#Isobel is persistant

[sportygothic]

s1e2

[vibingandsimping]

More random intimate positions/scenarios! Pt.2

Morally grey/villain characters this time!

Forewarnings: Dark content… including things like ownership, stalking, gore + obsession. Some pure fluff though :)

(I apologize for this being considerably longer compared to the others. I have been playing some more plus researching the lore. I feel more confident in my understanding of the characters and my writing.)

Gortash had his fingers wrapped around your chin as he beckoned you to look at him. You’re sat in his lap with your hands rested atop his shoulders. His expression is content with how closely pressed you are to his body. He could savor your warmth and read you so intimately. His brown eyes meet yours with a certain warmth laced in all the unwavering dominance. His lips quirk into a smirk as he watches your poorly built facade begin to crumble. His spare hand runs along the small of your back slowly… beckoningly. He'd be the hero of Baldurs Gate soon. He'd have all the power he dreamt of as a boy. Don't you wish to share that with him? His chest purrs when you keen into his touch. Good. He knew you could be a pretty thing for him. Such a formidable foe and he’d have you right by his side.

Minthara had her arms wrapped around your frame protectively. No matter how large or small you were in comparison. She was determined to hold you and plant some sort of reassurance into you. The way she regarded you was not that of any other. No, you were special to her and the woman realized it may not be so clear. She may be a cruel and a standard "drow", but beyond that there was an affection for you within her heart. She plants a kiss against the back of your shoulder-blades and it draws a shudder. Her muscles tighten around you as she presses her face into your shoulder, hot breath washing the junction of your neck and the flesh of your shoulder. You resist a second shudder. Unbeknownst to you, she’d follow you even if it was fruitless. Nothing was shaking her now that she was wrapped around you.

Orin's blade travels down your chest. It was gentle yet sharp... she wasn't particularly aiming to harm you but the thin streak of blood was enticing. The wound was so shallow it barely bubbled- just enough to alert her she broke the skin. Everything about the way she gazed at you was unhinged. You knew if she had pupils they'd be dilated. She draws her face downwards and laps at the tender flesh while you draw a shaky inhale. The whispers of praise and wishes for more barely reached your ears beyond the thrum of your heart. The slimy feel of her tongue worming it’s way up to your collarbones hitch your breath and you watch carefully. Each movement breeds more anticipation- she was soaking in your torment. She was wicked, truly, she devoted herself to you. You’d never understand her… but did you have to?

Ketheric’s hand laced with yours as you walked to his side. He was laid on his throne with open thighs as he acknowledged your presence. The man was aged and once a father. Well, technically still but Isobel regarded him with disowning. He long burned that bridge from his desperation and despair. You entered his life and turned things around. Everyone in Moonrise had never seen him so soft since he lost his daughter and wife. You took a seat on one of his thighs as he drew your hand to his face. His lips planted a gentle kiss on the back of your hand and then along your wrist. His beard tickled and caused you laugh, struggling against his hold as he stubbornly refused to let you go. When he finally did his lips were quirked upwards and there was a twinkling in his eye. He never thought he’d take a lover again… so he was glad when you broke down his walls. He’d once curse you for being persistent but now he’d praise you for it.

Raphael tugs on the invisible leash that was wrapped around your neck. You jerk forward on the bed as you kneeled with palms balancing you on the lush fabric. His wings were on grand display as his typically slicked hair tussled ever so slightly. Expression dark and expectant as you slowly crawled toward him. His brows furrowed as he tutted impatiently, a leg swinging out to hook around your thigh and jerk it underneath you. You collapsed as he drew you towards him with little patience. You now sprawled across his lower abdomen and crotch as his chest rumbles in amusement. Your skin burned with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. The hold he had on you, literally and figuratively, elicited a deep part of your brain. One that wished so carnally to be claimed… to be owned. Raphael would see to that, he promised, with one hand stroking your hair. You were such a sweet thing… and if you weren’t so persistent he’d lock you up for himself.

Kar’niss thought of you as a blessing. Truly, a drider like him didn’t deserve such an angel. He was supposed to be punished for all eternity for his shortcomings. He failed once and will never see to being a normal drow again. That’s why it didn’t make sense for him to be rewarded- but who is he to look at a gift with ungratefulness? He always holds you so tenderly… his body shockingly cold. He’s restless today, you note, as his eight legs skitter and his hands curl at you. There’s a flittering look in his face. A hunger he tried to conceal. When you question, he answers truthfully, drider need to feed on blood to survive. Every four days or he’d succumb to weakness and eventually die an empty husk. You offer yourself and he checks you for any hesitancy before diving in. He pierces the flesh with his sharp nails before indulging in the crimson that flowed. Between suckles and licks, he praises you for your generosity. Endless ‘thank you’s’ flow as much as your blood. He’s sure he’d never fallen deeper in love… or was it infatuation?

Haarlep knew their affection for you was essentially forbidden. Raphael handed you as a toy to them. Nothing more and nothing less- they should regard you only for his entertainment. They somehow found themselves wanting to indulge in your mind rather than your flesh after some time. It was your softness that first stunned them and foiled their pure-desire. Raphael never touched themself with such… they could barely find the word. Gentleness? Regard? They’d lay with you after your shared bliss and inch their nails down the side of your hip as you detailed your life. With a hand propping their head; they seemed enchanted. Mesmerized by how simple yet complex of a creature you were to them. Haarlep was a succubus and spent their life serving that purpose. They almost felt jealous of the freedom you held in life. They couldn’t help but find themselves fantasizing a life where you two lived in better circumstances. It was all a fantasy, though, they knew it with a bittersweetness.

Durge had always watched you from afar. Stalking, following and admiring. You caught their gaze amongst the crowd as they deliberately chose their next victim. You would’ve been easy. You didn’t hold yourself with a particular air in the ranks of Baldur’s Gate. Another citizen lost to the crazed killings of a maniac. It wasn’t until you’d noticed you had a secret admirer did your hackles raise. You could feel a pair of eyes on you at the most inopportune times. Then, came the letters at your doorstep detailing how they defied their nature. You could’ve been another hung corpse but instead they wished to wrap their mind around your heart and their lips amongst your neck. A shiver ran through you… a mix of disgust and a strange intrigue? Surely it was the way the letters were so detailed and deranged. You would’ve ignored it all until the stalking emboldened. You saw their figure in the window at night and through the alleyways. It was only a matter of time before they struck and claimed you as theirs. You’d simply have to keep an eye over your shoulder and hold a dagger close. If you could even strike them, that was.

[stylesonfilms]

ink & innocence - 28

word count: 5.1k

i need to up my game on this story im SORRY! <3

The party downstairs carried on, its energy buzzing through the walls like a live current. Music thudded against the floorboards, muffled but persistent, as Aspen and Harry descended the staircase. Harry stumbled over a step halfway down, prompting Aspen to stifle her giggle behind a hand. He turned to her with a faux-serious expression, his brows furrowed, though the tips of his dimples betrayed his amusement.

“Did that on purpose,” he slurred lightly, his grip on the railing tightening in a show of mock confidence.

“Sure you did,” Aspen teased, her voice lilting with laughter. She grabbed his free hand, steadying him as they made their way down. Harry’s fingers wrapped around hers with a lazy, possessive grip, his thumb brushing along her knuckles in a way that sent warmth spreading from her fingertips up to her chest.

When they reached the living room, they settled back into their earlier spot on the couch. Kirsten, to Aspen’s quiet relief, was nowhere to be found— likely off somewhere with her hookup. Isobel sat nearby, her legs draped lazily across Zayn’s lap as she sipped on something new, her lipstick staining the rim of the glass.

“That was pretty badass,” Isobel declared, tipping her drink toward Aspen with a playful smirk. Her hand shot out to lightly fist-bump Aspen’s knee, the motion casual but full of approval.

Aspen huffed and rolled her eyes, but her lips curled into a reluctant smile that she couldn’t suppress. “Whatever,” she replied softly, her attempt at brushing off the compliment falling short when Harry leaned forward to press a slow, deliberate kiss against the back of her neck. His lips were warm against her skin, and she felt his hum reverberate softly.

“Only my girl,” he murmured, just loud enough for her ears, his tone brimming with quiet pride.

Before Aspen could respond, Louis appeared in front of them, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. With one hand, he slipped a red solo cup into Harry’s grasp, and with the other, he placed a juice box squarely on top of Aspen’s head.

“Stay hydrated,” he quipped with a laugh as the box toppled onto her lap. He tossed a tin container onto the coffee table before flopping down beside Niall, his laughter loud and carefree.

Aspen glanced at the tin, her brows knitting in curiosity. She leaned forward slightly, trying to catch a better glimpse of what Louis had brought to the table— literally. When he flipped the lid off with a dramatic flourish, her eyes widened. Inside was a neat row of pre-rolled joints, their paper pristine and almost professional, with a small lighter tucked alongside them.

Her gaze darted to Isobel, who was already reaching out to grab one. Zayn followed suit, his easygoing demeanor unchanging as he took one between his fingers and lit it with a flick of the lighter. The sharp, familiar scent of marijuana quickly filled the air, blending with the faint sweetness of spilled drinks and the tangy smell of snacks lingering on the counter.

Harry, however, made no move to join in. His arms remained firmly around Aspen, his cup now balanced precariously on her knee as he pressed another kiss to her shoulder. His lips brushed the exposed skin there, soft and warm, and she felt his low chuckle vibrate through her.

“Oi, Harold, snagging one?” Louis called, holding out a joint in Harry’s direction with a waggle of his brows.

Harry didn’t even glance up, shaking his head as he pressed his lips against Aspen’s shoulder again. “Nah,” he replied casually, his voice muffled but certain. “Got my lady tonight.”

The words sent a flush of heat to Aspen’s cheeks. She turned slightly in his lap, her wide eyes scanning his face. He looked at her with a lopsided grin, his green eyes heavy-lidded from the alcohol but still sharp and focused on her. He gave her hip a playful squeeze, his thumb brushing idly over the girl's skirt.

“What?” he asked, his grin widening as he caught her staring.

“Nothing,” she said softly, her lips curving into a small smile. She tapped his nose lightly with her finger, unable to stop the warm flutter in her chest. “I just didn’t know you smoked, is all.”

Harry’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. “Is that a problem?” he asked, his tone light but edged with genuine curiosity.

Aspen shook her head quickly, the movement making her hair brush against his arm. “No, not at all,” she assured him. Her voice was steady, though the smell in the air tugged at a faint memory from her past. “I just didn’t know that about you.”

Her sister used to smoke a bit while their parents were out of town, needing a relief from the mess that their parents were. As Aspen was under her care most of the time, it was a regular routine for her to experience.

Harry nodded, his hand slipping down to take the juice box from her lap. He carefully poked the straw through the foil and handed it back to her, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“I don’t do it all the time,” he admitted, his voice softer now, like he wanted her to understand. “Just when work gets... a lot. Zayn, Niall, and I will hang out at my place and smoke, but I wouldn’t do it around you.”

Aspen tilted her head, her brows knitting slightly. “Why not?”

Harry shrugged, his free hand rubbing small circles into her hip. “I don’t want to expose your little innocent mind to that,” he said with a teasing smirk. “And I want to take care of you.”

Aspen felt her heart skip a beat, her fingers tightening slightly around the juice box. “But you can drink?” she teased, her lips curling into an amused smile.

Harry laughed, the sound low and rich as he tipped his head back slightly. “Alright, y’got me there,” he admitted, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Just say the word, and I’ll never touch another bottle.”

Aspen shook her head with a soft laugh, her chest warming at his sincerity. “No, H. It’s okay. I... trust you. I know you know what you’re doing.”

Harry’s lips parted in a slow smile, his lip piercing catching the light as he rolled it between his teeth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she confirmed, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. Her eyes sparkled as they met his, the warmth between them palpable even amid the haze of smoke before the sound of Isobel's giggles broke through the median noise. 

"Zayn, stop!" Isobel huffed out into a fit of laughter as her boyfriends fingers dug through her sides in a tickling manner. 

"You stole my joint!" He protested, laughing as his actions came to a halt, plucking it back between his fingers. 

Harry’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, his breath warm against Aspen’s shoulder. “God, those two…” Aspen muttered under her breath, her lips quirking upward in a wry grin as she glanced toward the chaos on the opposite end of the couch.

Harry shook his head, leaning closer to Aspen, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “He’s havin’ me tattoo somethin’ for her next week before the shop opens,” he said, the warmth in his voice laced with amusement. “Did she tell you?”

Aspen turned back to face him, her curiosity piqued, her laugh from moments earlier fading into a softer smile. “No,” she replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “What is it?”

Harry clicked his tongue, smirking as he swirled his drink lazily in his cup. “No can do,” he teased, leaning back slightly against the couch. “Must be a surprise, then.”

Aspen narrowed her eyes at him, the playful challenge in his tone sparking something within her. “Please?” she pleaded, her voice dipping into a slightly dramatic whine as she pushed out her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “I won’t tell. I just want to be nosy and silently happy for my friend. Pleaaaase?” She grinned as she grabbed hold of Harry’s shoulders, shaking him lightly for emphasis.

Harry chuckled deeply, the sound rich and gravelly as he balanced his cup on his knee. His green eyes twinkled with amusement as he glanced from the couple back to Aspen. “Alright, fine,” he relented, his lips curling into that signature smirk that always managed to make her stomach flip. “But you cannot tell.”

“I won’t! I promise!” Aspen beamed, leaning in closer, her expression practically glowing with excitement.

Harry raised a brow, his smirk widening into something more mischievous as his gaze flicked pointedly down to her lips. “You know,” he started, his voice dipping into a slightly lower register, “I like it when you beg f’me, doll. Trying to send me a message?” He wiggled his brows dramatically, his teasing tone both playful and suggestive as a puff of laughter escaped him.

Aspen’s eyes widened, and a soft, scandalized gasp slipped past her lips as she lightly shoved his shoulder. “Harry!” she hissed, glancing around quickly, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of pink.

Harry only laughed harder, his dimples deepening as his shoulders shook. “Fine, fine,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender, though the glint in his eyes made it clear he wasn’t sorry at all.

