#''look at all those goblins you killed'' he killed none. he was not there. he never goes anywhere

[revvethasmythh]

Absolutely LOSING it. everyone in the camp spent the whole party raking me over the coals for having plans with Gale later tonight, Lae'zel graphically explained to me that I'd have a better night with her (and then said it was fine, actually, because she'd just show Wyll what she was talking about) and then Gale ??? was surprised ?? at the suggestion of romance ?? EVERYONE in the camp knew but him, which tracks and also is one of the funniest things I've experienced in my life

[dimmadoome]

Listening to Zevlor's voice lines all the way through is so interesting....and enlightening. Because this is a proud man whose confidence in himself is shattered, but he's still proud none the less.

Zevlor threatens you if you punch him. Just straight out says, I WILL kill you if you do that again. He punches Aradin if he spews slurs. He asks you to kill khaga, he asks you to kill the goblin leaders. No hesitation on any of that. Just ..hey buddy you wanna do a couple of murders since I am currently incapable of doing those murders. But he also fights if you ask him to, defends his people through everything. And he won't beg you to do any of that yourself if you reject him. If you don't say yes, he respects it and respects your decision...though he does get snippy as hell about it. If you do turn on him, he'll call you a coward, but he will not beg because once again. Zevlor is proud.

Zevlor is also possessive. You can hear it in the way he says MY people. Sure that could just be the way he speaks because they elected him leader, but he was a commander before that. He was a man who spent his life fighting to have that position of power and respect. Plus he almost sells his soul to the absolute to keep them, both the people and the power. As he says....those people are HIS. His to look after, his to care for his to protect. There's gotta be something in there, deep inside of him that clutches at these people like a dragon does their gold. They are his after all. They're all he has left of the life he once lived. He would rather die than give them up to anyone. Even when the absolute pushes into his mind, it offers him power to keep them safe, plays at his devotion to his oath and his people....and his pride which.....as we've established...is not an insignificant part of him.

He is also protective and caring. That obviously comes with the territory of becoming a paladin of helm, a hellrider and taking the oath of devotion. From what he does for his people to what he's done with his life ...well.....nothing more really needs to be said about that. Its his most prevalent trait and his most commendable.

Zevlor also curses a lot. He is very quick to anger, though he tries to keep himself from flying off the handle and can be reeled back in. He still throws punches and threatens lives with very little prodding. Which, once again, harkens back to his pride. Its quite entertaining to hear every other line be a curse or a shout or some growling threat. Sweetheart where? That man is FERAL.

Another thing is that Zevlor definitely respects you if you are a selfless Tav/Durge/Origin. I think he tries so hard to be selfless as well. Sees it as a good trait to have, but he isn't. Not really. Not where he thinks it counts. Its probably what he percieves as a fatal flaw, which I would guess comes from living in holier than thou Elturel where you basically sign your life away to "protect" the city. I personally don't think total selflessness is a fantastic trait to have, but I could see where Zevlor could pick that up as the Ideal trait for a paladin to have.

Throughout the game, you see this man crack under insurmountable pressure. You see the chips in the facade that he puts up but if you look, you can see the good and the bad trapped underneath those chips. It tends to be frustrating that people only see the cracks and not what's underneath of them and I think thats what annoys me the most. He's a fun character. He's a strong, powerful man who has shattered like iron under pressure but at the end of it all he IS a good man and a menace and a half with such an interesting mindset and backstory that I can't help but wonder if anyone who sees the character, sees him at all.

In summation.

I love him, Your Honor. 10/10 would let him go feral and smite my ass for talking back to him.

[husbandhoshi]

for hard hours imagine sitting in between cheol’s legs with his hand rubbing your clit, the other hand around your neck, and his legs wrapped around yours to keep them open. sorry but the visual is INSANEEE to me and like him dirty talking in your ear with his deep voice 🧎🏻‍♀️

“thought you were more interested in playing your game, love.”

and it’s true—you were. then seungcheol, fresh out of the shower, took it upon himself to settle behind you, wrap an arm around your middle, and provide free, unsolicited commentary on your playthrough of breath of the wild.

then his hand under your tee, warm on your stomach (“when’s zelda showing up?” “she’s not in this area, loser.”). kisses, languid and more tongue than not, on your shoulder. his other hand finds your inner thigh, which would normally be fine, except it lingers a little high and you’re notably not wearing shorts.

no matter. you have things to do and none of them involve seungcheol at the moment. the controller is cool and grounding in your hands and you’re not easily distracted.

distraction is a cruel mistress, though, because two loading screens later, his thumb finds your clit through the silk of your underwear. he’s slow, gentle, just running it over the thin fabric.

“how’s takeout sound for dinner?” he asks, voice low. “sound good to you?”

“y-yeah.”

it’s your worst trait, but your stubbornness will not allow you to just put the controller down and let whatever is happening to just happen.

you buy some arrows, mind level as he strokes you over your underwear. never mind that you can feel his cock, half hard, pressed up against your back. you briefly think about the night before now, when you were gagging on it, your own hand down your shorts. but you digress—ignorance must be bliss.

“thai? greek? i can pick it up.” his voice has dropped an octave, and it’s such a little thing, but it still makes your tummy knot into itself. just a little more pressure on your sensitive cunt, and traitorously, your feel your thighs spread for him, just a little. “wouldn’t wanna distract you from your game.”

“you-you wouldn’t be.”

whatever he’s doing feels really fucking good, though. you’re scared to look down from the screen because you know you’ll see his forearm strong against your front, veiny hand between your legs, and it’ll all be over for you.

you kill some goblins. then he peels your panties, arousal-sticky, to the side, letting his skin kiss yours.

fuck, he swears under his breath, and you almost whimper out loud. two fingers slide between your pussy lips, and before you know it, he’s holding them in front of your face. they’re so, so glossy with your slick, and you let yourself go a little by taking them into your mouth. the tang hits your tongue and he groans behind you and you feel your mind fuzz up with desire all at once.

it’s dizzying but you are no quitter. not even when he bites your earlobe, murmuring something about how wet you are and how he wants to bend you over the couch and fuck you into tomorrow.

it’s a little harder when he’s fucking those fingers into you, trapping your legs behind his so you can’t avoid him any longer. your hands are losing grip of the controller and you’ve stopped trying to fight the rock of your hips into his hand.

“you were doing so good,” he laughs. “still focused?”

“y-yeah,” you breathe. “don’t know what you’re talking about.”

he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit, letting the pads of his fingers hook into your g-spot. “how about now?”

you shake your head, but you put the controller down. your eyes are watering with pleasure and you can’t really see the screen anyway.

teeth on your jaw. a hand on your neck. a rough thumb on your clit, and the cruel realization that he’s got you trapped in his arms and you like it.

“now?”

[umbrify]

hello i saw u tagged jimmy solidarity on that "free my man he did none of that. he did a bunch of other shit though" post and i am incredibly compelled by the implications here. please may i have an essay on the subject

YOU MAY.

Okay so we’re gonna be specifically talking about Empires SMP Season 2 Jimmy (henceforth, Jimmy,) and the way he conducts himself, how those actions reflect on him, versus how he sees himself (and how the fandom sees him in turn). Welcome to my Ted Talk.

The most important thing to understand about Jimmy is that he lies. He lies about everything, and convinces himself that his lie is true to the point where he really thinks it is. Take, for example, a moment in Sausage’s episode 41 [full exchange from 9:10 - 19:37] where Jimmy kills Sausage, and then when Sausage, followed by fWhip, return to Tumble Town to discuss the murder, Jimmy blatantly lies about the altercation to fWhip, claiming “[Sausage] came over, and he assaulted me, fWhip!” Jimmy insists that it was Sausage who physically started it, despite that being completely untrue. Jimmy then goes on to deny having killed Sausage Sausage at all, sounding affronted at the idea and demanding to see the player head that drops on death. fWhip asks how many levels Sausage has, which is none, and Jimmy claims that Sausage must have used all his experience. Jimmy denies and lies, and when fWhip goes looking for Sausage’s things, finding them in Jimmy’s storage, Jimmy acts shocked, saying “I think I’m being set up! […] I’m gonna leave this conversation, you do what you gotta do, but I don’t think I’m the bad guy here.” As if Jimmy didn’t explicitly kill Sausage moments ago!! As if it isn’t his fault!!!

And the problem here, the core problem, is that so many people just… believe him. They take Jimmy’s words at face value and assume that he’s always a reliable narrator in his own stories, despite the fact that it couldn’t be further from the case. The issue is less that people assign New and Different problems to Jimmy, more that they strip him of any wrongdoing at all, making him out to be some sad little pathetic wet cat who didn’t deserve it. And— don’t get me wrong, he is extremely sad, but he also did it to himself.

I think one of the more interesting ways to illustrate this, is to talk about the way Jimmy perceives himself. From the start of the season, he always insists on being called “The Sheriff.” He’s not Jimmy, he’s The Sheriff, and throughout the season, he can be seen constantly insisting upon and chasing after that title. He wants respect— or, his version of respect. What he really wants is a yes man. This difference can very clearly be seen in the way he treats the two deputies he had throughout the season.

When fWhip was the deputy, it’s because he wanted to be. He sought Jimmy out because he wanted to be Jimmy’s right hand man, and Jimmy let him. fWhip consistently referred to Jimmy as The Sheriff, upholding Jimmy’s version of the laws as best he could. And, there really is something to be said about the fact that fWhip, as a goblin, inherently didn’t understand the concept of arbitrary laws, or that sort of morality at all, and was only one, upholding it because he cared about Jimmy, but two, treating the laws as Jimmy treated them— i.e, making a shrine for that which Jimmy made a church for, but that’s a whole separate essay that I want to write at some point. Either way, he was good to Jimmy, though their time together was short. He made Jimmy a home away from home in Gobland [fWhip episode 8 timestamp 20:28] and helped Jimmy win the court trial by serving as his lawyer in the case against Joel [Trial best seen in Jimmy’s episode 10 starts at 3:03]. After fWhip was fired, he went around Tumble Town noting down a bunch of “laws” that Jimmy was breaking. I wrote a whole post about this set of interactions already [here] but the short version is this: In fWhip’s episode 12 [5:54], he goes around and marks down all the laws that he’s saying Jimmy is breaking around Tumble Town. […] Of the seven instances that fWhip writes down, SIX of them almost directly relate to Jimmy not taking good care of himself or his empire. To me, it almost reads more like he cares about Jimmy, and is worried about him.

All this to say, that fWhip didn’t Respect The Sheriff as much as he Cared About Jimmy. And that’s an important distinction— he cared about Jimmy, the person. He had this whole veneer of respecting the laws— laws that he didn’t really understand— because he cared about Jimmy. And Jimmy fired him for a prank— one that wasn’t specifically targeted or malicious— because he saw that as Disrespecting The Sheriff. He didn’t want someone who Cared About Jimmy, he wanted someone who Respected The Sheriff. And fWhip wasn’t that.

Enter Scar.

During the Hermitcraft crossover, Scar started gunning for the position as deputy because he wanted the shiny deputy badge. That was it, that was the reason, and Scar acted accordingly. Everything was about acting like he Respected The Sheriff, even when he was blatantly breaking one of the core laws, wearing another player’s hat— both the sheriff hat [Jimmy episode 19 4:07] as well as trading away a sheriff hat, and being seen wearing one of Scott’s Chromia hats [Jimmy episode 22 14:27]. In this episode, Scar backhandedly compliments Jimmy, “oh, you’re just a… cute big guy, aren’t you?” to which Jimmy seems uncertain, asking “I’m real big, right?” to which Scar says he is. Jimmy then asks him about the Chromia hat Scar wears, and Scar tells him that he traded one of the sheriff hats to Scott. Jimmy gets upset at Scar, but before he can get properly mad, Scar distracts him by showing off a new section of Tumble Town that he made. Scar wears the mask of respect for just long enough to get the badge. When Jimmy gives him the badge, he says he has something else that he wants to give Scar as well. “I have found something real special for you, real special.” Scar says “I already got something special, this badge.” Jimmy says “you mean our friendship?” Which Scar dubiously agrees to. This is the last time Jimmy sees Scar before the hermits leave— Scar got what he wanted, and that was all. And yet, Jimmy hired him, because Scar put on the show. Scar was his yes man, Scar Respected The Sheriff, even if he didn’t Care About Jimmy.

