#they say bards have talented hands

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Salome!

"La Belle Dame sans Mercy" ("The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy") - A ballad by John Keats

"The poem is about a fairy who condemns a knight to an unpleasant fate after she seduces him with her eyes and singing." please

This screams Knight!König x Fairy!Reader to me.

I just know König would gladly die by the hand of such an ethereal being.

"She looked at me as she did love, and made a sweet moan."

"And sure in language strange she said—'I love thee true.'"

That’s it. Thank you.

I swear this artwork kills me everytime I see it....

Ok this became the silliest fairytale ever 🩷✨️

CW: Historical AU blending with mythical/supernatural AU. König being a dreamy mess of a knight who doesn't fit in "normal" society. Reader is part of faefolk. Heavy Arthurian Romance vibes.

König returns to the castle one day. The son of a great liege lord, a warrior through and through, but some people say he should’ve been a poet: so dreamily he looks beyond the battlements at times, sighs after drinking too much wine, stares off into dark corners of the room while tending to his sword and armour as if he can see little pixies dancing there.

His siblings sometimes hit him on the back of his head, or wave a hand over his eyes when he’s about to slip into the fairy world, a forgotten plane that is not supposed to reach the castle. But the castle stones were taken from the moors and the woods, the old land not bending to the priest’s will no matter how many crosses they brought here. Fragile souls are wanton prey for the elves and the fairies who would take them to their land the moment they drop down their guard, and only prayer and fasting hold them at bay. In the fairylands, there is no toil or sorrow; the food is golden honey and wine, the dance and love everlasting, and the fae girls more beautiful than any human maid.

It sounded too good to be true, and it was: God had created men to work and women to give birth, and all the land was theirs to use and cultivate, it was not made to simply run and frolic upon. Some say that these were just old tales and that Christ would banish these creatures away, turn the land to yielding crops and tame firewood.

But some still believed.

When he was a child, the mighty son of the feared lord took porridge and almonds to the woods. “For the fairy people,” he said with bright, trusting eyes. Stole food from under the mistress’s nose, and no one ever dared to say anything about it.

But when this nonsense carried on to adulthood, people had to intervene. There was work to be done, war, harvest and building, and no matter how many coins this man paid to the visiting bards, it would never turn their stories true.

His arm was strong and his strike was true, but his head seemed to be filled with dandelion wine, even when he hadn’t been drinking. Sighed after this maiden or that, wished to travel to foreign lands, courted every nobleman’s daughter who visited the castle, but no one ever took him seriously.

This man had to watch how lady after lady chose some other valiant knight as their husband, some men whose heads were not filled with fairytales and dreams. They did flirt with him, for who could’ve resisted the temptation of making this giant a little sweaty under all that armor? Armor that demanded plate for two people, and a smith who had the talent to forge such a beastly thing.

Nevertheless, he was always left without a warm embrace, and so he was usually found outside, looking at the full moon or spending time in taverns, choosing the company of thieves and rascals over his serious kin.

And now he has returned from the woods, having been gone for months.

People thought he had finally left to fight for some other lord, posing as a simple footsoldier, a disguise that would relieve him of his tedious duties as a knight. Or to court some “lovely peasant girl” he always talked about – such talks were usually crushed by his father, demanding him to be sensible for once in his life.

But he doesn’t prattle about peasant girls now, nor does he ramble about screaming ships at the bottom of the sea. He doesn’t hold a speech about forgotten stone circles in the forest, the ones that already grow moss. No, he has finally lost it completely.

His eyes are wild, as is his hair; his armour is nowhere to be seen, and his sword is without its sheath. He doesn’t talk about what he saw in that forest to anyone, nor is he willing to tell where he has even been these past few moons.

He seems very shaken when he’s told they were worried he wouldn’t make it to the May Day feast, and asks for how long he was gone, drives a hand through dishevelled hair when he hears that he was away for three full months.

“Three months…” he mutters to himself, then leaves to his room, the huge sword dragging against the stone floor as he goes. He has always, always made sure it wouldn’t dull, but now he’s treating it like it’s become a part of him, confused and lost.

He doesn’t eat, hardly speaks after that.

The food tastes like ash, he says, and the ale tastes like bile. But the following evening, when his mother orders someone to pour her poor son some more wine, he looks up helplessly like a child.

“I have to go back,” he says.

A clamour arises, huffed exclaims of “What on earth is he on about” and “Sir, you only just got back!” His father rises from his chair and orders him to stop this nonsense at once. But this time, there is no embarrassed sweep of hand through hair, no red colour that rises on this peculiar knight’s cheeks. His lips only make a thin line before he rises as well and leaves the hall with a weight on his shoulders and dark determination in his stare.

At the stables, a stout Moorland pony and poor stable boy get to witness the drunken bawls of a forlorn knight. The wine sack almost slips from his hands to the dirt as he slumps against the timber of the stall, distorted face coming to rest against a wide, shaky palm.

Luckily, a friend of his knows where to look, and the stable boy sneaks into the shadows, slightly scared of the sorrow of such a big, intimidating man.

But even the companion who always listened to every enthusiastic story since they were kids and ran across the moors, throwing little rocks at his father’s soldiers and laughing when their helmets made a funny clinky sound, can not understand the drunken babble that comes out of König’s mouth this time.

He starts from the middle, which is highly unusual, and talks in strings of sentences that don’t make sense. “She was real, I just know it,” he repeats, over and over again in the middle of confessions about how beautiful she was, how her hair was like the softest spun yarn, her body incredible, naked and wild when she came to him. That her laugh was like the chime of little bells or the sound of the loveliest harp, a song on its own when she walked to him.

She was fascinated with his sword, especially the pommel and the handle interested her, and the curve in the middle of the blade she brushed with her fingers as if it was an entire vale.

He had never seen a woman touch his sword like that… They were never interested in such things, but she was, and she asked him so many questions.

Had he ever felled a tree?

Did he like squirrels?

Were his thighs as hairy as his chest?

She took him down the river, or he followed her; he can’t remember. Her step was so light it didn’t make a sound, and the moss seemed to turn brighter every time her little foot stepped on it. Her hands were tiny too when she wrapped them around his neck, pressed her body against his, and kissed him until there was nothing left of him: no helmet, no sword, nothing but sun and her, her hands and her lips.

Her mouth was still on his when she whispered she didn’t like his armour because it was so hard and rigid and cold, oh, she wondered if there was a man inside there at all.

So of course he showed her.

She giggled at the sight of him, especially his thighs, knelt down on the moss to see how hairy they were.

And would you believe the way she touched him then? It makes him heady even now…

Yes, he took her. But not the way a man takes a woman. She came to straddle him and laughed again, and the things they did together… He can’t even speak about them, but he knows the sun always shined when they rolled on the grass. Her giggles and moans surrounded him, her soft little thighs were stronger than they looked, her breasts so round and soft, so perfect he swore he had gone to heaven.

He bathed in her, with her, all day long. And the nights… You wouldn’t believe the nights: there was song and dance and more giggling women, and also a man dressed all in leaves, so big and thick he first thought he was a tree. An old king, she said, nothing he should worry about. And the wine tasted like summer and honey and gold; it was red, perhaps, but also like sea amber and sun…

She fed him flowers and laughed, caressed his face and said he’s the biggest and hairiest human she had ever seen. She let him lick honey from her fingertips and caressed him with heather and ivy, opened her mouth before feeding him a soft, sweet piece of cake, showing him how he needed to open his mouth as well if he wanted it on his tongue.

She kissed the crumbs from his lips and trailed a finger down his chest, all the way down, until…

Oh, he can’t talk about it.

It was better than he ever even imagined: better than the stories they tell in the taverns. It was like his wedding night, over and over again, it was like he was Lancelot, and she was his Guinevere.

No, no, she was not an enchantress, although everything about her was enchanting... All the stories came alive with her, even the moon was bigger than anywhere he’d ever seen, the deers ran past them while they made love, and the birds sang even at night.

He told her he loved her, but she didn’t know what it meant. When he explained it to her, she looked at him gently, so gently…

He cried from joy then, but she never mocked him. She only said it’s a sign that he’s hers. That he will never forget her. She said he’ll always find her, even when he’s old: she will make him young again. He’s welcome here if he wants: she has so many places to show him.

He thanked all the saints for having found her, Saint George and Saint Mary first, but stopped when her little brows furrowed with sorrow. Her eyes, filled with starlight and love, turned so sad that his heart couldn’t bear it, not for one beat.

The sea is far wilder here: he should come and see the ocean as it was at the dawn of time. The ivy is so strong you can use it to climb the trees and see the whole world from atop the tree, the whole land, covered in forest, such as it was before humans came. There’s no smoke or fire or war: just green everywhere, wild rippling streams and honey bees and berries and fish for everyone who ever feels hungry... They can make love day and night, and she’ll teach him all the songs of old. Humans only remember bits and pieces, but she knows how things really happened, she can tell him everything about heroes, kings and queens.

She said she wanted to sleep, and so he took her from the feast and laid her on the grass… She might’ve sung to him, he can’t remember, but it was like an angel’s caress all over him, somber and sweet before the dreams took him, a dream within a dream.

He slept for ages, it seemed, saw so many dreams, each more beautiful than the last until he woke up and saw that the forest had turned grey.

There was no maiden in his lap, no dance and song in the distance, no scent of flowers and dreams and springs to be found. The sun was up in the sky, but it didn’t paint all the colours with gold or fill the streams with light. The forest was half dead to him, just old, thick trees around him, a green-grey forest floor and a shaggy squirrel who chirped and squeaked at him as if it was his fault that the fae folk were gone.

He searched for her, called for her, but she didn’t answer, and how could she have? He didn’t even know her name. He only knew how lovely she felt, how soft her hair was when it fell to cover him like a veil, how adorable her sighs and tiny little gasps were when he filled her, over and over again.

His armour was nowhere to be found, and his sword was somewhere downstream, half covered with leaves and dirt, rusty and beaten by the wind. It was early spring when he came here; the land was still barren and grey, but now, everything was green. Still, it was not the green he wanted. It was not the green that filled his vision entirely, bright, blooming green that pulsed with lush joy. It was just… earth and grass and dirt.

So you see, he has to go back. He has to find her, whatever it takes. She promised he could always come back… She promised…

He cries once more, head bowed and mighty shoulders trembling from the force of his sorrow, and it is no use to tell him that the fae folk are evil. That they’re from the Devil and only want to make good, decent men like them forget. Forget their duty, their laws, their Christ.

It’s no use to tell him that it is not natural, the place he has seen. No doubt he has been somewhere, but it cannot be anything good… No man can survive on flowers and spring water for three months; they cannot frolic with the faeries for days on end without losing their mind and soul.

And König is already lost; he was lost since he was a child, rambling about how he received flowers, sticks and stones as tokens of the faefolk’s gratitude because he brought them food.

He tries to tell the boy who never grew up, the mightiest man in this kingdom, the dreamiest knight there ever was, that he needs to return to the real world. No fae woman would have him as a husband, they are only after his soul. But surely some human lady would take him into her bed, think about it, for God’s sake, please... He has duties here, people who love him, his father would make him a lord if he only put himself together. What kind of knight would abandon his sword, helmet and armour for the sake of an elf who despises the saints...?

But in the morn, König is gone.

His rusty sword is on the floor, the wooden cross taken off the wall. There lies a honeycomb and a flower on his window, a blossom so sweet it cannot be plucked from any field around here. Too exotic and bright, especially when placed atop the rough, grey stones, it looks like it could never wither from how beautifully it blooms.

The peasants now tell a tale of a man that haunts the woods: a huge giant dressed all in green, donning a leaf cloak of some sort and a beard that grows ivy. But they say he is not evil: he only shows himself to hunters who are about to fall a deer, or children who remember the land with little gifts.

Old men say they saw a green man when they were kids and brought bread and milk to the faeries, they swear to this day they saw a man who greeted them with a smile. And when they looked again, there was nothing but a tree where this giant stook, a young oak, sighing with the wind...

[thatdeadaquarius]

Have some more language brainrot for your brainrot

Writer reader getting kind of insecure that even if they write something nobody will understand it, so when Al haithem askes you if he can keep a draft or two just for analyzing, there's hesitant agreement but ultimately you tell him to please burn the documents once he's done. They're too awkward to look at now...

Only he doesn't burn them, in fact he ends up recruiting several people close to the creator with knowledge of olden speak to analyze them. A funeral parlor consultant well known for his historical knowledge, a 500 year old shrine maiden who owns and runs her own publishing house, and a bard who somehow butted his way in on the project. None of them could resist the opportunity to witness the creator's sacred scriptures with their own eyes.

Needless to say, the papers ended up being fought over and have been making their rounds around your acolytes. It started with Ei, who insisted that as an archon she also should see the creator's work with her own eyes. Then once Ningguang found out, she ordered they be handed over to a team of literary analysts in order to be properly handled and deciphered. Things got really messy quick, but have luckily come to a halt as none of the acolytes want the creator to know their random writings are being fought over.

Especially when it comes to the creator's sullen additute. Their acolytes first have to convince their holiness that their inability to read and understand the creator's writing shouldn't prevent you from doing what you love. In fact... could they convince you to write some more?

WRITER OR READER WITH TALENTS HAS MY WHOLE HEART LIKE-

On one hand, same 💀 id be terrified for my all time fav skrunklies to see my bs

But at the same time i rlly wanna show them goddamit- THANK U FOR THE BRAIN FOOD IM RUNNING LAPS AROUND MY HOUSE THINKING ABT THIS-

Sun: Gender Neutral Reader (they/them), Writer!Reader

Planet: Language Shenanigans

Orbit: Scenario

Stars: Alhaitham mostly, some of Kaveh, mentions of other Sumeru characters

Comets & Meteors: Content Warnings: Insecure about craft/writing, anxious first pov (not serious),

& Trigger Warnings: Mild Negative self-talk, insecure perspective/reader “you”, possible anxiety depiction.

You were not a very confident writer.

This had been an avoidable feeling ever since you picked up a pen for the first time and were asked to write a story for school.

