#oc: claudius
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mentor lyme, for @dorics
i heard it's your birthday??? (unless that was a joke in which.... enjoy a free ficlet lmao)
500 words of Lyme in the mentor seat under the readmore :)
*******
Exhaustion burns behind Lyme’s eyes, that particular kind of gritty that marks too many stim pills and shots of caffeine. The mug by her elbow has long gone cold, congealed at the bottom into inedible sludge after the third failed reheating.
Roughly two weeks in, only a handful of tributes left. The Arena has been a hellscape to make up for the lack of combat-worthy tributes, not even a dark horse from the industrial or outlying districts or a clever engineer to spice things up. Claudius has taken more of a beating from the Gamemakers than anyone he’s run into and that’s unlikely to change before the end, but he only has to outlast the others. Nothing else matters.
Low sponsor funds for this early in the Games, but sponsor interest is middling this year in general. Nero’s working the floor — he switched over once his girl died, Lyme can’t even thank him — but people are cagey, ramifications floating unspoken in the air like bad flatulence at a fancy dinner party. The Hunger Games can be brutal, violent, bloody, even tasteless, but Snow forbid anything be political. Nothing dries up people’s wallets like the threat of subversion.
The clock ticks into midnight, numbers on Lyme’s console clicking over from jULY 20 to JULY 21. That endless stretch in the middle of the Arena when time has no meaning to a tribute, and yet something snags in the back of Lyme’s brain. Currently Claudius is curled up in a tree, lashed to the branch by a length of rope, the nearest tributes at least a mile away and the Arena disturbance warnings quiet, and she gives herself the freedom of letting her mind wander.
Twenty-first, twenty-first, what is it about July the twenty-first —
Oh.
Careers don’t celebrate birthdays once they hit Residential, but the Centre keeps records in their files for annual testing purposes. Lyme paid attention to Claudius because of where his fell; early in the Games year, a distinct advantage that she’d argued would counteract his childhood illnesses and naturally rangy frame.
“Happy birthday, kid,” Lyme murmurs. Burt from Nine casts her a sideways glance but doesn’t comment, and she blows out a breath and returns to her screen. Vitals show fever and rapid heartbeat even in sleep, all the signs of low-level blood poisoning. The cream she’d sent would keep him alive, for now.
Fuck it. It’s the kid’s birthday, not that he’ll have any idea. Lyme digs into the sponsor reserves and pulls up a tin of blackberries. Gamemakers never charge that much for berries, relative to dried meat or even bread, but a handful of berries will get him further than a roll and feel like a treat besides. Lyme queues the parachute to fly out when Claudius wakes and leans back, cracking the tendons in her neck.
Leaving Claudius’ camera on her main screen, Lyme tabs over to the brownie recipe she had open on her other display and reads over the instructions again.
It’s not a jinx, she tells herself. It’s a promise.
#lorata answers#anonymous#we must be killers: tales from district 2#my writing#oc: claudius#thg: lyme
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UTOPIAN CITIZEN TYPE: POTENS
The Potens are the pride and power of Utopia, with a portion of them assigned towards city-wide defense in case of emergencies. They are the most uncommon type, garnering them respect and admiration from (most) citizens.
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Peridots and Rubies
This is a longfic retelling of my BG3 playthrough with my half-elf bard, Averyll Springheart with a heavy focus on his romance with Astarion (and a bit later including Halsin). The main plot drives my story forward, but those big events are glossed over through journal entries as I turn my focus to the characters and their relationships.
The Erotic Education of Averyll Springheart
This story explores the origins of Averyll's particular preferences and kinks, during his early twenties when he spent some time with a tiefling paladin of Tyr named Claude and his half-orc blacksmith husband, Grimm.
Written with @capraqueen featuring her OC: Claude
The Corsair and The Sea Nymph
Five years before being abducted onto a mindflayer's nautiloid, Averyll indulged in some leisure time in Lathtarl's Lantern as he toured the Sword Coast. While relaxing on the beach, he had a rather unconventional meeting with a traveling rogue.
Written with @thatcerealkiller featuring her OC: Angelus
Tusk and Horn: Origin
Grimm, a half-orc soldier is ambushed by a group of Asmodeus cultists and narrowly escapes death’s grasp with the help of an unknown savior: a tiefling paladin of Tyr named Claude. Deciding to partner up, the two young men can’t deny the raw attraction rapidly forming between them, even though one desperately tries.
