#baldur's gate three fic

[fkitwebhaal]

Fic: Violence Forgiving Steel

Ship: The Dark Urge/Enver Gortash and The Dark Urge/Haarlep but it's not the focus.

Fandom: BG3

Warnings: non graphic rape/non-con, non graphic dubious consent, self destructive behavior, suicidal thoughts

Rating: M

AO3

Summary: 

"In the end, it’s a nightmare that makes you decide to leave." After Gortash tells the party who the Dark Urge truly is, the Dark Urge leaves the party in the middle of the night. That doesn't mean they abandon the promises they made their friends. Or the Dark Urge goes on a one sorcerer mission to right their wrongs and save their friends from the shadows. Its goes both better and worse than expected.

Notes:

See those warnings. I am not fucking around with those warnings. Nothing is graphic but if you see anything there and go “I don’t know” maybe skip this one. This is pure angst and one squid joke.

The Durgetash here is entirely dubious consent.

Fic is below the cut!

In the end, it’s a nightmare that makes you decide to leave. Everything else, the day you’ve had, the revelations you’ve heard, are just added reasons to go.

You put your tent farther from the others to rest the night after you’re revealed to be behind the absolute plot. Your lover doesn’t ask to share your bedroll tonight and you’re afraid to ask if it’s because they know you want the alone time or if they’ve decided you're not worth sharing a bedroll with. When you dream, it is of blood covered hands and your companions scattered around you in pieces like Alfira. 

You wake up choking on a scream, the image of a collection of severed fingers in your hand making you feel nauseous. Every second you stay in camp, you are a threat to them all. You’ve known this for awhile, how could you not, but until today you’d been able to tell yourself that the companionship your friends enjoyed was more of an asset than the risk you posed. 

Now, after shouts about your past betrayal, that argument seems flimsy. 

You start packing as you think out a plan. It’s ludicrous, and will likely end in your death, but you’re not sure if that’s such a bad outcome. Gortash wants you to be his partner again, and while you refused him, should you fake a change of heart, he might trust you enough to let some information slip. You doubt it would be easy, he’s not a complete moron, but his delight in seeing you again is an emotion you can exploit and you are quite the talented actor. 

If you pull off playing turncoat for just a day, you could learn the location Wyll’s father, maybe even break him out yourself. Maybe you could even scope out the fortress for storming it layer, sabotaging some of the traps that are sure to lie in wait. 

And then, once that was done, you could see about helping your companions other issues. Many of them are hurting from issues you caused and the rest you promised to aid when you made it to the city. There is no need for you to break that promise, even should you not be physically at their side.

An elaborate plan forms in your head. Given what Gortash said hours earlier, you used to be quite talented at those. Hopefully the worm in your head and the injury that put it there haven’t reduced your capacity for scheming that much. 

With the plan sketched out in your mind, there’s one important aspect you need to test first. So you mentally reach out to the man who has watched you this entire journey and poke gently.

“Yes ?” The Emperor’s voice echoes in your mind. 

You have a hunch he’s been manipulating you this whole time. It’s not a new suspicion, you’ve suspected since Moonrise, but it’s solidified in the wake of his true appearance. He had appeared to you as a blue tiefling, familiar in a way that didn’t provoke the horror like your other memories. You are not so naive to think that was a coincidence. 

Now that you know what you are, you know the advantages to hiding your fangs and claws among the flocks of sheep. 

Thankfully, you’re a talented manipulator yourself. The Emperor might think he pulls your strings but you now know enough about him to pull back. 

“ The prism will hold as long as we both stay in the city ?” You ask mentally as you pack the last of your supplies. He takes a moment to reply and you wonder if it’s because he’s actually thinking through your answer, or that he wants you to. 

“ Yes, but removing yourself from your companions is unwise .”

“ They don’t trust me anymore .” You think to how Karlach raged at you, tears clinging to her cheeks, how Lae’zel sneered at you like she hasn’t since the first day of the crash. Hopefully those memories will suffice to mask your true feelings on the matter: that you still trust them, that you are leaving to offer them peace. “ If I work on my own, we can solve this faster. But you can’t tell them where I am.”

There is no reply. You go for the killing blow, the string you think the Emperor is most susceptible to being pulled by. “ You’re the only one I can still trust.”

That’s what he wants most. Your devotion. You offer it up to him on a silver platter and hope he doesn’t see the knife behind your back.

“I will do as you ask.” You nod, throwing the last of your supplies into your bag and think that his willingness to believe you is the more convincing of the pretense of his soul than anything he’s told you. 

Digging your hand into your bag, you pull out 300 gold. It’s a small chunk from the party funds but you do feel a little guilty about taking it.  But if you want to pull this off, you’re going to need some help, and while Wither’s is cheap, you doubt he’ll give you a massive discount for hiring in bulk.

The last thing you do before packing up your tent is writing a few letters. The first is to the party as a whole, explaining you are not abandoning their cause but seeking to aid them. That you know you betrayed them, and you will make it right, if it’s the last thing you do. That your absence is intended as start of that penance, not cowardice. 

That you refuse to make them rest with the person who put them through all of this. 

The other two letters you write to Wyll and Astarion respectively. Both of them responded to your revelations with empathy, though it’s empathy you couldn’t help but second guess given Wyll’s tendency to put his feelings last and Astarion’s situation possibly making him reluctant to tell you how he truly feels. However, you write neither of your letters because of their reactions. 

For Wyll, it is to stay his hand while you recover the Duke. You can guess what Mizora has planned, it’s not hard to guess, and you will damn yourself before you allow him to damn himself again for a man who cast him aside. 

For Astarion, it’s a reminder of a promise you made him, one you have no intention of failing. You will see Cazador dead when Astarion decides to confront him. As soon as he casts a sending scroll your way (which you ensure to leave for him), you will be waiting in Cazador’s halls to fight beside him. Even if he doesn’t believe you. 

With that thought, you leave your tent and begin to pack it up. Within the hour, you have left Withers your letters and hired yourself three souls of the dearly departed to aid you in what’s to come. He tries to talk you out of it, but when he realizes you can be swayed, he accepts the messages and promises to deliver them. 

You take only one look back at camp before you walk out into the dark of night.

______

Withers’ ghosts are not good company. They don’t talk at all, merely phantom warriors who follow your every command. It’s a loyalty that churns your stomach. 

Sadly, you do need them. If you wish to accomplish anything, you will need help. This whole plan of yours partially relies on Gortash thinking you without allies. So when you arrive at the fortress, you leave them far outside the gate, each with their own instructions on how to proceed. 

Inside the fortress, you request an audience with the new Grand Duke. You get one and when you make it up the stairs to the hall, you find yourself in the aftermath of a bloodbath. All the nobility from earlier are slain where they once stood, blood spilling out upon the floor like the tide coming in. The blood staining the swords of the Steel Watch makes it obvious who the culprit is. However, not all of them are dead yet, having hid for safety. When they spot you, they run out of their hiding place, making their way towards the stairs. They must think you an ally, given the tense words you exchanged earlier in front of the crowd. As the two run at you, you know what you have to do if you want to pull off this con.

You’ve murdered so many people. Two more should be nothing. But when your lightning bolt runs them both throw, their eyes growing wide from the shock, the smell of burnt hair filling the room, you still want to crawl in a hole and die.

“I see you remain as deadly as ever, old friend,” Gortash says, eyeing you as he walks down the hall. He claps slow, like a man does when he sees an impressive trick and you despise him so. “But I thought I said I didn’t wish to see your face again until you provided me the stone.”

“The situation changed; your little display of my history has left me without a place to stay. And since you proposed we become allies, I decided it was best to ask for your generous hospitality.”

He shakes his head. “Ah, I see. Follow me to my office.” 

When you get up there, you tell him the story you concocted. The revelation of you being Bhalspawn and behind the absolute was too much. They couldn’t bring themselves to kill you, but they couldn’t have you stay either. Out of allies, you have crawled back to Gortash’s door in order to forge a new alliance; he leaves your former friends alone and you will help him defeat Orin and give him the stone.

