Baldur's Gate Into the Mind

The crash was a symphony of splintering wood and screaming metal. Pain, sharp and insistent, blossomed across John’s ribs as he was thrown onto the unfamiliar sand. He coughed, spitting out a mouthful of grit and blood, the taste of brine and ozone thick on his tongue. His head throbbed, a deep, invasive ache behind his eyes that was more than just the result of the crash.

The tadpole. The thought was a cold shard of ice in his veins. The illithid parasite. It squirmed behind his eye, a horrifying, living thing.

Groaning, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, taking in the wreckage of the nautiloid scattered across the beach. And then he saw her.

A woman, with hair as dark as a starless night, was struggling to free her leg from beneath a heavy chunk of debris. Her armour was scuffed, her face creased with pain and effort. Shadowheart. He knew her name, the knowledge appearing in his mind as if it had always been there, a fleeting whisper from the squirming thing in his skull.

He stumbled toward her, his own body protesting every movement. “Here,” he grunted, his voice rough. “Let me.”

Their hands touched as they both grasped the wreckage, and a jolt, searing and electric, shot through him. It wasn’t pain. It was… connection. Her eyes, a striking forest green, flew open wide, locked with his. He felt her fear, her desperation, her revulsion at the tadpole writhing in her own head. But beneath it, he felt something else—a pull, an inexplicable, magnetic draw toward him.

And he felt his own parasite stir, not with malevolence, but with a strange, awakening hunger. It was different. It was… dominant.

A foreign thought, smooth as silk and cold as the depths of the sea, coiled through his mind. Command her.

He didn’t speak. He merely thought it, pushing the will through the connection their touch had forged. Be still.

Shadowheart’s struggling ceased instantly. Her body went slack, her hands falling to her sides. Her eyes, still wide, glazed over with a docile, waiting warmth. The panic was gone, replaced by a placid, unquestioning calm.

“Wha… what are you doing to me?” she whispered, but her voice held no accusation, only a breathless curiosity.

“Helping you,” John said, the words feeling inadequate for the power thrumming through him. He heaved the debris off her leg with a strength that surprised him. She was free.

He offered a hand. She took it without hesitation, her grip firm and trusting. As he pulled her up, she stumbled into him, her body pressing against his. The contact sent another, more potent shock-wave through them both. He could smell her sweat, the faint scent of iron and incense that clung to her. Her breath hitched.

The compulsion in his mind grew stronger, more specific. You want this. You want me. You feel it, don’t you? The need.

Her pupils dilated. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her lips. “I… I feel it. It’s like a warmth… spreading through me. Starting from where you touch me.” Her hand, still in his, trembled.

He reached up with his other hand, his rough, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle as they brushed a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead. Her skin was feverishly hot. He let his fingers trail down her temple, over the curve of her cheek. She leaned into the touch, a low moan catching in her throat.

“It’s the parasite,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “But not like ours. Mine is… special. It wants you to feel good. It wants you to obey.”

“Obey,” she repeated, the word a prayer on her lips. Her eyes were glazed, locked on his, seeing only him. Her body was pliant against his, already yielding. Kiss me, he thought, the command a silent, irresistible wave.

Her response was immediate and eager. She rose onto her toes, her arms sliding around his neck, and crushed her mouth to his. It wasn’t a tentative kiss. It was hungry, ****, a claiming. Her tongue met his, tasting of battle and a sudden, shocking sweetness. The connection between their minds flared into an inferno, and through it, he felt the echo of her own rising pleasure, a feedback loop of mounting desire that belonged to both of them and yet was commanded by him alone.

His hands slid down her back, gripping the hard leather of her armour before finding the clasps. He fumbled with them for a moment, the simple mechanics of it a bizarre contrast to the psychic storm raging between them. Let me feel you, he pushed the thought into her, and she helped him, her own fingers moving with a frantic urgency to unbuckle and loosen, her breath coming in ragged gasps against his mouth.

The breastplate fell to the sand with a heavy thud, followed by the padded undershirt. Her small clothes were simple, linen, already damp with her excitement. He cupped her breast through the thin fabric, his thumb circling a nipple that was already a hard peak. She cried out into his mouth, her back arching, pushing herself more firmly into his hand.

More, her own mind screamed back at him, a thought he had placed there, now answered with her entire being.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down her jaw, her neck, finding the frantic pulse at its base. He nipped at the sensitive skin there, and she whimpered, her fingers tangling in his hair, not to pull him away, but to hold him closer. He tugged the linen down, freeing her breasts to the cool sea air. They were pale and perfect, and he took one puckered nipple into his mouth, sucking hard.

The sound she made was pure, undiluted ecstasy. Her knees buckled, and he held her up, his arms strong around her. You taste like submission, he thought, and he felt the shiver of thrilling acknowledgement that raced through her body.

He lowered her onto the soft sand, the wreckage of the nautiloid their only witness. He stripped the rest of her clothes away, followed by his own, his eyes never leaving hers. The alien sun warmed their skin. He settled between her legs, which parted for him without a hint of resistance. She was soaked, her heat a palpable **** against his thigh.

He could feel her readiness, her entire being focused on this moment, on him. The head of his cock pressed against her entrance, and he paused, savoring the tension, the absolute power of the moment.

“Please,” she begged, her voice husky and raw. “John, please.”

He pushed inside her.

The feeling was utterly overwhelming. Her tight, wet heat enveloped him, and through their connection, he felt her own sensations as if they were his own: the delicious stretch, the friction, the deep, aching fullness that was exactly what she—what he—had been craving. He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that made her claw at his back.

You are mine, the thought was a command and a promise, broadcast directly into the core of her being.

“Yours,” she moaned, her head thrashing from side to side on the sand. “All yours. More.”

He drove into her harder, faster, the slapping of their skin joining the sound of the crashing waves. Her legs locked around his hips, pulling him deeper with every thrust. Her pleasure was a crescendo in his mind, a brilliant, blinding light that he was stoking higher and higher. He could feel her climax building, a tight coil at the base of her spine, and he focused on it, stoking it with his own will.

“Look at me,” he growled.

Her eyes, dark with passion, fluttered open. She was utterly lost in him, her will subsumed by his, her pleasure his to give. He saw the exact moment it shattered her. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream before a raw, guttural cry was torn from her throat. Her body convulsed around his, milking him, pulling his own release from him in a hot, rushing wave that left him shuddering, his own cry joining hers.

He collapsed onto her, spent, the psychic link fading to a warm, satisfied hum. He could feel her heart hammering against his chest, a frantic echo of his own. Her fingers traced lazy, worshipful patterns on his sweat-slicked back.

She nuzzled into his neck, her voice a contented sigh. “What happens now, my lord?”