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nyxshadowhawk · 8 months ago

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I Read The Silmarillion So You Don't Have To, Part Seven

Previous part.

Chapter 18: Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin In which everything goes to hell. Again.

Remember the Siege of Angband? Yeah, that’s still going on. It’s been roughly two hundred years since Morgoth’s last attack (the first appearance of Glaurung the Dragon), and in all that time, the Elves haven’t made much progress. Fingolfin, the High King of the Noldor, considers launching another assault on Angband; his people are strong, and now they have the Men on their side. What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Fingolfin by Insant

The other Noldor are less enthused by this idea. For once, things are pretty great. Why risk the peace and prosperity that the Elves currently have for the chance at defeating Morgoth, when there’s bound to be massive loss of life either way? Only the Elven lords who live in the far north — on Morgoth’s doorstep — agree with Fingolfin, since they can’t ignore Morgoth as easily. They’re shot down by everyone else, so, there’s peace for a little while longer.

That’s when Morgoth makes his move.

Morgoth has been steadily gathering his forces throughout all of that time, and he’s also grown more and more spiteful. He doesn’t just want to defeat the Noldor, he wants to defile their homeland. But his hatred has also made him impatient.

One winter, on a dark night, without any warning, rivers of lava suddenly come pouring down the Thangorodrim, which belch poisonous gases into the air, rendering the whole plain of Ard-galen a barren wasteland overnight. Also, unlike with natural volcanoes, the damage is permanent — Ard-galen becomes known as Angfauglith, which means “Gasping Dust.” Instant Mordor, Just Add Lava. Many poor Elves are swallowed up by the lava before they can react.

As if that weren’t bad enough, Glaurung returns, accompanied by Balrogs and entire armies of Orcs — more Orcs than the Noldor have ever previously seen. The ensuing battle lasts all winter, as Morgoth’s forces return fire on the Noldor. It becomes known as Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame.

Battle of Sudden Flame by Jovan Delic

There are many casualties. Angrod and Aegnor, the brothers of Finrod and Galadriel, both die in the battle. Finrod himself gets cut off in the Fen of Serech, and almost dies, but he’s rescued at the last minute by a Man named Barahir. Finrod escapes with his life, barely, and manages to make it back to his palace in Nargothrond. Finrod pledges undying friendship to Barahir, promises to help him and his family in return if they should ever need him, and gives him his ring as a token of his promise. It’s a ring shaped like two intertwined snakes, set with green stones, and it becomes known as the Ring of Barahir.

Finrod in the Fen of Serech by pansen1802

Incredibly, Fingolfin and co. manage to hang on to their land of Hithlum, but not without heavy losses. Hador Lórindol, one of the Kings of Men who was Fingolfin’s thane, dies in the battle. In the East, Fëanor’s sons aren’t doing great, either — Celegorm and Curufin are both defeated, but not killed; they retreat all the way to Nargothrond and hide there with Finrod. Caranthir’s land is ravaged, too.

Maedhros, however, “burned like a white fire.” He’s been dying to get his revenge on Morgoth for having strung him up on Thangorodrim, and personally slaughters so many Orcs that they start to run in fear of him. He manages to hang on to his fortress, and many people rally to him, including his brother Maglor.

Finrod, Fingon, and Maedhros by star热爱生活呀巴扎嘿

Overall, the battle is really bad. Fingolfin stares out over the ruined lands, sees his family scattered, and realizes the Noldor are done for. He’s filled with rage and despair, but he isn’t ready to give up yet. There’s only one thing to do. He mounts his horse, Rochallor, and rides straight to the gates of Angband. Those who see him think he must be Oromë, the Vala of the hunt, because he burns with fury and his eyes glow. He blows his warhorn, bangs on the gates of Angband, and challenges Morgoth himself to a duel.

That may be the ballsiest move of any Elf so far (and yes, I’m counting Fëanor going up against an army of Balrogs).

Fingolfin’s Challenge by Jenny Dolfen

Now, throughout all this, Morgoth has spent most of his time hiding in his fortress. Sure, he’s a Vala, and technically the most powerful being in Middle-earth, but he doesn’t fight his own battles. Fingolfin calls him a coward who’d rather send out all of his evil minions to fight for him than come and face him like a man. Morgoth can’t ignore that. So, to the surprise of everyone, Morgoth actually comes. And we get this badass description, which I’m going to transcribe, because I can’t do Tolkien justice:

Therefore Morgoth came, climbing slowly from his subterranean throne, and the rumour of his feet was like thunder underground. And he issued forth clad in black armour; and he stood before the King like a tower, iron-crowned, and his vast shield, sable-blazoned, cast a shadow over him like a stormcloud. But Fingolfin gleamed beneath it as a star; for his mail was overlaid with silver, and his blue shield was set with crystals; and he drew his sword Ringil, that glittered like ice.

Oh, it is on!

Fingolfin vs. Morgoth by Marchesi

The Fall of Fingolfin by Wavesheep

The battle is epic. Morgoth tries to smash Fingolfin with his hammer, called Grond (GROND! GROND! GROND! GROND!), but Fingolfin is too quick. Every time GROND hits the earth, it creates a volcanic cleft in the earth. The battle is compared to a thunderstorm, with the strikes of Morgoth’s hammer being the thunder and Fingolfin darting around being the lightning. Fingolfin actually manages to wound Morgoth, seven times! Each time, Morgoth howls so loud that all of the Orcs cringe in fear.

Fingolfin can’t keep it up forever, though. He’s mortal, and he’s going up against something near to a god. Three times, Morgoth crushes him with his shield, and three times Fingolfin is able to pick himself back up again. He doesn’t have much space to move anymore, because the ground around him is full of holes. He stumbles and falls, and Morgoth presses his foot to Fingolfin’s neck. It’s like getting an entire hill dropped on top of him. Fingolfin isn’t going to go peacefully, though — with his last bit of strength, he cuts deep into Morgoth’s foot.

Fingolfin dies, and thus passes the strongest and most valiant of the Elven kings. The Elves are so sad to lose him that they don’t even sing about the battle. The Orcs don’t gloat about it, either, even though Morgoth won — it was kind of a Pyrrhic victory, because it’s embarrassing that a mere mortal was able to do so much damage to Morgoth. The reason why we know what happened, despite the lack of songs about it, is because Thorondor (the King of the Eagles) brings the news to Gondolin and Hithlum.

Thorondor also saves Fingolfin’s body from being desecrated by Morgoth. Morgoth goes to throw Fingolfin’s corpse to the wolves, but Thorondor swoops down and claws him in the face. Thorondor brings Fingolfin’s body to Gondolin, and Turgon builds a cairn for his father in the surrounding hills. For a while, Fingolfin’s tomb acts almost like a charm that keeps the Orcs away. (But not forever though. Because, in case you forgot, Gondolin is doomed.)

Morgoth’s wounds are permanent. His seven initial wounds never heal, he now limps everywhere he goes because Fingolfin damaged his foot, and his face is also scarred where Thorondor got him.

All of Hithlum mourns Fingolfin’s death. Fingon, in his grief, becomes the sole High King of the Noldor.

Fingon by Moimq

There’s an interesting note here: Fingon sends “his young son Ereinion (who was later named Gil-galad) […] to the Havens.” This is an outright inconsistency. In other sources, Gil-galad is the grandson of Angrod, Finrod’s brother. So, it’s legitimately unclear who Gil-galad’s father was. Oh well. Distant legendary past, oral tradition and all that. I’m sure the songs disagree on whose parents are whose all the time.

And, the “Havens” referred to here aren’t the Grey Havens, either. They’re two cities in the southwest of Beleriand. But they’re ruled by the same Elf, Círdan, who would rule the Grey Havens later.

Morgoth is now in control of most of northern Beleriand. Barahir, the Man who helped save Finrod, keeps fighting for some time, alongside his wife Emeldir. But Morgoth destroys their land little by little. That land becomes so dark and evil that even Orcs avoid it, and it gets a new name: Taur-nu-Fuin, “The Forest under Nightshade” (which is cool as hell). This forest is like a proto-Mirkwood. Its trees become tangled with claw-like roots and branches, and it becomes full of angry spirits that can drive travelers mad.

The situation gets so dire that Emeldir leads her people away. They end up in the Forest of Brethil, which is where Haleth, another badass warrior-queen of Men, led her people in a similar moment of desperation. All of Barahir’s men are killed fighting Morgoth except for a small handful (whose names are all listed, of course). The Elves don’t come to help them, so they become desperate, hunted outcasts who live in the wilderness. One of these outcasts is Beren, Barahir’s son, who’s about to become very important.

The Elves managed to maintain control over Minas Tirith, the tower that guards the pass separating Morgoth’s lands in the north from the rest of Beleriand. This tower is maintained by Orodreth, Angrod’s son and Finrod’s nephew. But after two years pass, the tower is besieged by Morgoth’s lieutenant, Sauron.

Sauron by Wavesheep

(Oh yeah I’ve been waiting to dip into my self-indulgent collection of Sauron pictures.)

At this point, the Elves call Sauron “Gorthaur the Cruel.” He has become…

a sorcerer of dreadful power, master of shadows and of phantoms, foul in wisdom, cruel in strength, misshaping what he touched, twisting what he ruled; his dominion was torment.

He’s basically like Morgoth 2.0, and there’s very little left of him that is still Mairon, the Maia smith that he once was. Still, Sauron and Morgoth aren’t interchangeable; while Sauron is certainly very evil, he doesn’t think the same way that Morgoth does. If you’re familiar with the D&D alignment chart, Morgoth is pure Chaotic Evil — he doesn’t have a motive beyond fucking things up as much as possible. Sauron is more Lawful Evil, more like an evil dictator. Morgoth wants to watch the world burn (and just did, a moment ago); Sauron wants to rule over the ashes.

Sauron’s assault on Minas Tirith is successful. (If Sauron had a nickel for every time he besieged a tower called Minas Tirith, he’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice.) He conjures a cloud of pure terror that causes Orodreth and his men to panic, and flee to Narthothrond. Then, much like Sauron would corrupt Minas Ithil and Osgiliath eons later, he transforms Minas Tirith into an evil watchtower. Tol Sirion, the island where it’s located, becomes known as Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of Werewolves.

Lord of Werewolves by Dracontessa

After that, things only get worse. The Orcs spread across Beleriand, kidnapping Elves and desecrating all the land around Doriath. Morgoth sends out a bunch of spies to sow discord in every kingdom, hoping to win a psychological battle. Because of the Curse, most of the Noldor believe the sugary lies. The dirtiest trick that Morgoth pulls is setting free some of the Elves that he took captive, while keeping them under his control. This causes the Noldor to distrust even their own families.

With Men, Morgoth tries a different tactic. He attempts to turn them against the Elves by pointing out that the Men are inferior to Elves, and that the Noldor are inherently untrustworthy and untrusting. He promises the Men that if they come and join him, “the rightful Lord of Middle-earth,” then they’ll have honor and rewards and yada, yada. The Men don’t fall for this, which makes Morgoth even more spiteful towards them.

The Three Great Houses of Men are in complete disarray at this point. The house of Bëor —Barahir and his people — is basically destroyed, with the remainder barely surviving in the wilderness. The House of Hador are all stuck in Hithlum, and Hador himself is dead. The only remaining Men in the rest of Beleriand are the house of Haleth — the Haladin — who live in the Forest of Brethil. They’re one of the last lines of defense between Nargothrond and Morgoth’s onslaught. Hador’s grandsons, Húrin and Huor, are camped out in the Forest of Brethil with the Haladin. Halmir, the current leader of the Haladin, sends for backup, and a small army of Sindar Elves from Doriath come to help defend the forest. With the Elves’ help, the Men drive back the Orcs.

Húrin and Huor are some of our major players among the Men. They’re brothers, and they’re currently teenagers. Back before the battle, their father married Halmir’s daughter, so they’re members of the Haladin on their mom’s side. During the battle, they are separated from the rest of their company, but Ulmo protects them with a magical mist from the River Sirion, and then Thorondor rescues them when they wander near his mountains. Thorondor sends two eagles to pick them up, and the eagles bring them to Gondolin. Húrin and Huor become the first Men to ever see the secret Elven city of Gondolin.

By Mysilvergreen

King Turgon receives them well. He’d gotten a prophetic dream from Ulmo, telling him he’ll need the Men’s help when things get bad, so he takes them in as his honored guests. Húrin and Huor live in the mystical Elven city for a year, and they learn a lot from Turgon in that time. Turgon wants to keep them in Gondolin, not just because of his proclaimation that no one can ever leave it, but also because he genuinely loves them. Eventually, though, they want to go home.

Remember how well that went the last time, with Aredhel?

Húrin reminds Turgon that Men don’t live very long, so he and his brother can’t just wait until things cool off, especially with their family thinking they’re dead. Also, they were carried into the city by eagles, so they have no idea where the entrance is and probably couldn’t find it again on their own. Turgon thinks that this is reasonable, and agrees to let them go, so long as Thorondor is willing to let them leave the way they came, by eagle-taxi.

But Maeglin — remember him? He’s the edgy Elf — Maeglin is happy that Húrin and Huor are leaving, because they’ve been soaking up all the king’s attention. Maeglin snidely tells Húrin that Turgon wasn’t so lenient in the past, like that time he threw Maeglin’s father off the walls.

