#still learning lore bear with me !!

[yaboi-weenis]

Priority/Partnership

[stcries]

i've officially slapped both barney and gordon on the muse list, because i'm letting this brainrot control me like always. but since mr. freeman is occupying my headspace moreso, here's a mini headcanon dump.

-some people think of gordon as this emotionless, ruthless man but that's simply not the case whatsoever. he's simply a normal guy who happened to get lucky in a literal apocalyptic scenario by wearing his HEV suit. he would not have survived otherwise, not a doubt in my mind there. he's just a scientist who's scared out of his mind 24/7 and is forced to endure the horrors of an alien race.

-he does have a ruthless side, don't get me wrong, but it only shows itself when he's in real danger. if someone he knows is in danger, or he feels threatened and backed into a corner, he WILL lash out. if he can subdue and kill the threat confidently, you'd best believe he will. most of the time, he simply kills for survival, thanks to everything and their mothers trying to kill him every 5 minutes. we don't talk about his body count...

-ptsd like you wouldn't believe, this man has been through literal hell and back. also has a morphine addiction, thanks to his HEV suit. whenever it detected a heavy injury, it would pump him full of drugs just to keep going. and the black mesa incident went on for a week straight, so having all of that morphine constantly injected into your veins routinely? yeah.

-autistic and selectively mute, communicates with sign language most of the time.

[speed-world]

Hey, I got this idea from watching some Dark Souls lore videos, so can I request a HC of beast cookies being beaten by a chosen Undead reader.

Plot: when the Beast cookies went on a rampage The Witches knew they had to stop them but the cookie were too powerful to do so so they decided to work together to bake a new cookie, a cookie that can weaken them to a point that they can be in prison, a cookie that can come back from the dead as much as possible until the deed is done, they call them the Chosen Undead Cookie

Sworn Purpose

The Five Beasts. The primordial Cookies created by the Witches as emissaries of the Godly Creators; that fell from grace due to their Absolute power corrupting them completely. The Witches couldn’t bear to see their creations promised as saviors turned apostles of evil, and so they punished the Beasts by sealing them away in Beast-Yeast. At least…that was what should have happened.

The Beasts rebelled, refusing to go quiet into the night. They broke free from their shackles and dominated the lands of Beast-Yeast without challenge. The Witches refused to give up however, and would go deeply into a period of heavy trials and error in baking something …greater. They combined their magic to create a Cookie that could complete the task they failed too. A Cookie that would never rest until they sealed these Beasts, even if the Cookie was crumbled. A Cookie that will rise and rise again, as if freshly baked out of the oven, to complete their assigned life purpose. As the Witches spent numerous days and nights creating this Cookie, they’d mix so many flavors into to them that the Cookie was ultimately nameless to the Witches. When finally completed, passerby Cookies knew them only by a couple of names: Y/N Cookie, or their more known, and more appropriate moniker…Chosen Undead Cookie.

It was never easy completing your task, but you never once questioned it or the Witches. They told you all the features and names of the Beasts, that you must do whatever it takes to seal them away, and you followed as such.

During your first attempt, you could barely make a move against a jester before being crumbled in a mess of crumbs and jam. The last thing you heard was the jester laughing before you reawakened in a different location.

One of the many blessings you had received from the Witches was that you could communicate with and hear them. You could hear some the Witches applaud you for your efforts, and others express their apologies for what you must suffer through. It didn’t faze you though, you had a God-given purpose, and you’d curse at yourself if you never finished it. Maybe one day…you could live a fairly normal life, but it won’t happen until your job is done.

“Oh~? Pfffttt AHAHAHAHAHA~~!! Oh this is priceless, you’re still kicking huh? I mean, what attempt is this, number….59? 100? Isn’t this tiring to you buddy~?”

“Silence, jester. I am not tired, not one bit. I have been assigned this duty by the Witches, and I refuse to stop until you Beasts are sealed away…”

You stared at him with the same neutral yet angry expression that you almost always have. He upsets you, just as the other Beasts. And, like him, they will be sealed by your hand sooner or later.

“Really now…? How many times have you said that? And yet the result is still the same! I’ll give you credit though, you’re getting closer each time!! But all that means is that I’m improving myself to make sure you continue to be the failure you are!!”

“Am I the failure, Shadow Milk Cookie? You were meant to be a savior, a hero to all Cookiekind until the end of days, but you failed at your duty. Don’t tell me, are you jealous that I’m favored and know how to follow simple instruction? Does it upset you that I’m succeeding in the role you failed to fulfill?”

“Tch…didja learn to talk all smart while you were in between the states of dying and living? Those Witches can BURN IN THE OVEN, AND YOU’LL JOIN THEM YOU MISERABLE PUPPET!!!”

“….I’m assuming you’re done wasting your breath away now? I’m glad you’ll be the first I seal, your voice annoys me…”

You readied yourself again for the umpteenth time, and stared holes into Shadow Milk Cookie. “You are the miserable one here, jester…” You muttered to yourself, before clashing with the jester once more.

————————————————————————

The cold steps of the Ivory Pagoda are all too familiar for you now. The aroma of the incense, the reflective gold of the tiles, all of it was practically burned in your memory as you approached the Master of the Ivory Pagoda yet again. Of course, you couldn’t meet the Master without seeing the guardian of Ivory Pagoda as well.

“Oh, Master, look who’s back again~! You must really enjoy witnessing the truth that my Master has to show the world! At this point, you’re the most frequent visitor here to the pagoda, maybe you’d want to stay here for the rest of your life~? It’s not like your immortality is doing you any favors being the Witches’s pawn~…”

You ignored the mocking comments of Cloud Haetae Cookie. They’re not what you’re here for anyways, so they can berate you all they want, it won’t take your attention away from your mission. You walked past the haetae and stared up at the Beast, who didn’t even open her eyes to you.

“One day, you will come to see how pointless your mission truly is. Again and again, you challenge my truth and power, and again and again, you fail to understand that you’ll never succeed…”

“That is where your arrogance has mislead you, Mystic Flour Cookie. You insist on yourself so much that you fail to grasp the reality around you. More and more, I grow resistant to your power, and I keep parts of my flavor in spite of being turned to flour. One day, you will come to realize that the madness you speak of will never be heard as you’ll spend your days sealed away as you deserve.”

Mystic Flour Cookie doesn’t bother responding to you. She only waves her hand, uttering the phrase you’ve heard numerous times now: “Return to Flour…”. Your words were true: you were still maintaining your flavor and everything else about you, and only small crumbs were being taken away, albeit incredibly slowly. Then you lounged at her, slashing at her with your blade….and you cut her. Jam leaked out of her thigh from the gash you made. Although your magic and control over the chains and Witch’s fork specialized for sealing the Beasts weren’t strong enough yet, you were making fast progress.

Cloud Haetae Cookie was shocked, but Mystic Flour appeared unfazed as usual. But one thing was abundantly clear, you were improving. Even if you didn’t seal her during this time, you would overcome her powers and seal her away, even if you were crumbled to flour in the process. Mystic Flour will be sealed, just like the other Beasts, and you’ll rise and rise again until your deed is done and all of the Beasts are sealed away.

————————————————————————

Hellish blazing embers and the ruins of forests are the most recognizable sight you know. Whenever you hear the fires crackling, you know that you’re close to Burning Spice Cookie. Burning Spice stares daggers into you just as you stare a hole back.

“You again, eh? How many times are we going to do the same song and dance until you’ve crumbled for good? Those damned Witches must have spent days, perhaps weeks trying to perfect a herald to defeat us, and your failure of an existence is all they have to show for their efforts. It would be funny, if it weren’t so sad and true…”

“I’ll keep coming back as many times as needed until you—“

“Yeah yeah, until us Beasts are sealed away. You’re a broken record at this point, and it’s really beginning to annoy the Hell out of me…. Then again, you do have your uses for being a toy, free for me to play with and break whenever I feel like it. So c’mon, let’s not waste words and entertain me, Chosen fool~…”

You smirked at Burning Spice; at least you two could agree on something, that being words are useless at this point. You steeled yourself and gripped your sword tightly, and Burning Spice did the same with that giant axe in hand. All you need to do is seal away Burning Spice, and even if you crumbled in the process, it will be done.

————————————————————————

The skies were an incredibly dark shade of pink, and you’ve slowly grown to hate it when the skies were like this. Mainly because you knew who it was that was around, and Witches did Eternal Sugar Cookie, wielding the power of Sloth, utterly piss you off.

All Eternal Sugar did was yawn on top of the cloud she rested on, and looked at you haphazardly with her hand resting on her cheek*

*Yaaaaaaawwwwnn* “Ahh, who’re you again? You always come here for ah…some mission from the Witch’s I think? Can’t you bother anyone else with your nonsense, I have a lot of better things to do than waste my precious energy on you agaaaaiinn…”

The tone in Eternal Sugar’s voice and manner is what really bothered you the most. Although it was fitting of the Sloth power she held, she just couldn’t care less about you or whatever inhumane actions she did to others. Granted, you weren’t much for words yourself, the most you talk is when dealing with the annoyance is Shadow Milk Cookie, so at least with Eternal Sugar you can get right to the point without any hesitation.

“At least you know what I’m here for, Beast…I’ll gladly make sure you’ve suffered in the last moments of your recreation…”

“Mhmmm, sure thing. Just hurry up and crumble already so you can bother someone else when you resurrect, please~….

Without waiting anymore, you charged at the lackadaisical Beast. Thankfully, the more you do this the more stronger and better you’re getting. Because the sooner you seal away Eternal Sugar, the better. Not just for the Witch’s and Cookiekind, but for the sake of your own mind.

————————————————————————

The eerie silence of the area you stepped into would be enough to scare any being beyond belief. It was dark, quiet, perfectly becoming the scene any scared children would have when fearing the dark. Only this was no dream, is was the brutal reality of a vicious Beast that you could never seem to get an upper hand against.

Silent Salt Cookie was just standing there, sword in hand as always. Out of all the Beasts, Silent Salt doesn’t do anything else now except wait for you. Silent Salt knows of your ability to keep coming back to life after dying and knew sooner or later you’d be back.

The quietness from you and Silent Salt was loud and easy to understand. You weren’t much for words yourself, no need to start now with a quiet Cookie. You both knew each other well enough, understanding the other’s goal in mind as you both nodded and readied your swords yet again. The area soon became loud with the sounds of clashing swords in a struggle of life and death.

Until your mission is fulfilled, until the Beasts are sealed away and no longer a threat to Cookiekind, then you will be raised from the dead. Retaining your mixture of flavors, knowledge and power, and using all of them against the foul Beasts that defiled their roles as promised saviors. Until the deed is done…

[sukunas-wife]

baby yuji who is super clingy to his dad and would rather be with him than his mom until mama has to leave to see a relative (or for some reason) and misses her so much that he makes trouble for daddy sukuna

Not sure if I wanted to do Modern day or Heian Era, but I really like the thought of

Yuji clinging to one of Sukuna’s arms while he just goes about his day sighing with a dead look and lifting his arm to bring Yuji to eye level just to make sure he’s still there. So that’s it, Heian Era it is, I’ll need to start adding that to when requests are submitted 🥹

Ryomen Yuji Sukuna loved clinging to his daddy’s side. Something the King of Curses was not used to but grew fond of in the course of days. He’s not a gentle beast and much less a soft man, but the way Yuji would cry when he entered the room, his little hands pushing him away from your chest and reaching out for him? He loved, it made him swell with pride that his son knew he was the one, he was the all powerful one and wanted to be by his side.

Many times you’d walk in on Sukuna speaking aimlessly to Yuji who was laying on his chest, one of Sukuna’s large hands almost covering him entirely. Two arms crossed behind his head, and his forth hands waved around aimlessly accentuating his points. “Hey are you listening brat…” Yuji’s little round eyes kept slowly opening and closing, doing his best to stay awake listening to whatever was happening. He let out a coo before his head fell completely against his dad’s chest and he fell asleep, little fists on his dads chest. Sukuna let out a long sigh, “mm, sleep then.”

Sukuna heard your hushed laugh and he looked at you, standing there in the doorway of your shared room. You quietly made your way over to him sitting beside him and brushing his hair out of his face. He grabbed your wrist, pulling it to his lips, and biting over your pulse point lightly. “Do you want to hold him or should I lay him down?” Sukuna let your hand slip from his before he pulled you down with him, “Leave him with me.”

Time crawled on and soon he was sleeping in the middle of your bed, his little pillow wedged between both your pillow and Sukuna’s. You could bear it but Sukuna was a menace to his own son. He’d bundle him up and throw him on his other side so he could hold you, Yuji would cry and punch his dads back with his little fists and wouldn’t stop until Sukuna would put him back in the middle. You’d smile fondly as Yuji would stand half laying on his Sukuna’s chest, and poking his face. It was funny watching how Yuji would try to touch his extra eyes and Sukuna would just hold him up in the air so he’d kick and laugh. That’s when he’d get his kisses in, and Yuji would fight harder because you were getting his dad’s attention instead of him.

Yuji did love you, he liked to hold your hand and go outside with you, he liked to follow you around and for some reason he always got clingier when you had to use the bathroom, it was “fun” using the restroom and there he was laughing and saying “hehe poopie” He loved sitting with you and drinking milk while you had tea and snacks. He learned your routine and Sukuna became curious one day when he was wrestling him around why he started kicking and trying to break free, “lemme go daddy I gonna go.” He was confused and offended, but curious why was his son running off so suddenly. He followed just to find you there sitting at a tea table outside under the plum blossoms. The soft look on your face was enough to lore Sukuna in to join you, that was until he saw the little hands pop up from behind the table in exaggerated motions like he was storytelling. “Mhmm, so you’re just like him then?” You were talking to Yuji who was exaggerating a story of how he was just wrestling with his father. His other hand was holding a sweet to his mouth where he was laid back on your lap, Sukuna was tempted to leave until you signalled him over. “I need to go to my family home soon. My only sister is getting married and my Father and Mother are requesting everyone to be there.” He sighed, he hated that overgrown village you came from. You didn’t come from a poverty stricken home but you weren’t bathing in lavishness as you were now.

“I’ll see you in 3 weeks. I love you.” Your lips met Sukuna’s in a kiss before Yuji was wedging himself in between both of you, “Bye mommy luf you.” He hugged your leg smiling up at you, you put a hand on his head rubbing his hair before kneeling down to hug him kissing his face all over and he laughed. “I love you too Yu.” Sukuna looked displeased when you finally left your home. Yuji was quick to pull on his hand to take him to wherever, everything was normal while Sukuna went about his business, Yuji lingering around until tea time came.

