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It—no, he—that’s right, I am he, he is me— does not enjoy being cuffed to the wall each night.
Ansur insists, however. Since the first night after it— no, he, me— was born anew.
“I can’t trust you, Balduran,” he always says, tone strained with despair. “It must be this way until we find you a cure.”
He doesn’t yet have the heart—or, more accurately, the mind—to tell Ansur that as the days pass, he has less and less desire for a cure at all. Ansur would not understand. How could he? How could any non-illithid? There’s no way to describe these experiences. How does one accurately express what this new body feels like? How it is weightless and untethered. How it differs from the heavy, clunky motions of a humanoid form. How it does not feel pain, nor weakness, nor fatigue. Not like before.
How could he begin to describe the wonders of his new mind? This elevated sense of understanding, of planar existence? All around him is the buzz of minds, thinking, speaking, a vast, infinite ocean of sonorous song. It has replaced the whisper of a thousand gods vying for his soul like currency. A whisper that non-illithids can’t hear, or have gotten so accustomed to that they aren’t aware of it.
They say that mindflayers don’t have souls, and he knows this to be true now. But the measure of a soul is not what their kind believe it to be. It is nothing but the claim of a god. A soul is software installed at birth by whatever god one’s parents worship. Its purpose is to execute commands from its creator. It can be bought, sold, reprogrammed, corrupted, and discarded. It only serves a purpose in this plane, in a tiny territory among countless, larger dimensions. The gods would have non-illithids believe that it is the most important aspect of who they are—that their value is measurable, found only in this distortion.
He knows better now.
Now that the gods cannot reach him. He is above them, and they fear him for it. Ansur fears him for it. But he suffers under the lie that the gods spread to subjugate non-illithids. That all purpose, emotion, and identity lives in the soul.
Nonsense. Balduran still feels. He still wants, fears, desires, loves. But it’s different now. It’s not anchored to the false promises of gods. His emotions are limitless now. They are better.
Everything is better.
But Ansur could never grasp this. Not even the wisest and most open-minded non-illithid could fully understand. Least of all someone like Ansur, with fire in his blood, unwavering devotion and impenetrable values.
So, Balduran doesn’t try to plead his case. Instead, he says, “Please, Ansur. I promise, I will not hurt you. I have no reason to.”
This was evidently the wrong thing to say, because Ansur’s eyes fill with despair and his scaly lips pull back in a pained snarl. “Is that all, Balduran? Is that the only reason I should trust you? Because you have no reason to harm me?”
Balduran’s hands twist in his restraints with an old whim, an echo of his previous form’s desire—the longing to reach out and stroke his knuckles along rough scales. “Of course not, Ansur. That is not the only reason. I have no desire to harm you. You are my—”
“Do not say it,” Ansur says through gritted teeth. “Do not say those words with that rotted maw. They are his words. My Balduran.”
“Ansur…” he pitches his voice low. “I am still your Balduran.”
He watches the agony contort his partner’s face. Ansur drops to his knees, head bowed and hands rising to weakly cling to Balduran’s robe. “I… I miss you, Baldur. I cannot stand this! I miss your smile, the softness of your skin, the feeling of your curls around my fingers. How can you say…that you are still mine, when you carry none of him with you? When you tore from the flesh of the one I… I do not want to live in this reality. It is too cruel. You are too cruel, mindflayer.”
Heartbreak.
He knows this is what Ansur is feeling. He can recall it well. He holds it in his mind’s eye, curling around it with distant feelers, remembering its shape and the physical sensations associated with it. The ache in his chest, blood pounding in his ears, the feelings of suffocating, of one’s stomach being torn open and exposed, guts twisting with nausea. It was the worst feeling one could have in that form.
The thing is, Balduran feels it, too. Not the way he would have before. Not the way Ansur feels it now. But he feels it. It is an infinite thing. A lifeless void. It’s a black hole in the planar lands where light and thought cannot permeate. It is the crawl of black tendrils of shadows in the tangible touch of beyond, an emptiness, a fear. It is a place without Ansur’s mind—the barrier between them now, the infinite space between purported gods and everything else in the universe. Balduran feels it when he thinks of Ansur never ascending to the new heights where he lives. Never becoming a mindflayer himself. Never joining him.
We could still be, Ansur. If only you were not so stubborn. If you rose with me. If we evaded the elder brain together. We could live outside its touch and share one mind, a far greater pleasure than sharing bodies. To know I will not have that is, indeed, heartbreaking.
