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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months

Text

Dirty Work 5

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Let's see if I make it through Monday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

At Corissa’s insistence, and against your own reticence, you have a taste of nearly every course. The fiery red head gabs animatedly in her work, to her assistants and the servers, and even to you. You feel something very peculiar; you feel included.

That pleasant sensation is as fleeting as the night. The servers bring in the dishes, many untouched, and you clean them attentively, keeping the counters clear of clutter. Corissa mutters about the waste and has the leftovers scraped into containers, promising them to her hardworking staff. She even offers you one but you refuse, you’ve indulged enough. You suspect Mr. Laufeyson would be less than pleased to see you walking out with a to-go box.

You are not requested again to tend to the diners. Voices carry from down the hall and the front door opens and shuts between farewells. Amid the hue, you do not hear Mr. Laufeyson though you try not to listen intently.

Corissa and her staff depart with their work done and you’re left to clean up. It’s near midnight. You’re surprised at how long the gathering lasted and yet, you wouldn’t know what to expect. You’d never attended anything like that. You didn’t even go to your own high school graduation.

There’s a scuff and a shadow darken’s the edge of your vision. You lift your head to find Mr. Laufeyson crossing the threshold, his polished shoes clicking on the tile. You dip your head in acknowledgement and return to stacking the dishes neatly inside the cupboards.

“Do not forget the dining room. My guests proved to be animals,” he scoffs, “though, what use would you be if they didn’t leave you some work?”

You nod again. You close the cupboard door and move to the stemmed crystal. You open the glass cabinet that holds the various liquor vessels. You set each in tidy lines, following the pattern.

You wait for him to leave but he remains. Is he watching you or are you just paranoid? You clasp the door shut and face him, though you’re not intent on him. The dining room. You hope you might finish it quickly. You glance at the clock again.

“Do you recall what I told you at the beginning of the night?” He asks brusquely.

You gulp and part your lips, your words trapped in your chest.

“Speak,” he demands with a flippant flick of his fingers.

“Yes, I do, Mr. Laufeyson–”

“Not a look, not a word,” he retorts.

“Mr. Laufeyson, I didn’t–”

“The blond man. I saw your eyes stray,” he insists, “the worst thing you can ever do is lie to me.”

“I… I apologise, it wasn’t– I didn’t mean to–”

“Ah, enough,” he dismisses your protests, “this isn’t an argument. I am merely reminding you of the rules. I do hate to repeat myself.”

You seal your lips and put your chin down in deference. You made a mistake. You’re wrong, he’s right.

“Now you know. I expect it not to happen again,” he rebukes.

His sole squeaks on the floor as he spins and struts out. You look around, time to move on to the dining room. You tiptoe out and find the hallway empty. You creep down to the dining room and find it similarly abandoned.

You enter and begin your work. You wipe down the table and tidy little bits of food and forgotten napkins. You push in the chairs and remove a broken stem from one of the vases at the centre line of the table.

The clock ticks and heightens your impatience. You have to hurry if you’re going to catch the bus. If you don’t… you don’t know if you can budget a cab.

“There is another thing,” Mr. Laufeyson gives you a start as he appears through the archway, “something forgotten…”

You look at him with confusion stitched into your forehead. He reaches into his jacket and slips out a pinkish slip of paper. It’s folded into quarters with a curl in one corner. You recognise it immediately.

“I assume you didn’t mean to leave it on the floor,” he sneers as he comes closer, holding it between his index and middle fingers, “I almost tossed it but I did peruse it in case… Well, I don’t mean to pry…”

You take it and nearly thank him aloud. You look at the folded invoice and a cringe pinches your cheeks. You didn’t even realise you’d dropped it. You would prefer to forget about it but that would hardly void the debt.

“You look well,” he muses. You flinch; what does he mean? “I did note it was for the same date you were absent however.”

You tuck the invoice into your pocket and fix another chair. He lurks close as you try not to falter. He puts his hand on the next chair to stop you.

“You may speak. Humour my intrigue. You don’t appear very sick.”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. It feels as if he’s making some joke you don’t understand. Your lips strain and you stare at his tie.

“My father had an emergency, Mr. Laufeyson. That is all. He is better now.”

“Ah, a loyal daughter,” he remarks, “it is almost endearing.”

You stand in a stalemate. Your eyes drift over to the clock and back to his slender tie. You’re almost done and you’ll have just enough time to get to the stop.

“I suppose you are eager,” he steps in between you and the clock, “to get home to your sick father.”

You clutch the cloth tight and scrunch your lips. Your stomach does somersaults. You want to beg him to let you finish so you can go home. So you’re not stranded but you already made yourself pathetic enough.

“I am not a man without empathy, I would not keep you long. However, I do wish to have a proper conversation,” he declares.

You nod and wring the cloth. You dare to peek at his face and find his attention on your hands. You still them and drop your eyes again. Is he going to fire you? Rather, tell the agency of your misdeeds?

“I would assume you rely on transit. I am in a rather bright mood after my little soiree so I feel of a mind to offer a favour. One which would allow us to converse,” he rolls the button of his jacket between his thumb and index, “I would drive you home and you would listen, yes?”

You nod and he shows his palm.

“Say it.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson. That is very kind.”

“Isn’t it?” He preens and swirls away again, “ten minutes should be sufficient for you to wrap up. I will be at the door.”

“Yes. Mr. Laufeyson.”

“Wonderful,” he strolls out, his unusual glee putting you on guard.

🧹

As promised, Mr. Laufeyson is waiting at the front door. You only realise after checking the back door. You don’t feel good about accepting an unearned favour but the last bus is well and gone.

He opens the door as he sees you enter the foyer. To your surprise, he holds it for you to pass through first. You suppose it's a habit. He is fond of etiquette.

He follows and directs you to a sleek black car in the drive. You wait patiently at the passenger door as he unlocks it and lowers himself into the driver’s seat. It’s only then that you get in, gently closing the door. You put your kit between your feet and click your seat belt into place.

He turns the ignition and the engine hums quietly. It runs so smoothly, you barely feel it. He backs up before steering around the arch of driveway and towards the gate. He reaches to hit a button on the small fob dangling by the rear view and the wider gates split for him to pass through.

You wait for him to begin. He must be basking in your anticipation. Less than eager for what comes next, it's more a needling anxiety.

“So, let us get down to it,” he begins, one hand on the wheel. The roads are near desolate in the late hour. “I’ve a proposition for you.”

You wait and listen. You assume that’s the deal still. He chuckles and carries on.

“An arrangement convenient for both of us. You see,” he pauses, exhaling as he measures his words, “I am not fond of the agency. I’ve not been for some time, neither have I had the time to search for an alternative.

“Details are irrelevant. My ex-wife enlisted them for a maid. Just as she employed the gardener and the cook. She might be gone but her handiwork remains, though a very big void as well,” he turns down the next street as you twiddle your fingers, “that is too say, she managed the house and without her, I find myself lacking. I’ve not even the chance to acquire a house manager, but now…”

He lets his suggestion dangle but you’re not quite sure you understand. You hate to presume. Hate to think more of yourself than you should.

“What I’m proposing is that you step into her shoes. In the manner of taking on that management. The gardener, the cook, general maintenance and the like,” he explains, “but of course, you would also keep to your existing tasks, keep the house orderly in all ways.”

You still your hands and stare at your lap. You don’t really believe it. He thinks you capable of all that? Based on what? Some mopping?

“You are rather adept at following orders,” he says, “and you are in need of money, yes?”

You hunch down in shame.

“I will pay more than the agency for I would not take a cut as they do. You will be compensated appropriately for your efforts,” he assures, “as they would lessen mine.”

You look over the dash and at the road ahead. Your father will be home soon, he might need more help, and yet, you most certainly need money. You still have over a month left on probation and even after, you’re not guaranteed full-time hours.

“There would be a starting bonus,” he intones, filling the silence, “fifteen hundred. As an incentive.”

Your eyes burn. That’s what the invoice reads in red. He’s taunting you now. He knows that you need it badly.

“This offer stands until you leave this car,” he says firmly, “so you may think about it.”

You blanch and keep your eyes forward. You can think all you want but that won’t change anything. There is no other answer. Even if it makes you nervous, even if you find that house stifling, and him terrifying. None of it matters. You need that money as much as your father needs you.

“I accept, Mr. Laufeyson,” you murmur. “I will do my best.”

He hums, a triumphant note, “I expect nothing less.”

🧹

You’re greeted by an empty house. It was too late to even think of going to the hospital. You wouldn’t want to wake your father during his recovery, and besides, his dejection sticks in your head. He told you not to come back.

You go to bed but don’t sleep very much. It’s hard in the lonely house. You want to tell your father that you got a new job. That you’re going to be able to pay for his hospital bills and that you’ll make things better. You will, when he gets home.

What has you just as wakeless is Mr. Laufeyson. He said you could start tomorrow. You’re nervous about that. Your only experience is the last month and a half of cleaning. He might expect more than you can do. Worse, you might not be able to meet those expectations.

You toss and turn, sleeping a few hours just before your alarm. You have your tea and get dressed. You bring your kit, just in case, and head out to catch the bus. You don’t like being in the house alone so you’re all too happy to get out.

You walk the block and a half from the bus stop. You realise as you come to the iron gate that you don’t have the new code. You stand cluelessly, locked out and listless. You notice the small button by the metal speakerbox. Does it work?

You tap the bell and wait. Nothing. You even lean in to listen to the speaker. It’s entirely dead. You try again. Still, nothing.

You lean in and peer through the bars, like a prisoner. The front door opens and Mr. Laufeyson appears, a harried pace with a hint of agitation. He comes to the other side and looks out at you. His eyes scan you from head to toe. He opens the gate from within.

“In, in,” he demands curtly, “are you not supposed to make my life easier?”

You step in and he swings the door shut harshly. He huffs and swiftly outpaces you back towards the door. You hesitate. You never go in that way.

“Do not waste my time,” he orders without looking back.

You jog to catch up with him. You hop up the steps behind his lithe gait and trail him inside. He stops and points to the mat. You leave your shoes on it even as he keeps his own on.

“I’ve a list made up. That is sufficient, yes?”

You nod and he sighs. He’s already moving as you slipping in an effort to keep up.

“Speak,” he drawls.

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

“Very good,” he praises, a lilt of condescension dripping from his lips. “I trust you sent your resignation in. I would be happy to cut ties from that cursed agency at the soonest opportunity.”

You bite your lip. You didn’t even think of that. Your silence is telling.

“Add it to the list,” he says derisively.

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #maid au #marvel #mcu #thor #avengers

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secretgamergirl · 5 months

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It is absolutely ridiculous that I have no way to contact people I care about in 2023.

