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avinryd · 7 months

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Cat's Cradle

Author: AvinRyd Fandom: Critical Role Rating: T Pairing: Mollymauk Tealeaf & Yasha, Mollymauk Tealeaf/Caleb Widogast Word Count: ~1,650 Series: Shards and Spells

"...first time I've been glad Molly wasn't there."

- @caitmayart

Saw Cait's fanart (x) and it broke me into little pieces. I put those back together into this.

Read on AO3

On any other night, the soft riffle of worn parchment shuffling would be comforting, meditative work in Mollymauk’s hands. On any other night, there would be a blood-deep satisfaction in the near-inaudible sound of cards placed on threadbare fabric. On any other night, the glow of moonlight would light his spread and sing in his veins and there would be the humming feeling of not only Sehanine’s gentle presence, but a hint of mischievous spark from Jester’s Traveler and, underneath his incense and the floral warmth of the Wildmother, the sharp scent of ozone. Yasha’s Stormlord.

On any other night. But not tonight. Because Yasha is...Yasha is—

Footsteps on the stairs of the Ready Room—ascending, growing louder, stopping on the landing.

“If we’re not discussing how to get her back, I’m not coming downstairs.” Molly says flatly, not looking up from his cards.

“I am not here to fetch you back, Mollymauk.”

Caleb. Soft-spoken, level-headed, absolutely fucking calm Caleb. How can he sound so gods-damned calm? How can all of them be so cold to just walk away and let that door close and—

His mental tirade is interrupted by movement in his periphery. Just off the edge of his tarot cloth, one of Caduces’s wooden bowls slides into view. It’s full of a creamy stew of some sort, dinged iron spoon leaning against the edge, being held by a bandaged hand. It’s followed shortly by a chipped ceramic mug of steaming liquid, borne by a matching other hand. Molly looks up to see Caleb crouched across from him, fancy new coat pooled on the gritty wood floor and not meeting his eyes.

“You need to eat. You’re no good to her wasted away to nothing.”

Molly scoffs. “I’m no good to her stuck here either! Miles and a mountain and a half away, sitting in a fucking military storehouse when I should still be in there, still—”

“Still what, Mollymauk? You wouldn’t still be anything. You would be stabbed through by another gods-verdammt oversized blade and by the time your neat little trick got around to bringing you back, there would be more time wasted than we are using right now.”

Caleb isn’t so soft-spoken, isn’t so calm now. His voice is low, but it’s tense and rough and he’s meeting Molly’s gaze now—deep purple bruising under his eyes and brows furrowed in consternation as he pins Molly with a hard look and it stops his mind short. This Caleb is familiar, for all Molly never actually got to meet him. This is the Caleb that rode up the Glory Run Road, dragging broken friends and compatriots away from a fresh grave to rescue the ones yet living.

Molly swallows the spitting retort that’s fast dying on his devil’s tongue and carefully returns the cards to his deck, inverse of how they’d been placed and rolls up the cloth, sets them both aside and reaches for the bowl.

He eats in silence. Caleb shifts, sits against the bunk that hides Molly’s corner from the rest of the large room and pulls out a loop of silver thread to fiddle with. Moonlight catches in the threads and Molly recognizes the geometric patterns.

“No Molly, if you do it that way—see? You’ve got it tangled now.”

Molly made a face at the snarls of string binding up his wrists and fingers. Yasha only laughed softly and reached to pick apart the knots.

“Where did you even learn this? Practice for building snares in the Xorhassian wastes?”

“Jester taught me while we were at sea. It was a long journey and you run out of things to do on a ship, eventually.”

There was a waft of sea-salt tang rising from the string, nearly masked by the scent of dry parchment and flowers that clung to everything stored in Yasha’s belt-pouch. He wiggled his fingers gleefully once Yasha freed them, then looped the string around once more.

“Alright. Show me again.”

Molly sets the empty bowl aside—when had he finished it? Must have been hungrier than he thought—and scoots over across from Caleb. The wizard has reached a point in the pattern where he can’t move further. Wordless, Molly reaches in and deftly moves the strings, pulls them off Caleb’s hands and into the next pattern, then holds it out.

Their eyes meet in a quick glance, all that Caleb allows, then burn-scarred fingers reach across to pluck at the web spanned between Molly’s hands; gingerly pinching strings together, then looping them around and pulling back. Another familiar pattern. Molly follows along, and so they go, the silence stretching on and growing more comfortable as it does. Comfortable, but it’s not enough to soothe the agitation still simmering in Molly’s blood.

The emotions still boil up in him, horror and fear and anguish that steam out as anger at the situation, anger at his friends, their hesitance, their—

Caleb nudges Molly’s elbow with his own. Their hands are suddenly knotted together—Molly’s hands having spasmed and yanked the careful magic out of true, tangling the thread. Shit. Fuck. Gods damn it all, can't even get a simple children’s game right, let alone anything more useful. He doesn’t move as Caleb slips his own fingers free and starts untangling the thread. Still quiet, movements slow and purposeful and fucking hells below.

“How are you all so calm about this?” He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t.

There is a long moment of silence, Caleb slipping the last knots from the thread and winding it carefully before replying, “Everyone is in shock, Mollymauk. Do not mistake it for apathy.”

“Bullshit. If any of you gave a—” Caleb doesn’t let him finish, talks over him.

“Beauregard hasn’t said a single word since your shouting match three hours and twenty-seven minutes ago. Jester started crying halfway through that argument and hasn’t stopped. Caduceus burned the stew and oversteeped three separate pots of tea. Nott has done nothing but drink since we got back and Fjord has let his accent slip at least four times in that span.”

“And you?” Molly is still stuck on their firebrand wizard and his icy calm all through the ride back to Bazzoxan—stuck and enraged, if he’s honest with himself.

Caleb laughs, dry as dust. “Well.”

