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thunderwavesolveseverything · 1 year

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The Being in the Dank Crypt

[Astarion x Named Tav]

The Nautiloid had been unlike anything Phayelynn had ever seen. It was more than she’d ever wanted to see. Hells, she was only a bard, after all. She was trained to regale the tales of those strapping brave adventurers of Faerûn. To write and sing praises of their heroic conquests. She wasn’t supposed to be the subject of her songs. She wasn’t strong and wasn't near dauntless enough to stare danger in the eye without cowering. She wasn’t made of the right stuff for this kind of life. A fact that quickly became apparent to her newfound companions not far into their campaign to find a cure for the parasites taking up residency in their skulls.

-- The Baldur's Gate brain rot is alive and well, and I'm obsessed, and want to novelize my playthrough <3

(word count: 4,092)

Read on AO3 or here :)

The Being in the Dank Crypt

The Nautiloid had been unlike anything Phayelynn had ever seen. It was more than she’d ever wanted to see. Hells, she was only a bard, after all. She was trained to regale the tales of those strapping brave adventurers of Faerûn. To write and sing praises of their heroic conquests. She wasn’t supposed to be the subject of her songs. She wasn’t strong and wasn’t near dauntless enough to stare danger in the eye without cowering. She wasn’t made of the right stuff for this kind of life. A fact that quickly became apparent to her newfound companions .

“Chk.” Lae’zel clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Her eyes narrowed as she slid her sword back into its sheath in one swift swing. “Has the tadpole ravaged your senses, or do your kind always have the compulsion to touch things without knowing their purpose?”

Phayelynn had to look away, holstering her crossbow behind her, trying to hide the tremble in her hands as she attempted to adjust it alongside her lute. It was an honest but unsuccessful attempt. She hadn’t even owned a crossbow this morning, she huffed to herself.

“Come now, Lae’zel, we all get a little overzealous sometimes.” Gale cut in. His voice was the lightest among the five of them. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t itching to crack every tombstone open and unlock every door. It’s not every day you find a ruin like this.” He shuffled over to her, leaning his staff against the stone wall to their left to free up his hands to help her fix her crossbow and lute so they sat comfortably on her back. “I would’ve pressed it too.” He whispered in her ear, his face getting a little too close to her for her liking.

She scowled for a moment at his attempt to make her feel better. Less stupid.

She let out a sigh. She shouldn’t be so harsh on him. She gave him a sheepish smile to show her appreciation. They’d only known each other for a few hours, and he was only trying to be nice. They didn’t know each other, and he didn’t have to stick up for her. Especially with the trouble she had already caused them all. Although, technically, Phayelynn could shift the blame onto Shadowheart as it was her idea to come into this old, caving-in, dank crypt in the first place.

After the Nautiloid crash, after narrowly escaping with the help of Shadowheart and Lae’zel, Phayelynn was sure she was done for. She was lost and still in a haze over what had transpired when she found Shadowheart in the wreckage near her. She had expressed her gratitude to Shadowheart for wanting to stick together, as Phayelynn would’ve been completely clueless about what to do next without the cleric’s help. Soon, their party of survivors grew from two to five, reuniting with Lae’zel last, finding her being held in a cage by a pair of Tieflings. Shadowheart hadn’t cared to stay to help, hearing voices nearby, deciding to investigate, but it felt wrong leaving Lae’zel. She had been a crucial part of their survival on the Nautiloid. Phayelynn couldn’t leave her and was proud to put her way with words to good use, tricking the two Tieflings to flee in fear of more ‘approaching’ Githyankis, allowing herself and Gale to free Lae’zel once they were alone. Phayelynn should’ve stopped there, but that was one of her flaws. She never knew when to stop when she was ahead.

When the three caught up to Shadowheart, she stood with the white-haired elf, Astarion, whom they had also picked up on the way, surveying two tomb raiders arguing about whether they should go inside. Shadowheart had been the one to suggest checking it out, explaining how they could sell whatever they found at the nearest settlement for supplies for their journey back to Baldur’s Gate and finding a cure for the parasite taking residence in their skulls now.

Wanting to continue impressing her new party, the young bard marched forward and, somehow, managed to persuade the two thieves that the crypt was riddled with monsters and not worth the take. She had a glimmer of pride as her party was impressed by her success, each having prepared to fight their way in.

Whether they had wanted one or not, it didn’t matter because it wasn’t long before they had gotten into one. As soon as they entered, from a hole in the ground above, they landed into one. It wasn’t a difficult fight, but Phayelynn wasn’t one to properly judge. She only had tavern brawls to compare it to. She did what she usually did in those situations. She stood in the back, shouting words of inspiration and the occasional mockery towards the raiders inside. It was clear that none of the five knew how to work together as a team, but they still somehow managed to slash, stab, shock, and smite down the raiders, clearing a path to the rest of the crypt.

Phayelyyn looked down at the skeleton at her feet. Moments ago, it had been so filled with life. It had also been so filled with anger as it dashed towards her. Her words had held no stock there. She looked back up as Astarion stood on the other side of the skeleton, in front of her, putting his daggers away. If it weren’t for him, she’d be dead. Or, well, maybe that was an exaggeration. She wouldn’t be dead, but she sure as hells wouldn’t be standing without the need of Shadowheart’s healing, and she didn’t know the woman nearly well enough to trust her to want to waste a spell on her, not after being the cause of this fight.

Astarion caught her staring, his red eyes glinting with mischief.

“Careful, I bite.” He smirked.

The blush spread across her cheeks against her will. As soon as she felt it, she averted her gaze back towards the button she had pushed mindlessly that had started this mess.

“Your kind gets overly excited to die? Chk. I will never understand, nor do I want to understand your kind’s ways.” Lae’zel hissed as she cast another hard look at Phayelynn.

“Haha,” Astarion’s loud laugh caught everyone’s attention. “I found it quite entertaining.” He shrugged his shoulders loosely, studying his nails. “I was getting quite bored.” He put a hand on his hip, using the other to point out the fallen skeletons. He brought it up, waving it, almost in a shooing motion at Phayelynn. “Now that that’s over, I say we go find out what that button opened up for us. Shall we?”

He raised an eyebrow, looking to Phayelynn to be his accomplice. She had been rather curious as to what the button was for. That was why she had pushed it in the first place. Even during the peak of the battle against its protectors, her curiosity grew when she heard the sound of rock moving, leaving her only to assume it was some mysterious secret door.

Astarion cocked an eyebrow, waiting for her reply. She gave him a broad smile and nodded enthusiastically, almost greedily, as she turned on her heel to go back and investigate. Astarion didn’t hesitate to follow, applauding her eagerness, “Oh, darling, I can tell we are going to be fast friends.”

Gale raised a hand, wanting to stop them.

“Maybe we should wait-,”

“Don’t waste your breath.” Shadowheart appeared by his side, rolling her eyes. “Let them go first. If they die, we at least know what traps to avoid.”

Phayelynn entered the hidden room first, unaware of Astarion purposely lingering back. She scanned around as if she knew what she was looking for. Her excitement overtook common sense. She pulled up the edge of her lip, somewhat disappointed at what she found. A couple of broken vases, some cobwebs, more broken vases, and-

Oh, she gasped.

She eyed the sarcophagus to her left, up near a wall. The others had old dusty books and a handful of spare gold pieces. This one must have so much gold and jewels inside to be hidden so carefully away and protected by those undead. She’d heard enough songs her uncle sang about these kinds of things to be sure.

Without thinking, without clearly learning her lesson, she reached forward and started pushing the lid of the sarcophagus back, slowly prying it open.

A hand jutted forward, gripping her wrist, digging well-kept nails into her alabaster skin. Her soul nearly jumped out of her body. With wide eyes, she looked to her left. It was Astarion. And he looked at her flabbergasted.

“You are quite literally the definition of fuck around and find out, aren’t you, love?” He pulled her back and away from the sarcophagus like a child about to touch an open flame. He flared his nostrils, huffing at her. Even if he found her apparent inexperience rather amusing, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was purposely acting this stupid or was just inherently so. “You’ve never done this type of thing before, have you?”

Before she could respond or form a proper defense, the candles around the room that had gone unnoticed lit their own volition to a haunting hue of ghostly green. Astarion backed away instantly, forcing Phayelynn to take a few steps if she didn’t want him to back right into her. Her eyes grew wider. She vaguely made out Gale, Shadowheart, and Lae’zel standing in the doorway from her peripheral vision. Lae’zel and Shadowheart stood, reaching to retrieve their weapons, simmering at Astarion and Phayelynn. At the same time, Gale looked curiously inside, flames flickering against the palm of his hand, just in case the need arose.

Phayelynn kept her attention on the lid as it started to move back on its own. An old, decaying hand snaked up from within its depths to help peel it open. All five jumped as the hand, with a shockingly strong force, threw the lid off. A loud bang echoed off the walls.

“Shit.” She heard Astarion mutter. His hands twitched, hovering over his daggers.

A corpse, flesh tightened and wrinkled over old bone, arose. He wore a long, dusty dark robe covering most of the body with bandages wrapped around what was exposed, hiding most of the rot. His body outwardly creaked and groaned as he stretched himself out. An intricate golden-crowned mask shined in the candlelight, the metals trailing down his neck and chest in thin swirls. His facial features were still visible, the skin of his nose flap causing Phayelynn to grimace and shutter. His feet touched against the floor, never breaking eye contact with her for a moment. He stood silent as he took in those who stood before him, disturbing what had been supposed to be his eternal slumber.

Phayelynn gulped.

Astarion took a step around her, taking cover behind her.

Phayelynn gulped harder.

Dick, she uttered under her breath.

The being floated up, then down towards them, making Phayelynn and Astarion step further back to save some space between them and him. He finally looked away from Phayelynn, sparing Astarion a look, then craning his head over to the other three before settling back on the bard.

“What a curious way to awaken.” He said, his voice deep and eerie. He towered over Phayelynn not much by height but by presence, holding the room in a quiet uncertainty. He seemed unbothered by the effect he cast, not allowing time for anyone else to speak or react, “Now, I have a question for thee: what is the worth of a single mortal’s life?”

Phayelynn’s brow twitched.

She rapidly tried to think of the correct response, seeing how the question was directed at her. She had to find a way to talk herself out of this. The other skeletons, who’d protected this crypt, were sentient, but not to this degree. She had to choose her words carefully.

Or she could toss up Astarion like he so cowardly offered her up moments prior. She grumbled, taking another step back, her back hitting his chest. Her eyes narrowed with determination. She’d show him.

“What are you?” she straightened herself up, covering her quivering with a newfound but bogus confidence.

The being tilted his head at her as if not expecting her to ask him a question in return. He didn’t look indignant or insulted; instead, he looked pleased. “I am not the same as those thou hast slain if that is what thou askest.”

Phayelynn wrinkled her nose at his way of speech. No one talked like that anymore unless they were those pompous, wealthy socialites who hired bards like her for fancy parties. Whoever this was wasn’t like one of those. “That is what I askest? I suppose-” She hesitated, adding, “-est?”

She heard Astarion let out a deep sigh behind her, feeling him stifle a chuckle in his chest at her lack of cool. Her cheeks flushed.

The being nodded before raising a hand, putting everyone on edge for a split second. He asked again, “Wilt thou answer my question?”

Phayelynn had always loved the spotlight. She relished it. Dreamed of nothing but performing in front of groups of hundreds. For all the years she’d traveled with her uncle and his motley troupe, training under him and practicing until her fingers bled and throat grew sore, she longed for it. But now, with all sets of eyes on her, she wanted nothing more than to hide behind the stage curtain.

“Just answer the damned question so we can be on with it,” Astarion said through gritted teeth.

She shot him a helpless look over her shoulder before looking back at the being before her. Keep your eyes on him, Phay, she warned herself, show no fear.

“Uh-,” she winced at the shakiness of her voice. She coughed into her fist, clearing her throat. Once again, she straightened herself up. “Yes, of course-er. What was the question again?”

Smooth, Phay, smooth, she cursed herself.

“I ask again: What is the worth of a single mortal life?” He said with a hint of tiredness.

It was either from having to repeat himself or just having to exist. Phayelynn couldn’t tell, but she paid attention fully this time. She took a second, only a slight breath of a moment to think. She was sure her life was worth much more than most, not caring if or how bad that sounded.

With a shrug, this time, she confidently answered, “I mean, I guess that depends on what the person did during their life. If they were an absolute dick,” she paused, once again sparing a gaze over her shoulder before facing the being, “I think they wouldn’t be worth much.” She wore a smirk, hearing Astarion’s appalled gasp. She put her hands on her hips, satisfied. “Their worth depends on their actions.”

“Hmm.” The being hummed with a nod. “I am sure thou believest as such.” He said, causing Phayelynn to falter for a moment.

Did she answer wrong? Oh gods, what’s going to happen now- she started to panic, her eyes darting to those in the doorway for help. They offered none as they watched and waited for the being’s next move.

“Very well.” He said after another painfully long moment, having seemingly contemplated her answer. “I am satisfied. We have met, and I know thy face.” He stepped back, heading towards the door, causing Shadowheart, Gale, and Lae’zel to scatter, disbursing in different directions to get out of his way as he didn’t appear to be attacking them. “We will see each other again at the proper time and place. Farewell.”

Phayelynn blinked a few times, processing, or more so trying to process everything that had just happened. Her mouth fell open as she watched him walk past Shadowheart, Gale, and Lae’zel without a second glance and out into the main room, muttering under his breath about the state of the crypt and how long he’d been asleep.

“Keep your mouth open like that, and you’ll catch flies.” Astarion snapped her out of it.

She ignored his taunt, although leaving him behind. She moved through the doorway to follow the being, wanting more answers. “Hey! Wait! What do you mean you know thy face? Excuse me!” She called out when he ignored her, “Bony man! I’m talking to you—proper time and place. I’m right here-” A hand pulled her to a stop. “Hey!”

She looked up to see who stopped her. It had been Gale. She shot him a fiery look.

“How about we show some decorum? We don’t know who or what that is, but he seems to mean no harm. We should keep it that way.” He tried to discourage her, wanting to show her reason. Mostly, he didn’t want this to end up in another fight. He started to question his quick trust in her.

“He wasn’t being all creepy with you! Did you hear him? I know thy face. Who even talks like that anymore!” Phayelynn crossed her arms against her chest, pouting her lip in frustration.

Astarion let out another hearty laugh, having moved to the doorway, finding the entire thing utterly hilarious. “I say we let her have another go. I’d love to see how that would play out.”

Phayelynn was about to snap at him but was cut off by Shadowheart, who exhaled deeply. Lae’zel wasn’t shy about her disapproval either as she glared daggers Phayelynn’s way.

“Istik” the Gith muttered under her breath, crossing her arms against her chest. She started to move forward, done with them all. “Let us go.” her sharp tone leaving no room for disagreement.

“Okay, but if that had happened to any of you,” Phayelynn raised her hands in defeat, looking at them accusatory as they all started to follow Lae’zel, “You’d want answers.”

“As much as it displeases me to agree with the Gith, I do.” Shadowheart gives Phayelynn a lazy once over. Her nose pointed at her, “Let’s just get out of here. I saw a few more rooms we can check on the way out.”

Phayelynn kept towards the back of the party, shooting the being one last glare before they exited the room. She glared down at her feet, still feeling petty. She wasn’t paying attention, not noticing Astarion slinking his way next to her, hands tucked behind his back, leaning down so they could speak hushed while they walked.

“He was rather quite repugnant.”

“Exactly!” She exclaimed as she looked up at him in agreement. “Did you see his nose?”

“I wish I hadn’t.” Astarion suppressed a gag, grimacing.

A collective sigh was heard from the three in front of the party as the pair went on about the many features they found disturbing and grotesque about the being in the crypt.

It wasn’t until later, after narrowly escaping and figuring out one more deathtrap involving another sarcophagus and fire, lots and lots of fire shooting out at them, that they exited the crypt, arms full of loot.

Phayelynn held open a bag they had snatched off one of the tomb raider’s bodies, sorting through the pile they had dumped onto the ground. She sat beside Astarion, who kneeled, dumping everything he could into his own. Shadowheart and Gale had been close doing the same while Lae’zel scouted for a good place to camp for the night, as the sun had set by the time they exited the crypt.

“I really wish I had a bag of holding.” She picked up a ruby necklace and some bracers that looked like they’d fit her. She fascinated on all the things she could fit inside. “Fancy jewelry, clothes, gold, more gold, maybe a new lute, even.”

She didn’t care if Astarion was listening to her. She was too giddy to stop. The parasite and events of the Nautiloid were tossed in the furthest backs of her thoughts. She could only focus on the treasure before them.

Astarion stopped for a moment, looking at her knavishly. Maybe an alliance with her wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Her rashness in the crypt did give him cause to question her as a potential ally, but she seemed to have her priorities straight, at least. He chuckled, clueing her in that he had been listening to her babble. He reached for a chalice but quickly pulled his hand back.

Silver.

“Not one for wine?” Her voice snapped him out of it.

He quickly put himself together before she could pick up on him losing himself, even for a moment. He didn’t move to touch it. He wasn’t quite sure he wanted to take that chance just yet. His eyes caught something else, just as shiny.

“Oh, quite the opposite.” He said, picking up a golden cup. It wasn’t as grand or polished as the chalice, but gold was better than silver anyway. “I’m just a connoisseur of the finer things. I only drink from the best.” He nodded toward what was left of their pile, the chalice included.

“Silver’s still worth something, and that’s good enough for me.” Phayelynn shrugged, swiping it up and throwing it carelessly into her bag, the sound it made leaving Astarion to pull a face.

“That’ll be worth less all dented up and scratched.” He poked, moving to stand. He looked around, seeing Lae’zel walking back out of the tree line. He turned back to Phayelynn. “But who am I? You’re the expert on what things are worth.” He glowered at her.

She joined him, buttoning the backpack closed, holding it awkwardly due to its weight. She rubbed the back of her neck with her free hand in a docile way. She picked up his jab at her about what she had said back in the crypt to Bony Man.

“I didn’t mean what I said-” she started, but something told her she wouldn’t get away with lying to him. “No, I did. You were being a dick.”

“And you were touching things you shouldn’t.” He countered.

Phayelynn opened her mouth, intent on fighting back, already pulling together something snappy to say, but something told her to stop. The voice was telling her to quit while she was ahead. Usually, she would ignore it. She’d keep pushing. Keep antagonizing. But for once, something compelled her to listen to it.

The parasite and the Nautiloid became ever present as she looked over his face, hearing Gale calling out to them, saying that Lae’zel had found a suitable place for them to camp for the night. She had no idea how long she’d be traveling with these people. She had no idea how long it would take to get these damned cursed worms out of their skulls. She had to get back to Baldur’s Gate, but she knew she couldn’t get back alone.

She outreached her hand, offering it to Astarion. He looked at it with a scrunched-up nose. She stretched her fingers for emphasis, urging him to take the hint. He still didn’t budge. She groaned, rolling her eyes. Using her other hand, she grabbed his, placing it too roughly into the one she’d offered him, and shook it firmly. He took a moment to react before pulling himself free.

“What on earth are you doing?” He demanded, taking a step back.

“I was offering a truce. And friendship.” She shrugged as they followed the others. “You said earlier that you thought we’d be good friends, so let’s. We’ll need all the friends we can get to figure out how to get these things out of our heads.”

“Hmm.” he pretended to think about her truce, truly considering her offer.

She rolled her eyes at him, knowing he was trying to put her on edge, to make her feel guilty.

She may not be so easily fooled, Astarion thought to himself. He clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth, sighing, “Well, alright,” He dragged out. “I supposed I can accept your oh-so-generous offer if I decide you’re worth my companionship.”

“Really? I’m never going to hear the end of that, am I?” She huffed.

“Oh darling, no.” He confirmed, laughing madly.

Phayelynn groaned loudly, marching away from him as she tried to catch up to the others. Astarion laughed once more, though this time to himself. A broad, curved, guileful grin spread across his features as he watched her walk away, a plan forming in his mind.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion x mc #astarion x oc #astarion x tav #astarion romance #astarion bg3 #astarion ancunin #bg3 spoilers #tav bg3 #bard oc

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legally-allowed-to-slime · 2 years

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if no one's gonna write about grian staying back in a valiant attempt to save grumbot, HIS evil robot, I will

also does anyone find it hilarious that princess gem the ultimate larper is just standing on the hermit's side of the bridge during the standoff. like, she's just chilling

grian sat on grumbot's palm. can you open the rift?

mumbo. no purpose. make mumbo mayor. it was as if the words were coded into his brain, which grian supposed it was, and grumbot kept on repeating it, as grian threw papers increasingly frantically.

grian groaned in frustration and flew off. "just an evil, insane robot," he muttered to himself.

then there was a boat. small but cluttered, sitting in the water between grumbot and the rift, which was now surrounded by a box.

"he's an evil robot," sausage protested.

something in grian's heart clenched. that's what he'd been telling to himself, telling to grumbot, even, but yet, when someone else said it out loud, it didn't seem right. he was just his grumbot, his little robot boy. he hadn't done anything wrong, per say.

other than threatening to purge the whole of empires.

"that's not true," grian said, mouth dry.

they talked to grumbot again, and there had been a lighthearted moment with oli's question. it was katherine's turn, and the response resurfaced like a cork in water. no mumbo, no purpose. she turned to him and the expression of skeptical worry was unmistakable.

grian inhaled. "I- I'm experienced with grumbot, alright? this is the third grumbot. I know what I'm doing." the words sounded hollow even to his ears, like he was trying to convince himself with untrue sentiments.

oli turned to him. the normally silly bard said accusingly, "well, what happened to the other two?"

grian's eye muscles suddenly malfunctioned. he knew this because water was leaking out. he pulled his wings around him and looked away from the others to grumbot, hoping to pull off a stoic, cool look. "it- it's alright. they…"

one in a box, cartoon clouds and grass, convinced that he had fulfilled it's purpose, living in a prison of lies

the other waiting for its father, its fathers, sitting in a lab, full of scorn at him what did he do make mumbo mayor —

grian laughed weakly. "yeah, he's being existential again. it's fine. everything's fine. he's just a bit evil?"

I'm so sorry, grumbot. but I'm not sure what I'm sorry for. he's just an evil and insane robot, grian repeated to himself.

but he's mine.

"NO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" his voice was strained and raw, going from the heart to the throat without bothering to bypass the head. grian, devoid of armour and any blocks, stared in despair at the slowly and steadily flying TNT machine, heading straight towards grumbot.

the other emperors stood on the bridge, staring at the machine. their normally distinct personalities had all merged into one of excited desperation.

