#afflicted beggar

[val-of-the-north]

The insidiousness of Kin in Bloodborne

The game makes a clear distinction between the earthly, beastly nature of mankind and the higher, more sophisticated and advanced inhuman evolution offered by the stars, with one being feared and hated by almost everyone but a small group of irreverents and the other being the goal of most organizations in the setting. They crave the superior knowledge that the stars, sea and Great Ones can offer them and in their selfishness they drag the entire population through the mud, subjecting them to the Scourge that turns them into the reviled, de-evoluted monsters that infest Yharnam.

But there’s something to be noted when analyzing the result of their attempts at ascension... most Kin we see are horrifying and animalistic monsters, no better than the beasts that devour the population. Take for example the Brainsuckers. Their lust for insight isn’t too dissimilar from that of blood-drunk men for their precious healing blood. They do everything in their power to feed themselves on more insight, more knowledge... and for what? In their current state, it’s more of a craving than a meaningful pursuit. And their locations are rather telling too, as most of them are found in the base of operation of the Choir. How were these men of science any different than the commoners they deem blinded by beastly idiocy? All those sacrifices to turn into addicts themselves.

We also see the Fluorescent Flowers, beings who are undeniably kin but... there seems to be nothing intelligent about them. They are ultimately just predators, luring in prey with their flower-like bait. Whatever ritual or experiment made those certainly didn’t lead to a greater understanding of the cosmos. The Scholars of Byrgenwerth themselves have long since turned into mindless sludge who attacks anything they don’t recognize, drifting away in a Nightmare far from their old world. Gardens of Eyes are also just monsters who instinctively attack us despite their supposed higher intellect.

Perhaps the Celestial Emissaries are the only ones not relegated to the role of mindless fiend yet even that is debatable. While we see their individuality still persist somewhat after the transformation (Arianna even remains passive and never retaliates unlike the others) as shown when we breach into Iosefka’s Clinic from the backside, for how long will that last? The other Emissaries we see are exactly like all other Kin, attacking us on sight and sparing no grace for anyone who approaches, showing no sign of their past humanity. And even if they do retain their intelligence somewhat, the same happens to certain beasts, like the Afflicted Beggar. Despite his condition he is capable of complex thinking, more complex than even most Kin we see, and he is able to feel things too.

Other attempts at evolution fail spectacularly and turn people into hungry monsters. Adeline, the only patient of the Research Hall conscious enough to address us is starving for Brain Fluid, and her hunger gets ravenous fast. The fact she is restrained as hard as she is seems to hint that she’d get violent, and we see many patients getting violent and even animalistic at times.

Or think of the Nightmare Apostles, once cultists of some kind, now turned to mindless spiders. The only one with a head on his shoulders and a brain to match is Patches, though he seems to be an explicit exception to the rule. [x]

No matter what, the thirst for knowledge remains the same... a thirst, a primal urge. Beastly idiocy goes both ways, but the stuck-up researchers of Yharnam don’t see it, and that’s their fatal mistake.

In the end, they were no better than the poor population. Just as clueless and obsessed with the very thing that was eating away at their humanity... but while the commoners despaired at this fate in the case of beasthood, these madmen wanted it and ruined countless lives to achieve it. Ultimately, it’s hard to feel sorry for them. They got what they wanted in their short-sightedness: absolute oblivion of the self.

[acridid-s]

I was curious if you could still send the Afflicted Beggar to Iosefka's Clinic *after* killing the false Iosefka, and it *is* possible to do that, but the game treats it the same as sending him to the Clinic while Fauxsefka is still alive.

[katyspersonal]

Do you ever think about UTTER hypocrisy when Afflicted Beggar resents that 'it is SO yharnamite to stay away from each other' (which we know happens because anyone can turn into a beast any second)? Like... he IS, himself, part of WHY it happens. XD He himself is a beast in disguise. It is same as if some actual legitimate serial killer resented a person that got scared to take same turn with him late at night as "paranoid". Like holy heck dude get a grip

[amywritesthings]

the better strategy. / astarion x tav

summary: After successfully saving Druid Grove, Astarion has one goal in mind: secure his safety. His strategy? Seduce Tav. But what if that plan goes horribly wrong and he falls for his own game? pairing: astarion x tav (female, she/her) word count: 3.9k tags: tiefling party reimagined, act one spoilers, non-sexual intimacy, astarion's pov, allusions to astarion's past, selûne!tav // mature for thematic elements

part two. / masterlist.

PART ONE: THE ATTEMPT

.

“I can’t help but notice you’re not indulging.”

The minute the conflict within the goblin camp was over, the second the dust settled in the grove and the victory was imminent, Astarion knew precisely the trajectory he would need to take.

Call it his innate instinct — it wouldn’t take many brain cells to understand just who led this group of afflicted tadpole carriers, for better or worse, after such a battle.

At first he assumed Shadowheart would be the one he’d eventually stalk in the daylight, with her mysterious artifact clutched tightly to her chest. The follower of Shar, however, has about as many problems as her braid has sections.

She would not lead this group to triumph.

Lae’zel? Strong, but lacking in people skills.

Karlach? Strong, relatively agreeable, but suffering greatly from her fiery defect.

Wyll? Too many contracts, so little time to absolve them.

Gale? Not a chance in any of the Hells.

Tav, however…

Calm and collected Tav. Skilled and cunning Tav. Diplomatic and equitable Tav.

Brilliant in all shades of red, peppered across her skin in blood spatter — that Tav.

From the beach where he held a knife to her throat all the way to securing a victory for the refugee tieflings at a grove that never deserved her help, he’s watched this elven woman go from a nobody to a savior overnight.

Everyone vies for her attention. Everyone wants her approval.

Even now he witnesses her flutter through the throngs of beggars invading their sleeping space, trying their hands at flattery and praise. 

(Incredible, that her ego hasn’t shot to the heavens with the gods and goddesses themselves.)

So when she finally — finally — stops in front of his tent after her lap around the camp, he knows he must catch her attention.

Keep it. Suffocate it.

He holds an empty goblet for the sake of saving face amongst the traveling tieflings, not quite willing to divulge his little secret so willingly to strangers.

Tav stops walking to stand before him when she catches that he's talking to her. “Am I not?" she challenges, holding up her goblet. "I’m drinking.”

“Not as heavily as others,” he quips, blinking his attention to the downtrodden no-name tiefling to his left still going through the motions of war and loss.

Tav’s eyes follow Astarion’s, resting there on the tiefling for a moment. Astarion blinks back to watch her expression soften — empathy.

(He hates it when she does that.)

“No, I suppose not,” she begins to reason. “That being said, I must admit I was not born with an iron stomach like Gale — or given a gifted singing voice like Alfira — or find myself in the mood to expose my talent of strength like Lae’zel.”

He can see it in his peripheral — Wyll and Gale sharing a bottle of wine, discussing the parameters of magic while crowding a most-eager Alfira as her slender fingers strum well-loved strings. Shadowheart sits quietly to the side of Halsin, nodding her head to the steady stream of tunes, and Karlach whoops and hollers as Lae’zel takes down yet another tiefling opponent in a series of arm wrestling matches.

Astarion hums indifferently. “But you were the one who secured the demise of those leaders. They all should grovel at your feet.”

“I recall seeing a fire bolt or two ignite from your hand,” Tav teases, returning her attention to his face. The licks of light from the fire compliments her complexion so well. “It wasn’t an effort finished alone.”

“It was an opportunity for violence,” he reasons. “I wasn’t about to squander it.”

“Is that so?” she asks, seemingly unconvinced by his removed reasons.

“Besides, fighting and swordplay is all well and good, but you were the one to spin the spider’s web to convince that rigid drow to believe we were rallying to her cause,” he tut-tuts with his tongue. “I didn’t think you had it in you to lie.”

After a brief huff, Tav shakes her head. “Not my best strategy.”

Astarion’s brows slide high. “No? I beg to differ.”

“I just needed to buy more time so no one would get hurt,” Tav explains, and Astarion wants to outwardly groan at her heroics. He doesn't. “I had no interest in aligning myself with someone who wanted to bring so much pain. Zevlor led his people well — they ought to be the ones you praise.”

Gods, he really likes her best when she’s focused on battle. Feral, merciless, bold — not whatever this at the end of the fight. She’ll list the damned stray dog for valor before herself.

Still, Astarion catches himself before he can ruin his own performance and sharply inhales. He puts a knowing smile back on his face, voice smooth like tainted honey nectar.

“You could still stand to take a little credit, my sweet,” Astarion replies, “but if you’re not willing to take it, then allow me to personally pay it forward.”

The dance is as old as time itself. Astarion steps from the makeshift rug of his tent, finding himself in the plush earth beneath their feet. The party rages on around them with copious laughter and impromptu music and sloshing ale, but the vampire hears nothing, sees nothing, smells nothing — except her.

And, if he’s calculated correctly, she only sees him.

Jogging up to him after missions to check in on his opinion as if she truly gives a damn. Glancing back when she’s talking to all sorts of lowly creatures as if his opinion means anything to alter her otherwise fortified decisions.

He tries to goad her into the worst possible ideas — no, this person doesn’t need help; no, this idiot can rightfully get fucked for creating their own problems; no, we’re not accepting a mere thank you for payment of our services.

(It’s any wonder she has any gold in her pockets at all.)

Sometimes she listens. Sometimes she’ll demand payment — though, if he had it his way, Astarion would turn these godforsaken degenerates upside-down and shake them stupid until Tav drains them of every last coin for acting like she’s anything but a saint.

Sometimes she stands up for herself, and Astarion can’t help but giggle when these little leeches scramble to reroute back to her good graces.

If he was a lesser man, if he didn’t know better, then the vampire would have an insane thought behind these random acts of acknowledgement: that she values him.

Somehow, in some way, even after he’s managed to violate her trust, her body, her blood — all for his gain.

For his survival.

Now he’ll offer something similar as a sort of payback for her kindness. Unfortunately, his talents are something of a one-trick pony: take a ride, any ride, and he’ll provide the best bloody night of your life. Cazador all but forced it to be a guarantee.

In the end, offering his body to Tav will secure his position in this merry band of misfits.

It will keep him safe — even if he feels the bile rising in his throat as he prepares himself to bite his lip and play coy to her every desire and whim.

(He can prove she’s just as vile as the rest.)

“Pay it forward?” Tav asks as if she doesn’t already know.

“Everyone appears occupied,” he begins, each word dripping with intention. “I can’t imagine they’ll miss us for a spell.”

His crimson eyes find hers, searching for the answer he needs: desire – for him, for stress relief, for a chance to use a willing body to let go.

“There’s a clearing not far from camp,” he purrs, taking yet another step as he ducks his chin to meet her gaze. “You can see the moon brilliantly. And the trees will catch your pretty little cries, so I implore you to be as loud as you’d like.”

Yet he’s met with widening eyes without a single thought behind them. Her lips part, close, then part again. Astarion waits for the telltale signs he’s memorized for the last agonizing two centuries — quickening of breath, dilated eyes, shifting in her stance.

“I promise it will be a night you shall never forget.”

He smirks with haughty confidence, his swagger undoubtedly catching her eye. He won’t touch her , not yet — it’s always best to make the anticipation —

Wait.

There: her eyes widen a fraction larger, lips parting with a sharp inhale.

Then her nose scrunches as if… amused, and he’s lost the script.

The hells?

“Astarion,” she starts.

“Yes, my dear,” he coos, keeping that seductive air about him.

“I don’t…” Tav gives a small smile, apologetic in nature. “I appreciate what you’re offering. Flattered, even, but I’m not someone who…”

Astarion stops moving forward, taken aback by the hesitance in her voice. For someone so headstrong in their decisions within this group, this is the first he’s seen her so… girlish? Up until now, he’s never seen Tav react to anything without conviction.

He senses a running theme between such an annoyance and the unwavering faith of a cleric.

“Am I meant to use our wiggling little friend to complete that thought for you?” Astarion presses, fluttering his fingers parallel to his temple for dramatic emphasis.

Tav sighs, and he hates it. “It’s hard to find the right words.”

“Then we needn’t use them,” he persuades airily. “That’s what bodies are for.”

Gods, she gives this look — and by now, he knows it well. The same knowing stare she gave that wretched little gnome who dared speak ill of her even after his rescue. The same knowing stare she gave Wyll when he threatened to attack their fiery friend.

The game is up.

Astarion feels… cold. Rejected?

He didn’t wish to sleep with her in the first place, but he’s never been outright denied.

“Is the gaudy wizard that eats magic trousers more your type, then?” He flippantly twists the problem away, raising a brow of feigned disinterest. “Or perhaps it’s the bloodthirsty Githyanki who gets off on smelling sweat.”

Tav snorts, rolling her eyes in a way that makes his stomach churn.

Does she think him a joke? Not attractive? Not worthy of sleeping upon her bedroll?

He runs through a list of grievances the cleric may have with him when she finally finishes the lingering thought: “I’m not someone who deals in one-night trysts.”

Tav explains slowly, cautiously, as if trying to spare his feelings. Astarion would be offended if he wasn’t so confused.

“I recognize many of us are seeing these hours as our final to live. Yet I find no comfort or pleasure in sleeping with someone I barely know.”

“But you know me better than most,” Astarion argues under his breath, jutting his chin back. That isn’t entirely a lie — Tav’s has taken the inner workings of his past, his plight, and the monster itself in stride.

Tav is the one to take a step forward this time, her cup half-drunk from the wine Halsin poured. Suddenly another feeling twists in the vampire’s sated gut: surely she’s letting him down gently because she’s interested in that beast of a man.

(The druid is certainly less jagged around the edges, teeth and all.)

“Not well enough for something like that, though,” she replies, her smile light.

Astarion’s brows knit as he considers his options. His usual form of seduction hadn’t worked. Should he spin a story, a web of lies, to make her think she truly knows him? Should he push a little harder, make promises of delight and pleasure, to—

“I’d like to see this clearing you speak of, to see the moon. Connecting with Selûne would be wonderful to experience with you near,” Tav adds, interrupting his inner monologue, “if you’re still willing to show me.”

Oh.

That’s so…

Odd.

Why does he suddenly feel so out of place and odd?

“I…” Astarion has half a mind to wave her off, to say it’s a massive waste of his night when he could get his quota filled by someone else in this camp. Yet he’s compelled to stay, to stare, as he takes in her expression. “...if that is what you wish.”

Is this a game? Play ignorant, then arrive at the clearing for sex?

He can’t read her. He can’t place her smile into any sinister category. It only widens, bright like the moon above, and she brings her goblet to her lips.

The vampire finds himself watching as her neck bobs with the gulp she takes.

“Shall I see you once everyone rests?” Tav asks, suddenly having the upper hand in a situation that was supposed to be his and his alone.

All the vampire can do is nod, sensible not to say anything that will jeopardize the private meeting, and smiles with a strain when she walks away to talk to the tiefling moping on the edges of the camp.

Of course she talks the sad sack into joining the party.

Of course she fucking does.

.

.

.

.

There’s still a chance she might want him.

All this talk about not wanting to rush things or explore another person could have been for show. She’s the diplomat of this group of imbeciles, lest he forget. She probably couldn’t afford to look interested in him, much less anyone else, so not to cause tension.

No worry — he’ll come prepared, may the cards fall where they must.

Astarion creeps past his tent, shedding his white tunic to hang on a sturdy branch a mere foot’s step away from the clearing in question. His pale skin practically glitters and glistens in the light poking through the treetops, his complexion a stark contrast to the scars and lines of a body that’s only recently belonged to him.

He leaves his trousers on. He’s not a goddamn animal, after all.

“Astarion?” a rushed whisper sounds to his right, so the vampire turns in all his slender glory.

“You came,” he greets, grinning ear to ear with his entendre.

The wood elf stares back at him from a thick cluster of trees, notably confused by the way her brows knit and her nose scrunches. She assesses his vivid nakedness, but doesn’t make a comment — not yet.

Well, she doesn’t particularly look lustful.

Then her attention disappears entirely when she realizes just how clear said clearing is: a damn near perfect circle, where he’s prepared a small blanket held down by sizable rocks he’d found by the river while everyone started heading into their tents for sleep.

To an innocent eye, it’s nothing more than a midnight picnic.

If he had anything to say about it, then it would certainly become that. The only road block is Tav as she nears the makeshift lovebed in the center of the clearing.

“You didn’t have to use your blanket, you know,” she mentions, and Astarion is yet again left sputtering for a suave answer.

How the hells did she know that was his blanket and not that wretched Gale’s?

“It isn’t mine,” he tries — smooth, very smooth.

Tav makes a noise as she sits down on the blanket, head turning as she studies the lack of patterns or love in its weave. 

“I saw this in your tent,” she argues without conviction. “Lae’zel hates blankets. Mine are all accounted for. And Gale—”

“Alright, yes, it’s mine,” Astarion interrupts, peeved she’s more interested in playing detective than commenting on his broad chest.

The vampire awkwardly meets her on the blanket, sitting down with his heels dug into the dirt.

His legs stay in a raised triangle, knees to the sky, while Tav sits tall and crosses her legs under one another. Her slender fingers sit in her lap, annoyingly so, and Astarion stares at them to calculate a way he can smoothly bring them into his.

All he needs is to wriggle his way into this bizarre outing, to find what makes her tick, and he’ll be safe. It’s the only word running through his head at lightning speed.

