Just A Little Lie (Price) Chapter 1:

Just a Little Lie (Price) Chapter 1:

Sergeant Smith has absolutely landed themselves in hot water, well done babe. Captain John Price is not impressed, and neither of you have a good enough poker face to get past Kate Laswell.

Prologue:

A/N: You probably expected it to be Ghost first and I can only apologise, he’ll get his time.

The wonderful thing about fanfiction is that I can and will change the narrative to suit. Look forward to shifted timelines, canon divergence and more of a focus on character development.

Would Price, as Captain, be sleeping in the same barracks as his men? No - but it’s convenient to my shitty plot so it’s staying in.

*All* Y/Ns in my fics are GN! unless requested otherwise.

Slow burn - eventual smut. Canon Typical Violence. A bit of “hurt/guilt ridden comfort” meets unprofessionalism in this chapter.

As per usual, MDNI

Word Count: 5013 (I hate how long this is)

—-

“Y/N?

In the months that you had known John - Captain Price - you had seen a great deal of expressions on his face. You had seen the stoicism of his resting face as if carved out of marble as you walked around town. You knew well the playful frustration with your terrible jokes that accompanied his raised eyebrows and a slight huff. You adored the kind smile and the crinkle around his eyes that he gave you when he saw you waiting outside your little cafe. And you had just recently become acquainted with the quiet, smouldering intensity in his blue eyes before he moved in to kiss you. The way his jaw clenched and his brow furrowed, like he was a tightly wound spring.

The look on his face now though, you didn’t know at all. Thunderous was probably the best description you had, his blue ocean eyes a raging squall. His brows pinched and tight just above them, you swore you could see a twitch that betrayed the way he stood stock still amongst his squad. You could almost be sure that his beard itself bristled in anger as he pursed his lips, as if readying himself to shout. This was anger written all over John's face, and if you somehow never saw this look on his face again it would still be too soon in your opinion. He was angry, no, furious with you. And for the first time you found yourself straining in his presence against your fight-or-flight response that was screaming at you in the back of your mind to flee.

“Apologies - Sergeant Smith,” that name coming from his lips, tinged with hurt and practically dripping with venom, felt so viscerally unnatural, “our new ‘data analyst’ I take it?”

A well deserved verbal slap in the face, to be sure. Certainly a loud one if the way Laswell’s eyes darted between the pair of you was any indication, confusion and concern loud and clear in the tensions of her shoulders as she turned back to face you fully. She read your file, most likely could recite it front to back, as was expected when you work with delicate information and needed to put together a top secret squad such as this one. And you both knew as you made eye contact with the woman that Price or his prior SAS units had never once been mentioned. Not even a vague or tenuous working coalition between your teams. Yet here he stood, familiar enough to know your first name and specialty; and clearly with enough of an opinion to be ready to rage at your appearance in his taskforce. A man who gave no sign of recognising the name Sergeant Smith when he had been told over the phone that you would be joining the team. Here you stood, ready to bolt through the still swaying flaps of this tent just at the sight of him. Shocked to see him even though this obvious acquaintance you had between you should have meant you already knew who you would be working with when the name Captain Price was mentioned. You could practically hear the cogs in her mind screeching as they ground together at rapid pace, puzzle pieces slotting together too fast for you to be able to step in and assure her she was wrong.

First names only, clearly you didn’t know eachothers ranks either. No prior connections, and if that slight tremble in your lip or the way you winced as he addressed you was any indication; this anger was unexpected from Price. This was a personal relationship. One that clearly was going sour in the middle of what was brewing to be an international incident. You imagined that if Kate Laswell wasn’t such a staunch professional that she might cry in frustration at the situation unfolding. It would definitely make you feel better about your own tears that you could feel threatening to fall, the heat in your cheeks and the sting in your eyes as your vision clouded all too familiar a sensation. One you could not afford here or now.

“Is there an issue here, John?” Laswell had clearly made up her mind to not mention the obvious tension filling the tent, even as the other three soldiers were becoming restless, no longer standing to attention and all but outright fidgeting as they fixed their gazes on their Captain.