He does it to himself, Jimmy does. He pushes away anyone that tries to care about him as a person, and surrounds himself with people that will be his yes men, his little sidekicks, anyone that holds the sheriff title in high regard. It’s why he takes so well to the Old Sheriff, who treats the sheriff title with the same reverence that he does, respecting the title of sheriff without actually respecting Jimmy much at all.

The thing about Jimmy is that he causes his own problems, and they’re all his fault. Yes he is crushingly lonely, and filled with self hatred, but he actively surrounds himself with it. It’s not that people are just inherently mean to him, he is almost asking them to be, by pushing away anyone that seems to care about him as a person.

I think, as my final note here, I wanna bring up a moment from Jimmy’s finale, episode 38. He and the Old sheriff, as they’re making their way to the Nether portal, discuss how fWhip only ever referred to himself as goblin fWhip, never as king. Jimmy says “I don’t think he ever held himself to the regard of being a king, and that— d’you know what? That sucks. He was my deputy for a while, he didn’t really think much of himself, I’m not gonna lie” [9:19]. I just find it interesting, that Jimmy says that it sucks how fWhip never called himself king— a title ostensibly higher than sheriff— and that fWhip was only a deputy. As if he thinks that fWhip could’ve been king, perhaps was worthy of the title, and just never took it— that he sees the taking of a title such as that to be so important, when for fWhip, it never was. I dunno, I just think there’s something to that. I think it says something about Jimmy and about the importance he places on titles that don’t really matter.

Jimmy ran away, in the end. He and the Old Sheriff ran far away from everything they ever knew. fWhip stayed, choosing to live out his days happily in the empire he helped to found. fWhip never took the title of king. Jimmy thinks he should’ve.

Isn’t that something?

[themadlu]

Do Not Open That Door

Astarion is sure his leader's unflinching morals will lead him to another unwanted grave. He is also sure she is putting on an act because people like her do not exist, clearly. He decides to test his assumptions.

TW: None I think

WC: ~3000 words

Tagging: @spacebarbarianweird for the encouragement!

Astarion is livid. Well, maybe livid was an overstatement—he is annoyed. Annoyed and confused. Such feelings are still a vast improvement over the fear and shame he's been accustomed to, but they make him restless nonetheless. 

Especially because their cause is walking steadily next to him without a care in the world for his inner turmoil. 

Zélie, their oh so great leader, has managed to spoil what could have been a perfectly enjoyable afternoon on multiple fronts. First, she decides to talk to the goblins ambushing them instead of treating them like the savages they are.

(“We don’t know how many of them are in this village Astarion. What if there’s a little army and we’re outnumbered?”)

After confirmation that there were, in fact, quite a few goblins (and a couple orcs to boot), she managed to get free passage through the village by leveraging their wriggly alien parasite. He isn’t happy about it. Not at all. 

He has to begrudgingly admit hers was a wise call after witnessing just how large and hungry those orcs were. And of course they even agree to help a fellow true soul in need. Just what he needs to undermine what little influence he has on her.

(Her blood is in his body after all.)

In the last tendays she had made it her mission to remind him how despicable murder is, under most circumstances, aside from self-defence. This beautifully idiotic mindset of hers almost got her killed twice in front of his very eyes.

(She doesn’t know he has taken to finish off the enemies she leaves unconscious while she isn’t watching.)

When he had pointed out the suicidal flaw in her morals, she had given him her signature scolding look, crossed her arms, and started breathing in that funny way of hers. 

In, hold, out. 

(She says she is not trained as a monk, but he’ll be even more damned than he already is if that is true. The way she fights and holds herself—and those sickening ideals she has—tell a different story.) 

“Honestly, darling,” he hisses at her as they walk through the village, squinty eyes trained on their every move. “I thought we agreed that benevolence and honour,” he spits the words out like a curse, “get you nowhere but to an early grave.”

“Astarion,” she always says his name when she speaks to him—even in annoyance— and he hates his constant surprise at hearing it. His elven name had been replaced with other titles over time, more befitting of his status—boy, spawn, whore, slut, beautiful, toy, love…

Truly, it’s a small miracle he managed to hold on to his name. It’s one of the few things left that are truly his, yet hearing it spoken from that solemn woman's lips makes something in his chest preen. 

“I thought we agreed to disagree on that front. No, don’t give me that look. Killing someone is never justifiable. No matter what we tell ourselves, we are taking away something that wasn’t ours to begin with. Something irreplaceable. Even—” she held up her hand as he started to complain, “in self-defence, even then, I will make sure to exhaust all alternatives, and even then, it will be a failure on my part.”

You moron. 

“Too bad the rest of the world doesn’t think like you, darling,” he snapped. Hers was an act. There was no way in the hells anyone could survive to their…whatever age she was, he was never good with human lifespans, with that mindset. It was ridiculous, because if she actually was like that—if two–hundred years of shit didn’t teach him better—she should either be dead in a ditch or have ascended to godhood on her saintly behaviour alone. The only explanation he has for her standing close to him is that the mask she wears is as fake as his own. That, or she is a child of Ilmater. He bets on the former, given her complete ignorance of any deity on Toril.

“But you lied,” he counters, snapping his fingers. “You said we are here on Absolute business. Doesn’t that go against your precious code of honour?” he singsongs in her ear. 

“I didn’t lie. My tadpole reacted to theirs, and they drew their own conclusions. Technically, we are going to their camp on Absolute business too, if you count removing these,” she tapped her index to her temple. 

He smirks, victorious. “Circumstantial. One day, the tadpole won’t do the work for us and you’ll break your own code or doom us to death. For one, I’d rather not repeat the experience,” he says in a quiet voice, pointing at his chest. 

Their companions are still unaware of his condition—another occasion his holy leader conveniently withheld information. 

(“It’s your secret, it’s your decision.” Hypocrite.)

“Astarion, I know you take me for a fool, and I would normally pay more respect to a man—elf—my senior by centuries, but really. I can be practical and have a moral compass, and that means that when the choice is between lying and killing, I will pick lying any day, even if I don’t like it.” 

Enough. 

Her words incense him, annoyance suddenly turns into rage and something else—what’s that, envy?—he pivots on his left heel and closes the distance between them so fast she has no time to react. Zélie is left pinned to the wall, their bodies a breath away from touching, and he internally celebrates the surprised look on her face. 

He stares at her down his nose, ducking his head and planting a slender hand on the wall beside her head. 

Astarion has to make her stop before he tears her self-righteousness out of her throat. Before she realises how useless it all is—how useless and tainted he is—and either stakes him or banishes him. Because even her sickly, do-gooding self, fake or real it be, must have limits. If he pushes hard enough, they’ll crumble, and then he’ll be proven right. She is not what she says she is because creatures like that aren’t real.  

“Let’s make one thing clear, darling,” he growls, nostrils flaring, “you may be our great leader, but you should get off your high horse before someone shoots you off it. I don’t know what perfect little corner of the universe you grew up in, but you know nothing of this world and its dangers.” 

He flashes his fangs at her to drive his point across. The others are out of sight, looking for supplies in some ruin or cellar. Gods, he misses the city. 

Zélie is staring back at him, bristling, but lets him continue. She never interrupts any of them, not even him.

“I thought humans were all about developing and living fast, but you, my dear, are as ignorant as a babe. I am trying to make sure we keep our collective hides safe and do not get sidetracked by other pitiful creatures on our path.” 

He realises just how close he is to her when she straightens up again and their noses almost touch. 

Pale eyes go darker with a flash of anger. 

There. Come at me. Prove me right. 

“Spoken like a true man of the law, lord magistrate.” 

Why the hells is her tone so collected when she has a literal vampire at her throat?!

“You seem forgetful, so I’ll remind you that it was my ignorance that stopped Shadowheart from connecting her mace with your head. And it was my stupidity that convinced her you could join us, and that we should give you a chance at trust.” 

She makes no move to get closer, but he recoils as if scorched by fire. 

“And it is the same trust I placed in you yesterday when I let you bite me, even though it’s not how I envisioned a night of rest to go. I trusted you to stop, I trusted you to keep your word and not leave me a corpse.”

There it is. Reminding him of what he owes her. Of his debts. They say the quiet ones are the most depraved, and she is the strong and silent type. But he is nothing if not an expert in the art of subservience at this point, and if it gets her to keep giving him blood and protection—

“I trust you.” 

Then you’re doomed.

She says it as if it were a challenge. Her gaze is unwavering and he is left speechless yet again. Cazador would admire this quality of hers.

“I hope you can trust me in return.”

Impossible woman. 

“Well, I suppose you’re not wholly incompetent,” he manages to croak out. His nonchalant mask is harder to slip on this time. 

She huffs a breath of a laugh, a tiny thing, but it’s enough to transform her whole face. The weight she carries on her deceivingly flimsy shoulders seems to lift, leaving behind a young woman smiling softly at a…well, a monster. Talk about inexperience. 

Happiness suits you, little leader. 

The fact it’s his prattling that caused this marvel of a transformation stokes something in chest and in the pit of his stomach that he promptly pushes down. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Zélie says. She moves away and he is left staring at the crusty wall. Her body never touched his own during their exchange. 

Wait. That’s wrong. He was meant to make her see the reason in his ways, not the other way around. So why is he at her heels like a lost puppy the minute she walks away? 

(“You are nothing by yourself boy. You owe everything to me.”)

He is weak. So weak he has leashed himself to a human who can barely read common, fuck's sake. 

His temper rises again once he catches up with Zélie. He doesn’t need her condescension, nor her chiding (she doesn’t even know his full story yet, nor she ever will unless absolutely necessary, so pity isn’t there yet). He’ll show the wretched woman how wrong she is. 

Karlach and Lae’zel jog behind them as they reach a barn with a door locked shut. Zélie thinks nothing of it at first, but Astarion can smell what’s inside.

(His senses born anew from her blood.)

He smells the ogre and bugbear and their horrid affair before the rest of his companions hear the grunts and noises.

“Oh God, someone’s fighting!” exclaims Zélie.

Fighting, you say?

An idea strikes him. 

See what your misplaced goodness gets you when you try to help an ogre.

“I don’t know soldier, they don’t sound like fight noises to me,” says Karlach leaning towards the barn, but even she seems unsure. Astarion’s talents may be limited to a specific area, but in this case it works in his favour. He is very familiar with what those sounds mean. The half-ogres that fucked him into the bed so hard he bled were not so different.

(He still remembers how much it hurt, how he was left in a puddle of mixed releases, sweat, and what little blood he had).

“Well, even if they are fighting, it is clearly not our problem. I say we leave them to it and focus on what’s really important,” he says, using his annoyance as a hook. Zélie may be the most restrained person he’s come across, but he knows how to read people, and he knows she will do the opposite of whatever he says when it concerns morals. 

She falls for it. His smile is harder to suppress.

“Astarion! We’ve just talked about this!” 

Her voice raises a bit, but it’s almost eclipsed by another loud grunt from inside the barn. 

“So long as my blade can be sharpened on my enemies’ bones, I am ready.” Lae’zel is almost as ignorant as Zélie when it comes to their world, which is usually a hindrance, but now it’s the push their little leader needs to run to the rescue. 

