#moonrise shell

[wlwaerith]

i’m aware i’m 100% alone in this, but i genuinely adore ascended astarion (especially when romanced) because of how—frankly—horrific it is. it’s simultaneously so cathartic in its brutality but so unsatisfying personally while managing to be narratively satisfying (just as his other outcome is, of course).

[the-astral-sea]

Morning Wood (Gale x fem!Tav) (smut)

18+ I decided to write something vulgar and smutty and I’ve never written anything like this before so I hope it’s good. It’s a bit filthy and not a long read, but I enjoyed testing my writing abilities with something new :)

Set after the defeat of Ketheric, it’s Gales turn to collect the fire wood before hitting the road. Tav wakes him up, and things progress from there. Like, really progress.

The air was thick with anticipation. After destroying Ketheric and claiming his stone, the Shadow Cursed Lands could finally begin to heal. The birds could finally return, flowers and trees could finally grow, life could flourish once again and the shell of Moonrise could finally be restored to it’s former glory, standing as a beacon of hope and serving as a place of healing and worship to Selune.

The battle last night was long, strenuous and surprising, but well fought and well won nonetheless. Tav was covered in cuts and bruises, as was everyone else in the party - but it didn’t matter. Ketheric’s defeat and the promise of a better future was worth every drop of blood, every aching muscle and every tear shed.

As morning came around, the camp slowly came to life. Each individual a mixture of happy, exhausted and anxious about the road ahead to Baldurs Gate. “I can’t wait to see this place once Thaniel has healed the land” Karlach sighed longingly, looking over to Tav who had just stumbled out of her tent with a smile. “It’s going to be beautiful. I can’t wait until we no longer need to light fires in the morning, it’s so strange how the darkness tricks us into thinking it’s constantly night time here” she replied, “speaking of which, it’s Gale’s turn to collect the morning wood. Is he up yet?” her voice was groggy and she rubbed her eyes, trying hard to wake herself up and plan for the day ahead. “Not yet Solider, it might be worth giving him a nudge. There’s no time for a lie-in unfortunately”. Tav obliged and yawned as she plodded over to Gales tent, still in her nightgown, her hair wild and makeup smeared after failing to remove it the night before. Her hands carefully untied one of the bonds keeping his tent closed as she made her way inside, revealing a peacefully sleeping wizard with one hand on his chest, the other still grasping at a half opened book. She smiled down at the sight. He looked so at peace it was almost a shame to disturb him, but things needed to be done no matter how cute he looked tangled in his sheets. So focused on his face and the way he smiled as he slept, Tav didn’t even notice the distinct bulge lower down in his blanket. Had she payed attention, she may have worded her next sentence a bit more mindfully.

“Gale? Wake up, you need to sort out morning wood” her voice was soft and calm, so she didn’t understand why he awoke with such a shocked expression and immediately turned bright red. The usually chatty Gale stared up at her with wide eyes and no words, shuffling slightly in his bedroll. “What? It’s your turn, get up” she chuckled, ruffling his hair and sitting cross legged next to him, still completely oblivious to the hard situation between his legs. “Oh! Right, yes. I will do that shortly, I just need a moment” he finally stuttered, adjusting himself in a poor attempt to conceal the awkward truth. Tav, however, still had no idea why he was acting so strangely and rolled her eyes before continuing, “There’s no time for a lie-in, you should really get up now sir” she jested, noticing him turn red again at the nickname ‘sir’.

“Tav… I’m already up, if you know what I mean. I could really use a few minutes” Gale sighed with a defeated tone, not knowing how else to approach the situation to the clearly confused woman sat next to him. It was only then that she let her eyes wander to the rest of his body and finally understood why he seemed so flustered. The large lump in his sheets was a dead giveaway to his behaviour; it was now Tav’s turn to have her cheeks shift to a rosey hue. “Oh my, I’m sorry. I’m still half asleep myself, I didn’t even think” she chuckled awkwardly, still glancing down at the twitching shape lurking beneath the covers. She should’ve looked away but her eyes refused to move, they were transfixed, curious and eager. Her mind had often wondered what Gale looked like in all his glory, she’d desired him for quite some time now and their close, flirty bond had been building up to a more intimate understanding of one another for weeks. “You definitely have nothing to feel awkward about, I’ll tell you that much” she blushed, ripping her gaze away from his cock to meet his eyes. His eyes that were now darkened with desire and glimmer of danger. He chuckled in response then repeated himself again, not wanting to assume anything or cross any boundaries, “why thank you, I just need a few minutes to calm down and I’ll be right out” there was a hint of hope in his tone that Tav couldn’t quite ignore. Looking at him in this state was causing quite the stir, and it was clear that his embarrassment had shifted to lustful confidence at her reaction. “You know, I could help you out with that” she could hardly believe herself, the words slipped out of her mouth without a thought, it was as if she’d completely forgotten how to filter herself. Who could blame her? There was an undeniable charm to Gale, not to mention an undeniable attraction between the two. The way he tried to hide his desires only made him more alluring, and Tav wanted nothing more than to unleash him. At her words, he smiled coyly and motioned for Tav to come closer, holding eye contact as she floated towards him like a ghost. He rested his hand on the back of her head, brushing over her tousled hair before holding her cheek as he moved in for a kiss. It was slow and passionate, filled with weeks worth of longing. Tav’s hand moved down his body under the sheets and her mind was set alight with the feeling of his warm, soft skin under her fingers. His body was toned and hairier than she’d imagined, and it drove her wild realising that her fantasies were about to come true as she continued to work her way down him.

“Are you sure? We can talk about this more before we dive into anything if you’d li-“ his words were cut short by Tav leaning in for another kiss, her movements intentional, tailored for his pleasure.

Gale let out a soft grunt as her fingers wrapped around his rock hard shaft, it’d been well over a year since he’d felt the touch of a woman and he could barely keep himself together as her hand began to slowly pump up and down. “Fuck” he moaned, pulling the sheets aside to reveal his entire body, smiling up at Tav who let out a delighted gasp at the sight. “I want you, Tav. I want to see you, touch you, feel you. I have done for weeks” he stifled between breaths, toying with the tied straps of her nightgown to expose her nude form. His cock tensed at the sight of her, the way her body curved in all the right places and the revelation that she wasn’t wearing any underwear. She moved her hand away from his body slowly, but instead of climbing on top of it, she put his cock into her mouth and circled the tip with her tongue, lapping up the precum like nectar. Through soft moans, he pleaded for her to fuck him; it was music to her ears. But she wasn’t done yet. She wanted to watch him struggle to hold himself together for a while longer. After all, she was nothing if not a perfectionist and the way her mouth moved around him had him struggling for air, eyes rolling back, hands grasping at the sheets next to him. Just when she thought he was reaching his limit, she licked up his length and stopped.

“What’s that? You want to lose yourself inside of me?” She enquired innocently, looking up at him doe eyed. “Yes. Please, fucking hells, yes” he grunted, grabbing her by the throat and pulling her in for a desperate, sloppy kiss as she lowered herself onto his member, straddling him with ease, resulting in sounds of pure ecstasy as she slowly worked her hips to take more and more of him in. The feeling was unparalleled, the way he twitched and thrusted into her was nothing short of flawless. Their bodies moved together in perfect synchronicity, creating a harmony of moans and muttered “fuck”s. They didn’t even think about where they were or who could hear them at this point, this had been building up for so long now and they could no longer deny themselves the pleasures the flesh and soul combining. The way they fucked was an art - no painter or sculptor could ever compete.

Gale, who was usually so composed, had transformed into a wild animal on the hunt. His body was glistening with sweat and his big brown eyes had shifted from their usual warm gaze to something much darker and sinful. He flipped Tav onto her back effortlessly and pinned her legs over her head as he thrusted deep inside of her, causing her to whine in pained bliss. She was wet, hot and shaking at this point, moaning freely without a care in the world as she took every inch with a smile on her face. Gale couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced anything like this; perhaps he never had. He had never fucked anyone so recklessly or felt anything near as intensely. He had slept with a goddess before, but Tav made him feel like a God.

Tav never expected him to be like this in bed, so primal and hungry. Miles away from the perfect gentleman she’d pinned him as. For a moment, she was worried he would rip her in half with the sheer size of his cock, it was thick and much larger than she’d dreamt, and hurt like hell but was balanced with bliss. Suddenly the enchanted briefs made a lot of sense. He thrusted into her with skill and rhythm, whilst his hand circled softly over her clit as the other pinned her into position. It was transcendent. She let out a final moan before the pleasure pushed her over the edge, her walls clenching around him tightly. She looked like an angel, eyes flittering back, body jerking, sweat shining on her breasts. Feeling and seeing her finish on his cock was enough to make Gale release, pulsating a heavy warm load inside of her, feeling lightheaded in response to his overwhelming orgasm. Immediately, he leaned in for a kiss and pulled her into a cuddle, heart pounding and head racing at the realisation that they’d finally slept together after so much yearning.

A few moments passed in silence, both of them too stunned to speak until Gale finally broke “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that”. Tav giggled in response before finding her words, “trust me, I understand”. They laid together for a while longer before getting dressed and deciding to face the rest of the camp, hoping to god that nobody overheard their activities.

However, they weren’t exactly careful or quiet, and Karlach refused to make eye contact when the pair left the tent. Shadowheart was the colour of red wine, “I, uh, sent Astarion to get the wood instead.”

“Thanks…” Gale stuttered.

[mumms-the-word]

Choosing to Live

Pairing: Gale x Tav (you/reader POV) Summary: Shortly after Gale decides to defy his goddess and not self-destruct in the caverns below Moonrise Towers, you turn and see him struggling with the conflicting emotional fallout of his decision. CW: death, suicidal ideation, panic attacks, survivor's guilt (implied), coercion (implied) A/N: I was inspired by @gangstagandalf's emotional fanart of Gale and Tav just after Moonrise. It's not quite the same scene as their art but I just couldn't resist writing my own angst version. Check them out, their art is lovely! @gangstagandalf I hope you don't mind if I borrowed a few of your lines from your original post! (Pic is of my tav Dani because that’s all I got) UPDATE: Now on AO3 woooo

You watch as the husk of Ketheric Thorm collapses at your feet, a hollow shell of dessicated flesh and heavy armor. You’ve done it at last—you’ve defeated the Bone Lord’s Chosen, the first of three enemies who have enslaved an Elder Brain through the power of some sort of crown it bears. 

At the thought of the crown, you turn your head, seeking out the person who had first pointed out the crown to you. It was the thing that seemed to wake him from his reluctant obedience to his goddess’s command. There had been hunger in his eyes, more than you’d ever seen in him before, and for a brief moment you had thought yourself and him safe from the commands of the goddess of magic and mysteries.

But then he’d steeled himself. You’d watched as he physically and mentally struggled with the weight of the goddess’s demands, preparing himself for what he thought was inevitable.

Death. Destruction. Catastrophe. But one that would supposedly thwart mass enslavement at the whims of an elder brain and three evil Chosen. A noble sacrifice, but one that would kill dozens of innocent lives, too.

You don’t remember what all you said in those panicked seconds between him making his decision and you being dragged into a battle against Ketheric. You recall, vaguely, that you had clutched his robe in your hands and told him you loved him. There had been other words, too, but they were lost to your memory. Whatever it was, it had been enough. Because as of this moment, the elder brain has disappeared, Ketheric is dead, and you are not.

Your eyes find him, your love, your Gale, standing on a far platform where he had climbed to better aim and prepare his spells. He stands, leaning against his staff, panting, staring at the lifeless and inert body of Ketheric at your feet, and then his gaze shifts to you. You, covered in your blood and Ketheric’s black, fetid ichor, in bone dust and illithid matter. You probably look horrible, you think. You know you should bend down to examine Ketheric’s body and see what the glowing stone in his chest is all about, but you can’t look away from your love. Not now.

Not when you were so close to losing him to his goddess’s arbitrary and cold demand. 

But you didn’t. He’s alive. He’s alive. The thought pumps outward from your heart, warm and reassuring like the blood rushing through your own veins, reminding you that you too are alive. Your only thoughts now are of closing the distance between the two of you and peppering his face with kisses, telling him how proud you are of him, how brave he’s been, how much you love him. But as you take a step toward his platform, a shift in him gives you pause.

He slowly kneels down, still leaning heavily on his staff, and for a moment you think he’s praying, in the same way Shadowheart kneels to pray to her goddess. But no, his eyes are wide, staring, unfixed, not closed and reverent. After a moment, he sits fully on the ground, his staff falling with a clatter against the surface of the platform, and he buries his face in his hands.

You go to him immediately, using a last rare scrap of magic to misty step directly onto his platform. He’s shaking with fine, shuddering tremors as you approach, your steps cautious and soft but your heart aching and yearning to rush over. You reach out a hand, your own fingers trembling as they hover suspended above him, and you whisper his name uncertainly.

“Gale?”

You hear his voice but his words are muffled by his hands. You bend closer, making out fragments as his words tumble forth in a soft, whispered babble.

