#wyll getting swept into dances!!!

[wheretheresawyll]

*Wyll/Astarion*

*Wyll/Astarion but it's about Astarion's trauma and Astarion's healing and Astarion's fairytale romance and Astarion being treated right and Wyll is barely acknowledged in the slightest despite being literally half of the pairing*

[kurczakmarty]

Anyways I’m really sorry for all this Gale posting, I just care him yknow.

[moonselune]

Omg I’m so happy to have found someone as talented as you are that writes for Minthy ♥️

Can you please do a jealous Minthara punishing female reader because she danced with Wyll. Ty!!

Oh love love love love love love love this request and thank you so much for your kind words xox

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Minthara x f!reader | Just a dance

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The night had been one of celebration, a rare moment of respite where you allowed yourself to let loose. The campfire crackled, laughter filled the air, and music played, luring everyone to dance. You had found yourself swept up in the moment, twirling and laughing with Wyll, the dashing Blade of Frontiers.

He was a good dancer, probably one of the best dance partners you had in a while. You two matched moves toe-to-toe and put on a good show for the others. His charming smile and infectious energy made the dance enjoyable, but it was innocent.

You had no idea of the storm brewing within Minthara, who watched from the shadows, her eyes narrowing with each passing second.

As the music faded and the night grew late, you felt a hand grip your wrist with surprising strength. Before you could react, Minthara pulled you away from the camp, her expression dark and unreadable. Her eyes blazed with a mixture of jealousy and possessiveness, and you knew you were in trouble.

"Minthara, what's wrong?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper as she marched you into the privacy of your shared tent. She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she purposefully tripped you and pushed you against the bedroll, her hands firm and unyielding.

"You think you can dance with him, flaunt yourself like that, and not face any consequences?" she hissed, her breath hot against your ear.

"It was just a dance," you tried to protest, but Minthara's grip tightened, silencing you.

"Just a dance?" she mocked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You belong to me. Only me."

Her eyes bore into yours, and you saw the intensity of her emotions laid bare. There was no reasoning with her when she was like this, and a shiver of anticipation ran down your spine.

Without another word, she began her work. Her lips found your neck, and she bit down hard, marking you with a fierce possessiveness. You gasped at the sudden pain, but it quickly morphed into a heady mixture of pleasure and your submission followed quickly afterwards. Her hands roamed your body, leaving bruises in their wake, each one a testament to her claim over you.

"Minthara, please," you tried to speak, but she silenced you with a growl, her fingers digging into your hips.

"You don't get to plead," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "You need to be reminded who you belong to." Her teeth grazed your skin, leaving a trail of hickeys that would be impossible to hide. Each mark was a declaration, a visible reminder to everyone of her dominance.

Your body responded to her touch, a confusing blend of pain and arousal making you dizzy. You knew there was no use resisting; Minthara was relentless when it came to staking her claim. As she moved lower, her hands gripping your thighs, you could only gasp and cling to her, your protests turning into moans.

"You're mine," she whispered against your skin, her voice softer now but no less intense. "And I will make sure you never forget it."

What followed was a blur of passion and possession, Minthara's need to assert her dominance drove her actions intensely. By the time she was done, her claim staked, your body was a canvas of her marks, each bruise and hickey a testament to her jealousy love. Your breasts, your shoulders, your back, your thighs, your hips, nowhere had been saved from Minthara's tirade.

As you lay there, breathless and exhausted, Minthara finally softened. She pulled you close, her arms wrapping around you possessively, pressing softer kisses to the temple of your head. You smiled and leant in to her touch, lazily drawing figures on her arm with your index finger as she held you.

"You are mine," she repeated, her voice gentler now, filled with a fierce kind of love. You nodded, too drained to speak, but your heart swelled with affection for her. Despite her abrasiveness, you knew she loved you deeply.

"I'm yours," you whispered, snuggling into her embrace. Minthara kissed your forehead, her fingers tracing the marks she had left on your body.

"Never forget it," she murmured, her jealousy finally beginning to ebb away, giving way to a tender protectiveness. She couldn't lose you to anyone else, wouldn't lose you.

You closed your eyes, feeling safe and cherished in her arms. The night had been intense, but it was a reminder of the depth of Minthara's feelings for you. As you drifted off to sleep, you knew that no matter what, you were loved and claimed by your darling fierce drow beside you.

Bonus ! :

You stumbled out of the tent, a towel wrapped round you as you headed for the river, hoping the cool water would bring you some relief to the pleasurable aches that tortured your body. You had assumed everyone was still in their tent, preparing for the day, you knew Minthara had gone out with Karlach, hunting for breakfast. But the gods were not smiling upon you that day.

"Oh my god, Lae'zel!" Astarion sang out with mock shock, as he pointed at you, just emerging from his tent, "Our dearest leader has been turned into one of your Githyanki fellows!"

Lae'zel stepped out of her tent with crossed arms, expecting not to be amused by Astarion's jest but when she took in your bruised form a smile tugged on her lips. "Kin, tell me, from what creche do you hail from?"

"Can you not tell? She is from creche Mintha-OW" Astarion's taunting got cut off by you throwing a nearby ladle at him, and you quickly stormed off to the river. Although you were irritated, you could not deny the sense of pride, bearing Minthara's marks. You felt cherished, adored even.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

I adored writing this, and I hope you enjoyed reading it ! -Seluney xox

[lavenderfluorite14]

A Taste of Plums | Astarion x Female!Tav

Chapter 13: Party

Summary: A party brings up bad memories for Astarion.

Rating/Warnings: PG-13, Angstarion.

Read on AO3. Chapter 12❤️‍🔥.

A/N: Healing isn't linear :((

Halsin demands blood. He cannot rest until the balance of nature is restored, and that will only be achieved when the leaders of the Absolute’s riotous horde are dead.

Astarion immediately frowns at the idea. This is not their fight. They have too much on their plate already to risk their lives, yet again, for ungrateful druids and weak Tieflings. If Halsin wants to keep fighting, well, then he can bloody well die on his own time.

It’s a terrible idea. It doesn’t benefit them. It’s wildly dangerous.

Of course Tav says yes. At least they get to keep killing.

~ Somehow they all survive the slaughter. Soaked in blood but still alive, Lae’Zel, Shadowheart, Astarion, and Tav burst out of the temple and into the bright light of day where an enraged mob of goblins waits for them. The wyvern toxin had done its foul work: about half of their number had fallen to its venom. But those that remain bristle with fury and accusation.

“Z’ose strangers musta done it!” One yells and the entire host turns on their company.

But before Astarion can nock a poisoned arrow in his bow, the courtyard ahead of them erupts in flame. The goblins crumble to ash as Gale, Wyll, and Karlach breach the hall, ready to join the fray. Truly a sight for sore eyes.

~

The day is theirs. Halsin invites them all back to the Grove to discuss the revelation of Moonrise Towers, the ominous stronghold where the Absolute has been amassing power. But they don’t talk for long: their party is swarmed by excited Tieflings as soon as they pass through the Grove’s ivy covered gate. The refugees are overjoyed to hear that the goblin horde is slain and that the road is safe enough to travel again.

This warrants a celebration, apparently. A celebration that Tav will be hosting at their camp. With their food and wine.

Oh goodie. At least Zevlor had the decency to collect a reward for them, as meager as it is.

