#he had time to read and also found other survivors. that's my canon now

[squalodinoappreciationsquad]

Ok, I felt a little bit called into the cause earlier on when I as lurking and reading @khr-guilded-cage posts.

And now I am wearing my clown wig and honk my kazoo and I am outlining the Canon Divergent AU where Dino, in spite of all, decides that he wants to support Xanxus during the Cradle Affair, screw everything.

Buckle up!

So.

Squalo has already killed Tyr, gained the title of Swords Emperor and as a bonus he is enrolled into the Varia.

This means that Dino and Squalo already argued bitterly, they are both mourning the loss of their situationship and they are just doing their thing.

Then ofc Xanxus explodes - we know why, I am not repeating this part.

Dino is on the fence.

His family is technically allied to the Vongola and by reason he should be supporting the Vongola against the Varia.

And yet.

Dino has never really gotten over his dad's death and he is kindof resenting Reborn for forcing him into a world he was desperately trying to run away from.

Dino knows perfectly that now if he doesn't support the Vongola, the Cavallone family is doomed.

And yet.

He knows Xanxus' situation well enough to think that it has never been a fair thing, he thinks that the only friend he has ever had is right there in the middle of everything.

Dino looks at Romario and Romario only says "we will follow our boss to hell and back".

And Dino decides that he is tired of the abuse, he is tired of being manhandled by Reborn, he is tired of being forced into situations and he is tired of not having any choice ever.

He shows up in the midst of the battle, the Vongola are already singing their victory, whilst the Varia look at him as if they want to kill him.

And Dino marches with his 5000 men into battle, right next to Xanxus and against the Vongola.

Now, I have two possible outcomes, you choose whichever you like best.

THE VARIA WIN

Well, the battle ends hen Xanxus kills Timoteo and incapacitates forever Iemitsu, whilst Reborn is nowhere to be found, being chased by some hellions. Dino literally left behind the chocolate and the sweetness he had to be able to just be the Bucking Bronco.

For him it is only half a victory, Reborn did manage to make him a ruthless mafia leader. He does have the Varia's gratitude and that means that now the Vongola are now under Xanxus.

Dino's debts are immediately erased, he gains enough influence and power, power that he immediately uses to elect a new Cavallone Decimo. Dino retires and only the Varia and Romario know where he lives and what he does

He has finally some choice, he decides to live as normally and as anonymously as possible, even though the blood on his hands definitely leaves his ugly mark.

At least he has rekindled his situationship with Squalo and Xanxus is civil with him.

This may mean no Tsuna in the picture.

THE VARIA LOSE

Well, the battle was fought valiantly on both sides, but the Vongola outnumbered the Varia and Cavallone.

Xanxus is put in the freezer, things go as per canon, but with a difference.

18 yrs old Squalo takes the command of the Varia ad interim and with the help of Marmon disguises all of the Cavallone survivors as Varia soldiers - he will have a lot of work between reforging documents, trying to make everything look good enough so that both Timoteo and Iemitsu think that everything is back under their control

Dino is also in the freezer - there is no fucking way they are letting go another Sky. Cue Squalo swearing another oath to free Dino as well, other than Xanxus.

Romario is in the Varia too, albeit disguised.

For the time being the Varia are behaving like role model citizens, but the plans are in the works.

And ofc Tsuna is in the picture.

Plans are being actioned - Tsuna has to see the Vongola's ruthlessness with his own eyes and once again Romario ill be a key.

Thoughts? Comments? Prayers?

[mamuzzy]

MAMUZZY READS HARD CONTACT: CHAPTER 1.3

I took my sweet time to continue but here we are, the last segment of Chapter 1 where meet the another two members of the future Omega Squad, Niner and Fi!

Links to the previous posts

Prologue <- If you want to follow me through you can start here ^^

Chapter 1.1 Post-Geonosis Darman

Chapter 1.2 Etain Tur-Mukan

My other Repcomm Blurbs

What you will find here

- Brief mention of the similiarities between the Omega Squad, Nulls and Bad Batch

- First introduction of Niner and Fi

- Niner and Fi's survivor's guilt

Now with reaction gifs.

People are saying that the Bad Batch are based on Delta Squad, which can be true, given they are both Commando Squads, have specializations and there are a lot of similarities between Crosshair and Sev, but after reading the books, I can say, The Bad Batch was more likely got inspiration from Omega Squad + Null ARCs. The Batch are deviant compared to other clones, they don’t respect authority unless they like the person, they have special abilities (Nulls shared all, the Batch had these abilities divided between them), and most importantly: THE BLACK ARMOR.

Omega Squad is horribly underrated, and if you never read the books there is a chance that you will miss these wonderful boys in black, the actual guys who inspired the Bad Batch’s black armor. (mind that in the first book it's still white, and they will get the black one in Triple Zero.)

I forgot to mention in the Darman post that with the TCW, ARC Trooper lore was completely rewritten in the show, and the Clone Commandos were completely erased from canon UNTIL the reintroduction of Delta Squad as a small cameo in the Witches of the Mist episode. TCW then came up with their on original clone commando squad, the Foxtrot, tied to the 212th, and with it, we have our beloved Gregor too and the Bad Batch is also a Commando squad. Commandos remaining with the empire in The Bad Batch is also inspired by the entire Imperial Commando: 501st book which has never had continuation due to lore incompatibilities with the at-that-time airing TCW.

Okay~ LET’S GOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

We start with Niner - RC-1309 - and I will point out every occasions throughout this re-reading where he is cleaning his equipment, because when they are not on mission or in cryostasis, he usually cleans his gear. My poor anxious baby.

After the disastrous loss in the Commando ranks, reorganizing was needed, and lot of pods were merged to together to fill out the empty spaces - replace their dead comrades. Omega Squad are like this. While Niner, Fi and Darman were all trained under Kal Skirata, they were all in different pods, and because these four-people groups were so tight-knit, they didn’t form close connections to others.

So let’s just say, Niner and Fi’s first meeting wasn’t too friendly. They are both grieving, and they have to deal with the fact that their dead brothers are replaced with someone else, someone stranger.

You may know Fi as a jokester of the group but this entry scene weren’t funny at all. It was heartbreaking. Niner didn't accept the courtesy gesture of handshake.

BACK TO CLEANING.

Fi accomodates himself and Niner is constantly reminded that his podmates aren't here and never will be.

Niner had a podbrother, named Sev who is not the same as Delta Squad Sev. Choosing numbers as names are very common among the clones so there is a chance that you would meet with others with your own name.

Also I find this lore about the socialization of the CT-s compared to RC-s.

Meaning even if a CT lost someone important, comfort can be found in other familiar faces around him. When an RC lose his entire squad, he remains alone and completely alone. We saw how Darman was lost in the sea of strangers.

Niner lost a brother before, so loss for him is not something unfamiliar.

Commando cadets died during training.

Also I really loved this conversation between Niner and Fi.

Niner casually talking about how they weren’t used as they were intended. The total miscommunication between them, because Niner doesn’t want to say it out loud that he miss his squad and he blames the whole battle for losing his brothers. Niner is in pain, and want to talk about it, he just… can’t.

Also the revival Fi mentions is getting out of the cryostasis.

More about Niner’s cleaning “ritual”.

Another clashing between Fi and Niner.

They are so awkward with each other, I love them.

What finally broke the ice between them is when Fi started to sing the Dha Werda Verda. This song is from the OST of Republic Commando game and was played during Kachirho Bridge on Kashyyyk. The song along with the Vode An is mentioned and sang a lot throughout the books. ^^

A song they both now. The values they both know very well. A commond ground when nothing else works, when words fail, when you feel alone. Maybe they are not so different after all.

While singing, Niner’s survival guilt is manifesting.

Fi once again helds out a metaphorical hand to Niner. And Niner accept it.

And this concludes the whole Chapter 1.

I'm trying to make these blurbs shorter, and maybe doing the lore-detours in separate posts to not make it overwhelming.

[themiimagebehindfire]

I just want to clear something up cause I saw confusion:

No. Jensen is NOT the one who gave Tom his scars. It was all part of the dream. Nothing in that dream sequence actually happened.

(Even though I do agree it’s weird how Aiden is there when this takes place before All Stars)

The whole point of this is to showcase Tom’s mental state at this point in his life. And dreams are very ludicrous in logic in anyone’s case. Just because the dream is ludicrous, doesn't mean it's irrelevant to understanding Tom as a character.

CANONICALLY, Tom is a torture survivor. He was kidnapped when he fumbled his spy mission and the captors proceeded to heavily torture him, giving him his scars. And it's heavily implied that his co-workers and boss shamed him for being tortured, as they weren't happy with how the mission went.

The show doesn't really NEED to show the actual backstory of Tom getting tortured, one cause I think that'd get OddNations demonetized, and two cause the aftermath of the incident is the more important detail.

It shows with almost all of his actions and insecurities and how he views himself. Honestly, it's a miracle he's not worse. He hid his face in a mask, he constantly viewed himself in the mirror in shame, he talks very lowly of himself, and he has a hard time not jumping to the instinct to put a wall up so he doesn't get hurt again.

You see where I'm going with this.

I admit, I too was very frustrated with him in the first half of All Stars. Mostly cause I was giving all my sympathy towards Jake like a bias bitch. (He is NOT innocent either) But then Episode 9 happened and we got the explanation, and after that, Tom took accountability and did what he could to make up for what he'd done. I at least appreciate that. (Do I think it could've been directed better? Absolutely. But at least the accountability is THERE. It could've very easily not been there at all.)

I DON'T want this to be read as 'Tom is now excused for all of his bad actions'. Because that's NOT what the episode, or the story, is saying.

Now, I am NOT a torture victim/survivor, so anyone who IS can clarify better if this is accurate portrayal of the psychological aftermath, better than me. So take my words with a grain of salt.

Tom DIDN'T avoid Jake because he hated Jake and held a grudge for what happened. (Which is what I thought at the start of All Stars before it was explained otherwise) He avoided Jake because he loved him, but hated himself so much that he couldn't see himself as good enough, both to be around him or to survive another potential future that could lead to torture. (The very thing that scarred his face, which ashamed him)

You want to love someone, you got to love yourself. Both of them hated themselves. So they couldn't love each other until they found good in themselves. Jake just had the more obvious arc cause unlike Tom, Jake is there the entirety of All Stars.

Trauma does not 'make you stronger'. It makes you a pain in the ass to deal with. That's because it causes a lot of psychological damage and anxiety.

And in Tom's case, it is GETTING HURT. Getting hurt in several ways both physically, but even more so, mentally. His life is surrounded by getting hurt. And getting hurt is something painful, so he doesn't want to be hurt if he can help it.

The show doesn't NEED to show the backstory of the torture, (That's for fanfic writers to do if they love making Tom suffer) because the aftermath of that backstory is what was important.

It's also the aftermath of All Stars that was important because despite how hurt they got, they still worked it out and that was what mattered in the end. Maybe not to every couple, but to them it's what mattered.

Can Tom be excused for what he's done? HELL NO. But sometimes you gotta understand the character's POV and what was established that they've been through before you can make bold claims.

I said this with my post about Jake and this applies to Tom too: Nobody is going to make the most rational choice every time. Nobody is going to make the correct choice every time.

You think a simple slap in the face is going to undo a ton of baggage and trauma and make a character act perfect immediately afterwards? No. That's crazy to think about.

[boygiwrites]

Harley D. Dixon 1

• Gen Tags. Found family, Daddy issues, Hurt and comfort, Gore.

• Summary. Harley D. Dixon is a tough yet sweet little girl who until the dead started eating the living, thought she had seen it all. Alongside a mismatched group of survivors in rural Georgia, Harley and her Dad are forced to leave their small life behind and learn how to survive all over again through the horrors of the apocalypse.

An amazing edit inspired by this story! (Cred to Cora_Line99) Harley D. Dixon's Pinterest Board! Harley D. Dixon's Playlist!

📖Chapter List.

❤️Cross-Posted from Ao3.

Author's Note. Here we gooo! Argh, I'm so excited.

I've been wanting to write something like this for a long, long time. I've read just about every 'Daryl has a daughter' story out there, and now I've finally got my own to share. I just love Daryl, and Daryl with a kid is a whole other thing. We all know he wouldn't be the perfect parent, so you bet I'm gonna play right into that. He's gonna swear, he's gonna be strict, and he's gonna mess up. As for Harley (Yes, as in the motorcycle brand), I love her too. So ready to write her.

This story will cover the general plot of the show. To keep things fresh, I've made sure that almost every canon scene has undergone at least one small change. Plus, of course, many new scenes. Occasionally, I'll make bigger changes just to keep you on your feet! Nobody's safe! I'm also gonna be expanding on all the characters. And lastly — FOUND FAMILY! Piles and piles and piles of found family, eventually. I live for found family.

Please enjoy reading! :)

My Uncle Merle died today.

I'm sitting in a crinkly green camping chair, watching embers die.

I don't wanna think about my Uncle right now, so I think about something else.

The fire was built last night by Glenn and Morales. Then Lori came along this morning very quietly and made it alive again with logs and wads of notebook paper. Thinking about facts is easy. It's like sucking on a plain candy that tastes like nothing. There's a navy-blue blanket across my lap with three holes in it, perfect for nibbling, poking, and ripping. Dale gave it to me when the cold settled in this afternoon. He told me he reckons it's around June, as he covered my shoulders, which used to be his niece's birthday.

He says she looked a little like me. That means she's dead. So many people are dead, now.

A thin log in the campfire cracks and tumbles over after trying to stay upright all morning. I hope I don't look like that log.

I can hear Officer Rick approaching. My stomach becomes a stone.

I can tell it's Rick because he's got one of them power walks that you can hear coming from a mile away, which I think makes him pretty stupid. He's loud, and loud is dangerous, and dangerous is stupid. My Dad's not like that. Unless he's angry or running, ain't nobody hearing my Dad coming; especially not no squirrels.

He's almost as big as my Grandpappy Dixon, who people used to say was as big as a house, and he wears super heavy boots from a hunting store near our house — but he's still not loud, or dangerous, or stupid. Not like Officer Rick.

"Hey, Harley."

I think I hate Officer Rick. I think I hate everyone.

And I think I might be crying now, too. I focus on twirling the blanket strings around my finger so I have something very simple to think about, which is that it hurts real bad when I twist it tight. I see Rick crouch down in front of me. He takes a while to say anything else, and it's prolly 'cause he's tryna be real careful, so he don't make me cry even more.

If my Dad weren't out hunting, he'd prolly slap Rick and everybody else that's tried badgering me today dead for tryna do his job for him. I feel like, just by sitting here, I'm disobeying him. Rick ain't my Daddy.

"We, uh..." He clears his throat. "Me and Lori, and some other folks are uh... Well, we're all a little worried about you, honey, okay?"

I imagine a small group of folks gathered by the RV right now, watching me and Rick; wondering if he's gonna be the one to get through to me.

I'm worried for when my Daddy comes back. When he finds out about Uncle Merle, he's gonna be fuming. He's gonna be like one of them cartoon characters with the bright red faces and the smoke comin' outta their ears, stomping all around, and he's prolly gonna kill somebody. It's prolly gonna be Rick. He always told me cops are bastard liars, and that they can't help us.

I look up at Rick. Yep, I've been crying.

Rick's all blurry, but I can still make out his ugly Sheriff's badge and his scary blue eyes and his frowning eyebrows that look like clenched fists, and I can tell he's been waiting to be the one to talk to me. I bet he thinks it makes him better than everyone else; better than my Uncle Merle, who he left to die just 'cause he ain't like him. I wanna kick Rick right in the face. I think he knows this, but he doesn't move.

"First off, I wanna say that I'm sorry about what happened to your Uncle Merle." Rick says all nice and gentle.

Nothin' happened to him.

It weren't no freak accident, which is what Uncle Merle used to say happened to my Momma.

Rick killed him.

"I know he meant a lot to you. And I'm sorry. If I had'a known he had a niece to come back to, maybe I woulda been a little wiser with my decision makin'. But Harley," He tilts his head and puts a hand on my knee for this part. "You gotta know, like I know, that your Uncle was a danger to us all."

There's a little angry parasite inside of me. It's been growing and growing ever since the group came back from Atlanta, and I couldn't find my Uncle Merle in the crowd. I've never noticed my Uncle Merle so much than when I realised he wasn't there. It was like there was the wrong amount of space left in the air and Rick was taking up the too much of it. Ever since the cars showed up, everything has been wrong, wrong, wrong.

Ever since Rick showed up.

"If I hadn't stepped in when and how I did," Rick says, "Your Uncle wouldda gotten us all in a lotta trouble."

Another log crumbles in the campfire. My finger aches and pulses around the string.

That hungry little parasite — hungry for Rick to hurt like I'm hurting, needing it more than anything — makes me tell him, "I wish he did." And again, because it feels good. Rick becomes even more blurry, as my voice makes an embarrassing hicking noise. "I wish you died."

I expect to be hit. That's what happens sometimes, when little girls don't know their place.

Tellin' adults I want them dead — That ain't my place. And I know it. I just don't care.