Aspen huffed softly, willing the heat in her cheeks to subside as she darted a quick glance at the others. None of them seemed to have noticed Harry’s cheeky comment, but the coil in her stomach tightened anyway. She could still hear the rasp in his voice, thickened by the alcohol, his accent drawing out the words in a way that was both casual and impossibly magnetic.

She turned her focus back to Harry, who now rested his arm lazily across her lap, his cup in hand. His lips tilted into a lopsided grin as he spoke again, his gaze flicking briefly toward Zayn and Isobel. “He’s gonna get her eyes right on his chest,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he turned back to Aspen. “I’ll one-up him, though. Get your whole face smack-dab on m’back.”

Aspen rolled her eyes with a laugh, swatting his arm lightly. “Don’t you dare,” she replied, her voice tinged with playful exasperation. “And second, I think that’s sweet. She’s got cute eyes, and she’s going to absolutely freak when she sees it.”

Harry snickered, shaking his head. “Zayn described them as ‘hot blowjob eyes,’” he added, his words tumbling out between bouts of soft laughter as he brought the cup back to his lips.

Aspen froze for half a second, her head tilting slightly as she processed the comment. Harry’s hum of amusement only deepened as he swallowed, his gaze warm and teasing when it landed back on her.

“‘S what a girl’s— or guy’s, I suppose— eyes look like when they give a blowie,” he explained, his tone matter-of-fact despite the wicked glint in his eye. “Down on their knees, lookin’ up type of thing.”

Aspen’s cheeks flushed crimson, and she wrinkled her nose, a mix of surprise and embarrassment rippling through her. The thought of Zayn saying something like that about Isobel sent a swirl of conflicting emotions through her chest—discomfort, amusement, and secondhand embarrassment all at once. She opened her mouth to respond but found herself momentarily speechless, her eyes darting toward Isobel, who was obliviously laughing at something Zayn had whispered in her ear.

Harry’s quiet chuckle beside her pulled her back, his hand giving her hip a small, reassuring squeeze. It was a fleeting touch, but one that grounded her, reminding her that despite his teasing, there was an ease to their connection that felt natural. She exhaled softly, shaking her head at him as her lips twitched into a small, reluctant smile.

"Do you think that?"

"Think what?" Harry tilted his head, feigning innocence, but the glint in his eye betrayed him.

She huffed softly, her cheeks tinged pink. "That she has... those eyes."

His lips curved into that all-too-familiar smirk, the one that sent her heart into a frustratingly uneven rhythm.

"I've seen better," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low rasp that curled around her like smoke. His hand gave her hip a firm, reassuring squeeze, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of her shirt. Before she could even think to respond, his touch shifted, his fingers brushing the bare skin of her lower back with an unhurried ease, his thumb tracing gentle arcs just beneath the hem. "Possibly the fuckin’ best."

Her breath caught, a quiet gasp hitching in her throat as the intensity of his gaze pinned her in place. His green eyes, darkened by the dim light and whatever alcohol lingered in his system, locked on hers with a look that was equal parts teasing and reverent. She felt like prey caught in the sightline of a hunter—cornered and vulnerable, her defenses melting under the weight of his attention.

Aspen’s lips parted as if to protest, but no words came. Her thoughts tangled, incoherent, as heat crept up the back of her neck and bloomed at the tips of her ears. His stare stripped her bare, not in a crude or obvious way, but with a quiet, steady persistence that made her feel like she was the only person in the room.

Harry leaned forward slightly, his movements unhurried, calculated. His hand abandoned her back, trailing along the curve of her waist before settling firmly on her thigh, his touch just below the frayed hem of her denim skirt. The heat of his palm bled through her skin, amplified by the cool press of the silver rings on his fingers. The juxtaposition of warm and cold sent a shiver coursing up her spine, her body betraying her even as her mind scrambled to catch up.

The scent of weed continued to waft through the room, mingling with the sharp tang of alcohol and the subtle notes of Harry’s cologne— something musky, with a hint of cedar that clung stubbornly to his clothes. The voices of their friends became a muted hum in the background, drowned out by the steady pulse of music. Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard Liam ask Harry if he needed another drink, but his voice barely registered. Harry was far too preoccupied to notice— or care.

All of his focus, every ounce of his attention, was on her.

Harry’s eyes roamed her face with a quiet intensity, as if committing every detail to memory. The way the loose strands of her hair framed her cheeks in soft waves, the way her lips curved naturally into the slightest pout, their rosy hue deepened by her nervous habit of biting them. He thought of the way the sun caught her features earlier that day— how her lashes cast delicate shadows on her cheeks, and the warm light brought out the flecks of hazel in her otherwise brown eyes. He’d seen it a thousand times before, but still, he’d swear she was something out of a dream.

“Picture fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her, though the words carried enough weight to send her heart into a chaotic flutter.

Before Aspen could fully process what he’d said, his fingers slid further, dipping just beneath the edge of her skirt. The movement was deliberate, slow, as though he wanted to give her a chance to stop him— but she didn’t. His fingertips brushed the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, the cool metal of his rings creating a stark contrast that left her reeling.

Her breath hitched audibly, the sound so soft it barely reached her own ears, though Harry caught it immediately. He tilted his head, his smirk widening just enough to deepen the creases around his mouth. The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly, betraying the slightest hint of amusement beneath the layers of something darker.

Aspen’s fingers tightened around his shoulder, her nails pressing faint crescents into the fabric of his shirt. The action wasn’t forceful— more a reflex than anything. She wasn’t pushing him away, nor was she pulling him closer. She was caught somewhere in between, her body betraying her confusion as the tension between them crackled like static electricity.

Her voice caught in her throat, but she didn’t need to speak for Harry to know what she was feeling. The subtle shift of her breathing, the way her pupils dilated as her wide eyes searched his face, the faint tremor in her hand as it gripped his shoulder— it all told him everything he needed to know.

And yet, Harry wasn’t rushing. He wouldn’t. Every touch, every glance, was measured, deliberate. He was entirely in tune with her, and it wasn’t just about the physicality—it was about her. How she’d respond, how she’d feel. The anticipation thrummed between them, heavy and heady, as though the entire room had dissolved into nothingness, leaving only the two of them in its wake.

"H, what're you—."

"When are y'gonna let me see those eyes again, huh?" He murmured, his tongue slow and deliberate as it came out to wet his lips. 

Harry tightened his grip on her thigh, kneading the flesh between his palm. Aspen couldn't help but follow the movement of his tongue with shy eyes, meeting his again. Only to have them looking right back at her.

"I believe I asked you a question, little mouse. Are y'gonna be good and answer me?"

Aspen couldn't help but squeak out a noise, about to turn her head to make another check before he caught her chin. 

"You're going t'give us away, Asp. Now, answer me."

She huffed through her nose, and despite the blush on her cheeks from embarrassment, her chest ignited.

"W-whenever," She whispered, her brown eyes flickering to his lips and back to his eyes. 

He chuckled softly, low and slow as he brushed the tip of his pinky along the thin material of her panties that covered the mound of her cunt. She sucked in a small breath at the touch that took her by surprise, fisting the shoulder of his shirt momentarily before relaxing again.

"Whenever, huh? Even if I took you to the guest room again? Or what about in the Uber back to my place? What if when we got back to mine," another brush of his pinky, "and the moment I closed the door? Would you let me push you down to your knees? What about wakin' me up and givin' me those sweet eyes from under the blanket, hm?"

Harry's hand took another firm grip of her thigh again, his eyes still locked on hers. He knew well enough that his friends were busied with themselves, talking on and on about hula-hoops to skateboards to weird laws in Switzerland.

Aspen's breath hitched at his words and his gaze. The girls lips parted, as if to say something, before they shut once more. The feeling in her tummy boiled up to her chest and she wanted to scream for him to have mercy on her soaked panties. She shifted in his lap and swallowed, nodding after a few moments. 

"Y-yes, all of those..." She brushed her fingers along the tattoos of his neck, suddenly becoming so interested in the line work that trailed up.

"Y'know what I think?" Harry mused, taking another sip from his cup as he took a look around before back at her. "I think you want it as much as I do. Just need your taste of havin' my cock in your mouth, don't you?" He murmured carefully, cracking a smile when he saw the way her cheeks tinted and her gaze stay on his neck. His shy little girl.

"I've corrupted my sweet little virgin, but don't get me wrong. Fucking love this side of you. Do you understand me?" He squeezed her thigh once more, making her squeak and nod. 

"Aspen..."

"Y-yes, I understand," she breathed out, biting the inside of her cheek. She was about one second away from grinding into his hand, her body betraying her better judgment, when the sharp sound of Niall's voice cut through the smoky haze like a record scratch. The sudden intrusion yanked Aspen back to reality so fast it felt like whiplash.

Harry’s hand slipped from beneath her skirt in a practiced, nonchalant manner that almost convinced her it hadn’t just been there at all. He turned his head towards Niall, his features relaxed, though there was a faint flicker of annoyance that crossed his face—a frustration he quickly masked with ease.

“Refills!” Niall called, his voice carrying over the music as he swaggered towards them, the nearly empty bottle of liquor in one hand and his joint balanced between his lips. He leaned forward dramatically, tipping the bottle over each person’s cup with a lopsided grin. The sweet, bitter tang of the alcohol hung heavily in the air, cutting through the musky scent of weed that had settled in the room like a thick fog.

When Niall waved the bottle in Harry’s direction, Harry shook his head, his lips twitching into a small smirk. “I’m done for tonight,” he said, his voice even but edged with amusement.

Niall raised a brow, the smirk on his face widening as he plucked the joint from his lips and took a slow drag. Smoke curled around his head like a halo before he barked out a laugh. “Oh, Harry’s lookin’ to get some tonight, is he?”

The words hit the room like a bomb, and every head turned toward them in a wave of collective curiosity. Aspen froze, her body going rigid against Harry’s side as heat flooded her cheeks and neck. She let out a soft whine, burying her crimson face into the crook of Harry’s neck, wishing the ground would just swallow her whole.

Harry laughed at her reaction, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against her cheek where it rested on his skin. He gave her thigh a reassuring squeeze, his fingers lingering just long enough to ground her, silently reminding her that it was just Niall being Niall. Still, the corner of his mouth twitched upward as he shook his head, his amusement clear.

“Speaking from jealousy, Ni?” Harry quipped, his tone smooth and dripping with mockery.

Niall’s eyebrows shot up, and he smirked, gesturing lazily with the bottle. “Jealous? Me? Woah, woah, who says I won’t get any either, huh? Safe to say we might all be occupied tonight, eh?” He nudged Zayn to his right, then Louis on his other side, his grin widening at his own joke.

The room erupted into a mix of groans and laughter, their friends rolling their eyes in unison. Even Aspen couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips despite her embarrassment. As much as Niall’s teasing grated on her, it was impossible not to laugh when everyone else was.

It was true, though. Everyone in the group acted like drunken rabbits once the alcohol hit and the inhibitions dissolved. Niall’s comment wasn’t so much a joke as it was a painfully accurate observation, and that fact only made it worse.

“Well, that’s our cue…” Isobel’s voice rang out, light and sing-song, as she wobbled to her feet. She tugged on Zayn’s arm, giggling as she stumbled slightly. Her sheepish smile did little to disguise the blush creeping up her cheeks.

Zayn caught her with ease, his hands steadying her with practiced familiarity. He chuckled, shaking his head as he allowed her to drag him toward the front door. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, waving a sloppy goodbye over his shoulder.

“Bye, lovelies!” Isobel added, her voice cheerful and slightly slurred as she threw exaggerated kisses to the group.

Harry hummed, patting Aspen’s thigh softly before rising to his feet. He extended a hand down to her, his smirk firmly in place as he pulled her up with ease. “It’s best if we go as well,” he announced, his voice laced with mischief. “For Isobel, of course.”

Aspen rolled her eyes, her blush still clinging to her cheeks as she tucked herself under his arm. “Of course,” she muttered, the sarcasm in her tone light but not unnoticed.

Harry grinned down at her, his arm snug around her shoulders as they made their way toward the door. Aspen reached out, returning high fives and fist bumps from their friends as they called out a chorus of goodbyes.

Her stomach fluttered as Harry guided her forward, his hand resting comfortably on her side. The air outside would feel cool against her heated skin, and she couldn't wait for the slight reprieve. Yet, when she glanced up at him, his jaw sharp in the low light, she couldn't quite fight the small smile that tugged at her lips.

And if Harry turned back to their friends as they walked out, mouthing “Score!” while silently pumping his fist in victory, well, that was for him to know.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The cool night air was a sharp contrast to the hazy warmth of the house, wrapping around them and carrying the lingering smell of smoke and spilled liquor. Harry tapped on his phone with the precision of someone used to keeping his wits about him, even while a slight buzz hummed in the back of his mind. The glow of the screen cast soft light across his features, emphasizing the sharp line of his jaw as he confirmed the Uber. His fingers moved fluidly, almost automatic, while his thoughts drifted back to the feel of Aspen against him moments ago, her skin warm beneath his touch, her laugh like a melody he hadn’t realized he needed.

Zayn stood a few feet away, similarly engaged with his phone as he finalized the ride for himself and Isobel. He was grinning faintly, undoubtedly replaying some moment from inside. When Harry tucked his phone into his pocket, his eyes instinctively sought Aspen, and without thinking, he pulled her to him, sighing heavily as she melted against his chest.

The scent of her shampoo, sweet and slightly floral, mixed with the faint smell of weed and sweat clinging to their clothes. Harry rested his chin on the top of her head, closing his eyes for a brief moment, savoring the peace of having her in his arms. Her hands slid up his back, her palms flat against the fabric of his shirt, and the tension in his shoulders eased. For a few minutes, there was nothing but the soft rustling of leaves and distant laughter from inside, the world around them fading into the background as they simply existed in each other’s embrace.

Aspen’s heart beat steadily against his chest, and Harry couldn’t help but smirk to himself, thinking about how easy it was to feel at home with her like this. She was his calm in the chaos, even if she didn’t know it.

Then, a familiar voice broke through the moment. “I need to pee. Come with,” Isobel slurred, stumbling slightly as she made her way over, her eyes glassy but bright with mischief.

