#Young Rugan

[thisaccountisagainstmywill]

Losing my mind re-reading this. Needs to be launched from the nest finally. Chapter One of a character exploration series framed around some of the more meaningful lays in Rugan's life. Following him from Age 19 up to before the game. A new lay every episode. Pairing: Rugan/Original Female Character

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Rugan is 19, struggling with life in a small town. He's heard rumors his last friend is about to leave for a better life and now he needs just one more night to say goodbye.

Tags: Established Relationship, Goodbye Sex, Pre-Canon, Cunnilingus, Bittersweet, Penis in Vagina Sex, Banter, Young Rugan

Word Count: 5,568

Below the cut or on AO3

The 20th of Kythorn, 1461 – The Year of the Goddesses Blessing Hilp, Cormyr Evening

The small town’s tavern was full to bursting with a swell of bodies and joyous noise. From corner to corner, the building is packed with festive clientele, tankards in hand. Most patrons have given up finding a seat and settled for standing where space will allow. Several disparate renditions of bawdy songs sprout in different clusters of friends and war for auditory dominance of the establishment. A bellowing voice from behind the bar shouts to keep the noise reasonable but is too happy with the booming solstice business to fight too hard against the din.

Rugan wedges in through the front doors and bodily pushes his way through the crowd. Finding footing where he can between the swell of other people, he casually nabs an arse-less stool as he passes by. Someone tries to shout after him with verbal claims, but he pretends not to hear as he hefts it over his head and carries it above the crowd to a back corner near the dusty edge of the fireplace where he can find just enough space to sit unbothered.

From his perch, he watches through the crowd as a young blonde barmaid darts between customers, weaving gracefully with more pints than he could ever understand possible in her arms. She smiles and laughs with some customers, passing out rounds to the sitting and standing alike. Tonight patrons linger with her a bit longer than usual, with fewer immediate orders and more conversation spun special just for her. She nods emphatically to some, gives modest smiles to others, and conflicted frowns to others still. Occasionally someone reaches out to hug her and when her arms are empty enough she lets them, returning the gesture graciously.

After a particularly large order, she finds a moment of respite behind the bar and hulking barkeep. With a brief stretch and deep sigh, she leans against the back counter taking a moment to nibble a likely stale bun and gulp down a half-watered ale. – Just enough ale to keep her friendly. More than enough water to keep her upright in the heat. And a bun just stale enough to sponge them both and keep her from pissing like a horse every hour. – She had emphatically defended her method to the young man once with no lack of self-certainty when he scoffed about how awful her on-the-job meal choices were.

While the barmaid waits for the next deliveries to be readied, she readjusts her hair, grabbing loose strands and fitting them back in place in her low bun. She complained to him once she thought her hair looked like straw��� but he thought it looked like the first rays of sunlight casting through the trees in bright golden streams. It made him think of the peacefulness of dawn, the comfort of home, and how she always smelled like spring. The corners of his eyes crinkle as an unconscious smile pulls at his lips. He would never tell her, she’d only add this small poetic streak to the sprawling list of things she chose to tease him about already. It was a happy thought he would keep to himself and safely contained to his daydreams of her.

Her brief break ends as she’s passed a fistful of pints and a steaming plate of roast. He loses sight of her in the crowd but finds her again as she pushes her way along the outskirts on her way back to the bar.

As she swings close enough, he catches her by the wrist and gently yanks her to his isolated corner.

“Hey! No touchi–,” Furiously, she spins to face him, her free hand raised and ready to strike. The moment she recognizes him the rage melts away to a coy smile. “Rugan!” Her voice is still irritated but drops playfully. She brings her poised hand down to his cheek and lightly slaps him.

“Good evening to you too,” He laughs and releases his hold on her. With an exaggerated frown, he rubs the lightly reddening spot on his cheek. “You’re going to owe me for that one. Could’ve done some major damage to my best asset, Sanya.”

“It’s your onlyasset.” She says with mock sternness, placing her hands squarely on her hips.

Rugan cocks his head and raises an eyebrow, “That’s not what you were saying la—.”

Sanya threatens him with a withering look.

He holds his tongue but gives her a wicked smile.

“Sanya! I need you back here now!” The barkeep shouts, his voice just deep enough to carry over the crowd.

Sanya glances at the crowd and back to Rugan. “Look, I’m still working. I don’t have time to gab with you.”

The smile slides off Rugan’s face. “I didn’t think you’d be working tonight. What time is he letting you go?”

“Usual time.” She frowns. “Are you going to be a customer or a nuisance tonight?”

Both, he wants to say, but even he knows better at the moment. “If I could get my usual, I’ll wait around until you get off.”

“Aye? I bet you will.” She winks and gives him a cocky chuckle. There’s a sadness in her eyes, but before he can do anything about it she disappears back into the crowd and returns to her duties.

♦ ♦ ♦

Rugan waits patiently for another three hours, nursing a pint, and a plate of whatever Sanya can weasel away from the kitchen. At one point he joins in on the bawdy singing, adding his own spin to the lyrics and making eye contact with his favorite lass whenever she dares to look his way. He sings himself hoarse for the briefest slivers of her attention. Each time, she rolls her eyes with a smile and continues about her business with a shake of her head.

When the crowd thins down to just him and a few low-energy regulars, the barkeep waves Sanya over. He throws a sad glance towards Rugan sitting with his empty pint held on the stool between his knees. With a nod to the lonely boy, he quietly tells her, “Go on then, dear. I can take it from here.” The old man passes her a small satchel with her pay of the day and a little extra. “All the blessings on you for your adventure.”

She thanks the large man with a tender pat on his hand and turns back to Rugan.

Rugan stands, placing his empty mug on the stolen stool behind him. With a few long strides across the near-empty room, he has her in his arms. He steals a quick kiss before he lowers himself to wrap his arms around her waist and raises her up so he can gaze up at her. She places her hands on his shoulders to steady herself and smiles down at him. Backlit by the chandelier, loose strands of hair frame her like a glowing halo.

My sunrise. He thought, but then the realization set in.

For the first time ever, she didn’t argue or fight back when he kissed her with an audience. He knows in his heart now, that the rumors were true: tonight was goodbye.

♦ ♦ ♦

The two slip away into the festive night but don’t make it far before Rugan becomes impatient. He pulls her aside around the edge of the tavern’s alley. Tucked out of sight, the words come tumbling from his lips. “When are you leaving? Where are you going?”

“Tomorrow morning, at the arse crack of dawn. I’ve got my passage secured on a caravan passing through from Arabel. We’ll head south of the Storm Horns and head westward. I’m thinking I’ll see what I can find in Elturel and if there’s nothing there for me I’ll head westward still.” She shrugs casually like she’d practiced the speech a thousand times and gave it a thousand times more today.

“When were you going to tell me?” His voice wavers.

“I did tell you. You didn’t believe me.” She tries to put on a brave face, but her pale, hazel eyes are downcast.

Rugan swallows, his throat suddenly too dry to speak. He did remember that conversation. At the time he didn’t think much of it. They had both spent every day since they were at least ten complaining about how there was nothing in Hilp worth seeing. How they would go on great adventures. How they’d steal the horses from the Dzavars’ stables and run off into the night. When she told him her actual plan to leave, it simply felt like another shared daydream.

“...why are you going?” His voice cracks. Half a foot taller than her and he feels like a child trying to beg his way out of punishment.

“I can’t stay here. I need more from life than….this.” Sanya flails impotently at her smock and the buildings around them. “There's nothing here for me.”

“I’m here.” The simple words cut cold and deep.

The spark in her eyes dies for a moment, she looks like a rabbit caught in a snare, uncertain and hunting for a way out. She glances from him and down the alley, wringing her hands in the pockets of her apron. He wished in that moment he could take the words back, shove them down his throat, and choke on them before they had a chance to hurt her.

Her eyes are misty when she finally looks back at him. “Ru…” The old nickname sounds like a lament. Sanya glances away again, but this time it feels different. She breathes deeply, steadying herself, and shakes her head. “You can’t hold down a job. You were a tanner last week and you’re a cooper this week. That's no way to live. Not for me, not for you.”

It was true: he had been working odd jobs since his tenth summer. He had become good at learning quickly and on the job. Even so, each job would last only as long as an employer would tolerate him before his mouth got him in trouble – which wasn’t nearly long enough in a town this small.

He reaches out to her, placing a pleading hand on her upper arm. Against her better judgment, she welcomes the warmth of him and leans into his touch.

“Sonderson got a more permanent apprentice from the city and Jandal needed someone after the last boy lost a finger and refused to come back. I go where the work is. Where people need me. Some people say that makes me a handy man to have around.” His face softens as he tries to reassure her with a smile, but he can’t quite manage it.

She chuckles at him, placing a hand over his. “I think you misheard them, you’re a handsy man, Ru.”

“Aye. That I am.” He moves closer to her, leaning to place his forehead against hers. With his free hand, he strokes her hair gently. For a long moment, they stand silently together in that alley. The sounds of the hamlet’s solstice celebrations wind down to near silence.

Rugan pulls away first to look her in the eyes, as he promises, “I won’t hold you back, Sanya. I wouldn’t dare.”

He pushes a loose strand of sunshine out of her face and tucks it back behind her ear. The tension in her shoulders and the worry on her face fade away before his eyes.

“I’ve known you long and well enough to know no one and nothing in this world can.” He continues, smiling at her genuinely even as he feels his heart breaking in his chest. “Just let me have you one last time before you go.”

Please. His heart begs.

She doesn’t make him say it, the pleading was clear as day in his sad blue eyes. She pulls him down and kisses him softly and not another word is said.

♦ ♦ ♦

Rugan doesn't know how he got back to her room in the back of the tavern. His eyes were locked on her and the rest of the world and their celebrations ceased to matter. The two enter the dark room and Sanya paces quickly towards her tinder box on the far counter. While she lights a lantern, Rugan bolts the hefty door behind him. Waiting impatiently, he leans against the door while he watches her. He knew full well the moment he got his hands on her he wouldn’t be able to stop himself and the last time he had interrupted her with the tinderbox she had slightly lit both of them on fire. Scorches of that incident still stained one of the wooden countertops.

The room was cleaner now than it had ever been in the three years she lived here. It had once been an auxiliary food preparation room when there was hope left that Hilp could be more than it was always doomed to be, and now the room served only as staff quarters and storage. Remnants of its hopeful origins decorate the room with counters and excessive wall shelving. The in-use bed lay half made by the door, others stacked against the wall and out the way. A tub lay to the side partially filled from the day before, with a jug of fresh water between it and a washing basin. Sanya’s scant belongings had been pulled off the shelves and packed neatly in a traveler's bag next to the door with her road clothes laid out next to it.

As she closes the lantern, he slides behind her. She barely manages to snuff the match and push the tinderbox away before his hands are on her. He begins at her shoulders stroking his way down to her waist where he deftly unties her apron, letting it tumble to the floor.

“Rugan…” she rasps and leans back into him.

His hands continue downwards, tracing her hips with his palms and coming to rest at the top of her thighs. With a twist of his fingers in the fabric, he pulls her skirts up one fistful at a time.

“I've been sweating all day...” Sanya protests weakly but grinds her ass back into him and his growing hardness.

“I don't mind.” He kisses the back of her neck.

“I should bathe before tomorrow…” She tries to reason.

He smirks against her skin. “You'll want to bathe when I'm done with you, anyway.”

With her skirts lifted he slides his hands beneath the fabric and kneads her hips and cheeks, tracing the line of her underclothes. Whimpering, she leans forward against the counter to brace herself as he works over the tight muscles of her backside, easing the ache of the day away. Rugan ruts against the cleft of her ass, erection straining against the ties of his trousers. He bites back a moan at the sweet friction.

Sanya reaches behind her grabbing for his bulge. Her fingertips grazed the head of his cock through his pants and bucks at the sudden touch.

Quickly, he snatches her seeking hand. Rugan leans over, pressing her chest flat to the counter beneath his muscled torso. “Not yet.” He rumbles into her ear, sending a blissful shiver down her spine.

She huffs, squirming impatiently and grinding back into him for more.