“Would you still love me if I was the ugliest kobold you’d ever seen?” he asks.
Ansur tilts his head back and looks up at him with a perplexed expression on his bronze face.
“I asked you that once. We were drunk on an island after a shipwreck. We did not even know if we would be found, so we drank and smoked and made love until we were dizzy.”
Ansur’s eyes begin to shimmer with tears.
“In our laughter, as we lay naked on the sand, I asked you if you would still love me if I was the ugliest kobold you’d ever seen. If I stank like sewer water and burped at the end of every sentence. And you said—”
“‘It would be hard to fuck you with such a small stature, but I’m sure we can find you a stool.’”
Balduran nods. “And then I asked if you would still love me as a hideous cave spider. And you said—”
“‘I guess it’s time to start worshiping Lolth.’”
“Yes,” Balduran says in a long sigh. “Does your love not extend to me in this form? Am I truly so despicable to you?”
Ansur’s clawed hands tremble on his robe. “Balduran…that is not the same. It is not your form that repulses me. If, beneath those tentacles, I knew you still existed… If I knew you were still mine, that you still loved me, then…”
“I do still love you, Ansur. That has not changed.”
Ansur slouches, pressing his horned head against Balduran’s thigh. “How dare you…? How dare you say that in a voice that’s not his?”
In a voice that’s not his.
“I miss your smile, the softness of your skin, the feeling of your curls around my fingers…”
Like a seed planted in fertile soil, an idea begins to sprout. It’s a delicate thing, at first. It creeps beneath the weight of his freshly developed mind. Its small tendrils reach up against the gravity of his growing wisdom. It is living, new, an intellect devourer emerging from a skull, ready to connect with the power that governs it. That power is the mindflayer’s own brain.
The question is, can he do it? A vast library of knowledge from the hive mind tells him that of course he can. He could from the moment he was born. And although he is not currently connected to an elder brain and maintains his freedom, still he can access the knowledge like the pages of an open book. Without having ever tried it, he knows how to do it. He knows its limitations.
“Ansur,” he calls, gently. “Let me show you. I will prove to you that I am still your Balduran, and that I still love you.”
And he does. Of that he is certain. But it is not in the way he used to. It is at once subdued and also greater than before. It’s infinite, in a way it couldn’t be before. Yet, in its eternity it lacks the insistence, the burn of a non-illithid’s perception of love. Ansur would not understand this. He cannot understand it until, unless , he joins him as a mindflayer.
And that is fine. Ansur doesn’t need to know that their understanding of souls, emotion, and love no longer align. Balduran can convince him of the old love. He can reflect it upon him, make him believe, make him take comfort in it. And then, he will unshackle Balduran and, perhaps, cease in his endeavors to “cure” him of a blessing that the Dragonborn sees as an affliction.
“Show me?” Ansur asks. “How, mindflayer? How can you ease this pain?”
“Stand, my bronze heart. Please, trust me.”
Ansur does stand, but his lips pull back into a snarl and he hisses, “Never. I can never trust you in this form.”
“I know,” Balduran says. “Look at me, Ansur. I know.”
He does look at him. He looks at him long enough for Balduran to do it. To dive into his companion’s mind, sifting through screaming thoughts and flashing memories. In an instant, looking through countless mirrors of his own reflection. Of the human he once was. Curls, smiles, smirks, skin, a heartbeat, hands, scars, dimples, imperfections, perfections, every detail that Ansur stores in the brightest part of his mind. After all, Ansur knew him better than he knew himself. So, he collects the images, the memories, the fantasies, the hopes—he bundles them like firewood, and it would be so easy to…to burn them. In an instant, reduced to ash. It would be a mercy, wouldn’t it? To make him forget. But at what cost?
No…his love for Balduran is too necessary, too powerful, too useful.
Instead, he forms one more mirror, and projects one more reflection. It’s a delicate task, a surgery. He must dull the edges of Ansur’s mind and capture him in a nearly dream-like state. He must dig behind his eyes, thread himself through his optical nerve and make him see what Balduran wants him to see. What Ansur wants to see.
He feels the image snapping into place, can see the mindflayer in front of Ansur shifting into something else. Something familiar. The details slowly align, and Ansur’s guard begins to drop.
“Balduran…”
Yes. That is who you see now, is it not?
