#cassander inteus

He's essentially an ascended mortal, a survivor of violence and abuse, who made a deal with the previous god of love, who'd wanted to abandon their post. They will help him overcome his pain in return of replacing them; still, even upon ascension, he was never able to cast aside his mortal experiences and added a violent, intense dimension to the love domain.

Over time, that domain came to encompass love, violence, parts of anger and sexuality, maybe even marriage as well, but above all else, intensity of the human/mortal experience and social interaction. A true god of the people, as it were.

CASSANDER (WAYFARER)

The first time I realized I may like women, I screeched. Not outwardly, I am behaved sometimes, but in my very soul. It was one of those ridiculously high-pitched screeches with awkward laughter mixed in to add an extra audible spice. It was morning, birds were chirping, and I was losing my fucking mind.

Not that liking women is bad, per se. It’s just one of those things that is. Some people like ‘em. Can’t say my father had great taste when he fell for my asshole of a mother, but not every woman is Theokleia. Nevertheless, the idea of forming a close relationship to one of them -  with all the soul-crushing devotion, all the loyalty, all the good shit – scared me, and I stared at the woman next to me, sound asleep.

Men are safe. Men are comforting. There is something about men that makes me feel at ease. I look for pretty men in the crowds. It feels natural. This women shit though? I am not prepared. Do you get manuals for this “I think I like another gender beside my own” shit? Did I miss out on my copy of it?

The woman next to me is asleep. I am in a screaming match with walls.

Good morning, Cassander.

NIKITA (SHEPHERDS OF HAVEN)

Nika thinks, though he wouldn’t voice this for fear of getting laughed at, that all men secretly want to kiss other men. He can’t imagine any man not being at the very least curious about it. He sees all these men with their wives and girlfriends, and he almost sees himself, except for that nagging feeling that they have somehow suppressed the natural curiosity about kissing other men.

To the world, he hopes he shows the same certainty. He watches those men exist, how they carry themselves, how they speak, how they act around their friends, how they act around the women they’re interested in. Nika doesn’t have a mirror to practice in front of it. All he has is the here and now, the improvisation of it.

God knows he’s always been good at improvisation.

Then he gets with a woman, and he acts all natural. Part of him thinks it’s fine, that he’s achieved the coveted man-who-likes-women status. That woman turns out to be horrible, but not every woman is horrible. He kisses them at bars, he sleeps with them, and he enjoys himself.

Then he sees Trouble Alder and all his efforts go to fucking waste.

VALERIA (DND)

Ever since she was young, Valeria wanted to know things. Knowledge was good, knowledge was ever-expanding. That’s not why she agreed to the pact with Zybilna, but it is something the pact helped with tremendously.

Riah was fun to tease. She was also very pretty, something that aids bards as much as much as Zybilna’s offer aided Valeria, and something that Valeria took great notice of. She liked knowing she could make Riah burst out, she liked studying Riah’s face, the shapes of her throat, the curve of her breasts. There was something beneath the surface too, though Valeria had no idea how to ask for it yet. All she could do is observe.

At some point, observation turned into a desire to kiss her, and that turned into genuine feelings Valeria hadn’t felt ever since her ex-boyfriend. She did not need to call it what it was, bisexuality, because calling it what it was would not change her not knowing what the fuck to do with those feelings she felt, regardless of who she felt them towards.

 One day, they simply kissed. Riah became more helpful to her than Zybilna, truer than the doubts that had formed in Valeria’s head along the way about her mother figure. Then Zybilna clicked her fingers and now, Valeria could have her magic, her girlfriend, and her mother-figure too.

Something horrible could have happened in the world at that moment, and Valeria would have been none the wiser.

His father was in the kitchen — just where he was supposed to be at this time of day. Balthazar trotted over to him, saying a little 'hello' on the way to announce his presence. His father glanced down at him, red fur falling over his shoulder as he moved. He was long and thin with elegant, pointed ears and noble colouring. Balthazar thought that he very much resembled a cat on most days despite clearly not being one. He was beautiful, and Balthazar loved him very much.

"Hello, Bal," his father said with happy eyes. He said something else too, but his not-cat tongue was lost on Bathalzar's delicate ears. Not-cats really did make an awful lot of noise, but his father tended to be calm and quiet when it was just the two of them. Balthazar didn't like to admit to having favourites amongst the non-cats in the home, but he did enjoy those times best.

Balthazar rubbed his face against his father's leg, scratching it against the texture of his not-fur. Sometimes, his father would leave the home and be gone for far too long, so Balthazar liked to make sure his father always had a little bit of his scent on him so he could find his way home, just in case. His task complete, Balthazar stretched up onto his back legs, balancing himself with his front paws on his father's leg.

"Lunch?" he asked, gaze flickering between his father's face and whatever delectable things were happening on the counter out of his sight. His father's front legs disappeared over that counter and were doubtless making something very tasty. His father made a soft, repetitive noise that showed his flat teeth. It was an odd noise but a nice one; good things usually followed. Just as he hoped, his father whisked a familiar dish off the counter, bending down to place it on the ground at Balthazar's feet as a toothsome little offering.