"it's like you said, grian!" sausage laughed, with a glint in his eye. "we have to kill the evil robot. you guys can't leave. the rift has to close, and the robot has to die."

"whoo!!!" joel cheered raggedly in the background, amid the atmosphere of chaotic anticipation. the way they just treated it, so lightly, as just another evil thing to be eliminated.

grian was rooted to the spot. "no, you can't do this… no, you…"

something in his brain clicked and he ran up the island. "I can save him! no, I have to— blocks! I need to—" heartbeat thumping violently, he clawed dirt and grass and wood and whatever, collecting them and sprinting over to grumbot, his boy.

grian dived into the water. immediately, his heavy sweater made heavier still with the weight of water, began to pull him down. he yelped in panic and slapped the water, trying to float forward. "grumbot! no!"

and the robot's face, unblinking, as death approached him.

grian felt the arrow pierce through him as fwhip's shot delivered the final blast to his already low health. there was a moment of nothing, and he was at spawn in the tower. chest still aching from the goblin's arrow, he grabbed as many blocks as he could and dashed over.

grumbot, I'm coming for you! grumbot!

he frantically stacked up, and the view was front-row when he saw grumbot explode in a boom of TNT and vengeance.

no—

he let himself fall, and thumped onto the ground.

when he woke up yet again, he felt hazy. grumbot. he was dead. if only he had stopped them in time.

blood and tears mixed in his vision as he pushed his way through the emperors and screamed in triumph as he went back home, to hermitcraft, to grumbot, his little robot boy.

#grumbot #hc x empires #hermitcraft x empires #hermitcraft rift #empires rift #hermitcraft #grian #empires season 2 #mythical sausage #hermitcraft 9

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bardic-inspo · 6 months

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Midnight Chimes

Chapter Five: Supplication

Pairing: Astarion x Cursed! Tav

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Series Summary:

It’s easier for Astarion to believe Naomi tastes so sweet because she was his first. Easier to ignore the fact that every undead in vague proximity yearns for the same blood that’s sated him night after night. Easier to pretend her music is arcane as any other bard’s, and not divine enough to wake corpses from the dirt. Easier to pretend Naomi is simply a bard, and not something more akin to a siren. One that's slowly realized she's not just another sailor, after all. Easier to bury the fact that he's already stupidly in love with her. Like she wouldn't just raise that out of the ground, too. A curse rears its head. A devil comes calling. Astarion fights for his freedom from Cazador. He and the rest of their merry little band fight to save Tav from the doom she feels she's fated for.

Chapter Preview:

He thought he was going to feed tonight. To feel Naomi’s blood crush like velvet on his lips. The blood of a thinking thing. Not someone so damn thoughtless. Astarion’s hands fit to his hips. “Did you manage to smack your head on something, too, or are you really so unburdened with brains in that skull of yours? I just saved you--” “You’ve thought about killing me since the second you saw me,” Naomi says with stony certainty. “How would you have done it, that night, back in the Gate?”

Chapter CW: Some more direct display of/allusion to Astarion’s sexual trauma.

✨ Click here if you prefer to read on AO3 ✨

Naomi’s chest heaves. Her heartbeat bounds with it. It thumps a plucky, pleading rhythm in Astarion’s eardrums. Just a taste. Please. He gags back a sickly, sudden urge in his throat.

He won’t beg.

His tongue would be wetted by now, if Lae’zel wasn’t out for the blood that should’ve been his. Now the soil’s stained with hers.

Naomi scrambles backwards. Lae’zel’s body slumps from her propped legs, head planting face-down in the dirt. Violet eyes flash to Astarion’s, wide and watching. The drow inches back farther, fingers patting behind her for the rapier resting just a breath away.

Astarion’s grip tightens around his dagger. With a wan smile, he sheathes it. Naomi stills, watching him with a wary gaze.

Crickets croak. Water drips down stalactites into stagnant pools at the cave’s edges. Soft, sleeping breath swells through the surrounding tents. None of the other campers in their little cave are any wiser to what’s transpired. Yet.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Astarion says when Naomi says nothing.

Like he’d reached out and pinched her, Naomi blinks feverishly.

“Gods--” she gasps, “you--”

“She would’ve killed you, darling,” Astarion drones, already bored with this phase of grief. They’d only just finished cycling through with Alfira. Time for a shortcut to ‘acceptance’.

Naomi’s face hardens. “Like you haven’t dreamed of doing the very same.”

Astarion regards her incredulously. “Is this about our little tiff? I was over it ages ago.”

Dear gods, they’re farther from ‘acceptance’ than he thought. He thought saving her might win him a favor. He thought Lae’zel would kill them all, if someone didn’t strike her down first. He doesn’t spare her corpse another glance. No use in second-guessing that one.

He thought he was going to feed tonight. To feel Naomi’s blood crush like velvet on his lips. The blood of a thinking thing. Not someone so damn thoughtless.

Astarion’s hands fit to his hips. “Did you manage to smack your head on something, too, or are you really so unburdened with brains in that skull of yours? I just saved you--”

“You’ve thought about killing me since the second you saw me,” Naomi says with stony certainty. “How would you have done it, that night, back in the Gate?”

Astarion’s eyes narrow. His hand twitches towards his dagger again. He tames it to stillness with the grit of his teeth.

She isn’t wrong. He knows that keen gleam in her eye. He could say something different. She would still know better.

Her face softens. It tangles a knot in his brow and in his chest.

“You could have killed me a dozen times over by now.” The husk in Naomi’s throat scrapes the underside of all she says. “You’ve considered it. But you haven’t done it. Which means you’ve already decided you won’t. And like you said, you just saved me. So what is it you want, Astarion?”

Astarion’s nose wrinkles in indignation. How dare you, he wants to hurl at her. But his mind drops the stone as if it’s scalding. Sobering, he wonders, instead, what is this woman?

Not a cleric, even if she really did grow up in a temple. If that story is even a little true. Not a bleeding heart, though she occasionally wears one on her sleeve. Not a victim. At least, not in Baldur’s Gate. Astarion had decided that wouldn’t be her fate. She speaks of that private, internal debate now like it’s small talk they made over pints.

Above all else, Naomi’s a bard, and a bard’s a performer. She knows her audience. Or, she needs to, if she hopes to keep playing. And now, she’s asking what he ‘wants’.

His anger snuffs to an old, sodden sort of sadness. The furrow in his brow grows slack, the same way a hollowed log might crumble to rot. Astarion’s eyes drift, downcast, to the dark pool in the grass seeping towards his shoes.

‘Want’ was over ages ago. A twinge aches in his knees. An instinct to match the raw burn lining his gullet and the throb of weakness in his limbs. Astarion kneels.

“Need,” he whispers, fraught. He dares to drag his eyes back to her.

Naomi searches his face. She says, as if it's the simplest thing, “Tell me what you need, then. And you’ll have it.”

“I-- I need, well, blood.”

Her eyes glaze with distance, lips parted around a low breath that leaks out in a whistle. She sees past him, through him, as if his body were as invisible to her as it is in a mirror. Her gaze sharpens like glass a second later.

“You’re a vampire,” she says. It’s not a question. He watches her eyes dart to his lips, looking for the telltale tips of his fangs, then to the reds of his eyes again, studying.

“Yes,” he says, straightening beneath her scrutiny, “I am.”

Naomi’s shoulders tense, but her hands don’t go wandering towards the rapier. “How long since you last killed someone?”

Astarion lays a hand over his unbeating heart. “I’ve never killed anyone! Well, not for food. I feed on animals -- boars, deer, kobolds. Whatever I can get.”

Astarion scoots just slightly, leaning near enough that he could reach out and touch her angled legs, if he wanted to. Near enough, she could swipe a knife to his side if only she could ever be so quick. He can hear that pulse of hers doing double-time like she’s flying as fast as her feet can carry her, and not just sitting still as a statue in the dirt.

Poor little squirrel, he thinks, but she looks nothing near scared. In his periphery, the space between her fingers and the rapier thins to a sliver.

His chest pinches, suddenly, quick as a rabbit darting through the brush. There’s no nausea now, now that it’s time to beg, after all.

“It’s not enough,” Astarion rasps. “Not if I have to fight. I feel so weak. If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please. Like you said, if I ever meant to hurt you, I would have. I won't. You can trust me.”

You have to. We don’t have a choice. He has more fodder for his own defense, but he saves it. Naomi has a new look about her. Like she’s seeing him for the first time. Like he won’t need to paint her the bigger picture for that to settle into view, too.

He bookmarks that look, in the split second before sheer force like a brick crashes through his mind. Her lilac eyes, soft as petals, settled somewhere distant beyond reaching, counterbalanced by the determined set of her jaw, grounding down into a certainty of choice if not of outcome. He’ll know it, in the future, as the look Naomi wears when she’s about to punch far harder than the weight that hangs off her bones.

Astarion recoils, hands clawing in the dirt. It’s not just a fist, but a barrage that bears down on his brain. The tadpole screams and it splits him. Shards of memories scatter, cutting to the forefront of his consciousness.

He sees Cazador’s looming shadow, red eyes aglow like steaming coals in the dark, and hears his master’s command like a sizzling smoke trail: Feed. It brands Astarion’s mind just as a blade branded his back. His fangs meet ruddy fur and then flesh. He gags. Bile rises in the back of his throat to meet the blood running rancid down it. Still, the rat writhes. Inside of Astarion, everything does. His stomach clenches. His insides burn. Bitterness rules his tongue, long after, even as it spills out gratitude.

Cazador commands it.

A second shape lurks in Astarion’s periphery. Someone else has come to see the spawn grovel on his knees, vermin dripping from his lips. Astarion’s eyes focus past Cazador’s caped shoulder. Oh, no. You shouldn’t be here, little squirrel.

Defiance boils beneath his skin. Astarion shoves from the stone and storms towards Naomi. She gapes, but doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t have the foresight to flee like a good little rodent would. Astarion’s grip locks around her arms.

Pain tears across his temples. He cowers. Between his eyes, the tadpole lashes. Their minds bend and blend. Cazador evaporates to mist. A heat descends in his stead, heady and impermeable. Sweat flashes on Astarion’s skin.

Music crowds his ears, raucous and heady with lust and liquor. Around them, a tavern teems with equal measures revelry and debauchery. Mugs froth with ale. Coin swaps hands and pockets. Necklines slip lower and looser.

At its beating heart, Astarion still holds on to Naomi. He trades his death grip for a grip for dear life. Her feet tap sure to the floorboards as his own footing flounders. The room spins in a blur of sound and color.

Astarion blinks, and it’s Naomi’s eyes he’s seeing through. In his stead, she dances with another drow woman. He doesn’t see her face, not really, not while this heavy-lidded. There’s familiarity, as strong arms wind around Naomi’s back, and flesh flushes to flesh. Desire licks flames from his throat to his groin. Feather-light fingertips play Naomi’s spine like the fiddle played on the stage behind them. The other woman’s leg nudges Naomi’s thighs apart and rubs against the budding want coiling tighter between them.

“You came back,” Naomi whispers to parted lips, hovering just an inch away from her own.

It’s why Naomi doesn’t see it. Why she doesn’t heed the shivers dotting her arms, seeping in with the chill beneath the door. She twirls, still, in the fever dance she’s sweated all summer. None the wiser as her lover’s eyes become blades.

Then comes the real one. Instinctually, Astarion ducks. Naomi doesn’t. The knife meets her nose, cutting the memory into a breathless present.

Maybe it’s sympathy that’s making Astarion’s chest heave as it does, that has him gasping, panting after air he doesn’t need. Naomi does the same, shooting him a glittering glare. More likely, it’s another side effect of the tadpole. Perhaps the trip it took them into Naomi’s memories left him with her frailties. Neither of them budge, even as they bristle. Astarion lets his shoulders slacken as he gives up the chase for breath.

“Hm,” Astarion hums. “How rude of her. Will she come back to finish you? Your jilted lover?”

“No,” Naomi snaps, though she glances away with a frown that’s uncertain. “I mean, I don’t know. But she hasn’t yet. And it’s…been a while.”

Since you’ve been finished, or since she’s come for you? It would be so lovely to see her blush, now, of all times. Better, still, to save that rush of blood for far superior purposes. Astarion stows the snark in favor of an earnest yank at the thread she’s left open, frayed, and vulnerable.

“It’s been a year, hasn’t it?” He says, voice softening to silk. “She was the last soul you sang for before us lucky few? Such a shame. You sound…” He trails off, plucking the word carefully from his repertoire, as one would a fruit from a branch. He finds the shiniest of the bunch before he lets it roll from his tongue. “...heavenly. Though, I suspect you taste even sweeter.”

He got his blush, after all. The rosy shade is delicate as a flower, and so very pretty against her cheeks. Still, her stare is suspicious. It raises a curiosity of his own. One easier to put to bed now, then to potentially encounter en route to lie down, later.

“Do you only love women?”

“I--no. No. That doesn’t -- that doesn’t matter now!” Naomi stammers. “You fed on animals because you had to!”

Astarion’s fleeting smirk fades. His lip curls, briefly, but he schools his face back to softness. Sadness. A kicked puppy expression that stokes her sympathy.

“I--yes. Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. So you can see why I’m slow to trust you. But I do trust you. And you can trust me.”

Naomi’s brow knits in. “We don’t exactly have much of a choice these days,” she mutters skeptically.

“Exactly. You need me strong, I need you alive. I’ll only take a few drops. You’ll never know the difference. I’ll be well, you’ll be fine, and we can all go back to normal. Well,” Astarion’s eyes find Lae’zel, leaking and limp behind them, “some of us.”

“What about her?” Naomi murmurs sullenly.

“What about her?” Astarion says, with an edge of impatience. “She shouldn’t disturb us, and the dead are quite difficult to disturb--”

“No,” Naomi says sharply. “I mean, can’t you feed on her?”

Astarion sniffs, jaw shifting. “Do you think me a crow, content with carrion?”

“No,” Naomi says quickly. “No, not at all. I just wasn’t sure how all of this works.” A sly curve lifts the edge of her lips. “Will drinking sentient blood make you more…chipper?”

Astarion huffs, but it lacks any steam. “I beg your pardon? Has my delightful company been such a burden to you?”

“Hunger is a burden. I would wager it’s weighed on you as it would anyone.”

She’s serious again. Astarion likes her better blushing, or bullshitting. Like he’s someone charming or dangerous. Not the slave she saw with the rat buried in his teeth. His fingertips dare to close the distance between them, gently perching upon her knee.

“I’d repay your kindness with my own, darling,” he drawls, “if that’s what you’re asking. I can think of a number of ways to show my utmost gratitude.”

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing by a hair. “Fine. Feed from me, then. Only as much as you have to.”

“Really? I mean-- of course. Not a drop more,” he purrs.

“And then we’ll tell the others,” Naomi says pointedly. “About Lae’zel and about you.”

Astarion eyes her warily. He’s not against the notion. He’s not fond of skulking about more than strictly necessary. But two bodies over two nights, with the two of them as lone witnesses, plus one vampire… There’s stories that could be spun from those threads, about poor Naomi wrapped up in the vampire’s thrall. Nevermind that he’s a mere spawn and couldn’t do what so many might conceive him to be capable of.

Astarion lifts his chin. “And if they arm themselves with torches and pitchforks?”

“Then I suppose they’ll have to burn us both,” she replies evenly.

A slow smile parts his mouth. He doesn’t hide his fangs, this time, as they poke against his lower lip. He doesn’t need to be a true vampire to lure himself a bard.

“Let’s get comfortable, shall we?”

Naomi shifts back as Astarion stands, letting her legs lie flat. He delivers a swift kick to the neighboring corpse that rolls it away into the brush.

“There,” he sighs. “More privacy.” He answers Naomi’s scowl with an exasperated eye roll. “Don’t look so scandalized,” he chides. “I know you don’t have tears for her.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m happy about what happened.”

“What matters is what happens tomorrow,” he says, dropping his knees down on either side of hers. With every word, he inches further up her body. “What matters is that those of us who are left muster all the strength we can. Tomorrow, this could all be over. We could finish this. Be free of the worms.”

Her breath hitches as he hovers over her. Her heartbeat flutters, like a little hummingbird near his ear. Still, her eyes are cast to the side, where Lae’zel rests in blades of grass.

“Look at me, darling.” Astarion guides her gaze back with a hand cradling her scalp. His touch is tender enough to take her breath again. Violet eyes flicker to his, alight with excitement. Fear. Arousal, too, though she tries to bury it. His fingertips toy with the hair at the nape of her neck, tugging her braids to free them. Silver-white hair splays behind her head. He was right: it does shimmer slightly, beneath the stars.

It feels good, feels right that she’s pretty. That his first should be someone Cazador himself could’ve seen fit to bleed. Not carrion. Not some beggar beleaguered with bad luck.

It feels familiar, that she’s beautiful and beneath him. Memory twists his stomach like a snake. She shouldn’t have her eyes open for this part. Shouldn’t see him. Not like this.

“Good,” Astarion says softly. “Now close your eyes, and picture it for me.”

“Picture what?” Naomi murmurs, as her eyes slide shut.

Astarion fixes to the flare of her pulse against her neck. He dips his lips there and lets them drag against the salt of her skin, taking in the taste of her sweat and shivers. He carries on past the delicious ache of her pulse, even as his gums throb with its echo. He leaves his whispered daydream behind the shell of her ear.

“Freedom.”

His other hand winds around her shoulder, propping the back of her neck. Want, unbidden, tenses low in his abdomen. The sensation flees from his mind as her heartbeat sprints. A thrill runs through his veins, weightless and heady, as he chases her pulse down to the place where his lips first laid. Astarion grounds against the heat of her chest pressed to his and lets his teeth sink in.

‘Heavenly’. That’s what he called the sound of her, earlier. The noise Astarion makes now is only depraved. Gods, the taste of her is divine. She’s warm, and wet. In seconds, the heat of her has his mind and his mouth sticky in supplication. There’s rivers of it, seeping from the sides of his lips, he knows, sure as she’s streaming over his insides and painting them anew.

She should tremble like she does. He should stoke those little shakes, with the trace of fingernails and wandering hands. It’s not so different from sex. Finishing her would be for good. He could lead her to true death with little ones in a path like breadcrumbs for her to take. Just like he used to.

Except, it’s nothing like sex. For starters, Astarion never wants it to stop.

His mind smears, and he doesn’t hear his own muted moan. He wants to be lost in this lavender liqueur, submerged to the citrus edge that cuts its stems, drowned to that darker flavor that lays heavy beneath the others. Awash on the tide of strings, tingling so sweetly against his tongue, curling with a song that tastes like smoke.

Dimly, he feels fingers reach for him. A fist curls into his hair and yanks.

“Enough.”

Gasping, he surfaces.

Naomi looks up at him, pale and dazed. No worse for wear, other than a lack of color.

“That…that was amazing,” he pants without meaning to.

It leaks out of him, the same as the ruby redness seeping from the punctures he left behind in Naomi’s neck. It takes a concerted effort not to lap at the trails drying to a shade of deep wine down the column of her throat. He feels his lids grow heavy as he watches the path of the stains.

Naomi’s puffs a faint laugh. Her fingers flit towards his chin. “You’ve got--”

He catches her wrist before she can make off with her bounty. Astarion’s eyes slip closed, again, as he slips her forefinger between his lips and sucks the blood beading there.

“Mm,” he hums, content. He sets her hand back at her side, dainty, like she’s something fragile. When he blinks again, their surroundings settle in with sharper clarity. He sees them now in new shades of color and shadow. Vitality thrums through his every inch. Her blood is sunlight, streaking through him, turning the world anew before his very eyes.

“My mind is finally clear,” he murmurs, a tentative smile teasing his lips. “I feel strong. I feel…happy.”

“You don’t say,” Naomi echoes dryly.

Oh. Astarion swallows, following her eyeline down to his latter half. He straddles her, still. His hardened cock strains at half-mast against his breeches. It twitches of its own accord, pressing to the meat of her inner thigh.

“Hm. What else is one to do with a sudden influx of blood?” Astarion gives an airy laugh, clearing his throat sheepishly. Hastily, he dismounts and scoots a good foot back for good measure. “Ahem, my…apologies.”

Naomi sits up halfway, blessedly unbothered. She cocks her head with a coy sort of smile. “What do I taste like?”

A wide grin tugs his cheeks. “My dear, why, nothing can compare. But let me think on it. Another night, I’ll regale you with poetry fit for your fine vintage.”

His fingertips tap fondly against his own lips as Naomi loses the lift in hers. He can feel the taste of her, the flow of her, still, in a barely-there hum against his mouth.

“This is a gift, you know,” Astarion says on a hard swallow. “I won’t forget it.”

Naomi nods in the barest movement. Her stare settles on the unmoving shape in the brush again.

“And like you said,” Naomi sighs. “She would’ve killed all of us.”

It isn’t what he said. Not aloud, not exactly. But it’s a narrative he’ll throw his weight behind, for all it's worth to the others’ ears.

A/N: Lae'zel still not getting the respect a queen deserves, RIP my beloved, I'm so sorry.

Hoped you like the slightly spicy take on bite night. ;) Thank you so, so much for reading. And I hope life is being kind to you <3

Divider credit for before and immediately after story text to @firefly-graphics. Divider credit for scene breaks and banner below to @saradika-graphics.

#astarion #astarion ancunin #tavstarion #astarion x tav #tav x astarion #astarion romance #astarion fanfic #bg3 #bg3 fanfic #my writing #midnight chimes #naomi tavriel

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pengychan · 5 months

Text

[Baldur’s Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 8

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: M Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** So, a rogue and a bard walk into an inn... ***

“You know, Durge, I don’t mean to insult Gale - he is the smartest man I know, probably - but coming up with names is probably not his strongest suit. Durge lacks a certain… I don’t know, it lacks a certain…”

“Je ne sais quoi?”

It was rare for Raphael to speak a single word while they made their way towards Baldur’s Gate through the night. As much as Raphael clearly loved the sound of his own voice when he held all the cards, he was much less inclined to speak now that he was markedly at a disadvantage. He usually walked at the back in sullen silence, with Wyll and Durge right in front of him carrying a torch and Astarion and Halsin further ahead, putting their darkvision to use. To be honest, sometimes as they talked among them they almost forgot he was there. His voice made them recoil, and turn back.

“Was that Infernal?” Halsin asked, and got a shrug in reply.

