#square filled: Light elf

[ilium-ilia]

Everything You Touch

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | previously known as "soft spot" | masterlist

Chapter Thirteen: another life

tw: light angst

Though the moon is out to play, the Christmas lights adorning the streets of London nearly drown out her beauty with their own. 

Glittering, incandescent lights hang over the streets in a loosely knitted blanket, and they swirl up each lamp post you pass by. Wreaths and holly hang on frigid brick walls, glistening with frost as the night time forces the temperatures to plummet. You find that if you stare at the pavement long enough, you can almost convince yourself the golden glow is from the sun itself rather than synthetic light sources. 

Every now and then you find yourself glancing up at Simon. With the colder weather, he dons a plain black balaclava, and has shoved his hood up over his head. The monochrome pallet of his clothing would have him blending into the shadows if it weren’t for the festivities. 

He hasn’t said much since you left your apartment—though, he usually doesn’t say too much at all. Always quiet, the wallflower who prefers to listen and watch. Something is different about this silence. A buzz rattles his bones, reverberating through his body, making everything hum with a frequency that’s not usual for him. There is something inside of him attempting to break free; something he refuses to let see the light. 

That incessant buzzing quiets marginally when you take his hand into yours. His eyes flicker to you, and for a slight moment they brighten before focusing back on the walkway. 

There are plenty of people out and about to fill in the silence. Swathes of prismatic coats, hats, and scarves turn the dull streets of London into a fashion show accompanied by giggles and photoshoots of the more picturesque scenes. Simon is out of place among everyone—a clandestine operative failing at his attempt to blend in. A sore thumb. A patch of rot searing through otherwise pristine grass. 

Eventually, the two of you stumble upon a square lined with various shops on its environs. A baronial Christmas Tree stands proudly in the center, bundled in a blanket of lights until the pine needles appear gilded. Someone has taken great care to put equally as giant golden ornaments on the branches, not just at the base, but swirling all the way up until the branches are too waifish to hold the weight. A fat star crowns the tree, glistening with faux gems and a bulb that emanates a soft glow. 

A fair crowd has gathered around the tree, and their chatter fills the square, drowning out the music emanating from the toy store nearby. Several small stands have been set up in strategic places where you note people exchanging items, or even wrapping boxes with iridescent paper. Upon taking a closer look, you realize it’s a charity event; an organization gathering donations of either money or toys in order to provide presents for children who otherwise wouldn’t be able to get them. You note their already towering pile of goods, sporting anything from Barbie dolls to model airplanes and art kits. 

As you and Simon cut through the square, you note the Santa hats and warm wishes. Some coordinators sport elf costumes, others seem more than content with light up necklaces or jingle bell bracelets. You pay most of it no mind until a familiar scent wafts through the air, nearly stopping you in your tracks. 

“Is that hot chocolate?” you wonder out loud. 

At your question, Simon looks around, carefully scanning the stands until he spots the one closest to the tree. An electric soup warmer sits precariously upon pristine white cloth where volunteers dip a ladle to pour out rich, thick hot chocolate into styrofoam cups. He lazily notes the sign just beside the stand: 

Hot chocolate - 5£ All proceeds to go the Angel Tree Program

“Want some?” he offers, hand already fishing in his pocket for his wallet. 

You bite your lip in thought for a moment while you survey the small line of people. It really does smell delightful, and even from a distance you can tell it’s good stuff. Not the dehydrated powder—a real recipe. There’s even a bowl of butter mints to add to it. 

“Maybe,” you say, unsure. 

“C’mon then,” he urges.

Grinning, you trot along behind Simon until you’re waiting with all the other hot chocolate enthusiasts. The line moves quickly, and each step you take warms the bitter skin on the tip of your nose and the apples of your cheeks.

By the time you and Simon get to the front of the line, something feels off. 

One of the women serving hot chocolate seems to recognize you, and even calls you by your name. Her tone is saccharine but it leaves a sour pit in his stomach. He remembers what happened the last time someone called your name like that in a public setting. Knuckles kissing a cheek bone—lights fading from someone’s eyes. 

He studies the woman. Her curled blonde hair blows in the lazy breeze, but the periwinkle hat on her head helps keep most of the strands in place. She looks at you with a dazzling smile. He can’t help but wonder if she whitens her teeth. 

“Ness?” you ask in disbelief. “Goodness, it’s been a minute!”

Simon stays quiet as he exchanges cash with the other stand operator, but he’s suddenly aware of everything. Every twitch that he can see from the corner of his eye, each person who walks by, every pair of eyes that lands on you—none of it goes unnoticed. 

“It’s so good to see you!” the woman—Ness—exclaims with a grin. “How long has it been since we last saw each other? Had to have been right before we went to uni, huh?”

Nodding, you begin to fidget. Restless fingers toy with the buttons on your coat, pulling at the plastic, challenging the thread. “Yeah, it feels like forever ago. How’ve you been?” 

“Good! Things have been great. Graduated, got a job as a social worker. That’s one of the reasons why I’m here, actually. Helping to raise some extra cash for our kids,” she says with a bubbly chuckle. “What about you? How was The States?”

Though he makes no mention of it, Simon’s brow quirks. You? In America? 

“Erm, it was good! Enjoyed it a lot. Liking it much better here again, though,” you explain. Your fingers continue to twist the buttons on your coat. The sound of the thread struggling is audible now. 

“Bet your mum’s glad you’re back. I remember her being nearly in tears during graduation. Couldn’t believe her little girl was going off to see the world,” Ness jokes. “I remember you were the talk of the school for a bit because of that. Going off to see America, I mean.” 

Simon’s handed a styrofoam cup, and he mutters a quick thanks before turning his attention to you. Though you’re smiling, he sees a small quiver at the corner of your mouth. Not even the warmth of the drink can stave off the shiver that slices through his spine. 

“How is she, by the way?” Ness continues. 

You cough. 

“She’s alright,” you say stiffly. “It’s… been a bit since I’ve visited her, though.” 

The button snaps off your coat. The quiet fraying of the thread gives you pause as you glance down at your hand. Swallowing, you shove it into your pocket. 

“Here,” Simon quietly interjects. 

He holds the cup out for you to take, patient and kind, yet you stare at it as if you’ve forgotten the whole reason why you’re even here in the first place. Shaking off the shock, you reach for it and revel in the warmth bleeding through the styrofoam and into your stiff fingers for a moment before you turn your attention back to Ness. 

“Well, it was good seeing you again. We won’t hold up your line any longer.” 

With a quick and somewhat awkward farewell to your old acquaintance, you and Simon dash off to the streets again, leaving the square far behind you. Rich chocolate exudes heat with steam swirling just above the surface of your cup, yet all you can do is stare at it. 

Simon notes the way your posture has changed. Curled shoulders. Gaze cast down to the ground rather than staring up in awe at the lights like you were earlier. You’re making yourself smaller. 

Family isn’t something Simon ever talks about. Just isn’t his thing. Maybe it’s to save himself from the heartache, or maybe it’s just to try and preserve the only image he has left of them in his mind. The good ones—the ones where their bodies aren’t soaked in blood and gore. Untainted. Luckily, you never ask him about family; not his parents, if he has any siblings. Yet, you never offer that information up about yourself, either. 

Two very close strangers—still stuck on opposite sides of the same looming wall. 

“America, huh?” he asks, shattering the silence that’s settled between the two of you. 

A soft scoff of sorts leaves your lungs where it turns into nothing but frosty air in front of your lips. “Yeah. I… got accepted to Yale on scholarship.” 

Simon hums. “Never told me you were smart,” he teases. 

This gets a laugh out of you. Something staccato but sweet. Still, your eyes are locked onto your drink, unable to bring yourself to taste it. The button from your coat is burning a hole through your pocket. 

“I was going for general studies at first. Until I figured out what I wanted to do with my life,” you explain, but you don’t sound proud of yourself. Voice monotone. Timbre low. “Never really did figure it out. I just thought it would’ve been nice to go out and see the world. Just get out of here for a bit.” 

“Not what you expected?” he asks. 

You shake your head. “No, it was amazing. Just wish I could’ve stayed there longer.” 

There’s brutal hesitation gnawing on your throat. It appears in your muscles, forcing them to grow rigid as the anticipation quickly becomes all consuming. Something is screaming to break free from you. A too-full balloon waiting to pop. The painfully long time it takes for a hand to connect to a cheek in a slap. 

“She’s dead. My mum,” you finally let out. “I, erm… Well, I didn’t even get to finish a full year in America before she got sick.” 

Collected, Simon quickly blinks away the shock from his eyes. “You came back to take care of her?” 

“I was the only one who could,” you say bitterly. “She didn’t ask me to. She never would have. But I knew she needed someone, and well, my father would never do anything good in his rotten life. So I came back, got a shitty job working in finances. I’d take care of her during the day, and work in a money transfer service place at night. I don’t… regret it or anything, but…”

There might not be regret, but there is guilt. Raw, brutal guilt. Choosing between living your life, and helping someone go through the end of theirs. A sacrifice either way. It was never something you were ever intended to go through and come out whole. 

“Doesn’t make it any easier,” Simon finishes your sentence. 

“Yeah.” 

Finally, you force yourself to choke down a sip of your hot chocolate. The thick liquid coats your tongue with sugar, and your teeth tingle in your maw. It doesn’t make you feel any warmer. 

“She always liked this time of year,” you reminisce. “She had breast cancer. A really intense form. She’d have to stay in the hospital for long stretches, but she just loved when they put the lights up and decorated the halls. All the streets would light up and reflect the frost at night. She’d always take pictures of it on her phone and send it to me. I think it made her feel less lonely.” 

Sighing, you swirl the cup in your hands as Simon listens to your rambling. Neither of you have ever talked about your families before, and you detest how much it hurts. Nagging, nettling pain shooting deep into your stomach. You think it might be the kind of pain that needs to happen. Like cleaning a wound. 

“It doesn’t feel the same without her. Even though it’s been years, I always think about her. It feels stupid, missing her so much.” 

“It’s not stupid,” Simon assures. He’s quick to give you these words, and he says it with such conviction you almost believe him. 

Though, he’s not sure who he’s saying it for—you, or him. 

Either way, it gets a laugh out of you. The sort of laugh that’s just air through your nose, a forceful expelling, but it’s something. Instead of answering him right away, you take another sip of your drink before looking at him. 

“She would’ve liked you.” 

Simon glances at you from the corner of his eye and shakes his head. “Was she blind?” he asks facetiously. 

“Oh, quit it,” you scold him. “I’m being serious. Really. She would’ve adored you.” 

It’s not enough to convince him. For all his cockiness and jokes, Simon knows deep down he doesn’t deserve you. Not your softness, or your laughs. Not the bed you share with him or the press of your lips on his. It eats him alive; knowing that realistically you’d be better off without him. Still, he holds you in the palm of his hands, terrified that you’ll fly away but refusing to crush you in his grip. 

“I get it. You’re brooding, and quiet, and a military man. Not exactly every mother’s dream guy for her daughter.” You pause for a moment to swallow the lump in your throat. Why does this feel like a confession? “You won’t ever admit it, but you’re kind, and some days I feel like you read my thoughts better than I can. I mean, for fucks sake, you nearly broke Eric’s jaw. If my mother was alive she would’ve beat him half to death herself. You take care of me, Simon. You’re good to me. That’s all she ever wanted for me.”

Just when he thought he had pushed aside all those memories and feelings aside, here you are, bringing them bubbling back to the surface. Not just the blood; that sour scent of iron staining his skin. Not just the bodies haphazardly fallen to the floor—but Joseph’s giggles. The shrill sound of it nearly burst his ear drums but he would go deaf if it meant he could hear it one more time. He sees the way his brother looked at his wife, how the two of them would share loving touches and grinning whispers. He remembers the taste of his mother’s Christmas ham, with the thick honey glaze that sparkled in the light. 

Maybe, in another life, you could have met them. You could have joined them in their ugly Christmas sweaters, one you would probably bully him into wearing, too. At the table you could sit next to him and he could help dish out your plate. You and Beth would drink wine and maybe get a little carried away, leaving him to lead you into the bedroom in his mother’s house for a nap. Joseph would grin up at the two of you for the model airplane that would be gifted to him, and he would promise to help the little tyke put it together. 

But he’s not in that life. He’s in the one where they’re nothing more than burnt carcasses with bullet holes riddling their bodies. The one where his childhood home is nothing more than an empty lot. The one where Christmas always makes him feel numb. 

But he does have you, walking alongside him. You, the woman he gets to wake up to in the morning. The woman who never minds his odd quirks. 

Simon has you, and he knows it’s more than he deserves. 

“It’s gettin’ late,” he says as his feet drag to a halt. “And cold. We should head back.” 

He’s right. Your hot chocolate no longer emanates that swirling heat, and your fingers are beginning to grow stiff around the cup. You follow him back home, tossing the cup into a nearby trash bin along the way before slipping your hand into his. His reassuring squeeze makes you smile as the two of you meander back through the square, cutting across and giving the event a wide berth. 

Neither you nor Simon spare a single glance at the tree in the center. 

Both of you are sluggish by the time you walk through the door to your apartment. Shoes hitting against the wall, coats haphazardly tossed onto the couch—your bed is a welcomed sight. Nestled beneath the covers, you scoot close to Simon as he situates himself on his back. Arm wrapping around your shoulders, head propped up on his chest; each beat of his heart bites back the loneliness that attempts to seep into your psyche. December has always been the nadir of the year for you. A bitter reminder that your mother is gone. Yet as you begin to fall asleep in Simon’s arms, you think that maybe you can replace this empty space with something else. 

When morning comes, you are alone. 

Not even the warmth of Simon lingers behind in the bed, having gone long cold, a desolate tundra in your algid room. Blinking the weariness from your eyes, you drag yourself out of bed after shutting your alarm off, taking care to wrap a blanket around your shoulders to stave off the cold. His side of the bed is neat. Blankets pulled back over the mattress, pillow fluffed—he’s done his whole morning routine without you rousing. 

Yawning, you scuttle into the kitchen, only to find the room just as barren as the rest of your flat. Though, you quickly note the freshly done dishes drying in the rack, and neatly folded cloth on the counter next to it. 

As you approach it, you realize it’s your coat. The one you had worn last night while out on your walk with Simon. Brows narrowing, confused as to why it would be here in all places, you unfold it just to watch a slip of paper flitter to the floor. You retrieve it with a huff just in time for your eyes to focus on the small, shaky handwriting. 

I’ll be by with lunch today. See you at noon, sweetheart. Hope you like the coat. 

That’s all there is to the note. It takes a long moment for you to figure out what he means. Fingers tracing over the stitching, noting the old worn textures—your button. 

The one you had broken off the previous night; it’s sewn back on. The thread is the wrong color—a charcoal black instead of smoky grey—yet when you toy with it, there is very little give to it. Smiling, you toss the coat over your half-dressed body and fasten it as you smile down at Simon’s handiwork. 

Hope my shite stitching holds up. Can’t have my girl getting cold.

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

[thebigbiwolf]

Spittle - Part 1/2

Summary: The chocolate seems innocent enough - if you look past the Infernal writing on the wrapper, and with so few pleasures in the wilderness, you all but jump at the chance to sneak yourself a small treat.

Unbeknownst to you, the bar is infused with succubus spittle. Just one square is rumored to contain enough potency to send a mortal into the throes of ecstasy.

This is what happens when you eat half the bar.