“No, Kate. No issues here. Hadn’t realised that you meant this particular Sergeant Smith,” despite the smile sent her way it was impossible to miss the way his eyes narrowed at you, as if daring you to in some way contradict the narrative he was trying to establish. You noticed the use of first names though, a mental note to file that away for later discussion. Much later, likely never if the way John’s eyes were set on trying to burn a hole through your face were indicating. Still, this was an out you were certainly not stupid enough to pass up on. Shoulders squared, throat cleared and professional face back on, you addressed your new temporary Captain.

“Captain Price, Sergeant Smith - Communications Officer, ready for briefing, Sir,” a nod, a little stiff was all the response you thought you would receive from John, until after a pregnant pause he moved to the side, arm out towards the monitor at the far end of the tent. Making room for you to stand next to him was a choice you likely would not have made, but in this scenario - where appearances needed to be kept up - you could see the logic. Couldn’t be any issues between the pair of you if he was willing to have you next to him for a brief after all.

“Well then kid, get yourself over here and we’ll get you up to speed.”

—-

Echo 3-1 moved with startling efficiency through the chemical compound at Verdansk. All the grace of a synchronised swimmer as he weaved in between empty train cars, his team close at his six. The man moved seamlessly from crouched stealth to open combat, squad formation tight as he directed the marines under his command with ruthless competency, Russian operatives barely firing a shot before blinding muzzle flashes illuminated the cold night air and left them riddled with American bullets.

The idea of chemical weapons being developed in Russian territory had you on edge. Chemical warfare may be illegal - especially on civilian populations, but you weren’t foolish enough to believe that if push came to shove that the Kremlin wouldn’t find just cause to utilise them under the radar. Not that your American allies or even the Westminster government could arguably be trusted to not cross the line of legality, particularly over in the East if the reports you had been seeing were any indication.

Regardless, these chemicals being in the hands of friends were a much more comforting thought than the Russians. Given what you were seeing though, you were finding it difficult to believe that the marines lost them. Their expert efficiency in clearing the facility and securing the transports containing the gas were textbook in execution. In and out - before anyone outside the compound even realised they had been. Until they got maybe 20 feet out the front gate.

Hindsight being 20/20, combined with the boosted brightness of the recording you were viewing had you flinching as you spotted the flaming truck come barreling down the embankment a second before the convoy did. Nowhere near enough time to avoid collision, and barely a moment to brace as the first truck went flying and Echo 3-1s windshield was cracked. The Russians were on them near instantaneously. Marines who were flung from the cabs of their vehicles, strewn across the concrete and dazed, didn’t even have a chance to grab their weapons at their hips as they were summarily executed where they lay. If the Russian soldiers hadn’t realised they were American when they did, you suspected Echo 3-1 would be among the dead as well.

The whole operation was a chilling reminder of just how quickly things could go wrong out in the field.

—-

You closed your eyes tight and pinched the bridge of your nose as the recording stopped, the last frame showing Echo 3-1 half pulled onto his knees and radioing for a medevac. The sight of the wounded and dying marines illuminated against the flames of the on fire transports. Sighing, you dragged your gloved hand down your face and turned to Laswell, leaning back to see her past the broad expanse of Captain Price's back, “This is where you lost track of the cargo? No sighting since?”

“No, none. Plenty of rumours though, which is where you come in. I need all ears to the ground sifting through the noise. We cannot have these chemicals free in the wind,” her blue eyes turned to focus on you, a serious intensity that rooted you to the spot, “I can verify any actionable information you find, but I need to know where I’m sending the task force, and I need to know soon.”

“Understood ma’am. When do I start?”

“You have two hours. I have an angry general waiting outside and a mobile command centre to commandeer - so use the time to get settled and find something to eat. It’s going to be a long night.”

With that Laswell turned on her heel and was gone - not so much as a backward glance to you or the rest of the team as she strode out into the blazing sun. The silence fell heavily over you and the men left behind, all turning to your captain for orders. Quite pointedly Price looked over your head to the rest of the squad, addressing them directly, “Boys, get to the mess. The sergeant and I will be joining you in 15. And keep your heads down - the Americans are on edge enough as is without you lot setting them off.”

“Aye sir,” the sudden Scottish accent had you turning, looking to the man with a mohawk. How he had gotten so close without you noticing was a mystery, it was staggering that men like him, tall and broad could move without a sound. He almost looked too young to be there though. Clearly not standard infantry. His right hand came up to clap you on the shoulder before you could stop him, the force nearly rattling you out of your boots. He was smiling at least, a kind easy smile that reached his shockingly blue eyes. “Well then rookie, see you in the mess.”

