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thedreamlessnights · 5 months

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Hi! I’ve got a request for Astarion and Dark Urge Tav. Like they got together through act 1 and 2 and confessed their feelings for each other, but when they go to see Gortash become Arch Duke Tav realizes that she used to be lovers with Gortash before her memory was wiped. Queue angst and hurt/comfort and fluff and hhhhh Gortash loses plssss

I absolutely loved this concept and had so much fun writing it! Dark Urge's route changed me as a person, and I honestly feel like it's a perfect match for Astarion. Thank you so much for sending this in, and I hope you enjoy!

Aching (Astarion x F!Reader - Dark Urge)

Warnings: Major spoilers for Act III of Baldur's Gate - particularly for the Dark Urge playthrough. Mentions of blood, killing, death, and suicidal ideation. Dark Urge being Dark Urge. Hurt/comfort, self-loathing, angst with a happy ending.

Word Count: 4.6k

Like so many other things, the sight of Lord Enver Gortash tugs at a painful spot in your skull.

You’ve come to differentiate them: the gaping, aching tug of your lost memories and the sharp, swift yank of the tadpole. Somehow, his presence pulls at both of them in equal measure. There’s something on the edge of your tongue, but it won’t be said. A memory behind your eyes, but it won’t be seen.

One thing is clear enough - you know this man. For better or worse, the two of you have met before.

Karlach clears her throat behind you, and you return to yourself: not lost in the dark void of your memories, not consumed by the itch for blood. Wyrm’s Crossing.

Gods, you’d nearly forgotten. You’re in the middle of a throne room, surrounded by dozens of people, here for the coronation. Wyll’s father stands in the center of the room, all but a meat puppet under the Absolute’s control.

The Absolute, which Gortash is a part of.

The soon-to-be Archduke sees you, and something shifts in his gaze. His expression softens. Given all the trouble you’ve been causing for him, that expression comes as a shock - but what he says next is jarring to your core.

“Dearest patriars, but a moment,” he requests. “I must greet a most important guest.” He strolls toward you, arms spread wide as he steps forward, and smiles. “Crawling back from her bloody disgrace - it’s my favorite assassin! Gods, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

And suddenly, you are two pieces of a whole. One longs to step forward, knowing him, wanting him. The other longs for nothing more than to jolt away from him - from the misery you know he’s been causing. Not only to you, or even Karlach, but to your home; Baldur’s Gate.

“Hang on,” Karlach says. “What? You know each other?”

As if you could have possibly known that. As if you’d been willfully keeping it from her. As if your amnesia is a silent betrayal.

“We have important matters to address,” Gortash says dismissively. “My reunion with Karlach can wait.”

Gods, it’s all too much. You’re trying to think, but your mind is swimming in front of your eyes. Your skull throbs. Your heart thuds unevenly in your chest. Something in you is fundamentally disrupted.

“Don’t talk to me,” you manage to spit out. “Talk to her.”

After all, she deserves it. Ten years in Avernus, a flaming engine in her chest, a slow, painful oncoming death that none of you can prevent - or at least, not while she’s refusing to go back to the hells. She deserves a talk with the man who betrayed her. More than anything.

But Gortash won’t be swayed so easily, it seems. “No offense to my old friend,” he says, not even bothering to look at Karlach, “but it’s you I have been dying to see. After all, you abandoned us some time ago, leaving a rather uncomfortable hole in our plans.”

Fond. His expression is unmistakably fond.

You don’t know what plans he’s talking about, though. What to say to him? Should you treat him like a friend, exploit his familiarity down to the hilt for the sake of the information you might obtain? Should you be honest and find out more of your lost self? Do you even want to?

As it turns out, it doesn’t matter what you’re planning to say. Gortash sees your face, and that’s enough. “Oh, I’d forgotten,” he remarks, “your memories are quite lost, aren’t they? Orin told me she’d made a fool of you.”

Orin. A picture flashes in front of your mind. Warm blood, oozing from a gash in your head, streaming down into your eyes. A sharp, fierce tug of betrayal that digs into your chest, sours in your mouth like milk.

Then, another image. A recent memory: Orin. A gruesome suit of skin. A bloodthirsty tongue. The Netherstone in hand.

But Gortash is still talking.

“To think you and Karlach traveled together all this time, and she hadn’t the faintest you were one of my nearest and dearest,” he’s saying.

Karlach tenses, and you suddenly feel sick. Your hands go slick with sweat, and you can feel, not see but feel, the others silently fuming behind you.

All of this is adding up to one big, horrific picture. A conclusion you despise but can’t deny. Something affectionate in your chest. The admiration in his gaze. The way he’d greeted you. Nearest and dearest.

Lovers. You and Gortash were lovers.

The walk back to camp is the most painful of your life - that you can recall, at least. You’d rather be feral again, tied up like an animal on your bedroll, attempting to bite Astarion.

Part of you wishes you’d decimated Gortash the moment you’d laid eyes on him. If you had, all of this could have been avoided. The swirling guilt in your stomach for something you don’t even remember. The sting of reproof from nearly every single one of your companions. The betrayal in their eyes.

You’d done this. All of it. The Absolute, the march on the city, the tadpole now squirming around in your brain. You and Gortash had planned this out, and now you’ve fallen victim to it.

It seems like a disconnected idea, a person you can’t imagine being. The further you go on, the less you recognize your old self. The more you despise it.

Gale had certainly chewed you out. Karlach isn’t talking to you. Gods, even Shadowheart is angry. Shadowheart, who should know more than anyone else what this is like.

Astarion, at least, doesn’t seem as upset as the others. He’s liked his tadpole for the most part. Is some odd part of him grateful for your role in this? For the power it’s given him? You can’t tell.

You should be able to tell, shouldn’t you?

When the silence becomes unbearable, you grab a bottle of Berduskan Dark as a peace offering and join him at his tent, crawling through the entrance and sprawling yourself over his various pillows. “Do you hate me tonight, too?” you ask lightly.

He raises a brow and rolls one of his shoulders, feigning annoyance. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says, his tone teasing and casual. “It’s not often I find out the woman I’m with is behind a horrible, malicious scheme to control an elder brain.”

Your words of penance fall flat even before they’ve touched your tongue, so you pour him a glass of wine in response.

He smiles. “Trying to win me over, darling?” he asks, tilting his head. “You’ve caused quite the commotion around camp, you know. Gale is positively furious.”

That sensation of guilt comes again, but this time, it’s overpowering. It makes you want to crumple in on yourself, to erase the horrid, evil parts of you that are left like bloodstains on a white shirt; things that won’t be scrubbed away, present and never-escapable.

“I didn’t know,” you start, firmly but barely kept together. “I swear, I had no idea-”

“Relax, dearest,” Astarion says. “As you know, me and the tadpole are the best of friends. No need to explain.” He pauses. “Although,” he says, suddenly becoming very interested in inspecting the brim of his glass, “you and Gortash seemed to be old friends, too.”

You know what he’s asking you, and you don’t have it in yourself to lie to him. Instead, you slowly nod, pouring yourself a glass of the wine, too. Gods, do you need it.

“We were lovers, I think,” you finally answer. “I can’t remember anything about it, but… the way he talked to me. It seemed like we were more than friends.”

He pulls a face. “Well. I certainly hope he won’t be serving as my competition. You can do so much better.”

You stare at him: the sudden tension in his shoulders, the pasted-on, confident smile that plays on his lips, the dark glint to his gaze.

“You’re jealous.”

He scoffs. “Jealous?” he exclaims, laughing a little. “Of course I’m not jealous. Honestly - it’s hilarious. A Bhaalspawn and Bane’s chosen. In another life, I would have been rooting for the two of you.”

But there’s a crease between his brows, and he won’t quite look at you. You reach out for his hand, and his expression softens. He playfully rolls his eyes, but he takes your hand all the same. “And what is our vicious little mastermind thinking about?” he asks, leaning toward you.

“I’m thinking,” you say, “that Lord Gortash could never compare to you.”

“Oh?” he asks, moving in a little further. He loves preening for compliments, and you love treating him to them. “Do go on, dearest.”

You trail your thumb over his knuckles. “Well, he’s clearly nowhere near as handsome as you are.”

Astarion tilts his head. “Of course he isn’t. The man couldn’t hope to compare with a… world-endingly handsome vampire.” He squeezes your hand, lifting a brow. “Anything else?”

You can’t help smiling now. “His taste in clothing is awful. Didn’t you see his boots?” you ask. “Tacky.”

He scowls. “I did. Horrendous, honestly. And at his coronation, no less,” he remarks, tutting. “Well. I’m glad to see your standards have improved, darling.”

“As am I.” You take a sip of your wine, swirling it in your hand, enjoying the feel of Astarion’s grasp in the other.

With him, you can almost forget the worst parts of yourself. The others, as much as you love them, only make your crimes seem so much worse. There’s a constant forgiveness sought with each conversation, a debt you can never repay that lingers underneath the way they see you. But not with him.

He mirrors you. He sees you. What you really are, not what you were, not the echo of your old life. All your past grievances, well… those don’t matter to him. Everything you’ve done, he considers himself worse.

Part of you thinks - if the two of you actually make it through, that is - that bit by bit, you may actually heal. Maybe, you’ll actually have a life with him beyond the tadpoles, and beyond Baldur’s Gate. Maybe, the two of you will build something far beyond those who once controlled you.

And then the night comes.

You leave Astarion in his tent to trance, telling him you mean to sleep even though you have no intention of doing so. You never rest well, but it’s aggravated, lately. The Urge is always at its worst during the night. The shadows reflect your darkest self back at you, and your fingers itch for blood. Your mind becomes a haze of gore. Your teeth fix on a tender part of your cheek and press down until you taste iron.

You’d like to say that this part of you is a clean split from the other - that it’s easy to tell where the Urge ends and you begin - but it’s not. Your thoughts so often drift. You’d been the one feeling that sickening sense of satiation when Alfira lay dead at your feet, her blood drying on your skin. And it’s you who feels a strange tug toward Gortash - some lingering yearning that won’t be scrubbed away.

And you try. Gods, do you try. You take a rag and sit at the river and rub until your skin is raw, trying to get the metaphorical blood off your hands, trying to cleanse yourself of the want that pulls at your chest when Gortash slips into your thoughts.

But it doesn’t work. It doesn’t work at all.

The way you want Astarion feels different. It’s grounded. Natural. Being around him feels as easy as breathing. Gortash, though: there’s something so very strong there, something ripened with time and obsessive, almost. Something that wants him no matter what you tell yourself.

You want to win this. You want to look at the faces around camp and tell them that their faith in you is not misplaced; that you are capable of what they want you to be. You’re more than the monster in your thoughts. When you’d resisted killing Isobel and Astarion despite your butler’s commands, you’d thought there was a chance for that to happen - for you to become something outside of your murderous tendencies.

Now, you’re not so sure.

Your role in the creation of the Absolute has changed things. This feels… unforgivable. Not that Alfira’s death wasn’t already unforgivable, not that you haven’t already sinned enough, but… it’s tallying up to a truly heinous amount of perversion that you can’t fathom anyone here tolerating, much less accepting. Astarion, maybe, but he deserves better than this.

You’ve already tremendously ruined things, and on top of that, you find out you were responsible for turning all of the people you care about into thralls?

It’s enough to shake you to your core. Enough to sow doubt in your mind, spreading like a slow poison through the veins of your thoughts, slowly choking them away, slowly consuming you.

You really might lose.

Gods, are you strong enough to win the long-fought battle against yourself? Do you have it in you to completely turn away from your past? You won’t give in without a fight, of course, but what chance do you have against Bhaal when he’s in your very mind, rooting himself into every inch of you?

In the days, you have hope, but in the nights, when you’re alone, you feel certain you’re doomed. That perhaps, this side of you will take over, and you’ll be absolutely helpless to stop it.

The true question is this: when the darkness takes over, will you still exist; forever trapped in the body you once had control over? Or will Bhaal’s presence ravage you, body and soul, and leave nothing of the thing you once were?

You really can’t decide which is worse.

You’re used to your hands shaking, by now. Your fingers have often trembled around the hilt of your blade, itching to drive your knife deep into sweet, bleeding flesh.

This is different.

It’s fear that takes your body, not the Urge. Fear that compels you, not Bhaal. Are you afraid to lose to Orin, or afraid of what you might become?

Astarion stands behind you, observant but tense. The two of you have come so far now that it almost seems foolish to think of losing. He’d defeated Cazador. He’d resisted the Ascension. If he’d found it in himself to turn away from his darkness, can’t you?

Yet, some part of you still thinks you might disappoint him. Some part of you still fears the monster that lies within yourself.

Astarion rests a hand on your shoulder, knowing you all too well. “You can do this,” he says, lightly squeezing. “I know you can.”