Safe, be safe, make yourself safe—

Her gasp is light, possible to miss, but it takes him right out of the mantra to look up at Tav. Her smile is practically glowing as the moonlight bathes over her body, generous and… beautiful.

“You’re right,” she murmurs. “This is… beautiful, at this time of night.” Tav pauses, searching the constellations. “It’s so hard to pray, really, at camp. I don’t wish to offend Shadowheart.”

“What does Shadowheart’s approval have anything to do with your praying?” the vampire asks, feeling surreal that this is what her pillow talk has started with. Prayer. Religion.

(He’d gotten himself at least somewhat hard at the sight of how pretty she looked in the midnight air, ready to try his hand again, but now it’s all but softened with flattened disinterest.)

“Well, she worships Shar — the twin sister of my goddess, and they are not friendly.”

“So?”

“So,” Tav explains slowly, dipping her chin to observe him at her side. “I don’t wish Shadowheart to see me as an enemy just because of our differences in worship. But now you’ve shown me a place I could visit where I can properly speak to her — so thank you."

Astarion must look perplexed as all hell, because Tav studies his face, his naked torso, then back to his face again. He sits up straighter, unable to hide his annoyance in his rigid movements.

Tav shifts in her seat as well, but before she can continue her soft little chat about useless goddesses and Shadowheart’s temperamental feelings, Astarion clears his throat.

“Do you mean to tell me we are really not going to…?”

Tav’s lips purse, and Astarion’s gaze drops to them. They’re plush, soft – they wouldn’t be the worst to kiss. Hells, she looks soft. Her neck was delectable; her blood divine. It wouldn’t be the worst lay of his miserable little life.

“Sex,” he bluntly states, slashing straight through the bush instead of beating around it for the one-hundredth time when Tav doesn’t ask. “Are we not having sex tonight?”

Tav rears her head back, pulling away from him with a lean. “I… thought I already said we weren’t, back at the party—”

“Yes, and playing coy is all well and good, but I know you hold a candle for me, darling.” Astarion gestures around to the nothingness that surrounds the clearing. “No one is here to judge. No one is listening. It’s just us, so if you want—”

“I don’t.”

Talk about a sobering response.

The vampire squints, and finally — finally — Tav raises her chin with what can be considered a glare.

It’s cute, he’ll give her that.

“I already told you that I don’t simply sleep with people to do it.”

“And why not?”

“Because it’s never any good when it’s not with someone you care for, now is it?” Tav replies, exasperated by his poking and prodding. “Is this what all of this is for? The blanket, the… lack of a shirt?”

Astarion leans in. “Was it not obvious to you?”

“I thought you were overheated in the night!” she reasons, the blush on her face creeping up her neck to her cheeks. He sees it. He fixates on it. “I thought you were genuinely being my friend.”

Friend.

Oh, that one stings — he hates that it stings, that somehow he’s disappointed in himself for kicking the hornet’s nest when he had mostly been in her good graces up until now.

“If.. that’s all you wanted from me tonight, Astarion,” the wood elf slowly begins, curbing her temper with each word spoken, “then perhaps it’s best I leave—”

“No.”

Before he realizes it, the vampire grabs ahold of her free hand to stop her from pushing to her feet. His pale hand cages her wrist in, anchoring her to this shared spot, and he feels… well, not great.

But he can’t screw this up.

He cannot, under any circumstances, have her hate him.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology feels disgusting on his tongue, because he doesn’t quite mean it. He means a fraction of it, however, and that’s enough to push a genuine tone in his voice. 

“Please, just… sit with me, then.”

He continues to hold her wrist, taking it as a good sign that Tav hasn’t ripped it from his grasp yet. That, or she’s just giving him the nicety treatment she gives to all of her companions.

Slowly the woman lowers back to the blanket, and he realizes a beat too late that she’s turned her palm to face his.

What?

Tav sighs heavily and turns their hands with a delicacy that feels too sacred for an undead such as himself. Astarion’s palm faces the mercy of the moon when his long fingers, one sinful digit at a time, let go of her wrist.

She doesn’t move away.

“Intimacy is a gift so many people crave,” she begins softly. “I know I do. I know all of us do. It’s why we choose to stay together.”

“The bloody tadpoles in our heads are what keep us together,” Astarion flatly argues, but his voice is tighter as her fingers draw against the life line of his palm.

She huffs with a laugh. “That, too.”

She sits her fingertips atop his palm, hovering. A lump forms in his throat.

“I like when physical intimacy is just that — intimate. That’s not to say Lae’zel’s views or your own are wrong, but… just isn’t how it works for me.”

Astarion is immobile. Lost, quite frankly, in the sensation that’s so little yet feels like it could move mountains.

He’s terrified to breathe, to think, as she continues to press her hand gently to his.

“For me?” she continues. “This — knowing you have my back, and I have yours? That you sit here in front of my goddess and allow me a moment to think — that is intimacy.”

He exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, before raising a defeated brow. “And this is pleasurable, for you?”

“Is it not for you?” she returns straight back like a rapid-fire arrow to the gut.

The vampire doesn’t know how to answer that. Yes, this feels… nice, but it also feels wrong. Like he’s holding a lamb before the slaughter.

She is too trusting.

This world, as horrific as it is, will swallow her whole. He will swallow her in a singular gulp, right down the gullet, before she can process his inevitable betrayal.

Yet what does that say about him — holding her hand, allowing her to manipulate his palm at will, in front of a goddess he doesn’t believe in? This is her sanctuary yet he does not burn.

When she returns her gaze back to the moon with the wonder of a person who doesn’t believe in eternal damnation for merely existing, Astarion cannot help but stare.

Not at the moon, no.

At her.

Astarion’s fingers experimentally curl around hers, testing the boundary.

He notices the way she smiles not long after.

It takes a second too late to realize that he is smiling, too. 

Well — shit.

[thedemonofcat]

After Jaskier found himself unjustly accused of using his enchanting music to manipulate people's emotions, his life took a perplexing turn. It wasn't long before he became the target of a vengeful sorcerer's curse. This wicked spell, cast with evil intent, transformed him into an empath, forcing him to feel every emotion coursing through those around him. Initially, Jaskier found this newfound ability somewhat intriguing, a mere extension of his passion for understanding human nature and capturing the essence of feelings in his ballads. However, as days turned into weeks, he soon realized that being an empath was far from the gift he had initially believed it to be.

The cacophony of emotions that constantly inundated his senses became overwhelming. He couldn't escape the anguish of a grieving widow, the delight of a newlywed couple, the despair of a beggar in the street, or even the boredom of a guard on a long night watch. It was as if the world had become a tumultuous sea of feelings, and Jaskier was trapped in its relentless waves.

Seeing his dear friend and travelling companion struggling so profoundly, Geralt, the renowned Witcher, decided to seek a cure for Jaskier's affliction. They journeyed together across dangerous landscapes, facing formidable foes and countless hardships. Along the way, Geralt's concern for Jaskier grew, morphing into an all-consuming desire to free Jaskier from the clutches of this terrible curse.

As Geralt dedicated himself to this quest, he couldn't help but notice subtle changes in Jaskier. The bard's jovial demeanour had started to wane, replaced by moments of melancholy and introspection. At times, Jaskier seemed inexplicably drawn to Geralt, seeking comfort and solace in the Witcher's stoic presence. It was as if Jaskier's newfound empathy had heightened his awareness of Geralt's emotions, exposing the depth of the Witcher's unspoken feelings.

Unbeknownst to Geralt, his emotions were beginning to affect Jaskier in return. Jaskier became increasingly lovesick in Geralt's company as they continued their adventures together. The Witcher's rugged strength, unwavering loyalty, and rare displays of tenderness began to stir a longing within Jaskier's heart. He yearned for more than just friends with Geralt, though he dared not speak of it, fearing it would complicate their tumultuous relationship.

On the other hand, Geralt remained oblivious to Jaskier's inner turmoil. He was consumed by his mission to find a cure, believing that their friendship and Jaskier's well-being were the only priorities. Little did he know that the bard harboured feelings as profound and unspoken as his own.

[katyahina]

A compillation of Bloodborne characters data and model bits

I just decided to put as many bits about Bloodborne chaarcters as possible in one post, so to not have to check multiple folders every time I want to draw a character, but I thought it could be handy for other artists/writers! The following references feature the data mostly gathered by awesome Zullie the Witch but maybe also some others. I use the NPC data for the characters but also some model references, all put in one post.

1) Here are all the exact colors from NPC data gathered on one image.

They are gathered from this ( x ) sliders page, all in one image for the convenience. The white hovering effect over eyes color means ‘clouded’ eyes effect that the player cannot access in normal character creation, and the X mean that hair is missing (I did not count ‘bald’ eyelashes variant as one though).

1.1)  Almost all characters with brown skin have strange ‘reddish grey’ eye colors. Such characters are Henryk, Djura’s Ally, Yahar’gul hunter with Cannon and Ludwig’s Riffle, Yahar’gul character with Threaded Cane that uses Tiny Tonitrus (and ambushes you from the corner like a rat lol), Olek, Simon, Djura’s Apprentice and Yahar’gul hunter that’s trapped in Church’s chambers.

Exceptions are Afflicted Beggar who instead has hazel eyes and Yahar’gul Hunters that use Tonitrus (in Cathedral Ward) and one that uses Beast’s Claw, who instead have simply grey eyes (and share face data).  Interestingly, this red-grey color appears to be exclusive for characters with brown skin.

1.2) Adella’s hair is dark brown, not black. It is hard to see even on this image.

1.3) Tomb Prospectors have strange skin tones. Josef and Forgotten Madman have more purpl-ish skin tone, with his escord having it too but closer to blue on the color spectrum, Vitus and Queen Killer have greenish skin, Wallar has bluish skin. Olek seems to be the only one with realistic skin tone, it is simply dark olive / brown.

1.4) Plenty of characters have no eyebrows. So yeah, this might disqualify some of the above. These characters are: Djura, Djura’s Ally, Yahar’gul Hunters that use Claw and Tonitrus (idential), Micolash, Hunter of Despair (Black Church one), Edgar, Olek, Josef, Queen Killer, Afflicted Beggar, Unused Vileblood, Valtr, Brador, Damian, Yahar’gul hunter in Nightmare, Doctor in Research Hall, Antal, Vitus and Wallar. I have no idea what they all had to smoke to get their eyebrows fall out, lmao

2) Arianna’s hair lose color after she births a child, and her eyes are dark pink. Arianna has three face data - normal, after Bloodmoon, and after birth. In the Bloodmoon she just gets slightly paler, more sickly colored skin and lips and loses her blush, but after birth her skin gets MUCH paler, hair loses color and eyes get ‘clouded’ effect.

This eye color is not the same as reddish grey one from previous example, it is more saturated.

3) The most buff character is a Yahar’gul hunter with Cannon+Rifle. He is the only NPC of all who has all body scale stats (except for ‘head’) set to maximum 255. Queen Killer has only ‘chest’ and ‘abdomen’ set to 255, and Alfred has ‘abdomen’ on 255 but ‘chest’ only on 212. Yes, random hunters have way more of a male tiddy than Alfred.

4) Arianna is more flat than Adella. Yeah, it is a bit goofy remark, since ‘chest’ slider for Bloodborne NPCs is just chest width and not breasts size, but it could be interpreted as such. There are generally two types of ‘chest’ slider for female characters: the smallest 0 (Iosefka+Imposter, Arianna, Yurie) and the middle meaning 128 (Adella, Black Church Hunter, White Church Hunter, Henriett). Lonely Old Dear is a special case and has slider set to 192 (the largest).

5) Simon might actually lack eyes. MIGHT. Simon’s face data has two vertical stripes both going through where his eyes are. Djura is strongly implied to miss an eye where his face data has a scar going through where his eye is covered with bandages. It seems like developers can distort characters’ faces but not remove eyes, as you can see that despite implications, Djura’s data has both eyes. In either case, Simon has those strange scars for some reason.

6) Henryk and Afflicted Beggar share absolutely identical mole on the right side of their nose.

7) Edgar’s glasses are supposed to be round. But because his forehead/brows lean so strongly down, it causes glasses model to bend to avoid clipping, so it is a bit flattened at the top. Sure, it provides for a more unique glasses shapes, but... from technical standpoint bro frowned SO hard that his glasses frown too. xD

8) The ridge of Yamamura’s glasses is dark red.

9) Besides the eye colors shown in NPC data, there is some more. Willem’s eyes are grey, Maria’s eyes are greyish green and very pale, Gehrman has emerald eyes, and older daughter of Gascoigne and Viola seems to have greyish green eyes too. Ludwig appears to have his right eye blind and his left eye having its pupil so enlarged that it obscures the iris.

(Sources for models are Sinclair vid ( x ) and datamined corpses page ( x ))

9.1) Micolash has brown eyes in NPC data, but blue in cutscene model.

10) Some characters have interesting unused items equipped. Simon has Fist of Gratia and throwing knives equipped both of which he never uses, Yamamura has throwing knives that he never uses, Crow of Cainhurst has Hunter’s Bone (heavily implied to be Maria’s) and Executioner’s Glove that he never uses.

10.1) Simon only has throwing knives in Fishing Hamlet. Within lore, they are associated with Henryk. I personally do not see any other reasons for the developers to add them in this specific condition to the character that won’t even fight you, besides for the dataminers to conclude Henryk was likely participating in Fishing Hamlet massacre too. But heeey it is just a the-

11) Some interesting stats as NPCs. I am going to list every stat from the highest to lowest in order. Some characters have different stats depending on their questline and/or summoning location though; for such cases I only used the highest stat possible.

Blood Level (murder level??):  #1: Bestial hunter (234) #2: Olek (176) #3: Queen Killer (174) #4: Wallar (170) #5: Yamamura + Brador (162) #6: Yahar’gul hunter in Nightmare (157) #7: Gremia, Damian and Vitus (150) #8: Josef (146) #9 Djura’s apprentice and White Church doctor lady (145) #10: Black Church female hunter (143) #11: Black church doctor (121) #12 Simon (116) #13: Valtr (90) #14: Crow (88) #15: Henryk (81) #16: Madaras Twin (80) #17: Henriett (75) #18: Antal (72) #19: Edgar (68) #20: Alfred and Eileen (65) #21: Yahar’gul trio that ambushes you (60) #22: Micolash and Yurie (50) #23: two Hunters of Despair and Imposter Iosefka (46) #24: Suspicious Beggar (42) #25: Yahar’gul hunters that guard the entrance to Yahar’gul chapel (40) #26: Djura (30) #27: Djura’s ally (18) #28: Hostile Tomb Prospectors, Izzy’s Admirer, Forgotten Madman, Madman’s Escort, Bone Ash Hunter, Hostile Executioner, Unused Vileblood (10) #29: Annalise, Iosefka, Skeptical Man, Lonely Old Dear, Arianna, Adella (1)

Vitality: #1: Olek (65) #2: Wallar (63) #3: Queen Killer (55) #4: Vitus (53) #5: Damian, Simon, Crow and Micolash (50) #5: Gremia and Brador (49) #6: Valtr (48) #7: Josef (47) #8: Black Church female hunter (45) #9: Yamamura and Yahar’gul hunter in the Nightmare (44) #10: Djura’s apprentice and Antal (42) #Edgar (41) #12: Henriett, Alfred, Eileen and Bestial Hunter (40) #13: Yahar’gul trio that ambushes you (37) #14 Black Church doctor lady (36) #15: Yurie (33) #16: Imposter Iosefka (32) #17: Suspicious Beggar (31) #18: Henryk and Madaras Twin (30) #19: Djura (26) #20: White Church Doctor lady 25) #21 Unused Vileblood and Yahar’gul hunter in Cathedral Ward that uses Tonitrus (20) #22: Djura’s ally (19) #23: Yahar’gul hunter with the Rifle (15) #24: Two hunters of Despair (13) #25: Annalise, Iosefka, Skeptical man, Lonely old dear, Arianna, Adella, Hostile tomb prospectors, Izzy’s Admirer, Forgotten Madman, Madman’s Escort, Bone Ash hunter, Hostile Executioner (10)

Stamina: #1: Bestial hunter (80) #2: White Church Doctor lady (50) #3: Wallar and Brador (45) #4: Queen Killer and Josef (43) #5: Olek (41) #6: Damian (38) #7: Gremia (35) #8: Djura’s Apprentice (34) #9: Vitus (33) #10: Black Church doctior (30) #11: Yahar’gul hunter in the Nightmare (29) #12: Valtr (24) #13: Simon and Crow (21) #14: Henriett (20) #15: Black church hunter lady, Yamamura, Yahar’gul trio that ambushes you, Micolash, Edgar, Yurie, Eileen and Alfred (19) #16: Imposter Iosefka, Henryk, Two hunters of despair, Madaras Twin and Antal (18) #17: Suspicious beggar, Djura and two Yahar’gul hunters at the Cathedral ward (17) #18: Djura’s ally (16) #19: Hostile Tomb Prospectors, Izzy’s Admirer, Forgotten Madman, Madman’s Escort, Bone Ash hunter, Unused vileblood and Hostile executioner (15) #20: Annalise, Iosefka, Skeptical man, Lonely old dear, Arianna and Adella (12)

