mistystepmoonbeam

[mistystepmoonbeam]

orin ♥

#Misty queue #fanart

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normal day of sitting on skulls in bhaals temple

#Misty queue #durge #fanart

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Disarm

Astarion x Tav (she/her used)

Summary: Tav and Astarion have been secretly seeing each other for a few weeks. One of them is adept at feelings, while the other is better at noticing traps.

A/N: Set around the time of Act 1, before Tav and Astarion become officially paired/committed.

“So Astarion,” Shadowheart chimed from the rear of the group, stepping over a large piece of stone as the party of four combed the seaside cliff for a way into the temple ruins, “do you have anyone back home? A lover perhaps?” 

From the front of the pack, Tav could hear the sly smirk in Shadowheart’s voice. The sound of which made her wince, but the question itself caused a swirling chasm to form in the pit of her stomach. For a few weeks now, her and Astarion had been secretly carrying on a romance that neither were ready to make public. It’s not that she was embarrassed to be with him, but she worried what the others would think; would they not trust her anymore? Would they see her as weaker now? She thought the best of her new friends, but the nagging voice in the back of her mind was ever present, needling away at her subconscious. Astarion on the other hand, was not ready to even admit to himself that this was a romance. She knew it was due to his past trauma, that much she had been able to piece together. If you asked him (which she had a few nights ago), he’d say they were “exploring each other exclusively” and nothing more than that. 

The painful truth of it all though, after the many nights of sneaking into each other’s tents, of stolen glances across campfires and the countless hidden touches during their travels—Tav was beginning to fall for the pale elf. She couldn’t tell him that yet, not when he was barely able to admit that they were together at all. So she kept the feelings leashed, allowing their clandestine romance to stoke the flames of longing being bottled up inside her heart. 

Shadowheart's question, though innocent in nature, threatened to untether that leash. The thought of Astarion having a lover back in Baldur’s Gate was something that had never crossed her mind. He was beautiful in the most ethereal way, it would make sense that he had someone waiting for him. They were probably just as otherworldly. Tav wondered if they had been turned as well. As her thoughts began to spiral, the images of unfamiliar limbs tangled with his caused acid to rise in her throat. The acceleration of her heart almost drowned out Astarion’s answer.

“I’ve had many lovers in my time, darling,” he drawled, the words doing nothing to ease the ache in Tav’s heart, “but none that are worth going back to. Nor are they waiting for the likes of me.” 

Tav inhaled for the first time in what seemed like minutes.

“And who knows,” Astarion added, the familiar playfulness creeping back into his tone, “maybe I’ll find a new one out here in the great wide nowhere.”

Tav dared a glance back to find his crimson eyes trained of her. He shot a wink that threatened to melt her right then and there. Biting back a smile, she took a few more crafty steps around some rubble. As she went to side-step a fallen piece of a column, Astarion yelled.

“NO!” He wrapped an arm around her middle, yanking backwards until she was pressed firmly against his chest. “Don’t. Move.” The rumble of his voice reverberated through her as he slunk around and uncovered a hidden explosive beside the column. 

“This place is trapped. Be on alert,” he knelt down and began to quickly disarm the small bomb. Shadowheart and Gale split off and began to comb over the area for more, while Astarion returned to her side. A slender hand found its way to the small of her back.

“It would’ve been such a shame to have that lovely face destroyed, please try to be more careful next time darling,” he purred before placing a quick, yet incredibly gentle, kiss on her temple before joining the others. 

Tav stood in place for a beat longer, pulling on the restraints of her heart that were beginning to snap.

#astarion x tav #Misty queue

[mistystepmoonbeam]

Gonna start doing this when someone tells me what to do

#Misty queue

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Bard casts vicious mockery: “Hag-shouldered scum-vestige!”

Graphic designer casts vicious mockery:

[Another 100% fake cover to go along with the first one. Note, no burn intended on Withers here! He’s currently the most sought-after party planner in Faerun.]

#Misty queue

[mistystepmoonbeam]

My 💜

#Misty queue #Gale

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how i look opening bg3 once more to do absolutely fuck all

[mistystepmoonbeam]

Continuing on from some previous thoughts....

You realize too late what you've gotten yourself into.

Not that you want escape--far from it. You want the opposite of escape, this delightful, endlessly novel captivity. But at the same time, you never could have anticipated any of this.