You were always anxious turning in essays, letting friends proofread them, anything that would expose your writing to more eyes, because you’d learned the hard way early on that as you get older and better at something, the stuff from the beginning… starts to look a lot different than you remember.

things you used to be proud of after having completed them in the moment, were something you struggled not to rip to shreds a year or two after you re-found it.

If it weren’t for other writers advising holding onto old work so you can see your progress over time, you’d have probably literally nothing older than one year on your ao3, wattpad, etc…

So when you had the fortunate luck (no it is not unfortunately, you are very happy to be here tbh) to fall headfirst into your video game you’ve been obsessed with lately,

You were not planning on showing them any of your writing.

Why would you, after all? You’ve got the weapons, the artifacts, everything they need to be more powerful. Why would you show them a silly little story you wrote? Fanfic or otherwise, not that theyll recognize any characters besides themselves, but still.

Alhaitham, bc ofc it was alhaitham, cocky, deviously aware bastard he is, caught you writing in your spare time first.

You’d gotten your hands on an old journal (if made you feel better than something completely new, a nice worn leather journal, sold at a secondhand shop from an old adventurer) and had started to write what you could remember about some of your ideas you’d had drafts for in your old world

After initially walking in on you writing in the House of Daena (it was the closest you could get to lofi girl, god u missed her lmao), you nearly jumped a foot in the air bc Haitham’s a nosy bitch and leaned over your shoulder and scared the absolute shit out of you, mans goes from asking politely, to begging you to let him read some of your writing over the course of 3 weeks (a month really)

Finally, after this 6 ft (about 180cm) man leans down one day (you’re sitting writing again), and gives you the most insanely good?? puppy dog eyes??? you’ve ever seen on a man???

you give in, revise a draft about 5 times in a row, lose sleep bc ur having a breakdown about alhaitham judging ur writing the night before you give him his copy-

and hand over a small short story for him to read. you specifically leave a little note not to judge you so hard for Haitham bc u werent used to people reading ur work/let alone someone as highly academic as him, ESPECIALLY since your speech is already so much more archaic than his/all of Teyvats-

His stupid green eyes with diamonds look into your soul (are they sparkling??) and he braces your shoulders after you give him his copy,

“Mine Greatest Guide, you hath deemed this one worthy of thy trust of your creations personally, I would be a fool to gaze upon it in jest. To take this work as anything less than a masterpiece in its infant stages.”

…you just leave him to it, and are nearly running out of there (u managed to be calm enough to just speedwalk),

and you make a point to not ask what he thought about it, or even bring it up at all

you’re kind of hoping he forgot tbh… and so nothing happens!

◇

Nothing happens… for 2 weeks after you gave Haitham a copy of your short story.

You still don’t know Alhaitham’s opinion when you see the advertisement, a sign saying something about, a new book? By YOU???

You nearly start a mob because the shopkeeper insisted you sign some copies, but you only signed a few before too many people overwhelmed you, and seeing it was that same draft- !! Oh god, you’d been agonizing over the spelling errors you’d missed when you gave it to Alhaitham, and now it’s just out there???

(luckily it seems the reviews are positive, but dammit you’ve been rereading ur story u gave him for days, and now ur positive it’s shit-)

You make a break for it, and are literally running (more like speed-walking after a while, since u got further away) thru Sumeru City:

you pass by the open patio of a restaurant, the scholars are heatedly discussing ur characterization-

you pass by Dehya, Candace, and Dunyazard, the merc is waving around a copy of ur book, the other two women look excited abt the conversation-

oh my god-

Nahida is relaxing in one of the many little gazebos thruout Sumeru, while Wanderer seems to be reading your story to her-

You fucking track down Alhaitham’s house like a bloodhound.

You are banging the infamous gay roommates’ front door, panting til ur throat burns raw.

“Yes, yes, alright, greetings to you too! I was simply visiting the Acting Grand Sage Alhaitham, tis why I’m here- Greatest Lord?!”

Kaveh is nearly jumps a foot in the air at the sight of you, but recovers, (you’re still not tho lmao)

and invites you in bc apparently, Alhaitham’s been meaning to talk to you about your draft you gave him!

Oh yeah, you’ve got some words to give Haitham after giving him that damn draft privately-

But when he sees you, the fucker just- smiles??

Like he’s done nothing wrong???

You’re about to tear into him when he speaks first to tell you the good news!

He grabs your hands at the table and gets down on one knee, ohhhh no.

Alhaitham is giving you those damn begging puppy dog eyes again.

“My Greatest Lord, Giver of Power, and Guide to All, your exquisite story has entranced all of Teyvat, might I please insist you write a sequel? It is an excellent literary piece to analyze… or perhaps, even better, share other stories you’ve written??”

…

….Motherfucker.

☆

Hello I’m alive! I just took a longer-than-usual break between posts from those last 2 mammoth pieces about gifts,

1: bc they were a lot to write in between writing other stuff like fanfics im already working on lol 2: I got busy with holidays and trying to apply to jobs!

Not that I’m still not doing that.. but you get what I mean!

Safe Travels Anon,

That being said, as you’ve probably noticed, I’ve made a kofi! so if you ever liked my writing (hot mess it is) and want to show me some love, feel free to leave a tip! :]

Iced coffee?? :0

💀♒

☆

♡the beloveds♡

@karmawonders / @0rah-s / @randomnatics / @glxssynarvi / @nexylaza / @genshin-impacts-me / @wholesomey-artist / @thedevioussmirk / @the-dumber-scaramouche

[baldursgate3tempobsessed]

You wanna know what I'm surprised I haven't seen more of? Bard Tavs serenading Astarion, or singing him to sleep with a lullaby composed just for him. I'm sure Astarion would eat up all that affection.

This is so cute omg. And also managed to be an actual drabble instead of a novel! As always cw for spoilers!

~

Astarion woke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest as he frantically looked around. But he wasn't in Cazador's torture room. No, instead he was at the Elfsong, safe and sound in a private room. It had been another nightmare, a typical occurrence as of late.

Atarion had assumed that those would stop after the monster was dead, but they seemed to be more frequent than ever. It felt unfair. He had won. Cazador was dead, by his own hand. There was nothing left to fear. Well... that wasn't including the tadpole still trapped in his lover's skull, not to mention his own. And the Elder Brain. And the cult of Bhaal. But in all honesty, all of that felt so small now with his slave master disintegrated. If he could do what had felt impossible, what had been impossible, for centuries, why couldn't he accomplish the rest?

Astarion groaned as he sat up, realizing for the first time that he was alone in bed. But luckily enough you hadn't gone far. He turned to find you sitting on the window sill, illuminated by the moonlight as you scribbled away in your journal.

You glanced over at the sound of his shuffling, your brow furrowed, "Star? Why are you still awake?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Astarion sighed, the coldness of your side of the bed coming into full perspective. He would like that fixed sooner than later, "Now come back to me, it's cold."

You smiled, slipping down from your perch to join him in bed. Astarion wasn't quite sure when such simple actions would stop making him melt like an infatuated teenager. He was starting to think that it would never come to an end.

You laughed softly as he immediately wrapped his arms around you, cradling you against his chest, "You know how I love to sleep in fits and starts. But you don't exactly have the same excuse, do you? You look so tired lately."

Astarion frowned, loathing the fact that his lack of sleep had become so obvious. But then again, if anyone was going to be familiar with his night terrors, it would be you. He sighed, "Just nightmares. Nothing you haven't heard before."

You frowned, "That doesn't make them pleasant."

"No," Astarion laughed softly, "It doesn't. But now it's your turn. What were you up to in the middle of the night?"

"Just some writing. I've been working on a few things."

"Like what?" Astarion asked, sincerely curious. You were quite the talent as a bard, a fact that he was aware of before he fell in love with you.

"A new ballad mostly, with a lullaby on the side."

That sounded well within your wheel house, though this was the first time he'd heard of you writing a lullaby, "What inspired that?"

"You," You said simply, "But I know how you get when I'm all mushy, so I kept it to myself for now."

Astarion hadn't expected that, but that massive smile that broke out on his face at the news wasn't a surprise. He kissed the top of your head, still smiling to himself, "I don't recall ever saying I disliked you being a sickening romantic. Can I hear it?"

You looked up at him, surprised for some reason. Which was frankly silly. Who wouldn't want to hear a song written about them from the person they loved most? For once in his life Astarion was being the normal one here.

"You want me to sing to you?" You asked, sitting up in bed to smile down at him.

Astarion grinned back, "I wouldn't object to it."

"Well in that case..."

And then you started to sing. Astarion adored the sound of your voice, and apparently he loved it even more when you were singing about him.

Little star, so bright and fierce,

Beautiful with eyes that pierce,

But that's not all there is,

He's strong and swift with perfect lips to kiss, a humor that is only his,

Charming and witty, a wish come true,

If only the rest of the world knew.

Astarion wasn't quite sure when he fell asleep that night, but it was to the sound of your sweet, melodious voice and with a smile plastered to his face.

And for the first time in days, he didn't have a single nightmare.

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Does Tav ask Astarion about his embroidery/sewing at any point? :)

Oh absolutely.

As much as it would be hilarious for them to start this line of inquiry after finding his infamous underwear in their laundry, since they’re still struggling with reading, it’d probably start a bit more naturally

Ace!Tav isn’t bad at sewing. They’ve had to learn how to patch their own clothes, the same as anyone else in their profession. But it’s never as clean as they want it to be

One night Astarion sees them sitting by the fire, humming to themselves as usual as they patch up one of their shirts

The humming is starting and stopping as they struggle to make a clean stitch; this is the third time this week they had to patch this shirt, any more and it’s going to get obvious

Astarion, exasperated, just takes it from them and does it himself; honestly, how did they survive this long? Just because they’ve spent most of their life sleeping in the back room of a tavern doesn’t mean they have to dress like it

He hands it back to them, much faster than they ever could, their shirt appearing as if it had never been torn in the first place

Amazed, they ask him how he did it

Astarion just says he’s had a lot of practice, he’s had the shirt on his back for over two hundred years

Tav starts to go to him whenever they get a fresh tear

Astarion makes a show at being annoyed, but a part of him is pleased to be useful in a way that requires skills he taught himself because he likes it, not out of necessity to survive

The fact that Tav always lavishes him with praise every time is just a bonus

Post-absolute Tav encourages Astarion to figure out what he likes to do (besides murder and general acts of destruction)

That’s when Astarion starts to properly experiment with embroidery and sewing and finds he has a real talent for it

He enjoys focusing on the finer details, allowing his mind to fully focus on the task in front of him

He likes knowing he can create something beautiful with his own hands

Tav goes out and buys him supplies and thread and anything else he needs

It’s very much something he does just for himself, at least for a while

He finds he likes making his own clothes, fully using it as a form of self expression

He also takes the time to make things for Tav, embroidering details into their clothes or a new outfit for a special occasion

Tav has never paid that much attention to their looks outside of performances, but they’re always proud to wear anything Astarion makes them

If there is anyone who can appreciate the power of artistic expression, it’s a bard

I do like the idea that years down the line, when Tav has gotten a bit to old for adventuring, the pair of them settle down somewhere

Tav still performs and while Astarion opens a tailoring shop

He keep strange hours and not stellar at customer service, but that’s what Tav is there for

His work is impeccable though, so nobody can really complain

Rumor goes around the town about just how much the pair of them have stored away in treasure so bills aren’t really an issue

It’s more a way to pass the time

It’s a home, a true home, something neither of them have ever had

(Astarion x Ace!Tav Masterlist)

[namis-gf]

Just saw that you’re open for one piece requests and thought I’d drop by.

Would you consider writing back rub and back kisses hcs for katakuri or marco please? And best of luck with the come back ^^

anon ur so insane how did u KNOW i was thinking obsessively about katakuri for the past two weeks straight... ur too good. i meant to stick closer to the prompt but the plot kinda got away from me, sorry!

summary: strawhat!reader x katakuri meet again after many years apart during the whole cake island arc. luffy has been trying to convince him to join his crew with no success, but maybe he might listen to you?

word count: 969 words / 0.9k

cw: none? i think?

whoever said katakuri was 48 year-old eldest daughter syndrome is absolutely correct. he has so many hangups when it comes to both physical and verbal affection, most of the time preferring to passively sit by and let people bother him. case in point, your captain. instead of immediately setting sail for zou to meet up with everyone, luffy has taken it upon himself to convince the minister of flour that his presence is desperately needed on his crew. permanently.

and, if you're going to be polite about it: things aren't going well. you've watched for two days straight, luffy yelling either to the gentle giant's face (which is still quite a distance from the ground), or attempting to scale the walls of katakuri's home. neither of those particularly difficult for the rubber boy, considering the house slash castle itself seems to be basically falling apart.

you wait. nami often sits by your side, either grouching about the time, plotting your captain's demise, or napping on your shoulder. chopper and brook have taken to an almost betting ring of sorts, getting the remaining residents of komugi island to guess whether their leader will stay or go. so far, the odds aren't in luffy's favour. as usual, you might add.

at the end of their fourth extra night, luffy returns to the sunny. he looks a little downtrodden, yawning, but has somehow gotten a hold of a handful of mochi. "i think katakuri was trying to kill me again, but he lost. the food he makes is really yummy though, shishishi!"

with a sigh of your own, you offer, "let me talk to him, i have an idea."

"you do?" luffy replies, mouth full of sweets, "go ahead!"

"call if you need anything!" chopper chimes in.

nami only shakes her head. "if you don't come back, we'll assume you got trampled to death or something. so don't do that please."

"don't even worry about it, i'm basically a pro social hustler," you tell them, and begin the walk to the castle.

"so you are not a bard, or a songstress, or a very small jester. your presence here confuses me, you did not seem like someone who would ever become a pirate," katakuri tells you, his tone as solemn as ever.

"is this a roundabout way of saying i don't have any talents?" you mock-gasp with flair, "oh you wound me so!"

he stares at you wordlessly. okay, it looks like jokes are off the table.

"but you missed me right?" you try instead, putting on your biggest smile. "you missed me so bad, must be why you look so grumpy all the time."

"is your captain aware of..." he pauses, considers, "does the strawhat know of your past?"

"sort of?" you shrug your shoulders, shifting forward to adjust like you aren't already lying on one of his legs (truly the world's largest couch). "there was never exactly a good time to bring it up, ya know? like how was i supposed to say 'uh hey guys, i used to work here as the world's worst gardener before i got fired'."