He holds out his right hand for inspection and Molly takes in what he hadn’t noticed earlier. The bandages on the outer blade of his hand are scorched brown, black at the edges, and there are red smears in the palm mirrored by the rusty brown caked under burned short nails. Unthinking, he reaches out to cradle it in his own two as Caleb continues,

“Nott told me to find something to do with myself before the proprietor noticed I was burning a hole in their table. So I brought you food.”

The hand in Molly’s grasp is shaking, as if only just being held back from clenching into a fist once more. Molly has to take a moment, has to sit with what Caleb’s just told him. He wants to stay angry, wants it more than anything, because if he’s angry then nothing else can get to him—if he’s angry, the rest of the awful, awful things...

Ah, too late.

Their game of Cat’s Cradle had brought him and Caleb knee-to-knee, so it’s not far to go when Molly slumps forward to knock his head into Caleb’s shoulder. Months and months ago, back when they’d all first met, the Caleb Molly had known would have jerked back on instinct. The Caleb Molly had known wouldn’t have let his hand be held so tenderly either, or played a silly string game with him in grief-stricken silence. This Caleb has done all those things, and more—twisting his hand just enough to clasp around Molly’s forearm in a firm hold.

“I hate this.” Molly says to their laps, forehead pressed into the shoulder seam of Caleb’s fancy new coat. “Is this what it felt like? When I… When I was gone?”

“Nein,” Caleb replies, harsh and certain. Molly jerks upright at the tone.

“How?”

Caleb’s frown deepens. “You were dead, Mollymauk. You were dead and you were gone and we mourned you.” His hand tightens on Molly’s arm. “Yasha is not. She is alive, and we may not be strong enough yet, but we will get her back. I don’t— I’m not sure how we can, but we will, Molly. I swear it.”

Caleb’s free hand has lifted to rub at his face and Molly sees a smear of crimson when it comes away—a cut on his jaw that should have been healed many cleric spells ago. There’s dried blood crusted under the nails of that hand as well. Had he picked open that shaving nick over the course of the night?

There’s a hard lump in Molly’s throat that he tries to swallow past, but can’t. It blocks all his words except the few syllables he needs to send up to the Moonweaver as he reaches out to touch Caleb’s jaw. The silver crescent charm on his horn chimes softly as it spins and hits keratin, and a sparkle of divine blue light dances in the blue of Caleb’s eyes as Molly draws on the absolute last of his strength to seal up the tiny cut. He doesn’t move his hand after—keeps it there to feel the subtle movement of Caleb adjusting his jaw, relaxing clenched teeth.

It’s not far to go when their foreheads press together, made shorter by Caleb leaning in to meet him halfway. Molly lets his hand drop to fall atop Caleb’s wrapped ones in their laps, closes his eyes and tries to just breathe—he feels like he hasn’t properly since that door closed.

It hurts. It’s going to hurt for a good long while yet, he reckons. But it’ll hurt a damn sight less once they’ve got Yasha back.

#critical role #critical role c2 #widomauk #critical role fanfiction #mollymauk tealeaf #caleb widogast #molly lives!AU #avinryd #fics of ryd #series: Shards and Spells

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themodethecitythesoul · 6 days

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You do book binding!!?!?!?!??? That's so cool!!!!

Yeah! I worked in a print shop finishing department for a couple years, and after quitting(read: got fired for too many sick days) I still wanted to make books so I learned how to do it at home.

I was part of the og crew at @renegadeguild actually, under my creator name AvinRyd and have done mostly fan fiction binds, but I've got a few non fic wips. I haven't been active in the guild recently just because it's grown so much and large groups are hard for me to keep up with.

All my bookbinding stuff is archived on my creator blog at the link if you wanna see. I also post there when I finish stuff, tho between moving and the disability stuff I'm not exactly creating a lot right now lol

#ask #answered

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avinrydarchive · 3 years

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i could even learn how to love (like you)

Author: AvinRyd Fandom: Critical Role Rating: T Pairing: ShadoWidoMauk Chapters: 3/? Series: tbd

"...they begin to recall subtle knowledge from their past life's experiences, a process called anamnesis. Through meditation with a guide, they can unlock the memories of their past lives..."-Explorer's Guide to Wildemount -- Restoring a person to memories of a past life is an art form in the Dynasty and though he is not religious, Essek Thelyss knows that one should be careful when coaxing a person back from the past. With a heart grown from the love of the Nein, Essek cannot stand by and let his friends take that opportunity away from the dearest of them all.

Read on AO3: read in full

#Critical Role #cr #critical role c2 #shadowgast #widomauk #shadowidomauk #AvinRyd #fics of ryd #i could even learn how to love (like you)#look who finally remembered to make a tumblr post for this fic

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sitical · 5 years

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FINAL PIECE for @avinryd 's BigBang, Prince's Bastard!

@capri-bigbang2k18

#capribigbang2k18 #avinryd #BigBang #laurent of vere

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paintedwarpony · 3 years

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My first run with using the Critical Role wrapping paper to cover a book went REALLY well! I am very pleased with how it came out! Secret to using the wrapping paper was going slow and being conservative with glue. I can't wait to use it again soon!

This is a Widofjord anthology of 20 different short stories and one shots pulled from AO3.

I love how the pattern looks. Its so great!!!

With a little help from @avinryd and @armoredsuperheavy I figured out how to put little "inky kitty paw prints" on the page so it looks like Frumpkin walked across the page! This is probably the last book of the year. Here's to more in the new one coming.