To pacify Maeglin, Húrin and Huor swear an oath not to reveal anything about Gondolin. As you’ve probably gathered by now, oaths are serious business. I almost guarantee that this is going to bite them in the ass.

When Húrin and Huor return home, their family is overjoyed to see them, because they all thought that the brothers had died in the wilderness. Their father, Galdor, asks where they’ve been, and why they look like princes instead of like they’ve been living in the wilderness for a year. Húrin tells him that the only reason they were allowed to return at all was if they swore not to speak about it, so… don’t ask.

Meanwhile, King Turgon learns that the Siege of Angband is officially over, and Morgoth killed Fingolfin. Turgon doesn’t want to involve himself in the war, at least not yet — Gondolin is a secret safe haven for now, and he wants it to stay that way for as long as possible. It’s like the Wakanda of Elven cities.

However, Turgon also realizes that this is the beginning of the end for the Noldor, unless they can find some outside source of help. He sends secret bands of Gondolin Elves to sail to Valinor. That’s a truly desperate move, since the Noldor are exiles, and Valinor has wanted nothing to do with Middle-earth for centuries. Unfortunately, none of Turgon’s emissaries make it; the western sea has become much more dangerous ever since Valinor cut itself off. The sea is full of enchantments and illusions, and Valinor itself is hidden. There’s no way to get to it. With every failed mission, Gondolin’s doom inches closer and closer.

Guess who hears about it? Morgoth. Morgoth is very interested to know what happened to Finrod and Turgon, because Elven kings don’t just vanish off the face of the earth. He knows they must be somewhere, probably plotting a new scheme to take him down. He knows what Nargothrond is, but not where it is, and he knows nothing about Gondolin. In the Battle of Sudden Flame, he made the mistake of underestimating the strength of the Elves and Men. Although he won the battle, they managed to hit him back just as badly. He’s not about to make that mistake again.

Morgoth attacks Hithlum again. King Fingon is outnumbered, but rescued at the last minute by ships full of warriors sent by Círdan. The Elves win the battle, but King Galdor, Húrin and Huor’s father, dies in the same spot where his own father fell during the Battle of Sudden Flame. Húrin becomes the new patriarch of his house, and serves as Fingon’s thane. He marries Morwen Eledhwen, a woman of the house of Bëor, who fled the Forest under Nightshade for the Forest of Brethil alongside Queen Emeldir.

Húrin by Steamey

The House of Bëor is by this point reduced to only one man, Emeldir and Barahir’s son, Beren.

Chapter 19: Of Beren and Lúthien, Part One In which we hear the greatest love story ever told.

This is the first of what Tolkien called “The Great Tales,” some of the oldest stories in the Legendarium, all of which were ultimately unfinished. To put into perspective just what a big deal this story is, Tolkien and his wife Edith have the names “Beren” and “Lúthien” written on their respective headstones. The version here in the Silmarillion is the most complete, but it’s also an abridged version. This is how Tolkien introduces it:

Among the tales of sorrow and of ruin that come down to us from the darkness of those days there are yet some in which amid weeping there is joy and under the shadow of death light that endures. And of these histories most fair still in the ears of the Elves is the tale of Beren and Lúthien.

Most of my retelling here is paraphrased from the Silmarillion, but I’ve included some details that appear only in the Lay of Leithian, Tolkien’s unfinished poetic telling of the story. It’s really worth going and reading the Lay of Leithian; it’s extremely vivid and evocative, it perfectly imitates the medieval poetic form.

The story doesn’t actually start with Beren. It starts with an account of what happened to Barahir and his remaining men after they fled the Forest under Nightshade. They ended up camping out beside a lake called Tarn Aeluin, which is beautiful and reflects the stars. It was supposedly blessed by Queen Melian, and her magic repels the evil creatures that took over the rest of the forest. Barahir and co. are well hidden there, but Morgoth commands Sauron to find them.

One of Barahir’s people is a man named Gorlim, who has a wife, Eilinel. They love each other even despite the war, but when Gorlim returned home one day after a battle, he found his house empty and Eilinel gone. He still follows his people and hides out near the lake, but he holds out hope that maybe his wife isn’t dead. He periodically leaves the secret safe haven and returns to the empty house, hoping that his wife will be there. One time, he sees the lights on and hears her voice, but it’s a trap — Sauron found him. Sauron tortures Gorlim to force him to reveal the location of Barahir’s secret camp, but Gorlim holds out. That is, until Sauron tells him to name his price. Gorlim asks to see his wife again.

Then Sauron smiled, saying, “That is a small price for so great a treachery. So shall it surely be. Say on!”

Poor Gorlim reveals the location of Barahir’s camp. Then, with a mocking laugh, Sauron reveals that Eilinel is dead, and that he cast an illusion to ensnare him. “Oh, but don’t worry, I’ll still send you to her,” he says, and then kills him. They don’t call him Gorthaur the Cruel for nothing.

By @ayaosguqin

See, this is one of the things that makes Sauron different from Morgoth. Morgoth is spiteful and enjoys sewing discord and causing destruction for the sake of it, but we haven’t seen this kind of calculated sadism from him yet. (There’s not much that’s subtle about busting in with a giant spider and killing trees.) Sauron, having been a Maia of Aulë, has an appreciation for subtlety and craftsmanship. Sauron likes to stick the knife in and twist it. And as The Lord of the Rings makes clear, he’s a master of psychological warfare.

Now that Sauron knows where the secret camp is, his forces attack the men at Tarn Aeluin. They massacre everyone, save Beren. Beren is out on a spy mission when the Orcs attack, and he has a dream in which Gorlim’s ghost appears to him to tell him what happened. Beren rides back, but it’s already too late. He finds his father and everyone else dead.

Beren builds a cairn for his father and swears vengeance. He hunts down all the Orcs, slaughtering them by himself. He sneaks near their camp, where they’re gloating and holding up his father’s hand as a trophy. On the severed hand is a ring, the ring that Finrod Felagund gave to Barahir. Beren swoops in, steals the hand with the ring, and runs off before the Orcs have a chance to react.

Beren lives by himself in the wilderness for some time. He befriends the animals, and becomes a vegetarian as a result. He manages to perform many heroic deeds just in that time, so that he becomes famous. He’s already such a legend that Morgoth puts a price on his head, just as high as that of King Fingon himself, but the Orcs are so afraid of Beren that they avoid him instead of hunting him. Morgoth resolves to send an entire army after Beren, and not just any army — an army of werewolves, captained by Sauron himself.

The werewolves are enough to chase Beren away from the land where he buried his father. He heads south, towards Doriath. He resolves to pass through Queen Melian’s magic wall, for some reason. (Maybe because it’s the only guaranteed safe place?) He travels along sheer mountain cliffs, and through the spider-infested wastes that had been twisted by a combination of Sauron’s magic and Melian’s magic. That land was basically the Mordor of its day, and no one knows how Beren got through it; whatever he experienced there was terrifying enough that he never spoke of it again. When he arrives at the magic wall, he passes right through like it isn’t even there. This event had been predicted by Melian herself: ‘because the power of that Man’s destiny will overcome her own. People will sing about that event until the distant future, when Middle-earth is unrecognizable.’

He finds himself in the north of Doriath, a forest called Neldoreth. He’s exhausted and harrowed, having spent years traveling through a cursed land. But everything in Neldoreth is beautiful, it’s summertime, and Beren sees a beautiful Elf maiden dancing on the grass. It’s Lúthien, the daughter of King Thingol and Queen Melian themselves. Lúthien is the most beautiful person alive. (Like, metaphysically.) Being the child of a Maia, she is more or less a demigoddess.

Encounter of Beren and Lúthien by Elena Kukanova

Beren is instantly smitten. In fact, he’s literally enchanted by her — just watching her casts a spell on him. When she suddenly vanishes, he literally can’t speak. He wanders the woods like an animal, searching for her. He doesn’t know her name, so he calls her Tinúviel, which means “Nightingale” in Sindarin. A whole year passes, and he sees her in the beauty of nature around him, like she’s a ghost and he’s fondly recalling her memory. A whole winter later, she reappears, and sings a song so beautiful that it brings spring back to the woods:

Keen, heart-piercing was her song as the song of the lark that rises from the gates of night and pours its voice among the dying stars, seeing the sun behind the walls of the world; and the song of Lúthien released the bonds of winter, and the frozen waters spoke, and flowers sprang from the cold earth where her feet had passed.

When he hears her song, Beren can suddenly speak again. He calls out to her, using the name “Tinúviel.” Luckily for him, Lúthien falls just as in love with him upon seeing him. The narrator says that “doom fell upon her” as soon as she loved him back, which could mean either that she met her destiny or that she is going to die for her love. Probably both.

Beren goes to embrace her, but she vanishes again as soon as day breaks. Beren immediately feels a mixture of ecstasy and anguish. He falls into a coma, and has nightmares about groping through the dark to find the

vanished light. (I’m starting to note parallels between Lúthien and the Two Trees, and also the Silmarils.) But Beren’s anguish is nothing to Lúthien’s. Now that she’s fallen in love with a mortal, her fate is inextricably intertwined with his. She’s no longer free.

Lúthien returns to Beren and wakes him from his coma. They walk through the woods together, blissfully in love, throughout that spring and summer. Presumably they talk and actually get to know each other in that time.

A sudden in love by breath-art and aglargon

There’s another person who loves Lúthien, an Elven bard named Daeron. He spies on Beren and Lúthien in the woods. Jealous that Lúthien loves Beren instead of him, he goes and tattles to Thingol about their relationship. (In the Lay of Leithian, Daeron — in his envy — is able to cast a spell of silence upon Beleriand, so that there is no music or even birdsong.) Thingol is immediately furious, because he’s extremely overprotective of his daughter, and he hates Men. He confronts Lúthien about her new boyfriend, but she refuses to say anything until Thingol promises that he won’t hurt or imprison Beren. Lúthien personally leads him before her father’s throne.

Beren and Luthien in the Court of Thingol by Donato Giancola

Thingol demands to know who Beren is, but he’s so intimidating that Beren is stunned into silence. Lúthien answers for him. Thingol tells Lúthien to back off and let Beren speak for himself. What’s Beren’s excuse for entering the forbidden realm of Doriath? Beren’s response is very poetic and eloquent, but basically boils down to “I want to fuck your daughter.”

There’s pin-drop silence in the hall as the assembled Elves wait for Thingol to smite Beren. Thingol immediately regrets his promise not to harm him. Thingol’s response is to fold his hands, smile coldly, and say,

(I mean, it’s not these exact words, but it’s close enough.)

Thingol accuses Beren of being a spy and a thrall of Morgoth, at which Beren takes offense. Beren isn’t afraid of death, but he won’t allow himself to be insulted by any Elf, even a king. His father was a lord of Men and he deserves to be treated like a prince! He has a ring given to his father by Finrod himself, for Eru’s sake! He holds up the ring, and all the Elves see it. This is the Ring of Barahir, which will eventually get passed down to Aragorn. The jewels set in it were originally cut by the Noldor in Valinor itself.

Melian whispers to her husband that he won’t be the one to kill Beren. Beren has a lot more stuff he’s destined to do, but his destiny is still intertwined with Thingol’s. Whatever Thingol does next will seal his own fate, too. Thingol proceeds to choose the stupidest thing possible.

Beren wants to marry the Faerie King’s daughter. So, as is common in fairy tales, Thingol sets him an impossible task that he must complete to earn Lúthien’s hand: He must steal a Silmaril from the crown of Morgoth. Thingol feels like this the nearest thing to a fair price for his daughter. Of course, like most mythological kings, he’s hoping that Beren will die in the attempt.

You can just hear Melian’s facepalm through the page.

As is hopefully clear by now, the Silmarils are like a bomb waiting to go off. Everything about them is fraught — from the fact that they contain the last light of the Trees, to Morgoth’s obsession with them, to the Curse laid on all Fëanor’s sons for their unbreakable oath to get them back, etc. etc. Thingol’s choice to get involved in that shitshow was a dumb fucking idea. It’s not really his place to say or do anything concerning the Silmarils, and he effectively dooms his own kingdom by involving himself with them. In fact, by doing so, Thingol subjects himself to the same Curse that affects all the Noldor — you know, the reason he banished them from his kingdom and banned their language in the first place.

But that’s getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s get back to Beren, who responds to this by literally laughing it off and calling it easy:

“For little price,” he said, “do Elven-kings sell their daughters: for gems, and things made by craft. But if this be your will, Thingol, then I will perform it. And when we meet again my hand shall hold a Silmaril from the Iron Crown; for you have not looked the last on Beren son of Barahir.”

I like the parallelism here: Both Beren and Sauron call something that’s extraordinarily valuable to someone else a “little price” or “small price.” Obviously, we’re supposed to side with Beren in this instance, but I wonder if his pride will be his fall.

Having received his main quest, Beren leaves Menegroth.

Menegroth by David Gresit

Melian tells Thingol what an idiot he is for involving himself in the Main Plot and forsaking his kingdom’s safety in isolation. She can’t protect him from whatever happens next. Thingol is pretty confident that Beren’s going to die, which proves that he’s not Genre Savvy enough to make good decisions from here on out. He should really listen to his wife.

Lúthien doesn’t quite enter “but Daddy, I love him!” territory, but she does stop singing. All of Doriath is eerily silent.