So I got up today, and saw a big announcement about a certain particularly large company in the games industry did an absolutely massive round of layoffs despite an amazingly good year. You know, as they do. As it so happens, this is a company that, last I checked, employs several people I consider to be pretty good friends, and I feel compelled to toss them a quick message asking if that affected them, ask if poke around on their behalf for freelance work or slap a project of my own real quick they can collaborate on, or whatever.

And it's suddenly sinking in to me that I can't actually do that.

Tabletop game work is writing work, and that means 90% of the networking for most of the past decade or so happened over Twitter. Someone announces they're working on a thing, you message them, e-mails get traded to formally send stuff around. I was on there until I wasn't, so normally, that'd be where I'd be doing my checking in. But that of course is off the table. And like, I don't even have read-access to the site to check if anyone's announcing anything there.

Well, we've traded e-mails, right? We absolutely have. Back when everyone I'm worried about was at this other company, which let this same pile of people I care about and then some go several years ago now. So... those e-mails are no longer valid.

Well, what else is there? Oh right, the one friend has a discord server. It's been super dead for years now since he stopped doing the big weekly social thing it was there for, but it's still - oh, no. It's actually closed out. Same with the one for this freelance artist in that same general orbit... and oh Discord redid usernames and forced everyone to pick new ones. Damn.

Well, there's tumblr here, maybe? Like, there isn't really practically any direct messaging on here but... no, no wait, none of them have posted anything on here since bad policies drove a bunch of people out years back.

There's Facebook? But no, I don't have an account, they're all real legal name focused, and for personal security reasons, I never actually use my legal name anywhere even if I could make one (see, they also insist my name "sounds fake" over at Facebook). Well surely I can just find people's personal websites and send an e-mail but... no, people just don't have personal e-mails anymore, and spam got so bad decades ago now that I can't remember the last time I saw ANYONE post a personal e-mail address anywhere visible. Used to be phonebooks, but I don't think they really adapted to everyone just having a cellphone, and even if they did, they're a local thing.

So yeah. I've got nothing here. Uh... on the off chance anyone's reading this who I'm concerned about, hey, I hope you're OK? I'm still at least periodically checking the e-mails you last used to send things to me? Feel free to reach out and let me know how things are going?

But yeah this just sucks.

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 1 month

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Wibta if I told my friend, upfront, I do not want his toxic partners in my campaign party without specifying why?

Everyone in this is 22+

So I (22NB) have been working on a campaign for at least 3 years now. I used dnd as a base and built off it to make my own world, races, mechanics, massive maps, religions, languages etc. This will be a massive campaign with highlights on religion and dealing with gods as a mortal etc and I've put so many hours into it it isn't even funny. I mean shit, I picked music for different areas depending on if it's day or night.

I made a discord server to house most of the basic info my players would need from table rules to the races and beyond. I mainly had the idea that the party would consist of my dmnpc guide (he doesn't fight or break the game, his only action during fighting is the help action and guide the party. Im not an asshole dm who makes my guide the protagonist. If its important, death doesn't really exist in my campaign due to demi-god race stuff, the party just gets sent back to its last save point with my grumpy man guide saying I told you so.), my partner's character (24f)(she dosent get preferential treatment. We've been together for 8 yrs) and my best bud's character (22tm. Been friends for 8 yrs). I never said I specifically only wanted my partner and friend to be party members but it was implied due to the fact I never invited my friends partners to the discord. I just don't really have many friends and this is the first time I've ever dm-ed period, let alone dming my own homebrew. We're all pretty novice newbie players and I think it'll be fun for us to stumble through the game together in a much less complicated form of DND without seasoned players "um actually-"ing us the whole time.

My partner is excited to try and my friend is ecstatic and about 2 years into development (last November) he asked if I could let his partners join the campaign. There're a few issues with this beyond me not really knowing them and not wanting to run a large party (it's hard for seasoned dms to run a 4+ party, let alone I, a fresh infant of a dm). My friend has 3 partners of his (he has 4 total) he wants to introduce to my campaign, this includes (fake names): Mel(24nb), Sandy (mid 20s f) and Rue (23 tw). I have issues with each individual present and it all stems from me sitting in on a different campaign for a single session. See, my friend has his own campaign (much smaller, follows one story in one town on an island instead of my entire continent) and he tried to run it by those three partners (and 2 friends. Names and genders unnecessary, they were our age) while I quietly sat in the session (it was over a discord call, were all in differnet states except for me and my partner) and watched it run just to see how my friend dmed and how the groups chemistry was. They had a 3 hour session.

It was the most socially awkward, intense and passive aggressive 3 hours of my life. Mel barely paid attention and as a result, had to have things explained to them when they weren't listening. They would then would talk over the person explaining things, pick apart their language and get irritated to the point of telling them (mostly rue) to shut up. Mel was quite litterally looking for a fight constantly. Sandy was relatively quiet but also not paying attention and talking over other players actions. She also would come up with random "icks " and one minute was telling everyone to keep all sexual jokes and comments to themselves because it made her uncomfortable then the next said her character was literally blowing a guy in the back of tavern.(btw this is not a fetish campaign or anything, it was out of left field for everyone and my friend shut it down because of that) Rue was the "uhm actually" type who pointed out inaccuracies, broken rules and lack of realism (it's a pirate fantasy magic campaign. There isn't much to focus on realism). Rue was clearly the most seasoned player but the nicest all things considered. She was mostly just condescending and treated my friend like he was stupid for not having every single detail mapped out. The party also had 2 of his friends but they were just as quiet as me and also either not paying attention or listening to the shit show. The session litterally ended with Sandy and Mel having the tiniest argument, mel pulling a crying running away anime protagonist "I'm sorry for being just a fucking terrible person! Ill leave so you all can have fun!!" Then hanging up all dramatically. Safe to say, their party was literally every red flag I was warned about by dm guide content.

My friend then came to me and said they broke up with Sandy that night but were still friends and I was still in shock from the sheer toxicity. Did I mention I had only met Sandy and the two other friends that night? And had only spoken over the phone to Mel once in a group call and met rue in person 2 times? Safe to say, I do not want litterally any of his partners in my party for various reasons and I feel as if just one of them at my table would make my patience end on sight. I consider myself to be very flexible and want to do my very best to be a fair but strong dm who doesn't get their story absolutely trampled by players intentionally trying to ruin my story and watch me scramble (mel and sandy openly did that). These players would disrespect my table rules for fun. Even my friend said they never respect him and his story as a DM and he won't run a game with them again and he thinks they'll respect my rule? As a baby dm? Nah fam.

He wants to bring rue and Mel into my campaign and I haven't answered him yet. I've mostly dodged the question with "I'm not sure how big of a party I feel comfortable dming for, I'll know later down the line." And he's asked again, still curious. I don't wanna judge my friends relationships because he and Mel have been together for 5 years and rue has been with him for 2 (they were together previously before rue came out and rue tried to control and physically abuse him. Thats another reason I don't want her in my campaign. Fuck abusers) but the toxicity they would bring would probably poison me. If I bring these things up, idk how my friend would react and he can be a bit... Extreme when he gets defensive. Cutting people off permanently at a moments notice then coming back crying or confused. He has BPD which explains it but I don't obviously wanna say " your partners are low-key toxic and abit abusive and I don't want them at my table or in my life for the most part and although I love you bro(/platonic) I do not want living blowfish at my table that you might not even speak to tomorrow.".

Obviously I wouldn't word it like that but mainly I just plan on saying "Ive never dmed before and I'm nervous about the functionality of my campaign so I want to keep my party nice, small and intimate and only between you, me and my partner for now. Maybe we can incorporate them later." Without mentioning all the... Other stuff and side stepping if he's like "but what if just mel/rue?". Me, my partner and him have been friends awhile so it's not like he'll feel like he's third wheeling or anything and I get he wants his partners to take in his interest, I just do not want them at my table and I wanna know if I'm a dick if I dont specify why and avoid the question. I dont wanna rock the boat and hurt my friends feelings but I'm not gonna ruin the first full run of my pet project so a passive aggressive asshole and a know it all almost abuser can participate. He deserves to know why his partners can't join and I'm not technically lieing, even if they were cool, I don't know if I'd want them there. But they definitely aren't cool and that just seals the coffin for me.

(obviously I'm wording this in a comedic way but everything here actually happened and I mostly just wanna focus on supporting my friend despite his choices. I do not have to like his partners to tolerate them but it's my table and my years of work, if i dont want them there, they dont get to be there. I'm just wondering if I'm a dick for kinda lieing kinda not if I don't give the actual reasons for why I don't want them at my table and never plan on allowing them there. I would happily accommodate 1 or 2 more people at my table in this case if they were close to me like my sister or older brother but I dont know his partners well at all and even though they are passive to me, I dont feel safe around people like that. Wibta?)

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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charliemwrites · 4 months

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LONG ASK I AM SO FUCKIN SORRY

I always think of people's tumblr accounts/discord servers as actual places, and my mind is very fantasy centered. I've been in a big writing drought and thinking of your tumblr, how tumblr works as a whole with reblogs and asks and interactions, how the discord is set up with a bunch of brain jars really got me thinking.

I see your tumblr as a quaint shop in a small town, mainly full of hand-made books and pages everywhere, with a single shelf a Jars. I combined your discord and your tumblr into one place: your shop. I figured there's so many things going on in both places, so a fitting name would be "Charlie's Trinkets" since it's not just one thing and Trinkets are fun.

Anyway here is a little writing ramble I made, it's also in my "Not A Murder Jar" section of your "Brain Jar Collection".

While resting on your journey you find a quaint shop, simply titled "Charlie's Trinkets". You decide to venture inside, not knowing what is in store for you. However, that is half the fun, isn't it?

"Welcome, traveler!" A voice from somewhere you can't see states. "Come in, feel free to have a look around."

The shop smells like a campfire, in the sense that it smells as if people have come and gone, sharing stories, thoughts, things that have mattered to them. It smells as if you walk in as a stranger, yet leave as a friend. It leaves you curious.

The shop is stacked with multiple things. Now you realize why it is named “Charlie's Trinkets”. There's paper on every table and shelf you look. Some have even been bound into books, you realize. They're quite messily put together and obviously hand-made, as if the writer had no idea these individual pages would become one giant story. Other pages are ripped; intriguing sentences half-finished and leaving you wondering. You soon come to the conclusion (after reading a few pages) that all the books- or even pages of the same book- are not written by the same person. These stories have been shared and tampered, many lines bore into time and time again, erased and rewritten until they fit.

As you look around, you find where the voice came from. In the back corner, a person is writing. They are sideways to you and are instead facing a wall full of shelves. On the shelves are an assortment of jars, varying in shape and size.

"Do you need any help? Are you looking for anything specific or just browsing?" The person asks, looking up from their page. You tell them you are just browsing, and you inquire about the shelf of jars, asking if they are for sale.

"Oh no, they are not for 'sale'." They chuckle. "These jars are no ordinary jars."

They do not explain more, which urges your mind to ask another question: what do you mean?

