Hi, the aRTiSt formerly known as @wasteful-sam, is here. 🥴 So my main blog has been shadowbanned. Dozens of my gifs and photos are not showing up in tags, I can't communicate with people, and I can't reblog like a normal person. Which is why I am moving here for the timebeing, because I really miss the whole Tumblr experience (I really don't think Tumblr will fix my issue anytime soon).
So, the plan is:
☆ I will post my new stuff here and reblog it to the main blog.
☆ I will mass follow all my mooties on here and reblog them to this blog, so that the reblog visibility is better.
☆ I will be slowly reblogging all my old gifs on here, in case Tumblr decides to delete my main permanently. 🥴 All my old stuff will be under the #wasteful sam archive.
☆ Please DO NOT tag @wasteful-sam if you comment or tag me in something, TAG this new blog instead. I don't receive tag notifications to my old blog, so I won't even see your tag. T_T
Anyway, expect a follow from an even more unhinged me soon! CHEERS, BLORBOS!
I am killing all the birds here! Thank you so much for the tag @cursed-nyxan (post here), @gortashsrighthand (post here), @thecampjuicebox (post here), @optimisticgrey (post here), @deianestormborn (post here), and @purpleasters-inseptember (post here)
What can we learn from these WIPs? Nimriel has different ways to bully her men into submission.
"Worthy", chapter 21 (next one):
As everyone settled down, Rolan addressed the adventurers, “Before we begin, do you object to others being here? I summoned them as I believe each brings valuable knowledge or skill to aid you.” he paused, “I know we are few, but, in such circumstances, few is better than none.”
“Aye, good thinking,” Wyll nodded, but was swiftly interrupted by Nimriel’s less-than-tactful cough. “What?” he met the drow’s glare, “You know as well as I do that we need allies.”
Nim let out a small, inaudible sigh and leaned her elbows on the table, resting her head in her hands. “Working fast, aren’t you?” she asked as her gaze landed on Rolan. He withstood it.
“I am. Would be unwise to waste the authority you so graciously bestowed upon me, don’t you think?” the wizard replied calmly, ready to stand his ground. He could tell there was a storm hidden behind her twitching lips, ready to be unleashed. But instead of arguing, Nimriel studied his face. It seemed her momentary discontent gave way to something else. And when her brows arched, revealing an intrigued glimmer in her eyes, a tingling shiver ran down the tiefling’s spine.
Nim looked around the room, “I suppose even if I say I mind, it won’t work?” The huntress smirked wistfully.
Give man a tower, and he'll quickly grow disobedient. What a bitch. 😩
The taming of a frivolous warlock [18+!!]
Featuring @cursed-nyxan ' s bestest boy, Saelseris :3 It's an OCxOC smut :))
“Relax, Saelseris,” Nimriel soothed breathily. Her bites grew more open-mouthed and wet, teeth grazing all across his broad chest. She ate him like a soft, juicy peach - Sael was just as delicious. Nim’s hand finally locked around his twitching cock, but she didn’t have to do anything. His hips thrusted into it involuntarily, the ecstasy of what her mouth, tongue, and teeth did to him kicking in.
“Did- didn’t know you were a biter,” the warlock groaned, eyes rolling in pleasure, “forest life must’ve been exciting.”
“You’re mine now, Saelseris,” Nimriel replied confidently between smaller licks and bites. Her fingers, however, were all silk and gentleness, massaging his length as Sael jerked rapidly and shamelessly into her open fist. “And I can do whatever I want with you. And I wanted to do this,” - another tingling bite, then a broad, all-consuming lick, - “for a very long time.”
Sael moaned, his thoughts - an incomprehensible knot of sensations she so generously gifted him. Sharp, yet careful teeth gnawing playfully at his skin. Wet, greedy tongue licking him diligently. Tight, shivering body melting against his, seducing him into touching her. Soft, controlling fingers brushing across his cock veins, nudging him to spill hot seed all over her hand. Nothing else existed, only Nimriel, all around him.
Also, if you're reading my stuff for the first time: Nimriel is not having her cake and eating it, too xD The events in the fics take place in parallel universes. 😅 I am calling it "the perils of having one OC and wanting to give her the best life. 🫡
No-pressure tags (sorry if you've already been tagged): @alrendriablaze, @bhaal-battle-beer-bard, @the-shadowfell-darkroom @starlit-serpent @faeriiefire @ann-bg3-lol @perpetualmaladaptivedaydream @litsenn @lutethebodies @emberstormrage @arlynx @thesanguinesonnet @onlytavs @echoechowhiskey @lolthwoven @fangedgrace @mercymaker @scoldingdarjeeling @doomedlamb and anyone who wants to join :3
Something fun that came from a suggestion of my dear and lovely @bhaal-battle-beer-bard <3 Thank you so much for the suggestion <3
So I decided: what the hell? :3 Throughout "Worthy," Nim wears a variety of outfits, and they can tell quite a story / are relevant to the plot. For more photos and an explanation for them under the cut :3
#1. Forest-casual
Plain and simple: this is the clothes Nimriel wears when she gets kidnapped by the Nautiloid. Who knew that a casual gardening session around her forest hut would turn into an exciting adventure? 🥲The only functional thing that Nim managed to keep on her was her trusty bow (you’ll see it further on).
Still, this outfit is pretty comfortable and functional for a dexterity-based ranger, so Nim wears it for a couple of days, until the party finds some better gear. The outfit still remains very sentimental to Nim, and she keeps wearing it as camp clothes :3
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#2. Dirt, blood, and recklessness
This is actually the outfit in which Nim makes her first appearance in “Worthy”. It even got described there: “Her armor was ripped in several places, blood stains adding colors of terror to an otherwise dull leather outfit. Fresh cuts could be seen where her lilac-grey skin wasn't covered by clothes.”
The mess of an outfit is all a result of Nimriel’s messy fighting style. As an archer who bounty hunts, if she can’t kill her victim from afar in a clean way, she’ll grow desperate to finish the job. Which means she’s ready to get cut and punched out to get close to the enemy.
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#3. The proper ranger
As time passes, the party is able to get a better gear, and Nim inevitably updates hers. Now it is a sleaker, more body-tight armor, better suited for fast combat. Still, it's not some high-end, protective armor, but it does the job. :3
Nim’s trusty bow is with her at all times. She did the decorations herself: as someone who had lived in the woods for years, Nimriel had plenty of time to put her animal-skinning skills to good use. 😅 The bow and short daggers remain her main weapons, but she practices fighting with a longsword in camp. Soon she’d start using it full time.