“Something similar.”

“Abyssal, then? The language of demons?” Astarion guessed.

“That does depend on who you ask,” Raphael replied. He didn’t seem inclined to add any further clarification, and the conversation turned to other matters as they walked through much of the night.

However, a few hours later Wyll went back to… well, names. If it were up to him, Durge mused, everyone would have such impressive-sounding names, no name would seem at all impressive anymore.

“I have grown attached to Durge, I’m afraid,” they chuckled. “Odd as it sounds. I think I may just stick with it.”

Wyll made a vague gesture with the hand carrying the torch. “I understand, but you could add something. For a little more flair.”

“I take it you have suggestions?”

“How about… D’urge?”

“... That’s exactly the same?”

“But, with an apostrophe!”

“Why?”

“Ah, a y is indeed a good letter, but not the best for every name. Dyrge doesn’t quite click, does it? Although perhaps--”

“Is this kind of talk how you bested the Netherbrain?” Raphael spoke up. He somehow sounded both weary and genuinely curious. “I for one can feel the contents of my skull shrink with every word you push past your lips.”

“I can take a dagger to your ears if you think that would help,” Astarion suggested without turning, and Raphael had the good sense not to respond. However, Halsin did turn, as did Durge. For Raphael to speak during their nightly marches was rare enough, but what really caught their attention was how weary he sounded - and it probably wasn’t because his brain was truly shrinking.

In the flicker of the torch Durge couldn’t see him as clearly as Halsin surely did, but when he stumbled on a root and barely caught himself before falling, they did notice how it took him a few moments to actually regain his footing.

“... You seem a little tired,” Halsin said, not unkindly. “Perhaps we should have ended that sparring march earlier than we did, after all. Did you not get enough rest before we set off?”

“I am perfectly fine,” Raphael snapped, and staggered again in a way that very much suggested he was not perfectly fine. To be fair he had recently recovered form grievous injuries, they had been walking through the night for nearly a week with heavy backpacks, and he was very much dealing with the limitations of a human body that was, frankly, a few years past its prime.

When Durge instinctively reached out to catch him, he leaned heavily on their arm rather than pulling away like he’d touched-- well, a rat. It made them all pause, and Durge cast Dancing Lights to better illuminate their surroundings. Once they could see clearly, Durge could tell that Halsin’s choice to describe him as ‘a little tired’ had been a kindness in itself: he looked exhausted.

“I think we have covered enough distance to warrant an early stop,” Durge said. After all, they were only hours away from dawn, and the drizzle that had bothered them through most of the night was starting to turn into actual rain. Against their feverishly warm scales, Raphael felt cold even through clothes; that may very well be the reason why he was not pulling away.

“... If we can push ahead just another couple of hours, we should reach a town on this side of the Chionthar,” Wyll spoke, gesturing to the path ahead with the torch and forcing Astarion to duck under it. “It’s called Sunridge. We passed right by it last time, but it has a really nice inn. They make some of the best rabbit in wine-currant sauce I’ve ever tasted. If the day will be as rainy as tonight promises, it would be nice to spend it in a room with actual beds in it.”

“Wyll, that sounds excellent. Not the rabbit, not for me, but a warm room and a real bed would be very much welcome,” Astarion declared, and turned back. “If the old man can bear another short walk, that is. Ah, don’t look at me like that. You are by far the oldest here.”

“Speaking of bear, I could turn into one and carry him,” Halsin offered, gaining himself a laugh from Astarion and a snort from Raphael.

“You really only want an excuse to change form, don’t you?”

“Absolutely not. I can walk,” Raphael snapped, and pulled away from Durge. Before anyone could point out the obvious fact he’d likely collapse within the hour by the looks of it, he pulled out the lyre and played a few notes. The sense of relief was immediate, and Durge looked around to see the others looked perkier, too. Of course, they thought, the Song of Rest. Useful little spell, that.

“Well, that was nice,” Wyll commented, gaining himself a scoff from Raphael. The magic had helped with some of the exhaustion, but clearly not with his mood.

“Glad to be of service,” he muttered, not sounding glad in the slightest. “Let us head to the inn, then. I shall gladly bear the walk as long as you keep quiet.”

They did reach the town and its inn within a couple of hours, as Wyll had said, only to find that the inn had no vacant rooms. The disappointment was somehow mitigated by the fact that, despite the late hour - or early hour, depending on what side of the day one looked at it from - the innkeeper was still able to bring them a hot meal.

“We’re hosting our annual Three-Dragon Ante tournament, from noon through the evening, and we’re full with players who came to sign up from out of town,” she explained, placing hot soup, roast rabbit, candied almonds and mulled wine on the table. “I do have some space available in the attic, if you have nowhere else to go, but I doubt more than two people could squeeze in there. I am very sorry.”

“Ah, I see.” Wyll sighed. “No need to apologize, it was bad timing from our--”

“Actually, the attic sounds good to me,” Astarion cut him off, and smiled at the innkeeper, gesturing to Raphael. From his part, Raphael had finished the soup and bread in a few bites and was staring intently at the candied almonds. Very intently. A little odd, that, really. He must be more tired than they thought, Song of Rest and all. “Our friend here is exhausted, and I expect a few hours of rest on a proper mattress would do him good. If you could accommodate the two of us in the attic, we’d be truly grateful.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that can be arranged. I’ll have mattresses and blankets brought up, give it a quick clean while you finish your meal. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a lifesaver, my friend.” Another bright smile and the innkeeper was off, leaving Astarion to turn to Durge. “You don’t mind, do you, love? Someone has to keep an eye on him, may as well be me. Staying out of the rain for a while might make my hair more manageable, too,” he added with a sigh, running a hand through impossibly well-coffered hair.

Later on, Durge would feel more than a little foolish for not immediately guessing Astarion was planning something: with the shared goal of getting to the Hells, there hadn’t really been any need to keep that close an eye on Raphael in the first place. But they were tired from the walk, and a little distracted by the fact Raphael was proceeding to absolutely demolish the entire dish of candied almonds by himself. They simply assumed Astarion wanted to sleep in a real bed for once, and couldn’t fault him for it.

“Of course, it sounds good. We’ll camp nearby and be back at sundown,” they said. Astarion smiled, and turned to Halsin.

“I know you’re probably looking for an excuse to wander around on four legs again, but would you stay in the tent with them today? Their sleep hasn’t been great lately.”

“That’s not nece--” Durge began, only for Halsin to cut them off.

“Of course, you need not even ask,” he said, with an eagerness that made Durge suspect they may not be getting a lot of sleep, and that settled it. The innkeeper announced the attic was ready just as they finished their meal, and they took their leave just as the sun rose.

Durge did not notice - none of them did - that their backpacks were only slightly lighter, their gold pouches gone.

***

When Israfel first arrived in Cania, all he had to hold onto was a bag of almond sweets.

There were other things he’d wanted to take with him, all his books and his lyre and his clothes, but everything had moved so fast. Duke Barbas - tall as he was wide, with a mane of black hair slicked with oil and flowing red robes - had refused a forced invitation to stay for a meal while Israfel gathered his belongings. Barbas had declined with a politeness that did little to conceal his disdain.

“As much as I’d love to accept, Lord Sunspear,” he’d said, very purposely misremembering the name, “I am in quite a hurry to return to Cania, as I have other duties to tend to and my liege lord is not a patient master. The boy’s belongings can be collected at a later time.”

Israfel had felt Lord Starspire’s hold on his shoulder tighten, pulling him closer to his side, but there was nothing he could do to keep him there and they both knew it. “His lordship can allow us a few minutes, I hope,” Lord Starspire had spoken, gaze low despite the furious tremor in his limbs, “for Israfel to--”

“Raphael,” Duke Barbas had cut him off, and dropped his gaze on Israfel. He’d smiled with no warmth. “Lord Mephistopheles is keen to choose the names of every spawn he welcomes home. Your name is Raphael.”

Israfel may have protested at being renamed like a dog changing master, if not for his surprise. He’d blinked, taken aback. “Mephistopheles? The archdevil?”

Barbas’ jet black eyebrows had gone up almost to his hairline. He glanced over at Lord Starspire, whose grip on Israfel's shoulder had turned heavy as stone. He looked surprised and oddly delighted. “You mean to tell me you never told the boy who sired?”

The man had swallowed, and looked down at Israfel, whose mind still reeled at the notion that his sire wasn’t just a devil, but the Lord of the Eighth. He had read stories about Lord Mephistopheles, his might and his fury, the power second only to that of Asmodeus himself. And he’d been reading about his father, all along? Israfel had stared at Lord Starspire, eyes wide, and the man’s own eyes seemed to veil with tears.

“Forgive me, boy. I’d planned to tell you, but I’d grown to hope this day would never--”

“Well!” Duke Barbas exclaimed, clapping his hands once and causing both to recoil. “Now that that has been cleared up, I think it would be proper for Raphael to discard that disguise. He won’t be needing it anymore,” he added, gesturing vaguely at him.

Israfel had wanted to tell him it was no disguise, that this body was real and his own just as much as the one with horns and wings, but the devil before him had raised an impatient eyebrow and he’d suddenly felt very, very small. He’d breathed out and willed his form to change back, from human to fiend. It gained him that smile devoid of warmth again, and the weight of his stepfather’s hand on his shoulder was gone.

A satisfied click of his tongue, and Barbas had nodded. “Much better. Your Lord father summons you, little duke. You may say your goodbyes, but be quick.”

The goodbyes had been quick indeed and most of it had been a blur, too fast for his usually nimble mind to catch up. He’d remember Nan holding him tight, whispering something-- You’re loved here, promise your Nan you’ll remember that, come back see us -- and he’d remember a few people crying, and the cook pushing something in his hand, a small bag of his favorite almond sweets.

Last had been Lord Starspire, who’d crouched and pulled him close in an embrace that Israfel-- not anymore, he had a new name now, didn’t he-- was too overwhelmed to return. He couldn’t make himself say anything, his tongue heavy as lead. “Be careful,” was all Lord Starspire managed to whisper in his ear, then he’d pulled back and stood.

As the boy nodded and stepped back as well, Duke Barbas had cleared his throat. “Come, boy. It’s time to join your kind,” he’d called, holding out a hand.

Raphael had taken it, and that-- love-- was that.

***

Astarion was not, usually, a details kind of guy.

He saw little point in planning and plotting when, more often than not, some absolutely insane shit would inevitably happen and make all the aforementioned planning and plotting entirely useless. He’d rather just keep his knives sharp and close at hand, and his eyes peeled.

This time, however, the situation did require some strategic planning and so plan he did. Quite brilliantly, if he said so himself, paragon of humbleness that he was. A perfect plan that would see them leave a couple dozen thousand pieces of gold richer, allowing them to get Helsik to open that portal to Avernus for them… and have enough left over to buy the best supplies available to give them a better chance at surviving the Hells than a literal snowball. It would all work out perfectly.

If the devil did indeed know how to play Three-Dragon Ante, of course. If not, Astarion hoped he was a very quick learner, or they would be utterly screwed. The others just might be a little cross to learn all their collective gold was gone.

Ah well. The die was cast, and it was time to find out how it landed.

“Hey, old man, wake up,” Astarion called out, shaking Raphael by the shoulder. He made a noise, trying to shake his hand off, to no avail. “Come now, you’re fine. I’ve let you sleep almost six hours.”

“What do you want, spawn?” Raphael muttered, voice thick with sleep. He sat up, blinking, but of course he could see next to nothing in the dark. Not anymore. “What time is it?”

“It’s time you get up and play your part to win us some gold, that’s what.”

“Wha--”

“Because we do need gold. Badly. You can play Three-Dragon Ante, yes?”

Raphael grunted, running a hand over his face. “I can play any game you mortals ever dreamed up and several you never did, obviously. But what--”

“And are you any good?”

“I am not going to deign that with an answer.”

“I’ll take it as a yes. Great. Come downstairs, the tournament is about to start.”

Raphael’s hand stilled midway through brushing back his hair. Astarion could see him frown while putting two and two together. “... The tournament the innkeeper kept going on about - you signed me up?”

“I did, so you can win that nice prize of ten thousand gold pieces. And I bet all of our money on you, so if we’re to pay our way into Hells, you know what to do.”

“And you didn’t think of asking me--”

Astarion laughed. “Don’t be absurd, of course I did! But you would have said no. Plus the others would have said no, and we really don’t need all that nonsense. It’s a nice simple plan, really. You go downstairs, sit your ass on a chair, and don’t get up until you’ve won every single game and claimed the prize. That should be easy for you. Unless, of course, you think you may lose to mortals.”

“If that’s an attempt at goading me into doing your bidding, it’s amateurishly transparent and--”

“By the way, if anyone asks, your name is Wulbren Bongle.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused, darling. Up now, they won’t wait for you. And stop frowning, I’m sure beating scores of people at something will make you feel good.”

Raphael scoffed. “Would stepping on insects make you feel good?” he muttered, and Astarion smiled in the dark.

“Yes, actually.”

“... Of course it would,” Raphael muttered, but he did start feeling around for his boots, and Astarion considered the argument won.

***

“So, you found him well.”

“I’d say well is somewhat of an overstatement. He’s doing acceptably, for someone who was only recently turned into a mere mortal. Certainly an improvement from the state he was in when I took him to the Material Plane, though I regret to inform you his skill in bed has not likewise improved.”

“... That was not among my most pressing queries. Or anywhere among my queries.”

“Ah, I suppose that is not something that’s usually shared with one’s mother, hmm? Apologies.”

“You don’t look very sorry.”

“Don’t take it personally, dear. I’m never sorry for anything.”

Dalah held back a sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I am no one’s mother,” she muttered. In the back of her mind, she remembered being terrified as months passed and her belly swelled. She’d heard enough stories to know what fate befell any mortal mother of a half-fiend, but ending the pregnancy would gain her an archdevil’s ire, and her husband’s certain death on the battlefield. In the end, it had been for Rahirek. It had always been for him.

She remembered locking herself in her rooms when flowing robes could no longer hide her state, and she remembered spending nights awake praying to any gods she knew of. She remembered what she promised, too.

Let me live, and I’ll learn to love the child.

But she had not lived, and that promise no longer mattered.

“... I was but the means to bring a spawn of Mephistopheles into the world,” she muttered in the end, her voice bitter as bile. Haarlep tilted their head.

“Well, you were rather successful. Half-fiends seldom live all that long. The least impressive ones are meat for the Blood War, and the more impressive ones tend to bite off more than they can chew sooner or later, and pay the price. Raphael lasted more than most. I am pretty sure he is Mephistopheles’ oldest living son, really.”

“It seems to me he did bite off more than he could chew.”

A shrug. “Eventually, yes. But it was always going to happen. That’s how cambions are.”

“That’s how all devils are.”

“Cambions most of all. Nearly all of them think they have something to prove, the silly things.” A shrug, and they grabbed an orange from a silver tray next to the bed. “And how’s the other half of him faring?”

“It’s hard to tell. It-- he seems restless. But he hasn’t attacked anyone without provocation. He has some form of control over himself, at least.”

“And the little trick with the name still works?”

“Yes. He stills whenever I speak it. He almost let me-- I think he may have let me touch him.”

“Good thing you didn’t, or you’d have to make do without hands. Still, interesting. It wasn’t a fluke, then.” Haarlep smiled, seemingly delighted, and finished peeling the orange to eat a slice. “That may be very useful.”

“Useful for what? What is it she’s planning?”

“My lips are sealed. You know that.” A pause, and they shrugged before eating another slice. “As in for talking, not for--”

Dalah held back a groan. “Yes, I know what you mean,” she muttered, already regretting trying to get an answer out of the incubus. They were far from the worst company to keep in Mephistar - not that it was a high bar to step over - but the longer any conversation went, the more she found herself thinking that being torn from the inside out while birthing a devil was perhaps not the most excruciating thing she had ever gone through after all.

“It’s not personal of course. She clearly trusts you to a degree - why else task you to give him the ring?”

Because it’s on me, Dalah thought. He’s my doing as much as Mephistopheles’.

Still, she chose to ignore the question. “Have you spoken with her at all since last time?” she asked instead. Duke Baalphegor could change her appearance just as easily as Haarlep could change theirs; it made sense that any communication would take place between the two of them, who knew in what disguises. It was the most sensible way to go about it, and Duke Baalphegor was nothing if not sensible. She had to be, to keep her loyalty to both Asmodeus and Mephistopheles for so many centuries. Until recently, that was.

In an official capacity at least, no one really knew the reason why Mephistopheles’ long-time consort had left Mephistar quite so suddenly. However, for the many qualities even his victims could begrudgingly recognize Mephistopheles possessed, subtlety was not among them. His bursts of temper were not all that rare, but few recalled seeing one quite as terrible as the one that had followed the disappearance of the Crown of Karsus from his vault.

… That may be partly due to the fact that most close witnesses to his tantrums rarely lived to tell the tale, truth be told, but that day his fury had been felt throughout the citadel, and probably through the entire glacier it was perched upon. And while there were many accusations one may move against the devils who formed the upper crust of Mephistar’s hierarchy, no one could accuse them of being stupid. They had immediately noticed that Duke Baalphegor had seemingly disappeared immediately afterwards, and put two and two together. More or less.

Among them, some whispered that Mephistopheles had destroyed her because he thought she’d played a role in the theft of the Crown; others said he had taken her prisoner. Others yet, more shrewd, knew that even in anger Mephistopheles would not risk Asmodeus’ ire quite so brazenly, killing such a close ally of his.

“Think of it, our Lord of Hellfire has always coveted Asmodeus’ throne--”

“Nearly every archdevil does, Quagrem, except perhaps Zariel with her obsession for battle. Or do I need to remind you what became of Levistus?”

“Ah, but none was ever brave enough to say as much in Asmodeus’ face. Why then would he sit on that crown and its power for so long, without using it for his highest goal?”

“It was the work of a mere mortal, who tried and failed to be something more. Perhaps it was not powerful enough to take on the Lord Below, even on his brow.”

“Or perhaps, Duke Baalphegor convinced him not to use it. Perhaps she even used your same arguments. Everyone with sense knows that Baalphegor’s diplomacy was all that’s kept the Lord of Nessus from removing Mephistopheles--”

“Do you truly think Duke Baalphegor had a hand in taking the Crown?”

“Oh, don’t be absurd, Nexroth. She certainly did not sneak in the vault like a common thief, and may not even know who did, but think of it - she convinces him not to use a powerful artifact against Asmodei, he listens to her as he always does… and when the Crown goes missing, he’s lost the chance to ever use it. To her great credit, Baalphegor balanced her role as Mephistopheles’ consort and close ally of Asmodeus for millennia, but even she couldn’t keep it going forever.”

“And you believe the Crown incident is what upset that balance?”

“Can you think of anything else that might have?”

A pause, a hum. “... Perhaps there is truth to your words. But if that is so, the Lord of the Eighth is in a more precarious position than ever before. As you said, without Baalphegor here, Asmodeus’ tolerance may run thin.”

“Indeed it might,” was the reply, and that had been the end of the conversation, because neither was foolish enough to push it further, to even voice thoughts of a possible demise of Mephistopheles. Neither of them had paid the slightest attention to Dalah, and why should they? She was one of hundreds of thousands debtors doing menial tasks in the citadel, the vast majority of them uttering to themselves whatever gibberish crossed their broken minds. No one’s sanity lasted long, with few exceptions.

Namely, Baalphegor’s personal attendants, all of them mortals who had been tricked or terrified into bearing children for her consort. As far as masters went, she was not unkind as long as instructions were followed… and she had extended some sort of protection over them, for none of them had lost their mind as other debtors eventually did. Not out of charity, clearly - it paid to have eyes and ears everywhere, those of debtors no one paid attention to - but Dalah cared little for her reasons as long as it kept her mind intact.

Except that now, suddenly, she could think of nothing but her reasons.

Saving Raphael, or at least part of him, had been a clear move against Mephistopheles - but to what end she couldn't begin to imagine. What game was she playing? Was it even just her game, or was it Asmodeus’? What role was Raphael supposed to play? What role could he play now that he was split into two beings, one enslaved and one a mere mortal?

Is he to be yet another lanceboard piece to sacrifice? Did I only delay his demise?

Not knowing ate at her, but one thing was clear: she may be on shaky ground but, very suddenly, even Mephistopheles’ position in the Hells didn’t seem all that secure anymore.

***

As it turned out, stepping on insects was making Raphael feel a great deal better indeed.

That was not something he planned on admitting to the spawn, of course. Not that he could have even if he wanted to, as players were not allowed to speak to anybody other than their opponents and the judges.

That, and Astarion was currently busy: it seemed that betting all the gold he had on him was not enough, and he had started his own little gambling ring. He was collecting small bets for each round from spectators whose chosen winner had clearly already lost, but who still had gold left to lose.

And lose it they would, unless they did the clever thing and bet on him.

Raphael smiled and leaned back on his chair, looking at the other five players in his group as they put down their cards. The only truly decent player, a half-orc with a sound strategic mind, had the highest strength flight by far; a quick calculation told her that Raphael could not possibly have a stronger one. Raphael allowed her a handful of seconds to celebrate her victory before putting down his own cards. The weakest flights by far, and yet…

“Unfortunately, my friend, I must claim this round.”

“What! Your flight is nowhere near--” she began, only to trail off when she properly paused to look at the cards.

Raphael smiled. “I have the Druid. The lowest strength flight wins,” he said, and smiled again - admittedly, only a touch smug - before leaning back to let the judge look over all flights and declare his victory, letting him pass the turn to the next game.

The announcement was not particularly well-received by the half-orc, who made her displeasure known by grabbing the judge and flinging him against a table where another game had just concluded. An impressive throw, considering that the judge was roughly the size of a particularly burly gnoll.

A brief bout of chaos unfolded, several of the judges banding together to throw out the sore loser. Raphael ducked under a thrown stool, took a moment to drink a mouthful of wine, and looked over to his left. Astarion was distributing wins and pocketing his fees, but he paused a moment to look back and grin.

Raphael didn’t quite smile back, but the corners of his mouth curled up just a fraction, and he raised the goblet in a silent toast. Another sip of wine, and he looked around again.

Several hours and many games in, the pool of players had significantly been narrowed down. They were now down to twelve tables and, in the last rounds, only one player would advance from each; two more games, then, and that entire travesty would be over with. Until then, he supposed he had no choice but to keep winning.

Not the worst task in the world, he had to admit. Compared to the dismal experiences he’d had in the past half a year, this was almost… acceptable.

