century sexology’s concept of “the invert” to present-day fights over whether trans women belong in drag, the mixing of gender and sexual frameworks has long produced anxiety directed at trans femininity. Rather than pretend that deciding in one direction or the other is desirable, let alone possible, A Short History of Trans Misogyny emphasizes how gender and sexuality, or what is gay and what is trans feminine, have generally been blurred for most people. This book explores what kind of womanhood trans women acquire by doing sex work and considers the street queens of the mid-twentieth century who answered to the word gay precisely because their trans femininity had made them the queens of something called “the gay world.” Gay men turned to them to reflect on the electrifying promise—or horrifying possibility—of falling down the proverbial rabbit hole from effeminacy into outright femininity. Street queens appear all over the gay male cultural canon because their proximity to gay men represented the threat and freedom of “going all the way.”

Trans women and trans femininity, from this book’s perspective, aren’t so definitively excluded or erased as they are degraded and punished by those who lust after them in anger, fascination, and affection. Though I bracket trans-femininized people from other kinds of trans people—namely, trans men—this book has no separatist impulse. It doesn’t argue that trans women or trans femininity must be taken up in isolation to do them justice, or that trans misogyny is the responsibility of any single group, including men. Nor does it subscribe to the simplistic notion that some kinds of people are inherently affected by trans misogyny while others are cleanly exempt from it. A Short History of Trans Misogyny stresses that gender categories are intensely social, even if they are arranged in hierarchies. Trans femininity, just like non-trans womanhood or male heterosexuality, doesn’t come into the world on an island. Each one of us emerges as individuals to know ourselves only through our entangled relationships to those who are not like us—which is, strictly speaking, everyone. Indeed, the root fear common to trans-misogynist women, gay men, straight men, nonbinary people, or even certain trans women comes from needing the trans femininity of others as a foil for their place in the world.

Gender as a system coerces and maintains radical interdependence, regardless of anyone’s identity or politics. Trans misogyny is one particularly harsh reaction to the obligations of that system—obligations guaranteed by state as much as by civil society. The more viciously or evangelically any trans misogynist delivers invectives against the immoral, impolitic, or dangerous trans women in the world, the more they admit that their gender and sexual identities depend on trans femininity in a crucial way for existence.

Understanding this primary interdependence between gender and sexual positions in the hegemonic Western system, this book pairs trans-feminized subjects in each chapter with people whose relationships to them are disavowed in misogyny. By telling stories through their enmeshment, this book refuses to pretend that trans-feminized people are alone, isolated, and suffering because they need rescue. This book refuses to pretend there is only one form that trans womanhood and trans femininity take, or that the Western model of gender identity and bourgeois individualism, with its simplistic understanding of oppression, is all that useful except as a tool of discipline and domination. And though it cannot tabulate every relevant entry in what would be an impossibly long list, this book insists on holding everyone accountable for the degradation of trans femininity. The collective power of trans-feminized people, including trans women, lies in how many others rely on us to secure their claim to personhood.

In other words, the dolls hold all the receipts, and the time has come to call them in.”]

jules gill-peterson, from a short history of trans misogyny, 2024

[wingedblooms]

More precious than soldiers, than any weapon.

@silverlinedeyes’s post reminded me of one of my favorite revelations in tod. I discussed it in the witch series a while ago, but I’m talking about it again because the language is strikingly similar and could be relevant for Elain’s role in acotar. When Yrene and Chaol visit the Oasis, we learn this:

Yrene turned in place, surveying the pillars, the carvings. No caves—none at all. “Nousha knew the location, though,” she mused. “It must have been important—the site. To the Torre.”

“But its importance was forgotten over time, or warped. So that only the name, the sense of its importance remained.”

“Healers were always drawn to this realm, you know,” Yrene said distantly, running a hand over a column. “The land just … blessed them with the magic. More than any other kind. As if this were some breeding ground for healing.”

“Why?”

She traced a carving on a column longer than most ships. “Why does anything thrive? Plants grow best in certain conditions—those most advantageous to them.”

This land was important, but the reason why it important was warped or forgotten over time. Healers were drawn to it and the land blessed them with healing magic more than any kind. We know there is a deep connection between the magic in the land and the magic of those who inhabit and care for it across the Maasverse (and that was likely emphasized in hofas because it has implications for acotar). This description of the southern continent reminds me of the healing land in the Night Court, with its slumbering heart and its full history and purpose forgotten. The peaks like green hands cupping healing waters.

As their exploration continues in tod, Chaol begins to suspect that the Fae settled on the southern continent to hide something, a treasure of a different sort.

Chaol said, “I thought only one group of Fae ever left Doranelle—to establish Terrasen with Brannon.”

“Maybe another settled here during whatever this war was.” The first war. The first demon war, before Elena and Gavin were born, before Terrasen.

Chaol studied Yrene. Her bloodless face. “Or maybe they wanted to hide something.”

Yrene frowned at the ground as if she could see to the tombs beneath. “A treasure?”

“Of a different sort.”

She met his eyes at his tone—his stillness. And fear, cool and sharp, slid into his heart. Yrene said softly, “I don’t understand.”

“Fae magic is passed down through their bloodlines. It doesn’t appear at random. Perhaps these people came here. And then were forgotten by the world, forces good and evil. Perhaps they knew this place was far away enough to remain untouched. That wars would be waged elsewhere. By them.” He jerked his chin to a carving of a Valg soldier. “While the southern continent remained mostly mortal-held. While the seeds planted here by the Fae were bred into the human bloodlines and grew into a people gifted and prone to healing magic.”

“An interesting theory,” she said hoarsely, “but you don’t know if it could stand to reason.”

“If you wanted to hide something precious, wouldn’t you conceal it in plain sight? In a place where you were willing to bet a powerful force would spring up to defend it? Like an empire. Several of them. Whose walls had not been breached by outside conquerors for the entirety of its history. Who would see the value of its healers and think their gift was for one thing, but never know that it might be a treasure waiting to be used at another time. A weapon.”

“We do not kill.”

A treasure of a different sort. Or what one might call a different kind of strength.

Later, when Yrene and Chaol confront the Valg princess beneath the Torre, their suspicions are confirmed:

“Why are you here,” Yrene breathed. “What do you want?”

“You.”

Chaol’s heart stumbled at the word. Duva straightened. “The Dark King heard whispers. Whispers that a healer blessed with Silba’s gifts had entered the Torre. And it made him so very, very wary.”

“Because I can wipe you all out like the parasites you are?”

Chaol shot Yrene a warning glance.

But Duva plucked the dagger off her womb and studied the blade. “Why do you think Maeve has hoarded her healers, never allowing them to leave her patrolled borders? She knew we would return. She wanted to be ready—to protect herself. Her prized favorites, those Doranelle healers. Her secret army.” Duva hummed, motioning with the dagger to the necropolis. “How clever those Fae were, who escaped her clutches after the last war. They ran all the way here—the healers who knew their queen would keep them penned up like animals. And then they bred the magic into the land, into its people. Encouraged the right powers to rise up, to ensure this land would always be strong, defended. And then they vanished, taking their treasures and histories beneath the earth. Ensuring they were forgotten below, while their little garden was planted above.”

“Why,” was all Chaol said.

“To give those Maeve did not consider important a fighting chance should Erawan return.” Duva clicked her tongue. “So noble, those renegade Fae. And thus the Torre grew—and His Dark Majesty indeed rose again, and then fell, and then slept. And even he forgot what someone with the right gifts might do. But then he awoke once more. And he remembered the healers. So he made sure to purge the gifted ones from the northern lands.” A smile at Yrene, hateful and cold. “But it seems a little healer slipped the butcher’s block. And made it all the way to this city, with an empire to guard her.”

Yrene’s breathing was ragged. He saw the guilt and dread settle in. That in coming here, she had brought this upon them. Tumelun, Duva, the Torre, the khaganate.