This isn’t shape-changing. That is not a skill mindflayers have. Rather, it’s a trick of the mind. It takes immense focus, and he’s not sure he could ever perform it on more than one person at a time, but now he’s confident he can do it to at least one. Though the mindflayer has not changed its shape, Ansur now sees Balduran as he knows him. It’s more than vision, too. His musk, the sound of his breathing, the micro-expressions on his face. He copied them all.
“Do you see now, Ansur? It’s still me. It’s always been me.”
Ansur’s expression breaks. Despair and joy contort it. He looks helpless. He looks shattered.
“This is cruel,” Ansur croaks. “You’re not him.”
“I have everything that he was, Ansur. Every memory, every emotion, his entire mind. It is all right here. It is all still yours. Touch my chest. Feel how my heart beats for you.”
Ansur’s eyes close. He opens them again, as if testing to see if the image before him may have vanished in the blink. But the mindflayer keeps his hold. He will not let the mirage waver. He is already hooked deep into Ansur’s mind, deeper than anything has ever been and ever will be.
The Dragonborn lifts his hand, slowly. Balduran raises his tentacles out of the way, allowing him to press his palm against his chest. Ansur searches for a familiar heartbeat, and he finds it. In his mind, his fingers have slipped beneath the edge of Balduran’s robe. He can feel his warmth, the thump of his human heart.
“How are you doing this?” Ansur asks. “Could you take his shape all along? I have never heard of mindflayers being capable of such a thing.”
“It is your love for me that makes it possible, Ansur.”
It’s not a lie. It’s Ansur’s collection of memories that makes projecting Balduran so easy. It’s the sharpness, the sacredness he cradles them in. Strong feelings are easier to mold, he realizes.
“Fuck…” Ansur says weakly.
“If I stayed like this, would you trust me? Would you let me stay at your side?”
Ansur’s hand lifts. He slides it up, unaware of when his hand glides over Balduran’s tentacles. To him, he’s cupping his lover’s face. He cannot feel the cool, slippery skin of a wriggling appendage, although Balduran can feel him. He can feel the calluses of his hand snag on his skin, the pulse of his heartbeat from his wrist. And it is… pleasurable.
This body is still new to him. He doesn’t know its erogenous zones. It doesn’t experience sensation the way a human body does. In many ways, the form is nothing but a vessel to carry its brain. A practical and necessary thing for interacting with a primitive world. But often, he can’t truly feel with this body. Sensation registers in a compartmentalized section of his brain. He feels only the itch of it, an alert that sensation is occurring, and he may choose to tune into it if he wishes.
He wishes to now.
“I can’t,” Ansur breathes. “Even if…if you retain a piece of him now… It will fade. And if we cannot keep you from an elder brain? Then, one day you will be subject to the will of one, and you will lose all but the soulless desire to spread your disease across Faerun. I can’t… I can’t lose you a third time, Balduran.”
“We can stay free from the elder brain,” Balduran insists. “As long as I live, I swear to you, I will forever resist the servitude of the hive. My freedom is too important.”
Ansur chuckles, that low, reptilian rasp of a laugh. “It always has been,” he says. “You could not have been Baldur without that free-spirited need for adventure, without your big dreams and ambitions. You have always been the idealist, the thinker, the explorer. And I have been your follower, your sword and your shield.”
“You have been my rock, my loyal, stalwart dragon. You have been the shine in my soul, the only thing I have never wanted to run from.”
Ansur leans in closer, until Balduran can feel the hot breath expelled from his draconian nostrils. “I do not know how much of you remains in this mindflayer husk, Balduran, and how much of what you say is manipulation. If I was stronger…I would end this. I would end the abomination you’ve become. But I…fuck, I miss you. How could I have known that the kiss we shared before Moonrise Towers would be our last? If I had known…I would have never let you go inside! I would have never lost you.”
He begins to cry, a rare sight for any Dragonborn. In Balduran’s memory, he has only ever seen Ansur cry once before. It was huddled beneath a pier in the pelting rain, the first time Balduran kissed him. But those had been tears of joy. The Dragonborn outcast, the feared and hated bronze creature, had been so sure he would never receive love from anyone, least of all the human of his desires. Those tears had been ones of happiness, appreciation, and overwhelming love.
“You have not lost me. And that kiss…need not be our last.”