"Well," she- Charlie- starts, glancing at the shelf as they set their page aside, "these jars are the thoughts of many who have come into my shop. We have been friends for a while, and they wanted a place to keep track of and organize their thoughts. These jars give them a home. While these jars rest here, a person has a copy of their jar. When they have a thought they wish not to lose, they open their jar, speak into it, and their thought is kept safe here, in my shop." you take a cautious step closer, attempting to read the labels on each jar. Some are completely empty, you realize; such as "Soleil jar". Others are filled with thoughts, yet never seem to run out of space.

"You are welcome to open whichever jar you would like, but be cautious about it. It will take you inside the jar, to a different place. There is always a way out. It can be very nerve-wracking for your first time."

You find a jar on the edge of the shelf. It looks newer than the others, taller than it is round, almost touching the shelf above it. You pick it up and read the label "Not A Murder Jar". Charlie watches you with careful eyes the entire time, struggling to find the right words to say.

"You might want to choose a different jar for your first one.."

You shake your head, saying it'll do just fine.

You force open the tightly screwed lid.

Finally, you realize one detail too late:

You Should Have Listened To Charlie.

I hope you had fun reading this, I'm glad I was able to escape the dark grasp that Writing Block had on me by thinking D&D thoughts lol

Have a nice day/night!

WALTZ

I don’t even know how to begin expressing my adoration for this. It’s… it’s like a fanfiction of the community? Of me? (Is that vain? I hope not)

And oh my god it’s so ADORABLE! The brain jars, the shop, the imagery!! I could cry this is so beautiful and sweet and thoughtful. It was the most wonderful thing I could have woken up to after a rough night.

I am constantly blown away and humbled by people like you, that I’ve gotten to interact with and share thoughts and ideas and writing with. I am so lucky and grateful. I’m seriously going to cherish this forever. It means so so much to me 💕 words cannot express just… how much this has blown my mind.

Sincerely, thank you, Waltz.

#thoughts™️#waltz

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ilexdiapason · 9 months

Text

(part one here) (part two here)

Oli leaves Martyn with his laptop in the living room while he brews the pair of them a cup of tea each in the kitchen. When asked whether he’d like milk and/or sugar, Martyn hesitated for way too long before saying he’d just like to have the same thing Oli was having. So, two teas with milk and three sugars it is. Let it never be said Oli breaks British stereotypes.

When Oli brings the tray back through with the teas, Martyn is still glued to the laptop, looking fairly shellshocked. “What’s that look for? You found anything?”

“No, just… thought I’d go find some of the YouTubers I was subscribed to, see what I missed. Didn’t realise Minecraft had come back in such a big way.”

Oli chuckles and takes a seat. “Yeah - I mean, it was a lot of us playing on Rats, did you never wonder?”

He looks up at Oli, raised eyebrows under that headband of his. “That was Minecraft?”

And…

Yeah, no, Oli’s not even gonna try and broach the implications of that question.

“Tea,” he says instead, gesturing to the tray on the coffee table between them.

Martyn sets the laptop down to the side and picks up a mug (Don’t Talk To Me Until I’ve Eaten This Mug, a personal favourite of Oli’s). He cups it gently, as though he’s not used to the heat - and maybe he isn’t. “Never used to drink tea,” he comments, “though mainly that’s cause my mum wouldn’t let me put the sugars in when I was twelve, and I pretty much swore it off out of spite after that.”

“Well, it’s not for everyone.”

He sips at it anyway - flinches away from the surface, from the burn, most likely. “Nothing wrong with it,” he reassures once it’s safely back on the tray, “just needs a few minutes to chill.”

“If you wanted ice tea, you could’ve just said so,” Oli quips.

“No, it’s - it’s good! I like the…” His hands flail aimlessly, gesturing at a meaning Oli finds himself entirely incapable of grasping. “I promise.”

“Alright.”

They sit in quiet for a few minutes after that, Oli drinking from his own cup and watching the laptop for any correspondence from his coworkers. He’s got some code that needs correcting, which a supervisor sent over, but he doesn’t think his brain is gonna be switching gears from this situation back to C# any time soon.

Eventually, Martyn picks the cup back up and tries again. This time he seems to be able to get a good mouthful of tea down, and another few teaspoons’ worth down his face and on his shirt. “Oh - are you alr- do you need some kitchen roll?”

“Uh,” says Martyn, eloquently. “Probably.”

So it is kitchen roll that he fetches, and it is kitchen roll that Martyn uses to attempt to dab his new tea stains out of his shirt. It’s also at this point that Oli notices something unusual. “Is your arm okay?”

“Hmm?”

“That looks like scarring, right? I mean, I assume it was a while ago, but -”

“Yeah, no, yeah, that’s old. Told you, didn’t I? Cats are vicious.”

He’s grinning, but Oli doesn’t exactly want to take a joke from the old Minecraft server as the only explanation. “Seriously. It’s not more stuff to do with this missing person situation, is it?”

The grin drops. Now, Martyn looks more resigned than anything. “Yeah. Wasn’t, like, torture or anything. I just got a bit banged up. You know how it gets.”

“Erm - well, I don’t, actually.” He’s never got a bit banged up in a way that left him with lasting scarring all down his limbs. “So now would be a great time to get some more explanation, if you have one.”

“I don’t,” says Martyn, quick as anything.

“So, what, I just send you home, and things go back to normal, except you’re in the Discord now?”

He studies Oli. There’s something really cold in there, a light that went out a long time ago. It’s clear that going back to normal isn’t really on the cards for Martyn, that even if this missing situation is all neatly resolved, it’s left him a different person from the one that his family know.

(But again - how do the video games square with all of this?)

When Martyn speaks, eventually, it’s not to answer the question. “Oh, fuck, Doc.”

“... Doc?”

“He’s - it’s this guy I knew, back home, he’s - god damn it, he still lives there, if I - fuck, fuck, I can’t go home, I can’t.”

This sudden switch from broken bleakness to a high-emotion panic is one that Oli neither anticipates nor knows how to respond to. “Hey - slow down, Marty, give it a minute,” he says, hoping that by delaying Martyn he can give himself more time to think about how to help with whatever the problem is.

“Fuck,” and is Martyn starting to cry? “I can’t go back, not if he’s gonna hear about it, and he will, I’m gonna be on the fucking news for how long I was in there, fucking -”

“Martyn,” Oli says, loud and authoritative enough to cut off his catastrophising. (Well, the concern might be entirely validated; Oli doesn’t know who this Doc guy is, after all. Still, he didn’t get that Psychology degree for nothing, and he’ll use the buzzwords if he wants to use the damn buzzwords.) “It’s okay. You’re not home, not right now. Nobody knows where you are, not this guy, not even your mum yet. Which would probably be a terrifying thing to say in any other case, but I’m guessing it’s not as bad for you.”

Martyn nods mutely, tears on his cheeks.

“So - alright, and you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want, that’s fine, but I’m just asking - who is that? To you?”

“He’s, uh.” Martyn’s voice cracks, wet and directionless. “He’s just a guy I know. Used to fix my consoles up for me, upgrade ‘em. Sold me some pretty sweet parts for the PC, too, even had a GPU on hand when the shortage was happening. God, NFTs aren’t still big, are they?”

“No, thank god, that bubble burst a long time ago,” Oli can’t help but smile. “Sounds like he was alright. What was the catch?”

“Um. He… kinda hired me? For something? That was pretty dangerous, but he didn’t have anybody else for the job? And then I realised he was - basically breaking a lot of labour laws, quite recently, did not realise how big of a dickhead he really was until… I don’t know how long it’s been. Anywhere from last night to a few days ago. But if I go home… well, he’s gonna be there, and he’s gonna want that job done, and he’s not gonna care that I’ve quit.”

Oli takes another sip of his tea while he processes all that.

Martyn sits up straight, very suddenly, and announces, “I was not being sex trafficked.”

One choked-on swallow later, which thankfully goes back into the mug for the most part, and Oli is laughing from the shock. “No, no, I didn’t - ack - didn’t even cross my mind, Marty, don’t worry. But that’s… good to know.”

“Yeah,” says Martyn.

“Yeah.”

He picks his own mug back up and, slowly but surely, drains the rest of it. There’s a constant wince in his expression that suggests he doesn’t really like tea, but Oli’s not about to stop him from drinking it if he’s decided to drink it. When he’s done, he clears his throat. “But, uh, yeah. If I go back home, Doc’s gonna catch wind, and he’ll probably find a way to get me right back into the mess I just got out of. And I don’t want that, obviously, so… I’m gonna have to… do something else.”

“I mean,” says Oli, making another probably-stupid decision, “my sofa’s free if you need to crash?”

“No, I should - I’ve gotta make good on my word to Mum, don’t I? Gotta show my face. Just… carefully, and quietly, and not answering to any strange men with retro games playing on their third monitor when they’re not using it.”

“Alright,” he repeats, but it feels more like willingly sending this clearly young adult straight back into the terrible situation from which he’s just escaped than it does bringing him home.

And, seriously, where do the video games fit in?

(part four here)

#ilexworks #itlwlore #reverse isekai au #martyn itlw #oli theorionsound #pirates smp #scurvyblr #vtuber martyn

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adamstanheightsleftshoulder · 2 months

Text

go on, roll your eyes || adam stanheight

SMUT!!!!! (minors dni tq)

x afab!gn!reader | 2306 words

this is my first time um ever writing smut for public consumption so i would love to start off by saying i do not know what i am doing! eye yam raw dogging this <3

id also love 2 say ily 4ever hot girls love saw discord server for literally inspiring this whole thing,, enjoy spotting things we said in chat :3

Adam’s main goal is to make your eyes look directly into the back of your own head - conveniently, this is one of the things he does best. He barely has to try.

Doesn’t stop him from always giving it his all, though.

And he loves it. Loves it.

Loves the way you lose yourself, the way your head falls back and you say his name like it’s the only part of reality your brain has held onto.

It happens when you’re at the mall - and God only knows why you’re even there, neither of you particularly like the mall - as he watches you in the afternoon sun from the skylight above. Watches you like you’re his world.

For all intents and purposes, it’s been a perfectly normal and sweet afternoon.

“I’m just saying this mall wouldn’t have the reputation it does if anybody cleaned up after themselves,” You say, leaning on the food court table, “I mean look at that guy- five bucks says he gets up and leaves everything right where it is,”

“I’m not taking that bet, we both know you’re right,” Adam laughs and presses a kiss to your cheek, gentle smile on his face.

You watch as the aforementioned guy stands up from where he was eating, wipes his hands on his pants, and abandons everything on his table - six steps away from a bin.

Time seems to slow down for Adam as you roll your eyes at the sight. His eyes glaze over - you, tangled in the sheets, twitching, on cloud 9. He feels like he’s there now, buried deep in you, filling you up, his teeth sinking into your collarbone and your nails in his back.

