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ushidoux · 4 years ago

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November Baby - Ushijima x Reader

Summary: Wakatoshi offers you a little more than just chocolate and flowers on Valentine’s Day. (~2.7k words)

Warnings: breeding kink, pregnancy talk, cisfem!reader, nsfw

A/N: Breeding kink and big one-track minded boy just go hand in hand. This is for @prettysetterbaby’s Valentine’s Day collab!

---

Wakatoshi never told you directly that he wanted children, but he signaled so in every possible way.

It was initially subtle - of course, he’d always loved your hips, but his eyes and hands started to rest on them more often, and soon your belly became his favorite place to plant soft kisses, and his fingers started to favor the dip in your waist and the smoothness of your hips.

In the evenings when you washed up for the night, his eyes seemed to hone in on your facial features more than usual, and while he stood beside you at the bathroom sink to get ready of his own accord as you brushed your teeth and swiped toner on your face and neck, you could see him perform a sort of math in his head, adding and subtracting from the elements that comprised the two of you.

You took note of all these behaviors, but you declined to pick his brain because your Toshi was always direct, and you knew that if he was quiet now, it was only because he was still coming up with the proper words to express what he was feeling.

But he let you know all right, in the middle of a crowded department store in the heart of Warsaw that looked like it had been ransacked by Cupid’s battalion many times over.

“Is Poland just really into Valentines’ Day or is it this store?” You joked, as you followed your husband leisurely pushing a shopping cart you’d overloaded with essentially useless trinkets and decorative items. You’d moved into your new home just a couple of weeks ago, and still were engrossed with the task of filling the empty spaces between comfy furniture and elegant fixtures.

You were now trekking through the realm of cribs and diapers and couldn’t help but stifle a laugh at the frankly quite excessive marketing. Red and pink hearts were everywhere, as were flowers, huge balloons, chubby angels and red crossbows, you name it.

“Oh my God, even the baby section is Valentine’s Day themed??? No wonder everyone I know is born in November!”

You were busy laughing at your own joke, but instead, he looked at you with the slightest bit of caution in his hazel eyes, leaning over the cart as it rolled to a stop and gripping the handles carefully.

“Let’s have a November baby, too,” he said, abruptly enough to stun you for a split second.

Your eyes grew slightly wide, your face growing hot at his clear and concise statement, and you quickly looked around to see if anyone else had picked up his distinct baritone. You knew in your heart of hearts he was completely serious, and flustered, you bumped him slightly on the hip.

“Why would you say it right now?” You hissed.

“Does it matter where I say it?” He asked, with a slight raise of his eyebrows. You pouted, fingers tightening on the handles of the shopping cart as well. His eyes were still on you, again, gauging your reaction, worried if he was too forward and if he had somehow made you upset with his suggestion.

“Only if you want to of course, my love,” he reassured again, his hand now covering yours. His smile was understanding, even if there was a hint of lingering hope.

The warmth was fading from your face, your heartbeat that had sped up due to embarrassment now settling with the stroke of his thumb over the back of your hand.

It didn’t take you long to think because the thought had already crossed your mind. Being heavy with his child, then eventually coming to this very store with a small little one that looked like the two of you…

It was a delightful thought, actually.

“Wine and dine me first,” you teased, kissing him quickly on the nose, “and then we can consider having a Valentine’s Day baby.”

He grinned, the slightest bit of mischief in his glance.

“I’ll have you pregnant by the end of the night.”

---

Dumping your pill pack into the trash was a surprisingly simple ordeal and you were very thankful it was mainly used for birth control over anything else. But out of an abundance of caution, you’d decided to shoot a message to your primary care doctor earlier that morning anyway and gotten the green light to start immediately, which was reassuring if not embarrassing. While you knew she didn’t take it this way, part of you felt like you’d essentially disrupted her life to say by the way, my husband’s gonna fuck me into oblivion until i pee positive on a stick, any objections?

Ushijima seemed to be taking this ordeal very seriously as he was prone to do, his diet even more regimented than usual despite being off-season and adding an extra ten minutes to his morning jog, a protein-heavy green smoothie in hand. While that was cute, what wasn’t cute was the fact that he hadn’t touched you in the past week.

When you rolled over to him in the middle of the night, slipping your hand down his boxers to try to get him to give you what he wanted, he responded with a kiss on the lips before gently removing your hand off of him and intertwining his fingers with that hand instead.

“If I’m going to breed you, it’s gonna be special,” he murmured almost directly into your ear, a tinge of slumber in his voice making his voice even more seductive.

Breed? The thought itself had your heart racing but not as much when he added,

“I’m saving up to fill you with the biggest load possible, sweetheart.”

With that, he patted you on the head before whispering for you to go to sleep and anchoring an arm around your midsection to snuggle with you, but the thought of what he would do to you had you wide, wide awake.

---

The fact that you were so focused on the main event made it easier for Ushijima to surprise you with the rest of the activities he had planned for Valentine’s Day.

It wasn’t the first since you’d been married, but he’d absolutely put even greater efforts into this one, starting with waking you up (after letting you sleep almost into noon) to an oversized box of chocolates and bouquet of roses and a handmade card with a haiku written in his neat script. If that weren’t enough, he’d brought you brunch to enjoy together, cozied up in bed, and topped off morning kisses with the revelation of a tennis bracelet to go with your engagement ring.

“Toshi, it’s perfect…,” you all but blubbered out, ready to burst into tears. He treated you so well.

“Not as perfect as you,” he said with a smile, welcoming you to bury yourself in his chest.

Dinner warranted more of an effort from you, and so you dressed up in your finest attire for the upscale restaurant, armed with the complete awareness that your husband planned to rip every inch of fabric off of you tonight. It didn’t help that while your meal was pleasant, you could see Ushijima grow impatient with time, adjusting and readjusting the sleeves of his blazer as night approached.

When you finally returned to the front door of your home, you were stuffed but not to bursting, and that very little bit of space left in your belly seemed to fill with new butterflies, especially with Ushijima’s hand resting at the small of your back as he opened the door.

Why were you so nervous? You’d had sex before, many times over, but something about today felt… different? Maybe it was the looming idea of purpose, and Ushijima knew purpose very well.

When the door clicked shut, he wasn’t on you immediately as you expected, but he was still ready, as were you. He leaned down to plant yet another kiss on your lips that seemed to whisk the nervousness away - again he was your Toshi, and you were his, and you were going to create life.

“Baby?” He asked, tentatively.

“Baby,” you agreed, wrapping your arms around his neck to start another kiss anew. He carried you effortlessly, keeping his lips pressed to yours as he pulled off your high heels and tossed them haphazardly, leading you back into the bedroom where a smattering of rose petals along the shag carpet and in the center of the bed greeted you, along with a lightly diffused essential oil blend with heavy notes of ylang-ylang and cedarwood.

Laying you carefully on your back, his eyes shifted from soft to focused, practically to match the level of intensity you saw when he was on the court, and your pulse started to pick up again. While he didn’t exactly tear the clothes off of you as you had anticipated, your dress was pulled over your body quite hastily to reveal all of you. Inches of skin to mark, a beautiful body to fill.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured again, leaning into your neck for soft bites and kisses. He was still mostly fully clothed, and you could feel his swollen length press against your pubis, thick and heavy.

He let out a sigh, and climbed off the bed to undress.

“Don’t move,” he ordered as he pulled off tie, shirt, pants, in that order, and you couldn’t tell if you were more distracted by the sculpted muscles of his shoulders, arms, chest and abs, flexing and relaxing with every minute movement or the swell of his fat cock at attention, anxious to bury itself inside you.

You gulped. You knew this was a ridiculous thought, but for a moment, you wondered if it was somehow bigger today?

Before you even realized what you were saying, you were already pleading, “Toshi… please be gentle…”

Ushijima smirked at your wide-eyed look, then shifted back to taking in your splayed out body with his eyes, as though mapping out his strategy while he idly fisted his length.

“Of course, love. I would never dream of hurting the mother of my kids.”

Yet, he was absolutely going to have his way with you.

It didn’t take him long to make a decision on how to attack, anyway, because he quickly resumed position hovering over you, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of anticipating, open lips, slightly knit eyebrows over a curious gaze. His lower half pressed against you closely enough that again, you could feel the entirety of his warm, girthy length pressing against the bottom of your quickly wetting cunt to your abdomen.

The sheer span of his cock reminded you that he was basically designed to do this.

The fact that he started moving first, rubbing his length across your belly as if trying out the course before he dove in also reminded you how much your body craved him always.

His fingers entered you hastily, and he reveled in the way your cunt already made the lewdest of noises, soft audible squishes with every pump of his fingers as he prepped you.

“So eager… so sloppy, waiting to receive all of my cum, aren’t you?” He teased, withdrawing his fingers to show you some of your slick. “You’re receptive,” he added, pulling his two fingers apart to show you the stringiness of your arousal.

“I-I want this too, you know,” your face growing hot from the tease, hotter still when he sucked your wetness right off his fingers.

“What do you want?” He said, raising an eyebrow, still moving painfully slowly on top of you, but angling his body so that he was just running the entire base of his cock against your wet slit, killing you with every second he wasn’t immediately filling you up.

“Your babies, Toshi...”

That made him smile, and you earned the slight entry of his cockhead into you, forcing a slight moan out of your throat. The stretch was intense, as always, but the fact that he slowed had you squirming for more, as fast as possible.

“T-Toshi… please, more,” you moaned as you raised your legs to slide down further on his cock, and he held them, pressing both firmly along his side.

“How much cum can you take in this little body of yours?” he asked, pressing right at your umbilicus with one hand, as he pushed in a mere additional inch.

You let out something between a moan and a scream from the overwhelming sensation of being stretched with so many inches to spare.

“Just fill me!!! Please, just put everything inside me,” you whined.

“As you wish, darling.”

His arms hoisted your legs above his shoulders and he did you the service of thrusting all remaining inches inside you, forcing tears from your eyes from the too full sensation, kissing your ankles beside his head as he gave you time to breathe and adjust. Once you’d settled from the sound of your whimpers slowing, he reached for the headboard behind you before he started his onslaught.

Thrust after thrust after savage thrust, you could hear his groans deepen as he plowed the grounds for his seed, his hands tightening firmly against the wood of your headboard as it creaked for mercy.

He felt so good, so perfect, so fitting, stretching you out like this to make room for his kin.

Your fingers etched desire into his back, as you choked up a demand for more sensation, more him, more closeness..

“More, daddy!”

“Daddy is quite correct,” he mused, his hands moving from the headboard to quiet instead the jostle of your breasts, palming them gently.

They were so pretty to him, he couldn’t wait to see them swell.

He leaned down again to swallow your moans in a kiss, then opted to flip you above him instead, before he continued to snap his hips, bouncing you into the air.

“T-Toshi, you’re ah- too fast!” You shrieked, barely able to stand upright, the ride too rocky and intense for you. Palming his abdomen to walk your way up despite your movement, he brought you back down flush against his chest again, holding you tightly.

“Let me do the work,” he whispered, kissing you, making your head swim to distract from the fact that he really was rearranging your guts. “I’ll do at least this much, since you’ll be carrying our child.”

And to that promise, you came almost instantly, an impulse of shock traveling from your slippery cunt up that you could almost feel in the tips of your fingers that made your body clench, your toes curl and the sound that came out of your throat less dainty and more primal, coming from so far deep inside you, even you were afraid.

As if on cue, his fingers dug into the flesh of your waist, holding you steady as he pounded into you even further, faster, pushing past fluttering walls and soundless cries coming from your lips, until he finally came with a shudder, spurting thick, hot gobs of liquid that you could feel hitting your cervix.

And it kept coming; he held you tighter, so desperately you thought you might break under his touch, burying his face in your chest - you could feel yourself still clenching around him, so greedy, trying to milk him for even more than the generous amount he was giving you.

It would be a miracle if you weren’t pregnant.

When it finally stopped, he left an arm around your back pressing you close to him, letting out a soft, pleased sigh with lowered eyelids. You stayed against him for longer, cockwarming him, your hands languidly coming to rest on both sides of his face.

Your darling Wakatoshi…

He stayed hard inside you, slowly giving you just one more stroke to atone for the small amount of semen that was already threatening to leak out around him, then laid you on your back.

“You’re doing so well already…” he encouraged, scooping up drops of him spilling out of you. “Keep it all in,” he said breathily, a warm palm pressing on your opening.

“I will, baby,” you nodded, and he gave you another peck on the lips, then moved to one of your mounds to take a pert nipple in his mouth and suck softly.

His hand lingered on your hot cunt, warm and dripping; he instead focused on stimulating your nipples with the other hand and his lips, forcing another orgasm out of you with time and dedication.

He’d obviously read somewhere orgasms themselves made pregnancy more likely. Always so thorough.

“You... f-feel so good,” you mewled, your back arching with pleasure as he used a thumb to stimulate your clit gently as he kept his semen inside you.

He smiled, stroking his already re-hardening cock in his hand, preparing for the next round.

“Anything for my Valentine.”

With that was implied, the love of his life, and the mother of his kids.

#ushijima x reader #ushijima #ushijima wakatoshi x reader #ushijima wakatoshi #not sfw #ushijima smut #haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #mae.writing #fic: november baby

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crossbowking · 3 years ago

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Drabble #60

Requested by @winchestershiresauce

“God —” you hissed between gritted teeth, fighting back a wince as you reached high above your head, standing on your tip-toes. “— god, damn it.”

Your hand brushed against the bottle of hydrogen peroxide that’d been pushed to the back of the shelf, just beyond your reach. You dropped your hand down with a huff, your arm wrapping instinctually around your side as you fought to control your breathing, a sharp ache of pain radiating from your midsection.

Sweat trickled down the nape of your neck, the confines of the small market you were scavenging somehow growing smaller, more suffocating — but you shoved the feeling away as you reached for the bottle once more.

“Move,” came a sudden grunt.

Before you knew what was happening, you were being nudged to the side, the archer taking your place.

Your gaze snapped towards Daryl, watching as he effortlessly grabbed the bottle you’d been reaching for, stepping up onto the lowest shelf for leverage. He jumped down with a huff and extended the plastic container towards you in one swift motion.

“Show-off,” you murmured half-heartedly, taking the bottle from his hand and shoving it into your pack.

“Rest a’ the place is picked clean,” he grumbled, ignoring your comment as he readjusted the crossbow strapped across his shoulders. “Should probably head back.”

You nodded absently, quickly swiping at the moisture above your brow. “Alright —”

“What’s up with ya?” Daryl rasped suddenly, catching you off guard.

“Hm?” you sounded, cocking your head.

He paused, giving you a brief once-over. “Ya don’t look good.”

You fought back the urge to shrink under his scrutinizing stare, your arms tightening around your center subconsciously. “Well, damn, Dixon. You’re no beauty queen either,” you quipped, feigning offense.

But your sarcasm seemingly flew right over the archer’s head, his confusion shifting into something far more serious as his gaze lowered towards your midsection. He reached for you then — but just as his fingers brushed over your arm, you stepped back.

His eyes shot up, meeting yours. “Are ya hurt?” he rumbled, concern marring his features as he stepped towards you.

“I’m fine,” you brushed him off, taking another small step back.

But Daryl followed suit, matching your footsteps. He reached for you again, but you grabbed onto his wrist on impulse. He faltered for just a moment before unwinding himself from your grip. “C’mon, jus’ lemme see it.”

“Seriously, it’s nothing, okay?”

But when Daryl didn’t back down, you huffed a breath, rolling your eyes and dropping your arms down at your sides. If you knew the archer as well as you thought you did, you were fighting a losing battle.

Daryl crouched down in front of you then, slowly rolling up the hem of your shirt. You stiffened when his skin brushed against yours, though he didn’t seem to notice.

It wasn’t until you heard a sharp intake of breath did you look down.

“Jesus Christ,” the archer swore, his brow furrowing as he glanced up at you. “Why the hell didn’t ya say nothin’?”

“It’s really not that bad —”

“This shit’s infected, Y/N,” Daryl snapped, standing upright.

You glanced down, spotting the long, angry gash just below your ribcage. “It’s just a scratch, it’s —” you tried to explain, though Daryl was already reaching into your pack for the bottle of hydrogen peroxide you’d stowed away there. “Daryl —”

“Hold this,” he interrupted roughly, tugging at the hem of your shirt still rolled up.

You grabbed hold of the material with a sigh as the archer knelt down, pulling out the red rag he kept tucked in his back pocket. “I was slipping through the fence outside the prison and it snagged me,” you murmured.

Daryl remained silent, although the waves of tension rolling off him were near palpable. He poured the antiseptic onto the rag before gently dabbing around the cut. When you hissed a breath, he glanced up at you, pausing his movements. You nodded an ‘okay’ and he continued.

The quiet that lingered felt heavy. “We’re already so low on supplies,” you mumbled softly. “I didn’t want to waste any more of them.”

The archer scoffed a breath.

You felt a spike of anger. “I was trying to be helpful — save our resources, put on a brave face, whatever,” you snapped.

“This ain’t brave, it’s stupid,” he growled in return. “This could’a killed ya, ya know that?” he tacked on, pausing to look up at you fiercely.

The retort that played on your lips nearly slipped out, but you swallowed it, hearing a hint of something different beneath Daryl’s usual brashness.

Something quiet, something subdued, something almost…fearful?

You sighed, relenting. “You’re right.”

The archer did a double-take, like he hadn’t expected that sort of response. But then his features settled back to their usual stoniness as he grabbed your hand and pressed it against the rag, covering your wound, and clambered back to his feet.

“C’mon, let’s get ya back ta’ Hershel,” he rasped, guiding you forward with his hand hovering behind you.

You peeked over at him as you weaved around toppled over shelving units. He must’ve felt your stare because he glanced over at you then, holding your gaze before focusing forward.

His hand brushed over the small of your back, raising goosebumps beneath his touch, as you made your way out of the market and headed home.

A/N: LOL @ me setting a word limit of 300 words, yet posting a 900-word long drabble lmao

I feel like I'm so rusty with my writing these days. I'M STILL GETTING BACK INTO THE SWING OF THINGS SO PLEASE BE PATIENT WITH MY BRAIN. Okay, ily.

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barbex · 2 years ago

Note

Sorry for being late on the prompts but I napped until the middle of the night and hope you're still taking prompts cause I love watching you update on AO3. I had to think really hard what single thing I was gonna request and !!. I think I'm going for "I wish you would write a fic where Anders is an anxious ball of energy from Fenris' threaths/jokes and begs him not to turn him in" ??? I'm not creative please I just love angsty Fenders where Anders expects the worst and Fenris is an angel

Thank you, dear Anon. This was really inspiring and resulted in 3400 words, oops! For @dadrunkwriting, fenders, Fenris x Anders, references to sexual abuse and prostitution.