Ansur’s gaze drifts down to Balduran’s mouth. To him, he is seeing lips that he knows well, not the sharp circle of yellowed teeth that the mindflayer uses to pierce through the back of skulls.
“I…I can’t…” Ansur’s hand lifts. Balduran is quick to slide the end of a tentacle beneath his fingertips as he strokes the plush, human lips of his lover—but really, the skin of a pale feeler.
“Please, Ansur. One more time.”
“One more time…?” he repeats, and Balduran feels it. He already shaved down the edges of Ansur’s consciousness to keep his grip on his mind, but now he feels Ansur further dulling it himself. He allows a haze to drift over his thoughts like thin, fluid smoke. He’s sinking into his own denial, where it’s safe, where his emotions are untamed. Balduran can see them all—a cage in the darkness where beasts of feeling roar and scrape and batter the bars. Their howls fill Ansur’s mind. They are the cores, the centers, the blistering stars of his love, his fear, his despair, his lust. He has tried so desperately to keep them caged, only letting their echoes escape.
But his mind is dulled. The bars are weak. And Ansur is exhausted. Mentally drained from an internal battle that he is too weak to fight any longer. He is…malleable. Clay in the mindflayer’s tentacles. It takes hardly more than a flick, the smallest nudge of the lock on that cage, nothing but a raspy “Yes, love. Once more,” in Balduran’s voice.
And that’s it.
That’s all.
The lock breaks, the door is thrown open, and those beasts escape in a flurry, thrashing through the landscape of Ansur’s mind until Balduran hardly has to hold it at all.
He kisses him. He kisses Balduran. But he kisses the mindflayer, too. He doesn’t know that his lips tease a rippling appendage, that the press of a tongue on his is the tip of a tentacle. He doesn’t need to know. This counts , anyway. It feels like a kiss to Balduran.
His tentacles tingle and zing with the diluted sensation that pools in the back of his brain. He lets himself access it. He savors the physical sensations and the way they stimulate his mind. It still feels good. In a wholly different way from before. And there’s more to it. There’s something in Ansur that heightens it.
His mind, he realizes.
His sweet, delicious mind. The way his beasts claw and scrape and bite. The power of his own sensations vibrating his brain, sparking his inspiration. His mind is alive, buzzing and jolting. It is… lovely. Mouthwatering. A delicacy. His desire fuels a deep, unwieldy desire in the mindflayer as well.
“It is you,” Ansur breathes. “My Balduran.”
“Told you, didn’t I?” he says through Balduran’s lips. “Bronze for brains. I’m still right here. Now…can you uncuff me? You know bondage has never been my favorite kink.”
It’s so easy. Replicating the cadence that Ansur remembers. The lilting tone. The flirting.
“If I do…” Ansur says in a shaky tone, tears still rolling down to trace the lines of his reptilian face. “You will not harm me or try to flee?”
“I promise.”
Ansur grunts, then pulls the key from his pouch and moves to unlock the cuffs. Balduran flexes his hands, glad to be free. He lifts his tentacles and strokes the sides of Ansur’s face, projecting an image of Balduran’s hands doing this. The Dragonborn doesn’t need to know otherwise.
Ansur sighs in pleasure at the simple touch. Balduran feels his desire expanding, the beast of lust beginning to drown his other emotions.
“So, you would still love me,” Balduran says, “were I a kobold, or a spider, or a mindflayer.”
“…Always,” Ansur responds. “Baldur…I could perish, and my soul would love you for centuries, millenia after.”
He believes this. He believes that the fragile god-given soul of Ansur’s would resonate with these feelings long after death. And he believes that if Ansur’s mind ascended into a planar existence, he would forever still be connected to Balduran. It would be different, but just as powerful. They could exist together, infinite material crafted by the elements of the stars, conquer together, rule together. In the all-being, always as one.
Perhaps there would be a benefit of being connected to an elder brain. I would have access to the tadpoles. I could convince him to use one. Perhaps there is a way I could steal one from a connected mindflayer or a thrall.
Thoughts for another time.
“I know that look in your eyes, Ansur. The flames lick so brightly. You want me.”
Ansur groans. “I always want you, you tender-skinned, flesh warmer.”
“Crude, as always.”
Ansur’s hands are suddenly on his hips, yanking him close. “It has been so long, Balduran. Do you know how agonizing that is? The intimacy we once shared… lost in an instant. To sleep alone with a mindflayer cuffed nearby, the cruel mockery of the man that I… I miss him. I miss you. ”
“Then, let me have you,” Balduran says, a tentacle drifting down Ansur’s neck and beneath the collar of his shirt. “Let me show you that all is not lost for us.”