But what Yrene did not realize, Chaol instead saw it for her. Saw it with the weight of a continent, a world, upon him. Saw what had terrified Erawan enough to dispatch one of his agents.

Because Yrene, ripe with power and facing down that preening Valg demon…

Hope.

It was hope that stood beside him, hidden and protected these years in this city, and in the years before it, spirited across the earth by the gods themselves, concealed from the forces poised to destroy her.

A kernel of hope.

The most dangerous of all weapons against Erawan, against the Valg’s ancient darkness.

What he had been brought here to retrieve for his homeland, his people. What he had been brought here to protect. More precious than soldiers, than any weapon. Their only shot at salvation.

Hope.

The ancient Fae planted a weapon of a different sort—healing magic—in plain sight so that it could be used to protect the most vulnerable from the Valg. They made sure the right powers would rise up and thrive under the right conditions, like plants in a little garden. It could be a coincidence, but we’ve only heard that phrase used elsewhere in reference to Elain:

The little garden beneath the window was hers: every bloom and shrub had been picked and planted by her hand; she would allow no one else to care for it. Even the weeding and watering she did on her own. (acotar)

"Why?" Elain demanded. "Shall I tend to my little garden forever?" When Nesta flinched, Elain said, "You can't have it both ways. You cannot resent my decision to lead a small, quiet life while also refusing to let me do anything greater." (acosf)

It’s a dismissive phrase meant to belittle the efforts of both the ancient healers and Elain. But in tod, Chaol sees the importance of those efforts and what they ultimately represent for the future: Hope. Hope is more precious than soldiers, than any weapon. And in tod, Hope took the form of healing magic (and is generally connected to healing across the Maasverse). Yrene didn’t need extensive warrior training or to wield a sword; her raw healing power—a weapon of a different kind—was the sword.

Which ultimately brings me back to the questions Sarah planted in acosf. Why, exactly, were all of the Archeron sisters reforged with mighty powers? Why have they been brought to the most powerful court, surrounded by the most powerful warriors? What are they still meant to accomplish together?

We cannot answer those questions without understanding the mysterious gifts of the third sister. Elain has a different sort of strength than her sisters and for some reason, she was given such powers by Wyrd. Maybe her powers are a different kind of weapon that are needed now to address an ancient and familiar enemy. One that buried its secrets beneath the earth and warped the magic of the land to their benefit.

[chacaillejdr]

How to write a remarkable NPC for your campaign ?

Let’s say you’re writing an RPG campaign, or even a one-shot. You absolutely can have a scenario where the PCs are alone in a deserted or abandoned place, or are exploring a dungeon full of non-speaking monsters, then you won't have to ask yourself how to populate it with Non Player Characters. But there are many occasions to create NPCs, and it’s not always easy to give them remarkable personalities. There are many methods to give life to these creatures, and I’m here to suggest a few that I use.

The first thing to do is to determine the importance your NPC has in your scenario. You won’t use the same techniques if they appear for three sentences giving directions or if they’re going to help (or fight) your players for a 80 hour campaign. We’ll divide them in three categories : the Silhouettes, the Utilities and the Actors.

The Silhouettes are NPCs that only appear because you need someone present. They’re just a voice, and you know your PCs won’t meet them again. They’re the easiest to improvise, and you only need to know four things about them : their name (because you can be sure if you haven’t prepared one your players will ask for it), why are they here (no more than one sentence !), what they know (only about your scenario), and two or three adjectives about their tone.

For example : the PCs came to witness a political assembly as simple onlookers, but none among them has a background allowing them to identify the speakers. They’ll then be searching the crowd for « someone who seems to know anything about it ». So here’s the following Silhouette : Charles Abernatty, an aspiring reporter who’s writing an amateur paper about conspiracy theories, who knows the names and affiliations of every politician present, and who is bubbly and speaks fast and miiiiight be stalking some of the senators here on his free time. In a few lines the character is sufficiently developed to be used to move the plot forward.

Then come the Utilities. These NPCs will have more complex interactions with the PCs, and can come back multiple times in the scenario. For those the writing will be a little more complete. You’ll still have to find them a name of course, but also the following éléments : - a physical description - a background (one paragraph might be enough), so you’ll have in advance some elements to use in their dialogues to make them more alive - their role (what they know and what they want) : every character wants something in your scenario (whether it be to simply live a simple life, or to find the lost magic sword of their uncle, or whatever it’s your story guys). This will allow you to know their place in your story, and explain how and why they may have a recurring rôle. - the roleplay, including indications for the voice and the posture (so that you’ll be coherent from one occurrence to another) but also typical reactions (will they be protectors towards an injured PC, or disapprove the use of foul language, etc.)

As you can see, these elements are roughly the same as for a Silhouette, but way more defined.

Finally you have the Actors. These are NPCs with a pivotal role in your scenario, and who have multiple apparitions. They are written the same way as Utilities, but with two more things : - their role will be expanded, not only containing what they want and know, but also their implication at every level of their respective storyline, and may have their opinion on a few subjects - their three motivations : your Actors will have three levels of motivation. The first one is the affirmation, what the NPC will openly tell as their objective. The second is the secret, what the NPC is really after but won’t display. The third is the buried one, what the NPC doesn’t consciously know they desire but is motivated by nevertheless. For example a pirate captain may have as an affirmation to amass a fortune to afford a palace, as a secret to have enough bounty to reclaim the family house taken by an usurer, and as a buried motivation to prove themselves of value in the eyes of their family who disavowed their pirate ways. These three motivations will ease the creation of a coherent character arc for your NPC through the scenario, but also to allow them to reveal themselves to your PCs, through slips or confessions. You can also prepare for your Actors some key scenes with pre-written lines. It is not mandatory at all, and can even be problematic if it is done too often, but it can be useful if you want to use misdirection in your formulations, or if you have an NPC with a complicated way with words or a difficult accent.

With these techniques, you should have deep enough NPC to avoid the syndrome of « wait, who’s this guy again » PC reaction, while still giving your players the information you want. Well, you’ll never be immune to this, but every little bit helps ! I’ll post other tips for RPG writing, so… stay tuned !

Index

[karatekels]

Party Favours

This fic is a belated birthday request for @cortmac1989 (sorry for the wait!) who wanted our favourite silver fox to sweep her off her feet on her birthday. Happy belated, and I hope you enjoy!

TW: oral sex (male and female receiving); bondage; graphic sex; foodplay; teasing; overstimulation

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Party Favours

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Terry’s POV:

“I told you I didn’t like to make a big deal about my birthday, Terry!” you pout at him in his office after the day’s lesson had concluded, your arms crossed over your chest. “That’s why I never told you when it was!”

It was adorable, really, how you thought you could keep things from him. Even if he didn’t have access to your personal information from your registration at the dojo, it would be all too easy for him to learn anything and everything he wanted to know about you. And he had, months ago, before you’d started dating.

“Did I make it a big deal?” he counters, staring down at your growing frustration with amusement. All he’d done initially was announce to the class that the rest of the week’s sessions with him were being cancelled; it wasn’t his fault that Williams had asked why. And even then, he’d only said that he would be celebrating your birthday with you for the next few days.

He hadn’t even gone into any specifics, such as the fact that you’ll ideally be too boneless to leave the bedroom by the time he’s done celebrating you tonight. And he wouldn’t dare leave you to your own devices in such a state just to do something as menial as teach a class.

“They’re going to talk about it, Terry; they always talk whenever our relationship is brought up!”

“Who’s talking?” he demands, more than willing to dismiss anyone that was causing you distress. You immediately move to deescalate, reaching out to stroke his arm soothingly.

“They aren’t saying anything wrong, love. I can’t blame them for gossiping; we’re quite the bundle of taboos between the teacher-student dynamic and our age difference… plus, from what I’ve heard, none of them have seen you in love before.”