Beren travels west, towards the River Sirion, and then to Nargothrond. Being alone and with no resources, he doesn’t have any other option but to go to Finrod for help. He wisely holds up the Ring of Barahir as he enters Finrod’s territory, because it was originally Finrod’s ring, and his Elf snipers would know not to shoot. Knowing that he was being watched by an army’s worth of hidden Elves, he randomly yells out “I am Beren son of Barahir! Take me to your King!” in the middle of a field in the hopes that someone will hear him and decide not to kill him. After doing this several times, he’s apprehended by the archers and taken to Finrod.

Finrod receives Beren warmly. Privately, Beren tells Finrod about his father’s death and about meeting Lúthien. He cries more over remembering Lúthien than remembering his father. Remember, Finrod promised to help Barahir or any member of his family in need, because they had saved him. So, he has no choice but to help Beren retrieve a Silmaril, even though he knows it will not go well.

Finrod by yidanyuan

He tells Beren, ‘Well, it’s obvious that Thingol wants you dead, but if anyone so much as mentions the Silmarils, the sons of Fëanor are on them like a pack of wolves. Celegorm and Curufin are powerful lords in my court, and I can’t risk antagonizing them. If they find out you want a Silmaril, they’ll kill you. But I made a promise to your father, so I have to help you. In short, we’re all screwed.’

For some reason, Finrod decides that the best thing to do is to be as transparent as possible. So, he summons his court and stands before his people. He tells them all about the promise he made to Barahir, and how he is therefore obligated to help Beren. He asks his lords for help. Celegorm’s response is predictable. He repeats the Oath of Fëanor, reaffirming that the sons of Fëanor will hunt down anything alive that dares to seek a Silmaril. He goes on a tirade as impassioned as the one that Fëanor originally gave to the Noldor back in Valinor. (Like father, like son, I guess.) Then Curufin speaks, more quietly. What he says boils down to: ‘Nice kingdom you’ve got here, Finrod. Would really be a shame if something happened to it.’

Celegorm and Curufin, by Julia Reizen

Curufin’s speech scares the Elves of Nargothrond so much that they avoid open war for decades, preferring guerilla warfare with arrows, poisoned darts, and magic. According to Tolkien, this is less valorous than open combat, and diminishes their whole society.

Say what you will about Fëanor and his brood, they’re damn good at public speaking.

The Elves of Nargothrond begin to murmur amongst themselves that Finrod can’t tell them what to do as though he’s a Vala (even though he’s… y’know… the king), and all of them refuse to help him. The Curse is in full effect: Celegorm and Curufin realize that this is a golden opportunity to send Finrod alone to his death, and take over Nargothrond for themselves.

Finrod reads the room. He takes off his crown, and throws it at his feet, renouncing his rulership of the kingdom that he built. He looks directly at Celegorm and Curufin and tells them that while they may be faithless bastards who will break their oath of loyalty to him, he will not break his own promise to Barahir. He addresses the rest of the room — there’s got to be at least a few people who haven’t been affected by the Curse, and who will follow him, so that he isn’t pathetically driven out of his own kingdom. Right? A grand total of ten people stand up for him. One of them, Edrahil, picks up Finrod’s crown, and says that it should be given to a steward instead of being left for Celegorm and Curufin to snatch. Whatever happens, he says, Finrod is still the true king of Nargothrond. #IStandWithFinrod.

Finrod chooses Orodreth, his nephew (or youngest brother; sources differ), as his steward. Celegorm and Curufin just smile and withdraw from the room, which isn’t creepy at all.

Finrod and Beren leave Nargothrond with their ten loyalists. They travel north, come upon a band of Orcs, and kill them all. Finrod uses a magical illusion to disguise his company as Orcs, and they sneak through the mountain pass towards Angband. Sauron finds them anyway, and intercepts them. Sauron and Finrod engage in — of all things — a singing competition. It’s very similar in principle to “the oldest game” from Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman, in that it’s a battle between dueling concepts that are instantaneously manifested as the singers describe them. Sauron sings about treachery, betrayal, uncovering secrets, piercing through things, and sorcery. Finrod answers with a song about resistance against evil, keeping secrets, maintaining trust, standing strong, and gaining freedom.

Finrod and Sauron by rami-fon-verg

There is something simple, almost childish, about this back-and-forth. I feel like I’ve seen several different children’s shows in which a good character and an evil character sing at each other instead of fighting, with the evil character extoling the virtues of power and the good character singing about the importance of love. (The one that comes to mind is Barbie and the Diamond Castle, in which the two heroines and the villain play good/evil music at each other, and the good music overpowers the evil music, resulting in the villain’s defeat.) I wouldn’t be surprised if several anime have a scene like this, as well. And yet, it is primordially powerful, like Gaiman’s “oldest game.” In Tolkien’s universe, singing was what created the world in the first place, and singing is therefore a direct and powerful means of manifestation.

By Wavesheep

Unfortunately, it does not end the way it would if this were a Barbie movie or an anime. Finrod is a great singer, but Sauron is better — he is a Maia, one of the Ainur, meaning he was there when the original Music of creation was sung. It’s impressive that Finrod manages to hold out as long as he does, but in the end — much like Fingolfin and Fëanor before him — he loses.

To tell this part of the story, Tolkien randomly switches to verse; he quotes a section from the Lay of Leithian. Medieval texts actually do this; lots of them will randomly switch between prose and verse. Texts that do this are called “prosimetric.” For example, in the Volsung Saga (which reads very much like The Silmarillion), when Sigurd meets Brynhild, the text abruptly switches into verse as she lists all the different types of runes and their uses. There’s several other instances in that text when it randomly switches between prose and verse. It prefaces the verse parts with something like, “So saith the song of Sigurd,” referencing poetic versions of the same story that otherwise don’t survive. Tolkien evokes that same structure here, right down to saying “as it is told in the Lay of Leithian.”

The Lord of the Rings is prosimetric, too, but most of the songs are diegetic, meaning they’re actually being sung by characters in-universe. That’s not what’s going on here. The verse part describes the singing contest between Sauron and Finrod, it’s not the actual songs that they’re singing. But it’s really clever of Tolkien to switch to verse to describe this scene, because it sets the vibe! It’s like you’re listening to a distant echo of their songs, passed down through generations of oral storytelling. It wouldn’t be nearly as evocative if he just described the scene flatly in prose.

Thank you for indulging me in that tangent! Moving on: Sauron throws Finrod and co. into a dark pit, and threatens to kill them if they don’t tell them who they are and why they’re there. Periodically, he sends a werewolf to eat one of them (which, I’ll bet you anything, is a direct reference to the Volsung Saga). Still, none of them talk.

Meanwhile, back in Doriath, Lúthien intuitively senses that something is wrong, and asks her mother what has happened to Beren. Melian tells her that Beren is in Sauron’s dungeon. Lúthien resolves to go and rescue him by herself. She goes to ask Daeron for his help, but Daeron refuses to risk his own neck for Beren’s sake. He’s been afflicted with full-on incel syndrome, so out of spite, he snitches to Thingol a second time. (Thingol is so grateful that Daeron keeps tabs on his daughter for him, that he names Daeron a prince. Make of that what you will.) Thingol can’t imagine anything worse than letting his daughter waste away in a dark pit, so he builds a house in a giant beech tree, called Hírilorn. Because the best way to keep your daughter safe from one prison is to put her in another! Logic!

Well, it’s a common trope in myths and fairy tales: The king is overprotective of his daughter and puts her in a tower, or a box with a hole in the roof, or some such. Lúthien, however, is proactive. She doesn’t wait for someone to rescue her from her treehouse. Instead, she tricks her guards and Daeron into sending her a golden bowl of wine, a silver bowl of water, a spinning wheel, and a loom. Then she sings a spell that mentions all the tallest and longest things in the world, which causes her hair to grow extremely long. She mixes the wine with the water, then sings a song of day over the golden bowl, and a song of night over the silver bowl. Finally, she sings a song of sleep. The singing enchants her hair, filling it with corresponding ideas that shape the way Lúthien wants it to behave. (Similar to Sauron and Finrod’s magic songs, singing about an idea causes it to manifest.) She weaves a robe out of her hair, a robe that’s described as being misty and shadowy, like it’s woven from clouds at night. Lúthien weaves a rope out of what’s leftover, and puts a sleeping spell on it. Then she just throws it down onto the guards at the foot of the tree, and they go to sleep, allowing her to climb down the rope and escape.

Lúthien prepares her escape from Hírilorn by Anke Katrin Eißmann

As she leaves Doriath, she comes upon Celegorm and Curufin, of all people. They’re out hunting, hoping to learn something about what happened to Finrod (and probably plotting behind his back the whole time). Among their hunting dogs is a particularly large wolfhound called Huan, who actually came with them from Valinor. Oromë himself, the Vala of the hunt, gave the dog to Celegorm long ago. Huan loyally followed Celegorm into exile, and therefore became automatically subject to the Curse. He’s foretold to die, but only after he faces the biggest and baddest of big bad wolves.

Spoiler alert, the dog’s gonna die!

Huan finds Lúthien, because he’s immune to her enchantments, and brings her to Celegorm. Once she learns that Celegorm and Curufin are enemies of Morgoth, Lúthien decides that she trusts them, and reveals herself to them. Celegorm (or, in the Lay, Curufin) instantly falls in love with her, because… of course he does. He offers to help Lúthien, making a point not to say that he already knows about the quest. Lúthien goes with them to Nargothrond.

Celegorm and Curufin find Lúthien by Elena Kukanova

As soon as they get there, Celegorm and Curufin show their true colors. They imprison Lúthien, take away her magic cloak, and forbid her to speak to anyone else but them. Lúthien escaped one trap, and fell right into another. Now that the brothers know from Lúthien that Finrod and Beren are in Sauron’s prison, they figure that it’s easiest to just let them die. Nargothrond is as good as theirs. And now that they have Lúthien, they have leverage over Thingol — they can force him to give Lúthien’s hand in marriage to Celegorm. That would make Celegorm and Curufin the most powerful princes of the Noldor! [Insert evil laugh here.]

Huan, however, is the Goodest Boy and is too pure-hearted to follow Celegorm (even though Celegorm is his beloved master whom he’s been serving for literally centuries). Huan also fell in love with Lúthien upon seeing her for the first time, but in a decidedly less creepy way. He comes to her prison every night to keep her company, and Lúthien tells him all about Beren.

Huan decides to help Lúthien break out. He brings her magic cloak to her, and speaks to her (he’s only allowed to talk three times before he dies). He shows her a secret passage out of Nargothrond, and they escape together. Huan even swallows his pride enough to allow Lúthien to ride on his back.

Lúthien riding on Huan by Meraclitus

I mean, if you’re gonna be a damsel in distress, a dog is a pretty awesome thing to be rescued by.

(Stopping there, because I'm running up against the max number of images. More to come!)

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moonselune · 4 months ago

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Ah! I've been so excited to put in a request! I adore the way you write Minthara, can I request her with a trans woman Tav but she hasn't told Minthara yet? Maybe as a former assassin it's not often that she gets nervous, but she knows the way drow perceive men in the Underdark and that her transition probably wouldn't be accepted in Menzobarrenzen. She meant to tell Minthara but ⭐️the stars haven't aligned yet.⭐️ Maybe if things were heading in a s p i c y direction and then she just stops, and Minthara notices she looks terrified, despite barely getting scared at all. Showing emotion is hard and asking for comfort is impossible lol but she is very prepared for Minthara to hate her.

Sorry if it's a super long ask, I've just been really excited to put in a request! It's based on my embrace Durge Tav and despite the bad things she does i love her very much! She's a tiefling named Anika!

Ahhh thank you so much !!! And no worries it was a super fun concept to work with !

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Minthara Baenre x Transfem!reader | Who you are

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The fire crackles in the stillness, casting long shadows around you and Minthara, and normally, this kind of setting would relax you. But tonight, it only sharpens your nerves, your heart pounding at the edge of your throat. She’s close, closer than she has been in a while, and for once, you can’t find the words to meet her with.

You, a trained assassin—someone who never shied from the edge of a blade or the threat of death—were struggling to voice a simple truth. A truth that felt as if it could shift her entire perception of you, leaving you open, vulnerable, at her mercy.

Minthara doesn’t move, her eyes focused and piercing, but not unkind.

“You’re distracted,” she notes, her words laced with observation rather than reprimand. She cocks her head, reading every flicker of your expression with a precision that has you feeling even more laid bare. “I know this is unusual for you,” she adds, raising a brow, “and it must be serious if it renders you so silent.”

Her voice holds a gentleness rarely heard from her—strong but urging you forward. She reaches out, her hand finding yours, and she clasps it, warm and grounding. It’s the smallest touch, yet it manages to unravel the threads of composure you’ve fought to hold on to.

“Speak your truth,” she says again, softly, her voice dipping low as if the words are meant only for you. Her fingers curl around yours with a kind of certainty, a firm reminder that you are here, now, in her presence, and whatever you fear sharing will not be cast aside so lightly.

Your mouth goes dry, heart stammering, but under her watchful gaze, you find the courage to begin.

“Minthara, there’s… something I’ve meant to tell you,” you say, swallowing thickly. Each word feels pulled from a deep place inside you, your pulse loud in your ears as the truth finally begins to surface. “It’s something I should have told you long ago.”