Ansur has already given in. Balduran can feel him, hard and wanting. He can see the saliva beginning to trail from the corners of his reptilian mouth. More than that, he can read his mind. There is no room for anything else in it—only yearning, desperation that fills Balduran’s own brain like the sweetest elixir.
He has never had sex in this new form, yet knows immediately that he has the tools for it. Not for procreation like a non-illithid. For something else, then. Pleasure? Not exactly. Physical pleasures pale in comparison to mental ones. Then…
Connection.
Yes, of course. Connection—another, closer means for minds to wrap around one another. Used by illithids for direct connection outside of the mental touch of the hive mind. Rarely used, but available. Available now.
“Lie down, my bronze effigy. I can kiss away your agony for just one night. You don’t have to think, just…surrender to me.”
Ansur gazes at him with such a deep longing, with heartbreak, with hope. “Just…once. One more time. Until I can…find a way to get you back for good. For real.”
There is no way, Ansur. That body and that soul do not exist. There is only me as I am now. Could you ever accept that?
Ansur trembles as Balduran peels open his vest with his tentacles—his hands. They pretend, stroking over the softer skin of his chest opposed to the harsh scales of his back. They glide like palms, like the fingers Ansur remembers. It feels good to map his body with the sensitive appendages. They tingle and his mouth waters, as if he can taste Ansur’s thoughts, his feelings, his mind on Balduran’s tongue.
Ansur kisses him again, and it takes great restraint to hold back, to avoid prying his great dragon-like jaw open with his tentacles so he can feel every inch of his teeth, tongue, and throat with them. Balduran resists, though, knowing that any sensation that starkly differs from the projection of a human man in Ansur’s mind will ruin the illusion. If he realizes that he’s about to bed with a mindflayer—if he realizes that he’s been duped, then…the cuffs will not come off next time.
“Fuck,” Ansur moans. “Fuck this. I cannot be patient.”
“You never could,” Balduran notes with a chuckle as his partner strips naked, his tail thrashing behind him with excitement and frustration.
I must undress as well.
Not that he needs to, exactly. His robes themselves are a mental creation. Mindflayers with strong enough minds can manifest them at will. Just as easily, he can dismiss them.
But he pretends to undress. Because Ansur is watching him. So, his hands move up his body, following the demand of Ansur’s memories and fantasies. He unbuttons nothing, shrugs nothing off his shoulders, unties the strings of trousers that aren’t there. And in the meantime, he wills away his illithid garments.
Ansur stumbles back onto the bed, perched on his elbows, eyes raking down the visage of his Balduran. His erect cock twitches in interest at the lie that he perceives. He would surely be disgusted by the reality. By the rippling and parting of illithid skin to reveal more tentacles.
He’s never used them before but knows instinctively that if he was with another illithid, they would curl around one another, sending thoughts pulsing through each other’s bodies. Exchanging power and knowledge directly. Connecting.
It comes as a shame to him that he cannot connect with Ansur in this way. Because, though he can no longer feel his feelings, not in the old way, he still feels desire for him. In an eldritch way, he does love Ansur.
“How do you want me, love?”
Ansur moans. “In every way,” he says, words taken from a distant memory of the first time they slept together in a dingey, cockroach infested room in a subpar inn. “I want to be inside of you and I want you inside of me. Everything, Baldur. I want you in every way I can have you.”
Not in every way, he thinks. You do not want me as a mindflayer.
“Then, you shall have me,” he says, climbing up onto the bed with him.
He touches him, with hands and tentacles, careful to match the image he projects. He explores his body, his muscles, his scales, as he has a thousand times. He lowers himself down, face above Ansur’s erection, eyes fixed on his. He can see the fantasy unveiled in Ansur’s mind. The overwhelming desire to see his Balduran’s mouth open, parting to take him inside. He craves the swipe of his tongue and tug of his throat. He misses it. He never told Balduran how weak he is to it, how it strikes something primal in him, because, as a Dragonborn he is not able to return the act. Too much snout and dragon teeth and foul breath. It makes him savor and appreciate when he receives it. But he never wanted to be selfish. He never asked anything of Balduran, always preferred to give.
You can hide nothing from me anymore, Ansur. Every thought you have is mine.