Tonight, for example:

Your back is braced against his torso, all muscle and heat under your already-heated skin, your face hidden in his neck. The thin shirt Gale wears is really a mockery of clothing, as are the trousers you're currently soaking as you sit astride his thigh. The fabric hides nothing of the strength of his body; his shirt collar is open enough that his chest hair brushes your arm. You'd nuzzle into that warmth for comfort, but there's no movement allowed you--Gale's cast that damnable spell again, the one that keeps your body limp, pliant, and desperate, leaving you only your voice because why would I deprive myself of the sweetness of your prayers? If you're praying now, it's a hymn of moans and sighs and incoherence and, as far as you can tell, Gale's not even paying attention, too busy tormenting you with that godsdamned book.

One hand drifts up and down your body, the hand of a musician idling out a tune. There's no pattern, no melody to it, only light, glancing touches on your shoulder, your belly, between your legs but not between your legs enough. Faintly you can feel his breathing, so much steadier than your own, chest pushing calmly and inexorably against you like the tide. Overlaying it is the rumble of his voice and the rush of words past your helplessly-listening ear as he reads... and along with the words and those touches come impressions of sensation.

"You grasp frantically at the shelves for purchase," Gale murmurs, and under your fingers you feel wood, slippery, polished; your fingertips glance off the spines of indifferent books. "But the only help you have is the body in front of you, hands pushing you up against the wall, pushing your greedy thighs open." There's the ghost-pressure of an invisible body against you, crowding you against Gale--against the bookcase--and hands teasing your legs apart. Gale's hand, his real hand, slips blessedly lower, and the sound he tears from you is obscene as you rock up into him. "The honeyed slick from your cunt coats your legs--perhaps," he murmurs the words into your hot, anxious ear as he thumbs thoughtfully at your clit, "you'll spill yourself on his face, or on his cock, so beautiful in your ruin."

😳😳😳 Aesc, I’m sure one of these days you’ll be accused of my untimely demise. It’s okay, I will die happy and I’ll make sure to leave a note clearing you of all charges.

Also, sorry it’s taken me a while! I have been battling some sort of seasonal bug and it turns out that writing smut is not ideal if your body aches already (and not in the thoroughly-fucked-by-Gale-Dekarios way).

WARNING: Nasty, filthy Smutty McSmutface under the cut!

The sound that escapes your throat is barely human — it’s primal, animalistic, raw — and you fail to recognise your own voice.

How did it come to this? you wonder briefly. How can he affect me so? How does he know my body better than I do myself?

Flashbacks flood your mind, an impetuous torrent of images, sensations, and feelings sweeping you under: the first time you touched, his warm hand in yours as you pulled him out of the portal; your palm pressed against the searing, white-hot nothingness of the orb; the feeling of him in your mind, in your body, everywhere all at once, as he made love to you for the first time; your muffled screams, the frantic moments of ecstasy stolen inside his tent, mere inches away from the others; your first night in Waterdeep, your frenzied bodies on the cold marble of the entryway floor; your wedding night, happy tears mixing with sweat and the scent of lily in his hair, your hearts so full you thought they might burst; the thousand nights that followed, each of them an ode to your love, each of them art in and of itself.

“Focus, please.”

His voice snaps you back, a soft command the authority of which you have neither the strength nor the will to contest.

Once sure of your undivided attention, Gale carries on reading: “You pray for his cock, its thick outline strained against the High Lord’s breaches. You yearn to be filled with it, stretched to the point of ruin, but you will have to wait. All you get for now is expert, eager fingers that tease, caress and spread you apart, and you swallow them into your velvet depths with ease.”

Once more, Gale’s magic appears to will echoes of the book into existence; you keen as he sheathes three of his beautiful, long fingers inside you. Phantom digits — or, at least, an impression of them — stroke you in unison with his. You know they are not real, and yet your body responds as if they were. You drown in the feeling of fullness, of being obscenely stretched open, in the wet noises that fill the air around you, and Gale’s hot breath against your ear.

“Can you take one more?”

There’s a novel strain to Gale’s words, but you are too far gone to discern whether he’s still reading or if the question is indeed his own. All you can do is sink deeper into the ocean of your lust as a strangled yes escapes your lips.