It’s a tough act to sell. You do your best to appear reluctant to be there, devastated by your friends betrayal enough to still care for their safety, but furious enough at their reaction to be willing to team with their enemy. The key is to appear just the right amount of vulnerable that he’ll think that he is manipulating you and not the other way around. 

Gortash worships the God of control. You hope to give him the illusion of controlling you to keep him distracted should the Duke still be in the fortress and in need of rescue. 

You don’t think he buys it entirely but you suspect he wants to. He eyes you up and down slowly; appraising, before he leans back on his desk. 

“Is all of our arrangement back in place or just the business one?” He asks smiling, and you think it’s intended as warm even though it makes your skin crawl. “I understand you remember little of our previous arrangement, so please disregard should you not be interested. I know you’ve been through a lot today and partially on my account.”

You suspected as much about your relationship, but you’d been hoping to be proven wrong. This is partiality a test and you know it; he wants to see if you’ll do something your allies would never approve of. If you refuse him, you can still pull this off, absolutely. There’s absolutely an angle here to go here of mutual mistrust, and you can pull this off even with it in play. But if you spread your legs, you can play up a different tale: that you are so wrecked and ruined by what you were and how your friends have treated you, that you’re willing to fall to your knees at a scrap of kindness. Plus, you can probably get him to leave his office alone. 

You already know which you’re going to pick.

“And if I’m interested?” You say, trying to sound unsure and a bit conflicted. “Only for fun, nothing else.”

Gortash walks past you, and whispers in your ear. 

You shudder. You hope he mistakes it as lust, but if he takes it as the disgust it truly is, you’re sure that wouldn’t be a turn off for him. 

“Then take what you want.”

Pushing the thought away of sweet kisses you shared mere days ago with someone who held your hand and saw you despite your urges, you grab Gortash’s collar and pull him in for a kiss that’s mostly teeth. 

(You hope Karlach doesn’t hate you for this, for giving your body to a man who put her in chains, regardless of your ulterior motives. You hope Astarion doesn’t hate you for this, for offering yourself up freely to be used when you have the opportunity to say no). 

While you “entertain” your old friend, you keep your mind focused on anything else but what you know is happening under his nose. One of your ghosts, pretending to be one of Gortash’s right hand men, is figuring out where the Duke is located from some loose lipped Banites. Another is checking the top floor and Gortash’s office for traps and, should everything go to plan, sabotaging them just enough so they’ll fail quickly without being obviously disarmed. The last is in charge of making a map of the fortress with all the secret entrances and exists they can find. You plan to copy it to send to your friends, Gortash might restrict their access now that you are not among their number. The original you plan to keep to yourself; once Gortash wises up to what you’re up to, you too will need other means of entry. 

After, when he’s asleep, you throw back on your robes and look out the window. It takes ten minutes, but eventually the raven summoned by one of your hirlings flies by with a red and green ribbon around its leg. It’s a code you agreed on beforehand. The red ribbon tells you the Duke is no longer being held in the fortress. The green tells you the other tasks you assigned are complete.

You look over your shoulder at Gortash. You could try to kill him now, but all his guards are outside. You’re not so foolish to think you can take them all on, including the Steel Watch. You’ll just have to trust Karlach and the rest will get the job done better than you ever could.

With that, you misty step into the roof of the fortress that you can see from the window, cast feather fall on yourself and jump off the edge to meet your fellow ghosts on the shore.

____

You lose one of your ghosts freeing everyone from the Iron Throne, along with some of the Gondians. 

All things considered, you did a far better job than you could have hoped. But the death of some of the Gondians sting regardless, especially remembering Gortash’s words over the com. If you had your friends with you, you could have probably saved them all. 

But if you had your friends with you, there would be no way you could know all this within 4 hours. They would have never approved your plan to use yourself as a lure to bait Gortash into a trap.

The Emperor expands his protection to the Duke with little prodding which is nice. When the man recovers himself,  he asks about who you are and you don’t think much about your answer. 

“I’m a friend of your son.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. It never occurred to you that Wyll’s name would inspire any reaction other than awe or happiness. An apprehensive scowl crossed the Duke’s face, and he looks to you like you told him you had a poisonous snake for him. 

“That doesn’t provide me much reassurance.”

You really shouldn’t snap at him. Wyll will be mad at you later for it, you know this, and you don’t really want to upset him. But you are tired, freezing from dirty water and running on fitful sleep. So, you hope Wyll might forgive you when you cast hold person on his father to hiss right in his face. 

“Listen,” you hiss and you can hear the growl of the Urge in your tone, the beast that insists you tear this man limb from limb despite all the effort you made just to save him. “Your son has done far more for this city than you could ever dream of. It’s only out of regard for him that you’re not drowning in a watery grave. So I suggest you pay fucking attention to what I’m about to show you.” And with that, you throw the memories Wyll showed you of his deal straight into the Duke’s head, taking no care to soften up the harsher bits like roaring pain of a lost eye, or the despair when the one person Wyll trusted to aid him slammed a door in his face. 

When you release  him from hold person he doesn’t even try to attack you back. He just steps back and collapses into one of the submarine chairs and you turn away from him before you give into the temptation to flood his mind with some of the horrors you have locked away. 

You walk the Duke back to camp yourself, not willing to risk Gortash or Mizora appearing and spoiling your work. When the camp is in sight, you turn invisible and tell the Duke to head forward without you. You watch as he enters and the camp erupts into chaos, Wyll running at his father to touch his shoulder, ensure that he’s real. When the man looks up to look in the darkness of the night, you take that as your cue to depart and tell yourself he wasn’t looking for you.

____

The book isn’t hard to get, all things considered. You do injure yourself quite a bit getting through the traps, but the ghosts help enough to ensure you make it in the first place. 

You steal a scroll of find familiar while you’re there, conjuring an owl. It feels a bit risky to strap the records you’ve stolen to a bird along with some of the rarer spell scrolls you found, but you can mentally follow the bird until it reaches its destination, so you decide it’s not a terrible idea. 

You include a note too, scribbled down on the back of some parchment you found in the vaults. 

“Do what you may but remember: I prefer Gale Dekarios over any God. I think the world would agree with me.”

You watch as the bird flies to Gale, who the owl locates investigating a murder outside the temple of the open hand. It drops the contents of its package into Gale’s awaiting arms and then goes to perch on Astarion’s hair, deciding his curls look the most comfortable. 

Gale opens the package and inhales a sharp breath as he takes in the contents. To your surprise, he doesn’t instantly go to pour over the contents of the book or the scrolls and instead reaches for your note first. You watch as he reads over the words, once, then twice, before he inhales softly. When he looks up to your owl, his mouth is formed to say the first syllables of your name. 

You break the connection at once and dismiss the familiar before summoning the owl in front of you. It chirps once, irritated to be moved from Astarion’s curls, and you wait for it to complete its tirade before it jumps back on your shoulder. 

____

You don’t get the sending from Astarion when he goes to confront Cazador. You can guess why: if he asks and you don’t show, then he has to deal with another person letting him down. If he doesn’t ask, he can keep the hope you would have shown had your known.

Thankfully, you know the bastard pretty well by now. The owl familiar is a dedicated snitch and when it sees the gang heading out toward Cazador’s manor, it reports back to you dutifully. 

When you make it to the manor, they’ve already started their invasion and you follow the trail of bodies to an elevator that leads deep below. Seeing the party up ahead speaking to someone behind what looks like a cell, you tuck into a side room as to not be noticed. In that side room, as you hear a story from a skull, and read notes on the nature of vampires, you feel almost sick with dread. You don’t like the pieces of this puzzle you have started to put together. 

When you hear the doors open to the ritual chamber, you drink a potion of greater invisibility on yourself (thank you Lorekan for your generous unwilling donation) and follow in the shadows. You take in the cages upon cages of spawn with dawning horror, hating you are here in the shadows rather than at Astairon’s side. Stepping into the grand chamber, you look forth just in time to see Cazador teleport Astarion across the circle into magical restraints just like the rest of his fellow spawn. 

You don’t think. You twin daylight and dimension door despite your exhaustion from the last few days. The daylight you cast right in Cazador’s stupid staff, causing him to drop it as he screeches away from the beam. The dimension door you cast on yourself so you appear, still invisible, right in front of Astarion.

