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whatacaitastrophe · 1 month

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Everything Has Changed - Chapter 6

Previous Chapter

Chapter Song Inspiration: "I Can See You" - Taylor Swift

Chapter Warnings: none

Spotify Playlist: Here

Author Notes: Thank you all so much for reading, reblogging, liking, and commenting on this fic (and the first one)! If you are interested in supporting me in other ways, I have a Ko-Fi link. ya girl has been behind on bills for two months and i've got a dog to feed, and every little bit helps <3

Chapter 6: Baby, If You Only Knew

Fallon shouldn’t be laughing. Firstly, laughing was incredibly painful. This was the primary reason that Fallon was desperately trying to hold in her laughter as the situation unfolded in front of her. Second, it was Astarion who was the misfortunate one who they were laughing at, and he would definitely be bothered by the fact that she laughed with Gale and Arabella. Then again, it wasn’t every day that her boyfriend was accidentally turned into a cat by her ex-boyfriend’s wild magic, so perhaps this was one of those rare moments where, despite her lover’s displeasure, laughing through the pain was acceptable.

She didn’t need to be able to understand the meows coming from the fluffy white cat at her feet to know Astarion was furious. “Gods, to have a Potion of Animal Speaking on me right now,” Fallon giggled, wiping tears from her eyes. She looked between Gale and Arabella. “Do either of you have one?”

“I do, actually.” Arabella offered, quickly standing up and rushing to her tent to grab the potion.

“You know he’s never going to forgive you for this.” Fallon warned Gale, and the sorcerer chuckled.

“I’d expect nothing less,” He shook his head. “Is it bad that I’m not sorry?”

Fallon snorted, which earned them both a devastating glare and a hiss from the cat. “Maybe a little.”

Arabella returned with the potion and handed the bottle to Fallon, who quickly uncapped it and swallowed down the potion in two gulps.

A tingling sensation worked its way through her body and within moments, the angry meows coming out of the cat’s mouth were in Common.

“Not sorry, I’ll show that bastard what not sorry looks like.” Astarion ranted as he paced and his tail lashed rapidly back and forth.

“Are you okay, Astarion?” Fallon asked, trying to suppress her giggles once again now that she could speak with him.

“Don’t bother holding back your laughter now, darling, it didn’t stop you before,” He huffed. “If by ‘okay’ you mean 'not at risk of being burned to a crisp by the sun', then yes, it appears I’m fine! But if you’re concern is regarding the fact that Gale turned me into a bloody fucking house cat, then no, I am ABSOLUTELY NOT FINE!”

The last time Astarion shrieked at her like this, it was when Fallon accidentally locked him in the Githyanki creche after she and Shadowheart convinced him to steal The Blood of Lathander, and the building exploded with Astarion still inside. The effect was lessened, however, by his current fluffy situation.“Well at least we know you’re not a vampiric cat.” She offered, trying to find the silver lining of this situation.

“Tell him to change me back this instant, or I will shred his pillow.” Astarion demanded, ignoring her optimism.

Fallon looked at Gale. “Do you think you can turn him back?”

Gale shook his head. “I’m not even sure how he got turned in the first place, so, no. I don’t think I can.”

“Perfect, just bloody perfect.” Astarion growled, and Fallon offered him a sympathetic look.

“Any ideas, Arabella?” Gale inquired of the teenager, a slight blush creeping back into his cheeks at the embarrassment of having to ask someone more than half his age for advice about magic.

She shrugged. “I could try, but transformational magic that complex isn’t something I’ve done much of, so I could end up just making it worse.”

“Yes, let’s not leave my fate to the teenager, thank you.” Astarion hopped up onto the log and perched next to Fallon.

“He said no,” Fallon summarized, leaving Astarion’s passive aggressive insult out. Instinctively she reached over and began scratching behind Astarion’s ears, like she would with any other animal. “Is it any comfort to know that you’re an extremely handsome cat?” It was a hilariously awkward situation, but maybe if she could appeal to Astarion’s vanity he would calm down enough so he wouldn’t hurt Gale once he was human again.

Astarion huffed again. “I know what you’re doing, and no, it is not,” He pressed his furry head into Fallon’s palm and purred. “Though that feels nice.”

Fallon continued scratching behind Astarion’s ears, and kissed the top of his head. “So none of us have any idea how long this is going to last?”

Arabella and Gale shook their heads, and Fallon sighed. “Well, at least we weren’t planning on traveling today anyway.”

“Gale, would you like me to show you some more basic spells while we wait for Astarion to turn back? That way, you’ll at least be able to defend yourself when he tries to murder you.” Arabella offered.

Gale glared at the teenager. “Yes, that would be most appreciated, thank you.” He replied dryly before turning his attention to Astarion. “Astarion, I do hope you know that I didn’t turn you into a cat on purpose, and that you will consider this fact before maiming me or my belongings.”

“I’ll maim whoever the fuck I want, I got turned into a bloody cat.” Astarion hissed, and Gale flinched.

“He said he’ll think about it.” Fallon grinned, giggling again at the sight of a grown man being afraid of a cat.

“Don’t lie to him.” Astarion ordered her as Gale walked away with Arabella.

“You’re not really going to hurt him, are you?” Fallon asked, scooping Astarion up into her arms and carrying him back to their tent so she could lay down. She might as well spend their rest day curled up with a book, and a cat in her lap. “It kind of feels like bullying a toddler, with the way he can barely control his magic right now.”

“Gods, will you ever stop trying to make me a better person?” Astarion whined.

“Probably not.”

“Fine, on my honor, I will not harm the baby sorcerer.” Astarion rolled his eyes. Fallon didn’t know cats could do that. “Can I at least be a thorn in his side until I turn back?”

“You don't need my permission, love, but why would you do that when you could stay here and have a cuddle with me?” Fallon set Astarion down on the ground once they were inside the tent, and sat down next to him. She scratched behind his ears again, and the cat purred.

“Mmm tempting as that is, I think I’d rather be a nuisance to the man who turned me into a cat since you won’t let me kill him.” He licked her hand affectionately, and then trotted back out of the tent, leaving Fallon alone. She shook her head and picked up her book.

Over the next hour, every so often Fallon heard the sounds of something being knocked to the ground, followed by the sound of Arabella giggling and Gale snapping Astarion’s name. With each sound of an object clattering to the ground, the volume of Gale’s voice increased, as did his frustration. She knew that Gale didn’t have many personal items with him, so it was very likely that Astarion had taken it upon himself to repeatedly knock the same object over, much like a normal cat would. She would never say this to his face, but Fallon was of the opinion that Astarion made an excellent cat. He certainly had the right attitude.

Fallon did not put her book down until she heard the telltale “wooshing” sound of transformational magic, followed shortly by a surprised shout from Gale and the sound of Astarion’s voice.

“Don’t you run from me, Gale!” Astarion shouted, and Fallon moved so quickly she barely had time to register the pain that shot through her body as she exited her tent to bear witness to whatever was happening outside. Arabella was standing between the grown men with a large force field surrounding her body, causing Gale and Astarion to run in circles around her as they tried to get to each other. A wide grin bloomed on Fallon’s face and she just stood there, watching, not bothering to intervene. Gale’s gaze fell to Fallon and lingered there a moment too long, grinning at her. That was when Astarion struck, tackling Gale to the ground.

They tumbled in the dirt, wrestling each other like two schoolboys. Fallon looked at Arabella, and the tiefling shook her head. Whatever the goal was, neither Gale or Astarion seemed to have any intention of actually causing the other serious physical harm, so Fallon was inclined to just let them burn each other out. Fallon walked over to Arabella. “How was spell training?” She asked.

“It actually went pretty well– Gale is a fast learner. Of course, we didn’t get through many of them, thanks to Catstarion causing chaos.” Arabella giggled, her eyes still on the men in the dirt. “I don’t remember the two of them being this…combative the last time I saw you all.”

Fallon laughed once. “You’ve missed a lot.”

“I mean, I had a feeling since you’re sharing a tent with Astarion now, and not Gale.” Fallon had forgotten that the last time Arabella shared a camp with them all, Fallon had been in a relationship with Gale.

“Fair enough,” She conceded. Fallon turned her head to look at Arabella. “Did you see Gale blush earlier when you asked if they kissed?” Fallon needed to be certain she hadn’t been the only one to notice. She’d heard the way Gale flirted with Astarion the night the vampire called him Fallon’s new stray dog, reminding him that Astarion loved Scratch, too, but Fallon had assumed that was just to shake Astarion’s confidence and confuse him.

“Oh, he totally blushed.” Arabella confirmed. “Do you think they have? Kissed?”

Fallon went quiet for a moment and turned her attention back to Gale and Astarion wrestling. As Astarion’s partner, the thought of him kissing someone else, especially her ex-boyfriend, should bother her. Only…it didn’t. When she pictured Astarion and Gale kissing, it wasn’t an unwelcome sight. Her mind drifted and the picture in her mind shifted. Fallon pictured herself between Astarion and Gale, their hands roaming over her body as they kissed each other, and she could feel her body heating at the thought. After perhaps a second of hesitation too long, Fallon shook her head to rid herself of the fantasy and to deny Arabella’s question. “Definitely not. Astarion can barely stand to be around the same campfire as Gale. It would never happen.”

Gale and Astarion had finally slowed, as Gale had finally tapped out and apologized to Astarion for turning him into a cat. As they lay on the ground next to each other panting, another image flashed through Fallon’s mind: the two of them laying next to each other, panting because they’d just satisfied her so thoroughly she couldn’t remember her own name. Fallon’s heartbeat picked up as treacherous arousal bloomed inside of her. No, she wouldn’t mind any of those things at all.

Well, she thought to herself. That’s going to be a problem.

Chapter List

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #gale #astarion #bg3 fanfic #female tav #gale x tav #astarion x tav #astarion x gale x tav #bloodweave #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 fanfic #bg3 fan fiction #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #baldur's gate 3 fan fic #baldur's gate 3 fan fiction

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trulycertain · 5 months

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Tedium

A study of early game Lora and Astarion, and the absolute mess that was. Developing mostly-good bard Tav/Astarion, with so much arguing. 1.6k.

Lora has always found small, petty bastards boring - the kinds who tried to make her and so many others' lives a misery in the city. They've just got so little imagination. Their excuses are all the same, it's just a matter of scale. Even if they pretend to be misguidedly noble, the self-interest slips through eventually. Evil in stories is grand, elegant, tragic. It has really good tailoring. Evil in real life? It's banal, grey or mud-soaked, and seems to take place in offices half the time, for some reason. Good, that cheap, trite thing in too many stories? In reality, it's a sudden sparkling surprise every time it happens; Baldur's Gate is not a place known for being gentle. People are more beautiful when they do a good thing. The sky is brighter, the grass just a little bit greener.

Astarion is small, in the sense of both generosity of spirit and actual stature - it's not her fault that she's six foot two and that he gets so irritated when she sees something over the top of his head. She's not doing it on purpose. Mostly.