And with that he was gone, followed quickly by the equally young looking black man who offered a playful salute as he passed. The masked man however, was still leant back against the tent pole in the corner - eyes on you. Brown eyes that were staring directly at you, into your soul you would swear. Not a word from him as he took stock in you. A heartbeat passed, then two, before his gaze flicked up to John’s behind you. A quick nod, a small gesture you would have missed if you weren’t looking directly after him, and he left too. Leaving you alone with Captain John Price.

The silence between you both settled heavily in the air, much in the same way the smell of cigars did when you were alone together. This was an entirely different situation however, and far less pleasant an experience between the two of you. The characteristic noise of a working military base fading away as you made eye contact with John, replaced with shaky and shallow breathing from you both. Much like the other night, trembling hands were clenched at his sides, and you were vaguely aware of your own doing the same. Both of you straining against yourselves to not reach out to the other. Once again the intensity of his stare holding you in place like you would turn and run, though the hardened edge to it made your stomach drop and clench all at once. This wasn’t an innate need to hold you to him you were seeing, and you tried desperately to convey on your own face a thousand and one apologies that would somehow plaster over the cracks in the foundation you had built. The older man bristled as if he could read everything your eyes were trying to tell him, and none of those platitudes at this moment were going to be sufficient.

“Jo- Captain, I can ex-”

“Not a word Sergeant. Not one, and certainly not here.”

He didn’t need to raise his voice, let alone shout. You could hear the rolling, thundering anger behind his words as he gestured around the tent. His words were hushed, almost conspiratorial. He sighed, looking down at his feet and rubbing his brow beneath the brim of his hat. Blue eyes met your own again as his shoulders uncharacteristically slumped, sadness and disappointment carved into every crease of his face. The churning of feeling of guilt felt like a punch to the gut; there had never been a moment up until this one in your life that you regretted more, and you found yourself cursing your own stupidity.

“Grab your things, I’ll show you to the 141s barracks.”

—-

The barracks assigned to the 141 were one of those temporary single story prefabricated cabins that had inevitably transformed into a permanent fixture that littered the base, a sight ridiculously common despite the inordinate budget afforded to the military. The cream exterior of the original building was faded, though it drew your attention away from the slate grey extensions that had been added to both sides of the structure, and most likely to the back too. Small windows set high up on the walls let in a minimal amount of light, and you knew from experience that you’d be working mostly by fluorescent strip lights in there, even during the day. John pressed his military ID to the card reader at the main entrance, having explained yours would be added to the system by tomorrow. Leading you inside you found yourself in what looked eerily similar to the livingroom and kitchen-ette of your first crappy little studio flat. As spartan as you had expected the communal space to be, you saw it featured a couple beat up and sagging couches, a recliner and a rather battered looking television sitting on top of a military supply crate in place of a console. The small coffee table in front of it was covered in half filled ashtrays, books and empty coffee mugs that really should have been left to soak in the sink if the colour of them was any indication. A couple hoodies and even a t-shirt were strewn about as well, very much indicative of what you would expect from a flat shared between men. Not so much an army barrack.

John strode through the living room and into the kitchen, pulling the cheap kettle off its base to fill it up with water at the sink, “Toilet through that door,” nodding to a door on the same wall the tv was sat against, “Showers through the opposite one,” his head jerked back as you turned and spotted the slightly ajar door and the tiled floor inside. “Rooms are round the corner, yours is the only one open, there's a key on the desk.” You could tell that you weren’t going to get much more from him at the moment, his voice as tense as his movements while he set the kettle to boil and began rummaging through the cupboards overhead. That didn’t stop you gazing at his back as you rounded the corner to your temporary room, second door on the left.

This was the spartan decor that you were expecting. A single bed sat against the far wall, standard thin and scratchy blue sheets already set up to regulation, a small desk with a metal chair and lamp to the right of the door, your room key sitting on top of a writing pad. Next to the bed was one of those temporary fabric zip-up closets, and you set your bag down in front of it. The exhaustion of the last few hours hit you all at once, and you found yourself sinking onto the edge of the bed, the mattress too firm for your personal tastes. You set your newly issued tablet down next to you and fumbled about in the top pocket of your tactical vest for your phone. Laswell had taken it briefly during the flight over to the base, and you knew that a security program had been installed, limiting your access to most of the basic functions of the device. No social media, emails, calls or texts would come in and you wouldn’t be able to send any out without submitting them for approval through the employee portal for the foreseeable future. They still allowed access to messages already on the device however - and you found yourself manoeuvring through your conversations with friends and colleagues to your text conversations with John.