As some semblance of order returned and the winners from their respective games were seated in groups of six, Raphael briefly considered losing on purpose right at the grand finale. Watching the spawn trying to explain to the rest of their companions where most of their gold went would be amusing, he had to admit… but they did need that gold to open up a portal to the Hells, so losing it would be too great an inconvenience to be worth it.

Perhaps the vampling’s little plan hadn’t been all that foolish after all. That, too, was something Raphael would definitely not admit aloud.

He turned his attention back to the game instead, and went ahead to stomp on a few more insects on his way to his first victory in a long time. A laughably small victory, in the greater scale of things, but a victory nonetheless.

May it be the first of many, he thought, and emptied his fourth goblet of wine just as finished his winning hand.

***

“I still maintain you should have told us what you were planning--”

“Thirty thousand gold.”

“That’s not the point I’m trying to--”

“Sorry, love. I can’t hear your point over the jingling of thirty thousand gold.” Half drunk on the bottle of blood he was drinking from, Astarion sat more comfortably on the tree branch he was perched on along with Wyll. He turned to Raphael, who was precariously sitting on another branch, and grinned, lifting the bottle. “Sharee!”

“... What?”

“Isn’t it Infernal for ‘cheers’?”

“It means turnip.”

“Ah. Well-- cheers for the Three-Dragon Ante champion of Sunridge, who just made us rich. We’ll very much enjoy carrying this money to Baldur’s Gate, where we’ll promptly spend it all to go, literally, to Hell.”

As Astarion set to work to empty the bottle, Durge shifted a little on the fork in the tree trunk they were sitting on, with Halsin in his cat shape sitting across their shoulders. They glanced over at Raphael. “... Congratulations are in order, I suppose.”

A shrug. “It was a childishly simple endeavor. Bragging would be poor form on my part.”

“He said, bragging,” Wyll muttered, but he seemed amused and even Raphael’s scoff sounded almost like a barely held-back chuckle. Durge suspected he’d had more than a couple of goblets of wine during the game, but said nothing of it and let their gaze wander back to the ground below, where they had set up two tents and started a fire, as visible as a beacon into the night.

If anyone had set out after them with the intent of robbing them of the winnings - more a certainty than a probability, to be quite honest - they couldn’t miss it. What they would hopefully miss was the fact that the several barrels near the tents contained smokepowder.

“... Well. How much longer are we supposed to wait?” Raphael asked, and Durge shrugged, holding back a yawn. Sharing a tent with Halsin was rarely conducive to a sound, long rest.

“I’d give it another hour at most,” they said, and they were not too far off: in the end, it took only about forty minutes before Halsin, still perched on Durge’s shoulder, hissed. They looked down to see shadows creeping at the edges of the small camp, a group of at least ten people. One dragonborn, from what Durge could tell, and a couple of dwarves, along with what was probably an half-orc and others who may have been human or elves - hard to tell.

In the flickering light of the campfire, they watched them split in two groups, each surrounding a tent; weapons were brought up, swords and axes, and they fell on each tent, the silence of night broken by cries and hollers as they proceeded to hack at the tents and… well, at the people they assumed to be inside.

“Not precisely professionals, these ones,” Wyll murmured. “Who wants to do the honors?”

“Oh,” Astarion whispered back, the grin almost audible in his voice. “I bet the devil wants to have a go. Don’t you, Raphael?”

“I’m surprised, spawn. I thought you’d be eager to end them yourself.”

“I’m just generous like that,” Astarion replied, his voice making clear he was also a little tipsy. Wyll reached to grab him by the shoulder, just to make sure he wouldn’t fall off the tree while he gestured widely at the scene below them. “Go on, old man. This shot’s all yours.”

“It will be my pleasure,” was the response, just as someone below spoke up.

“Wait a minute, there is no one he--”

“Ignis!”

The firebolt shot through the air, a streak of bright light in the dark. For a moment it illuminated the faces of the bandits below - one of them saw them, a dragonborn with blood-red scales, but it was too late to do anything - and then the barrels of smokepowder blew up in a deafening explosion that covered any screams, and left their would-be killers no hope for survival. Bit of a shame to lose two tents like that but, Durge figured, better those than their skins.

The shockwave of the explosion was powerful enough to make Astarion entirely lose his balance, but Wyll caught his leg on time and he just dangled for a few moments upside down, laughing at the carnage below. He glanced up with a grin, the flames beneath turning his hair into a bright halo.

“Admit it, devil,” he said, holding up the hand that wasn’t clutching the now empty bottle. “You had fun today.”

Raphael scoffed, of course; he seemed to spend half his time doing that lately, so it wasn’t surprising. What did surprise Durge was the fact he actually leaned over to grab Astarion’s hand and help him back up on the tree while Halsin dismissed his wildshape and cast an ice storm at the fire below, to keep it from spreading to the forest. That particular task covered, Durge’s attention stayed on Astarion and Raphael.

“I suppose that your antics do provide a sort of childish entertainment,” Raphael was muttering. “For those who care for it.”

“Sounds to me like you care for it.”

“Sounds to me like you’re drunk.”

“Sounds to me like you both had enough to drink,” Wyll laughed, only to recoil when both turned on him as one.

“Look who’s talking!”

“That’s a bold stand from someone who guzzles wine like water at all times of the day.”

“Hey, that’s not--”

“Amazed the Blade still recalls what end of the blade he’s supposed to hold, really.”

“Granted, your passable taste in wine makes it marginally more tolerable--”

“I only sample a little wine every once in a--”

“Oh, that’s sampling now? If I sampled necks the way you sample wine, I’d be leaving a trail of dead bodies in my wake.”

“I-- well--” Wyll groaned, clearly realizing he’d bitten off more than he cared to chew at the moment. “Oh gods, I did not sign up for this. Can you two go back to hating each other’s guts?”

“We still absolutely do,” Raphael pointed out, and Astarion grinned.

“The feeling is mutual,” he declared, and patted Raphael's shoulder hard enough to make him fall off the branch with a cry. Later he’d deny doing it on purpose, but as Durge nearly fell themself to cast Feather Fall and spare Raphael a very painful landing on icy ground, Astarion looked at them with a lopsided smile.

“You know, love,” he said, “I still think he likes us.”

***

[Back to Chapter 7]

[On to Chapter 9]

[Back to Start]

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #the dark urge #raphael bg3 #astarion ancunin #halsin bg3 #wyll ravengard #haarlep bg3 #hell to pay #bg3 raphael #bg3 astarion

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ammg-old2 · 1 year

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It was a simpler time. A friend introduced us, pulling up a static yellow webpage using a shaky dial-up modem. A man stood forth, dressed in a dapper black pinstriped suit with a red-accented tie. He held one hand out, as if carrying an imaginary waiter’s tray. He looked regal and confident and eminently at my service. “Have a Question?” he beckoned. “Just type it in and click Ask!” And ask, I did. Over and over.

With his steady hand, Jeeves helped me make sense of the tangled mess of the early, pre-Google internet. He wasn’t perfect—plenty of context got lost between my inquiries and his responses. Still, my 11-year-old brain always delighted in the idea of a well-coiffed man chauffeuring me down the information superhighway. But things changed. Google arrived, with its clean design and almost magic ability to deliver exactly the answers I wanted. Jeeves and I grew apart. Eventually, in 2006, Ask Jeeves disappeared from the internet altogether and was replaced with the more generic Ask.com.

Many years later, it seems I owe Jeeves an apology: He had the right idea all along. Thanks to advances in artificial intelligence and the stunning popularity of generative-text tools such as ChatGPT, today’s search-engine giants are making huge bets on AI search chatbots. In February, Microsoft revealed its Bing Chatbot, which has thrilled and frightened early users for its ability to scour the internet and answer questions (not always correctly) with convincingly human-sounding language. The same week, Google demoed Bard, the company’s forthcoming attempt at an AI-powered chat-search product. But for all the hype, when I stare at these new chatbots, I can’t help but see the faint reflection of my former besuited internet manservant. In a sense, Bing and Bard are finishing what Ask Jeeves started. What people want when they ask a question is for an all-knowing, machine-powered guide to confidently present them with the right answer in plain language, just as a reliable friend would.

With this in mind, I decided to go back to the source. More than a decade after parting ways, I found myself on the phone with one of the men behind the machine, getting as close to Asking Jeeves as is humanly possible. These days, Garrett Gruener, Ask Jeeves’s co-creator, is a venture capitalist in the Bay Area. He and his former business partner David Warthen eventually sold Ask Jeeves to Barry Diller and IAC for just under $2 billion. Still, I wondered if Gruener had been unsettled by Jeeves’s demise. Did he, like me, see the new chatbots as the final form of his original idea? Did he feel vindicated or haunted by the fact that his creation may have simply been born far too early?

The original conception for Jeeves, Gruener told me, was remarkably similar to what Microsoft and Google are trying to build today. As a student at UC San Diego in the mid-1970s, Gruener—a sci-fi aficionado—got an early glimpse of ARPANET, the pre-browser predecessor to the commercial internet, and fell in love. Just over a decade later, as the web grew and the beginnings of the internet came into view, Gruener realized that people would need a way to find things in the morass of semiconnected servers and networks. “It became clear that the web needed search but that mere mortals without computer-science degrees needed something easy, even conversational,” he said. Inspired by Eliza, the famous chatbot designed by MIT’s Joseph Weizenbaum, Gruener dreamed of a search engine that could converse with people using natural-language processing. Unfortunately, the technology wasn’t sophisticated enough for Gruener to create his ideal conversational search bot.

So Gruener and Warthen tried a work-around. Their code allowed a user to write a statement in English, which was then matched to a preprogrammed vector, which Gruener explained to me as “a canonical snapshot of answers to what the engine thought you were trying to say.” Essentially, they taught the machine to recognize certain words and provide really broad categorical answers. “If you were looking for population stats for a country, the query would see all your words and associated variables and go, Well, this Boolean search seems close, so it’s probably this.” Jeeves would provide the answer, and then you could clarify whether it worked or not.

“We tried to discern what people were trying to say in search, but without actually doing the natural-recognition part of it,” Gruener said. After some brainstorming, they realized that they were essentially building a butler. One of Gruener’s friends mocked up a drawing of the friendly servant, and Jeeves was born.

Pre-Google, Ask Jeeves exploded in popularity, largely because it allowed people to talk with their search engine like a person. Within just two years, the site was handling more than 1 million queries a day. A massive Jeeves balloon floated down Central Park West during Macy’s 1999 Thanksgiving parade. But not long after the butler achieved buoyancy, the site started to lose ground in the search wars. Google’s web-crawling superiority led to hard times for Ask Jeeves. “None of us were very concerned about monetization in the beginning,” Gruener told me. “Everyone in search early on realized, if you got this right, you’d essentially be in the position of being the oracle. If you could be the company to go to in order to ask questions online, you’re going to be paid handsomely.”

Gruener isn’t bitter about losing out to Google. “If anything, I’m really proud of our Jeeves,” he told me. Listening to Gruener explain the history, it’s not hard to see why. In the mid-2000s, Google began to pivot search away from offering only 10 blue links to images, news, maps, and shopping. Eventually, the company began to fulfill parts of the Jeeves promise of answering questions with answer boxes. One way to look at the evolution of big search engines in the 21st century is that all companies are trying their best to create their own intuitive search butlers. Gruener told me that Ask Jeeves’s master plan had two phases, though the company was sold before it could tackle the second. Gruener had hoped that, eventually, Jeeves could act as a digital concierge for users. He’d hoped to employ the same vector technology to get people to ask questions and allow Jeeves to make educated guesses and help users complete all kinds of tasks. “If you look at Amazon’s Alexa, they’re essentially using the same approach we designed for Jeeves, just with voice,” Gruener said. Yesterday’s butler has been rebranded as today’s virtual assistant, and the technology is ubiquitous in many of our home devices and phones. “We were right for the consumer back then, and maybe we’d be right now. But at some point the consumer evolved,” he said.

I’ve been fixated on what might’ve been if Gruener’s vision had come about now. We might all be Jeevesing about the internet for answers to our mundane questions. Perhaps our Jeevesmail inboxes would be overflowing and we’d be getting turn-by-turn directions from an Oxford-educated man with a stiff English accent. Perhaps we’d all be much better off.

Gruener told me about an encounter he’d had during the search wars with one of Google’s founders at a TED conference (he wouldn’t specify which of the two). “I told him that we’re going to learn an enormous amount about the people who are using our platforms, especially as they become more conversational. And I said that it was a potentially dangerous position,” he said. “But he didn’t seem very receptive to my concerns.”

Near the end of our call, I offered an apology for deserting Jeeves like everyone else did. Gruener just laughed. “I find this future fascinating and, if I’m honest, a little validating,” he said. “It’s like, ultimately, as the tech has come around, the big guys have come around to what we were trying to do.”

#history #technology #digital technology #computing #internet #ask jeeves #google

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yaskefer · 1 year

Text

Of Coastal Birds in Mainland Towns

read on ao3

Summary: Five times Geralt thought Jaskier worked for the Sandpiper, and one time he realised Jaskier was the Sandpiper.

Wordcount: 9.4k

Snippet:

When Jaskier returns to their inn room, he does not smell of sex.

The sun is already starting to peak over the horizon, colouring the sky a murky pink colour– something Jaskier would no doubt describe in far more poetic terms.

Geralt assumed that the bard would be spending the night with the barmaid when he didn’t return within a few hours, but apparently not. They’d been flirting like crazy, Jaskier with his usual charm on, and the barmaid had looked terribly interested too. She didn’t have a wedding ring on her finger and looked old enough that a furious father should not have been a problem.

And, well, Jaskier isn’t running either, so it’s not that.

He sits up and frowns as Jaskier turns around to face him, closing the door slowly, like even the smallest click won’t wake Geralt. He startles, nearly toppling backwards onto his ass when his eyes meet Geralt’s, and Geralt feels his lips twitch just the tiniest bit. It’s not like Jaskier can see it in the dark either.

“What the fuck, Geralt, warn a man,” Jaskier says, his voice thin and loud, a hand pressed against his chest. In his other hand, he clutches a sheet of paper with some writing on it that Geralt can’t make out. It looks important, there’s a broken seal on it, one he doesn’t recognise.

He shakes his head and sighs, shaking a finger at Geralt one last time before carefully making his way over to the bed and plopping himself beside Geralt. “Would you be a dear and do your,” he wriggles his fingers, “Thingy thing, please? I don’t want to light a fire.”

Geralt takes the sheet in his hand, his eyes flicking over the writing, and– “The fuck?”

It’s not a language he recognises– and he knows a lot of languages, even if he can’t read in them. The script is Common, but the words aren’t any that he recognises. He scowls at the paper, wondering if the hunt the day before went worse than he remembers and its messed with his brain. But Jaskier just laughs at him, “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, darling. You’re not meant to be able to read it. Now, please burn it, just in case.” He pauses, and then adds, a tad bit tentative, “Preferably several feet away from me.”

#the witcher #my fic #jaskier dandelion #geralt of rivia #my writing

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frostedwitch · 2 years

Text

When Jaskier is left alone to his own devices in Kaer Morhen he plays with the fantastic acoustics of the old keep. He wanders the cold empty corridors and rooms with high stone ceilings, singing and listening to his notes echoing back at him. On long sleepless nights he can be found alone in the great hall, his melodies surrounding him like a ethereal sirens song.

#jaskier #jaskier the bard #julian alfred pankratz #the witcher #kaer morhen #like Vesemir walks in one night and Jaskier is there singing #Jaskier is sat alone on top of the long dining table letting out these straight up ethereal ooohs hmmms and ahhhs #First off Vesemir thinks fuck is that a wraith? a siren?#but no his brain clicks and he knows its the bard #but its so beautiful and he understands Geralts obsession with the human #another night Eskel finds him #Jaskier's voice sounds like the sad call of a long dead lover calling for their love to come back #and Eskel finds a way to get Geralt to go to the great hall the next night #Geralt just stands around the corner peeking at his bard #the sound so mystical #that he goes straight up like his under a spell and hugs the bard #have you seen that video of a girl singing the titaic theme in a stairwell???#you need to see it #thats Jaskier

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brimbrimbrimbrim · 2 years

Note

omg bless u for finishing the chapter even with covid!! i hope u feel better soon and 🤲 tysm for feeding us starving fans HFJAHFJS

Covid is still kicking my ass, but I got spoiled on Part 2 and decided to just lay in bed all night and write this next chapter. Glad you're enjoying the story. More Eddie and the fair maiden to soothe our souls! <3

Eddie manages to zip his jeans up—denim tight on his shower-damp dick—when he hears the familiar sound of Jason Carver shouting 'Munson!' inside the fair maiden's bedroom. He turns so fast his heel almost slips, sending him halfway to the tile floor, the toilet lid clutched in his hands. Instead of cracking his skull open, Eddie manages to help his soaked, very fucking naked bard get a ratty Satan shirt on. She barely hauls those red panties on before something wet smashes in her bedroom.

"Those-" an almost inhuman sound hisses from between her teeth, "… fuckers . If that was my lava lamp, I'm gonna knock his nose in."

Eddie's never seen her so pissed off, but they're sitting ducks in the bathroom, so he pushes down the eccentric thrill her anger gives him and grabs at her wrist, racing them out into the hallway just in time to see Jason throw open her bedroom door with the edge of a baseball bat.

His eyes gleam in the darkness, shining from the lights in the living room. Jason raises the bat, pointing at Eddie with a horrible, menacing smirk, "There. The Devil and his whore!"

Several guys crowd in behind him. The fair maiden jerks forward as if to confront them, but Eddie knows what they're here for: Eddie the Freak Munson. They wanna bash his fucking brains in till he's burger meat at worst, and at best, shit kick him until he wished he was. His fingers tighten around her wrist, yanking her back, and—despite the frenzy of sounds coming from the master bedroom—Eddie twists the knob, shoves open the door, and throws them both inside Reefer Rick's room, where the slugs are snuffling and scratching at the master bathroom door.

He throws the lock to the side as shower water slides chilly rivulets down his chest and back.

" Fuck. Fuck-fuck-shit… "

The walkie-talkie clicks behind him, "H-Henderson. A blonde asshole just broke into my house-"

"Jason. Basketball dipshits ," Eddie adds, eyes hot on the door. A bang hits the other side, booming through the house as he flinches. There's no more running… no time to be a coward. Fuck, where's that broken bottle when he fucking needs it?!

"It's the basketball team," the fair maiden hisses into the radio, a tremor in her voice. "D-do you copy?? Hello? Anyone ?!"

On their right, the bathroom door pounds. They both whip their attention to the wooden creak, well-worn door shaking as slick, thick bodies slam into its surface, eager to crush through to the other side. The rickety chair makes a stomach-dropping wine of wood glue and nails.

"Eddie, the door—the slugs…"

"I know. I know ." Eddie runs his hands through his sodden hair, scratching his scalp, trying to jog some logic back into it as panic scrambles him up worse than a fried fucking egg.

" Shit, shit, shit … uh… we need something to beat them back. Like… a fire poker or-or something! Fuck !"

He's jumping on his bare feet, pacing as the bedroom door rattles, wondering if it's best to hide her somewhere safe and let them just… have at him. Eddie can handle his own well enough but not against three or four rage-frothing morons with blunt weapons. Best he can do is make sure she's okay… since it's all his fault she's wrapped up in this shit anyway. Then, just as Eddie's starting to get comfortable giving himself as a POW for the greater good, his eyes spot a shitty Red Gremlin guitar leaning against a wooden chair stacked with Sears catalogs.

Oh, baby…

You can read the rest HERE!

#ask #anon #eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #fanfiction #writing #metalhead boyfriend #fortune teller #stranger things #stranger things s4

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havenoffandoms · 3 years

Note

72 for Geralt/Jaskier?

I meant to post this a lot earlier... sorry about the wait, nonnie. I hope you like it anyway. I'm not sure how it came out in the end after I agonised over this for the past couple of days, but it was fun going back to my Geraskier roots.

Masterlist

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier

Prompt 72: Character A has a secret. Character B does whatever they can to find out what it is. When they find out, they wish they hadn't.

Warnings: brief angsty episode, mention of Geralt's traumatic childhood

Also, I love that art! Holy Shit!? So of course this had to feature before the fic <3

Travelling with Jaskier had its downfalls.

For one, the bard talks a lot. He never stops, not even in his sleep, and that would drive any man insane if you ask Geralt. He listens to Jaskier waffling about poetry all day, every day, he doesn’t have to endure a lecture on the benefits of iambic pentameters when he’s trying to fall asleep, thank you very much. Jaskier also likes to complain about every little thing that causes him discomfort, which when they’re on the path, ranges from fly bites all the way to sore feet. Travelling with a human also means that they travel considerably slower, unless they’re both riding on top of Roach, but Geralt doesn’t like putting his best girl under that kind of strain very often.

For all of Jaskier’s flaws, Geralt would hate to have to separate from his bard. At least, when Jaskier is close by, Geralt can keep an eye on him and make sure Jaskier doesn’t get himself into any unnecessary trouble. Having Jaskier travel with him gives Geralt peace of mind. He appreciates the singing as well, even if he could stand to tell Jaskier this a bit more often. Geralt deems that his bard’s ego is plenty inflated without Geralt making it worse. Not to mention that life always seems a little bit brighter when Jaskier is around, and the nights are a little less lonely as Geralt gets to pull his bard close and fall asleep to the sound of his beating heart. Knowing that Jaskier is safe is the only thing that lets Geralt sleep peacefully at night.

You’d think that after nearly two decades of knowing his bard, Geralt would have figured out Jaskier’s secret by now. Geralt is, of course, referring to Jaskier’s near supernatural ability to always come up with coin when he and Geralt need it most urgently. Geralt has no idea how the bard does it - his songs are popular, granted, and on a good night Jaskier makes enough to buy a nice room for the night and the better pieces of meat from the kitchen. Still, being a bard doesn’t pay that well, not even if you were as famous as Jaskier. Just last week, Geralt’s horse and most of his belonging were stolen by bandits, leaving Geralt travelling on foot and too poor to afford to buy a new horse. Two days later, Jaskier came trotting up to their camp atop a gorgeous mare, looking mighty pleased with himself but refusing to tell Geralt how he managed to afford to pay for the horse.

“Would you believe me if I told you I stole her, Geralt, my dear?”

“Not in a million years,” Geralt admitted deadpan, pulling an offended squawk from his songbird.

“Just because I’m a bard you don’t think I can steal a horse?”