Fic Tags: Sex Pollen (kinda), aphrodisiacs, succubus magic, a bit of dom!Astarion, unprotected piv, overstimulation, he talks you through it (iykyk), more tags will be added later.

Fic Warnings: Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Dubcon (if you squint), Language, No use of Y/N, magical influence

Read on AO3: Here

A/N: Remember the dead spider? I remember the dead spider. Anyways, the reception I've been getting on Starvin', Darlin' has me wanting to thank everyone with a one-shot. This got away from me so I went ahead and split it into two parts.

I've never written anything like this and it was significantly more difficult than a multi-chapter fic. I hope everything comes across the way its supposed to! And a huge thank you to my beta @imaginarydromedary for...you know... encouraging me to post this, despite everything.

From what you could tell, there wasn’t much to the apothecary. 

As you push open the dilapidated doors, your first thought is to search for supplies - anything that could help if things went south on your way to the goblin camp. 

Dried herbs hang from the rafters beneath a thin veil of cobwebs, filling your lungs with a pungent clash of scents. Empty bottles lined the shelves along the wall, caked in several months worth of dust. Large chunks of the building were missing where stone met splintered wood, some areas almost entirely overtaken by greenery.

You step over broken shards of pottery, scanning over the floor and countertops for something - anything that may be of use, but to your disappointment, it seems like the shop was entirely ransacked long before your arrival.

You sigh deeply, knowing you’ll likely never hear the end of this from your companions. It was your idea to search the village. You were the one who suggested taking out the goblin scouts, exerting everyones’ energy, and now you’re afraid you’ll have very little to show for it.

You catch a glint of gold, an object reflecting the sun's rays beneath a pile of rubble. You kneel down to brush away the surrounding debris, thankful for even the smallest promise of coin before your hands catch on… some sort of serrated edge?

You pull at it, and it easily comes loose. It's a thin, rectangular block, just barely larger than the length of your hand. You wipe away some of the dirt with your sleeve, revealing an intricately designed foil wrapping underneath.

As you speculate what this might be, you hear footsteps approaching from behind, light and familiar. You turn to face the elf with a smirk.

“You’re supposed to be the stealthy one.” You chide at him, playfully, “Or has my blood put a little skip in your step?”

Astarion scoffs. “I’ve been here the entire time, watching you fumble around in the dirt.” 

Crimson eyes study you, then the object you’re holding. He places his hands on his hips, head cocked to the side with a raised brow. “Is that what you’ve dragged us all the way here for?”

“First of all,” you waggle a finger at him, “You’re especially grumpy when you’re tired. I’ll have to make a note to prioritize your beauty rest. Second, I haven’t finished looking around, but check this out.”

You hand the bar to him as you stand. The cool skin of his fingers brush against your own, and you’re irritated with the way your heart skips at the brief contact. Why did the one man you found attractive in your camp have to be such a primadonna? And such a huge pain in the ass? 

Astarion’s eyes scan over the textured paper with suspicion, angling it towards the light to get a better look. The golden wrapping is stamped with an image of red lips On the back, letters twist and curve in a language you don't recognize, following a single circular pattern where they meet in the center. You’ve never seen anything like this, neither in your travels, nor within the city walls of Baldur’s Gate.

“Where did you find this?” 

You shrug, then point to the pile next to you. “It was buried right there.” 

He silently stares at the foil, mouth pursed, until your patience begins to wear thin.

“Well, can you read it or not?”

His nose scrunches. “Of course I can’t read it. It’s written in Infernal.”

That’s… odd. Why would an ordinary apothecary sell goods made by devils? Or, worse, for devils. Unless, of course, it was some sort of marketing trick, perhaps a play on the phrase ‘sinfully sweet’, or some other cringeworthy branding.

You take it back, turning it over in your hands before tearing at the corner of the wrapping. It's sectioned into dark, rich squares, and smells indisputably like chocolate.

“It looks like candy.”

“An excellent observation.” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now, can we go? We’ve spent more than enough time here already.”

You roll your eyes and stuff it into your bag, setting off for camp, vampire in tow.

–

During dinner, you decide not to tell the others about what you found, knowing Astarion’s likely already forgotten the event. You set down your empty plate, thanking Gale for tonight’s meal. He smiles at you and bids you goodnight as you excuse yourself to your tent. 

You pick up your rucksack, thinking fondly of the dessert that awaits you inside. Having lived at the beck and call of your companions for weeks on end, you can’t help but smile at the idea of selfishly indulging in a small treat like this.

You tear open the rest of the wrapping and snap off one of the squares, immediately popping one into your mouth. It melts - buttery in texture, with a smokey, slightly bitter flavor. You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten something so rich. Maybe weeks of the same rations have made you easier to impress, but this felt especially notable.

As you break off a second piece, a strange tingling sensation begins to spread across your lips - a pleasant buzzing that starts at your neck and spreads down through your chest. 

Strange, but not entirely unwelcome. You’ve heard of such inebriating chocolates, ones laced with alcohol or species of flowers that numb one’s senses for a short while. All harmless, of course, and you don’t have watch tonight. You may as well enjoy yourself. If worst comes to worst, Shadowheart is just outside with an assortment of spells and potions. Always better to ask for forgiveness.

It only takes you minutes to finish half the bar. You set the rest next to your bedroll for later and turn to blow out your candles, enjoying the lingering physical effects of the chocolate. Your skin feels flushed and delightfully warm as you settle down for the night.

When sleep finally takes you, it's dreamless, at first. Your consciousness sways, floating in an empty abyss, until colors begin to bleed onto the blank canvas of your mind.

A trickle of red morphs into the shape of familiar eyes, piercing you with their intensity..

Droplets of white spatter over a dark background, diffusing, blending into whisps. They curl and twist before settling into soft, coiffed fibers. 

Hair , you recognize immediately, his hair . His eyes.

Astarion. 

His image fully takes form, as if it had been waiting for you to make the connection before entirely revealing itself. 

He reaches out and seizes you, grabbing painfully at your hips as you crash into his body, hands exploring you - tight, possessive, squeezing at every inch of exposed skin before settling on the curve of your ass. He digs into your flesh with the blunt edge of his nails.

His lips press hot, wet kisses to your throat, mouthing just below the ear, before dragging his tongue along your nape and sucking, hard . You whine at the pressure, eliciting a grin from the elf, so characteristically pleased with the pathetic little noise he’s managed to pull from you.

“You thought sleeping would allow you to escape this - to escape me , unscathed?” He growls against your skin, his voice almost unrecognizable - as if it’s layered beneath a lighter, somehow more arrogant, feminine one.

“No, no, no. Wake up, darling. You’re in for a very long night.”

–

You startle awake, gasping - loud, labored breaths struggling to make use of the unbearably thin air. The edges of your tent bleed in and out of focus, spinning at a nauseating pace as you attempt to recollect yourself.

You wipe at the sweat collecting on your brow, the muscles of your arm heavy and aching, and find that your skin is absolutely drenched. 

Hot. Why is everything so hot? 

It's as if you're being cooked alive beneath your blankets, strangled beneath the furs. You throw them off; normally soft to the touch, the fibers now only worsen the prickling beneath your skin.

Could this be some sort of illness? A fever? 

No, this doesn’t make sense. Everything feels off. 

Fleeting thoughts of Astarion cross your mind - quick flashes of a sinful smile that was not his own.

It didn’t quite match the one you’d silently come to admire, and now that you think of it, the hunger in his gaze was much too intense for the reserved elf. 

His hands, his mouth, the way he touched you -

Your abdomen cramps, bringing your thoughts to a screeching halt.

A stabbing, visceral pain; a knife plunging into your organs. It overwhelms you, forces your body to curl into itself. You hold your pelvis, grunting, and grasp at your sheets. Tears sting the corner of your eyes.

This is - well, you have no idea what this is. 

You can’t think past the pounding in your head, the throbbing in your midsection. You're compulsively twisting, writhing, begging the gods for some sort of reprieve, but it's then when you make the most mortifying discovery of the night.

You’re soaked .

N ot just your smallclothes, which may have been understandable given your strange dreams, but through your damned pants. Not even the sheets were spared. 

“What  in the hells…?” 

You run your fingers over yourself, only intending to confirm the horrifying reality of your situation - that this is not, in fact, some sick, perverted nightmare, but the lightest touch sets off every nerve. 

You wail at the sensation: one massive wave of bliss giving way to several small jolts of pain. 

Pleasure to the point of agony.

The shock of the sudden orgasm courses from your sex through every limb, clenching and releasing pitiful, warm slick. It leaks freely out of you into your already thoroughly ruined underwear. 

Your heart pounds. You stay like that for what feels like a lifetime, toes curled, limbs twitching, waiting for your body to settle. 

After a minute or so, your breathing evens, and the thick haze surrounding your thoughts begins to lift just slightly, along with the suffocating heat. 

But something within you knows this isn’t the end - knows this isn’t enough . A desperation lurks beneath the surface that you can’t quite name. It screams at you. You need more.

‘Aw…’ A familiar, feminine voice prods at your mind. You quickly recognize her, the woman from your dreams who wore Astarion’s image.  

‘All alone, are we? Empty and needing to be filled? Doesn’t that hurt?’

It does. It aches unlike anything you’ve ever known. The lingering buzz of your orgasm just barely quells the worsening cramps, and they’re beginning to rear their ugly head again not minutes later.

You choke out a sob. “Wh- why are you doing this? What do you want?”

Sharp, wicked laughter fills your head, echoing off the walls of your skull. ‘I’m not doing anything, dear. Just enjoying the show.’ She hisses, ‘I told you, it’s going to be a very long night.’

You must be hallucinating. This fever - whatever this is, is simply cauterizing your senses, or possibly interacting with the tadpole? But the tadpole doesn’t speak, not like this. Never so clearly. Not with words.

Think, please. There has to be a reason this -

“Is everything alright?” Shadowheart raps on the canvas of your tent. “I heard a yelp. Are you hurt?”

Shit.

‘Ooh, this one might do!’  You feel an unwelcome… eagerness flood you.

No. No. Absolutely not.

You try not to panic. 

Under no circumstances should she or anyone else come in here.

The best strategy may be to ignore her - pretend you’re still sleeping. It seems like a good plan, but before you have a chance to follow through with it, another sharp contraction hits. This one is somehow even worse than the ones before. 

You pull your sheets up to your mouth to stifle your whine, but the half elf’s ears are sharper than most. “I’m coming in.”

She opens the flap to your tent and gasps when she sees you there - skin flushed pink, doubled over and covered in sweat. 

“Gods, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” Her hand reaches out towards you. 

Without thinking, you swat it away with your own. Your skin tingles at the contact, and the essence of a smile crosses over the threshold into your mind. The intruder giggles with satisfaction.

“Don’t,” you plead, “Don’t touch me.”

She scans over you, taking in your humiliating state. Her face twists with concern. “I need to know if you’re feverish. Please. You look awful.” 

‘Well, I think you look delectable.’

You groan.

At this point, you know it’s no use fighting this thing on your own. You go back and forth on whether you want to tell her the whole truth, about the voice in your head and its influence on your body, but the idea mortifies you into silence. 

Regardless, a cleric is likely your best chance of fixing this literal mess, so you nod, close your eyes, and brace yourself.

Shadowheart’s palm meets your forehead. It’s somehow worse than you anticipated. Even the simple, chaste touch sends you reeling, as if her soft hands are caressing your entire body. Flashes of heat wash over you, burning your skin, threatening to pull you back under another wave of ecstasy. 

It’s too much. You try your hardest to suppress a moan, but the muffled sound manages to escape from between your tightened lips, pitiful and broken.

The disembodied voice squeals with delight.

She quickly retracts her hand, clearing her throat. “Apologies. I can confirm your temperature is… elevated, but the rest…” She shakes her head. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

You want to scream, cry - anything to release your frustration, but you keep your mouth shut, not wanting to risk making any more unsavory noises.

“I believe I can give you some relief by treating the fever, but I’ll have to consult the others on the rest. This doesn’t look like any ordinary sickness.”

Consult the others? No. Gods, no. Nobody can know about this. Is she mad?

You intend to protest, beg her not to share this with anyone, tell her whatever death awaits you on the other side of this would be preferable, but she’s speaking an incantation before you have the chance.

A bright, green aura envelopes you, cooling your skin and ever so slightly easing the cramps. With the pain dulled, it's as though you can finally think again. 

You want to laugh. This situation is so utterly ridiculous that you’d find it hilarious, were it anyone else, but with the modicum of relief comes exhaustion - eyelids heavy, vision blurring with weariness.

“Get some rest. We’ll figure this out.” 

Her reassuring words are the last thing you hear before you’re overcome by darkness.

[chelseaknoo]

25 days with Eminem

Eminem x reader

Day 23

The air was crisp, filled with the scent of pine and the faint sweetness of hot cocoa from nearby stands. You and the family bundled up in your warmest coats, Jackie snugly wrapped in his tiny puffer jacket and a knitted hat that made him look like a tiny elf. His chubby cheeks were rosy from the cold, and he babbled happily as you adjusted him in his stroller.

“Why are we doing this again?” Marshall grumbled, shoving his gloved hands into his coat pockets.

“Because it’s festive,” you replied, shooting him a playful glare. “And because the kids need something to do other than argue over TikTok trends.”

“We don’t argue over TikTok!” Hailie shot back, clearly offended.

“Yes, you do,” Stevie said with a smirk.

“No, we don’t!” Alaina added, quickly taking Hailie’s side.

“See?” you said, gesturing at them. “Exhibit A.”

Marshall snorted, shaking his head. “Alright, let’s get this over with before my toes freeze off.”

---

The town square was packed with families and couples, all gathered around the giant tree that stood in the center. It was wrapped in strings of lights that hadn’t been turned on yet, and a stage nearby hosted a live band playing cheerful holiday tunes. Vendors were selling roasted chestnuts, candy canes, and steaming cups of cider.

“Oh, I’m getting one of those,” Stevie said, pointing to a stand selling giant pretzels.

“Me too,” Alaina chimed in.

“Guys, we’re here for the tree, not the snacks,” you reminded them.

“But snacks are part of the experience,” Hailie said, grinning as she handed you Jackie’s diaper bag. “Hold this while I go get one too.”

You sighed as the three of them dashed off toward the stand, leaving you and Marshall alone for a moment.

“Typical,” Marshall muttered.

“You’re not any better,” you teased. “I saw you eyeing that hot dog cart.”

He shrugged. “I’m a simple man with simple needs.”

---

The kids eventually returned, loaded up with pretzels and cups of hot cocoa. Jackie reached out from his stroller, clearly interested in what they were holding.

“Can I give him a piece?” Hailie asked, holding up a small chunk of pretzel.

“Only if it’s tiny,” you said, watching as she broke off the smallest piece imaginable and handed it to him. Jackie squealed with delight, chewing it with his two little teeth.

“Dude’s living his best life,” Marshall said, watching Jackie with a rare soft smile.

The band announced that the tree lighting would happen in five minutes, and everyone started crowding closer to get a better view. Marshall groaned as a group of teenagers shoved past him, nearly spilling their hot chocolates.

“Do people not have manners anymore?” he grumbled.

“Welcome to the 21st century,” you replied, laughing.

---

As the countdown began, the energy in the square was electric. Jackie clapped his tiny hands, mimicking the cheers around him, while the kids chanted along with the crowd.

“Three… two… one!”