You work at his bindings. He seems to notice and flinches, clearly afraid of invisible hands and you mentally prob his tadpole just enough so he knows it’s you. With that, he relaxes somewhat, and looks down and to the right, a few inches off from where you’re actually located. 

“So you meant it,” he whispers, a disbelieving smile on his face. “You really intend to help me.”

The awe in his voice hurts, but you know it’s deserved. He has every reason to doubt you, despite the letter that you left. Not because of anything you’ve done but because of his own history, that has taught him hope is for fools and burns harsher than the sun when it turns. You wish you could tell him that you’d never leave him to Cazador, he could have spat and raged at you for what you were and you’d still be in this dusty tomb because no one should experience what he’s gone through. That none of your friends deserve any of this. 

But you don’t have time for that. So instead you break the last of his bindings and step back. Infuse your voice with enough confidence that you hope he can believe in it. 

“Like I would miss killing Cazador.”

When he’s freed, he rushes into the fight, daggers in hand. You join as well, using your invisibility to your advantage as you thunderwave Cazador’s minions off of his poorly designed platform. Karlach shouts your name, excited, but you force yourself not to pay her too much mind.

When the last of the minions has fallen, you cast regular invisibility on yourself before the greater version wares off. You head towards the stairs and watch as Astarion stands over his tormentor, requesting that Shadowheart, Karlach or Lae’zel show him an image of his back. They all refuse and he turns his gaze towards the platform where he last saw your thunderwave. You know what he’s asking you.

So you send him three thoughts via the tadpole, the first two being memories. The first is what you learned from the skull and papers in Cazador’s quarters, about what happened to the souls of true vampires, how he might be falling into a cycle. You then send him the image of his back, the cruel contract marked there, should he decide to carve it into Cazador’s flesh. Lastly, you send him your own words, and hope they still hold weight. 

“You can be more than he made you.”

You can hear him saying something as he loops over Cazador and then he starts stabbing widely, ambitions of ascending vanishing with every stab. With that sight, you make your exit, though you do send him a picture of the waiting Gur in the elevator as you leave it so he knows what awaits him. 

Later, as you take a rest in an abandoned slum, you hear a voice in your head. A sending spell. The voice that echoes in your mind is not that of your companions who know how to cast the spell, but instead Astarion. He must have found a scroll of it. 

“You’re more than what he made you too. Come home.”

You curl your knees to your chest and bury your face into your robes. They smell like sewer and shit. You wish desperately that you were back at camp, back home, where you could check on Astarion after the day he had and then Wyll could give you advice for getting smells out of fabric. The desire pulls at your gut to reply, to tell him that he used the word home, that you are so proud of him. 

Thank the Gods you’re so used to resisting your urges by now. Otherwise, you might have caved.

_____

“Am I allowed to tell the others of your status? They are badgering me.”

You’re knee deep is sewer water and half of your robes are covered in grease. The headache you’ve had for the last two days makes you hiss whenever you pass a torch. The last thing you want to deal with is his royal squidness. 

“You can’t tell them where I am.”

“I know that,” he sounds rather irate and wow, they must really be bothering him if they’ve gotten under his skin. “They merely wish to know if you’re alive. They found your attempt to access the foundry.”

Ah, right. That had gone poorly: the Watcher’s had spotted you before you could even enter the first floor and you barely got away with all your limbs intact. The whole affair cost you another one of your ghosts, at large amount of blood, and a good deal of healing potions. It served you right for thinking you could take on something that required brute force with clever spell work. 

“Are they alright?”

“I am not a messenger pigeon. But you did not answer my question.”

You figure they have to be mostly alright if they’re able to pester the Emperor. You tell him he can inform them of your status and continue to muck through the sewers, to locate your father’s stupid murder tribunal. 

One dead holyphant later, you emerge from the sewers to find the foundry nothing but smoke and rubble. You almost cheer in the middle of the lower city.

_____

You get a sending from Gortash the same day he dies. The fact he bothered at all catches you by surprise. 

At the time, you’re trying to figure out how to free Orpheus, which has mostly been an exercise in frustration. Figuring out how to smash whatever bindings that cage the prince is beyond your knowledge base. You’re halfway through another useless tome you bribed the shopkeep to let you skim without buying when Gortash’s voice echoes in your mind. 

“I’ll see you in Avernus, traitor.”

You look up, convinced for a moment he’s bothered to leave his tower behind to hunt you down. But the bookstore is empty save your friendly ghosts and the shopkeep. 

You don’t have to think long about your reply.

“Looking forward to it, old friend.”

You don’t know if he heard your reply before Karlach slays him, but Gods you hope he did.

______

You make an effort to steal the hammer by yourself.

The contract Raphael offered you was tempting (he tracked you down in an alley somehow)but you know giving the demon the crown is far too risky. This entire solo endeavor you’ve embarked upon is about cleaning up your messes, not creating more. So you take the portal to Raphel’s gaudy excuse for a house and try not to scream when you learn you can’t gain the hammer without Raphael coming to call.

You can’t win a fight with a cambion by yourself with only one ghost to help you. So instead, you decide to at least map the place for threats so you can send it their way. A scouting mission is better than nothing.

That’s how you find the Incubus. You stop dead in your tracks when you see Harleep on the bed, and for a horrible moment, you think Raphael is not only home, but dressed to psychologically scar you. When you learn they are an incubus it’s a relief until they make you an offer. 

“We play a game and I’ll tell you the passcode. You’ll have more fun if you lose.”

You’re not bad at games. This could be a way to help your companions. “Alright on one stipulation: you tell my friends the code instead.”

The incubus agrees. You get naked as requested, and it isn’t until they ask what form you’d prefer that you realize this game Harleep wants to play is not naked poker. The realization makes you feel rather stupid. You blame the lack of sleep, compounded exhaustion, hunger and unhealed injuries for the oversight. 

You could back out, this you know. Orpheus’ fate is not something you’re to blame for, one of the few things your past self did not ruin. But Lae’zel turned on her God, her people, partially because she believed in your word. You trust her with your life. The idea of letting her down is physically upsetting. 

You suppose you could fight and torture him for the information. That’s an option. But you are tired, and worn weary, and you’ve already used your flesh as a bartering chip for information with Gortash, so what’s one more time? 

(It’s not like you care about your own fate anyway).

You keep your soul in the end, but barely. When it’s done and you’re picking up your clothes from the floor, you realize you have another request. 

“Can you not tell my friends what I did to get the passcode?”

The incubus looks like you now, wearing that same stupid harness. It makes your skin crawl seeing the outfit on your body. They shake their head and click their tongue.

“Not in our original terms and conditions, I’m afraid.” And with that he vanishes.

You have not bothered to bathe properly since this all started given your limited funds, but when you leave Avernus, you spend some coin on a bathhouse. As you wash, you try not to pay much mind to the bruises left by clawed hands.

 It’s far easier said than done. 

_____

Finding the cloister of Shar is easy, in the end. All you had to do was look lost and depressed in a disguise among the refugees and you had a location by the end of the day. The House of Grief is such a Shar name your eyes could roll out of your skull. 

You’re not quite sure how to best help Shadowheart while not overriding her ability to make her own choices. You’d sneak in behind the party again like you did with Astarion, but you’re almost positive one of them has see invisibility cast on themselves at all times, so that’s no longer an option. And you don’t have the ability or the desire to lay waste to the place without Shadowheart’s input. 

(A part of you is aware how ridiculous you’re being. They clearly want you back, you get multiple sendings each night asking you to return. Your excuse that your distance is for their sake only relies on your nightly fits as the sole piece of evidence in its favor. The real reason you’re still staying away gnaws at you when you let your mind drift. The person who left them is not the person you are now. You were Bhalspawn then too, sure, but you hadn’t cozied up to Gortash and killed someone to gain his trust. That version of you had not strangled a hollyphant to death, nor had that version of you written off some Godians as an acceptable loss. The person you were merely days ago was someone dumb enough to get sucked into a deal with an incubus of all things.

Your distance now is entirely out of fear that you will return and they will hate what you become in your absence).