Scrolling back some days you found the conversation with him just after you had gotten off the phone with Laswell initially. Apologies from both of you, mostly yourself however, that work had called you in and that your catch up would have to wait. Moving forward to last night, your thumb hovered over the message you had last sent him - thanking him for the food and not so subtly suggesting that you were looking forward to hearing his voice again, or his next kiss. You hadn’t expected a response but noticed that in the time between getting on your first plane out last night and the helicopter ride today that you’d received a reply. A voice note. In all the time you had known John you had only ever recieved texts that read almost like an email, formal and signed off with “John” as if it wasn’t obvious who sent you the message. You smiled wistfully at the memory of calling him an old man in the early days at the cafe for his lack of abbreviations or misunderstanding basic text speak. You weren’t even sure that John knew how to send a voice note.

And yet here it was, less than a minute long, but there none the less. From the kitchen you could hear the kettle click off, having reached boiling, and John clattering about with one of the drawers. You decided to play it while you had a moment, ensuring your volume was low as you held the phone to your ear, face cradled in your other hand.

“Hey there, Lovie,” your breath hitched. This was the John you knew. Calm, measured, but still a voice laden with all the familiar fondness you had come to know in the prior months. 

“I’ve got to hand my phone off soon so I don’t know when I can text you next, but I wanted to let you know that’s me here on the ground for a while. I’m not sure when I’ll be home, but I hope it's not too long after you. What do you say we make a day of it when I’m back? Been a while since we last got a proper cuppa and I’m sure ol’ Moira at the cafe is starting to wonder where we ran off to,” you smirked at this, knowing all too well the looks the pair of you had been getting everytime you wound up at your usual table at Moira’s cafe, her knowing smile over the coffee machine as you prattled on about some nonsense to John filling your mind.

“Besides, you still owe me a home cooked dinner if I’m not mistaken,” he paused here, a small grunt as he cleared his throat, “and at least one kiss that doesn’t get interrupted by work. Speak to you soon darling.”

Your hand that held your phone fell limply into your lap, phone dropping from your hand and skating across the floor. Your other hand came up to grip your hair as you practically folded in on yourself, breath shuddering as you clenched your eyes shut, willing yourself to not start crying. What an absolute idiot. John had been nothing if not a sweet man to you, and you’d certainly managed to ruin it today if his attitude was anything to go by. Nevermind not running him off by telling him you were a soldier, you’d done it by being a liar and potentially compromising this mission before it even got off the ground with fraternisation. Anger from your temporary captain was the least of your concerns now, this could very well lead to a transfer out and a black mark in your file. How were you supposed to face your unit when you made it back home after a fuck up this colossal in nature?

You were broken out of your burgeoning panic when John cleared his throat from the doorway. You nearly sprang up from the bed as you attention snapped to him, stood against the light of the hallway with a steaming mug in each hand. You hopped to your feet and swiped your discarded phone from the floor, locking it and shoving it into the pocket of your fatigues. Smoothing your hair back, you stood to attention, hands clasped to your tactical vest, “Sorry Captain.”

“At ease, Y/N. Take a seat. We need to have a chat before we meet the boys in the mess.” Handing you a cup of what smelled like coffee, he pulled out your desk chair and turned it round, swinging his leg over to staddle it, one arm resting across the backrest. You found yourself sinking back onto the bed, the warm cup cradled in your hands hoping that the warmth would seep into what felt like your freezing bones.

“Of course Cap-”

“John. It’s always been just John when it’s the two of us.”

The look in his eyes was steel, and his tone was full authority as your Captain. An order, one you were not about to disobey at this moment.

“Of course, John.” You looked away briefly as you took a quick sip of your drink, ignoring the biting sting of the too hot liquid against your lips and tongue, “Is this in regards to the mission? I can assure you that there won’t be a problem with-”

“Fuck the mission Y/N, this about you. And about me as well, clearly.” You could feel your stomach sinking as you were interrupted again, it was obvious that John expected you to sit and listen without a word.