He got excited and started to run out into the garden where he’d always find you waiting. He stopped, The Plum blossom tree was there… but you weren’t.. no tea, no cake.. no “…mommy?…” the tears welling up in his eyes when he laid on the grass crying where the table would’ve been. Sukuna found him and rolled him over onto his side. He was red from crying, “Why do you cry?” Yuji was sniffling, tears and boogies running down his face. “ere’s no mommy.”

Sukuna sighed, picking him up by the scruff of his shirt, “stop crying she told you bye this morning, remember? She said she was leaving and you didn’t even try to go with her.”

“SHE'S NOT COMING BACK!?” Yuji started screaming and kicking while dangling in the air, “MOOMMMYYYY”

This was how Sukuna spent the rest of the first day. Yuji crying and kicking and fussing because all of a sudden he wanted to be with his mommy.

“…Lord Sukuna, forgive me but don’t you think the young prince should be consoled or at least fed?” It was one of your ladies in waiting who had stayed behind. She had the bravery to talk to Sukuna in a respectful and appropriate way which is why you decided to ask her to stay. You knew if anything happened she’d be the most reliable woman considering she was also older in age.

Sukuna didn’t bother a quick glance, “He’ll be fine, bring him here.”

There he sat holding Yuji and patting his back, “Your mother is coming back Yuji, she wouldn’t abandon you with such ease.” Yuji sniffled holding onto his dads open robes with a tight grip, “she’s comin back?” His little teary eyes moved his heart, “Yes, she’s coming back now you need to eat or you won't be here when she comes back.” Yuji sniffled with a wobbly lip. “Wan noodles” Sukuna huffed hoping he wouldn’t have to eat noodles every day you were gone just to appease the boy, “then you’ll get noodles, but you will eat them all.”

They sat at the large table, Sukuna wasn’t eating but rather watching Yuji. How the boy kept pathetically using his hashi and dropping noodles. Until he gave up and out them down only to use the broth spoon to burn himself with the liquid before spitting it out. Sukuna was amassed but intervened when Yuji threw the spoon down aggravated, “I hate it.”

“What’s wrong now?” “Mommy always helps me with my hashi and blows on my spoon…” he looked up at his father with a desperate pleading look, Sukuna swallowed and pulled Yuji’s chair closer to his side along with his bowl of noodles, “Fine.” Yuji perked up with a little laugh “eheh.”

Yuji was busy the rest of the day following his dad and playing his own little games to remember why he was crying. That was until night time came and you weren’t there to tuck him in. He laid on your side of the bed, it was so cold without you there. There was so much space. He let out silent tears and the occasional sniffle until Sukuna finally came into the room. It was past the time you would lay Yuji down so he expected him to be asleep already. It wasn’t shocking to see him crying considering you would be there with him wrestling him down to bed while he persisted he should be with his daddy. So Sukuna laid down pulling Yuji into his side, Yuji hurried his face against his dads side holding on tight, it made Sukuna’s heart waver in a way, ‘he makes it feel as if she’s dead..’ His hand ran up and down Yuji’s small back, mumbling a story until Yuji fell asleep in his hold.

The next day was just as bad, and so was the third. During the day he was fine, until tea time came along and you weren’t there to receive him, he’d run back crying to his dad, and even when Sukuna ordered to have a tea table set up the way you would it never pleased Yuji, the teapot would just sit there full, getting cold. The sweets weren’t as sweet and the sun wasn’t the same sun that kept him warm while he slept in your lap.

The week passed, and finally one morning Sukuna woke up with Yuji drooling on his arm. He still cried himself to sleep, missing you and calling out for you. He yawned, getting a weird smell and leaned down sniffing before he understood, Yuji was the source of the smell, his smelly brat. Yuji yawned slowly, pushing himself up, and looking around before falling down against his fathers arm to sleep again. Sukuna let him sleep a little longer so he could sleep a little longer also.

Finally it was mid day when he woke up yawning again and then he woke up stretching, his bones popping as he sat up. Yuji let out a yawn/scream while he stretched trying to mimic the sound his father made when he stretched. Sukuna sat there for a minute, “You need a bath.” Yuji looked at his dad in disbelief, “No!”

That’s how Sukuna ended up sitting on a stool, sleeves tied back, watching Yuji pout at him with sad eyes, “T’s cold..” “URAUME BRING HOT WATER DAMN IT” there went Uraume in a rush to keep Lord Sukuna from becoming upset. Sukuna kept scrubbing Yuji down, who kept whining when Sukuna would move his head around to get him cleaned up. Finally Uraume came back with water that was hot enough the young prince wouldn’t complain. “Tank you ‘ume” Yuji didn’t look at Uraume, instead kicking over the cold water bucket from his smaller stool.

Uraume stifled a snicker, “It’ll be a long few weeks Yuji, but you’ll live.” Yuji hummed, swinging his feet, “yeah I know.”

The day passed slowly after Sukuna wrapped Yuji in clean clothes and sat him out under the sun to dry and warm up. He was busy with his devices during the day leaving the boy to follow him around or play with his own things in his room. Night came quickly and it was no surprise to find Yuji in his room passed out on the bed again. Sukuna did his best to gently move him over only for Yuji to wake up and take hold of his arm.

He was woken up in the middle of the night by Yuji crying “don’t leave me too.” He was holding on tight to his chest and crying, snot dripping onto his chest while he tried to calm him down. “What is now?” He was too disoriented to process what was happening until Yuji started crying harder and trying to explain what happened in his dream. His dad left him in the middle of the night saying he was useless and didn’t love him anymore. And that he was leaving like his mother had. Sukuna was confused, but held him close, rubbing his back, “shh shh shh, I’m not leaving, forget your silly little dreams. I've told you before, that as long as I live I will be here with you.” Yuji sniffled, his tears drying up, and he held on tight to his dad, nodding his head forcing his eyes closed.

Which led to Yuji clinging to Sukuna’s arm that morning, and all day. It was funny to see the “King of Curses” With his arms crossed over his chest and Yuji just hanging there. It was a sight when Sukuan was speaking, making hand motions just to see Yuji being shaken around unintentionally with ease.

The only downside to this was that it lasted all week, meaning in battle Sukuna would take a strong hold of Yuji bringing him to eye level or holding him up higher to assure he was there or constantly in line of sight and out of harm's way.

It had been a long two weeks… “what of another week?” Yuji stood on his dad’s back while he laid face down on his bed, “‘m tall.”

The third week passed slowly with a mix of emotions, Yuji still cried for you at night but would fall asleep faster once his dad would start to smother him into his side. Then the day came when Sukuna needed to tend to business but knowing he couldn’t leave Yuji he took him along. It just happened to be within the hour you made it home. You didn’t expect a greeting party but it was best this way, at least you could actually find a way to rest before having to face Sukuna and tell him everything and how your parents were pushing for you to have a wedding ceremony in your family home.

”Lady y/n! You’ve returned,” Your lady in waiting bowed to you, “Lord Sukuna and the Prince just left. Do you require assistance?” You waved her off, “I’d really just like to sit down with a cup of tea please.” She gave you a soft smile as you followed her through the house and outside. Your little tea table was set up, “I knew you would return today I just hadn’t known when, rest and I’ll steep some tea.” She bowed when you nodded with a smile, “Thank you very much.”

You sat on the cushion feeling relief in your feet as you slipped your shoes off. The sun felt warm and comfortable under the plum blossoms, unlike the cursed heat of your family’s home where they refused to have more than just a few trees. The breeze was soothing as you reclined back against the base of the tree. The smile on your face was soft, thinking about your sister’s wedding. It was chaotic, everyone was happy despite the threat of the wedding being cancelled twice. The comments of how you should’ve married someone so you could also have a wedding in your family home, but now you had decided to go off and marry a curse and live secluded. The comments didn’t bother you, rolling your eyes and always answering with crude comments to match their own.

You laughed to yourself shaking your head as your lady in waiting returned. You talked with her sipping tea, until she left you to sit in peace. You sat there for another hour getting ready to get up and wait for your husbands return until you heard the scream “MMmmoommmmyyyy!!!” You saw a glimpse of his teary eyes and snotty nose when he hugged your legs rubbing his face into the bright red fabric of your robes. You looked down at him, rubbing a hand on his back and the other through his hair, “aw, did my little Yuji miss me?” You looked up at Sukuna who looked visibly relieved, you didn’t miss the faint smile on his lips. Looking back at Yuji he was holding his arms up, you squatted to pick him up and he hugged your neck. Laying his head on your shoulder he sniffled when you placed your hand on the back of his head kissing his forehead whispering to him and he smiled, “missed you mommy.” He turned his head quickly burying his face against your shoulder. You didn’t stop rubbing your hand up and down his back while you carried him in. He didn’t move his face from your shoulder after becoming embarrassed when Sukuna began to tell you everything that happened while you were away.

That night Yuji didn’t let you go, he stuck to your side all night wanting to feel you hugging him again. You weren’t away but Sukuna was aware how frequently Yuji would wake up, his little chubby hand reaching up to just graze your face before he’d yawn and curl up against you to sleep again. He wanted to make sure you were really there with them.

Tag List: soft tag are now called squishy babies :p

@sad-darksoul @satorisgirl @bontensbabygirl @lupita97lm @queen-luna-007 @venus-seeks @bofadeezs

@sakuxxi @mercymccann @certainduckanchor @najiiix @bakugou-katsukis-wife @amitiel-truth @souyasplushie @mylovelessnightmare @ynjimenez @dolliira @princessluvz @furiousblacktiger @anyaswlrd

@simpforyoubitch @domainofmarie @ilovemybabies378 @cyder-puff

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[mythalism]

It struck me how profoundly uninterested the writers ultimately were in modern elves and elven culture. After 4 games, Origins is still the only one to offer up any info on them (with 2 adding certain tidbits) & it really hit me how colored their view is by their indigenous coding such that the elves aren't really shown to have any kind of society/civilization when compared to the dwarves 4 example, a people on the brink of extinction facing an almost perpetual Blight, yet still not solely defined by their struggle against the darkspawn. I don't mean to pit them against each other, but once I made the comparison I couldn't unsee it. We're challenged to show respect and learn about their customs & history as soon as we enter Orzammar and u cannot gain their aid until u fully engage with & submit to their political demands (Halamshiral wishes it had what Orzammar has!), your only influence is who comes out on top, and even that is a decision that has to be made by really getting a feel of their society and their different wants & needs, depending on caste & political allegiances. Whereas u can stroll into the Dalish camp and nothing stops u from only tackling the main quest, which is saving them from their curse (which turns out to be saving them from themselves<-a clue that'll become relevant later) by ideally convincing Zathrian to kill himself, an elf whose Hatred of Humans has gone too far (however justified his thirst for vengeance is) so he can be succeeded by Lanaya, a city-born elf who, despite being kidnapped as a child and kept as a slave, bears no grudge against humans. I'd be more forgiving if this wouldn't set the tone for their portrayal in subsequent games & didn't turn into 1 of 2 major(&only!) themes they cared to explore wrt elves. This obsession w/ elves not being agreeable enough can already be seen in the conversations u can have in their camp where at least 3 NPCs apologise for not being friendlier and I guess to make up for this cardinal sin all the side-quests (2 conv+2 fetch-quests) reward u with cool loot ranging from prized possessions to priceless artifacts, & the fact that u can get your hands on 2 valuable books on elven history teaches us early on that with minimal effort, any part of their history, no matter how sacred, becomes available for consumption. It seems important to add that both books can be given to the Mad Hermit who says he's gonna wipe his ass with them (this also reminds me of when Marethari gifts Hawke the Somniari book for no reason & it gets added directly to your trash pile). Which brings me to the other big theme: elven history is not for elves to explore and reclaim (&any attempt is dangerous+must be punished). While dwarves are allowed to be stewards of their own history&culture, and their pursuit of reclaiming thaigs & lost history (&their deep respect & attachment to that history) is generally presented as noble, elves are afforded no such dignity. I never realised the discrepancy, but from the start you have no choice but to take a dwarf with u when exploring the Deep Roads, whether that's Oghren, Shale, Valta or Varric, you are a partner & a guest, and, while u may help them in their journey of discovery, they always retain sovereignty. The only equivalent would be us getting an autistic Dalish girlie w/ a special interest in elvhen history whenever they feel like expanding the lore, using them as a vehicle for that, then punishing them for their 'overzealous' interest in their own past.

Velanna lucks out by virtue of being a dlc char & becoming a Warden, but she's still presented as being too into the elfy stuff even for her own clan, with the final straw that leads to her expulsion being wanting to get revenge on the humans who tried to burn their clan alive & took her sister(or so she thought). I appreciate that she's not shamed for her interest in elvhen history, but it's telling that the focus is on how misguided her quest for avenging her people is, with even her clan, when u meet them, still blaming her for her sister's fate & saying they're better off without her (interesting that Justice also disapproves, while at the same time berating Anders for not 'striking a blow against his oppressors, so they can do this to no one else', but apparently Velanna should atone to her oppressors and 'teach them'). Her best ending slide also has her warming to humankind & saving a whole village of them, as if that was our primary concern/her biggest problem to overcome, not making peace with her sister's fate.

Speaking of learning lessons, Merrill gets taught a harsh one, and while u can be supportive of her, you cannot escape this lesson, whatever u do: it is the height of hubris for elves to try and reclaim their past (or think they have a right to it), only humans can safely do it. Another ostracized First, one may be fooled into thinking the objection to Merrill is only the blood magic thing, but her first quest makes it clear the question u r being asked isn't is she right to use blood magic or should she limit herself to safer methods, but does she have a right to her People's history? It's so explicit that Merrill invokes that very right, vir sulevanan, in order to get the Arulin'Holm, a tool 'as old as Arlathan itself', only, after performing the service to her clan asked of her, Marethari hands YOU this artifact that'd been in their possession since before the fall of the Dales and tasks u with holding her heritage hostage!! And instead of her being disqualified from being Keeper ever again, you're left to interview Merrill to see if she deserves smth that belongs to her & u can choose to keep it from her! Why?? Marethari could've just not given it to her. Ofc, this all comes to a head in Pride's End where Merrill is yet again denied agency by her Keeper, & worse still, that baton is passed directly to you after her death, with u having to accept your paternalistic role or else slaughter her entire clan bc they don't accept any other answer than u taking full responsibility for Merrill. And, if u still need it drilled into u what this is really about, her rivalry path culminates, not in her disavowing blood magic forever, but in smashing her eluvian. Her friendship path also makes me uncomfortable, the conclusion being her clan are too backwards to ever get it, but at least she's free to chart her own course now. Set by you, ofc. You have the final say now, remember? Still, this is the last time the Dalish are a faction with any sort of agency. Maybe that's why you can wipe them out both times.