He's incredibly petty. (“Oh, I'm sure she's just a delight at parties,” he says of the druid guard who's stopped them at least twice, thinking they might be refugees. “Refugee? Me? Have they seen this thread? Have I a pair of horns and an air of pathetic desperation? Just because I didn't know that dirt-encrusted branches were apparently ‘in’ this week...” Finger-quotes and everything. Lora might have snorted at that. He catches her; he raises an eyebrow in response, but with the tiniest pleased tilt to his mouth.)

And he's definitely a bastard. He's happy to leave the tieflings to die - happy to leave anyone to, it seems. She has to take a deep breath at that, but there are the pressing time constraints of soon turning into a mindflayer; no wonder he wants to get straight to healers and the creche. Good intentions won't mean much if you turn into a squid mid-fight and end up killing or kidnapping all the refugees anyway. She tries hard to bear that in mind while he sighs melodramatically, as if helping people is an inconvenience that might lead to his breaking a nail, and she glares at him. He delights in a holy relic being stolen - but with something like genuine approval of the tiefling child's bravery, somewhere under all that. And he's not wrong that all this self-righteousness about not interfering in nature is a bit rich when you're very intentionally turning people out to the mercy of raiders. But that's all he's right about.

A small, petty bastard. All that's true, and real. So why does she keep talking to him? Why isn't she bored? Angry, most of the time, and amused, sometimes, but not bored.

If Lora knows one thing, it's a narrative. Retellings wear grooves in the dirt for a reason; it feels like there's a way some stories have to wrap up. She knows exactly how it would have ended if she'd met Astarion before the tadpole. A cruel vampire too well-oiled by half, who seemed to delight in death and blood? One of them would have ended up dead, the other with a twist of satisfaction - his at having survived another day and, as a bonus, shut up a pompous hero type; hers at having taken someone that dangerous out of the world, even if she'd have completely missed the master pulling the strings.

Later, when she realises she's been imagining completely the wrong backstory for him, she thinks of the Grove again. Of being free for the first time in two hundred years, finally able to walk in the sun, and losing it in minutes because your leader ran headfirst into a battle.

Hells, she hates when he almost makes sense. It makes her dust off her moral compass for a quick check.

Still, he meanders up to her - to poke her, to tease and taunt, but sometimes just… to ask questions. Feeling for her weak spots, probably, but there's a cheerful curiosity in his eyes that seems genuine when he asks her how she learned to play the lyre, what her other instruments are. It's a rare moment of peace in between their mutual arguments. He plays it off soon enough with some comment about her being good with her hands and an eyebrow-waggle, but the questions were real. He prods her to see what falls out and she… lets him. If anything, she does the same. And she still isn't bored.

He delights in bloodshed and mayhem; he drinks deeply of death just the way he does of life. She’s caught him laughing under his breath when someone falls to the floor, caught him licking the blood off his daggers when he thought she wasn’t looking - that just got her a red-stained grin and an obscene widening of his arms like he was inviting her to look. He makes jokes about killing gnomes. He makes jokes about killing her, though those are actually funny, and he's right about having to face what will happen if they change; it's best to do it with a laugh. It's also oddly forthright, oddly brave, for a man who's never been forthright in his life. He beams at her when she plays along, like she’s just given him a gift, morbidly pleased at speaking of his own beheading. Death and bloodshed and mayhem, yes.

Except.

Except when she’s watching a young tiefling girl about to be bitten by a snake, or pretending to offer the goblins’ general the tiefling camp on a platter. His eyes harden, in that moment, even while his mouth twitches and he makes amused, contemptuous quips: like he’s waiting for her to make the obvious choice. And even as he makes approving noises at the thought of the goblins’ victory, even as he castigates her for her soppy kindness…

Cruelty would be the obvious, the easy choice. It would be exactly what he expects. It would also be, she’s certain more and more when she feels those red eyes on her, the boring choice. To him, too. Even if he doesn't want to admit it.

She's always had a good instinct for people, so her mentor used to say. It got taught to her early, taught her when a glassing was coming or she was about to get stiffed on payment at a tavern or just how to work a crowd.

Stories in well-worn grooves. Two hundred years of death and desperate self-service and making sure everyone's expendable but you, over and over again. The same narrative shoved down your throat for two hundred years.

The shape of it is there in her mind, sketched out but not detailed yet: he knows cruelty like the back of his hand, partaking and receiving. He can sleepwalk his way through it. There’s a delight when he speaks of it, an amusement in his eyes, but it’s the same as when he spoke of being a magistrate back in the city, it’s all very tedious, lording his power over her, pointed and urbane and far, far too well-rehearsed. The same way she looks over her shoulder and catches him flirting with their companions, incorrigible, a lazy, leering lean closer in his tone even as he keeps walking beside them. There’s real amusement there at getting to play with words, at making them uncomfortable, and yet... I saw you mouthing that one to yourself in the mirror earlier, Shadowheart points out, when he tries a particularly trite line on her. And Lora thinks, Exactly.

He bristles and shouts at her and makes drawled comments about how much of a drip she is. She agrees to find an elderly woman’s missing daughter; behind her, she hears him sigh and not even bother to hide it, the rolling of his eyes entirely audible. They get back to camp and he asks her, “This will take us closer to understanding the tadpole how, exactly?” He hates every minute of it, hates her - but there’s a wildfire in him, searing bright and unrehearsed and fascinatingly real, when he snarls at her and melodramatically turns his back to her and calls her tedious.

She bought it at first, the way he called her that. She was boring, certainly, and he was a self-serving shallow ass - that part was true, even if he was lying through his teeth about so many things. He got to stay because they dearly needed a lockpicker and archer as good as him, and because she was too reluctantly herself to let him turn into a mindflayer alone, even if she should have. As he said that second night: you need someone to put you out of your misery.

And then she realised precisely what it was, behind all the bared teeth and callous suggestions: he’s waiting.

He waits for her to slip and kill someone because it’s easier, or say that he deserved his master’s treatment. She laughs sometimes at his sense of humour - less dark, more Underdark - and takes precisely none of his suggestions. He waits for her to be a humourless paladin type who crushes him underfoot or turns out to be a stiff fraud wearing mail, and she cackles at his muttered observations, happily humiliates the little tyrants they see on the road along with him. The moments their eyes meet and she sees the silent vicious glee in his, too, the both of them knowing pride comes before a very long fall, they almost understand each other. She lies and cheats the false servants of Tyr before killing them anyway, because they were going to drag an innocent tiefling back to the Hells, and sees his reluctantly impressed eyebrows out of the corner of her eye - and then she gives the money to refugees while he sighs. He snarls, I was a slave and waits for her to order him about or step over him; the best she can tell, she treats him just the same. As they keep to the road and he realises that the mask he’s been trying to pry away is just her face, the easy, dulled cynicism in his eyes is starting to be replaced by something else: a confused, furious surprise. Maybe the first surprise he’s had in two centuries.

She’s learned to read him a little better, over these weeks on the road. She’s driving him mad. He’s incandescently angry with and baffled by her in turns. But she doesn’t believe him when he says he finds her tedious.

#astarion x tav #Astarion #astarion ancunin #lora mctavish #Baldur's Gate 3 #Oh god they're a disaster

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atsadi-shenanigans · 2 months

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Feeding Alligators 35 - The Devil Wears Douchebag

Y'all meet a theater kid loser.

On AO3.

The Halsin guy is, once again, y’all’s best bet—no, Lae’zel, we don’t even know where the creche is and we do know where the goblins are and I promise if our dumb, istik brains get this wrong, we go there next.

Thank fuck for Gale and his teleports.

And your suspicions the night before were, in fact, entirely correct. Blood potion and dirt potion taste fucking horrific together. You futilely scrape your tongue with your nails in between gargling with tea (despite Gale’s wincing and “that was a perfectly good brew”). You’re so desperate, in fact, you try to gargle with wine.

Astarion laughs so hard when you choke that he almost rips open the seat of his pants as he keels over in hysterics.

Bastard.

But you can talk, your head feels calm and clear, and you’re not face-planting dead in the dirt.

“We cannot leave that devil to terrorize innocent people,” Wyll says as you swig the alcohol taste out with more tea (actually drinking it, this time, Gale).

He did agree to join y’all to get help taking that thing down. The brainworms fucked him up along with the others; man is down to a couple of spells a day. And the devil’s last known location was sort of in the vicinity of where y’all need to go anyway.

A demon hunt it is.

***

Y’all step through the swirling, swooshing purple portal into sunshine. Astarion isn’t the only one to sigh and turn their face up to bask in the warm, clean light. To a one, y’all’re coated in swamp muck and hag goo. There’s nobody on the road when y’all emerge, but you suspect anybody coming across you would give you a real, real wide berth.

The teleporter spits y’all out near the grove again. It’ll be several days’ walk to the goblin camp. But at least the crew knows this area well enough to find all the streams to camp next to.

Wyll chomps at the bit, though. His hero instincts can’t let y’all rest and clean up. So loathe as y’all are, y’all agree to set off now and make camp and wash your damn clothes later.

You ain’t that far from the grove when you notice the handholds carved into a cliff on your left. You saw similar marks when you went to visit a national park a few years back. Ancestral Puebloans used them to get up to their cliff cities down in New Mexico. You look up, and think you see the top of a structure up there. And more importantly, some kinda chest on that structure up there.

“I’ll be right back,” you say and unsling your pack. “Might be something useful.”

Lae’zel eyes the cliff and nods approvingly. Probably because this is exercise and while she left off going into the hag fight, she’ll be right back on your ass tonight, you reckon (your entire body is sore, but your pack seems a touch lighter than usual).

“I’ll go with you,” Wyll says. “We can scout the area from up there. Make sure there aren’t any goblin patrols.”

And then Astarion surprises all y’all. “I suppose I’ll go, too.” Catches all of you staring and rolls his eyes. “If someone died up there they might still have valuables.”

Of course. Mr. Sticky Fingers.

“Dibs on jewelry,” you say, because you haven’t forgotten that conversation and you can’t afford to back down on it.

He tilts his head, all amused, and Lae’zel makes a sort of low hiss in the back of her throat. Surprisingly, Shadowheart near mimics the sound. Then the two realize they agree on something and both appear pretty grossed out by the prospect.

The cliff ain’t one long wall, but a jumble of several shorter ones. Your boots are thin and flexible enough, and the angle just shallow enough you can scrabble up. Slower than both the boys—holy fuck, Astarion is fast at that but he frowns at his hands when you crawl up to join him on the first ledge.

Wyll, the gentleman, lets you go first in case you need a boost, but also scurries up beside you in case you need a hand at the top—which you do thanks to the whole “upper body strength deficiency” thing.

There is a structure at the top, alright. Real dilapidated, all wooden poles leaning haphazardly together. But there’s also a chest up there. Astarion volunteers himself. Shimmies right up, swipes the thing, and more slides than climbs down, the wood groaning and swaying alarmingly.

There’s no bodies, though. Just a moldy sack of some kind, and a spectacular view of the smashed open butthole ship.