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#4. Rolan's shirt
*record scratch* Now-now, hold your horses, my dear pervs :3 She’s not wearing his shirt for reasons that come to your mind first. Bold of you to assume I’d let them fuck so early in the story 🤣 THEY MUST SUFFER, for love. 😇
Long story short: Rolan catches Nim stealing apples in her underwear in the middle of the night and “graciously” (more like out of sheer embarrassment) gives her his shirt. This leads to a heartfelt conversation in which they see each other for who they really are for the first time. :3 Of course she gets to wear his shirt in the future, under more saucy circumstances and it, ultimately, becomes hers 😉
Thank you for the tag @thecampjuicebox (post here). It’s an amazing game you came up with, I can’t wait to see everyone’s gorgeous queens <33 And thank you so much for the tag, @cursed-nyxan, my beloveeed <3 (look at her hotties).
I’m kinda doing the “shadows from hands cover boobs” trend here, but I am too lazy to put the hands symmetrically, so I put my spin on it xD You asked for saucy and dirty? Well, here we go xD
Also, shadows of claws over those areas imply the connection to a certain someone, if you know what I'm saying 🤭
This question is a part of the ask sent to me by the dear @the-shadowfell-darkroom, thank you so much! <33 But, to be honest, I feel so strongly about the right music when I write, that I decided to dedicate a separate post to it. :3
For Nimriel, it's two: Thornhill - "Revolver" and Invent Animate - "False Meridian". You can listen to them and read the full lyrics under the cut. One thing, though, to know about me: Thornhill, Invent Animate, and Loathe are the three music whales upon which "Worthy" is beholden, do with that information what you will xDD
Thornhill - Revolver
Baby, loosen your resolve
And let me in your soul
I sing to the rhythm of your breath and it says
Yeah
(Silver revolver)
(Silver revolver)
So I've been biding my time
Yeah
You ain't got nothing on (Like) me
All my fears scream I'm the next one
Blurring the lines to dive in your sun
If it means you'll say, I could compete with the madness
But your hand's around the gun
Yeah, can't even choose yourself
I can be what you might need
Yeah, I could be compelled
To take the hits if I don't bleed
Baby, loosen your resolve
Let me in your soul
I sing to the rhythm of your breath and it says
"I can't believe I let you in
Reflect when you take your aim
If only you could ensnare my heart with your hands
But you are, you are, you are
You're everything I want
Yet I feel so sullen chained behind your desire"
So I've been biding my time, yeah
You ain't got nothing on me, yeah
Just keep me close I'll dive in your sun
Blurring the signs, I haven't begun to have my way
So don't compare me with madness
With your hands around the gun
Uh, say my name like I won't break in two
You can't resist the high
Yet in spite of you
Your secret is safe with me
Wrapped in your chamber, held by your hands
And I fire into the night with you
Oh, she sang, "Will you hold me lover?"
"Dethrone all my wickedness for you"
So I sang "Your whisper's like silk tonight"
I can't believe I let you in
Reflect when you take your aim
If only you could ensnare my heart with your hands
But you are, you are, you are
You're everything I want
Yet I feel so sullen chained behind your desire"
I feel your revolver
Suffering our fall from grace
Side by side again
Tell them why I'd bled out
All the most important parts are in red :3 Rather, a song is sung about Nimriel, her being a silver revolver, whose resolve is determined by the hand that holds her. As much as it is tempting to rely on her for protection, she can also be unpredictable if misused (as in, her violent outbursts against the enemies on particular occasions). And, of course, her uncertainty when it comes to relationships with Rolan is mentioned, duuuh.
Invent Animate - False Meridian
(be careful, it is loud xD)
Take me back to where this started
Before you split me into a nightmare divided
Paralyzed by shadows and its blinding me
Far from the surface
I didn't choose to stay asleep
Nothing is permanent
So what face do I choose today?
If I'm forced to stay
And my heart is stained
Could they push me through?
(Through this pain)
Fall on me amber moon
Holding the weight
Knowing my face in ever bloom
Fall on me amber moon
Don't feel the same in disarray
Can you find myself in me?
Where can I reconnect the shattered pieces in my head?
And I'll forgive myself
The weight will crush me
The weight will crush me
The pain only separates
No break in the torment
To be able to feel the severed heart
Several faces used to speak
With only two eyes to see
I'll see the cycle break
When the hereafter swallows me
Fall on me amber moon
In heaven old, you look the same
As the winds carry your name
Fall on me amber moon
Holding the weight
Knowing my face in ever bloom
Fall on me amber moon
Don't feel the same in disarray
Can you find myself in me?
Nights quiet, with only one to witness the agony
Nights quiet, nothing is permanent
So what face do I choose today?
Nights quiet, with only one to witness the agony
This one can completely characterize Nim's journey through acts. And how the pressure of responsibility and her desire to break the cycle of how she, as a drow, is viewed by others, affects her. At the end, it even foreshadows future events with:
"Nights quiet, with only one to witness the agony
Nights quiet, nothing is permanent
So what face do I choose today?"
You are in for such a ride! ;3
If you read until the end - you are the greatest of all time and I love you <3
To the whole world, you’ve never existed in the first place.
So why pretend anyone would care to find you?
That someone would even remember to look for you.
No matter how hard I try to stay still,
I can’t become a flower, a stone, or a tree,
As even those are tangible to their eyes.
Myself? A mere forest ghost,
A doomed serenity pushed upon me before I was born.
Please
Find me
Well, I think a lot about Nimriel dying of loneliness while she lived in the Forest of Mir, pre-tadpole. I have an idea for one of the most sensual and sad smuts based on her life experience those days, and I will write it one day. :3
Strap on in, because this is a long one as I decided to use this tag as an excuse to drop a whole bunch of Koen lore.
Koen was the Tav that I first posted about when I started to actually use this account, and I knew as soon as I got tagged in this that I was going to use it to rant and rave about him, though it will be bittersweet... The thing is–in my opinion–he is by far the most interesting OC I have that I can talk about for this prompt. I changed his mother's name like ten times. ANYWAY... without further ado, thank you so very much, @wasteful-sam , @bongbubbles , and @ann-bg3-lol for tagging me on this! You guys can find their awesome dream visitors HERE, HERE, and HERE!
Wanna skip the long ass lore information? The prompt itself is answered in the RED font. ♡
Koen had never known his father, and that absence, quiet and unremarked upon and never quite explained, became the first shape of loss he ever learned to live with. It was not a wound in the way true grief would later carve him open; it was something subtler, a hollow formed in the silences between questions never asked and answers never offered. His mother spoke of the man only when pressed, and even then with the barest scraps: a visitor, a transaction, a fleeting shadow that left something permanent in its wake. Koen did not grow up angry at the ghost. Anger required a target, and there was none. Instead, the emptiness settled into him like fine silt in still water, teaching him early that people could vanish without warning or explanation, and that those left behind had no choice but to continue in the shape abandonment carved.