Strengtht:  #1: Bestial Hunter (60), #2: Micolash and Crow (50), #3: Yahar’gul hunter in the Nightmare, Brador and Yamamura (45), #4: Edgar (42) #5: Alfred (40) #6: Yahar’gul hunter withe the claw (38) #7: Valtr (36), #8: Djura’s apprentice, Queen Killer, Madaras Twin and Black Church female hunter (35) #9: Henryk, Olek, Josef and Yharnam Hunter of despair (31) #10: Black Church Doctor (30) #11: Suspicious Beggar (29) #12: Henriett and Yahar’gul hunter in CW with Tonitrus (28), #13: Gremia (27) #14: Djura (24) #15: Hostile executioner, Vitus and Wallar (25) #16: Damian (21) #17: Hostile Tomb Prospectors, Izzy’s Admirer, Forgotten Madman, Madman’s escort, Bone Ash hunter and nameless vileblood (20), #18: White Church doctor lady (15), #19: Eileen and Yahar’gul hunter with the cane and tiny Tonitrus (the rat behind the wall one) (14), #20: Imposter Iosefka,Yurie and Hunter of Despair from Black Church (13) #21: Annalise, Iosefka, Skeptical man, Lonely old dear, Arianna, Adella, Antal and Yahar’gul hunter with the Rifle (12) #22: Djura’s ally #23: Simon

Skill:  #1: Micolash (50), #2: Bestial Hunter, Yamamura and Yahar’gul hunter in the Nightmare (45), #3: Eileen and Black Church female hunter (40), #4: Yahar’gul Hunter with the cannon and Yahar’gul hunter with the cane (the FUCKIN rat one!) (38) #5: Simon (35), #6: Yurie and Vitus (33), #7: Imposter Iosefka, Black Church hunter of despair and Gremia (31), #8: Brador, White Church doctor lady, Black Church doctor and Djura’s disciple (30),#9: Josef and Olek (29), #10: Yahar’gul hunter with the Rifle (28), #11: Madaras twin and Wallar (27), #12: Antal (26), #13: Queen Killer (25), #14: Djura’s ally, Damian, Hostile tomb prospectors, Izzy’s Admirer, Forgotten Madman, Madman’s escort, Bone Ash hunter, Unused Vileblood and hostile executioner (20), #15: Crow (15), #16: Alfred, Edgar and Yahar’gul hunter with the claw (14), #17: Suspicious beggar, Henryk, Yharnam Hunter of despair and Valtr (13), #18: Yahar’gul hunter with Tonitrus (12), #19: Djura (11), #20: Annalise, Iosefka, Skeptical Man, Lonely old dear, Arianna, Adella and Henriett (10)

Bloodtinge:  #1: Micolash and Crow (50), #2: Yamamura and Bestial Hunter (45), #3: Edgar (42), #4: Eileen, Black Church female hunter and Djura’s Apprentice (40), #5: The trio that ambushes you in Yahar’gul (38), #6: Brador, Simon and Yahar’gul hunter with the Rifle (35), #7: Yurie (33), #8: Imposter Iosefka, Henryk, Two hunters of despair, Olek, Queen Killer and Vitus (31), #9: White church doctor lady, Yahar’gul hunter in the Nightmare, Black Church doctor and unused vileblood (30), #10: Wallar (29), #11: Gremia (25), #12: Djura (24), #13: Josef (23), #14: Damian (21), #15: Djura’s Ally, Hostile tomb prospectors, Izzy’s Admirer, Forgotten Madman, Madman’s Escort, Bone Ash hunter, Hostile Executioner (20), #15: Henriett (14), #16: Madaras Twin (12), #17: Antal (10), #18: Alfred and Yahar’gul hunter with Tonitrus (9), #19: Annalise, Iosefka, Skeptical man, Lonely old dear, Suspicious beggar, Arianna and Adella (6), #20: Valtr (5)

Arcane:  #1: Micolash and Damian (50), #2: White Church Doctor lady (45), #3: Edgar (42), #4: Imposter Iosefka and Alfred (40), #5: Yahar’gul hunter with the cane (he IS a rat tho) (38), #6: Queen Killer (35), #7: Yurie and Wallar (33), Gremia and Both Hunters of despair (31), #8: Olek (29), #9: Vitus (25), #10: Josef (23), #11: Hostile Tomb prospectors, Izzy’s admirer, Forgotten Madman, Madman’s escort, Bone Ash hunter, Unused vileblood and hostile executioner (20) #12: Simon and Black Church doctor (15), #13: Yahar’gul hunter with the claw, Valtr, Beastial Hunter, Black Church female hunter, Yamamura, Yahar’gul hunter in the Nightmare, Antal and Djura’s apprentice (14); #14: Henriett (13), #15: Annalise, Iosefka, Skeptical man, Lonely old dear, Suspicious beggar, Arianna, Adella, Eileen, Djura, Djura’s ally, Yahar’gul hunter with the cannon, Henryk, Crow, the two Yahar’ful hunters in CW, Brador and Madaras Twin (8)

(All stats are from this ( x ) page)

11.1) Micolash has all stats at the decent 50, except for the stamina that he only has at 19. Ironic for someone whose entire battle is running...

11.2) Bestial hunter ABSOLUTELY kicks ass as you can tell.

12) Some summons were canned. Such as: Djura (unknown boss), Yamamura (against Ludwig), Antal (unknown) and Bone Ash Hunter Carla (unknown).

11.3) You were supposed to find Henriett dead. Guess that was a way to explain her appearing in the Nightmare. Also, there is a secret catherdal ward NPC that you were supposed to find dying.

12) Some characters drastically change stats when you don’t see them. Such characters are: Alfred (from 33 to 65 blood level), Eileen (30 to 65) and Simon (97 to 116). Basically they were killing while being left to do their own ways, I just step in here to appreciate the attention to the details.

That’s all yet, I think! I might have made some mistakes (especially at the point 11) so if you spot any you guys tell me! But uhhh I think I actually gave my strongest attention span to all these numbers, so it must work :pensive:

[snail-eggs]

2 RUNNING FINGERS THROUGH HAIR FOR DAENA AND ANY OF HER HUSBANDS🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

pairing: Caleb Widogast/Daena Aren (F!OC); Essek Thelyss/Daena Aren(F!OC)\

warnings: none

a/n: any of them? porque no los dos?

divider by @/saradika

Caleb

Nicodranas, she fears, is the closest she'll ever be to home again. Daena watches from the balcony of the Lavish Chateau as waves lap on the shore. This view used to be something she got every day---somewhere far, far away from here. But she'll take Nicodranas over nothing. Beggars can't be choosers, after all.

It aches, in a way. Knowing she might never get back to her shores; her home. But the Nein have dulled that ache greatly. The yearning, it doesn't afflict her on as many nights. No, she's too focused on the now to think about what was and what will never be. She allows herself this moment of weakness, sips on some liquor from her flask as she listens to the sounds of the night. It makes her skin crawl, how quiet it is.

Drinking herself stupid doesn't sound half bad right now. Not at all.

She hears him before she sees him. Recognizes him by the apprehensive shuffling of his feet. A hard stop and two steps back, like he's scared she'll bite.

With a look over her shoulder, still leaning on the railing, she catches him before he slinks back into the halls of the chateau; surely to continue his antisocial streak with his face buried in a spellbook.

And Daena smiles ever so slightly, trying to wordlessly beckon him to stay because the night is too damn quiet and she can't really stand it anymore.

"Hey stranger." Truth is, Daena hasn't seen much of him in days. Not since the Nein took respite in the chateau, exhausted by their adventures out on the road. "Didn't think I'd get to see your face before we left." She takes another sip from her flask. Looks back out at the sea and holds the silver up to her cheek, feeling the coolness of it melt away with the warmth of her skin.

And Caleb doesn't say anything, not with his words, anyway. Instead, he takes the place right beside Daena, eyes burning into her for a moment too long before he sets his gaze on the sea as well like its what he came here to see all along. But Nicodranas' glistening waters aren't the real sight to behold here. Not for him.

"I have been trying to take advantage of our downtime. It is very rare we get a moment to breathe anymore."

"So what's got you all hermit-y?"

"Oh," Daena can't help but let the corners of her lips twitch into a smile with the way he perks up. All it takes is a question and its like he's a new Caleb entirely. "Well, I managed to get my hands on some rather interesting journals. I have no idea whether they hold any promise or not but there's no harm-"

"I kinda missed you."

"I'm sorry?"

She shrugs, "I don't know. Like, I know you're here and everything but you're so into your shit that we don't... talk at all. And I liked that---I liked talking to you." Daena has no clue where this is all coming from. She can't get it to stop.

"I like talking to you too. Very much." And suddenly those eyes are burning into her all over again. Daena can wants to meet his gaze so badly. She keeps staring at the ocean's waves twinkling in the moonlight. "And I apologize, if you will accept it." For what, she wants to say. There's nothing for him to really be sorry for.

Finally, she wills her neck to turn. Faces him and stares into those ever melancholy eyes of his. Daena reaches up, invades his space and tangles two gentle fingers into his hair, pulling a lock out from the mess he always seems to have it in and what gets her---what really sets off bells in the back of her mind---is that he lets her. Not once does he break her gaze to watch her hand, he never flinches away. Interesting, she thinks.

"You gonna cut your hair?"

"I haven't given it much thought."

"Don't. It looks good like this."

She lets the hair fall away from her grasp. Takes a swig from her flask as she disappears into the chateau, leaving Caleb to stare at the waves, looking for an answer.

Essek:

"I don't think well-adjusted people are like this."

"Have you ever really thought you could describe yourself as well-adjusted?"

She can't lie, he has her there. Daena lays her head in Essek's lap, her voice hoarse, raspier than it normally is. This is their default now, arguing ceaselessly. Has been since Caleb died.

Gray hairs are starting to pepper the dark auburn that was once abundant. She's getting too old for this. Knows, deep down, that Essek has to be sick of it too. But tonight isn't the night for big conversations and solving things once and for all. She's too caught up in the warmth of his lap, in the fear of airing things out once again. How many times do they have to air things out before they realize this---whatever this strange thing is that they have---might not be meant to outlive Caleb?

Daena buries her cheek into his thigh, eyes fluttering shut as he begins to run his fingers through her graying locks.

"I do love you," he says it to no one, like its what she's been accusing him of this entire time; like he needs to reassure himself that its true.

She shifts onto her back, lets his palm rest on her cheek and looks at him with furrowed brows. "Essek, when did that ever really mean anything?"

And that's it. Just like that, the warmth of his skin against hers is gone. He's pushing her up off him and taking long strides across the room. He can't seem get far enough when she says things like that.

Essek opens his mouth to speak. More than once but he can't find the words. He's right. She could never describe herself as well-adjusted.

[theinsanitycarnival]

A trip to Alagadda

Guess who's writing a fanfiction.

Note: (Yeah so, I don't usually write fanfics, however, we're having finals in the creative writing unit and well our teacher is oblivious to internet culture so... he's about to read a novel. Please do add comments and suggestions [please don't correct spellings this is the first draft I will fix any issues later] but yes, I will be updating it alongside illustrations and the final version will be posted on AO3 sometime... perhaps maybe.)

I awoke, only to find myself on a sandy shore. It amidst an ocean black, its waves as thick as tar, brushing and foaming, crashing into the marble shore. 

The sky was bright and golden, draped with incalculable stars-who like the waves, shone raven light upon the earth. Like a pearl on a velvet cushion two suns laid amidst the stars. 

A breeze came from the ocean. It smelled of century-old books, of mould and of roses crushed and dried. It smelled of wine and olive pastures. 

As I looked, my mind in haze still. For miles, there was nothing but the ocean black. It swallowed up every bit of the marble sand leaving only that patch for me to sit upon. 

Far away there was the sound of gentle lutes strumming, of tambourines ringing, of fiddles dancing on the wind. 

It came from a faraway castle. Its walls were red and tall and thick, confusingly constructed towers peeking out. It emitted the pungent smell of cinnamon and cloves, and of roast pork with wine. From within me, I have heard a faint whine, as the wondrous castle drew me closer. 

As I rose to my feet, the ocean parted, leaving only one passage… To the illusive castle. 

I scrambled quickly to grab my sack, and followed the path amidst the ocean black. 

The music grew louder and crisper, there was a faint whine of a recorder, a toot of a shawm, the beating of a tabrin. 

There was laughter, and bright voices coming from the castle walls, all of them in Breton? 

This couldn’t have been possible. However could this city so strange and so far away with sky draped with stars like no other… how could it possibly be? 

A tingle of caution and a hint of dread had crossed my mind. 

This was not right.

But the ocean pushed me forward, it left no path behind. My only way forward was the city. 

Perchance this was a dream…

Its gate was swung wide open, from inside there came the warm light and smell of fire, it lured with its claws so soft yet the grasp so firm. 

Stepping foot inside the city walls, right away there was fanfare. The music rang so loud within the hollow pathways, people swarmed and danced, to their heart’s delight. 

Within the castle walls I had come to discover was a town, constructed so strangely, with pathways going nowhere,  and stairs that looped and leapt in the sky in ways impossible. 

In there was not a beggar in sight, as men and women adorned gowns made of gold and scarlet, draped in pearls and diamonds, with silks and laces running in long capes behind them. Delicate chopines of noblewomen clacked on the red limestone city streets, as their laughter all merged and boiled into one. 

Passing through the main street, for once I went unnoticed, not one person awed in fear not one of them gasped looking at me. 

It seemed as if for once, I belonged. 

Their faces, all hidden behind masks, it seemed that Pulcinella was in favour with the locals. It was not uncommon that half the residence adorned commedia dell'arte masks, there were but a few Il Capitanos who tried and pull me into their arms and into a wild swirl of dance. 

Not one of them seemed to be afflicted by my touch.

How curious. 

Deeper, and the city never seemed to end. 

There were monasteries, and churches, not one of them adorned a cross, there were giant, sky-reaching libraries, with their gates swung open for all the world to marvel. Upon the curiously twisted stairs that swirled upside down in the golden sky there walked so many people, that smiled and waved at me, as I stood startled at the impossible. The fanfare never dropped, and there was laughing and dancing and playing of all music. There were bagpipes, and a golden harps, a whine of a vielle, a stroke of a psaltery, a cornet, intertwined with a fiddle and a sackbut, a tabor beat, a panflute here, a cornu there, a lyre, alongside instruments that I have never before seen or heard of, all forming a marvellous cacophony. 

There seemed to be as many vendors as there were musicians, with fruits known and oh so different in abundance gracing in the sun’s rays, grilling of meats unknown and strange, of spices that tingled something in the far back of my mind, with wines and liquors so strong there were heaps of sleeping men and women next to the merry vendors. As lovely and familiar as it all seemed to be, there was not one thing that I had seen throughout my life before. 

As I strolled deeper through these baffling streets I discovered that not only most of the creatures here did not fall into my idea of men or women, most of them barely qualified as human. There were gentlemen with Alecchino masks, whose lower face was scaly like a fish, with teeth so sharp they’d bite through diamonds. There were women, in Pulchinella masks, whose lower face amounted to a beak, and their gowns were made of feathers. There were creatures that were so gross and awful, that words can not do justice. 

Through the crowd, I saw that the city broke in two, where this part was merry and bright the side opposite a stream was ash black, the epitome of anguish. Something from inside me drew me closer. 

However, right before that, there seemed to be a man, a normal man, a human man. He was a vendor selling oysters right in front of the bridge that separated the two parts of this strange city. 

Even through the racket, I heard him whistle to me.

“Are you lost, fair sir?,” He asked. 

Making my nicest approach I calmly asked the man.

“Good day my lord do you happen to spea–” 

“Haha, good daily fair sir, here we all speak one language. I do see it is your first time here?” He asked leaning. 

“Yes, yes it is… But I do not seem to recall what this place is or how I got hither–”

“Ah! But no one does, fair sir. Welcome to Alagadda! There are but many ways to get here, hardly anyone recalls, however you’ll get used to it. You came here just in time,” He smiled gesturing up and down at me.

“In time for what?” Many questions swirled in my mind however the tongue blabed out the first one it remembered. “What is going on?” I covered my ears. 

“This is but every day in Alagadda, is it not marvellous?” He smiled under his Brighella mask. 

“Would get very tiresome very quickly,” 

“Then you are lost here,” He laughed, grabbing his belly “I believe then you’ll find the anguished lord’s turf far more appealing,” He pointed to the land across the stream. “Would you be interested in an oyster?” 

“Who is this Anguished Lord you speak of?” 

He provided no further comment instead turning to two fair ladies that came forth. 

I made a move towards the river, it stretched and bled black, as the ocean did but did not go past the castle walls. Across it went one bridge, made of white and shining marble.

Across it passed those flamboyantly dressed creatures, alongside them came those far less gay. They donned dark robes of burgundy, and those like raven’s wings.  They bore the masks worn in ancient Greek theatres, the faces porcelain white and smooth. 

They hardly walked, but rather floated upon the marble, their voices deep and echoing, as if long dead and only brought to life by the warm breeze. 

Below the bridge flew a vast and open sea, deceptive from all directions, no way to tell it’s true size. Upon it glided ships, big and small, of those familiar and those whose construction the mind boggled. One giant warship flaked and sparkled, however not set aflame, it simply seized to be, and was no longer. It was as if it entered a pocket of some sort in the fabric of reality itself, and no one batted an eye. It was if this all was normal, perchance it was in this strange place. 