~

The Tieflings arrive at sunset and in no time their camp is overrun with merriment. Cal and Lia pester Rolan to set off fireworks, and the pompous aspiring wizard begins a light show that dazzles the country bumpkins. Alfira plucks an upbeat tune on her lute, as best she can anyway, and the guests begin to sing and dance along to the wavering beat. Karlach is in the middle of the dance floor, cutting quite the rug, while Lae’Zel grills Zevlor about his time with the Hellriders over a mug of warm ale. Scratch zigzags in and out of the crowd, soaking up attention from the charmed Tieflings. Volo has amassed a small crowd, regaling the group with the tale of his daring escape from the clutches of his amorous goblin captor. Tav and Astarion are notably absent from his tale. Wyll is off somewhere, probably with his own audience of admirers. Gale shifts from foot to foot, awkwardly but contentedly observing the party from his tent as Shadowheart nurses a goblet of dark wine by herself. Even Withers, the enigmatic not-a-skeleton, seems to be enjoying himself in his dour, taciturn way. It’s like a bowstring has been cut, the tension of the past week dissipating in the warm summer night. 

Astarion sulks. He picks carefully through the bottles of wine the Tieflings had brought with them, but none of them are good. Nonetheless, he pours himself a tall glass of swill. At least he can still get drunk. 

Astarion should be in his element here. Once, he would have swept over to the most beautiful Tiefling drinking alone and asked them for a dance. But without a command puppeting his body or the inevitable deadline of the morning bearing down on him, Astarion finds that he is unsure what to do. He hangs back, scanning the crowd. He is unsure what he even wants to do.

The only person he really wants to talk to is currently busy and has been busy all night. Everyone wants to speak with Tav and jostles for her attention, dragging her into corners, then over to the makeshift bar, then onto the dance floor. She’s the belle of this backwater ball.

He recalls the lavish balls Cazador would host, the gluttonous bacchanals that always ended in bloodshed for the poor idiots foolish enough to attend. His role at those affairs had depended on his sire’s favor. But whether he was decoration or entertainment he was still Cazador’s property, to be used as he saw fit.

He watches a Tiefling brush Tav’s elbow as he refills her goblet, obviously flirting with her. Tav smiles back. Karlach catches Tav’s eye and pulls her onto the dance floor, twirling her across the dirt. The brief touch scorches her hand and Tav recoils from Karlach with a yelp of pain, but she quickly bursts into laughter when she realizes that she is unburnt. Karlach sighs with relief.

Both of them look so happy. He focuses on the tadpole, reaching out to her mind with his own. Their minds connect and a rush of giddiness, relief, anticipation, and desire sweeps through him. Tav is having a grand time.  

His tongue has pleasured almost every inch of her body and yet she has forgotten him so easily. He doesn’t even cross her mind. 

He wonders if he was just a cheap piece of fun after all. It is all he can really offer her. All he really is. When your life is confined to night after night at the bar, sex seems like a powerful intoxicant. But now that Astarion has days, possibly weeks, stretching out before him, he wonders if his allure is as powerful as he thought. Especially now that he has already given up the goods.

He doesn’t need her to fall in love, he just needs her on his side. And she is. His plan is working. It doesn't need to be more than that.

Funny. Clever. Cunning. Ambitious. Fierce. But I meant what I said, all of it.

When Rolan begins to sputter, Gale waltzes over and adds his magic to the display, upstaging him with his own accomplished wizardry. Gale sends a shower of sparkles skyward, which twist into fantastic shapes as they shoot through the air: dragons, lighting bolts, trees, and all manner of creatures drift down into the enchanted crowd. A shimmering heart lands on Astarion’s shirt, which he dispels with a curt brush of his hand.

Astarion downs the rest of his drink and immediately pours himself another. Drinking and fucking were what most people did for fun, and he wants to have fun tonight. He had used that lure many times. Why don’t you and I go back to my palace for a little bit of fun? He stares hollowly out at the partygoers, who are all enjoying themselves with thoughtless ease. He hates them for it.

Alfira calls Tav over and they huddle close in deep conversation. Astarion brushes his mind gently against hers again and he hears the rousing chord progressions of a sea shanty echo through his mind. Tav straightens up and pulls out her violin, warming up with a quick scale. If she felt either of his intrusions then she doesn’t show it. Alfira and Tav begin a duet, much to the delight of everyone. Astarion recognizes it as a favorite at the Blushing Mermaid: “The Queen’s High Seas.”

The crowd listens, charmed by the bards’ song. Mid-performance, Lakrissa steals Tav from her perch and pulls her close. Tav doesn’t miss a beat and keeps playing as the two improvise an easy two-step, dancing to the music. Lakrissa’s hand settles too comfortably on Tav’s waist.

Perhaps he should let her dally with another. And when the tryst is not as satisfying as theirs, he can swoop in afterwards and thoroughly remind her that she won’t be able to find anyone else with centuries of his experience. Then, he’ll find a way to top their Loviatan indulgence and she won’t want to stray ever again.

Or perhaps he should be the one to take another lover. Have some fun of his own. He scans the crowd of anonymous Tieflings but he barely knows any of them. Once that would not have mattered, but something about it doesn’t feel right anymore. He eyes his companions. Any of them would be an excellent choice. An excellent ally. But that doesn’t feel right either. It feels…

Astarion clutches his chalice tightly. He should waltz over there himself and cut in, take charge of the situation. If he wants Tav’s attention then he should go and get it.

But he has always been an ambush predator, picking off the drunk, the weak, and the alone. Or when he could stomach it, those he thought deserved to be killed by a vampire. He had learned that painful lesson early: stay far away from the ones he actually wants. The sweet ones didn’t deserve his poisonous attentions. Those precious moments, the ones where he could pretend he was just a simple high-elf, perhaps even a magistrate, on a date with someone who saw him and liked him, shine so brightly in his memory that they hurt to look at for too long. 

If she wanted his company, she would come and find him. But why else would she want his company, unless she simply wanted a quick romp?

Before the music ends, Astarion slips away from the warm glow of the party and into the shadows where he belongs. He just needs some metaphorical air. He wanders over to the edge of the Chionthar, which laps lazily at the embankment they are camped on. Astarion sighs heavily and considers sitting miserably in the sand.

“What are you doing out here? You should be enjoying the party,” Wyll calls from his own seat amongst the reeds.

“I could ask the same thing of you,” Astarion answers, jumping back with surprise. He decides to remain standing. A monster should never be alone with a monster hunter. Especially if he seems kind and noble.

“I was hoping no one would notice I was gone,” Wyll says with a wry smile. Astarion quirks an eyebrow.

“I thought the Blade would enjoy mingling with his adoring fans,” Astarion teases. But his barb has a touch too many teeth to it.

“I doubt they would be so adoring if they could see me now.” Wyll’s horns glint in the soft moonlight, which throws the scars on his face into sharp relief. He sighs, a weary, heavy thing. “I’m a devil. I love the people of the Grove, but I unsettle them, deep down. As I seem to unsettle everyone, nowadays.” He brings his hands up, and Astarion can see that Wyll’s nails have sharpened into bonafide claws. “You don’t want a devil at your party. Claws will pop the balloons, you see. And the sweetcakes don’t taste half as good with this blasted forked-tongue,” Wyll laments.

“Oh, I don’t know. The horns are rather fetching, actually.” The compliment slips off of Astarion’s tongue on reflex, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Wyll thinks that he has become a beast, but to Astarion he has only become even more devilishly handsome.