The tree lit up in a dazzling display of multicolored lights, and everyone erupted into applause. Jackie’s eyes widened, and he let out a loud giggle, pointing at the tree with both hands.

“Look at him,” Marshall said, leaning down to ruffle Jackie’s hat. “Kid’s loving it.”

“You’re loving it too,” you teased.

He gave you a half-smile. “Maybe a little.”

---

The family took a walk around the square after the lighting, stopping to admire the decorations and the ice sculpture of Santa Claus. The kids were laughing and chatting, and even Marshall seemed to be enjoying himself, despite his earlier grumbling.

At one point, Jackie got fussy, so you picked him up from the stroller and cradled him in your arms. He immediately calmed down, resting his head on your shoulder.

“Told you I’m the favorite,” you said smugly to Marshall.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied, though he couldn’t hide the affectionate look on his face.

“Alright,” Hailie said, coming up beside you. “Can we take a family selfie in front of the tree before we go?”

“Do we have to?” Marshall asked, already dreading it.

“Yes!” the kids said in unison.

“Fine,” he relented, pulling out his phone. “But if my face ends up on some weird Christmas meme, I’m blaming all of you.”

As everyone huddled together in front of the dazzling Christmas tree, Marshall held his phone out, trying to angle it for the perfect selfie.

“Everyone smile,” he said, his voice laced with mock irritation. “And no bunny ears, Stevie. I’m serious.”

Stevie grinned mischievously but kept her hands to herself. Hailie leaned in close to Jackie, who was perched on your hip, babbling away as if he were trying to direct the photo. Alaina was on your other side, holding a steaming cup of hot cocoa.

“Alright, ready?” Marshall asked. “Three, two—"

Before he hit the shutter, Marshall turned to you with a mischievous glint in his eye. Without warning, he leaned in and stole a kiss, his lips pressing against yours softly but confidently.

“Marshall!” you laughed, pulling back slightly as the kids erupted into groans and laughter.

“Dad!” Hailie exclaimed, rolling her eyes dramatically. “We’re taking a picture, not a rom-com scene.”

“Couldn’t help myself,” Marshall said with a smirk, shrugging as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Jackie squealed, smacking his tiny hands together, clearly delighted by the sudden burst of affection.

“Great, now Jackie’s rooting for him,” Stevie teased.

“Okay, okay,” Alaina said, shaking her head but smiling. “Can we actually take the picture now?”

“Fine, but I make no promises,” Marshall quipped, still grinning as he adjusted the phone again.

“Marshall, behave,” you said, giving him a playful nudge.

“I’m always behaving,” he replied, his tone light and teasing. “You’re the one distracting me.”

The family finally managed to get the picture, though there were still a few blurry outtakes from the chaos. In the end, it didn’t matter; the laughter and warmth captured in the photo were worth every bit of trouble.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

FSBE 15 - Somebody Call Chris Hansen

You almost commit violence.

On AO3.

Y’all hit the food and drink. Take a bite of hot stew filled with peppery fish and what you think might be turnips and your eyes roll into the back of your skull. Then you head outside onto a wraparound deck to find water barrels so you can wash mugs and plates and all. Decide to check out this other cleric in the morning, after y’all get some rest.

The rooms is upstairs, off an inner balcony. But it’s as y’all find the stairs that a nasty scent crawls up your nostrils to curdle in your sinuses.

Sulfur. And cherries, for some godforsaken reason.

“Oh no,” Gale says.

You feel Astarion stiffen next to you. But when you look over at him, it ain’t disdain or that cool, guarded look he wears when he’s nervous. It’s…attentive. Alert. But not in a “was that a firecracker or something else fired off out in the parking lot” kinda way, and more like you catching a whiff of good coffee at a distance.

Y’all turn the corner, and there’s a sonuvabitch sitting there.

Raphael the devil sits across what looks a lot like a 3D chessboard. Opposite him is one of the tiefling kids, with a ponytail and an eye patch. It’s the one who bailed y’all out with Jaheira.

“No matter where the knight goes, I’m gonna lose it!” the kid says.

“Then make the sacrifice useful,” Raphael says.

You never actually seen that old catching a predator TV show, but you know the memes, and this right here…

It’s also, weirdly enough, directed at you’uns.

Holy fuck, you hate this fucking guy.

“Look who it is,” the kid says upon noticing y’all. “For once, I save your butts out there, didn’t I? We’re square now, chief.”

 She looks over y’all. Gaze lingers on Wyll the longest. “Say, you don’t play lanceboard do you? It’s my first game.”

“I can’t say I’m well-versed in it,” Wyll says. “Much to the dismay of my father.”

As Gale leans in with a frown. “Oh, he’s laid a fine trap for you, Mol. But it looks to me like his Cyric could be dethroned.”

Ain’t make no sense to you. You’re more a checkers type. Or solitaire. But the man shuffles closer and the kid makes her move. To your surprise, that fuckface in a human suit seems more amused than offended at the intrusion.

And when the kid whoops him, he says, “I was right to make you the offer I did.”

Like a proud papa to his scheming daughter.

You see right through it. The way she beams. The easy grace that devil accepts his loss with. He’s fucking baiting her. Hyping her up to lure her in. Where the fuck is Chris Hansen?

You look to the girl, but she only chews on her lip and hums.

The devil turns to y’all as she leaves. Calls her a blushing apple, and you ain’t never fantasized about punching a man in the dick before this moment. It’s fucking vivid.

Vivid enough you’re apparently broadcasting it, because Lae’zel makes a thoughtful sound while Karlach outright snarls.

“I’m down for it,” she says. “Fuck this fucking creep.”

The devil only gives her an oily smile. Prattles on about choices and shit. Fucker really just loves the sound of his own voice, huh. You’re ready to up and leave, except…Astarion stares at him. Not with wariness but with…

“Now,” Raphael says. And looks Astarion square in the face. “I sense there’s something you want to ask me.”

You don’t mean to whip around. But you do. And the elf ducks away from your gaze to clear his throat.

“I do. I have a…proposal for you,” Astarion says.

“Fangs?” Karlach says.

Shadowheart gives you a questioning glance. But he done caught you with your drawers around your ankles. The fuck does he need from fuckface? He seemed leery before. Said people like that don’t play games unless they know they can win. And considering the last bet he made turned him into a vampire…

“A proposal?” the fuckface says, lighting up like he just got asked out to an all you can eat buffet. You ain’t never punched somebody in the face before, neither. Not with a bare hand. You’d probably break some fingers, but it’d be worth it to wipe that sleaze off his fucking face. “If you hope to taste my blood, little vampling, think again. It burns hotter than wyvern whiskey.”

“This is serious business, devil.” Astarion’s voice has an edge to it, but it’s more than annoyance. The pitch is tight, upset he’s trying to hide, and almost succeeding at if his body weren’t quite a traitor. It stabs you right between the ribs.

“Astarion,” you say. Y’all can leave. Y’all can fight that fuckface. But Astarion don’t even look at you. Just lifts his shoulders and straightens himself.

“My old—well. A long time ago, someone carved something into my back,” he says. “I’d rather like to know what it says.”

Wait. Wait, wait, wait.

The fuck? That’s…you ain’t…

You seen his bare chest, once. He wasn’t wearing a shirt in that clearing. But that ended quick and dirty, and for all you been fooling around lately, y’all have kept dressed. Even if he does deliberately unlace the front of his shirt lower than it needs to be when he’s around you.

You ain’t never touched his back. Barely touched the man’s shoulder or his neck, and only then when he set your hands on him himself.

This time, he does glance to you. Just a flash, expression unreadable.

But the devil is a cunt who catches that. Catches whatever’s on your face, too, before you can button that down.

Mock surprise twists up his own face, the malice twinkling in his eyes. That fucking sonuvabitch. He presses a hand to his cheek. “You haven’t told them? And you’ve kept your clothes on this whole time? How unlike you.”

Fucking clicks his tongue. You’re gonna commit a murder. Gonna crab up a water pitcher and crack him in his smug ass face with it—

The devil lifts his hand. Says, “Don’t be shy.”

Snaps his fingers.

Astarion armor and all his gear shimmers. Flickers. Melts away like morning fog. Leaving him with nothing but his pale skin as you whip around to look the other way.

Not before you see it, though. Long, thick lines of scar tissue. A huge, slashing circle covering most of his back. And worse, the way his eyes widen. Not like when you told him you liked his voice. No, this is fear. Old fear. One he shoves under a huff and what has to be a false, sassy head toss.

“Godsdamnit,” he says.

Does not shy away. His hands twitch, before falling back to his sides. But he just…stands there, bared to the room.

Resigned to it.

You met confident people, before. Hell, this one met you with no shirt when he invited you to a hookup. But you known people who would not flinch being naked in a room of strangers or friends. By on their choice (or high as a kite). And stripping themselves. Most people have bad dreams about this kinda thing. Most people’d at least flinch.

Not him. Not him. He just stands there.

Your pack hits the floor and you tear into it.

“What the fuck, you sick freak?” you snarl.

The devil regards you. Gives a condescending smile (you wanna rip his lips all jagged and nasty from his face). “Don’t pout, little human. This peach went bruised and rotten long before you came along.”

“Give the word and I’ll rip his head off,” Karlach says. Her chest is see-through, ribs a dark outline against the fire raging inside her.

“And deprive your vampling of the answers he seeks? A shame.”

“No,” Astarion says.

Where the fuck is it, why can you find everything but what you’re looking for.

“No, it’s fine,” Astarion says. “I am world-endingly beautiful. It’d be more of a crime not to show it off. So, devil, what say you?”

There! Hands brush soft cloth. You rip the blanket out in a spray of cutlery and tin plates and potion bottles. They thunk all over the floor but you’re already up and turning, keeping your gaze to the ceiling as you hold out your only blanket.

“I,” Astarion says. You bring your gaze down, careful not to look lower than his face. He kinda blinks at you.

Something in you twinges. Something nasty.

It’s his compliment surprise. Only worse. Very much worse.

So you drape the blanket over his shoulders. Only once it touches him does he move to take it and wrap it around himself. Cover himself back up.

You make sure you stand in front of him, between him and the devil. Who watches this all with a kind of glee.

“Such devotion,” the walking corpse who don’t quite know it says. “Hopefully not misplaced.”

“If you don’t get to some kinda motherfucking point—” you start.

“Yes, yes. Those marks are one of great importance to your master, little Astarion. I can give you all the gory details. But of course, you’ll have to do something for me, first.”

Fucking devil bargain. Fucking humiliating Astarion. Making him defend his own humiliation because he can, because he got what Astarion wants. You seen petty cruelty. You been on the end of it plenty.

That fucker is going to die. One way or another, he’s fucking dead.

The devil taps his lips. Says, “Let me think on it and I’ll get back to you.”

“What?” Astarion says. “Get back to me? When?”

“Don’t worry. I’m motivated to help you.”

The fuckface folds himself into a stupid bow and poofs away in a puff of stench cloud. You don’t even try to hide your gag.

“Did he take your armor?” you say to Astarion.

He clutches the blanket stiffly. “I. I’m not sure.”

You nod. Search his face while trying not to be obvious about it, but he’s back to avoiding looking at you. Avoiding looking at everybody. “I’m sure we all got spare gear of that fuckface turns out to be a thief.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” Gale says. “For now, I could use a very stiff drink.”

“Agreed,” Wyll says. “I’ll see what they have. Astarion, you prefer wine, yes?”

“Only if it’s a good vintage.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Karlach glares at the spot the fuckface still stinks up. Takes a deep breath, and blows it out slow as her shoulder vents blast furnace-hot air. “We’re definitely going to kill that fucker, yeah?”

You look at her. She gives a small nod.

“Would y’all mind bunking up with the boys tonight?” you say.

This is finally what draws Astarion’s attention fully to you. With a frown that he shoves down lightning quick. Replaces it with a sly smile. “Oh, a room all to ourselves, my sweet?”

It turns your guts into cold, writhing snakes.

“It would be inefficient to split the part so unequally,” Lae’zel says. “Astarion has an adequate physique. He should not—”

“If we must,” Shadowheart says with a hearty eye roll. All the while clamping a hand onto Lae’zel’s shoulder. “The last thing I want to see is the two of you making disgusting moon eyes at each other while drunk.”

All the religious shit aside, she looks at you. Doesn’t nod, but don’t need to.

“Come on,” you say to Astarion. “I heard they got some kinda bathing situation somewhere in here. I ain’t never seen how y’all do that that ain’t wading into a river.”

[mllersjoel]

good old fashioned lover boy

Pairing: Regency!Wyll Ravengard x gn!reader

Summary: It's dreadfully boring at this ball, especially when Lord Gortash won't stop talking to you. Lord Ravengard steps in, and just maybe, this night can be saved.

Word Count: 1.1k

A/N: why does no one write for my bb boy. i love him. have some regency au (writing comms r open btw!)

It’s your second year as an eligible member of society, and you are bored out of your mind. Your guardian has dragged you to yet another ball, with dancing and schmoozing that you would rather die than be doing. Thankfully, you’ve managed to avoid just about everyone who wants to sign your dance card with a glare or pretending to choke so hard tears well up in your eyes. You came here because your best friend, Astarion, promised to accompany you this time and fill up your dance card with his name only, but that plan swiftly fell out the window as he laid eyes on a pretty half-elf.

You could see him check out of the conversation, eyes flitting to them then back at yours. 

“Just go, Astarion,” you sigh, shoving him playfully.

His eyes blink back to yours, trying and failing to pretend like he wasn’t ogling another person. “I have no idea what you’re on about, darling.”

“I can handle myself and it’s pathetic watching you try to concentrate on me. Go.”

Astarion smiles broadly, kissing your cheeks. “Have I ever told you you’re the light of my life?”

You snort. “Just when you want something.”

He shrugs, taking your hand and pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it. “If you need me, just shout.”

He leaves, and you’re barely able to let out a breath before another man (greasy, looking like he needs two decades of sleep) takes his place. Without asking, he signs his name on your dance card. “Enver Gortash, Lord of this estate. Care to dance with me?”

You are pulled to the dance floor before you can even answer and you desperately try to come up with an excuse. “I—I can’t dance right now,” you protest, attempting to extricate yourself from his grasp without seeming rude, “I’m waiting for someone.” He ignores you, laughing. 

“Don’t play coy,” he says, assuming a waltz position. The music begins, and you have no choice but to dance with him. You catch Astarion’s eye and watch him square his shoulders, ready to pull you out of there as you minutely shake your head at him. 

‘Don’t make a scene,’ you mouth.

The entire time you dance with Lord Gortash, he drones on and on about his estate, how he fought for his wealth (although it was an open secret that he participated in less than savory business practices), and how immodestly he thinks women are dressed now. The song feels like its going on forever, then, blissfully, the music stops. There is a slight bustle as everyone switches partners, looking at who’s next on your dance card. Lord Gortash takes your hand, and with a predatory grin realises you have no one else on your dance card. As he takes your pencil, eager to write his name again, a hand grips his wrist and stops him.

You look up and see a beautiful man, dark skinned, hair braided closely to his head and a slight stubble covering his cheeks. He has a deep brown, almost black eye, while the other seemed pale and translucent. His smile is charming and bright, without a hint of sleaziness the other man seemed to carry in bucket loads. “I’m terribly sorry to cut in,” he says, the dulcet tones of his voice sending a slight shiver down your spine, “but I believe it’s my turn to have the pleasure of their company.”

Lord Gortash scoffs, brandishing your dance card towards the handsome man. “Your name isn’t on there. Mine is. Get lost, Ravengard.”