“I don’t think you could ever steal a horse because you’re as stealthy as the proverbial bull in the porcelain shop.”

It’s not just the horse, though. Geralt’s armour needed replacing and good armour doesn’’t come cheaply. Geralt doesn’t hire the services of just any blacksmith or armourer to craft his weapons and protective gear. He has his regular suppliers, the ones he always goes back to because he knows that their work is reliable and of the highest quality. And even though these people know Geralt by now, even offer him a friends and family discount on occasion, their wares still come at a hefty price. Geralt, as it turns out, didn’t have the coin to replace his armour for a few months. He desperately needed new boots, though. A new pair of breeches wouldn’t hurt either, and his silver sword broke in half whilst fighting a particularly vicious griffin a few weeks back.

Geralt didn’t even mention all of this to Jaskier. That didn’t stop the bard from going ahead and commissioning a brand new suit of armour, new silver and steel swords, as well as a few casual clothes for Geralt to wear on the warmer summer days. All of this must have cost an arm, a leg and a fucking lung, and yet Jaskier acted like he didn’t just break the bank all for Geralt’s benefit. He didn’t even get anything for himself and that realisation had Geralt feeling slightly embarrassed about the gesture.

“You don’t have to buy me all this stuff, Jask.”

“I know that, dearest,” Jaskier assured him, eyes soft and an easy smile playing on his lips, “but I wanted to. Only the best for you, my sweet witcher.”

The mystery of where Jaskier managed to find the coin to pay for all this remains unsolved, despite Geralt’s questioning. Well, if Jaskier won’t outright tell him, then Geralt will just have to investigate the matter by himself.

"Where the fuck did you get your hand on all the coin to pay for all this?" Geralt asks one evening, blunt and straight to the point. There was probably a kinder and gentler way to ask this, but after spending weeks mulling over Jaskier's sudden new-found fortune, Geralt has lost the little patience he possessed in the matter. Jaskier, on the other hand, looks perfectly unperturbed.

"From the bank," he offers simply as he sprinkles expensive herbs over the hare Geralt caught earlier that evening, "you know, where people deposit their valuables? I know you witchers don't believe in bank accounts, savings and interests, but-"

"Where does the coin come from?" Geralt interrupts, hissing those words through clenched teeth.

"Why, my inheritance."

Geralt stares for a long while. It takes his brain several seconds to catch up to what Jaskier is telling him, and another few seconds to make sense of the words. Inheritance?

"What inheritance?"

"Well, when my father passed away he left me and my siblings a share of his wealth. That's how inheritance works. Say, pass me my satchel my dear, I think I have some more spices in there."

Geralt wordlessly hands Jaskier his satchel, still trying to process this new discovery. Come to think of it, Geralt knows precious little about Jaskier's family. Sure, that's probably on him for never asking, but Geralt has grown so used to Jaskier oversharing every aspect of his life that he never needed to ask his bard anything. Jaskier just… never talked about his family. Or his childhood, or his upbringing. His life story seems to always begin when he was a student at Oxenfurt.

Geralt is growing curiouser by the minute.

"When did your father pass?"

"Oh? Uh… good question. Maybe a few years after I went to Oxenfurt? I'm not sure. I received a letter from the bank notifying me that a share of my father's wealth was deposited in my account."

Geralt frowns. "You never went back to find out what happened?"

"No."

Well, that's an oddly abrupt response, and Jaskier doesn't seem like he's got anything to say on the matter. Which only makes Geralt feel more curious about the whole thing.

"Why not?"

"Geralt…" Jaskier heaves a sigh before putting on a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, too tense to be genuine. "My father and I didn't get along. I felt no need to go mourn him with the rest of my noble family in Lettenhove when he passed. That's it. That's all there's to it. I was not a good enough man to refuse my share of the inheritance, either, despite my non-existent relationship with him."

That's a lot to unpack. Geralt always assumed that Jaskier had a good childhood. Then again, he would think that, wouldn't he, considering Geralt spent his own childhood being tortured by magnanimous and sadistic mages. Where most children got to spend time outside helping out in the fields or playing with their friends, Geralt was put through drill after drill, after drill… until he was physically unable to walk so much his muscles hurt.

"Wait… did you say your noble family?"

"Hm?"

"In Lettenhove… there's nothing in Lettenhove. Only the Viscount and his family live there on a large esta-" Geralt's mouth clicks shut as realisation dawns on him. "Your father was the Viscount of Lettenhove?"

"Yes. And since I'm the oldest, after he died that title passed onto me. But I much prefer being a bard, so I graciously devolved my duties to my younger brother, who now manages the estate. Are we done with this conversation?"

"I didn't mean to make you mad…"

Geralt watches Jaskier stop dead in his tracks, his shoulders briefly tensing at those words, before exhaling loudly through his nose. Jaskier anxiously rubs the back of his neck as he straightens up and offers Geralt a sheepish smile, that one warmer and softer than the previous one.

"Sorry, dear heart. I didn't mean to be so short with you. It's just… well, there's a reason I don't bring up my family all that much."

"Hm." Geralt gently taps the spot next to him on his bedroll, and Jaskier doesn't have to be told twice. Soon, Geralt has one arm wound tightly around Jaskier's shoulders. Not quite a hug, but the intention is there all the same, and Jaskier eagerly melts in the embrace. "I shouldn't have insisted. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise. You did nothing wrong." Jaskier nuzzles the crook of Geralt's neck sweetly before depositing a featherlight kiss just over his pulse point. "Do you want to ask me anything?"

Geralt ponders over that question far too long before whispering an answer in the air pocket between them.

"Did he hurt you?"

Jaskier hesitates.

"Not physically, no. He didn't approve of my aspirations and choices. He didn't support me. I suppose it hurt a little when he didn't see me away to Oxenfurt at the age of 15, but he never raised a hand on me."

"Hm." Good, Geralt thinks. No child should ever have to suffer at the hand of an adult. Geralt earned plenty a beating at Kaer Morhen, some justified and others not so much. Just because he went through this doesn't mean he condones it.

"At least I get to spend his money on someone I love," Jaskier offers softly, eyes as blue as the deepest ocean glancing up at Geralt through dark lashes, “That, at least, the old man can’t take away from me.”

A happy little rumble bubbles up Geralt's chest, despite the blush gracing his cheeks.

"I never thanked you for the gifts." Geralt blushes a deeper shade of red at the realisation. "Sorry. It's been a long year."

"Well, good thing we're heading North soon then, hm?" Jaskier straightens up so he can cradle Geralt's face in his lute-calloused hands. Their eyes meet then, amber seeking out blue, and Geralt thinks that he must be the luckiest son of a bitch in all the Continent.

"Yes," he agrees in a whisper, tilting his face to place a kiss on the inside of Jaskier's wrist, "good thing, indeed."

Request a prompt

#havenwrites #the witcher #wiedzmin #geralt of rivia #geralt z rivii #the witcher geralt #geralt #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #dandelion #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt/jaskier #jaskier/geralt #dandelion x geralt #geralt/dandelion #request open

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eirikaanemo · 3 years

Note

Venti's crush is a sister in the Church of Favonius. That's the entire prompt. Okay, she may have overheard Venti when he asked for the Holy Lyre and maaaaybe she gave it to him (in the name of freedom!), but she probably wouldn't be a sister after that.

Venti x GN!Reader

1.7k Words

Warnings: Eviction? Kinda?

Notes: So, halfway through I remembered "Sister" is a gendered term, so I switched it to "Disciple". Hopefully that still works!

Part 2: His Fight

His Lyre

He first caught your attention while he was doing a street performance. You were walking down the street, minding your own business, when you heard a melody so beautiful that you swore it had to be Barbatos himself. Following your curiosity, you found him performing a ballad for a group of children. His clear tenor painted looks of wonder on their faces as he regaled them with tales of Vanessa and the revolution of freedom.

You couldn’t help but stop to watch as well. He had captivated you as much as he had the children and you didn’t regret a thing. After Vanessa’s tale he sang of the fall of the storm god, the rise of Barbatos, the shaping of the lands, and the rise of Mondstadt. Every song seemed almost more amazing than the last.

It was getting close to evening by the time you were able to free yourself from his spell. Or rather, he stopped casting it. His last few notes rang out and faded into the darkness. You almost didn’t dare to breathe in fear of breaking the serene silence that overtook the scene. Then his eyes opened.

This was your first real chance to get a good look at them as he was usually facing just slightly away from you. Everyone else had gone home, so as he scanned the area, his eyes fell on you. And suddenly all you could see was his eyes. They’re beautiful, you thought to yourself, a hint of blush warming your cheeks.

His braids swayed a bit as he tilted his head curiously and a smile flashed across his lips. “It’s not often I see a Disciple here, tell me, did you like what there was to hear?”

“I did,” you confirmed. “I’m very impressed! It was almost like I was listening to Barbatos himself!”

He looked stunned for a moment, then an odd look crossed his face before he quickly covered it up with a broad smile. “Thanks! I appreciate the sentiment! That’s really quite the compliment.”

You were able to spend the next little while chatting before you had to go, but similar scenes occurred fairly often as time went on. About the tenth time or so he decided that you were friends, which you had no objection to. Though there was always a small twinge in your heart whenever he called you that for some reason.

Along with becoming friends, you started to notice some things. His songs are… very detailed in a way that makes them line up with records that rarely see the light of day. While you do your best to share Barbatos’ gospel of freedom with everyone, some records are just too fragile to be available to the general public. So the Disciples, like you, memorize them and tell them to the worshipers who come to the Cathedral.

However, either on purpose or by accident, most of the time Disciples will mix up little details or paraphrase things or skip over sections in a way that can confuse the story some. But Venti’s songs match every detail shown in the records, and more. You had checked multiple times and it always came out the same way. He was one hundred percent correct, in every song he played.

Then there was his hair. You’d never seen anyone with their hair being tinted at the ends like that. And you couldn’t find the hair dye he used either. And oh boy had you looked. You wanted teal in your hair too dang it! And when you finally asked him where he got it he laughed and said it was natural. How is that fair?

And then there are the times where he just didn’t act quite human. Like forgetting to eat all day without realizing it. Or referring to other people as “humans”, as if he, himself, isn’t human. Or how he only ever wears one outfit. Or the way anemo energy seems to flow through him instead of around him. You wouldn’t even have noticed that last one if it wasn’t for the fact that you are hypersensitive to it due to how you use your anemo vision. From all of that, and more, you can just tell that something isn’t quite what it seems about him.

So when you’re cleaning the cathedral in the back and hear him out himself as Barbatos to Sister Gotelinde something just clicked. Oh, of course he was Barbatos. What else could he possibly be? Too much added up for it to not make sense! Unfortunately by the time you were done reeling from shock Sister Gotelinde had sent him right out the door.

You had caught enough of the conversation, though, that you knew that Venti- no, Barbatos had need of his lyre. So you came up with a plan. This was going to get you in so, so much trouble. But this is what needed to be done. You need to get him his lyre.

It was surprisingly easy to swipe the lyre from its pedestal and avoid the other inhabitants of the Cathedral by taking back passageways. You had almost made it out, you were so close when you suddenly ran into someone.

Holding a hand to the point of impact starting to swell on your forehead, you squint over towards the other group. When your brain registers that you just ran into Venti you gasp and scramble to your feet, still holding the holy lyre to your chest. “Oh my goodness, I’m so, so sorry Venti,” you apologize. “Or, uh, would you prefer I call you Barbatos?”

Your friend blinks once, then twice, dumbstruck by the situation. “Venti is fine,” he scrambles to assure you after a few moments. “How did you know?”

“You weren’t exactly the quietest when speaking with Sister Gotelinde, Venti. And I was cleaning just out of sight. It made a lot more sense than some other explanations for your weird behavior that I’d come up with.” You admit sheepishly. “And I believe this is yours.”

His face lit up as you held the holy lyre out towards him. “The Lyre de Himmel! Thank you so much! See that, Traveler? We didn’t even have to steal it! I promise to do my best to take care of it.” You quirk an eyebrow as the Traveler finishes shaking off the effects of running into you.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, and you better.” you tell him pointedly, causing him to giggle nervously. “Besides, the two of you need to go! I… didn’t exactly tell anyone about this. Good luck with Dvalin, Venti, Traveler. May Barbatos be with you!” You called out the last part out of habit.

Moments later you felt a hand clap onto your shoulder. “Dear,” Sister Gotelinde drawled slightly. “Please tell me you didn’t hand our sacred treasure over to that alcoholic bard.” You’re silent for a moment before years of being at the Cathedral won over your common sense. “You know I can’t do that, Sister.”

She sighs from her position behind you and her hand tightens on your shoulder. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how much trouble you’re in, especially if it doesn’t come back in one piece.” You gulp.

“Yes, Sister Gotelinde.” You murmur.

“Good, now get back to cleaning.” She instructs you curtly.

Nodding, you turn and walk past her towards where you were cleaning. She continued on, likely going to report the situation to Sister Barbara. You really hope that Venti keeps his promise.

While you try your best to put the situation out of your mind, your thoughts keep drifting back to it the whole next day. The nightmare you’d had that night hadn’t helped either. It had been a morbid scene, a broken lyre on the ground with an equally broken Venti as a triumphant Stormterror screeched over their still forms. You’d woken up sweaty.

Logically you knew that Barbatos- no, Venti wouldn’t fall to Stormterror. But the scene still wouldn’t go away. And neither did the awkward feeling that accompanied your usual duties as a disciple. Some of your regular duties were suddenly almost… laughable? You now knew that Barbatos didn’t care about a good chunk of what you did in the Cathedral that some considered absolutely essential.

Your attitude didn’t help your position though, not with everyone now knowing what you did and watching you closely. The day is long and you feel trapped every second of it. Then Venti returns victorious with a broken lyre and everything crumbles around you. You’re kicked out, banned for life, right after him, with a suitcase of your stuff chucked out after you. Even though he ‘fixed it’.

Part of you wants to just lay there and regret your life choices; but you can’t help but smile when Venti reaches a hand out to lift you up, laughing about the irony of the situation. A small smile manages to reach your face as Jean starts chuckling too.

“Don’t worry too much, I know you’ve done a great good for Mondstadt.” She reassures you. “I know you have a vision, an anemo vision at that.” She gives Venti a pointed look. “How would you like to become a knight?”

Your smile grows into something a little more natural. “I’d like that, thank you Jean.”

“It’s no problem, really the least I could do. I’m sorry it had to end like this. Now, come to my office when you have a moment so we can formalize it. But for now I need to go and formally close the Stormterror case.” With a sigh she walked past you towards the knights headquarters and the inevitable paperwork which awaits her.

“I’m sorry that you got kicked out,” Venti apologizes once Jean’s out of sight. “All you did was help and you got in trouble for it.”

“It’s alright, Venti,” you try to claim. “It was kind of awkward knowing that you are Barbatos anyway.”

“Still,” he pressed. “You put everything on the line for me and I really appreciate it. I’m really sorry I didn’t follow through. I’ll have to make it up to you. And I know just where to start.”

His kiss to your cheek was quick but sent a warmth blooming across your face, contrasting with the coolness of his lips.

“Of course,” you mumble, embarrassed. “It was your lyre anyway.”

“It was,” he agreed. “But you believed me. And that really does mean a lot to me. Thank you, really.”

#eirika writes #venti #genshin venti #venti x reader #genshin impact x reader

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dead-dove-diner · 3 years

Note

ok I KNOW ur not into human poly but. consider. Jaskier, very drunk, snags Geralt (just as drunk or not who knows) saying he's found "a pretty lass to share" which they occasionally do when they aren't shagging each other stupid but the "pretty lass" is actually Geralt's mom.

YOU KNOW WHAT ANON?? YOURE RIGHT AND YOU SHOULD SAY IT!!!

Perfect! Gorgeous!!!

CW INCEST- Geralt/Jaskier/Visenna

They're invited into some druid celebration most definitely about sex and fertility and while its not exactly frowned upon to not join in on the celebrations, its also not exactly polite either- especially when they're also celebrating a successful hunt to rid the forest of the evil that had settled there and Geralt's been set as the guest of honor for the whole thing.

And Geralt loves sex! He does! But he's just killed the Leshy that's been bewitching the local wolves and hunting the forest and he's tired. It doesn't help that he'd been hoping Jaskier would help him with the nasty knot forming in his back before taking him to bed like he'd hinted at before Geralt trudged off on the hunt, because it was clear that wouldn't be happening now. The bard had been chatting up the same slight red haired woman for the better half of an hour, all grin and swagger and flirty little touches.

And Geralt does his best to tune them out, but he can't because suddenly Jaskier is looking over the womans shoulder at him, waving him over with a bright grin and Geralt's too weak to refuse him.

"Witcher!" he says, as he picks his way over to him, stepping around writhing bodies and discarded jugs of ale and mead.

He's the only one still dressed, stripped down to his trousers and shirt, armour dropped off to be fixed the next morning when celebrations finally end.

Jaskier, as always, has embraced the local attire as easily as breathing- and by that, he means the bard is completely naked save for the thick mat of hair on his chest and around his half hard cock.

"Witcher!" he says again, "Darling, I can't stand to see you sitting all alone on such a wonderful night but lucky for us this lovely lass has so graciously agreed to celebrate with us both! Together. At the same time."

Geralt hides the sudden rush fondness he feels with a roll of his eyes and grunt. They've shared women before, countless times if he's honest. Whores, barmaids, princesses- Yennefer, once, when they were all too full of drink to know better.

This woman, from what he can see from behind, looks as well suited to the job as any. Short, but sturdy, despite her slight frame- her thighs are thick with muscle, her waist small but strong, her breasts modest with large pink nipples perfect for sucking. Her hair washes down her back like a fall of fire, long and red, her cunt hidden away by a forest of the same colour.

"Witcher," Jaskier pulls him to his side as Geralt continues his slow appreciation. The woman is a marvel to behold, no doubt- soft in all the right places and perfect to fill the space between them. "My darling lady, fire-haired goddess of the forest-" Geralt stifles an amused snort at that, "may I introduce my lover and muse, The White Wolf, The Witcher-"

"Geralt of Rivia," her smooth voice interjects, and Geralt goes cold all over. His heart stutters, stomach dropping.

No.

Slowly, he drags his eyes from the pretty pink flush of her nipples, up her collarbones, over her jaw, lips, nose, and to piercing green eyes.

His throat clicks as he swallows and yet, somehow, his stirring cock hardens all the same.

"Visenna,"

"Oh, you know each other?" Jaskier claps his hands delightedly, a sharp slap that should break the spell that's fallen between them but doesn't. The space between them is buzzes like lightning, "How wonderful! This will make things much less awkward!"

A hysterical laugh echoes in the recesses of Geralt's brain. Fucking unlikely!

Visenna stays silent- watching as Geralt stares back mutely.

"So," the bard says, voice dropping to that low seductive purr that never fails to get Geralt going, "shall we find somewhere a little more private?"

The eye contact burns hotter than any flame.

"I think," she says slowly, still not looking away, "perhaps we should put on a little show."

Geralt's traitorous cock twitches, and Visenna smiles, slow and hot.

"Don't you agree, Geralt?"

And Geralt, tipsy and weak in the face of whatever the fuck this is, can only nod.

Visenna's smile grows.

"Good boy,"

#DDD prompts #this just came out of fucking NOWHERE holy shit #DDD cw incest #DDD Geralt/Jaskier #DDD Geralt/Visenna #DDD Jaskier/Visenna #DDD Geralt/Jaskier/Visenna #DDD Witcher

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sergeantsporks · 3 years

Text

Whatever It Takes

Rating: Teen and Up, Gen

TW: Self-harm, attempted suicide, emotional manipulation

“While I’ve got you here, want to hear the complete history of wild magic? I’m sure you’ll find it very interesting, considering that you’re old enough to have lived through it.”

“I am not, you little brat. Shut your mouth, I don’t want to listen to your voice.” “Yeah? What if I don’t want to shut up? What if I feel like singing?"

Hunter is a difficult prisoner to keep, and Lilith and Eda are about to find that out the hard way.

Ao3

Ch 2/4: Prisoner

Ch 1

Eda perched on a chair, watching her new prisoner. “When do you think he’ll wake up?”

Lilith finished tying Hunter to a chair with a roll of her eyes. “If I hit him hard enough, not for a while.”

“Should we… try to wake him up?”

“Titan’s veins, Edalyn, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this anxious before.”

“I’ve never kept a coven head tied up in my basement before!” Eda peered at him. “What does he even eat?”

“Nothing. He photosynthesizes. I don’t know, Eda, probably the same thing we eat. He’s a witch, after all.”

“He’s a powerless witch. What if they have human diets?”

“I—this is ridiculous. Keeping prisoners isn’t that scary, I’ll walk you through it.”

Eda squinted at her sister. “Oh, yeah. Sometimes I forget that you were…” she rolled a hand. “A horrible person.”

“Hmph.”

Hunter groaned, and Eda grinned. “Guess you didn’t hit him hard enough.”

Hunter’s eyes shot open, and he glanced around wildly, kicking his feet and straining against his bonds. “Wha—where-?”

His kicking knocked over the chair, and he fell backwards with a crash. “Ow.”

Eda snorted. “Behold, the mighty head of the emperor’s coven.”

“Oh, great. It’s you.”

Eda picked the chair up, flicking Hunter’s head. “YYYYYep. Nice to see you too, nerd.”

He shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “Ugh—Darius! What happened to him?! Where’d he go?!”

Lilith studied her nails. “He left you high and dry. He didn’t care if we captured or killed you. You know how it is.”

“Is this the part where you try to convince me to, as we say in the coven, pull a Lilith, betray the emperor horribly, and end up sad and lonely?”

“They do not say that!”

“I don’t want you on our side,” Eda interrupted, shooting her sister a “don’t react” look, “I wouldn’t trust you for a second. I want you to tell me what happened to Raine Whispers.”

Hunter leaned back as best he could while tied up, looking bored. “The emperor killed them slowly and painfully. Next question?”

Eda’s heart stuttered dangerously in her chest. “Liar,” she snarled, “Your precious emperor hasn’t appointed a new coven head yet—so Raine’s still alive. Where are they?!”

Hunter clicked his tongue. “Let’s see… coven head prisoner, coven head prisoner, mmmmmm doesn’t ring any bells.”