“You don’t have to mock me,” Wyll replies with angry skepticism.

“If I was mocking you, you would know, darling” Astarion returns. “Although it is pretty ironic, the monster hunter becoming the monster. What did they say about ‘he who fights monsters?’”

“That he should be careful, lest he become one,” Wyll finishes. “Ironic indeed.” Astarion snorts and Wyll gives him a stern look. “You mock me again,” Wyll says, his tone hardening into a challenge.

“It’s just that, I happen to know a little something about monsters,” Astarion says, taking a dainty sip of his wine. He’s already had more than enough, but he might as well finish this glass too. “When I first changed, the transformation was agony. I spent the next few months in and out of delirium. No doubt exacerbated by starvation, but it took me years to adjust to my new body.” And it hasn’t been mine since. “It’s hard. But you will get through it.” Astarion flashes Wyll a cheeky, fanged grin. “And eventually, you may even find that you like it.”

“We’ve become very different monsters, you and I. The charms of a vampire are undeniable,” Wyll admits with a smile.

“If I didn’t know better, I would say you are flirting with danger,” Astarion counters smoothly. Wyll chuckles, but the warm sound quickly fades.

“The charms of a devil are much more grotesque. I’m not a man, not a Tiefling, but some other abomination entirely. I’m alone.” Wyll pauses and Astarion does not know what to say. Usually Wyll is so stalwart, an incorruptible bastion of hope. Not tonight, apparently. Neither of them are quite themselves, it seems. “But you’re right. I will survive. I’ll be right as rain in no time,” Wyll ends sadly. 

They lapse into almost companionable silence. The river ripples before them, the soft sound of its churning waters suddenly deafening. Somewhere behind them the sounds of a party in full swing can be heard. It’s a clear night and the stars twinkle and dance above them. It should be lovely.

Astarion is drunk enough to consider begging Wyll to kill Cazador for him. He wonders if Wyll would like the damsel-in-distress routine or if he should skip the act and just drop to his knees.

“What do you mean, ‘exacerbated by starvation?’” Wyll eventually asks.

“Cazador kept us on a, shall we say, strict diet,” Astarion explains. He takes another sip of his wine. “He kept most of us fed on rotten carcasses, but he threw in whatever suited him. He liked to feed me rats and bugs.” Astarion laughs a dry and bitter chuckle. “Once he gave Petras a dog. We never heard the end of his bragging.”

“Had you ever fed on human blood before?” Wyll presses.

“No. Not until-“ Astarion stops himself. Everybody knows, but it still feels too vulnerable. “Well. Not until quite recently.”

“That must have been very special for you,” Wyll observes. Astarion examines his glass.

“Yes, because dinner is so special,” Astarion retorts sourly. It was special. It’s pathetic.

“Well, if she is just ‘dinner’ to you, I suppose that means there is nothing of consequence between the two of you?” Wyll assumes.

“I didn’t say that,” Astarion says.

“Then what did you mean?” Wyll is relentless.

“I-" Astarion begins, but he cannot find the right words. His tongue is too sluggish, the wine too thick.

“It’s alright not to know,” Wyll offers, rising from his seat. He claps Astarion on the arm in a gesture of comfort.

“Why do you all keep asking me this?” Astarion hisses, recoiling from the kind touch. Wyll withdraws, surprised.

“Because Tav is a special woman. And you aren’t the only one who has noticed,” Wyll explains, a grim edge to his voice.

“Get to the point,” Astarion orders. 

“About half the camp admires her but has held back out of courtesy for you. She should be treated like a lady.” Wyll squares himself, firmly facing Astarion now. “But if you cannot or will not romance her the way she deserves, then you should know that there are others who would be happy to.”

“And are you among that number?” Astarion bristles. He squares his body too, meeting the challenge. Wyll looks him up and down, shaking his head sadly.

“Good night, Astarion,” he says, turning to go.

“If you think you can steal her from me then you are welcome to try. I’m sure Tav would adore a passionate night of poetry recitation,” Astarion calls after him. Wyll looks back over his shoulder, his red eye gleaming like a fine ruby.

“Nothing can split what is truly meant to be,” Wyll answers.

Astarion watches as Wyll strides away, disappearing into the night. He leaves the faintest whiff of sulfur in his wake.

~

Astarion quickly returns to the party. That odd little chat with Wyll was exactly the kick in the pants he needed. Why is he sitting around moping when he should be doing. The party is still in full swing but the group has finally begun to splinter off, the perfect time to pounce on one’s prey. He zeroes in on Tav, who is sitting with Shadowheart on the stool she keeps by her tent. The two of them are turned towards each other, sipping glasses of wine, leaning in and laughing at some secret joke. Astarion strides over. Tav notices him approaching and a smile breaks across her face.

“There you are! Where have y-“

“Darling,” he purrs, pulling her up and against him. He dips her slightly and Tav falls backwards, giggling in his arms. He kisses her hard and deep and soon Tav is parting her lips beneath his own. Tav moans as Astarion slips his tongue into her mouth. He wishes he could taste the wine on her tongue, but all he can taste is ash.

“Yes Astarion, where have you been,' Shadowheart asks flatly. Astarion breaks their kiss.

“Come to bed, my sweet,” Astarion whispers in her ear. He lays a lingering kiss against the sensitive patch of skin behind her ear, right at the top of her neck.

“You’re insatiable,” Tav whimpers. She threads their fingers together, clutching his hand tightly.

“And you’re just too delicious,” he replies. He pulls her towards the woods and Tav stumbles after him, smiling and laughing as if this was the perfect end to a perfect evening.

~

Chapter 14: Feast

[solace-saphylos]

I get so irredeemably angry whenever I see modded bg3 footage of Wyll's dancing scene, especially if they've swapped the model for Astarion's. On the side of the white boy - He wouldn't move like that. He would find it embarrassing at best. On the side of the black man - How dare you strip his likeness from his courtship? HE moves like that, not just because he can by schooling, but because he wants to show those moves to you! He wants to dance all pretty and poised, the Prince crowned with a devil's horns, dancing to no music but the deep seated longing in his heart to connect with yours...

I danced with Wyll, and the whole scene felt like a roller coaster. He swept me off my chair and into his world. Mind you, I didn't even kiss him, I turned my face away. He took that rejection with such grace.

A grace I do not possess myself. STOP TAKING HIS SCENE FROM HIM, LET WYLL OWN THOSE DANCE MOVES ALONE LIKE THE DEVS INTENDED REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

[this-bard-cannot-sing]

The Worthy

Chapter 6 - The Orb

Read Chapter 5 here.

Masterlist

Summary: Gale turned his brown eyes back to Wren. She saw immense pain in those hazelnut pools, and also, fear. "It's time I told you," he muttered, his eyes never leaving Wren. She felt like the rest of the party wasn't even there, it was just her and Gale in the quiet of the crypt.

Warnings: slow burn, angst, AFAB main character, swearing, sexual themes, anxiety, abuse, graphic violence

Pairings: Gale x OC

Author Note: This fan fiction follows the exploits of my OC, Wren, a Drow barbarian raised by fey and caught up in a nautiloid invasion. This story takes place during the events of Baldur's Gate 3. This chapter is a spin on Gale's orb reveal.

