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whispereons · 5 months

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Oracle!Reader Part 21

Masterlist - Part 1, Part 20, Part 22

Warning! This series is SAGAU and Imposter AU so expect gore. Although this chapter focus more on mental distress rather then physical.

There's a soft light that shines in front of you, lulling you to open your eyes. Pure white greets you as you slowly come to your senses.

There's no feeling in your body, but it doesn't worry you. The boundless white space you exist in is comforting. The sky whirls around you as new colors burst into being.

The once blank canvas is now painted a dark sky on your left with stars sparkling like jewels. On your right is the morning sky, bright blue with clouds adorning it delicately.

It's silent but peaceful. Your relaxed conscious is stirred from its slumber by a voice echoing around you.

“Why have you returned?”

It’s commanding, yet graceful. A cold compassion or a warm hostility?

“The deal has been finalized, and your return was never meant to be. No, that's incorrect.” A pensive hum is heard before the voice continues.

“You were meant to return at some point, but… not now, not yet. Teyvat seems to have sped up the process. While that doesn’t break the deal, I certainly won’t tolerate it amicably.”

A darker tone is used at the end of their words, before the gorgeous sky is overcome by dark red blocks. The serenity you feel is replaced by panic. You’re helpless to stop it from taking over everything.

Your vision begins to swarm with the blood-colored familiar blocks. As crimson takes over, the voice finishes their words.

“I won’t let you back so easily.” The last bits of your vision is covered and your lungs wheeze from the pain of the panic-

“Gasp-”

You sit up in the bed as sweat dots your skin, your lungs burn, and your fingers tremble from the grip you have on the covers. Eyes darting around the small room you’re in, your brain is unable to process everything as it spins.

The dream lingers in your mind. The red blocks poke at the edge of your eyes, the voice continues to echo through your mind. Leaning back, you rest your head on the headboard, the cool wood is a relief on your sweaty skin.

Releasing your bruising grip on the blankets, you rest your palms on your chest. You do your best to pay no mind to how your hands shake. Closing your eyes, a breath is inhaled and kept in.

One… That painting like sky, where else could you see something similar?

Two… The voice that spoke about Teyvat and you so casually, as if knowing everything.

Three… A status similar to an Archon, or mage? No, maybe even higher.

Four… Those red blocks have only been seen once before.

Five… You know who it is now.

The breath is exhaled, and your eyes flutter open at your revelation. Not like she was meaning to hide it. In fact, you could be certain that she wanted you to know that she was Celestia.

Sunlight begins to stream past the edges of the curtain, the wooden floor is cold against your bare feet as you get off the bed. Yanking the curtains and opening the window, you’re greeted with the sun barely peeking out and dew still present on the greenery.

The thought of how early you’ve been forced awake already sours your mood further.

It’s not anytime near 9 am, you would be lucky if it was half past 7 am. Sighing, you flop back onto the bed and reach for that connection between you and Teyvat.

‘Did you see that dream?’ You ask as you stare out the window from your spot. Silence envelops the room as you wait patiently. The soft beating of wings comes from the window, a Geo Crystalfly glides into the room before resting on the bedding next to you.

‘I’ll take that as a yes. What deal did Celestia make that involves me? What part did you play in speeding up my migration to this world?’ Staring firmly at the Crystalfly you remain in your spot.

The amber wings pause and the rocky outline stick together, keeping the wings closed. The crystal exterior body offers no answer to your expectant eyes.

‘Why won’t you respond now? You’re not Zhongli who is obligated to abide by a contract. Am I not your god?’ A bubble of frustration rises at the continued silence. The Crystalfly lowers itself further against the sheets, as if bowing to you.

But you didn’t want a useless bow. You wanted answers.

‘This situation fundamentally involves me. You, or Celestia, or whoever else is in this mess brought me here. And now I’m stuck acting out this stupid Oracle role and I can’t even get a single answer as to why?’

More Geo Crystalflies enter the room, all of them perch on the bed and mimic the bowing gesture. As if that useless, passive action could subdue your ire.

‘I’ve spent every day in this damn world fighting for my life! I just barely recovered from the brink of death! And yet when I ask about this strange situation and suspicious behavior, I get no response? NOT EVEN AN INDIRECT ONE?!’

Maybe it was all the stress you’ve been under, or the pain that still lingers in your body. Some would even say it was all the emotional hurt you’ve felt at having all the characters you treasured dearly treat you like this. But you couldn’t stop yourself from raising your hand in anger, rapidly coming down on the quivering Crystalflies that just refused to move-

Clink!

Your hand is abruptly stopped by the sound of metal hitting the table. You tore your eyes away from the Crystalflies to land on a weasel sitting on the table, a single mora lays at it’s feet.

Recognizing it vaguely as the weasel thief or mora weasels that treasure hoarders train, you stare at it unimpressed. It comes closer to you as the Crystalflies gently flap away to form a path. Beady eyes stare up at you pleadingly as the backpack on it jingles with all the mora inside.

Fingers unbuckling the straps, you remove the backpack and peer into the bag. The brown bag must only hold about 500 Mora, but mora is still mora, and you empty it into your bag. Once finished, you turn back to the Crystalflies ready to intimidate and interrogate more. You only refrain when the scurrying of multiple feet catches your attention.

What has to be at least 10 weasel thieves climbing through the open window, all carrying bags stuffed to the brim. Some hold 750 Mora, while others hold 1,000. Each time you unclip the bag and pour the mora into your bag. And each time you turn towards the Crystalflies, more weasels come through.

“Alright, alright, I get it.” You groan aloud as you ignore the assortment of weasels in the room, choosing to instead sit on the bed. The Crystalflies return to the bowing position as you gaze down at them with an unreadable expression.

Carefully, you scoop up the first Crystalfly that arrived into your hands, guilt of what you had almost done wraps around your heart like a vice.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried to hit you. Although this whole gatekeeping vital information is annoying, you’ve been nothing but helpful to me. Besides, you may be keeping quiet due to a threat of some sort that the divulging of information could pose.’

You could hear the sounds of the weasels returning with more and more gifts. No doubt a way for Teyvat to show its gratitude to your ‘mercy’. With pursed lips, you ignore the actions and speak to Teyvat gently.

‘I’m afraid, Teyvat. Afraid that Celestia will take drastic measures to keep me from ‘returning’ or whatever. I’m 99% that Celestia is the one who disabled my teleporting feature and why I was only able to telepathically teleport those few times. For all I know, it could be a permanent disability. I don’t want to be limited more than I already am. If it goes too far, then I may even lose those things that proved me as an Oracle. And if that happens…’

Trailing off, you close your eyes and let out a bitter sigh. Setting the Geo Crystalfly back down, its amber wings fluttering in response, you turn to the weasels. Bags of mora, jewelry, wild fruit and small gemstones are beginning to fill up the table.

Opening the flap of your bag, you point at it and then at the table. “I want you guys to put all of that into my bag. If you have bags for me to open for you, bring them to me.”

A resounding trill is heard from them before the horde of Crystalflies flew out of the window. Deciding to leave the window open, you grab the letters and gifts from your previous visitors and bring them onto the bed.

The pitter-patter of the weasels feet and occasional flap of the Geo Crystalflies wing is heard in the background as you prepare for the day. Exiting the room and crossing the silent halls, you get to what has to be the bathroom and finish your morning routine.

The shower you take was the perfect opportunity to examine how your body is after all the healing. The bandages are removed and disposed of as you look into the foggy mirror.

Small scars in the shape of slits are seen on your body, Yelan’s arrows were no joke. The ice from Shenhe’s attacks left lighter toned patches on your calves too. Minor bruises and cuts were still healing up, but the small sting from the water didn’t bother you. If anything, it was the jagged and uneven scars along your spine that brought your mood down.

You were lucky that your broken spine didn’t cut into your spinal cord and paralyze you…

Changing into clean clothes and wrapping some new bandages, you do it all with a sense of apathy. Wouldn’t the thought of nearly being paralyzed have more of an effect? Yet when you thought of it, you could only imagine a sense of relief…

Looking back at the now clear mirror, you reach up for your mask. The battered mask is slipped off and placed on the counter. Familiar eyes stare back, and a grimace plays on your lips.

A purple bruise makes itself known on your temple, and poorly cared for skin muddles your features. The bridge of your nose, the eyes that crinkle at your attempt of a smile, even the way your full face comes together is so-

Foreign.

It’s not yours, not anymore.

It’s the Creators. The God that everyone worships as the one and only bearer of gold blood and highest form of authority.

Y/N does not have a face.

You have a title and a mask to be known by. A manner of speaking that leaves all to be swindled and led by without a true clue as to what goes on.

Licking your cracked lips, you adorn the mask once more and return to the room. Both the weasels and Crystalflies have already left, leaving it bare of activity. Closing the bag absentmindedly, you grab the medication bottles left on your bedside table.

Following the instructions Baizhu told you last night, you drink the medication as prescribed and gag at the taste. Setting all the medication aside, you sit down on the bed again and stare at the pile on the bed.

The letters and gifts from everyone that tried to visit are quickly sorted into two piles. You dig into the designated gift pile first.

A small box is opened to reveal a pair of armored fingerless gloves. It’s not super hard to guess your size, but they fit perfectly. The second and cuter box is opened with a delicious scent imprinting its first impression.

No one else could make food that smells this good except for Xiangling. Taking advantage of the early hours AKA no Baizhu, you wolf down the meal without properly admiring it. The spicy dish won’t do your still sensitive stomach any favors, but at least you enjoyed it.

A folded up paper is the next gift. Unraveling it shows a crude drawing of a brown haired girl with a pink flower, a tall man with glasses, a boy with a color palette you barely remember and a masked figure that had to be you.

Yiran, the little girl that you saved, had to be the one who drew this. That’s who must have spread the word and why Baizhu asked you to be lenient. Only her father, Kuan, could afford to bring her here.

The uneven letters spelling ‘My Heroes!’ at the bottom of the drawing made you smile a little. It was good that she was not only healed enough, but also happy enough to draw this for you.

The boy next to her in the drawing brought a sadder feeling. You didn’t remember him, but you did remember his mother. Her gaunt face and pale complexion came to mind as you pocketed the drawing. You weren’t sure if you could handle facing her.

The next gift evoked a stronger sense of despair as a patchy pouch was opened to show various knick-knacks. Pretty rocks, a tin with a string, shiny coins and worn out dice. You were familiar with the nature of these objects.

Most would see it as trash, but you knew it to be toys that were just as much, if not more fun, than the toys found in shops. Bored kids with nothing to do and nothing to use will find ways to entertain themselves, and being impoverished only fuels their creativity.

Trying to push away those nostalgic melancholic feelings, you open the last gift. A simple string necklace with a dark blue stone hanging from it laid in the box. The icy blue engraved symbol on it reminded you of Chongyun.

After disposing the trash, you put the drawing and the pouch into your bag. You reached for the letters next and opened the first one that you touched.

It was from Kuan, not unexpected, but you were interested in seeing what he had to say. What part he played in your identity getting spread around.

Most of it was profuse thanks for your completion of the commission and that the Adventurers Guild had the payment. Then it was how once Yiran had woken up, she had sneaked into the room when Baizhu was working and saw you.

Apparently she hadn’t been able to heal properly and was stuck on bed rest due to her grief. The kidnapping, death of her friend and finding out that you were going to be punished by the Adepti from the other kids created a mental block preventing her from healing.

But after seeing you and that you were still alive, her pain was eased enough that she was able to finally recover. You felt bad that she was sick all this time while you were being chased down, but she’s better now. And that’s all that mattered.

The next letter was actually from Kazuha. It detailed the sights that he had seen during his exploration of the Lisha area. It quickly turned into how panicked he felt when the wind pushed him to return to Liyue Harbor. The agonizing pain he felt over the rumors of a masked person being rushed into Bubu’s Pharmacy.

As no visitors were allowed, he went to Beidou and relayed the news. She had already finished her business and was preparing to leave. So he left you this letter and the armored gloves from Beidou.

Folding up the letter with the red and orange patterned leaf, you put it back into your bag. A knock on the door caught your attention before it opened slightly to show Qiqi.

“Oh, you’re awake.” She stands at the door frame until you nod, allowing her inside. She ambles inside with a cart of food and medicine. “Please take your medicine with the tea and eat the breakfast.”

She leaves just as quick as she came. As you weren’t starving after Xianglings meal, you took your time with breakfast. The medicine even with the tea tasted pretty bad.

Grabbing the next letter, a faint scent of food lingers on it, letting you know who sent it. Xiangling’s letter was small enough to be confused for a note, but it still easily conveyed her wreck of emotions. It ended with her mourning the fact that she couldn’t visit after dropping off the letter due to a rematch with a Monstadter that she scheduled long in advance.

A letter with a fancy wax seal was next. Opening it, you found the most horrendous handwriting you’ve ever seen. No matter how many times you rubbed your fingers on it, hoping that Tevyat could translate the mess of a letter, it just wouldn’t get any better.

The most you could make out was that Xingqui and Chongyun tried to visit but were denied. That the amulet was a gift from Chongyun that had a spell to protect you from evil spirits. And finally, that they're going to visit sometime today.

Didn’t Xingqui have some connection with Albedo? That would be an easy way to be innocently introduced into Mondstadt.

The next one thankfully did have eligible handwriting, it was a mix of bold letters and graceful strokes. Yun Jin and Xinyan both came to visit, but only Yun Jin would have time to come today.

The thought of having to entertain all these guests with Baizhu still waiting on the explanation of your Oracle status was not improving your desire to just vanish from Liyue. You forgot how tiring it was to constantly string up webs of lies that make up a cohesive story. It was like being constantly at work with the threat of danger on a brand-new level.

That letter is quickly dismissed and you grab the final letter. The paper is stained, and the edges are worn, opening it a strange set of words are found inside it.

“Hello, do you remember me?”

Frowning, you continue to read it as you search through your memories. The words make little sense until you come across a line that summons a wave of needless guilt.

“Those children enjoyed choosing those gifts for you. They remind me of my son.”

You don’t really want to finish this letter anymore.

Despite your internal feelings, you continue to skim through the letter. It touches on how they’re all adjusting to life back on the streets.

How the kids work together more but wail even louder in the night. The people that curse them out for coming back, the few items they had left swept away by the government as ‘trash’. The empty and hollow feeling she carries now that her son is gone.

She wished that she had given him up at birth like she was advised. That maybe at least then he would still be alive.

She mentions her son at least once every line into the letter.

It’s only when you see the curves of the ink spelling out his name that you scrunch up the paper. The paper crinkles as your teeth grit together, the sounds perfectly in tune with each other.

The anger is confusing. You don’t know the kid, so why should you feel guilty? Why should you feel guilty that she chose to share her anguish with you? Why does the thought of being even more aware of that boy make your heart race?

Slowly, you open the now wrinkled and slightly torn paper and skip straight to the bottom.

“I know you probably don’t care. You never promised me that you could save him or deliver him alive to me. But it’s easier to share these feelings with someone separated from this situation than the people who are already suffering with me.”

“I should take these feelings to the Creator and beg for some relief from my pain, yet I can’t even muster the strength to care for the tongue I ripped out in my mourning. How could I possibly keep this pain to me and the Creator alone? Don’t fret about helping me. I leave that all up to our God.”

That end soothes your racing heart and warped feelings, it’s clear to you now.

You’re beginning to feel the guilt from being their God but unable to actually help with anything. Celestia somehow limited you, none of your acolytes would ever believe you to be the Creator, and the powers you do have access to now are useless.

Was it your fault? Could you have been faster and given that boy some food to have saved him? Can you speak to some form of authority and have them help those victims?

Mindlessly, you begin to tear up the letter. It’s therapeutic to watch the scraps fall onto the tray. Each ink stained paper is ripped with shaking fingers, almost like you’re ripping apart the physical manifestation of your guilt.

It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.

You’re not their God, you’re just the Oracle.

The truth doesn’t matter now. If this world can’t accept you wholeheartedly as the human you are, then why should you work to be seen as the God they cherish so much?

As if on cue, ruby droplets fall onto the worn shredded paper on the tray from the paper cuts you gained from your actions. The new gloves you got from Beidou are threatened to be stained as the red begins to trail down, but you quickly swipe it away.

Cursing yourself internally over the mess you made, you fumble with the drawer next to you for some bandages, not even hearing the repeated knocking on the door. It’s only when it’s opened and the pitter-patter of steps nearing you make you look toward it.

Cold, small fingers wrap around your own as magenta eyes stare up at you past the talisman hanging down from her hat.