I know for a fact that I've read a fic like that and I'm trying my utmost to not just copy what I remember from that fic.

---

Anders pulls his arm back, putting all of his not so significant weight into it, and punches the man on the nose. He crumbles with a truly pathetic wail and Anders shakes out is hand with a hiss.

Market days usually aren't like this. On normal days, when Anders goes to the market in Lowtown, he gets his goods and leaves again, with nobody commenting on the hood over his head or the "walking stick" he leans on, that definitely doesn't look like a mage's staff. Some people greet him as the healer, sell him their goods at a lower price because they remember the friend or family member he helped once, and then he goes back home to the clinic.

But today, a new group of people has set up shop at the market, traders from Antiva in direct competition with traders from Nevarra, and the atmosphere is already strenuous when Anders enters the market. And of course, things only get worse.

He's already on his way out, deciding, very wisely he would say, to get the herbs another day to avoid the commotion, but it's already too late. Tables tip over, tents collapse, fists are flying, and Anders is right in the middle of it. The first knife coming at his throat forces him to react and then he just tries to keep people at a distance to get away.

Someone grabs his arm and Anders whips around to strike, but a familiar voice has him stop. "Anders, what are you doing here?" Varric looks over his shoulder and raises his crossbow. Whoever tried to attack Anders' back clearly has no interest in interacting with Bianca the crossbow and retreats. Somewhere on the other side of the brawl, Hawke and Aveline yell once, twice. Most people stop fighting at that and walk away from each other with the kind of dazed and embarrassed look that people often have when they leave the Hanged Man.

Just one antivan trader does not know that it's time to settle down, and runs towards Anders, holding a club in his raised hand. That's when Anders breaks his nose.

Shaking his hand out, Anders takes stock of the situation. Multiple people have minor wounds but he'd be damned if he risks discovery in the middle of Lowtown to help these troublemakers. His wrist hurts. He'll need to find a quiet corner to heal himself first, anyway.

"You keep holding back, mage, why?"

Fenris' gravely voice is much too loud.

"Shhss, will you keep it down?" he hisses at Fenris. Right on time, templars appear at the entrance of the market. Of course, the trouble is already over and they don't need to risk denting their armor.

"Why?" Fenris looks at him, confused. "You never hide that you're a mage and an abomination."

"Why don't you yell a bit louder?" Anders snarls. "The templars didn't quite hear you." He looks over to the templar, his helmet slowly turning as he takes in the market. "You may not notice it, but I do hide, especially when I'm alone." He glares one last time at the elf and then waves at Varric and walks towards an alley that offers an unseen path back to Darktown's elevator. Turning to a wall in the shadows, he sends some healing into his throbbing wrist and sighs when the pain recedes.

"Mage."

How he didn't hear Fenris' approach, is a mystery for another time.

"Oh, for crying out loud. Must you announce this to the world every time you see me, slave?" Anders lets the glow of his magic die down and continues to walk down the narrow alley.

"You think you can forbid me to speak?" Fenris snarls. "I have to listen to your whining and you think you can order me to be quiet, mage?" He glares at Anders, his markings flickering.

For the first time in a long while, Anders is truly afraid. He's used to bullies, to people wanting to feel important, people who know they have power over him. But that's not what he sees in Fenris' face. All he can see is pure hatred. Fenris doesn't look for something to gain. Fenris just hates him.

"Sorry," he breathes out and turns and runs as fast as he can. He ducks into tiny alleys, secret passages that saved his ass before, through cellars and warehouses, until he reaches the rickety ladders leading down to Darktown. It's not as comfortable as the elevators, but safer. Hopefully. Nobody ever checks the holding brackets on these things.

He waves at the carta dwarf standing watch in front of the clinic, one of the regulars, protecting the clinic and him. He isn't sure if he owes this to Varric or to one of the carta leaders he treats in the clinic. When the door falls closed behind him, he breathes a sigh of relief. But, even with the protection outside, he can't quite shake the feeling that the problem with Fenris will keep festering like a wound. If Fenris decides he has enough of the mouthy mage, he can easily alert the templars somewhere where no carta will protect him and be done with him.

The next time Hawke drags them out on a job, he makes sure to stay far away from Fenris. If he doesn't speak to the elf, he won't get angry, so Anders keeps his mouth shut as best as he can.

Isabela bumps his arm. "What's the matter with you, Sparklefinger?"

"Wow, haven't heard that name in a long time."

"Back when you were still fun." Isabela pouts at him, as if he personally insulted her.

"Sorry, Izzy, but we all get older." He hooks his arm under hers and pulls her close. "So far I didn't need to look for a second job, but if I take up Madame Luisine's offer one day, you'll be the first to know."

Isabela giggles and presses a kiss to Anders' cheek. "It'll be just like old times."

"Yeah..." A wave of sadness settles over his head. He had been more carefree, back then. Even though his life and freedom were in danger every day, his worries were somehow smaller than today.

"You worked in a brothel?" Fenris' deep voice pulls him out of his memories.

"Yes," Anders answers quickly. "There aren't many jobs for —" He stops himself and shuts his mouth hard. If he starts talking about how shitty his life was, it'll only make Fenris angry and he can't risk that. "It was just a job." He grabs his staff tighter and hurries his steps to catch up with Hawke at the front, asking her about the job. When he looks over his shoulder, Fenris frowns at him.

Great, he still made him angry.

Hawke keeps them busy for four more days, running around on some sort of investigation that at least doesn't result in many injuries. On the third day, Anders asks to stay at the clinic, pointing out that his patients need him. "It's not like you're running into anyone dangerous in this investigation."

Hawke looks at him for a bit and then nods. "You're right. I'll ask Merrill."

"If anything happens, you know where to find me." Anders watches them leave, catching Fenris frowning at him, and he breathes a sigh of relief when they're all gone. Two days of tip-toeing around the elf, keeping his mouth shut and never mentioning anything that could be interpreted as whining, has used up all of his mental reserves.

He sits down on his rickety chair, rolls his shoulders, and lays out the ingredients for fresh health potions. At least he can use the time for something useful. That mellows the tiny sliver of guilt he feels for not accompanying Hawke and their friends.

A sharp whistle from outside has him jump, his chair tipping over. It's a warning from his carta protector. He grabs his medical bag, throws in his books, the vials of royal elfroot extract that cost him a fortune, and the two health potions he already prepared. Already he hears the clanging of armor outside of the rickety door of the clinic and he dives into the darkest corner of his room, where a pile of debris seems to have fallen from the ceiling. He lifts the whole thing up with the hidden trapdoor underneath, jumps in and pulls it closed above his head, just as he hears the front door splinter.

Pressing his bag to his chest, he breathes in the scent of leather and elfroot. He hates the darkness and he hates small spaces, but he hates the templars and the Circle even more, so he has to endure the first to avoid the latter.

For what feels like hours, Anders listens to the templars trampling through the clinic, smashing everything in their way. Potions fall from broken shelves, vials breaking and liquid seeping into the floorboards. It smells of herbs and alcohol, which is an improvement to the stank of Darktown, but Anders' heart breaks when he thinks how long he had to scrape all the things together that now get destroyed in minutes.

It's been quiet for a while now, but Anders doesn't dare to move. Templars can be very patient. One could wait outside, waiting for Anders to come out. He holds the bag to his chest, breathing as quietly as he can. Justice makes a soothing sound in his head, not quite a song, more like a hum, and it makes sitting still in the darkness a little easier to endure.

After a long time, footsteps come closer, running, storming into the clinic. "Anders?"

Hawke. It's Hawke.

"Creators, they broke everything," Merrill says, sounding like she's close to tears.

"Mage?"

Fenris, of course. Maybe checking if someone else solved his problem?

Anders pushes the trapdoor open and climbs out, making sure to hide it again, before he shoves the tattered curtain aside. "I'm here, they didn't find me."

"Andraste be blessed," Hawke cries out and pulls him into a hug. Merrill comes up to them and joins the hug and Anders feels like a weight falls from his shoulders.

With a long breath, Anders opens his eyes again and untangles himself from Hawke's and Merrill's arms. His gaze falls on Fenris and the blood freezes in his veins. Fenris looks angry, downright furious.

Anders' thoughts stumble over themselves. Did the elf expect something different? Is he disappointed that Anders wasn't taken? Did he send the templars himself, knowing that Anders was alone in the clinic? Fenris catches his gaze, and whatever shows on his face, it causes Fenris to turn on his heels and leave the clinic.

"Where did Fenris go?" Hawke asks after a while, as they pick up the salvageable pieces from the floor, bandages that just need a wash, vials that aren't broken by some miracle.

"I don't know." Anders sets a table on three legs and fishes the broken one out of the rubble. He finds a few nails and some other broken pieces and fixes the table leg with some well-placed nails and hits with his hammer. "Maybe he's disappointed that the templars didn't catch me."

"How can you say that?" Hawke stares at him. "Fenris would never —"

"He wouldn't?" Anders lets out a bitter huff. "He yells out that I'm a mage, an abomination, at every opportunity. It's just a matter of time until a templar hears him."

Hawke shakes her head. "That's not..."

Anders whips around. "That's not what?"

"He's been hurt."

"Everyone hurts in some way." Anders sets the table down too hard, nearly breaking the leg again. "But only he makes sure to tell me all the time what a pest I am and how all mages should be locked up or tranquil."

"He doesn't mean that." Hawke steps closer, looking at Anders' hands. "You're shaking."

"I think it's been a bit much, what with the raid and," he gestures at the destruction all around, "all of this."

"You're sleeping in one of the guest rooms tonight, come on," Hawke says, resolutely taking his arm. "We'll finish this tomorrow."

After a pleasant meal and some conversation that mentions neither templars nor Fenris, Anders lies in the luxurious bed in Hawke's mansion, staring at the painted ceiling. He can't sleep. His thoughts jump around, returning again and again to the way Fenris looked at him.

The elf clearly despises him. Even if he didn't tip off the templars this time, he could do it any time he likes. That threat will always hang over him. He has to do something about that. Placate Fenris somehow.

With a sigh, Anders sits up and puts on his trousers and shoes. Stepping quietly on the carpet, he can hear Hawke talk with Merrill in the library. He slips out with no one noticing him and stomps over to the dark, rotting mansion that Fenris occupies. He knocks on the door, and after waiting a while, opens it and steps inside.

"Fenris?"

"What do you want?" The voice comes from the hall in the centre of the house.

Anders walks in, stepping over the usual assortment of magically preserved corpses and mushrooms to reach the fireplace. Fenris sits in a stuffed chair in front of the fire, a half empty wine bottle in his hand, and glares at him. "What do you want, mage?"

"No, what do you want?" Anders tries to keep his voice hard and firm, despite his hands shaking behind his back. "I don't know if you sent the templars after the clinic today, but even if you didn't, you made it clear that you could any time."

Fenris jumps up. "Get out!"

"No." Anders widens his stance and crosses his arms over his chest. "Just tell me. You wanted to make me weary and anxious? Congratulations, you were successful. Now, just tell me what you want."

His heart beats too fast and he can't stop his hands from shaking, despite shoving them under his arms. Fenris just stares at him. Running out of options, Anders falls to his knees. "I don't have money, you know that, so please, tell me what I have to do. Do you want me to serve you on my knees? Clean your house? Suck your cock? Just tell me."

Fenris' eyes go wider with every word and he stumbles backwards, nearly tripping over the stuffed chair. "Don't say that, don't... why?"

"Why what?" Anders holds out his hands, ignoring the tears that drip from his eyes for some stupid reason. "Just tell me what you want. I can't live like this, wondering when you're gonna —"

"I would never!" Fenris' voice rattles the windows. "You think me this... this vicious? That I'm such a monster?"

"The monster is me, according to you." Anders stands up, slowly, wincing when his knee protests.

Fenris looks at his knee. "Why don't you heal your knee?"

Anders dismisses the question with a wave of his hand. "It's an old injury, a templar lesson." He sighs, looking up at the dirty skylight in the ceiling. "At any other time, I would just leave the city, but I can't, so please, just tell me —"

"I don't want anything from you."

"Great." Anders throws his hands up. "So I just have to wait for the day when a templar overhears you calling me mage or abomination and just like that you'll be rid of me. That's just great for my non-existent sleep patterns." His eyes fall on a table at the wall and he walks over, offering his last trump.

Shoving his pants down, he leans over the table and throws his coat over his back. "Here, you can fuck my ass. Fuck a mage, as hard as you can, wouldn't that be —" He grunts as Fenris presses against him, leaning over his back. His armor digs into his back and Anders shoves down all the dark memories that want to rise.

He can endure, he's done it before. It's just a little harder to breathe.

"No." Fenris breathes down his neck and then his weight leaves his back.

The air feels cold on his face, brushing over tears. He doesn't know when he started crying. Putting his clothes right, he glances at Fenris. "I know you hate me, but this is just cruel."

"I don't hate you." Fenris' voice is nearly too quiet.

"What?"

Fenris' head snaps around and he yells, "I don't hate you! I fear you, I fear your power."

"What power?" Anders yells back. "You have power. I couldn't even poke you before I would look at my own heart in your hand." Anders hits his fist against his chest. "Tell me, what power do I have? The power to have my emotions burned out of my skull if you keep yelling 'mage' under the templar's noses?"

Fenris stares at him with wide eyes. "I'm sorry, I wasn't aware."

Anders feels like someone punched the air out of his stomach. "How could you not be aware? You saw the mages and the tranquil at the Gallows, you told me yourself that all mages should be made tranquil."

"I said that I know some mages who should be tranquil, in Tevinter."

Anders sets his hand on the table, letting it take some of his weight. He's so tired. "What difference does that make?"

"I didn't mean you."

"Why not? I'm a mage, just like them."

Fenris shakes his head. "You are nothing like them."

"Lucky me." Anders' legs suddenly feel like lead and he leans against the wall and slides down until he sits on the floor. The stress of the day catches up with him and the healer part of himself notes the cold sweat at the back of his neck and his shaking hands as signs of exhaustion. "I'm too tired for this. I'll do anything, whatever you want. Just say what you think and maybe we —"

"I think that you're kind and passionate." Fenris crouches down in front of him and looks him in the eyes. "I think that you respect life and people. I think you care too much sometimes. You care about your friends, your patients, helping them at the expense of your own health."

Anders stares at Fenris, all coherent thoughts having left his mind.

"If you ask me what I want — I want to look at you without fear." Fenris lowers his eyes, watching his hands as they wring each other. "I want to be able to trust you. I want to talk to you and not hear a magister, waiting for an opening to hurt me."

"Fenris," Anders says softly, putting his hand on Fenris'. "What can I do?"

Fenris turns his hands up, pressing his palm against Anders'. "I don't know. This is all new to me."

Anders wraps his fingers around Fenris' hand, stroking with his thumb over a line of lyrium on the back of Fenris' hand. "Maybe all we need is time?"

"Yes, maybe." Fenris lets out a breath and looks at Anders. "I will not call you abomination again, if you don't call me slave."

Anders flinches. "I did that, didn't I? I'm such an ass sometimes. I promise, I won't call you slave again."

"And I will keep my mouth shut about your mageness around templars."

"Thank you." Anders lets Fenris' hand slip out of his grasp and gets up, using the table as support. He looks at it, at the scratched, but clean surface and the sturdy legs. "Do you have chairs? Two of them?"

Fenris frowns as he gets up. "Yes?"

"Would you like to have dinner tomorrow night? I can make soup if I can use your kitchen."

Fenris looks from the table to Anders and back. "Here? Dinner? With me?"

Anders shrugs. "My table is broken."

A smile pulls at the corners of Fenris' mouth. "Yes. Yes, I would like that."

"Good." Anders feels strangely light, excitement curling in his stomach. "Then I'll see you tomorrow after the seventh bell."

"Yes." Fenris looks at him, his hands twitching as if he doesn't know what to do with them.

"I better get back to the mansion now, before Hawke sends out a search party." Anders walks towards the door. He turns once more, raising his hand in an awkward wave. "Good night, see you tomorrow."

Fenris raises his hand slowly, looking at him with a strange frown. "See you tomorrow."

Smiling once more at the elf, Anders walks out, a swing in his steps and butterflies dancing in his stomach. He shakes his head at himself. It's like he's a bloody teenager again.

#dadrunkwriting #Fenris #Anders #Fenris x Anders #dragon age #fenders #fenders fic #dragon age fanfiction #my writing

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author-morgan · 3 years ago

Note

more halfdan, please? 🥺 he needs more love. could you maybe do something for Halfdan where he's traveling and meets and stays with a fem reader?

bless i am not alone in the simping. have a little fluff for Halfdan, as a treat. Halfdan x fem!Reader

THE HOUR IS late, but the storm raging outside makes it seem far later. Lightning streaks across the sky —Thor striking his hammer on anvil, the clash of iron echoing over the sky. The winds howl, and winds lash, shaking the planks and shingles of the wood and earth home. It’s been years since you’ve endured a storm such as this, and it shows no signs of stopping, having raged on since midday. It would be nearing sundown soon by your reckoning. You pity the poor souls who must endure Thor’s wrath without shelter and a warm hearth.

There’s a deceptive lull in the bedlam, the lightning and thunder subsiding though the wind and rain do not. Pausing in an attempt to tidy up after dinner, you take the moment to urge your daughter to bed. Þóra protests, with it still being so early, but there’s scarcely anything else to do on a dark and stormy evening. It takes a small bribe with half a honey cake and a tale of the gods for her to settle in, eyelids drooping shut —curling into the raised cot lined with wool and pelts. With a long sigh, you rise, having pressed a kiss to her brow.

Stripping down to your linen shift, you sit on the edge of your bed, fingers combing through the knots in your hair —watching water drip down into a bucket at the edge of the room, a leaky roof in need of fixing. You barely hear the knocking above the wailing wind, but when you crack open the door, you find a man looking up from under the hood of his oiled leather cloak. “Refuge from the storm?” The stranger asks. His stringy blond hair clings to his face —hiding part of the dark tattoos on his cheek and forehead— and his dark eyes are warm but dangerous.

Snapping from a trance, you move aside, opening the door farther for him to step into your home. “Of course,” you nod, offering a kindly smile. The gods often showed themselves as weary travelers. He steps over the threshold, untying his cloak, hanging it on an empty hook by the door. Out of the night and the storm, you recognize him as the brother to King Harald —Halfdan the Black— as he stands with water running off his sodden clothes and dripping from his hair. “I’ve some spare clothes,” you tell him, quickly moving behind one of the partitions blocking your bed from the rest of the home.