“Damn,” you say, looking out. The debris field is huge, but the main shell of it seems to have landed close together. More like it dropped right outta the sky and cracked like an egg, less like an airplane shredding itself to pieces as it plowed across the landscape.

You wonder how the damn thing flew at all. No wings or rotors; probably wasn’t as fast as an actual airplane, since you doubt it had to generate lift like one. That lack of speed (and Not-Sasha) are probably what saved you from being roadkill.

“Quite the view, isn’t it?” Astarion says.

You hum. “I wonder if anybody else survived? Maybe fell out earlier, got saved by that dream douche.”

There’s a pause as you both wonder if that word translated correctly. Then Astarion moves past it. “If they did, they’re probably dead in a ditch somewhere by now.”

You give him a look.

“I’m just saying, we’ve been incredibly lucky. The wilderness doesn’t lack for monsters and bandits and cutthroats. Any one of us could have died at least twice by now had we found ourselves alone.”

“True,” Wyll comes in. He surveys the destruction below, and gives a slow shake of his head. “It almost makes you wonder if something else has a hand in all this.”

Astarion’s scoff is harsher than usual, his voice laced with heavy sarcasm. “You think gods saved us for some ‘higher purpose?’”

You could catch those air quotes blindfolded. You ain’t sure if he’s mocking the higher purpose, or gods in general (you try to hide the smile at either prospect). It is interesting, though, since gods are actually a physical thing, here.

“I’ve not seen the handiwork of many gods,” Wyll says. “But I have seen the influence of other things.”

“Ah! A well-traveled group, then!”

Y’all whirl, both men going for their blades.

Another guy stands behind y’all, dressed like a real fancy man, all ruffles and buttons and embroidery. You heard nothing from the other below to indicate y’all had company, and the man’s hands—held out as he dips into a theatric bow—are clean, his fingers well-manicured.

Fancy little fuck did not climb up here.

“Who’re you?” you say, dropping your customary swearing because this guy seems to have dropped clean out of the sky.

His eyes shift to you—

Oh. Fuck.

Those ain’t human eyes. That’s not a man. He’s man-shaped, but there’s something about the air around him, something that suggests an ill-fitted suit, like the atmosphere strains against the seams where he stands.

What the actual fuck is that thing?

“Such ferocity from one so defenseless,” he says, his voice pitched so low it goes gravelly.

Your lips hurt. They’re pulled back over your teeth in an animal snarl, you realize. Every hair on your body stands on end. Something about that thing ain’t right, ain’t natural, shouldn’t fucking be here.

“Who are you?” Wyll says as your monkey brain scrambles for human words.

The thing ignores him. Scopes the area with a disdainful air. “My, my, what manner of place is this? A path to redemption? Or a road to damnation? Hard to say, for your journey is just beginning.”

You immediately want to smash his teeth out. Not just because of the gibbering alarm shrieking in your skull; his entire vibe oozes pretension.

Which gets worse when he again, theatrically—still pretending y’all ain’t standing there, waiting for an answer—taps his lips with one finger. “What would suit the occasion? The words to a lullaby, perhaps?”

And then he launches into some goddamn poem. You don’t pay much attention—something about a cat. The talking pisses you off. Bitch drops out of nowhere and fucking monologues at you and you want to crawl out of your own skin. He rambles on and on until, finally, says his name: Raphael.

There’s no magic translation of his name. It really is “Raphael.”

Which is a Hebrew name.

It is an angel’s name.

You don’t think this thing is an angel what the fuck.

Your companions both look to you, for some reason, and when you still don’t speak (please be wrong, please be wrong, please your mother cannot be right about this), Wyll ventures a, “Are you the cat or the mouse?”

And hoo boy. Does this (demon demon demon) man look fucking ecstatic with somebody playing along.

Your mother and the others loved talked about the devil. Loved. Demons and evil and witches and sin. Couldn’t somebody spit out more than three sentences without bringing one of them into it, up to and including passing the salt at breakfast.

You left all that behind. Slowly, deliberately. Like pealing leeches—fat and gorged and pulsing with your own, stolen blood—from your body. Each belief, each phrase, each word carefully (or extremely rushed in a fit of anger) pulled out, mouths chomping and bloodied. Each one dropped into the dirt and left behind to rot.

Now you’re here, with wizards and vampires and a literal fucking soul trying to fly off into space, and you look at this monologuing motherfucker, and something long dead stirs within you.

(demon demon demon)

You been palling around with killers and monsters. But now, in front of this creature, you feel the first brush of evil.

Raphael lifts his fingers. He’s been talking; you were too busy keeping your limbs still, knees locked, keeping yourself upright. Now he snaps, and the world shifts—

You’re in some ugly fucking dining room. Everything in red and gold and black, like a migraine made visual. Fireplaces big enough to stuff a fucking buffalo into. Paintings of demons (yep, those’re demons) on the walls. It’s all opulent and gauche in a nauseating way.

Voices startle behind you. The rest of the crew, clutching their weapons, eyes wide, teeth bared in Lae’zel’s case and huh, she’s an alien entity to these people and the two of you seem to have the same reaction to that thing.

Beyond them, you spot another painting. A red demon, big, bat wings spread wide, dressed in frilly, foppish finery. Skull in one hand. Same, smug face as the creature standing in the room with you.

Motherfucker.

“What’s going on?” Gale says. “Who…?”

“Welcome, welcome to the House of Hope,” Raphael says. Gestures to the huge table piled three tiers high with food. It even smells good. You been living off stews, sausage, and cheese for a week. That pie looks so flaky and tender, your mouth actually waters. “Please, help yourselves. Enjoy supper. It might be your last.”

“Don’t touch the food,” you say. So many stories about abductions and food. Fairies, Greek gods, and that one Guillermo del Toro movie with the pale man.

This, unfortunately, draws the attention of the sonuvabitch back to you. Jesus lord, his face is so sleazy. He cocks his head. Studies you.

“Yes, you’re an interesting case, aren’t you?” he says. His voice dips even lower, going ragged in his throat like he’s trying too hard. “Not from around here. You notice it, don’t you? You and the gith, both.”

“Notice what?” Wyll says.

“That creature cloaks its appearance,” Lae’zel says. Much better wording than your own, mental his skin is fucking fake!

“Indeed,” Raphael says. He tosses an arm into the air as if to present a stage line. Only hot wind buffets out from him, stinking of ozone and sulfur. And when you blink through watering eyes, there stands the red motherfucking demon from the painting.

Wyll tenses beside you. Astarion has gone utterly still, not even pretending to breathe.

Raphael smirks. Says, “What’s better than the devil you don’t know? The one that you do.”

“No,” you say.

You don’t mean to say it. You have every intention of staying still and quiet, like Astarion. Of fading into the background and hoping the bad thing doesn’t notice you until y’all can get the fuck outta here.

But this is all too much, and you’re flat out panicking and (demon demon demon the devil will steal your soul). It just sort of slips outta you.

Raphael frowns, mildly. Cranks up the sleaze. “I’m afraid I haven’t even—”

“No thank you we’d like to go now—” You clap both hands over your mouth. Resist the urge to walk over to the nearest wall and lobotomize yourself through sheer blunt force trauma.

At least a few self-preservation instincts manage to reach in and make sure it comes out sorta polite?

The next frown is not mild. “Ill manners make an ill guest. On this plane and in all others.”

You’re done talking. You’re done moving. You can feel the sweat beading in your armpits and along the edge of your scalp.

Raphael’s creepy demon eyes hold your gaze a moment longer. When you sensibly keep your lips shut, he resumes his monologue. You all but sag against Astarion when the demon shifts to address the others.

Something something brainworms. Something something he’s your savior (you’ve had quite enough of those to last a lifetime). Something something grandiose pretension.

“I could fix it all like that.” Raphael snaps his fingers. Flames burst up from his hand.

Neat party trick, you think and absolutely do not say.

He wants y’all to ask for help. Says y’all won’t find any with Halsin or Lae’zel’s people. He says all that in the nastiest, most arrogant way possible, and your companions look at each other, unsure. One of them is gonna say something stupid, ask for more information, actually consider what this fuck is saying.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” you say. Your voice only shakes a little. You’re almost proud of that. “But I have to insist we leave.”

Maybe it’s the extra courtesy in your phrasing. Or maybe he’s too wrapped up in the sound of his own speech. He sweeps right into his next schtick of “blah blah denying reality, blah bah change your mind, you’re so weak, you’ll come crawling back, blah blah.”

Wyll is damn near trembling to one side. There’s a look in his eye part contained anger, part fear.

“You’ve been lucky so far,” Raphael wraps up. “And I’ll be there when that luck runs out.”

He snaps his fingers.

You’re once again on a cliff, under a blue sky smelling of pine and distant water and the slightest tinge of burning slugs and rubber.

None of the others gives you crap as your legs give out.

#feeding alligators fic #these two shitheads #bg3 fic #astarion fic #tavstarion #astarion x tav #isekai #plus size tav #demisexual tav #slow burn #like reallllllly slow #they're both dumb

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d-saster-chron-cles · 4 months

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I've never been happier to get screamed at by Astarion.

I've wanted to see this scene trigger for one of my characters for eons and now it finally happened because Haryk is a spiteful bastard and decided to steal the Blood of Lathander even though he had the crest.

Bye bye Creche Yllek. Sorry I had to hurt Astarion though.

#astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #haryk duskwalker #haryk x astarion

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beatrice-otter · 1 year

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Worldbuilding 2023 Recs

Worldbuilding Exchange was a lot of fun this year, although pretty stressful for me at the end. I received a lovely Pacific Rim fic, Catch the Drift. And there are a lot of other great fics in the collection. Here are my favorites! Catch the Drift (1643 words) by Anonymous Fandom: Pacific Rim (Movies) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Raleigh Becket, Yancy Becket, Original Characters Additional Tags: Worldbuilding, Journalism, News Media, The Drift (Pacific Rim), Drift Compatibility (Pacific Rim) Summary:

A writer for Smithsonian magazine has a rare chance to see beyond the pop culture portrayals of the Drift to the more complicated reality behind the revolutionary technology.

Call of the Five (1011 words) by Anonymous Fandom: Chalion Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Ordol (Chalion Saga), the Father (Chalion), the Mother (Chalion), the Daughter (Chalion), the Son (Chalion), the Bastard (Chalion) Additional Tags: Fictional Religion & Theology, vocation, The Calling of a Divine, Pseudo-academia, In-Universe Meta, no beta we die three times for the house of chalion Summary:

"Some are born to be divines, some take up the call gradually, and some have divines' vows thrust upon them." - an excerpt on vocation from Ordol's Fivefold Path

Design Documents for 61st Annual Hunger Games (1489 words) by Anonymous Fandom: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Gamemakers (Hunger Games), Plutarch Heavensbee Summary:

The year everyone froze to death, beginning to end

the wonder of the universe (3142 words) by Anonymous Fandom: Torchwood Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Ianto Jones, Jack Harkness, Owen Harper, Toshiko Sato Additional Tags: Aliens, Caretaking, Ianto's Duties, Ianto Jones-Centric, Slice of Life, Weird Little Aliens, the care and keeping of Torchwood Three's non-human residents, Alien Flora & Fauna, Telepathy, Partial Mind Control, self-surgery, Ianto is a Secretive little bastard by habit, sentient slimemold, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Comedy of Errors, Canon-Typical Disregard for Personal Safety Summary:

Ianto had meant to keep his head down, not draw any notice to himself at Torchwood Three, but somehow he keeps attracting attention from the strangest sources.

