lowkey want to make wild kratts oc but i feel so cringe by doing so
Cringe culture is stupid, make that OC!
As long as it’s not harming anyone, you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. Let’s be honest, we’re all defying cringe culture just by being in this fandom at all, I mean it’s an educational PBSkids show meant for 4-11 year olds made by two grown men who are basically just writing self-insert fanfiction about themselves, in which they become superheroes who defeat villains by using their nerd-knowledge and super-powered fursuits.
And you’re embarrassed to make an OC? My sibling, this show revolves around two literal self-insert OCs, you will fit right in.
We're all "cringe" here. Embrace the "cringe" and be free!
Love drawing Springtrap too. I am a big, big fandom FNAF kind of guy. Like the drama comics you used to read? I’m making one of those and it’s fun as hell. I love it. I love embracing cringe. But yeah SpringTrap is hella fine anyway.
I've been sat scowling at my longfic for a while now. Is it the best thing I've written? No, I hadn't done any form of creative writing in well over a decade. Are there things I'd change about it? Yes, absolutely, especially that damn sex scene (damn GC, really selling it here). In order to overcome inertia however, I just posted a bit of a filler chapter. I think I was overthinking reaction to this one, but as noted in my AO3 notes, it's not meant as a commentary on the Taash scene (I actually really like that scene), it is its own thing, and maybe a bit self-indulgent, for reasons. Anyway, I'll shut up. I've posted it below, but it's also on AO3, for those interested in my early writing style.
https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagusPie/works.
*Runs away*
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In her lighthouse chamber, Rook does her best to take in her appearance in the meagre reflection of Varric's shaving mirror. She had contemplated using the one in the infirmary, but to be truthful, the thing perturbed her. Each time she'd gaze into it, something would change. She'd wind up with a larger nose, a different haircut or ginormous glutes! The Warden swore she once had two full sleeve tattoos that vanished into thin air. Annoyingly, nobody believed her. Each adamant that she had always looked the way she did. Lace had even checked for signs of fever, force-feeding the worried warrior pickled onions by the bucket-load.
It's not delirium! That thing is cursed! I won't go near it again, lest I grow a green afro!
She pitches the hand mirror at an angle where she can better take in the length of her frame. Running a hand along her side, she notes how novel it feels to wear a gown that accentuates her more feminine assets. It's a world away from the baggy fatigues, gambesons and layers of armour that hide any curvature from sight. She palms her waist, observing how the material is fitted there, underscoring the disparity in width between that and her hips. The dark mauve colour gives an air of luxury and decadence, with the repeating fleur-de-lis motif on the skirt paying homage to the DuPlessis family crest. Eyes travelling north, she is taken aback by the sight of her own cleavage; modest compared to some, but still very noticeable due to the plunge neckline. Rook wants to admire herself like this, deep down she knows she looks good, but a thick grey cloud hangs heavy in her mind, impeding any trace of self-confidence.
A few days earlier...
“Rook, the tailor needs the measurements for your suit. I've got the tape measure ready-”
Lace enters Rook's chamber, pausing at the sight of Rook's uncertain expression. The tailor's catalogue lays open on the Warden's settee; the page ripe with illustrations of frocks and gowns. With a tilt of her head, Lace considers it, her eyes flitting between Rook and the open page. Finally, she understands. “Sorry, I just assumed...”
Most people in Rook's life made assumptions. Not that they had poor reason to. Memories of her adolescence flash in her mind: the older boys at the meat market, ogling her breasts. Of being told to smile as wandering hands groped at her rear end. She hadn't been ready for those changes; for that kind of attention. But then again, who was?
Unable to look at Lace, she stares ahead at the shoal of fish swimming by her underwater view. Her hand has a mind of its own, as it scratches at her left bicep, leaving it red, raw and bloody. “This is stupid, not only would it look ridiculous, it's not practical, at all.”
“Oh Rook...” Lace pads over, seating herself beside her neurotic lover. “I don't think it's stupid.” A freckled hand finds Rook's, halting further damage to her already beleaguered skin. “I'll wear one too. We can even coordinate on the color, on the style-”
“It's different for you though.” Rook interrupts, to Lace's bewilderment.
“It's really not, Eris.” A gentle smile forms on Lace's lips, as she caresses her girlfriend's cheek.
Rook wants to question what she means by that, but Lace continues - “It's just clothing, Rook. You're attractive to me as you dress now... But also...”