#critical role #d&d shenanigans #the mighty nein #campaign 2 #widofjord #fan fiction #fandom solidarity #making books is so awesome #making fan fic into books #critical role wrapping paper #lets make some books #bookbinding #doing that bookbinding thing #renegade bindery #renegadepublishing #frumpkin #frumpkin wuz here

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simply-sithel · 4 years

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Well, that went a lot better. Thanks to @avinryd for coaching me on going slower with the chisel, cutting carefully and repeatedly rather than hammering down through it. Would have been perfect, but the text block extended a fraction past the cardboard underneath and you can see what it did to the pages at the very end- not nearly as clean of cut!

#bonus- now I have all these tiny strips of paper that fold perfectly into a cute little book #always fun to find out which punishment each mistake will inflict upon the project #am totally not looking forward to sharping the chisel though...#please no #bookbinding #book arts #wip #there was a discussion of whether to trim before or after rounding and I thought it'd be funny to try a flat fore-edge w/ a rounded spine #sadly I didn't think it through enough (as always) and now I don't believe I can trim the top or bottom- _that_ should happen pre rounding #next time next time next time next time....

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capri-bigbang2k21 · 5 years

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Week One Recap List

Here is a list of all works posted as part of the Captive Prince Big Bang in the first week (November 17th - 23rd). All completed fics are bolded, and please do click on the links to have a look at all the awesome art.

A Beast of a Burden by @nikanndros art by @asuraaa here The first thing King Laurent does upon his ascension is declare war on Akielos. His only goal: to avenge his brother’s death and kill King Damianos, the Prince-killer. Instead of succeeding in this plan, he becomes a political prisoner to Akielos.

Aristeia by @damiaanos art by @berinbaka here and here Damen ends up prisoner of a crumbling castle in unknown, unchartered territory. There he meets the aloof, golden-haired lord, never without silken gloves, and finds himself thrust into the middle of an aging conspiracy at the very heart of Veretian politics. He might be the only man who can stop the impending war that could destroy Akielos – and save Laurent from himself along the way.

As Fire and Gold by @thestoriesthatweweave art by @sitical here and here Beautiful but cold, Prince Laurent of Arles has vowed to marry only the one to best him in a footrace. The winner will get his hand in marriage - and the power and influence that come with it - but the price of failure is death. The latest in a long string of suitors to attempt Laurent’s challenge and lose is Prince Kastor of Ios. Damen, desperate to save his brother’s life, travels to Arles himself to participate in the race.

From the Depths by @laurent-ofvere art by @jesibeans here Damen was a steadfast pirate with as much heart as devotion, as dedicated to his cause as he was to the sea. Until one night, he found something else, something new. An unearthly creature unlike any other, with a beauty that rivaled anything he had ever seen. It would appear that mermaids were more than just a myth.

hè mo leannan, hò mo leannan by @exalted-one art by @ziote here and here ’Hello?' He calls cautiously into the afternoon air and nothing answers him. He doesn't dare look away from the stone and when his hand touches it the only thing he can catalog is that the rock isn't cold to the touch, it’s actually quite warm, before everything goes black and he doesn't feel anything at all. An Outlander AU.

How Not To Court A Veretian Prince by @arsaces-of-akielos art by @joves-stash here + gifs one two three "He was—” Damen breaks off, swallows hard, pauses in the manner of a man soundly failing to find an explanation in what he is trying to explain, “—really pretty.’” The first time Damen meets Laurent, he mistakes him for a pet. It doesn't go well. No one lets him forget it.

The Invisible Prince by @archaicaesthetic art by @magickkart coming up on Sunday along with the final part “Laurent is a solitary witch and a prince whose right to the throne was erased when he was cast away by his power-hungry uncle who was afraid of his power. Living on the edge of the city, he toils to no avail trying to find a spell, a curse, anything that will return to him the one thing he wants: his brother.”

Pawn Sacrifice by @thelibrarina art by @damnmads here and here The war with Akielos has settled into an uneasy alliance, and Prince Damianos is sent to spend a year at Arles. Seven years later, Auguste’s younger brother is the target of an assassin. When Damen returns to Akielos, an unexpected guest is sent with him. What might have changed if Auguste lived—and what was inevitable, even so.

Prince’s Bastard by @avinryd art by @sitical here and here Tasha is on a quest—a quest to find her father, the Akielon noble who sired her at a coupling fire and then returned, only to steal away her mother and twin brother and leave her behind. He left her with two things: an emerald carved with the crest of a lion and starburst, and the words, 'Find me at Marlas, if you wish.'

Runaway by @violentincest art by @silverbladedraco here The two biggest (and baddest) gangs, Akielos and Vere, have kept an uneasy peace a violent turf war. Right when Laurent is set to take over he is forced to run for his life. He ends up in Akielos territory where he plans to infiltrate the group, and convince the leader to help them - even if that means working in his nightclub as a skimpily dressed waiter.

This is all for the first week! Stay tuned for more posted works, weekly recap lists, and our completed masterlist at the end of the event.

#captive prince #capribigbang2k18 #capri #rec list

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capri-discord · 6 years

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Telephone Game 8 has finished!

Surprisingly, the theatre theme of the prompt managed to continue even after changing from a modern AU to canonverse. But what unfailingly stayed consistent until the very end was Laurent crossdressing, although not without the story getting a bit more serious in nature in every iteration!

Each participant had only 1 hour to contribute their piece to the chain, resulting in 3 artworks and 5 ficlets!

The 8 participants in this game were:

@thestoriesweweave @covertius-fic @avinryd @niniblack @orangepaperweight @tumsa @berinbaka and @veretianblue ! Covertius kindly volunteered as an artist despite being a writer to even out the balance <3

You can either read the whole piece as a google doc here or open the read more!

#captive prince #capridiscord #telephone game

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zisurru · 6 years

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my big bad list o’ bartimaeus fanfic recs (updated september 2020)

it’s long so I put it under a cut. [unfinished] means the fic has been apparently abandoned :(

Gen:

On Names, and Becoming Them by me malum: "You have many names," the old crone continued. "Did you know you've gained another?" Bartimaeus, in the centuries after 'Ptolemy's Gate'.