The man—Ravengard—nods, taking a step back. He seems as if he’s about to leave, and your heart sinks at the prospect of another dance with this man when he leans back in, pointing near the back. “Oh, before I go, I fear I spy Lady Karlach on her way. She mentioned something about—what was it now?—getting even?”

You see Gortash’s face turn white as he whips his head around, trying to spot someone. Without sparing you a second glance, he practically runs out of the ballroom, tripping on his own feet as he’s nearly sent sprawling. You hide your laugh behind your hand, catching the eye of Ravengard. “Thank you,” you say, adjusting your clothes, “he just wouldn’t stop talking.”

“You seemed like you were in need of saving,” he says, taking your hand and planting a feather-light kiss on the back of it. “Lord Wyll Ravengard, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

You give your name back which he tests immediately, smiling at the way it sounds. He gestures to your dance card, his hand still holding yours. “May I?”

You nod, delighted that this night seemed to be turning around. He writes his name in neat, precise cursive, finishing just as the band begins to play the notes of the next song. His hand is warm as it envelops yours, large, course fingers wrapping around your glove, leading you to the middle of the dance floor.

A slow dance begins to play, and suddenly you are swept up in his movements. He dances easily, leading you as if it was second nature. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” you say, matching his movements easily.

He smiles bashfully, looking down for a second. “Ah, I’ve been away.”

“And how do you like being back?”

He twirls you, catching you easily when you return back into his arms. “I like it a lot better now.”

As you waltz with him, you catch Astarion’s eye once more. He mouths, ‘Good?’

You nod and smile, glad when he gives you a thumbs up of approval. ‘He’s sexy,’ Astarion tells you, and you accidentally snort, looking away when Lord Ravengard raises an amused brow at you. “Too clichéd?”

“No, not at all!” You scramble, trying to school your face into a neutral expression. Every time you looked at his face, however, you started giggling again. Lord Ravengard laughed along with you, still not missing a step and barely even wincing when you inevitably stepped on his toes. “My friend is being stupid, that’s all.”

“Well,” Lord Ravengard starts, stepping closer than what was deemed proper, “if it’s not my horribly cheesy sayings, may I say that you look more stunning than the goddess Aphrodite herself?”

You gasp in jest, smiling. “Careful, my lord, your hubris may see you cursed.”

The song ends, yet he remains still, holding you. “A small price to pay to adequately compliment your beauty.”

Your heart stutters as he steps back, bowing as you hesitantly remember to do the same. “May I see you again?” You ask, hoping your forward nature doesn’t put him off like so many other men.

He smiles broadly, genuine. “I would love that.” 

[robin374]

The man who died twice (Stan x fem!reader)

Notes: I thought about making it longer but I think I really need to sleep rn. It was fun to write this tho! NOT PROOFREAD Characters: Stan x fem!reader (romantic)

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Your eyes, your hair, your hands, the way your lips formed a warm smile every time he appeared through your castle window.... Those were his favorite memories of you, the memories he would always have in his mind and in his heart. All those nights when you both ran away from your castle and ran to the forest where no one could judge your actions. All those nights he spent without sleeping a wink, just watching you sleep in his arms. He didn't mind not sleeping if it was for you, if it was to spend time with you.

He still remembered how it all started. You came to visit the elven kingdom, you had a meeting with an ambassador, you got lost in the castle and he was the only guard patrolling that hallway. You approached him a little confused, looking back and forth trying to figure out where the ambassador's office was, and asked him in a tone so soft that not even the most sensitive horse would be scared. He looked at you in surprise, quickly corrected his composure and escorted you to the office. It wasn't an uncomfortable walk, you were talking about how that ambassador was a stubborn old man who didn't want to see your point of view and that you had been trying to convince him for years. You even mentioned how your father had to talk to him, which emphasized the ambassador's high age. You kissed him goodbye on the cheek and as soon as you walked through the office door he had to excuse himself to get some air and get the dizziness out of his head. No god or goddess could compare to your beauty and elegance.

Several meetings later, the elf king, Kyle, sent him on a mission to your kingdom. A mission that was to last a week, but for him seven nightly visits were not enough. He had to invent an excuse to be able to visit you day and night. He lied that King Kyle wanted to see you in his kingdom. What meant three days of traveling with you alone for him meant a harsh consequence for your future.

“Stan, you're back!” The elf king proclaimed, with that calm assurance he always conveyed. His emerald eyes fell on you and a small unreadable glint appeared in them. "Ah, Y/N, a pleasure to see you. I'm glad Stan brought you along, I was planning on summoning you and your father next week." Her eyes turned to Stan, “I wanted to discuss some business with the king...” As he finished the sentence you offered to listen to what Kyle wanted to say and he pulled you away from Stan. The next day, you approached Stan with your eyes filled with tears.

“We can't see each other anymore, my love.” You said with your voice cracking. Stan felt nauseous, but not the nausea he felt being with you. He felt the same nausea he felt when he was in the middle of a battle against humans and watched as Grand Wizard King Cartman mercilessly killed one of his friends. "King Kyle wants me to marry him so he can have more land and more armies. So he can win the war against the humans."

Stan will never forget the great emptiness he felt in his heart when he saw King Kyle's lips embrace yours. It was as if a human hit him with a giant hammer in the chest and then ripped out his heart to eat it right in front of his eyes. And the worst blow he received was to see how that smile he loved so much was received by his best friend, or rather, the elf king Kyle. Was he not enough to satiate your love? Did he not make you happy enough?

…

“It's time.” A gravelly voice bounced down the damp, cold stone hallway. The metal of armor boots clanking against the floor was the only sound to be heard and the light of a candle about to melt completely was the only thing illuminating it. The sun was at its highest point, it seemed that he wanted to see all the villagers who were waiting anxiously in the main square. It even looked like he wanted to see the big event happening that day.

A guard walked down the long corridor of the castle dungeons, it was his first day and it showed. His nervous footsteps and ragged breathing revealed him. He fiddled with the bronze spear in his hands before reaching the appropriate cell. “The time has come, sir.” His whistling voice reached the ears of the prisoner, who closed his eyes in frustration and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How many times have I told you that I am no longer your superior, Scott?” exclaimed the prisoner rising from his place in the corner of the cell. His leather boots made no sound as he walked on the cold rock. The rookie guard took a couple of steps back as he saw the prisoner approaching, though the dark green cloak hanging from his shoulders made him look wider than he was. “Sorry, I'm still not used to it, Stan.” The new guard shivered. "I have to take you outside. To the platform... You know." He explained nervously.

Stan sighed, but said nothing. He let himself be handcuffed and let the skinny Scott escort him to the platform that occupied the center of the square.

As soon as he stepped out of the dungeon door the sun blinded his eyes, but Stan smiled, ignored the pain of the light in his eyes and was thankful that the weather was nice since it was cold inside his cell. Once his eyes got used to the light, his blue eyes fell on the figure of the king, who was on one of his balconies observing the situation. The rage she felt coursing through all the veins in her body at that moment was indescribable, there he was with his wine glass in his hand observing how miserable his citizens looked. It was unfair. It was unfair how someone randomly got all the riches in the whole world while the majority had to leave skin, sweat, blood and tears on a single gold coin to feed their families. The queen watched with a sympathetic gaze, that gaze Stan knew so well and missed so much. He tried to ignore the lump in his throat as they knelt him down in front of the entire kingdom. Many memories went through his head at that moment, many about his childhood with Kyle, about his training in the army, when they crowned his best friend as king or when he finally managed to climb the ranks to become a royal guard.

However, what never left his mind were all those moments with you, all your hugs, your smiles, the feeling of his hands running over your body... At that moment, before the executioner lifted the axe, he remembered the tickling sensation of your warm lips on his.

Stan did not feel the moment of the cut or the moment his body fell to the ground. He did not hear the cheering cries of the people nor did he hear the voice of the king trying to calm them. He could only hover in his memories. For him, nothing was as painful as seeing you in the arms of another. He truly loved you until the end of his days.

[maraudering-times]

25 days of Jegumas - Day two: cookies - 534 words - @noblehouseofgay

It was freezing out. That didn’t defer the festivities or those enjoying them either. 

James walked hand in hand with his boyfriend of three years. Regulus was wrapped up in so many layers his eyes could barely be seen. All around, children screamed in glee running through the elf village, exploring the tiny homes and their various activities, or bouncing excitedly in line to meet Santa Claus with their parents.

Couples walked similarly as James and Reg, looking at the decorations and Christmas lights, smiling serenely at one another while shining beneath the glow. 

James tugged Regulus further down the pathway and into the bustling elf village. “Why are we going in here?” He asked. 

James smiled at Reg over his shoulder and squeezed his hand. “You’ll see.” He could barely see Regulus roll his eyes at him before facing forward again and navigating the tiny streets filled with exuberant kids. 

Walking past the miniature movie theater James could see that Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer was playing, children sat cross legged in front of the disguised tv screen with small boxes of popcorn and candy in hand. The couple continued on, passing a busy toy store where the shop worker ‘elf’ and parents are hunched slightly awaiting the kids to pick out toys. They were just passing a tiny coffee shop when Reg stopped, pulling James to a halt as well.

“Let’s get some hot chocolate.” They ducked inside, James having to fold into himself more than his boyfriend, and join the queue. Regulus’s shoulders began to shake with laughter. “This is ridiculous, James.”

James draped himself over Reg’s back, propping his head on his shoulder. “It’s fun though. You are having fun, right?”

Regulus snuggled back into James’s chest, the pair shuffling forward together as the line moved. “Yes.” James kissed his cheek. 

Once the pair had their steaming cups, they exited the small cafe and resumed their walk through the village. They passed through the village square where a fairly large evergreen tree sat in the center fully decorated with large wrapped boxes around the base. James guided Regulus down another street and finally stopped in front of a bakery. Full sized and children sized tables are situated on the outdoor patio, heating lamps placed sparingly around to provide warmth. Inside, workers pulled trays and trays of a wide assortment of cookies out of the ovens; gingerbread, sugar, thumbprint, chocolate chip, and shortbread. It smelled heavenly. 

“This is why we’re here? Sweets that we could’ve bought at another stand, let alone make at home?” Regulus feigned annoyance but James could see his curiosity shining in his gray eyes.

“This place lets you decorate them,” James opened the door for his boyfriend and continued his explanation once inside. “I thought it’d be a fun thing to do together. If you don’t want to, we can just get some to go and keep walking around–”

Regulus placed a gloved hand on James cheek, silencing him. He tugs down his scarf and leaned in, placing a brief kiss on James lips before smiling. “I’d love to decorate cookies with you, Jamie.” James smiled at him and turned to order as many desserts as he could. 

[crinkle-cut-pickle-bucket]

Inktober- Day 4: Dodge

Image description:

a black and white comic strip, starting at the top with a speech bubble reading, “Oh, sir—that’s…I’m sorry for bringing up something so—“. To the right of the speech bubble, there is a square-framed picture of fried chicken breast, sliced and topped with a light-colored sauce, and garnished with a sprig of dark berries. Below the first frame, there is a second speech bubble—this one dripping with dark ichor. It reads, “—clearly upsetting”. Below this speech bubble is a series of equally-sized square-framed pictures. The left most is a picture of Taako, a male elf with a messy bun of blonde hair, wearing a professional chef’s uniform. He is smiling widely, eyes closed. In the background of the first frame, there is a small depiction of the word “cough”. The frame’s upper edge drips with a little black ichor. The next frame shows a slightly darker background, with more words filling in the space: words such as “cough”, “gag”, and “ack”. Taako is again centered in this second frame, but is slightly closer. His expression has changed: a confused and worried look has mingled with his shrinking smile. The upper edge of the frame drips with more back ichor. Finally, a third panel reveals an even darker background, nearly completely filled with black and words such as “cough”, “gag”, and “ack”. Taako’s face is now close up, revealing his openly horrified expression. Below this series of three square panels, a large one depicts a horrific mountain of shadowed faces and limbs. The faces are either anguished or depicted with x’s over their eyes. Overshadowed by the pile, and desperately running toward the foreground, is Taako, still wearing the chef’s uniform and the messy bun. A stark shadow spans below him, outlining the word “murderer”. Below this panel, there is a back-shot of the head and shoulders of Angus McDonald. Angus McDonald is a dark skinned boy with short, curly hair, round glasses, and a brimmed cap. His expression, though not fully revealed at this angle, is sorrowful. He is facing present-day Taako, who is now wearing a wizard’s hat and cloak. Taako has his left elbow propped against a table, and his left hand is cradling his cheek. Taako’s expression is seemingly dismissive, as he looks away from angus. There is a speech bubble connected to Taako that reads, “Yeah. It’s fine, Agnes.” end description.

[silvantransthranduiltrash]

When light elves insult the dark elves for the nth time in front of legolas (and sis):

Light elf: -you’re such barbarians, i don’t understand why anyone would- what are you doing?

Legolas & kleoyia: *writing something on notepad*

Kleoyia: playing a game.

Legolas: i mean it’s always the same song and dance with you-

Kleoyia: “barabarians” “heritics” “idiots” “have no comprehensive of a ruling government” “dishonor on you! Dishonor on your family. Dishonor on your cow-“

Legolas: we’ve even made a game of it!

Kleoyia: *turns her notpad around to show a bingo square* Bingo! Everytime we have to interact with you light elves-

Legolas: we bring a bingo sheet with common insults you hurl at us and see who has bingo the fastest.

Kleoyia: it’s usually filled within 15 minutes.

Legolas: ironically the 2 squares that are almost never crossed off are “original insults” and “acusations of things we’ve actually done”

Kleoyia: we keep them in because it makes it interesting

Legolas: but really, do you never get tired of the same song and dance over and over and over again?

Kleoyia: at this point your insecurities and issues are easy to see

Legolas: it’s like going to a museum. “And over there is your superiority complex, over there is your self loathing, and over here is the crippling fear of being an outcast amongst your pears, so instead you make others the outcast!”

Kleoyia: “now if you follow me to exhibit b, we can see how these personal issues fuel violent and discriminatory actions against a people you’ve no understanding of just trying to live there lives”

Legolas: don’t you ever get tired of the constant hatred you spew?

Kleoyia: if i had the time and energy you have to spare to hate people that don’t even know you exist, i could probably solve world hunger.

Legolas: so why don’t you eat something and go to bed? You get cranky when you’re hungry.

Kleoyia: after all, babies need plenty of rest in order to grow into productive, esteemed members of society!

Light elf:......

Elladan and elrohir, who invited the sibs in the first place and watched all this go down: holy shit-

[glorfindel-of-imladris]

2 + 32 please for the fic prompt!

Hello! Thank you for this prompt! 💛

[2, 32] prompt: “Can’t sleep?”

“Can’t sleep?”

There was a restless rustling of cloth and grass. Then, a grunt.

Glorfindel snorted. “You're out of shape, Counsellor.”

“And you need to keep your mouth shut when people are trying to sleep.”

It was a surprise that Erestor even agreed to come along. It was a routine patrol, one more for Glorfindel to become familiar with the land than any real threat. He made a passing joke about Erestor serving as his guide, for old time’s sake.

Erestor agreed. Glorfindel was surprised—but not unpleasantly so.

The fire crackled in the silence. Glorfindel stared at it for a moment, then looked up again at the sky he was observing earlier.

“How the stars have changed. I find I am still getting used to it.”