“What happened?” Qiqi drawls, her signature zombie-like tone makes shame bubble up within you. Hanging your head, you don’t respond as you avoid her eyes.

You don’t feel normal.

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

The pharmacy is noisy as people frequently pass by the door to your room. Humming a catchy tune, you drum your fingers on the window sill as you watch outside the window. You imagine the wood of the sill must be cool, but you can’t tell under the bandages wrapped around your fingers.

Baizhu had visited you not too long ago to check on your leftover wounds and apply the topical medication. The cool moisture of the herbal medicine cooled down your body and prevented your apparent fever from worsening.

The room is clean aside from the bag you have left sitting on the bed with your belongings safely tucked away.

A small bag lies inside with the bloodied paper remains sitting inside it. You still aren’t sure if you were better off keeping it or throwing away. The series of knocks on your door bring your attention away from the scenery outside the window.

Staring for a second to be sure if you heard correctly, softer rapping follows up.

“Come in.” You call out before moving closer to the middle of the room. It swings open to show a girl with a shiny pink flower hairpin and a tall man wearing glasses. The smile on Kuan’s face is such a stark difference to the dark circles and sullen expression he wore when you first met him.

Yiran has bright eyes and a smile that could rival match the sun. Propufse thanks leave them both as Yiran keeps her fingers wrapped tight around her father’s. She’s still pale and clings to her father's hand when he moves to give you a handshake, but you gracefully ignore it.

“-Oh, and I’m so sorry that you’re being talked about by so many people. I really didn’t expect it to spread so far when I let her tell those other children that you saved that you were alive and recovering.” He looks kindly down at Yiran before gently urging her. “You too, Yiran, you have to apologize.”

Her eyes droop a little, but she still bows her head slightly as she apologizes. “I’m sorry, I just wanted my friends to know you were okay.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Thank you for the drawing.” You smile at them with ease and maintain small talk with them both a while longer before they leave. The door swings close, and your expression flattens at the same time.

Turning back to the window, you sit again and stare outside. The fluffy white clouds roll past in the blue sky as you allow your mind to go quiet. You just want a brief reprise from the stress you’ve been under all this time.

Time to just exist without having to worry about proving why you deserve to live in this world or your old one. Especially with Ningguang and your travel to the next region so close.

Maybe you took a nap or just dozed off, but the strum of a guitar brought your hazy mind back to awareness. Lifting your head from your arms crossed on the windowsill you see Xinyan taking steps two at a time as she runs from Millelith soldiers.

She quickly jumps off the top step onto the concrete so far below as she continues to play her guitar. It’s impressive, but you can’t help but be irked that soldiers had enough time to chase Xinyan but not help find kidnapped children.

That spiral of thoughts is interrupted as Yun Jin walks up the same set of stairs to Bubu Pharmacy as the soldiers disappear deeper into the city. Outwardly, she’s perfectly maintained, but the slight fidget of her fingers are like a warning sign.

The first and last time you spoke to her was the day of her ‘Lonely Chameleon’ performance that you vaguely recall had her promising to clear up the misunderstanding with Keqing.

What a bunch of good that did.

Yun Jin leaves your sight as she enters the building, and you move away from the window to crack the door open. Sitting on the foot of the bed, you patiently wait for Yun Jin to arrive. The biggest thing you relied on her about was her conversation with Keqing. So at least the situation with the Liyue Qixing can’t get any worse.

A polite knock sounds on the door before you call her in. Yun Jin steps in and closes the door behind her with a graceful smile that you return pleasantly.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you Y/N. I’m unsure if you read the letter but Xinyan and I were incredibly worried. Are you feeling any better?”

It’s not small talk, she’s genuinely concerned, but you have to force the undeserved annoyance down. “I’m feeling way better, and I’m basically almost back to normal. I’ll be discharged today, so don’t worry. Thank you for your concern.” God, you haven’t felt this fake in a while.

Yun Jin walks closer before stopping in front of you, polite as she is, she's not going to ask for a seat so you pat the spot on the bed next to you. Small talk is needlessly exchanged for a few more minutes, but you’re beginning to feel antsy from being stuck in your worry over how Keqing reacted.

“What performance did you do the day after we met? I remember you mentioning how you would speak to Keqing on my behalf after that play.” There it goes again, her fingers twitch before she tightly clasp them together on her lap.

“The performance went well. Thankfully nothing like the Geovishap hatchling accident happened so it wasn’t as stressful. I-I did get to talk to the Yuheng, but I’m afraid she didn’t put much trust into my words.” Just as you thought.

Her eyes squint slightly as she stares down at her lap, the little tremble of her lips and crack in her manners surprises you. You didn’t think she would feel this guilty over it.

“The questions she asked me about how or even just proof of your oracle status were troublesome to say the least. I genuinely didn’t have an answer for most of them and the ones I did weren’t very in-depth. I apologize Y/N.”

Placing your hand on her shoulder, your head shakes softly to deny her words. “Don’t worry about it, Yun Jin. I have a chance to personally refute some of the suspicions on me today. Thank you for at least trying, I just have one question.”

A part of you feels bad that you’re unintentionally displaying your frustrations on Yun Jin but not enough to stop you from asking your question. Her shoulders tense under your hand, and her face freezes when she hears your question.

“Did all those questions make you question whether I’m actually the Creator’s oracle?”

You can only force your lips into a smile that threatens to dissolve into a scowl with every fiber of your self-control at her body's reaction.

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

It’s disappointing, you think to yourself, as Yun Jin basically flees the room. The excuses she gave you and topic changes she tried to pull were pathetic, but you weren’t surprised considering how you went straight for the throat.

Yun Jin was a beast when it came to stage affairs and directing in arts, but there’s little to nothing she has to counter your precise attack. In a way, it’s smart for her to run rather then stand her ground and try to answer.

Standing up, you stretch your body, enjoying the absence of pain. The sly grin you wear is so much more comfortable than the bitter frown you’ve worn these past few days. Yun Jin was simply a good warm up, a nice way to get back into the ‘Oracle’ headspace you’ve developed.

It didn’t matter if you were their God or the Oracle.

Money, shelter, food, and a sense of security were all you needed in life. That is what you’ve focused on to survive all these years, and Teyvat will be no different. If playing along to the cult’s belief of the Creator being the Almighty guarantees your survival, then you’ll happily do so and benefit from their obsession.

Smiling with renewed vigor, you relax on the bed as the sound of footsteps came closer. The hissing of a snake and the muffled words of a man could be heard steadily arriving.

If Yun Jin was a warm-up then Baizhu was your practice. Tonight you had to face Ningguang and that required all your skills to be in top shape lest you end up being killed by her hands.

The door swings open without warning as yellow snake eyes and fushia eyes meet your own eyes hidden beneath your mask. Smiling without a care, you call out to the contracted partners.

“Nice to see you again so soon Dr. Baizhu and it’s nice to meet you Changsheng. You’re here for the scar tissue sample and to ask some questions about my background, right? Come in! Just be sure to close the door behind you…”

Still alive, surprisingly… It's hard to believe that my last update on this story was Nov 14. If you want to hear my excuses as to why it takes long, it basically boils down to school, sick, holiday, and family lol. Plus money but when is it done a problem? But I came back and was working on it very slowly throughout all this time! The next update will take long too as finals are till the 22nd. And then the next semester on the 17(?) of Jan so yeah, little to no break. Thanks to my editor who got it done quite fast which is why the chapter is up now, Sunday night or rather early Monday. I hope it gives you all a good start to the week. To actually talk about about the story, I gotta say that it's longer then I thought. There's still a few leftover tasks to complete before Y/N can truly leave. As well as a hint to the overarching threat now that we got this Celestia hint. I hope you all enjoy this chapter and the series! If your name is in italics that means I couldn't tag you for whatever reason. If you are missing from the taglist and I didn't respond to your comment or ask to be added to the taglist, leave a comment here so I can check it. Taglist: Open as always!

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madwomansapologist · 3 months

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my love mine all mine

Meet Kind!Druid!Tav | More Weirdos | AO3

synopsis: It doesn't matter what their first impressions of you were, they certainly did not expect you to be so important in their lifes. And as the days passes, each one of your companions need to understand a simple fact: they love you. They all love you.

warnings: a sequel to that (you don't need to read if you don't want to). song "my love mine all mine" by mitsky for gale. song "class of 2013" by mitsky for karlach. companions (gale, karlach) x druid!tav. background cast (mystra, halsin, lae'zel, shadowheart, selune, astarion, wyll). this game really is about faith and bodily autonomy. hurt/comfort. falling in love.

There is something endless about suffering. Once you felt hunger, nothing can complete that empty spot inside your soul. No amount of hope can ever make you forget about how painful it was to be helplessness. The sun is warm, but not enough to melt winter away from memory.

No brave adult can forget what felt to be a trembling child facing harshness all alone. It would be so much easier to forget how cruel the world was, but all you do is wonder to yourself: why didn't no one helped me? Why didn't no one saved me?

Even the word survivor feels wrong. It implies that something cruel happened in the wild, far away from home. A survivor has a tale to share with pride, scars to proof how strong you became. But sometimes suffering is just suffering, and the wild is your home.

It doesn't end. The suffering doesn't end, even after it does. It haunts you, laughs as you fumble, stains the good moments with sin.

But not with you.

For every time life was painful, you are caring. For everytime it burned and ached, you are gentle. There is something soft about you. No edges to get cut, no harm to be done. You care without shame, and your delicacy is welcome.

It's been long since someone cared for Gale Dekarios. Not for Gale of Waterdeep, the prodigy able to compose the Weave as he so desired, Mystra's lover and worshiper. But for Gale Dekarios, a man and nothing more than that, it's been so long.

Gale's value is his capability to bend the Weave. No one helped him for a reason other that. No one cared, or loved him for something that wasn't his talent or competence.

He was alone, except by Tara, and he got used to it. It's easy to get used to bad things when you think that you deserves them. It's no surprise that he so easily got used to being a dead man walking.

It was fine. Fine that his goddess wouldn't save him, that she would cast him away. Gale took it on himself, he knows that. Sometimes people don't get salvation. Sometimes they don't get a second chance. Sometimes things just end.

But you helped him. You held his hand and pulled him out of stone, unaware that you were actually pulling Gale towards you. You didn't asked for a payment or answers. You just held him.

And Gale held you back.

The world trembled. Poisoned mace. His defenses were already low when the goblin attacked. He knew his party won, but he can't remember how. His conscience was barely a whisper, as uneasy and skittish.

His feet were moving, he could feel it, but Gale wasn't controling them. Darkness devoured him, and the world was reduced to a cold freeze against his face.

"Karlach, you got the first watch," a distorted voice startled him. He wasn't alone. It took Gale a second to understand who was talking. "Halsin, Lae'zel broke her wrist. Shadowheart, follow me."

Gale is half asleep, half dead, but he could recognize that voice anyway. Always demanding, aware of what to do, being right. You. Sweet, caring, loving you.

"Alright, soldier!" Karlach dropped her dripping wet backpack near the fire. Something bumped on his shoulders, and a cry left Gale's lips. "And you get better, mage. I'm counting on you for that!"

Her hand. It was her hand that almost made him collapse. But Gale didn't. That was when he noticed his eyes were closed, and someone was holding him.

Your hands gripping his waist as you tried to walk, your warmth reaching him. He could see a drop of sweat making its way on your neck. Blood staining you silver armor. You smell like... you. He can't describe it in any other way.

"You'll be fine," you whispered. As if you knew his head was about to explode. "We'll take care of you. Close your eyes."

You asked. Gale obeyed.

When he woke up, a black sea stained his vision. He breathed in and out, and understood it was the night sky. Gale stared at the moon, shining down on him, and for a second he though it was staring back.

Gale tried to pray. Would Selune embrace him? If he kneeled and promised his loyalty, would she protect his soul? Gale tried to pray, but no words made to his mind.

When he opened his eyes, you were there. Kneeled beside his bed, so close he could hear you breathing, but looking away. Bright eyes, reflecting the moon, looking down at something. Furrowed brows, lips tense, your shoulder stiff as you moved.

Gale heard the water before he saw the cloth you dipped into it. You agile hands folded it carefully, and placed it on his belly. It was hot. Almost too hot, but you were quick. You pressed it against his skin, and went back to dip it. The white cloth was now stained red.

Oh. You were cleaning him. His eyes noticed the bucket filled with redish fabrics. Gale wondered if cleaning him felt like rubbing wine stains into rugs. If by trying to make it right, you only made it worse. He wouldn't care if you made him worse, not as long as you keep on touching him.

When he reached for your cheeks, Gale didn't even thought about it. He just wanted to touch you, to make sure that you were real.

It startled you, a little gasp escaping your throat. You looked at Gale, analyzing every inch of his face.

For a time, Gale could only look at his hand against your skin. His thumb stroking your cheek, so soft beneath his touch.

"Why are..." that voice wasn't his. It wasn't anything like his. For how long did he slept? "Why are you here?"

You looked at the hand you placed on his waist, and realized how it must be to wake up with someone else touching you. "I was just cleani..."

"That's not what I asked," the mage stopped you. You went back to look at him, and Gale felt your gaze softening his entire being. "Why are you here?"

"I worry about you," you admited. "Specially when you forget what shields are made for."

"Why are you like this?" Gale found himself trying to make whatever was on his mind understandable. That doesn't happen very often. For him to be unsure about his words. "Why do you keep on taking care of me? You don't owe me anything."

"Because you are... you," you went back to cleaning his skin. Gale didn't move his hand, and you didn't seen to mind. "Close your eyes, go back to sleep. You won't even notice I'm here."

With his hand on your cheek, eyes staring at the moon, Gale hoped Selune was staring back.

He don't know what will happen to him after his death. Mystra didn't forgave him, so Gale isn't counting on her protection when his soul is to be judged. But one thing Gale knows: the moon was here before him, and will remain after.

So he prayed. Silently, he begged Selune to protect you. He begged for her to shine on you, the only one who ever made him feel worth something. One day he must die, sooner than later apparently, so he hopes she'll protect you when he's gone.

"Impossible," Gale stroked your jaw. "Utterly impossible."

Every single one of your companions love how sincerely you care for them, but they all see how it can be a problem too. How many times have they told you to not be so welcoming? It makes you you, but it's also the reason why you bleed so often.

How many times have you tried to help someone just to discover they didn't deserve it? How many times will it happens until you finally understand your lesson?

Fainting after a encounter with a ruthless dwarf, Shadowheart thinks it's the best moment to ask you to tone it down, only to be reminded about how you still befriended Astarion even after his introduction. If Wyll explains there is no way you can win this fight, that it isn't even yours, you point at Halsin and he can do nothing but to shut up. And whenever Astarion is a pain in the ass, you explain that mercy and kindness are what brought Karlach to the party.

They are scared for you. No one knows how much pain your heart can take before if finally stops healing. You're kind, and they want you to stay that way, but not if it diminishes your soul. There must be a limit for your hope, and they aren't interest on finding it.

Worried about you hurting yourself, they didn't noticed how that hurted Karlach too.

Few can say they escaped from hell, and even fewer would be stupid enough to not enjoy a second chance. Karlach knows she sounds too distracted at the worst times, too excited when there's nothing to celebrate, but how couldn't she? She won't waste her chance.

If only she could be touched. If she could hug her friends, be near those she loves without hurting them, hold without bruising. If only she could touch you without boiling your precious skin.

Don't matter how affectionate you are, there are thing you just can't do. You showed her only your best sides, so welcoming and caring. After a fight, you rush to check on her. Late at night, you tell stories about your life. When it's peaceful, you show her different ways to tie a know. But you can't touch her.

Karlach thinks you look warm. Not cold. Nothing like distance or indifference. And not hot. Nothing like the infernal machinery inside her chest. You seem peaceful. Calm, in a way that she might never fully comprehend.

You hold Lae'zel's hands to stop her from offending someone. And don't flinch when Astarion pulls you by your waist. It's been some weeks since started to teach Shadowheart how to swim. And Wyll tried to help you with your dance moves. Halsin's hand seem to be glued to your shoulder.

She envies them. Karlach envies everyone that you touch. She just feels so lonely, and she'd already spent too much time pretending not to be. Avernus is behind her, and the person she was there won't ever see daylight again. Karlach is free, and she'll be always true to herself.

Poking the flaming wood with a sticky, trying to make it spread to the others, she was to focused to noticed when you sat beside her by the log. Her mind was somewhere far, far away.

