#cassynite

[dujour13]

Ooh how about rose?

Thank you and thanks to @cassynite too! 💕💕

Rose this time! I’ve finally gotten around to thinking about a new OC to romance Sosiel. He isn’t fleshed out enough to have a definitive name but I do know a few things - he’s Qadiran raised in Rahadoum, an ifrit-touched fire sorcerer, and probably going demon at least up to a point in the story. (sorry Sosiel)

[spyridonya]

How about 🏄 beach outfits for Golden Shell?

I want to do this in color and with neater lines, but we'll see!

[milk-crafting]

Bust comm of @cassynite's KC Sparrow~ (I love drawing feathers so she was a real treat to get to draw heheh <33)

If you're interested in a bust comm like this feel free to dm me!

[outeremissary]

🏰 for balthazar?

🏰 for a scene at their childhood home

Thank you Harper and @cassynite, and thanks for the patience! Now to hope that this posts without the formatting getting messed up...

[prompt list]

(As a note: I realized after posting the prompt list that I was going to need to deal with the matter of Balthazar's name because he didn't start going by Balthazar until his later teens; I apologize for any confusion caused by this. ^^;; Lu is a childhood nickname. His deadname is rendered here as Lu-. It's an imperfect workaround, but the compromise I've come to- I'd rather not write it out in full for these.)

-

When his father returned from work, the stew pot was boiling over again. This was unusual- not because it was an unfamiliar battle between Lu and the wretched, flavorless broth, but because his father was never home early enough to see the boy’s near daily struggle.

“You need help with that, sweetheart?” his father called from the entrance, pausing with boots half off to watch fretfully as Lu wrested the lid off the pot.

He clenched his teeth, calling back, “I’m fine.”

The boy’s arms never seemed long enough to keep the edge of the lid from brushing against his sleeve, uncomfortable heat soaking into his skin through the thin fabric of his clothes and the ragged old cloth he’d wrapped around the pot handle. The breath forced through his teeth as he bit back a yelp matched the hissing sizzle of the broth dripping down the side of the pot into the flames- one more mess to take care of later.

The heavy lid balanced precariously as he swung it around towards the table, then with airy lightness stabilized: calloused fingers had caught under its edge, and arms encircling him carefully lifted it out of his grasp. He looked away as the lid was set on the table with a soft thunk, studying the broth as the angry roil began to fade to a more manageable simmer. He didn’t ask if it hurt his father to grab the lid barehanded. The backs of those large fingers that now gently brushed his face were a testament to the deadness of the palms after so many years of labor.

“You work too hard, Lu-.” Not a scold. Not a tease. Never either, just gentle, murmuring concern. “I worry about you.”

Then cook dinner some time, Lu wanted to say, stomach twisting. Come home early tomorrow and cook.

But he knew better than to ask. He didn’t want to look at his father’s dark, sad eyes for the rest of the night. He didn’t want his father to squeeze him in useless apology before bed, or to lay next to him knowing they were both awake, both studying mirrored patterns on the walls of the room. He didn’t want to see the mournful exhaustion when his father dragged himself home the next day with more apologies because of Lu. Besides, he’d already asked the lady next door to bring something by tomorrow; there was no point when he’d already bartered away the time she’d spent in cooing, tongue-clucking pity. No, Lu knew how to solve his problems without crying and clinging like a child.

He ducked away from his father’s hand, avoiding his eyes, and snatched up the broom from its eternally dusty corner.

“I’m finishing the bedroom,” he announced, conscious of how loud his voice was without the bubbling to cut its edge. “I’m tired of sneezing.”

He could hear his father’s voice echoing after him as he fled, but it was too late: the door had already slammed behind him, and once more he was safely alone.

[dujour13]

8, 16, 27, and D for Siavesh!

These are such good ones Cassy! Thank you so much 🥰🥰

Some PWOTR spoilers under the cut

8. What were they told to stop/start doing most often as a child?

“Sit still!” “Do your homework!” “Practice your arpeggios!” “Be careful!” “Clean your room!” “Don’t go down to the river by yourself!” “What are you wearing?” “Stop giggling, this is serious!” “No, you can’t run off and join the Desnans, you’re only 8” “Where did you get those cookies?” “Did you let the neighbor’s cat in again?” “It’s bedtime, no more stories!”

