Alright chat, I need some help with the fanfic I’m making, so I’m enlisting y’all’s help.
The story I’m writing is a collection of many short stories from my dnd group, and it’s out of order. The first chapter is already written, I just need to put it on AO3, but I’m having some trouble picking the next chapter
I’m torn between 3 options. The first is the story of how the group met, including how my character met her dead ghost girlfriend. The second is a time the group took down a monster many times its strength level. The third is a lesbian sex scene. So, the question I’m asking you is:
Which story should I write first
How the group met
Fighting a pissed off house
Voting ended onOct 24, 2025
Now you may be wondering “wheremst is my lesbian sex scene option pernicious, you conwoman?” And I know for a fact that if I give you that option, you’ll make it win in a landslide, so I’m giving you a challenge:
If this post gets 1 thousand notes by the time the poll ends, I’ll write the lesbian sex scene first
If it reaches 10k notes by the time the poll ends, I’ll also post it to tumblr first before anywhere else.
dnd. nyra/xanthe. not my usual content for this blog, but happy pride to nyra, may i remind everyone, who sometimes kisses girls. this is mature. happy pride!
xanthe belongs to my friend @destiis-wayfarers! this is set in our
princes of the apocalypse campaign where nyra is an oath of glory paladin with complex feelings for the goddess whose champion she is and xanthe is a runaway pirate and rogue who is way too charming for her own good.
"We overpaid for these rooms," Nyra says as soon as the door clicks shut. She's wet from head to toe. "We overpaid by a lot. But at least we're not sleeping on the ground." Thunder cracks outside. The rain only seems to grow. "Outside and in this weather."
Frankly, she's had enough of people assuming the worst of her from the state of her clothing. She's on the road, she has other things to pay attention to, and she thinks she cleans up enough when she needs to. Besides, her party's not exactly the people she feels like she needs to dress up for.
Most of the time.
"I agree," Xanthe replies, looking around. She starts twisting her hair to get the water out. "I do not enjoy sleeping in the rain. I have seen plenty of that out on the sea. Roof over our heads was a good call for the night, and I do think we have enough for breakfast tomorrow too."
"I still think this is far too much for an inn in the middle of fucking nowhere," Nyra protests, frowning. "These are Beregost inn prices! Sword Coast inn prices!"
Xanthe lifts a brow. "And how much per night is in the Sword Coast?"
"3 gold. I understand, it's a city, but this! Middle of nowhere!" She puts her hands on her hips. She thinks of Lamb's many javelins and tries to count how much they'd get for selling at least a few of them. Nobody needs fourteen javelins. Nyra puts hers down by a wall alongside her gear and straightens her back. It feels good to just not carry so much metal on your person.
Then something grabs her attention.
It's a small area, made private by a portable screen. Nyra's armor clinks against the wooden floors as she approaches and gingerly sets it aside. Her eyes widen in joy when she sees a bath. "That's why we paid so much," she whispers, almost reverently. The smell of her own body hits her all of a sudden and she breathes out impatiently.
"I found our price culprit," she calls. Xanthe looks over Nyra's shoulder.
They share relieved looks.
"Do the inns in the Sword Coast have baths?" Xanthe asks, voice low.
"Not all of them." They have not overpaid after all, but Nyra would rather drop dead than admit she'd judged the situation wrongly. Gods know this party does enough of that on its own; as much as this mission is a learning experience, it is also baked into the humiliation ritual of it.
Her muscles and her head hurt. As used to armor as she is, she feels it press against her body. Her hair is in a dire need of a wash. Xanthe doesn't seem to mind.
In fact, Xanthe didn't seem to mind when there was blood, either. She'd offer to braid Nyra's hair in the morning after breakfast. She'd put stray hair pieces behind Nyra's ears after battle. Her touch lingered comfortably after she'd treated Nyra's wounds.
Nyra did much of the same. She was not about to skip on the joys of courting a woman, and leaned into the role she'd always had and that she'd always enjoyed; it was all part of the game. It would seem, however, that Xanthe was of the same mind.