Lilith put a hand on Eda’s shoulder as she growled. “Oh, Hunter. Your bravado isn’t fooling anyone. You know how the emperor’s coven works as well as I. No one is coming for you. There is no holding out until rescue, because there will be no rescue. Don’t make this harder on yourself than it has to be—who are you even keeping quiet for? An emperor who doesn’t care enough about you to come for you? Just tell us what you know about the bard coven head.”

He rocked back and forth in the chair, looking up at the ceiling, unconcerned. “Or what? You’ll torture me?”

Lilith raised an eyebrow. “If that’s what you want.” She turned to go. “Excuse me. I need to gather a few things.” She strode back up the basement stairs, leaving Eda and Hunter alone.

Eda rocked back and forth on her heels. “So… how’s that portal coming along? Got enough titan’s blood?

“I’m not telling you that.”

“Mmm.” Eda clicked her tongue. What did Lilith need that was taking this long? “Soooooo… what now?”

“This is the first time you’ve taken a prisoner, isn’t it.”

“No!”

“Uh-huh. Alright. While I’ve got you here, want to hear the complete history of wild magic? I’m sure you’ll find it very interesting, considering that you’re old enough to have lived through it.”

“I am not, you little brat. Shut your mouth, I don’t want to listen to your voice.”

“Yeah? What if I don’t want to shut up? What if I feel like singing? Oh titan’s heart, oh titan’s heart,” he started howling in an off-key voice, “we the covens are loyal to thee!”

“UUUUUGH,” Eda groaned, “Stop that, or I’m going to gag you!”

“We pledge our lives, our magics, our hearts to yours! When you call, we heed your voice!”

Eda stormed up the stairs, slamming the door behind her. “That kid is the most annoying creature in existence!” Her sister was lying on the couch, reading a book, and Eda leaned on the back of the couch, looking down at her. “What are you doing? I thought you were getting something?”

“No. I just want him to think I am. Let him sweat and squirm. Let him think about all of the horrible things I might be planning to do to him.”

“Let him freak himself out. Devious, Lili.”

“Oh, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Let him imagine the worst. But now that you’ve come up, too, we can just… leave him.”

“I’m not sure how that—”

“Leave him alone long enough, and he’ll start to wonder if we’re coming back. He’ll start to wonder if we had to leave for some reason, and we left him. He’ll start thinking that if we did have to leave, there’s no one to let him out. That he’s trapped down there. At first he’ll tell himself not to worry, that we’ll come back down for him eventually. Then, as time wears on, and he has no idea how long it’s been, he’ll start calling for help, thinking we’re gone.”

“And that’s when we go down?” Eda interjected, “When he’ll be happy to see us?”

“No, Edalyn. We wait for him to stop calling. We wait for him to give up, thinking that no one will come for him. We let him wallow in the fear that he’ll starve down there, tied up, and then, then we return.”

Eda scooted away from her sister. “… have I ever mentioned how incredibly glad I am that you changed sides?”

“You could stand to mention it more.”

“You’re not gonna… actually torture him, are you?”

“Physically? I wasn’t planning on it, no, why, do you want me to?”

“Titan! Lilith, no!”

Lilith shrugged. “To each their own. He’s probably not feeling too well—a blow to the head is no joke, and neither was that spell he took for Darius. He’ll spill.”

“He seemed fine to me. Just as annoying as ever.”

“It’s an act. Bravado. He’s hurt, he was just flat-out betrayed and abandoned by the person he was protecting, and he’s captured with no hope of rescue, because he knows that’s not how the emperor’s coven works. He’s a resilient pest, but all of that will take its toll quickly. Give him a few hours, and he’ll crack.” Lilith hesitated. “But… Eda… about rescuing Raine, should they still be alive…”

“What?”

“I’m just… not entirely certain it’s the best plan.”

“I can’t just leave them!”

“I know you don’t want to, but… we have the upper hand over Belos at the moment. We have his right hand, a coven leader, in our grasp. We’ve put his day of unity plans to a grinding halt. We go running off on a hare-brained rescue mission? If one of us gets caught, it’s all over.”

A new plan quietly clicked into place in Eda’s head. “We have the coven head. We have the right hand of Belos. Why not make a trade? His precious golden brat for Raine! Either way, we end up with a coven head, so we won’t be giving up our advantage, but this way, we’ll have Raine, who will fight with us, instead of the brat tied up in my basement!”

Lilith sat bolt upright on the couch. “Are you insane?” she hissed, “You want to try to ransom him back?! Edalyn, an attempt to negotiate with the emperor will go very, very badly! Let’s say we achieve the best case scenario, let’s say Belos agrees to the trade and we get Raine back. The emperor will not stop hunting us down. When I was attempting to capture you, it was just that—capture. If you try to make a deal, trade hostages? Belos will want you dead. Even having kidnapped the golden guard is risky—for now, Hunter could be anywhere, no one knows we took him. But if Belos finds out? We may as well start writing our obituaries now.”

“Fine.” Eda growled in frustration. “It’s just—I don’t want to leave them, if they are alive! It just doesn’t feel right.”

“I know. We just have to be patient. And after the Day of Unity passes, we can go after them. I promise I will help you retrieve Raine.”

“Helloooooo?” Hunter’s voice called up from the basement, “Are we gonna get this interrogation going, or what? I’ve got places to be!”

Lilith motioned for Eda to stay quiet. “Here we go,” she whispered.

“Traitor? Crazy owl lady? You there?”

Eda head a scraping noise, as if Hunter was dragging the chair he was tied to across the floor. There was a pause, then, “Titan, there’s stairs. Helloooooo?” Another pause. “Okay, I’m going to escape now! Anyone up there to stop me? No? Okay!”

“Should we go down there?” Eda murmured to Lilith. Her sister shook her head.

“He can’t get out of that chair, you heard him about the stairs.”

“I mean it! I’m breaking out of here! Oh, look, I’ve got the ropes off! No? Nobody?” Then, a little more quietly, “Guess they’re gone.”

Eda heard a lot of thumping, and then an ‘ow.’ She snorted softly. “Sounds like he’s knocked himself over again.”

Lilith pulled her away from the basement door and into the kitchen. “Give him a bit.” She started flipping through one of Eda’s potion books. “Any chance one of these has a truth potion recipe in here?”

“No, but I think there’s a knockout potion somewhere. If he keeps trying to sing, I might use it.”

Lilith snorted. “Right. I’ll go ahead and brew that. Forget feeding it to him, if I have to talk to him for much longer, I’m going to want it for myself. Where do you keep your sleeping nettles?”

“Cupboard by the trashcan, do NOT let Hooty know where they are.” Eda paced the kitchen. “What if he is in the middle of escaping?”

“He’s concussed, has short little legs and no staff. He won’t get far.”

Eda snapped her fingers. “No staff! Where’s his little palisman, I didn’t see it!”

Lilith stopped mid-stir. “Palisman?! Him?!”

“Yeah, he has a little cardinal palisman.”

“Belos hates wild magic! Do you know what it took for me to keep a hold of my palisman?! You’re telling me that Hunter hasn’t just got a palisman, he’s hiding it from Belos?”

“I guess. What’s the big deal?”

Lilith laughed. “Oh, he is in for it when Belos finds out! See if he’s still the favorite then!”

“…Lili, you’re not in the emperor’s coven anymore.”

Her sister resumed stirring her potion. “I know that.”

“And we aren’t going to use Hunter’s palisman as leverage against him, okay? I want more info about Raine, but I’m not going to threaten an innocent palisman to get it.”

“Fine.” Lilith set her spoon down. “I think it’s about time we check in on him. Let’s see how much he’s panicking.

When they got down the basement stairs, Hunter was asleep. Eda snorted, setting the chair upright again. “So much for that idea.”

“You have got to be kidding me!” Lilith growled.

Hunter opened his eyes with a smug look that Eda was relatively certain meant he’d never actually been asleep. “Oh, hey, when did you guys get here? Hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

Lilith lunged towards Hunter, and Eda had to hold her back. “You are a horrible, conniving little brat, and if I never saw you again, I could die happy!”

“Oooo, might want to watch that temper, Lilith, isn’t that how you got beaten by your sister so many times?”

Lilith’s nostrils flared, and she stopped trying to get past Eda, taking a deep breath and smoothing her hair. “Laugh all you want, brat. I may be out of the coven, but at least I chose to go. Unlike you.”

“I’m not leaving the coven. I’m going to get out of here, and I’m going to go back, and y’know what, I’m going to drag both of you with me, and this time we’ll finish the petrification process.”

Lilith chuckled. “Oh, Hunter. You don’t really think you can go back, do you? Not after you failed like this.”

For the first time since he’d gotten here, fear flashed in Hunter’s eyes. “I didn’t fail,” he said defensively, “Darius got away—I protected him from your assassination plot. I completed my mission—you failed.”

“But you were captured,” Lilith said softly, leaning in close to him, “Of course you carried out your mission—but you’ve still failed the emperor. You lost. To us. How humiliating.”

“I only lost because that coward Darius used me as a meat shield,” Hunter snarled, “It wasn’t my fault!”

Lilith laughed softly, pulling away. “Do you really think the emperor will accept that excuse? You know as well as I that you cannot blame others for your own mediocracy.”

The shift in Hunter’s attitude… Eda wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Lilith had gone from dancing to Hunter’s tune and rising to his taunts to playing the flute herself. Hunter was a marionette on her strings. She grabbed her sister’s arm. “Hey, Lili? A word?”

She pulled Lilith upstairs, shutting the door so that Hunter couldn’t hear them. “What was that?!” she hissed.

“I know how the emperor’s coven works. I know how Belos works. I know how he treats people—you could hurt Hunter physically all you wanted, and he wouldn’t give up anything.”

“So you play mind games with him, Lili? That’s just cruel. Did you see his face when you said he’d failed Belos? That wasn’t just worry, that was terror. You really freaked him out, and I don’t like how you’re going about this.”

Lilith pointed at the door. “I’ve seen hardened demons break down at the idea that they’ve been left locked up with no hope of anyone ever coming for them. Do you want to know why it didn’t work on him, Eda? Because he was trained in the exact same torture methods I was. He’s the head of the emperor’s coven at age sixteen. Do you know how you get there? It isn’t by being an innocent kid, I can tell you that. Neither of us could kill him. But he’s dangerous, and Belos is the only one who could ever keep him in control. You heard him! He would drag us to our own petrification in a heartbeat! So if I have to invoke his fear of Belos to keep him from hurting you or I, I will!”

“Lilith—”

“When you first met him, he threatened King to get you and Luz to do what he wanted. He is not some cute little witchling who will roll over for belly rubs, he’s a lethal, dangerously unstable individual who is dead loyal to Belos and will stop at nothing to please him.”

“Okay, okay. I get it. It still doesn’t feel right, Lilith. And I don’t think it’ll make him crack.”

“Oh, please, he was about to be putty in my hands.”

“You make him scared of what Belos will do to him because he failed? He’ll just start thinking about how much worse it will be for him if he gives up information. No more head games, Lilith. I don’t like it, and I don’t like how much you’re acting like you did when you were in the coven.”

“Yes, because it’s effective. Good luck getting any information out of him.”

Eda grabbed her sister’s hands. “I don’t want to win by losing you. I’m not going to risk you reverting to your coven ways like that—you’ve come so far, and it’s not fair to put you in a situation where you’ll backslide.” Eda squeezed her eyes shut, turning her face away. “You were right. Raine will have to wait.” It felt like a betrayal just saying it, but she couldn’t say anything else—Raine had risked everything to make sure that she, at least, could get away. Throwing that away based off of information they got from Hunter of all people would be disrespectful of their sacrifice. “We just need to ride out this storm. No more interrogations—we’re not going to just let him go, but we’re not going to hurt him, either. Okay?”

“If that’s what you want.”

Eda plucked a feather off of her sister’s arm. “This isn’t helping you—it’s making you worse. So trust me, Lilith—it is what I want.”

Xxx

Darius growled, kicking at a burned clump of vines. Of course the Golden Guard wasn’t here—he hadn’t really expected him to be, but it would have been nice. Right. Well, he could do a grueling search of the area—or worse, call in Eberwolf to help track the Golden Guard down.

Oooooor he could interrogate the last people to have seen him—his would-be assassins. He hadn’t seen their faces—the smokescreen had ensured that. But he had thought he’d heard a familiar voice.

Darius turned towards the Clawthorne estate. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Ch 3

#toh #the owl house #toh fanfiction #toh hunter #edalyn clawthorn #lilith clawthorne #my writing

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uhhhhyandere · 4 years

Text

halloween special!

hi everyone!!!!

for halloween this year, inspiration struck and i decided to craft this halloween special demon/angel light au! i had so so much fun writing this and hope yall enjoy it!!!

no matter where you are in the world, if you celebrate halloween or not, i hope you all are doing amazing and know that you are so so loved (by me) and thank you all for the love and support you give! i love every single one of y’all and let’s finish out the year the best we can!!!!

word count: 7.2k

And He will bring hell with him.

The grass will gray, and the trees will blanket with ash as all life is left withered, limp, and colorless in his wake. He takes, and takes, and takes with the full red moon on his back and the stars glittering on his lips in golden lies. Should his, Kira's eyes, red with ire from his unattained vision, seek you out, you are bound to the pits of hell itself for eternity.

"Well, that's what the tale says," Misa said. "If you believe in that kinda stuff." She flipped the book over to display the illustrations. You leaned over to get a closer look. "They really have to make evil people this beautiful, huh?" You looked at her incredulously. "What? You're thinking the same thing! I just said it…" Her eyes trailed down to the pages again.

"He was a mortal once?" Misa nodded her head and adjusted herself on the sofa for you to scootch closer. Her red manicured nails slipped the page over to the next.

"Who tried to be a god." You squinted down at the new page and pointed.

"She kinda looks like you." She laughed.

"Just wait," Misa replied. "Anyway, he was young, a few years below us, when he came across the power to make him a god. He was not chosen nor special. The power was left to be picked up by any traveler. It just so handed to be dropped outside of his family's farm, and he just so happened to be who he was. An ambitious genius with the same hunger for power the poor have for food. He used this power to rise above all others and to kill any who dared step in his way." Tragic art painted the pages as Misa continued to flip through them.

"How?" Misa shook her head.

"They don't know. We don't know. A creature crueler than Kira. A bored god looking to stir trouble. A blessing that was used as a curse. Perhaps all. Perhaps none." She giggled. "Exciting, isn't it?" You scoffed.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep going."

"But he had enemies. No mortal man should wield what Kira wielded. Those who wanted to strip him of his power and deliver justice to those he had ridden of, not grasp the power, the golden throne, he sought. They played games with one another. Cruel, cunning games of who would outsmart the other. He who was supposed to condemn his power and he who had it used the same means to win.

"Us. Regular people used and thrown away to further their game. There was one," she pointed at the girl who resembled herself, "who picked up the same power as he. It was her who tried to love him, that bent at his word, that carried out his will." Misa swallowed, "but he had lost his ability to love, or that's what was thought until..." Misa cut herself off.

"Kira and his nemesis continued to use, to manipulate the very ground the other walked on. All until he finally stood at the foot of the throne of the world he thirsted for. Pristine and shining, it stood above the clouds themselves. This is where he was slain, where his blood stained the stone, the rug, the throne, infecting and cursing them. The throne cracked, contorted, twisted, and fell. Down, down it fell until he and the now blackened throne were in hell.

"One day, when the full moon shines on the bleeding night, he will rise, and he will bring hell with him. He will claim what he has lost to reign over the world of men. The grass will gray, and the trees will blanket with ash as all life is left withered, limp, and—,"

"I know that much," you interrupted, "but I'm confused. Did you leave a part out? Where you cut yourself off, I mean." White teeth dragged across her lip.

"After," she started to rapidly flip the pages, "after he was banished to hell, they found…" Her flipping stopped at the very last page, "this."

On the page was a cage with gnarled black metal and a large gash across the bars. A human whose arms crosses on their chest in an 'X.' Their feet were bound together and tied with rope to the middle's central support pole. Blood trickled down their face, torso, and legs. Beautiful, broken, ripped wings crumpled at their back. "He had stolen an angel. Broken them. Claimed them. Upon their back, scars from where he had failed to rip them off their back." She hummed. "Kinda looks like you."

You laughed nervously then scoffed, trying to get the haunted picture out of your brain. "Should his eyes, red with ire from his unattained vision, seek you out, you are bound to the pits of hell itself for eternity because you are who he has lost, and he will not fail again.

"But that's just how it goes!" Misa laughed good-naturedly and shut the book harshly. "Pretty scary, right?" You shook your head.

"Absolutely not. First, it's actually pretty disturbing. Secondly, it's so vague! No details on how he died, if the other guy killed him. You'd think after eons of repetition, they'd make stuff up." Misa shook her head.

"Yeah, if you ask a bard, but do you really want to hear a romanticization of it in a song where they talk about how he loved whom he locked away and claimed? They do not sing about the reality, for it is far too gruesome for even documentation, much less for song. At least, that's what Rem told me. Being vague is the only option to make it tolerable, but I think she actually knows the truth and won't spill." You laughed and rose from the library's sofa. "So? It's my favorite story."

"That's because that girl looks like you."

"And?" You clicked your tongue.

"I dunno. I did say it was disturbing, but you don't really believe in this kinda stuff, right?" You scratched the back of your head.

"Of course, I do!" She giggled. "Ever since Rem took me in and taught me to read, it's been my favorite book." How could you forget what an oddball Misa was? You sighed.

"Alright, believe what you want. Halloween is the day after tomorrow, after all. Be as spooky as you want." Misa rose and slipped the leather-bound book back into her bag. "Are you stealing that?" You harshly whispered. She shook her head.

"Nope! It's Rem's." Oh, gee.

"I'd rather steal from the library—which has free books—a concept I just remembered for some reason than Rem. Do you have a death wish? Nevermind, don't answer that. Why did you make me come to the library again?"

"Isn't this where people read?

"...You're right. I got nothing. Come on. I need to get back to the market. I promised my parents I would pick up the pumpkins Mello grew and carved. Apparently, people are putting lights in them to make the faces glow at night."

Your village was reasonably large, set on the misty hillside of the mountain. Though the nearest city where the Earl of the region lived was a few miles down the path and knights on horses frequented here on their patrols, your village felt world's away from society. It was also relatively famous for the chapel, so travelers often stopped to visit, especially with the holiday season.

It rested closest to where the cliff dropped into nothingness. Flowers surrounded it, and moss grew up its stone walls. Vivid glass windows decorated all sides and around the wooden doors. A tower ascended from the front to where a millennial old bell sat still for just as long, for it was only to ring when the world was set to end.

Within, pews lined the plush red rug. The rug ran straight to the golden altar, where a large statue stood behind. The stained glass filtered color light upon its flawless, stone complexion. Water poured from the few holes in the body down into the small pond around it.

"Are we going to meet on Halloween?" Misa asked. "You know it's my favorite holiday! Everyone will be on the square dancing and dressed up!" You smiled.

"Of course. You know my parents would not miss a party. We can meet on my porch since it's closer?" She nodded enthusiastically,

"Yes! That sounds perfect! See you then!" The blonde blew you a kiss and skipped in the direction of her house. You smiled before turning on your heel and approaching the square.

Of course, the market would be busy with both locals and travelers. It was mid-day, and each stand had its unique, limited-time holiday goods. You had to squeeze your way to make it to Mello's stand. The blonde grimaced as you approached. Ah. He's in a good mood!

"Afternoon, Mello."

"Y/N," he regarded you. "You're really going to buy a pumpkin with a scary face? Would it really go with your garden?" You scoffed.

"It's my parents, actually, and yes! I can be scary and festive! Not as good as you, Mello. I heard that you carved lots of pumpkins for the village." He hummed and motioned to those on the wooden stand.

"Not for the village," he replied. "You still have to pay, got it?" You rose your hands.

"Of course, of course." You began to browse the selection. "Will you be attending the festivities night of?" He scoffed.

"No. Now pick your poison or leave." You smiled and reached for one with a broad crooked smile. "Terrible taste." You furrowed your brows.

"...But you're the one who made it?" Mello's eyes widened for a second before narrowing once more.

"It's one of my worse ones. I guess it'll go well with you, then." You laughed and rubbed the carved circle around the stem with your hand.

"Yep! Sounds good, Mello." You reached into your pockets and dropped a few coins in front of him. "Keep the change. Happy Halloween!" Mello snatched the coins from the table and shooed you off. You morphed back into the crowd, maneuvering your way through the group back to your house.

An abrupt, intense headache wracked your skull, causing you to suddenly stop amid the crowd and wince, nearly dropping the pumpkin under your arm. With your free hand, you grasped your forehead, but the pain only escalated and pulsed down your body. Two particularly intense strands of pain erupted on your back.

Peeking up, the crowd blurred around you, but your eyes on a figure at the corner of the inn. He was too far to make out the intimate details besides his lithe frame and brown hair. For moments you locked eyes before he disappeared behind the inn.

The pain stopped as if it was an illusion. You snapped back into reality, chest heaving in relief. A few eyes looked at you in concern, but no one stopped to ask. Thankfully so. You wouldn't know what to tell them if they asked what happened.

Shaking your head, you safely made it to your small house hidden behind a large oak tree.

"Oh! You got the pumpkin! How was Mello?"

"Charming as ever, of course. I was just with Misa at the library before that. She told me the story about Kira and his fall to hell." Your mom nodded her head and took the pumpkin from your arm.

"Ah, that's an old one. I guess she's always been the type to be into that stuff. It freaks me out, personally." You followed your mom to the kitchen.

"Yeah, me too. I try to remind myself it's not real, but there's also the small tick in the back of my brain that tells me it may be, you know?" She nodded again.

"Oh, I like this carving! Nice choice, Y/N, but yes, I do that too. Especially since Halloween, this year, is on the full blood moon. An ill omen in all tales. Luckily the town's party rids my mind of such horrors, as should yours. Anything else happen today?" You paused.

"N-no. Nothing comes to mind. I think I'm going to go find father then wash up before dinner. Is he still in the forest?" Your mom nodded.

"Yep. He's been hunting that same deer for weeks now. Apparently, it has a rack of the like he has never seen before. Something of beauty. I think he doesn't even want to kill it as much as he wants to see it again." Your dad was somewhat of a conundrum. As much as he awed and loved nature, he was a hunter who made income on the sale of its pelts and horns. "I'm sure he hasn't found it yet. Maybe you can help."

Unlikely, but you liked to explore the misty pines surrounding your village. They were too safe and had a few secret spots where hollowed logs led to hidden clear ponds. Wishing your mom farewell, you entered the pines and inhaled their thick scent.