Zélie tries to open the barn door (after cutting another withering look at the vampire lazily strolling at her back), finding it jammed.

The crescendo of grunts and bangs coming from inside is extremely loud now. 

Gods, they must be disgusting. 

“Hello?! Help is on the way, hang on!” the little human shouts as she frantically tries to get the door unstuck. 

“Oh hells, let me do it, darling, before we turn into tentacled freaks,” Astarion says in mock-annoyance. She eyes him suspiciously and he shoots her a winning smile. His nimble hands make quick work of the lock, and he pushes the door open. 

He needs just a peek to know his assumption about what was happening in the barn is correct, and turns to face his now horror-stricken companion. 

“Gods, they are disgusting,” he comments with his lips crooked in a satisfied smile. 

Zélie scrambles to compose herself and turns her back from the scene (the prudish) as she fails to find words to explain herself. “I—I am, I apologise, we thought—”

Oh, she’s in a state. Her cheeks flush redder than rubies (he can practically hear her delicious blood pooling there), whilst the rest of her is paler than after Astarion’s feeding. She opens and shuts her eyes as if trying to physically erase what she just witnessed.

The bugbear slides his now soft cock out of the ogre, and looks at them in rage.

“W–what the hells are you doing?!”

Oh, Astarion is thrilled. He doesn’t remember when last had such fun. He hears Lae’zel’s tsk’ and Karlach’s gags behind him, and he closely watches Zélie fumbling as he didn’t think was possible. 

“Apologies! I, you—you were making a lot of noise and I, we, thought you needed help,” she holds her hands in front of her in a peace offering. “I apologise for the intrusion! We’ll leave now—”

“Ruined! SMASH. I’ll smash you!” 

Oh. Astarion didn’t expect that. He just wanted to show Zélie how ungrateful the world is to idiots like her, not have her turn into orc food. 

Before he can think, he is tackling the woman to the ground, the orc’s club crashing a few spaces to his left. Karlach and Lae’zel’s throw themselves at the aggressor, and the fight starts in earnest. Astarion is more a stalker than a fighter, but he had his first fill of human blood only hours before, and his senses have never been that sharp, so he doesn’t miss the bugbear rushing towards their prone form. 

Daggers at hand, he braces to parry the onslaught (this may hurt) when his worldview shifts, his back in on the ground, and chilly afternoon air replaces the heat of his leader on his chest. 

What just happened?

He turns his head to see the bugbear crashing to the ground, Zélie crouched on one leg and tripping him with her other. “Go help the others! I’ve got this!” she shouts, as she wraps her limbs around the assailant in a tight bind. “Wait! It was an honest mistake—”

He doesn’t want to hear her voice now. Doesn’t want to think how the little moron literally threw him away from danger. Even worse, he will refute the idea he protected her from an angry orc till his last breath. He only got his body back recently. That’s it. He still is unsure of how to use it. 

And she's dinner.

He doesn’t want to dwell on what happened, so he nods and throws himself at the female orc while she is distracted by his companions. 

The fight doesn’t last too long after that, and something takes a hold of his insides when he looks at Zélie. She is silent, staring at the large corpse on the ground, bugbear knocked out at her feet. 

“Darling?” He moves towards her and the sadness in her eyes almost makes him apologise. Gods, what has he done? He didn’t think this was going to happen. And why does he care?! This was his intent, this and seeing the real her behind the strong, polite facade. 

“I just wanted to help.”

“I know, darling. I—”

See now, how impossible it is to keep your ideals in this world?

“You knew,” she says, and while he words his excuses (the only real one being he didn’t think they were going to be attacked) her shoulders drop and a defeated huff leaves her mouth. A far cry from her happy smile earlier. 

Astarion can’t wrap his head around how he caused both reactions in such a short span of time. But this look on her, this, he knows. He has seen far worse in the eyes and screams of those fools he lured back to his master, once they had his way with him and realised a bit too late they were as trapped as he was. 

He expects her to shout, to berate him, kick him, punch him, stab him, banish him—but none of that comes. Zélie studies him intently, and something in her demeanour lights up, an internal judgement made.

“I still trust you.” 

No. No no no, he’s not going to let her fool him into believing this—no!

Her face is suddenly level with Astarion’s knees, the now-awake bugbear readying a strike. 

Astarion doesn’t need to think—he falls forward and sinks his dagger into the wretch’s neck. Blood spurts out, but after tasting Zélie’s Astarion has no interest in it; mud compared to a clear sky.

“Soldier!” shouts Karlach, ever the helpful friend. Zélie pants as the dead attacker slides off of her, eye to eye with Astarion again. He can feel her light breath on his face. Karlach pulls her up; he is cleaning his dagger on the bugbear’s clothes when an outstretched hand enters his vision. Hers.

“Come on,” she says, tired but steady again. “Let’s get back to camp.”

Astarion flinches from the hand as if it were a trap (it is always a trap), but Zélie is new territory for him, that much he begrudgingly accepts. She is apparently above the rules of their miserable world because she chooses to trust him, a vampire, a lying one, again. 

He takes her hand, bracing for what may come his way, but she just helps him up. 

“Thank you, by the way. For saving my life before.”

It’s a trick. It’s a trick. Don’t fall for—

She wraps her hand around his so delicately he thinks he may break, and shakes it. His thoughts and words are silenced yet again. 

“Thank you.” 

Fuck. 

[undreaming-fanfiction]

I'm just thinking here, but...

What if after 1986, Corroded Coffin decides that they still want to make it, but they're terrified of having their identities leaked? But there's a solution at hand, one of the most influential bands did that already at that point - KISS and their costumes, makeup and personas.

And so the boys sit down and sketch and think of the lore, get all creative and in the end, they have very striking costume ideas (which will be brought into being by none other than Steve Harrington who announces "I will sew that costume if it kills me, Eddie, you want to perform and I will make that happen or so help me") and the full fictional history for their characters. It's very theatrical, splashed with DnD here and there, but when Eddie first makes it onto the stage, wig, makeup and a black tattered suit so tight Steve's mouth waters just looking at him, he finally feels those nerves dissipating. He loses himself in the music and so do the other guys. Gareth smiles at him and they don't even mind the theatre face paints dripping down their faces. Maybe this is it.

But not just for them - as the self-proclaimed fantasy metal band makes it into numerous headlines all over the USA, there are two more names that make it to the top with them - the famous movie and band costume designer Steve Harrington and his inseparable friend and colleague, makeup artist Robin Buckley. They're at every show, making sure the CC are perfect.

"I really wish your stage persona wasn't a bat boy, Eddie," mumbles Steve as he attaches a crown of bat wings to Eddie's black wig, but his boyfriend just cackles and presses a quick kiss to his mouth, smearing black lipstick all over that perfect cupid's bow.

"I think it's rather perfect, Stevie," he winks and adjusts his bullet belt, a signature piece of his costume that never changes. "A bat boy for the boy with a bat."

Gareth rolls his eyes, a bit too familiar with Steve's signature weapon when a group of local thugs jumped them after one of the early concerts and Steve came in, bat swinging and scaring them off (and perhaps making one of them piss themselves, Gareth could relate because what the fuck was that thing?!). "Please tell me he's not adding it to his character's backstory. Our fans will never let us hear the end of it."

Robin joins in on the eye rolling and finishes the intricate lines of Gareth's goblin-inspired makeup. "Just watch him. You'll be selling double bat pins in no time."

And she is, as always, right.

[alice-after-dark]

The Red King and the Unicorn - Wistful While You Work

Heavily inspired by The Last Unicorn, Howl's Moving Castle, and Beauty and the Beast.

I will give you a virtual hug and a cookie emoji if you get the title reference lol

Niffty flits about the living room with her duster, keeping mind not to wake the pretty horse curled up on the couch. Alastor has gone upstairs and Husk is out in the greenhouse, so she has taken the opportunity to clean. Oh how she wishes she'd had more of a chance to make the house all nice before the pretty horse arrived. He was an unexpected guest, of course, but still! Thankfully she kept the house nice and tidy on the regular, so at least it wasn't embarrassing.

She glances back at the pretty horse. They'd only gone to that carnival in order to investigate the suspicious carnie man. They hadn't expected to discover that his secret was that he was holding a real unicorn captive. She remembers how Alastor's eyes had shone when they landed on the sad creature in the cage. His eyes had looked the same when he met her and she suspected when he met Husk too.

Alastor's eyes always did that when he wanted something.

The tiny goblin smiles. It's been a while since they had a new friend! The pretty horse seems nice, but sad. She doesn't like sad things, so she'll have to change that. She supposes she would be sad too if her uncle had kept her in a tiny cage. The closet was small enough. But she doesn't live there anymore. Now she lives in a big house with her own room! And she can go wherever she wants! She has to wear her disguise if she wants to leave the house's grounds but that doesn't bother her.

Oh, maybe she can help Alastor show the pretty horse how to switch back and forth like he showed her! Maybe that would make him less sad! He would need to be better at using a fork if he wanted to go outside though. Alastor always says blending in is the best way to protect themselves and it is very important for their mission.

Alastor had told her about the meeting that morning. Four more gone. Killed for their magic. She feels ill. It isn't fair. Why do these people have to die just because people are greedy? Why does no one care? No, that's wrong. Alastor cares. Husk cares. She cares. She hopes the pretty horse will care too. They're going to find out who the bad people are and stop them from hurting anyone else.

The carnie man had hurt people. She'd read it in his book. The pretty horse wasn't the first he'd tried to keep, but none of the others had survived very long. All those poor animals in the cages had also been so poorly cared for until she showed up with Alastor and Husk. She'd enjoyed hearing the carnie man scream as his locked caravan burned.

She smiles at the clean room around her. Much better!

[bogginswritings]

Lil Astarion x Barbarian!Tav

This isn't the best I've written, but I didn't feel like fixing it. Have some fluff. Astarion might be a bit OOC, still getting the hang f that mf. I made a Tav barbarian named HERman as a joke. Now I love her more than anything. So yes that is where I got the inspiration from.

Pairing: Astarion x fem!barbarian!tav

Word count: 1100+

Contents: FLUFF. JUST. THAT. ALso some mentions of nude cuddling, but in only innocent context.

She was rough.

During battle at the goblin camp she threw the goblins on each other, into fire pits, or simply against walls.

When they fought larger, heavier, enemies, she swinged around with her great axe as if it was nothing. There was no grace to her movements, none at all, but still they were calculated (or he thiught they were. Whatever they were, they worked). She’d be covered in blood, grinning at her victory (Astarion would never admit how attractive she looked during those moments).

She raged, entering some frenzy during battle. Her mind having a pretty simple goal; kill and win. She’ll cry out during it, her voice hoarse. And she’d urge on the others of the party, praising them afterwards for a battle well-fought (Astarion was sure that if blushing was possible for him, he’d be a tomato).

Not only while fighting was she rough. Talking to others she was, too. Often on accident, choosing the wrong words; sometimes on purpose.

And man, her hands. They were calloused, the wooden handle of her axe leaving it dry. They were also big, and strong, but honestly that was another topic to Astarion.

Her touch, however, was the softest. So, so gentle. Right now as she had him cooped up in her arms, her fingers trailing over his bare back. The occasional kiss she planted on his head so sweet it made him mentally swoon. SWOON! He couldn’t remember the last time he did that, or if he ever had.

He was in a little cocoon, one she created for him. Her big arms wrapped around his frame, keeping him close. He doubted he could fight his way out, with the way her strong grip engulfed him. Not that he wanted, he was fine just being there. His chest pressed against her bare one, soaking in all of her natural body heat. His head tucked under her chin, in her shoulder, basically hidden from the world.