_______

Jagged cave walls slowly gave way to chiseled stone as the party made their way through the cave to the secret entrance of a crypt. Astarion led the way. He swept his keen eyes along the floor and walls, looking for traps. Lae'zel and Wyll walked close behind, ready to spring to action should any undead appear. Shadowheart glowed with dancing lights surrounding her. The light cast their shadowy likenesses against the stone slabs.

Bringing up the rear, was Wren and Gale. Wren wanted to guard their backs should any druids learn of their escape and follow them into the tunnels. All had been quiet, so far. She only heard their own footsteps echoing through the deep dark. Everyone was afraid to speak. Lae'zel cautioned they should remain quiet to avoid detection from the druids. However, Wren knew the truth: they were all afraid of waking the dead.

"We must be approaching an exit," whispered Shadowheart. She looked around her as her dancing lights illuminated chambers and corridors branching off into all directions. Wren gripped her war picks tighter.

"It's all a matter of which door we should step through," said Astarion. He motioned to a chamber on his left, "We could pick that one." Wren looked and saw the door was hanging off its hinges and dripping with spider webs. She could still see the shine of the delicate silk. Those look fresh, she thought. Could be something waiting behind that one. "Or," said Astarion, "we could pick that one." He pointed to another door on his right. This door was still solidly attached to its hinges and closed. However, Wren could see deep punctures in the wood. Something was trying to get out.

"We should keep looking," whispered Wyll, warily looking at the door as they passed it by.

Wren looked to Gale. He had been uncharacteristically quiet since they left the grove. She assumed it was because he was tired from the events of the previous day. Looking at him now, she noticed sweat beaded on his brow and his face was skewed into a grimace. His chest labored to take in every breath and his weight seemed to rest entirely on his staff.

"Gale, you look unwell," said Wren. Her comment made the party pause and look back at them.

"Tskva! She speaks true, wizard. You look as if a red dragon chewed you up and spit you out," remarked Lae'zel. Shadowheart moved closer to examine Gale, but he waved her away.

"I'm fine, GAH!" he exclaimed and doubled over in pain. Wren dropped her war picks and reached out to steady him. Her right hand lay flat against Gale's chest and she felt a subtle vibrating under her fingertips. When she pulled him upright, she saw a faint purple glow bleed through his robes and between her fingers.

"What is that?" asked Wyll. Shadowheart, Lae'zel and Astarion stood behind him, staring in awe.

Gale turned his brown eyes back to Wren. She saw immense pain in those hazelnut pools, and also, fear. "It's time I told you," he muttered, his eyes never leaving Wren. She felt like the rest of the party wasn't even there, it was just her and Gale in the quiet of the crypt.

"Told us what, Gale?" huffed Astarion, clearly impatient.

Gale was shaken from his reverie and pulled his gaze reluctantly from Wren to look at the pale elf. "Forgive me, I should have told you sooner. But I didn't know if I could trust you."

"You can trust us, Gale," said Wren, giving Astarion a stern look. The pale elf rolled his eyes and kept silent.

"Well, here it goes," said Gale, taking a steadying breath. Wren waited, holding hers. He rested his weight against the crypt wall. Purple light still shimmered faintly through his robes. "You see, growing up in Waterdeep, I made a name for myself as a very skilled wizard. It was as if I was a bard, and the Weave was my instrument."

"Ugh, are you just going to brag about yourself, or is there a point to this?" said Astarion. Gale ignored him and continued.

"I became so talented at a young age, I caught the attention of the goddess of magic herself, Mystra."

Now he has their attention, thought Wren. Shadowheart stood as still as a statue. Astarion had his back slightly towards Gale and his eyes hooded, but his ears perked up, catching everything. Lae'zel sat upon a barrel, sword held between her legs. Wyll leaned against a wall and listened to every word.

"She became my teacher," said Gale. He reached up with his free hand and rubbed his chest. Wren could see that the purple glow wasn't just contained to his chest. A faint, lavender line trailed its way from his chest and up his neck and bearded jaw to stop at the corner of his left eye. Was he in pain the night we stood under the stars? Thought Wren. Her heart ached for him.

"And later, she became my muse," said Gale. He turned back to look at Wren. "And then she became my lover."

Wren's heart dropped. She frowned and looked down at her feet. She didn't know what this feeling was, but she didn't like it.

"Are you telling me, that you, Gale, the one who can't shut up about books. The one who reeks of parchment and cats, wooed the goddess of magic and fucked her on the regular?" asked Astarion. His eyes were narrowed in disbelief and his arms were crossed on his chest. Wren winced at his words. What is wrong with me? Thought Wren.

Gale coughed, grimacing in pain. "I don't appreciate the language you used, Astarion. I loved her." At this, Gale placed his sweaty hand on Wren's forearm. It caught her attention and she brought her ruby eyes back to Gale's pained and sweating face. "Once," he said. He gently squeezed her arm and it made her heart flutter. She felt the pain in her chest ease ever so slightly.

"What does this have to do with the purple glow in your chest?" asked Wyll.

Gale reluctantly released Wren's arm and continued. "After some time, I realized I fell out of favor with Mystra. My magic no longer thrilled her, my love no longer brought her joy. Her gaze turned to others."

Wren could see recognition in Shadowheart and Wyll's eyes.

"I pleaded with her, to allow me to explore the forbidden secrets of the Weave, so that I may better serve her and impress her again, but she refused. So, foolishly, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Tell me," he said, "Do you know of the Fall of Netheril?"

Wyll nodded, "Aye, I do. It was once the greatest city in the world. Floating above the earth and home to the most skilled wizards and sorcerers alike."

Gale nodded, "Yes, and greatest of them was Karsus, the boy who would be a god. You see, he thought he could create his own version of the weave to take control over magic and destroy Mystril, the goddess of magic as she used to be known. He believed he could do better, but he was mistaken. He was almost successful. Until, Mystril destroyed herself and thus, destroying the Weave. Karsus' magic failed and destroyed Netheril. The city fell from the sky, killing thousands above and below."

Wren shuddered. She had a complicated relationship with magic. When she lived in Menzoborranzan, she grew up around some of the most powerful witches and sorcerers in Faerun. Magic was not policed there. Necromancers held some of the highest offices and it was not uncommon to see the estates of the Great Families alight with spell-craft as warring families attacked one another. However, when she was adopted by Oran and the firbolgs, she learned to also fear magic. Druids were the only ones to practice magic in Greencliffs, and their magic flowed through nature. Magic was never used against each other for selfish gains, but to help others and protect the land. This Karsus fellow sounds like he would fit right in with the Drow.

"It became my mission," said Gale, rubbing his chest again. "To find the missing pieces of the Weave and return it to Mystra so she may be whole again. To return a missing piece of herself."

"Romantic," said Shadowheart.

"I thought so," acknowledged Gale. "I tracked down an ancient library, long in ruins. I thought perhaps there could be something there, a clue to finding the missing Weave. I found a dusty old tome, and as soon as I opened it, well…" he paused. He looked back to Wren and held his hand out to her. "Here, let me show you."

All was silent in the crypt. Wren looked between Gale's outstretched hand and his pained, desperate eyes. She placed her hand in his and he gently brought her palm to his chest. Suddenly, the crypt was awash in purple light as it erupted from his chest. Amidst the purple glow, Wren could see a swirl of darkness emanating from Gale, pulling her closer to him. Energy crackled through her fingers and spread through her body, wracking it with intense pain. Wren let out a cry of agony. Gale released her immediately and the purple light ebbed until it was a gentle pulse within his chest again.