After a few moments, Karlach saw you. She kept herself quiet, just enjoying your presence. As if her silence would make you not want to leave. As if her silence would be enough so she could lay her head at your lap, feel your fingertips undoing the knots on her hair, without burning you in and out.

As she stared at the soon-to-be bonfire, you glared at the sky. You searched on your pockets, looking for a coin, but all you found was a forgotten jasper. It'll do the trick. "Jasper for your thoughts, Mama K?"

Karlach looked at you. "What, soldier?"

"You're quiet today," you said. "Too quiet. Let me help you. If you want to talk, I want to hear. If you want to kick some butts, my boots are ready. So, jasper for your thoughts?"

She opened her hands, and you dropped the crystal on it. Karlach played with it for a second, amused by your words. "I'm tired," she said. "Of not touching. Or being touched. I know I'm not alone but... sometimes I can't help but to feel like that. Even Mama K has her moments."

She has so much love to give. Just like you. If only she could give it as freely as you do. Karlach respects you for it. For trying to be better, don't matter how much it hurts you. Scars are signs of bravery, just as pieces of broken hearts.

You think it's worth the cost, and so does Karlach.

"One day," you breathed in. Looking at the fire, you saw why Karlach was so interest on it. Don't matter how much you learn, it still looks magic. "I will braid your hair. Massage your shoulders. Wash your back. Teach you archery, my chest against you back and my hand holding yours. Take the eyelash that fell on your cheeks. Straighten your necklace. I will let lips do what hands do."

You turned to her, with a beaming smile on your face and wet eyes. "But for now, can you wait? Can you dream for a few months more, until we find a solution? Because I swear, Karlach, I will find one. Don't matter if I'll need to walk throught the Nine Hells. I will find a cure for you."

"Damn, soldier," Karlach hissed. Maybe it was the light, but her eyes were redish. You did the noble thing and pretend to not have seen the tears. "You really are the sweetest hero around."

"So don't think you're alone anymore!" You suppressed the urge to punch her arm. Scratch brought you a red ball, and you caressed him. "I'm here. We all are."

And that's one thing they all will be forced to understand: they are not alone. Not anymore.

Part 3!

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monstersandmaw · 7 months

Text

Male orc (Rhuarc) x female character - Part One (sfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Thank you to the two people who explicitly expressed interest in this story via my inbox. This one's for you. Here's Rhuarc the single dad orc and his girl, and how they met. I've even got some visuals in this one too!

Content: kidnapping, attempted human sacrifice, violence, some light gore, implied age gap, older male character, single father orc x small human female

Wordcount: 4344

Rhuarc tried not to resent the fact that the Jarl of Markarth’s crusty old steward had looked him up and down as he’d stood in front of the so-called Mournful Throne, and decided that the orc was either entirely expendable or utterly stupid enough to take on an entire Forsworn camp. By himself.

Apparently it was the latter though, because with his two adopted girls waiting for his return in Whiterun, Rhuarc was most certainly not expendable these days. Perhaps twenty years ago, he might have hurled himself at the nearest frothing lunatic disrupting trade routes and abducting travellers off the roads without much care for the damage he took — the fact that he’d lost the sight in his right eye before he’d turned nineteen was testament to that — but these days, his contracts required thought and planning.

Kill the leader of Hag’s End, an old Nordic tomb complex nestled away in the frozen mountains to the northeast of Markarth.

Easy.

By himself.

Less easy.

The place was huge, and crawling with more Forsworn than termites in a mound, and there was every chance he would encounter a hagraven there too. Fuck, he hated those things. Whatever unnatural magic was used to create those half-bird, half-women, he didn’t want any part of it.

His own magic was fairly rudimentary by the standards of the average mage: a few fireballs here, a few healing spells there, and he could make a pretty decent lance out of ice if he had to. After all, orcs were known primarily for how ferociously they could bludgeon something into Oblivion, but magicka did coil its way through some of them too, and his mother had been both an alchemist and a mage.

Now though, as Rhuarc crept up behind the Briarheart warrior who led this bunch of rabid lunatics, and slipped his arm around the man’s throat to hold him still while he ripped the strange replacement heart out of the half-undead creature’s chest, he wondered exactly what kind of magic these people used that let them replace an otherwise healthy man’s beating heart with the poisoned seed of a Briarheart tree. And what special kind of lunacy allowed someone to undergo it willingly. Perhaps it wasn’t willing though? What did he know about these people?

As the orc’s fingers curled around the prickly seed that was about the size of an apple, the magic of it felt at once too cold and too hot; the way white hot metal feels in that moment of pure shock if you touch it by accident before the pain kicks in. He released the disgusting ‘heart’ and it fell with a splatter of gore onto the snowy carpet covering the cosy little platform, from where the man ruled over his clan of Forsworn. Rhuarc would have to find a scrap of cloth to wrap it in so that it didn’t leak everywhere between there and the city of Markarth, but he was looking forward to depositing it directly into the stuffy old steward’s lap as proof of the kill and the contract fulfilled.

The Briarheart warrior went instantly limp in his arms and Rhuarc laid him down silently on the frozen ground, already starting to plan his next move. A shout went up a second later from somewhere to his right — his blind side — and an arrow pinged off the bastion wall beside him. With a curse, he rolled and ducked behind the hide wall of the leader’s large tent, breathing hard. Of course he’d missed one of them, and if she alerted anyone else, or that lurking hagraven, Rhuarc was fucked. He was tired. And cold. His joints weren’t quite what they had once been, and his muscles were seizing with the cold and from crouching in dark doorways and corners on the long and winding way up to reach this part of the secret redoubt.

With a careful peek around the support structure of the leader’s tent, he realised that this new Forsworn hadn’t actually spotted him properly yet, and he hefted the haft of his war axe in his hand. Throwing a weapon away was never a great idea, but he didn’t have a bow on him, and if he called magicka to his hands, a hagraven would certainly sense it. Not a chance he wanted to take, and given that the place was called Hag’s End, he thought it pretty fucking likely that there was one of the bird-legged, psychotic matriarchs of the Forsworn roosting up at the top of the complex on that balcony almost directly above him.

So, he drew back his arm and sent the blade of his war axe whirling away to bite into the breastbone of the Forsworn before she could spot him or cry out again. She fell with the clatter and rattle of bone and fur armour, her silly antlered headdress skittering away behind her, and he was off running immediately to release the weapon from her corpse and seek a new hiding place in case the commotion had drawn others.

As it was, Rhuarc crouched for a long few minutes behind the gruesomely-displayed corpse of an elk that had been partly taxidermied by the cold and stuck on a stake, with his breath billowing all around him, and the stillness of snow in the air. Had he got them all? He was spattered all up one side of his body with blood and even had a red streak in his otherwise white hair that he’d shaved close to his skull above his ears and left long enough to tie back into a ponytail on top. What a mess. Still, it would be worth the groaning bag of coin he was going to get for clearing the whole bloody encampment and making The Reach a little bit safer for travellers.

Just as he’d begun to relax, half thinking of getting the girls each a new dress with his earnings, a scream like nothing he’d ever heard before tore the silence in two and his blood went cold.

It had come from the balcony above him where a spar of stonework jutted out into the winter sky like the bowsprit of a ship, and it hadn’t been the harsh shriek of a hagraven. The scream had come from a woman in blind, abject terror, and the sound of it shocked him back to his feet before he’d even realised it.

Rhuarc thundered up the stone stairs behind him and shouldered open the carved doors of the inner sanctum of the tomb, plunging into the relative darkness without stopping to think.

Not thinking was a sure way to get himself killed, and by some miracle of the fates, he skidded to a halt just in time to avoid a pressure plate in the floor that would no doubt have unleashed some kind of magical or poisoned trap on him. Whoever lived here clearly didn’t let just anyone inside, and blundering around like a panicked mammoth wasn’t going to help anyone.

“Think, you thick-skulled orc,” he growled at himself, chest heaving and heart pounding in his ears like a war-drum. He was only a few heartbeats away from slipping into that infamous, orcish berserker rage, and he never ever wanted to find himself on the far end of a state of mind like that again. Caked in blood and viscera and surrounded by an array of corpses with no memory of how they had been felled… He shuddered and forced himself to steady his breathing before moving on.

What he confronted as he wound his way carefully and methodically through the dark, blood-stained hallways of the upper Nordic tomb proved to be as great a test of his prowess with blade and his magic as any he’d ever faced in his forty-six years.

Savage witches clad in long, magicka-laced, black robes hurled spells and curses at him that he only just dodged or warded in time to sink his axe into their skulls, but what made his skin crawl the most was the hagraven who seemed to be taunting him, letting him get one or two shots in before a swirl of purple and black magic enveloped her and she vanished to somewhere else in the complex.

Was she an illusion? Had he lost his mind or, worse, accidentally imbibed some poison from one of his victims that was making him hallucinate? He’d spotted enough deadly mushrooms growing in the dank corners of the dungeon that the suspicion remained, even as he ploughed on through the coven of crazed witches towards the woman who had let out that heart-rending scream.

Just as he sensed he was gaining the top of the tower, the hagraven disappeared amid a final storm of eerie, flickering magicka, leaving him alone in an echoing chamber at the top of a staircase lined with mortuary shelves.

Over to his left, an arcane enchanting table crackled with residual magicka from a recent use, the blueish runes on its onyx surface glowing in the dim light, and on his right, an ancient monument reared up like a tombstone, carved with a script he couldn’t read. He had no time for any of that, and paused just long enough with his hand on the last door to gather his breath and the last ragged remains of his strength, before shoving all his weight into swinging them open and stepping out onto the snowy balcony beyond.

A blast of freezing air hit him full in the face, but it wasn’t the cold that stole his breath and his senses.

There on a low, wide, stone altar, a Nord woman had been bound hand and foot, stretched out and completely naked, and she was thrashing weakly despite the wounds at her wrists and ankles from the ropes. Tears tracked pale lines through the dirt on her face and her bare chest heaved with broken, choking sobs as she arched her back in futile protest.

Over her prone figure loomed the emaciated figure of a hagraven with a glinting, black dagger raised in her taloned hands.

Rhuarc didn’t think.

He hurled a bolt of ice at the creature, and might have been surprised to find that it had actually struck her right in the stomach if he hadn’t already been concentrating on drawing the ambient moisture into his hand to freeze into another shard of ice as thick as a tree limb. The hagraven let out a shriek that should have made his ears bleed, and hurled a fireball at him for the indignity of him getting a hit in first.

Searing flames exploded all around him and he smelled singeing, though he wasn’t sure if it was his fur armour or his own skin, and he didn’t care. He leapt forwards, diving into a roll in the snow to douse any lingering flames, and as he came up he launched a second spike of ice directly at the hagraven’s weathered, distorted face. Her black, beady eyes narrowed and she bared rotten teeth with a snarl as she clenched her clawed hand and prepared to fling a second fireball at him.

Rhuarc had closed the distance between them in a few powerful strides though, and before she’d finished the spell, he grabbed her by her flimsy arm and felt the snap of it breaking in his grip as he yanked her away from the altar. Before she could even muster a screech, he lopped her head off with his axe. He didn’t stop to watch her abandoned carcass slide over the edge of the parapet, down into the void of snow and cooling corpses below, and turned instead to the woman laid out on the table.

The dagger had fallen from the hagraven’s claws to land beside her right hand and she was reaching frostbitten fingers for it.

“Easy,” Rhuarc said, holstering his messy axe at the loop on his belt and realising he probably looked as frightening as the hagraven had. Six foot six and broad as a barn door at the shoulder, Rhuarc now had blood all up his face from one of the witches, a nasty burn on his shoulder that was only just now making itself known, and a long cut on his abdomen that was oozing blood down his solid paunch. As he’d got older, he’d lost the iron definition he’d had in his youth, but he was probably the strongest now that he’d ever been in his life.

No wonder the woman was staring wild-eyed at him like he was some animal barbarian, but his heart physically hurt in his chest when he saw the welts and bruises standing out starkly on her pale, Nordic complexion. Her long, midnight black hair was loose and lank and greasy, her lip was split and swollen, and there was a vibrant, purple bruise all around her left eye socket. Those dark brown eyes glared up at him with fierce defiance though, and her fingers found the hilt of the knife.

He smiled. “I know I look a sight,” he said in a low, quiet rumble, holding both hands up, bloody palms towards her. “I’m gonna help you though. Let’s get you healed up and out of here. I’m not sure what you can wear though…”

“My… My clothes are in… were in… a chest… in there,” she croaked, twitching her head slightly towards the chamber he’d just left. The swelling in her lip clearly made talking painful, and she sounded like she hadn’t had any water for days. That, or the thick, raw, red line around her throat was responsible, flanked by distinct, finger-sized bruises the colour of a ripe plum. It made his orc blood boil to see marks like that on a person’s body, but he made himself focus on the more immediate task of helping her.

“Alright. I’ll untie you — may I use that dagger?”

She nodded and reluctantly let her fingers go loose again. With the rope lashed so tightly around her wrist, she didn’t have enough purchase to lift her hand free of the hilt, so Rhuarc carefully slid his bloody fingers underneath hers and he eased the blade out.

Concentrating, he sawed steadily through the thick rope, and she hissed as she flexed her fingers when the rope finally sheared and one arm came free. The raw chafing showed him just how hard she’d fought her captors, and he found the warmth of pride glowing in the pit of his stomach for this stranger and her resilience. Methodically, Rhuarc moved his way around the table to free her ankles next before finally cutting the ropes binding her left arm to the cold table, and all the while keeping his eyes off her naked body as best he could.

“We need to get you somewhere sheltered. Can you sit up?”

She tried valiantly when he asked, but her strength failed her in a rush and she slumped back down with a gasp.

Rhuarc dropped the knife to the stone at his feet and stuck his right hand under her head just in time to stop her cracking her skull on the stone platform of the altar, and he cradled her lolling head in the palm of his hand. His already-bruised knuckles clunked against the altar under the full weight of her head as she surrendered at last, spent.

“Easy,” he said. “I’ve got some magic. I’m going to heal you, alright? Keep steady, then we’ll find you some clothes and get you out of here.”

Her dark eyes rolled as the golden light of healing magic washed around her, and she slumped at last into unconsciousness.

Rhuarc picked her up with detached efficiency and carried her out of the biting wind and back into the tower that formed the top part of the tomb’s inner sanctum, marvelling at the Nord’s resilience to the cold. He knew that her people were tougher than most humans in these conditions, but still, with everything she’d been through, she probably should be dead.

Her small body was soft where many Nords were made of hard muscle, and he suspected that she had not been raised to be a fighter. That the Forsworn would snatch her away from whatever battle-free life she’d led before and defile her like this made his blood sing all over again and his hands itched to sink his axe into a nice, crunchy, Forsworn skull. He let the thought go with a growl around his thick tusks and shouldered the doors open.

With her pressed against his bare chest, he felt the tingle of magic in her blood too, and he recalled the way her body had drunk his own restoration magic down like water poured onto dry sand. Perhaps the fact that she was probably a mage had been why the hagraven had been about to sacrifice her in that unholy ritual.

Inside the echoing, stone room with the enchanting table, Rhuarc found the chest she’d mentioned, and he crouched down awkwardly in front of it with her half-draped across his lap, her naked body propped up by his right arm. He really didn’t want to have to use one of the beds in the tower that the witches had clearly slept in, but if the woman needed to rest, then he would stay with her and see that she was safe.

Just as he was fiddling one-handed with the catch of the chest, which luckily wasn’t locked, she drew in a deeper breath and came-to with a mewling sob of discomfort. Her bare legs were touching the floor and the room wasn’t much warmer than the air outside because of a huge hole in the ceiling, but at least they were out of the wind.

“I know,” he said without looking at her. “I’m going to find you something to wear. Just give me a second.”

“Thank you,” she rasped, and the sound became a sob as she squirmed in his arms, trying to curl inwards on herself. Whether that was to cover her naked body better or simply because she was hurting in every way humanly possible, he wasn’t sure. “Thank you. I thought that was it, when… when she… she —”

“Shh,” he said, briefly tightening his hold around her shoulders with a slight curl of his right arm, worried that if she grew too distressed, he might drop her. “It’s over now. You’re safe.”

“Thank you,” she said again, and then added with a little sniffle, “My name is Syl, by the way.”

“Rhuarc,” he grunted, finally lifting the lid of the chest. “This your stuff?”