Her being in his tent was routine at this point. He can’t remember the last time she set up her own. Instead she’d come to help set up his. Not without complaining about his amount of pillows, though. Which he thought of as quite hypocritical, since she was happy to plop onto them after a long travel.

Astarion wasn’t sure when this started as him trying to seduce her for his safety, and ended with him head over heels. Not that he was complaining, she seemed to return his feelings. When he told her about his simple plan, and how it backfired (‘I was supposed to seduce you, now I’m in love with you,’ kinda thing) she was hurt. Telling him she thought it was real, while he was desperate to explain he did want it to be real.

A long talk followed, with her reassuring him he didn’t need to ‘seduce’ her for her to keep him safe. Or, in her flattering words, ‘I haven’t sucked off Gale’s dick, but I still saved him from those goblins’. She then clarified she would very much like to be ‘something real’ with him, but that if this still was a trick (somehow), she’d respect his choice. She’d have his back, regardless of what he wanted with her.

Astarion hasn’t gotten that option often before.

It’s probably why he felt so comfortable in her arms right now, so safe. He had the knowledge she wouldn’t do anything to him, try anything with him. She was fine doing whatever he wanted, made sure he was comfortable.

“Astarion?”

Her voice pulled him out of his thoughts. Her voice that was so deep, yet so silky and warm. “Hm?”

“Lost you there for a moment,” she muttered. His lips pressed an apologizing kiss to her shoulder, “I’m sorry. Were you saying something, my darling?”

“Nothing important,” she whispered, “are you okay?”

She asked that question many times, and every time it made his heart flutter. He expected to be tired of that question by now, but she was sincere when she asked it. genuinely wanted to know. He nodded, “More than, dare I say.”

She chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to his head, “That’s good.”

“Hmhm,” he hummed, “What is it you were saying?”

“I need to pee.”

“No,” his arms tightened around her waist (as if that did anything against her, but it’s the idea that counts). She snorted, “What do you mean no?”

“I’m comfortable, so you’re not leaving.”

“I’ll come back after.”

“Afraid the answer is still no, dear.”

“However cute I think this is, I really have to go. I’ll pee myself.”

“Then by all means go ahead.” He could feel her chest moving against his own, soon giggles were leaving her mouth, “You’re so gross, and that’s me saying this.”

Astarion laughed, “I’ll have to get warm all over again.”

“Too bad, so sad,” She pried his arm away from her waist, with little effort (Astarion didn’t feel the need to express how her casual strength made him feel) might he add. Astarion let out a sound of protest that sounded a suspicious amount like a whine, but didn’t make a move to stop her. Once untangled, she pressed a kiss on his nose, leaving the tent to do her thing.

He simply flopped back in position, star-fish pose on the bedrolls. It didn’t take long for the tent flap to be opened again, a cold gush of air from the outside hitting him. She sat down next to him again, nudging him to make space. With a dramatic sigh he moved away, and she slipped in next to him again. “Was that so bad?”

“Horrible, I’m freezing to death over here.”

She laughed, “You’re such a fucking drama queen,” she commented, squeezing his waist. He yelped in response, moving away from her. She raised an intrigued brow, “Ticklish?”

He met her eyes, the grin on her face anything but comforting, “No.”

“Sure?” she squeezed at his side again, his body jerking away making her laugh, “I’m going to have so much fun with this new piece of information.”

“You’d torture me,” he commented, “You wouldn’t dare.”

She smiled, pulling him closer into her arms again, “Oh no, of course i wouldn't,” she feigned, and Astarion pouted into her shoulder, “I’m serious!”

“Luckily you are oh so threatening.”

“I do believe this is a category of bullying.”

“Yes,” she confirmed, “But lovingly.”

“Uh-huh,” he remarked, eyes closing as her hands went back to rubbing his back and playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck.

When he felt her lips in his hair, an ‘i love you’ muttered against it, her arms tightening around him while he slipped into slumber, he decided he wouldn’t mind staying there for the rest of their lives.

[pagesfromthevoid]

Enchanted | g.d. | 2

Gale x fem!Tav

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: None

Author’s Note: I told you I wasn’t sorry.

Talk to Me! | Series Masterlist

There I was again tonight

Forcing laughter, faking smiles

Same old tired, lonely place…

“We’ve certainly collected a myriad of companions,” Gale observed as he sat down beside her in camp.

A little over a week ago, Tav had been kind enough to pull him from the wall he had managed to trap himself inside of after the illithid ship had crashed. She was even kinder in allowing him to travel with her, Lae’Zel, Astarion and Shadowheart to find a cure for their tadpole problem. Since then, they had collected the Blade of Frontiers and a devil from Avernus as well and were setting out to locate the druid Halsin in order to help the Emerald Grove.

She seemed ready and willing to collect any and all strays along the way, ensuring that everyone was healed, fed, and given a warm place to rest. Her compassionate nature extended not only to humans but to animals too; she would often pause to tend to wounded creatures found on their journey, whether they were injured birds or owlbear cubs –though that was how they came to have Scratch and the very same owlbear cub she had found outside the goblin camp.

Perhaps that was why Gale was so drawn to her already; she was kind and open in a way that he had never experienced before. Her empathy seemed boundless, radiating from her in moments of danger and transformation alike. Even in the face of peril, she remained steadfast, her gentle demeanor a beacon of hope and comfort to those around her. It was as if she possessed an innate ability to soothe troubled souls and mend broken spirits with just a smile and a touch.

“The more people we have, the more likely we are to be safe from whatever we face in the coming days,” she reminded him, though she did not look up from the violin she had snagged from an abandoned caravan as she tried to re-tune it. She had used it earlier to hit a goblin, and while the instrument still worked, the strings had snapped in the process and she was trying to replace them. “Besides, I can’t imagine leaving any of you to your own devices; you were trapped in a wall. Lae’Zel was in a cage, and Karlach was being hunted by Wyll. I’m afraid if I let you wander, you’ll get yourselves killed.”

The playful conversation starts,

Counter all your quick remarks

Like passing notes in secrecy…

“Oh ye of little faith,” he chastised, chuckling some as he leaned back. “I am perfectly capable of handling myself –though I cannot attest to any of our other friends.”

Tav simply shrugged in response, looking up at him finally with a soft smile. “I’m sure you are, Gale of Waterdeep. With a title like that, I’m sure you’re a fantastic adventurer and this is just another day in paradise.”

Gale simply shrugged in response, though he couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips. They fell into a comfortable silence as she plucked at the strings of her violin, humming a soft tune to make sure the melody sounded alright. His thoughts drifted to his bard –to the note he had given to the little kobold. Had it really only been a few weeks since he left his tower? With everything that had happened, it had felt like months ago that he had sought out his bard and lost his chance.

“I think I’m going to turn in for the night,” she finally announced, standing up and stretching her arms over her head. Gale picked up her violin and held it out to her, smiling some. Tav took it, their fingers brushing against one another just briefly, with her own smile. “Goodnight, Gale. Sleep well.”

“Goodnight, Tav,” he offered, watching her retreating figure as she slipped into her tent. He averted his gaze as she bent over, looking away with a soft blush when he caught himself staring a little longer than he should have. 

“You’re a bit pathetic, you know that?” Astarion suddenly announced, appearing across from Gale as the fire simmered down.

“Excuse me?” 

Astarion sipped the wine in his hand, waving his other dismissively. “Please, it’s been a week since she picked you out of that wall and all you do is pine after like a love sick fool.”

“I do not pine. Besides –I have no time for any sort of romantic inclinations. Not with our unwanted guest in our heads.”

Gale rolled his eyes, shaking his head. What a ridiculous notion, he mused, thinking that he had any interest in beginning a relationship in the middle of all of this chaos. Even if he did find Tav attractive and kind and a lovely conversationalist – qualities that he couldn't deny – he couldn't afford to entertain such thoughts, not when the fate of their lives hung in the balance. 

Perhaps he did have a bit of a lingering crush on the de facto leader –but that meant little when he couldn't help but stray to the missive he had sent to his bard. Hope flickered within him, albeit faintly, as he imagined her response to his attempt at poetry and his thanks to her. His mind drifted to her every night, even if he didn’t see her face. He didn’t need to know what she looked like when he could hear her voice and recall her words.

Tav was lovely, but she wasn’t his bard and if Gale was to hold onto anything, it had to be her. If anything because the likelihood of ever seeing her again was minimal –less hurt for him and Tav.

“Then I don’t suppose you would be upset if I made time for her, then?” Astarion questioned, brow quirked up with the smirk that Gale had learned meant nothing good.

Gale opened his mouth to tell him, no, I would not be upset but you shouldn’t touch her still but the sentence got caught in his throat as the orb in his chest pulsed suddenly, shooting a sharp pain through his body. Astarion lurched back, surprised by Gale’s sudden cry of pain as the wizard doubled over and fell to his knees. Gods, now was not the time for this to happen –not in the middle of camp; not with everyone around. 

“What in the sweet hells is wrong with you?” Astarion demanded as Tav practically tripped out of her tent to hurry back over. Shadowheart, Wyll and Karlach approached as well.

“Gale, are you okay?” Tav asked, touching his shoulder to lay him on his back.

“I just –,” he gasped, closing his eyes for a moment as he reached up and clutched his chest. Her hand covered his, trying to look over his chest for wounds. When she found none, the pain had subsided enough for him to open his eyes and clutch her hand in his. “I suppose it’s time I tell you all that I might have what is…essentially a bomb in my chest.” She pulled back some, though she kept her hand in his as he loosened the wrap of his robe, exposing the mark of the Netherese orb that climbed up his chest and to his throat. “It’s a complicated story –long, tedious, and terribly boring, truthfully –but I need –I have to consume magic in order to prevent it from getting worse.”

“How do you consume magic?” She asked, helping him sit up now. “Like, we enchant food or what?”

He chuckled weakly, shaking his head. “My research determined that I just need magical items that I can siphon the magic from, to hold it over.”

Tav eyed him carefully, her gaze filled with concern. With a gentle yet firm touch, she flattened her hand against his chest, as if trying to soothe the orb nestled within him with just her touch. Gale could feel the warmth of her palm against his skin, a stark contrast to the icy tendrils of darkness coiling within him. 

He appreciated the gesture more than he could probably express. Her presence alone offered a semblance of comfort in the midst of his torment. But despite her efforts, the touch did little to appease the malevolent orb residing inside him. It continued to pulse with an ominous energy, defying all attempts at pacification.

“I think I picked up a helm,” Shadowheart suggested, half jogging back to her tent to go through her things.

“Oh, I picked up a fancy robe –I bet it’s magic,” Karlach offered, following suit.

“I have this.” Tav unclasped a necklace from around her neck –a simple amulet on a chain. The center held an emerald stone and it was encased in fine gold. “It’s definitely magic –it’s the Absolute Confidence Amulet. Nicked it off my old boss before I left Neverwinter a couple years ago.”

“Don’t you need it?” He asked, though he was already reaching for it.

“Not anymore, honestly,” she reassured with a promising smile. “I’m pretty confident in myself without it.”

Gale nodded solemnly, his fingers tightening around the item clutched close to his chest. With a deep breath, he released the magic contained within the amulet, allowing the orb to consume it greedily. As the magical energies dissipated, the necklace crumbled into pieces, scattering at their feet like shards of shattered dreams.

Tav watched the disintegration of the necklace with a bit of resignation. Despite the necessity of the action, there was a sense of loss in witnessing the demise of the once-cherished item. Yet, her smile held a glimmer of hope as she pulled away from him and stood. 

“Let us know if you need more. You shouldn’t keep this from us,” she lightly scolded, helping him up from the ground. “We’re in this together –I don’t know what I’d do if something were to happen to you.”