“Oh gods, oh gods,” he gasps. “I nearly—I almost—I could have—the orb. What have I done—”

“Gale,” you say again, finally kneeling in front of him and laying a hand on his shoulder. He jolts at the touch, stiff and startled by you, but you don’t let it deter you. You squeeze his shoulder in what you hope is a reassuring touch, even as the tears threaten to choke you as you watch and feel him tremble. “It’s all right. We’re safe. My love, you’re safe.”

He lowers his hands, one clenching the fabric of his robe over his chest, his breaths coming shallow and quick. His gaze on you is so different than before, all the warmth and steadiness and gentle, shy uncertainty that came with looking at you replaced with abject horror and unfocused panic. You get the sense he isn’t really seeing you, but staring through you to some theoretical what-if nightmare. One where you didn’t make it out alive. 

“I very nearly killed us all,” he mumbles, still clutching his chest. "I nearly killed you."

“But you didn’t—”

“I was so close to—to—th-the orb, I could feel it stirring, like it wanted me to—” He breaks off, his hand tightening in the fabric of his robe. The mark of the orb glows faintly, the barest hint of illuminated magic threading upward toward his eye, casting an orchid-purple sheen to his dark iris. He bends forward slightly, combing a hand roughly through his hair and clutching brown and gray strands tightly in his fist, his eyes wide. You half-expect him to be sick as he presses his other hand flat against his chest, breathing heavily. “And now I’ve defied my goddess. I—”

He turns suddenly, sharply, twisting to prop himself up on hands and knees away from you as his body rebels against him and he retches. Very little comes up—he hasn’t been eating well since you first stepped into Moonrise and he found himself faced with the very real possibility of sacrificing his life—but his body shudders and bucks violently as it attempts to dispel everything inside him. Not just the contents of his empty stomach but the fear and loathing and terror too. 

You don’t shy away from him. You shift closer, sitting on your knees at his side as his body settles into little shivers, his hands pressed flat into the surface of the platform. Your eyes are burning with tears now and you want to sob, your heart shattering for this man, your love, your heart’s song, but you have to be strong for him. You smooth his hair from his face, fingers brushing against his sweat-slick skin, and you cradle his feverish cheek in your palm. You say the only words you know to say and you repeat them as many times as you have to before they break through the haze of his clouded mind and resonate within him.

“Shh. You’re safe, my love. I’m here. I’m here with you. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, my love. You are safe.”

He leans into you and you gather him in your arms, rocking you both gently as he rests his head on your shoulder and wraps his arms around one of your arms. His shoulder is awkwardly pressed into your chest and he’s half-curled into your lap, weighing your knees uncomfortably down into ground, but you don’t mind. Discomfort and awkwardness don’t matter. What matters is that he is alive and so are you. You remind him of that in words, in your stream of murmured comforts, along with all the rest. 

It takes several long moments for his breathing to even out again, and another few for him to finally rest against you without an errant shiver wracking his body. But he calms at last. The tears on your face have since dried, but your heart aches no less than before. To think that your love would suffer so for making the right choice—the choice to live—but to suffer nonetheless out of a sense of guilt and fealty to a goddess that had thrown him aside like a broken toy.

It fills you with an uncommon rage. The gods are ever cruel, but the goddess of magic—you dare not even give her the honor of her name in your own thoughts—she is among the worst in your eyes. Even now, as your love struggles to compose himself, it isn’t a goddess’s arms or a goddess’s blessing that are there to comfort him.

The arms that are wrapped around him are your own. The comfort you have to offer is that of warm flesh and soft breath, mortal and precious. And it is better—better, you tell yourself with all the prideful conviction of a mortal soul—than anything an immortal, unfeeling goddess could offer.

He finally stirs, straightening up to look at you. Or look at your shoulder, rather, unable to meet your gaze. His expression is hollow, sorrowful, but calm. You know the road to him accepting and finding joy in his decision to defy his goddess is not yet over, and the path ahead may still be thorny.

But at least he has the chance to try and walk that path, rather than ending it all here.

"Forgive me," he says softly. He seems to want to say more, but the words don't come easily. You shake your head, not caring what he's trying to apologize for.

"There's nothing to forgive, my love. You made the right choice." You caress his cheek, wiping away the grime and the tear tracks that have collected there. “I love you, Gale.”

He finally meets your gaze and oh, your love, he looks so exhausted. But there is a flicker of his old self still there, a warmth that is familiar in his dark eyes. You press your forehead to his, still caressing his cheek, and close your eyes. 

He’s alive. That’s all that matters. You can figure out the rest as you go.

“I love you, too,” he whispers.

You have to get out of here, out of this cavern of flesh and stone and brine. You have to face the problems of the world at large, the threat of the elder brain and more. You know that. But you steal a few more moments for yourself, breathing softly with Gale, treasuring every breath as though they were more precious than diamonds.

———

You set out to leave the shadow-cursed lands at what you think is dawn the next day. Even with the curse waning, it’s hard to tell the time with the sun still obscured. But the hope is that as the land fades away behind you, you’ll be walking forward into sunlight and not more night.

You and Gale walk at the back of your little group, your companions moving on ahead. With each step, the shadow curse lightens. There are hints and signs of new life all around, tiny green leaves fluttering against once-dead branches, thin shoots of grass poking upward from the cold, dry ground. It restores your hope for good things to come. Not just for these lands, but for you. For your love.

He’s been quiet since the fight against Ketheric. Contemplative. Thoughtful. You had spent the night wrapped in each other's arms, counting his every heartbeat and breath until you were pulled into slumber, suspecting that he had done the same for you. When you woke you both pretended that sleep had cured you of the previous day’s torments and used the task of breaking up the camp to travel onward as your distraction from your concerns. But you watched him across the camp anyway, a knot of worry in your stomach.

Sometimes, both this morning and in the moments traveling now, you see that hunger in his eyes as you did when he first saw the crown atop the elder brain. But sometimes you just see a lingering sorrow. You haven’t been able to bring yourself to ask him about it. Not yet. It’s enough that he’s here with you, and you trust him to speak to you about what weighs on his heart in his own time. But you still worry.

Just up ahead, the shadow curse seems to fizzle out entirely, like a fog that dissipates as the sun burns it away. Beyond the threshold is sun-warmed landscape. Though scarred by the smoldering and abandoned remains of the Absolute army’s campfires and shelters, nothing has ever looked so inviting to you before. You rush ahead, eager to feel the sun on your skin again.

The difference in temperature alone is enough to reassure you that the shadow curse is behind you at last. One second you are enveloped in the chill and dimness of the shadows, and the next you are warm and bright in the light of the sun. You pause just a few steps into the sunlight, stretching out your arms and lifting your face toward the sky, drinking in the warmth. At last. You feel as though you can breathe freely again.

You turn to smile at Gale, but he is not at your side. He lingers in the shadows, watching you. The shadow curse is like a sheer black veil between you, obscuring his expression slightly, but as you step closer you realize his eyes are glimmering with unshed tears.

“Gale?”

He blinks, as if awakening from the depths of his thoughts, and quickly rubs his eyes. “Ah…my apologies. Lost in thought, I suppose.”

You hesitate to leave the warmth of the sun, but you sense this is more important than sunlight. You step onto the threshold of the curse, reaching out a hand to him. You want to pull him out of the shadows and into the light with you. He stares at your hand a moment before taking it, but he doesn’t move. Like he isn’t ready yet. 

“Tell me what’s on your mind, my love,” you say gently. “Tell me how I can help.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but for the first time, words seem to utterly fail him. He swallows, gazing at you with a stricken expression, and tightens his hold on your hand.

“It’s simply…I am…in awe,” he says at last. “Of you. And I am mortified with myself. No, more than mortified. I nearly…”

You sense the flow of his thoughts instantly, your minds connecting via the tadpole, his thoughts unconsciously opening up to you. At first he resists, his mind shutting down like a trap to spare you, but then the shields waver and fall away, and you are pulled into his memories. You feel the struggle within him as he stares at the elder brain. You feel the heat and pain of the orb inside, as if reminding him of his purpose. You see yourself through his gaze, the fear and love warring in your expression as you beg him not to go through with his sacrifice. You feel the moment he makes his decision, his resolve hardening like steel in flame, only to shatter, brittle and broken, the moment the brain disappears, the pieces transforming into needles of doubt that bury themselves in his psyche, his heart, his body.

As the familiar, terrifying sight of the colossal avatar of Myrkul rises into your vision once more, for one fleeting moment, you sense the desperate desire to end it all now, to end the storm of uncertainty in your mind, the pain of the orb, the fear of disobedience, the exhaustion of facing another battle with impossible odds. For one fleeting moment, you consider letting go and letting the orb obliterate you and everything around you.

And then the connection ends, and you are left standing at the threshold of the shadows with Gale’s hand in yours.

“I nearly killed us all with one rash thought,” he murmurs quietly. “The thought of my sacrifice never left my mind, even as I swore to you I wouldn’t go through with it.”

He takes a shuddering breath and a tear drips down his cheek. You catch it with your fingertips as you cradle his face with your free hand, your heart breaking for him all over again. His tears prompt your own and you struggle to hold them back, for his sake.

“And now,” he says, his voice altered, thick with tears. He swallows. “And now I see what I fool I was to doubt. To doubt you and your wisdom. To wish for death so quickly.” 

He meets your gaze and you see a thousand words he hasn’t said yet there in his brown eyes. A hundred apologies, a hundred ways to beg forgiveness, a hundred confessions of love, a hundred praises, all about and for you. It’s a torrent of love and longing and guilt in his eyes and your knees nearly buckle at the sight of it.

“I would have condemned the brightest of stars to death,” he says. “I would have robbed the world of its greatest treasure. And for what?”

“Oh, Gale,” you whisper. You abandon the sunlight to join him in the shadows and embrace him, holding him tightly as he struggles to regain his composure. “No more. You made the right decision. You’re here with me. I’m here with you. We’re alive, my love, because of you.”

“But I could have—“

“But you didn’t.” You pull back to cradle his face in both your hands and wait until he’s looking you full in the face. You want him to see your own resolve, but also your love, your faith in him, your pride for him. “You chose to live, my love. That is the most important thing. That is all that matters right now.”

He stares at you, letting your words sink in, until at last he smiles. Though it’s still tinged with sadness and guilt, it’s genuine. It soothes your spirit and settles some of your worries. 

“I don’t deserve you, you know.”

You shake your head. This isn’t about deserving, but you know that’s a battle you won’t win here. Instead you kiss him, your lips soft against his, and you let that suffice for words for a moment.

When you finally pull away, he seems a little restored. The love is back in his eyes and his smile isn’t weighed down as it was before.

“I love you,“ you say.

“And I love you,” he responds. “Immensely. More than I scarce dreamed I could love anyone.”

“We will find another way to deal with the brain and quiet the orb inside you. Some way that keeps us both alive and together. I swear it.“

“I believe you.” There isn't a trace of uncertainty in his voice when he says it. “I want that more than anything.”

“Want what?”

“To live. With you. To see the dawn of a new day with you, the dawns of a thousand more days. To know that the road ahead, whatever it holds, won't be spent alone, because I'll have you by my side.” He pauses, as if a thought is only just now coming to him. “I can...I can have that hope, now. Thanks to you.”

You smile. You take both of his hands in yours and step back, placing yourself once more on the threshold between shadows and sun. “Then will you join me in the sunlight?”

He looks at you, then at the sunlit road beyond, and then back at you. He nods, letting go of one of your hands but tightening his hold on the other. “Yes. I’d love to.”

Without another word, he keeps his hand in yours as you lead him forward step by step.

Away from the darkness and into the light.

[flymmsy]

Orin who felt she had no choice but to kill Durge, but she desperately did not want to. Her hands shake when she finishes her assault, and she wonders if this is what Durge felt every time the Urge compelled them. Durge - a twisted bright spot in her very dark life - lies before her, barely recognizable.

In a frenzied panic, she puts a tadpole in their brain. A foolish, childish notion - as if the illithid power might change anything. She drops Durge right into the middle of Kressa’s lab and tries, desperately, to deafen the pleas that rattle inside her mind.

Not Bhaal - but some other god - must have heard her quiet prayers. But the gods never truly give you what you ask for.

Durge returns, but they are not themselves. In the place of Orin’s cherished kin is a stranger, a monster, daring to wear Durge’s face. This is worse than the nightmares that plague Orin, this is an abomination she must end.

And if Durge were able to remember, they would know that they were not the only one that was a shell of their former self. Orin had always been more wild - but now she had devolved into madness.

In truth, both Durge and Orin died underneath Moonrise.

[wellthebardsdead]

*the emerald grove devil, understanding*

———

Falûne: *seated up on the wall of the grove, hugging his knees to his chest as he watches the party from afar and fights back tears, Halsins scolding still running through his mind* …

Halsin: *walks over holding food, his heart aching seeing his son in such a state. Driven to the edge just to save him only for him to blow up in his face* … *sits beside him and places the food down* …I’m sorry.