Rummaging around in the chest kept bedside, you return with a dry tunic and pair of britches in hand. Clothes you have no need of any longer but haven’t the strength to give away yet, so you keep them tucked away with part of your heart. “Please, take these” —you hold them out for Halfdan to take— “elsewise, you’ll catch your death.” He lowers his head in thanks and begins working the ties of his tunic and britches loose. Turning, as not to stare at the lithe muscle spanning his chest, you set the table with a bowl of the pot of stew still simmering over the hearth and a cup of ale. A warm meal always did the belly wonders after being soaked to the bone.

You motion for Halfdan to help himself to the stew and ale, taking his sodden clothes to string up to dry on a line spanning the low hanging rafters. “Far better than pickled fish and salted deer,” he jokes when you slide onto the bench opposite him.

“It’s been years since last I saw you and your brother,” you tell him, pouring a cup of ale for yourself and refilling his cup. You’ve rarely returned to Tamdrup in recent years, and the few times you had gone to market to trade livestock or buy fabric, Harald and Halfdan were scarcely around —too busy conquering and unifying the petty kingdoms under one crown. Once, you might have called the two brothers friends, but those days were long past, and many friendships were lost upon your marriage.

“Harald is why I am caught in this torrent,” Halfdan laments, none too happy about it. The two brothers are rarely parted from one another, but there are times when Harald only trusted one person, aside from himself, to deliver word and accept oaths of fealty. This is one of those times. It’s ill luck that his journey back to Tamdrup has been plagued by storms and exiles who unwisely mistook him for a simple vagabond.

“Well” —you reach across the table, resting your hand over his— “you are most welcome here, Halfdan.” His lips twitch upwards, his hand loosely curling around yours.

“Móðir?” A small voice calls, and then there’s the patter of small feet on the rough wooden floor.

“Þóra,” you sigh, knowing it was a fool’s hope to think she would sleep through the storm and night, especially given the arrival of an unexpected guest. She potters to the table dragging a ragged blanket behind her. Þóra stops, looking between you and Halfdan. Her wide amber eyes are glassy and still heavy with sleep.

“A little shield-maiden,” Halfdan notes, flicking his hair away from his eyes, the smallest of smiles pulling at the corner of his lips. Þóra grins, giggling, swaying on her feet. She’s been bugging you of late about training with her cousins —pointing out if she’s to become as famous as Lagertha, she needs a sword and shield. “Or maybe a princess.”

It surprises you when she goes to him, but Halfdan doesn’t hesitate to lift your daughter onto his knee. He’s not particularly versed with children or women, but he tries his best to be decent company, at least. You see the sharp flash of light through the crack under the door; a heartbeat later, the house rattles —it sounds as though Ragnarök is upon you. Þóra jumps. “It is only Thor, little one,” Halfdan reassures her.

“Is it just the two of you then?” He queries, eyes darting around the single-room home for any signs of Þóra’s father —your husband. His quick search yields nothing besides hastily made arrows, a rusty sword, and a shield with fading orpiment and hematite paint. You glance at your hands —the first wrinkles beginning to show among rough patches from years of doing the duties of both a mother and father.

“My family is not far,” you answer, meeting Halfdan’s curious stare, smiling. It’s a rare occasion when your brothers do not come for a daily visit and to help with the farm labor. Your sister and her husband make sure to come weekly too, bringing their children for Þóra to play with. It’s not always easy, but you make do. Halfdan glances down at the little girl, holding her blanket tight as her head rests on the center of his chest, almost asleep once more. He’s met with your smile, wider than the last, and a silent thank you, though you still see the question lingering in his eyes.

“My husband was killed in the raid on Paris,” you explain, remembering how you waited in the central street of Tamdrup to see your husband return, only to hear he was taken to Valhalla. It was not a day you were like to forget, especially given the little girl holding tight to your hand, waiting to meet her father for the first time.

Halfdan nods. Many women were made widows by Ragnar’s pursuits against his brother. There’s a tingle at his shoulder as he remembers the crossbow bolt that could’ve killed him and the scar it left behind. “He waits for you in Valhalla then.” The encouragement somehow lightens a weight on your chest —that one day you and your beloved will be reunited, but until then, you must care for Þóra and maybe, in time, find someone to love as you once loved your husband.

Þóra is fast asleep by the time you and Halfdan finish reminiscing about the days when you were both younger and twice as foolish. Halfdan lays your daughter down in her small bed made of wool. “Thank you,” you breathe, lightly touching his arm before kneeling to cover her with a wolf pelt and her cherished blanket, parting with a kiss upon her cheek.

“I’ll take the floor,” he offers, reaching for the wool blanket and the pelt draped across your arms —he’s slept in far worse conditions than a warm and dry home.

You shake your head, extending your hand toward the bed. He has been on the road for many days and still has at least four more before. A good night’s rest would do him well. “You are my guest, Halfdan, I insist.”

Halfdan looks between the bed and down at himself —he’s never had the same breadth as other warriors, not even the same as his brother and given the size of the lumpy mattress. There’s mirth shining in his eyes. “I do not take up that much room,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. You laugh softly, knowing this back-and-forth banter could go on the rest of the night. Instead, you fold back the blankets, sliding between them, and gesture for him to take the space next to you.

THERE’S A GLIMMER of light and a low rumble of thunder —the storm is dissipating or at least moving farther away. You stir, feeling a heavy warmth draped across your middle. It takes a moment to remember Halfdan lays next to you, occupying a space that’s been empty for years. You’ve woken him too, or he has failed to find rest. His eyes shine with the embers still glimmering in the hearth, a warm amber —like dark honey or fresh soil. “What is it?” He asks, voice rough and low, hand curling unwittingly around your hip, warm breath hitting your neck and shoulder.

Your heart leaps at the thoughts crossing your mind, but you’re quick to shake them away —it would be improper. “It’s silly,” you whisper. Halfdan raises his brow, and though it’s dark, he can see the flush on your cheeks. “I haven’t shared a bed with anyone since my husband left for Paris,” you admit, eyes flicking down, unable to hold his intense gaze. A piece of him finds it difficult to believe —if he recalls, you had a fair number of willing suitors. He imagines the number has not dwindled should you wish to remarry. Halfdan’s fingers uncurl from your hip, tracing a long line up your arm until he pauses, cupping your cheek —thumb running just under your bottom lip.

He’s so close and warm and handsome, and you can’t help the fluttering in your chest or how your stomach twists. You press your hand against the bare skin of his chest exposed by the tunic’s open neck, unwilling to back down from the newfound boldness. “Halfdan?” He moves closer as if anticipating your next words. “Will you kiss me?” His dark eyes flit down to your lips, and he does. The hand on your cheek slides back into your hair until he leans your head back and kisses you, softly at first, then with a swift increase in intensity that makes you cling to him. His lips are warm and soft, opening you to his insistent mouth, parting your shaking lips, sending wild tremors racing through your veins, and you kiss him back with the same fervor and longing.

You part with a hazy smile —it is good to know you remember how to kiss a man. He presses his forehead against yours, fingers still trailing through your hair. For a moment, you draw back, tracing the intricacies of the blue-black tattoo on his brow and down his cheek, until Halfdan pulls your hand away and draws you into his arms, repaying your kindness by taking away the deep-seated loneliness plaguing your heart, if only for the night.

HALFDAN SLIPS FROM your arms at first light and dresses in his dried clothes, laying the borrowed tunic and britches at the foot of the bed. When he turns back, Þóra is awake and staring up at him with eyes that mirror his own and blond hair to match. Is this what my children will look like? He wonders, crouching down, level with Þóra, and lifts a brow as if to question her intentions. She grins, shoving him back and off-balance, and so begins a silent tussle with kindling stacked by the hearth as swords. “Our battle cries are heard,” Halfdan proclaims from the floor, seeing you emerge from behind the partition. He sits up, brushing back his dirty-blond hair. “This one is a fighter,” he says with no uncertainty. “She should have a sword and shield.”

Þóra clambers over to you, giggling, and you scoop her up into your arms as Halfdan rises, brushing the dust from his shoulders. “We’ll have to see if one of her uncles can fashion her a sword and shield that’s her size,” you concede, seeing no use in denying her dreams. She could be both a farmer and a warrior —just as her hero, Lagertha. Þóra wraps her arms around your neck, hearing the decision.

You share a simple breakfast of smashed berries and brown bread and soft sheep’s milk cheese made in yesterday’s morning hours. And afterward, Halfdan readies to leave, buckling his sword belt and replacing the cloak on his shoulders. He musses Þóra’s hair, leaving her laughing and grinning. “Maybe another storm will bring you back,” you think aloud, leaning against the doorframe, each of you looking at the clear skies left in the wake of the gods' anger.

“Only the gods know,” Halfdan tells you, a glimmer in his dark eyes. He steps toward you, his hand extended —the backs of his fingers brushing across your cheek. It’s unspoken when you both move at the same time, closing the distance. His lips brush yours, hesitant then firmly —unwavering. You draw him closer, hand at the back of his neck, thumb following a raised scar wrapping around his neck. “Though, I do not think it will take Thor’s wrath for me to return,” he whispers upon parting. Smiling, you watch him step back, turning down the path that will lead him to his brother and Tamdrup and the same path that will lead him back to you.

[ taglist: @elizabethroestone @naaladareia @charming-merlin (because i know you like Halfdan) ]

#Halfdan #Halfdan the Black #Halfdan x Reader #Halfdan the Black x Reader #Halfdan Imagine #Halfdan Fanfiction #Vikings Imagine #Vikings Fanfiction #my writing #requested #grrr that gif doesnt look the best but oh well #i tried #gif making is hard #he deserves love and fluff and the world #and i think theres some gentleness buried deep down in him

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welcome-to-the-cafe · 3 years ago

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Shang-Chi (2021) Review Pt. 2

This one will be about the less character-relevant stuff, such as casting, props, settings, and design.

Easiest first: props and costumes.

A bit cool, a bit silly, and bit too "Chinese-themed".

The old Ten-Ring troops had normal armor for the time and age. The new Ten Ring troops looked like the Snake-Eyes fodder ninjas but with tassled helmets. Like I appreciate what they were going for, but...it look dumb dude. And what they were doing with only one hook sword? The electrified thing was cool, but y'all didn't use the bladed hand guard, the combo hook move, the spiked pommel...wasted potential smh. And then the electric arc crossbows....again I appreciate the idea, but that was silly, especially after we showed the Ten Rings sniper with a normal ass gun. Or, just go full sino-futurism and give me the chainsaw spiked club, the electrified monk's spade, taser three section staff.

The villager's clothes were too...saturated, and monochromatic. It kinda reminded me of Mulan (2020) actually, the white people's ancient Chinese clothing. In contrast, in the he TianLongBaBu wuxia series I've been watching, people dress in...normal earth tones. Oh also, too many fucking sandals, where are my black loafers and thick white socks, with rope bindings? Like the kind modern Shaolin monks wear?? The villager's weapons too. Only Xialing's was kind of interesting, the rest are vanilla staffs and sword+shield. Boooo. Where's the dragonscale fangtianhuaji? The dragonscale guandao? Ok I'm done. Just disappointed.

Wenwu's costumes were pure drip in every scene. Zero complaints.

Shang-Chi's letterman's jacket was my favorite costume to be honest. He should not have changed in the village. The final costume seemed a bit too...modern, but not quite to the level of the Black Panther suit. It just seemed like Western superhero top with a vaguely Chinese pattern on it. Or it looked kindof...southeast asian? Wish it had no sleeves.

Katy should've kept her Macau drip. The "traditional" robe just didn't look right.

Xialing looked the best in her inverse Bruce Lee colors crop top and sweats. Like damn.

Ying Li's robes' green is too saturated in my opinion, unnaturally. Same with Michelle Yeoh's character. Now that I think about it, I hardly ever see bright green in traditional Chinese clothes...or modern Chinese fashion. Her pristine white/biege wushu outfit is also meh for me.

Death Dealer's dark blue + yellow colors are quite striking, but a bit odd and out of place with the rest of the Ten Rings' getup. Perhaps it was intentional, since he's the elite trainer? I wish it was more modern, a la Snake Eyes' suit. I would also like to complain about his opera face makeup though; why only the top half? Is that even a real opera face design? It's kind of a dumb half-ass reference I think. Like, Noh masks are used all the time for creepy effect, why not Beijing Opera?

Next, CGI animals.

Morris the Hundun/Dijiang was cute, but I half expected him to suddenly go nuts and devour Slattery, since the Hundun is one of the primordial evil beasts. But Disney needs their marketable mascot. I even saw a Lego piece for him before the movie was released!

The trip through the other world was a bit too safari-like. Like wow, the Ninetails is just chilling by the road, and a herd of Qilin conveniently pass by. The execution of these creatures were fine, though the Qilin eyes were too "dead".

I don't have problems with the Lions' design, but they were completely unnecessary, and lowered the stakes for the final battle for me. Those two lions could literally tear apart all five of Wenwu's trucks in less than a minute.

I stated already, the big evil monster, the little soulsuckers, and the dragon are completely unnecessary to me. Even when I saw just the wood carving of the soulsucking bats, I felt disappointed. Xialing and Shangchi spent way too long riding the big dragon and not doing kungfu :/

Onto settings.

I just recently visited Bay Area! The hilliness of SF was nicely showed off by the bus fight.

Macao seemed well-grounded and normal for a modern Chinese metropolis. Was portrayed better than Tokyo was in Snake Eyes in my opinion. The bamboo scaffolding scene reminded me heavily of Rush Hour 2's Hong Kong fight, and I could hear Jackie Chan assuring us "don't worry, Chinese bamboo, very strong!".

The Ten Rings compound was...eh. No defining features to locate it anywhere real so whatever. But the interior was weirdly homey?

The Ta Lo village is what I really want to complain about: why they gotta throw Chinese people back to the Xia dynasty like that? Straw huts? Really? And there was a total of like 7 buildings there, across a tiny area. That is not a village, it's a medium-sized temple complex. Kung Fu Panda 3's hidden panda village was loads more impressive, with interesting geography. This was on a flat plane next to a pond. Combined with the costuming, it's like hello, it's hokey Western orientalism again.

Casting.

Tony Leung. Perfect. Outstanding. Phenomenal. Sexy as hell. I have recovered fully from Lust, Caution. I see on Tiktok that westerners are thirsting after him, and I am very satisfied. The "Killmonger-Loki" Effect is now the "Wenwu-Killmonger-Loki" Effect. I only wish he were younger, because I hate the "daddy" kink. Mr. Leung, you are a hero to Asian-American men. Thank you.

Awkwafina. Yeah she is pretty good as the unabashed ABC friend. But lately, I feel she has been over-used as the main Chinese-American actress. On some social media, I have seen Black users complain of her 'blaccent' and vow to boycott Shang-Chi in protest. I'm inclined to defend her, as it is probably what she grew up with, and the boycott feels like another attempt to draw moral hierarchical divisions between minorities. Similar sentiment is "yall didn't come out for Black Panther, why should we come out for Shang-Chi?". I don't have any data as to whether 'we' did come out for Black Panther, but I generally disapprove of POC factionalism.

Simu Liu. I'm glad that Westerners are thirsting over him too. I'm glad he's very enthusiastic and affable, and well-liked in the Asian-American community. He's us! And he got a shirtless scene! But the catch is...he doesn't fit the current Chinese standard for "hot guy actor".

From the majority angle: that's toxic af. He's hot enough, why are we being so picky with dumb Asian beauty standards? Will we ever properly support ourselves? Like damn, this is the first Asian-American lead in a goddamn Marvel movie, and this is how you treat him?? By the Heavens.

From the other angle: his eyes are small, his jaw kind of round, head kind of wide. Not the most masculine, but definitely not feminine. He's a normal Chinese-American dude. Chinese dude, Harbin, Heilongjiang born. Compare that to Chris Hemsworth, Chris Evans, Paul Rudd, Chris Pratt, Sebastian Stan, Chadwick Boseman, Anthony Mackie, etc. These are among the finest western specimens; why did the pick the Asian hero to be played by the 'normal-looking' dude? Was Jackson Wang not available? Or Ludi Lin? I personally have a suspicion that his appearance most fits the stereotypical look of an Asian man to Western audiences, and that's why he was cast.

He's received hate for this, from Reddit r/aznidentity, the sub that I frequent, which currently is cheering Shang-Chi's box-office success. That's toxic af, and must be heartbreaking for him. Unfortunately, it's part of the larger conflict of Western and Eastern media, representation, markets, and culture. And that's a big fish to wrangle in part 3.

#shang chi #simu liu #awkwafina #kevin watches #asian american #tony leung

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thecreaturecodex · 4 years ago

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Desmodu

Image © Wizards of the Coast, by David Roach. Accessed at the Monster Manual II Art Gallery here

[So at the time I’m enqueuing this post, Furtober has been going for a while, and I’m afraid it has not been terribly successful. My thought was to post a bunch of furry monsters, because people seemed to like them and October is traditionally a theme month for internet creative types. But my average notes count is actually lower than it has been! Maybe I’m over-saturating the market. Maybe it’s because I haven’t tagged them with “furry”, instead using “furtober”, which is a tag people don’t search for or follow (I’ve since rectified this). Maybe I was mis-estimating my audience in general, but whatever the reason, Furtober feels like a bit of a failure.

You know what else feels like a bit of a failure? The desmodu! These batsquatches were Skip Williams’ baby, having appeared first in Deep Horizon, a module he wrote all about them, and then reappearing in Monster Manual II and Savage Species. Basically, they showed up in one book per year of the entire 3.0 product line, and nobody ever seemed to like them. Maybe it was because they had a lot of special abilities and gimmicks (sonic attacks! wounding! alchemy! double weapons!). Maybe because the creature misses out on what people want from an anthro bat monster--flight. Maybe because that illustration isn’t great. (Incidentally, two images by the same artist appear in Deep Horizon, and are much better. I didn’t use either of them because I only have access to very low-res versions). My version streamlines their abilities a bit and removes the double weapon gimmick.]

Desmodu CR 9 NG Monstrous Humanoid This hulking creature resembles a cross between a bat and a gorilla, with reddish fur and a wrinkled face. It does not have full wings, but a membrane connects its oversized arms to its somewhat stumpy legs. It wears a harness and leather armor, and carries an oversized hook.