She peered forward and nodded. An undyed linen shirt and brown trousers had been roughly stuffed into the wooden chest, along with a pair of softly-worn, fur-lined boots, a thick, fur-lined jacket, and a small alchemist’s pouch that fitted on a belt around the hips. He had something similar himself for the road, choosing to forgo the usual traveller’s pack with a bedroll and cooking pot. He hunted or foraged for what he needed and cooked it over an open fire and slept under the stars when he absolutely had to, but mostly, he actually planned his journeys to halt at an inn for the night these days, because he was too damned old now to be sleeping out of doors in the grass like a bloody wild boar. He also thought he glimpsed some linen underwear and wrappings in the chest too, but he didn’t let his gaze linger.

“You… need a hand?” he asked quietly, but she shook her head.

“I can just kneel here for a moment. I’ll be alright,” she said in a steady, if rough voice. “Thank you.”

He nodded once. “I’ll be over there,” he said, gesturing vaguely with his thumb over his left shoulder.

He helped her slide off his lap where he’d crouched beside the chest, and steadied her briefly with a hand at the small of her spine to stop her tipping backwards. Her flesh was still cold from lying out there on the table, but she couldn’t have been out there for too long before he’d found her, or she’d have died of exposure. Even a Nord couldn’t survive naked in the snow for very long.

Only then, with his rough palm pressed against the pale softness of her skin, did it strike him that it had actually been a very long time since he’d seen another naked body, and the feel of her skin beneath the calluses of his palm distantly stirred the cold embers of desire in him that had lain dormant and out of mind for longer than he cared to remember. Even for an orc, he wasn’t exactly short of people showing interest, but it just… hadn’t been something he’d wanted. Then of course, he’d found himself the adoptive father of a pair of ten and eleven year old girls, and all thoughts of romance and the so-called ‘Dibellan arts’ had evaporated completely from his life like autumn mist.

With a sigh, he banished the faint and inappropriate sensation and levered himself stiffly to his feet. As he did, he felt the cut in his lower belly pull with a sharp prick of pain and when he looked down at it, he found it already suppurating. His thick, naturally green, orcish skin had turned a nasty, angry red around the slash and something was oozing out of it that wasn’t blood. Poison. Fuck.

Glancing around the room, he wondered if there were any ingredients stashed way that the witches would have used, but he was in the wrong part of their stronghold for that and anyway, who knows what they might have been brewing in there? Thinking about what limited stocks he kept in the emergency pouch on his belt, he drew out two carefully-sealed glass bottles and tipped their contents into the cupped palm of his left hand. It was hardly ideal, but it would do for now, and he smeared it onto the open wound.

The flash of pain made him grunt, but with a soft fizzing, the powders got to work and nullified the festering poison before it could spread.

“Rhuarc?”

When he turned around at the sound of her voice, he found Syl looking at him from where she was still kneeling in front of the wooden chest.

“Are you alright?” she asked with a frown.

Her alto was still hoarse and rasping, and he wondered if she was still in pain. “I’m fine. Are you? Did I heal you enough?”

At his question, she smiled, and something in his chest slipped sideways when he saw it.

How could a woman who’d just been through the torment she had experienced still find the grace to smile like that? And at an orc of all creatures.

“Yes,” she said, and, now that she was dressed, she stood slowly; cautiously.

She wasn’t very tall for a human, perhaps five foot five at most, and her body seemed somehow even smaller in her loose-fitting, practical clothes. He could clearly see the swell of her hips though, and the definite curve of her breasts, and her dark eyes looked very large as she regarded him. In an attempt to tidy herself up, she had tied her lank, black hair back off her face in a low ponytail, but she still looked like she’d taken one hell of a battering, despite the healing magic.

And yet, there she was on her own two feet, and her resilience was suddenly as devastatingly attractive to him as were her natural good looks. Rhuarc swallowed thickly, utterly floored by what he was feeling for the first time in decades.

“You’re hurt,” she said, eyeing the wound in his stomach.

He felt her open herself up to start channelling magicka, and his own mismatching eyes went wide. “No, don’t!” he gasped, taking an involuntary step towards her and holding out both hands in a kind of warding gesture. “Please, you need to conserve your energy. I’ll heal myself in a moment. I was just waiting for the poison to work its way out first.” No point sealing up the cut with all the vileness still inside, after all.

Syl walked slowly towards him, moving like a black cat along a wall, with her gaze focused on his bare paunch.

Rhuarc’s breath caught and he froze. He couldn’t have moved so much as a muscle then, even if an army of hagravens had descended on him.

When Syl came to a halt in front of him, she brought her fingertips up to touch the fevered flesh around the wound. Very carefully, she let a tiny thread of golden magic seep into him, and he honestly did not mean to let out the noise that left his lips. He hadn’t even known he was still capable of making a sound like that.

Pleasure curled deep and visceral in his gut, both from the whisper-light contact of her fingertips against the trail of hair on his stomach, and from the way her magic coiled and twisted inside him, stitching him up from the inside out and cleansing the last of the poison’s putrefaction in the same deft stroke. She wasn’t just some hedge witch with a little magic: Syl had to be a master of the school of restoration with a healing that skilled.

“There,” she breathed. “Just looks a bit of a mess now,” she added, eyeing the blood that still covered him in a series of spatters and smears.

He couldn’t catch his breath for a moment, but he cleared his throat and stepped back. “Not much different from usual then,” he said a beat too late and painfully aware that his gruff bass sounded far more winded than when he had fought his way through the entire complex to reach her. “Thank you.”

With a long inhale, she let her hand fall back against her side and turned her big, dark eyes up to regard him. “So… what happens now?”

I hope you enjoyed this one? I'm fairly certain most people aren't going to read down to this point, so if you did, please consider reblogging it to help it find more of an audience, and give Rhuarc and Syl some love?

And if you want to learn more about how they fall in love on their journey away from Hag's End, be sure to leave me an ask or a comment! Otherwise I'll assume there's no interest and won't keep sharing it. :)

Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)

#rhuarc the orc #orc #orc x human #male orc x female human #single dad orc #fantasy orc #exophilia #orc boyfriend #monster boyfriend #monster dad

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dragonagecompanions · 8 months

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How do you think the Dragon Age Inquisition advisors and companions would react to Child Inquisitor being the child of the Champion of Kirkwall? Also could you make Fenris the child Inquisitor's father?

Cassandra: This is...problematic.

Varric had told her enough of the Champion's husband to know that Fenris will already be desperately hunting for his child, and the Champion...so much of their family is lost, it is unthinkable that Hawke will not be in the same state. Trying to convince them both that the inquisition has not kidnapped their offspring for political reasons will require all the tact she does not have.

And will rely on the very little goodwill she can wring from Varric, who she technically did kidnap for political reasons. She will need to keep Josephine close by at all times.

Solas: For so young a child, the dalen is already a political firestorm waiting to happen. The guilt he carries from having his magic stitched into their very flesh (and the pain this child is feeling from it) was already enough to convince him to stay, but being so close to the power center of both Inquisition and the Champion of Kirkwall is an unexpected boon. He will keep his finger on the pulse of all things anchor related, and keep himself close to the actions that are working to restore Thedas to order.

And by helping this child now, keep himself on the right side of a very angry elf who might be a problem before the Dread Wolf has his power returned.

Varric: Okay so, here’s the most important thing: he should have known.

Logically there is no way that Varric Tethras-Kirkwall’s author in residence and nominally a captive of the Right Hand of the Divine- could have known that the child of his best friend in the entire world had somehow snuck away from home AND traveled halfway across the blessed world AND infiltrated a highly secure theo-political conclave designed to reign in a burgeoning civil war to enact some sort of temporary peace. He has contacts and resources and keeps an ear to the ground, but that doesn’t mean the Merchant’s Guild can tell him everything the minute it happens.

And yet the fact that a child exists in the world who is half Fenris (impulsive and quick to defend what is his) Hawke (and carries the legacy of that family) really does mean that there wasn’t anywhere else they’d end up. It’s not a comfort to Varric when the Seeker and his best friend’s kid crest the hill toward them, but it certainly changes his standing with the Inquisition. So long as the kid is there Varric’s not leaving-- he owes Hawke at least that much and more. One way or another things are going to have to be put to rights.

Blackwall: Once, as another man in another life, his actions had led to the death of four children. Even then, in the height of his arrogance and conceit, Thom Rainier had stood over those small shrouded forms and would have given his own life a hundred times over to spare them. Nothing could have brought them back, of course, and no matter how many times he had knelt before Andraste's statues and begged for Her forgiveness it was not a burden he could lay down himself.

This child, Andraste's herald or not, is not a replacement for Collier's children. Defending their life will not wipe out the debt he owes to that slaughtered family. But as he shoulders his shield and sword in their defense, it just might be a start to that forgiveness.

That will be enough.

Vivienne: Children are not in a Circle mage's destiny, no matter how high her star may climb. The dreams of children with her perfect bone structure and Bastien's eyes will forever be only that. Madame de Fer has come to accept this, has spent her entire life accepting this. If she is softer with the new apprentices newly torn from their families, more patient with the young mages still struggling with a life behind walls, that is no one business but her own.

The Herald of Andraste is a child. No matter their illustrious parentage or the fame carried by those parents, they are too young to be bandied about as some sort of divine tool to rescue the world. The Game has no minimum age, of course, and Vivienne is not naive enough to think that Hawke's offspring will not have to play it in time, but she will be taking special care to to keep both eyes on the child to whom they will ask so much of.

And a sharper eye on those who would use them. Fenris is not the only one who can glow, when needed.

Sera: Little people need looking out for, and not much littler than a sprog. From the first jump their tiny Herald has an ever devoted guardian, one who ensures there is as much fun as serious herald business, and cookies for all.

When the parents do eventually arrive, her general distrust of all things magic and ardent desire to preserve their childhood will endear her to Fenris like none other in the Inquisition. Someone must look out for the little people, and while their methods are not the same each can respect the other.

Dorian: Vishente Kaffas, this is a child. In the light of that discovery a great many of his opinions on Alexius's plans (mostly on how his mentor is simply desperate to save Felix and not thinking clearly) and brutally altered. This man who wants to murder someone hardly old enough to see over the table is not the man he once knew, and there are no excuses he can make that will make it less barbaric.

By the time they are escaped from that terrible Not-Future Dorian has formed a trauma bond with this young person as profound as any he has known, and their safety is now absolutely his priority. Despite his disinclination for their creation Dorian is not opposed to children, and along with others is very content to take over their education in all things both mundane and magical.

Fenris's arrival is still loud and bright and involves quite a few angry comments between former slave and not yet magister, but in the end Dorian's unshirking resolve toward the young Herald will carry the day. When Fenris eventually finds out that his child is set to inherit Dorian's seat in the Magisterium as the heir to the current Pavus heir, that argument will be even louder.

Iron Bull: The Qun is very clear on the care and feeding of children in their charge, and it has never been in his destiny to be a Tamassran. Nor is the Iron Bull ignorant of the identity of the Inquisitors parents. But seeing how small the Herald is, something deep and protective in the mercenary captain surprises even himself.

(His Tama is both surprised and not to get a letter from her former charge, and if her memories of the little boy hold true he will read her meaning in the otherwise clinical advise on the care and keeping of young children.)

Watching the Chargers adopt the little Herald as one of their own has another lasting effect. There is no decision on the Storm Coast, not with this true understanding o family, and in truth Bull was lost to the Qun long before Gatt came south with an unbeatable test.

Cole: "So young, so bright, wanted to come south to find Uncle Varric, never meant to hurt anyone. You just wanted to help, to heal the hurt and make it whole. I want that too!"

The innocent and ardent desire of children to do good, and the boundless compassion that comes with youth, makes the Herald and Cole perfect companions. This friendship is strained by the arrival of Fenris's Anders driven loathing of abominations, but a more patient Hawke might ease the way there.

Josephine: She has younger siblings, and is currently responsible for the fate of House Montiliyet. The care and feeding of one small child is...well, child's play. If only Cassandra would not keep pulling her aside like some talisman against the Champion of Kirkwall.

If it were less entertaining, their ambassador might have informed the Seeker that her letters to Aveline Vallen have already abated much suspicion...

Leliana: There are one or two amongst her agents who have some experience with children, and she assigns them watch over their Herald. Beyond that, the spymaster keeps a distance. A child need not know all the brutal things done to keep the world turning. That is sacrifice enough.

If, every once in a while, the young herald is soothed after a nightmare with Ferelden lullabyes in an Orlesian accent, few are brave enough to share it.

Cullen: Maker's breathe, he'd thought he left Kirkwall behind him. Like Leliana he assigns soldiers who either are parents or who are good with children to keep a weather eye on the child, and adopts Cassandra's strategy of using Josephine as a shield against Champion and/or Lyrium Ghost rage.

Once was enough.

Mod Fereldone

#dragon age inqusition #child inquisitor #solas #dorian pavus #blackwall #cassandra pentaghast #vivienne de fer #the iron bull #cole #cullen rutherford #josephine montilyet #lelianna #hawke #fenris #varric tethras

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redisaid · 3 months

Text

Strangers - Part 1 of ??

A very special shoutout to @jujoobedoodling for their amazing art, and for sharing this neat little idea with me when I asked if there's any sort of fics they'd like to see.

So, fellas, is it gay to make Sylvaina fall in love over prison letters, in a nutshell? I dunno. Let's find out.

5146 Words

Read it on Ao3!

“I wasn’t expecting company.”

Jaina wants to assure her she didn't come to stare at her like she's some sabercat in a cage—teeth dulled on the bars, roar hoarse and failing. Only she realizes now that this is exactly why she's come. A wave of shame threatens to crash over her, but she dismisses it. She came to deliver Veressa’s letter, and to banish the notion that Sylvanas Windrunner truly was a stranger to her.

Staring at Sylvanas, waiting for her to rattle the bars of her would be cage, would do neither of those things for her.

“Certainly not you,” Sylvanas continues, drawling out the last word with her high, nasally elven accent, still chiming in a banshee double-tone.

They stand now in the Maw, where Jaina had been asked by her friend to draw an interdimensional portal to deliver a letter to her sister as only she and a handful of other mages on Azeroth could. Jaina had been reluctant to agree. She had refused at first, of course.

But here she was, all the same.

You, with that drawl and sneer and the arrow still aimed between her eyes, was about all that Jaina deserved from this woman. After all, Vereesa was right—at best, they were strangers.

“What is it you’ve come for? To deliver more demands from Tyrande? To report to her? To make sure I am completing my penance? Or did you come to gloat?”

The accusations pile up. Jaina lets them. She scans the tangle of strange and unnatural rocks jutting from the charcoal earth of this literal hell. It doesn’t take her long to realize she’s stumbled upon Sylvanas’ camp. Her home here in the Maw, simple, but well lived-in. The undead have no need for food or sleep and suffer minimally from lack of shelter, and while Jaina knows this, she still observes a makeshift bedroll, the embers of a dying fire, clustered close to a lean-to made mostly of chunks of dull grey metal, once the armor of some great beast or terrible construct long since vanished after its master’s defeat.

It has been a year on Azeroth. Jaina knows time stretches in the Shadowlands, but not by a factor of how much. She wonders how long it has been since Sylvanas has seen another person. Two years? A decade? A century?

The woman herself is little better than her camp. Her armor sits beside the fire, mostly shrugged off in rest, and while it looks well-kept, it is still worn. The dark leathers she wears beneath it, and now exclusively, are much the same. At first glance, they do not look so different as when she lay in Oribos after her own defeat, as Uther bade them to wait for her to wake and explain her actions. However, Jaina’s keen eyes find the rips and the tears, the mending that has been executed with scraps of grey cloth and grey metal and grey leather fashioned from the skin of a grey, doubly dead beast. Everything here is grey. Hell is devoid of color, but Sylvanas’ eyes burn into her, bright and blue, demanding an answer.

So she gives it, “None of those are my reason. Your sister, my friend…Vereesa asked me to come.”

Truly, Vereesa’s choices were limited. Only those who had walked the Maw, of their volition or Sylvanas’, could safely find it again. Only fewer of the great mages of Azeroth were capable of entering it without going through Oribos, or asking permission from the entities that ruled there. Jaina, Khadgar, and a few heroic Mawwalkers perhaps were the only ones who could have delivered this letter. And while Jaina had been reluctant, she was not about to offer Khadgar the excuse to use this place as another of his many distractions if Vereesa were to ask him instead.

At least, that was another one of her reasons for accepting.

Only now does the arrow lower, and the bow with it. At the mention of her sister’s name, Sylvanas gives up her fight.

“How can I trust her not to tear me apart, if we’re to be alone there?” Jaina had asked the youngest Windrunner sister, back in her office in Boralus, days ago.