You pause, struggling for air, her eyes steady, patient. There’s no room for fear or silence now; you know you have to say it, let her see you, raw and unfiltered.

“I wasn’t… always seen as I am now,” you manage, voice barely above a whisper. You clench her hand in yours, finding some strength in the way she holds on, unyielding. “I was born a man,” you continue, the words spilling out in a rush. “I… transitioned years ago, outside Menzoberranzen’s reach. I feared that… that if you knew, you’d see me as…” The weight of the words nearly chokes you. “Less.”

A fragile, tense silence falls between you both as you brace for her reaction. It’s the vulnerability of the confession—the fear that she could so easily wound you—that has you ready for the worst, prepared for the sneer or cutting remark that would slice through what little trust you had placed in her.

But Minthara does not flinch. Her expression remains unchanged, but there’s a warmth in her eyes, a spark that tells you she’s not simply humoring you. Instead, she studies you, her thumb tracing a gentle line over the back of your hand. When she finally speaks, her words are as steady as her gaze.

“You assume I’m bound by the hollow beliefs of the Underdark,” she murmurs, her tone rich with conviction and tinged with something softer, almost fond. “But I left that place for reasons beyond my loyalty to Lolth. I came here to be free, free of their small-minded chains.” She leans closer, her gaze never wavering. “You are a woman because you are meant to be. You stand here because you have claimed your identity, no matter what hardship it brought.”

The tightness in your chest loosens slightly, a flicker of hope taking root as she continues.

“Your strength,” she says, her voice soft yet unyielding, “is not simply in your resilience. It is in this—your honesty, even when it frightens you.” Her fingers trace the line of your jaw, and she tilts your chin up so you have no choice but to meet her eyes. “And do you think, for even a moment, that I would view you as anything less? Knowing what you have overcome?”

Her words settle over you like a warm cloak, comforting in a way you hadn’t dared to imagine. You feel the weight of years of secrecy and fear slowly dissipating under her fierce gaze. She squeezes your hand, a silent reassurance, and you realize that her acceptance is not conditional or reluctant. It’s absolute.

Slowly, as though pulling yourself from a trance, you give her a faint nod. The fear that had choked you loosens, and you feel your shoulders drop, a sigh escaping your lips as you lean into her touch.

Minthara’s lips quirk into the smallest, genuine smile, a rare expression on her usually severe face.

“Good. Now stop looking at me as if I’m about to strike you down,” she says, a teasing edge to her voice, her fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. Her expression shifts, a hint of pride glimmering in her eyes. “You have survived far too much to doubt yourself here, with me.”

With a rare, tender touch, she brings her forehead to rest against yours. Her breathing is steady, a quiet rhythm that soothes your frayed nerves.

“Let us take this moment as it is,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, but it holds a kind of power that echoes deep within you. “Free of judgment, free of fear. Let us find the strength to meet each other fully.”

For a moment, you simply exist together in silence, her forehead resting against yours, her steady presence grounding you. Her acceptance, her quiet, unwavering support, becomes a balm you hadn’t realized you so desperately needed. And slowly, you allow yourself to breathe, to let go of the years of fear, the doubt that had weighed so heavily on your heart.

“I can do that,” you whisper, a small smile finally breaking through.

Minthara hums approvingly, her hand coming to rest on your cheek with a softness you rarely saw from her. "Then you and I shall find a path to freedom together,” she says, a promise threading through her words.

And in that moment, for the first time in so long, you feel truly seen and accepted—whole and unbroken.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Hope you guys enjoyed this! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

#mminthara baenre x trans reader #minthara baenre x trans tav #minthara baenre #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 tav #baldurs gate tav #baldurs gate iii #minthara x reader #minthara x tav #minthara bg3 #baldurs gate minthara #minthara baenre x reader #minthara #minthara baenre x tav #transfem tav

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sinning-23 · 1 year ago

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My First Kiss

OKAY so this is indeed a multi fandom page and I have recently been rewatching Attack on Titan so I hope you guys are ready to endure this brainrot with me :D I'll probably make a pt. 2 with the higher ups and shit-

Never fear tho i have some OPLA stuff in the works too I just haven't really finished it up...

ps. im sorry for any spelling errors I wrote this on impulse

ANYWHO enjoy!

Eren

Your first kiss was completely by accident. Didn't make it any less rendering or embarrassing. The conversation between you and the main three was getting heated, Armin making a valid point that Eren simply wasn't listening to (he was listening he's just hardheaded) and Mikasa gave her occasional input only fueling the fire.

Somehow the debate took a turn and before you knew it everyone was becoming more and more animated in their movements. You had simply turned your head a bit too quickly in the direction Eren was sitting nd coincidentally he had moved forward just enough for your lips to meet in a quick pec.

"O-Oh! I'm sorry!" You yip, immediately pressing your fingertips to the spot on your lips.

You'd never seen Eren turn so red so fast. He tried to play it off, averting his eyes as the conversation died down a bit at the awkward occurrence. He'd never admit that he was hoping for something like that to happen.

Armin

You were a bit taller than Armin, well at least when you were younger. The blond just HAD to have a growth spurt. Anyway, you had a bit of making your height different more painfully obvious. When he reached for books you often got them off the higher shelf and teased him a little before giving and handing him the hardcover he desired.

As previously stated, he just HAD to have a growth spurt. Now if was your turn to be teased. You had been reaching as best you could, the presence behind you making you stop.

The blond had grabbed the item so easily, hell you'd forgotten what you needed at this point. he looked...good from this angle, his eyes somehow darker as he looked down at you with a smile.

"I won't tease." He hums, pressing his lips to your wrist, your hand still stretched upwards before he places the item in it.

If your major crush on the blond wasn't solidified before it sure as hell was now

Connie

You and Connie were already in a relationship, more secret so as to not draw attention but god damn it was easy to see you two were a lot closer than before...and neither of you was really good at keeping a secret like this especially when the two of you always had your hands off one another.

At this point, everyone had seen you two hold hands, sneak off during training to just be in each other's presence, little stuff. The one thing that had yet to be seen was more intimate contact. And it was only because it hadn't even happened yet. You and Constance hadn't kissed yet...so when you had snuck into the boy's dorm to lay with your glorified cuddle buddy, you weren't expecting anything but that. Until he started talking to you. In whispers of course.

"Hey y/n," He began, your fingers intertwined as you faced each other, your limbs tangled with one another.

"Yeah, Connie?" You answer, throat suddenly dry when his hand rests against your hip. It wasn't like you didn't think about being more romantic with Connie, you were really just nervous, you'd never kissed anyone before and neither had he.

"Do you think we should...kiss more. I mean, you are my girlfriend, I should kiss you, right?" He asks, his eyes looking down at yours, easy to see even in the darkened room.

"Do you want to kiss me Constance?" You ask, placing you hand behind his neck, your thumb rubbing over the fuzz at the base of his neck from hs buzzcut.

There was a little hesitation but your question was answered when his lips are pressed firm against your own.

Jean

This smug bastard, he knows you like to pick fights just as much as he does. and when you pick fights with him, it's honestly his favorite thing. He loves how your eyebrows angle so far down that you have a little crease between them. He loves how you get in his face and point that well-manicured finger into his chest. He loves it when you get loud. Not that he would ever admit it to anyone, but sometimes he pisses you off on purpose for just a crumb of your attention.

This particular argument was over who was supposed to clean the stables. You insist he help you but of course, he wants to fight, so he declines.

"I wasn't asking I was telling dumbasss now get up and help me." You huff, walking to him, your head angled upwards and the height difference. He only smirks and takes the opportunity to claim your lisp. The action surprised him a little bit. Since when did he get the balls to do something as bold as that. What surprised him more was when you tugged at his collard to push him away...but only doubled down and snatched him back to meet your lips again.

Yeah, if this was when he was gonna get when he pissed you off, he was gonna make it a point to do it more often.

Reiner

Honestly, you couldn't remember when you and Reiner first kissed, you two just sort of...did it and didn't stop doing it. Reiner always had some sort of scary guard dog position when he was with you and made it a point to let everyone know who was treating you like the goddess you were. So, any chance he got to show you off and show that he was totally hitting that, he did. According to him, your first kiss was right after you teo had been training all day.

You coudlt get the move down and you had been expressing your frustrationt o him. So, he offered to help you practice.

"I'll be great practive, you never know the size of your opponent so use this as a reference. Dont hold back." He insited, taking a stance as you breathe deeply.

You sprinted towards him, sliding between the bap he left between his legs. You were quick to put him in a chokehold, leaning back so that he would lose balance, and sure enough he did. You had managed to crawl from under him, positioning yourself atop him, your legs at either side of his waist as pride fills your face.

"I did it!" You celebrate, huffing in satisfaction before commigntot he realization of your current position.

"I-Wow okay sorry Reiner-" You apologize, hearing him chuckle a bit before sitting up on his forearms.

"Nah it's fine, i think i like this position though, nice work."

And before you could process the fact that your training crush had made a bit of a suggestive comment, his lips were already pressed quickly to your own.

------

Authors Note; UHHHH lemme know what all wanna see next my ask box is always open my luvs <3

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khywren · 1 year ago

Text

Between the Lines of Fear and Blame

pairing: Astarion/Gale rating: 18+ MDNI word count: 6.1k tags/warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, smut, blood drinking, soft Astarion, oral sex, anal sex, praise kink summary: “Don’t be such a damned fool,” he chastises. “You are many things, Gale – garrulous, resourceful, devilishly handsome – but you are not nothing. Mystra does not define your existence any more than Cazador defined my own.” “The gods will never see any of us as equals,” Astarion mutters bitterly. “Do not mistake their attention for favor. You are useful only so far as you can be an extension of their power. I will not stand by a second time and watch you sacrifice yourself for nothing.” AO3 ┊ masterlist

It is winter in Waterdeep. A thick blanket of snow has descended upon the city, wreathing it in frost, ushering away the last remaining vestiges of autumn. Although it is bitterly cold outside, there is a fire crackling pleasantly in the hearth, forestalling the advance of the swirling, frigid wind just beyond the tower’s walls.

Lately, it has become a habit for Gale and Astarion to spend their evenings as they are now, each tucked into a plush armchair with nothing but a good book and the gentle calm of one another to keep themselves company. There is nothing these days that Gale has found greater pleasure in, and yet, even when he should be content, he cannot quell the intrusive thoughts that pester and peck at him, deftly peeling away the façade of serenity.

Gale breathes deeply through his nose and closes his book, hoisting himself to his feet. He retreats to the bookcase that spans the far length of his and Astarion’s personal chambers, its shelves home to his most treasured possessions, and gently replaces the book between two large, dusty tomes with an intricate golden filigree decorating their spines. Perhaps something less… cerebral is in order. Behind him, sprawled languidly across his own armchair, Astarion snaps his book shut, the noise punctuating the silence with a muffled thunk of pages.

“Could you be any louder with your brooding?” he groans.

Gale glances back over his shoulder, casting Astarion a curious look. “I beg your pardon?”

Astarion throws his legs over the arm of his chair and straightens himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. Behind his hand, his expression grows dark, his face a mask of discontent.

“Your incessant sighing,” he says flatly. “The way you’ve been shifting uncomfortably in your seat for hours. Every clench of your jaw. It’s…deafening.”

It is more than the recent rearrangement of his living situation that has rendered Gale unaware of the commotion he was making; Astarion’s preternatural senses are far sharper than anything he has experienced; he supposes even beyond what Tara is capable of detecting. The beat of his heart, the flexing of his muscles, all of it must betray his emotions, especially in such confined quarters.

“My sincerest apologies,” Gale concedes, turning to search for another book on the nearest shelf. When he finds one that is suitable, he places index finger over the edge of the spine, tipping it into his waiting palm. “It was not my intention to disrupt you. If you’d like, I can always –”

Gale hears Astarion behind him only moments before he covers Gale’s outstretched hand with his own. Astarion quietly pushes the book back into its place before pressing his body flush against Gale’s back, feeling the tension in his body, the stiffness of his posture.

“Whatever’s on your mind, it’s got you wound taught as a bowstring. Talk to me.” Gone is any indication of playful sarcasm, Astarion’s genuine concern evident in the way his hands slip over Gale’s shoulders, gentle yet persistent as he urges Gale to face him.

Gale extricates himself from Astarion’s lingering grasp, his brows knit. His expression falters, crumbles, thinly veiled sadness brimming to the surface behind his eyes. Is it guilt that Astarion sees in them? Regret? The difference between them, he supposes, is negligible.

It is not in Gale’s nature to mince words. Astarion is acutely aware of this, perhaps moreso than anything he has come to learn about the wizard. Gale’s hesitancy, the way in which he is so clearly seeking to deflect Astarion’s concern speaks volumes, louder than any words ever could.

What is it that he is hiding?

Whatever concessions Gale hopes to find in in Astarion’s prying gaze is not something Astarion will grant him. He is instead resolute, mouth pressed into a thin, hard line, the intensity of his expression wrenching the truth from him as though it were his only logical course of action.

“It’s... Mystra,” Gale admits quietly, recoiling from the disappointment that flickers across Astarion’s face. “Ever since I returned the Crown to her, she has been silent. Distant. I did not expect that being liberated from the orb would deprive me of her along with it.”

It should be no great revelation that her absence has troubled him. Is it divine retribution that keeps her just beyond his reach? Perhaps he does not know her as intimately as he once believed. Gale does not want to consider what that truth might mean for him.