Aspen pulled away reluctantly, looking up at Harry with an apologetic smile. “I’ll be back,” she promised softly, her hand briefly squeezing his before she turned to follow her friend back into the house.

Harry watched her go, his smirk softening into something fonder, though he’d never admit it out loud. He slid his hands into his pockets, glancing over at Zayn, who had been watching the exchange with a knowing look.

“You’re whipped, mate,” Zayn teased, his grin crooked.

Harry snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, alright. Like you’re one to talk.”

Before Zayn could retort, the faint hum of an engine drew their attention. A sleek black car rolled up to the curb, its tinted windows gleaming ominously under the streetlights. Both men exchanged a glance, their relaxed postures stiffening as the car came to a halt.

The passenger-side window rolled down with a faint mechanical whir, revealing Leone’s face partially obscured by the glow of his cigarette. The sharp scent of tobacco mixed with the crisp night air, and the tension between the three men became palpable.

Zayn exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening as he muttered, “Great.”

Harry leaned against the car, ducking slightly to meet Leone’s gaze. His green eyes were sharp, calculating, though his tone was deceptively casual. “What do you want?”

Leone took a slow drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke billow lazily into the air before speaking. “I need you two boys next Thursday. Big dealers coming in.” His voice was gravelly, laced with authority that demanded attention.

The cigarette’s ember glowed brighter as Leone took another drag, his free hand shifting slightly. That’s when they saw it—a gun resting casually on his lap, his fingers running along the barrel as if it were a natural extension of his body.

Zayn’s hand twitched at his side, but he kept his voice steady. “You can’t come showing up like this,” he hissed, his tone low and sharp. “Not so public.”

Leone chuckled bitterly, a sound that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. “I own you fools,” he said, his voice cold and unyielding. “And I’m always careful.” His eyes glinted dangerously as he leaned forward slightly, the cigarette dangling from his lips. “Thursday. Be there. Don’t make me have to fuckin’ find you twats.”

The window rolled up smoothly, cutting off any response they might have had as the car pulled away from the curb. The taillights disappeared into the distance, leaving Harry and Zayn standing in heavy silence.

Zayn let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his hair. “I hate that prick,” he muttered under his breath.

Harry’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Yeah, well, he’s not exactly my favorite person either,” he bit out, his voice low.

The weight of the encounter lingered between them, unspoken but understood. They had no choice, and both of them knew it.

The sound of laughter broke through the tension as Aspen and Isobel stumbled back out of the house, their arms linked and their cheeks flushed from the cool air. Aspen’s eyes found Harry immediately, her smile softening as she made her way over to him.

“Everything alright?” she asked, her voice light, though her gaze flicked between the two men, sensing the shift in their moods.

Harry forced a smile, his hand reaching out to pull her back under his arm. “Yeah, just talkin’ shop,” he said smoothly, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Zayn and Isobel exchanged a brief glance before their Uber pulled up to the curb. Isobel tugged Zayn toward the car, waving a cheerful goodbye to Aspen and Harry as they climbed in.

A few moments later, Harry’s Uber arrived, and he opened the door for Aspen, letting her slide in first before following suit. As the car pulled away, the tension in Harry’s shoulders eased slightly, though the encounter with Leone lingered in the back of his mind like a dark cloud. For now, he focused on the warmth of Aspen beside him, her head resting against his shoulder as the city lights blurred past the windows.

[autistichalsin]

A Durge Theory

This is my theory for my Durge, and resist!Durge in general, but obviously YMMV with your own!

So, the core of this is the memories that are unlocked if you either give Durge a noblestalk or use Heal on them. Two in particular are relevant here:

If you eat the noblestalk but haven't met Sceleritas Fel yet, your memory is of murdering a newborn.

If you have Heal cast on you while not having eaten the mushroom nor having resisted Bhaal yet, you see a memory of having murdered a family, very likely the one that took them in.

In the first case, you have a few options for reacting, one of which is, "Delve: why did it die?" The Narrator then says (in a way that indicates it might be your own thoughts): "*Better to die than live on an earth walked by you. Each of your deaths is a mercy.*"

Durge, despite their brutality, despite their affinity for torture, ultimately views their deaths as merciful, because even torture is better than living in the same world as them. That..... is a staggering amount of self-loathing.

For the second option, Durge has a few options, all of which lead to Sceleritas taunting him: "Young Master, precious fledgling, follow ever your heart. In time, your true family will find you." Durge was quite young when their Urge first took over, and it was noted that after this, they tried to fight it off a few times unsuccessfully before giving in fully and entering the Cult of Bhaal.

Further, we also know that Durge has often not been in control of themself while committing murders, though they were for some, too. For Alfira or Quill's murder, they explicitly say it was in their sleep; if they get Steelclaw killed, they have no memory of doing it; if they choose to go to sleep rather than warn their lover after sparing Isobel, they'll wake to find their partner dead.

This suggests to me that in addition to the Urge itself, it is very possible that at times, Bhaal directly possessed Durge to make sure they killed in situations Bhaal wanted them to- particularly when Bhaal wanted them to experience bloodlust, and was angry they seemed to have forgotten this part of themselves.

So... piercing all of this together, we have my heartbreaking headcanon for resist!Durge, and especially for my Durge Kiaran.

Durge/Kiaran was taken in by a loving foster family. They loved to play and were sweet- which angered Bhaal. He needed his spawn to feel bloodlust.

So Bhaal possessed them and made them murder the very family that took them in, quite possibly including a newborn sibling. Durge started to develop an appetite for killing, as Bhaal planned, and was also overcome with grief and self-loathing, feeling they were a monster- which Bhaal also planned. Bhaal made sure the Urge persisted, and all the while, Scleritas kept appearing to taunt and guide them towards their "real family," a group of murderers who understood them better than anyone else.

Feeling there was nothing else a monster like them could do but embrace their nature, Durge finally entered the cult, rose through its ranks, and became feared and admired for their ability to create mountains of bodies. All the while, though, they loathed themselves, feeling that even their worst, most torturous deaths were a better fate than sharing the world with them.

After the Nautiloid, Bhaal tried to reignite Durge's bloodlust with more forced murders, but the brain damage from Orin had truly severed the part of themself that had given in to Bhaal, allowing them to fight back the Urge and become their own person at last.

It fits in so well with the game's themes of gods being willing to completely and utterly fuck over even their worshippers just to get what they want, and many other themes the game hits on too (especially trauma, loss, and accountability for past actions counterbalanced with the ability to change, grow, and be better.)

[shewolfofvilnius]

a clumsy kiss... with cal and lae'zel I need!!!

No Taste for Revelry (Cal x Lae'zel - First Kiss)

(1394 sh Words). Act 2 (I MIGHT mirror this on AO3)

Read on AO3

The revelry at Last Light Inn was unceasing. Several refugees from Elturel - and a half dozen gnomes - had been liberated from Moonrise Towers, and amidst all of the strife and sorrow of the so-called Shadow-Cursed Lands, a celebration had broken out. Tomorrow would start the beginning of the daring warrior Tavaria and her adventuring friends' search for a way to destroy Ketheric Thorm once and for all.

Tonight, one of her fellow adventurers, the githyanki woman Lae'zel, had quickly dismissed herself from the celebrations. Such raucousness was only for the victors, she had persisted, and with her recent declaration of hshar'lak by Vlaakith herself and with Thorm still standing, the warrior had no cause for such frivolity.

Instead, she had taken to guarding the perimeter of Last Light Inn, patrolling around the circumference - more or less - of Isobel's dome of protection over the place of respite.

As a poorly sung istik song began to refrain through the air - was it being sung by that teethling wizard Rolan of all people? - Laezel walked across a bridge and past some times towards a gravesite with several graves recently dug.

'The other teethlings...tieflings is the correct designation and I should commit to the recollection of that. As a traitor in her eyes, I shall be here for a long time - or possibly quite a short one. I should commit to learning my new brethren's proper...most curious."

Her patrol and thoughts were interrupted by the site of a lone tiefling standing over top of the newer graves. It was...him.

The tiefling who had aided her in her quest to find her people's creche. Who had offered advice on dealing with the local life. Who had pushed back firmly against her laments and mocking, and proven a capable swordsman when she had tested his mettle in combat, having originally intended to betray him and release him to his god of choice.

She'd known after the second bruise, and after the fifth deflection, that she wanted to taste him, to discover the flesh of this world. Tieflings were different than many of the other types of people found on this plane yet still so very similar, and she had found herself drawn not just to the plight of these refugees, so proud and determined, but to the plight of this man - of this Cal - in particular.

The source of her bruises. zhak vo'n'ash duj.

"Oh, Lae'zel. Hi. I know things were tense on the boat, what with Gale nearly killing that Wulbren arsehole when he hurt my sister. Dunno if I got to proper thank you and the rest for getting us out of that hellspit."

"Your gratitude is unnecessary, Cal, but your words are received and respected regardless. I see you stand over the final place of rest of your many comrades. The world is a darker place for their loss."

"I...thank you. There were a lot of good people we lost. Still not sure why the four of us you rescued are the ones who made it. Us and Zorru, anyway, still not sure where he disappeared to though, hope he got away." "No doubt the Absolute wished to use your skills to their benefit. Your hatchery sibling-"

Confusion washed over Cal's face. "My what?"

"Apologies, I still am learning the breeding practices of this realm. In a creche, numerous of my people are hatched together from eggs. Those who come from the same grouping of eggs - who are raised and trained together - are referred to as 'hatchery siblings' in your tongue."

"Well, I understood the sibling part at least. Your people hatch from eggs?"

"Yes. Tavaria and I recently recovered one from the creche, shortly before...". For a moment, for a blink of an instant, Cal was certain he could see a tear forming in the corner of the woman's eye.

"I'm coming back to the egg thing, but...something happened with your people? Not good I take it?"

"I was branded a traitor, and all of the children of gith - all those who worship Queen Vlaakith herself - have been told to kill me on sight."

"Bloody idiots."

"Yes, most of the occupants of the creche were left with grievous injuries after Tavaria had...oh. The other usage of that word in your kind's common tongue. I have spent my entire existence in devotion most pure to Vlaakith and to my people, and this is what I am to receive in return?"

"Learned more about your kind in one afternoon with you than I did 24 years of life, I did. I - I'm sorry they did that to you; called you a traitor. Maybe...hells, maybe it's not over for you, maybe you'll be part of some great 'telling off' of Vlaakith."

"My kind are unfailingly loyal to Her Mightiness, as they should be."

"No, they shouldn't."

"You will hold your tongue."

Cal stuck his tongue from his mouth and grabbed hold of it with two finger tips. With some difficulty, he spoke out. "Like this?"

A feeling that Lae'zel couldn't quite understand began to rise up from her, starting from her midsection and gradually trailing up into her chest, her lungs, her throat, her mouth. She found herself startled, gasping for air slightly, making an involuntary sound. Laughter.

"So the mighty warrior laughs after all."

"That is what your kind call a 'laugh'? It is most unpleasant."

"Give it some time. Maybe it's just an acquired taste."

Acquired taste. There was that word again. If there's one taste she'd like to acquire it's..

Cal started to move towards her...but tripped on a small stone on the ground. Clumsily, he moved towards the ground, only to be caught by Lae'zel.

For a few moments, the githyanki held the tiefling, unsure what to do next. She began to pull him towards her, intending to replicate the 'kiss' ritual she had recently witnessed between Tavaria and Rolan, only to be pushed away by Cal.

"Look, Lae'zel...not standing at a gravesite. Sorry."

"What could be more of a statement of life than standing in view of your fallen kind still engaged in the pursuit of life?"

"I...we should talk about that one. Cultural difference, I think. Look, a lot of these folks were my friends. It's still difficult."

"You honour them by continuing to fight. By continuing to live. By accomplishing your objective - reaching Baldur's Gate - and by living the most full and complete life of which you are capable. You are capable of living a very full life, Cal. I may be new to this plane, but I have studied now hundreds of individuals and find you one of it's exemplars. You shall thrive, of this I'm sure."

"So shall you."

"I...appreciate your endorsement of my capabilities."

"Know what...to the hells with it." Cal moved towards Lae'zel and again managed to trip over the same stone.

This time, both shared a laugh, Lae'zel finding laughing significantly less stress-inducing the second time around.

"Know what? I keep putting this off, eventually that rock's gonna kill me. Come here."

Cal pulled himself - gods her arms were strong - up into a full embrace by Lae'zel. He tenderly wrapped his hands around her hips and onto her lower back, and the two shared a kiss. Her body tensed against hers, clearly not used to being held. Her mouth was just as frustrated, just as untrained

But her mission was accomplished all the same. She had tasted Cal.

"Your technique needs a bit of work, but I find you capable and with a bit of practice, I believe you could be exceptional." Cal repeated back the words Lae'zel had said regarding his fighting technique those weeks ago, having remembered.

"You infernal kainyank"

"Damned right. I should know. Been to Avernus and everything."

"I...you..."

Lae'zel made a second attempt. Feeling the warmth of his skin against the chill of hers, feeling the taste of the source of her bruises becoming one with her own...the pair proved practice could make perfect. Maybe defying Vlaakith wasn't so bad after all.

A grin crept across Cal's face. "Wonder how long we can keep this a secret from the rest of them?"

"I wager you twenty gold coins that we've defeated the Absolute, whatever it turns out to be, before anyone has discerned our connection."

"Deal...now, explain to me this thing about the egg."

[bullet-prooflove]

I've just found your work and I'm obsessed 😭 I never usually ask for things - too scared lol but feeling brave. For Dr Archer Chicago med and the three things prompts please can I request: cat + whiskey + socks 😂

Tagging: @kmc1989 @mandy426 @mysticcandymiracle @sweetdaytimedreams @cosmic-psychickitty

Dean does not want a cat, he has never wanted a cat but apparently he now has a cat, one that likes to nap in his sock drawer and yowl him awake when he sleeps past seven am.

“That’s because he likes you.” You tell him when he complains to you about it. You have  the whisky coloured kitten snuggled up close to your chest and you’re depositing tiny kisses on the top of its head. “He knows who his Papa is.”