"Bloody hells," cursed Wyll.

"How are you not dead?" panted Wren. Her muscles still ached even after the foul magic had left her body.

"This piece of magic had no interest in killing me, but draining me of my power. I retreated to my tower, spending  a year isolating myself to protect my friends, my family. I quickly learned that to quell the orb, I needed to absorb powerful magical items. After a few months, I exhausted my own stores. I soon relied on my tressym, Tara, to find items for me. It wasn't until a few weeks ago, that I felt brave enough and stable enough to venture from my tower in Waterdeep. You see, that is why I ventured to Baldur's Gate," said Gale, looking at Wren again. "I was looking to purchase more items from Sorcerer's Sundries, adventurers, anyone who would have a lucky coin or talking hat--OW!"

Gale winced in pain again. Wren stepped closer to comfort him, but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Is this why you're in pain now? You need another magical item?" asked Wren. Gale nodded.

"What would happen, wizard, if we could not find an item," asked Lae'zel. Her long, yellow fingers gripped the hilt of her sword a little tighter.

Gale looked at his companions, tears in his eyes. "I would erupt," he whispered. The weight of his words sat heavy on Wren's shoulders.

She looked to her companions. She recognized the same determination in Wyll. He will help me, she thought. Shadowheart looked exasperated, as always. Lae'zel's muscles were tense and her brow furrowed in anger. Well, that's not new, thought Wren. Astarion had his face in his hands.

"Then, let's get going. This is a crypt isn't it? Dead people love being buried with their belongings: Self-singing lyres, bags of holding, magical arrows," said Wren. She gathered her war picks from the floor and slipped them into their sheathes.

"I like how you think," smiled Wyll. "Come, let's start looking."

Astarion looked between Wyll and the other companions. "Are you kidding me? We already have tadpoles in our heads, now we have to deal with an explosive wizard?" Lae'zel growled, but picked up her  sword and lead the way forward. Shadowheart looked at Astarion like she wanted to agree with him, but seeing the grim determination on Wren's face, she silently marched ahead to follow Lae'zel. "Ugh," groaned Astarion. " This just keeps getting better and better." He turned on his heel and followed Wyll down a corridor and began sifting through boxes and shelves.

Wren slipped her muscled arm around Gale. "Here, lean against me," she said. Gale eased himself off the stone wall and leaned half his weight on her, the other on his staff. They were the closest they had ever been. Wren could smell a hint of parchment on his robes and the minty sting of aftershave. She didn't realize she held him slightly closer. Gale turned to her and a smile quirked up the side of his mouth.

"Thank you, for helping me," said Gale. His rich, brown eyes gazed into her red ones. Wren's heart fluttered. She smiled shyly and turned away. We should hurry, she thought. Wren and Gale began hobbling forward. Wyll and Astarion had continued their search along the corridor ahead. Still no luck. Wren saw Lae'zel and Shadowheart arguing in an alcove about a fork Lae'zel found.

"What do you mean this isn't what we're looking for? It is such a strange hunk of metal," said Lae'zel as she gingerly put the tip of her finger on one of the tongs of the fork and pulled it away after it poked her.

"Lady, give me patience. It's a f-or-k, Lae'zel. You eat dinner with it. There's nothing magical about that piece of junk," said Shadowheart, rubbing her temples.

"Tsk, we should let the wizard decide. Gale," said Lae'zel. She turned toward Wren and Gale. Wren was a little taken aback--she had never used his name before. "Is this filled with magic?"

Wren could see some amusement fill Gale's eyes, despite the pain he was under. "I'm afraid, dear lady, that is just a simple fork, used for eating." Lae'zel slouched with disappointment. She slowly turned back to the crates they were sorting through and continued to look for magical items. Wren and Gale slowly made their way further down the corridor and found another door. Wren gently placed Gale against the wall beside the door. She reached out for the handle and jiggled it. "Locked," she said.

"Blast, perhaps I have enough--gah--energy to cast an unlocking spell. Or I could call for Astarion and--"

WHAM! Wren gave a hard kick to the door and it flew open.

"Ah, well, we could do that too," chuckled Gale, wincing in pain. She smiled at him and wrapped her arm around him again as they proceeded deeper into the crypt. The door was an entrance to a grand chapel. All around were stone pews, fallen and shattered. Skeletal bodies littered the floor around them. Wren saw one lying next to a blood-stained book, dagger still in hand.

"Armed scribes?" mused Wren. "What kind of chapel was this?"

Gale halted and Wren wobbled a bit as he held her back. She looked back at him, concerned. His eyes were focused ahead of them. "A chapel of the dead," whispered Gale.

Wren followed his gaze and ahead she saw a statue, bathed in the sunlight that streamed through a hole in the ceiling. The statue was old and covered in creeping vines. Robes carved into the stone flowed around the figure. A hood circled a skeletal face and a skeletal arm grasped a book close to its chest. Wren shivered.

"I've never seen a god like that," she whispered. She was unable to take her eyes from the imposing figure.

"No one living has," said Gale. "I believe that is Jergal, Scribe of the Dead."

"But," said Wren, "I thought that was Myrkal?"

"That is where you'd be mistaken," said Gale. She could hear some of his usual, talkative self, return. Even in intense pain, he has to teach something. Wren smiled and listened. "Myrkal is the current god of the dead, beloved of necromancers and undead alike. Jergal once held the title, but it's not clear what happened to him." Gale gasped and grimaced. Time was running out.

Wren looked to her left and saw a chamber. The door was slightly ajar and she could see sunlight glinting within. She and Gale hobbled towards the door and she kicked the door open wider. The room appeared to be a library. Writing tables dotted the room and bookshelves lined the walls. A hole in the ceiling let in sunlight and fresh air. Wren breathed deep. She helped Gale to a chair at one of the writing desks and began searching the room. She pulled books off the walls, but none appeared magical in any way. Sweat began to drip down her brow. She wiped her forehead and decided to remove her leather jerkin. She unlaced it and pulled it over her head. She breathed in relief as the cool, damp air filtered through her sweat soaked linen shirt.

Wren turned and saw Gale staring at her. His deep brown eyes were even darker. His breathing, deeper. Wren thought at first the orb was causing this change in him, but then she saw the look on his face was not pain, but adoration. She walked up to him until she was just an arm's length away. "Lovely," whispered Gale as his brown eyes locked onto hers.

"Really?" chuckled Wren, "I haven't had a proper bath in days."

"It's true, you are quite pungent from our travels," said Gale. Wren covered her face with her hands, embarrassed.

Gods, why did I say that? She thought.

"But, I happen to like your--m-musk," stuttered Gale. Wren lowered her hands and saw Gale's gaze was now roaming across her muscled body. The purple glow of his chest showed the pain that still lingered in his eyes, but now Wren also saw--hunger.

"Oi, what in the hells do you think you're doing here?!" yelled a voice behind her. Wren turned and saw a half-elf and a gnome standing in the door way to the chapel. Without waiting for her answer, the half-elf fired an arrow from his bow, straight at Gale.