My Uncle Merle wasn't a danger, he was just Uncle Merle; Has been since I could talk. He used to feed me bits of his sandwich out on the deck back at home, like the tomato, 'cause he ain't like the taste. He used to fix my bike when it was broken. He used to make sure I was the first one to open presents at Christmas, and help me wrestle the wrapping when there was too much tape. He used to pull my wobbly baby teeth out for me and let me outside without shoes. He wasn't mean, or bad, or loud, or dangerous, or stupid; at least not always. He wasn't the one that got my Momma killed. He was good. And now he'd dead.

If someone had to die, I wish it had'a been Rick — Stupid, noisy, idiot Rick who ain't shed one single tear after what he done to my Uncle Merle.

I wanna get hit. I want him to hit me so bad that I'm allowed to hit him back.

"Okay." Rick says, and I can't breathe.

I feel like everything goes silent throughout camp, like the chairs and the cars and the people are all holding their breaths like I am. He actually looks a little sad, which feels really, really bad, because I wanna be angry.

"Okay. That's okay."

But as I think about my Uncle Merle, and the tomatoes, and my old bike, and what Christmas used to feel like, and my Daddy, and how he ain't even know about Merle yet, I realise I'm just really, really sad.

I can't even see Rick anymore, my eyes are so watery. My whole body hurts from being sad. I feel like I'm sick and I need to go to the doctor, but I don't even know what for. There aren't even any doctors here. Just two bastard liar cops, some campers, and a space where my Uncle Merle should be.

I think, after a while, Rick leaves.

My Dad still keeps his wallet.

It's in a backpack under his sleeping cot. He says that everything inside that bag will keep us alive some day, if we ever need to leave the quarry camp. He said I need to know exactly where it is so that I can grab it if he can't. He showed me everything the night we got here, because he forced me to, because it's important. The other kids don't learn stuff like this from their parents. It makes me feel smart. I'm in on a secret. He showed me the bug spray, which keeps our skin healthy from bug diseases, and he showed me the flashlight, which has two batteries and a big black button. He showed me the compass, the box of matches, the big knife, the little knife, the rope, and the map. It's like a Jenga tower. If we lose even one thing from the backpack; everything topples, and we die — I die. You gotta listen t'me, chicken. My Daddy's always been like this.

But the wallet made no sense.

We don't gotta pay taxes no more, like Merle said. I don't know what taxes are, except they're bad, and gone, and nobody liked them anyway. And I saw my Dad burn all his money in a campfire one night, so it can't be that.

It's the pictures, Dad told me. He flipped it open like a book, and we looked at 'em together on top of his sleeping bag. I felt like crying for a second because we forgot all my storybooks when we left our house, but Daddy hates it when I cry, so I dried up. Crying is for babies, and I'm a big girl. He showed me a photo of an actual baby, and after he touched the baby's face with his fingertip, he said the baby was me. I didn't think I could look like that. He stopped talking for a while. I listened to the cicadas in the trees to pass the time while he touched the photo. Then it was bedtime.

I'm looking at the photo now, waiting for him to get back.

I was a very pink baby. I was only the size of his forearm, which in the photo, hasn't been tattooed yet. The tattoo of my name is missing, which goes up his wrist in curly letters. Harley Davidson Dixon. It's the name of a motorcycle. The tattoo of the skull and the bleeding angel are missing, too. He's fixing my baby blanket around my chin. I guess he's been doing that since the day I was born. Every night, at least up until last week, my Dad tucks me into bed and sings me the same song. Hush little baby, don't say a word. Daddy's gonna buy you a mockingbird. I like his voice when he sings to me. Usually, he's yelling, or grumblin', but in those twenty seconds before I have to go to sleep, and nobody else is listening, he's softly whispering the lyrics to me, and touching on my ears and my cheeks. In the photo, he's crying down into his smiling mouth. That's something he doesn't do anymore.

The next photo is of us at the zoo. I know it was taken on one of the weekends I was at my Dad's house, because my Momma's not in this one. Just my Dad and two of his friends, I think, who are throwing rock star hands in the air. I'm wearing a black shirt with a videogame character on it that my Dad likes, and brown pants. I'm sitting on my Dad's hip as we pose in front of three giant elephants. My Dad's got a tiny purple backpack over his shoulder that makes him look sorta funny. It used to be mine. I'm looking at the elephant's long, silly-straw trunk as it tries to sniff us, but my Daddy's lookin' at me. I wish I remembered this day.

The third photo is a school photo with a swirly blue background. I remember this one. My Momma did my hair that day.

I know why he keeps his wallet, now. Just like how we need the bug spray, and the matches, and the rope, and the knives, and the map, and the flashlight to stay alive — I think my Dad needs these photos. They won't keep him warm or stop bugs from chewing on him, but he needs them.

I shove the wallet back where I found it, 'cause I'm not meant to be goin' through my Dad's things.

My Dad comes back while I'm vomiting under a tree.

At first, he doesn't see me. He calls for me to come get my little butt over there, so I can help him and Uncle Merle stew up some rabbits for dinner but when he hears me retch, he comes running over. I hear his crossbow drop and some more people call after him.

One minute, Lori and Amy are holding back my hair and patting my shoulders the best they can, and the next, my Daddy's forcing his way in. I'm rocking and I'm swaying like I'm on a life raft in the ocean, and I can hear Rick's voice and then Shane's and then Dale's. My Dad grabs the back of my neck and squeezes it, the way Lori and Amy would never know how to do, and tells me to lean forward some more. It works. I vomit up a chunky puddle of peaches and jerky into the dirt.

Then, I'm empty, and I'm crying — crying hard — into my Dad's lap.

"Someone wanna tell me what the Hell's goin' on here?" He snarls at whoever's around.

Feels like half the camp is here.

"How 'bout we all just try—" Shane's suggesting, but my Dad cuts him off.

"How 'bout ya'll just spit it out? And where the Hell's my brother?"

That makes me bury deeper into my Dad's legs, moaning and hiccupping. He puts a hand over my head. He's clocked the problem.

"Where the Hell's my damn brother?"

"Look, Daryl," Shane levels, "I'm just gonna come out and say it, alright? There was a problem in Atlanta."

My Dad's panting, now. "What fuckin' 'problem'?"

"Listen—"

"He dead?" Underneath me, my Dad's muscles are lurching and stopping, lurching and stopping, like he wants so much to just jump up and knock Shane to the ground, but he won't bring himself to leave me. The camp has gone completely silent.

Shane stammers. I've never heard Shane stammer. "We're— We're not sure."

The silence just keeps on goin' and goin' and goin', and somehow, it's even scarier than the yelling.

"There's no easy way to say this," Rick says, voice lowered. I wonder what my Dad looks like; if I was right about the cartoon thing.

Dad presses my head further into his stomach. "Who're you?"

"Rick Grimes."

"'Rick Grimes'." He spits, like it's an insult. It is. Bastard cop liar. "You got sum' you wanna tell me?"

"Your brother was a danger to us all." Lies Rick. "So I handcuffed him on a roof; Hooked him to a piece of metal. He's still there."

After he says this, something in the air must have changed; something must have snapped without even makin' a sound, because Lori's whispering to me that I should follow her back to camp, like we're running out of time. She tries to pull me away, but I kick her; kick her hard, in the shin. She tries again. I realise she's trying to separate me from my Dad. Then, I realise he's sorta shaking. Lurching, stopping, lurching stopping. Silence, silence.

"Lemme get this straight." Dad whispers, and it's not the nice kind, like when he sings. "You're tellin' me that you handcuffed my brother to a roof."

Glenn's pulling at me now, too. Nobody else moves a muscle.

"And you left him there?!"

This time, he lurches and he doesn't stop. Glenn catches me as I'm flung from my Daddy's hip, and he passes me off to Lori as Dad goes lunging at Rick. The brown pebbles go flying up into the air. My Dad tackles Rick at the waist, and they crash into the leaves and the twigs, and his fist — The one with my birth date tattooed on each knuckle — goes smack, smack, smack, into Rick's cheek. There's yelling; scrambling. Glenn and Shane pull my Dad off of Rick, and that smacking sound stops. Dad beats Shane offa him and then, — 

"Watch the knife!" T-Dog yells. Now there's a swishing sound, and grunting sounds, and I was right — My Daddy's gonna kill Rick.

My Daddy's killed someone before. He did it on accident, 'cause he got so angry that he didn't stop until the guy was dead and gone, which means that it was aggravated manslaughter. It was in the afternoon, just like it is right now, and I was playin' in the front yard in the sprinklers. My Dad and Uncle Merle were in the open garage, smoking and poking at their bikes with tools. Ronnie lived two trailers down. I was small, and easy to pick up, so I don't remember much, but Ronnie snatched me up right there in the yard. My Daddy says he was gon' take me. But he didn't let him. Ronnie got chased into the woods, and for two days, my Daddy and Uncle Merle searched for him. Then they beat him so bad his Momma ain't recognise him when the ambulance people dragged him out in a big black bag, and the cops took my Daddy away while the sun rose. I wasn't allowed to see him for four and a half years.

I need my Dad. Suddenly, I'm shrieking at him to stop, even though I want Rick dead so bad. By now, Shane's got my Dad in a chokehold up against a tree. Are he and Rick allowed to take my Daddy away? Lori and — I think that's Amy — are shushin' me, but I just keep hittin' on them and shouting.

I writhe in the dirt. "Stop! Daddy!"

"Damn pigs!" Dad growls. "You're stressin' out my kid, now! Lemme the Hell go!"

Shane laughs. "Nah, I think it's better if I don't." Then he turns to Lori, because what my Dad said is true. "Get Harley out of here."

I don't let her move me when she tries.

Dad struggles. "Chokehold's illegal, bastard!"

"You can file a complaint later." Shane scoffs. "We got all day here."

Rick steals my Dad's knife off the ground and gets in his face. His cheek is all red and purple. The fight's over. "What I did was not on a whim," He tells my Dad straight. "Your brother does not work and play well with others. I did what had to be done in the moment, to keep us all alive."

He's lyin'. He's lyin' again. My Uncle Merle chopped these people's firewood and brought them meat. He worked well.

My Dad shoots out a foot to try hit Rick in the crotch. He misses. Shane pushes his face harder into the tree.

"It's not Rick's fault." T-Dog holds up his hands, coming close. "It's mine. I had the key. I dropped it."

"You couldn't pick it up?" Dad sasses.

"It fell in a drain." T-Dog serves up this answer like it means anything at all. I hate him.

"If that's 'posed to make me feel better, it don't." 

"Well, maybe this will." T-Dog's lookin' at me, now, too. "The door to the roof — I locked it with a padlock so the geeks couldn't get to him. There's a good chance he's still alive."

I heard this all before, when all them people kept coming up to me at the campfire. Lori told me to get some food in my stomach; the peaches and jerky. Shane tried to make me go play with Carl. T-Dog said sorry over and over again. Dale gave me the blanket. Rick made me cry. I know how this goes, though. Gettin' someone killed and killin' them with your actual hands are the same thing. I know that.

"To Hell with all'a ya'll!"

He shakes Shane off and beelines for me. He takes me from Lori with bloodied hands — Rick's blood — and I let him yank me by the back of my shirt to my feet, and I fall into his chest when he crouches. His breath is heavy on my neck. Even his skin is hot.

Lori's pale as an egg. I think she's scared of my Dad.

He takes a big breath, stands up, and drags me by the hand back to our tent without sayin' another word.

[pixel7777]

A Star(ion) Burns Bright

🌟✨The Upper City remembers Astarion as Cazador's pretty puppet. Lady Vensara remembers him as an evening's entertainment. All of Baldur's Gate knows him as the Midnight Magistrate. No one seems to have noticed his new strength, or the powerful friends standing behind him. Their mistake.✨🌟

Starts very dark but there's fluff, feels, and raunchy post-nookie cuddling to look forward to on your way to a triumphant ending.

This is a Bloodweave sequel to A Star(ion) is Born and likely won't make as much sense without reading it first.

Content Tags: During Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Past Rape/Non-Con, Astarion's Past Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Threatening Repeated Sexual Assault, Threatening Repeated Torture, Demeaning Language, Abuser returns to threaten survivor with more abuse, Speaking Truth to Power, Astarion's Truth is Really Hard to Hear, Confronting Abusers, Protective Partners, Supportive Partner Gale, Political Intrigue, Reclaiming Your Story, Taking Back Power, POV Astarion, Non-explicit Sexual Content, ~15K Words

Read here below the break or on AO3!

If you enjoy this mix of angst, cuddles, and found family shenanigans, please reblog/reply here or leave a comment/kudos on AO3. I can't help being hungry for feedback - feed the beast!

A Star(ion) Burns Bright

The Lower City's evening air carried the familiar mix of chimney smoke, street food, and too many people living too close together. The cobblestones near the Elfsong were marginally better maintained than elsewhere, likely due to the constant flow of visitors to the famous tavern. Not quite the rarefied atmosphere of the Upper City, but it had its own peculiar charm.

"Another productive day of finding absolutely nothing," Astarion drawled, falling into step beside Gale. "Though I suppose no news is good news when it comes to murder investigations."

"At least you're getting recognized for your talents." Gale's eyes crinkled with barely suppressed mirth. "That dock worker seemed quite impressed by meeting the Midnight Magistrate"

"Yes, well." Astarion smoothed his collar. "If I'd known that one night would lead to such notoriety and everyone finding me so recognizable, I might have reconsidered a hood."

"And ruin your hair?" The whole party chimed in, having heard this exchange multiple times over the past few days.

Astarion rolled his eyes but couldn't quite suppress his smile. The fame was irritating, yes, but also... oddly validating. And with the party's support—with Gale's support—even the prospect of confronting Cazador felt less daunting.

A figure detached from the shadows near the tavern's entrance. Astarion sighed, preparing his now-practiced "gracious performer" smile.

"Might I have a moment of your time?" The cloaked figure's voice was carefully neutral.

"Of course, darling." He waved the others ahead. "Though I'm afraid I left my quill at—"

The figure thrust a sealed envelope into his hands and melted back into the evening crowd without another word. The wax seal caught the light from the tavern's windows, and Astarion's smile froze on his face.  The sight of the chain motif pressed into dark red wax made Astarion's fingers go numb. He knew that seal—had seen it pressed into documents on mahogany desks while he had been forced to—

No, deal with that later. Astarion slipped the letter into his jacket with the same casual grace he used to lift purses and schooled his expression.

"Everything alright?" Gale called from the tavern door.

"Just another adoring fan." The lie rolled off his tongue with ease as he followed the party into the tavern. Two centuries of performing for Cazador's amusement had taught him how to keep his voice light even when his insides felt like lead. "Go on up. I'll join you shortly—thought I might acquire some proper wine first. The selection in our rooms is frankly criminal."

"Oh? And you think you can choose better than the wizard of Waterdeep?"

Any other time, he would have delighted in their usual banter. Now the envelope seemed to burn against his chest. "Darling, a blind drunk could choose better than whatever swill you've been praising."

"We'll see about that." Gale's chuckle faded as he headed upstairs.

Astarion waited as the party's footsteps receded up the stairs as he moved toward the bar. Once certain they were out of sight, he diverted to a shadowed alcove, positioning himself with his back to the wall and a clear view of the tavern floor.

The din of the evening crowd provided cover as he pulled the envelop out from his pocket and broke the seal, the familiar scent of Lady Vensara's perfume rising from the paper. His stomach lurched. How many times had he caught that same scent—

Focus. Read first. Panic later.

Astarion unfolded the letter, the heavy cream paper crackling beneath his fingers.

Dearest Pet,

What a delightful surprise to discover that Cazador's prettiest possession has found such novel ways to occupy himself. Your little "performance" at the Laughing Lantern caused quite a stir among certain circles—though I confess myself disappointed by how unfavorably you painted your intimate encounters. Am I to assume you meant to include your times with me?  Surely not. We were special, together.

Such a clever conceit, pretending to be what you actually are. The common folk eat up your "vampire act" with such charming naivety. But we both know there's nothing artificial about those fangs of yours, don't we? I remember how they felt grazing against my throat those nights Cazador so generously shared you.

I wonder how your adoring public might react if they learned the truth? Would they still find it all so entertaining? Or would they remember how many of their neighbors have gone missing over the years?

Perhaps we should discuss how to... adjust certain impressions. The Silver Chalice, tonight at midnight. I do so miss our time together, and I'm certain we can come to an arrangement that benefits us both.

Do try not to keep me waiting. If you do, I may have to seek more receptive audiences for my concerns.

Fondly remembering our times together,

Lady Vensara

P.S. That wizard you've been seen with—does he know what sort of creature shares his bed? Such a shame if something were to... sour between you.

The paper crumpled in his grip as memories crashed over him like waves of rank sewage. Her boudoir, all gilt and velvet, the scent of that same perfume—

No. He wouldn't—

"Such a pretty thing," she had crooned, running those blood-red nails down his chest. "Show me how well Cazador has trained you."

Astarion's back hit rough stone as he pressed against the wall, trying to ground himself in the present. The nerve of her, implying anything about Gale. As if she could understand what existed between them. As if her grotesque games could compare to—

"Lick the wine from the floor, pet. Every. Last. Drop." Her laugh as he had complied, unable to refuse, the vintage mixing with dirt ground into the expensive carpets. "Good boy. Now thank me for the privilege."