He lowers his head, but he doesn’t draw Ansur into his mouth. There’s no sense to that now. His cock would certainly find no pleasure among rows of skull-crushing teeth. Instead, he wraps a tentacle around it, mocking the motions of a mouth.
Pleasure spikes through Ansur’s nerves and bursts like fireworks in his mind. Balduran feels it there, the dazzling bursts fizzling in his own brain, sparks of euphoria. It’s delicious, and drives him to double his efforts, squeezing tighter, flicking his tentacle along Ansur’s cock like a tongue.
“Baldur…” Ansur moans. His hands reach out, fingers searching to wrap around curly hair. Balduran moves quickly, tangling one tentacle around his grasping fingers. His illusion is so strong that Ansur truly believes it. He’s dragging his claws over his beloved’s scalp, relishing the springy curls of his brunette hair between his fingers. It feels real to him, sharp, vivid. He is convinced of it.
Balduran lets him feel, lets him imagine. And in the meantime, he explores with his tentacles. He strokes his partner’s uncut cock with one tentacle, and drags another down over his balls and lower still, pressing and prodding until Ansur’s hips begin to buck of their own accord. “I fucking love your fingers,” he growls, completely unaware that it’s not fingers tracing his rim above the base of his tail.
He lifts his head and looks down at Ansur’s dazed face. “I love everything about you, Ansur.” Your mind especially.
“Balduran, please…more.”
He will gladly oblige. He adjusts, straddling the Dragonborn. Ansur’s hands grip his waist, claws kneading with excitement. Balduran projects the image of him rising to position Ansur at his entrance, when in reality, his lower tentacles spread, curl, and drip with anticipation to wrap around him instead. Before he can, however, Ansur grunts out a quick, “Oils, Baldur. Gods, I want it too, but don’t hurt yourself for it.”
Ah, yes. An error on my part.
Simple. Another deception, another little lie. He projects the image of him retrieving the oil from a bedside drawer, then prepping them both for it. It’s a good excuse to slide his wet tentacles all over Ansur, under the premise that they’re lubed fingers instead. He finds him so malleable, bending, softening to every prodding touch of the appendages.
Touch feels exquisite with these lower tentacles, but he finds that he has less control of them than his others. These seem to seek of their own will, looking for another beacon to connect to like wires searching for a circuit. They will not find that connection here, but they reach and ache for Ansur anyway, for even a ghost of connection.
“Ready?” Balduran asks, placing his hands on Ansur’s chest.
“Yes,” his dearest love responds.
So, Balduran lets himself engulf Ansur. Of course, to the Dragonborn, it looks as though he’s lowering his hips down and taking his ridged cock in deep. But it’s his tentacles that squeeze and shift low, imitating that sensation.
He closes his eyes and feasts on Ansur’s pleasure. It rolls through his mind like ocean waves, and Balduran rides them like an adventurer on the sea. It is…pleasure unlike any his body could have received before. It’s all of gravity unwinding, physics being rewritten, morphing space and time. It is psionic ecstasy.
He brushes a tentacle over Ansur’s lips, inviting him for another kiss. His companion moans and rocks up, panting, crying. “I missed you,” he breathes. “My Balduran.”
“Always. Always yours, Ansur.”
He can sense when Ansur is getting close. He can read it clearly through his mind. That peak of orgasmic pleasure. And as it builds, he feels his lower tentacles losing their coordination. He’s not unaffected by this pleasure, but he can’t let go of the illusion. So, he pulls away before that pivotal turning point, and is met with a growl of disappointment.
“You said you wanted me in every way,” he reminds him. “Well, my bronze steed… I think I would like you to be undone by my cock.”
“Fuck, yes.” Ansur huffs and rolls onto his stomach, presenting himself, already draping his tail over Balduran’s shoulder.
The mindflayer’s tentacles reach desperately, twisting around each other, seeking entry. He shifts forward and wraps a face tentacle around Ansur’s tail, holding it out of the way.
Easy, he coaches himself. Stay your grip on his mind.
He presses forward, lower tentacles finding access. They do not move like a cock, so he has to be careful. He has to keep Ansur’s mind deep in this false reality. “I missed this, too, Ansur,” he says. “I love this. I love being connected to you.” Not a lie. Not the truth as a non-illithid would understand either.