The desmodus are intelligent, bat-like giant humanoids. They were once common throughout the Darklands, but warfare with the drow pushed them into the deepest, most remote corners. Desmodus have relatively poor vision, but compensate for this by an incredibly keen echolocation sense. Their language, Desmon, extends into frequencies above and below that which humans can hear, and their voices tend to jump in frequency dramatically when speaking more common languages. They are omnivores, feeding primarily on fungi and giant insects, but they require the blood of vertebrates regularly in order to stay healthy. Most desmodu obtain this blood by feeding non-lethally on giant bats and lizards kept as livestock.

Desmodus favor the use of weapons in warfare, such as crossbows and their signature hooked staves. They also craft alchemical items, and use these intelligently to disrupt enemy tactics—charging into enemy formations with a lit smokestick in their belt is a common desmodu gambit. Their sonic abilities can be honed into weapons, firing bolts of stunning sound or filling enemies with despair-causing vibrations. As most desmodu are good, most of them will accept surrender, and most would prefer to flee or surrender themselves instead of fight to the death.

Most desmodus live in small enclaves, and community is dearly important to them. Desmodus wear “kinship badges”, which are metallic bell-like structures that resonate when struck with echolocation, the pitch revealing the family and enclave of the wearer. They trade with other enclaves or with other Darklands species, but material goods are not considered valuable for their own sake. Many desmodus are proud of their animal husbandry, breeding new strains of livestock suitable for food, as pack animals, or even as mounts. Desmodus worship a small pantheon of gods and empyreal lords devoted to darkness, earth and kinship. Some clans have fallen to evil, however, serving powers of war and blood.

A desmodu stands between eight and nine feet tall. They walk bipedally with a rolling gait, but when they need speed drop down on all fours. They favor leather as material for armor and clothing.

Desmodu CR 9 XP 6,400 NG Large monstrous humanoid Init +3; Senses blindsight 120 ft., darkvision 30 ft., Perception +17 Defense AC 21, touch 12, flat-footed 18 (-1 size, +3 Dex, +6 natural, +3 armor) hp 114 (12d10+48) Fort +10, Ref +11, Will +10; +4 vs. sonic Defensive Abilities soundproof Offense Speed 20 ft., climb 20 ft. (40 ft. when galloping) Melee ogre hook +16/+11/+6 (2d8+7/x3), bite +11 (1d8+2 plus bleed) or 2 claws +16 (1d6+5), bite +16 (1d8+5 plus bleed) Ranged screech bolt +14 touch (5d6 sonic and stun) or light crossbow +14 (2d6/19-20) Space 10 ft.; Reach 10 ft. Special Attacks bleed (1d4), subsonic hum (12 rounds/day) Statistics Str 20, Dex 16, Con 18, Int 15, Wis 15, Cha 11 Base Atk +12; CMB +18 (+20 vs. trip); CMD 31 (33 vs. trip) Feats Combat Expertise, Combat Reflexes, Great Fortitude, Improved Trip, Quick Draw, Vital Strike Skills Acrobatics +19 (+14 jumping, +23 jumping w/ gallop), Climb +20, Craft (alchemy) +17, Handle Animal +12, Heal +10, Perception +21, Stealth +14; Racial Modifiers +4 Acrobatics, +4 Perception Languages Desmon, Terran, Undercommon Ecology Environment underground Organization solitary, pair, company (3-7) or troop (8-20) Treasure standard (Large masterwork studded leather armor, Large ogre hook, Large light crossbow with 20 bolts, other treasure) Special Abilities Blindsight (Ex) A desmodu’s blindsight is hearing based. They cannot use this ability if deafened or in the area of a silence spell. Gallop (Ex) A desmodu can move at a speed of 40 feet if it travels on all four limbs. It cannot hold an item in hand or draw an item when it gallops. Screech Bolt (Su) As a standard action once every 1d4 rounds, a desmodu can fire a ray at a range of 60 feet. A creature struck by this ray takes 5d6 points of sonic damage and must succeed a DC 22 Fortitude save or be stunned for 1 round. The save DC is Constitution based. Soundproof (Ex) A desmodu gains a +4 racial bonus on all saving throws against sonic effects. Subsonic Hum (Su) A desmodu can create an area of sonic vibrations in a 30 foot radius around itself. It can use this ability as a standard action, and maintain it on later rounds as a swift action. A desmodu can use this ability for a number of rounds per day equal to its Hit Dice + Charisma modifier. It gains access to the following two abilities: Despair All enemies in the area must succeed a DC 16 Will save or be struck with despair, suffering a -2 penalty to attack rolls, saving throws, skill and ability checks and weapon damage rolls for as long as they remain in the area of the hum. Hope All allies in the area gain a +2 morale bonus to attack rolls, saving throws, skill and ability checks and weapon damage rolls as long as they remain in the area of the hum. A desmodu can switch between effects as a standard action. This is a mind-influencing emotion effect, and the save DC is Charisma based.

#desmodu #furry #D&D #pathfinder 1e #batsquatch

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magic-and-moonlit-wings · 4 years ago

Text

Chapter 51: Changeling Rite Of Passage

Becoming the Mask

Bold italics are trollish.

+=+

"Everybody set?" asked Jim, adjusting his backpack. "First aid kits, water, emergency rations?"

Mary patted her bag. "Plus a solar-powered phone charger and fully-charged credit card, in case we get stuck in Florida and have to get home the human way."

"You're sure bringing our weapons is okay?" Darci asked Glug, who had agreed to join them. "I mean, showing up with swords and spears doesn't exactly say 'peaceful diplomatic party'."

"Everyone needs a good spear," said Glug lightly. "Never know when you find something to hunt. Or something hunts you."

"This way," said Blinky, turning. He was guiding them through the lower levels of Trollmarket.

It was a mostly residential area which the humans hadn't explored yet. The light here was softer and multi-coloured, coming from various crystals besides the Heartstone. There were still occasional market stalls. They gave Darci the impression of neighbourhood corner stores, rather than the more downtown-ish feeling of the main market area.

Blinky led the way down a sloping path, through a doorway, and paused to gesture dramatically.

"Behold, young ones. The Gyre."

It rose from the floor, rotating into what Darci assumed was the 'ready' position.

"Oooooh."

"That's the coolest troll-y trolley I've ever seen," said Toby.

It looked like a gyroscope, between two side-mounts instead of a central base, and with a boat-like structure in the centre. Or one of those models of an atom, with the electron orbit paths mapped out. Or those depictions of angels as multilayered interlocking wheels.

They climbed up the thin staircases on either side of the basket while Blinky continued to deliver exposition.

"No longer do trolls have to travel on hoof between our markets. Now, thanks to a series of tunnels and some creatively engineered machinery, we can take a journey that would last weeks in only moments!"

AAARRRGGHH spun the outer wheel of the vehicle to kickstart it, and got out of the way rather than climbing into the basket with the rest of them. The stairs folded back.

"You're not coming?" Toby asked.

AAARRRGGHH shook his head, his ears set low. "Hate Gyre."

"What so bad about the GYYYYYYYRRRRRREEE–?!"

Inertia pushed the passengers to the back bench. How Blinky was able to stay standing at the controls was a mystery. The six-eyed troll cackled, his four hands dancing over the control panel, pushing buttons and turning knobs and pulling levers with perfect timing to adjust their course down a series of forking tunnels.

It was the scariest and most exhilarating ride ever.

They slammed to a stop and the passengers fell forward, still screaming.

"We've made excellent time!" said Blinky brightly. "You see, was that so bad?"

"Yes," said Jim, rolling off the pile of twitching bodies. "Yes, it was."

"I've got some saltines in my purse," said Claire.

"I think I need, like, a gallon of ginger ale," said Mary.

"For once I don't think I can eat anything," said Toby.

"That was awesome!" said Darci. "It was like, the world's best roller coaster! Is that as fast as it can go?"

"Nooo, don't tell us," moaned Claire. "I don't wanna know."

The humans untangled themselves shakily. Glug had apparently kept her balance, clinging to the basket's side. Darci made a mental note to do that next time.

The Gyre station did not open to another Trollmarket. They climbed up a steep tunnel, and emerged into a swamp.

It was dark. They'd timed their trip to arrive shortly after sunset in the Everglades. The world seemed to be made of green shadows and distant stars. Jim's armour glowed a little, but not enough to work as a flashlight.

"We should probably hold hands to make sure we don't get separated," said Jim softly. "Move slow. Try to test the ground before you put your weight on it."

The humans and Changeling latched onto each other – Darci took the end of the line, since her crossbow couldn't be hung from her hip like a sword or hammer – and followed the tall, rectangular shadow of Blinky deeper into the swamp. Glug blended in too well to guide them.

Darci's eyes gradually adjusted enough to see Glug when the troll got close. She could see how Toby had his hand on Claire's elbow instead of holding her hand, so Claire could use her spear as a walking stick. Darci started walking a bit more confidently. So did everyone else.

She felt a sudden jerk on her arm as Mary, between Darci and Claire in the lineup, stumbled.

"Whoa!"

"Wha-?"

"Ow!"

"Everyone okay?" Jim asked once they all stopped yelping. Nobody had actually fallen.

"I'm okay."

"Fine."

"Just caught my foot on some vines, I think."

"I'm alright."

"Almost there," Glug reassured them.

And then they were surrounded, by trolls nearly identical to Glug, pointing spears at them.

"Oh," said Glug delightedly. "We're here!"

"Why are you leading outsiders to our home?" one of them demanded.

"I vouch for them," Glug promised. "They've come to ask a favour only the Quagawump Trolls can help them with."

"You're practically an outsider yourself by now." Another one snorted and jabbed her spear closer to Glug. "Why should your word mean anything?"

With suspiciously convenient timing, the clouds moved away from the moon. Several of the Quagawumps gasped and pointed at Toby.

Okay, maybe there was some truth to that weather-magic thing?

"Uh … Greeting!" Toby waved uncertainly at them. "I am Tobias of Arcadia. I journey with the Trollhunter to ask you … to help, to avenge the Shattered King."

Most of the Quagawumps quickly huddled together, whispering among themselves. The two who had been furthest to the edges of the group kept their spears at the ready and their eyes on the outsiders.

"Follow us," the one who was probably in charge of this scouting party said. "You will present your request to everyone."

The path through the swamp was twisty, but it stayed on relatively solid ground.

Darci started to see green crystals growing from the trees, like in Glug's poem. Jim gasped sharply when they saw the first one. When the crystals were thick enough to appear in almost every tree, he wandered from the group and touched one. Their local guides started chanting, distracting her. When Darci looked at Jim again, he was standing at Toby's side with his hands behind his back like a bodyguard.

+=+

Jim broke off a fragment of the green Heartstone. Just like the first time he'd touched the one back in Trollmarket, it came off easily in his hand.

He vanished and reformed the scale mail of his armour over his palm. His stolen prize was safely hidden. With his other hand he coaxed it around to rest on the back of his hand, caught under the plate of his gauntlet, rather than on his palm where it might affect his grip on a weapon.

He rejoined his friends, lingering protectively around Toby.

The swamp Heartstone was coloured similarly to the green crystals in the Darklands, but it felt different. Warmer. Had this been how the supposed 'Darklands Heartstone' had felt back when Gunmar first built his throne into it?

They went through a freestanding brick archway with curtain of hanging vines, entering the Quagawumps' – meeting hall? Town square? Plaza?

There was Heartstone everywhere, like Vendel's workshop, and dozens of trolls milling about on their nightly business. Jim didn't see anything that looked like a house or tent, but there was a table out in the open, and some cooking fires.

A large statue of King Quag watched over it all.

(At least, Jim didn't think it was his rebuilt body, since it was so much bigger than the other Quagawumps.)

"AI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YAAA!" cried the Quagawump carrying the Parlok spear.

"AI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YAAA!" cried the rest in response, turning their attention to the newcomers.

"Mm, humans," Jim heard one say quietly to another. "A taste not common." He readied himself to summon his sword.

They were banking on Toby's resemblance to King Quag to coax the Quagawumps into hearing them out. Blinky's suggestion, that Toby pretend to be King Quag's reincarnation, had been dismissed as rude, risky, and with a chance of Toby getting possessed. Maybe they should've given it more consideration, though.

"What is the cause of this ruckus?" asked a deeper voice. "Has tonight's first scouting party returned early?"

A tall, brownish-grey troll with a large stomach and back-swept horns walked into the plaza with slow dignity. He wore nothing but a crown with a glowing green gem. He blinked at the sight of humans in the crowd and continued in English.

"Who you now? Why humans here?"

Blue light pulsed over the lines of Jim's armour, calling attention to him.

"I am the Trollhunter, Jim, son of Barbara. These are my allies, Tobias, Claire, Mary, and Darci, and my mentor and trainer, Blinkous Galadrigal. We come to ask a favour of the Quagawump trolls."

"King Blango, am I."

"We are honoured to meet you, King Blango." Jim did a little half-bow. "We have learned of how to kill Gunmar. Your tribe does not need to fight," before anyone started thinking this was an army recruitment speech, "but you do have an object we need to make certain weapon."

A troll jabbed her spear in their direction, too far away to strike and not in the right stance to throw.

"Why do you think you can defeat Gunmar? What magics do you have?"

"This is my moment," said Toby. He stepped in front of Jim and began waving his hands dramatically. "Watch and be amazed. Abracadabra, nothing up my sleeve-era!"

He pressed his hands together, folded his thumb into his hand and pinched his other thumb under his forefinger, drew his hands apart to show his 'severed thumb', then put his hands back together and, with a flourish, waved his ten intact digits at the crowd.

The Quagawumps all gasped.

"He dismembered his hand, and then rejoined his flesh and bone?"

"His magic is so powerful!"

"The Trollhunter has found mighty allies! AI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YAAA!"

"AI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YI-YAAA!"

Blango laughed. "Dismemberment amuse Blango."

Why did he keep speaking English? Did he not believe the humans spoke trollish? Did he find it offensive that they did? Or was he trying to intimidate them with his intelligence? Speaking your own language will not allow you to confer privately amongst yourselves, because I understand it too. Or was he trying to be hospitable, like how Jim tried to make a good impression by speaking trollish?

"What you ask of us?"

"Allow me borrowing the last living stone of King Quag, to unite the Triumbric Stones. You have my oath that I will return it once Gunmar is dead."

King Blango's expression went from amused to annoyed.

"King Quag not able help you," he said scornfully. "Shatter-ed King was – shatter-ed. Stone is mine! King am I!"

"My favourite musical," said Toby.

"What?"

"It's like a play, with singing?"

"Sing for us?" requested someone hidden in the crowd. The locals nodded among themselves, murmuring approvingly of this idea. One of them tapped on a section of Heartstone like the crystals were drums, sending a resonant boomp, boomp through the air.

For a moment, it looked like they might actually get away with that – defusing tension with an improvised musical number.

King Blango punched the ground and roared "NO!"

The plaza went silent.

Blango took two thudding steps closer to the humans. Jim edged forward to make sure he was between them and the troll. Blango leaned into Jim's face.

"You want crown … you fight me."

Jim had hoped it wouldn't come to that, but shrugged off his backpack casually, as though he wasn't worried.

"Okay."

"Master Jim –" Blinky tried to object. Blango threw a punch before he could finish.

Jim jumped over it and onto Blango's back.

Jim yanked Blango's ear and leaned, turning Blango away from the humans and sending him stumbling.

Blango grabbed Jim's leg and pulled him off. Jim's conjured knife left an ugly scrape down the king's back. It cut deep enough for purple blood started oozing up before that strip of stone went grey and lifeless.

Blango roared and threw Jim.

Jim rolled and snarled. Blango was between Jim and the humans now.

The amulet pulsed. Daylight manifested in Jim's empty hand.

He could conjure a throwing knife, but there were too many unacceptable potential casualties if he missed.

He was dimly aware of the noise of the crowd, of his friends and Blango's subjects reacting to each move of the fight. Blinky had one hand on each human's upper arm, to keep the four of them from jumping in.

Jim readied the blades. He and Blango started circling each other. They had only gone a few paces when Jim's foot slipped.

Blango charged and grabbed Jim by the neck.

Jim slashed Blango's arm.

Blango dropped Jim and clutched his wound.

Jim's knife and sword vanished when he landed. Blango grabbed Jim around the torso with his uninjured hand, and Jim drew his Creeper's Sun dagger.

Blango started to squeeze. The armour glowed more brightly, the forcefield keeping him from crushing Jim, but not repelling him. Jim touched the dagger's tip to Blango's throat.

"Surrender."

The king laughed.

"Blango never surrender to human," he sneered.

Jim turned the knife just slightly to the side and stabbed him through the shoulder. "Okay."

Blango dropped Jim again and fell to his knees, gasping for air as the toxin spread across his chest.

"What – happening?"

"It's a poison. It petrifies, but does not kill." Jim plucked off the crown just as Blango's head turned grey and inanimate. Sometimes the toxin could spread to clothing and he didn't want to risk decapitating Blango just to chisel the Killstone off him. To their audience, Jim announced, "I have the antidote for reviving him after we've left."

Jim started turning back the prongs of the gem setting, to remove the stone from the crown.

The swamp was still.

One of the mossy trolls cheered. "The Pretend King is gone!"

"Blango was our king!" snapped another troll near her. "Just because he was not the Lost King does not mean –"

"He was not even a Wumpa!" interrupted a third.

"He still led us for nearly two centuries!" countered a fourth.

In seconds, the Quagawumps were all yelling at each other. In minutes, they were shoving and smacking.

"We should go now," said Glug, in English.

Jim got his backpack back from Toby. He put the Killstone inside and took out a small bottle of Creeper's Sun antitoxin and a marker.

Antidote. Add piece of Heartstone and pour on poisoned troll, he wrote on the plastic. He left it on the table, along with the empty crown.

While he was crossing under the archway they'd come in through, Jim heard the unmistakable sound of breaking stone. He turned and saw that Blango had been toppled. These trolls now had two 'shattered kings'.

Toby started to turn around, as well. Jim put a hand on his shoulder and urged him forward.

Out in the swamplands, between the Quagawump plaza and the Gyre station, Toby said quietly to Jim, "You stabbed that guy."

"Yeah."

"It was scary, watching you fight like that. He could've killed you."

"Maybe? The armour did its job, though."

Jim had definitely had worse fights, which was probably not what Toby needed to hear right now. Blango had grabbed Jim a few times, but never properly hit him, and the throws and drops hadn't done much damage.

"I filmed the fight, if you want to watch later," Mary offered.

Jim made a noncommittal noise. He wasn't sure what to say to that. None of his training had covered 'what to say when your human friends comment on seeing you kill someone'.

(Well, it did, actually, but those options were 'deny it and prepare to discredit the human in the eyes of local authorities if necessary, or get the human alone and kill them too'.)

"I wonder what are the Quagawumps going to do for a leader now," said Clare.

"They'll find one," said Glug. "Maybe a Queen this time."