His fangs pierced his inner cheek. The sharp pain helped, but not enough. She had always delighted in making him thank her for each degradation, each humiliation. Making him beg for more—

"Crawl to me. Like the animal you are." The hem of her dress sweeping past as she circled him. "Cazador may have made you a monster, but I'll remind you what you really are—nothing but a toy for your betters."

The letter crumpled further in his fist. She thought herself so far above him, this petty creature who could only feel powerful by grinding others beneath her heel. As if she weren't the real monster—

Her perfectly manicured hand in his hair, yanking his head back as she—

No. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of falling apart. He was no longer that creature who could be commanded to grovel at her feet. He had his freedom, his dignity, his—

"Tell me how much you love this," she had whispered, forcing him to—

Bile rose in his throat.

Astarion forced himself to take slow, measured breaths, smoothing the letter against the wall. The past was the past. What mattered now was the threat Vensara posed—not just to him, but to their mission. To Gale.

The Dream Guardian's words echoed in his mind: "Build alliances. The city must stand united." And here he was, in danger of making an enemy of one of the most connected Patriars in Baldur's Gate. Vensara's reputation gleamed like her perfectly maintained façade—patron of the arts, supporter of orphanages, friend to the right causes. Her word could sway dozens of other influential families.

He tucked the mangled letter into his jacket. The wise choice was clear. Submit to one night of humiliation, secure her support, and help ensure Gale and the others survived what was coming. His dignity was a small price to pay for their survival.

But Gale would never allow it. It was touching, but also terrifying. They needed every advantage they could get against the Absolute. Gale would not be reasonable about this situation… if he knew.

The evening crowd swelled around him as he pushed off from the wall. No. This was his mess to clean up. He had to find a way to neutralize her threat without sacrificing their chances of victory. He had to.

He straightened his collar and headed for the bar to buy the wine he had promised Gale. Astarion tossed gold pieces on the bar and waved at the bartender. "Your finest Shadowvale Red. Three bottles."

His fingers brushed the letter in his pocket. The Silver Chalice—of course Ventara would choose that overpriced cesspit, where the wine cost more than most families earned in a month and the wealthy went to see and be seen. He would need his best outfit—the midnight blue ensemble with silver threading. The one Gale had called "devastatingly elegant" just last week when he had procured it.

Gale.

His chest ached at the thought of sneaking away, of lying to those clever eyes that saw through him so easily. Their relationship was still delicate, new—like spring flowers after winter's frost. And here he was, already preparing to risk it.

But what choice did he have? Vensara had noticed Gale. Had threatened him, however obliquely. The memory of her "hospitality" rose like bile in his throat. He wouldn't—couldn't—let her anywhere near Gale.

"Your purchase, sir." The bartender's voice snapped him back to the present.

Astarion gathered the bottles, letting his fingers trace the familiar shapes. Focus on the practical. He would need to time this perfectly—wait until Gale was deeply asleep, then slip away without disturbing him.

The thought of those arms around him, warm and safe, made his resolve waver. But no. Better to handle this himself than risk everything they'd built. Better to put on one more show, play one more part.

He had had centuries of practice, after all.

* * *

The sounds of shifting bodies and quiet conversations drifted through the alcove's thin curtains. Astarion pressed closer to Gale in their shared bed, savoring his warmth. Even with the cramped quarters and lack of privacy, these moments felt sacred—Gale's steady heartbeat against his chest, those clever hands buried in Astarion's sleep shirt and hair.

He had chosen their spot carefully, a corner bed that would shield them from most eyes. Not that their companions weren't already painfully aware of their relationship, but some pretense of privacy felt necessary.

His midnight blue jacket hung nearby, concealed under his usual cloak. He had managed to set it aside without drawing attention, along with the rest of what he would need later.

Gale shifted in his arms, mumbling something about illusions. Even in sleep, that brilliant mind kept working. Astarion stretched up and brushed a kiss against his temple, breathing in the familiar scent of parchment and magic that clung to him.

This was worth protecting. Worth any price.

The thought steadied him. Yes, tonight would likely be unpleasant. Yes, it would cost him something of himself just to speak to that creature again. But he had survived far worse to protect far less. And this—this warmth, these gentle touches, the way Gale looked at him like he was something precious—he would walk through fire to keep it safe.

He tightened his arms around Gale, just slightly. Just enough to remind himself that this was real, that he had found something true and kind in a world that had shown him nothing but cruelty for so long.

Whatever came next, he had this moment. This peace. This love.

Astarion waited until Gale's breathing deepened into true sleep before beginning the delicate process of extracting himself. One careful movement at a time, he lifted Gale's arm from his waist. Gale's fingers curled, seeking him even in sleep, and Astarion froze.

He waited, watching Gale's dear face while bitter thoughts swirled through his mind. He did not want to do this, but then, what else had he expected on returning to the city?  That the effects of his sordid past in this city on the party would begin and end with his plans to end Cazador?  That no one else in this city of ambition and agendas would have their own plans for him?

Gale settled, though his brow furrowed. Astarion slipped free and retrieved his clothes from their hiding spot. The midnight blue jacket felt heavy as he shrugged it on. He straightened his cuffs—old habits died hard—and checked his curls by touch.

The common room buzzed with late-night activity as he descended the stairs. A few patrons glanced his way, but no one paid him much mind. Just another traveler out for an evening stroll. Nothing to see here.

The cool night air hit his face as he stepped outside. The street stretched empty before him, cobblestones gleaming in the moonlight. He turned toward the Upper City.

A familiar pop of displaced air made him freeze.

"Going somewhere?"

Astarion turned slowly, already knowing what he'd find. Gale stood there in his sleeping clothes, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in that infuriating way of his. Somehow he managed to look commanding despite being barefoot and disheveled.

"Shit."

"Fess up, buttercup." Gale's voice carried that mix of amusement and exasperation that made Astarion's skin prickle. "Where are we sneaking off to?"

"We?" Astarion adjusted his cuffs, buying time. "I wasn't aware there was a we involved in my perfectly innocent evening constitutional."

"Ah yes, the traditional midnight stroll in your finest clothes." Gale gestured at Astarion's carefully chosen ensemble. "We're past this, aren't we?"

"You don't even know what this is."

"Obviously something you think you need to handle alone." Gale's tone softened. "And obviously something that had you fretting all afternoon and tossing and turning all night."

Astarion opened his mouth for another deflection, but Gale held up a hand.

"You look lovely, by the way. Whoever they are, they must be special to warrant such attention to detail." Gale's eyes traced over him with genuine appreciation. "If there's someone from your past you want to reconnect with—"

A harsh laugh escaped before Astarion could stop it. "Oh yes, reconnecting is precisely what she has in mind. Though I dare say her idea of connection involves significantly more chains than I'm comfortable with these days."

The words came out sharper than intended, dripping with acid, but Gale didn't flinch. Instead, he closed the distance between them, sleep-mussed and barefoot, and pulled Astarion into his arms.

Another pop of displaced air enveloped them both, and suddenly they were back in their room. Astarion's stomach lurched—he had never quite gotten used to that magical method of travel. The familiar sight of their temporary lodgings settled around them—the large central seating area with its couches and fireplace, the table with Gale's books spread across it, the many beds in alcoves along the perimeter of the room with their companions snugly tucked under covers.

They moved to the couch in the central area without speaking, Gale's hand steady on his lower back. The warmth of that touch made something in Astarion's gut settle. He had been so certain he needed to handle this alone, but now—

"I have to leave soon," he whispered, hating how his voice caught. "There's a deadline."

"Then you'd better explain quickly." Gale's voice was quiet, but his tone left no room for argument.

The letter felt heavy in Astarion's pocket. He pulled it out, the expensive paper crinkling beneath his fingers. The wax seal had cracked when he first opened it, but Lady Vensara's personal crest remained clear—a reminder of exactly who he was dealing with.

He couldn't make the words come out. Couldn't voice what she wanted, what she was threatening. Instead, he pressed the letter into Gale's hands and watched his face as he read.

Gale's expression shifted from concern to confusion to outrage. His fingers tightened on the paper, crinkling it further. "That absolute—" He cut himself off, jaw working. "She can't possibly think—"

"Oh, but she can." Astarion's low laugh felt hollow. "And she's right, isn't she? Whatever she asks, what does it weigh... compared to having the Vensaras on our side?"

"Stop." Gale's voice cracked like thunder. "Just... stop."

Astarion shot a panicked glance at their sleeping companions. "Keep your voice down."

Gale stood and stalked to his trunk, yanking out his finest robe with far more force than necessary. The silk whispered as he pulled his sleep clothes off and shrugged his finery on, movements sharp with contained fury.

"Darling, please." Astarion kept his voice low, measured. "This isn't your burden to bear."

"No?" Gale gathered his hair back, fingers working it into a hasty half-bun. "Then whose is it?"

"Mine. Just mine." Astarion crossed to him, catching his hands before he could finish the knot. "I've handled worse alone."

"That's rather the point, isn't it?" Gale's hands stilled in his. "You're not alone anymore."

"This isn't some grand adventure. It's ugly and shameful and—"

"And yours to handle however you see fit." Gale turned to face him fully. "But you don't get to pretend this doesn't affect me too. That watching you walk into danger alone wouldn't tear me apart."

"I can't ask you to—"

"You're not asking. I'm offering." Gale's voice softened. "This is your show. Your choice. Your terms. But I won't let you face her alone just because you mistakenly think you have to."

Something tight in Astarion's chest loosened. He searched Gale's face for any hint of pity or disgust, finding only fierce determination. "I... don't know what to do with that."

"Do whatever you need to. I'll follow your lead." Gale squeezed his hands. "Just stop trying to protect me by hurting yourself. It won't work. And if you end up murdering her, you'll need help burying the body."

Astarion let out a small laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Well, when you put it that way." He turned Gale around, fingers working deftly to fix the mess he had made of his hair. The silk strands slipped smoothly between his fingers as he wove them into a proper style. "There. Much better. Can't have you looking disheveled if we're heading to the Upper City."

He smoothed Gale's robes, adjusting the fall of fabric until it draped properly. "Though I must say, the 'just rolled out of bed in pursuit of my wayward lover' look rather suited you."

They made their way back down to the street, hand in hand. The cobblestones gleamed under the moonlight as they walked from the dim streets of the Lower City toward the well-lit paths leading upward.

"You realize," Gale said as they passed over the bridge separating the districts, "we're going to have some explaining to do tomorrow."

"Mm." Astarion kept his eyes forward, watching the streets for any sign of trouble. At this hour, even the Upper City held dangers.

"Karlach in particular is going to be furious she wasn't included. She's rather protective of you, you know."

"There's nothing to include anyone in," Astarion said. "This can be handled quietly, privately. No need to involve the others."

Gale's grip on his hand tightened slightly. "And how exactly do you plan to handle it?"

"I—" Astarion faltered. "Well, first we need to see what she actually wants."

"You mean beyond what was explicitly stated in that charming letter?"

"There's always more to it with Vensara. She wouldn't risk exposing me and annoying Cazador as a result without gaining something substantial in return." He tried to ignore how his voice wavered on her name.

Astarion caught the subtle shift in Gale's expression—that tightening around his eyes that meant he was puzzling something out. "What?"

"Does she really think you're that simple?" Gale's tone dripped with academic disdain. "That you wouldn't have already considered the wider context and how to use that to defuse her threats? Although the irony of Cazador's wrath somehow protecting you…"

A startled laugh escaped Astarion's lips. "Oh, darling. She remembers me as I was—a pretty thing to be used and discarded. Clever enough to entertain, but ultimately just another of Cazador's pets." He smoothed his jacket, buying time to steady his voice. "Freedom has changed more than just my ability to disobey direct commands, and she may not fully realize how, yet."

"Then she's a fool."

"No." Astarion's fingers tightened on Gale's arm. "That's exactly the kind of thinking that will get us gutted. Vensara is many things—most of them absolutely revolting—but she is not stupid. She has made an art of destroying people over dinner conversation. One wrong word, one missed cue, and she'll turn half the Upper City against us."

They passed beneath a streetlamp, its light catching the silver threading in Astarion's jacket. He kept his voice low, though the street remained empty. "She didn't survive this long by being careless. Whatever game she's playing, she's thought it through. And she won't hesitate to destroy us if we give her the chance."

Astarion couldn't help smiling as Gale's expression darkened. "We could just kill her," Gale said, voice pitched low and casual. "I know several very efficient spells. There need not even be a body."

Gale jumping straight to murder on his behalf warmed Astarion straight through. "Darling, as deeply attractive as that option is—and believe me, it's very attractive—we can't afford to make an enemy of her house right now."

"We're already at war," Gale pointed out. "What's one more enemy? And who says we will even be discovered?"

"We are in the middle of a war most of the city doesn't even realize is happening." Astarion guided them around a corner, checking the shadows before continuing. "The Absolute's agents are already inside the walls, inside the halls of power. We need allies, not more opposition. And Vensara..." He swallowed hard. "She's survived dealing with Cazador this long. She'll have contingencies in place. She cannot be quietly disposed of without discovery—I promise you."

Gale's jaw tightened. "So we just let her—"

"No." Astarion squeezed his arm. "But we need to be smarter than simple violence. And yes, I realize it's me saying that."

The silence stretched between them as they walked. Astarion could practically feel Gale vibrating with restrained magic and anger beside him, that brilliant mind no doubt conjuring increasingly creative ways to eliminate the threat. The protective fury radiating off him was... oddly comforting, even as it threatened to complicate matters.

Gale's steps slowed, and he let out a long breath. "I'm making this harder, aren't I? Charging in with solutions when you needed—" He gestured vaguely. "Space. To think. To process."

Astarion considered the question carefully, grateful for the moment to gather his thoughts. If he had managed to slip away undetected, what then? He would have faced Vensara alone, yes. Would have maintained that careful illusion of control. But afterward...

"No," he said finally. "I thought I needed to handle this alone. Old habits and all that." He smoothed his cuffs, a nervous tell he couldn't quite suppress. "But having you here—knowing you're with me—it helps. Even if murder isn't the answer. Tonight, at least."

The tension in Gale's shoulders eased slightly. "I just hate seeing you hurt."

"I know, darling." Astarion squeezed his arm. "But I'm not used to having someone actually care what happens to me. Someone who wants to protect me rather than..." He trailed off, unable to finish the thought. "It's new. Good new, but new nonetheless."

"Then I'll try to be less..." Gale waved his free hand. "Overwhelming."

"Mm, don't try too hard." Astarion managed a small smile. "I rather like when you get protective. Just perhaps save the murder plots for after we see what game she's really playing."

"I hate this." Gale's words came out clipped, precise. "I hate that we have to consider the politics when she—" He cut himself off, breathing sharply through his nose.

"Welcome to Baldur's Gate." Astarion kept his tone light, though his chest ached at Gale's obvious distress. "Where even murder requires considering the proprieties."

* * *

The Silver Chalice's entrance gleamed with polished brass and enchanted crystals, its fountain tinkling in the courtyard. Astarion approached the doorman with outward ease, though his stomach churned.

"Astarion Ancunín," he said smoothly. "I believe I'm expected."

The doorman consulted his list, then glanced at Gale with a raised eyebrow.

"My plus one," Astarion added, letting just enough edge creep into his tone to suggest questioning him would be terribly gauche.

After a brief consultation with someone inside, they were led through the main salon, past alcoves draped in heavy velvet. The scents of expensive perfume and wine filled the air, bringing back memories Astarion would rather forget. He kept his grip light on Gale's arm, refusing to let his tension show.

Their escort brought them to a private room where Lady Vensara reclined on a velvet settee, her black and gold gown arranged just so. Servants hurried to add another place setting to the intimate table for two. The room was clearly designed for private negotiations of all sorts—plush furnishings arranged to create the illusion of casual intimacy while maintaining careful distances. A low table sat between the settee and two elegantly upholstered chairs, its polished surface gleaming with crystal decanters and delicate glasses. Silver dishes held nuts and dried fruits—the sort of refreshments that encouraged lingering without the mess of a full meal.

She hadn't changed—still wearing that mask of preserved youth, her black hair threaded with gold and twisted into an elaborate updo. Her pointed nails, painted the color of old blood, tapped against her wine glass.

"Astarion," she said, not bothering to rise. Her gaze slid to Gale, sharp and assessing. "And Gale of Waterdeep. Do give your mother my regards—I so enjoyed reading all about Morena's latest charity efforts in the Wazoo.  A woman after my own heart."

The casual name-drop hit like a bucket of ice water. She'd done her research since sending that letter, learned enough about Gale to make him a target too. Astarion's fingers twitched against Gale's arm, but he kept his expression neutral.

"How thoughtful of you to bring company," Vensara continued, patting the spot next to her while holding Astarion's gaze. "Though I had rather hoped for a more... intimate discussion."

"Amiki, darling." Astarion settled Gale into an armchair, flicked his eyes dismissively at the spot Vensara had indicated on the settee, and then shifted the second armchair closer to Gale's before seating himself in it instead. "You're looking... preserved. Though really, threatening my companion? That's rather beneath you, isn't it? Let's keep our little chat focused on your concerns about me. Otherwise, things might become terribly awkward."

He watched her eyes narrow at the use of her first name. Good. Let her remember he knew her secrets too, had seen her mask slip in private moments.

"Wine?" she offered, signaling the servants.

"How could I refuse?"

The crystal glasses filled with deep red liquid that, to Astarion's enhanced senses, smelled nothing like blood. Shame. He was getting thirsty.