"hm, that does seem difficult," katakuri nods. "i could not tell how much they knew, but you are lucky that none of my siblings happened to remember you well enough to say anything."

"small blessings for sure," you do your best to contain a laugh, however the echoing chambers of an empty castle only make it louder. "anyways, cut the bullshit. you're gonna come with me, right?"

his neutral expression shifts into something like a frown, and yet you can tell he isn't exactly angry at your presumptuousness either. "i would like to accompany you. but my duties to my... mother and the family take precedence."

"and if you left, she'd send the whole gang after you."

he sighs again. "yes, that is the most probable outcome. and i would not wish to put the strawhat crew in danger."

"that's charming," you reply, "but also really stupid. and i know you aren't a dummy, right? you've been hanging around this dreary archipelago for your whole life! don't you want to, i don't know, do something? go on an adventure?"

he doesn't respond immediately, but a large hand clumsily pats your head with his pointer finger. you grin, knowing victory must be in sight. "your totally evil mom doesn't even leave her place that often, so she won't even notice that you're gone! and tell me right now that you don't think luffy would be chomping at the bit to fight her again? be serious, mochi-mochi."

all of a sudden the ground shifts under you, and you make an embarrassing yelp as you're dragged up and up and up. katakuri holds your body by the back of your shirt, and you're only partially worried that he could drop you. death by splat on marble floor isn't appealing in the slightest. you're suspended by a shirt pinched between fingers as he squints slightly, as though looking for a secret in your expression.

"fine," he eventually says, "i will go. but if something goes wrong, do not say i didn't warn you."

"ah, you're bringing me back to old times!" you hum, making a familiar grabby hand motion for him to drop you on his shoulder. "except i think uh, the last time you warned me-"

"you got fired, yes," he says amicably, but acquiesces to your request. "left or right?"

"right! i wanna look like a really mean parrot, mr. pirate," you exclaim, laughing as he drops you gently where you'd asked. feeling mischievous, you press a kiss against his neck and watch as his face goes pink. "we should probably go make sure that you won't sink the sunny, though!"

"... and you somehow did not think to check something like that before?"

FIN (FOR NOW)

[allykakamatsu]

Twisted Wonderland DnD

Title says it all, basically here's what I think the NRC boys classes and species would be in Dnd

Notes:

This is me trying to adapt their powers not what they would pick, for example if I was going on what they'd pick Epel with be a goliath barbarian

Everyone's going to have a level cap of 15, with the exceptions of Leona, Malleus and Lilia cause they're noticeably older than everyone else so I felt fair giving them a few more levels due to more experienced.

I'm sticking to cannon species if I can, but I will be mixing it up in the cases where either A, there isn't a good substitute or B, I think it would be funny.

Just cause I like to I tried to give everyone a multi-class. Also this is being done with base 5e rules so none of the new 2024 stuff.

Obviously this is just for fun idc about being optimal here.

And with that House Keeping done, let's go!

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Riddle: Human, 3 Zealot Barbarian 12 Abjuration wizard

A caster with barbarian levels, well if there was ever a way to prove this was just for fun this would be it- Jokes aside the subclass doesn't matter too much here, I just had to squeak some barb levels in here cause of Riddle being a very angry boi plus him somehow having the strength to throw Floyd across the room during their orientation. The wizard levels are more straightforward, he's a smart boi and abjuration is where all the 'no magic allowed' spells are so yeah.

Ace: Human, 8 Arcane Trickster Rogue 7 Glamour Bards

Unlike everyone else sans Ortho, I didn't really have any unique magic stuff to use as a baseline for Ace, however one of his talents is sleight of hand tricks so I figured rogue would be a good fit, and Arcane Trickster with it's invisible mage hand in particular would be pretty fitting. As for bard, that one's mainly to show that he's a show off and Glamour is the one I always kinda see as the most flashy. Plus, look me in the eye and tell me Ace wouldn't be a Vicious Mockery spammer.

Deuce: Human, 5 Champion Fighter 10 Redemption Paladin

Probably one of the easiest ones for me to figure out tbh. Some flavour of fighter for his delinquent days and him getting into a lot of fights then (I went champion cause of crits but tbh any could work), and then redemption paladin cause he's trying his god damn hardest to be a good boi now, not much more to it.

Trey: Human, 8 Transmutation Wizard 7 Shepard Druid

And in contrast to Deuce being one of the easiest to figure out, Trey might just be tied for the hardest because I did not know where to begin here. Eventually I went transmutation wizard cause all of it's spells are about changing something which fits with his UM, and then Druid due to the nature and healing spells combo being a decent fit for his cooking and his big brother instincts. Again, this is the one I'm least sure on so if you have any other ideas please tell me.

Cater: Half Elf, 10 Lore Bard 5 Illusion Wizard

That moment when I have to justify the species more than the class-. Tldr, some writers, namely @ladyazurith , have sold me on the concept of half fae Cater so I wanted to throw that in, and since their isn't a half fairy race half elf will have to do. Meanwhile the class was really easy, Illusion wizard cause while there's no spell that quite replicates 'Split Card' their collection comes close, and lore bard cause Cater as a bard just feels right, though I'm open to thoughts on the subclass.

(rest underneath cut). ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leona: Tabaxi, 5 Battle Master Fighter, 11 Storm Sorcerer

I love my lazy cat man, in general but also here cause he's easy to figure out. Any fighter subclass would've worked, I just went battle master cause some of the manoeuvres like tripping felt like things Leona would do in a fight, and the Sorcerer levels were mainly cause I wanted to get him disintegrate which was the closest spell I could find to King's Roar, I just went storm cause none of the other sorcerer origins seemed like the best fit

Ruggie: Tabaxi, 12 Thief Rogue 3 Enchantment Wizard:

Another simple enough one. Given his upbringing thief rogue just made way to much sense, and as for enchantment wizard well, that's the school of magic Hideous Laughter and it's stronger Tasha version belong to and that's such a good fit for 'Laugh for Me' it's not even funny.

Jack: Shifter, 10 Moon Druid 5 Cavalier Fighter

Thank you Savannahclaw for being simple- Jokes aside, Moon Druid is the class all about better wildshape, the ability that lets you turn into animals so it's perfect for 'Unleash the Beast', and again the subclass didn't matter too much for the fighter I just wanted it for more melee strength (+Jack wanting to copy Leona) and I went cavalier cause I thought it would be funny if he got the bonuses when he was the mount- Also went shifter cause there's no werewolf race and I had to improvise

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Azul: Simic Hybrid, 10 Fathomless Warlock 5 Whispers Bard

And in complete contrast to the last dorm the Octotrio were collectively a pain to figure out. Eventually I did settle on this though. There's no octopus race so I went Simic Hybrid purely because it can have all kinds of aquatic limbs including octopus tentacles so 'close enough' and Whispers is the spy bard so all the public charms plus a lot of sneakiness. As for warlock, look, I know realistically Azul would more likely be a patron than someone making a devil deal given how he is, but I couldn't resist plus nothing's stopping him from making deals of his own to take down his boss-

Jade: Triton, 10 Spores Druid 5 Whispers Bard

Before anyone makes the joke yes the twins being a species named Triton is ironic but again I didn't have the best options here. That aside, the class here was easy enough, the bard levels were mainly for fast friends and zone of truth which combined make a pretty good representation of 'Shock the Heart' and I went Whispers for the same reason as Azul. As for the druid levels well, Jade clearly loves nature given how he started the Mountain Lovers Club and all, wildshape is a good way for him to turn back into his true form, and well, Circle of Spores specifically is a creepy mushroom themed subclass which just fits way too well.

Floyd: Triton, 2 Land Druid 13 Hexblade Warlock

Despite how long this one took me to figure out this one's pretty simple. Druid for wildshape though unlike Jade Floyd isn't sticking around nearly as long, and Hexblade cause well, I wasn't actively writing down spell lists but I was keeping them in mind and out of all the classes that had the spells I wanted for him (shield and counterspell to try recreate 'Bind the Heart') warlock was the only one that gave any kind of melee game, plus idk Floyd does seem like the type to find a cursed sword and keep it as a pet. Also,I'm not going into abilities but he also absolutely gets the grappler feat cause boy has gotta squeeze.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kalim: High Elf, 12 Divine Soul Sorcerer 3 Creation Bard

After the fishies gave me a lot of trouble we're back to simple thank god. Kalim does scream sorcerer to me due to the 'being born with more magic without having to work as hard for it' thing (I mean this with love I love my sunshine boy) and I went with Divine Soul to kinda reference Kalim being one of only three students at NRC to use light magic plus given all the assassination attempts the various healing spells it comes with probably come in handy (also sorcerer's in general are good with con saves which is what you need to beat poison). The bard levels are pretty much just cause he likes performing and making people smile, subclass doesn't matter too much, and lastly high elves are like the typical high magic rich people race which I think is a good fit.

Jamil: Yuan-ti, 4 Assassin Rogue 11 Enchantment Wizard

Time for my babygirl everyone- My bias aside this one was fun and thankfully pretty simple. I went with Yuan-ti cause that's the snake race and I couldn't help myself (also it has advantage on poison saves so extra fitting), Assassin Rogue cause rogue is generally a good class for getting through social interactions, notably with deception which is fitting, plus I have a sinking feeling Jamil at least knows how to kill if not has already done so. And finally, enchantment wizard cause that's where all the mind control spells are, notably level 11 is when you get mass suggestion which is basically what Jamil did at the end of book 4.

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Vil: Human, 10 Alchemist Artificer 5 Glamour Bard

I know I could've been more creative with the species choice here but Vil was one of the first I worked on and I wasn't going full hog wild yet- That aside, this one was surprisingly simple, Vil is the best potion maker out of the dorm specifically dedicated to that so the subclass that's all about making potions was just way too fitting, and glamour bard because Vil is absolutely a bard and I tend to associate this one with being the most bright and showy which is a public image I think Vil would like.

Rook: Wood Elf, 12 Fey Wanderer Ranger 3 Eloquence Bard

A rare case where I knew the class right away but the subclasses were hard to nail down. I know hunter ranger seems like the obvious one but tbh I'm not crazy on it and the 2014 version especially is kinda boring so I looked at the others and I think Fey Wanderer fits Rook a bit better cause of his love of beauty and all Fey being pretty in their own weird little way, plus it's more light themed and since he's one of the light magic students I wanted to lean into that. Meanwhile I think the bard stuff he picked up from Vil and I went eloquence cause that one's all about the fancy words which Rook is full of. As for the species, I have no deeper reason other than Wood Elf feeling right admittedly-

Epel: Halfling, 3 Wild Magic Barbarian 12 Swords Bard

Sorry Epel, I love you but in my mind you're a tiny boy holding a comically large axe- As for why I didn't push that gag further, well that's mainly cause I wanted to replicate UM when I can, and for Epel the closest I could get with my level cap+multiclass rules was Wall of Force so he had to go caster, and since I realised the rest of Pomfiore were at least part bard I decided Epel can join in on the 'fun'. Though I did do him the mercy of picking College of Swords cause Vil can force this angry boi to play music and charm people but he's gonna do it in the most violent way possible-

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Idia: Fire Genasi, 10 Battlesmith Artificer 5 Shadow Sorcerer

This was easier than I was expecting ngl. Tldr, Fire Genasi was the closest I could get to... whatever is going on with his biology, Artificer is the resident builder class so it's a good fit and battlesmith in particular is all about making weapons which is kind of what Idia did with Ortho, and Shadow Sorcerer cause his weird blood basically mandated some sorcerer levels and shadow is all about death which fits Idia's deal pretty well.

Ortho: Warforged, 8 PSI Fighter 7 Shadow Sorcerer:

And in complete contrast to his brother, Ortho is probably tied with Trey for the character I had the hardest time with but hopefully this'll do. Warforged is the resident robot race so that was a shoe in, I just kinda assume Idia used some of his magic to create Ortho hence the sorcerer levels plus spells like magic missile is the closest I can get to his laser beams, and fighter cause it's the generically good combat class, again subclass is debatable. I tried but I have no idea what I was doing for this one tbh-

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Malleus: Fairy, 12 Draconic Sorcerer 5 Dreams Druid

Okay, I know Dragonborn is the obvious species here but man is literally the prince of the Fae and there's plenty of spells to transform into dragons so screw it Malleus is a fairy. Other than that it's pretty straight forward, Draconic Sorcerer cause no duh, and Dreams Druid cause A, Fae prince aka tied to nature and B, after book 7 I don't think I need to explain why Malleus having a sleep themes class is fitting.

Silver: Human, 13 Twilight Cleric 2 Dreams Druid

Okay, hear me out with the class here, namely cleric cause I don't think I have to explain Dreams Druid here either. Tldr, I wanted Silver to have plane shift cause that was the closest thing I could find to his UM. Unfortunately it's a high level spell so I can't properly fit in a martial class while keeping to my level limit. Fortunately cleric is one of the classes that has Plane Shift and it's good with melee weapons as well as armour, plus it's all about holy aka light magic so it's honestly kind of perfect. Also I went Twilight Domain cause Lilia found him at night and it's a nice way of showing how despite where he was from Silver true place is with the Fae rather than his birth family.

Lilia: Dhampir, 5 Eldritch Knight Fighter 15 Bladesinger Wizard

Okay I know I should've made Lilia a fairy along with Malleus but we all joke that Lilia's a vampire so when I remembered Dhampir was an option I couldn't resist. That aside everything else is fairly simple, a melee fighter with spell access in Eldritch Knight and a caster that prefers to fight at melee in Bladesinger, perfect for a former war general, and this way most of his actual spells can go to fun utility options, as well as more... questionable spells like ones to 'help' with his cooking.