(Despite his best efforts, Ianto adopts a bunch of aliens)

The Aslan Clause (1200 words) by Anonymous Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Original Narnian Character(s) Additional Tags: Museumverse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Modern Setting, Matters of Succession, Comment thread Summary:

In the modern, democratic age of Narnia, the argument continues over whether the Aslan Clause should be reworked… or altogether retired.

On Witnessing For the Self (6101 words) by Anonymous Fandom: The Goblin Emperor Series - Katherine Addison Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s), Thara Celehar Summary:

Eventually Thara Celehar gets better at teaching. Sometime much later, this happens.

A Dull Careful Person May Manage (1595 words) by Anonymous Fandom: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Dag Benin & Pel Navarr, Dag Benin & Miles Vorkosigan, Dag Benin & Fletchir Giaja Characters: Dag Benin, Pel Navarr Additional Tags: Book: Diplomatic Immunity, POV Dag Benin, Canon-Typical Problematic Things, Cetagandan eugenics and accompanying mindsets, non-graphic mention of Barrayaran practices of taking body parts as trophies, Ambiguous/Open Ending, star creche, Cetagandans, Cetagandan Ghem caste, title is a Dorothy Sayers quote from a Peter Wimsey book Summary:

Dag Benin considers the nameless ba's plot.

Re: Re: Transporter Duplication - Lt JG Bradward Boimler (3285 words) by Anonymous Fandom: Star Trek: Lower Decks (Cartoon) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Brad Boimler, William Boimler, William Riker Additional Tags: Epistolary, Documentation, Transporter Malfunction, Clones, Humor, POV Outsider Summary:

After a transporter accident results in an extra Boimler, Starfleet Personnel is notified so that the situation can be sorted out. There are procedures for this sort of thing.

Listening and Untangling (1536 words) by Anonymous Fandom: Young Wizards - Diane Duane Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Rhiow (Cats of Grand Central), Lone Power (Young Wizards), Urruah (Cats of Grand Central), Original Mouse Character Additional Tags: The Wizards' Oath (Young Wizards), Ordeal (Young Wizards), Worldgates (Young Wizards), Coming of Age Summary:

Surely something that was going to eat her wouldn't speak to her so civilly?

These Ink-Stained Hands Are Red (4616 words) by Anonymous Fandom: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Original Male Character(s), Seneca Crane, Coriolanus Snow Additional Tags: Worldbuilding, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Designing A Hunger Games, 72nd Hunger Games, Angst, Politics, Tragedy, Unlikeable Protagonist, Drama, office politics Summary:

A middling Gamemaker is given the chance of a lifetime. Things do not turn out for the best.

Five Times Abigail Met People From the Demi-Monde, and One Time She Didn't (9157 words) by Anonymous Fandom: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Abigail Kamara & Brent Characters: Abigail Kamara, Brent, Melissa Oswald, Original Characters, Original Female Character(s) Additional Tags: 5+1 Things, Podfic Welcome, Don't copy to another site, Demimonde Necessity Has Made Us Allies (5000 words) by Anonymous Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Bail Organa, Original Characters Additional Tags: Rebellion, Recruitment, Action/Adventure, Worldbuilding, Rebel Alliance Factions Summary:

Old wounds from the Clone Wars still fester, and not everyone who wants the Empire gone wants to restore the Republic.

comments Comment? https://ift.tt/8QlmohL

#dreamwidth #original post

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flowersdaggersviolasandblood · 8 months

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Assassin with a Heart of Gold

Name: Admaer Daeneiros (He/Him)

Race: High Elf

Class: Rogue (Assassin)

Background: Criminal

WARNING, SPOILERS AHEAD

Been a minute since we spoke about this bastard man, so let's get back into it. So last we left Admaer, he fucked up Lae'zel's chances of ever appeasing Vlaakith and ran away from the Creche with the Astral Prism in tow. But not before stealing the Blood of Lathander mace from the monastery and dipping. I also didn't get the egg from the Creche, but I already took that bitches money, so Admaer still wins (even though I sold everything I had for a cool lookin shortsword lol).

After leaving the joint, it was time we head to Moonrise Towers. Like Pero, Admaer is going to stay above ground, not wanting to risk going back to the Underdark. Before reaching the Cursed Lands, we are greeted with a familiar face at camp.

We are greeted with Voss again, and despite our Guardian telling us that we shouldn't trust him, Admaer hears the man out. Apparently, Voss is secretly conspiring against his queen as well. He reveals that the purification, the Zaith'isk does not purify anyone and only kills both the host and the parasite. He also reveals that those who are ascended by Vlaakith are not ascended at all. They are instead killed and eaten by the Lich Queen as she pursues a path to godhood. Lae'zel is at first defiant about these claims, but ultimately decides to take these to near heart and spare Voss.

Voss is still in good graces with the Queen and intends to make it seem like that for a while. He intends to overthrow Vlaakith and needs the Prism and our help to do so. He grants us a item that will assist with letting us know if Githyanki are in the area and asks that we meet him in Baldur's Gate for any next steps.

While traveling, we get a few more companion stuff. One, we discover the note that explains that Wyll's father will be going to Moonrise Towers and he begs that we go rescue him as soon as possible. Astarion also tries to decipher what it is that Cazador carved on his back, which neither Astarion or Admaer could explain. Upon entering the Cursed Lands, Shadowheart expresses how Shar might've blessed her since the shadows don't consume her like it does the others. Then there's Karlach, who expresses that she's starting to feel unwell due to her Inferal Engine and needs to find Dammon quick to have it tuned.

In our last rest, our Guardian visits us again and expresses their weariness. Apparently there were multiple commands to have Admaer and the crew transformed, but thanks to their protection, that hasn't happened yet. The Guardian, Alex, explains that they have the means to take down the Absolute, but because of their secrets to destroying it, everyone in the damn universe is after them. They ask that Admaer hurries to Moonrise Towers and find out the secrets to the tadpole and what magic is protecting it.

With that done, Admaer was able to summon the Drider to be their guide to Moonrise. Because I let Minthara fall into the abyss last I fought her, that meant her stuff also fell with her, so I didn't have the lyre. However, with my Iilithid powers, Admaer was able to summon the Drider regardless. After a brief walk with the Drider, we are ambushed by Harpers. This time, instead of siding with them, Admaer decides to keep his cover as a True Soul and kills the Harpers instead. With that, we made it to Moonrise Towers. However...

Admaer is approached by Mizora about releasing a powerful devil that the cultists of the Absolute have in tow. Despite this being a time for Admaer to vouch for Wyll's releasement from his pact...Mf don't give a shit lol. Admaer cares enough to not want Wyll to become a lemure, but that's it. Wyll's pact is his own and whatever comes of it concerns Admaer little. You know, until it does.

#baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 spoilers #bg3 spoilers #TAV: Admaer Daeneiros

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ursathebear · 6 months

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im not playing baldur's gate 3 rn which means im thinking about baldur's gate 3 so im gonna write my thoughts about the companions i have in it so far (im also barely into this game so don't spoil me pls)

Astarion

This rat bastard of a vampire spawn is probably my least favorite companion so far. While he's hot and funny, its clear that his vanity and cheeky wit are just a facade to cover up deeper problems. I've heard some of his backstory so far, and while I'm sympathetic to his plight, his racism and lack of empathy for others in similar positions to his own makes me dislike him.

Gale

Gale seems to be the goody two-shoes of the group, approving of every single stereotypical good guy action I take. As a result, he likes me a lot, though I can't say the same about him. He fails on two fronts with me - not having a particularly interesting personality, and having the most insane backstory despite being a low level character in a crpg. Part of the weave lives inside himself? He fucked Mystara? He's a walking nuclear bomb? Bro ur level 2 shut the fuck up

Karlach

I love her and I want to kiss her, similar to Astarion, being stuck in a place against her will, doing actions against her nature, but the dark parts of her past don't hold her back, and she's out of the gate trying to do whats right. We love to see a strong woman in body, mind, and heart

Lae'zel

Lae'zel comes across as cold, uncaring, and calculating. Honestly, she's a bitch most of the time, and she disapproves every time I accept any quest except getting the worm out of my head. As much as she dislikes me for trying to help people, there's a feeling I get from the way she's written that she's not a bad person really. Its just, since she's literally from off planet, her moral axioms are so alien to what is considered "good" and "just" on Faerun. Within her own society, she's likely considered a good person, its just their morals are more centered on preservation of self and creche over all else. Whoever wrote her did a fantastic job to get this idea across imo. She still has a superiority complex tho :(

Shadowheart

She's great. Charming and sweet, though with mystery and intrigue surrounding her. Both the main character and her dealing with memory loss, but in very different ways is fascinating. I don't know much about her beyond her personality yet, though neither does she. Furthermore, she seems to be a good person, supporting my generally "good" actions like helping the tieflings in the grove, avoiding combat when possible, and stopping violence, which is nice but also somewhat confusing. As someone with a passing knowledge of forgotten realms lore, isn't Shar an evil goddess, associated with like, death and grief? I'm interested in seeing how Shadowheart acts following her return to Baldur's Gate, as well as what awaits her when she finally gets her memories back.

Wyll

He's a nice guy, though secretive (for good reasons). Willingly letting his "humanity" be taken in order to protect someone he just met "Karlach" is an incredible move, and I have no doubt in my mind about his good intentions after it. Similarly, his connection both to Baldur's Gate's nobility and his connection to the frontiers is interesting, though I've yet to get to a place where this aspect of his character is truly explored.

Halsin

I just got this guy like yesterday and haven't had in my party once, I have no thoughts

#baldur's gate #baldur's gate 3 #bg3

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aloha-solar · 16 days

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Chapter: 3/30 Pairings: Astarion/Gale, background relationships (Tav/Halsin, Wyll/Karlach, Shadowheart/Lae'zel) Rating: Explicit Chose not to use archive warnings Was a fill for this kink meme prompt

***

He fucking hates the Underdark. The group could’ve gone through the Mountain Pass and been halfway to Moonrise Towers, but when Tav, Lae’zel, Wyll, and Shadowheart return from the creche the next evening, they bring back quite possibly the most stereotypical looking wizard in existence. The wizard first asks for wedges of cheese (a food Astarion hated even before it turned to ash in his mouth) and then asks specifically for Gale. And though the wizard, Tav, and Gale try and speak as quietly as possible, the truth of the matter comes out: Mystra needs—no, wants—Gale to detonate the orb in his chest when they reach the heart of the Absolute.