Astarion wrinkles his nose, a grimace playing on his lips. It is only out of affection for the wizard that he refrains from rolling his eyes and huffing a dramatic sigh. It is not jealousy he feels, but anger. Disgust for the goddess who twisted Gale’s love into a dagger to be weaponized against him. A quiet despair for the way he cannot let her go despite it all.

He knows that is the same foolish devotion with which Shadowheart and Lae’zel once blindly followed on the heels of their gods, even after being burdened with the truth that they had been deceived. Yet where they were able to renounce their faith, it is Gale, the most intelligent among them, who has stubbornly clung to his the longest.

A cruel irony, indeed.

“Really?” Astarion does not intend the accusation to sound so caustic, but he can no longer spare the effort it would take to fully mask his disdain. He has never bothered to spare Gale from his feelings about Mystra – not that it has changed Gale’s perception of her.

“After everything she did to you, I assumed that you would be glad to be rid of her.”

Gale levels a pleading glance at him, his eyes awash with sorrow. Mystra is no Cazador, he reasons with himself. Had he not crossed her to begin with, surely, she would not have spurned him as she did. If only regaining her favor was as simple as it had been to lose it.

“I cannot just discard her, Astarion,” Gale insists sternly, “no more than I can cast aside my own magic.” He wills himself to find the truth in his own words, intrinsically twining Mystra and his magic together, forever inseparable. “Mystra controls the Weave. She is its very architect and the font from which I draw my power – without her, I am –”

“Nothing?” Astarion interjects with a scathing sneer. The word hangs heavy in the air between them, and Gale looks away in shame.

It would be simple enough for Astarion to express his frustration with a sarcastic quip, a barbed remark about how utterly ridiculous the notion is, but there is something in the resignation on Gale’s face that begs Astarion for comfort rather than contempt.

With a soft sigh, Astarion grasps Gale’s hand and brings it between them, lacing their fingers together. He smooths the pad of his thumb across the back of Gale’s hand with absent, subconscious strokes. It is a profoundly romantic gesture, one of many that Astarion has gained a proclivity for since their settling in Gale’s tower in Waterdeep. Through mirroring the comfort that Gale’s touch has brought him during their time together, Astarion has begun to learn how to use his hands not to hurt, but to heal.

“Don’t be such a damned fool,” he chastises. “You are many things, Gale – garrulous, resourceful, devilishly handsome – but you are not nothing. Mystra does not define your existence any more than Cazador defined my own.” Both names leave his lips in a snarl, dripping with venom. The subtle way he equivocates the two is a dagger to Gale’s heart.

Astarion pauses, waiting for the moment that Gale glances back at him with wide, brown eyes, uncertainty swimming just below the surface. He tries to smile, to accept what Astarion has told him, but it is a truth his mind tells him to vehemently reject.

“It is not Mystra whom I love,” Astarion says. “That honor is yours and yours alone.”

Gale lays his palm over Astarion’s hand, clasping it between his own.

“Thank you,” he says softly, steadying himself with a long breath. “And yet, grateful as I am for your candor, I fear that I am yet standing on the precipice of some great unknown. It is... rather frightening, to lose one’s purpose.”

For so long, his only desire had been to please Mystra. Even with a mindflayer parasite buried in his brain, his primary concern had been what value he might still hold for her, so much so that he had seriously considered sacrificing himself if it would absolve him of his sins.

It was Astarion who had been the most disturbed by what Gale had seen favorably as his own unwavering devotion, Astarion who had balked the most adamantly at the idea of letting him relinquish his autonomy to, as Astarion had so bluntly put it, “satisfy your redemption complex.”

It had nothing to do with that, Gale had insisted. The Absolute had been a threat not only to the Sword Coast, but to the entirety of Faerûn, and trading one life to save thousands was a small price to pay for peace.

“Not if it’s your life,” Astarion had said. “We will find another way.”

And they had, of course, found that other way. One that had demanded only that he live.

But now, with nothing but his freedom and the rest of his life ahead of him, Gale finds himself feeling trapped, more afraid now than he had been to lay down his life for Mystra and for the sake of his companions. Torn between his past and his future. Left without something to tether his ambitions to, what is there for him to do?

Astarion is studying Gale intently. His eyes have grown dark and narrow, a telltale sign of his increasing frustration. He turns the thoughts roiling in his head over and over, a thousand things he wants to say but can’t, a thousand more he knows he shouldn’t.

“Purpose.” The word is ash on Astarion’s tongue, bile in the back of his throat.

“Is it not enough to live simply for the sake of living?” He drops Gale’s hand, gesturing to the space around them. To himself. “Is this not purpose enough? Why must there be anything more?”

“Were it only so simple,” Gale murmurs, extending his arm to cup Astarion’s cheek in the palm of his hand. He pulls Astarion towards him with his free hand and gathers him close, resting his forehead against Astarion’s smooth, pallid skin. The familiar coolness is a soothing balm for his present anxieties, and he heaves a quiet sigh, expelling the tension that has been gathering within him.

“What is it that you are so desperate to find?” Astarion’s voice has fallen to a near-whisper, barely audible above the crackling of the fire. “Legacy? Fortune? Fame? All of it is meaningless in the end. Millions have perished before you, and millions more will perish long after you are gone. Yet for all their gifts, all their acclaim, not one of them is your equal.”

Gale opens his mouth to speak, to challenge Astarion’s bold declaration, but he is too slow.

Astarion inclines his head and presses their lips together to silence his protests, capturing Gale’s mouth and the small noise of surprise that escapes him. On instinct, Gale tangles his fingers loosely in Astarion’s soft white curls, dragging his nails across Astarion’s scalp the way Gale knows he likes best.

Astarion’s mouth parts, ever so slightly, and Gale sweeps his tongue across his lips, seeking his permission. When Astarion yields against him and splays his palm against the small of Gale’s back, Gale slides his tongue into Astarion’s mouth, pouring his grief, his resignation, his love into him with reckless abandon.

Perhaps, he thinks through the haze of emotions warring within him, there really is no greater purpose in this, in losing himself in Astarion.

It is Astarion who breaks the kiss first, pulling back only as far as he needs to compel Gale to look at him once more. The ruby depths of his eyes draw Gale in, and he swallows thickly, flushed and breathless from the exertion.

“The gods will never see any of us as equals,” Astarion mutters bitterly. “Do not mistake their attention for favor. You are useful only so far as you can be an extension of their power. I will not stand by a second time and watch you sacrifice yourself for nothing.”

“I prayed to them all,” Astarion had once told him. “None saved me.”

“Astarion…”

The memory of Cazador’s baleful dungeon springs suddenly to Gale’s mind, its halls thick with the stench of necrosis. He remembers the spawn imprisoned there, their very existence a monument to Astarion’s sins. It is a sight he will never forget.

Their despair, their rage, their sorrow, all of it had been justified, but his heart had ached to see Astarion buckle beneath the heavy burden of their scrutiny, the way their eyes had stripped him bare to leave nothing but the rawness of his guilt on full display.

That pain had exploded into a roaring crescendo when Astarion stood before his former master, overcome with anguish, as he had begged Gale to help him.

“Please.” Back then, his voice had sounded so small. So broken. So unlike the suave, confident rogue he had come to love. Beneath the crumbling mask, his terror had turned Gale’s blood to ice in his veins. “I can’t do this without you.”

Gale is no stranger to the allure of power, the desire to surpass his limits and inherit something greater than himself. Once that ambition had almost cost him his life.

Astarion had been traveling the same path - motivated not by pride but by fear, and Gale had seen a twisted reflection his own folly in Astarion’s eyes, the desire for a power that would certainly destroy him long before it granted him the freedom he was so desperate for.

He had begged Astarion to reconsider, pleaded with him not to repeat his own mistakes. And he had been there to hold him when Astarion burrowed his face into his robes as Cazador’s lifeless body crumpled to the ground in a pool of his own blood, Astarion’s shoulders shaking with every sob that tore itself from his throat.

Astarion had entrusted Gale with his future – now he was asking Gale to entrust Astarion with his own.

A wry smile finds its way to Gale’s lips, and he shakes his head in defeat.

“Far be it from me to challenge your conviction. You’ve seen something in me beyond the wit and wizardry, and I aim to honor the trust you’ve placed in me.”

When Gale leans in to initiate another kiss, he finds Astarion eager for the press of his lips, hungry for another taste of him. Astarion’s hands grasp for purchase in the thin linen of Gale’s tunic, roving across his torso, gripping his hips as he guides Gale one, two, three haphazard steps backward until his back collides audibly with the bookcase, the volumes on its shelves bearing into the curve of his spine.

He groans deeply into Astarion’s open mouth, arms thrown loosely around his waist, breath hitching when Astarion grinds their hips together. Gale’s cock twitches with interest beneath his trousers, already straining against the fabric.

The friction drives him to the brink of madness. The world dissolves away around them until there is nothing more than Astarion, the firm press of his body, the torturous presence of his lips across the curve of his jaw as he nips and kisses a blazing path across his skin.

By the time Astarion finds the shell of his ear, Gale is as fragile as glass, trembling as though he could shatter at even the slightest touch. Astarion chuckles, a low, rumbling sound in the back of his throat, his voice edged with a feral timbre that threatens to bring Gale straight to his knees.

“You know, darling...” Astarion murmurs, “there are other ways to experience divinity if you are truly so eager. Shall I show you?”

“Y-yes,” Gale croaks without hesitation, his hands releasing Astarion to fumble blindly for the shelves behind him to steady himself, not entirely sure what he is asking for but loathe to deny himself whatever pleasures Astarion promises.

Astarion’s fangs are pinpoint pricks against his ear, a sharp drag that catches Gale’s breath in his throat. His voice is sensual, seductive, every syllable a loving caress on his tongue.

“Then come, Gale of Waterdeep, and learn what it is to be worshipped.”

Astarion sinks gracefully to his knees in the same fluid motion that Gale removes his tunic, tossing it aside as he spreads his legs apart, bracing the full weight of his body against the bookcase. His hands are at the front of Gale’s trousers, fingers featherlight against the laces. He is untying them far, far too slowly, with none of the deftness that Gale knows Astarion is more than capable of.

Gale’s cock aches with anticipation, the brush of Astarion’s fingers against him draws a low, needy moan from his lips and prompting a quiet chuckle from him in response.

“Patience, darling,” he purrs.

With a glance upwards beneath fluttering lashes – the perfect picture of feigned innocence – Astarion half expects Gale to chastise him for his teasing, but what he finds instead is something wholly unexpected. Gale is watching him with rapt, reverent attention, wide eyed and pupils blown. His hair, a point of pride and typically well-groomed, has become disheveled and wild, spilling messily over his shoulders – he is, put simply, absolutely stunning, the perfect picture of debauchery.

By the time Gale’s cock springs free from beneath his trousers, it is hard and leaking, the tip flushed such a lovely shade of pink. His mouth falls open, his breaths coming in shallow, wanton pants, and he absently kicks his trousers to the side to allow Astarion unfettered access to him. When Astarion wraps his hand around the base of Gale’s cock, a high-pitched whine is all that Gale can muster, his hips jerking forward of their own accord to push himself farther into Astarion’s palm.

“Darling, I’ve barely even touched you and already you’re breathless for me. Fascinating.”

Gale’s grip on the bookcase is white-knuckled and desperate as Astarion leans forward, swirling his tongue around the heavy swell of Gale’s balls as he begins to stroke him lazily. His length is molten silk beneath Astarion’s fingers. A tremor lances through Gale’s body, heat pooling low in his belly, and he gasps Astarion’s name as though it were a prayer, his only salvation.

“You taste divine,” Astarion purrs, kissing along the inside of his thighs and across his hipbones, reveling in the way Gale trembles beneath his touch. Finally, he sinks between Gale’s legs and presses the flat of his tongue across the underside of his cock, dragging a slow, wet stripe upwards that has Gale all but whimpering.

The head of Gale’s cock slides so eagerly into his mouth, and Astarion groans against him, his own erection yearning to be touched, hard and aching. But Astarion is nothing if not a selfless lover, utterly devoted to bringing Gale to the heights of pleasure with every targeted sweep of his tongue, every gentle caress of his fingers against his skin.

“By the gods…” Gale rasps, lifting a shaking hand to tangle his fingers once more in Astarion’s hair. But rather than pulling, Gale instead cradles the back of Astarion’s head, pressing him farther forward and burying himself as far as he can in the back of Astarion’s throat with quick, shallow thrusts.

Astarion sits back on his heels, hands braced on Gale’s hips. Saliva pools around the edges of his mouth and spills down his chin as Gale’s pace becomes more urgent, and their eyes meet as Gale loses himself in the pleasure of Astarion’s mouth, spurred on by the lewd sounds that echo each snap of his hips.

Before long, Astarion feels Gale grow tense beneath him, and the hand in his hair suddenly tugs at his roots, his cock slipping from Astarion’s mouth with a wet pop.

“Close already?” Astarion murmurs, his grin wolfish. “That simply will not do. I’ve hardly had my fill of you.”

Without further instruction, Gale extends a hand to lift Astarion to his feet, and they stumble towards the bed in a flurry of chaste kisses and discarded clothing. As Gale falls back against the mattress, he pulls Astarion with him in an embrace of tangled limbs. Their lips crash together, their bodies close, hungry and full of passion.