“I suppose you can’t,” had been Vereesa’s answer. “You don’t know her.”

Jaina holds out the letter. It is folded neatly and sealed and she has done her best to resist the temptation to read it or even scry upon it with magic. Such is her trust for Vereesa. Her sister, not so much.

Perhaps this will be the end of it, then. She’ll deliver her letter. She’ll make arrangements for a response. She’ll leave. Sylvanas will go back to gathering souls, living even though she does not live, in this ramshackle camp—this prison of her own making. Jaina will have done something good and satisfied her curiosity. The sabercat will wither in her cage, having gained only further shame from her observation.

Jaina isn’t sure why she expects anything more than that, but she does.

“She wrote you a letter,” she explains. “I’m not able to bring her here like this for her to deliver it herself. Perhaps something can be arranged for her to visit by other means, if you’re interested.”

Sylvanas hesitates. Jaina watches her think.

She watches her closely, waiting for the muscles in her broad shoulders to twitch and aid in pointing her bow upward again. She finds more rends in her leathers, more attempts at mending. She watches, and finds a woman determined, though for what she isn’t certain.

Sylvanas Windrunner as she is now is a stranger to her. Once, her eyes burned red with rage and hatred and it was easy enough to say that Jaina had known her as an enemy. She and her Forsaken whispered, “Death to the living,” though they were of the same people Jaina had once led in Theramore—survivors of Lordaeron, as it were. Scarred in different ways by the same man.

Yet as before, even when Uther, dead and scarred by the same hand, bid Jaina to see reason and work with Sylvanas to defeat the Jailer, she cannot help but to fall into old habits. Magic pulses at her fingertips, waiting. She is ready for Sylvanas to attack her. She is ready to know her as an enemy once again.

This woman burned Teldrassil. She’d resurrected Derek to use against her. She’d blighted her own city in a rage rather than give it to the Alliance, to Jaina specifically, who had turned that battle in their favor.

Jaina is certain that this is still what she is—a burner and blighter, a screaming banshee that knows only hatred—and she’s ready for her.

She is not ready for Sylvanas to put down her bow and the arrow knocked within it, and begin to walk over to meet her.

She’s not ready for the soft muttering that follows, and the wry chuckle that comes with it, “I doubt Tyrande would allow me such a luxury as a visit from my sister.”

This is no banshee, no formless enemy. No, Sylvanas is an elf, still undead and still much unchanged from the last time Jaina saw her, but now walking toward her with purpose. She moves like Alleria, proud and powerful. She smirks a little, the same way as Vereesa does when she thinks no one is looking. Her hair, though dull and ashen in death, is a shade between Alleria’s honey gold and Vereesa’s cool silver.

“You’re so certain she’s changed?” Jaina had asked Vereesa before she’d left. “You were only allowed to speak with her for a few minutes.”

“I know my sister, Jaina,” Vereesa had replied, head tilted upward, smiling. “I know that I have her back, or I will, should she ever be allowed to return home.”

Where is home, Jaina wonders, holding out the letter, to a woman who died for her country, and razed the one she built out of the ashes of a nation everyone else abandoned?

If and when she completes her penance, who will want Sylvanas Windrunner, burner of trees, blighter of cities? Manipulated or not, she did these things. No amount of souls ferried to better places can change that. And while Vereesa claims much, she cannot move the inevitable mountains that will stand in her way if she chooses to defend her sister, to make a home for her in Azeroth again one day.

The dip of Sylvanas’ head upon her graceful neck seems to say to Jaina that she knows this. The way she holds up her hands, bare and long-fingered without any gloves or gauntlets to cover them, tells Jaina she knows what she is to her—an enemy still. A problem unwanted, surely.

But still, Jaina had agreed to come here. She is determined to make sure that the reason for it all was not as simple as gawking at a toothless beast, though Sylvanas doesn’t seem as though she will bite.

She takes the letter from her. She looks to her. She waits.

“I can’t speak for Tyrande, or any authority Oribos and its contingent might have on the matter,” Jaina tells her. “But I can deliver a reply, if you want.”

Now this close to her, Jaina can tell Sylvanas is taller than her sisters. More broad-shouldered like Alleria than slight as Vereesa is, bordering between both of them with the elder’s wildness and Vereesa’s well-manicured elven beauty. She is neither and both, but seems to have maintained some semblance of grooming, despite having no one to look nice for. Her hair is combed and neat. She is clean, with only the barest hint of the grey dust and ash that swirls in the air of this place clinging to her skin.

That grey, at least, is warm in nature, and Sylvanas’ is cold, more toward purple. Their meeting is an interesting contrast of hues.

“Very well,” she answers, one long finger tracing the seal on the letter as she eyes it. “I would offer you tea while you wait, but I have no such thing.”

While she waits. Jaina hadn’t assumed she’d be allowed to, asked to, or really anything but run off with sneers and insults at best, arrows at worst.

She supposes that if she hadn’t seen another person in a year, she too would want them to stay a while, no matter who they were. But has it been longer? The state of Sylvanas’ clothes says yes.

Jaina endeavors to break any falling of awkward silence to seek the answer, “It has been a year or so, on Azeroth, since I returned from the Shadowlands. Has it been the same for you?”

She stiffens, recalling who it was who brought her here the first time, though she saw little of Sylvanas then. Only the Mawsworn that were meant to hold her captive, and keep her from escaping Torghast, though she managed to do so several times. Jaina knows now that her purpose in doing so was just to keep her out of the way—to keep her from interfering with what was to be done with Anduin.

Anduin, another reason for her to come here. Yet she did not find him. The Maw is but one of many possible places the boy could have gone, though he’s hardly a boy anymore. Jaina knows what he did and was made to do weighs heavily on him. She’d thought that maybe he too would seek penance, and wouldn’t care if it was his own to seek, yet there is no sign of him here. This camp is meant only for one.

“There is no day or night here for me to know,” Sylvanas tells her as she slides a sharp-looking fingernail beneath the wax seal and opens the letter. “One could keep track by counting the hours, I suppose, but trust me, it is a dull pastime. It has been a long time. A very long time.”

A long time, Jaina thinks, to wear the same clothes and see no one but lost souls.

A spectral fluttering of wings catches her eye and reminds her that Sylvanas does have one other companion besides the souls she ferries. Dori’thur’s wide eyes catch Jaina’s as she looks up into the canopy formed by this tangle of rock, ironically almost nest-like. The owl spirit makes no motion to acknowledge her, so carefully does she watch her charge instead. Doomed or honored to be her warden, Jaina can’t decide. The owl, it seems, does not care either way. She just watches.

Sylvanas follows her gaze, and a little smile creaks its way into lips that seem to forget how to bend that way. “Don’t mind the owl. It loves to stare.”

“She. Dori’thur,” Jaina corrects.

Sylvanas’ blue eyes are wide for a moment, drinking in the information in a way that shows it is clearly new to her. No one bothered to tell her the name of her warden, really?

“I didn’t know,” Sylvanas confesses. “And here I’ve just been calling you owl this whole time,” she calls up at the spire of twisted stone that Dori’thur perches on.

The spirit cocks her head just slightly at Sylvanas, the first and only acknowledgement she gives.

Jaina stands for a moment, maybe two. She looks around at the humble camp, the spectral owl, the once fearsome undead elf in her ragged leathers, reading her letter with blue eyes that look strange on her.

Sylvanas looks up once Jaina’s gaze comes to rest on her. Her long brows furrow briefly, simmering in the awkwardness, the wrongness of this.

They have never met, despite all the things they both share and do not share, in a way that allowed them the luxury of quiet conversation. And despite the nagging curiosity that dragged her here, the continued insistence by Vereesa that she did not know her, or least as anything but an enemy, Jaina does not know what to say to her.

So instead, she offers, “I can go, and return after a time to allow you your privacy.”

Sylvanas nearly drops the letter. She takes a step toward her. She catches herself and does not take a second. She reaches out a bare and empty hand to Jaina, then drops it to her side immediately upon realizing what she’s done.

“No. No,” she says, trying to make the words come out not as a plea, but anything else. “A while for you is longer for me. I would—I would rather be as prompt as possible, you understand. I have my penance to work on, still more souls to guide. I don’t have time to wait around for you to return here.”

It is a poor excuse, and they both know it. They know it in the silence between the ask Sylvanas isn’t actually asking and the reply Jaina struggles to give. They know it in the way Sylvanas reaches for her, a woman she does not know in any other way but an enemy, and apparent friend to her younger sister and her owl warden, because she and her letter and her excuses for delivering it are the only reason she’s had any contact with something remotely like herself in a long, long time.

Jaina is living and breathing and human and annoyed, but curious. She is not undead and newly made whole of soul again, though she supposes that’s not so new anymore. She knows, though, that she cannot possibly understand what it is Sylvanas is thinking as she reaches for her. But still, she reaches.

Jaina does not leave. “I will wait then.”

Where she will wait is the question, really, and she sees Sylvanas ask it of herself too as she looks back toward her camp. Still, she gestures for Jaina to follow her.

It is a strange time she lives in, Jaina thinks, as she does.

And this is how she ends up seated on a stool of chipped rock, across the dying fire from where Sylvanas sits on her bed roll, reading her letter.

Sylvanas is undead and does not need a bed or a stool or a fire. Her owl warden is a spirit of nature and needs no comforts as well. Yet Sylvanas has made them, and taken the time to make them. She reads and sits cross-legged like a child. Jaina’s eyes pick at her leathers still, finding more wear and tear as she reads, counting the patches and stitches. It irks her. For some reason, of all the things, the state of her clothes bothers Jaina the most.

She’s never seen Sylvanas in anything other than fine armor, meant to intimidate as much as it was to impress. And while she still has fine armor, stacked neatly by the fire in her rest, Jaina can see that too is worn.

“Do you want new things?” Jaina eventually asks. She can’t stand the silence any longer, though from the rustling of the second of four pages, she knows Sylvanas isn’t done reading.

Sylvanas looks up. Her blue eyes dart from Jaina to her armor and herself. To the contrast of warm grey dust and cool grey skin. The mended rips and tears of her leathers match the similar state of her skin. Scars abound as little pale points and lines, streaking across her like stars in the night sky. Just barely visible at the tip of her sternum, beneath the dark leather, a gnarled and twisting point belies the deep scar where Frostmourne rent her and stole her soul, for the first time.

Sylvanas seems disturbed by the question, or perhaps by her own appearance. Maybe both. “I have done the best I could to maintain what I was given.”

“I didn’t mean to criticize,” Jaina tells her immediately, because this is the line she must draw and draw right away, regardless of how many cities this woman may have burned, or under whose influence she burned them. “It’s just—well, with Vereesa’s help, I’m sure, we could get you new things.”

“She has not mentioned this in her letter thus far,” Sylvanas says, holding up the paper as if it were the armor she so desperately seems to want to hide within now.

“She has not seen you,” Jaina tells her.

And I do not know you, she tells herself.

Jaina does not know her, but she knows the scars that form the map of the stars that make up her skin. She knows which is Frostmourne, which is the line under her eye from Saurfang’s ax at the Mak’gora. She knows there’s another from an ice lance she’s thrown, yes there, near her left elbow where there was a gap in her old skull armor.

She can feel that Sylvanas wants to shrink under her gaze, to disappear. But she does not. She sits up a little, chest out, daring Jaina to say something else.

“Then I’ll draft a list in my reply, and trust that you’ll explain the reasoning behind it,” Sylvanas offers in challenge.

“I will.”

Dori’thur, thankfully, chooses this time to swoop down and alight herself onto the top of Sylvanas’ lean-to, rather than leave them to simmer in silence again.

The owl looks between them, then at the paper in Sylvanas’ hands. Sylvanas, having gone back to reading, simply says, “Not for you, owl.”

“Dori’thur,” Jaina reminds.

“Not for you, Dori’thur. What an odd name,” Sylvanas notes, but says nothing else.

“Does she leave you to report to Tyrande?” Jaina wonders, watching both the owl and her charge now.

“That would require her to stop watching me, so no. I do not know how or if Tyrande knows what she sees. Frankly, it matters little to me. I have said that I will do what was asked of me. I do not need a babysitter to ensure that I do,” Sylvanas tells her.

Though Jaina catches something in the middle of her words. A brief dashing of blue eyes. Another little smirk, elven and wry and lopsided in such a way that’s distinctly Windrunner. She wonders who was the first to hold it. Alleria? Their mother or father? Or a Windrunner before them? An elf so ancient Jaina struggles with the numbers.

All she knows is that Sylvanas seems to enjoy the company of her warden, in a way. And that her little secret smile is something Jaina never thought she’d see on that face.

Objectively, dead and haunted and guilty as she is, she’s beautiful still. All the Windrunners are, after all.

Sylvanas is looking up at her again, expecting Jaina to challenge that notion. She’s probably expecting her to question this camp, this fire, these small comforts. The time she takes to mend her ragged clothes. The rest she dares to seek from time to time, though there are no days or nights here in the Maw to track it by.

Jaina clears her throat. “How goes it then, your work?” she asks, and nearly immediately regrets it for how silly that sounds.

How goes it, rounding up the souls you doomed to an eternity of torture? How goes it, making up for decisions that were not entirely yours, but still part and parcel wishes of your own? How goes it, living in the prison of your own failures, alone save for an owl that does nothing but stare at you?

There is a justice in this, yes. Jaina wants to sink into that and never leave. It is easier to feel like this is justice in action she’s seeing. The tedium and wear of it all are things Sylvanas deserves to endure. She deserves worse, depending on who is asking.

But the woman in front of her looks tired. She is as worn as her clothing, body as stiff and rigid as her defensive words.

Jaina will not deny her the comfort a fire and a rest might bring, now and then, though she doesn’t understand why Sylvanas seeks them. Either way, demanding she go without is a cruelty beyond necessity.

“It goes,” Sylvanas answers. “There are still many more for me to find. Torghast alone will take countless more visits to empty. The Beast Warrens are a maze I’ve still yet to properly map and account for, among other such haunts in this hellish place.”

She does not say more. She reads. Jaina watches. Dori’thur too. Sylvanas sneaks a glance at her every now and then, blue eyes flitting fast over the edge of the parchment, then back below it.

Jaina waits, as she said she would.

Sylvanas Windrunner is a stranger to her, but invited her to what home she had here all the same.

“I miss her,” Vereesa had told her, before she left. “I thought the sister I knew was gone, but I know now that she’s still herself, or is now, at least. I had mourned her, Jaina. I had mourned her for years, but now I can say that I miss her. She’s not gone, she’s just not here. And I don’t know when she’ll be back. You can’t blame me for trying.”

Jaina didn’t blame her.

Flipping to page three of Vereesa’s loopy handwriting, Sylvanas says, “I must look a sight to you, for you to say something about the state of my gear.”

Jaina corrects herself. She does not know Sylvanas, but she knew one thing about her, well, about who she once was. She was notoriously vain, and though Vereesa claimed this was exaggerated, she was known to repeatedly tell a story about how Sylvanas had screamed at her once for getting mud on her dress right as she was headed out the door for a Ranger ball, like she thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

And Jaina has just come here to her prison, the first other person she’s seen in gods know how long, handed her a letter, and told she looked a mess.

“It just seems to have been some time, that’s all,” Jaina assures her.

Sylvanas huffs a laugh she hides behind parchment, just like the odd blue of her eyes. Jaina struggles to replace it with the red of her memories.

“If there’s anything else you want, such that I could carry with me through a portal, then ask it,” Jaina offers, perhaps out of guilt.

Perhaps out of curiosity again, for what this woman might ask for. What comforts she might crave.

Sylvanas eyes her at this statement. It seems this is the first time she really takes Jaina in, perhaps to assess her intentions, or perhaps to assess how much she can carry. Jaina isn’t sure. But she knows she now feels like that sabercat in the cage. She wonders if Sylvanas still thinks she has her teeth.

She thinks, perhaps, that she doesn’t want the judgment of a virtually immortal and beautiful elf. Undead though she is, scarred and worn, she thinks Sylvanas might have plenty of criticisms to offer over her messy braid, the prudish nature and drab colors of her Kul Tiran garb, or the crows feat that have begun to claw in earnest at the dull blue of Jaina’s eyes, which only glow when she shows her real teeth.