From the bridge, I could see that inside this place… what did had the vendor called it?

Ah, no matter. That there were four distinct parts, the red and black from and to which I was passing, however just further in the eye line, there were two more parts, a golden yellow one and a stark gleaming white one. 

What a strange place indeed. 

As I stepped off the bridge I found myself among the porcelain masks, all of them were from the chorus, none embellished with the extravagant add-ons that Dýo would tell me about. 

Oh, he would love this place… 

For some reason, my heart drove me to a stop, where was he?

I have not seen him in a decade, god perhaps longer– ah, but it is foolish of me to worry if there is one creature in this world that will survive anything it will be Dýo. 

As I stood pondering, I found myself on a completely different street, I was certain that I did not move and no one had moved me. But the pathways in the distance shifted and drifted too. 

Good lord I must get out. 

Just as I thought of that, there was a ring of something, quite like a trumpet but not quite, as if someone screamed into a trumpet. 

The city fell absolutely silent. 

There was not a rattle in the street. 

Everyone in the streets stopped in their tracks, and stood, almost religiously gazing up at the high stairs leading to a platform of some sort of church. 

In front the black, stained window came a hooded figure shrouded in darkness. 

It bore velvet-like robes darker than the night that stretched behind it, dragging on the limestone, on its head it bore a crown of sorts as if light was to beam from its face, on the crown it presumably depicted the sky’s two moons. As all the others it bore a mask that porcelain, unstained and perfect, however from the midst of the hair dripped wine red grapes in a bed of gold leaf. 

It seems I worried myself a little too early. 

It outstretched its robes and arms and spoke.

The speech came together with what had seemed three other voices, all distinct yet not too different. 

His was most captivating, the voice of a storm cloud in the darkness, a muffled scream from hell’s utmost gutter, a plea of long-dead kings carried on the wind.

Time froze as he spoke. 

“Here yee, here yee

Our dearest king, suffers from grave ailment, 

And here we have to our exposure doctors from far and wide,

Whoever shall be so wise to cure him shall receive pensions to their heart’s content,

Riches all that your hands could carry,

Knowledge too vast for your mortal mind to comprehend,

And perhaps even a royal pardon. 

So come one come all, even the lowest charlatan is welcomed, 

If not to contribute then to amuse,”

Under those eyes of darkness, there was nothing. I was sure of it, however I could feel the Anguished lord’s gaze fixated upon me. 

And then. 

I felt hardly anything at all.  

(As I say unfinished unpolished, for now, it is how it is anyway)

[anechomirrored]

Prompt: "Do you recognize this?"

Fandom: Darkest Dungeon

Rating: G

Warning: mild body horror

he rain continued its assult on the dilapidated Hamlet. My boots had soaked through over an hour ago but there was much to be done in light of our recent expeditions.

We needed more able minds and bodies, Dismas and the others were steadfast but the ruins were taking a toll on them.

Caunter had returned broken. She jumped at every sound and would cry out suddenly much to the distress of the others. Reynauld tried to comfort her but it was clear she needed sanctuary.

They all did in one form or another.

Approaching the stagecoach, I was pleased to see word had traveled. Four souls had lined up upon my arrival for inspection. I greeted them and studied each in their own turn.

A barbarian, a grave robber, an antiquarian and....

I stopped in front of the fourth. He was a man in his thirties though his condition could have him mistaken for much older. Hunched,balding and without proper clothes. He instead wore an entaglement of chains. A prisoner? A beggar?

No.

An A had been ruthlessly branded into the side of his head. He trembled a bit though I could see he was trying his best to stay at attention as the others had.

I asked him his name.

It was Machault.

Until now he had kept his hands concealed under a ragged cloak that hung from his shoulders. A pitiful defense against the elements.

His veins pulsed with a greenish ichor.

" You've traveled far and from experience, I know the journey here is unkind." I searched each face as I spoke, "Please come into the tavern. We will take a meal together and discuss your potential employment. Order what you wish. There is gold enough in my pockets for your satiation."

Beer, whiskey, bread, meat and cheese. Plates and pints were placed before each of them and like starved hounds they devoured it all greedily. I made my rounds, stopping to speak with each of them. Unlike the last coach full these were souls I could hire more readily.

Neot was fierce, powerful and blunt. She was finishing her fourth beer as we agreed on her wages.

Pithou had the appearance of a scarecrow with her flat topped hat and straw blond hair but a few words with her and I knew she would rival Dismas.

Good fortune thus far.

It was the last two I was unsure of.

I started with the antiquarian. Thorel was a woman after my own heart. She too was a young budding academic though her taste for the occult ran much deeper than mine. Like with Canaigres, I could see both the benefit of her intrests and the risk. Still our conversation revealed she was well tempered and took percautions when delving into such arts. I accepted her offer to join up but before we parted she spoke again.

"Machault, I spent most of the journey here speaking with him. He, his affliction is....off putting but please consider him just as you have the others. He has much to offer and I believe that this call to a purpose is what he truly needs." She drained her pint and unsteadily made her way to the door.

Machault.

He was in a corner keeping out of sight. I approached the table withe two more pints and a well rounded plate. His first plate was spotless, as he had left not a single crumb behind. I offered the second plate and a pint as I sat down acoss from him and after a hesitant acceptance he hungrily began eating once more though with more composure so as to be polite. I took the other pewter flagon and drank deeply. The questions I was about to ask were no small thing.

" How does this work?" I asked.

Machault did not dismiss my question dispite its rudimentary delivery. He finished swallowing and looked at his hands before him on the table.

"Do you recognize this? What it means?" He asked.

"In part."I watched him nodding.

He turned his hands over studying them as if deciphering the map his veins carved beneath his flesh.

"Though I may not appear so, I am strong. I can fight for you as a man or as...as a...with this." He once again let the putrid veins become visable under his skin.

Canaigres would be all over this man. The Occultist certainly would ask more specifically and openly about Machault's condition than I.

"You can do that on command? When you fight with that?" I gestured to his hands which were once again Ichorless and human.

"Can you control it? Or will it control you?" That was the main thing I needed to know if he was indiscriminate then I'd have him back on the stagecoach immediately.

He paused in thought, then looked up at me. His eyes were black pools, the irises and whites devoured.

" I do not have interest in harming your hirlings D'Esperer. Both the man and beast agree, it is the evil and the twisted beings we wish to kill." His voice was lower more resinous.

My mouth was agape dispite my desperate reach for composure.

"W-well, I...." I wanted to look away but those eyes held me.

" Your family is used to the creatures better left forgotten." Rumbled the new voice, "Besides Thorel I think you may be only one who hasn't screamed at my introduction." With this, Machault abruptly put his head down breaking our locked gaze.

When he looked back he was shaking slightly and his eyes were human and remorseful once more.

"Forgive me My Lady." His voice was once again soft with a light wheeze at the end of some of his syllables.

The change didn't help the fact that my mouth was still open so like any good adventurer would, I placed my flagon to it and to one of the deepest draughts of my life.

Machault continued as I did so.

" In order to gain your trust I thought it best to let you hear it from both of us, though upon reflection you may have taken it better if I'd answered first." By this time I had found my tongue at the bottom of the pint.

" So there are two seperate beings then yes?" My horror, fascination and need to know for business were tumbling over one another for priority.

"Well, not exactly mum, you see I know what is going on in both forms. I...I am always Machault... its just the nature of my...other side... is a bit primordial, if you will. Instinctual impulses and less care for human politics but as you heard from that side and as I am telling you now. I am not interested in disturbing the peace of the world anymore than I already do...but if I am to be what I am then I want to do some good in this world." Partway through his affirmation he had subconciously put a hand to the brand on his head.

Its meaning was not commonly known but anyone who'd studied eldritch lore knew of the experiments carried out by thosewho felt their pursuits were above morality. Those...as I had recently learned like my Grandfather.

"The house behind this tavern has been turned into our current barracks. Bottom floor is mostly communal quarters:kitchen, messhall, living area. Considering your condition... might I suggest you take the room on the left of the entryway. It's simple but distanced from the others. I have a feeling you may perfer that." His expression had gone from solomn, to surprised and now was accompanied by short and eager nods.

"Ye-Yes Miss! I mean- M' Lady, I.. I -" I held up a hand.

" If you lose control, even once I will dismiss you. Is that clear?" He verbally agreed in an unsettling mingling of the two voices and part of me shuddered inside.

I finished discussing his terms and wages and left him to a third meal on the house. I kept my steps steady.

The beast smells your fear but admires your courage. That voice again...his voice.

I left the bar and sought out Dismas and Reynauld.

[riseofthecommonwoodpile]

Awake from this dream:

There was a prophet standing in the square with arms upheld in exhortation to the beggared multitude gathered there. A delegation of human ruin who attended him with blind eyes upturned and puckered stumps and leprous sores. The sun hung on the cusp of eclipse and the prophet spoke to them. This hour the sun would darken and all these souls would be cured of their afflictions before it appeared again. And the dreamer himself was caught up among the supplicants and when they had been blessed and the sun begun to blacken he did push forward and hold up his hand and call out. Me, he cried. Can I be cured? The prophet looked down as if surprised to see him there amidst such pariahs. The sun paused. He said: Yes, I think perhaps you will be cured. Then the sun buckled and dark fell like a shout. The last wirethin rim was crept away. They waited. Nothing moved. They waited a long time and it grew chill. Above them hung the stars of another season. There began a restlessness and a muttering. The sun did not return. It grew cold and more black and silent and some began to cry out and some despaired but the sun did not return. Now the dreamer grew fearful. Voices were being raised against him. He was caught up in the crowd and the stink of their rags filled his nostrils. They grew seething and more mutinous and he tried to hide among them but they knew him even in that pit of hopeless dark and fell upon him with howls of outrage.

—Outer Dark, Cormac McCarthy

[acridid-s]

Izzy: "I didn't ask for this!"

also Izzy:

[katyspersonal]

Anti-Clockwise is the power of 'Spiders'?

Rom's petrified 'real' body is used to bring Annalise back to her normal shape after Alfred beats her into a pulp! But it might also be an explanation of how Rom manages to keep humanity safe from horrors! Mensis Ritual is effecting everyone like a status effect even if they can't perceive it, but the time-reversal powers can pull backwards most of the transformations: beasthood or Kin!

Not everyone could be saved (cases in point: Gascoigne and Amelia turning before we defeat Rom). But at the same time, those two, as well as average Yharnamites becoming beastly upon the hunt, are likely falling for their own hubris! This is not Rom's domain, but she can protect people from what Bloodmoon would otherwise transform them into! Gilbert is an example off the top of my head, not having been corrupted by blood and hunt but being afflicted with Ashen Blood from within that comes in "reaction" with the Moon and otherwise is just frailty and bad coughing fits!

Basically, her protection could go beyond simply "not showing" people scary things! It also makes me wonder if better studying this power could, potentially, discover a way to turn people back into humans even after they've became beasts/kin/monsters/etc! Maybe that's why the strongest variant of this rune was found in Loran too, because they were looking for a way to stop the transformation: Ashen Blood beasts are abundant in Loran dungeons after all! Nightmare Apostles (what 'Spiders' are) found in dungeons, and Patches goes there too, and Amygdalas also were a thing since those times as they're bosses in there. It could be thanks to them why some Loranites survived to this day (Suspicious Beggar and Henryk come to mind)

Or maybe this power is only accessible to those that did make a pact with Amygdalas, and even then where is the guarantee you will be strong enough as a Spider to help everyone? Say, someone wants to turn victims of Healing Church's experiments back into humans and makes a pact with Amygdala..... ...but what if that very act wrecks their humanity, or sanity overall, to the point they no longer want to do that? Or they see some twisted bigger picture for why they should not. Or they lose their freedom and are not permitted by Amygdalas to do it: they are EVIL gods, after all!

[citizen-sade]

“Imperious, choleric, irascible, extreme in everything, with a dissolute imagination the like of which has never been seen, atheistic to the point of fanaticism--there you have me in a nutshell. And kill me again or take me as I am, for I shall not change.” ― The Marquis de Sade