Hair by Kyuunen: Jane Farrar wishes she could lock away the razor and the shaving cream. Lock them away forever.

In the End by Volkie: In a way, she was glad. She would rather die than live in a London controlled by commoners and second-raters.

Ties that Bind by chibideath: Concerning what happens to Kitty Jones and Bartimeaus following the end of Ptolemy's gate. A story about names, hearts, and what comes with being human.

Of Uruk by electrumqueen: Five stories of origin for the djinni known as Bartimaeus of Uruk, as told to Ptolemy of Alexandria over the course of his research. Some of them might even be true.

one day you will go away from this by electrumqueen: Enkidu becomes a real boy; Bartimaeus is dubious about the process. Uruk changes everyone who comes into her walls.

coda by asdfghjkla: a series of unrelated prompts taking place during and after the events of ptolemy's gate. spoilers for everything. mostly kitty and kitty+bart focused.

Of Pentacles, Rocking Chairs, and Presumed Deaths by yonwords: Kitty summons Bartimaeus after the events of Ptolemy's Gate.

Far From Home by Contrarian: Bartimaeus is summoned for the first time after Ptolemy's death.

After Icarus by Bialy: The boy in the pentacle is skinny and pale, and forever twelve years old. He has dark, combed hair, and his black eyes are locked on the thick chalk line at his feet. He is regretting this form. Oneshot, five years after the end of Ptolemy's Gate.

o brother you are not by DrMeh: He's always tried his hardest to forget the difference between cowardice and courage, Nick has.

Semantics by TheAliensDidIt: Detailing the exploits of Bartimaeus of Uruk (i.e. moi), the Serpent of the Silver Plumes, N'gorso the Mighty, the Bane of Magicians, in great battles of wit and cunning... you'd best say your incantations correctly and pray your pentacle has no faults, for if there is one, I will find it.

Untitled by @notaflower whom tumblr won’t let me tag

Untitled by @joons

Stages by @tarragonthedragon: Faquarl's view of Bartimaeus over time changes, and ultimately, stays the same. Their very nature seems to revert them to the status quo of uneasy disdain.

three doors, three souls by @avinryd: “B-” He clears his throat. “Bartimaeus?”(He's not sure where that name came from.)The boy blinks, then shakes his head. “No, my name is Ptolemy.” He looks expectant, as if waiting for a response.And what to respond? Does he have a name? After a moment of thought he decides, yes, he does have a name: Nathaniel. He says as much and Ptolemy smiles.“Hello, Nathaniel,” and it sounds so right and familiar in his voice that Nathaniel aches.

it doesn’t really bear thinking about by @avinryd: "He wonders, vaguely, what might have changed if they’d lived; all three of them against the world. It doesn’t really bear thinking about, but then again, he’ll be dead in moments. Why not spend those dwelling on happier things?"

Cats by @tarragonthedragon: Prompt: Bartimaeus and Queezle being happy. Maybe one of their adventures?

Just One Yesterday by @shadowy-dumbo-octopus: Bartimaeus stumbles upon an old enemy, and sees them in a new light after certain events from the last book.

a song skims over the nile, by dolokhovian: call it the earth turning.

Untitled by @shadowy-dumbo-octopus: Evil Nat AU!

A Road Trip (A Disgusting Human Invention) by @tarragonthedragon: In which a magician, a spirit, and a commoner are crammed into the cramped space of a single Honda Civic and are unable to stop and shout at each other. It's not going to end well.

Bartimaeus/Nathaniel:

Thorn by Maiden of the Moon: Nathaniel was a thorn in Bartimaeus' side. But now that he is dead, now that the thorn is gone, the resulting wound is free to fester and ooze and bleed...

Chaos by Maiden of the Moon: Sometimes, I understand why he hates me.

Distractions by Maiden of the Moon: The djinn flopped backwards, rearranging his puppet's toned body and dark hair in a sexy sprawl on his master's desk. “Why?” the demon pressed, voice husky with suggestion. “Do you find this distracting?”

It’s A Harsh Thing by Existence’s Bane: For each breath taken...

Written Aramaic and Other Tips for Everyday Living by Kyuunen: Somehow, in the thrum of everyday life, the djinni that drives Nathaniel to near insanity is the only thing keeping him sane.

miserable company by BoltAcid: Nine cheesy, mismatched prompts and one familiar, mismatched pair.

warm chromatic by atrophie: bartimaeus is on a desk and annoying nathaniel, as usual.

A Very Fetching Rug by ThePurpleRose: Nathaniel, you have a very feching rug in your hall." Bartimaeus plans to bring out the Nathaniel out of John Mandrake. Involves necklaces, guilt trips, soaps, coat stands and rugs.

As We Dream by the Fire by Wit Unraveled: Time progresses and turns to evolution; seasons decay into change. Magician boys do both. - In honor of the season; there's just something about all this snow.

Untitled by @chokopoppo

Untitled Part 1 Part 2 by @princefado

no dose of emotional chemotherapy (can halt my pathetic decline) by @singacrossthemoon: For all of his sarcasm, all of his acerbic wit, Bartimaeus could not, for the life of him, remember the last time anyone had treated him with anything less than nauseating kindness, never mind such immediate, obvious distain. I think, he realized in a rush, that I am in love.

love is colder than death by izzybusiness: Bartimaeus first meets Nathaniel at eight-thirty on a Monday morning. It’s not the most auspicious of meetings. Then again, when you’ve taken a job as a barista with the sole purpose of poisoning someone’s drink, he supposes that any sort of meeting is favourable to its end.