Gale nodded, his gaze softening as he looked down at Tav. For the first time in weeks, the pulsing of the orb within him dulled down. 

As she moved to pull away, a gentle breeze rustling through her hair, Gale's heart skipped a beat. In a moment of impulse, he reached out and caught her hand, holding it tenderly against his chest. She looked up at him in surprise, but didn’t move to pull away –instead her gaze softened as she smiled up at him. 

With a silent understanding passing between them, Gale nodded in response to her request, his eyes locking with hers in a silent exchange of trust and affection. In the fleeting moment, he couldn’t help himself as he covered her hand with his once more.

“Thank you, Tav. Truly.”

“Of course, Gale. 

I'll spend forever wondering if you knew

I was enchanted to meet you…

*****

“Gale seems to be quite taken with you,” Shadowheart commented a few days later, when she and Tav were collecting firewood for the camp.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Tav countered, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.

“I can’t tell if you’re blind or just ignoring how he looks at you.”

“I am not ignoring him,” she conceded, sitting on a fallen tree and dropping the wood in her hands. “I just –it’s complicated.”

“What, do you have someone waiting for you in Baldur’s Gate?” Shadowheart sat beside her, kicking her feet out in front of her.

“I mean, maybe.”

“Maybe? What do you mean maybe?”

Tav huffed, flushing a bit as she fished through her pockets and pulled out a folded up piece of parchment. She handed it to the cleric then dropped her hands into her lap as Shadowheart read it over.

“This is incredibly cheesy,” she laughed, handing it back to her.

“It is not,” Tav argued, shaking her head and snatching the note back. “I don’t know who wrote it, but I have spent years singing to practically no one and this stranger wrote me a poem to tell me my singing saved their life –I suppose I’m just holding out hope that I find them one day.”

“And in the meantime, you’re going to ignore someone who very clearly is in love with you –for someone who you may never meet?”  Shadowheart gave her a knowing look, crossing her ankles as she did. “Tav –we don’t have a lot of time with these tadpoles in our heads. While I am not saying you should just bed the wizard for the hells of it…I am saying that you should consider yourself fortunate to have someone that wants to share whatever time we have left with you.”

“I thought you were supposed to be the pragmatic, religious one that tells me to control myself?” 

“Usually I would,” but she shrugged and looked over towards where camp was situated. “But it’s hard to be when it feels like we’re on borrowed time.”

“It also helps to use the sexual tension to your advantage,” Lae’Zel suddenly announced, stepping out of the woods. “You two were taking too long. The wizard was growing concerned. You would do well to act on whatever affections he may hold for you while they last.”

“You’re both incredibly unhelpful and strangely horny,” Tav commented, standing up and gathering the wood in her arms again. “I don’t want to use him for anything —Gale is a good person; he deserves someone who can return his feelings entirely. Not someone who is distracted by a mysterious poet.”

“Tck. Githyanki have no use for poets; we say what we mean without masking it behind pretty words.”

“Thank you for the meaningful contribution to the conversation, Lae’Zel. I’m sure Tav is so happy for your advice.”

“As she should be.”

Tav rolled her eyes at them both, walking away as they began their usual bickering. How could they possibly give her advice when it was clear they had unresolved feelings between the two of them? Ridiculous, the both of them. Besides, she had no desire to give into her feelings for Gale (and she certainly had feelings, she couldn’t deny that). They had tadpoles in their brains and were on a mission to practically save the world. It was easier to pine for a mystery poet who may or may not be there at the end than risk falling in love with someone who not only had a bomb in their chest, but could sprout tentacles at any moment. 

No, she was better off without falling for Gale of Waterdeep. 

*****

By the end of their day, Gale and the rest of the merry band of weirdos were exhausted. They had managed to free the Druid Halsin from the goblins (while slaughtering the whole lot of them), only for him to ask them to help with breaking a curse on the Shadowlands. And Tav —Mystra bless her —had agreed almost immediately, without hesitation. 

Bloodied, battered, and covered in dirt and grime, Gale practically collapsed onto the nearest bedroll close to the campfire. He was first on watch tonight, and while he desperately wanted to sleep, he knew there wouldn’t be a chance in the nine hells anyone would swap with him. Tav laughed at him, nudging him with her foot as she passed by. 

“Go get some sleep, Gale. I’ll keep watch,” she offered, lowering to sit at the edge of the roll. 

“Absolutely not,” he argued, sitting up to glower down at her. “It’s my turn, and you took up post the other night when the orb acted up.”

“And I’m taking up post tonight as well. Go to bed.” Her voice was firm and she was pushing him away now to get him to move. “If I get tired, I’ll wake you. Deal?”

He hesitated a moment before nodding once, standing up finally. “Deal. And do not hesitate. If I so much as hear you yawn, I’ll be out here.”

“Here’s hoping you’re a heavy sleeper then.”

Gale pushed her head gently, rolling his eyes at her. She giggled, ducking out of his reach as he retreated to the privacy of his tent. He wasn’t kidding; if she yawned before he fell asleep, he would make her swap out. It was only fair, and he couldn’t bear the idea of letting her stay up without even a short rest.

However as soon as his head hit the pillow of his own bedroll, Gale had to fight sleep. It was tempting, and usually he wouldn’t be opposed to going straight to sleep —especially when it beckoned so clearly —but he really did want to make sure she didn’t need him. Whether he wanted to admit his feelings for her or not, Gale couldn’t help but worry for her. It was almost instinctual. 

After what felt like hours —though he was certain it was hardly even ten minutes —he began to drift off. Dreams danced in the edge of his mind, words to a song he vaguely recognized from his bard. Then words he knew; his words, softly carrying through the night air. 

The lingering question kept me up

2 AM, who do you love?

I wondered till I'm wide awake

Now I'm pacing back and forth, 

wishing you were at my door

I'd open up and you would say

It was enchanting to meet you…

At first, he assumed it was a dream —it wouldn’t be the first time he had dreamt of her sweet voice, echoing his words back to him. Relaxing into the feeling of his bard’s voice, he let it wash over him. Let it pull him into the dream world that he desperately wanted to enter for a little while. It was clearer than ever; her voice was sometimes muffled by the dreamscape but not tonight. 

Please don’t be in love with someone else,

Please don’t have somebody waiting on you…

The addition to his lines confused him, prompting his eyes to open and look around his tent for a moment. Blinking away the new lines —ones he certainly didn’t recognize and had never dreamed of before —he tried to refocus on his bard and her voice once more, listening to her echo his name even if she didn’t know it yet. But the music didn’t return in his head; it was still clear, as if right outside his tent. 

Sitting up, Gale rubbed his eyes in frustration. His exhaustion must be getting to him finally. Truly, he must be hallucinating —

This is me praying that

This was the very first page,

Not where the storyline ends…

“You are absolutely hopeless, Tav, singing that silly little poem,” Shadowheart scolded from outside his tent, though he could hear her retreating to her own. “Goodnight, I hope you dream of your poet.”

Her poet?

Her poet. 

Gale was her poet. 

Tav was his bard. 

“Sweet Hells.”

[blackjackkent]

After the terrible night in the shadowlands when she almost killed Wyll, Rakha has gotten used to spending her restless nights tied up.

There are many innocents in camp these days, after all, innocents the dark beast in her head would very much like to see dead. Aylin. Isobel. Arabella. But even those closest to her are no longer safe. So her nights in Rivington are spent curled up on a patch of straw in a broken farmhouse, with her hands bound behind her back.

Most nights are, thankfully, quiet except for the turmoil inside her own mind. That has not changed. When she closes her eyes, the same dreams recur, images of brutalized bodies, gore, and violence.

Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.

Tonight, though... is different.

"Naughty, naughty, naughty, little Master..."

She's dreaming, certainly, for her hands are suddenly unbound and it is stone, not straw, beneath her body. But it is a strange kind of dream; it feels real as life, and though the smell of blood is intense, there are none of the usual visions of bodies and death, just Sceleritas's mocking voice in her ear and a cavernous room she doesn't recognize.

She has seen many broken temples before - Selune's, Lathander's, Shar's - and so she has no trouble identifying this as another such place. The walls are stone like the floor, and lined with ornately carved columns; the ceiling, stone too, is high and vaulted above her. Braziers line the walls, the ramps all around her leading down to the central platform where she has awoken. And yet somehow it is still monstrously dark, shadows shifting in all directions.

"Where am I?" she tries to say, but her tongue is frozen in her mouth. She can't speak, can only look around wildly with puzzlement and fear.

"You have disobeyed your Father's wishes one time too many," Sceleritas hisses with fiendish glee, his voice full of cruel laughter. She pushes herself to her knees, then unsteadily to her feet, fruitlessly looking for the little goblin among those twisting shadows. "For she who fights with monsters should look to it that she herself becomes a monster..."

Light spills across the scene. An enormous carving of a skull circled in droplets of blood has awoken, its eyes glowing with red flame. For a moment Rakha thinks it the symbol of Myrkul, the god Ketheric followed, but no - it is something darker, something familiar in a way Myrkul's symbol never was.

"When you gaze long enough into the abyss," Sceleritas keens, "the abyss also gazes into you..."

Rakha's neck prickles. She turns - and a bolt of pain shoots through her head as she realizes she is not alone.

Orin lies stretched in casual repose along the long, low altar at the center of the room. In her hand she holds the same knife she used to threaten Ketheric, which she is cradling lovingly, like a beloved child. Her fingers dance along its edge, raising lines of blood on the pads of her fingertips.

Her head turns, her eyes meeting Rakha's, and the ache redoubles on itself as the beast roars with pain and fury in Rakha's mind.

"Another will embrace what you have rejected," Sceleritas croons coldly. Orin moves in a single lithe twist of her body up onto her feet, pointing the dagger directly at Rakha's heart.

"And that other will be your death..."

Orin's body spasms, her neck cracking backwards, her body suddenly writhing into a horrible, grotesque transformation.

The Slayer. Rakha knows this word instinctively as she takes in this new, monstrous form. She feels, strangely, no fear, but her throat is dry and the ache in her skull is nearly blinding. Orin stares at her, the enormous mandibles of her new form twitching hungrily, the claws of all four arms flexing with the urge to rip and tear and devour...

And then Sceleritas speaks again, and though his voice is as low as ever, the words sound like a thunderclap.

"But your Father loves you dearly..." he hisses. "You may reinherit yourself yet..."

Father? Rakha thinks wildly, and then grunts as Orin's clawed foot sinks into her stomach, knocking her backwards onto her rear.

The beast in her head begins to white out her vision, the rage at being attacked mixing with the desire to destroy. Kill her. Kill Orin.

"Slaughter your line..." Sceleritas whispers gleefully, as if he can hear the beast's rage - and perhaps he can, after all. "Become the last of your name..."

The Slayer's face presses mere inches from Rakha's jaw. The sharp mandible caresses her throat, tracing the warm line of the artery under her jaw. The thundering headache swells to a crescendo and Rakha's vision fades out, and Sceleritas's mocking whisper follows her into the dark.

"Lord Bhaal shall have but one Chosen..."

-----

She wakes with a start, sweat-drenched, still tied in her bedroll. Her arms ache from the uncomfortable position, but she barely notices. Her mind is racing, her heart thundering, her breath so shallow she threatens to pass out again at any moment.

She remembers. She remembers everything.

Narrator: Memories flood back. Snatches of your story, written in the blood of a thousand victims. Years spent in worship of Bhaal, leading his savage congregation in prayer, sacrifice, and slaughter. You were their master, and he was yours. A cruel master. A dread lord. A devoted Father. All is as you feared. You are a spawn of Bhaal. His heir. His scion.

Every inch of her skin prickles with terror. This, then, is the source of the beast in her head, the source of the bloodthirst and the madness, the source of the hunger for the death of every person she has ever known. She is a Bhaalspawn; like Aylin, she is the child of a god, but her father is a bloodsoaked avatar of mindless destruction.