Della Malvain refused to let that hollow define her son. She fled the brothels of Baldur's Gate on the night he was born, her feet bleeding as she walked until the city's glow dimmed behind her, claiming one of the drafty shacks at the forest's edge, not because it promised safety, but because it whispered of the life she had once lived. The river beside it became their truest companion–indifferent, ancient, carving its patient path through stone and time. By day, she scrubbed linen for widows, dockworkers, and women much like herself in that water, her hands splitting until the baskets felt heavier than her bones. But in the narrow spaces between exhaustion and collapse, something long dormant in her began to stir again, returning in fragments: the scent of wet earth tugging at memories she had buried, the hush between birdsong echoing half-remembered chants, the way the forest leaned closer when she spoke near its borders, as though recognizing a daughter who had wandered too far from home.
She never named it magic, never called it druidcraft or inheritance. To Koen, it was simply the world as it truly was. As a toddler splashing in the river shallows, he learned patience from the current's unhurried flow, resilience from watching his mother rise each dawn despite cracked hands and aching back, and reverence from the way her fingers pressed into soil as if greeting an old friend. Mischief came from the ragged boys along the banks, while wonder came from the woman who loved him with a fierce and quiet devotion that needed no title. Koen trusted the forest more than he trusted people, and he trusted the river most of all… And Della, despite the weariness etched into her bones, found joy again in those quiet years: in the way his small hands mirrored hers coaxing stubborn sprouts from stubborn ground, in the awe on his face when a frightened bird settled on his outstretched finger, and in the slow reclamation of the woman she had once been before life broke her. For a time, the world was small enough to hold between them, a fragile peace shaped by river water and quiet devotion, untouched by the shadows gathering beyond the treeline.
It was not safety–not truly–but it was a living peace that Koen grew within, half-wild and certain of where he belonged, loving his mother with the bright innocence only children untouched by betrayal can hold. Yet even in that gentleness, the world's darker currents waited. For shadows lingered at the edges of their existence, patient and watchful, waiting for the moment when childhood loosened its grip and the world's harsher realities claimed him.
Koen was twelve when he began slipping away from the boy his mother had shaped. Della had given him tenderness and river-song, roots and reverence, but he was still a child born of absence, restless and aching to fill a void a boy his age couldn't make sense of. Yet the city beyond their shack shimmered like a promise edged in danger, loud and unruly and alive in ways the forest's quiet could never match. Its alleys called to him with the swagger of boys who wore their hunger like crowns, and Koen drifted toward them the way the river drifted toward the sea, pulled by a current that meant belonging to something.
The underbelly welcomed him without hesitation. He was quick, clever, and angry in a way that felt like power, and the outcasts and gutter-rats recognized that spark instantly. They taught him how to climb rooftops, how to vanish into shadow, how to laugh too loudly at things that were not funny. They taught him how to pretend the river no longer called to him.
Della saw the change long before he did. She watched the way the city's noise drowned out the quiet language she had spent years teaching him and warned him with the weary clarity of someone who had crawled out of worse. "You're not as tough as you think, Koen," she warned softly. "Those boys will drag you into trouble you cannot charm your way out of. I didn't claw my way out of that shit-hole to watch you jump back into it." She was a no-nonsense kind of woman, but twelve was an age where warnings sounded like dares, so he spent more evenings among them stealing apples and racing rooftops and pretending the world owed him something–until the pull of the alleys felt stronger than the pull of home. He always came back, right up until the night he returned too late for the world he knew to still be intact.
It was a night like any other, nothing special or strange, just the same familiar dark Koen raced through a hundred times before as he approached the shack with dirt smeared across his face and a fresh bruise blooming on his cheek, the afternoon's daring freedom still singing in his blood. But the moment he neared the door, the reckless bubble he lived in had burst all at once. The air carried the heavy scent of iron and overturned earth and the silence inside wrong–no humming tune as his mother cleaned dishes or the flicker of firelight dancing against the walls like it always did at this hour. Before he could push the door fully open though, a gloved hand shot from the shadows and seized him by the collar, yanking him back with ruthless efficiency. "Don't," the man said, blocking the doorway with his body. "You don't want to see."
Koen fought anyway, wild with the desperate pull of a child that if he could just reach her, he could undo what he already knew in his gut had happened. He pushed and punched at the cloaked man, but all his efforts felt in vain, even as something else untrained and feral broke loose inside of him–grief-fueled arcana curling through his veins like instinct given form. For one impossible heartbeat he was more than a boy in that moment, with his teeth sharpening at the edges of panic, claws flickering beneath his skin, his breath ragged with the first uncontrolled stirrings of wildshape. The man held him fast, unyielding yet strangely careful not to bruise through the half-transformation. "She didn't suffer," he lied gently.
The stranger may as well had taken his own bloodied dagger to Koen's heart as those words landed, because in that heart-shattering instant, Koen understood: while he had been out playing at being a thief, his mother had died alone in their little sanctuary of patched walls and candlelight. His knees buckled. A raw, animal sound tore from his throat as the hollow inside him cracked wide open, and the man holding him hesitated while he studied the furious, grief-stricken child before him–the half-formed wildshape still rippling beneath the boy'sskin, the druidic spark burning bright even through tears. Something flickered across the assassin's face: regret, perhaps. Or the recognition of rare potential.
Where he had come to end one life, he had not expected to find another worth sparing, and the soft, stunned "You're her boy," broke something in Koen so completely that he folded into the man's blood‑stiff cloak, sobs shaking his small frame. The assassin's hand hovered, initially unsure before it landed with a clumsy weight between the boy's shoulder blades in an awkward, almost painful attempt at comfort from someone who had not touched gently in years. "You… can't stay here," he whispered, voice low with something like regret. "It isn't safe." Koen lifted his blotched face, breath hitching, and managed only, "What do I do then?!"
The man who had come for Della Malvain had completed his contract in every sense that mattered to those who issued such things, yet the child remained–alive, staring up at him with something too young and too raw to abandon. For the first time in years, the assassin hesitated. He did not kill the boy. Not out of guild-approved mercy, nor even simple utility. He spared him because, in that moment, he found he could not finish what had already become too much to bear. So he took Koen instead, a decision made in a single breath that would shape the rest of both their lives.
Their journey to the hidden doors beneath Baldur's Gate passed in a fog of grief. The man spoke little, but his hand remained steady on Koen's shoulder. When they reached the Shadow Thieves hideout, he stepped forward and vouched for the child with a quiet intensity that surprised even the guildmaster. Where they saw opportunity, the man who had slain Della called it his responsibility. The truth was, neither word fully captured what it became: a strange, shadowed inheritance. And always, beneath the discipline and the darkness that followed, there remained the faint imprint of the man who had spared him–not quite a mentor, not quite a father, but a presence that filled the absence by its proximity at once, a quiet reminder of what it meant not to abandon someone completely.