Written with @capraqueen featuring her OC: Claude
#baldur's gate 3#tavstarion#astarion x tav#tav x astarion#bg3 fanfiction#bg3 fanfic#dnd fanfiction#dnd fanart#other people's OCs#OC: Angelus#OC: Claudius Casthor#Grimmonth#Averyll Springheart#OC: Averyll Springheart#My OCs#my writing#ao3 fanfic#ao3 author#ao3 writer#masterlist#smut#Peridots and Rubies#Tusk and Horn
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Martyr Murderer
Page 1
#the ds just stands for dipshit#overture and the death of the mortal architect#my ocs#original story#original characters#original character#comic art#original comic#Martyr Murderer#claudius maxwell
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The Badass and The Fluff Puff.
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My longest work yet on AO3! A series wherein Claudius, the villain of Shakespeare's Hamlet, diverges from canon and takes on the mantle of the Warrior of Light. Mostly written in disconnected vignette style, with reflections on canon events, narrativized game mechanics, and gratuitous banter.
It deals with themes of past trauma and abuse, the ills of Ishgardian society, and glimpses into Claudius's messy love life. Also: the found family trope. Lots of it.
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Nero Draco male ver.
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one-year-out-ish Claudius
a random thing that was in my head about D and his early (and only) experiences with sex. this is a thing i've talked about before -- how his Games-image and Centre training collide to make his early forays really uncomfortable, and it takes a bit for him to opt out
anyway this is NOT that, this is the conversation he has with Misha about it, so here you go
mentions of dubious consent, sort of, but only the aftermath
***********
He could have called for a car, but the walk helped. A low fog rolled in from the mountains, curling around the tops of buildings and dispersing the glow of the streetlights. Sounds felt muted, distorted, even the sharp rasps of his breath. Every distant horn, or door slam — or, Snow forbid, footstep — sent Claudius’ heart skittering up into the jackhammer range.
All his instincts screamed at him to find a weapon — an abandoned knife, a rock or a stick, even, or pry loose a length of pipe — but Claudius wrestled it back. See the outline of another person through the fog as is and he’d bolt; embarrassing, but fine. Run into someone with a weapon and a whole other set of programming took over. He could survive a little humiliation. Better that than the alternative. He rubbed his fingers along the fabric of his jeans (no one wore jeans in the Arena) and traced the outline of the tattoo on his wrist. You’re here, he reminded himself. You’re out. It’s just stupid weather.
Still, he’d take the panic. Panic was sharp, and had a focus. Stopped him from thinking about tonight, and all the other nights he’d come home straight into a scouring-hot shower, yet still unable to chase away the fingers on his skin.
(“We know the kind of stuff you’re into, baby-killer. Do it to me.”)
By the time he made it back to the Village the hypervigilance had worn him raw, startling every two seconds like a fucking rabbit. He collapsed inside the gate and pressed his back to the wall until the locks ground closed, but even then Claudius couldn’t peel himself away.
“Nobody came in but you,” called down one of the guards, Arni. “You’re good.”
He’d be more embarrassed about that except they took this job to keep the Victors safe, so it felt dumb to be precious about it. Claudius exhaled. “How can you tell? It’s like soup out here.”
“We’ve got heat sensors,” Arni said. “Like the ones at Eagle Pass. You’re the only one in or out tonight. Sleep well, D.”
Well — okay, then.
He’d used the fog to induce an alarm state and get him home, maybe not a mentor-approved strategy, but at least he’d made it. That meant, what, an hour until his system crashed from all the adrenaline, give or take.
Claudius could walk the path to Lyme’s even in a fugue state, but … but. His feet dragged, the same reason they had every other time he’d tried to talk to her about it. Lyme kept some parts of her life private, and thought her kids deserved that same courtesy. Late-night brawls with Enobaria, Arena-buzzing beneath his skin, blood, knives, murder, even treason — all of those were mentor conversations. Not this.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Claudius found himself shimmying up the drainpipe and shoving up the sash to Misha’s bedroom window. “Hey,” he hissed. “Are you awhaaat the fuck?”
Misha had not been awake, and neither was she alone. But instead of literally anything else he might have imagined (random girl from town, Callista, President Snow’s wife) it was Devon who curled around her and blinked up at Claudius in confusion.
Devon who now yawned, stretched, and nosed Misha in the shoulder. “Baby wants to talk,” he said, rolling over and extricating himself from the mess of blankets with a thump. “I’ll make tea.”