Sebek: Lizardfolk, 10 Ancients Paladin 5 Storm Sorcerer

Again, there isn't a half fairy option so I had to get creative, but instead of just going half elf again I decided to do a silly and lean into the crocodile jokes. As for the classes, Storm Sorcery was mainly for the lightning spell access, and paladin was just too good of a fit for Sebek. I was tempted to go Crown due to his loyalty to Malleus but I decided on Ancients due to his pride in his Fae side but this one is pretty debatable. Though a bonus for paladins in general is Aura of Protection which provides allies advantage against fear.... the situation was more despair instead of fear but it still works pretty well for a certain moment in book 7

If you made it this far, thank you for indulging my bullshit

[just-a-strange-boy]

experimenting for friends

part 1 - praise

part 2

An unawaited opportunity introduces you to the complicated and intriguing man named Sherlock Holmes. Harder to understand than most, you are not quite sure why he reacts peculiarly everytime you spare him a compliment. Well, not until you get wrapped up in one of his "experiments".

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader (GN)

Warnings: 18+ (Minors DNI), mentions of drug abuse/addiction, handjob, praise kink, hints at inexperienced/virgin Sherlock

A/N: listen, I'm so fond of submissive Sherlock and just want him to get the love he deserves :')

When you met Sherlock Holmes for the first time, he saw through you right away.

Straight away, he knew that you were raised by a single mum, who had always tried her hardest to ensure to the happy childhood you deserved, since your father had left the family early on.

That you were living with two cats, one Cornish Rex, one coming from mixed breeding, both awfully affectionate, apparently leaving traces over nearly everything you wore.

That you were ambidextrous, ink from pens on both hands, also indicating you were working an ordinary office job, usually taking down notes with your right hand, though whenever you took phone calls you tended to use your left to write things down – and that you took a lot of pride in your handwriting, which was why you had a knack for using pens with ink in the first place.

But that wasn't all.

He figured that you were short-sighted, working a desk job that included staring at a computer screen far too often, missing out the fact that you were also on your phone a lot.

That your glasses were an old model from the early 2010s, which also told him you didn't have the finances for purchasing new ones, money likely being the reason for you taking this new job in the first place (which however wasn't entirely true). And also that your glasses were, of course, entirely unsuited for your current sight, still making you have to squint an awful lot while looking at your surroundings.

He even found out that you used to take acting classes during your school years, obtaining a compassion for the old bards and newer works alike, but didn't continue playing theatre, settling for your ordinary, time consuming desk job instead in order to make a living in London, more so because you were never confident enough in your skills.

And damn, if he weren't right about that.

Needless to say, Sherlock had been right about everything, his gift of picking up any piece of information nothing short of amazing, his talent for deduction truly unmatched, though you were certain that he might have had a little help on one or two details. It had been impressive, regardless of whether he might have gone through your personal records at least once or not.

Considering that someone definitely had kept a close eye on you, presumably meant that there was a lovely file titled with your name on the desk of your new and well-paying employer, Sherlock's older brother and relentless watchdog, Mycroft Holmes. Who, as you understood, was doing secret government work, keeping the state upright and preventing international chaos from ensuing, when he wasn't busy tending to his slightly odd, self-proclaimed sociopathic brother from a distance.

You weren't sure whether you would have even tried applying for the job if you had known what it entailed. But you hadn't needed, nor planned, to apply at all.

Truth is, you had been approached out of nowhere, a plain call coming through on your work phone. After hearing the rather scarce explanation as to what you were meant to do and the large sum the older Holmes brother offered for this position, you had definitely not wanted to say No. You hadn't asked why you out of all people had been chosen – so you hadn't gotten an answer either.

But since Mycroft Holmes was thorough in all he did, you supposed he wouldn't have gone for someone as ordinary as you if he hadn't had a good reason for it.

And fairly enough, for that much money, the job description didn't sound too challenging – take care of Sherlock Holmes. Be his companion, keep an watchful eye on him, make sure he doesn't get back into a habit of using again. Three simple points.

It might not have sounded too challenging at first, but then you had gotten to meet Sherlock and words couldn't describe how peculiar, how unique, how utterly confusing this man was.

People didn't really get him. Sherlock didn't really get people, though clearly able of picking them apart with deductions or uncovering their motives for all kinds of crimes, having solved plenty of unusual cases in the past. Sometimes people's behaviour clearly struck Sherlock as odd and while he was exceptionally smart, there were some things in the world even he wasn't able to understand.

While you had been worrying you might not get along with each other at first – plenty of people had made it their mission to warn you about Sherlock having a dismissive stance on ordinary people – you quickly figured out the consulting detective was simply misunderstood by those around him and not that dismissive after all.

He was peculiar, unique and utterly confusing. He was thinking differently, behaving and acting by his own logic. It took a while to figure out, though finding yourself incapable of understanding Sherlock as whole, you started to catch glimpses of what he was truly like.

Sherlock Holmes was lonely.

Even though regularly solving cases with his best friend John Watson, he had also gotten significantly lonelier since the man had found himself a wife, a child following not long after, and was not living with him anymore. As a husband and father and doctor, case work was nothing more than a distraction from his ordinary life. His responsibilities often kept him from actively joining cases and therefore, more than once in the time you've gotten to know Sherlock, the detective was out solving them on his own.

While he loved the work and didn't seem too bothered, you figured it substantially dampened his mood when John couldn't be around.

You also learned that Sherlock was actually quite friendly with a few people – especially his very motherly and caring landlady Mrs Hudson (who got regularly annoyed by the ruckus he was making upstairs in his flat), DI Lestrade (who slipped him the cases, relying on his help all too often) and Molly from St Bart's morgue (who provided him with body parts for experiments).

But he never sought them out when feeling some sort of way, more so relying on the exchange – accepting their presence because he deemed them useful. This for that. Never unconditional.

Sherlock Holmes also got bored easily.

Casework and experiments, both sometimes of questionable importance or downright dangerous, could only keep him busy for so long. You figured that he lived for the thrill as much as trying to keep his brain constantly working – he needed the distraction for his mind, needed something to stimulate it or else it would get too loud, too dark, too insufferable in his head.

As soon as he got bored, he took to moaning and complaining and behaving unhinged, desperate for something, anything, to cure him from the boredom, to keep his mind busy.

Having him in a state like that was anything but good.

Because when he was lonely and bored, Sherlock Holmes had a tendency of substance abuse.

It started with a heightened craving for nicotine, especially in the form of cigarettes, which you sometimes gave in to, for the sake of preventing worse – even if it meant going on a walk in the middle of a night to have one, since Mrs Hudson would have strangled you both for even thinking about smoking at Baker Street.

When it wasn't cigarettes, it was something worse he desired. Mostly heroin, though Mycroft Holmes had made sure to slip you a full list of substances Sherlock had abused in the past.

It had been unsettlingly long.

So you tried your very best to keep Sherlock away from those things by simply keeping him busy and well, less lonely.

By the time you would have considered yourself and the odd detective being something like friends, you were also finally able see that Sherlock Holmes – even though not nursing relationships to others like normal people did – was in his own way very sweet.

He wasn't always cold or seemingly incapable of feeling things, just direct and less reliant on sentiment. He was absolutely not a cat person, but still accepted whenever your rather friendly pets decided to climb all over him.

And all the times you had happened to unexpectedly fall asleep after crashing on Sherlock's couch (that man wore you out with his ever changing temper and the way he sometimes talked constantly) while he would still be working on researching for cases or doing his fair share of experiments, you would always wake up covered by a blanket, your glasses perched on the table next to a water cup.

Sherlock Holmes didn't like a lot of people, he struggled with making strong connections and put off a lot of the people around him by the way he was. But that didn't apply to you.

Initially perceiving you an entirely obnoxious obstacle in his thinking process, he had soon noticed you weren't so distracting in a negative way at all and even found himself positively surprised how pleasant you were to have around, beginning to tolerate you in the same room.

For his standards, he seemed to like you plenty enough and appeared to be rather comfortable around you too, in a way seeking out the companionship you were meant to offer to him, even if it was just being around each other in complete silence.

While Sherlock worked best in silence, especially when he figured out a case in his mind, sitting and staring for hours, there were also moments when you couldn't stop him from talking and showing off his knowledge. Often times, he seemed so happy to share his thoughts with someone, even though he was likely aware you usually weren't really able to follow him.

Admittedly, you liked Sherlock too.

You knew a lot of people were blind to Sherlock's humanity and never got to know him well enough to truly discover how much there was to him. He didn't let most in, or at least never far enough for them to really see him. You knew though. It was there, no matter how hard Sherlock tried to prove otherwise with his resenting behaviour, and you caught plenty of glimpses of him being human.

So after a while of knowing Sherlock Holmes, there was this one thing that had caught your attention and remained to be uncovered.

Why he avoided words of praise.

It was something you had brushed off at first, thinking that Sherlock's odd reaction whenever you said something nice to him, his sudden quietness and slow blinking and urge to swiftly leave the room before awkward silence arose, was completely normal behaviour for him.

You doubted that the detective got to hear a lot of niceties or compliments. Obviously his work was impressive, but did most even consider thanking him for it? If they had the chance, that was.

One could have also gotten the impression that Sherlock didn't really know how to nor wanted to take a 'Thank you', or a compliment for that matter.

Therefore he was more likely to escape the situation than accept it with content.

One day, you had asked "Did you compose that yourself?" after having listened to Sherlock play the violin for what must have been a good twenty minutes, without the man even having taken note of you being in the room, though you had walked in and slumped down on the couch normally, like on any other day.

Sherlock had seemed startled hearing your question, only acknowledging you then, but had shaken his head in silence.

"Well, sounded very beautiful anyway. I love your playing. Could listen to it for hours", you had added then, "Always surprises me how bloody skilled your hands are with everything you do."

Much like you had offended him, Sherlock had placed down the violin and the bow immediately, turning to leave the room.

You had let him, knowing that if he needed space, it was best to leave him be. But you had immediately wondered if perhaps your compliment had made him uncomfortable and asked yourself why.

On another day, you had been asked to accompany him on a case – there was no other logical explanation to it than the fact that John was busy yet again and couldn't make it in time – so there you were, looking at different samples of dirt, trying to make yourself as useful as you could (which wasn't much, but you tried).

Sherlock didn't seem to mind that you had no idea what you were supposed to be looking for. Whereas he would have called another one in your stead stupid, small-brained or dull for only having an average mind, the detective had simply begun explaining the necessity of taking dirt samples and how much they could tell the human eye if looked at properly.

Well, what they could tell his eyes, at least – because you still had not an ounce of an idea what he was talking about, even after his explanations.

"How does your brain even work?", you had only muttered under your breath, staring at Sherlock in awe, "It's just...amazing. The fact that you can read people like a book was already pretty mind blowing, but now that you are doing it with something as mundane as dirt, words can't describe how amazing that is."

While usually so quick and rational in his responses, Sherlock had just blankly stared back at you, until continuing with his dirt samples, speechless, not saying another word about ground analysis.

Then another time, you had been flat on your couch for a good few days after catching a cold. While Sherlock had made sure to keep his distance, not wanting to contract anything, he had come by anyway. He had helped you with the cats, had brought you a bag of pills and goodies (that Mrs Hudson had packed, but it didn't matter since Sherlock was the one making time for you, bringing them over) and had chatted away about the latest case, trying to cheer you up while you sniffled into your tissues. Then he had made you tea and warmed up chicken soup for you, before deciding to take his leave again.

"Thanks, Sherl, you're a great friend. A true blessing when you get all domestic", you had sighed with a stuffed nose, trying to joke, although you knew joking around Sherlock was risky business, because... well... he didn't think like most people. That meant he didn't get jokes most of the time either, had problems trying to figure out whether you were actually serious about some of the comments you made or not, didn't know what to make of it.

You had thought that must have been the reason why Sherlock had left your flat in a hurry.

Honestly, you had begun to worry a little about Sherlock's behaviour by then.

Whenever you tended to say something nice, or gave him a compliment for that matter, the man simply went out of your way immediately. It was making him feel some sort of way, negatively you thought.

Maybe he really didn't know how to handle kind words and just couldn't show that he appreciated them. Maybe you had actually made him uncomfortable, but Sherlock never admitted to it, because he didn't want to put you off or hurt your feelings in return – you were friends after all.

Maybe it would take him a while to get used to someone being so unconditionally nice to him.

Things cleared up a little when Sherlock had approached you one day, deciding to start an 'experiment' in order to gain 'data' for his 'research' – he had something along those lines at least – which apparently included you as a test subject as well. He had specifically asked for your help, and though unmentioned you knew it was likely because of the bond and trust between you two.

Sherlock hadn't wanted to share what the point of his research was, but you had no opportunity to ask either after agreeing to it, because before you could open your mouth again, the detective had moved way too close into your personal space for his usual standards, cupped your cheeks and just leaned in to kiss you.

Short and sweet and... a little inexplicable.

"What was that for?", you wondered then, knowing that there always was an explanation to everything Sherlock did. You just didn't really know how he was going to explain this, overwhelmed with wrapping your head around what had just occurred, staring at him in an almost shock-like state and most definitely frozen to the spot.

"I told you, it's an experiment", Sherlock responded, "About... my own responses to... certain stimulus from certain...uh...people. I've decided to start with you, because we are significantly close, you have decided to pester me with your presence today once again and I figured you will not mind."

You only replied with a soft smile. How convenient you happened to be around right now, pestering him, just in time for his experiment. Though you had to admit, Sherlock wasn't wrong about his assumption either: you didn't mind. You were perfectly decent friends and being friends with Sherlock meant partaking in things out of the ordinary anyway. This was a way better experiment than lightening things on fire in the kitchen and causing the house to be contaminated with toxic smoke.

The kiss was tempting you. It made you curious. What was he trying to figure out?

"Alright, let's see what your experiment entails then", you agreed to partaking in Sherlock's personal studies, "Will you kiss me again, to get more data?"

"Likely", the detective mused, not wasting another moment before bending down to capture your lips in another and longer kiss, this time evidently unsure what to do with his hands as he didn't hold onto your face anymore, a little fidgety before eventually placing them on your waist, keeping you close.

He was a surprisingly sweet kisser. You adored the softness of his lips, the slight initial awkwardness, placing your hands on his shoulders, gently smoothing them over the material of his suit jacket, and returning the kiss with equal gentleness.

"Is that...to your liking?", Sherlock asked, upon parting for a moment.

You slid one hand to the nape of his neck, ready to pull him into another kiss, just to feel those lips on yours again. He was endearing and admittedly kind of addictive.