In the end, you decide on three things to aid them. The first is information on how to find the house: they probably have it already, but it can’t hurt to add. The second is what is left of your gold, placed in a backpack along with any supplies that aren’t absolutely necessary. You give the backpack to Bex at the refugee camp and she promises to deliver it, though not before she comments on your sickly appearance.

The last thing you do is the both the easiest and the hardest. It’s physically easy, all you have to do it go to the Stormshore Tabernacle. But hard part is what you intend to do when you arrive. 

You stand in front of the Selune shrine, chewing at your lower lip. You are not one for the Gods, you’ve professed to loathe them on the regular, and to make yourself supplicant for one feels like licking the ground. But Selune had saved Shadowheart back in the Shadowed realms, she had granted Shadowheart her new powers and abilities and for that, you can force yourself to kneel. 

“Please aid and guide my friend Shadowheart into the House of Grief,” you say, hating how this position of prayer feels familiar. “Assist her in her quest to find what the Lady of Sorrows has taken from her. See her allies protected and unharmed amongst the shadows.”

You light some incense with a cantrip and leave an offering with the bit of gold you saved for the occasion. You’re not sure if the Goddess hears you, but you have to hope. When your last ghost arrives to tell you that they spotted your companions heading for the cloister, you finally break your prayer and stretch out the ache in your shoulders.

Shadowheart is going to confront her former God. It is about time you did the same. 

____

You lose your last ghost in the stupid trial to enter the damned temple. It’s not a total surprise, you knew you’d be outnumbered, but it hurts all the same to see your last mimicry of companionship go up in smoke.

You’ve felt alone all the time but it isn’t until you stand among the bodies of Bhaal’s faithful that you truly are alone in reality. 

You have to take a rest after the fight which you find obnoxious. It can’t be helped though: with your fitful sleep and busy days, you’re burning on fumes. On the off chance you manage to survive your fathers temple, you’re going to sleep on the first horizontal space you find. Ideally for at least a day. 

For now, you pull out your journal as your body recovers and write down some thoughts, should this go poorly in a multitude of ways. Notes to your friends apologizing for what you’ve done when you regret it, and apologizing for the pain you caused when you don’t. Various thoughts on things you couldn’t find solutions for, leads that Karlach might want to consider for her engine, ideas on how Astarion can still feel the sun. A thank you letter for being a friend to a monster.

You leave the journal on the floor outside the temple doors. Your bastard of a Butler is waiting for you and you resist the urge to shock him when he gleefully addresses you. 

“Welcome home!” He crows, little hands pulling at your robes as if to straighten them.

Home. What a farce. Your home is on the surface among a smartass vampire, an ex-cultist, a former chosen, a lost warrior, a kind devil and a tiefling who’s heart burns brighter than the engine in her chest. But you don’t say any of that. Instead, you enter through the doors.

_____

When Orin transforms, it really sinks in how fucked you are. 

It’s not a total surprise, but you’d been hoping you’d have at least a shot of coming out of this alive. If you haven’t been running yourself ragged over the last few days, you probably would have one; you’re a talented caster despite your magic’s tendency to act up. But you’ve run your well dry, and you know it, so as you try to dodge blows and strike back, you know you’re only buying time.

You hope they won’t hang your body up like decor after she wins. Your companions will likely bury you properly should that come to pass, but you’d like to save them the experience of having to un-skewer your corpse. 

You try to dodge another swipe but trip in the process, landing flat on your ass. the Slayer looms above you and in that brief second, you wince, waiting for the final strike to come. 

You’re convinced you’re dreaming when instead of your head being severed from your shoulders, three eldrich blasts hit Orin right in the chest pushing her away from you. Maybe you’ve gotten such little sleep you’ve started hallucinating.

Gale appearing via a dimension door with Shadowheart in tow is what convinces you this is real. You can only stare as Gale casts globe of invunerbily over you three, saving you all from another slice from Orin’s claws. Shadowheart reaches her hand down to tap your forehead and you feel days old wounds close along with your new ones. When you look up at her, her hand is outstretched towards you, and her eyes are wet.

“You’re so stupid,” she says, voice thick. “When we get out of here, I’m going to scream at you for hours.”

An arrow flies past the globe and you turn your head to see Astarion, Karlach and Lae’zel carving their way through the assembled Bhaalists on the stairs. Karlach shoots you a grin, and Lae’zel gives you a nod when they spot you. When Astarion spots you, he looks relieved for a moment before he yells in your direction. 

“Get up you imbicile. Do you think you can win this fight from the floor!”

A smile pulls at your face. You turn back to Shadowheart and take her hand, letting her pull you to your feet. You’re still exhausted after the week you’ve had, but now that your friends are here, you feel reenergixed almost. Your magic swells in you and you turn your gaze to Orin and the symbol of your father carved into the stone behind her.

Your real home has come to claim you. Bhaal’s blood may run through your veins but your real family stands next to you ready to fend him off.

When you cast shatter towards the slayer and her allies, you expand the range just enough that the stone carving of Bhaal’s symbol in the rock cracks with the spell right down the middle. 

[bgthree]

BG3 Astarion x Tav fic recs

I desperately need Astarion x Tav fic recs where:

Cazador finds out about Astarion’s feelings for Tav and either attempts to use them against him or tries to hurt Tav in order to punish Astarion

The companions temporarily believe Tav has died/been killed

[girlwithadragonheart]

Leave Me to the Beasts and Bears

Halsin x Female Reader

Summary: Halsin overhears you singing about your struggles as a woman in the world. Comfort ensues

Word Count: 1,271

Warnings: Paris Paloma song, mentions of rape, assault, SA, graphic flashbacks, this fic is very graphic and intense read at your discretion!!! (I love you don't trigger yourself unless you know it's okay) This is a hurt/comfort because I need it

A/N: This song has been looping in my mind for days, and it really highlights womanhood. Also this is my personal experiences all roped together if you don't like it keep scrolling.

BG3 Masterlist

You had been staying with the Grove for quite a while, and no one seemed to mind. You brought light and life to the druids with your music, and you had become a welcome addition to the lovely place. You had found a quiet overlook next to the inner sanctum and often found yourself drawn there for the peace it brought you.

Your fingers danced idly across your lute strings, humming softly to yourself and the surrounding life.

Halsin heard your melodic voice and found himself drawn to you. Tucked just behind you out of sight. Not that it mattered as your eyes fluttered closed.

Cremate me… Deliver me to safety. So that when it’s spent maybe it will be my own.

Scatter ashes… Leave no marker where you plant it. So the hordes will be disbanded as they search on a treasure map for my headstone.

The druid’s brow furrowed as he heard the softness of your voice carrying solemn words. Little did he know what exactly was on your mind.

Leave me to the beasts and bears. I’d rather that the feast was theirs. They can’t reserve neighboring plots, or request to be buried on top.

Leave me for a day or two, to make sure that I turn blue. For the first time since I drew breath, I’m undesirable again…

Your throat felt tight. You saw them in your mind’s eye. You felt their hands on your skin, calluses scraping against you, nails digging into your arms. Your knees hit the ground with such force they cracked, and you cried out in pain. No one came. Heavy and hard hands ripped your blouse, exposing your chest for predatory eyes.

I’ll tattoo it, just so they think it’s ruined. And if they think it’s ruined, it’s easier to save. But please hurry, if you really love me, and dispose of me unceremoniously in the waves.

You heard the water lapping at the shore as your chest tightened with that familiar panic. Every time you dreamt about it or someone touched you close enough you were brought back to it again and again for days on end. No matter how far you ran, their eyes would always follow you. Their skin was tainting yours no matter where you went. Chest to chest unwilling, but appeasing.

You remembered their fingers carding through your hair, tugging it roughly from your scalp. You remembered how they put it to their lips and breathed in your scent. 

Leave me to the trees and air, I’d rather that the feast was theirs. They can’t reserve neighboring plots, or buy cuttings of my priceless locks.

Leave me for two days or three, ‘til my fingertips turn green. For the first time since I drew breath, I’m undesirable again.

Those rough hands gripped your jaw, forcing your mouth open as silent tears flew down your cheeks. Even if you screamed, no one would hear you. If they did, no one would save you. You were alone. Just the way they preferred.