In Inq, sadly, they're relegated to a brief stop on the map on the way to saving their colonizers, a formality in order to gain access to their ruins, 1 of their warriors, & have the pleasure of picking the Dales clean without all that pesky white guilt! They even call the quest A Dalish Perspective when you're still viewing them thru a settler's lens; they're a problem to be solved, a list of complaints, they have no interiority, no ambient dialogue & the only lines they have are strictly quest related. They also pay the ultimate price for trying to reclaim their history, their deaths as inevitable as your success in safely claiming them. Twice Inquisition asks u: isn't their history safer, then, in the Chantry's hands? Morrigan's whole spiel fits here, too, ofc, as a human mage who argues her (stolen)knowledge gives her more of a right to the Well than any Dalish could hope to have. I also find it sad that in JoH, you discover Ameridan, & instead of getting to talk to his surviving clan, the only conclusion to his quest is this: it's the elves' fault the Dales fell.

All of this to say, the conclusion 2 Bellara's arc doesn't come out of nowhere when you consider it a culmination of this throughline. You finally get to answer once and for all: do elves deserve to recover their lost history? At least you can say yes.

10/10 no notes. only thing i have to add is how interesting it is that the devs had an inkling of awareness of how harmful their writing of the elves was in previous games - epler mentioned how they took the criticism of how you can kill an entire dalish clan in every single game into consideration with veilguard.... and the conclusion was that...... "the elves had their time to shine"? and they should be relegated to basically set dressing in the background of a story revolving entirely around their own history and religion? and told "get over it. just move on." instead of just... portraying them with more nuance, sensitivity and empathy? maybe hiring some more diverse writers? a sensitivity reader/editor? or just ignore the problem entirely........ there is no war in ba sing se..... there is no elven oppression in thedas....

[muletia]

If you don’t mind my yapping then here’s more Stepdad!optimus! AU, that I hope you enjoy.

So, since the kid is rather young, we can assume that maybe the dad wasn’t around, either passed away, or left. So kiddo probably needs positive male bonding time.

Going off of my own father, I can imagine Optimus being forced to sit down and binge all the kinds of movies the kiddo enjoys. So imagine he has to babysit while reader has to go out for something (pre-relationship.)

And as previously stated, kiddo likes to give random facts about stuff like animals and plant life and so on, so no doubt the movies are stuff like Monkey kingdom, or Bears. Or even TV shows like Wild Krats and Odd squad.

Que Optimus now knowing all lore, facts and tidbits about all the shows.

Kiddo forcing Optimus to learn about odd squad villains: And that lady turns everything into patterns!

Optimus: and why does she do that?

Kiddo: I don’t know, they also beat her by using Patterns that confuse her. She is very dumb.

Optimus: ah…

And as someone who enjoys like hiking and stuff, I can imagine Optimus being invited on one with Kiddo and Reader. Que Optimus getting a heart attack because the kid is now for some reason rolling down the hill, and he’s just looking at reader who just had a ‘Here we go again’ face. (This may or may not be based on a true event of my childhood-) Kiddo was fine.

But also, I can see Optimus offering to drive reader and kiddo around, and even attending anything outdoors whilst being in his alt mode. Baseball game? Sure kid, just let me find a good parking spot.

Drive in movie? Sure he’d love to come! He doesn’t mind it’s a Disney movie!

All in all, he’s happy to be around kiddo, and is happy that reader may or may not be falling for his charm. (The charm being he now has a 1000 stickers all over him because kiddo just got back from in-&-out and they gave them some of those sticker sheets.)

Anon here is referring to this post. Once again it took me bazillion years to answer, sorry

Me thinks Optimus, even if he absolutely loves your kid’s company and does want one (or a dozen) with you, would still be super awkward around younger children. He’d struggle to adjust his tone and vocabulary to match your kid’s level. That’s why he’s lucky to have ended up with a little yapper who talks enough for three people. Optimus enjoys listening to them, even if he doesn’t understand half of the pop culture references they keep throwing around.

Also, Opti would be absolutely shocked and terrified at how ridiculously indestructible human children are. He’d be super overprotective and constantly paranoid about your kid’s health. Oh, Primus, are they seriously trying to jump from that height?? Oh, they just dusted off their knees and ran off like nothing happened.

Also also, imagine Optimus with a reader who has two kids. The sheer whiplash he’d experience when they suddenly start fighting like siblings do. Wait, this is normal? But they were just about to murder each other a second ago??

And Optimus covered in stickers… I love it so much. He never takes them off. The stickers stay on during his confrontation with his nemesis

[so-i-did-this-thing]

Hello Nicholas!

If you don't mind me asking, why did you choose the name Nicolas? Idk I just like learning why people who've picked their own names made the choice they did

(I have the incredibly silly reason of "it was given to me in a Minecraft server because it was shorter than my username and the movie Life of Pi had just come out." So now I'm Pi, and I have been for like 12 years. I didn't even like the movie that much, and the friend group all went their separate ways after high school. Fun fact, the guy who ran the Minecraft server was in my class, and he went by Link. His "real" name is Nathan. Even the teachers called him Link, and that's what was on his assignments. It was too the point where we had a substitute who did attendance, and Link almost got marked absent because he didn't realize that the sub had called his name because it said Nathan on the paper. Which is valid and honestly I'd love to reach the point where my deadname is so detached from me that I don't even realize somebody is talking about me. Also, he was Link because he loves Legend of Zelda)

Oh ho, it's Nick Lore time!

I don't internalize my own name. My inner monologue doesn't work like that. Never has. Dunno if that was from dysphoria or the autism. So, what to call myself has always been strange.

When I was a little kid, I masculinized my birth name of "Jamie Nicole" to "James Nicholas" because it was convenient. My nickname was actually "James", and this made me gender euphoric, even though the name didn't fit me.

My first real "secret boy name" was Garet, after the Weapons Master character in the Shannara book series. I just thought he was cool. I was a teenager and still into edgelord fantasy characters. It's kind of funny how in fantasy, this is a stock "rogue" name.

In college, I started toying seriously with what to call myself. It's no secret on this blog that I love the All Creatures Great & Small book series. I saw a lot of both myself at the time and who I wanted to be in the character of Siegfried Farnon, and wanted to take his name. But I also felt it might be a Bit Too Much, and tried his brother's name - Tristan - on for size. I liked it a lot. I was ready to commit.

Family and friends... did not take my coming out very well. Not with violence, but with either lukewarm reception or a desire for it all to just Go Away. Even the "supporters" at the time felt the need to tell me they didn't like my choice of name. It was devastating. I couldn't bear the thought of the name, Tristan, anymore - what should have been joy became shorthand for my rejection. I think that's a big part of why I pushed this particular piece of comfort media away for many years, despite it being so formative and literally sanity-saving to me as a kid.

So, I stuck with my gender neutral birth name (and sucked up having a feminine middle name) for ages. Until I was in my 40s. Then it become too much to bear. Hearing my birth name felt like the death of a thousand cuts.

I will admit I compromised again a bit in the end. I went back to a masculinized birth name, I just switched the order to "Nicholas James". I wanted to assert myself to my mother (who wanted me to be "James") and I did genuinely like "Nicholas". I like having a name structure where there is a formal ("Nicholas"), informal ("Nick"), and diminutive version ("Nicky") in the name. There's also a fictional Nick that I love (Nick Valentine from Fallout 4.) I won't lie, I still think it'd be fun and affirming to go back to Tristan or commit to Siegfried, but I don't want to go through the entire social and legal process again, especially because with the former I know I will get shade for being the sort of autistic that is a sponge wrt fictional character traits, and with the latter, I worry it will put me on government Lists. I do like being called Nicholas/Nick -- it is affirming and it does finally feel like my own name. And hey, "James" is the name of another character I loved in my precious book series, so I have that box checked as well.

I still don't call myself anything in my internal monologue, though. Brains are weird.

But the tldr; here, which I think you have also alluded to, is that how we name ourselves doesn't have to be seen as cringe and it's very easy to just roll with someone's choice. And god knows parents name their kids after fictional characters and random concepts all the time. Naming yourself is both affirming and vulnerable, not just along the cis/trans axis. So, don't be a dick when someone tells you they want to be called [name].

[yes-no-maybe-soo]

Help I feel like the more I play the game, the more confused I get about Sylus' actions when he first appeared in the story, now replaying his first chapters after the new ones 😭 I mean, he has this past with MC and loves her, came to the n109 zone for her, and was the one to save her from the lab where she was essentially being tortured/killed over and over for profit, but when he finally meets his beloved again he treats her terribly? he chokes her, apparently keeps her captive for days trying to force resonate without giving any explanations, threatens her with his evol when she's hesitant to go to meet Philip, all while having the knowledge she was already traumatized before meeting him, grieving the sudden death of 2 loved ones and thinking he was the one behind it?

This isn't hate at all, I LOVE Sylus. But it's like he's a whole different person in that beginning. I was hoping you could help me make sense of it, because it just seems to fall out of line with everything we keep learning about him and seeing how deeply he cares for MC. Was that just the writers playing up the dark romance with big bad criminal trope or something? Or is there actually a good reason, storywise, for his initial treatment of her?

Ok first things first – You're absolutely right. Sylus does treat MC terribly at the start of LAR. You'll never catch me defending or trying to make excuses for his actions there regardless of his reasons. The narrative itself paints his actions as bad. And Sylus too realizes that they were, and that he went too far. And I've said it before and I'll say it here again – MC would have been justified in not forgiving him or in not wanting to have further contact with him. That's why her behavior in subsequent early cards never bothered me or struck me as "too mean". She could've been a lot meaner, actually. And this is coming from someone who broke down in the shower crying earlier over how bad I felt for Sylus and all he'd suffered during his separation from MC. But much as I love Sylus and recognize the selflessness and the purity of his love, I won't justify him when he acts like a red flag (which he does at certain moments in LAR. That's just the truth.).

That being said, I can try to speculate as to the explanation behind his actions. But bear in mind that we are still missing important backstory and lore for SylusMC's past before they got separated in the Deepspace Tunnel. And as such, more than likely missing context for why Sylus acts the way he does with MC. Why he is so rough and... seemingly a bit resentful. However, I do have theories/speculations regarding that that I'll get to in a bit... a long bit because... um... yeah this got... very long ijbol don't ever ask my autistic ass to write posts like this unless you're prepared for essays 😅

But first, I need to clear up an important misconception...

Sylus has never choked MC. Ever.

For one, he just would never do that. It goes against everything we know of him. He'd never lay his hands on MC with the intent of hurting her, much less to choke her out. Sylus himself hates being choked. Him doing that to the person he loves most in the world is inconceivable.

Just look at the way he cradles her whenever she is in small danger or in real danger

He wants to protect MC and make her stronger. Not injure her. Never that.

Then there's also the fact that the scene itself from the main story makes it clear that the choking never happened.

Look at this image here. You can clearly see Sylus' hand. Which wouldn't be possible if he were choking her. Just try wrapping your own hand around your neck, and you'll see what I mean.

MC also speaks and breathes heavily in the scene which she wouldn't be able to do if Sylus was choking her out (let's be real, she'd be dead if he did that).

It's clear that he is grabbing her chin and tilting it upwards to force her to look at him. To jog her memory.

And that is exactly why MC ends up passing out (in combination with having been drugged earlier by Sherman's goon). She is reacting to his eye, to the visions their soulbond causes her (bloodstained hands). If Sylus had choked her out, she wouldn't have been out of it for as long as she was (seemingly in and out for 3 days).

Now as for Sylus' subsequent behavior... it's bad. Plain and simple. And again I am not and never will be defending it. I am just trying to speculate as to why he would be behaving this out of character with what we know re: his treatment of and feelings for MC. Apart from obviously being shocked and hurt that the love of his life that he's exchanged souls with, searched the cosmos for, built his empire for, protected from the sidelines, waited 14 years for, doesn't remember him ofc. And also blames him for the death of her family and says she wants to kill him. So Sylus most definitely wasn't in his prime state of emotional or mental stability, which I do think accounts for some of his behavior. He hadn't expected any of this and for once doesn't really know how to properly handle the situation. Especially since for the vast amount of time they've been separated, he hasn't been used to being soft or gentle. He's been pretty much going from violent encounter to violent encounter. So safe to say he's a lot more rusty at being soft and gentle than memory (as in date card) Sylus is.

Then there is of course the possibility that being rough with each other was part of their past dynamic. They certainly were in the the dragon myth, and might very well have been the case in the nebula and after. So perhaps it just doesn't initially click for Sylus that Linkon MC is not the same hardened individual as she was in the past, and responds a lot differently to rough handling.

Now, I've seen people online that theorize that Sylus bears an active grudge or even hatred for MC. That that's where his rough treatment of her stems from. Granted, we don't know what happened before they were separated or under what terms they were. Maybe something went down between them. Maybe MC was somehow responsible for Sylus' imprisonment (there is merit to this assumption – Child MC threatens to throw Sylus into Tartarus, and adult Sylus does say this line at one point "You are my unforgivable sin in the fabric of eternity. The very thing that has imprisoned me" which is... interesting).

The point is, we have no idea how their separation came about nor Sylus' imprisonment. I will say however that I personally don't think it was violent or dramatic or even hateful, just because of these lines from Sylus "We were like flowers. We were meant to grow together in the same soil. Yet you were quietly moved to another garden in a foreign land. Still, you managed to grow beautifully." Idk to me that beautiful analogy isn't indicative of resentment or angry feelings over their separation, or of MC betraying him, which knowing MC she never would in the first place. She's as fiercely loyal as Sylus is, not to mention the fanbase reaction if "we" were to betray or own LI would not go down well. So I'm not terribly sold on MC actively betraying him... If she were somehow to blame for him landing in prison, I rather believe it to be a case of her perhaps committing a crime and Sylus taking the fall for it to protect her. Which would be in line with how he operates re: her. Idk I'm just yapping trying to say that I don't see MC betraying him or their separation being dramatic.