Rugan pushes the lantern to the side and steps back. Before she can protest the loss of him, he turns her around and picks her up with an arm beneath her thigh and another around her waist. Then he hefts her onto the counter facing him. He slides between her legs, running his fingers over her knees and thighs. She grabs for him twisting her fist into his shirt to pull him into a kiss, and locking him close with her ankles behind his thighs. He presses back into the kiss, groaning as she tugs at his lip with her teeth.

He reaches behind himself unlocking her legs to slide her boots off, dropping them to the floor behind him.

She uses the brief distraction to release his shirt. Her hands fly immediately to tug again at the ties of his breeches.

Rugan pulls her hands off him, lacing his fingers through hers and holding them out to the side. “I told you not yet.” He growls and kisses her roughly.

Sanya struggles against his grip as he holds her in place, kissing along the lobe of her ear and down to her neck. She manages to slip one hand free of his, palming his erection through his trousers while she grasps again for the ties. Before he can grab her again, she manages to pull the knot undone.

Holding her tightly by the wrist, he growls against her neck, “Do that again and I’ll tie you up.” Unable to help himself, he presses his straining bulge against the heat of her spread legs

“That’s hardly a threat. I know how shite your rope work is.” Sanya smirks defiantly and groans as she rolls her hips against him.

He releases her hands and grabs her by the chin, kissing her until she’s quiet. She was right, his knotwork was sloppy and getting better but it wouldn’t do to argue now.

Sanya places her hands against his chest while she returns his kiss. She slides them against the width of his pectorals, admiring the firmness of his muscled chest.

Rugan keeps his hand on her chin, pressing through her parted lips to roll his tongue over hers. With his other hand, he ventures beneath her skirt, slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of her panties. With her hands on his shoulders, she uses the leverage to lift herself just enough to let him slide the fabric over the curve of her ass and down to her shapely thighs. He slides out from between her legs, breaking the kiss to take a step back far enough to pull her smallclothes down the rest of the way.

Her face flushed and her lips swollen red from kissing, she watches him with half-closed eyes as he lets the garment slip from his fingers and fall to the floor. She holds his gaze while she takes her hair down, shaking golden waves free. He takes a moment to memorize the sight of her: Flushed, legs spread, skirt up around her hips, cunt slick with need and shining in the lantern light.

He was going to miss her.

Rugan presses forward, pulling her flush to him at the edge of the counter. He rests his hands on her strong thighs as he captures her mouth with his. She grinds against him, her wetness streaking the front of his breeches. At this moment he couldn’t care, pressing his bulge against her. He slides one hand to the back of her head, winding his fingers in her hair. His kisses trail from her lips and down the line of her jaw to her neck.

He nips her, sucking roughly at the skin of her neck.

Sanya moans loudly, as the sensation sends a wave of pleasure through her. “No marks.” She orders through the haze.

Rugan releases the suction and instead presses gentle kisses along the graceful line of her neck, down her collarbone, and to the top of her blouse. He can’t help but grin as she tugs the top of her blouse down for him, exposing her perky breasts to him. Taking the hint he trails kisses to the peak of one. He pauses, glancing up at her before flicking a tentative lick across the pink bud. With a gasp, she grabs him by the back of the hair and presses his face into her tits. He opens his mouth, sucking the nipple in and rolling his tongue over the hard peak. She moans, bucking her hips against him. He slides a hand up her thigh, holding her in place at the hip while he lavishes her with flicks of his tongue. His other hand trails up her side, firmly grabbing the other breast.

“Please,” She whines. “Please fuck me...”

He pulls away, pressing a forceful kiss against her mouth. “Hush.” He orders.

She locks a leg over his hip and grinds against the fabric of his trousers, protesting his authority silently. He couldn’t help but thrust back, precum leaking from his throbbing cock and soaking through his own smallclothes.

He wanted to give in so badly, to plunge himself to the hilt in her soft folds. To feel the way her walls fluttered against his cock, to hear her cry out when he thrust so deep she swore she saw stars. But he wanted to remember her and the way she tasted.

Rugan pulls away from her mouth, pressing rough kisses into the breast in his hand. He gives it a parting nip that elicits a startled gasp.

Before she can complain, he sinks to his knees before her, pressing wet kisses on the inside of her leg from the top of her high socks to the inside of her hip. He lingers here, pressing his face into the crevice between cunt and leg. He can feel the heat off her core, wet and wanting. Savoring the feeling, he groans against her skin sending low rumbles through her. She bucks against him.

“Please…” She begs again.

Rugan ignores her pleas, swapping to the other leg to plaster it with kisses. At the top of her thigh, he sucks the skin into his mouth until he leaves a mark. Moaning openmouthed while she watches him, she doesn’t fight it this time. She would curse him tomorrow on the road, but at least his name would still be on her lips. He changes thighs, sucking a matching welt into the soft flesh of the other leg.

“Please Rugan, just touch me, I can’t take it.” Sanya whimpers, tears brimming at the corners of her eyes. She tries desperately to roll her hips into him but he holds her down.

He gives in now, nosing through her wet curls. A quick flick of his tongue across her swollen clit sends a wave of pleasure through her. With a breathy moan, she grabs him by the back of the hair, forcing his face into her cunt. She locks her legs over his shoulder and places her free hand behind her for leverage.

Rugan obeys, eagerly lapping up the pooling slick from her folds. His nose presses against her clit, earning him ragged moans. Her thighs tighten around his head and he wraps his hands over them to keep her from locking him too tightly in place. He places his tongue flat against her entrance, licking an agonizingly slow trail up to her clit and ending with a quick flick. She bucks suddenly against him with a loud gasp, sending her juices dribbling down his chin.

“More...” She sobs, desperately pressing his face against her.

He slides one hand up from her thigh, tracing his fingertips across the soft skin of her legs. Her skin prickles and she sighs at the softness of the touch. His hand comes to rest at her apex, his thumb pressed over her nub. With his tongue over her entrance, he slowly traces matching circles over her folds and clit, not yet willing to give her what he knows she wants.

“...you bastard…” Sanya whines breathlessly as she clenches around nothing.

Rugan smirks, plunging his tongue into her. He groans as her slick coats his tongue and he feels the subtle flutter of her wanting walls.

“Gods….yes…” She throws her head back, moaning loudly and grinding against his face. His cock twitches at the thought of being inside of her and he loses himself in her cunt, grunting loudly as he laps her wetness up. His thumb flicks quick ghosting touches over the tip of her clit while his hips rut mindlessly into nothing.

“Please…please…I need…” She chokes out broken cries, unable to form the right words.

He knows what she needs. Rugan pulls his hand away from her clit, replacing it with his mouth. He folds his tongue to cradle her clit, sucking at it hungrily. Deftly he rearranges the position of his arm beneath her thigh, sliding his fore and middle fingers into her. She shudders with relief at the sensation of finally being filled. He thrusts in and out of her slowly, gathering slick before he presses deeper. His fingers curl upwards, firmly stroking her walls until he finds the sweet spot.

The grip on his hair tightens as he finds it and she gasps and arches her back. Her pussy clenches tight around his digits. He picks up his pace now, flicking quick licks across her nub and thrusting his fingers firm and steady against her core.

She groans, rocking her hips into his face. Her cunt squeezing tighter and tighter around his fingers. His erection throbs painfully in his pants. Desperate, he releases her thigh, clumsily undoing the strings of his trousers while he lavishes her clit with swirling licks.

After a moment of blind fumbling, his cock springs free and so needy the cool air on his precum-soaked shaft sends a tremble through him. He palms himself for some relief, spreading precum over his shaft and pulling the foreskin back over the swollen head. The friction causes him to nearly spill then and there.

Not yet. Not yet. Not yet. He pleads with himself, tightening his fist around his cock.

Rugan turns his focus back to Sanya, flicking his tongue over her clit while he pressed firmly at her core just the way he knew she liked. He needed her to come before he spilled on the floor. He needed to be inside of her. He needed her. He chokes back a sob as he sucks desperately at her nub. His fingers pick up their pace as he feels her cunt grip him tightly. Her breath hitches as her thighs flex. His vision darkens as she squeezes tightly around his head. He maintains the pace of his fingers, pressing his tongue flat across her clit.

The hand she was steading herself with jolts forward, gripping the edge of the counter for dear life as wave after wave of bliss runs through her. Rugans leans his face against her soft curls, thrusting steadily into her with his fingers until she releases her grip around his head with her legs. The blood rushes back to his head and he takes the opportunity for a cheeky lick at her cunt, startling her with a jolt of overstimulated pleasure. She pulls him back by the back of his hair, forcing him to look up at her.

He smirks up at her, with red lips and his chin smeared in her wetness.

It takes her a moment to catch her breath. She looks down at him, still lust-hazed. “Take your fucking pants off and get in that bed.” Sanya manages to gasp out as she moves her legs from over his shoulders.

“Yes, ma’am.” He teases, knowing full well how very much the term grated on her.

She releases her grip on his hair, giving him a sharp slap to his cheek. “Now,” She orders, “Before I change my mind and kick you out instead.”

Rugan stands, chuckling while she eases herself off the counter. The moment her feet touch the floor, he pulls her in for a quick kiss, slipping his tongue into her mouth. She moans into it, enjoying the taste of herself on his lips. He places a hand behind her waist, trying to press their bodies together.

Sanya jerks back, pushing him away with a firm palm against his chest. “Don’t you dare wipe cum on my clothes right before I leave.”

“Slipped my mind, love.” Rugan smirks and kicks her abandoned boots out of his path as he saunters backward. His turgid cock jutting out from the opening of his pants and bobbing with each step.

She knew better than to believe him. The asshole had done it more than once. With a glare, she turned her attention to unlacing her bodice before he had a chance to ruin it.

Rugan kicked his boots off and haphazardly to the side, watching her intently as she pulled her laces free from their fixtures and let the bodice fall freely to the floor beneath her. He backs up towards the bed, pulling his breeches and underclothes down in one go, tossing them to the side with his boots.

Sanya follows him across the room. Her eyes trace hungrily from his throbbing erection to his smug face as she pulls her blouse off. With a wink, he pulls his shirt off and tosses it across the room.

When he reaches her low-lying bed, he sits down against the headboard. With a hand loosely around his cock, he strokes himself lazily while watching Sanya remove her layered skirts. Releasing their ties, she lets them pool to the floor where she stands before she gets into bed.

Sanya joins him on the bed, throwing a leg over his thigh to straddle him. Tenderly she brings a hand to his cheek, running her fingertips over the thin scruff. A mixture of emotions paints her face as she traces the contours of his jaw. The sadness in her eyes makes his heart ache. He opens his mouth to beg her to stay, but she catches his open lips with hers, driving the words from his mind. She moves her hands to his shoulder and she braces herself as she slides slowly onto his cock. They both groan loudly into the kiss as she adjusts to accommodate his girth.

Rugan clenches his eyes shut, gripping her tightly by her ass cheeks as she takes him to the hilt. Desperate and already too close, he holds her still. Leaning his head back against the wall, he pulls away from the kiss, savoring the relief of her wet cunt around him finally.

“Gods, you’re going to be so popular…” Rugan gasps, running his hands across the soft skin of her thighs.

With a frustrated glare, Sanya places her hand over his mouth and hisses at him, “Just shut up and fuck me. Before you ruin it, prick.”

He grimaces at his idiocy but obeys. He slides his hands to her back, wrapping one behind her waist and another at her shoulder as he thrusts up into her. She moans, leaning forward leaning her chest against his. The hand on his mouth slides to his shoulder, nails digging into the skin as she rolls her hips down to meet his thrusts. Strong arms pull her close, crushing her against him while he pumps up into her tight cunt desperately. His cock throbs and he can hold back no more. Rugan buries his face against her neck as the muscles of his core tighten. “I…” He whimpers against her skin.

“Yesss…” She pants.

Rugan squeezes her tightly, holding her in place as his thrusts become sloppy and erratic. With a final thrust, he cries out loudly as he spills inside of her. His grip on her slackens. His hands slide across her smooth skin sending delightful shivers through her.

Sanya whispers gentle kisses across his cheeks as she lifts her hips only to sink back down onto his waning erection. Their mingled fluids drip out of her and across his groin. He runs his fingers up her back and into her hair, running his nails across her scalp. She moans, arching back into his touch while he tries to memorize the sight of her spread across him. His chest aches and he pulls her in, kissing her deeply.