love is colder than death au fics by @singacrossthemoon [Series]

one for the money (two for the pain) by @singacrossthemoon: Or: Five times someone asks about John Mandrake, and one time Bartimaeus talks about Nathaniel. [Content warning: sexual assault]

fire and air by @transarty: Nathaniel wants to see Bartimaeus' true form - but what could he possibly expect? Bartimaeus delights and frights over this. / light bartnat and headcanon on bart's shape, feelings and a little mush

Bartimaeus/Kitty:

Autumn Leaves and the Endless Fall by otherworldviolet: Kitty dies. This is about what happens next. [Unfinished] [Content warning: brief mention of sexual assault in Chapter 3]

Of Fire and Roses by Anti-Logic: But this was different. That place had been all gentle waves and currents, always intermingling and flowing. This was a world of fire and roses. [Unfinished]

Of Auras and Oracles by conception.creation: The trilogy is complete, but Bartimaeus’ adventures are far from over. When a prominent politician goes missing, Kitty and Bartimaeus must find him, but who is behind the mysterious attacks on Kitty’s life?

Monomyth by conception.creation: Nouda didn’t die in the Glass Palace explosion. Now Kitty must rely on her wits to survive in a post-apocalyptic London overrun with enemy spirits.

The Haunting by conception.creation: A rebel turned demon hunter treks across the world in pursuit of escaped hybrids. Now she must track down a spirit with a mysterious agenda, and nothing is as it seems.

Restless Spirit by conception.creation: Quick thinking saves Kitty from assassination – unfortunately, she’s now without a body. Can she solve her own murder in time to stop a massive conspiracy threatening Britain itself?

Panache by conception.creation: When Bartimaeus' master sends him out to win him the hand of a beautiful commoner, he doesn't expect the djinni to fall for her himself. Based on the play Cyrano de Bergerac.

That Awful Rush To Say Goodbye by cacophonyGilded: Hope is what kills you. Kitty knows that. Bartimaeus, somehow, is still learning.

children of dust and ash by callunavulgari: Kitty summons Bartimaeus on a chilly fall day in her thirty-eighth year. Her children are at school. There is no husband. She is alone in the house, save for a fat persian who slumbers happily on a cushion in the window seat downstairs. The persian, she knows, will not wake before noon.The words are familiar to her, and she does not stumble over them. Smoke billows into the room, as expected, but instead of a creeping sulfurous stench, there is the faint smell of sandalwood and wet earth. When the smoke clears, Bartimaeus is there.

the way to the graveyard by @singacrossthemoon: Djinn are beings of fire, Kitty realizes anew; they leave naught but ash in their wake.

Bartimaeus/Kitty/Nathaniel:

stars are projectors by asdfghjkla: Someone is kissing her. She is not sure which one he is.

Entertainment by princefado: In which Kitty and Bartimaeus double team Nathaniel. In a skirt. Gratuitous smut.

the root of the root by @singacrossthemoon: The pyre burns with the misery of passion. She does not try to stop it.

Bartimaeus/Kitty/Ptolemy:

this isn’t our first time around by nighimpossible: It seems that the spirit she thought was dead and gone isn’t so dead after all. Kitty could spit she’s so furious.“This is about the worst way you could tell me you’re alive, Bartimaeus,” Kitty grits through her teeth. Her fingers curl against the countertop, nails nearly cutting into the wood.The man gives her a confused look. “Sorry,” he says carefully. “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.”

Kitty/Nathaniel:

The Matchmaker by conception.creation: Eight lousy, stinking months have gone by and Nathaniel still refuses to let him go home. Bartimaeus gets creative.

Bartimaeus/Ptolemy:

Eyeliner by Chokopoppo: Generally, I’m known for my keen eye and my acute knowledge of universal human culture. There are few others, even among humans themselves, who so completely understand the workings of their past, present, and inevitably future, as I do. Few things are beyond my scope of great knowledge.This, apparently, was one of those things.

Coffee by Chokopoppo: He would follow the boy to the ends of the earth in every cycle of time, if he could.So he does.

Choices by Chokopoppo: He needs flight, he needs home, he needs the stars and dark eyes and shifting essence and warm skin and vast great oneness and a gentle fragile voice calling his name but he cannot have both the Other Place and Ptolemy and the universe has made his choice for him.

As Far As Adventures Go, It Was Pretty Okay by jonesandashes: Judge not - developing a proper threat rapport does not happen in a day. We got better.

drives you crazy getting old by electrumqueen

and we talk of things that matter, in words that must be said by @lupevensies

Lullaby by @shadowy-dumbo-octopus: In which Ptolemy refuses to sleep because who needs sleep when there's research to be done? This forces Bartimaeus to try and get him into bed before the poor kid burns himself out. Short and fluffy.

Bartimaeus/Queezle:

Battlecry by The Sad Privateer: "You are either a genius, or the luckiest idiot on the planet," she remarks to him one day. "And I'm leaning towards the latter."

Bartimaeus/Faquarl:

Hold Your Colour by otherworldviolet: Faquarl comes to Bartimaeus with a proposition. Set during Ring of Solomon.

A Mirror Darkly by badpriestess: Two entities so alike yet so crucially different can't help but clash, but in the end they always come back to each other.

Anger Was Good by @lupevensies

Eeeuuuggghjjjjj by meanfrogs: Bart and Faq con non suspecting people into buying terrible copper in some market stall in Ur. They hate each other and also kiss, hell yeah

Faquarl/Jabor:

Why you should never cut your fingernails in the kitchen by JTJonah: So Jabor and Faquarl are discussing ways to ruin Lovelace (as per usual) and then - you know what, we all know what you came here for, they swive okay they swive and that's all we're here for, I hope you're all goddamned happy with the results.

Indoor Voices by JTJonah: So they had just broken into a tomb in the middle of nowhere.

Khaba/Ammet:

The Master's Shadow by badpriestess: Khaba has been inadvertently cruel, and Ammet's dissatisfaction comes to a head.