In truth, Astarion cannot fault Tav’s reasoning for circling around to the Underdark: they need Gale. And if going the long way around gives them more time with Gale, alongside avoiding all the githyanki that are now surely on their tail after Lae’zel was exiled from Vlaakith, then Astarion knows what they must do.

Still, rescuing gnomes? In a forge that burns hotter than the hells themselves?

“I do think that the tadpole may have started eating Tav’s brain already,” Astarion drawls four days after they arrive. Tav, Karlach, Wyll, and Shadowheart left to explore the forge. Astarion is forbidden to go. Though she says nothing, he feels certain that Tav wants as few incidents as possible with the gnomes, especially now that the bastards have developed runepowder.

Read the rest on Ao3

#my writing #fanfiction #fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #astarion #gale dekarios #bloodweave #astarion/gale #astarion x gale #trans pregnancy #mpreg #kink meme

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slusheeduck · 5 months

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4, 11, 14, 15, 16, and 30 for Tav? I love the weirdo

HAHAHAHA, don't worry, he answers to Tav too

4. If your Tav was a companion, where would they be found? He'd probably be found in the ship wreckage near the start being bullied by that big group of intellect devourers. You'd bring him on for his feylock abilities and softspoken contrast to the Goth Fundie, Mean Vampire, and Gale you picked up, then keep him around for the "stoplickingthedamnthing" banter.

11. Weapon of choice?

Staves and glaives! He's a big, big fan of Sorrow. He also used Blood of Lathander for a while because if you're going to explode a creche with the full concentrated power of the sun for it, you might as well use the damn thing.

14. What hobbies does your Tav have?

Fal crochets! Not nearly as well as Astarion embroiders, but it's a nice way to keep his hands occupied. With his heart condition, he couldn't play much as a kid, so his mother taught him to crochet when he was fairly young. Post-Absolute, he gets really into gardening--especially nightblooming flowers. Turns out spending time with fairies AND druids gives you a really good green thumb.

15: What NPC's do they like? Which one's do they dislike?

His favorite people he's encountered has been Omeluum, Lucretious, and Spaw. He loves Spaw--he would have stayed with the myconids forever if he hadn't been dragged out. Once he knows Yenna's NOT Orin, he's pretty fond of her too, out of all the children he inadvertently invites to camp. He gives her a sword. It's probably safe. He hates Orin. Not even in a "this is the bad guy" way, just in a "you are so FUCKING annoying oh my god please die" way. The moment any rando starts asking him in great detail what he thinks about killing he's just like "Oh my GOD Orin FUCK I know it's you."

He knew Auntie Ethel was going to be bad news because she looked just like his old babysitter growing up, and she was a bitch.

("Oh my god," Falerin said as they limped away from Auntie Ethel's teahouse. "What? Is it the corpse we just reanimated, or the fact that that woman is definitely going to fuck that corpse?" Astarion asked. "No, neither. I just remembered who Auntie Ethel reminded me of. I had this horrible babysitter growing up. Only boiled food, wouldn't let me do anything but sit quietly 'on account of my condition', threatened me with a switch for so much as talking so loud. What if she actually was a hag?")

16: Do they have a favorite creature in the Faerûn?

Well, it WAS hollyphants, but finally getting to see one was less than ideal. Tressyms have since replaced them as his favorite creature.

30: What's your favorite thing about your Tav?

In-game, it's the fact that he's meant to be a chaotic good character, but the party keeps killing LITERALLY EVERYONE by accident. And it's gotten to the point where he's just like "...please don't try to attack us we'll wipe out your whole army and I REALLY don't want to do that again." In terms of character, he's fun because he's someone who started his life with sharp desperation--he was a rude, ambitious bastard at the outset, actually, because he literally did not have the time to care--who was softened considerably by his time with the fey. So he really does understand where his companions are coming from--he was a young hotshot trying to prove himself, he was stolen from his home, he made a pact that has its perks but came at a cost, he spent years as a toy for creatures much more powerful than he was for the sake of survival--and now he has the patience to help them, because there's nothing left for him to lose and, honestly, it's really nice to actually have friends.

Thank you for the questions!!

#Falerin Glais #bg3 #bg3 oc #bg3 tav #I'm actually really excited for my long fic because I want to dig more into his character #I think getting to spend a lot of time with him as a character rather than a player expy will be fun #Especially in his home turf so to speak

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jasontoddiefor · 4 years

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Summary: Obi-Wan is up late studying and his new Padawan sleeps next to him on their sofa. AN: @thenegoteator enables all my wishes for smol Padawan Anakin and Obi-Wan bonding so I hope you like this! Read on AO3!

Despite common misconceptions, the Jedi temple at night was still as busy as it was during the daytime. The many nocturnal members of the Order went about their daily life, training, teaching, learning, preparing for missions, and tracking down wayward Padawans deep in the temple building. Not as seldomly as they’d like to, they also sent one of their diurnal Jedi, awake despite their rhythm, to bed.

Sleep eluded them all often enough, visions and twisted dreams keeping them awake and as such, they all took care to ensure they did get a healthy dosage of sleep.

This was the precise reason Obi-Wan Kenobi was not in the archives but in his quarters.

He yawned for what felt like the twentieth time in the past ten minutes, staring at the light screen of his datapad.

It was the only source of light illuminating the dark room and consequently hurting his eyes. Obi-Wan could have turned on the main lights, but he hadn’t really expected to still be sitting here at this hour.

He should have gone to bed about four hours ago or so, he wasn’t entirely sure how much time had passed and hesitated at checking the chronometer, but Obi-Wan also still was about two hours of work away from where he wanted to be with his thesis paper.

He didn’t have the time to sleep. Staying awake was an entirely reasonable course of action.

He reached for his cup of tea, black as the deepest voids of space. It wasn’t his favorite by any kind, but it did its job at keeping him awake better than any of his favorite teas or kaf did. When he raised his cup to his lips, he noticed that not only it was cold, but also almost empty. He could have sworn he had made it just ten minutes ago.

Displeased he set it on the living room table and sighed. Right, only about ten pages and a conclusion to go. Obi-Wan was able to work through those pages without any tea keeping him alert. He could, of course, get up and make himself another cup, but that also meant moving his small companion out of the way and possibly startling him awake.

Obi-Wan looked down at his lap where his Padawan was dead to the world, the rise and fall of the bundle being the only sign that Anakin was asleep. Obi-Wan could hardly see Anakin, wrapped up in three blankets as he was. Obi-Wan doubted that Anakin would learn to sleep with less than three layers any time soon.

His only visible feature was his crown of messy golden locks. Anakin had been up until just two hours ago, working on his own homework first, then had continued working on his sheer endless numbers of mouse droids and, when even that hadn’t kept him busy anymore, he had started drawing. Only after he had gotten too tired to hold onto his pencil had he started pestering Obi-Wan with questions about his paper until he had fallen asleep. At first, Anakin had been leaning against Obi-Wan’s shoulder, but the longer the night had gotten, the more did he slip off until he had ended up dropping into Obi-Wan’s lap where he was now snoring lightly.

Obi-Wan smiled at his Padawan, then gently so he wouldn’t wake him, ran his fingers through his hair. Anakin’s hair was surprisingly soft and, when the boy remembered to shower, smelled of spring flowers instead of motor oil.

He had a Padawan.

A small, cute, kind, and good-hearted Padawan who deserved a world that would treat him gently and the best of teachers who could guide him well.

And Obi-Wan had no idea how to handle him. He was doing his best and he was quite sure that he was at least on the right track, but he definitely could improve still.

But first, he had a paper to finish.

It was ridiculous.

He had been supposed to be done with it months ago. When his Master and he had been called to Naboo, Obi-Wan had just started writing it, a vague thesis in mind and some literature assembled. Most of the work had been in his head and constituted of the endless discussions Qui-Gon and he had had about the true nature of the Force. They had spent years discussing what it felt like what its purpose was – It was a heavy topic, and Obi-Wan could have gone with an easier one such as the traffic laws in Coruscant’s lower levels, but instead he had chosen to go with such a research-heavy field.

It was a chore and a half to work on this paper. Not so much writing the paper in and of itself, Obi-Wan happened to be one of those bastards who enjoyed writing up reports and forcing people to go through his elaborations on the banalest of topics. Handing his papers in had always been his utmost delight. There were very few sights that could compare to someone seeing that they’d have to proofread his paper.

No, the problem with his theses was the agonizing pain that came with every revisit to all the memories he had made with his Master. Getting even half a sentence transferred to the datapad was an ordeal Obi-Wan had never experienced before. Whenever he had to look up literature, he felt as if Qui-Gon was standing right beside him, commenting on the material, or quizzing him on it.

Qui-Gon would have a lot to say about his paper: Obi-Wan could just picture him making one remark after another, grilling him about every sentence and pointing out every flaw in his argumentation. Obi-Wan would hate every second of it, disagree with Qui-Gon on at least 215 accounts, but in the end, he’d hold his paper in his hands and could say that it had been a job well done indeed.

His Master would be proud.

His Master wasn’t here to see it.

Anakin whimpered.

Obi-Wan looked down at his Padawan again and soothingly ran his fingers through his hair again, sending him reassurance over their bond, hoping his emotions would reach his young charge even when he was asleep. Anakin, for all that he enjoyed talking a lot, was a very quiet child when he wanted to be. He didn’t make a lot of noise when he moved through their quarters, he hardly made any noise when he was sleeping. He didn’t let out a single cry despite the nightmares that must be haunting him now.

Obi-Wan began to hum a melody that had been sung to him in the creche. It was meant to calm children down during or after nightmares. Obi-Wan had always been prone to such, visions of darkness, death, and decay haunting him. Soon after he began singing, his Padawan calmed down and returned to an easy sleep.

Obi-Wan smiled down at Anakin’s form. It was nice that at least one of them could catch a couple of hours of sweet rest.

Sighing, Obi-Wan focused on the text on his datapad and began re-reading his last paragraphs.

He hadn’t typed anything that made any sense for the couple last hours. It was ridiculous.

“I should stop,” Obi-Wan muttered. “This is useless when I’m tired.”

Frustrated, he saved the document and then turned out the datapad, leaving himself in total darkness with only the weight of Anakin as a gentle reminder that he wasn’t truly lonely.

For a moment Obi-Wan contemplated just staying like this and sleeping here. He didn’t want to move, he was semi-comfortable, and Anakin by his side was more than enough comfort.

But he did have a bed with a good mattress, and so did Anakin. As his Master, Obi-Wan should set a good precedent for Anakin and follow healthy habits, avoid falling asleep on the sofa where his neck would make him pay for it in the morning.

Slowly, Obi-Wan pushed Anakin of his lap. The boy grumbled and Obi-Wan froze, not daring to move an inch. He breathed in and out, once twice, but Anakin kept on sleeping, still knocked out. Obi-Wan suppressed a laugh and then stood up in one swift move. Once standing, he cracked his bones and neck so that the stiffness would disappear from his body. If he didn’t take care of his body now, it would come back to haunt him when he attempted any of his usual Ataru sequences.