The other hand traveled to their belt buckle. You heard the metal clanging in your ears as though cymbals were clashing next to your head. It was past the point of warning bells and alarms, you were in it and you wouldn’t get away before… before…

And they will come in such dismay, that they never did discover where I lay. And I will burn, my flesh and form. Screaming the words, “it will never be yours!”

I’ll take the flame over desecration, promise you’ll make all these arrangements. Don’t you dare think it’s overkill!

I wouldn’t wish the watching on anybody, so if for that reason only, swear to me you will!

Halsin watched you stand, and he heard the tears clogging your throat. He watched you scream these words out to the sea, and he felt his own throat close up. Memories of the Underdark and the drow couple started to surface in his mind. Maybe it was the words or the emotions, but what he thought of fondly started to seem less than. He heard you sniffle, and suddenly he felt those restraints on his wrists and ankles again. He felt them touching him, and his mind wanted to trick him into enjoying it. It wanted to appease his captors and draw pleasure where he could, but this… 

He was watching you break, and for the first time it was like looking in the mirror. For the first time he could see someone else breaking and recognize himself in them. 

And you choked up, feeling suffocated by the memory. You’ll never forget what it felt like. What it tasted like. The weight, the heat, the flavor, the intrusion was forever branded on your mind, body, and soul. It would always be there.

Leave me to the beasts and bears. I’d rather that the feast was theirs. They can’t reserve neighboring plots, or request to be buried on top. 

Leave me for a day or two, to make sure that I turn blue. For the first time since I drew breath, I’m undesirable again.

It was barely a melody at this point. More a choked whisper as you fell to your knees, lute laying still on the ground.

You felt the phantom soreness of every event, every time your body was used for someone else's desires. You heard every word of pleasure and longing that had ever passed to your ears. You felt their hands as they groped and poked and prodded even when you said no. Thousands upon thousands of strangers touching you. Friends touching you. Family touching you, and you couldn’t make them stop. 

But it’s fine because they love you. No! No more. This is not alright, I’m not alright. I’m not alright, I’m not, but no one understands, and no one will even listen, and I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!

Strong arms wrap around you, trying to hold you together, but you’re falling apart freely with no air resistance, and the only thing stopping you is the embrace of warmth and strength and the smell of the earth. You didn’t realize you were screaming. You only thought you were crying, but you didn’t realize how much. 

Not until Halsin collapsed next to you and pulled you into his embrace. 

“I know,” he said softly. “I know.”

You felt his salty tears against your neck as you turned into him, arms wrapping around his neck. Your hands clawed at him desperately, trying to breathe in his safety and comfort all the while he tried to take yours. Kindred spirits, twin flames, two souls having walked the same path, and all you could do was hold onto each other for the ride and pray that you would make it to the other side.

“I’m sorry,” You tell him, burying your face in his shoulder.

His arms encompass you completely, holding you together. His large hands cover your back almost entirely, as though he’s attempting to shield you from your past with his large frame. You allow yourself this brief respite. After everything you’ve endured, you haven’t recovered, and you aren’t sure that you ever will.

It’s of small comfort to you that someone of Halsin’s size and stature knows the pain you’ve endured and has experienced it for himself. But you don’t know those circumstances. Perhaps he is only so large and muscular to protect what he couldn’t in the past. Perhaps he hopes to protect you in the same way.

Either way you are glad he is here.

“You are safe here,” He told you. “They can’t hurt you anymore.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Are you guys okay after that? I'm not. Whew.

Have a good night <3

Tag List: @leiotyp

As always let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! Requests are open!

[viennacherries]

FIC MASTERLIST

Please note: Some of my work contains NSFW content. If you are a minor, do not interact with these works. Keep yourself safe online.