"Raaaaah!" yelled Wren and she quickly stepped in front of Gale. Thud. She felt the arrow dig into the meat of her right shoulder. She stood above Gale, sheltering him with her body. He looked up at her in concern. Then, he saw blood dripping down her shoulder from the wound were the arrow punched through her back and to the other side. The purple orb in his chest glowed a little brighter. He looked behind her at the looters and anger flooded his face. Flame erupted from his hand and straight towards the two attackers.

"Ah!" screamed the half-elf as his clothes caught fire.

Wren took the opportunity to roll out of the way and snap off the arrow shaft protruding from her back. She unsheathed her war picks and charged. The two looters were not alone. Behind them, Wren spotted a wizard and three others with weapons at  the ready. We're outnumbered.

She flung one of her war picks at the burning half-elf and landed it with a sickening thud into his chest. The half-elf seemed to forget about the fire climbing up his trousers and tried removing the pick. Wren beat him to it and ripped it from his chest as she landed another blow in his skull. "You're dead!" she growled at the gnome. The gnome retreated to find cover with a giant man with a ghastly looking club. The man pointed his bloodstained club at her in challenge.

"Come on!" yelled Wren.

Suddenly, ghostly rays of power flew through the air and hit the man squarely in his hairy chest. It didn't knock him down, but it did stagger him. He stopped his charge towards Wren and Gale and turned towards the source of the blast. Wyll, Shadowheart, Astarion, and Lae'zel came charging down the hall.

Arrows and spells flew back and forth between the looters and Wren's companions. Wren returned to Gale amidst the battle. She looked over him quickly and saw he suffered no wounds, but the spell he cast had drained him. "You're hurt," said Gale. He eyed her wound with round eyes. He's being eaten alive by magic, yet he's concerned about an arrow stuck in my shoulder, thought Wren.

"I'll live. We need to get you somewhere safe." She sheathed one of her picks and grabbed Gale by the hand. She pulled him out of the line of fire to hide beside a writing desk. Gale stumbled against it and a small cubby in the desk opened. Inside, was an ornate book. It's pages radiated a golden glow. Wren looked to Gale and saw hope in his eyes.

"Get your ass out here, barbarian," yelled Astarion. He was beating back one of the looters who was putting up quite the fight. Wren looked at Gale and squeezed his hand before charging back into the fray. She twirled her war picks and spotted the large man in combat with Lae'zel. The githyanki was holding her own, but the man was twice her size and with a longer reach. Wren whistled to get the man's attention. He pushed Lae'zel away and she stumbled to the ground. The man turned and spotted Wren. A bloodied smile stretched across his face and he marched toward her, Lae'zel long forgotten. Wren saw her sneak off and go after the wizard that was hurling spells at Shadowheart.

The giant man raised his club to smash Wren's head in. She raised her picks in time to catch the blow. It rattled her body, making her injured shoulder shake under the pressure. "Ahhh!" she cried out. She used his strength against him and instead of trying to push him off her, she let his strength continue forward and she moved out from under him and pushed his club to the side. The man followed his momentum and stumbled forward, his club landing into the stone floor where Wren used to be. Wren swung one of her picks into the man's unprotected ankle.

"Fuck!" yelled the giant man. He lashed out at her in anger and missed. He limped towards her and swung at her again. She deflected with her picks. The man tumbled into the dirt. Wren took her opportunity and slammed a war pick into his skull. The man's body twitched, then crumpled. He was dead.

Lae'zel took the head off the wizard, her corpse crumbled to the floor. Astarion stood over the dead looter, victorious but still battered and bruised. Wyll suffered a cut across his chest, but he was still standing. Shadowheart began casting her healing magic on them. When she approached Wren she said, "I'm afraid you'll have to wait until we make camp. Your shoulder is going to need a little more attention."

Wren remembered she left Gale in the library. "Gale?" she called. She entered the library and found him seated at the writing desk again. The glowing book was open on the desk as he gingerly flipped through its crumbling pages. She heard her companions follow her into the room. "Will it help, Gale? Can you absorb it?" asked Wren.

"This book does contain magic, but I'm afraid it's not Weave, but divine magic." muttered Gale, his eyes transfixed by the pages.

"Well, this was a bloody waste of time," scoffed Astarion. He leaned against the wall. A grinding sound echoed in the chamber and Astarion jumped back from the wall as if bitten. In the wall where he was leaning, was a stone that was slowly sliding inward. A deep grinding, thud resounded in the chapel. The party ran out of the library. Wren wrapped her arm around Gale again and they followed. In the middle of the chapel, under the imposing statue of Jergal, Scribe of the Dead, a hidden doorway revealed itself. Stairs descended into the dark.

"I'm no treasure hunter, but, if there's any treasure in this place, I bet it's down there," said Wyll.

"Let's see," said Wren and the party walked towards the hidden passage, Gale gripping her tightly.

[darkwolf76]

Wyll Week Prompt Challenge: Pact/Body Changes

Cracks, dust, and grime marred the surface of the mirror in the long forsaken house, but the light of the pixie blessing let Wyll see just enough to make out his outline, his horns curving prominently on either side of his head, and his hellfire eye glinting in the magical darkness of the shadow cursed lands.

He flinched and glanced away. He still had trouble looking at his reflection, even over a month after his transformation. He had never been a vain man by any means, but he had known he was a handsome enough, back before his visage had been tainted by the Hells. Enough men and women had told him so. He wondered what some of them would think of him they could see him now?

He looked up at the sensation of a hand on his shoulder and saw her lithe, half-elvish outline appear next to his in the shadowy reflection. A little older and more womanly than she’d been when they first met, but still just as beautiful, just as perfect in Wyll’s eyes. “Are you alright?” Seraphina asked. Their group must have noticed he fell behind, and that was never a good thing while traversing the Shadow Cursed lands.

“I’m sorry for holding the party up. I just had a moment of silly wounded pride.” He turned from the reflection towards the half-elf druid and smiled. His smile widened as his gaze swept across her spring green eyes and scarred nose.

Seraphina frowned at him as she glanced between the broken mirror and his visage. She then cupped his face between her hands, her fingers dancing along the raised ridges of cartilage that ran along cheek bones in his newish infernal form. “I don’t think it’s silly. You should be able to feel comfortable in your own skin, Wyll.”

Wyll sighed and closed his eyes, appreciating her gentle touch before he glanced at her again. “I will be…eventually.” He shrugged with a grimace. “It's jarring, even now. I’m still trying to get used to it.”

Seraphina’s fingers fluttered up to the base of his horns, rubbing the skin tenderly. “Are these still sore?”

“Yes,” Wyll admitted. Viewing his horns as an impediment and reminder of his enslavement to Mizora more than anything else, he hadn’t been keeping up with the maintenance regimen Karlach had given him to keep up their appearance. He just didn’t want to deal them yet, he supposed, as immature as that line of thinking was.

“I’ll make some salve for you when we get back to camp, and I’ll help you polish your horns up with the oil Karlach gave you.” Seraphina ran a hand along his right horn and hummed in appreciation. “We have to keep these looking their best.”

Wyll let out a low chuckle. “They look that good on me?”

Seraphina leaned in and kissed him firmly on the lips. Wyll’s hands traveled down to her hips, squeezing them lightly through her hide armor as they exchanged a few light kisses in the broken house. “I think you look better with them than you did with out,” Seraphina murmured against his cheek. “They bring out something wild in you.”