♦ ♦ ♦

Cleaned enough, Rugan lays on his back with Sanya tucked against the side of him. “I'll make something of myself.” He whispers into her hair, tracing patterns into the bare skin of her back.

“I know you will," she murmurs into his neck. He feels a smile form, pressed against his skin, and knows immediately that she’s thought of something dumb.

“Well then, out with it.” He braces himself for a joke.

“It's bad.”

“It always is.”

She hits him playfully but shares her joke anyway. “You're going to make everyone Ru the day they ever met you.”

He shakes his head. “How long have you been holding onto that one?”

“Ten years, give or take.”

“With jokes like that maybe it is a good thing you are leaving.” He scoffs. But the flippancy doesn’t stop how much the realization hurts.

♦ ♦ ♦

Midmorning shines through the battered shutters. Rugan watches dustmotes float in the streaks of light as he lazily traces the space where Sanya had laid next to him. True to her word she had left before sunrise without fuss. Rugan cursed himself for not being able to stop her. Drunk on the afterglow of her, he had slept peacefully deep and hadn't noticed as she got out of bed, bathed, and went to meet her caravan with her life on her back.

Now he was left with only the consequences of who he was: unwanted, alone, poor… and about to be fired again. He had been due at work at least three hours ago, the final allowed error after a string of last chances from every farmer and tradesman who could still find pity for the boy who got left behind.

He needed to get the fuck out of Hilp.

[flymmsy]

What it said

What I read

[alpydk]

Desperate (RuganxReader)

He has a choke hold on me right now - So here is some hastily written smut (1300 words or so of it...)as a break from all the angst I've made recently - I will say although this is awesome, as all fanfic is, smut is not my go-to writing choice. But I needed this, desperate for it, you might say.

For a few weeks, you’ve been travelling with your party along the Sword Coast in search of a healer for your tadpole problem. A few weeks of dirt, blood, cold washes in the river and hands kept to yourself. As much as you hate to admit it in such low-class terms; you’re horny, desperate to ride someone, but unfortunately picky with your tastes. 

The vampire, Astarion had appeared the obvious choice with his flirty remarks and pristine good looks, but he wasn’t your type. Too pretty, not to mention he couldn’t handle the banter you gave back at him. Typical elf you thought to yourself. Then there was sweet Gale, a good age, good-looking but too much of a romantic, a bit too good for your liking. You ask yourself; why have red wine when there is ale on tap? Gale was more the type to lovingly caress your inner thigh and build up to some gentle foreplay for an age rather than just fuck you like an animal against the wall, the floor, or anywhere you really wanted so he was out of the running. And then there were the others; Wyll was too young, Shadowheart too distant, Karlach on fire. Lae’zel… just no. Desperate but picky…

***

Fucking gnolls and their stupid giggling. Great, now you’ve got blood on you again and the whole area is up in flames. Who in the hells was the genius to start throwing alchemist's fire? Well, at least the beasts have been taken care of. You’ve expected nothing but corpses, empty crates, and maybe the odd trip wire; Rugan is not what you’re expecting to come across. Slightly taller than you, older, weathered from a few too many fights, and most likely a few too many stiff drinks as well; and shit, when he speaks you feel that desperate hunger come back to you full force. You would happily be fucked by him against the wall, the floor, the back of this bloody cave if left alone with him. 

Ah, a Zhentarim. Typical. You’d had run-ins with them back in the city. The word around was that they were trying to take over The Guild; a few gold misplaced and a skirmish or two down by the docks, but it wasn’t your place to get involved. Leave that to Nine-Fingers to deal with. Your job was to simply keep the books in order at the keep, whilst playing both sides to keep your lifestyle comfortable, of course. Well, maybe now this could play to your advantage as well; make a little gold and if you meet up with him again then you could see what would happen. At least now you have something to think of during those lonely nights of tent life. 

You’ve always been one for voices as stupid as the concept sounds and his sticks with you. …Tighter than a Duke’s purse strings… You bite the inside of your lip thinking of other things usually construed as tight. When did your mind become so crude? Why did everyone else have to be here right now? Why can’t you just push him against that wall and have your way with him? You see him looking at you as Gale speaks; maybe he’s thinking the same thing, or maybe he’s recognised you from the keep. What does it all matter though? Desperate…

***

You both plan to make some gold selling the chest he’s transporting. You figure, what harm could it do? You find out soon after though exactly what harm; with the death of the poor lad that was with him, the death of the Zhents that had him tied and beaten to a chair, and an awakening to something you’ve never really thought about before. You beautiful bastard. Gods, what you’d give to keep him tied to that chair, to suck his cock knowing his arms are bound behind him and there’s nothing he can do but let out deep moans from your touch. That fantasy will keep you going for a few nights, that's for sure, and then maybe if you’re lucky that drink he’s promised you could turn into more, a desperate touch-starved reality.  

***

Baldur’s Gate. It’s been a long time having to make do with the odd night with Astarion, with some drow, with your own thoughts to keep you going, but you know you’ll soon be at the Elfsong Tavern and can get that sweet release you’ve been craving. Yeah, the tadpole is still slithering away in your mind, yeah there are all the other problems, like saving the world and a stone lord that had suddenly become your issue to deal with, but none of it matters in comparison to what, who you’ve been craving. Rugan…

He stands at the bar, a pint in hand. Finally, someone with a real taste in alcohol. He recognises you even out of the armour, hopefully out of the clothes later too. Things have gone to shit for him since the day in the caves, but he doesn’t want to talk about it much and you’re grateful after carrying the emotional baggage of your travelling companions. You watch as he downs the last bit of his drink before placing his hand on your thigh. He doesn’t say anything, he just looks at you for your reaction. You can already feel the warmth in your face, and you want to say it’s the drink but you both know that’s a complete lie. 

You can’t tell who booked the room or even how you’ve both reached this point as you push through a door, hands already exploring one another’s bodies, tongues entwined in a frantic effort to make up for lost time. The door is kicked shut to keep your hands placed on his body and as you make your way to what you hope is the bed, you both leave behind a trail of clothing, a light cotton shirt and leather trousers with ridiculous ties. On any other day, you might tease, pulling at them with your teeth but that will not happen tonight. Tonight, you want him, you need him inside you. 

Desperate longing leads to desperate touches. Your hand is wrapped around his shaft, though it takes little to wind him up. His grabs are as eager as yours as you feel him wrap a strong arm around your leg pulling you in closer, onto him. Did you even make it to the bed? You don’t seem to care as you feel him thrust inside you, deeper than you expected after seeing how tight his trousers were, a pleasant yet welcome surprise. Shit, it’s been so long and you wanted to draw this night out, to have it build up to some enchanted moment and see fireworks but right now, you are in that cave, you are on that floor, you are up against that wall, and you are being given what you have hungered after for so long. By the gods, he is everything and more than you could possibly have ever wanted. 

You hear his breath grow heavy against your neck as he jolts into you mercilessly. You grip him feeling your heart racing and your muscles tightening, wanting to give him everything, wanting this night to last forever but you know it won’t be much longer for either of you. You feel your release building and you try to hold it off, try to think of anything else but the throbbing inside of you and just as you think you’ve regained some control you hear his growled whisper in your ear; Your name spoken from those thirsting lips.   

***

The next morning you wake up alone amongst the creased sheets of the bed you’d both shared. The trail of your clothing leads to what appears to be a sofa and you smile to yourself now knowing the full story of the night. You’ve no idea where he’s gone or even if you’ll see him again but right now you don’t care as your head rests on the pillow and the events of last night flood your brain. That beautiful bastard, Rugan, once again leaving you desperate…

[graysparrowao3]

Last six sentences

@theycallmeratt, I receive your tag, wonder that you are.

My best guess at the last six edited in a, uh, 'secret' mini bonus chapter to address something that has been left unsaid. Fittingly called "At The Eleventh Hour". As inspired by @benicemurphy.

Some tags! The last 6 sentences you've written should you choose to share I would love to read them! @lostinforestbound @lemonsrosesandlavender @lizziemajestic @vera-king-hrfl @redroomroaving

           

  Rugan heard movement in the young man’s throat and wrapped him tighter still.

            When he could, when he dared, the younger man slowly turned. He stared, shattered, at the man who gazed affectionately over his shoulder.

            Rugan placed his lips over the ones that were parted in disbelief. A kiss so careful that wouldn’t break the exposed defenses, so tender that the fragility would remain beautiful and unviolated.

[ohsayit]

Zevlor is set up to fail

*This is going to be a long one because I am going to jam snippets of lines from the game.*

I started a new run just to create a few save points around the interactions with Zevlro and Rugan. Something possessed me talk to everyone is the Grove.

In conclusion, most unfortunately, Zevlor is set up to fail in this game.

Note: I am only talking about the precious old man. None of this is to do with the cut content of corrupted Zevlor that I yet to dig them out from the dialogue files.

Let's take a look at the grown up tieflings.

These 3 are outside the Grove circle where the druids chant to the idol.

Then here we go Arabella's parents

From these people, I kind of see they are not exactly the typical "beg for help" sort of refugee. Some of them think "(their) lives are at stake, why are the druids being ridiculous". Arabella's mother, Komira is right to be angry and frustrated given her daughter is young. However, she also describes it as "precious ritual". It seems the reason (however bad it is, the druids actually have one) is lost to the tieflings. To an extent, I can understand that. They are civilians from Elturel. Even life isn't perfect for tieflings there, it's not all that bad. They live in/around a city and have a life there. The make their own family and are protected by the Riders.

Other than this, the rest of the camp is "we should just run". I think this one sums it up perfectly. This bunch really is not fighters. Zevlor isn't lying or exaggerating. Even if they have a strong body, their minds have no fight in it.

And the kids, by the Hells, they are even worse. These ones are the ones training with Wyll.

They already are the "better" ones. They are too young to understand what "hoard of goblins" and "monster along the road" mean. The best thing the camp can do is give the kids something to do and hope they will be able to put up a fight when they are in some desperate situation. The rest of the kids? I figure they are most likely under Mol.

I think Mol practically takes care of the rest of the kids. She groups them together and put them under her authority. However, she is still too young to the true meaning of "monsters". From the way she behaves, I think she's not a total stranger to death. She genuinely cares about the kids who are with her, but she send one to the harpy's nest regardless. I doubt if she will send the kid if she knows that will kill him. Alas, kid is sent to the harpies and would be dead if player didn't show up.

[Here comes the end bit! We are almost there!]

So this is the mission Zevlor set himself on. With less than a fraction of the men he used to command, his mission is to take these civilians to Baldur's Gate. He doesn't have enough fighters that's for sure. I am sure he must have started with more of his fellow tiefling ex-Riders. Some of them must have died protecting these bunch.

Here is the snippet of his memory imprint dialogue in the Mindflayer Colony:

In its horror, the Blood War unites you. Tiefling, dwarf and elf alike huddle behind the shields of your paladin order, waiting for salvation. But when it comes... disunity. The returned city casts your people out, the devils who dragged them down to hell. In the end, it is not your paladin oath that is broken: it is your faith itself.

Zevlor is in such a shit situation. His faith is broken, but he is all the leadership and hope these bunch got, civilian and Riders alike. They are supposed to be Hellriders for life. All of them are lost when their home and the place they belong were stripped off them. Zevlor needs to do his job without showing how he feel the lost just like the others. He also needs to actually pull it through. These people entrust him their lives. If people die, it's his fault. He is their beacon of hope and idol to take all the blame at the same time.

In BG3 the game, there are goblins and Shadow Curse along the way. The mission itself is hopeless. He is set up to fail, given how the game is set up. So when Zevlor inevitably fails, he failes hard publicly as well, his own people just turn on him.