Instead of worrying about that, Jaina wonders what she might ask for, if she were to spend potential centuries in hell doing penance. Something to pass the time. Playing cards, perhaps? Though Solitaire would get old quickly, and Dori’thur doesn’t look like she’d be much competition at Hearthstone. An instrument to play? Surely those nimble fingers of Sylvanas’ would be clever on a lute or lyre or something elven and haughty and old. Jaina had never learned to play anything with proficiency in all of her thirty-eight years of life, but might come out of such a situation fairly talented at the fiddle or flute. Her brothers would be impressed, surely.

But what would Sylvanas do, to pass the time, in her idle moments? Would she fletch arrows for game that didn’t exist, and flesh she didn’t need to eat, enemies already defeated? Would she sharpen the shortsword Jaina could see resting in its scabbard beside the fire on a whetstone until it was honed and wicked, only to have nothing to plunge it into?

Would Jaina ever be able to consider anything but war-like interests for her, even as she saw Sylvanas considering her from her bedroll, shoulders bare, hair loose, clearly not ready for any sort of battle?

“Paper,” she answers. “Ink and a few quills too, if you’d be so generous.”

Paper was not anywhere close to the answer Jaina thought she’d give.

Sylvanas holds the letter up again as her armor, her shield, her weapon. “Vereesa has asked me to reply, for us to continue to correspond. I wish to write her back.”

“Right, that’s easy enough,” Jaina agrees.

“What was that hesitation? Afraid I’ll draw up plans for world domination upon my eventual return? I’m not interested, truly. Believe me, Proudmoore, it’s not worth it,” Sylvanas assures her.

There is mischief in those secret smiles. A spark in glowing blue eyes that dares Jaina to challenge it, but in the way a child challenges her friend to a foot race. A craving for competition, maybe, in any form, or companionship on the barest of levels.

“Jaina,” she corrects her. “If I am to continue to deliver said letters, as it were, you might as well call me Jaina. And I didn’t think you had your sights set so lofty, but thanks for clarifying.”

Sylvanas nods to this. “So many names have I earned today. Though I’ll still call Dori’thur ‘owl’. Osa is the Thalassian word. It has more punch, right, osa?”

Dori’thur cocks her head just slightly at the term, then slowly blinks her large eyes.

“Very astute, thank you for adding so much to the conversation, as always,” Sylvanas sighs.

Jaina supposes that she too, would talk to a silent owl, if she were left alone for so long. She would probably go insane long before her clothes began to wear out, if it were her.

“Either way, I’ll continue to deliver your letters,” Jaina assures her. “I hadn’t realized this was a more than once sort of favor I’m doing, but I suppose I should have.”

“I’d say Vereesa is lucky to befriend such a powerful mage and be able to make such inane requests of her, but she always did like mages,” Sylvanas notes, going back to reading and flipping to the final page of Vereesa’s letter.

This time, though, the smile stays on her face too long to be a secret. Long enough for Jaina to watch her get lost in a memory, maybe two, and still come out smiling.

Smiling at her sister, a fondness beyond ages and time and dimensions and death—and the reason, perhaps, why Vereesa felt compelled to write to her, and send her friend to check on her.

“Tea,” Sylvanas mutters, eyes still glued to the parchment.

“Padron?”

“Bring tea when you come back,” Sylvanas tells her.

“What kind do you like?” Jaina asks, uncertain. She didn’t think undead drank.

Even if they did, she wouldn’t know the answer. Vereesa likes chamomile, sometimes. She doesn’t really drink tea. Alleria, well, Jaina has never seen Alleria drink anything but alcohol and would be afraid to ask if had any other preferences for more sober sorts of beverages.

“Whatever kind you like. It’s not for me,” Sylvanas says.

“Are you telling me that you’d like me to bring tea for myself when I come back?” Jaina asks, needing desperately for something about this request to be clear to her.

Sylvanas laughs her little laugh. It sounds like it’s been sanded down, worn like the caged sabercat’s teeth, like tattered leathers.

“I suppose I am. I don’t want to be a bad host, but I’m afraid all I have to offer here are rocks and broken war machines and wandering souls. None of these are fit to drink, or to give to company.”

Company. Jaina hadn’t expected to be company to her. She hadn’t expected the hidden smiles and weary laughs and how Sylvanas had tried to cover the desperation in the way she reached out after her. She hadn’t expected to find her nestled in a little camp, forging a mockery of a life that had long been stolen from her and the comforts of living she no longer needed, but clearly still craved.

Jaina isn’t sure. She doesn’t know anymore. She didn’t, even as she first cast the portal spell this morning that would take her to the Maw. She was curious. She still is.

But company, she supposes, is a thing she can try to be.

#sylvaina #sylvanas windrunner #jaina proudmoore #fanfic #count me surprised to be this intrigued by a post-shadowlands premise but ok here we go

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hellishfig · 2 months

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LET 👏 SUVI 👏 HAVE 👏 A 👏 VILLAIN 👏 ARC

do i love suvi? of course i do.

do i think she will ultimately end up doing the right thing? i certainly hope so!

do i think she's gonna get there without some rough patches? absolutely the fuck not. she has a thousand things to unlearn before she can even begin questioning the citadel in any meaningful way.

she's taken the first step! she made an insight check into steel and didn't immediately trust what her mother told her.

but now she's on an airship of the citadel, wearing mage armor so what happened when ame almost cursed her cannot happen again, while she races across a snowy landscape and ominous empire music plays. i would love to listen to aabria roll around in that for a while. she's such a wonderful player and actress, and her portrayal of nuance in a young woman who has been told her entire life that obedience is love and control is important above all else is enthralling.

(also it would be hot to hear suvi be kind of evil. it was definitely hot when she said "bring them to me," last episode. i'm just saying)

#i love fucked up women <3 #also aabria iyengar... the description of suvi at the helm... i'm gay #worlds beyond number #wbn pod #wbn spoilers #the wizard the witch and the wild one #wbn: www #wwwo #wwwo spoilers #suvirin kedberiket #suvi the wizard #the wizard sky #aabria iyengar

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studentinpursuitofclouds · 4 months

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hi mousey!! been a while since I sent you an ask

I was putting on my make up earlier today and an idea came to mind, I need to know your opinion on this

how do you think the sdv + sve bachelors would react to a farmer who asks to do their make up? which ones do you think refuse? which ones ask before the farmer does, "can you do it?"? and which ones just accept?

hope you have a great day <3

Hope you have a good day too, dear anon, and thanks for the ask! ☺️❤️

SDV and SVE bachelors react to the Farmer who asks to do their makeup:

Shane:

"Babe, I don't know anything about this."

Still, Shane tries to try to give them a makeup so they don't get upset.

Unfortunately, it didn't work very well.

But he does get a funny little face made of mascara on Farmer's cheek, heh.

Next time, however, he'll refuse, as he'll only make it worse.

Well, at least Shane and Farmer got a funny little memory.

Elliott:

Surprisingly, Elliott agrees right away.

And what's more surprising is that he manages to help Farmer with the make-up very well.

Everything is precise, neat and harmonious, like wow!

Surely our long-haired writer hasn't been a stylist before?

Elliott is happy to do Farmer's make up and tells them not to hesitate to ask him for help in the future.

Harvey:

"Oh, make-up? I'm sorry, my dear, but I don't think I can..."

Harvey does agree to help, though he doesn't count on success.

Totally calm when applying mascara to Farmer, but accidentally paints their cheek with mascara anyway.

On the third or fourth attempt, the doctor manages to give Farmer a simple and quite passable make-up.

Hey, a reason to be proud, he helped his loved one!

Sam:

Hell yeah, Sammy can do quite good make-up! A little different, though.

The young musician has been thinking about make-up for his music band for a long time, so he's had time to practice.

Even though Farmer needs a light, simple ("and boring" as Sam described it) make-up, he can still help them.

And will do very well with mascara and foundation.

"You sure you don't want cool make-up like metal bands? Eh, okay..."

Sebastian:

Sebastian definitely uses black eyeliner (my headcanon, you can't change my mind).

At times our dear emo was too lazy to do his own eyeliner, so will ask Farmer for help first. "Hon, can you help with the eyes please?"

Doesn't know much about the rest of make-up products, but if you need to emphasise your eyes, Sebby will never refuse a request.

And he'll ask for it himself if Farmer's okay with it as well.

Alex:

What make-up? He's not a girl!

To be honest, Alex has only had a couple of make-ups, which are usually done by gridball fans, and, well, that's basically it.

So if Farmer's going to the stadium, then Alex can help with cool sport fan make-up.

If it's just some regular make-up, then no, sorry. He can't do it.

He could try, but he'd end up with paint all over their face. Oh well, at least he tried.

Victor:

"Makeup? Oh, I've never done it, but my mom does her own makeup every day. Maybe she could help you?"

If Farmer insists on getting help from Victor specifically, he will politely decline.

He'd be interested in the idea, though, and a little later he'd watch tutorials on his laptop or ask Olivia.

The next time Victor offered to help Farmer with their makeup, wanting to practice.

"I thought it sounded interesting. Besides, we'll have one more common interest."

Magnus Rasmodius:

"Only with magic can I fulfil your request."

For Magnus, magic is almost the solution to all problems. He thinks magic will help here, too....

With his hands? Sorry, Farmer. A wizard certainly can't do your make up by hands. Only with a spell.

Well, he still has to remember the spell.....

Hold on, he should ask Camilla, she's definitely using that kind of spell.

Lance:

Another clever mage from the magical society where agree to help Farmer with the help of his magic.

He also watches his appearance and sometimes uses spells, but he doesn't do his own makeup and tries to take care of himself without cosmetics.

How then he knows the spells of instant perfect makeup is a mystery.

A snap of his fingers and in a second, he has perfect makeup on Farmer's face.

Though in the future he may learn a couple of basics on how to do Farmer's makeup without magic. Just because the process itself is kinda interesting.

#thanks for the ask!#sdv #SVE #stardew valley #stardew valley expanded #sdv sam #sdv sebastian #sdv harvey #sdv alex #sdv elliott #sdv shane #sve victor #sve magnus #sdv wizard #sve lance #Sdv headcanons #SVE headcanons

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have-a-treato · 6 months

Text

Credentials

dom!Gale x bratty female sorcerer Tav

Context: Gale and Tav have an argument about magical theory, and things get real tasty.

Content: Smut, lemon, porn without the plot, oral (both), orgasm denial, prostate stimulation, restraint, PIV, inappropriate use of mage hand

“Am I truly so beneath you?” he purred. “Well, you could certainly be beneath me right now,” she purred back. She wasn’t subdued just yet. Gods this vixen. He was pulled back to her by the temptation of her resistance, taking her mouth with his again. He groaned into her mouth, “You wicked, wicked pixie.” He licked into her mouth and bit at her lips, his hand angling her head for him. She managed to break free of the kiss, “Come on, Gale, finish what you started,” she compelled him. He answered her with confidence, “I do not quite believe that I started this, but I will finish it.” He stepped back again and surveyed his capture with keen eyes.

*the POV switches between Gale and Tav randomly so it might be a little confusing. I'm playing around with third person and perspectives

Fic List AO3

There was quiet, only the sounds of their gusting breaths, eyes unwavering from each other, neither willing to make the first move. So they didn’t. They did it together.

Gale and Tav rushed at each other, colliding with startling force and hands and teeth. Gale gripped the back of Tav’s head and took the first kiss, all clashing lips, panting breaths, and dueling tongues. He commanded her with his mouth, bowing over her slightly, and the lightning that shot through her in response was startling. But she loved it. They’ve had their squabbles to be sure, but she’d never riled him quite this much. He was entirely dominant in the moment, and she realized that he was pushing her backward. Her back hit the wall a moment later and a feral grin snuck across her face in between his raging kisses. She must prolong this; it was just too good.

“You’re still wrong,” she insisted on panting breaths.

“It is my specialization. You are quite literally ignoring the fundamentals of the concept.” He scoffed, pulling back from the kiss while his hand further tightened at the back of her head. “Why will you not concede that my knowledge and experience surpass you in this?”

“Guess you’ll have to make me.”

His eyes widened in pure bewilderment, then that fire she’d stoked came roaring back. With frustration ladening his voice he growled, “You are so- so crass, stubborn, arrogant-”

“And better than you.”

He pushed Tav against the wall even harder, and muttered something she couldn’t catch during the distraction. Now, now, she tried to say, but no sound emerged from her mouth. The bastard silenced her!

He smirked as the realization crossed her face, “That’s quite enough of your depraved mouth.”

She returned the grin; He’d remember after this that she didn’t need her mouth. Her hand reached between them and gripped the front of his trousers, feeling the obvious enjoyment he was getting out of this exchange, despite the tone of his words. Her hand squeezed, then stroked his hardness through the fabric. Gale’s eyes flickered and that grin faded, and he lunged forward to take back her mouth in those furious kisses. Perfect, she thought, Gods, he’s so perfect like this.

Gale distantly thought that he was less in control of this interaction than their positions would suggest, but the taste of her flooded his mind and drowned out all thought save for his anger and lust. Her hand stroked him through his trousers and his hips moved unbidden against her palm, seeking more sensation. He must be the victor, he was right, and those smug smiles on her face, UGH. It only sent him into a frenzy when he knew he was absolutely in the right here. Her hand squeezed slightly at his head and a shudder rolled over his back. No, she can’t win, he thought. Stepping back after biting her lower lip, he quickly uttered an incantation that had spectral hands gripping her wrists and ankles. Her hands were raised and pinned to the wall above her head, her ankles gently tugged so her stance widened for him.

Taking a moment to savor this view of her, he flicked his wrist to remove the Silence spell and asked, “Comfortable?”

Tav’s breathing had kicked up, and she was panting unabashedly from the powerful arousal of being restrained by him. They’d never done anything like this together, and she was quickly finding that she really, really, liked it. What else would he do?

She pointedly looked at her hands and feet, “We’re a bit past cordiality, no?”

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” He huffed.

“Maybe I want you to.”

He chuckled under his breath and rolled his eyes, giving a subtle shake of his head as he crossed his arms, “Back to the point: just admit that you’re outclassed.”

“I’m never outclassed, wizard,” Tav smirked. Oh, he was really going to hate this next part. “You’re just jealous that I can feel it in my bones, and you’ve had to study yourself into the ground to get even that far.”

It wasn’t anything Gale had not heard before, so her goading rolled right off his shoulders. But he was beginning to understand this game and how to play along. He lunged for her again, one hand cradling the back of her head and the other diving under her robe and between her thighs, rubbing firmly in circles at first then backing off to feather light brushes of his fingertips against the fabric of her underwear. He felt her tense and then she attempted to chase his fingers with her hips, wanting that firm pressure back. She bit her bottom lip, a teasing visual for him as her teeth sunk into that pillowy softness. He replaced her teeth with his, sucking on her lip and then trailing down her neck with biting kisses. He smiled triumphantly as he heard her first moan in his ears, keeping his mouth on her skin and sliding his fingers underneath her underwear to coast across the hood of her clit, never giving pressure, only the ghost of it.

Her hips bucked against him, and he tutted, “Behave, or I’ll restrain you further.”

She let out a gasping second moan, as if that was exactly what she wanted. Oh yes, he understood perfectly how to play this game now. He removed his hand and deftly unclasped the front of her robe, opening it wide, and unlacing the sheer slip clinging to her curves beneath. He pinned her hips against the wall to still her, then resumed those biting kisses over her shoulders, her collarbone, between her breasts and finally to her breasts themselves. The tip of his tongue circled around each nipple, and he sucked mercilessly on each one, long pulls that gave a popping sound as he pulled back. She yelped loudly but he continued his path south, licking down her ribs. His tongue found her navel and dipped inside, causing her to squirm and writhe the hardest yet, and he gave a dark chuckle. He lowered to his knees, stared up at her with an impish smile, and bunched her slip around her hips. He slowly lowered his mouth to her sex, tonguing her clit through the fabric of her underwear, feeling her muscles tense as she stifled a whine in her throat. Backing off again, he deftly ripped the waistband of the fabric and tore it away from where he wanted his mouth, finally giving her the pressure and friction that she ached for. His wrist flicked and the hands gripping her ankles widened her stance even more, allowing him to delve his tongue into her plush channel. He sucked at her velvety folds, lapped at her clit teasingly, and dipped his tongue back into her. A realization that he loved to tease her tickled the back of his mind, but the forefront was consumed by the way she tasted and how she was crying out freely. Her hips were pitched forward, and her cries became higher and higher, and then he stepped away suddenly.

“Not yet,” He commanded. A soft glow emanated from his fingertips as he spoke a low incantation, pressing those fingers to her sex. They were icy cold and would halt her climax and numb her slightly. “Not until I say.”