Wyll shivered at her words, but before he could respond, she pecked his cheek and pulled away, the spell broken. “Come on now, Astarion is anxious to get to Thorm mausoleum before night fall, and we don’t want an antsy vampire spawn on our hands!”

“We surely do not!” Wyll laughed as he followed her outside, feeling that perhaps his changed form wasn’t as bad as he thought.

[limpfisted]

“You are one of the most beautiful men I ever did see, Wyll Ravengard.” His fingers trace against the other’s spine, as the elf patiently circles the man, akin to a hungry beast. “And I assure you; I have seen more than your sweet and proper imagination will permit you to paint in your mind.”

Ruby eyes watch the young man with a playful glimmer, pale fingers gripping his shoulder just a tad possessively, now facing him and leaning in closer, their bodies almost touching. “Such a beautiful, soft face; fit to adorn the illustrations of fairy tales girls and boys clutch in their arms, dreaming of ballroom dances and chaste kisses.”

His fingers trace the ridges against Wyll’s throat; his gaze curious and lips curled into a playful smirk. “Skin a rich shade of umber, akin to the summer sky on the very edge of dawn. Painted with tales of heroic battles survived and countless evils vanquished.”

“A pity, it is all there for the people; and not for me.”

Wyll has flirted with the best of them. And he’s no stranger to a well-endowed woman’s carefully timed bounces as she casually mentions how strong and handsome he is. (And of course, he knows he’s strong, and handsome, every bit the hero he claims to be, and ever more humble even in his honesty about these facts as plain as his firm biceps, the allure of his scars.) When these women placed gentle, giving hands on his chest, he resisted a shiver—though never a sharp intake of breath.

It would have been taking advantage of their hospitality and kindness. They were grateful, and he appreciated their… appreciation, and…. well-intentioned interest. But Wyll would never do anything so untoward. He wanted a real romance, not a dalliance or misplaced favor to him for his service. He protects the people of the Sword Coast because it’s the right thing to do, and not for beautiful women’s time, nor their affections. (Though Wyll has sometimes wondered if he would have been able to resist a particularly beautiful man, or handsome woman.)

Perhaps that is what fascinates him so much about his relationships with his new friends.

He didn’t save them. They don’t believe they owe him anything. And while Wyll’s imagination sometimes gets away from him—new poetry litters each of his journals in the margins, musings on the shades of Lae’zels eyes, the tensing or Shadowheart’s muscles as she raises her axe, or a wine glass, the little wrinkles in Astarion’s cheeks, and in his brow, Gods, thank Balduran for the fact none of them can use detect thoughts; and that’s to say nothing of the more prolonged fantasies in his head about being swept away by Githyanki to ride dragons in the sky, or embarassingly enough, though he would never, ever admit this, saving the fair Prince Astarion from the evil vampire King, only to be swept into amazing, gothic adventures where they fought gloriously side by side against the likes of Strahd, Astarion, the plucky vampire prince, always in the softest silk shirts and leather pants, sometimes stained with blood, quipping always that he did not need to be saved, despite always managing to somehow swoon into Wyll’s arms at the end of every “chapter.” Gods help him, Wyll wouldn’t admit to any of that at knifepoint.

Needless to say, Wyll has had a lot of time to think on their travels.

So while he doesn’t shiver this time, and while he doesn’t flinch away, and while his heart skips and stutters as if its trembling in the place of his skin, and while he swallows around nothing, his throat bobbing under Astarion’s fingertips, his tongue feeling heavier and dryer and sharper in his mouth than even his fangs as he gets out the words—he doesn’t pull away. He resists the urge to crane his neck and invite Astarion closer, still. (What does a devil’s blood taste like, to a vampire? What does it feel like, to drink when starved? He imagines it’s like handfeeding a sickly lover. Pressing sweets to their tongue, cool, iced water, to help sop off a fever. Or perhaps it’s more bubbly in your stomach, acidic in the back of your throat. Can one get drunk off devil’s blood?)

Beautiful, Astarion calls him. A fairy tale prince. What magic, perfect words. Astarion, of course, could be lying.

But for all Wyll’s strengths, his heroism. For as valiant, and noble he knows he is.

He can, perhaps, get lost in fantasies, and… roleplaying.

No one can deny him this. Just a drink, a taste. No one is watching.

“A hero doesn’t have to be beautiful,” he smiles, letting out a hot breath of laughter that sounds almost like a purr. Voice heady and smooth, more confident than he feels despite the flush on his cheeks. “You and The Sword Coast just got lucky.”

“I had no idea you were so interested in fairy tales. Which was your favorite. Should I get on my knees for you, see if the glass slipper fits just right?” He takes Astarion’s hand in his, delicate. Wyll’s are calloused, too-warm, thick, but soft, despite the texture. “Would you dance with me until midnight? My hand in yours, like this? My other on your waist. Not too low. I’m a gentleman, a Prince. Chaste. I could hold you all evening like that.” He shrugs his shoulders, tilts his head. “Just talking. Just being with you.”

“I’d be heartbroken if you ran away. Though I imagine I wouldn’t need the glass slipper. I could never forget the way you look at me.”

[shimmerbeasts]

Karlach sat in her tent alone, because of her fiery engine that pulsed against her chest and ached with pain. She clutched at her front, taking a few deep breaths as the pain ripped through her. Being in charge came easily, but she usually would do things with them, tandem teams; but her pain was immense that evening so she had Lae’zel and Astarion go out in one group, and Wyll and Shadowheart for the other; leaving Gale and herself at camp. Gale had taken first watch, which meant she could get some sleep, but it was difficult that night. Memories swept through her thoughts, and the anxiety welled in her chest, making it hard to sleep. Mizora’s appearance didn’t startle her, in fact she had become accustom to it. They had worked together for years in the hells, often working as a two team group; Mizora often took more distance work with her animals while Karlach was in the melee fight up close and personal. They were the elite squad, sometimes having others under them, but Mizora and Karlach had worked together many times over. If anyone knew her well enough; it was her.

“I’m glad I did. He helps me sleep better, though I haven’t been able to hold him.” She had to keep him at a distance, so not to char his threads or destroy him. As much as Karlach didn’t like when Mizora hunted her; Mizora was the only one who actually knew her. She rested her arms against her knees as the bear floated toward her and she hesitated at first, but reached out to catch the bear. Her eyes widen, realizing her touch did singe the object, and she pulled it close against her chest. Karlach knew Mizora’s technique, she had seen it in action many times over. And yet, she still couldn’t deny the need for comfort and she had given it to her so many times. When she had been wounded in battle or punishment, Mizora always tended to her. It was a struggle between knowing Mizora’s tactics but also desperately clinging to the only kind of kindness she had. The bear fluffed up as Karlach squeezed him so tightly and glanced away in shame. “It hurts so much,” Karlach whispered as her claw tapped at the engine. “I thought you would be watching after Wyll?” The question slipped her lips, hesitating between agreeing to have her stay.

"You look worse for wear, Wyrmling."

Mizora's ruby-red eyes rushed across Karlach's chest. The Tiefling - Zariel's pride and grand champion - sat on her bed, breathing heavily. Hot steam shot out of her vents and the inside of her chest crackled, popped and rumbled. It was rough to listen to. Karlach clutched her chest, expression strained. Beads of sweat collected on her body and her eyes were sunken into their caves. She must have been trying to fall asleep with little success. Her anxiety and wrought mind peppered the air.