“You’ve put us both in one hell of a situation with this little secrets act you’ve pulled, I hope you realise this,” you nodded, refusing to allow yourself to tear your eyes away from his as he spoke, “Had I known you were the communications officer that was being brought in I could have said no. I could have asked for Laswell to pick anyone else from her list of suitable officers. Now I’m stuck with you here in the middle of an international fucking incident, and one wrong move, one out of place comment from you could have both our asses pulled up for fraternisation. Do you have any idea what that will do to our careers, to MY career and my command posting? Any at all?” Clearly this was the part where you should say something, but you found your throat closing around anything that you could say that would satisfy the anger radiating off the man in front of you.

John could tell you weren’t going to respond, and the frustration roiled off him in much the same way the heat from your coffee did, “This is a small task force Y/N, and I need to be able to trust every member of my team to have each others back both here and out in the field. I’m finding it very difficult to believe that I can do that with you right now. You had months to tell me you were in the service, and instead you kept giving me vague answers and half truths at best. You could have said something when I told you I was shipping out, when I was walking you home. Fuck, you really should have told me before I kissed you.”

You set your mug down on the floor by your feet at this, moving to clutch at your fatigues in an attempt to stop the trembling in your hands, “John, I didn’t want to tell you right away for probably the same reasons you didn’t, and when you did, I thought it wouldn’t matter. What were the chances that I would be called up to your unit out of all the possible postings?”

He reached back behind him to set down his own cup before turning back to face you, “And being told that you were going to be under a John Price didn’t raise any alarm bells with you before you were shipped out? That maybe if you were too much of a coward to tell me to my face that you could do it over text?”

“We never exchanged last names John!” You immediately regretted the way you raised your voice, Johns shoulders tensing and his gloves creaking against the headrest and he gripped it tightly, “Regardless, have you stopped to think just how many Johns I could have been under before-”

Clearly this was the worst thing to say, John was up and out of his chair in an instant, the metal clattering to the floor as he was suddenly towering over you, forcing you back onto your elbows in an attempt to create space between you. His hands were on either side of your hips, face close enough to your that you could smell the cigars he smoked as his breath came out in near pants.

“How many Johns? Tell me love, how many ‘Johns’ have you been under? Am I dealing with a barrack bunny on top of everything else?”

“Don’t you dare-”

“Dare what Y/N? You were quick enough to suggest taking me back to your flat when you found out I was military. Wouldn’t be too far out of the realm of possibility.”

You hand a hand wrapped around his vest before you could even think to stop yourself. Fury was written all over both your faces at this point, “Do you honestly think that I would be sitting here if there was even an implication in my file that I was some sort of free-use whore in my unit? In what world would Laswell have me as her first choice for a mission as important as this if there was a chance I’d be bed hopping my way through it? I’m good at my job John, real fucking good. And I’d be working my ass off regardless of who my superior officers were, even if they just so happen to be you. Whether you believe that now doesn’t matter when this gets off the ground.”

You hauled him closer to you, white hot anger coursing through you as you stared directly into his eyes, almost daring him to argue with you. Insubordination was not a common trait of yours, but you had put in too much effort to get where you were to have it all waved aside as you sleeping your way up the chain.

“Give me one reason to trust you Lovie, just one.”

The tinge of near desperation in his voice wasn’t lost on you, John searching your eyes as his brows furrowed, one hand coming up to grip yours where it was still fisted in his vest. Had you not been high on adrenaline in the moment, maybe more sensible thoughts would prevail. But you could see the cracks in the mask John was wearing, could feel the way his heart was almost beating out of his chest, much in the same way as yours. Lovie, you’d heard that minutes ago in his voice note to you, but not with this heat. He’d sounded so eager to see you again, he’d made it all too clear exactly what he wanted with you. And right now, despite the utter insanity of it, that was all that mattered.

“I kissed you because you were my John. Not because you were Captain John Price, SAS. You could have been a man from any profession on Earth and I’d still have wanted you all the same.”