The Janus Order had a drinking game, called 'And What Have You Done?', which involved bragging about various accomplishments they had picked up in their time on the surface.

How it worked was that one Changeling would say a thing they'd done – like "I have officiated a wedding" or "I was a pirate" – and everyone who had done it would drink, and then the one who had said the thing would look at one of the Changelings who hadn't had a drink and ask, "And what have you done?"

It was too bad Jim couldn't tell most of them about his part in 'replacing a head of state'. He'd have to wait at least a decade, until he looked old enough that they wouldn't immediately demand details if he drank along with that.

Back in Trollmarket, Glug went back to the pub. The humans followed Jim into Vendel's workshop. Vendel looked at them, but said nothing, only pointed Jim to the cleaving tools.

Jim scratched his hand through his armour, moving the green Heartstone to his palm again, where he could conceal it once he dropped his armour. He used that hand to pull off the Amulet. Jim put the Amulet and Heartstone into his stomach pocket. He got the Killstone out of his backpack and handed the bag to Toby again.

"If anyone comes in, you guys are just curious about stone cleaving."

He changed shapes.

"You're doing it – like that?" Toby gaped at him. Jim's ears flicked back and down in discomfort.

"It's easier to see the right facets with these eyes. I can't afford to take chances with something this important."

+=+

"A shield?!" Jim yelled in delight. He blocked the fire jets – which would be a terrible idea with non-magical metal, but this didn't conduct the heat for some reason – and whooped. "I got a shield!"

And he'd unlocked one of the Triumbric Stones!

Unless this was something the Eye and the Killstone did as a cumulative effect and neither actually did anything on their own? He'd have to train with the Killstone by itself later.

It was too bad he would have to give it back to the Quagawumps once Gunmar was dead. A shield would be extremely useful, especially since most trolls Jim fought were bigger than him. He'd have to look for another shield-stone.

In his distraction, Jim nearly got crunched by some of the Forge's mechanisms. Not even the weaponry, but the giant gears that operated it. He yelped and jumped away.

His faceplate snapped shut as he recoiled. It had been doing that more and more often since the pepper spray incident. Maybe he should just leave it closed.

Hmm … Jim got an idea and made a quick mental note to practice it at home later, where he could watch his reflection, and wasn't in imminent peril.

+=+

Jim squinted at the mirror and opened his helmet's faceplate. The whole suit of armour flashed blue.

He closed the faceplate. Another blue flash.

He changed forms. This blue light was not quite the same shade, and more … crackly, like fork lightning reflecting off clouds.

The armour was amazingly responsive. At Jim's mental instruction, it covered his horns up, and trapped his ears under his helmet. His ears were a little uncomfortable, but not pinched or in an unnatural position. His helmet was padded, which allowed space for hidden ear pockets.

Jim changed to his human shape while opening the helmet's faceplate. The two blue lights blended into each other.

Jim has always liked his colouring. He felt it made him look intimidating. That was why he wore mostly blue clothing while in human form. The light of a Changeling's transformation tended to be that of their stone skin. Jim's just happened to be similar enough to the Amulet of Daylight that he could pass one glow off for the other.

(That could also come in handy if a fellow Changeling caught him just after he'd dismissed the armour – let them think they'd just missed him switching forms.)

Back to troll shape, closed faceplate. The armour adapted to his form with the new design, concealing his horns and ears. He was taller, but not by a lot – enough that it could be excused as a change of posture.

His tail was a bit of an issue, but since it was covered in armour plating, it looked like part of the faulds and tassets. As long as no one was staring at Jim's butt while he switched forms …

He might be able to train in the Hero's Forge in his troll form after all.

+=+

Previous Chapter (Jim talks to AAARRRGGHH, Toby talks to a therapist, Claire talks to Not Enrique)

Table of Contents

Next Chapter (AAARRRGGHH and Blinky make Jim a tempting offer)

I was rewatching The Shattered King to get ideas of how the swamp scenes would play out without Angor's intervention, and I realized that in canon, Angor killing Blango when he did was probably the best thing that could happen for the protagonists at that point.

Like, if Angor just sat there and watched?

Blango was definitely going to try and kill Toby, which would mean Jim would have to fight and probably kill Blango. Then they'd have to fight their way out of the swamp because the Quagawumps would all be mad. "You show up, lie to us, murder our current leader, and then try to escape while stealing a relic of our most beloved leader?"

And then, when the Tribunal shows up in the next season, the new Quagawump leader would be against Jim just like Usurna and Gatto were.

The Quagawumps in that universe would definitely be unwilling to side with the Trollhunter at the end of Season 3!

But with Angor interfering when he did, not only were Jim's hands clean of Blango's death (meaning Jim at that point in the narrative has only killed goblins, one Changeling, a Stalkling, and Bular, not any "good" – meaning "not serving Gunmar" – trolls), but Toby saves Wumpa from the collapsing petrified tree, so she gives them the Killstone and is willing to hear Jim out at his trial, even if she does ultimately vote against him.

Season 3 is still tense because the Quagawumps wanted to stay out of the fighting at first, making a deal with Gunmar's forces for protection. But, after changing their minds, not only do the Quagawumps fight on the Trollhunter's side during the Eternal Night, they even bring in their extended family as backup.

Also, on a Doylist level I get why the team only discussed their plan while on the way to do it, and why they only discussed where they were going once they had arrived – to deliver exposition to the audience and have that exposition pay off as soon as possible – but on a Watsonian level it was highly impractical. So here they planned it a bit further in advance.

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discessio · 4 years ago

Text

What happened to you?" Michonne asked, tilting her face to peer into Daryl's. The latter flinching instinctively at the caring hand that reached for his swollen eye.

Jesus sniggered and continued hauling bags off the truck bed with Rick who frowned momentarily, staring at his brother, who just shrugged and mumbled before heading to the store room.

Michonne spun to glance at Jesus who's lips quirked as he surpressed a smile, his composure shifting back into his usual demeanor as he continued to work. Curious brown eyes flicked to her partner, an eyebrow raised, but Rick just made a small gesture with his hands and shrugged too.

The Alexandrians were pleased with the take, all communities had been putting in large requests for clothing, an ever increasing need, especially after the war. Daryl had blushed furiously like a teenager when Rosita and Maggie and a few other women had asked for underwear. Something about being poked to death by their own bras, but he wasn't quite sure what that meant.

When they arrived at Hilltop after leaving the Kingdom's consignment with Rick, Daryl and Jesus began pulling boxes out the truck and placing them on tables in the market for the community to dig into. Enid peered into the bags of knickers and frowned, brows knotted before she turned her glare to the two men.

"So when we asked for practical clothing you bring these?!" She held a dainty lace thong on the end of her finger.

Daryl snapped round to his fellow scavenger so fast he was sure he pulled a muscle, "Wh-...I didn't, why did you-...?"

"Relax, I just swiped loads off a shelf, they must've fallen in," The younger man replied coolly, not looking up as he sorted the other clothing into piles. Watching him shake out and fold clothes seemed so out of place that Daryl couldn't help but wonder for a moment what domestic normalcy was like for Jesus Before.

"Ew, well don't expect me to take anything gross like this." The teenager snorted and chucked them back into the pile.

Maggie scoffed, baby Herschel snoozing happily in a sling, "One man's trash..." She winked up at the two men. Daryl fumbled awkwardly at the box and Jesus beamed at her.

"Glenn's on a promise tonight?"

She rolled her eyes and gazed softly at the sleeping child on her chest, her voice gentle and without sarcasm, "Not unless he wishes to find himself stranded out in the middle of nowhere, buck naked with only a spoon to protect himself." Her eyes twinkled wickedly as she smirked toward Jesus before sauntering off with her new clothes.

The two men continued silently as Hilltoppers came and claimed the remaining items.

Tara strolled over and browsed some of the flannel shirts, "Ooh, ouchy. Run into trouble out there?" She gave a low whistle upon noticing the darkening bruise around Daryl's eye.

"He got distracted." Jesus grinned before brushing past them both with his own bag of clothes.

Jesus bent over with his hands braced on his thighs, panting slightly as he wiped the walker blood on a nearby mannequin. The department store had been fairly easy to clear with only a few stragglers meandering about.

Daryl pushed a trolley toward him and then pulled his crossbow back up to aim.

It his Jesus's side with a thunk and gave an affronted look at the archer as he turned at the sound.

"So much fer' your ninja skills" He mumbled, his bow raised as they continued through the building. The clothing floor was dark and he could hear the familiar shuffling of dead ones up ahead.

The younger man just scoffed and pulled his torch out, they moved slowly, putting the odd pile of clothing into the cart.

"Aha, lin-ger-ie." Jesus humourously mispronounced the word as he beelined for the shelves of bras and underwear.

A small smile tugged at Daryl's lip as he continued to scan the space, moving forward as the other man set his torch upright and began pulling stuff off of hangers.

The archer was just about the pass through into the next section of the floor when he glanced back. What the-?!

A sudden thud and dull pain brought him back. His crossbow had caught the edge of the wall and in his moment of distraction, he'd walked into it, the handle of the bow jutting hard into the space between his eye and nose.

Lowering the weapon, he rubbed at the area and groaned, part anguish and part pain.

Jesus's sarcastically slick voice teased at him from a distance, "And you were making comments about MY skills?"

Daryl looked up and saw the other man, hands on his hips and a large flowery brazier strapped over his clothing, a companion pair of panties over his jeans, facial expression drawn with all sincerity, as though he wasn't looking like something out of a comedy sketch.

Trying hard to frown, Daryl just huffed, "Fuckin' prick."

Tara looked between them, eager eyes and waiting for some kind of explanation before just throwing her arms up and walking away, mumbling to herself, "Guess I'll just go and fuck myself then."

Jesus turned to the older man, "Don't worry, the bra was far too big for me," His innocent features twisted into a sly grin, "But the panties still might fit?"

Daryl stared in horror as his friend walked backwards, still staring up at him before turning back and heading into his trailer.

#desus fanfiction #desus #jaryl #daryl dixon #paul rovia

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justsomewhump · 5 years ago

Text

Tenebrae (1/6 ?)

So I had a whumpy dream so I turned it into whumpy fanfiction.

Summary: Sorta Medieval, non-magic AU. Killian and his friend Nemo are captured by Commander Gold, who decides to torture the former and use the latter to torture the former further.

Warning: This fic will contain rape/noncon in later chapters.

Word count: 3k AO3

Killian wouldn't care if only he were alone in this.

Gold could do anything he wanted with him - and probably would, anyway, considering what Killian had heard of his practices - if only it weren't like this.

Struggling to keep a neutral face, he turned to look at Nemo behind him, wrists chained together and a sullen expression on his face. At least he thought it was, the dark corridors of the prison they were being walked through weren't the best circumstances to see clearly.

Gold hadn't turned to look at them for one single moment as he took turn upon turn; he was probably still donning that blood-chilling grin he had as soon as the soldiers managed to put iron cuffs around Killian's arm and wrist. It was no surprise he had special plans for them. They passed by several cells, empty and otherwise, but Gold only stopped as soon as they reached a heavy steel door. Gold unlocked it and stepped inside.

"Move," the soldier behind them said.

Killian walked in and immediately stopped, not even being brought back by Nemo colliding with him.

The room opened into a cavernous underground chamber, with a wooden cross proudly standing up in its center. It didn't take long to imagine who was going for it.

"Move!"

With a quiet gasp, Killian turned to take the stairs to the chamber floor, eyes not leaving the cross. He had specifically heard about crucifixion being a common practice in that place, not surprisingly with someone as sadistic as Commander Gold in charge.

But crucifixion was supposed to be... for the public, to instill fear by humiliating criminals - or their idea of them - as much as possible. This cavern looked empty, and private.

It was Gold's very own torture chamber.

Gold was indeed still smiling when Killian and Nemo reached him. Picking up a loaded crossbow from a trunk, he nodded at the soldier, who unlocked the men's cuffs.

"Dismissed," Gold said, and the soldier simply nodded and walked off.

It was certainly not the first time this was happening.

"Let's not stall, shall we?" Gold said and pointed at something behind the cross.

"So that's it?" Killian tried. "We get to be executed in private and then thrown into a mass grave? What's the lesson learned in that case?"

"Oh don't worry, your friend over there will hang. The question is if you'll survive everything I've planned for you to even get that far. Now, lower the cross, if you please."

Killian finally turned to see a wooden, hand-operated winch right behind the cross. Two parts of rope reached from it to the edges of the long crossbeam, making clear what its use was for. He looked at Nemo, realizing that despite how horrible Gold's methods were, they had no chance of actually getting help. If anything, everyone there probably already knew about those methods and was helping him.

Nemo started moving to join him, but Gold immediately raised the crossbow at him, saying, "The demand was aimed at the pirate. Don't worry, I have plenty of those for you too."

"Just let me help him-"

"You will."

Killian simply nodded at Nemo, trying to inspire a confidence he knew he didn't have anymore. It was obvious who was going up on that cross, but still he tried to focus on simply lowering it out of fear his only hand would tremble too much if he thought what awaited him. When the cross was down, he had nothing else to think of.

Resting the crossbow on his shoulder, Gold stared at him. "Those clothes on you look heavy," he said. "Trust me when I say your arms will thank you if you get rid of all of them."

Killian knew he didn't just mean the heavy leather parts, but still he hoped, as he started undressing with a now certainly trembling hand, that he would let him hold on to some dignity.

Surprisingly, he did.

"Your shirt, too. Keep the underpants, if you will."

Oh, he very much willed. He found himself grabbing at the thin fabric as Gold walked back to the trunk and brought back two pieces of thick rope.

He gave them to Nemo, saying, "Not too tight, or he'll lose the other hand too. And not too loose, or he'll slip and fall face down."

"No nails, then?" Killian said, his weak voice surprising him.

"Can't take the chance of infection so early in the game, can I? Now." He pointed at the cross.

Killian turned, a sudden feeling of nausea overcoming him at the thought of actually doing it, lying down on it as Nemo tied his arms around the beams, then being raised up...

"Any time, now," Gold said.

Killian looked at them. Gold had the crossbow at the ready again, while Nemo looked at him with a devastated expression. Killian swallowed hard. He had no idea how he was supposed to do it. Would he slip before Nemo would tie him down? Where exactly should he place himself?

His breath getting heavier, he lied down on the cross. The wood under him was lean, but for him it could just as well be full of prickling thorns. His hand was visibly shaking as he spread his arms over the vertical beam. Eventually, his placing seemed to satisfy Gold, who then nodded at Nemo to get working.

None of the two could look at each other; Nemo was only looking where he was tying the rope and Killian was looking up at the stone ceiling, barely able to control his erratic breathing.

"That'll do," Gold said. "Now, the other arm, bend his elbow and tie the rope around it so the arm won't slip off. I had plenty of chances to try this one out on criminals, in case I would capture this bastard right here. His defect requires special measures."

"Defect?!" Killian huffed. "You bastard... you... it was you..."

Gold didn't even need to raise the crossbow at him; Killian knew he was too scared to make an effective comeback and go any close to winning an argument with him right now. Nemo's presence over him and the looming threat of his death as well, all because he only wanted to help Killian, only made it worse.

"He's all set. Pull him up."

Keeping his chin locked now, in an effort to stop it too from trembling, he felt his stomach turn as the cross started to move. Not even halfway up, Killian started slipping until his toes reached a small protrusion, barely wide enough for the balls of his feet to rest and alleviate some of the weight he already felt pulling at his wrist and elbow. The cross was secured, but to Killian it felt like it was still going and would keep going until he'd land on his face and get crushed by the heavy wood over him.

Concentrate. Look clearly. This can't be how it would end... Gold said so anyway.

Through blurred vision he saw Nemo step in front of the cross, Gold aiming at him again. His feet slipped from the protrusion and as he fell a little lower he realized he couldn't breathe. Struggling, his feet finally found the rest again and he managed to drag himself up a bit.

"Exactly," Gold said. "Keep your feet on that piece of wood and you'll be able to keep breathing."

"How long will you leave him like this?" Nemo said in a low voice.

"That'll depend on you." Gold reached into a pocket and produced an emblem and a small sachel. "Show this emblem to the guards, tell them you're to go buy me the best hazelnuts you can find in the market. The guards have been informed about it. Find me the best hazelnuts, buy them and come running back. If I'm satisfied, you can take him down."

Nemo only gave Killian a quick look, then he ran out without a second word.

"Don't come back," Killian whispered, only realizing Nemo had left after the words were out.

Despite having joined Nemo in trading to many ports, even of this town, he always had to hide due to his known past as a pirate, so he never had the chance to roam around the cities they visited. He had no idea how long it would take Nemo to reach the market, find what Gold wanted, then come running back.

He shouldn't come back. Nemo only wanted to help him... he'd only let him hide in his ship until Killian could secure a pardon for himself, as shallow and fake it would be. Nemo shouldn't pay the price for wanting to help a wayward soul.

But he knew he would come back, no matter what. He looked at Gold, sitting down on a chair and resting his feet on another as he chewed on something and looked at Killian, and he knew that would be his plan until the time for their hanging would come.

Gold kept looking at him like some form of entertainment - which it probably was, for him - smirking every time Killian's feet slipped from the wooden rest and he found himself unable to inhale as his chest tightened, his whole weight pulling down on his wrist and elbow, until he could find his footing again, taking him longer and longer to do so as time passed.

He'd once dislocated his left shoulder during a battle. Though it'd been long since then, he still remembered the haunting, popping sound as the bones disjointed, and even years after he'd recuperated, with any sudden and brute pull he had a small fear it would dislocate again.

That was such a case. Every time he slipped and felt his weight shock his already pained joints, he feared but expected to hear that damn pop from either shoulder. His wondering over whether that was Gold's plan in the first place was quickly drowned out by his need to find the protrusion again and breathe.

He hadn't felt his courage wane so quickly before; he'd normally stare down at Gold, ignoring his own pain and humiliation and even hunger at the sight of him eating while enjoying the view. Now that seemed simply impossible. If anything, Killian couldn't stop thinking that if he allowed himself to die there, Nemo would run back anyway and give himself up for nothing.

He had to stay alive long enough, or until Nemo could manage to put himself over Killian for once. Killian was a dead man anyway; Nemo could get away.

Killian closed his eyes, leaning his head back on the damned wood to alleviate his aching neck and focusing on keeping his feet balanced on the small platform, his very own lifeline. He didn't even have the strength to open them when he heard the massive steel door open. Still, a tear squeezed through as he head what undoubtedly was Nemo running down the steps and reaching Gold, sounding breathless.