Falûne: *hugs himself tighter with his tail and looks away* I only wanted to help…

Halsin: I know moon flower… I know… *sighs* I had no right to raise my voice at you like that… I was just, so afraid I’d lose you-

Falûne: well I would’ve lost you if I didn’t come to save you… those goblins would’ve killed you… *sniffles* then I’d be all alone… all because you keep chasing after a ghost you were too scared to say ‘I love you’ to.

Halsin: *never thought of it like that or from his perspective before* …You’re right… and I’m so sorry… this whole time I’ve tried to keep you safe while I chased a memory… I never once thought I may be leaving you behind just like… she left me behind… *sighs* when I look at you… I still see the little babe I found beneath selûnes light right here at this gate… I have to accept that you’ve grown up now… I’ve missed out on so much of that growth chasing the past when I should have been embracing the present to see your future… can you ever forgive me?…

Falûne: … *looks at him teary eyed*

Halsin: *raises his arm as if offering a hug*

Falûne: *shuffles closer and snuggles in against him* I forgive you papa… I’m sorry I disobeyed you…

Halsin: It’s alright son… I’m sorry I hurt you…

Falûne: …I don’t think she’s a ghost… I think she’s still alive…

Halsin: *chuckles* perhaps… she was a stubborn as a rothe… just like you… though you’re not blood related… you’re definitely her son.

Falûne: *smiles* maybe… we might… find her, when we go to moonrise?…

Halsin: maybe…

Falûne: there’s always hope right?

Halsin: yes… there’s always hope… *offers him the food before looking back at the party and seeing Dammon and Rolan both looking around wondering where he is* after you’ve eaten, you’d better go join the party. I see a few faces wanting a dance with you~

Falûne: even though, they know I’m a devil now?

Halsin: Wylls a devil and they seem to be enjoying his company. *points to Karlach cheering on a group of kids dragging Wyll over to dance by the fire, mol snatching his underwear and making a run for it in the process*

Falûne: *giggles* maybe I’ll… fit in better than I thought.

*meanwhile*

Jaheira: *walking to the edge of the barrier, seeing Aura seated by the bridge, staring out at the darkness* Waiting for the ghosts are you?

Aura: *whines looking back at her* no… *ears flicking as she looks back out at the darkness, the glimmer of a unicorn catching her eye, and the chime of shells in its mane ringing in her head* I’m watching for a sign…

[lotsofpeoplegetlostinsaltburn]

How to Romance Astarion: A Guide to Everyones Favorite Vampire Boyfriend

CONTAINS SPOILERS

*UPDATED OCT. 9* IF I MISS ANYTHING PLEASE LET ME KNOW, I WILL ADD IT.

A lot of people seem to be having issues romancing Astarion, and as the resident Astarion expert, I am here to help.

Many people are scared of the consequences of Astarion-favored choices. In reality, you DO NOT have to be evil to romance him.

I would characterize Astarion as chaotic-neutral. He is self-serving, but he can stray to the path of good later on.

I use an approval mod, which showcases the amount of approval and or disapproval from a choice. Download here.

Many people fret over the evil choices that will only net Astarion +1 approval, those can be safely ignored and still retain high approval.

The major approval you want to aim for is +5 and +10, which mostly comes from personal dialogue.

My advice is to say what he wants to hear, please his ego in personal conversation, be a little mean sometimes. He is a snarky and egotistical man. His shell is hard to break but you can get there. Be playful with him.

A WORD OF NOTE: Using the mod above, you can see there are some dialogue options that don't grant either approval or disapproval, if you're unsure on which to choose, go the neutral route.

MAJOR APPROVAL CHOICES

Act 1

Let him bite you. For those scared of the debuff, use lesser restoration and he can bite you all he wants without repercussion.

For easy approval early on, make Lae'zel say "please" when you rescue her.

When Mattis gives you the ring, just take it for yourself, and if you don't want to be evil to a child here, look at Mattis' stock.

Help Astarion to decipher his scars.

Agree with him in private conversation, you don't even have to do what you say you will do.

Let him read the Necromancy of Thay, this gives a +5 approval.

Avoid talking to Zevlor, you will be presented with the option to promise you'll save the grove. If you do not talk to him, you won't lose approval.

Let Abdirak beat you, this nets you +5 approval.

Make crusher kiss your feet.

Accept his advances during the Tiefling party.

Act 2

Help him with his proposal to Raphael. Slay the Orthon. There is a chance he will leave the party permanently if you do not.

DO NOT let Araj bite him at Moonrise. This will open up his Act 2 romance.

When talking to Disciple Z'rell and she is invading your mind, distract her with your lusts for Astarion.

Drink with Thisobald Thorm in the Waning Moon.

Act 3

Defeat Cazador, you do not have to let him ascend. If he doesn't ascend, he begins to sway towards the path of good.

DO NOT BECOME A MINDFLAYER. He will no longer kiss you.

I will update this list later with more approval choices, but these are the biggest and most important.

[renegade-skywalker]

Another Night With You

Summary:

Gale gives in to his baser desires as he realizes the depths of his feelings for Merit in the wake of rediscovering his will to keep on living. (Vaguely set post Act 2, pre Act 3)