Untitled by @madanach

More Thank Your Shadow by bluebeholder

Multiple ships:

Just Hold Me Close by Chokopoppo: A series of reincarnation romance AUs, set within the writing constraints of the Songfic Challenge from the early 2000s.

quiescency by @singacrossthemoon: “What a beautiful portrait,” the teenager gasps, his admiration genuine. “Is it of me?” The boy pauses, reconsidering the picture. It is yet unfinished. He cannot recall when he started it. “No,” he says at length.

#if your fic is on this list and you don't want it there just message me i'll take it off #fanfic #bartseq

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avinryd · 7 months

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ficbit time!!!

BG3 brainrot incoming. What can I say, the sad arrogant wizard got to me. I will not apologize.

“What in Mystra’s name were you thinking?”

He keeps his voice below a shout, barely, but Arden flinches as if he hadn’t. Still, their voice is level when they reply,

“What do you mean, ‘what was I thinking’? You were there, in my mind. You know. You saw.”

‘What I saw was a stubborn fool with more power than sense,’ Gale does not say. That would brand him the most egregious hypocrite on the Sword Coast, after all. Instead he exhales deliberately though his nose, searching for calm before he speaks again.

“Your mind is a maelstrom, Arden—” fuck, he can’t quite keep the awe from his voice “—and I’m no illithid master of the psionic arts. At least, not yet. So I ask again: what in the Hells were you thinking? Did nothing I said, no impression of the severity of the situation get through to you?”

“Of course it did!” They snap back, eyes flashing in a very literal sense. “The situation seemed very urgent, so I chose the most expedient solution available.”

“How does ‘pouring your entire life force and then some down a drain’ register to you as a solution at all? Let alone the most expedient!”

“This, coming from the man whose apparent life plan is to find the darkest corner of Faerun to detonate his mistake, rather than find a way to fix it. Your self-preservation record seems as black as mine, Gale of Waterdeep.”

Before Gale can sputter out a reply to that comment, they continue bitterly,

“There’s a hole in the Weave sitting in your chest, and I’m brim-full of the stuff that threads the loom.”

Lightning crackles between their fingers as if to illustrate.

“It’s just…so much. It stood to reason that enough of it could er—fill the hole, as it were.”

(There’s more to it than that; Gale’s no fool. The sorcerer’s hands have balled into fists, some deep-seated frustration robbing them of their usual eloquence. “Brim-full”. “So much”. If Gale had to guess—with that part of his mind not worried about the apocalypse in his chest—he’d conjecture that Arden suffers under a problem diametrically opposed to his own. He shelves the thought for later.)

Arden at least has the decency to look ashamed.

“Clearly, I’m outclassed—I’d never encountered Netherese magic before last night. I won’t— I won’t apologize for my actions, but I did not take you at your word and for that, I am sorry.”

There's like, 2k in this doc so far and I'm not quite done with this piece. I'm thinking it'll be a series of oneshots(actually 2 series, companions) that vaguely follow my playthrough as Storm Sorcerer blast-first-questions-later Arden. We have a good time, and Arden's vowed to vaporize everyone who's ever hurt their friends, up to and including the gods themselves.

#baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 fic #gale x tav #gale x mc #gale x named tav #ficbits of ryd #avinryd

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avinryd · 5 months

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hold tight: folly

Author: Avin Ryd Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Rating: T Pairing: Gale/Tav Word Count: ~2800 Series: hold tight || don't fight

"...Gale forces his eyes open to find Arden’s brown-red brows drawn together over unsettling blue-fire eyes. It’s his only warning before he feels tendons flex under his palm, power rising and crackling, then surging in a white-hot rush and it’s…

Well. In those first few moments, it’s everything."

Wizard Hubris has nothing on Sorcerer Hubris.

Read on AO3

“...here. Place your hand over my heart. Let me show you.”

Sharing this—sharing his folly—with these near-strangers is… Well, to be frank, it’s not just terrifying, it’s mortifying. His greatest mistake out for all to see before he’s even had a chance to prove he’s grown since. There is, of course, no helping it. Strangers or no, their lots are cast together and shame is not something Gale intends to let stand in the way of their group’s safety. They have enough out for their blood already.

And so, he grasps the sorcerer’s hand in a mirror of their first meeting and presses their palm to his chest: just right of his heart, squarely atop the orb. Their hand—Arden’s hand—is warm, their palm dry and seeming to crackle with power. That power sparks, arcs. Arden’s muscles twitch, instinctively trying to jerk back and away from the void Gale carries, but before Gale can tighten his grip he feels Arden steel themself in a display of ironclad self control. As their minds open to one another, he tries to smother his surprise at their show of physical will.

Reliving the past is something Gale has made into an art this past year, and the picture he paints hurts as much in the telling as it did in the living. He draws the eye away from his crippling insecurity with sweeping brush strokes of hubris, offsets the fug of desperation to prove his worth with the stomach-dropping rush of falling from the pinnacle of grace, straight into the manticore’s den. The tadpole behind his eye twists and control of the memory slips from Gale’s grasp. Magic, darker than blackest night, blossoms from the book in his hands and pounces, digging void-cold tendrils into his chest, his heart, his very being, twined up in his essence—greedy, voracious, hungry.

Desperate to be free of the past, Gale forces his eyes open to find Arden’s brown-red brows drawn together over unsettling blue-fire eyes. It’s his only warning before he feels tendons flex under his palm, power rising and crackling, then surging in a white-hot rush and it’s…

Well. In those first few moments, it’s everything.

The sense of relief is unlike anything Gale has ever felt; no orgasm(not even one divinely-gifted) has ever granted such a feeling of release. It is nothing like the soulless influx of artificed items. This is living magic, surging and pulsing and roaring with more force than the Chionthar, swollen with spring runoff. The tide pulls him under for precious, blissful seconds, gulping swallows of cool autumn air before a storm, before sense returns to him in a drenching of cold sweat. He shoves at Arden, but the orb has them well and truly in its pull, and worse they themself resist his efforts.