Gale leaned over as the servants bustled around them. "No magic," he murmured, barely moving his lips. "Can't reach the Weave."

Ah. That explained the faint buzz at the edge of Astarion's awareness—some sort of anti-magic field. He'd felt something similar in other Patriar's private chambers. How... predictable of her.

"I must say," Vensara continued, "your recent performance career has been quite... illuminating. Such vivid stories about vampires. One might almost think you had firsthand experience."

"One might indeed." Astarion took a delicate sip of wine, studying her over the rim of his glass. Her perfectly manicured nails looked particularly sharp tonight, glinting like little daggers. He wondered if she'd had them enchanted to cut like daggers as well—he wouldn't put it past her. Still, his fangs were sharper. "Though I find it fascinating you'd take such a keen interest in my theatrical pursuits. Missing our old... appointments, are we?"

The door clicked shut behind the servants. Astarion's pleasant smile vanished.

"Enough games, Amiki. What do you want?"

She leaned forward, wine glass dangling from her fingers. "So direct. Have you forgotten all our lovely lessons in... social graces?"

"I've learned new ones. Like how to spot a snake before it strikes."

"Speaking of striking—" She gestured between him and Gale. "This is... sweet. Though I must say, you always did have a weakness for powerful men. At least this one's prettier than Cazador."

Astarion's fingers tightened on his glass. "Get to the point."

"There's a fundraiser being planned at the Silvershield Grand Hall tomorrow evening. All the finest families will be there, along with those dreadful merchants who think coin buys class." She traced the rim of her glass. "You'll escort me."

"And after, I suppose?"

"Well." Her smile curved like a blade. "For old time's sake. You remember how... specific my tastes can be and how well you suit them. And in return, I'll keep your little secret."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then perhaps I'll start sharing stories of my own. About how a certain Midnight Magistrate performed on stages far more scandalous than the Laughing Lantern." She sipped her wine. "Though I doubt your wizard would find those tales as entertaining as your stage performance."

"You'd expose yourself."

"Would I? A respected patroness of the arts, sharing her concern about a dangerous creature infiltrating society?" She clicked her tongue. "Who do you think they'd believe?"

Astarion leaned back, letting his lips curl into a predatory smile. "Oh darling, have you considered what Cazador might think of you spreading tales about his property? He's quite possessive about his belongings. And protective of his privacy."

"Cazador has more pressing concerns these days." Vensara waved her hand dismissively. "He's rarely seen—"

"Please." Astarion cut her off with a sharp laugh. "If you think he's too distracted to notice someone else playing with his favorite toy, you're even more foolish than I remember. He's looking for me. Has been since the day I slipped his leash."

Something flickered in her eyes—uncertainty, perhaps? Good. But then her smile widened, showing too many teeth.

"Well then, if you're so concerned about your master's feelings..." She set down her wine. "Perhaps I should simply gift you back to him myself. Wouldn't that be delicious? A reversal of our old arrangement."

"I'd love to see you try." Gale's voice was soft, but carried an edge of winter.

Astarion placed a staying hand on Gale's arm. "Now, now, let's be civil." He turned back to Vensara. "If you want an escort to your little soirée, you'll need to offer more than just promising not to kidnap me—which, I should mention, you might find more challenging than you expect.  There's quite the queue ahead of you."

"What more could you possibly want?"

"Your support against the Absolute. Gold, resources, political influence—all of it." He traced the rim of his glass. "After all, what's the point of attending a fundraiser if you're not going to... contribute? And if you want my company after, you had better ensure that Cazador does not make an appearance at your event, or we both know it isn't you I would be leaving with."

Vensara let out a musical laugh. "Oh darling, of course Cazador won't be there. His invitation seems to have been... misplaced." She traced the stem of her wine glass. "But really, all that support just for one evening's entertainment? The price seems rather steep."

She rose from her settee in a whisper of silk, prowling around the table to stand before their armchairs. Her gaze raked over them both, lingering on the way Gale's hand still rested near Astarion's arm.

"Though perhaps..." She reached toward Gale's face. "We could negotiate something more... equitable. The three of us? You both look so lovely together. I'd enjoy seeing you on your knees, side by—"

Astarion moved before the thought fully formed, standing to insert himself between them. A snarl built in his throat, all pretense of civility evaporating.

"You seem confused about how things work now, Amiki." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "I don't just tease with these anymore." He tapped one fang with a manicured nail. "Care for a demonstration? First-hand experience of how much has changed since our last... appointment?"

Her eyes widened, that perfect mask finally cracking as she took an involuntary step back, the backs of her calves bumping the low table. "You wouldn't dare—"

"Wouldn't I?" He advanced, matching her retreat. "The rules have changed, darling. I'm not your plaything anymore. Not Cazador's either. So choose very carefully what happens next."

The flash of fear in Vensara's eyes sent a thrill through Astarion. How delicious—she truly believed he might attack her right here. And why shouldn't she? She had seen him at his most broken, witnessed what Cazador's torture had done to his mind. Perhaps that could be useful.

He let out a high, slightly unhinged laugh. "You know what he did to me, don't you? The year that coffin, starving, screaming..." He tilted his head, letting his smile grow wider. "Did you ever wonder what that does to someone's mind? How it might... change them?"

"Astarion." Gale's hand found his, pulled him down to his seat. "Remember what we discussed about controlling those impulses."

Perfect. Astarion shot Gale a quick, grateful look before turning back to Vensara with an exaggerated pout.

"But darling, she's being so rude. And she smells..." He inhaled deeply, watching her shoulders tense. "Divine."

"I know, love, but we agreed—no sampling the nobility without proper preparations." Gale's tone was gentle, as if speaking to a dangerous animal. "Think of the mess."

Vensara's perfectly painted lips pressed into a thin line. "You're not as amusing as you think you are." She took a step to the side to clear the table and then another step back, but her voice remained steady. "These theatrics don't change our arrangement. You'll escort me tomorrow, or—"

"Or what?" He bared his fangs in a savage grin. "You'll tell everyone what I am? Go ahead and gamble with Cazador's attention. But remember, darling—" He tapped his temple. "I'm not quite right in the head anymore. Who knows what I might do if pushed?"

"Shh, love." Gale squeezed his shoulder. "You're getting excited again."

Astarion noticed the slight tremor in Vensara's hand as she sat again and reached for her wine glass. Not quite defeated, but definitely rattled. Good.

Astarion let his shoulders relax under Gale's touch, allowing his manic grin to fade into something more controlled.

"My apologies." He smoothed his jacket. "Sometimes I get... carried away. You understand, don't you? After everything?"

Vensara's eyes darted between them before she settled back onto her settee, making a show of relaxation. "Quite. Well then, shall we discuss terms like civilized people?"

"Of course." Astarion leaned back, crossing his legs at the ankle. "You want your evening of entertainment. The party wants your support against the Absolute. I'm sure we can reach an arrangement beneficial to all."

"And what exactly would this... support entail?"

"Gold, obviously. Enough to outfit an army." He examined his nails. "Access to your information network. And public support for our cause among the other houses."

She took a careful sip of wine. "That's quite the price for one evening."

"Oh, but think of the social capital, darling. The mysterious Midnight Magistrate himself, on your arm?" He gave her his most charming smile. "Everyone will be absolutely desperate to know how you managed it."

Perfect. He could see the calculations behind her eyes. She needed allies against the Absolute as much as they did, and this way she could gain both support for her cause and social advantage without risking Cazador's wrath or her own reputation. The threats and posturing had been necessary—she needed to understand he wasn't her plaything anymore—but in the end, this deal would benefit them both in the ways that mattered. And of course she thought she'd get her evening of entertainment after, a chance to put him back in his place and indulge her nastier impulses. She'd take the deal.

Her lips curved slightly. "And you'll play your part perfectly?"

"When have I ever given less than a stellar performance?"

"True enough." She set down her glass. "Very well. I'll have suitable attire sent to you by noon tomorrow. You will wear it. My carriage will collect you an hour before the event. You will be charm itself during the event and anything I demand of you after." Her eyes hardened. "Do not disappoint me."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Astarion rose smoothly. "Though do remember, darling—disappointment cuts both ways."

She waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, yes, you're very frightening. Now go. I have arrangements to make."

Astarion offered his arm to Gale, maintaining his pleasant mask until they reached the door. Just before stepping through, he paused.

"Oh, and Amiki?" He glanced back. "If you ever threaten him again, I won't bother with theatrics. I'll simply kill you."

He didn't wait for her response.

* * *

The night air bit at Astarion's skin as they left the Silver Chalice, though he barely noticed the chill. His mind raced with plans and contingencies, cataloging every detail of their encounter with Vensara. They walked in tense silence through the Upper City's pristine streets, past the well-maintained manors and carefully tended gardens.

Only when they reached the bridge to the Lower City did Astarion pause, listening carefully with his heightened senses. No footsteps echoed behind them, no heartbeats lurked in nearby shadows. He watched Gale perform a subtle gesture, whispering words that sent invisible tendrils of magic searching the area.

"Clear?" Astarion asked softly.

"Clear." Gale's controlled expression cracked. "That absolute fucking horror of a woman. That vile, despicable—" He launched into a string of curses that would have made a Zhentarim mercenary blush, mixing Waterdhavian street slang with what sounded like ancient Netherese profanity.

Astarion raised an eyebrow, oddly touched by Gale's outrage. "My, my. And here I thought you were the sophisticated one."

"Sophisticated?" Gale's voice dripped acid. "That creature deserves every crude word in every language ever spoken. The way she looked at you, like you were—" He cut himself off, hands clenching.

"She looked at you the same way." Astarion's fingers brushed Gale's arm. "Which, by the way, is what prompted my little performance. I couldn't let that stand."

"Ah yes, the feral vampire act." Gale's anger melted into appreciation. "Brilliant improvisation. The way you let your control slip just enough to make her question whether you might actually snap—" He chuckled. "I almost believed it myself."

"Please. I was in perfect control." Astarion preened. "But I noticed how quickly she backed away from you after that. Apparently even she has self-preservation instincts."

"You were magnificent." Gale's eyes sparkled. "Though I rather enjoyed playing my part too. The concerned lover trying to hold back the dangerous creature he's foolishly attached to—"

"You did sell that beautifully." Astarion grinned. "We make quite the team, don't we? The unhinged vampire and his worried wizard."

"Indeed we do." Gale pulled him close and wrapped him in a hug. Astarion allowed himself to savor the moment—the pride in Gale's voice, the satisfaction of outmaneuvering Vensara together, the sheer pleasure of having someone so clever and capable in his corner.

But reality crept back in like a cold wind. The fundraiser loomed ahead, and with it, all the dangers of Vensara's games. She would hold him to his end of the bargain, and they both knew it.

Astarion pulled back from Gale's embrace, steeling himself for the conversation he knew was coming. The worry lines around Gale's eyes had deepened.

"You're not actually considering going through with it?" Gale's voice remained carefully neutral. "We handled her rather neatly back there. The exposure threat—"

"Was just the opening gambit." Astarion traced his fingers along the bridge's stone railing. "Vensara doesn't need to provoke Cazador openly to destroy support for us." He shrugged.

"We don't need her political support that badly."

"No?" Astarion turned to face him. "Tell me, oh wise wizard—what happens when she turns the other houses against us? Never mind the vampirism—what happens when she whispers that we're Absolute sympathizers?" He kept his voice light, but his fingers dug into the stone. "The politics in this city are a game of dominoes. Knock one down..."

"There are other ways—"

"To what? Kill her? Frame her? Start a war with one of the most powerful families in the city?" Astarion laughed without humor. "Come now, Gale. You're supposed to be the logical one. The good of the many outweighs the good of the one, doesn't it?"

"Not like this." Gale's jaw clenched. "Not when 'the one' is—"

"A disposable asset?" Astarion's smile turned sharp. "I've played that role before. I'm quite good at it, actually. And it's nothing I haven't done before.  A moment of disgust, to get myself through—"

"No!" Gale's shout echoed across the empty bridge, making Astarion flinch. A few heartbeats—human guards, probably—quickened in the distance.

Gale took a deep breath, visibly wrestling his anger under control. "My apologies. Of course, I'll support whatever choice you make. But you need to understand—no one in the party would want this. Not a single one would choose Vensara's help knowing what she is—what she's done—and certainly not in exchange for your wellbeing."

"Then they're fools." The words came automatically, but they felt hollow even as Astarion spoke them. "We can't afford to be precious about our allies. The Absolute's agents are everywhere, and—"

"And what? We fight monsters by becoming monsters ourselves?" Gale's voice softened. "Bedfellows like her have a way of costing more than they're worth. Today it's one evening. Tomorrow? A week? A month? What else will she demand once she knows we're willing to sacrifice you?"

"You're being naive." Astarion paced along the bridge's railing, unable to meet Gale's eyes. "The whole party is naive if they think we can be so... selective about our methods. About who we work with." But doubt crept in, undermining his certainty. "You can do what you want, or you can get what you want. That's how the world works."

The words rang false even to his own ears. Where had he heard that exact phrase before? Certainly not out of the mouth of anyone he admired.

Astarion's gaze drifted across the moonlit scene—the silvered waters beneath the bridge, the way the light caught on Gale's fine robes, the subtle shimmer of starlight. Despite everything, the night held a strange beauty. He remembered Gale in the street earlier, disheveled and irritated, barefoot as he had scolded Astarion. Even then, he'd been lovely. Now, polished and composed in his formal wear, he was breathtaking.

Cool hands cupped Astarion's face. Gale pressed their foreheads together, and Astarion caught the faint scent of ozone that always clung to him.

"I trust you," Gale said softly. "You know Vensara and her ilk far better than any of us ever could. If you truly believe this is the path we must take, I'll support your choice." His thumbs traced gentle circles on Astarion's cheeks. "But I ask that you extend us—extend me—the same trust. We've done the impossible before. Several times, in fact. Securing some coin and political favor without compromising yourself? That's hardly impossible by our standards. And even if it were, please, please consider that we would choose you anyway and that you would be worth it."

Astarion closed his eyes, letting Gale's words wash over him. The gesture felt intimate, almost unbearably so—foreheads pressed together, sharing breath though one of them didn't need it. His first instinct was to pull away, to deflect with some cutting remark about Gale's naivety again.

But Gale wasn't truly naive, was he? Idealistic perhaps, but the man had sacrificed everything for knowledge once. He understood power, understood cost. He'd faced down devils and aberrations. He'd fallen from the heights and risen again. If anyone could grasp the complexities of their situation, it was Gale.

And yet here he stood, insisting Astarion was worth more than whatever advantage Vensara might provide. The very notion felt absurd. One vampire spawn's dignity against the fate of Faerun? The math seemed obvious.

But Gale would say that was Cazador's math. That reducing everything to cold calculation, to use and worth, was exactly what their enemies did. The Absolute didn't see people, only resources. Neither had Cazador. Neither had Vensara.

Astarion's fingers curled against Gale's chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath the expensive fabric. The wizard's hands remained gentle on his face, thumb still tracing those maddening circles. Patient. Present. As if Astarion's struggle to evaluate his own value was worth waiting for.

"You're thinking very loudly," Gale finally murmured.

"Wondering how someone so brilliant can be so..." Astarion searched for the word. "Impractical."

"Am I? The way I see it, compromising with creatures like Vensara is what's impractical. Give them an inch, they demand a mile. Better to face them head-on than let them sink their claws in." Gale's magic crackled faintly between them. "Besides, I rather think having you whole and uncompromised is the most practical choice of all."

The simple conviction in his voice made something twist in Astarion's chest. He wanted to believe it. Wanted to trust that the others would agree, that they'd choose him over expedience.

But two centuries of being nothing but a tool, a toy, a means to an end—it left marks deeper than any of Cazador's carvings. The idea that he might be worth protecting, worth choosing, worth sacrificing for... considering it felt like staring into the sun. Blinding. Dangerous to attempt for too long.

Astarion closed his eyes, letting himself lean into Gale's touch. "You think there's another way?"

"I think together we can find one." Gale's voice held absolute certainty. "At least consider it?"

Astarion tilted his head, pressing his lips to Gale's. The kiss started gentle, hesitant, but deepened as Gale pulled him closer. His heart might not beat, but something inside him sang at the contact. Every brush of Gale's fingers against his skin felt electric, alive in a way nothing had for centuries.

He'd forgotten what real desire felt like during those years with Cazador. Even the memories of pleasure from before his turning had faded to gray shadows. But this—this was vibrant, overwhelming. The way Gale's heartbeat quickened beneath his palm, the soft sound he made when Astarion nipped at his lower lip, the heat of his skin through fine fabric.

The thought of Vensara's cold hands on him made his stomach turn. Before, he could distance himself, knowing it was just another of Cazador's commands. But choosing it himself? Deliberately trading himself for political advantage?

He broke the kiss, though he kept his arms wrapped around Gale. "You trust me to make this choice."

"I do."

"Even knowing what I am? What I've done? That the way I see the world is different than the way you see it, and I might not choose the way you would."

"Especially knowing those things." Gale's fingers caressed the back of his neck. "You survived centuries of no choice. You deserve the chance to make this one freely, whatever you decide."