“If you would just be serious for one minute, think what you could accomplish!”

(He got payback for the last one by successfully leading the least serious crusade imaginable.)

16. What makes their stomach turn?

Answered here! But also Mendevian beer.

27. What causes them to feel dread?

Answered here but I'll add the idea of being trapped by grim duty.

He has a strongly negative reaction to discovering the true nature of the Wardstones, so much that it awakens a bout of demonic rage he’s barely able to suppress. It may seem ironic that he accepts the duty of the Crusade so happily but he has a sort of Desnan epiphany about wanting to lead a “Free Crusade,” and it inspires him enough that he doesn’t mind the burdens. I’ve said before he’s a bit of a boyscout and will put up with some hardships in the name of adventure.

It’s also ironic that he considers sacrificing himself to close the Worldwound at one point. That’s a grim duty if there ever was one. But at that point he’s convinced he’ll die of the wound anyway, and he needs to finish what he started to prove that it is possible for the Free Crusade to prevail.

D. Have they always had the same physical appearance, or have you had to edit how they look?

HA another one where I have to admit he started out with Tristian’s portrait. So yes, he has changed. His basic appearance is still the character model in the game complete with the bard outfit, but over time and with a lot of comms my mind’s eye has made a clearer and clearer picture of him. I think arnaerr’s portrait captured him the most realistically and in line with how I imagine him, although he has longer hair and it’s more dishwater blond than yellow-blond, and he has a little bump in the middle of his nose. Arnaerr sure did nail the smile and the light in his eyes.

[dujour13]

playing with their hair while they sleep on your chest for the prompt!

Thanks Cassy 💕 prompts here

Mild nsfw, extreme fluff

“Sia? Hey....”

He gave him an ineffectual little shove. As usual he was out cold practically the moment the evening’s lovemaking ended, but this time it was so instantaneous Siavash was already sound asleep while Woljif was still gasping for breath. He usually at least had the energy to roll over before he passed out, but after the day they’d had you could hardly blame him.

In hopes to arrive before sunset they’d forced the march back to Drezen, escorted by a host of angels, Xanthir Vang’s notes in their victorious hands and a very uneasy feeling about what seethed a few meters below their feet.

There was an excited conference with Aivu and the Herald of Iomedae, and then though he was ready to drop from exhaustion there were about a hundred urgent tasks for the Knight-Commander to see to. Woljif ran point in the command room trying to filter the onslaught. When he sent a contingent of minor nobles on a red herring to talk to a fictional functionary about the promotions they were demanding, he caught a look from Irabeth that wasn’t entirely scolding for once. She could see Siavash in his command chair losing the battle with gravity.

The Knight-Commander hardly even paused for supper, listening to reports and issuing orders through mouthfuls. When at last Woljif made a command decision of his own and called it a night on his behalf, he didn’t even expect him to get undressed before he collapsed. Miraculously a minor but agreeable second wind kicked in as soon as they were alone.

Now that it was spent he lay half on top of him, limbs sprawled, head tucked into the hollow of Woljif’s shoulder and face pressed heavily into his chest. Woljif reckoned if they stayed like that until morning they’d be glued together, but he didn’t have the heart to budge him.

The thought made him laugh softly. His left arm was pinned, so he reached up with the right, feeling the skin of his shoulder burn with evaporating sweat against his arm, and very gently brushed a curtain of hair from Siavash’s face to behind his tapered ear. The sensation of silky strands between his fingers tickled pleasantly.

If he could just talk him out of this crazy idea of a surprise attack on the Fane. In a fortnight the Queen would arrive with an army. Why rush it? Why step in front of a swinging fist when some meathead crusader in full armor was happy to take the blow for you?

The chief, rushing in headlong.

It made his heart ache, but somehow it also made it swell up nice like a cake in the oven.

He wasn’t sure what it was. Cute? Anyone else he would have said was a damn fool, but the chief made it unpredictable and fun and he tended to get lucky a lot, like with the host of Heaven showing up at the Ivory Sanctum just as they were about to get smashed into crepes. As far as Woljif was concerned, luck looked good on a guy.