“Isobel.” He says firmly. “I don’t want to be it’s Papa, we need to rehome it.”

The look on your face, it makes Dean feel like a monster.

You don’t speak to him after that. You spend the evening playing with the kitten on the floor until it curls up on your lap and falls asleep and he just watches the Cubs game, pretending that there isn’t an icy cold chill between the two of you.

This whole thing started when you were cutting through the park on your way home a couple of days ago. You’d heard a persistent meowing coming from one of the trashcans you walked past and when you’d looked inside, you’d found a tiny bedraggled kitten, thrown away as if it were trash. You’d bundled the thing up in your coat, brought it home and it’s been living here ever since much to Dean’s discontentment.

When he wakes up the next morning, you’re already gone from the apartment but the cat it’s still there. He observes the note on the coffeemaker telling him it’s been fed asit lingers by it’s bowl looking hopeful.

“It’s nothing personal.” He tells it as he takes a couple of the cat treats you bought out of the pouch and places them in the bowl. “I just like my space.”

The cat brushes up against his hand, rubbing it’s cheek across his knuckles. Dean scratches it behind the ears and it begins to purr under the attention, stretching out as his palm lightly caresses over its back.

“Maybe we can come to arrangement.” Dean tells the kitten, scooping it up and escorting it to the fluffy grey cat igloo that now resides next to the sideboard in the living room. He sets the kitten down in front of it and it brushes it’s face against the fabric. “You stop finding your way into my sock drawer and actually go to sleep in the cat igloo she got you then maybe you can stay.”

The cat delves inside, padding it’s paws on the pillowing and Dean takes that to mean they’ve come to an accord.

It’s late when you get in that night, it’s been a bear of a shift. There’d been a pile up and you’ve spent the past few hours trying to find space for your additional guests and work their autopsies into your already busy schedule. You still haven’t had a chance to find a new home for the cat, part of you is hoping Dean will change his mind but you know the likelihood of that.

When you step into the living room, Dean’s sitting on the couch watching an old war movie, the kitten is resting on a cushion in his lap, his palm lightly stroking over him as they both stare at the screen.

“Are we keeping him?” You ask, trying as hard as you can to keep the excitement out of your voice and Dean sighs as he looks down at the kitten.

“I guess we are.”

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[moonselune]

I don't know if you do these two but can we get isobel and dame aylin falling in love with tav. If not, jaheira being constantly flattered and flirted with by tav to which they end up together. Love your work as always and thanks for doing my ask about tav with a kid and back hugs 😁

Okay so I didn't know if it was poly or separate for our moon ladies so feel free to request that again when my inbox is back open. Thus I wrote the Jaheira prompt. And no worries I loved those requests and thank you for your support !

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Jaheira was a woman of strength, wisdom, and undeniable beauty. From the moment you met her, you were captivated. You could have stayed entwined in her vines for a millennia. Her fiery spirit and unwavering resolve drew you in, and you couldn't help but express your admiration through some flattery and playful flirting, and by some you meant 24/7. It started with small compliments during your travels.

"Jaheira, your skills in battle are unparalleled," you would say, watching as a faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "And you have a way of making even the darkest places feel safe."

Jaheira, ever composed, would respond with a polite nod or a slight chuckle, brushing off your compliments with a modesty that only made her more endearing to you. But you were persistent, finding every opportunity to compliment her.

One evening, as the campfire crackled and the group settled in for the night, you approached Jaheira, who was tending to a pot of stew.

"Do you need any help?" you asked, your tone light and teasing. "I might not be as skilled as you, but I'm a quick learner."

Jaheira glanced up, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "I think I can handle it," she replied, but there was a softness in her voice that suggested she appreciated the offer.

"I don't know, it looks like a pretty mean stew, a dual attack may be needed," You joked and Jaheira let out a light laugh, relenting and handing you a wooden spoon. Enboldened, you continued. "You know, Jaheira, there's something about you that just draws people in. It's not just your insane strength or your ethereal beauty. It's the way you care for everyone around you. It's captivating."

This time, Jaheira didn't brush off your words. Instead, she paused, her hands stilling over the pot as she looked at you more intently.

"You have a way with words," she said slowly. "But I have come to learn that words are easy. Actions speak louder."

Taking her cue, you moved closer, your eyes locked on hers. "Then let me show you," you said softly. "Let me prove that my admiration for you is more than just words."

The firelight cast a warm glow on Jaheira's face as she considered your words. Finally, she nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Very well," she said. "But know this: I do not give my heart easily."

Over the next few weeks, you made it your mission to prove your feelings through actions. You stood by her side in battles, even when Gale was right there, which often led to Jaheira shoving you over to him - he needed the protection much more than she did. You shared stories and laughter during the quieter moments, bringing out the wine you had managed to steal from Shadowheart's stash, and you always found ways to make her smile. Your respect for her was unwavering, and your affection only grew stronger with each passing day.

One evening, after a particularly intense battle with a group of gnolls, the camp settled into a rare moment of peace. You found Jaheira sitting by herself near the edge of the clearing, her gaze fixed on the horizon as the sun dipped below the trees. You approached her cautiously, not wanting to disrupt her thoughts, but unable to stay away.

You settled down beside her, the warmth of the fire casting a gentle glow around you. "Jaheira, I meant what I said before," you continued, your voice earnest. "Your strength and wisdom are unparalleled, but it's more than that. It's your kindness, your compassion. It's what draws people to you."

She looked at you, her gaze softening. "You have a way with words," she said quietly. "I've come to realize that perhaps your words do carry weight."

A rush of excitement and relief swept through you, with a playful grin, you turned slightly away from her and pumped your fist discreetly, celebrating your small victory. Jaheira chuckled softly, shaking her head at your antics, but there was a fondness in her eyes that hadn't been there before.

"You may have... crawled your way into my heart," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. You were unable to hide the joy that lit up your face.

"I knew it!" you exclaimed quietly, unable to fully contain your excitement. You quickly composed yourself, realizing how important this moment was to both of you. "I mean... thank you, Jaheira," you said more calmly, meeting her gaze with sincerity. "I don't take your trust lightly."

Her smile widened, and without another word, she leaned in and kissed you. It was a soft, tender kiss that spoke volumes more than any words could convey.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

High Water

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, minor appearance by Lorroakan, and a bit of Selûne Length: ~3500 words Rating: T, for canon-typical violence Summary:

Isobel turns without urgency; puts herself between him and Aylin in a way that almost makes Aylin want to exclaim in protest. But she refrains - for once, for at least a moment, she allows herself to remain a grateful witness to another's splendour. "You! What have you done?" The weasel yells, screeches, ear-grating and pathetic. Isobel faces him placidly, not moving from her position. "The better question, I think, would be what have you done?"

Aylin faces betrayal and imprisonment once again, but her champion will not let this go undisputed. A fix-it fic, of sorts, for a certain wizard tower scenario.

Written for day 3 of Aylin/Isobel Week 2025, for the prompts: The Moonmaiden's silver light | Tides, cycles, healing, scars

Also on AO3.

—

High Water

As with the rising and falling of the tide, akin to the persistent cycles her most holy Mother holds to, Aylin's fortune turns once more to betrayal, and then from treachery to imprisonment, to hateful shackling, to revolting leeching, to the whims of another wretch whose reach exceeds his grasp.

She paces the insultingly small circle - it is harder, this time, to avoid the accursed grasping hands. At least in the very void of loss damned Shar and her damned champion Ketheric could afford some room. Not the ever-powerful master wizard in his precious tower, no. 

Aylin huffs; averts her eyes from the familiar runes and inscriptions surrounding her, with another sharp little flare of affront at some of them being in Celestial. She glowers at the remnants of elementals around the - pleasingly - rather devastated chamber. The fire-wielding one she took out at the small price of a handful of singed feathers, but the earthen one covered her in mud, of all indignities, which got into every littlest crevice of her armour. The ice-water creature drove some of the sludge out with its attacks, then froze the rest. It was hardly difficult, after that, for the traitor to slide their dagger between her ribs and the wretched magus to finish both her and one of the Slivers with a lightning bolt.

Even though she cannot truly feel it through the solid metal of her breastplate, Aylin rubs at the site of a new gold scar, and fumes. She indulges in a growl deep in her chest as she shoots a vicious glare at the myrmidon now transmuted to steel, standing guard before an empty throne of books. The wizard had grown tired of her noisy pacing and insults and attempts at provocation, and had left for some other miserably ostentatious part of his lair. He made very sure to close the portal - the only entrance to the top of the tower, if one was not equipped with wings - after himself. 

The sour, sordid aftertaste of the fact that she begged the traitor to leave Isobel alone when they returned for their profane payment makes her want to spit in disgust. Dame Aylin, pleading with them to lie and obfuscate, in her name, for Isobel's own sake. Perhaps if it was humiliating her and tearing her down they were after, and not merely the gold, this will have been enough of a display. Perhaps Isobel can remain safe and away from this den—

Oh, Isobel. Isobel had not wanted her to go, and certainly not alone. Perhaps her presence would have turned the tide, or convinced the traitor to abandon their foul designs. After all, Aylin herself has many times witnessed how a few wise words of unparalleled insight from Isobel could be enough to change the course of the stubbornest, most misguided of hearts.

She paces some more, clenching and unclenching fists and jaw both with an agitation she cannot dispel, until one of the conjured arms making a grab for her almost causes her to trip. Then she gives up on walking, rips the dented helmet off her head with some effort, and throws it with a furious, frustrated cry.

It hits the floor next to the traces of one of the Slivers' demise, and dissolves into motes of light. Much like the fallen Slivers, staunch and welcome allies, brilliant protectors… gods, at least it is theirs to simply go back to Argentil upon defeat!

Aylin takes a deep breath and tries to focus on the steady vibrations of that eternal silver string woven around the back of her mind; on the hum and thrum that echoes them and follows their rhythm, carried deep into her being, moving her very heart. Mercifully, this time her Mother is not lost to her.

Someone will come, She murmurs to Aylin, through the indignities. My little moonbeam, I am sorry. And though Aylin chafes at the thought of requiring rescue, again, it is still a blessing she will wholeheartedly accept, compared to the century in the Shadowfell, alone, isolated, cut off so cruelly and utterly.

The sting of betrayal is similar enough to before. Her and Ketheric's relationship had ever been reserved and cool, at most, with some inevitable butting of hard heads. But he was still a staunch ally under Selûne's light all those years, and a man she was planning to one day call her kin. Who she so patiently tried with, and, she had to admit, he tried with her, for a while - for Isobel. Until disaster struck them both, and Aylin was forced to bear the brunt of it without mercy or reprieve.

Her frustration turns, inevitably, inward - after felling her century-old tormentor, after facing the avatar of a god, how could she have failed to defeat such a snivelling charlatan? What matter his reinforcements; with the Slivers, fearsomely radiant as ever, with her Mother's support so fully given - clearly the point of failure was Aylin herself. Has her time in the Shadowfell dulled her edge so severely?

Irrevocably?

She shakes her head at the very thought - no, no surely not. She will escape, and she will turn the wizard into an ashen smear on the overwrought flooring of his cherished tower, and she will regain herself. She will end the conspiracy behind the Absolute single-handedly, if need be. And then, once the three pretender-gods have been beaten back into the holes they so often crawled out of like rats and roaches, oh, then it will be the traitor's turn to pay dearly.

Afterwards? The aftermath will most certainly involve rebuilding, healing - work best left to others. And Aylin will be free to go through her old training routines, to take inventory of herself. Her shortcomings, her failings, her weaknesses - once exposed, she will take care to address each and every one in turn.

With the comfort of a slow formation and ordering of a plan of action, and with the full conviction that they will be perfectly within her reach to summon back, Aylin takes a deep, slow breath and dismisses the rest of her ruined armour, along with her singed wings. To her great relief, she finds that the clothes underneath - fine garb newly purchased upon their arrival in the city - have survived the battle mostly unscathed. After a century in rags encrusted with her own blood, then weeks on the road making do in various borrowed or scavenged bits and pieces, Aylin finds herself relieved at this small mercy. There is much to be said for basic dignity, after all. She plucks and worries at the loose strings hanging from the frayed edge of a sleeve that must have gotten caught—

There is a rush, like the air is about to leave the vast tower chamber all at once. A sudden quiet, then something almost like static, crackling louder than the atmospheric buzzing of magic-sodden air. Aylin feels her hairs stand on end; her skin prickles, a rapid chill pouring its way down her spine.

The place where the wizard had sealed his entrance portal - not without a covetous glance sent Aylin's way - tears open. The very air rips in two, set aflame with a silver that blazes so bright Aylin sees the afterimage burnt in behind tightly shut eyelids.

When she opens her eyes again, the horror of the sight before her drives all the air out of her lungs anew.

Isobel.

Her Isobel, beyond any doubt. But… changed, somehow, from when Aylin last saw her. She steps forward, stride so very certain, every step an inevitability. Making towards Aylin without even sparing a glance at anything around them.

Her pale hair dances softly around her face, as if blown around by a breeze. The black ink around her eyes, that incredible work of art and devotion emblazoned forever on that beloved face, flickers silver in time with her eyes themselves.

A sharp, high-pitched sound from Aylin's right, and several icicles whip past - only to be crushed into so much sparkling snow upon impacting the pale shimmer of a shield Isobel wills into being around herself.

She continues on her way, entirely unimpeded. Her spear blessed with moonfire, her robes and cape gleaming as a holy raiment, she is a sight unmatched.

Aylin gapes. She knows the implications well. 

The steel elemental heaves its incredible bulk towards Isobel and she bats it away with a mere gesture of her free hand. Holy fire sears it into little more than slag long before it can even come close to intercepting her. But Aylin barely has time to blink in awe before the entire room is plunged into a thick, impenetrable icy mist.

The next breath she takes feels like a knife in her chest, and her first thought is gut-wrenching concern: Isobel had been struggling with chills, with a persistent, painful cough, and this can only aggravate her condition—

But no sounds of hacking or choking come. A solemn silence spreads through the room, and the hiemal clouds part before a moon so full and bright Aylin falls to her knees before it.