I have seen people speculate that Sylus went to earth to kill MC. That the fury we read about in the second Timelock Key is not directed at her situation, but at her. But that he changed his mind and let her live, only to wait for her to be stronger so he could kill her fairly.

I personally don't see this at all (again, I can be wrong). Because it doesn't line up with Sylus' emotions when he pinpoints MC's location (he is melancholy, sad. Not angry). And in my mind him wanting to kill MC doesn't line up with anything we know of him or his subsequent actions. Plus, killing MC would play into the hands of fate. And Sylus' whole thing so far has been giving fate a giant middle finger.

And I don't believe that Sylus was even angry at MC in LAR and that he took her to Philip's to make her stronger to get revenge and kill her. Why?

Look at his expression here. Look at his eyes. To me it's plain that he isn't doing this out of malice or feelings of revenge. But out of desperation. A feeeling that he has to do this.

Then there is also this reaction when he learns that MC rejects him, fears him, and is disgusted by him.

If Sylus was intent on killing MC... why would he give a shit? Why would he change his ways for the better?

If Sylus harbors resentment for MC, why does that all seemingly leave here? It shows up nowhere in Death and Rebirth, for instance.

And in the iconic scene in LAR where they dance, he looks at her like this

Mind you this takes place like... one or two days after the incident at Philip's shop?

Hell, he even looks at her with love in his eyes when they first come face to face again

Doesn't look terribly much to me like a man who harbors hatred or anger or a desire to kill, but that's just me and my interpretation.

And then there is his iconic line from Razor's Grip ( a card that takes place very early on in their chronology and well before they begin to date) "You should know very well that I adore you. There is no love purer than mine"

Not the words of a man who would a) choke said object of adoration or b) originally land on earth to kill her, and then plan to kill her for the next 14 years or c) who's love is secretly mingled with hatred and darker feelings. That is not what can be described as as a pure love.

And lastly...

Sylus himself claims that he hasn't ever been genuinely mad at MC. Which if he had wanted revenge or to kill her... he definitely would have been, right?

Anyway this a very longwinded and probably overly detailed way of saying... I don't think that Sylus' actions in LAR were guided by anger or malice.

I believe they were guided by fear and desperation.

By a need for her to grow stronger so that she can both control her latent powers and face off the future threat that is for sure on the horizon.

I mean at the end of Death and Rebirth Sylus even offers to help MC with exactly that. To become stronger.

And to be perfectly honest, I think desperation and fear for her safety and survival best fits his demeanor and just how far he is willing to go in LAR. Remember, he actually overrides his core principles in that part of the story – consent and autonomy (which I believe is part of the reason why he gets so distraught later and why he never again lets desperation take over. He realizes just how badly he fucked up, how far he overstepped). I genuinely cannot see any other scenario where Sylus would do that, apart from one where he's losing his sanity to his dragon instinct or something. He has shown time and time again how much he values MC's freedom of choice and action and consent.

We know that Sylus knows about Gaia. He knows about EVER. He knows about MC. He knows that she is a target for future use and abuse. He knows that her powers can potentially spiral out of control.

And he knows that if she is to survive against future threats, she needs to be stronger. So I think the main reason why he is so forceful and treats MC roughly is a combination of his hurt and surprise and not knowing how to act over the fact that she doesn't remember and distrusts and hates him, and also his desperation to ensure that she both regains her memories and gets stronger. He thinks he's acting for her wellbeing, and at first doesn't mind being rough or forceful if that will ultimately save her. Because in his mind, talking to MC and trying to explain to her wouldn't do any good – in her eyes he is a big evil threatening criminal that killed her family and then forced her to resonate for three days. Why on earth would she listen to him much less believe him?

So, force it is. The ends justifies the means... If the ends is that she will be stronger and able to survive.

Or at least, that's what I think his mindset was at the time. It's really only when Philip both tells Sylus that MC is disgusted by him and that altering MC could potentially damage her for life that Sylus lets go of his plan (and we see him do it with obvious anguish). Then he almost certainly steps out and does some serious self reflecting, realizing that regardless of his intentions and his pain, he went too fucking far. That this has done far more damage than good and that he could have approached things better. After which he noticeably changes.

And that is what is so impactful about Sylus' character to me. The fact that he recognizes just how fucked up his behavior was and course corrects. That takes a lot of maturity. And his development because of it is all the more satisfying to me.

To end off this incredibly long post – I am sure that there are other reasons for Sylus' behavior, and I recognize that my interpretation is not more likely to be correct than most others'. I am just working purely off of the info we have as if right now (which isn't a lot) and what makes most sense personally to me. And again, I am in no way excusing Sylus. He was in the wrong no matter how you spin it. He is flawed, and I won't ever make excuses or pretend as though said flaws don't exist. If I did, it would be a disservice to both MC and to Sylus and to the writers. He is also complex and grey and sometimes... well, sometimes people just do strange and seemingly inexplicable stuff when they're faced with unexpected and stressful situations. Again, no excuse here for his behavior, just an explanation.

But rest assured that Sylus loves MC and always has. His love for her is by his own admission pure. And if there's one thing Sylus never does, it's lie.

[deconstructthesoup]

Okay, now that all of the Bad Kids have their new art out... I can finally freak out/gush over/analyze it, because I didn't have the energy to do posts for every single one.

GUYS

Fig!!! My girl!!! The mismatched shoelaces! The bass guitar from Gorthalax! The phoenix feather earring for Ayda! The fishnet! The classic leather jacket/gray band shirt/red pleated skirt combo! The fingerless gloves! THE CHAIN WALLET!

KRISTEN IS BUTCH. Let me repeat that---KRISTEN! IS! BUTCH! And she's wearing the yellow jumpsuit that we saw in her figurine but she still has the purple in her backpack and her staff and her TIE-DIE SPORTS BRA! And she's got a new hairstyle! And a rainbow bracelet AND a lesbian bracelet! THE TEDDY BEAR! THE ICE CREAM SANDWICHES!

RIZ HAS AN UNDERCUT AND GLASSES AND HE KEPT HIS TATTOOS!!!! We've got the briefcase! We've got the angelic weapons! We've got the sword of shadows! We've got GADGETS! WE EVEN HAVE ARO/ACE RINGS! He looks so cool and nifty and crafty and BADASS! My boy has grown!

Gorgug. Oh my god, I can FEEL the "going into a worry" energy radiating from this. But he's got the axe! He's got artificer goggles and tools and a rucksack! He's FINALLY got the emo ripped jeans that he always deserved! He looks so sweet and huggable and perfect! AND HE HAS THE BIG HEADPHONES STILL!

ADAINE. My god. I love this girl so much and her art is perfect. She has patches on her jacket! We can see the cool design on her shirt! She's got high-fantasy boots and belts and she's got her new arcane sword! BOGGY IS THERE! And she looks so lovely and cool and her hair, oh my god, her hair is perfect! I'm so proud of her!

And lastly, the man, the myth, the LEGEND. Fabian looks perfect. Everything from the sword to the sheet to the expression to the tap shoes is spot-on. And his outfit? He's got harem pants! He's got a stylish shirt! He's got wraps around his hands! He's doing a dance move! Man-bun Fabian is now officially canon!

(Also, I'm never gonna shut up about how the Bad Kids are now all spellcasters, and almost all of them are different than how they were in freshman year because that's how growing up works! Fig's ditched College of Whispers as she learns to be truer to herself and has claimed the coolness of College of Lore, and she's got some warlock action to be closer to her dad! Kristen's a Twilight Domain cleric instead of the Life Domain, and I remember being so excited when that became official because that domain is so freaking cool! Riz is an Arcane Trickster, just! Like! Penny! Gorgug's an artificer as well as a barbarian, which is one of my favorite classes, and it looks like he's leaning even further into it! And we can't forget Fabian double-classing as a College of Swords bard! It's so beautiful! It's amazing! Maybe we'll get Adaine doing a martial multiclass to round out the "we're doing different things!" ANYTHING'S POSSIBLE!)

[ayselluna]

Ascendant Astarion Recommendations!

I'm a fan of both Spawn and Ascendant Astarion so I do enjoy reading both. But if you want to explore and read some good shit~ Ascendant fics well here you go~

I've read a lot so bear with me, These are my TOPS~

I LOVE ALL OF THESE:

A Gift, A Curse by @elemit - This updates daily most of the time, the author is getting busy IRL but it should be back on a daily update again soon I think. This is one of the darker theme of Ascendant Astarion "50 shades of 'FCKNG LITTLE TWAT' Ancunin" as one of the comment says haha some scenes are "traumatic" but the rollercoaster ride of emotions you'll get on this story is one for the books! ONGOING!

Fangs and Fractured Hearts - by @fangsandfracturedhearts - This one's one of the softer sides of the Ascendant, the dynamic of Tav and Astarion here is exquisite! The cliffhanger on this one just uggghhhhh. i love it!! ONGOING!

Hellish Rebuke by @bludazey this one's a classic! the details on this story is so genius I swear. Also I think a lot of Astarion fanfic writers got inspired with the Devil's dealing here. Also Tav here is effing smart and just chef's kiss! such a great heroine! ONGOING!

His Star - His Queen [Originally titled Across Stars and Time] by ARandomIntrovert - Now this a bit different, What if multiverse exists? Now there's two Astarions fighting over you, Spawn VS Ascendant, where do you think this would go? :)) Story's definitely amazing and unique! I easily got invested. haha ONGOING!

In Another Life by @locallegume - Definitely a softer side of the Ascendant but Tav and Astarion's dynamic here is one of my fave! <3 Tav here is not the overly good role model we usually read, she's troubled too and definitely has effed up issues. but sometimes you just need to find your own freak and be together forever. ONGOING!

Pieces Still Stuck In Your Teeth - by @howlsmovinglibrary / @wetcatspellcaster - The amount of Banter and D&D Lore on this one is superb! you have to watch out for the writer's notes! I love how I get to learn more D&D stuff and godssss how many times I almost got so swayed by the Ascendant here! good thing Tav's so good at bantering haha ONGOING!

Remember ye not the former things by @brabblesblog - THE SEQUEL!! It focuses more on the aftermath and them working out their relationship, a lot more TAV bg story but gods, Astarion here , I just want to smother him with cuddles and kisses, TAKE MEEEEE ONGOING!

Whither is thy beloved gone? by @brabblesblog -

It has a sequel!!! - that's how good it is! <3 also The Ascendant here is my favorite! The confrontations are just so real and so true I caaaaan't. He wrote the Ascendant so good I actually sided with him more than Tav! A lot of smut ngl but I got into the characters more that I should have. you're missing out if you haven't read this. COMPLETED!

Most of these are still ongoing but I am updated w/ each, along with other Spawn Astarion fics :)) They are all good! some more soft than the others, some darker and evil :))

Let me know if you guys want to get some Spawn Astarion fics recommendations!

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐮𝐦 𝐎𝐩𝐮𝐬 : 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐲 𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲

[ 𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐥 ]

𝐚/𝐧: this story was born from a single ache—the image of Rafayel longing to paint someone, not from vanity, but from reverence… and finding himself unable. That thought lodged itself in me like a splinter. Though I remain a Sylus-girly to the bone, Rafayel has always been my quiet indulgence—a brat, yes, but also unbearably tender when no one is looking. I began to wonder: if I, not infold, were to write his magnum opus… what form would it take? This was my answer.

If you ever have a thought, a scene, a whisper of an idea you’d like to see written—don’t hesitate to share it. I’d love to create for you. This beautiful little corner of the internet has helped me fall in love with writing all over again. And if you’re curious about the hands behind the words… you’re welcome to ask. I don’t mind being seen.

𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐰: while this story draws inspiration from the original characters and lore of the game, it is a personal interpretation. Certain aspects of character behavior, relationships, or world-building may diverge from canon. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 7,602

𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐎𝐟 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐎𝐰𝐧:  [ press here! ]

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 silence that tormented him, but the absence of anything sacred within.

The silence of the gallery after hours was reverent by nature—cloaked in soft echoes of vanished footsteps, in the delicate rustle of fabric brushing past his art without understanding. It was a silence that hummed with invisible presence, as if even the air mourned how little the world saw.

But here, in the sanctuary of his studio—an old observatory repurposed—the silence had lost its soul. It was sterile. Lifeless.

And still, Rafayel sat inside it. Willingly. Willfully.

He had turned off the artificial hum of the ventilation system. Let the temperature rise, slow and stifling, until the walls seemed to sweat. A glass of wine, untouched, perspired beside the easel. The ice had long melted. He did not know when.

His chair creaked softly as he shifted—elbow hooked over the curved back, head bowed, eyes half-lidded but unblinking. The canvas before him—fresh, immense, demanding—remained defiant in its emptiness.

There was no muse.

Only memory.

And memory was merciless.

He exhaled—not loudly, but in the manner one might sigh within a chapel, when no one is listening but God.

His hand moved through his hair, slow and automatic. A smear of dried charcoal darkened the edge of his palm. He stared at it as if it might reveal something—an omen, a confession. How many times had he sat like this? Body motionless, spirit churning. Fingers starved for release, heart swollen with something too vast to name. He had told the world he painted emotion. Had smiled, faintly amused, when interviewers asked about his process—claimed beauty was the truest language of feeling, that his task was only translation.

But when she walked into the gallery that afternoon—sunlit, soft around the eyes with laughter not yet spent—his discipline shattered.

She asked if he was tired.

He had replied that beauty did not wait for rest.

What he meant was: You do not wait.

What he meant was: if I stay another minute in your light, I will unmake myself.

And so he left.

Not hurried. Not disgraced.

But with the quiet, breathless desperation of a man on the brink—one who could no longer bear to be seen, because he feared what might tear loose from his mouth if he lingered another second in her presence.

He had always endured admiration well. Knew which pieces of himself to reveal and which to withhold. It was an artform, too—this careful curation of self.

But with her, the boundaries blurred. What he had learned to guard, she disarmed.

It wasn’t dramatic. It was subtle.

The way she studied his paintings without dissecting their technique, but spoke only of their mood. The way she drifted into quiet corners of the gallery, not to be watched, but to listen. The way she remembered strange, intimate things—”You smear with your ring finger, not your thumb”—and didn’t flinch when he asked her to move closer, but didn’t, either.

She had seen too much of him.

Too soon.

And now she lived behind his eyes like a forbidden icon—one he had no right to venerate, and no strength to look away from.

The canvas still waited.

He stared too long. Until the edges blurred. Until the whiteness of it became an accusation. He reached for his brush—hesitated.

Something inside him resisted.

It wasn’t fear.