Beside him, Erestor heaved a sigh that conveyed how he felt about talking at this time of night. “I thought you said you lived in Aman. Did you not have time to get used to them there?”

“Things were simpler there. I never worried about things like the skies changing or time passing. Somehow, it feels as though the stars are clearer here in Middle-earth.”

There was a light breeze that blew in lieu of Erestor speaking. He's more quiet nowadays.

“You, too, have changed,” said Glorfindel.

Erestor's back was still turned to him, lying on the forest floor. “As you said, even the stars have changed,” he said. “A single Elf under them would be inevitable.”

“To what extent—” Glorfindel paused, reconsidering. “No, nevermind. I am afraid to know.”

“Afraid to know what?”

Glorfindel hesitated.

“Back in Gondolin—” It was uncanny how the mention of an old name, an old place, long gone but vivid still in memory, filled Glorfindel with longing. “Back then, we argued and bickered as we do now, but more freely, less carefully. I wonder if perhaps you are merely going through the motions now.”

There was rustling again when Erestor rolled just enough to turn. “Forgive me, but are you complaining about the quality of my performance in petty fighting—”

“The bickering was for show and you know it.”

Memories were things Aman would've dulled, but bittersweetness was a Middle-earth flavour. Glorfindel remembered Erestor in the House of the King, younger then but no less sharp-tongued, unafraid, beautiful.

It did not matter that millennia had passed; they did not feel so long to Glorfindel. He remembered Erestor as though it was but a day since they would cross the same paths around the city square, at the same time in the mornings and evenings, pretending that it wasn't routine, that the teasing wasn't also flirting, the highlight of their day.

But a thousand years in Mandos and Aman was not the same as the years that passed for Erestor. Decay existed in Middle-earth, and few things here could withstand the wearing of time.

“When I said that the stars are clearer here, I meant that things feel sharper. Longing—" Glorfindel nearly stumbled on the words "—and regret for things that may already be gone, I have forgotten how potent they could be.”

It was the most open he's been with Erestor, but then he wasn't sure if their old games were still at play—if anything still, at all, was at play. The doubt that had plagued him ever since his return laid heavily upon him underneath the weight of this sky.

“Forgive me,” he said, backtracking in his companion's lack of answer. “The late hour makes my tongue loose. Sleep, and I will speak of this no more.”

“The bickering wasn't for show,” Erestor cut in, breaking his silence. “For the record, you truly were annoying.”

Despite himself, Glorfindel snorted a laugh.

“But it is interesting what you said—” Erestor rolled on his back so he was looking up at the stars; his arm was warm where it brushed against Glorfindel's “—about the potency of things. Grief, for instance, goes bone-deep. It fills you. But then, so does hope.”

Glorfindel snuck a glance. He considered asking: ‘Did you grieve?’ But then, that was perhaps an insensitive thing to say, even for him. ‘Did you grieve me?’ was too transparent.

“What is it that you hoped for?” he asked instead.

“Reunions.”

Reunions. Glorfindel took a breath. “And hope,” he urged, “does it last?”

“If you will it so,” said Erestor. “Stubbornness helps.”

“Ah.” Glorfindel couldn't help but smile. “You are the most stubborn person I know.”

“So you have told me.”

“And what comes after reunion?”

Glorfindel knew he was just being greedy now, and sure enough, Erestor clicked his tongue. “That is not all up to me, is it?”

It was the most giving he had ever been. Back in the day, one had to wrestle Erestor for even the tiniest bit of honesty.

Even so he would not give it all. Not that Glorfindel expected him to; that would have been too easy.

“You are right,” Glorfindel said, voice a little lighter. “The bickering is real. How can it not be? You are also so annoying.”

This time, it was Erestor who snorted. Instead of answering, he simply rolled back to his side.

Just when Glorfindel thought that he had lost interest in the conversation, Erestor spoke again. “How much has it changed?” he asked. “Beyond recognition?”

Glorfindel looked up. A star, slightly misaligned from where it used to be, twinkled back at him. “Nay. I can still recognise them.”

“Then it is not so bad, is it?” Erestor huffed. “Perhaps you are only being dramatic as always.”

Glorfindel barked out a laugh. “As always?”

“Hm. Some things never change."

“Now you listen here—”

The fire crackled in their camp, and there at least the warmth was the same. It was probably not a good idea unpacking a single blanket to share, for Erestor hogged it now for what he claimed as penalty.

Neither of them was as honest as they perhaps should be. That obstinacy even had them losing what could have been, back in an old life. But perhaps it was why Erestor was now more forthcoming, and even Glorfindel found himself asking more than what he would have before.

As far as changes went, this, at least, was not bad at all.

[petalouda85]

Names

Fandom: Blades of Light and Shadow 2

Pairings: Tyril x f!human!MC (Kassandra)

Word count: 2.7k

Concept: Continuation of Tightrope. Tyril and Kassandra have an unexpected visitor in Riverbend and discuss their upcoming parenthood.

Tags: @liviusofpella, @megas-choices, @starlight-starfury, @dutifullynuttywitch, @thosehallowedhalls, @choicesficwriterscreations

AO3 link: x

A/N: I’ve been thoroughly sucked into the world I established in “Tightrope”; I have so many ideas for it that I will likely need to make a separate masterlist for it eventually. Enjoy this little ball of fluff and hint of spice at the end. And of course, I had to include some crocheting in this fic

Riverbend had its charms.

In retrospect, Tyril had had his reservations about settling in the village despite being the one to suggest going there. There had been an underlying fear that the town would still be a hotbed for tourists and the curious, wishing to see the home of the legendary hero of Morella. But with the new world order, it seemed that few were interested in their legends. Furthermore, the inhabitants of the town had seemed keen to keep their own safe from unfriendly eyes, especially once news of the pregnancy began to leak out. Their loyalty and protectiveness had been a soothing balm in these uncertain times.

There was a time in his life where he couldn’t imagine never using magic for the most basic of tasks nor that he would live in such a humble place. But strangely, he found himself quite comfortable in the small village. Sure, he was quite a spectacle to behold – there weren’t any elves in Riverbend after all - and children would gawk at him, the occasionally brave one asking to touch his ears or show off his magic but most never treated him any different from the rest; it surprised him to admit that he preferred their company to those of the highest houses in Undermount. There was none of the needless extravagance, none of the posturing; the people here were honest and straightforward and uncomplicated.

He walked the familiar path from the edge of the forest towards the heart of Riverbend, a square lined with various shops. He made his way to the bakery, the bell tinkling as he opened the door. Soon, the baker appeared, giving the elf a smile as he approached the counter.

“Good to see you again, Tyril. The usual?” The elf placed his basket onto the counter.

“Yes.” The baker nodded and immediately went to retrieve the usual items, packing them carefully into the basket. Soon the order was filled but when Tyril reached to grab it, the baker stopped him, signaling him to wait. He dashed to the back of the shop, soon returning with something wrapped in brown paper.

“Some apple strudels for Kassandra; she was asking about them last time. No extra charge.” He said as he placed the item in with the rest. Tyril smiled a little.

“Thank you.” After laying out the payment, he grabbed the basket and headed out of the bakery. He required only a few items on this errand and before long, he turned towards the path that led out of the market square, ready for a quiet and peaceful night.

“Elf boy.” Tyril turned at the sound of the nickname, blinking twice to ensure he was not imagining the rogue leaning casually against a cart full of hay. The man flashed his signature cocky smile as he approached the elf.

“What are you doing here?” Tyril asked as the two shared an embrace. Once he pulled away, Mal patted him on the shoulder.

“Had some business in Zaradun. Thought I’d come by on my way back to Whitetower, see how you were doing.” Tyril couldn’t help but smile.

“A most welcome surprise. Come on; Kassandra will be happy to see you.”

The two men walked in silence out of the city square, Tyril eventually turning onto a smaller path which led towards a more hidden trail into the woods. Immediately, the din of the village gave away to the peaceful embrace of the forest.

“So, how is the great adventurer Mal Volari? Last I heard, a lovely elf caught your eye.” Tyril smirked when Mal playfully shoved him.

“Not a word to Kassandra; she’ll never stop teasing me.”

“My lips are sealed.” The two exchanged a chuckle.

“So how is Kassandra?” Mal asked after a moment of silence.

“She’s doing wonderful.”

“And the little one?”

“Everything’s going good. A few more months to go. Aderyn has been so helpful.” Tyril stopped walking, looking ahead on the trail, his mind restless for a moment. “I won’t lie. I’m nervous. There’s a part of me that’s uncertain if I’ll be able to handle it all. Fighting monsters I am more than capable of but children and babies…” Tyril turned to look at Mal when the man placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“From what I’ve heard, it’s normal to be nervous. But if you can survive two world ending scenarios, you can survive dirty diapers and a screaming baby. The kid will be lucky to have you as their dad and Kass as their mom; it’s more than most kids have.” The scoundrel said, his typical bravado replaced with a genuine and sincere tone.

“Thank you, Mal.” The two exchanged a smile and continued their trek further into the woods, the path soon widening into a small clearing, where a humble cabin stood with a small, fenced garden and a smattering of other small buildings, forming a small homestead. It wasn’t much but it had become home in the months they’d been there; close enough to Riverbend to have all their necessities met but far enough to allow them peace, quiet, and safety from prying eyes. Next to the cabin was Kassandra, busy chopping wood.

“Kassandra.” Tyril called out. The woman lowered her axe, dropping it entirely when she turned and saw the visitor.

“Mal!” She called out joyfully, running to him and giving him a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting you two, obviously.” He pulled away and briefly glanced at her now-visible belly. “Excuse me, three.” Kassandra laughed and hugged the man again. “It’s good to see you, Kit.”

“It’s good to see you too.”

“You going to invite me in?” He teased, smiling deviously when the woman pulled away and punched his shoulder in good nature.

“If you’ll give me a minute. I have to finish this up.” She walked back to her work area, slowly bending down to pick up the chopped pieces on the ground and adding them to the stockpile by the side of the cabin.

“You know Aderyn said to avoid heavy lifting.” Tyril said as he joined her in the space. The woman held up the piece of chopped wood with a grin.

“This is not heavy lifting.” She then snapped her fingers and a heavy log gently lifted off the ground, floated towards the chopping block, and casually lowered itself onto it. “And magic can lift the rest.” The elf couldn’t help but chuckle a little.

“Stubborn as usual.” Kassandra smirked and reached up give him a quick peck on his cheek.

“And you love me for it.” Taking his hand, she walked back towards the house and entered it, motioning to Mal to follow.

The inside was quaint. It didn’t bear the status of the rooms of Whitetower nor the grandeur of the Starfury estate, but it was comfortable and provided all that was needed for the two and future third inhabitant. Kassandra took the basket from Tyril’s arm and placed it on the table in the kitchen area. He joined her as she pulled out the brown package.

“What’s this?”

“Apple strudel. The baker put some in for you since you were asking for them.” Touched, Kassandra opened the package and pulled out one of the treats, immediately taking a bite from it as Tyril began putting away the items in the basket. When empty, he turned to the counter and began pulling forth the items they would need to cook that night’s dinner: cutting boards, knives, pots, and pans. The elf had it down to a routine, a practiced dance.

“Grocery shopping, cooking? Since when is elf boy the poster-boy of domestic bliss?” Mal asked, lounging on the bench by the dinner table.

“Since he doesn’t live in a fancy elven estate anymore with servants and butlers.” Kassandra answered, her mouth half stuffed with the pastry. “But don’t knock him too hard, Mal. He’s gotten much better over the months.” She quickly finished her treat before joining Tyril, helping him prepare the food.

“I appreciate your confidence in me.” Tyril whispered to her as she began to peel and cut the potatoes.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Yes, you absolutely destroyed the pot the first time, but you make quite the stew now.” The elf chuckled a little before returning to the task at hand.

The night passed joyfully, the three catching up and swapping stories from their most recent escapades, Mal weaving his usual colorful tales. He also informed the pair of the happenings around the rest of Morella, all relieved that no dire threat had emerged since the joining of the realms; only minor squabbles and internal conflicts that didn’t require their legendary touch. Morella was rebuilding and, for now, peaceful.

Once the dinner was finished and all the tales had been told, Mal took his leave, making his way back to town as Tyril and Kassandra set to their usual evening routine.

“I’ll clean up this time.” Tyril said as Kassandra began to reach for the used bowls on the table.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go relax.”

“Alright.” Kassandra reached up and kissed his cheek before making her way to the open area next to the kitchen, sitting down on the small couch and pulling a basket to her; it wasn’t one he’d seen before.

She reached down and grabbed a small swatch in the shape of a rectangle alongside an attached ball of yarn and another item, a small wooden stick with a hook at the end. She got comfortable and began to use the hook to work the working thread of yarn into the little swatch. He watched her for a time, fascinated by the movement of her hands and the yarn; he’d never seen anything like it before.

“What are you doing?” He asked after a time. Kassandra stopped her work.

“Crocheting. Aderyn’s been teaching me how to do it.” She held up her project. It was a mishmash of color, and the finished swatch was slightly lopsided.

“What will it be?”

“A blanket. For the baby.” She returned to her work, adding a few more stitches. “Seemed like a fitting thing to do. I remember some of the women doing that when they were expecting a baby.” Tyril smiled a little and quickly finished his cleaning before meandering over to the woman, standing, and watching her work at her project for a time.

“Did your mother do that for you?” He asked. Immediately, her hands stopped.

“I-“ the words were lost in her throat, her face falling. She gulped and looked down sadly at the blanket. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.” Tears welled in her eyes, and he knelt before her, placing a comforting hand on top of hers. She grabbed onto it and glanced at the blanket again. “Did your mother ever do something like this for you?” He thought for a moment before shaking his head.

“I was raised by a governess mostly. And by the time Sarenya took over, I was too old for such things.” He ran his hand over the in-progress blanket, seeing and feeling the love imbued into the fabric.

“Seems that we both missed out on typical parent/kid things.” Kassandra mumbled. He squeezed her hand.

“All the more reason to ensure they do have those things. Give them everything we didn’t.” Kassandra only nodded in response, but she had a relieved smile on her face. She lay her hand on her belly and the two sat in silence for a time, basking in the quiet comfort of each other.

“Boy or girl?” He asked. The woman briefly glanced at him before looking back at her belly.

“I don’t know. Though the older women in town think it’s a boy. I don’t really care either way; I just want them to be happy and healthy.” Tyril rose and went to sit next to her.

“As do I.” The moment he was settled, Kassandra put her work away and leaned her head on his shoulder. He quickly wrapped an arm around her, resting his head on top of hers. “We should probably think of some names for them.” He said after a time. He felt her shift under him.

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“Terran.” Tyril said after a moment.

“That was your ancestor’s name, right?”

“Yes. The one we saw in the visions room.”

“Hmm.” Kassandra was silent for a moment. “A name belonging to someone brave and noble and strong. Though I wonder if your father would have a problem with that name; you did say he criticized that ancestor.”

“He did. But there is no denying that Terran was a great warrior and general.” Tyril placed a kiss on her head. “Besides, I don’t think my father would criticize if he knew you liked the name. He’s rather fond of you.” Kassandra shuffled around and looked up at him, her expression happy and slightly relieved. He gave her a smile in return.

“Regardless, we shouldn’t rush in picking a name. There might be something else we’d like.”

“I’m open to suggestions.” They spent the next few minutes discussing a few possible names, debating the pros and cons of each option. Before long, they were just calling out names, sometimes devolving into giggles at the suggestions.