LET ME LOVE MY PRECIOUS OLD MAN JBADSFBIULADUI FERAL DOT GIF

[fistfuloftarenths]

rugan headcanons

he knows the importance of maintaining his kit. patched the elbows on that shirt himself in tiny neat stitches. boots are always waxed and oiled. will invest in good socks. will tell other people to invest in good socks.

still salty he was wearing the patched shirt when they were attacked though. was saving a nicer one that matched his hose one for later when he getting a pint at waukeen's rest and now it's going to rot on a wagon if some bastard doesn't find it first.

he can cook if you want something hot and filling that sticks to your ribs. capable, not inspired. will take pot-shots at rabbits and the like during the day to add them to the pot. encourages olly to do the same. fresh meat on a caravan trip is always welcome and it keeps his eye in.

but he's pro at making a fire. even in heavy weather. needs his brew-up, hot and bitter.

has looked after many new lads and lasses on the road. sees all their young faces come and go. sighs and closes the eyelids of some of them, the unlucky ones or ones that don't listen. zhent caravans don't get the respect they used to.

can walk into nearly any pub in the south of the sword coast and know a guy. for that matter, nearly always knows a guy or knows a guy that knows a guy. been black network for decades. got a lot of favours owed if he comes to collect.

not originally from baldur's gate. grew up in a family with too many mouths and not enough coin. joined the black network to travel. back home, his accent is right out of the gutters. sneered at. he's still surprised how well it helps him pull in the gate. grateful, mind you.

relationships are (mostly) transactional. got an accommodating widow in elturel that finds it useful to have a zhent lover to keep her husband's family out of her business. not in any danger of loving her. glad she makes it out of avernus alive.

softer than is convenient for him, sometimes. seen so many youngsters come and go, and it still cuts him up when olly dies. the lad was a likely one. listened. kept his head while he was scared. just had to try and be a hero.

for all his lines about 'help's a long way from here' and 'anyone who is stupid enough to attack a pack of gnolls' he's not lying when he says you're a sweet sight. he's not a hero and doesn't want to be - you can be old or bold, but not both - but he'll be buggered if he doesn't appreciate them in a tight spot. especially ones that look like tav.

no contempt like lae'zel's for wyll there. just relief and gratitude. especially if olly lives.

but is a survivor above all. doesn't trust easily, or lightly. won't tread on you to lift himself up, but will sell you out rather than take the hit for you. not many people have valued his skin over theirs, and he'll return the favour.

mostly swears by the black hand but banite by custom rather than by faith. too aware of rich fuckers screwing over people like him to be entirely on board with the banite agenda.

cyric, though. some people could do with a bit more strife, he reckons.

is likely to invoke tymora on the downlow. rugan's lucky. he's still alive, so he's lucky. flips her a tarenth or few when he's got them spare. mostly after a good round of cards.

hates boats. can put up with a river barge if there's a card game going. avoids the sea like he gave a wavemother priestess the pox. likes being a caravan guard. good at it. likes travelling, seeing more of faerun than he thought he'd ever do growning up in the slums.

prefers mules to oxen and not just because they're faster. mules aren't shy about their opinions. he respects that. can order drinks and food in more languages than you'd think. sure it's the caravan agent's job, but he'll be damned if he's that reliant on a bookkeeper. especially if it's on the bookkeeper's tab.

[my-favourite-zhent]

New Tricks - Chapter 21

Status: Work In Progress

Version: 1.01

Pairing: Rugan x AFAB!OC

Rating: NC-17 (This chapter NC-17)

Genre: Adventure/Romance

Summary:

“Who the hells are you?” The elf turned to size up the duo. “Family from out of Baldur's Gate.” Rugan supplied. “Ah, Zarys' crew. She said you were halfway competent.” “Probably the closest thing to a compliment we’ll draw out of her.” Muttered Rugan.

Beware of an old man in a profession where men usually die young.  Being the Southern Deliveries Manager for the Baldur's Gates Zhentarim is not an easy job. Between mentoring new recruits, juggling vicious coworkers and whip-cracking bosses, bandits are the least of Rugan's troubles. An encounter with a charming stranger on the job serves to only complicate his life all the more.

Notes:

Part three of... ok I said it was split into three but it ended up being four... sorry... As always thanks to my kindly betas: @fistfuloftarenths who wrote the lovely Rugan x Tav fic isn't it a marvel, and can be found on AO3 as fistful_of_tarenths.

@dustdeepsea who wrote an adorable Olly story somewhere I have never travelled , and can be found on A03 as dustdeepsea.

@captainsigge aka @captainsieni author of A Devil's Folly and who can be found on A03 as CaptainSigge.

Table of Contents

Read Here on AO3 with excerpt below the cut~

New Tricks - Chapter Twenty One

By the time they had reached Goulcrest, Rugan's patience was wearing thin. He had known barmaids less clingy than Grim.

What the town passed off as an inn had in reality been little more than a barn-cum-hostel. Entirely too small to accommodate eight people, as such, he had insisted Grim’s crew take it. At least they would be out of his hair and away from Izzy for the night even if it meant Rugan had to spend it on the hard packed earth.

The Zhents had instead set up camp at the town's regular field for passing merchant caravans. It had been in use for so long none of the townsfolk remembered who had chosen that particular location. 

Situated on a hill overlooking the town, the site had fair warning of any unwelcome visitors for a ways off, which suited the Zhents just fine. There was also a ready fire pit rounded by old logs and a small stream at its base. No grass grew on the hilltop owing to the ground’s steady use over the years, but it was as fine a spot as any.

Rugan wasn’t sure the needy Grim would stay away for long, but he allowed himself to steal glances at Iz all the same. Admiring the curve of her rear as she went about hammering the pegs of her tent, the way her hair cascaded down her shoulders in soft waves, the upturned corners of her mouth when their eyes met. Finding excuses to brush up against her or bump into her with a feigned apology of “sorry, lass”. She sometimes rolled her eyes at that but she laughed more often than not.

Come evenfeast they were sitting side by side around the fire, knees touching while they listened to the boys complain about the journey.

“And what's with that big bastard always staring at us?” Bellar asked. 

“Very observant-like. It's unsettling,” Olly agreed.

“Observant-like? Olly you need to stop picking up vocabulary from Brem,” Sal chided.

At last Amaunator began to dip below the horizon, and Rugan felt confident Grim's crew wouldn't be leaving the relative comfort of the inn for the night.

When he said as much to Iz she took his hand in her own and wordlessly led him back to her tent.

[underthedark0]

light of my life, the @lizziemajestic of all time tagged me in

wip weekend

so enjoy a A Trio of Bastards below the cut.

no pressure tag for @graysparrowao3 @fangbanger3000 @faerieologymajor @forget-me-maybe

concept title: couple’s therapy

When Rugan approaches, it’s the drow that notices him first.

Their eyes light up with recognition, Faer leaning back in their chair and letting an inviting smile curl their lips. “Rugan, that can’t be you, can it?” they purr. “It’s been a while.”

The drow looks good—better than the last time he saw them, even.

“Too long,” he replies, letting his gaze travel over Faer in a way that’s far from subtle. “Surprised you remember me, considering all I’m hearin.’”

“Mm,” Faer hums around their drink. “You sell yourself short. Hard to forget moments like that.”

They aren’t wrong. Rugan smiles at the memory, their back against the cave wall, leg over his shoulder, his head between their-…

The man beside Faer clears his throat, drawing his attention. Rugan feels his lips twitch in amusement at the sight of him. This kid—whoever he is—clearly isn’t thrilled to see him here.

He’s young, probably the youngest between the three of them (though the drow never gave him a straight number), with a mop of curly hair and a seemingly permanently annoyed expression. “You two, uh…”

The man’s eyes flit between them, sizing Rugan up with a mix of irritated curiosity and something else.

Something that Rugan finds intriguing.

“…know each other?”

Faer seems to notice it, too, the way the drow’s eyes find Rugan’s slowly as if they need confirmation that he sees the same thing they do.

And Rugan does. Oh, he definitely does.

“Yeah,” Faer murmurs around their smirk, their gaze lingering on Aradin, then back to him, smirk widening like they’re savoring every second of this little exchange. “We know each other.”

The man reacts predictably.

Rugan smiles, watching the man’s expression narrow even further, his jaw setting with an irritated edge, eyes flashing with something akin to annoyance or maybe something darker, his gaze hardening as he processes Rugan’s presence.

Rugan likes the way this is unfolding.

“Faer here saved me from becoming gnoll chow,” he explains, not waiting for an invitation as he sits down next to them. “Never quite had the chance to thank them proper, though.”

“No, no, you definitely thanked me,” Faer responds before taking a sip of their drink - something dark and amber that Rugan can smell from here. “It just wasn’t very proper.”

He laughs loudly and genuinely, then watches as the kid next to them sets his jaw in a hard line, expression tightening. Rugan doesn’t miss the flash of something possessive in his eyes as he watches the older man closely, like he’s trying to figure him out.

Good. Let him look.

Rugan tilts his head slightly, letting his gaze linger on the man. “Who’s your friend?”

“Aradin,” he responds before Faer can answer, voice gruff. “Beno.”

“Rugan,” he replies with a lazy grin. “So, what’s a guy like you doing with Faer?”

Aradin settles on “Keeping them out of trouble,” delivered with a clipped, dry tone that’s trying too hard to be indifferent.

“But trouble’s all I’ve got to offer,” Faer cuts in, their voice laced with amusement as they swirl the dregs of their drink, shifting closer to Rugan until their shoulder brushes his - a deliberate move that Rugan meets with a lazy smile.

“Yeah, I figured that out,” Aradin mutters.

Rugan can’t help but let a slow, satisfied smile spread across his face. “You’ve got your work cut out for you,” he replies, letting his hand drift to Faer’s knee, fingers tracing idle circles over the fabric. “Not everyone’s got the, uh... stamina to keep up with Faer here.”

Aradin’s eyes are glued to the movement, caught between irritation and something Rugan might dare to call interest. There’s a moment where he thinks Aradin might reach across the table and shove his hand off Faer’s leg, but instead, he just holds the stare, unflinching.

“I’ve been doing just fine,” he says, voice gruff.

“Is that right?” Rugan’s grin widens, and he can’t help the teasing lilt that seeps into his tone.

He tilts his head, letting his gaze travel over Aradin with a leisurely sweep that’s anything but innocent. He takes his time, his eyes tracing the line of Aradin’s jaw, the set of his shoulders, the way his hands are clenched just a little too tightly.

“Because I’m not sure you know what you’re signing up for.”

[voloslobotomyservice]

Darcy

(she/her)

Class: Rogue Assassin

Race: Zariel Tiefling

Age: 28 years

Background: Urchin

Game Progression: Halfway through Act Two

Darcy was only a child when she was kidnapped from her family in Elturel and taken to Baldur’s Gate.

Before she was taken away, she had lived a quite normal life with her mother, father, and five younger siblings. She had aspirations of being a ranger, and had begun training with a bow and arrow her father had gifted her. She was also grew up knowing Divya, who is four years younger than Darcy and lived in the same area in Elturel.

But everything changed for Darcy a few months after her thirteenth birthday. A group of Zhentarim had been hired by members of the Baldurian Elite to steal young girls and bring them back to the city as their slaves. When she arrive to Baldur’s Gate and was sold off to her master, he had her horns sawed off so she would look more “elvish.” Her tail was nearly docked as well, but another one of the older tiefling slaves started fighting their master, giving Darcy just enough time to flee. She never knew the tiefling girl’s name, and she never thought she would see them again.

For the next fifteen years, Darcy lived in the streets of Baldur’s Gate, doing anything she could just to get by. She has festered a hatred for the Zhentarim and the Baldurian Elite, and vowed to herself to one day kill those men who have wronged her.

Click here to read some not-so-depressing facts about Darcy! 🤠

The tiefling visits as her Dream Guardian. These are the nights that Darcy sleeps best, as she is not having nightmares about the night she was taken from her family.

For a rouge, she’s pretty aloof, and doesn’t have the best perception skills. She can be quick to anger and sometimes acts before thinking through the possible outcomes.

In the middle of Act One, A Matter of Trust takes place, where Shadowheart helps Darcy grow her horns back and give her a new look.

She is a certified Rugan lover girl, yet her relationship with him is very… complicated, given her hatred for the Zhentarim.

[thisaccountisagainstmywill]

WIP Wednesday

@fistfuloftarenths tagged me last week for WIP Wednesday. I didn't have anything new last week. And joke's on me I don't have anything new this week either. I was going to post non-BG3 WIPs to be a shit, but it's been too long. No pressure tagging: @my-favourite-zhent, @littleplasticrat, @dustdeepsea, @captainsigge, @coreene

So anyway here's an excerpt from a young Rugan longfic that's been sitting on the back burner for a while.