His smile drops, his heart flutters, and… oh, there goes a rush of blood. How strange, such an innocuous motion can cause Adam to just about see stars.

“What’s up with you?” You ask, confused smile on your face. He doesn’t budge. He’s white knuckled, gripping the table. “Seriously, Adam, what’s going-“

But you recognise that look in his eyes. You know the way his breath stutters.

Adam is falling apart. There is a tent growing under that table.

Suddenly a warm, trembling hand is on your wrist and you’re being dragged away from the table, leaving everything behind (and becoming the same as the person you were just mocking).

Before you really even register you’ve left the food court and entered somewhere else, your back is against a cool tiled wall and he’s pressed against you like he’s trying to crush you.

“God, you get me so worked up, you don’t even have to try,” His voice is a low rumble, halfway between a growl and a desperate plea.

“You can’t be serious,” You whisper into his ear as he kisses down your neck, “From one little eye roll?”

Suddenly his hand is on your face, gentle but firm, holding you in place so you have to maintain eye contact.

He can read it in your eyes, you’re no good at hiding it, not from him. He’s got you wrapped around his finger by now. You want him BAD.

He smirks, drinking in the sight of you like this. He hasn’t even touched you yet.

“If that’s all you think you did, then go on,” He challenges, and as he presses himself somehow even closer to you you can feel just how rock hard he is, “Roll your eyes,”

“Make me,” You bite back, and Adam just grins.

“Oh, I intend to,”

He doesn’t give you a chance to reply. He kisses you feverishly, like he’s on death row. His left hand stays on your face and his right drifts to your hip, his fingers digging into the flesh so hard he can feel the bone under his thumb. He presses one knee in the space between your legs.

You whimper into his mouth and he groans. He knows exactly what this mix of pain and pleasure does to you. He knows that he’s ripping you into ruin.

Adam then drops to his knees, like this bathroom stall is Church and you are holy.

His eyes are wide and pleading, he looks almost hungry, like he’s been in the desert for a thousand years and you are a blessed mirage.

He looks at you like he’s going to eat you whole. In a way he is.

Adam raises his eyebrows for a second, just a twitch, as if to ask if you’re sure you want him doing this. You nod with vigour. How could you not want this? Adam and his perfect lips…

Your head falls back as he unzips your jeans, yanks them down with the gusto of someone who’s been waiting to unwrap their present for years.

Your hand finds his hair. He lets a pathetic little groan fall from his lips in response - it gets louder when your nails graze his scalp.

“God, look at you. Fucking barely holding it together,” He quips, kissing up your thighs, “Eager little whore,”

You try to speak, try to banter back; tell him he’s being mean. He swings one of your legs over his shoulder before you can, and he takes the words out of your mouth as he teases his fingers under the very edge of your underwear. He laughs low in his throat as your hips roll against nothing. He wants you so bad he could tear you to shreds about it.

“Use your words,” He breathes, “C’mon, baby. You’re not that far gone yet, talk to me,”

“Please,” Whispered like a prayer, “Please, God, Adam- Please,”

“Good enough,”

He tucks your underwear out of the way with one hand, his breath makes you quiver just a little as it hits your sensitive skin.

“Needy slut,”

One hand firmly gripping your thigh and the other allowing him access, Adam kisses along the very very sensitive inside of your thigh, until he reaches right beside the dripping wet, wanton hole that belonged, truly, to him.

Oh, yes. Adam wants you to see stars. Adam wants you to walk out of here on legs made of jelly. Adam wants to make those eyes roll.

He presses his tongue flat against that bundle of nerves he knows how to find so well, and you cry out in a strangled voice - “Adam!”. He flicks his tongue and you twitch.

Adam has never been this hard in his LIFE. His jeans are suddenly a prison. But he has to take care of you first, he has to make the risk of a public bathroom worth it.

“God you taste perfect, baby,” He whispers, and then his tongue is right back where it was a second ago.

There’s little gentleness involved. It’s like he’s trying to find a way to say he loves you, but the only way he can is through devouring.

His tongue is harsh in its flicking, in how he focuses hard on your already sensitive clit, the way his nose gets pressed against you makes you worry he might hurt himself - but there’s no sign of him stopping. If anything he’s getting worse.

Every noise you make eggs him on. Tentatively at first, he presses one long finger inside of you. When your back arches off the tile, you feel the way he moans, before he pulls the first one out only to add a second finger.

He’s like clockwork. You manage to find the will to look down again, to find he’s closed his eyes, focussed.

He curls a finger inside of you, and you’re ashamed to admit how close you are to coming undone already. You don’t have to admit it though, Adam knows. He can feel you clenching around him, and if he had the brains right now to do it he might just laugh at how desperate you are.

His fingers pound now, setting a pace that is quick and even but rough. Adam needs you. Adam could cum in his jeans right now from the way you squirm on his fingers alone.

You rock back and forth against his face and he just about loses his mind. HIS eyes are in danger of rolling back. He eats you out like a man starved, like he’s begging for more despite being the one in control.

It takes you over before you realise you’ve reached that point - no warning, and you’re jerking back and forth, a twitching mess, fingernails in his scalp - and you cum. It washes over you, and you have to grab Adam’s shoulder for stability.

If he didn’t know any better, if he didn’t know what you always wanted (more), he’d stop here. Thank God Adam knows better.

He retracts his fingers and watches as you clench on instinct around nothing. He wipes his mouth a little, but not enough to wipe the taste away. The taste he savours, the taste he craved and craves more often than he should ever admit.

A wreck. He’s making a wreck of you.

He stands, letting your leg fall back to where it can try to support you.

You practically fall into his firm chest, and he chuckles down at you.

“Good, hm?” He asks, as if he’s not sure, “You terrible thing,”

You can only hum in response, half sex-drunk, clinging onto him for dear life.

“Can’t get enough, can you?”

He’s teasing you? This is his fault! That asshole-

You whimper again, and he comes undone.

“Fine,” He concedes, making quick work of his own jeans, “Ready?”

You in fact started to nod before he’d even finished saying ‘ready.

And then, bliss - you feel him start to line his thick cock up with your entrance, the very tip of the head poking just inside.

You feel like you could gush just at that contact.

He kisses you quickly as he presses himself in, catching the cry of pleasure and surprise that you let out between his lips. He groans, deep in his throat - a deeply, deeply satisfied sound. Adam’s been waiting so patiently.

“Taking me so well,” his whisper fans across your face and you lose any contact with the world of words.

Adam doesn’t wait any longer because he CAN’T. He pulls himself almost all the way out, only to slam himself back in again a second later.

Adam fucks you like he hates your guts. Like he detests everything about you so much he has to rearrange your insides into something he can stand.

“A-Adam,” You choke out, and if it weren’t for the hand he’s just begun to rest on your cheek, you’d forget that he loves you. The harsh feeling of his teeth in your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder… you’d be forgiven for forgetting that he’s capable of being gentle. You roll in time with the violent pace he’s set, your hips slapping together so hard you know it’ll bruise.

“G…God,” He breathes against your now bruised neck, “You’re so good,”

Your core tightens and you know the second orgasm is coming, quickly. You cry against him, fingers digging into his back.

“Go on,”

It’s like it was a taught command. He tells you, you cum.

He’s nowhere near done yet. He’s got too much in mind. He can’t stop until you’re all but faded away from that pretty little head of yours. Until you forget your own name, but remember his.

His pace never lets up, never even pauses. You’re making sounds that are obscene, bordering on pornographic, and if Adam wasn’t so determined he’d bust right here and now.

Your head is pressed against the tile again, crying out like an animal in heat, when his hand covers your mouth and he stops moving completely.

A whine comes from you, unwillingly. You’d be embarrassed of the sound if you could be right now.

“Sh, sh sh. Someone’s going past,” He whispers, pressing his sweaty forehead to your own, “Wait, baby. Don’t want to get caught, do you?”

You shake your head but your body betrays you. Adam watches, jaw dropping a little at just how fucking perfect you are as you squirm around him. He’s still fully inside, fully sheathed. He’s hitting every place in there and he’s STOCK STILL. It feels cruel, crueller when you realise how much he’s enjoying watching you suffer in the stillness.

You whimper against his hand, and he only presses it to your face further.

“Stay quiet,”

There’s a threatening edge to his voice and it doesn’t take long to realise why. The thumb of the hand that’s not desperately silencing you reaches down and plays with your clit - you could explode at this point. He barely has to do much, you’re squirming so hard and he’s so close to letting go inside of you-

It seems he decides the threat to your privacy is gone, and your torture is over, as he kicks back into action like a machine again.

He loses himself, now, it’s his turn. The most desperate sounds you’ve heard him make echo on the bathroom walls.

“God- Fuck, fuck- baby, I- Can I- Please, please, can I- I need to, I-“ He stutters against you, getting a little sloppy but no less violent in his thrusts, “Let me fill you,”

You keen and he takes it as a green light, painting your insides white with his orgasm, and your third of the day comes crashing over you as he grunts your name.

Everything gets tensed for a moment - his fingers in the skin of your face and your hip, his jaw. His head falls to your shoulder for a second. He catches his breath, slow final thrusts pushing his own spend in and back out of you.

He looks at you now, assessing the job he did.

“You beautiful thing,” He pants, swallowing harshly, “There they go. Those fuckin’ eyes,”

#I DONT KNOW WHAt I AM DOING #richie dont look #I love you hot girls love saw discord #this is for u #especially neon skunk and vamoose #adam faulkner stanheight #adam stanheight x reader #saw fanfiction

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commander-krios · 2 months

Text

Everything

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Pairing: Rolan/Dammon Rating: Teen Summary: Rolan's had little time to himself since becoming the Master of Ramazith's Tower. Thankfully, he has friends willing to help him get a break. Words: 3924 Additional Tags: Gift Exchange, Tieflings, Romance, Love, Valentine's Day, Fluff, Post-Canon

Read on AO3

Elturel Tiefling Camp Discord Server Exchange treat for a few Dammon/Rolan lovers!

Rolan had begun taking his midafternoon meal breaks at the Elfsong Tavern, away from the bustle of Sorcerous Sundries. The first reason being it was quieter in the tavern during that time of the day, the majority of the inn’s guests sleeping off their nightly overindulgences while the rest made day trips into the city. The second reason was it made it more difficult for Cal to seek him out with questions about the mundane things, those things that could’ve waited the hour he took to eat and catch up on some reading. This was easier, simpler, and he could sit and ponder his own thoughts before trudging back to some disaster or another at the store.

When someone slipped into the unoccupied chair at his table, however, he was beginning to think that the Gods themselves were plotting against him.

“You look bored.”

Lakrissa watched him with a grin, pushing a glass of wine towards him. He eyed the drink suspiciously before glancing up at her, taking in the perfectly groomed ponytail that tumbled over her right shoulder, her chin propped in her hand, elbow on the table in an undisciplined manner.