"I thought this experiment was about your responses, so why care what I'm thinking?”, you began, seeing a flicker of insecurity passing his face, since you avoided answering his question.

“Yeah, I love how tender and careful you are. Your lips feel great", you added in a whisper, hoping it would lift the worry from his brow.

An entirely different reaction followed. Now that you had just complimented him and Sherlock couldn't flee the situation like he usually did, you were more than surprised taking note of his reaction, a slight shudder, but not of discomfort.

Thus, you finally understood why he had wanted to avoid praise times and times again: It caused him to react.

"I honestly can't wait for you to touch me with those hands of yours", you added then, fingers carding upwards into Sherlock's curls, trying to push your own exploration to the limit, continuing to praise him with sweet words of affirmation, "Once we get there, I bet your touch will feel incredible. Just like you are."

Standing so close to the detective, you could hear his breath hitch, and there was no doubt his pulse was rapidly quickening too. Pupils blown wide with interest, lips parted, and oh, a little bit of red tainted his cheeks too. He definitely liked being praised.

"What do you want me to do with my hands?", Sherlock asked. He was still holding them placed on your waist and the unexpected question was more out of innocent curiosity, as blandly spoken as Sherlock usually talked, paired with the slight notion that he was perhaps truly a little clueless.

You wondered if he had ever done this with another person before – experimenting, kissing, touching – and came to the conclusion you couldn't quite imagine Sherlock being touchy and affectionate or sexual for that matter.

"I'm sure you know exactly what to do with those hands of yours", you chuckled, however trusting that Sherlock had to know at least a little bit about those things or else he wouldn't have dared to be so bold and just kiss you. Perhaps he had done a different kind of research beforehand.

"It's okay to touch me, I don't bite. There's no wrong and no right, go with what feels natural. Your deduction skills are unmatched, so why don't you just experiment and collect the necessary information?"

Blue eyes mustered your face, a slight look of confusion written all across his expression, and he still didn't move his hands, searching your face for something in return.

If you didn't know any better, you would have said that you might have broken Sherlock.

But then he came to life again, speaking up once more. "I've come to the conclusion that I like you. Being around you, usually at least, does not only calm my heart rate, it also quietens my brain. However being this close to you, I find my heart rate rising and my brain rattling. I just cannot figure out why your words cause me to feel the way I do."

"Well, if I might say so, I think that you're into it", you shrugged, fingers gently brushing through his thick curls, letting your other hand glide down the front of his shirt, feeling up his chest under it.

What would he look like under this? Would he enjoy being touched? How far was this experiment meant to go?

"I kind of enjoy how flustered you get when I praise you. Makes me think that no one has ever cherished you like you deserve it."

"I don't know if I am... interested in being cherished, but you do manage to make me feel like no one else has ever accomplished. I am tempted by your amenability", the detective admitted, finally catching the drift as he pulled you into a tighter embrace, arms sneaking around you, bowing down to capture your lips in a kiss again, this time with a lot more force.

As sweet and tender Sherlock was, you had simply known there was more passion, more curiosity, more hunger within him than suspected at first.

Saying you were amenable was also an understatement. You were more than compliant and sure let him know, responding to his advances with a passion, curiosity, hunger paralleling his.

So you began moving together, stumbling through the living room, careful not to trip over Sherlock's organized chaos on the floor, mouths busy with each other as you clung onto his neck, letting yourself be ushered all the way into the bedroom – a place you had only occasionally caught a glimpse of, neat and tidy compared to the rest of the flat, and while you had never expected you would ever end up in Sherlock's bed, you certainly weren't complaining about the opportunity.

Though technically, you were the one to shove the man down on his bed, wasting no time to climb onto his lap.

As much as you liked Sherlock for who he was, for his peculiarity, for the fact that he did not fit in with the rest of people, what he was being like right now definitely added onto the feelings you had for the man. Looking at him after pulling back from the kiss, you took note how beautiful Sherlock was in a moment of passion, his pretty dark curls, his sharp features, blue eyes watching you with interest, his luscious lips all swollen from kissing.

"You're such a pleasure to look at", you muttered, knowing that your praises would strike Sherlock where you wanted them too, "I've never known someone so graced by both intellect and beauty."

The man under you let out a soft sigh, wanton, perhaps a little aroused even. As you placed a hand on his pulse point, stroking along the curve of his jaw and the crook of his neck, you could very well feel that his heart was beating fast, just like his breathing got more intense, swallowing hard, even slightly squirming.

Sherlock's grip on your waist tightened a little, especially when you, perched on his thighs, slid forward in his lap, carefully pushing the suit jacket off the man's shoulders, before continuing to work on his shirt.

You were more than interested in discovering what Sherlock looked like under all those clothes, most certainly not disappointed, in awe as the man let you continue the quest to strip him off his shirt without a word of protest. You wondered what Sherlock was thinking, could never quite figure it out - because honestly, whoever managed to figure all of him out?

He was eyeing you curiously, occasionally brushing his large hands over your thighs, seemingly trying to take note of all affections given, but completely overwhelmed and unsure what to do.

"I usually don't like being touched", Sherlock spoke up eventually, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he seemed to swallow down a bit of nervousness yet again, "But I must admit that I want you to touch me."

"Good", you mused, sliding your hands over the man's pale skin, along his toned arms, back up to his shoulders, down the plane of his chest.

"Because I like touching you", you admitted, coaxing a moan out of Sherlock, as you just happened to brush your thumbs over his nipples. He seemed almost a little embarrassed after the sound had slipped past his lips, causing him to bite them in a try to repress any further noises.

And even more so, he was blushing a darker shade.

"Don't feel like you have to hold back", you assured him, trailing curious fingers over Sherlock's sensitive and delicate skin, flush with redness, since you had established that touch alone would get lovely reactions out of him, "You sound wonderful. I love how responsive you are."

Yet again, the words of praise caused Sherlock to shudder and he leant forward, asking for another kiss. You gave into it immediately, responding with eagerness as your hands moved over his slim belly, brushing far beyond his belt buckle, which startled the needy detective as he broke away for another moan, fingers squeezing into your thighs.

"Is this okay?", you took a moment of consideration, searching for uncertainty on Sherlock's face, who seemed oddly concentrated and focused on the situation, either of you unable to ignore that he was very aroused.

"I suppose this is a perfectly normal reaction to being touched so...thoroughly", the detective said oddly collected, a little out of breath, perfectly aware that he was responding and while the attention to his body certainly played a part, it undeniably were the words of praise that heightened the experience for him, "So yes, I would consider it okay."

"Do you want me to... go on?", you tried to assure yourself, wanting his consent before you went further, toying with the belt loops of his trousers, deciding to not give any more attention to his growing hardness until Sherlock confirmed that it was fine to continue.

"Yes", was the curt answer you received, rather eager, and you didn't want to deny him anything of what you were promising anymore. He wanted more. You were happy to give.

Opening the buckle of his belt with swift hands, it took a little bit of shuffling and changing positions for a moment to free him from his restraints, pulling his hardening cock out of his pants, wrapping a firm hand around him – no less sensitive, this caused Sherlock to take a deep breath, eyes closed and brows furrowed in concentration, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours.

"Just focus on my touch. I'll take good care of you", you simply whispered, gently running your fingers along the warm skin of his throbbing cock as it was quite responsive to your touch, giving an interested twitch, trickle of precome leaking from the tip.

"Gorgeous. I love how hard you get for me", you started praising Sherlock, rubbing your thumb over the glistening head, and then gently going on to stroke him, his head slumping down onto your shoulder, another desperate moan slipping past his lips.

"I wish you could see how lovely you are", you continued murmuring, pressing your face into Sherlock's soft curls, smiling to yourself. He really was lovely, sweet, surprisingly needy.

You tightened and eased your grip around the weeping cock, changing the rhythm times and times again, sometimes firmly grasping him, sometimes barely applying any pressure.

"You're doing so good for me", another soft praise as you dragged out the sweetest sounds from him, the response a warm and breathy moan against the crook of your neck, "Beautiful, brilliant Sherlock."

It was a huge turn on for you, something about Sherlock being all needy and desperate, whimpering against your own skin, breathing hard, tensing up, even shuddering at times, surrendering to his own pleasure in a way that you had never thought would happen.

Who would have thought the cold, distant detective was so submissive at heart?

Being painfully aroused yourself – your body was craving to feel the same amount of pleasure and attention, because of course it was – you did want to make sure this was all about Sherlock though, pushing your own desperation and need aside.

The man clung onto you for dear life, too overstimulated by the sensations rushing in, not used to this sort of attention, too gone and weak at the knees by being praised and teased and touched.

"I bet you're going to look and sound so beautiful when you come", you muttered, your strokes quicker, more erratic, the man beneath you shaking, panting heavily, face still hidden in your shoulder. Sherlock was getting really vocal, groaning and whimpering, claiming that he was close, so close, that he didn't want you to stop, not now.

It wasn't a demand. It was a plea. A desperate request.

"Are you going to be good and come for me, Sherl?", you asked then, placing a gentle kiss into his curls, lucky to have such composure or else Sherlock's warmth, the smell and touch of his hair, his desperation, his neediness, the sounds he made might have caused you to throw all of your self-composure out of the window and ride him to your own ecstasy.

But this was enough for now. Good enough for you, because when Sherlock did come, it was all for you.

His body was trembling, squirming, bucking under you as he fell apart, his words getting lost in his panting, culminating into a moan of relief – he surrendered, spilled himself so wonderfully all over your torturous hand, guiding him all the way through his orgasm, and between your bodies.

Coming down from the high took him long, shaking and gasping for air as he went completely lax and fell back into the pillows.

It was the perfect moment for you to look at the mess you both had made. The detective's cheeks were glowing with red, before he went ahead to cover his own face in shame with his arm, his curls spread out on the pillow, skin flushed pink from arousal and perhaps a bit embarrassment, the flat of his stomach heaving, his hardness softening in your hand.

He looked downright ethereal.

And you would always make sure to let him know.

[steddieunderdogfics]

This week’s writer spotlight feature is: @stevesbipanic! They have fourteen works under the Stranger Things tag and thirteen of those works are under the Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson tag over on Archive of our Own!!

Our anonymous nominator recommends the following of their works by stevesbipanic:

Stevie's Time Loop

Home For Christmas

Remember Me

The Clothes That Make Us

Boy for All Seasons

She's an amazing writer that's able to make you feel connected to the characters, especially Steve. She's able to make me both cry and laugh in the same fic which is a feat to do well. She's also an amazing friend. Stevie's Time Loop is one of my favourite as it's a really unique way of writing a timeloop with large time jumps and most loops focusing on Steve and his trauma rather than finding a solution. - anonymous

Below the cut, @stevesbipanic answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!

Why do you write Steddie?

Steddie was the first ship that ever drove me to write fanfiction. I think the fact that I see myself a lot in both of them, especially Steve makes them so enjoyable to write for me. I think they’re also such moldable characters that you can write them into a lot of different stories quite easily and I love exploring their personalities and dynamics.

What’s your favorite trope to READ?

Soulmate AUs because I’m a sucker for true love.

What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?

Angst with a happy ending, I love making both these boys and my readers cry but also want them to be happy and in love in the end.

What’s your favorite Steddie fic?

This is such a hard question, there are so many talented writers and amazing fics, but if I had to choose one I’d have to say “The One in Which a Time Loop is Fucking Exhausting” by badpancake, it was one of the first time loop fics I read and really inspired my own time loop fic.

Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?

I’d love to explore a fantasy AU in the future, I know many talented authors writing dragon!eddie and King Steve or knight and bard steddie and it is one of my favourite genres of fics that are outside of Hawkins.

What is your writing process like?

A mess, most of my works on Tumblr are spur of the moment ideas that will come to me and I immediately need to write them down. It’s actually the longer slower projects that are hardest for me since they require a lot more planning and editing, I really admire the authors consistently putting out those big fics.

Do you have any writing quirks?

I’d say my most noticeable one is how I write dialogue, I really don’t like writing steve said eddie said etc etc. I usually write each thing said on it’s own line and it’s clear who’s speaking by what they say or how they say it, I think it breaks up the story nicely too since you feel you’re seeing the conversation rather than reading it.

Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule?

As soon as I finish writing I want people to see it, I kinda hate sometimes when I’m doing a project and have to wait for a specific time to post but the anticipation can be fun too.

Which fic are you most proud of?

Honestly, I’m most proud of my latest fic “Home for Christmas” it was the first time I’d ever participated in a bang and the project felt huge, it felt like a big achievement getting it all out in the end and it’s the longest fic I’ve ever written as a bonus.

How did you get the idea for Remember Me?

I think I’d been reading a fic where Steve got a concussion and had a bit of temporary memory loss and I just thought what if all those concussions had long lasting effects on Steve’s brain when he grew older. I’ve also experienced a love one going through long term memory loss and how hard it is to watch that.

When writing Stevie's Time Loop, what was something you didn’t expect?

I didn’t expect it to become a whole fic! It started off as one little off hand drabble I wrote that alluded to a lot of loops surrounding the scene of Steve and Robin discussing how Robin had a bad feeling about this and just thought well what if this is like time loop deja vu.

What inspired The Clothes That Make Us?

Exploring why Steve dresses how he does and how he likes the things he does and how there’s an emotional reason behind some of the fans favourite outfits was something I wanted to explore more and this was my very first fic I wrote for ao3 so it was a bit daunting but also very exciting.

What was your favorite part to write from Boy for All Seasons?

My favourite part was definitely thinking of all the silly costumes Eddie would come up with as well as flirty Steve is so fun to write.

How do/did you feel writing The Clothes That Make Us?

I felt nervous since it was the first fic I ever wrote but excited since I felt really proud writing something that long and the feedback I got was so heartwarming.

What was the most difficult part of writing Remember Me?

Omg just getting to the end without crying so hard, after I posted it so many people messaged me about how they cried through it, just know I was writing that through tears too!

Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?

"Thank you for giving me a life worth remembering.” in “Remember Me” makes me want to cry everytime and really shows what we want for our favourite characters is to have a happy life however long they get.

Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?