À la claire fontaine lilted softly from the prisoner's lips as the demanding, bloodthirsty howls of the crowd outside his window swelled and came crashing down with the guillotine blade. The Marquis stood at the solitary window of his room; hands clasped behind his back. A corner of his mouth quirked upward at the ensuing applause, though the smile did not touch his eyes. He imagined the blade slicing through the delicate white neck like that of a Christmas goose; the vitality of the lithe, supple young body that would go to waste in a pauper’s grave. What a shame. He considered the different ways in which the poor girl might yet be of use and hypothesized that the corpse would remain warm long enough for a proper send off, as her disembodied head looked on before the curtain of darkness fell. He grinned and mentally stashed the scene away for a future manuscript.

~~~

The Abbé de Coulmier strolled through the courtyard at Charenton with the grace and enthusiasm of one who found genuine joy in their life's work, greeting each patient with a gentle hello and blessing from God. Though their minds might be impaired, albeit some more than others, he had made progress on a few. Cleante no longer communicated exclusively as whatever animal he believed himself to be on any given day, preferring now to use the Alsatian dialect of French he had previously forgotten upon his admission to Charenton. Abelina no longer shrieked and hid from him or the doctors. He was proud of his work at the asylum thus far. Yet, there was one who seemed immune to his efforts; one whose proclivities were so infamous throughout France that it was a marvel he had not yet found himself on the executioner's block. It was to this particular patient's cell that the Abbé headed next. Though little, if any, progress had been made with him, he was at least far more coherent than many of the other residents and provided ample conversation. As was his habit, the Abbé offered a quick prayer to Saint Benedict before entering the cell.

He scanned the room before the voice at the window drew his attention.

“You’re late,” quipped the ward without peeling his eyes from the spectacle in the yard below. Before the Marquis' visitor would have a chance to respond, he beckoned the Abbé to join him at his post.

“Apologies, Marquis. Buchon fought tooth and nail to see the execution. I thought it best he be restrained and prayed over to ease his afflicted mind," the Abbé replied. He whispered a Hail Mary under his breath as he approached.

“Of course you did, mon ange,” he teased fondly, and shifted the topic to his current means of entertainment, “See there? Adultery, with an elected official; and hired an assassin to murder her husband,” he stated in a whisper that suggested lurid gossip, his eyes widening in feigned shock. He tsk'd softly, “Waste of a good cunt, surely—” he cocked a brow in the Abbé’s direction, “or is it?”

The priest grimaced at the crass remark, “A shame for her to die without last rites. And knowing the crowd’s barbarity, no proper burial either," he frowned and turned away to shield himself from the sight, and to face his most vexing patient; one who often horrified him, and ever so slightly stirred something else entirely within him—something which he dared not admit aloud, even to himself, “Besides, I thought you preferred your partners alive and squirming?”

"Beggars can't be choosers, darling," the Marquis sighed melodramatically.

The Abbé chuckled and shook his head. His attention turned to a nearby bookshelf, checking to see if there were any recent additions. “The staff said you were given a new book from an admirer. An edition of Sappho, was it?”

The slate gray eyes tracked the priest's every movement, “Yes, indeed,” he considered the volume in question and smirked, “In the market for some new wanking material, Abbé?”

The priest’s face burned despite his finely-honed knack for ignoring the Marquis’ crude sense of humor. He inhaled deeply through his nose, knowing it best not to provide the notorious deviant with whatever sick pleasure he gained from plucking at his nerves like the strings of a fiddle. He instead busied himself with a randomly selected book placed just-so for him to snatch off the shelf.

“You might try reading a book of a different variety, Marquis. Perhaps Confessions by Augustine? Or John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress?”

He flipped through the pages of the maroon leather-bound copy in his hands and immediately regretted it as words such as “quim” and “sodomite” jumped out at him, and he snapped the book closed before he could be subjected to further vulgarity. He did, however, admire the detailed filigree along the spine. Donatien watched the Abbé’s graceful fingers card through the pages of the book and ghost over the decorative cover.

“The purpose of your stay at Charenton is to be healed of your uncouth inclinations, not to worsen your condition," the Abbé continued, and returned the book to its original position, careful not to touch anymore of the perverse volumes in the Marquis’ library lest he contract something grisly from them.

While his back was turned, the Marquis slunk towards him, stopping short of trapping the unsuspecting Abbé between himself and the bookcase. He breathed in the Abbé's sweet, delicate scent. It was a welcome contrast to the sweat and lye of the mischievous young chambermaid that came to indulge her baser curiosities with his writings, and he found himself wondering if the flesh beneath the young man's robes was half as soft as hers.

“And what condition would that be, pray tell?”

The Abbé startled slightly and heaved a sigh of frustration, but quickly disguised it with a polite smile as he turned to face the man.

“The same condition that compels you to commit heinous offenses such as blasphemy, adultery, and... sodomy”, replied the Abbé with disdain, “The kind of condition that led to the poisoning of those poor brothel workers," he contemplated this for a moment and pitched his voice to a more covert volume, "Does Spanish fly even work... like that?”

The Abbé wondered if aphrodisiacs would hold any sway over him. It had been so long since he first buried any semblance of craving for the touch of another; so long since he’d heard the Devil whisper temptations in his ear like the sirens of mythology.

Donatien always got a rise out of this little dance of theirs, both literally and figuratively. He tipped his chin up and stared at the Abbé’s lips just enough to make a show of it.

“You might be surprised at what can... arouse the senses,” he purred, testing the waters of the young cleric's staunch convictions.

François rolled his eyes as one long-suffering and met the Marquis' flirtation with a smirk, "That depends on what you think might arouse mine?" he swallowed the forming lump in his throat as he boldly held eye-contact with the libertine, longing to discover for himself if this rogue was as ferocious as the masses claimed.

The Marquis’ eyebrows shot up. This was a new and intriguing development. The tip of his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth as he smiled, “Wine?” He gestured towards his desk and the crystal decanter that sat atop it.

"I wouldn't turn down a glass," said the Abbé as he collected himself to the best of his ability. He could pray for forgiveness later, if necessary; but for now, he took a kind of pleasure in the idea of indulging his humanity.

The Marquis hurried to his antique writing desk, easily slipping into the role of gracious host. He poured both glasses, but rather than delivering the second to his guest, he left it on the corner of the desk and flung his coattails out from beneath him to sit with a flourish. He crossed one leg over the other and draped an arm over the back of his chair, swirling the crimson liquid in his glass.

Perplexed, the Abbé moved to retrieve the proffered beverage. Donatien fixed his gaze upon the boy over the rim of his glass as he tipped it to his lips. He then turned his attention back to his wine and shifted to prop both feet up on a corner of the table, “Some have said that Dionysus was robbed of his soul's judgment by his stepmother, Hera, who acted out of jealousy against the child of her husband, Zeus, and Semele. In vengeance, therefore, Dionysus brought in the Bacchic rites and all its frenzy. And with the same aim, he also brought the gift of wine.”

Focusing on the story, the Abbé also swirled his glass, wafting the bouquet to his nostrils. Though possessing a lovely floral aroma, it was not one he recalled. Donatien had fine but mysterious tastes, after all.

"From my family's ancestral region of Provence," the Marquis explained, as though privy to his companion’s thoughts.

"Ah," the Abbé chuckled and stared into the murky scarlet depths, "Though delightful, the frenzied madness it can induce is why moderation is best", he mused to the Marquis, "even our Lord Christ turned water into wine, yet he is known for displaying only one maddened frenzy." the Abbé smirked thoughtfully, "I wonder how comical you might find it that his display of indignation was carried out against members of the church? And not only that, but their punishment came in the form of a whip of his own making.”

As François spoke and sipped his wine, Donatien became aware of something different with the coy little priest. Something off. Some strange sense of apprehension colored his typically calm, pleasant disposition, as if prepared to flee at any moment. The Abbé himself was likely as ignorant to this incongruity in his own manner as anyone else might have been, but while he was a lot of things, the Marquis was not just anyone.

He smiled impishly, “You should know by now, cherub—moderation is not in my vernacular.”

He drained his glass before dropping his feet back to the floor, “A whip of his own making, you say?” he leaned forward on the desk; fingers laced under his chin, “A man after my own heart.”

It delighted the Abbé that the irascible Marquis appeared, by all accounts, to be in a relatively amiable mood this morning; but for some reason, he couldn’t quite bring himself to match his energy. His usual smile felt disingenuous and forced somehow.

Again the distant sound of the blade disengaging and slicing through the air to land with an ominous thud in the lunette to the uproar of the crowd made the young man cringe and they sat in awkward silence. To keep his mind off the bloodbath outside, François found himself contemplating sinful delights and their consequences. He recalled how he had resisted much, not originally out of a desire to be Godly or to steer clear of the law, but due to fears drilled into him since childhood: damnation, lakes of fire, etc. He feared these, yet had met no one who had seen Hell, not truly; had met no one whom God had actively excommunicated from His eternal love and mercy. He had, however, seen many a devil walk the earth and inflict pain on many. And it occurred to him that he presently stood before, perhaps, the worst of them all.

Yet, the two men had forged a strange sort of camaraderie during the Marquis' time at Charenton, regardless of their drastically opposing views on life, philosophy and art. The Abbé would even venture to call the Marquis a friend.

“Indeed, you know no limits when it comes to... punishment,” mused the Abbé, taking a particularly hard gulp of his wine, as though to steady his nerves, “You know, it is a wonder that you call yourself a libertine when you would fit more along the lines of a hedonist: enjoying what is pleasurable for the sake of it."

"And why shouldn’t I? Tell me, Abbé,” he stood slowly, his voice simmering with contempt as it often did during these discussions, “why would your infallible God instill in me such compulsions, such desires, and go so far as to grant me the tools—“ it was at that moment that he gestured rather theatrically to the visible bulge that traveled down the right leg of his linen breeches—“with which to indulge them, if not with the intention of my doing so with every fibre of my being?”

For a moment the Abbé lost himself in a mental compilation of the Marquis’ known indiscretions and he blinked, returning to the conversation at hand, “Er... infallible..." he chuckled and paused, "even I doubt that as of late.”

The Abbé reminded himself to tread lightly around this prince of deviants—but how he craved to know more of his own humanity, his own capacity for moral abandon. Perhaps he should consider humoring modern ideologies. How better to assist the Marquis in his treatment, after all?

“Who would you worship, then," he continued, "if not the Creator who bestowed upon you your... tools?”

The Marquis placed both palms flat upon the desk and leaned menacingly toward the Abbé. “The only deity to hold any dominion over me, chérie—” he cocked his head to the side and declared solemnly, “—is myself.”

“Do you think all people should worship themselves? Or would you lift yourself up to be their deified savior instead?”

François would be lying to say the thought of worshipping himself did not appeal to the scrap of vanity he held close to his chest. He may be a man of the cloth, but that did not mean he could not appreciate his God-given form, or one such as the Marquis’. Though more than 20 years his senior, the nobleman maintained a lithe figure capable of a speed that startled the unsuspecting, and his hands possessed a grip that suggested he was accustomed to wielding more than just a quill to make others tremble. His angular face could be kind and inviting one moment, voraciously feral and ruthless the next.

“Is the common peasant worthy of being your disciple? Of being their own?” he ventured further.

The Marquis was stunned, to say the least, by this deviation from their usual course. He’d anticipated a fit of righteous indignation at the mere idea of anyone abandoning their moral teachings, much less the Abbé himself. But this display of curiosity from his appointed caretaker—the man whose sole purpose it was to remedy him of his blasphemous ways—was quite unforeseen, even fascinating; if mildly suspicious.

“I am not responsible for the actions of others. What anyone thinks of me or my work is their business. Not mine.”

He huffed and straightened, tugging at his jacket with affected umbrage. The web of tension between them drifted away and the Abbé chuckled in relief. As their eyes met, a snicker escaped the Marquis' pursed lips. This triggered fits of laughter from them both, which they indulged like errant schoolboys savoring a moment of familiarity.

When his giggling had subsided, the Marquis glanced sidelong at the Abbé as he finished what remained of his wine. He pondered how soft the young man's chestnut hair looked from where he stood; how it would feel to lace his fingers through the dark tresses; to make a fist and tug. How might the diligent hand of God react? With fear? Disgust? Or something very different? He inhaled sharply and put the thought from his mind. He was quite confident that he knew where the boy’s forlorn passions lied, and they did not stray far from his own—and they were certainly not with a decrepit madman.

Then it dawned on him—of course! What an ass he was not to realize it sooner, what an absolute imbecile! Why else would the Abbé seemingly come to him for advice regarding such urges, the fulfillment of which was as vital to the Marquis as the breath in his lungs, or the beat of his heart?

He stepped around the desk to the Abbé's side and placed a hand on his shoulder with comradely enthusiasm. His voice was devious, “Picture it, Abbé... pretty Madeline at your feet, gazing up at you adoringly with those big doe eyes... the warmth of her mouth—" —cradling the head of your throbbing member, he wanted to say. But he recalled the air of unease in the Abbé’s manner, and thus, allowed the words to die on his tongue.

François' heart sank. It was almost humorous how blind this worldly old man was to the opportunity that practically leapt at him, begging to be taken. Perhaps, however, it was for the best.

“We should not speak of such things,” the Abbé replied. He knew he mustn’t risk his position at Charenton, risk losing the occupation that had given him purpose, or worse: risk losing Madeleine and the Marquis both in one fell swoop to unholy fantasies, “Maddie is a good girl. Besides, she is far more interested in more... experienced men... such as yourself," he steeled his nerves, and, despite his better judgment, granted the following thought wings before he could rein it back in, “Not that I can blame her.”

He flushed as the words escaped his lips. Did he dare confess the storm that brewed within him, growing in intensity at his mere proximity to the Marquis? The yearning to explore his own baser impulses? With Madeline? With the king of depravity himself?

“That is to say... you see..." he sighed heavily in defeat and turned softly pleading eyes to the Marquis, "There is something in the idea of such carnality that beckons to me, Sir," he whispered, “something in me that cries out for release; to be given agency. God cannot save me from it, but—perhaps the Devil can.”

Even the notorious libertine was taken aback at this. Despite the lurch of his heart—as well as another noteworthy organ—he withdrew slightly and eyed the Abbé with suspicion.

“What is this?” he hissed suddenly, a note of accusatory trepidation creeping into his voice. Narrowed eyes darted to the door, to the window, and back to the priest, seeking some mode of hidden surveillance. His mind shuffled through various scenarios that included everything from the asylum’s strongest and most sadistic orderlies bursting into the room at any moment, to a particularly unpleasant social call from Dr. Royar-Collard himself. His pulse quickened as he imagined the last time he had been deemed... troublesome.

“Do not play games with me, Abbé,” his shoulders squared and the shadows beneath his eyes deepened, giving him a monstrous appearance; one, he reasoned, not unlike that which the general public certainly afforded him, “Glutton for punishment, though, I may be,” the Marquis snarled, “I do not appreciate being baited!”

The Abbé swallowed, shocked at his friend’s reaction and fearing he had ruined everything in that moment.

“I have never lied to you. Not once. And I would not start today," the Abbé insisted gently, as one attempting to calm a panicked animal.

If there was anyone who could possibly free him from the torment of his longing, he thought Donatien the most fitting; the most capable. He’d believed whole-heartedly that if there ever existed a being on this planet with a propensity for corruption, it would surely be the one who tempted and toyed with him at every opportunity, like the serpent in the Garden of Eden.

Had he missed the mark so utterly?

His stomach churned as bile crept up the back of his throat; he lowered his gaze and moved to depart, “Forgive me. I was too forward. I forgot myself."

He tried to run, hide his shame, make a beeline to the chapel to pray for forgiveness, but the Marquis strode after him and reached the door just as the Abbé grabbed the handle. He placed one large, splayed hand upon the door to shove it closed again and took the young man’s jaw firmly in his grasp. He searched the angelic face, the innocent crystalline eyes. Against every synapse in his body screaming that this new and intriguing development was likely too good to be true, he let his thumb whisper over the boy's bottom lip.

The Abbé’s heart raced. He imagined the writer's lips tasting of wine and sin. How divine it would be to learn the ways of the hedonist. The Marquis’ piercing eyes saw right through him, and he knew he couldn't take any of it back now if he wanted to.

“I want to know how, even while locked away, you enjoy life more than I could ever dream to,” he whispered.

The Marquis squared his jaw and slid his thumb between the quivering lips. His breath hitched as the priest eagerly accepted it. The Abbé was surprised to hear himself moan, and he regarded the Marquis with desperation. Oh, how he yearned to be liberated of the prison of his vows.

“Please," the boy pleaded, hoping the Marquis would not leave him in this state, his body practically vibrating with hunger, begging not to be turned away unmarked and unsatisfied, "Show me.”

The Marquis turned to brace himself upon the wall, both hands on either side of François’ head, and tried in vain to steady his ragged breathing, “Assuming this is not some kind of cruel jest, mon ange... return to me tonight, and we shall see where your loyalties truly lie—as well as, perhaps, what that divine mouth of yours is capable of.”

“I look forward to it, Sir,” the Abbé opened the door and reluctantly crossed the threshold, emerging from the other side a different man. He pulled the door closed behind him, but he did not head for the chapel. He decidedly need not issue any prayers tonight—not to the God of Jerusalem, at any rate.

The Marquis leaned on the door, letting his head fall back against it, and listened to the receding footsteps. Half-crazed by the pulsing need in his groin, he cursed himself for not taking the boy right there on his chaise, on his desk, at the windowsill. But even the young priest deserved better than a frenzied, haphazard fuck. Though he wasn't entirely convinced that this was not some clever plot to lead him straight into another of the doctor’s savage contraptions, or even the gallows, he was equally as uncertain that such trivialities held any weight for him at this point. He would burn that bridge when he came to it.

He ran a hand over his wig and down the front of his waistcoat to smooth any indication of disarray. He swallowed as his hand lingered on his stomach before permitting it to travel beyond the waistband of his trousers to his twitching bulge. He sighed as he palmed himself through the thin fabric, imagining his beautiful companion in all manner of compromising positions. He wrenched his hand away to conserve his energy for the Abbé; to utilize his feverish agony as fuel for whatever his salacious brain could concoct to desecrate his most alluring quarry yet.