His lips were on you before you could take your next breath, eyes fluttering closed as he pressed you further back. Once again the intensity of his kiss had you reeling, all your senses wrapped up in this moment with him. Your lips parted for just a heartbeat to drag in a shaky breath before you collided again, a small moan escaping you. John took full advantage, his tongue swiping across your lower lip before meeting to dance with yours. This was full dominance, you hadn’t a hope at pushing back against this, practically pinned in place as he ravaged your mouth. You could feel your eyes roll back in your head behind closed eyelids, allowing John to take whatever he wanted from you. It ended all too soon for you both, John pulling back just enough that you could feel the string of saliva still connecting your lips break.

“Ah shit. Definitely fraternising now.” He leaned down to slightly to rest his forehead against yours.

You huffed out a laugh, peering up at him from underneath the lashes of your half lidded eyes, “Guess so. What happens now John-”

The door to the barracks opened and closed with substantial force, and you found John hurrying to extricate himself from your grasp. “Oi Captain! Are you an’ the rookie joining us or wha’? Been almost a half hour!”

You threw your head back in a silent groan.

Fucking Scottish bastard.

Hey, no homo, but I am sitting on the broken swing set out back in the perfect, quiet, 2:00am blackness and picturing the softness of your voice and the darkness of your eyes with such perfect and terrible clarity that it feels like I'm choking on my own heartbeat.

Tav is the God of Defiance

Headcanons/ Fic Plot Overview

A/N: Has life been kicking my ass? Yes, but let’s not get into that. The whole Tav as God thing has really been burrowing deeper into my psyche and I need to get it out here or I may actually just go insane.

Enjoy some quickly thrown together headcanon type ideas - I may expand on these later if I can find the time in between work and everything else.

See prior drunken ramblings about God!Tav here

Before BG3:

Tav has been living almost exclusively in the material plane since the events of the Second Sundering. While they are empowered to live amongst mortals because Ao forbids it they can’t exactly risk returning home in case they get stuck there. It's sneaking back in when your parents are distracted sort of situation.

I imagine that at one point that Tav was traditionally worshipped, but as the other Gods pulled further back on Ao’s command the mortals around Tav likely began to question why their God was still walking amongst them. Or maybe a wandering God is simply too hard to keep track of in legend - especially when they can no longer disclose their godhood to followers. The old ones die - and no one was there to replace them. The traditional faith simply died out.

Tav has been adventuring for centuries, strengthening the resolve of their companions in the face of dire circumstances and impossible odds. This defiance they demonstrate in close proximity to the God enough to sustain Tav even if it wouldn’t grant them the same power they had before from temples and clerics.

I think regardless of the class you choose Tav is at least a little bit of a bard - if only to hide their godly magic as some form of bardic inspiration during a battle.

They always inevitably end up alone as their companions leave them behind, either leaving adventuring to retire or more likely dying despite Tav’s best effort.

While they can defy almost anything, there’s a finality in death that’s much older and primal than even Ao and there’s nothing to be done against that. Tav takes the pleasure they can in staving off death for their beloved friends as long as possible before it comes to claim them.

Tav doesn’t just simply gravitate towards the longer lived races on Toril, there’s something more potent probably in the defiance of a mortal that is risking their almost comically short life in comparison to that of an aged elf. Though longer lived races do allow Tav to go longer before losing another friend or lover.

During BG3:

As a God, hearing whispers of a new God calling itself the Absolute isn’t what you want to hear. Not when they - like you, appear to be directly interfering with the lives of mortals. Tav gets away with it purely by the nature of their domain. This new God may not be so lucky.

Combined with the increase of murders in Bhaal’s name in Baldurs Gate, and stirrings at Moonrise Towers which Tav knows all too well to be a Shar cursed land - Tav is compelled to investigate.

Finding themselves aboard a nautiloid has Tav panicked - this is looking to be a much larger threat to their beloved mortals than previously expected.

They have no allies with them though - no angered cries or acts of defiance to power them in this moment. Not that it matters. Interfering in the lives of a handful of mortals is one thing - but fighting against multiple Gods for the sake of all mortals would be a step too far for Ao.

This all changes when Tav is infected with a mindflayer tadpole.

Those infected with tadpoles are a threat to all those around them for many reasons. An individual with secret and forbidden knowledge is a tantalizing target to add to an illithid colony’s hive mind. What would happen if a God were to be transformed? Tav’s hand is forced, they’ll need to escape - gather allies and fight.