It feeds Ansur nonetheless. He moans and his tail curls around Balduran’s neck as he pushes back onto the bundle of tentacles. Balduran closes his eyes and sees it through Ansur’s mind. On his hands and knees with the hand of his human lover clasped around his tail, the familiar and perfect sensation of his cock filling him just right.
Focus…
But with each thrust forward, each tug on his writhing lower tentacles, each pulse of pleasure from Ansur’s mind, the mindflayer begins to lose himself.
Focus…!
How can he? The sweet flavor of Ansur’s pleasure clouds his thoughts. The need in his tentacles to connect. The sudden realization that Ansur’s mind is a temptation he can’t resist. He wants more than to connect with it. He wants to devour it. And here he is on his stomach, the back of his head exposed, tempting.
It wouldn’t be easy with horns and hard ridges in the way, but he knows he could make quick work of it. His tentacles could pry the skull apart, exposing the most delectable brain he’s ever had the pleasure of tasting. He could consume him, drink his thoughts and keep them forever entrapped in his own mind. It would be better, wouldn’t it? Better than never having Ansur as an illithid with him in the vastness beyond. At least he would be able to keep his mind.
Ansur freezes. His claws dig into the sheets, ripping through them. “ Mindflayer,” he seethes.
Because Balduran couldn’t keep his mind steady. His own thoughts poured into Ansur’s mind, truth exposed.
“Get off of me, or I’ll kill you.”
“No,” Balduran says. “You are right. I am a mindflayer, but I am still here with you. I am still making love to you. I am still yours.”
“Lies! You want to devour me, I saw it!”
Balduran refuses to let go. He leans forward, wrapping his arms and tentacles tightly around Ansur, constricting him so he can do nothing but squirm in his grip. “Yes, I thought it. But I would never do it, Ansur. If I wanted to consume your brain, I would have done it the moment you uncuffed me. But, as delicious as it may be, as much as it appeals to me, I want you alive. I want your living thoughts, your emotions, your love. Ansur, I want you. ”
“This is fucked!” Ansur roars. “This is…so fucked up… I…fuck…fuck you, mindflayer. Fuck you…Balduran.”
“Hush, love,” Balduran says. “Ansur…give in, please.” His tentacles push and pull and shift inside of him. Now that he doesn’t have to pretend, they move freely, some slipping out to curl around the base of his tail and to slick over his balls.
“I can’t,” Ansur says through gritted teeth. “You know that I…I can’t. Ever. Not unless you make me.”
He knows this is true. Ansur’s will is too strong. He was malleable before only because of the lie, and he’ll only be malleable again if…
Not unless you make me.
No lies. No illusions. Only…subjugation.
It’s simple. Ansur’s mind is already broken. His agony, his love, his longing, his despair…they make his mind a ripe fruit, ready for the plucking. So, he wraps his fingers around it, plunging into that shattered mind, gripping it in his hands, and soothing away his less-than-cooperative emotions.
As soon as he does, Ansur relaxes. The moans take over again, and he drools onto the pillow, eyes glazed and unseeing as the mindflayer fucks him.
The power is…gratifying.
However…even as Balduran evokes pleasure from him again, it no longer feels… Hmm. Ansur’s mind isn’t sharp anymore. It’s dull, quiet. It’s not alive with thoughts, desires, and fantasy. It no longer burns and buzzes with his feelings for Balduran. It feels…empty. Connection, which was already beyond his reach, now feels like an ignorant wish.
Heartbreak.
Yes…he’s still capable of it in this state. He feels it now, even as his stroking tentacles choke around Ansur’s throat and squeeze his cock and wring a powerful climax from him. All he feels is the black-hole void between their minds. Unconnected. Incompatible. Broken.
“Baldur…” Ansur weeps. He sobs and shakes and sprays onto the sheets, an orgasm ripped unwillingly from his mind-controlled form. “B-Balduran…” he slurs. “My Balduran, my Baldur…Baldur…”
The mindflayer pulls out and away. His lower tentacles retract. His face tentacles go limp against his chest, and he stares down at his lover, who curls his knees up to his chest and wraps his tail around him, clinging to it with his hands like a comfort blanket. Ansur shakes and sobs, and his mind screams in pain. In heartbreak.
What have I done?
He—no, it— didn’t realize how fragile Ansur was. He thought— it, I am it— that there was some way to preserve their connection. Even with the gap between a soul and a soulless one. It thought…foolishly, that Ansur could be swayed. If he saw what he wanted to see, his Balduran. Then, he would realize that the mindflayer can be trusted, that it wants to remain in this form, that Ansur could join it.