Rugan waits patiently for another three hours, nursing a pint, and a plate of whatever Sanya can weasel away from the kitchen. At one point he joins in on the bawdy singing, adding his own spin to the lyrics and making eye contact with his favorite lass when she dares look his way. He sings himself hoarse for the briefest slivers of her attention. Every time she rolls her eyes with a smile and continues about her business with a shake of her head. When the crowd thins down to just him and a few low-energy regulars, the barkeep waves Sanya over. He throws a sad glance towards Rugan sitting with his empty pint held on the stool between his knees. With a nod to the lonely boy, he quietly tells her, “Go on then, love. I can take it from here.” The old man passes her a small satchel with her pay of the day and a little extra. “All the blessings on you for your adventure.” She thanks the large man with a tender pat on his hand and turns back to Rugan. Rugan stands, placing his empty mug on the stolen stool behind him. With a few long strides across the near-empty room, he has her in his arms. He steals a quick kiss before he lowers himself to wrap his arms around her waist and raises her up so he can gaze up at her. She places her hands on his shoulders to steady herself and smiles down at him. Backlit by the chandelier, loose strands of hair frame her like a glowing halo. My sunrise. He thought, but then the realization set in. For the first time ever, she didn’t argue or fight back when he kissed her with an audience. He knows in his heart now, that the rumors were true: tonight was goodbye. 

[dustdeepsea]

WIP Whenever

Tagged by @luvwich

Gods and Monsters—my darling, my horrible little beastie—it's been thrashing on the ground and fighting me every step of the way, but chapter 2 is proceeding. Posting this here to shame myself into action.

Read chapter 1 here on AO3 then come back for the start of chapter 2 below:

Two to four were not favourable odds, but Tav had been in much worse fights. They hung back reluctantly as Rugan stepped out in front of them. He raised an arm in greeting as the riders approached. 

“Hello, there! Well met!” he called out.

For better or worse, he might know these people. It was better to wait and see, then. They took a half-step towards their mules, unwilling to move too far away.

“Drop the shovel, boy,” one of the riders called out. Rugan nodded at Tav, and they let their makeshift weapon fall to the ground with a clatter.

The horses slowed to a stop near them. The lead rider didn’t bother to dismount, but eyed them from a near distance. He was a young man, no older than Tav, with severely cropped hair and steel grey eyes. His face could have been described as handsome, but he wore what seemed to be a perpetual sneer on his thin lips.

Tav had some appreciation from stabling animals in the Gate and could see that his horse was a fine creature—sixteen hands high, with a glossy, dark coat and mane. The other three were decidedly smaller and more plain. Their riders fell behind and looked to him silently for instruction as their mounts pawed at the ground.

There was no recognition on any of their faces. Rugan lowered his arm.

“What do we have here? State your business.”

“We’re booksellers, on our way to Iriaebor,” Rugan replied, smoothly.

Take his lead. Tav schooled their expression into dull blandness.

The sneer deepened. “Booksellers out digging in the Fields?”

Rugan spread his hands out. “The lad’s a bit simple, to be honest. Heard too many stories about these parts and wanted to look around.” He shrugged. “He’s found nothing, and we’ll be on our way in a moment.”

“Well, let’s see some of those books you have on you, then,” their leader said.

Rugan turned to Tav calmly. “Lad, would you be so kind as to fetch them?”

Tav nodded, playing the part they were assigned. Five pairs of eyes watched as they walked over, untied their saddlebag, and carried it back to their audience. One of the riders in the back had a crossbow pointed at them, another at Rugan.

From the bag, they retrieved the books that they had packed for Halsin—a new treatise on natural philosophy; a leather bound copy of The Mirror of Simple Souls; a well-thumbed adventure novel in three volumes. Tav walked up to the wall of trembling horseflesh and offered up each without comment. 

Rugan seemed mildly surprised as the leader perused the titles on the covers and nodded at each one. The charade of shopping concluded, he handed the books back to Tav in a neat stack.

“It’s dangerous for two travellers by themselves out in these parts. We can accompany you back to the main road,” he declared. 

Tav stashed the books away again carefully, one by one, wondering if they had actually managed to pass unscathed. The bowman trained on Tav looked on nervously, his crossbow in a deathgrip in his hands. 

“That is very kind of you, but it won’t be necessary,” Rugan demurred.

“Oh, but we insist. Our rates are very reasonable. In fact, you can keep your books. All we’ll require as payment is your bag of holding. Along with whatever else you have inside.”

Rugan flashed a rueful smile. “That’s a steep price, my friend, but I understand. Business at the end of a blade is still business. Perhaps we could discuss the terms?” Thieves’ cant, Tav recognised.

The other three riders stirred uneasily at that, but the leader looked down his nose at Rugan. “Unfortunately, these terms are final,” he said, flatly.

Tav’s hand was still half inside their bag; with a focused thought they felt the hilt of their offhand dagger press against their fingers.

Rugan bowed low. “Aye, then we’d have to politely decline.”

[alpydk]

Red on You (In a Heartbeat)

Part 2 - GalexRugan

Ao3 Link

“Now darling, don’t be annoyed at Rugan. He was merely suggesting that we get out of your hair, not that we go drinking.”

Gale tried not to be angry at what he was hearing, that another night would be spent sat up waiting for the door to be pushed aside and the protective spell to be inevitably tripped. Astarion had once again dropped by to the tower unexpectedly, not to see his long-time friend but to spend time cavorting the city most likely in search of a good brothel with Rugan. Gale knew he deserved better than this, and he glowered as the two of them laughed and traded their stories of crime and deceit.

Rugan lifted his glass, tilting it in Astarion’s direction. “You ever meet that sweet lass who worked in the Elfsong? Halfling bird, she could do that thing where she bent her leg up around her-”

“Gabby, Gabriella… Oh, what was it? I know who you mean. With the cherries.”

“Yes! That’s the chickadee. Gloria?”

Astarion concentrated, his pale brow furrowed. “No, it wasn’t Gloria…” Two hundred years of skulking Baldur’s Gate. He couldn’t be expected to remember the name of every barmaid.

“Isabella.” Gale interjected, wanting the topic to move on.

Rugan looked up with a grin on his weathered face. “Isabella. Gods, she was a pretty sight. Surprised you knew her name, though.”

“Oh, Gale here has always been quite the charmer. Isn’t that right, love?”

“Learning a person’s name is the least one can do,” Gale answered, scowling at them both as they smirked, their minds clearly trawling the gutters they would soon find themselves in.

Taking a sip from his drink, Astarion reminisced over the young barmaid. “I do wonder whatever happened to her. Not seen her in…well, an age.”

“Shacked up with someone, probably. You know how it goes, spread their legs, a couple of kids, no more cherries,” Rugan replied with a devilish look in his eyes.

“She died and became a mindflayer, like so many other tragic victims of the city, lest you forget.” With his response, Gale let the silence settle over them, watching as the uncouth banter of the evening became a quiet moment of guilt shared between them all.

Lifting his glass, Rugan spoke. “Well, to Isabella then and whatever bar she may be tending.”

Astarion mumbled in agreement, bringing his glass to his lips. He glanced over the rim, noting the uncomfortable silence that lay in the air, the tension between the two lovers growing with each second. Taking the break in the conversation as an opportunity to escape, he turned to Rugan. “Maybe it’s time we…”

“Yeah, we probably should.”

Gale sighed as they both placed their glasses down to leave him, the awkward shuffle as they acknowledged his gaze upon them, making everything more difficult to handle. Tonight would be the last night he would allow this to happen. He would leave the tower himself, clear his mind and come morning would face the harsh reality that his relationship was over. He took Rugan’s hand as it swept by him, a moment of unspoken contact as if to say, “Don’t do this.”

Rugan leant down, placing a gentle kiss on Gale’s brow. “Love you, poppet. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

The hand was pulled away and Gale once again found himself alone in the dim light of his tower, his heart breaking and his anger rising.

---

The smell had only been the start of what the young priestess had discovered as the gnome had removed his clothes, his skin blistering and, in some places, literally rotten to the bone. To say he was alive would have been a matter of opinion and he spoke in a matter of grunts and groans, constantly reaching for her wrists as she examined his wounds. Her healing spells were met with no change, almost angering the flesh they met and causing him further pain, and she worried that maybe a powerful curse had befallen the poor victim.

She placed a gentle hand on Tibs’ shoulder, moving quickly away as his head twisted sharply towards it. “I’ll get the high priest; you just wait here.”

Scurrying through the temple, her white robes flowing behind her, she could feel her anxiety rising. There was something about this situation that set her on edge. She knew she was relatively new to her calling, but she’d had experience with the sick and dying before in her short twenty-year life, and so this one person shouldn't have shaken her as it seemed to have. Multiple rooms were checked in search of the high priest before she eventually came across him knelt deep in prayer under the moonlight within the temple’s courtyard.

“Andora, my dear. Sneaking up on an old man?”

He glanced over at her slight figure, admiring the way the robes had been pinched to her waist. Classically pretty were the words he would have chosen if he had to describe her to fellow priests. Blonde, fair skinned, large doe-like eyes that shone with innocence. Exactly his type.

His voice was calming and with it brought a relaxation to the young priestess’ shoulders. She took a moment to let her heart rate slow, not wanting to be seen as inept before her superior. Word around the church was that the Half-Elven leader had been in his position for many years, offering counsel to those in need, speaking for Ilmater himself, supporting the newer priestesses in their times of need, and that was exactly what she needed.

“Father. I’m so sorry to disturb your prayer, but there’s a matter I require your assistance with. A man has come in from the streets. He does not speak, but it is clear he is incredibly sick.”

The high priest stood, patting down his cream robes, and approached her, linking a withered arm around hers. “Calm, take a moment of silence to find your inner peace.”

Andora nodded; a deep breath pulled into her lungs at his command. She closed her eyes briefly, failing to notice the way his eyes drifted to the rise and fall of her breasts.

“Now, a sick follower, you say?”

“I’m unsure if he is a follower, father. But yes, sick. Incredibly sick. I have tried the basic healing spells and prayers at my command, but they have done little to lift his affliction.”

“Hm.” Stroking her arm in thought, his mind drifted between the matter at hand and the warmth of her skin that lay beneath her robes. “And what of potions and elixirs?”

“Nothing aside from what appeared to be a fire beneath his skin.”

“That is quite the conundrum, then. Take me to him, my dear.”

The stroking on her arm continued as they meandered through the corridors of the temple, her anxiety again rising, but this time not at what they would encounter but at the way the priest observed her and questioned her.

“Twenty? A fine age. Quite fine.” The words lingered on his tongue a little too long to be merely a passing comment. “I remember when I was but twenty. So young and naïve in the world. Do know that you can turn to me, Andora. For anything you might need.”

“Yes, father.” She couldn’t help but understand what the other priestesses had said now, when they spoke of his support.

He stopped his movements, holding her arm with a grip she had not been prepared for. “Anything.”

His eyes on her were piercing, as if she were a rabbit caught in the sights of a wolf. She felt her words stick in her throat; her legs frozen where they were, even though the only thought going through her mind was to run. It was the screams that broke the uncomfortable silence, desperate, terrified shrieks that burst through the walls with no relief. The grip on her arm tightened, and she felt herself being pulled towards the chaos of the main hall.

“What is the trouble-”

---

“What do you mean they’re not fucking dead!?” Shouted Friol as Darnys barricaded the sturdy door behinds them with crates and barrels she dragged behind her.

“As in undead… ghouls… zombies… fucking walking dead!” The sweat was meshing with her dark hair, causing it to stick to her forehead and she dragged her arm across it, sticky blood pulled with it and leaving a trail.

Friol shot her a scathing look. The bodies had been brought back as required and were ready to be burnt when the head of Dillie had unexpectedly exploded, throwing out viscera in all directions. Some had assumed it was the pressure of gasses as his corpse had been moved, others were more superstitious and blamed the gods for his involvement in the movement of a holy item. She’d put them all in their place, though, having them follow their orders: burn the two dead and get on with what they were supposed to do. As the hours had passed, more and more men grew sick. Rashes, blisters, nausea, and each had been confined to the basement of The Sleeping Snake tavern they’d been calling their base of operations.