It was grief.

He could not paint her.

Not because he lacked the skill. Not because he hadn’t memorized the slope of her cheek, the hollow of her throat, the quiet cruelty of her smile.

No.

He could not paint her because he knew—if he captured her light, pinned it in pigment—it would no longer belong to him.

The world would hunger for her image.

Strip it. Devour it. Consume her as it did all things honest and luminous.

He clenched the brush until the bristles bent, delicate and gasping.

“There are people you paint with your hands,” he said aloud—not to anyone, not even to himself. “And people you cannot paint without first surrendering your soul.”

He didn’t know when he learned that truth.

Only that he believed it with the quiet, brutal certainty one reserves for mourning.

Outside, the artificial day had faded. The studio dimmed with it, yet he did not rise to reach for the light. He let the dusk settle in, soft and oppressive. Only the exposed skylight above offered illumination—dust-flecked and faintly blue, fed by the last traces of filtered moonlight from a satellite too far from Linkon to name.

Still, he did not move. Still, he sat in silence.

He let the ache of her presence-in-absence fester. Let it throb in his chest like a wound too proud to bleed.

And then—the universe is nothing if not cruel in its timing—he saw her.

Not her body. Not at first. Just a ripple of shadow in the studio’s glass-paneled door. A shimmer of light touching something delicate: the arch of a wrist, the slope of a shoulder, the breath of motion.

His spine locked. Breath halted mid-lung.

She hadn’t knocked.

Of course she hadn’t.

Knocking would have implied distance. Permission. And she had always moved through thresholds as though they were made for her.

The door eased open—not with force, but with familiarity—and her silhouette stepped into the half-dark.

Rafayel did not rise.

Could not.

He watched her with the same stillness he offered his canvas, only now it was his body that became the medium—tense, aching, unrendered.

She stood for a moment just beyond the reach of moonlight, and in that space between them bloomed a silence so complete, it might have been holy.

He saw her gaze find the empty canvas.

Then the wine glass.

Then him.

And though she said nothing, he felt it: the knowing in her, the unbearable intimacy of being understood.

She crossed the room without invitation.

Without hesitation.

And Rafayel, heart clawing against its cage, realized too late—

He had not prepared to survive her.

She didn’t ask why he hadn’t painted.

She only stood before the canvas, head tilted slightly, arms folded loosely across her front. A curl of hair slipped along her cheek. Her bare wrist caught the low light—quietly luminous.

She was calm. Utterly unbothered. She didn’t know. Of course she didn’t.

Rafayel stared at her—the shape of her framed by the void he could not fill. The canvas behind her looked paler now. Bleached. Ashen.

And he—the artist, the pretender, the coward—felt smaller than he had all day.

“You’ve been up here for hours,” she said softly, her gaze drifting toward him. “And still nothing?”

He shook his head once. He didn’t trust his voice. Not with her so near.

She stepped a little closer to the easel, her fingers brushing the edge of the wood.

The gesture was idle. Thoughtless. Gentle.

It undid him.

He wanted to fall to his knees—not in desire, but in something far more dangerous. Devotion.

“You don’t usually take this long to start,” she murmured, eyes still on the blank canvas. “That’s not like you.”

Not like me, he almost laughed. As if she knew him. As if anyone did.

But then—hadn’t she seen more than most? Even when she didn’t mean to? Even now, unaware, she pressed too close to the truth. Her voice held no accusation. Only interest. Soft. Observational.

And that, somehow, was worse.

He turned away from her.

Rose slowly. Deliberately. As if dragging his body from some spiritual wreckage.

He crossed to the far window and braced his hands on the sill, letting the metal’s sharp edge bite into his palm. He needed pain—needed something physical to hold him still. To keep him from turning back. From speaking.

Behind him, she sighed.

He didn’t know what she thought he was painting. Didn’t want to know. The idea of her imagining anything—anything but herself—made him sick with guilt.

And worse—desire.

She must think it was another commission. A gallery piece. A diplomatic portrait. Something clean. Something safe.

And maybe it would’ve been.

If not for her.

If not for the way she had walked into his gallery that morning with the ocean still clinging to her skin. If not for the way she had looked—not at the work, but through it, as if searching for something buried beneath the brushstrokes. Something lost.

She didn’t know what she had given him.

And worse—

She didn’t know what she had taken.

“Did something happen?” she asked behind him, quieter now. Almost hesitant. “You seem… far away.”

“I am,” he murmured.

A pause.

“Where?”

He closed his eyes. The answer lived behind his ribs, raw and pulsing.

“Nowhere you need to follow.”

The silence that followed thickened—dense, unspeakable. But not cruel. Not cold.

When she spoke again, her voice still held that warmth. That soft, impossible tenderness that made him believe—for the briefest, most dangerous moments—that he might deserve gentleness. That he might not be made entirely of wreckage.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she said. “I just wanted to check on you.”

He turned toward her then, slowly.

As though he feared the motion might shatter something.

She was standing by the canvas. Still unknowingly surrounded by the thing he could not name. Still unaware.

His eyes traced the delicate furrow of her brow, the soft parting of her lips—like she was about to say something. Something gentle. Something ruinous.

The studio light caught the slope of her collarbone. Her fingers played absently along the edge of the easel, as though the wood itself could tell her what he would not.

And Rafayel—fool, coward, worshipper—understood something terrible. If she asked him now—Do you want to paint me?—he would lie.

He would say no.

Because the truth would undo them both.

Because the truth was too raw. Too monstrous.

He didn’t want to paint her.

He wanted to possess her.

Not merely in body—though yet, God, yes, that too—but in spirit. In permanence.

He wanted the version of her that no one else would ever see.

He wanted to look at her for hours without shame. To study the curve of her shoulder in lamplight, the way water clung to her skin after a swim, the fragile chaos of her when she thought no one was watching.

He wanted her—bare, undone, his—preserved not for praise or immortality.

But for solitude.

For obsession.

For his eyes only.

And she didn’t know.

And he would not tell her.

Not yet.

Her gaze lingered on him—patient, unaware—and it was that unknowing, that soft oblivion, that made her dangerous.

She wasn’t seductive because she tried to be. She didn’t tempt. She simply was.

And in being—existing—she disarmed him more thoroughly than any hand at his collar ever had.

She moved toward him without ceremony, her steps silent over the old stone floor. No hesitation. No performance. Just movement—as natural as breath, as inevitable as tide.

When she reached him, she didn’t speak.

She reached for his hand.

Her fingers threaded through his like silk drawn through the eye of a needle—slow, sure, impossibly warm.

Rafayel went still.

The touch wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t romantic.

But it was intimate. So achingly intimate.

Her skin against his felt like confession.

And still—she didn’t know.

“You need air,” she said simply. “And I need a walk.”

He didn’t answer.

She looked down at the joined hands, then up at him again, one brow lifted—soft, insistent.

“I’m taking you,” she said. “Come on.”

A tug—light, teasing. Coaxing him back into his body. His legs obeyed before his mind could protest. Stunned. Wordless. He let her lead him.

And she didn’t let go.

Her hand remained laced in his as they passed through the narrow corridor beyond his studio. Past cluttered shelves stacked with sketchbooks and unfinished thoughts. Past the open door where the night air poured in, brushing the back of his neck with a kind of intimate chill.

“We’re going to the cove,” she said over her shoulder, a faint smile at her lips. “You always breathe easier when you’re painting the sea.”

The words struck him with a terrible tenderness.

Not you should rest. Not your art needs space.

But: you breathe better by the ocean.

She had noticed.

Of course she had.

And yet—she still didn’t know what she was doing.

Didn’t know she was unmaking him with kindness.

Not with flirtation. Not with heat. But with casual familiarity, with the quiet certainty of someone who had learned his rhythm simply by paying attention.

It was unbearable.

Rafayel’s voice, when it came, was low. Roughened at the edges.

“There’s no light down there,” he said. “I won’t be able to paint.”

She turned her head, moonlight threading through her hair like silver. Her grin—barely there—was mischief softened by affection.

“Then bring the canvas,” she said. “Let it watch.”

He nearly choked—on breath, on laughter, on the impossible need she would never understand.

“Let the canvas watch,” he repeated, more to himself than to her. Like a prayer. Like a sin.

She mistook the tone in his voice for amusement, and tugged his hand again—this time playful.

“Yes, Raf,” she teased. “It’s not like you to be precious about location.”

Not like him.

She didn’t know how wrong she was.

He followed—dazed, half in step, half in dream.

Before leaving the studio, he bent to retrieve the blank canvas, tucking it under one arm. A brush and a palette nestled into the crook of the other. His body moved as if it had waited years for her command.

The path to the cove was familiar—steep and winding, carved into the cliffs like an old secret. Low grasses brushed against their legs. Starleaf blooms shivered in the dark, scattered like forgotten constellations.

It was quiet here.

Not thrum of engines. No pulse of station light. Only the sound of breathing, wind, and the faint hush of waves below.

And her hand—still wrapped in his.

It wasn’t a grip. It wasn’t urgent.

It was simply present.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Because it occurred to him—absurdly, painfully—that no one had held his hand like this since he was a boy.

Not lovers.

Not muses.

Only hers.

With her warmth. Her gentle command. Her oblivious cruelty.

At last, the shift beneath their feet—sand, soft and cool. The sigh of waves brushing rocks.

The sea opened before them like a mouth unafraid to swallow.

She paused near the waterline, slipping off her shoes, letting her toes sink into the damp earth. The moon hung low above her—waxing, swollen, golden-edged like a halo.

Rafayel stood beside her, the canvas at his side, brush still clutched too tightly in his hand.

She turned to him.

Her brow furrowed, gentle with concern.

“You okay?”

He nodded.

Too quickly.

Too much.

She smiled—smaller now. Like she didn’t quite believe him, but would let him pretend.

“Paint the tide,” she said. “Or don’t. Just sit with me a while.”

He didn’t answer.

He was already watching the light on her skin.

Already drowning.

She stepped away from him with that same effortless grace she always carried—like even gravity bent to accommodate her.

A glance at the water. A tug at the corner of her lips. And then—

Her shoes were already off.

She bent slightly, fingers gathering the hem of her white dress. Not to tempt. Not to tease. Just practical. Just curious. Just her.

And still—Rafayel could barely breathe.

She waded in slowly, the sand shifting beneath her feet, soft and yielding.

The waves greeted her with quiet reverence, lapping gently at her ankles, then her calves.

She gasped at the first touch—then laughed. And that laugh, light and bright, logged itself somewhere in his lungs like moonlight.

“Still warm,” she said over her shoulder, smiling. “I thought it’d be freezing this late.”

He said nothing.

He couldn’t.

He wasn’t looking.

He was witnessing.

There was a difference.

She moved deeper, lifting the dress higher to spare the hem—absentminded, distracted by the stars above. But the ocean was greedy.

It reached for her.

Claimed her.

Inch by inch.

The soft cotton dipped into the tide, darkened with salt, clung to her thighs… then her hips.

And when she let go of the fabric—without thought, without care—it floated back down, heavy with water, soaking further.

The white turned translucent.

The silhouette of her body blurred.

Then sharpened.

Light kissed every secret curve as though the moon itself was in love with her.

Rafayel swallowed.

Hard.

He hadn’t brought his sketchpad. Hadn’t lifted his brush.

And none of it mattered.

Because this—this—was not a moment to be sketched. Not with honesty. Not with dignity.

To paint her now would be to confess something raw. Something sacred.

To admit: This is the version of you I crave most.

Unaware. Undone.

She stood knee-deep in the surf, head tilted as if listening to a sound only she could hear. Her arms hung loose at her sides. Her hair drifted on the breeze like something holy.

Her breathing slowed.

And Rafayel— He had no defenses left.

His palms itched—not with lust, but with need. The desperate, aching need to remember this moment with cruel precision.

The way the ocean coiled around her legs. The way her soaked dress curved against the line of her back. The way her body shimmered—not because she meant to, but because she simply did.

She didn’t know what she looked like. Didn’t know what she was doing to him.

And maybe that’s why it felt holy.

He stepped forward.

A breath. A tremor. A prayer.

The canvas stood forgotten behind him, crooked in the sand—and abandoned witness to his unraveling. The brush still hung useless from his fingers, untouched.

She turned then—smiling, sweet, soaked to the waist. Oblivious.

“Come in,” she said, voice easy, unguarded. “It’s warmer than it looks.”

He shook his head, the motion tight. Controlled.

“I’ll ruin the canvas.”

“Leave it,” she replied, light, effortless.

She meant nothing by it. He knew that. She was being playful. Casual.

But the words struck something deeper. And Rafayel went still—utterly, ruinously still.

His voice, when it came, was low. Hoarse.

“I think I already have.”

She furrowed her brow. “What?”

He tried to smile. It cracked at the edges. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything.

He looked at her—really looked—and the ache inside him bloomed into something unbearable.

She was water and light and unselfconscious beauty. And she was free.

Free of the way she lived in his lungs. Free of the salt lining his ribs where her name had etched itself into bone.

And still—somehow—she looked at him like he was the one who might break.

Maybe he was.

Maybe he always had been.

“Stay there,” he said suddenly.

The words came out too fast, too soft. A plea in disguise.

She blinked. “Why?”

“I just need to… see,”

Her lips parted in quiet confusion.

But she nodded.

And then—she stilled.

No pose. No performance. Just presence.

And Rafayel, trembling, stepped back. Slowly. Reverently.

Then—without ceremony, without breath—he sank to one knee in the sand.

Not to paint. Not to sketch. Not to speak.

Just to look.

To witness. To worship. To burn.

He would not touch her.

But every inch of him begged to.

She hadn’t noticed what she’d done to him.

Not truly.

She only moved deeper into the water, arms outstretched, her body loose with joy, unguarded. And then—without warning—she dipped her hands into the moonlit surface, lifted a handful of ocean, and flung it toward the stars.

It caught the light like shattered glass thrown against heaven.

Droplets spun around her like constellations, misting her skin, catching in her lashes. She twirled once—half a laugh, half a dance—and the sea clung tighter to her dress, wrapping it to her like it, too, had fallen in love.

And Rafayel—

He could not breathe.

His chest hollowed under the weight of her. His pulse thundered like wings in a storm. He gripped his thigh for balance, but his fingers trembled. His mouth was dry. His body shook—not from fear.

From reverence.

This—this—was what beauty was.

Not arranged. Not contained. Not posed for praise.

It was her—in motion. In instinct. In joy she didn’t know he’d carry with him for the rest of his life.