Rook purses her lips, preparing for the worst.
“Just because you're taller... Much taller, and a bit mus... Very muscly...” Lace's mind drifts off elsewhere. Absorbed in some rousing daydream, her hand trails down to the length of the warrior's torso.
“As you were saying, my randy queen?”
“Oh yeah, I was saying something... That's it! It doesn't make you any less of a woman. Rook, you're a very beautiful woman with...” Her thoughts wander again.
“Lace?”
Lace shakes her head, trying to dispel her racy reverie from the forefront of her mind. “Ahem, anyway, I can tell you want to wear one of these.” She grabs the catalogue, her index finger pointing to an illustration of an elegant, gracile woman; she wears an immaculately sewn teal and gold dress. “And I bet you'd look hot. Like, really hot!” The last few words tumble out of the flustered dwarf at breakneck speed.
“Yeah?” Rook asks, hopeful.
“Yeah.”
They beam at each other, filled with a surge of sudden excitement.
“Now get up so I can measure that fat ass of yours.”
“It's that mirror! It's full of dark, arse altering magic!”
Lace sighs. “Not this again Rook...”
Present day
Who am I kidding, I look nothing like the figure in that catalogue... This is like putting lipstick on a hurlock.
She jumps at the sound of someone hammering at the door, alarmingly close to dropping the hand mirror. “You've been in there a while, can I come in already?” It's Lace, and Rook's heart sinks at the prospect of disappointing her lover. If she is to be a laughing stock, she may as well make light of the situation herself. Outrageous Orlesian accent in 3, 2, 1.
“Comé een! We should 'urry, we simplee canat be laté fair la partay!” Rook can already feel Lace rolling her eyes as the door swings open, but she's not quite prepared for what she sees, and the mirror slides from her hand. Thankfully, its fall is cushioned by the settee. Rook opens her mouth to speak, but cannot, as her voice is nabbed by the bewitching beauty before her.
Rook has been attracted to Lace from day one. Drenched in sweat, with dirt and ghastling viscera covering her from head to toe, she was the most magnificent thing Rook had ever seen. The dwarf could wear anything and pull it off, even the hollowed out carcass of a monstrous spider and-
Well, maybe not, but seeing Lace like this, it's something else!
Lace floats towards her in a similarly coloured dress. Except, the sleeves on hers are shorter, puffier, and there's a panel of plum coloured fabric patterned with an elegant floral design. It runs from the hem of her skirt to her-
Maker's breath! Have they always been that big?
There's a wide grin plastered on Rook's face. She can't help herself. Lace will be on her arm tonight, and complete strangers will know that this kind hearted, courageous, and sassy beaut had chosen her. Lace could have her pick of anyone,
and yet, she picked the mad Ander with mummy issues and a rash on her arse.
Rook isn't particularly religious, but she feels the light of the Maker's bride shine upon her. Except-
That's right. I look like... this. She turns away, eyes downcast.
“Eris.”
Rook doesn't look up. She can't bear to. I've already ruined her evening.
“I'm pregnant.”
“WHAT!? Who's the fath-” Rook swivels around to find the redhead tugging her by the arms, forcing her to bend over. Their lips collide in a searing hot kiss. With unbridled passion, Rook leans into it, their tongues melding in a sweet symphony of moans. Hands are everywhere - waist, hips, buttocks. It's as though they're exploring each other for the first time; charting each dip, each curve in their age of discovery.
Lace pulls away, but the flame has already been lit; she isn't about to stop. “You're perfect. Eris,” she states, channelling all the sincerity she can muster. Rook finds herself being pushed backwards, collapsing onto the settee in a seated position. With a sly smile, Lace straddles her lap. It's a bit of a struggle, with all the material bunching together, but the daughter of Redcliffe's No 1. seamstress makes it work. Rook moans as her neck is peppered with kisses below the jaw line, wanting nothing more than to live in this moment forever, if only-
“Wait!” Rook sounds desperate, halting Lace in her sensual stride. “I don't want to hurt the baby.”
“You boob...” Lace sighs. “I just said that so you'd look at me!”
“Thank fuck I-” There's no time to think. Lips crash into hers once more, and the taste is too moreish for Rook to resist. Lace withdraws once more, and Rook can't hep but grunt in frustration; pleading eyes begging her to continue.