And the sheer, beautiful belief in his eyes - belief in you - is enough to have a little hope again. Not much, but some. You can do this.

You step into the center of the circle, hands around your blade, and you believe.

It all goes by in a blur.

Orin is a viper, tightening her strokes around you, striking fast and hard. Her movements are rapid and graceful, her dance lithe and experienced. Even in her slayer form, there’s a deadly beauty to her actions. Every slash, every wound she inflicts on your skin, is a vicious reminder that she’s nothing but practiced in this regard.

Perhaps she’s forgotten, but you are, too. And, this time, your pride doesn’t blind you to the threat she poses.

Your body moves instinctively; for once, you let the Urge guide you freely. You leap out of the way of her claws, dig your blade into her side. When the scent of blood hits the air, you rejoice. When you feel pain, you bask in it.

Flashes of your past echo in front of your eyes - being in the pod, blood gushing into your eyes. You remember the agony of her betrayal, the fear as you’d smashed your skull into the glass again and again and again. Anything to escape what she’d done.

It’s despair that takes over you, not fear. It’s your fury that deals the final blow, not the Urge. And when Orin finally falls, your blade in her ribs up to the hilt, you feel no relief, no satiation.

Only grief. Nothing but grief.

You don’t know what you mourn for - your old self? The life she’d robbed you of? No - no, you despise your past. You despise who you were. So what tugs at your chest this tenderly? What force brings you to your knees?

For just a moment, you almost forget about Bhaal.

Of course, he won’t be forgotten - not here, not in his own domain. Not when you’re his creation. Sceleritas Fel is in front of you, applauding your victory, calling you the Chosen One.

“He is near,” he says. “He comes for you.”

Fear flutters through your chest. Bhaal’s Chosen. It tempts you, even now. The Urge has slithered into the very heart of you, kept somewhere in your ribs, so dark and alluring that you can barely breathe.

It salivates at the sight of the blade slicing through your butler’s chest, sways at the sight of his blood. His body rises, limp and lifeless, and it’s all you can do to stare, still breathless from the fight, still silently devastated, as more blades cut through the skin one by one - impaling him until his blood seeps onto the stone below; dark, crimson liquid shining over the cold floor.

And in his reflection, you find Bhaal.

He is everything you’ve felt in the Urge and more - the sweet whispers of death in your ear. He’s the honeyed tone that compels you to serve him, compels you to bring forth destruction in his name. In chaos, he triumphs, and in blood, he revels.

This is a gift. An offering to you, his Chosen.

You could accept. You could stop fighting against your destiny, against this thing you were born to become. You could do what he asks, and wreak beautiful havoc on this world. You’re exhausted. Every muscle in your body aches - not from Orin, but from this never-ending fight against yourself.

How strong you could become, remedied of these burdens. How well you would please your father. It would be so easy. All you’d have to do is accept…

And then you see Astarion.

His face is paler than usual, a tension in his shoulders, a quiet exhaustion in his eyes. You see him now, as he is, and you see him as he was in the ritual chamber: the temptation of power right beneath his grasp, begging to be taken. He’d sacrificed so much. The light of the sun on his face. The relief of hunger. The burial of his shame. All of these, he’d refused, but he’s finally free. He wants that for you, and you want it, too.

No matter the cost.

So you refuse. You look Bhaal in the eye and refuse his gift, knowing what it will mean for you. And when he threatens your life, you refuse again. No matter the cost, you think. Death is freedom in its own way.

The sudden agony that wracks through your body is unlike any you’ve ever known. It boils through your blood, singes body and soul, brings down you to your knees with the very force of it. Your chest seems to cave in on itself, expelling your inheritance to Bhaal with every beat of your heart.

Even when he lifts a hand and raises you into the air, you feel crushed - suffocated. Your teeth grind against each other, your skull throbs in agonzing waves, blood flows steadily over your tongue. Your heart slows, your essence fades. Sharp, blinding pain overtakes your vision until all that’s left of you is the shallow, scraping breath in your lungs.

All at once, everything fades, and you’re left in darkness.

And in the darkness, there is finally peace.

Being revived feels like a cruelty. Death is sweet and calm and simple. Emptiness. Oblivion. It is silent, and you are grateful.

Until you’re not.

You’re not, because you’re no longer dead. Something rips you from your painless sense of stillness - throws you back into the misery of life. You fight against it, but it’s pointless; you have no say in this, and it will take you where it desires.

You find yourself in flesh again, find the familiar sensation of your tender skin. You find yourself before Withers, bruised and broken, but reborn.

He’s a sight for sore eyes, but there’s something else that lies in your chest. A silence that hasn’t been there since… since before you’d woken up on the nautiloid, confused and alone, not a memory to be found aside from meaningless scraps and a face you didn’t recognize.

The Urge is gone. All that’s left is you.

It feels empty.

This should feel heroic, this return of yours that leaves you panting with the throes of death, covered in blood and on your knees. You’re back, you’re alive, and gods, you’re glad to see your friends and your lover, but it’s empty.

You deserved to die, didn’t you? It was your horrible knowledge, the one you kept tucked away even from Astarion. That never-ending guilt. After your crimes, after all the horrid things you’ve done with these hands, this body, before you’d lost your memory - you’d most certainly deserved to be put down.

You don’t dare look at Astarion, but you look at Withers. Surely, he must know what you are. Surely, he must know what you’ve done.

“I deserve to die,” you tell him, your voice shaking as much as your body. “For all the evil I have done.”

Withers stares at you, his expression unchanged. “The sole way to atone for thine actions is to do better, in a new dawn,” he says - and gods, he smiles. He’s proud of you, you realize. Proud of your resistance. “That dawn has come,” he announces.

And if he will not be swayed, you suppose you won’t, either. You’re alive, whether you like it or not. Whatever pieces are left of you and the life you might live, you’ll put them together. You’ve done it before, and you’ll do it again.

The important thing is that you’re finally free.

“Bhaal tried to extinguish thee,” Wither observes, “but his wrath is imprecise. He only succeeded in killing the part of thee he knew. The Urge that drove thee to terrible acts. The spark of brutality that made thee his. But there is a new part of you that hath grown during thy travels. That part, Bhaal could not extinguish. And so, instead of destroying thee, he hath made thee anew.”

“You get to start over,” Astarion says. He gazes at you, a mixture of leftover fear and relief and care. “To be the person you want to be. Not what someone else made you to be.”

And gods - even in the worst of yourself, you know that he sees you - wants you, all the same. If you’re at his side, you’re sure you can do anything.

“Greet the bloodless dawn, child of none,” Withers says, and for once in the shabby remembrance of your life, the guilt that haunts you finally sweeps away.

Gortash knows you’re coming, you think. After your stint at the Iron Throne and the foundry that now lies in ash, he must. Your memories are mostly lost to the aether, but you do know this - he’s no fool.

Still, when you see him again, there’s that strange, leftover twinge of your past. It’s dead now; whatever warmth there was in his presence has become ice. Your old self has died along with your Urge, rotted away like your need for blood. After all, the part of you he cared for was maniacal. Brutal. Not as bad as Orin, perhaps, but deranged. It sickens you to know he cared for someone like that, when you’ve despised yourself so.

It sickens you even more to know that he knows no guilt for his actions. How much have you suffered over your own deeds? How often have you awoken in sweat, drenched from head to toe with the fleeting remnant of your past deeds tainting your mind?

And here he is, smug and so sure - of himself, of this path, of Bane. And he knows no regret, or guilt, he makes no apologies. A part of you may have once loved him, but no more. Whatever he’d once seen in you, it no longer remains.

You wonder if he can tell. After all you’ve done to him, after the havoc you’ve wreaked on his plan, does he realize that the person he cared for no longer exists? He seems not to. Not until Karlach launches at him and you draw your blade, willing to kill when it’s necessary but not craving an ounce of blood more.

The fight is long and brutal, but it’s familiar. You have your friends at your side, people you trust even more than yourself. It flies by in a blur, only ending when Karlach’s axe sinks into Gortash’s gut and he crumples to his knees, letting out a final rush of air before he goes still.

Like so many other events, this should feel triumphant, but it doesn’t. Like so many other things, this isn’t fair. Gortash is gone, yes, nothing more than a body on a floor, but there’s no celebration, no relief.

Karlach has gotten her revenge, but she will never get her life back. She will never regain what he took from her.

You have the Netherstones, yes. But gods - that doesn’t stop the sickening feeling deep inside.

You head home with nothing but grief and an aching body, your hand held tight in Astarion’s, and you finally allow yourself to fully mourn the life you’d lived - the things you’d done, and the people who no longer live because of you.

With Gortash finally gone, the air of the camp changes. You’re so close to your goal, but there’s an underlying tension that fills the air. It has you making your way to Astarion, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and nuzzling into his neck.

He holds you close, his thumb trailing over the nape of your neck, and the action slackens the tension out of your muscles.

“So,” he starts, “how are you feeling, now that your old lover is gone?”

You huff, shaking your head. The action brushes your nose with his skin, and you can smell him all over you. The warmth of brandy, the sharpness of rosemary. “I don’t remember any of it,” you say, words soft. “I… don’t really feel anything.”

You recall his numbness after Cazador. Dame Aylin’s emptiness after smiting down Larroakan. Karlach’s grief after killing Gortash. Even after your fight with Orin, there hadn’t really been relief. Just… a sense of loss.

He gently takes your face in his hands.

You’re scared, really. You’re so close to succeeding, so close to getting the tadpole out of your mind, and yet, you’re terrified out of your wits. What the hells are you supposed to do, now that failing holds the most weight?

“Do you really think we’ll win this?” you ask him. Your fear slips into your voice and breaks it, and you wince.

“Of course I do,” he says. “I don’t know about you, darling, but I have no intention of dying again.” He presses his lips to your forehead, the gentle touch soothing away your fear. “We’ll get through this. Trust me.”

And, despite the fear, the pain, the loss - despite every curve that life continually throws at you, every defeat you muster through, you know he’s right.

You’ll get through this; just like you always do.

#astarion x reader #astarion #astarion x you #astarion ancunin #astarion x dark urge #baldurs gate 3 x reader #mywriting

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pastrydragon · 4 months

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The BG3 Beef I wanna see shitpost

While I do love the idea of Tav/Astarion/Karlach/whoever getting more unique mean dialogue with Ulder Ravengard, especially when he has the audacity to take up space in your camp like that instead of someone cooler like Barcus or that one bullied hyena, I want very specific flavor text that you'd only get in the epilogue party if you pick a specific ending even more.

I think if you romance Wyll as Gale or Gale as Wyll and then you don't go to Avernus, I think it would be totally galaxy brain to have dialogue in the epilogue that reveals Ulder Ravengard and Morena Dekarios fucking DESPISE one another. Because they absolutely would.

We never get to meet Morena in game but you can tell from what Gale and Tara say about her and Gale's... Galeness that she is at least a part time passenger on the "Fuck you my child is fine" train. Her sweet little boy? Commit evil deeds? Never! There has obviously been a mistake. I mean she indulged that "Gale Of Waterdeep" nonsense and when Gale summoned a full on Tressym after being explicitly denied a kitten as a child, she just let him keep her. No repercussions.

And then her sweet boy brings home another sweet boy who is probably EXACTLY what she pictured Gale's partner should be like.(Because Wyll is the damn blueprint for "Guy you could bring home to mom") Wyll is ridiculously sweet to Gale, he's the perfect gentleman, he's very open to the idea of giving Morena the grandchildren she's been nagging Gale about in the very near future. Pinch her, she must be dreaming!

I cannot imagine her reacting to Wyll's backstory with any amount of empathy towards Ulder, obviously that man is a cruel psychopath to throw poor Wyll out like that after "a tiny misunderstanding" and Wyll is just too good of a son not to see it. Which is partially true, Wyll is definitely still in some kind of denial stage over what his father did but that's not the point of the post.

Then there's Ulder who probably thinks Gale is... Fine. He's not someone he ever would have pictured for Wyll. Gale is a babbling oddball, he has chronic foot-in-mouth disease and has only ever met the pointy end of a sword. But he can't say anything because Gale saved him, his son, and Bulder's gate, and a small army of tieflings, and apparently a bunch of mushroom people and blah blah more reasons he can never have the moral high ground blah. He's undeniably stuck with this fucking wizard, and his nightmare of a mother.

Morena firmly believes that since the Ravengard manor is technically Wyll's now, then it's also Gale's and thus is now hers as well. When I say she would walk through the doors like she owned the place I mean it very literally. Where did Ulder's old helmet display go? "They were rusty and it was ruining the wooden shelves, besides these enchanted swords go better with the new drapes we had to get, I don't know how you didn't notice how moth eaten they were getting." Everyday he wakes up and something about his own damn home has been changed to make it look more like a wizard tower. She doesn't even live here most of the time!