For a moment, his father's warm paw touched his head, scratching behind his ears in just the right place, and then was withdrawn again as his father stretched his slender body back up. Balthazar made sure to make many small noises of satisfaction as he ate his lunch, just so his father knew how much he appreciated him.

While Balthazar ate, his father busied himself with cleaning. He used the bottles that hissed and sprayed the surfaces, using a dancing cloth to wipe across them to and fro. Balthazar watched quietly for a while, big eyes fixated on the enticing, bright cloth as it whizzed about the kitchen in his father's hand.

Then there were sounds playing from somewhere, sounds that were repetitive and melodic, sounds that made his father wail and move in odd, flowing movements. Balthazar was used to such sounds and movements, of course. His second father played such sounds frequently, causing quite a racket. Balthazar had grown accustomed to tolerating them, but his tail still flicked subconsciously as he watched his father playing with the cloth.

After a while, the temptation was just too great. Balthazar sprung at the cabinet, trapping the cloth between the surface and his paws and meowing in victory. But his triumph quickly turned to vexation as the cloth was ripped cruelly from his paws before he could sink his jaws into his prey. His father said some things in an alarmed tone before booping Balthazar on the nose in the way he did when he told him 'no', which was far too often in Balthazar's opinion.

Still, his efforts were not in vain because, from on high, another victim was suddenly appearing. A cloth as yellow as sunshine fluttered down from his father's hand and into Balthazar's expertly placed paws, claws sinking in to ensure a good, tight grip. Balthazar spent the next few moments helping his father clean, tossing the cloth up into the air and batting it between his paw and the surfaces in order to swipe and clean away the offending dirt. They really did make a fantastic team. And his father must have agreed because he swept Balthazar up into the air, cradling his small body against his bigger one and nuzzling his dry nose against Balthazar's head. A fitting reward for Balthazar's hard work.

After the cleaning task was complete and the cloths were put away, Balthazar moved onto one of his most important roles in the household; supervising his father while he played with the brightly coloured threads.

Balthazar wasn't sure why he did this, but he was fairly certain it was a kind of entertainment for his father. One that sometimes made him happy and other times made him sad. Regardless, it was very important that Balthazar keep an eye on his playtime and meow loudly now and then or tap at the threads to remind him to take adequate breaks.

It’s been less than a week since Cassander woke up on the Dareia after almost dying in Rona, and the man is testing Aeran’s patience like no one else can. (Aeran would much rather skim past the almost dying part, but true to form, he can’t forget. He can hardly close his eyes without seeing Cassander unmoving on the Count’s villa floor, as if he needed more fodder for nightmares.) He’s clearly still in pain, should very obviously be resting, and today he’s insisting on sparring.

“I can’t get out of practice now,” he’d insisted when Aeran had voiced his concerns. “Imagine arriving in Velantis only to discover, in front of a legion of guild mages, that I’ve gone so long without any sort of exertion that I’ve completely forgotten how to fight. Humiliating.” 

“Who cares what they think?” Aeran had asked, and Cassander had shrugged. 

“Certainly not me, but I do have a reputation to uphold, you know.” 

So here they are, despite Aeran’s better judgment, sparring on the deck of the ship. Aeran has been taking it as slow as he can without letting Cassander realize--he’ll never hear the end of it if he does--but Cassander’s injuries are clearly far more prevalent than he’s been pretending. He’s already out of breath and visibly struggling to stay on his feet.

“Let’s break,” Aeran calls, but Cassander’s expression is one of exhausted determination. 

“No.” He advances on Aeran with renewed vigor, which lasts until he stumbles on the approach and goes sprawling towards the deck. 

Aeran, who had been expecting something like this, catches him easily, and lowers them both down together.

“Let’s break,” Aeran says again, more insistently, and this time Cassander doesn’t argue. 

“Fuck me,” he says instead with a grimace, and Aeran sighs as he watches him attempt to scramble up into a sitting position. 

“You’re hurt, Cassander. You’re not doing yourself any favors by not fucking resting.”

“I’m not doing myself any favors by wasting away below deck, either.” 

“It’s been a week,” Aeran says with all the patience he can muster. “You aren’t wasting away, you’re recovering. You’re allowed to stop sometimes, you know that?” 

“Am I?” Cassander mutters. 

“You are,” Aeran says firmly. “This whole situation is fucking terrible. I get it. But you’re just going to hurt yourself again, and I--” He stumbles over his words, but he forces himself to press onwards. “I can’t watch that. Please don’t make me.” 

Something softens in Cassander’s frustrated gaze at that, and instead of continuing to try to get up, he leans back against Aeran’s chest. “I guess I can wait a few more days.” 

“Thank you.” 

Cassander shrugs, and this time when he looks up at Aeran there’s an absolute shit-eating grin on his face. “It’s not all bad, though. There are worse people’s arms to collapse into.” 

Aeran feels his face turn bright red as Cassander laughs. “I--you--shut up.”