And just when he thought he could not bear it another second— She turned.

Water trailing down her neck. Hair curling damp at the edges. Her dress clung to her body, translucent to the thigh, shaped by salt and tide. Her skin glowed—moonlit, starlit, divine.

And then—

She smiled.

Not coy. Not shy. Just soft.

Open.

Entirely hers.

And she said, gently,

“Paint me, Raf.”

His breath caught. Frozen in his throat.

She stepped closer, the waves pulling at her legs as she moved through the surf.

Her voice was quieter now. Almost reverent.

“You never paint me,” she said, head tilted in quiet wonder. “So paint me.”

He could have died in that moment.

Maybe he did.

Something inside him certainly shattered.

Because she didn’t know what she was offering.

Didn’t know what it meant—to ask. To offer herself like that, freely. Trustingly. Like she wasn’t dangerous. Like she hadn’t already made a home in his bones.

His voice was nearly gone when he answered.

“...I can’t.”

Her brow furrowed, soft with concern. “Why not?”

The answer came in flashes, violent and unbearable.

Because I want you naked. Because I want to memorize the slope of your back with a brush soaked in hunger. Because I want to sketch you gasping—hips haloed in shadow, mouth parted in surrender. Because if I paint you, you’ll belong to the canvas. And I don’t want to share you—not with history, not with art, not even with the sky.

But he said none of that.

Instead, he dropped his head, shoulders folding in as if beneath confession. One hand sank into the sand beside him.

He closed his eyes.

“Because you’re not something to be painted.”

A pause followed.

Her silence didn’t feel hurt. It felt… considering.

And when he dared to lift his gaze again, she was looking at him the way she sometimes looked at the horizon—like something distant and beautiful, impossible to hold, but worth watching all the same.

“Then what am I?” she asked.

Her voice was quiet. Curious.

Not teasing. Not flirtatious.

And that—that—was what nearly undid him.

His throat worked around a response.

His voice, when it came, was raw silk. Low. Ashamed.

“You’re…” He swallowed. “Everything I’d never survive rendering.”

She stood before him—barefoot in the surf, soaked and glimmering, still unaware of the cathedral she had become inside him.

But she would know.

God help him— She would.

There was no shift in the wind. No divine hush. The world did not pause in awe.

But he did.

Because she moved.

Not with seduction. Not with intent. But gently. Thoughtlessly.

As though it were the most natural thing in the galaxy to kneel before him in moonlit water— To gather the soaked hem of her white dress in her hands and settle into the sand, crossed-legged, just inches from his knees.

She sat like someone who trusted him. Who didn’t yet understand how dangerous that trust had become.

“I won’t move,” she said with a small, almost secret smile. “In case you change your mind.”

She tucked her legs beneath her. The wet fabric clung to her skin—weightless, transparent. Her knees peeked through, pale and luminous. One strap of her dress had fallen from her shoulder.

And still—she didn’t notice.

She didn’t fix it.

Rafayel stared.

First at her knees—lithe, kissed with moonlight.

Then the slope of her collarbone, silvered by the night.

The arch of her throat.

The gentle, salt-softened curves of her face.

He had painted dozen of muses. Hundreds of bodies.

He had sculpted intimacy from pigment and shadow, drawn desire out of flesh with practiced ease.

But none of them—none of them—had sat like this before him.

None had trusted him without knowing what he wanted in return.

And what he wanted—

What he ached for—

He wanted to drag his brush along the line of her shoulder, into the hollow between her breasts.

He wanted to mix the colour of her flushed cheeks from memory—ochre, honey, dusk—and smear it across the canvas with trembling hands.

He wanted to taste the salt on her skin, then match its hue with devotion and ruin.

He wanted to part her thighs—not for lust, but for light—to sketch the place no one else had ever seen.

He wanted to paint her moaning. Eyes heavy. Lips parted. Neck tilted like worship.

His.

His for hours. His always.

And here she sat—wrapped in water and moonlight—oblivious to the war she had waged against his restraint.

“I don’t know how you see me,” she said suddenly.

Her voice was so soft, the waves nearly swallowed it. “But sometimes… I wish I could see myself the way you do.”

He exhaled—but it wasn’t a breath. It was a shudder.

If she knew—

If she knew how he saw her, sculpted into light and shadow in the hollow of his mind— If she knew the thousand versions of her he carried, each more unbearable than the last—

She would run.

Or worse— She would stay.

And he didn’t know which possibility terrified him more.

The brush was still in his hand.

Somewhere behind him, the canvas leaned against a rock—forgotten, irrelevant, unnecessary.

Slowly—without thought—he dipped the brush into his lap. Into nothing.

He didn’t need pigment. Not yet.

His gaze moved over her like prayer.

The edge of her jaw. The line of her neck. The place where her dress clung to her sternum—nipples just barely veiled beneath the soaked cotton and moonlight.

He didn’t move closer.

But his whisper still reached her.

“You’re already painted,” he said. “I just haven’t earned the right to show anyone.”

Her breath caught—just slightly.

Not because she fully understood.

But because something in his voice had changed.

And she heard it. That ache. That impossible reverence.

She looked at him differently now. Like he was something fragile. Something vast. Like she’d heard an echo in his chest and didn’t know what door it had come from.

“Raf…” she whispered.

His name—softened, thinned, a question and a mercy all at once.

“You’re shaking.”

He hadn’t realized.

He looked down.

His hand—so steady with every other subject—trembled where it held the brush.

And still… he didn’t touch her.

He couldn’t.

Because the moment he did, the painting would begin.

And it would never end.

She reached for him slowly.

Like one might approach a startled bird. As if some deep, unspoken part of her already sensed it— That he was burning from the inside out.

Her fingers closed over his wrist.

Gently. Warm. Human.

And that human contact—that simple, innocent touch—felt more intimate than anything he had ever known.

She didn’t squeeze. Didn’t pull. Just held him there.

Her thumb brushed over the edge of his wrist bone—soft, deliberate.

And then— With that same quiet certainty that always ruined him— She said:

“If you won’t paint me…”

A pause.

She leaned in.

Close.

So close he could smell the salt in her hair, the warmth of her breath, the faint sweetness of her skin lit by moonlight and damp with sea spray.

“...then let me paint you.”

His eyes flicked to hers—wild. Dazed.

As if she’d spoken the name of something sacred.

But she remained calm. Steady. Serious, even.

Like it was nothing. Like she wasn’t reaching straight into his chest and rearranging the way his ribs held together.

“I’ve never held a brush properly,” she added, the corner of her mouth lifting. “So you’ll have to forgive me if I butcher the likeness.”

He wanted to tell her no.

To say: You don’t know what you’re touching.

But he couldn’t.

Because her hand was already rising.

Slow. Reverent.

She reached between them and plucked the brush from his trembling fingers.

The loss of it made his skin ache.

He watched—silent, unraveling—as she turned it over in her hand, studying it like it meant something. Like he meant something.

Then—without asking— She lifted the brush to his face.

And with the softest pressure imaginable, she dragged it across the sharp edge of his jaw.

Rafayel exhaled. Sharply. Like the touch had split him.

“There,” she murmured, smiling to herself. “Strong jawline. Tormented artist stare. Tragic intensity.”

The bristles drifted down his neck. Just an inch.

Just enough to feel.

Just enough to ignite.

She lingered there, the brush hovering at the hollow of his throat.

“You don’t look like someone who forgets things,” she said, quieter now. “But sometimes… I wonder what you see when you look at yourself.”

He couldn’t answer.

He didn’t dare.

Her hand was still on his wrist. The brush still ghosted against his skin. Her knee brushed his.

And all he could think—all he was—was a man who would let her paint every inch of him if it meant she’d keep looking at him like this.

Like he wasn’t something to be used.

Or praised.

Or devoured. But something seen.

Known.

And still—still—she didn’t know what she looked like.

Didn’t know how the water traced the lines of her collarbone.

Didn’t know how the sheer fabric clung to her breasts, how the outline of her hipbone showed through like a secret begging to be worshipped.

She leaned closer—soft, unguarded.

The moonlight curved along her spine.

He didn’t dare look lower. Not yet.

Her voice, when it came, was barely more than breath.

“Why won’t you ever let me in, Rafayel?”

His breath caught.

His body went still.

And she—still holding the brush, still smiling softly—moved closer.

So close her forehead nearly touched his.

And then, barely louder than the tide, she whispered,

“Tell me what you see when you look at me.”

And just like that—

Every thread of control he had left snapped like wet canvas in a storm.

His breathing hitched—hard. Audible. Not a gasp. Not a sigh.

A whimper.

Low. Involuntary. Caught in the back of his throat like a secret that didn’t want to be kept—but couldn’t survive the light.

The brush—still in her hand—moved again.

Across his cheekbone. Over the bridge of his nose. Down the curve of his lips.

And it wasn’t painting. It wasn’t a game.

It was worship. It was desecration.

He trembled.

The bristles kissed the corner of his mouth.

And he made another sound—small, wrecked. Not quite a moan. Not quite a plea.

Something between. Something raw.

She froze.

Just slightly.

Her fingers hesitated. Her breath paused. Her eyes lifted to his.

“Raf…”

She could feel it now.

The tension. The shift. The fault line beneath his skin beginning to crack.

But it was too late.

He was already breaking.

With a suddenness that wasn’t violent but deliberate, Rafayel reached up and caught her wrist.

His grip was gentle— But unyielding.

The brush slipped from her fingers.

It hit the sand like a confession.

His hands trembled. Warm. Alive with restraint. Holding her like she was both altar and fire.

And when he looked at her—truly looked— There was no softness left in his eyes.

Only ache. Only flame.

Only the unbearable weight of a man who had worshiped in silence for far too long.

He stared at her like he was memorizing her soul through her pupils. Because he was.

His voice, when it came, was wrecked silk. Frayed at the edges. Low. Ragged.

“You don’t want to know how I see you.”

She blinked. Her lips parted.

“Raf—”

“Because if I tell you…” His hands tightened—just slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to keep her there. To hold her in the moment that had already devoured him.

“...you’ll never look at me the same again.”

She didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe.

And so—he leaned in. Forehead to hers. Nose brushing nose. The space between them erased by heat.

“I’ve already painted you,” he whispered.

“A hundred times.”

A breath.

“In my head. In my dreams. In colors that don’t exist on any spectrum.”

He didn’t pull back. Didn’t flinch.

“Nude. Wet. Laughing. Gasping. Whispering my name like a prayer you don’t believe in yet.”

She inhaled—sharp, startled.

His grip didn’t loosen.

“I’ve painted your thighs trembling. Your lips parted. Your fingers tangled in the sheets.”

His voice cracked—just once. A sound like longing torn at the seams.

“I’ve painted the look in your eyes when I push you to the edge— and make you fall for me.”

A pause. A swallow. A shudder.

“Over and over and over again.”

A whimper caught in his throat. He swallowed it like a sin.

“I don’t paint you,” he said, His voice dark with ache, eyes burning with something too human to name.

“Because I can’t share you.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“Not even with a canvas.”

She didn’t speak right away.

She didn’t have to.

Her breath hitched—barely. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Then back to his eyes.

And then—so softly it hurt—she whispered his name.

“Rafayel.”

That was all.

But it was everything.

It was permission. It was surrender. It was herself, placed in his hands like a fragile offering.

Her finger rose, slow and trembling, and pressed flat to his chest.

Over his heart.

She felt it. The thunder. The ache. The worship.

“Show me,” she breathed.

“Not in words.”

A pause. Her voice was a thread—thin, trembling—drawn taut by want.

“In touch. Show me how you’ve seen me.”

He didn’t move. Not at first.

He just stared at her like she was a vision he might ruin by reaching.

And then—wordlessly, reverently—he lowered her to the sand.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t forceful.

It was gravity.

The way his hand cradled the back of her neck. The way he guided her down like she was already part of a masterpiece—like every second of this had lived in his mind, and now he was only tracing it…

with breath.

She lay back, her hair spreading like ink in water, dress clinging to every curve.

The waves curled around their feet—gentle, expectant—like even the sea had grown quiet to watch.

Rafayel knelt beside her, eyes devouring every inch with the hunger of a man who had fasted for too long.

His hands hovered.

Trembling. Hesitant. Reverent.

“I don’t know how to touch you,” he confessed, voice barely breath, “without worshiping you.”

She reached for him—both hands. Pulled him down until his chest met hers, until the weight of his longing pressed into her skin like a truth.

And when he kissed her—

It wasn’t a kiss. It was devotion.

His mouth met hers with no force—only awe. Like he still couldn’t believe she was real. And then again. And again.

Until he was breathing her name between gasps. Until her fingers slid into his hair and he was shaking.

“Tell me if I need to stop,” he murmured against her lips. “Tell me if you don’t want this.”

But she didn’t stop him.

She didn’t speak.

She arched into him instead—hips lifting, breath catching—answering with motion what her voice couldn’t yet carry.

And that was when he broke.

He groaned—low, guttural, ruined.

And then he kissed her jaw. Her throat. Her collarbone.

Each touch slow. Sacred. Seen.

Her dress clung to her like second skin—soaked, sheer, trembling against her curves. And when his hand slid down her thigh, her breath hitched— so sweetly so sharply he thought he might cry.

“I’ve imagined this,” he whispered against her skin.

“Not just your body. Not just this moment. But the way you’d look when you finally let me.”

His palm slid reverently over her hip, mapping her like scripture.

“Let me see you,” he murmured. “Let me have you. Let me… remember you like this.”

She nodded.

Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Breath caught between ache and wonder.

And Rafayel—trembling, undone, devout— began to undress her beneath the stars.

Not with haste. Not with hunger.

But with the hands of a man who had loved her in silence— and was only now, finally, allowed to speak.

His fingers found the hem of her dress, soaked and clinging to the shape of her thighs.

He curled his hands beneath it, breath catching as the wet fabric slid over her knees… her hips… her waist.

She lifted her arms without a word.

She offered herself.

And when the dress peeled away from her chest— when the final inch passed over hear head, leaving her bare beneath the moon—

Rafayel forgot how to breathe.

He didn’t look at her like a man stipping a lover. He looked at her like a man standing at the edge of divinity.

And for a long, trembling moment— He didn’t move.

He just stared.

Her breasts, soft and perfect in the moonlight. Her skin, damp with salt and breathless heat. Her stomach rose and fell too fast—like she hadn’t yet decided if she was nervous or undone.

She moved—instinctively—to cover herself.