“Very good, my love,” he all but sings, unable to conceal the marvel in his voice as he easily slips four fingers into your tight, greedy cunt.

“Your hands white-knuckle the shelves behind you,” he reads on, a Mage Hand conveniently holding the book open for him, “as the High Lord coaxes your thighs wider with his knee, his thick fingers plundering your insides with unrelenting fervour.”

You can almost feel imaginary wood splinters lodging themselves into the soft pads of your fingertips, while Gale’s real hand, the one that’s not knuckle-deep inside you, grabs at the fleshy parts of your left leg and spreads you further apart, deliciously open for him, allowing his fingers to sink even deeper into you.

“Please…”

More of a tortured moan than a fully-formed word, your plea is enough to catch Gale’s attention and bring his reading to a halt. His hand, however, never stops moving, relentless in the pursuit of your ruin.

“What do you need, my love?” he asks, his whisper like honey poured straight into your ear. “Is this what you want?” he asks, the thumb of his free hand now rubbing gentle circles around your clit, sending a string of incoherent moans tumbling from your lips.

“Just tell me what you desire,” he presses on, “and I shall give it to you.” He nips at your earlobe, then plants soft kisses on the side of your face. “Anything for you, my goddess. Everything for you.”

“Gale—” you cry out, exhausted and overstimulated, desperate for release, “let me move…”

One quick word from him, and you are freed — movement returning to your legs and arms as if it had never been taken away. You sneak an arm upwards, your hand knotting into a fistful of hair at the nape of his neck, and your head twists towards him.

He looks into your eyes — feverish and needy and crazed with want — and his restraint evaporates. His lips come crashing down onto yours and he all but devours you, his tongue mimicking the expert dance of his fingers inside you.

And when he finally growls into your mouth, it brings forth such a frenzy that you fail to recognise yourself; you’ve been driven mad with lust, your mind and body aching to be filled with more of him as you meet his thrusts and properly fuck yourself on his hand.

It doesn’t take long, then, for you to find the peak of your pleasure — his maddening rubbing of your clit, the obscene stretch of your cunt, the way your own body pushes against him, driving his fingers so incredibly deep inside you. It all comes crashing down on you like a wave, and you finally gush all over his hand, screaming his name into your release.

“Magnificent,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck, where your hair clings to your sweat-slick skin. “You’re utterly magnificent.”

#Misty queue #nsfw #Gale

[mistystepmoonbeam]

When the netherese orb in your chest ruins your love life for a SECOND time 🤣

#Misty queue #fanart

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Bonus

*internal voice*

this thing smell interesting, wanna lick it?

#Misty queue #fanart

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did the bicep meme with shadowlach

#Misty queue #fanart #karlach #shadowheart

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I can't stop myself because this tiefling has taken over my damn life. Here we go again!

Romantic Rolan Headcanons

Gods, he is so unbelievably nervous when it comes to the romance aspect of dating, but he hides it behind of facade of confidence. He's master of the tower now, he has everything that his partner could possibly want; why doesn't it ever feel like enough?

In the beginning, he overcompensates in fear of messing up everything about the relationship. Lavish gifts, expensive dates, the whole nine yards with his newfound wealth he gained from the tower. It's a bit uncanny.

In all honestly, he figures his partner wants "The Master of Ramazith's Tower", not him. Rolan is a flawed creature who has piles of constant mistakes weighing on him; an utter, helpless fool. Why would anyone want that? No one has ever wanted him before, why now?

When Rolan realizes his partner seems confused and maybe put off by the facade, he thinks the worst things possible. Do they not desire him? Did he already mess things up so early into the relationship? Can he salvage this? Did they fall out of love?

In the beginning, he's not great at communication. It's horrid, even. He doesn't know how to verbalize how he's feeling. His partner would have to teach him as they sit down and talk about this facade he's put up. It will take a while, but they eventually will get his walls down.

I think his love language is complex, but in simpler terms, Quality Time is where I think he leans towards the most. Sitting with them as they read books, reading to them as they settle in bed, going on night walks if nightmares are haunting him, or something as simple as cuddling after a long day. One his absolute favorites is bathing together; the domestic intimacy of it all makes him feel loved and relaxed, especially if his lover washes his hair for him.

He's not the biggest fan of public display of affection, he gets bashful so easily. He'll outright refuse it if his partner tries. He prefers all of it to stay in the private setting. That doesn't stop his tail from winding itself around his lovers leg, though!