The fate of the final elemental remains an inconsequential mystery; all Aylin knows at this moment is she wishes nothing more than to dedicate the rest of eternity to basking in awe of the vision of divinity before her. To worship, perhaps, its finest mortal vessel—

But then she bends down, this effulgent saint, and, as soon as Aylin raises her head to meet her eyes, she smiles. A smile with such adoring softness to it it feels like a benediction, and Aylin gasps when a hand reaches underneath her chin to tilt it up, her slack-open mouth pressed closed by a kiss.

It is not exactly a hand extended in friendship, but it satisfies whatever sick catch the cage-spell had built into it this time. The glowing runes disappear, the grasping hands return to nothing. The most wonderful relief floods Aylin's limbs once more and drains them of strength, but before she can slump to the floor, she is pulled up into another kiss.

"My glorious Isobel," Aylin murmurs, her hands clenched in the luminous vestments as if holding on for dear life; a gentle and familiar hand, in turn, caressing her face and leaving a trail of magical residue that feels as cool as a fresh, clear stream. "My one and only, the most wondrous creature in all the Realms, I—"

It is then, of course, that the wizard makes his return, stumbling through a misshapen, hasty portal. He can't have missed the severing, after all, the turning of his despicable dreams to ash. The distraught cry he produces at the sight before him is comical - Aylin allows herself a hearty chuckle against her beloved's palm.

Isobel turns without urgency; puts herself between him and Aylin in a way that almost makes Aylin want to exclaim in protest. But she refrains - for once, for at least a moment, she allows herself to remain a grateful witness to another's splendour.

"You! What have you done?" The weasel yells, screeches, ear-grating and pathetic.

Isobel faces him placidly, not moving from her position. "The better question, I think, would be what have you done?"

It is one of Aylin's greatest regrets that, at that moment, she cannot quite see Isobel's face.

"I will tell you what you've done," she sounds so deceptively calm and friendly, with a sharp undercurrent that has oft proved deadly - oh, Aylin can just picture that particular curve of her lip. "You dared make a play for Selûne's Sword, neglecting the fact that She wields a Shield, as well." Isobel tuts. "A rather grave oversight for a learned wizard of your calibre, is it not?"

The loathsome mage does not respond, instead making his clumsy way up a handful of stairs to his right. Aylin instinctively braces for another lightning bolt to come careening her way - but he is a coward of the first order, and fighting his own battle seems a foreign thought. With a loud click, he activates some contraption, and several vents around the chamber begin to spew noxious fumes, tinting the air green.

In response, Isobel mutters a quick incantation. With what is surely the most graceful and elegant movement Aylin has seen anyone perform, she sends a howling wind to disperse the clouds and send their sad remnants harmlessly out the windows.

An exclamation of frustration makes itself heard over the rush as Lorroakan scrambles, once more, for the magical switches hidden around the room. This time, arcane turrets hum to life, crackling and abuzz with ominous energy.

"Aha!" Rivulets of sweat run down his face, his meticulously kept appearance in shambles, his grin wide and desperate. "I…I'll—"

"No," Isobel says simply, "you will not." Another quick and deft weaving of gestures in the air and a pearlescent dome encapsulates each turret before it can even try to fire. Bolts of violent magic disperse harmlessly on the inside of the bubbles.

There are no more artefacts available in Lorroakan's arsenal; he has neither animated armours nor assistants around him. The magus dies as badly and as forgettably as he'd lived, a blackened pile of unrecognisable soot and char within seconds. Equalising man and god, he claimed during his ranting and raving - oh, how very little he understood.

The first moment of silence that stretches after the battle is perfection. Aylin's shame at her defeat and repeated capture is muted almost to nothingness; her anger, that boiling, roiling, festering rage that burned and scoured her insides until there was neither trace of nor space for anything else - it drains out of her all at once, and the shift in intensity startles even her. Replaced, for a moment, by a sting of terrible fear at that first sight of Isobel, now in turn replaced by awe and pure, passionate love.

Of course it was Isobel. It would always be Isobel.

But then the silver blaze goes out of Isobel's eyes, and she pitches forward, like a puppet whose strings were freshly cut. Aylin rushes forward those few steps to catch her, holding her to her chest, guiding them both to the floor to the sounds of Isobel's spear clattering and rolling down a set of stairs.

Isobel tries to wave her off with a trembling hand. "It's alright, I will be fine," she insists, through gasps for air and grisly-sounding coughs. "I just overdid it a bit. It's alright, Aylin. I'm here now."

"You are," Aylin confirms, unnecessarily, steadily rubbing Isobel's back, half-unbelieving and half-ready to exclaim that it could never have gone any differently. Her darling, so brilliant.

My daughter, her Mother says. Aylin blinks, startled out of her fawning reverie by the welcome intrusion. They will not hurt either of you again. My sword… and my shield.

"Isobel?" Aylin asks, eyebrows raised quizzically, when she notices Isobel has gone quiet, and is gazing off into the distance. Listening.

"I… was offered and lent a certain amount of power, it is true. At the camp, when I found out what had happened… how could I stand idly by? I reached out, and Our Lady responded, and, well. We were entirely of one mind in this matter, at least: no chain will ever bind you, as long as I have any say in it." Isobel licks dry lips, pointedly not meeting Aylin's eyes. Then she frowns, troubled and contemplative both. "I am not sure if I will keep it - accept it."

"If you will keep this power, take on this calling, I beg you, do it for your own sake," Aylin finds herself pleading, arms tightening around that most precious treasure she has ever held. "Not for mine."

"I was unsure," Isobel says with a bitter chuckle, "unsure I was worthy of the honour - half-convinced the radiant magic would simply slough off of me, revolted, no matter what Selûne said. That— that I couldn't possibly house it within this…"

Her hands tighten into fists, her voice a rasp. Aylin splays one gentle hand over her sternum, not with pressure so much as presence. It has become a familiar gesture already; Isobel pauses and takes a deep breath - just enough to see the large, warm, gold-laced hand move in time with her own slow inhale and careful exhale.

She smiles, but it is wry again, and rimmed with sorrow. When she speaks, it is so quiet Aylin strains to pick out the words. "I thought, perhaps, if, with this, I were to be your equal…"

"Banish that thought!" Aylin exclaims, horrified. The idea that Ketheric might have poured this poison in Isobel's ear is infuriating. The idea that Aylin herself might have made Isobel feel thus is intolerable. "You already are, in every way that matters. You know this, my love - I know you do, and I swear to provide you with whatever reminder you find yourself in need of."

"Oh, Aylin…" Isobel trails off, and buries her face in Aylin's shoulder. Aylin finds simply holding her tightly embraced is not enough; in a flash, she summons her wings, and spreads them to envelop them both.

It is easier to speak softly, encased in a pale cocoon of soft feathers. "Cast aside those cursèd words that wagging tongues try to wield against us. Only do this if it is what you desire for yourself. My Mother… does not take many Chosen. She does not like the weight upon them, the yoke it implies, the firm directions it steers their lives in."

Isobel sits up a bit straighter, faces Aylin head on, as sharp as ever. "She steers yours, doesn't She? And Hers is a service I joined, trained for, and have performed willingly all my life. I have never wanted anything else. Is this any different?"

"Of course it is different! I was born for this very purpose, and no other—"

"Aylin," Isobel frowns, interrupts as if wishing to argue, but Aylin shakes her head.

"As Her eternal champion—"

Isobel will not be deterred. "Perhaps it is time for Dame Aylin to know what it feels like to be championed."

Her eyes seem to blaze, for a moment, with that old silver. Aylin bows her head in quiet acceptance, then presses a kiss to Isobel's forehead, right above her circlet, and says nothing.

The lighting of the tower changes slowly but inexorably; the hue cooling into bluer tones. It is blessedly and comfortably quiet.

After a little while, Isobel squirms a bit in the embrace, then pulls herself upwards and trails a line of kisses along Aylin's jaw, cupping her cheek with her other hand. "Rest," she all but whispers next to her ear. "That is what we both need. I scouted the enclave we spoke of while you were gone - they've had a rough time of it and could use our aid, yes, but the place is beautiful and serene even now, and its people welcoming and friendly. I think we will both benefit from the sanctuary they offer."

"And then?" Aylin asks, uncharacteristically hesitant, all of her wrathful plans and furious contemplation running through her mind at once. Of course evil cannot go unfought and wrongs cannot go unrighted - Isobel knows this just as well as she, believes it just as firmly. It is part of the brilliance of their match.

"And then… we will see," Isobel hums. "Renewed and stronger. Together."

"I cannot object to that," Aylin smiles down at her, pulls her in closer, reluctant to break apart the makeshift little refuge they have created here with nothing but themselves.

"Aylin, darling," Isobel pipes up, after having trailed what feels like every gold line on Aylin's face with gentle fingers. "You know I treasure every moment in your arms, but this floor is… hardly the most comfortable."

The only response Aylin can muster is a self-satisfied smirk, as she cradles Isobel to her chest a bit more firmly and lifts herself to her feet in one steady movement. She laughs at the charming, startled, utterly delighted sound her beloved makes at being swept up like that, peppers her face and neck with kisses until Isobel is laughing along, and, finally, sets her down. The humming, radiant spear is presented to Isobel as soon as she regains her footing properly, and ransomed for another kiss.

Hand in hand, they step outside onto the balcony, and watch the moon rise over an entire city, laid out beneath and before them as if on an immense silvery palm.

[oneeyedtav]

Not Enough Hands

For @polyshipweek Day 2: Blorbo has two hands Relationships: Dame Aylin/Shadowheart/Isobel Thorm Warnings: Suggestive Themes Word Count: 882 AO3 Link: Here! Notes: Did I intend to write actual smut? Yes. Has it been so long that I scared myself off of the idea? Also yes. But goddammit I'm gonna try,,, eventually.

Isobel’s body pressed Aylin’s hips apart where she arched off the wall, fingers grasping needily at the Paladin’s broad shoulders as Aylin licked hungrily into her mouth. Aylin’s fingers squeezed against the cleric’s thighs in her grasp, urging the roll of her hips against her own. 

When Isobel closed her teeth around the muscle of Aylin’s tongue and sucked, the aasimar growled, pressing her closer to the wall, pulling back only when her darling gave her the gentlest of taps against her shoulder, releasing her devilish hold on her tongue. A string of saliva connected their mouths, and Aylin took pride in the way the cleric looked at her, blue eyes blown wide, kiss-swollen lips parted just for her- 

The door to the room opened as Shadowheart slipped into their quarters, dropping her mace and shield beside the front door as she huffed a breath. “Clowns, why did it have to be-” Noticing the two pairs of eyes watching her, “Oh, hello. Am I interrupting something?” There was a teasing smile on her face as her arms crossed over her chest, smearing the blots of viscera that still clung to her armor. 

“Mmm, not interrupting, never interrupting,” Isobel promised, taking Aylin’s distraction in her bloodlust to find the sliver of skin where her throat met her jaw. A hot tongue laved at the skin, following the river of molten gold, teeth brushing against the skin enough to make her proud paladin falter. 

Her attention turned back to Isobel, though she could hear the quiet sounds of Shadowheart removing her armor, could smell the musk of sweat and the stench of death where it wafted from the woman. “She seems quite preoccupied, does she not?” Shadowheart came up behind Aylin, fingers finding the spot against her back, right between where her wings would rest, pressing into knotted muscle in a way that made her knees shake. Isobel’s chin lifted from the crook of her neck, though Aylin could not see the look the two clerics shared.

“Well, I do have two hands,” Dame Aylin boasted, practically beaming at Shadowheart, even as Isoebl’s lips and teeth attacked the column of her throat.

“I can think of a better use for you, and your hands.” Shadowheart’s hand trailed down Aylin’s left arm, coming to a rest at the inside of her wrist before dragging the pad of her finger along the smooth metallic feel of a golden scar, racing down the aasimar’s palm and ending in the cook between her ring and pointer finger. 

The touch of magic was barely noticeable, easing the phantom pains that the demigod had learned to live with. Her hand relaxed against Isobel’s thighs, and when Shadowheart reached to hook a finger under her chin, guiding her towards their bed, she became malleable to both women’s wishes. 

Aylin was gentle, always so careful in setting Isobel against the pillows at the head of the bed, though the shove from Shadowheart that pressed her face into the pillows was nothing of the sort, Aylin still felt a warm laugh bubbling past her lips as the half-elf settled beside them, fingers trailing up the line of corded muscle along the aasimar’s bicep, biting back a remark about the pull of the muscles that kept her elevated above Isobel, even as the cleric of Selûne attempted to urge her lower. 

“This is getting out of hand,” Aylin complained with no real bite in her tone, allowing the persistent press of Shadowheart’s fingers into her arms and Isobel’s heels pressing into the small of her back to finally pull her down, body flush against Isobel, who, upon being pressed firmly into the mattress by the paladin’s weight, released a long, contented sigh. 

“Now, I thought you said you have two hands for a reason,” Shadowheart interrupted, a sly smile on her face as she pressed close to the pair, laving her mouth and teeth over the juncture of an uneven scar fissure, causing the paladin to shiver. 

“I believe we outmatch you, my love.” Isobel all but purred in her ear, taking immense satisfaction in the sight of sculpted muscles jumping at just the sound of her voice. “We have four hands between us.” 

As if to enunciate her point, those blessed hands danced up her arms, briefly ghosting over Shadowheart’s cool touch before following the golden sutures to a point along her back, pressing into the muscles that held her wings. “Devil women.” Aylin shuddered, allowing the movements of both women to roll her to the side, instead leaving Isobel’s weight pressing comfortably into her abdomen, left to gape up as both clerics exchanged a knowing look between themselves, a communication that the Aasimar was not privy to. 

The instinct to slide her hands along Isobel’s thighs came from something deeper than her DNA, trailing her fingers along soft thighs and urging her to sit just a little higher. Falling perfectly into the cleric’s trap, Shadowheart used the new space to settle herself between Aylin’s legs, earning a faux sigh from the demigod. “I believe I need to start the search for more hands.”  Isobel laughed a joyous sound to her ears, before leaning down to capture her lips. “We’ll be happy to lend ours to the cause… after we’ve had our fill,”

[composerbutnevercomposed]

Reading Recap - March

This month I read 5 books total: The Night Circus, Legendborn, Bloodmarked, Oathbound, and Butcher & Blackbird. I feel like I’ve been getting a lot of 5 star reads recently, and I don’t know if that’s because I’ve been picking well, or I’m just easy to please lol.