“We need to think of some names for a girl too.” Kassandra laughed after their game had gone on for a time. She moved out from under Tyril’s arm and got comfortable in her new spot.

“Alright.” He also moved into a more comfortable position, facing Kassandra. “Do you remember your mother’s name?” He suggested. Kassandra looked sad for only a moment before shaking her head.

“No. But I have something else in mind for a girl. Something better I think.”

“Oh?” He sat up straighter, his curiosity piqued. Kassandra looked down at her belly once more, a warm and fond smile on her face before she turned her gaze back to the elf.

“Kaya.” Tyril forgot to breathe for a moment, staring into Kassandra’s eyes, her expression genuine.

“Really?” He asked softly. She reached up and cupped his face in her hand, running her thumb gently over his cheek.

“She was someone special to you. And why wouldn’t I want to name our baby after someone intelligent, compassionate, and kind?” Tyril remained silent, tears welling in his eyes but unable to look away from hers. He tried to find words to formulate some response. Unable to find them, he leaned forward and placed a kiss on her lips, the movement slow but the emotion potent and fervent. After some time, he pulled away, never looking away from her.

“You’re amazing, Kassandra.” She smirked and moved closer, straddling his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” The two laughed before Kassandra leaned in for another kiss. It began chaste and sweet but quickly devolved back to the deep kiss from before, the movement slow but passionate. He held onto her at the hips before slowly moving a hand down her leg, hiking up her skirt to grasp at the bare skin, the woman letting out a light gasp at his warm touch. She, in turn, moved her hands down his neck, opening his shirt and sliding her hand under the fabric, caressing the warm skin.

Suddenly, Kassandra pulled away with a light gasp.

“Kassandra?” She shook her head.

“I’m alright. They’re kicking.” She rubbed her hand over her belly in a calming manner. “Already taking all the attention, aren’t you?” She teased, causing the elf to chuckle as well. After a few minutes, she returned her attention to him, cupping his face in her hands. “Now, where were we?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He teased. Kassandra smirked before placing a quick kiss on his lips.

“I think this is the part where we head to the bedroom and ravish each other in every way possible.” With a smirk, he shuffled forward slightly, making sure that her legs were secure around his hips.

“Then hold on.” He stood up from the couch, lifting her with ease. Kassandra kissed him once more as he moved to their room, clicking the door shut behind them.

[eluviannaa]

Set at the beginning of Legion. In her father's armory, Zevvie confronts Xydera, bringing back memories of their complicated past. Zevvie faces a betrayal that she will always carry with her.

Part of a character development/free write exercise for the larger story in my comic, Umbral. Plus initial sketches for the characters:

The Sparring Lesson

In the solitude of her father's armory, Zevvie stood with her back to the door, considering a rack of various staves and polearms. Each simple in their design, with marks of countless sparring sessions held within these very walls. These were not tools of war, but instruments of practice and discipline.

With careful judgment, Zevvie selected a particularly imposing polearm, its blade blunted, and lifted it with practiced ease. She balanced it in her hands. She had come here to train, of course, but also to forget. It had always been a place to regain control lost by the chaos of the world’s blows. With a deft flick of her wrist, she popped it up into her hands, seamlessly catching it with grace.

Zevvie was a priest by calling, but her family's traditions had inspired a love of physical combat. At an early age, she had held her first sword with easy conviction. Thus beginning a path that would wield both benediction and blade.

As a blood elf she was slight, but trained muscles had given her strength and a strong silhouette. Favoring practicality, her long pale hair was pulled into a high warrior’s knot and she wore a plain white tabard with flat leather boots. Her face held a soft youth but angular features blossomed just beneath. She often held a expression of idealism, with a broad smile and a determined glint deep within the green of her eyes.

As she stood in the shadowed chamber, her gaze was drawn to the center of the room where a sturdy iron grate covered a square opening in the ceiling. Through it, a shaft of light, illuminating the sparring ring below. Its silent promise of focus.

The door creaked open, and the approaching footsteps of Xydera echoed through the otherwise empty chamber. Between them, a large circle etched into the floor, grooves noting the boundaries where a ward would sound if one strayed too far.

"There was no illusion between us," Xydera's voice finally broke the silence, an echo filling the room.

Zevvie turned her head, her grip on the polearm tightening as she held it close to her chest. "Is that why you’re here?" she questioned.

Xydera crossed the dueling circle, its boundary illuminated, expecting a challenge. "Since I am to liaison with the Justicar, shouldn’t we at least attempt—" she offered, but the words only added to Zevvie’s growing anger.

Zevvie tried to push the nightmare away but failed. She let it consume her but for a moment. The deceit of the elf standing before her, now an eternal confrontation. She searched the memory's depths for what she felt she had so entirely missed. She closed her eyes, a tightness in her chest rising as she thought of how it began.

In her mind, she easily recalled the romance of a waning moon that night, and the murmur of the distant gala. The private gardens of her father's estate had become an arena, a witness to something unexpected. The ceremonial swords they held momentarily awaited a signal.

Xydera was a striking blood elf. A mystery and an unconventional allure that stirred something in Zevvie.

Xydera's once willowy frame had seen the rigor of physical training. She was pretty enough, but her plain features likely held appeal to few. Her long auburn hair fell over one side of her face to frame the intense glow of green eyes and a gentle arc of freckles across her cheeks. Her armor was unusual, a mix of Sin'dorei heritage, warrior plate, and a simple greatsword.

Zevvie allowed the brief flickers of closeness, her emotions quickening her breaths. She gripped her blade, the emotions traveling the length of it. Elven society accepted diverse romance, yet intentions often remained unclear. Zevvie had flirted with many before her but had never attempted pursuit. She was young, and her priorities, curiosities, had been elsewhere until now. This would be a duel, yes, but also the dance of invitation she dared Xydera to accept.

As their blades met, time slowed, Zevvie's half-smile slightly visible even now in the shadows. She stole a glance, a brief suggestion. Xydera, willingly caught in the flirtation, moved to retreat.

Zevvie pivoted, her stance a mirror to the audience of stone statues surrounding them. And then, Xydera's official falter, "I yield." Their swords falling.

"Falling for the oldest trick already?" Zevvie teased.

Xydera's laughter narrowed the distance between them. "You almost had me," she conceded. “But I see a mutual curiosity. Perhaps you will allow me to indulge you. Consider it a yield owed.”

Zevvie's heart raced as the words paused between them. It was a bold answer, one that left her questioning little. She had asked for this, but was not prepared for the answer.

Finding no relief in the memory, Zevvie frowned at the elf before her. "How honorable it must feel to say," her arms tensed as she held the polearm between them. Xydera struggled to find words.

Zevvie lowered her voice, "And to force my yield." Almost a question, she spat the word. "You forget, I owe no allegiance to your fraud."

Before Xydera could speak, Zevvie's polearm angled as she forcefully knocked Xydera back with it.

Xydera could not deny her intentions. In her own memory, she recalled the struggle. But even now, she did not have regrets. Perhaps only that Zevvie could not see the nuance.

Seeing Zevvie holding the weapon brought back memories for Xydera, especially of that first night after their parting. Their duel had left her conflicted. She knew, even then, she would struggle with what would come next. But her position in Quel'dorei society left her with few choices.

That night, as she stepped away from the intensity of the spar, her mind was already shifting gears. She watched the distance between them grow as Zevvie made her way toward the glow of the estate. The elf’s parting glance to Xydera a confirmation that winning the young elf’s affections had been swift. As planned.

She had not anticipated the allure this pawn would present. An elf of such a position was a rare prize, and the thought of the pursuit to follow pleased her.

But slowly returning to the night, her eyes wandered, searching for Seridan, knowing that their meticulous plans were now in motion.

At the edge of the garden, he stood waiting in the shadows. His gaunt features and piercing fel green eyes a sinister presence against the darkness. His pitch black hair was slick and unkempt, the ends angled into a sharp fray, just above the shoulders to frame a morbidly pale face. His lips twisted into an eerie smile as he subtly nodded toward a gathering of Sin’dorei, among them Zevvie's father.

Lord Celadras Solarguard was a distinguished High Justicar of the Blood Knight Order. Though titled, he had earned his place, tirelessly building a reputation that outshined his respected lineage. Such sympathies made him an ideal mark. But an advantage had presented itself with his daughter. Where Celadras's influence on her martial skill had been praised, Xydera saw the vulnerability of a doting father. And their duel had exposed Zevvie’s own flaw, a blind desire for first love. The opportunities were almost begging for exploitation.

As Xydera's eyes followed Seridan's cue, he arched an eyebrow. Now was the moment. She breathed in sharply, preparing herself for the next act. With a silent nod to him, she began her approach. Her steps lifted against the weight of opportunities stifled. Without patrons, her ambitions would stall. She craved more than a place in the Order; she sought revenge. But the game required a placating hand. As she neared the gathering, Xydera summoned her confidence, ready to perform.

"Good evening," Xydera began, her voice raised but carrying respect. She knew she was interrupting those well above her position. It was a risky approach, though it could command a certain respect. "I couldn't help but overhear your discussion on the strategic use of the arcane in battle. Fascinating."

Zevvie's father turned, his demeanor even, assessing. He was tall and imposing, his sharp features mirroring those which Zevvie would come to inherit. Tonight his armor was a typically ceremonial Sin'dorei style, with long blonde hair sweeping softly over his shoulders. To a less discerning eye, it seemed almost as if his rank had shielded him from battle. But a deep scar across his jaw and rough hands carried a history of having wielded many a blade.

His company, a magister and two ceremonially armored lords, paused in their conversation. Experience suggested they were annoyed, but Sin’dorei rarely were so crass as to show their cards fully. As the host, it was implied Celadras should address her. "Indeed. Though I do not believe we are acquainted."

"Xydera Silvershade," she offered a respectful nod. "A friend of Zevendra's. We had the honor of crossing blades this evening. She is quite the opponent."

His interest subtle, he nodded. "Zevendra often finds ways to surprise us all," he offered a cursory smile, pride in his voice. "Though I am not familiar with your family name."

As anticipated, the Sin'dorei regarded her with affected curiosity. Her mismatched armor likely preposterous next to their own society costume. “I'm from a less well-known family, but if I may be so bold.” she waved with casual confidence.

“Anaria shola. In all duels, we stand equal.” Celadras said, a nod to her warrior’s presentation.

"My interests, skill, have carried me outside my family's expectations. And I look forward to such a welcomed friendship. And that I might offer an equal challenge." Sensing an opportunity, she added, "I aspire to the Order myself. Tales of your accomplishments are renowned. It's an honor to share the inspiration it gave to pursue my own path. And now, to become such close friends with your daughter. Dare I say it feels a bit like fate."

“There is much on the horizon as we remain vigilant to demonic activity. I foresee opportunities, though I wish the circumstances could be more positive. Though your armor and demeanor strike me as unconventional.” Celadras seemed almost impressed with the defiance. The Magister at his side, however, looked decidedly bored.

“I still prepare for trial. Opportunities have been limited due to my station, but I understand that skill and allegiance are also highly valued. I have dedicated myself to proving my worth.”

“I have a great respect for earning one’s place. Perhaps we will cross paths again, then.” He lifted a fluted glass, a subtle gesture that the audience was nearing its conclusion.

Xydera smiled, “You honor me.” As expected, his words were adorned with formality, but the nuance was clear. She had succeeded in the most crucial part of the plan: appealing to his ego and had confirmed that he was a pathetically devoted father.

Celadras’s smile was measured in his impatience, "Well, Xydera, it is always a pleasure to meet friends of Zevendra. She and Celaron often spar in the formal ring. You may find the historical weapons we train with of interest. You must join us sometime."

"Lord Solarguard," Xydera replied with a short bow. “And now I will take no more of your evening, but a moment to speak with you was generous indeed. Shorel'aran.”

As she excused herself, she expertly navigated unseen to rejoin Seridan in the shadows. As she neared, he pushed off from the tree, his arms unfolding.

"Look at you," he said with pride. "How impressive." His laughter sinister, he was beside himself as he clapped his hands together playfully. "What fun you will have. I can hardly wait to hear the gossip."

Xydera allowed herself a smile, her eyes focused ahead as they walked. As the glow of the gala grew in the distance, a darkness rose within her. "Imparting humility will be a great pleasure," she declared. “How it will sting, to be outplayed by an interloper who holds a mirror to their incompetence.”

And yet, their romance had become separate. What began as distaste, admittedly a cruel plan, had unfolded as something different between them. But in the end, it was merely an inconvenience, a choice that would remain unchanged however special Zevvie had become. Perhaps in time she would come to see they were not so different. Priorities could change, but rarely did. At least with Zevvie, it wasn’t personal.

“Even now, you misunderstand. These pursuits were separate..." Xydera began.

As Xydera stumbled, Zevvie's resolve only grew. "Since you clearly misunderstand the situation, let me enlighten you. Mindless recitation of vows alone cannot impart the honor you so sorely lack," she said, her voice chillingly composed.

She delivered the final verdict. “As I plan my departure, it seems your attempt at reconciliation must remain unfulfilled for the time being. Perhaps it will allow you time to confront your true limitations—ones that, sadly, were never influenced by your social standing.”

[newtthetranswriter]

Soulmates? Soulmates. Pt. 6

Word count: 3046

Summary: After rescuing Ezran and the egg from the ice, it’s time to search for help as the egg’s light dims.

Warnings: Slight references to ptsd, (let me know if I missed anything)

A/n: Welcome back for Part 6, I hope you all are enjoying this. As promised this chapter does have some interactions with Soren, so get ready for his cute stupidity. If you saw my post about the new year you are probably aware of this but I am hoping to start updating this story more regularly, no guarantees on how often but I would like to update more than once every three or four months. Anyways, enough of me rambling please enjoy part 6 and as always remember to hydrate or diedrate.

Part 1 - Series Masterlist

  After everything that happened on the frozen lake and spending the night in a small cave trying to warm up Ezran and the egg, we decided it would be best to try and find some help. Where we would go to find help for a glowing dragon egg in the human kingdoms, I have no idea. But Rayla claimed to have seen smoke while looking for food last night, so we headed in that direction.

   “There it is! A town! I knew I saw smoke.” Rayla announced, as a small town came into view over the hill. “Maybe we can find help.” She said, turning to look at the rest of us.

    Callum looked skeptical for a second before responding. “Okay, sure. We might find a dragon egg expert.” He said with a hint of sarcasm. “But we will definitely find a bunch of elf-hating humans.” He finished looking between Rayla and me. 

     Ralya just scoffed, waving off the mage’s concern. “Get ready to meet Human Rayla.” She said as she wrapped herself in Ezran’s cloak, using the hood to cover her horns.

     “Yeah, I’m not sure that’s gonna cut it.” Callum said looking unimpressed. 

     I couldn’t help but agree with Callum. “He’s right, sure it covers your ears and horns but unless you can impersonate a fifth finger, people will easily see through it.” I mentioned the other obvious problem with Rayla trying to blend in with humans.

    “RIght, right. I need some kind of hand disguise.” Rayla said, looking at her hands and then around us trying to find an answer. “Look, snowelf!” She shouted as she ran towards a snowman.

     Following along I couldn’t hold back a laugh as Ezran tried to correct her. As we all reached the snowman, Rayla pulled the gloves from its stick arms before putting them on. “Hand disguise” She said happily showing her gloved hands, as the empty pinks just flopped to the sides.