But Rafayel reached out, gently, and stilled her with a hand at her wrist.

“Please,” he whispered.

His voice cracked on the word. Fractured.

“Don’t.”

And then—slowly, reverently—he leaned down.

Pressed a kiss just below her collarbone. His eyes stayed closed.

As if the sight of her and the feel of her would be too much to survive at once.

She arched beneath him—just barely. Her breath caught—sharp, fragile.

And he followed it.

With his mouth.

Down her sternum. Across the swell of her breast. To the tender hollow beneath it.

Each kiss was a vow. Each exhale, a brushstroke. He painted her with devotion.

And then—her hands rose.

To him.

Fingers at his shirt. Slow. Steady. She watched him as she undid him, like unwrapping something she’d been waiting her whole life to touch.

He didn’t help. He needed to feel it. Needed to remember what it was like to be chosen by her hands.

The fabric clung to his back, damp with sweat and sea air. And when she peeled it off— when her fingers brushed his bare skin for the first time—

He whimpered.

Not from pleasure. Not exactly.

It was relief. It was release. It was I’ve waited too long to be touched by you.

She paused. “Did I hurt you?”

He shook his head—too fast, too violently.

“No,” he rasped. “No. Just… please…” His breath shivered. “Keep going.”

And she did.

She dragged her fingers down his ribs, over the ridges of his abdomen, like she meant to memorize him from the inside out.

Her nails grazed the dip between his hips.

He shuddered.

A full-body tremble. So intense he dropped his forehead to her shoulder, breath catching hard.

“You’re so warm,” she whispered, stunned. “I didn’t think—”

“I’ve been burning,” he breathed into her neck. “For so long.”

She kissed the side of his face. Just once. And then her hands found the buckle of his belt.

He froze.

“Can I?” she asked.

Her voice barely a breath. Barely a ripple against the crashing tide of his heartbeat.

He nodded.

Eyes closed. Hands fisted in the sand beside her. Trying to stay grounded in a body that no longer felt like his own.

When she opened his pants— when her hand slid along his skin, beneath the waistband, so slow, so careful—

He moaned.

Low. Deep. Broken.

A sound torn from the hollowed-out center of him.

His hips jerked into her hands—helpless.

And then, wrecked and breathless, he whispered—

“Touch me like you’re painting me.”

She stilled.

Heart pounding beneath him. Fingers pressed to skin like brush to canvas.

And then— She did.

She touched him like he was art. Like every inch of him mattered. Like she wasn’t taking. She was learning.

Worshiping.

She moved with slow, devastating intention—tracing him, shaping him, seeing him.

And Rafayel—gasping into her mouth, clinging to her like she was the only real thing he’d ever known— didn’t know whether to cry, or beg, or fall apart completely.

But he knew this:

This wasn’t about possession.

It was about becoming.

Together.

At last.

She kissed him again—slow, open-mouthed—like she was pouring something into him that had no name yet. A language made of breath and promise.

Then she pulled back, just enough to look at him. To see everything.

The ruin. The reverence. The ache he had carried in silence for so long.

And then—calmly, without hesitation—she moved.

Shifted her weight.

And Rafayel made a sound he didn’t recognize.

Because she was moving. Not away. But over. Above.

She straddled him with quiet certainty, thighs cradling his hips, the sea brushing her calves, moonlight catching in the hollow of her throat.

She was bare.

Radiant.

Flushed with salt and heat and the weight of intention.

And he looked up at her—stunned, reverent— like a man who had never been looked down upon before. Like someone who had always been on his knees, and only now understood what it meant to be worshipped back.

Her hands flattened on his chest. Her hair slipped over her shoulders like shadow-drenched silk.

She leaned down, her mouth hovering just above his—

And whispered,

“Let me show you what you look like when you come undone.”

He moaned—quiet and hoarse—like the sound had been carved from somewhere deep inside him he’d never dared touch.

And then she reached between them.

Her hand wrapped around him—soft, steady, sure—and guided him to her entrance.

The first brush of her heat against him made him choke on air.

“Wait—” he gasped, hands flying to her hips, shaking. “You don’t have to—”

But she was already sinking down.

And Rafayel—

Whimpered.

It wasn’t wild. It wasn’t desperate.

It was soft. Fragile. A sound of awe and surrender. Of unbearable joy.

She took him in—slowly.

Inch by inch. And every inch felt like a vow being broken open inside him. A lifetime of silence cracking down the spine.

Above him, she breathed hard. Her brows drawn. Her lips parted in a moan that trembled out into the starlit dark.

And Rafayel—helpless, undone, watched her ride down his length like she was meant to. Like her body had always known the shape of him. Had waited for it.

Her thighs tightened around his hips. Her hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders.

And when she was fully seated—when he was buried inside her, shaking—

She stilled.

Just for a moment.

Just to feel.

The waves curled around their legs, warm and rhythmic. The tide rocked with the same slow ache as their breathing.

She looked down at him—breathless. And then she moved.

Slow.

Measured.

Like she was testing the weight of him inside her. Like she was sketching him with her hips. Like she was painting his pleasure into the shape of her own.

Rafayel’s head dropped back into the sand. Lips parted. Throat bared.

His moans dissolved into gasps—soft, broken things.

“God,” he choked. “You’re—”

She rolled her hips.

The sentence died.

She did it again.

And he sobbed.

Not loudly. But like it mattered.

Like this was what he’d been made for— To be ruined beneath her. To be remembered by her body.

Her hands found his.

She laced their fingers together and pressed them into the sand beside his head—anchoring him. Keeping him grounded in the sacred storm of her.

And as she moved—rising and falling, her breath catching, skin slick with sea, sweat and surrender— he whispered her name like prayer.

Over. And over. And over again.

“You’re beautiful,” he gasped. “You’re mine. I��ve seen you like this. I’ve dreamed—fuck, please—I dreamed this.”

She leaned down, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her voice the softest thread of sound.

“Then take it,” she said.

A breath. A heartbeat. A vow.

“All of it. Take what’s already yours.”

And Rafayel—

Rafayel did.

But not with thrusts. Not with hands. Not with heat.

With eyes.

With memory.

With soul.

Because she—arching above him, body curved like poetry, skin flushed by moonlight and motion— was not something he could ever take.

Only receive. Only remember.

She was not a moment.

She was a masterpiece.

Not the kind framed in gold. Not hung in galleries. Not studied under cold museum light.

No.

She was the kind no one saw.

The kind kept. Locked away in the hidden chamber of the artist’s mind— a relic too sacred for public worship.

His magnum opus.

There would never be another her.

Not like this. Not moon-drenched and unguarded. Not whispering his name like scripture. Not moving above him like brushstrokes carved from longing.

Not offering herself as both canvas and creator— as both subject and storm.

This wasn’t sex. It was truth.

And the truth was—

He would spend the rest of his life trying to recreate this moment. In oil and pigment. In charcoal and breath. In shadow and light.

And he would fail. Everytime.

Because she wasn’t something that could be captured.

She was something that had to be felt. Lived. Ruined by.

And as she rode him— waves lapping at their thighs, her breath catching on his collarbone, her heart pressed to his—

Rafayel looked up at her like a man kneeling at the altar of his undoing, and thought:

Let the world have my genius. Let the critics hang my name in gilded halls. But let her—

Let her be the one thing I never shared. The one thing I made for no one else. The only thing I ever got right. The End. — © 2025 by Sylus Little Crow

[darkopsiian]

Drew the og 4 again, I still really love the originals that helped skyrocket everything. Biotape Bestiary information below.

So I am in the process of making a little project I'm calling the "Biotape Bestiary". Which will be an informative digital booklet of slides containing simple information and coloured drawings of all the Biotape monsters. That way people can see them coloured, and get minimal information on each creature if they didn't or are unable to listen to the pearl they originated from. The panels would also contain tidbit addendums as well; small pieces of lore that MOTH didn't explain because he either would've not cared to mention it, or I just wanted to add something funny. Stuff like how the Pulse Lizards only listened to MOTH because they thought since he had the biggest antenna; he was in charge. Or how Hellion and Symbiote are his only confirmed female slugcats. It'll all go in order of appearance, from Hellion to Otiopathys. Because bad news bears... the Celadon pearl had the last batch of fusions, what I'm going to be covering next is something that'll likely take me a very long time... and learning new skills again. So I'll be doing this in the meantime. <3

[rwrbficrecs]

A combined rec list for July & August ❤️

Before This, After That by @orchidscript (book-verse)

@dot524: Henry has a serious horse-riding injury and is in a downward spiral with his recovery until Therapist Alex pulls him out of it. I liked the sharp-edges interaction between them as they fall for each other. I actually read this one a while ago and it was just as good as a reread!

The darkest part of the forest by @everwitch-magiks (book-verse)

@suseagull04: I've loved this entire series, but this was my favorite by far so far! The way the author does world building in her fics is incomparable, even in a fic this short! I would love if she decided to make this a multichapter someday!

Count The Stars and Constellations by @everwitch-magiks (book-verse)

@suseagull04: I've said it once already this month, but it bears repeating: the way the author does world building in her fics is absolutely phenomenal! This one's an outer space saga for the ages, plus it's a multichapter, so we get to see Alex and Henry fall in love over the span of several years, and it's a bit angsty, but absolutely worth it!

An Exquisite Temptation by @tinyarmedtrex (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Henry became a Catholic priest to escape his homophobic family. Never did he expect to meet a stunningly attractive and equally charming, mouthy Texan who would seriously challenge his devout faith. Y'all can guess where this is headed, right? Delicious in so many ways: emotional, full of ‘80s vibes, angsty, smutty—an absolute masterpiece! Chef’s kiss!

How to get over Henry Fox: A list by dazedandconfused (book-verse)

@na-dineee: This AU is set in 2002, and Alex breaks up with the love of his life Henry. Even though it's clear they’d only be apart for a year, the story is still so gut-wrenching. The hurt and angst really got to me—reading that fic is a challenge, but it's absolutely worth it.

late night devil (put your hands on me) by @nine-butterflies (book-verse)

@suseagull04: The way this author took a 4 chapter fic and gave the world so much history and lore is absolutely incredible! Plus there are so many moments of Alex and Henry's relationship that're reminiscent of the book. Everything about this fic is amazing- and it's also definitely a good fic if you're looking for something for Halloween when it arrives soon!

right there beside him (all summer long) by @theprinceandagcd (book-verse)

@daisymae-12: The winter in Australia had me craving a story with summer vibes and this fic was perfect for that. Loved everything about this fic!!

Interrupted (series) by RadioFriday (book-verse)

@dot524: Henry is diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, just like his dad was. This story follows him and Alex through their painful journey, including the end of it and beyond. Read this if you’re in the mood to have your heart broken, over and over.

the very essence of love by dollarstoreannabethchase (book-verse)

@suseagull04: It's RWRB, but from Henry's POV. The angst of the original is heightened in this (believe it or not, it can be done), but that makes the ending that much sweeter, and I loved the insight into Henry's thoughts!

somewhere in your world by @callmevenji (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Prince Henry, student at Oxford, tries to reach a hook-up gone wrong – and ends up texting someone else entirely: Alex. A deep chat friendship unfolds, while simultaneously Henry begins to fall for the charismatic FSOTUS. Whether it’s the universe at work, coincidence, or fate, the pleasure of reading this heartfelt fic is indescribably beautiful !!

In the Grand Scheme of Things by @itsmaybitheway (book/movie-verse)

@suseagull04: Meet cute at a wedding, instant attraction, intellectual banter- this fic has it all! Plus this is the best AU characterization of firstprince I've seen in a while, it's fantastic!

marked by rizcriz (book/movie-verse)

@zwiazdziarka: a soulmate AU with some extra drama - Henry learns that the reason he hasn't met his soulmate was his grandmother's plotting. Extremely well executed - my heart was breaking and then singing when it all turned out well.

Someday Soon I’ll See You (But Now You’re Out of Sight) by MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays (book-verse)

@dot524: In the mood for some intense angst? I needed like two business days to recover from reading this one. The story is a devastating view of complex grief as different characters deal with Alex’s death. I thought that the odd and asynchronous ways the grief manifests for different people was raw, real, and well done.

peace by @raysletters (book-verse)

@suseagull04: This is the Sky High AU I didn't know I needed! I love how this isn't a carbon copy of the movie but uses each character's strengths and weaknesses- and it's also just a very cute magic high school AU, which is just the cherry on top!

Son of a Gun by foux_dogue (book-verse)

@na-dineee: I hope you’ve all read 'It's not a secret' by now? I wasn't aware until it was published, but I needed that follow-up so badly! In this fic, which can be read as a standalone, Alex cuts down his work as a tattoo artist to take care of the kids (good thing Henry is loaded) and inevitably has to deal with the Milton-Saylor Academy Mom Squad. Absolutely wholesome, full of domesticity—just like, excellent!

You Set The Tone by @iboatedhere (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Alex is an emergency room doctor and Henry a pediatrician in the same hospital, and their animosity (read: infatuation) with each other began just as unfortunate as in canon. Their gradual coming together, intertwined with the medical emergencies, is wonderfully crafted. The tension is effortlessly maintained over 70k words, never feeling contrived. I was so moved while reading, it hurt phenomenally good, and I cried more than I have in a long time.

pick your poison babe (im poison either way) by sheWritesToLiveVicariously (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Co-workers to lovers with lots of emotion and a touch of angst—it never gets old, right? This 5+1 story is part of the "little moments that pass us by" series, and like all the stories in it, it's rather short, but full of feeling, very soft, and so touching. I'm already looking forward to hopefully many more fics in this series.

Down In The Valley by @aforgottennymph (book-verse)

@daisymae-12: This Stardew Valley AU was such a lovely read and as an avid stardew valley player, I thoroughly enjoyed all the little easter eggs and references to the game. Even if you’ve never played Stardew, this is still such a sweet and delightful read!!

[urautismdiagnosis-wistie]

LANGUAGE HEADCANONS

including the vegimals, also some pirate culture lore for kwazii ig

@calamaroo

BARNACLES

Barnacles learned basic English as an extracurricular when he was younger, but he only really learned it (and gained the accent) when he went to university in Manitoba (polar bear capital of the world and the university works by, with, and for indigenous people with a lot of foreign people coming to study). he's got a similar thing with the speaking Russian and I'm gonna steal the specific language of inuktuk from you.