I’ll be posting my fic in the upcoming Reverse Bang in March which is exciting and I’ve got a secret project coming up later this year that people can follow @steddielycrying.

Outside of these questions, Is there anything YOU would like to add?

I’d just like to thank everyone who’s supported me through writing, whether it be a random comment on a fic or my lovely mutuals that get me through hard days, this has been an amazing fandom to be apart of and I can’t wait to write more!

Thank you to our author, @stevesbipanic , and our nominator! See more of @stevesbipanic's works featured on our page throughout the day!

Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!

[fangirleaconmigo]

In your expert opinion, do you think there’s any deeper reading to interpret from Geralt’s rebound with Essi, and traits she shares with Dandelion? (I know it wasn’t authorial intention in the least, but when he kissed her within 10 minutes of meeting, I got a “she’s a lot like Dandelion, surely she’s safe to embarrass myself with” vibe).

Hi Nonny!

Essi and Dandelion, Poets and Parallels, Ballads and Broken Hearts

Thank you for the ask! I'm on my lunch break from work, but I'm so happy to be answering Witcher book questions again that I'm sneaking off to do this.

Essi is such an interesting character, right? On one hand, she seems to be treated as the 'anti-Yen" by the narrative and the thing that Geralt 'should' want, thereby reinforcing his love for Yen when he *doesn't* fall in love with Essi.

But then there are all the curious parallels and similarities with Dandelion, which also makes it fun to analyze in that way. The list of similarities is long: their profession, personality, looks, their level of talent, and my favorite, their readiness to throw hands on behalf of Geralt of Rivia. And then there is The Ballad.

Ok. I'm going to set authorial intent aside for the moment, because writers write things all the time they don't intend to write. And I think any artist worth their salt should be thrilled that their work is layered and interesting enough to inspire differing interpretations.

That being said, let's get to the fun part.

SPOILERS SPOILERS FOR ESSI'S STORY PLS DON'T READ IF YOU DON'T WANT TO BE SPOILED.

Profession, personality

Let's look at Essi's introduction! She enters the scene acting just like Dandelion. Both poets are mercilessly insulting one another in their fake-genteel way. (Lots of shade, as well as out and out insults)

Geralt is taken aback, thinking they are fighting, but then they fall on one another embracing and he's like...oh lordt. There's two of them.

"The Witcher was taken aback, but not too greatly. A professional colleague of Dandelion's could not, indeed, differ much from him in terms of predictability."

--Sword of Destiny pg 195

So we have profession, and personality being very similar. Bards with sharp tongues and ready emotions. Then we have looks!

Looks.

I've done a post on Dandelion's looks here. And Essi is similar! Blonde hair, blue eyes, and beautiful. Same same. Sorry, her eyes are a dark blue whereas Dandelion's are cornflower. Much different so contrast.

Level of talent.

They are both beloved and famous. When Ciri is studying at Nenneke's temple, she has access to both of their books of poetry.

[Ciri] read The Adversities of Loving and Time of the Moon, collections of poems by the famous troubadour Dandelion. She shed tears over the ballads of Essi Daven, subtle, infused with mystery, and collected in a small, beautifully bound volume entitled The Blue Pearl. --Blood of Elves pg 298

And Geralt adores both of their voices. When Essi and Dandelion are singing together, Geralt thinks to himself that they have the most beautiful voices that he has ever heard.

They Stay Ready to Throw Hands for Geralt of Rivia.

The text even classifies Essi and Dandelion together on this. And as I said, it's my favorite part of her character, and not just because I love Geralt. It shows her strength, her strong sense of self, her courage, and her values.

First, she, much in the way that Dandelion does, uses her fame, connections, and higher social standing to protect Geralt. And she throws Dandelion into the mix for good measure to strengthen her threats. So when Duke Agloval threatens to drive Geralt to the border with a whip. Essi reponds.

"...please dont threaten Geralt. It so happens that Dandelion and I have several friends...King Ethain of Cidaris...always says that our ballads aren't just lively music and rhymes, but a way of spreading news...Do you wish, your Grace, to be written into the chronicle of human kind? I can arrange it?" --Sword of Destiny pg 212

And when Geralt turns down Agloval's 'offer' of permanent work killing sea creatures in a permanent war with them, (keeping in mind that the noble has stiffed Geralt twice on payment so far) Agloval invokes Geralt's poverty in a demeaning way.

"Oh how proud," Agloval smiled. "How haughty. You reject offers in a way some kings wouldn't be ashamed of. You give up decent money with the air of a wealthy man after a lavish dinner. Geralt? Did you have lunch today? No? And tomorrow? And the day after? I see little chance, Witcher, very little..."

It is so infuriating. Agloval is saying...who the fuck do you think you are? Someone important? Someone with status?? Someone who is allowed to decide his own ethics for himself?

This is a constant theme. The...know your place. Stop trying to think for yourself. Ethics look stupid on you, because you aren't 'real' enough of a human being to have them. So it is super satisfying when Essi lets loose on him.

"How dare you!" Little Eye cried shrilly. "How dare you speak like that to him Agloval!...How can you be so base?"...

Geralt tries to stop her. He sees little point.

"Stop it Essi," Geralt said. "Stop, Essi, there's no point." "Not true," she said angrily. "These is a point. Someone has to tell it straight to this self-appointed duke....who now thinks he has the right to insult other people."

And she isn't done.

"Yes, Agloval, " Essi continued, clenching her shaking hands into fists. "The opportunity to insult other people amuses and pleases you. You delight in the contempt you can show the Witcher...you should know that the Witcher mocks your attempts and slights., that they do not make the faintest impression on him..."

Then we bring Dandelion back in. Because guess who also feels anger and revulsion when Geralt is treated so contemptuously? Let Essi say it...

"The Witcher doesn't feel what Dandelion and I feel, and we feel revulsion."

Sword of Destiny pg 237

That's like...not even half of her unloading on this guy. She is like...you are worth less than Geralt, so jot that down.

Now..

The Ballad

Here is why the ballad matters to me. I think that perhaps even more interesting than how Geralt responds to Essi (interesting though it is) is how Dandelion responds to Essi. Why does he think someone who is almost exactly like him is perfect for Geralt? I mean, he sees himself in her so much that he thinks of her as his sister.

He loves her more than Geralt does I think that is clear. Geralt cares deeply about her. But to Dandelion, she is like his family.

He is put in a shitty position of seeing her distraught and anguished about her feelings for Geralt and Geralt afraid of leading her on or hurting her. Geralt and Essi go back and forth, making it insufferable for Dandelion as a third wheel.

I talked about it here here and here.

Dandelion's response is the subject of controversy in fandom, and there are many valid and differing reader responses. But it seems clear that Dandelion has come to terms with the fact that Geralt and Essi will not be together in love, despite his advice to Geralt. So he suggests they just fuck to get it out of their systems and then everything will be ok. (that's his solution to most things)

So, if he is at ease with that, why the ballad? At the end of the story, Dandelion composes a ballad while Essi and Geralt sleep.

Dandelion, staring into the dying embers, sat much longer, alone, quietly strumming his lute. It began with a few bars, from which an elegant, soothing melody emerged. The lyric suited the melody, and came into being simultaneously with it, the words blending into the music, becoming set in it like insects in translucent, golden lumps of amber. The ballad told of a certain witcher and a certain poet. About how the witcher and the poet met on the seashore, among the crying of seagulls, and how they fell in love at first sight. About how beautiful and powerful was their love. About how nothing - not even death - was able to destroy that love and part them.

Sword of Destiny pg 246

Why this romantic song?? About a witcher and poet?

Yes, it could be just for the ballad, for a successful song. The text talks about the real story not being a good one for a ballad.

But there is so much emotion and magic in that scene. What is he thinking? What is he feeling?

Of course you know about what happens next, Essi's heartbreaking end, and Dandelion's crushing grief. She dies of smallpox during an epidemic. Dandelion is there. Did he go as soon as he heard? Was he visiting her expecting some lovely evenings singing around a fire and found her dead?

However it happened, Dandelion does not leave her to die alone. He does not turn tail and leave, avoiding smallpox. He literally carries the cold dead corpse of this woman he loves, who he sees as his sister, in his arms...

...Dandelion had carried her out in his arms between corpses being cremated on funeral pyres and had buried her far from the city, in the forest, alone and peaceful...

He buries her alone with his own hands! Oh how his heart must have shattered. It is moments like that, that you see the deeper, kinder, even (dare I say) noble side of the vain, braggadocios, whorish bard.

It goes on to say that Dandelion could have changed the song at any point to be a true version (the one where Essi dies), but he never did.

No, Dandelion stuck with his first version. And he never sang it. Never. To no one. Sword of Destiny p 246

Yeah.

To me there is a story about a young girl who cares enough for ten people, who has a huge heart, and a deep soul. A fearless girl who feels things too big for her to handle for a man others call a monster. A girl whose voice is like an angel.

And then there is a story about a broken hearted poet who loved her (far more than Geralt did) and who wrote a song about a witcher and a poet and he never changed the words and never sang it to anyone.

And I wonder if he wasn't writing that ballad about a witcher and a different poet entirely.

*sob*

[myreia]

Sketches of Times Lost

Day 14: Telling

artoirel gives aymeric some undesirable advice. aymeric & artoirel, background aymeric x wol mentions. set during/post-heavensward patches. written for ffxivwrite2024. rated: teen 1600 words ao3 link

Song and laughter fill the air, and yet Aymeric cannot shift the heavy weight in his heart.

He lingers on the upper floor balcony overlooking the grand ballroom, watching the festivities play out below. House Durendaire has made every effort to impress tonight. Every corner of the manor has been bedecked with impressive topiaries and sculptures, and the faded walls are hung with banners. Floral garlands wrap around the pillars and decorate the entryways, adding a vibrancy to the hall that is reminiscent of spring and everlasting youth. Even a nod to Jannequinard’s astrologians makes an appearance with celestial ornaments interspersed between the crystal chandeliers. The most talented Eorzean musicians and bards were hired to entertain, and even a celebrated portraitist sits in the corner, capturing the events with swift strokes of his brush.

Too much, perhaps, to celebrate the marriage of a third cousin. But this is the first High House wedding since the end of the war, and there is more to celebrate here than simple matrimony.

Aymeric sighs and folds his hands together, leaning them against the balustrade. Below, Aureia cuts a striking appearance, her scarlet dress immediately recognizable amongst the sea of muted darks preferred by the older generations and the gentle pastels favoured by the young. She had been presented with a number of different gowns, including one of Borel blue, but she was keen to select something that spoke to her and not the sensible option. Silver sparkles at her throat and from her ears, and small ornaments scattered through her midnight hair, glistening in the ballroom lights like stars. She loiters on the edge of the dance floor, happy to watch, keen to keep her distance, and anything but a wallflower. Though she has declined every invitation to dance, the highborn youth flock to her regardless, hoping that one of them may get lucky.

There was a time when she may have snapped and them and stalked away, but now she accepts the curious looks and eager admirers with a smile and a nod and polite conversation. The confidence she exudes is magnetic. She has always had it, along with a certain wry charm, but now she has found her place in Ishgardian society—a saviour, a warrior, an outsider who walks the line between lowborn and high—it is even stronger. Few can bring themselves to look away from her.

He cannot blame them. He can’t look away himself.

“Skulking about in the shadows, are we? I never thought I’d see the day Ishgard’s most eligible bachelor would distance himself from the finest social event of the season.”

His lips twitch, holding back a reserved smile. “Skulking is hardly the word I would use,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “And I have not been an eligible bachelor for some time.”

Artoirel laughs, merry from the bliss of wine, and crosses the balcony to join him. “A jest, my friend,” he replies smoothly. “For as long as I have known you, you have never been one to skulk. Out of character for a man who makes public speaking a part of his daily life—or one so hellsbent on reform. And as for eligible bachelor, well…”

“That would be you, good sir, not I. How many ladies have caught your eye this evening?”

“None, for I’m afraid they are all to enchanted by your beloved below to pay much attention to me.”

He pauses, setting his wine down on a nearby table, and leans his back against the balustrade. “Aymeric,” he says slowly, lowering his voice. “Have you asked her to dance?”

“No.”

“Will you?”

Aymeric pauses. Below, Aureia smiles and laughs, touching the arm of a Manseauguel youth affectionately. Despite her refusal to participate in the dancing, she is already attracting a few glares from the surrounding matriarchs and matrons. Victoirelle, the Durendaire bride, sails past in the arms of her new wife, pink-cheeked and giddy, oblivious to all else. At least she is content. Her mother, however, is glaring daggers at Aureia and her accidental entourage.

His brow furrows. He can already feel the oncoming headache when he receives a complaint tomorrow that the Warrior of Light outshone the bride on purpose. Many of the older lords and ladies are not fond of her and what she has come to represent. Foreigner aside, seeing a half-Elezen celebrated in high society has been taken as a personal affront by some. Hilda Ware they can swallow, so long as she remains her gruff and coarse self, firmly on the outskirts and removed from societal events. But Aureia Malathar is a force to be reckoned with, and one that has forced them to confront a number of uncomfortable truths.

“You should ask her to dance, Aymeric,” Artoirel continues. “It would be the proper thing.”

“It may surprise you to learn this, but I have more on my mind than propriety.”

“My friend, how many months now has she been your paramour? Courtship has a natural conclusion; stave it off for too long and your intentions become suspect. Do what you will with your own propriety, but at the very least, respect hers.”

Aymeric stills, gnawing discomfort growing in the pit of his stomach. Slowly, he draws his gaze away from Aureia and raises his head, looking Artoirel in the eye. “We’re not speaking about dancing, are we, my friend?”

“No. I suppose we’re not.”

He exhales a long breath. “Then would you kindly speak plainly?” he says coolly. “I spend my days untangling the distinction between the said and unsaid, I would rather not do so among those I trust. Though I suppose whatever point it is you wish to make, you required two full glasses of wine to steel yourself before raising it with me.”

His heart pangs with fleeting guilt the moment the words leave his mouth. He should not needle Artoirel this way—especially not when drink is involved—but this conversation has quickly turned suffocating. He likes to think himself a patient man, but even patient men have their limits.

His only wish is that it was not happening here and now.

“Then I will be plain,” Artoirel says, equally cool. “Why have you not asked her to marry you?”