** Spoilers Ahead! **   

The Night Circus - ★★★★★

Wow! What a great book, let’s start off with that. I picked this up on a whim, cuz I kept hearing it’s a “modern classic,” and everyone was right! It’s a solid piece of fantasy, and I recommend it to anyone who’s looking for something different, yet familiar in the genre. I really disagree with people saying this book is “no plot, just vibes” as I feel it’s clearly building to it’s ending all the way throughout. When we find out Isobel is the reason everything’s been so balanced and harmonious in the circus, and we as the reader know everything’s about to fall apart once she stops intervening? Hell yea! And I really like Celia and Marco together, it was love at first sight that felt “believable.” I’m not entirely sure what inspirations Erin Morgenstern turned to when writing, but I couldn’t help but draw comparison to The Master and Margarita; it’s approach to magical realism reminded me a lot of it, and the ending of the book (”I don’t want a story you create from here,” he taps his temple, “I want a story that comes from here,”) is incredibly reminiscent of the famous “manuscripts don’t burn” quote from the novel.

The only thing I have about giving it 5 stars is I feel after reading the Legendborn cycle directly after is that it didn’t stick with me as much as that series did? I don’t know, part of me wants to bump it down a star in Goodreads after the fact, but I also don’t feel like I should “punish” a book that I did actually enjoy because of comparison. Either way, I’ve picked up the Starless Sea since I enjoyed Erin Morgenstern’s writing so much.

The Legendborn Cycle - ★★★★★

Individual Ratings:

Legendborn - ★★★★½

Bloodmarked - ★★★★½

Oathbound - ★★★★★

Legendborn is a book series I’ve had my eye on for a few years now, and I genuinely am kicking myself over not reading it sooner! I think I said this to someone, but reading the first book gave me the same vibes of reading Percy Jackson for the first time. And, not complaining, but Tracy Deonn’s frame(s) of reference is incredibly apparent within the first book; 2010s YA fantasy but with a modern understanding of why these mythologies have persisted over others (spoiler alert: it’s white supremacy). If you’re a PJO alumnus who was emotionally attached to Nico di Angelo ten years ago, and you don’t come away with a soft-spot for Selwyn Kane, I don’t know what to tell you. 

The reason why I didn’t give Legendborn + Bloodmarked five stars is kind of due to my own personal code when I rate my books; if there’s something that detracted from my personal enjoyment of the book, I take off half-a-star. That doesn’t mean I didn’t love the book (I’m obsessed), just something was needed for it to be a 5. For Legendborn, that was me personally struggling to understand the “calling” system of the Scions. I understood the concept of Scions of <Blank> being called first, and then the next lowest rank, and so-on and so-forth; I just started to get confused when William tries to explain the individual lines and who gets called when. I don’t know why; but on top of the ranked knights thing, I came away thinking that all of the lowest in the line of succession gets called until the first-in-line does? I don’t know, sometimes I get mixed up; and I don’t think it helped they tried to explain the Regents thing in the same breath, and that’s a whole different beast to me. And then looking back, my gripe with Bloodmarked feels a bit petty? I don’t know, I may bump it up to a 5 in Goodreads posthumously. I really was bummed we rushed through how the hell Nick and Sel got there in time to help Bree, and it was explained away in a large paragraph said to Alice in a coma; I would’ve liked to see that. On top of that, it was a bit difficult to understand how Bree came to the conclusion to run away with Erebus/Shadow King, it felt out of the blue (but the impulsive stuff she did at the end is sort-of explained in Oathbound? so I’m more willing to let that go)

Oathbound, I loved however, which seems to be against the grain of how other people view it based on Goodreads. Maybe it’s because I recently read another highly-anticipated, third-in-the-trilogy book in Jan. that I wasn’t impressed with (that has the initials O and S, ahem); but this just felt really really, well-done for a “”slow-paced”” book (which I don't agree with, just saying). It didn’t feel like filler, it felt like expansion; which is more that can be said for “let’s go to fantasy-<insert real-life equivalent culture here> island” book -- I say this as someone who does actively read that series, don’t kill me.

What can I say, I’m a sucker for a training arc, and it felt very much like the Son of Neptune in a sense, with the battling POVs and the dramatic irony of it all. I love Bree, and having a whole book dedicated to Bree just being on her own for once after The Six Weeks From Hell was really great. I really liked being able to see the collision-course everyone was on towards each other, and the ending I think is the strongest of the three books. The only thing I really struggled with was how “different” Sel’s character voice was; which I get is the point, but it did make me miss the Sel in Bloodmarked. But I think Nick’s character development from off-screen taking front and center and just getting an influx of sheer Nick (I missed him in Bloodmarked) more than balanced it out. God, I love those three so much.

Now, about the ending of Oathbound. I really, really liked the plot twist. I thought it was the perfect way to differentiate our characters, and really tightens the strings that tie the three main characters together. I also think it’s really, really funny that potentially Sel has always been a balanced cambion (since we now know he’s probs 51% demon based on the ending); regardless if it's true, the thought that he may have been just acting like that because he thought he was “succumbing to the blood” tickles me. I know that’s probably not what happened, but I would expect nothing less from him lol.

The thing that most stood out to me in the ending, however, was the repetition of “Loving people is a practice.” I know it’s probably just something Deonn wanted Bree’s dad to say, or is the take-away from this book, but the words “a practice” really perked my ears up. I couldn’t help but draw comparison to the idea of practices in Rootcraft, and wondered if Deonn was trying to imply either something about this book, or the future of the books. I don’t know, the idea of Bree or someone practicing Lovecraft (haha) is an interesting idea to me, but I think it’s more about how loving people is it’s own form of magic; and that’s why Bree was able to heal over her soul. But yea, overall my favorite of the three, can’t wait for the next! 

Butcher & Blackbird - ★★★★★

I was trying to finish Vicious as my last book of March (see below), but just wasn’t vibing; so I picked this up on a whim as I’ve heard good things, and man was I really delighted! This is a really cute “murder rom-com” with a lot of fun little bits to sink your teeth into (no pun intended). Without giving too much away, it was really fun that all of the victims of Sloane and Rowan were kind of parodies of the classic slasher/killers in horror (i.e. Norman Bates, Hannibal Lecter, Leatherface); and the main characters were super cute and honestly very well-developed. I’m quite hesitant of a lot of “book-tok” books, but this is worth the hype; I get it. I even found myself really relating to Sloane a lot, she’s a data scientist, I’m a computer scientist, she likes to draw, I like to draw, she’s kinda emo and has red nails, I’m kinda emo and have red nails. I don’t know, I could be a serial killer with social anxiety too lol. But make no mistake this is a “book-tok” smut book for sure, and it definitely was raunchy, but surprisingly didn’t fall too hard into the stereotypical “spice” scenes books aimed at modern female audiences do. The only gripe I had is they went to the Omni Hotel in one scene, and I have a grudge against that place lol. I bought and read this the same day I’m posting this, and I’ve picked up the next two in the series, so I’ll probably pound those back as well lol. Good quick read, what else can I say.

Currently Reading

Vicious by V.E. Schwaab

Man, I’m really struggling with this one and I don’t know why! I picked this up about a week ago and only have a hundred pages or-so left, but I cannot get into it. Make no mistake, it’s written well, has great characters, and an interesting premise; but I’m feeling super removed from it for some reason? That’s why I picked up Butcher & Blackbird; I wanted my fix of evil characters but it wasn’t clicking with this one. I’m trying not to soft-DNF this one, so I might just trying and use my Spotify audiobook minutes to finish it off, see if changing the format fixes whatever’s wrong with my brain. I have Vengeful as well, as I’ve had the box-set sitting on my shelf for a while, and depending on how I feel when I finish this I may or may not read the sequel. I don’t know yet, my mind could change. I will be picking up other books by Schwaab, I love her prose; just not this book all that much.

April TBR

This is just a list of the books I have my eye on to read in April, not sure if I’ll even read any of them.

Johnathan Strange and Mr. Norrel - I picked up a gorgeous anniversary copy after reading the first page, I’m obsessed. Def something I want to read sooner rather than later. I read Piranesi, and that was good, but I’m hoping to like this one a bit more

Everything is Tuberculosis - I’m a sucker for a historical science novel (Demon in the Freezer is one of my fav non-fiction books) and I did really like The Anthropocene Reviewed, so I’ll probs pick it up at some point.

The Cruel Prince - I started getting a bunch of Tik-Toks for this out of the blue, and found out it was written by Holly Block (aka. the Spiderwick Chronicles). I loved those books as a kid so I had to pick this up, though I’m trying to limit my YA reads. 

I might throw some lit-fic in here? I have a tendency to just keep reading the same genre until I get tired of it, but I have a lot of Joan Didion books on my shelf I’ve been meaning to pick up. A few of them are small, so could be easy to throw on top of the pile.

[fangsandfeels]

Who killed Isobel Thorm?

Among all the questions plaguing me, this one is the most persistent. I hoped Isobel would give any information about how she died or what the fuck happened, but we get none. And unless I did something wrong, Dame Aylin doesn't shed any light either. I remember there was some cut content in the EA (but it's not relevant anymore), so we only know that Isobel was killed suddenly in her parent's home, and the family dog died defending her.

So, my best guess is:

Isobel was killed by a Sharran. Being a daughter of the paladin of Selune made her a target already. But a lover of Selune's daughter? Oh, her death would be a blow to the morale.

Ketheric, fearing that something like this would happen, probably begged Dame Aylin to appeal to her mother and bring Isobel back, prayed to Selune herself (if his daughter was chosen by her ambassador, it has to mean something? If Selune cares not for his another tragedy, maybe she cares about her own daughter's grief?).

The only response he got from Selune and Dame Aylin is that nothing can be done, and they should rally against the enemy to avenge Isobel, which made him incredibly enraged and bitter - he gave so much, Isobel gave so much to Selune, only for them both to be cast aside, treated like pawns in the endless squabble between gods?! So he renounced his servitude to Selune and went to Shar out of sheer spite (and secret hope that if he served her well, she would give back what she took or at least help him stop feeling). He captured Dame Aylin as an offering to Shar and a "fuck you, I'm taking your daughter then" to Selune (probably feeling disgusted how Moonmaiden hadn't done absolutely anything to help her own child; fuck maybe he even waited for her to start bargaining - Isobel in exchange for Dame Aylin's freedom).

As the paladin of Shar, Thorm led her forces against Harpers and the druids, and the Shadow Curse was unleashed after he fell.

Centuries later, Myrkul plucks him from the afterlife (I wonder whether Ketheric was on his way to the Wall of Faithless because he cursed Shar with his dying breath too, or if Myrkul simply 'borrowed' him from her domain because he and Shar are supposed to be buddies. If it's the latter, it also explains why Isobel just saw dark instead of being taken to Selune's domain - maybe Shar claimed her soul after her death somehow, which made retrieving Isobel a no-issue?).

...somehow, my thoughts ended up going into the "Faerun gods kinda suck" territory yet again. Why does it keep happening?

[cambion-companion]

Raphael x Aasimar!reader

My favorite chapter from my Ao3 fanfic Fallen in Flame.

Nostalgic for my cambion x angel dynamic.

Word count: 3500

Flames licked around you, the enveloping darkness surrounding you interrupted by dancing orange light as sparks of fire illuminated the edges of your vision. Instead of harming you, the strokes of heat caressed your legs, all while lapping a possessive trail up to the apex of your thighs and your burning arousal.

You felt strong unseen hands gripping and squeezing your flesh, the nails that bit into your skin drawing blood. These roughly intimate ministrations in the darkness were met by your sighs of pleasure; a drawn-out whimper as you felt him enter you, thrusting deliciously deep only to withdraw and repeat the motion.

A sharp pain in your rib jolted you awake, sending you bolt upright in your bedroll, a sheen of cold sweat on your forehead.

 

“Sorry darling, the noises you’re making are unconscionable even by my low standards.” Astarion withdrew his foot from your side and returned with a slight glower to his bedroll.

“Don’t you have a bear to wrestle?” Your words slurred together.

You were still distracted by the feelings of pleasure that had not disappeared as the waking world intruded.

You pressed your thighs together and bit back a moan as the feeling of being fucked roughly grew to a crescendo and then eased with surprising swiftness.

“What has gotten into you?” Astarion griped, giving your movements a roguishly appraising look. “If you need to relieve some tension, darling, all you have to do is ask.”

“Shut up, Astarion.” You retorted, squeezing your eyes closed as the phantom caresses stilled completely, mercifully, but left you feeling empty and frustrated.

“Mhm.” The vampire said tersely. “Sweet dreams.” Astarion made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat and rolled over, facing his back to you as he entered his trance once more.

You waited for a moment before getting quietly to your feet, wobbling slightly and wracking your brain to make sense of what the hells had just happened.

Moonlight shone gently upon your person as you walked away from your resting companions. You saw Dame Aylin and Isobel speaking together near the rubble of an ancient stone building, repurposed for the moment to house training activities.

You looked at Aylin with mild jealousy, her beautiful full feathered wings gleaming white under the starry sky. Her silver eyes caught your own as she marked your approach and she gave you a curt nod, her gaze following you as you walked past.

Your fellow Aasimar, daughter of Selune as she was, had been little help when you asked if there was a way to regain the missing shard of your soul. She held pity for you, that much was obvious, but there was certainly an undercurrent of disdain as well. As though she saw you as something defiled.

“Away.” Aylin had said haughtily earlier that week when you first tried to speak more with her about your predicament. “I have a darling to adore.” Her attention spent solely on Isobel, her lover.

Aylin’s most helpful advice had been said in clipped tones of annoyance at your own persistence, “Ketheric is vanquished. Your goal must now be ridding yourself of the Illithid parasite”.

Perhaps it was the distance between yourself and the celestial plane, but you couldn’t remember your fellow Aasimar having such an infuriating sense of self-righteous arrogance.