“I didn’t order that.” Rolan said instead, ignoring her probing gaze to bury his nose in the book again. She didn’t take the hint, only nudged the glass closer to him. It was a bribe, he realized. For what, he had no idea. “What do you want, Lakrissa?”

She raised her eyebrows before a laugh escaped her lips. “Want? There’s nothing I want from you, mage-boy.”

“Then why-”

“Think of it as a thank you.” She reached into the little pouch on her side, pulling out a scroll, setting it on the table between them.

Rolan stared at it, immediately recognizing the fancy calligraphy and stamp on the document. Swallowing nervously, he lifted the glass and drank deeply, refusing to be baited into the conversation. She had no proof it was him. The silence between them was tense, but when he finally returned the half finished wine to the table, he cleared his throat, glancing away from her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not stupid. You’re one of the only people who knew about the bard school. I figured it would be denied. Anti-tiefling sentiment is still high after all of this time, especially so soon after Elturel.” Lakrissa returned the scroll to her bag and replaced it with a hastily scribbled letter. Rolan knew Wyll Ravengard’s handwriting mainly from their recent correspondence. There was no mistaking it. “Wyll said you made a convincing argument about opening a school in a letter. His father approved it because of you.”

“I-”

“You don’t have to say anything, Rolan.” Lakrissa told him, securing the letter with the scroll once more. “You owed us nothing, but you helped anyway. So thank you.”

Rolan blushed, fingers trailing over the page of the tome in front of him. He liked Lakrissa, she was one of the only people who saw the reality of their situation from the start. Elturel, goblins, the shadow-cursed lands… and she continued on despite it all. Perhaps because of it all. Rolan had only made everyone’s lives more difficult with his ranting. But they’d still traveled with him and now he had the means to help everyone. He intended to use it.

But one thing he wasn’t expecting was sincere gratitude.

Rubbing the back of his neck, his claws got caught in the strands of the hair loosened from his bun. “Uh, don’t mention it. Please, don’t tell anyone.”

At the pleading in his voice, Lakrissa grinned like a cat who caught the canary. Uh oh. “Oh, I won’t tell anybody. For a price.”

A groan slipped out and he buried his face in his hands. “Hells, what is it now?”

Lakrissa laughed, pouring another glass of Arabellan Dry. Then he watched through his fingers as she stood, tucking the chair back beneath the table. She glanced down at him thoughtfully, as if trying to best articulate what she wished to say. Or maybe she was trying to torture him more, he wouldn’t put that past her.

After a moment more, she sighed, waving towards the exit in the direction of Sorcerous Sundries. “Lia and Cal are worried about you.”

That was unexpected.

“Whatever for?” His hands dropped to the table and he had to resist the urge to grab the wine glass as a barrier against the uncomfortable thoughts that spun at the back of his mind. Worried? About him? All he ever did was worry about them, and now, they had everything they could’ve dreamed for. What was there to worry about?

“When was the last time you went out?”

Scrunching his nose in confusion, Rolan waved to their surroundings sarcastically. “What do you call this?”

“Hiding.”

He scoffed in offense, but didn’t deny it. Because it was true in a way. He was hiding, mostly from Cal’s questions about the Sundries. “I was busy doing work before you so rudely interrupted me.”

“Oh, so rude of me to bring you wine.”

He rolled his eyes, noting her sarcasm but refusing to argue about something so stupid. She was being unusually nice today, but he figured she was as bored as he was, sitting here in the quiet tavern. If she wished to speak to him about something to alleviate that boredom, he’d gladly discuss wine, the latest novel, hells even the Gazette’s more recent gossip, but his personal life was not one of those things.

“How about this then?” She lifted the glass of wine and took a deep drink of it herself. Must’ve been a really slow day. “When was the last time you went out with Dammon?”

His blush deepened at the mention of the man who was… well, not quite his boyfriend, but something close enough. Digging his claws into the wood of the table, he caught the satisfied expression on Lakrissa’s face. She’d gotten under his skin and she knew it. “That’s none of your business.”

She let out a snort, refilling the wine one final time before setting it directly in front of him.

“Don’t you fret, mage-boy. Since you refuse to admit to doing something nice and taking the ‘thank you’ that comes with it, I’m going to find a way to thank you that you can’t refuse.”

“Why does that sound like a threat?”

“Think of it as a promise.” Ruffling his hair like he was one of the tiefling children, Lakrissa laughed when he reached up to knock her hands away in irritation. “And try to be less grumpy, Rolan. As much as it pains me to admit, you’re actually cute when you smile.”

Lakrissa waved before swiping the rest of the wine bottle from the table, leaving with his wild thoughts and burning cheeks. With one final look at the full wine glass beside his book, he pushed his chair back and made a quick exit, intending to put as much distance between him and the Elfsong as possible.

~~~~

“Alfira was here earlier.”

The next day immediately started off on the wrong foot. From the moment he’d woken up, a mischievous specter followed him, creating chaos everywhere he went. First, the lava elemental broke free of its compulsion, wandering outside and nearly setting a house on fire. Then, his projection started malfunctioning, and he had to stand at the desk for hours before Cal came down to relieve him. He’d also had to toss a few troublemaking kids out of the store for trying to steal one of Tolna’s books as a prank.

Gods, he still had a headache from the tongue lashing he’d gotten after.

And now he had to deal with this? It appeared Lakrissa wasn’t simply teasing him, after all.

Rolan glanced up from his accounting books, furrowing his brow at Cal’s words. There were very few reasons as to why the bard would show up at his store and he figured they all had to do with her girlfriend’s threat. “And? Did she say why she was here?”

“Yes.” Cal sauntered over to his desk before dropping a sealed envelope on top of his paperwork. “She left this.”

Rolan stared at the flowery pink paper envelope in concern. “And what is that?”

“Maybe you should open it and read it. It’s addressed to the ‘Master of the Tower’.” Cal sat beside the desk, putting his feet up on the edge. With a glare aimed in his brother’s direction, it only took a moment for Cal to get the hint and drop his feet back to the ground, a sheepish grin on his face. “Sorry.”

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “I’m sure you already know what it says so please, enlighten me.”

Cal nodded, sitting up straighter and smoothing the wrinkles out of his shirt. “They’re throwing a party. For the bard school’s opening. Alfira said it would be a huge favor to her if you came.”

Of course she did. It’d been weeks since he’d done much else besides sit at this desk and update the ledgers for the store: the vault inventory, the supply inventory, the accounting. Lorroakan hadn’t kept any sort of organization for the entirety of his time as Master of the Tower. Rolan didn’t even know if he turned a profit or steadily lost money.

“I have so much left to do-”

“Come on, Rolan. You helped them get the deed to the building. The least you can do is show up and celebrate with them.” Cal dropped his voice, his expression softening significantly. “You should go, have some fun.”

“Does everyone know about that?” Rolan sighed, feeling the fight leave him at Cal’s grin. He never did things for himself, but Cal and Lia… if it meant that much to them, he’d do it even if he hated every second. “Fine. But the moment somebody decides that I need to give a toast because I helped, I’m leaving.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that. No one is willing to stroke your ego. It’s big enough as it is.”

Rolan coughed to cover the laugh that threatened to expose him. “I think you need to spend time with someone who isn’t Lia.”

“You’re just mad because she’s right.”

Ignoring the barb, Rolan realized he hadn’t seen his sister all week. She hadn’t lived in the Tower for a few months now. The Flaming Fist barracks were comfortable enough and Lia refused to spend every quiet moment with her brothers (or so she said), but she at least visited on occasion. Strange.

“Where is Lia, anyway?”

“Oh, uh…” Cal rubbed the back of his neck and averted his eyes to the floor, pretending to study the intricate tiles. Rolan didn’t need to spell detect thoughts to know that his brother was running through a hundred different excuses for their sister, before choosing what was most believable. Whatever was next out of his mouth was going to be a lie. “She’s… working?”

“Are you asking me or is that your answer?” Rolan tapped his feather pen against the envelope, tempted to open it to see the words for himself. “Because last I remember, Lia works the overnight shift.”

“She’s picked up some extra work.” Cal rushed to explain, standing as if that would stop the interrogation. “Alfira mentioned Dammon would be there. If that changes things.”

“Oh?” He tried not to sound interested, but gods dammit, it’d been too long since they’d seen each other. Maybe a public appearance among drunken bards wouldn’t be as awful as he thought. If he managed to avoid the singing. “I might be able to squeeze in a quick word with everyone.”

He almost missed the smile on Cal’s face as he slipped out of the door. “Whatever you say, Rolan.”

~~~~

The Elfsong Tavern was in chaos when he set foot inside. Drinks were poured freely, multiple bards were singing off key between hiccups, and others were guffawing and cheering along with the song. Or perhaps it was songs. None of the tunes were the same. Rolan spied Lakrissa near the bar, a glass of wine in each hand. She weaved through the crowd, a bright smile on her face as she watched the revelry. It was all a bit much for him, but he’d promised Lia that he’d make an effort to connect with the rest of the Elturel survivors.

He could do this.

“Rolan!”

He turned as Alfira appeared at his side, and without warning, she threw her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly against her smaller form. Using her lute must’ve given her a set of strong biceps because for a brief moment, Rolan struggled for air.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you!”

She smelled suspiciously like a fruity wine and when she glanced up at him, Rolan immediately noticed her flushed cheeks. “Already drunk, hmm?”

Alfira giggled, nudging his arm as soon as she released her hold on him. “No, silly. I’m having fun. You do know what that is, correct?”

Lakrissa slid up next to them, holding out one of the glasses of wine towards him expectantly. When he only stared back, she raised an eyebrow before thrusting it into his hand. “Take it, dumbass.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“It’s your favorite.” Lakrissa said, handing the second glass to Alfira who took it happily. He slanted his eyes at her, immediately suspicious. “Drink up. Enjoy yourself. There are plenty of drinks to go around.”

He briefly considered asking her what her ploy was. She was definitely up to something, but decided an argument was a worse choice than simply drinking the wine. So, with a forced smile, he took a long sip, waiting for the inevitable hammer fall.

Rolan wanted to leave, these types of events always made him anxious about performing well enough to be considered ‘polite and stimulating company’, but this was their party and celebration. Even if he didn’t particularly enjoy being around all of these people, it wouldn’t be proper for him to rush off. The wine hit his tongue with its familiar woodsy flavor, the berry lingering as he swallowed it down. Lakrissa watched him intently, her mouth twitching into a smirk as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.

“If the crowd is a bit much, there are some fabulous views from the roof.”

“Why would I-”

Slipping her arm around Alfira’s waist, she turned back to the party, glancing over her shoulder at him with a conspiratorial look. “You can thank me later.”

Once Alfira and Lakrissa blended into the crowd, the sudden desire to flee tickled his mind. It would be so easy to disappear, to return to the Tower and forget this entire night happened. He figured no one would even notice, too drunk and invested in the party to realize that a guest was missing.