Darnys panted against the wall of the back kitchen, her eyes glued to the door as the dull thudding could be heard against it from the other side. “Look, I’m just saying whatever they are, they’re not dead.”

“What about clerics? Surely, we have someone around here who can handle this type of shit.”

“Mads? Mads was the one with the eye hanging from his skull. Remember, part of his skull missing?”

“Fuck.” It was all Friol could respond with as she looked around the room for any weapons or escape. She noted the window above the countertops, large enough for her to fit through but possibly a squeeze if Darnys were to follow. It was considered whether the sacrifice would be worth it. “Right. Orders are to get that window open and get us out of here.”

Darnys rubbed her hands together, more trying to compose her senses than to provide herself with any warmth. She’d expected to be in trouble for not finding the artefact. What she had not expected was Bris to be outside the door, body parts and organs missing, pounding to get in to tear her limb from limb with other, now undead, Zhentarim.

A loud slam at the door caused it to rattle, and both survivors looked over at one another before turning to the window. It was no longer about orders or rules between them; it was about staying alive.

---

Astarion and Rugan sat with their wine in the back room of the Blue Jack Tavern. Conversation had drifted between the usual of past questionable activities, the opposite and same sex endeavours, and had finally reached the lull in the evening where the more serious topics emerged.

Rugan turned a white gold earring over in his hand, its sapphire stone glinting in the candlelight between them. “Thanks for the assist on this.”

“To see the drama between you two? No thanks are necessary.” Astarion swirled the red in his glass, becoming more and more hungry as the night dragged on. “Would it not have just been easier to steal an earring?”

“He wouldn’t have approved. Besides, I’m not that kinda guy anymore.”

“Wait, so the gold you stole from the Zhentarim around town to buy this… does not count?”

A sigh was produced before Rugan could find his words. “Let’s just say they owed me. Sort of a retirement payout for all my years’ service.”

Astarion smirked at the words. “Can take the man out of Zhentarim but can’t take-”

“Don’t even consider finishing that sentence. I’ve moved on, changed man, and all that bollocks.”

“Another drink?”

“Oh, yes.”

The two drank for some time, an impromptu celebration at what had been planned, before eventually taking to the streets of the Castle Ward.

Astarion supported Rugan as they wandered south through the streets towards the docks. It had got later than expected and in a few hours the sun would rise over the city, signally the start of a new day. “I can’t believe there is someone in this world that would want to marry Gale, of all people.”

“Hey…” Rugan slurred through his words, slightly envious of an elf’s ability to tolerate his liquor. “Gale… is… he can summon tentacles and let me tell you-”

“No, you will not tell me. I do not want to know.”

“I love him. He talks too much, and he likes perfume like any lass I know would. But gods, does he make me thankful to be alive…” His words drifted off, the image of Gale in his mind, tender kisses and loving embraces shared at their home together, a home Rugan always believed he’d never find.

“Turn the fuck around!”

The shout and speed at which the two women approached them instantly had Astarion trying to reach for a dagger, Rugan’s heavy weight putting him off balance.

Darnys and Friol darted past them, not stopping to question or attack them, and both stood in confusion at what had just happened, let alone the sharp words that had been shouted at them. It was as they spotted the hoard shambling through the shadows towards them, groans and screams growing with each lumbering step they understood.

Astarion was quick to turn, the momentum dragging Rugan with him. “Guess we listen to the ladies for a change.”

---

Tibs sat in the centre of the moonlit courtyard, his jaw barely hanging on, his eyes now dark festering pools. The pendant glowed around his neck, the chain sinking into the rotten flesh of his chest. Undead shuffled around him in search of further victims, some banging on the cloister doors trying to reach further recruits of their mindless army, others leaving the temple and chasing down anyone alive which they came across. Any humanity Tibs had before was now gone. All that was left was the walking dead shell, one that the previous day had been stupid enough to not follow orders.

[graysparrowao3]

hello, sorry for the slow response to the tag - I too have been travelling!

I LOVED your Aradin x Rugan fic and would love to hear more about the second installment for the WIP game!

Oh gosh! Hello! You know, we both apologized for slowness, but this was a delightful surprise! I'm so, so happy to hear you liked it, it has rocketed to the top of my guilty pleasures, for sure. (And I hope your travel went well!) Sure thing, it would be my pleasure!

So I really did quite like what will now be part 1 of the Rugan x Aradin fic, set in The Blushing Mermaid, but wasn't sure where I could take it next, what with it being set as a one night stand. But then a thoughtful comment by @benicemurphy set a fire of inspiration going, and these two are going to have another entirely filthy and unhealthy encounter! Hooray! It shall be called... A Second Night Stand in The Elfsong Tavern.

I hope both you and @benicemurphy, to whom this shall be dedicated, like the following snippet from the WIP so far (further editing still to be made)! In this part they have just entered a room in The Elfsong Tavern and things get heated.

Tags to be mindful of below the cut: Explicit Sexual Content, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sub/Dom Theme

“Not bad, this,” the adventurer took an appreciative look around the room.

“Don’t say I never take you anywhere nice,” Rugan said as he closed the door to the private quarters.

“Give over,” Aradin muttered.

“Got ourselves quite the upgrade," the Zhent eyed up the plush duvet and decorative stitching on the pillows as he unthreaded himself from his leather.

The younger man impulsively pulled his tunic over his head, throwing his clothing aside and making straight for the well cushioned bed. He hopped onto the soft cover, bouncing the mattress underneath him.

"Oh aye, this'll do." He squished his hands down into the downy material, nodding in approval.

"I don't think so, love," the Zhent cocked his head sharply to the side.

The man sitting on the bed stared up at him.

"Are you havin' a laugh?"

"Remind me who's footin’ the bill?"

“Taking the piss, you are,” Aradin climbed off the bed and snatched up his tunic from the floor, “you know what, reckon I can get my own. Might find less of a tosser to share it with an’ all.”

The adventurer took several assured steps towards the door, when the Zhent pulled him sharply back by his hips, his body forced back, away from the exit. A hand directed the younger man’s head, tilting it back. The Zhent didn’t wait for a hesitation or refusal, sliding his tongue past surprised lips, encouraging them open and pressing onto them, smothering them with his own. Pressing the younger man’s face against him, his kiss was firm and wet, forcing his tongue into a mouth as though he had permission. He pushed against the younger man who was tense in his hands and lips, stunned by the shock of intimate touch. Moving his hand through the curls of his hair, tightening the grip on his thigh. He devoured with careless lips and fervent tongue. Suddenly, he pulled back, a snap of their separation as the younger man gasped.

“Thought you weren’t about all that," the adventured blinked, finding those blue eyes so close to his.

“That a complaint?”

“Didn’t mean it like that.” He hadn’t meant to, but the adventurer leant back, desperately seeking the touch of lips that had moved away. The older man moved in close, hot breath blowing into unsatisfied lips.

“I bet you didn’t,” he held back, holding himself just shy of a kiss, taunting the softer mouth that was eager for more, “too bad you’re on your way out.”

The young man swallowed and involuntarily licked his dry lips.

“Could be convinced otherwise.”

“Could you now.”

“May’ve been misled. Made a rash decision.”

“Bad habit of yours. One of many.”

He felt the body of the older man grind up behind him, firm and hard, impatient hands gripping onto his waist.

“Knew you wanted me to stay,” the younger man pressed his haunches back and tried to force a confidence that would claw back some of his dignity.

He felt the breath of the older man on his neck, thick and sharp with alcohol. The man behind him gripped his hips, holding them tightly, fingers digging into the crease of his groin. He leant in close, touching his lips to the edge of the younger man’s ear, a tease of a false kiss. He breathed heavily and whispered low,

“You don’t know a fuckin’ thing.”

The Zhent slid his hand under the younger man’s tunic, moving quickly over his thigh and between his legs. He compelled a sharp inhale as he ran his fingers over him, massaging him over the fabric. He felt the younger man harden under his firm touch and roll his head back. The adventurer wanted to make a smart-arse response. Gods, did he want to, but the movement of a hand across the tightness at his waist stole his breath as his mouth gaped. The Zhent pushed his body close so that the young man could feel the demand before he heard it.

“Now be a good lad, I've got a cock that needs sucking."

[tieflingfingers]

Counterfeit Evereskan Jewel

What and who: Conflict/angst but also humor/fluff. Thomasin and Astarion argue. Wyll and Karlach eat big soup. Rugan says thanks. Summary: The gang gains access to the Zhent hideout in thanks and Thomasin finds the experience uncomfortably familiar to her own life in hideouts. Astarion gets asked about his lack of reflection and fights with Thomasin over using tadpoles for their gain. Karlach and Wyll are just thrilled to eat soup and hear about the little blue tiefling archer that could. Warning/Content: More in the realm of character study, so a lot about two elves that are bad at feelings. OC lore on unsafe homesteads, past friends, and moral values. Reimagining of mirror scene with Astarion and the Zhent chest side quest. Part of series. Word Count: 4,443 Ao3 Link

Sometimes Thomasin would reminisce on the days where acorns were shot from trees, armed with fresh picked stones. Visions of her childhood friends and how they were always competing for the best aim. Arguing over who’s stone could be shot the furthest. A childhood consisting of scraped knees and grass stains in unexpected places, as if she had rolled around hills for an entire afternoon. They laughed and played and fended off bullies with their makeshift weapons. Made uncreative jabs at rude neighbors and came home to tarts baked with whichever fruit was in season.

Even as an adult, the memory always sat dormant in her mind. If only battles she faced now could be resolved with a homemade slingshot. Ravenous creatures and unsympathetic villains had no chance, balance crumbling when acorns made impact against their flesh.

In the face of gnolls and bloodied pack mentality, Thomasin and her companions made swift work of their gnashing threats. Through blades and verbal summoning, bruises and knicks by teeth and claw. Not one daring to let their guard down until sounds of those trapped within a cavern’s vast open mouth came out in triumphant exhaustion. An older man and his young lackey stuck their necks out like cautious deer, boots caked in a thin layer of ash from their molotov cocktails.

The older man had charismatic confidence, despite the sweat and dirt on his brow, and introduced himself as “Rugan”. He sang their praises in a gruff calm and explained how much bloodshed had occurred along the Risen Road. His squadron was thrashed, but the cargo chest he carried had to return to his boss posthaste and by any means necessary. A foot propped atop the chest's lid as if keeping its contents inside.

Thomasin stood whilst they group talked, Karlach and Wyll standing their ground. Their exchange never veering into threats or suspicion, but rather the casual agreement of a truce. Two groups meeting together in a poor circumstance, keeping blades sheathed. Rugan laughed in pity at the demise of his partners and thanked them for his survival. He granted Karlach, and the others by extension, a password to enter his den. A meeting to be paid by his boss. The half-elf forced herself to chime in here and there, at least to establish her presence. 

There was familiarity and an ingratiating urge that made Thomasin eventually speak up. As if it was critical to acknowledge the transaction taking place, struggling between her own dominance and passivity. Despite the casual nature of his voice, the habit of exuding strength in front of these types of men crept its way to the forefront. His features were rugged and expression one of self-assuredness. The deep creased worry lines of someone used to dire straits, like how she imagined the precocious tiefling children may end up. This didn’t feel dangerous, but guessing was no way to stay alive.

Rugan gathered his bearings with his lackey and the two carried their treasure down a trail out west. As they disappeared into the distance, the group gathered up and weighed out the odds. Although, it didn't take long to convince one another to head in the same direction. The promise of gifts when fighting tooth and nail was more than deserved.

And so, the entire walk to the Zhentarim’s den, they each threw ideas about the sacred chest's contents. An endless chain of solid gold and platinum. A book of unspeakable evils. The head of an important leader or three. An explosive rattling around, waiting to be opened. A pair of silken gloves with Rugan's grandmother’s name stitched down the side. Or maybe Rugan's name? It was the most entertained Astarion had been in days. 

Thomasin, however, found herself silent mostly.