“Oh, we're just starting, Eris. You're my woman, my gorgeous woman, and after tonight, you're never going to question that again.”
“Lace.” Rook pants, thirsty for sweet release.
“My lady” She kisses the back of Rook's hand with a regal flourish. “Allow me to curtsey.” With a smug smile she slides off the tall woman's lap before disappearing under a cloud of silk skirt and cotton petticoat.
Rook can feel her hot breath on her thigh. There's a sudden gasp when hands clutch at her hips, affixing her in place. For Rook, there is something deeply sensual about not being able to see Lace in this moment. Her mind trying to anticipate the scout's next move, each new touch, each new sensation a pleasant surprise.
“Orlesian.” A muffled command wafts from her dress. Lace has a thing for the language during intimate moments like this, and Rook normally obliges, uttering some nonsense phrase, typically involving fish. Tonight however, she wants to try something different.
“Halp! Ai 'ave been takén by zis 'ornee dwaerf!”
“Mmm yes my love, say something else.” Either Lace is too absorbed in the moment, or she really has no clue regarding her westerly neighbours.
“Is that what I sound like to you?” Aurélie leans against the door frame, as she considers the pair with an air of amusement.
By Andraste's lilly-white tits, why are you here!?
Rook has never seen Lace move that fast. A blur of purple flying out of her dress; face as red as her hair.
“Congratulations mon trésor, you've given birth to a thirty year old dwarf!”
Rook slinks further down the settee, wanting to slide away from her mother and further out of existence.
“Hehe Mrs DuPussy, I was just... Plessis! DuPlessis!” Lace looks mortified.
“It's okay ma chérie, you were just straightening Eri's petticoat, non?”
Lace nods profusely, enthusiastically latching onto any excuse to disguise her licentious intent. Really, Rook knows her mother is simply extending her a courtesy, allowing Lace to save face in this moment. “Si si señora! Sorry, that's Antivan! Wee wee madame gazelle?” Lace blabbers on.
Aurélie shrugs. “Ehh, still a touch better than Eri's pronunciation.” Mouth flapping open, Rook is about to protest, but her mother continues. “We're on a tight deadline, and the Lady Montiliyet grows impatient. We're to take the eluvian to Val Poisson, and from there, a carriage to the outskirts of Val Firmin.”
Lace angles her head in thought, her brow furrowed. “Erm, Mrs DuPlessis, what exactly is the plan here? Are we just gate crashing your brother's party?”
“Yes and no.” A wry smile spills on her lips. “Apparently my daughter's reputation precedes her, particularly her connection to the Inquisitor, and by extension of that, Divine Victoria herself.”
Who has been spinning bullshit? Rook thinks, has Varric already published a book on me?
The dwarven gears in Lace's mind churn out a thought. “So... He thinks we have powerful connections that can... Make him money?”
“Money, power, a fancy new stable of coursers. To be honest I'm surprised, my brother used to be the reclusive sort; never one for partying or power mongering”
Rook's finding it hard to concentrate on her mother's words, not just because of the unspent sensual frustrations, but because of the sound reverberating around her chamber, as Aurélie taps her foot against the bare stone floor. “Are you nervous, about the big family reunion?”
“Ah, that obvious, non? It has been thirty-two years Eri. I've spent most of my life now either slumming it in Hossberg or in the... What's that Ander expression? Something end of Arlathan.”
“The arse end of Arlathan,” Rook adds. “Don't worry, you'll have me with you! Your half-elven child born out of wedlock at a brothel. Who, I'll quote you here, 'speaks Orlesian like she's got a mouth full of potato.' We'll be the belles of the ball!”
“Hm, your words of encouragement are noted.” Aurélie curmudgeonly responds, adjusting the silk cravat tucked into her brocade waistcoat. The once noblewoman paints a dapper picture, her three-piece suit tailored to perfection. “You look lovely by the way, both of you.”
“Yeah... Thanks.” Rook isn't terribly used to being complimented on what she wears. At least her mother wasn't making it a big deal that it was a dress, unlike Manfred, whose skeletal finger poked and prodded at her cleavage, hissing something vaguely akin to 'honkers.' His vocab grows by the day, Rook considers dryly.
“Anyway,” Aurélie continues, “do hurry... And Eri...”
“Yes?”
“Ma chérie, next time, if you angle your hips, it'll allow Lace's tongue to-”