Find me on AO3: viennacherries

I take requests! Find my guidelines HERE

~~~

ROLAN/TAV

'Earl Grey and Chai': NSFW 4,720 words

'Kiss the Cook': NSFW 36,134 words

'Mending': SFW 2,182 words

'The Hard Way': NSFW 3,409 words

'Last Chance': NSFW 2,363 words

'Lost in Translation': SFW 1,966 words

'Infernal Musings': NSFW 3,063 words

'A Lesson in Listening': SFW 1,284 words

'A Firm Hand': NSFW 2,001 words

'Quoth the Raven': NSFW 16,178 words

DAMMON/TAV

'Longing': NSFW 4,318 words

ZEVLOR/TAV

'Conception': NSFW 2,898 words

HALSIN/TAV

'All's Well That Ends Well': SFW 1,311 words

'Venus': SFW 753 words

GALE/TAV

'A Moment of Magic': SFW 1,876 words

'The Cost of Ambition': NSFW 1,461 words

HEADCANONS

'Haarlep, Dammon, Rolan, and Zevlor react to shy gn crush confessing their love' SFW

'Zevlor, Dammon, and Rolan having a M!Tav partner who’s big on acts of service and/or is a service top' NSFW

'Rolan, Zevlor, Dammon, and Gale with a partner who’s huge on giving them body worship' SFW

[mumms-the-word]

Intimacy prompt for Gale and Dani: 1, 8, and 28. Whichever you like best, tho of course I'd love to see what you'd do for all of them!!

Sorry this took so long!! I was trying to find ways to include all three in the same scene haha I think I did somewhat okay at managing to get them all mostly in there (more or less)

1, 8, and 28 = palm kiss, interrupting with a kiss, and pulling someone in by the waist

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

A Matter of Moments

Gale x Dani Dani is left waiting alone in the Stormshore Tabernacle as Gale meets Mystra in the Outer Planes. Despite herself, she wonders if—when—he will return.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

“I’ll only be gone a matter of moments,” Gale said, staring up at the statue of Mystra as it loomed in its alcove at the Stormshore Tabernacle. He dragged his gaze away to smile at Dani, attempting to look reassuring, confident even, despite that neither of them knew what Mystra wanted or why he had been summoned. “The Outer Planes experience time quite differently to our own. Wait for me. Please.”

“I will,” Dani said, nodding. She wrapped him up in a hug, holding him tightly, her fingers curling into the fabric of his robes. She didn’t want to let him go just yet, let alone send him to Mystra’s realm, but she knew she had to. This was important. If not to her, then certainly to him.

She just wished she trusted the goddess of magic enough to send him back unscathed.

“Hey, Gale?” She drew back to cup his cheek with her hand, brushing her thumb against his cheekbone. In the light of the stained glass and Mystra’s faintly glowing Weave magic in the air, he looked heart-achingly handsome, like a tragic hero in a song. His dark eyes never left her face as she held him and tried to find the words for what she wanted to say. “I know you have to do this…but you will come back to me. Okay? She’s not going to keep you there forever.”

She said it as much to convince herself as to convince him.

He must have seen a flicker of worry or doubt in her face, because for a moment his own nervous energy melted away. He took her hand and pressed a soft, slow kiss to her palm, his lips lingering against her skin.

“I will,” he murmured. “Whatever happens, whatever she wants to talk about, you can be certain that I will return here, to you.”

“Don’t let her keep you.”

“She won’t.” 

He kissed her palm again before wrapping his other arm around her waist and pulling her close for a proper kiss. She relaxed against him, her hand in his, her other arm around his shoulders, and kissed him first with gentleness and love—and then with deeper, searching passion. 

She didn’t want to lose him. Not to the Elder Brain, not to the Dead Three, not to his own ambition, and certainly not to Mystra. She gripped his robe in her fist as she kissed him, holding him there, and she hoped that Mystra was watching them through her statue, somehow.

She hoped Mystra saw her kissing the man she had discarded as casually as a child with a broken plaything. And selfishly, arrogantly, childishly, she hoped Mystra burned with jealousy.

With you, I forget my goddess, Gale had told her.

She knew Mystra heard him say that too. She hoped it stung. 

Gale eventually pulled away, gently untangling himself from her. He gave her a soft, tender smile before giving her the tiniest kiss to the tip of her nose.

“Remember, I’ll only be gone a matter of moments. Wait for me. Please.”

And then with a casual wave of his hand and a bright flash of light, he was gone.

---

He was gone for more than a moment. In fact, as the minutes ticked by, doubt began to creep into Dani’s mind despite her best efforts to keep it at bay.

Not doubt that he would go back on his word, necessarily, but…what could they be discussing? What if Mystra turned his head with her words? What if, somehow, when he did come back he was…changed? Different than the man Dani knew? Different than the man Dani loved?

She tried to tell herself it was all foolish, but in the silence of the temple, it was hard to convince herself. Astarion and Karlach had gone outside to sit on the front steps, soaking in the early afternoon sun. The priest had busied himself in one corner, sorting through notes on a table. Written prayers, probably. Which left Dani standing alone in front of the statue of Mystra, small and restless beneath the goddess’s blank stone gaze.

She began to pace slowly, back and forth in front of Mystra’s altar. She tried to recall old song lyrics to pass the time and distract herself, but everything she could think of spoke of love and longing, and it only made the waiting worse.

She stopped and looked around at the other statues. Tyr, Helm, and Selûne all stood silent and neutral, as did the faceless statue at the head of the room, its scroll obscuring its face. She doubted any of them would be listening to her. She had certainly never prayed to any of them, aside from a quick thank you to Selûne when Dame Aylin had come swooping in to help them fight Ketheric Thorm. Even then, she had more faith in Dame Aylin than in Selûne herself.

She’d never been particularly devout. She didn’t know who to pray to for help, and she doubted any of them would care to listen to a first-time, temporary penitent. She used to toss a few coins for Tymora, and she knew some old song-blessings of Milil, though no one seemed to worship him anymore. She’d considered getting to know Oghma more, and of course she had evoked Sune and Lliira’s names in many a song or dance, but would any of them listen? Or intervene? Against Mystra?

She doubted it.

She turned back to the statue of Mystra, frowning up at the goddess’s cold face. 

“You can’t keep him forever,” she whispered. “He’s not yours to keep.”

Only indifferent silence answered her. She clenched her fists, and in the absence of prayer, dared to hope instead. To believe in Gale. In his words and promises. He would come back.

He had to.

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe normally. She pictured him as he had been that morning, lingering in the bed with her. His dark eyes soft with sleep, his hair ruffled and disheveled. Neither of them had wanted to escape their warm covers and dress for the day. Neither of them wanted to prepare for his meeting with Mystra. So they had stayed. She had traced the lines of his orb marking gently with her fingers as he absently ran the pad of his thumb along the ridges near her ribcage and her hipbones. She curled her tail lightly around one of his ankles as he tangled their legs loosely together and he simply watched her, eyes heavy and languid with sleep, his gaze never straying from her face.

She had never loved someone so much that it made her breathless just to think of them, the way she loved him. And she had never been in the arms of someone so deeply and steadfastly in love with her that they would rather lie in bed and study her features than face their own goddess. To lose someone like that…

She opened her eyes to find her vision filmy with tears. She quickly brushed them away. Gods, what she wouldn’t give to go back to that moment, just hours ago, when it was just her and the man she loved more than her own life, her and the man who whispered that she made him forget his goddess.

She took in a shaky breath and dried her eyes. She couldn’t let Gale see her crying when he came back. She closed her eyes again to steady herself and banish the last of her tears.

It was then, with her eyes still closed, she felt a shift in the air, in the Weave around her. Her eyes snapped open as she felt a new presence behind her and she turned just in time to see Gale step out of a curtain of Weave, looking around.

His face registered relief as he saw the temple around him and Dani waiting nearby. “Back on mortal soil once more,” he said, looking slightly shaken but relieved. “I can’t believe I—”

But she didn’t let him finish. She ran to him, snatching him up in a fierce hug that rocked him slightly back and cut off the rest of his words. The feel of his body against hers, solid and warm, was all the confirmation she needed that she wasn’t imagining him there with her.

She took his face in her hands and kissed him, all her former nervousness and doubt melting away to a sense of childish pride that she could do this again in front of Mystra’s statue, now that he was back. Back on mortal soil with her, not in the Outer Planes with Mystra.

“I wasn’t gone too long, was I?” he asked, looking a little startled when they parted. She shook her head, giving him a little, wobbly smile.

“No. No, I just…I missed you,” she said. “That’s all.”

He studied her face for a second and lifted a hand to her cheek. With the pad of his thumb he wiped away a tear track she must have missed. He looked back at her again with a face full of love and quiet concern.

“I’m sorry to have worried you,” he said softly. “But I’m here now. I’m back. And,” he added, his eyes brightening, “armed with knowledge. Mystra gave us the secret of the orb’s power. The Karsite Weave, within me this whole time…”

Dani relaxed her hold on him and stepped back to let him explain, watching him gesture and pace slightly as he spoke of everything Mystra had revealed to him. Until at last he trailed off with a soft, “I’ll be myself again…for all that’s worth.”

He was quiet then, as if contemplating that idea. And for once, he seemed to be the one in doubt.

She couldn’t let him doubt himself like that. She took his hand between both of her own and squeezed. “It’s worth something to me,” she said. “You are worth something. You’re worth everything.”