Koen grew into their world the way survivors do: by adapting faster than pain could outrun him. He learned precision before hesitation, defiance before obedience, and the kind of swagger that made even seasoned thieves grit their teeth. He was a thorn in the guild's side and one of its brightest blades, and somehow both truths fit him perfectly. The magic his mother had nurtured did not vanish; it simply changed to fit the mold, bent into tools of survival rather than communion with life, and while Koen never named the strange inheritance he carried from the man who spared him–it stayed with him all the same.
Years later, when the world offered him the chance to repeat the same quiet vanishing his father had performed, to become little more than rumor and absence in another child's life, Koen refused without hesitation. The memory of being spared had taken root too deeply. He remembered the weight of a crimson-damp cloak against his cheek, the awkward press of a killer's hand trying to offer comfort where blood stained, and the silent fracture in a man who against all odds should have killed him too, but chose to grant him mercy. Even as that decision had shaped him, he would not pass on the same maelstrom to his own flesh and blood.
In his late twenties, already forged into one of the Shadow Thieves most precise and shadowed instruments, Koen met a woman near the docks during a routine job. She was no target, no mark, no piece in some larger game. She was simply a tavern worker whose tired eyes saw him, for a few stolen hours, not as a blade or a ghost but as a man. Their night together held no romance, no promises, only the raw, honest warmth of two lonely souls leaning against each other in the dark. He left before dawn, carrying the quiet expectation that the memory would fade like all the others, just as his own father had faded from his life. It did not.
Months later she found him again, this time with a small child on her hip–a toddling girl with bright, curious eyes and small hands clutching her mother's skirt. The woman's voice was steady, neither accusing nor demanding, when she spoke. "You should know," she said. "She's yours." The words struck Koen like a quiet rupture. The old hollow inside him opened wide, echoing with the ghost of the other half of his own unknown parentage and the memory of his mother choosing starvation so that he might eat. In that moment he understood the shape of the cycle stretching before him, and he refused it. He would not disappear. He would not repeat the indifference that had marked his beginning. Yet neither could he drag this woman and child into the dangerous currents that followed him.
"Don't tell her about me," he insisted, voice low and measured. "Don't let her know my name. Don't let her be used against me." Then, softer, the vow that came from the deepest part of him. "I will take care of you both. You will never want for food or shelter, but she can't know who I am." He meant it with every scarred and shadowed piece of himself, and from that day forward Koen became a different kind of presence in their lives.
Every few months he returned under cover of night, leaving a pouch of gold in the same hidden place, always enough, always untraceable. From the treeline or the mouth of an alley he watched the mother retrieve it. He watched his daughter run through the yard with wild, unburdened laughter, her small body bright and alive against the world. He never stepped forward, though. He never spoke. He never allowed the danger that clung to him to brush against her light. He believed for a time that distance would be enough, but the thing is, children oftentimes see what adults try to hide. And so the girl began to notice the man who lingered at the edges of her world.
At first Koen kept to deeper shadow, instinct and fear holding him back. Then one ordinary afternoon she toddled straight toward him on unsteady legs, chubby hands reaching out without hesitation, her eyes wide with fearless curiosity. "You're the man in black," she announced bravely. "You look scary." Koen stood frozen, caught entirely off guard by the small voice and the trust it carried beneath toward him. "...Do I?" he managed. She nodded. "But you're nice." And with that simple declaration she took his hand.
Something in Koen, long hardened and weapon-sharp, gave way. He let her. After that, whenever he came to leave his silent offering, she found him. She tugged at his cloak with imperious little hands and demanded tea time, hide-and-seek, "Come see my dolls," "Look what I drew." And Koen–assassin, thief, survivor shaped by blood and loss–would kneel in the dirt, awkward and stiff as the cloaked man and just as utterly unequipped for such gentleness. He let her pour imaginary tea into a chipped cup. He folded his tall frame behind trees far too small to hide him. He pretended to be dragons and knights and fearsome monsters she could defeat with wooden swords and wildflower courage. He allowed her to braid flowercrowns into his hair with dandelions and daisies and most importantly, he let her win every game they played.
He never stayed long or revealed who he truly was, and he made sure to never let her see the blood that still lingered beneath his nails sometimes or the weight that pressed against his ribs. Yet in those fragile, stolen minutes… those small fractures of time between contracts and killings, between the life the guild had forced upon him and the gentler one he had once glimpsed as a boy by the river, he was simply present. Not a weapon. Not a ghost. Just hers, for however brief a time she claimed him. And in those moments, she adored him completely.
She would never know the story written in his bones. She would never learn that the man who lingered at the edge of her yard was her father, or that the shadows pacing behind him were real and hungry. She would never glimpse the darkness he carried or the violence he kept carefully caged for her sake. She only knew the gentleness he saved for her alone in the way he always returned, and his rare smile broke out bright as sunlight when she laughed. To her, he was the mysterious man in black who looked frightening but wasn't, the man who became a knight in dark armor, a quiet guardian whose name did not matter. And to Koen, she was the one part of his life the shadows could not touch, the only softness he allowed himself, the only thing he loved unconditionally without fear or calculation.
He refused to vanish the way his father had, refused to let her feel the quiet ache he had carried all his life. And though she would never know who he truly was, he kept the truth close, a vow he returned to again and again. So he stayed at the edges of her world, offering what safety and steadiness he could without letting his shadows spill into her light. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't everything. But it was the most honest version of fatherhood he could give–a presence that he may not have claimed by name, but it never endangered and it never abandoned.
In his mid-thirties, still riding the long prime of his half-elven years, Koen was sent to deal with a problem the Shadow Thieves preferred not to speak of aloud. An ambitious splinter cell had broken from the guild, convinced they could skim from a shipment meant for a client whose displeasure could topple entire districts. The guildmaster of the Baldur's Gate faction had spoken in a voice gone thin and dangerous with restrained rage, the kind that warned Koen the guild's reputation–not merely its coin–was at stake when he assigned the task. Koen was not dispatched to retrieve the stolen crates but to end the men who had taken them, to make an example quiet enough not to draw attention, but brutal enough that no one else would consider betrayal.
He found the traitors in an abandoned warehouse near the docks, the kind of place where the sea wind slipped through broken windows and carried the scent of rust and brine. Their bodies were already cooling on the floor. Someone else had reached them first. The crates they'd stolen lay cracked open, their contents spilling into the air in a fine, shimmering dust that drifted like frost caught in a lantern beam. Koen stepped over the corpses with the detached precision of a man who had seen far worse. He brushed the dust aside without thought, breathing it in as easily as he breathed the damp, salt-heavy air. The metallic tang it left on his tongue barely registered. The Shadow Thieves dealt in poisons often enough that he no longer bothered to catalogue every strange taste.