"Took you long enough," Gold said and Killian finally opened his eyes. Gold stood up, calmly taking a sachel from Nemo's trembling hand, opening it and tasting a nut.

Even from the distance, Killian saw Gold make an unimpressed face, and immediately felt his eyes fill with tears. If he wasn't satisfied-

"Certainly not the best you could find, but I'll take it."

Killian allowed himself a sigh of relief, but no relaxing. He still needed to stay upright until Nemo took him down, though considering how even now he ran to the winch and turned it quickly, his worry wasn't needed. Soon enough the cross was flat on the ground again and Killian whimpered as his pained muscles were finally relieved of the stress. However, as Nemo moved to untie the ropes, Gold said,

"No." Pointing the crossbow at him, Gold nodded to an arch at a wall on Killian's right.

With a devastated look, Nemo gave one last glimpse at Killian, then went where Gold ordered. Killian heard their footsteps, then a door opening and closing, then opening and closing once more. This time only Gold came back.

"Where is he?" Killian whispered, too weak to speak normally yet.

"In a cell. It's not the best, but it's way better than what I've planned for you." He set the crossbow down, then bent down next to Killian and untied the ropes.

Killian clenched his teeth to avoid whimpering again as he moved his aching arms, bringing them closer to his torso.

"There," Gold said and put a flask in Killian's hand.

The flask was corked. Killian felt he could barely move his arm, let alone hold it up so he could drink. With groans escaping his mouth, he managed to bring the flask closer, then bite the cork between his teeth and pull it off. Still groaning, he raised the flask to his lips. Half of the water had spilled down his chin by the time he emptied it.

With a weak sigh, he leaned on his side, getting himself off the damned crossbeam and onto the stone floor. His hopes of Gold leaving him to rest there were quickly drowned as he walked to stand above him, crossbow in hand.

"Take your time, sonny boy. Get up when you feel like it."

He wasn't sure of his ability to walk right now; the balls of his feet still hurt from spending the past half hour or so balanced on a rest too small for both of them or struggling to stay on said rest. Still, Gold's stare felt as another form of torment, and if he could end it by dragging himself to his cell, no matter how dark or wet or uncomfortable, so be it.

For half a second, he considered crawling there. He was surprised that his first objection was that his arms hurt too much for him to crawl and not how humiliating it would be, to top off this evening's punishment.

He still had to get up, however, and while usually he was agile enough to get up from the floor without the use of his hands or arms if needed, this was out of the question now. So preparing himself, he leaned on his right elbow, let out an involuntary scream and pushed himself to a sitting position. It was then he didn't know what to do with his arms; even their own weight felt too much to let them loose on his sides, but tensing the muscles even just to keep them close to his torso hurt too.

Taking a deep breath, he considered the chance of a private cell, if Gold would give him that. Unless Gold was aiming to prolong the torture he'd just gone through, the chances were that wherever or whatever his cell was, he would be able to lie down, and that would be the best for his arms now. So with another deep breath, he pushed himself to stand, staggered a few steps as he found his balance, then raised his eyes to Gold's.

"Can I have my clothes back?" he said.

Gold laughed. "I suppose you could call it that." He then picked a small sackcloth from the ground next to him and threw it over Killian's head. "Can't have you chit-chatting about where exactly your cell is to your friend, can I?"

Killian then felt something sharp against his bare back. Realizing it was probably the bolt loaded on the crossbow, he heard Gold say,

"Now move. Let's see if you can still walk straight with that thing over your head..." He then felt the bolt push a little harder, and Gold's voice loud against his ear as he said, "Or if you'll need a collar to help guide you."

Feeling his blood freeze, Killian took a few tentative steps forward, feeling even more helpless at how the bolt's sharp end never left his back. Judging by what little he could see through the sackcloth, they walked through a darker room - probably through the arc he saw Gold take Nemo earlier. Or a corridor, from the feels of it. Gold grabbed his shoulder, and Killian hissed back a scream as Gold turned him briskly to the right.

"Forward," Gold said.

A turn to the left and another to the right later, Gold told him to stop. Killian heard something heavy being dragged across the stone floor, then a groan left him as Gold unexpectedly kicked him behind the knees, making him drop down on them. The cloth was lifted from his head, and adjusting to the little light he saw a hole in the stone wall that couldn't be bigger than a few feet in any dimension. A putrid smell of human waste came out from it.

"This will be your cell," Gold said. "It's dark and wet and barely any fresh air comes in, I hope you'll enjoy pretending to be a fungus for the night."

Killian swallowed hard; he wasn't going to avoid crawling, after all. Despite that, he turned to look at Gold. His sickening smile didn't waver for a second. His mind reeling from exhaustion and pain, he decided to keep his mouth shut lest he humiliated himself any further, and walked on his knees through the opening. As soon as he was inside, without a warning, the dragging sound was heard again and Killian was in complete darkness.

Letting out a whimper, he lowered himself on the ground as slowly and with as little help of his arms as he could. He had at least enough space to stretch - not that he could stretch a lot, but he felt he'd appreciate it when, or if, he fell asleep. The stench became even worse, now with the entrance blocked, but hell, he'd spent nearly his whole life on ships, he was used to falling asleep with such foul smells surrounding him. The only thought that scared him was that he'd probably have to contribute to the stench with his own waste... in complete darkness.

Deciding he'd give himself some time as soon as he woke up to explore his cell for any corner he could do just that, he closed his eyes and for the first time since being captured that day, he allowed his body to relax completely.

#I write thangs #whump #Killian Jones #captivity #ropes #pain #ugh I can't tag #Captain Nemo

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authorofdanger · 5 years ago

Text

Miroh

Genre: angst with slight fluff

Skz zombie apocalypse au

Not much warning really

It's pretty short but I got bored

🧟‍♂️🧟‍♀️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♀️🧟‍♂️🧟‍♂️

The storm finally calmed after nearly an entire day of harsh rain and strong winds. Sitting up on a high branch in the first climb able tree I could find I hung my bag and bow on the branch while ringing my shirt out. With the temperature being basically below freezing and having no dry winter clothes or jacket I knew shelter was a must unless I wanted to go through hypothermia.

My body shook violently as another breeze hit my arms and I determined it was time to look for the closest town. Taking a careful glance around me I couldnt see another moving object in sight so I grabbed my few items and leaped out of the tree, bow and arrow at the ready.

Walking through the woods has been scary enough as it is recently with the limited food supply and starving walkers that have been found in hoards but nothing adds fuel to the fear more than being completely alone. I kept my steps as silent as I could and listened to the best of my abilities but in the end I could only hear the thumping of my rapid heartbeat that never seems to calm these days. I use to be able to ignore it when I was with a group but being alone you tend to notice more about ok but yourself compared to when you are with loved ones.

****Four months earlier****

"Y/N you breathe any louder and the walkers will here you," Minho joked as we crept through the abandoned town. Playfully hitting his arm I tried even harder to control my breaths so he could move his jokes onto one of the others. "Unless they hear your blabbing first," Seungmin hushed, "seriously Minho were we not just attacked by a group not even a couple of minutes ago? Let her catch her breath. We all know she is a terrible runner." Rolling my eyes there wasn't much room for arguments. The boys were athletic and strong, only keeping me around for my ability to provide medical care and my shocking ability to hunt. I've tried teaching them for weeks but only successfully having Jeongin shoot a dose after using five arrows and chasing after it.

"Hey it could be worse. We could have Jisung not being tired." Jisung faked a hurt expression with his jaw dropped and a hand slapped to his chest but you could see from the bags under his eyes that if we were to take a small break in one of these buildings he would collapse from exhaustion. "Last I checked I kept watch while I let you guys sleep. I did all of you a favor," he gasped. Placing a soft kiss to his cheek I slightly chuckled at the tiny his face turned and how large the smile on his face turned. "Me too," Jeongin whined while pulling at my arm. Giving him two on his uninjured cheek he seemed satisfied with his reward. I was just happy he was talking again.

He once didnt say a single word for nearly two months due to the trauma of us losing our best friend after we found his family who was going a different way then we were. They claimed to know of a society going west but we were heading east for one we knew of. It was a no brainer he would go with his family and we couldnt be happier for him but we miss him terribly. It took me saving his life and nearly getting bitten for him to find his voice again.

"You are such a baby," Seungmin groaned but apologized once he caught a glimpse of my warning glare. "Last I remembered I beat the shit out of Jisung when he called him a baby. Dont think I wont do the same to you." The boy is an adult now and I refuse to allow the others to treat him as less. "She's stronger then she looks man," Jisung added as he grabbed his wrist, "I thought she broke something!"

"Guys listen," Minho interrupted, "do you hear that? It's called silence and I prefer ot over your bickering." Before I could open my mouth Jeongin grabbed hold of my hand and mouthed a "thank you" while we continued to walk. Security wasn't a feeling we felt but there was a sense of it when we were together. We had eachother.

*****

Taking in a deep breath I had to force myself to think of other things to prevent myself from crying again. After being separated by an attack from a hoard I have been struggling to stay alive, wondering if it was really worth it.

****Three months ago****

I desperately rushed through the city to find the others. Being separated was bad enough but not knowing if they were okay only added to the anxiety. There were bodies and gunshot holes everywhere but no sign of my friends. Losing hope I slowed my pace to a speed walk but kept my eyes shooting everywhere. Then I saw it, Jeongin's bandanna that I used to wrap his ankle after a nasty gash. He never removes it, leaving that for me to do when I wanted to check his wound for infection. I knew it was his when I saw the my fading initials in the corner of the red fabric.

I couldnt stop the tears that rolled down my face with the knowledge that something terrible had to have happened. Tying it around my wrist I spent hours circling the area but when all I found was his bandanna and a few broken arrows from his crossbow I knew one of three things could have happened. They escaped, they got turned, or they got devoured. My heart shattered and all hope was lost. I was alone and I was afraid.

****

Tightening the filthy bandanna around my wrist I took a few more glances around before I spotted glimpses of buildings just a few miles north. Maybe there is food, hopefully there is because I havent had a meal in days and it's taking a toll on my health. With the constant hunger and running I have become extremely thin and weak but just strong enough to keep moving.

The town was in ruins but the market had a few canned items left. I also was able to find more arrows in a hunting shop and medicine in the local pharmacy. "This should hold me off for a couple of days," I whispered to myself before climbing up to the top of a diner's rooftop to look for walkers.

"This place gets worse each time we come," a voice said in the distance. "Shut up and look for some food. I think we havent scoped out that store all the way since we were attacked last round," another ordered after an echoing smack filled my ears and a pain filled wince. "You hit too hard Hyung!" Fear filled my veins. Last time I ran into other survivors they nearly killed me with a gunshot to my shoulder. I still have a hard time moving it since I never got medical attention and it only happened less than a week after losing my friends.

"Any signs of walkers," another voice asked, "I'm not risking us being separated with a sign of danger." I held tightly to my bow and prepared an arrow before deciding to move backwards to try and escaped unseen. "Nope. I think we are fine," a familiar voice groaned, "now can we hurry so we can go back. It's cold out here!" "Minho," I muttered to myself. Crawling to the ledge I carefully peered over to catch a glimpse of the group below. There were three boys I had never seen before but my heart was bound to explode when two familiar faded hair colors caught my eye. With black roots I could see the beyond faded green hair and another faded red. Seungmin and Minho? They're alive!

"What's that," one of the boys growled after spotting me, "guns at the ready!" "Fuck," I muttered before quickly trying to escape. They're alive! Are the others? I didnt have time to think as gunshots filled my ears. "Is it a walker?" "Its too fast to be a walker!" Picking up the pace I felt my lungs burning but kept going after a bullet barely passed my ear. "Stop your fire! It's not a Walker!" I hid behind a dumpster before my legs could give out and tried to keep my jagged breathing quiet. 'Breathe any louder and the walkers will hear you,' Minho's joke replayed in my mind. Even if it was them chasing after me they arent alone and are not afraid to kill me on the spot. I was in serious danger.

Hearing footsteps I stopped breathing all together and listened carefully as multiple footsteps crept past me. "It looked like a girl," Minho whispered. "Minho did you see what she was carrying," Seungmin asked, "she had a bow. It was silver." Many people we have come across had bows of all kinds of colors but rarely did we see a shining silver one like mine since my father handmade mine before the outbreak as a birthday gift. I never got the chance to thank him after the outbreak began due to him getting infected.

"Y/N," Minho called out. "What are you doing," one scolded, "she could be dangerous!" Damn straight I am dangerous. "Dangerous? Y/N is as dangerous as a housefly. She is just a nuisance," Seungmin scoffed. Rolling my eyes I knew if the situation was different I would have slapped him by now. I could see the men from a small crack just behind me but it was hidden enough to where it would be hard for them to see me. Prepping my bow and silently sitting up I had it aimed just a few inches away from them just in case I needed to scare them. "She is as scary as Jeongin. They are both a couple of babbling babies," he added. I then released my arrow, it landing in the fence right next to the faded pink haired boy. "Holy shit," he yelled in a deep Australian accent making me internally laugh but hood it in to not be found. "Definitely Y/N," Minho and Seungmin said in sync.

"Look man we arent going to shoot but dont threaten my men," the faded blonde yelled, "now come out where we can see you." "Drop your weapons. You can take me down without them anyways," I called trying to sound as strong as I humanly could. Slowly each of them lowered their guns and held their hands up to show they were unarmed. I hesitantly crawled out of my spot and made direct eye contact with the two of my four boys. "You're alive," Minho gasped before racing to me and engulfing me in a tight embrace with Seungmin joining on the other side of me. "Shoulder," I winced, "watch the shoulder."

They both immediately pulled away and gazed at my body. Soaked and filthy with blood and dirt I looked as horrible as I felt even with the rain washing some of the grime off of me. "We thought the walkers got you," Seungmin stammered as tears rimmed his eyes, "we didnt even have time to look for you. The boys found us but said they never saw you while searching the place." "I looked for you guys for days. I didnt leave the city until I was nearly attacked again! I was alone for since then thinking you all were," I couldnt even finish after my voice cracked. I placed my head onto Minho's chest and allowed him to rub my back soothingly. "We need to go," the blonde ordered, "I hear walkers."

****

The ride to their base took around half an hour in their safari looking vehicles but looking at the multiple fences let me see just how secure they were. They seemed to reside in an altered town with handmade wooden fences that had to be atleast twenty feet tall that must have taken months to make. "I know it's not the best looking place but its safe," the pink haired boy sighed as we pulled in but I shook my head and gave him a shy smile. "Its better than a simple tree."

As we pulled in there were around fifty people waiting around the parking lot to see if all of their men made it back. In the distance I could see Jeongin and Jisung waiting patiently by a tall and clean building that had to have importance to the people who resided here. Minho helped me out of the vehicle and held his arm around my waist as we walked past the crowd with Seungmin hot on out trail. "Y/N," Jeongin cried once we got into eyesight, "oh my god!" Trampling me to the ground I could only cry as he pampered my face with kisses and tears as he repeated over and over "I'm so sorry!"

"Innie! Innie stop it's okay! I'm here! You're crushing me!" Slowly prying himself off me me Jisung helped me get up and then yanked me into him, body shaking as he tried to be gentle. "How did you survive? Oh my god I'm so sorry," he mumbled into my shoulder. Jisung and Jeongin were always more likely to show emotion so their shaking and crying didnt phase me just as Minho and Seungmin tried holding composure. Running my hand though his quickly fading brown hair I tried soothing him while also bringing comfort to myself. They're alive, they are okay, and we are all together now.

"So who is she again," the pink haired boy from earlier asked as four men approached us. "This is Y/N. She is the girl you were supposed to find when you found us," Minho said with a hint of harshness in his tone. They had to be angry. They were lied to and they knew it, I knew it. Nobody came to look for me that day and I was right where we got separated from! "There arent enough apologies I could provide," the familiar blonde sighed while running a hand through his locks, "but what matters is she is here now right?" "This is Chan, Felix, Changbin, and Hyunjin. The eight of us run this place but Chan is the big man," Jisung explained as he fully let me go.

"You talked about your shoulder," Hyunjin asked, "can I take a look at it in the clinic?" Nodding my head I followed behind him with Jeongin glued to my side as we entered the tall building from earlier.

****

"It looks pretty nasty but I think it will be fine since I cleaned it. We're going to keep an eye on it for the next week or so alright," Hyunjin asked after the last stitch. "Thank you. I could only do so much with a travel first aide kit from a drugstore." Jeongin kept a firm grip on my hand as his friend left the room, leaving us in total silence. "You've been alone this whole time? In the woods? Injured," he asked lowly. "I'm okay now," I encouraged while ruffling his almost white locks with a soft pink hue. "Still havent found dye huh?" He shook his head and mumbled "not worried about it anymore. Too busy around here."

His eyes were full of emotions but I could see so many questions filling his mind that he was pondering if he should ask. "You know to help us feel better we would come up with ways you were alright? Jisung tried making the theory that you found Woojin and stayed with him." Giving him a soft smile I tried to change the subject to clear his mind. "Do you like it here? The boys seem nice." "They baby me. Alot."

I immediately got frustrated but fought to contain it. Have the boys not realized he isnt a baby? Even after I beat the shit out of Jisung? "But Chan has been teaching me how to lead. He told me if anything happens he wants me to take over Miroh. It's pretty cool but kinda scary." My body relaxed at this, so the babying wasn't so bad that he wasn't given respect. It's a big job to lead and he is being trained to do it!

"I'm so proud of you. I know you can do it." "I can now that you're here. Y/N?" I let out a soft hum, listening to everything he had to say, "you know we are staying here right?" "As long as I'm with you boys I dont care where we are. I'm never losing you again." "Well then welcome to Miroh."

#stray kids #skz chan #skz changbin #skz #skz jeongin #skz hyunjin #skz minho #skz jisung #skz seungmin #skz au #skz angst #skz fanfic #skz felix #zombie au #skz zombie

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secretsfromwholecloth · 5 years ago

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Dragon Age: Origins, day 5.

I didn’t recognize the individual VAs (though in the case of Tim Russ, I watched enough Star Trek: Voyager when I was younger that maybe I should have), but I was able to pick out that both Zathrian and Lanaya were voiced by black actors. Which was a little weird to not be able to unsee, given both characters looking like they do.

Daiwen is having a grand old time at the Dalish camp. It’s like the theme park version of going home: Everyone is nice to him because he’s a guest but not strained and closed off the way they’d be with a non-Dalish, he can choose exactly how much to care about the clan’s mundane interpersonal issues, and he’ll be gone long before he can start getting properly sick of any of these people.

Does Sarel have stubble? Huh, early installment weirdness.

*sigh* Everyone, just stand behind Daiwen and keep your comments to yourselves. You too, Alistair.