She wanted to kiss him again but she also wanted him to see that she meant her words. That she wasn’t saying any of it in jest or lightly, as she so often did. So she simply held his hand.

He softened again with another little smile and shook his head. “I know I’ve said so before, but I truly don’t think I deserve you, at times.” She was about to protest when he stopped her with a finger to her lips. “But in moments like these…I can’t help but adore you for loving me the way you do.”

He leaned in for another kiss and Dani let herself drift away, content to love and be loved by this amazing, wonderful, ridiculous, talented man. Mystra may not know what she had lost, but Dani knew exactly what she had gained.

And she wasn’t going to let him go easily.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

[adorablebanite]

There's no smut in this, just sexy bad guys talking about sexy schemes for anyone interested!

My secret indulgence is writing Balthazar because he's so deliciously smug, and uses his skellies to talk shit.

[blackjackkent]

The Hellraisers - Chapter 1

Pairing: Karlach/Male Custom Tav, Tav & Wyll, Karlach & Wyll Characters: OC Male Tav (Hector Carlisle), Karlach, Wyll Rating: E (Fic), T (Chapter) Warnings: None Descriptors: Post-Game, Action/Adventure/Romance, Eventual Happy Ending Chapter Word Count: 4.5k Chapter Setting: Avernus, immediately after the end of BG3 Summary: Hector Carlisle, a Selunite monk turned adventuring warrior, follows his lover Karlach and his friend Wyll into the depths of hell after the fall of the Netherbrain. Together, they take on an even greater foe - Zariel, the Archdevil of Avernus. The Hells won't know what hit them. Chapter Summary: Hector, Karlach, and Wyll arrive in the Hells after a panicked flight from Baldur's Gate - and the weight of what they've decided to do starts to sink in.

read on ao3 | send me fic requests!

------------------------------

Hector Carlisle’s journals of the Absolutist crisis provide one of the most comprehensive summaries available to modern historians of the events leading up to what is now called the High Hall Shattering. There is not a single day for which Carlisle does not account in detail between Alturiak 10 1492 DR (when he first obtained pen and ink after the crash of the nautiloid which kidnapped him) and Uktar 24 (the night before the Netherbrain’s public attack on Baldur’s Gate’s Upper City). However, after the defeat of the Netherbrain, his own records of his activities abruptly become much more intermittent and rather staccato in nature, lacking the level of detail common to his so-called “Tadpole Chronicles.”

There are multiple theories regarding this sharp change in Carlisle’s record-keeping tendencies. Some of these theories incline towards the conspiratorial - suggesting that the monk’s disappearance into Avernus was associated with some sort of nefarious activity which he was unwilling to commit to paper. Some even go so far as to accuse him of sacrilegious behavior, though this is rendered unlikely by records of both Carlisle’s own Selunite convictions and opinions from all who knew him.

A far more probable explanation is that Carlisle’s thorough record-keeping in his pre-Shattering travels emerged from a sense of obligation. As a monk at the Silverlight Monastery, he had primarily occupied himself with transcription and scholarship of historical texts, and his training placed considerable emphasis on self-reliance and emotional reserve. As such, he considered his own journals to be necessary documentation in the same vein, and he prided himself on impartial and factual chronicling. 

His departure to Avernus with Wyll Ravengard and Karlach Cliffgate would ultimately prove no less impactful to the world at large. However, it is clear that he considered it a far more personal endeavor, as evidenced by the remarkably succinct entry from Uktar 25 1492, his first entry after his departure from the Material Plane:

Uktar 25 1492

She’s alive. She’s going to live. Thank the gods.

~ Excerpt from “Raising Hell: A History of Zariel’s Fall” by Harlow et. al., Blackstaff Academy Press

-----

"Hec, look out! On your left!"

Hector dodges to the side just in time to avoid the imp diving towards him; its claws skim the side of his head and score a painful line along his temple. Pivoting onto his heel, he spins, bringing his right fist around to slam heavily into the imp's thick torso. The evil little creature’s spine snaps and it screeches with pain. He takes no satisfaction in it, but watches with blank exhaustion as the imp falls to the rust-red dirt and is still. 

"Nice one!" Wyll calls. He withdraws his rapier from the body of another imp and points past Hector’s shoulder. "Looks like another wave coming in - off to the west." Hector follows his gaze and groans; sure enough, another band of the imps is closing in on them, surging over the horizon like a swarm of bees.

It’s been like this ever since they arrived. They’ve had no chance to orient themselves, no time to get a foothold after their panicked flight from the Material Plane. Avernus rose up to meet them like a body driving out an infection; the first wave of defenders appeared within minutes, closing on this raw strip of hellish wasteland to which they brought Karlach to save her life.

Read More on AO3

[razrogue]

writing patterns tag game

Rules: list the first line(s) of your last 10 posted fics and see if there's a pattern!

Tagged by @omgkalyppso (TY!!! 💜)

Baby, You're The Devil I Know (Ascended Astarion/Gan (Tav), Baldur's Gate 3, part of a series, mature): The palace's south entrance door closed with a heavy thud behind them as they set off across the rampart.

Forgive Me (Ascended Astarion/Gan (Tav), Baldur's Gate 3, part of a series, explicit): It had been eight days since they were due to originally arrive back home.

he was not nice... (Astarion/Tav, Astarion/Durge, Astarion/Reader, Baldur's Gate 3, one-shot, teen): …but he could be kind.

til death do us part (Ascended Astarion/Tav, Baldur's Gate 3, part of a series, teen): he'd asked them for eternity. one fateful day in a dark dungeon as they walked past cells filled with those who'd been lured into a vampire's grasp.

thanks to you (Astarion/Gan (Tav), Baldur's Gate 3, part of a series, teen): Astarion couldn’t recall as a spawn or from his previous life, having anyone on his side that looked after him.

imitation is the sincerest form of flattery (His Majesty & Ascended Astarion, Baldur's Gate 3, one-shot, teen): “So the thief has come to grovel before me?”

a lyric on your tongue (Astarion/Gan (Tav), Baldur's Gate 3, part of a series, teen): Astarion mindlessly twirled the curly end of their braid between his fingers as they rested at the side of the lake.

Nocturnal Cravings (Ascended Astarion/Gan (Tav), Baldur's Gate 3, part of a series, explicit): "Sure mate, I'm up for some fancy swill!"

Always a Price (Ascended Astarion/Gan (Tav), Baldur's Gate 3, part of a series, mature): Standing a short distance from the platform, Gan watched as the smaller runes around the room began glowing in preparation as Astarion centered himself in the runic circle on the ground before Cazador’s coffin.

Unwalked Paths (Dorothea Arnault/Zenia Dzifa (My Unit), Fire Emblem Three Houses, one shot, teen): The ashes might have settled but the remnants of the war would still be felt for some time to come.

No obligation tagging: @bhaalbaaby @mightymizora @tragedybunny @grandmother-goblin and anyone who sees this consider yourself tagged!!!

[oldfriendsseniortwittersanctuary]

Halsin vs. Minthara? No. Halsin/Minthara. The enmity... the unprocessed trauma... their hatesex could level city blocks. You understand my vision, yes?

[sankttealeaf]

LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE

CH.21: HAUNTED BY THE GHOST OF YOU

full fic masterlist!

Gortash always knew, deep down, he would do this alone.

Gortash swears he’s the only competent person in this fucking city. 

Time and time again he has to break down his ideas into simple terms for those who he clearly doesn’t give a shit about to understand. Then they’ll nod and agree that it’s a good idea and they’ll run out of time because people cannot match his level of genius. It’s infuriating. 

Another meeting over and Gortash is glad to have space at Wyrm’s Rock Fortress to retreat to. The thought of making the trek back to the Upper City tires him. He gives a nod to the two Banites on guard outside his office and lets the door close behind him. Once he’s alone, he sighs heavily.

Well, alone in the physical sense. 

CONTINUE ON AO3

[fkitwebhaal]

FIC MASTERPOST

Hello. Wanna read words I wrote for BG3? Neat! Here's a masterpost!

One-Shots:

Kiss Me, Son of God:

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53644669

Ship: Durge/Gale but it's very much a framing aspect

Summary:

Lord Gortash and Gale of Waterdeep have more in common than their mutual associate. Far more in common than Gale would like.

Extracted Notes from the Journal of One of the Saviors of Baldur's Gate

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53748556

Ship: Gen!

Summary:

IN CASE OF COMPLETE MEMORY LOSS SECTION: PEOPLE YOU KNOW LAST UPDATED: 1494 DR Or If you forget your entire life once, best to make notes in case it happens again. How much those accidentally say about you and your allies is best not thought about.

Series:

Here There Be Monsters

Series Summary:

If the Dark Urge is a monster, and Astarion is a monster, then who is leading this damn party? (Wyll probably)

Five Hours:

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53428129

Ship: Durge/Astarion

Summary:

Being controlled by one’s dark urge is hard, but watching someone you care for lose themselves might be harder. Or Astarion and five hours spent watching over someone he can no longer recognize. (How do you keep hating yourself as a monster when you've started to fall for one?)

Sleeping Giants

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53951599/chapters/136565278

Ship: Durge/Astarion

Summary:

Astarion earns his freedom covered in Cazador’s blood. The Former Chosen of Bhaal earns their freedom drowning in their own. A look at two different aftermaths of breaking free.

[bgthree]

Send me BG3 writing prompts plz I am boreddd and want to write something ❤️

[cactusnymph]

17 for touching??? 🤲🏼

She still isn't sure about her hair when she steps out of her tent the next day. Every nerve in Shadowheart's body seems to be brimming with anxious energy, her heart raw and wounded and her mind racing. She was barely able to trance at all and the pain from yesterday's combat still sits deep in her bone.

Gods, what did she do?