As the loose bun at the back of his head was askew anyway, idly Woljif set about trying to undo it with one hand, a feat of manual dexterity that presented a challenge even for the likes of him. With three fingers he held the band open while with a fourth he began prodding the hair through it, careful not to let it tangle, until the band came loose and he could remove the remaining strands one by one and let the kinked hair tumble free. Tenderly he combed it out between his fingers.

It reminded him of the time at camp he’d observed Daeran patiently brushing and braiding Ember’s hair. His first reflex had been to warn him she had cooties, but he’d restrained himself because it would be a good laugh to watch the aasimar aristocrat frantically scratch that celestial head of his and bemoan the abominable conditions he was being asked to endure for this godsforsaken Crusade. Give him a little taste of how the underclass lives.

But he’d found himself watching the casual intimacy with more interest than he would have admitted to. Ember sitting cross-legged, very still, while behind her Daeran, eyes focused on his task, carefully wove her rat’s nest into a nice, sleek braid, chatting pleasantly with her all the while. A far cry from Gran yanking his curls and snipping them with her sewing scissors.

He let the tawny locks slide between his fingers. Eyelids growing heavy, the warm weight of Siavash pressing him comfortably into the softness of the bed, he could sense the spent pleasure in his stomach and legs, smell the cozy hearthfire and lavender, the memory of sweet notes of guitar music lulling him to sleep. There were moments life was good these days.

Siavash let out a soft sigh and tucked his arm around him.

There had been a time he would have told anyone who asked that he’d never let himself get pinned down. And here he was. Literally. But somehow this didn’t feel like getting pinned down—it felt like being freed.

Now if he could just talk him into waiting for the Queen, everything would be fine.

[dujour13]

How about 9, 17, and 24 for that ask game?

Thank you Cassy 💕 these ones were especially fun 😁

9. When they're sick what do they do to feel better?

Ugh Siavash is such a spoiled child. He has three older sisters and a mom who all doted on him and he has come to expect no less. Very needy.

It takes Woljif a while to find out what exactly you’re supposed to do for sick people besides tell them to quit their whining (Gran’s approach), but he is surprisingly willing to dote once he gets the hang of it. There are admittedly a couple ulterior motives. If he’s making tea with honey he has to have some too. Also he’s got a brownie points score sheet in his head and will shamelessly cash those in at a later date.

On the other hand Siavash can really suck it up when wounded in the field, so it’s contextual. In bed with a cold he’s inconsolable. Stab wounds - don’t worry about me, I’m fine.

17. How easily would they be convinced to do something that goes against their morals?

Answered here!

24. Do they have any enemies?

Besides the standard demon lords, very few meet the criteria for Enemy of Siavash, but there is one.

Big spoilers for the Azata path under the cut.

Mephistopheles really got under his skin using the guilt angle to try to crush his spirit in their final confrontation, and although Siavash could have let him go after defeating him, he did not. As Meph himself put it, dying would only be an inconvenience to him. Siavash killed him. Meph was inconvenienced, and you can bet he won’t forget it.

And we should also bear in mind what Meph went through as “Early Sunset,” who Siavash decided was his best azata buddy and confidant, and who was therefore required to endure hours and hours of soul-searching and pining over Woljif.

You know, honestly it’s his own fault for the stupid azata disguise, but Meph will never, ever forget having been subjected to that. FIRES OF HELL levels of hatred.

[dujour13]

👻 for Sia?

Thanks Cassy! 💕

👻 for a scene when they were scared from these oc childhood prompts

---

It burned like the time he touched the pie dish right after it came out of the oven, but instead of just stinging his fingertips the pie dish lay flat on his chest. Heavy and searing.

Like a vise his chest stuck fast. Could not suck in the slightest breath. He flailed and was surprised his limbs moved, as if he expected them to be strapped down, and he found himself thrown half off the bed and totally disoriented as if he were being poured formless out of a jug, which was a strange and unpleasant thing to feel like.

The burning made a sound in his ears like someone else was screaming too. They were both catching fire and screaming and melting together like marshmallows in the fireplace. Glued together.

And then Zarin in her blue nightgown was shaking him awake and he was safe in his own bedroom, the window open to cool night, someone coming in with a candle, and the pain receded but didn’t go away. Dad sat with him. He cried a little bit and hiccupped into a glass of milk.

When he closed his eyes against his father’s shoulder he could still see the ink-stained hands fluttering at the edge of his vision.

Stitching.