And it doesn't stop there, not at all. No this women has to make sure his son doesn't live there full time either. Every holiday and birthday she has to send Gale a letter about how much she misses him and you should visit so you can take a break from all that(Very important!) work and how she already has the venison just for Wyll.

And every time he's forced to interact with this harpy she looks at him with a sweet smile on her face, honey in her voice and the burning hatred of a thousand suns in her eyes then somehow managed to insult him five times in one sentence without ever explicitly insulting him. This women is a devil from Avernus sent to punish him for his sins and she's even won over the grandkids. Obviously that women is a manipulative psychopath for using her control over Gale to manipulate his son. Which, yeah Gale not being able to say no to his mom has contributed greatly to this and if Wyll knew what healthy boundaries looked like he probably wouldn't have put up with it but he doesn't so here we are.

Let these two be the Tom and Jerry style B plot to BG4 is what I'm saying.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #wyll ravengard #bg3 wyll #ulder ravengard #morena dekarios #gale x wyll #I don't know their ship name #I only ship it for the family drama #Astarion can also fill this role as Wyll's SO but this is funnier to me #bladeweave #thank you dromaeocore for telling me!

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hydropyro · 6 months

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Raphael Theory

Raphael is not a just cambion.

Evidence –

First evidence is his ability to create contracts. We can see from the in game cambion, Mizora, who works on behalf of Zariel, that she herself is not capable of granting power or creating contracts. In order to amend her contract with Wyll she requires witnesses.

With Raphael we see regular independent contract making. From his contract with the Infernal Mason: which causes Raphael to lead an army against the Goddess of Loss, to his contract to Yurgir, a powerful baatezu (Devils, natural inhabitants of Baator) in his own right, Raphael answers to, seemingly, no one, and exerts as much power as he likes, when he likes.

Continuing with his contract with the Infernal Mason, first we see a “cambion”, which tend to fall quite low on the hierarchy tree of baatezu, *having*, *controlling*, and *mobilising* an army of fiends onto the mortal plane to contradict a goddess’s will. He addresses Yurgir as ‘commander’ before the fight in the House of Hope, indicating that Yurgir has significant status among the Baatezu. Orthons are commonly used as personal guards, bounty-hunters, and generals for Pit Fiends, Infernal Dukes/Duchesses, and Arch Devils.

In the fight with Raphael in the House of Hope we also see Raphael command a personal army of fiends which he’s able to summon to himself from elsewhere in the Hells.

Final evidence, Raphael’s Ascended form. While it’s something we haven’t seen elsewhere in the game, his form does actually align with a Pit Fiend: and a powerful one. In baatezu hierarchy the devil’s *form* changes based on their rank. They are ‘purified’ in the fires and emerge a more powerful self, with an accompanying form.

Raphael’s Ascended form best matches a Pit Fiend, the second highest rank in the hierarchy.

I posit that Raphael is an Infernal Duke. Not only that, but he is powerful enough in himself not to need to serve a specific Arch Devil. (((When meeting Haarlep he says he sometimes takes the shape of Archduchess Raphael. This is not confirmation of my theory, rather it is a testament to his ego and ambitions, as he is in no way an ARCHduke — yet)))

If I’m correct, this *most likely* explains why Mephistopheles would send Haarlep to distract, and potentially spy on, Raphael. The only rank above Infernal Duke is Arch Devil. Raphael, then, is a genuine threat to the current ruling of the Hells: Mephistopheles included.

If Raphael was born a cambion eons past, which we have no reason to believe otherwise, he has torn upward through the infernal ranks. This is not only difficult, but would be incredibly painful for Raphael himself, as each evolution would require his previous form be burned away and purified by the fires.

Raphael revels in subverting expectations, and likely enjoys being underestimated. He masquerades as a cambion because they are nobodies on the infernal plane — but he is far from nobody.

I believe that Raphael chose Avernus for his House of Hope because Zariel isn’t able to kick him out, nor is she able to subjugate him. While in Avernus Raphael has the freedom and power to do what he wants, when he wants.

A cambion wanting the Crown of Karsus to achieve godhood is laughable. But an Infernal Duke, son of Mephistopheles, wanting the Crown to achieve godhood is *possible* and *terrifying* for all of the baatezu.

I haven’t found any answers regarding this final thought: but I don’t think we’ve seen the last of Raphael, whether we killed him or not. His story shows that he is crafty, has backup plans for his backup plans, and has ambitions that can feasibly topple the hells.

Raphael *was* a cambion. He is *now* an Infernal Duke, and the only ‘rank’ above him is Archduke (that — and God)

#baldur’s gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #haarlep #raphael #theorycrafting #theory

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liminal-space-lesbian · 2 months

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Bg3 Ladies needing comfort after a bad day

Request: So for the BG3 headcanon or blurb requests what about a little thingy where the Lady’s of the game have a bad day and need lots of comfort from their Tav. 🥺

A/n

Honestly idgaf if Lae’zel is ooc, my baby is secretly going soft. Sorry guys!! I believe she actually has feelings deep down <3 Also mild spoilers if you haven’t finished the Crèche questline

Also Karlach is so babygirl omg if someone doesn’t give her a hug rn I SWEARRRR

Karlach:

Karlach had spent the entire day fighting off various enemies, who were unfortunately harder to defeat than expected. And right as she’s settling down for the night, finally getting a reprieve from the day, Raphael shows up.

He’s yammering on about how he wants to strike up a deal with you, but you cannot send him away fast enough. Seeing a devil only dredges up bad memories for your lover, and you do not want her to have to relieve the memories of her torture in Avernus.

“Come here baby, it’s alright just try to relax.” You coax, seeing the tension in her body once Raphael leaves. You coo, gently taking her into your arms. Her head buried in your chest, strong arms wrapping around you tightly as you rub her shoulders and the back of her neck. You ease the tension out of her muscles, kissing the crown of her head.

She finally lets the tension leave her body as she breaks down into tears, quietly crying into the fabric of your shirt. Small sobs wrack her shoulders, sending an aching pain lancing through your heart. You can’t stand seeing her so upset.

“I fuckin’ hate demons. No good ever comes of ‘em. Promise me you’ll never even consider Raphael’s deal.” She pleads, and you’re quick to reassure her. “I promise, I’ll never make a deal with a devil. I love you too much to risk it.” You whisper into her hair as you place a gentle kiss on her temple.

You cuddle her to sleep, allowing her to wrap herself around you entirely. Lord knows a decade of not being able to touch anyone without scorching their skin off leaves a girl touch starved. You tuck her in as cozy as she can get, and pepper her face with gentle kisses as she drifts off. Your heart aches for the suffering your lover has endured, but all you can do is be here now to support her.

Shadowheart:

Shadowhearts wound on her hand had been flaring rather badly all day, and unfortunately you had to travel past an abandoned temple of Shar. All the memories- or lack thereof- cause Shadowheart’s mood to sour. She seems snappy and short tempered, but when you visit her tent later you see her curled into a ball and cradling her hand.

“Oh sweetheart.” You murmur, getting on your knees beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder. She sniffles, obviously trying to hide her tears. You shush her, gently lying behind her and wrapping your arms around her. She rolls over and cuddles into your chest, crying more freely now.

“Why did they have to take my memories? Sometimes I don’t even feel like I know myself.” She whimpers, and your heart shatters. “Oh baby, I’m so sorry.” You whisper, kissing her forehead and wiping away her tears. “I know you, and I love you.” You murmur, rubbing your hand soothingly up and down her back as she tucks her head into your neck. You spend the evening wiping away her tears and soothing her as best as you can.

Lae’zel:

Lae’zel doesn’t get upset, she gets angry. It’s how she was raised, channel every feeling into anger. Anger fuels strength, and only created a stronger more tenacious fighter. So when Lae’zel finds out the truth about Vlaakith, she’s angry. Enraged. Furious. Not hurt.

Lae’zel definitely doesn’t cry when she’s alone in her tent that night. She also definitely doesn’t crawl into your arms and bury her face in your shoulder. Your touch is the only balm to the aching in her chest.

“Tsk’va, look at me. So weakened by the betrayal of a false god.” Lae’zel grits out between tears, fists clenched firmly in your shirt. Her anger is directed at herself, as if it’s her fault she was fooled along with every other Gith.

“Darling, it’s not your fault. Vlaakith tricked everyone. I know her betrayal hurts, and you have a right to be upset. Im so sorry you have to deal with something like this.” You coo, kissing her forehead and wiping her tears. She scowls and pulls away from your touch, but only to roll over so she can be little spoon.

She doesn’t speak for the rest of the night, but you feel a bit of tension melt away from her muscles. The next morning she’ll wake as if nothing happened, but for now she burrows farther into your warmth, seeking your comfort.

Dame Aylin:

Aylin’s mood took a turn for the worse when she heard Raphael had proposed a deal to you at Sharess Caress. She had already spent the day overstimulated from the noise of Baldurs Gate, a stark contrast to a century in shadowfell, where the only sound was the wind and rumbling in the distance. Now that you told her this? She was pissed.

She stomped off to be alone, saying she just needed time to think. You could tell by the stiffness of her posture she was upset, more than just angry. You gave her some space, but when she finally returned to your tent to go to sleep, you confronted her.

“What’s wrong darling?” You coax, your expression soft as you open your arms for her. She hesitates, her pride and stoicism holding her back for a moment. Her hesitation is short lived however, as she heaves a sigh and flops into your arms.

“I’m just thinking of my time spent in shadowfell. Raphael is a devil, simply a reminder of the evils in this world.” She pauses, heaving an irritated sigh. “After being trapped in that soul cage for so long… sometimes it feels as though I’m still there. Not physically but… in my mind that place haunts me.” She admits quietly, and you think you hear her voice quiver.

“I’m sorry Aylin. You didn’t deserve that. If I could take away all your pain I would.” You murmur, hugging her a bit tighter as you look in her eyes. You see tears clinging to her lashes as she swallows thickly.

“I know you would. And I love you for it.” She whispers brokenly, nuzzling her head into your shoulder as she clings to you. She pulls away to place a deep kiss on your lips, reveling in the comfort of you.

“Try and rest Aylin, you need sleep.” You coax, easing her to lie back. She complies, allowing herself to get comfortable as she slips off to sleep. For the first time in weeks she doesn’t have a single nightmare.

Isobel Thorm:

Isobel was drained after narrowly escaping being kidnapped by Marcus. She pumped all of her magical abilities into the shield around the Last Light Inn, as well as blessing you and your companions to ward off the shadow curse.

You could see her bottom lip quiver as she climbed into bed, and she instantly cuddled into your side. You turned towards her, gently cupping her face in your hands.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask gently, and she simply shakes her head, blinking heavily as tears flow freely down her face. You brush the tears away with your thumbs, nodding as you kiss her forehead. You take her into your arms and let her cry it out.

You rub up and down her arms soothingly, allowing her the space to let out her feelings. Eventually her cries taper out, and soon enough she’s drifting off to sleep. You carefully make sure she’s tucked in perfectly before resuming your spot, cuddled up to her for the night.

A/n

If this is bad it’s bc I’ve been awake for 17 hours, sorry peeps 😔

#bg3 requests #bg3 #bg3 karlach #bg3 shadowheart #bg3 lae'zel #bg3 dame aylin #bg3 isobel #dame aylin x reader #isobel thorm x reader #isobel x reader #karlach x reader #shadowheart x reader #lae’zel x reader #fem reader #hurt/comfort #angst with a happy ending

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swordcreature · 5 months

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Empty - Rolan x Tav Soulmate AU

hi hi hi! me and the wonderful, amazing @forgeofthenine decided to do a lil collab/prompt swap for the tiefling boys. it was so much fun to write and you definitely need to go see what prompt i gave her because oh boy i know it's gonna be cute. like scream into a pillow cute. thank you Bri for this collab idea i had so much fun and also totally didn't spend an entire work shift looking at pictures of Rolan's hands (because you know, inspiration).

my prompt was for Rolan + "Your soulmate's handprint is the first place they touch you"

(i'm totally going to edit formatting of this post later because it takes me forever to do so, so if you see it change, that's why lol)

Rolan could recall, with complete clarity, the first time someone touched the dark red handprint on his chest. He was barely a teen, not even old enough to truly understand the implication of a soulmate, when a classmate braced her hand over his heart. He remembered the way his chest tightened, how he couldn’t breathe as the taller tiefling laid her palm just slightly too left of the soulmark.

He didn’t need to look down to know it wasn’t a match. How many times had he pressed his own hand against his chest, trying to make his long, clawed fingers fit the much smaller handprint, so that he could burn the feeling into memory? Lia had said it was just fate, that the gods had someone better in store for him, but that didn’t lessen the sting – even if he wasn’t particularly fond of the girl.