~~~

The Abbé hurried to his quarters and stumbled to the basin of water to splash his face. It was all he could do to stop himself from thinking about what might yet transpire. The water fulfilled its purpose of allowing a modicum of focus for his other duties. Surely, he could be patient and contain himself until nightfall, though it felt like a Herculean feat not to think of the devil that haunted his very dreams with forbidden fruits which grew more enticing by the day. Forcing such thoughts aside, he dried his face and prepared to finish his daily tasks.

~~~

Donatien kept a watchful eye upon the waning daylight beyond his cell.

As twilight descended upon Charenton, the Marquis hummed to himself and began preparing for his guest. He yanked the strings of the pale satin stays as tightly around his waist as he could manage, and then a little more. He shrugged into a heavy brocade robe and scrutinized himself in the mirror, preening like a harlot. He combed his wig and corrected any flyaways.

He grinned at the sound of the heavy door creaking open, “You are early, cherie—“

When Donatien glanced back to his reflection, expecting to meet the Abbé’s sparkling gaze in the mirror, his heart plummeted when he instead met eyes of steel, reticent and wary. His lip curled with disdain.

The woman cocked her head in confusion.

“Get out,” he demanded, going about his business.

“I know what you are doing,” the Marquise whispered hoarsely. It was clear that she immediately regretted her words, and although she stood her ground, her proximity to the door did not escape his notice.

He turned a cold gaze to his estranged wife and pivoted to take slow, deliberate steps in her direction.

“I—I came to visit you earlier... It is the eve of our anniversary...”

“Oh, yes?” he stalked after her.

“I saw him leave here, Donatien,” she blurted, “I heard you whispering; saw the flush upon his cheeks and the look in his eyes. A look I know all too well—”

“What do you want?”

“Don’t do this. Please,” she pleaded.

“Do what, mon amour?” he scowled, eyes flashing. He managed to flush her away from the door, positioning himself between the woman and her only means of escape.

“I’ll tell the doctor,” she stammered, “Prostitutes, servants—even my own sister—these I can overlook! But I cannot, in good conscience, stand idly by while you seduce a man of God!” she stepped towards him, hands outstretched in supplication, “As your only ally—for the sake of my sanity, and reputation, please. I beg of you.“

"Do you?" he grinned wolfishly as he drove her back against the wall. She avoided his eyes as not to further provoke her husband’s infamous hair-trigger temper. He brought a hand up to twirl a loose lock of her golden hair around his finger. He stroked her cheek with his knuckle and took pleasure in her grimace. “I might be persuaded,” he purred softly as he nuzzled her neck. His fingers danced over the swell of her breasts, and he sensed her resolve begin to slip as her bosom heaved at his touch.

“But first,” he kissed her throat and suckled at her earlobe, earning a curious but tense squeak in return, “be a good girl, and do something for me, my love?” his hand grazed her curves above the lush fabric of her gown, traveling ever further along the stiff boning of her bodice and over her hips until it reached the junction of her thighs.

She melted into him then, “Oh, you are wicked,” she swallowed hard, sighing as he teased and caressed her through the material, her body responding to his charms with enthusiasm, “certainly, my darling. Anything.”

She yelped as the back of his hand caught her cheek and slid down the wall in a daze.

“Wretched, prying harpy!” the Marquis snarled dangerously. He knelt and took her face roughly in one hand, “You will leave and speak of this to no one, or I will have your head mounted on my wall, effectively silenced for all eternity by a permanent phallus in your whore mouth! Do you hear me?”

He flung her away and rose, pressing both palms to his eyes. He trembled with the effort to quell the familiar rising tide of emotion; an old rage that seemed an entity unto itself and often roared to life at the smallest perceived slight.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she wailed, “I am your wife!"

“You were a warm cunt!” he spat as he rounded on her.

The Marquise gawked at him with wide, desperate eyes as a beat of silence festered between them, broken only by her pitiful sobs, “You made me love you.”

“I made you come! Anything beyond that was the doing of your own naïve, girlish fantasies!”

The Marquise's skirts rustled as she used the wall for leverage to find her footing, "You're a monster.”

Something insidious snapped inside him then and his hand shot out to twist in his wife's hair, yanking her to her feet as an arm snaked tightly around her waist.

"And you love it, don't you, my little coquette?" he sneered as he captured her mouth. She squealed against his lips.

He took pride in the muffled clamoring of onlookers through the sliding service window in the door. If it was a show they were after, then, by God, he would deliver! He had a reputation to uphold, after all!

He easily overpowered the woman, swinging around to drop her onto the chaise lounge. She screamed as he straddled her, his better judgment clouded by the infamous lunacy that all too often eclipsed his poet's heart.

"If a good screw is what you're after, my dear," he shouted above her wails, loud enough for his audience to hear, "all you had to do was ask!" he pinned her to the bench, laughing cruelly as he hiked up her skirts despite her futile pawing.

The Abbé tried to contain himself to the best of his ability as he made his way to the Marquis’ cell. A small voice urged him to turn back while he still could, to take up the whip and petition the Lord for forgiveness and relief of all earthly temptations in the only manner he knew how. He winced and banished the thought from his mind. If I am no longer to be a man of God, I should, at least, remain a man of my word.

As he rounded the corner, he noticed a handful of other patients gathered around his destination. A feminine shriek met his ears followed by the bestial laughter of a deranged lunatic—but not just any deranged lunatic.

The sea of milling bodies parted as he ran to the door to see what the fuss was about. His expression quickly turned from curiosity to horror as he saw Donatien clawing at his struggling wife, tearing at garments bought at his expense.

“Marquis!” he yelled through the service window as he banged on the steel door. Fumbling for the key, he unlocked it and threw himself in. He knew some of the other inmates would kill to join in on what they’d consider good sport.

“DONATIEN!” he shouted with authority, “Remove yourself from her or I will do so for you!”

Neither the jangling of keys nor the opening and slamming of the door could catch his attention as effectively as the unmistakable voice of piety.

He froze, providing the Marquise with an opportunity to get in a good enough wallop to send him staggering. She ran to the priest for sanctuary and he embraced her. She shot him a look that went straight to his heart like a sliver of ice.

"God help you," she whispered, pity and disgust at war upon her tear-stained face.

Before he could respond, she disengaged from him and fled the room with the help of an orderly, wrestling through the crowd to freedom.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much!" the Marquis shouted after her.

All his meticulous primping undone, he straightened and raised his chin in defiance towards the Abbé. It was clear that he expected a scolding; perhaps even outright rejection. François stared at him in abhorred confusion, then shook his head and quickly checked outside the room, satisfied that those gathered had mostly dispersed. With any luck, the more absent-minded of them had immediately forgotten what they'd witnessed and no one would bring this up with Dr. Royer-Collard. It would not be the first time the Marquis had attracted an audience, after all.

“What were your intentions?” the Abbé admonished in hushed panic, his anger flaring at the thought of being discovered due to the Marquis' indiscretions, “What were you thinking?!”

The Marquis grinned and swayed as though drunk, if only on the power he'd wielded over the defenseless woman.

“Drink, Abbé?” He didn't wait for a response before stepping to the desk to pour himself a glass of wine, appearing to dismiss the priest’s revulsion altogether.

The Abbé sighed and ran a hand over his face, “Yes... Yes, I think a drink is in order.”

He stared after the Marquis, unnerved by the shift from carnal predator to proper French nobility. Though he would be amiss to pretend he was not also somewhat intrigued. The longer he was in the Marquis’ presence, he discovered, the more enticing the urge to throw himself upon the blade of his own corruption proved to be—without thought or remorse.

“What was she doing here?” he inquired in an effort to ease the tension, though he dreaded asking.

"A bit of nostalgia, perhaps? A certain itch that can't be scratched by just anyone?" Donatien wagged his eyebrows at the boy.

He could probably have guessed the original reason for her visit. He imagined decadent sweets embellished with gold leaf and other lavish gifts to placate him into giving her what she wanted: further access to his accounts? Divorce? Emancipation from his abominable shadow? His blood boiled as he considered the implications of her threat. Well, bugger it. And bugger her! Just because she was miserable didn't mean he had to be! Let her rat him out to the doctor with her crocodile tears and declarations of false modesty. He had more important matters to attend to presently.

Unlike his guest, the Marquis hadn't noticed the white-knuckled grip upon his wine until he glanced down at it. He cast the incident from his mind and lifted his glass to the Abbé in a half-hearted toast.

“For they eat the bread of wickedness, and drink the wine of violence," he intoned slowly, "But the path of the just is as the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day... The way of the wicked is as darkness," he set his glass down, regarding the Abbé with a wry tilt of his head, "they know not at what they stumble."

The priest blinked and creased his brow, “Proverbs... 4:17?”

On any other day, in anyone else’s chamber, having the Bible recited to him by one of his more challenging patients would have warmed his heart and brought a smile to his face. Today was not that day.

The Marquis' gray eyes flashed and he moved to the Abbé as the cleric poured himself a drink and raised it to his lips. Donatien covered François’ hand with his own and gently lowered the glass, “—and don’t get drunk with wine, which leads to reckless actions..."

He might have been impressed with the libertine’s knowledge of scripture, if it weren't so utterly disconcerting to have the Word of God quoted to him by Lucifer himself.

The Marquis radiated a heat that both frightened and excited him. It was not a comforting warmth, but one that reeked of sinister intent. He locked eyes with the fiend before him, enmeshed in the trappings of nobility, and expelled a quivering breath, “How would you have me, Sir?"

The Marquis closed his fingers around the Abbé's neck and pulled him forward to claim his mouth with feverish intensity. His tongue slipped past the full, soft lips to taste the nectar of gods and the smoky essence of long-repressed desperation. It was enough to set his body aflame and he moaned against those lips.

The Abbé savored Donatien's mouth; the passion his moans revealed—every thought silenced save for one: allowing himself to surrender to blissful debauchery. He embraced the Marquis, partly to bring his lithe frame closer and partly to keep from losing his balance as his head swam. Each moment spent tasting the libertine further spurred his hunger.

The Marquis knocked the glass from his hand, unconcerned with the shards that went flying and the spreading crimson liquid upon the floor of his glorified cell. His throat vibrated with a growl as his fingers hooked beneath the priest’s collar to yank it from around his neck. He clamped it between his teeth with a wicked grin.

Allowing instinct alone to guide him, François tore open his shirt and dropped to his knees to present himself as a willing sacrifice to a hungry god, prepared to be torn asunder. His body burned with desire and a longing for rebirth into something that had no need of rules, of Paradise, or of Hell.

"What would you ask of me?" he inquired with wide, shimmering eyes.

Donatien was suddenly very aware of how limited his breathing was in the whalebone stays, not that he minded. The lack of oxygen to his brain made him lightheaded and aided his giddiness. He spat the priest's collar to the floor and made quick work of the lacing at the front of his breeches, grinning smugly at the impressive organ that sprang forth, ready and waiting.

"Surely that beautiful mouth is proficient at more than just spreading gospel," he purred in a voice ragged with need.

The Abbé gulped and gazed at the cock that hovered before him—in awe, the Marquis was certain, and no one could convince him otherwise. The Abbé had been inundated with gossip of the madman's singular talents and proclivities as soon as it was decided he would be transported to Charenton. One rumor, at least, proved true.

He reached beneath the faded robe to brace himself upon the Marquis' thighs, frowning at the protruding hip bones. It was not lost on him how thin his patient was, but he had not been entirely aware of the extent of the Marquis' emaciation.

Donatien met his concern with crazed eyes, "Only my work silences the voices."

From the very first day of his employment at the asylum, François had made an oath to be a source of comfort and security to all of his patients. But perhaps, in this case, he could be an outlet—a means of release for the impure thoughts that plagued the Marquis, rather than his indecent scribbling and the havoc he wrought on unwilling victims which landed him at Charenton in the first place.

It was to that end that he took the thick rod in hand, pressing his lips to the shaft. He closed his eyes and breathed in the man's scent: bergamot and coriander, flanked by a hint of amber resin—sensual and profoundly compelling. Appropriate.

“It’s not a holy relic,” the Marquis urged with a note of impatience.

François smirked in spite of himself and wrapped his lips around the head. A bolt of arousal crackled along his spine at the groan he elicited.

How long had he gone without proper release? An errant voice wondered in the back of the Marquis' head. How long had he been left unsatisfied and aching? Aching for him? His angelic caretaker with the gentle eyes that now stared up at him in wanton fascination.

"Très bien," Donatien sighed as he stroked the dark curls, "There's a good boy.”

The Abbé’s ministrations faltered in surprise at the effect those words had on him and he gagged, which drew a sharp curse from the Marquis. François leaned back to glance up at him in concern.

The Marquis chuckled, "Go on, mon ange.”

The boy smiled sheepishly and did as he was told. The fire that simmered low in the Marquis' belly flared to life. He tipped his head back and drew a hand down his face and throat, over his chest. His fingers clenched in the Abbé’s hair, forcibly moving his head in rhythm with the gentle thrust of his hips. As he shoved himself deeper, he felt the priest's throat work to accept him without choking.

"Fuck—" the Marquis gritted his teeth against the dawning of his release. No, not yet. He still had much planned for his beautiful young prospect.

In an effort to stave off his orgasm, he moved to withdraw from the Abbé's eager mouth. François slid an arm around his waist to hold him in place.

"Ah—now, cherub," the Marquis cooed, "that's enough—“

The Abbé raised dark, ravenous eyes to the Marquis as he brazenly lapped at the underside of his pulsing member.

"Stop," he commanded more firmly to no avail as François proceeded to consume him, his fingers digging into the flesh of his thighs, "I said stop, damnit!"

The Abbé whimpered as a hand flashed across his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, his heart pounding as he tried to make sense of what had come over him.

"I'm sorry—please forgive me, Marquis."

"It is not I to whom you should beg forgiveness, Abbé."

François blinked and glanced up timidly. The Marquis extended a hand to him and he accepted, rising to his feet.

"Shhh..." the Marquis cooed, guiding him backwards toward the modest four-post bed, “Before your Lord and Savior, young man—what is it you want from me?”

The Abbé's bottom lip quivered as tears welled in his eyes, "I—I don't know—"

"You do," Donatien growled, taking the boy's face in his hands, "You felt it, didn't you? That fleeting stab of yearning, for exoneration, freedom—the kind of freedom that can only be borne of destruction."

Compunction and self-loathing gnawed at his soul. He recoiled from the Marquis and turned away.

Donatien reached around him and splayed a hand on his sternum, drawing him back against his chest. He tipped his head to the side to lap at the curve of his throat and suck on the fluttering pulse. The Abbé inhaled sharply and his eyelids fluttered. He reached back to clutch at the Marquis in desperation. He nearly expected fangs to pierce his skin and drain the very essence from his veins like some hellish creature, but he wasn't disappointed when the skilled lips instead sucked a bruise into his skin, teeth grazing the tender flesh. Donatien opened his torn cassock and reached down the front of the boy’s torso to fondle him through his trousers. The Abbé stiffened before relaxing into him, a shrill whimper dissolving into a moan.

The Marquis’ breath was hot against his ear, "Tell me what you want."

François swallowed heavily as his body burned with guilt and need. His mind worked to voice the only thought in his head; to translate into meager words the yearning that had been tormenting him for longer than even he realized; a torment that he never divulged to anyone.

"Break me.”

The words rang in the Marquis’ ears and made his cock twitch. He shoved the priest face-first onto the bed. François caught himself and rested on his elbows. He hung his head in anticipation of what may come. He didn’t dare move, nor look at the Marquis.

Donatien stalked around the side of the bed, his fingers trailing along the gauzy curtains that obscured him from view.

“Why me?” he inquired as one who simply wished to hear the words uttered aloud.

“I can think of none more fitting,” the Abbé replied, “none more suitable to aid me in my... undoing.”

He was aware of the imposing presence behind him suddenly, like that of an executioner on the chopping block, straddling him.

“Please,” he started to panic at the daunting silence, “show me Hell, that I may understand Heaven.”

“It would be my pleasure, chéri,” the Marquis purred, “And with any luck—yours, as well.”

He rucked the thick cassock up around the clergyman’s waist and, grasping the band of the Abbé’s trousers, yanked them down over the firm curve of his buttocks.

The Abbé tensed when he felt Donatien nestle his scepter within the valley of his crevasse and rock against him, savoring the much-needed friction. François shuddered at the obscene noises his body coaxed from the Marquis, his own erection straining against the pallet beneath him.

“Is this what you want, precious? To be used like a common harlot? A mere instrument for the pleasure of others?”

“No. Not others,” François was quick to correct, stammering between breaths, “just—just you—Marquis.”

The Marquis' movements gradually came to a halt and he felt him withdraw. A beat passed in which he took the opportunity to steal a bold glance over his shoulder. The Abbé considered that he may very well be in the presence of Pan in mortal form, his divine manhood still at attention.

Driven solely by desire and unholy need, the Abbé stood and turned to face his patient. Careful not to break eye contact, he proceeded to discard the remainder of his vestments. The priest stood bare before the libertine, who regarded him with tears in his eyes, wonder and restraint evident in the tension of his stance.

"Exquisite," the Marquis whispered, "Narcissus himself would weep with envy."

The Abbé smiled sweetly as he closed the gap between them. He slid the heavy robe from the Marquis' shoulders and raised a hand to the elder man's face. He was surprised by the reverence with which Donatien leaned into his touch, and he raised his chin to meet his lips in what was possibly the most chaste and venerable kiss that the Marquis de Sade could recall having experienced. If he didn't know better, he would have thought the young priest an incubus in disguise with the sole mission of stealing the breath from his lungs.

He could have it. Take my breath, the beat of my heart, take everything I am. It's yours.

He returned the kiss with fervor, letting his hands explore the youth's body. Cliché as it was, the Abbé's lean frame felt as though chiseled from the finest Peruvian marble, just as he'd imagined upon their first meeting. As his hands slid to his back to pull him closer, the Marquis' fingers grazed shallow indentations in the skin between his shoulder blades. He prodded at them gently, eliciting a hiss from the Abbé. He disengaged from the boy's mouth and curiously pressed his fingers into a row of relatively fresh scar tissue. François whimpered against him and buried his face in his neck.

Self-flagellation, the last refuge of the inexorably damned. It wasn't until the slender body began trembling against him that he realized the Abbé was weeping.

"Never again," he stated solemnly as he tenderly kissed the tears from the priest’s face, committing the taste to memory, "Do you understand?"

"But—I—I deserve it," the Abbé sputtered. The Marquis' hands were on his face and the nape of his neck; soothing but insistent.

"What do you deserve?’ he asked, lifting the young man’s chin.

"Punishment.”

“For what, dear boy?”

“For my insolence. For straying from God; from my calling—“ he tried to steady his erratic breathing, red-rimmed eyes glassy and distant as though reliving some past trauma.

"Is that truly what you believe?" the Marquis interjected suggestively, "Or is that simply what you tell yourself?"

The Abbé struggled to regain his composure behind a choked sob.

"You crave pain because it feels right," he continued, "because it is all you know, in one form or another."

He cursed the Church. A rotting, festering den of degradation and hypocrisy that preyed upon the lost and naïve—that's all it was, all it would ever be. A gluttonous entity that served none but itself. Loathing flared within him at the notion that one so lovely would be driven to inflict such violence upon himself in the name of an absurd fiction! And for what? Absolution? Penance for entertaining the simplest of human instincts? It was grotesque. It should be a sin!

He lowered his voice to a tantalizing whisper, "But what if I told you that you needn't fear pain? That you could use it? Enjoy it?"

"Yes. Please, Sir," François searched the man's face, "Show me."

The Marquis pivoted and in one swift motion, pinned the Abbé by the back of his neck to the ornate writing desk. He caressed his smooth, round ass and pushed gently on the small of his back to straighten it.

"Clasp your hands behind your neck, mon cher," he commanded, "Ne bouge pas.”

François groaned softly at his touch and pressed his cheek to the cool polished wood. He was quick to obey the Marquis’ orders and half-deliriously relished in the irony of his situation. Never in his right mind would he have anticipated the idea of being naked and prone on the Marquis de Sade’s writing desk to remain anything more than a fantasy, and one that nearly drove him to denounce his vows far sooner on more occasions than he was comfortable admitting.

The Marquis withdrew, leaving the Abbé feeling cold and vulnerable. His ears registered a rustling sound in the vicinity of the bed, followed by approaching footsteps. Donatien pulled his hands away from his neck and circled both wrists with what felt like rope. He could have laughed. The drapery ties. Of course.

The older man hummed melodically as he secured the boy's hands behind his back and tugged upon the woven cord to test its strength. Satisfied, he proceeded to trail light, teasing strokes of his fingertips along his sides, chuckling at the small flinches that betrayed the otherwise solemn clergyman. He squeezed his buttocks and massaged his fingers into the muscle, eliciting a moan. Just as the Abbé would begin to relax, an open palm came crashing down on his ass, making him cry out.

François grunted through clenched teeth with each ensuing strike until the pain abruptly ceased. His breath hitched when it was replaced by a moist finger slipping into his anus. He whimpered and the Marquis growled low in his throat. He allowed the ring of muscle to become accustomed to the intrusion before pushing in further. He could almost feel the Abbé's body vibrate beneath him; felt him lock his knees to keep them from buckling.

"My apologies, darling, I suppose I could have warned you," he cooed mockingly, "But where's the fun in that?"

He hooked his finger towards the boy's prostate and the Abbé keened, his hands clenching and unclenching in their bonds.

"You are doing splendidly, mon ange.”

The Abbé's heart swelled, stunned briefly into silence at this display of affection from the man with a finger in his ass. The moment was broken by another breathy curse as the Marquis slid a second finger inside him.

"What—what are you doing to me?" he groaned, finding himself rocking his hips back into the hand that stroked his inner walls.

"I am surely preparing you, my dear," the elder man purred, "to meet your Maker."

François didn't know what to make of such a remark, nor did he care as he openly whimpered at the Marquis' ministrations. The fingers slid out of him and he whined pitifully.

"Please,” he panted, any other petition he had intended to offer fading on his lips as he turned to rest his forehead upon the desk's surface.

"Oh, don't fret, Abbé. I am not through with you yet,” came the salacious reply at his side. He moved away again and the boy whined impatiently, pulling at the rope around his wrists. He heard the sliding open of a wooden drawer and something heavy and solid landed with a thud upon the priest's bottom.

He flinched, more out of surprise than the pain of it. Though the blows started slowly, they soon came quicker and harder on each cheek, and they began to sting. His body stiffened with each thwack upon his reddened flesh. He moaned in sheer relief as the stinging was replaced by the Marquis' hand stroking his burning skin. The Marquis kissed his shoulder; trailed a heavy hand over his back. Then something slid along his anus.

"Deep breath," he advised, gently inserting a handle of sorts into the priest's orifice.

He went rigid with the effort to not wriggle away, though he relaxed around the makeshift phallus more quickly than he expected. Donatien coaxed his feet further apart and began twisting the instrument with each slow thrust.

“Ungh—God—“ François groaned mindlessly.

The Marquis uttered a shuddering breath that became a soft, dark laugh, “He’s closer than you think, chaton.”