“That’s because I hadn’t been in love before,” he says in a fierce whisper, pulling you firmly against him. You tilt your head up to give him a shy smile.

“I’m not uncomfortable with them knowing about us or anything, but I don’t want them thinking you’re giving me any sort of special treatment.”

“Firmer discipline, then?” he teases, tightening his hold on you. You start to giggle nervously before biting your lip, clearly becoming concerned that he wasn’t joking. And while there is a deliciousness to the thought of claiming you as his in front of your peers, he is far too possessive to let anyone else see you in a sexual manner.

“Only if you really think I deserve it, Sensei,” you reply huskily, batting your eyelashes up at him, and he can’t contain the deep growl emanating from the back of his throat. Bowing his head, he captures your lips in a passionate kiss, taking care to explore every corner of your mouth with his tongue.

“Fortunately for you, the Birthday Girl can do no wrong today,” he purrs once he’s let you up for air, cradling your face reverently in his hands. You always felt so delicate like this, no matter how strong he knew you were…

“No?” you ask, arching an eyebrow at him coyly. “I have immunity today, huh? I wonder what I should do with it…”

The devious smirk you give him has his cock twitching against his thigh.

“I know we have a rule about not fooling around in the dojo, Sensei, but I was hoping we could make a deal,” you trail off, your fingers toying with his obi. “No big birthday plans for me, and in exchange I’ll give you something I know you’ve wanted for awhile.”

He tries to appear unaffected, but he can’t help the way his grip tightens on your chin at the implications. Christ, he’s wanted to have you in his office for the better part of a year now, but you’d always firmly drawn a line in the sand. He usually agreed with the logic… when he wasn’t tempted, as he is now.

“Y/N…” he murmurs your name in a strained voice. “I want to spoil you, the way you deserve…”

“You still can,” you reassure him with a casual shrug. “As long as it’s just the two of us. Besides, don’t you want me all to yourself?”

He hesitates, mentally calculating the work he’ll have to do to cancel the more elaborate of his public plans for you. He does want to give you everything he feels you deserve, but perhaps more time was needed for you to warm you up to the limelight.

“You’re all I want, Terry Silver. Aren’t you going to give me what I want on my birthday?” you pout, gazing up at him with the most innocent eyes you can muster.

You’re really turning into a fucking brat.

It only gets him harder.

“As you wish, my dear. Are there any other demands, Your Majesty?” he says earnestly. He’ll encourage you asking him for things at every opportunity; all he wants is for you to depend on him, so that he can show just how reliable he can be.

“Just try to treat me like you do every other student when we’re here, okay?” you ask, untying the obi nimbly, your eyes locked with his. “After what’s about to happen, that is,” you add with a flirty smile, pushing him by the hips to lean up against his desk. God, what you do to him…

“I’ll do you no more favours in this dojo,” he promises with a growl as you lower yourself to your knees before him. Tangling his fingers in your hair, he mentally braces himself to memorize every detail of this fantasy about to come to life. “Now, get to work.”

Thanking his past self for his foresight in asking the other sensei to clear the building immediately after the lesson, he sets about savouring the benefits of compromise.

---

Later that night…

Reader’s POV:

Terry is disappointingly not waiting in the back of the car for you when Larry the chauffeur calls for you later that night, passing on Terry’s apology and saying that he was busy finalizing some last-minute plans for the evening. You nibble on your bottom lip on the ride to dinner, feeling anxious and hoping that you haven’t come off as ungrateful or ruined a bunch of plans that Terry had in store for the evening.

But when the hostess leads you up through the restaurant to a private rooftop patio half an hour later, Terry only seems happy to see you, wrapping you up in a tight embrace as soon as the other woman has retreated down the stairs.

“You look spectacular, my love,” he compliments you in a husky voice, resting his forehead on yours. “I hope that this is a private enough setting for you, my princess.”

You roll your eyes playfully at his teasing before taking a moment to look around. As always, you tended to neglect your surroundings whenever Terry was in the room.

The terrace is decorated with fairy lights and candles that give off the perfect amount of light against the rapidly darkening evening sky, with plants decorating the railings and hung from the ceiling, their flowers giving off a light, exotic fragrance. It’s a warm evening in Los Angeles, but there is a pleasant cool breeze that plays with the loose tendrils of both yours and Terry’s hair. You’re high enough in the air that the typical noise of the city is drowned out, and smooth jazz quietly plays from a sound system you can’t locate.

But most importantly, it’s just the two of you, Terry dressed comfortably, the way he did when he entertained at his home, and that means more to you than anything.

“It’s perfect, Terry,” you tell him sincerely, beaming up at him with pure joy. It wasn’t easy to convince the man you loved to see things your way, especially when it came to your preference for the less extravagant, so him giving into your desires over what he felt you deserved is a big achievement in your eyes. “Thank you,” you whisper, burying your face into his chest as you wrap your arms around his waist tightly once more.

Terry is content to hold you in silence for a moment or two, before releasing you to take your hand and lead you to the comfortable booth, guiding you into place and pouring you each a glass of prosecco before taking his seat next to you. You immediately twine both of your legs around one of his, wanting him close and enjoying the intimacy that this degree of privacy affords you – it means so much more to you than any expensive, formal setting.

“To you, my love,” he croons, raising his glass to you in a toast. “May you find happiness and joy everywhere you go, for that is what you bring to the world and everyone around you.”

You clink your glass with his and down half of your drink quickly to complete the toast, so that you can crawl into his lap and pull him down for a heated kiss, your toes tingling.

“I’m sure I will,” you murmur against his lips. “I’ll be with you.”

Terry’s gaze softens, a sweet smile stealing across his face before he pulls you in for another kiss that quickly has you both getting carried away, Terry gently turning you to lay back in the booth as he comes down over top of you. Fortunately – though that’s debatable – you are both still fully dressed when a pointed cough is heard from behind Terry some time later.

You immediately squeak, flushing an even darker shade of red while Terry remains cool as he always does, straightening up slowly and giving you a wink before turning to look over his shoulder at the server. “Another few minutes with the menu, please,” he requests nonchalantly, turning back to you before the server stammers an “Of course, Mr. Silver,” and scurries back downstairs.

You can’t help but let out a breathless giggle, sitting back up and trying to fix your hair. Terry’s gaze runs up and down your body, and you reflexively slide away from him slightly, knowing that you need to establish some boundaries before you get carried away.

“Don’t even think about it, Terry Silver. I don’t care how alone we are out here, we are not having sex in public!”

With an exaggerated huff and a pout Terry concedes, though he does pull you closer until you’re half-sitting on his lap once more. You both look through the menu together, your head tucked against his chest as you read, and he passes on your orders to the server when they return as you can’t bring yourself to look them in the eye, faint traces of a blush still dusting your cheeks.

You sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes after they’ve left, before Terry suddenly slides you off of his lap, an unusual jitteriness to the way he moves that you aren’t sure what to make of. He takes your hand in one of his own, bringing it to his lips and brushing kisses across your knuckles, his gaze scorching.

“I truly can’t fathom how I am the man lucky enough to spend this day with you, Y/N,” he coos softly against the delicate skin of your hand, and you shiver with pleasure. “I must start thanking you for every day you choose to share with me.”

“Terry…” you breathe, overwhelmed as always by the devotion in his words and his touch. He doesn’t push you to say more, instead continuing to kiss his way up from your knuckles to the back of your wrist and slowly up your forearm. He pauses halfway to your elbow, leaning back and staring at your arm with a perplexed expression. You try not to squirm, your brow furrowed as you look up at him inquisitively.

“What? What’s wrong?” you ask with concern after he remains silent for longer than you can stand.

“Something is missing,” he informs you seriously, before reaching into his pocket and retrieving a flat, square gift box. “Happy birthday, beautiful.”

You slap him lightly in the chest for his theatrics before reaching for the box with trembling fingers. Inside is a stunning diamond tennis bracelet, the gemstones artfully arranged into vines, leaves and flowers. You nearly drop the box in your shock, but Terry’s quick reflexes have him catching it before it’s even fully left your grip.