He crouched beside one of the bodies, studying the blackened veins spidering beneath the skin, the twisted expression frozen in a rictus of terror, the way the man's fingers had curled as though clawing at his own throat. Whatever had been in the crates had killed them quickly, efficiently. Koen had no reason to believe it would touch him. He had survived worse. He had survived everything this far
But Soul Rot settled into him like a seed dropped into fertile soil–silent, patient, waiting for its moment. At first, the signs were small enough to dismiss: a persistent fatigue he dismissed as the cost of long nights, bruises that lingered longer than they should have, cuts that knit themselves back together with insulting reluctance. A deepening cold in his bones after calling on the old druidic gifts he had first learned as a barefoot child chasing minnows through the river shallows. Wildshape forms that felt wrong with patchy fur and dull eyes, as though the animals themselves sickened with him. He ignored it all, pushing harder the way a man trained in shadow learns to do.
Then came the coughing fits that left copper on his tongue, blood in the basin after brushing his teeth, tremors in his hands when exhaustion crept too close, night sweats that soaked his sheets and left him gasping. Even then, he told no one. He kept working. He kept killing. He kept surviving. It was only when he collapsed alone in a safehouse, vomiting blackened blood onto the stone floor, that he understood the truth: Soul Rot could be cured only in its earliest whisper, and he was far beyond that. The forest inside him, the one his mother had nurtured, the one that had once answered him with warmth and wildness, was dying–and there was nothing left to do but endure its slow unraveling.
As time passed, the Soul Rot had begun to hollow him out bit by agonizing bit, and in the quiet hours between contracts and the hours spent watching his daughter grow from the treeline, Koen found himself drawn back to the riverbank where he had once been a barefoot child himself with mud-streaked legs and berry juice on his chin. He remembered his mother's laugh, this ungraceful, snorting chortle she'd always try to hide but never could, the kind of sound that startled birds from branches and made him giggle until he hiccuped. He remembered the way she'd scoop him up when he fell, kiss the scrape on his knee, and murmur, "The river teaches us by letting us stumble, Li'l Cub. That's how you learn to stand." He remembered her humming as they picked berries together, her voice soft and off-key, the way she'd press a ripe one into his palm and encourage him, "Go on–taste it. The world is sweeter than you think."
Those memories lived in him like warm stones, small anchors against the cold creeping through his bones. It is for that reason that he came to the river now because he needed to believe that sweetness existed still, that the world had not taken everything gentle from him. But the river had changed–or perhaps he had.
The reeds near the bend were crushed in a way that made his instincts prickle, the mud churned as though something heavy had dragged itself ashore. A faint violet glow pulsing beneath the surface, flickering like a dying star caught in the current. Koen approached that flicker slowly, his steps instinctively cautious, the river's familiar path suddenly feeling foreign beneath his feet. The air carried a strange hum, a vibration that made even the water feel suddenly unfamiliar, as though the place that had raised him no longer recognized him.
Half-submerged beneath the water's surface lay a pod, pale and iridescent, its surface slick like something freshly shed. It pulsed faintly, as though breathing, and the wrongness of it pressed against his senses with a quiet insistence. He crouched, reaching out with the same reckless instinct that had guided his small hands when he first learned to pluck berries from their thorns, the same instinct that had taught him to ignore the prickly spines if the fruit looked ripe enough. The pod twitched and he froze. Another memory rising unbidden–his mother'sfingers brushing his cheek as she whispered, "The world will try to take pieces of you, Koen. Don't let it." He had lived by that warning for years afyer her murder, guarding what little softness he had left with the ferocity of a wounded animal.
But he didn't have time to obey her now as the pod split open with a wet, sucking sound, something slick and hungry lunging upward. He tried to jerk back, but the Soul Rot had already begun to dull his reflexes, slowing him in ways he refused to acknowledge for too long. The creature latched onto his face, forcing itself behind his eye with a pressure so violent it stole his breath. Pain exploded through his skull, a blinding, violet-lit agony that swallowed the world whole. He staggered, clawing at his face, but the thing burrowed deep before he could tear it free, and the river roared in his ears like a storm breaking over stone.
When he woke, he was lying farther downstream, half-submerged in cold water, mud drying on his cheek, reeds whispering around him as though nothing had happened. His head throbbed, his vision swam, and he remembered nothing of the pod–nothing of the parasite, nothing of the ship that had scattered its horrors across the Sword Coast like seeds on the wind. Only a faint, itching wrongness remained that could've easily been blamed on the terminal rot. He rose slowly, wiping the mud from his hands, and made his way back toward the city with the steady, practiced steps of a man who had learned long ago that pain was something to be carried, not questioned.
The river did not comfort him that night as he'd hoped; rather, it felt like a place that had loved him once without question and now looked through him like a stranger.
Time passed, and Zarys requested Koen by name not long after. A Zhentarim leader with a talent for seeing the fractures in people, she had a way of looking at a man and knowing exactly where he would break, and more importantly, whether he would break in the direction she needed. She was looking to commission someone who could fight, track, kill, someone who could be trusted, and–if the situation demanded it–could be sacrificed without hesitation. Koen fit all of these requirements with a precision that made her expression tighten in the closest thing to respect you could ever receive from a woman like her.
He was sent to oversee a shipment Rugan and Olly were transporting, a quiet shadow in the back of the cave with his hat brim angled low enough to hide his eyes, leaning against one of the various crates scattered about as though he were carved from the stone itself. The cavern smelled of damp earth and old secrets, the kind of place where voices echoed strangely and lantern light clung to the walls like a second skin, and Koen watched the Zhents bicker with the detached patience of a man who had long ago stopped expecting sense from anyone. He was there as insurance, a blade kept sheathed until the moment it was needed. He was there because he was dying, and Zarys trusted a dying man to do what the living often hesitated to. He was there because she knew he would not flinch, not question, nor falter if the moment called for it.
So when Zuriñe's party entered the cave, with the smoke of the gnoll attack still hanging in the air, Koen stepped forward, hand resting on the hilt of his dagger, assessing them with a predator's stillness even after the danger had passed. He had seen adventurers before, the reckless kind that were too loud and too sure of their own importance, but they were different. They moved with the wary cohesion of people who had already survived something together, who had learned to read danger in the twitch of a shadow or the shift of an eyebrow. Koen felt a flicker of something in those tense seconds that came before drawing your weapon or shaking a hand–a sudden and pestering awareness that these strangers were about to change the trajectory of his life in ways he could not foresee or reverse.
And then the tadpole pulsed.