A long, low groan burst from Tav’s throat as he stole her impending orgasm from her, ending in a half-heartedly wrathful growl, “You bastard,” she gusted with each breath, “You bastard... bastard...”

The back of her head hit the wall as her strength failed her, now completely at his mercy, or lack thereof. Her legs shook and her head swam with the shock of being so close to tipping over the edge, only to be rudely yanked back. She watched his face under her lashes as he stood and admired the mess of her he’d made, his chin tucked between his thumb and forefinger.

“Am I truly so beneath you?” he purred.

“Well, you could certainly be beneath me right now,” she purred back. She wasn’t subdued just yet.

Gods this vixen. He was pulled back to her by the temptation of her resistance, taking her mouth with his again. He groaned into her mouth, “You wicked, wicked pixie.” He licked into her mouth and bit at her lips, his hand angling her head for him.

She managed to break free of the kiss, “Come on, Gale, finish what you started,” she compelled him.

He answered her with confidence, “I do not quite believe that I started this, but I will finish it.” He stepped back again and surveyed his capture with keen eyes.

“That mouth of yours really is quite vexatious,” triumph in his face as he began shifting the spectral hands to change her position. Her knees bent and she lowered to kneel before him, the hands at her wrists pulling back so that her chest was slightly thrust forward. “Perhaps I’ll give it something to worry over,” he uttered lowly while unlacing his trousers.

Her cheeks ignited with a great anticipatory flush, her mouth flooding with saliva at the sight of him above her and the feeling of her hands behind her back. She watched avidly as his fingers deftly unlaced the front of his trousers, pulling them and his underwear down to his thighs, releasing himself. Dutifully, she opened her mouth for him, waiting patiently. He took her chin in his fingers and set the tip of his cock on her tongue, “Good girl,” he grinned, then slid himself into her mouth. She moaned around him, watching his face as he slid in and out of her mouth, pressing her tongue to the underside of him and flicking gently. A crease between his brows formed slowly as his pleasure increased, but he still moved slowly. She sucked him as he pulled away and flicked with her tongue as he moved forward, and frustratingly wished she could use her hands to encourage his hips. She wanted him to lose his control and use her mouth as mercilessly as he denied her orgasm earlier.

An idea sparked in her mind. He wasn’t the only one who could be merciless, and again, she didn’t need to use her hands, or her mouth. She continued to watch his face, watch that crease in his brow. Her lashes fluttered closed as she concentrated on her magic, grinning inwardly to herself. She felt the well of her power answer to her will, as easily as breathing. Right now, Gale should be feeling a new warm pressure sensation around his prostate. She’d done this for him before, but certainly not with magic. She felt his hips stutter, and she opened her eyes to see that crease in his eyebrows deepened, and his eyes honed to hers with a knowing spark.

“Oh, you...” he started and trailed off, the pleasure taking his words.

His hands flew to her hair and the back of her head, moving earnestly in her mouth now. She opened her throat for him, taking breaths on his retreat, squeezing and sucking around him as he thrust into her throat. Small tears were forced into the corners of her eyes, but she loved every second of it. Seeing him lose composure and chase his pleasure, using her however he wished. She focused on her magic, continuing to stimulate him with her mouth and her mind. His breath gusted out of him above her, and suddenly her hands and feet were free. He’d apparently lost concentration, and she took the opportunity to grip his thighs and pull his hips forward, sucking his cock deep into her throat. He groaned, and she dug her fingernails into his flesh, relishing the feel of him. She moaned around him again and moved a hand to his sac, massaging there as well as inside him. She heard a growl above her and the next she knew, she was gulping air as she was pulled off him by her hair, her back thudding against the floor and his mouth stealing her air again. Her hands grappled for purchase in his shirt, and his hands lifted her hips as he slid home inside her and began slamming into her. She cried out with pleasure and victory, a feral smile on her face as she nipped at his lips and moved her hips to meet his. Their cries were loud and uncaring, and she watched his face as he lost himself, sweat beading on his brow, his chest heaving as he rutted into her. He leaned his forehead against hers and groaned against her lips, “Come. Now.”

The command in his voice was all it took for her, and her climax barreled up her spine, wrenching a scream from her throat. He slammed fully against her and paused, shuddering bodily, a groan to match her scream emanating from his chest, his muscles taut under his skin as his own orgasm stunned him with its force. Their strength fled them all at once, both collapsing. Gale barely had the presence of mind to shift some of his weight onto his elbow to avoid crushing her completely, still resting his forehead against hers.

After a few moments of only the sounds of them catching their breaths, he rolled them to their sides. They gazed at each other with sated, slightly surprised smiles across their cheeks. Tav traced their finger across Gale’s brows, and Gale squeezed her hip gently.

“What were we arguing about?” Tav asked, a little slur in her words.

Gale chuckled, “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

---

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it.

I found clips of angry Gale and was... inspired.

This was supposed to be a fun little drabble to take a break from the other stuff I'm writing but I had a little too much fun with it.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #gale x tav #gale x f!tav #gale romance #gale x reader #gale x you #bg3 gale #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic #baldur's gate 3 fanfic #gale dekarios romance #gale dekarios x tav

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thana-topsy · 9 months

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I’ve lost count of who all has tagged me in a WIP Wednesday post, so THANK YOU all my beautiful tesblr buddies. I was very busy yesterday, and today was hectic as well, so I’m rolling in late.

I’ll double whammy my wips and include some art and some writing. The brainrot continues, and I believe it to be terminal at this stage.

Urag with an undercut. Urag With An Undercut.

And here's a snippet from the fic I'm currently working on featuring these guys again some more:

---

“Thought I might find you up here.”

Enthir took another long drag from his cigarette, his eyes trained on the lights of Winterhold, winking like distant stars across the dark chasm that separated the city from the college. He exhaled, the wind snatching away the smoke as soon as it left his lips. “Were you looking for me?”

Urag leaned against the wall to his right, upwind. “It’d been a few days since I’d last seen you slinking around the grounds.”

“Business in town,” Enthir said by way of explanation. “Been staying at the Hearth.”

He saw Urag study his profile out of the corner of his eye, but Enthir didn’t look at him. “There’s more to it than that.”

Fuck you, old man, Enthir thought. He sighed and put the rolly out on the stone wall before flicking the butt over the side, watching it fall down into the darkness. “Got a visit from an old… friend.” He tongued the inside of his cheek. “Troubling news.”

“It never ends, does it?” Urag said with a sigh.

“Apparently not.” Enthir arched his back, stretching until his sternum popped. “I’ll tell you more. Inside, though. Not gonna freeze my nuts off over all this.”

Urag followed Enthir back to his cramped quarters in the Hall of Attainment. He wasted no time making himself at home in one of the chairs, toeing off his boots and propping his feet up on Enthir’s bed. Enthir paced around the room, organizing some of the bits and bobs he’d left lying around—shuffling papers into stacks, dropping loose jewelry into various boxes.

“I’ve long known the Guild has been going through hard times,” he started to explain. “Thanks to the near-endless business of our colleagues, I don’t have to rely on them as much as I used to. The new Arch-Mage had me nervous for a while there, but I think we’ve reached an understanding.”

“Wickwing is no Savos,” Urag agreed. “But she’d make an enemy of herself if she tried to push you out of the college. She’s smart enough not to mess around with the established order of things, so long as it’s good for the school.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Enthir muttered.

“Did you step away from the Guild when it started going downhill?”

Enthir paused, looking down at the book on the top of the stack in his hands: The Nightingales by Gallus Desidenius. “You know when I stepped away from the Guild. And why.”

Urag grunted, but said nothing else on the matter. “So why’s their business your business all of a sudden? Just wash your hands of them. You’re doing them a favor, the way I see it. A fence this far north?�� He clicked his tongue in lieu of finishing his sentiment.

“That’s where this friend comes in.” He shoved the books one by one onto the shelf over his desk. “Karliah.”

“Karliah.” Urag repeated the name, as if thumbing through the dusty catalogs in his mind for the association attached to it. “Ah, right. Gallus’s woman.”

A needle of pain in Enthir’s chest made him wince. “Yep.”

“Didn’t she–?”

“Nope.”

Urag grunted again. “Well, that certainly shakes things up.”

#wip wednesday #topsy draws #topsy writes #enthir #urag gro shub #enthir/urag #skyrim fanfic #skyrim #elder scrolls #tesblr

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catofblaviken · 1 year

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starter for @maasmuse

This was a trap. Clearly it was. But, at least Hena had the foresight of knowing it was a trap. They sat down on the dingy little bed in a dingy little inn in a dingy little town and opened the letter.

Witcher,

They scoffed, he never bothered to learn their name. Then again, he never offered his in return.

It is time to return to your rightful place at my side, enough with this folly of acting a monster killer. Of course, I am aware that my normal means of summons will not be effective, so I have procured additional insurance to provoke a speedy return.

This was the hook, the plot, the blackmail. Not that it would be hard, the mage knew practically everything about them.

He hasn’t been the most talkative, but I did manage to get some words out.

Do be quick, you are, after all, my favorite.

He didn’t even sign it, not that it was needed. From the parchment dropped a device, small and compact. They picked it up, it was warm and tingly, certainly magical. A xenovox.

There was a crackling before a piercing scream came from the device, causing the witcher to cover it with a hand. That was Aiden. Fuck, that was Aiden.

“ No, I’m not- don’t come looking for me! I’ll survive, don’t worry about me. ” His voice was thin, pained.

The mage only laughed, cutting off Aiden’s plea with a sharp noise followed by another scream from the captured witcher.

“ She will come. Do hurry, witcher, if you want him to live. ”

“ FUCK! ” They swore as the xeonvox shut off. Taking a deep breath, they recentered themself. The second most important rule of walking into a trap is doing the exact opposite of what the trap setter expects. The mage clearly expects them to come running with no plan. And alone. So they would do neither.

Lambert was heading to Brugge, right? He would help. Packing everything back up they headed down to the stables, apologizing to Whiskers for the short rest as they saddled him and set on a brisk pace to Brugge. “ Just hold on, Aiden. If you die I’ll be really angry. ”

#maasmuse #тнιѕ ραтн нαѕ ℓσѕт ιтѕ ναℓυє {cat of blaviken | freed}#maasmuse // 002 #[this got out of hand no need to match length]

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simlit · 2 months

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Chosen of the Sun | | dawn // seventeen

| @keibea | @sani-sims

next / previous / beginning

ÅSE: Am thirsty! Why is wine gone? LUICIEN: Oh! I’ll get you some more, my lady! ÅSE: Ah! Good boy! ELION: mumbling What did I sign up for? ÅSE: Tell me, Little Ferret! You are liking children? ELION: Oh yes. What a joy they are. ÅSE: Oh? Is good! You are also liking house in mountain? Hmm… But I am thinking you are better suited elsewise. You are into monster hunters? (incapable of detecting sarcasm) ELION: You’re speaking of that foul-mouthed vixen from yesterday? ÅSE: Indeed! I will introduce you. You will need my help. She will not be easy to seduce! ELION: Why, do indulge me, my lady. KYRIE: Ah, Eve, might I ask you a favor? EVE: Hm? KYRIE: That elf there. He’s Duke Eldewyn. Comes from a long line of well-to-do aristocrats, but his lust for drink has lost him a bit of favor in recent years. He’d certainly enjoy meeting one of the Chosen. EVE: Why do I get the feeling you have some ulterior motive for asking? KYRIE: Well, I’m looking to arrange a private dinner with the Duke. I think he might be a useful source of… information. EVE: Information? KYRIE: I’ve a keen interest in knowing more about past ceremonies. Talking to someone who not only lived through them, but has a close relationship to the Crown is crucial. But I must be wary not to make my inquiries obvious. EVE: You’re using the Chosen as a ruse to find out what happened? KYRIE: It may be risky to do otherwise. A month ago, I might have said my position grants me some level of protection. But given all that’s happened, I find that to be anything but the truth. Things have gotten particularly… EVE: Dangerous. KYRIE: Mm. EVE: Alright. Let’s go. KYRIE: Duke Eldewyn, how nice to see you. ELDEWYN: Ah! Your Grace, I was thinking of seeking you out myself. But then, you and your Chosen are quite the hot commodity tonight! And indeed, I’d love an introduction! KYRIE: This is Eve, our resident healer. But she’s an all around outstanding mage. EVE: Nice to meet you, my lord. ELDEWYN: Ah, that’s right, this is your second win in the trials, yes? You’re doing very well for yourself! I’d enjoy to hear more of your experience in the games! EVE: Where do I begin?

#ts4 #ts4 screenshots #ts4 story #ts4 bachelor challenge #chosen of the sun #oc: kyrie loren #cc: åse dalgaard #cc: eve ravenclaw-silvermoon #oc: elion maharis #oc: lucien aravae

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hermitmoss · 1 year

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So, I have some thoughts on Viren, Terry, and Claudia. (Naturally, spoilers for Book 4 ahead, as well as discussions of domestic abuse. I’ll also note here in case somebody wants to do some Discourse™ - I hope it’s not necessary, but still, in case - that I am a survivor of abuse, and have been a caregiver for my abuser, a parent.) With that said, let’s dive in (dive off?)!

Terry and Claudia treat Viren in completely opposite ways. Three guesses who treats him the “right way” - that’s right, the one who didn’t have to grow up being taught and emotionally abused by him. In a work explicitly about breaking the cycles of harm, this is very significant. This is a meta about this.

In many ways it’s completely natural (in a terrible way) for an abused child to, when finding herself suddenly more powerful by far than her abuser, to treat the abuser the way that she herself has been treated and seen modeled. Terry obviously hasn’t been raised (badly, dangerously, harmfully) by Viren.

Obviously, Claudia’s dark magic raising gives her a sense of entitlement towards the bodies of others -- they’re used for spell components, after all! Why should she listen if Viren says that he’d prefer palliative care than the slim chance of survival (and certainly a less enjoyable time than “enjoying the time he does have” would be)? He has no say over his own body; she’s a dark mage, she’s in charge here, so what happens to bodies is her domain, not the domain of the people in them.

Terry, again, does not have this. In fact, he models a very different conceptualization of love - a healthy one - when he says (I’ve slightly paraphrased rather than dig through the episode again for the exact dialogue) “I don’t control them. Plants and I have a healthy relationship. I know that they’ll be there for me when I need it.”

Claudia hits Viren. She embraces him, and he weeps. Terry suggests hugging Viren, then, when Viren doesn’t consent to it, Terry verbally states “I respect your boundaries”.

“That went well,” says Terry, when Viren first dismisses him. He seems to mean it. When Viren tells him, essentially, to suck it up about having killed somebody, he puts in a lot of thought, then has a genuine discussion with Viren about why he isn’t going to do that, and what he’s going to do instead. (It reminds me of Amaya’s “two cakes” assertion.) Terry is showing Claudia and Viren both a better way to love than what they have been practicing... and, right now, Viren seems more receptive than Claudia.

Neither Terry nor Claudia seem to notice initially that Viren is struggling with the ascent up the Storm Spire; however, it’s important to note that Terry is following Claudia’s lead. When Viren has a panic attack and loses consciousness, Terry, without being patronizing or critical, grounds and reassures him, telling him what’s going on and affirming that it’s okay. Terry is sitting with him. Claudia... is not. She’s standing ahead, impatient. When they keep going, she continues to lead the way; Terry follows not her, directly, now, but Viren; stays on the other side of him so he’s no longer bringing up the rear, can no longer fall behind unnoticed.

Viren tries to hand the staff that he once used over to Claudia. She uses it for one spell, then.... then who is carrying it? Terry.

Terry offers Viren a hand up. Viren hesitates. (Claudia never gives him an option to say ‘no’ about receiving physical contact.) The last time somebody offered Viren a hand up, and he took it, I think was Sarai, just before her death (her death, one could argue, because she stopped to save him). He takes Terry’s offered hand. I don’t think he wants Terry dead.

It’s also interesting that as much as Terry struggles (as he should, of course!) with taking a life while Viren scoffs that he has never hesitated to do the worst things imaginable to protect his family... Terry says to Claudia that she’s done terrible things, but until now (until it’s about a moonshadow elf rather than Viren’s life) he’s believed they were justified.

Viren also seems genuinely considering of what Terry has to say about feelings, and protecting people, and at the least awkward and at most genuinely sorry for snapping at him the way he did.

Then, of course, there’s The Scene. The coming out scene, where Terry says that he chose the name Terrestrius. Viren says “it’s a strong name.” Strong. It’s his idea of an affirmation.