“I do not see why that is of any importance. My private life is my own.”

“Your private life is the concern of all Ishgard, as it is for all the lords of the High Houses. Until the matter of heirs and governance no longer depends on noble birth, this is the way of it.”

Aymeric’s mouth curves with distaste. “We are only burdened by the way of it if we choose it,” he says darkly. “Perhaps I should pass a decree unravelling these traditions. No more heirs, no more Houses.”

Artoirel pauses. “Come now. I know you do not mean that.”

“Perhaps I do. Perhaps I don’t.” Aymeric casts an eye out across the ballroom. There is no sign of a scarlet dress. “Regardless of whether I speak in jest or not, the sentiment remains the same. I will not ask Aureia to marry me simply because a handful of viscounts and barons are discomforted by the idea that she is my lover.”

“It is not she who makes them discomforted—”

“Please, Artoirel, I’m well aware of the snide remarks and gossip made behind closed doors—”

“They are discomforted by you.” He meets Aymeric’s eyes and folds his arms across his chest, his jaw set. There is no trace of his earlier intoxication. “You know what you have come to represent. The weight your name carries, for high and lowborn both. If the worst comes to pass, what then? Do you wish the legacy you have so painstakingly built tarnished because you chose to spite tradition?”

Aymeric stills, the words twisting in his gut like a knife. “I would appreciate if you did not refer to such matters as the worst that comes to past, Artoirel,” he says quietly.

He glances away. “It is a matter that must be considered.”

“Bastard or not, any child of mine would be loved.”

“If that is what you truly believe, then ask her to marry you.”

“Are you recommending or are you telling?”

“Neither. Counselling.”

“Words that could have been spoken by your father.”

“He is wise.” Artoirel pauses, and for a moment a faded, distant look passes across his face. “And, as you know, he has personal insights into such matters—”

Aymeric grimaces. “He was adulterous. His infidelity is not comparable to Aureia and myself.”

“Even so, you would do well to listen to him. He means well, and he cares for both you and Mistress Malathar greatly.”

I know. And yet somehow that makes it all the worse. No matter how well-intentioned he is, Count Edmont is not omniscient. Would his advice change if he knew the truth? That he has asked Aureia to marry him on more than one occasion, and she has declined each time? That no matter how much she loves him, this is the one thing on which she will not change her mind.

No matter how much she loves him, marriage is not for her.

“I will listen to your father when he chooses to speak to me himself, Artoirel,” Aymeric says firmly, pushing away from the balustrade. “And not when he chooses to send you as a messenger to leverage our friendship as a bargaining tool.”

It is not like him to leave a conversation abruptly—but admittedly he has not been feeling much like himself of late.

[leighsartworks216]

Somethin' Stupid (Songfic)

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Requested by Cat103005 on ao3:

“I was wondering if you could do a fic based on the song Somethin' Stupid by Frank Sinatra. The song has been giving me major brain worms recently and it's just such a soft song that I can't stop thinking about Astarion when I listen to it.”

THIS IS ONE OF MY FAV SONGS!!! I literally have it in so many character playlists and I just love it so damn much. It's not the plot I went with here, but I like to imagine a bard Tav singing it at a tavern and Astarion slowly realizing they're singing about him 🥺

The lyrics are in italics, but if they're hard to separate from the regular text let me know and I can bold them or put up dash barriers ✌️

Warnings: alcohol, referenced alcohol consumption, mentions of manipulation, slight hurt/comfort

Word Count: 1,442

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

I know I stand in line

Until you think you have the time

To spend an evening with me

And if we go someplace to dance

I know that there’s a chance

You won’t be leaving with me

Astarion watched with keen interest as you twirled around the campfire, hand-in-hand with a tiefling. Your cheeks were flushed, from alcohol or merriment, he couldn’t tell. You laughed and spun and twirled and reveled in your victory.

He would have to make a move at some point before the day is out. You usually went around to greet everyone or say goodnight; he’d just have to wait until then. While he waited, nursing a disgusting bottle of cheap wine (if it could even be called wine), he thought up lines that always worked on the others he’d lured in before.

That was the easy part. Now he just needed you to fall for them.

Then afterwards we drop into a quiet little place

And have a drink or two

And then I go and spoil it all

By saying somethin’ stupid like, “I love you”

I can see it in your eyes

That you despite the same old lies

You heard the night before

And though it’s just a line to you

For me it’s true

And never seemed to right before

Your pupils dilated, your smile stretched wide, your heart still beat quickly in your chest. With each flattering remark past his lips, you only seemed to glow more. “You’re sweet,” you said, “and sillier than I thought.”

He grinned, sly and seductive. “I can go on all night with the flattery,” he promised, “but is that really all you want? How about if I said these little words… Everyone’s favorite…”

He paused, and his mind raced within the second of time. A flood of feelings within his chest, thick and uncertain. A horde of questions asking why saying it this time felt worse than it used to. But once the second ticked away, so did the thoughts.

“I love you.”

Your smile dulled ever so slightly. Your eyes softened, but not with affection. He couldn’t place exactly how they looked at him. You were still enjoying yourself, he knew that much, but something had changed.

“Having fun, are you?”

He laughed, unexpected even to himself. “I am, it’s hard not to with you.” He cleared his throat. “Now, as much as I relish standing around and saying all my favorite lines at you, I’d much rather we got to experience each others’ full portfolio of talents once again.”

You giggle softly at his phrasing. Even in the dull light he can see you flush; practically feel the heat radiating off your body. But you shake your head. “I’m sure we will get another chance soon. But…” You offer him a sweet smile. “Not right now.”

“I look forward to the day.” He smiles back, surprised to find he finds he actually believes it. “Meanwhile, my hunger for you will only deepen.”

-

I practice every day

To find some clever lines to say

To make the meaning come through

But then I think I’ll wait

Until the evening gets late

And I’m alone with you

Of everything Astarion could have possibly anticipated on this journey, he never thought… Well, he never believed he could ever fall in love. It was a rough tumble, like he’d been shoved down a steep hill, rolling all the way down to the bottom, but he’d fallen, nonetheless. And for you, of all people.

It was a little embarrassing. He’d put in all this effort to have you fall for him, so you’d never turn around and stab him in the back. And here he was, staring longingly across the camp as you played with Scratch, tossing his ball and cooing and praising every time he brought it back. It was silly. He felt like a complete and utter fool. But… he didn’t mind it. At least, not as much as he thought he would.

Instead of searching across a dingy bar for another victim to lure back and give his body to, he watched as you so unknowingly, and yet so gently, cradled his soul within your hands. Whatever he has left of a soul, anyway.

Scratch fetched the ball, but trotted around you and over to Halsin, where he plopped into the druid’s lap and settled in for the night. You had a stupid, beaming smile on your face. And then you turned and saw him, and your smile got impossibly wider. If he had a heart, it would have burst. You lightly jogged over until you stood right in front of him.

The time is right, your perfume fills my head

The stars get red, and, oh, the night’s so blue

And then I go and spoil it all

By saying somethin’ stupid like, “I love you”

“Do you have a moment? I think we need to talk.”

Your face falls instantly into a concerned frown. He misses your smile already. “Are you alright?”

He huffs a weak laugh. “Oh, yes, I’m fine! I just…” He frowns, unable to keep up the charade. “Feel awful. Look, I had a plan. A nice, simple plan - seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so you’d never turn on me. It was easy… Instinctive. Habits from two hundred years of charming people kicked in. All you had to do was fall for it… And all I had to do was not fall for you… Which is where my nice, simple plan fell apart.” He studies your face, searching for rejection. He wouldn’t blame you. But you just look at him with such open, welcoming eyes, worried and attentive. “You… You’re incredible. You deserve something real… I want us to be something real.”

You offer him a smile, but your brow is still tight with worry. “So do I,” you assure him. “More than anything.”

He grimaces. He wishes things were that easy. “I just don’t know what ‘real’ looks like. Not after two hundred years of playing the rake.” He sighs. It’s hard to pour his heart out like this, to admit to so much and hope you won’t run away. He still half-expects you to turn and book it. But you don’t. So he takes a breath and tries to push through the building anxiety. “Being close to someone - any kind of intimacy - was something I performed to lure people back for him. Even though I know things between us are different, being with someone still feels… tainted. Still brings up those feelings of disgust and loathing. I don’t know how else to be with someone.” He frowns ruefully. “No matter how much I’d like to.”

Your face softens further. The crease between your brows eases as you carefully take a step forward. “I care about you deeply.”

“Really?”

You nod, but then you step even closer. He doesn’t know how to react, doesn’t even know what you’re doing, until your arms are wrapped around his waist and your head rests on his shoulder. It’s… different, than all the other times he’s been physically intimate with somebody. You don’t grab on like a leech, prepared to suck him dry of his autonomy. No, he knows if he pulled back even slightly, you’d let go. But he doesn’t want you to.

His hands twitched, held out awkwardly from when you stepped forward. And then he lowered them slowly to your back. You were warm. He pressed lightly against your spine, drawing you even closer to him. He leaned forward and pressed his nose against your shoulder, eyes closing almost instinctively. You smelled of campfire smoke and lye soap. It was the best thing he’d smelled in years, because it was you.

After a moment, certainly not long enough, you stepped back. You worried you’d pressed his boundaries too far after his confession, but he only wrapped you up tighter in his arms, pressing his face more insistently against you. He only relaxed again when your hands returned to his lower back, just below his scars. Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his shirt, securing yourself there with him.

“I have no idea what we’re doing,” he admits, a mere whisper by your ear. “But I know that this…” He sighs, content, the happiest he has been for centuries. “This is nice.”

The time is right, your perfume fills me head

The stars get red, and, oh, the night’s so blue

And then I go and spoil it all

By saying somethin’ stupid like, “I love you”

“I love you”

“I love you”

“I love you”

---

Tag List:

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[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Apart from C-A Prieur, did anyone else in the CSP remain a friend with Lazare Carnot after Thermidor?

I think @aedesluminis and @sieclesetcieux are better suited to answer this than I am, I’m generally pretty unfamiliar with the Office CPS dynamics (I honestly don’t even know which of the members were friends of Carnot beforethermidor). But I’ve at least managed to dig out the following:

In volume 3 of his memoirs, Barère writes that he, following getting relieved of his legislative duties, wrote two or three letters to Carnot expressing some ideas on European politics and the power of the Directory, but that Carnot expressed no interest towards neither the letters or the man Barère had sent to hand them over. ”From this time my correspondence with the Director Carnot ceased; he either could, or would, do nothing for me, he forgot me altogether, and himself disappeared soon afterwards from this disunited, ill-matched, and utterly incapable Directory.”

Barère also writes that he in 1800, after having returned to Paris, had dinner with Fouché and Lamarque, ending with another encounter with Carnot: 

After dinner Lamarque told me that he wished to be reconciled to Carnot. I thought that the circumstances were favourable for the reconciliation of true patriots, as misfortune ought to unite all shades of opinion. I went to Carnot, and introduced to him my friend Lamarque, who had defended me during my proscription from the tribune of the Five Hundred.  "No doubt," replied Carnot ironically, "but he was the president of that council when I was transported as a member of the Directory." I perceived somewhat too late that there are some men whose memory is too good, and we parted rather disconcerted at this misunderstanding.

Later that year, Barère claims Carnot walked in on him and Napoleon having a conversation, and tried to help Barère obtain a position in the new regime: 

The conversation had reached this point when the Minister of War, Carnot, arrived with his portfolio to work with the First Consul. To give Carnot his due, he seemed very pleased to see me in close conversation with Bonaparte. He thought when he saw us tete-a-tete in the audience chamber that I was about to be appointed to some important office. In a few moments he said to the First Consul: "General, can you not usefully employ the talents of Citizen Barère?" The First Consul, who certainly had no desire to do so, and who had only offered me a miserable editorship, was silent, either because he did not choose to be catechised by one of his ministers, or because he had no favourable reply to make. I saw his embarrassment, and I replied to Carnot: "The First Consul would like to make me a bard to celebrate the glorious exploits of his warriors; but the age of Ossian has passed." This reply appeared to displease the First Consul, and I took my leave, considering myself very fortunate to have escaped being requisitioned as a journalist.

Collot d’Herbois mentioned Carnot once in his defence written 1795, attesting that the latter was hardworking. However, it doesn’t exactly tell us anything regarding if the two had stayed in touch or not:

I hastily ate a frugal meal every day in the vicinity of the committee. Carnot was forced to do the same, as was Prieur (de la Cote-d'Or.) They know of my assiduousness; only theirs and that of Lindet could surpass it.

As for Saint-André, I could find nothing when searching for ”Carnot” within the 1848 work Jean-Bon Saint-André, sa vie et ses écrits by Michel Nicolas. The same thing when searching for him Billuad-Varennes — mémoires et correspondance (1893)

That leaves us with Lindet and Prieur de la Marne, both of whom have left so little written material behind that I can’t say anything for the moment… There might be something in Notes et souvenirs inédits de Prieur de la Marne, but I don’t have access to those…

[pampanope]

Hello, how are you doing? I’ve come with more questions >:3

1. Since cannonly Graves’ died in MW2, how is he alive? Did some cute girl/boy/enby necromance him or something? Or was it something more reasonable and realistic. Hell, was he even in the area when he was supposedly killed.

2. Is MW3 cannon in the ShadowDadlderverse? I hear it’s really really bad and not many or everyone considers it to be not cannon. This question goes hand in hand with the former

3. How did Graves’ feel when he realized that his dad wasn’t a hero? Did his finding out happen to coincide with Bell? Or is Graves still blind to what Addler did to Bell?

4. Since the Shadows are notably close in their verse, they most likely have game night. What games and movies do they play while together? What games and movies are banned?

5. Since I cannot go five questions without asking about fantasy and dnd, what would Graves character sheet look like? Class, race, backstory, spells, weapons, etc.

6. why is last name Graves? Is it his mother’s last name? Does like 7-11 call him Phillip A. Grave when pissed or something?(i definitely need to dig into the gas station man)

7. What is relationship with Laswell? And maybe if you’re feeling extra extra dangerous, maybe say what you picture Laswell’s wife to look like.