She is a monster. The knowledge drips through her like acid.

And yet... there is a strange calm that follows it as her breathing starts to slow. For along with the horror of the knowledge comes the certainty that after all, there is a reason for how she acts. There is a cause for her madness, a name that may be put to it. She is not simply an animal bereft of all hope.

Her body goes rigid with the effort to breathe, her eyes squeezing shut, her gaze turning inward.

Tense up. That may be what you were, but it is not who you are.

Narrator: And yet you know you will never be free of your Urge if you don't confront your past. You are not the last of your name, not yet. There is another - the abomination wrapped in flesh you saw in the colony. Orin. It's time for a family reunion - but be wary of your confessors. Will friend turn to foe, knowing what you are?

[ceescedasticity]

Unforsaken, 9c

(All sections on tumblr)

(AO3, lagging behind but more polished)

Elrohir asks if Maglor ever wandered far enough south to get completely clear of Sauron's shadow.

Celegorm asks if he would have noticed if he did.

Maglor says yes, as a matter of fact, he did travel that far a few times and did notice.

In fact, he's been farther south than the Númenóreans ever got! Although it was a little hard to tell, since stories of the wicked Westerlings spread south, too.

…Then they have to explain 'Númenóreans (derogatory)' to the Hirnedhrim.

"Have you not heard of this at all? I thought the Dunlendings were still holding grudges about it?"

"Not that anyone told us about."

Risyind mentions that apparently Pelndoru either wasn't paying enough attention to hear about the Númenóreans or else it decided to scrub them from history after the Involution. She's guessing the first one.

(If she didn't have more important things to worry about Sharlinnu would definitely be cranky about the Involution.)

****

Gimli points out they should probably do a demonstration with the Wizard's Clay before it comes time to use it.

…Although the horses wouldn't be very happy about it. Or the oxen. Or Celeborn.

Maglor could probably keep it from bothering the oxen and horses? It's not easy when he doesn't know beforehand what he needs to neutralize…

Celeborn objects to blowing up anything in the Vales of Anduin regardless of who can hear it — though he can see the point about needing a demonstration. Wait until they're north of the mountains?

Okay, but at that point Maglor will also need to keep it from attracting cold-drakes.

…Actually no one knows whether cold-drakes would come towards the sounds of explosions.

****

Over the course of several days—

Ah, geese flying north.

They're doing a lot of landing and taking off for migrators.

…They really should have overtaken us by now.

Are we being tailed by geese?

Gimli was bitten by a goose once.

That's nothing, a couple of the goblin-men of Dunland got mauled by geese, they eventually swore off trying to keep them.

…None of the elves have ever been attacked by geese.

"It's about respecting them."

…Those are… kind of large for geese, actually, aren't they?

Ohhhhhh, those are the Geese of Manwë!

Everyone stops to look at Glorfindel like he's lost his mind.

The what now.

The Geese of Manwë. Like the Eagles of Manwë, but geese.

…

We didn't see them in Eldamar in the Time of the Trees because there weren't a lot of natural bodies of water — apart from the Sea — but once we got rivers in—

What.

—No, one thing at a time, geese.

(Or should it be Geese?)

Glorfindel isn't sure what they want him to say. They're like Eagles, but geese. They aren't as suited to killing things as the Eagles. Their homes are less remote, so you see them more often, in the West. Some of them enter poetry competitions? They're supposed to be banned from both Yavanna's gardens and Aulë's workshops, but, uh, that hasn't really stuck.

"None of that explains why they're following us."

"I… expect they're meant to be helping us?" Glorfindel says. "I'm not sure how, but it must be a good sign?"

"I would have thought Eagles would be more help," Turgon says. "Although I suppose they could arrive later."

Has this flock been living somewhere in Middle-earth all this time? Who knows!

"Those aren't all geese," Legolas says suddenly. "There are two swans. Grey, but swans."

Celegorm immediately turns around and tries to look himself, even though it is a sunny day and he was uncomfortable even before looking at the sky. He is unable to confirm or dispute Legolas's observation.

Several others can confirm it, though.

…Huh. Weird.

…Not really much weirder than the 'there are Geese of Manwë' baseline, though.

****

(That evening after speaking to the party Arwen decides to take a closer look at these 'Geese of Manwë' and mystery swans. She ends up dropping the Orthanc-stone on her foot. It fractures a toe. Arwen swears Aragorn to secrecy.)

****

They're able to keep on the river a long ways, with all the oxen walking and the barges lightly loaded — even past the point where the Anduin is born in the confluence of two smaller rivers. They pick the tributary coming down from the Misty Mountains, since the one from the Grey Mountains splits into two streams halfway there.

It gets un-navigable eventually, but Celeborn doesn't think it's more than a day or two before they would have had to cut north away from the river anyway.

They unload the wagons from the barges, and move the supplies to the wagons. As for the barges themselves — well, they aren't anticipating any cargo on the way back, but it would still make things easier, and they should at least try to return the barges to Arwen. They drag the barges on shore and turn them over, protecting them as much as they can out in the open.

They reorganize the oxen — eight wagons rather than four barges — and continue on.

****

At this point they can all drive the wagons. No one is particularly eager to. (The suspension is not great.) They trade off often.

Celegorm, Turgon, and Sharlinnu have to pick between walking in the daylight, riding in the wagons, or walking around holding a piece of canvas over their heads as a sunshield.

Caution rises as they approach the Gap of Gundabad — not that they weren't alert before, but there hadn't been any expectation of threat.

Gimli grumbles about such a holy place being profaned.

Khitwê points out that Pelnûru scholars' best guess at the former location of Kuynennu — Cuiviénen — is in Dead Empire territory, and even the geography isn't there anymore, so really the dwarves are still ahead!

Elladan: "I thought no one knew where Cuiviénen used to be!"

Khitwê: "They don't know for sure, but there were people who knew how to get to Kuynennu from Pelndoru and back, so even after everything got torn up they could get approximately there…"

Of course they couldn't investigate after the White Empire started up.

Maglor: "…So if Mount Gundabad is full of orcs—"

(Celegorm: "Not that many orcs—")

Maglor, ignoring the interruption: "—And what's left of Cuiviénen has an entire human empire squatting in it… does anyone know what happened to Hildorien?"

No. In fact, there is some skepticism on the Hildorien story generally.

Before they can get into that, Zena asks what exactly they're talking about — it turns out no one has told the Hirnedhrim about the various awakenings. So they have to go over that.

The Hirnedhrim are — not skeptical, exactly, but they have questions. There are things you have to be taught, that you can't just conjure out of nowhere. What was the difference in wisdom between these magically-awakening adults and someone who lived alone in a pit their entire life finally getting out? How did the difference get there?

Zena: "And there must have been a difference, because an entire village full of just-retrieved Usazilas would have… had problems."

Zuste: "It took over a hundred years for the bite-scars to fade."

…

What?

Maglor: "I would argue that being kept in a pit and treated like an animal by the only people you have ever met teaches its own breed of wisdom which is of less than no use in most other situations."

Zena agrees he may be on to something there, but still doesn't think that's sufficient.

Elrohir knows he is not going to like the answer and that possibly he just shouldn't ask, but: "I understand that the Men of Dunland had no love for you, but… why a pit?"

Zena: "They thought it would keep the Fair Orc away from their women if his child was still there. That was why others of our sisters and brothers were tolerated through infancy, at least. These people thought they had found a way to do that which they liked better than keeping an abomination in the house."

Zuste: "They boasted of it. Had been boasting for years before we found out."

Zuste: "We burned that steading to the ground."

She does not say what became of the inhabitants other than Usazila.

Celegorm: nodding approvingly

Turgon: glaring at Celegorm for this improper moral feedback

Risyind: "Well anyway, the tradition of the People of the Pearls is that humans lived underwater until drawn out into the air by the light of the Sun."

Zena: "Interesting!"

Risyind: "My understanding is none of the Pelnûru have ever felt there are any grounds to challenge them on it, since it's not like we know exactly where Men awakened."

Legolas: "No one ever pointed out that Men can't breathe water?"

Risyind: "They are fully aware of that themselves. The stories don't explain anything, but the tradition for a long time was that before the Sun, Men were more like porpoises. More recently, though, there were some philosophers who argued that the stories specifically say drawn to the air by the Sun, and porpoises already have to visit the air regularly, so Men must have been more like some other sort of fish, or maybe octopuses."

Legolas: "Ah, that makes sense."

(Have never heard of an octopus: Legolas, Zuste, Zena, Dyn. Also Whiterot.)

Risyind: "Maybe, but there was some heated discussion. We heard all about it because some of them had to leave town for a while and came to Pelndoru."

Gimli: that doesn't sound right "…The octopuses…?"

(Has never seen an octopus, but has read about them in books written by Dwarves who had also never seen one: Gimli.)

Anyway that discussion gets everyone thoroughly sidetracked, thank you Risyind.

(Have seen one or more octopuses in the course of living by the Sea and/or traveling by ship and/or knowing Círdan: Khitwê, Risyind, Elrohir, Elladan, Sharlinnu, Glorfindel, Maglor.)

(Has seen an octopus after his cousin absolutely insisted he come to Alqualondë and get on a boat and see this new, fascinating creature he just found out about: Turgon.)

(Has seen octopuses and been disappointed when Oromë said he couldn't teach him to understand them: Celegorm.)

(Has seen one or more octopuses in the course of knowing Círdan, but only after spending several centuries thinking Angrod made them up, and unfortunately Círdan told the twins about this: Celeborn.)

(Have eaten octopus: Sharlinnu, Khitwê, not Risyind because she doesn't care what anyone else says, it doesn't look like something you're supposed to eat, shut up Khitwê. Also Maglor, but he doesn't want to talk about it.)

****

Whiterot joins them once they're properly in the Gap of Gundabad. (She is greeted with questions on whether she knows what an octopus is. She does not.)

She goes over the state of things in Gundabad. Most relevantly, no one is likely to attack them. Whiterot does have some healing minor injuries from scuffles, but just usual day-to-day stuff. There's still no leader and no plans to police the gap. They're good.

(Also, some orcs did take Bellow's advice and took off to look for good places to hole up in the Mountains of Angmar, but that's not pertinent at the moment.)

****

They're almost out of the Gap of Gundabad when disaster strikes. Sort of.

Dyn asks Gimli about the case with the three strands of hair, and he explains.

Maglor looks at Celegorm. Celegorm looks at Maglor.

They don't say anything.

—So here is the thing, about the hair.

Asking someone for some of their hair for use in an art or craft project — either directly or as a reference — was not unknown. But it wasn't the sort of thing you'd be soliciting strangers in the street for, either; it was a personal request for a favor and belonged in a personal relationship. Artanis refused the first request because she wasn't inclined to grant Fëanáro any favors, and also she felt Fëanáro held himself too far aloof from the grandchildren of Indis to presume a personal relationship.

That last part was difficult to dispute.

So, Fëanáro had assumed his status as an elder kinsman and as a matchless craftsman would stand in for a personal relationship; Artanis said it didn't. Kind of embarrassing for Fëanáro and awkward all around, but not inappropriate.

There was some familial huffing about how if Artanis didn't respect Fëanáro enough for this maybe her family weren't really Noldor. That sort of thing.

But asking a second time made it weird, even with the clarification that he wished to "study the hair's unique appearance". Artanis made it even clearer that she was not interested in granting a favor to someone who "pretended my family did not exist until he thought I might provide an interesting specimen".