     “Just don’t shake hands with anyone.” I told her as I pulled my own cloak from my bag, pulling the hood up to cover my ears and horns. “We should make this quick so we don’t draw any unwanted attention.” I said as we began making our way into town.

     As we began to get further into town and more people started filling the streets, it was clear that Rayla had no experience trying to blend in when surrounded by humans.

     “Just walking into town, without a care in the world, despite my sub-century life expectancy.” Rayla announced as we passed townspeople who were just going about their daily lives.

     While me and Callum quietly shushed the elf, Ezran offered an encouraging comment. Before any other remarks could be made though, our attention was drawn to the town square. A rather large group had formed around the statue in the center, where a man stood telling tales of how he defended the border between the human kingdoms and the magical lands of Xadia.

     We watched on with the rest of the crowd as the man offered a challenge, betting he could beat anyone in the crowd with only his dagger. He pointed at a few young men before he pointed to Rayla, suggesting she take the challenge. Before any of us could protest, there was a slight shake in the ground as a rather large man approached the storyteller from behind.

     “This isn’t even my biggest sword.” The large man stated as he drew the outrageously large sword from his back.

     As the crowd began calling out their interest in the fight, Callum quickly took notice of the distraction. “They’re distracted. Let’s go.” He said, moving to leave the crowd only for Rayla to pull him back.

     “Wait, you’ll want to see this.” She said while motioning to the fight, clearly having seen something the rest of us had missed.

     Almost as quickly as the fight started, it was over. After jumping away from the downward swing of the large sword, the smaller man pulled out his dagger, receiving gasps from the crowd. The short blade glowed in bright reds and oranges, almost like it had just been pulled from a furnace. Moving quickly, it sliced through the steel sword like it was paper, leaving the crowd shocked and the large man in tears.

     “What was that?” Callum asked, completely in shock from what we had just witnessed.

     Rayla quickly responded. “It’s a Sunforge blade!” She exclaimed as if the young mage would understand what she meant.

     Ezran looked surprised. “Wow! I can’t believe I just saw a real Sunforge blade! What’s a Sunforge blade?”He asked, looking to Rayla for answers.

     “In Xadia, Sunfire elves can make magic weapons that stay as hot as the moment they’re forged for thousands of years.” My answer was met by surprised stares from my brothers and new friend. “What? I lived by the border for the first five years of my life. While I was never taken very far into Xadia, I have seen Sunfire elves and their magical weapons up close before.” I explained quickly, earning a nod of understanding from the group.

     “Anyways, see that?” Rayla said, pointing to the man. “The sheath is inscribed with special runes to protect him from the heat. Otherwise, well-”

    “His pants would be on fire?” Ezran questioned.

    Rayla nodded. “Yeah. His legs, too.” She answered with a laugh.

    “Rayla,” Callum started drawing all of our attention to him. “if that blade can cut through a steel sword like it was butter would you say it can cut through pretty much anything?” He asked, sounding like he was plotting or considering something.

    Rayla paused for a second before answering. “Not just pretty much, it can cut through anything.” She said, uncrossing her arms. Only a second passed before she let out a gasp. “My wrist binding!” She exclaimed as she realized what Callum was hinting at.

     “You have to go get that dagger,” Callum said, hoping that his idea would prove successful.

     Rayla began to walk off, before stopping and turning to face us. “But what about the egg?” She asked, not wanting to jeopardize our main reason for coming to this town. 

     “The boys can find help for the egg, and I can go with you to help out. After all you might get burned while removing the binding and I can at least ease the pain with my magic. We can all just meet back here at the statue.” I suggested, moving to stand closer to the young assassin. 

     Everyone nodded in agreement, but before we could split ways Callum spoke again. “How will you get that dagger?” He was curious as to how we planned to execute our half of the mission.

     “I’m going to ask nicely.” Rayla said before rushing off to find the human with the magical blade.

      I sighed before following after her. “Just worry about getting help for the egg, I’ll make sure Rayla doesn’t do anything completely stupid.” I shouted behind me sensing my brother's hesitation to allow the elf to run off on her own.

      As I followed Rayla, I started to realise that the town we’re in seemed really familiar. If I imagined the streets with less snow and flowers in the windows of the various houses, it seemed like I had been here before. 

      Before I could figure out why this town was so familiar to me, I began to hear voices coming from an alley in front of me.

     “I won that money fair and square.” The man from the town square said, holding his glowing dagger in a defensive stance.

     Rayla sighed before speaking. “I don’t want your money.” She answered as I slowly moved to stand beside her, accidentally startling the blonde man with my sudden appearance.

    Looking between us, the man stayed in his defensive position. “Then what do you want from me?” The man asked, his voice laced with a hint of fear.

    “We just want your help.” I said hoping the man would lower his weapon and hear us out. Thankfully it seemed the plea for help was honest enough that he believed me and lowered his weapon. Though he did still have a skeptical look on his face, I took it as a win for now.

     With the man now listening to Rayla’s pleas for help to remove her binding, I was free to drift off in thought. My previous train of thought was brought back as I subconsciously made sure Rayla didn’t get herself killed. Ever since we got close to the town it seemed familiar, the buildings, the surrounding mountain range, the forest just on its border, everything was giving me a feeling of deja-vu. 

    In seconds two things happened that both begged for my attention. The first was Rayla letting out a startled yelp as her glove caught fire. The second was the realization of why this town was so familiar, this is where I spent three years living on the streets after I lost my parents. As much as my mind wanted to linger on the realization, I knew Rayla needed my help.

    “No! You’re an elf” The man stated after Rayla tried to cover with her poor attempt at impersonating a human.

    Rayla sighed. “Fine, I’m an elf.” She confirmed before grabbing the man and knocking him off balance to grab his dagger from him.

    As Rayla prepared to try and cut the binding off I stood between her and the man. “Calm down, please. This will only take a second and then you can have your knife back.” I said to the confused and startled blonde. “Do you want me to help?” I asked Rayla, offering to help her try and cut off the tight ribbon.

    “Ahh! No!” Rayla yelped as she only succeeded in burning her arm slightly. “Nothing can cut this stupid binding! Ugh!”

    The man who was still cowering on the ground tucked himself further into a ball. “Just take the dagger! Don't hurt me, please!” He said in fear.

    Rayla and I shared a slightly puzzled look before she responded to the man. “I’m not going to hurt you. And I’m not going to steal from you, either.” She informed him, dropping the dagger into the snow as we both walked away.

    After returning to the statue we quickly figured out that my brothers haven’t returned yet. Knowing that it’s only a matter of time before they return, we silently agreed to sit down and wait for them. The silence had settled over us almost as soon as we walked away from the guy with the dagger. We were both working through the recent events in our heads and neither of us wanted to burden the other with our jumbled thoughts.

    I can’t believe I’m back in this town after ten years. Why did it have to be this town that we found? Why couldn’t it have been some other town that doesn’t remind me of that night? I thought, not realizing that in my stressed out state that I had instinctively reached out for Soren through our connection. 

   I was purely focused on my thoughts and the memories of my time living in these streets. So when I heard Soren speaking in my mind I visibly jumped. Y/n, what’s going on? Is everything okay? Are you safe? He sounded panicked and at first I thought he reached out first. What town are you in? And what night are you talking about? Please answer me.

   After processing his last sentence I realized that it was in fact me who reached out.  Sorry Soren. I didn’t mean to worry you, It’s just we ended up in the town I was dumped in after my birth parents died, and it’s bringing up the memories of that time. I explained to him knowing that I never told him where exactly I lived before I was taken in by the royal family. 

   Oh, well so you want to talk about it? He asked, sounding calmer but there was still a hint of worry in his voice.

    I thought to myself for a second before responding. Not really but I wouldn’t mind hearing about how your search for us is going? Got any clues as to where we are yet? I asked in a teasing tone, knowing that it bugged him that I wouldn’t give away any crucial details about our location.

    There was no response for a few seconds, but soon Soren’s voice filled my mind again. Well, first Claudia and I went to the Banther Lodge because that’s the last place you guys were seen and I tried to have some tracking dogs find you using one of the step prince’s shirts. Soren began explaining how almost immediately after the dogs caught Callum’s scent they lost it at the edge of the river.  After the dogs ended up being a bust, Claudia began thinking of a different way to track you guys down. Oh and while she was thinking, I found something that I’m sure you will be happy to get back once we find you.

     He stopped talking for a second and I assumed it was because someone, likely Claudia, was actually talking to him. But he quickly went back to rambling. Anyways I found your necklace. You know the one that hides your horns and ears. Don’t worry though I don’t think Claudia saw it so it will be safe with me until I can give it back to you.

    Thank you Soren, but what about Claudia thinking of another to track us down did she figure it out? I asked, no longer focused on where I’m at, but now focused on how long until Claudia and Soren find us.

    Oh yeah, that. She apparently knows a really accurate tracking spell and we are currently looking for ingredients for it. So, by the end of tomorrow we should know where you are. Soren explained further about how they were using the braid that was ripped from Rayla’s hair by the arrow at the lodge, and how it would lead them straight to us.

    I tried to think of a response that wouldn’t sound too harsh about it not being a good thing that they would find us, but came up blank. Luckily before I could spend too long trying to persuade Soren to give up on his mission, my brothers returned to the statue grabbing both mine and Rayla’s attention. Thank you for the distraction Soren, but I have to go now. Please stay safe and don’t do anything stupid. I told him quickly, soon after I heard him respond with a similar plea for me to be safe before closing the connection once again.

    “The bad news is the Sunforge blade didn’t work.” I heard Rayla say as Callum and Ezran stood in front of us. “The good news is that the binding will fall off naturally when my hand does.” She finished receiving a wince from Callum as he sat down next to her.

    “Ah, Rayla, I’m sorry.” He said looking disappointed.

    After Rayla responded with an unconvincing ‘it’s fine’ a silence settled over the group for a moment. Not wanting to deal with the awkward silence or potential questions as to why I looked more concerned than usual, I decided to speak up. “Please tell us something good happened with the egg.” I said hoping that either of my brothers would tell me that they really did find a dragon egg expert and that everything would be fine.

    Callum and Ezran shared a look before Callum answered. “Yes and no.” There was a pause and then Callum continued. “Well Well, no. Not yet, but maybe?” He chuckled nervously. “So yes? In a way?” He finished, sounding like he himself wasn’t quite sure.

    “Okay, that’s averaging out to be around a maybe-minus.” Rayla said, both of us were still trying to figure out what the two had found out.

    “Yeah, that’s about right.” Callum agreed, looking away.

    “We learned about a miracle healer. Someone who might be able to help the egg. And maybe your hand, too!” Ezran informed, standing up with a bright smile hoping to lift the somber mood that had settled over our small group.

    Rayla uncrossed her legs, looking excited by the new information. “Really?” She asked, sounding hopeful.

    “The only catch is, the healer lives up there.” Callum said, pointing towards a flat mountain just outside of town. “The Cursed Caldera.” He said.

    As soon as I heard that, I had a sinking suspicion that I already knew this ‘miracle healer’ and she was definitely not a healer. I wanted so badly to tell the group that unless some new elf had moved into the moon nexus over the last ten years, there would be no healer up that mountain.

    Before I could speak, Rayla cut me off to inquire about the name of the mountain. “Please tell me it's named that because it was discovered by the great explorer, Sir Phineas Cursed.” Her voice was laced with a hint of sarcasm, but also slight hope.

    “Well, actually, it's because it's infested with horrible monsters.” Callum answered, not picking up on the elf’s sarcasm in the slightest.

    “Yeah, I know.” Rayla answered him, sounding defeated.

    With the moment of silence that followed, I decided to try and let everyone know the information I had on the Cursed Caldera. “You guys I don’t think we’re-” 

    I was cut off mid-sentence by the sound of running and shouts from the townspeople. “There she is!” It was the man with the Sunforge blade. “She’s an elf!” He shouted pointing at Rayla as the mob got closer to us.

   After hearing the shouts and turning to see the mob, Rayla jumped up. “Oh, right. I forgot about the other bad news.” She said, nonchalantly as she began running.

   My brothers and I quickly followed after her. Once we caught up, the four of us, plus Bait who Ezran was carrying, ran through the small town trying to escape the elf hating humans. Eventually we made it out of town and without stopping, we ran towards the only possible safety, the haunting slopes of The Cursed Caldera.

[osakanone]

Hello Angel Cellar I am going into battle And I want your most biblically accurate angels

Music: New Mobilesuit Report: Gundam Wing: XXXG 00W0

A skeletal knight. Her armour is comprised of seashells curving like the body-panelling of some futuristic motorcycle. Metallic gold dances over ocean white. Her skeleton beneath is too, metallic shrouded in where light cannot reach of gears, pistons and swirling mechanical systems that make the F22 Air Superiority fighter of the US airforce look like the Wright Brother's flyer. Her shoulders and forearms are mighty pauldrons dressed about a rounded mechanical hub, like miniaturized riot-shields protecting fascists from the wrath of the people. Upon her chest is not breast, but the bonnet of a car, torn open by a hexagonal beak. Within it, a gemstone, an eye of enormous green like, a pearl held clamlike gazing and watching asll it surveys. Cast about are swirling panels like surf-board guitars of wings and winglets in dove-like forms. They branch like veins, arteries, muscular capillaries in incomprehensible forms supported by mechanical trusses of the space-station: wings lashed by rectangular crane-arms. She reaches to her left. She watches, beneath a samurai's gleaming white helmet, of elf-like long pointed winglet like ears and a steely gemstone gaze. Over her mouth, a facemask, studded either side by her helmet crown. Her chin, a bearded like horn. Upon her forehead, a third eye, upon the studed razorsharp twin boomerang of her tiara. Above, a fourth upon a mohawk of metal. This crustacean armour is made machine-like by rhombus and trapezoid like sections connecting flowing lines. Her boots of gold have goats-feet for heels, and forward some strange combination of a sneaker, and a hot iron press.

Her wings give the impression of a lacy white wedding-dress. Of the vapour-trails left by fighter-jets. There is vulnerability here. She looks dainty almost. Like you could hurt her. But you cannot. Upon her throughout are tiny holes, thruster vents which both inhale and exhale through mechanical insets. Bell thruster church bells like the mighty rockets that took humans to the moon in funnels of fuel frozen liquid hydrogen scream with nuclear fire. E equals Emm Cee Squared becomes diamonds of gasseous heat shocking our thick ocean-like atmosphere. Around her orbit rifles shaped like sabres in clusters of three all longways in a triangle together. They orbit her in mighty rings. Upon each hip, half of a strange rifle, a distortion of physics itself in which the very concept matter collapses and dies in its dragon's breath -- where the very particles used to conceal such mighty weapons are petrolium lit by her, as a match. Each, resembling a scientific instrument sit docked as if holstered. As if she is a cowboy ready to draw. Her feathers are like knives. This thing scarsely called robot, this being is filled with love. She will protect you.

Her name is Zero.

[bardnuts]

Fall of Last Light

Had the fight of my life last night and I wanted to write it out like a proper scene (under the cut). I never intended for it to see the light of day but @ggreeeenheart said I should share it so I am sharing it the blame lies squarely upon them

Brought to you by the Watersparkers (those motherfuckers) and a potion of angelic slumber which I forgot about until the last possible moment.

-

The cool glow of the barrier curving over the inn was cracking. Fragments of decaying magic fell away like flaming bits of paper and burned to nothing. Tendrils of darkness seeped through the cracks. Ripples of horror and fear ran through the crowd of Harpers and refugees gathered in the courtyard, but Twill could only stare after Isobel’s receding form as the imp bore her away, into the night. 