Word Count: 3,405 Rating: E

~~~

Gale was still dreaming of Merit’s smile when he suddenly awoke, the sound of a nearby rustling wrestling him from the depths of his sleep with a sudden start.

It didn’t take long for him to recognize the familiar and welcome sound of Scratch and the owlbear chasing one another not-so-quietly through camp, restless after a day of sleeping in the sun. He couldn’t blame them. After being trapped so thoroughly in the heart of shadow-cursed Reithwin, the beaming strength of the sun on the road to Baldur’s Gate was more than a wanted respite but also an omen of good tidings.

The sun had worn the rest of their merry band out as well, its presence brightening everything in the wake of all that transpired at Moonrise. And somehow, he and Merit had fallen into fits of unexplained laughter before eventually drifting off to sleep in each other’s arms, a phantom giddiness possessing them the moment their heads hit the pillow and holding them hostage until they were utterly out of breath. Smiles were very becoming of Merit, her eyes twinkling with a fire-bright sheen that made Gale go weak in the knees, crinkling in the corners as she brought him close, her breath on his cheek, the sound of her laughter filling him with an elation he wasn’t certain he’d ever felt, even as a boy. 

She was sleeping now, and soundly so, but the echoes of her laughter, the ghost of her smile, stayed in Gale’s mind like both a memory and a ghost, willing to be remembered and resurrected at once. He dared not wake her but he couldn’t help but pull her close. Merit was facing away from him, sighing contentedly when Gale tucked her against him, pressing a kiss to the warm skin of her exposed shoulder. He’d only meant to kiss her the once, expecting himself to settle against her and fall back asleep once more, his face buried sweetly in her hair at the crook of her neck, but instead he found himself kissing her again. And again and again…

Merit tasted sweet, her skin delightfully warm against his lips as he made his way up the curve of her neck. Merit finally stirred once he kissed the underside of her ear. Gale lingered there, savoring the scent of her hair, as Merit dug herself deliciously back into him even in her half-asleep state. Gale’s hands grasped her waist, his fingers digging gently into the grooves of her hips as he guided her more fully against him, placing the pleasing curve of her rear directly over his growing want for her, already hot with desire. 

Merit hummed, her voice lilting as if in song. A pleasant shiver coursed through him at the sound of her, yearning for more and already far more awake than he was mere moments ago.

“I love you,” he murmured into the shell of her ear, his lips gracing her skin as he spoke. He nibbled her earlobe before pulling away, kissing the space where her jaw met her neck as Merit laughed quietly against him.

If he was excited before, he was near to bursting now. The sound of her charmed laughter flitted through the confines of their shared tent like chimes on the wind, and he internally swore he would never tire of that song. 

“I know,” Merit sighed, her voice still heavy with sleep. She twisted to face him though she only moved her head. Merit reached back and threaded her hand through Gale’s hair as she brought his face to hers, the remainder of her body still turned away, pressed against his growing want with her back against his chest now housing a racing heart. One of Gale’s hands remained firm on her hip, holding her in place, while the other crept up her nightshirt and traced the outline of her breast when Merit finally brought his lips to hers. 

Merit kissed him, close-mouthed at first but earnest. She lingered there, whimpering against his mouth as she savored the feel of him before pulling away, looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes. 

“I love you, too.”

It was hard not to touch her. Not just out of a desire to do so but out of an unspoken wonder, almost ashamed that he’d forgotten how miraculous a mortal body could be. He couldn’t help but let his hand roam, caressing the smooth swath of skin gracing Merit’s rib cage, the soft planes of her stomach, relishing in the way she seemed to only cling to him further as if magnetized the more his intrepid fingers graced the warmth of her skin.

Gale’s breath quickened, his eyes searching hers as Merit’s gaze grew clearer in the din of the tent. It was still darkest night, but through the gloom Gale was able to make out the faint outline of her, the weight of her words echoing through his mind as he admired her every shadowed feature made bright in his memory filling in all the gaps.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Still rife with disbelief at the truth of it, Gale’s mind yearned for the comfort of the Weave, his soul itching to feel Merit’s again, their every thought becoming one as each sensation was surrendered to in unison, their every desire made known as time collapsed in on itself, their every sentiment made absolutely certain. But there was something undeniable about the way Merit made him feel now, the way his body arched towards hers with almost untamable yearning, and the way her body fit against his. As if their shapes were made in time immemorial and they were only now rediscovering their innate need for completion in the other.

“I love you,” he said again, kissing her mouth and tracing her tongue with his before pulling away and kissing the corner of her mouth, and then her jaw, and then her neck once more. “But I also want you,” he continued, breathless, savoring the softness of her skin there, relishing in the sweetness of her. “So very much.”

He could sense Merit smile, the ghost of another twinkling laugh lacing her voice.

“Well then,” she said, urging Gale to meet her gaze again, her eyes flashing with a momentary ferality that electrified him instantly. They were still close enough to share breath, her open mouth so very near his that he felt as if they were caught in perpetual anticipation of a kiss.  “Why don’t you show me?”

Gale suddenly flushed hot against her, their shared heat growing exponentially with nowhere to go. Without thinking, Gale rolled his hips against her, which not only elicited a satisfied sigh to escape Merit's throat, but the sound of her wilting voice and the soft thrust of his growing desire only made him want her more. 

Merit smiled as she kissed him once more, whimpering again slightly before she parted her lips against his and drank him in full, her tongue tracing Gale’s with practiced pause. Now it was his turn to hum, an errant sound erupting from the base of his throat as Merit deepened their kiss and Gale cupped her breast, his thumb softly lancing across the swell of her until it grew firm beneath his insistent touch, his other hand gracing her hip before slowly reaching below the hem of her nightclothes.

He’d denied himself this for so long. Gale’s body longed for Merit’s beyond his mere affection for her, his want mounting precariously into need as she kissed him still, his other hand descending further and further, relishing in the satin-feel of her skin, until his fingers met her matching desire for him between her legs. 

A sigh shuddered through him the moment his touch met the well of her want, warm and hungry as Merit eased her legs slightly further apart at the feel of him, urging herself further back into his lap. He ran his fingers along the seam of her, his breath quickening as Merit grew slippery sweet beneath his touch. Gale already hungered for more of her, and yet that craving mounted still. He thrust himself against her again and Merit whimpered, pulling out of their kiss as she succumbed to both Gale’s touch as well as the sensation of his growing demand. 

Gale thought of saying something - something romantic, something suave - but all clever thought left his mind at the feel of her, the sound of Merit’s yearning mewls undoing him to the point that he could only act, not think. Without another thought, Gale simply lowered his briefs and moved Merit’s nightclothes aside and entered her with an exalted sigh.

It was like quenching a thirst, sating a baser part of him he hadn’t given attention to in so long that in his neglect had grown ravenous beyond the point of desire. He eased the hot head of his want inside Merit, slow and indulgent at first. A shuddered breath escaped him as he felt just how welcoming and wet she was, already dripping around the teeming length of him as he indulged in her inch by rapturous inch.

“Don’t stop.” Merit pleaded, already panting. “Gods, don’t ever stop.”

Again, Gale couldn’t speak for once, only act. The only poetry he could recite was in the way he held Merit reverently against him, in how his only thoughts echoed solely with her name, in the way the ache in his chest craved more of her and endlessly so. His hands gripped Merit’s hips, anchoring her against him as he urged himself up and more deeply inside her, slowly at first, and then with a voracious zeal he could not control, his every urging a plea to feel more of her and endlessly so. 

It was as if he could not stop, even if he wanted to, the idea of it becoming an impossibility his mind could not reconcile.

Gale and Merit fell out of their impassioned kiss, Gale’s panting mouth pressed against Merit’s cheek as he pressed the length of himself inside her again and again. Merit’s hand still wound back behind her and through his hair, her fingers raking deliciously against his scalp as she received his every thrust. Merit sighed, her voice almost lilting and loud enough to wake the others, but it only made him grip her more forcefully to him as his hands began to roam again, one hand gracing her breast once more as he took the hem of her shirt along with it in a half-hearted attempt to remove it entirely while his other hand reached for the pearl of her clit, running his fingers in careful circles until it elicited yet another sweet sigh from Merit’s throat.

If Merit was dripping around him before, she was absolutely drenched now, his growing shaft drowning in her want in a way that made him want to succumb to the succulent feel of her. A week ago, he might not have had a choice, so utterly out of practice he was surprised he made it more than a minute inside her despite his insatiable want for her only made exponentially so after their time spent in the Weave. She’d indulged him then, he knew, if only to sate her own curious mind - which was one of the myriad reasons why he loved her so and had been inexplicably drawn to Merit from the beginning - but even Gale was certain that after an evening spent in the Weave, that simply nothing else would compare.

And while their first truly intimate joining still remained the pinnacle of his relationship with Merit - their separate yearnings, their separate beings finally merging into one, their every thought and every affection made known in a way that defied the reach of both words and touch - there was something to be said for the ever-rapacious thirsts of the mortal flesh that Gale had simply forgotten about. And it wasn’t as if he’d never known them, either. He had, in fact, been held under their enraptured spell, before Mystra. Before he refashioned himself to fit her image, and reimagined his future self to better fit her immortal one. 

With Merit, Gale need not reimagine anything. Only all the ways in which he loved her and how else he might communicate it.

“Wait,” Merit said, stilling Gale’s insistence within her with a pleasantly panting breath.

Again, all words failed him. All he could do was silently obey and await her next order or his next primordial urge. Only Merit didn’t say anything. Instead, she simply shifted herself so she now faced Gale, pulling him into a hungry kiss as she removed her underclothes entirely and gripped the hot length of him with an eager hand. She was about to guide him back inside her when Gale instead pulled away but not out of her kiss, pulling off his briefs before sliding his hands up Merit’s body, slipping her nightshirt off completely so he could feel the naked warmth of her against him. And as they kissed, Gale eased himself back inside her, sighing as he felt the welcome warmth of her want for him, Merit sighing and humming in unison as he entered her once more.

“I love the way you feel,” Merit sighed, nearly whining against his mouth before kissing him again and urging him more deeply inside her. Her hands braced against Gale’s bare shoulders as she wrapped her legs around his waist, the feel of her so utterly intoxicating that Gale’s mind went blank for what felt like the first time in his life. “Gods, you feel so good.”

Merit’s words helped none, the subsequent euphoria that overcame him eclipsing all thought entirely as he obeyed his instinct alone and rode the ecstasy that was her. Gale angled Merit’s head against his as he kissed her deeply, her tongue tracing a tentative though delicious course against his as she descended further into the pillow beneath them. Eventually, Gale angled himself above her, poising his body over hers instead of beside it as he conceded to her kiss and urged his ever hardening length inside her over and over, his bristling desire now full to bursting. 

He panted, relentless, as he fought to remain steadfast in Merit’s kiss as he thrust his growing desire inside her over and over, the length of him hardening beyond want or desire and swaying precariously into need. He wanted to slow down, he wanted to savor it, he wanted to feel Merit climax over him and ease his appetite with her already-satiated satisfaction as he was already so fortunate to be used to feeling. But at the mere thought of it, Gale felt himself succumb, Merit swelling sweetly around his hard and questing length until he had to pull out entirely, reluctantly, before spilling over the font of her.

Merit only smiled as she held him closer to her. Gale trembled against her as she pressed another eager kiss to his mouth. And the moment their lips again met, Gale found his fingers eager and ever hungry, reaching for the core of her, smiling once he heard her whimper and sigh at his chasing touch. Like before, he ran his hands along the welcomingly wet seam of her, only this time he urged two fingers knuckle-deep inside her, mimicking everything he longed to do himself had he not expended his desire so quickly. But judging by the way Merit bucked her hips against his hand, it didn’t matter what part of him Gale had inside her, so long as she felt him at all.

Gale pressed kiss after hungry kiss against her mouth, his tongue mirroring his hand’s insistent exploration as Merit eased herself against and into his touch. His eyes rolled back beneath his already closed eyelids at the feel of Merit clenching around his ambitious fingers as well as in response to the way she kissed him back, the plush of her lips softly caressing his own in a way that made him shiver. His mouth craved to taste her want, to feel her desire against his lips in something other than a kiss, but before he could even imagine the scenario playing sweetly before his mind’s eye, Merit was trembling beneath his palm and pressing herself against him in a way Gale hadn’t yet known before. She rode his hand with possessed bliss, her eyes rolling back as she eased over the edge and eventually surrendered to his ardent touch.

When Merit’s eyes met his again, they were warm and electrifying, her amber irises more akin to fire than honey even in the scant light of the dark tent. 

“I love you so much, ” Merit sighed as she urged Gale’s mouth against hers, her lips caressing his before parting them, exploring the warmth of his mouth with her keen tongue. The words hardly registered in his mind in the shadow of her kiss, the truth of it still feeling like a dream. Gale could only kiss her back and return the sentiment in full, hopeful at least that his affection translated in the way their mouths met. 

Gale’s hands yet again plotted a course across Merit’s body, now naked and free for the taking. Every part of her excited him, each facet of her being providing some provocative notion his mind longed to study. Even without words at his disposal, he could study at the altar of her forever and always find something worth considering, his mouth acting religiously on his mind’s account, exploring intrepidly across every bit of yet uncharted territory. And even once every bit of Merit’s map was discovered, Gale endeavored upon delving deeper, pleasing not just her basest wants but everything beneath it and yet unspoken, unlocking her every secret want not out of any desire to discover it for him and himself alone but to allow her some release, something at least burgeoningly similar to the freedom he felt upon allowing himself to love her this way.

With a hearty sigh, his chest aflutter and still somewhat breathless, Gale tucked Merit comfortably beside him and rested his forehead against hers, tracing the outline of her with one hand as the other relished in how perfectly they fit together. Gale’s eyes followed his roaming hand as it eventually trailed up over her chest, lightly tracing the curve of her breast before delicately gracing her collarbone, slick with sweat, and running the length of her neck before tucking a curved finger beneath her chin and bringing her mouth to his. He kissed her softly, deliberately, as if his lips were delivering the multitude of unspoken things he felt for her, now and always. One of Merit’s hands rose to the nape of his neck, her fingers lightly raking through the base of his hair as she kissed him back, still equally breathless but more than willing to lose herself completely in him.