You glanced back over your shoulder at the silvered couple radiating light from the Moonmaiden’s power. An odd wistfulness took hold of your heart, unbidden memories of Raphael and all he had allowed you to experience floated to the forefront of your mind.

Lost in thought you approached the edge of where the roiling shadows of Shar’s curse remained. The dark coils probed against where the silver moon shone her light upon the ground as if trying to test the strength of it.

Halsin had said it would take time for the land to recover, yet in your bones you could sense movements of a great healing taking place in the earth beneath your feet.

You saw movement in the darkness and stopped abruptly, the full moon behind you casting your image in shadow upon the ground and illuminating the path ahead. Another flicker of movement caught your eye; someone or something hiding behind the trunk of a gnarled oak tree long bereft of any leaves.

You withdrew your sword with the long sound of metal against metal finished by a delicate ringing and the ethereal glow the weapon cast around it.

Korilla stepped out from behind the dead tree.

She seemed preoccupied with keeping an eye on the distant toll house looming dark and seemingly empty against the grey horizon. She therefore didn’t mark your surprised expression at her sudden appearance.

“You should be more careful where you set camp.” She said, her voice a harsh whisper. “There are some things not even my master can protect you from.”

“You’re scared of a…toll collector?” You sheathed your weapon, in doing so your surroundings dimmed. “Seems a bit ironic, no?”

Korilla didn’t smile. “I came to warn you to stay away from there. You have proved prone to wandering, so heed my words this time.”

“Speaking of your master…” You waved your hand and negated the whirring orange portal Korilla had just conjured. “Sorry to disrupt your usual dramatic exit but I need to speak with him.”

“He isn’t taking house calls currently.” Korilla gave you a curious look, between suspicion and pity.

“Make an exception.” You growled; your stature so much taller than the shorter woman put in stark contrast as you walked into her personal space.

Korilla hesitated, looking you up and down with a dubious brow. Finally, she shrugged. “Your funeral, angel.”

She turned away, hesitated, then glanced back at you. “May I?” She asked sardonically.

You nodded, suppressing a small smile.

Korilla waved her hand again and conjured her flaming portal. You felt a prickle on the back of your neck as you followed her through into the foyer of Raphael’s home.

“Gaudy as ever.” You murmured, looking around and spotting a bronze statue of the cambion himself set high as it overlooked the marbled hall.

“Be good and stay here.” Korilla said sternly, making a beeline down the dimly lit corridor and out of sight.

She did not return.

You turned slowly on the spot, looking up at the grossly oversized chandelier. Something about the glittering lights reminded you of your own home.

You drew closer while watching how the flame inside each shining crystal moved around like some kind of viscous fluid. You realized it wasn’t flame at all and your stomach clenched.

You pulled your face away and averted your gaze.

These were remnants of souls, shredded and confined into crystals to illuminate the home of a devil. You imagined you could hear the echoes of their screams.

Footsteps, the rustling of leathery wings unfurling and the smell of cherries, musk and sulphur.

“What have we here?” Raphael spoke behind you. “A plucked hen willfully wandering into the fox’s den.”

You huffed an annoyed sigh and faced him, turning your back firmly to the haunting chandelier. “Rhymes?” You forced bravado, clenching your hands to keep from shaking, whether from fear or anger you didn’t know. “Very well, get it all out of your system.”

His yellow eyes flickered in mild surprise before darkening with delight. “But you are no hen are you, my dove?” He approached slowly, his wings moving and stretching languidly with each measured step. “I was going to wait until you came crawling back to me, but I do so enjoy taming my pets.” Raphael slid his hand up along your side, smirking when he felt you shiver beneath his fingers.

“I am not your pet.” You said with vitriol.

Raphael smiled sharply, his eyebrows angling just enough to accentuate the dangerous angles of his face. “Yet with every word uttered from that lush mouth, my grip on your lovely neck tightens.”

To demonstrate he placed his hand gently against your throat, giving a brief squeeze. “I do not enjoy unexpected visitors, my dear. What is the adage? ‘Curiosity killed the cat’?”

“’But satisfaction brought him back’.” You replied, fighting back a smile at his smoldering reaction. “Besides, I thought I was the dove. Or was it a mouse?”

“Take your pick of whatever prey you wish.” Raphael murmured, stroking your skin with deliberate movements. “Tell me, what ill-conceived notion brought you back to my House of Hope?”

“I want an answer, Raphael.” You said, leveling an impassive gaze on him as you pushed his hand away from your neck. “I was visited in dreams by an incubus not long ago.” Your eyes narrowed into slits as Raphael chortled. “Did you send it?”

“I am a generous host.” Raphael ignored your question and burning look. “Therefore, I shall overlook your lack of decorum. Intruding into the home of a devil such as myself isn’t the wisest course of action, columba mea.”

You winced at the sound of the infernal words. Raphael chuckled, amused by your reaction. He tilted your chin up, stroking a thumb along your tense jaw. “Instead of singeing your fingertips, I will offer you a less unpleasant penance.”

“Penance?”

“Why yes. You angels are all about such tripe, after all.” Raphael chuckled again, his face darkening. “Come.”

You hesitated, then followed him into the familiar dining hall. The food was still there, this time however you noticed the foul stench and the flies swarming around the spoiled fruits and meats.

“Did you servants go on strike?” You wrinkled your nose in distaste.

“Something like that.” Raphael intoned, unamused. “They have been preoccupied attending other messes.”

You stopped in your tracks, a cold shudder running from your head down to your feet. Your eyes locked on a feminine figure leaning casually against a dark stone pillar. For a moment you thought it a mirror, your own image made flesh stood casually watching you with a sly smirk.

“Haarlep.” Raphael gestured to your double, his eyes calculating each movement your body made in reaction to this revelation. “Meet…well, you two are already intimately acquainted.”

Your eyes widened in rage, and you reached for the sword on your back. “Devil.” You hissed, realizing too late all of your weapons had been magically stripped from your person upon entering through Korilla’s portal.

“An astute one.” Haarlep straightened slightly and gave you a condescending round of applause. “A nice change from the usual, Raphael.”

“’Haarlep’?” You intoned, pausing as you thought it over. You gave Raphael a disbelieving glance. “This creature bears an anagram of your name?”

Raphael looked slightly impressed. “What a clever little thing you’re turning out to be.”

Your eyes flicked between the cambion and the devil and like a strike of lightning on a humid summer night the truth came to you. “It’s been you.” You pointed with disgust at the incubus. “You’re the reason I’ve been plagued by…these feelings of…” You trailed off, hating yourself for the burning in your cheeks.

“She is a darling broken thing.” Haarlep said in an affectation of your voice. You watched your own lips move to form the words, chills dragging cold fingers down your spine. “I can see why you favor her.” The incubus approached with movements akin to a forest cat stalking prey, causing you to hiss warningly though gritted teeth. “Such a passionate little soul, even if it isn’t whole.”

“Please tell me you don’t speak in rhyme as well.” Steeling your nerves, you remained standing tall and unmoving.

Haarlep only giggled, the coquettish sound making you want to throw a punch and knock yourself flat.

You glared over at where Raphael had sunk languidly into an ebony chair adorned with gothic detailing carved into the black wood. He watched with detached amusement as his orchestrated scene unfolded.

“I signed no agreement to this.” You spat out, keeping a wary side eye on your double as it began circling you.

“Your body signed the contract for you. Your moans of pleasure illustrating a signature dripping with ecstasy rather than ink.” Raphael said, his flaming gaze dropping to the shine of perspiration on your chest. “But I am no incubus, I leave such…unimaginative methods to those more restricted by their natures.”

Next to you Haarlep pouted, pulling yet another simpering expression you hoped to never see upon your face again.

“Now, where were we?” Raphael put a finger to his chin in thought. “Ah, yes. Payment for your impudence.” He beckoned you imperiously with one finger. “Approach.”

Raphael smiled slightly as you grudgingly obeyed. “Kneel.”

You grimaced and wavered where you stood, looking down at his smug expression. You felt hands upon your shoulders and sweet breath on your face as Haarlep intruded into your space, pressing down to encourage continued obeisance.

“Get your hands off me, devil.” A moment of incandescent rage overtook your body at the fiend’s touch, a purely instinctual reaction you had not experienced when Raphael touched you.

Your eyes emitted a sharp blue glow and a burst of stark white energy rippled like a shockwave from your person, pushing Haarlep back several paces. The incubus’ form flickered for a moment before resolving back into your perfect double. The devil opened its mouth, sharp snakelike fangs protruding from your replicated lips as it made an ugly sound between scream and infernal speech.

Claws grew from its hands and Haarlep raised them to swipe at your side.

“Stop.” Raphael said sharply, and to your surprise the incubus froze mid swing. “I will not tolerate such chaos in my house.” He remained calm, untouched by your burst of divine energy, though his appraisal of you had changed into something you’d not seen from him before. He dismissed his incubus with a wave of his hand and impatient glare.

For the first time Raphael spoke your name, and what lingered of your soul within your body responded. “Kneel.” He said again, less genteel this time. “You will come seeking me willing and wanton soon, but that is not my intent tonight.”

You hesitated as Raphael gave you a look of rising impatience and so you knelt upon the hard marble floor.

“Good. She learns.” Raphael purred, looking down at you. He fell silent for a moment, relishing the sight of you so vulnerable before him. “What an interesting little display, we will have to explore such passionate reactions in the future.” He caressed the ebony wood on which his arms rested. “For now, I wish to discuss the matter of your soul.”

You laughed softly, surprising yourself. “I could say I’m shocked.”

“Part of your soul has tragically been parted from you.” Raphael leaned forward slightly, the wooden chair creaking beneath his weight. “And I prefer to deal with those who are whole. Half a meal is not as satisfying after all.”

“I taste terrible.” You said, an echo of Gale’s words to Astarion ringing in your mind. “I wouldn’t recommend trying it.”

“I have it on good authority you taste quite delicious.” Raphael said softly, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip with relish that made your skin crawl and your thighs tighten.

“Do continue to bite your lip like that as I explain my terms.” Raphael continued dryly, his eyes falling appreciatively to your lips. “I will assist you in retrieving the shard of your soul from your estranged kindred. In exchange, you agree to perform three favors for me.”

You furrowed your brow at him, perplexed. “Do you think I’m stupid, Raphael?”

“It depends on the day, my dear.” Raphael gives a short wry laugh and leans back again. “I think you are endlessly entertaining. Which is more than can be said for most who wander so prettily into the palm of my hand.”

You fall silent, the flames crackling in the oversized hearth as you mulled over Raphael’s offer. It was tantalizing how achingly close you were to what you’d fervently desired since landing on the beach beside the Nautiloid wreckage. Since being spurned and cast out of the only home you’d ever known.

“I require revisions.”

“As do all great performances.” Raphael didn’t seem at all surprised or put off. “Life is but a stage, after all. And you, little fledgling, are a most fascinating player.”

“I’m flattered.” You deadpanned.

“Don’t be.” Raphael drawled, his lips twisting into a sinister smirk. “Be careful how you walk this rope. After all you have no wings to catch you, and one misstep would see you hanging from it.” He demonstrated the motion of swinging with his hand.

Despite yourself, you heeded his advice. “I would require you to detail these ‘three favors’ before I sign any contract or make any deal with you. Also, I need a way to reach you, so I don’t have to track down Korilla every time.”

“You’ve had the means to reach me always at the tip of your tongue.” Raphael sighed theatrically and produced a small black sphere into his hand and tossed it to you. “However, this sending stone should suffice for those lacking in imagination.”

You caught the heavy stone orb and looked into it, seeing nothing but your own face mirrored back at you, distorted on the round surface.

“You may call, I may answer.” Raphael stood and offered you his hand, his skin glinting a deep cherry red in the flickering firelight. “Have we an accord?”

You hesitated, your knees aching. You stared for a long minute at the offered hand. Your very blood reviling against the decision you were about to make.

The heat from his skin enveloped your own as you slid your fingers against his and he helped you up. “I agree to seeing and reading the contract you draw up.”

“An angel after my own heart.” Raphael’s voice dripped sarcasm as his clawlike nails bit into your hand momentarily, but he nodded. “Very well, you may peruse the infernal text to your heart’s content.”

Raphael produced a roll of parchment from a conjured cloud of sulphur that stung your eyes and nostrils. He waited with veiled annoyance as you coughed several times.

You spoke again only after clearing the acrid stench from your airways. “Very well, I will have Gale help me translate this since you seem to be hell-bent on making it as hard as possible.”

“Please!” Raphael said in a wounded tone. “Everything I do is aimed to help.”

You rolled your eyes and took the scroll, wincing as it scorched your fingers upon contact. You hastily stowed it and your newly acquired scrying orb into your small pouch of holding.

“Once your binding signature is made upon the parchment, I will come to collect.” Raphael smiled archly at you. “If you do not seek me out first.”

You snorted. “Don’t count on it, devil.” Your words were lined with a touch of familiarity at your usual tension-laden banter.

“I require something more to set the balance. Your intrusion and your little display earlier have set the score against you.” Raphael approached confidently, taking your chin rather roughly before you could protest.

Your eyes widened, thinking he was going to kiss you again but instead his lips and teeth found the side of your neck.

“First Astarion, now you!” You squeaked with undignified aggravation, biting your tongue to suppress a groan of pleasure at the unexpected scrape of his teeth against your skin. You arched into his touch, a ripple of something primal awakening deep within you.

Then his saliva against your neck began to burn and you felt the devil’s mark take hold as Raphael withdrew and licked his lips, his flaming eyes hooded. “While wandering the chaos of the mortal plane, don’t forget the laws of cause and effect, sweetling. There is a reckoning for every action you take with one such as I.”

“As with all devils.” You winced, unable to keep the worry off your face as you felt the welted flesh of where he’d marked your skin.

“I promise you on everything I own.” Raphael leaned into your space again and brushed his fingers through your hair, scraping his nails against your scalp not unpleasantly. He paused, catching your eyes with his before continuing. “You’ve never dealt with a devil like me before.”

And with a sharp push he sent you plummeting through an infernal portal, landing flat on your back upon your vacated bedroll. The noise of impact followed by your groan of pain awakened the rest of camp. Karlach was first on her feet, sword in hand before Gale’s eyes even opened.