But he hadn’t seen Dammon yet.

And despite everything he’d thought earlier, he really did want to see him tonight.

The best course of action would be to go to the rooftop where it would luckily be quieter and wait until Dammon either appeared or he didn’t. Then, he could slink off into the night with no one the wiser.

~~~~

The roof of the Elfsong was much quieter, though the rumble of the party could be heard beneath his feet. With a quick sweep of his gaze, he noted the cushions set up beneath a pergola and a small table with chairs off to the side. The air smelled strongly of flowers: roses, lavender, and fuchsia, a tantalizing combination that helped to ease the anxiety in his chest.

He breathed deeply of the cool night air, not cold enough to need additional layers, but enough to make him shiver slightly as a breeze loosened his hair from his bun. With a disgruntled sound, he attempted to gather the hair in his hands but the wind made it impossible.

“Leave it. I like it down.”

His hands froze, the strands slipping from his fingers, and he turned, his darkvision making it easy to see what he’d missed during his first sweep of the area. A pair of piercing blue eyes ringed in gold, golden hair pulled into a bun over an undercut, and a set of familiar horns.

His breath caught at the sight. “Dammon.”

The tiefling blacksmith slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks, smiling up at him. He wasn’t wearing his usual garb, the things he wore in his day to day work. No, tonight he looked comfortable in a pair of dark slacks and a loose tunic, tucked into his waistband. Simple, but effective and Rolan couldn’t stop from staring.

“Fancy seeing you at one of these parties. I didn’t think you ever left that Tower anymore.”

Rolan flushed, grateful for the darkness and the wind blowing the hair in front of his face, if only to hide his embarrassment. “Yes, well, things have been busy. Swamped, really.”

Dammon’s gaze trailed over his robes, one of the dressier ones from Facemaker’s, bought at a price that he’d balked at before Lia forced him to hand the coin over. But with how the other tiefling’s eyes flitted across his chest at the gleaming gemstones and down the length of the sleeves at the elaborate embroidering, Rolan knew it was worth it. If only to be admired by him.

“Glad you could pull yourself away.”

There was no judgment, no anger or disappointment, just Dammon being… Dammon. Kind, understanding, accepting. He turned to walk to the edge of the balcony, his face hidden in the shadows.

Rolan followed without even realizing it. They stood, side by side, so close that Rolan could feel the warmth of his skin on his own. It wouldn’t take much to reach out, take his hand, perhaps press a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

“Lia’s been helping out at the forge.” Dammon’s admission pulled him from his thoughts. The blacksmith glanced down at the street below, watching as the people milled about, laughing and drinking and singing. The party was in full swing, yet here they were standing above it all, watching the city shed inhibitions and find joy in the mundane. They were safe, they were happy, and they were free. “She’s been trying to lighten my load so we could… have this.”

“Some time to ourselves without the crushing weight of responsibility?”

Dammon chuckled, leaning an arm against the banister, eyes on a fixed point in the distance. For a man who worked with weapons most of the day, there was something so soft about him. It’d taken Rolan too long to figure out what it was. His eyes. When Dammon looked at a person, he saw many things but the first and foremost was that he saw their soul. Not the facade they put up, but who they were beneath. At one time, it scared Rolan to be seen so deeply but now… now he craved the horrifying ordeal of being known by another person.

Of being known by this man in particular.

Rolan sighed as Cal’s sudden onslaught of questions, all in regards to the running of Sorcerous Sundries, began to make more sense. “It seems Cal was trying to do the same.”

The sounds of a lute and a lyre floated out of the windows of the Elfsong and people on the streets began to spin in a dance of wild limbs and stumbling feet, too drunk to do much else besides rocking back and forth or falling. The rest of the city stretched out ahead, lights flickering against a velvety black backdrop, the stars above burning as brightly as the streetlamps.

He didn’t know what possessed him. Maybe it was the Arabellan Dry still tingling on his tongue. Perhaps it was the beautiful sounds of Alfira’s lute from below. Or it could’ve very well been the fact that his family, his friends, the people who cared about him, had done so much to give him this peace.

Rolan’s hand slipped into Dammon’s, noting how easily their fingers slotted together.

He’d always wanted somewhere to call home. For years, it had been Cal and Lia and the little family they’d built out of the ashes of their lives. But the upheaval by the descent into Avernus, the difficult road traveled to Baldur’s Gate, Lorroakan and everything with the Netherbrain… he didn’t think he’d find happiness again, only pain.

He was grateful to be completely wrong.

“What are you-”

“Shh.” Rolan tilted his head to the side, nodding to the dancers below, a smile curling his lips. “Do you hear that?”

Dammon raised his eyebrows, amusement flitting across his features. “The music? It’s kind of difficult not to.”

“And what do people do when they hear music, Dammon?”

The blacksmith rolled his eyes, but his face softened more than Rolan thought was possible. He straightened, turning towards Rolan with expectation. “Why don’t you tell me? So I don’t get it wrong?”

Butterflies went to war in his stomach, but the challenge in Dammon’s eyes was intoxicating. He was going to make him say the words. Despite his intelligence, his knack for learning and doing things his own way, Rolan struggled with the right words. But action, that was easier.

His free hand slid along Dammon’s waist, their entwined hands turned into proper position. When Dammon met his gaze again, his eyes burned like blue fire ringed in gold. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, his heart pounded out like a war drum in his chest, but he managed to force a single question out before he lost his nerve.

“Dance with me?”

Dammon’s eyes widened slightly before a grin spread across his face. His hand tangled in Rolan’s loose hair, strands sliding his fingers. Then he leaned in, lips brushing softly against Rolan’s, the contact a shock but a welcome one. His mouth was warm in the cool night, and he drank him in like a man who hadn’t touched a drop of water in days. His skin burned, his heart threatened to dance right out of his damned chest, and still, it wasn’t enough.

Rolan shifted closer, wrapping both arms around Dammon’s waist, deepening the kiss with a swipe of tongues and teeth. Everywhere their bodies touched, Rolan felt like he was on fire, flames beneath his skin threatening to burn him to ash. And it would be a good way to go, he thought, as the kiss finally broke.

Because with the way Dammon was staring up at him, smiling like he was nothing more than a drunken fool, Rolan understood. What they had was important, as important as anything else in his life. And he was going to fight like hell for more nights like this.

“I thought we were supposed to be dancing.” Dammon whispered, breath ghosting against Rolan’s cheek as a laugh left his mouth.

“Do you want to?” He asked, hoping he didn’t sound as breathless as he felt. “Dance, I mean.”

Dammon ran his hand through his hair again, but his gaze never slanted away. Chills ran down Rolan’s spine at the intensity of his eyes that he almost didn’t hear the words. “It was your idea, but I like this too.” His lips brushed against Rolan’s briefly before he pulled back, nothing but tenderness on his face.

And Rolan couldn’t help but agree.

This was nice.

It was everything.

#my writing #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfic #bg3 rolan #bg3 dammon #bg3 lakrissa #bg3 alfira #rolan x dammon #dammon x rolan #gift exchange

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mysims-mod · 3 months

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Oh hi there. It's been a while hasn't it?

I picked up MySims (again) recently and wanted to see if I could crack the code on custom lots!

Spoiler Alert: Kind of.

I decided to do some testing with the LUA Test Level (Pictured Below), I copied the contents of 'luaTest.world' and pasted them over into 'townsquare.world' and noticed that even there weren't any lots defined in the world file, there would always be icons on the minimap.

I tried copying over just the lots from Town Square into this LUA Test Level, and three of them worked flawlessly!

However the rest were stuck in the middle of the map, no matter what I changed in the world file, three would always be placed in the world as normal, and the rest would be stuck in the center and no amount of moving them worked!

From this testing I came to the conclusion that lots are not solely defined by what is present in the .world file and that it was defined in a separate file entirely. However at the time I did not know where exactly that file was in the game's packages. After getting sidetracked with other things, I left this alone for a while.

Recently I joined a MySims Discord Server, and it has a modding channel, I shared my theory in there and @/Grizafay informed me that yes, there is in fact a file that not only defines how many lots are allowed to exist in a level, but also their size and locations!

So I set about doing some tests to see what exactly I could do to make custom lots a thing.

First I wanted to see if I could even make changes to this file and re-insert it into a package without the game crashing, so I decided on changing the lot size for the player's lot (Lot 0) and Poppy's shop (Lot 5)

And I was able to make changes to the file and insert it back into game without a problem! I figured if it was possible to change the lot sizes, then it should be possible to add a brand new lot into the game!

To test if this was possible I decided to use Lot ID 14, which is listed in a comment in 'townsquare.world', but skipped over. So I added an entry for it into the slot definition file and...

It worked (almost) perfectly! Apart from some hiccups with the minimap icon and mailbox placement I haven't been able to fully figure out yet, it worked! So this means that adding more lots to the game beyond ID 15 should be easy... right?

Well... I tried adding a Lot 16 to Town Square, I copied over most of what I had done for Lot 14 in the world file, changed the position and a few other relevant things like table names and GUIDs, added an entry to the slot definition file and changed the maximum lot slot index from 15 to 16 and...

The game would crash.

I still want to see if I can overcome this setback, but for right now at least custom lots are kind of possible in MySims.

#mysims (game)#mysims mods #custom lots

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diversestardewvalley · 1 year

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Diverse Stardew Valley 4.0 Sneak Peak!

Hey everyone! DSV 4.0 is getting close to being done, so I thought I’d show off some of the cool stuff that’s gonna be included! 😊 I’ve also been sharing little snippets in the DSV Discord server recently, so if you’re not already a member, check our website for the link.

It’s pretty long and has a lot of images, so click through to see them!

The big news is that DSV 4.0 will move back to an all-in-one download (and will also be hosted on Nexus again) with a SMAPI component, DSV Core, which will consolidate all of the config options for more convenience. DSV Core is the hard work of KediDili from a concept originally by Nuztalgia!

It’ll also mean that other mods will be able to read your DSV config choices, which opens up a lot of potential for compatibility! Platonic Partners and Friendships users may be familiar with how this works, since PPAF has a similar feature and DSV is able to automatically provide compat depending on your PPAF config.

[image id: two screenshots from DSV Core showing a selection of configuration options. The first is a table of contents and the second shows some of the options available in the Global Options page.]

Options will be divided into different pages so that it’s not an overwhelming list of choices, and DSV Core will also automatically disable compatibility options for other mods if you don’t have that mod installed, so it’ll reduce some of the option clutter. We’ve also future-proofed the config so that you also won’t need to redo your config settings when we add more options in the future and added a function to automatically fix common typos in manually-edited config.jsons!