His lips are quirked in amusement as you try to stammer your thanks, but you can barely get any words out in your shock; you know that money is no object for him, but this must have cost a fortune. By the time you’ve composed yourself he’s already secured the bracelet around your wrist, giving your now-decorated wrist an approving nod.

“That’s much better,” he purrs, lifting your hand and watching the bracelet catch the light at every angle. “Though if I had my way you’d be covered in jewels and not much else,” he adds, his thumb delicately rubbing the sensitive skin of your wrist in a way that has heat coursing through your veins.

“Terry, it’s absolutely spectacular! Thank you so much,” you gush, unable to take your eyes off of it. You’re vaguely aware of Terry humming contentedly – he’s far more accustomed to you trying to reject gifts of this magnitude, and is clearly pleased by your easy acceptance.

“I assure you, it doesn’t hold a candle compared to the woman wearing it,” he says with a wink.

The servers arrive then with your meal, and while you’re briefly irritated by their timing, you soon see it as a good thing; had they arrived even two minutes later, you know they’d have found you in a completely compromising position.

---

The meal is delicious, and you and Terry are enjoying the night with one another in a comfortable sort of bubble that belongs only to the two of you. Terry’s arm around you is all the protection you need against the growing chill to the air, and you’re more than content to curl up on the bench seat and into him further.

You’re absent-mindedly toying with his hair, out of its signature ponytail – you suspect he wore it this way on purpose, knowing your preference for it – and humming contentedly along with the soft music, when you chance a glance up at his face and notice him looking down at you with an anxious expression.

“Is everything okay, Terry?” you ask, moving your hand to stroke his cheek. He immediately leans into your palm, a pleased sigh escaping him, and he moves to take your other hand in his.

“More than okay, Y/N. I wanted to give you this at home, but I can’t wait anymore.”

With uncharacteristic nervousness, he withdraws another box, slightly thicker than the first, from his coat pocket, placing it on the table. Your mouth goes dry.

“Terry, another one? This is too much, I can’t –” you protest, sliding the unopened box back towards him. In a flash, one large hand covers your own, and the box beneath it, gently caging them against the table.

“You can, and you will,” he says in a low, firm voice, giving you an intense stare. “Open it, please.”

He releases your hand, sliding it and the box closer to you, and you bite your tongue as you lift the top off of the box.

Unlike the jewelry you’d expected, a small set of silver keys lay neatly presented in the box.

You stare at them for a long moment, your jaw falling open slightly, before you force your eyes upwards to meet his own.

“Move in with me,” he requests in a soft voice, his expression vulnerable. “Please?”

You’re utterly speechless, your heartbeat thudding loudly in your ears, and it takes you a moment to remember to breathe. When you look up, Terry’s brows have started to crease in worry, and you realize that you have yet to answer him.

Throwing your arms around him, you gasp out an acceptance as you pepper his face with kisses, tears streaming down your cheeks. You feel Terry’s arms embrace you tightly as the tension leaves his body, and he lays reverent kisses across the top of your head as you hold one another.

“Really?” he asks, his blue eyes seeking yours for confirmation. “You’ll live with me?”

His rare show of insecurity has your heart melting, and you rush to reassure him.

“Yes, Terry; God, yes!” you whisper breathlessly, and the smile he gives you is dazzling.

“Now, tell me there aren’t anymore surprises left for me tonight – I don’t think my heart can take anymore!” you joke with a sniffle, wiping at your tears.

As if on cue, the sky erupts in brilliant colours, light popping noises scattering through the night. You immediately turn to look at Terry, concerned that the fireworks are going to trigger his PTSD, but he seems unsurprised by the sudden explosions.

“Oops.” Terry mumbles under his breath, more to himself than to you.

“Are… are these –” you stammer, turning all around you to see the colourful display circling you from every direction in a giant ring that spanned blocks.

“For you? Yes,” Terry admits, smiling down at you fondly. “But nobody else knows that.”

And it’s that little detail, more than anything else so far this evening, that tells you that Terry Silver is the man you were meant to be with.

“May I interest you in the dessert menu, Mr. Silver?” a server asks during a pause in the fireworks.

“Just the bill, thank you,” Terry says dismissively to the waiter, keeping his eyes locked with yours. You raise your eyebrows in surprise, even as desire coils in your belly from the way he’s gazing at you in the candlelight.

“I’ve got plans for dessert back home.”

---

Terry’s POV:

It’s an incredible test of his self-control to not have his way with you in the back of the limo on the ride home, but he knows that once he starts he’s not going to stop until you’re both spent.

Instead, he elects to focus on how soul-deep, over-the-moon happy he is right now, that his house is to become your home; it’s everything he’s ever wanted. He leans down to kiss you again where you’ve settled in his lap, one arm curled around you possessively while the other toys with the sensitive skin behind your knee, making you squirm pleasantly against him and letting out cute little moans that he greedily swallows into his own mouth.

He can tell that you’re partly surprised by the fact that he’s (mostly) keeping his hands to himself, and he chooses to keep up the behaviour if only to see how you’ll respond to it. Now that you’re taking this next big step in your relationship together, Terry finds that he wants to spend all of his waking hours watching you react to life around you. You’ve enthralled him like nothing else.

So, when the two of you arrive back at the mansion, he scoops you into his arms the moment you’re out of the backseat, carrying you bridal style up and into the house while you giggle and blush like a debutante, your arms locked around his neck and resting on his shoulder. He pointedly says nothing, carrying you past the stairs leading to the bedrooms and moving through the house to the kitchen, enjoying your look of growing confusion.

“What are we doing in here?” you ask once he’s set you on the edge of the kitchen counter.

“I believe I told you I had plans for dessert back home. What did you think I meant?” he asks with mock innocence, grin widening as he watches your face turn red. You try to kick at him with a bare foot but he dodges it nimbly, taking off his coat and hanging it on the back of a chair before moving to roll up his shirt sleeves. He catches you watching and bites back a smirk, your reactions to his body never failing to stroke his ego.

“Alright then, Betty Crocker, what’s on the menu?” you snark at him from your perch on the counter, trying to brush off the joke at your expense, but he isn’t fooled.

Terry had thought about it on the ride home, and he realized exactly what he wanted to make for you: a dessert from his childhood. He had remained a relatively private person throughout your relationship, especially when it came to his own history, a boundary that you had always respected but were clearly curious about. Now that you were starting to really, truly build a life together – his heart clenches intensely at the thought – it seems like the perfect time to give you a bit of insight into his past; God knows you’ve been patiently waiting for it.

“Bavarian cream,” he answers, taking in your expectant, curious look as you cock your head at him. He can tell by the patience in your eyes that you’re waiting for an explanation; you know that he never does anything for no reason. You know him so well, and every moment he’s reminded of that little fact sends his spirits soaring.

He’s waited so, so long for you, but it was all well worth it.

“It’s a creamy custard,” he explains as he busies himself with gathering ingredients from the fridge. “It was my favourite as a child. My mother used to make it for me.”

Your gaze softens even as it lights up – you’re clearly pleased by this new bit of information, just as he knew you would be.

“I can’t wait to try it,” you tell him sincerely, a beautiful smile lighting up your face. It’s clear that this genuinely means more to you than the hundred-thousand-dollar bracelet dangling from your dainty wrist, and he finds himself marvelling for the umpteenth time about how you truly just want him for him.

He falls into the comfortable rhythm of preparing the dessert – separating egg yolks, whisking the ingredients together, heating them on the stove, and beating cream into stiff peaks before adding it to the custard. The two of you are making casual conversation as he works, but it doesn’t escape his notice that you’ve been getting hot and bothered, your tongue peeking out from between your lips on occasion as you watch his hands at work.

You’ve been so patient, and given him so much today – starting with that blowjob in his office – on your birthday, no less.