Upon crashing the nautiloid near the Emerald Grove and realising that most of their innate abilities are dampened by the psychic powers of the tadpole, Tav has to scramble to form an adventuring party. Thankfully - a group of desperate adventurers all with their own tadpoles to remove and lives they desperately want to return to just may very well have enough defiance in them for Tav to kill a God.

Tav just has to convince them to fight long enough to get the job done.

So I was planning on writing some fic stuff for the blog but my SO and I today have apparently started a joint writing project instead.

I'm not complaining by any means but I have so many ongoing fics now 😅

"I prayed to them all. None of them answered."

Which is a line that goes really hard and definitely hit me like a ton of bricks the first time i heard it. But then i started thinking... all of them? Surely he didn't start out praying to the most evil gods; they're hardly saviors. You probably start out praying to the "good" gods because they're good, right? But 200 years of torture and eventually you won't care who you get. Which leads me to believe.

Astarion: dear lord bhaal, please send me an angel. maybe the nicest one you have.

Durge, cackling madly post lobotomy: (:

This is the exact sort of monster romance I want. Give me an incomprehensible being that would drive me mad to process it.

Thinking and thoughts here

Could you just imagine the impossible with me? Being in a loving marriage with your beloved husband -who you believe is human because why wouldn't you? He looks and acts like every other human and monsters aren't real. And he just adored you so very much, he communicates when he doesn't understand something or when a miscommunication is had. He never fights with you but you both work together to fix any problems, and focus on showing how much you care for each other. Truthfully he's the model husband. Almost to a scripted degree, but you've never felt so adored. Especially when he mirrors your affection and never seems to expect anything explicit, nor want it either. It feels safe, and comfortable... So why do you feel the sense of dread in your gut as you're looking at him right now?

Well, it might be how he's standing in the doorway, bag of takeout in hand, smile on his face. Mirroring how he always stands. But it's a brief moment, a flash of dark lines almost like thread wrapping around his joints, moving him like a giant flesh puppet.

And just as quickly as they were seen- they're gone again. Just your loving husband, Dorrin. Standing tall and gazing down, as though the mountain was watching the river below. Absolutely enamored and unyielding to everyone except you who he'd mold himself to better love as time goes on.

At your expression, his smile fades into a look of concern. His gaze follows yours, to his hand. And the brief flash of threading is gone but he knows exactly what you've seen.

His gaze returns to you, hollow. Slowly setting down the bag he was carrying and slowly crosses the room to get to you.

He seems... Empty. As if any signals for how he should be acting have been cut off. His looming figure almost listless as he gazes down at you with a dull gaze, no life behind his eyes. After a moment, his voice finally rings out. "Has this one displeased you, little love?"

You feel an inherent wrongness about how your beloved husband is speaking presumably of himself as if he isn't even here, with a slight stumble back it answers his question well enough.

Dorrin slumps, like a wind up toy who's finished it's final dance. The voice that drifts through the air is so familiar yet leaves your brain trembling at the sheer magnitude of the being behind it even if unseen. "I apologize, this puppet has proven defective for its sole purpose. Rest assured, such an oversight will be rectified promptly. Only the best shall be allowed closest to you."

With a horrified expression you can only watch as Dorrin- what you know to be Dorrin is... Folded away. Limbs snapping together into a ball not unlike when a child is ready to toss away their doll. And it's... Not there anymore. No blink of an eye, no noise or sight, it was there and it wasn't. And now you stand in the empty living room of a home you've shared with someone you thought you knew so very well.

What do you do?

What can you do?

You can feel gazes on you still, the same when that thing would watch you while you rested together. You can try to move towards a door or even a window and find them consumed in darkness. There is no threat here, but you are not allowed to leave at the moment.

You don't know it yet, but Dorrin just wants to keep you safe in the home he's so carefully crafted for you alone. Tonight he'll leave a new puppet at your door, identical to the last hundred that had done something leading to any inconvenience on you. You've never noticed before, and he doesn't know how to condense himself into a small enough form to be loved by such a miniscule creature he's so deeply fallen for. But that puppets strings weren't good enough to remain hidden. The new one will be better.

Only the best for you.

He will ensure it.

(Basically what happens when an endless creature of Eldritch being falls for a little bitty human? Why not craft a puppet to express his love for them on a scale they can comprehend! But those fickle puppets- never perfect enough for his little love)