“I am so utterly in love with you,” he whispered against her mouth, kissing her almost between each word, unable to sate his bottomless need for her. Merit smiled against his mouth, which only inspired a similar smile of his own in turn, their mirrored expressions hanging breathless between their every urgent kiss.

"And I you," she muttered, sweet with sleep once more.

When Gale finally pulled away, it wasn’t far, instead nestling his head in the crook of Merit’s neck as he buried himself again in her hair, just as he imagined himself doing earlier before one quiet kiss turned into a thousand more. He wouldn’t take any of them back, even if he were to never sleep again. What worth would rest be if it kept him from feeling more alive than he had since...?

He kissed her neck again as the realization dawned on him, a momentary melancholy flitting before his mind’s eye as he reconciled the notion that this was the most alive he’d ever felt - not because it was in itself a tragedy, no, but because he had been so resigned months before that his life was already over, when in fact he’d hardly begun to actually live it.

And in the comfort of Merit’s closeness, Gale soaked in the moment as if crystalizing it in amber. He memorized the sound of her earlier laughter, the promise of her every kiss, the silk of her hair, the weight of her against him, and the hope of a world yet undiscovered by her side.

[starsidesky]

Let's just say that there's a couple of Baldur's Gate 3 characters who are currently living rent-free in my head. A situation that has stirred the writer in me. So here's a little vignette (honestly, I wasn't sure what to title this) about Isobel contemplating the aftermath of Act 2. (Potential spoilers)

Dust

For the first time in a century, the sound of mirth rings through Moonrise, and Isobel stands in near disbelief. Her thoughts are still racing on battlefield adrenaline. A small sleep-deprived fear trembles in her mind: the fear that this moment might be snatched away, that she might wake inside the Last Light Inn. Scorned by the realization that all of this was naught but a cruel dream. But one look at the sky and a solid pinch are enough to put her uneasy thoughts to rest.

The Harpers are enjoying some merry-making in the wake of their victory. Their strange new-found allies have generously offered to share their food and strong drink alongside whatever is deemed safe from the tower cellars. Aylin has eagerly joined in the celebration; her laugh is as magnificent as it is unmistakable. A hearty sound that carries throughout the towers like it had never left. The cleric decides it would be a crime to pull her angel away too soon. A hundred years caged in the Shadowfell had no doubt left her deprived of the most basic humane courtesies. She definitely deserves to celebrate.

Isobel draws a cold, shallow breath and stifles a coughing fit. The ale must be affecting her poorly, as the torchlight suddenly feels harsh to her eyes. She tolerates it for a while, but the celebrations get louder as the night goes on. Despite the lifting of the curse, the air in the hall feels muggy and suffocating, and a slight headache settles upon her brow soon after. All it takes is the drunken singing of a few dozen Harpers to persuade the cleric into the calm night air.

The moon from Moonrise had always been beautiful – a century couldn't hope to change that. But the same could not be said for Reithwin itself. Beneath the moonlight, the village Isobel had known so well seemed little more than a hollow shell.

A ghost, an echo of what once was.

At the center of it all stands the statue of her father, his expression listless and placid. The same way he looked when she first awoke.

A chill snakes down her neck.

She’s running barefoot, clad in cambric burial garbs, dodging creeping vines, and thorny brambles. White dots of lantern light chase after her; her father is amongst them. A mangled root catches her foot, and she tumbles downhill into a heap of thorns. Disoriented, she crawls away, pressing her back to a scraggly tree. Her lungs burn for breath, but no matter how much she gasps, her vision swirls with sparks.

Calling upon her goddess means risking discovery. Instead, she clasps a hand over her mouth.

The rumble of a galloping horse crests the hill, pulling her back to herself. The bony, half-rotted steed brays as it winds through the foul miasma. Her father screams from its back, sobbing, begging. His dark, anguished pleas echo through the marrow of her bones. She winces with every one, hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

The sound remains burned into her memory. Sometimes, late at night, she thinks she hears it still. Isobel thanks Selûne that he did not find her that night.

Once more, she gazes over the ruins of Reithwin and her heart twists. She spent a century dead, while so many good people - people she knew - suffered and perished for want of one man’s grief. Yet here she stands, and they do not.

She recalls the many hideous stories the Harpers told about the source of the Shadow Curse and the monster Ketheric became. At first, she could hardly believe it. The gentle, kind man - the man who'd raised her - chose to forsake their goddess, forcibly convert their people to Shar, and butcher those who would not. That wasn't even accounting for what he'd done to Aylin!

So much death and destruction, and for what?

"While I hold little love for Ketheric," Aylin's armored boots settle upon the stone behind her. “That monster was not your father.”

Isobel turns to face her, desperately trying to hold her emotions back, but to no avail.

In one fluid motion, Aylin pulls her into her embrace as her wings sweep around her. They’re a welcome shield from everything beyond. Isobel leans into her, her head resting against her breastplate. She listens quietly to the slow rhythm of her heart, the rise and fall of her breath, as Aylin rests her jaw upon her head.

“You are not to blame for his mistakes.” Aylin says softly.

Isobel finds her voice soon after, “I know.”

[thecubspeaks]

[Gale/f!Durge, end of act 2]

Pounding her head against the shell of a pod until she bleeds, until she breaks, until it breaks. The memory is as vivid as it was in the colony, with the shattered pod before her-- the feeling of blood on her face, and pounding, pounding, pounding against her skull--

Izar doesn't realise why until she feels a hand close gently around her wrist to pull her arm back from pounding her fist against her own forehead. She stares at the hand, then from it up to Gale's face with the blank, dazed feeling that always comes after her mind wanders away from itself to somewhere she can't quite control.

"Need a distraction?" he asks. From anyone else in his position it would probably sound lewd, but he just looks sad-eyed and earnest. No pity, though, never that. Sorrow for her, sometimes, but that isn't the same.

She nods yes, but then says, "Ketheric knew. He knew what happened to me, and the bastard wouldn't tell me."

Gale frowns. "I'm not sure I would have trusted his word anyway, to be frank. He seemed quite deluded by the end."

"It would have been something! I could have--" Fury flushes through her and her hand twitches. Gale tightens his grip on her wrist, from soothing to restraining in a silent instant. He locks eyes with her, level and calm, and the moment passes.

It is a confused shred of her mangled mind, she knows, when she sometimes wishes Gale did not hate the thing she calls the Urge. Why shouldn't he, when she hates it, too? They are partners in defeating it-- that is the hope that makes them equals, despite what she is. That she will overcome herself, and he chooses to help her. Because he loves the parts of her beyond that, which means there must be more to her. Even now, with whatever someone-- the Chosen?-- took. That thought steadies her more than Gale's hand on her arm.

She reveled in the fantasy, their first few days traveling together-- when Gale would duck close to murmur observations, to make suggestions, to ask her views, and she realised that he considered the two of them the leaders. He trusted her to guide them, believed her intelligent and competent, not a shattered shell whittled down to nothing more than a muscle memory of how to hunt and track and kill. She could strategise. She could lead. She did. And what a prodigy must she have been, if she could do all that still, now, like this? How much sharper was her mind, before? How much more his match would her old self have been?

"You can let go," she says quietly, and he does. He watches her still, though, level and concerned, and there's nothing at all of the look she saw in his eyes just hours ago-- a desperate longing, for-- what? Mystra's forgiveness? To be a hero? Simply to die? She doesn't know, and is sure he doesn't, either. And over all of them, he chose her. And ever since-- he's been restless, manic even, too eager to talk to anyone who will listen about this crown, this book. Glad Gale's back to his old self, Astarion murmured dryly as they picked their way through the ruins of Moonrise to find a place to bunk down, but that isn't it. Perhaps it's just the buoyancy of an escape from certain death, or--

What did he say to her that morning, after the night she can only half-remember though a haze of red and thwarted urge? Things undone should be unspoken, something like that? She didn't kill him, he didn't kill them all, nothing more to say. This is how they will both prevail over themselves, the drives towards self-destruction that pair so nicely. They will not run hand-in-hand into the abyss-- they will turn away, lock it away, not speak of it until they cannot hear the voice that whispers that they don't deserve to live, and they can take everyone else with them when they go.

"You're right," she says. "It's not worth dwelling on. Answers lie ahead, not behind us."

"Ahead," he agrees, breaking into a smile, eyes alight with-- she'll call it hope. She doesn't know. "Onward-- to our futures."

[not-a-space-alien]

Magnanimous Moonrise Chapter 26M

Story masterpost

Complementary chapter

Warnings for this chapter: Domestic violence/intimate partner violence, vampires drinking blood and dehumanizing humans/typical vampire stuff.

In this chapter: Turns out after being tortured for 6 months, your mental health is in shambles and you're not great at standing up for yourself.

***

Valen Kithrara was Priscus Kithrara’s wife.

Valen had almost managed to forget.  He hadn’t been able to get divorced.  He was still the troublesome wife who got upset over nothing.  He was still difficult.  He was still the biggest current embarrassment to the family.

Valen had gotten back to his apartment, sitting dusty and untouched but safe after months away in human territory.  He’d invited Sebastian to come back, too.  Sebastian had obliged, sitting in Valen’s apartment putting off going back to his family, knowing they would be upset with him for coming back without a human.

When Sebastian finally went back, something happened that Valen didn’t expect, although in retrospect he should have.

Sebastian’s first instinct had been to blame Valen for ruining Sebastian’s first hunt.  It turned out that was also the first instinct of the entire rest of the Kithrara family.

Mordecai and Elvira were furious.  Xavier was furious.  Priscus was terrifyingly furious.  

Sebastian did not defend Valen.  Why would he, when it was the reason he wasn't in more trouble?

What he did do was give Priscus Valen’s new address.  And so it happened that Valen opened the door to his furious husband on his second night back home from human territory, after six months of being brutally tortured.  After a day of not being able to sleep, of being scared of being alone, of not having the mental fortitude to just be a person again.  Of needing more time to recover before he was able to function without support and do anything stressful.

Stressful like fend off his insistent husband.  Like not allow himself to be carried back to the Kithrara estate.  Like to stand up for himself.  Like to not retreat back into himself and become that shell of a person he'd used to be when he'd been forced to be a woman.

Like fight to not be Priscus’s wife again.

Valen pulled the fine silk sheets over his head to hide his crying.  Priscus had already gotten out of bed and was dressing himself.  “Come on, Valen.  Get up.”

“No,” Valen managed.

“We’re going to be late for Sebastian’s first hunt party.”

“I don’t want to go to Sebastian’s stupid first hunt party.”

Priscus came over and tore the sheets off Valen, exposing him in just his nightgown.  “We’re going to Sebastian’s first hunt party, because you ruined his first first hunt, and now that he finally caught a human, paying him the proper respects is the bare minimum.”

Valen rolled over and put the pillow over his head.

Priscus gave an irritated breath and grabbed Valen’s ankle, sliding him out from under the pillow, then grabbing him around the waist to pull him out of bed.  Valen went limp and pliant, catatonic as a stress response.

Priscus’s grip softened as he set Valen upright, and he sighed.  “Look, I know you're going through a difficult time and you’ll need more time to adjust.  So you can even wear trousers instead of a dress.  Okay?”

Valen figured that was probably as good as it was going to get before Priscus flipped back to being angry and started threatening violence.  All vampires were an order of magnitude stronger than humans, but some vampires were stronger than others.  And Valen knew from experience being slapped by Priscus hurt.

“Hey, Valen, settling back in nicely with your husband?” Sebastian said as way of greeting when they arrived, and it took every ounce of willpower Valen had to not leap on the shitty little brat and tear his throat out.  Like he'd done to Nick.  Like he wanted to do to everyone who pissed him off, now that he knew he was capable of it.

“She's wearing trousers again,” Mordecai said with some exasperation.  “To a formal event.”

“Valen is going through a difficult adjustment period right now,” Priscus said generously, putting an arm around Valen.  “We are working our way up to proper formality.  Thank you for your patience.  Just bear with the impropriety for a bit.”

Valen wanted to scream.  He wanted to go berserk and start ripping people's faces off like a chimpanzee.  He crushed it down inside of him.

There's no bars.  There's no cage or chains.  You could just walk out.

And yet he couldn't.  Priscus hadn't left him alone for a single second, controlling everything happening to Valen to make it harder to run away.

And even if he ran off, where would he go?  Back to his apartment, where Priscus would just come pick him up again?

To his parents, who would just call Priscus?

To any of his distant friends who'd told him he should be thrilled to be with Priscus?

To human territory, where he'd been tortured and was even less safe?

To just find a cave somewhere and hide out in the woods and live as a hermit for the rest of his days?

He was held here not by chains or a cage but by the structure of everything happening to him.  By his own lack of fortitude to help himself.  By his fear of being alone.  By the thought that maybe sharing a bed with Priscus wasn't so bad, since his arms around Valen made it easier to fall asleep because he just couldn't sleep out in the open anymore.  By the knowledge that if he just shut up and let it happen, it would be easier for him.  By the fact that there wasn’t anywhere he belonged in this world.

Sebastian’s human had tears on its cheeks, but it didn’t seem upset or scared, and Valen knew without a doubt that was because it was under persuasion and couldn’t feel much of anything right now.  The Kithrara family were blood connoisseurs, so doting aunts and uncles and grandparents and excited cousins all came up to sample Sebastian’s catch, all commenting on the quality of the blood, about how it was a fine catch, could only have been improved by getting something that was AB+ instead of AB-, although a few among the group insisted that AB- was actually better and Sebastian had made the perfect choice.

“AB+ overwhelms the palate,” Mordecai insisted.  “AB- is much more tasteful and subtle in its flavors.”

“There’s a new blood bank over in Noffalk Heights,” Lucille said.  “Have you been?  It has the most delightful little bar that makes custom cocktails.  They made up this mixture of A+ and B- that was just-”  She made a pinching hand gesture.  “If you mix A and B blood together the taste is actually much richer and vibrant than plain AB blood, I’ve found.”

They chitchatted like this.  Valen kept his eyes on the human, imagining them as Lex or Ari or Bailey or Jerome.

“I have to use the ladies’ room,” he announced suddenly, feeling sick.

“Oh, of course,” Elvira said.  She snapped her fingers at a nearby servant, who scuttled over obediently.  “Show Mrs. Kithrara over to the washrooms, will you?”

Valen followed behind the servant, upset with himself.  He had no idea how he’d managed to sit through so many gatherings like this for years without realizing how utterly wrong it was.  How he’d managed to squash down the discomfort, when it was all he could feel right now.  How intolerable this felt now that he knew something else was possible.