The Marquis sped up as he relished the lewd noises that broke from between the Abbé’s parted lips. His own breath grew short and rapid.

François dropped his forehead back to the table. What was he doing? What manner of deplorable sin had led him here? his better sense chided and scorned, which served to make him burn all the more. Something blossomed in his belly and he banged his head against the table.

“Please,” he whined through tears, “I can’t—“

"Can't what, dearest? Can't take it anymore?" The priest could do naught but nod.

“Shhh,” the Marquis cooed, fingertips tracing the scars that crossed his back.

He withdrew the object and slammed it down on the table beside the Abbé’s head. The clergyman flinched and gazed upon the homuncular image of Christ nailed to the cross, the stem of which tapered to a rounded tip. His natural inclination to react with disgust melted into a kind of thrill that he hadn’t yet processed when he heard a match hiss to life. He raised blurry eyes to see the said match in one of the Marquis’ hands; a tall, red candle in the other.

The priest cried out as hot wax dripped over the small of his back. He was panting audibly with the effort to remain standing, half-crazed by sensation, and struck by the desire to show his gratitude; to wrap his arms around the Marquis; to take his cock in his mouth once more— anything. He squirmed as the heat traveled up his back.

A second curtain tie thrust in his face, “Ouvrir," the Marquis commanded, grinning at his expression of bewilderment.

He eyed the cord and allowed the Marquis to fix it securely between his teeth. It hadn't occurred to him what the rope in his mouth was for until hot wax pooled within the raw scar tissue that latticed his back and he clamped his teeth around it with a muffled scream.

The nobleman sighed dreamily and tipped the candle upright, marveling at how the boy's muscles and shoulder blades worked beneath his skin as he writhed. When the searing discomfort abated, the Abbé let his head fall to the desk, struggling for breath and drooling around the rope like an invalid. The Marquis chipped away at the cooling wax. Half-lidded eyes glanced to the figure at his side, towering over him like some demonic entity. In fact, in that moment, he wouldn't have been surprised to see a pair of great black leathery wings sprout from the Marquis' back.

He uttered a meek, uncomprehending noise as Donatien untied his wrists, “On your back, s’il vous plaît.”

Despite the simple request, he could not will himself to move. His body felt too heavy; too weak to generate the energy required to perform such an arduous task as turning over.

Luckily he needn’t think too hard on it. The contents of the desk rattled as the Marquis tossed the Abbé onto his back like a rag doll. His thighs ached from supporting himself, but his discomfort eased as the older man straddled him, pinning his body to the desk to relieve him of the task of holding himself upright. He felt an odd twinge of relief as the Marquis bound his wrists once more, this time above his head.

“Ouvrir,” he instructed again, briefly removing the gag. The Abbé worked his jaw to keep it from locking up and obediently took it between his teeth again.

François shivered under the intensity of the Marquis’ gaze as his eyes tracked down his body, possessive and hungry; his hands following suit. The boy gasped at his touch and exhaled a sigh of nervous anticipation.

The Marquis turned something flat and sharp over in the palm of his hand. Light glinted off one jagged edge and it dawned on the Abbé that the object which the Marquis wielded was a fragment of his smashed wine glass.

His attention shifted to the sudden pressure on his hips as the Marquis’ erection twitched against his thigh, and François realized it wasn’t so much to aid him in standing as to hinder his movement. His heartbeat tripled as his mind raced in panic. Was he going to slit his throat? Carve out his heart and eat it with a knife and fork?

"Now—and this is very important, mon cher," the lilting voice stated in a low, firm whisper, "I'm going to need you to stay... very... still."

Donatien pressed a sharp edge into his skin and dragged the point from sternum to navel. The priest’s body went rigid as he moaned around the rope in his mouth.

The Marquis' brain itched. His pupils expanded and his fingers convulsed restlessly. He had to swallow his mounting exhilaration to keep his hands from shaking.

He was almost ashamed of himself for further marring the young clergyman’s beautiful flesh, but the sight of the stalwart, virtuous caretaker writhing beneath him, issuing wordless pleas for mercy; shedding years of indoctrination to give himself to the Marquis’ singular brand of restitution—this was recompense enough.

He dipped a fingertip to the rivulets of blood that welled in the shallow wound and touched it to his tongue.

"Have you had enough, my darling?" he asked, holding the glass shard to his quivering skin.

“No,” the Abbé croaked with urgency, his chest heaving as he continued to mutter quietly.

The Marquis leaned over him, “What was that, cherub?”

“More,” he wheezed, “Please—“

"Comme vous le souhaitez."

His body blazed to life as the Marquis pushed the shard of glass into his torso, opening a deeper gash in his skin than before. He cringed at the acute sting and then yielded to the pain as the weight in his limbs dissipated. With each incision, all trace of shame and guilt seeped from him in thin scarlet rivers over his stomach, interrupted only by the Marquis’ insistent tongue.

Donatien straightened, his heart hammering in his chest and his pale eyes clouded with raw, carnivorous lust. A single word escaped his lips like a wisp of smoke, “Magnifique.”

François watched in fascination as the man above him licked blood from his lips. His blood. The Marquis undid the knot at his wrists. He unwittingly tried to stand, but his knees buckled, causing him to stumble into the desk. The Marquis wrapped him in a warm, strong embrace, smoothing damp curls from his forehead and pressing his lips to his temple.

The next thing he knew he was being ushered to the Marquis' bed and lowered to the edge of the mattress. He clawed at the older man, his shaking hands clumsily working to unfasten the stays. Donatien batted his hands away to undo the remaining busks and slid the cincher from around his waist to drop it to the floor.

The Abbé clung to the Marquis’ nude form, running his hands over his torso, kissing and licking at his chest in a mindless frenzy, his only thought to somehow get closer—to crawl inside the madman's ribcage and curl up beside his beating heart where the Almighty and His flock of hypocrites couldn’t find him. The priest’s tongue trailed a moist line from his navel to his right nipple and he lapped at it, making the Marquis arch against him. Emboldened by this reaction, he took the stiff bud between his teeth and immediately felt a hand on the back of his head. The Marquis moaned and tugged the boy's head back to greedily claim his mouth. François melted into him, convinced that he would be dragged to Hell any moment; and moreover, that he would be obliged to follow.

The Abbé broke the contact to shift backwards on the bed, eyeing his host coyly. He stretched out on his back to lie among the silk pillows and reached for the Marquis. Something wicked flickered in the slate gray eyes as he slowly crawled over him, caressing the arm that snaked around his neck. He turned his head to kiss the young cleric’s wrist, his palm; working his way up to wrap his lips around his index and middle fingers. The Marquis' eyes issued an unspoken challenge which the Abbé was all too happy to accept.

"How may I worship you, my pet?" the Marquis asked, his voice thick with desire.

Yet unable to find the courage to utter such filthy entreaties aloud, the priest reached down to stroke himself rigid by way of an answer.

Donatien watched his hand work with parted lips, vaguely curious as to just how experienced the Abbé was in matters of self-pleasure, “Use your words, dear heart."

François sighed, "Show me what it's like."

Hell, that was damn good enough. With a roguish smile, the Marquis slid down the young man's body, tasting the pale, sensitive skin along the way. He kissed and stroked his inner thighs, finding a spot that made the Abbé gasp and pinching the skin between his teeth; sucking blood to the surface. The Abbé whimpered and twisted, and Donatien gripped his thighs to hold his lower body still. He licked away a strand of moisture that streamed from the tip of the boy's eager member and gently fondled his scrotum.

Shadows churned behind the priest’s eyelids as he tried in vain to catch a merciful breath. Still fearing that this could very well be one of his bizarre fever dreams, François stole a glance down between his legs and sighed with delirious relief when it was, indeed, the Marquis that rolled his testicles between his fingers and not Lord Byron; or better yet—the Virgin Mary, herself. That was one particular nocturnal emission he fully intended to take with him to the grave.

The Marquis’ warm mouth was upon him suddenly and his back rose from the mattress. Donatien purred as he swirled his tongue around the head of the Abbé’s cock, humming as he took him deeper, letting the vibration of his throat draw sounds from the divine creature at his disposal that increased in despair the longer he worked.

He reached up to shove two fingers between the Abbé’s parted lips, encouraging him to thoroughly lubricate them with his saliva. He then slung the boy’s left leg over his shoulder and teased his entrance, circling the ring of muscle with the tip of one finger before sliding it in, followed by the second. He leaned down to take the leaking organ into his mouth again as he pistoned his fingers.

All manner of blasphemies clamored up the Abbé’s esophagus, through his clenched teeth and past the moist, pink lips. He muttered broken phrases under his breath that were not immediately decipherable to the Marquis, until he realized the Abbé was not speaking English, nor was he thoughtlessly moaning phrases in their native French.

It was Latin.

Some dark and voracious thing uncoiled in the depths of his soul and he licked his lips

“In nomine Patris,” the Marquis chanted as he slithered up the needy, panting thing beneath him, “et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti—”

“Amen,” the Abbé interjected, throwing one arm around his neck to pull the Marquis’ mouth to him.

Confident that his lips held the Marquis’ attention, François shifted and hooked a leg over the other man's thigh and maneuvered himself to quickly switch positions with the Marquis before he fully registered what had happened. Donatien suddenly found himself pinned to the bed underneath the Abbé, his glorious form outlined by a faint silver aura of moonlight that streamed through the window.

He laughed wickedly, “Careful, Abbé... God is watching.”

François shuddered, gasping as he pressed his hips into the sharp pelvic bones beneath him, “I hope so."

Donatien met his groin and undulated against him, making him whine pitifully, "Please, Marquis—”

“What is it, my beautiful heathen?”

He rocked his hips against the Marquis’, unable to do much more than whimper his torment. Just as Icarus had flown too close to the sun, so, too, did the Abbé de Coulmier drift ever closer to madness.

"Say it, mon ange," his own voice grated, thready with lust, "Let me hear you.”

The Abbé gasped when Donatien's hardened cock slid against his, his heart threatening to burst forth from his chest. He couldn't think; couldn't will his brain to form coherent sentences in the first place, let alone communicate them to his lips. The Marquis' hips stilled and he sat up to grasp a fistful of dark brown curls.

"Beg for me," he commanded.

François regarded the Marquis beneath thick lashes when a foreign urge took him, and he gave into the impulse to wrap his fingers around the Marquis' throat and shove him back down to the mattress. The nobleman grinned fiendishly.

"No," the priest bared his teeth in a feral snarl as he squeezed his windpipe, “You beg."

The Marquis wheezed, positively throbbing at this riveting turn of events. His eyes glinted feverishly and he grabbed the boy's wrist. The Abbé felt his Adam's apple bob beneath his palm; felt the quivering pulse against his fingertips. He tasted the Marquis' sweat as he ran his tongue up the side of his neck, smirking when he bucked under him. He increased the pressure on his throat again and relished the strangled note of encouragement he received.

Trepidation sprang to the Marquis' eyes as François suddenly reached for his wig. He tried to sit up in protest but the Abbé hindered his movement with unexpected force. He shushed him softly as he removed the wig and combed his fingers through the elder man's thinning hair.

Despite the Abbé's delicate countenance, those eyes returned to the Marquis' face, usually so clear and innocent, now clouded with lust and devoid of their familiar compassion. He felt the weight upon his throat disappear to travel down his angular body and circle his engorged cock. Donatien growled as the Abbé began to stroke him.

"Come now, Marquis. You want to defile me, don't you? Ravish me...” he leaned down to breathe hotly against his ear, “Fuck me?”

The Marquis chuckled weakly, "Démon," he gasped. His throat worked with the effort to swallow, "You know I do."

“Tell me,” the boy hissed with a coy smile.

“Mmm, yes, my little—trollop—“ he moaned, his typical humor edged with greed, “I want to fuck you. I want to violate and ravage you until you forget your own name. I want to show you what makes eternal damnation so enticing!”

He clutched at the sheets as though to keep from falling off the edge of the earth. Although satisfied with his answer, the Abbé did not cease his ministrations and Donatien panicked when he felt the telltale tightening in his groin.

“Mercy, my darling—“ he urged.

François slowed his hand, inner turmoil evident in the crease of his brow. The Marquis grinned as he witnessed various emotions flicker across the priest’s face.

“It’s a potent aphrodisiac, isn’t it, dumpling?” he panted, “having power over another man."

The boy looked thoughtfully at the turgid organ in his hand and inclined his head to taste it once more. He licked at the head, then shifted his gaze to the Marquis’ pained face, “Please—“

"Whatever you want, my pet,” he twitched in the Abbé’s grasp.

François locked eyes with the Marquis and hovered over his lap. Slowly, he lowered himself onto his shaft. He squeezed his eyes closed against the onslaught of stimulation as he opened to his considerable girth, nearly coming apart at the strained groan that came from under him.

“Look at me,” the Marquis growled, his fingers digging into the Abbé’s thighs.

The Abbé shivered and clenched around the Marquis’ cock, drawing a ragged moan from his lips. The room swirled around him like some surreal landscape, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he was making a heinous mistake the likes of which he could never come back from.

God is watching.

Those words should have been enough to jolt him back to his senses; back to the light of the Lord’s love and forgiveness, to the sobriety of His wrath and away from this den of lust and depravity—away from the Devil himself.

But to both his relief and horror, they didn’t. Instead, those words clawed up his spinal column to drill into the base of his skull. They spurred the rhythmic undulation of his hips as he proceeded to grind against the Marquis, who gazed in awe at the glorious creature that rode him like his immaculate body was made for it, slack-jawed and mewling like a kitten.

The Abbé shifted clumsily, his movements faltering as his thighs began to tremble. The Marquis reached up to stroke the boy’s face and carefully slid out of him with a grunt.

“Turn over, darling,” he panted. Although the Abbé couldn’t make himself move, he was soon somehow on all fours as the Marquis positioned his prick at his entrance.

Donatien bent to sink his teeth into the muscle of the Abbé’s shoulder, eliciting a broken sob as he buried himself to the root.

“Mon dieu,” the Marquis moaned as the tight canal yielded to him. His fraying composure loomed in the distance and he pressed his forehead to the small of his back. He tried to will his rapid heartbeat to slow; to keep his greed at bay long enough to permit a moment of acclimation. François panted beneath him and he withdrew his cock to the tip and gradually sunk it back in again like the plunger of a syringe. He repeated this excruciatingly slow maneuver, taking advantage of the priest’s feeble groans and whimpers.

When he could no longer endure the torture, the Marquis pulled out and surged forward. The boy’s upper body dropped to the pallet with a muffled curse. Bursts of light blossomed in the periphery of the Abbé’s vision with each thrust. Donatien slapped and gripped the priest’s ass, grunting like an animal as he claimed him, fingers digging into his shoulder for leverage.

François then sat up on his knees and arched his spine to lean back against him. The Marquis held him to his chest by his neck, snarling lewd encouragements into his ear as he continued to drill into him.

“Marquis—” François struggled for breath against him, “Wait—“

The libertine growled in frustration but slowed his momentum, “Yes? Are you alright?”

“Mm,” he answered with a groan as he felt Donatien pulse inside him, “Let me look at you—“

“By all means.”

He gasped when the Marquis pushed him back down and reluctantly unsheathed himself before shoving the priest onto his back. The Abbé found he quite enjoyed the manhandling, the idea of being a toy, an unfeeling tool, a mere outlet for the Marquis' insatiable carnality. The thought was enough to elicit a quiet moan as he was maneuvered to Donatien's satisfaction.

The Marquis paused, trailing a hand over the flat, hard plane of his stomach, smearing fresh blood down his torso, and thrust his bloodied fingers between the Abbé’s lips. He tasted iron and bitterness tinged with something sour, but he held onto Donatien’s wrist and hungrily sucked his fingers clean.

“You make such a lovely whore,” the deep, sensual voice purred and he moaned around the Marquis’ fingers as Donatien teased him, “just as I imagined.”

The young priest keened at the praise as the Marquis stroked his cock. He bucked into his hand and let out a hopeless whimper of despair.

“What is it, precious? Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I—I can’t think—,” the boy whined desperately.

Donatien snarled, “Tell me how you long for desecration. Confess to me, Abbé.”

“I admit it freely... since we first met—“ he stuttered, swallowing hard, “I have craved destruction at your hands.”

“Yes...” Donatien encouraged, his free hand moving of its own accord to fondle himself.

“Please—“ the priest moaned.

“You try my patience, chérie,” the Marquis grated dangerously, “I could just as soon finish in your wounds and send you on your way.”

“No! Please, I beg of you, Marquis.”

Donatien steadied himself between the priest’s legs and throbbed at the vulgar groan of relief from the young man as he sank his scepter to the hilt. He held fast to the Abbé’s hips as his body arched off the bed, thin waif-like legs wrapped securely around his waist.

"Yes...” the Abbé sighed heavily, as though he were an ailing man and the Marquis' pulsating cock was his only relief.

He drove into the Abbé slowly, giving them both time to adjust as he took in the youth’s slender, rigid frame.

The Marquis moaned obscenely as the boy’s inner walls squeezed him. He wondered when he’d last enjoyed a partner half as lovely and pliant as the Abbé de Coulmier.

“Fuck,” came a broken whimper from beneath him, interrupting his reverie. He shifted and hooked one of the Abbé’s legs over his shoulder. The priest jolted with a sharp cry as he went deeper.

“Ah—Marquis—“ the boy gasped.

“Mmm,” the Marquis’ voice simmered, “Yes, dear?”

“Harder."

That simple word was enough to make his precarious restraint slip from his grasp. His hands slid from François' hips to his waist, and he pressed his thumbs into the jagged cuts he’d made in the Abbé’s flesh. The boy cursed sharply, and the Marquis grinned as he caught a breathy plea for more.

“That’s right, beautiful,” the Marquis growled, “Do you understand now?”

The Marquis’ voice suddenly seemed far away, as though they were shouting at one another from separate ivory towers. Images flitted before his mind’s eye; long-forgotten visions of a former life—a life he'd been forced to leave behind... a naive, gullible youth at seminary school... an older boy, cocksure and defiant...with blonde waves and hazel eyes... soft hands that had never known a hard day’s work on his body, lips he'd denied tasting of tobacco, communion wine, and vice...

"If you, then, will worship me—"

“—it will all be yours.”

François tasted blood as he bit down on his tongue lest he wake the whole asylum. Warmth flooded his body, starting at his toes and blazing throughout his limbs. He felt as though illuminated from the inside out, but not by the light of the Lord, no; quite the contrary—by hellfire. Embers flickered in his eyes as they rolled backwards in his skull.

And whoever doesn’t fall down and worship shall the same hour be cast into the midst of a burning fiery furnace.

A primal howl echoed from somewhere above him, barely audible over the blood rushing in his ears.

"Return to me, darling," cooed the Marquis as he stroked his face, allowing François a moment to coalesce. The glazed eyes fluttered open and fixed on him quizzically, as though waking from a dream. He hissed at a sudden intense burning sensation in his stomach and glanced down at himself, frowning at the milky white substance that oozed into the incisions in his torso and made them sting.

“Pardonne-moi,” the Marquis smirked, “I couldn’t help myself.”

Donatien then inclined his head to sample the concoction of his release mixed with the priest’s blood. Before François could react, the man’s mouth was on his. Copper and salt, ruin and revelation swirled on his tongue and he whimpered against the Marquis’ lips as he braced himself with one arm, throwing the other around the libertine’s shoulders. The Marquis moaned softly, gently lacing his fingers in the boy’s hair, and deepened the kiss with peculiar reverence.

He then parted his lips further to create a seal and claimed the clergyman’s breath. François leaned into him as Donatien exhaled into his mouth. For a moment they were one, sharing one breath, hearts fluttering in sync, until they both grew lightheaded and were forced to part. The Abbé pressed his forehead to the Marquis’, panting softly.

“One moment, dear heart,” the Marquis whispered as he shifted to rise from the bed, “Don’t move.”

François eyed the writer’s naked, moonlit form as he crossed the floor, contemplating different ways in which he could make his gratitude known. It then occurred to him that he would have to leave this room, eventually... leave the man who single-handedly banished his fears and made eternal suffering seem like the most exquisite bliss. Tears pricked his eyes.

Water sloshed in the wash basin as the Marquis dipped a rag into it and wrung it out. Returning to the bed, the Marquis knelt on the edge of the pallet and leaned over François, coaxing him to lie back. He distracted the priest with another sensual kiss as he carefully wiped his chest and stomach clean, dabbing with care at the cuts. The Abbé exhaled sharply, his body flexing, and Donatien froze.

“No, it’s alright,” the priest mused, “I... I think I like it.”

The Marquis cocked a brow and twisted his fingers into the priest’s stomach, drawing an overstimulated groan from his pretty plaything.

“Mm,” Marquis chuckled as his spent organ twitched.

He proceeded to gently clean up his little mess. When he was done, he rose to discard the rag, also retrieving a small tin and a little oval box from his desk. Donation lifted the ceramic lid, decorated with a hand painted portrait of Napoleon Bonaparte. The Abbé could but guess that the eyes had not been scratched out upon its purchase.

The libertine glanced sidelong at the priest as he extended the box in offering. The pale blue eyes lit up at the selection of Belgian pralines, and then fixed upon him with playful suspicion.

“Do you really believe yourself in need of coercing with aphrodisiacs,” the Marquis teased, adding in a sly whisper, “my little whore?”

François bristled and felt his cheeks redden. As he went to select one, the Marquis withdrew the box and plucked one out to hold to his lips. François lowered his hand and shyly opened his mouth for the Marquis to place the chocolate on his tongue.

Cream liqueur flowed down his throat as his teeth broke the chocolate shell. It was as rich and decadent as the Marquis' own seed. The pain of his lacerations was a distant memory as Donatien coated each of them with salve from the tin. The Abbé marveled at how the most trivial of actions could somehow be made sensual by the Marquis; but then, that had always been his modus operandi, after all.

Donatien set the box aside and François wondered how such a luxury could have slipped into the asylum. He then found himself questioning how such an instrument as the crucifix used to... prepare him... had also come to inhabit a drawer in the Marquis’ antique writing desk.

“Marquis...?”

“Yes, mon cher?”

“These chocolates, the... crucifix...” he shuddered with the memory, “Where did you—?”

“That insufferable bitch is, at the very least, good for one thing...” he paused and sneered, rolling his eyes, “Alright, two things.”

The boy chuckled and decided not to press the matter, despite his curiosity as to what other manner of things his patient had secreted away in his chambers. The reference to the Marquise, however, lodged in his heart as he suddenly recalled the incident earlier that evening. His pulse quickened and he looked to Donatien in panic.

The Marquis calmly stroked his cheek, “Do not fret, chanton,” he soothed.

François scoffed, “My concern is not for me, Sir.”

Donatien grinned and attempted to quiet him with a gentle but possessive kiss, “It will be morning soon.”

“I don’t want to leave. Please don’t send me away, Marquis.”

“My dear boy, would you rather they find you here, with me?”

"Yes!" the young man cried, "Let them find us, tangled in one another beneath these coarse, threadbare sheets, to be thrown into the pit—together."

A dark stoicism flickered across the Marquis' face, and he eyed the frantic priest with something akin to amused pity. As he carded his fingers through the mussed chestnut hair, he noticed the boy's eyelids begin to flutter, “You have had quite the exertion, poppet," he responded dismissively, "Sleep. I promise all will be clear in the morning.”

A wave of drowsiness came over the Abbé and his racing thoughts seemed to falter. He blinked as the Marquis' image blurred before his eyes. Despite the twisting anxiety in his gut, François curled up against the elder man’s side, suddenly too groggy to argue, and surrendered to the fatigue as he took in the mingling scents of cum and sweat drying on their skin. Nails raked gently over his scalp, and he allowed the soft humming above him to lull him into slumber.