Mizora's tail flicked and her wings twitched, however, she did her best to ignore the desire to drag out Karlach's bad emotions and devour them. Exploiting someone while they were mentally weak was a thing of ease for a devil, but it certainly did not win you any loyalty. When it came to Karlach, Mizora had worked too hard to destroy the loyalty, she had built, through a mere flight of fancy.

Wyll had been right in assuming that there was history between them. Yet how far that history went, was something her puppy was woefully unprepared for. Despite Karlach and Wyll being nothing but crumbs of dirt in the stream, which was Mizora's life, she valued the partnerships, she had built with them both.

Under Zariel, Mizora and Karlach had been an elite squad, often working together with little to no fellow soldiers under them. They were a well-oiled team; and much like Wyll knew certain things about Mizora, so did Karlach. Though of course, the one who harboured the most knowledge, was always Mizora. She did not make unfavourable partnerships after all.

"Go on", Mizora softly coaxed Karlach, making Clive do a little jiggly dance in her magic with the bending of her fingers, "Touch him. I promise things will be okay." As the Tiefling finally caught the teddy bear and realised she did not singe or burn him, the Cambion chuckled and lowered her hand. "I know how much the fluffball means to you. You are very welcome."

The air was thick with familiarity and knowledge. Karlach hugged Clive tightly and looked away. Mizora half anticipated to be sent away. Zariel's champion was clever and understood Cambions better than most. Yet, somehow Karlach did not seem that keen on sending her away. Even though she did not like that fact.

"I don't have to be in Wyll's presence to keep an eye on him", Mizora answered and knelt down, "Besides, the pet is old enough to watch after himself. And from what I recall, you did not send him out on his own either. That Sharran cleric should know how to keep an eye on him."

Her hand reached for Karlach's engine. As Mizora's palm rested upon the Tiefling's chest, the heat radiating through the flesh made her furrow her brows. "It is way warmer than it should be", Mizora murmured, "I am not an infernal mechanic and that Tiefling hired, did disappear when Elthurel was released by this pesky adventure group. Though I might have a solution to cool the engine down enough for you to catch some shuteye. It is not permanent, and I fear you may not like it."

@feraldames cont. from here.

[heeluvviee]

UPCOMING WORKS ° ♡

cupid's corner | ex!heeseung x reader (smau)

as a brilliant and driven app developer, y/n has always believed in data and algorithms over fate when it comes to love. after a tough breakup, she channels her heartbreak into creating cupid's corner- a dating app that promises to find the perfect match for its users. as cupid's corner skyrockets in popularity, y/n decides to put her app to the ultimate test by signing herself up (after much convincing from her friends). confident in her technology, she's shocked when the app matches her with none other than her ex lee heeseung- the very person she's been trying to forget. caught between her head and her heart, y/n must decide whether to trust the algorithm she created- or risk everything on a love she thought was over.

brewed for two | barista!heeseung x reader (smau)

y/n, your typical popular high school it girl, finds herself intrigued by the heartfelt notes left on her coffee cups by the shy barista at the local cafe she frequently visits. each note is a small yet profound message, sparking the girl's curiosity and making her look forward to her daily coffee runs. as she starts to engage more with the cute barista, she discovers that there's more to him than his quiet demeanor suggests. with each passing day, y/n and heeseung find themselves getting closer despite their contrasting worlds. but you know what they say: opposities attract!

infrunami | bestfriend!heeseung x reader (smau)

situationship after situationship, and countless failed talking stages- y/n has had enough of all these pathetic men wasting her time. what's going on with her generation? the ghosting, half swiping, wyll's, shallow conversations, and meaningless dates have left her disillusioned. it seems like everyone is playing games instead of seeking genuine connections. frustrated and tired of the superficiality, y/n longs for a true and meaningful relationship. little does she know, her one true love might have been right in front of her all along

better than the movies (a series of fics based on my fav romcoms)

binge your favorite romcoms with better than the movies! each story a perfect mix of love, humor, and just a tad bit of chaos. follow a plastic surgeon tangled in lies, a modern-day cinderella with an online crush, the most popular boy at school who might be the ticket to your dream college, a fake boyfriend who becomes something more, and the fiance of your biggest client who turns your world upside down. prepare to be swept off your feet as you fall in love with the different sides of heeseung that you'll discover in each story

just go with it | danny!heeseung x katherine!y/n

heeseung, a charming plastic surgeon, convinces his assistant y/n to pose as his soon to be divorced wife to cover up a careless lie he told his much younger girlfriend, yujin. as the web of lies grows, heeseung and y/n find themselves on a lavish hawaiian vacation with y/n's kids, yujin, and heeseung's cousin jay. amidst the beautiful scenery, heeseung and y/n discover that their fake relationship just might be the real deal.

a cinderella story | austin!heeseung x sam!y/n

working at her family's diner and dreaming to one day escape her wicked stepmother and stepsisters, y/n finds truly her only solace in an anonymous online friendship with the charming and popular heeseung. when a school dance offers y/n a chance to meet her prince, she must navigate a whirlind of misunderstandings and unveil her true identity without losing her dream of a fairytale romance.

prom pact | graham!heeseung x mandy|y/n

y/n has always dreamed of getting into harvard, but when she gets waitlisted, she feels as if her life has been turned upside down. desperate for a recommendation, she decides to tutor lee heeseung, the most popular guy in school and the son of a harvard alum. as she grows closer to heeseung, she realizes her true feelings for him, causing a rift with her best friend jungwon, with whom she promised to attend prom since neither of them had dates.

to all the boys i've loved before | peter!heeseung x lara jean!y/n x josh!niki

what happens when y/n's secret love letters to her past crushes, including her sister's ex-boyfriend niki and popular jock Heeseung, are mailed out, leading to many unexpected consequences. To save face, Y/N and Heeseung enter a fake relationship to make his ex-girlfriend, Giselle, jealous. As their journey as a fake couple go on, y/n starts to develop real feelings. maybe this thing between them could turn into somehting real, but many problems arise preventing them from being a real couple.what happens when y/n's secret love letters to her past crushes, including her sister's ex-boyfriend niki and popular jock heeseung, are mailed out, leading to many unexpected consequences. to save face, y/n and heeseung enter a fake relationship to make his ex-girlfriend, giselle, jealous. As their journey as a fake couple go on, y/n starts to develop real feelings. maybe this thing between them could turn into something real?

the wedding planner | eddie!heeseung x mary!y/n x massimo!jake

y/n, a successful wedding plnner, has everything in her life under control until she falls for heeseung, who she later discovers is the groom in the biggest wedding of her career. as she navigates the complexities of planning the perfect wedding for Heeseung and _ while dealing with her meddling father's attempts to set her up with an old childhood friend, jake, she learns that true love cannot be planned.

[skellingtondrac]

#let wyll get some love and healing!! let wyll get swept off his feet!#astarion snarling at mizora#astarion spending an entire night scrutinizing wylls contract#astarion secretly embroidering wylls clothes!#wyll feeling safe!#wyll having a hero!#wyll getting swept into dances!!!#theyre such an interesting pair STOP IGNORING HALF OF IT

OP's tags= a++

*Wyll/Astarion*

*Wyll/Astarion but it's about Astarion's trauma and Astarion's healing and Astarion's fairytale romance and Astarion being treated right and Wyll is barely acknowledged in the slightest despite being literally half of the pairing*