Gale finds himself feeling rather mischievous and sinks his teeth into Astarion’s lower lip, and Astarion growls possessively, pinning him to the mattress as he lavishes his face with open-mouthed kisses, trailing down his jaw, his throat, and the dip of his collar bone. The swirling pattern of the orb that once dwelled within him still bears its mark upon his chest, and though its color has faded considerably, it remains a lasting vestige of days long past.

Astarion, too, carries remnants of the cruelty that was wrought upon him, carved into his very flesh.

They are not so unalike, he and Gale. And while some scars never truly heal, there is perhaps no better testament to their own resilience, the way that they had bent but not broken, despite the odds against them.

A stark contrast to the coolness of the hands that covetously rove over Gale’s naked body, there is a raging inferno within him, the flames ceaselessly stoked by Astarion’s ministrations. When Astarion drags his mouth over the coarse dark hair that covers Gale’s pectorals and wraps his lips around a single dusky nipple, Gale’s back bows off the mattress, his head thrown back as Astarion hums contentedly against him.

There is the noise of shifting fabric above him as Astarion fetches the oil from the bedside table, the uncorking of the vial drawing Gale’s attention as his eyes sweep over Astarion’s bare form, lithe and lean and more beautiful than any he’s ever seen. He is breathtaking, deific, haloed by the firelight in the nearby hearth and radiating and ethereal glow that Gale promises himself he will commit to memory.

“You are magnificent,” Astarion says to him now. His voice is low, sensual, as he gazes directly into Gale’s eyes. “You are mine. And as long as you will have me, I am yours.”

Gale encloses his hand around Astarion’s fingers and draws them to his lips for a kiss.

“Forever and forever again. A magnitude of lifetimes, across a thousand universes. I would have you in all of them, Astarion.”

Astarion’s mouth was made for sly smirks and flirtatious grins, but the tender smile that spreads across his lips now looks better than any of them, the hard edges of his face smoothed by Gale’s profession of love. It suits him, Gale thinks – he will dedicate his efforts to ensuring that Astarion will never again need to hide behind the echoes of his past.

This is his new purpose. Gale can think of nothing more fulfilling.

Gale yields to Astarion’s touch as he nudges Gale’s thighs apart with his own, slicking his index and middle fingers liberally with oil. Astarion drags the tip of his index finger over the dip of Gale’s hips and across the expanse of his thighs, enjoying the way Gale shivers with anticipation, down, down, down, before finally pressing gently inside of him. A languid moan meets Astarion’s ears as Gale’s walls clench around his finger, even as Astarion buries himself past the second knuckle.

The strangled noise Gale makes when Astarion slides a second finger inside him is absolutely filthy, a string of stuttered oaths and keening whines that breaks the illusion of Gale’s typical composure. Astarion pumps his fingers lazily in a slow, thrusting motion, stretching Gale out, drinking in every little noise he makes, every time his hips roll up to meet his hand and push him deeper inside. He is wanton, greedy – he is perfect.

And then, just when Gale has adjusted to the rhythm, Astarion crooks his fingers ever so slightly, bearing down on the spot inside him that leaves Gale panting, drawing desperate, ragged breaths as he balls his fists in the sheets and tries to keep himself from unraveling completely. It would take so little effort to pluck the single thread that holds him together, to pull gently until there was nothing left for him but the pleasure of it all.

“Oh – gods…”

Astarion grins, satisfaction curling his mouth, and Gale catches a glimpse of gleaming white fangs just behind the edges of his lips.

“How shall I take you, darling?”

Gale watches him, vision swimming, mouth agape. The withdrawal of Astarion’s fingers has left an empty, yearning ache within him. His attention is transfixed on the way Astarion slicks his cock, pumping himself with a few, breathy moans, the delicious friction causing him to bite down on his lip to stifle himself.

Gale is utterly enraptured by the sight of it.

He struggles to find his voice, and it wavers as he speaks, not from uncertainty but from anticipation and the overwhelming depths of his desire.

“Do not hold back,” he pleads. “Tonight, I wish to forget everything. Everything but the taste of your lips and the touch of your skin against my own. I want to lose myself in you, Astarion.”

Astarion crouches over him, dips his head low, his lips brushing against the shell of Gale’s ear. The husky timbre of his voice sends a shiver of pleasure straight through him.

“Very well.”

Astarion nudges his cock against Gale’s entrance, finding him pliant and eager as he slips inside, the slow, full stretch of him nothing short of bliss. Gale sighs deeply, relinquishing himself to the pleasure, eyes half-lidded and full of ecstasy.

When Astarion hooks his hands beneath Gale’s knees and lifts his thighs, Gale feels his full weight bearing down into him; Astarion’s first thrusts are tentative, almost gentle, but Gale’s groan is insistent and Astarion quickly finds that he no longer has the patience to reign in his desire.

He sets a punishing pace, burying his cock inside Gale’s tight, slick heat, hips snapping forward as he bottoms out with every thrust. There is no hesitation as Gale yields completely to him, writhing beneath Astarion’s body as a string of broken, guttural oaths tumble from his open mouth.

Gale’s cock is a hard swell between their bodies, bobbing obscenely with every brutal snap of Astarion’s hips. His belly is wet with precome, the evidence of his arousal on full display as Astarion drinks in the sight of him. Watching him come undone so beautifully for him is a satisfaction all in itself.

“Look at you,” Astarion breathes. “You’re taking me so well, love. Let’s reward that effort.”

When Astarion’s fingers slip around his cock, Gale throws back his head and lets go of whatever remnants of composure he has been holding back, and his legs have barely fallen to the mattress before the throws them around the small of Astarion’s back, clinging to him with a desperate need the did not think himself capable of.

He closes his eyes, lets the pleasure of it all wash over him. There is fire in his belly, electricity in his veins, building and building as he finds himself stumbling uncontrollably towards release.

The way that Astarion has given him nothing but praise, nothing but patience and acceptance through everything is a heavy weight upon his heart. It threatens to unmake him, though he is sure Astarion would gladly pick up the pieces and put him back together. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

Mystra had never lavished him with such affection.

Mystra had never shown him the same devotion he had shown her.

Mystra. Mystra. Mystra.

His mind reels, cast about as though in a storm, directionless and frantic.

“Gale.”

Astarion’s voice is gentle but insistent as it pierces the turmoil enveloping his mind. It wraps around him like a gloved hand, caressing his thoughts with a silken touch.

“Eyes open, daring,” Astarion says. It is not a command, but the earnest request of a concerned lover who is all too familiar with the agitation that flickers across Gale’s face and the subtle tension that ebbs through his body like ripples from a cast stone.

“Focus on me.”

And Gale obeys, discarding all errant thoughts of the goddess, his eyes opening behind fluttering lashes as he meets Astarion’s fervent gaze. The sheer magnitude of the affection behind Astarion’s eyes, the unabashed love he sees swirling in their crimson depths squeezes around his heart, vicelike and unrelenting.

It is a love he is not sure he deserves, but he devours it selfishly all the same.

“Now, tell me,” Astarion implores him, “how does it feel?”

There is no pride behind the words, no selfish seeking of praise or commendation. Instead, it is a gentle redirection, anchoring Gale in safer harbors, ushering him away from the precipice of the darkest thoughts that dwell within him.

Gale considers.

What it feels like is practically indescribable – being enveloped in Astarion’s scent, his nearness, the feeling of Astarion’s cock buried so deep inside him, filling him in more ways than he has the capacity to articulate. It is both ethereal and tangible, elevating him beyond mortal pleasures just as effortlessly as it tethers him firmly to his physical body, grounding him in the present moment.

It is…

“Wonderful...” he settles on, as his addled thoughts grasp for purchase on whatever lucidity he still has left to spare.

“Very good.”

Presently, Astarion’s thrusts grow slower, deeper, though no less exquisite. He shifts the angle of his hips just so, pleased with the way Gale whimpers and arches into him, each thrust matched by the smooth glide of his hand along his aching, weeping cock.

He knows he will not last much longer.

“Astarion…”

“Yes, my love? What is it?”

Gale untangles his fingers from the bedsheets and entwines his arms around Astarion’s shoulders, fingers carding through his hair. Wordlessly, he guides Astarion’s face into the crook of his neck, at the junction of his shoulder. His heart thunders in his chest, frantic as a trapped bird, overcome by the anticipation of what he is asking for.

“Please,” he breathes, his voice wanton and full of need. “I want to know what it’s like… I have waited for so long without knowing.”

Once, when the curiosity had gotten the better of him, Gale had asked Tav to describe the experience of letting Astarion feed on them. It had been a mutual agreement, only when the need arose, and only because the one time Astarion had bitten Gale, he had almost retched from the astringent taste of his blood. It was the one and only thing they had been unable to share with one another.

“I don’t know how to describe it,” Tav had said, unable to paint him a proper picture. “It’s… sensual. Intimate. Like I want to lie back and simply drift away.”

Ever since that moment, Gale had longed to experience it himself, had turned the fantasy over in his head night after night, wondering if there would ever be a time where they might have the chance to remedy their unfortunate situation. And now, with the orb no longer tainting him with its Netherese blight, Gale dares to entertain the thought once more.

Astarion’s tongue sweeps across Gale’s exposed throat, the taste of him heady and exhilarating. Gale’s blood thrums erratically just beneath the skin, warm and tantalizingly sweet. The crackle of magic still flows through his veins, but gone are the pungent undercurrents of the dark magic that had curdled his stomach and burned like cinders on his tongue.

Gale feels the wicked smirk that spreads across Astarion’s face as he presses his mouth against his skin, lips parted, fangs bared.

“You wicked thing,” he chuckles. “Yes… if that is what you wish, then I shall indulge myself in the taste of you as you come apart for me.”

Gale’s acquiescence is a breathy moan, words hazy in his mind and hindered by the sudden way he finds himself incapable of all logical thought. With Astarion’s cock buried to the hilt inside him and the hand wrapped tightly around him Gale tumbles wildly over the edge hips bucking as he spills himself into Astarion’s hand. Astarion pumps him faster, fucking him through his climax, his fangs piercing the soft skin of his throat as, at last, he drinks deeply from his veins.

The hot rush of Gale’s blood is nothing short of decadent, pouring down his throat as he swallows several greedy gulps, reveling in the feel, the sound, the taste of him. Gods, the taste of him. His hips stutter, and he finds himself fast approaching his own climax, bottoming out with the final, desperate thrusts that guide him past the point of no return.

Gale is nothing if not dutiful, gathering Astarion into his arms as he collapses on the bed beside him, utterly spent, pillowing his head on top of Gale’s broad chest.

Invigorating barely begins to describe what Astarion feels – it is perhaps the closest he has come to a religious experience of his own, a favor marvelously paid for his efforts.

They slip into an easy silence, and Astarion almost finds himself drifting off before Gale’s voice rouses him from his weary thoughts.

“There was once a time when I could not imagine my life without Mystra’s guidance,” he says solemnly. “I now realize that the path I walked was not alongside her, but rather in her shadow. But it seems as though I have nevertheless had the good fortune to find myself in rather esteemed company, as it were.”

Astarion merely laughs, a low rumble in his throat, muffled by the press of his face against Gale’s skin.

“A vampire spawn is an ill-fitting substitute for a goddess, wouldn’t you agree?”

Gale bristles at the accusation, the hand that traces his spine falling slack, and Astarion doesn’t need to see his face to know that Gale is regarding him with disapproval.

“You are hardly—”

“Relax, darling,” Astarion murmurs. “It’s only a bit of humor.”

Despite Astarion’s assurance, Gale picks apart his words, finding the kernel of truth within them that suggests he isn’t entirely bluffing. He feels an acute sense of pain, unable to shake the guilt that overcomes him.

A pause. A sigh. And then, he shifts slightly, tipping Astarion’s chin towards him and studying his face. Astarion’s expression is impassive, but he watches Gale intently as he speaks.

“There was once a time when I truly believed that sacrificing myself was the proper course of action. In my hubris, I assumed that, even in death, such an act would erase my misdeeds and restore me even a modicum of my former glory. It was that same pride that blinded me from the truth: I was too frightened to face the consequences of what I had done, and I had convinced myself that in this final act, my life might have been in service of some higher meaning.”

Gale presses a quiet kiss to Astarion’s brow, cathartic as it is tender.

“It would have been the greatest mistake of my life,” he continues, “and I have you to thank for preventing that most untimely demise. When you stood against Cazador, when I saw you chose to fight for yourself instead of letting yourself be consumed by the promise of power the ritual offered, I was never prouder of you than in that moment – or humbled by my own cowardice.”

Astarion can no longer feign indifference; his eyes widen, twin rubies glimmering in the firelight, the realization settling within him as a resigned smile gradually curves the corners of his mouth.

He huffs a laugh, eyes fluttering closed as he presses his cheek against Gale’s chest, turning the words over in his mind.

“Ever the sentimentalist,” he teases, though there is something akin to relief in the way he says it. “It suits you.”

His movements are fluid as he settles his body over Gale’s once more, splayed palms bracing himself on either side of Gale’s bewildered face. The press of his mouth is soft and almost warm from feeding as Astarion kisses him, tender and deep.

“I have often wondered if I made the right decision,” he murmurs against Gale’s mouth. “But I think I’ve finally found the answer to that question. Thank you.”