Should he just grab the human and run?  He could drop them off at the border.  It wasn’t safe for him to… go back to Lex and Ari, as much as he wanted to, so he could just run right back.  And deal with everyone being extra extra furious with him.  And then Sebastian would just go catch another human, not that one human even mattered when vampire society ground up humans by the thousands every day just to feed-

“Would you like me to stay and escort you back?” the servant said, and Valen blinked upon realizing they’d reached the bathrooms.

“That’s quite all right, thank you,” Valen said.

He locked himself in the bathroom and cried, bent over the sink in case he threw up again.

When he was finally done, he came back out.

And realized he was alone.

And that there was a telephone on the end table across the hall, unguarded.

Valen walked up to it and dialed the number he’d been reciting to himself, wondering whether or not he should use it, holding his breath as it rang.

“What?” answered the irritated voice on the other end of the line.  It was Ari.

“Ariana,” Valen said, already back in tears again.  “Please help me.  I don’t know what to do.  I’m with my husband and I don’t know what to do.  Please help me.”

“Valen?” said Ari’s voice, tone changing dramatically.  “Where are you?”

“The Kithrara estate, I-”  He froze as he saw Priscus darken the doorway, staring at him.

Ah.  That was why Valen hadn’t used the number before this.  With a shaking hand, he lowered the phone back into its cradle, silencing Ari’s continued calling of his name.

Priscus was at his side in the blink of an eye.  “My little turtledove,” he said in a warning tone, taking Valen in his arms.  “We’ve talked about this, remember?”

Valen swallowed.  

The phone rang again.  Priscus unplugged it.  “Remember when you called me like that?  Begging me to come save you?”

“It was diff-”

“And now you’re calling them to come save you the same way?”

“It’s not like that.”

“You’re not well, Valen.  You need to be here where I can take care of you.  You know it’s dangerous for you to be on your own out there.”

Part of Valen thought Priscus was right.  Valen knew it was dangerous out there.  Valen had been on his own out there, and he’d been caught by vampire hunters and tortured.

Valen wasn’t safe on either side of the border.  It’d been gradually sinking in over the past few days, and he had no idea what to do about it.

Down the hall in the drawing room, Valen could hear Sebastian starting to play his violin for the delight of the guests.  Valen let Priscus lay an arm over his shoulder and lead him back to the gathering.

***

Tag list <3

@aceouttatime

@annablogsposts

@cc1010foxy

@darlingwhump

@dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

@dokidokisadness

@emcscared-whumps

@melancholy-in-the-morning

@nicolepascaline

@oddsconvert

@pigeonwhumps

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@some-thrilling-heroics

@soursagas

@thecyrulik

@the-scrapegoat

@whuarri

@whump-cravings

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@whumpycries

@whumpsday

@writereleaserepeat

[bakuliwrites]

Day Nine- Zevlor

500 Follower Event, 30 Day Writing Prompts Prompt: Grass, Pallid, Brown Sugar, Zevlor (BG3) Pairing: Zevlor x Tav Tags: Smut, Fluff, Oral Sex, 2nd Person POV, Zevlor struggling with his faith, BG3 Spoilers, Act 2 Spoilers, Not super graphic Word Count: 636

Zevlor’s tail coils around your leg, wrapping tight enough to pull you close but not so tight that he’s restricted your movement. You’re tangled in each other’s limbs, cool blades of grass tickling your overheated skin. Zevlor’s motions had been awkward at first, his hands hesitant, ears down, and gaze averted. Until you patiently guided him, gently laying his hand to your bare chest, feeling heat bloom throughout his body at the contact, and smiling softly against him when he had taken the plunge and pressed his lips to yours. In the distance, you can hear your traveling companions bedding down for the night (perhaps by themselves, perhaps with another). After the hell that was Moonrise Towers and the Mind Flayer Colony, everyone is utterly exhausted. You and Zevlor snuck off long ago, concealed by the forest and the vast blanket of stars above. It feels like it’s been ages since you saw one another at the Grove. And he is more troubled than ever before. 

Yet, despite his upset, his kisses are soft, deep. He drinks you in like you’re the first sip of water he’s had in ages. His calloused hands smooth along every angle, every curve of your body, worshipping as they explore. You feel venerated by his touch. His warmth spreads through you, flame licking your inner thighs as he buries himself between them. The delighted hum he makes when you grasp his horns for purchase sends shivers up and down your spine. His talons drag along the supple flesh of your thighs, rough but not so rough as to break skin. When you draw him up to hungrily press your lips against his, he tastes of you. 

Gently, you lay him back against the grass, trailing kisses down the center of his chest, delighting in his constrained huffs and whispered adorations. He looks shocked when you return his loving murmurs with equal affection. If he could turn any more red, he would when you purr a simple, “That feels amazing,” at his touch. Praise after praise falls from your lips, simple prayers hushed in secrecy. The way your tongue grazes the shell of his ear, the way your teeth leave their hallowed marks on his skin- Zevlor feels that he does not deserve such grace. Such mercy. And yet, upon rescuing him from the colony, you were quick to throw your arms around the soldier and hold him close. At least there is one person grateful to see him. 

Your ecstasy is muffled against his lips, his hushed when he buries his face in the crook of your neck. In the afterglow, you lay in Zevlor’s arms, fingernails dragging gently over the ridges on his arms. You talk of the future, what you each want from life, and imagine a quiet existence together. A house made of stone, either pallid as bleached bone or earthy red like clay, with smoke from a fire in the hearth floating wispy into the night air. The scent of brown sugar and butter pervades every inch of the kitchen, a kitchen you and Zevlor can slow dance in while putting off dinner. A home that he can return to after a day of teaching, retired from his soldiering days. He’s so good with children, you assure him that he’ll be their favorite instructor.

Zevlor can’t imagine this life for himself. He doesn’t deserve it, he posits to you, a notion that makes you frown. 

“Of course you do,” you reassure with such conviction, Zevlor wonders if you’ve rattled the very stars above. He looks to you through the darkness, cupping your face in one hand and tenderly smoothing his thumb along your cheek. In your eyes, you hold a future he can only pray for. He hopes he has faith enough for it to come to fruition.

A/N: Please, Larian, just let me at least kiss himmmmmmm. I love Zevlor so much. Just one kiss, that's all (or, you know, more. That's cool too). This man needs rest. He needs a hug and a blanket and a smooch and some peace and quiet. I do want to write a longer version of this fic (that gets more detailed). I'll get around to that eventually. Maybe once I'm done with this event? Thank you so much for reading! Up next is our favorite sassy vampire, Astarion from Baldur's Gate 3!

[junowritings]

Hi! I heard your requests are open and I know you don’t know me very well but I thought I’d send an ask 💛 my first ever 🤭

I’m a 24 year old woman, 5’3, brown hair to my shoulders, brown eyes and glasses. I can be a little introverted at times but when I’m comfortable with someone I tend to come out of my shell. I’m an only child 😔 I love all things creative and I have a love for all things supernatural and nerdy (80s vibes)

For my ideal partner I’m not very specific really I’ve got a vague idea.

My first ideal partner would be someone who’s always willing to challenge me and humour my constant ramblings, taking in even the smallest detail and adding their own spin on what I have to say. An animal lover for sure who can do their own thing but would come home at the end of the day and just sit together and exist. Someone I wouldn’t mind spending the rest of my life with even if he isn’t over his crusty dusty musty ex who’s got something in common with drake (and it’s not rap)

My other ideal partner is a little vague so please forgive me.

Male, 6’1 Half-Elf paladin who has a tumultuous relationship with being alive. Grey hair, beard, fuelled by grief - possible dead family. Slight homicidal tendencies (I can fix him) previous dalliances in governance. Girth 15cm, length 16cm, Tip #c88d94

Thank you can’t wait to hear your thoughts your stuff is amazing!! 🥰🤭💛

The way I immediately knew who this is I SWEAR-

I had to go a lot off my own knowledge for this one (also I need to brush up on BG3 a bit bc I think I need a better grasp on the characters.) so hopefully this is a fun to read as it was to write lmao

You know what ask and ye shall receive you joked about him but y'know who I'm gonna match you with...

Let’s just start this off with the obvious. It’s a miracle in itself that you’re still alive after an initial interaction with Ketheric. Anyone who remains in the tower are either prisoners, loyal worshippers of the absolute, or whatever poor souls have somehow managed to survive the shadow lands just to get here. And then there’s you, who exists as what is essentially the weird third party in this whole scenario. 

It’s not as though you intended to be here (or maybe you had who knows), but here you are,   Perhaps those first hours of quiet was what kept you out of sight, keeping to yourself and merely watching as each of the cogs in this plan moved and shifted as though little more than puppets. But once Ketheric takes notice of you he watches. You stand out like a sore thumb afterwards, if only because of how noticeably alive you are compared to everyone around you. Yes there are many there who are alive in a sense (unlike him), but you’ve got a gung-ho way about you that feels like you’d be better suited to be literally anywhere else than here.

Ketheric is heavily involved, as the general of the absolute’s army it is an unspoken must. When he’s not at Moonrise’s peak he is working across every inch of the tower, ever present as the time to strike grows ever closer. Because of this there are plenty of times where you cross paths, with you always throwing an over dramatic abbreviation of his name in greeting as you dart off to hells knows where before he can decide if today is the day he’s had enough. 

You always somehow manage to toe the line of the wrong word at the wrong time, but if that line exists none of the out of pocket commentary have pushed past it yet. Were it anyone else, it’s unlikely that Ketheric would have humored them long enough to finish a joke before making an example of them for anyone foolish enough to get the same idea. And yet you seem to walk away unscathed all the time, whether it’s rattling off a niche fun fact about something so out of the blue, or being straight up sat on his desk or on the floor beside his throne picking apart his war strategies with an eyeroll worthy pun at the end of each one.

You’re a walking anomaly - no one at the tower knows how you showed up or when, and any attempts that his followers have made to ascertain your origins only returns little to nothing that gives a definitive answer. Not to mention the few times that followers wishing to prove themselves have make an example of you somehow seem to always end up the fool. 

In regards to your penchant for any and all things supernatural, it’s safe to say that an undead general, dwelling within the shadowlands where a single wrong misstep out of the tower’s perimeter could lead to your unfortunate end, counts as something that’s right up your alley. There’s not a single inch that he hasn’t caught you hemming or hawing at. With undead creatures roaming the halls, anyone within their right mind would feel but a shred of terror; and yet all he sees upon your face is awe, watching you trail after ghouls where others would deign to keep fair distance.

That fascination extends to Ketheric. He’s already aware that you know of his undead disposition - the tales themselves paint a pretty picture of the dead man walking before you every day - but the true invincibility is new to you. The first time you experienced it firsthand, Ketheric had taken an arrow or two to the jugular from fools wasting what little remained of their lives. Where others' faces were grim at the sight and others horrified, Kethric still remembers the distinctive “HOLY SHIT!” you so eloquently shouted as he’d plucked the arrows from his throat like splinters. After that it’s a miracle if he doesn’t hear you ask about it. Ketheric waves off any attempts of concern for these injuries - they’re but mottles on dead flesh that will knit back together with time. But if you express fascination? That’s…new, and he won’t outright refuse to indulge your curiosity. Feel free to rattle off questions about the limits of his invincibility - just don’t ask how he does it, for your own safety and sanity.

Your habit to lurk and wander doesn’t go unnoticed - not even locked doors can stop that curious nature from getting the better of you and more than once Ketheric has caught wind of his followers’ latest gossip of your whereabouts. He sees it for himself firsthand, even when you haven’t actively been caught red handed. He’s seen you slide through corridors with armfuls of books and blood still dripping from your clothes after an unfortunate slip in Balthazar’s room; has seen the occasional ball roll out from the doorway to his old chambers from your attempts to coax squire into a game of fetch. And he has seen how you worm your way out of trouble you’ve caused - whether it’s being chased from the kitchens for trying to pet the gnolls or somehow convincing the traders for freebies whenever new wares come in. All the while laughing as you do so, grinning as though these foolish little acts mean such a great deal to you.

When had Ketheric last heard the ring of such laughter in the tower’s halls? A century at least. It almost feels out of place here, within the old bones of a place that holds so many memories for such a vengeful man. It should be nipped in the bud; should not be tolerated from a man who’s every waking moment is consumed by his loyalty for the one thing able to bring the only things he had cared for back from death itself. And yet he never stops you, never once cuts that laughter and smile short. Instead he pauses, for but a moment, and listens to you as you disappear into the safety of the chaos on the lower floors for a place to hide away and savor your spoils. It’s only until you’re from sight that he continues on as though nothing occurred, but even after your laughter has died down it persists, nagging in the corner of his mind at fond memories.

For whatever reason you seem content to exist within this abysmal place, and should you prove yourself competent enough to not hinder the big three’s goal with the netherbrain, Ketheric decides that having you here around him till that time comes isn’t the worst thing in the world.

[pigeon-pumpkin]

"I have never needed anyone, but I want you."

yippee! minthara/gender neutral! tav

aka my thoughts on minthara's perceptions of romanced based on her previous ~ambiguous~ relationship with Orin, growing up a nobel, and surviving all the stuff with the absolute. i <3 my girlie and her intimacy issues.

word count: 2.1k

It was different, having a lover outside of the Absolute. Years, even months, ago it had been about efficiency, satisfying a biological need and then moving on. Minthara remembered the discomfort when their hands would linger afterward, or this specific look a fling might get in their eyes upon seeing her again. Desire, of course, she was used to. She basked in it, and, if not, she could at least use it to her advantage. Regardless if she wanted the man across the tavern undressing her with his eyes or not, she could at least get a free drink from it, or a solid kick at the balls. But that addition of something she now knew as longing, no, that was something she always tried to nip in the bud. 

It was difficult to view it as anything other than weakness. She’d seen civilians jump in front of their lover to take an arrow – pointless, if she was pursuing them, they’d both die, anyways– or beg for their lives on account of their partners and children. Having a consistent lover in the way she’d seen of civilians seemed only of use as a means to a quicker end or as a bargaining chip, neither of which she had use for. Of course, growing up nobility, she’d seen plenty of partnerships to ease political tensions, but rarely did the two have anything else to do with the other than living in the same building, and not even that was a hard and fast rule. Regardless, companionship for the sake of companionship was not something she had often seen. 

In a secret she kept close to her chest, the closest she’d previously come to it was Orin. The casual touches to her waist and shoulders, a hand on her lower back while explaining a battle plan. She vividly remembered the way Orin’s lips would brush the shell of her ear when she got particularly enthusiastic, murmuring her murderous intent for someone that most likely didn’t deserve it in a hurried fervor. She hadn’t ever let anyone touch her so casually, so easily. Orin must’ve known the way it impacted her, the quickening of her heart rate followed by a flash of shame. It was to toy with her, nothing more nothing less. She was nothing more than a pawn in Orin’s plan, and maybe that was what she could use to justify her reaction to Tav’s casual hand on her waist. 