It was time to start rectifying that imbalance immediately.

“It’ll need some time to set,” Terry explains, his eyes on the contents of the bowl on the counter between you. “Though I suppose I should make sure the flavour is to your liking first, hmm?”

He watches you swallow thickly as you watch him dip a long finger into the creamy, pale dessert, your mouth dry as he lifts the digit to your lips. Your beautiful eyes look past his finger to seek his out, and you stare up at him unblinkingly as you shyly extend your tongue to lick a dollop of the sweet cream off of his finger. Your eyes widen slightly, your pupils dilating, and you let out an incredibly sensual moan, instinctively grabbing his wrist to hold his hand steady so that you can take his finger into your mouth, sucking it clean.

Even he’s surprised by the intensity of the shudder that rocks his entire body at the gesture.

He can tell by the way that you lick your lips and avert your gaze that you’re about to ask for something intriguing, and he tries to contain his interest.

“So all that happens now is that the gelatin sets?”

“Yes,” he answers, curious as to your train of thought.

“But it’s technically safe to eat now?”

“Yes,” he replies in a hoarse voice, hoping that he’s accurately picked up on your train of thought.

Sure enough, you tug him towards you, wrapping your limbs around him and squeezing like a python as you pull him down into a fiery kiss.

“Let’s take it upstairs just like this,” you suggest, panting slightly in your arousal. “Now.”

---

Reader’s POV:

Terry somehow manages to juggle both the bowl of dessert and you wrapped around him as he carries you upstairs, kicking open the door to his bedroom – soon to be your bedroom – in his haste to get you where he wants you. You giggle in his arms, taking the bowl from him and setting it on the bedside table.

“Eager, are we, Mr. Silver?” you tease as he climbs onto the bed on all fours with you still hanging onto him.

“Yes,” he answers immediately, sounding unabashed. “You’ve spent the day entirely too unravished, if you ask me.”

Detangling your limbs from around him, he lays you out on the bed before running his hands from your ankles up your legs, disappearing beneath the floral fabric of your dress to tug your panties off.

“Speaking of eager,” he purrs, holding the damp scrap of fabric in front of your face, “you’re already soaked for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you groan desperately, trying to keep your eyes focused so that you can unbutton his shirt.

Terry growls in approval, slipping his hands beneath you to pull down the zipper of your dress and gently pulling the sleeves down your arms before tearing the clothing off of you in one swift motion. Sitting up on your knees, you push the shirt off of his shoulders, but before you can get a firm grip on his belt he’s got you on your back again, pulling one of your legs up to wrap around his hips.

“We’ll have more than enough time for that later, sweetheart. Right now is all about me spoiling my girl the way she deserves.”

Not wanting to be outdone – it was your birthday, and you should get what you want – you blindly reach into the bowl of cream, gathering some on your fingers and swiping them across Terry’s mouth. He tries to snatch up your fingers between his teeth but you’re too fast for him, instead pulling him in for a truly decadent kiss, your tongue gathering the cream from his lips and sweeping it into his mouth.

The positively sinful groan he lets out has your toes curling, and you need to hear more of it, right fucking now.

Taking advantage of Terry’s current state of… distraction – you can feel his erection pressing insistently against your inner thigh – you quickly pull him to the side, rolling the pair of you until you are straddling his hips. The sight of Terry shirtless with mussed hair has you grinding eagerly against the bulge in his trousers, and you quickly reach for the bowl again, painting stripes across his chest with the sweet substance so that you can bend down and lick him clean.

The slight saltiness to his skin only enhances the flavour of the dessert, and you eagerly devour it off of him, hearing him cursing under his breath when your tongue brushes against a flat nipple. Grinning wickedly, you gather the remaining cream around his nipples, licking and sucking until he loses his patience, growling at you as he forcefully turns you over and pins you to the bed.

Pinning you in place with his hips and a stern glare, he reaches into the bedside drawer for a reel of nylon rope that immediately has you squirming beneath him. He removes the tennis bracelet from your wrist before deftly binding your hands together and securing them to the bedframe above your head, ignoring your weak protests.

“Save me some cream, at least,” you request with a pout – he’s currently staring down at you like you’re something to eat.

“Why should I? I should cover you head to toe and spend all night sucking you clean,” he growls, the low timbre to his voice having your eyes rolling back in your head as you imagine a night of him servicing you. Still, you have a point to make, so you force yourself to focus, sitting up as much as you can with your hands bound over your head and staring him in the eye.

“Imagine fucking my throat with my mouth full of cream,” you purr up at him, pleased at the nearly feral look he gives you in response.

“Christ, you’re a filthy creature,” he snarls, his grip tightening on the curve of your waist.

“Only for you, baby,” you reply with a cheeky smile. His answering smirk has you pressing your thighs together.

“Damn right,” he hisses, his hands forcing your legs apart and to either side of him. “Now, be a good girl for Daddy and then you can have your dessert.”

You nod up at him with a soft whine, trying to brace yourself for whatever is to come.

Terry – of course – had to test your limits, covering your body in the cool substance and tracing patterns on your arms, legs, neck and stomach and purposefully neglecting your breasts and pussy. He keeps his heated gaze on your face as he slowly licks you clean, wriggling his tongue on the underside of one forearm from your wrist to the crease of your elbow in a way that has your thighs quaking to either side of him.

“I still want to decorate this perfect body with jewels,” Terry promises as he languidly licks up cream off of your ankle. “But this will do in the meantime. You taste absolutely divine, beloved.”

By the time he cleans the cream from your limbs you’re a complete quivering mess, but Terry refuses to speed up. You know from past experience that any begging on your part – unless he asked you to – would only make the sadistic bastard draw things out even more.

“You’re being so patient, sweet thing,” he coos approvingly, his tongue swirling around your bellybutton while you arch up into him with a cry. “Such a good girl, letting me eat you up.”

He slowly brushes your breasts with cream next, while you do your best not to seem too affected. The custard is thickening now, each of your nipples decorated by a curl of cream.

“Ah, see? It’s starting to set. Stiff peaks,” Terry jokes before kissing the cream off of a prominent nipple, chuckling around your breast while you keen, your spine completely bowed up and off the bed. He grips your hips firmly, pressing them into the mattress as he continues to devour you, and you’re already so close that the slight pressing together of your inner thighs is enough to have you coming, your legs tightening their hold around his hips as you buck up against him.

“I love watching you come apart for me, Y/N,” he murmurs in a husky voice once you’ve stopped moaning his name and caught your breath slightly, though your chest is still heaving. “You were made for me to ruin, and spoil, and own.”

“Yesss,” you hiss, pulling him upwards with your knees until he gives you what you want, kissing you deeply, traces of cream on his tongue that you lap up eagerly. “I’m all yours, Terry. We were made for each other, love.”

Terry’s exuberance can be felt in every brush of his lips against yours, the way his fingers press into your flesh and his eyes bore into your own. You’ll be happy to affirm your feelings for him for eternity, especially knowing what it means to him.

“My sweet girl,” Terry breathes, nuzzling into the crook of your neck affectionately. “I love you so much.”

“Let me up and prove it!” you tease, tugging at your restraints. Terry smirks down at you, running a hand slowly down one side of your body.

“Let you up? When I finally have you where I want you, in our bed?” he asks playfully, and you can’t help the beaming smile that spreads across your face when he mentions this space being yours now, too.

“No dice, sweetheart, not even for the birthday girl. But I will let you choose if you’d rather have your dessert now or after I’ve had seconds…” he leers down at you, one large hand squeezing a handful of your inner thigh firmly. You shudder, thinking about Terry using you while you’re tied up; it’s one of your favourite things to do with him (though everything you do together nears the top of the list), and you’re surprised he’s letting the focus deviate from you so much today of all days.