[image id: a screenshot showing DSV Core’s page of Compatibility options.]

As you can see in the screenshot above, 4.0 will also add dialogue for many characters related to DSV’s variants! This feature has been much requested and a lot of people have contributed dialogue, so thank you to everyone who wrote some lines for us 💖 If you’re interested in helping out with dialogue as well, feel free to join the DSV server and chat to us about it!

Another major content update will be DSV’s swimsuits! We’ve updated all of the swimsuits to have fresh new designs, and there’ll be a new option for every character with a beach swimsuit in the vanilla game to use either the vanilla design (with some minor tweaks to clean up art issues & match DSV’s bases) or the DSV design.

[image id: a selection of portraits from DSV showing the characters’ vanilla variants wearing the DSV Style swimsuits]

[image id: a selection of portraits and sprites from DSV showing the characters’ vanilla variants in a before and after of the default swimsuits on the left versus the updated Vanilla Style swimsuits on the right.]

Other stuff being included is a skintone saturation boost for modded Harvey and Black Emily and Haley, after feedback from our sensitivity checkers...

[image id: a before and after of DSV’s modded Harvey and Black Emily & Haley showing the difference in skintones.]

...new & updated outfits for some characters (Emily’s outfits are by Meowpix while Sebastian’s ao dai is by Elaho)...

[image id: a selection of portraits from DSV showing updated outfits for Abigail, Sebastian, and Emily.]

...compatibility with Life Cycle and other mods...

[image id: portraits for DSV’s modded Caroline, Emily, Kent, and Demetrius showing new formalwear.]

...options for small immersive features...

[image id: portraits for DSV’s modded and vanilla Abigail wearing a variety of goth makeup looks.]

...and saving the best for last, DSV’s best girl Marigold will be making a return with updated art! She’ll be a non-friendable NPC and will require Sprites in Detail as a temporary measure until SDV 1.6 is released, but she’ll also have more dialogue, including dialogue from Linus about her, and new animations 🐕‍🦺

[image id: a screenshot of Linus’s tent showing his service dog Marigold with larger updated sprites.]

Thanks to everyone that’s supported us and I hope you’re all hyped for DSV 4.0! 💖

#diverse stardew valley #diverse sdv #DSV #stardew valley #sdv #mods #stardew valley mods #airyn

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klausinamarink · 1 month

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Prompt: “new beginnings” (discord drabble from STWG) | ao3 link

a day late since I’ve been working on other stuff but also a gift to the amazing @pearynice! hope your birthday was awesome

Despite being a Tuesday, the tavern’s gotten busier as the hours inches towards the evening. Eddie feels the headache coming as more patrons demand beers their way. The strong stuff, they always request, even though Eddie’s been serving in this place for nearly five years and he still has no fucking clue what that’s supposed to mean.

There’s some prep shuffling onstage but Eddie doesn’t turn around to check. Very few so-called musicians in this place make him peek over his shoulder. The ones that do turn out to be disappointing.

Turns out that playing Master of Puppets to distract a horde of interdimensional demobats that would later chew out half of your body can set up high standards in music.

“Hey, Quinn,” Jessie, one of the other servers, calls him, “clean up the tables, would ya?”

Eddie nods, grabs an empty container, and goes over to collect the abandoned drinks. When he rounds to the third table, Eddir hears the mic being tapped before the mediocre singer of the night speaks.

“Hello, folks, my name’s Joey and I’m happy to share some of my original songs with you.”

Eddie pauses. His brain is rattling with recognition. But for some reason, he cannot place where or why that voice sounds so familiar.

“Hopefully, someone I’m searching for is here today.”

They clear their throat. Starts playing on the keyboard. It’s slow and melancholic like a lullaby. Then-

“I can’t stand the storms when it flashes red. It just shows how much they hate the sun.”

Eddie slowly turns around, hands gripping the container’s edges so tight that it probably cuts his fingers.

But none of it matters more than the sight of Steve Harrington onstage.

It doesn’t look like him. But it sure as hell sounds like him. But Eddie can’t be sure of that either because he had heard Steve talk, not sing like an angel.

“I grab my bat and run to your side. Like an avenging angel, but all I earned was the loss of my wings. And maybe my tears too because I sure can’t cry anymore.”

For once, the tavern has fallen silent. Everyone is captivated by the long-haired stranger exposing his broken heart so casually. All the while, Eddie is stunned.

The longer he listens to Steve’s song, the more difficult it becomes to hold back the tears in his eyes. It brings him back to the day when the government suits told Eddie and the entire Upside Down crew that not only Hawkins will be scrubbed off the Indiana map, but they would be given new identities and homes somewhere in the country. On any other day, Eddie would’ve been avid. But instead, he stared at nothing and nobody as everyone’s cries of protest and outrage faded into static in his brain.

Eddie had looked up once. His gaze had landed on Steve, who looked like he was either seconds away from snapping the closest suit’s neck or seconds away from bursting into tears. Eddie had wanted to follow the internal plea to walk over to Steve and hug him. Maybe whisper some comfort in his ear that the Party would still find contact. But he hadn’t - he was still too shocked and tired from his healing injuries to even get up.

That was the last time anyone had seen or spoken to each other.

“The storm continues. I keep walking, the bat in my hands. Hoping to-” Steve brings his gaze up, eyes flickering through the crowd.

And, like a magnet, they land directly on Eddie.

Eddie is half a room away from the stage but he sees the exact second of Steve’s expression changing from painful reminiscence to disbelieved shock. Eddie himself feels his heart stopping mid-beat, unable to move or even try a silly wave back.

The crowd applauds, mistaking Steve’s silence as the end of his song. It’s by then that Eddie hurries outside.

Eddie’s on his second cigarette when the side doors swing open. He expects the manager Ripley to give him shit again, but it’s only Steve with his keyboard slung over his back.

Steve stares at him again. When the door closes with a click, he says hoarsely, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Eddie greets back.

They both stare at each other, taking in the sights. Eddie had long cut his hair short and kept his curls trimmed behind the ears. Steve’s hair had grown (as if it wasn’t already long when Eddie last saw him) and appears to be sun-bleached. Even their clothes got reversed; with Eddie wearing polos (as per tavern guidelines) while Steve’s clearly taking denim vests and a darker palette.

Eddie expects the change. But it still hurts him somewhere that yeah, it’s been six years.

“Sorry, it’s weird to see you without long hair.” Steve breaks the silence, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

Eddie laughs, “Well, when you got a name like Joseph Quinn, you gotta try and look like the guy.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, “That’s what they renamed you?”

“Yep,” Eddie nods solemnly, “But I’m still Eddie Munson at heart. What’s yours?”

Steve looks away, a blush rising on his cheeks. “It’s terrible.”

“Dude, you literally introduced yourself as Joey just now.”

“That’s how terrible my government-mandated name is!”

“Tell meeee!” Eddie starts poking at Steve’s ribs, making the other man burst into laughter. Steve grabs onto Eddie’s wrists, stopping him just inches from his face. Eddie catches his breath, unable to stop himself from briefly glancing down at Steve’s lips. He sees Steve doing the same, even licking his lips.

“I got a trailer parked in one of the lots nearby.” Steve says softly. “If you want-”

“Yeah.” Eddie’s voice catches in his throat. He swallows and says again, “Yeah. Of course.”

They walk together, forcing themselves to keep their hands at their respective sides. Eddie’s heart pounds in his chest as they arrive at Steve’s trailer, a Winnebago that’s smaller than the one Eddie had hotwired for him years ago. The moment they step inside, Eddie lurches forward and pulls Steve into a sheering kiss. Steve moans and grips his hands on Eddie’s hips while Eddie tangles his fingers into Steve’s hair.

Eddie lets Steve take him apart first, squeezing his hand tight as Steve whispers sweet nothings to his skin. Then Eddie flips them over and does the same to Steve, telling himself to go slow even though Steve is urging him the opposite. After they’re both spent, they stay in each other’s arms, gulping down air and tears.

“I never thought I would see you again.” Eddie confesses quietly, tracing nonsense patterns between the tiny moles and rough scars on Steve’s arms.

“I couldn’t just live this new staleass life without seeing everyone again. Even if it would take me decades to find them again.” Steve’s eyes are soft and sad as he stares into Eddie. He has a finger circling around the puckered scar on Eddie’s cheek.

“So you go around the fifty states singing on the keys hoping to see one of them at a bar?” Eddie asks.

Steve huffs, “This is my side gig. But yeah, I guess you can call that wishful thinking.”

“Where did they send you?”

“Oregon. Too wet there.”

“That’s what he said.” Eddie can’t resist saying, earning a playful flick on the cheek. He hears himself turn somber when he asks, “Did you find anyone from the Party?”

“Robin in ‘88. She was in New York.” Steve smiles, undoubtedly proud to reunite with his platonic soulmate. “She refused to let me leave for a whole year.”

“Good for her. Who else?”

Steve falls silent and shifts his gaze up to the ceiling. “I haven’t found anyone since. Probably because I’m too dumb-”

“Don’t even say that.” Eddie cradles a hand on Steve’s cheek, tilting him to face him again. “You’re not an idiot, Steve. You should give yourself credit for actually finding Robin and me, even if it was dumb luck with me.” He wipes a thumb underneath Steve’s eye as a tear trails out. “Besides, it’s the government’s fault for thinking they can separate us all forever.”

Steve gives a wet laugh. “So much for new beginnings, right?”

Eddie presses another kiss on him. One on his lips, then two more where the twin moles lay on Steve’s cheek. “Not if we keep searching together.”

Steve stares at him. His eyes go wide before they soften. “Together?”

“And ever.” Eddie confirms. Steve makes a small disbelieving voice before leaning in to kiss Eddie, holding them together as long as they can.

It tastes like a vow.

#klaus writes #steddie #stranger things

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karuvapatta · 4 days

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Here comes another part of the Untitled Jonelias Magic AU, enjoy!

Once again, huge thanks to @ceaseless-bitcher, the rest of the Discord server, and the tumblr folk for the likes and reblogs and tags. You're the best! <3

***

Whoever was in charge of the archive ought to be persecuted for his crimes. It was a tiny, windowless room, stacked from floor to ceiling with unlabelled boxes and stacks of loose papers. After three hours of digging for a single report, Jon was about ready to commit an act of unspeakable violence.

He returned to the laboratory, fuming. Other researchers and lab techs took one look at his face and mostly shuffled out of the way as he made his way back to the work station and slammed the papers down, readying himself for the long, tedious process of comparing several columns of numbers to check for trends and discrepancies. He would still need to run them by Sasha later to do some proper statistical analysis, but at least he could have some basis to work on…

“Um… Sims?”

“What is it?” Jon snapped.

The unfortunate technician took a hasty step back. “Master Bouchard is looking for you.”

“So? He could have sent a message,” Jon said.

Bouchard did not care about the state of the archive room, that much was apparent. It was disgraceful, that something like this was even allowed—

“Um—”

“What?”