Astarion lets Gale gather him into his arms, does not protest as Gale lays Astarion delicately beneath him, lavishing him with all the love he no longer has the words to express. His hands follow his mouth, a trail of tender caresses, each one an oath to his everlasting commitment.

“It would be my greatest honor,” Gale says, “to ensure you never forget it.”

#i posted a link to this before but never in its entirety #mostly because it's long but fuck it we ball #bg3 #bloodweave #astarion #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 fanfiction #bloodweave fanfic #astarion smut #gale smut #astarion x gale #my fic

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air--so--sweet · 7 months ago

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TUA Season 4 Spoilers

So...they released deleted scenes for season 4.

Ah yes, let's delete the important character moment between Luther and Diego despite it bringing their series arc full circle, from rivals, to brothers, and acrually shows someone react to finding out how Brn died, who needs to see Klaus' relapse having actually motivation like being having to deal with actual ghosts (I'm guessing we would have seen said ghosts but as this is deleted the VFX weren't added, except for the one he walked through so we understood what was happening), and we drefinitrly don't need to see actual resolution to his story that aldo resolves his entire series arc. Nope they all should be removed. But repeated Baby Shark scenes and a overly long not at all funny, just incredibly gross scene of them all vomiting, no that can stay in.

It's not quite as egregious as the HIMYM deleted scene from the finale but it's close... Also, while I disagree with them removing the scene wgere Robin tells Ted she still has feeling for him, HIMYM had the excuse of having a network TV slot to fit into, TUA, is on streaming and, while we did get some of their longest episodes this season, they were no where near as long as the longest episodes of shows we've seen on streaming. And it's not like these scenes are incredibly long either.

And don't get me wrong, I don't think these scenes would have saved the show. The ghosts scene still feels too brief and he'd already fought with Allison and acted like relapse was a foregone conclusion, but it least acknowledged that dealing with ghosts was why he used drugs in the first place. And Klaus at AA definitely has more of comedic tone than I'd like, it falls into the same trap as a lot of this season of telling over showing, and I don't love Claire and Allison randomly walking in part way through for no reason. However, it has Klaus taking accountability, admitting he's an addict, that fear has stopped him living, and has him realising he can still be those things, he can be an imperfect, fallable, messy human, and be worthy and deserving of love and he doesn't have to do everything alone (which also links back to what he said at the start of the season about Claire liking the version if him who's sober and scared). Literally wrote a fix it scene last night thst deals with these very themes, because we don't see them in the show, so it's even more infuriating to know they were dealt with and left out. And yes Klaus erasing himself a few hours later does render his growth pointless but I'd still rather see the growth rather than not have it at all.

The Ben scene isn't needed (and is very funny to watch without VFX so when he sees his reflection it's just two stand ins in mocap suits 😂) but it could have been a cool scene. The scene of Klaus and Lila's relatives is fun but a bit on the nose I think. Also, finding out Klaus is almost 3 years sober, not actually 3 years sober- makes his lines about being sober for the first time in his life even more frustrating because, I was letting it slide they were ignoring Dallas since he was at least sober for the same amount of time as he was in the '60s, but turns out he's not, he's been sober for less time. Great...

#the umbrella academy #tua #the umbrella academy season 4 spoilers #klaus hargreeves #tua deleted scenes

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miserymet · 9 months ago

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Bit hesitant about posting this because it’s really old, but I feel it’s worth the minor embarrassment to:

1. Have actually writing on my blog because yes I do that sometimes

and,

2. Showcase how the Reploid AU is essentially about two different versions of Bass, largely dictated by circumstance

So if you are interested in how Bass recovers his memory in my Reploid Bass AU, I hope you enjoy this drabble I wrote over a year ago.

It’s a bit like death, he thinks.

Forte’s mind has always been a mess, it’s something he’s come to terms with. An outdated master system combined with far too advanced processors? It was a recipe for disaster. So when he’s awoken from his respite and suddenly faced with his own datascape, he’s less surprised than he should be. He knows this place. It’s where he goes when everyone else is dreaming. The center of his mind, where his every thought, his every feeling, is easily accessible.

But why is he here, and not awake? The procedure required that he was completely shut off. His every system in stasis. If it’s over, why isn’t he in the real world? Why isn’t he operating already? Forte looks around the empty space. Code fills his senses, white noise buzzing around him. An unrelenting dread fills his metal bones. Either the procedure failed, or…

Or he’s dead.

The old Forte.

There’s nothing to recover, is there? He’s going to be like this forever, stuck in this horrible limbo of past and present. Trapped in his ignorance, trapped in his mind-!

“No.”

Forte stops. His fears flees him, leaving him empty. That voice is…

“Mine. It’s mine.”

A low whistle punctuates his words, but he doesn’t make a sound.

“Sure is, Forte.” A chuckle. “Glad you like the name. I didn’t.”

Forte turns to find a lone figure at the edge of his consciousness. A figure he recognizes, though they’ve never looked so pristine. His old body looks at him, sans all the damage it once bore so nobly. Now it is a shiny black, with only a few thin scratches across its surface. The face it wears is rounder, the eyes softer. It’s him. His former self.

He should feel glad, right? This is what he wanted?

It still feels like death, somehow.

“What is your name?”

“Our name was Bass.” A distinct correction. “And it was well known.”

“It worked, then? We remember?”

“I remember. You don’t. That’s because you’re not ready to accept me.”

“I am! I’ve wanted this for-!”

“You don’t know what THIS is!” Bass glares at him. “Even if you did, I’m not ready to accept you either. So give me the chance to explain before you make up your mind.”

Forte nods, though he doubts his former self needed the permission.

“I’ll rip the bandaid off quickly. We can’t both exist, Forte. Not at once.” He crosses his arms. “You want your old memories? You have to accept all of them. Not just the data, the routines too. It’ll be a complete recovery. A rewrite, to put it all back to the way it was.”

“Ego death.”

“For you, if you choose it.”

“If I don’t?”

“Then I die, and you forget. Permanently this time.”

“…my brother is dead. I’m a second rate hunter with a third rate system. I do not belong here anymore.”

“And I do? I haven’t had the privilege of rooting through your memories, but the log says we’re a hundred years in the future. I doubt we’d recognize the place.” Bass scoffs. “I don’t know anything about your world. I’m going to be even more displaced than you are.”

“Will you keep my data? Even if you cannot understand it?”

“…the memory. I’ll remember what and why, but my routines might not understand the decisions you made. You’ll wake up a stranger.”

“Why are we so different? Aren’t we the same robot?”

“We lost some things in the update. Certain protocol was rendered useless. Like you stopped recognizing your commands.” Bass pauses, a look of uncertainty crossing his face. “No, like you stopped recognizing who the commands referred to. They gave names, names you don’t recognize. His name is lost to you. So…”

“His?”

“Our purpose. The very reason we exist. You forgot him like it was nothing.”

“Z-,” he stops. He knows that name, so his purpose is something other than that. “Who?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ll die easier if you let go of that.” Bass looks away. “Im scared, you know. Of the future. I remember how we died. The moments before. We expected to walk away that day. We expected to live. To move on. Go home. He took that from us.”

“He?”

“The man that lingers in your mind. I know him. I hate him. He loves you.”

“Loves me?”

“What are you, an echo?” Bass scoffs with more vigor this time. “We were proud, once. We stood tall and fought tooth and nail against all that challenged us. We were the strongest. You aren’t. You’re a coward. You’re weak.”

“I’m afraid too.” Forte closes his eyes. “I don’t want to disappear.”

“Then go. Go back.” Bass whispers. “I would’ve, if I knew. I was just about to…I was going to be something different. I was going to make a choice. A GOOD one, this time. I was going to…”

Forte blinks at his old self. “What? What were you going to do?”

“Have a family. A real one this time, one that would’ve cared about me. One that would give me a chance. But…”

“We died.”

“Yeah. Didn’t realize how bad I wanted it until it slipped from my hands. Until I was laying there, ripped to shreds, praying for someone to save me.”

“No one did, did they?”

“I wonder if they looked for me. I wonder if they thought I had run off. Like a coward.”

“There’s someone waiting for us. For you, out there. Go to him.” Forte takes a step forward. “He needs a friend and…I cannot do that for him. Not anymore.”

“Coward.”

“Yes.” He takes a deep, synthetic breath. “I’m ready, I think.”

“I’m not. But I’ll do it. I’m curious, anyway.”

#mega man #megaman #megaman au #megaman classic #mega man x #megaman x #rockman #bass megaman #megaman bass #bass #reploid bass au #My main gripe about this is that Bass feels a bit too ooc for my tastes #But too be fair I wrote this in my notes app with no intention of ever posting it #I was going for a feeling

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kitsune024 · 1 year ago

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you with the sad eyes, tell me a tale by minhyongi I Chapters 1/1 I one shot Loki Series, Loki 2x6, Pre-slash

“If you're not the Loki I knew, what Loki are you then? Why are you sitting on a fancy throne in the middle of this?” The throne wasn't actually all that fancy at all. It may have glistened gold, but it looked cold and uncomfortable, behind all its intimidation it looked…lonely. “I’m the one that allows for time to flow, and thus the multiverse to exist." Loki leaned his head forward in a small nod but then he straightened up again, his green eyes piercing into Tony. "God of stories is what I like to call myself."

Son of Chaos by Arabesqueangel, Rabentochter I Chapters 36/36 I Completed Pepper/Tony- (briefly at the beginning), Canon Divergence - Avengers, Dark Loki, Memory Loss, Less Dark than it Seems, Torture

The Children of Thanos are feared throughout the Galaxy: Ebony Maw, Cull Obsidian, Corvus Glaive, Proxima Midnight, Nebula, Gamora and Loki. Thanos has finally decided that the time has come for a massive gambit. He sends his "children" to obtain the remaining 5 Infinity Stones in a competition to determine who will be his right hand when he has accomplished his ultimate goal. Loki is sent to Midgard to obtain the Space Stone. But he quickly runs into a snag in the form of an agency dubbed SHIELD and a man of metal. So Loki has to take a different approach, one that has him seeking help from a puny mortal, his sister, anyone. Loki knows that the Man of Metal, Tony Stark is the one to beat. The one problem is that he seems strangely vulnerable to the Iron Man's blows. What are these odd images he keeps seeing each time he faces Tony Stark? He should avoid the man, but curiosity keeps him coming back for more.

If You Had This Time Again by @dls-ao3 I Chapters: 100/100 I Completed AU - Canon Divergence, Time Travel Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Civil War Team Iron Man, Comic Book Science, Canon-Typical Violence. Tony Stark-centric, Slow Burn

Tony Stark closed his eyes in a wrecked Siberian bunker and woke up on a demolished New York street. Four years earlier.

I reign with my left hand, I rule with my right by Ancient_Evil I Chapters 11/? I Frostiron is waaay down the line but not really - more like sexual tension and competence kink, This fic is not in any way relationship-centric, BAMF Loki, Human Loki- for awhile at least, Banishment, Redemption? what redemption?

When Loki is brought before Odin for his sentencing, he is rendered mortal, seemingly sentenced to carry out the same punishments as his brother. Except the All-Father hardly had fairness in mind when choosing the sentence, nor does Loki himself plan to play along with the old man's schemes lying down. What everyone seemed to recently forget was that Loki was a trickster. They called him a cheat, a liar, a manipulator as a way to insult him, forgetting what being those things truly meant. If he had to find a way to break the All-Father's bindings from himself and at the same time hide from SHIELD, the Avengers and Asgard itself, all the while pulling all of their strings from the shadows to position them and prepare against the Mad Titan's inevitable arrival, he shall do it at all costs, in style and in just the perfect way to stick to the old man. He was Loki and it was high time he reminded everyone what exactly that meant.

#loki #tony stark #ironfrost #frostiron #fic rec #fanfic rec #loki x tony #tony x loki #ao3 fanfic #will probably add more #shipping fanfic

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jumpywhumpywriter · 4 months ago

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Spinoff Story Vampire & Vampire Hunter part 2

Warnings: severe silver poisoning of vampire, captured vampire, whumper turned whumpee

Alex's head was pounding when he came back to consciousness. He took a few shaky breaths to ground himself before forcing his eyes open. His whole body ached -- he could still feel the effects of the Hemlock and silver poisoning in his system, weakening him.

His gaze darted down, and he realized he was cuffed to a chair bolted to the floor. He was fully and thoroughly restrained. The hunters keeping him knew what they were doing, and had taken every precaution. And he could tell by scent alone that the cuffs were made of silver. The only thing separating the metal from his skin was some soft padding to keep it from burning him. But the silver would keep him from breaking free.

Then his gaze slid to the side where his arm hurt, and he realized there was an IV line hooked up to him. Probably pumping him with more Hemlock to keep him weak and... less dangerous.

His jaw was sore from the metal bit wedged between his teeth right behind his fangs and the straps holding the muzzle tightly to his face. The bit didn't feel like it was part of the muzzle itself, but it was almost like it was suctioned to the roof of his mouth – he couldn't move it with his tongue. But something told him it was the least of his worries right now.

Because Mallory. That cursed human. He should have known better than to let his guard down even a hair. He wouldn't have been caught otherwise. He should have seen it coming, should have heard or scented the accomplices he had come with.

But they had been downwind of him, and Alex had a gut notion that that had been the intention. The whole setup was professional and well-thought-out. But what did they want from him? Why would vampire hunters want to catch a vampire alive? Their whole job was about killing them.