Asking a third time—

Asking a third time was inappropriate. The Arafinwëans all left Tirion for Alqualondë, and Artanis didn't come back for a Tree-year. Finwë didn't reprimand Fëanor, but he did offer to ask Ingwë and Olwë for hair strands himself which Fëanor could study, with the implication that Fëanor could therefore stop making such requests of people who found it upsetting. Nerdanel told Fëanor there were questions on which he needed to accept 'no'.

And Maitimo, Makalaurë, and Tyelkormo, who all had social circles which reached outside Fëanor's most devoted followers, had to deal with a number of friends and acquaintances either attempting to delicately ask "hey wtf is up with your father and hair" or refraining from asking despite really wanting to. And when someone did ask, loyalty required trying to justify Fëanor even though they knew he'd pushed too much.

It was not enjoyable. The last thing they want to do here is deal with someone explaining the whole debacle to Legolas, Gimli, Khitwê, Risyind, Sharlinnu, Whiterot, the Hirnedhrim, and possibly Elladan and Elrohir — and, actually, they aren't 100% sure Celeborn knows already. Just. No.

They say nothing. Elladan and Elrohir are intensely relieved.

(Glorfindel is secretly a little disappointed.)

[myveryownfanfiction]

gifs from @illiana-mystery thx for letting me use them!

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

tag list: @illiana-mystery, @ghostlypie, @iobsessoverfictionalmen, @salemwitch96, and @eclecticwildflowers

Warnings: swearing, Norman lives, mention of the goblin and murder

Norman took my coat as I came into the room. He smiled gently at me as he hung it up, ushering me to sit down across from him. I sat down and watched him carefully.

“Alright Norman. Spill.” I spun in the seat as he finally sat down in the chair across from me. “Why’d you call me to your office?”

“I’ve missed date night,” Norman looked at the calendar on his desk. “The last three times. So…” he waved his hand at the large window on the other side of the room. “I’m bringing date night here.” I gasped as I noticed the picnic blanket and basket sitting on the floor in front of the window.

“Norman! You didn’t have to!” I exclaimed as I got up and inspected what he had done. “Oh Norman!” I turned back to him as he came over to stand next to me. I threw my arms around him and hugged him tightly. Norman chuckled as he held me tightly against him.

“if this is the thanks I get for this, I’ll be sure to do it again.” He mused. “I’ll go bigger next time too.” I pulled back to cup his cheeks.

“no. Do this again. Only this.” I leaned in and kissed him. Norman gently lowered us to the blanket as he nipped at my bottom lip. I moaned and pulled away. “Oh! And sunset! Norman…” I kissed him again before turning towards the basket. Norman shook his head to himself as he helped me pull out the food and drinks.

“it’s been a year.” He started. I turned towards him and put my plate down. “He’s…he’s still gone. I’m not…” Norman sighed as he looked outside. “I still can’t believe I did all those things. Killed the board…tried to kill may…” I reached over and squeezed his leg.

“it wasn’t you Norman. It was…” I paused. “That serum created a whole other person Norman. It wasn’t you.” Norman shook his head.

“but it was. It amplified what was already there. The serum was a success. Think of captain America versus red skull. Steve Rogers was a good man. He became a great man. And everything that went with it.” Norman scratched the back of his head. “Red skull was a bad man. He become worse. He tried to become a god. And his ambitions became his downfall.” Norman looked over at me, his expression one of defeat. “Guess which one I was.” I pressed my lips into a thin line.

“There is no denying that you tried to accomplish something that was damn near impossible. But Norman, you were not and are not a bad man. Your ambitions got the better of you. The serum didn’t work.” Norman opened his mouth to argue and kissed him to shut him up. “Whatever happened to you that last night, it helped you. Somehow, the goblin is gone. And your secret is safe. I don’t pretend to know why. I don’t want to know why. All I care about is having you with me now.” Norman nodded as he hung his head.

“thank you.” He whispered, looking over at me. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I leaned over and leaned my head against his.

“you trusted me with this Norman. Not even a few weeks after we met. I believe in you Norman. The man. The brilliant scientist who is somehow creating a better company. Who is funding his best friends clean energy program. Who is working on his relationship with his son. I believe in that man. The goblin was none of those things. Could not be any of those things.” I pointed out as I started eating. “If he was still around, he wouldn’t let any of this happen. He plotted his own downfall and there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it. I’m just glad he didn’t take you down with him.” Norman leaned over and kissed my cheek.

“I love you.” He whispered. I smiled at him, making a mental image of him surrounded by the colors of the fading sunset.

“I love you too.”

[cactusnymph]

Are you tired of writing Wyllachstarion yet? If not, will you do "shielding the other one with their body"?

For two hundred years Astarion has waited for someone to show up and save him from his misery, to help him out of the magical chains binding him to the worst monster walking this godforsaken land, but no one ever came. No god answered his call, no knight in shining armor ever swooped in and ripped Cazador away from Astarion when he was being beaten, tortured or when he scratched his hands bloody on the lid of a stone coffin.

He learned not to trust anyone and only ever see the worst in people, to despise those who pretend to be good because Astarion always knew there were no good people.

Until he met them.

How much he hated both of them in the beginning for being so kind and self-righteous and heroic. Their existence means that there were good people in this world all along but none of them ever gave a damn to storm the castle and free those suffering inside.

And now Astarion has to live with weirdly fuzzy feelings inside his chest that he doesn't want to acknowledge, and with the knowledge that people like Wyll and Karlach existed all along and he simply never had the luck to meet them when he needed it most.

It's not like it's either of their fault, of course. But Astarion wants to be angry at them. It's easier that way than whatever else lurks in the depths of his ribcage whenever he looks at them, whenever they smile at them, whenever they're so goddamn soft with Astarion that it makes him feel fucking weak in the knees.

He hates how soft they make him feel.

He can't afford to feel soft. What he needs is to be alert at all times, and to find ways to escape his former master as long as possible until he finds a way to kill him. Sometimes at night, when everyone else is sleeping, he fantasizes about Karlach and Wyll confronting Cazador and instead of it being a happy thought it fills Astarion with dread.

He can't help but see their broken and bloodied bodies lying at Cazador's feet, can't help but imagine them falling prey to yet another master who will pull their leash in any way he likes. They don't deserve that. Karlach and Wyll deserve their freedom.

Which is, of course, one of the reasons why Astarion should keep them at arm's length. Aside from the fact that he can't afford being attached to anyone and becoming weak in the process.

But then Karlach invites him to cuddle at night and Wyll asks if it's alright if he touches Astarion and they look at him as if he's something precious, something redeemable, something worthwhile.

Astarion hates it.

And yet he's drawn in again and again, sleeps between them at night, allows them to hold his hand, trusts them both a ridiculous amount.

It's addictive.

And also terrifying.

Way more terrifying than this unhinged drider they're fighting. True, the Shadow Cursed Lands aren't his favorite location but everything beats Cazador's palace. Not that that stops him from complaining loudly whenever they walk around in this godforsaken landscape but Astarion thinks it's no one's business how low the bar for his thankfulness is.

He can hear Karlach laugh somewhere behind him as she slashes through some of their foes with her enormous ax and he also knows that Wyll is somewhere up on the roof, shooting spells while Astarion whirls around their enemies, slashes at their knees and their throats and drinks his fill from anyone who doesn't have half the body of a giant spider.

Maybe he got a little bit distracted by the beautiful carnage Karlach wreaks among some of the goblins, her whole body drenched in blood and her chest burning bright in the darkness surrounding them. Maybe he should have been a little more careful. Focused.

When the hammer comes out of nowhere and shatters his shoulder he cries out and goes to his knees, gripping at the broken bones. His dagger drops into the dirt and pain and panic fill his entire body as he's suddenly face to face with he enormous drider.

Fuck. Shit, fuckfuckfuck.

He tries to grab for his dagger with his non-dominant hand but he already knows that it's no use. Those disgusting claws are going to cut him straight in half. Astarion almost laughs about what an idiot he is.

Then there's a flash of light, a shout somewhere above him and when he opens his eyes again Karlach and Wyll are right there in front of him like a well oiled machine. The pain in his shoulder throbs and stings and his entire left side feels numb.

The claws that were meant for him slash right through Karlach's abdomen and she lets out a grunt, but slashing at her gives Wyll the opportunity to strike right below the drider's ribs with his rapier. The last thing he hears before passing out is Wyll shouting "Hands off him!".

Fuck. He really is such an idiot. feel free to send me more of these <3

[thelikesoffinn]

fun fact! durge + animal handling = squirrel is fine! also, do u have trouble with characters just... not "behaving"? like, u make the character with the intention of them to act like X Y Z, but instead it feels most "right" for them to do A B C? bc what I ended up w is not what I had intended. got an idea on Reddit to recruit ONLY Astarion to see what dialogue he'd have with no one else there (surprising change: in every instance when I run into the group if githyanki by the bridge he has excitedly asked to kill them. not here. when it was just my Tav he actually wanted to LEAVE to be safe) so I figured, great, I'll just make this dude Astarion's Yes Man and do everything Mr. Sad Wet Cat wants! except... that isn't how it played out. I'd intended to either side w the goblins or ignore that whole thing, but I ended up saving the grove bc that felt like the right thing for my Tav. bc instead of a fanatical Astarion simp he's just a Tired Old Man trying to live quietly, keep his vampire twink out of the worst of the trouble he could be getting into, and find a cure for that same twinks brain worm. (a difficult job) he comes from a noble drow family where he was used as an experimental gladiator for 100s of years. trust a pack of goblins led by a drow lady to have a safe, reliable cure for Astarion? Lolth no, not a chance. so Halsin ended up recruited by default. :/ he just sits in camp tho. oh well, they can be a throuple. trying to wrangle Astarion is a full time job and he could use the help. this also means I need a different character to ascend Astarion, tho, bc this old man said "no, this will not make u happy".

Ho. Ly. Fuck.

I know exactly what you mean, that happens to me all the damn time! No matter if I'm writing a fic, making a character for any rpg or am working on one of my many drafts that will hopefully eventually turn into a book - my characters write their own stories. I have no say in the matter, none at all.

And yes, I'll have plans. But sometimes they're like "nah fuck this, I'm doing this instead" and I'm like: Well okay, you're the boss!

My durge Whisper, for example, was once supposed to be a very seductive - "Well, how tragic - how much is it worth to you?" - Trickster type lady. But the minute I got off the nautiloid it was like: Stoic as fuck, absolutely touch-averse unless it's Astarion, can't show love properly but will definitely beat up anyone who even dares to give the crew the stink eye because "who tf are you to look at my people like that". So that's who she is!

Characters just sometimes do whatever they want and I'm here for it because, let's be entirely honest: Those Characters always turn out the best.

[venomgender]

Just read your posts about the new SL ragnarok manhwa and, honestly i think this is a discerivce to the novel since all of the aspects that you have ranted about are not as present in there as they are in the manhwa.

For example you said suho isnt like what jinwoo was on the first chapters. And you are right, Suho in the Ln didnt fight the possesed hunters but rather he had to rescue civilians while dealing with possed unawakened people who acted like zombies. They were many but they were far far weaker, and even there he didnt fully succed in helping everyone since time wasnt on his side at all. His fight there even ended with him being almost killed by a wolf until Beru swooped in to save him. And the rest of the chapters as well, Suhos less of a prodogy and more of a tactiful guy trying to get out of insanely dangerous situations. In a sense he is weak but instead of rapidly getting stronger, he gets more creative with the way he is going to win his fights.

Also Suhos backstory in the novel wasnt... supposed to appear until much later. In the first chapters his personality is meaner (tho still funny) because he just got word that his parents are in fact alive and from then on his only focus is getting strong. Its not until some chapters later (due to two events that I wont spoil) that Suho's own turmoil about the loss of his parents is shown and how that affected his personality as well as the relationship with the rest of his family.