Kid, if you have questions about how aravels work, you could just ask. And Daiwen didn’t particularly need to know that about the halla horn market.

Huh, how’d I miss unlocking the Arcane Warrior last time? Welp, enjoy, Wynne.

That Arcane Horror in the Lower Ruins. You know the one. *demonic screeching*

Chasing after it was so frustratingly fruitless that I had Daiwen break out his crossbow for literally the first time all game and let Alistair and Zevran worry about engaging the thing in melee. Despite his only archery talent being Pinning Shot, which a Dalish Warden starts the game with. And yes, I made sure to save after the fight so I wouldn’t have to do it again when the game inevitably gets another case of the crashies.

Ah, I’d almost forgotten why the elves’ questline wasn’t one of my favorites. The weird gendered stuff, the casual fridging/use of rape and suicide as a plot device, and generally, the constant sound of the White Cis Dude White Cis Dudeing Again klaxons in my ear the whole time.

And I think that’s enough for tonight, I can start banging out side quests and DLCs tomorrow before I commit to doing Orzammar.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #daiwen mahariel

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salamanderskin · 5 years ago

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Winter Returning Part 7-8 (end)

This is the final part. Many thanks to those who have been reading along. I know fewer people read f/f and I don’t write it often, but this piece is very close to my heart.

Part 1-2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5-6

Historical lesbian romance, fever, caretaking etc.

“Poor love.” She said, very softly. I don't think she meant me to hear it but I did. Some sweetness in it was exactly what I needed to send me into sleep at last.

Thea

We came into a kind of rhythm after that day, for the two that followed were much the same. I was often busy out of the cottage and though Kay professed restlessness and was forever on her feet, tending her weapons, the fire, the garden, she did not stray far. I came home to find her in the woodland to back of the garden, felling enough wood to last the rest of the winter. I could see that the swing of the axe pained her and she could not stop coughing and sneezing in the cold air, but it was no good asking her not to.

I watched her from a distance. Her breath trickled from her lips in plumes and she paused to cough chokingly into her fist at regular intervals, but it didn't stop her moving.

We seemed to be stuck in this brittle, lovely pattern. It couldn't last forever, the scouts would come and find her sooner or later and she would leave me as she had before. But for now, all I could do was enjoy it, enjoy her. And I did.

The shivering cold drew her closer to me and I was grateful for it. We spent the nights under the same blanket. As she got stronger we reverted to our old positions in the bed, me with my head cradled on her breast, her chin on the top of the head.

The third day was different. Kay was much better, her wounds healing. The gash on her head had made a russet crust that still split and cracked when she moved too fast, but she didn’t need the dressing on it any more. The swelling on that side of her face was down, leaving only faint purple warpaint just above her left eye. She let me fasten her hair back from it and looked almost back to her practical self. She moved tenderly around the cut on her stomach. The fever came and went, worse at night, then seemed to pass, though the cold was very much in evidence and she was fairly miserable with it. She didn't say anything but it was in the pained twist of her mouth after a set of sneezes tore through her throat, in the hollow husk of her voice.

“You needn’t-“ she said, each time I rubbed her back through a fit of coughs, or passed her a cup of water in the night. But I think she smiled, and when her head felt heavy she let me run my fingers through her hair.

I felt better about leaving her then. That day I went out and left Kay sleeping. She lay on her back with her mouth charmingly open, one hand cast above her head as if in a gesture of despair. In sleep her features were softer. She was almost smiling. As I climbed over her to leave the bed I couldn't resist a swift press of my lips to her cheek. She smiled more.

It was still bitterly cold. I dressed as quickly as I could and threw my thickest shawl over my shoulders before setting out into the morning, munching on a piece of bread. My boots echoed like hoof beats on the frozen earth as a went down the lane and toward the town.

My business in town kept me for longer than I expected. I saw four patients, stopped by the market and the hardware shop that sold my bottles, cloths for straining and copper pots for boiling up. The woman in there, Mara, blinked at me over her ledger of figures.

“It’s been a few days. Have you been well?”

“Quite, thank you.” I said guiltily. “Just avoiding the bitter weather. I had much to do at the cottage despite the season.”

“Oh aye.” Mara said neutrally. “But there’s folk looking for you. Two scouts came by not an hour ago.”

“For me?”

“They didn't have any wounded, they said. Wanted to ask you a question. Asking the way to the cottage. Go out in the square and you’ll catch them, I expect.”

So it was time. My interval alone with Kay Winter was at an end and her people had come for her. I straightened my back and left the shop at a brisk walk, chin up to face the world.

I missed them in the square and hurried back along the lanes out of town without a hope of catching them up. The prints in the soft ground under the trees told me that they were on horseback, so I hadn't a chance.

It was early afternoon by the time I returned to the cottage. The sun was still above the trees and it shed lemon yellow radiance that made even the bare garden magical. It was incredibly still. Not even the foraging robins were speaking in the bushes. The only intrusion of sound was the huff and stamp of two horses hitched to the big elm tree at the edge of the woods. I passed them on my way to the door, reached out absently to pat the nearest on it’s flank. They were tough dun and black beasts with bright, handsome eyes and the insignia of the King’s Scouts on their tack.

The door to my house was ajar- Letting in a draught in this weather- and the unfamiliar rumble of a masculine voice came from within.

“Hello? Who’s there?” I called. “Kay?”

The front room was empty. Our visitors and Kay herself were through the back, in our bedroom. My bedroom. I felt invaded. Bristling, I strode forward.

What was Kay doing in the bedroom? Had she taken a turn for the worse? I found it hard to imagine, I'd thought the worst was over and besides Kay would fall on her own sword before she held an audience with her superiors in her nightdress. But sure enough the door to the bedroom was ajar and I could hear Kay coughing. Two tall figures hovered on the threshold.

“Excuse me, Sir, Madam.” I addressed the two scouts and they turned to me.

It was the Captain and a scout I didn't recognise who had her dark hair braided up on her head. At least they had the good grace to look embarrassed.

“Very sorry to intrude, Miss Loughran.” The Captain bowed to me. “We had information suggesting Leiutenant Winter was out this way and we were in the area so….” He spread his weapon-coarsened hands.

“… so you thought it was appropriate to burst into my house while I was out.”

He cleared his throat and tilted his head to indicate the bedroom. I peered past his shoulder to see Kay lieing in the bed. Well, it could only have been Kay but the covers were pulled so far up over her head that very little of her could be seen. Her hair was damp with sweat, mussed over the pillow and matted with blood in a streak across her forehead. Her eyes were almost closed but for a split second they opened and caught mine. No way was that woman sleeping. She was watching and listening as hard as she could.

I was about to speak to her but she shook her head minutely. Then the movement came again, a shudder through her shoulders as she drew a ragged breath and sneezed- “htzSscH!”- weakly against the pillow. She didn't even open her eyes but groaned afterward, her breath a whisper.

What on earth had happened in the hours I was gone?

Kay sneezed again and the female scout drew back a few steps in distaste. The sound turned into a nasty, drawn out cough that rattled in her chest.

The Captain cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed.

“Truly sorry, Thea.” He said again, less formal and more genuine. “If I'd known she was in such a bad way I'd not have intruded. Had we best come back another day?”

“I expect you had.” I replied absently, distracted by the state of the woman in my bed. “Wait in the front and I'll see to her a moment.”

The minute they had retreated I fairly ran to her bedside and knelt, peeling back the covers to look at her face.

Kay raised her head enough to see that the others were gone and placed one finger to lips. Not a word. Well, then. What was she playing at?

I cupped a hand over her forehead. It was damp and warm, but only under-the-blankets warm. The wound on her head had been knocked open and she’d swiped the blood and fluid back into her hair. It looked far worse than it was.

The cough that came a moment later was real enough though. She was working up a nice chest infection and I didn't like the sound of the wheeze between each breath. Kay struggled to one elbow to get more air and I passed her a cup of water. She sipped gingerly and lay back down.

“I’ll just go and tell the captain that you're too unwell to give information or rejoin the force at present, then.” I said very quietly.

A cough, a minute nod.

Back in the healer’s room the female scout was pacing in front of the window as though expecting the ash trees to leap out and attack. The Captain has lowered himself into one of the wooden chairs and gestured for me to take the other.

“Is she… will she recover?” He asked.

I bit my tongue. “I expect so. What she needs is time, and not to pass it on to the rest of the force.”

The scout at the window nodded emphatically and the captain rose to his feet.

“As you were then, Thea. We’ll be on our way. When should we come back?”

“I wouldn't hold your breath. She’s wounded too, more than you saw. If you want her back in fighting condition I'd wait for her to come to you. She knows where to find you.”

“She does that.” He growled, buckling his crossbow back over his shoulder as he made for the door. He paused to clap me on the shoulder. “See her well for us.”

“I will.” I promised.

I stood at the window and watched until the horses were out of sight. Only then did I draw the curtains against the bitter weather and made my way back to the bedroom to give Kay Winter a piece of my mind for nearly scaring me to death.

.......................

Kay

“You scared me to death!” Was the first thing Thea said when she came into the room.

“Have they gone then?”

When she nodded I flung the covers off and sat upright. It was stifling under there and I was wearing some of Thea's old clothes, for when I head the Captain coming I hadn't had time to change. Between the two I was slick with sweat and it made the congestion and pounding in my head feel ten times worse.

Thea came to sit on the side of the bed.

“I didn't know you were an actress. Or such an actress as that.”

“Neither did I. But it was worth a chance.” I said.

Thea laughed then, really laughed. “It seems they think you have some sort of plague. You're as cunning as a winter fox.”

I had to snuffle uncomfortably to answer, finally admitting. “I feel rough enough. I'm not exaggerating so much as all th- th--aah – htzSscH!”

A conveniently timed sneeze knocked me forward into my lap. When I looked up, Thea was holding a handkerchief out for me with a complicated expression on her face.

“But Kay-” she paused. “Why? Why exaggerate? Why lie?”

There was the question. It wasn't until she asked it that I knew the answer myself, and then it was obvious. There was more than simple need that had lead me to this house in the woods

“Because...” a deep, steadying breath. “I just want to stay here with you. If you'll have me.”

There. I'd said it. My heart was hammering now and I closed my eyes as though I could remove myself from the situation.

“Why did you wait so long?”

I shrugged. “I thought if I was injured you wouldn't turn me away. I didn't mean to get ill, to be a burden-”

“Of course you didn't mean to. Nobody would wish that on themselves.”

To be in your arms? I thought, they just might.

Thea still hadn't quite answered the question but the reassurance in her eyes was quite enough for me.

Most of her hair had worked loose in what must have been a headlong hurry through the woods. She pulled the tie from the end and bundled it in her hands, rebraiding it into a fat plait like a horses' tail. I loved the darkness of it against her skin. As the strands of hair were bound together so her thoughts collected themselves, visibly, and when she looked at me properly again it was the practical, sensible Thea I was used to.

“You're soaked with sweat. You ought to have a bath.”

It did sound good. Now she said it I was aware of the slick, itchiness on my skin. I ducked relexively into “Not if it's too much trouble...?”

“Stop it, Winter, it's no trouble. I'll go and draw the water.” Thea said, and off she went, leaving me marvelling at this woman and at myself.

…

When the bath water was warm, Thea called me into her front room, the healer's room where the tub sat in front of the fire. Evening had fallen but the lamps were lit and golden light spilled across the floorboards. It was warmer in there and Thea had taken her overdress off. She was left in a light undershirt and a skirt, sleeves pushed up to her forearms to be out of the water. When she saw me approach she pulled a kettle from the fire and added it to the bathtub where the water steamed.

She'd seen more of me than most people but I still felt a twinge of shyness and wondered if she was going to turn her back while I bathed or whether she intended to wash me like a babe. Thea's face was flush, eyes shining. The humidity had lifted curls of hair from her forehead.

She was definitely watching me, perhaps for the cue to leave. She didn't have to leave.

I started at the buttons on my shirt when Thea rose suddenly, crossed the room to look at me and almost shouted;

“--You were promoted and you just left-- You never came back!”

Thea never raises her voice.

She clapped a hand over her mouth but the words had already surprised me, too; like a slap, like ripping a bandage from smarting flesh.

“Did you want me to?”

I had to be sure. I hadn't been sure then and that had been the problem.

Thea had gained back her usual control now. She took a step back from me but kept those dark eyes on me all the while.

“Are you mad?” She said. “Yes. Of course I did.”

I felt a little light-headed. It must have been the warmth in the room.

“I didn't know...” I said stupidly. She stared at me defiantly until I continued. “... For the first six months I couldn't write, and then I didn't know what to say. I thought you wouldn't want me away most of the year. You could have someone with you all the time. Someone more like you.”

“I don't want anybody else.”

She sighed and turned away, hands twitching for a job to do. I reached out and held them, held her to me.

“Are you angry, Thea?” I asked.

She didn't have to think about it.

“...not with you.”

Then she kissed me.

The sweetness of it nearly knocked the air from my lungs, at once foreign and familiar- I remembered this, but it had been such a long time. Her eyes closed but I kept mine open so I could watch her. It was long, slow and tentative as our lips and tongues began the process of relearning each other. It was only after our lips had drawn apart and we were gazing drunkenly at each other that it occurred to me- “I'll get you ill...”

Thea gave a giddy laugh, murmured, “It's days too late to worry about that. But your bath will get cold. Take your things off.”

So I did, and there was no more shame to be had. I dropped them in a puddle on the floor and stepped into the warm water before the chill of the air could rake my skin. It was good and hot.

Bright fire burned across the site of my wound and I paused my breathing to grit my teeth until it passed, and pass it did as relaxation stole over me.

The steam from the bath loosened the congestion in my head and I sniffed warily, knuckling under my nose in irritation.

“That must feel better.”

I lay in that bath for a long time, breathing slowly, casting shy looks at the woman beside me.

“It's getting cold.” Thea said at last. “You should get out.”

“Can I go to bed now?” I asked. Out of the water I was shivering and my teeth started to chatter.

“Of course.” Thea smiled. She found my nightdress as I towelled myself down and came to me with a candle in her other hand, like a vision of everything I ever wanted; warm, kind, beautiful.

“I feel like I could sleep for a thousand years...”

“You can rest as much as you want, Kay.” She said. “After all, it's nearly winter and the weather may be too bad to worry about rejoining the scouts until spring.”

We both looked out of the window at the same time and blessed the darkening night that, this time, would keep us together.

FIN

Huge thanks to anyone who has made it to the end of this.

#sneezefic #salamanderskin's fic #original sickfic #original f/f #historical sickfic #historical lesbians #hurt/comfort #whump #female whump #lady whump #sickfic fever #fever #injuries #historical f/f #f/f romance #care taking #f/fromance

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pinklanedungeon-blog · 5 years ago

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The Tower of Zenopus: Rumours and Employment

Our tale begins in the small city of Portown, a bustling port that welcomes travellers from the south (and, more begrudgingly, pirates from the Brontes Sea) to its markets. A host of races and classes from all over the world convene here, many of which find comfort in the Green Dragon Inn. Today, seven adventurers find themselves in the Inn hoping to explore the Tower of Zenopus to the north of the city. This diverse group introduces themselves and looked for information about the Tower in the Green Dragon.

First, Navarax Eldrick, a Dragonborn Fighter, makes clear that his initial fearsomeness is easily tamed by his deep desire for true love. Ultimately, this dragonborn only wants his own happily-ever-after, and will mercilessly flirt with any animate being in the hopes of finding it. An early attempt to find out information about the tower lead to little importance (other than the fact that adventurers often enter the tower but never leave). Navarax did, however, secure a bed for the night, for when he returns. Morvull, another dragonborn and a fuckboi if I ever saw one, promised Nav a good time in his lower-level shack near the tower in the north of town.

Next, Valaeris Tellynnan - a rather proper elven archivist from the Great Library of Lenora - introduces himself, with all civil formalities of course. This scholar tells us of the precious tomes that had been stolen from Lenora (of much value to the elven archivists there). Valaeris, whose name is easily forgotten and jumbled by his companions, will do anything to find these tomes and return them to Lenora. He approached a group of orcs in the Inn, who laugh off his feeble attempts at endearing any love of knowledge they might have. With a small offer of gold they suggest he seek out the Wizard in the north of Portown for some employment, although their scornful jeers made him wonder how earnest their recommendation truly was.

And then the druid woodelf, Oberon Nimblereed, makes himself, and his entire backstory, known to the group. After regaling for some time about the various goddesses and tribes that had granted him powers, Oberon hopes to prove his abilities by drawing some information from a large group of halflings sat merrily drinking in the Inn. But, lacking in charisma, Oberon fumbles…”do you know anything of the burrow...I mean barrow…I mean tower, north of here?”. The halflings jeer, one saying “You look like a rabbit, man!” as the rest begin mimicking rabbit ears at him. Oberon slinks away, embarrassed.

A stout and quarrelsome dwarf is happy to interrupt the ramblings of Oberon. Haggdaggs Stormbringer, ever a contradiction as a Dwarven Paladin, comes in like a burst of lightning. He declares his hatred for humans, for murdering his family; his hatred for his brother, his only remaining family member; and a general hatred for all who cross his path. Eager to let out some rage for his bloody background, Haggdaggs is keen to land as many kills as possible; especially against humans. His blunt personality, unfortunately, does not win over the bartender that he hoped to gain information regarding the tower from. Unimpressed by Haggdaggs’ brusk demenour, the bartender refused to even acknowledge the existence of a ruined tower in town, and sent Haggdaggs away with an overpriced craft ale.

The raging against humans certainly perked up the large ears of Promise Umbermoor, whose devil-like features (horns and a sweeping tail) struck all members of the party. Promise is used to this; she was raised amongst humans and has always been an outcast, bullied by many, making her an especially philosophical Tiefling despite the infernal characteristics of her race. Promise hopes to learn more of her ancestry, and has mixed feelings toward the human race who raised her.

Then our cleric, Miri Greycastle, tries her luck with the Inn’s crowd. She had been unsettled by the group’s aversion to humans (particularly Haggdaggs and Promise), so has decided this mission should be spent winning them over to the human race. Miri had always felt a calling by a higher power, so had no need for selfish advancement by winning these beings over. She only hoped they might be redeemed if they understood true goodness; which she embodies. Miri spots a group of human monks sat in the Inn, and decides they would be an easy target for discovering local rumours. The monks are a drunken bunch. Stumbling on their bodies and words, they eventually tell Miri that they are looking for a fine Green Grape Wine. They tell Miri it is for a sacred ritual, and it is not available at the Inn’s bar. The wine was held in the city warehouse, fully guarded by local officials. However, they know that a group of small beings, perhaps street urchins, recently raided the warehouse and stolen much of this wine and been seen taking it into the ruined tower. They offer the adventurers gold in return for any Green Grape Wine they could get from these raiders and return to them after the mission.