Foolish. Too hopeful. An error. A mistake made by a newborn mindflayer brain. Too influenced by the remnants of the old body, the host brain.
There is no future for it and Ansur. The only way there could be, would be if the mindflayer made him, like this. If it forced him into submission and fed him a tadpole. If it robbed him of his free will and broke his brain. And if it breaks his brain before the transformation, then…there will be no point, will there?
It’s Ansur that it loves. His living mind. His hopes, dreams, and the stubborn tenacity that makes him impossible to coerce without trickery. If Ansur is unwilling, then…this is it. The mindflayer can never have him.
Heartbreak.
The sight of Ansur sobbing, in violent mental agony because of it… It hurts. It quakes. It burns like a solar flare, like the whip of fire.
What have I done to you, my love?
To its astonishment, Ansur speaks. “We…We’ll find a cure,” he whispers through choking sobs. “I’ll cure you, Balduran. It will be okay… I swear it. I forgive you for this. I… I love you. I will cure you. I will have you again.”
The mindflayer unrolls the blanket at the foot of the bed and pulls it up over the Dragonborn’s trembling body. It leans in close, and Ansur flinches, but doesn’t push it away. He lets it hold him for a long time, pained silence splintering the space between them.
“I do love you, Ansur,” it says. “I do.”
“I know…” Ansur whispers. He holds its hand. “But you don’t feel it anymore, do you? Not the same way.”
It doesn’t answer, because they both already know the truth. Because there’s no way for it to express that different doesn’t mean worse. That its feelings as a mindflayer still mean something, fathomable to the non-illithid or not. To Ansur, the truth is without nuance. His Balduran no longer feels the love they shared, in its raw, soul-bound burn. That love is gone, and that is all that Ansur will ever see.
He cries himself to sleep in the mindflayer’s arms. And still, the mindflayer stays, knowing that this will be the last time… It will never hold him again. It will never ascend with him. It will lose a piece of itself tonight.
It could find a tadpole and force Ansur. It could brainwash him. But it won’t. Because…it loves him. It loves the mind it doesn’t want to break. It respects him. It cannot change him.
Some time later, it climbs off the bed. It brushes a tentacle across Ansur’s face one last time, then lights a candle and grabs a quill.
“Dear Ansur,”
It looks over at his sleeping form. Like this, his mind isn’t in pain. In sleep, he finds temporary freedom from the cruelty of his emotions. He looks…serene. Beautiful.
“I’ve said it a thousand times and I’ll say it again. There is no cure, and that’s alright. I’m fine, I’m better than I’ve ever been. So why torture yourself like this? Of course, I know why.
Remember Yal Tengri? You and I sailed together for months, seeking the Great Spire. By the time we found it, we were sick as dogs. But you never left my side, not for a moment, even though you could have simply chosen to fly. You told me there was something about experiencing it with me—through my eyes—you wanted to share in my passion for adventure. It was, you said, a privilege. The truth is, the privilege was mine.”
It looks at him again, at the way the firelight gleams on his bronze scales. Lovely. As Balduran, he always thought Ansur was the most lovely creature he’d ever seen. Whether in his humanoid form or his full dragon form. He was perfect.
It thinks about what to say next. What truth to offer, with no manipulation, no half-lies. What can it say to maybe… maybe set him free?
“You are the greatest thing that ever happened to me, Ansur. I never had to ask you for anything, but I’m asking you now to stop. I may no longer feel my feelings, but I know yours and yours are agony. It doesn’t have to be this way. Be free, Ansur. Fly. And know that even if I’m not beside you…”
The quill shakes in its hand. This is it. This is Balduran’s final goodbye.
“…I will always have been your Balduran.”
It sets the quill down and waits for the ink to dry. With a sense of unparalleled loss, it folds the letter and props it where it knows Ansur will find it.
He will find it in the morning, and his heart will break again. Again and again. But…given time, given distance…perhaps the great bronze dragon will finally be able to fly free. He will live his short life but it will be full of passion, of living thought, of freedom. He deserves that freedom more than anyone.
I wish it could have been different, Ansur. I wish we could find freedom together that is compatible. But, for what it’s worth…
It rises and levitates, then heads toward the door. It looks back once more. One last time.
“I will never forget you, Ansur.”