He decided that romance was a fool's game, one that people like Rolan couldn’t afford to play. Or, at least, that’s what he told himself. He had a family to look after, siblings to provide for. What good would dwelling on silly fantasies of love do him? It certainly wouldn’t put food on the table or a roof over their heads.

In the back of his mind, though, in the privacy of his own thoughts, Rolan imagined what it would be like to meet the match to his soulmark. It was bittersweet, a torturous pain that he reveled in, teasing himself with pretty fantasies of who his mate may be. They always stayed fantasies, though.

But then Elturel fell into Avernus. And any hope Rolan had of ever finding his soulmate was ripped away, like the ground beneath his feet that gave way to the fiery pits of the Hells. He felt hollow, empty. Even as Elturel returned to the mortal plane, the feeling never went away.

⸻

When Tav first came into the grove, Rolan was drowning in the emptiness. It was easy to pretend it didn’t exist when the world was going to shit around them. And he had all but mastered the art of walling himself up so that any blows to his brittle heart didn’t send it careening into the abyss he felt inside.

Rolan found that he felt different around her, though. He first noticed it at the party, as he and the Elturian refugees celebrated Tav and her companion’s efforts against the goblins. The cavity in his chest seemed to shrink, if only by a little bit. But it was enough for Rolan to breathe, to take a breath he didn’t realize he so desperately needed. It made him nervous, the way she easily was able to slip through the defenses he painstakingly constructed and take hold in his mind.

For the first time since Avernus, Rolan let himself imagine what it would be like to feel her hand against his chest, slotting into place over the red mark.

⸻

These temporary highs never seemed to last long for Rolan. Amid the broken grounds of the shadow cursed lands, as Cal and Lia were ripped from his grasp, the cavern in his chest swelled. It loomed large and insidious, and Rolan felt as though if he closed his eyes hard enough, he could fall into it. He hated it, hated himself, hated feeling so utterly weak.

And when the emptiness threatened to swallow him whole, Tav was there.

She returned to Rolan what he thought was lost to him forever. If he weren’t a coward, he would have grabbed her right then and there. He would have pulled her to him and apologized for the venomous words he spit at her in anger, would have thanked her for all that she had done. He simply uttered a tiny 'thank you' and let her go on her way, trying to ignore the way his chest shifted as she left.

⸻

If Rolan were a third party, looking at his life from unaffected eyes, he perhaps would have laughed at the misfortune that plagued him at every step. It truly never seemed to end. Just as he got his footing, arriving at Baldur's Gate and securing a place for him and his siblings to stay, the rug was pulled out from under him.

At least this time, the pain he felt was physical and not deep within. At least he had bruised and marks to show for it. At least he could put a name to his tormentor: Lorroakan.

Although he did have to admit that after everything he had been through, working as the whipping boy for an egomaniacal wizard was something he could handle. Or at least see through to the end.

And Rolan fully intended to stick through his apprenticeship, to become a powerful and renowned wizard, to ensure his siblings were taken care of. He certainly didn’t expect Tav to throw herself into the mix, killing the master wizard before Rolan had even been there a tenday. Though, he probably should have expected it.

She always seemed to show up whenever he needed her most, even when he didn’t want her help. Especially when he didn’t want her help. If Rolan was religious, he may have thought her a form of divine intervention. But he hadn’t prayed since he was a child and calling her work an act of the gods seemed like an insult to Tav’s capabilities. She was Tav, nothing more and nothing less. A woman who somehow knew him and what he needed, without even knowing him.

Perhaps that’s why she appeared at Ramazith’s tower one day, dressed in her casual clothes, under the guise of checking in. Rolan had taken on the duties as master of Sorcerous Sundries, and though things were better than they had been in so very long, the emptiness still gnawed at his chest, just as vicious as ever.

She was just as glorious in her street clothes as she was in her armor, but something drew Rolan’s eye to her hand, a part of her he had never seen uncovered before, always beneath a gauntlet of some sort. On it was a pink blotch that extended over her wrist, twisting around her arm like a snake. As they caught up, he found his eyes drifting back to her hand, tracing the outline of it again and again, trying to discern its secrets.

As Tav stood to leave, it clicked.

With one long stride, Rolan closed the distance between them, grabbing her wrist over where the soft pink shape marred her skin. His pull may have been just a tad too rough, causing her to stumble forward into him. She braced herself with a hand against his chest.

He didn’t need to look down to know it was a perfect match. And by the look on Tav’s face, she didn’t either. For a long moment they stared at one another, nothing but the sounds of quickened breath between them.

Then they were smiling and laughing and Rolan decided that if he didn’t kiss her right then and there that he may actually light the whole damned tower on fire. As he clumsily pressed his lips to hers, he couldn’t feel a lick of space in his chest. Just the fullness of his racing heart.

#bg3 #bg3 rolan #rolan #rolan x tav #my writing #forgeofthenine #soulmate au

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alpaca-clouds · 4 months

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How redeeming Gortash would improve Karlach's story

I will admit, that the title is a bit overstated, because by the time you actually get to interact with Gortash, the plot just does not have enough time left to redeem him. Because other than what some folks in Hollywood think: No, giving a character one last minute "heel-face-turn" with one big symbolic act does not in fact redeem a character. Redemption is a process that takes time.

BG3 actually understands this, because Astarion's arc basically ends with: "You took the first steps towards redemption." Which is really good.

However: You could end the game at least in a way to set Gortash up for a possible redemption arc - and more importantly just... not have him die. Because actually that would improve Karlach's character arc.

I will get one thing out of the way first: The entire "Gortash redemption" idea is always contentious on the fact that he is a really bad guy. Like, he is bad. He brutally killed and tortured, he enslaved people, all of that.

I am an anarchist though. Hence, I do not really believe that punishment is in any way just. And to put it differently: Killing Gortash does not undo any of the harm he has caused. Not a single dead person will live through it, not a single tortured person will become untortured through it, and no slave is freed through it either (you kinda gotta say that as the player in a different mission).

And yes, I will say at this point that in general I was iffed by the fact that in many fights of the game I was not given a choice really. It was "either join the bad guys or kill them", and my "all charisma bard", who does not believe in killing for revenge, was like: "But... But..."

Like, my Tav was on board with killing Cazador (because literally in the situation it is "kill Cazador or have 7000 people die") and killing Ketheric (because he needed to die to end the curse), but he is already iffy on Orin (as she never had a choice but to be a killer) and definitely is not on board with killing Gortash (because there is no good reason to do it).

But let me talk about Karlach. Because the thing is... I have seen a lot of commentary on how Wyll is underwritten. And he is. But not as underwritten as Karlach. Like, her entire companion quest basically goes: "Kill some fake paladins, find Dammon, find two pieces of Infernal Iron, kill Gortash (which you have to do for plot reasons either way)". She doesn't really have a dungeon connected to her quest. Nor really an exclusive boss fight, because again: Gortash you kinda gotta fight for the story either way. Nothing really.

Every other character, too, also has to make one hard decision. Where they want one thing - but what is actually the good thing is something else. I wrote about this before, the "become what you hate" decision, basically.

Karlach doesn't. Sure, you could argue that the "die or go back to Avernus" decision is her big decision. But it feels very different than the decisions of the others.

Which brings me to Gortash and saving him.

Here is the thing: Logically speaking Gortash should probably be able to fix Karlach's engine. He understands infernal engines, as he built the Steel Watch around them. You can easily argue that yeah, he should be able to fix Karlach. And that... would actually make for a great decision for Karlach's story.

If I would get to fix Karlach's companion quest, I would probably do it like this: Put in some sort of dungeon where Dammon sends you in the hope that you can find some plans there, that might give him an understanding on how to fix the engine. Heck, if you do not wanna do a whole new dungeon, you could also just put some plans or whatever into the Steel Foundry.

The point is that it will then turn out that, yeah, even with those plans for some reason Gortash is the only one who could fix it. Putting Karlach into the spot to make this decision: Does she value her life more than her revenge on Gortash?

Because here is the thing: Gortash is supposed to be 1) the intelligent one of the dead three chosen, and 2) also clearly is the one who acts first and foremost in some sense for his own self-preservation. Which made me go like: "Nah, this does not make sense," when he decides to fight against me after his Steel Watch was disabled and I already killed the other two chosen.

So, yeah... You should get at least a chance to persuade him to just give up - or, going back to what I was talking about before - to save Karlach.

And again, I actually think that even for the Gortash part of the story it would make for more interesting storytelling. Killing him is not really that interesting.

Especially as, once again, killing him does not undo any of the harm he has caused. But given that he is this big egghead he could actually do something good if he got to live. And yeah, also there is the fact that... You know... Given what we know about his backstory, his actions are about as understandable as those of some of the companions.

Some of you might already know, I have written some fics dealing with the way how I would imagine something like this to go. Mainly Hurt begets Hurt (which is basically my Tav convincing Gortash to give up), An Impossible Future (Karlach inner turmoil after her engine is fixed) and Cheesy Noodles (Gortash being a big meany towards Tav, who is unphased by this).

I am right now writing a story featuring Astarion dealing with a very, very depressed Gortash.

#baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #enver gortash #gortash #gortash redemption #redemption #karlach #karlach cliffgate

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sky-kiss · 5 months

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Dad!Phael: Dog Days

A/N: I'm committing a dark and terrible sin. But I had a mighty need. Kids name is Orin because...my Durge has issues. I dunno. Have some horrible trash.

___________________

Raphael: When You Create a Mini You, But You Kinda Suck

___________________

The little terror will not stop hounding him.

Raphael massages his temple, his right hand still folded over his belly. His daughter stands before his desk, hands folded neatly at the small of her back. In a rare twist of fate, she is the very picture of courtly etiquette. The shouts echoing down the halls have made it clear that this is no happenstance occurrence: the princess, unflappable and secure in the deference afforded her position, had harassed her mother's maidservants until they'd relented. Her dark hair is neatly braided, tied with strands of precious metal. Her dress is polite and clean. She is perfectly still.

A lie. A very convincing lie, but Raphael is not in the habit of indulging naughty children. The cambion leans back in his seat. "You've brought me a proposal, I see?"

"Yes." Little Orin holds her head high, delicate and lovely, well-spoken, as any of his spawn ought to be. She is nearly five, and while he is delighted to be free of her nonsensical chattering, eloquence has brought a new slew of problems. Namely, understanding. He can understand her. And she is never silent.

He hums, flicking his attention to the neatly stacked sheets of paper on his deck. "These here?"

"Yes, father." His heir shifts. She wants to rock back on her heels so badly. The stillness drives her mad. "For you to…" Orin frowns, brow furrowing as she searches for the word. The devil will not help her. She scowls, grasping for something near enough to express her meaning, "Look."

Another hum. The archdevil plucks the topmost piece of her manuscript from the pile. Raphael thumbs the entirety of her little manifesto across the desk. The crux of each remains unchanged—artwork (childish and borderline unrecognizable) accompanied by a stretch of mangled penmanship.

He didn't need to look at it. The little beast has made her desire entirely plain.

The debtors do not interest her. She is too young to frequent the dungeons.

She desires a pet to accompany her through the House. More precisely, she wants a hound. Raphael purses his lips, eyeing her artwork again. It resembles a hound in the loosest sense.

"My dear…"

Her face screws up in irritation. Orin opens her mouth to speak, only to snap it shut. He watches her wrestle herself under control. She inhales through her nose, stiffening. "But…" she nods towards the papers. "Wrote it. Mother said…"

"Ah, yes. Your mother." Raphael stands, moving around the desk and crossing to his heir. A lovely little thing, eyes bright and wide and hopeful. He remains the center of her world, the fixed point where she hangs all her dreams. He holds the proposal out to her. "Do it again. More effort this time." He hears the duchess's voice in his head: five. She's five, Raphael. He shunts her advice to the back of his awareness, kneeling in front of the girl. "Convince me, dear one. Now, begone with you."

She snatches the papers back. To her credit, she maintains her composure until she's past the boudoir's threshold. After that, Raphael hears her grumbling (loudly) to herself. Good girl.

_________

He rejects the second proposal.

And the third.

The fourth is passable, but the girl looks so positively self-righteous, so purely livid, that he sends her away on principle. On the fifth attempt, Orin sends her mother.

He's delighted by the underhandedness and the cunning. He is less enthused by his consort's sudden appearance and temper.

On the seventh attempt, he accepts his daughter's petition.

___________

He summons the kennel master the following day, intent on selecting a pup from the litter—a dignified creature suited to her more delicate frame. The Archduke of Avernus weaves through the little creatures and watches them tumble and scrap among themselves.