Not that Obi-Wan had been doing many of those lately. Form IV had become uncomfortable since Naboo, but he had yet to find something easier. A few of the Soresu practitioners had pointed out that he seemed to be well suited to it, but Obi-Wan wasn’t sure.

Sighing yet once more and putting the thought aside for another day, he then turned around to his Padawan and scooped him up in his arms. It was good that Anakin was so small still and didn’t weigh too much. With the boy settled in his arms, drooling on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, he walked past the many datapads spread across the ground and carried Anakin to his room. He opened up the room and danced past the various droid parts carelessly thrown everywhere until he reached Anakin’s bed. With careless use of the Force, he threw back Anakin’s other two blankets before setting the boy down. He considered moving Anakin out of the cocoon to spread out the blankets properly but figured it wasn’t worth the effort. He’d just roll himself up in them again. Instead, he grabbed the two remaining blankets and tugged him in, his covers secured so that no air would get in.

“Good night, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said and turned around to leave.

He had not stepped two feet away from the door when he heard a soft, “Obi?”

Anakin had woken up.

“Yes, Anakin?” Obi-Wan looked at his Padawan again who was now staring at him with his bright blue eyes and the kind of look that Obi-Wan knew he wouldn’t be able to deny him anything.

“Can you sleep here tonight?”

“I-“ Obi-Wan hesitated for a split-second. He had his own bed to return to, one that was made for an adult and not a child, with his own blanket and pillows.

“Sure,” Obi-Wan agreed and kicked off his slippers so he could crawl into bed with Anakin. His Padawan made space for him, but the moment Obi-Wan was also under the covers, Anakin pressed himself against him, somehow already having untangled his limbs from his blankets so he could stick his cold feet and hands beneath Obi-Wan’s war robes. Obi-Wan hissed at the cold contact and shot Anakin a look.

“You are a menace,” he told the boy seriously, but Anakin only giggled, seeing through his ruse.

“Nuhu, I’m cold,” he replied and promptly moved his hands just below Obi-Wan’s ribs where Anakin knew he was ticklish.

Obi-Wan jumped up, all signs of exhaustion were forgotten. Oh, it was on.

“You will regret this!” He declared dramatically and began tickling Anakin, who let out high-pitched shrieks in between his joyful laughs.

“Mercy! Obi-Wan I can’t-” Anakin begged as the rest of his sentence was swallowed by his giggles.

Obi-Wan stopped for a moment and thoughtfully crossed his arms, giving Anakin a minute to recuperate. “Oh? On what grounds!”

“Uuh,” Anakin pouted. “It’s late?” He suggested “And we should sleep. And I won’t make you cold again.”

“That’s a lie,” Obi-Wan pointed out, already knowing that Anakin would stick his freezing hands beneath his shirt.

Anakin shrugged easily and grinned at Obi-Wan. “Yeah.”

Well, at least his Padawan was honest enough to admit to it.

“Alright, let’s sleep then,” Obi-Wan said and laid down again next to Anakin. He pulled the many blankets over them both and wiggled underneath them until he was comfortable. The bed really was a little small for them both, but there was no helping it. Perhaps they should just sleep in Obi-Wan’s the next time.

“Night, Obi-Wan,” Anakin muttered and yawned.

“Good night, Anakin.”

He tugged Anakin’s head under his chin and sooner than he could count, they were asleep.

#star wars #Anakin Skywalker #obi wan kenobi #fanfic #everything is SOFT #and WHOLESOME #flufftober

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agathaarts · 3 years

Photo

More art of Malakur, my big asskicker orc barbarian I’ve posted about before...and her family! First off is her and her kids- Malakur has four kids, two she bore herself and two she adopted in, which is pretty common. The Road Masters (the culture she’s a part of) raise children communally, so it’s expected and accounted for to take in children.

They also don’t usually garner an “official” name until they become full adults, which entails taking on the responsibility of managing one’s own home and whatnot- none of her kids are quite at that stage, yet, though her eldest is basically getting there, even if he’s dragging his feet. Until that point, kids are given nicknames or temporary names based off their traits or hopes for the future, which are readily changed to suit them better.

And down at the bottom is Malakur’s wife, the INCREDIBLY COOL Korrath Korrash, master hunter and teacher, ranger of renown!

I’m having a lot of fun designing their clothes, tinkering with bits and bobs to make them look a little different from anything else I’ve seen. At first I wasn’t sure on keeping colors limited to red and blue, but it’s really grown on me and I like the blocky, subtle patterns of their clothes. Also I guess everyone has their abs out. Crop tops ONLY for the Road Masters.

Under the cut for more information about each!

Going down the list...

Eldest Son - “Grumpy”, “Frownyfangs”, “Ponderer” This adopted grouch is stricken by the terrible malaise of becoming an adult and not knowing what you want in life- which is something a lot of us can empathize with. Trying to determine who he wants to be is a heavy burden, especially given that he’s both thinking about and reluctant to leave his society, but his mothers kind of assume that he’ll leave and are getting ready to send him off with everything he’ll need, and their best wishes. He has a very good memory and some magical talent that could use shaping and strengthening, so who knows where that’ll go!

Youngest (and Malakur herself) - “Lil Climbing Monkey”, “Wiggler”, “GET DOWN FROM THERE-” The other adopted one of the bunch, this little troublemaker has no fear, a desire to climb to the highest point of every setting, and the sheer childish mischief needed to always find the worst place to get stuck. Malakur actually found them while she was out travelling, and returned home with them- fortunately, the Road Masters are very socially accepting of “I found this perfectly good baby in a dumpster? Can you believe it?! Anyways it’s mine now.”

Second Youngest - “Leaf”, “Greenfingers”, “Lil’ Druid” Malakur’s second-born, she takes after her mother in the sense of having a bit of connection to a world beyond the physical...though unlike Malakur, who is a speaker of the dead and bare a connection to the spirit world, Leaf has a connection to the earth and the wild- an early druid in the making! So strong is her inclination that she received instructions on how to summon a companion in a dream, and promptly did so the very next day. Which is very impressive! But also, you know that bit in Lilo and Stitch where Lilo says “Send me the nicest angel you have” and it cuts to Stitch laughing maniacally? She managed to summon a little bastard.

Summoned Leshy - “Barnburner” Turns out you shouldn’t use a bunch of burning nettle and poisonous plants when summoning a forest spirit. You just get a little monster, and Leaf isn’t quite strong enough to enforce her will over her summon yet, so...it runs a bit wild. It’s a learning experience!

Second Eldest - “Furious”, “Little Warrior”, “Rising Star”, “Overachiever” Malakur’s firstborn, she’s got BIG aspirations to be legendary someday, and has already started. The equivalent of one of those super-driven-Grade-A students, by any other metric, she’s got determination to spare and has already started making a name for herself as a fierce combatant and skilled leader. She’s gonna go FAR someday, as soon as she can nail down the details of what she wants and get her brother off his ass so she can be the official “eldest sibling” in the nest and take charge.

Korrath Korrash - [Borat voice MY WIFE] Malakur’s bonded, Korrath Korrash is a hunter, a teacher, and a creche-keeper, largely splitting her time between patrols, hunts, and helping to raise children communally. Many a child’s first successfully thrown javelin or well-aimed slingstone is due to her patient coaching, and while not an adventurer, she’s known as a capable ranger in some circles. Her bearded vulture companion is VERY cool and they have matching hairstyles! She also got to touch a unicorn once, having earned it’s respect by killing a corrupted monster that was ravaging the landscape, and hasn’t stopped humble bragging about it since.

#orc #orcs #half-orc #half-orcs #pathfinder rpg #dungeons and dragons #ttrpg character #character design #malakur #malakur's family #i'm trying to get better at drawing armor too #but i wanna draw a big comparison of some of the various orc-heavy cultures in the setting #bc i love the road masters #and i love comparing and contrasting different aesthetics #also I drew Korrath Korrash later so Korrath Korrash is actually in her business clothes #where everyone else is basically in casual jammies #korrath korrash has big gym teacher energy #big gay gym teacher energy

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badger-writes · 3 years

Text

Star Wars OC Ship Week 2021 - for light and love

2 - Fluff/Humor

“...And then I told him my name was ‘Kolto’,” Kelto despaired to Jora Malli later, in the Temple Refectory.

Jora pursed her lips sympathetically, nodding. For the better part of the lunch hour, she had endured her fellow Jedi Knight’s attempt to process the encounter which had transpired between himself and Knight Sskeer in the medical bay earlier that morning. To say he was taking it rather poorly was, well - not exactly correct.

“You did well to come to a friend for support,” she said neutrally, cutting into her shaak steak - a staple of Togruta cuisine. “In my experience, attempting to bottle your emotions concerning these experiences never ends well. Instead of deferring a resolution for later, you seek closure now, so you might move on. ‘There is no emotion - ‘”

“‘There is peace’, yeah, I know, I know.” Kelto groaned and sank his face into his palms, propping his elbows on either side of his platter of Rodian foodstuffs. “Not a whole lot of peace going on here right now, though…”

“Okay - then walk me through what you’re feeling. How would you describe your emotions?”

“Uhhh… Frazzled? Flustered? Deeply conflicted and anxious? I mean, you know, with me that’s not so much a him thing as an in general thing, but, you know - ”

“Kelto,” she said, a touch sternly.

“Sorry, sorry.”

He sighed, picked out a cranker root from the corner of his plate, and broke into it with his teeth. As he chewed, Jora looked over his right shoulder as surreptitiously as he could; sitting at another table, head bowed over his own meal, was Sskeer himself. How he’d managed to occupy the table behind them without Kelto noticing, she had no clue, but presumed he’d been too wound up in venting his emotions to notice.

From the way Sskeer had oriented his chair and met her gaze in furtive glances, she could tell he was listening. Knowing what she knew of her mutual friends, she was willing to hazard a guess that he was harboring similar conflict, though he would never say so aloud.

Perhaps the Force was providing her an opportunity to resolve both sides of this spiritual conflict at once.

“Start from the beginning,” she said, after a sip of water. “When you first saw him. What was your reaction?”

“At first? Um, well…” Kelto gulped. “Well, the first thing I noticed is that he was huge, right? Not like Dowutin huge, of course, but this guy could take an airbus going 50 over the speed regulations straight to the chest and not even feel it. A-and buff, too. Burly, even. The kind of physique a sentient like me can only dream of. The kind you chisel out of marble and put in the Galactic Museum a couple hundred years later. It was - he was very handsome, is all I’ll say.”

Sskeer, leaning over his dish, perked up. A bemused smirk plied its way onto his face.

“I’m fairly certain he’s not that physically impressive,” Jora cut in, speaking to them both.

“I mean, yeah, probably not. But that’s just how I felt! I couldn’t help it, I jumped straight into awkwardly crushing on him and I’d only seen him for like two seconds.”