Defying her Lady and for what? A stranger? A Selûnite aasimar no less, which seems to make a mockery of everything she's been living for up until now. There's no direction, no sense, just the fear clawing at her skin from the inside about what will happen to her now.

The old wound on her hand seems to be burning constantly now.

It took her ages to get her hair to the foreign, white color that she can now see out of the corner of her eyes whenever hair braid or her bangs move at all. Maybe this was a dumb idea. Maybe she should just hide in her tent and change it back to black so no one can call her ridiculous or childish.

It seems foolish to feel as if this was a tiny step to reclaiming her own body and agency after everything she's been through. It's just hair. It doesn't really mean anything.

Gods, but it does.

A visible sign of her failure, her betrayal, her ruin.

Shadowheart wants to hide away from the world and cry for a week.

Of course that's impossible.

And to mock her pain even further Aylin and Isobel are now right there opposite of Shadowheart's tent. She could hear Isobel's soft snoring as she attempted to sleep and her mind was racing with pictures of Aylin holding her gently while she sleeps.

They don't concern Shadowheart. Not at all.

And yet her mind can't help but circle around them, their tenderness, their light, their certainty of faith.

The cold morning air makes her feel a little more alive and she takes a few deep breaths to calm herself down. No one will care about her stupid hair color. No one is going to say anything. And if they do, it doesn't matter.

"Looking good, Sharty", Karlach hollers from across the camp and Shadowheart flinches, cursing herself.

"Don't! Call me that!", she calls back and Karlach laughs and waves at her before stuffing another piece of bread into her mouth.

Shadowheart lowers her head and presses her fingernails into the palms of her hands as she stares down at her feet. Her heart shouldn't be racing as fast as it does. Why is she so terribly weak?

Gentle fingers touch her chin and pull it up until she looks into the bright, grey eyes of Isobel. Shadowheart sucks in a breath at the unexpected touch and the wound in her palm stings terribly, but she forces herself to not look away.

"It suits you", Isobel says and her tone is so soft that Shadowheart wants to claw her face off. Fuck. She wants to say something snarky but the words don't come. Her throat feels dry and her tongue is like rock in her mouth.

"You two match now", Aylin says with such an official tone in her voice as if Shadowheart's hair color is like a pact between the three of them. Shadowheart wishes the earth could open up and swallow her whole.

The fingers on her chin are way too careful.

"I'm here if you want to talk", Isobel says with a soft smile. "Or if you just want to sit. Or someone to braid your hair in a different way."

"It looks beautiful", Aylin says as if she wants to reassure Shadowheart of something. Shadowheart has never felt less sure of anything in her entire life.

Finally she manages to swallow and pull back from Isobel's slender fingers.

"I haven't decided if I'm going to keep it", she says.

"Hmm", Aylin hums.

"If you need help with your decision you know where to find us", Isobel says and Shadowheart has a feeling that this is not just about her hair. feel free to send me more of these <3

[seafleece]

After the transformation (death) of a friend, Shadowheart and Karlach go on a journey to take their effects home.

--

They’re not dead, just gone.

They’re not dead, just gone.

(She tries to think about Omeluum. She tries not to think about how Omeluum is not the name of its old host.)

It’s easiest to pray to Selûne on their behalf. When it’s not about them, she never knows what to say.

[mairalynn416]

I have nothing else to do these days, so I wrote yet another Karlach smut fic! This one is in three parts (the first part is Hella short but it has important context) and they're all uploaded.

Basically, Tav is a virgin and Karlach helps them explore sex. Featuring Karlach having an incredibly dirty mouth and a monster cock

[omgkalyppso]

Best Of

(✿◡‿◡) Tagged by @razrogue! Thank you!!

Rules: Link a few recent pieces of writing that I think best define me/my aesthetic/my personality.

I'll tag @recurringwriter, @lemonbronze, @lucius-the-sinful, @bosspigeon, @bladesandstars, @littleplasticrat and YOU.

What I like writing most: polyamorous bisexuals.

I Wanna Be Yours. 34/? Chapters. 135,676 words. Rated Explicit. Modern-setting Soulmate au of my fe3h ot4: Claude, Hilda, Fae, Lorenz.

Lorenz looked up to see Claude holding his wrist, looking at his soulmark on his forearm, distressed. Lorenz extended his left hand towards Hilda as he begged, “Take my hand.” She smiled at him, tangling her fingers in his and offering her left hand to Fae, who quickly repeated the action, reaching out to Claude. He seemed inconsolable, almost frightened, and swallowed as he slowly started to unravel himself, taking each Fae and Lorenz by the hand. Another gasp, and Claude shivered and jerked, and Fae and Lorenz were mindful of whether he was actually pulling away. Stretched out as they were, the changes in Claude and Lorenz’s soulmarks were immediately obvious, a sheen of unnatural color staining their marks pale gold and deep purple. Hilda rotated her left hand to direct Fae’s soulmark towards the others; bright red flecks replacing the muted black-brown that had been there previously. Hilda’s own mark was lost in Lorenz’s grip, but neither had any doubt that she too was infused with color. The sensation wasn’t so striking the longer it lasted. It would have been hard for any of them to describe. It was like ... overcoming an injury you didn’t know you had. Like breathing clearly after a long bout of sickness. Like the joy and relief that comes from mastering a long-practiced skill. Like hearing ‘I love you’ from a lover for the first time. “I never knew how it worked for people like us,” Claude whispered, his voice full of shame. Polyamory wasn’t as rare as some made it out to be, but it was rare enough that none of them knew another person that had found themselves to have more than one soulmate.

An Open Heart. 1/1 Chapters. 4,336 words. Rated Teen. Fluff for ace week, Frederick x Cordelia x ace!Stahl.

“Long have I known of your love for Chrom,” Frederick said sweetly. “But even so, I have remained hopeful that you would one day recognize my affections. I am his man in all things, and I have no desire to speak ill of Chrom, but, Cordelia, I would never give you cause to weep so bitterly as you have for him. I would devote my whole existence to ensuring your happiness. And as such, I have dreamed that your feelings would branch and bloom, to care for two…” Cordelia and Stahl both shifted closer as he spoke, and Frederick paused as Cordelia laid her free hand on his chest, her other tangled in Stahl’s fingers, and he realized why Cordelia had thought he had only eyes for the gentle knight. Stahl was loyal and true; faithful to his sworn duties and the strength they required, as well as to the humanity of his many allies, explored through stories and humour, music and learning. Their friendship had been inspirational beyond measure, and perhaps Frederick had been premature to think that meanwhile he could have only one true love; his own attraction to Chrom notwithstanding. He tilted his hand over Stahl’s shoulder, feeling himself flush about the proximity of his friends, and admitted for him and Cordelia, “Though I could not foresee that my own heart would be much the same.”

3 more fics below the cut.

What I like contributing to a fandom: gift fics for rarepairs.

What Could Be. 1/1 Chapters. 4,033 words. Rated Explicit. Rodrigue lives au. Manuela pegs Rodrigue.

“I want to,” he whispered with sincerity, imagining the solid pressure inside him, the heave of Manuela’s chest, the piston of her hips, her nails on his chest and her name on his lips. “Of course, I’d want you to fuck me. I’m just—” “Virginal,” she teased, so that a huffed laugh escaped Rodrigue, bouncing her atop him. “Self-conscious,” he suggested.

Rough Around The Edges. 1/1 Chapters. 5,106 words. Rated Mature. Caspar x Dimitri post-skip enemies to lovers.

“What you see is but an avatar of vengeance,” Dimitri growled, squeezing at his thumb, feeling the splinters in the bone, the ways in which he was fragile and the ways in which he was strong. Caspar’s gaze was drawn to his hands and Dimitri spoke louder to ensure Caspar was listening to him. Looking at Caspar dead on, Dimitri could still feel how others would interpret his impatience though his blind eye was towards the breadth of the cathedral. It did not stop him from towering over Caspar like a beast with hackles raised. There was no hiding from the monster he had become. “There is no person beneath the drive I have to overthrow Edelgard. She will pay for all she’s done. And if you think to distract me from my goals because of villainy or indifference then I will brutalise you and leave you for the rats, Bergliez. Am I clear?” Caspar’s anger was plain on his face, and Dimitri started to sneer, having expected an Adrestian dog to be incapable of understanding the tainted purity of his motivation, but he faltered slightly, bewildered by the voiced nature of Caspar’s offence. “Are you treating everyone this way?!” Caspar asked in loud accusation, gesturing with an open hand at the cowering figures outside of Dimitri’s vision. “Everyone in the monastery looks terrified, and I assumed it was because of the state of the war, and the corner we’ve all been backed into, but … it’s just you— You’re their leader!”

A Hopeless Dove. 1/1 Chapters. 11,554 words. Rated Mature. Zevlor x Raphael; he signs on with the devil in act 3, many spoilers.

“You know I’ve lost most of my abilities, my strength and my hope—” “All of which I can restore,” Raphael promised with such a bright and innocent tone. “Surely you would not expect me to ask a drowning man whether he could swim?” A small noise of surprise passed Zevlor’s lips, and he turned away from Raphael, looking out over the landscape below. Lava bubbled and cracked the desert, guiding the movements of demons and strange vehicles racing across a chasm. The visible fighters kicked up dark clouds of soot and souls — strange sparks of blue, black and gold that scattered like sparks from a flame. This was no where near the most horrific sight he’d ever laid eyes upon in Avernus, but when he’d seen her twisted rocks and sand before, it had been with Helm’s favour and his own beliefs intact, neither of which would be in Raphael’s power, but he sounded so confident that he gave Zevlor pause.