The group thinks introductions are over, but a small voice rises and a forehead is spotted poking above the table. Here, Kithri Tealeaf, known as Tealeaf, makes herself known. A halfling bard with a fiddle strung across her chest, Tealeaf declares herself to be a voice of friendship and unity in the group, hoping the racial divides brought up by other party members could be smoothed over through unifying comradeship and, of course, song. From a pleasant and unblemished background herself, Tealeaf aspires for unity and joy, and seems to hold trust in all others. She approaches a couple on a first, though not great, first date. After quickly endearing them to her, she is able to elicit a small piece of information. The man tells her he has heard of pirates who use sea caves beneath the tower to store treasure. But it is told there is a great many-legged creature who guards this treasure. The woman, unimpressed by her date’s boyish imagination, folds her arms and it is clear the date has come to a grinding halt.

Finally, Promise approaches an old man, who turns out to be the most revealing about the tower. He is an old drunk, yes, but the group is trusting of his story. A couple glasses of whiskey easily loosens his lips, and the old man tells us of when he was a servant to a great wizard who lived in the tower and tried to dig beneath it in search of an ancient ruin. Since then many served the wizard, but fifty years ago a green flame engulfed the tower, burning the wizard inside. To this day the tower is deserted, save for the monsters that lurk within. The guards of the nearby warehouse often spoke of blue lights appearing in the tower windows, and even goblins dancing on the tower roof. Terrible stories quickly arose amongst Portown citizens about ghouls and cultists in the adjacent graveyard, alongwith the beautiful Arges Bay to the south-west of the dungeon, which has long been overrun by pirate smugglers.

Having found all the information they could, the party leaves the Green Dragon Inn to head north of Portown and towards the ruined tower. Navarax makes a note of the rundown building where Morvull lives, hoping for a romantic encounter when he leaves the tower. The group also pass a smaller tower, the one they were told of by the orcs where a wizard lives who might hire their services. The group, after some discussion, decide to send in their two more charismatic members, Tealeaf and Promise, along with Miri, their best defense. The three of them enter the tower’s ground floor to see a spiraling staircase to the west leading to a trap door and on this floor a humble kitchen and dining arrangements. Promise, using her large devilish ears, listens to hear the faint cries of an ape-like creature along with footsteps. The group decide to call-out, the trap door opens, and sure-enough a cloaked Wizard descends. The Wizard asks, how can I help? After some discussion in which the Wizard shows an affection for Tealeaf, he then asks that they ‘cleanse’ the dungeon of its evil - specifically: rats, goblins, and ghouls. He can give them gold in return. He even offers to take Tealeaf’s fiddle and return it to her after the mission with a special power for charming the undead. After some persuasion, the Wizard also gives them a small map to the North-Eastern part of the tower, hinting that there is a secret shaft in the graveyard that will lead them to what he describes as, the Ghoul Room. The three tell him that they are a party of 7 with mixed powers, and Tealeaf agrees to hand over her fiddle to be improved as part of their reward.

And so, the party head north of Portown and toward the ruined tower. They hope to clear it of monsters and claim reward from the Wizard, and plan to use his map to enact a surprise attack on the undead in the Ghoul Room he spoke of. The party enter a deserted cemetery, spotting crumbling gravestones, loose bones, and oddly formed stone circles that may have been used for rituals. After some searching, Haggdaggs uses his knowledge of underground formations to uncover a built shute that leads from the cemetery and down into a dark room. The party decide to lower Promise down with a rope tied around her, but upon landing in the room her scaled tale knocks over a dust-filled urn. Her night-vision quickly spots five Ghouls in the room and she is able to tug for help. Miri and Oberon follow down the shute and the three fight the ghouls. Miri’s attempt, as a cleric, to turn the ghouls away in fear is unsuccessful, as is Promise’s attempt to shoot one with her crossbow. The ghouls attack, one seriously injuring Promise as it swipes at her and throws her to the wall, crushing the lower part of her spine. Meanwhile, Navaraz and Haggdaggs head down the shaft to aid them. Navarax yields his deadly axe and quickly decapitates a ghoul, leaving it writhing on the floor as the remaining ghouls make their swings at the party whilst Valaeris and Tealeaf make their way down the shaft. When Promise wakes up after being knocked down, she finds herself unable to move from the waist down. This does not stop Promise, who shortly fires her crossbow at another ghoul and plummets her shot through its head for an instant kill. Navarax and Valaeris both make significant blows on the ghouls, and once the undead are banished from this room, the party loots their urns and, mostly, shares the treasures.

Feeling disheartened from their battle with the ghouls, the party decides not to head west, where the Wizard has said other creatures stir. Instead, they kick down the southern door which leads to a dark corridor. The cracks in the floor appear to writhe, and the party quickly ascertains that something stirs beneath. Valaeris uses his rope and hook to make a swing rope across the corridor that, with some skill, a party member can swing across to the other side avoiding the floor cracks. The party has mixed success, and although many make it almost across, they quickly find there are giant centipedes who dash out between the cracks and attack them. Navarax successfully swings across whilst hoisting Promise in his arms, but drops her at the last minute only for Promise to yank herself away by her arms at the last minute. Despite these falls, the party escapes the centipedes and enters an empty room.

Some peace at last is found as the party make their way through this empty chamber, which has many strange carvings that even the lore-learned bard Tealeaf cannot decipher. They edge down the hallway that follows and find themselves at another door, which a listen at the door by the elves alerts them to a scurrying sound. Perhaps these are the rats they were told of. They place a mirror under the door, hoping to spy on what lies beyond it. But only shadows can be seen. Oberon’s familiar, a gecko, makes use of its power - to detect animals nearby. The spell alerts the group that two giant animals stir behind this door. The party, agreeing that two giant rats are here, burst into the room to surprise them. The listening and spells have helped here, and indeed two giant rats are nestled behind the towers of rubbish that fill this room. With the element of surprise, the group is able to kill the rats quickly, with Haggdaggs finally delivering a killing blow and letting off some of his anger (having tried, unsuccessfully, to knock down several doors so far). Searching through the rubbish, Miri finds a silver dagger of good value and some more gold is found for the group.

Promise is dragged to the top of the southern corridor that leads out of the room, and, using her night-vision is able to spot three figures marching in the distance. The party guesses that these might be skeletons. Not wishing to cross paths with the skeletons, the group decides to go through the western door. Hagggaggs, feeling empowered from his recent kills, smashes through two doors to find himself in an empty, dusty room. The walls have some markings, but nothing of particular interest. It is 10pm. The party decides to risk making camp in this room for the night, with a plan for guarding all doors. A listen at the southern door by elven magic-user Valaeris suggests magic-use beyond it, at the north suggests more crunching, marching figures. The western door offers only silence. After some discussion, Valaeris offers his ‘familiar’, a floating tome, as some protection from the southern door, saying that it will attempt to charm anything that enters. Oberon uses his supplies to barricade the northern door. Haggdaggs and Oberon offer to take the first shift, watching the eastern and western doors until 2am. After this, Tealeaf and Navarax will watch the doors from 2am until 6am, at which point the party will wake to return to their adventure. The members of the party not keeping watch fall asleep, though many are anxious as to what a night spent in this deadly place will lead to.

Tower of Zenopus image and dungeon conversion from: http://zenopusarchives.blogspot.com/2020/01/the-ruined-tower-of-zenopus-5e-on.html

#dungeons and dragons #d&d #rpg #fantasy #whitebox

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moderndaybard · 5 years ago

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CR Inktober, Day 15

SELF-INSERT NPC: ANTONIA MARSHSTEAD

The town was not unimpressive—indeed, was increasing in populace and prosperity at such a rate, it could probably be deemed a city in the next year or two. Still, there wasn’t any reason for Vox Machina to be there, other than that it was a stop on the way to where they were going, and a convenient place to drink and stay the night.

Still, there were a few hours left before businesses close dup for the day, and despite protests from Grog, Vex was on the hunt for interesting finds and bargain prices.

Asking around after magical items and weapons, the group of adventurers found themselves directed to an unassuming, two-story building that didn’t really stand out too much from the local architecture, bearing a sign that declared it was ‘Marshteads’ Magicks,’ and that it was, in fact, still open for business late that afternoon.

The door opened noiselessly, no bell or chime announcing their arrival, and not a floorboard creaked as they strode in to the well-lit interior.

Sunlight streamed in from the two large, street-facing windows, revealing a neat and orderly main area which smelled faintly of lavender and cedar. The store interior, as well as the counters and display shelves were all made of a light-colored wood that gleamed dimly with their finish and the golden afternoon light. There was an open main area; two window displays flanking the door to the street, where various pieces of (presumably enchanted) jewelry were visible; left of the entrance was a glass-and-wood display case of small weapons: daggers, hand crossbows, blots, arrows, a light weight rapier, and the like, with larger weapons such as great swords and battle axes on shelves and pegs on the wall behind; on the right side of the store was another display case, this one filled with an odd assortment of household sundries, knick-knacks, and generally useful items (there were no shelves or wall displays on this side, but half-hidden in the far corner behind the case was what appeared to be a sort of work table with various sewing tools, some yarn, and a few toys on it); finally, facing the door across the floor was a plain, uncluttered counter with no displays—evidently, where sales were finalized.

Aside from the street door, the main room had two other entrances: one open archway to the right, just beside the worktable, that revealed a set of stairs ascending to the second floor, and a closed, heavy wooden door in the wall behind the sales counter.

The store seemed empty, even of people running it, save for a handsome red fox curled up on the sales counter, half-asleep and ignoring Vox Machina, for the moment. With a gasp of delight and absolutely no hesitation, Keyleth ran up to the creature, all but putting her head on the counter beside him. “Hi!” she chirped, fixated on the furry animal as one eye slitted halfway open to regard her levelly. “I’m Keyleth! What’s your name?”

The fox stretched, sat up, scanned their group, and turned with deliberate nonchalance to the stairs beyond the archway before screeching loudly.

Seconds later (while their ears were still ringing) pounding footsteps on the stairs heralded a new arrival: grumbling half-hearted, half-heard curses under her breath, a female dwarf rounded the corner. Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple braid, her grey eyes peered at them from behind a pair of glasses, though she seemed to only be in her young adulthood, and she was dressed simply: tunic, vest, skirt, leggings, boots.

As she approached the counter (stepping up on some sort of boost or stool that was hidden behind it), her scolding became audible: “—too much trouble to just walk up the stairs to let me know someone was here? Just had to screech like a tortured demon and scare customers? And you wonder why Henry doesn’t take you when he goes to negotiate with suppliers.”

The fox merely hopped off the counter on her side, vanishing from view briefly, then darting up the stairs. Tirade over with the disappearance of its target, the young dwarf woman focused on the party before her, scowl melting into an apologetic half-grin. “Sorry about that: familiars can get cranky during extended separations, and Fabian’s always been overly dramatic anyway. Anyhow, welcome to Marshteads’ Magicks—are you in the market for anything in particular, or just looking to browse?”

The final sentence was undoubtedly a rehearsed, often-delivered script, but to her credit, the young woman mustered or at least feigned a genuine enough tone that gave them the feel of natural dialogue.

Before Vex could answer, Keyleth broke in with something that’d been bothering her since first approaching the store: “Did you know that your sign is messed up? The apostrophe is wrong, and it’s misspelled?”

“The sign is correct,” came the immediate reply, in a tone that this was a correction she’d had to make a few too many times for her patience, but didn’t want to completely alienate potentially paying customers, “Marshstead is the family name, and since my brother and I run the store together, both plural and possessive are correct.” She then deflated somewhat, glancing away in a moment of embarrassment, perhaps? “…And the ‘K’ is just for flare.”

“Showmanship is an important facet of salesmanship,” Percy ranted, hoping to placate the woman before she took out any ill-will on the prices. “Though I must say the aesthetic is more reserved than I wouldn’t expected in such an establishment.”

The young woman glanced around, nodding. “Organized, you mean? Neat? That’s on me: I can’t think or work in a cluttered area. Hence avoiding the workshop as much as possible.”

“You don’t perform the enchantments yourself, then?” Vex asked, looking up form the bowstring and arrows she’d been examining out of professional interest.

“Oh, that’s Henry’s field,” came the quick answer. “He’s the craftsman, I handle the storefront for him. Is there anything in particular I can help you with or help you find? Any questions?”

Pike looked up from the display case she’d been staring into. “Uh, Miss—?”

“Sorry: Antonia. And you?”

“Pike Trickfoot. Antonia, why is there a frying pan in the case with the weapons?”

There same a genuine, if half-embarrassed chuckle in response to that question. “That started as… Well, not a joke, really. When we were younger, someone made an insulting comment about Henry’s skill with magic and enchantments, and told them he was could make even a cast-iron skillet into a powerful magical weapon. Turns out he overheard that conversation, and remembered it. So, he made this: it’s a magical bludgeoning weapon not dissimilar to a great club or the like. Additionally, it deals an extra kick of fire damage upon a successful hit. It is a two-handed weapon and requires attunement, but once it is attuned, anyone else who tried to pick it up finds it too warm to the touch to handle—so, generally thief-proof. Unless you use an oven mitt or the like, I suppose.”

“Anything else it can do?” Vax asked, half-joking. Antonia had rattled off the weapon’s attributes with the ease of someone who knew them by heart, but also with genuine pride at her brother’s accomplishment—unusual as it was.

“Well, any food prepared in it does cook twice as quickly—but that can be a good or bad thing, depending on how close an eye you keep on your dinner.”

Vex blinked, then shook her head—the thing was almost too ridiculous not to get, to say nothing of the mental image of a monster’s expression roughly half a second before it got hit by a frying pan. “How much for it?” she offered, haggling mode already engaged.

Antonia didn’t hesitate. “750 gold.”

“For a frying pan!?” The half-elf fired back, ignoring whoever it was behind her that groaned (probably Grog).

“For a cast iron pan with two magical enchantments upon it—enchantments that had to be uniquely crafted in order to adhere to a non-traditional weapon.”

Vex raised an eyebrow at the dwarf. “it’s essentially and enchanted household object,” she pointed out, then watched as the other woman’s expression darkened. Oops.

Nearly all trace of the ‘saleswoman’ persona had vanished. “Degrading my brother’s time, effort, creativity, and craftsmanship will not incentivize me to lower the price.” Arms folded, her glare dared the ranger to make the next move.

“Fair point,” Vex had to grant, quickly changing tactics before she drove the price up. “How much could you come down if we told anyone that asked about this unique item all about this shop and the master craftsman who made it? And your brother could tell people that not only did he make a frying pan a weapon, he also sold it to none other than Vox Machina!”

Silence stretched on for a moment or two.

“725.”

“675 at the most,” vex shot back.

Antonia raised one eyebrow, arms still folded. “You can hardly expect to persuade me to cheat my own brother out of the rightful reward for his work.”

They were a few moments away form meeting at 700, Vex could tell—they simply had to finish out the final few steps of their dance. Despite the growing impatience from the group at her back (at least, from some of them), Vex’ahlia did exactly that. The gold changed hands (700) and the enchanted cooking pan was handed over.

A discussion soon arose over which of them could and should wield it, but Vex ignored that part—she was hardly a candidate for what was very obviously a strength-based melee weapon—and scanned the shop again. This time, a glimpse of something small and brown on the corner worktable caught her eye.

“Is that an owl bear toy?”

Antonia followed her gaze, her entire demeanor shifting towards something that could almost be described as awkward hesitancy. “I-uh- have been teaching myself crochet on days when the store is slow. It’s relaxing, honestly. But, yes, I have been working on some small toys and the like…”

“May I see it?” Vex asked, feeling Vax move up behind her as he overheard the conversation.

Antonia blinked, obviously caught off-guard. “Uh, sure…” she muttered at last, crossing to the table and retrieving the item in question before returning.

It was small—not quite as big as Vex’s fist—and was certainly a stylized, simplified representation that was cuter than it was accurate. The craftsmanship was hardly masterful, either: while Antonia was obviously not clumsy or a rank novice, there were still a few visible imperfections. Still, there was an undeniable charm to the little doll, and with one shared look, the twins were of one mind.

“Do you sell these?” Vax asked. Upon seeing the dwarf hesitate, he continued, “if not, I understand—sometimes you just make things for yourself or have sentimental attachments.”

“I-I don’t mind selling it. I just figured no one would really want it. …I just needed something to keep busy…”

Vex beamed at the suddenly-flustered shop keep. “Well, we know one little girl in particular who would just adore this little fellow—she’s obsessed with owl bears. How much for the little cutie?”

For the first time since the entered the little shop, Vox Machina saw absolute uncertainty cross Antonia’s face as she fumbled for a fair price.

“Uh… three copper?”

This time, it was Vax’s turn to protest. “For a one-of-a-kind, hand-crafted piece?”

“It-it’s not magical, and it’s just yarn and some stuffing,” Antonia pointed out weakly, all her earlier confidence gone.

Vax shook his head. “But the time this would’ve taken to make—one silver at least,” he replied, ignoring the glare Vex was directing at him for this oddly-reversed negotiation.

The ranger turned to the dwarf, wondering if this was an intentional technique to drive up the price, but no—the embarrassment, hesitance and uncertainty were genuine, she could see. Clearly, Antonia was far more comfortable negotiating on her brother’s behalf than her won, and something about knowing that made Vex feel momentarily fond of the other girl—or at least, like she could understand her.

And, in the grand scheme of things, considering their current financial status, what was a silver piece? Velora would be happy with the gift, and perhaps a fledgling craftswoman would get a confidence boost.

“I-I guess…”

…

The town was hardly important, and the Marshstead siblings would likely never gain fame of any import, much less cross Vox Machina’s path again, but at least both parties felt, at their parting, as though a fair bargain had been reached without coming to the point of either hating or permanently angering the other.

And, really, what more can you ask from a retail transaction?

(AN: Sorry for the length/focus on the dreaded shopping trip. But currently, too much of my time is swallowed by a retail job, and I wanted to redeem it a little—better a family-run enchanted item shop than a generic thrift store. And, no, I have no idea what a fair price is in D&D, I did the best I could with the research I had. But now I kinda want that pan to be a thing somewhere—or is it too ridiculous for a +1 magic (great club, re-skinned as a pan) that deals bonus 1d4 fire damage?)

#crinktober #crinktober 2019 #my post #critical role #critter #daily writing #crinktober day 15 #vox machina #vex'ahlia #vax'ildan #dnd npc #original character #self-insert oc

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