“You best keep your hands to yourself.” She had snapped, eyebrows furrowed as she jerked out of Tav’s touch. She could see the hurt flash across their face before it was quickly masked with indifference. Their hands came up in surrender as they backed away, falling in step with Gale instead. He had clearly overheard, and she could feel the judgment radiating from him, but instead stared ahead at the horizon in front of them. She wasn’t shaken by it, she couldn’t be. It wasn’t that it had brought back the memories Tav seemed determined to label as “traumatic”; the slimy touches of men in the night, of the Moonrise Tower guards, of Orin. The list could go on, but she refused to whimper about it in the same way some of the other companions did. Astarion, broadly, she had respect for, but as they neared the city, his whining over his former master continued, following late nights of thrashing from the tent over. She noticed his flinching away from their touches, the nightmares, his penchant for manipulation, all classic signs of a darker history that she would usually use to hold over someone’s head. All signs of weakness, clear places to target and abuse. 

No, she /liked/ it. Which was so much infinitely worse. Allowing herself to fall into the same trap as she had with Orin was foolish and not a mistake she would make again. Maybe if she hadn’t let herself fall into the lures of infatuation, she would’ve realized sooner how far she had been led astray. It was a weakness she, by now, had let herself acknowledge, but would not allow to be exploited. Sure, Tav was the opposite of Orin in many ways, both positive and negative. They had wholeheartedly supported her on her quest for revenge, and she’d watched the efficient way they had fought through their more significant enemies. But, a motherless child was now staying in their camp at Tav’s and Shadowheart’s behest, and they continued to pick up meaningless tasks that granted them much less gold than deserved, if any at all. While it could be frustrating it, surprisingly, wasn’t a dealbreaker. She’d seen Tav’s own struggle with their past and violent inclinations. She had seen how strong they were in battle and how much conviction they held in regard to their principles that their fascination with being a “good person” almost wasn’t annoying. Almost… endearing, in a way.

It had taken a while to progress to this point. They didn’t often have the time to engage in more carnal desires, but, when they did, Tav seemed to have the want, or need, to be held afterwards. The first time, Mithara had thought they’d been attempting to get another round going, and had only pushed them off once realizing it was only for rudimentary purposes. They cited something called “aftercare” which Minthara could give less of a shit about, even as she felt some degree of a feeling strikingly similar to regret after kicking them out to their own bedroll. She seemed to sense their absence more acutely on those nights. 

But Tav, something she generally admired about them, was persistent. Night after night, they’d curl up next to her, resulting in their first real fight. They had both yelled and yelled, though Minthara had to admit she’d been struck by Tav’s romantic intentions. 

“I /care/ about you, idiot! Of course I want to spend time with you!” They’d shouted, face flushed from yelling and clearly angry for the first time they’d been in awhile. No, not angry. Frustrated. Minthara had slowly been learning the difference between the two, and didn’t know how she felt about the realization. After that, and an admission into their thoughts, Minthara had hesitantly allowed them to stick around a bit more. The nights where Tav fell asleep against her chest were… nice. Weirdly so. She was just indulging them, of course. Clearly, this was something they needed and they’d shown they, at least, weren’t planning on killing Minthara in her sleep, so might as well satisfy them. No one would know any better if it gave her a bit of extra warmth on those nights, or if she had fallen asleep just a bit easier. 

Then came the kissing. Kissing, Minthara had learned growing up, was only a lead up to sex. An odd meshing of lips and spit only done between lovers to express interest. So when Tav had ran up to her after a battle and kissed her straight on the lips, she couldn’t help but be surprised when it didn’t lead to anything after. For once, her shock had led to silence, stone faced as she watched Tav gleefully bounce away to loot the Githyanki that had threatened their camp. Almost worse were the knowing looks their companions had given them after. They clearly weren’t surprised, not with the wink Gale of all people had given her while walking by, and she wondered when this relationship, for lack of a better word, was something that had stretched beyond the two of them. And now there was the touching. 

It wasn’t necessarily new either. As they’d grown closer, there would be a touch on the wrist to show her something or a tap on the shoulder and a nod to lead her over to their tent. But those had purpose, they had meaning. How does an arm around her waist help her in any way, truly. Shamefully, that surge of warmth in her chest returned, as did the sense of being chosen by someone she, perhaps stupidly, cared about. Or at the least, would be important in achieving her future goals. It was still a feeling she couldn’t help but relate back to Orin, even as she realized she had considerably more choice in this. Surely Tav couldn’t be indulging for the simple pleasure of /holding her/. They were both too battle hardened for those simple, civilian comforts. Holding hands and walking through the streets was an activity for the creatures she killed, not for survivors. Not like them. 

—

Tav was distant the rest of the day, granted they were all busy with running through the streets of Rivington. Minthara expected to have the night to herself, yet still, as she had settled into her nightclothes, there were the shuffling of boots at her tent entry. Tav’s shape was just visible through the thin entry flap. She sighed. 

“Come in.” She said, pulling a familiar air of authority into her voice as she stood up. As Tav walked into her dimly lit tent, she could tell they were anxious. Out of character for them, and a warning for Minthara. 

“We need to talk.” They started simply, already looking even more uncomfortable. That was considerably worse. Minthara’s lips thinned, but that was her only tell of discomfort as she nodded for them to continue. 

“Minthara. I know neither of us are ones for, well, romance. It's hard, and complicated, and maybe not the smartest when we could die any day now. I know I’m not saying anything new, but that doesn’t change the way I feel about us. I know it's not logical, truly.” They laughed awkwardly, looking down at their feet instead of at her, “I know that. And I understand if you’d rather stay away from, y’know, physical stuff. In public and everything. I know this was just supposed to be sex and turned into something else. And we don’t have to put a name to it, truly. But I care about you and I.. well, I want to do stupid shit like hold your hand sometimes.” They let out an almost manic laugh, hands gesticulating aimlessly, almost to prove the pointlessness of their words. “And I feel stupid saying that. I know it sounds stupid. But I couldn’t let myself live if I didn’t at least try and say something. Something could happen any day now, and I want to be with you if it does, in whatever way you’ll have me.” That seemed to calm Tav down a bit, their hands finally dropping at they looked over at Minthara, that thing she had now labeled as longing shining in their eyes. 

Minthara let out a silent exhale, thinking over Tav’s proposal. It was… definitely a new way to frame what had been happening. Tav was right, the exchanging of physical comforts was essentially meaningless in the long run, especially depending on their eventual fight with the Netherbrain. But they didn’t seem to have any issue in acknowledging that. They knew that it may be pointless, but they wanted it anyway. And if Minthara could appreciate anything, it was that boldness, the easy expression of desire that she associated with Tav. When framing it that way, maybe it was slightly more understandable, rather than this nebulous thing she and Orin had that was never named. 

She stepped forward, taking Tav’s hand even as her hesitation was obvious. “You’re right, it is pointless.” She started, but continued forward as she saw Tav’s face drop. “But that doesn’t mean I am unwilling. I see the merits of your proposal and it is one I can appreciate. I will not lie and say it is not an adjustment. I am unused to whatever it is we have, but I do treasure your presence and do not wish to lose it. I will run a sword through anyone who dares touch you and this… I can allow.” Her words were somewhat stilted, but Minthara finished her statement, watching the warmth return to Tav’s face. And oh, how she preferred it that way. 

Of course, Tav always continues surprising her and they drop to their knees, hand still in Minthara’s as they look up at her through their lashes. “I’ll put it this way.” They brought Minthara’s hand up to their cheek, pressing a kiss against her palm. “I am yours, Mithara. I do not care if it makes me foolish, but you have my trust and my fealty.” Their eyes were bright in the dim lighting, and Minthara couldn’t help but pull them to their feet at the confession. 

“My dear heart, you always know the right things to say.” She murmurs against their mouth after a kiss, possessive hands at their waist. There was still the lurking thought of empty words, of trickery and shapeshifting, but that was placed aside for tonight. Tonight was Tav on their knees, pledging the fealty that Minthara was unaware how desperately she wanted. Perhaps, now, had even needed.

[trevisos]

Suspension

pairing: nb!Tav x Astarion

rating: T

word count: 1,800

description: set between Moonrise Towers and Baldur’s Gate. The relationship is still new and the looming threat of the ritual is complicating things just a smidge. They both believe this is something real, but they don’t know what something real means and aren’t quite able to trust one another yet. But sometimes things can be put aside, if only for a moment.

more info: Xarrai is a tiefling bard with the charlatan background, and an escaped Banite cultist. Any pronouns are fine (though I stick with they/them here for clarity.)

The night air is warm. Xarrai is laying between Astarion’s thighs, their back against his chest. They can feel the coolness of his skin through both of their clothes, smell the rosemary and the hint of decay. It’s become a strange comfort, now, though that isn’t the strangest part of their life these days. He nuzzles into their mop of dark curls, inhales slowly, and gently presses their head to the side. They let him, of course, offering their neck to him as easy as breathing. They are boneless in his grasp, molten sugar sweetness poured down the front of his torso. If they breathe deep enough, they can smell the smoke from their cigarettes on his shirt even though he turns up his nose every time they offer him a drag.

His cool breath ghosts over the shell of their ear. His arms are wrapped around them, hands resting on their waist, fingers on their skin where their shirt rides up. This is different than before – there was a time, not long ago, when sex would have come after (or before, or during) this, when the bite would have only been one step in their dance. But now his touch is delicate and chaste, though the kisses he presses to their neck and shoulder are decidedly less so. There’s something delicious in that – in knowing he kisses them just to kiss them, just to feel the hot war-drum beat of their heart beneath their skin. His teeth graze the spot where their shoulder meets their throat and they shudder, exhale. It isn’t desire, just sensation, raw and new. “May I?” He asks, just loud enough for them to hear. It doesn’t drip with the poisoned-honey seduction it did before, the masquerade mask Xarrai pretended they couldn’t see through. It’s lighter on his tongue now, tripping across their skin like the breeze in late autumn. There’s something almost like reverence to it. Almost.

“Of course.” Xarrai murmurs. What else could they say? Astarion lingers, briefly, all lips and no teeth, trails his way up slowly to the spot where their heart beats closest to their skin. And then they feel it, his fangs like shards of a broken mirror in their throat followed by the pleasant, floating numbness. He makes a muffled noise against them and moves his hand up to support their drooping head, his other hand splaying out on their chest. Their pulse pounds beneath his palm. They know he can feel it, the ceaseless thrumming, just as they can feel the warm, wet spill of their blood into his mouth. Xarrai is suspended, weightless, buzzing numbness spreading outward. Astarion’s hand is warmer on their chest than it was a moment before. Or perhaps they’re just colder.

In the morning, things will be different again. Maybe Astarion will make another comment about that damned ritual, and maybe Xarrai will bristle, but only just. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe it will be just the same as tonight. Dancing around the thing that waits for them in Baldur’s Gate like a gilded guillotine. Either way, Xarrai will not quite trust him. Either way, they will weave the truth between lies because it is all they know how to do.

But this - Astarion holding them against his chest, their blood filling his mouth - this requires trust. They trust he will not drink too deeply. He trusts they will not turn on him for it. They trust each other because they must, because they have no choice when his lips are on their throat and the knife strapped to their thigh is pressing against his leg. There is hardly a division between them like this; Xarrai’s heart pumps their blood through both of their bodies, their hand grips his arm across their chest. They are one, the same frightened animal. Xarrai’s tadpole squirms, tries to reach his but they stop it just short of making the connection. They don’t need it.

They trust him. What else could they do?

Astarion pulls away before the numbness spreads too far. He makes a familiar little noise, that sharp half-laugh that has found a home in the folds of Xarrai’s mind, now. “Incredible.” He murmurs, somewhere between the tone he takes after they kiss him, just this side of too much, and the almost-reverence of his voice before his teeth touch their skin. If Xarrai listens hard enough, it could be something real.

Xarrai laughs a little too, eyes still closed. “No need for flattery, darling.” They drawl, head still cradled in his hand. “Though, I’m not complaining…”

“It’s not flattery.” Astarion says. Xarrai wonders what his eyes would look like if they could see them – are they ruby-sharp or sweet as blood? Their head spins. They lean it back against his shoulder. His voice drops lower, a playful facsimile of seduction, an encore of a trick that didn’t land to begin with. “But if it’s flattery you want—“

“Gods, not the bullshit pickup lines again.” Xarrai groans. “If you try to call me your ‘little treat’ one more time, I will dump you in the river.” Astarion’s hand slips away from their chest, finds its place again by the hem of their shirt, skin on skin.

“I’ve not known you to turn down shallow praise.” Astarion’s voice is low and velvet soft. Xarrai can hear the smile in it, sharp as his pointed teeth

“Just tell me I’m beautiful.” Xarrai mimics his accent, just a little more polished than their own, their lips curled into a crooked grin. Astarion laughs. His breath is very nearly warm against their skin.

“You’re beautiful.” Xarrai trusts him enough to know he means it, even if it sounds like he’s joking. They wonder if that’s a foolish thing to do, trusting him. But then again, they’re rarely more than the fool. Unless they’re the rake. Unless they’re this, whatever this is: a raw nerve, a lit fuse. Vulnerable. Astarion licks the blood from their neck, slowly, methodically. He won’t waste a single drop. They give him this gift freely, without expectation, and he knows better than to squander it. “These marks will be permanent if we keep doing this, you know.” He says, precisely casual. He removes his hand from their hair, careful to keep their head balanced against his shoulder. They don’t open their eyes.

The sky above them is the same cloud-black as the inside of their eyelids, anyway. Their companions are all asleep – Xarrai can hear Karlach snoring next to the fire a few dozen paces away. “Is that a problem?” They echo his perfect placidity. He steps forward, they step back. One of them will have to break, to tell the truth one way or another.

It’s him. Astarion pulls their shirt back up onto their shoulder, smooths it carefully into place. The curve of their horn brushes his cheek. “I suppose not.” It’s light, airy. Flippant enough to be dangerous. Close enough to be true. Xarrai hears what he doesn’t say, too. You would really give me this? His hand brushes the side of their neck again, trails down their arm until he laces his fingers with theirs. It’s almost like caretaking, the way he holds them after he drinks, though he wouldn’t admit it. It’s no different from the way he mends the lining of their coat, no different from the way Xarrai rubs oil into his leathers in the firelight. They still trust him. Or close to it, anyway.