“Stop hovering in the window, weirdo.” Misha scooted over to make room and gave Claudius a look of hard-won bleariness, since no Career could be startled awake without jolting into combat mode unless they really, really worked at it. “You know mentor’s house is that way.”
Claudius edged down to the far end of the bed and leaned back against the wall. “I know, but…”
“Ah.” By all rights Misha should look softer, or more human, or something, with her hair falling loose from her sleep braid and dressed in Devon’s (!) oversized shirt, but somehow it only contrasted the assessing look in her eyes. She tilted her head like a bird of prey and put on a Capitol accent: “You know, dreams like this are perfectly natural —”
“Ugh!” Claudius wadded up one of the blankets that had fallen to the floor and threw it at her. “You’re the worst! No! I just wanted to know if — I don’t think I like it. Sex. Is that weird?”
For the first time since he’d met her, the teasing light left her features. She looked … older, oddly serious. “What? No. Emory doesn’t either. It’s fine.”
The air left him in a rush. “Really? Okay. So what do I do if … people …”
Misha frowned. “Dude. You say no. You know you can say no, right?”
“Obviously,” Claudius said, too fast. No points for technique there, but while Misha’s eyes narrowed she didn’t push it. “I mean, what if people get weird about it.”
“First time you say no civilian style,” said Devon, backing through the door with two mugs of tea that smelled like flowers. Misha took hers with a hum of appreciation; Claudius didn’t drink his yet, but curled his hands around the mug and soaked up the warmth. “No thanks, not tonight, have a nice evening, whatever. They keep trying, mask off. Flash your wrist: You. Said. No. After that, not your responsibility what happens next. Everyone in the room will know you gave fair warning.”
Misha gave Devon a nod of agreement. “Capitol rules are different, we have to play nice, but that’s why we pair off. If you have to go, you’ll go with someone who can take the heat off you. No big deal.”
Claudius swallowed. He raised the mug and took a deep breath of the steam, heavy and floral. “So it’s fine if I don’t want to. Like, ever.”
“It really is fine,” Misha said. “And it’s fine for you to sucker punch anybody who tries to make you. Are you sure I don’t need to call Lyme? Or knife somebody?”
“It’s not like that,” Claudius said, again too fast. He blamed the fog. But it wasn’t — he’d always said yes, nobody made him. He didn’t know he’d been allowed to say no, that’s all, and now he did. “I just didn’t like it and I don’t think I’m going to do it again.”
Devon and Misha shared a look, and Misha let out a theatrical sigh and rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll make up the stupid couch. Even though his house is, like, five steps away.”
Claudius held the mug to his chest and carefully slid off the bed. “Are you gonna tell Lyme?”
“What, and break her fragile brain? Nah, we’re fine.” Misha ruffled his hair. “C’mon, sexless nerd, let’s get you some blankets.”
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Day 21 - Claudius
#huevember#huevember 2023#claudius#object head#object heads#oc#original character#Archon Divided#artposting#sorry for the rushed quality im like#extremely sleepy today urhgfhgjh
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Commission done by: @aedh--098
A short comic based off Nero’s sword origins. The one where Aestus Estus was crafted by the meteor.
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ocs, Claudius and Nikola, dead inside and dead outside, pawn and a myth
#Nikola the molten glass martyr#overture and the death of the mortal architect#the ds just stands for dipshit#Claudius Maxwell#when the.#original character#original story#original characters#oc artwork
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I will never try this level of lineart again (real)
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Going for the Royal Blue version or route
Kiboto finally chooses what saberface to be his Signature Mon... for Fate at least [cus I been in and out on what partner he should have for Digimon]. But anyway, Lancer!Artoria now comes to take her master to on adventures with much to the dismay of the the other saberfaces.
Now with his starter servant picked, they're now ready to enter the holy grail war.
Athough, the downsides of having a version of the mascot of the series, she has a huge stomach to feed. Thankfully Kiboto's family is as rich as dirt, but this does burn a bit of a hole in this allowance.
#digimon oc#3d art#my ocs#koikatsu#fate extra#fate grand order#fate series#fate extella#fate stay night#fgo#artoria pendragon#artoria lancer#lancer arturia#arturia pendragon#nero claudius#artoria alter#jeanne d'arc#choose one#mon series#mcdonalds#big mac#charastudio
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