“Stop!” Another ineffectual shove. “Arden, you need to— shit, you need to pull back!”

There’s no response, just the knot between their brows knitting tighter and the magic surging brighter, hotter. Fuck.

Approaching frantic now, Gale signals to Wyll, Shadowheart, anyone.

“Pull them off,” he grits, then closes his eyes once more and sinks back into his mind.

Gale is not as adept with his new psionic gifts as, say, Arden or Astarion, but he’s certainly dabbled—

(When the options while cornered by a fanatic goblin are fight or True Soul bluff, there’s really only one option to Gale’s way of thinking.)

—thus, the mental stretch he makes is not entirely unfamiliar. More difficult in that there is no brand shining as a beacon; but also easier, Arden’s tadpole squirming and reaching through their already-open connection, almost as if it knows the danger its host is in.

There’s no resistance. Gale reaches, trips, and falls into Arden’s mind. Like their eyes, their voice, their skin, Arden’s mind crackles with magic—free of the Weave, a maelstrom subject to only their whims. Gale can taste those whims on the wind, a storm’s approach on his tongue. Pressing in on all sides is a determination that’s oppressive in its totality, but creeping in Gale catches the stirrings of doubt—yellow whisps of petrichor. He follows them through the storm; searching, searching, there.

The eye of the storm.

Where he might have waited for permission in other circumstances, now Gale doesn’t hesitate to step into the singing, shining brightness of Arden’s consciousness. The change is abrupt. Gale is jerked out of the abstract ambience of the mind and into the grounded reality of Arden’s focus…and it’s worse than he feared. Now he feels the arc of power from the other side, feels it rushing and flowing and draining—that storm under Arden’s rich brown skin being siphoned and stolen, feeling their fingers start to go cold, then numb.

You need to stop, he pleads, pressing his urgency, his fear against their mind.

No! I almost have it! It’s almost…

Somewhere far away, Gale feels his flesh-and-blood form reach out and give Arden a shake by the shoulders. Mentally, he pushes,

Yes, that’s the problem! “Almost”. You’ll almost have it, all the way until you’re “almost” to oblivion, and by then it will be too late. Please, let it go.

Arden is trembling, both in body and mind—the orb has ravaged through all of their magic now, Gale realizes in horror. All that power, swirled away like some cataclysmic tavern outhouse, and still the awful thing drains. Magic is in the sorcerer’s very blood and that blood helpless to the pull.

I can do this, Arden’s mental voice is starting to thin. I can— I can…I can’t—

One of them is stammering the words through numb lips—I can’t, I can’t—and Gale isn’t sure which one of them it is. He can’t even retreat to try and sure up his defenses. Arden’s mind has seized in alien panic—the tadpole no doubt, trying to protect itself and inevitably leading to all of their dooms.

The rushing-roaring-shrieking fills their shared mindscape, so loud Gale can barely parse the scent of regret and feathered touch of remorse underneath the cacophony. Fear slips away, giving ground to a calm resignation. This was always going to be his fate, after all. He just wishes it was only his fate, not that of so many others.The creation of a literal black hole fills all of his awareness, growing louder and louder, until suddenly—

—it doesn’t

Abruptly, Gale finds himself deposited back in his own mind, and more importantly his own body. Pushing away the shock with rough hands, he immediately calls familiar wards and charms to his fingers, locking his folly behind seven-fold gates and no fewer than three blood wards. By the end of it, there’s a cold sweat trickling down his back and the smell of blood in his nose. Lovely.

Then his brain catches up and his eyes fly open.

Two feet away, kneeling and collapsed back against an annoyed-looking Lae’zel, Arden is ashen faced and shaking. They won’t meet Gale’s gaze, which is honestly fine because before Gale can think of what to say, both Wyll and Astarion are in his face; Wyll in a righteous fury over the orb’s destructive power, Astarion in a rather surprising, protective indignation on their sorcerer’s behalf.

Gale argues them down with half an ear, the other straining to catch the hushed exchange between their other companions. Lae’zel seems curious in spite of herself, while Shadowheart hisses invective most unbecoming of a cleric under her breath as she examines Arden for injuries. Arden—still pale enough to give their undead friend a run for his money—tries gamely to answer their questions, but the words are mumbled and Gale doesn’t catch more than fine and rest and my fault.

That last being a sentiment shared by no one else in camp, apparently. Even after explaining, multiple times in multiple ways to multiple people, the evening ends with Gale’s offer to take watch shot down out of hand by suspicious-eyed compatriots, the air terse and sullen as they all prepare for bed.

Unsurprisingly, Gale cannot sleep. Not for pain—no, after such an inundation the orb should be satiated for at least a ten-day—but for anxiety. Arden had been gently frogmarched to their tent after Shadowheart’s examination and had yet to emerge by the time the camp settled down for sleep. Haunted by the memory of dull eyes and shaking limbs, Gale spends the night dredging up memories of projects long abandoned: wards and charms half-constructed, then tossed aside upon acceptance of his new life of isolation. The equations still refuse to balance, and it’s only when the first birds start to sing that his eyes finally fall closed.

No one comes to wake him and it’s nearly midday when he emerges, squinting, from his tent. The camp is silent and Gale would think they’d all left him for a lost cause(understandable) but for the fact that everyone’s tents are still pitched. A closer look finds the skeletal Whithers pacing by the river, muttering his mysterious numbers, a silently meditating Lae’zel in the mouth of her tent, and Arden, sitting by the ashes of last night fire with one knee pulled to their chest. The rest of their merry band nowhere to be found.