~~~

The Abbé was awoken the next morning by the sound of alarm and the howls of the inmates. He bolted upright and immediately clapped both hands to either side of his pounding head as his stomach churned.

The quiet of the room itself was immediately apparent to him. There was no breathing, no snoring, no shifting of another sleeping form in the bed next to him.

There was nothing.

Reluctant to open his eyes to the sunlight that streamed in from the single window, François pawed blearily at the cold void next to him, desperate to make contact with something—anything—as his heart began to race and the ball of dread coiled ever tighter in his stomach.

“Marquis?” he hissed, grimacing as he attempted to open his eyes, “Marquis?!”

It wasn’t until his vision had fully coalesced that he registered the door to the Marquis’ cell standing ajar, and a familiar face smiling at him from the threshold. But it was not a friendly face, nor did it grace him with a warm, comforting smile. It was a hard, false smile, meant only to mock and debase.

The young priest’s blood froze in his veins, and he scrambled backwards over the empty mattress until his back hit the wall.

“Good morning, Abbé,” Dr. Royar-Collard greeted him with a jagged edge of amusement as he meandered into the room, “I can hardly wait to hear this.”

[darkestprompts]

More Reverse Redemptions

Reynauld, Dismas, Junia and Paracelsus here

King Alhazred the Wise, who tried for years to harness power through necromancy, achieving prodigious strength and resilience but in exchange becoming afflicted with a deadly, rotting disease. His great library burns to the ground the night he disappears from the palace.

Scholar Baldwin desperately reaching for occult knowledge to try to halt a dangerous epidemic that is causing hundreds to suffer, becoming a host for the beings of the Void as a result.

Young Margaret having to run from her burning home with only an arbalest in hand, looking back on the roaring fire and seeing the malicious eye of a great beast.

Lady Missandei, barely escaping the assassination of her father by a raging mob thanks to her skill with the musket.

Mercenary Josephine killing her commanding officer and betraying her squad to the enemy in exchange for the sole thing she ever desired.

Adventurous merchant Barristan losing his entire caravan in an ill-advised venture to find a mysterious artifact, his only prize a strange censer that whispers with their essence.

Tardif in a transactional relationship with the Light, exchanging his own blood for the power to take revenge.

Former beggar Damian who one day came to the realization that the only way to stop evil men from abusing the downtrodden was to hunt down every last one of them wherever they may be.

Boudica running in terror from the slaughter of her people only to fall into a ravine of snakes. As she cuts off her hand to save herself from the venom, the image of the serpent begins to haunt her like a malicious spirit.

Amani becoming so infused with primal rage at those who would treat her like a thing that her cries chill the very bones of her kidnappers as she tears them to pieces.

Former gendarme William, trying to stop an eldritch ritual to save a young girl and accidentally being turned into an werewolf-like abomination.

Imprisioned heretic Bigby escaping his captors from the holy order with the help of the monastery’s resident guard dog, who he tended to with his alchemical concoctions in the past.

Talented young musician Audrey, swayed by dark songs she keeps hearing in her dreams, presenting her magnum opus at a party. All her most hated relations, chief among them her own husband, die during the concert. She leaves the estate carrying only a fiddle and a theatrical mask.

Sarmenti assassinating a tyrant with a well-placed drop of poison, then pillaging his tomb and that of his ancestors out of pure spite, moving on to desecrate every rich bastard’s crypt on the countryside.

[hemanuely]

Afflicted Beggar - Marayata Default Roads Lush (Defaults Para The Sims 2)

Você Pode Encontrar Esses Defaults Aqui:

I Have Made My Way Here (tumblr.com)

[katyahina]

Points of interest about Old Hunter Henryk (some evident, some possible)

• There was a superstition amongst Old Hunters to wear double-wrapped belt around their right leg (no wonder since it is the leg Gehrman lost + all these wheelchair Old Hunters), but Henryk wears belts around both legs! Perhaps he just was extra careful back then.

• His life was "tragically long" not because of being partnered with Gascoigne, but because of his own power! Excerpt from original Japanese script (here, by Last Protagonist ( x )) goes like this:

Basically he is a very skilled Hunter who expected to die in one of those hunts but that never happened. Wonder what that makes of the Paleblood Hunter being able to kill him? Simplest explanation is something-something immortal-for-night Moon boost, but game play aside I think it works better if 'the only thing that was able to weaken him was a broken heart'.

• Younger one of Gascoigne's daughters mentions a 'granddad' next to Viola and Gascoigne, which very likely refers to Henryk as he is the closest male character connected to this family. He could've been Viola's dad, or at least this is just how he's perceived in this family.

• Funny since Henryk is a slavic name that means something like 'the most important person in the house'. I dunno if that was intentional, but would be interesting if he actually turned out to direct all errands and chores in the family xD

• Henryk has a mole on the right side of his nose.

• His set has high bolt resistance which makes one think of Loran, but it is actually even more obvious devs implied that relation, seeing how in beta his set JUST was Loran Hunter set ( x ) :

• Henryk is brown and is connected to Loran, just like Afflicted Beggar (who turns into Abhorrent Beast that are exclusive for Loran dungeons). Makes sense they are similar since Loran was desert-coded place, however they also share exact same, pixel-to-pixel mole on their nose in data (datamined sliders are here ( x )). This detail being kept might be interesting, like an idea that they're blood related or something! (I struggle to blame this on laziness of creators in altering the model seeing many things are different between the two)

• Yamamura has Throwing Knives in equipment that he never actually uses ( x ) , seeing how he was part of the League the knives likely are connected to Henryk. He trained him to throw them :(

• Both of Henryk's summons are shared with Younger Madaras Twin. I guess he is an expert in working with feral men xD

• It is possible that both notes mentioning Rom as 'Byrgenwerth Spider' are his! One note like this is in Byrgenwerth, and it is weird there she is not mentioned by the name there, as students would know who she is! Both of his summons are Byrgenwerth-related, and summon places always have to do with the summoned character's context. Another note like this is in the nook after Tomb of Oedon which Gascoigne guards, which is also location you kill him at, which also leads to Oedon Chapel guarded by a Pthumerian man. Again, lost in translation but in original note says 'hides our invisible lord', not 'our lost master' so odds are it refers to Oedon. Or at the very least this one was written by someone there upon learning from Henryk. Basically Henryk might have been a very good spy for the League after all (better than Yamamura that did get caught :( )

• Even more likely since him being 'quiet' and him being 'so strong he can't die in a battle already' are mentioned back-to-back as if they're connected. Throwing Knives are also sneaky. Basically not only he is strong, but he is sneaky and careful af. Maybe him and Gascoigne were such an effective duo because Gascoigne as the one bigger and more aggressive would draw all attention to himself - so Henryk could backstab anyone meanwhile.

• Music box treasured by Gascoigne and Viola plays Lullaby for Mergo. Seeing Henryk's implied roots to the pthumerians, maybe this box was his gift for them (for the wedding?), or at the very least he's likely the one knowing this melody from somewhere (and Gascoigne maybe just loved it).

• The sets of Executioners and Henryk's share the detail of this long row of buttons on the lower part:

Might or might not be coinsidental, but seeing how Logarius is 99% a Pthumerian and not 'just very tall' it could be a shared drip from cultural background?

• Henryk drops the weakest form of Heir rune:

(HUGE thanks to my bestie @val-of-the-north for compiling the runes and their location, you dumbass post the WHOLE reference on Tumblr before I evict you from this plane of reality it is so useful AAAAAAAAA)

Other placements are curious too; for one, 5 out of 7 Yahar'gul Hunters have brown skin too, which opens even more Loran questions imo. Pthumeru Ihyll is also the place associated with Queen Yharnam (and she shares boss theme with Logarius fsr).

Also this rune is the one that lets you gain Blood Echoes (that are dying wills, in more literal translation) from visceral attacks. Remember what I said about Oedon Chapel and stuff? Well, both of Oedon runes are associated with drawing Hunter's power from the blood, and although this Great One has no form, their true nature is said to be 'spilled blood'.

Tangent but I just want to say Henryk dropping this rune is an interesting detail, and even deeper dig into his 'background'. The context of the rune also implies inheriting wills of someone upon as much as just spilling their blood, not even necessarily killing them. Makes me think Henryk's mind is very full of sentiments and unfulfilled hopes of many others despite him being silent, he might as well have the ability to understand struggles of a person/beast once he seriously wounds them.

• It is possible that Djura lost an eye because of Henryk. Sliders don't reflect a missing eye, but Djura's set has his right eye covered and his slider has a scar across his face going through that eye, that looks like a cut wound. Henryk is known for his knives, besides they are both Old Hunters, besides Valtr's weapon is made by Powder Kegs so maybe they had an armed conflict (maybe Valtr's 'fault' was in it, too).

• Old Hunters favored two types of hats, his is 'cap' one like what Maria and Djura have. Djura's hat got tattered terribly (nonetheless became a style nowadays Hunters copy lol), but Maria had decorative feathers, just like him. Basically Henryk is the last one with this style of hat.