“Ooohhh, let me!” you moan eagerly, Terry taking in your enthusiasm with smug satisfaction. He makes a show of taking off his pants, staying just out of reach and watching you squirm impatiently before climbing back on the bed, keeping his knees to either side of your body and his weight off of you, cheekily balancing the bowl of dessert on your ribs.

“Keep it in your mouth,” he commands, using his fingers to feed the cream into your greedy mouth. You hold it all inside, your cheeks bulging out, and Terry gives you a wicked smile, bringing the swollen head of his cock just in front of your lips. You look up at him with needy, pleading eyes, silently begging to give him pleasure. His eyes darken further as he stares down at you right where you were meant to be; utterly at his mercy.

“Tell me what you want, beautiful,” he purrs, his eyes glittering.

“I want to suck your cock, Daddy,” you moan through your full mouth, and while the words are mostly unintelligible, he gets the gist, bringing the tip of his cock to your full lips. You lift your head as much as you can, guiding him inside your mouth with your tongue, the cream moving to accommodate his length.

“Oh sweet fuck,” he hisses, his hips moving to slide deeper, the difference in texture and temperature between your hot mouth and the cool cream clearly driving him wild. You moan throatily around him, your tongue swirling the cream around his cock as you try to bring him quickly. Nothing gave you a greater high than making this imposing, restrained man come undone.

“Such a perfect, dirty mouth,” he growls as he quickens his pace, his fists clenched in the sheets to either side of your head. “God, what you do to me, Y/N,”he snarls before an incredibly sexy whimper escapes his lips, causing his hips to stutter. “You’ve got me so close already, baby girl, I’m going to –”

You lift your legs suddenly, your knees guiding his hips closer to your head, and the movement takes him by surprise, causing him to reach up and grab the headboard as he climaxes, thighs shaking as he keeps his weight off of you. The bitter, salty taste of his cum compliments the dessert wonderfully, and you swallow everything you can before starting to clean the remaining cream off of his softening cock with kittenish licks that have him twitching above you.

Terry, hair mussed and face flushed from the exertion, stares down at you with unblinking eyes as he watches you lick him clean with fascination.

“I’ve got to stop letting you bewitch me, woman,” he comments off-handedly as he smiles at you fondly, sliding down the bed to lay next to you. “Today is supposed to be all about you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say with mock innocence, batting your eyes up at him. “I certainly got what I wanted.”

“What a coincidence – having you tied down and pleasuring me is also at the top of my birthday wishlist.”

“Why should we only reserve it for special occasions?”

He gives you a dark, brooding look. “Every day before I met you seems more and more like a waste.”

“We should make up for lost time then,” you retort with a grin. “Untie me?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that – I’m not quite done with my dessert.”

“But I need to touch you, Terry,” you coo quietly up at him, and his gaze softens. Keeping his eyes trained on yours, he reaches up to remove the rope from your wrists, taking each one as it’s freed and kissing it thoroughly, checking for damage.

“Thank you, baby,” you murmur sweetly, your fingers playing with his hair as you stare into his blue, blue eyes. They were so captivating that you often forgot your surroundings entirely…

The temperature of the bavarois against your aching clit makes you shriek, Terry having taken advantage of your distraction to work some of the cream between your legs. Before you can tighten your grip he’s slipped his head out of your grasp with a wicked smile, sliding down the bed and spreading your legs in one fluid motion before burying his face at the apex of your thighs.

“Oh fuck, Terry, Oh God,” you groan, trying to grind your hips up against his face. He watches you with feverish, bright eyes peeking out from above your mound as he makes you come apart from him again, backing off right before you reach the point of no return.

“That’s right, sweetheart, let me love you how you need,” he purrs, chuckling as you fist your hands in his gorgeous silver curls and try to tug him back to where you need him. Predictably, your attempts have no effect, and he turns his head slightly to give you a patronizing kiss on your inner thigh.

“Terry!” you whine his name, panting desperately, “PLEASE!”

“There’s a new rule for you tonight, beloved,” he informs you nonchalantly, as though you were in any frame of mind to follow along. “You want to come once, you come twice – got it?”

He dives back in to eat you out before you can even respond, and there’s no way you can be expected to form a coherent thought and make a decision. You know that Terry knows this, too, and that you’ll happily agree to anything right now if it means that he’ll let you come.

“Yes, fine! Please don’t stop,” you beg, and you can feel him smirking victoriously against your folds as he snakes his tongue inside of you. Throwing your legs over his shoulders, he takes his time, spreading the last of the dessert along your hips and thighs and devouring you thoroughly.

“I will never get over the way you taste,” he groans with satisfaction, two fingers pumping you full while he flicks his tongue over your clit, and you come hard, screaming his name. He doesn’t relent, quickly withdrawing his fingers and replacing them with his tongue as he drinks up your release, dragging out your orgasm with his lips and purring his approval inside of you; you can feel it in your bones.

“Give me another one,” he demands in a low, husky voice, his large hands gripping your thighs tightly as he spreads them apart, watching your pussy quiver in its release. You let out a wordless whine, your hands laid overtop of his where he holds you open.

“Make… me…” you pant, staring down at him challengingly, and he gives you a wolfish grin, blunt fingernails digging into your soft flesh.

“With pleasure, my princess,” he purrs, his eyes promising that you’ll be begging for mercy by the time he’s done with you.

You’re not naïve enough to believe that this will be the end of Terry’s plans for you for the evening – and sure enough, after thoroughly scrubbing the lingering traces of sugar off of both of you in the shower, he would spend the rest of the night and well into the early hours of the morning making even sweeter love to you.

---

Well, I know what I want for my birthday! Hope you all enjoyed!

[notebooks-and-laptops]

How to Formulate Companion Quests: Why a Lack of Theming and Overstressed Game Mechanics Got In The Way

Dragon Age: The Veilguard's companions are a lovable bunch, and it doesn't suprise me that the companions each already have a loyal and dedicated fanbase.

And yet, I do think that while I love the characters their personal storylines and quests are rather lacking. This comes down to two main issues that I want to explore in depth here: mechanics and a lack of overall theming.

So framing and mechanics; the game stresses to the player after you fail to kill the Ghilan'nain that the companions all have personal issues they need to solve to be ready to fight Ghilan'nain. The game then ascribes a tick box exercise; if you complete a companions quest then you'll get some extra swag gear and they'll get an extra cool bonus ability, as well as a nice symbol next to their tarot card.

This not only breaks immersion, but quite literally makes the companion quests an obstacle to overcome in order for you to complete the main quest. You're rewarded for completing the quests fully by making you better equipped to fight.

This by itself wouldn't have made the companion quests feel so empty of meaning, but linked to this comes the issue that Veilguard has with theming and villians.

The companion quests aren't really tied to the main story in any real way. Hardings is kind of tied to revelations you learn in the main story, but its more the lore implications than the actual current struggle against the Gods. Taash is supposedly fighting a mini-boss of Ghilan'nain but again the link between the Dragon King and Ghilan'nain is only revealed after you get to the final boss fight. The other companions are quite literally distracted by things not important to the main quest of destorying the Gods.

This is, by itself, fine. You don't neccessarily need companion quests to be linked to the main quest in order for them to feel like they're an integral part of the game. But what you do need is the companion quests to feel thematically relevant to the game.

When we were told this game was going to be about regret, I was very excited. Dragon Age has given us wonderful overarching themes before (for example, all your companions and you are in some way Dead in DAO). But none of the companion quests...actually heavily feature regret or mirror our bad guys or anti-heros struggle except for maybe Bellaras?