“And then you saw his many scorch marks. From his errant training session.”

“Right,” Kelto said, as Sskeer snorted behind him. “Which - should probably be the first thing I pick up on, as a healer. But what do you want me to say? This morning was almost as much of a disaster as I am.”

“Kelto,” she said warningly.

“I-I can’t help it, Jora. I make jokes when I feel nervous or awkward. Which is almost all the time.”

“But they don’t all need to have you as the butt,” she said, jabbing at him through the air with her fork. “Be kinder to yourself, please. Make it a habit. For me?”

“R-right. Sorry.”

“Keep going. What did you think when you first started talking?”

The Rodian took a slice of galma fruit and popped it into his mouth, chewing and swallowing quickly. “To be honest, I thought he was a nut,” he said with a shrug.

This time when Sskeer glanced over, he looked just a touch offended.

“A nut,” Jora repeated. The surprise in her voice was largely an affectation; she knew Sskeer had adopted odd, borderline overzealous habits in the pursuit of becoming a Jedi Guardian. She teased him for it occasionally, a reaction to which he’d become accustomed. Here, though, she sensed an opportunity for someone else to do her dragging for her - apparently quite candidly.

“Oh, sure. I mean, who else do you know sets the training droids a couple notches above safety standards so he can really feel it when he gets spanked with a training saber, huh?”

She sputtered into her cup, lifting a hand to hide a smile. She really wouldn’t have taken that drink if she knew that sentence was coming.

“Right?!” Kelto gestured animatedly, oblivious to Sskeer glaring daggers over his shoulder. “How is that supposed to make you a better Jedi?”

“I’m sure he has good reasons,” she coughed, thumping her chest. “Being a protector - it requires a certain discipline.”

“I wouldn’t call that discipline. I’d call that masochism. But only because I’m a coward,” he confessed.

“Be kind.”

“It’s a joke!”

“You say it too easily. Like you believe it’s the truth.”

“It kind of is. That’s what makes it funny.”

She gave him a look. Sskeer did, too. His was less pointed, though.

“Assuming that’s true,” Jora continued, “Allow me to pull from your earlier statements two points: one, you find him physically attractive. Two, his habits confuse you. Would you say that’s accurate?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Very well. Is there anything else that you’d like to joke about, since that’s apparently the only way of pulling a straight answer out of you?”

“I can give straight answers!”

“Feel free anytime, for Force’s sake.”

Sskeer was smirking again, she noticed, poking around on his plate. Apparently, he found the way her scheme to annoy him with secondhand ridicule had imploded on her amusing, the bastard.

Kelto sighed, deflating slightly. “I - look, I’m sure he’s not as strange as I’m making him out to be. Just, you know… really serious. But I didn’t really get much else out of him while he was there.”

“You used Force healing on him, as I recall. That didn’t merit any kind of response?”

“O-oh yeah, I did do that! He seemed… pretty impressed, I guess. I - wasn’t really expecting that, to be honest.”

“And he caught you before you passed out. That’s something, isn’t it?”

“True, true. And then he held me up til I recov - “ Suddenly, Kelto’s cheeks went a deep shade of green. “A-actually, let’s not get back into that part.”

“Why?” Jora cocked her head, montrals shifting. “I wasn’t aware there was anything wrong with catching feelings unexpectedly.”

“I mean - mmmaybe not, no. I - I just don’t think I, you know, kept control of them very well there.”

“We’re only mortal, Kelto. You’re in your right to forgive an occasional emotion.”

“I--” The Rodian checked over his shoulder - the wrong one - and leaned in close, framing his huge, panicky eyes with both hands. “Jora, I was full-on touching his chest.”

Behind him, Sskeer’s eyes went wide, and he too wound up coughing water back into his glass. It served him right, Jora thought.

“He was holding you in his arms,” she said evenly. “You were disoriented. Worse things have happened.”

“Y-yeah, but - but I don’t want to end up like that horndog Elzar Mann!”

No sooner had Sskeer finished clearing his lungs than he had to duck and press his face into the crook of his elbow to stifle a laugh, so as to avoid being discovered.

“Really, have you seen that guy make eyes at Avar Kriss lately?” Kelto continued conspiratorially. “They hide it so poorly! It’s a wonder the Council hasn’t stepped in yet.”

“I doubt it’s much of a priority for either Master Lahru, Veter, or Yoda to be poking their noses into what two consenting adults do in the privacy of their bedchambers.”

“I mean - if word ever really gets out, it technically will be!”

“Only technically,” she retorted.

Kelto blinked. “Oh no,” he murmured. “This isn’t going to be another one of your lectures, is it?”

Jora hesitated for only half a second. “All I’m saying is if you really look at the Code--”

“If you start talking about the difference between celibacy and purity again--”

“‘Attachment’ is not the same thing as connection, to suggest otherwise is such a literalist misinterpretation--”

Gesticulating, Jora caught the eye of Sskeer again. He was grinning like a nexu, the scaly skink.

“What I mean to say is,” she said, waving her hands in some vague effort to get them both back on-track, “There’s nothing wrong with what you’re feeling right now, Kelto. Nothing whatsoever. It’s only a natural part of life, just like joy and sorrow.”

“Yeah, duh,” he replied, peeling a hardboiled vakiir egg. “Not my first day out of the creche. It just - I don’t know, it feels weird not being able to act on it.”

“Why?”

“Well, the big one is the Code, but let’s not get into that again. The other half is - well, Jora, I barely know him. I don’t even know if he likes me as a person, let alone romantically, or… you know, like that. But I can’t imagine he would.”

Jora risked a peek, raising an eyebrow. Sskeer shrugged, nonplussed, in a manner that communicated either that he could take or leave him - or just the general sentiment of ‘what do you want from me?’. Possibly both at once. In return, she flattened the eyebrow and pursed her lips to sardonically ‘thank’ him for his ‘help’.

“Why do you presuppose the inevitability of rejection, in either case?”

“I just - I don’t know, I’m a pessimist. What else do you want me to say, Jora? We live in totally different worlds.”

“Not that different. You are both Jedi. And remember what he called you before he left - a credit to the Order, I believe were his words?”

“That’s what everyone says after getting Force healed,” Kelto grumbled, rubbing the back of his head under his pom.

She shook her head doubtfully, skewering another bite of steak. “You’re focused too much on the banality of your own excellence,” she said, chewing. “Think back to his reaction. How he spoke to you. The way he looked at you. What did he think of you while you were together?”

He shrugged helplessly. Then his brow furrowed in thought. “Well, I guess… there were times when he seemed to pick up on - you know, everything I was going through. Granted, I wasn’t being very subtle, but…

“I guess I’d say he was being… patient? Like he understood I was a little… distracted by him. Well, he was a little touchy about the ‘masochist’ comment, but… he didn’t, like, tell me to settle down or anything. And then there were some weird moments where he - I don’t know, was trying to joke with me?”

“How so?”

“Like... being sort-of flirty, but not really? Like when he leaned back on the table, he had this little smile, and then when he left he sort of whispered right into my ear? Little things like that.”

“Oh yes. ‘Little things’. Like whispering in your ear.”

Kelto blinked owlishly. “... I mean. Do people not… do that?”

“Generally, in polite company? No.”

“Oh.” Kelto’s flush deepened. “Oh.”

“You really should leave the healing halls and try talking to people every once in a while, Kelto.”

“You don’t think he was…? F-for me? And I missed it??”

“I don’t know,” Jora hummed. “Without him here to speak for himself, I can’t say. I suppose you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

Kelto whined, sinking his face into his hands. “But that means I have to talk to him,” he protested.

“Yes,” she replied bluntly. “That’s how having a dialogue is supposed to work.”

“I-I can’t talk to him! I mean-- I made such a fool of myself earlier! You really think I can just… speak to him, normally?”

“Well, if you don’t, what’s your backup plan?”

“Useless gay pining, mostly. Or leaving the Order, maybe?”

“Kelto.”

“Look at me, Jora. I’m not built to carry a torch for anybody. I-I can barely make eye contact with people I’m not crushing on. My best chance at this point is just going back to the healing halls and hoping he doesn’t come back in too often. Maybe I’ll move rooms, now that he knows where my ward is. I’ll ask about it.”

“You can’t just hide from your problems in the medical bay, Kelto.”

“Why not? I--” Kelto bit the inside of his cheek and sighed. “Dammit, Jora, what else am I supposed to do?”

She dropped her fork on her plate and framed the sides of her face with her hands, as he had done earlier. “Literally just talk to him.”

“H-how? I’m not - I’m not brave enough, okay? What am I supposed to do?”

She groaned, folding her palms over her eyes. Through her fingers, she could see Sskeer raising his brow, lifting out of his chair slightly; not yet, she thought, shaking her head just slightly. He sat back down, but still seemed concerned.

“Indulge me,” Jora said finally, leaning her elbows on the table and holding out her hands towards Kelto, as if she were trying to physically channel the confidence to hold a single conversation into him through the Force. “Take a moment, don’t think about how you think you did, or what you thought he was thinking, in those moments. Don’t think about possible futures where you’re together or just friends or outright rejected. Just-- think about what you felt. How he made you feel. Don’t focus on yourself. Just find your center, search your feelings... and tell me what you find.”

Kelto opened his mouth - closed it - looked down at the tabletop, drumming his fingers. “I…”

From behind, Sskeer watched him think. Anticipation glimmered in his eyes.

“...I like him,” Kelto decided. “Really, I do. He’s… patient and serious, and respectful, once you earn it. A little intense, obviously, but… strong, and driven. I’d… I want to know him better. However that happens.”

“And your other feelings?”

He took a slow, deep breath. “I… can move past them, if I really have to. It’s what we’re trained for. It’s just… powerful, I guess is the word. I didn’t see it coming. It… knocked me off my feet.”

“I’m told that’s often how it feels,” Jora said kindly.

He nodded shyly.

“Do you plan to ask him?”

“Not - not right away, I don’t think. I-- that’s not the right foot for any relationship to get off on, I don’t think. Like putting the hovercart before the roth, you know? It’d define the whole-- no, no. I want to start as friends. And if he turns me down, then… then we’ll stay friends, and I’ll be okay. I- I want to do it right. … For both of us. For him, mostly, but… yeah.”

Kelto shrugged as he finished, going back to picking at his plate. Behind him, Sskeer’s face had shifted just enough that Jora knew he’d been affected.

“Well said,” she said simply, as Sskeer took his plate and stood.

“You think so?”

“Well, it was better put than the lust-flavored word vomit you began with.”

“Look, when I say the man’s thighs are like wroshyr trunks and his chest is like a set of Weequay thunder drums, I’m only half-joking. He’s genuinely an impressive specimen. It’s a compliment.”

“You get to say all of that, but I’m the one bending the Code?”

He snorted. “Jora, please. We may be technically sworn to celibacy, sure, but we’re not dead, either.”

“Pardon me,” a deep voice said from behind him.