While it will take him some time, what ends up being one of his favorite things is eye contact. At first, he couldn't meet them in the eyes at all during vulnerable moments. It was too much. But the first time he finally holds their look properly, he's memorized. There is so much love in their stare, it makes his heart want to burst out of his chest with joy, and he's never been that flustered again.

He'll shout to the ends of Fearun that he's not cuddly but he is a liar. Every night, without fail, he'll at least a hand somewhere on his partner. By the time morning comes, their limbs are tangled with his and he has his face buried in their neck or chest.

Despite Cal being the main chef in the tower, Rolan does know how to cook! Any meal his partner wants, he will make, no question. He would love cooking even more if his partner joined and helped him out. He even has a mental list of all his partners comfort foods, so he can make them whenever they're sick or having a rough day. They wouldn't even have to ask for it, it's sitting in the kitchen already done.

He doesn't like being too vulnerable, so he's mortified when his partner has to shake him out of a nightmare for the first time. He's shaking, sweating, and apologizing. He's scared they'll see him as some weak, fragile thing. But all they do is stay up with him until his racing heart calms down and talk to him. It can be discussed in the morning.

He plans the most wonderful dates! Everything is scheduled in a timely matter every time, and he presents a gift at the beginning of the date every time. Sometimes small, sometimes extravagant if it's a special night. He gets gifts based purely on what he knows about his partner; favorite books, food, drinks, flowers, an outfit they were eyeing a few days ago, he'll get it no matter the cost.

I don't see Rolan as a man who uses a lot of pet names, but I can see him using terms along the lines of "my love" or "dearest". If his partner uses pet names with him though, he wouldn't mind it, just as long as it was in a private setting.

He has the absolute sweetest, longing stare. It can be quite obvious how much he's pining after his partner if you know what to look for. His tail gives so much away, with the way it flicks happily if they come over to kiss him. These stares hold on much longer after he gets himself comfortable with eye contact.

(NSFW Headcanons will be coming next! If you all have your own romantic headcanons for Rolan, please share! I would love to hear them!)

#misty queue #rolan #fanfic

[mistystepmoonbeam]

Can't throw daddy's name around to get what you want all the time, Durge, put away the dramatic lighting

Am a big supporter of the 'Durge likes gnolls while Enver doesn't' headcanon

#Misty queue #fanart #Gortash #durge

[mistystepmoonbeam]

no matter how terrible my day is. i can always end my day in bed imagining fictional characters making out sloppy style and fucking raw. and that's beautiful. there's some good in this world mister frodo and it's worth fighting for

[mistystepmoonbeam]

As Gortash's head hits the stone floor of his office he knows he is not getting up again. His head rings from the impact, but even with the noise filling up his head he can still hear his opponents voices.

A foot comes down on his chest. He doesn't see it clearly with how his vision is swimming, but he knows it. It has been there before, both similarly to how it is now and welcome.

"Kill him!" he hears. Karlach. The anger in her voice fills the room.

"Not yet," that all-to-familliar voice speaks. "I need to ask him one thing first."

Gortash blinks, his blurred vision focusing on the one over him. The one he had missed. His favourite assassin.

"Tell me, Gortash," they say, and it feels like all those years ago long before all of this started with how they spit rather than purr his name. "When I dissappeared, did you search for me? Or was I another thing you could cast aside, like Karlach was?"

He looks at them, up their leg, up their form, to their eyes burning into him. A memory of being in the same position, but then they smiled at him with both confidence and lust.

"No," he says, and he hates how his voice comes out. Weak. Powerless. "Karlach I gave, but you?"

He lifts his hand, slowly, as he had done all those years before. His fingers reach their leg, his fingers gently grazing the back of it before cupping the muscle of their calve.

Last time he had kissed them. He wonders if they will remember that in his last moments.

"You, I lost."

An eternity. A moment. His vision still dances, and the boot leaves his chest.

He watches as they walk away, the last thing he sees before Karlach's weapon comes down.

#Misty queue #excuse you my feelings #fanfic #ficlet

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It was just very important to do this once I saw that sweater on Pinterest, don’t mind me

#Misty queue #fanart

[mistystepmoonbeam]

Baldur’s boys

#Misty queue #fanart #wyll #Gale #astarion