Harding doesn't regret touching the lyrium dagger or anything in her past. Davrin might regret losing the griffins but its more 'i need to get them back' than 'i actually did something bad that i regret'. Lucanis was locked away, and maybe he regrets his deal with spite? but it doesn't come up the way Anders/Justice's regrets and issues do. Neve regrets...nothing? Maybe 'getting her friend killed' but again, that's not actually her fault. Her theme is more about whether or not Dock Town really does need to change (a theme that's rendered kind of ridicious without Tevinter slavery being actually in the mix). Bellara regrets letting her brother die, but she didn't actually do anything that caused it the way Solas actively regrets, say, killing Mythal/Flemmeth. Emmrich's quests revolve around his fear of death. I guess he could regret not being a linch/letting manfred die, but he definitely doesn't seem to regret not becoming a lynch. Taash regrets not having it out with their mum after her quest is already over, but its not a main theme of her quest.

Now the quest line that actually works here? Is Davrins. Because while Davrin doesn't have anything to regret, Isseya does. Davrin's main villian is introduced early in the game, and is centred around Isseya who has become a monster and twisted figure of what she once was because she is tortured by the regret of blighting the griffins. This is an excellent plot! Because it mirrors the main themes of the game, and Solas's regrets too! We can feel genuinely sorry for her at the end.

But the other companion quests while fun feel like they're pulling you away from the main story, not bringing you into it. The other companion quests also only have villians that are introduced far too late in the game for us to feel a) threatened by them or b) actually care about them and very few of them have motivations beyond 'I'm evil hear me roar'. The companions who they've attempted to add regrets to - those regrets aren't 'real' in the sense that those companions are actually to blame for what happened the way Solas is the veil.

Besides Davrin, these companion quests are things that you have to overcome in order to get to the point you can do the main story, rather than a continuation of the themes of that story. They are literal distractions from the main story and then they are framed that way both in word and mechanic by the game. I feel like if they hadn't stressed this so much in the mechanics it wouldn't feel as obvious so they might have gotten away with it...but instead its just glaring me in the face.

This is a crazy choice to me. It pushes the pacing way off, and makes their plots feel like chores. Maybe fun chores, but still just chores that must be completed before we can do what we're actually here to do.

[notetakers-blog-of-holding]

How to write a remarkable NPC for your campaign

Let’s say you’re writing an RPG campaign, or even a one-shot. You absolutely can have a scenario where the PCs are alone in a deserted or abandoned place, or are exploring a dungeon full of non-speaking monsters, then you won't have to ask yourself how to populate it with Non-Player Characters. But there are many occasions to create NPCs, and it’s not always easy to give them remarkable personalities. There are many methods to give life to these creatures, and I’m here to suggest a few that I use.

The first thing to do is to determine the importance your NPC has in your scenario. You won’t use the same techniques if they appear for three sentences giving directions or if they’re going to help (or fight) your players for a 80 hour campaign. We’ll divide them in three categories : Silhouettes, Utilities and the Actors.

The Silhouettes are NPCs that only appear because you need someone present. They’re just a voice, and you know your PCs won’t meet them again. They’re the easiest to improvise, and you only need to know four things about them : Their name (because you can be sure if you haven’t prepared one your players will ask for it), why are they here (no more than one sentence!), what they know (only about your scenario), and two or three adjectives about their tone.

For example : the PCs came to witness a political assembly as simple onlookers, but none among them has a background allowing them to identify the speakers. They’ll then be searching the crowd for « someone who seems to know anything about it ». So here’s the following Silhouette : Charles Abernatty, an aspiring reporter who’s writing an amateur paper about conspiracy theories, who knows the names and affiliations of every politician present, and who is bubbly and speaks fast and miiiiight be stalking some of the senators here on his free time. In a few lines the character is sufficiently developed to be used to move the plot forward.

Then come the Utilities. These NPCs will have more complex interactions with the PCs, and can come back multiple times in the scenario. For those the writing will be a little more complete. You’ll still have to find them a name of course, but also the following elements : a physical description - a background (one paragraph might be enough), so you’ll have in advance some elements to use in their dialogues to make them more alive - their role (what they know and what they want) : every character wants something in your scenario (whether it be to simply live a simple life, or to find the lost magic sword of their uncle, or whatever it’s your story guys). This will allow you to know their place in your story, and explain how and why they may have a recurring rôle. - the role play, including indications for the voice and the posture (so that you’ll be coherent from one occurrence to another) but also typical reactions (will they be protectors towards an injured PC, or disapprove the use of foul language, etc.)

As you can see, these elements are roughly the same as for a Silhouette, but way more defined.

Finally you have the Actors. These are NPCs with a pivotal role in your scenario, and who have multiple apparitions. They are written the same way as Utilities, but with two more things : - their role will be expanded, not only containing what they want and know, but also their implication at every level of their respective storyline, and may have their opinion on a few subjects - their three motivations : your Actors will have three levels of motivation. The first one is the affirmation, what the NPC will openly tell as their objective. The second is the secret, what the NPC is really after but won’t display. The third is the buried one, what the NPC doesn’t consciously know they desire but is motivated by nevertheless. For example a pirate captain may have as an affirmation to amass a fortune to afford a palace, as a secret to have enough bounty to reclaim the family house taken by an usurer, and as a buried motivation to prove themselves of value in the eyes of their family who disavowed their pirate ways. These three motivations will ease the creation of a coherent character arc for your NPC through the scenario, but also to allow them to reveal themselves to your PCs, through slips or confessions. You can also prepare for your Actors some key scenes with pre-written lines. It is not mandatory at all, and can even be problematic if it is done too often, but it can be useful if you want to use misdirection in your formulations, or if you have an NPC with a complicated way with words or a difficult accent.

With these techniques, you should have deep enough NPC to avoid the syndrome of « wait, who’s this guy again » PC reaction, while still giving your players the information you want.

Well, you’ll never be immune to this, but every little bit helps!

[ashaflemythal]

I haven’t seen any real critical takes on veilguard on here, so I wanted to add my 2 cents and open up a discussion bc at this moment I would say I’m beefing with BioWare lol.

Firstly, did I have fun playing veilguard? Uh, yes? I guess? Technically? I would definitely say the combat system and a lot of the gameplay itself is far better than it has been in previous games, and made me more engaged.

However, the writing issues at BioWare came to a major head here.

1) i didn’t feel like they went into the political and social implications of what was going on at all?? The elven gods coming back would bring so many other consequences beyond the destruction and blight. We didn’t see how this affected the way elves were treated, especially somewhere like Tevinter.

2) what happened to the Templar/mage conflict? The implications of the elven gods being alive and back are that then the chant and chantry are mostly wrong. There is no “magic was made to serve man and never rule over him.” This would likely make mages lash out at templars for being oppressed over what have turned out to essentially be lies. The templars then would likely split into those that leave the chant and focus on the real threats before them, and those who dig in their heels and decide that mages should still be oppressed bc of the dangers no matter what the chantry says. This would be such an interesting political shift to witness! And I’m sad we didn’t get this amount of depth

3) what happened to Solas’ followers? There was something so interesting to explore about having current elves helping him because they felt he was doing the right thing. We don’t run into any of his followers at all! And elves would definitely have more than enough reason to seek the world of the ancients and return to Arlathan given tevinter slavery and general oppression across Thedas, so what happened to that?

4) the only complex companion relationship that is allowed in-game is with rook and whoever was hardened with the treviso/minrathous choice. Otherwise, you can’t really have an antagonistic relationship with any of them. The only way to not progress a good relationship is to not engage in their content which I feel like is very weak writing. In DAI, you walk in on Cassandra and varric physically fighting and have to side with one of them. You can tell Cullen to keep taking lyrium. You can pick the wrong option in a companion quest and worsen your relationship. Where was that in this game?

5) the roleplaying, or lack there of. Sometimes I would pick the most aggressive option and it would still sound pretty nice, all things considered, where is my ability to feel differently outside of the very narrow window the game provides?

6) the STAKES of it all. The companions all seem very chill about things, all things considered. They are finding out things that would politically turn thedas on its head, and they’re having these calm discussions around a coffee table. I’m currently on my second play through, and it feels like none of these discoveries are given the weight they deserved, after three games of built up lore.