Some have the makings of great hunters. The hound master has brought one bitch from Mephistopheles' stock, already twice the size of the average pup. He suspects (though he cannot confirm) that one of the unlittered pups has Nessian stock somewhere in its bloodline, darker than the average hound. The two hounds bully their way through their smaller kin, not a hint of grace in their forms, brutish and lacking refinement.

They do not interest him. Raphael's attention flicks to a little bitch near the edge of the commotion. She remains seated throughout it all, fur midnight dark, head held high. She holds his gaze, unflinching—an elegant creature of immaculate breeding. She will be Leonine. His huntress! Well-suited for the little princess!

Orin inhales sharply. She is here at her mother's behest, sworn to act on her most courtly manners. The she-devil nearly vibrates out of her skin. Her attention is fixed on the massive brutes. Orin looks up at him with desperate eyes. "Father…"

And the kennel master must know because he clucks his tongue and applauds the 'little lady.' Raphael feels a dawning horror settle over him like a shroud as the fiend scoops the largest pup from the group. He deposits him at the princess' feet.

No, he will not have one of Mephistopheles' experiments roaming his halls. He will not.

"No." The archdevil holds his head high, setting a hand on his prodigy's shoulder. Muscles flex beneath his touch. Orin doesn't move towards the pup, but she does curl her fingers in an invitation, grinning when it presses its head into her palm. Her expression drips with savage vindication. Raphael blames her mother. "The little one. The female, there. She is more suited."

"She's so small," Orin grumbles.

"As are you, pet."

"I want this one." She indicates the brute. It stares up at him in dumb wonderment.

"And the little lady does have impeccable taste, Master. If I could…" Raphael fixes the fiend with a look so full of hate that it recoils, hands held up for peace. "Aye, you know your business."

Raphael makes the mistake of kneeling. The hounds turn as one, hungry for the attention of one they instinctively recognize as Master. Orin is delighted. "Your presence here was conditional, princess. You recall this?" She nods, attention flicking between him and the hounds. "And whose word is law?"

"Yours."

"Yes, mine. Clever girl"

He sees the gears in her head turning, looking for a way out. It delights and rankles. This little creature can only toddle after and adore him, but here she is already looking for a foothold in the great game. Orin purses her lips, and he sees so much of himself in the expression. Strange. She speaks slowly, positioning the massive pup between them.

"I love him."

"Irrelevant. Do try again."

She rolls her eyes. And that is the duchess, irreverent, insufferable creature. "You," she indicates her sire, "Love her?"

"I have selected her."

"And the House is big? So why not…" she shrugs, looking down. "Both? One for Father. One of Orin. And then they won't be alone. They shouldn't be alone, papa."

Raphael frowns. The thrice damned kennel master says, "The Lil lady ain't wrong, ser. They're pack creatures."

"I will send you to the pits if you do not keep silent, servant." He looks between the girl and the hound (now cradled in her arms). Raphael feels himself being manipulated. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Very well."

"What about mother?"

He scowls, eyes narrowing. "What of her?"

"If we both have a hound," she stares at him with her hopeful eyes, her adoration, and her damned obvious self-satisfaction. "Won't she be hurt? Left out?"

And, oh, he has created a wretched creature. His spawn smiles.

She gets her damned hound. And the rest of the litter for good measure, damn her.

#bg3 raphael #bg3 fanfiction #long post #my writing #did you want cavities?#because this is how you get cavities #No one look at me #i'm aware of my crimes

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asillylittleistik · 4 months

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do you have any headcanons for alpha karlach with omega tav? or fic ideas? I love her so much🤭

KARLACH MY BELOVEDDDDD

I have so many thoughts on this, I love Karlach so much

Also, you didn't specify if you wanted this to be SFW or not, so I'm gonna play it safe and keep it mostly clean, but if you ever want an NSFW fic or some headcanons, just send in a new request and I can write some for sure

Alpha Karlach With Omega Reader

Okay can I just say that you will never in your life be with someone who is both as lovingly gentle and violently protective as Karlach

I have a headcanon that, since Karlach was sent to Avernus at a fairly young age, and hasn't been out for very long at all, that you are her first relationship

She's heard all the horror stories from you and some other omegas about creepy alphas who only care about hooking up, and will take any opportunity or push any boundary to get what they want

And being one of those creepy alphas is the last thing Karlach wants

So she is so gentle with you, almost as if you were made of porcelain

She's so subservient to your every need that someone who didn't know better might assume you're the alpha

But she just cares about your well-being so much

On the other hand, though, she is extremely cautious that none of those creepy alphas get anywhere near you

If she sees someone checking you out, flirting a little bit, or god forbid trying to take you out anywhere, she's at your side in an instant

She usually doesn't even need to say much, her appearance alone is intimidating enough

A tall, muscular, pissed-off tiefling, covered in battle scars, carrying a great axe on her back, and literally on fire is usually enough to scare creeps off

But for those that don't get the hint, she isn't afraid to get her hands a little dirty

And then she's immediately at your side again, cupping your face and asking if you're okay as if she doesn't have blood dripping off her knuckles

She just cares so much that you never feel objectified or pressured by anyone, especially her

When your first heat comes, she, respectfully, tries to stay as far away as possible

She doesn't want to take advantage of you in such a delicate state

It's not until one day, after a long day of adventuring, she comes back absolutely DEVASTATED to find her stuffed bear, Clive, is nowhere to be seen

It isn't until she makes her way over to your tent that she sees you've made a little nest in there of all the bedrolls and pillows you all have pillaged in your journey

And then she sees you, bare naked, dripping with sweat, and hugging onto Clive like it was your lifeline

And when her eyes meet yours, all you can say is "he smells like you."

You know she can't leave after that.

For a little while, there's this torturous little game you and Karlach have to play

You want to be around her, but just being in the same tent isn't enough. You want to touch her and feel her body all around yours

But Karlach on a normal day is too hot to touch, and horny Karlach? Yeah, she's nearly set the tent on fire a few times now

She makes peace with it, with not being able to touch you, as terrible as it is for both of you

But you guys find a few... workarounds...

But oh man, the day that Dammon fixes Karlach's engine

No amount of pulling the blankets over their ears could help anyone keep the noise out

It isn't until day 3 that Shadowheart finally gets fed up and casts a silence spell over your tent

But Karlach can't help it, it's what an entire life of not even being near an omega does to her

At the end of your heats, when your brains are a little less foggy, she's back to giving you everything you could ever need

Water? Food? Maybe a small healing spell to helping your aching body? She is an aftercare goddess

That's all she cares about, anyway. In her mind, her pleasure is always second to yours

After the tough hand you've been dealt in life, her one goal is to make you feel special and taken care of

And, for someone as new to being in a relationship as Karlach is, she's doing a pretty damn good job at it

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 x reader #bg3 x tav #karlach #karlach cliffgate #karlach x reader #karlach x tav #do you have any idea how hard it is to find karlach gifs on here?#unbelievable #this site needs to simp harder

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thranduil-aran-edhil · 7 months

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OK, so. Finished my first run. Gotta admit I'm not 100% satisfied with some endings. BUT NO BIGGIE, THAT'S WHAT HEADCANONS ARE FOR, DON'T WORRY I GOT A PERMIT (i'm a Dungeon Master) SO LET'S GO, HC TIME D&D STYLE BC WE STILL GOT 8 LEVELS TO GO: (spoilers for BG3 and Descent Into Avernus going forward)

They'd all stay together and continue to go on adventures, the 8 of them, Tav, Lae'zel, Shadowheart, Gale, Astarion, Wyll, Karlach and Halsin. Found Families stay together. (I do enjoy the polyship aspect too, so just throwing it out there) There's an exchange you can have ingame with an NPC in the Guild and Tav will say the party's name is Wormskulls and I love it. I do also love Tadfools. Maybe they are Wormskulls to the general public and Tadfools to their close friends and allies lol. After the tadpoles are gone I think it would be very useful for them to commission earrings enchanted with Rary's Telepathic Bond. Less invasive than a mindflayer tadpole and just as useful. Also symbolic for Gale. I think the earring would have a pendant of a skull with a serpent coming out of its eye and being bitten by the teeth.

OK SO, my girl Karlach. I haven't romanced her yet, gonna do a run for that. But she's not dying on my watch. She's going back to Avernus, BUT YOU CAN BE SO SURE THAT THE MOMENT THE WHOLE PARTY IS READY WE'RE KICKING DOWN ZARIEL'S DOOR AND KICKING HER ASS. Or giving her her sword back and possibly turning her back into an Angel, something that whatever party of adventurers that managed to save BG and Elturel in Descent Into Avernus CLEARLY didn't do, it would probably not only nullify Mizora's contract with Wyll bc Zariel is now a completely different entity, if you decided to redo Wyll's contract with her, but also would give us a better chance of Zariel taking the infernal engine out of Karlach herself. Maybe turning Wyll into a Devotion Paladin? (more details about Zariel here) I'd ask Jaheira and Minsc to take care of Scratch and Albie (owlbear cub) because the Hells is no place for pets. Even very brave ones. Maybe Halsin's "ending" fits here, taking care of the pets and the kids while everyone goes to Avernus, they leave him with a Sending Stone. And when they are back he's there waiting for them. 🥺

If we saved Duke Ravengard and broke Wyll's contract. (or didn't but are hcing that we broke his contract by defeating/unmaking Zariel) what does that mean to Wyll? I think it be super cool to go more in depth about it. How does he reconsile with his father? Does he accept to be reinstated as heir and becomes the Duke right away or does he think it's best for his father to continue his role a bit longer? Does he even want to be Duke or does he think he can serve the people of the Sword Coast better as an adventurer? If he turns into a Duke, what sort of benefit does that give an adventuring party?

Finding something to make Astarion able to walk in the sun again I've seen people talk about the Ring of the Sun-Walker as if it's from the 5e books, it's not, it's homebrew. HOWEVER, any freaking DM with a heart would create something similar for their player to continue playing without being afraid of dying instantly bc of the sun. The Cloak of Dragomir is canon to the Baldur's Gate videogame universe, so it be a good tie in, but it would be a temporary solution at best since it penalizes the player quite harshly, Strength: -6, Dexterity: -4, Intelligence: -2, Wisdom: -2, Charisma: -4 and Vampire Regeneration divided by 3, to 1 HP per 3 rounds. That being said, I wouldn't make it TOO easy to obtain as there are other ways for Astarion to be safe, like the Darkness spell. It would be interesting to see him (and Tav) struggle a little bit more, really feel the sacrifice Astarion made by rejecting the Ascendance even after they find something to combat the Sunlight Hypersensitivity. Astarion's biological family would be something very interesting to explore in the future. They would be Elves themselves and are most likely still alive, we even have a surname thanks to people analyzing the shit out of that tombstone: Ancunín. As a DM I wouldn't wait for a player to decide to search for these people, I'd throw them at the players! Strolling through the Upper City in a quick shopping trip? You hear a loud gasp, things clattering and bumping into the ground, hurried desperate steps and then someone sobbing "Astarion?? Astarion is that you?!" What do you do?

Visiting Waterdeep and Morena Dekarios. This woman deserves to see her son again, and Gale deserves to finally go back home and see his mom without the burden of an ancient artifact lodged in his chest and a goddess wanting him to kill himself. Would he stay? I'm not sure, he went through an entire Hero's Journey and maybe now home, although pleasant, is not as comforting anymore. Waterdeep is the element of Gale of Waterdeep and he's not him anymore. I think this would be a great premise for a roleplay focused arc. Gale is invited to the Blackstaff Ball for the first time since Mystra shunned him, the Wormskulls are famous now, The New Heros of Baldur's Gate (Gala Episode anyone? All of them SLAYIN with their fits? Poor Halsin totally out of his element). He's once again welcomed into the society of the Lord Mage of Waterdeep and his peers seem to have all but forgotten he was ever a pariah. Is that what he wants? And Waterdeep has many opportunities for more adventure. A paranoid Beholder underground anyone?

Kill the Lich Queen (CLASSIC D&D). Vlaakith IS FINISHED. TIME TO SPELLJAM AND BE SPACE PIRATES YALL. Lae'zel deserves to see this through to the END.

Shadowheart goes through another journey to find out if she wants to truly embrace Selûne or maybe become another thing entirely. Selûne should reach out or Isobel and Dame Aylin would help her out. Or maybe Shadowheart is tired of being a Cleric and following a god. But change and inconsistency is something that is under Selûne's portfolio, she's often followed by those who are lost, so I think she'd find more than fitting for Shadowheart to be a cautious and weary follower of her.

Your Tav's personal stuff. The Dark Urge sounds amazing and I can't wait to do a run with them, but I think most of us got very attached to our Original Characters Do No Steal. So I'm excited to see what people come up with for their Tavs. Otessa, my Tav, doesn't know her dad was a pirate, he never told her, so I expect that his past will come bite him in the ass and she'll have to help him out of that pickle.