“The barrier,” whispered Gale. “It’s coming down.”

“No,” choked Jaheira. “It can’t be. This isn’t supposed to …” She rounded on Twill. “What happened?” 

He fixed her with a cool stare. Lady, if you only knew what I’ve just done for you. “They came to kidnap her. We fought, but …” He gestured helplessly at the sky. 

“Ehm,” said Astarion, “Look.”

He pointed into the courtyard, and the others followed his gaze. The two Harpers stationed by the gates had collapsed into silent convulsions. Darkness flowed visibly over their twisting bodies. Beyond the thinning barrier, thorny vines pressed against the boundary, curling and tapping in something very like a … 

Knock.

“Is it just me,” said Astarion, “or does something want to come in?” 

“No,” Jaheira gasped. She swung her staff around. “Prepare for battle!” 

The barrier dissolved all at once. The faint moonglow of Selune’s light dissipated into nothing and a bleak, swampy darkness broke over the Last Light like a stinking wave. Twill felt a choking cold fill his chest, clawing at his lungs and numbing his brain. His hand flew to his throat, but then the feeling passed, leaving only a chill and a sense of vague exhaustion. 

Those gathered in the courtyard, however, had not been so fortunate. The little party on the porch watched in dawning horror as the Harpers and the refugees slumped, one by one, in a gathering wave across the yard, until not a single one was standing. 

“They’re dyin’,” whispered Karlach. 

“Selune’s blessing is protecting us from the curse,” said Gale. “Look!” 

As suddenly as they had collapsed, the people of the Last Light were rising: they struggled jerkily to their feet, twisting shadows streaming from ruined eyes and gaping mouths. Almost as one organism, they turned to stare at the group standing on the porch.

The refugees. The people they had saved. All lost, all for nothing. It’s beautiful, thought Twill, and gripped his sword so hard the wire hilt hurt his palm. No, he told himself sharply, it’s a tragedy. 

“Do not hesitate!” shouted Jaheira. “Show no mercy. These are not the people we knew. If you wish to survive, fight! To battle!” 

The dark rushed in.

Karlach knocked Jaheira aside with a howl and charged at the converging mass of newborn undead. There was a meaty thunk as her hammer plowed through a halfling’s skull. A half-elf lunged at her from behind, but an arrow slammed into his eye. Twill felt the missile sting his ear and whirled to see Astarion lowering his bow, teeth locked in a grimace. 

“Shit,” he said fervently, and spat. 

Gale shouted a Word and Karlach turned, shielding herself, as a tremendous explosion mushroomed over the fountain in the center of the courtyard. Undead Harpers fell in smoldering piles. The cursed darkness swallowed any firelight but the flames lapped at Karlach’s furred boots. With what could only be described as a roar, she swung her hammer and knocked a Harper clear across the courtyard. 

“Could use another one of those!” she shouted.

“There are too many!” Gale shouted back. “We have to escape!” The air blurred around him, making him difficult to see. He and Astarion fought back to back, the elf sliding around him like water, but Jaheira and Karlach fought alone. Twill hung back, surveying the carnage and trying very hard not to revel in it. 

“Another fireball, wizard!” said Astarion. “Make yourself useful!” He jerked his blade out of a groaning Harper. 

“I’m about dried up! We need to get out of here.” 

“And go where?” 

Pull yourself together, thought Twill. Karlach needed help. With gritted teeth and a stifled urge, he charged into the fray and met an advancing tiefling with a lute in the face. The strings retorted discordantly, the tiefling stumbled back, and Twill recognized him at once: it was Dammon, the smith.

Or, well, what was left of him. 

There wasn’t time to hesitate. Twill leveled his finger at Dammon and hissed a Word that burrowed into the smith’s skull like a hungry worm. He fell to his knees with his hands clamped over his ears, then slumped lifelessly to the ground. Karlach’s only hope for healing, dead in an instant. 

No time for a funeral.

“Behind you!” Karlach roared. Twill turned just in time to dodge a blow from an axe, then threw himself sideways and slipped under the searing path of Astarion’s firebolt.

“Watch it!” called the elf. 

“They keep coming!” This from Gale, who had retreated under the inn’s overhang, eyes wild, perfectly coifed hair disheveled beyond recognition. “We have to get out of here.”

“And go where?” Astarion snapped.

“Karlach needs help!” shouted Twill. At his call, Gale swung his staff around and cried a spell that translated words into heat. Twill threw up his arm as a fireball exploded in the midst of the throng of Harpers, and tried to count in his head. How much could Gale possibly have left in him? Who were they if he went down? A barbarian, a badly-drawn elf with a dagger, and some guy with an indestructible lute. They wouldn’t last a minute without his spells. 

“Get Gale inside!” he shouted. “Inside!” His words were drowned by a distant crack—then screaming.

“In what?” Astarion shouted back, but the din swallowed his voice too. Twill whirled around to see great thorny vines erupting from the ground. The dark was closing in, and nature’s twisted fury had joined what was looking increasingly likely to be a successful attempt on all their lives. Their only hope was to get inside and hope four solid walls and a roof might grant them some respite.

Vines raced across the courtyard toward them. The dark turned cold. Karlach split a halfling’s skull like a pumpkin. Twill stumbled over his own feet, turned around, and ran for the doors to the inn. 

“INSIDE! THE DARK! TAKE SHELTER!” 

Astarion dispatched a Harper in an arterial spray and sagged against a post, fumbling in his bag with bloody hands and gritted teeth. “Of course—of course!” 

A sphere of white moonlight burst forth as he produced the lantern they had stolen from Moonrise Towers. The undead Harpers and refugees faltered in their advance, unwilling to step into the light.

“I could kiss you!” shouted Gale.

“Don’t,” said Astarion. He jumped onto the porch, beckoning. “Come on, all of you, get ins—gah!” 

Blood spattered the floorboards and Astarion dropped the lantern as something hoisted him into the air. His head cracked against the overhang. One of the vines, sizzling in the holy light, had seized him around the ankle and was dragging him toward the shadows. 

Gale slammed the butt of his staff into the ground and the vine exploded from within. A burst of splinters rained over them and Astarion hit the ground with a dazed grunt. 

“All right, Astar—”

“Get inside, you dolt!” 

“Right-o!” Gale hiked up his robes and ducked inside the inn, high-stepping through the puddles of water left over from Jaheira’s ice spells. Twill scrambled past the converging Harpers and sprinted for the door, but as he passed Astarion he hesitated. The elf was hopping from foot to foot, tugging on his boots. 

“What are you …?” 

“They’re enchanted, my boots, they’re electric, the water.” 

There was a creaking groan from the courtyard. Twill squinted into the dark and saw the largest of the vines pulse, then shiver, as if preparing for something, as if readying a blow.

“Take them off,” said Twill. His voice came out weak. “Take them off, take off the boots, take them off now—”

Gale poked his head through the door. “Astarion, what are you waiting for? Don’t just stand out here all—”

With the inorganic shriek of splitting wood, the vines in the courtyard released a hail of splinters and thorns. Twill turned away from the blast and felt dozens of needles slam into his shoulders and neck, knocking him against the wall. Gale went down. Astarion was luckiest—the support beams shielded him from the blast. 

Out in the courtyard, Jaheira fell with a choked cry. Karlach shrieked in agony, knocked a Harper clear across the yard, and broke for the door. Thorns protruded from her flesh in half a dozen places, but she still stopped to pull Gale upright. “C’mon now, stop napping!” 

Gale’s eyes were glazed. Blood ran from his mouth. “What was …?”

“No time for questions, but you’re doing great. March, soldier!” When it was clear Gale couldn’t walk on his own, Karlach braced him with her strength—though it made her gasp in pain—and the two of them splashed through the doorway into the frost-encrusted taproom.

Twill pulled a splinter out of his neck and sprinted through after them. Astarion splashed inside last, boots tucked under his arm, swearing as the frigid water nipped his bare toes. They were all inside now, the only four survivors of the Last Light, back-to-back in a tiny circle of moonglow as the void converged upon them. 

The Harpers were coming through the door now. 

“Your boots!” said Twill. “Use them! Electrify the—no, don’t put them on! Astarion! Just throw them!”

“They only work if I’m wearing them!” snarled Astarion, bouncing on one leg. 

A Harper pushed a crossbow through the opening and fired. Gale fell into the water with a groan, the bolt protruding from his shoulder. Twill splashed across to him, and with Karlach’s help they rolled the wounded wizard onto a dry patch of floor. 

The crush at the door broke. The Harpers began streaming inside. Twill whirled around, icy water soaking through his shoes.

Astarion got his boots back on and jumped in the puddle with both feet.

A crack like thunder deafened Twill. Heat surged up his legs and through his chest. His heart stuttered, and he smelled the too-familiar stench of burning flesh. He watched the Harpers at the door convulse and drop like twisting mice, and then he was on the floor too. Every muscle in his body was twitching uncontrollably. From what felt like a thousand miles away, he heard Astarion’s voice:

“Ah, shit.” 

You idiot, Twill thought dimly. You fucking moron. 

Through blurred vision, he saw vines break through the door. Despair rose like vomit in his chest. They were done for. Karlach swung at an advancing tendril with her hammer, scattering thorns. The retorting blow caught her full in the stomach. She slammed into the far wall and slid to the floor, motionless. 

Gale struggled halfway upright. He pulled a sealed vial from his pocket, popped the cork, and downed the contents. Twill felt a swelling of hope as his consciousness flickered—maybe he was gathering the strength for one more fireball.

Instead, Gale’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped, lifeless, to the floor.

“Oh, wonderful!” cried Astarion. “So you get to take the easy way out?” 

A moment later Twill felt a hand on his arm, and then Astarion was tugging on him, trying to pull him upright.

“Come on, you aren’t dying yet. Get up, get—ignis!” This last was shouted at a vine, which burst into shrieking flames. The woods were crowding through the door. 

“We’re fucked,” moaned Twill. “We are so fucked, we are so—”

Another explosion of thorns caught them both. Astarion wheeled backward fell flat on his back into the water. Blood streamed from his mouth and ruined eyes. He was dead in an instant. Without his support, Twill fell back into the water. Aftershocks shivered through him, and he knew that he was dying, but for some reason he was holding back laughter.

So much carnage, he thought. Why is it so … beautiful?

His vision faded. It was over. It was all over.

Light bloomed. 

Gale stood, straight and tall, his wounds healed, crackling with power. All magic restored, all tiredness expelled. His magical slumber had healed him. He drew a pattern in the air as the vines rushed toward him, breathed out—a tiny huff of air—and smiled.

The air exploded. 

His fireball ripped through paintings and scattered furniture. The goblets and cups of the Last Light became a hailstorm, pinging off walls and window frames. The raw force of his spell incinerated the vines, which burned instantly to blackened, shriveled, shrieking twigs. Astarion and Karlach were incinerated—but Gale dodged another hail of thorns, pointed at Karlach’s blackened corpse, and spoke a Word of Revivify. 

She rose with an agonized shriek, bloodied and torn but alive once again. Gale pointed at Astarion and spoke again. And then one last time, at Twill. 

Once the four of them were on their feet again, they made short work of the few remaining vines. An uneasy quiet fell as they sheltered behind the counter in the ruins of the Last Light, a quiet broken only by Karlach’s intermittent shrieks of rage as she hacked a motionless vine to pieces next to the stairs. Gale, Twill, and Astarion sat on the floor together, passing a blood-encrusted bottle of wine around in shell-shocked silence. 

After a while, Astarion spoke. His hair was standing on end. 

“Well,” he said, “that could have gone better.” 

[popatochisssp]

Aesthetics Ref - T Bros

Nickname: Spectr (T!Sans)

Height: 4” taller than you (OR 5’3”)

Eye-lights: Ghost white (#F8F8FF), magic otherwise manifest as white with rainbow flecks

Magic Specialty: All

Scars/distinguishing marks: Opalescent white plating over a chrome endoskeleton

Preferred Style: Cyberpunk, the more covered up the better. Prefers to be as shrouded and hidden as possible, with comfort and utility as high priorities but not opposed to a bit of flair as long as its subtle. Reflective strips and light-up accessories help camouflage him in plain sight and make it less likely people will ask about glowing eyes or glints of metal if they think he’s a cosplayer or just really into the aesthetic. …which he kind of is, but that’s beside the point. Favors black and dark grays and blues, with silver and gunmetal accents when possible.

Outerwear: Hooded jackets or hoodies with cowls and high collars that come up to obscure some of the face. He wants to strike the best balance possible between shrouding him completely and not flaring or hanging too far from his body, to be obscured but not draw attention to himself, whether by catching on something or swishing too dramatically, so quiet and hardy materials are also preferred.

Top: Long-sleeved shirts, cotton and waffle fabric, goes for light and loose and breathable. Little to no design or prints among his shirts except for a rare company logo, or a really cool cyberpunk design that he just couldn’t pass up. Favors crew, cowl, or turtlenecks to v or square necks.

Bottom: Favoring utility, tactical cargo pants and joggers, comfortable and easy to move in with lots of storage space. Preferred fit is baggy down to the knee and more narrow around the shin and ankle, to be fit into boots.

Footwear: Chunky combat boots, durability over style and ankle height or just slightly higher. Laces tend to get loose but never fully untied

Trademark accessory/accessories: Toss up between his soft, sleek wool gloves and the dark face mask he wears over his mouth and nasal ridge. Either rarely comes off.

-

Nickname: PapAIrus (T!Papyrus)

Height: 1’4” taller than you (OR 6’3”), but variable if not fully manifested

Eye-lights: None but overall appearance when manifesting as hard-light is Alice blue (#F0F8FF)

Magic Specialty: None

Scars/distinguishing marks: Usually manifests only as skull and hands, capable of filling in the blanks with limbs and torso but tends not to

Preferred Style: Cyber dystopian, like a digital High Elf living in a desert oasis after an apocalypse destroyed the rest of the world. He loves things swishy and long and impractical, and especially delights in making coattails and sleeves and scarves defy gravity and act independently, simply for the fact that he can. Prefers stark, impossibly pristine white and silver/chrome, but can change his hues on a dime to suit an occasion or a mood.

Outerwear: Long coats, for maximum sweep and flair, sleeveless mostly because it’s less to materialize and dematerialize if he decides not to have arms. Occasionally hooded (if he feels like teasing his brother) but more often with high collars or no collar at all

Top: Crop-tops and halter tops, also almost exclusively sleeveless but sometimes long-sleeved with cut-out shoulders or separated sleeves if he feels like having humeri and forearms to show off and showcase. Also enjoys the occasional bodysuit a la Cortana or other similar futuristic characters of her ilk, to tongue-in-cheek play up to the legacy

Bottom: Bodysuits fill in most of this niche, but otherwise he mostly materializes simple, sleek and cleanly fitting pants because he doesn’t think about it much. Who needs legs when you have a handsome skull and big dexterous hands like his?

Footwear: Boots, generally heeled, favors a bit of a go-go style but certainly not shy of going knee-high, with an impractical amount of buckles, combat style, or even just a simple fancy dress shoe.

Trademark accessory/accessories: A digital approximation of his favorite scarf and gloves from when he was alive but a silvery blue instead of scarlet red—an trade-off, but in the grand scheme of things, this scarf blows majestically whenever he wants it to, wind or no, and these gloves fit his fingers like…well. Does he even have to say it?