Your dad's job was handy in that you knew the backwoods like the back of your hand. He taught you the ways to track and navigate through the seemingly identical trunks.

He also unknowingly taught you to sense when something was off with the forest. After ten minutes of traversing, you finally had the feeling of dread. The mist was inches too low, the grass droplets too wet, and the temperature degrees too low. You held your breath and glanced at your surroundings.

A silhouette. A deer's head with a rack so vertically high you thought your eyesight was failing you. Except, as you stepped closer, this deer had the body of a man standing upon his two legs. Large hollow eyes oozed mist.

"..." something was whispered into the air. You continued to hold your breath. "...—/N." The deer-man gave no indication of moving, and you could not bring your feet to even wiggle the frost from your toes. "Y/N."

Your name. Crystal clear. Your breath hitched. His hand with long, natural claws extended forwards towards you. "Y/N," it repeated. "You mus—....—ere. No t—." You could not make out his words.

"Y/N!" Another yell. This time you recognized it as your father. Eyes blown open, you wretched your eyes from the deer-man and sprinted towards the voice of your father.

"I'm...sorry."

…

"You're not telling us everything." Your father accused. After you ran head-first into your father, petrified and stumbling over every word, he urged you home and waited for you to take the bath you begged them to allow you to have before sitting you in the sitting room, the fire roaring under the holiday wreath behind you.

'It just scared me. I've never seen a bear of its size." Why are you lying? You had no idea. As soon as your mom asked the first questions, lies flowed out of your mouth like the truth. Stories you naturally never could have conjured on the spot. Stories you would never because you did not lie, which is why your parents, despite their dubious expressions, did believe you. "I swear. I just got freaked out. I think it's because of the story Misa told me today."

"That girl," your dad muttered.

"She told them the story of the man who fell to hell. Kira." Your dad nodded and rubbed his chin with his hand.

"Ah, I see. That would do it. Y/N, I know the full blood moon is coming, but there's no need to fret. Stories are just stories, alright? Leave your candlelight on tonight should you be scared of the dark, alright? Me and your mom are in the room over, alright?" You nodded. "Good. Now, what's for dinner?"

…

You lit the candle that night. In your nightwear, you sat on the edge of the bed. Muffled moonlight streamed through the frosted window and reflected off the full-length mirror in the corner. You inhaled deeply through your nose and exhaled through your mouth.

"They're just stories. Just stories." Like a mantra, you repeated this under your breath as you ducked under the covers. Opening your eyes, though, you were met with a flash of shadow in the mirror. You jumped and stared at it with eyes open enough to feel the cold air. You waited for something in the still room to move, for it to flash again, but nothing did. Thankfully.

Still, you threw the blanket off of yourself and approached to assure yourself that yes, it was nothing, and yes, there was nothing: just your reflection and the room behind you.

Until you blinked.

For a second, blood poured down your body and wetted down your clothes against your figure—wings broken and limp behind your back.

You screamed and smashed the mirror with your fist on impulse. Along with the shards, your body fell to the ground, and actual bloodied hands kept you from collapsing entirely. However, the features in the fragments were not yours. The man, the one from the square, stared back, but at this closer view, you can see his eyes.

Red.

You threw yourself back against the wall and screamed. Your door busted open, and your parents barged in. Your mother ran to your side and took your hand in hers while your father took in the big picture around him.

"I-I thought I saw something in the mirror. Misa told me once the m-mirror is the passage to the other world. I-I know it's stupid for me to react like this, but I just… I don't know. Do you think it's the blood moon?" Your parents were quiet.

'It could be," your mother said. "The blood moon is supposed to come with magic. It enables beings to crossover from other worlds, from other planes. It is the ill omen, but crossing over is all they can do. They can't touch you or hurt you. That, I promise." You nodded.

Your parents stayed with you, and, for the first time since you were literally a toddler, you slept in their room, blankets wrapped around you on their floor. Relief flooded your system when sunlight broke through the window. Though your sleep was haunted by vague images and muddled whispers, you slept through the night after the incident.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Your dad asked. "You can skip your daily chores if you don't want to do them. Tomorrow too. Aren't I generous?" You laughed but shook your head no.

"That's alright. I think if I stay home, I'll just keep thinking about it. I need to get my mind off of it. Doing chores will put my mind at ease. Some normalcy, I think." Your dad nodded, though you can tell your parents weren't eager to just forget the events of last night.

You knew someone, though, that would be eager to learn about them.

"Misa, can you keep a secret?" She bit into an apple.

"No," she replied simply. "I tell Rem everything, but that's it. I don't really talk to many other people here besides you and her, so no one else to tell, but I know Rem will mind her business. She talks to fewer people than I do." That was true. You could count the number of times you talked to Rem on a single hand, and Misa said she liked you.

"Okay, don't freak out, but…"

She freaked out.

"And they were red?" You nodded.

"Glowing. A sinister smirk on his face. His hands in the reflection, touching my own through the glass. It was the same as the one I saw in the square right after we met." Misa's eyes widened in enthusiasm and jubilation.

"It's him! It has to be! Kira!" You shook your head.

"No, my mom explained it to me. It's a spirit from the other plane playing a joke on me. She told me that after I stopped crying and fled to their room before I passed out. That story isn't real. It… can't be." Misa shook her head and leaned forward.

"It is! It's not that you don't believe it's real; it's that you don't want to believe it's real! Y/N, you have to believe me." You grimaced and backed away to create some breathing room.

"Why would I want it to be real?" You whispered solemnly. "Why would I want that to happen to me? I can't believe it's real. It can't be real. I'm terrified if it is real, okay? If my parents think it's real because I do, they'll tell the church, and if the church finds out? You know how they deal with spiritual trespassers and those they possess. I'd basically be dead. My soul stripped from my being to ensure I do not bring harm to anyone else. I would be a hollow body, Misa! Don't you get that!?" You inhaled a ragged breath.

"...Has anything happened today?" You shook your head. "It's already almost sunset, so that's a good sign, at least. Sorry, I got too excited. Your feelings and safety are important. Okay, I promise I won't tell a soul about this." You breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you. I just… don't know what to do."

"Have you gone to the chapel? The water from the statue is supposed to cure any possession." You shook your head. "Okay! I think I know your next steps, then. Come on!" She stood abruptly from the bench and held out her hands. "Let's go!"

She dragged you across the diameter of town until your footsteps echoed across the chamber. A few holy people greeted you as they did their duties. Some travelers prayed at the pews for good luck and well-being. A single man stood next to the pond where the statue stood.

"Greetings," he welcomed. "I recognize you two from town, but I don't believe we've met. My name is Soichiro. Are you here to drink from the spring?" Misa nudged you forward.

"Y-yes. Oh, I'm Y/N." He nodded.

"I see. Does the blood moon have you nervous? Don't worry. Lots of people come to do the same before a blood moon. Come and cup your hands and drink the water. Any disease in your soul shall be healed." You lowered yourself down to your knees and cupped the crisp water between your palms. You lowered yourself to sip, and you swallowed.

But it would not go down.

You began to cough, and your body convulsed with coughs. Liquid did come from your mouth, but the drops upon the ground were not clear, but a vicious red. Soichiro yelled for the other holy people as your body shook and twisted. Ropes bound your wrists, and hands steadied your head—arms wrapped around your waist to keep you as still as possible. A man placed his palm on your forehead and whispered incomprehensible words. When he finished, he ripped his hand away, and your breath was restored. You were unable to fall with the tight grip they still had on you.

"W-what happened?" You asked, feeling the tears on your cheeks continuing to inch down and the blood drying on your chin. "I-I don't know. I'm sorry."

"Take them to the purification chamber."

"No! Please, no! Help me! Someone, please help!" It was a joint effort between numerous holy people to lift your struggling form from the ground. "Misa! Mom! Dad!" you called out for, yet, in the chapel, none of them were there. However, your screaming did not stop for them until you were placed on a large chair and gagged. Your legs were bound to the bottom of the chair, and arms rebound to the arms. Holy people circled around you.

The chair you were in was much less a chair and more so a throne. Pure white metal was attached directly to the ground. Red cushioning provided comfort to your rear and back. With ragged breaths, you looked waited until one of them spoke or did anything besides watch you. It was the man who sentenced you here that approached.

"Soichiro," someone called, but he ignored them and angled his head down towards you.

"I am going to undo your gag. Do not scream. I just want you to tell us the truth if you know anything. Sometimes… they do things without signaling a mortal." Large calloused hands undid the gag, and you inhaled greedily. "Now, tell us."

"A-are you going to take my soul?"

"Speak first. I cannot make promises I do not know if I can keep." You swallowed and explained what you could to them. Your eyes were focused on the ground. The terror you would feel if his reaction was bad was too grand for you to meet his eyes. The silence after you ended your experience was deafening. "I see." He looked to a holy person nearby. "We need twenty-four-hours to prepare for the ritual. It leaves us with little room before the blood moon rises. If we do not store their soul… go now. It is much worse than any of us could have imagined." Your heart plummeted.

"W-what? No! Please! Tell me what's going on! D-don't take my soul, please! I-I want to live! I'll run away! You'll never see me again!" Soichiro stared at you with what you hoped was empathy. The bags under his eyes spoke of his wisdom and his exhaustion. He motioned for the rest of the holy people to leave, so it was just him standing over you.

"I'm sorry, child." He spoke softly, knuckles wiping the tears flowing down your face. "No matter how far you run, no matter how fast, no matter how well you hide, no matter how you continue on: alive or dead, he will come for you. The moment you locked eyes in the mirror, you were bound to him, just as you always have been." You shook your head, vehemently.

"It's not true, is it? Kira... is he…?" Soichiro smiled sadly. "It can't be… it can't be me. It's impossible." You sobbed. "How? Please, at least tell me before… before…" You couldn't even make the words out.

"My son," he began, "was always destined for greatness, but then greatness found him, and he became too great. The power he found was a single, black notebook. Write someone's name, and they would pass. It originally is from a Shinigami, a god of death, that possessed him while he owned it, but… there are forces more potent than Shinigami in the universe. He and his opponent, the one who sought to bring the mysterious killer Kira, my son, that plagued the land to justice, who we called L, always were at a battle of wits, of plans, but, in the end, my son won.

"But this victory angered others. It was they who killed him at the throne of the world. It was they who watched him plummet to hell. It was they who built the statue in this chapel and sealed him in hell so he could never return, but they have long passed. Their magic fading in time. I could do nothing in all this time except pray to angels to keep my son at bay." He paused and looked up solemnly. "You must be wondering how I am alive," He looked down at his pale hands.

"The notebook is gone now. The Shinigami that dropped it fled back to his world when Lig- Kira, was cast down to hell. I, too, touched the notebook. A scheme my son created to get ahead. The curse of it never went away, and I am now stuck to live eternity until my son ends it." He clenched his fist. "I did not know you were so close. I did not know it was you. If I did… I would have taken your soul long before you could have known life without it." You shook your head.

"I don't understand. What is my part? The book… the book only showed a cage with… someone in it. The story has no word of them. Just the girl… the weapon that served him." Soichiro sighed.

"Back then, the plane between the mortal realm and other words was thinner when angels and spirits would roam mortal lands. You were an angel. A new one. Young. Wide-eyed and drawing silver linings wherever you walked. Someone he set to ruin. Someone with a soul so pure that he can take and twist to his own liking. No one should see you except him, so he locked you away and bound his soul to yours and your soul to his. As long as he lived, whether here or hell, you would too.

"But just your soul. Unlike me, whose mortal body is stuck, it is solely your soul that has been recycled for eons. His part, the part of his soul within you, could only be awakened should your eyes meet his. Then, with his entire soul active and with the power of the red blood moon, he will be able to break the barrier that seals him tomorrow night. We must lock away part of his power, so he cannot walk this land again.

"Should he, then he will seek to claim all that was taken from him. The mortal world will fall as we know it. Those he inevitably tricked in hell to follow him will breakthrough behind him. What the world deserves for not seeing him as the god he sees himself as." Tears pooled in Soichiro's eyes. "I still love my son. The bright-eyed boy, but he cannot love. What he feels for you is something far darker, something twisted. I do not know what he will do if he finds you. You will be better off soulless." You sobbed.

"B-but the deer-man in the woods. Do you - I mean…" He furrowed his brows and shook his head.

"I don't know, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry my son came upon you. No one deserves this fate." You wretched in your bindings, ragged breaths, and eery whines escaping your mouth. "Some will be around to feed you later, and someone… someone will explain everything to your parents.

"Let me see them!" You yelled out. "Please! One last time! They don't know anything! I just want to… please, I… I get it. Why you have to do this, but please let me say goodbye. Please. I just," you bit your bottom lip to prevent another wail, "please." Soichiro shook his head. The man could no longer maintain eye contact with you.

"I can't. We cannot risk you talking to anyone lest risk his jealousy. As far as we are concerned, you are not you. You are his." You pulled against the ropes once more. "I'm… so sorry. It is best for everyone that he does not see you with others while he is powerful enough to watch this world. I hope you never forgive me." Crestfallen, he turned his back and approached the door.

"No! Come back! Please! Don't leave me alone here! P-please! S-Soichiro!" Only the slam and locking of the door met your calls.

You don't know how long you howled and wailed, how many times it echoed back in the circular chamber to your ear. There came the point where your body could make no more tears, so you were left with pathetic dry heaves. It was then that a voice whispered in your head.

"Y/N…" It was different than the voice in the woods. It was sinister, deep, evil. You focused on anything, the floor's intricate patterns, the ceiling, the running water behind the chair, the plants around the circumference of the room, anything to not acknowledge it. "Oh, aren't you a gift wrapped up for me? Clearly my father's work. Don't ignore me, Y/N. I know your every move. I know you can hear my every word"

"F-fuck you!" You cried, and he laughed. Then, he clicked his tongue.

"Such dirty words. You're not the angel I remember, fresh out of the clouds. Ah, but there wasn't much angel left, from what I can recall. Do you feel it, Y/N? It shouldn't be long now…" For a long time, nothing happened, then, like two knives down your back, you screamed. "Ah, there it is. Those screams, I do remember. I don't care if it hurts." Blood soaked the cushion behind you and flowed down to your rear. "You brought this on yourself. This is what you deserve."

"I didn't do anything!" You writhed.

"Is that what my father told you? Is that what the story says? Oh, they couldn't be more wrong, love. You denied me what I deserve. You could have fallen to hell right with me, where you can be where you belong, but you stayed. I couldn't have you running back to the angels to live your days without me. I wouldn't allow it. If I hadn't had Mikami lock you in that cage, if I hadn't bound our souls, your grave would be in the flower fields above the clouds, but you got conceited.

"Let me remind you of something, love. You are mine. Your body, your mind, your heart, your soul, what's between your legs, it's all mine. We are bound for eternity, Y/N. There is nothing you can do about it." He got quiet just as the immediate pain receded, leaving you with intense throbs.

"You… won't get the chance," you spoke through tears. "Big talk for someone who isn't even going to breach this plane." A flash of pain sparked in your skull. He chuckled.

"Oh, Y/N. Perhaps you are just as green as you were when we met. I can't wait to feel you again. To have you watch me burn the world." Silence.

Despite your exhaustion, you could not sleep. You might as well have melted into the chair in how your body did not move a single inch, too scared to bother your wounds, and have the pain come back that is still aching. You did not want to spend your last hours unconscious. No one came to feed you.

"They're coming," he said. "They'd better be quick, then. The moon is almost up out there, after all." He groaned, and you jolted at the feeling of a cold hand on your neck.

Soichiro and a train of holy people entered the room and surrounded you. He approached your limp body and undid your bounds. You did not miss him tense, and his eyes widen at the pool of blood in the seat from your back.

'We must hurry. Any minute he will come through." Soichiro enlisted others to help him carry you back up the stairs to the altar. "Twenty four hours in the chamber has amplified their soul. It explains the marks on their back from their past life. Quick, on the altar!" The cloth was smooth against your skin as they placed you.

Movement flurried around you as different scents were sprayed, various objects were placed on the ground and on the altar around you, and foreign words were spoken around you. Fatigue racked your body. There was not a single inch of your body that you could to move.

Soichiro stood over your body. Your eyes, dead and clouded, stared up at him. In his hand was a singular, transparent, glass object. Quickly, he lifted his hand, ready to plunge it down.

A loud bang resounded in the chapel, and the glass fell with a splatter of blood. You rolled your head to the side and watched two bodies approach from the entrance. All of the holy people around you were blown limply against the walls around you. It was only when they were right above you that you recognize it was Misa and Rem.

"Rem, can you carry them? Do you still have your strength?"

"Do not worry, Misa," she replied. Long arms lifted you while Misa skipped ahead and smiled reassuringly back at you. Music filled the crisp air. Lights hanging from the trees and other ornaments swept by your visual field. You groaned and lulled your head to face Misa.

"M-Misa, no." You groaned. "He's coming." She giggled and turned around. Skipping backward, her smile widened. Behind her, the crowd gathered in the village square. Their vivid garments stuck out under the lights.

"Of course I know, silly! Rem is a Shinigami just as the one who gave Kira his power. Just like he had a notebook, I had Rem's, but it was destroyed eons ago. Still, it binds me to live eternally, just like Soichiro. Luckily, Rem's cloaking magic covered me when I've met him, or he would have spoiled it all for us!

"When I saw you, I knew it was you. No matter how you may physically change, your heart and soul are always the same. Now, he's going to return to us. He's going to spearhead the new world." She twirled her hair around her finger. "Isn't that exciting?"

You had no strength to fight in Rem's hold. Even if you did, you were unsure if you would be able to beat a Shinigami.

Eyes were drawn to you as your bloodied and weak form was carried by an almost unidentifiable figure. Gasps echoed across the crowd, the music stopping as you presumably reached the square.

"They watch helplessly," he spoke. "They know you are not theirs to touch. Soon, they will all know my power. They will all know who you belong to. Keep your eyes open, love."

"Y/N! Y/N! Move! That's our child! Move! Y/N! The desperate calls of your parents broke through the crowd, but Rem presumably pushed them far back just the holy people, scaring the public to still and part for your funeral march. You heard the sick smack of bodies against a surface. Misa hummed to herself in front of you. Your head rolling back, you met Mello's wide and helpless eyes as he stood in the crowd.

Misa led you away from the crowd and stopped at the flagpole at the village's entrance gates with the group following. Rem retied you to the base of the flagpole; your arms crossed over your chest in a familiar 'X,' legs and waist bound to the pole. Misa's settled herself next to you.

"All!" She called. "Watch as the blood moon rises behind the chapel! He who fell to hell is rising again to take what is rightfully his!" She pointed to the moon as it brilliantly glowed crimson above the chapel. Murmurs rose from the crowd, suspicious and fearful. "Watch as our god returns to the mortal realm!"

The church bell rang. Its deathly reverberations echoing in your ear. The crowd fell to silence.

"Have you missed me, love?" He spoke. "Because I have missed you."

A red beam of light erupted from the chapel, followed quickly by multiple explosions. The statue, the roof, the infrastructure all crumbling by the expanding beam of light that touched the sky, screams erupted from the crowd, and they began to scramble. You pulled with what little strength you had left, but the pole against your back seized you in pain to cease your movements.

A silhouette could be made out of the beam. Large black wings spread from his back, sharp and jagged. Hands rose above his head before he dropped down in front of the chapel submerged in flames. His shadow enraptured you, and though his shadow was mostly unclear from a distance, you could make out his eyes even from here. Slowly, he took his first step forwards.

Every needle and leaf in the trees around him fell. The grass withered all around him. Ash from the sky and littered the ground. With each step, the radius expanded until more and more life died around him. Your eyes trailed to the unconscious bodies of your parents against a tree. His zone of death stretched farther than them.

"Eyes on me."

"You're going to kill them!" You screeched. "Stop this madness at once!" You shook in your bonds. Misa was frozen next to you, eyes wide in anticipation as he approached.

"Ordering me around? Perhaps you still are conceited. I think killing them will remind you of your place, hm?" Unfortunate humans were reduced to ash in his radius. The wind blew the ashes all around him, gently lifting his brown tufts of hair. "These mortals are nothing compared to you and I. Accept me as your mate. Accept the part of your soul that is my own, and the pain will all go away. You'll be dragged down to hell, and I'll bring you right back up."

Your parent's ashes were a different color than the rest.

"You know, it's been an eternity since I've heard you call my name. Do you even remember it?" You shook your head and squeezed your eyes shut. The thick scent of smoke, of ash, of death, permeated the air. "Eyes on me." He was almost here. Arms extended to the side, he approached from the other side of the square now.

"Misa, we need to leave."

"No! He's here! He's finally here, Rem!"

"His aura will kill you, Misa."

"No, I won't! He won't!" Rem, at lightning speed, grabbed Misa and flew in the other direction. "No! Put me down! I'll never forgive you! Stop!" Her voice echoed until it was out of range. Your head lashed back and forth, looking for any sign of life, but there was none: just ash, dying grass, and gnarled, graying trees.

Dressed in all black, eyes blazing, teeth sharp, wings stretched, he now stood before you with the moon on his back. You pushed yourself against the pole despite the shock of pain. The grass around you died, the bugs vanishing, but you remained fine. You stared at his feet.

"Oh, love," soft fingers reached down and tilted your head up. "You're as beautiful as I remember." Black wings encircled you, so you could only see him. "Do you remember my name?" You shook your head, and he gripped your chin harder. "Do not lie to me. Say my name, Y/N. Sew the wounds of your forsaken wings and accept your place with me." His voice resounded in you. "You feel it. I know you do. I feel your pain. Your fear. I've felt every emotion your reincarnations have ever felt. Say my name." He leaned in close.

"Kira." He clicked his tongue.

"Stop resisting," he hissed. "Say my name, Y/N." His breath glided against your cheek. His hand moved to cup your jaw, and the other trailed down your waist.

"Light." It came off your lips quickly, easily, and he smiled, eyes widening with pleasure. Immediately, relief filled your physical body, your back's pain dissolving. Your head tilted back in bliss.

"Y/N," he whispered against your neck. "Finally." He inhaled your scent deeply, hand tilting your head to give him more access. He placed a small kiss against your skin. His kisses trailed upwards, along your jaw, frantic against your cheeks, nose, until he captured your lips and stole your breath.

"Oh, Y/N," he whispered against your lips. "I love you."

#light yagami x reader #light yagami x you #yandere light yagami x reader #Light Yagami #yandere death note #yandere light yagami #death note fic #x reader #reader insert #yandere reader insert #halloween special #happy halloween everyone!