When the party has reached level 17, Gale has access to the Wish spell. And I really do think they'd use it to get rid of Astarion's undeath. As a DM I wouldn't let Gale simply get the spell outright, he'd have to research it. Not only that, I don't think Astarion would be totally free of undeath, some remnant of it would linger, he'd probably turn into an Elf that needs blood to survive and is forever locked out of the Call of Arvandor or something. But he'd be mortal and would be able to walk in the sun without that ring, cross bodies of water, wouldn't instadie from pointy wood objects in the chest etc. (i'm writing a little one-shot about this, should post it soon)

#i know this is rambly and i havent seen all the endings/done all the romances but i really wanted to put this out there anyway #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #karlach #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #lae'zel #shadowheart #wyll ravengard #halsin #spoilers #bg3 spoilers #tadfools #wormskulls

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soulessjourney · 3 months

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We Fallen Gods Chapter 1

Paring: Astarion x fem!DurgTavReader

Word count: 2.7k

Summary: Three years after the fall of the Elderbrain you and Astarion had finally settled down and made a life for yourselves. After about a year you made it your goal to venture out with Gale to locate the Daylight Ring to allow Astarion to finally have his life in the sun back. Now as you two live in the city, you working along Wyll as a politician and Astarion as a Tailor, your lives make a drastic change as an unexpected surprise flip your worlds upside down.

Warnings: Language, Humor, Violence, Pregnancy, Angst, Hurt and Comfort, Hurt no Comfort, OOC Astarion, Talk of Conceving

Three years have passed since the city fell, and you devoted your days to tirelessly rebuilding it, only to return home to Astarion in the evening. It's been two years since you embarked on a journey with Gale, drawn by a story about the Daylight Ring granting vampires the ability to walk in daylight and be protected from the sun’s rays. Your life together has evolved into a comfortable routine. Astarion manages a tailor shop, bringing the city the finest wears, while you delve deeper into politics, working alongside Wyll to govern Baldur’s Gate and aid in its recovery post-battle. Shadowheart resides just outside the city in a small cabin with Owlbear, whom she adopted at your reunion celebration. She works to assist those who strayed from Shar and face exile.

Lae’zel has had minimal conflict with you and Astarion, particularly after abruptly leaving your group following the battle. All you are aware of is her travels, dealing with politics. Gale rejected the idea of becoming a god after your persuasion, and he now runs a school in Waterdeep, training wizards to excel. Halsin and Jaheira returned to Emerald Grove, contributing to the rebuilding efforts and the restoration of the Blighted Village. You frequently hear from them as Wyll sends you to check on their progress and discuss potential partnerships once the area is rebuilt.

There is one person you dearly miss, a sister figure – Karlach. The memory of her being pulled back to Avernus haunts your dreams, often leading to Astarion holding you tightly to calm your sobs upon waking. You vividly remember him standing behind you as you pleaded with Withers to bring her back. Since that day, you haven't been entirely the same, as that moment left a gaping hole in your chest. Karlach supported you in ways you couldn't explain, understanding the struggle of being seen as a monster. She held your hand, looked you in the eye, and promised to save you. Karlach made a significant impact on your life, and Astarion, being well aware, never pressed the situation – something for which you are thankful.

After much persuasion, you and Astarion finally adopted Scratch. Now, the furry companion lay curled up on the ground beside you while you leaned against Astarion. He read a passage from his book, absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair, brushing against your scalp. Your hands, in turn, found solace in Scratch's white fur. The day had been exhausting with back-to-back meetings and paperwork, leaving you feeling as if you were drowning. It wasn't Wyll's fault; the city had crumbled during your battle with the Elderbrain, necessitating the establishment of order once more. Despite life seemingly returning to normal, there lingered a dark corner within you, itching to claw its way out. Sometimes, during meetings, the Urge would beckon you, urging harm, and the taste of blood in your mouth served as a stark reminder that the darkness from your father never truly vanished. A part of you would always belong to him, and your body would perpetually yearn to witness life leaving someone's eyes.

Your reverie was interrupted when Astarion pulled his hand away from your head, looking down at you. "What's troubling you, Darling?" he asked, his hand gently resting against the side of your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. His eyes held an abundance of love, causing you to melt in his embrace. Astarion was acutely aware of your fears related to your father and the recurring urges. He sensed them returning, as if your past was attempting to pull you back. "Are you thinking about the urges again?" he inquired, hitting the mark, though that wasn't the sole concern on your mind. The topic of children was another matter, a discussion reserved for the moments before bedtime when you both nestled on the couch. You harbored a deep-seated fear of what you might pass on to your offspring, hence your insistence on delaying such plans.

Nodding, you tucked your legs under you, meeting his gaze. "I was, but I'm okay now. Don't worry; I don't feel like standing over you, planning to kill you, while you're in your trance," you teased, leaning up to press your lips against his.

He chuckled against your lips, leaning back to study you. "Tell me about your day, my love. You've been so busy; we haven't had time to discuss our days like usual," he hummed, grabbing your hand to lead you towards the bed. Scratch followed closely as you both settled into your usual spots, with you curled into Astarion and his arm wrapped around you. At the foot of the bed, Scratch settled into his spot, contentedly chewing on the bone Astarion had gifted him earlier that evening.

Humming, you reflect on your day before your eyes light up slightly. "I spoke to Halsin today; it was really nice to see him after some time. The village is starting to gain residents again. They just had a family of Tieflings move into one of the buildings; they're tailors, so they'll bring more business to the village. The Grove is back under his command too, so he's trying to find a way for us to send some military healers to train under him," you say, playing with Astarion's fingers gently. "Oh, and Owlbear is doing great," you continue, catching Scratch's attention. Since Owlbear no longer lived with both of you, he had been a bit lonely, but you have yet to convince Astarion to get him a friend. "Shadowheart stopped by to discuss matters with Wyll pertaining to the followers of Shar. You should've seen how massive she is." Astarion nods along with your words, a large smile on his face as you continue to fill him in about your day.

Astarion adores just how peaceful you look when you talk about your day. You have been working nonstop since you returned to the city with the ring to gift him the freedom to venture outside during the day. There were times when he worried you would work yourself to death, but the worry always tends to melt away when he sees how content and accomplished you look when you manage to form an alliance. This, in his opinion, is the perfect life. Having you in his arms, and the dog taking up any sort of foot space on the bed. Although he has brought up the idea of kids with you on multiple occasions, he would be just as content in this life that he has with you now.

His eyes lock with yours once more, and your sentences begin to trail off just before you reach up, pressing your lips against his. The air shifts between the both of you, the need for one another, the need to feel each other's touch filling your very being. Just as Astarion flips you over onto your back, Scratch lets out an annoyed growl before jumping off the bed and moving out of the room. A giggle sounds from you as he trails his fingers over your sides, causing you both to roll off the bed and onto the ground with a thud. Cradling your head, Astarion presses his lips to yours, pulling you into a night of bliss and passion.

----

As the sunlight filters through the crack in the curtains and bathes your face, you squint before opening your eyes. You find yourself face to face with a fluffy white presence on the floor. Smiling, you glance over your shoulder, noticing the vacant space in your bed. Astarion typically rose before you, but he usually waited for you in bed. Sitting up, the blankets slip from your exposed body and pool beside you. Standing, you walk toward the wardrobe, grabbing the robe hanging on the inside of the door. Gazing at yourself in the mirror, you twist your hair into a bun before leaving the room.

The city-provided home you shared with Astarion was more extensive than initially necessary. Despite your efforts to fill the space, it often felt insufficient. This led to occasional thoughts about having children, though fear always quelled such considerations. Approaching the stairs, muffled voices fill the air. Astarion occasionally invited clients over to address clothing issues, but as you neared, you recognized the speaker: Wyll. What was he doing here so early in the morning?

"I won't let her go and do your bidding, Wyll. I don't care if it's her job, but what you're asking is for her to embark on a suicide mission. We're finally enjoying a comfortable life together where I don't have to worry incessantly about losing her to a tadpole or the urge. Well, that's a lie; it's clawing at her, and I refuse to have her away from me. If, for whatever reason, she gives in and reverts to the state she was in when we were all together. Besides, does she even know our friend here is alive and well?" Fear tinged Astarion's voice as he spoke. Although some interpreted his tone as anger, you knew him better. Whatever Wyll wished of you had him terrified.

Your hand on the door, you freeze at the sound of a voice speaking up—one you've been praying to hear since that fateful day. "No, she doesn't know yet, fangs. I've been trying to figure out how to just reappear in her life. I just didn't expect it to take a year." Hearing those words, your eyes well up with tears. You throw the door open to Astarion's private study, causing it to slam against the wall. The three occupants in the room turn their attention to you, and only one person stands the moment they catch sight of you: Karlach.

"You're alive?" Those were the only words that came to your mind. In that moment, it felt like a surreal vision or an unsettling manifestation of the Urge. She was supposed to be gone, taken back to Avernus, and while you knew she wasn't technically dead, you understood the grim reality of her existence there. It was as if you had forgotten how to breathe or move. A whole year had passed, and only now did you have the chance to see her. Part of you was enraged that she hadn't appeared sooner, but another part acknowledged her fear of your reaction.

Frozen in place, you watched as she moved toward you, finally enveloping you in a tight hug. "Hey there, soldier, I missed you," she whispered, wrapping her arms securely around your trembling form. It was only then that you realized tears were streaming down your face. "Hey now, no crying. Remember what I said about tears," she murmured, wiping them away with a gentle smile. Now you understood why Wyll had insisted on staying in certain wings at the fortress; he was waiting until Karlach felt ready to see you again.

Pulling away from the embrace, tension lingered in the room. Glancing over her shoulder, you noticed Astarion and Wyll glaring at each other, engaged in a silent battle. Wiping your cheeks, you looked around and sniffled, catching Astarion's attention. "Excuse me. If I had known we were going to have guests, I would have dressed appropriately. Give me a second to change, and then we can discuss what matter has you both on edge," you said, glancing between the two men. Turning on your heel to make your way back to the room to change, you added, "And Karlach, it's good to have you back."

---

It didn't take long for you to change into more appropriate attire. Sitting next to Karlach, you faced the two tense men in front of you. "So, care to tell me what caused the argument between you two? It must be something significant, considering Astarion looked like he was about to blow a fuse when I walked in earlier." Astarion shifted slightly, turning away from Wyll, his body radiating anger. His tense demeanor confirmed his suspicions: Wyll was indeed about to present you with a suicide mission.

Wyll glanced at Karlach, who nodded reassuringly before gently taking your hand. "There have been sightings of Gortash and Orin in the Underdark. Some claim to have spotted them at one of the temples, but that's not why I'm here. It's more about their followers," he explained, searching your face for any reaction. The mention of Orin made sense, as her return would explain the resurgence of the urges clawing at you. But Gortash... he was supposed to be dead. You had witnessed the Elderbrain kill him before your very eyes.

Rubbing your hands on your knees, you cleared your throat. "But Gortash was dead. We all saw it happen," you said, locking eyes with him. "Forget Orin; I know I can take care of her again. I mean, I beat her in a duel. But how in the nine hells is Gortash still alive?" Astarion sensed the urgency in your question, the desperation rather than hope. Quickly standing, he moved to sit on the other side of you, rubbing small circles on your back, a gesture he knew brought you comfort.

Wyll nods along with your words, understanding your confusion. “I know, but considering Orin is back, I would have to say something else is at play here. Now, in terms of what angered Astarion, I need you and a few others to travel back to the Shadow-cursed lands. I’ve had scouts report something happening at Moonrise Towers. I know you prefer not to step foot in there again, especially after everything that happened, but you’re the only person I trust to get the job done,” he says, keeping his eyes locked on yours.

“You’re right. I don’t want to go back there, not after what I went through, especially when it came to the urges,” you start, keeping your eyes focused on the ground in front of you. Astarion lets out a sigh of relief just as you lift your head. “But I need to make sure Orin or Gortash can’t climb back up from whatever circle of hell they were in. If going back to Moonrise is how I can do that, then so be it,” you say, jumping slightly as Astarion quickly stands, throwing his hands in the air.

“It’s a suicide mission, Tav. How are you even supposed to get back into Moonrise? You know they’re going to be on the lookout for you, especially if Orin is back. She’s going to be out for blood, and I refuse to get word that I lost you simply because Wyll wanted to send you on that mission,” he growls, placing his hands on his hips as he paces the room.