“I ask you and your brother to reject history as a narrative of strength, and instead have faith that it can be a narrative of love.”

I think Terry’s offering up love as an alternative to strength. Unlike Claudia, he doesn’t expect Viren to be strong. He reaches out his hand to Viren. To assist him when he is, this season, shown to be physically weak. (“There will be stories of armies, battles, and decisive victories. But this isn’t true strength — it’s merely power. I now believe true strength is found in vulnerability. In forgiveness. In love.”)

Viren takes it.

#tdp 4 #tdp spoilers #*#my meta #meta #tdp #terry tdp #lord viren #viren #tdp terry #the dragon prince #abuse //#child abuse //#mage family

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pencilofawesomeness · 10 months

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Except there was no air to burn, and no regular magic to fuel it. Or really, his regular magic couldn’t get out. The whole place felt like another sealstone cuff, and it sucked. He could move his etherious around though, so that was something. Maybe… It was just another form of magic, wasn’t it? Natsu knew what it felt like, so that was the first big step to using it. If he could use that to power his fire instead of ether, which is what it usually wanted. It would be close enough, right? Igneel always said that fire was more about spirit and feeling, more than anything else—the magic was just there as something for the fire to burn. It was worth a shot. It took far more conscious effort than he was used to using, and that alone felt weird. Natsu focused on the etherious and tried to use his fire just as he always did. It was rough. At first, nothing was happening, but as he focused more and more, the etherious started to react. It felt nothing like using regular magic. There was no rush or thrill, like an exerted muscle or a used breath; it was just strings sharply tugging at his gut, connecting him and the magic he was reaching for without taking it in. A ring of red flared around him. The etherious fire was dark red and wispy, just as hot but not as lively. The tugging sensation increased, hindering his ability to breathe, but the fire was there, though slightly outside his control. He wondered if this was what it felt like to use magic weapons, with magic that existed but not within you. He wasn’t the biggest fan, but his respect for Erza certainly grew if this was what she put up with all of the time.

—Demon Tales, Chapter 14

It's Natsu Day!!!

So I decided to throw together Natsu saying no to regular physics to celebrate. Just casually burning through spatial magic. No big deal. Just our favorite absolutely-cracked etherious dragon slayer Fairy Tail mage doing his thing.

#fairy tail #natsu day #natsu dragneel #htryds #demon tales #end natsu #etherious natsu dragneel #love that natsu can say no to physics sometimes #perks of being an undead magic creature #even if he's still just a dude #a dude who really really wanted to punch alistair and rip him a new one #as he should #almost threw in the horns but he's not quite full form #dude is tired lol

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pyropsychiccollector · 4 months

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Zeref: So basically, Natsu never grew up... *very nonchalant as he sits at the bar in the guildhall*

Erza: (✿◠‿◠)*** *as tables and people are flying all around them* I'm so sorry this had to be your first Fairy Tail experience... *CRASH!* (✿◠‿◠)********* So very, very sorry... *barely restraining herself from Brawl Defusal at this point*

Zeref: *chuckles* My first experience...? You do realize I taught your guild's founders?

Erza: Y-Yes, well...!

Zeref: Not to mention, you were the ones to raze my empire. Alvarez has never been in such shambles. It's all in Invel and Ajeel's hands over there. Dimaria's retired... Brandish moved to Ishgar, apparently?

Erza: ......... *CRASH!* *SHATTER!* *SCREAMS OF "Uncle!"* (✿◠‿◠)*** You do realize you were literally asking for that ass-whooping...?

Zeref: *watches a barstool narrowly miss his nose as it flies past* Oh, I won't dispute that point. However, I'm pointing out the flaw of your apology.

Erza: Yes, well... *sees telltale lightning charging up in the atmosphere... too much to be from one mage alone* (✿◠‿◠)*** We weren't expecting you and our First Master to be sticking around, reincarnated. So technically, this IS your first experience... You're not an enemy anymore.

Zeref: Mmm... I suppose not. *watches Erza nearly bolts out of her seat once Natsu is blasted through a new hole in the ceiling* ≖‿≖ But truly... You need not apologize. You act as if this is my first rodeo with Natsu.

Erza: You knew him as a babe!!! ... And a little kid. (╬≖_≖)

Zeref: *gestures at the steady stream of lightning-flames spewing through the hole in the ceiling and nailing Laxus down below* And my original point that I labored toward...?

Erza: ......... (╬≖_≖)(╬≖_≖)(╬≖_≖) He's not... ALWAYS this bad.

Zeref: n__n *Gajeel and Natsu bash into each other midair, Dragon Force activated* He could be sweet, it's true. Well, I'm speaking of the boy who died... I assume that kind nature passed onto the Etherious Natsu, but I can't say I've had the distinct pleasure of confirming that...

Erza: ... You're exaggerating.

Zeref: He absolutely refused to listen to a word I said. It took Igneel to get him to learn reading and writing.

Erza: (╬≖_≖) I beg your pardon, but *I* taught him reading.

Zeref: And as Irene's offspring, that makes sense. :3

Erza: (╬ಠ益ಠ)I am not-

Zeref: ≖‿≖ I have several ways to confirm your lineage, Erza. It's useless burying your head in the sand.

Erza: (╬≖_≖) ... Regardless, I fail too see how my lineage has anything to do with me teaching Natsu valuable life skills.

Zeref: (❋•‿•❋) Simple. Natsu won't bring himself to heel without overwhelming force to make him respect you. Igneel knew your pains long before you ever did, but you're to be commended for guiding him down the right path.

Erza: And you couldn't "overwhelm" him on your own...? You HAD to dump him on a dragon? (╬≖_≖)

Zeref: Unfortunately, with the Curse afflicting me, the options were "love him to death" or take a compassionate Fire Dragon King up on his offer to teach Natsu. (❋•‿•❋) It fulfilled several objectives anyway.

Erza: *whole guild is shaking from everyone going all-out on each other by now* *huffs* (╬≖_≖) I just... There must be SOME way to calm him down. Surely we can't let him remain this way forever? *mostly irate about property damage and broken bones from these brawls*

Zeref: ... Well, I COULD suggest a possible stratagem. *nonchalantly sips tea*

Erza: (☉_ ☉) ......... *bolts up to her feet and Requips Purgatory Armor, brandishing a sword towards Zeref* You KNOW a way to tame his reckless tendencies?! (╯°□°）╯

Zeref: ... From a certain point of view. (❋•‿•❋) Lord knows I must do the same with Mavis whenever she gets... mischievous. Yearning for new adventures. (❋•‿•❋)

Erza: Zeref, I will not ask you again. (╬≖‿≖) What is this "stratagem"? I must know this. This could change EVERYTHING!

Zeref: Well, I certainly hope it would... Because you'll need to get...intimate with him. VERY intimate. ≖‿≖

Erza: ... Now when you say "intimate"... You mean head pets and hugs? (☉_ ☉)

Zeref: He's not a little boy anymore, Erza. ≖‿≖ You'll need to consult your "books" for those kinds of tips, I'm afraid.

Erza: Why would you even SUGGEST such debauchery?!?!?! (⊙▂⊙✖ ) Are you suggesting you and our First Master have been...?!

Zeref: Oh, we crossed that bridge over a hundred years ago, Erza. I'm told that's how August was born. ... And how his very belated siblings are on the way, as we speak.

Erza: *scandalized* (⊙▂⊙✖ ) Sh-SHAMELESS!!!!! Y-You have to be joking!!!

Zeref: *shrugs* Believe what you will. ... Just know that I'm a little sore at the moment, so I can't reel Mavis in. Apologies.

Erza: What are you...?! *whips her head around, seeing Mavis whip up a war strategy board* Who the hell is First Master going to war with?!

Zeref: No one. She's just making the brawl more strategically organized. (❋•‿•❋) ... If chaos can even be "organized". (❋•‿•❋)

Erza: *drops sword and hurries over to Mavis, waving arms frantically* F-First Master, please, no...! (⊙▂⊙✖ ) The guild is already in the red...!

Mavis: (๑╹ω╹๑ ) *tuning Erza out effortlessly* Zeref's going to need to punish me BAD for all the strategies I've got in mind for you guys...

Erza: ...

Zeref: Still sore, Erza. So. Good luck~ (❋•‿•❋)

#Fairy Tail #zeref dragneel #erza scarlet #Natsu Dragneel #Mavis Vermillion #Natza #Zervis

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sailorblossoms · 8 months

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Some stray thoughts about sex ed and expectations with Simon and Baz...

About memory...

I have seen the idea of the UTI comment implying he must’ve had sex multiple times (I could see a second time to see if the first time was bad simply because it was a first time, a third time is already pushing it) (I have many thoughts about this) but I don't see how it says anything about quantity necessarily. First of all, I think about that hospital scene, cold and clinical and unnerving, with an Agatha who feels strange and implying she used to feel "responsibility" as if it was a duty; a scared Simon trying to force himself to go through with something he doesn't actually want to do before he loses his nerve. It would make sense for their approach to be just like that – it could be said it's implied by association, even.

And if we're going by association, a simple "I need to get away to pee because I don't want to get a UTI" once is more than enough to get fixated in Simon's mind. He absolutely doesn't need to hear that shit more than once. Especially if it's said as a "you better not be here when I come back" as opposed to an "I'll be right back." It likely met no resistance. Picture it: a teenage boy molding his worldview not with what he truly wants, but with what he thinks he should want, absorbing heteronormative expectations of sex, likely aware that every love scene ever cuts to the couple cuddling and kissing and whatever afterward.... there's a lot to feel nervous about, a lot of stress and pressure, and then he has it.... and he can't even feel pleasure. The person who's supposed to be desirable sparks no desire (arousal non-concordance: everyone can get hard or wet regardless of whether or not they're into it simply because there's touch. Combination of stress, pressure, lack of attraction, etc could result in a guy to not be able to orgasm. Add Simon's crazy magic repressing him...). Then perhaps the person who's supposed to want him and be in love with him it's practically running to get away from him. Health reasons are very good and reasonable and could help brush the negative experience aside in the moment, but feelings are not reasonable, and for Simon, who has abandonment issues and issues with rejection... that would likely stand out (even if he feels relieved) (all of this if we assume Baz trying to leave/run away sparked a memory or an association like this, hence the UTI comment then) (there are implications of Simon feeling something is wrong when Baz tries to leave here, and so he tries to keep him with him because that's where he wants him) (hell, part of him likely wanted Agatha to leave, and wouldn't that fuck him up).

Simon can remember things the mage told him once fucking years ago. He pushes truly difficult and painful things, things he can’t deal with, out of his head (Simon’s “I have only ever been kissed on the lips” makes perfect sense given the way his head works, and given the fact that he’s just discovering what type of touch he can even tolerate in awtwb, plus only having food to measure pleasure.) But even if Simon can't remember the specifics (because he doesn't want to) there are certain things that could be just waiting for a trigger to come up.

About experience...

The other thing that stands out is how that line has given the impression that Simon is perhaps more knowledgeable than he actually is. When he stops Baz from leaving their bed, I fucking doubt he's considering shit like whether or not is harder for Baz to get a UTI because he has a penis - Baz can't get it simply because he's a vampire who can't get fucking anything (but can certainly get fucked). They have talked about this, specifically. Simon knows he never gets sick or cold (except for the time with the numpties). I'm certain this is what he means by "it's not like you can get a UTI (therefore you can't use that as an excuse to get away from me, so stay with me)"

Someone pointed out to me once how Simon remembers dr Wellbelove giving him the talk "but forgetting the truly important things" or something. He's a doctor: the talk was likely approached entirely as a health and safety matter. "Here's how to avoid pregnancy and diseases," or something. It was likely heteronormative PIV-focused. How long or detailed it would have been is debatable, given that Simon makes it a point to say they're not close. Simon is unlikely to want to ask him much or to crack open the books or whatever as a follow-up. The fact that he mentions a UTI doesn't mean he's a damn sex expert, or that he even knows all that much. Fumbling through comphet sex teaches him something, and it's not how sex should look like, but likely how it shouldn't. (Simon's "did anything happen that you didn't want to happen?" is SO telling) (Simon breaking down the second he feels even a little bit pressured, even though Baz would never pressure him, among other things, could in hindsight be a consequence of Simon having pressured himself to go through with it before, being unable to do that again because of the negative effect that had on him, and absolutely not wanting it to feel like that with Baz.)

Just like how Simon never thought about his sexuality, it's likely he never thought about sex as anything other than an item on the checklist of things he's supposed to do. He struggles to understand it, and he doesn’t know what sex he wants even looks like. He only knows he wants it with Baz, because Baz awakens a hunger, he awakens desire...

When we’re in Baz’s head, he thinks “his hands are everywhere” more than once, as opposed to a specific thing Simon is doing. Simon is practically attacking him with no thought or coordination behind it. It's like Simon doesn't know what he's actually doing but simultaneously wants to do it all with Baz... But what is "all"? Even his “I want to cum on him” – a line that says a million things – it’s not super specific: yes, he wants to cum, and not just in general, but specifically on Baz’s person. Alright. How? I mean, he has no plan as to how he’s going to cum. He's not even trying to get anyone's pants off. Baz compares this to Simon "going off" – I have a very strong case for "Simon likely only knows going off as a release, that time with Baz is likely his first true orgasm," and that too would be an overwhelming thing resulting in him getting lost.

There was not much of a thought-out plan for that back then either, other than getting him worked up enough for him to go off... and that's how he approaches trying to have sex with Baz too. It’s not like he has specific thoughts of specific sex acts he wants to try. He wants to have sex with Baz, but he doesn’t know how. He wants to cum on Baz, but he doesn’t know how to get there. I think this lack of knowledge, this inexperience, could also contribute to him getting overwhelmed and lost. Simon is all feeling with no thought or coordination. He’s basically just jumping Baz and dry-humping him like (not to be crass but) an animal in heat. It's all instinct. When he says "I actually want to do this (as opposed to his other experience, when he didn't) whatever it is that works between us" I think he's saying "whatever I can have with Baz, I want it" but more specifically, I think that's also encapsulating "I've only ever been taught to want heteronormative PIV as the end goal, so I don't know how sex between men should work, or how the sex I want and would enjoy looks like, but I know I want to figure that out with Baz."

Baz, on the other hand, goes “I don’t know anything about being with boys or girls” and it makes perfect sense, because in his house no one would fucking talk to him about this shit, especially not when it would relate to something as “charged” as his sexuality… and Baz would not be researching about things he has no plan on doing. This is someone who has not even kissed, importantly, because he has never wanted to (if it wasn't Simon) and also because he doesn't feel connected to the living. He feels like an outsider, like an observer. His feelings for Simon challenge this. He dreads marrying a girl and having kids with her – a fate he links to being "finished-off" (he has this funny little contradiction where he thinks he's already dead but can still be killed, except is not funny at all and it grimly makes sense too.)

Baz thinks about strange men (who look like Simon) to escape to, but that doesn't mean he will actually go through with it. I think it mostly says that Baz doesn't feel he has it in him to fall in love with someone else. (It also says that Baz is very dramatic, but we all know that.) However... even if Baz has no one to talk to, he has masturbated. He has experience there. Masturbation is a very good way to get to know yourself, sexually. To figure out the ways in which you like to be touched (Simon notably doesn't figure this out until awtwb, which means... no way he was fully mentally present when he had sex before. That boy is "fight or fly" and he likely ran the fuck away in his head at one point or another. When he's like "I'm not sure I even had any feelings" I think that could be quite literal.)

When Baz and Simon have clothed sex (Simon calls it "kinda sorta sex" which could be him on his way to redefine sex outside of the confines of heteronormativity that shaped it before) Baz is the one leading. He's the one guiding and grounding Simon. He's the one moving, while Simon follows his lead. Baz might not know how sex between them should look like (and has insecurities about it) but he has experience doing something about his desire, something with some thought or coordination or aims behind it. When they have sex again, Simon asks to touch him... this is after Simon discover sex is good for him when he's making pleasing Baz his mission/goal, as opposed to "looking for something for himself" – "I want something, I don't know what I should take" he thinks when he's feeling desire. He doesn't know what to do or where to go, until "to keep him well and happy" and "figuring out what he likes" turns into his mission. It's likely that Baz would guide Simon, not just by verbally grounding him, but by sharing the things he has discovered through years of... well. Self-discovery. So lovingly referred to as "furious wanking."

#simon snow #snowbaz #baz pitch #simon snow trilogy #baz x simon #baz grimm pitch #awtwb #carry on #wayward son

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