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jaskiersvalley · 4 years

Note

I love your writing and have read through your entire blog :) hope you're doing well

Nonnie, you are a delight. Thank you, I am doing well and I really hope you had fun trawling the mess that this blog is. Here’s a little more idiocy that will hopefully be to your liking as thanks for your lovely ask.

Black Crow

There was a new witcher in town and he was really fucking annoying as far as Lambert was concerned. He had no care for the established, unspoken rules about who stuck to what territories for their contracts, ignored all the difficult contracts and took the easy ones like a selfish git. It was bad enough the he gave witchers a bad name by being lazy but people seemed to be quite enamoured with his style. All black, never showed his face, had feathers attached to some dumb helmet that hid him from view and a sleek black stallion that no witcher should have been able to afford. At first Lambert had thought it was Geralt going off on some hare brained jaunt at the urging of his bard. Then they crossed paths and Geralt grumbled about having had the easy contracts taken already and Lambert knew it wasn’t him.

Even Aiden was starting to get pissed off with this witcher dubbed the Black Crow. Oddly fitting that first there was the White Wolf and now some upstart would try and cash in on a similar moniker. They were at yet another town where the noticeboard only held stupidity and nothing more. At the tavern they were informed that the Black Crow had it in hand, a slight necrophage problem out by some caves. The bastard wouldn’t even accept a room for the night as payment, insisting on a meagre amount of coin. Cheap, foolish idiot. At least Lambert and Aiden weren’t kicked out of the tavern because there was already another witcher there so maybe not all was lost.

“I want to give that bastard a piece of my mind,” Lambert grumbled as they chucked their packs in the corner of their room. “They said his horse is still in the stable, want to check it out?”

Of course Aiden was game, he was curious by nature and this Black Crow had been a thorn in their side for a while. The idiot was more like minor pest control than true witcher, had left a griffin, noon wraiths and even an archespore infestation for them to deal with. If there was one thing Aiden didn’t like, it was a lazy bugger. They wandered out to the stable and it was pretty easy to spot Black Crow’s horse. It was sleek, black and beautiful. Aiden whistled.

“How did the bastard steal a Nilfgaardian war horse?”

Lambert already didn’t like this witcher but now he outright hated him. There wasn’t much of a standard witchers were held to but they definitely didn’t stoop as low as stealing, even if it was a fine horse from Nilfgaard.

“Black Crow took half the coin offered for the contract as long as we took full care of the horse,” the stable boy offered up the information without much prompting. “It’s rare to have such a beautiful creature pass through here, of course we accepted.”

Bastard even cared for his horse better than he cared for the reputation of witchers. Unbearable.

“We’re going to pay him a visit, come on,” he told Aiden. Together, they grabbed their swords and potions, expecting the worst. Though, given how this witcher only took easy contracts, Lambert suspected he’d be more likely to run than face off against two witchers.

Trudging out to the caves, Lambert could see the evidence of a fight. It was messy, much more like the work of a trainee freshly released on the Path than a veteran. Given how long ago the last witchers had been created, Lambert didn’t know what to think. If there were new witchers being made, he was going to have a much more difficult year, tracking down the bastards and putting a stop to more innocent boys being forced through the Trials.

“Doesn’t look like it went too well,” Aiden commented and nodded to the swords on the ground. At first glance they were standard witcher swords, nothing special. But when Lambert picked it up he frowned. It was a cheap sword, one that was more likely to break over the scales of a basilisk than pierce even a hirikka. The silver sword was a little further up towards the cave, left buried in a necrophage. There was barely any silver in it, trace amounts hastily smithed onto it and neither sword held any trace of any kind of wraith oil or all the other things witchers were taught to cover their weapons in. Something wasn’t quite right but Lambert didn’t know what. No respectable witcher left his weapons abandoned like that but then again, they had already established that the Black Crow wasn’t exactly a respectable witcher.

Pulling his sword from its sheath, Lambert pointed to the cave mouth. There might still be necrophages and a potentially hostile witcher too. Even disarmed, a witcher was a dangerous foe. Together, they entered the cave on silent feet. The only sound either of them could hear was a ragged, shivery breathing, thready and faint. At the back of the cave was the embers of a fire which Aiden threw a casual igni at, lighting up area.

There he was, the Black Crow, huddled against the back of the cave, propped up against a wall and curled in on himself. Smears of bloodied handprints were around him as he’d obviously pushed himself up.

“Well shit,” Lambert swore. Because while he had many a not so nice thought about the Black Crow, he still wasn’t able to sit by and watch another person suffer and die if he could help in. “Necrophage got you?”

A helmet covered head lifted to stare at them blindly. Lambert didn’t have time for games. “Show us. We can help.”

Slowly, a shaking arm lifted to show torn armour, a chunk missing from the arm where rotten teeth had sunk in and gashes across the torso as claws had tried to rip this idiotic witcher open.

Lambert growled. “Aiden, check for more wounds. I’ll grab potions. Where do you keep them?”

As nice as Lambert was, not killing the Black Crow while helpless, he wasn’t going to waste his own precious potions on him. There was no reply though so Lambert looked around, trying to find a potions satchel or similar.

“Lamb.” Aiden called as he helped the Black Crow get more comfortable, pulling his helmet off. More urgently he raised his voice. “Lambert!”

“What?”

“Look!” Turning back annoyed, Lambert gave the face of the Black Crow a once over, handsome enough but now wasn’t the time for Aiden to be thinking with his dick. When if was obvious that he wasn’t getting it, Aiden rolled his eyes. “Look at his eyes.”

Another glance and Lambert’s jaw slackened. Glassy blue eyes stared back at him. It suddenly all clicked into place. This was no witcher, merely a human masquerading as one. Pretty desperate measures to sink to if Lambert was asked. However, he had more pressing things to worry about - namely, potions weren’t going to help this poor fucker, only kill him quicker.

“Shit. Have we got enough for a poultice?”

Suddenly, there was a lot more of an urge to work quickly. Necrophage bites were deeply unpleasant for a witcher but not urgently in need of treatment. A human was a very different matter. Throwing together the contents of their bags, Lambert began putting together something to help a human. Meanwhile, Aiden set about trying to unravel the layers of armour and cloaks the Black Crow wore. Under the black top layer was Nilfgaardian armour, worn and patched up so often, it was almost more patches than original.

Slowly, a picture was starting to form in Aiden’s mind about just what they were dealing with. A dissident. Obviously a higher ranking one, given how all the patches were ripped off the armour and the length he had gone to to hide his identity.

The hastily concocted poultice was applied to the Black Crow’s wounds and Lambert sat back to watch as he fell into a fitful sleep. It wasn’t restful by any means but then again, necrophage bites had the tendency to poison the mind.

Just before he finally succumbed, the man looked at the witchers and managed a hoarse “Cahir” which was probably his name. It hurt to think that the man was so desperate to be known, to share one last connection with a fellow soul, that he would throw away all the secrecy he’d built just so he wouldn’t die unknown and alone.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Aiden asked as he sat down next to Lambert, pressing their shoulders together.

“We don’t need another mouth to feed,” Lambert replied. But he’d already considered it. They’d gone to such an extent to save the life of this human when they didn’t have to. While they were in no way responsible for what happened next, both of them could relate to an outcast, someone who had nothing and had to fight to get anything from life. “Though he did prioritise his horse over himself.”

“And he tried to help people. What’s he running from that even the life of a witcher is better?”

Shaking his head, Lambert pushed to get up. “You watch over him, I’ll go clean up outside.”

By the time he was done, he had had a chance to think everything through. And he knew, that if his offer was taken up, he had not one but two guests coming home to Kaer Morhen with him for winter.

#lambden #lambert/aiden #lambert/aiden/cahir #lambert #aiden #Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach #tldr: desperate times mean desperate (witcher-y) measures

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bigkyloenergy · 4 years

Text

𝙃𝙊𝙉𝙀𝙔𝙀𝘿 𝙑𝙀𝙉𝙊𝙈

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐘.

a witcher!kylo x reader fic. dark themes, smut ahead. 18+.

summary: you are a barmaid / stablewoman at an inn in toussaint, kylo ren, one of the last of the witchers from the school of the viper regularly stays at the establishment. you wonder what keeps him coming back.

read on ao3.

O Valley of Plenty, O Valley of Plenty….

This song was going to be stuck in your head for weeks. How many times had the bard sang it in the last 24 hours? You could hear him even as you stocked the tables outside, grabbing one of the plates a little too tight when you picked it up.

It wasn’t as if the man was a bad singer, he had such a following for a good reason — out of all the songs in the land, his favorite was a ballad of Witchers. Reminding you of the last time you’d seen yours, how well you’d memorized the outline of his lips even in the quick look you’d gotten under a setting sun.

Only a few days passed, it felt like weeks. While work would usually occupy you, you spent extra time turning your head toward every incoming guest, just to check if it was him.

Betty couldn’t stand you working so much, she nearly kicked you out every time dawn began to pass over Beauclair. After you finished the placewear, you said a quick goodbye to cook while you grabbed your things from the kitchen before passing the crowd that was gathered tightly in the inn, warmed by ale and good company.

Usually, you’d stay after when entertainment was hired at the Pheasantry. You loved music, the tales behind the tunes, letting your body sway and your mind find silence. Ruek didn’t put up an argument either, you figured he was just about as sick of you as the inkeep. And your bed didn’t sound so bad with thoughts of the Viper occupying your mind.

The cobblestone shined with the reflection of the night sky, the town dressed in a somber silence while your boots clicked down the street.

Every time you blinked, you saw him. Leading the horse as he fucked you, using the instability to his advantage, leaving you with a bruised cervix, one that demanded you yield every step you took. You weren’t shy to your carnal desires, but he awoke them in a way that seemed unearthly.

Crickets began to stir in the grass, your walk not being far so you took your time, enjoying the way the buildings looked at night, walking in zigzags since you didn’t have to worry about anyone to run into. Your thoughts were quickly proven wrong when you spotted a hooded woman right in front of your building, like she was looking for something at the bottom of the door.

“Hey. Can I help you?” You knew the neighbors that lived above you, and the other flat was vacant, and you couldn’t help the suspicion considering the woman wasn’t even trying to ring the bell.

Her hair fell in raven curls around her face, side profile sharp, and you could tell that her eyes were beautiful even from here.

“Are you looking for someone?”

Again, you tried to gauge her attention, taking a step closer.

Maybe she was hurt, maybe this was a grandchild of the elderly couple that you didn’t know about. You remembered them telling you that their family was still back home in Novigrad, but maybe you’d missed something in the last conversation you had with the wife.

Reaching your hand out, you barely brushed your fingers over the cloaked shoulder before she was turning, snapping your arm back into your chest.

What was a regular woman had glowing, white eyes, mouth opening in a hiss — revealing jagged teeth. As you stepped back, fear making you trip over your heel, she advanced on you. In her motions the hood fell, dark hair surrounding her face, and the last thing you saw was her desiccated beauty before everything was black.

—

“.... and you, the Witcher who prefers vampires over monsters, come here for a girl?”

Your head hurt. The ground was hard under you, pebbles indenting your skin while you rolled onto your side. Barely able to register the voice, let alone what they were saying. Blood rushed between your ears. You heard a pop, wondering if it was in your head or wherever you were, trying to recover the last thing you remembered. The woman.

“Why don’t you let her stay here, with me?” You cracked an eye, a wall looking back at you, behind you a quick shuffle of feet somewhere before a high pitched shriek burst the tension that was making the room sound like it was underwater.

“Not as nice as the others say, I thought the first time I met you would be special. A dance of two monsters.”

“I don’t dance.”

His voice, even in your state, had your brain crawling with urgency, looking for the crack of light in confused darkness.

You rolled again, releasing more tiny rocks that had burrowed in your skin, just in time to see the woman disappear.

Her clothes the only evidence she was there, Kylo shattering a glass bulb in the same place she’d left. The man grunted, now making eye contact with you.

The cave began to echo with distant noises of the bruxa. Your head whipped, trying to find the source, adjusting your hindered sight in the darkness. Kylo was turning on his heel, unclipping something from his waistband, another splintering against the floor.

This time, it puffed with silver dust, leaving the air sparkling — and that was when you saw her.

She was decorated by whatever he’d just tossed in that direction, yet you couldn’t completely recognize her, you knew it was the woman outside of the door. The bomb only outlined her frame, but it was enough for him.

Jumping against the caved walls, she used them to get above the Viper, dropping from the ceiling just as he caught the dagger that was in his left hand between his two forefingers, holding them both to brace for her impact.

Claws scraped along his side, and he took advantage of her weight to grasp her wrist — sending her into the wall next to you. She shrieked, then disappeared again.

Kylo stood above you. He used the curve of his boot, right where your ribcage met your hip, only to toss you farther toward what you assumed was the entrance.

You gasped, rolling against the floor, trying to protect your softer bits from the collision with the ground.

Scurrying to the wall, you shrunk yourself against it, pulling your knees into your chest. Still in your skirts from work, you clutched them in clammy palms, the dust burning your nostrils as you swallowed air.

It was as if you couldn’t completely focus your eyes, Kylo blended with the darkness, his sharp movements as he dodged your captor the only thing spotlighting him. You were too afraid what may come if you looked away.

His offense was fluid, as if he’d had this fight a thousand times. It was almost like… he wasn’t trying. Kylo would mock her without speaking, his blades barely catching her as she passed, earning gurgling objections from the monster.

Each time she attempted to invade his space, he was shrugging her off in a lithe twist of his burly body.

The Viper’s very stance was taunting, flicking his daggers outward as if to challenge her. The silver caught in the sliver of moonlight, before it was being tossed through the air and landing directly in her chest. That pissed her off.

She teleported behind him, jumping onto his back before you could blink, and latched into the side of the Witcher’s neck.

You screamed.

He shook her off, stumbling forward, gloved hand coming over the wound as she circled him. Crimson dripped from her mutated face, chittering all the way, as if she had already won. You felt your eyes burning with tears, and you refused to let them pass. Monsters was a light term for the cloaked woman who was now besting the Viper.

Suddenly, her demeanor changed, she was recoling. The noises were turning painful, and this was Kylo’s signal to advance on her. He dropped his hand from his shoulder, grabbing the dagger that was still in her chest. You knew Witchers practiced magic, so you were hoping that would be his big finale to this nightmare.

It wasn’t.

Kylo coiled his arm around her neck, bringing her back to his chest. She thrashed, and you watched him lock a leg around hers for good measure. He took a few steps like this, making sure that he didn’t lose his grip, and he began to drag the knife upward. Blood splattered at the hilt, splitting open her chest, breaking every bone in its wake. You could hear the cracks between her feral blubbering, snapping her teeth in the air, clawing at any part of him she could find.

And in one more graceful movement, her top half was completely severed, dropping to nothing in front of her bloodthirsty defeator. And for what seemed like good measure, he pulled out another glass from his pouches, pouring a thick liquid over the body.

“What’re you doing?” Your voice broke as you finally spoke, unclutching the skirts that were your only security.

He didn’t even look up.

“She isn’t dead.” He snapped his fingers, a ball of flame dancing from them, fire sealed her skin before it devoured it, leaving it to ash.

You opened your mouth again to speak, only nothing came out. So much was on your mind, yet you felt so empty. Numb. You stared at the burnt spot on the cave floor, but Kylo didn’t move. He was watching you, blood still dripping from his shoulder, his mask still perfectly placed over his chiseled nose.

Through all the adrenaline you were harboring, the desperation to see his face again stayed stubborn.

“How did you find me? Did you follow.. Where the hell did she even take me?” You stayed in your position, “and what the hell was she? I — thought… you were… She bit you. What were those glasses you were breaking all over the place? Did you just make fire with your fingers? Was she naked?”

A puff of air through the mixed material in his muzzle was all you got in response, taking a few wide steps to lift you to your feet. You quickly pulled your arm from him.

“No. What the fuck? Why can’t you literally answer any questions? Don’t you think you owe me that?”

“The second time I’ve saved your life.” he reminded, “I owe you nothing.”

It was now when you finally got clear vision of his eyes, expecting the golden gaze you memorized, only to nearly collide against the wall when nothing but black looked down at you. Your throat dried, switching between the heavy purple veins under them, and back to his unidentifiable pupils.

You took a long breath, letting the fear sink into your belly, before you stepped forward, aiming your chin up toward him.

“You’ve been in Beauclair this whole time, haven’t you? You just haven’t checked into the inn. Are you avoiding me? You know, you’re the one who decided to pull your dick out on your horse.”

He growled, taking a deep breath, which only dwarfed you further.

“Tell me,” he tipped your chin up, forcing you to meet his dark stare, “are you angry because all you can think about is my cock? You want me to show up at that dull inn and fuck you delerious every night?” Your lips parted, saliva building in your mouth.

He dropped his hand.

“Come, or be the next bait for whatever finds home here.”

Kylo passed you, stepping up the incline that was the exit, even still, you stayed. You crossed your arms over your chest, gauging a reaction from the Witcher.

“Maybe whatever comes will show me more mercy than you have.”

The Viper stopped dead in his tracks, twisting on his heel, before he was closing the space between you at a menacing rate.

Macabrely stoic, you stared into the abyss that were his eyes, unwavering in your feigned bravery.

“Mercy.” He chuckled mockingly, before he snatched you at your throat. Lifting you off of your feet, bringing you level to him. You couldn’t help but think that he looked beautiful like this, his pupils broken, the black matching the armor he wore.

He surveyed you like this for a moment before releasing you, leaving you to a pile at his feet.

You grasped at his legs, bringing yourself to some type of stability while you filled your lungs, finding yourself at your knees in front of him. Anticipation breathed at the back of your neck, gooseflesh dressing you. He grabbed your face in exchange, his hand taking the entirety of your jaw with no effort.

“You’ll beg for mercy when I’m done with you, little müna.”

Pushing his leathered fingers into your wet mouth, Kylo forced your jaw open, flattening your tongue while he began to unzip his pants. You churned at the thought of seeing his cock again, ignoring every ounce of morality you had. The dirt under your knees was hard, pinching your flesh as you adjusted your weight. You stared up at him, willing, and he grunted, releasing himself.

His cock was already hard, waiting, and with the way he prodded your tongue you knew exactly what he wanted from you. But he didn’t give you a beat to do it yourself.

The Viper removed his hand, shoving his cock in its place, filling you to the base of your throat. You gagged, your fingers reaching to brush against his solid thighs before he smacked your hand away. He reached back up to the shoulder that hadn’t stopped bleeding, coating the glove in the fresh liquid before he smeared it along your face. First your eyes, forcing you to close them, then down your cheeks, painting you in him.

“Don’t touch me.” Kylo warned through clenched teeth as he began to push himself into your face, finding a steady rhythm.

You whimpered against him, leaving your hands in your lap while he collected the majority of your hair in one hand. He snaked his fingers against your scalp, starting at the nape of your neck, letting them lace through the strands before he wrapped it around his knuckles.

The Viper gave a good tug, forcing you to take every inch of him, bury your nose in his pubes, inhaling his musk, hindering your senses. You were being swallowed by this man, every bit of you knew it, you wanted him in any way he’d give.

Even if it meant fucking your face on a cave floor after he’d just saved you from a damned vampire.

“That’s it, choke on it, slut.” He groveled, shimmying your face in a way that would make the tip of his cock bounce along your esophagus.

Your eyes welled with tears, hollowing out your mouth so you could take this monster’s perfect cock as it should be. Appreciating every inch forced into you, tongue rolling to steal tastes from his slickened skin.

His sounds egged you on, the low moans that were drowning between his primal growls. You wanted him to go mad with the feeling of your mouth, and this wasn’t enough. You attempted to force your head further, though his hand was doing all the real work, reaching yours up again to cup his balls in your hand.

You heard a muffled breath before he was ripping you from his erection, forcing you to gaze straight at it, and you were sure no torture device had anything on this. Your spit dripping from his swollen head, the veins protruding and garnishing his dick in the most delicious way. Some saliva dripped from your bottom lip as you looked up at him with confused, desperate eyes.

Kylo dragged you by your hair, your ass skating across the textured floor, until you met the wall you’d been recoiling to earlier.

“I told you not to touch me, already stuffed with cock and can’t stop being a disobedient whore.” He spat, before he slammed his cock back into your gaping mouth.

His thumb hooked at your jaw, over your bottom teeth, dislodging it from your face. You whined, the pain shooting down your neck, through your head, making it harder to breathe when you began to panic. But this didn’t stop the Viper, every time you fussed he would smack his hips hard enough against you that your skull would crack against the earthly wall.

As you shifted, trying to mask the pain with the pleasure you found in him using you like this — you felt the wetness ruining your undergarments. You squeezed them together in a futile attempt for some pressure, any sort of relief, and Kylo quickly kicked your legs back apart before you could even finish your thought. He held your hair right at the top of your head, forcing stillness, leaning over your body, using your mouth as his personal fuck hole. You could feel him getting harder in your mouth, which only could mean one thing. And you wanted it.

You wanted to feel him shoot down your throat, invade your insides, make home in your belly and know the taste of his spend.

Excitement was getting the best of you, nipples poking through your blouse as it slipped from your shoulder. He looked down at you, his eyes still plagued with whatever concoction had done this to him, and came in your mouth.

You tried to open your throat, but the brunt force had swelled it enough to object to swallow. Coughing, you used his cock as a cork to keep the seed down. It was only when you began to feel him softening that he finally pulled out of you. You were more dazed than when you’d woke up here.

Kylo zipped up his pants, watching you all the while. You were beginning to get used to that, the way he looked to you as if you were going to say something earth shattering at any point. Closing your mouth, your jaw clicked back into place with a harsh pang.

Your hand clutched over it, whimpering, trying to move it to make sure that he hadn’t just broken your face trying to use it as a human cock toy.

Unsure if your feet would even register standing, you lifted yourself to them and your knees immediately wobbed.

The Viper sighed, grabbing you at your hips before he slung you over your shoulder as if you were extra cargo.

Stepping out of the cave, ducking under the passageways so he wouldn’t hit you along them, his head already reached the top so you were a dangerous addition to his exit. When he mounted Luxe, he didn’t bother with the courtesy of letting you into the saddle in front of him.

And for the second time, he dropped you at the inn without so much as another word.

#tw noncon #tw violence #tw gore #tw blood #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren smut #kylo ren x you #kylo ren x y/n #witcher!kylo #witcher fanfiction #witcher fanfic #kylo ren au #witcher au #hv.

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