7) the gods’ allies. The motivations of the bad guys can pretty much be summed up by saying “want power” and that creates such shallow villains. Like yeah, obviously they’re bad bc they just want power and don’t care about people, but what about villains that do care about others? Villains that are complicated? I mean hell even though Alexius was mostly like “yes corypheus power” there was that grounding aspect of him wanting to save his son who was sick. I don’t feel like we had anything that tangible or real from major villains in veilguard

Ok, long post, but I do feel like BioWare has started to shy away from nuance and gray areas in a way I don’t like. It is important to show the complicated perspectives of evil people because that is the same thing we have to deal with irl. As an action-adventure game, it’s fine, but veilguard can scarcely call itself a true rpg. I don’t know, my feelings about it are complicated but all I know is that this game was quite disappointing to me especially compared to DAI, and I want to hope for better from the next game but given the way their BioWare’s last couple releases have gone I can’t say I’m expecting a lot. Anyway, how are yall feeling fr?

[crossdressingdeath]

Thinking about it having taken some time away, a revenge plot like Karlach's was I think one of the worst possible choices for a BG3 companion quest even before we get into what a half-assed fake drama story it is (why isn't her quest finding a damn Wish scroll, Larian, that would actually be fun and wouldn't cut into Wyll's quest or demand the player choose her ending if they want her to live, there are multiple spells that could fix this and we're given exactly zero explanation for why we aren't even trying to get one, you even brought Wish into the plot as a non-standard game over and then didn't bring it up here when it would be an ideal solution), because it really brings the massive double standard the game's got going on into stark relief. It's most obvious in contrast with Astarion. Like, think about it: the Gur's desire for revenge against Astarion is every bit as justified as Karlach's desire for revenge against Gortash; actually it's more so, given they have a real (though faint) reason to hope that they can actually accomplish something outside of his death, namely getting their kids back. But giving him to the Gur kills him and costs you a companion; it's a failure as far as his character arc goes, and in fact happens so early on he doesn't really get a character arc. All of that potential development is cut short and you have to see his corpse in the ritual and it is in general treated as a bad thing. The much better way of handling the Gur situation is to talk to them in act 3 and drag Astarion into atoning for what he did by trying to deal with Cazador and rescue the kids. This is good! Blind revenge solves nothing, having people pay for what they did by atoning and having to help the people they hurt as best they can is a much better solution! We love to see it!

Now you'd think the equivalent to that would be to dissuade Karlach from her revenge and instead get Gortash to fix the heart (either with his knowledge of the tech involved or—my personal favourite—his power and influence being used to acquire the use of one of the spells that could repair it or replace it with a normal heart because again there's more than one of those and it's stupid that none of them are even brought up as potential solutions), but... nope! Revenge is only bad when those outsiders do it, when it's a companion it's the only real solution! Like, yeah, she's got that thing where she complains that it didn't help at all but... we knew killing Gortash wouldn't help from the start. I don't remember if Karlach herself ever brings it up, but it's hard to miss that killing Gortash will not solve anything Karlach's got going on. And if you don't kill him you don't even get that much acknowledgement that revenge isn't a great solution. And also that's the most basic revenge plot outline, "revenge feels empty" is so fucking common as an ending. But it's just a moment that makes it so clear that Larian wasn't really interested in exploring the themes of the cycle of abuse and how aggressors can also be victims and all that with... anyone except the companions (and even then not always; see their complete unwillingness to ever engage with pre-amnesia Durge as anything but a heartless, crazy murderer despite the game itself including plenty of implications that that wasn't the case). It makes it seem less like a discussion on the cycle of abuse and more like good old-fashioned protagonist-centric morality, where the bad things the heroes do are forgivable because they had a hard life but anyone who hurts them is irredeemable no matter how hard their lives were. And it could've been avoided so easily (in a way that also gave Karlach's quest a more satisfying ending) by having a better ending to her quest that focused less on revenge and more on restitution. But no, heaven forbid we be allowed to engage with the act 3 antagonists in any meaningful way outside of killing them or acknowledge that the main thing separating them from the less moral companions is that no one helped them...

[dragonnarrative-writes]

For the ask game, has anyone asked about Autumn Embers courting yet? The sex cake, I mean, the "courtship cake" concept was amazing. 🍰🔥

For the WIP Ask Game! Autumn Embers really is an interesting project. I wanted to use it to explore some of the weirder implications of the omegaverse and i tripped and fell into being horny about it. I really loved everything to do with The Cake. I definitely need to revisit it.

Have a bit of courting conversation.

CW: None (surprisingly)

“So!” Johnny grins at you and leans back in his seat, rolling his shoulders. “What’s an omega such as yerself looking fer in a pack?”

Kyle groans and puts his face in one hand. “Jesus, Soap.”

“I have my pack,” you answer, leaning back in your own seat to throw your own gauntlet. “Family I’ve chosen amongst my friends. And I’ve never found them lacking enough to seek anything more formal.”

“Oh, aye? They the ones who’ve helped you get all prettied up, this evenin’? C’n smell the wee blonde one on ye.”

Before the Captain can growl a correction, you point your glass at him. “Are you this rude on purpose, or is it just a natural talent?”

“Six ‘f one, half dozen the other,” the man answers easily, chin tipped up. “Wan’ tae see that hint of fang you flashed fer us. That real, or just a bit of show for the base?”

“That wasn’t for you,” you scoff.

“Fer Laswell, then?”

You cock an eyebrow. “Is she interested?”

“Oh aye, she loves a curvy thing with a bit o’ sharp edge.”

“Johnny,” Simon rumbles. “Enough.”

“Nae,” the Sergeant drawls. “She’s ‘ere, with us. If she wants something like that twat Brandon c’n offer, she’d have ‘im wrapped around those delicate fingers. She likes an alpha with a little bite.”

“Presumptuous,” you sniff.

“Yer the one drinkin’ the whiskey.” Johnny’s grin flashes his canines.

[starsreminisce]

90% of the time I see people making posts about Lucien's eye, calling it disgusting, calling him Mad Eye Moody and laughing...it's always an E*riel.

They need to stop being so obviously bitter, it's clear why Lucien being canonically hot bothers them 🤭

I sense their frustration amping up seeing we're close to the announcement

Not to mention the fact Lulu won the Hot One slot in the recent reddit post, oh they're big mad

Lucien is undeniably handsome.

Based on words, actions, and implications, Feyre, Cassian, Amren, Ianthe, and the King of Hybern have all acknowledged his attractiveness.

Lucien is canonically so hot that the creepy Hybern female twin told Feyre she'd pick Beron's son, noting that Autumn Court males have fire in their veins and they fuck like it. Nesta reminded us of this again in her own book.

Lucien is canonically so hot that three humans widened their eyes at his cruel beauty and then fell to their knees.

Lucien is canonically so hot that something Elain thought of or felt made him blush when he tried to use the bond he shares with her to see what was amiss with her.

None of the characters have an issue with his scar, only curiosity and sympathy that he has it.

Feyre: "The metal one spun as if set wild; his brutal scar was stark against his pale skin. Again he was to be Amarantha’s toy to torment."

Nesta: "Azriel and Lucien were two of the few who bore scars, both from traumas so terrible Nesta had never dared ask for details."

Ever since SJM posted that "Guilty as Sin?" song, Bloomsbury hosted a Spring Court-inspired event for ACOTAR where the Autumn Court was also featured, a Bloomsbury video discussing names mentioned the meaning of Lucien's name and hinted at his secret ancestry, her website has a "Who is Your Fated Mate?" quiz, and the song she dedicated to her husband for Father's Day, whom she felt was fated to meet, is a nod to Like Calls to Like.

SJM's latest post celebrates reaching a huge follower milestone and expresses her excitement for what's to come. Elain and Lucien's mating bond is still left to explore.

And if HOFAS tells us anything, SJM is confident in who she pairs up as mates, whether readers agree with her decisions or not.