Arden’s silent gaze is far away, fixed on a space miles beyond the long cold embers. They don’t look up when Gale approaches, nor when he sits down. He sighs and reaches over to their camp provision to pull forth two apples. He offers one over, deliberately putting his hand in their line of sight.

“I know that look,” he tries. “You are thinking too many thoughts on too empty a stomach. Was Shadowheart’s attempt at breakfast really so terrible?”

Arden’s vacant stare focuses in on the red of Gale’s offering--red like their sleep-flattened hair--and they blink a few times before seeming to shake away the daze and accepting the apple.

“Wyll’s, actually,” they reply, taking a mechanical bite of the apple, as if running on muscle memory alone. “He tried to revive hardtack by frying it.”

Gale winces. “Ah. So jerky and cheese all around?”

“Mmhm.”

(This is not their first run-in with Wyll’s…imaginative culinary pursuits. After the Blade’s “signature stew” of two days whence, Gale had vowed to make that their last run-in with said pursuits.)

“My apologies for not commandeering the cookfire in a timely manner. I found myself…distracted to the point of insomnia, last night.”

Arden’s snort makes it clear exactly how well that understatement landed, but they don’t comment further. Silence stretches longer and longer, less and less comfortable by the minute until Lae’zel gives a very pointed, very irritated cough.

Ah.

“I fear,” Gale begins, “that if we don’t address the oliphaunt in the room, our dear githyanki friend might renege on her promise to our compatriots and force us to confront it at swordpoint.”

Lae’zel’s affirming silence is deafening and Arden only holds out for a moment before sighing and turning to face Gale properly, at last. Under their carefully-applied blue paint, Gale can see dark smudges beneath their eyes, and while rest has returned the color to their fine half-elven features, they still look distinctly unwell. They take a breath as if to speak, but seeing them so worn has Gale blurting before they can begin,

“What in Mystra’s name were you thinking?”

He keeps his voice below a shout, barely, but Arden flinches as if he hadn’t. Still, their voice is level when they reply,

“What do you mean, ‘what was I thinking’? You were in my mind. You know. You saw.”

“Your mind is a maelstrom, Arden—” fuck, he can’t quite keep the awe from his voice “—and I am no illithid master of the psionic arts. At least, not yet. So I ask again: what in the Hells were you thinking? Did nothing I said, no impression of the severity of the situation make an impact on you?”

“Of course it did!” They snap back, eyes flashing in a very literal sense. “The situation seems rather dire, so I chose the most expedient solution available.”

“How does ‘pouring your entire life force and then some down a drain’ register to you as a solution at all? Let alone the most expedient!”

And therein lay the risk of sharing your mind with another—they weren’t supposed to have seen that. Before Gale can sputter out a reply, they continue bitterly,

“There’s a hole in the Weave sitting in your chest, and I’m brim-full of the stuff that threads the loom.”

Lightning crackles between their fingers as if to illustrate.

“It’s just…so much. It stood to reason that enough of it could er—fill the hole, as it were.”

Arden at least has the decency to look ashamed.

“Clearly, I’m outclassed. I’d never encountered Netherese magic before last night. I won’t—

“Fuck, I won’t apologize for my actions, but I did not take you at your word and for that, I am sorry.”

The apology hangs in the air, nearly tangible—an offering between them—and for a moment Gale considers dismissing it. Well intentioned or not, Arden’s impulsivity had nearly cost them his grip on the orb. If his calculations are even close to accurate, the scope would not only vaporize their camp; it would flatten the Emerald Grove, druids and tieflings alike, and while the goblin threat would be most handily dealth with, there would also be a large chunk missing from the mountains nearby. It might even take down that dragon on the horizon.

And yet…

And yet.

Arden is also the first person(other than Tara) Gale has encountered through his whole ordeal willing to place everything on the line for him at the first sign of trouble. Not even Elmister, his dear mentor and most powerful ally, had been so immediately forthcoming in his aid when Gale came to his tower in desperation. And that’s not nothing. Gods above, it’s more than “not nothing”—it’s more than he could have dreamed these last years, and certainly more than he deserves.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve the tension in his brow.

“Your…candor is appreciated,” is what he finally manages. “And while I cannot condone your actions, please know that it does not come from a place of thanklessness. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“No one has ever… Well. Shall we just say, your immediate eagerness to help has not gone unnoticed, and leave it at that.”

Arden’s pursed, too-perceptive expression hints that no, they would not like to leave it at that, thank you all the same, but for whatever reason they stay their clever tongue to a simple,

“Alright, then.”

A beat.

“Just…” Gale attempts, “swear to me you will not attempt such a foolhardy stunt again?”

Their eyes lock, blue-fire on hazel.

“I swear, on all the magic within me, that I will not attempt another such hubristic feat without discussing all the particulars with you before the act.”

Gale narrows his eyes. “Somehow, that does not quite assuage my concerns, but it’ll do for now.”

Arden’s answering grin is all mischief, but before they can reply the conversation is interrupted by an explosive sigh from Lae’zel’s direction.

“Vlakkith preserve me, I thought you’d never reach an accord. Do all istik insist on settling their conflicts with such drawn-out conversation? Do none of you bring your differences to a close with combat, as is right?”

Even after this near ten-day of travel, Lae’zel’s convictions regarding diplomacy and conflict resolution never fail to surprise Gale into silence. It’s the stark contrast between battle-hardened resolve and societal naivete, he thinks distractedly, and is still in the process of pulling words into a semblance of sense when Arden quips,

“If we did that for every conflict, our party would soon consist of only you and myself, Lae’zel. And, strong as we are, I prefer our odds in a fight with at least two of our friends at our backs. Don’t you?”

Their smirk invites a challenge and, as has proven the case time and time again, Gale is helpless to resist.

#baldur's gate 3 fic #baldur's gate 3 #gale/tav #gale x tav #gale x named tav #fics of ryd #avinryd

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