It was not a sensation he could describe, not pain nor pressure nor sound, but a violent, internal lurch that seized the base of his skull and dragged him forward into a moment that did not belong to him alone. Everyone felt it–everyone except Rugan and Olly, who stood blinking in confusion as the world tilted around them. The adventurers, though, staggered as though struck by the same invisible blow. Their eyes widened in unison, breath catching, hands flying to temples or hilts or holy symbols, and for the span of a single heartbeat, they were all connected by something vast and terrible and familiar, something that threaded through their minds like a hook pulling taut.
But Koen's reaction was different–unfamiliar.
The parasite that had nestled behind his eye all those days ago when he returned to the river in search of some semblance of comfort, where it provided only violation as the tadpole reacted to the others, sensed the Soul Rot consuming its prospective host. It recognized a dying vessel and did what illithid parasites do best: it preserved what it wanted to use. Koen collapsed to one knee, not from pain but from the sudden and unnatural stability, from the shocking realization that something else was inside him, something that connected them. His symptoms quieted with unnatural speed. His breathing evened. The cold that had lived in his blood for years warmed as though a fire had been relit beneath his ribs. For the first time in years, he felt startlingly, impossibly alive.
He did not yet understand why, and he would not understand for some time. But the parasite–the thing he would later learn to to be called "Illithid parasites" only after speaking with Halsin and the other survivors–had placed his Soul Rot into a temporary stasis, halting its advance with the same ruthless efficiency it used to claim its hosts. It had not healed him. It had not saved him. It had simply refused to let him die.
The decision made was a no-brainer for him after that. Koen joined Zuriñe's group not from trust, nor camaraderie, nor any sense of shared destiny, but from the cold calculus of survival. They shared the same affliction and were chasing down the answers he needed, and somewhere between the layers of grief and denial and the quiet, exhausted resignation of a man who had just begun to make peace with the idea of dying, he suspected there was a sliver of possibility now. A fragile thought that perhaps the parasite might buy him a cure or at the very least the precious time to chase one, because the tadpole was the only thing holding death at bay for now, and removing it would release the rot in its full, terminal fury. So he followed them–not because he believed in them, but because he believed in the thin, trembling thread of hope the parasite had forced into his hands. A hope he had not asked for. A hope he did not trust. A hope that terrified him more than the rot ever had.
But hope all the same.
That was when the dreams began, in fractured whispers, slipping into Koen's mind like river mist curling through the reeds at dawn. In those liminal spaces between exhaustion and uneasy sleep, the Guardian appeared to him as himself–not his mother or a lover, but a Koen perfected: healthy and strong. This other self stood taller, unbent by grief, his posture carrying the effortless authority of a man who had never known the hollow ache of abandonment. His brunette hair fell without the premature threads of silver that Soul Rot had woven in; his eyes, the same hazel flecked with forest green, held no ghosts, only cool calculation. The lines of loss that etched Koen's face were absent here, replaced by the smooth certainty of one who had never lost his mother to a killer's blade, never honed his skills for the Shadow Thieves, never felt his body betray him from within. This Koen wore shadows like a second skin, not as scars like his true self had but as adornments. He moved with predatory grace unburdened by hesitation, untouched by the moral fractures that had defined the real man's every choice.
The Emperor–or Balduran–as Koen would eventually learn the true name behind the mask, whispered through his own borrowed face with silken insistence. You could be this. You should be this. Choose power. Choose survival. The vision showed him futures that clawed at his heart: a daughter grown tall and safe under a father's unshadowed protection, her laughter no longer stolen in fleeting moments but woven through years of presence. He saw himself strong enough to save everyone–Zuriñe's unfinished song, Lae'zel's future no longer carved by Vlaakith's cruelty but by her own choosing, Karlach's raging engine of a heart, the fragile threads of alliance that stitched their fractured party together. A Koen of pure potential, unbound by the druidic reverence his mother had taught or the reluctant mercy that had stayed his hand too many times. A man who could live.
Koen almost believed him. In the darkest stretches of the road, when the tadpole's stasis frayed and the rot gnawed at the edges of his vision, the temptation bloomed like nightshade in fertile soil. To shed the weight of every absence he had carried, every life ended in service to guilds that saw him as a tool, every night spent watching his daughter from the treeline like a ghost–The Wraith–haunting his own blood. But he saw the lie wearing his face. Beneath the Emperor's polished reflection lurked the absence of everything that had made Koen who he was: the river's patient teaching, his mother's quiet devotion, the awkward press of an assassin's hand offering clumsy comfort to a sobbing boy, the chubby fingers of a child braiding wildflowers into a killer's hair. He would rather die as the fractured sum of his losses than live as someone else's perfected instrument.
He chose himself. Again and again, through every mind flayer horror and Netherbrain shadow, Koen clung to the hollows that had shaped him. The tadpole preserved him, yes. It kept the Soul Rot from turning him to dust or to a mindless, undead entity–but it could not erase the embedded morals of a man who refused to vanish.
After the Netherbrain fell in cataclysmic fury over Baldur's Gate, the party celebrated amid the ruins and rebirth. Laughter rang out, ale flowed, bonds forged in tadpole-shared terror tightened into something like family–all except one. Koen stood apart, as he often did, watching the sunrise paint the Sword Coast in golds and pinks he had once thought he would never see again. The parasite unraveled then, its grip loosening in the victory's afterglow. With it went the unnatural reprieve. The Soul Rot reawakened like a beast unchained, flooding back into his veins with familiar, merciless hunger.
His nose bled in warm, steady trickles. His vision blurred at the edges, the world softening into watercolor hazes. His breath shortened to shallow pulls, each one laced with the metallic tang of his own failing body. His ribs ached as though something inside was breaking apart, the forest-soul his mother had nurtured with river-song and soil finally surrendering to the violet poison that had never truly left. Koen smiled through it all, a small, private curve of lips stained crimson. And as the world smeared into abstract colors, Zuriñe stepped into view–violet skin flushed, white hair fallung in a messy half‑braid, eyes wide and wet with the kind of fear she only ever let slip when life dealt her a choice she could neither refuse nor bear. He had known this was coming, had made peace with it long before the final battle. He had chosen it, begged Zuriñe for a merciful death–chosen to fight not for his own survival, but for the world his daughter would rise into, for the friends who had become unexpected anchors, for the chance to end one more cycle of shadows.
Somewhere, in whatever afterlife druids returned to, green and wild and eternal, his mother was waiting. Della Malvain, with her callused hands and hidden snorting laugh, ready to scoop him up as she once had, whispering old lessons that the river teaches us by letting us stumble. His daughter would live in a world he had helped save, running barefoot through yards and pouring imaginary tea for whoever might listen. She may never know his name, but she would live. And that was enough. It had always been enough.
If you made it this far—woah! Thanks so much for sticking around. This was... A LOT. Below is a final bonus including my main Tav, Zuriñe, alongside her flaming hot GF Karlach as they embark on one final journey to finish Koen's questline–which is totally what this would be if Koen were an NPC or companion.