The half-elf wracked her brain for old verbiage. The obscure slang traded amongst smugglers and their confidants. Wondering how far those words may have traveled and whether modernity of only a decade and a half could be enough to evolve such language. If sailors were popular in those parts and if her knowledge of the sea would be of any use.

She thought about how the air pressure changed underground and if it’d remind her of old places she once called home. If the microscopic change against her skin would feel cozy. If she would remember the constant self-awareness of living in those quarters, questioning whether she was saying the right things or giving the wrong people eye contact. If the amount of space she occupied in those enclosed caverns was considerate of the space she was allotted. 

Although, after they arrived, speaking with the Zhentarim came much more natural to her than expected. Groups of this size were strategic in hiding. Behind the burnt remains of a tavern, through its untouched wine cellars, and finally situated through a mundane wardrobe hiding the tunnel access to their hideout. With Rugan’s word, his boss Zarys gave her good graces for helping them out, even if she wasn’t as thrilled they had any knowledge of cargo in existence. 

These dynamics were easy. Thomasin wasn’t to give too much information and speak with a tone that was both bold yet docile. Answering in absolutes and short form reassurance. The respect all pirates, mercenaries, smugglers, and morally grey organizations carried with them. The ability to pack every syllable with secrecy. The masculine edge and the underlying fear all involved felt but would never dare vocalize. 

Blessings were upon them though, as the visit was short and sweet. The cargo they toted had no name, but warranted an entire underground system of smokepowder being prepared. It was best to wipe it from their curiosity. It would all be wiped from the hideout in a white hot flash anyhow. This meant there was enough time to speak to traders offering their curated wares before crawling up to the top soil unscathed. The smell of ground powdered flammables coated their nostrils.

Although, before leaving the tavern, they sifted through its charred wooden corpse for anything of use. The hollow shell of a once bustling interior, but they kicked through soot and damage until reaching the open expanse of a kitchen. To their surprise, a bounty of foods were left if you pushed aside what had become charcoal. Wyll packed up stiff loaves of bread and jarred jams in his bag. Excitement tinged his voice, although he supressed it slightly to keep his usual composure. This was only to be matched by Karlach’s unhindered rejoicing. Potatoes still intact, flakey herbs, and a burlap sack of greens. Serviceable cuts of thin meat still hanging by hooks, now dried by the smoke.

Thomasin grabbed numerous small pouches and filled them with what grains, nuts, and seeds were left unsinged in half-empty barrels. A tedious task, but welcomed after the amount of mental energy she exerted moments before. 

She’d peek over at Astarion every so often and flinch at the noise of wine bottles clinking against another. He’d began to rifle through the wall of wine racks, pocketing multiple in his backpack and ensuring Thomasin knew his opinion and taste of each one. Whether he had tasted them before or if the label was simply too ugly to bother. It did make her laugh.

On foot, they lugged their heavy bags through crumbling bridges and sparsely inhabited pastures towards the location of the goblin camps. Although, after the fight they endured, it was difficult to not pine after a cooked meal and the luxury of cleaning up in a nearby stream. Their weary feet got them far, but they decided to house themselves in an abandoned cavern. Fire and tents to be assembled inside and a basket of laundry taken to the thin stream outside. 

Each fell into the roles they naturally settled into. Wyll made meal preparations and watched over the bubbling tin pot hanging over a fire. He’d banter with Karlach as she set up her tent and picked up the slack where Astarion often left off, securing the others’ and tying them down. The extra work gave her time to discuss methods of killing beasts in Wyll’s travels and hypotheticals concerning how many oxen she could carry on her back. If oxen were friendly enough to befriend and if she could get a pet oxen of her own.

Astarion favored his role as more nebulous. Floating from task to task, lazing where he could and proving his worth to the group when he felt necessary. Sometimes, he’d join Thomasin at whatever watering hole they settled near and helped her do laundry. He couldn’t identify what could be eaten in the wild, but he knew of every way to rid of stains and reinvigorate worn clothes. What types of vinegar and salt ate away at blood. Which unremarkable weeds growing in the cracks of city walkways could be boiled to dye cloth to its original shade. How to re-use the carcass of citrus fruit and cheap spices as bleaching agents.

Thomasin sat at the water’s edge, her legs stuck out to let its cold temperatures soothe her muscles and acclimate in hopes of washing away the day’s dirt atop her skin. She appreciated his company. The evenings they both showed their grit, pants folded up their calves and hands busy at work. It often spawned the best nonsense that came out of Astarion’s mouth. An outlandish revenge plot here, a cocky opinion there, all sprinkled with pet names. 

She got a hint of normalcy and imagined he enjoyed feeling heard, even if they never discussed past intimacies beyond a reference and a wink. It was like flyers on notice boards. A prolific event on display, but each day’s trials and tribulations covering it with more and more flyers atop it. A stack of papers so thick that unpinning them to rifle through felt more like a hassle.

At some point, she noticed a lull in his conversation and peered up from her duties. Inches from his face, the elf was scrubbing away at a blood stain on his shirt. He dug the bristles of an old brush into its woven hemp and thumbed at the stain, rubbing the rind of a lemon into its cream colored sleeve. His body was hunched and she traced along the scars on his back with her eyes. Following the raised surface of his scar tissue and highlights reflected from the low setting sun.

The half-elf recalled a night he returned from a particular hunt with fondness. The night he came back in drunken splendor and high off being satiated, if not stuffed to the brim with blood. Watching the man stumble back into camp and plop down before the fire as if he wasn’t unusual in its giddiness. They all couldn’t help but be amused by his wobbling state, far worse than he had ever been, despite his frequent wine consumption. It was one of the few times he’d ever been so candid to them. At least, in such a messy way. But, the bear had lost, he had won, and they asked him for every juicy detail.

His moments of opening up were often spontaneous and sporadic. Either coming out with a nonchalant attitude or bursting from his lips, as if toiling over memories all day. Whenever the latter occurred, his frustrations and anger often overrode the ability to ask for fine details. Rants ended up diverting into passionate complaints, away from the original story at hand. They’d all learned he was processing things at his own pace though. His friends saw the tangents seemed cathartic enough to let into the air. 

He wore quirks she was used to at this point. His cursed symptoms became background noise that they tended to, like any other ailment or injury, caring for and considering out of instinct. However, Thomasin noted the bizarre sight in the water. Her brain pointed out oddities now and again, like an internal alarm alerting her body of an uncanny valley.

“Do you miss it?” she asked. It was the first time she’d uttered anything in the last few minutes. Most thoughts hadn’t caught up to her mouth though and she realized she should elaborate. “Your reflection.”

He blinked, noting the way his shirt’s reflection hung on the water’s surface like a ghostly figure, before looking back at her. 

“My reflection? The ability to indulge in petty vanity? Of course,” he answered, although his words peppered with confusion. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

“I haven’t seen this face since its eyes turned red and it grew fangs,” he answered in an earnest yet stony way, going back to scrubbing at his button up shirt. “A reason you should always take advantage of mirrors and your beauty, love.”

It was true. He often mentioned her visage in passing mirrors. Complimenting parts of her as if her reflection was another being that needed to be admired that instant. As if the length of her hair or curves of her thighs would disappear if not recognized.

“What color were your eyes before?” she asked.

Astarion looked over at Thomasin's reflection, filling the gap of his thoughts with casual titters and hums. It was an easy enough question. Everyone knew those fine little details that made them who they were. Until he realized, he couldn't access the memory. No doors to be unlocked or anecdotes to fawn over. It made his expression drop into mild worry.

“I don’t know… I don’t remember, it seems.” He paused, brows furrowing at the epiphany, as if now contending with new untapped grief. The elf went into re-wiring his brain. A huff of air sighed through his nose as if letting go of anything unpleasant. Eyeline retreating back to where they sat, mentally searching for crumbs of idealism. Something that could soothe without a doubt. 

“But, that’s why we should take advantage of the tadpoles. Think about it," he said.

He twisted to gesture at her, as if pitching a plan. Open hands pointing at the air around him, his feet in running water, and then the sun’s beams on his skin. His mere existence outside the bounds of Baldur’s Gate’s proximity. 

“I’ve become conveniently lost and feel the warmth of a sunny day on my skin for the first time in centuries. Centuries. ” He repeated it, astounded by the sounds and sheer audacity coming out his mouth. “Unbound from Cazador’s grasp. Can you imagine the power we haven’t tapped into yet? I could destroy the man and wield the power to reclaim what’s mine. My reflection. Everything.”

Thomasin chewed at her lip. She wasn't a stranger to his outbursts of passion and revenge fantasies. She understood the desire for revenge. She could even empathize with that desire of a grandiose finale and closure. His ideas all ended in the strive for power, however. Control. Fantasies with motivation, but never quite grounded in its diverging possibilities.

It was as if complete dominance was the one thing stopping him from fulfilling his perfect life. Perhaps it was. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to encourage it.

“Power corrupts. You don’t want to become the same man you’ve despised for years.”

Astarion scoffed, waving a dismissive hand at her like an unimpressed elder. “Corruption comes without fail, regardless of power. Don’t be naive. You think as though I’d not put my command over thrall to good use?” He pondered the delights of his reign, losing his train of thought to daydreams. “Cooling me with grand silk fans and mixing my goblet of blood to my liking. Sending folks to death for not bringing the exact Evereskan jeweled cuffs I asked for. ”

“That would make you happiest?”

“Of course. It’s what everyone wishes, even if they don’t admit it to themselves. Gods…” he sighed, looking at her, the smudge of distaste on his face as he reminded himself she would never grasp him. How overthrowing the beast squashing his light under a manicured thumb was the one answer. His brain tingled under a wash of dysregulation. He knew this struggle well, although that wasn’t something he could identify with words at the time. The need to be nice to her for his survival without consideration of his own feelings. 

The elf had to speak his mind. The emotions were justified, monstrous, causing deep resentment of his past to overflow with each sentence. 

“Don’t try to guilt me. I would be moronic to squander this opportunity. My problems would cease to exist if I was in control, but why would I expect you to be able to even fathom why it’s so important? Vampirism has created a homestead within me just as the tadpole has staked its claim in my skull. When do I get to reap the rewards of whatever decrepit undeath lies where my heart once was? Riddle me that, little half -elf.”

Thomasin’s brows scrunched into a grimace, more incredulous than anything. 

“Considering we know nothing about these stowaways means it could do eons more damage than what’s already been done to you. That doesn’t freak you out?”

“What? The powers above finally doing something for once and you want me to just give up? Why don’t we just hole up in a little cottage somewhere until this all blows over? Precious.” 

His voice was riddled with contempt, giving glimpses of how he must’ve bantered with the other spawn in his home.

Her heartbeat began to pick up as he twisted her words. Unfed anger broiled within her, lips parting to speak, unsure if an apology or retort would be what exited them. Although his vigilance was as alive as hers. She figured her uncertainty read clear as he cut her off before she could respond. 

He had never spoken to her like that. 

“I won’t be taking advice from a youth. In fact, what color my eyes once were is none of my business nor is it yours. No need to dwell on lost causes and what was.” 

Astarion rose from his spot in the grass and set his shirt aside on a flat rock facing the sun. His fingers wiggled and stretched out as if they, too, were strained like the muscles in his shoulders and neck. A gulp perforated the intensity of his voice, although its hostility still lurked beneath. 

“I’m going to go read in peace while the light is still out. At least occupy this damned thing in my head while I pass the time we have such an abundance of.”

Thomasin stared down at the water’s surface, not bothering to combat with her own vitriol. By the gods, did she want to. Call him names and accuse him of acting haughty and indignant when he got riled up. Let him know his groveling wouldn’t help anyone. The tension in her body kept it in though, knowing it could show him that she may have been, in fact, scared.

By the time her breathing stilled and the quietness of his absence floated about, the half-elf picked herself up. She threw the wet clothes in a wicker basket. A pluck at their clothesline from a neighboring tree to relocate it inside the cave with the others, ensuring to grab his shirt on her way back. There would be more heartache if his garment were swept away by the night’s winds or wandering thieves. 

Thomasin arrived by the fire as Wyll and Karlach snacked on crackers and made their own merriment. Although they knew of the tension brewing between the elf and half-elf, watching from a distance and the dramatics at the stream’s edge. When Thomasin greeted them with a frazzled demeanor, their postures straightened and Wyll was ready with a bowl in hand.