That left Nyra at a bit of a crossroads. She was mildly reluctant to admit she enjoyed the attention, but she did not wish to relinquish the role she liked. Nevertheless, she did not want to stop courting Xanthe, same way Xanthe did not want to stop courting her. It was only a matter of time, Nyra tells herself, before they acted on it.
Sooner, preferably. The wait is becoming insupportable.
And if Nyra was anything, she was daring.
"Help me remove my armor?" she asks, in the same low voice. Of course, she prides herself on how fast she's able to get in and out of armor by herself, but this feels like a different sort of pride, one for later. "Then we toss a coin who goes in first. No cheating."
Xanthe laughs. "Of course! I would never cheat."
Nyra smiles. "Liar."
"Just a little bit," Xanthe huffs and steps back. "Armor then?"
Nyra nods and straightens her back. She stands by the bed, hands suddenly far too empty and useless, but then she feels Xanthe's presence behind her. Nyra extends a hand, almost out of habit, the way she's seen older knights do for their squires to take off the gauntlets first. Xanthe smiles and feels around the points.
"Hands first," Nyra says by way of explanation, imagining Javen when he did this. Her own squiredom feels like it was ages ago. "You found the laces already. Good. The process is.. surprisingly intimate."
"It feels like a ritual of sorts," Xanthe comments, undoing the points. Nyra feels the metal press against her skin less. She almost breathes out. "Especially if a squire did it," she adds, letting the gauntlet drop. It echoes. She takes Nyra's hand in hers and pulls off the glove. Nyra allows her to run her fingers over hers.
"It does become soothing after a while," Nyra agrees, offering the other hand. "I never particularly enjoyed it. When I got to be the one getting undressed, however…" She laughs and her voice rings deep in the otherwise silent room. "All you have to do is stand there, really, and just proffer hands. Legs, too. Whatever needs to be made bare."
Xanthe catches her eye. She does not ask, but Nyra knows what she would have asked. She simply smiles. "Now be good, and I might just show you."
Xanthe breathes and feels for the laces again. Nyra watches her, mesmerised by the way warm light from nearby candles reflects on Xanthe's blue hair, on the shiny spots of her forehead. Her lips are slightly parted, eyes darkened. Nyra smiles.
Another gauntlet falls. Something in Nyra's belly burns.
"Sollerets now," she says, her voice low. "It goes from outside in."
"Outside in?" Xanthe asks. It sounds far too heavy for her to be entirely teasing.
Nyra simply presses her foot on the ground. Metal echoes, a warning. Xanthe kneels and reaches out. Nyra cannot help but put a hand on Xanthe's head.
It occurs to her, distantly, that they hadn't kissed yet.
She would very much like to kiss Xanthe.
One by one, pieces fall off. Sollerets, greaves, vambraces. Nyra cannot stop her breathing, and neither can Xanthe. The room in the air is heavy and it presses down like a veil.
"Why are you still so clad in metal?" Xanthe asks, frustration in her voice.
"Keeps me safe out there in the field," Nyra replies, amused.
"Except when you take hits."
Nyra's face burns. "It is inevitable. I cannot, however, bathe in my armor."
Xanthe presses her hands against the cuisses. "Fine," she says. "
Nyra's head spins. Xanthe's lips have never been rounder, fuller or more kissable; her grime and blood and dirt only make Nyra want to get the bed dirty with them too. She feels herself ache, almost, and it takes her off guard in a way a few things have recently.
There has simply been no time for sexual attraction in a party such as this. Not for Nyra, who's the one they're laughing at more often than not, even if she knows why that is. Knowledge does not erase the way it makes her annoyed, or the way she yearns for recognition she'll never get from them.
To Lamb, she's just a human child playacting war.
To Luka, she's someone to coddle them and someone to make fun of, depending on which face they're wearing that day.
To Altair, she's a hypocrite. You don't respect hypocrites. Nyra refuses to engage the thought further, though there's a press inside her to do so.