You fought to gasp the air back into your lungs, slowly sitting up and opening your bag to gingerly retrieve the contract Raphael had drawn up. Your eyes found the wizard of the party as he too began voicing the same questions being lobbied at you from all sides.

Your voice was shaky but determined. “Gale, do you have the spell Comprehend Languages prepared?”

[lerihon-posts]

Dark Urge and Grieving Gortash

This might be a bit disjointed cuz I'm typing this instead of sleeping but thinking about Durge and the aftermath of Gortash's inevitable death. Especially in endings where the party breaks the alliance and kills him. Especially a Durge that's been fairly successful in their quest lines. (Keeps Isobel from being kidnapped, saves all the Tieflings and Zevlor ECT from moonrise)

Do we think Durge even realizes at first that they are grieving? Like yeah absolutely they are aware that grief is a thing and maybe they've felt something they thought was like it about Alfira. But being aware of something is one thing and experiencing it a whole other ball game. Like thinking about it pre-amnesia they're this peak, hand designed by Bhaal Bhaalspawn right? Literally designed to deal out death in droves. Grief would be a pretty useless and largely if not near entirely unfelt emotion by Durge at this point. Grief is something they inflict not experience.

Then you get to Durgetash era, weather platonic or romantic, and it's all kinda agreed by fandom that Gortash is the first person not only to care about Durge but the first person Durge themselves actually care about. A friendship and/or romance so impactful it freaks Durge out. This is what got me thinking; if this is Durge having a crisis over feeling attached to someone and reluctant to kill them for the first time theres no likely way they would have gotten to the point of truly mourning someone before or at least not since climbing the ranks to be papa bhaal's favorite prince/princess.

Now just thinking about an end game Act three resisting Durge standing in Gortash's office with Karlach and very likely their new LI (mine was Gale), deed done and looking down at Gortash's -"no, Enver, he's Enver to us" that persistent voice a the back of their head says- body and feeling that first bit of cold numbness spreading from their heart throughout their chest. Pressure behind their eyes and nose as an Urge, not to harm but to cry, build just as slowly. If it's another character that got the killing blow in maybe unable to look them in the eye with out feeling this sense to *Scream*. A Durge recently born a new free of Bhaal but not their lingering past self, still new to being a honest to gods person and not knowing what was *wrong* with themselves??. They cast speak with dead and hear Bane from Enver's lips and suddenly their body feels like something they have to pilot remotely, their throat burns with a vague wish to be sick.

Do they go to Halsin or Shadowheart later once back at the Elfsong tavern and forcing themselves through whatever this is to comfort Karlach? Chest aching and something all together bitter they don't want to admit to churning in their gut. Do they seek a one of them quietly to ask for a magical heal for this obviously physical poison they must be suffering from only to be told nothing seems to be wrong with them? Do they go through their symptoms confused and feeling numbed and overwhelmed at the same time only for Halsin or Shadowheart to finally reach in through their tadpoles to see what Durge is feeling and then have to explain to Durge that " oak father preserve you, but yours is but a profound sadness; your grieving," Halsin says, or Shadowheart with "you suffer no mere flesh wound im afraid, but that of a much deeper experience; Loss."

Just. All those posts about the dark urge coming to grips with what Gortash actually meant to their old selves, the only people that understood and cared for each other, the only two people who mattered. But then also with the added angst of someone navigating that sadness for probably the first time with no knowledge of how to do that while surrounded by people who wouldn't be able to really understand why you felt that way about someone like Gortash and also yeah there's no real time to process this you gotta fight an elder brain in the morning.

[zetchrr]

For the recent Tav ask list you shared : 13, 22, 23, 31, 42, 94, 95.

I tried to be selective, I swear.

Thank you, Barnabas you king <3

13. What was your Tav's first reaction to Lae'Zel?

The biggest eyeroll and the heaviest "G'lyck" to ever be uttered. She's sporting the attitude of a gith fresh out of the creche and talking about Vlaakith. He was happy to have kin on his side, but also oh boy the propaganda.

22. What is your Tav's first impression of the other companions (Astarion, Gale, Karlach, Wyll ...) He was convinced Shadowheart would try to kill him at some point and was very surprised when she actually voluntarily talked to him later on. Astarion pulling a knife on him earned his respect, even if he did nearly get himself offed at the bite incident. He's good at killing which is always appreciated too. Karlach's ferocity was immediately clear and he liked her straight away, although her questions and energy were a bit overwhelming at times. She'll be pestering him about random things I imagine. Gale and his talking, oh god his talking. He talks with such flowery language sometimes and Ka'zalii was already having trouble with common. Then along comes this wizard with his poetic words and his superiority. It's okay though, they get along very well in the end. They swap recipes, Gale now knows how to cook several creatures he will probably never encounter. Gale definitely constantly bothers him about learning tir as well. Wyll I always picture as the one most determined to talk to Ka'zalii, language problems be damned. He's the one that is persistant enough with his positive attitude and wisdom to get some childhood stories out of him.

23. What's their opinion of Emerald Grove? Do they help the tieflings or side with the druids? To Ka'zalii, the grove was very stuffy and slow and he'd much rather be elsewhere. But it was the only place to reliably get supplies and repair things. He ended up assisting the tieflings because Halsin was the best lead at the time. Kahga gave a bad impression by threatening a child, a very cowardly move.

31. What does your Tav think of the Underdark and the Myconids? He found the Underdark quite uncomfortable, being that far underground. The myconids were intriguing though, with their spore magic. It reminded him of the way m'lar use corpses to farm fungus. Just with more reanimation. Then of course meeting Omeluum who he did not kill, despite Lae'zel's urging.

42. How does your Tav react to the shadow curse? Are they scared of the dark? He's not scared of the dark, but he found the shadow curse extremely unsettling. Just a featureless, depressing void. Especially after that first time you walk into the curse itself. It was a big relief for him and the party to get that lantern and Isobel's blessing. He was glad to be out of there, even after the curse was lifted.

[harpershigh-arch]

@ferinehuntress

Jaheira's eyes snapped open in the darkness of the inn room, her senses immediately alert. The silence of the night was thick and oppressive, the kind that seemed to press heavily against her chest. She sat up slowly, listening intently, her breath shallow and controlled. The soft sounds of the inn—a distant creak, the murmur of the night patrol—were eerily muted, as if the world had hushed in anticipation.

Jaheira swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet touching the cool wooden floor. She moved cautiously, her instincts finely tuned to detect any anomaly, though nothing immediately presented itself. The room was as she left it: dimly lit by a flickering candle, her belongings in their place. Yet a persistent, gnawing unease lingered at the edge of her consciousness.

She wandered quietly to the window, peering out into the dark waters below. Shadows played tricks on her eyes, and the usual reassuring sounds of the night seemed distant and hollow. Jaheira scanned the area, her trained gaze searching for any sign of trouble, but found nothing out of place.

The unease remained, a shadowy presence she couldn’t quite place. With a soft sigh, she returned to her bed, though sleep eluded her. Jaheira’s thoughts raced with possibilities—was it a warning, a premonition of danger yet to come, or merely the weight of the shadowcurse catching up with her? Whatever it was, she knew she couldn’t ignore it.

Slipping out of bed again, she pulled on her gear and gathered her weapons with practiced efficiency. The protective barrier of the moon shield cast an ethereal glow around the in , a shimmering cocoon that shielded them from the pervasive darkness. Yet, Jaheira couldn’t shake the feeling that the veil of safety was fragile. The Shadow-Cursed Lands, even with Isobel's protection, held dangers that could not always be anticipated.

Stepping into the cool night air, she took a deep breath, savoring the crispness that contrasted sharply with the oppressive gloom of the cursed lands. She ventured out cautiously, her eyes scanning the perimeter of their base. The moon shield's glow created a soft halo around her, the shadows beyond it unnaturally dense, living entities waiting to encroach upon their sanctum.

Jaheira patrolled the area with deliberate steps, her ears straining for any irregular sounds—an unusual rustle, the whisper of movement that might indicate a threat. She paused frequently, listening and watching, the weight of her responsibility pressing heavily on her shoulders. Her mind raced through the possible scenarios, from a simple false alarm to an impending threat that could shatter their tenuous safety.

She decided to continue her patrol inside the inn. The old building creaked softly under her weight as she moved from room to room, the dim light from the hallway casting long shadows on the walls. The inn’s atmosphere was calm, but the feeling of being watched lingered at the edge of her senses.

As she passed by Isobel’s room, a faint rustle of magic caught her attention. It was subtle, almost like a whisper of wind through leaves, but it was enough to make her pause. Jaheira approached the door, her keen eyes narrowing as she focused on the source of the disturbance.

She pushed the door open slightly, enough to peer inside without fully entering. The room was bathed in a soft, silvery glow from the moon shield, casting delicate patterns across the walls and floor. Isobel lay peacefully in her bed, her expression serene. Yet, the rustle of magic persisted, a gentle hum that seemed to emanate from the very air around her.

Jaheira’s gaze shifted to the source of the disturbance—a faint shimmer of magic near Isobel’s bedside. As she stepped closer, she saw the shimmer intensify and begin to form a swirling, glowing portal. The portal’s edges pulsed with an eerie, sickly purple light that seemed to warp the air around it.

Before Jaheira could react, a figure stepped through the portal: a masked cultist clad in the robes of the Absolute, adorned with symbols and dark runes. The cultist's eyes were fixed on Isobel with a chilling determination. Jaheira’s heart raced as she watched the intruder move towards the bed, clearly intent on kidnapping the young cleric.

With a sharp intake of breath, Jaheira’s instincts kicked in. She grabbed for her weapon, but the cultist was already reaching out towards Isobel. In a swift motion, Jaheira burst into the room, her presence a sudden disruption to the cultist’s plan.

“Not on my watch!” Jaheira growled, her voice a fierce whisper as she charged forward. The cultist turned, eyes widening in shock and recognition. Jaheira’s instincts surged as her form began to ripple and shift, her body contorting and compressing with a burst of energy. Fur sprouted where skin once was, and her limbs elongated into powerful, agile legs. Her eyes glowed with a predatory light as her snout extended and sharp claws emerged from her fingertips. Within moments, the druid was no longer standing as Jaheira but crouched as a sleek, black panther. Her senses sharpened, every sound and scent heightened, making her more attuned to the environment around her. The transition was swift, her muscles rippling with renewed strength and agility, ready to tear apart the intruder.

[eolewyn1010]

Downton Abbey Fashion 17 - post-war evening dresses

It’s evening gowns again, and now that Edwardian is well and truly behind us, some dresses change for the better, some for the worse… and some just stubbornly persist on their same style. Violet, I wouldn’t expect anything else.

Starting with a high collar over a tulle yoke and black tulle gloves – what else is new? But I gotta take a moment to admire the blue velvet. Also, since they’ve gone all out on the rhinestone and sequin embroidery here, the Dowager™ keeps it lowkey with the jewelry. If you can call the rocks on her ears lowkey. She wears this dress several times during the season… and then promptly gets rid of it.

As she does this one, although curiously, she has another evening dress that looks a lot like this that is repeated in the following season. So, did she get a damask copy when she ruined the velvet or what? Anyway, lovely red velvet, framed with some lace and draped in a deep V over white, embroidered fabric. I quite like this dress, but I can’t seem to get a well-lit shot of it. The curse of evening gowns.

There’s the previous dress’ damask twin. Well, not exactly twin, but the slightly pinkish red and the shape are the same, the two wide strips of fabric over the shoulders and down the front, only here, it does not frame white fabric, but a dream of black and golden lace that is repeated on the cuffs and collar. You know, for being consistently outdated with her fashion, Violet sure chooses her fabrics to make everyone else look bad. Which is why this is allowed to stay all the way into season 4. And I’m just realizing, belatedly, that the last picture is not this dress at all! It’s another copy of the same style, but it doesn’t have the damask pattern weave. The cuffs are much smaller, the lace in the middle has a golden frame. Violet, you’re driving me insane; why do you own the almost same dress three times?

This all-black evening gown is one she could (and probably does at some point) wear in mourning, but in all fairness, it’s also very opulent. Black silk is one thing, but she just gotta layer it over the heaviest embroidery ever. Pearls? Black beading? Silver thread? Lace? More trim? Sure, throw it in! This would be so tasteless if she hadn’t left out any color.

And for something a tiny bit more downplayed, teal silk over cream lace with this black lace thing that looks like a shawl but season 3 makes me reasonably sure is a fixed part of the dress. The little branch embroidery on the black part is cute, and it ties in well with the underlayer. Also, the sparkly black choker, while matching the dress perfectly, is a separate part.

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Isobel’s evening gowns get a serious upgrade form last season imo. The first two look quite similar with the slit sleeves and the brown velvet layer opening in a V over the off-white under layer, but they are different dresses. First one appears a tad more chestnut brown in a certain light and has a tiny metal beading trim, plus the under layer has slightly wider sleeves and seems to be layered of various tulles and lace.

Second one is of a more muted brown and the under layer is simpler in structure, the sleeves are fitted and I see just one fabric, champagne but with a pretty, rich embroidery. Different than me, Isobel doesn’t seem to be a great fan of these dresses, because they disappear at the end of the season.

Instead, she keeps the boring black ones. Meh. This one is all black chiffon with silver embroidery, and the second picture from season 3 makes me think it might be a half-long shirt worn over a matching skirt.

Another keeper; I like this one a tiny bit better, perhaps because it doesn’t have circular embroidery on the boobs… But it’s again silver thread on black fabric, and there’s only so much I can say about squiggly lines and a completely straight cut with no interesting shape to the sleeves or neckline.

This one could be nice if I could see more of it, which is probably why I never get to see more of it. But its redeeming grace are all these little leaves and flowers on it. Interestingly, if the translucent cardigan doesn’t trick my eye, this dress is sleeveless, which is probably why Isobel put a cardigan over it – sleeveless wasn’t necessarily (and for some parts still isn’t) something older ladies would wear. The cardigan itself is cute, I guess; it’s just that the separate embroidery washes out the effect of the dress somewhat.