In the morning, Xarrai will remember this gift is not enough. They will see the hunger and the fear grow in his eyes with every step they take towards Baldur’s Gate and the weight of what he asks of them will settle again on their tongue like lead. The empty promises, his clumsy attempts to appeal to the ambition they hold like a knife to their own throat, all of it will still be there in the morning’s light. The same light that will paint him with a golden brush, brilliant and dazzling; the same light that will make him dangerous and irresistible. In the morning, they will be afraid again – afraid of the Absolute, afraid of the Black Hand that threatens to close around them, afraid of Cazador’s ritual and the ruin it could bring. Afraid of playing the wrong chord and sending the whole fragile melody they’ve been writing out of key. Afraid of breaking the only mirror that shows them plain.

But now? Now, Xarrai opens their eyes. Astarion is still there, still has his arm around their waist, his fingers laced with theirs. His eyes are not rubies but the molten sweetness of blood, and for one more moment they trust him, and he trusts them. Xarrai grins, all teeth, and reaches up to swipe the trickle of blood – their blood – from the corner of his mouth with their thumb. They don’t have to say anything. He licks it clean. For a breath, they stay like that - Xarrai’s hand on Astarion’s cheek, their thumb on his lips – as if suspended in the late summer air, floating.

It’s Xarrai who breaks it. Their cigarette case sits open next to Astarion’s knee, one last cigarette tucked inside, and they lean forward to snatch it. “I’ll share.” They look up at him again, holding their cigarette invitingly, one eyebrow raised, teeth glinting in the firelight when they smile. They know what he’ll say, but it’s all part of the ritual.

“Ugh, no.” Astarion huffs, scowling. “Do you really have to do that? You’re going to get ash on my carpet.” He doesn’t move away from them, despite his protests. He doesn’t acknowledge the ash already ground into the rug. His hand stays splayed on their stomach; his other clutches theirs until they pull it away. He rests it on their thigh instead, idly picking at the strap that holds their knife in place against the fabric of their trousers.

Xarrai snaps, and their fingertips light with a tiny blue flame. A party trick. The light dances on Astarion’s face, makes him look hilariously severe from this angle. “Unless you want to go find me a drink?” Xarrai gives him an exaggerated waggle of their eyebrows, smiling a touch too wide. He huffs and makes no move to get up, instead settling back into the pillows and turning his face to the starless sky with a dramatic sigh. Xarrai just laughs, a low, quick sound, and lights the cigarette. They breathe deep, feel the smoke fill their lungs. It’s a different numbness, a warm floating feeling in their chest. They exhale and watch the cloud disappear into the air. They lean their head against Astarion’s shoulder again.

In the morning they will be afraid. But not tonight. Not tonight.

[karniss-bg3]

So many went to the absolute for like Power—- reading a lil fic that has the main character wondering if Kar’niss went to the Absolute seeking to be returned to normal. But not getting that, was just happy to be ‘accepted’ (barely).

This could very well be how he ended up in the Absolute's clutches. He knows Nere and it could've been him who pointed Kar'niss in the direction of Moonrise. Desperation is as much a motivator as power, money and sex. I mentioned in another post that I have a theory as to how he became so ruthlessly devout in the first place.

Warning, the rest of this post talks about Minthara's storyline which contains spoilers. Don't read ahead if you haven't completed her story in Act 2.

If you go to straight Moonrise and skip Last Light Inn you meet Ketheric Thorm and if Minthara is still alive or in your party she is confronted by him. To summarize he chides her for failure to secure the artifact protecting Tav and crew and she is handed down the sentence of death.

I am unsure if this cutscenes plays only if certain dialogue trees are chosen or if it happens no matter what. But if she is taken away and you go down to the cells, you find that Minthara is essentially being mind tortured by other cultists. They are tapping into her tadpole and bombarding her with psionic energy to make her break. She is in a lot of pain and parts of her are breaking down in real time.

Tav gets the choice to either save her or let the ritual play out. If the latter is chosen then she becomes completely subservient, broken, an empty shell completely devoted to the Absolute.

My theory is that either Kar'niss willingly went to the Absolute for help or he was somehow captured. No matter which way it is, he's very resistant to being tadpoled. Considering his mind is already broken from the drider transformation he proves to be a bit more difficult to control. He may also still be loyal to Lolth. The mere act of being transformed doesn't always turn driders from Lolth, in some cases it makes them double down in their faith because they don't want to piss Her off again. With any of these factors in mind he's basically an unhinged beast, lashing out and spewing vitriol at his captors.

So they do the only thing they can, the mind breaking ritual. They torment him for hours, days, maybe even weeks depending on how much he continues to fight. Until one day his already fragile mind snaps, he can't take it anymore. He's so desperate for redemption and acceptance and these ritualists have all but convinced him he can only find it with the Absolute. Problem is Kar'niss was already fucked up before he came to them. Rather than him being empty and robotic like Minthara, he turns into the Absolute's biggest fanboy. It's all he can talk about, think about, it becomes an obsession. He convinces himself the voices he hears are the Absolute's, that they care about him, that he has an important mission that only he can fulfill. He's found a new Queen, a new calling.

His second transformation is complete and those at Moonrise couldn't be happier. They now have an obedient drider to control and use as they see fit. Even if his constant droning about "Majesty" does get a bit old after a while. Oh well, take what you can get right?

Thanks for the ask!

[secret-bug-pain-blog]

@febuwhump Day 6 - "You lied to us"

This one's a rough 'un for sure, content-wise. Behold, the mental state of a 2000-pound wild boar afflicted with pack mentality, a complete lack of pack, and several metric tons of trauma.

The moon is coming.

Vi scurries through the city streets, dread rattling in her throat. There are too many people here, too many bugs, too many people she could hurt. She must have lost track of time - miscounted the days on the calendar, miscalculated the time left in the day, forgotten to watch out for the moonrise, something.

The moon is coming, and she is afraid.

Everywhere she goes, the crowd only seems to grow thicker. It's too many people, too much crowding- she can almost smell the blood that'll be spilled if she stays, the feeling of shell cracking in her teeth, the taste of guts and hemolymph.

She needs to get away.

Vi pushes through the throng, frantically hunting for anywhere that might be less full, anywhere that she might be able to chain her other form. She can feel something beginning to stir, the phantom of her claws threatening to break out from under her shell. Her teammates are calling after her, concerned, afraid- but she can't go to them now, not when the moon is so close.

She can't afford to have more people dead.

She needs to get somewhere safe- somewhere away from people, somewhere she can keep her claws bound, somewhere that the only person she'll hurt is herself.

But everywhere she goes, there only seem to be more bugs in the crowd, more people pushing, stalling, stopping her from getting anywhere that she might be able to get out-

The moon peeks over the horizon, and for a moment, all she can feel is blinding, awful dread.

"Vi," Leif says. "Vi, why are you running away?"

"You're acting strange," Kabbu says, concern clear in his voice. "Shouldn't you be resting? Weren't you hurt in that fight? Any other bug would be dead by now, Vi."

She tastes hemolymph on her tongue as one of her growing tusks pierces her lip. She doesn't answer, running blindly further, further. The crowd doesn't thin, no matter how far she runs, and she can feel the warning twisting beginning under her shell, the feeling of flesh starting to warp.

Her flesh gives a warning twist under her shell, and all she knows is that she has to go, now.

A bug cuts in front of her, and she startles, balking at the unexpected motion - too much, too close, the feathering on her antenna brushes shell with an uncomfortable thrill of feedback and she barely bites back a whimper. Something in her back gives an uncomfortable crunch, and she stands a head taller - still not enough to part the tide, but enough that she can feel her shell tighten, the spines beneath threatening to pierce through.

There are people all around her. At her sides, at her back, at her throat. She can feel them press closer and closer, boxing her in. Her teammates are coming closer, closer, their words scraping against the insides of her skull in awful, uncomfortable shards.

"Vi?"

Too close- she's going to hurt them, she can feel the transformation getting worse, her arms beginning to twist apart, rows upon rows of claws sprouting from her arms. They're just behind her, she can tell, staring, watching her as the moon rips through her body. She sees them, horrified, disgusted, looking at her-

"Don't touch me," she begs. "Get away, get away-"

But they don't listen, crowding closer, staring and murmuring like she's an animal in a zoo. Spikes climb the ridge of her back as her shell hardens and thickens, her wings melting and melding with the thick plane of carapace that is now her thorax, her muzzle twisting and lengthening and thickening as her jaw warps, her tusks curving and twisting outwards, her eyes watering as something behind them shifts.

She's surrounded on all sides. There are so many people here, so many people everywhere - the, the more she sees, the more she recognizes, staring and gaping and pointing at her as her shell shifts and distorts. She presses her hands over her ears, but there's nothing there but talons, long and sharp and threatening to tear away the sides of her face as her chitin crunches-

They are silent as she screams, the transformation rattling down through shell and flesh, her mandibles pulling apart, the scar on her lip tingling and pulling as her pedipalps fully extend. Her shell practically breaks in two, going from bee-size to beast-size in a split second, shattering and healing itself in an instant. The sound she makes isn't bug, an awful, wretched, guttural thing, wrenched from her chest to her jaws as her body warps unnaturally, as she changes in an instant.

The pain rings in her ears all too long after it finishes, but when it does, she can see her shell battered and broken on the floor in front of her. Her bee body, ripped to shreds, taken apart piece by piece - her beast form torn out from within, rendering it a useless corpse on the floor.

Vi looks up. And up. And up. She towers over everyone, now, but she feels horribly small. She sits in the middle of a circle, a monster torn from bee shell- she sees the looks of shock on their faces, the slow step back, the growing fear. A few nervous bugs level weapons at her.

Kabbu breaks the silence. "You- a beast!"

"When were you going to tell us?" Leif asks, its fur ruffled with displeasure. Elizant steps out from behind it, levelling her with a stony glare that demands an explanation. They crowd in, new bugs appearing from thin air to check out the hubbub, staring and poking at her like she's a zoo exhibit. A doctor jabs at the aching bite on her arm, trying to spread it open for examination, another trying to distract her as she's poked and prodded like a lab animal. They're too close, they're all too close, she can't breathe-

Vi balks, lashing out at the growing crowd with her talons, and the air is steeped in hemolymph in an instant. The floor is blue-green, pale white, deep emerald- the doctors are dead, They're dying- and everyone looks at her with disgust, backing up as if they'll catch her sickness if they get too close. There's rot in her mouth, decay coating her tongue as it pools in her stomach, an awful nausea climbing up her throat.

"Why would you do that?" asks Kabbu. "They just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Vi tries to respond, but her throat doesn't form words anymore. She wails something out, incoherent, but he simply looks at her with cool disappointment. "I don't see why I bring you out at all, if you're going to act like this," he tuts in Jaune's voice. "Behave yourself! Do you think that the Hive raises wild animals?"

The Hive around her tuts in agreement, casting judgemental eyes on her. There's blood on the floor, pooling in the crevices between tiles, the same yellow-green of all bee's blood. Bugs murmur and titter and judge, a million billion eyes all on her, alone at the middle of the throng.

It feels awful, it feels wrong - but no matter how much she twists and turns, she can't find a single bug who seems to notice that something is strange. The awful feeling in her chest grows and grows, taking over until she can't feel anything else, rotting and festering and swelling. There's a static between her and them, an awful gap, and it won't stop growing and growing and-

She snaps back to reality.

Jaune is beneath her, a horrible fear in her eyes, Vi's jaws clamped around her arm. There's that awful sinking feeling in her stomach, the feeling that she's done something horribly, irreversibly wrong.

She lets go, and Jaune scrambles back, vanishing into the crowd- a million eyes staring right at her, right at the shards of bee fluff and shell in her teeth.

"You animal," the Overseer snarls. "What's wrong with you? Do you get off on attacking harmless bugs now?"

"And Maki approved you?" Elizant snarls, her mask doing nothing to conceal the disgust on her face. "Has my association fallen so low as to take in mindless beasts?"

"You lied to us!" cries Leif. "A member of the hive? You're nothing but a monster!"

The other bugs join the chorus, chanting their disdain for her- wretch, beast, poacher, rattling through her shell until she can't hear herself think, the sound vibrating in every little crevice of her shell and every hair of her antenna in a cascade of voices she knows.

A stone cracks across her shell, and she howls. It doesn't drown out the voices- they only get louder, and louder, and louder, howling for her death, for her silence, shut up and die already-

She runs. Like a coward, like the fucking idiot she is that's run a hundred times before- faces blur past her, people she knows, Maki, his face twisted in disgust and horror, Bau, all humor gone from their face as they ready their daggers, Ollie, half her body gone beneath the tearing force of her jaws-

The Golden Path's leaves crunch under her paws, the crowds falling away as she flees. Her pursuer is only a few paces away, bigger than her, stronger than her, jaws snapping at her ragged wings. She has to run, she has to get out, but her legs are too short, her limbs fumble beneath her, she stumbles-

Claws lodge in her chitin, piercing it as easily as if she were a wriggler again and wrenching her on her back. Rust-red eyes, flashing green-blue in the moonlight, a pair of tusks, a twisted reflection of her, rope tied around its limbs and bee-blood spilling from its jaws as it calls her name, Vi, Vi, VI-

"Vi!"

Her claws flashed out, scoring a sharp gash into one of Kabbu's external mandibles. Vi sat bolt upright, ignoring the jolt of pain from the sting-mark in her side as she pulled her claws against her chest.

...but no one was there but Kabbu, holding a hand to the new scratches on his muzzle.

A dream. It was a dream.

It... wasn't real.

Vi trapped her claws against her ruff, trying to focus on controlling her breathing. It was a dream. It didn't happen. None of it had actually happened.

Her hands were still shaking.

They were still in the Swamplands. She could smell the swamp water if she focused, lingering over nearly everything else. Maki was still leaned against the wall, Leif was sleeping not half a foot away, curled into some awful pretzel shape.

In, out. Focus on the spiracles closer to her thorax. Focus on the spiracles closer to her stinger. Her claws were tipped with pale blue-green. Hemolymph dripped from the scratches on Kabbu's face.

Just a dream.

She worried her wrist in her teeth, ignoring Kabbu's sound of alarm. She- it wasn't real. It wasn't real. Tonight wasn't the right night. She still had her calendar in her bag to prove it, hidden away with the chains and the handful of charms she'd commissioned.

The half moon shone high in the sky.

Fourteen days until the full moon. Fourteen days before the next time she had to fear her transformation.

She wondered, absentmindedly, if the old poacher camp in the swamp was still standing.