8. Also how old do you think Graves is? He can easily be seen as like 25-41. Or how old you think he is in your Au?

I know I am definitely asking some pretty deepish questions when it comes to your Au, but I like to learn. I especially like to learn about characters. And since your interpretation of Graves’ is currently scratching the itch I am internally inclined to ask these questions.

Stay safe!

Okaay here i gooo

1. I rly believe that tank was an unmanned vehicle that Graves controlled remotely while Soap ran around frantically XD hurling insults and a Shadow thumping him on the shoulder when he got carried away.

2. The only canon a peel off of mw3 and slap onto the Shadowdadler verse is that Makky is at large and Graves flew off into the sunset|

3. It depends on how he found out. If Graves knew what his father did at an early age, it’s be less of a shock. If Adler was honest about why a masked man was lurking somewhere nearby, told his son that he hurt one person for the sake of millions, it’d be better than if he tried to hide his actions. It wouldn’t surprise me if adult Graves grew to have a similar mentality as his father.

4. Game night’s full of multiplayer games (snash bros, mario party, MvC, etc). There’s a DnD session off to a corner. Ruined jenga towers litter the floor. A circle if Shadows play charades. Monopoly is DEFINITELY banned, too many fights break out. Any high shakes gambling on card games is also prohibited (there Shadows who are talented at card counting and sleight of hand). Any and all genres of movies are watches, with the exception of the Star Wars sequels. Those are unanimously banned.

5. I’d die if Graves was still the leader of a mercenary group but classed as a bard XD high charisma definitely. Still human. Idk enough about DnD as a whole to say what spells he’s gonna use but I like ghe idea of him boosting his part members that do the fighting

6. Ok so in one of my Dadler comics, Adler fights off and kills enemy agents that wanna target him and lil Phillip. He buries them in their backyard. Phillip learns one day that there are dead bodies there. Learns that they had to die for him to keep living. He’s looking at graves. The memory would stick with him. Lol 7-11 calls Graves Sir when the commanders being stubborn ir reckless 🤣 (funny, the Lt. can be just as stubborn and reckless)

7. Oh! I like her and the role she plays. I liked the sneaky sneaky part she had~ Her wife? I picture her a bit taller than Laswell. She’d be a brunette, soft featured, a bit tanned, down to earth and honest about her thoughts and feelings, something Laswell appreciates as someone used to subterfuge.

8. I got Graves at a solid 40. A tiny bit seasoned to be out in the field, but still young enough to be effective. He ages gracefully 🥰 hehehe

[kittenintheden]

Not Your Sweetheart Ch 43 - Weight of Living, Pt II

Not Your Sweetheart Chapter 43 - Weight of Living, Pt II

Once, there was a haunted bluegrass-playing half-elf bard with a dark past who met a charmingly cringefail elven vampire with a dark past and they flirted one another into oblivion until they fell in love. They collect a group of delightful chucklefucks on the road and they all banter their way through the darkness to face their demons and save the world together.

A retelling of the campaign written with sitcom-level dialogue and tons of found family and healing from trauma tropes. Very Schitt's Creek but with more violence.

AKA 18 Charisma bard sees through 10 Charisma vamp-boy's bullshit and falls for him anyway. But he falls first.

---

More revelations, more shenanigans, and an appearance by some of the vamp siblings so Astarion can swing his "I can stand in the sun" around. Read on AO3. Also I'm on Twitter now.

Commissioned piece of the dorks by the fantastically talented @hamrikaa (see the full thing in Ch 10).

---

There’s not much else to say as Astarion and Ori stroll away from the Gur encampment in silence once again. He walks with his hands clasped behind his back, thinking. Brooding, if he’s honest.

She’s as much as told him that she’ll leave him if she doesn’t like what he becomes. Which… is fair, he knows. Logically. Emotionally, however, he’s angry. At her, at himself, at the impossible situation. The constant onslaught of impossible situations.

Who knows what tomorrow might bring? Every day, a new horror. Individually, they’ve all killed tenfold and more people than his six idiot siblings. Sure, it’s also the eternal damnation of their souls, but that’s hardly his fault, he didn’t write the contract. Ori doesn’t understand that they’d all do the same to him in an instant. They were never bound in blood by happenstance. They were bound by design, and the architect is a sadist.

They would all do the same to him, to walk in the sun.

To live again.

Astarion shuts his eyes as they walk and takes a deep breath in. He opens them and glances to the side at Ori walking with her gaze set determinedly ahead. She wants what’s best for him. She loves him. She’ll understand, eventually. There’s no reason they can’t have it all.

They deserve it.

He deserves it.

[gabithefanwriter]

Crash the Wedding, Kidnap the Bride, Simple Plan

Edgin x Female Reader

I watched this movie back in April okay? Don’t hate me lmao

I shook my head, feeling the emotions overwhelm me. I wanted to cry so badly, but I had to stand strong.

I made a promise. I couldn’t break it, but still...

I wanted to be with my real family, not this one that makes plans for me. I am a Princess, and I could never be a free soul, even as I learned the ways of becoming a cleric. I still had to say goodbye to Doric, to Simon, Holga, Kira and Edgin.

Edgin.

I hated myself for it. The heartbroken yet surprised looks they had all given me for revealing who I was, who I truly was.

The large white gown stood like a creampuff around me. I anted to tear it all off, but I stood still as my handmaidens placed on my tiara and my veil, handing me the bouquet full of daisies. I looked in the mirror and saw the necklace that I had to hide soon.

A necklace in the shape of a forget-me-not. My favourite flower.

I still hated myself for falling for the bard. The thief, the father of the little girl who I began to consider as my own. 

Why did I have to fall for Edgin of all people?

“Your Majesty,” I turned to a guard who nodded his head, “It’s time.”

My time as a maiden was almost up. Soon, I was to be wed to the Prince of another nearby kingdom. One I despised.

I felt my heart ache as I slowly made my way towards the great hall. I had to fight the urge to cry. I was doing this for my kingdom. For my people. I would lose my happiness for everyone I held dear, doing everything they wanted. 

But for now, I could only smile as I gently touch the necklace before going, taking in the feeling of freedom for only a little bit longer before it completely slips through my fingers.

***************

I was walking down the aisle, my veil hiding my look of defeat. I could see him there, smiling as if I were a prize to be won. I bit my lip as I finally made my way towards him, gently stepping on the podium. The priest was there, and I felt my freedom slowly slip away. I couldn’t hear the priest, I couldn’t focus on the prince before me, all I thought about was Edgin. His sweet, bright colourful and full of mischief eyes. Edgin, the bard who sang to me when I needed it, the man who showed me true freedom, who I had chased away after I revealed my identity to protect them. 

Edgin, the man I wanted to actually marry.

“If anyone objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace...”

“I OBJECT!”

My eyes turned and I saw him there, the doors falling closed behind him, throwing him forward. I swore I heard him mutter something along the lines of “that wasn’t how I planned it but sure I guess”. He then looked up to me, and I felt my heart race at the look he gave me. “I object to this wedding.”

I didn’t dare fight the smile that slowly creeped up on my lips, even as my eyes held worry as I stared, “Edgin, what are you-?”

“I don’t want you to marry anyone, Y/n,” he began softly, making his way to me as I slowly got down to meet him halfway, holding his face in my hands. He continued, “I only want you to marry me, because you’ve made me so happy in ways I thought I’d never feel again. I want to be by your side, and I want you by mine, because I love you, Y/n/n. You matter so much to me.”

I smiled, a stray tear falling down my cheek, “I love you too, Edgin.”

I wanted to kiss him, but I felt myself get ripped away from his hold. “Edgin - NO! EDGIN!”

He outstretched a hand to reach me, but the guards pulled us away from each other, and I couldn’t help but thrash against them. I was brought to stand with my betrothed as Edgin was held by the guards, looking at my father. “You - YOU BARD! I told you to leave my daughter alone!”

“You are a thief!” The prince cried out, “Trying to steal my bride!”

Edgin only smirked, “I confess: I am a bard, a talented, good-looking one, and I confess that yes, I am a thief, but I didn’t try to steal your bride. I already stole her heart,” his eyes met mine with a mischievous glint, “So it’s only fair I steal the rest of her from you.”

I looked up and saw Simon and Holga and before I knew it, chaos was everywhere. My hand was caught and then dragged away, and I only saw the giant distractions they added, including smoke and thievery of jewels. I looked up to see who held my hand, smiling as I realised it was Edgin. I paused only to rip off the giant skirt and continued running with him. Keeping a fair distance, I saw the horses and quickly jumped up, grabbing the reins as I settled into the seat and galloped away from the church. I saw Simon and Holga catching up, and I laughed, letting out a yell of delight. 

I was free. 

I turned to look at Edgin with a giant grin on my face after we slowed to a walk. His smile mirrored mine. 

We soon reached the house where I saw Doric and Kira. I happily jumped off the horse and ran to an already sprinting Kira, throwing herself in my arms. I smiled and picked her up. “Hey kiddo.”

She squeezed me even tighter, and I felt tears running down her face, dripping onto my neck. “I thought you left for good.”

I didn't fight to remove the smile from my face, my own tears slipping as I just embraced her. "I'm here, Kira, I'm here to stay."

She slowly pulled away, "Good, because as much as I missed you, dad missed you even more."

I felt my cheeks warm up, along with the ends of my ears, nervously biting my lip as I turned to see everyone going in the house.

****

Dinner had ended hours ago, stars beginning to shine through as I stayed there, on the roof of the house.

I was finally free.

My mind wavered back to my wedding, when Edgin told me he loved me.

"Enjoying the view?"

I turned my head to see him, smiling as he sat beside me. I looked back at the stars, smiling. "Yes, I really am."

We sat there, just staring until I decided to finally break the tension. "Did you mean what you said?"

Edgin turned to face me, "Huh? You mean back at the church?"

I nodded, and I saw a smile break onto his lips. He caressed my cheek, my heart beginning to race as I felt him get closer. "I do. I love you, Y/n. I never thought I could love again after..."

After Kira's mother. His wife.

I went to cup his cheeks, smiling at him reassuringly. "I love you too, Edgin. Really, I do."

I finally let our lips connect, and it felt perfect, as cheesy as it sounded. Fireworks erupted in my chest as I brought myself closer and closer, until there was barely any room left. I was free, I was with my family, I was with the love of my life.

Nothing could ruin this moment for me.

After we separated, his eyes were full of love, until he asked a question, a look of worry.

"Will the guards be after you?"

I thought about it, "Possibly. I'm unsure, but there is a possibility."

I heard Edgin groan, and I couldn't help but laugh. "That's what happens when you rescue a princess-cleric and steal her from a wedding."

"Are you complaining though?" He asked, quirking an eyebrow with a smirk. I shook my head. "Not one bit."

[wordsinhaled]

i started writing this post ages ago and it’s been languishing in my drafts, sorry @teejaystumbles ! i mentioned bard!hob like EONS ago so i’m throwing this post out in the wild finally

what about, like... (no, i promise this isn't a witcher au) bard!hob canon divergent dreamling??? like. everything is the same except when dream and death enter the white horse in 1389 hob is performing a song about evading death, for a small crowd. dream is intrigued not because hob is particularly good but because as we all know, dream's a sucker for art and music. he buys hob a drink after his performance and invites him to sit together and by the end of their conversation, he's betting with his sister that hob will run out of things to sing about in 100 years

dream isn’t hob’s inspiration in the same way that he inspires shaxberd. hob isn’t a great talent vocally or musically. but there’s a light and warmth in his eyes and a deftness to his fingers on lutestrings, an earnest relatability in his tone, and a contagious enthusiasm when he talks to dream about his hopes, his dreams. and dream is intrigued

thinking about how their centennial meetings would be almost the same, but slightly different. hob reserves rooms for them when dream comes to the white horse so he can perform for dream privately. he still thinks dream is a lord, and deserving of special attention (and even if he weren’t a lord, he’s ethereal and gorgeous and the subject of more than a few of hob’s bawdier verses, which hob writes only for himself)

and the Tension??? the tension would be unreal???

thinking about 1689 hob, bedraggled and penniless, and maybe dream finding him busking on the street outside the white horse for coin, because the inns won’t let him in. he brings hob inside with him where it’s warm and dry and buys him a meal, and hob lays his instrument on the table between them and says, “it’s all i have left. i’m sorry, old stranger, i’ve no rooms for us this evening—” dream gets their room, and for the first time he says when they’re upstairs, “there is no need to sing for me tonight, hob gadling,” and he helps hob bathe and makes sure he is dressed in fine clothes again. hob looks lost and grateful and not a little in love and maybe he tries to kiss dream - after all he’s been pining for 300 years. but dream lays a hand on his cheek and says, “if you still feel the same in one hundred years, let us revisit this, hm?”

so of course 1789 is… 1789. the tension is there a thousandfold. by this time hob’s writing poetry and plays and he’s part owner of a bookshop. he’s been writing letters to dream as well. he hands them to dream, tied up in a red ribbon. “i still feel the same,” he says. “do you?” dream thinks he does. but then for the first time they have a conversation, outside of a performance; a real conversation. when it comes out what hob’s been doing, the kind of material hob’s bookshop sells and where he invests his money, dream turns on his heel and leaves

thinking about 1889, hob earnest and rueful, wondering if dream will attend their meeting this year. he’s taken a chance and hasn’t written anything. he wants to talk, to fix things. “old stranger,” he says when they’re seated by the fire in the rooms hob has rented for them. “i have changed. i hope that as you learn more of what i have done this past century i might raise myself in your estimation. but my feelings for you have only grown.” and maybe this is the year of their first real kiss, the year they go to bed together, and hob wakes up the next morning alone, fine sand under his fingernails and the taste of dream still on his tongue

and perhaps soon after dream goes missing hob hears whispers of it from some of the more eccentric patrons of his bookshop, and he goes and rescues dream. he dusts off his musicianship and gets himself in as an entertainer at one of burgess’ lavish parties as a cover

and then dream is free and they live happily ever after, the end, right?

cue modern day hob, teaching a course on the history of story and ballad, looking at old lyrics from the 15th century, asking dream, “remember when i sang this for you? god, i was bloody awful, don’t know what you saw in me…”