Also because the Arctic has so many different countries in it (although everyone in the Arctic considers themselves as just "the Arctic because wtf are u gonna do about borders? come through the snow storm and take me to another snowy white spot that looks exactly the same (to you) as the other snowy white spot I was in? FCK borders in the Arctic no one there gives a sht)

Anyways they do have a common sign language because I LOVE SIGN LANGUAGE AND WILL INSERT IT EVERYWHERE I CAN

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

KWAZII:

Kwazii did grow up with a very mixed pirate crew, although A LOT of members were either English speaking or Japanese speaking predominantly , he also watched a lot of old kids anime as a kid in Japanese as well lol. not to mention the native island cultures they often interacted with including my very fictional "meowri" (they're sphinx cats with ttattoes and very loosely inspired by Polynesian cultures)...

Because of the general culture of the pirate crew being diverse (esp cuz of interactions on ports/other crews) there was also a lot slang and terms that was known shared and sort of used as a basic communication system for everyone.

so there'd be random Spanish and Arabic terms from the most niche origin points just being used commonly, and that includes a lot of outdated ones, cultural sayings, or words that just don't exist in a lot of other languages, and etc

not to mention that because of how old the pirate clan he was a part of was (founded in 1920s) and because of the different crews there's genuinely like hundreds and hundreds of them being in these isolated communities and even being born and raised in them. so there's a lot of words that cant even be found anywhere else, so kwazii does get frustrated when he cant express what he wants to say but he just... cant even translate the word

OR the words everyone else uses for it doesn't make any sense! it... it kinda makes him feel stupid sometimes

also because his clan did work with a lot of wild animals as non tech sources of information (you feed them and then they get u good info!! for strategy, spying, whatever! and no one even blinks an eye cuz its just a crow (an extremely intelligent bird)!) but uh... the problem with that is that well alot of animals uhhhh misunderstand stuff

so that means that all the names of locations, descriptions of wild animals, ways of naming ships, and all the information would've have to have been animal comprehension friendly. not to mention be more coded cuz of non-friend pirate clans and G O V E R N M E N T S- so I'd get some wacky name replacements for all sorts of things.... its really a mess XD, a beautiful mess but still

also explained why so many of the pirate tales about *insert scientific name of the episode's animal* was often over exaggerated with strange details... including ones pirates shouldn't even known. Like how could they know about sword fish making the water around them warm?

its because a lot of that info CAME from the animals... animals who... don't understand numbers and say things like "and it was 20 feet tall!" even if it was only 5.... because it FEELS that tall to the small animal yk? also not understanding science on a deeper level so its all explained in a strange way. Ofc the pirates DONT help the issue because they be exaggerating the hell out of their own stories-

yeah sure the snake was "long as the river itself" Cj and SURE it was 20 sharks or whatever and not THREE that chased you kwazii

lying in story telling is just a form of pirate love actually, so is pranks and pickpocketing but kwazii refrains lol... this turned into me yapping about the blorbo

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BASIC COMMUNICATION SKILLS:

Speaking of the basic communication thing, the octonauts crew was trained on the main words for rescue related communication in more common languages like Arabic, Chinese, Spanish, etc and will take time to learn (or just refresh) before heading to a new location.

Because in my own au the communication abilities of the wildlife is a lot more limited based on their level of intelligence. so an orca would technically be bi lingual in their own orca language and be able to speak nearly identical to a humanoid person

also like I said before about sign language, BASIC PIRATE SIGNS THAT ONLY OTHER PIRATES KNOW AYYYYYYYYY

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DASHI:

Australian Dashie my beloved<3 honestly she WOULD have learned several languages and learned more for/from her friends shes so capable and incredible fr. also FCK it MORE sign language! I headcanon shes CODA, which means you're the child of one or two parents who are both either hard of hearing or Deaf! so she actually was learning sign very VERY young from her mom <3 and well the rest of her family cuz they all knew it lol

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PESO:

peso is obviously bilingual and he's the BEST at the basic communications skills thing and most well versed cuz he deals with the most animals one on one, so he actually can communicate with pretty much all the animal creatures, even taking the time to learn some slang terms the animals might have learned so that they'll feel safer and more comfortable around him!

he also picks up on a lot of dialects especially since his cousins are so diverse

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TWEAK:

as for tweak she knows a lot of Spanish actually because hey! Miami has A LOT Spanish speakers, so much that's its actually made an entirely new developing dialect unique to the area!

tweak actually understands a decent amount of Japanese and Russian but.... not for normal conversations, more like because of all the engineering studying she did! research papers, studies, articles, lectures, books etc etc... so she could probably have a full conversation about the physics and math of submarines in those languages but if you wanted to talk about like... how you're feeling today or what you want for dinner she can not answer that LMSO

INKLING:

inkling would absolutely know like SO many languages, I have the headcanon that the reason he actually met barnacles in that university was actually because he studied LAND SPECIES for years (and continues to enjoy observing his crew and doing behavioural experiments on them without anyone noticing, esp since they're so diverse and they're in such a unique social environment on the octopod! but shhhh don't tell the others it would ruin the natural response they have! he does this with love btw)

hes also literally mega brained so I'd be surprised if he didn't at least understand the basics of any language the octonauts knew purely based on his own curiosity....

SHELLINGTON:

hehe Gaelic go brrrrrr

also because I headcanon Shellie as being a a mix of Eurasian otters and small clawed Asian otters, I think he does have some Philippine heritage and knows some Tagalog but not that much and he's a bit sad about that in all honesty. his *ss would also know latin

VEGIMALS:

IVE BEEN PLANNING TO MAKE A VEGIMALESE LANGUAGE POST:

ok so basically their language is entirely unique and not just because of them being the only known vegimals:

the thing is that their vocal cords (or vegetable/fish equivalent) isn't really made for the languages they hear on the octopod... or English.

the thing is they are their own little pod, and during their earliest developmental years they spent the MAJORITY of their time only with eachother or with shellington, what this means is that while some of the verbal and auditorial cues they have is just innate to vegimal understanding- (and also had difficult time replicating sounds shellington made, while it being easier to replicate a word one of the other vegimals made)

they quite literally made their own words for a lot of things while talking with eachother, before shellington had even realized! a lot of their language development did formulate very similarly to english (and Gaelic) because that's what they were hearing from shellington!

as they continue to grow and get older (they're really only about like 11 to me) their English has actually improved a lot, because they've learned how to mimic the others better, that's how they learned that the vegimals still used a lot of the literal baby talk words that shellington used with them while they were growing up, but just in their own original language

not to mention a lot of their language does have a lot of the meaning derived from the enunciation, tone, rhythm, and etc... so that means its a bit harder for those who just.. don't have the built in brain biology to distinguish those sounds to understand them

ofc shellington did literally raise them so its much much easier for him to understand because (whether he realizes it or not) he was actually learning the language AS they developed it! ofc over the years the other octonauts have actually started to subconsciously pick up on the meanings of those more subtle language features of vegimalese, and combined with knowing the vegimals slang/phrases, and the vegimals learning how to replicate more and more English ones, their understanding of the vegimals only keeps increasing

but to anyone else who isn't an octonaut its.... kinda like hearing a lil guy yip yip a bunch of gibberish and then everyone else in the room going "oh yes of course! that's a great idea Tototofrit! and don't worry, well make sure our fish friends aren't scared as we perform your very clever and crafty plan!"

also my friend said I can pull off a decent vegimal accent so if anyone wants any tips lmk (I would stim in vegimalese in middle school btw LMSO but I did learn a decent amount on how they pronounce things and their speech patterns... still working on perfecting it but I got some starter tips LOL)

also the reasons halibeet and pikato don't show up as much as the other vegimals is because they're just genuinely more introverted, halibeet and pikato do enjoy each other's quiet company tho (as well as the other vegimals, but they're really more homebodies who just aren't as into the whole adventure stuff)

[nb-n0v4]

Ok so, the vampire!Emmrich AU idea has taken up residence in my brain (and also is possibly turning into a "all of the veilguard is some kind of mythical/fantasy creature" AU so there may be more art forthwith) but my main thought was that for me, vamp!Emmrich is old, like a couple hundred years probably, but he was turned at the age he is in the game, somewhere in his 50's-60's. and I was like hmmm well, assuming he made all the same accomplishments before being turned, he would've had Manfred before he got turned/cursed (more on that later), which means that Manfred would've been alive about that long too. Sooo, for the vampire Emmrich AU, I've decided that Bellara was not exchanging letters with Professor Emmrich Volkarin, but rather, she was exchanging letter with-!

He eventually learned to craft himself a glamour and he works with the Mourn Watch now! Still cookin on the full lore and such but I'm very excited to explore the idea of this :D also ngl I like the design for him I came up with, I kinda tried to combine both his looks and I wanted his glamour to bear at least some resemblance to Emmrich, since I think they have kind of a father-son relationship goin on

[m1d-45]

dead leaves

summary: the creator is meant to be worshipped and praised, exalted to the highest of high. so… what went wrong?

word count: 1.2k

-> warnings: mentions of blood, you die multiple times, bitter(?) ending, spoilers for xiao lore (but it’s not said to be xiao specifically so technically you could read and just not know it’s him but now that i’ve said that you know it’s him so-)

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me

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it wasn’t meant to happen like this.

it was never to occur at all, in fairness, but like this?

the clouds parted to make way for a single glitering star, shining a white hot gold. the whole world turned, stopped and stared in awe, every leaf on every stalk bearing witness to the one they called god.

it wasn’t supposed to be like this. the golden shine poured through the tall windows of a palace meant for you, the heretic in a crown ordering your people to betray you. their hands shook where their followers could not see—perhaps even they were aware of why the trees were rejoicing.

you, blessed you, torn from your home by the divinity in your blood, picking yourself up from sand with barely a vague memory of your location. walk, climb, walk again, and that’s where you learned how to swim, led on by the crumbling stone of barbatos’ statue. the squirrels chittered and the hilichurls retreated, not wanting to frighten you, bandaged hands seeking shields and clubs to keep busy instead.

mondstat is the nation of anemo. happy and bustling, merchants calling across courtyards, adventurers waking with the sun to continue their trade. a cool breeze welcomed you, tugging you along a stone bridge, the winds quiet.

so quiet, in fact, that the archon stirred from his slumber early, reaching for his bow.

you never even made it to the city gates. the doves on the bridge hopped closer as you approached, the knights on duty watching how eagerly they pressed themselves against you. a nod, a twist, a chain of knights leading up to the headquarters, all set on edge the moment the acting grandmaster cleared them to engage.

the first casualty was a bird. it had flung itself into the air, halting the arrow in its tracks, drawing your attention to the man standing atop the city wall. another bird died before you understood his crime.

leaves dappled the ground in shades of green, warm light falling on you as you ran. you didn’t know where you were going, really, and why would you? who had a contingency plan for when everyone they loved turned away? the river tumbled over smoothed rocks, the bright beacon of the statue of the seven pleading for forgiveness even as it’s archon wanted you dead.

mondstat was the city of freedom. could it still be called that when you bled out before you could reach the border?

you couldn’t die. literally, you couldn’t. ley lines converged where you were crossed, absorbing the dissipating flakes of your physical body. the earth hummed beneath the anemo archon’s feet as he watched divine blue blood be sucked up and swept away. was it a hallucination? how would he know?

elemental energy coursed through the earth, sprouting again at the geo through which it bled, releasing the holy light it carried and supplementing with its own. within the hour your eyes opened again, unsure whether to pray it was a dream or wonder which god could hear you.

liyue, nation of geo. the stone hummed beneath your feet, though you didn’t walk toward the city. you’d learned your lesson fast, and a spear to the gut would certainly take longer to kill than an arrow to the neck. not that it mattered, of course—the adepti are too in tune with the land to not have noticed your arrival.

as it turned out a spear does hurt more, which you learned when you found it sprouting from your stomach in the split second before the pain hit. bright jade stained blue, betrayal glimpsed in the dying eyes of the one alatus once called his savior.

and it began anew.

teyvat bubbled with anger, torn between enacting vengeance on those that hurt its maker and protecting you. you were taken to places of shelter, but people learned to follow where nature raged loudest. even if they didn’t, if storms kicked up in false alarm to draw them away, intuition toward their creator was sewn into the hems of every living creature. hilichurls could only hold up for so long, and the millelith were used to dealing with vishaps. the dense forests of sumeru were memorized by the most vigilant forest watcher, the consecrated beasts in the desert too big to keep up with the agility of the general mahamatra.

how cruel for you to die like this, at the hands of the ones you should have been able to trust. how cruel for you to die at all, stabbed in the back by those who should have worshipped you.

the one on your throne was tolerated, just barely so, rationalized as the people needing an idol to follow in your continued absence. but now you were here, now they had no reason to be, and visions began to go haywire whenever they entered the throne room. boars outran hunters, trees tangling over boots as nature wrought vengeance on behalf of its god.

you were everything.

every scholar sought to understood your world further, your spirit found in every star in the sky. to study the world was to study you, how every string was woven into the universe. when you looked to the earth the soil said hello, the trees bowing before their creator, and yet your most beloved artwork was the one that hated you the most. was it hubristic to think a mortal could truly kill a god, or pathetic that they believed the fraud so quickly? they didn’t have elemental energy buzzing at their fingertips, they didn’t have the respect of the world, only commanding people, those easily swayed by a similar face and lucky coincidences. they were nothing like you, you who held galaxies in your blood, you who created the sky and the seas and the creatures within, who created everything. who was everything.

…and now you were nothing. lost in the ley lines that frantically searched for a place to host your body, outrunning the hunt for the god of all. nothing, half conscious in the heart of the earth, within a cave that had cracked open for this very purpose. hidden, the entrance sealed by stone itself, only allowing in slimes that helped sustain you. how cruel, the skies wept, torrents of rain falling in punishment. the fraud barely left the palace anymore, which was only standing thanks to reinforcement from the geo archon. were it not for their lie, they would be dead a thousand times over, killed in every way you had.

but they were in the palace, hidden where the world could not reach. so stone cradled your body, carefully ensuring you still continued to breathe, leylines redirecting to offer energy. not awake, not asleep, stuck in a stasis while hell raged around you.

it’s alright. teyvat would have its revenge eventually. lightning would find its way into the palace, someone would bring something carrying elemental energy into the throne room, something. the fake would die and you would be born anew from the earth, weak and tired but alive, most importantly.

anemo brushes off dust that begins to settle in your clothes, hydro doing its best to soothe the cracks on your lips. geo rolls you over so you don’t bruise, dendro adjusting its net of vines to keep you stable.

eventually…