Only to Xanthe is she an ally, someone worth respecting. Only to Xanthe, who's undressing her on her knees, she's not a laughing stock of a paladin.
She doesn't want to think of Avaro right now. She can imagine her goddess is watching, counting her mistakes, and Nyra wonders how many before she makes good on her threat to find another champion.
She doesn't want to think of Avaro. Not right now.
Nyra runs her fingers through Xanthe's hair. It's greasy and dirty. She wants Xanthe's filth on her skin and wants it on her tongue.
When she's in her gambeson, she rasps out an order for her to stand up. Xanthe does; Nyra's taller than her. The grime, the dirt, the arousal, they're making Nyra's judgement cloudy, and she just wants to take, and take, and take.
Deprivation does that to you, turns out. She can barely restrain herself when she goes to cup Xanthe's face and pull her closer. She searches Xanthe's face for any clues of reluctance and comes up empty.
Xanthe wants to eat her alive, in the best possible way.
Avaro threatens to eat her alive as well, but Nyra doesn't find it appealing anymore.
She kisses Xanthe, hard. She kisses her like she needs her to breathe, like a prize she's finally won, like there's no chain holding her back. Xanthe digs her fingers into Nyra's hair, moans into her mouth. Nyra's hands press against Xanthe's ass, pulling her closer.
The world falls away.
There's a distant sound of a small metal thing falling on the floor. Nyra doesn't pay it any attention.
She has more important things to tend to right now.
I was tagged by @thewriteflame. Thank you! My word is SNACK.
S (from "Carrion")
“Sir… are you certain you want to do this? Death from thirst or starvation is not a quick one. Wouldn’t you rather be certain that he di–”
“Enough, Beren. What’s done is done. Try your best to put Reverence out of your mind. Before long, he’ll be nothing but carrion.”
N (from Poison WIP)
“No, sorry, that was a rude question. First rule of piracy: Everyone has their reasons. Second rule of piracy: Most people don’t want to talk about them.”
A (from "In the Woods Somewhere")
Ashes drifted down lazily from the sky, their fire spent. The heat was suffocating, clouding [Avra's] thoughts until she could no longer remember how she had gotten here.
C (from "Liars Will Be Shot")
“Can we go home?” [Rook] asked.
[Zara's] heart twisted. Of course. He wasn’t even eighteen and he’d nearly died. Not everyone wanted to risk their lives like that all the time. “The crew is unloading the haul from the Lady Pearl right now, but our next stop can be Cyrohime,” she said slowly.
He shook his head sleepily. “Cyrohime’s not home,” he mumbled. “Ship’s home.”
K (from "Carrion")
“Keep your name out of his mouth. After what you did–”
“That’s enough, Beren.” Theodore pushed him aside and crouched down in front of Reverence. “Orion is none of your concern anymore, Reverence.”
A lump was building in the back of his throat. “Please, let me see him.”
Theodore shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
Beren grabbed Theodore’s arm. “Sir, you’ll only make things worse. Reverence is gone. Or he will be soon enough.”
Tagging @akindofmagictoo @space-writes @thegreatobsesso @zinabug-writes @reneesbooks and @oh-no-another-idea Your word is REFRAIN.
at the risk of screaming into the void again I just wanna say I've posted the bit of writing about my darlingest drow bard Astarin ; w ;
Lunaire Chronicles: Nivaesi on AO3
Bit of preview under the cut
My chronicling journey started with a fellow bard I met in the town of Sweetriver. It was a dull little hamlet a tenday’s walk northwest from Elturel. Certainly not a place one expected to encounter a drow.
Though he looked typical of his people, with dark, charcoal skin and silver-white hair, his demeanour was unlike any dark elf I’d ever met. He sang at the Flying Fish tavern, plucked away contentedly at his lyre, and fostered an air of good cheer about him. His audience at the time was far too drunk to fully appreciate his stories, yet they applauded raucously with each song. One burly, drunk dwarf went up to clap her large hand on his back in thanks for his performance. He, dainty even for an elf, stumbled nearly out of his chair but responded with bright, starlit laughter.