Kelto bit down on a yelp. Every joint in his body seemed to lock up so he sat straight upright. His eyes went as wide as the Temple’s dinner platters.

“Jedi Sskeer,” Jora Malli said, conversationally. “What a lovely surprise.”

“I couldn’t help but overhear someone talking rather loudly about myself,” he replied easily, “so I thought I’d stop by. Is this seat taken?”

“Not at all. Please, join us.”

He sat down right next to Kelto. The Rodian seemed to shrink, quailing.

“How much did you overhear, incidentally?” Jora asked, returning to finish off the last of her steak.

“Enough to know better than to take offense,” Sskeer replied, tucking into his karkan ribene. “Life is too ssshort to worry about the occasional social faux pas, isn’t it, little healer?”

Kelto’s throat bobbled. He looked to Jora to throw him a lifeline; in response, she only raised her eyebrows.

His eyes rolled back to the plate before him - then narrowed. He set his jaw and took a long, gulping swallow of his Rodian ale, an action that left his snout twisting for a moment afterward. Then he turned in his seat towards the Trandoshan.

“We should probably start over,” he said, putting out his hand. “I’m Kelto. Kelto Lem. It’s - great to meet you, Sskeer.”

Sskeer sent Jora a sidelong glance. She nodded.

“Likewise,” he returned, clasping the Rodian’s hand in his own.

“Um - no hard feelings about… anything from earlier, right?”

“Consider the slate wiped clean.”

“Oh. … Good.” That was easy, his eyes seemed to say, as he disengaged from the handshake.

Jora Malli sensed her work here was done. “I have a velocities demonstration with the younglings coming up,” she said, gathering her utensils and standing up. “I suppose I’ll leave you to it.”

“Of course,” Sskeer said graciously. He turned back to Kelto. “Would you prefer to move to the other side of the table, that we may face each other?”

Kelto blinked. “Uh - sure! You, you won’t mind, will you, Jora?”

“Don’t look at me,” she said, shrugging. “I won’t even be here.” She turned, deposited her empty plate and glass at an appropriate refuse station, and departed without further fanfare.

Gingerly, Kelto repositioned himself and his lunch to the other side of the table, sitting right before Sskeer. When he pushed in his chair, he seemed to be sitting a little taller.

“So, uh. Hello again.”

Sskeer smiled, shook his head, and took a bite of ribene.

#StarWarsOCShipWeek2021 #star wars #the high republic #sskeer #original character #oc x canon #fanfic #fluff/humor

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deerlyloved · 3 years

Text

she’s sleeping

under cut: an explanation of what happened to my fallout 3 oc, clyde, in the pitt

They threw him in there. They threw him in there to die.

The steelyard, someplace with more than its share of dead bodies around every corner, and trogs where there were none. The rot clung in the air and burned his nose even when he was in Downtown, like just being in the Mill and any closer to it than a mile had soaked the smell into his skin. It was dangerous, the most dangerous place in the Pitt, and Clyde would personally take the repercussions for back-talking a raider rather than go running through that bleak death trap.

And that’s why he threw himself towards the raider when Midea was grabbed to go in. He begged them to take him instead, pleaded, said he’d do anything. It didn’t take much convincing, and Midea was thrown back with a look of shock and bleak acceptance over her face as she realized she couldn’t argue.

All his found family watched helplessly as he was dragged away to his death. He didn’t blame them, and he was happy they stopped. A few looked confused, Clyde had been stoic and near uncaring ever since Ashur himself threw him in Downtown as a child barely 13, and the outburst must have made no sense in their minds. It almost didn’t make sense in Clydes, but once he looked past what he was told, what Ashur taught him, what he knew he was there for, he understood. He always understood.

It was hard to remember he was human when the raiders beat the concept of being a weapon into him.

He spent weeks in the steelyard. Maybe a month. Maybe months. He couldn’t keep track, the second they opened the door and threw him in, he was fighting for his life. Barely 17, draped in torn clothes and holding no weapons, he remembered trying to find anything of use as he tip-toed around the first few feet in the steelyard, feeling fear for the first time since he can remember as he heard the trogs hiss and scurry around just around the corner. He managed to pick up an ax, sharp and strong, something to swing as hard as he could.

Creeping around was the worst part. The trogs attacked him the second they caught his scent, and the hissed ‘delicious…!’ that they screeched at him as they charged made his stomach churn to even think about. He ended up finding his way into the air vents, surprising the mutants was easier than trying to take them on from the ground, and soon enough he lived up there. He knew all he had to do was find an ingot, something to earn his way back into the Mill, back into Downtown, but for all his searching the trogs always ran him off, or the wildmen drew his attention from his search.

The air started to do something for him. He didn’t notice it at first, the changes, but soon enough the normal radiation scars on his arms got redder and redder, his voice cracked more often, his hair fell out in clumps. He knew what was happening. He knew it even before he found a corpse and his stomach growled and he didn’t even think twice. He knew it before walking on all fours became the easier way to get around for him.

Clyde didn’t want to be a trog.

So he found a way around it. He searched with a renewed vigor, using his air vents as an advantage to search room to room in the building he found, mostly cleared of trogs now from his previous searches. He finally left the building, taking too long to find his bearings on two feet again as he explored.

And just as quickly as he was thrown in, he found his way out. An ingot sat in a pile of rubble beneath a hulking container of debris, and his hands found it with little care for his surroundings. Clyde would never run that fast again in his life, making a beeline for the exit door. He flung it open, hearing the raiders just behind the gate all stand and draw their guns before he heard them.

They remarked at how surprised they were to see him alive, one commenting on how much his appearance went to shit since they last saw him, and Clyde had to agree, the heat of the Mill made his scars burn fiercely, he could feel just how wide-spread they were now. Right then and there, Clyde knew what he had to do.

Midea was happy to see him, she hugged him and just like always, he didn’t hug back. For all anyone knew, Clyde was still him. To the slaves, he was the poor boy abandoned by the bastards in Uptown. To the bastards in Uptown, he was their personal little weapon, there to snuff out any hope of rebellion.

And so Clyde fought his way to the top. His hair began to regrow once Midea forced him to start eating again and he was allowed the little rest he could get in between the raiders barking orders. The scars that covered nearly every body part he had went back to their usual sickly color instead of red, and the rest of the mutations that began were slowed, reversed, and eventually gone after a few weeks.

During those weeks, he used everything he had learned in the steelyard to try his luck in The Hole. Moving around unseen, even if he was just spotted, where to aim the killing blow with his axe, when to attack… He looted the bodies of those he killed, and before he knew it Clyde was the new champion, his axe and his new shotgun his best friends in his fights.

To the slaves, he was Clyde. To the raiders, he was a weapon. Both were right.

The slaves seemed betrayed as Clyde took his spot back in Uptown, and a few of the raiders remarked about his disobedience. ‘You were supposed to watch them, dumbass!’ was a common one. A few threats to restart his ‘training’ until he learned his place again. He remembers clear as day walking around Haven, the gnawing feeling of doing something wrong as he’d never been allowed to walk the area without a master nearby, and being grabbed suddenly.

Krenshaw has him by his throat in a second, eyes narrowed, teeth barred like he was some kind of animal. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ was his question, though Clyde couldn’t tell if he actually wanted an answer or not. The grip on his throat tightened, and Clyde’s vision went starry for a brief moment before he was released. ‘Go see Ashur, boy. You’ve really fucked up this time.’ oh, he saw Ashur alright.

As he walked into Haven, eyes half-lidded, memories of the ‘training’ he’d been forced to endure for the sake of Ashur’s slavery business flooding back. Every hall in the building had been the keeper of Clyde’s own blood at one point or another, either knocked from his mouth or dripping from his nose if he wasn’t quick enough with a ‘yessir’, not quick enough to respond to an order. Saying no hurt now, it made his teeth ache from the memories, like something was trying to pull him back in time to remember, and just the thought of not following an order made his skin crawl and his body want to curl in on itself as he remembered what happened if he said no.

Ashur was Brotherhood once. He mentioned it throughout the training. Said having an inside agent would be good for the cause. Said Clyde was a good soldier like a terrified child would be proud to be tortured daily. He had truly lost his mind.

And that’s why Clyde didn’t go to Ashur. He found himself in a room he wasn’t allowed in even when he was in training, and he could only imagine how much he wasn’t allowed in it now… But he knew what he was doing. Wernher had told him.

The slaves saw him as an ally. The raiders saw him as a tool.

Clyde walked into the room he’d been denied access to for so long, and there stood a woman he’d seen around Haven before. She always seemed sympathetic to him, but always agreed that it was for the greater good. Ashur’s wife, Sandra. She didn’t notice him, her back turned to him as she worked on something, writing frantically as she murmured to herself. Clyde felt wrong being in there, especially with his blood-stained skin and muddied boots.

Leather armor clung to his skin, hot and cracked from the fighting he’d done to get this far, and the smell of rot still clung to him from the steelyard even after all this time. Everything on him, from his skin to his armor was filthy, covered in rust and grim and blood, and in the clean room around him he was made ever so aware of just how bad the conditions the slaves were kept in were.

His skin felt hot, even in the relative coolness of Haven, and he couldn’t tell if it was from not knowing anything but the fire of the Mill and the sting of radiation, or from the layers of grime in scars on his face.

His hands found the edges of the baby’s creche, leaving what was no doubt dirty marks in the place of a spotless bed. The young baby stirred briefly, eyes fluttering before she turned her head and fell fast asleep once more, and Clyde felt his heart do the same. She was a cure to the radiation that caused the marks on his face, something to help end the slavery that existed just beyond the walls of her home, the daughter of the bastard that told him the brainwashing and torture of a child was neccesary so the slaves he kept didn’t overthrow him.

She was a means to an end.

There was a beeping noise from a terminal near Sandra, and she tilted her head to look at the screen. Just a second later, she whirled around, eyes wide and face full of fear as she opened her mouth to say something. Nothing came out, and she then moved forward, hands extending and one word finding its way out.

‘Please.’

He remembered saying please. He remembered saying please a lot. He remembered looking to Sandra in fear and her turning her head and walking away. He remembered Ashur telling him he would be an amazing soldier one day. He remembered the beatings, the manipulation, the brainwashing, he remembered blacking out because they gave him a trigger word and he didn’t even realize, and he remembered coming back to reality with a gun in his hand and a dead slave feet from him. Clyde remembered.

So he reached out too, snatching Sandra’s wrist and narrowing his eyes at her. ‘Don’t wake the baby.’

The slaves saw him as an ally. The raiders saw him as a new threat.

Clyde walked out of Haven with an infant in arms, cradling her close to his dirty leather armor, a trail of death behind him and two dead parents gored in their own respective offices. He walked from Haven and into Downtown, eyes cast downward onto the infant as she stared confused at all the noise and the earmuffs Clyde had placed on her head, glancing up only to shoot himself a clear path through.

The slaves saw him as a hero. The raiders saw him as a monster.

Both were right.

#my writing #my ocs #clyde #fallout #fallout 3 #fallout oc #fallout 3 oc

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