That trust deserved care in return. It demanded more than simple calculation of cost and benefit. It required him to truly consider every option, every possibility—not just assume self-sacrifice was the only path forward.

He pulled back just enough to meet Gale's eyes. "Then I should consider it properly. All of it. And… with the others, dammit."

Gale's smile bloomed, bright and warm as summer sunlight, and Astarion had barely a moment to appreciate it before those soft lips found his again. The kiss deepened, slower this time, thorough in a way that made Astarion's knees weak. His fingers tangled in Gale's robes, pulling him closer as heat pooled low in his belly.

Perhaps they could find somewhere more private. The Silver Chalice had rooms upstairs—no, absolutely not. The Elfsong was too far and had no private rooms available, but surely there was an inn nearby that wouldn't ask questions. Somewhere they could continue this proper—

Astarion broke the kiss with a groan. "We need to get back." The words felt like pulling teeth. "We need to start planning."

"Planning?" Gale's voice held a note of pleased curiosity.

"Mhm. I have a feeling there are shenanigans in my immediate future." Astarion smoothed the robes he had rumpled. "And if there's one thing our merry band excels at, it's creative problem-solving of the most chaotic variety."

"That we do." Gale caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "Shall we?"

* * *

The carriage wheels clattered to a stop before Silvershield Grand Hall. Through the window, Astarion caught glimpses of pale marble and gilded accents between the shoulders of Vensara's hulking guards—living mountains of muscle who'd barely blinked during the entire ride.

"Remember, darling." Vensara's perfectly manicured nails dug into his arm. "You're to be charming, but not too charming. Witty, but not sharp. And above all—" She reached up to adjust his already immaculate cravat. "—completely under my control."

Astarion gave her his most vapid smile, the one he'd perfected over centuries of playing the beautiful fool. "Of course, my lady. I live to serve."

The door opened, and one of the guards extended a meaty hand to assist Vensara. Astarion followed, offering his arm with grace as they ascended the sweeping entrance stairs.

The grand hall lived up to its reputation. Crystal chandeliers floated overhead, their enchanted lights shifting from deep purple to midnight blue. A double staircase curved up toward the main ballroom and theater, where the actual fundraiser would take place. The rug beneath his feet probably cost more than most Lower City residents saw in a year.

Vensara's hands were everywhere—smoothing his lapels, tucking an errant curl behind his ear, adjusting the set of his shoulders. Each touch made his skin crawl, but he leaned into them like an attention-starved cat, letting his eyes half-close in apparent pleasure.

"There now." She patted his cheek. "Perfect. Though..." She tugged at his cravat again, completely destroying the precise fold he'd spent twenty minutes achieving. "Perhaps a touch more... disheveled? We want them to know exactly what sort of entertainment you provide."

Astarion caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles that was just a fraction too long to be proper. "My lady, if you continue to adjust my clothing, we'll never make it inside. And wouldn't that be a terrible waste?"

She laughed, the sound as false as everything else about her. "Patience, pet. We have all evening."

The guards fell into step behind them as they approached the main doors. Astarion could feel their presence like a physical weight. No matter. He had survived far worse than an evening of playing Vensara's trained monkey.

Besides, the real performance wouldn't begin until later.

The grand ballroom opened before them, a sea of wealth and pretension. Musicians on the raised platform filled the air with elegant strains that carried perfectly thanks to the hall's famous acoustics. Waitstaff in pressed black and white weaved between round tables draped in purple silk, positioning crystal glasses and silver place settings with mathematical precision.

What truly caught Astarion's eye, though, was the subtle dance of security personnel claiming their positions. Some were obvious—patriar guards in polished armor stationed near their masters. Others tried for discretion in plain clothes, but their watchful postures and calculated positioning gave them away. He suppressed a smile. All that muscle, yet not one of them was prepared for what the evening would bring.

"My dear Lady Vensara!" A portly man in an over-embroidered doublet approached. "How clever of you to secure the Midnight Magistrate himself for tonight's festivities."

Vensara's fingers tightened on Astarion's arm. "Yes, he's been quite... accommodating."

The whispers were already spreading through the gathering crowd. Astarion caught fragments as they moved through the room—"that 'vampire' performer," "Lady Vensara's escort," "such a coup." Each murmur seemed to please Vensara more, her smile growing sharper with every impressed glance.

Most of the other event organizers had claimed private boxes in the galleries above, the better to observe without mixing with the common rabble. But Vensara insisted on parading him around the main floor, showing off her prize to anyone who would look. She'd positioned them at a prime table near the center of the room, where the lighting from the enchanted chandeliers was especially flattering.

"I must say," she purred, loud enough to be overheard, "it's so refreshing to have an escort who truly understands the art of entertainment."

Astarion gave her his most dazzling smile, the one that always made nobles forget he might have teeth behind it. "You're far too kind, my lady."

A man in a gold-trimmed coat swept onto the stage, his voice carrying effortlessly through the enchanted acoustics. "Lords, ladies, and those of you pretending to be either—welcome!"

Scattered laughter rippled through the crowd. Astarion recognized him from various Upper City functions—always the jovial host, always careful to mock just gently enough to amuse rather than offend.

"Tonight we gather for a most noble cause." The master of ceremonies gestured to a row of clerks in matching burgundy uniforms. "These fine representatives from the Bank of Baldur's Gate stand ready to process your generous donations. And speaking of generosity—" He winked. "Our organizers have shown theirs with the wine selections, so do try to match their spirit."

Vensara's fingers drummed against Astarion's arm as the host began listing the approved funds. City defense, refugee support, military supplies... Astarion kept his expression pleasantly vacant until—

"And of course, the Special Operations Fund."

There it was. Jaheira had managed it after all. He'd doubted she could slip their own channel for resources past the bureaucracy, but apparently the Harpers still  had enough connections to make it happen.

"Now then," the host continued, "to begin our evening's entertainment, please welcome the incomparable Madam Rosewood..."

A statuesque woman in deep green swept onto the stage as the host disappeared behind the curtain. The bank clerks began their rounds, moving with efficiency between the tables.

Vensara leaned close, her breath ghosting his ear. "Quite the comprehensive list of causes. I don't recall approving that last one."

Astarion gave a delicate shrug, keeping his posture relaxed despite Vensara's sharp nails digging into his arm. "The tedious details are beneath someone of your station, my lady. We simply ensured everything would be in place for you to fulfill your generous promises of support."

"You presume much." Her fingers tightened.

"Do I?" He turned his most winning smile toward an approaching donation taker, raising his voice just enough to carry. "Ah, perfect timing! My dear Lady Vensara was just saying how eager she was to set an example for the other attendees."

The clerk bowed, presenting an ornate ledger. "My lady, how would you like to distribute your contribution?"

Vensara's face tightened almost imperceptibly, but decades of playing politics had trained her well. She couldn't refuse now, not with nearby tables already turning to watch.

"Such enthusiasm," she said through her teeth. As she leaned forward to make her selections, she pinched Astarion's thigh viciously under the table. "Remember," she whispered, "if you think to make a fool of me tonight, there are far worse fates than simple exposure."

Astarion placed his hand over his heart, the picture of wounded innocence. "My lady, I promise you a night that will be remembered for years to come."

The clerk finished recording her donation to the Special Operations Fund and moved on, leaving Vensara to seethe quietly beside him as the singer launched into her third aria of the evening.

Astarion tossed his head back with a high, musical laugh at another of Vensara's tepid jokes. "Oh, my lady, you're simply too much." He made sure the sound carried, drawing more than a few curious glances from nearby tables. Let them look. Let them remember who sat beside the great Lady Vensara tonight.

His attention caught on movement near the hall's edge. Vensara's mountain of muscle that had been hovering by the west entrance was gone, and his partner by the east door seemed distracted by something in the corridor. As Astarion watched, that guard too disappeared from view.

He covered his surveillance by leaning closer to Vensara, practically draping himself across her shoulder. "You know, I simply must tell everyone about that delightful story from your summer villa—"

"Must you?" Her smile remained fixed, but her tone could have frozen wine.

"Oh, but you tell it so much better than I do." He pressed a hand to his chest, letting his eyes go wide and adoring. A flash of familiar red skin caught his attention—Karlach, now wearing what appeared to be one of the missing guard's uniforms, had taken up position near the west entrance. Halsin, similarly attired, stood watch at the east.

A server approached their table, crystal decanter in hand. Shadowheart's dark hair was pulled back severely, and her usual armor had been replaced with pressed black and white.

"Your evening's selection, my lady." Her voice was pitched lower than usual as she poured the wine, her accent carefully modulated to match the other servers.

Astarion didn't look directly at her, instead focusing on how the crystal chandelier light caught the deep red of the wine. But as Shadowheart straightened, their eyes met for the briefest moment. She gave him the slightest nod before moving to the next table.

His lips curved against the rim of his glass.

The master of ceremonies reappeared on stage, and something in his stance made Astarion's grin grow even wider. To anyone else, the man's movements would have seemed identical to before, but Astarion caught the subtle shift in his gait, the way he held his shoulders just slightly differently.

"Ladies and gentlemen." The voice that rang out wasn't the host's jovial tenor, but Gale's rich baritone. "Your generosity tonight has earned you something truly extraordinary.  You've been gossiping about his first performance for weeks. Bemoaning that you missed all the fun.  But tonight, your woes are at an end!"

Vensara's fingers clenched on Astarion's arm. "What—"

"Thanks to our gracious Lady Vensara," Gale continued, gesturing toward their table with a flourish, "we have secured an exclusive encore from the legendary Midnight Magistrate himself!"

The crowd erupted. Glasses clinked, chairs scraped, and excited whispers filled the air as Astarion rose smoothly to his feet. He spread his arms wide and turned full circle to take in the entire room, drinking in the applause with a smile that showed just a hint of fang.

"My dear lady." He turned to Vensara, whose face had gone absolutely rigid. "I couldn't possibly leave you without escort." He gestured to Wyll, who appeared at their table in perfectly tailored formal wear. "My friend here has quite the reputation for providing... exquisite companionship."

Wyll bowed deeply before taking Astarion's seat next to Vensara. "My lady, you honor me."

Astarion didn't wait to see her reaction. He was already gliding toward the stage, each step carefully measured to draw every eye in the room. As he mounted the steps, Gale stepped aside with an elaborate bow, his illusion-altered eyes sparkling with barely contained mischief.

The lights from the enchanted chandeliers seemed to follow Astarion as he took center stage, casting him in a pool of shifting purple and midnight blue. He turned to face his audience, letting his smile grow wider, sharper.

"Good evening, Baldur's Gate."

The now-familiar thrill of having every eye in the room fixed on him coursed through Astarion's veins. It was intoxicating—different from the rush of a successful hunt or the satisfaction of a well-placed blade. This was pure power, freely given by an eager audience who thought they knew exactly what they were getting.

His gaze swept across the gathered crowd. Patriars draped in silks worth more than most Lower City families saw in a year. Merchant princes trying desperately to match their betters' finery. And moving between them all, the servants—just as he had once moved, invisible until needed, dismissed until useful.

The acoustics really were remarkable. He could hear his own quiet footfalls on the stage as he checked once more that his companions were in their positions. Karlach's steady presence by the west door. Halsin's watchful eyes from the east. Shadowheart ghosting between tables with easy grace, while Wyll kept Vensara in her seat, not that she had other appealing options. She'd been parading him around as the Midnight Magistrate and could hardly protest or flee this performance now.

He knew Lae'zel and Jaheira were keeping an eye on their various and sundry captives backstage.  And then there was Gale, still standing at the rear of the stage.  Always Gale, having his back.

Everything had fallen into place perfectly. The guard rotation, the staff uniforms, Gale's flawless performance as the MC—all the complicated pieces they'd spent days arranging. Now came the simple part.

All he had to do was tell the truth. As dramatically as possible.

His smile widened, and he heard several sharp intakes of breath from the crowd as he bared his fangs fully. They thought they were here for entertainment, for the thrill of his "vampire act." How delightful that for once, the actual truth would prove far more shocking than any performance.

Astarion spread his arms wide, letting the enchanted lights catch on his rings, his cufflinks, the silver threads in his perfectly tailored jacket. Let them see what they expected—the beautiful, amusing creature they'd all been gossiping about.

For now.

"For those who missed my first little... impromptu performance," Astarion paced the stage with deliberate grace, "allow me to catch you up on our discussion of vampires. Fascinating creatures, don't you think?"

He paused near the edge, letting his gaze drift over the crowd. "We talked about blood, of course. How could we not? The way it calls to us, sweet as the finest wine. Though I must say, your vintages tonight are... lacking in variety, in comparison. Everyone here would taste of money."

A ripple of nervous laughter. Perfect.

"But obtaining blood—ah, that's where things get interesting." He paused and adopted a thoughtful stance. "You see, a vampire has options. We can simply take what we want, ripping into warm flesh like animals." He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "So uncivilized. Or..."

He caught the eye of a young noblewoman in the front, giving her his most charming smile. "We can make it a game. A dance. Seduce our prey into offering themselves willingly." Her cheeks flushed as he winked. "After all, who wouldn't want to experience such exquisite pleasure?"

More laughter now, easier. They were settling in, enjoying the show.

"I asked my last audience to consider—what would you do, if you had such power? If you could take whatever you wanted, from whoever you wanted?" He gestured expansively. "Would you be selective? Careful? Or would you gorge yourself on life itself, drunk on your own supremacy?"

He prowled along the edge of the stage. "Some of you are already imagining it, aren't you? The thrill of having anyone you desire completely at your mercy." His voice dropped to a seductive purr. "The rush of power as they beg for your attention, your touch, your bite."

Astarion caught movement in one of the private boxes—ah, there was Councilor Dawnfall, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. The man had enjoyed watching Cazador's "pets" squirm. In the box beside him sat Lady Rookhaven, who'd always insisted on having her "entertainments" brought to her private solar. Her pristine reputation would shatter if anyone knew what happened behind those gilt-edged doors.

His gaze swept over the gathered elite, picking out faces he remembered all too well from his years of servitude. "Some of you don't need to imagine it at all, do you?" He let his smile sharpen. "You already have anyone and everything you desire. And you already know how to bite."

A few nervous coughs echoed through the perfect acoustics. The young noblewoman who'd blushed at his attention earlier now looked distinctly uncomfortable. Good. Let them squirm.

"Oh, but I'm getting ahead of myself." He waved a hand dismissively. "Though—" He paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "I really should mention that this next part needs trigger warnings. All of them, in fact."

The laughter had died completely now. Even the clink of glasses had fallen silent. He could practically taste the tension in the air.

"I was rather careless last time, you see. Got swept away in the moment and forgot to warn about the content of the entertainment I provide." His fingers traced down his chest along the edge of his lapel. "Though I must say, the dirty details did seem to be the part they all liked best."

Several people near the front were already edging toward the exits. But Karlach and Halsin stood ready, and he knew Shadowheart had locked the servant passages. No one would leave until he finished.

"Especially the part about enduring grabby hands just to turn your delightful blood bag over to your boss." His snarl carried to every corner of the suddenly still room.

Astarion held himself poised at the center of the stage, relishing the absolute silence that had fallen over the crowd. "But you've all heard those stories before, haven't you? Second-hand gossip passed around at tea parties, whispered behind fans." He gave them his most dazzling smile. "You deserve something fresh. Something you can tell your friends you heard first."

He leaned forward conspiratorially. "After all, what's the point of an exclusive performance if you don't get any exclusive material?"

A few nervous titters answered him. He straightened, spreading his arms wide again.

"You see, being a vampire spawn isn't just about hunting blood for your master while living off rats and bugs yourself." His lip curled at the memory. "No, no. Sometimes you get to be a delightful gift to all his very best... friends."

He caught Lord Dawnfall's eye, holding it just long enough to see the man's face drain of color.

"Now, now—we're in refined company tonight." He pressed a hand to his chest, the picture of propriety. "So I'll spare you the names. Though—" His gaze drifted deliberately to Lady Rookhaven's box. "I'm sure some of you could fill in those blanks yourselves."

She gripped her wine glass so tightly he thought it might shatter.

"But you want at least a few salacious details, don't you?" He prowled closer to the edge of the stage. "After all, the scandal is half the fun."

His smile sharpened as he caught Vensara's eye. "Until it's not."

Astarion let his carefully constructed mask slip, just a fraction. "You see, when you're property, especially very pretty property, you learn to recognize certain... types. The ones who like to watch you squirm. The ones who want you to pretend you're enjoying it. The ones who—" He caught movement as someone tried to leave through a servant's entrance. "No, please stay. This next part is particularly illuminating."

His voice dropped lower, intimate. "Did you know some of Baldur's Gate's finest would discuss business over wine while treating me like delightfully responsive furniture? They'd debate trade agreements while testing how long I could hold a pose, or negotiate contracts while seeing how many little cuts it would take before I flinched."

The silence in the hall grew heavier.

"But my favorite—" He laughed, sharp and bitter. "My absolute favorite was the one who collected chains. Gold ones, silver ones, delicate little things that looked so lovely against pale skin. Not for restraint, no. For ownership. She'd wrap me in gold and call them jewelry, make me thank her for each one while explaining exactly how worthless I was without them. How lucky I was that someone so important would take the time to teach me my place." His fingers brushed his throat. "She'd wrap them tight around my neck while telling me how lucky I was to serve such important people."