A barmaid had noticed my intense stare, and tapped my arm while she reassured me that this drow was a regular visitor to Sweetriver and had proven himself trustworthy in the eyes of its people. I assumed she’d been worried that I might confront or otherwise assault their guest performer.
Still, the scene was worlds apart from the fear or palpable tension that often followed a drow sighting along the Sword Coast. I couldn't help but to be intrigued.
For once, I had chosen not to sink into mead and wine, if only to pay better attention to the evening’s entertainment. The bard’s songs fascinated me in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. He sang of his kingdom, of soaring caverns filled with sparkling, luminescent gemstones and blooms of beautiful subterranean flora spanning the range of observable colours. He sang of an arachnid spirit who guided ancient elves deep underground after fleeing their ancestral homeland, who protected the elves from the dangers of the Underdark until they founded a new home, and who eventually came to be revered as a goddess.
I thought for a moment his songs could have been delusions of a madly devout Lolthite. Yet, when I closed my eyes and imagined—well, not a drow singing these tales, I found myself unable to connect them to the Lolthian cities and culture I had studied. It was so strange, and so utterly fascinating that I had to learn more.
Full chapter + a silly foreword from the POV character on AO3 ; w ;
Warnings/Content: MDNI!!!, BG3 spoilers & post-game events setting, NSFW, AFAB Tav OC, inappropriate use of the mage hand spell, fingering, handjob, implications of sex, detailed description of genitalia, personal headcanons about tieflings, and Rolan being smug
Masterlist: Coming soon!
Author's Note: Hey everyone! Sorry for my lack of posting instead of just reblogging memes, writer's block as well as general life stuff has been eating me up so I hope that this isn't too bad of a read. And yes, Rolan is primarily who I ship my Tav with.
I have other fics on the horizon, such as a new chapter to Muriel's backstory and an Abdirak x GN Tav smut. Anyways, hope you all are well, happy belated pride, and thank you for the support! Also I see y'all liking my old Kar'niss fic, I may revamp it since the writing is choppy and shifting different tenses a lot.
P.S. Click here and here to find information about my Tav in this story, Muriel.
Tags: (Comment if you wanna be tagged when I post fics/drabbles!)
It started as a little showing off of spells, just something interesting to pass the time when the Sorcerous Sundries was less busy. The standard ones were shown off, with Muriel summoning spells that were no doubt supplied by powers infernal and Rolan showing his progress in wizardry. Then it became a round of questions, asking what spells are possible for each of them, as well as favorite spells to use or spells used most frequently. Finally, discovery: both Rolan and Muriel were well aware of the mage hand spell, and its various uses and helpfulness. And Rolan suggested its . . . other uses.
It became a game, a test of wills. Who could hold their mage hand spell active for longer. . . and subsequently cause the other to lose the test through some. . . intervention. Of course, they didn’t plan the game to last so long; constant even when one or both of them had something to do. And with two stubborn wills stacked against each other, the game was now even more risky and competitive.
That’s how they ended up here, in a tavern somewhere in Baldur’s Gate, regrouping with a few of the old party members that once saved the city and Faerun from Mindflayers. The event was planned out days ago, but it was unfortunate timing that the little game between Rolan and Muriel overlapped.
Rolan was doing well thus far, extremely thankful that Gale was one to ramble on and on about magic and hiding his flustered look with the excuse of drinking wine. He hardly even looked affected! Muriel was. . . less composed. Or at least, they showed the tension in their body much more than Rolan did. Nonetheless, they did their best to keep face: conversing with Shadowheart and Lae’zel, trading updates about their lives as well as recounting past memories during the adventuring days.
Nothing suggested that Muriel’s mage hand was slowly palming Rolan beneath his robes, squeezing at the swelling knot at the base before stroking the shaft with languid movements, or Rolan’s mage hand being knuckle deep in Muriel’s core, moving two fingers with slow, hard movements into their quim and teasing a third.