(btw when i say long i really mean that most of these is supposed to appear 100 chapters later, and I mean I get showing it now would be good too. BUT THEY DIDNT! THEY DIDNT PUT ANY EFFORT IN SHOWING IT! They just brough in some points with NONE of the weight and context that the light novel had set upon and decided to COMPLETELY CHANGE other things as well!! I could go on a rant of the changes the horrible pay offs but look at this wall of text, its big enough as it is.)

As for the telling and showing, they could have done so SO well with the showing seeing that daul takes a lot of time to extend his characters (like a lot lot), helping to show their personalities through actions could have crammmed in more of an impact to the relationships in SL ragnarok as well, the best example i can get right now is how they executed Dogyun and Suho's interaction, even with some changes thrown, and others cut, the scene was nice because 1)faithful to the story and their characters (in this case dogyuns own problems that werent shown in the manhwa but were in the ln) 2)we got to see the panels of Dogyun hesitating, him deducting about the fight, the extra scenes where hes not trying to leave suho behind. i think these scene was adapted well. I could say the same for the fight with the goblins where it did show new scenes but still relied on suho being his tactiful self like in the novel.

Oh boi did i need to get this out from my chest. and I hope i didnt come of as mean in any of this, im mostly just frustated at the adaptation (even if i still love it) its just that i was having so many expectations considering how the light novel was on its focus of characters, and yeah i can get 'oh this is what happens to all adaptations' and 'they are taking creative liberties because its hard to adapt a book to a webnovel' but one thing is 'I will change the fight to make it cooler or leave out introspective dialogue of the characters bc you cant fit it in the manhwa in any form' and another is 'I will actively change two of the most important key points of the story, kill a character that is very crucial to the next arcs, give the characters op skills that arent supposed to appear until FAAAR later, and decide to make him op by himself instead of relying on those around him and on other external factors because the whole point of Suho is that he ISNT solo leveling, he isnt walking this path alone and--- considering his affection to help others even during very difficult desicions where he could just grab all the op stuff for himself but no--- he doesnt walk this path alone, he is leveling up but so can others to protect the state of the world out of their own choice (which is something jinwoo didnt want because he wanted everyone to be rid of the strugles he went through, and both thoughts are valid imo). He is walking this path not to overtake his father's struggles but to walk alongside him, and to let him know he truly isnt alone as he thinks he is. This fucking novel I swear---

MAN THATS CRAZY.... god. i hate when adaptations ruin things that literally sucks so bad.... maybe i will have to go read the novel because as it the manhwa is on such thin fucking ice for me but the story itself truky does seem promising... and from what you said all of my beef comes from stupid adaptation decisions they made. man...

[choccy-zefirka]

Niamh and her sad husband are back babey!!

Cleaned up and updated this old fic now that I am on the Zevlor train again!

Summary:

A Githyanki raised on Toril by druids that found her as a hatchling, Niamh often appears too soft to her companions, while the people that she meets on her travels have a pre-conceived notion that her kind are Evil-aligned monsters. As far as she is concerned, though, the dark lure of the Ilithid infection makes her potentially more evil than an average Githyanki. At least Lae'Zel's traditional upbringing grants her the discipline to resist; what does Niamh have, with a childhood spent in idyllic groves cuddling woodland creatures? Thus, riddled with self-doubt, she has a heart-to-heart conversation with Zevlor.

(Spoilery side note: Niamh sure has a lot of thoughts about the lady looking to obtain a Githyanki egg so that the Society of Brilliance can raise it "in civilization" — because she herself was taken in as a homeless foundling, not stolen from her people for a social experiment to decide whether she is an inherently violent savage).

And now for the fic itself!

"Once again," Niamh says. "I apologize."

Her voice crawls, half-smothered, from the innermost depths of her narrow, bony chest. Her pale-blue eyes are wide, and her needle pupils swim in splashing brine. Like she is gazing out of twin salty lakes.

At the bottom of one of these lakes, something dark lurks. Twitching. Undulating. Agitated.

"For my companion's... forcefulness."

Lae'Zel is well out of earshot now, very skeptically appraising the wares of the local blacksmith — but Niamh's shoulders still rise tensely, and she shudders like she is being turned into a cone of cold.

"And for what it's worth... I deeply regret that my kin killed your friend on the road. I think you may have startled them. They may have thought they needed to act in self-defense. They are not used to this realm; it confuses them — and confusion makes you act out on pure reflex. Not that —"

She swallows forcefully.

"Not that it excuses what they did — but please, please understand that they are not..."

Her shoulder relax somewhat, and her lanky bright-yellow arms, all awkward angles, churn the air in frustration, as she searches for an appropriate metaphor. "Not walking clots of evil. Not like —"

The shadow in her eye coils, almost threatening to burst out to the surface, and then retreats. She exhales, defeated.

"I truly mean you no harm, Zorru. None of my companions do. We just want you to help us, like we helped your people at the gate. If you could just... show me on the map where — "

The young Tiefling's broad face drips with sweat, just like the cave walls drip with trickling water. He attempts to backtrack, but he has nowhere left to go. Lae'Zel backed him in a corner, and Niamh's attempts to butter him up afterwards have not exactly left him with an escape route.

As he stumbles, not seeing, not looking anywhere except at Niamh's unfamiliar, alien face — yellow as a toad, he'd told his fellow refugees, and twice as ugly — he trips over an open trunk that someone must have dragged out for packing. With an awkward flop, he loses balance, and falls right in.

His behind gets firmly lodged into the trunk's wooden frame. But even in this ridiculous position — which draws a sympathetic tongue click from Gale, a long, exasperated sigh from Shadowheart, and a snort from Astarion — he continues pointing at Niamh with a shaking, accusatory finger.

"You didn't fight those goblins to help us! You just thirsted for blood!"

Niamh freezes. Her pupils shrink to barely visible scratches, and her yellow fists clench, a bird curling up its feet.

Behind her back, Astarion perks up, with a spark of curiosity in his bruised ruby eyes. But if he expects Niamh to let Zorru know... from experience that yes, yes she does thirst for blood — the way Lae'Zel would have done — he is in for a disappointment.

Niamh does not lay a finger on Zorru. Just as she never did on anyone else who spat insults at her (which has to be about the entire population of Faerun). Instead, she turns sharply on her heels, with her long sleek ponytail — dyed a cheerful pink that Lae'Zel often wrinkles her nose at — whipping after her.

"I'll be right back," she says, before vanishing deeper into the cave.

"She has gone to cry again, hasn't she," Shadowheart flat-tones wearily. 'I am astonished that she has managed to survive this long. How it is even possible for someone to be both this brave and this... mushy?"

"Ah, but she is brave, isn't she," Gale points out, after he pulls Zorru back to his feet with a flourish of his wrist and a spark of magic. "Remember how she rushed in to save that boy from the harpies? Or faced off Kagha and those dubious friends of hers!"

Astarion pouts.

"I am still waiting for the moment when we all find out it was all a cunning ruse, and our little —" He waggles his hand dismissively. "Little squirrel-taming, brat-coddling forest princess shows us how pretty her teeth are... By ripping out someone's throat."

"You'll have to wait a really long time, then," Shadowheart says, quirking an eyebrow.

She is not wrong.

When Niamh vanishes out of sight, ducking under the carved stone panel that separates the larger cave from the more secluded quarters of the Tieflings' leader, her mushiness increases tenfold.

Her eyes are not just watering now. They are streaming.

The sobs envelop her, unrestrained and overpowering. But she pushes through them, forcing herself to stride across the makeshift study on the panel's other side.

The Tiefling within is busy poring over scout reports, with his forehead creased in concentration. When he finally looks up at her approach, his brows fly up in concern.

"Is anything the matter?" he asks, swerving around his desk to come closer to Niamh. "Is it Kagha again?"

"No, I just —"

Niamh takes a hiccuping breath and wipes her face with the back of her hand.

"I suddenly realized I never thanked you."

He clears his throat, looking rather sheepish.

"Well, there is not really much to thank me for. I wish I had been more hospitable to you and your companions. But in order to share a home, one needs to have a home, and well. You can see for yourself."

"No, it's not that."

Niamh's voice cracks again, while the Tiefling watches her in silence.

He does extend one hand to her... Uncertainly. As if he might have embraced her, but does not quite recall how it is done.

"When Aradin spat at me, back when we'd just met, you told him to show me some respect. It's not... Not the usual treatment that I've gotten used to since leaving home."

She dips her head and casts her lake-blue eyes down at her fingers, which pick relentlessly at the fraying padding of her gilded green robes.

"You would think I am a devotee of Ilmater, from how often my tears overwhelm me. And while I have always been... emotional, I am actually sworn to Sylvanus. Like the druids here, and like my... my adoptive parents. They found me in the wilderness when I was but a hatchling. Lost and confused, the cracked shell still stuck to my back. Too young to explain where I came from or how I got separated from..."

She lowers her voice in gentle reverence.

"From my creche."

Her fingers lock into fists again, and she looks up.

"I have never been to the Astral Plane, to my kind's home... I have never even met another like me, before Lae'Zel. I was raised in a Circle not unlike this one. The druids encouraged me to read, to try any skills I was curious about, to... to express myself. And they were not really afraid of me — because they were used to having me around since I was a toddler. But ever since I ventured a little bit further from home, my attempts to... to interact with anyone other than animals have become rather..."

She reaches for him, as tentatively as he for her. For a moment, their fingertips meet.

Then she withdraws, her serrated ear tips turning a shade of peach.

"My little group has been brought together by a certain... shared hardship. Aside from my companions, you were the first person who did not try to flee, or to attack me, the moment I drew breath in their presence. It's just... It has been exhausting. Stopping to persuade any stranger that I am not about to eat them. Especially since I am more like them than they realize."

She shakes her head, her hair flying in a pink whirlwind around her again.

"No, that's not right. I know I am not better than other Githyanki for having ventured beyond my creche. If anything, I am more lost, more unsure. Lae'Zel is much worthier of this than I ever will be, but I — I also want to know more about my people. To travel among the stars like they do. Maybe... Ride a dragon some day? Do dragons respond to Speak with Animals?"

She chuckles awkwardly at this clumsy levity, and the corners of the Tiefling's mouth readily move upwards... With the least effort he has made so far.

The peachy tint now slowly spreads to Niamh's cheeks.

"Anyway. I swear there was a point to all of this. I — I refuse to believe that the Githyanki are — that we are — as evil as people think, just from looking at us."

The Tiefling exhales the tiniest of "Oh"s, and finally bridges the remaining distance between the two of them. He does not embrace Niamh, not quite; but he does squeeze her shoulder.

"I understand. And if any of my people made you feel unwelcome, I will talk to them. Sternly. They ought to know better than this."

Niamh clasps her own hand, lightly, around his wrist, and her large, low-set mouth stretches into a smile.

"Thank you —"

She her tongue stumbles, heavy and clumsy, over his name. Even though he introduced himself the moment he had breath enough in his lungs, after fighting off goblins and screaming at Aradin — she is still too awkward to address him as... As a friend.

"Zevlor. Perhaps... Perhaps your people will understand after we put an end to the goblins once and for all, and return with Halsin. My companions think that I am dallying too much; putting our own journey on pause to slay every monster. But when you yourself toe the line of… of monsterhood, you have to go that extra mile to prove yourself."

Still not letting her go, Zevlor fixes his eyes on hers.

They stand like this for a few moments longer, as the world slowly fades back, and neither flinches under the other's gaze. Not even when golden flames — shimmering, scorching fragments of Avernus — dance within his eyes. Not when the slithering shadow coils and uncoils in hers.

"If between the two of us, someone has to be a monster," he says softly, "That is certainly not you."

And when she finally steps away, her eyes are dry and bright, and her posture is firm and assured.