He could see Vensara's white-knuckled grip on her chair, her face absolutely rigid and Wyll's expression blandly pleasant.

Astarion's smile turned predatory. "There was this one evening—shall I tell you about it? The lady had earned a special reward from my master. She got quite creative with those chains of hers. Did you know you can leave someone hanging for hours without actually damaging them? Well—" He shrugged elegantly. "Not permanently, anyway. Not if you're a vampire who doesn't need to breathe and heals so handily afterward.  At least, physically."

The crowd had drawn back from Vensara's table, leaving her isolated with only Wyll's looming presence beside her.

Astarion let his smile fade, replacing it with something rawer, more genuine. The silence in the hall pressed against his skin like a physical thing. He could hear individual heartbeats, smell the fear-sweat beginning to bead on noble brows.

"The cuts healed, of course. The bruises faded. Even the marks from those lovely chains disappeared without a trace." He touched his throat again, remembering. "But the other marks—those lasted rather longer. The way they made me feel small. Worthless. How they taught me that my body wasn't my own, that my pain was just a pleasant evening's entertainment."

He caught Gale's eye at the edge of the stage, drawing strength from that steady presence.

"For two centuries, I carried that shame. Wrapped it around myself like those gilded chains, believing in the deepest darkest corners of my heart that I somehow deserved what was done to me." His voice carried to every corner of the silent hall. "But here's the truly fascinating part—the part I hope you'll all take home tonight, especially if anything like this has ever happened to you."

Astarion's lips curved into a dangerous smile as he looked directly at Vensara.

"It's not my shame at all." Each word fell like a blade. "It's theirs. And they know it. Which is why they're all going to donate so very, very generously tonight—to keep their own shame private." He cocked his head and scanned the crowd once more. "At least for a little while longer."

Astarion let the silence stretch, savoring the tension like a fine vintage. "Well." He clasped his hands behind his back. "I do hope I've given you all something to ponder as you continue living in these... interesting times."

A few nervous coughs echoed through the hall. Perfect.

"Though I fear I may have rather spoiled some of the more... traditional vampire fantasies for you." He gave an elegant shrug. "The blood, the desire, the hunt—it all loses its romance when you know the sordid details, doesn't it?"

His gaze swept across the crowd, lingering on familiar faces that refused to meet his eyes.

"But perhaps I can offer you a different sort of vampiric indulgence." He tapped his ear with one perfectly manicured finger. "We have such keen eyes, you see. Such keen ears." His smile sharpened. "And you're all welcome to enjoy those abilities to your heart's content."

He caught Vensara's gaze one final time. "After all, you never know what you might see. What you might hear. What you might witness and remember."

With a flourishing bow that would have made any courtier proud, Astarion stepped back from the edge of the stage. He turned on his heel and strode toward the stairs, leaving the weight of two centuries of secrets and shame to slide off his shoulders and press down on the silent crowd behind him.

The great doors swung open with perfect dramatic timing, and Astarion caught glimpses of his companions melting away from their posts. Shadowheart vanished into shadow while Karlach's broad grin flashed in the lamplight before she ducked out a side entrance.

Wyll's voice carried clearly through the growing murmur. "My lady." He stood and gave Vensara an elaborate bow, dripping with mockery. "I'm afraid I must away. Do enjoy the rest of your evening."

The outraged whispers grew louder as Astarion descended the stage steps. Gale fell into step beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed as he let his illusory disguise fade. Together they crossed the marble floor, past clusters of nobles whose conversations died as they passed.

Cool night air hit his face as they emerged onto the street. Jaheira and Lae'zel were already waiting, having apparently dealt with their charges backstage. The others materialized from various directions until they formed a loose circle under the stars.

Karlach swept him into a crushing hug that would have knocked the breath from him if he'd had any. "That was amazing!"

"You should have seen their faces from where I was standing," Shadowheart added with a rare, genuine smile.

"Let us get out of here before they remember how to speak," Halsin suggested, though his eyes crinkled with pride.

They moved as one toward the bridge to the Lower City, the weight of two centuries lifting with each step away from the hall. Astarion found himself surrounded by his companions' warmth, their quiet congratulations and fierce protectiveness wrapping around him like the finest cloak.

Gale's hand found his as they walked, and Astarion squeezed it tight, savoring the simple comfort of the gesture. For the first time in recent memory, he felt truly free—not despite the bonds he shared with these people, but because of them. These weren't Vensara's gilded chains or Cazador's crushing compulsion, but connections freely given and received, strong enough to protect without the need to possess. For the first time in recent memory, he felt truly unbound—not because he walked alone, but because the hands that reached for his now were ones he chose to hold.

* * *

Astarion lay on his side against Gale's warmth, head pillowed on his lover's chest, one leg thrown over Gale's thigh. The sheets pooled around their hips, cool silk against heated skin. Moonlight spilled through gauzy curtains, painting silver patterns across their tangled limbs. The sounds of revelry from the Elfsong drifted up faintly through the window—their companions still celebrating their victory next door, no doubt. Alan had helped them find a nearby private room for the evening, and they had been enjoying it thoroughly.

Astarion smoothed an open hand across Gale's skin, savoring the steady thrum of his heartbeat. The wizard's fingers carded through his hair, occasionally catching on a tangle from their earlier activities.

"Better?" Gale's voice rumbled beneath his ear.

"Mm." Astarion stretched like a contented cat. "Much. Though I may need another hour or two to properly cleanse my palate of that dreadful woman."

The memory of Vensara's cloying scent and possessive touches made his skin crawl, but Gale helped ground him in the present. This was real—the softness of the bed, the lingering pleasure in his limbs, the gentle rise and fall of Gale's chest beneath his cheek.

"I still say we should have let Karlach punch her," Gale mused. "Just once."

Astarion snorted. "Tempting, but I rather prefer the slow poison of social death. Besides—" He pressed a kiss to Gale's collarbone. "—this is a far better way to remove the taste of the evening, don't you think?"

Gale hummed in agreement, his hand sliding down to stroke lightly along Astarion's spine. The touch was possessive but gentle, claiming without constraining. Everything Vensara's grasping hands had not been.

The warmth of Gale's touch drew his mind back to earlier that evening, when they'd returned to the Elfsong in triumph. Wyll had ordered a round for the entire tavern, while Karlach demonstrated her impression of Vensara's face when Astarion had described her distinctive fingernails. Even Lae'zel had cracked a rare smile, commenting that such psychological warfare was worthy of a githyanki warrior.

Shadowheart had been pleased with how smoothly their infiltration had gone—the whole thing had run like clockwork, each of the companions playing their roles to perfection.

And Halsin—calm, principled Halsin—had actually winked at him while describing how he'd used his bulk to intimidate the guards at the door. The druid who usually preached restraint had thrown himself into the scheme with surprising enthusiasm.

Their victory tasted sweeter than any wine. Not just because they'd secured the nobles' gold without compromising their principles, but because his friends had chosen this path—had chosen him—without hesitation. When he'd suggested using Vensara's own weapon against her, turning his notoriety into power, they hadn't merely agreed. They'd elevated his plan into something magnificent.

The first time he'd taken the stage at the Laughing Lantern, his vulnerability had been accidental, his pain laid bare without his intent. This time, he'd wielded his truth like a blade, and his companions had stood as his honor guard while he'd gutted his enemies.

Gale shifted beside him, and Astarion pressed closer, breathing in his familiar scent. His wizard had been right, as usual. They didn't need allies like Vensara, who built their power on others' suffering. They had something far more valuable—good people who would stand beside them, who would choose them come what may.

Oh, and the gold.  The gold would come in handy.

Astarion smiled against Gale's chest. The Upper City's elite could seethe and plot all they liked—their own reputations now hung by the thread of public opinion. Even Vensara wouldn't dare move against them openly, not with so many witnesses to her shame. And they had secured more gold for their cause than they'd initially hoped for. The desperate scramble of nobles trying to keep their names from the Midnight Magistrate's mouth through generous donations had been very satisfying.

Let the "good and great" of Baldur's Gate nurse their wounded pride. He and his companions had work to do, a city to save, an infection to cure. Real problems, not the manufactured dramas of powdered aristocrats.

Gale shifted again, a slight grimace crossing his features as he attempted to find a comfortable position. Astarion recognized the source of that expression—he had, after all, enjoyed his wizard's very vigorous efforts earlier in their celebrations.

"Roll over, darling." Astarion pressed a quick kiss to Gale's jaw before pushing up onto his knees. "Let me help with that."

"Mm?" Gale blinked at him, adorably confused.

"Your back is bothering you. Come now, turn over."

Understanding dawned, and Gale complied with a grateful sigh settling onto his stomach while Astarion straddled his hips. Astarion slid his hands up the warm expanse of Gale's back. He pressed his thumbs into the tight muscles along Gale's spine, working out the knots with practiced skill.

"Gods, that's good," Gale mumbled into the pillow.

Astarion smiled, a wicked gleam in his eye as he watched Gale's back relax under his ministrations. Astarion's hands never stopped their gentle work on Gale's back as he spoke, each word punctuated by the press of fingers into muscle. "You know," he purred, "I'm just getting you put back together enough to make it through round two." He lightly scraped his nails down Gale's spine, and the wizard shivered, goosebumps rising on his skin.

Astarion leaned back to admire the view. Gale's plush backside framed perfectly between his thighs—lovely. His wizard did hide the most extraordinary form under those shapeless robes of his.

"Round one might have been a bit...vigorous, for a man of your age." Astarion leaned forward, nipping at the sensitive skin where neck met shoulder.

Gale made a noncommittal noise, halfway between a moan and a disagreement. "Don't tempt me if you aren't being serious," he mumbled into the pillow. "I can give more, old man or not."

"Oh, I know you can." Astarion's smile widened, his fangs just barely catching the moonlight. "But I'm not sure this bed could withstand another round of your enthusiasm."

Gale turned his head to smirk up at Astarion while he shifted his hips suggestively, a challenge in the shake of his backside. "Gosh, if only we knew someone who could cast Mending, should the bed disappoint..."

Gale's laugh was warm and genuine, sending a pleasant shiver down Astarion's spine.  Astarion's eyes flicked downward, taking in the play of muscle between their bodies. His insides squeezed pleasantly at the memory of how good it had felt to be filled and stretched, taken with a thoroughness that left him pliant and replete. It had been... very nice. More than nice. Astarion wondered briefly if he was still open enough to skip the preliminaries for another go, but the thought was fleeting. Just being here with Gale like this, teasing and playful, was more appealing for now.

Astarion sat back on his heels with a dramatic sigh. "I suppose we should let you recover properly. Wouldn't do to have our wizard unable to cast because his back gave out at an inopportune moment."

"Are you sure?" Gale's hands found Astarion's hips as he turned beneath him, bringing them face to face. His eyes were soft in the moonlight, filled with something that made Astarion's chest tight. "Because I meant what I said about round two."

"Quite sure." Astarion traced a finger along Gale's jawline. "For now."

"Mm." Gale caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. "You know, watching you tonight—gods, I didn't think I could love you more than I already did. But seeing you tear those disgusting people apart..." He shook his head, wonder in his expression. "You were magnificent."

The warmth in Astarion's chest spread, threatening to overflow. He tried to deflect with a quip, but Gale wasn't finished.

"If it wouldn't inconvenience us afterward, I'd burn this whole world to ashes for what they did to you." Gale's voice was fierce, protective. "Since we'd have to live in those ashes though, I suppose I'll have to settle for making the world worthy of you instead." His lips quirked up as he noticed Astarion's eyes growing suspiciously wet. "Even if it means throwing my back out completely. You know, for the cause."

Astarion let out a watery laugh, ducking his head to hide the tears that threatened to spill. Gale's thumb caught one anyway as it fell, gentle as always.

Astarion blinked away his tears, composing himself. "Your back won't need to give out for my sake, darling. You were right all along." He leaned down and lay fully on Gale, tangling their legs and working an arm under Gale's neck as Gale wrapped his arms around his back and hips. "We found a better way. One that puts the shame exactly where it belongs—with them."

His fingers traced idle patterns on Gale's chest as he considered the evening's victory. "And we didn't have to get into bed—metaphorically or literally—with monsters like Vensara. In fact—" A smirk played across his lips. "—I rather think we've set things up beautifully for when this crisis is over. The city might just clean house on its own, now that everyone knows what lurks in their parlors."

"Though I must say," Astarion added, his tone turning playful, "I'm grateful you came chasing after me last night." He cocked his head, studying Gale with interest. "Speaking of which—would you consider recreating that delightful appearance you made in the streets? The whole rumpled, barefoot-in-pajamas look was surprisingly..." He wet his lips. "...appealing."

Gale's startled laugh warmed him to his toes. "Really? That's what did it for you?"

"Mm. The disheveled academic look has its charms." Astarion grinned, showing fang. "Especially when said academic appears like an unusual angel to protect my virtue."

Gale's chuckle vibrated through Astarion's chest where they pressed together. "I'll happily put on another performance for you, though I doubt my stumbling through the streets compares to your masterpiece tonight."

Astarion preened at the praise, but Gale's expression had turned serious, his hand coming up to cup Astarion's cheek.

"But you never needed my protection, you know. You just needed to know that you had options, and you didn't need to handle the situation on your own, even though you could." His thumb traced the curve of Astarion's cheekbone. "You saved yourself quite neatly in the end. The rest of us were just supporting cast—you were the star."

Something caught in Astarion's throat at those words. He had felt powerful on that stage, yes, but hearing Gale frame it that way... He remembered the terror that had gripped him when Vensara's letter arrived, the old instinct to submit. How far he had come from that moment to standing before Baldur's Gate's elite and making them squirm.

His companions hadn't saved him—they had simply shown him he was worth saving. Worth fighting for. Worth choosing over political convenience.

The rest... well, the rest had been pure theater. And wasn't that perfect? Using the very skills Cazador had forced him to develop against those who had once used him?

The realization struck him. The familiar knot of dread that had lived in his chest for centuries whenever he thought of Cazador... it wasn't there. In its place was something entirely different—anticipation.

They had faced down devils, necromancers, and the servants of dead gods. They had out-maneuvered the politics of Baldur's Gate's elite. Every challenge, every enemy, every seemingly insurmountable obstacle—they had overcome them all. Together.

And Cazador? He was just another monster. A powerful one, yes, but no more fearsome than the others they had faced. No more untouchable than Vensara had been, really. Just another tyrant who had built his power on others' pain.

Astarion pressed his face into Gale's chest, enjoying the tickle of his chest hair against his cheeks and remembering how easily they had dismantled Vensara's threats. How his companions had moved like a well-oiled machine, each playing their part in clearing the way for Astarion's killing blow. They would do the same to Cazador.

His lips curved into a predatory smile. Oh, but wouldn't that be delicious? To see Cazador's face when he realized his least favorite 'son' had teeth—and friends with an arsenal of spells, weapons, and distinctly creative  and vicious solutions to problems.

The vampire who had tormented him for centuries was just another target now. One they would eliminate with the same ruthless efficiency they had shown tonight. And unlike Vensara, they wouldn't even need to leave him alive afterward.

"What are you thinking about?" Gale's voice was soft, curious.

"Cazador." Astarion's smile widened. "And how very dead he's going to be."

Gale's laughter rumbled beneath Astarion's cheek. "Well, I suppose if I had to forgo turning Vensara into a smoking crater, watching Cazador burn will make up for it nicely."

"How generous of me." Astarion traced a finger down Gale's chest. "Such sacrifice deserves a reward, don't you think?"

The playful tone dropped from Gale's voice. "Name it." His hand tightened on Astarion's hip. "The world at your feet, if you want it. Anything."

The intensity in those words made Astarion's breath catch. Such devotion should have terrified him, but instead, it filled him with joy. Still, he kept his tone light as he disentangled himself and sat back to straddle Gale properly, nestling his bottom against Gale's cock and feeling it twitch against him.

"The world? Darling, have you seen the state of it lately? No, thank you." He rolled his hips deliberately. "For now, I think I'd rather have you put that back of yours to good use one more time."

Gale's hands slid up his sides as Astarion leaned down to capture his mouth in a searing kiss. Their bodies pressed together, familiar and perfect, and Astarion smiled against Gale's lips. This was all the world he needed.

[surnumanaja]

Welcome to my TED talk called "Rooki sõbrapäevik täidetuna" since

1) i wanted to talk about my rook and two non-rooks lol

2) the only way to ask me anything is going to the four road cross on the midnight of loss thurdsay (i think it was meant as an askbox questionnaire?)

Original Rook questionnaire post

Warning: long post that's headcanon heavy and said headcanon is wild. (For longtime foreign followers who might have wondered what on earth I yap about, this is your time to find out.)

And if anyone wants an excuse to talk about their Rook(s), then I tag @pauvrecamille @artemetto @raikoden (maybe @etruski in the future? maybe also @kotitontunmanaaja ??) @happyhourtea anyway im happy to read about your rooks :D

Quick recap of the soap opera that's my headcanon: starting off from Inquisition, there were technically 4 survivors of the temple explosion, but still one herald – Magda Cadash, the other three became Inquisition members and part of the inner circle. Cadash was a good tactician on field, but politically shit ruler. She sided with templars to ensure trade deals for her family's (mainly uncle's) lyrium smuggling operation. She had hope same hope with wardens, but that didn't end up as lucrative business venture as templars.