“Don’t mind Astarion… or take it personally. Whatever happened, don’t worry,” Karlach said in an attempt to comfort, even if she knew little detail. “Sit, have dinner with us. We were talking about Wyll’s big fancy dad.”

Wyll nodded along and leaned forward to take the pot’s lid off, letting steam and aroma fill their proximity. It swirled and melded with the cool air flowing into the cave’s mouth. Warm broth with floating specks of green and presumed beef flowed into a wooden bowl by the ladle.

“Ah, it’s nothing that hasn’t been told before. A duke’s son is still a son. I am a simple man,” he said, brushing off the unimportant concept of hierarchies. “I was just telling her about fencing classes I took as a teenager and how I’m still surprised when that muscle memory springs into action.”

Karlach abided by their distribution system. A bowl, once full, passed down the line, and replaced with another empty to be filled. The tiefling’s hand kicked up the bubbles in the broth as she handed her dinner. A handful of wheat crackers were set atop Thomasin’s thigh.

“I guess there’s some good tips to be had in all of that prancing around,” Karlach said, knowing Wyll had been precautious in timing his sip as to not burn himself.

The playful teasing made Wyll laugh on cue. Head tilted aside, catching himself and coughing in fear bits of green onion would spill from his mouth. “Hey, hey, hey. Even the most beautiful of sports can be deadly with quick precision and an open mind.” He gestured to Thomasin. “No different than battle through crafted melodies.”

“Ay, maybe you’ve got the right idea. When did you learn how to use a bow anyways? I’ve seen you strike down foes with that thing all willy nilly… Or is that magic stuff too?” Karlach asked and took a spoonful, slurping up her scalding dinner into an equally scalding mouth.

Thomasin chuckled at their antics as she finally began to feed herself after such a long day.

“No, not magic. I always had good aim as a kid and when I got older, I hung around all sorts of sketchy folks, a little like the Zhent. Illka taught me, the best sharpshooter in the organization’s whole siege of archers- unbelievable sight to see her always outdo the men she worked for.” 

Although she disguised the exhale as a means of cooling her meal, she tried to let go of anxieties tensing her shoulders. Looking back at her early adulthood could often feel like a blur. Criminal activities she only partially witnessed, people she only partially knew. Yet, a syndicate could feel like a cluster of mushrooms. An underground connection of nonverbal communication, leeching off one another and dependent on those cues. Inconspicuous once the soil was pat down and the outside world knew nothing of it.

Although, if there was anything to look back with sentimental nostalgia, it was Illka. Someone always attached to Thomasin’s hip, in a way that was both protective and needy at the same time. A woman, only a few years younger, whose alcohol intake soaked in her system when hyperfocus wasn’t needed. Warm swigs and blushing cheeks that softened her friend, turning her into a youth hoping pretty women liked her.

These were the tales that let Thomasin relax and continue.

 “A little blue tiefling, head always shaved, something snarky always coming out of her mouth. One of the funniest, most gutsy ladies I ever knew. We were close like sisters and she always told me I needed more ways to defend myself.”

“Sisters? Family is found everywhere! That’s adorable, ain’t it? If I put an apple on my head, would you be able to knock it clean off?” Another big heap of soup into the red tieflings mouth.

“Gods, maybe. Give me a shot of rum, shield your face, and I’ll see if I still have it in me.” Both hands rose to mimic a metaphorical bow, pulling back her spoon to let imaginary tension plunge it forward. Her hazel eye, the one still useful for its vision, closed tight and only the flick of two fingers signaled she had let the string of her phantom bow go. Her shoulders, then, slackened, sighing fondly. “Although if she knew who I’d grown into, she’d tell me I’ve gone soft now, probably. Once I got into the city, I only used it on rare occasions to hunt for food.”

“Huh. Maybe Astarion is jealous you’re a better hunter than him. Lil’ pointy guy can’t have competition.”

Thomasin was hesitant to laugh, still replaying his words in her head, but forced herself to push them aside and join the comradery. She bit off half of a cracker soaked in soup, the warm broth enveloping her stomach. Little by little, her nausea subsided. Friendly company was her favorite cure as was conversation. Wherever it wandered, she followed. Discussions of favorite books or confessing how her temper seemed to clash with Astarion.

Reassurance and the mental escapism of exchanging fictional stories. Tall tales of those in power in Baldur’s gate as if bold truths. The renowned magistrate with ninety tressyms in his home, all named after exotic fruits. The famed prison chief with a proclivity for lingerie under his uniform. Gortash’s drawer packed with unsent letters, penned to brothel workers whom he had undertipped and yet fallen head over heels for. Anything to get the three to clutch their stomachs in laughter.

-

That night, Thomasin snuck back into her tent with a mellow calm of knowing she had friends. Genuine connections. Food in her stomach and as much health that could be afforded. What wasn’t always as guaranteed, however, was sleep. Gnawing thoughts raced in her mind, causing short bouts of rest disrupted by tossing and turning. Nights where her tent felt more like an enclosure or terrarium, like she was being contained more than safe.

Per usual, she opted to use the excuse for a walk. In only a long night shirt and her woolen tights, Thomasin crept from her bed and walked along the cavern’s cold flat foundation. The cavern they found refuge in wasn’t massive, although its interior proved roomier than it looked on the outside. Curving walls and pitfalls where the ground gave out to darkness. Stout tunnels with rock that jut out from its walls like misshapen staircases. Craters along the roof sparse, but light still peeked in from a barrel-sized hole. 

The climb was easy enough, pushing her tired body upward with the reward of stargazing. Scooting herself along short edges and crawling until she reached a ledge and could stand up. Although, as much as the sky beamed in, another had caught her by surprise. He was only a few feet ahead, sitting with his legs crossed, and hadn’t noticed her presence. In the moonlight, all alone, a white-haired elf stared wistfully into the sky through the small porthole.

[jellyfitzjelly]

Rolan startled awake with a silent cry on his lips, a sheen of cold sweat on his skin as his heart thundered. The nightmare still clung to him as he panted.

"Everythin' right, bird?" Rugan slurred sleepily, barely awake.

The young man squeezed his arm reassuringly.

"I'm okay, don't worry. Go back to sleep."

"Did you have a nightmare?" the man asked, cracking one eye open. "It's about him."

It wasn't a question. It had stopped being a question after the third time Rolan had woken up screaming.

"It's fine. Don't worry. Sleep," the young man said.

Rugan pulled him into his arms.

"I'm sweaty," Rolan complained.

The man only vaguely hummed, going back to sleep. The wizard sighed, but did nothing to free himself. His heartbeat slowed, and soon enough he slipped back into sleep.

[adorablebanite]

I'm trying to get myself hyped up to continue my last 2 chapters and finally finish this- I took such a big hiatus after Gortweek, and I really want to get this done! The people reading/supporting the ENTIRE WAY though have been so lovely and nice! Please enjoy! (or don't! It's up to you!) Please also note -I am an extreme amateur - this is the first thing I've written in over 10 years xD

Destri couldn’t disclose to Lilla exactly why her emotions were so off-kilter, but the young cleric didn’t pressure her; instead they sat on the bed together, bantering as if they had been friends, or sisters, since forever.

Soon, Lilla was enthusiastically recanting her tale of the Banite tournament (not excluding her romp with Rugan, which the Bhaalspawn was particularly interested in), as well as her short stint at the House of Hope. Destri clung onto every word, enamoured with the story, as well as Lilla’s own journey to navigate her complicated thoughts. 

Though their situations were quite different, Destri found a modicum of relatability between her and Lilla. She hadn’t fully understood the reasons Lilla ended up in the hells until that night; only that she had sought to save the dashing Rugan’s life, at the expense of her soul - all under the assumption that the tyrant didn’t want her anymore. 

It was a wholly absurd concept, Destri thought, but endearing… and romantic - even funny, in many ways. It reminded her of one of her corny, lewd stories, and she found herself revelling in the friendship she had with Lilla. The young woman was so easy to love; her company so effortlessly accommodating…Destri found her mind wandering somewhat, while Lilla went on a scholarly tangent about her studies into the nature of succubi and incubi.

Instead of a bloody vista, as far as the eye could see, Destri was lulled by images of herself, Lilla, and the tyrant simply spending time together. Lord Gortash with his inkling for mechanical bones and joints, Lilla perhaps reading a book on whatever topic captured her at the moment, and Destri serenading them with a soft, serene cello piece before a cosy fire.

It was only a quick vision, but it was strong. Strong enough to make her heart ache with want. She can’t have that when everyone is dead. Before the tyrant, she wouldn’t have thought twice about cutting every cord of life from this world…But that damned, pathetic man and his adorable little gremlin of a woman were enough to make her question her born destiny. 

She should be angry at them; furious for distracting her…But perhaps due to Lilla’s calming spell, or simply her charming presence, there was no hate or rage in Destri’s heart…Only warmth. Love, maybe. Love was a foreign feeling she had only recently been acquainted with - which was hysterical , because clearly the tyrant was the same. Neither of them knew how to navigate each other, yet they did it anyway. When one was misled by some emotion or another, the other would guide them through the storm. 

Was that what love was? Was it really that simple? It seemed so simple if one didn’t think about it…But when Destri tried to consider what it was exactly, she screwed up her face in an attempt to understand the paradox: an unconditional kindness, while simultaneously acting as a transactional oath. You do no harm to me, nor I to you . But what if harm was done unintentionally? Like when the tyrant says something cruel he didn’t mean, or when Destri acts cold towards him to shield herself from fear? It’s not meant to hurt him, it’s meant to protect herself…But maybe protecting herself wasn’t as important as taking gentle care of him when he’s laying his beating heart bare for her to scrutinise…

Oh gods, oh gods. Oh father. 

I’m sorry, so sorry. 

You gave me life, and this is the tangle I have woven in thanks for your gifts…

But I never asked for these gifts, did I? 

I am your child. You say you love me. 

If you truly love me, then am I permitted to choose my own fate? 

Or is our love transactional, not unconditional? 

It’s it not a lovely paradox of one and the other, in which some queer, twisted balance can be agreed on?

Is our love your love only?

I pay you in souls, and you pay me in fleeting ecstasy.

…Is that love? 

I never knew anything else until the tyrant.

Can you lay your heart bare for me, like he has? 

Maybe then I can better understand your demands. 

Maybe then I can better understand my sordid birthright. 

“My Lady?” Lilla’s voice called to Destri from a million miles away; across a red ocean, beckoning her home. 

“Hmm?” Destri blinked the glaze away, focusing on the cleric’s beautiful features, “Oh, Lilla. I apologise…I’ve been distracted of late. So tired...”

Lilla responded with a warm smile, “Of course, My Lady - no apologies needed, you know that! I got lost in my own thoughts about devils and incubi, and maybe Rugan…”

This drew out a surprise guffaw from the Bhaalspawn, “You’ll really have to introduce me to this Rugan…It’s the first person I’ve heard you speak about in such a way besides the tyrant…Be sure he doesn’t become jealous!”

Lilla blushed, “Rugan will never be like Master…But I like him. I think. I also want to crush him, just a little - you know?”

Destri gawked at Lilla in surprise, then burst out into a flowery laugh, “I actually know exactly what you mean, my sweet.”

“Oh thank the gods,” Lilla sighed, “Besides, Master isn’t jealous of Rugan - he invited him over the night you two rescued me from the House of Hope!” The red on her cheeks deepened at the memory, “They both fucked me silly as a punishment.”

“WHAT?” Destri squealed in shocked delight, eyes flaring.

“Master made me drink my berry-red potion - which makes one

rather mad for cock - and they tied me up, and both had their way…”

“LILLA!!?!!”

“I thought you were maybe watching from the oak tree, like you sometimes do!”

“LILLA!!!!” Destri’s cheeks and ears burned with embarrassment; she covered her face and fell back onto the bed, laughing. 

“Oh please,” Lilla scoffed playfully, “It’s not like we’re exactly playing the role of chaste princesses at this point…”

Destri slapped her on the arm, trying and failing to prevent her laughs from turning into grotesque snorts, which caused Lilla to burst into laughter alongside her.