The Last Hurrah
Weeks later, in the quiet countryside beyond the city's reach, a small cottage sat at the edge of a modest village. Sun-worn boards and a crooked fence framed an herb garden bursting with cheerful green–the kind Koen would have teased as "too damn optimistic for its own good," even as he secretly approved. Zuriñe stood at the gate, a worn pouch heavy in her hand, tossing it lightly and catching it again in a flourish that failed to cover for the tremor in her fingers. Karlach loomed beside her, arms crossed, her infernal glow softened to a steady warmth that radiated like a shield against the world's sharper edges.
"You don't have to do this alone, songbird," Karlach rumbled, voice gentle.
Zuriñe huffed a laugh that caught in her throat. "I'm not. You're here, aren't you?"
"Always."
Zuriñe swallowed hard, her thumb brushing the folded letter tucked beneath the twine. She could almost hear Koen's dry, amused drawl in her ear. Don't get sappy, Zuri. You're terrible at it. "Yeah, well," she muttered to the ghost, "you're dead, so you don't get a vote."
She stepped forward and placed the pouch on the doorstep with reverent care, smoothing the letter flat against its weathered surface. The ink, still fresh, carrying the weight of everything unsaid.
----------‐------------
He meant to come back. He always meant to. But life doesn't always give us the time we think we have.
This is the last pouch he saved. He said it was for the kid who always poured the best imaginary tea. He said you had a way of making even the darkest days feel lighter. He said you were the best part of his week.
He didn't want you to know too much. But he wanted you to have enough. Enough to be safe, enough to be happy, enough to keep going.
So here it is… his last hurrah.
Spend it well. Live well. He'd want that.
----------‐------------
Zuriñe exhaled, long and shaky, the words blurring as her eyes stung. "That's it," she whispered. "That's all." She turned to leave, Karlach's hand hovering near her back in quiet support. She had taken only a single step when a small, sleep‑soft voice rose behind them. "Hello?" Zuriñe froze, breath catching. Karlach's steady presence keeping her anchored as she slowly turned.
There, stood a girl in the doorway, her small hand wrapped tightly around her mother's. Barefoot, hair tousled into a wild, sleep‑soft mess, she peered up with hazel eyes–Koen's eyes–wide with curious trust that must've been her mother's. The same shade of Koen's brown hair caught the light like crisped autumn leaves; the same faint dusting of freckles crossed her nose. It struck Zuriñe like a tidal wave, the echo of a man who had lingered at the edges of light, pouring imaginary tea and hiding an entire shadowed life behind a rare smile.
The girl blinked up at them with a look that was a tad dejected, rubbing her tired eyes. "Where is the man in black? He always comes back." Zuriñe's throat closed tight, and Karlach stepped in closer, a wall of quiet heat as the mother–older now with lines of quiet endurance etched around kind eyes–looked between the two with cautious confusion. "Can we… help you?"
Zuriñe managed a crooked grin, voice wobbling only slightly as she bent to meet the little girl's earnest question. "He couldn't make it this time," she said, gently ruffling those already shaggy tangles. "So I came instead. He wanted you to have this. I'm just… finishing something he meant to do himself."
The mother stepped forward then, understanding dawning in her gaze as she took in the pouch. "Wait a minute. This… it's from him?" Zuriñe nodded.
"Yeah. Him."
The little girl tilted her head, solemn and bright all at once. "He's nice. He plays tea with me all the time." Zuriñe's eyes burned, the innocence of it cutting deep, because the man who had cherished those tiny rituals would never return to her doorstep again, and she would never understand why he didn't come back–this time or the next.
"He loved that," she whispered. "He told me you always make the best tea."
That made the girl beam, sudden and radiant. "I do!"
Karlach's voice chimed in, warm as hearthfire. "Best tea in the whole Sword Coast as I heard it. He said your tea could beat any tavern brew in Baldur's Gate!"
Grief and gratitude mingled on the mother's face as she squeezed her daughter's hand, the reality of this visit beginning to weigh heavy on her shoulders. "He's… gone, then?"
Zuriñe gave a small, quiet nod, the kind that said everything she couldn't bear to voice out loud in front of Koen's daughter–that he was gone, and that this was all she could offer in his place. But before she could speak, the little girl took a wobbly step forward on unsteady legs and held out a tiny seashell, iridescent and perfect. "Do you want this? It's lucky."
Zuriñe reached out to accept the offering with trembling hands and a trembling heart, small crinkles forming at the corner of her uncovered eye as she tried for a smile. "Thank you, little terror," she said, the nickname slipping out from some half‑remembered story Koen had once shared of the tot stood before her now. "I promise to keep it safe."
Karlach helped her rise to her feet then, steady as ancient stone, and Zuriñe managed one last watery smile at the two on the other side. "Take care of your mum, yeah?"
"I will!" The small girl promised, but as they turned to leave, her voice followed them down the path, bright with innocent hope. "Will you come back?!"
Zuriñe didn't trust herself to answer, so Karlach did it for her, gentle and true. "Maybe someday, kiddo!" she called back with a wave as they walked on until the cottage vanished behind the bend. Only then did Zuriñe let the break come in quiet, shuddering breaths. She leaned into Karlach's shoulder, tears steaming where they spilled over onto simmering flesh, the seashell pressed warm into her palm. Karlach wrapped a powerful arm around her, pulling her close without hesitation. "He'd be proud of you," she murmured.
Zuriñe laughed, wet and shaky. "He'd call me dramatic."
"And he'd be right," Karlach grinned against her hair.
Zuriñe huffed theatrically in response, wiping her eyes and straightening her shoulders in an attempt to right herself as she tucked the seashell deep into her pocket–a small, luminous piece of a man who had chosen presence over perfection, love over survival, and fatherhood in the only fractured way he knew how. With one final look back at the life Koen watched from afar, Zuriñe understood the silent, brutal devotion it took to love a child from the treeline and still carve open a world bright enough for her to run wild in. Together, she and Karlach walked back toward the road, toward the life Koen had helped save, toward the unfinished songs still waiting in Zuriñe's throat, carrying his memory like river water smoothing stone: patient, enduring, and finally, at peace.
Ok, now that I got your attention, hopefully, you will listen. I can't stress enough how deeply I feel for Koen. Characters in popular books are not as well developed as he is. @onlytavs ALWAYS DELIVERS, and more people should know this superb writing! This writing is a true testament to writers giving their all to a character, and YOU CAN FEEL IT every second you read it.