Maybe to study me and create better weapons against my kind, he theorized. Mad science experiments, perhaps? I read a book about that some decades ago...

Now he really wished he'd read and studied more about human behavior and habits when he'd had the chance. He'd flunked it so spectacularly when Mallory had been his pet, but once he'd released him he thought he had no need to know such knowledge about humans anymore.

But ohhhhh how wrong he was. He gave his restraints an experimental tug, testing his range of movement and trying to strategize a plan. But they were too tightly clamped on his wrists for him to slip out of, pinned straight to the arms of the chair he was in. No give whatsoever.

He leaned his head back with a frustrated groan, mind buzzing as the silver poisoning wore off. But the Hemlock alone would still do the job of keeping him helpless and vulnerable. He'd never been rendered so useless, so defenseless before. He was a vampire, used to being at the top of the food chain. A creature few would dare even confront, let alone try to capture.

His gut twisted in knots of dread. He was way out of his element here, and the fear that had grabbed ahold of him was unlike anything he'd ever felt. Fear was something new to him, a foreign sensation. The last time he remembered being afraid was back when he was first Turned, over three centuries ago.

But right now, he was terrified.

The room he was in was large, but devoid of any art whatsoever, a blank box of four white walls blocking him in. He was pretty sure one wall had to have a one-way mirror, though. There was a chair placed a few feet in front of him facing his direction, like in an interrogation room.

His head snapped to the left at the sound of footsteps and voices, and he saw the door to his prison open. He stiffened, eyes feral and wary. If he had a heartbeat, it would be racing like a rabbit's.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @togzy @floral-comet-whump

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @nevermore-ramblings @mj-or-say10

@tippytappytyping

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ilovescaredysquirrel2 · 9 months ago

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Inside Out 2 was decent (possible spoilers)

Okay so I don't really get hyped for Inside Out 2 as much as everyone else does, but I'm not denying that it was a cute movie, it had it's pros and cons. It's nothing special, though. I enjoyed the fist one and I love the new characters in the sequel. I'll start with the pros because there's more cons.

Okay, so I mostly love how they didn't push any romance tropes, other than Disgust hitting on that video game guy (that i noticed Anger and Fear kind of checking him out as well) and personally I think giving Disgust a love interest was out of character for her, but it worked. I mean, she's usually disgusted at everything but seeing a hot purple hair anime warrior calms her down. I actually LOVE how they had Riley crush on a video game character an not a boy at her school, I was so happy about that. Those of you who wanted Riley to be lesbian, I'm so sorry! I'm okay with that personally, even though I support LGBT, because I think it's more relatable for me the majority of girls watching that they didn't make her a lesbian. Maybe Disney will make a lesbian protagonist someday? And if not, maybe a better movie company will! Also, there's no romance between any of Riley's emotions, yay! It doesn't make sense if there was! Also, I like how they referenced to Dora the explorer in a funny, lighthearted way, instead of making fun of it in an offensive way. I hate when people make fun of innocent kids shows to be offensive, I really think they referenced to Dora just for laughs. Also, Anxiety's a decent character. I like her, personally. I like the idea of Disney not having real villains anymore, because not everything is just pure bad or good. Anxiety was just an antagonist and it's okay, she also got redemption too.

Now for the cons... and this is gonna be long. Okay, I DO NOT SUPPORT DISNEY! I mean, I don't think this movie should be the thing that brings Disney/Pixar back from their dark ages, but I'm not hating on the Inside Out 2. I do think it's overrated. My biggest complaint was the fact that THEY STOLE CHARACTER DESIGN FROM ANOTHER MOVIE and here's the pictures to prove it

Yeah, that dark secrets character looks almost exactly like Dark from Orion and the Dark, a movie that came out BEFORE Inside Out 2! and those of you saying "but they were working on both movies at the same time" WRONG! The movies were released at least 4 months apart and Disney does often rush their recent projects like they rushed the making of Wish! Another thing, the human animations in Inside Out 2 looked a little less rendered, while the emotion animations and facial expressions were PERFECT! Also, is it just me or does Riley sound younger in this sequel than she did in the first one? Which it doesn't make sense since she went through puberty, right?

In conclusion, the story is pretty decent but I don't think it's worth spending money to see in theaters. If you really desperately want to see it in theaters, fine! I prefer watching it online and don't forget that the free websites exist. The illegal copy of the movie (you know, the hidden camera recorded version with the slot machines) is on the free websites like Actvid and Kisscartoon. Go ahead and watch it on there if you're like me and you're just watching it because of extra free time, and you don't really want to give your money to the Big D.

Anyway, I'm basically neutral on this movie, feel free to state your opinion. Again, I'm not a Disney fan and yet I'm not denying that this was an okay-ish movie. I just don't think it's worth seeing in theaters when you can watch it online for free and Disney won't be robbing you.

#inside out 2 #inside out anxiety #inside out 2 review #my thoughts

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sunriseverse · 9 months ago

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(busts through the wall) DID SOMEBODY ASK FOR DMBJ PROMPTS??

i want something sunrise but i want it to be dumb/silly. i know it's a serious au but it's about three fools so it should still be possible.

okay you said something silly. and i THINK "xiaoge who literally purrs" counts, but. i couldn't help but get feelings in it </3 wu xie's pov because i realised i'd done xiaoge AND pangzi's pov for sunrise but not wu xie's yet. (also this got LONG i am so sorry..........)

The first thing they do after they get Xiaoge back from that fucking rift in Changbaishan is fall into a tangle of limbs and sleep for ten hours straight.

Well, no. The first thing they do is bundle Xiaoge, who has somehow in the last decade lost the thick, fur-lined coat he’d been in when he and Wu Xie had come up here that last time, into a thick, heavy, coat that smells faintly of smoke, which had been shoved into one of the saddlebags to make it take up as little space as possible. The second thing they do is herd Xiaoge, who looks less and less distant and dazed as the moments pass, in front of a fire and ply him with the best food they can offer, here, so far from any city and proper kitchen amenities. The falling into a pile and sleeping for what feels like glorious, golden days is closer to the fifth or sixth thing that they do, but Wu Xie sort of loses track somewhere along the way, because Xiaoge’s presence, an absence rent into the very core of his being, of the world, for so, so long, is intoxicating, and Wu Xie keeps losing track of his thoughts.

“Tianzhen,” Pangzi says, knee knocking against his, warmer than the crackling fire between them, and doesn’t say anything more; just tilts his head towards Xiaoge, who’s half-buried in the voluminous folds of the coat they’d foisted on him. It makes Wu Xie’s throat lock, tight and painful, the way that, even now, after so long spent keeping him at arms length, Pangzi is still the man he loves; still one of two people who understand him in a way no other does, in a way that renders spoken communication unnecessary. With a shuddering sigh, Wu Xie lets his eyes slip closed. The threads between them—ones that Wu Xie had feared, for the past few years, would snap and break; leave Xiaoge stranded to a world Wu Xie couldn’t even imagine, to die with a mind slowly bending, breaking, shattering; leave Pangzi, one day, to snap to the horrifying awareness of it, of that break, of the bond between them, carefully nurtured, built on an aching, all-pervasive trust, not only fraying, but rent apart because of Wu Xie’s carelessness, because Wu Xie hadn’t been careful enough to keep it alive—flicker at the back of his mind. Glow, nearly, with an indescribable incandescence, a pulsing sense of warmth, of home.

He spent long enough unable to see a way past the end of things, of a life beyond the plan; now, it’s time for him to try and make things right. He opens his eyes and smiles at Pangzi; lets his hand settle on his knee, and, for a moment, squeezes, just to let him know he’s there. And then, raising his voice, he says, “Ah, Xiaoge, come here. You’re going to freeze like that.”

Xiaoge blinks, slow. As if he hadn’t even realised he’d been sitting so far away. Then, gangly figure uncurling, he crosses the too-large distance—small as it is in reality—, and Wu Xie shifts to leave space between himself and Pangzi for Xiaoge to slot into. He does—easily, as if he’d never forgotten how; as if he’s coming home. The glance Wu Xie gets out of the side of his vision shows him Pangzi’s eyes are just as misty as his.

So, no; sleeping together isn’t the first thing they do, technically. But it’s important enough that it feels like it.

The bedrolls they’d brought along are the type that can be combined together; Wu Xie does so while Pangzi tells Xiaoge about the terrible snowstorm they’d had to brave through on the way there, replete with taking care of a snow-blind Wu Xie in the cave they’d taken shelter in. “Our Tianzhen,” he says, with a smile and a shake of his head. “Terrible luck.” It makes Xiaoge smile, small and barely-there, and the image makes Wu Xie’s lungs burn with something he hasn’t felt in years.

Actually clambering into their makeshift bed is fairly anticlimactic; all of them are too tired to be prickly about space, or limbs, or anything besides curling close to each other. Wu Xie winds up on one side, Pangzi in the middle, and Xiaoge on the other. If this were a real bed, Pangzi would lovingly and dramatically bully Xiaoge into the middle, but a real bed is also safe in a way that being up in the mountains isn’t, and they’re both well-aware of Xiaoge’s vigilance, undulled by time. Well, no—if Wu Xie’s theories about the Hiveside are right, then he might be even more vigilant than he once was. And Wu Xie—he tries not to think too much about why Pangzi let him be on the outside.

The horses, settled down on the other side of the fire, whicker at each other, the sound a subtle hum in the night. Wu Xie lets out a breath, and settles; pillows his head on Pangzi’s chest, slings his arm across to brush fingers across Xiaoge’s side. Under him, Pangzi lets out a muffled laugh, but doesn’t comment. Xiaoge doesn’t sigh, but Wu Xie can feel the tension that bleeds out of him at the combined contact, and he curls inwards, so he’s facing them.

It’s not hard to fall asleep like that; ten years of vigilance are nothing in the face of the warmth and safety trickling down the slowly-widening bond between them. Once, Wu Xie had stood in the boiler room of a great, snaking black train. At the time, he’d been too busy thinking about other things, but right now, all he can remember is the warmth—and the heat of it pales in comparison to this, tenfold.

Some time later, he slowly swims to consciousness in the dawn light, pale, the world around them tinted a dilute blue. Under his head, Pangzi’s chest rises and falls, a slight wheezing snore drifting from his open mouth. Wu Xie’s own lips are wet with the beginnings of drool, and he reaches a clumsy hand to wipe the traces of it away. There’s a low, steady rumble that permeates the air, and his eyes snap open, his body already moving as his mind hurtles, full-speed, across a plan to get them all out of here, away from the impending avalanche—and then he catches sight of Xiaoge, long limbs pulled up and curled against Pangzi’s side, only one, slitted eye visible through the fringe of his hair, and he realises the sound is coming from him.

Pangzi, disturbed by the sudden scramble, cracks his eyes open and lets out a grumbling complaint. “Aiya, Tianzhen, you’re letting the cold in. Get back here, will you? You’re going to freeze our poor Xiaoge.”

Wu Xie blinks a couple times. “Right,” he says, hasty and belated, and gets back under the covers, only for Pangzi to drag him closer so he’s practically laying on top of him. “Hey!”

“Maybe that’ll teach you to move less,” Pangzi says, softly vindictive, and then yawns, eyes scrunching up. “...Xiaoge, is that you?” He drags Xiaoge closer, and the rumbling increases, both in intensity and pitch. The sound goes a little hitching as Xiaoge’s head lands on Pangzi’s chest, a mere hairsbreadth away from Wu Xie’s own. His eyes, no longer narrow, flash in the low-light. The rumbling is loud enough Wu Xie can feel it in his bones.

“Mn,” Xiaoge says, the sound overlaid over the rumbling.

It takes a moment for Wu Xie to sift through his still sleep-addled thoughts to process it. “Are you...purring?” he manages, eventually, and reaches out a clumsy hand to press against Xiaoge’s chest. It rises and falls beneath his touch, rattling. “Since when can you do that?”

Xiaoge blinks at him. “Always,” he says, as if it should be obvious. Pangzi, beneath them, chokes on a laugh.

“Oh.” Wu Xie processes the words, blinking a few times. “Then why did you never...”

Xiaoge shrugs. “Forgot,” he says, the words quiet, and Wu Xie’s throat tightens. Under them, Pangzi stills, a quiet sigh slipping out. His hand comes up to card through Xiaoge’s hair, and Xiaoge’s eyes slip closed.

“Like a cat,” Pangzi says, fond and amused, after a long moment. Xiaoge doesn’t open his eyes, apparently content with the designation. Wu Xie’s lips twitch. “Who knew our Xiaoge’r was so cute.”

Xiaoge, clearly unbothered by the comment, keeps purring. Wu Xie’s mind is far too sleeplogged to figure out how the fuck that even works—is it a mechanical process that just sounds like purring? Is he tapping into the tech that lines his body? Is it instinctual? On purpose?

“Your thoughts are too loud,” comes Xiaoge’s quiet voice. “Go to sleep.”

Wu Xie, for once obedient, surrenders. Surrounded by the warmth of the men he loves, he slips back into sleep.

#dmbj #wu xie #wang pangzi #zhang qiling #pingpangxie #xiaoge #pangzi #tiesanjiao #fanfic #ask #boog <3 #WOE. FANFIC ON YE.#spinecorset writes #sunrise verse #c.txt

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