Instead of letting Morrigan drink from the Well of Sorrows or drinking herself, she made a low ranking Inquisition elven scout drink from the well instead.

By the time of Exalted Council inquisitor Cadash was already burned out and disbanded the Inquisition. She lived very secluded life in Kirkwall until she died in house-fire that was commonly believed to be started by her uncle.

Now, in sometime right after Corypheus was slain by Cadash: Mythal, distrusting Solas, flies to Far-South in dragon form and (literally) crashes a wedding (not important whose) and enlists three following volunteers:

half-elf hunter Terhi of Taigaste (Eng Woodsville or Taigaville);

half-dwarf bard-fighter and mercinary of Kilbinäkid (The Shieldselkies) Elona "Elo" of Tormivere (either Stormblood or Stormhill);

qunari sorcerer Sander "Sass" ("Lex") of Imesaare (farm Wonderisle or Wonder-Ash (tree)).

Mythal gives them a quest to hunt down wolf god known to locals as Pontu Kaarel (Carl of Dogs, as in wolves are known dog killers). The three prepare a ritual according to a folk song, but the magic backfires and the three companions are thrown all over Thedas and other worlds (shhhh don't worry about it.) Terhi found herself in Arlathan forest, Elo in Nevarran Necropolis, and Sass got an illith tadpole in Forgotten Realms (don't worrrry aboouuut it).

Terhi joins the Veiljumpers and meets Varric and Harding and is given the nickname Rook (which she finds confusing as she's never played chess). During the events of Veilguard the three hunters manage to reunite.

(I mostly talk about Terhi, as she's my canonical Rook, unless I state otherwise lol)

1: Where in the Thedas is your Rook from?

Further south from Korcari Wilds that the northerners call "uncharted territories"

2: What is your character's alignment?

I haven't really though about character alignments for awhile. Characteristics wise Terhi is stoic, blunt, doesn't talk much, has dry sarcastic humor, very loyal.

Elo's a charmer, true soul of the party, or more accurately she was all of that until she woke up with a splitting head ache among hordes of undead and had to navigate around Necropolis virtually alone for 8 years.

And Sass had a rough life (orphan in strange land that never really accepted him, his magic constantly causing him troubles, illith tadpoles etc), but he refuses to give up and continues to find a way. Also he's a firm believer that the only good god is a dead god.

3: Race and subclass?

Half-elf Veilranger

4: If your Rook was a companion, where would they be found?

With Elo and Sass it's easy – Elo would be in the music room and Sass would be where ever they store the wine. But Terhi? Maybe she'd camp somehere in the Crossroads?

5: What emotion did they usually pick?

Stern mostly and sometimes sarcastic, diplomatic for companion's personal stuff.

6: What companion are you platonically close with?

Harding, Davrin, Bellara, and Taash. She has kind of weird almost friendly relationship with Sass, but its been greatly undermined by Sass' alcoholism.

7: Romantically close with?

Elo (headcanon, but Harding in-game), Sass was also flirtatious nuisance to Lucanis.

8: Who are they suspicious of?

Besides Solas? First time Terhi met Emmrich, she was suspicious about, because she expected him to be all snob about her Chasind origins. She also managed to be weird about Lucanis and Spite while she literally has a demon dog companion tied to her with blood magic (again don't worry about it).

There's ever-present worry and distrust about Sass' soberness and lack of it and how it will affect his magic.

And then there's something off about Harding's wife, especially when Elo tries to guess where's she's seen her and she gets more defensive.

9: Does your Rook get along with their chosen Faction?

She gets along well with other Veiljumpers other than Strife.

10: Are they proficient in playing any instruments?

Again, it's easy with Elo and Sass. Elo plays kannel, Sass can play willow flute. Maybe Terhi can be trusted with jauram, since it resembles a bow??

11: Weapon of choice?

Bow. Keep them far.

12: What is their orientation?

Terhi's a lesbian, Elo's pan and Sass is gay.

13: What are their thoughts on killing? Is it a necessary evil or do they enjoy it?

Terhi's a life long hunter, she thinks of it as a last resort ("kill or be killed") or necessity (hunting for food and hide), nothing evil nor nothing to enjoy.

14: What hobbies does your Rook have?

Make-shift crafting, cooking, dog training, and sharp-shooting have all been necessary skills for her. But she does like to stitch patterns on her clothes, that's not necessity and her needlework certainly cannot be called neat.

15: What NPCs do they like? Which one's do they dislike?

Morrigan is cool because she's also Chasind.

Terhi has her differences with Strife, especially about what comes first – the team (Terhi) or knowledge gained (Strife). They both think they are right and the other party is wrong.

16: Do they have a favorite creature in the Thedas?

Griffons! What ever those panthers in Arlathan (in the comics) were, phoenixes, and lynxes. Also normal wolves are cool and DA:I's great bears and harts.

17: Do they enjoy life as an adventurer?

Yeh

18: What would your Rook be doing if they weren't recruited by Varric?

Moved through wilderness somewhere else to see what life has to offer, but not able to find lost companions that was Terhi's goal for the first few years in Arlathan.

19: How do you think they'll meet their end?

Probably fighting something they can't best. That or of the blight because of the amount of the blight she had to hack herself through.

20: Would they side with Solas or fight him?

Get his ass for certain

21: What is your Rook's favorite ability?

Necrotic shower of arrows.

22: What languages is your character fluent in?

Mother tongue (not elvhen, but one of many languages spoken in Far-South) and trade language.

23: What do they do after an absolute crisis?

Either hitting training dummies or work out with Taash.

24: Does your character believe in the afterlife?

Yea

25: What specialization best represents your Rook?

Ranger

26: What animal best represents your Rook?

Lynx if you exclude fear of heights.

27: What was their life like before the events of Veilguard?

She survived 8 in Arlathan as did Elo in Necropolis. (They both agree being spit out in Arlathan beats Necropolis)

Of those 8 years the first half a year Sass survived in Forgotten Realms, then accidentally isekaid himself back somewhere in Orlais. Then tried to isekai himself back to Forgotten Realms via blood magic, but gave up eventually and decided that life as tranquil beats getting yourself killed through blood magic. So he's been a tranquil for 7 or so years.

Then before that 8 years, they were hunting the wolf-god for 2 years. and before that they lived their more or less separate lives.

Terhi was hunter and raised hunting and sleigh dogs.

Elona was the leader of mercenary band, ship captain and a well-known bard in Far-South.

Sass was hedgemage who did odd jobs across farms and towns.

28: Is your character the de facto leader of the party? Or do they consider someone else to be the leader?

De facto leader

29: If you could choose a different faction for your Rook, which one would they have joined and why?

Maybe Lord of Fortune would make sense too for Terhi. hmmm as well with others too i guess

30: What's your favorite thing about your Rook?

I didn't have any good ideas for my Rook so I just went with my wolf hunters and surprisingly Terhi's motivation suited well to be a Rook. (Eh and elven veiljumper Rook's origins are conflicting/vague anyway so)

[echonvoid]

My version of the Poppy Playtime protagonist. They’re based on Aliens Ripley but if older. They couldn’t remember a whole bunch from the week or so around the Hour of Joy; they were attacked by Huggy and managed to make it right outside the front doors with the help of one of the other employees, who, valiantly (read *stupidly*) ran back inside to try to help. He never came back out. Anyway, Protag was found by paramedics, but the inside was empty of bodies by the time they got there. There was a shit load of blood, and after a brief scan by the cops, they just shut that shit down. They lost a couple cops and paramedics, but mostly used their instincts and ran. Like smart people who survive a horror movie.

So the protagonist ends up in a couple month long coma and comes out of it with a severed nerve that connects to their larynx. Now they haven’t been able to properly talk for 30 years (ignore my math, I’m still unsure how I fucked it up so bad)

I can’t decide if they’re late 50s or 60s. They’re farsighted, but their reading glasses have broke, so it’s really hard to see all the small faded text (which is why you can’t just read any ole file while playing)

They feel guilty bc they had been so proud to be a part of something with so much benefit and joy to kids, and now they’re finding out the actual *EVIL* that was happening to those with connection to the place. They feel guilty bc they feel like they should’ve known; *how could they have let this all happen right underneath their very nose*;etc. etc. they also have a burning hatred for the other managerial heads in the company (they themselves being head of toy production; their name is destroyed bc the prototype was enraged that one of the five main evils of the company got away or some shit like that)

It took them a while to figure out how to live and function without speech; and after a few years of slogging through a comphet (compulsory heteronormative) marriage, they finally went through a nasty divorce. Shortly after they figured out their own gender identity (or at least started the awkward process of) and their own sexuality.

Thirty years later (almost on the dot) they got the message and tape that cried for help from the factory and nearly shit themselves. Proto definitely assumed that the company had just shut down, cuz you know that the cops were paid to keep a building with almost 500 (or so) employees, that went missing and were presumably dead, under wraps from the public. They’re definitely super grateful they’ve been doing tumbling and martial arts classes, so they have been in incredible shape and can do all the crazy shit required to stay alive.

Edit: this is what I’m gonna call the Survivor AU cuz I realize that the game takes place in 2005 and not, like, 2025. And we apparently played hooky during the “hour of joy” in canon lore. Oh well

God this chapter fucked me up, in a good way. It was spooky as fuck, tense and terrifying; they’ve super upped the quality. But now I have just enough brain rot and characters to attach to to actually go through and draw up the design that’s been banging around in my head for ever.

[elfrootenthusiast]

Take this as permission to ramble about an oc <3

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY CASSIE TIME

every1 look @ her outfits........ if u dont want to read th worlds longest oc lore dump u can go in #party rat, #cassie, or #boss cass and learn literally everything u need 2 know abt her frm context clues

SO THATS CASSIEEE my mgs oc ✨ aka cassandra aka cass aka party rat aka my baby

looong story short she was your classic mgs child soldier with a streak of bad luck until she tried to KILL big boss in the late 1960s. she was one of the first poor bastards he took under his wing and following the dubiously canon events of the san hieronymo incident she became one of the original members of the foxhound unit: solitary shrike.

obviously that code name sucks ASS and honestly so did she; she was moody, rude, violent and didnt work well with others. absolutely no joy or whimsy until she met some british asshole named lance hewitt, codename bengal tiger, and got paired up with him. they proceeded to survive a catastrophic near death mission that changed the trajectories of their lives FOREVER on account of they emerged from it so ride or die for each other that they began matching each others freak to an inadvisable degree.

she changed her name (surprise her given name isnt cassandra. only 3 people in the whole world know what it used to be and im not one of those people) and her code name to reflect the "new her" she wanted to cultivate after facing death, branding herself "party rat." the goal? fill whatever life she had left with as much joy, love & fun as she possibly could. she was going to sing as loud as she wanted, dance as wild as she felt like, and finally stop holding herself back from fully connecting with the people around her. to solidify this, as well as to show her complete and utter over the top devotion to him, she took on lances last name, finally becoming the cassandra hewitt we all know + love

now a member of the MSF cass works as an engineer sergeant, chief mechanic, & generally invents a bunch of highly questionable weapons and machines. she also operates on the field as a demolitions expert for her squad, which grows to include an absolute dickhead named joaquin gutierrez, or mangey jackal. though she tries to embrace her new party spirit and the "peace and love" vibes of the time, he singles out bengal for some intensive one on one training and eventually pushes him to the point of breaking, making cass snap and quite literally bite his ear off. but like. he was fine. and everyone got better. and she taught him how to do the hustle as a peace offering. nothing a little disco cant fix.

back to the Plot: she eventually gets wrapped up in the creation of metal gear zeke, and was one of the weak points exploited by paz that allowed her to hijack it later on. she meets her canonical end during the ground zeroes incident, dying alone in the lower levels after sending her squadmates ahead to buy time. she blowed up </3

in alternate timelines where she survives she loses her left arm and occasionally her leg below the knee as well. as a sole survivor she becomes tangled in a web between big boss, zero, and cipher, creating a PMC of her own in order to pick up the pieces and continue the legacy left to her. she also begins raising the clone sons of her late best friend as her own but THATS neither here nor there <- dont even worry about it if the others survive she manages to slip from the attention of the higher ups and settles on creating a relief network with amanda valenciano libre, an old friend from her time in the msf. no matter what, cass maintains a stubborn belief that unless shes seen the bodies of her friends theyre still alive, which means she cant rest until shes found them. even if it takes Nine Years

ANYWAYS LIKE. tldr: shes like if pinkie pie had a party cannon that killed people for realsies

[goosewriting]

i can't believe my brain finally, finally let me have a cal kestis appearance in my dream last night and it was the saddest most heart-wrenching thing ever 😩 my dreams are crazy, detailed and elaborate so this will get long lol if you feel like reading, go ahead, it's real "reader falls into an alternate universe and needs to find their way back" fic material 😂

btw if any of you ever have dreams with your blorbos i'd love to read it so feel free to honk in my inbox c:

so it kinda went back and forth between two different dreams i'm pretty sure. one playing at the university library and the other playing somewhere else. in the library one i was at a table with some classmates, working on our assignments, but there were also some people i know from elsewhere and we started arguing over something. then there was this girl who had lost something and i tried to talk her through how to get to the lost & found, giving the wildest (and very wrong) directions.

the other dream started in the middle of a yellow field of tall grass, where train tracks ran through from one side of the horizon to the other, nothing else to see. when the train came, it was massive, and i was participating in a heist of sorts. we (still don't know who the other people were) were successful i think, because the train derailed and we looted it. I think there was some big boss mastermind somewhere who told us what to do and we were all scared of her lol

so i don't exactly remember what happened after the heist, but the thing is there were these jumps between the dreams where in one i was this badass agent of whatever and doing cool stuff, and in the other i was "real me" in this world doing mundane things. although at some point i'm pretty sure i suddenly was an estate agent trying to set everything up for a visit except that the house was made of cardboard, but that's beside the point 😂 the scenarios from the library timeline i'm pretty sure happened not only somewhere else but in a different time altogether.

at one point, the events of the heist dream kinda come to its peak, and i now find myself in a big room (in hindsight i think it was the archives on jedha from the survivor game?) and somewhere in the air there's a bucket-shaped thing that's swallowing everything around it in a whirlwind, essentially ripping apart time and space. and as it turns out, cal has been there the whole time, and we were actually fighting together and stuff. but now that the bucket is about to shred the fabric of reality, we have to do something. and for some reason the plan of action is that i have to travel to a different universe. we (cal, me, and some other people idk) were all standing at a holotable looking at a map displaying different planets and universes and stuff (again, in hindsight, very web of life and destiny like. i just mashed everything together here it seems xD). and the reasoning in my head went like this: the planet we find ourselves on at this moment is not necessarily star wars canon and is outside of the known parts of the galaxy. so even if i do find my way back to this universe (which i was sure i could do, somehow) i still have no means to contact cal and or even find the planet again. so the search would take quite a while.

and there isn't enough time for us to set up a meeting point and time or anything because of the imminent danger. someone is already dragging me back to the bucket to be sucked into next wednesday or whatever, but i go up to cal one last time and he gives me the strongest hug and omg i didn't wanna let go. at this point i 'm in tears and as someone once again pulls me away and drags me off, i call to him "i will find you" and then everything goes black.

it's so lame i know but i legit woke up with a hole in my heart ;-;

my conclusion is that after leaving that place, the time and space travel kinda wiped my mind so i started a new life (the one at the library and the cardboard house) and completely forgot about cal :'( eventually i'd get snippets of memories, which is why the dream kept jumping back and forth, but i probably just thought they were daydreams or whatever, not my own memories. now that's some meta angst man.

oh and also at some point there were gorillas that shapeshifted into smaller versions of themselves with wings to fly around, and everyone was absolutely okay with that except that they were aggressive so they didn't like them. how that ties into any part of the dream i couldn't tell you but it was just a striking image to see these giant apes suddenly become small and flutter around shdjddkd

[eating-plastic]

I'd love to know more about your f/o Ricky!! I love reading your replies to the prompts but I don't know who Ricky is tbh lol this is an invitation to gush about him :3 <3 <3

Ay, I absolutely ain't got no problems talking about Ricky so thank you for the invitation 🥰!

Roller Ricky is a side character from the game Killer Frequency. He's a sweet and fun loving guy who runs a roller rink in the fictional small town of Gallows Creek(hence the nickname). He's very chill, down to Earth, and friendly. He also has an emotional support dog named Max who he absolutely loves (which it's sooo fucking cute how much he loves him oh my God).

Despite being certified sweet boi in my books (calls him "certified sweet boi" even tho he's literally a grown ass man in his late 30s lol), he has no problems with scaring off someone with his rifle if they threaten him or those he loves (this is literally canon, and I love that it's canon).

Annnnnnd what's a certified sweet boi without a traumatic backstory. Without spoiling the game too much, Ricky went through this fucked up prank in high school where he literally thought his friends were fucking murdered and one of them actually fucking dying (I'm not kidding you, shit's fucked up). Turns out it was a stupid hazing ritual that his football team was doing to the new players, and he didn't know that because he can't keep secrets well and would've spoiled it. Yeah that's not a good fucking excuse because he developed really bad survivor's guilt that caused him to become an alcoholic to deal with the trauma (and my poor bby I wanna wrap him up in a blanket now 😭).