Thank you so much for the tag, @optimisticgrey , @alrendriablaze , @bhaal-battle-beer-bard , you all are just the sweetest for tagging me in comments T_T <33
I work on a lot of things but can't focus, because I sorta struggle with my identity on this hellsite at the moment xD I look at all the things I’ve done over almost 2 years here and… 🤷♀️ I love them one day, I hate them the next. So it all makes me think a lot about how I can end the BG3 adventure (and it will end one day, I have no illusions about that) in a way that will make me feel happy and proud about what I did with my time. So:
Writing: a rewrite of “Worthy’s” Act 1
In a year, or 5, or 10, I want to be able to open “Worthy” and reread it without thinking “I should’ve written more about this, I should’ve explained this better, etc.” Acts 2 and 3 are mostly fine, but Act 1… is too rushed. And I am currently making it justice, updating it to fit my current writing style I developed for acts 2 and 3. And more importantly, Act 1 will lend more legitimacy to Nim, who feels a lot like a placeholder in it. Here’s a part of the updated text that already does a better job of leaving hints about Nim’s personality:
Meeting Zevlor, the tieflings’ leader, brought Nim more clarity. Like herself, the tieflings were outsiders, their presence in the Grove a matter of time. And yet, for someone who understood his kin’s days might be numbered, Zevlor carried an air of quiet, kind dignity about himself. Rarely did the huntress have a chance to converse with men who could easily break her in half, yet chose sincerity and gentleness over force. Agreeing to his request to talk to druids was easy for Nim, despite the barely hidden annoyance of her companions.
No matter. For now, Nimriel didn’t worry much about the group getting disappointed with her. She intended to keep every promise she’d made - patient and agreeable, just as she would be with her clients. And they can indulge her small request to help tieflings in return.
After all, if Gale was right and they had mere days to live before tadpoles took over, why stress? Nimriel might as well go out here, surrounded by cheering, grateful faces. Far from the worst ways she could’ve died these couple of years.
So yeah, slowly but surely, I will update all 4 chapters of Act 1, without changing the plot points, of course, just make it more coherent. Then, I will make VPs for every single chapter and finish the fic. And MAYBE then, I will feel fulfilled with my BG3 journey :3
VPs: self-indulgence I deserve
It is frankly sad how few Nim x Rolan VPs I have. Why? Because I was always insecure about sharing my ship. Dumb, I know. Well, I got to conquer this, too. So recently, I made this VP of Nimriel, and I was very happy with it :3
And, of course, I decided to make more shots of her there, in this outfit, with Rolan :3 But of course, I never make it easy for myself, so I decided to make a perspective shot, or whatever it is called. The result is… 🙄
It's fine, but it’s not what I want, I need more practice. So I will probably make front-facing shots :)) Usually my failed shots, like this one, go directly into the bin, but I like the lighting work I did here, I created a lot of artificial lighting to have this moony, glossy feel. So yeah, I’ll let it live a little. It is almost good, but, and I quote Azula a lot in my head lately, “almost isn’t good enough” :3
UF, thank you for reading, that was therapeutic <3
No-pressure tags: @cursed-nyxan, @saylofwaterdeep, @kimberbohwrites, @fangedgrace, @starlit-serpent, @lutethebodies, @onlytavs, @tillysketch, @doomedlamb, @sol-el, @purpleasters-inseptember, @ann-bg3-lol, @charmedtenderness, @litsenn, and anyone who wants to join <3
Thank you so much for the tag, @bhaal-battle-beer-bard, I am so excited for this!! <3 Check their list here. <33
RULES: bold kinks that your oc likes to do, italicize kinks they like to receive, use both if they enjoy giving and receiving, strike the kinks that don't appeal to them whatsoever.
Hiding the list and explanation for Nimriel under the cut, but I do hope you read it T_T I wanted to talk and write about Nim and sex for so long, because it is something that is very lacking in "Worthy" currently. Nobody fucks, everyone just suffers (well, not for long 😏).
spanking | impact play | fisting | CNC | humiliation | public sex | free use | bdsm (? ehh, not specifically, parts of it) | orgasm control | edging | sex toys | object insertion | nipple play | pet play | objectification | figging | breath play | multiple partners | double penetration (with a tail involved :3) | double penetration in one hole (again, with a tail involved :3) | multiple penetration | gangbang | group sex | cuckolding | sounding | photos & videos (just irrelevant to BG xD) | enemas | medical play | virginity | lactation | CBT | watersports | oviposition (don’t ask xD) | size kink | sensory play | cockwarming | facefucking | age gap | pegging | prostate milking | cum play | age play | rimming | knife play | manhandling | praise | shibari | bondage | food play | body worship | breeding | pregnancy | feminization | degradation | flashing | voyeurism | exhibitionism | pain play | lingerie | force & power struggle | anal play | mommy/daddy kink | branding | collars | glory hole | stripping | thigh riding | overstimulation | temperature play | wax play | clit play | bath/shower sex
Well, some of these might be surprising to you. 😅 Especially considering how, in “Worthy” (and other Nim-relevant media), Nimriel is always very reluctant about being in a relationship or having sex. This primarily stems from her fear of rejection, because it is basically all she’s ever known all her life. However, once she finds a partner whose feelings towards her are undeniable, her more sexual side comes out soon after.
To sum up, Nimriel’s kinks are driven by three major factors:
An insatiable desire to be loved and worshiped (hence we have body worship, sensory play, overstimulation, facefucking, clit play, etc.)
Daddy issues (i.e., she likes being dominated in bed, in her slightly twisted mind, her partner’s desire for her is so strong that they will be rough with her, and she gets off on that)
Escapism (life is rough for Nim, ok? If she could, she’d just spend months indulging in hedonistic debauchery with her partner. This is also where her desire to dominate comes in, even though she prefers to be dominated. Because, let’s face it, as a party leader, she has to make a lot of important decisions, and sometimes she just wants to submit. And, this is also when she likes to dive into rougher, more risky things, to “fuck her frustrations away”, so to speak, i.e., force and power struggle, knife play, manhandling, free use).
No-pressure tags (sorry if you did these before I am slow): @cursed-nyxan, @knightofbhaal, @mogruith, @the-shadowfell-darkroom, @charmedtenderness, @starlit-serpent, @ratchsellsfornax, @faeriiefire, @arlynx, @alrendriablaze, @inrin , @onlytavs, @vakariansyndrome @doomedlamb , @kimberbohwrites @gortashsrighthand and anyone who wants to join, yeah :3
So remember when Nimriel told Nilah (her genderbent version), that he should not fall under Sael's charm?
Well... too late xD As soon as Nil found Saelene (genderbent Sael :3) on the beach, his strong simp genes kicked in. ¯_(ツ)_/¯
Saelene (well, Sael), of course belongs to @cursed-nyxan <3 I love any and all versions of my king Saelseris! T_T <3333 Find more genderbent Saelseris (and even more hot OCs) here! <333
Bonus: that's when Nil knew he fucked up:
The screenshot was too funny not to include, look at this dummy's exploding eyeball xDDDDD