Your eyes follow him before you let out a sigh. “Wyll knows the urges are back, meaning Bhaal is trying to claim me as his champion again. I went against Orin, and now that she’s back, I’m sure he was unable to find another champion and he’s desperate. They’re going to let me in because of who I was. Her followers fear me more than ever now, especially since I killed her in a duel. I killed her Star, I killed her without the Slayer form, and I can do it again,” you say, watching as Astarion’s shoulders drop in defeat.

“I’m sure Wyll is going to want me to infiltrate, meaning I’m just gathering information. That’s my job besides just going to meetings and doing paperwork. We have ways I can disguise myself, and I promise I’ll be careful, Star. The moment things seem like they’re going to go south, I’ll come back, and I’ll refuse any further missions having to do with Moonrise. If Gortash and Orin are truly back, it means we need to prep the city in case they decide to attack,” you murmur, grabbing his hands gently. “I promise.”

Astarion hesitates before nodding. Turning towards Wyll, you watch as he stands taller. “If anything happens to her, and I mean anything, I will drain you dry,” he spits, before turning on his heel to leave the room. Falling back onto the couch, you look toward the wall before turning your gaze back to Wyll.

“When do I leave, and who’s all coming?”

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tanoraqui · 1 month

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thinking about my tags on this post, I'm pretty sure the best way to do an au in which Team Tadpole forms without tadpoles, pre-tadpoles, because Wyll keeps heroically saving the day partly by befriending at least one key henchperson per major enemy...is if Ulder disowned him rather than exiling him, so Wyll became the Batman Blade of the Gate. Living in the shadows, stubbornly alone, helping the people who even the Flaming Fists can't, or won't... He has a firm principle of only killing "monsters", so for pettier criminals, he usually sends them walking up to the nearest officer of the peace with a friendly Suggestion that they turn themselves in for their crimes. This makes Ulder's teeth grind like coffee beans. Their dynamic isn't so much Batman & Gordon as Spiderman & J. Jonah Jameson.

All that really needs to happen for him to pick up Shadowheart as a sidekick is for one person to ask the Blade for help because the Sharrans stole their child/are aggressively cult-recruiting their friend/other typical dubious Sharran thing; and then he unravels that whole temple like a ball of yarn - or at least, enough that Shadowheart leaves and becomes local secondary superhero...the Pale Priestess? the White Wolf? (In this house we stan werewolf!Shadowheart!)

Then the Blade notices a barely-noticeable pattern of disappearances that's been going on for over 200 years, and the bloody trail leads right to Szarr Mansion...

(Wyll does not deal with the slightly-under-7,000 vampire spawn in the basement. The Blade leaves a note for the Flaming Fists and their ducal commander, along with a pile of evidence of Cazadar Szarr's crimes, and a pile of dust that was once a vampire lord.)

(Possibly this attracts Raphael's attention, because it was a loss for Mephistopheles? Raphael would be almost as good a comic books-esque recurring villain as Bhaal cultists.)

Gale somehow becomes their Guy in the Chair - still living in Waterdeep, mind you; he communicates mostly via Scrying, Sending, etc. Typical archwizard aloofness. Until The Incident, in response to which maybe he asks the others to get him books from Sorcerous Sundries, which leads to Lorroakan turning himself over to the Fists :) on charges of Apprentice Abuse [I'm sure Rolan wasn't the first] and general Being The Worst.

All throughout this Wyll is angstily - while acting the confident, ever-optimistic hero - refusing to talk about how he has devilish magic or why he Needs to leave the city to go kill a random specific devil/demon/other monster once a month. His friends know he made a pact and that's it. They offer to help. Wyll refuses lest Mizora make his life and theirs a living hell.

They start looking into Enver Gortash and his numerous sketchy dealings. In this AU, too, the Blade tracks Karlach down through the battlefields of Avernus...to ask her some questions about her former employer. He doesn't have much hope for answers from a notorious battle-devil, but it's their only lead...

But then she's Karlach, so he offers to help her escape instead. They're nearly out - or they are out? - when Mizora appears and orders Wyll to stand down. Wyll does not stand down. Karlach tries to behead her, so Mizora leaves him alone...for a little while. She catches him alone later, back at his base, and drags his soul through the fires of hell and turns him into a devil.

They ally with Orin, possibly unknowingly, to attack the Bhaalspawn leader of the Cult of Bhaal! She betrays them, right after murdering her kin!

[insert something here that's like speedrunning the whole plot but backwards]

Lae'zel shows up at some point, bleeding and halfway through her own character arc which she's been doing solo, having been snatched and tadpoled, killed a Sharran to regain the Prism, nearly killed by her own people for being tadpoled, regained the Prism via a lot of murder... She's now on the run from pretty much everyone but she's determined to re-prove herself to...somebody...by singlehandedly killing the Netherbrain.

(She tries to kill our heroes because she assumes they've been tadpoled.)

Wyll breaks his pact for good and is willing to go down fighting for his city even without any powers; then Ansur with his final-for-real-this-time dying breath gives Wyll draconic magic, so he can be the sorcerous Dragon of the Gate.

Epilogue: the Heroes of Baldur's Gate answer a call for help from their neighbors in the Reclaimed Lands to deal with all the ex-cultist goblins who've still been running around kidnapping and, idk, eating people since the Netherbrain was destroyed. They arrive to find that the goblins are already being bloodily Dealt With...by an amnesiac Dark Urge, who isn't actually being very bloody about it at all by their typical standards, and who has no memory of anything before like a month ago.

Everyone points weapons at them except Wyll, who insists that if they've truly reverted to ignorant innocence, then they should have a second chance, to mend their ways and help fix what they broke in the world. This is, fundamentally, a group wherein a bunch of morally dubious assholes (except Karlach, who's an angel and we're delighted she's here) outsource their moral compasses to Wyll; and honestly it's not like this is surprising behavior from him, so...welcome to the team!

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #wyll ravengard #i guess i will tag everyone #shadowheart #astarion #gale dekarios #karlach #lae'zel #dark urge #ficlet #my fic #ulder ravengard

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noroamenial · 4 months

Note

Sending this BG3 idea to a bunch of different blogs to see what they do with it: Tav uses edging and/or orgasm denial on Raphael to get him to give her the hammer without giving him the crown. (Enjoy!)

SORRY THIS TOOK FOREVER, I got going and then I stopped and then I picked it up again.