Fortunately, he found a support group and got actual therapy for his trauma. Now he encourages others to push through tough times.

Yeah I love this man soooo much it's not even funny lol.

What's sad tho is Killer Frequency is kinda niche(?) I think, so there isn't too much content out there for him, despite being relatively well liked by fans. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who has written any x reader things for him. That's so me tho, I've always fallen in love with characters that are unknown or unpopular, it's my curse. Anyways, my first ever full length fanfic I wrote, Heart Shaped Roller Rink (been thinking about making that our ship name, I think it's cute) was a Roller Ricky x reader fic. I've thought about revamping it too with it being my first fanfic; just kinda clean up the wacky formatting and fix the grammatical errors (I feel like with him being my f/o now, it's what he deserves lol). Then I literally wrote some headcanons for him the day after I posted that fic. Finally, not too long after that, I wrote another fic with him where the reader was pregnant because I feel it in my bones that he'd be such a sweet dad.

Also, like a fool I said that that was going to be the last I would write for him. God, what a funny joke because I have another idea for a fic (now if only I had the time and motivation). I didn't really plan on having him as my f/o, but after realizing I had written three things for him back to back to back, I was like "yeah, this is more than loving a character a normal amount." Soooo yeah, that's how he became my f/o. Don't get me wrong, I've always loved x reader fics and shit(still do btw), but I've never felt this strongly for a character before.

Now, I am happy to be a part of the wonderful world of self shipping with him ❤️

Bonus:

Hehe himb 🥰🥰❤️

[weeb-cheese]

Hello! Changel from Twitch here! Hope the day is treating you well <3

This is the quite heavy question i didn't share on twitch bc of it being heavy, but feel free not to answer it if it makes you too uncomfortable to talk about!

So...I have been following the Kuro manga since before the Blue Memory Arc was released, but I never realized Ciel was a victim of CSA until the chapter where it was disclosed. Recently, after i got back into the manga, i even thought "Yana, did you even plan this or was it a last minute decision to put something extremely fucked up?"

However, looking trough tumblr, i found out some people called it (and i may have misinterpreted, or remember wrong, but I think you're one of them?) before it even happened and i wanted to ask...Can you share what made it so obvious for you? Because the only thing i can think of is his dislike for physical touch, but that can be chalked up to non-sexual physical abuse as well, so idk I'm just curious on what the foreshadowing was that i missed?

Again, feel free not to answer if its too heavy. I usually avoid any talk about sexual assaults of any kind, however i just wanted to understand the foreshadowing/effects on o!Ciel that i missed, but i totally understand if you don't feel up to it. Your mental health comes first :)

Sorry to bring up such a dark topic...

Stay safe <3

I don't clearly remember what it was exactly that let me know. I think it was a combination of things. But mostly I think it was a gut feeling and projection? More explanation under the cut since it's long and also can be heavy

I started reading the manga for Kuro shortly after getting out of a really traumatic relationship. I'll be straight up, there was nothing more than non-consensual groping and a type of emotional abuse that some mental health professionals call emotional rape. So I obviously never experienced anything like Ciel did. But, I was able to take my own feelings and find them in Ciel. Things I felt, and behaviors I exhibited were mirrored and exaggerated in him. He was displaying behaviors that had my mom asking me if anything had happened. So I kind of just put two and two together. (btw this was a decade ago. I've been healing, and am okay now!)

A scene that really solidified it though was his PTSD attack in Green Witch arc. And especially the fact that he only felt safe with Finny there. Ciel wasn't in a place where he could clearly differentiate between reality and his own nightmares and memories. So any adult presence was a reminder of those who hurt him. But since Finny was also a teenager, his presence was safe, comforting even. There are a few other scenes through out the manga where Ciel displays classic symptoms of being an assault survivor. Moments where he didn't want to be touched that felt too extreme to be anything else. Like the time he pulled a gun on Sebastian when being woken up one morning after a nightmare. The manga tried to play it off as him being scared after reading scary stories before bed. But it felt deeper than that to me.

It also just made sense to me? I had a really negative outlook on the world back then, and for some reason was hearing a lot about assault in the news. And I was also getting to the age where my mom was talking to me more about that kind of thing, so I'd be aware and better able to protect myself as I graduated high school and entered college. So I guess it was just on my mind a lot. But it just seemed like a safe assumption to make. Like what else would these weirdos be doing with a bunch of kids? I say this all the time, but it's THE WORST headcanon to have confirmed in canon.

I think with the symbolic way Yana Toboso portrayed THAT chapter, it wasn't done for shock factor or just to add something fucked. I think it was something she had in mind from the start. And at least knew she wanted to include that in the manga long enough to have put so much thought and care into how she portrayed it. It's still an incredibly fucked up chapter, but to me it didn't feel like something she put in for the sake of the reader, or to gawk at how fucked up it is. She's referenced CSA a bit through out the manga as well. In the Circus arc, when Kelvin is told that Ciel was in captivity and would be the lamb, the other guy makes a comment about how he and the other cult guys would love Ciel plenty enough for Kelvin. And that so clearly is about CSA, especially now that I know Yana Toboso had that in mind as well.

I don't think you really missed a lot of foreshadowing. Especially since most of it was vague or brushed off and explained away by something else in the manga. Or required you to be pretty familiar with those feelings and symptoms yourself. If Yana Toboso wanted to make it clearer from the start, she would have. Maybe she wasn't too sure if she wanted to confirm that. I know when it comes to the writing process you'll come up with a lot of character traits and back stories that help shape the character, but may not actually make it to the final product of the story.

[spaceorphanssecondbreakfastclub]

SO's Bookclub : The Name of the Game was Murder

Title: The Name of the Game was Murder Author: Joan Lowery Nixon Genre: YA Mystery

Goodreads Summary :

Novelist Augustus Trevor has written a manuscript that reveals the darkest secrets of his guests. Whoever can solve Trevor's clues can have his story removed from the book. But when Trevor is bludgeoned to death, the survivors (along with the reader) are challenged to find both the manuscript and the murderer.

Review:

Okay - back to finishing up reading all of Joan Lowery Nixon's canon YA mysteries. (Because I'm close to the end on these.)

So - this particular book holds a special place in my heart. It was my favorite JLN and quite possibly the first one I bought (if it wasn't On The Other Side of Dark - which, who knows, maybe I bought them together). This is the one that I reread the most -- though upon reread, I had shockingly little memory of what it was about.

And I may have to argue this is the best one that I've read so far.

Interestingly, the thing about this book is that, other than our plucky heroine, there really aren't any of our normal JLN tropes here. No one is from Texas, no matriarch with overlaying Christian values, and no love interest. And while I can tell it's of the same ilk as the rest of Nixon's novels, it does stand out at being a smidge better writing than the rest of the novels.

I'm not sure, though, that it's necessarily good? Just better than what's come before it.

The story is one part Agatha Christie, one part Clue, and one part Westing Game (which -- I can see why I was initially drawn in by this one.) However -- all three of the above are much better in quality, and this almost feels generically mundane in comparison.

Sam comes to a secluded island off the coast of California in hopes that her famous uncle (through marriage) will give her writing tips. It's kind of hysterical that a fifteen year old thinks she can bounce in on a nastier GRR Martin and expect to be given the time of day, but this is also a book where Sam is the only one smart enough to even figure out what is going on.

Sam isn't so bad -- especially when compared to most of the other heroines of these books. She's still a bit altruistic at times, and I find it a little hard to believe that she's the smartest person in the room at all times. But there's nothing egregiously bad about her. I think she's a blank enough slate that the reader could probably put themselves in her shoes without too much trouble.

Her uncle, Augustus Trevor, is a complete asshole -- including to his wife Thea (Sam's aunt being her only friend and ally on the island) and is writing a manuscript that he's using to essentially blackmail famous people. He also put a scandalous story in about his own wife. I realize you're supposed to not be upset about this guy's death but honestly, he is a huge creep - and you have to wonder how and why Trevor and Thea were ever married in the first place.

The famous people are a collection of stereotypes usually found in these kinds of things. A fragile, aging movie star. A Danielle Steele type novelist. A fashion designer (whom I was worried would be gay coded - but even though he was the most vicious of the guests, was not at all painted as queer). An older football star. And a senator (whose politics some what remind me of today's politics.) They aren't all that interesting, tbh, and react to things in the exact manner you'd expect. But mostly they're idiots there because the story needs them to be.

The foundation for the mystery is intriguing enough, but maybe now that I'm older and have read so many more (better) mysteries, it feels stale and standard. The clues given you might be able to figure out if you're very clever - but feel like they're stretching. And I wish the backstories of everyone weren't info-dumped a few chapters from the end.

The ending was as abrupt as usual - and while the book mostly hints at who did it, I wish there had been just a little more to go on. And I wish there had a bit more closure.

Just wanted to make a final note about the atmosphere and setting of the book. Now that we're in the 90s, it doesn't have that same dated feeling as the earlier books did. But I have to add there's a hilarious sequence where everyone argues about how little they know and use computers.

Anyway -- I won't be surprised if I walk away with this being her best book. I think I may like A Deadly Game of Magic a little more due to the creepy atmosphere - but this is probably the best written. I suppose that's as close as a recommendation you're going to get for one of these books.

Rating : 3.75 Stars

[eoin-mcgonigal]

Not to stalk you but I’ve absolutely been stalking you as I watched The Terror for the first time three months ago and am now deeply invested. And I adore Sol Tozer and after reading your headcanons about him, specifically him leaving the service with a head injury, I came to shout my own thoughts at you.

I always headcanoned that if Sol survived in canon he would have had seizures from the pistol whipping by Hickey. None of the other survivors would’ve been able to say for certain how long Sgt Tozer had been having these episodes of the falling sickness and it would ultimately save him from military punishment because, especially early on before he was able to get treatment from a doctor, he would be basically incapable of functioning because of the unpredictable nature of his fits. In a modern AU I think it would be very similar that he ended up with a head injury that caused seizures and he ends up isolating himself and struggling to re-enter the world due to the uncertainty and fear.

If you’re a Tommy Armitage enjoyer I imagine in canon all the gunfire so close to his head would have greatly impaired his already poor hearing and left him more or less deaf. He and Sol end up together trying to make it back in England with both of them struggling with their new limitations and the reputation of the failed expedition on their back.

anon. dear dear anon, you come into my house with these gorgeous thoughts?!!! i applaud u and i agree so much. sol with seizures and deaf tommy??? that's some good shit right there!!! both in canon and modern aus. (i am both an appreciator of both these characters btw!!!) [also thank u for enjoying my blog!!!]

sol is scared of entering into society because he can't control when the seizures happen, or what they do to him. if they make him zoom out, collapse or pass out, it's not up to him. he confesses this to tommy, who tells him that while he understands that fear, sol needs to let people in to help him. he explains it like this: as a deaf person in a hearing world, tommy is rarely in control of anything due to the hearing loss. people talk at or over him, and he struggles. but he's found strategies. people. they make it worth it. they make him feel like he has power and control in the midst of the chaos. sol has to find that too. he has to find control where he can and the rest of the time, let the chaos exist. chaos isn't dangerous. chaos just is. he'll find ways to wrestle it into submission.

[margridarnauds]

For the WIP thing, can I ask 7, 10, and 11? Thanks!

Thank you! I'm currenlty working on a 1789 oneshot, I have about 5100 words in.

7. What is your favorite scene you’ve written so far?

Either the opening scene or the scene in the church, which is what the fic is based around. Without going too heavily into spoilers, the fic is a retelling of a folk story, specifically Motif E492, "The Midnight Mass of the Dead", which probably has the widest distribution in Scandinavian countries but also has been found all over Europe going back to the Middle Ages, with this retelling also bringing in bits and pieces of Breton beliefs around the dead and afterlife. It's the second time I've done anything related to the Breton beliefs around the dead, the first was in Pour la Peine, which is all about Ronan's sister Solène (in a different timeline), so it was really cool to get to work with that again with Ronan and to kind of touch on the different approaches the siblings take to these things and how those approaches have changed as they've aged. The Midnight Mass is probably one of my favorite folktales of all time -- I think I first heard it when I was a child and reading the Enchanted World books (which also introduced me to kelpies, sparking ANOTHER lifelong obsession) and it's stuck with me since then, it's really cool to get to write it out on page and to adapt it to a French Revolutionary context. I really hope that I can do it justice.

10. What is the last line of dialogue you’ve written?

"Come, even you must admit that we do some things better than Brittany or the Beauce," Lazare said. 

"Never," Ronan replied. At least part of how they'd survived as a couple over the years had been Ronan stubbornly deciding to never, ever let Lazare think that he had too much of the upper hand.

11. What scene are you most hyped for this chapter/fic?

Since we're in the homestretch (hopefully!), there shouldn't be all THAT much to write. We've cleared the main kind of scene that this was built around, and now we're going into the conflict resolution stage, but there is going to be one scene coming up, probably immediately after the one I'm writing now, where Ronan basically asks Lazare how soon it would be possible for them to travel to Lazare's ancestral chateau in Provence and Lazare responds that it's possible by the New Year (it's currently Christmas). And this is a small bit of dialogue between the two of them, but it's really highlighting, imo, how much they've really developed as a couple since they were at each other's throats in the canon era, or even the latest we'd seen them in the timeline of this series, where they're still arguing a lot. Like, at this point, it's the nineteenth century, they've been married for decades, they know one another, and so, even without *fully* knowing exactly what happened, Lazare gets Ronan enough to know that he is severely shaken. It's a big thing for Lazare especially, since he never really had any sort of practice at this sort of thing before, he was raised to think of himself as a weapon. And Lazare has his own issues with his ancestral chateau, since he was exposed to a frankly monstrous amount of what we'd call child abuse there, and it is *also* incredibly haunted by various and assorted De Peyrol ancestors -- even though he's come more to terms with it and made the place his own over the years, he still considers himself more of a Parisian than anything else, so this is also definitely an act of love/concern on his part.

Like, without going too heavy into spoilers, this is a gothic folktale. It's leaning more heavily into the gothic tradition than anything I've done since the literal Crimson Peak fanfic. But beneath that, a big sort of question it's trying to ask, and I hope that comes across, is "was it worth it for Ronan to marry Lazare?" Lazare's done terrible things, Ronan had to essentially give up the Revolution for him, and there's a lot of survivor's guilt on Ronan's side when pretty much all of his best friends are dead, and many of them died feeling, not unreasonably, that he betrayed them. He's being haunted, both literally and figuratively. But the final part, even though there's some uncertainty, since there always is, answers that question with "Yes. It was."

[theaviskullguy]

@octorocktopus fuck yeah!!!

so its a dnd au. well. more accurately a baldur's gate 3 au kinda because Thats My Hyperfixation. So spoilers for that. There's a thing you learn about lateish game mixed with a healthy dose of my theory about it

Prince is our mc-well, one of 2. A elf bard from the city of Baldur's Gate and a certified Little Shit. Essentially, as an elf of high standard, Prince was expected to be prim and proper all of the time. When Prince was captured by the Mindflayer's ship (and when they escaped), they channeled their chaotic child side that was suppressed for 100 years (as they are 113, and elves reach adulthood at age 100). They knew magic from training and channeled it into becoming a bard- along with their violin skills.

Avi is our other mc. A tiefling from a small town that had been burned to the ground- he swore an oath of vengeance to find those who had destroyed it and enact revenge- while protecting those who need it along the way. He's a bit of a hero to the survivors of the fire- as he did his best to help them set up a camp. But again- stolen by the Mindflayers.

They both had the mindflayer tadpole crawl into them- and both survived the ship crash, found each other, and decided to travel together.

When the powers the tadpole gave them fully awoken, it bestowed them with a Guardian- who they believed to be their loved ones. Well- Avi believed it to be Skull, and trusted him instantly, using the tadpole powers to strengthen it and control it. While Prince knew it wasn't Emperor- he's the closest thing Prince had to a loved one, but even he's an asshole. So Prince never used their powers when it could be avoided.

So- and here's the massive spoilers part- The Guardian turns out to be a rouge Mindflayer known as The Emperor. Now even I don't know if his motives are good or bad- every site ive read about this wont say shit if he is or not- but in this, he's bad. He almost gets Avi to turn into a mindflayer- but he meets Skull before that could happen.

His meeting with Skull- a half-elf who studies the mindflayers- makes Avi realize that the Skull he's been talking to in his dreams isn't him. So he gets that damned thing out of him before it can do too much more. And luckily he's all good now!

Anyways. Skull comes along the party (which also consists of canon bg3 characters but shush this is a Coroika Post) and aviskull adopt prince.

Anyways. Funny fact.

Prince's vicious mockery stems from not only insults, but from being chaotic as shit. The sheer shock of this 4"9 elf who looks like they dont have it in them to hurt a fly, yelling "FUCK YOU ASSHAT" at the top of their lungs is enough to do psychic damage, the magic of the spell aside

hey i have a silly coroika au who wants to hear it

[visionmarred-archive]

last night I was watching that infamous episode of The Twilight Zone. y’know, the one people parody constantly about the guy with the glasses

but years of parodies couldn’t harden my heart enough to it I guess bc that guy in that episode was one of the sweetest, nicest guys ever gsdfhdd so I had to turn off my episode before the end bc I just. couldn’t watch that happen to him rip