All of a sudden, Jon realized that he was being watched. The people around him were giving him odd looks; some were exchanging whispered comments. And it wasn’t that hard to guess what they thought about him, and what they were saying behind his back. Some were even openly questioning his relationship with Master Bouchard, and what might have prompted the man to take on someone like Jon to be his apprentice. Jon wasn’t doing himself any favours by openly disrespecting his master’s wishes.

What if Bouchard listened to the gossip? What if he realized he had made a mistake, that he was wasting his time, that—

Jon shook his head. “Right,” he said. “I will go see him now.”

Each step he took felt awkward, now that he knew he was being stared at. Most days he could ignore it and focus on the work in front of him, but now and again it would catch him unawares. It wasn’t just his own reputation at stake; not anymore.

Bouchard would be in his office at this hour. The way was familiar by now. Rosie waved him through with a polite smile, and Jon offered her a curt nod before letting himself into the room.

“Master,” he said. “You wanted to see me?”

Bouchard wasn’t at his desk; that was unusual. But there was a sitting area in the corner where he occasionally conducted meetings. He was there now, lounging in an armchair and engrossed in a book. Jon didn’t get a chance to read the title before he shut the covers and put it away.

At his invitation, Jon took the opposite seat. There was a pot of freshly brewed tea and two cups on the table between them; Jon grabbed it hastily and poured the tea. He glanced at his master’s face and stirred a spoonful of sugar into his cup.

Bouchard took a sip of tea and exhaled with obvious pleasure; Jon tried to hide his smile. But his patience was running out quickly. Surely Bouchard had a better reason for summoning him.

Apparently his restlessness was obvious. Bouchard sighed and set down his cup.

“Enough pleasantries, Mr Sims,” he said.

“You haven’t said anything yet, Master,” Jon said.

“And yet you’re already bored,” Bouchard said, the corner of his lip twitching. “I take it the lab requires your constant supervision?”

“It requires some supervision,” Jon said, and immediately felt the urge to bite off his own tongue. It wasn’t his place to criticize the way Master Bouchard managed his department. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” Bouchard said. “And do not lie to me, please. I much prefer impertinence to dishonesty.”

“That is a relief,” Jon said. “I’m a notoriously bad liar.”

Bouchard chuckled lightly. It accentuated the lines on his face, particularly around his pale eyes, and the upturned curve of his mouth. And it wasn’t really fair how much that look suited him.

“Well,” Jon cleared his throat, and adjusted the collar of his shirt. “Is there anything you wanted to discuss with me?”

“Indeed there is,” Bouchard said. “Have you made any progress with your training?”

All of a sudden Jon realized how relaxed he had felt up until this moment. But now his posture stiffened, and a weight pressed down on his chest.

“No,” he said. “I have not and you know it.”

Was it disappointment, then, in Bouchard’s solemn expression? It had to be. He had every reason to be disappointed with Jon. Impertinence might have been acceptable but incompetence was decidedly not. And Jon really wasn’t proving himself in that regard, was he?

“And why do you think that is?” Bouchard asked.

“I don’t know,” Jon snapped, frustration boiling over. “I am trying, I really am. I just—I don’t know what it is I’m doing wrong.”

He rubbed his chin and covered his mouth with a hand, eyes fliting around the room, trying to focus on something, anything that wasn’t Bouchard’s knowing gaze.

A long, heavy silence followed. His master was clearly waiting for Jon to come up with a decent excuse, or at least a reasonable explanation for the numerous failures; for all the wasted hours and sleepless nights. But it ought to have been clear by now that Jon had nothing to offer. So what was he still waiting for?

“Jon,” Bouchard said, after Jon remained stubbornly quiet. And that—he almost never addressed Jon by his name. It was improper, it implied a level of familiarity that they decidedly did not share; Jon flinched in his seat. “If I may offer a suggestion?”

That startled a laugh out of Jon, bitter and somewhat unpleasant. Now, after all this time, Bouchard wanted to help? “Of course,” he said.

“Will you do as I say?”

“I—” Jon hesitated, but it did not last long. He was past the point of desperation – or, come to think of it, pride. “Yes. I will.”

“Good,” Bouchard nodded. “Then take off the bracelet.”

“The—what?”

“You heard me.”

“I did hear you,” Jon said, incredulous. Was Bouchard toying with him, again? “I just—I can’t do that, Master. You know I can’t.”

“Why not?”

The bracelet had been his near-constant companion for the past twenty years; Jon touched it now, seeking reassurance from its presence. He felt the familiar intricate pattern, the faint pulsating rhythm of it, the subtle way it shifted and reacted to his touch. And—how could he explain it? Why would he need to? It was embarrassing enough that he had to wear it at all, and now Bouchard was expecting him to admit to this—this weakness?

“Because I can’t control my magic without it,” Jon snapped.

Bouchard looked as if he was waiting for something. It seemed like he would be willing to wait a long time for—what, exactly? For Jon to have a miraculous breakthrough—

--wait.

“I—I can’t control my magic,” Jon repeated, slow and incredulous. “Really? That’s it?” He turned towards Bouchard, who was watching him intently. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did,” Bouchard said. “You didn’t listen.”

“I did listen! I just didn’t understand—” Jon’s voice drifts off. His hand is wrapped loosely around his wrist, covering the bracelet. “And now you want me to take it off?”

“Yes,” Bouchard said. “You have been relying on it for, how long now? Several years?”

“Twenty,” Jon said flatly.

At that, Bouchard went still. He stared at Jon with wide eyes, as if he was seeing him for the first time. It occurred to Jon that it was the only time so far he had seen the man genuinely surprised.

“I’m sorry—twenty years?” Bouchard said. “Oh, Jon… what happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Jon said. He was feeling slightly nauseous. His tea had cooled down in the meantime but it was still refreshingly bitter; he took a long gulp to settle his stomach. “How would taking it off now possibly help me?”

“You need to get used to relying on yourself again,” Bouchard said after a moment. “Your own willpower, your own self-control. It is not something that can be exercised for half an hour twice a week.”

“Oh, and it’s that easy?” Jon snapped.

“No one said anything about easy.”

Jon set down his half-empty cup with too much force. Lukewarm tea sloshed inside and spilled partially onto the saucer beneath.

“Thank you for the advice, Master,” he said stiffly, pushing himself upwards. “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

Bouchard measured him with a cool gaze, eyebrows pinched together. Perhaps Jon had gone too far this time – he expected the man to lash out, to discipline him, or just end his apprenticeship altogether. But Bouchard merely sighed, and shook his head.

“No, that is all. You may go.”

Off Jon went, and tried to tell himself that what he felt was relief, and not disappointment.

#jonelias #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #elias bouchard

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fangbangerghoul · 3 months

Text

Header originally made by @thatsgoodsquishy0

Hello everyone! I am pleased to share a great event we had in our Comrade Coe's Spouses discord server for Valetine's Day!

This server is full of wonderful creatives who all share one thing in common, our love for Starfield. Okay...maybe two and our love for the bisexual single dad space cowboy! We love to support each other in our creative endeavors and to showcase this this post is going to have all the pieces from our Valetine's Day Art Trade!

Each person who signed up was randomly paired with another. We had a channel to fill out a small form of what they preferred, what they were willing to create, and their do's and don'ts in receiving other creations! We allowed about 8 weeks for people to discuss, plan, and create their own masterpieces!

Our server is always open for incoming members and there are only a few things that you need to know before requesting to join.

You must be over 21

You must love or at least appreciate Starfield

And you are joining for a good time, some creative vibes, and with an open mind!

Just tap or click on the link embedded in the server's name above for more information on how to join!

banner made by @bearlytolerant

Everything you will see below is crafted by a member of our server! There will be links to their Tumblr and ao3 links to check more of their work out!

Please feel free to show their blogs some love and their fics on ao3 as well! You can also check out their other works under the tag The Coemancer Crew. One of the core values of our community is supporting each other's creative pieces and we hope you all would love to participate in doing the same!

@atonalginger's

Anton x Sam Astral Haze

@thatsgoodsquishy0's

From Death; A Life

You almost died. Sam's grateful you're alive.

“Wait until Constellation hears about this,” you say, accompanied by a shaky laugh. “I wonder if they’ll even believe us.” He shakes his head. “They should, they don’t have to. We were there. We survived. You survived. That’s all that matters in my book.” His realism brings your gaze to the table, though a swirl of gratitude rises in the back of your mouth, coming out in a weak smile. This was nice. Peaceful, but not enough. There was still untouched territory to discuss. You lift your head, eyes soft and sincere. Unsure. “I wouldn’t be here without your help, Sam.” A pink flush spreads across his cheeks as he smiles. Averting his gaze, his pupils dart across the wall, and you notice they focus on nothing in particular. He shuts his eyes, and you suspected he was replaying the evening. You cock your head, curious. If you could pry open the contents of Sam Coe’s brain, you would, and you would soak up everything about that man, a fact you hadn’t truly believed until tonight.

@fangbangerghoul's

Crimson Slut

@bearlytolerant's

Paint It Crimson

Delgado is tired of Ghoul not resting so he takes matters into his own hands. His attempt means trying to teach her a new hobby.

She chuckles and he chooses not to engage any longer. He’s been toyed with enough. Even if that’s what they do. Argue and bicker. Pull their claws and bare their fangs until eventually he walks away with enough of his pride beaten down, dragging his ego behind him a little broken and worse for wear. It happens often enough that he can’t say he always comes out the winner. But he is weary of the game today. He wants to be nice. Try to be nice. He is determined to be nice. Another step and he reaches around her head and tugs at the blindfold. The knot unravels. Unfurls. He removes it in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor. Then he thumbs her chin, tilting her head up to get a good glimpse of her. He gazes into her citrine eyes. The warm glow from his hanging lamp, hovering over the tall snake tongued leaves of the sansevieria in the corner of the room, reflects off her irises and they glimmer and shine just like a gemstone. Thoughts waxing poetic, he blinks them away before he speaks them aloud. “I wanted to surprise you.” He releases her chin.

@silurisanguine's

So coy

@eridanidreams's

Twisted Towards the Light

Seren and Sam run into a little bit more excitement than they expected when taking down Tawny Adams...

Sam leaned against the wall. "We having fun yet?" He was breathing a little harder than usual; she gave him a quick once-over, but his suit seemed intact. He caught her look and gave her the grin she'd come to love. "I know you like what you see," he purred, "but maybe look a little less like you want to rip my suit right off until we're done? Mercs might get the wrong idea." Seren couldn't help but laugh. "Arse," she growled. "And a fine one," he agreed. "Though yours," he eyed her up and down, "might be even finer. Pity that your suit hides it, or we could do a real close comparison. Hands-on, even." "Focus, Sam," she reminded him, hitting the 'cycle' button. "Bad guys that way." "I am focused," he said, sounding innocent as the day was long. (In the case of this misbegotten little moon, that was only 4.5 UT hours, so… not all that innocent.) "I'm just a busy man. I have to work in all that quality time of thinking about me and you."

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