Astarion felt as though a god or two should bless him for keeping his mouth shut: he knew damn well what the closeted pervs were doing. And in honesty, it was quite entertaining rather than the current conversations at the table. Paired well with the wine he was sipping.
“How have your studies been, Rolan? Pardon, I was so caught up in my own experiences I forgot to ask,” Gale said, looking at the tiefling with oblivious curiosity. Rolan cleared his throat, setting down his wine.
“Well, quite enlightening. Lorroakan was very much a man who prized his books and tomes filled with spells, and not. . . really a sharer of such techniques. I’ve gathered a few pointers here and there when it comes to some of my spells since then,” Rolan began, trying hard to also keep concentration on his mage hand. Muriel noted Rolan’s struggle, and their mage hand responded accordingly. It moved up, gently rubbing over the sensitive, pointed tip. One finger traced the soft barbs around the head, then moved to the slit to find a drop of precum spurting out. It spread the natural lubricant around, slicking the tip all while coaxing more precum out. Rolan paused in his explanation, as did his mage hand pause in moving before roughly plunging three fingers in deep as retaliation. Muriel flinched, glancing at the tiefling with slight annoyance as they tried to focus on their spell.
Lae’zel narrowed her eyes. “Is something the matter? Your scent is different, and you’re quite fidgety,” she commented, looking at the half elf.
Shadowheart looked just as confused and concerned. “Are you ill?” she asked, already looking through her bag to find a healing spell of sorts.
Muriel coughed, “Just. . . just trying out the luxuries of perfume. . . and still not used to taverns.” Rolan’s mage hand took advantage of Muriel’s weakness, plunging his fingers in and out at a faster pace. It took all of Muriel’s strength not to moan in bliss or have their eyes roll back into their skull. “Ah! Uh, actually I think I need to go get some fresh air and. . . stuff-,” Muriel said quickly, stumbling out from the table to quickly head outside to the back of the tavern. Rolan felt triumph as Muriel’s mage hand dissipated, watching his lover retreat. Unfortunately, now he was hard, horny, and slightly drunk. And his dick was threatening to burst through his very trousers. He won, but at what cost?
“I’ll go check on them, make sure they’re okay,” he said smoothly, leaving the table as well. Astarion smirked to himself, muffling a giggle as he sipped down his own glass of wine. Briskly moving to the back alley of the tavern, Rolan quickly spotted Muriel leaned up against one of the walls, panting heavily and knees shaking.
He smirked, then said, “Seems I’ve got better endurance when it comes to spells and a will. . .”
Muriel scoffed, “You. . . are so unfair. You know three is the magic number for me.”
“Tt, I was more than fair, my dear. You were the one squeezing my knot and testing my patience. And then you had the gall to tease the head and slit, as if I wouldn’t retaliate,” Rolan retorted, cornering the warlock as his tail brushed over their hip.
He leaned in, brushing his lips over the pale skin of Muriel’s neck, inhaling deep as his nose sank into the waves of inky hair. With Rolan so close and breathing hot air onto their skin, Muriel had no good reply for him, sighing in relent.
“Fair point. . . Alright, fine, you win,” they murmured, tilting their head to give better access.
Rolan smirked, “I know. . . and I think I know what my prize shall be~.” Muriel raised a brow, flushing as the tiefling moved to one of their ears.
“Let me cum inside you tonight. . . Knot and all,” he purred, his fanged teeth lightly biting the pointed tip of Muriel’s ear and his hard-on pressed against them. Rolan continued laying it on thick, “I think you’d rather enjoy my desperation. . . And the subsequent seed I’d stuff you with.”
The half elf nearly collapsed then and there from sheer flustered emotion, quickly tugging Rolan along back to Sorcerous Sundries to fulfill that wish. “You’re a cruel, cruel wizard.”
“I can smell you, my dear. Your arousal says you’re interested,” Rolan replied smugly. Muriel resisted the urge to pounce then and there, continuing to drag Rolan to the tower.