Afab Tav but is otherwise not referred to w gendered pronouns

And ofc if you read the prompt CW smut

~~~

You’d been avoiding the topic.

You and your party made it all the way to Baldur’s gate only to run into Raphael claiming to be your savior—as usual. He was so insistent, his voice so smooth. If he had offered you anything of substance you would’ve bent to his whims in more ways than one.

…But you knew the devil now, you had to play his game to get him to yield.

Avernus was in no way an easy plane to traverse, even inside the confines of the house of hope. It was hot and dry. But with a little bit of sneaking, you found exactly what you needed.

“I never knew I plagued your dreams, Raphael.”

You had to keep a level head. You look up once from the diary you were paging through. Haarlep’s hands trail up your stomach. The incubus was sitting behind you, chest to your back as you warm the fiend’s cock.

Raphael stands, watching you with an intense gaze, his only tell was the click in his jaw. He was ruffled. It was your fault— according to what Haarlep gave away during your escapade mere minutes ago.

“Did you ever learn it’s rude to snoop?”

“I’ve been told, but the consequences are never bad enough to outweigh the satisfaction.” You smile lazily at him, setting the journal to the side of the bed.

“Why are you here?” He sighs, “you ignore my deal, you wade in my bath, you rifle through my things, you read my diaries, and here you are, meeting me in the lap of my succubus; surely to steal my hammer and do away with my life.” His hands clench at his side. “While I have been nothing but polite and kind.”

Haarlep, ever the tease, nips up your neck.

And Raphael looks on with ever the stern expression. Maybe years in hell have perfected his poker face. Haarlep seemed like one to use the form of his master to his advantage, and you could only imagine the steely resolve Raphael would need to have to ignore the way your hands had palmed up his thighs. And the current phantom feeling of his cock buried inside you.

"I am here to deal." you muse, rolling your hips back on Haarlep. The incubus makes a lewd imitation of a moan that perhaps Raphael could accomplish...were it him.

"While you soak my cock? with the time you have had with my incubus, you owe me more than whatever deal you could make." The devil is in front of you now, between Haarlep's legs parted off of the bed.

“You have something I want.” You reach for him, arms wrapped around the back of his neck as your faces near.

“As do you.” The devil’s lip curls and this time you watch as his gaze fully takes in the scene in front of him.

Your hand rifles into his hair, pulling his head back to expose his neck. The candles flicker in the boudoir, which threatens a red hazy darkness. Raphael was no cat. How easily your lips meet his throat with bared teeth and bated breath let you see the Raphael who wrote so passionately in an ornate diary.

You felt Haarlep’s gaze go past the back of your head as they cradled your hips with the real cat’s claws. You had a seemingly unending libido as your free hand trailed down Raphael’s chest. You could feel a rumbling purr as you continued to kiss up his throat.

Face in both your hands, you looked into Raphael’s stern yet milky soft brown eyes turn to gold. The creases of his face weren’t as noticeable as his form shifted but so close you could pick them out.

“You have something I want.” You repeated again, leaning in to kiss him properly.

"And what would that be?" he murmurs against your lips, getting eagerly handsy with your chest.

"The hammer."

His laugh is sharp and chipper, extremely genuine as it comes from his chest. He leans away from you to catch his breath, tail whipping back and forth behind him. You take in his form in its entirety: hair ruffled, top undone, erection, click in his jaw, sweep of his wings, proud knowing smile, all done by your hands.

You didn't falter, you smiled back.

"Of course you want the hammer...but why come all this way, mouse?" his hand grabs your jaw, gently tilting your gaze to his. Haarlep is still behind you and Raphael meets the incubus' gaze.

"Haarlep," Raphael makes a gesture with his hand and the fiend pulls you off of them, blows you a kiss, and disappears.

"I didn't like your deal." you admit, looking up at him. "I won't give you the crown."

"So what will you give me? what could possibly measure up for not only the hammer, but your transgressions in my home?"

Raphael looms above you, hovering as he leans a knee on the bed beside your hip.

"Your soul would do. With a pretty thing like you to warm my bed beside my incubus for all eternity, I could wager for that."

Now with a helpful practice round courtesy of Haarlep's initial trickery, you had a better idea of the devil you know. One hand gripping his shirt and the other on his shoulder in a quick motion you had the devil on his back on the bed with you at the helm.

Genuine surprise crossed his face as you stood to straighten your shoulders.

"A taste, of my soul eternally." You hum, leaning back.

He’s not fully on the bed, in fact he’s sort of falling off. But he corrects his posture moving to the expanse of the bed.

Still in nothing, you straddle his waist and his lazy smirk has returned. You kiss him—drinking him in with a desire to devour him—your hips grind down on his creating friction that buzzes up your spine every time you hit your clit just right. One of his hands is curled in the sheets, the other on your cheek. Your hands are finishing what you started in giving you access to his skin.

“Would you enjoy eternity with me, mouse?” He asks breathlessly as you pull away, moving down between his legs.

You don’t answer him, gaze moving up to his as you undo his pants. It’s a blind grab for a moment before you free his aching cock. You pump the base with your hand and his hips jerk forward as he groans.

“Give me the hammer, sweetheart.” You say, looking into his fire bright eyes. The real dangers of Avernus weren’t the fire or the brimstone but this devil and his eyes anyone could get lost in.

His expression turns stern for a flash before you nonchalantly take his weeping tip into your mouth, tongue pressed flat against it his head falls back at the heat of your mouth. You swirl your tongue across the top before taking him deeper ever so slowly. You have to hold his waist with both hands to prevent the devil from fucking your face.

He reaches for your hair, and you swat his hand away as you go down on him. Your pace is erratic, avoiding giving him a steady rhythm to get off too. His frustrated panting only convinces you more.

You hear the annoyed swish of his tail back and forth close to behind your head and you come off him. Sitting on your knees you look down at him, watching his hands ball into fists with the bedding.

Haarlep was right, Raphael made no effort to take control despite his obvious desire.

He reaches for you, “Mouse…”

It’s breathy and you pin his hand back to the bed.

“The hammer.” You repeat, pumping his cock one twice and as you see his mouth gape slightly you pull away, thumb circling the tip.

“The crown.” He grits his teeth, leaning up on an elbow.

“I won’t give it to you.” You remove your hand all together, crawling up him to straddle him above the waist again. He’s forced back onto the bed, staring up at you with labored breaths.

“Give me the hammer, Raphael.”

He keens, toothy grin returning.

“I love the way you say my name.”

You purse your lips, thinking, as you stare at him. With one hand you take his cock to line it up with your entrance. Sitting up, you’re able to comfortably maneuver him into you. And then slowly with your mouth agape you take the fiend into your heat.

The soft gasp that escapes him strokes your ego. He’s as flush as a cherry red devil can be, brown with the sheen of sweat, cat-like irises blown wide as they glow up at you. His gaze sweeps down your body as you huff while rocking your hips against his.

With one hand to steady you, the other gropes at your chest. Your hips make pleasing circles as you take him. He’s hitting right where you want him to hit inside you.

Raphael’s legs tremble as he tries to move his hips to a pleasing rhythm, but you have him well pinned. He lets out a broken sigh as he gives up to fall back on the bed.

“Little Mouse.” He growls, the word rumbles through his chest. Your eyes light up at the word, gaze locking with his.

“Yes, Raphael?” You goad, sitting still. “Ready to relinquish the hammer?” You snake a hand into his hair, pulling his head back.

“Mouse.” He tries again, it’s just a breathe of the word.

“Promise me the crown.”

He shakes his head, hands balled into fists with the sheets.

“Promise me the crown, Raphael.”

He looks almost lost as his gaze returns to you. Archdevil warred with Raphael. A deep longing for both.

“I will give you anything you desire.”

“I want the hammer.” You repeat.

"Tav--" he keens, biting his lip as you inadvertently clench around him.

"The hammer."

"The hammer." he murmurs above a whisper.

You smile at his conflicted gaze, leaning down to kiss his cheek.

"What do you want, Raphael?"

"You,"

"For the orphic hammer."

"For the orphic hammer." his chest rumbles between a growl and a purr.

"Seal it with a kiss, devil."

And oh does he. Lips on lips as one hand guides your head to him and his free hand grips your hips to buck upwards into you. The satisfied groan that leaves him is like the sweetest music to your ears. How you thought this would not work was thrown from the window the moment you found his diaries, the moment he came ruffled and infuriated to you fucking his incubus. and how you relish now with no contract except for your mouth on his and his mortal heart yet spilling into you.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 raphael #raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael the cambion #baldur's gate raphael #raphael x tav #baldurs gate 3 #haarlep #cw smut

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marlowethebard · 11 days

Text

Little Gremlin

____________

Tags:Astarion / f!Tav, hurt, injury, mild gore, comfort, end-game spoiler-ish. SFW, Fluff

Summary: Another introspection into Astarion's little glass noggin.

Words: 2.4k

Also available on Ao3

The city outside had finally begun to settle. The city Watch and the Fists, those who had not been tadpoled during the infiltration of the Absolute, were slowly putting a stop to the looting and helping the displaced and injured to aide.

The Netherbrain had fallen and taken the Crown of Karsus with it into the Chionthar. Astarion had seen Wyll and Karlach vanish to Avernus, and his phantom heart ached for his friend. Karlach’s battle was not over, not yet. Even so, the world felt mostly right. Everyone in the world that he cared about was more or less okay. Until the sun found him.

Those tiny prickles of heat in the veins of his face and hands were so small, so gentle at first, that he almost dismissed the sensation. He’d gotten so used to very nearly being alive again that random aches and pains had become commonplace. He didn’t think much of it until the burning began to rip across any exposed centimeter of flesh, searing his nerve endings and striking terror into his undead heart.

He ran then. He could hear her, his Tav, screaming for him. He knew Gale and Halsin were holding her back to keep both of them safe, comforting her, telling her to let him go, that he’d be all right. He even recognized the flare of jealousy that he couldn’t be the one to soothe her, that they had their hands on her when he couldn’t, somewhere deep beneath the pain of his burning flesh. But there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Panic had gripped him and all he could do was run. To try to find shelter. To protect her from what he was and what he had become once again.

The warehouse cellar he found was mercifully dark and quiet, in spite of the chaos still raging in the city streets. They had won, but so much was now lost to him. The sun had turned on him like a knife turned in a hand and took him away, back to the dark. To add insult to injury, it had taken his beauty, too. It wasn’t enough that he’d live in pain and darkness with his demons, but now he had to do it as something truly monstrous. He found a moldering pile of disused burlap sacks for a bed and curled into a ball, cradling his burned face with his burned hands, and he wept until the oblivion of the pain took mercy on him and dragged in into unconsciousness.

When he woke, he was completely certain that it had all been a dream. The familiar scent of dank mildew and rot filled his nostrils. He lay on a pile of rags on a cold, hard floor. He ached all over. He fully expected that when he opened his eyes, he’d be naked, manacled to the wall of Godey’s dungeon in Cazador’s palace with a fresh web of lacerations across his face and hands and neck – punishment for some sleight Cazador had dreamed up. He whimpered and swore, eyes still shut tight as he pounded his fist against the floor, sending a white-hot jolt of pain spiraling up his arm. He should have known better. He should have known better than to believe any of the events of the last months could have been real. Good things, like friends and freedom and love, didn’t happen for him. Some people were made to suffer.

When he opened his eyes at last, there was only darkness. No animated skeleton, wielding a scourge to beat him into submission. No chains. Only the scuttling of rats and the lap of water nearby. Cazador was dead. His bones and muscles knew the absence of his late master the way they knew weight and pressure. They were truths that didn’t need questioning.

The pain was just as real whether he was caged in nightmares, or awake. He held his hands up, and they felt tight, as if the skin was shrunken too small to cover the bones and sinews within. The dismal light in that dark cellar was too weak a thing to see the true extent of the damage, but he didn’t need to see it. He knew his hands, once so clean and smooth and fine, had flared like burning magnesium. They could only be charred and cracked, with fissures of raw, bloody meat now. He hadn’t seen his face in over two centuries, and for the first time in all that time, he was glad he couldn’t see it. He didn’t want to know what horror awaited Tav when he found her again.

Tav.

Gods, could he face her like this? Would she scream? Would she vomit in revulsion at his burned and mangled face and hands if he stood before her again? He ached for her, not just for her blood, but all of her, to hold her in his arms, to hear her sing and laugh. He could go to her. She was probably at the Elfsong right now. Probably half crazed, begging the others to help her look for him. Or at least, he hoped she was. He didn’t want her suffering on his account, but he hoped that she was alive and well, that she still wanted him.

That was another new thing with Tav. She had been a seemingly endless parade of new experiences and habits, but this most recent one, hoping, was by far the most unsettling. Hope had always been a monster; a relentless little gremlin that fed false promises and made the longings and desires brutally pummel him when he was at his lowest and darkest. It was apprehension and anxiety and a tightness in his chest, and it walked hand in hand with bitter disappointment.

But with Tav, it was also lightness. With her and the hope she brought him, his jaw was unclenched for the first time in two centuries. He gave himself permission to hope because with Tav, the things he hoped for came to be more often than not.

He could hope once more, he thought. She was her, after all. No one else was like her. She’d trusted him and cared for him, when all good sense should have told her not to. He hoped she could continue to care for him, to trust him, to love him, even in whatever state he was in. In darkness and in light. In pain and in ecstasy. In beauty and in monstrosity. For better or worse.

His lips felt tight when he smiled, felt like they were cracking, but he didn’t care. The thought of holding her was enough. The thought of her going mad with worry over him was enough. He even chuckled at the thought of the shiner she had probably given Gale as he tried to hold her back.

Very well, decision made. He would find her and accept the outcome.

When he emerged from the warehouse cellar, he was surprised to find that things were better off than he had feared. He’d found a whole nest of rats, which, vile as they were, were still vital. As he drank each one, he felt the creature’s blood filling his veins, soothing those scorched delicate passages within him. In the light of the fires the Watch had lit in braziers all around the lower city, he could see his hands were not the melted and charred ruin of flesh he pictured. He couldn’t tell about his face, but it didn’t feel so stretched, either.

Astarion kept to the shadows as he picked his way around rubble and the ruined homes and shops. When at last he reached the Elfsong, he was surprised by how little damage the tavern had sustained. The damn thing was not only still standing, unscarred, but it was open for business. Roaring, too, by the look of it. He stood in the darkness of the burned-out shell of what used to be the headquarters of the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette, watching the comings and goings. And then, suddenly, she was there.

Bathed in moonlight, she stood on the balcony like an ingenue taking the stage in a play. Even at a distance, Astarion could see she was as much of a wreck as he imagined she would be, and it made his phantom heart flutter with joined delight and misery. She was still in her leather and scale mail, still covered in blood and grime. Her hair was pushed back off her face as if she’d run her hands through it so many times that gravity gave up and let it just stay that way. He couldn’t stop smiling.

Tav was scanning the street, watching the patrons as they came and went, obviously searching. For what, exactly, Astarion didn’t know, but that little hope gremlin that had taken up residence somewhere behind his ear whispered to him that she was looking for him. The clouds scudded out of the way of the full moon, dousing the sad remains of the broadsheet’s foyer in sickly yellow-gray light. She saw him. Stared at him, her mouth hanging open. People passed in the street. Time slowed. Astarion was sure that if there had been music playing, it would have faded out with all other sounds as they looked at each other.

As if a spell had broken, she bolted through the balcony doors. Astarion could hear the commotion inside their rooms, could almost track Tav’s progress as she tore through the upper floor of the tavern and the noisy bar room below. She burst through the doors at street level, tripped over some rubble still littering the street before all but launching herself into his arms. She was usually so careful of his sensitivity to touch. It warmed his cold dead heart to see her put own need for reassurance ahead of him for a change.

He thought she would bombard him with a tirade of “do you know what you dids” and “how could yous,” but it never came. Instead, she just held him, her arms and legs wrapped around him, so similar to the first night they had slept together, but so much more genuine. More real. Just more. His hands hurt where they cradled her weight against him, but it was nothing. She wanted him, without his asking, and any pain was far away, blocked by the radiance he felt with her in his arms. She leaned her forehead against his, her natural heat stinging the still tender burns there, but he wouldn’t move her. He’d die with her like that if it was what she wanted.

“Come upstairs,” she whispered at last. She slithered down his body, taking his still-wounded hand in her own without hesitation. Astarion imagined all of the eyes on him as they waded through first the pub full of strangers and then the common room full of their companions, but no one said a word. If they had been coached or were stunned into silence, he didn’t know. Whatever the case, he was glad for it. When at last they were alone in the bathroom, she pulled him into her arms again and brushed her lips against his swollen, tender ones.

“It’s awful, isn’t it?” he asked, not sure he wanted the answer. Smiling, she delicately cupped his cheek in her palm, called him a beautiful idiot and told him to get undressed.

And that was the end of it. No flinching, no sad look that was too full of pity. No rallying speech about how he’d be better in no time. She just called him beautiful, like she always did, and called him an idiot. Like she always did. To her, nothing had changed. No matter what his face looked like, he was still him and she still loved him.

In the bath, with her back against his chest, she told him how after he left, she had indeed punched Gale, and she may have accidentally kicked Halsin in the worst possible place as he carried her away from the pier. Both of them were still salty about it. As Astarion gently scrubbed dried blood and dirt from her body and face, she told him how this was the first time she had stopped moving in the 24 hours since the brain had fallen. She had helped refugees and sifted through rubble to find survivors. She’d loaded dead illithids onto carts. She did anything she could to keep herself from running blindly after him into the wreckage of the burning city. Mercifully, Gale had stopped her from trying to cook for the city’s newly unhoused.

Her yawns grew more frequent as they talked. Though she insisted she still wanted him to feed from her, and then, perhaps, make love to her, Astarion could see her spirit was willing, but the flesh was growing weaker by the moment.

They were both still naked when he carried her to bed in the gray hour before dawn. She rolled onto her side to give him access to her neck and was fast asleep before he finished feeding.

Astarion woke from true sleep as the sun was setting on the following evening. Tav was still asleep, curled with her back against his chest in the same position she had been when he had drifted off himself. It wasn’t dark enough yet for him to venture out, but in truth, very little could have made him want to. He was still amazed at how her blood sang in his veins, how it had repaired most of the sun’s damage, leaving only a few faint red lines on the backs of his hands where the burns had been the worst. He’d known he loved her, possibly from the very start when he held a knife to her throat, but any doubts about it had long since evaporated.

As if she could feel him watching her, Tav stirred, muttering in her sleep. He lay beside her, head propped up on one palm, and thought to himself that this was what he wanted most. It wasn’t power, or wealth, or even to be free to walk in the sun again. If this was to be his life, for the rest of his life, it was all he could hope for. He could live without all of the other things if it meant opening his eyes and seeing this beautiful woman, asleep next to him, drooling a little as she snored.

____________

Notes:

Hope you enjoyed this little fluffy self-indulgent introspection.

Musical Inspiration – Sight of the Sun – Fun, Miss You So Badly – Jimmy Buffett, Hallelujah – Leonard Cohen (Rufus Wainright version)

Visual Inspiration - https://www.tumblr.com/daintysclaw/746584182996844544/the-pic-lmaoo?source=share

#bg3 #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 astarion #my writing

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